Chapter 4

Tim was aware of two things when he lurched back towards consciousness; one was a pounding headache and the second and more urgent was the need to locate a receptacle in which to vomit. Thankfully someone, probably Dr Wilson, had left a large stainless steel basin on the floor next to Ducky's couch. When he finished throwing up he took a few minutes to allow his nausea and vertigo to settle. The only light illuminating his present abode was the blue fluorescent glow from one of the x-ray viewers in autopsy. A glance at his watch informed him that it was approaching ten pm and from the absence of Dr Wilson or Jimmy watching over him he deduced that everyone had gone home.

He felt worse than lousy and not just physically. As the nausea settled his memory kicked back into full gear and the awful realisation of his monumental failings swamped him. He flexed his injured hand and embraced the pain as due punishment for attacking Gibbs; in light of all his other transgressions. . .again his rebellious stomach betrayed him, though he had nothing left to bring up.

"I need to get away. . .before I do any more damage," he whispered aloud, but there was no one to hear him but his own guilty conscience.

Even standing was a challenge but he forced himself to his feet, not allowing himself any further show of weakness. Picking up his jacket and bag he staggered towards the elevator, praying that no one would be there to question him.

The squad room was deserted; the only sign of occupation was the illuminated lamp on Gibbs desk. Even the on-call duty officers' desk on the far side of the bullpen was empty. Tim checked his own desk; his gun and badge were in the top drawer and someone had shut down his computer. He clearly hadn't been fired yet but he knew it was only a matter of time. He snorted at the irony of it. Time, loss of time, was what had got him into this mess and now time was ticking away, counting down till the moment his world would finally collapse around his ears; a process long and slow in coming but as inexorable as death.

He really didn't want to examine the almost overwhelming feeling of relief that it would finally all be over. Giving up wasn't in his nature, wasn't what or who he was. . .but knowing that there was an end in sight, even an ending he had fought so hard to prevent. . .all he felt was relief.

He was tired. So very, very tired. So tired his bones ached, even his hair, his breath, his thoughts. . .ached.

He was too tired to go home. Too tired to drive, too tired even to call a cab.

He couldn't face another uncomfortable night in the lunchroom but surprisingly his tired mind conjured up an alternative. At the opposite end of the balcony to MTAC and the Director's office were three on-call rooms for the night duty staff. Two were in regular use; only during periods of increased alert were three agents rostered for night duty, so the third room, closest to the elevator and therefore more noisy was generally unused.

Not even bothering to switch on the light, he dropped his bag and jacket on the end of the unmade bed, locked the door against intruders and slumped down onto the bare mattress, sinking at once into deep but troubled sleep.

Agent McGregor. . .no, he couldn't call himself an agent anymore. . .that privilege had been snatched away from him in the wake of his most recent and most spectacular. . .failure. It had never been his intention to betray the team but he had. Tibbs would be in the hospital for weeks with his jaw wired in so many places that he could only take nourishment through a straw and only talk with his hands. And the rest of the guys; Tommy, Lisa and even Amy, were not even a team any longer. They had been so angry at the team being disbanded that they had each, in their own way, threatened him with bodily harm if they ever caught up with him.

He didn't blame them. If he had the courage he would do the decent thing. . .a bullet to the temple or a handful of pills would erase his treachery and free them to put themselves back together, as they should be. But he wasn't that brave or noble. His life was crap, everything he valued had turned to ashes but he was too much of a coward to die, at least by his own hand. . .but he could disappear.

One of the many things Tibbs had taught him was that anything was possible, that with the right preparation, the right expertise it was possible to do anything, fool everyone, even the system. He had the tools, he had the knowledge and, thanks to the environment he worked in, he had the means. . .

Tim woke with a groan, the dream still so vivid that for a moment he wasn't sure who or where he was. He had spent so long in McGregor's head over the last few months that sometimes he wasn't sure where Tim McGee ended and Agent McGregor began. His current manuscript was not going well, he and McGregor were too close and McGregor wanted out. Night after night at the keyboard trying to solve the dilemma. Chapter after chapter written, re-written, discarded, replotted until finally all the night-time hours of research were coming together. Tim now knew how to get McGregor away, how to create a whole new identity. McGregor's life was over and now he had to escape. . .and if it could work for McGregor then it would work for Tim. He had the tools and the expertise; he could even access a new readymade identity along with all the necessary documents. With a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in a long time Tim locked away his emotions and started to put his plan into action.

Working through a still pounding headache wasn't easy but at least the nausea had gone. Stopping only to get a cup of coffee from the vending machine, Tim settled at his desk in the deserted squadroom and made himself a checklist.

His first task was to retrieve a pouch of documents from Gibbs' filing cabinet. At Gibbs's insistence all the team had to have two or three sets of false documents on file in case they needed to go undercover at short notice. Tim had three; Thomas Scott, Travis Murray and Albert Ross. Tim chose the last one, smiling bitterly to himself to recall how the irony of the name had been completely lost on Tony and Ziva, but Albert Ross suited his mood and his disposition perfectly. . .if ever there had been an Albatross weighing down the team it was him. With the package in hand he powered up his computer and worked his way into the personnel records and deleted the requisition for the creation of Albert Ross; anyone examining the file would see that Agent McGee had two sets of documents on file to correspond to the two sets in the cabinet.

With his new identity stashed in his shirt pocket, Tim's next task was to remove all of his personal data from his Pc and from the network. He downloaded all the work related files and shortcuts onto one data stick and his personal files onto another then triple scrubbed the hard-drive using his own programme. When he was sure all of his private information was gone he reloaded the work files and removed all the security passwords so that his successor could access them.

His next task was to deal with his car. The Porsche was too conspicuous for him to use it and he was in no state to drive but he needed to keep it safe. At present it was in the underground staff garage; if he couldn't drive it off the Navy Yard than he would have to hide it in plain sight. Taking the back elevator down to the parking garage he retrieved it and with utmost care drove it down another level and punched the keypad to give him access to the Vehicular Evidence Storage Area; one level below the evidence lock-up it was a secure area where vehicles held as evidence in ongoing cases were stored. Backing the Porsche into a numbered space between a battered pick-up truck and a blood-spattered white van, he popped the trunk and disconnected the lo-jack system. Finally, he retrieved a tarp from the storage area and covered the car and walked sadly away.

From the computer in Abby's lab he pulled up the evidence files and inserted a fictitious case number in the evidence log to correspond to the bay number in the garage; it wouldn't fool anyone for long, especially if a random evidence audit was called, but Tim was betting on no one looking too closely. Next he accessed the security surveillance system and with a few keystrokes deleted the evidence of his recent actions.

Going back to the squad-room, he realised that dawn was fast approaching. Leaving his weapon and badge in the desk drawer and his field jacket and cap on the back of his chair, he retrieved a few personal items from his desk. With agents and the early-shift janitorial crew beginning to arrive, Tim slipped away without notice into the pre-dawn twilight, taking one sad final glance at the view of the city over the Potomac. He still had some admin tasks to sort out but from that moment on, in his own mind, Special Agent Timothy McGee ceased to exist.

On Thursday evening when Gibbs finally emerged from MTAC it was late and the bullpen was empty. There was a note on his desk from Dr Wilson to let him know she had signed out for the evening, reassuring him that McGee was fast asleep in Ducky's office. There was a P.S. at the bottom informing him that the alcohol and tox screen she had run on McGee's blood had come back negative.

Grabbing two coffees from the vending machine in the lunchroom, Gibbs, headed down to Autopsy, unsure how the upcoming meeting with his youngest and most troubled agent would play out. Autopsy was deserted, the only sign of McGee's presence, an empty soda can and a bowl soiled with vomit. He tried McGee's cell but it went to straight to voicemail. Cursing up a storm Gibbs drove to McGee's apartment in Georgetown but got no further than the concierge, an ex-marine who was not in the least intimidated by the irate and bruised agent.

"I can assure you, Agent Gibbs, Mr McGee signed out at 06.00 on Wednesday morning and has not returned since. . .not that I was expecting him to. He had plans for the weekend and was intending to go straight from work this evening."

"And when do you expect him back?"

"He left word that he would be back late Sunday evening. . .we like our residents to notify us if they are going to be away for more than twenty four hours, purely voluntarily, of course. That way we can ensure the security of their premises. Mr McGee has always been most diligent in this regard."

"And you are sure he has not been back here in the last couple of hours?"

The concierge tapped into the keyboard and turned the monitor towards Gibbs." As you can see we have a very sophisticated security system. These are the access logs. . .Mr McGee has not entered via the garage entrance nor has he come through the foyer. No one has not entered his apartment. He is not here Agent Gibbs."

"I need to see his apartment!"

"I can't let you do that. Not without a warrant. Our residents expect total privacy. It was one of the reasons Mr McGee chose to live here. . .I understand in his old apartment it was too easy for unwanted visitors and over-enthusiastic fans to bother him."

"Dammit! I'm afraid he's ill!"

"He's not here, Agent Gibbs, and if he were he has an emergency call button and an intercom to call for assistance."

Gibbs growled out his frustration but admitted defeat. He pulled out a business card form his jacket. "Please, when he comes back, tell him to call me. Tell him it's urgent."

TBC

A/NApologies for the delay in posting. . .blame it on the season ;). May thanks to those who are following the story. Feedback is always treasured and very much appreciated