LODESTAR LOST by PURUPUSS RATED FRT

What is the one thing that could destroy International Rescue?

11 Eleven: Reminiscences

Brains took his seat in his little room in the aircraft hangar. Yesterday's work had seemed to achieve nothing; all of the investigators' searching had proved fruitless. They were no closer to solving the mystery of Jeff Tracy's crash.

"Morning, Hiram," David Campbell greeted Brains as he entered the room. Over the course of the previous day he'd decided that, despite his misgivings, he quite liked the designer of the aeroplane that was now a tangled, charred mess before them. The serious young man was clearly as impatient to discover the true cause of the crash as they were and had done nothing to suggest that he was trying to absolve himself of any guilt.

"G-G-Good morning, David," Brains replied.

"Let's hope we have more success today," David said.

Brains nodded.

"The team's been hard at work," David told him. "We're hopeful to get some results."

"I-I-I hope so."

"Better get started then." David did up the front of his overalls and stepped outside the office and over to where a group of his assistants were standing in a huddle. Brains watched as the assistants explained something to the chief A.A.I., looked at an object, examined the plans, conferred with each other, examined that plans again... and then looked in Brains' direction.

He watched as David Campbell took the item and carried it towards the office.

"We're stumped with this one," David said, laying the mystery item on the desk. "We can't find anything in your plans that remotely coincide with this."

Brains looked at what appeared to be some linkages and bits of wire. "In wh-what part of the jet w-was it found?"

"Near the nose. We think in the vicinity of the control yoke. The plane didn't have some new kind of steering mechanism, did it?"

Brains shook his head. "No. Wh-When I was designing the jet, M-Mr Tracy said to keep the pilot controls the same as a s-standard plane. He said he was too old to start learning how t-to fly all over again... It was rubbish, of course," he managed a reflective smile. "He was an intelligent man, and w-was willing to try any new invention."

"So what is this then?" David asked, dragging International Rescue's engineer back into the present.

"Ah?" Brains looked closer at the mysterious bits of metal and wire. "May I touch it?" David nodded.

Taking care not to disturb the article any more than he had to, Brains examined it closely. He frowned. "I-If I didn't know that th-there was no such thing on board, I w-would have said that it was s-some kind of remote control device. S-See..." he extended a length of wire. "Th-This appears to be an antenna."

"And there's no reason why Mr Tracy would have such a device near the control yoke or in the vicinity of the pilot's controls?"

Bewildered, Brains stared at the Air Accident Inspector. "N-No. N-None."

Angus Brett paced up and down the floor of his hotel room. All that money spent on the expensive bed and he'd barely spent five minutes in it. His overactive mind had refused to let him sleep. During the day he could bury the knowledge that he'd indirectly caused the deaths of all those people at the Sunflower Mall. But at night... "It wasn't meant to happen like that!" he exclaimed out loud to the darkness.

He rubbed his hand over his face and, yet again, relived the events that had lead up to this day......

"Ah, Mr Brett. Do sit down," the greeting, while cordial, had all the warmth of a rattlesnake settling down for the night.

"Ah... Thanks... Thank you," Brett said nervously and did as he was instructed. "You wanted to see me, Mr Earl?"

"I did," Mr Falcon Earl said. "Miles, perhaps you will leave us for a while?"

"Of course, Mr Earl," Miles said and retreated through the door that Brett had just entered.

Brett relaxed somewhat. Without the muscle man present at least his health should remain intact for a little while longer. But for how long he had no idea. He had no doubt that Miles was waiting outside that door, blocking the only exit, and waiting to be summonsed to do what ever it was that he did best.

"I have called you in for a chat," Earl said, leaning back in his vast leather chair and sipping his drink. "I presume you remember that little loan I gave you."

"Oh, yes. Yes I do!" Brett waggled his head eagerly in the affirmative. "You saved my neck."

"Good, good." Earl rubbed his ample abdomen. "Always glad to help someone in need. In fact," he continued as an idea came to him, "you could call me the International Rescue of the financial world."

Brett laughed, hoping it was the right thing to do.

"There are, of course, differences," Earl continued on. "I don't have fabulous machines at my disposal, and, unlike the other International Rescue, I expect repayment."

"Quite right too," Brett said.

"I'm sure you understand how necessary it is for me to expect repayment," Earl said. "You can't just give away money willy-nilly, can you?"

"No," Brett agreed.

"I mean... I have expenses. I have outlays. I have... obligations."

"I wouldn't expect otherwise from a man in your position," Brett said.

"No." Earl spread his hands apart. "And it's not an easy world to live in. People want things from me. The IRS claim that I owe them simply ridiculous amounts of money. The police are trying to frame me with the murder of Harry Gates... A fact of which I am completely innocent."

"I'm sure you are."

"They pester me all day and don't allow me to get on with my legitimate business. If I could get away somewhere from all these hassles, somewhere free of petty bureaucracy, somewhere where I could live my life my way, I would be happy." He indicated a photo on his wall. "Somewhere warm... Somewhere idyllic... Somewhere free from Governmental persecutions."

Brett obediently looked at the photo of a tropical landscape and nodded.

"But I am not happy... But, despite these trials, I must try to continue to run my business. I must insist on having all debts paid on time and in full."

"You can't run a business any other way," Brett agreed.

"Your time is up," Earl said bluntly.

"Ug, uh," Brett articulated.

Earl held up a slip of paper. "I have here your I.O.U. On it says that you will repay me, in full, with interest, on this date."

"I know."

"It's a simple transaction. You give me the money and I'll give you this slip of paper. You will be debt free."

To Brett the idea sounded like heaven, except that heaven was a long way away. "Ah, well, you see..."

"You have the money?"

"Not in so many words. I have some, ah, irons in the fire, but nothing has come to fruition yet..." Brett shrank back into his seat as Earl's face turned nasty.

"You don't have the money?"

"Not yet. But give me time!" Brett gasped.

"Time," Earl snarled. "You've had time. You said you could repay me today! Did you lie to me?"

"No..."

"Because I won't tolerate liars. If you can't repay me in cash you will repay me in kind. Miles!"

"No..." Brett yelled.

The door began to open...

Even today, all these weeks after that conversation, Brett was still amazed at how clearly he'd been thinking at the time. Instead of his brain dissolving into a mush of nervous impulses an idea had sprung to the fore. "Wait! I have a proposition for you!"

"Proposition?" Earl snarled, as Miles closed the door behind him. "You've reneged on your initial proposition."

"I know," Brett gabbled gamely. "But I'm sure this will interest you. Please hear me out. Give me ten minutes?" he begged, sensing Miles standing at his shoulder.

Earl held up his hand and Brett heard Miles' arm drop to his side. "You have five."

Relieved at the temporary reprieve, Brett let out a breath. "You said that you would like to find somewhere where you could live away from the prying eyes of Government departments. I could supply you with that!"

Earl frowned. "You could? How?"

"I know some place, a tropical island in the South Pacific, far away from any territorial limits, where you could live in comfort and peace."

"An island! Even islands are under some form of government control."

"Not this one! It's in private ownership. It's got everything you'll need. An airstrip big enough to take full sized planes, state of the art communications, even a lab you could use to make dr... whatever you want."

Earl was beginning to look interested. "A Pacific island? Native girls?"

"Ah, no. The only residents are the family who live there. But there's a guesthouse, away from the main house, where anyone could stay. You could invite the World President over and she'd never need to know what you were doing in the villa. The main house is well appointed with every luxury, ten bedrooms, expansive kitchen, gym, theatre, library..."

"Are they looking to sell?"

"I don't think so, but I have a plan that'll make them give it to you willingly, even though they don't want to... But I'll need your help."

"You are sure this plan will work?"

"Pretty sure, but I can't do it on my own."

"Who owns this place?"

"Tracy."

"Tracey? Tracey who? Not Tracey Garcia from California? Eduardo Garcia's daughter?"

"No. Jeff Tracy. Of Tracy Industries."

"The reclusive billionaire?"

"That's him. I do some legal work for him."

Earl sneered. "A two bit lawyer like you does work for a multi-billionaire?"

"We go back a long way. I think he feels some loyalty towards me."

"Clearly the feeling is mutual." Earl was being sarcastic, but he looked thoughtful. "Are you sure you can get this place? I don't want any links to me."

"I can do it," Brett said confidently. "But I have one condition." He expected to see the sneer again and was surprised when Earl appeared willing to listen. "I'll admit to being a crook. I'll admit to being dishonest, or a thief, I'll even admit to being an embezzler, but I draw the line at murder. I don't want anyone hurt."

"But won't Tracy have something to say about you whipping his island away from him?"

"If it all goes to plan he won't know a thing about it until it's too late."

Earl looked at Brett in interest. "Apart from saving your miserable little skin, why do you want to do this? What's in it for you?"

Brett gave a sneer of his own. "I want to see Tracy's face when he learns that his precious, perfect sons have sold his island out from under him."

Brett threw himself into a chair and sighed. The plan had been that the aeroplane would 'crash' into the Pacific Ocean and Jeff Tracy would disappear; only to wash up on shore after the sale of the island had been completed. And, apart from the accident with the shopping mall, everything had been proceeding as planned.

Until those one of those precious, perfect sons had foiled him. The others had crawled straight into the trap.

He frowned, what could he do about Alan? Then his frown reversed into a sardonic grin. So, now he knew something that the rest of the world was dying to know. He knew the identity of the great International Rescue. He laughed at the idea. Jeff Tracy obviously hadn't trusted him enough to take him into his confidence and now one of Jeff Tracy's own sons had given the game away. Jeff Tracy's own son had sold him out just as Brett's son had done to him!

Brett felt the thrill of realisation of the power that that knowledge could bring him. He now had a bargaining chip that he could use to manipulate both sides...

He relaxed back in his chair and thought about the first time he met Jeff Tracy...

Angus Brett secured the last screw into the nameplate that bore his name and stood back to admire his handiwork. Now, after all those years of struggling through law school, he finally had his own practise. Maybe he wouldn't be as famous as he could have been if he'd followed his dream and taken up acting as a career. But then perhaps he could yet become a world class barrister; holding the judge and jury in the palm of his hands as he wove the tale of his client's innocence. Perhaps the law courts would be his stage...

He heard a throat clear behind him. "Excuse me." Brett turned and found himself looking at the lapel of an Air Force flight jacket. He adjusted his angle of vision and looked into the ruggedly handsome face and piercing dark eyes of a young pilot. The nametag on his jacket identified him as 'Tracy'. "I'm looking for a lawyer," Tracy said.

"Well, you've found one," Brett admitted. "Would you like to come inside?" He led the way into his spartan, one-room office. "What can I do for you?"

"My name's Jeff Tracy," the young man introduced himself. "I'm a pilot stationed at the local Air Force base..."

"So I gathered," Brett indicated the other man's clothing.

Jeff looked down and laughed. "I guess it is pretty obvious."

"What can I do for you, Mr Tracy?"

"I'm getting married in a week's time and it suddenly dawned on me that I'll have financial and legal responsibilities. I want to draw up a will."

"A wise idea," Brett admitted, and reached into his desk for the necessary paraphernalia. "I've just got married myself," he indicated a photo on his desk, "to Zelma. We're expecting a baby."

"Congratulations." Jeff picked up the wedding photo and examined it. The 'happy' couple were standing apart from one another and the smiles on their faces appeared forced. He placed it back on the desk and opened his wallet. "That's Lucille," he said as he withdrew a photo of a vivacious brunette with an impish smile.

Brett admired the photo briefly before getting down to business. "I think it's only fair to tell you that you are my first client."

Jeff shrugged. "We all have to start somewhere and it's not as if I've got a lot to leave her. But as I'm hoping to be selected for the astronaut squad I thought I should be prepared."

Brett looked up. "Wow!"

"Yeah," Jeff grinned. "That's how I felt when I first heard about it. My parents aren't too keen on the idea, but they're supporting me all the way."

"And your fiancée?"

"Lucille? She's great! Backing me to the hilt. I've promised her that once I've been to the moon I'll settle down... I don't know what I'd do though, it's not like I can see myself being stuck behind a desk all day."

That was the first moment when Brett had felt antagonism towards the man seated before him. His own parents had done all they could to thwart his thespian ambitions. Even while at law school he'd continued to tread the boards, hopeful that some talent scout would discover him and lead him away to the life he wanted. But none had. Even while at law school his parents had nagged him to forget acting and concentrate on his studies.

Eventually he'd graduated bottom of his class. The realisation that he wasn't a particularly good lawyer had prompted his decision to try full time acting. He set himself a limit of a year. If he had no success with in that time then he would return to the law. He'd told Zelma his plans and then emboldened by what he'd thought was her support, told his parents.

His father had thrown him out of the house and disowned him.

Then Zelma had become pregnant. His mother had retained contact with her errant son, but was not about to let him shirk his duty. Between her and Zelama's continuing naggings of: 'You're going to have a wife and baby to support. You'll never do it as an actor', Brett had been convinced to return to the more 'respectable' trade...

Brett dragged himself back to the present and hid his antagonism behind an actor's mask of friendliness. "If you want to ensure that Lucille is provided for, should the worst happen to you," he told Jeff, "may I suggest an investment that doubles as a life insurance?"

Jeff sat forward on his seat. "Can you do that?"

"Of course." Brett had made his first commercial deal.

Time passed and once again Jeff Tracy was in Brett's office. This time he brought Lucille along. "We're going to have a child," he said with pride. "Lucille and I have decided to update our wills."

"Congratulations," Brett said as he'd held out a seat for Lucille. "Not trying to steal your thunder, but Zelma and I are expecting as well."

"That's fantastic!" Jeff enthused, as Lucille smiled sweetly. "So that'll be two you'll have?"

"Ah, no," Brett said. "Unfortunately Zelma miscarried the first child."

"Oh," Jeff's face fell.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Lucille said.

Not as sorry as Brett had been. If only the unhappy event had happened before he'd placed that ring on Zelma's finger, he could have returned to acting. Perhaps life could have been so much better...

Jeff Tracy had announced on his third visit that he and Lucille were expecting another child.

"And how's your little boy," Brett asked.

"Scott?" Jeff's eyes gleamed. "Wonderful kid, I hope number two's as well behaved as him. And Lucille's a fantastic mother. I'm really lucky. How's your son?"

"Vince? He's a handful, always getting into everything. I couldn't find my car keys the other day. He'd hidden them under his pillow."

Jeff had laughed...

On the fourth visit Jeff decided to remind himself of the contents of his will. "The house is in an uproar and I've misplaced my copy. I know... I'm hopeless. If it wasn't for Lucille I'd forget which day it was," he laughed. "And since number three's on the way I've brought Scott along this time to give his mother a break."

"How do you do, Scott," Brett held out his hand.

Scott shook his hand. "I'm gettin' 'nother brother."

"We don't know about that yet," Jeff ruffled his eldest's hair affectionately. "We'll see."

"What a polite little boy," Brett exclaimed. "Mine would be screaming the place down by now..."

Scott, along with John, had also accompanied Jeff on visit five. "We're having to move to a bigger house," Jeff joked. "The Air Force residential officer is saying that they'll have to add on extra rooms to accommodate all our kids."

"Three boys," Brett said. "Do you know what this next one's going to be?"

"A boy!" Scott said confidently.

"Maybe," Jeff smiled. "We like it to be a surprise. It'd be nice to have a little sister though, wouldn't it, Guys?"

John gave a beatific smile at the thought, while Scott screwed up his face.

"How's Vince?" Jeff asked.

Brett chuckled. "His latest trick is sneaking up behind women and looking up their skirts. I try to explain to him that it's not the done thing, but the boy has a mind of his own." He looked at Scott and John, each absorbed in their books; Scott's about aeroplanes, and John's on the stars. He felt a pang of envy.

"He'll grow out of it," Jeff was saying confidently...

"I've promised her that this is the last one," Jeff joked on his sixth visit. "I've told Lucille that I'll do something about it."

Brett got an extra seat for Virgil. The boy clambered onto it and started scrawling in his sketchpad as his two older brothers got out their books. Scott started reading what appeared to be an aviation textbook and John began writing in a notebook. "You're just back from the moon, aren't you, Jeff?" Brett asked. "You've become quite a celebrity."

"Boy! Was that an experience," Jeff enthused. "I've never seen anything like it."

Scott looked up. "Tell Mr Brett about the lift-off."

"Yeah, and how the whole rocket shook," John added. "Show him, Daddy."

Jeff chuckled. "Later, Boys. Mr Brett and I have work to do."

Virgil held up a picture he'd drawn. "That's Daddy's rocket."

"That's a very good drawing, Virgil," Brett said.

"Thank you." Virgil said and returned his attention to his drawing.

"I'm writing a story," John said proudly. "It's about Daddy going to the moon. I'd like to go to the moon. I could see the stars much closer." He held his notebook so that Brett could see his tidy writing.

"Your writing's very neat, John," Brett complemented. "My boy's writing isn't as neat as yours."

"I'm going to join the Air Force," Scott said.

"Shush, Boys," Jeff admonished gently. "You can tell Mr Brett about it later."

"Sounds like they're itching to follow in their Dad's footsteps," Brett laughed.

Jeff looked at his sons with pride.

In the years between that first meeting and the seventh Brett watched as Jeff's career literally went into orbit, while his stayed firmly grounded in that little one-room office in town.

Brett would only ever admit to himself that the seventh meeting brought a bitter pleasure to him.

"Jeff? What can I say? I'm sorry."

Jeff tried to smile and failed. No longer was he the carefree man with the world at his feet. The death of his wife had had turned his world upside-down. "I received the card. Thanks."

"I wish I could have done more."

Jeff Tracy's five sons crammed themselves into a corner of the room. No one was reading, writing or drawing this time. They all looked lost and bewildered by the sudden departure of their mother. Scott was talking to them quietly; trying to reassure his younger brothers.

"What are you going to do now?" Brett asked the bereft man before him.

"I don't know," Jeff admitted. "I relied on Lucille for so much... Obviously I can't continue as an astronaut, not with five sons to care for. My mother says she'll help, but I can't lay it all on her. I'll have to find a job, but doing what I don't know. My only skills are flying rockets and I can't see that rating very highly on a CV."

"Come on, Jeff. A man with your personality and talents? You'll be fine." Brett was proud of his acting skills that day.

"I hope so." Jeff took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. "Sorry," he apologised. "I guess we'd better get this over and done with."

"Yes." Brett opened the document and began reading the last will and testament of Lucille Tracy...

Despite his misgivings Jeff Tracy's life had prospered. He'd gone into partnership with an old friend and started an engineering firm. The firm grew and expanded, becoming more and more successful.

Brett watched Jeff's fortunes rise and felt more and more bitter. At first he'd hoped that Tracy Engineering would use him for all their legal business, but Jeff had explained apologetically that his partner's sister was a solicitor who specialised in business law and that both partners agreed that it would be better for the company to utilise her skills. Jeff was sure that Brett would understand...

Understand! Angus Brett understood all right! He understood that the great Jeff Tracy didn't rate him as a lawyer. Oh, he was okay for wills and that first investment, but for anything else...

It was a bitter pill for Angus Brett to swallow.

Nearly as bitter as his marriage to Zelma. There was no doubt that the union was a mistake. If it hadn't been for that one miscarried child he would have been free of her nagging and moaning, and the affairs that she openly flouted in front of him and the wider society.

Their only child, Vince, had been a disappointment too. His babyish screaming had continued on into his adult life, developing a vocabulary that wouldn't have been out of place on the docks. His childish scrawl was more often found on people's walls rather than pieces of paper. His hiding of his father's car keys had grown into the theft of other people's cars. Looking up women's skirts had escalated into accusations of sexual assault and ultimately rape. Vince displayed no loyalty or responsibility to his family.

A year or so ago, when Brett was desperate to try to have something resembling a normal marriage he'd manipulated some investment accounts to try to rake in a little extra cash.

Zelma had been unimpressed with his sudden largesse.

Then one day the police came knocking. "Mr Angus Brett? We have reason to believe that you have been embezzling funds."

"That's outrageous! How did you get that idea?"

"We have our sources, Sir."

Brett knew what those sources were. He'd caught a glimpse of a familiar childish scrawl. Vince had plea-bargained with the police to try to reduce the rape charges against him. His son had accused his own father of fraud to help himself! At that moment Angus Brett knew he no longer had a son.

He felt no grief when he heard that the boy had been killed trying to outrun the police in a stolen car.

Zelma had taken the embezzlement charge as the excuse she'd always wanted and had finally left her husband. She'd run off with a younger man.

Brett felt no sorrow at her loss either.

But now he was alone and he was in trouble. He had to get the money back quickly, so that when the accounts were checked it would all seem to have been nothing more than a simple clerical error. He needed help and he'd turned to Mr Falcon Earl.

Mr Earl had been more than willing to help. Of course he understood. No need to explain. Just sign this bit of paper and all would be well...

Until the money was due to be repaid...

Brett rubbed his face again.

The irony of it all was that Jeff Tracy had inadvertently aided and abetted the scam; even as his 'demise' was being prepared. The morning of that day when Jeff Tracy's aeroplane crashed, the philanthropist had been to see him. It had not been a happy meeting. Tracy had accused Brett of embezzling the solitary investment and had said he was going to the police. He'd shown him the proof he had; duplicates of papers from a detective, the company solicitor... his accountant. Brett laughed at the memories. If only Jeff Tracy had realised that by supplying him with those official letterheads he had walked straight into the trap. Mr Earl had supplied him with equipment to forge the will and it had been easy to use the same equipment to forge substantiating letters using those letterheads. Letters that had convinced Jeff Tracy's sons that they had nothing.

The biggest gamble had been that one of them would have done a little research of their own into their father's affairs. Brett had taken the chance that they'd be so caught up in their grief that the idea of confirming what they'd been told hadn't even entered their heads.

His gamble had paid off. Even Alan, after his 'climbing accident' had seemed disinclined to ask for outside help.

Brett stood, looked around his empty hotel room and noticed the cold, grey light of dawn was starting to peek through the curtains. He decided to try for one hour's sleep before facing the new day...

It was the early hours of an English morning, but late afternoon Central Daylight Time, when Lady Penelope and Parker drove in FAB1 through the streets of Kansas City.

"Parker," Lady Penelope instructed. "Turn right here, would you?"

"Yes, m'Lady," Parker affirmed and made the necessary correction. "H-If you don't mind me askin'; why? H-I thought we was 'eadin' to where Mister Alan said 'e'd seen Mr Tracy."

"And so we are, Parker. But it's still too early in the day to do any, ah, 'snooping' in the research complex. And since we're in the vicinity of Jeff's office, I thought we'd pay a visit. I should like to have a word with Mr Tracy's personal assistant before we leave the country and I daresay that if we wait until after we've examined Alan's warehouse, Miss Fordbury will have left work for the day."

"Very good, m'Lady." Parker stopped the shocking pink Rolls Royce outside the imposing building. "Do you want me to come h-in?"

Lady Penelope watched as a man tried to remove the letters 'murd' scrawled on the front of the building. "No. I feel that you may learn more from staying out here."

Parker followed her gaze. "Rightio then." He opened the gull-wing door and assisted his mistress out of the car.

Lady Penelope strode into the foyer of the Kansas City office of Tracy Industries and walked up to the young woman manning the reception desk.

The receptionist smiled up at the visitor. "May I help you?"

"I do hope so," Lady Penelope gushed. "I was hoping I could have a word with Mr Tracy's personal assistant, Miss Fordbury."

The receptionist became wary, obviously considering the possibility that Lady Penelope was a reporter. "May I have your name?"

"Certainly. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. Miss Fordbury and I have met before."

As she waited for the receptionist to announce her arrival, Lady Penelope looked about her. Above the reception desk hung a portrait of Jeff Tracy, black crepe framing his photo. A lump formed in her throat as she took in his rugged features. "He was a handsome man," she commented.

The receptionist glanced at the photo. "He was. He was a very special man, a caring man who took an interest in everyone, no matter who you were... Unfortunately not everyone believes that." Intrigued by the comment, Lady Penelope waited to see if the woman was going to expand on her statement, but the young American had clearly decided that she'd overstepped the mark and was in the process of steering the conversation back to safer ground. "I've always liked that picture. If you look at it long enough you'd swear he's trying to hide a secret..." A light flashed on the switchboard. "Miss Fordbury will see you now."

"Thank you," Lady Penelope said.

Parker tossed his chauffeurs hat onto the driver's seat of the Rolls Royce before wandering over to the maintenance man. "Some people ain't got no respect," he began by way of conversation.

The maintenance man glanced at him. "No," he agreed before returning to his work. "No respect and a lot of cheek. Only happened a half hour ago. Some punk walks along, bold as brass, and sprays 'murderer' right across the front of the building."

"Didn't someone see 'im?" Parker asked.

"Sure. Lotsa people. But no one did anythin'. They prefer to leave it to the cops," he pointed up into a recess in the veranda, "and the security cameras."

"Murderer?" Parker queried. "Why murderer?"

"You not from these parts?" the maintenance man asked. "You know about Mr Tracy's accident?" Parker assured him that he did. "A lotta people died in that crash. Some people are lookin' for someone to blame. Mr Tracy's an easy target."

"You don't blame 'im though?"

"Me? Nah. Mr Tracy was a good man. He'd always greet me by name; I wasn't just another worker to him. There's no way he could be at fault. He'd take his own life before takin' anyone else's, especially innocent women and kids. Unfortunately a lot of people are grievin' and aren't seein' straight."

"What do you think 'appened?"

The maintenance man shrugged. "Who knows? I understand it was a new plane. Maybe there was somethin' wrong with it."

Lady Penelope was ushered into a reception area. "Miss Fordbury will be with you shortly," she was informed.

Shortly proved to be almost immediately and Lady Penelope extended her hand in greeting. "Pen. I'm sorry we have to meet again in such circumstances."

Pen Fordbury was a young Englishwoman who was as proud of her British heritage as she was of the fact that she worked for Jeff Tracy. Intelligent, resourceful, exceedingly good at her job, and the person Jeff had regarded as his most trusted Tracy Industries employee, she also harboured a secret crush on Gordon Tracy. She greeted Lady Penelope as she would any member of the British aristocracy, but with a warmth reserved for personal friends of her late employer. "Won't you come into the office, Lady Penelope?"

Lady Penelope inclined her head. "Thank you. I'm so sorry to be taking up your time."

"Think nothing of it. To tell you the truth I'm at a bit of a loss. There's plenty of work to do, but I don't know where to start. And things are up in the air at the moment with no direction. We haven't heard a word from Jeff's family."

"I've just returned from the island," Lady Penelope volunteered.

"Really? How are they?"

Lady Penelope delicately bit her lip. "I wish I could say that they were coping, but Jeff's death has rocked them. The press have been hounding them and they've cut themselves off from the outside world."

"So that explains why I haven't been able to reach them on the phone or fax," Pen said. "But I would have thought that they would be able to receive the post... or emails."

"When I was there they hadn't opened the mailbag," Lady Penelope admitted. "And I believe that Scott has been using his own email address for communications associated with the accident. I would doubt that he's been looking at his father's to avoid being confronted with the world's media."

"They are struggling, aren't they?" Pen commented.

"That is why I have come to see you," Lady Penelope lied. "I thought that if you could let me know how Jeff filled his last few hours then perhaps they will start to come to terms with this tragedy."

"Of course. Let me get his diary." Pen hurried into Jeff's office.

Lady Penelope followed, once again feeling the lump forming in her throat as she took in the rich surroundings of Jeff Tracy's domain. She stood admiring a photo of Tracy Island as Pen reached into a drawer, withdrawing a large volume.

"Here we are," Pen opened the diary at the fateful day. She ran her finger down the entries. "Nothing to do with Tracy Industries. He was here before I arrived to meet a Mr Spencer." She looked thoughtful. "I remember that Jeff seemed rather... solemn when Mr Spencer left. He commented that sometimes it pays to listen to your gut instincts."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'd never heard of Mr Spencer before. Jeff arranged that appointment himself."

Lady Penelope looked at the diary. "I see that he visited Angus Brett at 11am. Had he cheered up by then?"

"Funny you should mention that," Pen looked thoughtful. "No he hadn't. He said something about it being a sad day. It's not written in here, but as soon as I arrived at work he asked me to arrange a meeting with Mr Walker of 'Walker and Crawford'. He saw Mr Walker, then Mr Brett, came back to work, finalised another couple of things and then left for the airport." Her voice caught in her throat.

Lady Penelope gave the young lady a moment to compose herself. "How was he the previous day?"

Pen turned back a page. "Oh, yes," she smiled. "He was much happier that day. He'd finalised a deal that he'd been working on for months. He told me he was going to get his hair cut to celebrate." She laughed before pointing at another entry. He shouted me lunch and then I dropped him off at the blood donation centre. The chauffeur picked him up afterwards."

"He gave blood?"

Pen nodded. "Yes. He did so most visits." She stared at the diary. "When I first heard about... heard what had happened, I did wonder if he'd fainted from blood loss. But he'd made his donation over 24 hours before the..." she swallowed. "That can't have had anything to do with it. He'd never had any problems in the past."

"Where is the centre?"

"The clinic is in Denys Street. The funny thing is that it was reported in the news that evening that they had had a break in. Jeff said they must have seen that it was a blood bank and got the wrong idea." Pen looked back at the diary. "The rest of his time was taken up with work related activities. He seemed happy in his work." She shut the diary and a slip of paper fell out. She picked it up. "Oh, it's the receipt from lunch! I'm in such a muddle that I haven't made a record of it yet. I must write this up. Do excuse me, Lady Penelope?"

"Of course."

Pen returned to her office leaving Lady Penelope alone in Jeff's. Feeling as if she were intruding into the private life of a friend, Lady Penelope had a quick look around, but found nothing of interest. She pretended to be admiring a photo of the five Tracy boys when Pen returned carrying a notebook. "See, I told you I was in a muddle. I'd forgotten the receipt." The P.A. opened the notebook on Jeff's desk and began writing. Then she slammed her ballpoint on the table. "Look at me! I've just gone and spelt cheque with a Q U again. If Jeff was here now he'd say. 'Look here, Penelope...' He always called me Penelope when he teased me, because he knew I didn't like it. 'Look here, Penelope. You're in America now. You've got to learn to spell our way'." Pen gave a misty eyed smile. "And I'd tease him back, saying that we English were spelling cheque with a Q U before Christopher Columbus was out of nappies. Then he'd correct me by saying that the correct word was 'diapers'." She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "He was a hard worker, but never afraid to have a laugh."

"He was a good man," Lady Penelope empathised.

"He was a great man," Pen amended. "A caring man. The sad thing is that most of the world won't know how caring and selfless he was."

Lady Penelope reflected on the truth of this statement; even if her companion was not aware of its full implications.

Trying to regain her equilibrium Pen continued talking. "You've worked for him, haven't you?"

"In a manner of speaking," Lady Penelope said. "Life can be so boring without a little variety."

"I thought so. I remember Jeff saying once that he employed me because he liked to have a Penelope in his employment who would actually do what she was told." Pen laughed.

"I'm sure there was more to it than that," Lady Penelope corrected, knowing that Pen's efficiency and pleasant manner were the real reasons why Jeff Tracy had asked her to leave England. "Will you stay on and work for whoever takes over the helm of Tracy Industries?"

"I don't know. I will for the short term at least; until they learn the ropes. Then I'll see. It won't be the same without Jeff Tracy sitting at the desk. Maybe it would be a better to make a complete break..." Pen took up the photo that Lady Penelope had just replaced on the desk. "Do you think one of his sons will take over their father's role?"

"Somehow I doubt it," Lady Penelope said. "None of them have expressed any interest in taking over from Jeff; they all have their own skills and interests."

Pen replaced the photo. "Are you going to be returning to the island soon?"

"I am expecting to return tomorrow."

"In that case, would you mind taking something for me?" Pen returned to her office and this time Lady Penelope followed her. "I was going to freight these to the island," Pen was holding several thick, bound books, "but, if it's not an imposition, perhaps you would be willing to take them for me?"

"Of course," Lady Penelope agreed. "What are they?

"Memoriam books. Each employee of Tracy Industries in the States has signed as a mark of respect. Perhaps Jeff's family will feel better knowing how much he will be missed."

Lady Penelope surveyed the thick volumes. "Every employee?"

Pen nodded. "I believe so." She opened one book at the first page. "This book is from the Kansas Aviation factory and this message is from Sam Watson. He's off work as he is undergoing treatment for cancer. The idea of the book was his. The management liked the idea so much that they told the other branches under the Tracy Industries umbrella and they've all made one. People have been getting out of their sick bed in order to sign it."

"Even Mr Watson?" Lady Penelope commented.

"He's a brave man," Pen said. "Jeff visited him while he was here and commented on how he's still cheerful despite the fact that the prognosis is bleak... I'll get someone to carry these down for you," she added stacking the memoriam books together.

Lady Penelope looked at her watch. "I had better be going. Thank you for your assistance, Pen. I am sure that what you have told me will bring comfort to the Tracy Family."

"I hope so... and perhaps you could ask one of them to contact the company lawyers. They have been trying without success to reach Tracy Island."

"I will do that, though they seem to be shying away from the company business. But in light of their present financial situation..."

"Present financial situation?"

"I know I shouldn't be telling you this, and I trust you'll be discreet," Lady Penelope lowered her voice, "but Jeff has left them with rather a large debt."

"Jeff owed money?"

Lady Penelope nodded. This disclosure of the Tracy's personal business went against all her instincts, but if it could help... "They have to sell the island to repay the debt."

Pen Fordbury frowned in consternation. "But that can't be right."

"I know it came as a shock to us all. And it has hit the boys hardest; they have inherited the debt and little else."

"No, I don't mean that..." Pen exclaimed. "Well, yes it is a shock. But that he was in debt can't be possible! Jeff never discussed his private finances with me, and naturally I never asked. But..."

"Yes?"

"I was opening his mail the other day and I accidentally opened his private bank statement. Naturally I told him straight away and apologised. He laughed and then pretended to be serious as he said, 'you realise this means I'm going to have to kill you?'" Pen gave a wistful smile before the frown returned. "I hadn't meant to look, and I didn't take in the actual number, but I did see his balance and it wasn't written in red. And..." Pen appeared to be wrestling with her conscience. "I did notice the number of digits in the total." She bit her lip and looked at Lady Penelope.

"Was there anything remarkable in that?"

"Only that any one of his companies would have been proud to have a bank balance of that size."

"Nosey?"

Still talking to the maintenance man, Parker started at his nickname.

"Nosey Parker? Is that you?"

Parker spied the owner of the voice. "Yorkie?" He excused himself and strode over to the thin, weedy man in the flat cap. "Yorkie Entwhistle!" he grinned. "Wot are you doin' over this side of the ditch? Last I 'eard you were bein' accommodated courtesy of 'is Majesty."

"Got orf, di'n't I." Yorkie replied. "'Ad a bit o' help." He gave Parker, in his uniform, an appraising look. "Look at yer all dolled up! What 'ave yer bin up ter?"

"'Ere," Parker opened one of the gull-wing doors of FAB1. "'Op in where we can talk."

Laughing, Yorkie snatched Parker's chauffeur's hat off the driver's seat and put it on his own head before swinging into Lady Penelope's seat. "Wot's awl this then?"

Parker claimed the driver's seat and pushed the button which closed the car's door. "Gone straight."

"Gerraway. Nosey Parker? Straight? Never."

"Yep. Got meself a cushy number wiv one of London's toffs," Parker bragged.

"But yer were the best safecracker in the busyness."

Parker cracked his knuckles. "I keep me 'and in. The guv'ner keeps on forgettin' the combination to 'is safe," he lied. "Or else 'er Ladyship needs to get at 'er jewels in a 'urry. So, wot are you doin' here, Yorkie?"

"All part of the deal. This gezzer said 'e'd git me orf if I'd come work for 'im over 'ere."

"And the missus?" Parker asked.

"Glad to be shot o' me. She's takin' up wiv the barman at the 'Cock n' Bull'."

"You're lookin' well," Parker said.

Yorkie suddenly lost his jovial manner "Dunno fer 'ow much longer," he admitted. "If I could I'd catch the next plane ter England and turn mesel' over ter the first Bobby I saw, I would... Can I tell yer a secret?"

Concerned Parker looked at his friend and fellow con. "Course you can."

"I'd rather be in Parkmoor than workin' for the boss. 'E's bad news, Nosey."

"'Ow do ya mean?"

"'Cause 'is employees 'ave a short life span. No one oo crosses 'im lives fer long." Then Yorkie indicated the imposing edifice of the Tracy Industries building. "Did yer know o' Tracy?"

Intrigued, Parker pressed a minute switch on the underside of the steering wheel. "Yeah I did. 'E was a good bloke. Knew me backgroun', but still treated me right. That's why I'm 'ere. 'Er Ladyship's payin' 'er respects."

"Word orn the street's that 'e was murdered..."

Parker went cold.

"...And that me boss, 'The Earl' as 'e likes ter be called, was responsible."

"'E murdered Mr Tracy? Why?"

"Dunno. Earl's already top dog in the mid-west. 'E wants ter be King o' the 'ole country."

"Why does 'the street' think 'e murdered Mr Tracy?"

"'Cause Earl's right-'and man, Miles, ain't bin about lately. Nasty bit o' work. Word is 'e shot 'is own mother ta prove 'is loyalty ta Earl."

"Nice sort."

"Yer. 'E was last seen at the airport Tracy left from."

"But wot would 'The Earl' gain from Mr Tracy's death?"

"Dunno. They don' confide in lowlifes like me."

"So I know oo to keep clear off, wot does this Miles look like?"

Yorkie thought for a moment. "'Member Crusher Thompson?"

"Yeah," Parker recollected.

"'E's a beauty queen alongside 'Orace Miles."

"H-And Earl?"

"Dunno. Never seen 'im. 'E always works through an intermediary. Wouldn' sully 'is own 'ands."

"Thanks, Yorkie. I'll keep me eyes open."

Yorkie sighed and returned Parker's hat, before replacing his own flat cap. "I'd better be goin'. Don' want ta get yer inta trouble. Nice catchin' up with yer, Nosey."

"You too, Yorkie." Parker opened the gull-wing door and his fellow countryman climbed out of the car. "Look out for yerself."

"I'll try." Yorkie gave Parker an affectionate punch on the shoulder. "Yer keep yer nose clean."

Parker grinned and watched his friend walk away. Then he pushed a button on the dashboard.

A short time later Lady Penelope arrived. "I see you have been busy, Parker," she stated as he assisted her into the car. "I'm afraid that I held up Miss Fordbury for longer than I intended when I received your warning to keep away."

"H-I found out somthin'. I met up with an h-old friend. We was in Parktmoor together..."

Lady Penelope watched in interest as a video recording was played through the monitor in the back of Parker's seat. "It sounds as though your friend may have fallen in with the wrong crowd."

"Yeah. Poor Yorkie. Never could make the right choice. You'd guarantee that if the Old Bill was 'round the right corner, h-and the h-escape car was 'round the left, Yorkie would go right."

"So there is a belief that Jeff was murdered," Lady Penelope mused.

"Don't do much for Mister Alan's cause, does it?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Did you find h-out h-anything, m'Lady?"

"Only that Miss Forbury believes that Jeff was not as destitute as we've been led to believe. Also Jeff saw a mystery man on the morning of his, er, death; then later on that day he saw our Mr Brett."

"But what's it all mean, m'Lady?"

"It means that we still have a mystery on our hands, Parker. I believe that it is time for us to visit the scene of the crime as it were."

12 Twelve: Searching

The business day was over and dusk was drawing in when the shocking pink Rolls Royce pulled up outside the warehouse complex. Dressed in his old safe-breaking gear consisting of a baggy, multi-pocketed tracksuit, Parker alighted and moved around to assist his mistress from the car.

Lady Penelope, by contrast, was clad in a figure-hugging, one-piece, black outfit. Designed for complete mobility and with no loose material to catch on inconvenient snags, it seemed to her to be the ideal outfit for their clandestine mission: guaranteed to disarm wannabe attackers (in more ways than one). Parker, on the other hand, thought that it was ideal for distracting him from their task. With an effort he reminded himself of his relationship with the young woman, and admonished himself for having less than proper thoughts. 'She's young h-enough to be your daughter, you h-idiot," he reprimanded himself.

Lady Penelope was unaware of the emotions that she was stirring in her companion as she examined the lock on the gate. "This appears easy enough to deal with, Parker. Would you care to have the pleasure or shall I?"

"Allow me, m'Lady," Parker said, and withdrew his lock-picking kit from a pocket. A short time later the chain that held the gate closed hung loose. "Where to now?"

Lady Penelope consulted her notes. "Alan said it was down here." She led the way.

"Very good, m'Lady." Treading carefully, Parker followed in her footsteps. Soon they found themselves outside a derelict building that matched Alan's description.

"D'ya think this is it?" Parker asked.

"I assume so," Lady Penelope replied. She focused a scanner on the front of the building. "It appears to be empty." She slipped through the door.

Once inside they slid night vision goggles over their eyes to aid their search in the dark, windowless interior. Parker looked around the foyer of the warehouse. "There's tons of places where they could 'ide h-anyone."

"Yes..." Lady Penelope mused. "But Alan did say that he saw his father down at the back of the building. Down here I think," she pointed, before moving off.

"H-Into the lion's den," Parker muttered, as he followed her down a hallway.

They came to an intact door, which Lady Penelope scanned before pushing open. They were in another corridor lined with solid wooden doors. Ignoring these Lady Penelope strode down to a door at the far end.

It was locked and bolted and had a glass panel installed in the top section.

"H-Is this h-it?" Parker queried.

"I think so," Lady Penelope replied. "For someone who was suffering from a head injury, Alan has a remarkably accurate recollection of the layout of this building."

"So you think Mr Tracy was h-in 'ere?"

"I don't know, Parker." Lady Penelope peered through the glass partition. "It looks deserted."

Parker was examining the lock. "This h-is pretty old, m'Lady. Looks like it ain't been touched h-in years."

"Well, it is time it was 'touched'. Open it, Parker."

"Yes, m'Lady." Parker's deft fingers made quick work of the ancient lock. "'Ello!"

Lady Penelope leant closer. "What have you found?"

"See this?" Parker held up the padlock so she could get a clearer view of it. "H-Every lock that I've jimmied, that's been left locked for donkey's h-ears, 'as 'ad a clean end to the shackle. This one's h-all rusty. H-I'd stake me reputation that h-it's been left h-open for yonks. Also..." he placed his finger over the keyhole and gave the lock a vigorous shake. He held up his finger. "H-Oil. This 'as been h-oiled recently. Probably so h-it could be locked 'ere."

"Well spotted, Parker," Lady Penelope murmured. "Let's see what other surprises we shall find inside."

The door was a tight fit and Parker had to put his shoulder to it to lever it open.

The room was empty and windowless.

Parker spied a light switch inside the door and, without much hope, flipped it. Two incandescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling glowed brightly. "Nice of 'em to leave the power h-on."

"In a deserted warehouse? It's not only nice; it's incredible. I can't see any utility company leaving their services connected without payment, nor any landlord leaving the power connected unnecessarily." Then Lady Penelope froze. "Something's wrong."

"You're tellin' me."

"No, Parker. Smell!"

"Smell?" Parker took a big sniff at the air. "H-I don't smell anyfin'."

"That's just it. Neither do I... I remember the attic at my great-aunt Lydia's house. It had two bare globes such as these. I'd sneak up there whenever I was doomed to stay the weekend with her. Every time I turned the light on there would be a strong smell of burning. It was the dust burning off the light bulbs." Lady Penelope looked at the floor and indicated the swathe of dust that had been scraped clear by the door. "These bulbs should be thick with dust."

"Like the floor," Parker added. "There's no footprints h-or nuffin'.

"Almost conveniently so. I am inclined to think that someone has laid this dust down for our benefit. Let us search the room."

There was no trace of the straw that Alan had said was Jeff's bedding. Nor was there any trace of Jeff Tracy.

Parker stood in the middle of the room and looked at their footprints, which now covered almost every square inch of the floor. "Nuffin', m'Lady..." Something caught his eye. "'Ang on..."

"What is it, Parker?"

"Dunno..." Parker got one of his finer tools from out of his kit and started probing into a crack where the floor met the wall. As Lady Penelope watched something moved and then rolled out onto the concrete. "Ah, gotcha!" He laid his prize on the palm of his hand and showed his mistress.

"It looks too small to be Jeff's," Lady Penelope said doubtfully.

Parker had retrieved his jeweller's eyepiece from a pocket and was looking at the object more closely. "Maybe it wasn't meant to be 'is h-originally." He handed the object and eyepiece to Lady Penelope.

"I see what you mean," Lady Penelope agreed. "Do you have somewhere secure you can carry this?"

"H-I'll put h-it h-in me kit," Parker offered. "H-It won't get lost there." Soon the kit and its mysterious cargo were safely ensconced in a pocket.

Lady Penelope was examining the area where the object had been hidden. "There's no dust in the crack. Either our treasure has been there for as long as this room has been locked up or, as I suspect, the dust was purposely laid down very recently."

"So, now what do we do, m'Lady?"

"Now we head for FAB4. There is much that I would like to investigate in this city, but to do so without confirmation that we're on the right track would be foolhardy. It is time that we returned to Tracy Island, Parker!"

"Yes, m'Lady."

Gordon cleaved through the water in the pool, the dawn sun reflecting off his back. This wasn't the aimless paddling he'd been indulging in over the previous few days. This was part of his regular training regime.

He reached the end of a lap and found himself face-to-toe with a pair of feet. He looked up at their owner. "John?"

"Can we talk?"

Gordon gave a wry smile. "I don't know that we're the guys to ask that. These last few days I've been saying too much and you haven't said enough." He pulled himself out of the pool so he was sitting beside his brother. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't want to interrupt your training. When you've finished will be fine."

Gordon waved a dismissive hand. "I've finished. I've done enough swimming over the last few days to last me a year." John didn't laugh. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I want to explain why I didn't tell you about Dad at the Sunflower Mall."

"Don't worry about it, John. I'm over that. I wanted to be mad at somebody, and you and Virgil were the easiest targets. I'm sorry that I took it out on you."

John splashed the water with his bare foot. "No, I want to explain."

A look of concern crossed Gordon's face. "Okay."

John began hesitantly. "It wasn't... only you I was concerned about... I think... I think that if I'd had the opportunity I would have kept it from Virgil too... But I was still in shock when he came over to see what was holding me up."

Gordon waited.

"Do you remember when Ma died?"

"Nope." Gordon shook his head. "I was too young."

"I remember. I remember the pain of knowing that one of the most important people in my life was never going to be there anymore. I remember wanting to crawl away and hide somewhere."

"And not interact with anyone?" Gordon guessed.

John nodded. "I remember Scott was always in a bad temper and didn't want to eat, and Virgil would eat everything put in front of him. I remember him standing in front of the pantry looking pitifully up at the handle and not being able to reach. It probably saved him from turning into a butterball."

Gordon chuckled.

"And, if I remember correctly, you kept on crying. The only time when you'd quieten down would be when you were being bathed."

"And Alan?"

"I don't remember him doing anything different. I think he must have been too young to comprehend that anything was wrong." John splashed the water. "I don't know how Dad coped. He had to deal with his own grief as well as ours..."

"But he had help though, didn't he?" Gordon asked.

John nodded before continuing on. "If we hadn't had caring adults about us to pull us back into line, I hate to think what state we would have ended up in... and Dad would have been a nervous wreck."

"You guys have really interesting ways of dealing with grief."

"Better than trying to get chlorine poisoning."

"Point taken."

"Anyway, finding that registration plate was such a shock that I didn't know if Virgil and I could function normally, so I needed to make sure that at least one of us kept a clear head."

"It's okay, John. Alan explained it to me. He said that it wasn't that you didn't think that I could cope; it was that you weren't sure that you could."

John nodded. "He was right... And... And I suppose... deep down... I was trying to protect my kid brother... Not because I didn't think you could handle it... but because I didn't want you to have to." He looked up to the skies, squinting against the early morning sun. "But... if we ever found ourselves in the same situation, Gordon," he looked back at his brother, "I'd do the same thing again."

"You wouldn't tell me?"

"Not until we'd finished the rescue. There was too much riding on it."

Gordon kicked the water and watched the ripples disperse. "I suppose I can understand that."

"But what I can't forgive myself for doing," John admitted, "or not doing... is not telling you myself. When the time came to tell you the bad news, I couldn't speak. You made the comment about 'some idiot flying his plane into the mall'..."

"Don't remind me," Gordon begged.

"...And I choked... I couldn't do it! I chickened out and left Virgil to give you the bad news."

Gordon put a wet arm around his brother's shoulders. "Don't worry about it, John. It's in the past. It's time to get on with our lives."

"I'm sorry," John reiterated.

"Forget it," Gordon said. "I have." He gave a sudden impish grin. "Come on, let's go and drag the 'Cookie Monster' out of bed and chase him around the island. Time he started losing some of that flab..."

FAB1 pulled into the car park of the private airport. "You secure the Rolls Royce, Parker," Lady Penelope instructed. "I'll go and prepare FAB4."

"Very good, m'Lady."

Lady Penelope looked at her watch. "With any luck we'll be on Tracy Island in time to miss lunch. You'd better arrange something to eat while we're on the flight."

"Yes, m'Lady."

Scott Tracy entered the lounge, munching on a piece of toast. He stopped to listen to his brother practise the piano. "Can't you play something more cheerful?

Virgil, who'd only just managed to escape John and Gordon's clutches, looked at him. "Cheerful?"

"Yes, cheerful. All these dirges aren't doing anything to improve the atmosphere of the place."

"I won't be very good. I'm out of practice."

"I don't care if it's no good...!" Scott stopped, took a deep breath and started to speak again; determined to remain calm. "Please, Virg. Try? It might go some way to making us all feel better. How about something from that 'King and I' thing?"

"Okay," Virgil shrugged. He held his hands above the keyboard and then let them drop into his lap. "Want to hear something crazy?"

Scott wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. "Shoot."

"I can't think of anything cheerful." Virgil stood and started going through the sheet music in his piano stool, muttering to himself as he did so. "No... No... No good... Mozart's Requiem! Definitely not! ... No..." He shut the lid to the stool. "There's nothing here. I must have taken all my lighter pieces down to the music room." An idea came to him. "Why don't the five of us go down there and start planning the concert?"

"Concert?"

"Yes. The concert for Father."

Scott frowned at his brother. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am. I'm sure there must be some people who want to honour him. Who better to arrange it than his sons?"

Scott's frown deepened. "A memorial concert?"

"No, a concert - Period. No mention of any memorial. Something to honour Jeff Tracy."

"Don't tell me that Alan's sold you on his crazy story?" Scott exclaimed. "It's impossible."

"I know it's impossible," Virgil protested. "But Alan needs to be part of this. Do you think he'd want to help plan the memorial to a man that he thinks is still alive?"

"No..." Scott agreed.

"So we call it a concert, pure and simple. Then, when Lady Penelope proves that Alan had a hallucination, or saw a stranger, or whatever, he'll still be able to be part of it."

"Okay," Scott agreed. "You go make a start on choosing pieces and I'll get the other three."

"Bring your guitars."

A short time later found all five in the music room.

"So what are we going to do at this memorial?" Gordon asked.

"Not memorial," Virgil corrected. "Concert."

Gordon raised an eyebrow and made no comment.

Scott threw an apple core into the rubbish bin, picked up his guitar and tuned it. "Okay. What are we going to have?"

"If nothing else we've got to have the 'Thunderbirds March'," John stated.

"Agreed." Virgil made a note. "But we can't call it that on the programme."

"Programme?" Scott asked. "How big are you planning on having this thing?"

"Not very big. Maybe we could hire the old school hall."

"If we can afford it," Gordon noted.

"Why don't we call it the 'T. March'?" John suggested. "That way most people will think it stands for 'Tracy'."

"Good," Virgil said. "What else? I've got out the music for some of Father's favourites."

"Nessun Dorma," Scott suggested. "He loved that."

"Yeah," Gordon agreed. "You could sing it, John."

"Me?"

"You won that competition singing it," Scott reminded him.

"That was years ago! I was only a teenager and the judges felt sorry for me! And it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. If I had to choose between being on stage singing one of the greatest operatic arias of all time, and being on Thunderbird Five during a meteor strike, I'd say bring on the meteors!"

"You were good," Scott suggested.

"I wasn't that good."

"Yes you were," Gordon contradicted. "You had Grandma in raptures."

"I could have sneezed and she would have gone into raptures. She's biased. I know she had visions of me being the next Makisi, but honestly, I wasn't that good."

"Okay," Gordon acquiesced. "But someone's got to sing it for Dad, so I'll give it a go." John's jaw dropped. "Give me the note, Virgil."

Trying not to smile... or grimace in horror, Virgil pressed a note on the piano. "How's that?"

"Too low. Try a couple of octaves higher."

"Gordon!" John exclaimed in exasperation. "You can't sing it higher than that. It's for a tenor!"

"So? I'm more of a 'twelve-or'."

"You'll ruin it if you sing it like that, Gordon," Scott claimed. "I'll do it."

John looked at him. "This is getting worse!"

"Give me that note again," Scott requested. He tried to find the right key. "Nessun... Ness... Ness... How close am I, Virg?"

"I'd say that England is closer."

"Okay, okay!" John held up his hands in surrender. "I'll do it. If only to stop Senor Puccini from spinning in his grave any faster than he already is."

Scott laughed. "You're a good sport, John."

"Yeah, whatever... Just remember that I haven't being doing a lot of vocal training over the last few days. If I'm going to embarrass myself or the crowd's going to be too big, I'm backing out."

"Fair enough," Scott agreed. "What else should we have?"

"Kyrano and Tin-Tin could play a traditional Malaysian piece," Alan suggested.

"Good idea, Alan." Virgil made a note on his pad. "What else? What can you guys play? We should try to limit the solos and play as a group."

"And don't forget John's poem," Scott said. "He's got to read that."

"You can read it," John told him.

"You wrote it. It would be better coming from you."

"Scott... If you're going to force me to sing in public then YOU can read the poem!"

Scott shrugged. "We'll see."

They worked together for a little longer roughing out a basic programme. After a while the serious nature of their task gave way to good-natured banter and joking. At one point, wondering what the noise was coming from the music room, Tin-Tin poked her head inside and was astounded to find the five boys laughing.

"He likes 'Beatles' songs," Alan remembered. "We should have at least one."

"Yeah!" Gordon enthused. "'Yellow Submarine'." He played the opening chords on his guitar.

"That's your theme song, not his," John admonished. "'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' would be more appropriate."

"Or 'Across the Universe'," Virgil suggested.

Gordon's eyes twinkled. "Not, 'I am the Walrus', then?"

"Rocket Man!" Alan stated.

"Good idea... Except that's not a Beatles song," Virgil told him.

"Brains could sing it." Gordon grinned. "He's already got Elton John's glasses for it!"

His brothers cracked up.

For the second time in as many days Scott Tracy found himself wiping tears from his eyes. "I'd forgotten how good it feels to laugh," he admitted. He looked around at his four brothers. "Do you guys realise that, whatever the outcome of Penny's investigation, opportunities like this are going to be pretty rare from now on. We're not going to be able to spend quality time together."

"Killjoy," Gordon grumbled.

John smiled. "I've always felt that it made those opportunities all the more special."

Scott sighed and laid down his guitar. "I suppose we should think about doing some work."

"Do you guys want me to help you lay more charges?" Alan offered.

"Alan?"

"I'm not saying that I think I'm wrong. But I don't want anyone saying that I'm not pulling my weight."

"We wouldn't do that," John told his youngest brother.

"All I ask is that we don't destroy anything until we hear back from Penny," Alan begged.

Scott nodded. "Fair enough. I'd be happier waiting until the moment before we leave the island anyway. Is everyone okay with that?"

He received four nods of affirmation.

The shocking pink FAB4 touched down on the Tracy Island airstrip and taxied up to the hangar. "'Ow long are you planning on stayin', m'Lady?" Parker asked.

"Until I know whether or not we're on the right track."

Parker pointed out the window at Scott Tracy who was standing on the edge of the airstrip. "Looks like the welcomin' party's waitin'. D'you want me to stay 'ere?"

"In light of our last conversation, that might be wise, Parker," Lady Penelope admitted as she stepped out of the plane. "When it's, ah, safe, perhaps you'll bring up that bag Miss Fordbury gave us?"

"Yes, m'Lady."

Scott walked towards the aeroplane, his hand extended in greeting. "Lady Penelope?" He shook her hand in a formal manner. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Scott Tracy. I believe that you've recently communicated with my evil twin."

"Scott?"

He gave a wry grin. "I was hoping to catch you alone. I wanted to thank you for giving me the necessary kick up the... seat of the pants. And I wanted to apologise for what I said last time."

"I wasn't blameless myself."

"But you were trying to help and all I did was knock you back. I'm sorry, Penny."

"Apology accepted, dear boy," Lady Penelope gave him a kiss on the cheek. "How is everything...? And everyone?"

"We're getting there... slowly."

"And Alan?"

"Physically on the mend. Emotionally..." Scott let the sentence hang with a shrug. "It'll depend on whether you'd discovered anything." He looked at her hopefully.

"We have discovered something..."

"What?" Scott sounded eager.

"Now, Scott. The information I have is for Alan."

"Oh," Scott tried to hide his disappointment. "Okay." He indicated Parker, who was still in the plane. "Is he trying to keep clear in case one of us tosses the other into the tide?"

"He did think it prudent to keep a low profile."

Scott chuckled and jogged over to the plane. "It's okay, Parker. I'm not going to bite." He eyed the large bag that Parker was manhandling with interest. "If you want to take the monocar up to the house, I've reinstated it."

"Mrs Tracy h-agreed?" Parker asked.

"She doesn't know yet," Scott admitted. "Don't tell her."

"What a shame," Lady Penelope said. "I was rather looking forward to the walk."

"We can still do that if you want," Scott offered. "See you up there, Parker." The butler was more than a little relieved that he didn't have to face the prospect of carting the heavy bag up the steep slope.

Scott and Lady Penelope began the stroll up towards the villa. "After you'd told me off," Scott began, "I got to thinking... And I realised that you were right. I realised that none of us were coping, so we've agreed to at least try to get ourselves back on track in the hope that it might help Alan. We've also agreed not to mention the sale of the island until you've got hard evidence. And Alan's told us he's asked for your help; he said he'll go along with whatever we say once you've finished your investigation..." He glanced at his companion. "Whatever result you find."

"There's no point asking, Scott. I am not going to tell you."

"Not even a hint?"

"Not even a hint."

"I'm his big brother, Penny. I want to be able to help him. You said yourself that normally I'd be putting aside my own feelings to help my brothers, and I can do it better if I know what he's going to be facing."

Lady Penelope sidestepped the issue. "Where is Alan?"

"Helping everyone wire up the pod vehicles with explosives."

Lady Penelope stopped in her tracks. "What!"

"He hasn't changed his mind, but he doesn't want us thinking that he's goldbricking. Not until you've reported back..." he looked at his friend in open curiosity. "So you've found something interesting?"

"Scott!" Lady Penelope was beginning to sound exasperated. "I have found something. It is up to Alan to decide if it is of interest."

Scott was not going to be so easily dissuaded. "Animal, Vegetable or mineral?"

"Yes."

"Penny!"

Lady Penelope sighed. "Since you want to play '20 questions; 'Animal'."

"Bigger than a bread box?"

"Yes."

"Does it have scales?"

"No."

"Feathers?"

"No."

"Fur?"

Lady Penelope hesitated. "Well... No."

Scott thought as he clambered up the path. "Animal. No fur, scales or feathers and bigger than a bread box. Does it have four legs?"

"No. Not usually."

"Not usually?!"

Lady Penelope smiled an enigmatic smile. "It would depend on how many of you are inside."

"Huh?"

"Oh, dear me, I never was any good at this game. I'm afraid I've rather given myself away."

"You've bamboozled me, Penny."

"Have I, dear boy, how simply wonderful. I should hate for you to guess 'The Mole' before you've used up all twenty questions."

They'd reached the courtyard; and Scott stopped and stared at his friend. "The Mole? You were thinking about the Mole?"

"Of course? What else?"

"I thought you were giving me clues about what you'd found for Alan!"

"Oh, no. I was merely partaking in a simple game to pass the time."

"Penny!" Scot exclaimed in exasperation. "Can't you at least tell me if what you've found is good or bad news? So that I can prepare myself either way!"

"I could, except that I won't know if it's good or bad news until Alan has confirmed that 'it' is what we think it is... If it's any comfort," Lady Penelope laid a hand on Scott's arm. "I think that it is good news." She gave his arm a squeeze. "Now!" She turned back to the villa and started walking again. "Would you mind if I spoke to him?"

Alan was in Thunderbird Two's pod bay, helping Gordon wind the demolition cable between the 'threads' on The Mole's screw nose, when his watch beeped. "What can I do for you, Scott?"

Scott, slightly put out by Lady Penelope's stubbornness, was succinct and to the point. "Penny's here. She wants a word with you."

Alan went cold. "Oh," he said quietly as the link was disconnected. He looked at his older brothers. "I guess this is it."

"I guess," Gordon agreed.

Alan jumped down and hesitated. "Do you guys want to come?"

"Do you want us?" John asked, peering down from the back of The Mole.

"Yeah," Alan nodded. "I think I'd like that."

Virgil and John, who'd been trying to convince his brother to help him get out of singing in the 'concert', clambered down and followed their two youngest brothers out of the pod bay.

The lounge was already full of people. Kyrano laid a teapot and several bone china cups on the coffee table and turned to leave.

"No, don't go, Kyrano," Alan requested. He turned back to Lady Penelope. "I've told them what I asked you to do, so you can speak freely."

"Very well," Lady Penelope agreed. She unzipped her well fitting pink flight jacket and reached inside. They heard the sound of another zip as in inside pocket was opened. She retrieved a small, flat velvet box from the pocket. "I hope, Alan, that this is what you are looking for."

Tentatively Alan held out his hand and Lady Penelope placed the box onto it. He drew his hand back towards his body and looked at the object. This wasn't what he'd expected.

"Open it, Alan," Gordon coaxed.

Alan looked round at his family. They were all looking at him with varying degrees of concern. No one else moved as he flipped open the tiny lid.

He stared at the box's contents; then he touched the object and examined it briefly. His face was expressionless.

Scott was standing in front of his father's desk, watching in confusion. "What is it, Alan?"

Instead of answering Alan held the box out towards his brother, who glanced at Lady Penelope and Parker before accepting it. He removed the contents; placing the box on the desk and examined the object in detail. "I don't believe it!"

"What is it, Scott?" Virgil moved closer.

Scott placed the object on the palm of his hand and held the gold band out for all to see. "It's Ma's wedding ring."

"What!?" There were several exclamations about the room.

"Are you sure, Scott?" Lady Penelope asked. "I needed to make sure before I..."

He was nodding. "I'm sure. You can read the inscription, 'J. & L. T.' and their wedding date. Father wore it on a chain about his neck; you can see where it's worn on the edge..." He looked back at Lady Penelope. "Where did you find it?"

"In the room where Alan saw your father."

"He's alive?" Gordon yelped.

"Where is he now?" John asked; his face lighting up.

"I don't know, John," Lady Penelope replied and his face fell again. "There was no evidence that anyone had been there. The room had been most carefully camouflaged to make it appear to have been deserted for months, if not years. If it hadn't been for Parker's," she looked at her companion's most obvious feature, "ah, nose for precious objects, we should never have found this."

Scott had leant over the desk and was reaching into a drawer. He brought out a black velvet bag and tipped its contents onto his hand. Beside the delicate gold band that was his mother's wedding ring, now lay a larger, blackened item; something that looked like it had been through a tremendous fire. "It was Father's," he explained. "The authorities couriered it, special delivery, yesterday. They found it in the plane... or what was left of it."

"May I?" Lady Penelope reached over and picked up the larger ring. She examined the inscription. "It looks the same to me. Perhaps you would care to give us your expert opinion, Parker."

"Of course, m'Lady." Parker took the ring with dignity and examined it under his jeweller's eyeglass then he compared it with the other. "They look to 'ave been h-inscribed h-at the same time. The metal h-is not 'igh quality..."

"No," Mrs Tracy remarked. "They couldn't afford anything expensive then. He had to borrow the money for the rings from his father..." She smiled at the memories. "Both rings meant the world to him, but the neck-chain he wore Lucille's ring on had a greater monetary value."

"It was platinum and had our initials on it," Scott explained. "The 'full stop' between the letters was set with a diamond. He used to laugh after he'd been for check-ups and say how it would make medical staff crazy trying to guess what S-J-V-G-A stood for. They thought it was some new type of computer monitor..."

"Until Virgil would be brought up in conversation," Gordon interrupted.

"...But he would refuse to remove Ma's ring for anything," Scott continued on.

"That's right," Grandma agreed. "To Jeff her wedding ring was priceless. He's worn that ring, close to his heart, almost since the day Lucille died. You'd never know he wore it, but it was always there."

"But what about the chain?" Virgil asked. "The chain must have been with the ring! He never takes either of them off!"

"Virgil's right," John said. "If you found Ma's ring, the chain must have been nearby."

"H-I am sorry, Mister John," Parker said. "There was nothin' else there. I'd stake me reputation on it."

"There's got to be some logical reason why Ma's ring was in that room," Scott said. "But what?"

This was the final straw for Alan. He rounded on his oldest brother. "The logical reason is that our father was in that room, and left Ma's ring there as a clue for us to find!"

"But how can you explain away the Air Accident Investigator's report, Alan? I've been involved in these investigations and I know how they work! The authorities don't release anything unless they are absolutely sure it's a fact!"

"It was only an interim report," Virgil's voice was softer than usual; evidence of his bewilderment. "Maybe they got it wrong."

"Even interim reports have to be accurate," Scott reminded him. "Especially in a public case like this one."

"What's wrong with you, Scott?" Alan asked, his face blazing red with anger. "Why won't you believe me? Why must you only believe what you can see with your own eyes? Isn't it enough for you that I saw him and that Parker found Ma's ring where I saw him? Isn't enough for you that you are holding Ma's ring in your own hand? Isn't it enough for you that I touched him?"

"Alan..."

"Don't you want him to be alive?!"

"Of course I do," Scott replied, shocked and a little hurt by the accusation. "But what about Mr Campbell's reports? Are you trying to say that they are a lie? That someone's deliberately falsified official documents to fool us and the entire world? That's a serious claim."

"Well, I'm making it!"

The family were watching the altercation between the two brothers, their eyes wide as they tried to comprehend what they'd been told.

"You're claiming that the forensic evidence is wrong?" Scott asked. "That independent witnesses aren't telling the truth? Are you trying to tell us that Bill Webber was lying when he said he saw Father get into the plane? Why would he do that? He's a friend; he was Dad's friend. He..."

"I don't know if he was lying, but he wasn't telling the truth!"

"But the evidence in the report..."

"Forget the report! You're holding the true evidence! You're holding Ma's ring!" Alan was visibly shaking. "Forget the evidence of strangers..."

"Alan..."

"I'm your brother, Scott! Believe me!" Alan begged. "Please..." He took a shuddering breath. "Why won't anyone believe me?"

Lady Penelope took a step forward and placed her hand on the young man's arm. "I believe you, Alan."

He looked at her as his anger dissipated. "You do?"

She nodded. "I believe that you saw your father."

"Oh... Penny..." Unable to help himself, he pulled her into a hug. "Thank you," he whispered. "I needed to hear someone say that."

Lady Penelope allowed him to hold her close feeling him shaking from the frustrations of the last 48 hours. "It's all right, Alan. I believe you. I believe that you saw Jeff."

"They don't believe me; they've only been humouring me."

"I'm sure they believe you now."

"I don't know what to believe anymore," Gordon admitted, sinking onto one of the seats. "It sounds so incredible that Dad's still alive, and yet..."

"And yet, how did Ma's ring get into the room where Alan was?" John finished. "And who could it have been that Alan saw if it wasn't Dad?"

"And if it was Father, where is he now?" Virgil retreated to the sanctuary of his piano stool and sat down heavily as though his legs had given out on him.

"My son is alive?" Grandma looked blankly at John as he sat beside her and took her hand.

Everyone turned to Scott. It was like watching one man's private wrestling match as he, confused by the conflicting evidence and Lady Penelope's admission, looked at the small band of gold in his palm. Then he curled his hand around the ring before sagging back onto Jeff's desk. "We've been conned," he admitted.

Alan pulled away from Lady Penelope. "So you all believe me now?" He looked around the room, seeing a sea of shocked faces.

"I think we've got no choice," Scott said. "But that still leaves a lot of questions. Who has done this and why?"

"Alan has a theory," Lady Penelope explained. "And, unfortunately... based on the evidence we've discovered so far... I'm inclined to agree with him."

Alan groaned and collapsed onto a chair. He hid his face in his hands. This time he was comforted by Tin-Tin.

"Who!?" Scott asked. "Who could be so callous?"

Alan raised his head and looked at Scott. His face was strained. "Mr Brett."

Gordon barked out a laugh. "You must be joking! He hasn't got the brains."

"No. But to pull something like this off he'd need help," Alan pointed out.

"Why, Alan?" Scott asked. "Why do you think Mr Brett's behind this?"

"Because Dad told me that his finances are okay. He said he's never been stronger financially."

"And Pen Fordbury confirmed it," Lady Penelope added. "That's why I agree with Alan. That plus the fact that the room where your father was held has been very cleverly camouflaged to make it appear as if it has been deserted for months."

"But why didn't you tell us this?" Scott asked his brother.

"I didn't remember at first, and besides, you already thought I was mad! If I'd said that we didn't need to sell the island you'd only think that I was trying to back out!"

"He's right," Virgil agreed. "We would have."

"So now what do we do?" John asked.

Scott straightened. "We'll head to Kansas. If you want to get going, Penny, we'll follow you after we've got some things together. Anything you think we should take..."

She held up a hand. "No, Scott. You are going to stay here."

"But, Penny..."

"If Mr Brett and whoever else is behind this gets any idea that we are, ah, onto them, they could... go to ground. We'll have a much better chance of finding Jeff if you all remain here and continue to pretend to be the grieving family."

"But I could come with you," Scott protested. "We could use the excuse that I'm trying to find Alan some psychiatric help!"

"Thanks," Alan muttered. Tin-Tin gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

Lady Penelope vetoed the suggestion. "No. This is NOT a job for International Rescue. This is a situation that requires more finesse than you traditionally provide. Parker and I will call on you for help if we need it."

For a moment she thought the 'evil twin' was going to rear his head again. Then Scott nodded, "okay, you win." He slumped back against the desk. "But you've got to promise to keep us informed of all developments. And the instant you need our help you've got to call us!"

"I promise, Scott," Lady Penelope agreed.

"Parker?"

"Yes, Mister Scott. H-I promise."

Scott made a gesture of surrender. "What are you going to do?"

"There are a few places that I want to investigate. Pen said that Jeff gave blood the day before the aeroplane crash..."

"So?" Alan frowned. "He always did. He said that if he couldn't go out on rescues like us, he might be able to save at least one person. What's that got to do with anything?"

"That's what I hope to find out. I also want to call on Brains and see if he has any thoughts on who was flying the aeroplane," Lady Penelope admitted. "What alias is he going under?"

"The usual, Hiram K. Hackenbacker," Scott told her. "But that's not going to give you a steer onto where Father is."

"I shall play that by ear. Perhaps I shall have to set a trap for our mouse. There's also a 'Mr Spencer' that your father saw the morning of the accident. Does that name mean anything to any of you?" She received a negative response from most of the family.

"You think he is someone of interest?" Scott asked.

"Pen didn't know who he was," Lady Penelope explained. "Jeff made that appointment himself and Pen said that he seemed rather, in her words, 'solemn' after the meeting. He subsequently had meetings with Mr Walker of 'Walker and Crawford' and then Mr Brett."

"Walker and Crawford? Tracy Industries' solicitors? Why?" Scott asked.

"I don't know. They have been trying to get in contact with you. Perhaps they have information that is important."

"What did that letter say, Scott?" Alan asked.

Scott frowned. "What letter?"

Alan shook his head in exasperation. "The one from Walker and Crawford... The one I gave you... Remember? It was in the mailbag! You put it on the desk and said you'd read it later. You didn't, did you?"

Scott circled the desk and scanned it before he starting picking up bits of paper and looking underneath. "Where is it?"

"You put it there," Alan pointed at the side of the desk.

"Mrs Tracy shifted the things that were on the desk to clean it," Tin-Tin remembered.

"Where did you put them, Grandma?" Scott asked.

"On the coffee table."

The coffee table being empty, Gordon got on his hands and knees and looked underneath the nearby couch. "There's nothing here. Where'd you put everything when you put it back on the desk, Grandma?"

"Where I got it from, of course."

Scott was still shifting papers. "There's nothing here."

"Maybe Mister Brains picked it up when he gathered his papers together?" Kyrano suggested. "At the time that Mrs Tracy was cleaning, he was working at the desk. It was when you were in Kansas."

"Don't worry about it, I'll give Mr Walker a call." Scott looked at his watch. "Bother! No one will be at the office now!" He sat in his father's chair. "I wonder what the heck Mr Walker wanted."

"May I suggest that you telephone the office as soon as it opens," Lady Penelope said. "They may have some information of importance to impart. I would also suggest that you contact Pen Fordbury. She has been trying to get hold of you."

Scott looked guilty. "I haven't reconnected the phone lines yet."

"Dad said he'd changed his will," Alan remembered. "What if he took it away from Brett and gave it to Walker and Crawford?"

"They're business solicitors, not personal ones," Scott rebuked.

"So? They're still capable of drafting a will, especially for one of their biggest clients. Wouldn't you want to do all you could to get the business of one of the richest men on the planet?"

Scott put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. "I don't know what to think anymore. None of this seems plausible, but it must be true!"

Lady Penelope consulted her own watch. "We must leave. But, before we go... Do you have the bag, Parker?"

"Yes, m'Lady." Parker pulled the bag that he'd been wrestling with earlier out from under a table. He unzipped it and held it out to his mistress who withdrew some books.

"Pen asked me to give you these," Lady Penelope explained. "She tells me that they are signed by every employee of Tracy Industries in the United States." She handed one to each member of the family. They stared at the books dumbly.

"Every employee?" John asked.

"I believe so."

"But there's so many messages," Gordon sounded awestruck.

"And not just a couple of words from each person either," John flicked through the pages.

Scott was reading the first page of his book. "Here's one from Sam Watson."

"Pen told me that the books were his idea," Lady Penelope explained.

Grandma sniffed. "Who would have thought he'd touched so many lives."

"Looks like we're going to need a bigger hall, Virgil," Gordon said.

There was the clanging of strings and the scrape of furniture as Virgil stood; pushing away from the piano.

"Virgil!" Scott exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Virgil turned back so he was facing his brother. His eyes were bright. "If Father's still alive, then International Rescue isn't finished! I'm going to defuse Thunderbird Two...! Thank you, Penny!" To everyone's surprise, he planted a big kiss on her lips before running out of the room.

"Mister Virgil!" Parker exclaimed, horrified.

"Wait, Virgil! I'll give you a hand," John called out. "Penny," much to Parker's horror, and Lady Penelope's surprise and secret pleasure, he mimicked his brother's gesture of thanks, "you're wonderful!"

"Mister John!" Parker reprimanded. But John had already followed Virgil.

"What's the matter, Parker?" Gordon grinned. "Miffed that she's getting all the attention?" He grabbed the cockney butler's face and planted a big kiss on the astonished man's lips. "Thanks!" he winked at Lady Penelope before he sprinted from the room.

Stunned, Parker sank onto a seat. "M-m-m'Lady!"

Suppressing a smile, Lady Penelope gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "It's all right, Parker. Just sit there a moment."

"Penny." Alan stood and took her hands. "Thank you."

"No. Thank YOU, Alan. If it hadn't been for your persistence none of us would believe that we would be seeing Jeff again."

"I'd better go help them." Alan gave a wry grin and indicated the direction his brothers had just left. "The mood they're in, they're likely to blow themselves up as they remove the explosives." He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he repeated.

"I'll help you, Alan," Tin-Tin offered. "Thank you, Lady Penelope. Thank you, Parker." She gave the still dazed butler a kiss on the cheek.

It seemed to revive him somewhat. "Oh... Ah... H-It's nothin', Miss Tin-Tin."

Taking each other's hands, Alan and Tin-Tin left the lounge.

Kyrano bowed low. "I also owe you both a debt of thanks, Lady Penelope; Mister Parker. Would you care for a cup of tea before you leave?" He indicated the now cold teapot.

"No, thank you, Kyrano," Lady Penelope replied. "We had better be going."

Kyrano cleared away the unused crockery.

"Penelope," Mrs Tracy stood. "If you can bring that son of mine back to us, this family will owe you both a huge debt."

"We will do our best," Lady Penelope replied. She looked over at Jeff Tracy's desk.

Scott Tracy still sat there, staring at the rings in his hand. As they watched he slipped them into the velvet bag before placing it with reverence at the base of his parents' wedding photo. His fingers traced his mother's face briefly before he stood. It was only then that he became aware that he was being watched. His face reddened. "Oh... ah... um. I'd better go help. Don't want them thinking I'm not pulling my weight." He straightened; pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. "Don't forget, Penny, call us if you have any news..." He waggled his finger at her. "And don't forget if you want help, we can be there in minutes in Thunderbird One."

"I won't forget, Scott." Lady Penelope watched as he almost marched from the room. "He's like his father."

"Yes, he is," Grandma agreed. "They both can be stubborn as mules... I won't keep you any longer, Penelope. Everyone's going to be hungry when they've finished their work and I'd better have some fresh baking ready. Please excuse me."

"Of course." Lady Penelope watched the elderly lady leave until both she and Parker were the only ones left in the lounge.

"You've bucked them h-up," Parker commented.

"Yes. I wonder for how long," Lady Penelope mused.

"You thinkin' that they might be h-a trifle h-optimistic?"

"You know the criminal underworld better than I do, Parker. I can't help fearing that the reason why we didn't find Jeff in that warehouse is not simply because he has been shifted to another location."

"Me too, m'Lady."

13 Thirteen: Revelations

After the excitement of the realisation that Jeff Tracy was still alive, things had settled down into a quiet depression on Tracy Island. For a family who thrived on direct action, their enforced impotence was taxing. Even Alan, no longer experiencing the stresses of being a modern, male Cassandra, was subdued by the knowledge that he could do nothing to help his father. The family sat around the table, eating in a moody silence, barely noticing that Grandma's cooking skills had improved since she'd heard the good news.

Virgil, as he had many times over the last few days, reached out for a roll. He arrested his action; his hand hovering over the still warm bread. He made his decision, picked up the roll and placed it on Scott's plate, then he stood. "I'm going for a run. Call me if Penny calls."

"'Kay," Scott grunted, ignoring the offering.

John, who'd been staring into thin air as he played with his knife, dropped the implement causing his family to jump at the unexpected sound. "I've got it!"

"Well, let's hope it's not catching." Gordon mopped the drink he'd spilt down the front of his shirt. "Got what?"

"I know who Mr Spencer is... Well, who he could be. That private investigator that Dad hired to..." he glanced at his grandmother who was listening with interest. "The detective! I knew the name rang a bell when Penny mentioned it."

Virgil lent on the back of his chair. "Why would Father want to talk to a detective when he's got Penny on the payroll?"

"Maybe he wanted someone with anonymity?" Alan suggested. "Someone that Brett wouldn't know."

"And maybe he found something out about Brett and that's why Father met with him that morning!" Scott exclaimed. "Does this P.I. know you, John?"

"He should do. He interviewed me often enough."

"Why?" Tin-Tin asked.

Scott saved his brother from having to give an answer. "Go call him, John. No, call Penny first and tell her; we don't want to step on her toes. Tell her that you'll call him and arrange it so that this Spencer guy will disclose everything that he told Father."

"I'm already on it, Scott." John hurried out of the dining room.

"Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr Webber," Lady Penelope said. "I do so appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure, Lady Penelope," the airfield's superintendent said. "I hope I'm able to help the Tracys. Jeff's death is a big loss to us all."

Lady Penelope opened her mouth to begin her questioning when her handbag discreetly beeped at her. "Do excuse me," she said reaching into it. "phones do have the unnerving habit of interrupting you at the most inopportune times." Making a show of switching off her mobile phone she pressed a button on her powder compact...

John found himself 'face-to-face' with Parker. "Is Penny busy?"

"She's h-in a meetin' with Bill Webber," Parker explained.

"Well, when she's finished, tell her that I think I know who the mysterious Mr Spencer is," John explained. "He's a private investigator that Dad dealt with a few years ago. We were thinking that maybe Dad was using him to find out about Brett."

"H-And 'e discovered somethin'? That h-is h-a possibility, Mister John. Do you 'ave this Mr Spencer's contact details?"

"They must be here somewhere. I was thinking that, if Penny wants me to, I could give him a call. He knows me and I could smooth the way for her to talk to him. Maybe then he'll open up about what he was doing for Dad. You know, so there're no issues with privacy."

"Very good, Sir. I will tell 'Er Ladyship when she returns."

"What's the time there, Parker?" John asked.

Parker looked at his watch. "'Alf seven."

John sighed. "So we've got an hour and a half before the solicitor and accountants open."

"'Fraid so, Mister John. You 'aven't found that letter then?"

"We've looked everywhere. Brains must have it. I hope Penny's having more luck than we are."

"I suppose I was the last person to see him alive; to talk to him face-to-face," Bill Webber was saying. "It still seems hard to believe."

"It has been a shock for the family," Lady Penelope admitted. "That is why I'm doing a bit of," she batted her eyelashes, "what you might call 'sleuthing'." She repeated the line that she'd told Pen Fordbury the day before. "I'm hoping that by finding out what Jeff was doing in his final hours, it might bring some closure to them all."

"Taking it hard are they?"

"It was so unexpected. He was such an experienced pilot."

"I know. That's why I think it must have been a fault with that new plane. Do you know he was going to take me for a flight in it? He changed his mind at the last minute; said it had been a bad day and he didn't feel like it. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I wasn't on board."

Lady Penelope gave him a smile of agreement. "When did you last see him?"

"I walked him as far as the edge of the runway. I like to see off our extra special clients personally, and believe me, Jeff Tracy was more special than most. I considered him to be a friend... Is there going to be a funeral or some kind of memorial service? I'd like to attend if there is."

"I'll be sure to ask the family to let you know the arrangements," Lady Penelope noted. "You saw him board the jet?"

"He did the routine checks first. Then I had a message that one of our... shall we say 'less special' clients was insisting that he had to see me then and there. So I waved goodbye to Jeff and returned to my office."

"And did he wave back?"

Bill Webber frowned. "Um... No... I don't think he did. He was on the far side of the plane."

"Did you see him in the aeroplane?"

"No. I hurried back to the office. My client was complaining about one of the engineers. He was demanding that I sack him. I don't like kowtowing to awkward clients like Mr Mi..." he caught himself, "but in this case I felt he had a point. The engineer in question had been slack with various things over the time since we hired him and had already been given a number of warnings. This was the last straw."

"He wasn't the man who worked on Jeff's jet was he?"

Bill Webber gave a sad nod. "He was. But the authorities have taken his log book and have found nothing untoward in it, and the engineer in question has been extensively interviewed."

"Do you think I might talk to him myself?" Lady Penelope asked.

"I'm sorry, Lady Penelope, but I can't give you his contact details. Firstly: because it would be a breach of privacy. And secondly; I don't know what they are. Apparently the man moved house a few days afterwards and I don't have his new address." He gave a grim smile. "At least that solved two problems. I got rid of a sub-standard engineer and an awkward client in one fell swoop. The client said that if that was the standard of service that we gave, then he didn't want to use our airfield."

"They say that every cloud has a silver lining..." Lady Penelope reverted back to her original line of questioning. "You said that Jeff had had a bad day; did he elaborate on that?"

Bill Webber thought for a moment. "I think he said something about terminating a long standing venture; something personal. He didn't seem to be looking forward to telling the family."

"And he didn't say what he was terminating?"

"No."

"Did you discover h-anythin', m'Lady?" Parker asked as he assisted her into FAB1.

"That the last person to see Jeff Tracy didn't actually see him enter the plane. Mr Webber was called away to see another client... A man whose name started with Mi."

"Not 'Orace Miles?"

"It would be a wonderful coincidence, wouldn't it? Our mystery man was complaining about the engineer who worked on Jeff's plane. The man was summarily dismissed from his employment."

"H-And then Mr Tracy crashes 'is plane. That's convenient," Parker mused.

"Isn't it?" Lady Penelope agreed. "Mr Webber also told me that Jeff had 'terminated a long-standing personal venture'."

"The 'olding h-of h-a will?" Parker guessed.

"My supposition too, Parker. Let us continue on with our search."

"You 'ad a call from Mister John while you were in there."

"Was that the phone interruption? What did John want?"

"'E thinks that Spencer geezer might be a private investigator that Mr Tracy 'ired."

"Instead of calling on my services?"

"H-Apparently 'e'd used 'im before. We was wonderin' h-if 'e was chasing Brett."

"I'm wondering that too. I must call on Mr Spencer."

"Mister John offered to get in touch with 'im h-and h-ask 'im to co-operate."

"That is very good of John. I must call him and accept his offer."

"So you see, Mr Spencer, Lady Penelope's, ah," John hesitated a moment. "She's trying to find out what Dad did in his last hours... for us. We daren't leave the island. We're being hounded by the press."

The detective nodded. "You understand that it's highly irregular for me to discuss a case with anyone other than my client."

"I know. And I appreciate your position, Sir. But Penny, that's Lady Penelope, rather fancies herself as a detective. Generally we humour her, but in this case we can't understand why Dad crashed his plane and we're hoping that she might be able to supply some answers. And you were one of the last people Dad saw that day."

Spencer nodded again. "I will admit to having one or two concerns about your father's accident myself. I would, however, like to express my apprehensions about 'amateurs' meddling with official business. I'm sure the Air Accident Inspectors will discover the true cause of your father's crash. They won't need her help."

"It's been nearly a week and we haven't heard anything," John protested. "Penny wants to feel like she's doing something to honour Dad's name and we're desperate to find out what went wrong. Surely your telling her everything you told Dad at your last meeting won't hurt the official investigation?"

Spencer pursed his lips. "Wouldn't you rather I told you?"

The question threw John. "Well... Yes, I would like to know... But I can't do anything with the information from here on the island. Perhaps you could email it through to me when you've finished talking to Lady Penelope?"

Spencer laughed. "This woman... Lady Penelope? She wouldn't be blonde would she, John?"

Confused, John frowned. "She is actually."

Spencer gave a knowing smile. "All right. Since it's you and I admired your father, I will do as you ask. Just remember that if you ever need a real detective, 'Howard and Spencer' is at your service."

"Thank you, Mr Spencer. I appreciate your assistance."

"Have your Lady Penelope arrange an appointment with my secretary. I will give her full co-operation."

"Thank you, Sir. Good day." John hung up the phone. "Whew! That took a bit of work!"

"Well done, John," Scott congratulated.

"You realise that he thinks you've got a weakness for blondes?" Gordon grinned. "That's why he's humouring you."

"What!" John exclaimed. "Me and Penny! I'm not that brave."

"Well, if you can hold your nerve for long enough, give her a call and tell her it's all laid on," Scott suggested.

"Okay." John began initiating the call. "He doesn't know what he's talking about anyway. Blondes have more fun. Right, Alan?"

Alan grimaced. "I haven't enjoyed the last few days."

"How do you know this detective, John?" Grandma asked.

"I'd better call Penny." John turned back to the intercom.

"Such a pleasant man," Lady Penelope commented as she settled back in the cushions of her seat in the Rolls Royce.

"What did this Mr Spencer tell you, m'Lady?"

"That Jeff had received a missive from an investment company. Apparently it was one that he'd invested with while still in the Air Force, through Mr Brett. There'd been some 'irregularities' with the payments. Jeff had made a few enquires himself and discovered that Mr Brett had been interviewed by the police over possible embezzling charges. The charges had been subsequently dropped when it was discovered that there had been an accountancy error. Jeff hired Mr Spencer to find out the truth."

"H-And the truth was that the charges were correct?"

"Mr Spencer had some evidence to suggest that this was the case. He believed that Mr Brett borrowed heavily to 'refund' the accounts he'd stolen from. The evidence points to the lender having been a 'Mr Earl'."

"'Oo 'as h-an h-employee called 'Orace Miles?"

"I would assume so. What if Mr Brett's reparation was to supply a valuable piece of land?"

"Tracy Island?"

"Exactly. Get me the boys would you?"

Scott was grim when they made contact. "Hi, Penny. We've received Spencer's report. It seems to confirm your and Alan's theory."

"I'm sorry, Scott."

"I've managed to make contact with Mr Walker. He's been trying to get hold of us to arrange the reading of Jeff Tracy's last will... Dated the day of the crash."

"And, going by your father's diary, the will would have been made before he saw Angus Brett..."

"Who also has a will dated the same day. That one's got to be a forgery. Who in their right mind would make a will at one company and then go to another and make a second will?"

"The courts would probably argue that in that case Jeff wasn't in 'sound mind' and the latest of all previous wills was the correct one."

"And that will was held by Brett. I'm pretty sure that it left something to everyone here, not just me and my brothers. And..." Scott continued on, "the accountant seemed to think that whoever inherited Father's estate would be quite comfortably well off."

"No debts?"

"No debts."

"I'm sorry, Scott. It does appear that you and your family have been, well..."

"Taken for a ride? Made to be utter chumps? Use any metaphor you like, Penny, we haven't come out of this smelling of roses."

"I am sorry," Lady Penelope repeated.

"The only silver lining is that thanks to Alan we never actually finalised anything and, with any luck, we're starting to gain the upper hand. What are your plans?"

"I have a couple of places that I wish to visit and then I think I'll call on Brains..."

"Mr Campbell," the intercom summonsed the Air Accident Inspector.

"Go ahead," he responded.

"I have a message from..." there was a pause as a note was read, "Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, for Mr Hackenbacker. She says she was hoping to take him out for..." another pause, "tea. She would like him to give her a call back at his earliest convenience."

"Thanks. I'll let him know." David Campbell strode over to Brains' office. "You've got a friend who wants you to give her a call, Hiram."

Brains blinked at him through his thick glasses. "A-A friend? Her?"

"By the name of Lady Penelope Cry... something."

"Lady Penelope? Wh-Why does she want me to call her?"

"She wants to take you out for tea."

"Oh." Brains stood. "Would you mind if I, er, went?"

"Of course not. You're not on our payroll and besides, it will do you good to get out of this office for a bit..."

"You're doing well, Virgil. Twenty more laps and you can get out."

Virgil stopped swimming and, treading water, looked up at his younger brother. "You're kidding me! I've already done fifty."

"So?" Gordon grinned. "You want to get back into shape, don't you?"

"I don't want to be so exhausted that I can't even climb out of the pool."

"Come on, I know you can do it," Gordon cajoled.

"You're enjoying this," Virgil accused.

Gordon's grin broadened.

"Fellas!" There was a shout from the patio.

Virgil swam over to the side of the pool. "What, Scott?" he shouted back.

"Do you want to hear the latest from Lady Penelope?"

"Is she on the phone?" Gordon asked.

"Nope. I've just finished talking to her."

"We'll be up as soon as Virgil's done another twenty laps." Gordon shouted, before receiving a face full of water from his pool-bound brother. "No need to thank me, Virg." He wiped water from his eyes. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

Virgil had climbed out of the pool. He picked up his towel. "I'm going to hear the latest. If you want another twenty laps you swim them!"

"I'm only trying to help," Gordon protested as he trotted after his brother.

"And I appreciate it, Gordon. But at the moment, I'm more interested in bringing Father home..."

"Brains!" Lady Penelope greeted him warmly. "How are you my dear boy?"

"Q-Quite well, Lady Penelope. And you?"

"Me? I have a puzzle that you might be interested in." Lady Penelope indicated the Rolls Royce. "Shall we go for a drive and I will explain it to you."

Brains greeted Parker and accepted the invitation to recline on the car's comfortable seats. "Wh-What's this puzzle?"

"If Jeff wasn't on board the aeroplane when it took off, and no one else was, is it possible that it could have been flown by some other method?" Lady Penelope asked.

Brains' mouth dropped open. "I b-beg your pardon?"

"From what you have found out during the accident investigation is it possible that Jeff Tracy wasn't on the jet?"

"L-Lady Penelope?" Brains was a picture of confusion.

"Did Scott tell you about Alan's claims after he was hit on the head in the warehouse?"

"Th-That he saw Mr T-Tracy there? Yes?"

"Has Scott given you an update on the situation?"

"I haven't been in contact with the Tracys m-much," Brains admitted. "I-I have been too b-b-busy." He paused, a worried frown on his face. "What's wrong? Has A-Alan condition worsened?"

"No. I suppose you might say that it has improved." Lady Penelope produced a cup of freshly brewed coffee from one of FAB1's hidden compartments. She hesitated before handing the cup to Brains. "I believe that Alan was speaking the truth."

Brains gave an involuntary jerk at the news and Lady Penelope was relieved that she'd prevented coffee from splashing across the Rolls Royce's interior. Brains stared at the young aristocrat. "What?!" he exclaimed.

Lady Penelope handed him the cup. "Parker and I have discovered evidence at the warehouse that Jeff was being held there after the aeroplane crash. We've also discovered that what Mr Brett has told the family is in all probability not correct."

"Y-You mean he was wrong about the debts?"

"I mean he was lying about them. We now believe that Mr Brett is at least one of the architects behind the crash."

"Y-You mean that the crash wasn't Mr Tracy's fault?"

"No, it wasn't."

"Y-You mean that the crash wasn't the jet's fault?"

"No, it wasn't."

"Y-You mean that the crash wasn't MY fault?"

"No, Brains. We believe that someone has cruelly and callously arranged for the aeroplane to crash so that everyone would assume that Jeff Tracy had died, thereby leaving the Tracy family open to exploitation."

"E-Exploitation?" Clearly Brains was struggling with the whole concept of what he was being told. His untouched drink was shaking in his hands.

Lady Penelope removed the cup and placed it into a convenient holder so its contents wouldn't be spilt. "We believe that Mr Brett, and whoever else is behind this, has created this scenario for the express purpose of obtaining Tracy Island."

"B-B-But i-it's n-not p-possible," Brains stammered. "David Campbell d-discovered M-Mr Tracy's D-D-D..."

"DNA? I believe I may have found the solution to that issue. Parker and I have been following Jeff's footsteps this morning and have discovered some things of interest. Jeff gave blood the day before the crash. The donation centre had a burglary that evening. No money or valuables were taken, but several bags of blood were. The police have put it down to some weird cult or a student stunt."

"And Mr Tracy's donation?"

"Was one of the bags taken."

"Ah..." Brains' brow creased in thought. "If your th-theory is correct that could explain one little mystery."

"Go on," Lady Penelope prompted.

"Evidence of some plastic, of the sort used to store m-medical products, was found in the vicinity of the c-cockpit. I had no explanation for this... until now."

"Also," Lady Penelope continued on, "the day before the fatal flight, Jeff had his hair cut. The stylist, a most obliging young man, told me that after Jeff left the salon, the stylist turned his back a moment, and when he returned to clean up a young urchin was scooping up the trimmings."

Brains' mouth dropped. "R-Ridiculous! You c-can't get DNA from hair shafts, only the root."

"And I doubt that the stylist would have been pulling Jeff's hair out by the roots. How much DNA was found in the wreckage?"

"V-Very little. Only enough to prove that n-no one other than Mr Tracy could have been on the 'p-plane. In fact the only significant p-piece of..." Brains' voice petered away as if he were unwilling to impart a piece of information.

"Yes, Brains?" Lady Penelope prompted.

"Th-They found a tissue sample," he said with reluctance, "which they proved conclusively came from Mr T-Tracy. B-But it wasn't found near the cockpit."

"It wasn't?"

"N-No. It was found on the f-frame of the door. On the inside edge, a-along with a bit of fabric. The b-bulkhead of the jet largely p-protected the sample from the force of the explosion."

"And it was definitely Jeff's?"

Brains nodded. "The odds were a trillion to one that it wasn't." Then his face lit up. "Th-They found something else in the cockpit that n-no one could explain. I thought it looked like s-s-some kind of remote control device, but we dismissed its importance. We assumed that it was something that M-Mr Tracy had brought on board. W-We didn't have all the facts..."

"So it could have controlled the jet remotely?" Lady Penelope asked.

"P-P-Possibly." Brains looked at his friend in consternation. "I-If he's not dead then wh-where is Mr Tracy, Lady Penelope?"

"That, my dear boy, is the big question. And one I hope to discover the answer to tonight..."

The darkness was all encompassing. Down this narrow backwater of a road even the streetlights appeared disinterested in throwing light on the scene.

Parker cracked his knuckles in satisfaction. "Pitch black. Just the way H-I like h-it, m'Lady. Nobody can see nothin'."

"Including us, unless we wear these delightful inventions of Brains." Lady Penelope handed the chauffeur a set of night-vision goggles.

He put them on. "Strike me! These never fail to h-amaze me. Everythin's so much clearer."

"Marvellous aren't they." Lady Penelope exited FAB1 and looked at the solicitor's office. Then she scanned it with a small device. "A basic security system. It should be easy enough to breach. Would you care to do the honours, Parker?"

"Luv to."

In a matter of minutes they were inside Angus Brett's office. Lady Penelope examined the windows. "Such a pity, these curtains are much too thin to conceal any lights. We shall have to continue wearing the goggles."

"Very good, Madam. What do you want me to do?"

Lady Penelope pushed a door open. "This appears to be Mr Brett's office. You search the reception and I'll investigate in here."

"H-Anythin' h-in particular H-I should be lookin' for?"

"Something that links Mr Brett with Mr Earl or Horace Miles. Anything to do with Jeff or any of the Tracys." She indicated a filing cabinet. "When you look in there I want you to particularly concentrate on 'E', 'M', 'T' or 'I'."

"H-I?"

"For International Rescue."

"Oh." Parker looked at the state of the office. "'Is secretary 'as probably filed everythin' under 'T' anyway."

"'T', Parker?"

"For 'The'. As in The Earl's, The Miles', The Tracy's."

"I hope for your sake that she is more efficient than that." Lady Penelope slipped through to Brett's office. It was a spartan room with no warmth or hospitality. Brett's diploma's hung on the wall at a slovenly angle. The only hint of anything welcoming was a sorry looking 'mother-in-law's tongue' which drooped in a cracked grey planter.

Lady Penelope began her systematic search. She started with a smaller filing cabinet; one that she easily unlocked with an electronic device. The bottom drawer contained a bottle of whiskey and a glass. She pushed it shut and pulled open the top one. Several files presented themselves, and she flicked through them, but found nothing of interest. The desk's drawers were similarly filled with uninteresting pens, pencils and spools of red tape of the type used by solicitors to tie up legal documents. The personal digital assistant she found was broken, and her digital reader designed to combat such problems revealed that the PDA's memory had been irretrievably corrupted.

The desk was covered with a mish-mash of papers, all of which related to other, presumably genuine clients.

A cupboard to one side of the room caught her eye. Inside Lady Penelope discovered a safe. "Very sophisticated," she mused. "More protection than I would have thought a solicitor of Mr Brett's standing would require." Deciding against interrupting Parker in his work and using the electronic device to dial up the safe's combination, she accessed the safe's interior.

Inside she found more files. Removing them and placing them on the floor for easier access, she discovered on the floor of the safe a black box. Inside the box was a machine. "Parker!" she called.

He appeared at the door. "Yes, m'Lady?"

"Have you seen one of these before?" Lady Penelope held out the box.

"H-It's h-a copyin' machine," he explained. "Used by less than 'onest folks for forgeries. You put h-a bit of paper on 'ere," he removed a flat sheet of polymer plastic from the box and placed a piece of paper flat on it. "See, you can't see the sheet. You get your 'mug' to sign h-a legitimate document h-and the plastic remembers the signature; pressure h-and h-everything about it. Just put the sheet inside the copier h-and Bob's yer uncle. Once you 'ave the signature h-in the copier's memory you can sign just about h-anything with your mug's signature."

"Including a new will?" Lady Penelope mused pointing the digital reader at the copier. Unlike the earlier PDA this time she achieved a result. She turned the instrument so that Parker could see the screen.

"Jefferson Tracy," he read. "So that last will was h-a fake!"

"Yes, Parker. Have you found anything of interest?"

"'Is secretary h-is partial to some h-of the more common celebrities, judgin' by the magazines she's got filed, but h-apart from that, no." Parker admitted. "Brett 'asn't got many clients."

"I'm not surprised," Lady Penelope commented. "Not if there were rumours of embezzlement. You may as well stay here and help me go through these files," she indicated the ones she had removed from the safe. "Take pictures. We may wish to peruse them later at our leisure."

"'Tracy'," Parker read the spine of one thick file. "Do you want to take this one?"

"I do indeed. Thank you, Parker."

"H-I think I'll find h-out somethin' about 'Mr Earl'," Parker said.

They spent the next few minutes in silence apart from the rustle of papers.

"I feel like a 'Peeping Thomasina'," Lady Penelope admitted. "This is a catalogue of Jeff's life. Newspaper clippings, his early wills," she picked up an old document, "Lucille Tracy's will. Notes in Mr Brett's handwriting on the boys..." She shook her head. "He's been building up a hatred towards the family all these years. Look at this: 'The youngest brat won a car race today. Everyone's fawning over him; as much as when Gordon won that Olympic medal. It's sickening.'"

"'Ere's h-a file h-on 'is h-own son. Vince Brett. Sounds like 'e was a real 'andful." Parker flicked through the pages. "Drugs... Car theft... Rape..."

"So our Mr Brett was jealous of Jeff's 'perfect' family."

"Yeah." Parker reached the last page of the document. "Says 'ere Vince was killed h-in h-a car crash runnin' from the cops. Brett's made h-a note. 'Good riddance'."

"So much for fatherly love and sorrow," Lady Penelope commented. "Such a contrast to the grief the Tracys have been experiencing."

"Makes me blood boil," Parker stated. "They never did h-anything to hurt 'im h-and look what 'e's putting them through."

"Oh, my!" Lady Penelope exclaimed, staring into the Tracys' folder. "That's disgusting!"

"What?" Parker asked, taken aback by the agitation in his mistress's voice.

Lady Penelope handed him the folder. Topmost was a yellowed newspaper clipping. 'Funeral of Astronaut's Wife' the headline glared. Parker read the sub-heading: Lucille Tracy, wife of astronaut Jefferson Tracy, was laid to rest today. The rest of the article detailed the circumstances surrounding her death, Jeff's career to that point, and stated that the deceased woman was survived by her husband and children. A photo of a bereft Jeff Tracy and five bewildered sons, on which Brett had drawn a smiley face and scrawled the words 'So there is a God', accompanied the article.

Parker slammed the folder shut. "'E's sick!"

"He is indeed, Parker."

Parker opened the folder at the last page. "'Ello, 'ere's the h-original." He handed the folder back to Lady Penelope.

Lady Penelope examined the topmost document in the folder. At the bottom was the familiar Jeff Tracy scrawl. "This is dated the day of the crash."

"H-I'm bettin' that Mr Tracy wasn't thinking that 'e was 'elping forge 'is own signature." Parker picked up another folder. "Cor blimey... We don't need this."

"Parker?!"

Parker indicated the folder. "This one's labelled H-International Rescue. He's got clippings h-about the rescue where Mister Alan saw Mr Tracy. 'E's got notes too." Parker began reading. "'Tracy thought 'e was so clever, but 'is own son 'as given 'im away. H-I never dreamt that the Tracy family was H-International Rescue. My own fault H-I suppose, H-I should 'ave realised that that goody two-shoes Tracy would want to do something noble for the world."

"Oh, dear. Well, at the moment that is the least of our problems." Lady Penelope looked at her watch. "It is getting late. Let us photograph everything here and we shall have to read it later."

Once the contents of the safe had been catalogued and replaced, Lady Penelope turned a critical eye to the room. "Time for us to lay that trap for our mouse." She shivered. "I knew I never liked that man."

Parker opened a case. "Mister Brains 'as h-a sense h-of 'umour. Choose your bugs, m'Lady."

Lady Penelope examined the case's contents. At a casual glance anyone would have assumed that it was the property of an entomologist. Flies, beetles, spiders and smaller insects were laid out in neat rows. "I think," she mused, "that a fly and this spider will be suitable for our purposes. We shall want to monitor videophone calls as well. Perhaps you would be good enough to, ah, bug the videophone?"

"H-It would be more than h-a pleasure, m'Lady."

While Parker unscrewed the facing of the videophone, Lady Penelope climbed onto a chair and positioned the spider in the corner of the room. A quick check of a portable video receiver showed that the spider was transmitting its video signal. The fly was placed at the base of the sole pot plant.

"'Ello, 'ello, what do we 'ave 'ere?" Parker muttered.

"Have you found something?"

"Seems we're not the h-only ones h-interested h-in what calls Brett makes."

Lady Penelope moved closer. "The videophone is bugged?"

"Yep. Doesn't look government h-issue to me. What do you think, m'Lady?"

Lady Penelope examined the bug caught up inside the wiring of the videophone. "I'm inclined to agree with you, Parker. It seems that Mr Brett's, ah, co-conspirators are keeping an eye on him as well."

"Well, we can't let them 'ave h-all the fun." Parker placed an ant in the videophone's interior and replaced the faceplate. "H-All done, m'Lady."

"Good. Now all we have to do is ensure that once the trap is sprung Mr Brett leads us to Jeff. If you were a nefarious solicitor who had received an unexpected phone call causing you to flee, what would you take with you?"

Parker looked around the office, his eyes falling on Brett's briefcase. "H-Is bag?"

"An excellent supposition, Parker." A thin homing device, shaped like a needle, was slipped under the briefcase's lining. "I think we would be wise to 'cover all bases'. Mr Brett may leave his briefcase somewhere. I am hoping that our call will send him into a slight panic, and getting changed will not be on his agenda before he leaves." Lady Penelope placed a tiny, burred homing device on the seat of the chair. "There," she said in satisfaction. "The trap is primed. Now we shall retire to our hotel for a few hours beauty sleep before we activate it."

14 Fourteen: A Trap is Sprung

Lady Penelope consulted her watch as she sat in her seat in the Rolls Royce. "Time we sprung our trap, Parker."

"'Ow h-are you going to do that, m'Lady?"

"I am not. The Tracy boys are," Lady Penelope initiated contact with Tracy Island. "But don't mention the files we found. They have enough to worry about. All they need to know at the present time is that we have planted some recording and tracking devices in... Hello, Scott!"

Scott Tracy managed a smile. "Hello, Penny. How are you?"

"Getting better by the minute, my dear boy. I have a feeling that today is going to be a fruitful day; but I need you to do something for me."

Scott was suddenly eager. "Name it!"

"I want you to ring Angus Brett."

Scott stared at her. "You want me to what?"

"We are going to spread a fabrication of our own. You are to tell him that the Air Accident Inspector has discovered something in your father's aeroplane that makes him suspect that Jeff was murdered. I also want you to say that there was a hint that the authorities know who is behind the whole plot... and why."

"And if he asks for more details, what do I say?"

"That you don't have further information."

Scott sat back in his father's chair. "I don't know that I can do it, Penny, not convincingly anyway. The last thing I want to do to that guy is be civil with him. When I think of what he's done to Father and the rest of us!"

"You're not good enough an actor anyway," Gordon said from somewhere beyond the camera's range.

Scott scowled at the unseen voice. "Thanks."

"He's right, Scott," Alan's voice confirmed.

Scott threw his hands up. "Everyone's a critic."

Lady Penelope sighed. "Very well. Perhaps one of your brothers could make the call?"

"John," Virgil immediately proposed. "You're used to communicating with people."

"Me?" John gulped.

"That line you spun yesterday had Mr Spencer fooled," Alan added. "You're the best one do it, John."

"Who's to say I'm not like Scott and ready to knock Brett's teeth down his throat next time I see him?" John asked.

"You can't do that over the phone," Gordon pointed out. "You do it, John."

"It can't be me," John protested. "I'm the one who's not saying a lot, remember? Virgil would be better."

"Brett doesn't know that," Virgil reminded him. "You've always been the quietest of all of us. He won't have realised that you'd completely shut down. He wasn't here for long enough."

"He was here for lunch before he read the fake will," John reminded his brother.

"None of us had much to say," Alan remembered. "We were still in shock. Do it, John. Do it for Dad."

"Here, John." Scott stood and held out the chair. "Sit down."

Clearly reluctant, John did as he was told. "So all I have to do is say that the A.A.I. thinks it was murder and they think they know whodunit and why, but they haven't told us any more than that?"

"That is correct," Lady Penelope confirmed. "Parker and I have placed eavesdropping equipment around his office. I am hoping that your 'news' will cause him to run straight to where Jeff is being concealed... or at least to someone who can lead us to him."

"Okay, Penny, I'll give it a go," John acquiesced. "But I don't want anyone in here watching me," he warned, pointing at his brothers. "You'll put me off."

"That's okay, we can monitor everything from Father's study," Scott conceded.

"Do you want me to ring him now?" John asked.

"No, he hasn't arrived at the office yet. If you switch over to channel BI3 you'll get the fly's point of view from the pot-plant. BI4 is the spider on the other side of the room. BI5 is the videophone. Ring him as soon as he enters the office; you'll catch him off guard."

"F-A-B, Penny," John replied. "You guys get out of here!" He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door.

"A starring role and he's already behaving like a prima donna," Gordon quipped as he traipsed after his brothers into the study; leaving John to fret alone.

Jeff's study wall was lined with concealed monitors, similar to those hidden behind the boys' portraits in the lounge. Alongside the communication link with Lady Penelope, the four Tracy brothers tuned one monitor into channel BI3 and got a low level view of the office, courtesy of the fly. Channel BI4 was diagonally opposite and looking down on the desk.

Something blocked the view of channel BI3. A real fly moved in close to examine the fake one, looking monstrous on the screen. "You're out of luck, Pal," Gordon said, as Lady Penelope activated a remote-control switch that caused the electronic bug to rub a leg over one of its camera eyes. The real fly flew off.

Five minutes later they saw the door to Brett's office open and the familiar little man stepped inside.

"Look at him!" Scott exclaimed. "Acting as if nothing's wrong when he knows full well what he's putting us through!" He slammed his fist into his palm. "If I ever get my hands on him..."

Virgil picked up a tablet computer and started sketching with sharp, angry strokes. His brothers leant forward to watch the drama unfold as the phone in Brett's office began to ring.

Alan brought channel BI5's split screen image onto another monitor. One half displayed John, his face registering no emotion; the other was ready for Angus Brett.

Brett sat in his seat as he answered the videophone and his mousey face with its overgrown moustache appeared in the blank half of the Tracys' screen. He appeared to be surprised. "Why hello, John."

"Hello, Mr Brett," John began and bit his lip as if something were preying on his mind.

"What's wrong?" Mr Brett asked. "Where's Scott?"

"He's in the hangar preparing to fly out," John lied.

"Preparing to fly out?" Brett echoed. "Why?"

"Because..." John gave a dramatic pause. "Because we've just heard from the crash inspector! It's supposed to be a secret Mr Brett, but I had to tell you. We can't sell the island!"

For a moment Brett paled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Everything's falling apart!"

"What did you say?"

"Everything's falling apart!" John repeated.

"No... I mean, what do you mean?"

"Us... The investigation..." John gave a helpless gesture that was clearly seen on all the video screens. "Everything's falling apart!" he repeated.

"Why?" Brett asked. "Tell me, John! Why can't you sell the island?!"

John took a deep breath, his face a picture of confusion and bewilderment. "The A.A.I. told us that they have evidence that Dad was murdered."

Brett appeared to be taken aback. "Murdered?"

John nodded. "And they think they know who the culprit is... And they have the motive."

"They know who..?" For a moment Brett appeared worried. "Did they say who?"

"No," John shook his head. "And we can't sell the island until the investigation has been completed."

"But... But... They can't treat you like that! They've got to let you sell the island!" Brett yelped. "An investigation could take months!"

"I know... The news has sent everyone into a spin. Scott's determined to take off for the States to find and punish the culprit himself. Virgil's trying to stop him from doing anything crazy. Alan's completely flipped his lid. He's yelling that Dad can't have been murdered because he's not dead. Gordon's trying to talk some sense into him, but he's not listening." John shook his head again in supposed sadness. "We're falling apart, Mr Brett, and I don't know what to do. I feel as if the whole universe is falling in on us... as if we're being pulled into a black hole... I don't know who to turn to..." He watched as, for the merest split second, a gloating expression crossed Brett's face, soon replaced by a look of compassion.

John felt pure hatred for this man flood his system...

His brothers had been watching the show closely. They saw the flush creep up John's cheeks.

"Uh, oh," Gordon warned. "We've got problems, Guys. There's the emergency beacons."

"Emergency beacons?" Lady Penelope queried. "Are International Rescue's services required?"

"No," Alan said. "When John's ears go red that's a danger signal. It means he's really mad..."

"As in volcano erupting, hold onto your hats, run for your lives mad," Gordon added. "When that happens its time to duck and cover; especially if you're the one who's angered him."

"Something Gordon's had plenty of experience of," Virgil noted, for a moment forgetting his drawing. "He could ruin everything now."

"John?" Lady Penelope looked surprised at the revelation. "He's always so calm and quiet. I don't think I've ever seen him really angry."

"Well, it looks like you're going to see it now," Scott informed her. "He rarely gets mad, but when it does, he stays worked up for about an hour."

Virgil nodded. "The problem is, when he gets into a temper his mouth tends to disengage from his brain. He speaks first and then thinks, about ten minutes later."

"We've got to stop him," Scott said. "If he says the wrong thing to Brett..."

"Leave it to me!" Gordon stood and pointed at his younger brother. "Alan! Don't move from there!"

"Why?" Alan asked his brother's departing back.

They heard Gordon shout "Alan!" from the hallway.

Three Tracy boys and Lady Penelope looked at each other in confusion.

John heard the shout from the hall but ignored it. He'd opened his mouth to say something when he was interrupted by another shout for his youngest brother. He looked over to the door in time to see Gordon barrel into the lounge. "John! Have you seen Alan?"

"Alan?" John frowned, for one moment forgetting his phone call.

"He's completely lost it," Gordon panted. "He's yelling that the authorities are wrong and said something about proving that Dad was still alive and that he was going back to where he'd seen him. I assumed that he'd gone back to the cliff where he fell, but he's not there! You've got to help me find him, John, before he does something stupid!"

"He's what?" John was struggling to reconcile reality with what he was being told.

Gordon pulled at his brother's arm. "Come on! We've got to find Alan!" He sounded panic stricken.

"But... But..." John stammered.

Gordon leant over the desk so he could see the videophone screen. "I'm sorry, Mr Brett. But this is an emergency. We've got to go!" He pushed the disconnect button.

"Gordon!" John pulled his arm out of his brother's grasp and stood. "What are you going on about!?"

"We didn't want you to say something you shouldn't," Gordon explained, and shrank back when he saw John's expression darken. "It was Scott's idea."

Scott, still watching the exchange on a video monitor, groaned. "Thanks, Gordon."

"You're in trouble now, Scott," Virgil told him.

"Better hide," Alan warned. "Here he comes."

"The things I'm learning about you boys," Lady Penelope commented.

"We're only human," Scott reminded her. "It's not as if we're made of fibreglass or anything..."

John stormed into the room. "Scott!"

Scott stood, holding his hands up in supposition. "Let me explain, John." He took a step backwards.

John stamped over till he was face-to-face with his older brother. "It had better be good!"

"I... uh..." For once Scott's quick brain deserted him.

John pushed him on the chest. "What's the big idea of getting Gordon to do that stupid 'Alan's gone crazy' act?!"

"We could see that you were getting a little annoyed..."

"Oh, you could, could you?" John leant close to his older brother so they were practically nose-to-nose.

"Ah... yeah..."

"Couldn't you see that I had Brett running scared?" John gave Scott another push. "And you interrupted me!"

"You were doing a brilliant job, John," Scott agreed, favouring him with a winning smile as he stumbled backwards. "You had him fooled. If I hadn't known better you would have fooled me."

"So why try to stop me?!" John took another menacing step forwards.

"Gordon's act wasn't my plan..."

"It's always your plan, Scott! Don't try to tell me that this time was different!"

"John," Scott said soothingly, placing his hands on his brother's shoulders, "Remember it's not me you're mad at." He pushed the angry red face away from his own.

"No! But you're a close second!"

"John," Virgil tapped him on his shoulder. "Here." He'd printed off a copy of the drawing he'd done on the tablet and he held it out to John. "Take your frustrations out on this."

"What is it!?" John snatched the paper out of Virgil's hands, unwittingly scoring him with a paper cut. He glared at the paper and then barked out a laugh. "Mousetopheles! I like it, Virg." He began tearing the paper to shreds.

"Mousetopheles?" Virgil sucked on the cut on his hand and looked at his artwork on the tablet. "Yeah, I guess it is." He wrote the caption underneath the drawing.

Scott looked at John, who was grinding the picture under his heel, then back at Virgil. "Mousetopheles?" He peered over his brother's shoulder at the picture. "Oh, I see..." He leant closer to Virgil's ear, keeping his voice low so John wouldn't hear him. "Thanks."

"Let's see, Virg." Gordon accepted the tablet computer and looked at the drawing. It was a cartoon of a mouse: with a few differences. The mouse's tail ended in the pointed tip of a devil's. In its paw it carried a pitchfork. Atop its head, in front of its ears, were a pair of horns. But, instead of the rodent's, or even Lucifer's face, a caricature of Angus Brett stared back at him. "Yep, that's Mousetopheles all right."

"Gimme another copy, Virg," John ordered and began attacking the new duplicate as soon as it was handed to him. His brothers watched him in bemusement.

"Are you guys catching this?" Alan asked, indicating the video screens. "Brett's really stressing out now."

They turned their attention to the video monitors, watching Angus Brett's reaction to John's videophone call. His calm, reassuring, and concerned manner had disappeared. Now he was in what could be called a blind panic. He sat at his desk, pulled open a drawer and slammed it shut again. Standing, he reached out for the videophone before he changed his mind, sat down again and re-opened the same drawer. They could hear him muttering "Think, Angus, think."

"Stew, Angus, stew," Gordon muttered.

John growled and continued ripping into the picture. Virgil printed him another.

Brett made his decision. He dialled a number on the videophone. It rang ten times before it was answered. On the screen in the Tracy's study an unlovely face appeared where John's has been. "Yeah? What can I do for you, A.B.?"

"That's him!" Alan exclaimed, pointing at the monitor screen. "That's the guy who hit me!"

He was shushed by his brothers.

"I'd like to hit him," John growled.

Yet again Brett gave the impression of being a man in charge of his emotions. "How is he, Miles?"

"Quiet," Miles replied.

"I'd like to give you quiet," John muttered.

Naturally, Miles didn't hear him. "I ain't given him breakfast or got this mornin's video yet."

"Well, don't worry about the video," Brett said. "I want to see him for myself. Are you still in the same place?"

"Where?" John asked the screen. "Tell us!"

"Yep, we ain't moved." There was a query in Miles' voice. Clearly he wasn't expecting this development.

"Okay. I'll be on my way shortly. All things being equal I'll be there early this evening."

Miles didn't look impressed. "Mr Earl ain't gonna like this."

"Tough on Mr Earl!" John muttered. "Trap 'em, Penny. Trap 'em all!"

Alan had grown tired of his brother's continued interruptions. "John!" he complained.

"What!" John glared at his youngest sibling.

"Uh..." Alan quickly decided that complaining was more than his life was worth. "Nothing."

"I want to work on our guest personally," Brett was explaining. "I think I've learnt something that will be to everyone's advantage." The Tracys glanced at each other, wary of the insinuation, as John growled something.

Miles wanted more information from Brett. "What?"

"This is not the time to tell you," Brett insisted. "I've got to talk to him first. I'll see you this evening, Miles." He signed off and the confident façade slipped away from his face. He began scurrying around his office.

"The more I see of him, the more he reminds me of a mouse," Alan said.

Lady Penelope gave a visible shudder. "I knew there was a reason why I didn't like him."

"Squash him, Penny!" John ordered. "Squash the little rodent!"

"He's a good actor," Gordon noted. "I'll say that for him..."

"What!?" John rounded on him. "How can you say anything positive about that... that...!?"

Gordon backed away from the hand that was waving under his nose. "Ah... it was just a comment, John."

"Calm down, John," Scott instructed. "Give him another picture, Virg."

Virgil did he was instructed, taking care to keep his hands clear of the paper's edge.

In Brett's office the safe had been unlocked and files were being pulled out and jammed into the briefcase.

"I wonder what they are about," Scott mused. "He obviously thinks they are important." Lady Penelope decided against enlightening him.

The signature forger was withdrawn and Brett tried to squeeze it into the case as well. When it didn't fit he tucked it under his arm, slammed the safe shut, and looked around his room.

"What's that thing?" Virgil asked.

"It copies handwriting," Lady Penelope explained.

Scott frowned. "Including signatures?"

Lady Penelope hesitated a moment. "Yes."

There was a knock on Brett's office door, before his secretary poked her head inside. "Mornin', Mr Brett," she said without inflection. "What can I do for you this mornin'?"

The unconcerned mask was on his face again. "Perhaps you'd like to tidy up in here? There're bugs all over the place... I've got a meeting I've got to go to with a client out of town. I might be gone for some time. At least until tomorrow."

She looked unenthusiastic about the task. "Tidy up?"

"Wonderful," Brett said expansively. "I knew I could count on you. I'll be back as soon as possible." He strode out of his office. His secretary looked about the room; her face screwed up in disgust.

"We're gettin' h-a signal, m'Lady," Parker informed his mistress. "'E's taken 'is car."

"Very good, Parker. It appears that our little plan is working. Well done, John."

He didn't appear to hear her as he shredded the copy of Virgil's picture, muttering to himself all the while.

"Leave him, Penny," Scott advised. "We'll extend your thanks later."

"Thank you, dear boy."

"Can't you trace the call somehow?" Virgil asked.

"I have been trying," Lady Penelope admitted. "Mr Miles was using a mobile phone. There wasn't an area number that I could track."

"Pity."

"Yes," she agreed. "Now if you will excuse us, we have work to do."

"Keep us informed of everything," Scott insisted. "We've got to know what's going on."

"I will," Lady Penelope promised and disappeared from the screen.

The other monitors showed Brett's secretary seated at his desk reading one of her magazines. Alan shut them down. "Now what do we do?" he asked. "I don't fancy sitting here while Penny and Parker undertake 'Operation Mousetopheles' alone. This is our fight too!"

"There's nothing we can do," Scott said. "Penny's the expert in this situation. She'll tell us as soon as we can help. In the meantime we've got to wait..."

"And wait, and wait, and wait," Gordon complained. "I can't sit around here waiting for her next vid-call."

"Go for a swim," Virgil suggested.

"I've had enough of swimming," Gordon snapped and received surprised looks from his brothers. "I need to do something useful. I need to do something to that little rat..."

"Virgil!" John rapped his brother on the shoulder. "Give me five copies of your cartoon!"

"Five?" Virgil rubbed his shoulder and beamed the image to his father's printer. Five pieces of paper scrolled out. John snatched them up and ran out of the room.

"What's with him?" Alan asked, following.

Virgil and Gordon were about to follow the blonde duo when Scott held them back. "Guys," he said, "The last couple of days I've been screamed at by both Alan and John, and I have a favour to ask. If either of you feel like taking out your frustrations on anyone, please make it someone else! My nerves are shot."

"Why? Can't you take it?" Gordon grinned.

"I wouldn't have had to if it hadn't been for you." Scott grabbed the scruff of the redhead's neck and gave him a shake. "What's the big idea of accusing me of thinking up your diversion?"

"I didn't like the way John was looking at me," Gordon admitted, ducking away from his brother's grip. "You know what he's like when he gets like that. He could do anything... And what I said was true! You said we had to do something, so I did... Besides, why are you complaining? It worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "John's got Brett running scared; and, with any luck, now Brett's got some doubts about whether or not we're International Rescue."

Three watches beeped and they looked at their time-pieces. "Guys," Alan's image said. "I think you'd better come down to the shooting gallery and see this."

"See what?" Scott asked.

"Just get down here."

They arrived in the gallery to find a bemused Alan watching a still muttering John hanging caricatures over the targets. "He's really worked up this time," Alan whispered. "Listen to him!"

They listened. Occasionally a recognisable phrase made its way to their ears. "... acting as if you care...", "...get my hands on you...", "compassion, my foot," and something about "...missiles from Thunderbird Five..."

"But she's not armed," Alan whispered.

"John?" Scott decided that his nerves were steadier than he'd thought. "What are you doing?"

John picked up a gun and primed it. "Chose your weapons, fellas." He pointed the gun at a caricature and pulled the trigger. A hole appeared between Mousetopheles' eyes. "Got you, Sucker!"

"Good shooting, John," Gordon congratulated. "But wouldn't it be better with something a little more powerful?" He went to the arms cabinet and extracted a larger weapon. "Die Mousetopheles!" he chanted and a hole was blasted through the mouse's chest.

"Great shot, Gordon!" Alan exclaimed.

"No it wasn't. I was aiming for his head."

The next half hour was spent with them all finding bigger and better ways of destroying the caricature of their nemesis. All manner of equipment was used. Lasers, cutters and sonic guns, originally created to save lives, were used to vent their anger. Periodically Virgil was dispatched to print off more copies of his drawing. Once when he complained that he was the one doing all the running around, he was reminded that he was the one trying to lose weight... He returned a short time later carrying 50 copies.

Eventually all five brothers collapsed onto the floor amidst the debris of their destructive activity.

Scott ran a charred sheet of paper through his fingers. "That was a complete waste of time and resources."

"I'll bet you enjoyed it though, didn't you?" Virgil stated.

Scott grinned and gave a stretch of satisfaction. "Yep!"

"Feel better, John?" Alan asked.

John gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, I guess I do now."

"I haven't seen you that mad for a long time," Gordon said.

"Well, I told him how we were falling apart and for a split second he gloated. He was actually gloating at us! He was glad that we were miserable...!" John was beginning to get worked up again. "He wanted to see us suffer! He was happy to make us think that our dad was dead...!"

"Whoa! Down boy!" Gordon patted him on the shoulder.

"Sorry," John apologised again. "I guess I'm not as good an actor as you thought I was."

"We should have got Gordon to do the phone call," Alan said. "That panic routine was pretty convincing."

"Gordon's had more practise acting," John noted. "The number of times that he's played a trick on us and then pretended to act all innocent!"

"And, worse still, fooled us," Virgil added.

Gordon smiled modestly. "We all have our talents."

"And, with any luck, your comment about Alan heading back to the cliff to where he'd seen Father may work in our favour," Scott noted.

"That's why I said it."

"Which cliff am I meant to have fallen off anyway?" Alan asked. "In case anyone asks."

"The steep one?" Gordon suggested.

"Or the rocky one?" John added.

Virgil leant back on his arms. "I wonder how Penny's getting on...?"

The shocking pink Rolls Royce was miles behind Angus Brett's dilapidated Ford. Despite this, inside the luxurious vehicle, there was no sign of stress.

Lady Penelope poured herself a cup of tea and settled back in her seat. "Which way is he heading, Parker?"

"'E h-appears to be 'eading north."

"North..." Lady Penelope brought a map up on a monitor. "Now I wonder what is of interest north of here..."

"'E's stoppin'!" Parker exclaimed. "H-It's a vehicular monorail!"

"Dear me," Lady Penelope said. "He appears intent on catching the train. How tiresome. FAB1 does rather stand out in the crowd."

"'E's gone to that h-end of the train," Parker said. "We'll get h-a carriage down this h-end." He drove the Rolls Royce away from Brett's signal.

A young man came up to the car's window with an electronic ticket dispenser. "Where are you folk headed?" he asked.

"Wherever the mood takes us," Lady Penelope said gaily. She battered her eyes at the man. "Where is this delightful vehicle going?"

He touched the peak of his hat. "Los Angeles, California, Ma'am."

"Then Los Angeles, California is where we are going," Lady Penelope smiled. "Do you think we shall see movie stars?"

"Can't say," the young man said. "You'll be loaded in a moment."

"Oh, thank you. How simply thrilling."

The rail employee received a signal. "Drive onto that platform, Pal," he told Parker. "You'll be loaded from there."

"Ta, Mate," Parker responded. He drove FAB1 so that it was parked parallel to the side of the monorail. Protective barriers rose up on three sides of the car and then the whole platform started to rise up into the air. When it reached its zenith it moved sideways, sliding the platform and car into the monorail's carriage. The hoist was retracted and the exterior door slid shut.

"Well, for better or for worse, we are on our way to California, Parker," Lady Penelope noted as she alighted from FAB1. "We shall have to keep a close watch on the homing device to make sure our Mr Brett doesn't leave the monorail sooner than expected."

"I suppose 'eading to the buffet car's h-out of the question," Parker said.

"I'm afraid so. We can't take any chances that our quarry will see us. Let us sit in our compartment and order room service."

They felt the monorail start to move. "We're off, Madam."

"We are indeed, Parker. Let us hope that we are on our way to finding Jeff Tracy..."

15 Fifteen: Waiting

The computerised readout ticked down from 600 miles per hour, through 300 m/h, and continued tracking downwards as the monorail drew close to a station. Seated in FAB1 Lady Penelope and Parker were watching a different display.

"'E h-appears to be 'eading back to 'is car," Parker noted, as he watched the signals from the homing devices.

"He does indeed. Perhaps we are reaching his stop. We had better be prepared."

Parker signalled that they wished to alight as they felt the monorail glide to a halt.

They were fortunate in that Brett's car was offloaded before FAB1. They were therefore a comfortable distance behind him when they set off on his trail.

The terrain was vastly different to that which they'd left. Instead of flat plains they were in the foothills of a mountain range. They began climbing into a deepening gloom. As if forewarning the pair of impending disaster, the clouds began to close in...

Jeff Tracy lay in his cell. As long as he was careful, his face was no longer sore, but his leg had settled down to a continuous throbbing pain. He didn't know what hurt more, the limb or his heart. He sat up and shut his eyes against the ever present reminders.

This time he wasn't trapped in an old, concrete-floored warehouse, but a wooden building with an ill-fitting wooden floor. Cold gusts of air were continuously being blown up through the gaps, chilling him. Instead of straw, the only protection he had against the draughts were copies of recent newspapers and he had no doubt that their inclusion was not accidental. Each one had an article relating to the mysterious crash of one of the world's richest men, and the subsequent loss of life of innocent civilians.

Out of morbid curiosity he'd read some of them. Most expressed surprise that an experienced pilot had crashed his plane. Many theorised as to why the accident had happened. Some blamed him, some blamed the jet, some blamed the airfield, some blamed the weather and Jeff even managed to find amusement from the article that stated with confidence that he'd been spirited away by a UFO. "You're closer to the truth than you realise," he'd chuckled.

Some of the papers detailed the lives of those who were killed, including an embarrassingly gushing obituary about Jeff Tracy - the astronaut who became a successful businessman. One tabloid paper had a photo of the villa on Tracy Island. The photo was blurred and out of focus, but Jeff could make out the figures of two of his sons hustling off the patio. From their builds he guessed they were Scott and Alan.

Then he'd found the death notices dated the day after the crash. They were filled with the heart-wrenching farewells by loved ones...

...Including that of his own family:

'Jefferson Tracy', it began, followed by his Air Force number. He began reading; yet not reading; finding himself skipping over parts of the obituary. 'Tragically... Loved, respected and admired father and friend... Much loved son... Esteemed employer... Honoured... Always remembered... Forever missed...'

Yet again Jeff felt a lump form in his throat. He carefully folded the scrap of paper up and slipped it back into his breast pocket. Then he pulled his neck chain over his head; his hands brushing against the whiskers on his face. His fingers traced over the five initials embedded in the chain, before he clasped his hand tightly around it; the letters digging into his skin. He held it to his heart.

He hated being the instrument of so much pain.

The door opened and he struggled to his feet, jamming the chain into his pocket so it wouldn't be seen.

Miles stepped inside...

Alan sat alone up at Jefferson Lookout, watching light play on the water. He became aware of someone coming up the path.

"Alan," Tin-Tin said shyly.

"Tin-Tin?"

"What are you doing?" She was standing at the end of the path as if she was reluctant to come any closer.

"Nothing," Alan admitted. "Just thinking. Why are you here?"

"I want to apologise to you."

"Apologise to me? For what?"

"For not believing you. For not believing you when you said you'd seen your father."

He held out his hand to her and, when she took it, pulled her onto the seat beside him. "Don't worry about it. No one believed me. Not even me at first, and I was seeing him with my own eyes."

She nestled into his arm. "But I feel bad. If I'd believed you and helped you then maybe Mr Tracy would be home by now."

"Or, as Lady Penelope said, the people holding him might have gone to ground... or worse..."

"Alan!" Tin-Tin turned so she was able to look at him. "You don't think they would hurt him, do you?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. But you've got to admit that anyone who doesn't worry about killing 30-odd innocent people isn't going to worry about one man..." He felt her start to shake and held her close. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have said that. He'll be all right."

"Are you worried?"

Alan brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Honey, I've been worried for so long that I can't remember what it's like not to be..."

"John," Gordon called. "Have you seen Virgil?"

"Nope." John continued cleaning the lens of his telescope. "Has he escaped your evil clutches?"

"Yes, the rat..." Gordon caught himself. "No... I shouldn't call him that. I only know of one overgrown rodent."

"And calling Brett that is an insult to all species of the rodent variety," John said, peering through the lens and then polishing it again.

"True... But you're the one who came up with the name of 'Mousetopheles'."

"That I can live with." John replaced the lens before fixing his brother with an earnest expression. "How much of a devil do you think Brett is, Gordon?"

Gordon gave John a wary look. "How do you mean?"

"How far do you think he's likely to go to get what he wants?"

"If you're asking me if I think Dad's in danger...?" Gordon spread his hands wide. "I honestly don't know. I wouldn't have thought that Brett had it in him, but then I never once dreamed that he was capable of doing what he's done."

"And if, like Penny says, he's had help..."

"Yeah..."

They were silent a moment.

"Poor Alan," Gordon eventually said. "With us not believing him, these last few days must have been pure torture."

"Did you ever think there was any truth in what he was saying?" John asked.

"No. Look at all the evidence against it."

"And yet the most compelling evidence, that our kid brother saw Dad with his own eyes, we weren't willing to believe. What does that say about us?"

"That we're human?"

"Maybe," John admitted. "It doesn't stop me feeling guilty though."

"Me too," Gordon agreed. He sighed. "Oh, well. I'll continue hunting. At least it's something constructive I can do. Catch you later, John..."

"Are you planning tomorrow's meals, Mrs Tracy?"

Grandma looked up. "I didn't see you there, Kyrano... No," she looked back down at the recipe book. "I'm deciding what to cook for Jeff's homecoming. He has so many favourite dishes that I don't know where to start."

"It is wonderful news, is it not, that Mr Tracy is alive," Kyrano beamed.

"Wonderful indeed. But I feel that I won't be able to truly believe it until he is home and I am able to see him with my own two eyes." Kyrano nodded his assent, but was surprised by her next question. "Do you think Jeff is still alive, Kyrano?"

"Mrs Tracy?"

"I have no doubt now that Alan saw him, but that was three days ago and there's been no sign of him since."

"I believe," Kyrano began cautiously, "I believe that Mr Tracy would not willingly let go of this life. As long as there was breath in his body he would fight to live."

"True," Grandma mused. "Only once have I seen him close to giving up," she frowned at the memories. "And if it weren't for those five boys I believe he would have."

"I remember."

They lost themselves in the shared memories...

Brains bit his thumbnail. Lady Penelope's revelation that Jeff Tracy had been alive had rocked him. Initially he had felt light-hearted; freed from the weight of the suspicion that he'd been instrumental in his friend's death. But as time had passed and he'd allowed himself to dwell on the findings heavy feelings of concern had returned.

Where was Jeff Tracy and why hadn't he been seen since Alan had found him in that warehouse?

Brains and Lady Penelope had decided that it would be prudent not to mention her findings to the A.A.I., in case Jeff's kidnappers got wind of the change in the investigation and felt threatened. In the interim they would allow the officials to continue searching for the reason why an experienced pilot should crash his state-of-the-art plane...

"Hiram... Hiram!"

Brains finally realised that he was being spoken to. He looked up at David Campbell. "Y-Yes?"

"You were miles away."

Brains managed a smile. "N-Not really."

"We've finished our search."

Brains sat up straight. "What?!"

"It's not good practise, and if anyone finds out I'll be out of a job, but I'm going to tell you my findings. You're too nice a guy to leave hanging."

Embarrassed, Brains shifted in his seat. "Th-Thank you."

"But you've got to promise not to mention that I've spoken about this to anyone. Not even the Tracys!"

"I-I promise."

"I don't think Jeff Tracy was flying that plane."

Brains tried to appear surprised at the revelation. "Wh-Wh-What?" For once he was glad of his stutter.

"I think that 'remote control device' we found was exactly that. I think that was what was flying the jet."

"Then where was Mr Tracy?"

David smiled. "Wherever he was, it wasn't on that plane."

"B-B-But the D-D-D..."

"D.N.A? There wasn't enough present to constitute the remains of one man. Someone has tricked us. The question is who and why. I've already handed my findings over to the police."

"Wh-Who do you think planned all this?" Brains asked.

David lost his smile. "The police will want to interview you about that... Do you think there's any chance that Mr Tracy could have faked his own death?"

"N-N-No!" Brains shook his head frantically. "Th-That would have caused t-t-too much pain to his family! And he could never h-h-have h-h-harmed innocent people! Never! You can't accuse him of th-th-that...!"

"Calm down!" David soothed. "It's just one theory and you, as a scientist, know that each theory must be analysed before it is discarded."

Brains nodded. And bit his thumbnail again as he wondered what had happened to Jeff Tracy...

"I thought this might be where I'd find you."

Scott turned from where he was leaning on a guard rail, gazing up at Thunderbird One. "Hi, Virg. How'd you know I was here?"

Virgil screwed up his face. "I used my mystical ability to read your mind..." He relaxed and leant on the rail beside his brother. "Actually I'm trying to hide from Gordon. I figured that the refuelling platform in Thunderbird One's hangar was the one place where he wouldn't think to look for me."

"Bit of a slave driver, is he?"

"A bit?! I'm sure he must have been a PT instructor as well as a drill sergeant when he was with WASP. I appreciate his help, but there are limits. I'm not trying to win an Olympic medal!"

Scott laughed and resumed his inspection of Thunderbird One.

Virgil watched him for a moment. "I know you feel guilty, but firing one of Thunderbird One's missiles into Angus Brett isn't going to solve anything."

"How'd you know!?" Scott stared at his brother again. "You can't blame Gordon for that statement."

"I know you."

Scott sighed. "I know it wouldn't solve anything. I know it goes against everything International Rescue stands for. I know Father would never forgive me..."

"You'd never forgive you," Virgil reminded him.

"Maybe... But I can't forgive myself for the fact that I didn't check with the accountant earlier. One phone call and I would have known that something was wrong and done something about it. Look at the time I've wasted!"

"The rest of us aren't blameless, Scott. You were grieving as much as we were and yet we were quite happy to leave all the responsibilities with you. Alan's the only one who's come out of this whole episode with pride intact."

"Alan..." Scott sighed. "Look at the way we treated him. He was telling the truth and I thought he was losing his mind."

"We all did... Although I thought he'd come to his senses about selling the island. It was the rest of you who were obviously losing it as far as that was concerned."

"Any more cracks like that," with a sly expression on his face, Scott put his hand to his watch, "and Gordon might just discover your newest hiding place!" He lowered his hands as all traces of humour disappeared from his voice. "I can't stand this hanging around here waiting... Doing nothing! Father's in trouble and we're sitting here!"

"Not sitting. You're standing there rediscovering your homicidal tendencies and I'm trying to escape the clutches of 'Blackbeard'... or 'Redhair'."

"But what if, at this very minute, Brett's associates are...?" Scott clenched his fists again as he looked away from Virgil. "What if Penny's too late?" he whispered.

Virgil placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't think you're the only one who's been thinking that," he admitted. "My imagination's been running on overdrive since Penny dropped her bombshell."

"One of the pitfalls of a creative mind, huh?"

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "You don't want to know some of the scenarios I've been envisaging."

"Then how come you're managing to remain so calm?"

"Because I can't do anything. I realised early on that if I made the decision to head out to the States to get my revenge, you'd read my mind and be there and back by the time I'd managed to launch Thunderbird Two."

Scott managed a chuckle. "So homicidal tendencies are genetic?"

"Must be..."

An alarm started screeching. Without a word to each other the brothers ran out of Thunderbird One's hangar and through the complex to the lounge.

John was already seated at his father's desk; Gordon hovering at his shoulder. "I see," John was saying. "Any idea how long you've got?"

"Dunno. It's rising about a metre an hour. I reckon we've got about three," the voice on the other end of the radio said.

"What going on?" Scott asked Gordon.

"Heavy rainfall in Nevada. There's been a huge landslide blocking a river. The water's backing up and threatening to flood a town."

"Can't the people get out?" Virgil asked.

"There's only one access road. They'll need help evacuating or, if the worst happens, rescuing everyone."

"Tell them we're on our way, John," Scott ordered. He placed his back to the wall between the two light fittings as Alan, panting slightly, raced through the patio doors. "You four all go in Thunderbird Two. I hope we don't need it but take 'The Duck' and the flood recovery equipment. I'll call as soon as I know more. Tell Tin-Tin she's in charge..."

The wall panel twisted out of sight...

16 Sixteen: Rescue

Angus Brett drove into the deserted village. Trying to avoid the pounding rain he parked next to a verandah that offered him some shelter as he exited his car. Then he leant into his vehicle and extracted his briefcase and the forgery machine. He turned back and walked straight into a brick wall.

Horace Miles looked down on the little man who'd just walked into him. "You shouldn't have come here. Mr Earl isn't pleased."

Bret felt a cold shiver slither down his spine. "I thought it was for the best."

"What if you were followed?"

"I wasn't. I checked." Brett felt another tremor race through his body; but this one wasn't a result of fear. "It's cold out here. Shall we go inside?"

Without a word of comment, Miles led the way and Brett found that they, along with two other men, were inside a dilapidated building. A glance at the boarded up windows explained why the only light source came from a battery operated lantern. "Solar panel not charged," Miles explained.

"How's our guest?" Brett asked.

"Bit jumpy when I took him his breakfast."

Brett looked at Miles sharply. "Any reason for that?"

"Nah. I'd guess he's gettin' a bit stir crazy, that's all. It gets them all in the end. I don't think he liked the readin' material I left him." Miles gave an evil laugh and Brett felt that shiver again.

"You haven't hurt him?"

"No..." Miles gave the sigh of someone who was losing his patience at having to explain the basics over and over to an uncooperative pupil. Then he chuckled "Well, nothin' that shows..." His associates laughed as Miles cracked his knuckles. "It would save a lot of problems if we were to just..."

"No!" Brett exclaimed. "That's out of the question!" He put the forgery machine onto the table. "I'm returning that. I won't need it any more."

"Returnin' it?" Miles picked up the unit and looked at it before fixing Brett with a curious stare. "Why?"

"I had a message from one of our marks," Brett said, feeling proud of himself for remembering to use what he perceived to be gangland jargon. "The cops think Tracy was murdered and they know who the culprit is and why it was done." Miles' eyes narrowed. "I can't risk having anything that might indict me."

"Did he say who they thought was guilty?"

"No," Brett shook his head. "He told me he wasn't supposed to tell anyone but he thought I should know." He laughed.

"Have they signed over the island yet?"

His laughter died in his throat as Brett heard the question he'd been hoping he wouldn't be asked. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time..."

"Time?" Miles hissed. "Time is something that both you and Tracy are running low on."

Brett felt the fear shiver race down his spine again...

Scott Tracy stood beneath Thunderbird One's wing, glad of the little shelter that his craft provided. "How far away are you, Virgil?"

"Five point two seven minutes, Scott. What's the situation?"

Scott relaxed. "That should give us plenty of time to evacuate everyone. At the present rate of increase, we think the flood waters will breach the banks in just under one hour."

"Can't we clear away the landslip?" Virgil asked.

"Negative. It looks as though half the hillside's come down and that's the only thing stopping the entire hill from giving way. We'll evacuate. It'll be simpler and is guaranteed to be successful. There's a clear area big enough for Thunderbird Two 200 metres south of the town. It's the local football field."

"F-A-B," Virgil agreed. "Touching down in four point eight one minutes."

"'E's stopped movin', m'Lady," Parker said.

"So he has," Lady Penelope agreed. "Let us find somewhere to conceal FAB1. We shall have to walk the remainder of the way; we do not want to alert our quarry to our presence." She looked up through the gull wing canopy of the Rolls Royce and sighed. "It is still raining. How tiresome, we shall be soaking wet."

"H-Umbrellas would be more trouble than they're worth," Parker noted.

Lady Penelope agreed before she alighted from the car. But, as the water soaked her pants suit and filled her galoshes, for a moment she doubted their decision. Then she gave a resigned sigh. "Let us proceed."

"That's everyone, Virgil," Scott said into his radio. "You can lift off as soon as I'm clear." He started walking back down the ramp that led up to the pod's interior, taking care not to slip on the wet surface.

"Wait!" a man yelled. "There's someone else!"

Scott frowned at him. "But I thought we'd evacuated the town."

"You have. But this is a service town; built to maintain the dam further up the river... I'm the site manager," the man explained. "One of our technicians is working there. I spoke to him before I boarded and he's not reporting any problems... but if he strikes trouble..."

"Okay," Scott conceded. "I'll take Thunderbird One and collect him..."

Lady Penelope was unpleasantly reminded of her last trip into the American backwoods as they plodded along the muddy road through impromptu streams that ran down out of the hills. "At least," she conceded to herself, "My clothing is more appropriate this time."

Parker gave himself a shake, trying unsuccessfully to relieve himself of some of the weight of water that was becoming trapped in his uniform.

They were weary and sick of the continuously beating water, but nothing would stop them from trying to find Jeff Tracy.

Brett sat on an uncomfortable wooden stool and poked his fork without enthusiasm at the food on his plate. "Is this what you've been living on?"

Three people looked up. "What's wrong wiv it?" Miles asked, his mouth full.

"It's... well... It's not exactly flavoursome, is it?"

The other three looked at each other, shrugged, and continued eating.

Brett dropped the fork onto his plate. "Look, can't I see Tracy now?"

"No." Miles pointed at him with his knife. "Not until Mr Earl says you can."

"But I have to see him!"

Miles glowered at him. "What you have to do is stay there! You're not going anywhere until we've finished." A light flashed. "Hallo..." he dragged his bulk out of the chair and over to a computer that Brett had failed to notice in the gloom. "We have company... Two people... Come on, boys!" He pointed at Brett again. "You are staying here until we get back..."

Scott flew in Thunderbird One up the gorge that traced the route of the river. He reached the dam and touched down. Upon exiting the rocket plane he was just able to make out the figure of a man, bent low against the rain, running towards him. "Hi!" he shouted over the noise of water hammering on One's fuselage. "Get inside quick!" Gratefully the man stepped inside out of the deluge and stood there, dripping onto the floor. "Have a seat," Scott offered. "What's your name?"

"Roy," the man replied and looked askance at Thunderbird One's passenger seats. "I'll ruin them."

"Don't worry about that," Scott reassured them. "I've had worse things than your wet clothes in here."

"I can imagine," Roy replied and settled into a seat, grimacing as he felt water squeeze out of his garments.

Scott assisted him with his safety harness. "How secure is the dam?"

"Safe as houses," Roy reassured him. "The overflows are working a treat. We had to choose between keeping them shut and risking the dam blowing and taking out the town, or opening them up fully and evacuating everyone. We figured this was the better way."

"You're the last one out of here," Scott grunted as he settled into the pilot's seat. "Unless you know of anybody else..."

Roy shook his head. "No, I'm it... Except..."

Scott turned in his seat. "Except what?"

"When I came up here a couple of days ago I noticed some activity around a deserted town."

"Activity?"

"Helicopters mainly."

"So, do you think that anyone's still on site?"

Roy shrugged. "I don't know."

"Okay," Scott reached a decision. "We're taking the slow route back down. I want to check out that town..."

Thunderbird Two touched down in the playing field of a town well away from the still rising river. "Okay, Folks," Gordon announced. "This is your stop..."

John covered his radio mike. "I wouldn't hurry them, Gordon," he warned. "Virgil says their transport hasn't arrived yet. They may as well stay put."

The three Tracy brothers surveyed the passenger deck. It was full of uptight people, precious belongings, and barking, mewing and twittering pets. "What do we do with them in the meantime?" Alan asked.

"Show an in-flight movie?" Gordon suggested.

His brothers gave him 'don't be stupid' looks.

"Virgil to John..."

John grabbed the radio. "Go ahead, Virgil."

"There're some buses arriving. I'll go out and make the arrangements. I'll give you a call when you can start off-loading."

"F-A-B."

The rain was falling so hard that they had no choice but to keep their eyes shut against the stinging drops; opening them only briefly to confirm they hadn't strayed from the path. The sound of the downpour was almost deafening, as water cascaded against rocks, through trees and into the nearby rising river.

Lady Penelope gave an involuntary yelp when someone grabbed her from behind. "Parker!"

"M'Lady!" Parker ducked a swinging fist and felt another slam into the reinforced material that formed his uniform's midriff section. His attacker cried out in pain and swore, holding his injured hand. "Good solid British tweed," Parker said with pride. "Gives ya protection h-against h-all sorts."

Lady Penelope took advantage of her assistant's diversion to free herself from an iron grip. Raking the heel down the man's shin, she drove her elbow sharply into his solar plexis. He doubled over, gasping for air. "Hhhit... hhhher!" he demanded.

"Hit her?" the third and final man exclaimed. "She's a lady!"

"Why thank you," Lady Penelope responded as she delivered a kick to his chin causing him to collapse to the ground in a fountain of water. "Good breeding always shows through. Is that not true, Parker?"

"You can h-always tell class," Parker agreed as he dodged another blow and landed a punch below his opponent's belt. The man let out a squeal of pain. "H-And I ain't got none."

"Nonsense, Parker," Lady Penelope rebuked him. "You are a gentleman! Unlike these..." Her first attacker was attempting to creep up behind her and she threw her elbow into his throat. Yet again he staggered back. "Dear me. I shall have the most horrible bruises on my arm."

Bleeding from where he'd bitten his lip, the third man hesitated as he decided which of his pals to help. He decided that he'd rather tackle Parker; bringing him to the ground.

Parker rolled out of the way of the kick that was aimed at his head. "So you want ta fight do ya?" he asked. He picked up his chauffeurs cap. "'Ere, 'old this for me." He tossed it, Frisbee like, towards his original assailant. Reflexes acting before commonsense, the man caught it, inadvertently breaking a small vial of knockout gas that had been concealed in the cap's crown. He collapsed, choking, to the ground where he lay unconscious.

"One down. Two to go." Parker said in satisfaction.

The second man grabbed at Parker who slithered out of his clutches and then clambered to his feet, delivering a well aimed kick of his own. "'Ow you goin', m'Lady?"

"Swimmingly," she replied, dodging another blow and throwing her wet hair out of her face. "Though I don't think we should play for much longer."

"H-I'm with you," Parker grunted as he received a hit to the chest which caused him to stagger backwards; dangerously close to the crumbling riverbank. 'H-I'm getting' tired of this." He pushed a button on his lapel and a stream of liquid shot out of the insignia that resided there. Despite being diluted by the time it reached its target, it hit the second man between the eyes and he fell to the ground, as unconscious as his associate.

"Freeze or I'll shoot!"

Glad of the chance to regain their breath, Lady Penelope and Parker stopped fighting. They turned to face their final attacker; the one who had originally grabbed Lady Penelope. Behind the veil of rain, he was pointing a gun at them. "Get your hands up where I can see them!" He cocked the gun as they complied. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Friends of Angus Brett's," Lady Penelope informed him.

"Friends?" The man frowned. Water ran down the bridge of his nose and he blew it away. "Then whatchya doin' all the way up here?"

"He has something that doesn't belong to him," Lady Penelope told him. "We are rather keen to get it back."

"Yeah? What?"

"A very personal item. A treasure belonging to friends of ours." Lady Penelope rubbed her finger on one of the rings that adorned her hands. "Now, if you will excuse us. I don't wish to keep you occupied any longer than necessary." A tiny dart shot out of the ring, embedding itself into the man's neck. With a look of surprise on his face, he crumpled to the ground.

Sloshing through muddy pools, Parker walked over to the man and pulled his head back by his hair. "'Ello! H-I think Mister Alan may 'ave h-already made this geezer's h-acquaintance."

Lady Penelope leant over so that she could examine her attacker's face closely. "Well, well. Horace Miles," she said, and Parker let go of Miles' hair, allowing his face to fall back into the gooey mud. "This may be a good sign, Parker. It may mean that Jeff is being held nearby."

"H-And, h-if Miles h-is h-in charge, this might be h-our h-only h-opposition. H-Except Brett."

"And I feel that our Mousetopheles, as dear John so aptly called him, is unlikely to put up any physical resistance at all. Let us proceed, Parker."

"Any word from Scott?" Gordon asked John; once he'd closed the door to the minibus that was transporting the last of the evacuees to their accommodation for the night.

"No... Unless Virgil has heard from him," John suggested. He stepped out from under Thunderbird Two's sheltering wing. "All done, Alan?" he yelled.

Alan jogged through the rain to join his brothers. "Yep. Are we set to go home now?"

"Once we've got the okay from Scott," John said. "You haven't heard from him, have you?"

"Me? No. Maybe Virgil has?"

The three of them entered the mammoth aeroplane and made their way up to the flight deck. They were in time to hear the tail end of the conversation between their brothers.

"What's up?" Alan asked.

"There's been some activity around an abandoned town upstream over the last few days," Virgil said. "Scott's checking it out on his way back down. I said we'd meet him here."

Gordon sat down, hearing the water squelch out of his uniform. "So we've got to sit here in discomfort while we wait for him?"

"You're worried about a little water?" Alan asked. "The man who is part fish?"

"You could always put your spare uniform on," John suggested.

"No, I'm all right," Gordon grumbled. "I've got a feeling we're going to get wet all over again."

Thunderbird One searched for the town that appeared to be hiding in the tumultuous rain.

"It was built at the end of last century," Roy explained. "It housed the people who built the dam, but they vacated it once the project was over."

"Why don't the people who maintain the dam live there now?" Scott asked.

"Too far from 'civilisation'. They decided that the area further down the valley was a better compromise."

"Where we've just evacuated everyone?"

"Uh... Yeah..."

"There's the town." Scott pointed at a screen. "You're right. There are people down there. I can count four scattered around the place." Roy stared at a screen. He could only make out four dots on a hazy grey background.

"There's too many for me to pick up," Scott said. "I'll radio Thunderbird Two to come and collect them."

"There's a helicopter pad that doubled as the recreation ground about a kilometre south of the town centre," Roy suggested. "Thunderbird Two could land there."

"Good. Thanks," Scott was about to initiate radio contact when he spotted something. "Hang on... I think I saw someone else... On the road south of the town."

"Where?!" Roy peered at his screen. "I can't see... Yes, I can...! They're not moving! Are they all right?"

"I don't know," Scott brought Thunderbird One down lower. "They must be unconscious. Usually by now I either have people waving at me or running away." He landed his plane on the road. "Thunderbird One's a scout craft, not a transporter, it's going to be a squeeze fitting the three of them in here..." He unbuckled his harness and stood. "You can stay here in the dry if you want."

"I'm already wet," Roy rejoined. "You're going to need help."

The rain was so heavy that they nearly tripped over the first of the three men before they saw him. Scott crouched down to examine the unconscious person. "He's out cold. Can't find any injuries..." He noticed some bruises to the man's face. "He's been fighting."

"So has this one," Roy said.

"And this," Scott straightened from his examination. "I don't like this. Let's get these three on board and get out of here."

"I'm with you, Pal," Roy agreed. Together they shifted the first man onto a stretcher and carried him into Thunderbird One.

They managed to squeeze the second man into the cabin, but the third man, the biggest of the three, was more of a challenge.

The rain was coming down harder.

"I've got no choice," Scott yelled over the rain as he opened a side compartment. "We're going to have to put him in here. It'll only be for five minutes."

"Are you sure he'll be okay?" Roy asked.

"He'll be fine. It's an emergency unit for situations like this. I don't like doing it, but we can't leave him out in this weather, there's no room for the five of us in the cabin, and I don't fancy his chances if whoever did this to them comes back."

"Okay," Roy conceded. "You're International Rescue. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

'That,' Scott thought, 'is the sixty four thousand dollar question.'

"Come on, Scott," Alan muttered. "I'm getting cold."

"Can you turn the heat up, Virgil?" John requested.

"Okay..." Virgil reached for the appropriate control. He arrested the movement when he received a message over the radio. "Go ahead, Scott."

"I've picked up another three victims. They're going to need medical help... And get the 'Duck' ready. There are four others in the town itself; condition unknown."

"Okay. We'll arrange the ambulance and head up to the town."

"No! Don't do that. Not until I get back. I'm coming with you."

"Scott?" Virgil could hear John contacting the local paramedics.

"These three guys I've picked up. They've been fighting and they're out cold. Who ever did it is possibly in that town. I reckon there could be safety in numbers. You'd better tell the police to stand by."

"F-A-B," Virgil agreed. "We'll wait."

Lady Penelope and Parker had reached the town. They crept along empty streets, hugging every bit of protection they could find and trying to ignore the water that pelted their bodies and ran down their necks.

They heard a noise and froze.

Someone had come out under the verandah of one of the shops as if he were looking for someone else.

It was Angus Brett.

"Lucky this flat area was here," Virgil commented as he shut down Thunderbird Two's motors. "It's almost a perfect fit."

"Apparently it used to be the helicopter pad and recreation area," Scott told him. "Okay, fellas. Time to load up."

The 'Duck' was another of International Rescue's fantastic machines. It was long and thin with articulated sides which enabled it to traverse narrow, winding paths. When designing it Brains had boasted that would, "t-take to water l-like a duck". And the name had stuck, despite the fact that most observers had wondered why it hadn't been christened the 'centipede', or at least the 'worm'. Essentially a transporter, the Duck was designed to be able to traverse all types of terrain with equal ease; from dry, smooth roads, to churning flood waters. The machine's versatility meant its ride wasn't exactly smooth; even Gordon had been known to have felt a touch of nausea when travelling in it (his brothers had blamed a chocolate binge the night before); but it was efficient and big enough to hold twenty people.

"All set?" Virgil asked, and sent the Duck waddling down the pod's ramp.

"Ow!" Alan complained as his head was bashed against the wall. "We've got to get this thing padded. Either that or improve the suspension."

"You'd feel more at home if it was a padded cell, would you?" Gordon asked.

"At least I'd arrive at the danger zone without a headache," Alan retorted as he was thrown against the wall again.

Angus Brett had retreated inside. Using a scanner Lady Penelope checked the building. "He's alone," she reported.

"What?" Parker asked, leaning closer so he could hear her over the rain.

"He's alone," she repeated in a louder voice.

"What?"

Lady Penelope gave up. She showed him the scanner and began moving towards the steps; keeping bent low so she had the opportunity to duck down out of sight should their quarry exit the building again. She scampered up the steps and flattened herself against the wall beside the door. Parker mimicked her action and they stood, as still as a pair of bookends, on either side of the entrance.

Lady Penelope raised three fingers. First she folded one down into the palm of her hand. One second later only one finger remained aloft. And then...

It was almost ridiculously easy. The door swung open and they caught Brett alone, un-armed, and with his back to the entrance. He spun around; his mouth falling open. "Lady Penelope?" He gripped the back of one of the chairs that surrounded the table.

"Were you perhaps expecting Horace Miles?" Lady Penelope locked the door.

Brett blanched, fumbled with his jacket, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a gun which he pointed unsteadily at the duo. It appeared to be heavy in his hands.

Parker laughed. "Quick-draw, huh?"

Lady Penelope sighed. "Don't be tiresome, Mr Brett. Put the gun down on the table."

"No!" the pistol swung back and forth between the pair of them. "Why'd you come here?"

"Why?" Lady Penelope's gave a dangerous smile. "To find Jeff Tracy, of course."

"Jeff Tracy...?" Then Brett laughed. "You're crazy. Everyone knows he's dead."

"Everyone thinks he's dead," Lady Penelope amended. "For your sake he had better be still be alive."

"For my sake? Why? You know I've been overseeing the execution of his will... Jeff Tracy is dead."

"Correction. You have presented a fake will to the Tracys. Where is Jeff? And you had better hope that you haven't overseen another, er, execution."

"I haven't!" Brett spread his hands apart in a gesture of openness and honesty. "I don't know," he insisted before remembering the gun and pointing it back at Parker. He kept on glancing at the door.

"If you are waiting for the cavalry, I'm afraid you will be sorely disappointed," Lady Penelope informed him. "They are currently, in this beastly weather, lying on the road out of town. I confidently don't expect to have any trouble from them for," she glanced at her watch, "at least the next 23 hours."

Brett's jaw dropped again. "Who are you?"

"I am a friend of Jeff Tracy and his family. Anyone who hurts them; hurts me. And I do not like being hurt, Mr Brett. It plays havoc with one's complexion."

Brett stared at her in disbelief.

"Look," Parker said. "Why don't you save h-us h-all h-a lot of bother h-and put the piece down? Then we'll go h-easy on ya."

Brett appeared to waiver. Then he straightened his shoulders. "No..."

Jeff lay on his bed of newspapers and tried to sleep in the dim light of the lamp. He had lost all idea of time, but his body clock was telling him that it was the thing to do. He tried not dwell on his predicament. He tried not to think about what those he cared about were going through. He tried not to foretell his future. He tried to ignore the draught coming up through the floorboards.

Something about the draught made him sit up. Now it was not only cold; but cold and damp. Above the roar of rain on the roof, he could hear a rushing sound; the unmistakable noise of liquid pushing past obstacles. Gallons of liquid. As he watched, water pushed its way up between the floorboards and seeped along the grooves; forming puddles on the wooden floor. He got to his feet as the water soaked into his bed of newspapers. He could only watch in helpless horror as the flood waters covered the floor and began filling up the room...

"We've got trouble!" John reported from his seat at the communications console in the Duck. "More of the hillside's collapsed. There's a huge backwash from the river on the way..."

The Duck made a violent movement to port, threatening to roll right over. There was a hissing sound and they felt pontoons inflate to stabilise the craft. Everything settled down to its rough waddling motion again.

"Phew!" Scott exclaimed. "Everyone okay?" He received four affirmative replies.

"Talk about white water!" Virgil yelled over his shoulder from the driver's seat as he continued wrestling with the steering.

"The town's submerged!" Gordon exclaimed. "We've got to hurry!"

"We're going as fast as we can," Virgil replied. "We'll be there in, um..."

"We don't need a precise report," Alan told him. "Roughly?"

"Roughly, we're there. The lower part of the town is submerged beneath us."

"Was anyone there?" John asked Scott.

"I don't know. I don't think so. They won't have had much of a chance if they were..."

"Can you 'ear somethin', Madam?" Parker asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "It sounds like running water. Perhaps the spouting has broken."

"H-If you'll h-excuse me, H-I'll take h-a look h-outside."

Brett's gun moved from Parker to Lady Penelope. "Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said.

Parker unlocked the outside door and was knocked backwards by a torrent of water. "Flood!" he coughed.

Lady Penelope found herself forced up against the table and managed to climb onto its wooden surface. Brett was pushed off his feet and fell, choking, into the water. As he tried to regain his footing he dropped the gun.

"Are you all right, Parker?" Lady Penelope called.

"I'm h-okay," he responded. "We've gotta get out of 'ere."

"The back door! Quick!" Lady Penelope slithered across the table, ignoring Angus Brett. She tried to pull it open, but the force of the water knocked her feet out from under her again. "Help me, Parker."

Parker braced one foot against the door frame and together they pulled. They managed to open the door as a stool floated past. Lady Penelope nudged it into the gap, jamming the door open. "Hurry," she commanded and stepped over the stool into the still rising floodwaters outside. Parker followed her.

Squeaking like the mouse he resembled, Brett stumbled to the door, deciding that it was safer to stick with his enemy than to remain inside a rapidly filling building. "Wait for me!"

"We need to get 'igher!" Parker exclaimed, looking about him. "We can climb h-up that!" He pointed to a fire escape that hung, out of reach, above them. "'Ere..." he grabbed a barrel and held it steady beneath the ladder. "Climb h-up, m'Lady. Use me knee."

Lady Penelope stepped on his bent leg and then climbed onto the barrel. "Up you get, Parker." With her assistance, Parker did as he was ordered, and clambered onto the barrel. Together they stood precariously as the waters rushed past.

"What about me?" Brett screamed.

"'Scuse me, Ma'am." Parker grasped Lady Penelope about the waist and lifted her so she was able to grab the fire escape.

Lady Penelope climbed until she had a solid grip of the ladder. "Now you, Parker." She reached down. He jumped and the barrel was swept away as he made contact with a rung. Lady Penelope grabbed his arm and pulled; helping him reach the relative safety of the ladder.

"You can't leave me!" Brett begged, as he clung to a support beam and the water swirled around his chest. "Help me!"

"I suppose we'd better," Lady Penelope sighed.

Threading his leg through the ladder so he was held securely and with Lady Penelope keeping a grip on his belt, Parker removed his sturdy jacket and wrapped a sleeve around his wrist and hand. He bent down so the other sleeve was dangling down. "Grab this!"

Brett made an ineffectual grab. "I can't," he sobbed.

"You gotta climb!" Parker ordered. "Climb the post!"

Fear giving him a strength he didn't know he had, Brett climbed. He reached the balcony railing and managed to stand on it as he reached out for the jacket. "Swing it!"

Parker swung the jacket and Brett managed to grab the sleeve. "Pull!"

"Climb!" Parker rejoined.

Brett clambered further up the post, pulled in part by Parker. The noise of continuously moving water masked the sounds of tearing stitches and Parker's groans.

Brett's slippery fingers closed about the bottom rung of the ladder...

The water in his cell was still rising and Jeff tried to ignore the pain in his leg as the cold water wrapped its tendrils about it.

It was up to his knees now: and still rising.

The shelf in the corner of his room didn't look strong enough to hold his weight, but he took a chance; managing to clamber onto it.

And still the water rose.

As it lapped at the base of the shelf, Jeff stood; bracing himself against the wall.

The water climbed over his feet.

He stood on tip-toe as an island of newspapers floated past.

Once again the cold water licked at his wounded leg. He raised it so he was standing on the other, trying to maintain his balance.

There was a surge and Jeff was knocked backwards; scrabbling with his hands on the smooth wall and both feet on the shelf as he fought to keep his head above water.

He knew shouting for help was useless.

The water was at his chest when the shelf finally gave way; plunging him, spluttering and gasping for air, into the water. Fighting the waves that washed over his head he tried to tread water; his injured limb nearly useless.

Jeff felt something bump against his head and realised that the ceiling was pressing down on him. He gasped like a goldfish in the ever decreasing air pocket.

There was another surge and everything swirled about him. He was dashed against the wall, the ceiling, another wall...

He was tired. He was dizzy. He was in pain. He needed air...

Jeff Tracy sank into darkness...

17 Seventeen: Recovery

"Water level's dropping," Gordon reported.

"The rain's eased off too," Scott added. He looked at his watch. "It's after sunset. We're going to be working in the dark."

"We're on the road," Virgil reported. "I think..." There was a bump as the Duck made contact with solid ground and the pontoons retracted back into their housings.

A building loomed out of the darkness. "Looks like the fire station," Scott commented. "Park by the door, Virg. It'll be a good marshalling area."

The Duck halted outside the double doors of the station. The power of the flood waters had forced them open and scoured it empty.

"Right!" Scott turned back to his brothers. "Before we go out there I want everyone to check their guns." He un-holstered his own. "Make sure you've got the knock-out cartridge installed and primed. We don't know who's out there." He replaced his gun. "This could be a rescue operation, or it could be a body recovery. We've got to cover as much ground as we can so we'll split up. Alan: you go east. John: west. Gordon: north. I'll take the south. Virgil..." he turned back to his brother who was still seated in the driver's seat. "You stay here as back up. You can bring out the stretchers if we need them."

"F-A-B."

"Check your radios and victim locators too. All systems green?"

There were four replies in the affirmative before they each slung a rescue pack onto their backs and climbed down out of the Duck. Torches prying into the darkness, they set off in their appointed directions.

"The rain h-appears to 'ave stopped, m'Lady."

"Thank heavens for that, Parker. It is quite distasteful to have water continuously running down one's neck."

Brett was curled up in a bedraggled ball. "What do we do now?" he sobbed.

"How high did the water get, Parker?" Lady Penelope asked.

Parker crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down to where they'd climbed up. The fire escape had been swept away in the flood waters. "'Igh enough that we've lost the ladder. We can't get down that way."

"Oh, dear. What a shame."

Brett curled up in an even tighter ball.

"H-I 'ate to say this," Parker made a quick calculation, "but h-if h-anyone was trapped h-inside h-any of them buildings..."

"Unfortunately that thought has crossed my mind. Where was Jeff being held, Mr Brett?"

"I told you. I don't know!" Brett whimpered.

"We will find him," Lady Penelope asserted as she stood up. Twisting one of the charms on her bracelet, a thin beam of light shot out into the darkness. "Perhaps there is another exit nearby. These roofs appear to be quite close. With any luck we can jump across to a building with a convenient exit."

"Jump!" Brett yelped. "I can't jump!"

Parker was growing sick of the solicitor's continued whining. "Well, stay 'ere then!" Treading carefully he walked over so he was standing beside Lady Penelope. "You're right. They h-are close. H-And that one's got h-a verandah. We could jump down from that!"

"The problem is that we don't know how sturdy any of these roofs are," Lady Penelope mused. "I should be most disappointed to jump on one and fall through to the ground below."

"Fallin's not part of me plan," Parker stated. "H-Allow me to go first, m'Lady." He chose a spot and launched himself across the gap, landing in a skidding roll. "H-It's safe!" he called back.

Trusting his judgement Lady Penelope followed his lead; landing safely. Then she turned back to the original building. "Are you coming, Mr Brett?"

"Do I have to?"

"No. Not if you'd rather spend the night alone in the cold and wet."

Brett hovered on the edge of the building. "It's a long way."

"H-It'll be h-a long night h-if you stay there," Parker told him.

Brett didn't like the idea of spending a chilly night on a damp roof. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"Don't forget to roll when you land," Lady Penelope advised him.

Brett took a deep breath and jumped. He landed on the roof in a painful heap. "That hurt!" he yelped.

He was ignored as Lady Penelope and Parker walked to the edge of the roof. "Look," Parker pointed. "There's h-a light comin' from that building."

Lady Penelope nodded her approval. "Then that's where we're going. I'm not leaving this town until we've retrieved Jeff Tracy... however he is..."

The beam from his torch piercing the darkness, John trod with care as he negotiated the puddles and mud piles. Like most floods he'd attended there was debris everywhere. Roofing iron had been dragged down and lay stacked in untidy heaps against buildings. Park benches now resided in trees, most of which had been denuded of their leaves. Normally he would have been yelling for survivors, but the potential threat from the person or persons who had laid out three large men, forced him to keep a silent vigil as he traversed the streets.

John pushed open the door to what had formerly been a bookstore and peered inside. The shop was silent and empty. A check of the ground floor rooms with a victim locator revealed no signs of life, while a visual inspection showed no signs of death. The flat upstairs was similarly vacant. He exited the building the same way he'd entered and marked the door so that no one would waste time checking it again later.

He continued walking along the street.

In the shadows at the end of the road he thought he saw something move. He froze, straining his eyes in the darkness as his torch beam and victim locator searched out the source of the movement. Then he saw it again.

There were a pair of legs lying in the mud. The associated torso was hidden by the shadows.

He raced over to the victim, talking into his radio as he ran. "Virgil! I've found someone! Follow my signal! Bring the stretcher!"

"F-A-B."

John reached his goal and knelt beside the victim, swinging his rescue pack around so he could reach into it. "I'm from International Rescue. What's your name?" he asked automatically as he pulled a medical scanner out of the pack and began getting a reading of the man's injuries.

"If you don't know that then I must look worse than I thought."

John froze at the voice; his mind trying to take in what had just been said. The scanner slipped from his suddenly numb fingers. Then, still trying to comprehend the situation, he shone his torch onto the face of the man who had spoken. A pair of brown, almost black, eyes blinked back at him before a hand was raised to shield them from the glare. "Can you shift your torch, John? It's a bit bright."

John dropped the torch. He was still in a daze when Virgil ran over to him and started setting up a stretcher. Fixated on the injured man, still unable to believe what he was seeing, John began tugging at his brother's sleeve.

"What is it, John?" Virgil asked; engrossed in untangling what was proving to be a stubborn piece of equipment.

John managed to drag his eyes away from the victim to look at his younger brother. He tugged at Virgil's sleeve again; speech having deserted him.

"John?" Virgil finally looked at him. "John? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

The statement was too much for John. Much to Virgil's consternation he started laughing - Laughter that bordered on the hysterical.

"John?!" Virgil repeated, now very concerned.

"I think you said the wrong thing, Virgil."

Virgil's head snapped around to the figure on the ground and his eyes widened. "Father?"

"Yes, Son."

"I don't believe it... John! It's Father! He's alive! He's here! He's..." Virgil looked back at Jeff. "You need a shave."

"I know. I need a lot of things at the moment. Like a long hot bath and one of Grandma's meals."

"Are you hurt?" Virgil picked up John's scanner and checked its reading.

"I've got a small cut on my leg and one or two bruises, but apart from that I'm fine."

Virgil grunted as the scanner told him the truth. "Hang on until I've got this stretcher set up, then we'll get you back to the Duck."

"No," Jeff protested as he struggled to sit up. "I don't need the stretcher. I'll lean on the pair of you."

"But, Father..."

John had managed to get his laughter under control. "Don't be silly, Dad."

"I'm not being silly. I don't need a stretcher."

"I found you lying on the muddy ground, with a cut that's more than 'small'," John gingerly looked under the tattered remains of Jeff's trouser leg, "and you're saying you don't need a stretcher?" He dove into his first aid kit and started cleaning the wound.

"No, I don't!"

John frowned. "You are going to be carried back to the Duck on that stretcher!"

"Don't tell me what to do, young man! I am going to walk back to the Duck."

"Dad..."

"Father..."

Jeff brushed aside their concerns. "How is Alan?"

"Alan!" John was placing a temporary bandage on his father's wound to keep it clean. "Virg! We've got to tell everyone!"

"Yeah. But, whatever we do, we can't tell Gordon last. He'd never forgive us this time!"

"If we don't let Scott know straight away our lives won't be worth living."

"And Alan deserves to be the first to be told."

"How is Alan?" Jeff pressed.

"I know!" John stood and stepped backwards. "Finish fixing up his leg, Virgil. I'll radio everyone... Now you'll see some real acting." He raised his handset and when he next spoke he sounded concerned rather than gleeful. "John calling.... We've got an uncooperative victim here and we need everyone's assistance. Repeat. We need everyone STAT!"

"Scott here. What's the situation, John?"

"You're not going to believe it, Scott. We need you here now. We need everyone. The full team!"

Scott signed off with a "F-A-B."

"I'm not being uncooperative," Jeff protested and grimaced as Virgil finished the bandaging. "I just don't need a stretcher... How's Alan, Virgil?"

"Fine. John, can you imagine everyone's faces when they see him?"

"Well, I don't want them to see me lying in the mud," Jeff stated. "Help me up, Boys." His sons hesitated. "John! Virgil! Help me up!" he ordered, and tried to rise.

"Even dead he's as stubborn as a mule," John muttered as he and Virgil helped their father to his feet.

"I heard that. I'm neither dead nor deaf." Jeff placed his arms around his sons' shoulders. "There, see... Not a problem. Let's go."

There was the sound of hurried footsteps through the mud and puddles. Gordon ran into view splattered from head to toe in mud. "What's the problem?"

"We needed someone to carry the stretcher," Virgil informed him.

"Huh? You called all of us just for that?"

"No. Not just for that," John corrected him. "I told you we had an uncooperative victim."

Gordon looked at the man in question, unrecognisable in the darkness and covered by a week's worth of whiskers. He didn't look particularly uncooperative.

"Hello, Son."

Gordon blanched. "Huh?"

"It's great to see you again."

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"You are alive!" Gordon's made an abortive gesture; as if he wanted to get closer to his father, but was frightened of hurting him further.

"Reports of my death have been grossly exaggerated." Jeff released his grip on John and held his hand out to Gordon.

Gordon grasped his father's hand; stepping closer. "Don't think that a handshake will be enough, Dad. Once we're all cleaned up you're getting a hug."

Jeff gave his son's hand a warm squeeze. "I'll hold you to that."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"He's covered in bruises and has a gash on his leg I want to check out," John amended. "We want to get him back to the Duck A.S.A.P."

"He refuses to use the stretcher," Virgil added.

"What! Dad... Don't be silly."

"I don't need the stretcher! I'm perfectly all right."

"Can you grab my pack, Gordon?" John asked.

"Yep... Unless you'd rather I took over from you as his support?"

"No thanks," John smiled. "We're quite comfortable."

"Aww." Gordon grin broadened and he grabbed the stretcher and pack. "Let's get going. Maybe I'll actually be able to recognise you when I can see you, Dad. Say something, I want to hear your voice."

"Let's get back to the Duck. I want to be able to see you all too." Jeff took a shuffling step forwards.

They were half way down the street when the sound of someone running heralded Scott's arrival. The darkness of the night was obscuring obstacles in the road and he missed seeing a piece of wood, tripped, and ended up sprawled in the mud in front of them.

"No need to kiss his feet, Scott," Gordon quipped. "He knows you're pleased to see him."

Scott stood; his face burning. "It's hard to see anything in this ligh..." he began... and stopped. Clearly there was enough light to make out exactly who was standing before him. "Da..."

Jeff smiled. "Hello, Scott."

"Father?"

"Yes."

"What? How? When? How...?" Scott's supply of inarticulate questions dried up as his brain got back into gear. "I don't believe it..." he breathed. "Father... Heck, it's good to see you! We thought you were dead!"

"I know."

Scott finally recovered his wits enough to take in the situation. "Why isn't he on the stretcher?"

"He refused it," Virgil informed him.

"I don't need a stretcher!" Jeff protested.

"Told you he was uncooperative," John smirked.

"Where's Alan?" Jeff asked.

"He went east," Scott said. "He can't be too far away."

The fire station was in sight when Alan finally appeared. He stopped when he saw the party before him. In the light from the Duck he could clearly identify the man supported between his brothers. "Dad!"

"Alan!" Jeff released his grip on John's shoulders and reached out to his youngest son.

Alan ran forward. Just as if he was still a fourteen year old boy in shock after crashing his friend's car, he wrapped his arms around his father and held him tight. "Dad," he breathed. "I can't believe it. You're here."

Jeff returned Alan's hug in equal measure, ignoring the complaints from his bruised body. "Are you all right, Son? They didn't hurt you again, did they?" He pushed Alan away slightly so he could see him.

"No, they took me back to Mobile Control. Are you all right, Dad? They didn't hurt you any more, did they?"

Jeff put his hand to the side of Alan's face. "No. I'm fine. Now that I know you're okay I couldn't be better. How's the head?"

Alan grinned. "Fine. You know me. I'm as thick as two planks and as hard to break. Though these guys did their best to make me think that it was a little bit cracked." His brothers shifted; discomforted by the reminder.

"They didn't believe you?" Jeff guessed.

"No. That's what your kidnappers were counting on."

"I figured as much."

"Fortunately Alan convinced Penny to at least give him the benefit of the doubt," Scott explained. "She and Parker found Ma's ring. After that we had no choice but to believe him."

"Alan has a lot of favours owing to him," Virgil said. "Starting with me taking his next shift on Thunderbird Five."

"You don't have to, Virg," Alan protested.

"Yes, I do. A deal is a deal."

"We all owe you, Alan," Scott admitted. "Big time."

"Have you still got your neck chain, Dad?" John asked.

"I'm still wearing it. I was hoping I wouldn't have to leave that somewhere as well."

Gordon grinned. "You can reunite it with Ma's ring once you're home."

"Good." Jeff was obviously relieved. "I was worried that no one would ever find it; or that if they did, they wouldn't know its significance. I must remember to thank Penny and Parker."

"Penny's going to be annoyed that she's not the one who found you," Alan told him. "They're on Mousetopheles' tail at the moment."

"Mousetopheles?"

"Angus Brett," Scott clarified. "It's something Virgil and John came up with."

"Ah" Jeff said. "I thought he might have been behind all this."

Scott frowned. "Penny was supposed to keep us informed of what she was doing. We haven't heard from them in hours."

"She may have radioed base," John suggested.

"I'm sure Lady Penelope can look after herself," Jeff reassured them. "You can give her a call once we're in the Duck." He looked at his five sons. "I've missed you boys. You don't know how much..." He sighed as the emotions of the moment threatened to overwhelm him. "Come here, Alan," he put one arm around Alan's shoulders. "You too, Gordon. You can help me inside."

"I can do that!" Scott offered.

"You can help later. You and John are a fraction too tall."

"You can only blame yourself for giving us all your tall genes," John responded. "You left nothing for the runts." He received three indignant replies from his younger brothers.

Leaning heavily on his two sons, Jeff began shuffling towards the warm light of the fire station's interior. "How's Grandma?"

"She's brightened up a lot since she realised that you might still be alive," Scott told him.

"And Tin-Tin and Kyrano? And Brains?"

"Worried sick about you. Brains has been blaming himself for the jet's crash."

"So Alan told me."

"Did I? I can't remember. Things are a bit hazy," Alan admitted.

"You also told me that you were having to sell the island. That wasn't true was it?"

"We had the Thunderbirds wired up for demolition," Gordon told him. "Even Thunderbird Four."

"Because you though I was in debt?"

"Mousetopheles told us you owed this huge amount of money, and that the five of us were the only ones mentioned in your will, and we believed him...," Virgil explained. "We were in shock," he added apologetically.

"And when he told us that he had a buyer for the island and that selling it would be the solution to our problems, we fell for it hook, line and sinker," Scott added. "We thought that if we didn't have the debts we might be able to support Grandma, Kyrano, Tin-Tin and Brains, and be able move on ourselves. I didn't think to confirm his story."

"None of us did," Virgil reminded his brother.

"I read the will that Mousetopheles presented to us, and that was it." Scott's good mood was vanishing as he recollected the past week. "It was dated the day of your crash and it never dawned on me that it could be a forgery. Not until Penny showed us Ma's ring."

"I did make a new will that day," Jeff confirmed. "But it was with Walker and Crawford. I went to see Brett to tell him I was removing all my business from him and that I was handing certain information over to the police..."

"Evidence found by Mr Spencer that Mousetopheles had embezzled your money?" John asked.

Jeff looked at him. "Did Penny discover that?"

"Once I'd remembered who Mr Spencer could have been, yes."

A light drizzle started to fall.

"Come on," Scott instructed. "We can discuss this once you've been checked over by a doctor..."

"I don't need a doctor," Jeff protested. "Brains can look at my leg when we get home!"

"Brains is in Kansas," Alan told him. "He's been helping the A.A.I. find out why you'd crashed your plane."

"And the police are going to want to interview you over what happened," Gordon added.

"They can fly out to my island," Jeff insisted. "I'll arrange their flight. I just want to go home."

Lady Penelope and Parker had reached the one building that seemed to be filled with the light of life; instead of the stygian gloom that characterised the others.

Hoping that they had found what they were looking for, Lady Penelope peered cautiously through a grimy window. "It appears to have been the local fire station in a past life. I think it is deserted."

"Where's the light comin' from?" Parker asked.

"There is a torch in the corner... and something is casting a light from outside the building. We shall investigate, and, if the fates are smiling on us, we shall find Jeff." Her senses on full alert, Lady Penelope stepped inside...

...Just as the Tracy family entered the station.

Apart from a muted, "stone the crows!" from Parker, everyone froze; staring at each other in a disbelieving silence.

Lady Penelope was the first to find her voice. "Jeff!?"

"Penny!"

"How are you, Jeff dear?" She moved closer.

"Nothing wrong with me. And you're looking as lovely as ever."

Lady Penelope pushed a damp muddy curl off her face, and eyed him, still propped up between two sons. "I don't know what your kidnappers have done to you, Jeff Tracy. You always used to be an honest man."

Jeff chuckled. "How are you, Parker?"

Parker was still looking a little dazed. "Uh... F-Fine, uh, Mr Tracy! You're lookin'... Well..." he rubbed his nose.

"I understand I have a lot to thank you both for."

"It looks as though your sons have done the hard work," Lady Penelope replied.

"We struck it lucky," Scott explained. "We were called out to evacuate a town downstream. They asked me to pick up a guy up at the dam up the river and Thunderbird One's scanners picked up four people in this town. So the five of us came up here in Thunderbird Two to rescue them..." He frowned. "Assuming that you account for three of our targets..." His frown deepened. "Who was the fourth?"

"I think, Scott," a figure stepped out of the shadows, "you might find that that fourth person was me..."

It was Angus Brett.

18 Eighteen: Ransom

"How nice," Angus Brett sneered. "A real family reunion." He looked at each of them in turn. "And how kind of you all to confirm my suspicions. So the altruistic Tracy family IS International Rescue... There's nothing like seeing the truth with your own eyes. Isn't that right, Alan?"

"It's no good if no one believes you," Alan snarled.

Brett gave a sardonic grin. "I thought it was a little odd when five nauseatingly intelligent and gifted young men suddenly decided to waste their lives away on a tropical paradise." He turned to the one man in the group not in uniform. "And how are you, Jeff? I must say that you are looking a darn sight healthier than one might have expected from a dead man."

"Why, Angus?" Jeff asked. "Why did you put us all through this?"

"Why? Why does anyone do anything in this world? Anyone except for Jeff Tracy and his kin, who have more than their fair share. Money of course."

"Money for you or for someone else?"

"Like a Mr Earl?" Lady Penelope added.

"What is she?" Brett asked. "Some kind of spy?"

"The best kind," Gordon jeered. "She never fell for your tricks."

"She might have never trusted me, Gordon, but I think I pulled the wool over your eyes quite nicely. I had you all eating out of the palm of my hand, didn't I?" Brett laughed as he taunted the Tracys. "Oh dear! All this money we owe. Whatever shall we do? Mr Brett, how can we ever thank you for finding the solution to our problem? Not as clever as we thought we were, were we, Gentlemen...?"

"We did return the favour," John informed him. "There was never any evidence that Dad was murdered. It was all part of Penny's trap to catch you."

"And thank you for falling in quite nicely," Lady Penelope added. "You made it deliciously easy."

"What are you?" Brett asked and was infuriated by her enigmatic smile. He rounded on Jeff Tracy. "You," he pointed at the injured man, "would never have been hurt if you hadn't kicked out when Miles and that engineer grabbed you. He told me you cut yourself on the door of the plane. A stupid thing to do and you're paying for it now, aren't you? If everything had gone to plan, no one would have been hurt and everyone would have been happy. My associates would have got the island legally and Jeff Tracy would have been found 'washed up' on the beach: alive. A miracle!"

Jeff barked out a laugh. "I was to be washed up on a beach? Unhurt? Do you honestly think that they would have let me go free?"

"Yes, I do."

"If you think that then you're not only a criminal. You are also a fool."

"They promised me the satisfaction of seeing your face when you discovered that your precious sons had sold your home without your knowledge. They promised me that no one would die."

"And you actually believed that these are the kind of people who keep their promises?" Jeff asked. "Think, Brett. You were being taken for a ride as much as we were. I'm betting that once they'd got all they could from you, you and I would have ended up at the bottom of a river together."

"No! I had insurance, you see. I knew who International Rescue was," Brett bluffed. "And I've kept our little secret because I knew that when the time came that I needed to reveal your true identities, I could sell the information to the highest bidder." His eyes narrowed. "I think that time has arrived."

"No sale," Jeff said.

"We shall see," Brett made an angry gesture. "All these years I've acted on your behalf, while, in reality, I've been doing a different sort of acting. All these years I've pretended to be your friend; pretended to be glad to do your bidding. Were you aware that you were in the presence of acting greatness...? No, of course you weren't. A great actor has the ability to convince his audience that he is not acting. And I had it in me to be one of the best! I could have won all the awards. Oscars, Emmys, Tonys; you name it; I could have won it... If I'd been given the opportunity..." He sounded bitter.

"No one wanted you, eh?" Parker felt no shame in having a little dig at the man's expense. "They didn't think you were good h-enough, did they?"

"Oh, they thought I was good enough all right. But I was only good enough for the fool, not the romantic or dramatic lead... I could have played the great roles. I could have been Lear. I could have been Macbeth! I should have been 'Oberon' in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'; instead I was cast as 'Bottom'. I was 'Mercutio' when I should have been 'Romeo'. If they'd given me the chance I would have shown them."

"Romeo!" Gordon couldn't help laughing at the mental image. "I would imagine that after you showed them your 'Bottom' they wouldn't have been able to stomach anything else."

"Very droll, Gordon. Nearly as entertaining as watching you all descend into pathetic shadows of yourselves. I'm right, aren't I, Boys? You thought you'd lost everything when your father died, didn't you? And I'm not only talking about the vast fortune that you'd all assumed was yours. You've no idea how much fun I've had watching you all squirm. You should have seen them, Jeff, grieving for the father that I knew wasn't dead. It was quite touching."

"You're the one who's touched," Alan growled.

"They thought you were for a time, didn't they, Alan? They all believed that there was no way that your father could be alive. They thought that you had lost your mind; either from grief or the blow to your head." Brett thought for a moment. "What a shame Miles didn't hit you harder..."

"Why you...!" Scott had taken two steps forward before he was restrained by Virgil and John.

Brett laughed. "You'd like to hit me, wouldn't you, Scott. But I don't think that would be a good idea..."

"Sounds like a brilliant idea to me," Scott growled.

"And disappoint your father? I thought it was International Rescue's creed to help people, not harm them... What happened to that nice little boy I used to know?"

"Maybe that 'nice little boy' died when you pretended to kill his father!" Scott glared at Brett.

"Don't give him the satisfaction, Scott," Jeff said quietly.

Scott shook himself free of his brothers' grasp. He turned and walked away.

"Still under Daddy's thumb are we?" Brett jeered.

Scott turned back. "No. But I respect him as my father, a man, and my friend. Has anyone respected you in that way?"

Brett was silent.

"No," Scott said. "I thought not." He retreated so he was standing behind Jeff and placed a hand on his father's shoulder.

Brett attempted to regain his bravado. "Such loyalty...! You must be so proud of them all, Jeff. And of course you yourself would feel the compulsion to protect them too. Would you believe that that idiot Miles thought that you were gay? What he saw, when you were comforting Alan, was some pervert trying to take advantage of a vulnerable member of International Rescue. What he didn't realise that your actions were much more innocent... but much more damaging. He didn't imagine that it could have been a father protecting his son." He sneered. "I haven't enlightened him... yet..."

"Did you enjoy dealing with murderers?" John asked. "You're an accessory. Do you realise that?"

"Murder? I can't be blamed for your father's death; because he's not dead."

"I wasn't talking about that. I'm talking about all those people who died when the jet crashed. The authorities are going to regard that as murder: pure and simple."

For a brief moment a crack appeared in Brett's brash veneer. "That was unfortunate and unplanned for. The plane was supposed to crash into the Pacific Ocean. I am sorry."

"Try telling that to those who were injured," Gordon said. "At your trial, try telling the families of those that died."

"Trial? My dear, Gordon, what makes you think I'll be going to trial?"

"The fact that we've got you cornered," Gordon said triumphantly. "There're more of us."

"Physically you may hold an advantage," Brett agreed. "But I hold the upper hand."

"How?" Alan asked. He tightened his grip on his father who appeared to be getting heavier.

Brett's face creased into a leer. "What do you think the public will be more excited about? The great Jeff Tracy," he gave an ironic bow in Jeff's direction, "rising from the dead, or... the discovery of the true identities of the heroes of International Rescue?"

For the first time the Tracys seemed uneasy with the situation.

"So you're adding bribery to your list of criminal activities, are you?" Virgil asked.

"Bribery? Such an ugly word, Virgil. I would prefer to think of this being a transaction between gentlemen... and a lady," Brett added, nodding towards Lady Penelope.

"No deal, Brett," Scott snarled.

"We'll tell the public you're lying," Gordon said stubbornly. "They're more likely to believe us than a murderer."

"Maybe," Brett agreed. "But the seed will have been planted. From that moment on the world will be watching you. How will you like living your lives under the microscope? Will International Rescue be able to continue?"

"You're a hypocrite," Virgil snapped. "You go on about not wanting to hurt anyone, and then in the next breath you threaten to put International Rescue out of existence."

"Not that some sleazy crook's going to stop us," John asserted.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Now, I'm not asking for much, Jeff. An annual pension of several million dollars for the rest of my life should do it. Indexed to inflation of course. We'll start a couple of million up front, that'll solve my immediate problem, and then we can work out the details later."

"You're sick," John said.

"Yes I am. I'm sick of being a nobody and having nothing. I was sick of having a wife that didn't love me and a son that didn't care..."

"And who was willing to turn his own father over to the police?" Lady Penelope queried.

"What is she?" Brett asked again. When no one answered he continued his monologue. "I was sick of my state of affairs and the way that others flaunted theirs..."

"Meaning me?" Jeff asked.

"Yes you!" Brett spat. "You, and your money, and your perfect family. I was only good enough for preparing your will, while you left all your major transactions to those big city lawyers. Rubbing my nose in these bequests that were going to go to all sorts of 'worthy' causes, while I was struggling to have two cents to rub together."

"'E loves 'is clichays, don't 'e," Parker whispered to Virgil.

"So you ripped off those who had even less than you," Lady Penelope accused Brett.

"Serves them right; stupid trusting fools," Brett snapped. He took a breath. "Once in a while, I'd be cruising along, quite pleased with myself, thinking that life wasn't too bad, and then I'd pick up a paper and read that Jeff Tracy had set foot onto the moon; Jeff Tracy was running a successful business; Jeff Tracy was a billionaire. And not only Jeff Tracy: I had to deal with five miniatures as well; winning car races, Olympic golds, art awards, discovering stars, being awarded military honours... But there was one day, one glorious day when I picked up the paper and I saw something wonderful! And do you know what that was, Jeff? Do you?!"

Jeff Tracy said nothing.

"I saw your perfect life unravel. I saw your world fall apart! And it was the happiest day of my life! It was the day your precious wife was killed! I danced, Jeff. I sang! I laughed at your misery. And when you came in to hear Lucille's will, I was so proud of myself. I'm so sorry, Jeff. It's a tragic loss, Jeff. Please accept my sincere condolences, Jeff. It was my greatest acting triumph!"

The Tracys' mood changed. Gordon and Alan felt Jeff regain some of his strength as anger surged through his system. Scott clenched his fists tightly and ordered himself to keep calm. John's scarlet flush didn't quite reach his ears; though it came close. Virgil heard someone count to ten and realised that the voice was in his own mind. Gordon could almost feel his blood pressure rising and Alan was fighting a battle with his temper. Only their father's weight about their shoulders stopped the two youngest from striking at the taunting man. Lady Penelope and Parker noticed the change in their friends and readied themselves for action.

There was an air of hatred in the fire station.

Somehow Brett appeared to be unaware of it. "So... Back to our contract. I've told you my terms, Jeff. In return I won't tell a soul the identity of International Rescue. Deny me and I'll stand on the steps of the court house and hold a press conference. I will tell the world!" he crowed. "Is it a deal?" He rubbed his hands together. "I can't wait to see your fabulous Thunderbirds."

Everyone waited for International Rescue's commander to make his decision.

Jeff Tracy didn't take long. "We won't be held to ransom by a criminal," he stated. "Hand him over to the police, Penny. We'll take our chances."

"Here," Scott withdrew his gun from its holster and handed it to the aristocrat. "If he tries anything, don't be afraid to use it."

"It would give me great pleasure, Dear Boy." She took the gun and pointed it at Mousetopheles. Brett couldn't help but notice how comfortably it sat in her hand.

"What are you?" he asked again.

"Ta, Mister John," Parker accepted John's weapon.

"There's a storage locker at the back of the Duck," Virgil said. "We can lock him in there until we hand him over to the police."

"Good idea, Virgil," Scott said. "Say, Penny, you didn't have anything to do with those three guys I found unconscious on the road, did you?"

"Parker and I had dealings with them, yes."

"Was this Miles guy one of them?"

"He was the largest of the three," Lady Penelope confirmed.

"H-And the ugliest," Parker added.

"I don't feel so bad now," Scott remembered. "I had to take him back to the evacuation area in one of Thunderbird One's lockers. It's only fair that Brett should suffer the same fate. Show Penny where it is, will you, Virg?"

Gordon felt Jeff lean against him. "Scott!" he hissed.

"You can't do this to me!" Brett objected. "I am the key to your future security!" He was still complaining as he was lead at gun-point into the Duck.

"John!" Scott commanded. "Get the stretcher!"

"I - don't need - a stretcher," Jeff protested; but he made no complaint as he was assisted onto it.

Scott leant over him. "Are you okay?"

Jeff grasped his eldest's hand and gave it a warm squeeze. "I'm fine."

Virgil glared at Brett as he held open the door to the locker. "Inside!" he ordered.

"Virgil..." Brett was about to protest again when he felt Lady Penelope's gun press into his back. Miserably he did as he was instructed.

"Think h-of h-it h-as a taste h-of what's to come," Parker suggested. "H-I h-always found h-it best to not think h-about the world h-outside. Much better to take each day h-at h-a time." He grinned. "H-If you run h-into h-a chap called 'Yorkie' Entwhistle, tell 'im 'Nosey' sends 'is best."

Brett stared at him. "Who are you two?"

"Here," Virgil picked up a bucket and threw it at the dejected man. "You'll need that. Use it or else you'll be the one cleaning up."

"But..." The door was slammed in Brett's face. He heard the lock snip home. "You can't do this to me! I'm an American citizen!"

"H-And we're H-English," Parker taunted. "H-It's nice to 'ave pride in where you come from, innit?"

Lady Penelope ignored their hostage's rantings and looked at the gun in her hand. "This is the knockout cartridge, isn't it?"

"Yes," Virgil confirmed.

"Pity."

"Where's FAB1, Parker?" Virgil asked.

"We left h-it down the road. H-I 'ope h-it 'asn't floated h-away."

"FAB1?" Virgil exclaimed. "She must weight three ton! We'll drop you off there and you can drive her up to Thunderbird Two. She should fit into the pod easily."

"Thank you, Mister Virgil."

"But I'll warn you both, the Duck's not as well appointed as the Rolls Royce. This won't be a comfortable trip." Virgil looked grimly at the locked door. "I'll make sure of that."

"Thank you for your concern, Virgil," Lady Penelope said. "We shall be quite all right."

"Well, make sure you're buckled up," he warned and headed back to the Duck's driving seat.

The others had got Jeff safely strapped into one of the first aid bays. "You're going to have the most comfortable ride of all of us," Gordon grinned at his father. "Want to swap places?"

"Why?" Jeff's eyes were growing heavy. "I thought you had a cast iron stomach?"

Scott looked down on his father and found the idea of ever leaving him again unpalatable. "How'd you like the pleasure of flying Thunderbird One home, John?"

"So you can sit here with Dad? No, thanks, Scott."

"How about you, Alan? You're always at me to give you more time in her."

"Not this time."

"Uh..." Scott turned his attention to Gordon.

The look on his brother's face said it all.

Scott sighed. "I suppose it won't be long before I'll be heading up to Thunderbird Five, so I suppose I'd better get used to not being around him." He pulled John away from the first aid bay so they could talk freely. "I want you to be the liaison with the authorities. Once they know that Jeff Tracy's still alive we might get a visit from the police top brass and I could be recognised as Scott Tracy."

"Okay, Scott. I can handle that."

Scott grinned. "If you were able to fool 'one of the greatest actors that ever lived', you should be able to."

John returned his brother's grin with a bow. "I would like to thank the academy and my family... I'll go call the police and the hospital now."

"Thanks, John."

After a quick check on his father, John braced himself against the Duck's ungainly movement as he headed up to the communications area. "I'm going to call the authorities, Virgil," he whispered.

"Okay," Virgil replied. "How is he?"

"Sound asleep. He dropped off almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. It must be the first time he's been able to relax in days."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"I'll say," John glanced back down the Duck to where his brothers were huddling around the stretcher. "It's like a miracle," he said as he activated the radio.

"International Rescue! Thank heavens!" an anxious voice on the other end of the radio said. "We were beginning to get worried about you."

"We're all fine and we've got some extra passengers..." John paused a moment as he thought how to phrase the next bit. "You're not going to believe this, but we've got a man on board who says he's Jeff Tracy, the billionaire."

"Huh?" The local's response confirmed John's assessment. "But he died in a plane crash."

"We thought so too. We were the ones who found his plane's registration number. But, the odd thing is, we think he's telling the truth."

"What!"

"We've got another man who, along with those three men we picked up in Thunderbird One earlier, we believe was involved in the plot to kidnap Mr Tracy."

"You're kidding me!"

"I'm not," John confirmed. "Mr Tracy's injured so we'll head straight to the hospital. Can you have the police meet us there to take this other man into custody?"

"Uh, sure. How badly is 'Mr Tracy' hurt?"

"Extensive bruising and minor cuts, plus one fairly major gash to his lower right leg, just above the ankle. He says he did that when he was kidnapped."

"Okay. I'll let the appropriate authorities know. Thank you."

"No, thank you," John said. "International Rescue out."

A short time later Virgil stopped the Duck and beckoned Parker down to the front. "I think FAB1's out there somewhere."

Parker pushed the button on his keychain and the Rolls Royce's interior was illuminated as one of the gull-wing doors swung upwards.

"It's like a musical box opening up... you almost expect to see the ballerina," Virgil commented as he watched the display "I'm half expecting to hear 'Music Box Dancer'."

"H-I would prefer 'Fir Elsie'," Parker responded.

"'Fir Elsie'?" Virgil repeated. "Oh... Fur... I know what you mean... Are you okay following us?"

"Should be, Sir."

"Good. Sing out if you have any problems." Virgil waited until the chauffeur was safely ensconced in the car's driver's seat, before he set the Duck waddling forward again. Using the reversing camera and monitor, Parker followed, steering FAB1 backwards along the muddy, debris-strewn road towards Thunderbird Two.

The Duck was inside the pod when Scott made his next decision. "I want you three to make sure that the Duck is locked down, and help Parker with FAB1. Virgil and I will take Father up to the sickbay."

"Why us?" Alan protested. "Why don't you? We want to stay too, you know!"

"Because we'll be able to stay with Dad later," John reminded him. "They will have to fly the Thunderbirds home... Unless you want to fly Thunderbird One?"

"Come on, Alan," Gordon said. "The sooner we get it sorted the sooner we can get back to him."

Carefully carrying the stretcher between them, Scott and Virgil made their way to the sickbay and made sure their father was comfortable. Then they prepared the room for the trip to the hospital.

Scott glanced at the figure on the bed. "Hello, Sleeping Beauty's woken up!"

Jeff was looking between his two sons, a wry expression on his face. "Have you been stealing Scott's meals, Virgil?"

His sons reddened slightly. "You should have seen us a couple of days ago," Scott admitted. "Not eating, over-eating, not talking... We were a mess. You don't know how important you are to us all."

"I thought I'd brought you all up to be independent."

"And so you did," Virgil told him. "But you are important in our lives too. You're our lynch pin, our lodestar... Our father... We needed to know that you were there and when you weren't..."

"Like everything else, we fell apart," Scott finished.

Holding her gun, Lady Penelope pulled open the locker door.

Brett was sitting on the floor, hugging the empty bucket, but looking rather green. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing at the moment," she replied. "But the police have been alerted. They will be waiting for you."

"I mean what I said. I will hold a press conference. I will say that Jeff Tracy is the head of International Rescue! I will..."

Lady Penelope shut the locker door.

There was a knock on the sickbay door and Gordon entered. "We're done."

"We've left Brett in the Duck," Alan added. "No need for him to see any more than he already has."

"Penny and Parker will keep an eye on him until we turn him over to the police," John explained. "They'll stay hidden in Thunderbird Two until we can drop them off somewhere near FAB4."

"Sounds reasonable," Scott agreed. "Let's get moving, Virgil."

Virgil cast a wistful look his father's way. "Okay," he sighed.

"I'll come with you," Scott followed him out the door.

"You don't have to," Virgil said as they walked along Thunderbird Two's corridors towards the flight deck. "You can stay with him if you want."

"It's okay," Scott said. "I don't mind. Once we're home I don't plan to let him out of my sight for a long time." He noticed that Virgil didn't seem to be quite as upbeat as expected. "What's wrong?"

"I keep thinking how close we came to losing him for real. He could have been trapped in any of those submerged buildings during the flood... Or he could have been swept downstream by the floodwaters... Or we could have found him as we did and he could have serious injuries or been drowned or worse. I mean, I know how strong that river was! I was fighting it all the time I was piloting the Duck..."

"Whoa! Calm down, Virg!" Scott stopped so that he was standing in front of his brother. "Hey! Those aren't tears I can see are they, big guy?"

Virgil wiped his eyes and gave a sniff. "No."

"Oh." Scott gave an ironic grin. "That's a shame. I was hoping that I wasn't the only cry-baby in the team. You might at least have given me the opportunity to let you soak my shoulder this time."

Virgil managed a chuckle. "Maybe later."

"So why all the doom and gloom? He's okay?"

"I am happy really. I think it's just hit me all of a sudden; all the stresses of the last few days. Not knowing... I'm fine."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"To be perfectly honest, I'm feeling the total opposite," Scott admitted. "I feel as if the world's been lifted off my shoulders." His face lit up. "I want to dance! I want to sing...!"

"Please don't," Virgil begged. "Then I'd really have something to cry about."

Scott laughed. "I want to get on the radio and let the whole planet know that my father is alive! I want to shout it to the heavens! I want to..." He leapt into the air with a shout of pure joy and bounded down the hallway.

Laughing, Virgil followed him to the flight deck where he settled into the pilot's seat. "Virgil to the Duck. Are you both strapped in, Penny?"

"F. A. B, Virgil. Parker and I are quite comfortable."

"Good. Virgil to sickbay. Ready for take off?"

"We're all set, Virg," John responded. "Next stop Nevada State Hospital?"

"F-A-B."

"I don't need the hospital," Jeff protested. "I'm fine really. I've only got a few scratches and bruises."

"If nothing else, you are going to get that leg seen to," Gordon told him. "That cut's bigger than a scratch."

"And how about the police?" Alan asked. "They are going to want a statement. It's going to look a bit odd if Jeff Tracy doesn't try to do all he can to obtain a conviction of the men who kidnapped him."

"And instead flies off into the sunrise with International Rescue," John added. "We've got to maintain the illusion that you don't know us. And you want Brett and the others to pay for what they've put us all through, don't you?"

"At least get the doctor to give you the once over," Gordon insisted. "We'll try and swing it that you can come home with us."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "You're going to get an ear bashing from Grandma if you turn up in that state with an injured leg and haven't seen a doctor. And think of what she'll say to us! The last few days have been hard enough as it is!"

"All right, all right," Jeff said grudgingly. "But I don't want Grandma to see me like this. I'll need clean clothes when I leave the hospital so I'll give Madge a ring and get her to send some over. Can you get me the phone, Gordon?" He accepted the instrument, ensured that it was set to 'sound only', and dialled a number.

"Le Tonnerre," a female voice said.

"May I speak to Madge D'Aqua, please," Jeff requested.

"Certainly, Sir. One moment."

"Madge D'Aqua speaking."

"Madge, it's Jeff Tracy."

"I'm sorry, Sir. Whom did you say?"

"Jeff Tracy. I want to order a complete..."

"Who?"

"Jeff Tracy. I need some new clothes, Madge..."

"Jeff Tracy?"

"... these are past their best. Can you arrange a complete change for me and charge it to my account?"

"Jeff Tracy's account?"

"Yes, Madge."

"I'm afraid that account has been closed."

"Closed! But I've only been dead a week! Madge, please... Madge?" The video screen read 'call ended'. Jeff looked at his sons. "She didn't believe me."

Gordon chuckled. "You're surprised? Here, let me." He took the videophone from his father. "We'll pretend that those nice people from International Rescue let you phone home from one of their fabulous Thunderbirds." He dialled the number of Le Tonnerre and asked to speak to Madge D'Aqua when the receptionist answered.

Madge came on the line. "Madge D'Aqua, speaking."

"Madge, hi. It's Gordon Tracy. Look, you're not going to believe this, but Dad's alive. He's just called us from one of International Rescue's craft..."

"Gordon?"

"He needs a change of clothes..."

"Gordon!"

"Can you arrange to send them...?"

"Gordon Tracy. I'm ashamed of you! This is quite possibly the most insensitive joke you've ever played!"

"Joke? Madge, no, listen..."

"If your brothers knew you were doing this..."

"But I'm not..."

"And what about your poor old grandmother. She'd be mortified."

"Madge..."

"Goodbye, Gordon!"

Gordon stared at the screen of the videophone which again read, 'call ended'. "She didn't believe me!"

Alan laughed. "Here. Let me do it..." He reached out to take the phone from Gordon.

"Hold on, Alan. Maybe I should call her," John suggested.

Alan pouted. "Why?"

"Let me explain in two words. 'Feral animal'."

"Oh," Alan said. "Point taken." He handed the phone to his older brother.

John dialled the number and managed to get past the receptionist. "It's John Tracy, Madge."

Madge D'Aqua sounded bemused. "John?"

"Look, this'll all become clear later, but could you please parcel up a change of clothes in Dad's size and style and charge it to my account?"

"You want me to... In your father's size?"

"Yes, please. Send them to the Nevada State Hospital."

"Very well. Nevada - State - Hospital," Madge enunciated as she wrote the address down. "And who should I say it's for?"

"Ah... Je... No, make it 'J. Tracy'."

"'J. Tracy'. Is there anything else, John?"

"No, thanks, Madge. Just make sure you put it on my account. We'll explain what this is all about later."

"Very well, John. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, Madge." John hung up the phone.

"Phew!" Gordon mimed wiping his brow. "That was a marathon."

"I wonder what other accounts I'll have to reopen," Jeff mused.

"Probably all of them," Alan said cheerfully. "Your death was widely reported."

"I know. They showed me the papers." Jeff reached into his pocket and withdrew a sodden obituary. "Thanks for the kind words, Boys."

"We won't say any time," John said.

They heard Virgil's voice. "We're coming in to land."

The local authorities were on hand to receive their charges. John wheeled his father out of Thunderbird Two in a wheelchair.

Jeff was greeted by a medical crew and a sceptical policeman. "Can you tell me your name, Sir?"

"Jefferson Tracy."

"Jefferson Tracy," the officer repeated. "And your address?"

"Tracy Island, South Pacific Ocean."

"Date of birth?"

"Second January 2009. And before you ask, my date of death was not a week ago, despite reports. I wasn't on that jet."

"Excuse me, Officer," one of the doctors said. "We'd like to examine 'Mr Tracy'. You can continue your questions afterwards."

"Very well," the policeman took a step back.

John took the opportunity to step forwards. "Excuse me, Mr Tracy," he said. "But Tracy Island sounds like it is a long way away."

"It is," Jeff agreed.

"If it is all right with you, Sir, International Rescue would consider it an honour to escort you home."

Jeff managed to suppress a smile. "I wouldn't like to put you and your fine organisation out," he replied. "I might be here for some time."

"It would be an honour to reacquaint Jeff Tracy with his family," John explained. "We have to collect our equipment and offload a few items first, so we will return here once we have completed those chores." He turned to the policeman. "One of our operatives claimed that he saw Mr Tracy during a rescue a few days ago. Naturally we didn't believe him. If we had, Mr Tracy would have been home by now. This is our way of making amends."

"Very commendable," the policeman agreed. "I believe that you are holding one of the men accused of 'Mr Tracy's' kidnapping."

"We are. Do you want to take him into custody now?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Sir."

John led him over to Thunderbird Two. Angus Brett was led outside by Virgil and Alan, both wearing sunglasses and their hats as a minor form of disguise. They escaped back into the aeroplane as soon as they'd handed over their charge.

"They locked me in a locker!" Mousetopheles complained.

"Indeed, Sir," the policeman sounded uninterested as wrote in his notebook.

"I am a lawyer! I know my rights!"

"And what is your name, Sir?"

"Angus Brett. I demand that..."

"Perhaps you and I could continue this discussion in there?" the policeman indicated the hospital. "Then we can let these gentlemen get on with their business."

"Thank you, Officer," John said. "If you'll excuse me." He shot Brett a triumphant look as he re-entered Thunderbird Two.

A short time later the mighty transporter was heading for the skies. Everyone was in the pilot's cabin.

"Did Father kick up a fuss?" Scott asked John.

"Went like a lamb," John replied. "I told them that we'd take him home to make up for the fact that we hadn't believed that one of our operatives had seen him a few days ago." He ruffled Alan's hair. "Sorry, Bro."

Alan scowled and smoothed his hair back into place. "'S'all right," he muttered.

"First stop to drop Penny and Parker off?" Virgil asked.

"If you wouldn't mind," Lady Penelope said. "You were right. The Duck wasn't the most comfortable vehicle to travel in."

"Would you mind doing us a favour, Penny?" Scott asked. "Would you be willing to pick Brains up and bring him home?"

"It would be a pleasure, Dear Boy," she smiled. "I am willing to do anything to reunite the Tracy family."

19 Nineteen: Reunion

Jeff Tracy had submitted to a full examination, identity tests, and interviews by Chief-Superintendent Gubb and David Campbell. The Chief-Superintendent had informed him that attempts to tell his family the good news had failed, since the phones were still disconnected, and he'd sent Scott an, as yet unread, email informing him of his father's condition and requesting an immediate phone call. Jeff had suppressed a chuckle. The Chief-Super had been wasting his time, the Tracy sons had known long before he had.

Jeff was sitting on a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, when he heard familiar twin thunderous roars moments before a nurse bustled into his room. "Parcel for you, Mr Tracy," she said cheerfully. "It's from..." she read the label, "Le Ton-airy."

"Ah. This'll be my new clothes," Jeff remarked as he started unwrapping the parcel. "Madge did well getting them here so soon."

"New clothes?" the nurse looked doubtful at the news.

"Would you mind pulling the curtains across?" he asked.

"Ah, of course, Sir." The nurse pulled the curtains around the bed and fled from the room. She was back a short time later, with the doctor who had examined Jeff.

"Mr Tracy! What do you think you are doing?"

Jeff looked at the doctor as he pulled off the hospital gown. "Getting dressed." He handed the gown to the nurse and noticed her looking at the letters on his neck chain. "My sons' initials," he explained. She blushed.

The doctor folded his arms and glared at the man pulling on a new shirt and tucking it into a new pair of trousers. "Mr Tracy! I have NOT discharged you! I would like to keep you in overnight for observation."

"And I, Doctor, would like to go home to my family." Jeff did up the buttons on his sleeves, "I haven't seen them in a week. They thought I was dead and I thought it was a matter of time before I would be."

"You may leave tomorrow."

"I am leaving now!" Jeff stood and grimaced as he tried to put his weight on his injured leg. "Do you want me to sign anything?"

"No. I want you to get back into that bed."

"International Rescue has offered to fly me home," Jeff leant on the back of a convenient chair. "I heard them arrive about ten minutes ago. I am not keeping them waiting any longer."

"Mr Tracy!"

"I have a doctor living on my island. Would you mind writing down any information that you consider he should be aware of. Now," Jeff pulled on a jacket, "I will admit that I am unsteady on this leg. Can I buy a pair of crutches?"

The doctor lifted his chin. "What with?"

Jeff's hand went to his back pocket, looking for the wallet that habitually lived there. Then he remembered that he hadn't seen the wallet in a week and realised that it was probably a charred fragment amongst the wreckage of his plane. "Darn."

"And who is going to pay for your other hospital bills?" the doctor asked.

Jeff frowned. "I wonder if all my bank accounts have been closed..." he mused. He looked back at the doctor. "Do you have a computer with an Internet connection I could use?"

"Are you determined to leave here now?"

"I am."

"Very well," the doctor said with the air of someone who had given up trying to talk sense into his patient. "Nurse, take Mr Tracy, in a wheelchair, to the patient's computer and get him a copy of his account."

"I don't need a wheelchair," Jeff protested. "Crutches will do."

"While you are on hospital premises I will not permit you to use that leg at all," he was informed. "If you are determined to go against medical advice then fine, be it on your own head, but I will do my best to care for you until I hand you over to International Rescue. I will prepare the necessary documents for your discharge."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Any sign of anything?" Scott asked John.

John, sitting inside the entrance hatch of Thunderbird Two, out of sight from the outside world but keeping a close watch on the hospital, shook his head. "No. Should I go inside and see if he's been released?"

His brothers were concealed even deeper in the craft, the lights dimmed to hide their presence. "I don't think they'll have much option. He'll discharge himself even if they don't agree," Alan noted.

"Give them another five minutes," Scott suggested. "You don't want to look too eager. He's not meant to be your father."

"The problem is that he is," John reminded him. "I want to take him home... and soon!"

"I suppose we should be radioing Grandma and telling her the good news." Virgil shifted in the shadows.

"She'll only fret if she knows he's in hospital," Gordon pointed out. "I think we should leave it until we get home. It would be better if she gets the news face-to-face; less of a shock for her."

"And you'll be able to see her expression when she sees him," Alan accused.

Gordon grinned. "Guilty."

"This feels disgusting." Scott looked at his mud soaked uniform. "I wonder if we've got time to get changed?"

"Odds on you'll just get started and he'll come out of the hospital demanding to know what's holding things up," Virgil told him.

"True." Scott rotated grimy shoulders. "It's no good. I have to go and change my shirt at least. Give me a yell if..."

"There he is!" John exclaimed. "Be right back." He was out the door at a gallop, remembering to slow down to a more sedate pace when he'd reached the edge of Thunderbird Two's shadow and had stepped into the glow of the hospital's lights. He trotted over to two men, one struggling to get out of a wheelchair, the other expressing his disapproval. A nurse hovered about in the background.

"Mr Tracy, for the last time, will you consider changing your mind?"

"For the last time. No!"

"Is everything all right?" John asked.

"Everything's fine," Jeff grunted.

"Mr Tracy is discharging himself against my advice," the doctor stated.

"Against your advice?" John frowned. "Should he be staying?"

"I'm all right!" Jeff protested. "This quack wants to keep me in overnight for observation." Even as John bit his lip to stop himself from admonishing his father, Jeff was apologising for his slip. "I'm sorry. I just want to go home." He held a hand out to John. "Help me up," he ordered.

John glanced at the doctor before grasping his father's arm. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Don't you start," Jeff growled.

"As Mr Tracy said, we want to keep him in for observation for 24 hours. He has been through a lot for a man of his age."

Jeff straightened and glared at the doctor. "I'm in good shape for 'my age'. Now, where's that discharge form?"

Clearly unhappy to be in this situation, the doctor held out a clipboard. Leaning on one crutch, Jeff scanned through the document and then signed it with a flourish. "You should frame that," he commented. "How many people get a man's signature after he's died? Sorry I couldn't pay what I owe; someone's frozen all my bank accounts. Send the bill care of Tracy Industries and I'll make sure that it's paid straight away... That's if my family haven't spent all of their inheritance." He gave John a meaningful look before he pointed with the other crutch towards Thunderbird Two. "I presume we're heading in that direction." He started hobbling.

John looked after his departing father and then back at the doctor who sighed and held out an envelope. "Give someone in Mr Tracy's family these notes. And try to make it someone with brains? Someone who will ensure that he follows instructions."

"I will. You can guarantee on that," John said.

"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes on this flight," the doctor commented.

"We can handle him," John smiled. "Our commander back at base is just the same. If any of us are sick or injured he can't do enough for us. But if he's ill then he takes it as a personal affront and is unbearable to live with." He looked back at his father in time to see him stumble. "I'd better go!" He jogged after Jeff. "You realise that he thinks you're a grumpy old billionaire," he hissed.

"So? I am a grumpy old billionaire." Jeff looked towards Thunderbird Two's entrance hatch, to where his other four sons huddled in the dark. "And tell your brothers to stop grinning like lunatics! They'll give the game away," he grumbled.

John grinned. "Yes, Sir."

"And that goes for you too."

"Yes, Sir."

The doctor watched as the man from International Rescue tried to help his former patient and was rebuked. "I know the people of International Rescue must be some of the bravest in the world," he said to the nurse. "But helping that man goes beyond the call of duty; I'd almost say that it is heading into the realms of foolhardiness."

Jeff passed through a guard of honour formed by his sons and into the cool interior of Thunderbird Two. "At last! I thought I'd never get here."

"What did the doctor say?" Scott asked.

"That he should be staying in hospital for 24 hours observation," John told him.

"What!" Alan exclaimed. "Dad...!"

"Dad nothing," Jeff growled. "I'm all right and I'm going home. There's nothing wrong with me that my own bed and your grandmother's cooking won't fix." He began hobbling in the direction of the flight deck.

Someone stepped in front of him, blocking his progress. "And where do you think you are going?" Virgil asked.

"I'm going to the pilot's cabin."

"Uh, uh," Virgil refused. "You are going to the sickbay."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Virgil! May I remind you that I am your father!"

"And may I remind you that I am the pilot of Thunderbird Two, and as such I have final say in where my passengers travel. And this 'bird doesn't leave the ground until I know that you are safely strapped in the bunk in the sickbay."

"Virgil!"

Virgil looked at his father with an unflinching gaze. "I'm not moving and neither's Thunderbird Two."

"Fine! If you won't listen to me as your father then you will have to listen to me as commander of International Rescue. And as commander of International Rescue I am ordering you to step to one side!"

"You've been AWOL for the last week and Scott has succeeded you. Currently your status is 'rescued victim' until we get you home. Right, Scott?"

"Right, Virgil," Scott agreed, standing at his brother's shoulder. "And all 'rescued victims' remain under the jurisdiction of International Rescue until they are handed over to the appropriate authorities. So, as a 'rescued victim' travelling in an International Rescue craft you must obey the said craft's pilot and/or the Rescue Co-ordinator. And we both insist that you go up to the sickbay!"

Jeff glared at the pair of them. Then he looked over his shoulder to where his three other sons were waiting. "I don't suppose there's any chance of a mutiny, is there?"

"None."

"Nope."

"Sorry."

Jeff sighed. "All right. I'll go sit in the blasted sickbay, but only because it's clear we'll be here all day if one of us doesn't make a move soon; NOT because I require medical care!"

"Understood," Scott grinned. He looked over his father's shoulder. "Do you three think you can handle our 'rescued victim'? The sooner we're out of here the sooner we'll all be home."

"We can handle him," John said with confidence.

"We'll knock his crutches out from under him if he makes a run for it," Gordon added.

"Is that your usual bedside manner, Gordon?" Jeff asked.

"Only for obstinate 'rescued victims'."

"Whatever you do, Scott," Alan warned. "Don't even think about getting home first and telling everyone. We all want to see their faces."

"Don't worry. I aim to be sticking close," Scott reassured him. "I'll meet you in Thunderbird Two's sickbay back on the island."

"Well, that concludes another successful day at the office," Lady Penelope said as she settled back in the Rolls Royce's seats. Then she looked at her attire. "Dear me. These clothes are quite ruined. Before we pick up Brains we must change. Keep an eye out for a suitable establishment, would you, Parker?"

"Yes, m'Lady."

"I wonder what happened to Mr Brett's briefcase. I should like the authorities to find it and the evidence that it contains." Lady Penelope sat in thought for a moment. "I would prefer it if the Tracys didn't learn what he had written in their file, but I suppose 'Mousetopheles' can't hurt them any more than he already has..." Her face clouded over. "Except for the folder about International Rescue. If he goes through with his threat and tries to expose Jeff and the boys, it could count against them."

"H-I wouldn't worry h-about that, m'Lady."

"No?" Lady Penelope looked at the back of her chauffeur's head in interest. "And why would that be?"

Parker reached up inside his uniform jacket and, trying to keep FAB1 on the straight and narrow with one hand, pulled out a soggy folder with the other. He handed it back over his shoulder to his mistress.

Gingerly, Lady Penelope pulled the wet pages apart. "Angus Brett's dossier on International Rescue... Where did you find this, Parker?"

"H-I swiped h-it h-out h-of 'is 'case when you was tryin' to get h-out h-of the door. H-I shoved the bag h-in the fridge. Should keep h-it nice h-and dry until the cops find h-it."

Lady Penelope smiled. "Well done, Parker.

Once he was airborne Scott opened the channel that connected Thunderbird One with Thunderbird Two. He grinned when he heard the strains of the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony, 'Ode to Joy', filter across the airwaves. He had no doubt that before long his brother would be singing along at the top of his voice. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic!" Virgil admitted. "I can't believe it. We've got Father on board and we're going home!"

Scott chuckled. "I know International Rescue are supposed to be miracle workers, but I wasn't aware that raising the dead was one of our skills."

Virgil laughed. "Do you think he's convinced them to let him get out of bed yet?"

"I'll bet he's been trying..."

"I don't need to stay on this bed," Jeff protested.

"Yes, you do," John told him. "I heard what that doctor said."

"He was only playing it safe to cover his own back," Jeff growled. "At least let me undo this safety harness and sit up... Or am I going to tell Virgil that you don't trust his flying skills?"

"That's a low blow, Dad," Alan rebuked him. "Wouldn't you rather sleep for a bit?"

"I'd sleep better if I wasn't tied down. I've been harnessed enough these last few days."

John sighed and undid the safety equipment. "How badly did they treat you?"

"It wasn't good," Jeff ignored the exasperated glares from his sons as he struggled into a sitting position. "But it wasn't bad either. Most of the time they left me alone. The food was edible, but the sleeping arrangements weren't the most comfortable I've ever experienced." He rubbed his face. "Why didn't I think to have a shave at the hospital? I don't suppose Thunderbird Two has spare shaving gear on board?"

"It's not considered standard lifesaving equipment," Gordon reminded him. "And you wouldn't want to use our personal stuff."

"With those scratches you might want to wait a couple of days," John recommended. "Give your face a chance to heal."

"We could zap them with a laser," Alan suggested. "Scott's always boasted that he could shave the fuzz off a peach. I'm sure he wouldn't mind having a go."

"He mightn't mind, but I would," Jeff growled and rubbed his face again. "What do I look like?"

"Like Santa Claus has had an argument with Rudolph and come out second best," Gordon grinned. "Here," he handed over a mirror.

"Is that me?" Jeff exclaimed. "I'm a mess!"

"From where I'm sitting," John leant back with a satisfied smile, "you look pretty good."

Brains sat in his motel room, his mind racing at the speed of a nuclear explosion, even though it was past the time when most people would have been asleep. He'd been in the process of being interviewed by the officials in charge of the accident investigation, when all of a sudden they'd been called away. He'd been dismissed with no explanation and a request that he inform someone if he was going to fly home to the island. He'd decided that he'd wait for daylight before making that trip, and had intended on getting a good nights sleep in the meantime. So far, that part of his plan had been foiled.

He jumped when the videophone in his unit rang. Forgetting that he was only clad in his pyjamas, he sat down at the phone and answered it. "Lady Penelope?"

"I hope I haven't woken you, Dear Boy."

"N-No. What can I do for you?"

"How soon can you be ready to return home?"

Brains made a quick calculation. "Uh, f-five minutes?"

"Good. We will meet you outside in ten. Wonderful news, Brains. We've found Jeff and he is alive and well."

"You've..." Brains stared at Lady Penelope's video image.

"Do hurry," she entreated. "I'm sure he is simply dying to see you." She paused. "Maybe that wasn't an exceptionally good way of phrasing that."

But Brains didn't care. "He's alive?"

"And is being transported home in one of the Thunderbirds. We will meet you in ten minutes. Au revoir, Brains."

Brains stared at the 'end of call' message. "He's alive..." he breathed. "He's alive! Yippee!" he yelled, not caring about his neighbours in the units adjourning. "He's alive!" He danced across to his suitcase and began throwing thing into it in a haphazard manner. "He's alive!"

A gentile toot of a horn had him running into the hotel lobby ten minutes later. He paid his bill and turned to find himself face-to-face with a smiling Lady Penelope. "He's alive?" he asked again.

Lady Penelope nodded. "Yes, Brains. I have spoken to him personally. Are you ready?"

Brains practically floated out of the hotel lobby and into FAB1.

Scott had remained at Thunderbird Two's side until they were close to Tracy Island; then he'd accelerated and returned Thunderbird One to her hangar. Once he'd exited his craft, instead of entering the lounge, he made his way to the hangar of International Rescue's workhorse. As soon as her engines had shut down he boarded Thunderbird Two and rode the lift up to the flight deck where he met up with Virgil.

Inside the sickbay, its occupants felt rather than heard the mighty motors of Thunderbird Two cut out.

Jeff sat up with a grimace and swung himself round so he was sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Hey!" Alan protested. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting up, Alan," Jeff told him.

"You can't," Gordon added. "Not yet."

"The doctor said you were to stay off that leg," John insisted. "We can carry you inside on..."

"I'm not going to be carried like a baby," Jeff growled. "When your grandmother sees me it's going to be standing on my own two feet."

"But...!" Alan began to protest again and was interrupted by the arrival of the two pilots.

Scott's smile left his face. "What's going on?"

"Dad says he's going to walk into the house," Gordon told him.

"What!" Virgil exclaimed. "No way!"

"Yes way," Jeff replied as he slid gingerly off the bed and balanced on his good leg. "I'll lean on you and Gordon."

"Why us?" Virgil asked.

"You're not as tall as your brothers."

Gordon folded his arms stubbornly. "And what if we refuse?"

Jeff stared at him. "Are you going to make me walk unaided?"

"No, we were planning on carrying you to your room on a stretcher."

"Or at least wheel you there in a wheelchair," John added.

"You can take me to the lounge, but I am going to walk there!"

None of his sons moved or said anything.

"I'd appreciate if you all remembered that, dead or alive, I am still your father. And as such I expect my orders to be obeyed."

Four of his sons looked at his eldest.

"What do you think, Scott?" Virgil asked. "He's still a 'rescued victim' under International Rescue's control, and besides, you're in charge at home when he's out of action."

Scott looked at his brothers and then at his father who had propped himself up against the bed. Then he looked back to his brothers again. "I think you and John had better go and prepare Grandma for the shock, Alan. Only don't let the cat out of the bag!"

"And us?" Gordon asked.

Scott sighed. "We'll do as he asks. I'll bring the wheelchair just in case."

"I don't need a wheelchair," Jeff growled.

"I'll bring the wheelchair," Scott reinforced. "And then," he pointed a finger in his father's direction, "you go straight to bed."

"I'm not one of your younger brothers, Scott. You can't order me about."

"Maybe so," Scott folded his arms. "But, as Virgil said, I'm in charge when you're out of action. And in my book you're out of action at the moment. Because of that they won't do anything except what I tell them too..."

"He'll have us on leash next," Gordon whispered to Alan.

Scott pretended to not hear him. "And they won't be taking you anywhere until you agree to go straight to bed after you've seen Grandma!"

Jeff tried to stand and felt the discomfort of the last few days take hold. "All right," he conceded as he relaxed back against the bunk. "Grandma will probably nag me into bed anyway."

Scott's grin returned. "Go on you two," he said to Alan and John, as Virgil and Gordon took up position on either side of their father and took his weight. Scott grabbed a wheelchair. "Don't be too proud to ask for this."

The two blonde Tracys decided that there was no need to hurry. They knew it would take some time for their father to reach the lounge.

"So, Alan," John asked, "how does it feel to be right and the rest of us wrong for a change?"

"The truth?" Alan smiled. "It feels pretty darn good... but not for the reasons you're implying."

"I can't believe it," John said. "I still can't believe that he's alive!"

"And that's with a clear head," Alan reminded him. "I had to deal with it through a whopping great headache and you guys telling me I was out of my mind."

"I feel really guilty about that, Alan," John admitted as they stopped outside the lounge. "We all do. I'm sorry."

"That's okay. I probably would have treated myself the same way." Alan looked at the lounge door. "How do we deal with this?"

"She's strong," John said. "Just get her to sit down until he arrives."

They entered the lounge.

"You're back are you?" Mrs Tracy said. "Was it a successful rescue?"

"Oh yes," John grinned. "It was successful beyond our wildest dreams."

Alan stepped forward and took his Grandmother by the hands. "Grandma, we'd like you to sit down."

"Sit down? Why?" She remained standing.

"Because we have something to show you that might be a shock."

"Is something wrong?" her elderly face creased in concern.

"No." Alan was beaming.

"Please sit down, Grandma." John indicated a nearby couch.

Mystified, she was about to comply, just as Scott entered the room wheeling the 'chair before him.

"Did you need it?" John asked him.

Scott shook his head. "No. Stubborn devil refuses to acknowledge that he hasn't got the strength..."

"Someone's been hurt again!" Grandma Tracy exclaimed. "Who? How?" She grasped Alan's arm.

"Calm down, Grandma," Alan soothed. "No one's hurt... Well, yes he is, but not badly. You'll just have to take him under your wing and make him rest. There's no way he'll listen to any of us."

"Alan?" his Grandmother looked at him; a quizzical expression on her face.

Scott held the door open and Gordon stepped sideways into the room supporting an obviously unwell...

"Jeff!" Mrs Tracy gasped.

He gave her a wry grin. "Hello, Mother."

She stood in a daze; Alan hovering behind her as if he was frightened that she was about to collapse. "Jeff? Is that you?"

"It's me."

"I'm seeing things!" She stepped closer.

"I can assure you that I'm not a ghost," he said, as they came to a halt.

"He's too heavy to be a ghost," Gordon grunted.

Grandma stepped up to her son, and gently raised a hand to his face. "I don't believe it," she said faintly. "I thought you were..."

"Dead? I'm not dead...." Jeff released his grip on Gordon and Virgil.

"Time for bed, Father," Scott instructed.

His grandmother didn't appear to hear him. One hand grasped her son's; the other was still on the side of Jeff's face, her thumb stroking his cheek as she looked at him in disbelief. "I don't believe it," she repeated. "It's a miracle."

"No it's not," he rebuked her gently. "It was a devious scheme by some very unpleasant men. And it's thanks to your grandsons, Lady Penelope and Parker that I'm here."

"Waiting to be helped to bed," John said. "Come on, Dad. You promised."

Jeff took his mother's hand - the one that was caressing his face - and kissed it lightly. "I've been ordered to bed, Mother. I think I'd better go before they get cross with me." He placed his arm back around Virgil's shoulders.

"Oh, Jeff!" Grandma pulled him close. "I've missed you so much!"

Jeff returned the hug. "And I've missed you," he murmured. "I love you, Ma."

She began to cry. "Jeff..."

"I'm okay... Don't cry... I'm okay, Ma..."

"I'm so glad you're home..."

"I'm glad too..."

"I can't believe it..."

"Shhh, Ma. I'm okay..."

"Jeff..."

"Don't cry Ma... please..."

Scott left the wheelchair by the wall and moved closer to the rest of his family. There he joined John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan as, just as they had up at Jefferson Lookout, they linked together in the unbreakable circle. Unbreakable and complete, with the nucleus of their world in the centre.

As he relaxed into his mother's familiar embrace, Jeff Tracy closed his eyes and tried to fight the sensation that was pricking his eyelids; but relief, joy, and sorrow for the distress that he'd caused to those who meant the most to him, conspired against him, and tears flowed down his cheeks. When he finally opened his eyes he realised that his five sons had fought a similar battle and lost.

Virgil saw Scott wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "This is becoming a habit."

Scott chuckled. "The smell of the monster cat overpowered me."

Grandma finally released her hold on her son and took a step backwards so she could look up at him. "What did those horrid men do to my little boy's handsome face?"

"These?" Jeff indicated the four-day-old bruises and tried to divert attention away from the emotion of the moment. "You will be proud to know I got these trying to protect your youngest grandson."

"Oh, Alan..." and Alan was surprised to find himself wrapped up in a firm hug. "I'm so sorry that I didn't believe you," his grandmother sobbed into his chest.

With her head digging into his windpipe, Alan was unable to respond with little more than a "glurg".

"I think he needs rescuing again," Jeff said. "Let him go, Mother."

"And then we can get you to bed, Dad," Gordon suggested, offering his arm as support.

Someone entered the lounge "Is everyone back?" Tin-Tin asked. "I thought I heard Thunderbird..." She stopped, not immediately recognising the unshaven man, wearing new clothes and surrounded by a sea of blue. She stared for a moment, confused as to why the Tracy boys were still in their uniforms when a stranger was in their midst.

"Hello, Tin-Tin," Jeff said.

"Mr Tracy!" Tin-Tin gave a little shriek of delight, ran to him, and hugged him tightly. Jeff felt the bruises he'd gained earlier that day complain at the treatment they were receiving.

Alan saw the grimace of pain on his father's face. "Careful, Tin-Tin. He's a bit fragile at the moment. He should be going to bed."

"I'm all right," Jeff growled.

Tin-Tin stood back and, eyes shining, looked up at Jeff. "I can't believe it! How are you? Are you hurt? Was Mr Brett involved? I'm so pleased to see you. What happened to you? Who was flying your jet? Where have you been? We thought you were dead. Who found you? Was it Lady Penelope? How did you get home? Did the boys bring you? Does Father know...?"

"Whoa," Jeff instructed. "The answers are: fine, no, yes, and then I lost track until the last one. No, your father doesn't know yet. Do you want to tell him?"

"Oh! Can I?!" Tin-Tin clapped her hands together and took a step away. Then she stepped back and kissed Jeff on the cheek. "This is wonderful!" She ran from the room.

Jeff chuckled. "I wouldn't mind being welcomed home like that every time."

"Come on, Father," Virgil put a supportive arm about his parent. "Let's get you to bed. Kyrano can say hello in your roo..."

There was a joyful exclamation from the room next door, followed by a torrent of Malaysian. Kyrano entered the lounge at speed, closely followed by Tin-Tin. "Mr Tracy! Is it you?"

"It is, Kyrano." Jeff held his hand out in greeting.

His smile threatening to split his face in two; Kyrano bowed to his employer and friend. Then he hesitated. 'Mr Tracy wishes to shake my hand. It is the Western way and it is right that I should do as he wishes.' He reached out to shake hands.

But he was too late. Jeff, thinking that Kyrano wished to maintain Eastern protocols, had put his arm back about Virgil's shoulders.

'No. This is how it should be.' Kyrano withdrew his hand and placed his palms together. 'Mr Tracy is my employer. This is right.' He bowed again.

Seeing that Kyrano had been about to shake hands Jeff had let go of Virgil and reached out again.

Kyrano straightened, saw his friend's outstretched hand and hesitated, confused as to what protocol he should follow. Then he gave up, ignored all accepted protocols and cultural traditions, and with a cry of joy, flung his arms about Jeff's neck. The embrace was so enthusiastic that Jeff was knocked backwards and would have fallen if Virgil and Gordon hadn't had hold of him.

"Steady on, Old Friend," Jeff gasped.

Kyrano remembered his place and bowed again. "I am sorry."

"I'm not," Jeff retorted. "I wasn't prepared, that's all. I'm glad to see you too."

Kyrano smiled again. "You are well?"

Jeff opened his mouth to speak but was beaten to the punch by Alan. "He's got a cut on his leg and he should be in bed."

"I'm all right, Alan." Jeff was beginning to get sick of the continuous references to his health.

"The doctor at your hospital told you to stay off that leg and I promised I'd make sure you'd do that," John reminded him.

"That doctor didn't know anything," Jeff growled.

"Then Brains can give you a second opinion when he gets home," Virgil said. "In the meantime it won't hurt you to go to bed."

"I'm not tired."

"You can't even stand by yourself," Gordon told him. "If Virgil and I were to let go you'd fall over."

"No I wouldn't."

Scott retrieved the wheelchair and positioned it behind his father, locking its wheels in place. "Here. Sit."

Jeff glared at him "I am not a dog."

"You're not well either. Now sit in the 'chair and we can take you to your room so you can go to bed."

Jeff had reached the end of his tether with all of his family and especially his eldest. "May I remind you, Son," and emphasis was placed on the word son, "that I am in my house now!"

Scott didn't bat an eyelid. "And may I remind you, Sir, that you are in the care of International Rescue until we pass you over to the appropriate authorities." He guided his Grandmother forward. "Meet the appropriate authorities."

Grandma scowled at her errant son. "Don't be an idiot, Jefferson, and sit in that wheelchair."

Jeff knew he was beaten. He glowered at Scott whose face held a trace of a smirk. "You haven't heard the last of this."

The smirk widened into a full grin. "I'm counting on that."

"Angus Benedict Brett, you have entered no plea. You will be extradited from the state of Nevada to Kansas where you will stand trial. You may stand down."

Brett stood tall, biding his time. He gazed impassively at the judge as the guard cuffed his hands. If Jeff Tracy was willing to risk all to see him get his day in court then he, Angus Brett, would make good on his threat to expose all. A small smile played about his lips as he imagined the crowd of reporters and photographers cramming the steps of the courthouse, waiting to see the man accused of being party to the audacious kidnapping of the multi-billionaire. They would be standing there in an expectant hush, Brett would be led outside by the police, and an excited babble would break out. Then he would stand on those steps and announce to the world that Jeff Tracy and his accursed sons were International Rescue! He imagined the reaction of the press: confusion, bewilderment, doubt, leading to a clamour of questions about how could he know this and what proof did he have?

Angus Brett smiled at the image of Jeff Tracy parrying phone call after phone call, deleting email after email, ignoring text after text, shredding fax after fax. He imagined International Rescue at work as people carried photos of the Tracy boys and tried to ascertain if these were the same men.

Angus Brett laughed at Jeff Tracy's gullible faith that these things would not happen. 'Soon you will really know suffering, Tracy,' he thought. 'Today will be as great a day as the day your lovely Lucille died."

"Inside!" the police officer barked.

Brett suddenly realised that he'd been caught up in his wild fantasies and hadn't noticed that he'd been taken to the underground car park of the courthouse. Ahead of him stood the open doors of the vehicle that was to transport him to Kansas. Disgruntled that, for the short term at least, his grand plans had been foiled, he climbed into the wagon. His handcuffs were removed before iron mesh and then solid doors closed behind him trapping him in a dark capsule.

Through a narrow window beyond the mesh he watched as they moved out of the city centre and onto the highway. The world sped by, unaware of who it was occupying this van bearing law enforcement logos. In the distance he could make out the bulk of a truck, probably one of those road trains. His nose twitched.

Brett tried to scratch his nose and found the action to be ineffective. He decided to try to ignore the irritant and looked out the dark rear window of the van again. The truck was closer now.

The itch was really beginning to annoy him so in the absence of his handkerchief, he rubbed his nose on his sleeve. This relieved the irritation somewhat and he resumed his inspection of the road behind him.

The truck was close and from this angle appeared to be as big as Thunderbird Two. 'Tailgater,' he thought. 'What would happen if we had to stop suddenly? That thing would squash us flat.'

The truck began to weave all over the road; its driver frantically tooting his horn. Brett's stomach dropped, his heart leapt into his mouth and all his other internal organs seemed to do flip-flops as it zoomed across the road again, narrowly missing the police van, whose driver was forced to take evasive action. The truck reversed its course...

Like a mouse frozen under the gaze of a predatory cat, Brett stared in fear as the truck headed straight for him...

The Tracys received the news from Superintendent Gubb.

"That's a lucky accident for International Rescue," Gordon said. "Mousetopheles' death has saved us a lot of worry."

"Do you think it was an accident?" his father asked from his bed.

"Why? Don't you?" Alan asked.

Jeff shook his head. "No. I think he knew too much about the people he was dealing with. I don't think Brett was into murder, but I dare say his associates wouldn't have had any problem with it... Is that the 'World Herald', Virgil?"

A printer had begun churning away and the evening edition of a broadsheet was spat out. Virgil picked up the paper. "Billionaire alive! Kidnapping suspect killed." he read. "International Rescue works another miracle." He laughed. "They must have been reading your mind, Scott."

"I know we're good," Scott said, "but we can't take the credit this time. It was a fluke that we happened to be called out to the right place at the right time. It's Penny and Parker who deserve all the credit."

"So, if Earl had Brett killed, what will he do to Miles and his associates?" John asked.

"I don't know," Jeff admitted. "I suppose it will depend on how they behave through the court systems. If they stay loyal he might get them a top legal team. If not..." he shrugged.

Scott's watch beeped. "Here's Brains. I'll go and talk him down." He stood. "And you..." he pointed at his father. "Don't you go anywhere."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," Jeff retorted. "Your grandmother's got these sheets tucked in so tightly that I can barely move. At least my kidnappers left me free to walk around my room."

"And you've done too much walking," she admonished. "You've got to let that leg heal."

"It's all right," he complained.

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Alan, go and get another blanket for your father."

"This is a tropical island and I'm not cold! Don't fuss, Mother!"

"I thought you were dead, Jeff. Of course I'm going to fuss!"

"Yeah," John agreed. "You can expect a lot of fussing until you get back on your feet."

The shocking pink aeroplane touched down and taxied to the end of the runway. Scott stepped forward to help lower the steps. "Hi, Brains," he grinned at the eager young man who was waiting impatiently inside.

"He's alive?"

"He's alive," Scott confirmed. "And he's looking forward to seeing you again. Go on, I'll bring your gear up." He watched Brains run across the tarmac towards the monocar.

"Now that's a happy man," Lady Penelope commented as she alighted from her aircraft.

"Isn't he," Scott grinned.

"I didn't mean Brains."

"Huh? Oh..." Scott looked bashful for a moment and then let the grin break out over his face again. "Yes, I am."

"How is Jeff?"

"He's grouchy, irritable, and refuses to do what he's told. In other words he's fine."

"And how is everyone else?"

"More than a little happy to put up with a grouchy, irritable, obstinate man. Do you want to walk up or take the monocar?"

"I would enjoy the walk to stretch my legs, but I'm sure Parker would prefer the monocar," Lady Penelope admitted.

"Indeed, Madam," Parker confirmed.

Scott helped load three lots of luggage into the second monocar. "There you go, Parker. Enjoy the trip."

"Ta, Mister Scott."

Scott turned back to the aristocrat. "Shall we walk, your Ladyship?"

"Indeed, Mr Tracy," Lady Penelope bowed her head in acknowledgement.

"As long as he's alive there's only one Mr Tracy," Scott said with pride as they began their walk. "We had a call from the police a short while ago. Angus Brett was killed when a truck and trailer unit lost its brakes and rear-ended the police wagon that was taking him to Kansas."

"Do the police think it was an accident?" Lady Penelope asked.

"They didn't say. Father has his doubts. And, as much as I hate to admit seeing some good in someone's death, at least he never had the opportunity to tell anyone International Rescue's identity."

"So your secret is safe?"

"Yep. It looks as though the only people who know are those who are supposed to know..." Scott winked at his companion. "You realise you could probably score a sizeable bonus out of Father for the detective work you've done on this."

"Now, Scott. Your father and I never discuss money..." she admitted. "However, I would not encourage you and your brothers to follow my example."

Scott was silent for a moment. "I know you're right, Penny. That was one area of interest or expertise none of us had..."

"So I gathered."

"I've never thought of any of us as 'spoilt brats'... I mean we've always worked hard to get anything or anywhere. We haven't relied on our father's money or on being... what did Brett call us?"

"'Five nauseatingly intelligent and gifted young men.'"

"That's a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one," Scott admitted. "But, as I was saying, we've always worked hard. You don't get into Harvard or Oxford because of who you are or who your parents are. You have to show aptitude and a willingness to work. But..." he paused, "I guess at the back of our minds there's always been the assumption that if any of us failed there was always a cushion for us to fall back on. And when we thought that cushion wasn't there..." he shook his head ruefully. "This last week has been an eye opener for all of us."

"Well, if you can get something positive out it then you can't call it a totally wasted experience," Lady Penelope told him.

"Something positive..." Scott mused. "The most positive thing I can think of is lying in his bed moaning because no one will let him get up..."

"...It was the most boring rescue we'd ever been on," John burbled happily. "We seemed to be hours sitting in Thunderbird Two doing absolutely nothing except vacuuming up this cloud of gas and waiting for Gordon and Alan to come out in the G-E-V with the two scientists. Maybe it was my state of mind, since we thought you were dead, but my heart just wasn't in the rescue. And with Scott snapping at Virgil over the slightest thing, things weren't very pleasant... He really had it in for you, didn't he, Virg? Just because you made him have something to eat! He annoyed Virgil that much that Virgil told me that he wanted to be the one to blow up Thunderbird One..."

"John," Virgil interrupted. "There's been times over the last few days when I thought I'd never get the opportunity to say this again, but... Will you be quiet?!"

"You wanted to blow up Thunderbird One?" Gordon asked, a look a wicked amusement on his face.

"You promised to keep that secret, John," Virgil grumbled.

"Uh, uh," John corrected. "THAT wasn't the secret I promise to keep."

"Then what was?" Alan asked; his face alive with curiosity.

"John...!" Virgil warned.

John tapped the side of his nose with a knowing grin.

"You can tell us later," Gordon said in a stage whisper.

"No he can't..."

There was the sound of running footsteps in the hallway. Brains burst into the room and raced over to the bed. "You're alive!"

"Hello, Brains," Jeff beamed and grasped the young man's hand. "Now I've seen you I've seen the whole family and now I KNOW I'm home."

Brains face lit up and he blushed slightly. "Y-Y-You look..."

"Terrible. I know." Jeff rubbed his whiskery face. "I'm going to shave as soon as I get the opportunity."

"N-N-No," Brains corrected. "I was going to s-say that you look great."

Jeff patted his hand affectionately. "I've got a job for you. Once things have settled down I want you to begin construction on another jet just like the one that crashed. That last one was brilliant to fly. In fact I'd say that I've never flown a better plane, with the possible exception of the Thunderbirds."

"Y-You mean it!?"

"Yes, I mean it. Except..." Jeff looked apologetic. "Would you mind if this time we changed the controls to those you suggested initially? I think I'd feel happier having something unique."

Brains nodded. "Of course. Not a problem."

There was a knock on the door as Scott entered. "Do you feel up to having a couple of guests?"

"Of course! As long as they don't mind seeing me confined to bed."

"We're just happy to see you, Jeff," Lady Penelope told him as she stepped over the threshold. "It's good to see the family complete again."

"It's good to be together again," Grandma said. "And I'd better start thinking about cooking dinner. Will you help me, Kyrano?"

Kyrano bowed. "It would be a pleasure, Mrs Tracy."

"You can have my seat, Lady Penelope," Tin-Tin offered. "I'll help with dinner."

"Thank you." Lady Penelope accepted the chair. She noticed that Virgil had a sketchpad in his hand. "And what are you creating?"

"I'm only sketching at the moment. Just getting a few ideas."

"Of what?"

"A wise man," Virgil winked at Alan, "said we needed a portrait of Father and I'm going to attempt one. I'm not guaranteeing that it'll be any good though."

"I'm sure you could think of better things to paint," Jeff complained.

"No," Virgil looked at his father, "I can't."

"I think it's an admirable idea," Lady Penelope said.

"Couldn't you at least wait until I'm out of bed and look more presentable?"

"I don't want to waste a moment," Virgil told him.

"Did Scott tell you about Angus Brett, Penny?" Jeff asked.

"Yes. I am glad that he won't be able to cause you any more trouble."

"Huh?" Parker asked. "What 'appened to 'im."

Gordon handed over the copy of the World Herald. "Mousetopheles was killed in a road accident. We think Earl had something to do with it."

"Wouldn' surprise me," Parker mused as he read the paper.

"I know this is going to sound uncharitable," Alan said. "But, after what he put us through, I would have loved for him to be trapped somewhere where only International Rescue could save him..."

"What would you have done then?" John asked.

"I would have left him! I would have let him suffer the way we suffered. I would have let him know that his actions had consequences further reaching than just our family."

Virgil looked up from his sketching. "Would you have eventually saved him?"

"Nope. I would have let him die."

"Alan!" Jeff rebuked him.

"Dad! He watched us grieving over you and laughed at as."

"I know..."

"He let us put up with all the enquiries and doubts and the nosy press and the authorities asking questions as they tried to prove that you'd caused all those deaths."

"I'm sure they were only doing their jobs," Jeff said.

"You've got no idea what I went through when I knew that you were alive and no one believed me! I thought I was going out of my mind!" Embarrassed looks passed between Alan's brothers. "He watched us rip ourselves and each other to shreds and enjoyed himself!"

"Alan?"

"Calm down, Alan," Scott said quietly. "We're not the only ones who have suffered."

Alan took a deep breath to try and get his temper back under control. "I know Dad's had a tough time, Scott, but so have we! He doesn't know how completely we fell apart when he wasn't here to keep us together."

Jeff looked at his youngest son. "It'll happen one day, Alan."

"Yeah, I know. But I always figured that it wouldn't be until you were really old."

Jeff tried to get comfortable and grimaced as his body complained. "Believe me, I'm feeling old at the moment."

"I'm sorry, Dad." Alan looked abashed. "I shouldn't have said all that."

"We'll forget about it. All that matters is that we're all together now. It won't take much for things to return to normal. Once I've checked that my finances are still in order and you haven't all spent your inheritances."

Scott stole a glance at Lady Penelope who was regarding the invalid fondly.

John laughed. "Well, Gordon. You said you'd give it all away to bring him back. Looks like you're going to have to."

"He's welcome to it. I don't want a multi-million dollar millstone about my neck."

Scott reached into his pocket and removed an object which he held out to his father. "I thought you might like these back."

With a questioning frown Jeff took the tiny velvet bag. He looked inside and his face lit up as he poured a band of gold onto his palm. "I thought I'd never see this again." He looked up at Lady Penelope. "Thank you."

"Thank Parker," she informed him. "He found it."

Jeff gave the butler a look of gratitude. "Thank you, Parker." He looked back at Lucille's ring. "You know, looking at this, I'm almost inclined to agree with you, Alan. What Brett said about your mother's death..." he closed his hand about the ring. "I never trusted that man."

Scott looked surprised. "You didn't? Then why did you stick with him?"

"Because when I first met him I was pretty green and I was his first client, so I figured that was why I had this uneasy feeling about him. I decided that he only needed someone to show some faith in him and he'd be okay."

"Why didn't you change lawyers later?" John asked.

"He was such a nondescript little man that I'd forget about him as soon as I walked out of his office. He never did me any wrong so I put down my concerns to being a hangover from that first meeting. I also thought that it was only a will so what damage could he do?" Jeff looked around his family. "Quite a lot apparently."

"Your ring's in the bag too," Gordon said. "You probably won't want to wear it though."

Jeff poured the second ring onto his hand so it was lying beside his wife's. "They must have pulled it off my finger when they knocked me out." He glanced up. "Can you clean it, Brains?"

Brains picked up the larger ring and looked at it closely. "I can c-clean it, but the structure of the metal has been weakened. I w-wouldn't recommend wearing it on your finger again."

"Could you mount it with Ma's?" Alan asked.

"I could give you the name of an excellent jeweller," Lady Penelope offered. "Perhaps he could suspend, ah, Lucille's ring within yours. Or you could melt them both down and make one new one."

"I'll think about it." Jeff slipped the rings back into their bag and clutched it tightly in his hand. "I'm sorry, everyone."

Virgil, and everyone else, looked surprised. "Sorry?"

"Sorry," Jeff repeated. "For all I put you through."

"That wasn't y-your fault," Brains reminded him. "Y-You were an innocent party."

"But if I'd gone with my gut instincts and had changed lawyers none of us would have had to go through what we've gone through. But I couldn't be bothered with the hassle." Jeff looked rueful. "I thought I'd let go of my lazy, selfish ways a long time ago. All through my life I'd always had someone I could rely on to do the hard work, while I cruised along. At first it was my parents, then the Air Force, and finally Lucille. I had the talent and aptitude, but not the drive to put any real effort into what I did. I was quite content to take the credit for others' hard work. That was until I suddenly had take responsibility for my life and the lives of five others..." He raised a wry eyebrow to Lady Penelope. "Does that surprise you?"

The expression on her face indicated that this was indeed the case.

"In fact," Jeff continued on, "in those early years I was that selfish that I frequently put myself before my family's interests." He looked at Scott. "There've been some instances that I've never forgiven myself for."

"Don't worry," Scott told him. "You were forgiven a long time ago."

"You must have been," Gordon said. "The four of us are still alive." He let out a yelp of pain when Scott punched him. He rubbed his arm. "That hurt!"

"We owe you a lot more than you owe us, Dad," John said.

"Starting with Alan paying you back for his car crash," Gordon said and received a twin bruise on the other arm from his younger brother. "I'm under attack! Hey, Virg, I could use your martial arts skills to help me out here."

Scott looked across the bed to Virgil. "Want me to?"

"Yes, please."

Scott hit Gordon again. The red-head didn't have a chance to react before he received another blow on the other arm. "Alan! What was that for?!"

"A warning on John's behalf."

"Thanks, Alan," John smirked.

"I hope Dad charges you interest," Gordon grumbled. "He should take it out of your salary."

Jeff's eyes twinkled. "Who's to say I'm not?"

Alan's head snapped around to the figure on the bed. "What!?" At his brothers' laughter he looked back at them. "How much do you guys get?"

"More than you by the sounds of it," John teased.

Alan pouted. "That's not fair. What do you earn, Scott?"

"None of your business."

"Come on. Tell me!"

"Nope."

"Is it more than me?"

"Probably. I get a supervisor's allowance."

"Super..." Alan shook his head. "Virgil, what do you get paid?"

"Danger money."

Alan goggled. "Danger money?"

"Uh, huh," Virgil nodded, grinning.

"And I get a cut of the profits from the underwater equipment I helped develop," Gordon stated.

Scott winked at Lady Penelope. "Who says we never discuss finances?"

Alan, astonished by what he was being told, had turned to his blonde brother. "John?"

"Yes, Alan?"

"What do you earn?"

"Enough to keep me happy."

"And how much is that?"

"A bit... plus an isolation allowance... for when I'm alone on Thunderbird Five."

"Isolation allowance! I don't get an isolation allowance," Alan whined. "Dad..."

"I see nothing's changed," Jeff sighed.

"And it's wonderful to see the family playing together again," Lady Penelope informed him.

Jeff decided that it was time to ignore his bantering sons. "So, Brains, tell us about your week..."

The room was in darkness. A door sneaked open, throwing a beam of light across the recumbent figure. Five silhouetted figures moved into the light.

"I can't believe it. Pinch me someone..."

"We've got our lodestar back..."

"It almost seems like a miracle..."

"This time last night I never dreamed he'd be here now..."

"It still seems like a dream..."

"Well, go to bed and dream it," a voice growled. "I'm trying to sleep."

There were some muttered 'sorrys', a hasty rustling at the door, and the sound of five bodies trying to exit the room at once.

Jeff Tracy chuckled and snuggled deeper into his own soft pillow in his own soft bed...

20 Twenty: Celebration

It was a week later when the stretch limousine glided between the rows of reporters and flashing camera bulbs and into the relative quiet of the cordoned off area. The automatic car door swung open and a man exited the vehicle, doing up the buttons on his expensive suit jacket. He pulled his hat lower over the sunglasses that concealed his eyes and straightened his tie before turning to a similarly clad man. "Is that you, Alan?"

"You know it is, Gordon."

"It's a bit hard to tell under these hats," Gordon confided. "I feel like a FBI bodyguard." He pretended to hold an earpiece in his ear and talked into an imaginary microphone hidden under his lapel. "This is GT calling AT. All clear this side." He made a sound like a burst of static.

Alan grinned and mimicked the noise and his brother's actions. "AT here. All clear. No sign of Mousetopheles..."

"Will you two be serious? You're making me nervous." John tried to get out of the limo. "And shift! You're in the way." He leant back inside the car. "Give me your cane. I'll hold it while you get out."

"I don't know why I need that thing anyway," Jeff grumbled as he climbed out of the limo.

John handed the cane, an ornate jet black affair with a bird of prey carved into the handle, back to his father. "Well, if you want to risk falling on your face in front of a hundred thousand people then fine, leave it in the car."

Jeff took the cane. "This is embarrassing." He rubbed at his face, feeling its smoothness after a recent shave.

"What, having to use a cane? It's not a permanent fixture," Gordon said. "Besides, it adds a touch of class. You could always entertain everyone with that ol' soft shoe shuffle."

"I don't mean using a cane. I mean having to sit on a stage and listen to all these people tell me what a great guy I'm supposed to be."

"When we know the truth," Alan grinned. He moved away from the door so Kyrano, dressed in his finest robes, could exit the car.

"Don't knock it," John advised. "How many people get to hear their own eulogies after they've died? There're a lot of people here who have come a long way just to honour you."

"Including most of Tracy Industries employees," Gordon pointed out.

"Who are only here so that they can have some time off work at my expense."

"Rubbish," John said succinctly. "And don't forget the World President's here too."

"Trying to score political points," Jeff growled.

Exiting through another door in the limousine, Virgil straightened and stared at the structure in front of him. "Oh, heck."

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, as he leant back in to help his grandmother out of the car.

"It's big."

"Of course it's big," Scott rejoined. "It's Tracy Stadium. You were here for the rehearsal this morning. What did you expect?"

"Something smaller."

"Something smaller? This concert is all your idea, remember?"

"Yeah, but I was envisaging performing in front of maybe 100 people. Not 100 thousand..." Virgil swallowed. "It's no good. I can't do this." He pushed Brains out of the way and attempted to climb back into the limousine.

"Virgil!" Grandma admonished.

Scott grabbed his younger brother by the collar and hauled him out of the car. "What's wrong with you?"

"I've been having these nightmares and they are so clear it's almost like some kind of premonition..."

"Such as?"

"Such as it's my turn to do my piece, I sit down at the piano, and it's out of tune!"

"I d-don't think you'll have to worry about that," Brains observed. "Miss Fordbury will s-see that the piano is tuned."

'Yeah," Scott agreed. "Pen will be checking and re-checking that everything's perfect. And it was okay at the rehearsal, wasn't it? Don't worry."

"But that's not the only dream," Virgil complained. "And each time they've got worse. I'd forgotten my music. Or else I'd forgotten how to play. I had one where Penny had got her hands on the piano and had painted it pink. I opened the lid and all the keys were different colours. In the next dream when I opened the lid there were no keys at all. In this morning's dream I was playing terribly and Parker stands up and says 'That's not how you play Fir Elsie...'"

"Fir Elsie?" Grandma asked.

"I think he meant 'F?r Elise'. Anyway he pushes me off the piano stool and plays it better than I ever could. Parker got a standing ovation and I spent a sleepless night."

"But you're not playing 'Fir Elsie' or 'F?r Elise', you're playing the 'Thunderbirds March'" Grandma reminded him. "It's your composition and if you play it wrong we're the only ones who will know. Don't worry about it."

"I can't," Virgil protested. "I can't go through with it..." He made a move towards the limo again.

Scott made an exasperated sound, tightened his grip on Virgil's collar and dragged him over to the rest of the family.

Alan was helping Tin-Tin out of the limousine. "What's wrong?"

"Stage fright." Scott let go of the collar and Virgil watched the limousine drive away, a wistful expression on what could be seen of his face under his disguise.

"Look what you've done to his suit, Scott." Grandma tried to brush the creases out of her grandson's jacket.

"Stage fright? Virgil?! I don't believe you," Gordon laughed. "Hey, Virg, would you be happier if we set fire to the stadium? Then you could risk your neck rescuing everyone."

Virgil brightened at the thought. "Yeah. I could handle that."

"You'll be all right, Virgil," Tin-Tin reassured him. "Once you're on stage you'll forget all your worries."

"Whose crazy idea was this, anyway?" Jeff asked.

Four hands pointed at Virgil, who looked as though he wanted to be sick. "I should have gone up to Five this morning like we'd originally planned."

Jeff sidled up to him. "There's a bar around the corner. How about the pair of us head over there until this fiasco is over?"

Virgil managed to grin at his father's scheme. "Sounds like a good idea... except for four things." He pointed to where a solid wall of Tracy muscle was glaring at them.

"Don't even think about it," Scott growled.