Terribly sorry to be late, folks! This weekend, I helped my daughter study for her algebra, French and IPS exams... phew! More to follow, soon.

37: Negotiation

Rio de Janeiro, the Presidential Palace, Blue Room-

Jeff's heart pounded. His blood seemed to race like thunderous wind in his ears, sparking a major headache. On the outside, though, he managed to look very calm.

"I beg your pardon?" he said to Minister Cardona (a man as slim and precise as an orchestral conductor). "You'd like to share what?"

Cardona smiled, but it was a skull or a reptile's expression; utterly cold and quite dry.

"Come, Senhor Tracy," he said to his guest, brown eyes drilling at Jeff's, "We are businessmen, and such games do not become us." The minister's moustache and tightly-clipped beard traced a narrow, dark circle round his mouth and sharp chin. It gave him an avid, ferrety look. Added the minister,

"I am aware of you connection to International Rescue, Senhor… knowledge I fully intend to exploit."

But Jeff only shook his grey head. Standing erect amid the quivering gleam of chandeliers and polished brass, he said,

"You've been misinformed, Cardona. Whoever brought you these… whatever they are… altered pictures, doctored files, outright lies… Whoever sold them to you is out there right now, spending your money and laughing his a** off. I'm no more involved with IR than you're the next Dodge City Rodeo Queen."

For just an instant, the Brazilian defense minister floundered for words, looking irritated. Then,

"I was advised that you would be clever, with more twists and feints than a snake. But there is no escape except cooperation, for we have a witness…"

"Who could have been bribed or intimidated."

"…and documents…"

"Easily forged."

"…as well as your son."

"Being held here against his will, in clear violation of international law. In light of all this, Cardona, you'd better be one careful d-mn blackmailer, because you're about to have a bloodthirsty swarm of attorneys and data-miners land on your a** like an avalanche. By the time they're done, you won't be able to get a job on the street corner, washing car windows."

Leaning forward (for he was taller and broader than the defense minister) the former astronaut snapped,

"I take my company's reputation for integrity very seriously, Cardona. Tracy Aerospace was built from the ground up by me, using what I learned in the Air Force and WSA. It might as well be another one of my children. I regard these allegations as a clear threat to that child… like the way you're refusing to turn Virgil over."

Cardona had not expected so spirited a response. He took a half-step backward; his expensive, crocodile shoes clicking on bright marble tile.

"Senhor, you are not…"

But Jeff wasn't finished. Jabbing an aggressive forefinger at Cardona's sash-and-medal draped chest, he said,

"Now, the way I see it, you've got two options. A: you bring me my son and we all go out to the president's reception together like nothing ever happened, or B: you force me to call in my legal team and get ready for the goddam fight of your life. Your move, Cardona."

The smaller man's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His shoulders twitched. Very clearly, Jeff had just made a bitter and lifelong enemy.

"Senhor," spat Cardona, "your son shall be brought, together with the Norte Americano news team… But you would do well to gather those attorneys close about you and bury deep all of your money; for the death of his body will not end his plans. There is more, and yet worse, to come."

Understandably, Jeff Tracy ate very little at the state reception held in his honor. Instead, he watched his back and the clock. Three hours later, the former astronaut was headed for home with Virgil; scanning the grim contents of a certain black moleskine notebook.

Tracy Island, in the clinic's luxurious waiting room-

Alan slouched low in a big leather chair. Yeah, he was worried about Gordon, but still watching TinTin, as well. Curled up in a chair of her own, pretending to read, the girl was heart-tearing pretty and sort of… y'know… deep. There were things about her that he simply did not understand; emotions flitting across her tired face that frankly puzzled him.

"Well," he said, taking a sudden brave stab at conversation, "anyway, the Hood's probably dead. That's a good thing, right?"

TinTin looked up from her long-unturned page; raising big, liquid-dark eyes. But instead of agreeing with him, she only said,

"A spirit such as my uncle's does not go quietly, Alan. His hand in death will only clutch harder."

The words sent an icy-cold trickle through Alan Tracy's gut, but he refused to show any fear. (Not manly, and junk.)

"Dang, T… he's not Freddy Krueger, or anything! This is the real world, Chica. Trust me; when people die, they stay in the ground, popping daisies and mushrooms like a good little corpse."

TinTin managed a smile, though her heart was sore troubled.

"Of course," she murmured. "You must forgive me, Alan. It has been… I'm rather drained, is all."

Alan's heart began pounding.

"Well, sure," he responded (trying for casual). "I can understand that. I mean… people getting possessed, the core going nuts, Virgil being kidnapped and then Gordon all shot full of holes… Heck, anybody'd start imagining things. I mean, buttered toast would stand up on the plate and prophecy doom. But, um…"

His face reddened and his voice got higher and faster as Alan went on to say,

"If there's anything I can do to help out… anything you need, let me know, okay? I'm, uh… always gonna be there for you, T. Seriously."

She smiled at him, then, and if the world had been fair, would have said something nice. Instead, the clinic doors swung halfway open and Brains peered out, rubbing with one hand at the stinging blue eyes behind his thick glasses.

"H- He's awake and, ah… and asking f- for you, TinTin… And Alan, too, of c- course."

The girl sprang instantly upright, her unread book thudding to the carpeted floor.

"Thank you, Brains!" she cried, kissing the startled man's cheek as she scurried past him into the clinic. "Thank you for the wonderful news!"

"Yeah, dude…" Alan muttered, with much less enthusiasm, "and thanks for the sucky dang timing."

As he trudged inside (nursing the granddaddy of all mixed feelings) and TinTin raced like a freed sparrow to Gordon's bedside, John and Doctor Bennett withdrew to the post-op clean room. She to scrub down, John to offer soap, thanks and assistance.

"Your brother should be okay, now," Linda told him, splashing her face at the stainless steel sink and then feeling around for a towel. When he placed one in her groping hands, Linda scrubbed away suds and exhaustion, saying, "The kid's got a constitution like a Clydesdale… Must be all of that early Olympic training."

Or something else. Suspicious, half-explained gunshot wounds and John's tight relations with International Rescue made for a very strange mix. One she'd have asked more about, had the doctor been better able to focus. Later, maybe.

For the moment, Linda untied and cast off her pale green surgical tunic, beneath which lay tee-shirt, jeans and (to her way of thinking) completely inadequate curves. John saw things differently, though. He smiled a little because, even at full, yawning stretch, she was still short.

Linda pretended not to notice his interest. Looking away, she rotated her head; rolling it back and forth, side to side on slim, tension-stiff shoulders. At least, she did until John reached over to rub the back of her sore neck (meanwhile stepping far too close for clear thinking).

"Didn't I drive you off with a stick, the last time you tried putting moves on me?" she demanded (but not very crossly). Then, when he paused in massaging her, "I didn't mean you had to stop."

John smiled. Very tall, very handsome and very, very hard to resist. Resuming the rhythmic, relaxing caress, he said,

"Does this mean I'm cleared for the resupply mission?"

"Maybe."

"What about dinner?"

"You're pushing your luck, Tracy… I'd say no, but my stomach's about to eat a hole through my abdominal wall, so dinner it is. Mexican food; the stronger the better. Tacos, nachos, whatever. Anything spicy enough to make me stop tasting iodine."

"Okay," he replied, reaching for his cell phone. "I think we can handle that."

Of course, (Kyrano being off duty at the time) John wound up in the kitchen, experimenting with frozen burritos and gallons of hot sauce; but the meal would not have been half so entertaining with less hazardous food. On the bright side, she did forget all about iodine.