Triple Jeopardy – Chapter 36

The black car quietly followed the tall wall that surrounded the nondescript suburban house, before turning into the gate that had opened for it, as if by magic.

"We're 'ere, m'Lady."

"Thank you." The gullwing doors opened, and the lady turned to her companion. "You may get out."

"M-Must I?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. You must."

Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney wished he was made of stronger stuff. Stronger and faster stuff. Then he'd either refuse to exit the refuge that was this car or make a bolt for it – up and over the wall and to freedom.

He decided that neither was a good idea.

After leaving the TA-Epiprocta 816 hoverjet at one airfield, his captor had claimed another aircraft. And then another. And then another as they bunny-hopped from one landmass and country to the next. In between flights various nondescript individuals had collected them from the airport, transported them to another town, whisked them through back streets and alleys, allowed them to sleep in unmentionable buildings, and then transported them to the next airfield to start the whole process again.

Terrance Whitney had no idea where he was nor where he was going. His constant companion, who'd shed her nurse's disguise for something more practical and less becoming, said little other than issue instructions that demanded that they be followed.

For the past week, Whitney had lived in fear that each journey would be his last one; that each flight would mark the end of his life; that he'd never wake up from sleep in each dark and dingy room…

And now he found himself standing in a not unpleasant yard, next to a not unpleasant house, in what had appeared to be a not unpleasant street.

What unpleasantness awaited him?

Their driver, the most unique looking individual that he'd seen in the past week since they'd left International Rescue on that island, strode away from the car and unlocked the door. He disappeared inside before returning. "H'All clear."

"Very good." The lady turned back to her captive. "Shall we enter, Mr Whitney?"

"D-Do I have a choice?"

"No."

Whitney hadn't thought so. He followed the driver into an anteroom that led off the front door, and then into a larger room: the lounge.

It appeared to be quite comfortable.

The lady had followed the two men into the room and then looked around approvingly. "Excellent."

"H-I 'ave done h-all you 'ave h-asked, m'Lady." The driver handed her a thick folder.

"Excellent," the lady repeated.

He tipped his hat. "H-I shall wait h-outside h-in the car. You don't want no witnesses."

"Indeed," the lady agreed. "Thank you."

The driver's steely eyes turned onto Whitney. "H-It's me pleasure." He left the room; the house; and Terrance Whitney's life.

"Wh-What is this place?"

"This…" Whitney's nemesis flicked through the documents in the folder. "Is your home."

"M-My what?"

"It is where you are going to live for the indeterminate future."

"H-H-How…" Whitney cursed the stutter that he seemed to have developed over the intervening week. "…long is 'i-i-indeterminate'?"

"That is indeterminate." Documents were laid out on the table. "Come here."

Although reluctant, Whitney obeyed. Before him he saw a series of official looking papers.

The first was picked up and handed it to him. "This is your birth certificate."

Whitney read the name on the page. "No, it's not."

She gave him a look that told him not to argue. "It is."

"But my name's Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney. This says: 'Al Smith'."

"As far as the world is concerned, Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney died when the Generalar Wass sank."

"But I didn't."

"If you wish to have a long and healthy life, you died a week ago."

"But this," Whitney flourished the birth certificate, "says that 'I'm' Al Smith. Al's my b-b-b-brother's name."

"As he is no longer using it, I thought it would be appropriate if you were to."

"Al…?"

"Yes."

"Al Smith?"

"This is correct."

"But why do I have t-t-to change my name?"

"Because there are people looking for Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney."

The former Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney blanched. "Which p-p-people?"

"People who wish to use you as Generalar Villallobona used you."

Whitney went even paler.

"And there are people who are still loyal to Villallobona. He may be awaiting trial at the world court; once he has passed mentally fit to stand trial; but there are those who would wish to avenge his fall from grace. The merest hint that you are still alive, and they will come looking for you."

Whitney gulped.

"In this house, at work, in the car between the house and work, Al Smith will be safe. Out there, beyond this garden…" the woman indicated the wider world with a sweep of her arm, "Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney will be hunted."

"B-B-B…" Whitney swallowed. "But you said that I… th-that is 'T-T-Terrance Whitney' is dead. Why would a-anyone hunt him, uh, me?"

"If they were to learn that you hadn't died."

"H-How would they find out th-that I'm not dead?"

"All it would take would be a word in the right place, and those people will know that the former Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney is still very much alive. It will be over to them for how much longer."

"They would k-k-kill me?!"

"Or worse." The lady didn't elucidate what worse entailed.

"And who would tell these people th-th-that…" The words stuck in Whitney's throat, when the woman's expression gave him the answer. "Why?" he squeaked.

"You have hurt many good people. If there was any chance that you were going to hurt others…"

"But I haven't hurt anyone!"

"Maybe not directly, but if you had given due consideration to the affects your inventions would have, you would not find yourself in the predicament you find yourself in now."

"I didn't have any choice but to build the D-Decibel Amplitude Magnification Project. Villallobona made me."

"And any genius worthy of the name would have found a way to make their invention impotent, whilst maintaining credibility in the eyes of their master."

Whitney decided to try another tack. "You said that I w-would be safe at w-work. What w-work?"

"You will be employed at a top-secret development lab."

Seeing the chance to finally get his bearings, Whitney pounced. "What lab?"

"It is top-secret."

"But, can't I know the n-name of my employer?"

"No."

"What if it's someone whose ethics I d-don't agree with?"

"You have already shown that you do not have ethics, Mr Whitney."

Accepting defeat – for the moment – Whitney sighed. "What is this top-secret lab designing?"

"Whatever you choose."

Surprised, Whitney looked at his companion. "I beg your pardon?"

"It is over to you and your fertile imagination. The only proviso is that your designs must not have a direct detrimental effect on mankind, planet Earth, or beyond."

"I can design anything?"

"Anything."

"B-But what if it's another plane?"

"I am sure that the first men who dreamed of making machines that could fly, did not envisage them carrying bombs and wiping out entire cities."

This freedom to express himself had soothed Whitney's anxieties somewhat, and he looked around him. The lounge was decorated with a multitude of photographs of people he had never seen before. "Whose place is this?"

"Yours."

"Mine?" Whitney pointed at an array of photos on a shelf. "But who are they?"

"They are your family."

"No, they're not."

"They are the family of Al Smith. Each image is computer generated and is not a conscious direct representation of any known human… Aside from yourself. We have taken care to incorporate aspects of your physiognomy into each individual. For instance," a photograph of a young woman was removed from the shelf and handed to the bewildered man, "your sister, Doreen, has the same nose as yours."

"B-But I don't have a sister."

"Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney does not. Al Smith does." The lady rifled through the file that the chauffeur had given her. "Here is your family tree. You have two sisters. Doreen is younger than you, and Isabella is your elder sibling. This explains your middle-child syndrome…"

"Middle-child…?"

"Isabella is married to Mike and the pair of them have two children of their own. Your niece and nephew." Another group of photos was indicated. "As time passes, and your relatives age, you will be supplied with replacement photographs. Here are your parents…"

"Now hold on! You're talking as if I'm going to be imprisoned here for years! What is stopping me from walking out that door?" Whitney pointed towards the anteroom they'd passed through. "Locks? L-Lasers."

"Nothing except your own sense of self-preservation."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You may come and go as you please. Your grounds are quite safe. Your car is autonomous, bullet and bomb-proof, and is programmed to take you wherever you wish to go. There are shops and a park within walking distance; or you may even depart this town, if you require a holiday from work. And this," she indicated the birth certificate," is official enough that, should you wish to venture further afield, you may even apply for a passport."

"Then th-this house," Whitney looked about him again, "isn't a prison?"

"Indeed, it is not, Mr Smith, for I do not have the authority to incarcerate you and the conglomerate financing your punishment do not wish to cause you permanent distress. However, those who wish revenge on Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney, do not have such inhibitions."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning that if you do decide to leave the sanctity of this property, I cannot guarantee your safety."

"You w-would rat on me?"

The lady showed distaste at the phrase. "I am not the only one capable of bringing about your downfall."

"My employer?"

"Yourself. Your features have not changed. Your fingerprints have not changed. Your DNA has not changed. Your vocal patterns have not changed – aside from your abominable stutter…"

Whitney felt like he'd been slapped.

"In today's modern world, individuals are forever being watched, and analysed, and data about them being recorded. Should this data fall into the wrong hands…"

Terrance Whitney – deciding that he'd better start thinking about himself as Al Smith – gulped.

His companion pretended not to notice his discomfort. "In this folder are all the documents you need to live a normal life – well, as normal as possible under your circumstances. License for operating an autonomous vehicle…" She shuffled through the papers. "Educational certificates… References. All fictitious, of course… Banking details… Supermarket membership, so you can order in your meals…"

"Could someone t-tamper with my meals?"

"Not if they don't know your birth identity."

"And if someone does discover that?"

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it."

This wasn't satisfactory, but Whitn…, ah, Smith's head was whirling so much that he didn't feel capable of pressing further. "Do I have to p-pay rent on this place?"

"That will be deducted from your wages."

"So, I am b-being paid for my designs."

"Of course. That is only fair."

Whi… Smith, wondered what was fair about all this. "If I ever have any issues, like the car breaks down and needs to be taken away for repairs, or concerns about my security, who to do I contact?"

"Me."

"How? I don't even know your name."

"And you shall not. Each room has a hidden button." An electronic device was handed over. "This mobile phone will show you where; when we have finished here and you are free to explore your living quarters. And there is an app in the phone that will send live audio and video to my agents, or me, should you need assistance when not in the house."

Al Smith accepted defeat. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"I have had many months to consider what should be done to negate your threat."

"I've never thought of myself as a threat."

"You were a threat to humanity. This is your opportunity to make amends."

"By doing what I'm told."

"Yes. And by creating inventions that you can be proud of… And now…" The lady stood. "I must depart. I have no doubt that you will wish to explore your new home."

Home? Was this supposed to be home? Al Smith remembered his comfortable home, last seen months ago, and felt dejected. It didn't matter how comfortable the place would be, the knowledge that he was virtually a prisoner in it, didn't make it feel like home…

Letting herself out of the building, and turning left when she reached the public footpath, the lady met up with her driver two blocks away.

He closed her door behind her and circled the car before he allowed himself into the driver's seat. "'Ow'd h'it go, m'Lady?"

"Very well, Parker," Lady Penelope responded. "Although I believe that Mr Smith will take some time to relieve himself of his 'stunned mullet' expression, as you might say."

"H-I'll bet 'e does…"

-I-R-

-F-A-B-

-I-R-

There were the gentle sounds of a piano playing when Lady Penelope walked into the room.

Jeff Tracy rose to his feet. "All settled, Penny?"

"Indeed, Jeff. My room is most comfortable, as usual. And how are you all?"

"Recovered… More or less."

The truth was that the day after Thunderbird Two had limped home, the head of International Rescue had issued a decree. Everyone was to take the day off. It didn't matter what happened in the world, or to whom, his operatives needed the time to relax, reflect, and recuperate. There had been some mild protests over how neither Thunderbird One nor Thunderbird Two were in optimum shape should their services be needed the following day, but Jeff knew that it didn't matter how pristine the craft were; if the crew weren't up to scratch they would be jeopardising more than the lives of their victims.

The fact that the protests had been so mild, and made more out of duty than real conviction, showed that everyone agreed with his decree.

And so, they'd relaxed and, once Brains had confirmed his diagnosis that all they needed was time to recover, enjoyed the blissful silence and stress-free world that was life on Tracy Island.

That was a week ago.

Since then Thunderbird One had needed some of her exterior panels replacing, but that had been completed without too much fuss. Thunderbird Two's issues were a little more serious, but by now, after some test flights, she'd been proclaimed to be as good as new and ready for the next disaster.

"How did Whitney settle in?" Jeff asked.

"You mean Al Smith," her Ladyship corrected.

"I do indeed."

"I do not believe that he was entirely happy with the arrangements, especially the change of name, but once I explained that, if he wanted anything close to the freedoms he knew before he released his broomstick onto the world, he would have to accept our offer, he became much more amenable."

"I'm sure he did."

Scott had been listening to the conversation. "Do you think we've done the right thing, Penny?"

Lady Penelope treated him to a delicate smile. "There is nothing else that we could do… legally. And even our choice of action is morally debatable."

"And…" John clapped his elder brother on the shoulder. "…we should get some return on our investment."

"Assuming that Whitney…" Alan grumbled.

"Smith," Gordon corrected.

"Doesn't just walk out of the house and disappear. Waste of money."

"You didn't have to sign up," Virgil reminded him, as he flicked through his music for his next piece. "Between the rest of us, we could have covered his expenses."

Gordon grinned. "And got an even bigger, fatter, slice of the pie when we sell his first invention. I wonder if there's any chance it'll be something aquatic."

Alan scowled. "Do you think I'm dumb enough to miss out on getting some form of justice from the little worm, when the rest of you are rolling in it? I just think that it's a shame the Epiprocta didn't tip sideways, when the passenger door was ajar, and his harness was undone…"

"Alan!" his grandmother scolded. "Don't talk like that. Don't even think it!"

"You weren't there, Grandma. You didn't have to deal the aftermath of his inventions. You didn't have to lean into a crumbling hole to stop Gordon from falling to his death. You didn't see John fall from a rooftop. You didn't have to watch Thunderbird Two go out of control and nearly get caught in her coffin corner. You didn't have to stick pocketknives into Scott."

As Scott's hand automatically stole to the site of the surgery, Tin-Tin gave her boyfriend a conciliatory hug. "We know it wasn't easy, Alan. But it is over now."

Brains polished his spectacles. "A-And don't forget that those inventions which we, ah, do not release into the public domain will assist International Rescue in the saving of lives, freeing me up to work on other live-saving machines."

"And if Al Smith were to walk out of the house," Lady Penelope reminded the youngest Tracy, "there is every possibility that he would have found falling from a hoverjet the easier, more humane proposition. However, I am confident that he is a coward and has been cowed enough by Villallobona to play by our rules. He gets the freedom to create, and we, along with several worthy charities, will get the rewards."

And Alan knew that he'd have to trust Lady Penelope. Not that even he was brave enough to do otherwise. "If he did walk away, would you let Villallobona's cronies know that Terrance Whitney was alive?"

Lady Penelope gave a light laugh. "As if I would. That fabrication was to instil even more fear into him…" Then she regained the predatory air that they'd seen back on the deserted island. "Unless he has not learnt the error of his ways and threatens the world and International Rescue again."

Her expression was enough to send a shiver of disquiet down the back of every person present.

Checking the timer on her pocket gizmo, Grandma got to her feet. "That's enough talk about dire predictions and possible threats," she warned. "Dinner is ready, and I suggest we all go and enjoy it without any conversations about Terrance Whitney, Al Smith, sonic weapons, or broomsticks."

"Darn," Gordon said lightly. "And I was going to ask Virgil if he could replace the handle on pod four's brush for sweeping. That's unless we find some genius to invent something better."

Virgil vacated the piano and headed in the direction of the dining room. "What would you call it?"

John chuckled. "The Dust And Muck Pusher," he suggested.

Already at the door, Scott beckoned them to hurry up. "Come on, fellas, I'm hungry."

"You always are."

"What's for dinner?"

"Something Grandma made just for you…" Gordon grinned. "Spare ribs."

He was grabbed by the collar by an unimpressed brother and dragged to the door.

With a light laugh, Jeff watched his sons go. Then he turned back to Lady Penelope. "Are you sure we've done the right thing, Penny? Smith isn't going to cause any more problems, is he?"

"You know that I cannot give you a definitive answer, Jeff, but you also know that I consider myself to be a good judge of character. It will be many years before Al Smith plucks up the courage to venture foot beyond the boundaries that he considers to be safe. By then, we will also know if we must continue to monitor him, or if we can let him go free."

"Thank you for all you've done for International Rescue on this one. Things could have turned out markedly different if it wasn't for you."

"I am proud to work for International Rescue, and I am proud to uphold their ideals. You can always count on me, Jeff."

"I know."

"Mr Tracy…"

"M'Lady…"

The couple turned to face the two men at the door.

Kyrano bowed his head. "Your mother is requesting that you approach the dinner table now, Mr Tracy."

Jeff gave him a sideways look. "Requesting or demanding?"

"She is being very forceful in her words."

"'E means demandin', Mr Tracy." Parker chuckled. "H-Along with a threat to give your share to your boys."

"Oh…"

Kyrano nodded his assent. "She is also concerned that you are preventing our guests from gaining nourishment."

"Not that I need nourishment…" Lady Penelope lead the way from the room. "However, we should not allow what I am sure will be a sublime meal to grow cold. Thank you, Kyrano. Thank you, Parker."

"Thank you, m'Lady."

And then the lounge was deserted. Silent aside from the squawking of the gulls, the purring of the breeze, and the gentle sounds of surf on the beach.

And Terrance Clementine Olivier Whitney was forgotten.

The end.