At the garden's edge, Tim stopped. To mind came a picture of the unfortunate Clarice, the petty officer/crook/tattooed rescuer who'd been gunned down by Howell as she'd freed him and Abby. No! I can't do this again! Even if they recapture me, I have to chance it…have to see if this guy's alive. If I'd done that for Clarice, if I hadn't been so concerned with getting Abby to safety, maybe she'd…
He darted back; it was no more than 30 feet. His rescuer was still alive! He was halfway sitting up; grasping his shoulder. That was probably where he had been hit. Tim wrapped his arm around the man on the other side and hauled him to his feet. Quietly as they could, they walked out of the gardens, sticking to the darkness. There were no sounds of pursuit, but Tim wasn't about to take a chance. Why, if they said they wanted me, are they trying to keep me…prisoner?
"You…should not have come back for me," his rescuer gasped. "You are taking too much risk."
"Yeah, well, Life's nothing if you don't take some risks. But you—we've got to get you to a hospital."
"No hospital, no. My cover will be, you say, ah, 'blow'. Stop, please. I will call a taxi."
Tim waited with the man until the taxi pulled up, and they then ventured into the light of a streetlamp. Finally Tim could see his rescuer well: age about 50, fit, the kind of face that blends in everywhere. "Will you come with me?" the man said. "I may need help getting up the stairs."
"You're sure you don't want a hospital?"
"For this scratch?" the man snorted. "It is nothing, less than nothing. Anyone can fix it for me. But there is always one person I go to when I need help."
"Who are you?"
"A friend."
"I wish people would stop saying that! The last one who did, before you, drugged me and brought me to that asylum of kooky Eidetic scientists!"
"My name is Henri, then."
"Henri. That's better. Why did you help me escape, Henri? Not that I'm even sure yet that I wanted to escape."
The man shrugged. "Because you were a prisoner. I do not think you really wanted to betray your country."
"But I wasn't! They were just testing my abilities, and they offered me a job…it's not like my former employer wanted me…"
"I did not hear the entire story. But you do not want to be involved with those people. I have been, ah, among them for some time. They can be cruel...Ah, here we are…"
They pulled up to a row of flats in a neighborhood that looked like the one Tim and Abby had been in just before he was abducted, in the Eiffel Tower quarter. Henri unlocked the door, and, with a little support from Tim, they went up to the second floor, where another key unlocked the door to a flat. Opening it, he called out something in French inside, and as they stepped inside, lights came on. An old woman stood there, in robe and slippers, pistol in hand.
"My maman. She has a, you say, 'flair for the dramatic'.
The old woman snorted. "Not dramatic at all. I kept this house safe from two home invasions with this gun, and during the War, I..." Her voice trailed off. "Now, my Henri, what trouble have you caused this time?" Putting the pistol in a drawer, she set about tending to the shoulder wound.
Tim watched curiously, comprehension finally flowering in his mind. "You, Henri, were a plant in that outfit. And you—" he nodded at Henri's mother "—you're a spy, too?"
"Yes," she said. "And you must be McGee, the young man everyone is looking for."
"If everyone's looking for me—and I know I've felt that for some time—then I'm putting you in danger by being here," he said, getting to his feet.
"Do not rush off, McGee," said Henri, wincing as his mother cleaned the wound. "Are you certain that everyone who is following you means you harm? Do you trust no one?"
"Pretty much," Tim said grimly. "You have no idea what people think I've done. Even NCIS would be glad to have me gone. Please, if I can ask one thing of you, please don't tell them you've seen me." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and departed into the stillness before the dawn.
- - - - -
Back to the previous evening...
Abby was still too shattered to relax in public; to be debriefed there. This was apparent by her clasping of her hands, her tight face, her unwillingness to make eye contact. Despite his eagerness to find out what had gone on with Abby and Tim, more eagerness than he would have thought he had in him, Gibbs called a halt to the attempts, and checked the four of them into a nearby hotel. Ravenous Tony was sent out to bring them all back dinner while Gibbs called Jenny and Morrison with the news of the successful round-up of Abby. After their meal, in the room that Abby would share with Ziva, they settled down with beer, cognac, fruit and cheese to go over the long, eventful story.
"Abby? Abby...? Earth to Abby..." Tony said when the story had wrapped up and Abby sat, unmoving.
She didn't respond to his gentle call. There was too much information to process. After she had told her team about hers and Tim's adventures (leaving out a bit), and hearing the team relate their part in it, she felt drained. Yes, she was safe now, and she did trust them again, and she knew she would be provided for. But she felt painfully incomplete. Tim...
Rather than starting to relax, she became more despondent. Tony eventually cut off her cognac supply and sentenced her to water. "How can I relax?" she wept. "Tim is being help prisoner, by...I don't know who. What are you doing to get him free?"
Gibbs looked away. "We don't know where he is."
"So? You found me!"
"Mostly by luck. We followed the pings that registered every time you used your credit card, even after we had it turned off...the Director called us with that information. Abby, we don't know who snatched McGee any more than you do. And...listen, Abby; look at me...quite likely they've taken him out of Paris by now; out of France. You have to accept that."
Panic invaded her face as the enormity of this set in. "No! NO!" She grabbed Gibbs by the shirt. "You've got to find him! He's part of the team! You've got to find him!!!"
"We'll do what he can. And we do have some help. There's an espionage network here that had, er, has been looking for you and Tim. Like that old woman who helped you, Elodie, she's one of them. No one's given up hope." His eyes, though, weren't as optimistic. Sooner or later, they'd have to return to Washington, with or without Tim.
When they all at last retired for the night, Abby lay in her soft, deep bed, head on the velvety pillow, unable to stop the quiet tears. It's unfair that I'm lying in comfort, while Tim is a prisoner...I wish, I wish...
She longed to get out and do something, but that was impossible with Ziva as her roommate. Ziva, she imagined, would hear every footstep of a spider on the wall. If Abby tried to move, Ziva would be on her, blocking the exit, before she could blink. Eventually, despite her grief, Abby fell asleep.
Ziva, from her bed, was glad that a few ticks in the night were all the movements that Abby made. The stress must be overwhelming the poor girl.
In the morning, she woke to find Abby sitting up in bed, her eyes dull. "I have extra elastics. Why not put your hair up in pigtails or ponytails?" Ziva suggested. "You might feel better. You don't need to hide your appearance any more. We could even get you some black hair dye, and—"
"No," Abby said, and it was a long moment before she spoke again. "Not until we find Tim. No."
"As you wish."
The team left the hotel for breakfast, finding it readily available in one of the tantalizing cafes in the area, many decades old and proudly naming the artists and writers that had patronized them 50 or more years ago, when the Left Bank had housed the cutting-edge cultural and intellectual movements. Delicious baguettes, brioches, and pains au chocolat were all taken in with gusto, washed down with black coffee, cafe au lait, or hot chocolate.
They lingered over the meal, perhaps in hope of bringing some sparkle back into Abby's eyes, but then after an hour or so, with no success, filed out. Gibbs stopped to pick up an International Herald Tribune; Tony ducked across the street to see what was playing at the cinema; Ziva stopped to look at a display of suede jackets in a shop window, and Abby...when they looked up, she was nowhere in sight.
I've planned this well, Abby thought, now two, almost three blocks away. She'd made a point of leaving the small duffel bag on the bed at the hotel, quite visible to Ziva, but secretly making sure all her remaining cash and her Metro tickets were in her pockets. It should be easy enough to get away, if the team were distracted. Even if they started searching for her quickly, and guessed she'd gotten on the Metro, they would most likely think she was on line 4, where they'd found her the previous day. Instead, she'd skirted two blocks in the other direction, to the Mabillon station on line 10. She took it east.
- - - - -
"Damn her!" Gibbs said when they'd discovered she was gone. "You two—what were you thinking?! You saw how depressed she was over McGee!" His phone rang while they were busy hanging their heads. "Gibbs!" he snapped.
"Disquieting news, Gibbs, and I hate to be its bearer," said Morrison. "The Paris police called me. Howell and Finch have implicated Abby in the Smithsonian heist. They say she has some of the jewels."
"What?! That's ridiculous! She certainly hasn't said anything to us about—"
"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to bring her in. It's likely all just for show; they'll search her, and that will be the end of that."
"Maybe. But there's a slight problem..."
- - - - -
Abby rode the Metro up, down, and across; transferring, transferring, transferring. Finally, she made up her mind and got off at the Varenne station. She remembered the address she'd been invited to, and walked there. Would Gibbs and the team trace her here? Maybe. But she didn't plan on staying more than she had to; just long enough to get information.
"Welcome, young one," said Elodie, answering the bell on the second ring. "Do come up. My knees are giving me trouble today; I do not wish to try the stairs."
"Did they call you and say I might be coming?" Abby asked, sitting down to tea with her.
"Did who call, dear?"
"My, uh, people. NCIS. They'd been looking for me, and they found me last night, but I slipped away this morning. It sounds crazy, I know, but..."
Rather than answer her question, Elodie had one of her own. "Do you not trust them?"
"Yes, yes I do trust them. But—"
"But?"
"I have one thing that concerns me more than their priorities, or even my own safety. I want my—my friend back."
"This young man, McGee. Do you love him?"
"With all my heart!"
"Then you are closer to finding him than you know. It often takes passion to reach one's goals, and you, my dear, have that."
"Do you have any information; anything at all that can help me? I don't know where to start, except that he was last seen in this area..."
"And more recently than you think. My dear, he was here, right where you sit now, around 3 this morning." At Abby's astonished look, she related the entire story of Tim's wee-hour arrival with her son. "I had not called NCIS because he asked me not to. He is so very afraid, and still in danger."
"That's how I felt, too, but—"
"I am an agent, but an independent one. I make my own decisions. NCIS-Marseilles trusts that I make ones that largely follow their thinking. I do not know your team personally. I did not know if they meant your McGee harm or not. He helped my son, so I helped him. He has left, that is all I can say."
"What time did he leave? Where did he go?"
"Before dawn. I do not know where he went." Her shrewd gaze fell upon Abby's face, and Abby felt like she was being silently tested. After a minute or so, the woman nodded to herself, and then said, "I would think he would not go far. He was very tired; he wanted some place to sleep. I offered him the couch, but he refused. He said he was afraid he was bringing trouble with him. You, you I think have his interests at heart, so I am telling you this."
"Thank you. Thanks so much!" Abby gave the woman a gentle hug, and left, feeling she owed her at least a gift basket now.
- - - - -
Somewhere close by...Abby searched with her eyes and ears, and left her mind running as she walked...and Luck was with her. She walked through a heavily-wooded area, just a patch of ground with trees and shrubs crowded, vying for prime space. And there she saw a bit of a green shirt that she knew; a patch of familiar brown shoe; both barely visible in the protective barrier of a bush. If one hadn't been looking for them, they wouldn't have been spotted.
"Tim!" she dove in; pulled him out through the tightly-woven branches. "Tim! TIM!" Hugging him, catching his scent, the feel of him, the confusion as he woke and the world clicked into order around him.
"Abby! ABBY!!"
They hugged, then kissed. At last he said, "Are you all right? I was so worried about you!!"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Tim, but we've got to—"
He pushed her away, just an inch or two. "No, Abby. They're still after me, more than ever. You can't stay with me; I'm a danger magnet. Who'd have thought, right? Go—""
"No, Tim! I've worked so hard to find you! I was so scared you'd been spirited out of the country! I'm not leaving you now!"
"—go to the American Embassy. Camp out there. They'll have to let you in. Call anyone you can think of. Call my parents, if you need to. They'll wire money to you for a plane ticket. Get home. That's all I want now, for you to be safe."
"What did I tell you about not playing the macho man?! Tim, we're so close to getting out of this! Listen to me!"
His eyes were like stagnant pools; nearly lifeless. "Abby, I'm dead already. I have no more life here. Please. Go home."
"But Tim, NCIS—" But he wasn't listening to her. She yanked him to his feet (a nice trick, since he outweighed her by more than a few pounds) and dragged him down the street with her, to an ATM. "If I go, I won't do so at least until you have some cash on you." He didn't say anything, but she saw a bit of a light in his eyes, and knew she had him.
Entering the card in the machine, she hummed and then saw the card had been declined. "Huh! I wonder why that is?" she said, partly to herself, aware that Tim was looking over her shoulder. "I'll try it again." Naturally, the card was again rejected.
Tim looked puzzled. "Are you over your daily withdrawal amount? Or overdrawn?"
"Nope and nope. I'll bet it's a glitch in the computer system—"She saw the doubt on his face, but pressed on. "Or something. Let's sit down; wait a few minutes."
"Wait? For what?"
"The sun to rise toward noon, so the ice cream vendors will be out." She kicked herself, mentally, wishing she had a filter on the first-thing-that-comes-to-mind part of her brain. But he didn't seem perturbed. He seemed...
He confirmed her suspicions by yawning and stretching. "Nice idea, but you'd do better with more nutritious food than ice cream. Particularly if money remains tight."
"Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate's nutritious," she said desperately, while thinking, Come on, ping! Tell NCIS where we are! Send Gibbs! I don't know how much longer I can keep Tim here!
But Tim, she then saw, had fallen back asleep. She had time. Soon she was asleep beside him.
- - - - - -
"Abby's card has pinged again!" Jenny said on Gibbs' phone. "In Invalides, near the Eiffel Tower quarter.
"Why on earth would she use the card, since we told her it'd been turned off?!"
"Either she forgot, or..."
"She's sending us a signal! On it." He clicked the phone shut. "Ziva! DiNozzo! Let's move!"
- - - - -
It was not long afterwards when she awoke; seeing Tim struggling with a man, and a second about to grab her.
"Let her go," said Tim; on his feet; his arm pinned back. "I'll go back to the lab with you."
Oh, no!! We were so close to getting him back; now this!! "Please! Let him go! I'll pay you..." Dodging the man reaching for her, she pulled off her boot and removed the two rings from the hidden compartment. "These are worth a fortune. They're yours if you let us go." She didn't look at Tim; afraid his bulging eyes would make her change her mind.
The two men scrambled for the rings when she tossed them into the air, and Tim and Abby ran and ran, across a bridge into the Champ-Elysees quarter, until they could run no more. Spent at last, they ducked into a grove of trees; cooling in the warm day. It didn't occur to her to wonder how the men from the lab had found them.
"How could you?!" he said to her at last. "Abby, those jewels weren't yours to give away. They belong to the Smithsonian! Besides, once I proposed selling the jewels for cash. I wasn't serious, but you were livid. Why the change?"
"I know they're not mine. But Tim, Tim, they're just things. Comparing them to your life—well, there's no comparison. We'll get them back, maybe. The important thing is, you're free."
A truck rumbled by on the street, drowning their conversation for a minute. "No," he said when it was quiet again. "You're free. Abby, if you hadn't been there, I would have gone back with them."
"But why, Tim?" She was near tears again, even though yesterday she'd thought she'd run out of tears for good.
"Why?! Abby, why are you trying to pull me back? There's nothing for me back in the States. No job, no prospects, just lots of people who think I'm a liar."
"What? Who thinks you're a liar?"
"Everyone who doesn't believe I have an Eidetic memory. That includes you, Abby, I'm afraid. You've never believed me. You, the one I always thought I could count on...every time I brought the subject up, you put me down. Man, how that hurt!"
"Tim, I'm sorry. Let me explain, please..." She leaned against him, seeking solace.
And about 800 yards away, US Army Rangers Spec Ops sniper Cecily Kangas and her spotter, Paul Gergely, got into position. Kangas fingered her M-24 Sniper Weapon System rifle and sighted down the telescopic system sight, though she wasn't yet ready to fire.
"Get out of the way, girl; I don't know who you are and I don't care. I'm here just to eliminate your guy," she mumbled.