Abby grabbed her Caf-Pow drinking out of moodily as she worked on what Gibbs gave her.

Tobias stepped into the observation side of the FBI's integration room, the results of NCIS's facial recognition in a folder in his hand. Tobias wondered how many Caf-Pows it was going to take Jethro to get back in Abby's good graces after giving Tobias the results that would help the FBI's case against Ducky. But it would serve as an explanation when DeForest asked where he had been and why. Speaking of, she was on the other side of the glass, once again questioning the doctor.

"Do you speak Russian?" She asked, pacing on her side of the table.

"Well, yes, it would have made going to Tambov rather difficult otherwise. I personally find it rather rude that when one travels they don't have the basic grasp of how to say 'Thank you' or 'please' of the language of the country they are going to. I remember one time I had gone to the Louvre Museum, and as I was passing one of the many gift shops, I want to say it was in the religious art section, just past the Mona Lisa, when I heard one of the workers bitterly muttering that he wished tourists would learn French. A sentiment I often find here in America in regards to English."

"A 'yes' would have been enough," DeForest said. "Do you just like the sound of your own voice?"

"No, but I do seem to do most of the talking when I converse with others, so I suppose it's become habit."

"Think I should tell her that Doctor Mallard talks to dead people?" Tobias asked the technician sitting at the monitors.

The tech grabbed his bowl of popcorn and offered it to Tobias, who gratefully took a few pieces.

"Agent Gibbs, what can the CIA do for NCIS?" Agent Baldwin asked from the screen of MTAC.

"I was hoping to get some information on a spy you've classified," Gibbs said.

"We've classified a lot of spies," Agent Baldwin said, "you're going to have to be a little more specific."

"Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin," Gibbs said.

Agent Baldwin rocked back in his seat. "And why does NCIS need to know about someone who hasn't been on anyone's radar for nearly fifty years?"

"Because Agent Kelly DeForest of the FBI thinks she's found him."

"Between you and me, Agent Gibbs, I don't think Agent DeForest has the clearance to even ask how to spell Kuryakin's name. I'm still not sure what NCIS has to do with anything."

"The reason we're asking is because the man that she thinks is Kuryakin happens to be our Medical Examiner and we want him back," Gibbs explained.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm not sure how much the information that I can give you will help with that."

"Why?"

"Because even I don't have the clearance to look up anything that you probably don't already know."

"Then find me someone who does," Gibbs said leveling a look at the CIA agent.

"…I'll see what I can do." Agent Baldwin promised.

Palmer sat at the bar, a glass of Jonny Walker Red in his hands. He heard the door open again and he twisted to see a few tourists, probably from Britain judging by their accents, walk in. He wondered if he should have let Agent Gibbs know where he was going. He picked the glass up, brought it to his lips before putting it down again without taking a drink.

Palmer let Brianna know that he was going to be home late. That would be enough if he got kidnapped… right?

"…Okay, should have also told Tony at least," Palmer muttered to himself, pulling out his phone to text him.

"Jimmy Palmer?" Someone asked, laying their hand on his shoulder. Palmer jumped with a cry, fumbling his phone to point of nearly dropping it. The hand retreated quickly and Palmer turned to look at its owner. An older gentleman in a nice business suit held his hands up, showing that he was unarmed giving Palmer an easy smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, no, I'm sorry, I was just about to text-Yes, I'm Jimmy Palmer," he said, offering his hand to shake.

The other man chuckled and took the offered hand. "Nice to meet you, Jimmy. I'm Albert."

"Oh," Palmer blinked, "I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd have-"

"An American accent?" Albert finished, gesturing to the seat next to Palmer. Palmer startled, motioned grandly to the chair and Albert sat down with a laugh. "Yes, it's been a great joke between Ducky and me; The Scotsman lives in America and the American ended up living in the UK."

Albert flagged down the bartender with ease, ordering a scotch. "If you want to finish your text to Agent Gibbs I won't be offended."

"Well, I was texting Tony-" Palmer froze, "Um, uh, how did you know I was texting someone from NCIS?"

Albert tapped Palmer's cellphone. "You said yourself you were about to text someone and how jumpy you are right now, it'd probably be someone with a gun and I know that Ducky trusts Gibbs."

"Yeah, well," Palmer said, "I would but, I don't think Agent Gibbs knows how to text."

Albert tilted his head to the side. "True. You should still…" Albert gestured to the phone.

"Oh, right," Palmer tapped out a quick message to Tony and sent it. He slipped his phone back into his pocket. "So…uh…"

"So how much trouble is Ducky in?" Albert asked his eyes on the rows of bottles in front of the mirror behind the bar.

"Uh, a lot? In truth I'm not sure if I'm allowed to talk about it," Palmer admitted.

Albert took a drink, turning to Palmer. "How about this: You tell me how digging up old pictures of Ducky out of storage will help him get out of trouble."

"Uh, well you see, Doctor Mallard is, well, some people in the FBI think that he might be someone else who is… not nice. And when I grabbed a picture of him from, uh, when he was younger it, uh, matched the pictures of the other guy."

Albert nodded. "And what would happen to Ducky if they think he really is the 'not nice' person?"

"Traditionally, he'd be hanged by the neck, cut down before suffocating, his entrails removed while he's still alive and then he'd be set on fire."

Albert paused, his glass almost to his lips.

"On a ship they would have keel hauled him," Palmer noted distantly, finally taking a drink himself.

Albert set his glass down. "Now I see why he asked about Angelique…"

"What?"

Albert shook his head and waved off Palmer's question. "So what picture is worth all…that?"

"Oh, I have it on my phone," Palmer said, digging into his pocket and pulling up the picture on his phone. "I, I kept it 'cause it really is a great photo of him and I didn't think it was gonna link him to some Russian spy…"

Albert pulled out a pair of square reading glasses and holding Palmer's hand to tilt the phone to an angle he could see the picture. "Huh, I think I was there with him."

Palmer blinked. "You were?"

"Oh, yes, Ducky and I used to travel together all the time. I think this was before he shipped out on some aircraft carrier for the Royal Airforce. I bought a new camera for the trip. I remember Duck getting really annoyed with how many pictures I was taking."

"Albert, do you remember taking this picture?" Palmer asked, leaning forward.

"Do you remember every picture ever taken of you, Agent DeForest?" Ducky asked, looking up from the copy of the picture of the day trip to Germany that NCIS had provided.

"Answer the question," DeForest snapped.

"If I had to say: vaguely. If I remember correctly my cousin Albert took this, I think he just wanted to play in the photo lab that our relative we were staying with had. I do think this one came out quite well."

"Funny, because your own lab at NCIS matched this with known pictures of Illya Kuryakin," DeForest said, looking him in the eye. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"Unfortunately, no. Though I'm sure Abby had come up with at least half a dozen theories when you picked this up," Ducky glanced at Fornell, watching as the FBI agent's eye twitched in recollection.

"You want to know what I think?" DeForest asked.

"My dear, it all to clear what you think," Ducky said, folding his hands together. "You think that I'm a retired spy, dragging you around in circles for my own amusement. I would, however like to point out that you are the ones that brought me here. I can't tell you anything about what Kuryakin or Solo were doing in the Sixties and I think you are starting to realize that."

"So you're saying you're not Illya Kuryakin," DeForest clarified.

Ducky shrugged. "I already told you, my name is Doctor Donald Mallard. You are free to believe me or not. I can't force you to."

"So if I were to take every picture of you and compare them against Kuryakin they wouldn't match," DeForest pressed.

"Hm, you've unfortunately run into something I don't much about," Ducky admitted. "I'm sure Abby could give you a list of statistics of the likelihood of two unrelated people matching but I haven't the foggiest."

"Do you know what the odds are of two unrelated people matching really are!?" Abby ranted as Gibbs came in with a Caf-Pow for her. "Okay, admittedly really low but there are about seven people on this planet that look like you! So simple math says that out of seven billion people, one in a billion will look like you!"

"Abby."

"Okay, so that means the fact that Ducky matches some, evil, Russian spy, isn't out of the realm of possibilities! Plus the hat and glasses in the picture can in fact be throwing off my results!" Abby said typing on her computer, ignoring the Caf-Pow Gibbs sat next to her. "When was the last time Ducky posted his pictures on Facebook? Because we are dealing with ridiculously small sample size; I need more pictures to compare against!"

Gibbs fanned out a collection of pictures of him and Ducky taken over years of friendship, whistling to get her attention as he held them in between her and her computer.

"Oh." She took the pictures then looked Gibbs in the eye. "I'm still mad at you."

"I know," Gibbs said. "You planning on going home tonight?"

Abby's look hardened into a glare. "You think I would go home now? When Ducky needs me? I am NOT leaving my lab until all of these pictures have been tested! I don't care how long that takes, be it all night, all week or all year, do you understand!?"

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I just wanted to know if I needed to get you breakfast as well as dinner," Gibbs said walking out of the room.

"Still mad!" Abby grabbed her Caf-Pow drinking out of moodily as she worked on what Gibbs gave her.