Beta credits go to steamfan. She's branching out from random commas and missing speaking tags and moving into misplaced paragraphs. Good betas are a joy to have. :-)
Past and Present Affair
Chapter 8
by Myrina and Uncle Charlie
The rain had started to let up as the NICS van pulled into the near empty parking lot. Just as DiNozzo had described, the limo sat abandoned, its doors open and expensive interior exposed to the elements. Not far from it, black shapes formed unnatural lumps upon the asphalt. Gibbs braked the truck to a hard stop, nearly sending Tim through the small window and into the front of the vehicle. Still, the young special agent had enough presence of mind to keep his comments to himself. Gibbs was not in a joking mood.
Gibbs barely managed to set the gear in park before jumping out and running the motionless forms. Nearing the closest, he reached out and caught himself. Years of training and he'd nearly grabbed the body without remembering protocol. Thankful Ducky wasn't there to notice his near faux pas, he quickly donned a pair of latex gloves and knelt down. He blinked involuntarily as the flash from Ziva's camera blinded him. Carefully, as to not disturb the scene, he pulled the cloth from the body's face. It wasn't DiNozzo. Releasing a breath he didn't even know he was holding, he glanced over at the second shape. McGee was kneeling beside it and glanced up as if he felt Gibbs's gaze upon him.
"It's not Tony, boss," he said.
"Then who is it?" Gibbs reached into the nearest pants pocket and pulled out a wallet. "This one is a Maurice Govan. New York driver's license." Gibbs dropped the wallet into a plastic bag and began a systematic search. "And he's armed. Looks like a Walther P-5."
"Same here," McGee held up the weapon for a moment before bagging it. "This guy is Lenard Fredricks, also with a New York City license." McGee flipped quickly through the wallet. "Nothing else except credit cards and some cash in his wallet."
"Bag and tag," Gibbs said, his hands still searching. Something in the breast pocket of the corpse's jacket stayed his hand and he reached in, pulling out a small leather business card holder. He flicked it open and immediately closed it. "McGee, help Ziva with the limo."
"But, I haven't had-" McGee stopped when he realized the agent didn't care. "I'll go help Ziva, boss." While it went against all his training to do so, Gibbs dropped the small case into his jacket pocket and left the one body for the other. True to form, this one also carried the same leather wallet in the same pocket. It joined the first and Gibbs flicked up an eye to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all busy with their own tasks. Palmer, he noted, had found them and was beginning his cursory examination of the bodies.
"How'd they die, Duc-" Gibbs suddenly choked off the word. Three head swiveled in his direction, but he made no excuse for his lapse. "Palmer, how did they die and when?"
"As to how, that's pretty straight forward, single gunshot to the head, double tapped in the heart. Won't know which hit them first until the autopsy, but whoever shot them didn't want to take any chances of them surviving." He reached for the liver probe. "Couldn't have been all that long ago though, rigor has just started to set in, so less than four hours." He pulled out the probe, squinting at it in the low light. " And liver temp says, between 1900 to 2000 hours."
"Never knew what hit them," Ziva murmured as she snapped another photo.
"Why do you say that?" Gibbs questioned.
"These men were Singleton's bodyguards, but neither of them drew their weapons. They were either very inexperienced, which I find unlikely given Mr. Singleton's standing, or they were taken by a sniper. Ambushed most likely. If I'd been running the op . . . two men, maybe three. One with a sniper rifle long range and the other two on the ground, close range to handle mistakes and to get the bodies out of the way quickly. We saw Ducky and Singleton get back in the limo. They did not know that the bodyguards had been eliminated and that others had taken their place."
Gibbs stood and faced his agent. "Who would have that sort of expertise?"
"The CIA, FBI, Marines…" Ziva started to tick possibilities off on her fingers.
"The Mossad," Gibbs interrupted.
"Excuse me?"
"Your father's blood was found on the inside of that briefcase. Has it even occurred to you that he might have ordered this hit as a means of covering up his association with Singleton's group?"
"Um…that's not likely, boss." McGee interrupted. As Gibbs turned his head in McGee's direction, the agent visibly flinched. "I just mean, if it was the Mossad, they would have more than likely just killed everyone. Singleton seemed to know Director David. Kidnapping Singleton doesn't buy the Director anything, especially if we still have the evidence. And wouldn't the fact that all three are missing seem to indicate something else?"
"And that would be?"
McGee swallowed hard. "Ah…not a clue."
"Not the right answer, McGee."
Tim opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut when he completely blanked under Gibbs' hard stare. Tim really wished Tony was there. The other agent had a gift that McGee knew he lacked for both diffusing Gibbs' temper and getting the senior agent to see other possibilities in a case.
"Gibbs, over here," Ziva called, having edged away from the two men. She took a shot of a lead pipe, one end stained with something dark. "Looks like blood," she offered, taking another shot of it. "And there's this." The tiny camera that had been mounted to Tony cap lay in a multitude of pieces, like some sort of jigsaw puzzle. "If the Mossad had been here, they would have shot Tony, not knocked him over the head with a pipe."
"Makes sense, boss," McGee said, softly. "Add that to some of the stuff they were saying about Ducky. I think we're looking at another party."
"Then who?"
"I don't know, but I'm going to get these back to the office and start running tests."
"I will check my Interpol contacts and see if they can offer anything helpful. By the time we get back, we should also have something on the search I initiated on Greer." Ziva straightened up and started to walk back towards the van.
"Could I get a hand over here?" Palmer's voice stopped her. He'd managed to get the bodies into bags, but now had the problem of loading them onto the gurney. McGee waited for Gibbs' nod before trotting over. Gibbs walked back to the limo, staring into the rear interior of the car.
"Where are you, Ducky?" Gibbs muttered, reaching in to the limo and pulling out the man's umbrella.
NCIS-MFU-NCIS
Lilacs, why was he smelling lilacs in the fall? was the first thought that tumbled through Ducky's mind as he gradually pushed past the throbbing drumbeats in his head towards wakefulness. That and his pillow was ungodly hard. He tried to plump it up, but his arms wouldn't work.
Old indoctrinated training kicked in and ignoring the pounding headache and the urge to just keep his eyes closed and enjoy the darkness, his mind snapped, Enough! Ducky's eyes popped open and he stared at darkness until he realized it was his former partner's leg that his head was pillowed upon. One mystery solved, he tried to move his hands again, but to no avail. A little manipulation of his fingers and he could feel the handcuffs that held his wrists firmly together. Great, just like old times. He struggled upright and glanced around the immediate area, squinting slightly. Whoever had captured them apparently thought his glasses were a danger and removed them. It was an inconvenience, but nothing more than that.
An examination of the room revealed very little. He and Napoleon were in a small cement room, he'd wager a basement of some sort. There was a door at one end and not much in between. It gave him a place to start, if nothing else. Ducky flexed his shoulders backwards, trying to work his hands down and behind his legs, but his joints, once so flexible and able, were now stiff with age. Short of popping a shoulder out of its socket, that course of action wasn't going to work for him anymore.
Instead, he turned his attention to his fallen comrade. "Napoleon, wake up!" The man murmured something, shifted slightly, but remained unconscious. "Napoleon, come on, we've got to get out of here." Still there was no real response. Ducky sighed and glanced around before leaning very close to Solo's ear. Deliberately putting a small tremble in his voice, he said, "Napoleon, help me." The silvered head bobbed once and then came up, hazel eyes blinking in the low light.
"What? Illya, what's…never mind." It only took Solo a mere second to register what it had taken Ducky minutes to. "Hmm, we seem to be captured, how unlikely is that, us being together and all? From the smell of the cheap perfume and the god-awful pounding in my head, I'm going to say THRUSH."
"It was lilacs, not cheap perfume. Although I will agree with THRUSH. No one makes knockout gas with quite their thoroughness . . . or aftereffects."
Napoleon struggled from his slumped position to sit more upright until he and Illya were sitting shoulder to shoulder. "At least with repeated exposure to the stuff the nausea goes away. Getting hit the first few times with their latest concoction is always . . . unfortunate. Rather like-" A clang sounded beyond the door and Ducky shook his head quickly. Immediately, Solo fell silent as a trio of men entered.
"Just like old times, isn't it?" The center man slapped his hands together and laughed out loud. "I couldn't believe my good fortune." He took a few steps closer as both of the older men struggled to their feet to stand, their movements hampered by the handcuffs pinning their arms behind them.
"Hello, Greer, what a surprise this is," Solo said, amicably. "Seems like just yesterday I was signing the sanction for your death."
"Yes, well, stories of my death have been largely exaggerated." Greer's grin widened, "As have yours, Mr. Kuryakin."
Ducky didn't permit himself to respond to the name until Solo nudge him. "I think he's talking to you, Dr. Mallard."
Ducky affected one of his more absent-minded looks – the one that used to send young Gerald hurrying from Autopsy. "I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Mallard, Dr. Donald Mallard. I'm a ME for NCIS."
One of the men flanking Greer frowned. "Why would a crop service need a doctor?" he asked.
"What?" Ducky shook his head in disgust. "Not National Crop Insurance, you idiot, Naval Criminal Investigations Services. I'm a medical examiner for the Navy."
"Is that right? And you were having dinner with Mr. Solo here because?"
"I was having dinner with Mr. Singleton," Ducky said, stressing the name. "I do not know a Mr. Solo. NCIS recovered a body the other day on which I performed the autopsy. Mr. Singleton, here, provided the positive identification. We got to talking and discovered we had quite a few things in common. We went to dinner."
"You just went to dinner," Greer repeated, his voice amused and faintly mocking.
Ducky made a sound of annoyance. "Yes, dinner. Look here, I don't know who you are, or who you think I am, but NCIS will be looking for me when I don't show. You really should let us go."
"Bravo, Dr. Mallard. That was quite the performance. But I say you're Illya Nichovetch Kuryakin, former Number Two of UNCLE's enforcement section."
Ducky's eyes rolled and his lips curled slightly, a gesture that had never failed to annoy those subjected to it. "Prove it."
"Ah, I can't by ordinary means, as Mr. Kuryakin's DNA, finger prints, even dental records are not a matter of record. However, there's a much easier way." Greer turned to the two men. "Cover me. If he even flinches, shoot Solo, somewhere non-lethal, preferably." The man walked up to Ducky and spun him. He grabbed Ducky's shirt and yanked it clear of his pants. "Why do you wear a tee shirt, Dr. Mallard?"
"I'm an old man, I get cold."
"I think it's something else." Greer tugged on the shirt revealing Ducky's back. Long white scars were interlaced up the surface of it. "I think it's to hide the scars that you got as an UNCLE agent. I think it's so no one will even know what Mother Fear did to you." At the name, Ducky pulled free from Greer and turned back around, staring at the man. "I was young," Greer said, "but I never forgot, Mr. Kuryakin. I stood there and I watched."
There was something in the way that Greer said the word watched that turned Ducky's stomach. Meeting Greer's eyes he studied the other man, seeing the confirmation of that assessment in Greer's eyes. And as easily as he'd fallen into the fiction of the affronted Dr. Mallard, he fell back out again and something almost imperceptible changed.
Beside him, Napoleon shifted slightly on his feet. He'd noticed the transformation, even if no one else had – call it a change in the way Ducky stood or the way his head cocked slightly to the side or just a spiritual connection, but Ducky Mallard was now no more than any of the other thousands of disguises that his partner had worn over the years. Battered, bruised and more than a little annoyed that his hands were cuffed behind him, Napoleon felt the old rush of adrenaline and knew with bone-deep assurance that if anyone was going to be dying today, it wasn't going to be him or Illya.
Chill blue eyes narrowed. "You were deprogrammed," Illya said.
"We weren't 100 percent successful with that," Napoleon murmured. "It was okay until some of them hit their twenties and then the deprogramming started to slip. Most noticeably in those that the Psych teams said would probably have ended up as criminals even before they met Mother Fear. Greer was one of the few that got through the cracks and made it back to THRUSH."
"And now it will be my pleasure to hand you back to them." Greer stepped away from the men and slapped his hands together again. "And now for another reunion of a sort, and I think you'll like this one, Mr. Solo. We have another friend of yours as a guest. Bring them, and if one of them makes a break for it, shoot the other one in the knee."
They were led down a short hall and past three closed doors until they entered pipe-lined room. Hanging from an overhead pipe was an unconscious dark-haired man, his face tipped forward so that they couldn't identify him. "Not only do I have UNCLE's leader and its former Golden Boy," Greer boasted, "I have Mr. Chambers as well."
"Who?" Ducky mouthed to Solo who in return shook his head slightly, until one of the gunmen pulled the head upright to reveal DiNozzo.
"Um, you made a mistake, he's not with me," Solo said, and caught a backhand across the mouth for his efforts from thug #1 that caused him to stagger back several steps. Ducky took a step towards the man and then stopped as a pair of guns swiveled towards him.
"Nice try, Solo, but he was armed, following you, and wearing an expensive camera and communications set up. Not to mention, THRUSH updates say the brand new New York CEA is dark haired, about late thirties or so, and about 6'3". I say if it quacks like a duck, then it must be a duck. Chain them to that pipe." Greer indicated a section of pipe running a few inches off the floor. "We'll let them sit and visit until our friend shows up."
"Friend?" Napoleon inquired.
"Highest bidder, if you will then." He smiled at both men. "Turning over Chambers is going to get me a promotion." He patted Solo's cheek fondly. "You're going to make me a wealthy man, Mr. Solo." He turned to Ducky and the smile grew even bigger. "And you're going to make me a freaking legend." He turned and began to walk out. "By the way," he called over his shoulder to his men, "never, ever let your eyes leave Kuryakin for a moment until he's securely chained. He's a slippery bastard."
MFU-NCIS-MFU
Gibbs led the way out of the elevator and headed straight for his desk. Dropping off his Sig in the drawer, his hand brushed against the leather wallets and he flicked up a quick glance to see where his agents were. McGee was missing from his desk, probably still logging in the evidence recovered at the scene. He had no doubt the younger agent would be back at his desk soon. David was on the phone, cradling it against her shoulder as she accessed her own computer.
Slamming the drawer shut with unnecessary force, he strode from the room, his destination Abby's lab. As he boarded the elevator, he let it drop a floor and then punched the 'emergency stop' button. Here was about the only privacy he had while in the building. Reaching into his pocket he pulled the top wallet out, flipping it open with one hand. A yellow-gold card stared back at him – a globe with a figure off to one side. No name, just a phone number on the back. The other wallet revealed exactly the same thing. Short of calling the number, this was just another dead end. He stuffed them back into his jacket pocket and punched the elevator back into operation and made the rest of the ride in silence.
Music blasted from the lab even through the glass doors and Gibbs winced at the noise. Behind the glass Abby paced back and forth, her hands flapping and her mouth moving. Obviously she was having yet another one-sided conversation with her machines. As if aware of being watched, she looked in his direction.
Are you okay? he signed through the glass. Abby, her black eye-liner smudged and streaked under her eyes as if she'd been rubbing at them, shook her head violently no. Entering the lab, he had only a few seconds to brace himself before Abby launched herself into his arms. "Oh Gibbs, tell me you found them."
He held her close for just a second, and then set her firmly back on her feet. "We haven't found them yet. McGee should be bringing you the trace from the scene as soon as he finishes logging it in. Highest priority, Abs."
She fixed him with that hopeless look that always tore him up inside. "What if you don't find them? What if they're-" she bit down on the word, unable or unwilling to give it voice.
"They're still alive, Abby." Gibbs told her.
Abby jerked her hand in his direction, the multitude of silver bracelets on her wrist clinking with the movement. "How do you know?" she demanded. "You can't know. You're just trying-"
"I know." Gibbs interrupted firmly. "Whoever grabbed Singleton wanted him alive. You saw the video feed. They were happy to have Ducky with him and they said to bring Tony along. If they'd wanted them dead, they would have killed them at the site. They're alive. We just need to find them. So, what do you have for me, Abs?"
Abby's face took on a mulish expression like she didn't quite believe him but she spun back towards her computer monitors anyway. "Everything and nothing. If you type in 'JFK Conspiracy' in Google, you get back over 240,000 hits. If you type in 'UNCLE Conspiracy' you get just over 202,000 hits. There are thousands of websites and chatrooms and blogs all dedicated to proving or disproving the existence of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement aka UNCLE. The problem is that I can't substantiate any of it."
"What do you mean?"
She hit a few keys and a website appeared on the monitor. In the corner, the logo he'd seen on the yellow cards slowly rotated. "This site says that UNCLE maintains a fleet of black helicopters, has their own satellite network, and are running special ops out of a hundred year old farmhouse in Kansas."
She hit another few keys and a dialogue box appeared on the screen. "This is an underground chatroom. Right now, there are over two hundred people logged in either chatting or reading the chats. The problem is that everything is just conjecture. I'd have more luck trying to prove the existence of Doctor Who"
"Who?"
"Yea, the Doctor. Well, Ten, although he's not going to be around for much longer. He's regenerating soon and I'm really gonna…"
"Abby!"
"Sorry." She tapped another series of keys. This time a list appeared on the screen which Abby started to scroll down. "Most of these are just throw-away sites like that first one I showed you, but there are a couple that caught my eye." She clicked the mouse and an image sprang to the screen. Again, the logo of the globe with a figure off to one side appeared. "This one looks official, but it's selling life insurance."
Abby moved the mouse and clicked again. "This one has cheesy graphics, but it reads right. It's trying to push UN policy, but even it isn't completely right. I mean, even if you took away the totally second-rate graphics and programming, the site is filled with grammatical errors and broken links. It's like it was written and maintained by a sixth-grader." She turned, but Gibbs was already gone. "I hate it when he does that, she muttered, going back to her computer. "Promise me that you will never leave me like that." For its part, the hard drive just continued to whir.
MFU-NCIS-MFU
Gibbs walked through the glass door into autopsy, and just for a moment he saw Ducky standing there, hovering over one of the two naked bodies and then Palmer's head bobbed up. "What do you have for me, Mr. Palmer?" He moved closer to glance at the dissected chest cavity of the cadaver.
"These guys were in really great shape. Well, besides having three slugs in 'em. They had to be part of some sort of organization." Palmer flipped up his face mask so he could see Gibbs without the plastic interfering.
"Why do you say that?"
"The conditioning on both of the bodies was similar, like they shared a gym program or something similar." Palmer pointed to the shoulder of the closest one. "This guy took a slug in his shoulder a while back. The scar tissue is still fresh, but this is really interesting-" He walked to the second body and lifted the man's arm. "This guy apparently has been held captive multiple times. Look at the scarring on his wrists."
"What would make that?" Gibbs leaned closer for a better look. Palmer held out a magnifying glass which Gibbs waved away.
"Dr. Mallard would probably know – he always seems to know a lot about the various ways that a body shows evidence of restraints and torture – but I'm guessing rope because of the softer edges to the scars. Metal would tear more evenly and make a cleaner cut."
"So both of these guys have seen action."
"A lot of it, judging from the scarring I've found on the bodies. I sent body and tissue samples, along with prints, up to Abby for analysis, but haven't heard anything back yet." Gibbs turned and started to leave, but Palmer's voice caught him. "I'm sorry, Agent Gibbs."
"Sorry?"
"That I can't be of more help. I know that Dr. Mallard would have been able to make more conclusions and probably even told a story or two…"
"We're gonna get him back, Palmer." Gibbs let his voice take on a gentler edge. "Tony too." His phone rang and he caught it on the second ring. "Gibbs."
"Boss, we got something on Greer."
"I'll be right up. Good work, Mr. Palmer." Jimmy raised a hand in a good bye, but Gibbs had already stalked to the elevator.
MFU-NCIS-MFU
McGee allowed his attention to wander for a moment as he sensed Gibbs' approach. A rapid keystroke and a photo and rap sheet appeared up on the plasma screen. "Felton Greer, career criminal. You name it, he's tried it. Arms dealing, weapon smuggling, slavery, extortion, there isn't a crime he hasn't tried. FBI, CIA, CID, Interpol, Scotland Yard, they all want him. He's currently here on a forged Swiss passport, and no matter how many times he's been caught, he's managed to wiggle out of it, usually with big money backing him. His last suspected address was in Harlem, but when the place was raided, they figured he'd been gone at least two weeks."
McGee tapped the keyboard again and a second photo filled the screen. "Steven Eager, local strong arm. Dishonorable discharge from the Army two years ago. Metro fished his body out of the Potomac about an hour ago. Similar bullet pattern to the two bodies we have." A grainy still from the video feed that Tony had provided before he was taken appeared on the screen next to the mug shot of Eager.
"We've identified him as the man in the jeans and hoodie," Ziva said. "Obviously, Greer hired him to assist with the killings, possibly to provide DC specific information and contacts. If the three gunmen theory is correct, he would have been the third man. When his usefulness was no longer required, he was removed as a witness." She swept her hair from her face before crossing her arms defensively over her chest. She knew how sometimes the others regarded her past experience. "That's what I would do. The fewer mouths, less the chances of a drip."
"You mean a leak?" McGee asked after replaying the sentence in his head.
"Leak, drip, whatever. This Greer is obviously the cautious type. We know he knew Singleton and was aiming for him. He seemed to recognize Ducky but was not expecting him to be there. But why take Tony?" She sat down on the corner of her desk. "Unless they think he's someone else too. I mean, he obviously made a mistake with Ducky, so why not Tony?"
McGee's phone rang and he snatched it up. "McGee. Okay, we're on our way." He stood. "Abby's found something."
NCIS-MFU-NCIS
The three walked into Abby's lab just as she was setting down one of the recovered weapons. Snatching a large cup of Caf-Pow from Gibbs she started to suck greedily upon the straw. For a long moment, they waited until Gibbs was fairly certainly the young woman's eyes were about to roll back into her head from lack of oxygen.
"Okay," Abby said when she finished her first desperate drink. "I was testing the weapons that you collected from the crime scene Gibbs, and noticed something very strange. As you know, law enforcement agencies register their weapons."
"SOP," Gibbs said.
"Agreed." She held up one of the two Walther P-5's. "So why isn't this gun registered? Anywhere?" She set it down and moved back to her computer. "Not even the manufacturer has a record of either of these weapons. In short, they don't exist."
"That's impossible," Gibbs said, picking one up. He checked the chamber for a round before pointing the unloaded weapon at the wall.
"Exactly, and check out the slide action, there on the side."
Gibbs did as Abby directed, his thumb fitting easily onto a small slide lever build into the gun. It wasn't anything he'd ever seen on a Walther before. Actually, it wasn't anything he'd ever seen on any weapon. "What does it do?"
"I have no idea." Gibbs was tempted to laugh at Abby's obvious delight with that bit of mystery. Her curious soul loved when she discovered some forensics puzzle she'd never run across before. "It has something to do with the magazine cartridge. Set one way, the gun fires normally. Set the other way, bullets won't fire."
He showed the gun to Ziva who shook her head. "I've never seen anything like it. Some kind of odd safety?" she guessed.
"Don't think so," Abby said. "I'm thinking that it works with some kind of alternate magazine but I have no idea what that would be. Also, notice the screw attachment holes." She pointed at the gun. "Here, here and here. No idea what attached there either, although if I didn't know better, I'd swear that this piece" -- she pointed to raised bit of metal on the top of the gun barrel -- "is a base to attach a rife scope. Although that makes absolutely no sense on a handgun."
Dismissing the unexplainable for now, Gibbs asked if she had anything else.
"One last thing," she said, walking over to the table where three shoulder holsters lay. One obviously had come from the desiccated body of Novell, but the other two were newer although made along very similar lines. "These bad boys were the shoulder holsters off our bodies."
"So?"
"So, Gibbs, I'm not done!" She paused for effect. "I checked the wear on the inside of the holsters and just following a hunch, I checked Novell's as well. All three patterns are the same. It's safe to assume that the weapon missing from Novell's holster was a P-5 or something very similar to it." She moved from the table back to the computer. "However, unlike the weapons, I got a manufacturer on these. Very exclusive, very high end and a very, very discreet customer list."
"That you were able to hack into – alright, Abby." McGee gave her a playful hug, then immediately retreated at his superior's glare.
"And guess who one of their clients is?"
"Hargrove Imports," Ziva guessed. "But why would a simple import company have to go to such extreme methods?"
"When it's a cover for something else," Gibbs said, turning to leave. It was time to have a little chat with his Director.
MFU-NCIS-MFU
The Director's secretary looked up at Gibbs approach. "You can't go in there, Agent Gibbs. She's on the phone." Cynthia tried to slow the man down, but one glare sat her back in the seat. She punched the intercom in an effort to at least alert her boss of his arrival, but the Director's hand hadn't even gotten halfway to the toggle before Gibbs burst through the door.
"Do you mind, Agent Gibbs?" Jenny Sheppard had shared considerable time with the man. She was more than aware of his volatile temper, his frequent outbursts and his less-than-conventional approach to his job. Some days it was the only thing that kept him employed; others it was a near reason for his dismissal. He slammed the door behind him to the point of where pictures danced upon the wall.
"As a matter of fact, I do, Director. I want answers and I want them now." He brought a fist down against her desk and she stood, meeting him eye-for-eye.
"Your temper tantrums won't work with me, Jethro!" Her voice was tight with control. "You want something, you ask for it . . . politely. Or get the hell out of my office."
Gibbs took a deep breath before taking a step back from Jenny's desk, but his voice was no less angry when he spoke. "The point of asking was a long time ago, Jenny. It was way before two of my men, one of them a good friend, were kidnapped and taken God knows where. You know, don't you?"
"Where they are? Don't be ridiculous?" She kept the desk between them. She knew Gibbs would never hurt her, but she hadn't gotten this far by being casual about her own personal safety.
Gibbs pointed to the door. "UNCLE. Singleton works for UNCLE."
"UNCLE? What's that?"
"Wrong answer, Jenny." Gibb's voice grew very soft. "A normal person would have said who, not what." Her eyes widened slightly and he smiled, the same sort of smile a crocodile gives his prey before taking that first bite. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that Nathan Singleton isn't Napoleon Solo and that the man I've known for years as a personal friend isn't Illya Kuryakin."
"How? Never mind, I don't want to know."
"Tell me."
Jenny sat down, collecting her thoughts. "Sit Jethro."
"I want to-"
"Sit!"
Gibbs hesitated and then sat down. Jenny gave him nod in both acknowledgement and thanks. "Tell me how you know." As Gibbs' eyes narrowed, she added, "I answer nothing until you tell me how you arrived at your conclusion."
Gibbs studied her face for a moment, assessing her conviction. "When I was first assigned to Paris," he said abruptly, "I used to meet a contact, Renee. He was about fifty at the time and we'd play chess in the park. He was always half-drunk or half-stoned and most of his intel was complete crap. It was the other half that made him useful. The trick was figuring out which half was what you really needed." Gibbs stopped then, remembering the old man before he continued. "In between the chess games and the gossip, he'd tell stories about the United Network Command for Law & Enforcement."
"UNCLE," Jenny said.
Gibbs nodded. "Renee swore that he was a former UNCLE agent, although he always made the distinction that he'd been Section III rather than Section II. I never understood what that difference was, but he seemed to think it was a very big deal. His favorite tales had to do with an American UNCLE agent, one Napoleon Solo, and his partner, a Russian by the name of Illya Kuryakin. The stories were always fanciful and some of them were completely outrageous and couldn't possibly have been true, but his descriptions were so detailed and vivid that I couldn't help but listen and remember." Gibbs snorted softly, his tone self-mocking. "And the funny part, was that when I met Ducky, the first thing that popped into my head was that old man's stories. They were true, weren't they?"
Jenny shrugged. "I don't know. But some of what he told you was probably correct, or at least mostly correct. To tell you the truth, I don't think anyone outside of their organization really knows who they are and what all they are involved in."
Gibbs' lips twisted, as if he was tasting something sour. "So how did Ducky . . . Illya get here?"
"I don't know the complete story, but it was a deal that we made with them. We could take Ducky…Illya…if we could guarantee continuation of his cover. He'd been retired from field duty, but wanted out of the agency."
"The Command," Gibbs said, his voice filled with something hard and tight.
"What?"
"They refer to it as UNCLE or as the Command, at least according to Renee."
Jenny, unsure of Gibbs' mood, nodded and continued. "UNCLE would only release Illya if certain conditions were met. Because of his extensive background with the Russian Navy, our own Navy was eager to provide a safe haven for him. In exchange, Illya Kuryakin died, his existence removed from everything and Donald Mallard was born. I was also given to believe that UNCLE's usual MO is that their top agents get a memory wipe."
Gibbs nearly came out of his seat at that bit of news. "What?"
"I don't know the specifics, Jethro. I don't even know how it's possible, but it sounded like normally, every bit of sensitive information is removed from their memories. Illya was different and he was one of the few agents allowed to retire with his complete memory intact, mostly because of Solo's standing with the organization."
Gibbs' lips twisted again. "And what is Solo's standing in the organization? Is CEO even a real title? Does he have that much power?"
"I don't know for sure, but from watching SecNav's face the other day, I'd say yes. Jethro, this is not a man or an organization that you piss off and walk away from."
Gibbs ignored the warning in her words. "How long have you known?" Gibbs had turned from her to study her bookcase. "Did you know in Paris? In England?"
"I've known for less than thirty hours Jethro, and it sounds like you might know even more than I do. Trust me, I'm still coming to terms with it myself. It's been difficult to reconcile one with the other. Ducky is not what I picture when asked to conjure up a super-spy."
Gibbs hunched forward, his head resting in his hands. He projected such an air of defeat that Jenny wanted to reach out to him but didn't dare. Still leaning forward, he looked up at her. "You didn't see him throw that French cop over that cliff," Gibbs said. "You didn't see his eyes, Jenny. They were" -- he shook his head, unable to find the words -- "it was the first time in my life I was afraid of an unarmed man . . . an unarmed old man." He reached out across her desk and picked up a framed photo, fiddling with the frame. "I gotta find him, Jenny. I've got to find Tony. They're both out there because we didn't keep them safe. Hell, Tony's out there because I told him to follow them. Do we contact UNCLE or don't we?" He set the photo back down.
"Your decision at this point, Jethro, but I urge you to consider the consequences very seriously. They have resources we don't. Hell, I'm fairly sure they have technology we don't. But consider this Jethro, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo is your responsibility. Dr. Donald Mallard is your responsibility. Illya Kuryakin is UNCLE's responsibility. Determine what you're willing to lose and go from there."
Gibbs considered her words for a moment and then got up and headed towards the door. He stopped with one hand on the knob, "Would you have ever told me?"
"No."
"Would he?"
"I can't answer that but if it were me, if I carried the secrets he does, if I carried the responsibility and history that he does, no, I'd never have told."
Gibbs stared at her for a long moment and walked out.
Author's Notes:
The scars on Ducky's back that Greer uses as identification where caused in the MFU episode: The Children's Day Affair Original airdate: December 10, 1965. In the episode, THRUSH is running a school to train young assassins. The school is run by Mother Fear and Captain Jenks. When Illya is captured, Mother Fear takes a whip to Illya. Greer is one of the older children from the school that witnessed that torture.
The UNCLE Special -- specially designed modular Walther that allowed for multiple attachments. You could turn a handgun into a long range sniper rifle with just a few screw-on additions. Also, the Special was modified to allow the weapon to shoot bullets or to shoot fast-acting tranquilizer darts. That mysterious slide action on the gun that has Abby so puzzled would be the mechanism that allows for the darts to be used.
