The Gibb Says Uncle Affair
by Gale Force
Part 7.
1. Ziva and Tony
Armed with the sketch that Abby had made, Tony and Ziva drove out to the campus of Old Dominion University.
"I've never cared much for basketball," Ziva commented as she drove.
Tony, who had been lost in thought...perhaps thinking of what might be happening to Ducky at that very moment, glanced over at her.
"You surprise me," he said. "Basketball is the ultimate team sport. Each member of the team has to click together...know what each other is thinking..."
Ziva waved a hand. "It may be good for instructing people in teamwork, but the object is still to just put a ball in a hoop." she shrugged. "It may be fun to play, I grant you. But to watch?"
"Oh, I used to like to watch it," Tony commented. "Back when the players wore short shorts, not all the baggy stuff they wear today..."
Ziva eyeballed him. "I'm talking girls basketball here, Ziva," Tony barked, although with less than his usual elan.
"That is why football is so much fun to watch," Ziva admitted. "The guys always wear those tight, nice-fitting uniforms..."
She turned into the parking lot of the Ted Constant Convocation Center (having followed directions given by her GPS system), past a large sign that announced that the ODU Lady Monarchs had another game that night against the Maryland Terrapins.
It was early in the morning, the day after Ducky's disappearance, and the parking lot of the Ted Constant Convocation Center held only a few cars. Ziva chose a space as close as possible to the front doors.
"Big building," she commented as they walked towards the doors.
"Yeah, fortunately we only have to concentrate on one section of it."
The anteroom was huge, with large doors leading into the building proper. In front of them were a bank of glassed-in teller-type windows where people picked up or purchased tickets for the various events held there. At this time, the windows appeared deserted.
Tony stepped up to the window. "Hellooo? Anybody there?"
A young black woman appeared from a far corner and hurried forward, smiling cheerfully. "Hi, can I help you?"
Tony showed her his credentials. "We're looking for a man...an old man... who was seated somewhere in Section 234 two days ago - during the game against the Lady Vols. We need to talk to him, urgently."
She glanced from him to Ziva and back. "Yes?"
"We're wondering if you could give us a list of the people who were seated in that section. You've got their names, right?"
"Well, yes. Season ticket holders. Other people who called up and reserved their seats. But just walk-ups, we wouldn't have that information."
"Well, just a list of the names of the people you have," said Tony with his charming smile.
"Well, I don't know. I think that's the type of information you need a warrant for, isn't it? I mean, that's a lot of addresses to be giving out, I don't..."
"We don't have time for a warrant..." started Tony, but Ziva chimed in.
"Let's try this first of all. Would you mind just checking your list of people to see if any of them have Russian-sounding names?" (For Abby had told them the man who'd greeted Ducky had sounded Russian.)
The clerk checked through her computer. "We've got a few Polish-sounding...oh...here's one. Kuchenko. He's had season tickets here for ten years. Three seats, very top row of Section 234. Actually, I know him now. Well, not really know him. I mean, I recognize him. Because although there are a lot better season tickets available - closer to the court, I mean, whenever he renews he insists on those same seats. See, I'm the one who calls up people and gets them to try to renew their tickets."
"Well, great. Then all we need is his address."
The clerk shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't feel comfortable with that. I really think you need to bring me a warrant before I can share that information."
Ziva and Tony exchanged frustrated glances.
Tony held up a finger and did his best Jim Carrey impersonation. "We'll be.... right back."
He and Ziva stepped a little bit away.
"So we wait a few hours for a warrant." said Tony. "Gibbs will push it through like that."
"I know he will, but each second that we have to wait is one more second that Ducky's in danger."
"Then the quicker we call Gibbs and have him...." He stopped, as Ziva had closed her eyes.
"What?" said Tony.
Ziva opened her eyes and slapped her own head. "Tony, she told us his name! Kuchenko. How many Kuchenkos can there be in Norfolk? We can find his address ourselves!"
Without further preamble Ziva headed for the door. After a stunned second, Tony sketched a wave at the clerk and followed her.
2. Napoleon Solo
When Napoleon got into his rental car at Norfolk's Executive Airport, no one he knew would have recognized him.
His reasoning was simply. He was an old man, now, and even though he kept in shape, he had no idea how many of his nine lives - that it seemed that he and Ilya had while they were agents for UNCLE - were still remaining. He could no longer rush in and trust to his physical abilities to save the day. He had to use stealth...a little guile.
This whole thing with Ilya disappearing might be an Ignus Fatuus - some ridiculous misunderstanding. He hoped so...and that he'd be able to laugh at the tremendous amount of preparation he'd just subjected himself to.
But if something bad was going on...if old enemies were out looking for revenge...he wanted to be able to recognize them and he did not want them to be able to return the favor.
So he had used the executive washroom in the Executive Airport to good effect. He'd shaved off much of his full head of hair, leaving behind only the white tufts on the sides. That added a good ten years to his age right there (not to mention making him feel funny as cool air wafted over his now bald pate...) . He wore a fat suit (used in some long-forgotten affair, but that he'd fortunately had packed up in his attic for the last 40 years) that not only added a good hundred pounds to his weight but also had other features that he hoped would not be needed... and he leaned heavily on a cane, as an old man who weighed as much as he did would obviously need.
Moreover, he had an eyeglass strap for his reading glasses. Usually he kept the eyelets as close to the ear pieces as possible, so that the strap pretty much disappeared into his hairline and was not noticed. Now, he'd moved the straps halfway down each sidepiece, so that they dangled beside his head and made him look extremely geeky.
In his new form, he found that the car check out clerk, an attractive, young female, spared him not the slightest second glance, simply handed over the keys and bade him have a good time.
Like anyone with a computer these days, he'd found the driving directions to the Oceana Hotel from Yahoo Driving Directions, and drove there quickly and expertly. As he entered into the parking lot, he noticed a large white van, with the logo of a local news channel upon it. But no cameras in view.
A five-star hotel, the Oceana. The lobby was luxuriously appointed, Napoleon noted, as he limped inside. A young lady was behind the check-in counter, dabbling with a computer screen. She looked up as he approached.
"I'd like a room, please. Single."
"Certainly."
She tapped the keyboard.
Napoleon leaned forward confidentially. "I saw that bit of news last night. About that man disappearing?"
She looked up and gave him a strained smile. "Yes, sir. Seems like everybody's seen it."
"I don't suppose I could have that room?"
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm a psychic, you see," Napoleon said persuasively. "If I can be in that room, I might be able to find out what happened to him."
"I'm sorry, sir," she said, firmly. "It's unavailable. Officially unavailable."
"Ah," said Napoloeon. "The police have it sealed off, eh?"
"Yes, sir. I...well, sir, I can get you the room right beside it, if you'd like."
"That would be lovely. Thank you."
As Napoleon limped towards his new room, he pursed his lips. How lucky that the adjacent room should be empty. He hadn't expected to be so fortunate.
3. Gibbs
Special agent Jethro Gibbs had just finished reading the riot act for the second time that morning. First, he had chewed out the reporter from the News of the Weird who had broken the story last night without even having any of the facts of the case, and then he had chewed out the producer who had ridden along in the TV station's film van, as they'd asked for permission to film the room and Gibbs had categorically denied it. He wanted no further publicity on the case.
This producer, sympathetic with the needs of officials to make their investigations, had agreed.
As Gibbs walked past the check-in counter on his way out the door – he wanted some coffee – the clerk called to him.
"Yes?" he said.
"Um, I suppose you get a lot of people bugging you at a time like this," she began. "People confessing to the crime, stuff like that."
"Yes. Don't tell me you want to confess." (He delivered that line Gibbs-like, coldly, not jokingly.)
"No...but...I just had a man check in. A Norman Sykes. (Napoleon had no problem making fake Ids.) He said he was a psychic. I think he's here to investigate the disappearance. I thought you might like to know."
Inwardly, Gibbs sighed. God save him from incompetents, publicity seekers, and the mentally disturbed. Any one of which term could be applied to any psychic you cared to name.
"He's in the room right next to 215," the clerk went on. "He tried to get the same room, but I told him that wasn't possible. He was happy with the room next door, though."
Gibbs nodded. "Thanks for letting me know."
Then he turned and headed out for his coffee.