The Study was exactly as Gibbs remembered from earlier in the evening. It was only when he looked closer that he catalogued the details that mattered. He picked up the picture frame lying face down on the desk, trying to remember if it had got knocked over during the argument with Benoit. Jasper Shepard's portrait stared back implacably. He wore full dress uniform and a solemn expression.
"I don't think it did," he said to himself, replacing it exactly as he had found it.
As strange as it sounded, it meant that Shepard must have left it that way deliberately. His fingers drifted to the drawers on the right hand desk pedestal. One small movement later shared the contents of the top drawer. Papers, a miscellany of desk objects and an empty magazine clip. No gun. He sat down heavily in the chair.
"I sure hope you know what you're doing," he said drily, catching sight of her abandoned cell phone and a half empty tumbler of bourbon. "You never did have much of a stomach for wet work."
The thought struck him that there was another party involved in this, without suffering that particular drawback.
"Kort," he said under his breath, reaching for his cell. The line clicked open almost immediately.
"Special agent Gibbs, what can I do for you?"
Gibbs decided he had never hated an English accent more, than when it came from this man. It grated over every inch of his skin.
"I was wondering if you had found your Frog yet." Gibbs drawled. He thought about putting his feet up on Shepard's desk, then thought better of it. If she walked in through the front door she'd kick his ass from here to the coast. If she walked in through the front door, he'd ream her out for making him worry.
"We're working on it, I can assure you."
"We'd be happy to help," Gibbs pulled a face. How the hell did Shepard say this bullshit day in day out and sound like she meant it? "Pool our resources?" He moved his tongue around his teeth, like the words tasted unpleasant.
"Oh, you already are, or didn't you know." Kort's tone carried a thick layer of patronising smugness.
"I know the Director has taken a personal interest in the case," Gibbs led. The longer he spoke to Kort, the more certain he was that she had spoken to the CIA agent. He'd have McGee check the second he got off the line.
"Yes, she has. Strange isn't it?"
There was an ominous silence. Gibbs curled his empty hand into a fist.
"If anything happened to her." Gibbs gritted out. "Anything."
"Don't tell me you've lost track of your Director?" Kort's oily reply set a chill down Gibbs spine. It was a paraphrase of Gibbs own words earlier in the day, only Gibbs had been referring to the CIA's inability to keep tabs on the Frog after a car bombing aimed at the arms dealer's daughter had spooked the man.
Gibbs let the question go unanswered.
"You've worked with him for long enough," Gibbs prompted. "You've studied him, you know him. What he would do, where he would go. Where is he?"
"Oh, I know him. But not like she does," Kort sneered. "She has…other information. Don't tell me she's been keeping secrets from you, of all people, Agent Gibbs?"
"Me? Of all people?"
"I had a very illuminating conversation about your time in Paris. You sent her under cover. You lost her then too, didn't you?"
"She never told you that," Gibbs leant forward, entirely focused on the cell in his hand. He closed his eyes, blocking out the all too vivid memories. Their mission in Marseilles had passed. He had dared to put the incident in the restroom behind him, and then had come Paris. He was hampered by their encounter, it made him question every order he ever gave her. It was that much harder to put the job first with her in the mix.
It didn't help that she made rookie mistakes he blamed himself for, or that every effort he made to correct her she took so personally. He had never worked with someone so infuriating before. Sometimes it wasn't even what she said, it was what she didn't say. Her stony silence acid-etched the atmosphere. He had been married for crissakes. He knew 'nothing' meant the exact damn opposite.
They were in his hotel bedroom, because the light was better. His room faced the street, hers the internal light well. The connecting door between the rooms stood wide open. She was sweeping her hair under a black wig, cut into a bob, at the dresser. He was going through ops photos, memorising faces, when he had thrown them on a side table and raised his voice at her blatantly ignoring him.
"What?"
"I speak the language like a native. I can find my way across the city blindfolded. I can do this better than you, admit it."
"No…"
"I can look after myself."
Green eyes stared out at him under jet black hair that curled short against her jawline. It made her look like a furious imp.
"I couldn't possibly divulge my sources. What I do know is that one of the Russians took a shine to her, until she put a barrel against his balls. I've never seen a gun that small but the way it was told to me was that you could have heard a pin drop when she went ahead and cocked it."
"This'd better be going somewhere," Gibbs said murderously. They had been tracking a smuggling ring, trafficking everything from drugs to arms to people. They had followed a couple of foot soldiers, nothing more. He had been holding off taking them down in the hope that they would lead them to something bigger. Someone bigger. She was impatient. He hadn't realised how impatient until he had taken his eye off her for less than a minute. She had vanished.
"It was a bordello at the back of a gambling den. I'm guessing she followed a tail a step too far. Our mutual friend was responsible for getting her out."
It explained a connection, but not the inveterate hatred that drove her behaviour. Not unless there was more to the story. For his own part, he had immediately called for backup and they had tossed the joint, but Shepard was nowhere to be found. She had walked back into the hotel they were staying in hours later. She was distant and freezing cold. He gritted his teeth, hating the way the memories felt even years after the fact.
"If you say so," Gibbs said evenly.
"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. You trained her well, Gibbs. Jennifer Shepard can take care of herself." There was a hint of grudging approval on the line.
"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."
"You might say that I too, have taken a personal interest. Don't worry. You'll get your precious Director back," Kort said drily.
"There will be a warrant out on Benoit by the morning," Gibbs warned.
"I won't stand in your way." With an air of finality, Kort ended the call. "I'm sure we'll speak again."
Gibbs crushed the cell in his palm. He had little, if any, trust that the CIA agent was safeguarding Shepard or the interests of NCIS. Kort was, and always had been far more interested in preserving his own affairs.
He stabbed at speed dial.
"McGee."
"Boss, it hasn't moved." There was an expectant silence, making Gibbs smile grimly.
"Were there any other calls made from this address after the call from Benoit?"
"The last call was from the Frog?" McGee's voice carried an overtone of surprise, which was corrected swiftly. "Umm, from her cell phone or landline?"
Gibbs didn't bother replying and within seconds McGee had filled in the gaps for himself.
"Checking both. Nothing there, Boss. No calls out."
"Can you tell if another cell was used from here?"
"Not easily, I mean I could check the cell tower traffic but its needle in a haystack stuff."
"Do that." Gibbs hung up thoughtfully. What he really wanted was for McGee to access Kort's cell records and go through the voices in the calls. He'd be able to pick out Jen's a mile off. There was no way he could ask for that over an unsecured line. He could however, ask for it if he was in the office.
With McGee.
Gibbs rubbed a reluctant palm over his face. However much he wanted to be here when Jen got back, he could be of more use driving his team towards her than lying in wait alone.
He'd let himself out. She wouldn't even be aware he had been there.
…][…
In the dark interior of a car, Kort studied a second screen the size of an ordinary sat nav. It carried a yellow dot lurching along a network of spaghetti like roads towards the harbour.