False Flags
by the stylus
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their creators. The author makes no money from this work.
A/N: No one ever explored how Jenny and Ziva met. So I thought I might. In canon, pre-series-- and it might meander a bit. As always, all thoughts are most welcome.
She saved my life in Cairo two years ago.
Juliana Sandham leant back from the waist until her spine cracked with a satisfyingly sharp noise. She straightened and rolled her head, trying to loosen the kinks that had developed in her neck from crouching over the open containers that stretched endlessly in the tent's bilious shade. She swiped the back of a hand across her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes, mentally cursing the decision to run this operation in the summer months.
"Jules!" Magda's voice made her turn. The Czech woman stood at the tent's entrance peering into the gloom.
"Yeah?" She moved toward Magda's figure, a dark shape outlined against the bright sun.
"Hassan is back. Can you talk to him?" Magda spoke, as far as she could tell, about nine languages. It was unfortunate that none of them happened to be Arabic.
"Sure." Carefully avoiding treading on any of the neatly packed cartons of food and medical supplies she moved toward the entrance. Magda held the flap back as she exited, hastily pulling her dark sunglasses from her pocket. Before now, she'd never really understood how bright the sun could be. All the fantasies she'd been harboring of warm weather after her time in Russia had been burnt out of her in the first two months in Rafah. Now, she had fond visions of Alpine meadows and iced lemonade. She'd have to settle for a cup of tea with Hassan.
Across the compound in the tiny, sweltering building that housed their offices, she smiled at Hafiza, their local secretary and master of all things, and greeted her guest as he rose.
"As salaam alaykum." She held out her hand.
"Wa alaykum as-salam," he responded, shaking her hand. His browned, handsome face broke into a smile. "It is good to see you again, Juliana," he said.
"And you." She gestured for him to follow her toward the back corner of the bare room where the tea things were set out on a rickety pressboard table. They continued to exchange pleasantries while she prepared and poured the tea, and she found herself relaxing into the flow of the language, her thoughts moving from English to Arabic with a newfound ease.
Only when the first cup of tea had been drunk and she was pouring more did he announce his real business.
"We have made arrangements for distribution of the supplies in Gaza next week. I have brought the paperwork." He patted the canvas shoulder bag slung beside his chair. "The children will be particularly excited," he said, smiling conspiratorially.
She smiled back, thinking about the precious shipment of school supplies—colored pencils, markers, stickers—that she had been packing in the crates. The children would be excited, since the restrictions on the movement of goods had put such things at a premium. They shared a moment of silence, and she found herself thinking again what an objectively beautiful man Hassan was.
"I have good news as well," she said, finally. "We have managed to procure some extra resources." The casual listener, like Hafiza, would assume she had simply flubbed the local idiom, but Hassan leant forward and all trace of levity disappeared.
"That is good news," he said. She outlined the arrangements in their established code, transforming armaments and technology into a list of bandages and construction supplies guaranteed to bore even the most avid listener. And there were none. Hafiza was on the phone, arguing vociferously with a minor bureaucrat, and other than the single fly lazily patrolling the ceiling, they were the only two other occupants of the office.
She sat back when the recitation was finished. "Good, very good," Hassan mused. "You will send them in the usual way?"
She nodded. "You know I am always looking for ways to help the cause."
"The appreciation of our people is without limit."
She poured the last of the tea into their cups. "How is your family?" she enquired.
"They are well. I have told them about you—about how much you care about our cause, how diligently you work. They are very impressed."
She sipped and remained silent, although her heart was beating double-time with the implications.
"In fact, they are eager to meet you." The waves of relief and trepidation that swept over her left her feeling clammy, even in this heat.
When she spoke, her voice was rock-steady. "It would be an honor."
He inclined his head. "I will make the arrangements." He then drained his cup. She followed suit and stood.
"Thank you for coming."
"As always, I thank you for your hospitality."
They crossed to the threshold. "Thanks, dude!" he said cheekily over his shoulder in heavily accented English as he left. Despite herself, she snickered.
She stood for a moment breathing as deeply as was possible in the oppressive heat. So she was going to meet the family. Well, it was what she'd wanted. She cast a look at the tea things, told herself she'd clean up later, and headed back to the supply tent, gathering her red hair into a loose ponytail as she went.
Magda met her halfway. "So? How is our handsome Hassan today?"
She shot the other woman a look. "He's fine."
"Just fine?"
"Just fine. What?" Magda had a strange look on her face, and at first she assumed it had to do with the good-natured ribbings she always endured after Hassan's visits. Then she realized Magda wasn't looking at her and turned around. A brown jeep was barreling down the dirt road to their headquarters at what looked to be at least twice the safe speed for the rutted track.
"Whoever that is has a death wish," Magda commented.
She smiled. "I'll go see what they want."
"You do that. Although if it's another cute man, remember that it's my turn."
She grinned and playfully shoved Magda's shoulder. "Go. Headquarters won't magically send us more supplies if you don't get the monthly evaluation written." The other woman made a dramatic gesture to indicate how much she was enjoying the process and headed back to the shade of the compound's lone tree, where she'd set up her laptop to catch any breeze that might happen to drift through.
Juliana headed in the direction of the jeep, now screeching to a stop in a cloud of dust. A dark haired woman climbed out of the driver's seat. Dark aviators covered her eyes, and her functional clothing—cotton, desert colored, littered with utility pockets—made her look like a hundred other aid workers Juliana had seen in hot climates. But as she studied the other woman, she immediately doubted her own conclusion. There was something about the newcomer that distinguished her. It was, for lack of a better word, her watchfulness. As she ambled closer, Juliana took her hands out of her pockets.
"Can I help you?" she asked in English.
The dark head turned in apparent surprise, although Juliana was perfectly aware that the other woman had been following her approach. "I am looking for Juliana Sandham." The English was accented but precise.
"You found her."
The sunglasses were shoved into the dark curls, and the brown eyes they revealed swept over her in a way that made her feel totally naked. Even the local men, who were professionals at undressing women with their eyes, hadn't made her feel so exposed with their gazes. Satisfied, the other woman stuck out her hand. "I am Ziva David."
End 1