False Flags

pt. 15

Ziva was in the habit of keeping promises, but when she knocked on Jenny's door at 0650 with two mugs of coffee in her hand, there was no answer. She knocked again, nudging the door open with her toe when no response was forthcoming. The room was empty but the bed was made.

Still clutching the coffee, she padded down to the conference room. Even before she reached the open door, the sound of Jenny's voice confirmed her deduction. She was speaking English again, so Ziva settled in to wait, sliding one mug across the table. The look of pure rapture that greeted the first sip was almost enough to set Ziva off-- but Mossad agents don't giggle, and so she managed to contain herself to an undignified sort of choking sound. It did not escape her notice that Jenny was in the same clothes as the day before, although her healing ribs now allowed her to dress herself and they'd given up and cut a slit in her jeans when she'd grown tired of the borrowed sweatpants.

Precisely at 0705 the other phone rang, and Ziva greeted the bored voice of the Mossad officer who was clearly displeased to have been assigned reporting duty.

"David."

"The air strikes were successful. We are estimating a 100% elimination rate of known smuggling routes."

"Casualties?" It would be the first question Jenny would ask.

"Unknown at this time."

"Acknowledged."

"Deputy Director David sends his regards."

"Please return them."

They hung up with the same exaggerated courtesy. She turned to find Jenny regarding the bottom of her coffee cup gloomily.

"Any chance of a refill?"

"Good morning to you, too. Though I suppose that since you did not sleep, the greeting does not seem as necessary."

She smiled. "Good morning, Ziva. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. Never fear, I put the time to good use."

Ziva studied her. Beyond the crumpled shirt fading bruises she seemed less troubled than she had the night before. "What have you done?"

"So you already know me well enough to worry. I promise, it's nothing that requires inter-governmental apologies. It does, however, require more coffee."

The pointed look was enough to make Ziva cross to the non-secure phone and call the kitchen for a carafe. Besides, her own mug was dangerously low.

While they waited, Ziva filled Jenny in on her own calls. "The air strikes were successful. They think they managed to render unusable all of the tunnels we knew about."

"Were there casualties?"

"Not that we know of," she said, choosing her phrasing carefully. Spending four months on the ground ministering to the needs of the Palestinians in Rafah had given Jenny a different perspective on the situation than her own. A part of her, in fact, admired the empathy the other woman had shown for the subjects of a job that was supposed to be merely a cover. Another part of her had resented it, knowing that it made her own job more complicated.

"Not a very reassuring answer." But Jenny must have realized it was all the answer she was going to get, because after a young man-- the same one from yesterday if the way he kept glancing nervously at the redhead was anything to go by--deposited the coffee and departed, she dropped the subject.

Jenny poured them both a cup and took her time sampling the new brew before she finally seemed ready to approach her news.

"I'm leaving." Ziva kept silent. She had found it to be a technique that effectively yielded information when people wanted to talk. "I've accepted a position heading up a new Joint Terrorism Task Force in Syria."

A thousand questions came to mind, but none seemed appropriate. Finally, she settled on the one that, unasked, would haunt her most. "Jenny, is this because of what happened?-- "

"No," she cut Ziva off. "It's really not--not anymore than it's about the thousand other natural shocks I've inherited with this job." Ziva scrutinized the green eyes, the wide mouth, the hands wrapped securely around the mug, looking hard for any sign that Jenny was lying to her-- or to herself. She saw only a kind of bare honesty that was almost painful to witness.

"Okay."

"I've spent the last five years in covert ops. I've done it because I believed in what I was doing; because, like you, I was trained to take orders well; and because, to my surprise, I turned out to be damn good at it. Good enough that it's going to cost me to get the chance to do something else."

Ziva privately thought it had probably already cost her plenty.

"It's time to move on," Jenny continued. "I need to do something that lets me see a bigger picture-- preferably while not having to start someone else's new life every six months."

If she had raised her voice or insisted, even in the slightest, Ziva would have doubted her. She was trained to disbelieve, and grand declarations of purpose were the sorts of things she found particularly difficult to take at face value. But Jenny simply stated the facts, without artifice or emphasis. She was a woman at peace with her decision--and it suited her.

"If that is what you want, then I am happy for you."

"Thank you."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"So soon?"

She laughed. "The doctors have cleared me to travel, and NCIS doesn't really have the most generous leave package. I'm no good to them here. I can't even leave the embassy."

Ziva sternly reminded herself that such was the nature of the lives they had chosen. Nothing was permanent, and no one was immune to orders. She flinched when a hand cupped her cheek.

"Stop," Jenny instructed, leaning in and pinning her with a stare.

"Stop what?"

"I can see you making a list in your head. Secure travel documents for the crazy American; put her on a plane; debrief Mikhail; establish communications channels for Atef; return to Rafah and close down the command post; report back to Tel Aviv…"

"I was not," she defended, but Jenny just kept looking at her with that unnerving stare. A tactical retreat was in order. "I do not think that you are crazy."

Jenny sat back, smirking. "Really?"

"Bizarre, perhaps," Ziva offered.

"Not sure that's better," Jenny muttered, then shook herself. "Anyway, that's neither here nor there. How committed are you to that list?"

"Jenny?"

She looked away for a moment before squaring her shoulders. "Syria sits at the confluence of smuggling routes through the entire Middle East."

"Sure." Ziva shrugged. "Overland, it's in between everywhere and everywhere else."

"This Task Force may be our best opportunity to cut off the pipelines into Iraq and Iran, as well to keep an eye on developments in Lebanon. I know a great deal about the structure of the weapons trade--I've spent years tracking illegal arms in one way or another. But I don't have as much expertise as I'd like in the nuances of the region, and I'm not entirely comfortable in Levantine Arabic. The other people DOJ sends will have lots of very valuable information, but I need someone local, who can fill in those gaps."

"What are you saying?" She knew better than to assume, even if she couldn't quite quash the flicker that passed through her.

"I'm saying that NCIS agrees that I need a Mossad liaison. And I'm asking whether you're committed to that to-do list or whether you might throw it all over for a guided tour of the conference rooms of Damascus and Aleppo."

Ziva took a long moment to consider the implications. Without a doubt her career at Mossad was on the fast track, and she had worked incredibly hard to ensure that no one thought that had anything to do with her father's position-- at least, not anyone who'd worked with her. She'd been examined and tested, and she had passed them all with flying colors. She had satisfied her superiors and outpaced all of her peers, and it was lonelier than she could have imagined. Syria would mean a detour, more investigation than interrogation, information-gathering instead of action. Of course, given Jenny's penchant for getting into trouble, she was sure there would be a smattering of action.

"How do you say it in English? Sign me up." By the time she stumbled through the idiom, they were both grinning.

"Thank god," Jenny said as she refilled her coffee again. "I was worried you would turn me down and I'd be stuck working with a burly man named Uri who would speak only in monosyllables—and then only when spoken to."

"I am glad to be able to save you from such a cruel fate."

"You have no idea how grateful I am. When can you be ready to leave?"

"Bossing me around already?"

"Breaking you in. Clearly it's going to take some work."

"Two days. As you correctly noted, there are a few things I have to do before I leave."

"I can work with that. I'll tell them we arrive on Thursday, and I'll worry about my own documents."

Ziva acknowledged the statement, secretly amused at how quickly Jenny had taken to giving orders. "In the meantime, then, I have some contacts to make-- and some loose ends to start to tie up. I will likely not be back for lunch, so be sure that you eat this time."

"Be careful. And be sure." Jenny's words were loaded, and Ziva inclined her head to indicate her understanding.

"I will return by evening. Shalom, Jenny."

"Shalom, Ziva."

Fin

A/N: Well, that's all she wrote. Thank you so much to everyone who hung in there and commented; it means a great deal. (R, whoever you are, you often made me laugh.) I hope you've enjoyed it-- or that if you haven't, you'll tell me why. And for those of you who were hoping for some JIVA, I will simply say: don't give up on me yet. Cheers. -ts.