Poisoned Poison

Chapter 5

Gibbs looked at his watch again… night was closing in, and he hadn't heard from DiNozzo in two hours. He and Ziva had turned up nothing at Stork's last known address; the landlady had said rather huffily that Mr. Manders had paid his rent up to the last day she saw him, told her he was looking for something a bit more upmarket, (sniff), and disappeared. Another neighbour said that the Stork had been driving a new car when he flew away. He'd never seen him with a car at all before.

Nobody at his apartment building had seen Chaz Tressel for a couple of days. Alex Hahn brought Blossom over, and she showed interest in the kitchen and the bedroom, but there was nothing left. Tressel's stained bed sheets suggested he'd had company, with whom he'd quite possibly been sampling the goods, so they took the linen for analysis.

The boss at the construction company was wearily unsurprised. He'd known of Chaz's record, and given him a chance. He'd been a good enough worker, and he'd never caught him doing anything illegal, but he'd simply not turned up for work three days ago, and there'd been no contact. They were looking to replace him.

When they returned to the bullpen, they found a mostly frustrated McGee, whose attempts to follow electronic trails had been largely unsuccessful. He called Paula Cassidy, but she had been unable to come over, having gone to the Pentagon to meet her new team. She'd sounded, Tim thought, as if wild horses wouldn't have got her to the Navy Yard anyway. Nothing she'd actually said out loud, but Tim was learning to read between the lines. Or was that hear between the sentences? He sighed.

The only bit of success he'd had came after Gibbs had called in to update him; he'd looked at CCTV footage near Stork's lodgings, and found film of the tall man arriving and departing in a newish Beemer. He got the number, and found that the vehicle was in police custody. It had been impounded not three hours previously, as it had been abandoned in a restricted zone. The owner had made no attempt to reclaim it. Tim arranged for it to be brought over to Abby.

Kent's team had nothing to report; by now everyone they spoke to had heard about the 'spark', but nobody knew anything. Ducky confirmed that the young marine and his friend died from respiratory failure due to the use of chemical substances; Abby was testing blood and tissue samples. The other marine remained critical. By the time Gibbs and Ziva returned, that was the sum total of the afternoon's work; and nobody had heard from Fuller and DiNozzo.

"No signal from either cell phone, Boss," Tim said quietly. "I've put out a bolo on Agent Fuller's truck, but no immediate results." He tapped some keys. "Both phones went off grid at the same time… about twenty minutes after they left here." He lifted his eyes from the screen and looked at Gibbs with silent anxiety. The Boss pursed his lips and nodded; he didn't have any comfort to offer.

"Alex Hahn said they were meeting an informant," he said finally. "See if he's heard anything."

"On it, Boss."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Kent hauled Tony into a sitting position; he was breathing, after a fashion, so mouth-to-mouth wasn't necessary. 'I'll say thank heavens later…' he thought. "Come on, DiNozzo…" He pounded on his friend's back to try to drive any residual gas out of his lungs, and dislodge congestion. He was winging it; he imagined that after the plague Gibbs had been told what to do in such an emergency, but he hadn't. He put his arms round Tony's waist from behind, and squeezed his ribs, pushing hard against his diaphragm, and was rewarded by a weak cough from his friend. He propped him up against the back of the sofa, removed his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt.

As Tony whooped in air and began to cough again, two men hurried in. One was carrying an oxygen mask and cylinder. Kent looked at them warily, but moved aside to let them work. Only after the heaving of the Italian's chest had subsided, and he'd stopped coughing, did he risk challenging them. "What the hell did you give us?"

"I am told nitrous oxide, Sir," the man who wasn't still holding the mask up to Tony's face replied in an urbane English accent. "I have always understood that this is a harmless anaesthetic."

"For people with undamaged lungs, that is," Kent said in a hard voice. He glared. "For someone with scars from severe pneumonia, it's a bit damn different!"

"That's unfortunate," another voice said from behind him, and Kent turned to see Oscar Sablea standing leaning on two sticks, and looking for all the world like a concerned old uncle. "I'm afraid we had to lay our plans rather quickly; our dossier on you is rather more comprehensive than that on Special Agent DiNozzo. At the time we thought that a harmless gas was the least unpleasant way of getting you here."

"Well, that's really nice to know," Tony rasped, pushing the mask away.

"Please, keep the oxygen by you," Sablea told him. "If you experience more discomfort, it may help. Robert, perhaps you'd be good enough to pour our guests some brandy."

Kent shook his head. "No alcohol for twenty-four hours after anaesthesia," he said calmly, thinking how amazingly together he was in the face of all this surrealism.

"I'd probably just throw it up again," Tony said gloomily, looking longingly at the Remy Martin. He sank back against the sofa again. Kent looked at him curiously. "What?"

"Painkillers make you loopy, laughing gas doesn't?" The Italian shrugged, eloquently and apologetically.

"Then Robert will bring some tea." The butler and his assistant withdrew, and Oscar Sablea came slowly forward and lowered his wiry, arthritic frame down into the taller partner of the chair Kent had regained consciousness in. The DEA chief stayed on the sofa alongside his ailing friend, and regarded him steadily. "If your dossier was up to date," he said curiously, "you'd know that DiNozzo only left hospital this morning."

"Ah, yes. My colleagues observed the presence of a wound dressing on his right shoulder. They were careful not to aggravate it." He looked directly at Tony. "A souvenir of your taking down of Dale Nickless, no doubt. Something for which I am grateful."

Tony, curled round his hurting chest, didn't bother to answer. "You went to a lot of trouble to bring us here," Kent Fuller said. "It can't have been to thank us for putting Nickless out of business."

Sablea smiled gently. "Ah, but I meant what I said," he assured them. "There's room in business for the small as well as the large; we can co-exist, and benefit each other. What there isn't room for is the rogue… the fool, the egotist, who only sees the short term, the small picture. Who only thinks of himself. Those at the top in any business like to retain ultimate control." He sounded like a director at a board meeting. "Nickless was a liability."

He waited, the gracious host, while Robert brought the tea in and served everyone. Both Tony and Kent noted that the fine bone china cups were inverted on the saucers as the tray was carried in, so there was less chance of there being something inside them that they wouldn't like. They didn't think it was a serious threat, working through the line of thought independently; nevertheless Tony warned Kent, who was far more able-bodied than he was right then, with a flash of his eyes not to drink until he'd taken a few cautious sips himself. He actually closed his eyes blissfully for a moment; the drink was warm, fragrant and soothing, and he was able to keep it down.

Oscar Sablea beamed. "I'm glad to see you feel better, Agent DiNozzo," he said. "Believe me, our intention wasn't to hurt you. Quite the opposite in fact." Tony didn't feel as if he had to be polite, and raised one unconvinced eyebrow. "Oh, yes. I was hoping that I could be of some use. I have a gift for you."

The door opened, and two men thrust a third one before them into the library. He wasn't even cuffed; the Stork wasn't putting up any resistance at all. The surrealism didn't end there; the butler, Robert, brought a plate of arrowroot biscuits, and set it down on the table. "I believe, Sir, that these are known to settle the digestion," he said kindly, and took the brandy away.

"I'm sorry to tell you," Sablea went on quietly, "that the second young marine died in Bethesda hospital an hour ago, without regaining consciousness. Mr. Manders does not, apparently, have the knowledge, experience or expertise to handle the materials he got from Mr. Tressel. I have come to the conclusion that he doen't have the intelligence either. Such senseless, pointless killings. It's not the way I like to see things run. Mr. Manders is quite willing to tell you how many shots he has sold, how many he still has left, and where they are. Aren't you, Mr. Manders?"

The would-be drug baron, towering over his two guards, thin and gaunt seemingly to the point of malnutrition, nodded wordlessly.

"Hopefully you will be able to retrieve the situation before any more damage is done. At any rate, you have your marine killer." He smiled beneficently.

Tony drew a deep breath in slowly, not wanting to be seen to struggle. "I've always been a bit sceptical where gifts are concerned," he said. "What do you want from us?"

Sablea frowned, as if hurt. "You think I want something, Special Agent DiNozzo?"

"Senhor Sablea," Tony replied calmly, "of course you do. You haven't, so far, shown any inclination to kill us, which you could have done at the dry cleaners. You went to some trouble to bring us here, and your gift has a feel of quid pro quo to it. You want something back."

Sablea repositioned his smile. He was third generation American, but the fed was astute enough to recognise the Portuguese surname. Oh, and to use a Latin quotation, and not take things at face value.

Shame on you, Oscar, for doing just that. You should know better. You've assumed that a confrontational manner means lack of brain or education. These two are ranking federal officers, and brave men. And of course they were likely to see through you. Well, let's see how this will play out.

"Very well, Agent DiNozzo – I want you to leave Tressel to me."

Tony answered with a question. "If we hadn't taken Nickless down, how would you have handled him?"

"I wouldn't have. He wasn't anything more than a nuisance, at that time. But it's not surprising that people like him make enemies… when he became more than a nuisance to… others…a flying accident, perhaps…"

"So we leave Chaz alone, and he has an accident."

"And almost $2,000.000 worth of cocaine still hits the streets," Kent added mordantly.

"It doesn't work like that, Senhor," Tony said, pushing himself up from the sofa and not wobbling even slightly. Kent instantly rose as well, to help him if he needed it. "We're not judge and jury… we enforce the law, and we catch the people who don't. We don't get to decide who lives and dies – "

He was beginning to breathe hard, and Kent stepped in. "And neither do you. You can kill us, but you can't make deals with us." He jerked a thumb at Stork, and said, sarcastically, "No offence, but we'd have caught him without any help. So unless you are intending to kill us, then we'll just take our gift, and go back to doing our job."

"Are you sure I can't make deals with you? You're a married man, Agent Fuller… it must be very expensive bringing up children –"

It was the wrong thing to say. Fuller advanced on the crime magnate, eyes mad, and towered over him as he sat in his tall armchair. The click of two handguns being cocked didn't stop him. "Senhor," he said flatly, "If you hurt my family in any way, no amount of money, or power or influence will be able to save you."

Tony stepped to his side, and although he laid a restraining hand on Fuller's arm, his words weren't placatory in the slightest. "You've led a long life; you must have seen it before. If a man has nothing to lose, he has nothing to stop him either." He staggered slightly, and Kent was completely taken in by it; his attention turned from facing down Sablea, to supporting his colleague, which was just what Tony had intended. "You can kill us, and if you don't want us to take him with us, you'll have to."

"You're prepared to do that? For him?"

"We've already said all this. Not judge and Jury? Doing our jobs?" Now it was Tony who was sailing very close to the wind. "You can kill us, and it won't make any difference. Other people like us will just go right on with the job." This time the stagger was genuine. Damn.

Sablea was aware of the other eyes in the room. Robert, the butler; who belonged to the house, and remained aloof from its comings and goings as a good butler should.

His two henchmen; who still held their guns, and would shoot if ordered to, but he didn't surround himself with eager killers; he preferred to be civilised.

If there was killing to be done, he would always manipulate someone else into doing it if possible. That way, according to his somewhat twisted standards, his hands remained clean. To order the shots now would be the cold blooded execution of brave men… nevertheless he could see that he'd made a mistake, and these two were going to become a severe thorn in his side. Well, it would have to be some other way…

He beckoned to one of his men, who holstered his gun and came over. Sablea whispered in his ear, and he left. He waved a hand almost languidly. "Gentlemen, please sit down again; this is getting us no-where. Clearly, we can't reach an agreement, but I don't go back on my word. The gift is yours to keep. Now, I was going to have my colleagues administer some more of the gas for your return journey. This house, although I avail myself of it frequently, does not belong to me, and I have no wish for you to know its name, or location, or ownership."

He pursed his lips in vexation. "Clearly, that cannot be done again; we must resort to other means. You will submit to being blindfolded; if you will not agree to wearing them, then I am afraid it will have to be the gas, with all its risks to you, Special Agent DiNozzo."

Both men nodded, somewhat wryly, and the man who'd left the room returned. As he was covering their eyes, Sablea went on, "You'll be travelling by car, then by plane. My colleagues may go straight to their destination, they may not. I shouldn't waste time trying to figure out where you are. Goodbye, gentlemen."

They didn't bother to reply, as they were hauled to their feet. Both were aware of guns in their sides, as they were led out of the room. Behind them, they could hear heavy, nervous breathing that could only be Hosea 'Stork' Manders. Nobody spoke at all, until about ten minutes later, when they were urged out of the vehicle they'd been travelling in, and one of their guards said "Steps." Tony felt his hand being placed on a guard rail, and climbed up into what he guessed from the three risers, was a small passenger aircraft. The engine noise suggested turboprop.

He was pushed quite gently into a seat, and someone else fastened his belt. "Leave the blindfold on," he was ordered. Or maybe that was Kent, since he hadn't actually been trying to take his off. If he were going to, now wouldn't be the time, and he definitely didn't want any more of that gas. He took a deep breath, and made himself relax into his seat. He didn't know how long the flight would be, and a rest would do him nothing but good. He felt around for a lever to tilt his seat back, and then felt someone grasp his forearm, and then his hand. "Kent," he chuckled. "I don't know if you're scared of flying… but I am definitely not holding your hand."

"Jerk," Kent said with a laugh. "I was actually looking for your shoulder, but it's kinda disorientating. I was just going to suggest that you took a rest."

"Well, hell," a reasonable impersonation of Gibbs rumbled out, "that's kinda what I was trying to do, Fuller!" They both chuckled and fell silent.

Tony didn't know whether he slept or not; but before he knew it they were in another car, and he'd no sooner registered that than they were being turfed out of it again. "You can take the blindfolds off now," the same voice informed them. They did, and it was dark, so their eyes adjusted quickly. They were outside the dry cleaners shop again, and fifty yards down the road, Fuller's DEA truck was parked.

"The engine's running," their former captor said. "Your ammo clips and cell-phones are in there. We put your phones in a lead box and left them transmitting, by the way… they're flat as cowpats. Here's your gift." He shoved Stork towards them, and backed off into the darkness. "Have a nice evening."