A/N:I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, references, some dialogue + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain.

I'm publishing this in parts – which I don't like to do as a general rule – because I've been kicking the theme around for ages and I'm not sure I've nailed it. Just about complete thought-wise – still tinkering with bits & pieces. I'll try not to make it too drawn out though.

The timeline does jump around – I was tied to a couple of specific points. It should [?] all make sense in the end….

Again, the specifics of what happened to Ziva will be left deliberately ambiguous – fill in whatever you like.

The cases are really just a backdrop – hopefully they make enough sense to provide a framework. And there's a very good reason I'm not asked to write for a t.v. show.

The other Mossad chap on the wharf in Somalia was un-credited – so I gave him a name, just to be polite.

"An echo of the past in the future; a reflex from the future on the past"

Victor Hugo

Ziva's head hurt and, as she opened her eyes, the shimmering light stabbed in painfully. Her mouth was dry, pasty. She could taste blood and her throat was sore. It was hot, so hot, and stuffy – she could feel sweat trickling down her body. There was an odd, stale and dusty smell in her nostrils. It made the air seem even thicker and more suffocating. Most noticeable; it was strangely quiet. The only muffled noises she could hear were unfamiliar. Perhaps they had abandoned the camp. Perhaps they wouldn't kill her; just leave her. Perhaps this is how she would die; slowly and alone. Her back ached. Oddly, the skin didn't sting as it had done. Her arms were tied behind her. Yet, when she tried to move them, the chafed, raw patches on her wrists didn't announce their presence. Her hair seemed to be neatly braided. Something in her immediate impressions didn't make sense.

Her clothes were wrong too. Not the stained, torn cargo pants and tattered black t-shirt, nor the filthy man's shirt she had been wearing for – she didn't know how long at this point. Keeping track of time had waned into the realm of the futile and meaningless. An existential indulgence which served no purpose: if Mossad were interested in launching a rescue mission, it would have occurred by now. Only three people in the whole world knew, even vaguely, where she was: Eli, Malachi and Kaspit. Maybe the latter two hadn't made it out of Mogadishu alive – let alone reached Israel. Which would leave only Eli; his intelligence gathering operatus would have informed him she had not accomplished the mission. She had failed him. She had failed herself. And no-one would be coming to save her.

Despite the sunlight, she forced herself to open her eyes wider. Shadows danced and jumped around, tiny particles floated in the air. The faint shuffling sound grew louder. One of the shadows stopped flickering and lopsidedly loomed nearer. Ziva instinctively drew her legs up and found they, too, were bound but her feet weren't sore. Recoiling, shrinking away, she became was aware of her position - up against a pillar and sitting on the ground. It was puzzling. She didn't remember there being any pillars before. The floor she was sat upon was concrete; not dirt. Perhaps she had been left for longer than she realized and was already slipping into a dehydrated delirium.

Ziva squinted and blinked as she struggled to marshal the contradictory thoughts and perceptions in her mind. The dark shape stopped in front of her, its head to one side – like some strange, giant crow. Slowly the blurry outline coalesced into the form of a human figure.

"Thirsty?" The shadow inquired.

It was a man's voice; an American man's voice. Not one she recognized - a slightly Western, drawling accent.

Unreasonable relief flooded over her. Unreasonable: because, clearly, she was being held captive. Relief: because it was not in Somalia, as Saleem's prized prisoner. And self-reproach because she had been, briefly, frightened. She had permitted disorientation to revive memories which were neither to be recalled nor, were they to surface, cause a reaction.

She tried to clear her mind and piece the events together. It had been a routine call. An interview with someone, a person of interest, connected to their current case. Ziva and McGee had spent the day tracking him down to an abandoned building. Second Lieutenant Will Miller was a former Marine and, currently, homeless veteran. He had been suspicious but co-operative in answering their questions. There had seemed to be no danger and then, with sudden speed and unexpected strength, he had grabbed her. Expertly locking her in a sleeper hold and accessing her gun. Tony was going to tease her for the failure of her Ninja early warning system.

McGee had been caught by surprise as much as Ziva. Turning around from where he had been standing at a little distance from them; not quick enough to draw his weapon as he ordered Miller to release her. She also remembered the edge to Miller's voice as he assured McGee he could dispatch Ziva and still have time to drop Tim. Recognizing the confidence which, in many cases, would win the battle by itself; convince your opponent you not only could but would - without a second's thought. A strategy successfully employed by Ziva on many occasions. Bright flashes had burst and flashed before her eyes as the lack of oxygen took effect in a matter of seconds. The last thing she saw was the stunned, indecisive look on McGee's face as she lost consciousness.

"Are….you…thirsty?" Hesitant and uncertain: as if he was unused to conversing with people. "You must be thirsty?" Sounding as if he, whoever he might be, was as befuddled as Ziva.

"Yes." Ziva nodded.

Miller unscrewed the cap from a battered, military issue water canteen. He cautiously moved toward her, carefully avoiding the reach of Ziva's legs, and crouched down at her side - the maneuver slightly awkward and difficult. He held her head and placed the container against her lips. She rinsed her mouth with the first sip and spat out the gluey mix of blood and dust. Surprisingly, Miller gently dabbed at Ziva's mouth and chin with the collar of her shirt. Then he proffered the bottle a second time and she gratefully gulped down the cool water.

"Thank you." - casting a quick glance at her captor. He was not concealing his face. Normally, that would be an ominous indicator; kidnappers tend to kill anyone who might be able to identify them. However, the team already knew who was holding her. Moreover, Miller seemed concerned for her well-being.

"I'm sorry you hurt your face." Miller stood up, using the pillar to assist his movement. "My leg…" He gestured at his limb. "You hit your head when I was trying to set you down…"

"It is fine." She smiled reassuringly at him. "You did not mean to hurt me."

Ziva assessed her circumstances. They were in a different location to the one where the attack had unfolded. It was impossible to ascertain exactly how far they had traveled from the point of origin. Although she estimated it could not be any great distance due to Miller's lack of mobility. Ziva had no idea of the time. Judging by the quality of the sunlight pouring through dirty, broken panes of glass and a few gaping holes in the roof, it was early evening. Which would mean she had been with Miller for several hours; assuming McGee had returned to the Navy Yard, the search would have been launched instantly. She wondered about the fate of her cell; the GPS technology should be transmitting a signal.

"Not hurt." Adding almost half-heartedly, "but I can…will…if I have to…."

"I am a Federal Agent. I am certain you did not intend for this to happen." Ziva decided to ignore the attempted menace; keeping her voice calm and neutral. She might be able to persuade Miller to set her free of his own volition. "You should release me."

Ziva studied him. The military photograph had shown the man in earlier times. There was little trace of the fresh faced farm boy from Iowa in his features now. Remembering the details from his file; the commendations for bravery and the reason for his strange gait - wounded in Iraq by a roadside bomb. A terrible injury to his left leg had led to months in hospital, an honorable discharge and a fall through the cracks. Miller was only a few years older than herself and yet he appeared haggard and prematurely aged. Not just the result of a grinding, nomadic existence on the streets; there was a deeper disquiet to his manner. His eyes carried a muted torment.

"No." He limped away from her.

At present, Ziva accepted there were few available options for escape. Miller was obviously capable – despite being hampered by his wound. She was securely bound. He had cleverly utilized both twine and her handcuffs. And she was unarmed. He had taken her Sig., her back-up and her knife; in addition to any unknown weapons which might be in his possession. Until the advantage improved in her favor, the most advisable tactic was to remain passive.

"You have made a mistake. It would be better to remedy it now." She renewed her efforts at negotiation, "before there is any trouble."

Miller turned toward her, his expression anxious, muttering "A mistake…it was a mistake." He looked at Ziva. "I didn't see the mistake….no-one did. I told them, no-one saw the mistake….."

Ziva realized, with a sudden, growing sense of unease, her captor was more than physically damaged. Miller was mentally unstable which meant her predicament was more precarious than she had, initially, imagined. It was not possible to exert influence upon someone whose faculties for logic might be impaired. He would be grasping at reasoning which would be unpredictable and treacherous to follow.

As always, make of it what you will and hope you enjoy. Please do post a review if you have the time – I really appreciate them. Tell me what didn't work, what did or even you were bored rigid & I should stop!