Abby sank to her knees on the stone pavement under the bridge, sobbing, as the thugs holding her let her go and simply walked away. She then fell forward onto her hands, not caring about little things like abrasions. The greater pain in her heart was too much to bear. Nothing else mattered anymore. Tim! Tim! Tim!
After an unguessable amount of time, her tears slowed and she started shaking, and finally started thinking. There must be something I can do...but what? Who's taken him? And where?
She became aware of someone approaching. Looking up and wiping her tears, she saw an elderly woman, bent and walking with a cane, walking slowly; a basket with fresh bread loaves, mushrooms, and cheeses over her other arm. Hardly a threatening-looking figure.
The old woman stopped before her, and touched Abby's cheek with a worn hand. "So many tears," she said, in English, in a voice with a soft accent. "I am certain it is not as bad as all that."
Abby struggled to reduce her tears to sniffles; wondering how the woman knew she didn't speak much French, and instead spoke English. "It is, though. I've lost my...friend. He's...gone...taken away...and I'm afraid I'll never see him again..." her sentence dissolved into tears again; Tim's face in her mind.
The woman appeared to be very old; looking like someone's grandmother or great-grandmother: hair short and the color of light clouds, wearing a well-maintained wool skirt, blouse, and sweater; a cloche on her head, and sturdy, sensible shoes. "I do not know that I can help; I am just an old woman." Her basket swayed on her arm, and Abby got up; towering over the small woman.
"Are you going far?" Abby asked. "Can I carry that for you?"
"You are very kind. I live close by, on this street. I would not refuse your help." And so they set off, Abby feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of hope in the world if she could make someone's journey a little easier. Even if her own heart was irretrievablybroken.
"Who are you?" Abby asked, and immediately felt a little embarrassed for the way that came out, rather than What's your name?
The old woman smiled lightly, as if she'd been asked that many times before. "A friend. Just a friend."
Soon they reached the woman's dwelling; a cozy flat in a not-very-tall 17th century building. The woman invited Abby in, and served tea and chocolates, making light, soothing conversation. After a few sips and nibbles, Abby fell asleep on the couch; unexpectedly relaxed. The old woman pulled a throw blanket over her before sitting down to a second cup of the calming tea.
- - - - -
Tim came to in a room with a solitary bright light in his face, like a small, incandescent sun. He was sitting in a folding chair; his arms tied behind him. Dizzy, nauseous, head hurts... I must've been chloroformed. He blinked against the light; knew it was there mostly to disarm and intimidate him; giving his captors the upper hand. Let them speak first, wherever they are in the shadows. I'm not going to make their job any easier for them.
A hand came out of the darkness; slapped his face hard. Someone shouted something at him in French. When he didn't answer the question, if that's what it was, it was repeated, louder; accompanied by another slap.
Another voice, quieter, came from the other side, and then the first voice again, this time in English. "You have this great memory power, yes?" When Tim didn't answer quickly, he was slapped again; this time so hard that his nose bled.
"No...it's all a mistake," Tim said, trying to ignore the stinging in his face.
"No, no mistake. We have heard of your test results. There is perhaps no one in the world with your talents. You will be of great use to us."
"If there is no one else like me, chances are your information about me is wrong! Who are you?"
The speaker/slapper didn't answer that. "Systems are being developed to thwart CCDs...you know what CCDs are?"
" 'Communist Children's Ducklings?' "
Another slap; this one hard enough to nearly knock him and his chair over. Tim got it stabilized, and the stars were still spinning around his head when he spoke again. "Yeah, yeah; I know. 'Charge-coupled devices'. Semi-conductor chips used in digital cameras to change light images into electrical signals. What about them? Not that I really want to know." He tried to show a brave front, mostly to keep from quaking. I'm in a fix; I really am. And no one knows where I am. And Abby...is she okay?
"As I said, technicians are developing systems that will prevent recordings from taking place. The systems shine a coherent light into the recording device; eliminating the recording capability. It requires a device that detects photography in digital cameras by seeking out their image-producing sensors by analyzing their shape and contour."
"So?"
"Since we do not want anyone to stop us if we, ah, choose to record something, we are working to get around it. One stage of development is to counter-interfere with a laser of our own, sent back to the image-inhibitor. But that is not this shop's plan.
"No, we are going to study your incredible memory in detail and try to determine how it works. Then we will be able to create programs that can get around the laser effects on our CCDs. First, then, it is necessary to test your endurance..."
They threatened to attach a brain wave scanner, later. But it all began with a long series of tests; pictures flashed on a wall before Tim. Shapes, letters, numbers, symbols; all rapid; some short breaks in which he had to describe what he saw. Despite misgivings, he answered, since failure to do so was a slap, a punch or a kick. Once a mallet pounded his knee when he was deemed too slow. It was no good to pretend to not recall the images; he did recall them, and evidently this showed on his face.
Don't look to the left, he told himself, but that was such an involuntary thing. Some studies suggested that nearly everyone did that, to access memory from the left side of the brain. Doubtless his captors knew that.
It became painful; the quickly-changing screens, the sudden stops as he was ordered to relay what he'd seen. At one point he picked out a soft whirring sound in the dark to one side. A camera? They must be recording him. What I'd give for some coherent light right now...
On and on; more and more; lights and images and now sounds, too, that he was forced to recall; meaningless pitches and chords; lightsandcolorsandtonesandnumbersandfacesyesfacestoofacesallstaringallstaringechoingechoinglouderandlouderandlouderandlouder...
He started screaming,screaming,screaming and couldn't stop couldn't stop couldn't stop until everything went dark for him.
- - - - -
The afternoon had been fruitless and disturbingly quiet for Gibbs' team. After the second withdrawal on Abby's credit card, Gibbs told Jenny to freeze the account. They'd probably already given too much information to whoever might be tracking Abby and Tim.
It was six o'clock, and the team was having dinner at a beer bar. Gibbs and Tony were splitting an order of moules-frites (steamed mussels and french fries) while Ziva was pleased with crottin chaud en salad (goat's cheese, toast and salad). The beer selection was excellent, and hard to choose among. They were happy to let the staff choose for them.
They could almost forget their troubles. While they were all laughing an at exaggerated joke Tony made at his own expense, Gibbs' phone rang.
"Yeah, Gibbs."
"Morrison here. I have some good news for you. We've got Abby Sciuto."
"What?! What do you mean you've 'got' her?!" Gibbs stood up, almost knocking over his pint glass. Ziva and Tony crowded him; eager to hear. He held the phone out a little for them.
"We found her, and she's being cared for. She's okay."
"Well, where is she, man?! We'll go pick her up right now!"
"You can't..."
"What do you mean, I can't?! Of course I can!"
"I mean you can't. Not at the location she's at. She's asleep now, and being cared for by one of my contacts, her name is Elodie, and she knows more about covert ops than I'll ever know. She was in the French Resistance during World War II, and—"
"World War II?! How old is she; this contact?!"
" 'Very'. Let's leave it at that; she's a little modest about it. But due to her age, and the need to keep her identity secret, I've agreed to never divulge her location. So you can't go there. All my contacts in Paris are busy looking for the Army snipers; I can't spare anyone at the moment to go watch Elodie's apartment building. When it's dark, I'll get someone over there who can escort Ms. Sciu—Abby out and bring her to you."
Tony was mouthing McGee! McGee! in his face. Gibbs said to Morrison, "Well, I suppose that's the best we can do for now. As long as you're sure she'll be safe?"
"Safe as Fort Knox. Elodie doesn't walk as well as she used to, but she still has a steady grip on her pistol; practices on the firing range at her gun club monthly."
"Okay. Glad to hear that Abby's being taken care of. Please thank your people for me. Do you have anything on McGee? Did he and Abby get separated? He'd never leave her alone voluntarily. She's not an agent and has had only minimal self-defense training."
"McGee. Yeah." Morrison paused, and they knew the news wouldn't be good. "Elodie reported that when she came across Abby, Abby was in hysterics. She could only tell Elodie that some men had abducted McGee and driven off with him."
"Does she know who they were?" Gibbs asked, his voice hushed.
"Abby didn't know. Elodie only saw some of them, and only from a distance, but said that they appeared to be pros. Probably agents from another country. She was able to describe the car, but couldn't give a full plate number. Still, there's enough to start working on."
"Do you think they'll leave the country with him?"
"Eventually, yes. Maybe not right away, though. Try to keep your spirits up, Gibbs. My contacts have some pretty amazing talents."
Gibbs hung up, and stood with his eyes closed for a long moment. He then sighed, and the three of them took their seats again, silently.
"Must be a nice job Morrison has," Tony remarked with a small smile but little humor. "Heads a minute NCIS outpost in a vacation spot: sun, sand, and ships. And on the side he has this incredible little espionage kingdom."
Ziva said, "Does HQ know about this, you think?"
Gibbs smiled a little. "Jenny knows practically everything that goes on. I wouldn't be surprised if NCIS isn't paid by a few other agencies, even other countries, to run this espionage operation. But, as you say, DiNozzo, it does sound like a nice job."
- - - - -
Another phone call came a few hours later as dusk was settling in hard. "Gibbs, Morrison again. I have egg all over my face."
"What's happened?"
"It's Abby. Elodie called in, distraught. It seems that Elodie fell asleep herself, unintentionally, and when she awoke, Abby was gone"
"What?!
"Elodie found no sign of a break in, and dusted for prints; she concludes that Abby woke up and left. She never specifically told Abby to stay there. She feels very sorry about that."
"So you've no idea when Abby left, or where she went?"
"No. But I've pulled several people off sniper patrol. They'll look for her, and they'll find her."
"Give me the last known location. NOW, Morrison!!"
"It's the St-Germain-des-Pres district, on the Left Bank. near the river. But I already have people out there—"
"And one of them is one of my people. We're going in, too. Call me if you get any news." Gibbs snapped his rented phone shut roughly. He hadn't worried about Abby so much when he knew Tim was with her, but now alone? Would the snipers also consider her a target?