Twist

By OughtaKnowBetter

Obligatory Disclaimer: the important stuff belongs to them. The unimportant stuff belongs to me. Sigh; the story of my life.

Note: my very great thanks to FraidyCat and Alice I, without whose help this story would be badly written and confusing. If it continues to be badly written and confusing, it's my fault for not taking their advice.

"You coming down with something, McDeath-Warmed-Over?" Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo looked over at his colleague, clearly wanting to deliver better lines and not at all certain that the junior agent was up to it. Aw, the hell with it. "McGee, right now you make bread mold look appetizing. You look worse than Tom Hulce did as Mozart in Amadeus in his death scene. You look—"

"Yes, we all can see how McGee looks, Tony," Ziva interrupted. She stopped to take a second look at the pitiful figure huddled in his desk chair. "McGee, you really do not look well. Perhaps you should take the day off?"

"Can't," McGee groaned, his voice emerging in a sore whisper. He leaned back in his chair, fists pushed into his temples to shove away the headache. "I need all my time off to work on my next novel. Gibbs'll kill me if I try to take another day off. It's not going well," he added peevishly. "I can't figure out how the corpse got into the pickle barrel."

"I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere, Timothy." Dr. 'Ducky' Mallard arrived in the bull pen of NCIS Headquarters in time to hear the last whispered line. His perusal was a bit more professional, peering into the junior agent's eyes. "Open your mouth; let me see your throat. Hmmm…yes. All appears normal, though perhaps a bit irritated and inflamed by overuse. Were you ill this past weekend as well?"

McGee managed a sickly smile. "Woke up with it this morning."

"Ah. Did you forget something, then? Your manners, perhaps?"

McGee froze. "Uh…"

Ducky glared. "Timothy, you promised to assist me with my plague-ridden computer this weekend. I told you that Mother had been browsing upon websites that a lady of her breeding and years had no business visiting, and that I required some sort of barrier to keep her from such scandalous behaviour! If you found that you were unable to keep our appointment, Timothy, the least you could have done was to call," he admonished, then he again peered more closely at the computer geek. "Have you a fever?"

"I don't know—"

Ducky applied his hand to the back of McGee's neck. "Not at all. Cool as the proverbial cucumber. Not that such entirely rules out the infectious process. There are a number of illnesses which are notable for their lack of pyrexia. Why, I remember a time in Rouen—"

"Ducky…"

Dr. Mallard turned to greet the newcomer to the group, one who had just walked in to join them. "Ah, Jethro. I was about to regale our young colleagues with a tale of interest. Director Shepherd," he added in welcome to the small woman beside the silver-haired NCIS team leader. "This might intrigue you as well. It takes place in a small town in France, not far from the Belgium border—"

"I'm sure that it's very interesting, Dr. Mallard," Jenny Shepherd smiled, "but I'm afraid we have some urgent business. I need you and Gibbs in my office to discuss it."

"Me?" Ducky raised his eyebrows. "Director, I don't recall anything of note for the past several months. My patients tend not to complain, though some are quite vigorous in their efforts to inform me of their secrets. Why, I have a fellow waiting for me right now—"

"And he'll have to wait a bit longer, Ducky," Gibbs broke in. "The Director's office: now." Then he paused, staring at McGee. "McGee, you look like crap. I don't think I've ever seen you with a hangover."

"It's not a hangover, boss," McGee hastened to say. On the spot, he chose to take advantage of his voice's lack of volume and commitment. "It's…Maybe I'm coming down with something. Laryngitis, something like that. I'll be okay," he added quickly in an unconvincing hiss. "I just need a cup of coffee."

"Tea," Ducky contradicted, "tea with plenty of lemon and honey. Just the thing for restoring the vocal chords that have been done in by illness—or by shrieking various barroom ditties and the like at the top of one's lungs," he said pointedly. "I was in Argentina several years past, in a small bar not far outside of San Carlos de Bariloches, with a band of loutish caballeros, and I learned this remarkable—"

"Right. See to it, McGee." Gibbs turned to Jenny. "Your office, Director Shepherd?"

Jethro Gibbs took a moment to study both of the other people in the office. Both imposed significant impacts on his life, and in very different ways.

Jenny Shepherd had been a damn fine field agent, paired up with Jethro Gibbs, and he had done his damnedest to keep her alive during the learning process. It had worked: she was now the Director of NCIS. Probably the best looking one he'd ever seen; the majority that he'd worked for tended to be white-haired old men, men whose athletic reflexes had slowed with the years but whose minds were still as razor-sharp as ever. Some he'd respected and some…well, there were a few that he hadn't minded when they moved on to greener pastures. Jenny, now…there was a story, and one that Jethro didn't particularly care to revisit. Not that he didn't cherish those times, but it was best not to remember them too vividly when he was discussing business with a woman who could fire him. Red hair, big eyes, and slender figure that belied her ability to break someone's nose; yeah, Jenny Shepherd was a fire that could scorch him if he didn't watch himself. Jethro Gibbs didn't need wife number four, not when he had Jenny Shepherd for a boss.

He'd known Dr. Donald Mallard for even longer. Gibbs had forgotten for exactly how long, but he had worked with the man long enough to know that the majority of the long-winded stories that the medical examiner told had more than a grain of truth to them. Ducky had grown up in Scotland, and plied his trade in many areas of the world, not all of them particularly civilized. Gibbs had a tremendous respect for the man, for both his skills and his character, and the doddering old gent on the verge of retirement was an act that Gibbs appreciated it every time he caught a blue twinkle in his friend's eye.

Jenny Shepherd knew it, too, and she had less patience for it than Gibbs at the moment. No sooner had the trio seated themselves in the comfortable chairs in her office but she punched up a dossier onto the screen of her computer. She swiveled the screen around for Gibbs and Ducky. "Recognize him?"

Ducky did, immediately. "That is Ali Abu Hakseem Ansarad, Chief of an area of Afghanistan, near Ghazni. A bit older than I remember him, but the years advance for us all." He focused on Director Shepherd. "Your point, Director?"

"My point, Dr. Mallard, is that he is coming here. An official visit, to strengthen relationships between not the main Afghan leadership, but between some of the outlying tribes in the mountains that separate Afghanistan and Pakistan," Jenny informed them. "He will also be speaking to several prominent groups here in Washington. That is," she added dryly, "assuming that he believes that trip can be made without him being assassinated."

"Assassinated?" Gibbs looked up. "Someone out to get him?"

"When it comes to Middle Eastern politics, someone is always out to get someone else," Jenny reminded him. "Ansarad is no different. I could name several groups who would like to see him dead, starting with the Taliban and moving all the way through the Ku Klux Klan."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "The Klan knows he exists? I didn't think that they bothered much keeping track of politics outside of U.S. borders."

"Probably not, but I doubt that would stop them," Jenny agreed. "The point is, Ansarad is demanding protection; and, given that there have been at least three attempts on his life in the past year alone, I don't blame him."

"Not a bad idea, Director," Ducky told her. "It doesn't matter who the perpetrator is. Ali is a force for good in his country, and it is in our best interests to support him and his cause."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ducky, because you are about to participate in that effort," Jenny replied, keeping her smile small.

"I?" Ducky was nonplussed. "Director, it has been a number of years since I have routinely contemplated any field work, and I never excelled in the area of protection. No, my talents have always lain in the realms of medicine—

"You are going to persuade Chief Ansarad that he will be safe during his visit to Washington, Dr. Mallard," Jenny interrupted. "He's already said that he would come, but only if NCIS was responsible for his safety, and that you, Dr. Mallard, would oversee the details. For some reason, he seems to trust you."

"Yes. Well, there was that time in Kabul…"

Ducky seemed puzzled, thought Gibbs; puzzled and worried. This time the medical examiner trailed off, not meandering into the next story. "Ducky?"

Ducky shook his head. "This is all quite flattering, Jethro, quite flattering indeed seeing as how it comes from Ali. We originally met in London; I was finishing my medical studies and he was completing his own education in the geological sciences. I visited him some years later and spent some time teaching medicine to one of his sons and a few cousins. He would never let me plan any security arrangements when we spent time together, always insisted that his chief bodyguard do the honors. A clever fellow, that bodyguard, though not quite clever enough. I heard that he passed on in an unfortunate manner several years ago. Director Shepherd, I have no idea who Ali employs at present as his chief bodyguard."

"I do." Jenny punched up another file on her computer. "Iftihar Chelid, a fifth cousin to Ansarad. Fairly young, but he's been successful at keeping Ansarad alive for the past six years."

"Little Ifti?" Ducky's eyes lit up. "The lad was only five when I last saw Ali. I'm glad that he's made something of himself, though I worry that he's selected such a dangerous profession. Yes, I recognize the eyes," he said to the room at large, peering at the head shot on Jenny's computer. "He's grown into a fine-looking lad."

He brought himself back to the problem at hand. "When does Chief Ansarad arrive in Washington?"

"Day after tomorrow, which means that you and Gibbs had best get to it," Jenny told him. "Keep him safe, Ducky, Gibbs."

"We will, Jenny," Gibbs reassured her. "We will."

Ziva set a steaming hot cup of tea on McGee's desk. "McGee, you really do appear to be ill. You should go home. Gibbs will understand."

"Thanks, Ziva," McGee whispered. He picked up the cup and sipped at it. "Ow. That's hot. But good," he added. "Sweet."

"It's the honey," Ziva told him. "It will bring your voice back."

"It certainly is soothing," McGee agreed, his voice already sounding more solid. He glanced over to the stairs that led to the Director's office. "I wonder what they want with Ducky."

"Speaking of whom, you'd better do whatever it was that Ducky wanted you to do," Tony advised. "What was it, again, that convinced you to brave the gauntlet of the Welsh Corgis from hell?"

McGee winced. "Ducky's mother. Internet. Not a good mix. He wanted me to set up some child locks on his set up at home. It seems that his mother keeps letting in various viruses that lead to websites of ill repute." He winced again. "I can't think of what happened this weekend. I think I worked on my novel all weekend long, but I can't figure out why I forgot what I promised Ducky. I didn't get that far in my writing." He took another sip of the tea, color seeping back into his face. "Maybe I really was coming down with something. Maybe I fell asleep, and didn't realize it." He shook himself. "Reports. Got three of 'em to finish, and they're a lot easier to write than a murder mystery. They don't have plots to be concocted." He offered a weak grin. "At least something will get turned in, even if it isn't the next Great American Novel."

Ziva wasn't finished. "McGee, what is that on your wrist?"

"My wrist?" McGee looked at what the Israeli officer had spotted, pushing back the cuff to his shirt. "Just a bruise. I must have banged it, and forgotten all about it."

"Perhaps." Ziva shook her head, dismissing the topic. She glanced up toward the stairs that led to the Director's office. "Back to the original question: what do Director Shepherd and Gibbs want with Ducky?"

"What event is coming up on the Washington scene that Ducky might be involved in?" Tony asked. "Getting invited to the White House? Earning a Medal of Honor for Scalpel-Wielding?"

"That's it!" McGee said suddenly, sitting straight up in his chair. "A scalpel!"

"McGee, I was kidding. No one—"

"No, I mean the scalpel! That's how the corpse got into the pickle barrel!" McGee beamed.

"You're planning on cutting up the corpse into pickle-sized pieces in your next novel?" Ziva's face showed what she thought of that idea. "That would take an inordinate amount of time, even for a fictional character."

"No, Ziva." McGee was patient. "He uses the scalpel to pick the lock to the barn door."

Tony stared at the junior agent. "I'll wait until it comes out in paperback."

"I may be Ali's primary contact on this detail, Jethro, but I shall leave the planning of this monstrosity to you," Ducky said. "I cannot imagine why Ali has insisted that I be involved. I would be satisfied to share a meal with him and leave it at that."

"Probably because he believes that you can be trusted," Ziva observed. "That is very important to men of his stature. Trust is a sacred bond between you."

"Yes, I must agree, my dear." Ducky sat back in his chair. "However, I suppose I should at least appear to know what it is that I am approving, in case questions are asked. Explain this to me, Jethro, if you would."

Gibbs was well aware of his team, huddled in the bull pen. "McGee?"

McGee put an itinerary up onto the large LCD screen so that they all could see the same thing. "Chief Ansarad will arrive on a military jet at 1500 hours tomorrow," he told them, as if they couldn't see the information pasted on the wall. "The U. has taken the responsibility for transportation back and forth between Kabul and Washington. We'll greet him at the Naval Yard and take over security at that point. He will only have three people with him: his bodyguard Iftihar Chelid, and his two wives, Nadya and RoseMarie."

"RoseMarie?" Ziva raised her eyebrows.

"Formerly Lieutenant RoseMarie Lundquist," Ducky explained. "The lieutenant was an Army nurse. They met during the aftermath of a Taliban raid, and apparently fell in love. I understand that Ali was quite taken with her; she was the first woman that he ever actually courted. His first two wives were arranged marriages, to cement tribal relationships in the area. His first died in childbirth many years ago, and he is currently left with RoseMarie and his senior wife."

"She deserted?" Ziva asked. "The lieutenant, I mean? In order to marry him?"

"Not at all, my dear. The lieutenant served out her tour, returned to America to tidy up her affairs, and then emigrated to Afghanistan where she wed Ali. There is no evidence that the marriage is anything but happy, although I do understand that there is a bit of friction between our lady and Ali's senior wife. The former lieutenant doesn't seem to see the role of the lady in Afghani society with quite the same viewpoint."

"They'll be staying at the Hotel Ambassador, near the White House," Gibbs told them, bringing them back to the topic at hand. "We've taken over the top floor, with the Navy providing additional support at the stairs and at the elevators. Nobody gets onto the floor without our knowing about it. The danger points will be the transport between the Naval Base and the hotels where Ansarad is scheduled to talk."

"We've set up a caravan." Tony took over. "We've got an armored stretch limo, and we'll have an escort before and after. Gibbs and Ducky get to be inside the limo with Ansarad and his two. I'll be in the lead car, Ziva will take the back. McGee gets to monitor the satellite feeds, looking for anything along the way for a head's up."

Gibbs handled the next part. "Ansarad is scheduled to speak at several functions: there's a convention of businessmen, eager to set up corporations in Afghanistan, and Ansarad is eager to get their money and the jobs for his people. Next, he'll attend services at the Mosque Kashul Khan Khattak and meet with the elders of the community."

"That may be the most dangerous item on the agenda," Ziva observed. "Do all of his countrymen feel as he does?"

"Doubtful," Ducky said. "There are many factions, all of whom wish to rule, several of which may be represented at the mosque. Jethro?"

"DiNozzo, that's going to be your job," Gibbs said. "Get a list of everyone associated with the mosque and run them through the database. Figure out if there's likely to be anyone with a grudge. Let's identify 'em before Ansarad gets there."

"Me, boss?" Tony made a face. "Why not McGee? It's computer stuff."

"Did I ask for your advice, DiNozzo? Do I need your permission to assign the members of my team?"

"Uh…no, boss."

"I have other plans for McGee," Gibbs informed them.

"Me?"

"You, McGee. Ansarad's last speech will be to a collection of congressmen. We'll be coordinating with the Secret Service on that one."

"Got it, boss."

"Good, because we're not going to have that kind of support at Ansarad's first speech," Gibbs said. "It's just us and a few Marines. McGee, you've got twenty-four hours to come up with a schematic that covers all exits and allows for adequate supervision of the target. Figure out how somebody could sneak into the hotel to take a potshot at Ansarad, then plug the hole."

"If anyone wanted to assassinate Ansarad, why choose to do it in front of a dozen congressmen?" was Ziva's thought.

"True, but that speech is going to be more difficult to get to with a sniper rifle. They'd have to get a bead on him through a window, and I don't think that there are many windows with the right angle. Not with a line of sight to the stage where he'll be speaking."

"I could do it."

"I'm sure you could, which is why we've got the Secret Service coordinating with us," Gibbs said. "I'm sure that a whole hell of a lot of people could, so McGee, I want you to tighten up whatever schematics the Service comes up with for that event, too. But first, plot out security for Ansarad's first talk at the International Businessmen's Trade Association dinner. That comes first, and we don't have a lot of support for that one. Ducky?" Gibbs turned to the medical examiner.

"Jethro?"

"Meet with your satisfaction?"

"More than adequate, Jethro," Dr. Mallard told him, playing the doddering old gent to the hilt, "especially considering that I have no idea what is going on."