BRUSSELS' BARNACLES by PURUPUSS RATED FRC

While attending a rescue, Scott finds himself having a slight problem with one of the locals.

Author's Notes: quiller and I had been discussing what would happen if International Rescue found themselves in this particular scenario, and this is my take on it. Written to show that not all of Purupuss' stories are miserable and angst ridden.

I do not own any of the characters or equipment from the TV series and would like to acknowledge those who do.

Thanks to quiller and D.C. for their advice and proof reading skills. And I owe quiller an extra big thanks for sharing her knowledge of London. Without it, Scott might have been following in Jack-the-Ripper's footsteps.
Enjoy!

Please do not list this story on a C2, or elsewhere, without asking my permission first. Dedicated to all the little men in bowler hats (or their regional equivalent) who think the world cannot run without them – and all the people who have to put up with them.

Scott Tracy swooped down low over the River Thames. He could see the dome of St. Paul's in the distance before he turned to port, bringing Thunderbird One down on Parliament Square.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Five," he announced to his brother in International Rescue's space station. "I've touched down."

"F-A-B, Scott," John acknowledged. "Virgil's about point two eight of an hour behind you."

"Good," Scott grunted. "That'll give me time to get set up. Any word on the Prime Minister?"

"He and the other officials trapped are fine. They're impatient to leave Parliament's underground car park and get to their next appointment though."

"Well, we can't go any faster than Thunderbird Two," Scott replied. "We'll just have to wait until the sloth gets here."

"You like to live dangerously, Scott," John laughed. "If Virgil heard you call Thunderbird Two that…"

"I'd be in serious trouble, I know," Scott grinned. "Get him to give me a call when he's reached the coast. Thunderbird One out." He shut down the radio and stood up, stretching. Despite the fact that Thunderbird One was the fastest plane on the planet and had reached its destination on the other side of the world in under an hour, he still felt a need to get the kinks out of his body, a need that he would never tell his younger brothers about. The last thing he wanted was them teasing him that he was too old for this game, when the reality was that they didn't have to deal with the acceleration and deceleration that Thunderbird One and her pilot dealt with on every flight. He pushed the button that lowered Mobile Control to the ground, then opened the hatch and jumped down to the grassy square that faced England's Houses of Parliament.

An official came over to greet the man from International Rescue, thanked him profusely for attending their 'little emergency' at such short notice, checked a few details, and then left Scott to do his job, a fact for which Scott was more than a little thankful. In their efforts to maintain International Rescue's secrecy, in his opinion the fewer people hanging around while he was working the better.

"Thunderbird Two to Mobile Control," his brother's voice came sailing out of the speakers. "Am approaching coast now."

"F-A-B, Virgil," Scott replied. "There's room in Parliament Square for Thunderbird Two to land but the authorities are worried about the weight of two machines. Apparently the old Underground rail system is pretty close to the surface and they don't want us crashing through. And the Mole would have to burrow down into the car park at too acute an angle from here. I suggest that you land in St. James Park." He brought a map up on Mobile Control's screen. "Speaking of the Underground, remember that rescue from the Bank of England?"

"Yes?" There was a wary note in Virgil's voice.

"You can use the system again. Tunnel into the 'District Line' and then you can travel along the line as far as Westminster Station. Once you're there it's only a short way under the road leading across Westminster Bridge. You should be far enough away from underground utilities to not cause any problems."

"Okay." Virgil didn't sound too happy at the suggestion. The last time they'd used the derelict Underground rail system he'd got even more filthy than usual and had complained for days afterwards that he couldn't get rid of the musty smell. Scott had a sneaking suspicion that his brother's real gripe had been that International Rescue's state-of-the-art technology had proved to be less efficient than Parker's old-fashioned safe cracking skills.

Scott didn't have time for petty complaints. "I've already pinpointed our victims' positions. I'll send through the co-ordinates when you've offloaded the Mole."

"Thanks, Scott. I'll let you know when we're ready to receive. Thunderbird Two out."

Scott concentrated on a few more chores at Mobile Control and didn't pay attention to the voice that called out, "I say! You there!" He therefore jumped when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Scott turned and found himself eye-to-crown with a bowler hat. He looked down at a rotund little man, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, with watery blue eyes, a red nose, thin pursed lips, thick spectacles and a clipboard computer. "Can I help you?"

The man produced an I.D. card with a flourish. "I'm from the Brussels Regulatory Authority Team."

Scott read the card. It identified the man as Ralph Barclay, and he was indeed a B.R.A.T. "How can I help you, Mr. Barclay?"

"It's pronounced Barc-Clay," Barclay sniffed.

"Sorry," Scott apologised. "How can I help, Mr. Barc-clay?" he asked again.

"I am here to ensure that all the rules and regulations set down by the European Union in Brussels are followed."

Scott had no idea what that had to do with him or International Rescue, so he smiled. "Sounds like an important job."

"And your name is?"

"Ah... Scott," Scott told him, with reservation.

"Scott what?"

"Just Scott. That's all you need to know."

Barclay stared at him from over his spectacles. "I assume that you have a last name."

"Yes, I do."

"And that is?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"And why not?"

"Because it is a secret. International Rescue is a top secret organisation... as I'm sure you're aware."

"Top Secret? Do you have links with MI5?"

"No."

"MI6?"

"No."

"Any Government department?"

"No."

"Interpol?"

"No."

"The British police force?"

"No."

"Then who do you have links with?"

"No one," Scott explained. "International Rescue is an independent organization."

Barclay tutted and made a note on his clipboard computer. "I have been alerted to the fact that you have landed an aeroplane on Parliament Square."

Scott thought this was a fairly obvious assessment so merely nodded.

"Were you aware that there are rules governing the use of green space in London?"

"Ah, no," Scott admitted. "You see I've come here to rescue some people. I'm not planning on staying long."

His excuse held no sway with Mr. Barclay. "Are you aware of the penalty of the misuse of green space?"

Scott blinked. "Penalty?"

"Brussels has dictated that as much green space as possible is to be preserved for the enjoyment and wellbeing of all peoples."

"Very laudable."

"Misuse of such space, such as decreed in statute..." Barclay produced his clipboard computer and entered something, "One Nine Two Seven: Sub-clause Eight Three: Paragraph Six: Bullet Point Two...is punishable by an instant fine of ten thousand Euros."

"10,000 Euros?"

"Yes," Barclay nodded. "Payable immediately to the officer executing the warrant, or to your local branch of the European Union within ten working days of the infringement." A red number one appeared at the top of the screen, accompanied with the figure 10,000.

"10,000 Euros?" Scott repeated. "But I'm with International Rescue!" There was a sound from Mobile Control. "Excuse me, will you?" He turned back to the console. "Go ahead, Thunderbird Two."

"Am in Mole. Please supply co-ordinates." Virgil was sounding businesslike as usual.

"Sending them through now." Scott punched a couple of buttons. "Ah, Virgil, I've got a slight problem with one of the locals here. I may not be in contact for some time. Any issues, give me a call."

"F-A-B, Scott."

Scott turned back to Mr. Barclay, who was staring up at the gunmetal grey underbelly of Thunderbird One. "What is this... vehicle?"

"It's a Thunderbird."

"Specifically."

"Specifically? Specifically Thunderbird One."

"And what type of craft is a Thunderbird One?"

Scott stared at the man and wondered in what hole he'd been hiding for the few years in which International Rescue had been operational. "It's a rescue craft."

Barclay was staring at his computer. "What type of rescue craft?"

"Scout craft," Scott replied.

"Scout craft..." Barclay ran the computer's stylus down the screen. "What classification of scout craft? I can find nothing that fits this machine's description."

"Well, she's one of a kind," Scott explained with pride.

"It may be," Barclay was unimpressed. "But European Law, Statute Six Nine Eight Five: Sub-clause Zero Three: Paragraph Ten: Bullet Point Five: stipulates that all vehicles must be classified. I presume it flies."

"That's how I got here," Scott couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Then how would you classify it?"

Scott looked up at his pride and joy. "Rocket plane."

"Rocket!" Barclay took a step back. "Did you say rocket? As in missile?"

"I'll admit that she looks a bit like a missile, but she's not."

"The Oxford Dictionary," Barclay delved into the memory banks of the clipboard again, "stipulates that a rocket is: noun 1 - a cylindrical projectile that can be propelled to a great height or distance by the combustion of its contents. 2 - a missile or spacecraft propelled by an engine providing thrust on the same principle. 3 - Brit. informal a severe reprimand."

"But, Thunderbird One is not a missile," Scott protested.

"But you say that it is a rocket. A rocket is a cylindrical projectile that can be propelled to a great height or distance by the combustion of its contents."

Scott had to admit that this was an accurate description of his aeroplane.

"It is also a missile or spacecraft propelled by an engine providing thrust on the same principle."

"But she's not designed to blow anyone or anything up!" Scott exclaimed. "Why would I want to do that? I travel inside her."

"Very well. I will accept your explanation for the time being. This 'rocket plane' is, in your words, not a missile. It is a..." Mr. Barclay checked his notes, "'rescue craft'. Do you have its registration papers?"

Scott mentally counted to ten to calm himself down before he answered the little man. "No."

"No? Why not?"

"It's... Because."

"You are stalling, 'Mr. Scott."

Scott didn't like the way the man had said 'Mr. Scott'. It didn't have the quiet affection and respect that he was used to hearing in Kyrano's and Parker's salutations. "It's not registered," he admitted.

"Not registered? In any country?" Barclay expressed his disbelief by pushing his spectacles down his nose and staring over them.

"That is correct. Thunderbird One is not registered in any country. To do so would mean that we would have to fill in ownership details; and since we are a secret organisation, we can not allow that to happen."

"No registration papers." The light on Barclay's face flickered as the computer flicked through a number of screens. "European Law, Statute Three Nine Two Seven Two nine: Sub-clause One: Paragraph Twelve: Bullet Point Four: stipulates that both aircraft registration papers and a certificate of airworthiness must be produced on demand. Failure to do so in either case is a penalty of twelve thousand Euros." Red numbers ticked over on the clipboard. The first number now read '2' and the second '22,000'. "Do you have a certificate of airworthiness?"

"Airworthiness?!" Scott was affronted. "You won't find a better maintained craft."

"But do you have a certificate to prove that?"

"Ah... No," Scott admitted.

Red digits ticked over again, reading '3' and '34,000'. "Did you have permission to fly through British aerospace?"

"I requested it when I got here," Scott informed him.

"You were wise. Otherwise the British military may have had to use their missiles to shoot down what they perceived as a threat to British soil."

"But I'm not a threat!" Scott exclaimed. "Anyway, if they did, I would have had no choice but to shoot their missiles out of the sky."

Barclay looked aghast. "Are you telling me that this... 'rocket 'plane' carries armaments?"

"Well..." Scott chided himself for speaking without thinking first. "Yes. For my protection and in case they are needed in an emergency. You know, for clearing rock falls, creating dams and things like that."

Barclay was delving through the clipboard again. "Do you have authorisation to carry armaments in British aerospace?"

"Well... Not directly."

"'Not directly'?" Barclay queried. "It is a simple question and I require a simple 'yes' or 'no'. Do you have authorisation to carry armaments in British aerospace?"

Scott mentally counted backwards from ten. "No."

Barclay tutted his displeasure. "European Law, Statute Nine Four Six Five: Sub-clause Five Zero: Paragraph Three: Bullet Point Six: stipulates that no aircraft is to carry armaments into the aerospace of any country covered by the European Union. The fine is one million Euros and twenty years imprisonment." The red '3' on the computer changed to a '4' and the '34,000' developed a couple of extra digits. A further number, the number '20', lit up.

Scott goggled. "What?"

"European Law, Statute Nine Four Six Five."

Scott held up his hand. "Okay, okay. I've got it."

"Your... 'rocket plane'," Barclay began, "has left large scorch marks on the ground of Parliament Square."

"Yes, sorry about that," Scott apologised. "It can't be avoided I'm afraid. You see, Thunderbird One has VTOL, that is vertical take off and landing jets."

"The penalty for causing damage to the lawns of Parliament Square is six thousand Euros," he was informed. The red counter on the computer was adjusted accordingly.

"6000! We are here to rescue your Prime Minister!" Scott reminded him, only just managing to keep his temper. "I would hope that you would be willing to waive all fines under these circumstances."

Barclay looked over his glasses at Scott. "Even the Prime Minister of England is bound by the statutes of European law."

"I suppose he must be," Scott sighed. Still trying to cool down his overheating temper, he mentally counted to fifty before he stepped forward. "Look, can't we come to some agreement over this?"

"Is that a gun?" Barclay was staring at Scott's pale blue belt.

Scott hand automatically went to his holster. "Of a sort." He withdrew his hand and placed it behind his back when he saw Barclay raise his clipboard like a shield.

"Do you have a firearms license?"

"As a matter of fact I do."

"May I see it?"

"No. I don't carry it with me as a security precaution."

Barclay tutted. "You don't carry your license, but you do carry your gun..." He made a note on the computer. "European Law, Statute Six Six Three Seven Two Five: Sub-clause Eight Eight: Paragraph One: Bullet Point Five: stipulates that a license must be able to be produced by any person carrying a gun within urban areas. Do you have the necessary authorisation papers to carry a gun without being able to produce your firearms license?"

Scott felt his head start to spin. "No."

"European Law, Statute Six Six Three Seven Two Five: Sub-clause Eight Nine: Paragraph Three: Bullet Point Three: stipulates that if you are unable to produce a firearms license, or even if you are able to produce a firearms licence, when in an urban area you must be able to produce the necessary authorisation papers stating that you are permitted to carry a gun."

"You'd never hear it go off with all those bullet points flying around," Scott joked: and then wished he hadn't.

The joke went straight over Barclay's head, which, Scott reflected, wasn't surprising considering the difference in their respective heights. "The safety of all peoples is paramount in the European Union."

"I'm glad to hear it." Scott said, and mentally counted to 100 as he listened to his punishment.

"The penalty for carrying a gun without a firearms license is 20,000 Euros and three years imprisonment." The 1,040,000 on the computer changed into 1,060,000 and the '20' had three added to it. "The penalty for carrying a gun in an urban area without a permit for carrying a gun in an urban area is 100,000 Euros and five years imprisonment." Red digits on the computer increased accordingly.

Scott was beginning to feel desperate. "Look, would you mind if I were to make a call?" he requested, and before Barclay had the chance to decline, pushed the button marked with a teapot on Mobile Control. He watched as Barclay moved away to examine Thunderbird One more closely.

"International Rescue, London. Lady Penelope speaking."

"Penny! I need your help."

"Scott? Whatever is wrong?"

"There's some guy here, says he's with the Brussels regulations... something."

"Oh."

"He won't leave me alone! He's going on about all these statutes that I'm breaking and the amount of fines I've got to pay and the number of years I'm going to spend in prison. I don't have time for this; I've got a job to do."

"Now, calm down, Scott."

"I am calm!" Scott snapped. Then he calmed down. "Sorry."

"Is this little man wearing a blue pin-striped suit and a bowler hat?"

"Yeah, he is."

"Oh, dear."

"Penny?" Scott didn't like the way she'd said that.

"I'm afraid that you have been 'latched onto' by one of Brussels' Barnacles."

"Brussels' what?"

"Ever since England became part of the European Union we've had to abide by all sorts of governing rules as set down by the head of the E.U. in Brussels. A few years ago someone pointed out that having hundreds of individuals roaming the countryside concentrating on one or two particular statutes was a waste of taxpayer's money. Now we have considerably fewer people enforcing legislation, but they all carry computer clipboards which are directly linked to the main legislative database in Brussels. They therefore have instant access to every statute decreed by the European Union and held by English law. I'm afraid that this 'power' has gone to the heads of some of these, er, 'gentlemen'. They have a tendency to find one particular individual or organisation who has made a minor error and 'cling to them' until they have ensured that every single 'T' has been crossed and every 'I' dotted. The tabloid press have nick-named this group of people the 'Brussels' Barnacles'. Even 'The Times' produced a very witty cartoon showing a bowler hat attached to the 'ship of state.'"

"Great," Scott moaned. "So what do I do now? We were invited here by your government! We didn't expect to be caught up in your politics."

"Surely they can't find anything amiss with International Rescue."

"No..." Scott drawled. "Nothing apart from the fact that I've flown an unregistered, unclassified, uncertified aircraft into European airspace; and not just any aircraft but one that could be mistaken for a missile. The aforementioned aircraft carries arms, as do I. Of course I am unable to produce my firearm license or my permit for carrying the aforementioned firearm in an urban area. Not only that, I am using your Parliament Square as an unauthorised airport, damaging its precious grass in the process! Now what am I supposed to do!? We come here to help your Head of State and this is how we are repaid?"

"Prime Minister Rob Tilany is the head of Government," Lady Penelope corrected. "King James is the Head of State."

"Whatever," Scott dismissed her correction with a wave of his hand. "He's your Prime Minister, Penny. Do something."

"He is not my Prime Minister," she corrected again. "I didn't vote for him." She smiled at the look of exasperation that crossed his face. "Leave it with me, Scott. I'll see what I can do."

Scott breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Penny. I knew I could count on you." He switched off the radio and ran his hand over his eyes. At this rate it looked as though he'd be taking no part in this rescue at all. He turned to see Barclay staring, transfixed, at Thunderbird One's hull. Scott followed his line of sight and felt his throat tighten when he realised that the 'Barnacle' was looking directly into Thunderbird One's cabin, thereby getting a good view of International Rescue's classified equipment. Chiding himself for forgetting that he'd used the side viewports to assist with his landing, he strode over to the enforcer.

He was surprised to see that Barclay was trembling with the force of some emotion; and judging by the colour of the man's face, that emotion was pure rage. Scott glanced up into his Thunderbird and could see nothing that would evoke that emotion. Perhaps this was some kind of medical problem brought on by the self-imposed stress of the job? Trying to sound as if he actually cared, Scott asked, "Are you all right, Mr. Barc-clay?"

Barclay didn't divert his gaze. "What is that?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Scott looked back at the rocket plane. He still couldn't see anything amiss. "What is what?"

"That... that..." Clearly Barclay was keeping tight rein on his emotions. "That."

Bemused, Scott stared at the man. "What?"

"That plate."

"Ah!" Scott said; and then frowned in thought. Plate? Had Barclay said plate? What plate? Like most modern aircraft Thunderbird One was constructed of plates joined together to form the hull. Perhaps Barclay had concerns about the construction material. No. That wasn't possible. Without closer analysis there was no way of telling that the Thunderbird's skin was constructed of cahelium instead of one of the more common alloys. Surely that wasn't what the man meant.

Perhaps Scott hadn't heard him correctly. Not plate but... late? Rate? Gate? Hate? Maybe Barclay was beginning to sense that Scott was less than enamoured with him. No, it couldn't be that. Scott mentally ticked off the alphabet. Ate? Bate/Bait? Cate/Kate? Date? Had Barclay suddenly realised that he was missing an important appointment?

Scott gave up on that line of reasoning and tried to examine Thunderbird One from Barclay's point of view. The exterior seemed fine, so he looked through the viewport and into his cabin. Maybe there was some regulation that all aeroplanes flying in urban airspace required a co-pilot, and Thunderbird One was clearly a one man vehicle? Maybe there was a rule that all fire extinguishers carried on flight decks were supposed to be of a certain capacity, and Thunderbird One's was under that; despite being more efficient than any other unit on the market. Maybe there wasn't enough instrumentation, or maybe there was too much?

Scott gave up. "I beg your pardon?"

Barclay turned to him, his face still red in anger. Then, having already pigeonholed Scott into the box labelled 'foreigner', he tried to communicate with him in the manner accepted when dealing with such an individual. He began to talk loudly. "THERE - IS - A - CHINA - PLATE - HANGING - ON - THE - WALL - IN - THERE!" He pointed into the cabin.

Scott rubbed his ears against the volume of the shout and bent down so he was seeing into the cabin from Barclay's viewpoint. As he looked at the far bulkhead it all became clear. "Yes, there is."

"HAVE YOU DECLARED IT TO CUSTOMS??"

"Customs?" Scott stared at Barclay. "Why?"

"IT IS AGAINST STATUTE!"

Scott held up his hand. "You don't need to shout, thanks. I can hear you."

Barclay cleared his throat. "European Law, Statute Nine Eight Three Nine Eight Six Six: Sub-clause Two Five: Paragraph Twenty One: Bullet Point Three: Sub-heading Crockery: stipulates that the importation of all pieces of dinner service not of regulation diameter and not created in one of the factories in the European Union must be cleared through customs and that import duty must be paid."

"Import duty? But I'm not importing it for sale. It's mine. It's a souvenir from one of my first rescues."

"Was it manufactured in one of the European countries?"

"Europe? I don't know but I would doubt it. Probably America, or at a pinch, Australia."

"Then it must be cleared through customs."

"But I'll be taking it home again."

"Are you aware of how many European businesses have gone into liquidation because of cheap imports?"

"No. But I doubt that one plate will ruin."

Barclay was making notes and the red digits changed again. "The penalty for importing crockery, Sub-Heading: plate, Sub-Heading: dinner, without clearing it through customs is."

"Why should I pay for something that is not going to be leaving Thunderbird One? It's not going anywhere. It's fastened to the bulkhead. You can't even eat off it."

It was as if Barclay hadn't heard him. "...The fine for not declaring any items of crockery not of regulation size is 500 Euros."

"And if it was regulation size? How do you know that it isn't? The plexiglass could be distorting the way it looks."

Barclay ignored Scott's question.

Scott mentally counted to 100. When he'd finished that he watched as Barclay pushed tentatively against one of the thin legs that supported the wings when Thunderbird One was on the ground. "Now what's he doing?"

Barclay turned and saw Scott watching him. "This does not look safe."

"Well believe me, it is."

"What if there were an earthquake? Your whole 'rocket plane'," Barclay's tone showed that he still had doubts about the description, "would topple over."

"This system has been tested many times in strong earthquakes and Thunderbird One has never 'toppled over."

Now Barclay was examining the 'foot' that was keeping Thunderbird One from 'toppling over'. He scraped something off it and placed it into a small compartment of his clipboard computer. The computer beeped and he read the resultant printout. He turned back to Scott with a look of horror on his face. "Biological contamination."

Scott scratched his head. "What?"

"This..." Barclay indicated the base of Thunderbird One's leg, "support device, is covered in matter not naturally found in London."

Scott managed to stop himself from rubbing his cranium again. "Huh?"

"My computer tells me that this soil matter is to be found in its natural state in Hampshire."

"Hampshire? Where's that?"

"About 50 miles from London." Mr. Barclay's face contorted into an expression that could have been interpreted as a sneer. "I suppose you are going to tell me that you've never been there."

"That's right. I haven't."

"I suppose you are going to tell me that this biological contamination blew here on the winds?" Barclay laughed a mirthless laugh.

"No."

"Or maybe it walked here of its own accord."

"Now you are being silly..." Scott made a mental countdown from 100. "Look, there's no way that Thunderbird One, or any of our Thunderbirds, can carry biological contaminants. They are thoroughly cleaned after each mission. They are bombarded with…"

Barclay wasn't listening as he looked up Scott's latest penalty. "You do realise the damage you could do to a whole industry or ecosystem if you were to import a new biological pest into the country."

"I am aware!" Scott almost shouted. "That's why we…"

"The penalty for biological contamination, according to European Law, Statute One Five Three Six Eight Seven Six: Sub-clause Five Two... Oh."

Surprised by the official's sudden halt to his spiel, Scott stared at him. "What's wrong?"

"I have decided not to prosecute you for this offence," Barclay said grandly.

"You have? Why?"

"Why? Ah... You have come here to help our government, have you not?"

Scott frowned. Barclay was clearly prevaricating, but why? A light bulb went on in his mind. "Wait a minute! I'll bet the soil was re-laid here at some point. Right?"

"Shall we move on?" Barclay asked.

Scott didn't want to drop the matter. "Are you telling me that it was YOUR government who brought the soil from Hampshire and not Thunderbird One?"

Barclay didn't appear to be listening as he continued to prowl. He examined the tail section and noticed a distinctive label consisting of three triangles constrained within a circle. "What is this?"

"This?" Scott leant closer for a closer look. "Oh, that's the nuclear reactor."

"Nuclear!" Barclay took ten steps backwards.

"Don't worry," Scott hastened to reassure him. "It's perfectly safe. The smoke detector in your office probably gives off more radiation than that." His heart sank as he watched Barclay rifle through the electronic pages of the clipboard.

"Ah!" Barclay looked back at Scott with barely concealed delight. "European Law, Statute One Three Eight Nine Four: Sub-clause Two Four: Paragraph Seven: Bullet Point Eleven stipulates: that no radioactive material is to be brought into the European Union without permission. Furthermore European Law, Statute One Three Eight Nine Four: Sub-clause Two Four: Paragraph Seven: Bullet Point Five stipulates: that no nuclear reactor, or machine capable of becoming a nuclear reactor is to be carried into the European Union without prior permission. I take it that you have such permission?"

Scott heaved a sigh at the inevitability of it all and counted backwards from 500. "No. What's the penalty?"

"For European Law, Statute One Three Eight Nine Four: Sub-clause…"

"Can't we skip most of that and head straight to the bullet point?" Scott asked.

Barclay looked miffed. "Bullet point eleven: radioactive material: Fifty thousand Euros and four years imprisonment. Bullet point five: nuclear reactor: One hundred and fifty thousand Euros and fifteen years imprisonment."

"So I won't be expecting to see my family anytime soon?" Scott guessed.

"George," Lady Penelope smiled sweetly at the man on the other end of the videophone. "I have a favour to ask of you."

"Anything, Lady Penelope," George, the head of MI5, a confidant to King James, and one of the few outsiders admitted into International Rescue's ranks, beamed back.

"You may be aware that International Rescue is currently in the process of rescuing Prime Minister Tilany and several other cabinet members from the car park under Parliament Buildings."

"Of course I'm aware," George confirmed. "I hear of everything to do with the safety and wellbeing of our erstwhile PM. Does the favour involve International Rescue?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Scott Tracy is being prevented from performing his duty by one of 'Brussels' Barnacles."

"Oh, my! The poor chap," George sympathised. "But I'm not sure what I can do! Those fellows seem to only answer to the voices in their heads."

"I was wondering if perhaps you could have a quiet word with His Majesty?" Lady Penelope suggested.

"Well, I could..." George said slowly. "But this is his dog walking time and he does hate being interrupted." He sighed. "Leave it with me, Lady Penelope. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, George. I knew I could count on you."

Scott gritted his teeth, mentally ran through a check list of Thunderbird One's stats, and watched as an ice cream truck skirted the edge of the square and turned up Whitehall. On its roof sat a caricature of a polar bear enjoying one of the truck's wares. Scott doubted if even a truck load of ice cream could cool his temper at this point. "Mr. Bear-clay..." he realised his error. "I mean Barc-clay. I am not a threat to English or British or European security. I do not wish to disrupt the lives of the peoples of your country! All I want to do is do my job and then leave."

Barclay gave tight lipped smile. "I'm afraid you won't be leaving anytime soon." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a camera. "I shall have to get some more evidence first."

"I wouldn't do that," Scott advised. "As I said, International Rescue is a secret organisation and we do not allow photographs to be taken of our machinery or staff."

"And I," Barclay drew himself up to his full height, about Scott's chin, "as a representative of the Brussels Regulatory Authority Team, have an authority that transcends all others."

"Even so, I can't allow you to take photos," Scott protested.

"They," Barclay indicated the London Eye that was revolving slowly, filled with camera-toting tourists, have been photographing your 'rocket plane' all afternoon."

"And each piece of film exposed to Thunderbird One, or each digital print, has been erased by Thunderbird One," Scott explained. "Expose too much and the whole camera will disintegrate."

Barclay laughed a thin, humourless laugh.

"So you see, Your Majesty," George explained, "International Rescue is trying to rescue Rob Tilany."

"Why don't they leave the silly ass where he is?" King James interrupted. "He's doing a much better job of leading the country buried deep in that hole."

"That may well be," George agreed tactfully, "but this situation with the 'Brussels' Barn... ah, Brussels Regulatory Authority Team is not helping International Rescue."

"Fine chaps, those," King James said tugging at the leash of one of his highland terriers. "What is the damage so far?"

George consulted a clipboard computer and tried to ignore the terrier that was taking an unnatural interest in his leg. "He's got ten infringements and is facing fines of 1,360,500 Euros and 47 years imprisonment... No... Now it's eleven infringements and he's facing fines of 1,380,500 Euros."

"What the devil for?"

"The last one is for..." George consulted the clipboard again. "Destroying Brussels Regulatory Authority Team equipment?"

"Oh, give me that Royal Pardon!" King James snapped. "We can't have the men of International Rescue hindered in their work by a load of bureaucratic nonsense. There!" he signed the bit of paper with a flourish and affixed the royal seal.

George bowed low. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Barclay was staring at the smouldering camera. "How did you do that?"

"I did warn you, buddy," Scott reminded him.

"You are American?"

Scott thought the man to be a master of stating the obvious. "I was born in America, but now I prefer to think of myself as a citizen of the world."

Barclay looked over his spectacles, clipboard at the ready. "'The World' is not a recognised category. What part of America?"

"North America."

"You are not helping yourself, Mr. Scott. In which State were you born?"

Scott decided that joking 'in a state of undress', was not an answer that would win him any favours. "I can't tell you that. It's a secret."

Barclay tutted and made a note. "Unwillingness to co-operate... Do you have a permit to work in England?"

Scott tried not to groan out loud and mentally listed the stats for Thunderbird Two and the pod vehicles. "No."

"Do you have a visa to be in England?"

"Not currently."

"Do you have a passport?"

"Not with me."

Red numbers ticked over on the clipboard computer.

Since they were dealing in the obvious, Scott decided to ask an obvious question of his own. "You have heard of International Rescue, haven't you?"

Barclay checked his clipboard. "International Rescue is not a registered company, incorporated society, organisation or club."

"No. I told you we are an independent, secret organization."

Barclay appeared to be in deep thought. "Rescue... Are you affiliated with any of the rescue services? Fire brigade?"

"No."

"Ambulance service?"

"No."

"Search and Rescue?"

"No."

"Red Cross? World Vision? Unicef?"

"We have dealt with all of those organisations, but we are not affiliated with them."

"Oh..." Barclay was clearly at a loss as to where to pigeonhole International Rescue. Then he looked at Scott hopefully. "Battersea Cats' Home?"

Scott turned away, listed his brothers' birth dates, his father's birth date, and when that didn't work started to count the number of rivets in Thunderbird One's hull.

Big Ben chimed four and Scott looked at his watch. His body clock was telling him that he should be at home in bed, not doing battle with this jumped up desk jockey. Barclay was making notes on the computer clipboard and Scott had to work hard to suppress the urge to throw both the clipboard and the annoying little man's bowler hat into the Thames. He briefly enjoyed the idea of assisting Barclay into the water to retrieve both articles, before he, with more than a little reluctance, dismissed the plan as pure fantasy. "Are we going to be much longer?"

"As long as it takes," Barclay stated. "I require you to sign these forms."

"Forms? What forms?"

"Forms stating that you admit your guilt to all these charges."

Scott held up his hands. "Whoa. No way! I'm not admitting to anything! I came here, with my team."

"Your team?" Barclay looked around. "What team?"

"They're over at St. James Park."

"But didn't you say that you were here to rescue the Prime Minister from under Parliament Buildings?"

"Yes I did," Scott agreed, surprised that the man had even listened.

"But St. James Park behind Whitehall?"

"They have to dig."

"Dig?"

"Using our drilling machine."

"Drilling machine?"

Scott didn't like the way that Barclay was taking notes again. "Look, Mr. Barclay..."he received a glare from Barclay. "Sorry, Mr. Barc-clay. We have a machine that is going to be drilling down under the Houses of Parliament."

"Drilling under the Houses of Parliament! You will probably destabilise the foundations."

"No, we won't. Our drilling machine lines the tunnel with a protective layer that won't collapse."

"So you say."

Scott finally lost his temper. "Yes I do!" He was set to have it out with the man when another authoritative figure strode across the square towards them.

"Gentlemen," the newcomer removed his hat. "I am Chief Superintendent Dimond of the Metropolitan Police. I have here a Royal Pardon, personally signed by King James. All charges laid against the pilot of Thunderbird One are to be dropped."

Scott felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Mr. Barclay looked as if his favourite toy had been taken away from him. "But..." he looked sadly at the Pardon.

Scott shook the policeman's hand. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate you telling me that. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I have work to do." He turned back to his communications unit. "Mobile Control to the Mole. Come in, Virgil."

He had to wait a short time before he received his reply. "I'm here, Scott."

To Scott's ears something didn't sound right. "What's wrong, Virg? Was there a problem with the rescue?"

"No... No, we got the Prime Minister and everyone else out okay," Virgil confirmed.

Scott frowned. Virgil was sounding bemused. "So, what's wrong?" he repeated.

"Scott... I've got this little man in a bowler hat here," Virgil replied, and Scott felt his heart sink. "He's asking me if I've got permission to dig a tunnel in St. James Park."

For the 'full story' on the plate, read quiller's 'The Deciding Factor'.