"Never knew there were so many robberies in the D.C. area in a day," DiNozzo muttered under his breath.

It was a lie, of course. There was a time that Officer Anthony DiNozzo, of the Baltimore police force, could quote crime statistics of both Baltimore and D.C. The two cities were so close that the dividing line was more of a suggestion than a border, and the two police departments swapped information faster than neighbors swapped gossip. DiNozzo had lost track of the exact figures when he'd joined NCIS but that didn't mean that he'd forgotten everything. There hadn't been any uptick in the quantity of crimes in the area, and certainly not with respect to jewelry.

He scanned the computer screen, knowing that the others were doing the same, looking for a report of someone stealing a large emerald. It would have to be pretty large, Abby had told them. Too small, and it wouldn't fit inside the PAMELA. The beam of light that was supposed to be amplified would spill over the edges and screw up the whole thing, and wouldn't that be just too bad?

Jewelry heist, Sixth and Main, T.S. Roberts Jewelers. Three suspects entered at approximately two fifty-three in the afternoon—pretty specific for an approximation—and held up the store at gunpoint. They got a lot of stuff, including a bunch of wedding rings, three necklaces with diamonds, tourmalines, and rubies, and a bunch of pearl strands. Bunch of high end watches, too; DiNozzo was hoping to win the lottery some day so that he could afford on his cop's salary to buy something that classy for his wrist. He urged the computer to show him pictures of the booty and sighed. There were a lot of gems on those necklaces but unless someone glued them together, they weren't going to be large enough to fit the bill. He moved on to the next.

"This isn't working." Gibbs slammed his fist onto the desk. "Dammit, we need to find them!" He half-rose from his chair. "Get your gear, people. We are going to visit every damn one of those warehouses…" He trailed off, thinking furiously.

Even Solo knew something had hit. "Agent Gibbs?"

"He didn't steal anything," Gibbs said into the air. "He didn't steal anything! He bought the damn thing! What does he care about paying the bill? He thinks he can own the world!" He slapped the phone. "Abby, get up here now!"

They started with the warehouses closest to the naval yard, hoping that Graybelle hadn't wanted to travel back and forth from his lair. From there, Abby and Illya, working together to meld both NCIS and UNCLE databases, pulled up information about businesses in the areas, targeting all of the jewelry stores so that the others could call to ask about recent purchases. It was slow going, but it was a lead.

"Yes, this is Officer Ziva David, of NCIS. I am calling to find out if you sold any large gemstones within the last forty eight hours…"

"DiNozzo, NCIS. Listen, I'm trying to track down a large purchase…"

"NCIS. Special Agent Gibbs. Gimme the manager…"

"Try this one, Napoleon. This zip code has no fewer than three jewelers in it."

Solo snorted. "And not one of those stores carries anything larger than a few links of gold chain. Too low end, even for D.C. Try again, Illya."

"Spoilsport."

"Just a realist, my friend. Just a realist."

"Wait a minute." DiNozzo rose from his chair to look at the map that Abby had plastered onto the plasma screen in the bullpen. He pointed. "What's this?"

Solo didn't give it a second glance. "Not a jeweler's, Agent DiNozzo. What makes you think that they'd have a large gemstone?"

DiNozzo peered more closely. "It's not a jeweler's, but it is a shop for hobbyists."

Ziva raised her eyebrows. "So?"

"Hobbies. Like jewelry making." DiNozzo picked up the phone.

Kuryakin frowned. "Hobbyists only rarely indulge in the use of expensive gems, Agent DiNozzo. A shop such as that isn't likely to carry large emeralds."

It didn't matter. DiNozzo had already dialed, and was waiting impatiently for a clerk to pick up the phone. The others held their breath. DiNozzo's hunch shouldn't be the answer, and everyone of the people there hoped that it would.

"Special Agent DiNozzo, NCIS. I'm working a case in the area," he told the person on the other end, keeping an awesomely casual tone to his words that was worthy of Napoleon Solo. "In the last couple of days, has anyone come in and bought a large rock? Maybe an emerald, something like that?

"You don't carry emeralds?

"Only quartz? Yeah, I don't think quartz is what—what did you say?"

The others tensed.

"How big?

"Tell me again, in inches.

"Right size," DiNozzo told the handset uncertainly. "Looked like a diamond, you said?"

Abby started waving her arms and nodding frantically.

"Yeah, that might work. Was it polished?" DiNozzo asked, prodded by the note that Kuryakin held up for DiNozzo to read. DiNozzo covered the handset. "Yeah, it was polished. But it was clear, like a diamond."

"That doesn't matter, Tony!" Abby could barely keep still. "All PAMELA needs is a gem to focus the rays. It doesn't matter what kind, not if McGee is gonna reset the calibration. Not that he knows how, not really, but he could probably figure it out in a couple of months or so—"

Gibbs cut to the chase, moving back to the map on the plasma screen. "Where? Where's the closest warehouse to this store that Graybelle looked at?"

Abby hit the keyboard, and a red spot lit up like a beacon. "Here."

Three NCIS agents and two UNCLE agents hit the exit running.


How the heck do you calibrate an unknown device to respond to the prism effects of a diamond when it was designed to work with an emerald? McGee had had the basic optical physics courses during undergrad, but there was a big difference between undergrad physics and real life experimentation, even if that original experiment had taken place some fifty years ago. McGee was entirely out of his element.

Gotta make it look good. Ducky's life is in your hands. McGee twisted the screwdriver, tightening the brackets that held Graybelle's diamond in place. If Graybelle suspects that I can't do this, we're both toast. The PAMELA was now back together, piece by piece, though McGee hadn't a clue as to whether the thing would function or splutter at him or even just sit there and do nothing. Doing nothing was the most likely outcome, he thought, and the most likely scenario to discourage Graybelle. It would likely discourage Graybelle into killing McGee, and Ducky along with him.

Wait a minute; gotta give PAMELA some juice somehow. McGee peered at the diagrams. Maybe he couldn't read Italian, but he could still see where the battery sat and how the electrons and photons flowed when the original Professor Bellagrigio had wanted to conquer the world. If nothing else, the re-powering of the battery pack would buy him more time.

McGee looked up at Graybelle. The commander was watching him like a hawk and had been for the last three hours, eyes devouring every move that McGee made. McGee opened his mouth. "I need to plug this in," he said to Graybelle. "It needs a source of energy. I don't suppose you have an extension cord lying around." Who am I kidding? Nobody ever has an extension cord when you need it. McGee mentally congratulated himself on a devious and successful ploy to stall for time…

"Adams. Get the extension cord from my office. The long one. Actually, get both of them. It's a long way from this table to the nearest outlet." Graybelle caressed the harsh metal of the PAMELA. "Soon, my darling. Soon."

Crap.


They re-grouped in one dark corner just outside of the lot containing the target warehouse. The lot was huge by D.C. standards, but since they were well outside the urban sprawl, no one thought much of it. Several trees, crooked from lack of adequate soil nutrition, fought with clumps of grass and weeds for access to prime location that hadn't been tamped down by decades of heavy trucks rolling up to the warehouse within. The chain link fence that encircled the lot was reinforced by overgrown thorn bushes, and did an effective job of discouraging intruders. The massive gate was the only reasonable entryway, unless parachuting down from the sky was an option.

The central building itself was huge, large enough to hide a jumbo jet within. A large rust spot on one edge of the roof had given in to the chemistry of nature, the metal jagged and open and allowing access to any small sparrow that cared to build a nest inside to protect its fledglings from rain and from the roving eyes of the hawks swirling in lazy circles overhead. To the casual eye, the place looked deserted.

The five agents possessed anything but casual eyes. Each one wore a frown.

"I counted ten men toward the front right, just inside the side door," DiNozzo reported.

"The entrance is guarded by another three," was Kuryakin's contribution.

"Six in back," said Ziva.

"Four more to the left," Gibbs growled. "Where the hell did he get all of those people?"

"It's one of the great mysteries of life," Solo informed him. "THRUSH always manages to have an apple supply of henchmen, and more." Solo sniffed. "Commander Graybelle can't afford to purchase a large emerald, but he's hired more than twenty men to fetch for him. Find an answer to that question, Agent Gibbs, and they'll make you head of UNCLE."

"It's a promotion I can do without," Gibbs informed him curtly. "Anybody see McGee or Ducky?"

"There's a smaller group inside, in the center of the building, but the window was too dirty to make any positive identification," Solo said. "Given, however, that they appeared to be huddled around a table with something on it, I'll willing to take it as a working hypothesis that this is our location." He cocked his head. "We're outnumbered some four to one, Agent Gibbs, and cover inside is preciously small. Do you have any suggestions?"

Gibbs didn't move toward his handgun. "SWAT is on its way."

"How long before they arrive? This is some distance from D.C. Do you intend to wait?"

The tightening of his lips had nothing to do with humor. "We'll start by taking down some of these people outside," Gibbs said.

"I volunteer," Ziva piped up.

"Allow me to assist you, my dear," Kuryakin said. "I feel I owe you something for my behavior in the hospital."

"It will be my pleasure—"

"DiNozzo, you're on my six. We'll take the left. Ziva, Kuryakin, you'll move around to the right." Gibbs had planned more of these missions than he could remember. "Solo, you stay here and make sure that nobody escapes through the front. If SWAT shows up—and they've been instructed to come in on foot, without noise—have 'em wait with you until we have a better handle on things. Everyone clear?"

A group nod. Tension rose.

Gibbs wasn't finished. "We're going to need a distraction to get to the group in the middle of the warehouse. Without that, Ducky and McGee are finished; we'll never have time to take down the remainder of Graybelle's men before they kill them. Solo, that's your job. When I give the signal, I want something loud that will draw as many people as possible to the front of the warehouse and away from Ducky and McGee. You can handle that?"

Solo gave a small smile. "One distraction, coming up on request." He cast a glance toward Kuryakin. "It seems to me that we used a similar ploy on Dr. Bellagrigio, many years ago. If it worked on the father, hopefully it will have equally good results on the son."

Kuryakin sniffed. "And I recall that you talked equally as much before the distraction, Napoleon. Can we proceed with the mission, or must you continue to babble incessantly?"

Solo raised his eyes heavenward. "Illya was touchy back then, too," he confided to Gibbs.

Gibbs declined to acknowledge either one. "Move out," was all he said.


It wasn't as though McGee had many options to choose from. There were only just so many things that he could do when surrounded by a group of people intent on taking over the world by restoring a fifty year old weapon to lethal integrity. McGee could turn the screwdriver that reattached the oscillinator to the barrel of the photonic concentrator. He couldn't sit down at a computer to finish chapter seventeen where Special Agent Tibbs was trying to figure out who put the dill pickle into the barrel with the sweet gherkins, nor could the Elf Lord finish off Winter Wizard online. McGee really wished that he could get online, even as the Elf Lord. The Elf Lord could go seek out the Forensic Fairy and tell Abby what was going on.

Not happening. Graybelle wasn't about to let McGee near anything with even a remote connection to the internet. No, McGee was on his own at the moment.

Truly on his own; McGee snuck a peek at his fellow NCIS team member. Ducky sat tied to his chair, the blade pinning him in place, his head lolling unconsciously on his chest. The medical examiner was still breathing, though, and McGee wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Graybelle would be very happy to torture Ducky even more to try to get McGee to perform a few more miracles with PAMELA. Blood had dried on the man's shirt, and McGee carefully shifted his gaze away before the sight caused him to upchuck all over PAMELA. Wouldn't that make Graybelle angry?

Graybelle noticed McGee's hesitation. "Faster," he demanded.

"I'm going as fast as I can," McGee lied.

"What do you have left to do?"

"Lots of stuff." That part wasn't a lie. "I still need to test the power source. I need to calibrate the angle of photon entry into the new diamond that you got. I need to recalibrate the settings to compensate for the fact that it's a diamond and not an emerald—"

"Enough." Graybelle cut him off with a wave of his hand. "We're turning it on now."

Uh, that wasn't in McGee's plan. Worse, if PAMELA did something that looked promising, Graybelle might think that he could use it right now. Even worse than that, McGee wasn't about to swear that success wasn't going to be the case. What if the damn thing really did work after all of these years, with a new gem to act as the lens?

McGee tried to think fast. "Uh…you can't."

Oh, that was brilliant, McGee. What are you going to say for an encore?

Graybelle halted. "Why not?"

"Uh…"

Graybelle saw through him. He hadn't made it to commander in the navy by failing to read the thoughts of those that he outranked, and those who outranked him. Graybelle turned to the man standing to one side of the table, nearest to the power switch. "Turn it on," he ordered.

If this were really one of DiNozzo's B movies, there ought to have been an entire bank of computer lights flickering and flashing to one side. There should be a Jacob's Ladder, with electricity darting from one pole to the other, snapping and crackling with restrained power. The process of turning PAMELA on should have needed a minimum of three men, all dressed in stained white lab coats, giggling maniacally to themselves, instead of a single man turning a single switch…

Well, Graybelle seemed ready to burst into maniacal laughter, as soon as PAMELA demonstrated that there was something worth laughing about.

One of the henchmen flipped the switch. Several things happened sequentially.

Power flowed into PAMELA. McGee could tell that it was happening because a) the voltmeter that he'd hooked up to PAMELA said so and b) PAMELA started to hum. She also started to shake.

The voltmeter shattered.

"Turn it off!" McGee yelled. "Too much—"

power

A bright white light shot out of PAMELA's barrel. It required less than half a second to bore through three discarded crates on the opposite side of the warehouse. The remainder of the half second was used up by piercing the metal wall of the warehouse and disappearing into the Great Beyond.

I hope there are no low-flying planes nearby.

The shaking increased—fast. McGee had just enough time to see the smile on Graybelle's face broaden into an outright grin before PAMELA's hum turned into an hysterical screeching of electronics. McGee knew what was going to happen next. He turned away in a vain attempt at cover—

PAMELA exploded.

A sonic boom, and that was the least of anyone's worries.

McGee dove toward Ducky, an inherently incoherent attempt at protecting the medical examiner from the flying shrapnel driving him. The explosion behind him helped McGee to become airborne, and propelled him even faster toward Ducky. Something bit his leg, and something nastier stabbed him in the back. At least it didn't get through me, and into Ducky…


The plan went to hell in a handbasket.

Solo was supposed to provide a distraction upon Gibbs's signal. Since the distraction happened well before Gibbs had dropped more than two of the six he'd intended and before he'd even heard from Ziva and Kuryakin that they'd done their share, he could only assume that the distraction hadn't come from Solo.

That the noise came from within tended to bolster that supposition, as did the fierce white light that boiled out through the wall of the warehouse not six inches in front of Gibbs's nose.

All hell broke loose.

Not a problem. Gibbs was used to the plan not surviving the first encounter with the enemy, and he was fairly certain that Solo and Kuryakin had the same expectations.

The white light suddenly cut out, concurrent with the explosion within. It wasn't hard to decipher what had happened: somebody had tried to get PAMELA to work, and she had reacted in a satisfyingly unsatisfactory fashion. It was a pretty good bet that no one would have to worry about PAMELA taking over the world for the next twenty four hours. Not with that kind of explosion. That was the sound of someone's dream shattering.

There were some other dreams that needed shattering; actually, they were nightmares. One of the nightmares was a life without a certain medical examiner. Another was explaining to a certain family how very proud NCIS was of Special Agent Timothy McGee's giving his life for his country.

Not if Gibbs had anything to say about it.

No door. No problem: the white light had drilled a large enough hole that Gibbs felt shoving away the rest of the metal wall alongside would be the fastest way inside. He did just that, shoulder-rolling his way in with DiNozzo barreling in after him.

More than two dozen henchmen, and four more flat on their backs around what used to be a fine example of a metal work table. The four on their backs Gibbs could ignore; they weren't getting up any time soon.

The rest were a problem.

Gibbs ducked behind a wooden crate, feeling as much as hearing the slug aimed for his head dig into the wood. He darted around to fire off a return shot, warning them to keep their distance. Beside him, DiNozzo aimed and fired. "Hah. One down."

"Another twenty to go, DiNozzo," Gibbs reminded him. "Keep 'em away from McGee and Ducky."

"Right." DiNozzo fired again, dissuading someone from advancing on the two. "Where are the others?"

"There." Gibbs pointed.

Ziva did something with her hands near one henchman's neck. The henchman dropped to the cold concrete floor. Ziva moved on.

Not to be outdone, Kuryakin performed the same maneuver, pulling the man back out of the way of the shower of bullets that another henchman tried to aim in his direction. Gibbs grunted, and aimed.

The shower of bullets stopped. Kuryakin took a moment for a quick wave of encouragement.

Still too many of them, and too few agents. Gibbs and the others had to get to Ducky and McGee before a stray bullet ended their lives forever. Even as Gibbs watched, a slug ricocheted off of the concrete floor not three inches from McGee's head, leaving only a small gray divot behind. DiNozzo got the one that fired, but there would be more.

Too many henchmen. Gibbs moved to a closer crate, still too far away by several yards. He needed more men; where was Solo? Where was the SWAT team, supposed to be here already? Too many henchmen to save his people.

There it was: a snub-nosed handgun poking out from behind a crate, aimed directly at Ducky's head. The body holding the gun was completely hidden by the crate, and there was no way for Gibbs to stop what was about to happen. Gibbs could shred the wood of the crate with bullets from his own gun, and it would still take too long. Ducky would be dead. DiNozzo: same position. Ziva and Kuryakin, still taking down henchmen on the other side of the warehouse. Too far away.

He had to try. Gibbs had to try to prevent the inevitable. He fired, watching the splinters of wood chip away from the edge of the crate. He watched the snubnose take aim at the head of his friend.

Crack.

The henchman flopped out onto the floor, handgun skittering away from his hand. Gibbs stared. It hadn't been his bullet, nor one from DiNozzo's gun.

Napoleon Solo stepped out from behind the crate. He blew artistically across the top of his handgun.

He shrugged. "We'd have a devil of a time deciding which name to put on the headstone."