Hi readers! In case I didn't mention it, there are 10 chapters to this story. It is completely written and I'm posting a chapter every few days, give or take. Let me know if you're enjoying it! And thanks for your lovely comments - and for reading!
CHAPTER 4
The List
Unless we remember we cannot understand.
~ E. M. Forster
As Tony woke up, the first thing he thought was: Gibbs' house, mmmm, nice, warm bed, not getting up.
Immediately following those nice thoughts was: Shit, I have amnesia. I can't remember. Can I? … No, it's still a blank. Mexico, shooting, airport, turned around and … standing in front of Gibbs' house in the rain. Fuck.
He rose slowly, stiff and in pain, and feeling sick to his stomach. The last thing he felt like doing was going in to work, but he knew he had to be part of the investigation, and he couldn't readily do so from Gibbs' house. So he sucked it up, took a pain pill, some antacid, and asked Gibbs, when he came in to check how he was, if he could get his go-bag for him. It was in the trunk of his car, which he'd left in Gibbs' driveway while he was in Mexico. "The stuff in my travel bag is probably wet… not sure where it is, anyway."
"You okay?" asked Gibbs, when he returned with the bag.
"If you're asking if I remember anything, the answer is still no," Tony said curtly, pulling his clothes out of the bag. Seeing Gibbs' expression he said, "Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. Unfortunately, having a black hole in my brain is not a very nice feeling."
Gibbs had also brought Tony's travel bag upstairs and unpacked it to see if it held any clues as to where Tony had been. "Nothing out of place, as far as I can tell," he said.
"My guns in the bottom?" Tony reached in and opened the false bottom. His weapon and backup were there, just where he'd left them.
"You okay to dress on your own?"
"Yes." Tony sighed. "Thanks."
"We'll talk when you come down," Gibbs said and left Tony to his devices.
Tony peeked under the bandage covering the gunshot wound on his upper arm. Everything looked okay and the hospital had done a good job of bandaging it so he thought it best not to disturb it. He had a quick wash in the sink, shaved, and got dressed in the spare set of clothing he kept on hand for any contingency. The pants and shirt were lightweight; he didn't know where his linen jacket had gone, so he borrowed a zip-up sweater from Gibbs' closet because, although it was June, the morning was cool. The process of getting ready for the day was slow and painful at times, but he refrained from asking for any assistance, even with the sling.
Putting on a pleasant expression, he went down to the kitchen, saying, "Good morning, smells good," to Jackson and Gibbs like he meant it. Jackson was at the stove. He greeted Tony with a bright smile and a raised spatula, and went back to tending what looked like scrambled eggs.
Gibbs frowned at the sweater Tony was wearing, as if trying to figure out if it was his or not. Jackson solved that little mystery. "Glad to see you wearing that sweater, Tony. My boy there doesn't seem to like anything I give him. Where'd you find it, in the deep, dark recesses of his closet?"
"As a matter of fact, it was sitting in plain view on the shelf in his bedroom. It's okay if I wear it?" he asked both of the Gibbs men. Jackson nodded his approval; Gibbs snorted and gave a half-shrug.
Gibbs watched Tony staring at the plate of bacon and eggs Jackson put in front of him. "If you don't eat something, I'm gonna have to leave you behind," Gibbs threatened mildly.
"Something wrong with the food, son?" Jack asked, his gaze going from the food he'd prepared to Tony's downcast face.
Tony quickly said, "Oh no, sorry, but I'm not hungry. Maybe we can save it until later?" He turned to Gibbs and asked, "Is it still okay for me to go to work today?"
"First, Ducky says he needs to talk with you over the video thing." Gibbs waved vaguely in the direction of his laptop on the kitchen counter, where it was plugged in and being charged.
After a video conference with Ducky, who was already at work, Tony got the green light to go in to NCIS, with some concessions. "You sound in good spirits, despite not having regained your memory," the ME said cautiously. "However, you must take it easy, because you do have a mild concussion. You may not, under any circumstances, leave the building as part of the investigation."
"Okay, okay, got it," Tony said.
"One more thing. Come down to Autopsy so I may check you out. If you do not, I shall be forced to send security after you," Ducky warned. "And eat some breakfast."
"What is it with you people and force-feeding me? Okay, I'll eat something." Tony made a big deal out of eating some eggs and a piece of buttered toast, but that was all he could stomach.
• • • • •
After they finished breakfast, Tony asked, "What happened to my clothes? The ones I came in last night?"
"I bagged them as evidence," Gibbs said. "Left them in the mudroom."
Jackson looked in the direction of the mudroom, which was off the kitchen.
Gibbs caught it and asked, "Dad?"
"Uh, I was up early, thought I'd do some washing… just to help out. Tony's clothes were torn and had blood on them. Did I do something wrong?"
Tony could see Gibbs was about to explode, so he laid his hand on top of his boss's to still him, and said to Jackson, "That's really nice of you, Jack. You washed my clothes? The ones I wore yesterday?"
Jackson nodded. "Was that wrong?"
Gibbs blurted, "It was evidence to help find out what happened to Tony and–"
Tony broke in before Gibbs yelled at his old man or said something unforgivable. "Don't worry about it. Everything was wet and wouldn't have helped us out much anyway." Gibbs was glaring at him, and Tony realized his hand was still on top of Gibbs', so he smiled at him and gave his hand a squeeze. "It's okay, Boss."
"It's not–"
"It's fine," Tony said emphatically.
There was silence for a couple of minutes while Gibbs got up and poured himself another cup of coffee.
Jackson rose and went into the laundry area in the mudroom. He came back a minute later with a handful of items he put down in front of Tony. "This is all that was in the pockets."
Because Tony made a habit out of never taking anything he cared about on an op like the one he'd just come back from, he didn't expect to find anything of interest in the small pile. A snack-size bag of almonds; a receipt from the hotel, almost illegible due to having been wet; a small tin of Altoids; a handful of Mexican coins and paper money amounting to less than $20; some crumpled tissues. There were also several pages of paper, folded into a square no larger than his palm.
"What's this?" Tony asked Jackson.
"It was in the breast pocket," he said.
Tony carefully unfolded the still-damp paper with Gibbs looking over his shoulder. It was three pages of closely spaced handwriting. The ink had run in places, but, probably because it had been folded so tightly, it was in pretty good shape. He started to read aloud, "1931 red Ford coupe, license plate SCIGIRL, lives on 1500 Trinity Street…" and realized it was a list of names, addresses, and some very personal information – all belonging to their friends and family. "Gibbs," Tony said, shakily handing it to him.
"Where'd this come from?" Gibbs demanded.
"I don't know! My pocket, apparently," Tony replied.
"Who gave this to you?" Gibbs jumped to his feet.
Tony rose to face his boss. "I don't know! I've never seen it before!"
"Where did you get this? Did you take it from someone? Who wrote it?"
Gibbs kept hammering Tony with questions and Tony kept saying he didn't know until he was shouting, "I don't know! I don't fucking remember!"
In the end, it was Jackson who put a stop to them yelling at each other. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle. "Enough! I said enough, Leroy. You, go in the living room and cool down. Tony, sit down before you fall down."
Tony sat down hard in a kitchen chair, breathing heavily, and leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. After a while, he accepted a glass of orange juice and drank it.
Jackson laid a hand on Tony's shoulder and asked kindly, "Now, son, what is this all about?"
"It's a list, a comprehensive list of where you and Ducky, Abby, Palmer, McGee, Ziva… even Vance live, and the makes of everyone's car, plate numbers, where they go to eat, their friends and habits and… fuck! Even your dental appointment is on that paper!"
"Why would anyone want…? Are you telling me it's a hit list?" Jackson asked.
Tony looked into his blue eyes, thinking how they were more of a cornflower blue than Gibbs' light blue eyes, and how he'd die if anything happened to this sweet old man. "I think I intercepted it."
"So who was it intended for?" Gibbs asked as he returned to the kitchen.
"Paloma Reynosa? Or a hit man?" Tony guessed. "This kind of detailed information must have been compiled by someone who had access… I mean, even I don't know what dry cleaners McGee uses."
Gibbs said, "Either you picked up that list, or someone gave it to you."
Tony nodded. "Not that I remember, but yeah. I'll get Abby to run prints on it."
After they'd bagged it, Gibbs motioned for Tony to join him in the living room for a private talk. He said in a low voice, "I know you can't help not being able to remember, and I know how frustrating it can be – believe me, I do. And… there's no excuse for me taking it out on you."
"It's all right…"
"No, it isn't! And don't say it is," Gibbs insisted.
Tony nodded. "Okay. Just… don't yell at me again. I don't like it."
"I won't." Gibbs pulled Tony into a hug, and for the entire five seconds it lasted, Tony was in heaven, surrounded by Gibbs' strength and his smell, his warm breath on his ear, and Tony thought that if he could just get a hug like this once a month, he could live happily for the rest of his life.
• • • • •
They must have appeared to be an odd group, stepping off the NCIS elevator and parading to the MCRT bullpen. Gibbs led the way with a determined expression.
Tony followed next, wearing sunglasses, his arm in a sling; he knew he was pale, and basically looked like crap, but he was determined to find out where he'd been and what he'd done during those missing six hours yesterday.
Jackson Gibbs walked beside him, aided by a cane, looking around with interest and asking why couldn't they change the color of the orange walls to something more Navy-like.
"I'll get right on it, and put it in the suggestion box, Dad," Gibbs replied.
Accompanying them was their protection detail; agents Blondell and Cagney, who had relieved agents Dailey and Fisher early that morning.
Of course, as soon as Tony heard their names, he had laughed and brought up a movie reference. "Blonde Crazy, 1931, pre-Hays office. James Cagney and Joan Blondell con a bunch of conmen. Did you know alcohol was still illegal when they made the film? Didn't stop them from drinking Champagne in every other scene. And blondie Blondell had the best bathtub scene!"
Gibbs had given Tony the side-eye that clearly said he would have head-slapped him if he hadn't had a concussion.
McGee and Ziva greeted them, and Ziva hugged Jackson and asked how he was. Of course he lapped up the attention. She then turned to Tony, and looked him up and down. "You look like something the bag dragged in. I admit I thought that Gibbs was exaggerating about your condition…"
"It's cat, not bag." Tony sighed and sat at his desk. He neatened a pile of papers that didn't need straightening and moved his stapler an inch to the right. "It's so nice to be home."
Rolling his eyes, Gibbs said, "Dad, Agent Cagney'll take you for a tour of the armory and–"
Jackson asked, "What about some coffee? You were in such a rush to get here we barely had time for a cup. Why are you always in such a rush?"
"Then the agents can take you to the diner around the corner for some of the best coffee in town. They have a great home-cooked all-day breakfast, too." Gibbs said, evidently used to bargaining with his father.
"Home-cooked is when you cook it at home, Leroy," Jackson complained. "Not that you were ever much of a cook, as I recall."
"And that's exactly why I go to the diner." Gibbs motioned to the detail, who adeptly escorted the senior Gibbs towards the elevator. Gibbs turned to his team and said, "So what are you waiting for? McGee, put whatever you've got on the plasma." Tony stood to join them but Gibbs made him sit down, and rolled his desk chair into the center of the bullpen so he could see the screen.
Ziva frowned at Gibbs' treatment of Tony. "You have sea legs now, Tony?"
McGee corrected her. "Sea legs is when you've become used to the pitching deck."
Although Tony knew Gibbs had already briefed Ziva and McGee on what had happened to him, this was Ziva's way of poking at him. He replied, "You, too, can take a seat, if you have a concussion and memory loss. You'd have to get shot, as well, to earn this seat, but I wouldn't recommend it."
With a snort of disbelief, Ziva slapped Tony's arm, one of those backhanded slaps that, under normal circumstances, wouldn't hurt a fly. Only Ziva struck Tony with a heavy hand, and unfortunately, she hit him right where he'd been shot.
Tony yelped, half fell out of the chair and ended up on his knees, clutching his arm. He rocked back and forth, eyes closed, trying not to puke all over the rug. Slowly the agonizing pain receded enough for him to realize Gibbs was crouched next to him, a steadying arm around his shoulders, saying, "Take deep breaths, that's it. In, out…"
"I'm… I'm okay," Tony said, his voice taut with pain. He was aware of Gibbs muttering something and McGee admonishing Ziva, and heard Ziva speaking in the background, as if from far away. "I am so sorry, Tony. I had no idea…"
He nodded, more to show he heard her than to actually accept her apology. What the hell was wrong with her, always thinking he was faking injuries, even when the evidence was there, right before her eyes? Jesus, it hurt. Slowly, Tony got his wits together, and when he got to his feet and into his chair, he caught McGee glaring at Ziva as if he didn't believe she was at all sincere. "I'm good. Let's… get on with this." McGee brought Tony a bottled water and unscrewed the cap for him, and he managed a wan smile, letting his colleagues know he wasn't dying.
• • • • •
Naturally, Gibbs took him down to Autopsy so Ducky could look him over, and that meant he had to endure a light shining in his eyes (gave him a piercing headache), his vitals taken (elevated, of course), the bandage on his arm replaced (sore as if he'd been branded by a hot iron), and a general assessment (embarrassing when Gibbs was glaring at him the whole time.)
After much dithering, Ducky allowed that Tony could remain at work for no more than four hours, and then it was back home and to bed. "No television, loud noises, excitement… just rest," Ducky prescribed.
They left Autopsy and returned to the bullpen, with Tony doing his best to appear in good spirits – even though if there had been a bed or couch in sight, he would have happily collapsed onto it.
Tony remembered the hit list, as they'd dubbed it, the hand-written multi-page document that he had somehow gotten his hands on. He pulled it out of his backpack, now carefully sealed in a plastic evidence bag. "Boss? You want me to take this down to Abby now?"
Gibbs took it from Tony and said, "I'll do it. You can fill Ziva and McGee in on what you found." His phone rang and after he disconnected he said, "DiNozzo, the director wants to see you. Now."
• • • • •
Vance offered Tony a seat and asked him to go over what had occurred in Mexico. "Dr. Mallard has informed me of your amnesia," he said.
"I'm clear on what happened in Mérida, sir. It's the flight home that draws a blank. Ducky has plan on how to extract that lost time," Tony said, with more confidence than he was feeling. Although Gibbs had already relayed to Vance what had gone down in Mexico, the director wanted to hear the details from Tony's own mouth.
After telling Vance everything he knew, Tony concluded, "It looks like it was all a set-up to kill Mike Franks. Ever since the Reynosa cartel tried to murder his daughter-in-law and grandchild, Franks has been on the warpath. I think they were scared of him and decided to set out some bait and hoped he would turn up with revenge on his mind – which he did." Vance asked about Franks' whereabouts and Tony could only shrug. "Let's just say he walked away from the gunfight and is lying low for the time being."
Vance sighed. "And Paloma Reynosa was in Pennsylvania, trying to take out Gibbs' father."
Tony leaned forward. "Which brings up the questions: Who told you that Alejandro and Paloma would be in the plaza at that day and time, planning to hand over large amounts of money to representatives of Argentina and Cuba? And that there was a naval officer somehow involved?"
"The intel came through the CIA, sent directly to SecNav."
"And it was confirmed?" Tony asked skeptically.
"By a former agent of theirs, who is consulting," Vance replied.
Tony didn't say so, but they both knew that the source was about as strong as wet toilet paper.
• • • • •
Both Ziva and McGee were concerned at being on the list of people Paloma and her brother (they presumed it was their hit list) had marked as wanting dead. McGee quickly placed calls to his father, aunt and sister, and made sure they understood how serious this was. His dad, the Admiral, was out at sea, so he was safe. His sister was out of town at a workshop, and his aunt was leaving that day for a trip to the Amazon. She offered Tim her place to crash, but he pointed out that as her name and address were on the hit list, he'd better not.
Ziva didn't call anyone.
• • • • •
"… and the only other private planes were this jet, with twelve passengers, chartered to a group of Japanese tourists flying from Miami to DC," McGee said as he showed a photo of a sleek aircraft on-screen, "and this Global jet owned by a conglomerate out of New York."
Gibbs prompted, "Company name? Passengers?"
Ziva took the clicker and several lists appeared on the plasma. "Polestar World Med Corp is the conglomerate that owns the jet. Sub-companies include the ten on this list. Most are in the New York area: Juno Labs, Bio Healthcare, Lupinius, Hartstein Brothers, TrackMed, JanMart Ltd., and–"
Tony held up his hand. "Wait… TrackMed. I know that company…"
McGee asked, "What about them?"
Shaking his head, Tony said, "I don't know."
Ziva said, "They flew into Reagan at five o'clock yesterday with two pilots and seven passengers."
Gibbs said, "Get a list of their names from Customs."
McGee was already at his desk, doing a search into the company. "TrackMed has an office in New Jersey, makes medical equipment, are highly rated and… hey, they have a factory in Mexico City, Mexico. Their owner is a Raymond Springdale, and the board of directors includes …" He rattled off some names until Tony spoke up.
Tony repeated it. "Matthew Landry."
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "Senator Matt Landry?"
"Yeah. I know his son. We were at college together…" Tony's mind was going a mile a minute. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Chris. Maybe four years ago. "Was Chris on the flight?"
"I will look." Ziva checked the list of passengers on her computer and frowned. "This is very irregular. All flights are required to file a list of passengers before they get cleared for take-off." She looked up. "There are only surnames here. The two pilots, and Landry, another Landry–"
"That would be the senator and Chris," Tony interrupted.
"The other names are Perez, Garcia, Cruz and Hernandez. Tony, you are not listed here."
Gibbs asked, "What about at Customs when they arrived?"
McGee was on top of that. "Same names, plus one… Mr. Anthony."
"Is that me?" Tony asked. "The name sounds like the concierge at the Ritz, or a hairstylist."
McGee was still doing searches but it didn't look like he was finding what he wanted, "There's no way of knowing. They didn't follow any of the usual protocols, which is very strange, and very wrong, and I don't know anyone who could get away with this except for…" He raised his eyes to look straight at Tony and then Gibbs.
It was Tony who finished his sentence. "Except for the CIA. Great."
• • • • •