Three men and one woman, members of two different Army Rangers Spec Ops units, were brought together to form two sniper teams for this mission. Their assignment: to take out an American, NCIS agent Timothy McGee, the rogue genius with some amazing, unspecified mental talent that could be disastrous if he went to any of the U.S.'s enemies.
Go to France, these four were instructed, and wait for orders. It had been over 60 years since the U.S. Army was stationed in France, and any such movements into the country would be disavowed; never to have happened. The Army INSCOM would provide the background intelligence. When found, McGee's location would be relayed, and the snipers could move in. No matter what, he could not be permitted to go over to any other side; willingly or not.
- - - - -
Gibbs and his team boarded the TGV train in Lille in second class; comfortable seats in a compartment without the first class amenities, but who needed them for a trip that would take little more than an hour? They closed the compartment door and paid little attention to the people boarding who passed by in the aisle, seeking seats: two elderly, laughing men; a gaggle of boistrous teenagers, perhaps skipping school; a young couple who kept stopping to bill and coo. They missed seeing another young couple, a black-haired man and a henna-haired woman, who had found two spaces in a compartment two doors before theirs.
"I've spent more hours in trains in the last few days than I have in my whole life." Tony grumped with exaggeration.
Ziva rolled her eyes. "Imagine the pain of the people who have to travel with you."
"Hey, you are free to take a seat in another compartment, Zee-va."
"No, thanks. Gibbs pays me to annoy you and keep you out of his hair. I don't want to give up that bonus." She smiled in satisfaction and Tony glared at her.
Ignoring them, Gibbs phoned the Marseilles office; pleased to get them on the first ring. "Morrison, this is Gibbs. Any word at all on the Army moving in?"
"The Army isn't talking to us about this one, Gibbs. No surprise, I suppose. But we have feelers out; we have a lot of contacts that I'm sure they don't have, because these are people we work with a lot. So I have hopes. We'll notify you as soon as we hear anything."
"And McGee and Ab—Sciuto haven't contacted you yet?"
"I would have called you immediately if they had. But it's been hell here, and we haven't always gotten to the phone before it stops ringing."
"Understood. Thanks, Morrison."
Unfolding a map of Paris, Tony grinned and pointed at the numerous circles with the solitary letter 'M'. "Look, Ziva! They've marked all the McDonald's! I'll be more than ready for lunch when we get off."
Ziva gave him a pained look. "And how convenient that each is a Metro station, as well. Don't you ever stop joking, Tony?"
"Not unless I faint from hunger...I'm at my worst at joking when I'm unconscious."
"Something to keep in mind, then. You: unconscious equals You: not joking. Hmmm..." She thought about this, smiled at whatever she was thinking, and ignored his glare once again.
- - - - -
The gentle rocking of the high-speed train lulled Abby to sleep, her head dropping onto Tim's shoulder. In the compartment, two businessmen sat opposite them; one reading a newspaper and the other quickly clacking on a laptop. Tim put his arm around Abby, and she sighed a little in her sleep and snuggled in a little closer.
He gazed idly at the map of France with the SNCF route system, posted on the compartment wall, and silently read off the stops listed. Beside it was a map of greater Paris, with the stops of the commuter railroad, the RER, marked; he let his eyes land on each stop in turn. He was aware that now these would always be in his memory. Just how much info can my memory hold?! Biting back a sigh, he wished he understood more of how his eidetic memory worked.
If I hadn't been fired from NCIS...and I'm sure I must have been; we didn't leave under any circumstances that they would have recognized as suspicious, or leave any clues to our whereabouts, and I'm sure I made it plain that I didn't want to go to Intel.
But if I hadn't gotten into this mess...I wonder what they would have done with my memory? Have me memorize data? But we capture all that on computers. Go along in the field, create maps of crime scenes? Maybe, but cameras do pretty well there. Pull up two unrelated sheets of data and compare them? Maybe, but a good computer program could do that as well. Then, what's left? Well, who knows?
Doesn't matter much if I've been fired.
He remembered a running gag from a humorous comic book series he'd followed ten or so years ago. Superheroes on this less-than-ideal superhero team would think, when, inevitably, they were rankled by their incompetent or clownish teammates, "I wonder if the Teen Titans are hiring?" To that, Tim added, for his own use, the FBI...the CIA...the NSA...Maybe I could do Tony's career backwards and be a cop. Might not be so bad; I'd still be helping people...Or I could go back to school and get my doctorate; I really should do that, anyway...I'd love going back to MIT...I could give up law enforcement; just write or do something with computers...
Admit it, Tim; you're terrified at being unemployed, and you know you probably can't collect unemployment because you were fired. And admit also that you're embarrassed as hell at being fired from your job; even if it wasn't your fault.
There must have been something I could have done to prevent all this from happening. Yeah. Like never having remembered the Director's private phone number. If only I'd remembered any other phone number...
The conductor came down the aisle, her booming voice carrying through the closed compartment doors. "Paris! Paris!"
Abby stirred; lifted her head from his shoulder. "We're there?"
"We're there."
"Now what?"
Tim remained seated; waited until the other two men had left the compartment. "In the station, there's probably a detailed map of Paris, with major streets and attractions posted. I need to see it."
"To memorize the city?" she asked with arched brows; too quick by half. "Tim, what you're saying is impossible. You can't..."
"If it's impossible, that means I just have to try a little harder," he said, keeping his temper. "I can do this, Abbs." While they were arguing, they didn't notice a threesome that they would no doubt recognize go by in the aisle.
"Tim!" she said loudly, causing the brown-haired man at the back of the procession, which had now passed by their compartment, to turn back for a moment at the sound, then shrug and move on.
"Tim, please give up this charade! You have a good memory; you've proven that. You've worked hard at improving your memory, and it shows. But I think they've brainwashed you, Tim. They've tricked you into believing that you have this power—"
"Superman has powers. Batman has abilities. I have an ability."
"I would have pictured you more as the noble Superman type rather than Batman, but stop distracting me! You've been told over and over that you have this—ability, and now you believe it."
"Come on; we'd better get off before they send us back to Lille. Abby, I've shown I can recall amazing lists!"
"Oh, Tim; I don't want to fight with you," she sighed, picking up the small duffel bag. "Let's go find your map."
- - - - -
Having done so, they peeled off a little of their precious, remaining money for two Metro tickets at 1.50 Euros each. This would get them to central Paris, where they could plan what to do next. Tim silently worried about the coming of night. Where will we stay, that's safe? I don't want to keep breaking into buildings, but I will if that's the only way...
They got off at the Champs Elysees/Clemenceau stop; the closest station to the American embassy at number 2, Avenue Gabriel. Tim didn't really think the embassy would help them, but Abby was adamant on trying, so he went along with her on it.
"To replace lost passports, you must present proof of your identity: drivers license, birth certificate, and a copy of the missing passport or an expired passport," said the man at the embassy passports counter. "Failing that, present in person an American with proper ID who can vouch to your identity. You'll also need a copy of the police report you submitted outlining the loss or theft of the passports, and two new passport-sized photos. If you need passports immediately, you will need to show your return plane tickets to the States; otherwise your passports will be mailed to you. Also fill out forms DS-11 and DS-0064; here are copies. Thank you, and have a nice day."
Tim and Abby left, stunned. He held her close with one arm and they veered into the adjacent parks, Les Jardins des Champs-Elysees, with their Belle Epoque pavillions. Abby fought against tears as they gazed at the beautiful, ornate 19th century buildings. "It wouldn't be too bad, you know," she said, haltingly, "if we had to stay here. It's such a lovely city."
He kissed her, lightly. "It is beautiful. And the weather's delightful. But we'll get out of here somehow."
"Let's try calling NCIS-Marseilles again."
He nodded and they found a pay phone. The phone rang five times, and just as Tim was about to give up, a harried sounding voice answered. "Good afternoon, Bonjour, this is NCIS-Marseilles. How may I direct your call?"
Tim had almost dropped the receiver in surprise. "Well, I, I, hope you can! Listen; we're two NCIS employees—" he crossed his fingers at the small lie, hoping it would bring a better response. "—and we're stranded in Paris and we need help. We need to get in touch with HQ. Can you—"
"One moment; I'll transfer you to Personnel." The man who had answered the phone dialed the appropriate extension, and then leaned back, shaking his head. Must be a full moon. Let Personnel deal with the nutcases.
Tim heard the phone ring again, over and over. He shook his head, and was saying to Abby, "We were that close," when he heard a new voice on the other end. "Ronnie Aikens, Personnel..."
"Yes! Ms. Aikens! We need help, my, uh, friend and I. We're two NCIS employees at HQ and we're stranded in Paris. It's a really long story. We're almost out of cash, and we have no IDs, and we need to get word back to HQ—"
Something clicked in Aiken's brain. What was it Morrison had said yesterday? She glanced up. Morrison, her boss, was standing at the window about 15 feet away, looking out on the nice day and the ships at harbor. Covering the mouthpiece, she called out, "Boss! You were looking for two missing employees from HQ?"
He turned swiftly. "Got their names?"
"What's your name, sir?" she asked Tim.
"My name is McGee, and I'm here with Abby—"
Again she covered the mouthpiece. "McGee and—"
"That's the ones! Transfer it to my office, please, Ronnie." He sprinted out the door.
Aikens turned back to the phone. "Hold on, sir; I'll transfer you to the boss."
Tim heard the phone ring twice, and then abruptly cut out. The telecarte was ejected from the phone; its minutes used up.
Abby clung to Tim, and this time she didn't hold back her tears.
- - - - -
"You've located them?! Where are they?!" Gibbs wished he could jump into his phone and get the answer faster.
"I'm not entirely sure," said Morrison. "It sounded like their phone got cut off before I could talk to them. Probably their phone card minutes ran out. My personnel officer took the call; spoke to a man. He gave his name as McGee and said the person with him was named Abby. They're almost broke and have no IDs and wanted to get in touch with HQ."
"And they didn't say where they were? Morrison, we're not the only people looking for them, you know! The Army, and possibly those renegade ensigns—"
"I know, and I'm sorry. But—while they didn't give their location, they were on the line altogether long enough for us to trace the call afterwards. They were calling from a payphone at the Jardins des Champs-Elysees, which is right near the American Embassy."
"Thanks! Thanks." Gibbs eyed his team. "I think we're about two miles from there. DiNozzo, get us a taxi!"
- - - - -
"It's not like things can get too much worse," Tim said, while attempting to kiss her tears away."
"How do you know? In my life, every time I think that, things always get worse! And I don't even have my Bert here to hug! And why are you always the one to look out for me?" Abby said, unable to stop crying. "I've always been able to take care of myself."
"Tell you what. Next go-around, you can take care of me. Deal?"
"Deal."
"I thought I recognized those voices. But you've changed your appearances; how very clever."
Tim and Abby turned, and gasped.
"Come with us, now. I know how you can help us." Howell motioned with his gun, and they got in the nearby car.
