SECRETS AND LIES by JAIMI-SAM RATED FRT

International Rescue embarks on a difficult and hazardous ocean rescue mission – unaware that one of the people they save will prove to be a danger to their entire organization...

SEVENTEEN 

Sir Jeremy found Penelope outside, sheltering from the cold evening drizzle under Holcomb Hall's elegant Adam portico. He watched as she said goodbye to Qasim al Kahdir, laughing at something the tall, harsh-featured Arab said as he kissed the back of her hand. His dark eyes lifted briefly as he released her, resting their penetrating stare on Sir Jeremy for a moment. The Englishman suddenly found himself wondering who was the snake, and who the mongoose.

Then Kahdir was gone, and his driver was closing the door of the Mercedes. Moments later the limousine pulled away, looping around the traffic circle towards the main road out of the estate.

Sir Jeremy stepped forward. "Either you're a very good actress, my dear, or that chap turned out to be more interesting than you thought."

"I am a very good actress, as you well know," Penelope chuckled. "But yes, he is a most fascinating man."

"And an arms dealer," Sir Jeremy reminded her. "And a supplier of mercenary armies to other countries. Among several other distinctly nefarious occupations."

Penelope smiled thoughtfully, watching the limousine's tail lights disappear into the gathering dusk. "Pity, isn't it. I haven't had that much fun in ages."

The crunch of tires on gravel announced the arrival of FAB 1. Parker pulled the pink Rolls smoothly to a halt and got out to hold the door for Penelope, a sleek, soft reddish-brown coat in his hands. "H'I took the liberty of breakin' out your faux fox, milady. H'it's a bit nippy out."

"Thank you, Parker. That was most thoughtful of you." Penelope slipped her arms into the extremely expensive replica of a fox fur coat - she was adamantly opposed to wearing real fur, of course, but she didn't see why an imitation couldn't look and feel exactly like the real thing. She kissed Sir Jeremy goodbye on the cheek and turned to step inside the Rolls.

Sir Jeremy watched as she settled into the back seat, crossing her long elegant legs. "Be careful, my dear," he warned. "He may be fascinating...but he's also very dangerous."

Penelope nodded. "I won't take any chances, I promise."

"Why don't I believe you?" Sir Jeremy shook his head, then stood back and allowed Parker to close the door.

"Don't you go worryin' yourself, Sir Jeremy. 'Er Ladyship's in good 'ands."

Sir Jeremy smiled. "I'm counting on it, Parker."

As they curved around the turning circle and on to the road toward the main gates, Parker was already flipping switches on the dashboard to open up the hidden nerve center of FAB 1. Behind him the tempered glass partition slid up into place on the right side only, preparing to transmit data from the Rolls' sophisticated tracking equipment.

Parker watched from the corner of his eye as the display on the dashboard flickered from snow into a maze of broken, converging lines that slowly settled into a coherent grid. A small yellow light blinked slowly on and off, moving across the screen. "Target h'acquired, milady," he said with satisfaction.

"I see that, Parker. Well done." Penelope studied the echo of the tracking screen that was now displayed heads-up style on the glass of the partition. "Where do you think he's headed?"

Parker initiated the map overlay. "Looks like the motorway, milady."

"Ah, of course." She glanced out through the Rolls' discreetly tinted windows at the steady drizzle. "I do hope he's not going to take us too far afield. This weather makes one rather long for a nice quiet evening in front of a roaring fire, don't you think?"

Parker chuckled, trying to picture his intrepid employer choosing a safe seat by the fire over a night of action and intrigue. "Forgive me, milady, but h'I can't quite h'imagine that."

"One day," Penelope said. "One day, Parker. Mark my words. I'll turn into one of those eccentric, excessively well-traveled old ladies with more stories than anyone wants to hear. And then I'll sit in front of that fire and put brandy in my tea while I write my memoirs."

Parker cleared his throat. "Speakin' h'of the Duchess h'of Royston..."

Penelope's clear laugh rang out from the rear of the Rolls.

She liked to drive in the rain. Letting her head lean back against the headrest, she watched the Rolls' headlights glisten wetly on the drizzle-slick tarmac ahead. She touched her fingers to the window control in her arm rest, sliding down the bullet proof glass just enough so she could hear the hiss of the tires on the roadway. One thing she'd never really liked was how soundproof a luxury vehicle like this was...you might as well be floating in midair for all the contact you could feel with the ground.

A signpost appeared, swallowed up again in the gathering gloom as they swept by. 'Soft Verges.' Penelope smiled, remembering the game she and her father had played when they drove together, when she was small. He had always insisted that the signpost was announcing the approach of a real town called 'Soft Verges,' inhabited, he said, by a laid back, amiable sort of people...quite different from the rambunctious lot who lived in that other mysterious town, 'Loose Chippings.' Somehow, Penelope and her father never arrived at either one of those places, no matter how many times they passed the signs...but her father always just rolled his eyes and blamed short staffing at the Ministry of Transportation. Rather a lot of things slipping through the cracks these days, he'd say. Don't know what this country's coming to. But don't worry...when you grow up you'll be Queen Penelope of the Highways and Byways, and you can sort them all out. Sometimes he even managed to get through the entire speech without chuckling and giving himself away.

An old knife twisted quietly, deep inside her. Her father had been such a nice man, so warm, so full of fun...before they'd lost Stuart. Stuart, her reckless, clever, devil-may-care elder brother, so much like him in so many ways, so determinedly pursuing his dream of becoming the best rally driver on the planet. Stuart, killed so senselessly, so brutally, halfway through the Monte Carlo Rally in the worst crash that race had ever seen. Killed along with her fiancé, his best friend and co-driver in that race and many others before, Yves Rossini.

Penelope closed her eyes. It was the quiet times that were the worst. Especially when she could hear the sound of tires on the road.

"Now where's 'e goin'?" Parker said suddenly. "Timbuktu?"

Penelope glanced at the display. The yellow light, which had been proceeding steadily east toward the motorway, had veered sharply back on itself and was now headed north west. "Not the motorway after all, I'm presuming."

Parker shook his head. "Beats me. There's nothin' down that way but h'a bunch o' blinkin' cows. Not even h'a decent pub."

"And you would know," Penelope said, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. "Being a connoisseur of such things."

"Quite right, milady. Quite right. There's more to a good pub than a couple h'of window boxes wi' geraniums h'in 'em an' a 'alfway decent brew on tap. H'atmosphere, that's what h'it's all about. H'atmosphere."

"Well, one day, Parker, you shall have to open your own establishment and show us all how it's done."

"Quite, milady. H'I shall. Give us h'a real pub, not one of them yuppie joints where h'all they serve h'is Pimms 'an lager h'an lime."

The disdain in his voice was so pronounced that Penelope had to laugh.

They had reached the point now where the Mercedes had turned off the main road ahead of them - halfway through a tiny village, the weathered stone of the cottages the color of pale butter in FAB 1's headlights. The big Rolls made the turn smoothly, Parker keeping half an eye on the blinking tracer.

The new road was smaller and narrower, winding across the twilight countryside like an asphalt river between high hedged banks. There was only room for one car at a time, which explained the convenient laybys dotted along its length at random on either side. A road like this could be hazardous in daylight, with no glow of approaching headlights to give fair warning that a car was coming in the opposite direction, hidden beyond the crest of one of its frequent rises. Tonight, though, they encountered nothing at all but the softly falling rain.

"What the 'eck...?" Parker's voice called Penelope's attention back to the tracking display. The dot had stopped dead. It hesitated for a moment, then doubled back on itself, halted again, and then veered abruptly to the left.

Penelope leaned forward. "Perhaps a good, swift kick, Parker?"

"Very funny, milady," Parker grunted. He glanced back at the display, frowning. "I don't know what 'e's doin'. There's no turn-off where 'e is, not h'according to the map. That's not h'exactly a h'off road vehicle 'e's got there."

"Be careful, Parker," Penelope said. The tension crept up her spine, nesting uneasily between her shoulderblades. "Slowly does it."

The dot had stopped again. The Rolls headed toward the crest of the next rise, slowing to ten miles an hour as she topped it and started down the other side into the dark well below.

And was caught squarely in the suddenly blazing headlights of Qasim al Kahdir's Mercedes limousine.

Penelope gasped in surprise. "Parker..!"

"Strewth!" Parker swore. "'Ow the 'eck...?"

"Don't stop, Parker. Keep driving!" Penelope was bolt upright in her seat, mind racing. Why had Kahdir turned around? And why was he parked by the side of the road? Could this be the rendezvous point? And what in blue blazes had happened to their tracking device?

"Milady..." Parker was clearly unhappy.

"Just do it, Parker." Penelope pressed a button on her arm rest and a tray slid out, revealing the compact shape of her favorite sidearm, a .9mm Glock 19. She swiftly loaded one of the two 15 round magazines and replaced the pistol on the tray, where it would sit concealed between her and the window, ready in case she needed it. "Pull up alongside."

Parker shot a startled glance into the rear view mirror, but Penelope's expression gave him ample proof that she was serious. "Sir Jeremy's goin' to 'ave me 'ide," he muttered, shaking his head. But he did as she asked.

Penelope watched as they approached the parked Mercedes, sitting there motionless like a shark waiting for its prey in the shadows, dark except for the bright beams of its headlights. The windows had the same privacy tinting as those of FAB 1, giving nothing away about the occupants within.

The Rolls slowed to a halt and she lowered her window, smiling brightly.

After a moment, the left rear passenger window lowered on the Mercedes also. So did the one opposite the driver, but she kept her expression from showing that she had noticed. Out of sight below her own window, her fingertips stroked the butt of the Glock. "Why, Mr. Kahdir!" she said brightly. "We thought that was you! It must be fate!"

"Indeed, Lady Penelope," Kahdir nodded, those hard hawk's eyes penetrating her with x-ray intensity. His voice was like cold steel, like the darkness inside the barrel of a gun. "What brings you this way?"

Penelope chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, you don't know Parker and his shortcuts. He's always getting us lost looking for the quickest way home, and it always takes twice as long as going the regular way. But I just can't seem to break him of the habit." Before Kahdir could comment, she moved smoothly on. "Are you having trouble? Can we offer assistance? Parker might have a rather poor sense of direction, but he's very good with engines."

"Thank you, Lady Penelope, but no. We are fine. But I thank you for the offer."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Kahdir." Penelope paused for a moment, but no more was forthcoming from the stone-faced Arab. "Until we meet again, then."

"And we will, Lady Penelope, we will. Of that I am most assured."

A chill ran down Penelope's spine, but she clamped down on the reflexive shudder, refusing to let it be visible. She smiled brightly and waved as she raised her window again. "Get us out of here, Parker," she murmured. "Quickly."

Parker needed no second bidding. "Do you think 'e bought h'it, Milady?"

"I don't know, Parker. I don't know."

By the time Brains finally called a halt to the ignition testing, Scott was climbing Thunderbird One's riveted metal walls with impatience. It had been more than an hour since he'd seen Virgil bringing the speedboat home, and he kept glancing compulsively at his wristcom, expecting to hear his father's voice at any moment with an order to report back immediately. But there had been nothing - and he didn't know whether that was a good sign or a bad one. Wait for me, Virg, he pleaded mentally with his brother. Don't go in there on your own...

Brains hadn't even finished his sentence before Scott was wheeling the silver rocket plane and burning fuel for home. Lowering his ship tail first into her silo was something he could almost do in his sleep by now - her descent was laser guided, as was Thunderbird Three's, so all he had to do was swing her through ninety degrees until her attitude was vertical, adjust position to match up the dots on his screen and nothing much could go wrong. He could land her manually if he had to, of course, and he often did - it was never smart to get too dependent on mechanical help of any kind. But many times, coming back off a rescue exhausted both mentally and physically, he welcomed the ability to just surrender to the zen-like wisdom of those little blinking lights.

He let the guidance system handle the landing today. He was too distracted thinking about getting to Virgil in time to avert disaster. Knowing his younger brother, one of two things had taken place while he had been out in the boat all day. Either he had settled things inside himself successfully and come up with a plan of action, or he had brooded himself into a very dark place. Either way, anything could happen. Calm, reliable, predictable Virgil could get extremely volatile and unpredictable if he was pushed too far. It took a while to light his fuse, but when that flame appeared...even Scott knew to get the hell out of his way.

And of course, thinking about Virg's problems led his mind straight to another place. A place he really, really didn't want it to go.

Tally. Every time the thought of her crossed his mind he would feel that pit open up inside him again...that place of empty despair.

I can't deal with this now. Shaking it off, shoving down the feelings with a tremendous effort of will, he left his bird on her pad and crossed the gantry to the villa lounge entrance. The lounge was cool and empty, the drapes billowing gently in the tropical breeze. Tin-Tin's wind chimes tinkled, like the sound of water over rocks interpreted by music. Beyond them, over the balcony, he could hear the sounds of splashing and laughter coming from down by the pool. He doubted, however, that Virgil would be down there, in his present mood. He tended to hole up somewhere, like a bear in a cave.

After the lounge, Scott searched the kitchen, Virgil's room, the rec room and the upstairs living room they used for conferences, but didn't find his brother. Pausing to figure out where to look next, he heard his father's voice...talking to someone in his office. Scott tensed. Slipping closer, he saw that the door was a few inches ajar. He glanced in, and relaxed instantly as he realized that Virgil wasn't in there. Then Jeffglanced around and saw him, and signaled at him to come in.

Uh, oh. Here we go. Scott entered reluctantly, Virgil's wristcom burning a hole in his pocket. But Jeff was concentrating his attention somewhere else - Scott followed his father's line of sight, belatedly noticing that Penelope's portrait was showing her live image. "Good timing, son," Jeff said. "Penny's reporting in."

"Hello, Scott," Penny said, nodding to him in acknowledgement. She looked tense, he noticed. Tense and very tired, faint blue smudges under her eyes.

"How'd it go with Kahdir, Penny?" Jeff asked.

"Not well, I'm afraid. Parker planted the bug successfully, and we followed the car, but he turned the tables on us."

Scott raised his eyebrows at his father, but Jeff was concentrating on Penelope. "What happened?" the elder Tracy prompted, frowning.

"We don't know. We don't know how he even found the bug. It's never happened before - Parker's very good at what he does, as you know."

Jeff nodded. "We noticed the tracking screen behaving a bit oddly," Penelope continued, "and then we were over the rise and he was right there in front of us. He'd turned the car around and he let us have it with his headlights as soon as we appeared. He was waiting for us, Jeff. We were caught like amateurs."

Scott could hear how angry she was at herself, even though she was doing her best to hide it under the practiced smoothness of her tone. "Were you made?" he asked.

"There's no way to know for sure. I did my best to pass off our appearance as coincidence. But..."

She paused, eyes shadowing. "What is it, Penny?" Jeff asked.

"We hid out until we were sure they were gone. Then we went back and located the bug. Kahdir had left it on a scarecrow in the field next to where he was parked. And..."

She paused for a moment, glancing offscreen. Then she said, quietly, "We also found his driver. Propped up in front of the scarecrow. Garroted."

There was silence for a long few seconds. Then Jeff shook his head slowly. "This is the kind of people we're dealing with. One mistake, and you're out. Listen to me, Penny - I want you to be very careful. That was a warning. Watch your back."

"Oh, don't worry, Jeff, we'll be fine," Penelope said, weariness weighing down her voice. "We'll take proper precautions. I just wish I knew for sure what he knows."

Jeff glanced toward the row of clocks on the wall. "It's late over there, Penny...get some sleep. We'll work on this tomorrow."

Penny nodded. "It did take a while to deal with that unforeseen complication. Very well, Jeff. I will speak to you in the morning."

The screen became her painting again. Jeff exhaled. "I don't like this, Scott. She's acting like she's tough as nails, but she's..."

"A girl?" Despite the situation, Scott couldn't quite keep his mouth from quirking in amusement.

Jeff paused in midstream, closing his mouth. He gave a sigh that was more bemused exasperation than real annoyance. "Now, don't you start. I have enough of that from Tin-Tin and your grandmother. I only meant..."

Scott just smiled. He knew his father had no real prejudice in him...unless you could call the tendency to want to protect what he had been raised to believe was the more vulnerable sex. "I know what you meant, Dad...but a third of my graduating class at OTS were girls. And trust me, you wouldn't want to wind up on the wrong side of their gun sights."

They both turned at the knock on the office door. "Father?"

Scott tensed. It was Virgil.

"Yes, Virgil?" Jeff responded.

Virgil stuck his head around the door, hesitating for a moment when he saw Scott. Then he looked back at his father. "I need to talk to you, Father, it's important."

Jeff frowned, distracted. "Not now, Virgil. I've got a situation to deal with."

"Father..."

"I'm sorry, son. Come and see me after dinner. We'll talk then."

Virgil's mouth tightened, but Jeff didn't see it, already busy at his computer terminal. Virgil flicked a glance at Scott, his expression giving away nothing of what he was thinking. Then he turned abruptly and left the room.

Scott didn't like the pale, pinched look around Virgil's eyes...it was from more than just not sleeping, he knew. He immediately moved to go after his brother, but Jeff stopped him without looking up. "Hold on a minute, Scott. I want you here for this."

Scott ground his teeth in frustration, looking longingly at the door. But there was no way to explain why he wanted to leave right then without drawing more of the wrong kind of attention to Virgil. He sighed and turned back to his father's desk.

"How did they penetrate the shielding on that bug?" Jeff was muttering as he called up screens. "They shouldn't have been able to do that. Get Brains up here, will you?"

Scott reached for the desk com, but before he could flip the switch, his father let out a low whistle. "Son of a bitch."

Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise. His father rarely swore, at least in front of the family, so this had to be important. "What is it, Dad?"

Jeff looked up at him, expression grim. "Agent 27 just reported in. Qasim al Kahdir is dead. His body was found two hours ago, in Cairo."

"Dead?" Scott had the sinking feeling that there was more coming, and he was right.

"For at least three days, according to the authorities. Whoever Penny was following in England, it wasn't Kahdir."

Jeff sent a message to Agent 27 immediately via their secure communications net, requesting a conference as soon as possible. She must have been standing by, because the communication had only barely been sent before a flashing red light signaled that Tin-Tin had her waiting on a secure channel. Jeff gave the go-ahead and the light changed to a steady green. He and Scott turned as the hidden wall screen lowered smoothly from the ceiling.

In civilian life, Agent 27 was Halima Zohry, an attractive, middle aged Egyptian woman with a voracious appetite for fine art and a penchant for covering her head with brightly colored scarves. The art collecting, she and Jeff had in common...she owned her own gallery in which she spent a great deal of time and effort championing emerging female artists from her part of the world, and Scott had heard his father haggling with her many times over the price of a painting or a particularly unique piece of sculpture. He had always admired his father's ability to bargain like that, something that he himself had always felt uncomfortable doing. Jeff and Ruth didn't understand it...both hard-headed, dyed-in-the-wool bargainers, they shook their heads over him as if he had some kind of strange genetic fault. Scott blamed it on both of them having grown up in limited economic circumstances - you didn't make a lot of money growing wheat and soybeans on a family farm, no matter how hard you worked or how efficient your methods. In contrast, Scott had known from a young age that they had become very rich indeed. Thanks to the sheer size and scope of the aerospace contracts that his father had won for their company in the early days, they had begun making serious profits by the time Scott was thirteen, and by the time he was fifteen Tracy Aerospace was blazing a trail up the Forbes 500 with dizzying speed. And while Scott wouldn't have traded their changed circumstances for anything, and acknowledged happily that the money had done a lot of wonderful things for their lives, it also made him feel acutely guilty, somewhere down deep, for not paying full price for everything.

The screen locked into place and Halima's face appeared. Today's scarf, Scott noted, was emerald silk. "Hello, Jeff. How is the Haddad?"

"Beautiful, of course," Jeff smiled. "It's on its way to New York right now. Should be on display by Friday."

Halima smiled back. Despite her fierce independence and her reputation for pursuing feminist freedoms for herself and her fellow Egyptian women, she always seemed comfortable and almost motherly to Scott...reminding Scott more of a favorite high school teacher than an undercover agent. But as he well knew, that was precisely the point. Not much value in a spy who was easily identifiable as such to everyone around them.

He shifted a little as that line of thought stirred an uncomfortable recent memory. It had been a valuable experience, a necessary one, but also one that was still capable of disturbing his self confidence even now, six months after it had happened. Last fall, in an eerie foreshadow of the trouble they were now having, Jeff had sent him to England to meet with Penelope and Sir Jeremy, to discuss the security of International Rescue and how to protect its operatives and agents from criminal organizations like that run by the Hood. While he was there, Penelope had introduced him to her current houseguest, Nigel Foote, a young man with a disingenuous prep school accent and thick blond hair that constantly fell into his eyes. He wore a cricket sweater everywhere and chattered on and on about the England-Australia rivalry with a fervor Scott usually associated with evangelical preachers. Scott never could figure out exactly why he was staying at Creighton-Ward Manor in the first place, or what his connection was to Penelope, although it seemed to be something complicated to do with family. To be honest, he'd quickly started to tune him out, something he'd learned to do in sheer self defense as a teenager, when one of his younger brothers brought home a friend who got on his nerves.

A week later, Nigel made him regret it. Penelope and Sir Jeremy staged a raid on Creighton-Ward Manor for Scott's benefit, and the young man he had thought completely harmless demonstrated that he was in reality a ruthless and highly efficient former undercover government operative who now trained heads of state and major corporations in the realities of private security on a global scale. It was all over almost before it began, and a stunned and profoundly shaken Scott Tracy was left with the realization that if the raid had been real, he would have been dead or captured in less than fifteen minutes. All because not for a second had he considered Nigel Foote any kind of threat.

And any one, or all, of his family could have suffered the same fate. It was a sober and lasting warning to never, ever judge a book by its cover.

"Take it from the top, Halima," Jeff was requesting. "Scott's been gone for a few days and he doesn't have the whole picture."

"Of course," Halima responded in her gentle, lilting accent. "As you know, we have been working intensively on tracking down the Hood's identity and whereabouts since Scott's recent experience in Thunderbird One."

Another difficult memory. Scott looked away from the sympathetic softening of her mouth. "We have discovered that he is a very elusive individual indeed," she continued. "He is like a shadow, everywhere at once when no one is looking, but always disappearing completely when the light is turned on. Interpol and the secret services of many countries have files on him, but they are filled with not much more than hunches, assumptions and hearsay. He is a master of disguise and misdirection...nobody even knows what his real name might once have been. Over the years there have been many attempts to follow through leads that might reveal his identity, but all of them have turned out to be dead ends. All we really know from intensive study of the few first-hand encounters that we have found - including yours, Scott - is that there is a high probability that he is originally from somewhere in the Far East, perhaps China or even Malaysia. But even that is not certain. For all intents and purposes, he appears so insubstantial that he might almost be a ghost."

"Oh, he's no ghost, trust me on that," Scott said, rubbing the side of his face where the master criminal's gun butt had struck him.

Halima smiled, although it didn't reach her eyes. "No," she agreed. "And there is nothing insubstantial about the wake of death and destruction he leaves behind him."

Scott shook off a vivid flashback to those moments in the cockpit, hauling back on the control levers with all his strength in the desperate attempt to pull Thunderbird One out of her suicide dive. He ignored the sweat that he could feel prickling suddenly across his forehead - he was used by now, as they all were, to living with a certain degree of post traumatic stress. He had learned over the years, beginning when he had flown combat missions for the air force over places like Bereznik in Eastern Europe, that he often didn't get a true realization of just how much danger he had really been in until some time afterwards. When it was safe to fall apart, just a little.

"Qasim al Kahdir is - was - one of the more prominent possible connections to the Hood that we picked up during our initial investigation," Halima was saying. "His primary business was arms dealing, and that is one of the Hood's favorite arenas. Maximum profit for often very minimal risk - at least, minimal for someone of his skills and resources."

"That reminds me, Halima," Jeff broke in. "Did we ever get an idea of what he was doing on the Colin Powell in the first place?"

Halima's dark eyes were sober. "Not for certain. But according to our International Rescue contacts in the Pentagon, the Colin Powell was not on maneuvers with the Chilean Navy. Her true mission is suspected to have been the first field tests of the MSBX-5."

"The MSBX-5?" Scott was startled. "The navy's new floating ballistic missile interceptor system? I didn't even know they had a working prototype of that yet."

Jeff frowned. "Not many people did, son. I wasn't even totally sure of the schedule, and I didn't know it was on the Colin Powell." He turned back to Halima. "So you're telling me there's a better than even chance that the Hood has the specs for the MSBX-5."

"Yes. I only have cursory details, of course...this is Felix's territory. He is preparing a complete report for you. He was waiting to confirm one more source, I think."

Jeff was shaking his head. "Damn, that was fast. The Navy boys barely had time to get this one out of the gate."

"It's an accelerated world, Jeff. Not much gets left for the jackals any more."

"No." Jeff sighed. "But that will have to wait until later. Right now I want to hear about Kahdir."

Halima nodded. "We had been following him since we discovered he had a meeting set up in England with the Hood. We thought that was our best chance of making a connection, so Lady Penelope arranged the invitation to the charity event through Ambassador Abdul el Ahmadi in London."

"But something, somewhere, went wrong."

"Yes. We are more or less certain that the man who left Riyadh five days ago was the real Qasim al Kahdir. A disguise might be able to fool those who only work for him, but I doubt that his wife would be so easy to deceive."

Jeff smiled despite himself. "No, you're probably right. But what then?"

"I am not sure how this happened, Mr. Tracy. Neither is Agent 34 in Riyadh. He contacted me as soon as he discovered that Kahdir's pilot had filed a flight plan for Cairo, and I traced his movements after he arrived here. As you know, I have been doing this kind of thing for a long time...and I didn't detect a single sign that anything had changed. As far as I could tell, the man who arrived in Cairo was the same man who left for London four days later. And his entourage must have thought so too, unless there is more than one master of disguise among the Hood's employees."

"But Kahdir never left Cairo, did he," Jeff said slowly. "Any leads at all?"

Halima hesitated. "Nothing concrete. Only rumors."

"Shoot."

"They're saying the Hood killed him. Himself. In person." Halima's eyes had gone very dark. Scott had to shake off the distinct impression that she was fighting down a shudder, experienced undercover agent though she might be. "There is talk that there was a betrayal, an attempt to double-cross. An attempt that failed, obviously."

Something ugly stirred in the pit of his stomach. "Halima...how did Kahdir die?"

He saw the realization hit Jeff even before the words were out of the Egyptian agent's mouth. "According to the police reports, he was garroted." She hesitated. "There were...other injuries..."

Scott made a face, looking away.

Jeff massaged the skin at the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly very weary. "We'd better get Penny out of bed," he said.

They had only just finished hashing out a plan of action with Penelope when Alan stuck his head around the door and announced that dinner was ready. Scott glanced at the row of wall clocks in surprise, noting that two hours had passed almost without him realizing it.

Virgil. Scott ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tension contract again in the pit of his stomach. Now there was no time to get to his brother before dinner. He'd have to grab him right after the meal...at all costs, he had to talk to him before he got to their father. Otherwise he suspected the result would make a nuclear meltdown look pretty.

Virgil wasn't in evidence when Scott and Jeff reached the dinner table. It was laden as usual with enough food to feed an army, the dishes emitting a mingled aroma that would normally have made Scott's mouth water. But tonight he was too wound up to really be hungry. Brains was sitting at one end of the table, in his own world as usual, scribbling incomprehensible notes on a paper napkin. This was a constant habit with him, and despite Grandma's grumbles, they had switched to paper from cloth in sheer self defense many months ago. So far they had managed to stop him from actually writing on the tablecloth itself, but anything could happen when he went into one of those creative scientific trances of his.

Alan was in the kitchen joking with Kyrano, Ruth and Tin-Tin, and Jeff had stopped to talk to Gordon in the entrance to the hallway. From the snatches that Scott could overhear, his father was filling the family aquanaut in on the news about the MSBX-5. Gordon was listening with a deep frown furrowing the skin between his eyes. Of all of them, the former WASP lieutenant probably knew the most about what was at stake there. Scott made a mental note to check with him to see if there was anything Gordon had been able to add to the discussion he and his father had had earlier.

Grandma came out of the kitchen, Alan and Tin-Tin trailing after her, and announced that it was time to sit and eat before the food got cold...a habitual statement of hers that always made her grandsons smile, coming as it did from the times before the invention of self-warming dishes. They were all seated when Virgil finally appeared, mumbling apologies for being late. Scott tried to catch his eye but Virgil stubbornly wouldn't look at him. It wasn't a good sign. Scott studied his face as he sat down, not liking the paleness of his skin or the rigid set of his jaw. Tropical Storm Virgil was fixing to become a hurricane, as Grandma used to say back when they were kids on the farm in Valley Falls.

Jeff said grace and there was an immediate clatter of dishes and silverware as the Tracys descended on the food like a swarm of starving locusts. For once, Scott sat back and watched the fray, not sure how much he was going to be able to eat anyway. Ever since he had been a child, his stomach had ached - and worse - when he was under stress...and there was plenty of that swirling around him right now.

Gordon was passing around a VPC he had found in his inbox that afternoon. "Take a look at this, everybody. Pete Finn's getting married."

Alan grabbed it. "Pete Finn? From Valley Falls High?"

"Uh huh. I haven't seen him since..."

"Since the Great Mail Box Raid. Right after you guys graduated."

Gordon grinned. "Right. His old man was pretty mad about that one."

"I seem to remember your "old man" taking a pretty dim view of it, too, Gordon," Jeff reminded him, the mock-sternness of his tone not quite hiding the twinkle in his dark grey eyes.

Scott flicked a glance at Virgil, wishing someone would change the subject. His brother's face had gone stony and he was stirring his soup bowl with his spoon in slow, repetitive circles. "Oh, how sweet," Tin-Tin said, leaning over and reading the card with Alan. "Their parents are starting a fund to fly as many as possible of their classmates home for the wedding."

Gordon grinned. "Think I should sign up?"

"Heck, yeah," Alan said. "I'd love to see Pete's dad's face when he sees where they're flying you in from!"

"I remember Pete Finn," Grandma said. "He gave his family every bit as much grief as you two did, if I recall rightly."

"Thank you, Grandma," Gordon said, his tone serious but his eyes twinkling every bit as much as his father's had done.

"Who is he marrying?" Grandma asked. "Does the poor girl have a name?"

"Michelle Dunlap," Tin-Tin read off the card.

"Michelle...oh!" Alan's face cleared. "Micki Dunlap? Pete's marrying Micki Dunlap?"

"No," Gordon said suddenly, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"No?" Grandma said, confused.

"We can't let Micki marry Pete!"

"Why not?" Alan looked just as confused as Grandma. "They're not related or anything, are they?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. "You've been watching Tin-Tin's soap operas again."

"Oh, no," Grandma said, having finally gotten her hands on the card. "That's terrible!"

"What's terrible, Mother?" Jeff asked.

"She'll be Micki Finn!"

Tin-Tin choked on her mashed potatoes. Gordon thumped her sympathetically on the back.

"You know, I just can't get used to these virtual post card things," Grandma said as Alan poured the spluttering, red-faced Tin-Tin a glass of water. "What's wrong with real handwriting and a good old fashioned stamp?"

"Well, for one thing, those good old fashioned stamps are a good deal more expensive than they were in your day, mother," Jeff reminded her. "Not to mention the cost of fuel to fly a little bit of paper like that all the way across the world. It just doesn't make economic sense with oil prices the way they are, and alternative fuel sources aren't any cheaper right now...they're just less polluting."

"Well, Jeff, if you and Brains would get on with finding a way to share that water-based fuel of yours..."

"That takes time and resources, Mother. And I somehow doubt that the US Mail wants to spend billions of dollars converting their mail fleet overnight."

"Uh, no, that's, ah, true," Brains put in, looking up from his napkin collection. "Takers are, uh, more likely to, ah, come from the, ah, private sector, Mrs. Tracy."

"That's right, Brains," Jeff nodded. "If we can interest a company like FedEx-UPS, for instance, then we'd be getting somewhere."

"But how does that help the US Mail deliver me a postcard?" Grandma asked.

"Competition," Jeff said. "If FedEx-UPS signs up to convert their fleet, the money they save, after factoring in the initial investment, will enable them to reduce their prices. And then the US Mail will have to follow suit or be forced out of business."

"Well, at least that makes more sense than farming," Grandma said. "Back when your grandfather was your age, Brains, they tried to pay us not to grow crops."

"And you wonder why I didn't want to be a farmer?" Jeff smiled, shaking his head.

"Speaking of fuel prices," Virgil said, suddenly. "If we're going to set up a fund to fly our classmates in when one of us gets married, we'd better start now."

Scott shot him a sharp glance, but Virgil still refused to meet his eyes. "Of course, we probably wouldn't want to hold the ceremony here. Bit awkward to keep rushing them downstairs to the lab and sticking headphones on them every time we have to launch."

Alarm bells started ringing in Scott's head. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Gordon also watching Virgil intently, as if thought he'd finally figured out the answer to a puzzle and was waiting to see if he was right. He and Scott were the only two people who seemed to realize there was a train wreck about to happen. "How would that work, Dad?" Virgil said, his voice rising a little, something wrong with the pitch of it. "What would we do if one of us...found someone?"

Jeff looked around at him, all levity gone from his expression. A deep frown creased his forehead, although he didn't sound at all angry. "Virgil, you know the rules. We've all been over this. International Rescue is a secret organization, and must remain so. No outsiders, under any circumstances. It's just too dangerous, for us and for them. Sure, of course people can swear that they won't reveal our secrets...but what do they tell their families? And what if you had children? Would you keep them locked up on the island until they got old enough to lie about what their father does for a living? Or would you lie to your child instead and be a long distance father, visiting him whenever you could? And what of the danger that you would be putting your wife and child and her family in, from the people out there who would stop at nothing to get at what we have? No, son, I understand what you're saying. But it's out of the question, at least for the foreseeable future."

"That's so damn easy for you to say, isn't it."

The words were out of Scott's mouth before he realized he was going to say them. Almost in slow motion he saw his father's head swivel towards him, saw the surprise begin to dawn on the faces of the others around the table.

He couldn't stop himself. There was something about the kindly but implacable way his father was delivering that old familiar speech. Something about the frozen look of helplessness on Virgil's face. Something about the fierce longing ache inside him for something he, himself, wanted so badly and could not have. "And you know why it's so easy, Dad? Because you had yours. You had your wife, your children. You're not making any sacrifices to keep this family frozen in time like a goddamned ice sculpture."

"Scott!" Grandma disliked language in polite company, but the floodgates were open and there was nothing Scott could do to prevent the words from coming out now. He'd apologize later. If he and his father didn't wind up burning the island down first.

"Scott," Jeff said slowly, stiffly, "You, of all people, are very well aware of what your mother..."

"You want to talk about Mom?" Scott cut him off. "Okay. Let's talk about her. You met her when you were both what...eight years old? You knew her for twenty-seven years, Dad...that's a lifetime compared with what most people get nowadays! And what have we had? What have you allowed us to have? Nothing but sacrifices."

Jeff's face was flushed dark with anger, but he was still trying to control his voice. "How dare you talk to me about sacrifices, when your mother gave her life..."

"Gave her life? Gave her life? That's bullshit, Dad, and you know it!" Scott's voice was rising now, but he could do nothing to stem the tide. "Don't talk about her like she wanted to die! She fought for every last breath, and I know because I was there, Dad, and you weren't. I was right there when...when..."

He was dimly aware that his father was staring at him not only in anger now but in shock and disbelief. He was also aware that he'd just played a very dirty card, but he couldn't help himself. The words came boiling out like the pyroclastic flow from a volcano that had been too long dormant. "It isn't Mom's fault you gave up on life after she died. And if you're doing all this for her, you made that choice, all on your own. Don't act like she had a clause in her will that said, 'Jeff, take the boys, go live on a deserted island, dedicate your life to saving strangers because you'll never stop beating yourself up because you couldn't save me...' "

"Scott!" Jeff thundered, on his feet now. "This conversation is over!"

Scott shoved his chair back with a screech of its legs on the polished wood floor. He stood up, fists clenched at his sides, body stiff with fury. "The time is long gone when I let you decide a conversation of mine is over," he forced out from between clenched teeth.

"Scott, Jeff, stop it, please," Grandma pleaded. It suddenly dawned on Scott that she must be afraid there was going to be a physical fight. He was surprised to realize that he was actually contemplating it, poised on the balls of his feet, the possibility sending a frisson of electricity racing across his nerves.

He glanced at her face, at her pale expression, the bright spots of color in her cheeks. Her eyes, fixed on him, filled with horror at what he was doing. Her hands, gripping the edge of the table as if she was ready to throw herself in between them, if necessary. And something deep inside him stirred, reasserting itself. He couldn't do this to her. He couldn't be the one who crossed this line.

He looked briefly across the table, taking in Virgil's shocked stare, then threw the napkin he had forgotten he was holding on to the table. It made the silverware rattle against the plate, his water glass rocking once but not quite tipping over. He turned abruptly and stalked towards the hallway.

At the last moment he turned back around, staring at his father, eyes still hard. "Something needs to change around here, Father. And soon. Otherwise you're going to wind up losing all of us."

Without waiting for a response, he headed down the corridor towards the elevator. He didn't hear a single sound from the dining room, right up to the moment the doors closed behind him.

Virgil found him on the ledge a half hour later.

'The ledge' was a small, natural, basin-like depression a third of the way from the top of the central volcanic tube that had formed Tracy Island. The 'back side' of the tube, as they usually referred to the side furthest away from the villa and the landing strip, sloped much more gently toward the tropical vegetation of the island, and there were numerous deep fissures, openings, caves and other interesting formations that had been caused by the lava flows as they cooled. Scott and Virgil had discovered the ledge while they were scouting for a place to put in a ventilation tube, emerging from an opening in the side of the mountain on to this hidden out-thrust of rock that offered in its scooped-out surface a perfect place to spend the afternoon alone, or have a picnic, or get together and talk about something you didn't want to share with the rest of the family. They'd claimed the place for themselves immediately, and found a location for the ventilation tube somewhere else.

Scott had spent the time sitting on the raised lip-like edge of the depression, staring out at the spectacular view of the tropical ocean that surrounded them. He'd been through everything he knew to do when his mood plunged like this, but nothing had helped soothe or calm him, not even thinking about flying. He longed to take one of the jets out and go up there and find some peace, but he had to wait until he had talked to Virgil, and he knew that would happen before the night was over, especially after what had just happened at the dinner table.

He couldn't believe he'd said the things he'd said to his father...and in front of the whole family, too. It wasn't that they weren't true, but still. This was what Grandma had always said when they were growing up, though. If you hold things in, one day they're all going to come out, and sometimes at the worst possible time.

His stomach ached fiercely. He wondered, not for the first time in recent weeks, if he was going to wind up with an ulcer one day the way things were going.

"I'm sorry," Virgil said, from behind him.

Scott turned, the sight of his favorite brother and best friend already beginning to spread the familiar welcome feeling of calm through his veins. Virgil always had this effect on him, even when things were pretty dire. There's nothing we can't solve, he used to tell him when they were kids, if we work on it together. The memory made him feel stronger, somehow - more hopeful that a solution to this mess could really be found. "Sorry? What for?"

"For taking the bullet for me, of course," Virgil said, shaking his head as he walked forward. "You didn't have to do that. I dug that hole for myself, I should have taken the punishment."

Scott smiled. "How many times have I told you...I'm your big brother. It's my job."

Scott stood up into the tight hug that his brother offered. "I thought Dad was going to kill you," Virgil said as he stepped back finally. "We all did."

Scott snorted. "He's just a guy, Virg. You're all just suffering from a bad case of being told what to do by him all of your natural life."

"And you aren't?" Virgil cocked an eyebrow. "For what it's worth, though, I think you've just been voted a god by Al and Gordo."

Scott's mouth twisted. "I'm not proud of what I said down there, Virg. I don't know what came over me. I never meant to deliberately hurt him like that. I just couldn't...stop."

Virgil studied him. "I think Grandma thought you were going to hit him," he said, after a moment.

"Maybe I was." Scott stared at the ground, remembering the way he had felt - every nerve on the alert, battle ready. "I was angry enough. The way he was talking to you..."

"He was just saying the same things he's always said," Virgil said. "Are you sure all that was about me?"

Scott looked at him. "When did you suddenly get so reasonable?" he asked suspiciously. "Did someone stage a coup down there after I left?"

But Virgil wouldn't be deflected. "Come on, Scott, this is me you're talking to. Much as I appreciate what you did down there, you didn't go off like that just because you were worried about me."

Scott smiled, clapping a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Virg."

He tried to look away, but he could feel Virgil's eyes on still on him, probing like x-rays. "It was that girl in New Jersey, wasn't it. The blonde from the Oceans Cup rescue. This is about her."

Scott closed his eyes. "Please tell me I'm not that transparent."

"Only to me," Virgil said. He smiled, all of a sudden. "And maybe Grandma. Who knows what she knows? She's pretty cagey."

"Well, she's going to have to be, if she ever wants grandchildren," Scott said, mouth quirking despite himself.

Virgil cleared his throat. "So...Miss New Jersey..."

Scott gave him a look. "Tally. Tally Somerville. She's... Her brother was the captain of the Spirit of Nantucket. I...."

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I kept thinking about her, Virg, after the Oceans Cup rescue. I tried not to...but she kept just...showing up. In the hospital in Sydney. And at the rescue in New Jersey. And then..."

"Aha!" A look of smug comprehension crossed Virgil's features. "That's why you were so gung ho to charge off and take my place in New York!"

"Well, that wasn't the only reason," Scott said, mildly reproachful.

Virgil grinned. "Was it worth it?"

For a moment, Scott caught his breath as he was flooded almost painfully with memories of that night...the most perfect night of his life. He stared out over the water to hide the burning at the back of his eyes. "Yeah," he said at last, quietly.

Virgil squeezed his shoulder. "If it helps, I know," he said. "That's what it's like with Liz. Every time I'm with her. It feels like...the rest of my life."

Scott nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Everything Virgil said struck truth right to the core of him, threatened to open up that deep ugly pit of despair he had been trying to hard not to look at. What are we going to do? he thought, a little helplessly. It all seemed so overwhelming, suddenly, such a huge obstacle to find a way around. He bit his lip. "The hell of it is, I know Dad's right. The things he says...there's a reason. He's trying to protect us, keep us safe. It's a scary world out there even for us...look what just happened to me in Thunderbird One! How much worse would it be for our families, our children?"

"I know," Virgil said. "I know all that. But we can't stay like this forever, either."

"No, we can't." Scott stared out to sea.

"I can't do this any more," Virgil said, after a moment. "Every time I think about it what Liz said to me, I panic. What if I'm too late? What if I wait too long, and she won't..."

Scott looked around at him, trying not to let the fear inside him show. "Don't do anything hasty, Virg, please. Let me work on this. I'll find a compromise, I swear I will. I just need a little time."

"I don't think I have time, Scott." Virgil glanced down at him, and Scott's protest died on his lips. He knew that look of firm resolution. Virgil's mind was made up.

The winds of change. Scott was abruptly broadsided by the memory of how he'd felt that day in Launch Control after the New Jersey rescue, watching Virgil bring Thunderbird Two home. Is this how it feels for Dad? he thought, understanding suddenly flooding him. This fear of things changing, because you can't control what you might be going to lose?

"I'll fix this," he said, so quietly it was almost to himself. "I will."

Virgil didn't answer. There was nothing else to say. He just stood there beside Scott in silence, and they watched the moon rise over the ocean together.

It took Jeff a while to hunt through the extensive Tracy Villa pantry to find the package of leftover cookies. Ruth always made two leftover packages when she baked, something only he knew. The first one was for the boys to find, the second was strictly for himself and her. The boys had never tumbled to the fact that there were two packages, something that always made Jeff smile. Maybe the sheer skill and cunning with which she always hid the first one was enough to make them believe she never intended them to find it.

One thing was for sure, it had been a lot easier to find both packages in the pantry of the old farmhouse. This new one was built to last, like everything else on the island, and could hold enough food for an army. Or five grown men with a highly physical occupation, whichever consumed more - privately, Jeff's money was on his sons. And to say it was big was an understatement. Ruth had taken one look at the pantry the first time she walked into it and said, "Oh, look at this...even your food has its own apartment!"

He spotted the green and white freshpak at last, tucked in tight at the back of a shelf near the ceiling. A touch of a button rotated the stainless steel racks over and down, bringing it within reach. He retrieved it and returned the racks to their original position, taking the cookies back to the kitchen. A pause on the way to take a carton of milk from the fridge, another to add a glass from a nearby cabinet, and the preparations were complete. He sat down at the table and snapped the vacuum seal on the freshpak.

The aroma hit him instantly. Chocolate chip with pecans - Lucille's wonderful old family recipe, brought to Kansas by her mother when they had moved up from Oklahoma the year she and Jeff had met. 1978. She had had them in her backpack the first time he saw her, and the smell would always remind him of that first day of school the year they were both eight. He could still remember it vividly - the first time he ever saw her. She was waiting for the bus with a bunch of other kids, none of whom he could recall at all, now. But her, he would never forget - a skinny, long-limbed tomboy with a thick fall of shining chestnut hair and huge brown eyes. As she climbed on the bus and walked down the aisle toward him, she'd noticed him staring and fixed him with the most dazzling smile he had ever seen.

After all these years, it was still the most dazzling. In his heart, he knew it always would be. There might be other smiles, but even though he might care for them deeply, they would never own him, heart and soul, like she had. But time had been kind...at least he could remember her smile now without feeling as if a rusty knife had been plunged into his chest. He still missed her...he would always miss her...but over the years the pain had slowly mellowed into an ache that although never exactly comfortable, could still be borne.

"I see you found the cookies."

Jeff jumped in the act of pouring milk into the glass, spilling it across the tabletop. "Mother! Don't sneak up on me like that."

Ruth brought a sponge from the enormous stainless steel double sink and handed it to him. She was wearing her old lightweight chenille robe, he noted with an inward eye roll. She had several much newer, more expensive robes hanging in her closet, including a lovely embroidered silk one he'd picked out for her during his last trip to Hong Kong. But she still clung stubbornly to the one that had seen her through many Kansas summer nights, sitting on the back porch of the farmhouse with her family.

Stubbornness, he thought. Definitely a Tracy trait - he'd gotten it from both sides of the family.

"Milk and cookies?" Ruth asked, eyebrows raised a little.

Jeff had to fight not to gather the glass and the freshpak to him and glower at her like a rebellious teenager. "What are you doing up?" he countered.

"Couldn't sleep. You?" She sat down opposite him at the table, eyeing his prize speculatively.

Jeff sighed and gave in, pushing the cookies to where she could reach them. She'd have to get her own milk. "Indigestion again," he said, making a face.

"Well, I'm not a bit surprised, after that little display at dinner," Ruth remarked tartly. "Keep this up and you'll wind up with ulcers like your father."

Jeff stared at his glass of milk, avoiding her piercing gaze, the legacy of her fiery-tempered Mackenzie ancestry. Her hair, back before it turned gray, had been the same red-gold as Gordon's. "I don't know what's gotten into Scott lately," he said, managing to make it not quite a mumble.

"Scott's a good boy. He'll try to make this right between you. The question is, will you let him?"

Jeff looked up at her sharply. "Mother, what are you talking about?"

"For heavens sake, why are you Tracy men all so dense?" Ruth shook her head. "It's natural for a son, especially an eldest son, to want to step out from the shadow of his father, to want his own place in the world. You did that, twice, in two completely different ways. But your own son has never really had that chance."

"You don't think what he's doing here is worthwhile?" Jeff was surprised.

"That's not what I said," Ruth pointed out. "Scott can achieve great things here, and we'll all be proud of him until the day we die. But nobody but us will ever know. He won't get his chance to shine out there in the world, like you did. Which means he'll never really be out from behind your shadow."

Jeff felt his eyebrows lower defensively. "Getting decorated for bravery by the air force wasn't having a chance to shine?"

"He earned that with his own sweat and blood," Ruth said sharply. "Don't act as if you gave it to him. That boy had a great career in front of him - those medals were just the beginning. Who knows how far he would have gone?"

Jeff could feel the anger rising inside him again, like it had at the dining table. He realized belatedly how much of it was a smoke screen - simple self-defense. "Mother," he growled, "are you ever going to let me off the hook about the Mars mission?"

"That depends. Have you even talked to him about it?"

Jeff snorted. "You know very well I haven't. Have you forgotten that Virgil told us he doesn't want me to know, under any circumstances? How do I talk to him about something I'm not even supposed to know about?"

"Ah, and that makes it very convenient for you, doesn't it? You don't ask and he doesn't tell, and you both keep right on pretending."

"Dammit, Mother..."

"Don't you use that language with me, Jefferson Tracy. I am still your mother."

Jeff stared at her for a long time. At last he exhaled noisily, picking up a cookie and stabbing it meaningfully into his milk.

Ruth watched him. Then she said, her voice softer now but no less serious, "You know why Scott's here, and it's not just because he wanted to support your dream, Jeff."

His spine went rigid, his hand tightening on the glass...but he refused to look at her. After a moment she got up from the table and went past him toward the door.

She paused for a moment before exiting, staring at his back. "He's right, you know. Something has to change. Or you really will lose them all."

He didn't turn around, even after he heard the door close behind her.

To Be Continued...

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