Howell started the car up. Tim and Abby, in the back seat, exchanged quick glances. The car doors weren't locked! How in the world did these morons get this far?! Tim wondered. As they came to a red light, Tim announced, "I need a pit stop. If you don't mind."
"We do mind, McGee. The four of us have a date at the Louvre, in the Galerie d'Apollon, where they keep the crown jewels."
"Jewels, jewels, jewels!" said Abby. "You already have… more than you can wear," she added archly, earning a snarl from the two ensigns. "So is jewel theft is like a fallback job for you? In case the Navy job doesn't work out?" They only glared at her.
"You're going to try to steal the jewels, from what's probably one of the most alarmed cases in the world, in broad daylight?" Tim said incredulously.
Howell shrugged. "Worked at the Smithsonian. Worked at other places for me. Every system has its weakness. Give me a daytime heist over a nighttime one with extra alarms any day."
The light changed to green. Tim and Abby sprang out of the car and ran, he bounding behind the car in her direction, hopping between cars lined up at the light that were eager to go. He only stopped long enough to kick in a taillight of Howell's car; the red plastic shattering to the street. Howell couldn't get the window down fast enough to fire, and cars all around honked in fury; edging toward him in minor menace to get him moving.
Tim and Abby disappeared into a grove of trees in the Tuileries gardens, and there stopped; out of sight of the road. "Are those guys for real?" Abby laughed, while panting. "Is there a clown school giving out degrees in theft?"
"We should call the police; tell them about the planned heist…You're limping. What happened?"
"Nothing. I felt my ankle turn once. I can hardly feel it."
"Well, take off your boot and let me see it."
She limped to a bench, waving away Tim's offer of support, and there pulled off her boot. Tim felt carefully around the ankle; it was a little red, but not swelling.
"What's the diagnosis?"
You have a lovely foot. "It'll be fine in the morning. I would have thought that the jewels you have in the other boot's heel would have injured that foot, instead. You're not carrying a counterweight in this heel?"
"No, I—" She then gasped, and scrabbled for the boot she'd taken off. "Tim! Give me the boot! Hurry!" She seized it; tugged at the heel. "I'm so stupid! I'm so stupid!!" Within a moment she'd opened the heel, and removed a card; held it up to the leaf-filtered sunlight, where its metallic coloring glowed. It was clearly a credit card.
"Oh, Tim, you must hate me!" she said, clinging to him while his eyes were still huge. "I swear I'd totally forgotten I had this in here!! I put it here when I got it, in case of emergency—"
He stopped her wailing with a kiss. "It's okay; it's okay. You did activate it, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course!"
"And do you remember the PIN number?"
"Well, let's see. It was issued in November, so I used your birthday as the PIN. I always do that with my cards; use people's birthdays. Oh, my stars and little comets! Finally, something is going RIGHT!"
"Let's get to an ATM and get some cash. Of course, I'll pay you back. Do you remember what your daily withdrawal limit is?"
"Nope. We'll find out!"
They were able to withdraw 280 Euros. Nearly in tears at their good fortune, they hugged and kissed, and took dinner at a small, inexpensive café across the Seine in the Latin Quarter, choosing, though, to sit inside, away from the windows, just to offer a little more protection.
The waiter was able to recommend a modestly-priced hotel down the block in an old building squeezed in by other old buildings; its stone walls long ago grayed by soot. There the desk clerk, seeing them weary and worn, and being a bit of a romantic himself, took pity on them and waived the requirement of ID, and also nodded at Tim's request that if anyone came looking for him, the clerk not reveal that they were there.
The creaky elevator took them to a small but tastefully decorated, welcoming room on the third floor. Another building loomed close by; through the window; some office workers were still seen to be at work.
Abby pulled off her boots and stood before Tim in bare feet; no longer so tall. They grinned at each other, but then he made a just-a-minute gesture and went to the room phone, and called police. "There are two men who will be attempting to rob the Louvre, tonight or tomorrow," he said. "Their names are Walter Howell and Aaron, though I don't know if Aaron's the first or the last name. "They're, uh, suspected in the U.S. of robbing the Smithsonian two weeks ago. They're driving a black Renault, license plate number 93F 1801 V. The right rear taillight is broken. My name? Uh, Gibbs. Thank you. Goodbye, au revoir." He hung up, and remarked to Abby, "I wonder what the French for BOLO is? Regardez vous something?"
"'Gibbs?' " Abby asked, smiling devilishly.
Tim shrugged, a little flustered. "He can talk his way out of anything."
"Well, come here, you smooth talker." She pulled him to her and kissed him, deeply, her hands sliding down his back. He pulled her closer, and had the presence of mind to pull down the window shade.
- - - - -
"Yeah. Gibbs." Gibbs and his team were having dinner in the St Germain-des-Pres district when his phone rang. It had been so depressing to have gone to the pay phone at the Jardins des Champs-Elysees and not found Tim and Abby there. They'd scoured the area, showed pictures around, to no avail.
"News, Jethro," said the Director. "We have a ping on one of Abby's credit cards. A cash withdrawal was made from an ATM on the Rue St Julien Le Pauvre about 15 minutes ago. Withdrew the card's daily limit."
"But they told Marseilles they were broke!" Gibbs protested, as Ziva and Tony scrambled to find the street on the map.
"I don't have any explanation. But you'll want to get going."
"You realize the Army will get the ping, too?"
"Yes. And who knows who else. Should we freeze the card?"
Gibbs thought. Precious seconds were getting away. Protect them and leave them hungry, or leave the card open, and risk having the Army snipers find them before Gibbs did? "Let's leave it open for the minute. I hope they'll find someplace safe to stay for the night, and we can let them make one more withdrawal in the morning."
"You're taking a chance. I hope you're right."
"Rue St Julien Le Pauvre. A small street in the Latin Quarter; not far from here," Ziva reported.
They threw money on the table for their half-eaten meal, and grabbed a taxi. Of course, Tim and Abby weren't lingering at the ATM, but even a walk through the neighborhood failed to turn them up. "We don't know it was them using the card," Tony remarked. "Maybe Howell and Finch stole it from them. Got the PIN number out of them somehow." He blinked; the only sign of how much it bothered him to say that. "I wonder how hard it would be to get the ATM camera tapes…?"
Gibbs called Morrison; grateful to find him still at work. "I was about to go home. Let me give you my cell phone number. I'll call one of my contacts in the Paris police and get him right on those tapes. A number of these tapes can be accessed remotely now." He gave Gibbs an address of a copy shop/Internet café in the area where they could go online and pick up an emailed file of the tape.
- - - - -
They were grateful that the tape was in color, but they also had to endure the pictures of several other bank customers on the tape who were of no interest to them. Suddenly, pulling out of a yawn, Tony knocked his chair over as he leaped in for a close look. "That's Probie!" A black-haired man had come into view in the tape, joining the reddish-haired woman at the ATM. "I'd know that stance anywhere!"
Gibbs didn't doubt that, though he had a hard time getting his mind around the hair color. "Abby," he said softly. "She's not only colored her hair, but let it down and is covering up her web tat with a scarf. Good on them. They're acting smart."
Ziva had already stopped the tape and was getting a sample of the pictures. They wouldn't blow up very well to a useful size, but they would do. She placed the order for copies, while Gibbs phoned the news to Morrison and the Director. Then they split up to canvas the area until the hour when people were no longer out and about.
A waiter at a cafe nodded oui, he had served them dinner; such polite Americains they were. For Americains. But he had not known where they had gone, so sorry.
"He's lying," Ziva said, on the phone with Gibbs. "But I'm not sure why."
"Probably has a soft spot for Abby. She brings that out with people. I have one more hotel to check on this street and then we'll call it a night." He hung up, and seeing Tony come his way, whistled to him to join him.
The night desk clerk was a better liar than the waiter. He said over and over that he had not seen this couple, but Gibbs and Tony could tell that he was holding back. "Look, monsieur, these are friends of ours. They're running from people who want to harm them. We can help them. If you'll just call up to their room for us, or tell us the room number—"
"I have already told you, sirs, that there is no one here by that, ah, description. You would need a police order if you want to invade my guests' privacy. Please leave, now, or I will call the police."
They knew better than to argue at that point, and so left. "Why do I get the feeling," Tony said, looking up at the hotel from across the street, "that I'm going to be spending the night somewhere other than in a nice, soft hotel bed?"
"Because you're intuitive, DiNozzo. I'll call Ziva back in; she can...curl up on some cardboard and get the first shift of sleep. I'll watch the hotel's front entrance; you take the back." This involved going through a rank alley with, likely, unpleasant things in the dark corners. Tony almost envied Ziva her sleep in the doorway behind Gibbs.
- - - - -
The knock on the door to their room came around 5:30 in the morning. Abby slipped out from under Tim's arm, grabbed the first bit of apparel that came to hand—Tim's shirt—and buttoned it swiftly over her. "I'm coming," she said, quietly, not wanting to wake Tim. He looked so sweet lying there.
It was their desk clerk. "My apologies, madam," he said, his eyes briefly registering the man's shirt she wore. "I did not want to disturb you last night. But there were two men; they came and asked about you two. Of course I sent them away. I said you were not here. I do not think they believed me. They have been watching this hotel all night. Sometimes they are apparent; sometimes they are in the shadows. For your safety, you must go. Quickly."
She put a hand on her racing heart. Of course their good fortune of yesterday couldn't last. "But if they're watching the entrances..."
"There is another way, an underground passage that connects to the building next door. Very old; still used for deliveries. The doors open at 6:00; you can go out that way and slip out that building's back entrance and it will still be dark."
She bade him goodbye and thanked him effusively for his kindness, and then went to wake Tim.
- - - - -
Feeling that they'd run out of safe places in the area, Tim and Abby grabbed pains au chocolat and cups of hot chocolate for a breakfast on the go, splurged on a Metro carnet of ten tickets, and headed for the Eiffel Tower quarter. There Abby made another maximum withdrawal on her credit card, and in beautiful late summer weather, they laughed and promenaded along the banks of the Seine.
She held his arm as they stood under a bridge after a lunch of sandwiches and wine. In a solemn pause after a laugh had died away, she said, "We have money now for passports. We need to find someone who can ID us, and get a police report filed somehow."
"But we probably don't have enough money for plane tickets. I think we should try calling Marseilles again."
She looked up at him, saw his face, soft in the diffuse light of the reflections of the sun on the river that bounced on them; thought about how wonderful he'd been in this whole experience. What lengths he'd gone through to look out for her. How much he cared for her. Her heart bubbled over.
"Tim," she said excitedly. "Let's get married! Right now!"
- - - - -
The ping on Abby's second cash withdrawal was no more helpful than the first to Gibbs and his team. The Eiffel Tower quarter teemed with tourists and residents; it would be hard to find anyone in the crowd.
"I've got more bad news, though not entirely unexpected," said Morrison on Gibbs' phone. "Our contacts report known US Army Rangers Spec Ops snipers have entered France. Got 'em on their passports; God bless technology. Believed to be entering Paris; we're still looking for them."
"Thanks, Morrison," said Gibbs, knowing that one usually never saw their snipers; never had a chance.
- - - - -
Tim whooped; picked her up, and spun her around; both of them failing words and finding only joyous laughter. It was his fairy-tale dream come true! Abby, the only woman he'd ever loved; his at last.
He set her down, and with a squeal, she jumped into his arms. "Start practicing carrying me over the threshold, my dear fellow," she said. He kissed her instead, but then slowly set her down as urgent thoughts flowed into his mind.
"Abby, I love you madly. I adore you. I adore that we're in France, where 'I adore you', Je t'adore, sounds beautiful all by itself. I look at you and all I want to say is lines of poetry—the good, classical stuff; not the poems I write. I want to be with you every day now and forever and forever. But..."
Her glowing eagerness dimmed a bit. "But?" she repeated.
"But I think you're in love with being in love right now. We've been with each other for over a week, and there's no one I'd rather be with, even on the lam, but if we got married now..." He hope she hadn't noticed the small catch in his voice. "...then once we got back to the States, it would all be different. Before too long, I'm afraid you'd regret being tied down, and you'd want to see other people—"
"Tim, no! I wouldn't, I wouldn't, I swear—"
"—and it would kill me, Abby. I couldn't keep you caged in a marriage if you didn't want to be, but if you left, you'd take my heart, and I would die. No, Abby, Abby, let's keep things as they are."
"But Tim; why won't you believe me?!"
He gently wiped away her tears with one finger. "I do believe you. I just love you so much. People don't usually jump into marriage on the spur of the moment, Abbs; they get engaged, to see if they really want to be faithful to each other."
"Then let's get engaged!" she cried. It wasn't her first choice, but if she couldn't have that, this would do.
She felt so nice, hugged up close against him. "I don't think we're even that close yet. People do sometimes talk about pre-engagements, though, or engaged-to-be-engaged..."
"Then that's what we'll do!" she said resolutely. Wiggling out of his grasp, she got down on one knee, and took his hand, to his amusement. "Timothy McGee, will you become pre-engaged with me, and make me the happiest woman on earth?"
"Dear lady," he said, "it sounds like a plan." They sealed it with a long, deep kiss.
"Special agent Timothy McGee?"
They turned at the voice; dark and guttural. "Who's asking?" Tim said, getting between the speakers and Abby.
"I am a friend," said the man. "I am sure you'll come with us. We'd like to offer you a, uh, business proposition." He clicked his fingers and half a dozen tough-looking men moved in.
"Not interested in any business deals, sorry. I'm too busy planning an eventual wedding."
"How sweet. My country, however, requires your superior memory talents. You will be well-compensated. Someday you may want then to marry this young woman."
"No thanks. Come on, Abby; let's go." Tim pulled her around to set off in the opposite direction. He knew that the longer they waited, the more difficult it would be to get away.
"You misunderstand me. That was not a request." Tim was seized by two of the Goliaths, and dragged off, despite his struggling.
"NO! TIM!!" Abby screamed with all her might, as two others of the men held her back.
"Abby, I love you!!" he called, and then was pushed into a car parked at the road. He was afraid he'd never see her again, that dear, dear woman who held his heart...