An attic in a house overlooking the docks

Marseille, France

August 28th, 1998

Jenny contemplated the discordant vitality of the docks.

Their briefing had been thorough, and she'd been prepared for a grimy picaresque city riddled with drug dealers, street urchins, and pushy street traders. For a city where motorists had no respect for street lights and people rode their motorcycles over the pavement instead of waiting in traffic. But she hadn't expected Decker to place them in a brothel – even if in retrospect it was the perfect place for a stakeout, because with so many people coming and going all the time it was easier to be inconspicuous.

She wondered how many pats on the back Will had given himself over it.

A raspy sound drew her attention to the back of the attic, and she took the opportunity to look Gibbs over.

"Anything going on?" he asked without turning round.

"Bessie's being solicited," she said as she watched a buxom brunette amble towards the front door with a man in tow. "Again. Business is good today."

He grunted his amusement and went back to cleaning his gun.

Although the op had been touted as a training opportunity for her, the veneer had been thin. And Gibbs was no fool. He'd been cleared for duty, but apparently that duty only extended to photographing undesirables, not chasing them.

She had refrained from asking how he was feeling; unwilling to draw attention to the fact that he might be struggling or that he might be unhappy with the assignment. He would never admit to either, anyway. She was, however, starting to recognise the signs of a man well on his way to caffeine withdrawal. She shuddered slightly and turned back to her observations. Hoping that nightfall would bring a respite from the cloying August heatwave.

Unusual even by the region's standards, apparently.

The Lebanese trawler sat innocuously in the water, and not for the first time since they'd arrived Jen wondered which one of the men on board was their operative; and which one of the drifters hanging about on land was, too. The international and cultural intersections burgeoning on the docks created a diasporic atmosphere; making it impossible to distinguish between crew and locals. In many ways it felt as though nobody seemed at home at all in this port of exchange.

She didn't envy Decker his job one bit, she concluded.

"Get some rest. It's going to be a long night."

A finger tip grazed her shoulder blade briefly as he spoke. Pushing her to try and figure out when touching had entered the equation of their interaction. She was almost sure she'd started it when she'd brought him the first coffee he'd been allowed after the contamination debacle. A gentle hand on his arm as she'd placed the cup in front of him.

He'd reciprocated with a hand to the small of her back as they'd left the ship a few days later, and she was sure they hadn't stopped touching since.

Fleeting touches. Inadvertent to onlookers. With no sexual overtones or undertones that anyone could pick up on. But definitely an indication of their growing awareness of one another, albeit on a subconscious level.

She touched his elbow as she sidestepped him; wondering briefly as she lay down on the bed how much havoc being cooped up with him in such confined quarters was going to wreak on her control.

Night time brought no respite from the heat.

Gibbs let his eyes travel over his supine companion. She'd barely stirred in the few hours she'd been asleep. Something which told a story all its own - because she'd proved herself a very light sleeper on other occasions, and they were currently in a very noisy place. None of his wives had ever done well in extremely hot conditions, and he was sure Jenny wasn't any different. Although she hadn't complained, he doubted sitting behind a window in direct sunlight for a few hours had done her green eyes or her fair skin any favours either. He was debating waking her up when movement on the dock caught his eye. He had just finished training the camera lens on someone walking up the trawler's gangplank when he heard her stir and shuffle over towards him.

"Pickings must be lean if they're going on board," she observed as she settled on a box next to him. She squinted slightly. "Looks like Gracie," she added with a muffled yawn.

Gibbs smiled, amused all over again by the fact that she'd named all the working women.

"How long did I sleep?" she asked as she looked at the watch on his wrist. "Oh." Her eyes widened as she got her answer. "No wonder my head hurts. Want me to take over for a bit?"

"Sure."

"I'll just freshen up a little first, if that's okay."

Gibbs groaned inwardly as he understood the implications.

Being stuck in an attic doing surveillance meant no bathroom, and consequently no easy access to running water. Like all the women he'd ever known, Jenny obsessed over perspiration – and being stuck in an airless attic under the beating sun all day had done nothing to alleviate her concern. She'd stopped short of asking him whether she smelled bad, but the worry had been evident every time she'd used some of her drinking water to catwash discreetly.

He was carefully affording her a little bit of privacy when the smell of champagne and strawberries wafted across the room. A quick glance in her direction confirmed that she was applying his favourite body lotion. Again. Although this time around she was slathering it all over her arms and legs too. No doubt to hydrate skin that had started drying out. He shook his head minutely. Wondering if there was some way to tell her that if she put on any more of the stuff he was going to start to climb walls.

Or jump her.

The smell wrapped itself around him as she settled back on the box. Causing him to wonder if she even realised how strong the smell was.

Just as well they weren't on the streets, he thought wryly.

"Gibbs .." The tone of voice as she picked up the binoculars to get a better view drew him back to the task at hand. "That's not Gracie."

Intel had suggested the trawler would be the venue for a delivery – although it had been unclear what time it would happen, who would be picking up the consignment, or even what it was.

"There's the package," Gibbs said as he zoomed in on the man following the unidentified woman.

It was easy to see why Jen had confused her with Gracie. The lights of the dock bounced off the woman's hair, making it look garishly yellow, and she certainly looked the part. Most likely an attempt to blend in and not attract too much attention to herself, or her companion. Jen watched the pair melt into the darkness of an adjacent street; her eyes scanning the area for any signs of the operative who would be on their trail.

As she expected, he was nowhere to be seen.

Despite the stuffiness she shivered.

Things had happened fast, and she'd seen more of the woman's back than her front, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this female was a lot more than a mere go-between.