Once again, sorry for the wait. I know I'm a cow.

If you didn't recognise the woman from the last chapter who got asploded, I suggest you go back and reread the beginning of Chapter 4. For shame, missing my foreshadowing. Haha, oh well, next time I'll try and make it more obvious.

Once again, thanks for the support and the REVIEWS. I LOVE YOU REVIEWERS.

In particular, luvin-the-coffee… what an awesome review, thank you. It prompted me to finish this chapter, that had been sitting around half-finished for god knows how many weeks. Thanks so much!

Blame school, it is the bane of every fifteen year old's spare time.

Title: Circle of Deceit (1981)

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Gibbs had never had a more pleasant journey down to a hospital basement.

For all their faults, he had to admit that the people of Montreal weren't shy when it came to their hospitals. Every passage was decorated with elaborate mechanical openers that beeped and flashed different coloured lights at him as he walked. He wasn't exactly sure what purpose it served, other than the blaring declaration that the hospital administration were a bunch of decorative spendthrifts.

It was getting colder with every step he took, so much so that it was almost akin to being thrust back into the cold wilderness he'd so recently escaped from. The temperature down here was so cold it was almost scalding.

The last door loomed ahead- adorned with morbid bold dark letters, across which was written 'MORGUE,' and then in smaller letters underneath, 'mortuary.'

The door slid open just before he came to a halt before it. A blast of freezing air blasted out to greet him, and he shuddered involuntarily.

A rather pale-looking Ducky turned to appraise him with an expression of weary relief.

"Welcome back, Jethro," he greeted balefully, spreading his arms to indicate the long line of tables covered in white cloth.

"Your entourage precedes you, I'm afraid."

"Canada not cold enough for you already, Duck?" asked Gibbs with another unpleasant shiver, plucking one of the fur-lined coats from the handle on the adjacent wall and pulling it over his shoulders. On second glance, Ducky was wearing one, too. Why was it so goddamn cold down here?

"This is a morgue, not an autopsy room, Jethro. The hospital had to make do. The temperature is kept low so as to stop decomposition. Unfortunately, unlike headquarters, the cold is not restricted to the sliding compartments. Yes."

Ducky pulled up his sleeves and made his way over to the first table. Without any prompting, Jethro followed him.

"How is young Timothy holding up?" asked Ducky, lowering his voice a little and casting a perturbed glance at the sliding doors to ensure they wouldn't be interrupted midway through the conversation.

Gibbs shrugged, expression darkening somewhat.

"He's shaken. Blames himself. That's to be expected, all things considered."

Ducky nodded knowingly, and his gaze returned to the body lying on the table. With a deft flick of his wrist, he pulled back the white cover to reveal a young woman. Gibbs immediately recognised her as the brunette that they'd seen briefly before the explosion. There was still a gaping wound in her neck where the steel had pierced her neck.

"The good news is, Jethro, that had you been able to save this woman, she would not have been able to provide us with any information. In fact, I highly doubt she would have the capacity to string together an intelligible sentence."

"What do you mean?" responded Gibbs slowly.

"Her mind is practically rotten. Yes, unfortunately, she was subject to heavy chemical torture before her tragic demise. Abby has confirmed that she has substantial amounts of chemical agents on her skin and in her nostrils. Clorox, ammonia, various basic cleaners and the like. Common, of course, but they can cause some grievous harm when used like this. Some were a little more illicit, too."

Ducky raised a finger and rummaged on the tray underneath the table, pulling out a familiar dark badge.

"These were found on her person. Clearly the killer didn't particularly care whether or not she was identified."

Gibbs extended his hand and Ducky handed him the badge.

The woman in the photo looked nothing like the one on the table- she was happy and smiling with an intelligent glimmer in her eye. Her hair was styled and her eyes were bright and vibrant, betraying a sassy grin. In fact, she rather resembled Caitlin Todd in a hollow, macabre way.

When Gibbs had first seen her face, her eyes had been glassy and vague, her hair messy, her mouth hanging slack.

"Sarafina Van Aerdan," mumbled Gibbs, eyes scanning down the identification. "Canadian Intelligence, twenty-six years old."

"Yes," affirmed Ducky with a resilient tone to his voice. "Abby ran her name through the database. She went missing some months ago, after flying out to investigate a lead in Quebec. Quite a waste of a good young life."

"At least McGee can get some closure now," muttered Gibbs morosely in response, shaking his head and setting the badge down.

"Well, yes. It's probably for the best, really. Had the woman lived, she'd have been incredibly disturbed, in a near vegetative state. McGee's accident might have been a small mercy for her."

"I'll tell him that," said Gibbs with a curt nod of his head. "Thanks, Duck."

"There's something else," said Ducky sharply, raising his head suddenly with an expression that was suddenly trepidacious.

He drew out a thin set of papers, paper-clipped together, from his inner jacket pocket.

"Director Shepherd faxed this through. She said she wanted it to be handed directly to you."

Gibbs held Ducky's eye contact for a moment, drawing in that single moment the fact that it probably wouldn't be welcome news. With a brief moment of indecision he peeled back the first blank layer of paper to the file below.

The first thing he noticed were the two photos, both of the same woman- in the first, she had darker hair, her hair was styled elegantly back into a bun, dark sunglasses obscuring her eyes. She wore a proud smirk and in the background the broad flank of a jet could be seen.

In the second she looked slightly less manicured, but still beautiful- blonde, with straggles of hair escaping her pony tail, eyes locked directly onto the camera with a fierce expression of fiery apathy.

"This her?" growled Gibbs hoarsely.

"Cyrielle? Apparently so, yes. The Director was not pleased," he continued on, pointing a finger at the list of known aliases.

"Cyrielle Le Blanc," read Gibbs aloud, a peculiar feeling of victorious anger sweeping through his gut at the feeling of having a face to put to the name.

"Liana Van Dam, Rose O'Donnell…. Arms dealer, known in the dealing circuit as the Black Rose… the Black Rose…"

Gibbs's eyes sharply snapped back up to meet Ducky's.

"Where have I heard that name before?" he implored, blue eyes biting into Ducky's, the intensity dimmed by the fact that he was visibly churning at his memory for answers.

"The ARES case," replied the doctor with a sad smile. "She had her horns locked with La Grenouille for some time before he finally won the bidding war. Remember, Jethro? I was, for a time, Charles Harrow."

Recognition and grim realization flickered behind Gibbs's ice blue eyes.

"Her winning bid was just shy of twenty million," stated Gibbs, visibly musing. His eyes briefly broke contact and flickered across the room, gazing at all the other bodies lying on the tables like stiff, pale toy soldiers. Most were missing limbs or various parts of their body due to the explosion.

"I fear her reputation, and she weight of her assets made it easy for her to evade authority for so long," nodded Ducky, following Gibbs's gaze to the lined-up bodies. Gibbs's eyes narrowed.

"She killed all of these people?"

"Well, I assume so, they were all in her freezer," he replied with a frown.

"The interesting thing, Jethro, is that they were all intelligence operatives. All of them. All were reported missing after being assigned on missions in Canada or the USA."

"So she killed them, and kept their bodies, as soon as they got on her trail? Hauled her freezer around wherever she went, like keepsakes, just to cover her tracks? I thought she was just a semi-deranged hermit with an interesting story she didn't want heard. Clearly I was wrong."

"Not entirely. She is certainly a hermit, but more than just a little deranged, with a very elaborate story that she seems to be very intent on keeping her own little secret. This woman is very dangerous, Gibbs, even now. I hate to steal your catch-phrase, but… I can feel it in my gut."

Gibbs gave one last sickened glance to the long row of mangled bodies and nodded.

"So can I."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Breathe in. Breathe out. What should have been the simplest of tasks was becoming increasingly impossible. Her body had taken bullets, knives, beatings, near drownings, frostbite, scalding burns in the past.

But after such trivial circumstances- a little time in the wild, a few scratches, hypothermia, and her lungs had decided quite promptly to stop working. Without any warning whatsoever.

This pipe down her throat- she hated it with such a passion. The noises it made were so artificial and disgusting- she was revolted at her own invalidity.

So far she'd pulled it out three times, quite positive that this time she'd be able to breathe on her own. How could the most natural thing be so difficult for her? Wasn't Tony the one with the scarred lungs?

Alas, despite her confidence, each time had left her desperately fighting for just one breath. She nurses coddled around her squawking raucously, shoving their god-forsaken pipes down her throat, inadvertently prodding her in the eyes.

After the third time, they'd strapped down her arms to the bedside so that she could do nothing but lie there and struggle, hacking and coughing at her pipe. Occasionally someone would come in there with drugs and she'd buck and struggle in distress, only to be subdued by more sedatives and silly French nurses purring comfort.

"Sorry darling, it will be over soon, once your lungs recover we will take out the ventilator. Just be patient and stop fighting, let your body rest!"

But damn it, she had a case to work on! She had an irate Gibbs stalking the passageways, she was sure of it! And Tony, hobbling around like a battered cripple, still wearing that smug grun and making lewd, inappropriate jokes like always. She could picture it in her minds eye.

It felt like she'd been in here for hours. Ziva lay still, placid from her latest dose of drugs, which dulled the fiery burning pain all over. Negating the throbbing in her chest. Surely it would be over soon. The straps holding her body down were beginning to ache.

The respirator pumped, cold and brittle alongside her bed. Ziva gazed drowsily at the screen, watching in morbid fascination as nonsensical numbers flashed and it beeped with each subsequent pump of oxygen into her lungs.

The door was opening. It was late- early morning probably, a distant voice murmured in the pits of her mind. She felt like she was going crazy, gazing at the walls all day.

A woman walked in, tall and blonde. A nurse.

Ziva blinked apathetically at her.

The woman turned and removed the mask she was wearing with a fake, malignant smile. Recognition flared in Ziva's soul and she bared her teeth like a dog facing an abusing owner. Even through the heavy dose of drugs, she could feel the anger and anxiety blazing clear as day in the pits of her belly.

Cyrielle.

It was Cyrielle. In her ward. Was she dreaming?

"Hello, sweetheart," Cyrielle purred with a savage grin. Like a cat who'd cornered a mouse.

It was! This was far too vivid for simply a hallucination. It was Cyrielle. The woman who had damn near killed her was standing placidly infront of her, dressed as a nurse.

It was a gut-wrenching cliché, really.

Ziva tried to scream, momentarily forgetting the ventilator pipe lodged in her throat. It came back with a wave of nausea- she hacked and coughed, the discomfort causing her eyes and mouth to prickle unpleasantly.

"This is too easy," Cyrielle mused shrewdly with a flippant chuckle, tilting her head.

She stepped over to the powerpoint with an expression of joyful apathy and flicked it off.

The ventilator turned off. Her lifeline was gone. Her wounded lungs burnt savagely.

With a distressed gurgle, Ziva twisted and turned, fighting for air.

Lunging against the pipe, she pulled back and desperately heaved with her lungs, vehement and vicious.

Breath rushed into her lungs through the pipe, a silent victory. Breathing! She was breathing! She could breathe! Her lungs were working!

She tried to scream, but couldn't. Her voice was rendered useless against the pipe. Damn it.

She met Cyrielle's eyes with scalding disdain. You lose.

The tall blonde looked a little disappointed.

"Oh, well, I suppose there are no easy victories," she replied with a careless shrug and turned, rummaging in the cabinet alongside the bed.

"After all, it would be more fun to toy with you a little, given that you are strapped in a bed and all. The nurses think I've come to take you back to America, back to your little Navy police. Isn't that ironic? I could wheel you out of here and nobody would be the wiser until your boss gets back. In fact, I think I'll do just that."

Cyrielle laughed, tossing her hair back across her shoulder and shaking her head, beautiful and magnificent in her evil.

She was magnetic- and revolting.

"It's an excellent situation, isn't it, Ziva? You're strapped down by the doctors and rendered speechless by that wonderful little pipe. You can wriggle and buck all you like and they'll think you are fighting the respirator."

Deftly, like a professional, Cyrielle disconnected the various heart monitors, turning the switches off at the wall to avoid the tell-tale beeping that would alert any nearby nurses to the absence of a beating heart.

She pulled a needle out of the cabinet. Ziva wasn't close enough to read the label.

Then she turned and took the empty saline drip, and pressed the syringe into the top part, injecting the clear pale liquid directly into the bag, which dripped down the length of the bag and down the pipe, heading directly for Ziva's veins.

Ziva felt the bed moving. Cyrielle was wheeling the respirator alongside, despite the fact that it was turned off, probably just for show.

Then there was light- bright and yellow and harsh against her eyes. Ziva shut her eyes tight and wriggled, attempting to free her arms so she could wrench this fucking pipe out of her throat and scream for help!

"Taking her for the transfer… Ziva David, yes… Papers… Shepherd… Plane… Respirator."

The words flickered in and out of her perception. She was getting drowsy- that was bad. Eager to stay as awake as possible, she gritted her teeth and attempted to keep hold of her awareness.

Cyrielle must have put a sedative into the drip or something, because she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Helpless and angry and desperate she let out one a scream, muffled into utter silence by the useless respirator, her lungs buckling and shuddering with the effort of every laboured breath.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tony woke to a busy, bustling corridor.

He'd fallen asleep on those uncomfortable little seats on the outside of Ziva's room, and had been covered by a blanket sometime in the night by one of the nurses.

Nice of them really, given that he was really a huge pain in the ass for the poor women, garbling their language and blinking flippantly whenever they yelled at him for not understanding their instructions.

He was feeling better. Lots better.

The pain had completely gone from his feet, although they were still a little red, and he could breathe properly without the nausea clawing at his belly with every inhale.

It was really something special that they'd made it through this in one piece. Now all they needed was Ziva's lungs to get up and running and they'd be set to go.

They were being transferred back to D.C in a few days anyway, so that Ziva could finish her recovery there. The Director was getting restless and all that.

He stretched and yawned, the wood of the room window prodding into his back, his jaw aching, head throbbing. What a week.

He jerked slightly as his mobile vibrated against his leg, causing him to blink lethargically down under the blanket. Hah, human contact. It would be weird listening to someone speaking English.

The caller I.D was 'withheld.' Probably one of those asian telemarketers. Did it cost any more for them to call into Quebec? God, he hoped so.

"Helllllooo?" he answered cheerfully as he flipped open the cell.

The answering voice was cold, but just as blithe.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Tony jerked savagely like he'd just received an electric shock and deftly leapt to his feet in surprise. He'd recognise that voice anywhere. He could almost picture that penetrating smirk down the phone, that half-mad expression that tainted her pretty face.

"What the hell do you want, you bitch? How did you get my number?"

"I'm more resourceful than you think I am," Cyrielle replied carelessly down the receiver, clearly enjoying herself. "Besides, I like to gloat. How was your hospital stay?"

"Hows your semi-trailer?" he shot back bitingly, at a loss of any other retort.

"Better than the tree it hit," she replied with a brisk chuckle with there was the sharp injection of venomous anger that flickered and disappeared in her tone.

"But, to the point. I have somebody here who wants to say hello. That is to say, she wants to, but she most certainly can't. Her lungs are a little sore, and she has a pipe in her throat. Say hello, Ziva."

There was the rustling of blankets- crackling- an almost inaudible gurgle.

No! No! That could be anyone. Anyone.

Tony wheeled around in a panic, and lounged at the door to the room, disregarding the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. The hinges creaked with the violence of his swing.

He stumbled into the doorway and gazed over at the bed. The cold fear doused him like ice.

There was no bed. There was no bed. Where was the bed? Where was Ziva?

In his shock he'd inadvertently shut the cell phone shut, effectively ending the call.

What did he do? Where was Gibbs? He got back from the wilderness yesterday, he should be here now!

Panic started to overwhelm him and he fought it back. It was becoming increasing difficult.

'Fear is good. Panic can kill.' The words were chasing each other around in his head.

He wheeled and ran over to the reception so quickly that his toes began to prickle and the linoleum squealed in protest.

"Ziva!" he half-barked at the startled woman at the desk. "Ziva David! Where is she?! She's not in her room!"

The plump lady blinked and leaned back, shocked and a little offended.

"She's gone..? Signed out last night by a woman for a transfer for DC."

"She wasn't supposed to go!! She wasn't going for another couple of days! Why would you let her go?"

"The woman had the papers, monsieur, signed! Everything was official and in order! Is there a problem?"

Tony swore and slammed his fist into the counter, ignoring the pain, frustration boiling to a fore.

"Hell yes, there's a problem! You've handed her over, gift-wrapped, to a delusional murderer! You may as well have delivered the garnish for afterwards, too! You… You-!"

Vrrrr. His phone was vibrating.

He scarcely had time to breathe before it was in his sweating palms and he was fumbling, pushing it open. The voice purred like audible poison in his ear

"Calm down, Tony. Not good for your blood pressure, you know."

"Why?" The blood was thundering in his veins, muffled only by the drumming of his heart. "Why!?"

Cyrielle sighed theatrically on the other end of the line, her voice dripping with fake empathy.

"Because you got away. Because you destroyed my semi-trailer. Because you exploited my comfortable little abode. Because you killed my dog. But first and foremost, because you've royally pissed me off. What a shame you stumbled across me, Tony! As they say, 'in all the pubs in all the world…'"

"What do you want?"

"You have half an hour. St George's School on The Boulevard. If I call you and you have anybody else on the phone... well, lets say it won't be pleasant for Ziva. If you bring anybody else with you, I will detonate the explosives wired through the school, killing every student within range. If you contact anybody in the school to initiate a lockdown, everyone dies. Oh, and Tony…"

"What?" his fear was as loud and evident as a fanfare.

"Tell the Director I said hello. Tick Tock."

The dial tone beeped malignantly in his ear, a fitting feeling for the dull numbness spreading like wildfire through his body.