DIVERSIFIC

NCIS – Tangents

Wed, 22 Apr 2015 22:21:19 GMT

Title: Tangents

Author: needled_ink_1975
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Ziva David/Jen Shepard (established)
Rating: Gen
Word Count: ~5,000

Summary: This is just a bit of fun. I've been known to complain that if I don't keep a tight leash on these characters, they just go off at a tangent and talk about whatever interests them at the moment. Someone (who's a smart-ass) asked to see what that looks like. Seeing as I had several bits that were rated as Darlings and got 'killed' by being consigned to File 13, finding a starting point for this piece wasn't hard. I opened the document, read to the end of it, and just waited for a while. Going off at tangents happened as easy as pie. The hard part was getting them to quit. They're all still hanging around telling me that the conversation continued during dinner, and they talked over ice-cream afterwards, and the guys didn't go home until after midnight.

So is there any point in reading this? I think so, because you'll find out things about Ziva, Jen, Gibbs, Tony, and McGee that are really difficult to put into more structured stories, and things that are impossible to include in more serious stories. So prepare for some giggles. And as for tangents... You count 'em.

Advisory: While the relationship in this story will make more sense if you read the preceding Kidon Universe stories first (listed in order here), this piece can be read as a one-shot.
Archiving: If you're not Ralst, DO NOT ARCHIVE MY STORIES.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Belisarius Productions, CBS-Paramount Television, and Universal Pictures. This is a work of fanfiction for the purposes of not-for-profit entertainment, and as such constitutes fair use.

Acknowledgments
Thanks to La Smart-ass (who shall otherwise remain nameless), because in the end writing this was fun.

Per usual, concrit is very welcome and thanks in advance.
__________________

Tangents

It wasn't anyone's birthday, nor was it a holiday, but it was Friday and Jen had decided that she wanted to barbecue. Ziva was always up for that and any other kind of cooking, and just as well, because Jen ended up having to stay at the office past five p.m. McGee was the first person to arrive and was also the bearer of the 'I'll be late' message from Jen. He washed his hands and started to help Ziva with some food prep.

"I know Tony and Gibbs are coming," McGee said. "But they'll probably hang around at the Yard until Jen leaves. Who else?"

"Only them," Ziva said. "Abby is bowling with the nuns, and Ducky is taking his mother to the opera. I invited Todd and his girlfriend but they have a family commitment... We can do two things at once here. Tell me, in Hebrew: what are you cutting into quarters?"

"Betzalim," McGee said, and those onions were burning his eyes.

"And the singular?"

"Batzal."

"And what am I peeling?"

"Egvan'yot. Singular: agvaniyah."

"And I hate peeling tomatoes," Ziva grumbled. "But this relish always seems to taste better if I remove the skins... What do most Israelis call this thing?"

"Ha'blender," McGee said with a wry grin. "But the proper Hebrew is me'arbel."

"Nachon," Ziva said. Correct.

She cut the stalk end off of a large jalapeno chili and dumped it whole into the blender; three cloves of garlic were peeled and tossed in, too. McGee added the quartered onions. When he was done scraping the cutting board, he looked Ziva's way and found that she was roughly chopping up a large pickle.

"Tomato, onion, a jalapeno, and garlic– that makes sense for a relish, but now you're adding a pickle?"

"A kosher dill pickle, yes. Smoch alai." Trust me.

"You've told me not to trust any Israeli who says that."

"This time, no," Ziva giggled. "Trust me about the relish, okay?"

"Okay... And speaking of kosher, the guy at that new deli wouldn't add a slice of cheese to my chicken sandwich," McGee complained. "Said it's not kosher. Chickens don't produce milk, so I thought that chicken is... par... Eich omeret..?" How do you say..?

"Parve," Ziva said. "And that is Yiddish with Polish origins, not Hebrew. The Modern Hebrew word is stami, but it is less common than parve."

"Thanks," McGee said. "Nu?"

"Why is chicken not kasher-parve? Because it has to be slaughtered. The rule is very simple. Rabbi Akiva said that if any creature must be slaughtered, then that is meat. Anything that does not need to be slaughtered to eat it, is parve: neither meat nor milk. Fish and eggs are parve—"

"But eggs come from chickens," McGee said, frowning.

"And this is why I eat cheeseburgers," Ziva drawled. She added some salt and dried oregano to the blender, and capped it. After pulsing the contents several times, she said, "Sometimes kashrut does not make sense, and I will not be dictated to by dietary laws that are neither logically nor ethically consistent."

"The ethical bit involves not cooking the calf in his mother's milk, right?"

"It is actually 'a kid in its mother's milk.' Anyway, the ethics grow wings and fly away, because it is still okay to cook the calf, or the kid, or the month-old lamb. Some rabbis got together and declared that pâté de foie gras is not kosher, because the geese are treated so cruelly, and the Torah forbids tza'ar ba'alei chayim—cruelty to any living creature. But veal calves are also force-fed, and their short lives are exhausting and painful. Is their meat still kosher? Yes, if the animal is slaughtered correctly. Forgive the pun, zeh lo kasher." —that's not kosher.

"I've never eaten veal," McGee said while washing his hands.

"You are missing nothing. I used to eat it when I was a kid, because I did not know any better. It is almost tasteless. You have to cook flavor into it."

"So what's the point?"

"Lech teida," Ziva said, shrugging. Who knows? "The tenderness of the meat is one argument, but any hobby cook knows that only a few cuts of veal are guaranteed to be tender, and even then, cook it the wrong way and it will be tough."

"Humans are stupid," McGee said.

"There is that. But there is also this: kosher veal is big business. Any group of rabbis that manages to get veal declared trefah—not kosher, is going to be lynched by the people who sell the stuff, and a million or more Jewish people who cook it, and also the many-many Jews who like to eat it... including many rabbis. And so I interpret that like this: despite the fact that veal represents tza'ar ba'alei chayim, and it does so very clearly, kashrut in that case is dictated to by wallets and palates. That being so, I eat cheeseburgers, because I can afford them and they taste really good."

"But what if, by some miracle, veal is one day declared not kosher? Would you change your mind about cheeseburgers?"

"No, because how is it logical that certain species of locusts are kosher but lobsters are not?"

"Locusts?" McGee mumbled. "Big-grasshopper-thing locusts?"

"Yeah. And how is it logical that tuna fish are kosher, but swordfish are not strictly so? And staying there: those big fish cannot be left to flop-until-dead; they must be killed so that they do not suffer, and why are there not specific laws about slaughtering them? And-and-and," Ziva said and gestured irritably. "I cook kosher for a few people, out of respect for their adherence to kashrut. One of them observes absolute adherence, meaning that pots and utensils for meat and milk must be different and kept separate in a divided kitchen, and I go to her home and cook for her in her kosher kitchen. I would never mock anyone's adherence to kashrut, but personally I will not abide by kashrut for reasons I have already stated."

"Got a feeling I hit a nerve," McGee said.

"I talk about this and I hear my maternal grandfather saying, 'It is the Law, and you are just a woman. How dare you argue?' Stupid man..."

"Whoa-wait," McGee said. "Your mother's family is Orthodox?"

"Not quite," Ziva said, her smile wry. "At least, they were not dosim-Orthodox: no black hats and pe'ot—sidelocks. My maternal grandparents were observant but also smart. When they first arrived in Israel, they realized that for people with almost no money, flexibility was a critical asset. And later, even as valued kibbutz members, that flexibility extended to accepting that making religious arguments was not a good idea on a mostly secular kibbutz. So they were observant in the privacy of their home, and just regular people outside of it, to paraphrase what Yehuda Leib Gordon said. The Jewish-in-the-home part was sometimes not fun for their kids and grandkids. My grandmother was very bitter, and my grandfather would sometimes remember that in the old country women were meek and obedient... He died when I was fifteen, and it is bad and definitely disrespectful, but I have not changed my mind: I am glad that I knew him for only fifteen years."

"Fifteen years is a little less than half my life so far," McGee noted.

"Bi'dyuk!" Ziva said with a short, humorless laugh. Exactly! "It was long enough. My memories of him could be different, but the choices that he made dictate to those memories... Still, he was not all bad. My maternal grandmother was worse than him, actually, and even she was not all bad. I have some good memories. That is what counts, in the end."

"I guess. And I got lucky with my family, both sides," McGee said. After a pause, he said sheepishly, "Is it bad that I'm reminded of that when other people grumble about their families?"

"The only sort-of, very-mildly-bad thing is that maybe you should remember more often," Ziva said.

She was just speaking her mind, and that was what McGee expected.

"Point taken," he said.

"Mmm."

Ziva fetched a bag of marinating meat out of the fridge.

"I thought we were just having burgers," McGee said. "What's that?"

"You do not like kebabs?"

"I didn't say that," McGee said, grinning.

They were still busy poking various ingredients onto kebab sticks when Tony arrived in the kitchen. That was the rule in this house: if invited, the door would be unlocked, and one was expected to just walk in.

"That marinate smells so good I could eat those things raw," Tony stated. "And what else smells good?"

"The relish for the burgers," Ziva said. "Eifo ishah sheli?"

"Where's your what?" Tony mumbled.

"She said, 'Where's my woman?'" Jen supplied as she walked in. She blinked and frowned. "That sounds a whole lot better in Hebrew."

"Everything sounds better in Hebrew," Ziva insisted.

"I personally think everything sounds better in Irish," Gibbs said and placed a paper-wrapped package of flank steak on the center island. To Jen: "What was her name?"

"Ronah," Jen said, with a wicked smile. "Oh my. Even I had a thing for that one."

"Where was I when she was turning heads?" Tony complained.

"In high school," Gibbs drawled.

"Damn. Okay. What am I doing?" Tony said.

"What you are good at," Ziva said. "The food processor is in that cabinet there."

Tony fetched the processor and set it up on a counter top. Ziva handed him a knife and he tested its edge on his thumbnail before opening the package of flank steak.

"You got everything else I need to make my famous burger patties?"

"Yup, everything."

"I didn't know you make 'famous burger patties,'" McGee said.

"You would, if you trusted me to cook," Tony shot back.

"He'll trust you after this, because he'll have plenty of evidence to prove that they're really, really good," Jen said. "I'm going upstairs to change."

Ziva waited until Jen was out of earshot.

"She is trying to hide it, but she is pissed off. What happened?"

"Bureaucratic bullshit," Gibbs said and swigged from a beer bottle. "Some Naval Secretariat pencil-neck questioned a budget allocation... thing. After explaining it about five times, Jenny realized that this fool's a NUB. Got hold of his supervisor and suddenly the problem's not a problem."

"That is an okay irritation," Ziva said.

"What's that mean?" McGee asked.

"She'll quit being mad about it soon," Gibbs said.

"Jen hates being angry," Ziva said.

"If she gets real mad about something that can't be fixed..." Gibbs whistled low and slow. "Bad mood for a week, or longer."

"And that is bad in general—"

"But really bad for you cos you live with her," Gibbs said.

"Oh, definitely," Ziva said and laughed.

Tony put a couple handfuls of chopped up flank steak into the food processor's meat grinder. He glanced McGee's way and was gifted with a 'Don't say anything!' look. Fat chance of that.

"Y'know," Tony said loudly over the food processor's grinding. "According to what a lifetime of movie-watching has taught me, the ex-lover/current-lover relationship is not supposed to work this way."

"That is because the idiots who write for movies and TV like to invent unnecessary drama," Ziva stated. "In this sort of relationship, drama is a choice. Why would we want to fight all the time? Where is the sense in that?"

"Besides that," Gibbs said. "Fight about what? Me and Jenny didn't work out; Ziva and Jenny fit like gloves. Simple as that."

"You left out the part about me and you being really good friends," Ziva said.

"Yeah, that also helps," Gibbs said while opening and closing cabinet doors. "Who reorganized stuff, you or Jenny?"

"Me. Ma ata rotseh?" Ziva asked. What do you want?

"Umm... ha'botnim," Gibbs said. —peanuts.

"Cabinet next to the fridge," McGee said.

"If us three guys go to Israel without Ziva, we'll never starve," Tony said while washing his hands. "We'll be able to order in restaurants, in Hebrew, without any trouble."

"I also learned food Hebrew first," Jen said on her return to the kitchen.

"It is the easiest place to start," Ziva said. "But I think that is so with any language. Everyone needs to eat, so start by learning the language associated with food—Hey, that is not peanuts!"

Gibbs managed to look like a leprechaun while smirking around a peanut butter-flavored corn puff.

"I told you not to put the Bamba next to the peanuts," Jen said. She giggled when both McGee and Tony grabbed a handful of the iconic Israeli snack. "By the time these three go home, there'll be none of that left, not even crumbs."

"Cos the crumbs are the most peanutty bit," Tony said.

"I am going to have to start hiding it in my underwear drawer," Ziva muttered.

"But I know where that drawer is," McGee said.

"You'll have to pass that intel on to me," Tony said with his mouth full.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "You might know where it is. Open it? You?"

Which comment instantly turned McGee's face pink.

"You're all so mean to Timothy," Jen said, trying not to laugh. "Although, he's even cuter when he blushes."

"Jennifer!" McGee complained, his face now crimson.

Jen laughed and smacked a kiss on his cheek before dragging him out to help her with the grill. They'd barely been gone thirty seconds when McGee was back. He fetched a bowl, snatched the Bamba bag from Tony, and shook some of its contents into the bowl.

"I know better than to leave you two with a full bag of this stuff," McGee said on his way out.

"Bag never stays full for long," Gibbs agreed with a grin.

"I will lock the next one in the safe downstairs," Ziva threatened.

"Just buy more next time," Tony suggested helpfully.

"And then you three would just eat more!"

"Exactly," Tony said, grinning.

"Chachmolog," Ziva muttered. Smart-ass.

"Shovava," Tony chortled. Brat.

"Ben zonah," Ziva giggled. Sonuvawhore.

"That'll be all, thank you," Jen said, just beyond the backdoor.

"I wasn't gonna go there," Tony said.

"Yeah, right. Lo nolad'ti etmol," Jen said, laughing.

"What?" Tony said, frowning.

"She was not born yesterday," Ziva supplied. While shaping a hamburger patty, she added, "Neshamah, you forget that I am Israeli and know the difference between play-swearing and cursing?"

"Sometimes," Jen admitted.

"Yeah well, my mother is a total bitch, and so?"

"'Bitch' is an exceedingly imprecise translation of 'zonah,'" Jen said. "And I personally object to anyone at all calling you 'bat zonah.'"

"Good thing we do not yet live in Israel."

"I'll try to get used to the 'title' by then."

"I do not think she ever will get used to it," Ziva whispered to Tony and Gibbs. "I foresee many occasions where I will have to try not to laugh."

"Aww, c'mon," Gibbs said. "How many people would toss 'bat zonah' at you?"

"In Israel?" Ziva said and laughed. "Translate to Hebrew: 'many people.'"

"Anashim rabim," said Tony. "I can believe that."

"She's right. You're a smart-ass," Gibbs said. To Ziva: "Seriously?"

"Oy..." Ziva laughed and shook her head. "It is like I said to Jen, there is a difference between meaning it, half-meaning it, and not meaning anything except that right now, the hat fits. Did I hurt Tony's feelings by calling him 'ben zonah'? No. He gets it. And a big part of why it is okay for him to call me 'bat zonah' is because he would be as playful as I was. Israeli women do not like double standards. We give as good or better than we get. Being all polite around women in Israel is a bad idea: you will get hammered. We expect men to feel good about themselves without us patting them on the head for being supposedly nice to us."

"But that's not—" Gibbs began.

"Oh yeah, Boss. It is," Tony said. "We go out of our way, big time, with opening doors, and remembering not to swear, and being polite, and why? For the same reason that male lyre birds dance. It's a mating strategy."

Gibbs blinked and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"So then what's the 'mating strategy' in Israel?" he asked eventually.

"If you like someone, just go ask her out," Ziva said. "If she says no, well, sorry. But she might say yes. In Israel, a 'nice guy' is someone who has a job, has a brain, has a sense of humor, does not have a short temper, does not have ten girlfriends, and has the same political and maybe the same religious ideas as the woman he likes. And bonus if he has the same political ideas as the rest of that woman's family. When you think about all of that... That is enough, and it is all good. A guy like that should feel good about himself, yes?"

"I guess," Gibbs said, frowning.

"So what Ziva's saying is that Israeli women don't like it when guys seek more approval than what they'd get without trying for more," Tony said. "But that's Israeli women in Israel. Being extra polite around women here is part of the culture. We're stuck with it... Not that I mind. I like being... decorously courteous."

"It is the 'decorous' part that we do not like," Ziva said. "'Decorous' is 'just for decoration.' So what is he like when people are not watching? That is how we think. And not only Israeli women; Israeli men think that way, too."

"Kinda surprising that a lot of Western women don't think like that," Tony mused.

"Ha! No, it is not surprising," Ziva drawled. "For them it would be very impolite and not nice to think of super-polite behavior as two-faced. Here in the West it is more important to be nice than to be honest."

Silence. Ziva let her hands do the work of shaping another patty, and looked up. Tony's patty-making efforts had been forgotten and he was staring at her. Gibbs was, too, with a piece of Bamba stalled about four inches away from his mouth. McGee hurried into the kitchen to fetch something, and frowned, gesturing at the two gobsmacked men.

"What's up with them?"

"They got some dugriyut," Ziva said. —straight-talk.

"About?" McGee asked and opened the fridge.

"She says that here it's more important to be nice than to be honest," Tony said. "And she's right..."

"Kinda shocking," Gibbs mumbled.

"I got accused of being rude the other day," McGee said while capping a couple of beers. "We were in a store and I told my sister that a color really didn't suit her. It clashed real bad with her skin, her eyes. So Sarah says I'm rude. I said, 'You asked me what I think about the color. I told you. How is that rude?' She said that I coulda been nice about it. I gave up around then."

"Did she pick another color?" Ziva asked.

"Yup, blue, and any kinda blue is her color," McGee said. "I told her that much, too, and you'd think that woulda put me back in her good books, but nope. I don't even know. Women are complicated."

He shrugged and walked out with the two beers.

"He will probably go ask Jen about that now," Ziva whispered.

"Why doesn't he ask you girl-questions?" Tony asked quietly.

"Because I am useless at answering American-girl-questions. To echo what McGee said, I do not even know. Most of the women here confuse the hell out of me."

"Unless they're of a certain appearance," Jen said. "You're never confused about or by those women."

"Eavesdropper!" Ziva accused. "And I could say some things about that scoring system of yours."

"Scoring system?" Tony said with a laugh. "No way!"

"Hell, yes," Jen said. "You guys can't have all the fun, dammit."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing..." McGee groaned.

"You would pass out if I gave you the details of that scoring system," Ziva said, and she was grinning but she'd managed to keep that from her voice.

"Oh, he would not," Jen argued. "And it would put Tony right to sleep."

"Yeah? What about me?" Gibbs asked.

"Probably the same, seeing as I'm not the one with the hots for redheads."

"Redheads score real low, huh?" Tony asked Ziva, and he was trying not to laugh.

"Efes," Ziva giggled. Zero.

"No competition allowed, Jenny?" Tony said.

There was a delay and Jen eventually appeared in the kitchen doorway, with a hand on her hip. Ziva knew that look, and mentally steeled herself for absolutely anything.

"Jethro, why did I have no 'competition' when you and I were an item?" Jen demanded.

"I was too tired," Gibbs stated plainly.

"Same," Ziva drawled.

Jen arched an eyebrow at Tony.

"I'll... be more careful with my questions next time," he said, face bright red.

"Pays to be smart," Jen said. "And now I'll go and tell Tim that it's safe to take his fingers out of his ears..."

She walked away and Tony had to bend quite a way down to hide his face against Ziva's shoulder.

"Oh. My. God," he said.

"You asked for it," Ziva giggled.

"I never expected her to answer like that," Gibbs said.

"Have you forgotten that Jen likes to win?" Ziva asked.

"Oh. Right..." Gibbs mumbled.

"Yeah," Ziva said seriously. "Put her in a corner, even a small one, and goodbye, Miz Oh-so-private, here comes the poker player, and jokers are wild: expect a five-card flush."

"Well, I'm not likely to forget that anytime soon," Tony said quietly. "And I take it she's good at poker?"

"She wins more often than she loses," Gibbs said. "But Jenny's not a gambler at heart."

"Her 'games' are sailing and skeet shooting," Ziva said. "She was junior state champion in both sports, and college league champion, too."

"She also raced stock cars, once-upon-a-time," Gibbs said. "She'd still be doing it if she didn't have such a solid grip on what constitutes a waste of money. If you've ever been in a car with her and wondered how she got to be as good a driver..."

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Tony said. "Her thing for almost-sports cars now makes a lot more sense, too. Ya think you know someone—"

"And then she surprises the hell out of you," Jen said as she came inside and fetched the plate of burger patties. "If I was just a smidgeon less sensible I'd be driving around in a Lamborghini Diablo."

"Uhh..." said Tony while buttering a burger bun. "Nothing 'almost' about that sports car."

"The Diablo is not a mere car," Jen muttered on her way out. "It's an orgasm on wheels."

"Did she just—" Tony mumbled.

"Yes," Ziva and Gibbs chorused.

"Cars? Those are my 'competition,'" Ziva said.

"They were mine, too," Gibbs said, laughing.

"Y'know, I'm beginning to see how this works," Tony said. "Ziva's kinda in need of a supportive ex—"

"I heard that!" Jen said, laughing. "Don't forget the grill's right outside the door."

"I keep hearing way too much," McGee grumbled. "I did not need to know the Director's opinion of Lamborghini Diablos."

"Oh, come on," Ziva said. "You should have figured out long ago that for Jen cars equal sex. You in particular."

Outside McGee groaned and Jen giggled, and indoors Gibbs rubbed a grin off his face.

"What don't I know here?" Tony asked.

"Jen took McGee along when she fetched her previous Mercedes," Ziva said. "I bet Jen practically glowed the whole way back to the Navy Yard, all the way from Baltimore. I gave her a hug later that evening, and I thought that buzz was my fault, but no, it was the car."

"Wait, wait," Tony said. "The Mercedes-before-the-current-one?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Jenny got that one new like two, almost three years ago. You two have only been a couple for a year or so. And Ziva, you thought the 'buzz' was your fault?"

"You're a little dense there, Sherlock," Gibbs chuckled. "Ever heard of that word 'attraction'? These two have been sparking off each other since they first met in Egypt something like thirteen years back."

"Pretty much," Ziva said. "I told my cousin the other day that me and Jen have always spoken three languages fluently: English, Hebrew, and flirting."

"I think we're the most fluent in flirting," Jen said, amused. "And I have evidence. When we first met, we didn't say anything, but we still said plenty, and that particular variety of conversation just continued."

"You talking about that... eye thing that goes on every now and then?" McGee asked.

"Well spotted, Tim," Jen said.

"How come I never spotted that?" Tony complained.

"While you were oh-so-busy speculating about these two, I was just observing," McGee said.

"Same," Gibbs said.

"You did plenty of speculating of your own, to start," Jen said.

"Are you ever gonna let that go?" Gibbs grumbled.

"No, because I've become rather fond of the fact that you've been a hundred percent okay with the idea of Ziva and myself right from the get-go."

"Only someone blind coulda missed that match," Gibbs said. "Am I setting the table out there or in the dining room?"

"The one here," Jen said.

Gibbs had been gathering plates and cutlery onto a tray. He marched outside with it and Tony gave a soft hiss to get Ziva's attention.

"Changing the subject is a habit with him? That's twice this evening."

"If you two guys were not here, he would not have changed the subject," Ziva said quietly. "I do not think that that will ever change, so do not feel bad about it. Gibbs is Gibbs, and he comes here often, and then subjects are not changed."

"Good to know," Tony said. "Don't like the idea of being an interfering spare wheel, y'know?"

"You are not one of those," Ziva said firmly. "And this evening has been fun so far. Expect Jen to issue more invitations. Or you can just do what McGee does: call and then arrive... Anyway, why do you always wait for invitations?"

"Now I think about it, I don't... know," Tony said, frowning. He'd had Ziva and Jen over to his place for dinner umpteen times in the last year, but he could count the number of times he'd been here, and every time he'd been invited. "Guess it's that spare wheel feeling?"

"But you are never a spare wheel when we go to your place," Ziva said. She looked at Tony carefully, and eventually said, "Your little insecurities, here and there, are often surprising to me."

"Hey, most of the time they surprise me, too," Tony said and he felt his face redden. "You said that McGeek just calls and invites himself, and my reaction was, 'Wow. Aren't I s'posed to be more grownup than him?'"

"He has something of a head-start: when I was shot Jen got him to help her deal with me– they did not call me 'the Worst Patient in the World' for nothing. So McGee was here every evening and every weekend for a month, and he got comfortable. Even now, you are not properly comfortable, but I think that just by spending more time here, that can be fixed, especially if you make a point of inviting yourself."

"I can try that," Tony said. "Just promise you'll say no if it's inconvenient."

"Neither of us has any problem with saying 'Not tonight, but what about tomorrow?' Ask McGee."

"Ask me what?" he said, head poked around the door frame.

"If you call up here and it's not convenient?" Tony said.

"I usually get something like, 'Not tonight, but tomorrow will be okay,'" McGee said. He disappeared from the doorway, then came back. "Just... Just if you get told 'Tomorrow' make sure to still call first."

Jen cracked up and Ziva got a bad case of the giggles. McGee banged his head lightly on the door frame a couple of times, but Jen came and made him quit with that by giving him a hug. Tony looked at that picture, and the one of Ziva in stitches.

"Usually people don't laugh about walk-ins," Tony said. "So it had to be something else."

"Yeah, now even I'm curious," Gibbs said.

"We remembered that Tim was coming over, but we remembered at the last minute," Jen said.

"And we thought that we got away with it," Ziva said, still giggling.

"But Ziva's shirt was on inside-out," Jen said.

"Trained investigators don't miss stuff like that," McGee said, and he'd found the funny side.

"They also tend not to ignore the fact that they're sitting on an under-wire bra," Jen chortled.

"Lacy?" Tony asked with a grin.

McGee nodded.

"The really expensive kinda lacy?" Gibbs asked.

McGee nodded again, eyebrows raised.

"Ziva only wears that stuff on-the-job. Hers," Gibbs said, jabbing a thumb at Jen.

"I figured," McGee said.

"How do you know Ziva only wears lacy lingerie on-the-job?" Tony just had to ask.

"Talking about the little things we use to keep us focused," Gibbs said. "For me it's a little piece of pea-gravel or something similar in my shoe. Ziva said she hates fancy lingerie, but always wears it if she's undercover... We gonna eat, or what?"

"I do not know why you are in a hurry to eat," Ziva said. "Seeing as you ate most of a bag of Bamba."

"Not most, only about a third," Gibbs said, grinning. "Besides, like Jenny always says, I got hollow legs."

"Anyone who manages to eat three servings of my lasagna just has to have hollow legs," Jen said and gave Gibbs a shove out the door. "Let's eat, people."

"Yes, ma'am," McGee said at once, then frowned. "I really gotta kick the auto-obedience thing..."

"That will only happen when she quits being bossy," Ziva chortled.

"Why should I? You like me that way," Jen said.

"Tony, shut up," Ziva, McGee, and Gibbs chorused.

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Tony said indignantly.

"Like I said earlier," Jen said, laughing. "Lo nolad'ti etmol."

_____Ω_____

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NCIS – No End and No God

Thu, 12 Mar 2015 03:33:12 GMT

Title: No End and No God

Author: needled_ink_1975
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Ziva David/Jen Shepard (established)
Rating: PG–13 (Language)
Word Count: 4,290

Summary: "This is when I hate being here," Ziva said. "Second Lebanon, CAST LEAD: stuck here. Every time they throw fucking rockets from the Strip... stuck here." —Ziva and Jen finally have that conversation.

Advisory: While the relationship in this story will make more sense if you read the preceding Kidon Universe stories first (listed in order here), this piece can be read as a one-shot.
Archiving: If you're not Ralst, DO NOT ARCHIVE MY STORIES.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Belisarius Productions, CBS-Paramount Television, and Universal Pictures. This is a work of fanfiction for the purposes of not-for-profit entertainment, and as such constitutes fair use.

Acknowledgments
Thanks to mayIreadtoday and La law_nerd for their input (8 months ago!).

...this one's for all the Israelis I know, but for one in particular, and for 3 whom I've known for 20 years.

Per usual, concrit is very welcome and thanks in advance.

____________________

No End and No God

It had rained for three days straight, then the sun had come out with a vengeance. By eleven a.m it was ninety-five degrees, and thanks to both the rain and the Potomac River, today's relative humidity was around one-hundred percent.

"This is why I love the desert," Ziva muttered. She clutched a handful of curlier-than-usual hair and gestured with it. "This, this fucking Tel-Aviv-in-America thing does not happen to my hair when I am in the desert."

"It's... very Hebrew hair today," Jen said, trying to keep her face straight.

"The usual amount of curl is sufficient."

"More than, even," Jen said lightly, the corners of her mouth twitching up.

"Oof..." Ziva grunted in annoyance. "You and your thing for curly hair..."

"I'm not permitted to have any kind of 'thing' for any...thing, not in my office," Jen said. She'd tried for serious but had failed badly, and she was smiling openly now. "It's not lunchtime, and you've no sense of humor to speak of, so I take it you're here in an official capacity?"

"Actually, no," Ziva said and parked on the edge of Jen's desk. "The big video conference did not happen, and will not happen until the latest Hamastan versus Sderot and Netivot episode ends."

"Again?" Jen said. She turned to her PC and opened a window, typed in a password, and asked MTAC for the latest intel from the IDF regarding the situation. It took only seconds for that information to arrive. "Rockets and mortars... It's hotter in Netivot and Sderot than it is here... But Ziva, calling Gaza 'Hamastan' is not—"

"If you say 'not politically correct,' I will be very angry," Ziva warned. "There is nothing 'politically correct' about Qassam rockets aimed at kindergartens and schools."

"Not diplomatically correct," Jen said evenly.

"Netanyahu might have coined the term, but Hamas officials like it and use it themselves. And so?"

"Fair enough, but I have to warn you that the term is frowned upon in this town."

"Right now? Lo ichpat li, in the do-not-give-a-fuck sense," Ziva muttered and got up. She paced a few steps back and forth. "I always hate it that there is nothing I can do. This is when I hate being here. Second Lebanon, CAST LEAD: stuck here. Every time they throw fucking rockets from the Strip... stuck here."

"And if you were at home?" Jen asked. 'Home' was always Israel; Jen never disputed that. "Would you have something to do?"

"Gaza and the Bank are not 'home,' are they?" Ziva said quietly.

"No," Jen murmured.

Ziva inclined her head in a there-you-have-it nod, and began to pace again. For security reasons, there was no way that she could be fully informed while living in the States. The intel Jen had received had been sent to MTAC after being heavily filtered. It amounted to the barest details: an ordnance count without mention of casualties and damage, without any information regarding planned retaliatory action, or if there was any planned at all. And if Ziva was at home, she might not have an active assignment, other than analysis of available intel, but at least she'd be involved and fully informed.

"In the past, you've always hidden this," Jen noted.

"With effort, yes. I must be ordered to hide things from you now," Ziva said. She stopped pacing and shot Jen a smile. "And now you cannot order me to go home."

"But it seems to me that I should call Rob Grace and tell him to do exactly that."

"He would ask you if you are insane," Ziva drawled. "He knows me by now."

"Damn," Jen muttered.

Ziva snorted a laugh and walked around the desk. She squatted next to Jen's chair and rubbed her knee gently.

"I came here to let off steam. It worked."

"A little," Jen said knowingly.

"Any few degrees away from exploding point, is good," Ziva said and straightened up. She leaned against the edge of the desk, and folded her arms. "I end up feeling guilty, being here and not there. Even here, I make a mental note of the nearest reinforced stairwell, even though I will not need it. I do not need an ABC kit, but it feels weird not to have one... makes me feel guilty not to need one. That is silly, but I cannot help it, and that makes me more angry than I am with those fucking rocket boys in Gaza."

"That word 'silly'... I've only barely reined in a lecture," Jen admitted.

"I would probably agree with every word. Even so, I would not react well to a lecture right now," Ziva said.

"Mmm," said Jen, her smile wry. "But I'm going to issue you an order: take the rest of the day off, and spend at least some of it on the climbing wall at your health club."

"All right."

Ziva kissed Jen's forehead and left without another word said.

Jen rolled shoulders that had stiffened up over the last few minutes, and replaced her glasses on her nose. Best to get back into her work, or the rest of today would drag. As she picked up a pen, there was a soft knock at her office door. She looked up to find McGee wearing a concerned expression.

"Did something bad happen?" he asked. "I've never seen Ziva looking like that."

"Rockets and mortars from Gaza, and Ziva's dropped her mask, so to speak," Jen said. She tossed the pen on the desk. "I guess it's good that she didn't don that mask again on leaving my office, but I'm rather surprised that she let anyone else see how she's feeling."

"I noticed that expression while she was on the way downstairs. By the time she hit the squad area... Blank. Almost like what she looks like when she's on 'autopilot.'"

Jen nodded but followed that with a brief shake of her head.

"Wanna talk about it maybe?" McGee asked, his tone hesitant.

He and Jen were friends and had ended up talking about several personal issues over the last year, but those conversations had taken place away from work. Jen could be a stickler when it came to professionalism. Right now she pushed away an urge to decline McGee's offer of support.

"Talking now is better than later," Jen said. "Because later will be all Ziva's time."

"Thought so," McGee said, and gave Jen a pointed 'Go on' look.

"A strange kind of guilt," Jen said while looking at her hands. "I mean, I know not to ask anything at all if Ziva gives off that don't-wanna-talk-about-it vibe, which makes the guilt confusing. I have never once asked how she was feeling on other occasions when Hamas was lobbing ordnance at civilians; I didn't ask how she was feeling during the Second Lebanon War—"

"Because of that don't-wanna-talk vibe."

"Right, so I shouldn't feel guilty, but I do."

"Maybe some of it's because she lives here, and nowadays you're most of the reason for that?" McGee asked.

Jen nodded and looked up at McGee who'd come to stand next to her desk, hands in his pockets.

"'Home' is always Israel, and if I decide to retire early, Ziva and I will be on a plane to Tel Aviv within a month of that day, I have no doubt... Not that I'd be unwilling: I love it there."

"Even with the rockets and stuff?"

"It's strange. I was stationed there Ninety-one, Ninety-two, Ninety-three, the latter years of the First Intifada when Hamas et al were very busy blowing up buses, et cetera, but I didn't feel unsafe. I never quite picked up the Israeli siege mentality, but I very quickly fell in with the mindset of 'Yesh ha'milchamah– nu, ma la'asot?' Translate, Scholar."

"'There's a war on– so, what can you do?'" McGee said. "But I'm not that good. Ziva translated that one years back and I memorized it... Also got a hunch that she held back a lecture when I commented that the attitude seemed kinda defeatist."

"You can have the 'lecture' now, because that attitude is the opposite of 'defeatist,'" Jen said. "Despite a war, or whatever violence, as much as possible Israelis just conduct life-as-normal. Schools might close but businesses don't. Buses and trains run on time, and friends meet in bars and restaurants after work. That's only possible because they say, 'Yesh ha'milchamah, ma la'asot?'"

"Well, if you attach that kind of practicality to Ziva, it's a case of, 'There's a war on back home, but I can't do anything about it, not from here.' No wonder she chose not to talk about it."

"Yes, but as she revealed just minutes ago, not being able to do anything makes her feel guilty and frustrated. And I..." Jen paused and looked at her hands again. "To be very honest, a small part of me is saying, 'Resign already.'"

"She'd... Well, she'd verbally kick your behind and tell the SECNAV to reinstate you," McGee said.

"More than likely," Jen drawled. "Anyway, I suspect that we'll end up talking about all this tonight. If not... I know better than to push her, as I said."

"She might need a little push," McGee said.

"That won't be fun," Jen muttered.

"Yeah," McGee said with a small wince. "I better get back to work."

Jen nodded and picked up the pen again. Back to work was actually a great idea. Jen very deliberately channeled every bit of her attention into paperwork and several reports.

~ ~ ~

Much later Jen walked into a house that smelled like a restaurant.

"Cooking. A lot of cooking..." Jen mumbled to herself while putting away her briefcase. Over Israeli rap she hollered, "I'm home."

"I'll change the music," Ziva hollered back.

"But I like Subliminal. It's HaDag Nachash that I don't like; them, and Shabak Samech. They're just noise."

"Noise with a message. HaDag Nachash, at least. Most of the time Shabak S does not have anything useful to say."

"Frankly," Jen said and paused to kiss Ziva. "I prefer Subliminal's message to that of HaDag Nachash. They're far too left-of-center for my liking. Subliminal's criticism of the Israeli government and the internal condition of the country in HaMakom HaMushlam is far more constructive than anything HaDag Nachash has ever spouted."

"Okay..." Ziva said and started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Jen asked and opened the fridge.

"My American lover who has informed opinions about Israeli rap," Ziva said, grinning.

"Hmph," said Jen. She capped a beer and took a swig. Regarding Ziva's cooking efforts, she said, "I take it that there's no room left in the freezer."

"No, there is still space, for all of that," Ziva said, gesturing at several containers. "And yes, I did go and climb, before I went grocery shopping and started to cook."

"Good." Jen reached out and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind Ziva's ear. "You look tired, ahuvati." —my love.

"Just... fed up," Ziva said. "I would not be feeling like this if those assholes in the Strip had decided to play shesh-besh instead of throwing rockets and mortars."

"For the life of me, I can't imagine a group of men and boys arguing over which would be better: backgammon or launching ordnance."

Ziva blinked at Jen a couple of times.

"I suppose. But my point is, there is no sense in what they are doing. The rockets are ultimately just as pointless as a backgammon game, but at least when you roll the dice in shesh-besh you give yourself a chance to win. Rockets? Anti-tank missiles? Mortars? Suicide bombs? Throwing stones? No-one wins. If we decide to retaliate... No-one wins. We never win; we just give them a reason to stop with the rockets."

"For a while," Jen said.

"And never for long enough," Ziva muttered while wiping down the cooking range. "And the worst part is, most of the time the rockets start because of nothing we have done. Most of the time there is a schism in one of the groups in Gaza, and someone does something stupid, like shooting at our soldiers. The soldiers return fire, because what else? Next thing, rockets get thrown by whichever little group that believes that this time they will kill lots of Israeli Jews. So the other groups have an excuse, and they start throwing rockets, too... Now you know why I laugh when Western media reports about Hamas like it is organized and in control and the only bunch of fools throwing rockets."

"Oh, I've always known why you laugh," Jen said. "What was the last count?"

"Of individual terrorist groups in Gaza? Fifteen definite and distinct, with another eleven possible sub-groups. And that is not counting the list of possible schisms—plural—within each group. Hamas itself currently runs the risk of being fractured into at least four separate groups, due to leadership rivalries."

"Good God..." Jen muttered. "And you guys can't fix that."

"No, they have to fix it themselves, but so far it seems that they do not want to fix it. All we can do is try to crack down on weapons smuggling."

Ziva had been about to ball the wash-up cloth and toss it in the sink. Instead she rinsed it, wrung it out, and laid it folded on the edge of the sink. That choice and the actions following it had not gone unnoticed by Jen. Likewise, she'd noticed the tall glass of water that Ziva picked up now, and the fact that she hadn't stolen a sip of the beer in Jen's hand. There was an awful lot of control being employed in this kitchen.

"How was the climbing session?" Jen asked lightly.

"Fucked-up," Ziva growled. "I could not concentrate; I kept missing easy grip transitions. I probably looked like a fucking amateur. So... cooking, because to fuck up cooking I would have to be drunk."

"I know you avoid too much alcohol, because it depresses you," Jen said. "But have you ever been properly drunk?"

"Dead-drunk? Once, when I was eighteen, and I woke up with a guy I really did not like—"

"And once bitten, twice shy."

"More like a million times shy," Ziva muttered. "Because there were witnesses who told me that I came on to that guy."

"Which means that alcoholic excesses are a really bad idea for you," Jen said, her brows arched high.

"Yeah," Ziva said, looking at the floor. "Something that... that takes me so far beyond myself that I am not at all myself... I talked to Yuval, and he helped me to make a list of all the times when I should drink very little, but preferably not at all. On a job, if it might involve even one glass of champagne, I take a naxolone-derivative to counteract the alcohol. Away from work, if I am angry, unhappy, also when I am irritable or restless—"

"All of the above today," Jen said gently.

"And fucking homesick on top of it," Ziva whispered.

Tears spilled free and Ziva wiped them away with both hands. Jen very much wanted to close the gap between them and hug her, but she knew better: in this sort of mood, a muddle of several emotions, Ziva preferred to make the first move towards physical contact.

That was a good call on Jen's part, because Ziva did not want so little as to be touched. The feeling would ease, Ziva knew, but in the meantime it was its own issue, and something she detested. Experience had taught her not to try to override it. She wiped at tears again and folded her arms, and leaned against a counter. Keeping still was an effort, but if she began to pace that would only agitate her further. Ziva was about to ask about Jen's day, but her phone buzzed on a counter nearby. She picked it up and pressed the right button.

"David... Shalom, Yossi. Ma ha'matzav?" —What's the situation?

Jen made to leave the kitchen and give Ziva some space, but Ziva snapped her fingers softly and shook her head. Jen overheard whatever Yossi Gershom was saying as an indistinct, unintelligible hiss, and Ziva's expression was an unreadable blank.

"Yesh nifga'im?" Ziva asked. Are there casualties? She listened to the answer, and eventually she said in English, "No, if all we can talk about is what is already in the press, then I will keep checking the HaAretz blog for updates... Yes. Yallah-bye."

Ziva put her phone down and rubbed at her forehead for a while. At length, she shook her head and folded her arms again.

"'Et ha'ma'agal l'ein sof ve'ein Elohim,'" Ziva muttered. 'A circle with no end and no God.' She asked, "You know that poem?"

"Yehuda Amichai's Koter haPatzatza," Jen said. —Diameter of the Bomb. "Yes, I know it... How bad?"

"One killed, thirteen wounded, two of them critical," Ziva said briskly, as if delivering a report to a superior. "A Qassam rocket hit a car travelling between Netivot and Sderot. The driver was killed and the other two people in the car are the ones critically injured. The rest of the injuries resulted from a pile-up."

"So it was a fluke hit," Jen said.

"But they will be celebrating in Gaza anyway," Ziva growled, her blank expression gone.

"Like they always do," Jen said.

"Like always," Ziva muttered in agreement, and gestured angrily. "But I can never take that for granted, never get used to it. They have been celebrating every Israeli Jew's death since I was a child, and I... Ani lo mevinah et zeh." I don't understand that.

Ziva had been about to slam the heel of her fist down onto a counter, but she caught herself, opened her hand, and only bumped the heel of her palm on the counter a few times. She folded her arms yet again.

"You should let that out," Jen said.

"How?" Ziva snapped. "Shout? Scream? Break things? It does no good; it serves no fucking purpose. Like the rest of the country, I restrain this anger. If I do not—if we do not, then Gaza and the Bank will be razed overnight. We have that firepower; we have the capability. When Westerners accuse us of 'atrocities,' they fail to recognize the amount of restraint we employ, daily. They fail to recognize the amount of fucking restraint we have employed, for decades. In the Nineties, after Rabin was assassinated, Israelis protested after suicide attacks, demanding that Shimon Perez should resign, demanding total goddamn war. They forgot themselves; they forgot that we are not like the fucking monsters who built and deployed those bombs. And the only reason why Gaza and the Bank are still there is because we managed—even with bombs killing little kids, we managed some-fucking-how as a people to come home to truth: if we ever do what was and is done to us, then we are no better than those who have done those things to us. So there is this—" Ziva patted her chest. "HaHavlagah, the Restraint. It used to be official government policy, but now it is something that lives in us, and we can live with ourselves because of it... Please, never ask me to express more than this. More than this? Retzach, rak retzach." —Murder, only murder.

"You know what I call all of that?" Jen said.

"Letting it out?" Ziva guessed. When Jen nodded, Ziva said, "It is hard to speak like that, because I know that it will also do no good. Like that poem says, 'A circle with no end and no God.' I am never beyond that circle, and neither is the little boy in Gaza who is being taught to hate me and my people... And now you are within the boundary of that circle, too."

"It's not the first time I chose to step inside it," Jen said. "And the truth is, ahuvati, I went on to another job, and left Israel behind, but I never left that circle. Because no-one can leave it, not really."

Ziva nodded, and thought about the strangers, the friends, and even those distant family members who'd chosen to leave Israel. They'd had their reasons, reasons that many a sane person would've agreed with. They wanted to raise their children elsewhere; they'd wanted, simply, to live without fear. But in their new homes Ziva knew that many of them had found new fears and concerns.

Fear was like the ultimate circumference of a single bomb: its effect was not only immediate, but also scattered outwards, between those most closely affected, on to their relatives, their friends; likewise, the reach of fear stretched to encompass the world. Ziva knew fear as something that one traded, this kind for another. She knew that fear was something that could only be beaten and kept in check by standing one's ground, and refusing to trade.

"If I counted up all the reasons I have to leave, to never go back..." Ziva trailed off and shook her head. "If we all left, it would not end, and the reach of every single bomb so far would remain the same, or grow. In the end, no-one wants us. So what is left, except to hold on to what we have? And if we hold on it must be with a whole heart... When I was a kid, a silly, foolish kid, I scorned—perhaps I even hated people who left Israel. But I grew up properly when Tali's coffin was being lowered into the grave, and a man put in his handful of earth, even before the box had settled. He said, 'Not my daughter, too. Not like this,' and he walked away. And I saw him clearly then, someone whose heart was already somewhere, anywhere that we were not standing then. For him home would be anyplace except Israel. For me, and others like me, there is only Israel, and for us there is nothing to do except to hold on, and to hope, to pray, even, that one day the circle of the bomb will be just a memory."

"Beyond hope and holding on, and perhaps prayer... There has to be more than that," Jen said reasonably.

"Yeah," Ziva said. "One very important thing: Arabic taught as a compulsory subject in every Israeli school. When we have a knesset that believes that our neighbors' language is as important as water in the desert, then we will begin to make that circle smaller."

Ziva stepped closer to Jen, who was leaning against the center island. Ziva's hands were in her pockets, but she leaned in and placed a soft kiss in Jen's neck.

"I must go and check on that blog, and others. But today even I must avoid the Arabic ones. Israelis and our neighbors have to stop trying to kill each other, before we can talk... And that is another kind of circle. One of us has to stop, and then the other. We have been the first to stop, many times."

Jen's only answer was a nod, and when Ziva had left the kitchen, Jen let out a breath that had been half-held, tightly controlled for the duration of that conversation. She wasn't quite aware of taking out her laptop and opening it on the breakfast nook table. When she paid proper attention to the screen, she found a half-written resignation letter there. Jen bit at her lip and deleted the document.

If Ziva found out about that, she would likely remind Jen that sentimentality was not a wise course to sail by in a storm. And she'd be right.

Later, while Jen was staring at the contents of a very full freezer, she caught the sound of the piano lid being opened. It had a slight squeak. Jen quietly closed the freezer door and waited– a long pause. By now she could read those. Ordinarily they involved Ziva paging through sheet music until something interested her, but there was no paper-on-paper whisper tonight. Jen knew that either the lid would be closed over the keys again, or Ziva would play something she knew by heart.

The notes came at last, right-hand melody with no accompaniment, but the words to the melody were absent, though Jen knew them all too well:

Ein li eretz acheret
Gam im admati bo'eret
Rak mila be'Ivrit
Choderet el orkai el nishmati.
Be'guf ko'ev, be'lev ra'ev—

I have no other country
Even when my land's aflame
Just a word in Hebrew
Pierces my veins and my soul.
With an aching body, a hungry heart—

The notes ceased, and the last line remained silent: Kan hu beiti—Here is my home. Jen bit her lip and refused to cry.

"You know, it's a good thing that you usually only play that on Yom HaZikaron," she called. —Memorial Day.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Did you write a resignation letter?" Ziva asked.

"You know me far too well."

"There is no such thing as that, when you love someone. So did you write it?"

"I started to," Jen muttered and opened the freezer again. "Deleted it."

"Good."

Jen heard the piano lid being closed, and moments later Ziva arrived in the kitchen.

"I know I cooked a lot, but could we eat out, maybe?" Ziva asked.

"Of course," Jen said, closing the freezer again. "Call the guys and see if they've made plans?"

"I've got Tony and McGee," Ziva agreed rather eagerly, and she was already pressing buttons on her phone. "You call Gibbs?"

Jen nodded and reached for the kitchen phone. Gibbs's number was on speed dial.

"Yes, ma'am," Jen murmured while waiting for Gibbs to pick up. "Calling in backup..."

_____Ω_____

...and on to No End and No God: Notes.

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New story, new fandom. Oy vey.

Sat, 07 Feb 2015 02:59:20 GMT

I wrote a Yentl fic. First saw the film when I was a kid (at a friend's house, because my mother didn't approve. Issues, she had some), and I read the short story years before that. So, essentially, this story's been percolating for a long while.

Hope you enjoy it.

We Make What's Meant-to-be.

(N)

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Yentl – We Make What's Meant-to-be

Sat, 07 Feb 2015 02:24:20 GMT

Title: We Make What's Meant-to-be

Author: needled_ink_1975
Fandom: Yentl (1983)
Pairing: Yentl+Anshel/Hadass (it's complicated)
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~6,700

Summary: Avigdor brings Hadass a letter, but she doesn't take that letter as Yentl's final word on things. Hadass goes to Lublin where Yentl's about to find out just what kind of meant-to-be she made, where Hadass is concerned.

Disclaimer 1: All recognizable characters belong to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Barwood Films, and MGM/UA. This is a work of fanfiction for the purposes of not-for-profit entertainment, and as such constitutes fair use.
Disclaimer 2: Various lyrics taken from the film were written by Alan and Marilyn Bergman.

A/N 1: The title is taken from a line in the film– Yentl/Anshel: "Nothing's meant-to-be; we make what's meant-to-be."

Acknowledgements
Many thanks go to my dearest editor, La law_nerd.

Per usual, concrit is very welcome and thanks in advance.

Glossary:
Bamidbar — the Book of Numbers
Daven — to pray
Goyim — gentiles
Ma'ariv — evening prayer service
Minchah — afternoon prayer service
Shtetl — a pre-Holocaust market town with a mostly Jewish population
Tallit katan — four-cornered fringed garment worn by Orthodox Jewish men
Tzitzit — knotted threads at each corner of the tallit katan
Yarmulke — a kipa; the skullcap worn by (most) Orthodox Jewish men
_____________________

We Make What's Meant-to-be

I wish there were a way to say
That what she's taught me
Isn't written anywhere,
And I'm supposed to be
The one who's wise.
One thing is certain:
I can never be what she
Expects of me.
~~~~~
Today Hadass and Sophie were baking. The almond cakes were cooling, and their number was already a few less, because they were irresistible. For that reason it was always wise to mix enough batter to make more than enough.

"Though there are never enough..." Hadass said and laughed.

"Not with Anshel around, that's sure," Sophie said.

"He'll be home tomorrow," Hadass said, smiling.

"You haven't told me yet: where am I going to find as nice a husband as yours?"

"You keep asking me that. I'm expecting to come home from a visit somewhere to find you've stolen him away... Was that the bell?"

"Maybe. Sometimes the pull sticks. I must talk to someone about that," Sophie said and made to take off her apron.

"No, I'll go and see," Hadass said.

Even as Hadass walked out of the kitchen, the doorbell sounded again, this time a full Ring-ring! instead of the choked noise she'd heard earlier. She supposed the person there to be a telegram runner, or perhaps someone wanting to speak to her father. Her parents weren't home and had sent word that they intended to stay in Tomashev another week. The air there would do her parents good; the peace here had done and would continue to do Hadass good.

Just in case a telegram was being delivered, Hadass took a few small coins from the hallstand drawer and pocketed them. Her hand was still in her pocket when she opened the door. A man stood there on the second step with his back turned, his cap held in hands clasped behind his back, head bowed slightly as if studying the cobbles of the street beyond the front porch. And of course she knew his shape, his hair, his hands; she knew even the cut of his clothes, and that small pulled thread on the right shoulder of his best coat.

"Avigdor?"

He turned and gave her a smile, but one that faltered, and he bit his lip. Here he was home a full day early, and nowhere was Anshel to be seen. Hadass felt something close around her heart, and the feeling must have reached her face.

"Anshel's all right," Avigdor said quickly.

"But something happened?" Hadass said. She should invite him inside, as was proper, but something was preventing her. She couldn't name it. Instead she said, "You're home early."

"Yes, and yes," he said, and reached inside his coat. He took out an envelope. "You need to read this. Alone. Make sure you're alone. I'll come back in an hour."

Hadass took the envelope and turned it over: blank on both sides, save for sealing-wax that was smooth, likely pressed in place with the bottom of an inkwell or a glass. When she looked up, Avigdor was already halfway across the street. She knew that stride: there would be no stopping him now.

Hadass looked again at the envelope, and stepped back through the door. Her heart was pounding. She might've broken the seal then and there, but she'd not heard Avigdor use that tone before. Hadass hurried upstairs, to the room that was hers and Anshel's.

Many things here were theirs together. Once the desk had been Anshel's alone, but now that, too, was theirs, a place of combined study. Habit drove Hadass to draw the curtains, even though she wasn't about to take any book from a shelf. She sat down and fiddled with the envelope for a while, then slid it over the desk to the edge, and pressed her palm down lightly to break the wax. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. She opened it out, and read:

My dearest Hadass–

I made promises to you that I, personally, cannot keep, bar one: I love you. Avigdor loves you still, and the promises I made, I made on his behalf and, if you're willing, he will make good on those promises.

But there I've started at the end. The beginning is even more complicated. The beginning involves a young woman called Yentl, and her overwhelming desire to study...

Hadass' hands were shaking, the paper fluttering almost audibly. She read on even while getting up and going to the door. She called for Sophie and read the last paragraph:

...I'm sorry for any and every hurt I've caused you. I'm sorry for every lie I've told you. But I'm not sorry for the truths: that I love you, that I'm proud of you, that I think you're an even better scholar than Avigdor and me. My Hadass, who observes, who notices every tiny detail– no wonder you're a fine scholar.

I wish you all happiness, and many joys.

I love you always.

–Yentl.

"Yes, I observe and notice every little detail..." Hadass muttered.

"Sorry?" Sophie said in the doorway.

"Never mind. Two things: run and find Avigdor. I think he's gone to his rooms. On the way, find someone to bring me a horse."

"Should I just see if Julia is at home? The hire of a horse is expensive. You can borrow one of hers."

"Yes, try there first—No, better: if Julia's at home, then send her trap to fetch me. I'll have to borrow some of her riding things."

"Now it sounds like you're twelve again," Sophie drawled and jogged away from the door, but just as soon came back. "Where are you going?"

"Lublin," Hadass said, and she was already packing a small carpet bag.

"Your parents will both have fits over this," Sophie warned.

"They're away another week. They needn't know," Hadass said pointedly.

"I'm just the housekeeper– as if I'd invite Reb Alter's wrath, or your mother's wailing over shande. Not a word from me."

Sophie hurried away, and Hadass snorted over that word shande: there'd be a shame-filled scandal, all right, if it came to light that she'd been married more than a year to another woman. Esther Vishkower wouldn't wail over it so much as pass clean out.

Hadass was soon finished with packing, and carried her bag downstairs. She paced while waiting for Avigdor's return, and at the same time scowled at the prospect of stiff muscles: she'd last ridden a horse just four days before her wedding day. Not even Anshel knew about that. Only Sophie knew all the truth. Julia Klosowski was one of Hadass' old school friends. She was Jewish, too, but she'd grown into a woman who was shamelessly secular. These days she continued her late father's occupation of breeding and training horses. As a child, Hadass learned to ride under that kind man's tutelage. She called him 'kind' because he and his wife had taken great pains to ensure that Hadass' parents never found out about the riding lessons. If ever they had, it was likely that they'd have locked Hadass in this house indefinitely.

That thought angered her to the point where she had to set her teeth and take measured breaths through her nose to control it. Just the same as locking the door and drawing the curtains before she studied: riding had to be kept a secret.

"Not anymore," she told herself. "I'm not a child. Not anymore."

The bell was pulled, and Hadass went to open the door. Avigdor glanced at her, then stared.

"Did you think to find me weeping?" Hadass said and tugged on his sleeve.

Avigdor made no answer, but came in and stood holding his cap in both hands. When Hadass gestured at the hatstand, Avigdor obediently placed his cap there. He turned and looked at her a while, stretching the silence until it snapped, and forced him to speak.

"Until now I've never seen you angry, not once."

"I'm expected to hide strong emotions," Hadass said flatly.

Avigdor frowned and jammed his hands in his pockets.

"How long did you know about Anshel?" Hadass asked.

"Until now, only hours, barely a day."

"Really? How is it that men don't see..."

"What do you mean?" Avigdor asked.

"I suspected from the moment Anshel mentioned that we have a beautiful home," Hadass drawled. "Or, I suspected that he was one of those men who love men."

"That would be worse than this," Avigdor muttered.

"Yes, even more confusing for you, you in particular," Hadass said.

He looked at her sharply, and just as quickly looked away.

"That knowledge is also just hours young," Avigdor said, and he looked at her, looked her in the eye. "Suddenly it all made sense, when he—when she explained. But it's sense that others probably can't be made to see... She's going away, has plans to go to America."

"We might all go to America," Hadass said quietly. "Or I can just go and bring him home."

"She can never be Yentl here," Avigdor said.

"Yes, and if he comes back..." Hadass felt her throat tighten. "I realise now that it's possible he doesn't feel for me what I feel for him—"

"You're still speaking of him as a man," Avigdor said. "Yentl, not Anshel. She's a woman."

"I can afford not to care about that, and I don't," Hadass said. "But I do care about the possibility of using the right pronoun in the wrong hearing. After that, short hair and a yarmulke won't be enough to fool anyone."

Avigdor nodded and rubbed his face with both hands. He left them covering his face.

"I love you, I love her. This is a mess."

"I still love you," Hadass said quietly. "If she won't come home, and if she won't hear of us going with her, what then? Will you share my heart?"

"You're willing to share mine?" Avigdor asked.

"We've all three of us been sharing for more than a year," Hadass said with a smile. "So what's new?"

Avigdor smiled then, directly into Hadass' eyes, and brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek.

"She told me you've been studying."

"And I'll continue," Hadass said firmly. After a pause, she said, "I know my husband. There was a letter for me. What other messages?"

"A letter to Rabbi Zalman, and another to Rabbi Shimon, who married you two."

"Do you have them here?"

Avigdor took the letters from a pocket. Hadass practically snatched them.

"I'll be only a few moments."

She took the letters upstairs and locked them in a desk drawer. She hid the key, and went quickly downstairs again.

"Those letters can wait until I've spoken with Anshel," Hadass told Avigdor.

"Agreed."

A clatter of hooves and rattling wheels came from beyond the door.

"I must go," Hadass said.

"I should go with you," he said and reached to take her bag. When she pulled it away, he frowned, saying, "What's the matter?"

"I don't need a chaperone, or a guide. I'm riding to Lublin, and will arrive there two hours sooner than if I sit in a trap."

"Riding? A horse?"

"Astride, even," Hadass said. "Don't faint... Can you ride?"

"No," Avigdor mumbled.

"Then you're definitely not coming with me. Where will I find Anshel?"

"An inn, the one closest to the first synagogue you'll reach, coming from Bechev."

Hadass kissed his cheek, opened the door, and went out without looking back. She took Sophie's place next to the driver of the pony trap. At a twitch of the driver's whip the blinkered pony walked on, and broke into a trot.

Sophie joined Avigdor in the doorway.

"I won't ask anything except—"

"Anshel's all right," Avigdor said.

"Good... We baked almond cakes today. There are several dozen in the kitchen, and fresh bread rolls, and cold roast chicken. Hungry?"

"I am now," Avigdor drawled, but he stood yet, watching the trap down the street. "She's going to ride a horse to Lublin..."

"You come with me, and eat while I tell you about that," Sophie said.
~ ~ ~

Why have the thirst
If not to drink the wine?
And what a waste
To have a taste
Of things that can't be mine.
And tell me where,
Where is it written
What it is I'm meant to be?
~~~~~
It was dark by now, but there had been light enough thrown by the moon, and Hadass had safely reached the outskirts of Lublin. The streets here were lit by gaslights, and it was still early enough for people to be out visiting or simply taking an evening stroll. She stopped a woman walking a small dog, and asked if she was on the right street to find an inn near a synagogue. She asked about a livery stable as well, because she had to find a place for her horse.

"Yes, straight ahead, and almost directly across the street from the inn is a stable. Have you come a long way?"

"A day's ride. Thank you, and good evening."

"Good evening."

'A day's ride' didn't say much, beyond that Hadass had ridden something over twenty miles. The last thing she wanted was for someone to say, "Oh, Bechev? I have relatives there." A surprising number of people tended to have relatives who knew Reb Alter Vishkower.

At the livery stable Hadass watched two grooms for a while, to make sure that the horse would be well taken care of. When she was satisfied, she went out and walked the short way to the inn. It was a good place, quiet and clean, and the innkeep was polite and friendly, and more so when Hadass called Anshel Mendel her husband. The ring was there on her right hand, too, and she'd made a point of taking off her gloves, and resting that hand on the counter where the innkeep could see it. She'd ridden astride, but her long split skirt was cut so elegantly that the split went mostly unnoticed, and she could tell that the innkeep had missed it entirely. She was told to go up the stairs, that the room she wanted was right at the end of the passage.

An age seemed to pass before she stood outside that door. Hadass raised her hand to knock, then snatched it back. It would be easier to walk away. It would be easier, and kinder to herself, especially if Anshel had made up his mind to go away for good; especially if he was honest enough to say that he'd never feel for Hadass what she felt for him. For her, for Yentl. She'd told Avigdor all the truth: she knew, and had known that she loved another woman, and she didn't care. Hadass simply loved the person whose ring she wore, the same person who had opened doors that others had shut firmly in Hadass' face, even before she was born.

She drew a breath and knocked, and waited.

"Yes?"

"It's me."

A key was turned and the door was yanked open. Hadass didn't wait to be invited in. She walked past Anshel, whose clothes proclaimed that he was definitely Anshel, and whose expression was one of shock mingled with trepidation. Anshel closed the door, and locked it, then turned slowly.

"Why did you come here?"

"I'll take you home, or I'll go with you, or if you'll have neither... Well, I want to know," Hadass said.

She dropped her bag at the foot of the bed, and her gloves landed atop the bag. Hadass sat in a straight-backed chair and crossed her legs at the knee. The skirt was borrowed, so were her knee-length boots. She caught Anshel staring at them.

"Yes, I rode here– that skill is my little secret. But that's not important... I've known for months. Didn't you say that I notice many small details?"

Anshel nodded and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I felt a fear that had no name," Hadass said. "Because I never dared think of it for long enough to realise that I feared exactly this."

"That's what I told Avigdor. He reacted... badly, at first."

"That doesn't surprise me. At least I was aware of my love for you. He wasn't: a confusing, even a frightening place to be."

"I'm so sorry," Anshel said softly.

"I'm not," Hadass said, aware that her face was reddening.

"No?"

"No," Hadass said and stood. Anshel did the same and took a step back when Hadass came nearer. "I understand why you chose not to tell Avigdor, at first. But I'm angry, because you could've had the courage to tell me to my face. It was not my place to tell you that I'd guessed the truth. You should've trusted me with that truth. And it's not as if I didn't open the door. I did, didn't I?"

"A few times," Anshel mumbled and gulped.

Hadass took a step closer, and Anshel backed up several steps. A wall pressed too soon against his back. A corner was to his right hand, to his left, a wardrobe: Anshel was stuck.

Hadass came nearer still, until they were only inches apart, but her expression had softened, because her anger was rapidly fading. There were more important things to say.

"'Wither thou goest,'" Hadass quoted quietly. "Even Avigdor is saying that."

The men's clothes, the yarmulke, the tzitzit threads bright white against black gabardine, all meant nothing. For the first time Hadass truly saw Yentl in eyes that brimmed with sudden tears.

"I'll paraphrase what he said: I love you, I love him. It's a mess," Hadass said.

"It's my fault," Yentl said and sniffed.

Hadass traded a handkerchief for Yentl's spectacles, which she pocketed. She led Yentl out of that corner and sat next to her on the bed.

"You knew. You know, and you still love me?" Yentl mumbled.

"Still, and if you go away, I'll not stop."

"But what I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Hadass said. "Yes, still, in a way supposedly sinful. But like studying Talmud, while the neighbors won't understand, I'm sure God will. Although, really, not even God has a say here... You don't feel the same way."

"It's not as simple as that," Yentl said. "If it is, then why did my heart break on Monday morning, when I left you behind?"

"There's all kinds of love, Yentl," Hadass said. "When I was a girl and friends left to go to other schools, my heart broke. Was I in love with them? No."

"I never went to school. Actually, I've never had as many friends as those I've made in the last year. It'll hurt to leave them behind."

"So stay," Hadass whispered. "You love him, he loves you, he loves me, and I love him and you. We can make it work, somehow."

"Now it sounds like you were inside my head, before the wedding," Yentl drawled.

"You're either very brave, or crazy," Hadass giggled.

"Not either; both. I've come to realize that love inspires equal amounts of bravery and craziness. Look at this: I married you to keep him close. Look at this: you rode a horse more than twenty miles? Crazy and brave, and why? Because you love me... I don't think we can make it work, Hadass. Your father, God love him, has enough power to make things difficult here. He's also not stupid: he'll figure out there's something going on between you, me, and Avigdor. It's hard enough just to make it so Avigdor can come to dinner."

"Then what about your idea of going to America?" Hadass said. "I'm your wife. How's my father going to say no to that?"

"And how many people in America will we meet who know who your father is?"

"Surely less than that number of people here," Hadass said and laughed.

"And..." Yentl paused. She swallowed audibly and eventually said, "No, it's not going to work. Avigdor and I argued. He suggested we go away, get married, and as good as said that I can have babies and darn his socks. He said I wouldn't need to study."

"You'd die if you didn't study. He'll realize that," Hadass said.

"Yes, but it'll be an easier realization, and an easier acceptance, if he isn't close to it all. In many ways, he'll find it easier to encourage your studies: he barely knows you, but he'll come to know you as a woman who studies Talmud; a woman with a thirst for knowledge. Me, he barely knows as a woman, and that's who he wants to know. Something like studying together... To Avigdor, study is what made him see me as a man; eventually it'll become a wall between us."

There was no argument that could stand against that statement. Hadass knew it at once for truth that wouldn't be budged. So this was a mess that couldn't be made all the way right. What remained was acceptance, and choices.

Though the first choice Hadass made involved food.

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," she blurted.

"Let's go eat, before you fade away," Yentl said and got up. "My glasses?"

Hadass handed over the spectacles, but remained seated, watching her husband move around the room: fixing her collar in the mirror; shrugging into a jacket; taking out his pocket watch to see the time. From Yentl to Anshel, an almost fluid switch. One day, if anyone else found out about all of this, and if they said that Yentl had fooled people, Hadass would say no, she hadn't fooled anyone.

"You truly are Yentl and Anshel, both, in the same person," Hadass said.

Anshel looked at her, and considered that for a moment. At length he nodded and leaned an elbow on a tall bedpost.

"I've not thought of it that way before, but yes."

"It's almost impossible to ever be Anshel if you're wearing a dress– I can't imagine it," Hadass noted. "But tonight I've met Yentl, in pants."

"I've acquired a great appreciation of pants. And long underwear: no drafts in cold weather."

Hadass laughed and stood, and took the hand Anshel offered. She kept hold of it and used her free hand to tweak Anshel's necktie so that it sat just-so.

"Anshel suits you equally well, perhaps better."

"But I miss being a woman," said Yentl. "I miss being Yentl who never took certain things for granted. In some ways, being Anshel makes a few things too easy. How can I honestly hope that things will change for women, if I don't need those changes myself, just because I wear pants?"

"Have you considered that men only listen to other men?" Hadass said. "As Anshel you can sow seeds in the minds of men, seeds that might grow into a change in the way that those men think about women. You know as well as I do that as a woman, as Yentl, you have little to no chance of success in that regard, no matter where you go."

Yentl stared off into middle-distance, frowning, deep in thought. Hadass had seen that expression so often, and here there was no difference: this expression belonged to Yentl and Anshel both.

Hadass still had hold of her husband's hand, and she noted to herself that these moments represented the longest period of sustained physical contact between them. There might be a lot more of that, later, unless Anshel chose to sleep on the floor—No, Yentl might choose to sleep on the floor. Hadass thought back and analyzed: whenever she'd been told "You have the right to refuse me" that had been Yentl speaking; whenever Hadass had been given compliments on her appearance, that had been Anshel speaking. Hadass battled away a smile, and she squeezed the hand she held, gaining her husband's attention.

"Mmm?" said Yentl.

"Let's go and eat, husband," Hadass said.

"Oh. Right..."

A squaring of the shoulders; a slight change to the set of the jaw; brows drawn in a little: Yentl made way for Anshel, and Anshel led his wife out of the room and downstairs to dinner.
~ ~ ~

She's mother,
She's sister,
She's lover...
She's the wonder of wonders,
No man can deny.
So why would he change her?
She's loving, she's tender;
She's woman,
So am I.
~~~~~
There'd been little conversation over dinner in the inn's common room. The food was good, and good food attracted a crowd, one that couldn't be allowed to overhear the sort of conversation that Hadass wanted to have with Anshel. At the same time, the silence between them was companionable, not even a little tense.

The tension arrived when they returned to the room that didn't afford them so much as a dressing screen; the room with just one bed. And when they entered that room they both stood and stared accusingly at the solitary bed.

"I... I'll sleep on the floor," Yentl said. "And I'll go out a while, so you can change your clothes."

Her hand was already reaching for the doorknob. Hadass reached it first, and took out the key. She wagged it at Yentl.

"No."

"No? No-what, what 'no' is this?" Yentl mumbled and tried to get the key.

Hadass laughed and held it above her head. She was a little taller. Yentl would have to jump to get the key, but when she tried, Hadass planted her hand in the middle of Yentl's chest and pushed her back.

"No. If you insist on sleeping on the floor, all right, but I'm tired, and we neither of us will be silly now."

She deliberately returned the key to the keyhole, and straightaway went to a mirror to remove a pin from her cravat, and the pins and ribbons in her hair followed. She turned and found Yentl scowling. Hadass sat on the bed and hitched one leg of the split riding skirt. She pointed at her boot.

"I forgot to bring a bootjack, so I need help to get these things off."

"They're cavalry cut. I remember, my father had a pair that he gave to someone."

"You sound... annoyed about that."

"Who wouldn't want a pair of boots like this?" Yentl muttered and yanked off the boot. She hauled off the other one, too, and set it beside the first. "I suppose I could order myself a pair..."

"As long as it's Anshel doing the ordering, yes," Hadass said. "You met Julia once. Well, Julia has a longstanding business relationship with a saddler, and he's the go-between to ensure that she gets boots that supposedly should only be worn by men. Women's riding boots are designed for those who ride sidesaddle."

"I've always thought that looked dangerous," Yentl said.

"It is dangerous. If the horse takes a fall, the two leg-horns can hold you in the saddle, and if that happens, you can't throw yourself safely to one side. What usually happens then is that you fall with the horse, and if he rolls over you... Broken legs, broken pelvis, broken back, maybe."

Yentl's only comment was a horrified expression. Hadass began to unbutton her jacket and gestured with her free hand.

"We're forced to take risks like that, because many men call it 'immodest' if we ride astride. Outside of our world, outside of the shtetl, women of the goyim are rejecting those ideas. They're riding astride, wearing gorgeous skirts like this one. Is the cut not the most elegant?"

Her jacket was open, but when Hadass stood and the skirt fell to hang to her ankles, it was the fabric's rich heaviness, and that elegant length that immediately drew the eye. Yentl took a proper look at it, stepping left, then right.

"I don't have the right words—I've never had the right words for clothes, but I think it's the straightness, how it makes the lower half of you seem like a column."

"Those words are good enough, and yes, you're right. I'm starting to see fewer bustles in skirts, and a narrower cut, and that new style of skirt is mirroring this one, without the split."

While she'd spoken, Hadass had discarded her jacket, and the skirt soon was laid on the bed. She heard Yentl giggle, and she guessed the reason.

"Of course I'm wearing long underwear. As you said: no drafts. They also stop chafing while riding... And stop standing there. I'm more tired tonight than I usually am after hours of cooking on Fridays."

Hadass decided not to pay Yentl any more attention. She finished undressing and tugged on a nightdress that was creased from being hastily stuffed into her bag. She laid her clothes over the chair and turned to get into the bed, but stopped. Yentl had her back turned, and had just slipped off her shirt, and Hadass stood rooted a moment, staring at what she could see of the linen binding Yentl's breasts. She hadn't thought about that, about how Yentl might be hidden away in order that Anshel might come to the fore.

And she hadn't really been aware of stepping closer, but here she was, and before Yentl could fiddle loose the knot below her right arm, Hadass had dealt with it. She didn't say anything, and noted a slight hesitation in Yentl before she worked briskly to rid herself of the binding. Hadass passed a nightshirt over Yentl's shoulder.

"How did you hide that from me?"

"By learning to be quick, behind the screen in our room," Yentl said and pulled on the shirt. She stood still for some time, then turned, and said, "I should've trusted you, but... But sometimes you scared me. You fell in love with me, and how would you have reacted—"

"I fell in love with you," Hadass said quietly. "But it was hard to say that to the person who was frightened of how I'd react. Even if I'd spelled it out, I don't think you'd have heard me, or believed me."

"Maybe not," Yentl said. "But even now..."

"You're in love with Avigdor, not me."

"Yes, but I... I love you, too."

"I know," Hadass said and smiled. "I know, and no-one has loved me in a better way."

"Avigdor—"

"He loves his idea of me," Hadass stated. "I still love him, but I'm not going to allow him to refashion me into that idea, his idea of the ideal bride."

Yentl snorted a short laugh, and Hadass smirked.

"It's all your fault."

"I'm proud of that one," Yentl said, grinning. Then her expression sobered, and she said, "This whole business isn't a laughing matter. Now you know all the truth, you're party to my every transgression."

"I'll repeat what you once said: don't talk old wives' tales," Hadass said. "Honestly now, what do you think God cares about more? Women being kept in the place men want them to be, or women like you and me devoting large parts of our lives to the study of the Law? You know as well as I do that more than half the prohibitions against women are not anything God would've bothered with. Admit it."

"That's easy: yes, agreed," Yentl said.

"And it's no wonder that men have forbidden women from studying: with study comes comprehension. That comprehension demands that we question everything, and we start to realise that nearly all the bans and prohibitions stem from misinterpreted exemptions. And those exemptions? We just can't do two things at once; I can't read from the Torah or daven and at the same time cook a meal for guests, unless my kitchen gets moved to the synagogue. But I can attend minchah or ma'ariv services if I don't have to cook. If I can, then I should. Knowing that, and yet there's a ban on calling on women to read; knowing that, and yet a woman cannot pray publicly... It feels awful."

Yentl had been nodding in agreement, and now she pointed across the room, to where her tallit katan lay folded on a small table.

"This was the first serious, law-related question I asked my father," Yentl said. "Here it is. Why can only men wear tzitzit, when those threads and knots are meant to remind every Jew of all the commandments, all six-hundred-and-thirteen? Bamidbar, chapter fifteen, verses thirty-eight to forty, regarding tzitzit, the commandment is given to all the Children of Israel; every one is commanded to wear the fringed garment, and not only every male... How did it come to this? Why did it come to the point where women are excluded?"

"You want my personal opinion?" Hadass asked.

"Yes, tell me," Yentl said.

"Men like to feel special," Hadass said. "Really, it's true. Every morning their prayer ends in a way that makes them feel special– 'shelo asani isha': thank you for not making me a woman. To feel special, someone has to be less than them. Men must be grateful for all their many obligations, all their many privileges: in order to feel privileged, they must compare, and we are less privileged and we're kept less privileged... Yentl, there's nothing to be gained by wearing skirts again. Nothing. You can only be sure that most of what you've gained will be taken away, again."

"Yes, I know," Yentl murmured and bit at her lip. Tears welled in her eyes anyway.

"Don't think about it now; it's late," Hadass said. "Come to bed. I promise I'll behave. I'm too tired to do anything else."

"All right. At least it's not a small bed. I shared Avigdor's bed, my first night in Bechev, and I lay right on the edge. Every time I dozed off, bang! I fell out... And then, night before last, he slept on the floor."

"Silly. Come here."

Hadass was holding the covers open. Yentl hesitated a little, then took the blanket edges and climbed into bed. Hadass gave her room, even though what she wanted most was to snuggle up. She had vague memories of being warm and safe in her mother's bed. She couldn't remember if she'd grown out of going to crawl in with her mother, or if that had eventually been disallowed.

Yentl turned out the lamp, and also turned onto her side, with her back to Hadass.

"Goodnight."

"Sleep well," Hadass said.

She might've lain awake thinking about what it might've been like, had Yentl chosen not to turn her back, but Hadass was beyond weary, and sleep claimed her quickly.
~ ~ ~

Oh, tell me where,
Where is the someone
Who will turn to look at me?
And want to share
My every sweet imagined possibility?
~~~~~
Hadass had woken to find herself snugged against Yentl's back, with an arm around her waist, and Yentl was holding her hand, still fast asleep. But Yentl woke soon, and tensed up, barely breathing.

"Tsk!" Hadass clucked her tongue and laughed quietly. "I'm not going to bite."

"I suppose this is nice," Yentl said, and relaxed a little. To her credit, she hadn't yet let go of Hadass' hand. "Just... strange."

"Not really strange; just new... Now's a good time, I suppose, to talk about what you'll do."

Yentl shifted and Hadass took away her arm. She did as Yentl was doing, and arranged her pillows against the headboard. They sat side-by-side, with only a small gap between. Silence. Hadass decided both to take the lead, and be brave and grownup about it all. It still took a few moments before she was able to say:

"I suppose it can work, for the three of us, if you go away."

"Letters take only a month from America," Yentl said, nodding. "It's not the three of us all together, but... But can you even picture that?"

"I don't need to," Hadass said. "We've spent hours together, you, me, and Avigdor. I need only remember."

"Lovely memories..." Yentl murmured.

Hadass nodded, smiling, even though it seemed her heart was tearing itself to bits.

"You'll be taking some of me with you, you know. That part belongs to you, and no-one else."

"Wouldn't you rather give that little part to Avigdor, too?" Yentl asked.

"I've already told him that he'll have to share my heart."

"You did? What did he say?"

"He asked if I was willing to share his with you," Hadass said. "And I said that we've all been sharing that way for a while now. That will continue, just with some changes... I'll miss sharing your life; I'll miss that as much as I'll miss you."

She didn't dare to look at Yentl now. Even a few tears would easily lead to sobbing. A stillness came between them, and Hadass became aware that Yentl was looking at her. Hadass raised her eyes from her fidgeting fingers.

"What is it?" she asked, still biting back tears.

"I keep asking myself, who will want to share my life?" Yentl said. "I've been asking that for months."

"I'm just... I'm the wrong answer." Hadass had needed all her courage to say as much.

"But who's the right answer?" Yentl said. "If I was a fool I'd say Avigdor. I'm not a fool. He wants, as you said last night, his idea of what a woman should be. Most men want the same."

"Yes," Hadass said simply. She took a few moments to think first, then said, "You have a right to leave if you feel that's best, so the choice isn't mine to make, but if I could, I'd choose you."

Yentl stared at her, unblinking, lips slightly parted: speechless. Hadass might've laughed. After all, this was the first and only time her husband had ever been short of words in the last year. She was about to say something to that effect, but Yentl abruptly got out of bed, and paced to the other side of the room, then back. She stood silent a while, then rubbed a hand over her face and dragged her fingers through her hair. She looked Hadass in the eye.

"How can I throw that away?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have said—" Hadass began.

"No, I needed to be told," Yentl said. "I've just assumed that I'm not what you want, that I'm—I can't give you children."

"Avigdor might give me children, but children cannot be a woman's only joy," Hadass said. "They might end up being my only joy, because he's not you. Every freedom you've given me, I will have to take from him, probably with a fight."

Yentl's mouth dropped open, and she sat with a bump on the edge of the bed.

"Sometimes the truth is like that– knocks you down..." Hadass said quietly. "And that is the truth; it's my truth, which you helped to make... I'm not what Avigdor thinks I am, Yentl, and like I said last night, I'll not allow him to reshape me to suit himself. So where does that leave me?"

"Unhappy, or alone, or both," Yentl said. "And that's my fault, too."

"Yes," Hadass said. "But I'd rather be who I am today, than the woman Avigdor would've helped to keep simple."

Yentl nodded and got up, and paced a little, then came and settled on the bed again.

"I can't throw your love in your face. I just can't," Yentl almost whispered. "I'm not in love with you, but I don't think that that would be much of a leap."

"But it might be, and if it is?"

"I'm still a yeshiva student, not the sage of all sages," Yentl drawled. "My best answer is, I don't know. Yet. Hopefully I won't find out. Hopefully we can make this work... Though there's nothing written about how."

"I know who to ask, and I will," Hadass said. "If Julia doesn't know, then she'll know someone who does."

"Oh," said Yentl, who'd met Julia Klosowski only once. "She's very... worldly."

"Mmm," Hadass agreed, giggling.

Yentl got up and paced around yet again. Hadass watched her and saw that little shift in the set of her shoulders, and the gradual change in expression: Yentl giving way to Anshel. Hadass wished that she could read her husband's mind, but remembered that she could ask instead, and did:

"Tell me what you're thinking?"

"I'm trying to come up with a way to tell Avigdor to find himself another wife," Anshel said. "Because he can't have mine."

Hadass laughed, at first quietly, then just as hard as she had on their wedding night.

_____Ω_____

There's a short Notes post here.
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Not news

Tue, 17 Jun 2014 09:47:48 GMT

Just making a post to put the tag in the sidebar.

Here, have a criminally cute picture–

From DW1

(N)

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Complexity – Part Two

Tue, 17 Jun 2014 04:33:39 GMT

Barring mention of Yigal Allon, Meir Dagan, Erwin Rommel, George Shultz, and Mivtza REGEL ETZ/Operation WOODEN LEG, all characters and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any further resemblance to real events and actual individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, events, and opinions expressed are either property of Belisarius Productions, CBS-Paramount, and Universal Pictures, or are products of the writer's imagination; neither are to be construed as real. The views and actions contained herein should not be interpreted as representative of the policies (official or otherwise), activities (official or otherwise), or personnel of any department or agency of any governmental body based in the US, Israel, China, or any other country.

__________

COMPLEXITY
(Part Two)
by needled_ink_1975

Washington D.C.

As she'd promised Gibbs, during her first day back from vacation, Jen called Gerry Lockner into her office. She asked him how he was doing with the Gleason case.

"Struggling," Lockner admitted, rubbing at the back of his thick neck. Natural bodybuilding was his hobby, and he owned the unofficial title of Most Buff NCIS Agent. "I got two rookies with their minds blown: people do that to each other? One of 'em threw up after looking at the scene photos... Not that I blame either of them."

"Me neither," Jen said. "But there's more to it than just rookie issues, right?"

"No signs of a struggle, so it's possible that the perp knew her. That's as far as we've gotten, and we worked this thing right through Thanksgiving. We got no prints. The pubic hairs picked up are definitely male, but there's no DNA match in any US database, and for all I know, they may have been planted. There's also no match to that MO, to the way she was killed... Jen, I'm thinking there's a link back to Gleason's career. If that's so then I got bigger problems with those rookies: I got two useless bodies cos there's no way Naval Intel will clear them up as high as needed. I'll be happy giving this case back to Gibbs, but he's got a rookie on his team, too."

"That rookie is ex ONI. Everett wanted a career change. My point is, she's cleared already."

"Then give this case back to Gibbs."

"That sounded like an order, Special Agent Lockner," Jen said, amused.

"That's cos it was, Director Shepard," Lockner said with a grin, one that was distinctly relieved.

~ ~ ~

"How would you like to liaise with your old NCIS colleagues?"

"If the kind of 'liaising' you are referring to involves taking over a case, forget it. Find someone else."

"This is just a bigger budget angle," Grace said. "I don't doubt that Gibbs and his colleagues are capable. But we really should have this one."

"So call Jen and argue your point with her," Ziva said, annoyed. "Or better yet, tell whichever of our agents to try and work with Jen's people. While I was with NCIS, there was only one jointly investigated case. Every single fucking case this agency took over completely from NCIS, was one that could have been jointly investigated. But no. The Almighty Bureau must have all the glory."

"That's uncalled for," Grace muttered angrily.

"No, it is not," Ziva insisted. "Ask yourself now if this case could be jointly investigated, and when you have called Jen and organized that, ask someone to pull just the last ten former NCIS cases. Take a look at them. I never expect apologies, Robert, but speaking as someone who had two cases snatched away by this agency, an apology would be nice for once."

Ziva returned her attention to her work. That was dismissal enough. Grace walked out, and it was his very human intention to prove Ziva wrong. However, he ended up calling Jen and requesting permission for two of his agents to drop round and discuss the case currently on the NCIS books. He spared himself half the time and potential embarrassment by pulling only the last five former NCIS cases. Robert Grace was a man of personal principles. Ziva had given him an out, but he couldn't give himself one.

"I had no idea it was that bad," he said as he walked into her office. "I'm sorry."

"You cannot know everything. Shut the door, please."

Grace did so, and parked his lanky frame on the couch to the left of Ziva's desk. Ziva moved a large pile of files out of the way so that she could see him.

"Two is always better than one," Ziva said. "Joint investigations result in twice the number of people than usual working on the same case. That is double the intelligence; double the man-hours; the chances that the case will be closed are doubled, too. In case the memo was missed, that is why I am here in this country."

"Having more people work on this particular case might be a liability," Grace said.

"You want to keep it low-profile?"

"As little press attention as possible. Seems Gibbs has got the opposite idea."

Ziva laughed hard, and left Grace to frown in confusion for a while.

"Gibbs hates the press," Ziva said eventually.

"He's had the case for the better part of a week. This thing hit the papers this morning, in a very big way."

"I am telling you, Gibbs had nothing to do with that," Ziva said and pressed a speaker phone button as soon as she'd dialed a number. To Grace: "It has to be a murder. Victim's name?"

"Rape-and-murder," Grace muttered. "Commander Brenda Gleason, USN, retired."

Ziva's hand faltered; she eventually continued to write. Gibbs was taking a long time to pick up, and just as well: Ziva needed a little time to pick up a few emotional pieces. Gleason had been a Naval Intel operative. Ziva had worked with her once, about two years before she'd signed on with NCIS.

"I knew her. And it does not matter that she retired. NCIS should be handling the investigation, because of her career," Ziva said to Grace. She hung up on the unanswered call to Gibbs, and called Jen instead, which call was picked up fast. Ziva said immediately: "Business call, with company."

"Hi," Jen said.

"Mmm. The Gleason case. Gibbs is not answering his phone."

"He took out the network card. He's waiting for a new number."

"How did the press get hold of this?"

"I've got Gavin Thomassi working on that. ONI is flipping out."

Ziva could imagine that the CIO (Chief Information Officer) for the Office of Naval Intelligence was having ten fits per minute. Gleason had worked on several sensitive, highly classified cases and operations during her career.

"Call Rear Admiral Winger," Ziva said. "Ask him for a few people, preferably those who can pass as college-age, but they must have experience, and be computer geeks. Tell Winger this, exactly these words: Armadillo the Gleason problem."

"He'll know all about it?"

"He will know that I am now involved, and he will know what those operatives have to do."

"For the present, that's good enough for me," Jen said and hung up.

Ziva pressed the hang up button and made another call. Grace just sat back and watched, and listened. He liked to see experienced people at work.

"Lawrence," came from the speakerphone. The voice was female.

"Micki. Ziva David."

"Shalom! What can I do for you?"

"Find out who splashed the name Brenda Gleason all over the papers."

"You got it, babe. Later."

There was a click and the disconnect tone sounded. Ziva pressed a button and, rocking back in her chair, she grinned at Grace.

"If the Armadillo team cannot find out where the leak is, and if Gavin's hunt turns up nothing, too, then maybe Micki's press contacts can at least find out who has a contact on our side of the fence."

"And maybe all three angles will score," Grace said. "Very nice."

"But it comes at a price," Ziva said, no-nonsense. "I want in when it comes time to... talk to people."

"If you knew Gleason—"

"I told you as much," Ziva said. "And besides a few people in Naval Intel, who will not say a word, no-one else, not even Jen, will know about it until I choose to tell them. I will tell Gibbs, for the same reason that I told you."

"Which is?" Grace asked.

"Insurance. Now I have made sure that I will act in a completely professional manner."

"Sometimes pride is a useful thing," Grace said and stood. He added what she wanted to hear: "I'll be watching you."

"Todah," Ziva said quietly. Thanks. After a pause she said briskly, "Let me have a copy of the file when you get it."

"Will do."

"And Robert?"

"Yeah?" Grace stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"I will liaise with NCIS, also with ONI," Ziva said. "But you should be aware that as soon as anyone produces a workable lead, ONI will probably run the game."

"I take it they'll ask you to do that... 'talking to people' thing?" Grace said.

"Probably," Ziva said innocently.

But she smiled in a slow, somewhat feral way that caused Grace to pity whoever she ended up 'talking' to.

~ ~ ~

That evening, Gibbs detoured to the Hoover Building and picked Ziva up. They talked about anything but the case on the way to Jen and Ziva's place. Once there, they focused their attention on the important subject of dinner. That first, mostly because they needed something good to look forward to later.

"Is this the sauce I helped to make?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah. It is really good," Ziva said. "You think two containers is enough for you, Jen, and me?"

"One feeds two?"

"With a bit left over, that I always have room for later. So two containers will be enough."

Ziva put the frozen brick-like contents of the containers in a pot, put the lid on it, and turned a gas flame up to a low glow. She filled a pasta pot with water, added a little olive oil and salt, and left it on an unlit burner. They had plenty of time before Jen arrived.

Ziva and Gibbs took seats at the breakfast nook table, and Gibbs proceeded to outline the basics of the Gleason case.

Gleason had been found dead by a hotel maid, and the hotel manager had had the sense to call NCIS instead of the local cops.

"Manager's ex Navy. Nothing hinky there," Gibbs said.

"And you were the first agent on the scene?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah. That was just before we went away on vacation. Had to hand the case over to Gerry Lockner. Jen looked at his team's progress after we got back. Lockner himself said to give the case back to my team."

Ziva made no comment on that. She'd viewed the case file, but had avoided looking at any photographs of Gleason's body. It would be hard for her to listen to the details now. It didn't matter that Gibbs was always respectful when talking about female victims. He was respectful but factual, and what had been done to Brenda Gleason was inhuman.

"I thought that bondage had gotten out of hand, but the knots were wrong, and my gut said that that wasn't because he didn't know what he was doing. He knew."

Gleason had been gagged. The killer had used cotton rope to tie her to the bed, the kind of rope that gripped itself. He'd used straight slipknots that tightened at the slightest pressure. Whenever Gleason had struggled, the ligatures around her wrists and ankles had become tighter, and tighter, with no relief.

"But he used a slippery nylon rope around her neck. He'd tighten it and let it go and the pressure would ease up... Ducky doesn't know how many times he did that. Eventually she passed out for good. There's also no knowing how many times he raped her... He shot her in the back of the head to make sure of the job. Used a pillow as a dampener. If someone was standing right outside her door, it woulda sounded like the White Pages being dropped. Forty cal, S'n'W. Big fucking mess."

"When last did any of the hotel staff see her alive?" Ziva asked.

"Around four p.m, and she was found a little before ten a.m next day. No cameras anywhere past the lobby. There's an entrance from the garage area. Camera there was fed a loop. Hotel security only figured it out when the morning shift took over and wondered why they couldn't see the laundry truck on the landing nearby. They were talking to the driver at the time."

"Did you find the feed tap?"

"Battery-powered detector/recorder/transmitter that you can buy at any RadioShack. He taped it to an H-beam in a shadowed spot. Probably climbed on the roof of someone's SUV to reach the beam. It took McGee an hour to find the damn gadget."

"Okay, let's backtrack," Ziva said. "Why was she at the hotel? She lived only a few miles away."

"Had her house fumigated. The bedbug thing."

Ziva got up to check on the thawing sauce. She was able to break the lower block apart with a spoon. She replaced the lid and returned to the table.

"Do you think he has done this before?"

"He's raped before, killed before," Gibbs said. "And maybe he's done both to the same victim before. We've checked every database in the US. Other women have been killed like that, or with variations, but he didn't do it. He hasn't done it like this before, not this guy."

"Why are you so sure about that?"

Gibbs took a moment to study Ziva's expression.

"You didn't look at the photos," he said, certain.

"If I do, the remains of my professionalism will fly out the window," Ziva said, looking him in the eye.

"I wondered why you wanted me here early," Gibbs said. "You knew her. How well?"

"Not very well, but I once had to trust her with my life. Literally."

"That involves a lotta respect," Gibbs said with a nod. "In your shoes, I sure as hell would be working this case, but I wouldn't look at those pictures either... Okay. This SOB used a gag, but not just any gag. A stick gag. She couldn't scream cos it held down her tongue. But he took it out every now and then."

"He interrogated her..." Ziva said, frowning, thinking. "Are you sure that he raped her physically?"

"All we know is that a condom with spermicidal jelly was used. Maybe a few of 'em. We didn't find semen anywhere. So yeah, it's possible she was object-raped, and the spermicide traces we found were from condoms that he used to fuck us over, too. But we also found male pubic hairs."

"To successfully interrogate someone like Brenda..." Ziva trailed off and shook her head. "She was easily as good as me, or maybe even better. That man had to have been just as good, or at the least, very much in control of himself to get anything out of her. Those pubic hairs were either planted, or he could not resist, right at the end."

"I don't think they were planted... If she was as good as you, how the hell did this guy get anywhere near her?"

"You are smarter than that question."

"Yeah, so he knew her," Gibbs said and gestured irritably. "But what I mean is, how did he get even one rope on her?"

"I woke up tied to the headboard once," Ziva drawled. "The knots were the right kind, and I pulled them loose—"

"And he became an ex?"

"Mmm, but first he nearly got a smashed face. My point is, I did not wake up when he was putting the ropes on my wrists... I was young. Not even Jen could manage anything like that now. But if rope was my kink? That would be different."

"We spoke to Gleason's ex boyfriends. None of them ever engaged in even light bondage with her. But she'd been single for nearly five years."

"She could have picked up a rope kink in that time, possibly even from her killer."

"But that would suggest that he planned this over several months," Gibbs said. "I send that ping out, and it's not bouncing back off anything. So I think he got orders. And he didn't plan anything beyond thinking about what he was gonna do."

"I agree. Was anything taken from the hotel room?"

"A glass, one of two in the bathroom. Maybe he drank from it, or maybe housekeeping didn't set out a second glass."

"Both are possible. Are the tox screens back?"

"Yeah. Clear."

"Then we have to hope that Winger's people dig something up," Ziva said. "Micki Lawrence is still trying to get something for us, too, but I asked for her help at about nine a.m. She has not called back."

"Then she's not gonna find anything," Gibbs said.

"Looks that way," Ziva muttered. "And it would really help to know who leaked the case details to the press. Did you talk to that hotel manager again?"

"Yeah, but like I told him, it was a routine check. He called us direct because he wanted to keep Gleason's name outa the papers. He doesn't care about his hotel. His motivation was respectful deference shown to Gleason, and he's mad as a rattler in a jar about the press leak."

"And we definitely have a leak, somewhere on our side."

"Like you said, gotta hope Winger's people dig something up. Can I ask how?"

"I will just say that there are several 'interns' dotted here and there, but they are not interns. They all have computer access."

"Couple new interns at NCIS," Gibbs noted. "Does Jenny know about this?"

"Yes," Ziva said. "One of those 'interns' gave her a message detailing the basics."

"Basics are all we need to know. I hope they find something fast," Gibbs said.

~ ~ ~

Two days after Ziva had called her, Micki Lawrence called back to say that she was officially stumped. She hadn't been able to find out anything besides the same story: several reporters had received the same email with enough details about the Gleason case to make them pay attention. The only differences lay in the email addresses.

"He used DEAs," Lawrence said. "Disposable Email Addresses, probably from Guerrilla Mail. Each one lasted about sixty minutes, and poof! Gone. And that's all I got."

That left Winger's people, and Ziva hoped like hell that they could pull something out the hat.

On Saturday morning Ziva was at work, wrapping up a progress report. Someone who looked like an intern brought her an unasked-for cup of coffee. She frowned at him and demanded to see his ID. He handed it over with a smile.

"Armadillos are cute," he said. "I like those little pink-and-white ones. What are they called?"

"Fairy Armadillos. Giving me a code contact like that... That is Jake Winger's sense of humor," Ziva said, handing the ID card back without looking at it. "So?"

"We found a pressure point. We need you on it, in person, and alone."

"Okay. Where, when?"

"Ten p.m. Steel Wheels."

"The biker bar in Crystal City?"

"Yeah. Take a cab there. Order a Coke to go, and someone will contact you. Wear ballistics, go armed."

"I am not at a hundred percent, physically."

"I doubt that leg has affected your aim. You might wanna check on that, though."

"There is a range downstairs. I spend enough time there," Ziva said with quiet confidence.

"Good," he said and walked out.

Ziva sat back and considered the empty doorway for a while. She could guess that the guy who'd just walked out of her office had probably been ordered to say what he had. He simply wasn't at liberty to say anything else. She trusted RADM Winger, but she wanted to know more than what she'd been told.

She picked up the phone and selected a secure line. Winger's Yeoman wanted to know who she was.

"Apparently, I am a Fairy Armadillo," Ziva drawled.

"You don't sound like one," the Yeoman chortled. "Putting you through now, ma'am."

Ziva waited patiently for Winger to pick up. That took a while and she guessed that the Yeoman had orders to put her call through no matter what Winger was busy with.

"Ziva?"

"Fairy Armadillo? Jake, you are a bastard of the first order."

"I have to get some fun out of this thankless job," said Winger in his trademark cultured New England tones.

"You are also a liar: you love your job."

"Indeed," Winger chuckled.

"So who am I going to scare tonight?"

"It's complicated. The amount of braid on his sleeves means that he can successfully pull rank on just about anyone in the Navy or Marines. That's why I want you to handle him: you're outside his sphere of command. Who is he? Admiral Lindstrom."

"Oh fuck," Ziva mumbled. She cleared her throat and said, "You had better be right about this, Jake. He is in a position to get me sent back to Israel."

"Actually, he's not," Winger said. "He's no longer head of our Co-op Division. He now heads the Naval Inspector General's Intelligence Oversight Division."

"That still makes him a very big fish," Ziva noted.

"One that our exceptionally ethical Inspector General's office will now want to kick out. Ziva, the IG is not called 'the Conscience of the Navy' for nothing."

"I say again: you had better be right about that. If not, then we are all in the shit."

"I'm right," Winger said with conviction.

"Convince me of that. Why am I going to scare him?"

"He bypassed regular channels and used his clearance to gain access to NCIS's case logs, and that's why I said that the IG will want to give him the boot. What he did is in violation of the self-same Information Access Regs that he's supposed to be upholding. He broke those rules on the evening before two major papers and several smaller ones ran individual stories about Gleason's murder. I bet it was the case lead change that spooked him."

"Yeah. Seeing Gibbs's name there instead of Lockner's would say a lot to anyone who knows even a little about Gibbs."

"Right. But Ziva, my gut says that Lindstrom's in the middle here."

"I would never call him a nice guy, because he hates me for no reason. But I see your point. He is not nice, but he is fair."

"That, and I personally don't think he's got the stomach to do what was done to Gleason."

"He might have ordered it done," Ziva pointed out.

"That's why I want you on the job."

~ ~ ~

"I was told to go alone."

"Screw that. I'll be around," Gibbs said and hung up.

Ziva put down the phone and didn't bother to put away a smirk. She knew him well but she'd have to look hard to find Gibbs tonight. The ONI people she'd be meeting with would never spot him.

Upstairs Jen helped her into body armor. An oversized sweatshirt hid that successfully; a leather bomber jacket, one designed by a company specializing in tactical clothing, would further disguise the angular tells of the bulletproof vest.

"What rig do you want?" Jen asked, going to a closet.

"That broad belt with the Velcro, and the holster that goes with it," Ziva said.

From the drawer next to her bed she took a SIG P226 Elite Dark. This one was hers, and didn't belong to any agency's armory. The pistol had originally belonged to Jen, but not for long, because James Marden had made an argument on Ziva's behalf: if she had an SCI clearance and worked for America's foremost law enforcement agency, she could own a firearm and have a concealed carry permit, too. The Attorney General had agreed, without reservation. No-one had said that Ziva couldn't own other firearms. In the basement a small room had been fitted with a blast-proof vault door. It was originally home only to Jen's collection of fine shotguns and a couple of target rifles. Those weapons now had the company of a tactical shotgun, an HK MP5-N, and an IWI Galatz (Galil Tzalafim) sniper system. Ziva had simply asked for the MP5-N's permit and had been given the documentation without quibble. She hadn't needed a special permit for the Galatz, because it was a semi-auto. She thought that she should send Israel Weapon Industries a letter demanding a cut in their profits. Since first taking the Galatz to a nearby long distance range, she'd started a craze: more than ten other range members had bought one. Little did they know that Ziva took practice regularly with that rifle precisely for its originally intended purpose.

Jen strapped the broad belt around Ziva's waist but held onto the holster. Ziva seemingly put her gun into the pocket of her jacket, but both hand and gun soon appeared over the belt. The 'pocket' was actually an access slit.

"Here is good," Ziva said.

She moved her hand out of the way and Jen firmly pressed the Velcro-backed holster in place, at the correct angle for a draw through the access slit. Ziva holstered her SIG and took her hand out of the 'pocket.' She zipped up her jacket and drew the gun, as practice.

"No hitches?" Jen asked.

"Smooth," Ziva said, holstering the gun again.

From a drawer she took a small wallet of lock picks, and an Emerson CQC-8 tactical folding knife. They both went into the same front pocket of her jeans, but the knife was clipped to the pocket edge, ready to be drawn. A lipstick-sized LED flashlight went into another pocket. She placed a pair of wrap-around sunglasses in one of the jacket's breast pockets. Jen smirked: she knew all about those, but why Ziva would want those in the middle of the night would baffle a lot of people.

"Gun, knife, picks, light, shades... and my brain– that should cover everything."

"I won't argue," Jen said. "Be careful."

"I used to say that I do not need to be reminded of that," Ziva said. "But now I have to be even more responsible than I used to be."

"Yes, you do," Jen said firmly, but she was smiling. "And thanks."

"It is as much for my benefit as it is for yours: getting hurt sucks; ending up dead would suck a lot more, I am sure."

Ziva kissed Jen briefly and left the room.

She drove her car to a mall, parked it, and walked away from it while calling for a cab. This was no time to risk hailing one. While in the cab she thought about what might be required of her tonight. She was hoping simply to interrogate Lindstrom, but seeing as she'd been told to arm herself, it was possible that she'd be entering his home, uninvited. Then again, perhaps a meeting had been arranged away from his home. In either instance if, as Winger guessed, Lindstrom was stuck in the middle, someone might be watching, and Ziva was armed and wearing body armor in case they did something stupid.

"That'll be twenty even. Lady, you know someone here, right?" the cab driver asked, eyeing several large men near an impressive array of motorcycles. "Looks like something big is happening here tonight."

Ziva handed over the cash and didn't bother to answer his question. He hadn't seen this place when Steel Wheels held charity auctions. The local cops pitched up just to keep an eye on as many as two-hundred bikes, while their riders and passengers were all inside proving that their rough exteriors hid hearts of gold.

When she pushed open the door her ears were blasted by the expected rock'n'roll, and laughter, and the loud crackle of pool balls. She made her way to the bar and ordered that Coke to go. She was rewarded with a nod from the bartender. A minute later a man in his early thirties gave her a nod and a grin.

"Hey, Zee. Let's get outa here."

Ziva had no idea who this guy was, and she strongly disliked his cocky attitude. She followed him anyway, her hand on her gun, hidden by the jacket. His was one of few cars outside.

"Name, rank, last operation, current CO," Ziva said as they reached the car.

"Dawson, Warrant Officer, FOUR LAKES, Winger," he said, relaxed.

"FOUR LAKES was a cluster-fuck."

"And thankfully I was back on the boat trying to fix that, instead of making it worse."

"What kind of boat?" Ziva demanded.

"Virginia-class attack sub," he said with a grin. "You know your shit."

"And you had better know yours," Ziva said, no-nonsense.

She got into the car and drew her SIG. She held it resting on her thigh, finger outside the trigger guard. When Dawson saw that, he said nothing about it. He started the car and told her they had an eighty-mile drive to their destination.

"But the person we are going to meet lives in Suitland, Maryland, just thirty minutes away."

"He has a house overlooking Portobago Bay," Dawson said. "He's there for the weekend."

"Okay."

If Dawson was hoping for conversation, he was to be disappointed. Ziva said not a word during the hour-and-forty-five-minute drive. All the while, her mind had been a studied blank, and she'd relaxed her body to the point where she could easily go to sleep. It was good to be in this headspace again, for reasons other than meetings with annoying politicians.

She was alert enough to take note of street signs, and the turns Dawson was making. As they entered the Portobago Bay area, Ziva pulled back from the edge, from that place where she could go to sleep. She tightened her core muscles and changed her breathing pattern, and frowned when that gave her a slight head-rush– proof that she'd become somewhat unfit. The head-rush didn't last. Now fully alert, she pulled the slide back slightly and checked that a round was chambered in her pistol.

"Other operatives are in place?" Ziva asked.

"Several. We're gonna meet with one of them. She'll have a full run-down for us."

"Good."

They met the operative in question in the parking lot of a convenience store. She handed a piece of paper through the window and returned to her car.

The run-down wasn't much. Lindstrom had arrived at his home at around eight last night, and had left the house just once today to get some groceries.

"Our people are positioned around his house," Dawson told Ziva. "The air's been let out of one of his car's tires. Anything else you want as prep?"

"He knows me. If he has a peephole in his door, he will never open up if I am the one who knocks. Someone else will have to run the entry gambit."

"Or you can just sneak in the back," Dawson said.

It was dark but there was enough light for Dawson to see Ziva's smile, and it wasn't pleasant. He'd been deliberately played and had delivered: he'd made a mistake. She saw plainly that he knew it, but she rubbed it in anyway.

"Your idea is much better than mine," Ziva said lightly. "And I will be sure to commend you to Winger."

"All I've ever heard about you is 'Team-player this' and 'Professional that,'" Dawson muttered. "No-one said you were a bitch."

"There are plenty who call me a bitch," Ziva said, her tone unreadable. "Most of them have egos a mile wide, the kind of egos that I do not indulge. I am a bitch, but I am not any kind of whore. Let's go."

Dawson wanted badly to retort but he remembered other things said about Ziva, and now they made sense. The people who praised her did so quietly, with few words, and always there was a warning: do not cross her boundaries. It was possible that some of the people who'd said as much had personal experience of crossing those lines. If so, they'd probably faced what Dawson just had and, having been taken down a peg or three, they'd chosen not to hold their own foolishness against her. Dawson needn't have been so familiar at the bar, and perhaps if he'd been less so there'd be less reason for the tension in his neck.

"I got off on the wrong foot, didn't I?" he said and started the car.

"That... cockiness will get you killed one day," Ziva stated. "And it might also get other people killed. This game kills people with the best training, and the best possible attitudes to their work. Your attitude? This game will kill you. Like they say in the Navy, shape up or ship out. Think about that."

"Yes, ma'am," Dawson mumbled.

"This is your first field op?"

"Yeah."

"Learn from it, and consider that maybe you are better suited as support personnel. There is never any shame in being smart."

Dawson wanted to say that fieldwork was a lot more fun than manning a desk, but he stopped himself just in time. The intel community called this work 'the game,' and at the same time contradicted the term by insisting that 'the intel game is no game.' Whenever he'd been privileged enough to listen to old hands talk about ops, there was no bluff-and-bluster to their tone. Instead of laughing when relating amusing incidents, they just smiled. If Dawson thought about those smiles, they were almost like the kind his mother wore, when telling people about the scrapes he'd gotten into as a kid: she was relieved that he'd come out of those situations with minimal damage. Those old hands only smiled, and never laughed, because:

"The intel game is no game."

"Bed'yuk—exactly," Ziva said, thinking about Freddy Bergen, and others. She said as much to herself as to Dawson: "Focus on what we have to do now."

Dawson's answer was a nod, and Ziva concentrated on dumping annoyance and reclaiming that calm-but-alert feeling. It didn't take long, and just as well. Dawson made a left turn onto an unlit road that was more potholes than paving, and within five minutes he killed the headlights and engine. He let the car roll to a stop and eased up the parking brake handle instead of yanking on it.

"So. Last night someone watched this place, and today I pretended to take pictures of egrets, from a boat. Actually took pictures of Lindstrom's place." Dawson turned on the cabin light and handed a thin photo stack to Ziva. "There's no fence at the end of this hedge, just the beach. No lights in the backyard, except what comes from the windows; he turns off the porch light before going to bed. Moon's almost full, but if you keep close to the hedge, he probably won't spot you. I can't tell you anything about the approach to the backdoor, except—as you can see—that door is on the right side of the porch, closest to the hedge."

"Convenient," Ziva asked.

"Yeah, but the porch deck is boards, and they look old."

"And probably creaky," Ziva muttered. "Does he have a dog?"

"Nope."

"Good. Did you get photos of the lock on the door?"

"Next photo. Yale, or Yale-type. You're screwed if he shot a bolt."

"But there are sash windows," Ziva pointed out.

"You okay to climb in a window?"

"On the ground floor? Yes."

"Okay. Let's rig your comms," Dawson said.

He opened and held out a small box. Ziva clipped a microphone to her sweatshirt collar, and dropped the transmitter and battery unit inside the shirt. She didn't have to worry about it falling out because the broad gunbelt was strapped over the shirt. She used a fingernail to flip a ridiculously small switch on an earwig and snugged it into her right ear.

"Volume check," she whispered.

"Good on my end," said someone female.

"Go up one notch for me?"

"How's that?"

"Good," Ziva said, and got out of the car. She closed the door quietly. "Going active."

"Now hear this: infiltrator is active. How copy?"

"Active, aye," came several responses, one after the other.

"Switch to master relay," Ziva said.

"Master relay, aye. You won't hear anyone else now."

"Thanks."

For the first time since leaving her home, Ziva wondered where Gibbs was, and at the same time, she didn't doubt that he was nearby. She'd deliberately asked Dawson for the location briefing only when they'd gotten here, and not while on the road, to give Gibbs time to get into whichever position. By now he might even have slipped unnoticed into Lindstrom's yard. Considering the other people who were nearby, that thought amused her. Pictures of the yard showed the carefully trimmed hedge, and several large shrubs that had been victims to Lindstrom's attempts at topiary. The lower edge of the lawn disappeared into a marshy bank of reeds. There were plenty of places to hide. Gibbs's experience as a Scout Sniper showed: he was a stealthy bastard capable of sharing one of those places with someone else, and they wouldn't know it until he said 'Hiya.'

Ziva wiped the grin off her face and snuck along the hedge towards the porch. There were no lights on in the house, which was a weathered double storey Cape Cod style clapboard. The door Dawson had talked about opened directly onto the porch, but another door opened into a mudroom. There was a doormat in front of the second door, nothing in front of the first and that probably meant that it was hardly ever used for access. That in turn meant that it might be both locked and bolted. Ziva opted to creep along to the opposite end of the porch and try her luck with the mudroom door.

She stepped carefully up onto the porch decking and was grateful that it barely creaked. She took a knee in front of the door. Yale-type lock here, too. She selected a bar and pick by feel, and a little work resulted in the lock turning silently. She held the bar and pick in place and tried the handle, and smiled: no bolt.

"I'm in," Ziva whispered.

"Entry, aye."

Now came the hard part. She was unable to use her flashlight in a house with an unknown floor plan, and she had to approach a mark who knew the floor plan well: Ziva was at a distinct disadvantage. Once her eyes had become accustomed to the dark, she cleared the ground floor, made certain that Lindstrom hadn't opted to sleep on a couch, before she approached the stairs. She eased her weight onto each step, close to the wall of the stairwell, ensuring that any creaking was kept to a minimum. By the time she'd climbed both flights, she was sweating. She felt around on the wall for the hall light switch, and once located, she left it alone. Always find the light switches, Yuval Daron had taught her. In the dark, light can become a weapon.

Time to just stand still for a moment. Soft snores came from her left. Up here the angle was wrong, and no moonlight shone through any windows. In the near-pitch-black hall, Ziva took her time, each step carefully placed, hands held out slightly from her sides for balance. It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually she arrived beside the bed where Lindstrom still slept soundly.

She had several options now. She could scare the hell out of him, with a hand over his mouth and her knife point pricking his throat, or her pistol muzzle nudging his temple. Or she could scare him just enough, by going in empty-handed. Bad cop, or good cop? The latter.

Ziva's hand shot out and clamped firmly over Lindstrom's mouth. He struggled, immediately awake, and she had to block the elbow he tried to swing at her.

"Stop!" Ziva hissed. "I am not here to hurt you, you idiot."

Lindstrom stopped struggling.

"Good. I am going to take my hand away. Keep your voice down, okay?"

He nodded against her hand, and she took it away. He made to turn on a bedside lamp.

"No, leave it."

"All right... I know why you're here," Lindstrom whispered. "Penn. Rick Penn. That's who you want. I don't think he knows about this place, but he might've followed me."

"Which is the reason for this playing in the dark shit. Penn killed Gleason?"

"Yes."

"And why did you tell the press about the case?"

"He showed me pictures of what he did to her and told me he'd kill my sister just as slow. I don't know how, but he found out that Gibbs was on the case, and he told me to alert the press."

"You could have taken that straight to Gibbs," Ziva said.

"You don't know Penn," Lindstrom said. "Someone I know, someone I trust is sleeping on my sister's couch, and she's taken leave from work. That's all I dared to do, and even so, that puts me in Penn's sights."

Lindstrom sat up and moved over, a plain invitation for Ziva to take a seat on the edge of the bed. She did so, but her hand was inside her jacket, on her SIG.

"I had no idea Gleason was dead, until Penn arrived at my apartment in D.C.," Lindstrom said. "I know enough about Gibbs– he'd just hunt down Penn, and there's only one way that'll end. Penn will never let himself be taken alive. So he gets a well-deserved bullet, and then? Who told Penn to kill Gleason, and why?"

"We will find out. Who did Penn work for originally?"

"ONI, CIA, and after he quit he probably freelanced for the CIA, MI6, as well as other agencies. You can check the records: when he left ONI I recommended that his name be added to the Blackout list, drummed right out of the community. Instead, the Company snapped him up and ran him for a further six years."

"Ordinarily even a hint of a Blackout rec scares off the Company, and among their own ranks, just one Blackout rec is enough to can an operative's career for good. So I am very interested to find out who ignored your rec."

"I've tried to find out," Lindstrom muttered. "I've never stopped worrying about Penn, mostly because he knew that I didn't like him, or trust him. He may even have found out that I gave him that Blackout rec."

"That is a certainty, given that he also knew that Gibbs took back the Gleason case."

"Took it back? He had it to start?"

"He was the first agent on the scene, but he was up for mandatory leave, so he had to pass on the case."

Lindstrom said nothing for a while. It was too dark to see his face

"Gleason's murder was timed to happen when Gibbs couldn't take the case," Lindstrom said eventually. "That means that there's a mole in NCIS."

"Or someone outside, with access clearances like yours," Ziva said. "You accessed the case logs—"

"Yes, but there's a limit to what I can access. Information regarding leave periods of civilian employees falls under a department-specific privilege. In other words, no matter how high your clearance is, if you don't work for NCIS, you can't access that information."

"If you are right about the timing, how does Gleason's house being fumigated fit into the picture?"

"It probably didn't, but Penn isn't temperamental," Lindstrom muttered. "Killing is what he's good at, and where and when just don't factor."

"Okay," Ziva said and stood. "Call your sister and tell her to pack enough for two weeks. You are going to do the same. I cannot guarantee that you will have a job when you get back."

"I'll fight that battle when I—"

Ziva held up her hand. Her earwig had beeped twice.

"Control?"

"Perimeter compromised," the woman sounded calm, but there was an undertone of panic. "Operative down: injured, not dead—"

"That is a diversion."

"I concur. Assume that threat is inbound. Repeat: inbound."

Ziva gripped Lindstrom's wrist and hauled him off the bed. She drew her pistol and gestured with it. Lindstrom took a gun from the drawer in his bedside table.

"Control, pay attention," Ziva whispered. "I have my own backup. You have my bio?"

"Affirmative."

"Third contact number. Call it. Tell him to get in the house. And tell everyone else not to shoot him."

"Aye-aye, ma'am."

Ziva pointed at Lindstrom's closets. He opened one and got inside.

"I will say 'Hello' before opening this door," Ziva whispered. "If the door is just opened?"

"I'll just shoot," Lindstrom said.

"Good."

Ziva closed the closet door carefully and cat-footed it out of the bedroom, and a little way past the head of the stairs. If Gibbs was as close as she thought he'd been, by now he'd be entering the house. He would clear the entire ground floor before coming upstairs. That was all the thought she could give to Gibbs, because by now Penn was probably on the stairs.

She assumed that he knew more about this house than only its location. She assumed that he knew the floor plan, that he knew where Lindstrom's bedroom was. That closet was the safest place for Lindstrom, especially with that just-shoot policy in play: if Gibbs or Ziva didn't get Penn, Lindstrom would. But if Penn intended to go straight to the bedroom, her current position was tactically superior. It put her at his back, where she'd be able to take him by surprise.

When a stair creaked, Ziva smiled coldly: he was putting his weight on the center of every step. That was stupid. She aimed her pistol at the head of the stairs– barely discernible, but that wouldn't be a problem. She took out the wrap-around sunglasses and put them on, and felt for the light switch she'd located earlier.

Another creak, this time accompanied by a whispered cuss: that wasn't Gibbs's voice.

Ziva couldn't see him, but she could hear him. She heard him breathing; heard the fabric-on-fabric rustle of his pants legs and sleeves rubbing; heard the very faint creak of leather boots. She held her breath when he took the last step, and she waited until he'd taken two paces toward the bedroom.

In the dark, light can become a weapon.

Ziva flipped on the light, and those shades helped her to see everything without her eyes having to adjust, but the man in the hall ahead of her did the expected: he instinctively put up a hand to shade his eyes. In his other hand was a suppressed pistol. She aimed for his wrist and fired before he had chance to turn around. Blood sprayed, and he gasped and swore as the pistol fell. He lurched for it with his good hand, but never came close: Gibbs threw himself at Penn's knees from behind, taking him down. Gibbs kept his weight on Penn, wriggling over his back until he was able to jam a knee in his back.

"You fucked up my wrist, means you can't cuff me. I still got one good hand," Penn snarled. "You better kill me."

"Only when and if it is convenient to me," Ziva said flatly. "Control?"

"Up."

"We need a private bus. And a tranquilizer, the kind with an antidote. Mister Penn is very tense and needs to relax."

"Copy on all. Standby."

~ ~ ~

When he woke up his brain fumbled with vague memories of struggling uselessly while a tranquilizer was injected into a vein in his forearm. He struggled now and stared stupidly at the padded cuff around his good wrist, and another around the bicep of his injured arm; his ankles were likewise secured. His wrist didn't hurt. He looked at it: bandaged, and two hemostats poked out of the bandage, their twin-ring grips taped over a thick gauze pad on his forearm. That was a patch job, just enough to keep him from bleeding to death; some kind of local anesthetic had been used to kill the pain.

He was lying on a gurney, but this wasn't a hospital room. It smelled of mildew, and the paint was peeling. He could hear vague and intermittent traffic noises, and they sounded like they were right over his head.

Penn tried to sit up, which helped him to discover the padded strap across his chest.

"Fuck."

"Asshole's awake."

"Good."

Ziva walked into the small room and handed Gibbs a cup of coffee. Ducky tagged along but remained in the doorway.

"Mister Penn," Ziva said. "Be nice and tell us who ordered you to kill Brenda Gleason."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Temper, temper," Ziva drawled. She leaned a forearm on the gurney guardrail. "Look, various people did not need a lot of time to decide that the world is better off with you dead. The police reports are already being written up to say that you were shot, and fled, but we caught up with you later. You were shot again, and you died at the scene. And you are going to die—"

"Got a couple bullets with your name on 'em," Gibbs said.

"There is your executioner," Ziva said, jerking a thumb at Gibbs.

"You played for the wrong team, Penn, and you lost," Gibbs said.

Penn looked at Gibbs for a moment, and mentally repeated those words. After a small battle against the fuzziness caused by whichever drug they'd shot into him, he nodded. Penn might have said that this all had to happen sometime, but he didn't have to. These two people knew the risks as well as he did, and perhaps even better. They played on the Right team, and people like them didn't feel that they were able to make certain choices. Playing on the Wrong team had enabled Penn to weigh certain risks and rewards, and if he hadn't liked the odds he'd simply said no to whichever job, like that crazy business in China. Scuttlebutt along the Network had it that some guy called Freddy had only just managed to blow his head off before a pack of half-starved dogs had torn his body to pieces. Compared to that, Penn decided to call himself a winner, and never mind what this Gibbs guy had to say about it. There was even a sweetener, something these fools probably hadn't thought of: the tranquilizer was still working. He wasn't the least bit scared.

"Whatever," Penn said. "Get on with it."

"Not so fast," Ziva said. "It is all decided, except for the small matter of your preferences. Do you want to go down alone, or do you want some company?"

Penn's thinking was still fuzzy round the edges, but there wasn't enough interference to keep Ziva's words from hitting home. The hell if he was going down alone.

"I'm told I'm kinda fun at parties," Penn said.

~ ~ ~

This large basement room had once been used for storage, but a rising damp problem had put paid to that. Thick plastic sheeting crackled under their feet, and the crackles echoed strangely.

"Last words?" Gibbs said quietly.

"Yeah," Penn said. His good wrist was still in a padded cuff, but now it was shackled to a chain around his waist. "Don't miss."

Gibbs gave him a nod and took a step back. His pistol was already drawn. He raised it, aimed slightly away from Penn's sternum, and fired twice in rapid succession. Penn folded at the knees, coughing blood as he went down. Ducky approached him immediately.

"Should be gone already," Gibbs said.

"No pulse: heart shot," Ducky said. He took his gloved fingers away from Penn's neck and used a stethoscope to confirm what he already knew. "Goodbye, Mister Penn. None of this is... pleasing, but I'm not at all sorry."

"And I am surprised by that, but I cannot say why," Ziva noted.

"Perhaps because I've never blatantly stated my belief that an untimely death sometimes makes a good deal of sense," Ducky said. He removed the chain and cuff from the body. "Many of my patients suggest that to me, almost every working day. Brenda Gleason practically screamed it at me. As far as I'm concerned, this was no different to a state-sanctioned execution of a confessed serial killer, and I've attended two of those. Lethal injection and the electric chair are both inhumane compared to what I saw a minute ago... On three. One-two-three."

Ducky and Gibbs lifted Penn's body into a body bag that Ziva had opened and laid out on an ambulance gurney. Ducky used blunt-nosed scissors to carefully snip away the bandage and gauze padding from Penn's arm. He released the hemostats and looked at Ziva.

"Toss them onto the plastic, like you did with the restraints and dressings. A crew will come in soon and clean up."

Ducky did as he was told and straightened up. As he and Gibbs lifted the gurney, Ducky pressed the carriage extension lever and the frame dropped and locked into place.

"And now for the only part I object to," Ducky said.

"For that I am sorry," Ziva said.

"I rather doubt you'll make a habit of this," Ducky drawled. "These are most extraordinary circumstances, and I agree completely that Penn's death has to look like it happened during the course of an investigation. Autopsy is part of that... I'm glad you brought Penn back to D.C. I wouldn't have liked to work in someone else's morgue. And we'd better get along. Mister Palmer is on weekend duty, and he's bound to arrive and ask why I'm pointedly ignoring surgical tape residue and bandage impressions on that right forearm."

A little over two hours later Palmer walked into work ten minutes early, but it felt like he was late. Ducky was already suturing the Y-incision.

"Umm, I missed something?"

"Only the drama elsewhere," Ducky said dryly. "Nothing at all dramatic here. Mister Palmer, meet Mister Penn, otherwise known as the blackguard who murdered Commander Gleason."

"Suicide-by-cop?" Palmer guessed.

Whatever. Get on with it, Penn had said. And: Don't miss.

"Yes," Ducky said, and pulled evenly on waxed twine to close the incision. He locked the suture with a double over-stitch, cut the twine, and used forceps to tuck the tag end neatly into the incision. "Definitely a suicide-by-cop."

"If you'd called me in, I could've done the paperwork for you," Palmer said. "Can't do that now, because I didn't witness the post."

"That's quite all right, Mister Palmer," Ducky said, and was careful not to look relieved. "Brew us a pot of tea?"

"Sure."

~ ~ ~

Gibbs arrived at Jen and Ziva's place before Ziva did, and he waited for her rather than go knock on the door. He knew how that could be taken, in the few seconds before he could say that Ziva was just fine. He wasn't about to put Jen through that. Ziva was just fine, and she'd be the one to let herself and Gibbs into the house. Her Mini Cooper's headlights hit his mirrors eventually. He waited for her to pass him, started his pickup, and pulled into the driveway behind her.

It was just after six a.m, and it was probably going to be a long day.

"We need a big breakfast," Ziva said while unlocking the front door.

"Won't say no," Gibbs said.

He closed the door quietly, but he needn't have bothered.

"Ziva?" Jen called.

"And Gibbs," Ziva answered. "We have work to do."

"I'll be down in a bit."

In the kitchen Gibbs took it on himself to set up the drip machine. Ziva watched him for a while before checking on the contents of the fridge. She took out eggs and bacon, and milk, and from a cupboard she took pancake mixture.

"I'll handle that batter," Gibbs said.

"Okay," Ziva said, and started slicing bread for toast. Pre-sliced bread was anathema in this house. She used the knife tip to tap a slice count: five; one more. And she asked, "When does it hit you?"

"When I let it," Gibbs said, but as usual his mind was replaying events, whether he let it or not: tackling Penn in Lindstrom's house; Penn lifting his chin defiantly just before the .40 caliber rounds hit him; the coppery smell of blood, and Penn's knees buckling. "Learned a while back to let it happen within a couple days. If I don't, the memories turn into proper flashbacks... For me, it's a shitload of guilt and anger. You?"

"No guilt. Just a very heavy kind of regret, and anger... And I am feeling that now. Some of that is because a big part of me objects to the existence of people like Penn. The rest... I think that maybe I deal with it better than you do."

"Maybe, but Penn was this country's mess to clean up. If Marden and his buddies had asked you to do Penn, I woulda had a lot to say. We fucked up, so I cleaned up."

"Fair enough," Ziva said.

~ ~ ~

After dropping Jen off at the Navy Yard, Ziva drove out to Bethesda, to SECNAV Ben Holder's home. He walked down his driveway to meet her. He didn't expect her to get out of Jen's Mercedes, but she did that and gave him a smile.

"Morning," Holder said.

"Hi, Ben. You drive– I need to read that brief," she said. "I pushed the seat back for you."

"Thanks."

Holder handed over a file and folded his long frame into the car. The seat had to go back yet another couple of notches. He reached for the ignition, and fumbled at blank dashboard instead.

"Keyless start," Ziva drawled. She took the electronic 'key' from her pocket and pressed and held a button. The car purred into life. "I preferred her old SLK, but Jen saw this model and could not talk about anything else for a week, and then when she got it, she talked about little else for a whole month."

"You fib," Holder chortled.

"No," Ziva said while reading. "It is true. She thinks that this car's ass is sexier than mine."

"No comment," Holder wheezed through laughter.

"Chicken."

"A very wise chicken."

"Mmm... Operation DAWN FALCON," Ziva said and rolled her eyes. "Where the fuck do military people get these names from?"

"In Eighty-five you folks mounted an op called WOODEN LEG," Holder pointed out.

"You mean the 'you folks' that included several US Military Intel operatives, US flight instructors, and the US contractors who modified a Boeing Seven-Four-Seven as a refuel bird? Those 'you folks'? The same 'you folks' who went home very fast, when your State Department decided to change their tune and tell my folks suddenly that, no, REGEL ETZ aka WOODEN LEG was a bad idea?"

"Sounds like there was a leak somewhere," Holder said.

"One of the aviation contractors probably sent an anonymous message to George Shultz," Ziva said. She closed the file and gestured with it. "And it looks like something similar was going on here. Gleason was probably going to blow the whistle on someone involved in DAWN FALCON."

"I agree. Look at the timing: she resigned her commission a week after FALCON was concluded, and four months later she signed on as a consultant with the company used in FALCON."

"There was nothing underhanded about FALCON, so I think she was looking for a way to shaft someone involved without mentioning the op at all."

"Right, and she was killed because someone sniffed her out," Holder said. "You haven't told me who Penn named last night."

"Donovan Behring."

Holder glanced sharply at Ziva, and back at the road. Now he knew why she'd requested that he stay at home and ask for that op brief file to be delivered. If he'd gone in to the office and had requested the file from his desk, that would've involved calling in several staff members, one of whom might have had something to say to Behring. He was one of the four Assistant Secretaries in the Naval Secretariat.

"Behring wasn't involved in DAWN FALCON."

Ziva opened the file and read from a summary:

"'...these issues being reported to the ASN RDA.'" She closed the file. "ASN RDA: Assistant Secretary of the Navy, for Research, Development, and Acquisitions. That is the only mention of Behring in the file, and it is very easy to miss."

"Sonuvabitch..." Holder growled, glaring at the road.

"We are going to tie up some loose ends, and then you can be there when he is arrested."

"Good. Thank you."

"Most welcome," Ziva said, smirking.

~ ~ ~

The last person Danielle Everett expected to pitch up on her doorstep this Sunday morning, was Ziva David. Everett knew who Ziva was because she dropped in at NCIS regularly, but until now Ziva hadn't approached her 'replacement.' A house call? That was nice... Or maybe not. Ziva didn't return Everett's cheerful greeting.

"Has something... gone wrong?" Everett asked.

"Sometime before Thanksgiving, you told someone in the Naval Secretariat that Gibbs had to take mandatory leave?"

"Donovan Behring. He's my uncle-in-law, my aunt's husband. He often asks me about work. Why?"

"Did he pull any strings to get you assigned to NCIS HQ?"

"If he did, I dunno what I'll do first: smack him a shot, or burst into tears," Everett muttered.

"Aah," Ziva said, her expression softening. "That is why you got out of ONI?"

"Yeah. I wanna make my own way through life. But I don't think I fit with NCIS either."

"What I read in your jacket tells me that you might make a good teacher. Annapolis is hiring... Do not call Behring. Can I trust you with that?"

"Yes," Everett said firmly. And: "How bad is it?"

"Arrest, trial, and a prison sentence."

"If my aunt doesn't kill him first," Everett said.

~ ~ ~

At the Navy Yard, Jen told Ziva that Gibbs had already called Tony and McGee. Gibbs was currently out with two FBI agents, watching Behring's home, and that left it up to Ziva to brief her former colleagues.

"May I sit in on that?" Holder asked. "I haven't been fully briefed yet."

"What I will tell them will be need-to-know. Stick with Jen, if you want to know more."

Holder thought about that for a while, and nodded.

Ziva left Jen's office and closed the door on her way out. Downstairs she greeted Tony and McGee with a warm smile. But:

"You look like hell," Tony stated.

"Ani ayefah," Ziva admitted. I'm tired. "But by lunchtime this case will be closed."

"Sounds good to me," McGee said. "So?"

"Only what you need to know, okay?"

Both men agreed without hesitation. Part of that had to do with trusting Ziva's judgment, and the rest added up to a healthy respect for the maxim 'What you don't know won't hurt you.' More to the point, what they didn't know couldn't hurt their case.

"Rick Penn is in the morgue here. Before he died he named the person who hired him: Donovan Behring."

"Holy shit..." Tony mumbled.

"The name means nothing without proof," Ziva said. "You two need to go and effect the standard search of Penn's home. I expect that he was quite creative, and found all kinds of places to hide things... especially in the kitchen."

"We'll need a couple other people to help us," McGee said.

"Two FBI agents will meet you there," Ziva said.

"Yeah, but we'll check out that kitchen ourselves," Tony said.

"Good idea," Ziva said lightly.

Sometime later, while the FBI agents were taking inventory of a variety of weapons in Penn's basement, McGee and Tony were still trying to find something in the kitchen. They'd checked every drawer and cabinet; the freezer and fridge had been emptied and repacked; they'd checked the cooker hood and air vents. They hadn't found anything except a long-forgotten mousetrap that hadn't caught anything except a bad case of rust. Tony left it right where it was, and refitted the vent cover. He got down off a chair.

"It would help if we knew what we were looking for," Tony grumbled.

"Shhh!" McGee hissed.

He jabbed a silent, accusing finger at the basement door, and Tony winced. He listened for a while and heard a rather monotonous voice listing item after item. Those two hadn't heard him, fortunately.

"What do we do now?" Tony asked quietly.

"Take things apart?" McGee suggested. And added quite loudly, "You remember that case Gavin's team had last year? The one where that perp hid all the money in the housing of his busted microwave?"

"Yeah. Hey, let's check the appliances, see if any are broken," Tony said.

"That's actually a damn good idea," McGee said seriously.

Tony grinned and tried the microwave: it worked just fine. So did the cooking range, the oven, and the dishwasher, but when McGee pushed the power button on a front-loading washing machine, nothing happened.

"Check the outlet?"

"It's on, the switch is showing red," Tony said, and he tugged on the power cable. "It's loose."

"Pull it all the way."

"Huh."

Tony held up the end of the cable: neatly wrapped in insulation tape.

"Help me get this thing outa here," McGee said.

They pulled the washing machine out of its spot between the dishwasher and a wall. McGee made use of a cordless screwdriver for a while, and removed the back panel of the washer.

"Gotcha," McGee chuckled. "Penn took out the motor and water pump."

"To make more room for that tackle-box," Tony said. "Lemme get pictures."

"Yeah..."

McGee straightened up and stepped out of the way. When Tony was done, McGee picked up the hidden tackle-box and put it on top of the washer. Tony took more photos, and McGee called Ziva.

"We found a tackle-box hidden in his washing machine."

"Have you opened it?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah."

"As soon as you are finished photographing it, take it to the Labs."

"Okay."

Within twenty minutes McGee and Tony were back at the Navy Yard. In her lab, Abby pulled on gloves before opening the box. She removed a cloth-wrapped Glock 23 .40 S&W, a glass in a Ziploc bag, and a banknote bag held a single Federal Premium shell casing. Another banknote bag contained three micro SD cards. Abby gave the SD cards to McGee, and he jogged away to another lab.

"Why'd he keep the gun?" Abby asked.

"Good faith bargaining chip," Jen said. "If he was caught, that gun would make a convincing argument for following up and nailing people besides Penn, no matter how respectable those people seem to be... Is that glass a match?"

"Yup. That's the hotel's crest. This is the missing glass."

Abby was careful not to disturb any prints on the glass. She placed it on a nonslip surface, dipped a sterile Q-tip into distilled water, and swabbed lip smudges on the rim of the glass.

"I'm gonna take this straight to Geoff and he can run it out," Abby said while closing the cap on the swab. She bagged it and labeled it. "It'll take me more than three hours to get this sample ready for an STR test. The FBI techs are faster cos they've got modern gear... Hint-hint, Director."

"Consider me poked," Jen said. "I'll ask about better equipment for you."

"Thanks. Tony, can you print that glass?"

"Yeah, on it."

Once dusted, Tony used tape-lifts and transferred each fingerprint, partial, and smudge to individual high-contrast backing cards. Each one was labeled and dated, then scanned. Tony didn't have the right passwords for the next step and had to wait for Abby. As soon as she got back, she selected the clearest print scans—just three—and ran them through an analysis program. She had the ridge minutia results in seconds, and submitted those and the scans to IAFIS (Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System).

"I haven't told it to chew yet. Am I adding Behring's name?"

"Yes," Jen said.

"The DNA will be overkill," Abby said, smirking.

"Everything is overkill," McGee announced as he came back. "We got pictures and audio on those SD cards. The pictures put Behring in Gleason's hotel room; the audio is a man arguing with a woman– I'm presuming it's Behring and Gleason."

"Can we get someone to call Behring, and voice-print an audio sample?" Tony asked.

"I'll ask Ben Holder to organize that," Jen said. "What was the argument about, Tim?"

"A laser guidance system that went missing, a lot of money, and something called DAWN FALCON."

"Never mind the voice sample," Jen muttered. "Behring is busted, and how I wish I had powers of arrest. I'd cuff him myself."

~ ~ ~

Holder had agreed that it was best not to arrest Behring at his home. He had two young children, and the sins of their father were none of their fault. Instead Behring got a call from Holder's PA requesting that he meet the SECNAV at his office.

"If he spooks, Gibbs will get him," Ziva said.

"He shouldn't be suspicious," Holder said and rocked back in his chair. "It's not often that things happen over weekends, but when they do I never hesitate to call in my staff. They only find out why they've been called in when they get here."

"So then we just wait."

Elsewhere, Gibbs pulled out of a side street and kept to a discreet distance behind Behring's SUV. He kept in radio-contact with two FBI agents who were both taking separate routes to the Pentagon. Each of them would be able to cut Behring off if he spooked, but like Holder, Gibbs didn't think that was going to happen. Behring hadn't been in any hurry to get into his vehicle, and he was in no hurry now, showing no signs of impatience when he ended up behind a vintage Dodge pickup with a driver who was possibly twice as old as his vehicle.

Behring took the route Gibbs expected him to take, and he pulled into the Pentagon's secure parking lot just forty minutes after Holder had called him. One of the FBI agents drove in after him. Gibbs produced his ID at another gate and an ensign waved him into a reserved parking spot, close to the Navy entrance.

Gibbs made it up to the SECNAV's suite in nine minutes. He called one the FBI agents.

"Where is he?"

"In the elevator, and it's headed up to the right floor."

Gibbs hung up and jogged a little way down the hall, away from that elevator, and waited. The doors opened eventually, and Behring stepped out. He walked straight to the suite's double glass doors and opened one. As soon as he was through, Gibbs followed.

The floor here was carpeted and Behring was unaware that he was being followed. He knocked twice at Holder's door and opened it.

"Donovan," Holder said. "Thanks for coming in."

Behring stepped through the door and absently pushed it behind him. It should have closed, but didn't. He turned and found himself face-to-face with Gibbs. Behring paled and took a step backwards, and bumped into someone. He didn't get a chance to turn around. Ziva gripped one of his wrists and twisted it up behind his back. She gave him a shove forward and pushed him against the door Gibbs had closed. Gibbs produced handcuffs and took over.

"Donovan Behring," Gibbs said. "You're under arrest for conspiracy in the murder of Brenda Gleason. You have the right to remain silent—"

"I waive that right," Behring said.

"Oh yeah, asshole?" Gibbs growled in Behring's ear. "You better think about that. Here's why. Penn was real smart. We found evidence in his house. That glass you drank from, in Commander Gleason's hotel room? Your prints, your DNA, are all over that glass. Penn recorded an argument you had with Gleason. He took a couple pictures of you gawking at Gleason's body, too. You still wanna talk?"

"Yes, because I didn't tell Penn to do any of that," Behring said, his voice high-pitched, panicked. "He said he'd scare her. That's all!"

"Why don't I buy that?" Holder asked.

"Because Behring and Penn have a history," Ziva said. "Lindstrom wrote up a Blackout rec for Penn, and Behring was the person who spoke up for Penn when the CIA recruiters asked about that rec. Behring told them that Lindstrom was bitter and the Blackout rec was a personal attack against Penn. Behring went to that trouble because Penn was exactly the kind of guy he wanted, when he was working for the Company."

"And what sick shit did he do for you then, Behring?" Gibbs asked. "Or should I ask, what did he steal? What did he sell? How many times did you two share a drink and laugh about the people you fucked over? Don't you dare tell me that you didn't know what he'd do to Gleason."

"Advise him of his rights again," Holder said. "But do it on your way out."

"Yes, sir," Gibbs said.

He yanked Behring away from the door, opened it, and shoved him through. The FBI agents each took one of Behring's arms, and Gibbs followed, reciting the Miranda rights.

"You okay?" Ziva asked Holder.

"That was distinctly unsatisfying," Holder muttered.

"Until arrests can magically bring back the dead and right whichever wrong, they will never be satisfying," Ziva said. "But at least we get to remove the bastards from society."

Holder wondered if that was enough, but given that he knew what Gibbs had done last night, he didn't voice the thought.

~ ~ ~

Ziva had opted to nap as soon as she'd gotten home, and Jen had woken her up an hour ago. Gibbs had just pitched up about twenty minutes ago and had said that his paperwork was all done. After saying as much he'd looked a little lost until Ziva had given him a beer. TV was a good accompaniment to beer, and there was that recliner that he liked in the living room. The combination of beer, TV, and recliner had resulted in a very relaxed Gibbs. Jen carefully covered him with a blanket and left the TV on, because she guessed that he'd wake up if she turned it off. She tiptoed out of her living room and went back to the kitchen, where Ziva was working through the last bits of a lot of paperwork.

"My ex is passed out," Jen announced.

"Good," Ziva said. "And later I will make sure that he has a good dinner."

"He's parked himself in front of my TV a few times, even before you moved in, but he never once fell asleep. He also used to object to being looked-after," Jen said. "I'm glad you can get through to him."

"Me, too," Ziva said.

She piled various forms, picked them up, and tapped their edges on the table. They went into a file. She checked something on her laptop and shut it down. She placed the machine and the file in the same bag and put it on the seat beside her.

"All done?" Jen asked while refilling Ziva's coffee mug.

"Except for the bits and pieces that absolutely have to be done at the office, yes... Did I tell you that I had words with Robert about the FBI taking over cases from NCIS?"

"No, but Rob told me. Just how much liaising are you going to do, my love?"

"If I am stuck in that office I might as well use the time to fix things," Ziva said and shrugged. "Anyway, it is a good thing we wrapped this case quickly. I would not have wanted to go home with it still open."

"We could've delayed the trip," Jen said.

"It is better to go and get it over with."

Jen closed the fridge door and wondered if she should just say it, or leave it. Leaving it unsaid was the easy way out, until their next trip to Israel, and then? Would she leave it unsaid, too? Better to say it.

"Maybe it would be better if you go alone?"

"That will change nothing," Ziva said. "She is still going to be awful, and really, after that I will want to be near you."

"Okay," Jen said. "Are we making your chili?"

"Yeah."

And later, dinner smelled so damn good that it woke Gibbs up, even before it was ready to eat. He stretched and snorted: when had the blanket arrived? He got up and strolled into the kitchen.

"Hey, it's Rip van Winkle," Jen kidded.

"Who's ten months younger than you," Gibbs shot back. He stuck his head in the fridge and gave serious consideration to an assortment of beers. "Is Carlsberg Elephant all it's cracked up to be?"

"It's potent," Jen said.

"Yeah," Ziva agreed. "It has more than twice the alcohol of other beers. It is also quite bitter, but I think it will go nicely with dinner."

Gibbs capped and tasted the Carlsberg Elephant, and was glad he sipped instead of taking a slug of the stuff. The higher alcoholic content was noticeable, as was the extra-bitter edge.

"Not bad. So I'm staying for dinner, am I?" Gibbs said.

"Yes, because this is that chili you like so much," Ziva said.

"I could call foul on that," Gibbs complained, but he was smiling.

Ziva smirked and held out her hand, and Jen gave her five. Gibbs rolled his eyes. He opened a cabinet and took out crockery, and began to set the table.

__________

...and on to Complexity (Part Three).

...or you can return to the Complexity master post.

comments

KIDON – Part Six

Mon, 16 Jun 2014 22:09:40 GMT

Barring mention of Bode Technology, Meir Dagan, Efraim Halevi, Adolf Eichmann, Ira Einhorn, Jonathan Pollard, the Siman-Tov Procedure, and the publicized criticism of the Mossad's expenditures by Israel's Office of the State Comptroller, all characters and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any further resemblance to real events and actual individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, events, and opinions expressed are either property of Belisarius Productions and CBS-Paramount, or are products of the writer's imagination; neither are to be construed as real. The views and actions contained herein should not be interpreted as representative of the policies (official or otherwise), activities (official or otherwise), or personnel of any department or agency of any governmental body based in the US, Israel, or any other country.

__________

KIDON
(Part Six)
by needled_ink_1975

Chapter Thirteen

Jen had no idea what Ziva saw in FBI Special Agent Brent Langer, but at least she could safely say that she wasn't the least bit jealous. The trouble with that amounted to an equation: nil jealousy = multiple queries. She ought to be jealous... right? Maybe not.

She considered her relationship with Ziva for a moment: pretty much unique; very close; tons of love and trust; rock solid. Then she put Langer into a mental photo frame with Ziva, or tried to, and came up with two mental photo frames and a lot of space in between.

The penny dropped. Jen had no reason to feel jealous of a person who would very likely need a couple of years to get to know Ziva (and would never know her as well as Jen did). She also had no reason to waste time on being jealous of someone who could never come between herself and Ziva: if Brent Langer ever tried to cause any sort of conflict between Jen and Ziva, he'd end up feeling very sorry for himself.

Jen took a sip of wine and sorted her paperwork into manageable stacks, and honestly hoped that Ziva had fun tonight.

~ ~ ~

Ziva wasn't having fun. Two dates with Langer had ended the same way: he'd sulked like a scolded puppy when she refused to kiss him. This was the third date, and the sulking had begun as soon as he'd collected her this evening. A couple of hours on and he hadn't gotten over himself yet.

"I was told that Israeli girls are really liberated," he grumbled.

"We are. We know that we can say yes, and we also know that if we say no, and he does not listen, we can tell him to grow up or get lost. If he still does not listen, there is always Krav Maga. So. I am telling you. Grow up. Or get lost. Or find out about Krav Maga."

"Jesus. You mean that," Langer said, blinking, genuinely shocked. "Can't we get to know each other?"

"Apparently getting to know me must involve kissing?" Ziva said angrily. "Worse, it involves a supposition that all Israeli girls... put out on the first date. If you are assuming things about me, how can you get to know me?"

"Okay, point," Langer muttered. "But you coulda said all this on the first date."

"I thought you were intelligent enough to have gotten the message by now. Clearly I was wrong. I do not date people who are less-than-intelligent. Good night."

"Ziva—Hey, you can't just walk out on me," Langer said, looking around at other diners in a rather nice restaurant. "C'mon. Finish your dessert and I'll take you home."

"I am not going home," Ziva said, while counting out bills for her meal. "I am going to visit a friend."

"Who, Jenny Shepard? I've heard those rumors."

"If you would like to visit an operating theater as a patient, say one more word—at any time, to anyone—about my best friend."

He'd thought that Gibbs had been joshing when he'd hinted that Ziva's official title of Liaison Officer was very deceptive. Right now Brent Langer looked into dark brown eyes and wondered how many weapons Ziva had on her person, and he wondered just how badly a Krav Maga take-down would hurt. He knew better than to offer this woman an apology if he didn't mean it, and he was not sorry, so instead he gave her a nod and watched her walk out of the restaurant. And he told himself very firmly not to say another word—to anyone, at any time—about Jen Shepard's relationship with Ziva David.

~ ~ ~

Jen winced when she heard her front door open and close. Fun dates do not end before midnight, and there was still an hour to go before midnight. There was a soft thump of a bag being dumped (she guessed the location as being near the bottom of the stairs) and that meant that Ziva had gone home before coming here. That date had ended really early. Footsteps led off to the kitchen. The fridge door opened.

"At rotza mashehu?" Do you want something?

"Bira, bevahkasha," Jen called. Beer, please.

Ziva arrived in the study eventually. Jen looked over the tops of her glasses at a face that had been scrubbed clean of makeup. Ziva's expression was unreadable. Jen took an offered beer without saying a word.

"I have invited myself for the weekend," Ziva announced.

"More than welcome," Jen said sincerely. "Would you prefer to talk about something else, or dare I ask what happened?"

"I do not date stupid, immature people," Ziva muttered. "He thought that all of us Israeli girls are liberated, and you can guess what he thinks is the definition of liberated. So I get angry. And he is all 'Wow, you are angry!' And I am all 'Mazal tov: gilita et Amerika!'—"

"Wait. 'Congratulations: you discovered America!' What?" Jen queried, frowning.

"I am not teaching you very well," Ziva said, and she had to laugh. "Gilita et Amerika. Like... 'tell me something new,' or 'everyone who has a brain knows this.'"

"Okay. So he's dumped, basically," Jen said. "Sorry."

"I am not sorry," Ziva said and meant it. "I gave him three chances. He blew them all. I should have told him lech te'zayen akrav." —go fuck a scorpion.

"First thing in my head?" Jen said, trying to keep a straight face.

"Ma?" What?

"You're a Scorpio," Jen chortled.

"Tsk..! People usually say 'lech zayen parah'—'go fuck a cow,' but that is cruelty to animals," Ziva muttered. She glared in response to Jen's giggles. "Tell me something?"

"If I know the answer, sure."

"Why does half of Washington think that you and I are having an affair?"

"Langer said something about you and me?" Jen said.

"I said that I was going to visit a friend, and he said that he has heard rumors about us."

"Okay," Jen said, and thought for a while before saying, "One, we're both single and we spend a lot of time together outside of work. Two, we speak Hebrew at the office, and no-one else understands it, so they think we're talking about personal stuff instead of boring things like the chain of evidence."

"Americans..." Ziva said, rolling her eyes. Her expression became abruptly mischievous. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"If you talk to me about... carburettors in Hebrew, in that tone of voice?" Jen said, amused. "Those rumors will start to involve lurid details."

"I am tempted, but it is better not to become a mass murderer, I think."

"Oh boy. What dire threats did you brandish at Langer?"

"A visit to an operating theater."

Jen might've mentioned the fact that defensiveness usually causes people to gossip even more, but she had an idea that Brent Langer would rather eat broken glass than mention Ziva and herself in the same sentence again.

"There's no need to defend my honor, y'know," Jen noted.

"Kavod. Honor. Small words with big and complicated meanings," Ziva said. "Your honor is very much mine to defend. If I did not feel that way, I would not be able to call myself your friend."

"Langer's an idiot," Jen said softly.

"He is being an idiot somewhere else– leave him to that," Ziva said with a dismissive gesture. She swigged the last of her beer and said, "I am going to bed. You have the whole weekend to do that paperwork. Leave it now?"

"I don't have much left and I'd rather get it done now, and have the rest of the weekend free."

"This makes sense. Later, then."

"In a bit," Jen replied, slipping on her glasses.

And she didn't tarry. In a little under two hours, thirty-something documents were checked, amended if necessary, and signed, and fourteen forms were filled in. All of that and the rest of her paperwork was packed into the legal briefcase she'd wisely upgraded to. Her stylish brushed aluminum case she now reserved for meetings away from the office and trips out of state and abroad. It was far too skinny to cope with her regular stack of paperwork.

Jen opened the carved wooden box on her desk and took out a cigarette. It was a miracle that she hadn't upped her intake of both nicotine and alcohol in the last two years. This was her first smoke in three days, and it tasted good, gave her a little hit that was appreciated instead of taken for granted or missed entirely. She didn't miss her days of heavier smoking and drinking. The drinking had nearly gotten her into trouble, and then smoking had been something of a substitute. The people who determine if one should keep a Top Secret security clearance have no issue at all with tobacco products (as long as they're not from Cuba), but they do have very big issues with booze. Jen had woken up to that fact and had applied a lot of discipline, and limiting her alcohol intake had eventually become a habit of its own. Kicking the thirty-a-day smoking habit had proved a good deal harder than reminding herself that scotch isn't wine, that wine isn't beer, and that beer isn't water.

She dimmed down her desk lamp and rocked back in her chair. Jen blew a smoke ring and watched it sail into the darkness beyond the small pool of light on her desk. Smoke rings reminded her of Ziva, who'd taught her that there's no blowing at all when it comes to those rings. It involves making the back of one's tongue act like something of a hand-tap on a drum, a popping action. Jen took a drag and wasted it on four rings in a row, smiling at memories of the first time she'd managed just one, and how Ziva had gotten the giggles because that had been something of an accident: after much practice and cursing, Jen had popped her second ever ring nearly a week later. Hundreds had sailed into nothingness since then, and many of them had marked years where Jen had had no idea where Ziva was or what she was doing.

She'd often thought of those intense eleven days in Cairo, and how even though they'd spent so little time together in that period, and none of it alone, Ziva had somehow managed to turn just a few hours into quality time that had left a permanent mark on Jen's life. The same was true of only six days in Latvia. Even if she hadn't seen Ziva again in the years following the operations in Egypt and Latvia, Jen would have had to work hard to forget her. Sometimes that was best, in their line of work.

Impossible to forget her now, but at the same time Ziva was never anything like an attention-demanding presence. She was simply there, present in a comfortable way; a very welcome part of Jen's life.

How might that have changed if things had worked out with Brent Langer? How would it change if Ziva became romantically involved with anyone? For one thing, she probably wouldn't spend as much time in this house, and it was highly likely that staying the night, in whichever bed, would become a thing of the past. A small dart of sadness pricked at Jen's heart: she'd miss her 'Israeli body pillow' and their quiet, still-sleepy early morning conversations; she'd miss the other, more lively conversations held in the kitchen, their first meeting place if Ziva slept in another bed.

Jen had stopped herself from falling in love with Ziva, but she hadn't been able to stop herself from getting used to having her around. Changes to that fluid arrangement of arriving in each other's homes whenever they wanted to, were going to be really hard on Jen, and she was certain that Ziva wouldn't find it easy either. However, change is more easily dealt with by those open to the possibilities of change, and Jen had been somewhat foolish to cruise along and think these thoughts only now, when she'd practically been forced to.

Langer's advent and dismissal was a wake-up call—two such calls, in fact. Firstly, Jen was reminded to always expect change, even in this relationship with Ziva. Secondly, she was reminded that Ziva might just want to keep this friendship platonic. That would not be a bad thing, not at all, but it was difficult to know one way or the other without talking to Ziva about it, and a quiet voice with a slight edge of urgency told Jen to steer clear of the topic, at least for now. Langer had been dismissed just tonight, after all.

When Jen eventually crawled into bed, she didn't get a chance to use Ziva as a body pillow. A wiry arm came around Jen's middle, and tugged. It was rather an expert tug, and Jen had been here before: she just went with it and was pulled partway close; Ziva wriggled and tucked up behind her.

"Sheli," Ziva mumbled, not even half-awake. Mine.

"Shelach." Yours.

But Jen had whispered very softly, both to keep a small, somewhat helpless note from her voice, and because she knew that had Ziva been awake, she would not have even offered that possessive, let alone have stated it as a claim.

~ ~ ~

If she'd shared a bed with anyone else, and if she hadn't kicked that person out or hadn't gone home herself, come five a.m Ziva would have gotten out of that bed and gone running. She rarely went running if Jen was her bed partner, and she didn't even think of budging this morning. She was warm, and comfortable, but she was awake and she knew that she wouldn't get back to sleep.

Ziva didn't want to think about Brent Langer, but as her shrink would have said, 'You can put it off so it bites you tomorrow, or you can pull its teeth today.'

All she'd hoped was that he might work out either as a friend or as a lover, but in the latter case she'd also hoped that he would have been open to the idea that she wanted a life outside of a love affair.

Ziva believed in commitment, but she didn't believe in obsession. She didn't understand those women who became involved with someone to the extent that everything and everyone else faded into the background. She remembered being hurt several times, during high school, when her girl friends suddenly fell in love and seemed to forget about her, and everyone else. That had made no sense then and it made no sense now. Ziva had been in love three times, and she hadn't allowed that giddiness to steal her away from her friends. She loved them, too. Stealing time from them to give to her new love interest was something she considered almost criminal. She couldn't imagine being obsessed with anyone to the extent that she quit spending quality time with Jen, Gibbs, Ducky, Abby, McGee, and Tony.

Langer would probably have been jealous if she'd announced that no, she couldn't have dinner with him, because she was going to play pool or watch a game with Tony. Really jealous. He was just that type, something Ziva had picked up on during the second date, when he'd glared at a young guy who'd given Ziva an appreciative look or ten. So it was likely that if they'd continued to date, his jealousy would have prompted a breakup. Ziva despised possessiveness. She was not a piece of property. She did, however, like the idea of being cared for as she cared for others. Her friends were like her family: a part of her. That sort of gentle possessiveness was nothing like a bad thing, in Ziva's book, but she didn't think that a man like Langer would differentiate between 'mine' and 'mine alone.' The latter was ownership, the former, freedom.

There'd also been Langer's obvious expectation of things moving quickly into the bedroom, or probably the backseat of his car. Ziva wasn't a stranger to one-night stands. If that was her mood, she went out and got what she wanted and said goodbye after she'd gotten it. When it came to dating, however, even if her mood suggested that sex might be a really good idea, she twitched the reins and brought the urge down onto the bit, controlled it, because when she dated someone she was emotionally invested, and being hurt was the price of a mistake. She probably wouldn't have been hurt badly, where Langer was concerned, because after the first date with him she'd decided that being guarded and careful, and not allowing her emotions too much play, was a wise move. Still, as amply demonstrated by the amount of anger she'd felt last night, Ziva could only control so much, and no more.

Why were men like Langer so likeable? Why did they have to have those good traits mixed in with really bad ones? But at least he was honest; at least he hadn't tried to pretend to be anyone else. Ziva was good at spotting false actions and reactions, but outside of her professional life she tended to drop some of her 'super-spy' training around people she liked. She'd given Langer the benefit of the doubt, had given him, as she'd told Jen, three chances. He hadn't gotten the message that what she wanted was something other than a relationship that amounted mostly to hot sex and plans for more hot sex. She knew exactly what happened when the hot stuff fizzled out, knew exactly how much it hurt when she backed that hot stuff with an emotional commitment, one that was not answered in kind by her partner. There was nothing wrong with getting to know someone before jumping into bed with them, but men like Langer had this idea that jumping into bed was part of that getting-to-know-each-other business.

Maybe she shouldn't have made it so obvious that she found him attractive... Ziva snorted angrily at that thought.

"What's wrong?" Jen said sleepily, hugging Ziva's shoulders.

"Just thinking. Go back to sleep."

"I can have a nap later," Jen said and yawned. "You're supposed to be my body pillow..."

"Am I heavy?" Ziva asked, raising her head from Jen's shoulder.

"You always ask me that, and I always tell you no. Relax, and tell me what made you huff like that just now."

"Okay." Ziva rested her head down again. "I was thinking that maybe I should not have been so obvious when I checked out Brent's ass—"

"But just because you checked out his ass does not mean that you were going to say yes to sex on the first date, or even the twentieth date."

"Exactly, and remembering that made me angry. Why did I even think it was perhaps my fault? Sometimes being a woman is... is... Why do we think such ridiculous things?"

"Hormones, probably," Jen drawled. "We can blame just about everything on hormones."

"I went on three dates with him instead of one, because of hormones," Ziva said irritably. When a thought dropped in on her, she voiced it: "When last did you date anyone?"

"I haven't since I started at NCIS. A couple of guys have asked me out and I've said no. That's mostly been about work and knowing that a romantic relationship will involve grumbles from my partner about how much paperwork I bring home... Even you grumble about that."

"But not for selfish reasons," Ziva said. She shifted up onto an elbow and looked Jen in the eye. "I worry about you. Sometimes you do not get enough sleep."

"That's been happening less, because you grumble about the paperwork," Jen noted, and smiled. She added: "But if I was involved with someone... There aren't many who can accept that hours and hours of paperwork must still be done, even when one is in love. At least, it's not something easy to accept at the start of a relationship."

"True, and if there are grumbles and arguments in the beginning of a relationship... Not fun."

"Mmm. So for now I'm a bachelor girl," Jen said. And she added very honestly: "But one who's open to a relationship with someone who'll accept that my job is an important part of my life. In fact, I already have that relationship."

"And this is a good relationship," Ziva said seriously. "The best I have ever had with anyone... Brent would not have liked this... this intimacy you and I have. But he is gone. Time to stop thinking about him."

"Only if you're ready to move on," Jen said.

"I am," Ziva said with a nod. "I was not invested, and I am not hurt. I was just... pissed off."

"Okay... Ma at rotza la'asot ha'yom?" Jen asked. What do you want to do today?

"Shum davar," Ziva said with a grin. Absolutely nothing.

"Sounds good to me," Jen chuckled.

__________

Chapter Fourteen

Jen hadn't liked the man who'd waltzed into her office with a briefcase chained to his wrist. He'd told her very little; the documents he'd given her had told her only a little more, none of it good. She had no idea what Ziva's orders were, and neither did Ziva. She'd promised to get Eli David to call soon and give Jen the basics.

Jen shook her head at the single toiletry bag sitting on the coffee table. Ziva could take nothing else. The clothes and shoes she was wearing now (their labels indicated that they'd been purchased in Spain) had been delivered to this apartment just twenty minutes ago. In another twenty minutes she'd go downstairs to a waiting car and be driven to Dulles airport, and flown to Israel in a private jet.

"Say something," Ziva said quietly.

"You'd better come back," Jen blurted.

"I will do my best," Ziva said with a wry smile. "Sometimes it is better not to know things, huh?"

"Sometimes not knowing is hell, but to have knowledge can be just as bad, if not worse... My imagination is fed on facts, none of them pleasant."

"Try not to imagine too much," Ziva said. She slipped an arm around Jen's shoulders and hugged her close. "I will come back so that we can talk like married people again, okay?"

"Is that a proposal?" Jen kidded.

"It is a promise I want very much to keep, but... Well, you know."

Jen knew. She'd been shot and she'd been shot at, she'd taken a few punches, she'd had knives drawn on her, and once someone had aimed a hunting bow at her.

"When was that?" Ziva asked.

"Never... ever work for the DEA. People on drugs are fucking crazy," Jen drawled, and she smiled when Ziva laughed. "I worked one job with them, when I was with the FBI. Never. Again. What's the craziest thing that's happened to you?"

"I stole a car that had no brakes, in the Tyrol," Ziva chortled.

"Oh my God. I'm seeing a little European car going over a cliff—"

"But I jumped out before it went over the cliff. The stupid man I was chasing came back to see if I was dead, so I caught him. Mefager."

"Brainless, I agree," Jen said, amused.

"I wish I knew what I will be doing. At least then I would be able to put my mind into the right gear," Ziva muttered.

"Considering that they're hauling you all the way from the US to do something, it must be skill-set specific. What can you do that few or no others can do?"

"In combination? A few things. We know it is a solo or minimal backup task. Climbing will most likely be involved. They are training several others to climb, my father tells me, but although those people volunteered for the training, although they want to do it, they are still very new to it, and it takes years to learn to climb like I can climb. People retire from the Mossad all the time. At one point, three years ago, I was the only climbing specialist left."

"Huh. No wonder Eli wasn't thrilled when you chose to sign on with us."

"A lack of preparation is my fault?" Ziva said with a humorless laugh. "That is what I told both him and the Director-General at the time. I also asked them if they liked the idea of that information being leaked: HaMossad has only one climbing specialist left. Sending only me to do whichever job that involves climbing would be as good as a target on my back... I must go."

"Dammit," Jen said, squinting at her watch.

Ziva gave Jen's shoulders a squeeze, and got up. Muttering about a glass of water, she jogged into the kitchen. Jen told herself not to cry, and hoped that that order would work.

"Einayim sheli?"

Jen blinked before getting up. Ziva rarely used endearments, because she came from a land where even men regularly give endearments to each other. In the States—excepting the ubiquitous and empty 'sweetie'—endearments are not offered to just anyone. Ziva had broken the habit of calling almost anyone 'sweetheart.' But einayim sheli is not a simple endearment. It's old-fashioned, and literally means 'my eyes'; it translates indirectly to 'most precious.'

Jen didn't comment on any of that and made her way into the kitchen, where Ziva put down her glass of water and reached behind her neck.

"You must keep this for me," Ziva said, removing the chain and Star of David from her neck.

"I told myself not to cry," Jen sniffled, taking the chain and pendant. "You come back. That's an order."

"I will do my best. Tzricha lalechet achshav," Ziva said quietly. I must go now. "Love you. Bye."

"I love you, too."

A swift kiss to Jen's cheek, and Ziva was gone. Jen looked at the small bundle of gold on her palm, and with her other hand she wiped tears from her cheeks.

"You'd better come back, Ziva David," Jen muttered, while fastening the chain around her neck. There was no safer place to put it.

~ ~ ~

"The last time Ziva was late, the FBI suspected her of blowing up a couple of their agents," Tony said, and glanced at his watch again.

"Gibbs isn't here yet either," McGee pointed out. "Coincidence?"

"Not likely," Tony said with a brief shake of his head. "Did you see that guy, yesterday evening? Tall. Visitor's tag. Spook stamped all over him."

"Weird, how some of them really look the part," McGee muttered. "Blond, but he looked Middle Eastern– that guy?"

Tony and McGee looked at each other for a moment.

"Mossad," they said in chorus.

"Hope Ziva hasn't been recalled," McGee said.

"Yeah. The Israeli's proven kinda handy."

"Which rhymes with 'eye-candy.' You're so obvious."

"And you're such a geek, O Elf Lord." Tony made to give McGee a head-smack, but a hand gripped his wrist, and squeezed. "Ow-ow-ow-owww!"

"Head-slapping is my prerogative, DiNozzo." Gibbs released Tony's wrist and gave him a tight one upside the head. "Siddown and listen up."

Both Tony and McGee knew that tone, and neither of them liked it one bit.

"How bad?" McGee asked, wincing in anticipation.

"That guy who was here yesterday evening? You did not see him. Clear?"

"Yeah, Boss."

"When Ziva gets back, you don't ask so much as a how-are-ya. The two of you will pretend that she never went away. You reading me?"

"Yes, sir," McGee said quietly.

"I got one question," Tony said.

"You get exactly one answer," Gibbs said, no-nonsense.

"Survival rate on missions like the one she's on?"

"For someone like her... around eighty percent," Gibbs said flatly.

"That's a solo run," Tony almost whispered.

Gibbs gave a slow nod, and firmly changed the subject, forcing the two men to get stuck into the case they were working. McGee only got to ask Tony about his 'solo run' comment at around four p.m.

"Operatives as good as Ziva double their chances of success and survival when they have a buddy who's only half as good as they are. Alone, Ziva rates the eighty-per, so a buddy would bring the rate up to a hundred-plus. She's solo on this one, whatever the hell it is."

"That's not—" McGee began.

"Don't say that word 'fair,'" Tony muttered. "It's not about 'fair.' It's about what works, McGee. The people who send operatives like Ziva out to do... stuff study that stuff from every angle you can think of, and some angles that you couldn't imagine. She's got a solo run, cos it can't work any other way."

"That sucks," McGee said and sighed unhappily.

He slumped back in his chair and was about to lace his fingers behind his head, when his eye caught movement near Jen's office. McGee looked that way properly and saw Jen pause on the walkway above the stairs. Their eyes met for a moment before she looked away. That was a clear message: No, I cannot talk about it.

"We shouldn't be talking about this," McGee said to Tony.

"I know," Tony grumbled, watching Jen head into the elevator. As she turned and pressed a button, light glinted off the chain and pendant around her neck. Ordinarily, he'd call that evidence for a certain theory of his, but not today. He swallowed a lump in his throat and kicked the side of his desk. "Sonuvabitch..."

"What?" McGee asked.

"Ziva left her Star of David behind."

"How d'you know that?"

"Jenny Shepard's wearing it," Tony muttered.

McGee blinked at Tony, then deliberately turned his back and concentrated on the information on his monitor. It was nearly time to go home, but McGee intended to work late tonight, without putting in for overtime. He wasn't too surprised when both Tony and Gibbs stayed late as well.

~ ~ ~

There was only one way to get to her lay-up: on foot. To arrive by way of the 'driveway' was suicide. The road was more than four miles long, and very steep. In places it was so narrow that even the smallest car wouldn't be able to complete a three-point turn, but the only vehicles suited to that 'driveway' were four-wheel drive SUVs and pickups. More to the point, Ziva didn't need to get as close as a vehicle could.

At the top of the 'driveway,' which was the end of that road, there stood a fairly large house built of stone. At any one time it was home to at least sixteen men, and none of them could be called 'civilians.' Ziva's target was just one man, but in order to really stir up the hornet's nest, she would drop as many as four others, possibly with thigh shots. She hadn't decided yet. That decision rested on what her eyes would tell her in about two days.

For now she had company in the form of a quiet former British SAS operator, a Yorkshireman with greying dark hair and the lean, weathered look common to most special forces operators. He was known to her only as Mick, and he didn't know her last name. After the completion of this little sniping operation, it was likely that they would never see each other again, and if ever they met by accident each would completely ignore the other. When they were on the move out here in the Latabund Mountains of Afghanistan, they hardly said a word. Talking would break their concentration, but would also sap their strength. They were hiking and sometimes climbing at an altitude of around fifteen-thousand feet, and to say that the air was rarefied was a gross understatement.

Three days ago they had been inserted via helicopter some two miles from the nearest human habitation, and nearly twenty-eight miles from the stone house. Sound carries in alpine regions, and Ziva shared the general concern that her target might be spooked by the sound of a helicopter.

Ziva and Mick carried everything they might need, which wasn't much. Their packs were super-lightweight, aluminum tube-frame alpinist rigs, which were crammed with the bare minimum of spare clothing articles, food, medical supplies, NVGs (Night Vision Goggles), insulated batteries, and ammunition; strapped to their packs were lightweight sub-zero sleeping bags and CamelBak hydration systems. Their only 'luxury items,' according to Mick, were toilet rolls and no-water-required hand soap.

They also carried climbing equipment: coils of rope and protection devices—the pieces of gear, like nuts, hexes, and cams, that are wedged into cracks in rock and to which the rope is attached by quickdraws, slings of stitched webbing with a carabiner at either end. Chalk bags held, as their name suggests, crushed French chalk that would help their hands and fingers to grip the rock. If and when the going became icy, a pair each of ice axes and titanium crampons would make for safer climbing.

Ziva carried their heaviest individual item: seventeen pounds of Chandler M40 .338 Lapua precision rifle, with a McMillan A-4 tactical stock. Mick never offered to carry it, and Ziva would not have accepted the offer if he had. In an unspoken trade-off, Mick carried their tent, but they hadn't needed it yet. He also carried their only communication device, a combined radio/GPS locator beacon with just two activation settings, one that called for an emergency extract with backup, and one that called for a standard, or 'mission complete' extract.

Mick was Ziva's guide, no more than that. He knew the area well enough to draw detailed maps of it from memory, which enabled them—with the help of NVGs—to hike and even climb in low light conditions. During the brightest and darkest hours, they found hiding places where both could go to sleep at the same time, without fear of discovery. Every camp was a cold camp: no fire, flame, or light of any kind. Their sit-down meals consisted of the as yet still experimental FSR, First Strike Ration; they snacked regularly on chocolate and gorp– 'Good Old Raisins and Peanuts'; their CamelBak hydration systems were refilled from innumerable mountain streams and 'doctored' with electrolyte sachets.

"Done for the day," Mick said abruptly.

They'd been hiking for five hours straight. Ziva didn't argue with his decision, even though she'd acclimatized to the point where she felt she could easily go on. Four days ago she had unashamedly called rest stops on the hour every hour, and after four hours of hiking, with a short climb thrown in, she had been the one to call it a day. Out there, knowing one's limit is literally a matter of life-or-death. If either one of them called a halt, the other was obliged to agree.

Ziva followed Mick up a short incline sparsely populated with pine trees and the occasional shrub. He stopped suddenly, and slowly brought his suppressed Galil SAR up to his shoulder. Ziva's sniper rifle was useless to her now, heavy and long and generally unwieldy. She mimicked Mick's slow walk backwards, but eventually got a grip on his pack, turned around, and guided his covered retreat. She hadn't seen what he had, but she could guess.

"Snow leopard?" she whispered.

"Aye. Just keep me moving. He's a big lad, and he's settled. Might spring at us, though."

"He might track us, too."

"Damn me if I'll shoot him just-in-case."

"Then we are agreed," Ziva said, and decided that she liked Mick. If the leopard came after them, then they might have to shoot it. Doing so as a preemptive measure was nothing short of criminal in Ziva's book. "You are fortunate. I have never seen one."

"I've seen plenty of 'em, but usually through binocs or a spotter's scope. Or at least from further away than twenty feet! Let's get a move-on."

Mick allowed Ziva to set the pace at a jog, which they kept up for ten minutes. He told her to slow up and they kept walking for another half-hour before he found them a leopard-free camp.

"That bit o' PT will cost us," Mick said.

"Yes," Ziva agreed. "And from now on we must mount watches."

"Two hours each. I got this one. You eat and kip down."

Before now they had usually been able to sleep for four hours straight before moving on. With their individual sleep time halved, and with the extra energy they'd expended while fleeing the leopard, Ziva and Mick had to slow their pace, and stop twice as often to rest and/or nap. However, they managed to adjust within twenty-four hours, exactly what any alpine warfare instructor would have expected.

"Say one thing for you," Mick said around a mouthful of chocolate. "I'd choose you over most o' the blokes I know."

"Thanks," Ziva said and allowed herself a grin. And she had to add, "But I wish I had had a camera when you and I first met. Your expression was very funny."

"I had to remember that Israel's got mountains. Where'd you train? The Golan?"

"Swiss Alps," Ziva said, shaking her head. "Climbing has been my sport since I was a girl. I wanted to see what alpine maneuvers entailed, so yes, the Golan first, but only for a fitness trial. I can suggest whatever training I think might be useful, and then my supervisor sees to it that I get the best. You go to where alpine warfare was invented, if you want the very best alpine warfare training."

"Makes sense... Actually, lots o' stuff the Mossad does makes sense. Very practical, most Israelis."

"I would change that to 'some Israelis,'" Ziva drawled.

"I hear ya," Mick said with a broad grin.

That they got along was a good thing, but both made sure to keep whatever bits of conversation relatively impersonal. They would temporarily part ways some time in the next two days, and Ziva would be on her own. There was still light enough and she got out her maps and satellite images yet again. Ordinarily Mick let her alone to study those, but he shifted over, next to her, and looked at everything in silence for a while.

"Fuck. No bloody wonder you've got to go it alone..."

"There is very little cover," Ziva agreed. "Two of us out there means more chance of at least one of us being spotted. And when the job is done, I must not run. I cannot. I will be seen. So I eliminate the alpha target, then relocate quickly, and reengage: two more shots—"

"Aye. Panic 'em, like."

"Correct. Then relocate again, and reengage: just one more shot. Relocate again, chamber the remaining round, drop clip, home full clip, and wait. I will increase the panic if necessary, but I think that with their leader dead and three in much pain, they will decide to take cover and tend their wounded."

"That's a three-three-eight Lapua you've got, right?"

"Yes, with an ASE Utra S7 suppressor. It moderates the three-thirty-eight's signature to that of a little twenty-two long rifle round. Just a crack."

"What range are you hoping for?"

"The rifle is zeroed to five-hundred meters. From this area here, and along this arc," Ziva said, tracing a line on a satellite photo. "The distance to this point, near the house, is exactly six hundred meters."

"From that distance, they won't hear a bloody thing. They'll know you're on the side o' the mountain, but that suppressor will keep 'em guessing about exactly where you are. Keep relocating..."

"I will be a ghost," Ziva said.

"Your alpha target. What'd he do?"

"Three months ago five Syrian youths decided that they would not blow themselves up on various buses on the same day. They handed themselves in to the police in Jerusalem and asked for protection from the man who had recruited them. Essentially, I am their protection. An attempt was made to kill three of them—a cousin and a pair of brothers. That attempt failed, but a Mossad officer was killed that day. Then one of the other boys left a safehouse to buy cigarettes, and his body was found a few days later. We have moved the remaining four boys to another country, but not even that will be enough. Those four boys know this man's face."

"And even with him dead..." Mick muttered.

"Yes. It is possible that this—what we are doing—is all a wasted effort, but it might be enough of a deterrent to keep those boys alive. That is my focus."

"Right. Not a good idea to try think past that. So. Lemme tell you about the climbing ahead of us..."

Ziva listened intently, sometimes halting Mick and repeating back to him his descriptions of rock formations, major cracks and crevices that would aid her climb, and larger landmarks that would be an aid, with a compass, to general navigation. He knew this side of the mountain, and its summit, but Ziva would be keeping to the east of the summit, following a ridge to a small col, or dip between two rocky outcrops that looked like horns. From there she would descend the south side of the mountain and make her way west towards the stone house.

"I could come along to... hereabouts," Mick said, tapping a map with a fingertip. "But that area, just over the col, is as far as I dare."

"Better that you remain on the north side of the mountain," Ziva argued, shaking her head. "Look at the satellite pictures: the south side is practically bare, just snow and stone. I will have to be very careful. As soon as I go over the col, I will be visible to anyone at that house who has good binoculars. The range from the house to the col is just under two-thousand meters."

"That bloody close?" Mick muttered. "Aye, all right. I'll go as far as that first horn, and anchor off a bivvy."

"Good. Yes. Get some sleep, and then you can stand watch later while I get more than two hours."

"Fair trade," Mick said with a grin.

~ ~ ~

Besides running and swimming, the only other exercise Ziva took was at a climbing gym. If she missed one of her thrice-weekly sessions on that wall, it was guaranteed to put her in a bad mood for a day or two. Climbing involves a combination of intense physical activity and high concentration levels, and skill is maintained and improved upon only by constant practice. Ziva rightfully felt that any practice session missed was a setback. Today she was grateful that she'd not missed too many of those sessions in the last couple of months.

She and Mick had a sheer face to deal with, and if that wasn't bad enough, the wind was gusting at forty miles per hour, delivering a windchill of thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. When the wind eventually dropped, it began to snow.

"There goes the spring warmth, proper-like," Mick complained. "This kind o' snow storm up here tells you just one thing: freezing fucking cold for the bloody duration. Thirty-six hours at least."

"But it is good for me and what I must do," Ziva pointed out.

"Good point."

For the next three hours they continued to traverse the rock face, going slow and safe, making double sure of the seating of every protection device, every hand- and foothold. Mick had the lead and made sure that they took breaks, hangdogging in their harnesses by means of quickdraws attached to hexes or cams.

The view was rather spectacular, even with the snow, and perhaps because of it. Flurries would occasionally reduce visibility to a couple hundred yards, and then the snow would thin, and something like a curtain was drawn away from a vista of snow-topped, rocky peaks. Ziva wished for a camera again. Instead, she'd have to try to describe this to Jen and anyone else who might want to hear it. She could say that she'd been climbing; that much she could say and she would. This view was too much to keep to herself.

When they reached the edge of the face they found themselves between loose rock and a high place. They had only one option: try to descend the face in order to traverse the slope below a scree slide. Continuing directly eastwards was not smart.

"With that sixty-degree incline that slide could boast a bloody sign saying, 'Break Your Legs Here.'"

"Tell me about it. But I think that there is a lot of rotten rock along this arête, up or down."

"Aye," Mick agreed, looking at the edge of the face. The crumbling, cracked rock looked dodgy, to say the least. "So we descend the face proper."

"Yes. Coming this way was still better than a scramble along the foot of this face."

"Oh, aye. Better and much faster."

Descending took time, though. They couldn't leave anything behind. As Ziva made her way down she wedged hexes and cams in wherever she could, and then she waited at each protection point while Mick removed the protection devices above her, and carefully relied only on hand- and footholds to reach her position. Slow going, tiring, and very stressful. They were both feeling all of that when they reached the foot of the face. Time for a long break.

"I went climbing in Utah last year, my first trip ever to the States," Mick said, while settling down in the windbreak provided by a large boulder. "Those civvie climbers think they're hot stuff, sport climbing and free climbing. Wonder how they'd handle climbing while carrying packs?"

"Some do carry packs, but most would not manage. At the climbing gym I go to, people say I am crazy because I climb with a pack that contains a twenty-five-pound sandbag. There is someone else who does that, but they do not say anything to him, because he is a mountain rescue guy."

"Huh. Wager he'd look askance at you right now: mostly full pack plus seventeen pounds o' rifle."

"If you make me think about that one more time, I will hit you," Ziva said and laughed.

It was dark by the time they made it to the slope on the other side of the scree slide. Except for the occasional mini slide in front of bus-sized chunks of crumbling rock, the going was good here, if somewhat steep. They pressed on with the help of NVGs, eventually reaching the foot of the short craggy face of the col. It took them a while to find a place flat enough to pitch their tent. They needed it, at last. The wind had come up again.

"Good thing I don't have to anchor-off overnight," Mick almost yelled over the wind. "Got it?"

"Tight," Ziva yanked on the fourth and last of the tent stays, double testing it. She'd used a rock to hammer in the pegs. "I am not going over that col tonight."

"Hour before dawn is soon enough," Mick agreed.

Given that the weather had turned foul, they risked a light in the tent. It wasn't likely that anyone would be outdoors for miles, but more to the point, it was still snowing and visibility had been reduced to just a few yards.

Ziva had Mick's help to plan what she needed to take with her tomorrow, in a smaller, frame-less pack that had been rolled up in a side pocket of her larger one. Like their clothes and their tent, the small pack was drab grey and sandy brown camo that blended in to their rocky surroundings. Ziva's rifle, scope, and suppressor were painted to match. That left her face and hands.

"Grease paint," Mick said. "And you're doing what with your hair?"

"Watch cap." Ziva took it out and laid it next to the grease paint. "I will pin up my braid and cover it with the cap."

"All right. Spare gloves. Scarf. Can't do without that parka. Sleeping bag. Three meal packs– you'll probably only need one, but if you get stuck, or they find me and this camp... Best you take three. Take our spare CamelBak as well as your own. Small med kit and a bog roll... And that leaves ammo."

"I have a box of twenty-five rounds, as well as five full clips: fifty rounds, total."

"Not meaning to tell you your business, but remember to reload those mags whenever you get the chance."

"I will remember," Ziva said.

She packed her small amount of gear carefully, thinking in terms of what she might need to grab first. She jammed the grease paint sticks and her watch cap into a side pocket, along with a few spare hair elastics.

Time to clean her rifle, a just-in-case procedure. The cleaning kit was a small, flat box. Mick screwed together the three-piece cleaning rod while Ziva removed the bolt from the rifle. She used a little cleaning fluid on the patch fed through a small loop at the end of the rod. Once down the barrel, stopping it before it popped out the muzzle crown, and she pulled it back: only a small greyish smudge on the patch. A drop of oil on the bolt, and she replaced it. A spent cartridge was fed into the breach, she shot and locked the bolt home, safety off, and a respectful squeeze of the two-stage trigger resulted in a clean Click! Safety on, bolt up and back, and the spent cartridge was cleanly ejected. Mick caught it, looked at the brass a moment, and handed it back to Ziva.

"Lapua. Did you load your own?"

"I have not yet used a factory-produced round for a job like this," Ziva stated. "All my rounds are hand-loaded, and yes, I did that myself."

"Good. And what about that rifle? Is she gonna get crunched after this?"

"No," Ziva said and chuckled. "I will not be able to police my brass, so a Mossad gunsmith will make small expert alterations that will completely disguise all the rifle's ballistic signatures, and then it can be used again. But other rifles have ended up 'crunched.' The first rifle I used was one that I had also trained with. It was an Accuracy International AW Mag three-thirty-eight Lapua. After my first sniping job... they 'crunched' my baby."

"That's why I never trained as a sniper," Mick chortled.

"I learned my lesson and I will not get attached to a rifle again, but this Chandler will be very hard to forget. Two days before we first met, I used up about a hundred rounds at a shooting range."

"How did your shoulder feel after that?" Mick asked, pulling a face.

"That suppressor reduces recoil significantly, and the Kick-Eez butt pad also absorbs a lot of shock, so my shoulder was fine... I must eat. Mick, I think we must find another way down this mountain tomorrow."

"Keep heading east, aye," he agreed. "Let's have the maps and pictures again."

It made sense to plan their exit in advance. While Ziva would have most of the advantage tomorrow, calling that 'insurance' was a fool's gamble. Advantage is lost if it isn't fully exploited. The satellite images and maps gave them a good idea of what they'd face by heading eastward: a much tougher descent.

"Those people at the stone house know this mountain," Mick said. "They wouldn't head that way, wouldn't think we'd go that way either."

"You are reading my mind. So it is more work, but a safer option, yes?"

"That's what my guts say. And we're risking a full night's sleep tonight."

"Yes," Ziva agreed. "And tomorrow you must nap whenever you can. When I come back I will have enough energy for us to move at least two, perhaps three clicks off this position. But when we make camp again—"

"You'll be lights-out PDQ."

"What is 'PDQ'?" Ziva asked.

"Pretty Damn Quick."

"Oh. Yes, it will be that way, and it will be best if you do not rest and give me four hours of sleep."

"That's why I'm here," Mick said simply. He didn't want to ask, but he had to: "And if you don't come back?"

"Wait until dusk to see if they have found my body. If they have it will be because they had someone with a scoped rifle who killed me, and he saw that through the scope. It is more likely that a stray round will get me. If so, they will not know that it is safe to go out on the mountain. So when you find my body, you know what to do?"

Mick's response was a nod. He knew that if she felt that she was too badly injured, she'd make quick, expert use of the tactical folding knife clipped to her belt. He wouldn't find her wounded. He'd find her dead. He'd carry or drag her body to a place with sufficient cover, then take her rifle, remaining ammunition, and every other piece of removable equipment, and set it aside. He had a can of benzine in his pack, and several cheap bandages. Her head and hands would be wrapped in the bandages, which he'd then soak with benzine, and set them alight. Mick would be long gone by the time anyone came to investigate the source of the flames.

"I'd really prefer it if you don't get killed, okay?"

"Me, too," Ziva said with a broad grin. "I promise that I will try very hard not to get killed."

"That's all I can ask," Mick said simply.

~ ~ ~

The snow had stopped falling, but the wind was still howling. In the dark before dawn, and with the help of NVGs, they'd plotted Ziva's short assault of the col's face. There were plenty of hand- and footholds, and she made the climb without need of protection points. Mick watched until she disappeared over the top, and then he returned to the tent. He hadn't bothered to wish her luck. She had all the skills necessary to make a success of the mission. All he had to do now was wait, and rest, and eat. And wait.

Over the col, Ziva was making her way as quickly as she dared to a crest of rocks. She'd identified the likely lay-up on satellite photos, but there was a chance that the crest would not afford her enough protection. If that was the case, she'd have to find another place.

And there were lights on in the stone house. When the wind shifted it brought to her ears the heavy thrum of a powerful diesel generator. If some of the men in that house were awake this early, it said much about their level of discipline.

Ziva never underestimated people. She tried to think of even children and the elderly as equals in every way. That kept her alert, aware that death comes quickly to those who think, I'm better than them. Every man in that house down there would be armed. If they saw her they would shoot at her, and perhaps a round that hit her would be a fluke, sheer luck, but what if they had someone with a rifle even a tenth as good as the Chandler across Ziva's back? The further she moved from the col, the closer she got to the house, and every step nearer increased the odds of being shot.

Today she had a job to do. Just a job. Her alpha target was simply a mark, someone whom she'd never met. This business was impersonal, a strategic assassination, a preemptive measure meant to deter anyone from hunting down four boys who had done the right thing. In the process they'd alerted the Mossad and other intelligence agencies to the presence of a faction split off from Al Quaeda. The boys were oblivious to that fact, and it was best if they were kept in the dark there.

If Ziva succeeded today, it was unlikely that any of these events would make the news anywhere. The elimination of this man might just be enough to kill off all loyalty to his ideals, and if that was the case, the splinter faction would dissolve without ever having made a solid impact anywhere. This is often the aim of intelligence agencies: to strike first, to render stillborn any possibility of a threat. Sometimes that involved guesswork, and if so the people involved in the initial planning of operations like this one, chose operatives other than people like Ziva.

A psychologist had profiled her as perfect for this job. Besides the compatibility of her skill-set, she responded positively and without question when presented with hard evidence of a target's wrongdoing. As such, this man, whom she knew only as Ashir, was as good as dead.

Ziva eventually found that, if anything, the rocky crest might provide too much protection. She scouted it silently, looking for a place where she'd be able to get down easily in order to relocate and reengage. She found an angled slab of rock that gave her exactly what she wanted: she'd be able to simply slide off of it, and then move on. There was time and so she scouted out her next two lay-ups before returning to the slab. She climbed up and settled down.

Now began the waiting game.

She extended the legs of the rifle's bipod, and flipped up the scope covers, before homing a five-round clip. She worked the bolt and chambered a round, then adjusted the mil-dot scope for a target at the distance of six-hundred meters. She'd make finer adjustments when that target came into sight. For the present she let her eyes do all the work, ignoring the scope until a couple of men stepped out of the house. By now the sun was rising and her NVGs had long since been packed away. The Nightforce scope did its job in both low-light and full light, and it clearly showed her that neither of the two men was her alpha target.

Even the best scopes can give an operator a bad case of eyestrain, and Ziva kept relying on her eyes, using the scope only to identify anyone who stepped out the house. She kept shifting and flexing various muscle groups to keep the cold at bay. Her hands were snug in thermal gloves, and a scarf over her nose and mouth both kept her face warm and saw to it that her breath didn't puff into steam, which might've given her position away.

She'd been lying on the rock for nearly two hours when her alpha target first appeared.

Gloves off, stuffed into a pocket.

Safety off.

Her left hand did the work of adjusting the scope. Her right hand never left its grip on the rifle stock. Scope adjusted, her left hand found the thumb-hook on the rifle's buttstock, and a little backwards pressure snugged it into her shoulder. Through the scope Ziva saw Ashir talking to one of his men. They laughed about something and Ziva waited until they resumed their regular discussion.

Her finger squeezed the trigger slowly, taking up the travel in the first stage. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold it. She squeezed the trigger through the second stage. Crack!

At that distance the bullet had to travel for a full second before hitting the target, but Ziva was sure of her shot and didn't bother to watch him fall. Her right hand worked the bolt; her left held the rifle into her shoulder; through the scope she was already aiming at the upper thigh of the man Ashir had been talking to. Crack!

She watched him hit the ground, and eventually her ears caught the sound of yelling, and howls from the wounded man. She'd decided to alter her original plan. It would be better this way, better to move while the men down there didn't know whether to hide or help their wounded friend.

She made it fast and dirty, sliding down the slab of rock, risking a sprint to her next lay-up. Panting, she settled in fast, worked the bolt even before flipping up the scope covers. Down there men were scrambling. Two were dragging Ashir's body towards the house, and three were struggling to carry their wounded comrade. Other men were yelling, their expressions urgent. And one man had taken cover behind the open door of an SUV.

The hairs on the back of Ziva's neck prickled when she saw that he had a scoped rifle. She didn't hesitate to line up a headshot. As he was knocked backwards, his rifle was flung out and landed on the ground. Not part of the plan, but she had ammo enough: she aimed at the rifle in the area just behind the trigger guard. Splinters of wood flew as the stock shattered.

Ziva got up and ran again, but this time back to the crest, to the angled slab of rock. She worked the bolt and chambered the clip's last round, dropped it from the rifle and pocketed it at once. She homed a full clip.

Safety off.

They were shooting now, but shooting anywhere, just putting up a show more than looking for a specific target. One man was being a total idiot, standing in clear view. Ziva gave him his just deserts, a .338 round to the thigh.

More panic down there, but up here Ziva lay still and watched through the scope, while her hands were busy beneath her rifle, filling the empty clip with loose rounds taken from a pocket. By the time she was done, the men down at the stone house had wisely decided to head indoors, taking their wounded with them. The would-be marksman's body had been left, but they had taken Ashir's inside.

Ziva scanned the windows of the house, looking for a long barrel that would indicate another scoped weapon. All she saw was evidence of automatic rifles and carbines, and none were pointed her way. She scanned over the house again, just to be sure, and then she moved.

No running now. She kept to a crouch and sometimes crawled on all fours or on her belly. This was the hardest part of the job: getting back to the col. She had to rest once she reached its craggy feet. Three grueling hours of slow careful movement had taken an awful lot out of her.

Time to eat, and then she'd risk a nap.

Her guess was that the men down there would try to get their wounded better care than they could provide. That would involve taking the two men down the mountain to the town below. In one vehicle: a driver, and perhaps just one other man to tend the two wounded men. Ziva worked on the figure of sixteen, including Ashir and the dead marksman. Subtract those two, subtract four in the car, left ten men in the house. The question to ask now: would they attempt to find her, or would they wait for the return of their friends, who might bring reinforcements?

If Ziva was in that house she'd vote for moving soon, but then she hadn't felt any loyalty towards Ashir. By all accounts, Ashir had been a very charismatic man. With him dead it was quite possible that his men were emotionally devastated, in mourning, not thinking clearly. They would also be wanting revenge. How best to get it? Wait for reinforcements. Wait until they had more men to make combing both sides of the mountain an easier job.

But by the time those extra men arrived, Ziva would be gone.

~ ~ ~

There were men hunting them. They hadn't seen them, hadn't heard them, but they knew that those men were hunting them. They moved in short stretches of two hours, and then rested for two hours, sometimes anchored to rock faces or on ledges only wide enough to support their backsides. Whenever they rested, both slept. They needed to remain matched in energy levels now, or there'd be hell to pay. Neither of them could risk reaching a point where they'd need to rest for longer than two hours.

And the eastern descent of this mountain was murder. They had to risk securing protection points into crumbly, rotten rock; they often came up with short but very sheer faces that were covered over in verglas, a thin layer of ice that didn't support crampons and ice axes well; their hands were torn, and shins, knees, and elbows were grazed and bruised. Once, when Ziva had had the lead, she'd gripped a handhold only to have it crumble into nothing, and she'd taken a whipper fall, dropping and swinging past Mick's latest protection point. Her harness had bruised her pretty badly. After that, they had slowed their pace considerably.

It took them nearly thirty-four hours to reach a place where climbing gear was no longer necessary.

"Activate the beacon," Ziva said, while coiling her rope. "We head directly north now. Those men behind us will never expect that. And no rest until we are in the chopper."

"Aye."

Mick pulled the pin on the beacon and flipped a switch so that a green LED flashed. He withdrew the full length of the flexible wire antenna, and replaced the beacon in his pack, careful to let the antenna hang loose. As well as emitting a UHF radio signal, the beacon was fitted with a GPS tracker, enabling them to keep on the move.

Ziva set the pace of a steady hike, knowing that they might need to keep moving for as long as four hours before the helicopter arrived to extract them. They were relying on RAF support, and for all they knew, choppers of every variety, and every pilot had been deployed into some action or other. That wasn't a comforting thought. Ziva forced herself to focus only on putting one foot in front of the other, and by his expression she knew that Mick had forced himself to focus similarly.

They'd been hiking for close to three hours when they heard the welcome thud of rotors. Time to hold position on the rocky hillside, and wait.

"Hot shower," Ziva said and grinned at Mick.

"I want real food first," Mick chuckled.

"Okay, yes. Food first, shower later. I am going to need a doctor, too."

Mick leaned over and got a good look at the gash in her shin, and he whistled and grimaced.

"You're tough as old boots, you are... But much better looking."

"Thank you," Ziva said and laughed. She stood and waved both arms at the approaching helicopter, then turned to Mick and yelled in his ear, "And I am very grateful for your help."

"Like I said, anytime."

~ ~ ~

Ziva decided to get the debriefing out of the way first, before doing anything else. As usual it was done Mossad-style, fast and to the point. Is he dead? Yes. Did you have to kill anyone else? Yes, one more. Wounded? Two. And that was it, barring a reminder that discussion of the last eight days events in Afghanistan, and the preceding two days in Israel, with anyone who hadn't been read-in on the mission, constituted a serious breach of security.

And that was it. No thanks at all for a thankless job. Just the way Ziva liked it. If ever she was thanked for a job like this one, she might just quit.

A little later an RAF surgeon jokingly asked if she was human, and Ziva answered that yes, unfortunately she was: she felt like she was one big ache. She demanded to be stitched up and patched up in such a way as to facilitate that longed-for hot shower, and the doctor complied. When she eventually made it to the mess tent it was to find that Mick had decided on a shower first, too. No grease paint.

"Is that really you?" Ziva kidded.

"My mum will actually recognize me now," Mick said with a grin. "Get some o' this stew. It's damn good."

Beef stew and rice, and real coffee. After eight days of rations that were designed in a lab like science experiments, Ziva would have called cold baked beans on stale bread a meal fit for a king. What she was eating now tasted like the best thing in the world.

"Got debriefed?" Mick asked.

"Yes."

"You Mossad types don't half believe in expediency. Mine was the quickest bloody debriefing ever... Back to Israel for you?"

"No. I work in the States, with NCIS," Ziva said. Then she groaned: "I had better get good sleep tonight and on the plane tomorrow, because I will probably get back and have to dive into the middle of a case. Maybe I should be bad and take a day off..."

"Just one? Go on, be a devil and take two," Mick teased.

Ziva threw a scrunched up napkin at him, and grinned at him when he laughed. When she headed off to get seconds, she ended up thinking that she would miss him, while wishing that she wouldn't miss him, but knowing at the same time that she'd hate to be the kind of person who could forget good people like Mick.

~ ~ ~

The big C-17 Globe Master III had refueled in midair twice on its way to Andrews Air Force Base, not that Ziva had been much aware of either event. As soon as the plane had taken off she'd made herself something of a nest between two locked-down cargo crates. Snug in a sleeping bag, and with earplugs keeping down the volume of the plane's massive Pratt&Whitney engines, she'd spent most of sixteen hours asleep. By the time she and the crew of just three landed, Ziva was so hungry that she was tempted to stop at McDonald's before going to Jen's place. She tided her hunger over with a small bag of M&Ms from a vending machine in the base's visitor's lounge. When her cab arrived she told the driver to take her to Glen Echo.

At Jen's house the study light was on, indicating that Jen was still awake, but it was late, almost midnight. Ziva took a moment or two and decided to knock at the door instead of using the hidden key.

The door was opened eventually. The two women stared at each other for a while before Jen got a grip on Ziva's sweater and tugged her inside, shutting the door before wrapping her in a tight, fierce hug. Ziva dropped her bag, the better to return that hug. She had bruises just about everywhere, and a few of them were complaining about Jen's grip, but Ziva ignored them. It was good to be back; it was very good to be safe; it was wonderfully good to be held and hugged.

"I was beginning to think the worst," Jen eventually admitted softly. She'd never worried as much about anyone as she had about Ziva. She swallowed a lump in her throat, and said, "Your father told me you'd be out of contact for five days at most. You've been gone eleven days."

"The plan had to change. We could not risk being inserted too close to the target's residence, because the sounds of helicopters might have made him run. The terrain did not allow safe landing for parachutists, so we were inserted via helicopter fifteen miles, as the crow flies, from where we had to be. The actual distance was close to twenty-eight miles, and all uphill, or... up-mountain. We, umm, hoofed it. That is the right saying?"

"Yes, but I was told you'd be alone."

"He is an ex SAS man, and I had him along as a guide and climbing partner, but during infiltration and exfiltration only. I was alone for the job itself; I left him, and went ahead alone for about two clicks, to my lay-up."

"I felt better for a bit, but now I don't," Jen muttered. "It sounds like it could've turned into a suicide mission."

"But I am here now," Ziva said, resting their foreheads together.

"And I could kiss you," Jen said very honestly indeed.

"Kiss me when I can enjoy it," Ziva said plainly. "I have not yet allowed myself to think about what I did. It is in the back of my mind, acting like a lion in a cage, pacing back and forward. I will think about it tomorrow. Maybe I will have to call Doctor Heller, but maybe not."

"You've had enough practice to know when that sort of call is necessary or not," Jen said. After a short pause: "You've gotten skinny."

"The RAF doctor used the word 'wiry.' I had seen him for a Vitamin B complex shot before my partner and I went out. When the doctor saw me yesterday, he said that I had become wiry."

"Skinny," Jen insisted. "I made lasagna tonight, thinking to freeze some. Kitchen. Go."

"Have I ever told you that you are bossy?"

"Only all the time... I think you might want this back."

Ziva turned in time to see Jen removing the chain from her neck, and she stood still while Jen stepped close and her fingers closed the clasp under long dark hair.

"Back where it belongs," Jen said of the little Star of David.

"Did you wear it all the time?"

"I never took it off," Jen said, nodding.

"I bet Tony thought interesting things about that," Ziva said, amused.

"Y'know, I don't think he did. He and McGee and Gibbs have all been just as worried as I've been. C'mon, you: kitchen."

"Okay, okay..." Ziva chortled.

Jen resumed being bossy after Ziva had had her very late dinner, bossing her upstairs and into a hot bath. After that Jen removed the waterproof dressing over the stitches in Ziva's shin, and shook her head over the generally bruised and grazed state of her legs and arms.

"The rest of me was not spared either," Ziva muttered. "You see these marks? From the leg loops on my harness. I fell once. Whipper. Big, big scary swing... and then WHAM! Into the rock face. It was a full-body harness. Sore shoulders, too."

"You need drugs," Jen muttered, and got up to fetch Tylenol and a glass of water. "Or maybe you're already on drugs. I can tolerate heights, but climbing is crazy stuff."

"It is not. You should have seen the view."

"The view I have is of banged-up you. I think you need to go see a doctor about those hands tomorrow."

"They will be fine. I did a good gluing job."

"Nuts!" Jen chortled. "I still can't believe that you really use superglue..."

"Medical grade superglue, and it is very good, much better than tape. When you take off the tape it opens the flapper, the torn skin again."

"Urgh. Here. Take those."

"Sometimes you are such a girl," Ziva teased and popped the Tylenol.

"If you weren't all banged-up, I'd be tempted to ask you how 'girly' Judo is."

"Krav Maga beats Judo," Ziva shot back.

"Not fair. Krav Maga beats just about everything," Jen chuckled. "I was going to say earlier that we've really gotten into the habit of sounding like married people—"

"I told you that I would come back so that we could talk like married people again."

"You did, thank you. As I was saying, now we sound like kids."

"Hmph. This 'kid' spent sixteen hours asleep," Ziva said, crawling into Jen's bed. "But it does not feel like it. Tired again."

"I think you'll be feeling all that tension and exertion for a couple of days yet. Will you take tomorrow off work?"

"Yes," Ziva said and yawned. "You still have paperwork to do?"

"It can wait. I'm taking tomorrow off, too," Jen said. "I worked through the weekend to keep myself from going nuts with worry."

"I am sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Jen stated.

She went downstairs to turn off several lights, and when she came back she stopped in her bedroom doorway to watch Ziva sleep for a while.

Sometimes Jen had a hard job with keeping a rein on her emotions, and now was one of those times. She could introduce the subject, and suggest that she and Ziva talk about the path this friendship might take, but there was still a little check in Jen against doing so. Something was telling her to leave well enough alone, to be patient, because Ziva might not be ready to answer that level of emotion. That would hurt Jen a little, but she would get over it. It might hurt their friendship a lot, however, and Jen would not get over that.

And there was much to be said for their current level of involvement, much to be said for being two women who were unafraid of a simple truth.

"Love you," Ziva mumbled sleepily, hugging Jen close.

"No Hebrew tonight?" Jen teased.

"Ohevet otach," Ziva chuckled. "Better?"

"Metzuyan. Gam ani ohevet otach," Jen said, smiling. Perfect. And I love you.

~ ~ ~

The best psychological preparation for a sniper, is no preparation at all.

Snipers are generally selected through testing that reveals their personality type, with the ideal being someone who exhibits high levels of conscientiousness, high levels of emotional stability, and the ability to see certain circumstances in 'black and white.'

Conscientiousness: every good sniper feels that killing is wrong, but sometimes necessary.

Emotional stability: every good sniper has the ability to think clearly, react swiftly, and remain in control of both their environment and their emotions during high-stress situations.

'Black and white': if a child, or someone's invalid grandmother, or even a member of the sniper's own family is holding a gun on a room full of people, a good sniper will still see that person as a target, without second thought on the matter.

Thinking about it happens later.

Since the start of her career, Ziva had been ordered to kill eleven people. There had been others besides the eleven. The would-be suicide bomber had been her first and to date, the most difficult to deal with after-the-fact. He had been a 'reaction kill,' someone who had put her life and the lives of around forty others, including Jen, in danger. Ziva had drawn her gun, aimed, and fired. Thinking had happened later. Thinking and feeling, and even now, nearly eleven years on, she could remember his very young face, could see him falling. She tried not to think about him too often because whenever she did, her heart broke a little each time. To combat that she forced herself to view him as a would-be murderer, someone who had been completely intent on killing innocent people.

The rest were like the marksman on that mountainside in Afghanistan. She had killed them in self-defense. They were 'clean shootings,' meaning that her actions were more than justified. There were six in all, including the would-be bomber.

But assassination is a very different ballgame to a situation where one has no option but to shoot or be shot, kill or be killed.

Although every one of those eleven people had done enough to warrant life sentences in countries with even the most lenient of legal systems, killing them had been wrong. Ziva clung very tightly to that idea, while feeling as well that her actions were necessary. She held as fact the idea that she would not be an assassin if not for people like those eleven targets. However, she knew that she would reach a point in the future where no amount of justification would be enough, where no matter how thoroughly evil the target, she would refuse to kill him or her.

"One day I will have to say no," Ziva said quietly.

"We all have our limits," Jen said. They were sitting on opposite sides of the breakfast nook table in Jen's kitchen. It was a favorite post-lunch place to talk. The bench seats were comfortable, and the coffeepot was nearby. "I found my limit first time out... I often wonder if I'd have done it if my mark was a man."

"Huh," Ziva snorted.

"Which means?"

"Men are cowards when it comes to female targets. They think it is easier for us– it is not. If a man has a choice, he will order a woman to kill a female target."

"On the money..." Jen drawled, and decided not to tell Ziva that Gibbs had been the man to make that particular decision. "When you hit your limit, what might the reason be?"

"A personally observed erosion of my humanity."

"You think that that's a possibility?" Jen asked.

"I must believe that it is, or it might begin to erode without me being aware of it," Ziva said.

"And that's what makes you an assassin, and not a killer."

"Very few see that difference," Ziva said softly.

Jen bit back an urge to criticize those who couldn't see the difference. She'd been an Army brat, and had served as a Naval Intelligence officer; she'd worked for Interpol, for the CIA, for the FBI, and the ATF; she'd held the position of security chief at two separate US embassies; at present she was Director of NCIS, which was a law enforcement agency that was also an active intelligence, counterintelligence, and counterterrorism agency. Jen had almost been bred to see and understand the difference between the concepts of 'assassin' and 'killer.' She also knew that very often the term 'assassin' is misused.

A hit man is not an assassin. A drive-by shooter is not an assassin. A 'soldier' in a gang, the mafia, the Yakuza, the KKK, or a terrorist cell is not an assassin. Trained assassins don't operate from a position of personal motivation, or for whatever kind of personal gain, be it financial or a status boost. Whenever killing results from personal motivation or will provide personal gain, the person who does the killing is just a killer, and never an assassin.

"I'm really glad that I know the difference," Jen said. "It's one of the reasons why we have this friendship."

"Yes. You understand me. That is rare, and something for which I am very grateful."

"Hey, there are two of us in this relationship, and I'm not the easiest person to get along with," Jen said.

"Mi amar et zeh? Hem lo makirim otach," Ziva said. Who said this? They don't know you.

"They haven't tried to get to know me," Jen said with a shrug. "Most of that has to do with my bitchy professional rep... And it's funny. So many men are utter bastards in their professional lives, but that's business, perfectly acceptable. As soon as a woman takes a hardline stance, she's a bitch, and a bitch is just plain nasty, which is never acceptable."

"Double standards..." Ziva said, clucked her tongue, and shook her head. "It is the same for me. It is okay if men kill, because that is their job. But me? I must be a monster."

"I think it's a lot worse for you," Jen said gently.

"Sometimes," Ziva whispered. She wiped angrily at sudden, traitorous tears. "To cry is to let them win, even if they cannot see."

"Ziva, if it hurts, and you don't cry, it'll build up and end up hurting you even more."

"Doctor Heller is very good at getting me to cry. I cry often enough, and I do not want to cry now."

"All right," Jen almost whispered.

"I am sorry. My tone—"

"Was surprising but very understandable," Jen said, shaking her head. "No apologies. And something tells me that you'd like a change of subject."

"Lo bid'yuk," Ziva said. Not exactly. "I have not asked yet: you know the basics, but did my father read you in on this latest operation?"

"Officially? Yes. He also cleared me to view your operational jacket. The couriered copy is in my safe at work."

"Good. That is better. I was going to ask him to clear you, when I go to Israel in June," Ziva said.

"In that case I'll read it," Jen said and lit a cigarette, which Ziva immediately stole. She didn't bother to light another. They'd share this one. "I asked if he'd consulted with you regarding your jacket, and he said no."

"He need not consult with me about something like that."

"I have better manners."

"Much," Ziva said, amused. "At least where I am concerned. When we are not at work."

"My 'hardline stance' is going to slip a little tomorrow," Jen said, tracing the wood grain of the tabletop with a fingertip. "The guys and Ducky and Abby all know that we're friends, and just for tomorrow, they're going to expect some sort of indication, or demonstration of that."

"Like what?" Ziva chuckled. "If they know about our friendship, then they can guess that you took today off to spend with me. That is not enough?"

"It's more than enough in some ways, and in others it's... lacking," Jen said, amused. "Gibbs told everyone that when you get back they shouldn't acknowledge your absence."

"Ahh. He can be a bit overprotective sometimes. I mean, in some ways his order is correct: do not acknowledge my absence when talking to anyone who is not a member of our team. But while at work... No-no. Overprotective."

"And I said as much. He said that he'll follow my example, and so will the rest of the team."

"Well, last night you said that you could kiss me," Ziva ragged.

"And that is a prime example of the term 'overkill,'" Jen chortled. "You're going home tonight? So you can walk in at work and gimme a good morning hug."

"Which style? A-frame American, or Latin-American-Euro-Israeli-just-hug-dammit?" Ziva drawled. "I hate those stupid A-frame hugs where there is enough distance between two people's knees to park a Smart Car."

"Not quite that much," Jen said, highly amused. "And I'll order up a just-hug-dammit, thanks."

~ ~ ~

Day Thirteen. McGee looked up as Gibbs walked in with Jen. Their expressions said a lot, but that glint of gold was missing from Jen's neck, and that said it all. McGee scrambled out of his chair and punched Tony on the shoulder. He nearly dropped his phone.

"What?"

"She's back. Your girlfriend can wait."

"That was my dad, McGeek," Tony said, but without even a hint of venom. He said quietly, "Y'know, the last time I worried this much about someone, it was a family member."

"Same," McGee said, nodding. "Umm, I was actually gonna put in for medical leave today. Saw my shrink yesterday evening."

"It's a smart guy who goes to a doc before he gets sent to a doc," Tony said, looking McGee in the eye. "And maybe you should still take a day or two. Frankly, you look like crap. No sleep?"

"Couldn't. Not a wink last night... I should go wash my face, or something. She's been under enough stress not to worry about me."

"If Ziva heard that," Jen stated. "She'd probably smack you, Tim. We all care about each other. Evidence of that is never a bad thing."

"G'morning, Director," Tony and McGee mumbled.

"Good morning. Questions, gentlemen?" There was only one, really: is Ziva okay? Jen opened a file and read from a list of relatively minor injuries jotted down by the RAF surgeon. She added her personal opinion last. "Same old Ziva, but she climbed a mountain, so she's lost a few pounds, and has a few scuff marks and stiff muscles and some stitches... and superglue."

"What?" Gibbs laughed.

"Glue," McGee said and nodded. "She uses superglue instead of Band Aids when her fingers and hands get torn up while climbing."

"I thought it was crazy until an ER doc used glue instead of stitches in a cut on my hand," Tony said. "Less pain, less itching while it healed, and it healed faster."

McGee had called Ducky and Abby, who duly arrived and, after asking how Ziva was, they joined the conversation. Ducky grumbled that superglue was sadly not of any benefit to his 'patients.'

The members of other Major Case Response Teams respectfully kept their distance and got on with their work, but eyes were often cast in the direction of Jen, Gibbs's team, Abby, and Ducky. Nearly everyone in the building was aware by now that Ziva had been gone for several days. They knew better than to ask about it, but then, they didn't have to. Ziva's teammates and colleagues were talking in a relaxed manner for the first time in almost two weeks. The feeling among other MCRT personnel was one of simple relief. They barely knew Ziva, but that didn't matter: she was a part of their family. She was back and she was okay, and that was all that they needed to know.

Jen had told Ziva to be at work by nine instead of eight, and she strolled into the squad area precisely on the hour.

"Nu?" Jen said. Well?

"Boker tov," Ziva said warmly. Good morning.

"Boker or," Jen answered, smiling. Morning light.

Jen got her good morning hug, and so did each of the rest of the team. And McGee was fussed over and told to go home. Abby had a slow morning in the labs and offered to drive him.

"I can drive," McGee grumbled.

"How many intersections are there between this building and your place?" Abby demanded.

"Fourteen."

"Right. I'm driving you."

McGee grumbled all the way to the elevator, much to Ziva's amusement. She sat at her desk and found that Jen was still leaning against it.

"At lo ovedet kan," Ziva chuckled. You don't work here.

"Slave-driver," Jen drawled, and walked away, smiling at two demands for a translation. She said to Gibbs and Tony, "You two will never get rid of me that easy. The Gillis case, people. Progress is slow. Fix it."

"We are still working on the Gillis case?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah," Gibbs said with a grin. "But I got a hunch that we might just be a little more focused now."

"Strange notion," Tony laid it on. "Wonder what gives you that idea, Boss?"

"Shuddup," Ziva chortled.

__________

...and on to KIDON (Part Seven)

...or you can return to the KIDON master post.

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