I'm over a month late. Typical, but I love you.
Thank you for all the faves, the follows, the notes and reviews. You are all amazing. I am honored every single time.
xoxo
. . . .
Glass and ash. Charred sandstone. Burned books. Fahrenheit 451. Tony toes aside some twisted metal. "There's nothing there," he quotes, voice high and nasal. "The books have nothing to say!"
Ziva crouches in the soot. The hem of her skirt is black with it. "You're standing in the hashkafa section, Tony. Jewish philosophy. A popular subject with certain sects of Hasidim."
He tiptoes deeper into the mire. "Philosophy?! That's worse than the novels!"
"Most Hasidim and Chareidim do not read novels," she replies. Her voice is so soft. "Only religious texts are permitted."
Tony finds an unexploded Molotov cocktail and grins. The fingerprints are so obvious that Abby won't even have to dust it. Gotcha, punks. "And what about you Zee-vah David, do you waste your precious time with lowly literature?"
She looks crestfallen. "You know I do, Tony."
Angry Ziva makes him flirty and impish. Sad Ziva makes him hurt in some strange, hidden place. He flicks it away like the moth fluttering around the beam of his Maglite. "You bookworms are always spoiling the films for us mere mortals."
She gazes at him again with those dark, empty eyes and points at the floor. Accelerant. Those Seek-reek-eem probably tossed a firebomb right through the display window. He crouches and snaps two photos with his phone.
Ziva tackles him. It is totally hot when she shoves him into an alcove and presses against him. They are chest-to-chest. She holds her breath. He can feel her pulse beneath her thin shirt. Voices echo beyond the back walls of the bookstore. They swell and fade. So do two sets of footsteps. "They were looking for us," Ziva finally whispers.
Her hand is still clutching the front of his shirt. He exhales slowly, hoping she doesn't let go. "Who?"
"I do not know. I did not recognize the voice, but I heard him ask about you."
He goes red though it is very dark. "Me?"
She puts her lips close to his ear. "You are the only handsome American federal agent in Jerusalem, Tony."
He spends a very long half-minute thinking about a cold shower. Even still, his heart is still pounding as he sweeps along beside her, stuffing evidence bags into his knapsack as they walk. She veers off before they cross the main drag, slips into a narrow alley and up a set of stone steps. There is a hobbit-door on the right. She knocks, there is some noise, and then she utters what Tony thinks is a secret password.
Sometimes this federal agent business is really, really cool.
An old man answers. He is wizened, with a long, white beard and brittle-looking fingernails. Ziva speaks to him quietly in Hebrew and he smiles, lets them in.
Inside is like a cave, with soft, yellow light and a low ceiling. There is a desk and a stack of parcels all marked with international postage. Ziva hands Tony a slip of paper. He can't read what's printed on it. "Sign," she sighs, and adds almost as an afterthought: "Please."
He scrawls his name on the only line. The wizard takes it, licks the corner, sticks it like magic to the evidence envelopes, and shoos them out the door. Tony follows Ziva's narrows skirt down to the main road, where she pauses for the signal. The cars slide by under the streetlights.
"Who was that?" he asks casually.
She watches traffic. "A friend."
"Does friend have a name? Merlin, maybe?"
"DovBer."
"Is he one of these ultra-hairy guys?"
She unlocks the door to their borrowed apartment and peels off her headscarf. He wants to run his fingers through her hair. "He is religious, yes."
"Would he give you a whack for touching my arm?"
She glares. "He is shomer negiah. He believes touching should happen only between a married couple, and only in private. Public displays of affection are not appropriate."
His Officer and a Gentleman fantasy is gone in a puff of holy smoke. "How did you do this?" he demands.
Ziva's gaze is so distant. "Do what, Tony? I need to call Abby and McG—"
"All this no," he snaps. "Everywhere, everything—no. No film, no holding hands, no good food, no good books. Everything is just no and you lived like that."
Her shoulders slump. She crosses her arms. Empty empty empty, Tony thinks. She's Sunset Boulevard. No comeback for Ziva David; no bright lights await her, no close-up. If he touches her now she will most certainly crumble.
"My mother was alive," she says softly. The whole world shifts on its axis. She turns her vacant gaze on him. "Everything was easier."
Tony feels ill. He sits on the sofa to keep from fainting. Ziva turns away, opens her laptop. "I will email McGee now. The parcel should arrive by oh-seven-hundred."
He puts his head back and blows out a hard breath. He is tired and aching. Neither of them has slept in days. "I'll be back at the yeshiva by then."
She is typing. "Yes."
Tony drifts. Hunger is creeping on him, but Ziva makes no mention of food so he stays put and fantasizes about bacon. Lots of bacon. Bacon and eggs. BLTs. Bacon cheeseburgers. Bacon Bloody Marys. Chicken-fried bacon. Candied bacon. A bacon martini and some chocolate-bacon-covered pretzels. Or bacon-flavored potato chips in front of a football game, and Gibbs pounding on the door. Bacon pizza's getting cold, DiNozzo.
But the pounding is real. Ziva leaps from her seat, reaches for a weapon she is not carrying. "Easy," Tony warns gently, but doesn't get up.
Yarmulke and Baby Face have no offerings this time. "Come with us," Baby Face says to Ziva. "We need you now at Headquarters."
"No," she retorts, not looking at them. She is so quiet.
"It's not a request."
"I do not work for you!" she explodes, and flings one finger at the door. "Get out!"
Tony gets up, but says nothing. He loves her anger.
"You are making a mistake," Yarmulke wheedles.
Baby Face looks scared. "Let's go, Yosef," he whines. "She's made her choice."
Ziva glares. Yarmulke shrugs. "I am telling you—this is a mistake."
She gestures dismissively. "Get out."
They slink out like stray dogs. Tony flops back down on the couch. He'd been bracing for a fight and now he is sapped.
"Get up," Ziva demands. "Pack your things. I am calling Vance right now to make travel arrangements. We are done here."
He wants to kiss her. "The Zellers case—"
Her gaze finally focuses. "We will finish at home, Tony."
Home. He stretches, whips out his roll-aboard, stuffs in the dress shirts and trousers. He'll play the dry cleaner double to get the old-book-herring stink out of them. Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.
Ziva folds her long skirts and modest blouses. All her clothes fit in the bottom of a knapsack. She rolls her headscarves into knots. Tony could watch her small, tidy hands all day.
"You must be hungry," she says softly. "Come. I will take you for a steak."
He follows like a puppy. "I love steak."
She chuckles and drops the key into her skirt pocket. She did not change her clothes. He probably looks like an ogre in his chinos and rumpled button-down, but they are going home and he does not care. Screw you, ultra-hairies! he wants to shout. We'll get you yet! And with bacon!
Ziva walks straight and tall onto the street and turns to look at him, mouth open. She is there again, and is going to say something, or laugh, or maybe reach for his hand, but there are muffled Hebrew orders and they are torn apart. A gun barrel is jammed in Tony's kidneys and he sees blue spots. He will piss blood for a month.
"My little friend," Leibel grunts in his ear. "Your kallah is too chutzpadik for her own good." The gun barrels digs in harder. Tony bites hard on his bottom lip. Leibel laughs. "Or yours."
"Get off me, Cake Boy," he grunts, but both hands are dragged behind him and zip-tied. He is shoved, but not by Leibel because the gun doesn't move.
"Sit," someone else commands, and kicks his feet out from under him. Tony goes down hard. He looks up; it's Nachum and his too-big pants. He's leveling an AK-variant shotgun at Tony's head.
He is dumbstruck. "How'd you get that?"
Nachum grins and says nothing. Leibel says something in Hebrew, and yet another voice responds, though Tony cannot see who owns it. There is scuffling and a wet crunch. A man oofs. Ziva groans. Tony's skin ripples. He rises to fight, but the gun presses so hard against his back that his vision darkens and he sinks again onto the stone sidewalk.
"No, ya don't," Nachum says simply, and cracks him hard across the head.
Hey, he wants to say. Even his thoughts are slurring. That hurrrrt. He is going to vomit.
A door slams. A car engine roars to life. Tony concentrates—European model, heavy, crappy mileage. Older Mercedes, maybe. One of the 500 models. E-Class? It is headed northwest.
Leibel pulls the gun away. Tony's vision clears and brightens slowly, but by then they are gone and he is sitting on Chevrat Tehillim Street, possibly alone. It is deadly quiet aside from his pounding heart. "Ziva?"
Silence. He is hot and cold at once.
"Zee-vah," he pants. The streetlights are whirling above him. He is still so hungry. "Hey, c'mon. Don't play this game right now."
Sitting proves to be too much. He lies back on his still-bound arms. They will go numb. Traffic whooshes by on the one of the wider avenues. The noise is funneled down the narrow side-street. It bounces off the tall buildings and he concentrates on the clicks of the traffic light. Red-yellow-green. The buzz of taxi engines. Four cycles. Eight. Twenty. He is lying there for a minute or an hour.
"Ziva?" he tries again, but there is no answer. They have taken her. He hates himself.
A hand jams under his armpit and cranks him upright. Birds circle his heavy head. They chirp Ziva Ziva Ziva.
"Ata b'seder?"
Tony's head spins. He'd puke, but there's nothing in there. "I'm..." he grunts, and swallows. "I'm an American!"
"Well are you ok, Mr. American?"
He can look up now. The face that greets him belongs to a kid. His eyes are shaded by a wide-brimmed black fedora. "I was...mugged," he fumbles.
The kid pulls him off the sidewalk and cuts the zip-tie with a knife Tony doesn't see. He wears a bulging blue backpack. "Happens all the time. They get your wallet?"
Tony checks his pockets and sways. No phone, no wallet, no passport. He's been stripped. "Yeah. And my phone."
"You're bleeding. Want to come back to my house? My father is a doctor. He can help you."
It's tempting, but for all he knows this blue-eyed kid with a Midwestern accent is one of those Seek-reek-eem and Tony will be gutted for his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. "Uh, no thanks. I need..."
He needs what exactly? He holds no ID, no currency, no map, no guidebook. He doesn't speak the language. He may as well be a newborn. He feels like one, with the desert-night air cool on his sweaty skin and his head sticky with blood from Nachum Big-Drawers. He has to think hard.
"You know DovBer?" he warbles.
Kid scowls. "He's in kita gimmel."
"No, the old man. Merlin. Has lots of postage."
And by the grace of the Holy Land, Kid smiles. "Yeah, I do."
"Can you take me there? I need...uh...some stamps."
Kid shrugs. His blue backpack goes up-down. "Sure ya do," he sighs, but turns and walks Tony back across Me'a Shearim, across the wide avenue with the traffic like a waterfall, into the alley, up the steps. "Here," he says unnecessarily. "You sure you're ok? I can run home and get some soup or something."
Tony is oddly moved. "I'm ok. What's your name, kid?"
"Avraham," he says, and takes off his hat. There's a yarmulke underneath. Isn't his skinny neck tired from all that headwear? "Avi."
"Thanks for your help, Avi. Be safe getting home."
Avi nods, replaces his hat, and strides away. He walks like a grown man. Tony knocks and waits.
"Seesma?" Merlin says.
"It's Tony," he says back. "I'm Ziva's friend."
A thousand locks click open and there is Merlin, wizard-y as ever. He peers at Tony over wire-rimmed readers. "Where is she?"
"Gone," he says heavily. He is still standing at the threshold. "Can I come in?"
Merlin steps aside. Tony shuffles into the cave and sits heavily on a low divan without asking permission. His back, he realizes, is still shouting at him.
Merlin hands him a cold towel and a glass of ice water. "Clean yourself up and tell me what happened."
"Ziva threw out the Mossad creepers and then we were going out for steak and they were there and my head is a tetherball and she is gone."
Merlin puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. "Try again. Slower. I think you have a concussion."
"We were investigating Michael Zellers' death," he begins again, breathing through his nose. "Mossad thinks Seek-reek-eem are involved, so I went undercover at Ohr Somayach to check it out. Found a bunch of shadiness, guys showing Ziva's picture around, and then I came back to hear about some punk named Smuchinsky and a firebomb attack at the Bookstore on...on..." His mind goes blank. He swallows saliva. "Hava Negilah Street?"
Merlin nods. "Manny's on Chavakuk. I know. Go on."
"We brought you the evidence and went back to the apartment. Those Mossad guys came over, but Ziva threw them out and called the Director of NCIS to bring us home. That's when—"
He nods and nods some more. "I understand. I will call my contacts. They will give us some direction. Do you know who took her? Was it Yosef?"
"I didn't get a good look. Nachum nailed me with the butt of his rifle." He leaves out the part about Fat Leibel.
"You need stitches. Call your superiors and tell them what happened."
A portable telephone is pressed into his hand. It is heavy. "Are the landlines safe?"
"Safe as houses," Merlin says. His back is turned. He is tapping away at a computer terminal that looks as old as McGee. "Call."
The numbers blur. Tony has to count across the keypad to make sure he is pressing the right ones. Gibbs answers on the second ring. Tony doesn't bother to guess what time it is there.
"Yeah, Gibbs."
"They took Ziva."
Silence.
"They took me out and she's gone. They took her."
More silence.
"They took my ID, too, and my cash and my phone. I'm here with...a wizard. He knows Ziva. He's going to help us out."
"Where are you, DiNozzo?"
He thinks hard. "Me'a Shearim. Jerusalem. I'm in Merlin's cave."
"Who is Merlin, DiNozzo?"
Wizard McWizard-y holds out his hand. "Let me speak to him, please." Tony passes off the handset, feeling like a child asking for a playdate. "This is DovBer Markovic," he says.
There are uh-huhs and yes-es and Tony has to close his eyes. He feels seasick. The birds are pecking above his right eye now. Ziva would know how to make them go away.
The phone is cold when it touches his ear. Merlin is holding it. Or maybe it is levitating. "You have twenty-four hours to find her, DiNozzo," Gibbs growls.
"On it, Boss," he slurs. Or he thinks so, anyway. His mouth is numb. Is he drooling? "I'm on it."
. . . .
Blackness. Hebrew voices. A needle-stick in Tony's eyebrow and cool hands. He sniffs. His kidney is no longer trying to work its way out through his mouth.
"Easy," says a quiet male voice. It's close. Too close. Tony opens his eyes.
"I'm Chaim," a man says, his lips pink and rubbery inside his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. "DovBer called me to stitch up your keppe. Your wife is missing."
His wife. Ziva would shank him for that. "Yes," he agrees.
Tiny scissors snip and there is a tug, but no pain. "No scar," Chaim says. "Go wash your face. We need to go soon."
Go? Two hands help him up. He stumbles into a small washroom, uses the facilities, splashes water over and into his mouth. He studies his reflection—some bruising, three stitches, nothing major—and smooths his shirt. He is not wearing the one Ziva used to drag him into that alcove at the bookstore.
A knock. "Are you ok?" Chaim calls.
"Yeah," he says, and aches for his missing partner. "Gimme a minute."
He straightens his belt, his shirt, his hair, and steps out. The cave has been transformed into a command center. There is a screen on the wall and a table before it. Two new laptops are out and open. Merlin motions for him to sit.
"My informant tells me they saw a Mossad vehicle on Route 443, near Modi'in. It was traveling west. They're probably through the checkpoint by now."
Tony's heart is pounding. "Was Ziva in the car?"
"Unknown."
It sinks. "Then how do they know it was a Mossad vehicle?"
Chaim gives him a soft smile. "No one else would drive a Mercedes in Israel."
Heh. Tony: 1. Bad guys: 0. He'd been right about the carmaker.
"We suspect they're headed for a Mossad outpost near Netanya, likely with a stop in Tel Aviv. If Ziva is in the vehicle, I'm sure they would drop by the Acting Director's office."
"They want her," he moans. "They're falling apart."
Merlin tugs his beard. "Hopefully that means this will be easy."
Chaim shrugs. "Hopefully that means they won't kill her."
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks of Somalia and how Saleem-goddamned-Ulman dragged Ziva in with that bag over her head, how she'd walked dead, talked dead, smelled dead and then they'd shlepped her out like a sack of potatoes. His mouth is dry. He wants to spit, but these ultra-hairies probably have rules about that, too.
An old-fashioned telephone rings. Merlin pushes a button and Abby appears on the screen. "Tony!" she bursts.
He feels awkward. "Hey, Abby."
"What happened?"
He holds his useless hands out. "They took her."
"Well you just go get her back. Her cell phone is pinging near Kfar Chabad."
Chaim nods. "We're going there now."
She waves and flashes Tony the sign for I love you.
Merlin rises, pockets a set of keys and a tiny flashlight. "The car is out front."
Tony doesn't know where the hell the front is. He stands, swaying. Chaim guides him out another hobbit door to a tiny Japanese car. It looks like a toy.
"You gotta me kidding me."
The passenger door is held open. He sits. It's not as uncomfortable as it looks. The dash is flashing red lights and the speedo jumps when Merlin revs the engine. They jolt over the cobblestones. Chaim buckles his seatbelt.
The headlights sweep over the street signs. Tony is too bleary to read them. They are headed west. There is a thin line of bluish light at the horizon. He focuses on that to keep from throwing up. This is unlike any concussion he has ever had.
They roll to a stop at the Central Bus Station. Tony holds his breath; they're not going to throw him out, are they?
No. Avi—Backpack Boy—climbs in the back seat. "Hi, Abba," he greets Chaim.
The hairs rise on Tony's neck. He has walked into a trap.
"Hi, DovBer," Avi says again. "How are you?"
"Thank God," DovBer replies lightly, and pulls back into traffic. The sun is rising. They are driving toward it and Tony will be dead without having ever seen Ziva again. He considers throwing himself out onto the berm, but the dash blips and Abby's voice comes over the speakers.
"Phone's still pinging in Kfar Chabad. Who does Ziva know there?"
"Shlomo," Chaim says.
Tony thinks these names are getting ridiculous. And maybe he isn't going to die. "What do we know about him?"
"He's ok," Avi says. "Don't worry."
Don't worry. Right. And Tony has a bridge to sell.
They approach a checkpoint. It is lit up like a stadium, with floodlights and flashers and two IDF soldiers carrying automatic weapons.
"We must hang up," DovBer says, and pushes a button on the dash. Abby is gone. He waves an ID card at the man in the booth and they are allowed through. The sky is growing lighter. Tony can make out barbed wire, a stockade wall, and then it is gone and they are merging onto a freeway.
The sun rises. The golden light on the hillsides is magical. Tony sees Ziva in everything, even in the face of the young policeman who flags them on the highway. They slow and stop. He comes to the window and looks across DovBer to Tony.
"We need you," he says, and crooks one brown finger. His nameplate says Benzakai.
Tony gets out. The heat of the pavement comes up through his shoes. Benzakai leads him to the guardrail and points down the hillside. Yosef's body lays among the bleach-white boulders, pants around his ankles, head a bloody pulp.
"We believe Ziva David left evidence for you. Please, come with me."
They climb over the railing, inch down among the thorns and sage. Loose gravel falls on Yarmulke Yosef's ruined head. His exposed thighs are gross and white and his knuckles are torn and bruised. Tony mouth-breathes.
"There and there," Benzakai says, pointing—Ziva's necklace, a lock of Ziva's hair. Both laid out like boy scout trail markers.
Tony walks a grid, looking for blood, footprints, broken branches—anything—but there is nothing but more scrub and rocks. He pockets her necklace and climbs back up. Cars slash by on the freeway and DovBer stands with his hands behind his back.
"It is her work," he says.
Tony nods.
"I feel strongly that she is with Shlomo. We will go to Kfar Chabad now. Come, Tony. The police will collect evidence and send it to your laboratory in Washington."
The points of the Star of David poke through his pockets. It is the only comfort he has been afforded since they touched down at Camp Anatot. He wants to weep.
Weep and eat bacon.
"Come," DovBer repeats. His Merlin-beard floats in the breeze of passing cars. Tony gets in, slams the door, and they are off to Slow-mo in Keffir-something. There they will find Ziva. He will fawn over her bruises and tell her she is brave and kiss her in full view of all these ultra-hairies, because screw 'em—he loves her.
And bacon.
