This story was written for the NFA "The Man (or Woman) From N.C.I.S. Challenge" (see link on my profile). Its original title was "The Dead Man Packing Affair" but I changed the title for here so people would know what to expect. It's finished and 6 chapters long, weighing in at about 6000 words.
This story is set in the late 1960s and reflects the camp plots of the Man from UNCLE / Get Smart / Batman era. They involved world threatening plots, ridiculous disguises and bizarre torture scenarios. If you are too young to have lived through these shows, take a moment now to give thanks. NCIS characters remain the same but Ducky is an ex-operative…and the FBI DOES exist to piss Gibbs off.
The Dead Man Packing Affair
Somewhere in the late 1960s.
A sleek silver convertible sports car pulled up silently on the almost deserted road. As its gull-wing doors rose majestically, a tall, dark, well-groomed man dressed in a black suit and matching tie leaped lightly from his seat. The car doors subsided again, almost as if the car had taken a huge sigh, but the man did not notice: his attention was clearly focussed on the unassuming diner across the road. He gave the proprietor a cursory nod as he entered and headed for the men's bathroom.
Outside the bathroom door another man slumped casually against the wall, his face obscured by the newspaper he was reading at close quarters. Similarly groomed as the first, he wore a black turtleneck sweater and matching black pants. As the first man swung the bathroom door open, the second folded his paper, tucked it under one arm and followed him in one fluid motion.
The second and sixth stalls bore the signs "Out of Order", but the warnings proved no deterrent. The duo entered their respective stalls and, in a single choreographed motion, flushed the toilets.
The cubicles swung a full 180 degrees depositing Secret Agents Anthony DiNozzo and Timothy McGee into the florescent peach-walled lobby of NCIS: The National Confederacy of Intelligence Services.
A dark-haired woman strode up to them impatiently. "You are late," she chastised.
"Still wearing that rainbow sweater, Ziva," Tony noted.
She bestowed a smile on him, "It will never go out of style."
"It already has…", Tony's comment was cut short by a sharp thwack to the back of the head from his superior, Secret Agent Gibbs, who had appeared from nowhere.
"Unlike the back-of-the-head slap," Tony continued, "that could really catch on, Boss."
"Chief's office: Now."
"Gentleman," Chief Shepard began, "you may have heard of a Harold Bates."
"Genius biological scientist who was killed last week," Agent DiNozzo confirmed.
"Tragic boating accident," Agent McGee added.
"Tragic: yes. Accident: no," Shepard replied.
"Ma'am?"
"Sit please everyone," the Chief invited, perching on the edge of her desk.
When they were all settled, she began her tale. "Harold Bates developed a toxin that could destroy the world's crops. The FBI was in the process of torturing him for the formula when he inexplicably died."
Her lips tightened. The FBI – the Federation of Belligerent Institutions (or Forces: Brute and Ignorant as the NCIS agents like to refer to them), would like nothing better than to wipe out the world's crops leaving themselves as the only suppliers of all life-sustaining food.
"Suicide pill?" Gibbs ventured.
"Most likely," the Chief agreed. "We have reason to believe he may have ingested a vial containing the formula just before he died but the family have refused to release the body. They do not wish an autopsy."
"Wouldn't the FBI have already done one?" Tony queried.
"Their search patterns indicate they don't have the formula yet. In fact, they may not even know its whereabouts."
"So how do we get a hold of it?" asked Tony.
"He is being buried tomorrow. We need you to attend the funeral and help recover the vial before the FBI finds out what we're up to. But be careful: you can rest assured Fornell and his men will be all over the place."
McGee blanched. "Recover the vial? Like, what? Ahh, cut it out?"
"Relax, Mr McGee," the Chief replied. "We've called in an expert for the actual extraction: Agent Ducky will be performing the honors. Your job will be to protect him and make sure he has the time he needs to get the job done."
"Won't the FBI agents recognise us?"
"Not if your disguises are good enough," the Chief replied.
"Disguised as?" prompted McGee with an anticipatory cringe.
"Hippies, Mr McGee," smiled the Chief with just a hint of enjoyment at his unease. "The funeral will be held at the local hippy commune. A is waiting for you in the lab. She has some toys that might make your life a little easier. Agent Ducky will make contact with you when you arrive."