The following morning, Tim wakes up late for his meeting with Schuyler Harris. The world is a little too bright, the sounds a little too loud. He might be hungover, but he doesn't want to think about it. There is a pile of computer parts—the remnants of his gaming rig—strewn all over his apartment to clean up. He'll work on that later because he doesn't have the stomach to face it right now.
In his haste to get out of the door, he copies all the evidence of his program from his back-up laptop—the one he keeps buried in the back of his closet because it contains all his secrets.
He wants to keep the information hidden somewhere where Ziva can't find it. She made it clear that he shouldn't tell Internal Affairs what happened. That he is supposed to act like they did this together. Like he really would've cut the mic on Tony without some kind of failsafe.
Tim decides he'll hide the evidence somewhere at work. Somewhere Ziva wouldn't know about it because if she has the chance, she'll destroy that too. He already accepted that he'll lose his job, but he needs something to keep him out of prison if it comes to that.
He didn't realize it until the commute that morning. He always knew it on some base level, but it was never there, front and center, in his brain. He was sitting in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Beltway when the realization washed over him, ice cold and biting.
Ziva set me up...
What happened to him was a fluke, a blip on the radar. Something that could easily be hand-waved away with a, "well, my superior officer told me it was acceptable." Since she still is a probationary agent, she is as much Tim's responsibility as Gibbs' and Tony's.
As he heads into the office, Tim doesn't know why he bothered to come back to work today. Maybe it was that strange sense of duty or the delusional idea that he might be able to talk his way out of this one. Well, that would be Tony who could talk himself out of an IA investigation with all the cards stacked against him. Gibbs would glare a hole in someone. Tim is going down and there isn't a thing he can do about it.
His first stop is Conference Room Three. He is starting to consider the conference room as its own entity like Mordor from The Lord of The Rings. A place you must go, but after which, you'll never be the same.
Irene Golden is already there, leaned up against the wall with her long arms crossed over her chest. Her make-up is expertly done, her hair coiffed into a stylish bob. Her pantsuit is as grey as her hair. She flips a business card between her fingers like a magician.
At the sight of Tim, she checks him over. Slowly and carefully.
Her eyes stay fixed on his face until he drops his gaze to the floor. On reflex, his hand wanders into the pocket of his pants where the jump drive is. It might not save his career, but it might keep him out of prison. He should've headed straight down to Cybercrimes to hide it, but he didn't have the time.
Golden holds the business card in his life of vision. When he doesn't take it, she forces it into his free hand. There's nothing more than a hand-written name and a number with a DC area code.
He looks up. "What's this?"
"One of my buddies at the DEA might be interested when you're a free agent." She flicks at the card with her finger. "Tell him that Iggy sent you."
Tim's brow furrows. "Iggy?"
Golden ignores the question. "Just tell IA what happened, okay? The truth, this time, and maybe it'll save your job." She checks her watch, frowning. "You're late today."
And before he has a chance to ask why she's called Iggy, she is already heading into Conference Room Three. Tim swallows hard, staring at the solid wood door.
Mordor.
Tim realizes a moment too late that her phrasing had been when you're a free agent. Not if, when.
That sends Tim's stomach sinking straight to his knees. She is already assuming that he'll be fired. He might just be starting to believe it too. Maybe it would be easier to start over somewhere else.
Maybe the best I can do is take Ziva down with me.
His stomach clenches. Ice water fills his veins.
Yeah right, then she'll take me apart like she did to my gun.
He glances at the phone number, wondering if this might be the best he'll get. A second chance to start over somewhere else. Still an agent, but not NCIS.
He sighs as he slides the card into his pocket.
Deciding he might as well get it over with, he walks into Conference Room Three.
Everything in the room has been rearranged since yesterday. The case files are now neatly piled. The twin laptops are on the opposite side of the table. The notepads are still there, each open to a page filled with Harris' neat cursive. Even the chairs are in slightly different places.
Schuyler Harris haunts his usual spot. Except today, he looks worse than he ever has. His face is drawn, his cheeks sallow. There are two coffee cups beside the nearest laptop.
He looks at Tim. "You didn't answer my calls last night, Agent McGee."
"I figured we would take care of it today," Tim says.
Harris stares at him like there's something more. Like he might know something.
Tim looks away.
At that moment, Golden clears her throat. "Why would you be contacting my client after hours? I should be roped into all communication."
"Something came up," Harris says. "Late last night."
When he watches Tim pointedly, Tim smooths his sports coat.
"Did anything happen?" Harris asks.
Tim's hand fumbles for the jump drive. "No."
A moment's pause, then: "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Tim's reply comes too fast.
Golden must catch it too because she shoots Tim a strange look. He looks away before placing his backpack on the ground. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tops of his shoes.
When Harris motions to a pair of chairs, Tim does as he's told. Golden prefers to stand. Harris gestures to the two coffee cups as a peace offering. Tim shakes his head. Golden grabs hers before Harris can change his mind. Both men watch her take a long sip before she makes a face.
"We had the same crap at the DEA." She nearly tosses the cup back on the table. "I thought the Navy would have better brew."
Harris half-smiles. "That's better than what we have at Great Lakes. I'm pretty sure they use water straight out of Lake Huron."
Golden wrinkles her nose. "You're kidding."
"It still isn't as bad as Marine coffee."
"That's a thing?" Golden asks.
"Oh yeah. Rumor used to have it they made it with latrine water."
"Lovely," she replies with a grimace.
Despite himself, Tim chuckles. And that's when Tim realizes exactly what Harris is doing: trying to make him comfortable, trying to lull him into that false sense of security that comes before a police raid. Tim leans back in his chair, goes right back to shutting the hell up.
Harris' brow furrows over his good eye. Back to all business and it's amazing how quickly the man can shed an emotion and slide another into its place.
"Did you bring it, Agent McGee?" he asks.
Tim swallows audibly. "I couldn't find it."
"What do you mean?"
"My computer died, and I lost the evidence."
Harris blinks at him. "You understand what that means."
Tim leans back in his chair, oddly resigned to his fate. Reprimand. Permanent reassignment. Termination. He doesn't know where he'll end up, but it doesn't matter anymore. He worked most of his life to become a field agent. Even when he was a case agent in Norfolk, he only ever wanted to be here. Working cases as a field agent in Washington.
If I'm dead, it doesn't matter where I was.
Golden leans into his personal space.
"What do you think you're doing, Agent McGee?" she hisses into his ear.
He doesn't look at her. "I – I – I don't have it. My computer died and…"
The flush creeps across his face. He has never felt more ashamed of himself in his life. He shouldn't be afraid of Ziva, but after the stories and seeing her work and knowing her history, he'd rather take a chance with Internal Affairs than her. Who knows what she would end up doing to him.
Harris looks at him. "You're sure, Agent McGee? You have nothing?"
Tim can't bring himself to speak the words. So, he nods.
Harris flicks his notepad closed with a resounding finality. That's the sound of Tim's career ending.
"I think we're done here," Harris says as though he can't believe it.
Tim should just slap down the jump drive, explain everything to Harris, and hope he gets off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Tim just can't bring himself to say the words.
Instead, he says: "Yeah, I guess we are."
When Tim stands from his chair, his legs are shaking. He made it all the way to Mordor, only to leave the ring in his pocket. He could've tossed it into the lava and absolved himself, but he couldn't bring himself to do what was necessary. Sometimes, there are more terrifying things than hell. It's funny how he reacted when his back was against the wall. He always thought he'd be more like Samwise Gamgee, but in the end, he turned out to be just like Frodo Baggins.
Behind him, Harris calls: "Are you sure, Agent McGee?"
Tim nods without turning back. He doesn't have to look to feel Golden's angry eyes boring a hole through his back. She thought they won this one. She thought she'd gain another notch in her belt to show how she faced Internal Affairs again and won. He let her down.
And with that, he heads out of the room. He doesn't make it more than a few steps down the hallway before a hand clamps on his shoulder. When he is wheeled around, Golden is there. She is pissed, her brows deep enough to cut glass and her eyes on fire. She leans into his personal space, close enough for him to smell the NCIS coffee on her breath.
"What they hell are you doing?" she asks. "You're throwing away your career."
Tim starts to backpedal, but she holds him in place. Two hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look into her eyes.
"Is there something else going on, Agent McGee?" she asks.
He closes his eyes. Exhales through his mouth.
"No," he says.
"I don't believe you." When he stays quiet, she asks: "Didn't you go to MIT?"
That makes him open his eyes. "Um, yeah."
"Then you should know what's going on." Her tone makes him flinch. "Harris is going to bury you. If you walk away right now, you are done. Finished. Kaput. No more. Do you understand that?"
And if I tell you, Ziva will put me in the ground…
He looks away. Licks his lips.
"So tell me again. What the hell are you doing?" Golden asks.
"Telling the truth." He forces a close-lipped smile. "I forgot to back-up my files."
She purses her lips. "We both know that's a lie."
Tim's eyes rove towards the ceiling. Doesn't confirm or deny it. Silence is its own kind of answer.
When he starts to leave, Golden grabs his upper arm.
"Give me back the card." When he blinks at her, she clarifies: "The one with my friend's number."
Tim rears back. "Why?"
"Because I can't send him someone who won't defend themselves when they're innocent." She holds out her hand, expectant. "You're a horrible liar, Agent McGee."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
The corner of her mouth quirks upward. "Right now, it is. Give me that card."
Tim wasn't going to call the number anyway. If he thought working for Gibbs was bad, working for one of Iggy's buddies would be far worse. The DEA are a bunch of cowboys and Tim, he never liked the Wild West.
"You called me for help," Golden whispers. "I'm trying to help you. Let me."
Making a face, Tim fishes the business card from his pocket. He thrusts it into her open hand with a frustrated motion. Her eyes widen, ever so slightly. Her eyes search his face, but she doesn't breathe a single word. Then she nods, quick and barely there.
"What?" he asks.
"I got it," she says.
And with that, she turns on her heel and starts off. Tim stands there, perplexed, as she heads back towards Conference Room Three. If she wants to go bother Harris, he'll let her. That isn't his concern anymore. He needs to start counting down the days until he is terminated. He needs to start working on a back-up plan.
He plods towards the stairs to the sub-basement. It feels as if the light was sucked out everything right now. The world is dark and grey, colorless, hollow. Everything he worked so hard for, gone. Pulled away from him by one single in action. Worst of all, it's his own fault.
Tim finds his way down to Cybercrimes. He hates the windowless basement more than he could ever express in words. Even after all his years in college and grad school, he never wanted this. An existence that is only in bytes where he is tethered to a computer. But after everything, it might be the best he gets. It might be the best he can achieve.
He settles into his temporary workspace. He can't bring himself to call it his desk because it isn't really his. It is merely a landing pad before he is jettisoned to…he doesn't know where he'll end up yet.
Suddenly, he needs something to ground him. He reaches into his pocket for the jump drive. He might as well hide it while he is here. Maybe inside the computer tower or in the loose flap of cubicle material or in the -
His fingers turn up nothing.
A sinking feeling starts in his gut, icy fingers clawing their way through him, threatening to swallow him. His heart pounds as he fumbles through his pockets. Pants pockets followed by jacket pockets followed by his backpack and back again. By the time he realizes he doesn't have it, his hands are shaking. His breathing turns rapid as if the air is suddenly too thin.
I gave it to Golden.
And she is going to give it to Harris.
And then, Ziva is going to kill me.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
Schuyler Harris presses his fingers deep against his chin as he considers his last interview with Tim McGee. The agent stepped out only a moment ago and Harris is already anxious to formulate his thoughts into his report. But there is something about the way Tim acted that bothers Harris. As though he was holding back, not saying something that Harris needs to know.
Frowning, Harris checks the time and finds that it's still mid-morning. Last night, he barely managed to sleep more than a few minutes at a time. His gut was churning when Tim didn't answer his phone. It wasn't like Harris didn't try to call. He did—more times than he could count—but Tim never answered and eventually, he turned it off.
Harris hops up from the table, intent on finding more coffee. He'll tackle the report in a few minutes, but for that, he needs fuel. He is just about to leave for the cafeteria when someone darts into the conference room. The door slamming echoes like a gunshot. Harris flinches.
Irene Golden stands there, mouth pulled into a one-sided smile.
Whatever brought her back, Harris doesn't feel like dealing with more of her bullshit.
"Ms. Golden," he starts politely. "It's against policy for an association representative to meet without the agent they're assisting."
"Let's cut to the chase, Agent Harris," she says. "I'm here off the record."
She slips closer, all cloak and daggers. Harris sighs because the last thing he needs during this investigation is a cowgirl wanting to relive her glory days. Though, maybe that thing niggling at Harris is eating at her too.
He tilts his head. "I'm listening."
Her smile becomes a full-blown grin. "Now, that's more like it."
"You know, I'm actually quite pleasant when you get to know me." Harris raises his good eyebrow. "Though I'm not sure you'd know that because you keep acting like I'm the enemy."
Golden's face pinches. "Yeah, I think enemy is the right word. Though, I'm a G-damned peach too."
No, you're not.
"Just tell me why you're here," Harris says.
"My client's innocent," she announces.
Harris looks at her for a long moment, anticipating a bombshell. Something that would lend itself to her breaking protocol and conducting a secret meeting.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says.
When he turns to leave, she blocks his path. "Oh come on, you can't think that kid is guilty of turning off the microphone. I did thirty years at the DEA. I know a bad egg when I see one. Agent McGee sure as hell isn't one of them. I bet he's a pain in the ass when it comes to sticking to protocol."
When Golden levels a meaningful look at Harris, he just stares back. She probably expects him to pull up a couple of chairs for a Kumbaya session while they pour over case details with a pizza and a six-pack. That might be the way they did it back in the day at the DEA. That's not how it works with Internal Affairs at NCIS. Not when there are careers on the line.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case with anyone but Director Vance," he says.
She mutters something that sounds like "typical" under her breath.
"Agent McGee gave this to me," she says, holding out a lump of plastic.
He draws closer, surprised to discover a black jump drive in her hand. He squints at it as though he isn't quite sure what to do with it. When he doesn't make a move, she holds it out. It's a jump drive. He'll need to fill out the evidence form, but he'll take care of it once he knows what it is.
He palms it before saying, "Thanks. I'll look into it."
She points to the laptop. "After that conversation, you'll check into it while I'm here. The last thing I want is for that to mysteriously vanish."
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks.
She shrugs. "Right now. I don't know."
Rolling his good eye, Harris does what she asks. The last thing he needs is for someone to accuse him of destroying or manipulating evidence. She shouldn't be here, but right now, he doesn't mind having the company. Even if it is a washed-up agent forced into retirement.
I never thought I'd miss my partner…
Harris slides the jump drive into the laptop before checking the files. There are several files to open, but Harris doesn't know which one to choose. In the end, Harris clicks on one at random.
Lines of random letters and numbers steam across the screen. Harris doesn't understand anything because they appear to be a bunch of gibberish. Golden stares at the screen, blinking rapidly.
"What the hell is that?" she asks.
Harris tilts his head for a better angle. Still gibberish.
"I think it's a code," he replies.
Golden shoots Harris a baleful look. "I thought you didn't know anything about computers."
"I don't, but I know what a code looks like." He pauses for a beat. "Though it doesn't look like you do."
Her glare now borders on maliciousness. He ignores her.
Harris knows enough to check the files to determine the dates they were created. As he double-checks the dates on the files, they confirm what he suspects. Every single file corresponds to a date when he heard the strange zzt noise on the recordings of Tony DiNozzo's time undercover. There is one master file, dated a few days before the first one matching a zzt noise, that Harris assumes is the source program file.
Golden leans closer to the computer screen as though it could be distance keeping her from understanding what is on the screen. She leans forward, hands flat against her table, staring at it.
"What is that?" she asks.
"I think it's proof to Agent McGee's side of the story," Harris says.
While he continues to double-check the dates—there are eleven in all—Golden leans back in her chair. She clasps her hands behind her head, smiling smugly as she watches him work. He fights the urge to roll his good eye again. Let her think she's won because it's easier than trying to fight. Harris is making headway in his investigation and that's the only thing that matters. He is determining someone's innocence, even if the man doesn't want to help himself.
"Is that what you needed?" She sounds like she already knows the answer.
"Yeah, I think so." Harris pauses working on the computer to rub at his brow. "Though, I don't understand why Agent McGee didn't come clean earlier. His life would have been easier if he just told the truth." He uses his pen to gesture at the lines and lines of code on the laptop screen. "Why would he try to cover up the fact that he's innocent?"
Golden slaps a hand against Harris' back. Hard. "Now that's how you should be thinking, Harry."
Harris glances at her. "Harry? My name is Schuyler."
"I'm sure as hell not calling you Sky. That's a stripper name." She gives him a hard once over before she shakes her head. "You don't look like a stripper to me."
"I take it that you know a lot of strippers," he shoots back.
Golden ignores his comment. "Harry, it is."
Harris allows the silence to stretch, but she never speaks a word. In the end, he is the first one to crack.
"Fine, call me Harry. Call me Sky. Call me whatever the heck you want." Harris turns back to the computer. "I can handle it from here, Ms. Golden. Have a nice rest of your day."
"You think I'm leaving you alone with that evidence?" she asks.
He turns back to stare at her.
She harrumphs. "Fat chance, Harry. I don't want that evidence disappearing. If you don't mind, I'm going to watch you exonerate my client. And you know what, while you're at it, why don't you call me Iggy?"