THREE
Ten hours after the future of International Rescue had been debated; Scott and Virgil found themselves doing what Scott and Virgil did best.
The loud thump of metal on metal echoed down the non-descript hallways as the heavy door opened with great force and swung erratically on its hinges before bouncing back in the direction from whence it had come.
Scott deftly avoided facial injury, steadied the door with both hands: "Ladies," he gave them his trade-mark winning smile, "International Rescue at your service. If you'd come this way please."
The trip to the surface was uneventful and the Mole showed no indication that a few hours ago, a large proportion of it had been in pieces scattered around the Service Bay Floor. The twelve women, tourists trapped in an underground bunker during an explosion at an old war museum, warmed themselves with heated blankets and hot drinks.
"Any injuries to report?" The radio crackled to life with the sounds of an anxious brother. Virgil was clearly not content to remain on the surface assisting local authorities with clearing the rubble.
"Negative, Firefly. All on board are A-Okay." Scott could see where he was coming from; the Mole was a two man operation but that discussion was going to be for the debrief, not the danger zone. "ETA surface, three minutes. Over."
"FAB, Scott. I'm almost done here. RV Thunderbird Two in five minutes." There was a pause. "Over."
Scott stifled a grin.
If this rescue was anything to go by, Virgil was struggling to keep his communications concise and relevant, in line with John's new radio protocol. He was clearly concerned for Scott's safety but whether that was because he was operating a two man machine single-handedly, because the Mole had only been back in action a matter of minutes before the Rescue call came in or because he was surrounded by women, Scott wasn't entirely sure.
"FAB, Mole standing by."
Once levelled out and on the surface, Scott used the push-button mechanism and the doors obediently opened. He nodded sporadically as his passengers alighted, offering him various words of gratitude.
He was taken aback when a hand reached out to activate the doors again and they closed with another hiss.
"Hey!" Scott came up short when he registered the firearm pointed at his head. The woman was slight in build, a scarf covered the majority of her face which Scott was adamant wasn't there when he'd pulled her from the bunker. He was tempted to tackle her but her stance, coupled with the glint in her eyes, told him she could handle herself. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Getting your attention." Her accent was crisp. British. Like Penelope's.
"Okay, you've got it," Scott replied, attempting to calculate her reactions. "Now, what do you want?"
"Just a moment of your time," she returned his shrewd gaze. "Remember a man called Kasim Tamplar?"
Scott frowned. He did indeed remember but he wasn't prepared to give too much away. "Kasim Templar? You're not working for him; Terrorist Organisation don't recruit women for this kind of thing." He narrowed his eyes. "And I thought all terrorists were chauvinists by definition. Did I miss the regime change?"
The creases at the corners of her eyes wrinkled and he deduced from that she was smirking behind her scarf.
"You missed the question." Her voice relaxed a little. Her stance did not. "He's the man responsible for manufacturing weapons grade uranium in Sierra Leone. Specifically, he's the one you informed the World Security Council about."
"Ahh, I remember that," Scott feigned sudden memory of the incident: they'd inadvertently stumbled across a processing plant whilst rescuing a family from certain heat exhaustion in the Sahara Desert. "Well, technically, we didn't blow that whistle."
"No," the woman returned. "You got someone else to do that for you. Unfortunately, Tamplar has a little more intelligence then you give him credit for. Sources indicate he holds International Rescue responsible for the World Security Council commandeering his processing plants. He feels you're liable for the loss of a lot of his capital."
Scott refocused on the barrel of the gun. Safety on. "And you're telling me this because… You're not going to shoot me, and he didn't strike me as an equal opportunities kind of guy. So I'm guessing you're in some way related to the WSC." He paused to give her time to confirm or deny but she did neither. "What exactly do you want here?"
"I just want you to be aware," her tone remained neutral, not particularly aggressive or defensive. "There will be a third world war and Kasim Tamplar will be at the heart of it. We have reason to believe that he's planning to offer the secrets of International Rescue in exchange for asylum." She glanced around her surroundings, derision in her eyes, "We were hoping his offer was a little premature."
"And by 'we' you mean?"
"Interested parties."
"I see." Scott's mind was working overtime. "You must have reason to believe there's some truth in this?"
"Well, it would be favourable for him. He blames your organisation for his current position. If he managed to infiltrate your Security procedures," She stopped to look around scathingly, "if you can call them that. He can ruin International Rescue and assist Russia by using your technology to take control of Vorva. Not only would he have asylum there, it would be the most powerful country in the world." She looked directly at Scott to check he was taking all this in. "Two birds, one bullet."
"You think he's going to make a move to gain our technology?" Scott looked her up and down as if making a judgement call. There was more, he decided. "What else do you know?"
"I know every Intelligence Organisation in the world has some form of team dedicated to International Rescue. The Germans have made attempts before to discredit you by using the Urdman Gang. They would have had a second attempt but their operation was stopped by a joint task force intervention. I know if Kasim Tamplar wants to find you, he will use those Intelligence Organisations until he does exactly that. Our sources suggest he's already started targeting Spanish and French operatives seconded to teams dedicated to International Rescue. Four out of the six currently based in Southern France have been found dead. You shouldn't underestimate him." The woman looked around her and then indicated to the gun in her hands. "And, the fact that I'm standing here with a loaded gun to your head and no bullets in me, tells me your Security Protocols could do with an in-depth review." She let out a sigh of disbelief and rebuked: "You really are very lax."
Scott scoffed at her. "What makes you think you're safe?" he attempted to bluff.
"You have no intention to challenge me; your weight's equally distributed, legs relaxed. CCTV cameras are centred on the console, not on entry and exit points so I doubt anyone even knows I'm here. Your radio contact is an open net, so I'm perfectly aware that I've got a five minute window before anyone will realise you're not where you should be." She hesitated for effect. "Would you like me to go on?"
"Maybe I'm not challenging you because I'm not threatened."
"Unlikely. You're carrying a weapon but you didn't even attempt to draw it when I closed the door. Possibly because I'm a woman and you don't perceive me to be a threat, or possibly because you have no intention of shooting me," her eyes wrinkled again, "those aren't necessarily mutually exclusive concepts. Maybe you're tired, or maybe…" she drew her words out, "you're just a little slow."
Scott's eyes narrowed again and he flicked his vision away from her, allowing a scoff to escape his lips. "I'm not slow. Trust me, if I'd wanted to…"
"Five minute window. No time to argue. So be quick, why didn't you shoot me?"
Scott hesitated, affronted by her words and her attitude. "I… Gut feeling, I guess."
"Guesswork's not good enough. You need to be more proactive;" she warned seriously. "If I had been working for him, whatever my gender, you'd be dead and I'd be at the controls of this machine."
"Which you couldn't operate." Scott pointed out.
"But I've got all the time in the world to work it out; the doors open from the inside, I can have a team of scientists and engineers here within minutes and the only person in a position to stop me, just bled to death on the floor."
"You don't know there aren't an army of other operatives outside this door," Scott challenged.
"You've spoken to one throughout the whole rescue. What makes you think I'm not going to shoot him as soon as he opens the door?" She raised her weapon up and down, indicating Scott's uniform. "Lacking in body armour too so the balance of probabilities wouldn't be in your favour."
"Well, thanks for all that security advice." Scott replied sarcastically.
"You're most welcome," she shrugged, not at all phased by his facetiousness. "Move around," she waggled the gun until Scott was in her position and she was in his, close to the door. "We just want you to be vigilant; he is a threat to you and he will make a move. In the current climate, it's highly likely whatever course of action he takes, it will be imminent; you must be aware."
"So you're expecting me to trust what you say but you haven't even told me who you are."
She reached a hand to her pocket, retrieving a small item. "Let's just say we owe you a debt, and we're repaying it."
"Your accent's British, are you MI5?" Scott continued to guess when she offered no response, hoping she'd give something away, "MI6? CO 8?" She didn't even flinch. "What makes you think we don't have our own Intelligence Team?"
"Give Lady Penelope my regards."
"Even if I knew someone called Lady Penelope, to do that I'd need to know who you are," Scott allowed his lips to pull upwards, just a fraction, in the belief he'd outplayed her.
"I was part of one of those dedicated teams I spoke of earlier." She reached the hand with the gun to the push button that would open the doors and with the other, threw a small silver object in Scott's direction. "I'm the one who worked it out, Scott."
XxxxX
A slither of light under the closed door was the only indication of activity against the dark, still hangar housing Thunderbird 1. Virgil hesitated, drew in a deep breath and raised a hand to knock. He didn't wait for an answer.
At the sharp tap, Scott looked up from his desk in time to see Virgil entering the room, balancing two tumblers and a Whisky bottle as he closed the door behind him.
"Hey, what are you working on?"
Scott hastily hid the programme on the screen, leaving only the International Rescue insignia in the centre. "Nothing." The reply was too quick and he followed through with a shrug which wasn't nearly half as carefree as it should have been. "Nothing important; Dad's new radio protocol." He leaned back in his chair and attempted to change the subject. "Tin-Tin been given you lessons in accessorizing or is that for us to drink?"
Virgil let out a gruff laugh, as he placed both glasses on Scott's desk and carefully poured a generous amount of amber liquid in to each one. He pushed one along the desk in Scott's direction, before scooping up the other glass and depositing himself in a leather chair.
There were a few seconds of silence.
Scott pre-empted what was coming and made a move of diversion.
"You thought any more about what you're going to do?" He asked over the rim of his glass.
Virgil gulped a mouthful of Whisky, "I've thought about nothing else." He rubbed blearily at his eyes. "I'm dreading this meeting." He took another mouthful, savouring the burn.
"Have you made a decision?" Scott pressed.
"No," Virgil replied, his tone evidencing just how irritated he felt at that fact.
"Dad talked to John," Scott kept the conversation ticking over, successfully avoiding the true purpose of Virgil's visit.
"Yeah, John told me. He agreed he was a little hot under the collar." A smile began to spread across Virgil's face. "The Tracy Family Mafia!" he sniggered. "I think even John sees the funny side of that now." But then he sobered as he thought on, "Fact is he's got a point," he sighed. "However we proceed, the political and legal consequences of our actions could have a massive effect on us and the rest of the world. That's one hell of a responsibility."
Scott was nodding, agreeing with his brother one hundred and ten percent, "Dad's been talking to the World Security Council again today. They're reluctant to offer us any form of support." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Apparently, it's for our own protection; they have concerns that Russia would perceive us to be an ally of theirs, thereby basically making us targets for the Russians."
Virgil groaned, "That's a heap of crap."
"Made worse," Scott continued as if he hadn't even heard, "by the fact that Chevlock won't agree to any immunity for International Rescue. His attitude was, enter Russian air space and pretty much expect to get shot down."
There were a few moments of companionable silence as they both thought through their respective dilemmas.
"Which kind of surprises me," Scott thought aloud. "You'd think if he's making attempts to gain our technology he'd be encouraging us into Russia, not shooting us down."
He raised his glass to his lips and then stopped half way there, realising what he'd just said. God his brother was good.
His eyes flickered to Virgil, unsurprised to see a smile tugging at the corners of his brother's lips.
"You know you've got to let this go, Scott." Virgil gestured to the screen, predictively taking advantage of the opening he'd just created.
Scott examined his glass for a few minutes more. "Dad's radio protocol?" He played innocent, not yet prepared to surrender totally. "I don't think he'll see it that way, Virg."
Virgil was tired of the charade. "Knock it off, huh?" he leaned forward in his chair. "That radio protocol's already on Dad's desk."
Scott smiled, holding out a little longer, "You've seen it? What do you think?"
"I think that if you're not working on a report for Dad at this time of night, whatever you are working on must be pretty important." He raised his glass, one finger outstretched towards the screen. "What's behind the screensaver?"
For a moment Scott looked like he'd argue but then he slumped in his chair, finally defeated. "You know Dad had Brains and John working on that memory chip she threw at me?"
Virgil nodded but didn't interrupt.
"Well, Brains finally managed to decrypt the files on it. He traced them to a public library in Paris. As far as computer geek stuff goes, that's where they originated. He can't find anything hidden on the chip." Scott sighed, eyes lingering far too long on the whisky bottle still on his desk. "It's a dead end."
"Maybe you're over analysing this. Maybe it really is just a data chip with newspaper articles on." Virgil could see from his brother's expression that he didn't share that view. "Has Penelope managed to identify her? Did my sketch help?"
"Nope." Scott shook his head dejectedly. "Nothing. Not surprising really, considering most of her face was covered and the only CCTV stills we managed to pull were of the back of her head. I should've taken more notice of her face," he berated himself. "She was right there the whole time but there was nothing special about her, nothing remarkable." He heaved a sigh, "Except she did a damn good job of never giving us a clear shot of her face."
"Who do you think she's working for?"
"I have no idea," Scott scoffed. "Penelope confirmed several Intelligence Communities have teams dedicated specifically to us, but nothing we didn't know about already. She can't identify … the woman. Penny doesn't think she's working for British Intelligence but she can't rule it out."
"Hmm," Virgil sipped at his whisky. "Then I guess, maybe," he tried to stall, "you have to consider that …" he opted for Scott's imaginative title, "The Woman … was wrong."
"No," Scott was adamant. "There was something about her. She believed what she was saying and the files on that data chip correspond with what she said too. Kasim Tamplar is mighty unhappy with International Rescue."
"And the WSC and Interpol and the UN and just about any other law enforcement agency you'd care to name," Virgil butted in.
Scott carried on regardless, "He has means and motive to go after us. He's just waiting for his opportunity and this war is one prime opportunity for him." He brought his glass up to his lips again and then hesitated as a thought struck him, "Or maybe he's thinking up a way to create the opportunity."
"Scott, none of those things means that she's right," Virgil opened his arms, inviting debate. "Her theory is just one of a number of theories. Spies are being killed around the world."
"Who work on teams dedicated to us," Scott countered.
"Being a spy is a dangerous job; Penelope will tell you that. They do a lot more than investigate International Rescue, I'm sure there are plenty of other things, equally as likely that people would kill a spy for." Virgil shrugged. "You know the risks when you take the job."
"They were tortured."
"Did you listen to what I just said?" Virgil tried to laugh and shake off some of Scott's focus. "They were spies; it doesn't mean International Rescue is linked to it in any way."
"They were tortured for information, Virgil," Scott wasn't convinced. "Information about us, about International Rescue. It's too much of a coincidence that they were all working with teams dedicated to us."
"Okay, let's put this in to context here," Virgil sat back, whisky glass resting on one knee. "Four out six, that's what? Sixty six percent of French and Spanish Operatives have been tortured to death within the last month from a team dedicated to International Rescue. How many other spies have been killed within the last month? What percentages of those have been tortured?"
"I don't know." Scott admitted with reluctance.
"Are there any other common denominators between these four operatives? Have they worked together on an operation before?"
Again, Scott was reluctant, "I don't know."
"Okay," Virgil went on, "Have they ever …"
"I get the point, Virgil!" Scott snapped, interrupting his brother's trail of logic. He took in a deep breath and controlled himself. "But what she said makes sense. Besides, she knew my name. We have to identify her, if nothing else, she poses a security risk."
Virgil bit his lips together, giving himself time to formulate the correct response. "I said your name across the radio, she probably picked it up from there. I promise I will follow correct radio procedure in future." He attempted to alleviate that tension but it didn't work. "Scott," he said softly, "we have no other evidence that she knows anything about us."
"She knows about Penelope." Scott wasn't giving up. "And, she told me."
"Yeah, she also told you we'd be targeted by a madman and that hasn't happened yet has it?"
"Not yet."
"She said the risk was imminent. It's been ten days," Virgil was confident. "Gallium and Russia are on the verge of war, if Kasim Templar was going to make his move he'd have done it by now. He's still wasting away in a jail cell in Luxembourg awaiting trial." Virgil could see his words weren't having much effect. "We've tightened up security; Brains has installed the security updates on the Thunderbirds nearly eight weeks before we were scheduled to…"
"I know."
"We've got retina scanners, palm scanners, CCTV, emergency lock down codes…."
"I know."
"Automatic lock down of idle systems…"
"I said I know!" Scott let out a frustrated growl. "I just… I feel like we should be doing something else."
"Like what?" Virgil paused but only for seconds. "Scott, we're doing everything we can." He assured his brother. "Why can't you just let this go?"
"There's something about this, Virgil." Scott heaved a heavy sigh, and swivelled in his chair towards the screen. A flick of a key brought up Virgil's sketch of the woman he'd encountered. "My gut just won't stop churning."
XxxxX
"Scott?"
"Scott? Wake up."
A rough nudge to the shoulder, and he let out a groan. His tongue felt like it was double the size it should be and the taste in his mouth was vile. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation … hmm, he thought, maybe he'd had too much scotch last night and fallen asleep at his desk. Another groan as he started to stretch out his cramped muscles. In fact, now he remembered it, he was pretty sure his office chair wasn't this hard or dusty, or …. Humid.
"Scott? You okay?"
"Virgil?" Consciousness was returning slowly and he peeled his eyes open to reveal a dimly lit room with light brick walls and a dusty floor.
Training kicking in, Scott surveyed his surroundings, spying one door and one window, both with bars, and heavy duty locks. Not too much scotch then. Besides, he realised, the whisky he'd shared with Virgil had been three days ago now. "What the hell …. " he was cut off mid-sentence as a wave of nausea flowed over him. "Oh God…"
"You okay?" Virgil repeated.
"Yeah, yeah, I think so," Scott grimaced at his aching muscles. "You?" He tried to look towards Virgil, who was kneeling at his side and leaning over him. In what little light the window let in, Scott could see he balanced awkwardly as if he was manacled to the wall with one leg turned outwards at an odd angle. Belatedly, he realised he was in the same situation himself.
"Same. A little busted up but I'm okay." Virgil replied, slipping his legs from under him and slumping to the floor. "Beginning to wish I'd trusted your gut though…"