A/N: I know, I know. I suck at updating. But, hopefully, I'll now keep a quasi-regular update schedule (Yeah, right. When have I ever been good at schedules?) Anyway, I do hope that I still have an interested audience, and I do hope that everyone is well! Much love and keep the peace, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

***Special thanks to the ever lovely Zaedah who so kindly is betaing this piece. Zaedah -you rock.

"And if I only could make a deal with God

and get Him to sway our places,

be running up that road, be running up that hill, be running up that building.

If I only could."

-Running Up That Hill, Placebo

ACQUAINTENCES

Rota, Spain

He stands under the shade of a building as the roar of a C-130 sounds overhead. The air is warm, balmy, comfortable, and it's a relief to be out of the stifling humidity of a D.C. heat wave. Two men walk past him, both dressed in fatigues, laughing at a punch line he's too far away to hear. He glances at his watch, takes a moment to discern the clock from under the glare caused by the surrounding brightness.

3:49.

His ride should have been here four minutes ago-

"Disculpe, señor," a rich baritone calls from the other side of the narrow road, "usted es Anthony DiNozzo?"

He squints at the man now jogging over toward him, replying with an uncertain, "Um, sí?"

The stranger approaches with a warm smile lighting up his young face. He can't be any older than twenty-five, with smooth tanned skin and bright, dark eyes. He's dressed smartly in pressed charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt with the cuffs turned over his forearms, the top two buttons undone at the collar. A gun is holstered at his hip and his badge reflects brightly beside it. He extends a hand toward Tony and asks flawlessly, "English is okay, yes?"

And Tony nods gratefully, accepting the handshake with a firm grip and a trademark smile, "You must be Agent Salvatella?"

"Call me Diego," Diego replies easily. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the sharp trill of a cell phone interrupts whatever it was he had to say. Tony reaches into his jacket out of instinct, forgetting momentarily that his phone isn't there, that he left it back in D.C., its dismantled pieces in several different locations.

"Hola-" Diego says, but a brisk voice talks over him, muffled sounds loud enough to reach Tony's ears several feet away though the words spoken remain incoherent. Diego rolls his eyes heavenward and Tony offers a look of commiseration because, after all, impatient bosses are a transcontinental occurrence.

"Miguel," Diego continues pleasantly, but his casual air slips from his face as Miguel conveys something else. "Right," Diego agrees, nodding absently, "I understand. Of course. See you in ten. Ciao." And the call is disconnected as the Spaniard sighs.

"My apologies," he says, turning his attention back to Tony, who is doing his best to give the other man some privacy. "That was el jefe. Apparently Director Vance has upped the meeting time by a half hour. Your debriefing is in ten minutes."

"How far do we have to go?"

Diego shrugs, walking past Tony and indicating the golf cart parked in the direction in which Diego had come. "Not far."

...

The MTAC feed is set up in a bedroom in one of the on-base houses. A wide screen stretches across the far wall with several computer stations flanking it, a tangle of wires woven across the floor and several chairs gathered around a conference table. The windows have been blacked out with heavy cloth and while the setup isn't D.C. caliber technological, it is impressive.

"Usually," Diego explains, "we do this kind of thing in the main building, but seeing as this is a, ah, delicate situation, we decided to take a more covert approach."

Diego takes a seat before a computer, pressing buttons, checking wires, entering an occasional password. Tony follows suit, sinking into the chair beside the younger man, and belatedly realizing that Diego is the resident tech specialist.

The SMPTE colored bars give way to a split screen image of both Vance and Clay Jarvis, the former looking wholly un-amused, as per usual, and the latter looking deceptively amiable.

"Hola," Jarvis begins, "Agents Salvatella, DiNozzo. I see you made it in well."

"Secretary Jarvis," Diego greets, "I did not realize you were joining us, sir."

"Yes, well, I felt my inclusion in this operation was vital."

"Of course, sir," Diego agrees with a nod before turning his attention to the left half of the screen. "Director Vance, it is good to see you again."

"And you, Diego. Now, let's get down to business –there's been a change in the game."

Tony immediately goes on edge, straightening up in his chair, intent on catching every word, every hidden meaning. Because there's been a change of plans, which means the original has been compromised. Which means this may not have been the best of ideas. "What kind of changes?" he asks plainly, a hint of wariness creeping into his voice.

Vance regards him with a stare most likely pilfered from Gibbs before sighing tiredly, "Aleksandra Moreau is dead."

It takes a moment for Tony to catch up, for the news and its every implication to register, and when comprehension finally dawns, it's very evident in the agent's countenance. "Isn't she who I was supposed to be handling?"

"Yes."

"So the mission's scraped?"

"No," and Vance says it like the alternative is obvious.

"No?" Tony parrots dubiously. "With all due respect, Director, Mr. Secretary, how do you conduct a mole hunt without a mole? Or, at least, the one person who actually knew the mole."

Vance presses a button on his computer and a black and white still shot appears on screen.

She's beautiful, in an exotic, indefinable sort of way. Obsidian eyes glance over a slender shoulder as she looks behind her before, presumably, climbing into the dark sedan in the background. Dark hair cascades in loose curls down the back of a heavy coat and her breath plums around her face and it was decidedly cold when the photo was taken. She has a pale, heart-shaped face and strong yet delicate features and a strong, regal presence is conveyed even in the unassuming grayscale image. Tony immediately recognizes the photograph from the file Jarvis had handed him nearly a month ago.

"Aleksandra Elizaveta Moreau, maiden name Tarasova, born December 1, 1981, in Saint Petersburg, Russia," Vance begins, mostly for Diego's benefit since Tony has been read in this far already. "Her mother, a concert cellist, died in 1987; her father, a pharmacist, died last year. Aleksandra attended Saint Petersburg State University, graduating with a degree in international law; which is how we believe she came to be one the most infamous arms dealers in world, and, later, a one of the main go-betweens for exchanging government information. She works mostly with Eastern European nations, but within the past two years it's become apparent that she's extended her services to Middle Eastern groups."

"And she's dead," Diego states for clarification.

"Yes."

"Damn."

"My sentiment exactly, Agent Salvatella."

Another picture appears onscreen, this one of a man in his late thirties, with light colored hair and grey-blue eyes. In the photo, he's watching something off frame, the hint of a smile toying with his mouth. He's handsome, with strong features and a distinguished air similar to Aleksandra's. Neither Tony nor Diego have ever seen this man before.

"Rene Otto Moreau," Vance introduces. "Born November 21, 1971, in a small village outside Toulouse, France. His father left shortly after he was born; he was raised by his mother and grandmother. He attended law school at Harvard University, but was called home to take care of his ailing mother, she died in 1991. He met Ms. Tarasova at the Louvre in Paris in late 1998 –they married in 2006. He's a financial consultant, at least, when he's not with missus.

"They have a flat in Saint Petersburg and in Paris, though they live out of hotels when travelling. The Pentagon believes Aleksandra's worth around 4.8 million.

"They were found dead three days ago on a roadside in rural Russia. Their car had run off the road and they froze to death."

"It was an accident?" Tony asks dubiously.

Vance nods grimly, "As far as we can tell, yes."

"So where does that leave us?" Diego interjects, motioning to himself and Tony.

"Agent DiNozzo," Jarvis says. "You will be assuming the identity of Rene Monreau."

Somehow, Tony manages to keep the shock out of his expression. And, of course, there's a major flaw in this plan: "What about Aleksandra? Isn't she the one with the connections?"

Jarvis nods and Vance obtains the appearance of someone incredibly piqued. "There's another agent in place already as Aleksandra. Listen, Agent DiNozzo, this is an extremely sensitive matter, all our efforts made in last decade overseas can be compromised with this leak, the mole must be dealt with as soon as possible. Failure of the mission is not optional. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you have no reservations about taking on this operation, you understand what you must do, what you may lose?"

McGee, Abby, Gibbs.

Ziva.

I have nothing left to lose, sir.

"Yes, sir."

"Agent Salvatella," Jarvis turns to face Diego, who sits up straighter in his chair. "You're the point man as we discussed."

"Sí, señor."

"You're DiNozzo's only connection to our world."

"Sí, señor. I understand."

"Do either of you have any questions, any concerns?" Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Tony and Diego exchange glances, and both men shake their heads. Jarvis looks pleased and Vance still maintains the appearance of having a bad taste in his mouth.

Jarvis smiles, "In that case, Operation Antenora is a go. Good luck, gentlemen."