Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of the NCIS characters.
One step at a time, Gibbs climbed the stairs to the Director's office. His head was filled with thoughts of Ziva and Tel Aviv. He knew in the back of his head that her motion to stay in Israel was her own choice, something she had decided to do because she felt it was best for her. She had always been a responsible agent, but Gibbs couldn't shake the steady feeling in his gut that her father had been a major influence in that decision. He walked into Director Vance's office leaving the door wide open. Vance straightened up from his paperwork.
"Went over the personnel files like you asked. There's a couple that stood out. Both would be a good fit," he said after tossing two thick manila file folders on the conference table.
Vance motioned to the files. "Take your pick."
Gibbs took in a deep breath. "I'll let you know in a few months," he sighed as he turned and started for the door.
"Yeah. I knew it couldn't be that easy. You think she might ask to come back?"
Gibbs paused at the door and turned, his hand still on the knob. "I'm just giving her time. That's all."
"Time to what?" Vance questioned.
"Remember," Gibbs paused, scenes of Ziva working in the field flashing through his mind. "Who she can trust."
"Let me make it easy for you, Gibbs. You made the right call."
Well, gee, thanks. "I wasn't asking for your opinion, Leon."
The Director stepped forward from the head of the table. "Just who the hell do you think you're talking to?" he demanded.
Gibbs forcefully shut the office door. "Good damn question." He made his way forward and squared up with Vance. "I've been wondering 'bout that for a while."
"You know you spend half your time second guessing me. Studying me. Testing me." Vance looked at Gibbs straight in the eye.
"I'm looking for answers," Gibbs countered. He raised an eyebrow.
"It would help if you'd ask the damn questions," Vance challenged.
Gibbs kept his mouth shut. He thought back to the sealed file Kort had handed him months ago. He remembered the extreme frustration and annoyance that accompanied his anger when he tried to rebuild his team. He thought back to Vance hiding everything during the Tyler case in Chicago. Which question to ask first? Vance smirked.
"There's the rub. You don't have a clue what to ask. You don't trust me but you don't know why."
"You wanna talk about trust?" Gibbs shot, "What about tearing apart my team last year? There was no warning. There was no discussion." Anger boiled in his stomach.
"Is that what this is about? You want to sit in the big chair."
It was a statement and he had said it with a raised voice.
Not today. "No I don't. I want to trust whoever does sit there," Gibbs indicated at the leather armchair behind Vance's gleaming mahogany desk. "I wanna protect my team."
"Like Ziva? Okay, fine. You made a decision to leave her in Tel Aviv, I supported you. And now you might want to let her back. Why?"
"Because whatever she might have done, I trust her... for what I know she did."
Gibbs thought of his own sniper rifle being aimed at his head. Ari slinking around his basement, chatting about being innocent – about not sending a round through Kate's forehead. Hearing the shot ring out. Seeing Ari's blood pooling on his basement floor. Feeling the sweat on Ziva's hand after he briskly pressed his fingers to her palm as a sign of comfort.
"Four years ago –"
"She saved your life," Vance interrupted. "By shooting and killing her half-brother Ari."
Gibbs stared at Vance. He'd never told a soul about that night. Neither had Ziva...
"I told you the chair was big. Ari was out of control, so Ziva's father sent her to eliminate him. She kills Ari, earns your trust. Two birds, one bullet. Eli played you."
Gibbs felt like he'd swallowed something too large for his throat.
"Regardless Gibbs," Vance continued, "up until now Ziva's always been loyal to this agency. Now, I know you don't want to hear this, Gibbs, but now you have to trust me. And if you're right about Ziva's allegiance to you, she'll serve us well at Mossad."
"Yeah?" Gibbs countered, "And if you're right about her father..."
Gibbs deeply prayed that Ziva could overpower those who had trained her. He shook his head.
"...we'll never see her again."
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He leaned on the railing of the balcony and looked down upon the bustling squad room. Gibbs saw McGee at his desk, leaning his head on his hand and staring at his computer screen. As he made his way down the stairs, he checked Tony's desk and took in the pathetic form of his slumped shoulders, left arm in its sling. His free hand was flipping open his cellphone. Gibbs approached Tony's desk and saw his thumb hovering over the call button. Ziva's cell number lit up the screen.
Gibbs surveyed Tony's face. He noticed the same fusion of worry, anger, confusion, and despair hidden in his eyes that he, himself, had felt upon returning to NCIS. They both understood the emptiness of a missing piece.
"Guess she'll call when she's ready," Tony said.
McGee looked at Gibbs expectantly. Gibbs opened his mouth to state a fact that might comfort them both, but nothing came. He bit the inside of his cheek and walked over to sit down at his desk, all the while, feeling McGee's eyes on his back. When he looked up, the agent had placed his head in his hand and went back to staring at his computer screen.
He took a glance at Ziva's desk, empty now except for the office phone, computer, and lamp. He didn't want to have to start all over again, rebuilding the team to try to cover her absence. He didn't want to deal with the various moods he could see his team experiencing for the next month. He couldn't let this issue disappear.
Tony flipped his cellphone shut with a clap of finality.
He knew he was going to get to the bottom of this one way or another.
His gut told him so.
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Somalia, Horn of Africa
A tan, muscular man made his way down a dusty corridor toward a soldier keeping watch over a large, wooden door. His heavy boots were muffled by loose sand on the floor. Metal jingled from the small ammo pouch hooked onto his belt. He placed a half-smoked cigarette between his lips, extracted a lighter from his pocket, and lit the guard's cigarette. Smoke wafted around their heads. The man forcefully slid a rusted bolt out of place to creak open the heavy wooden door it belonged to.
The room was lit solely by outside sunlight filtering in through two half-arched windows. Dust floated everywhere. A single straight-back chair held a bent and broken-looking prisoner, bound by the wrists and ankles.
The man walked into the room and stood a foot away from the bound captive. He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground close to a growing pile, and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. A coil of smoke quickly stemmed toward the ceiling.
Looking down at the captive tied helplessly to the chair, he apprehended an overwhelming weakened state. The officer reached forward and grasped a small charm dangling from the prisoner's neck, which he then clenched in his fist and pulled free. On his fingers rested a small Star of David, its chain glinting in the sunlight.
The man grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked back the prisoner's head. A gasp echoed in the stone room. He looked at the dirty skin, the beading sweat, the split lip, the bruised, bleeding eye.
"Tell me everything you know about NCIS."
And with that, Ziva clenched her jaw, mentally preparing for the excruciating pain that was to come.