False Flags

pt. 7


Eight hours later, Ziva had sore feet but little new information. She was fairly certain that they weren't holding Jenny in the apartment—it was too busy a building, with people in and out at all hours, children scampering all over, and windows that faced onto the street. They'd want somewhere more private if her suspicions were correct. And if that was the case, she needed more manpower.

Mikhail and his team arrived following her call. They weren't pleased about being pulled off their current op but dutifully met her at a nearby flat that Mossad kept for such contingencies.

"We need to track their movements," she said without preamble. "Thus far I have spied eight separate men entering and leaving the apartment, all at irregular times. There is no organized guard, which leads me to believe that this is primarily their living quarters. Business must be conducted elsewhere. Find out where and we may find Agent Shepard."

"It's Cairo," one of the team said bitingly. "Eighteen million people. Eighty square miles. And that's assuming that she's still in the city. Their headquarters could be anywhere. She could be anywhere. What the hell do you want us to do?"

"Your jobs," Ziva said coldly. She felt Mikhail step up to stand beside her. They had worked together before; and while she knew he was a cold-blooded bastard, he was also efficient and absolutely dependable.

"If you don't think you can handle it," he said quietly, "I am sure other work that is less challenging can be arranged."

The prospect of desk work was enough to cow his man, and the meeting broke up quickly after that. Ziva left last but didn't return to her base. She had claimed Sayf Udeen as her quarry, and the hunt was just beginning.


Ziva moved stealthily through the darkened streets, unsure whether she should be grateful that Sayf Udeen seemed to eschew motorized transportation. It certainly made it easier to keep track of him; but it wasn't doing her feet any favors. He paused, and she stepped back into the shadow of a closed fabric shop. When he moved on, she gave him a bit more room before following.

It was nearing three am and the humid darkness was palpable, closing like a hand around Ziva. They had already made several stops, including a particularly memorable hour when she'd been forced to hide in a bin that she ascertained, too late, contained the castoffs from a butcher. She had had plenty of time to hope the butcher was halal. But while she had a wealth of new information for Sayf Udeen's file, none of the stops had brought her any closer to finding Jenny.

They were moving steadily away from central Cairo, which meant fewer people on the street and shabbier buildings. Ziva hung further and further back until she nearly missed the moment between him entering a shadow and him entering the door that the shadow concealed. It led into a faceless building, devoid from the exterior of any signs of life. She slowly skirted the front entrance and squeezed down an alleyway at the side, reaching back to unholster her gun.

There were no windows. The location and the overwhelming smell of marjoram, as well as faded paint on the brickwork, led Ziva to believe that the building might once have been a spice warehouse; but that didn't help her discern an entrance. The backdoor did not yield to her gentle pressure, and she suspected it was bolted from the inside.

A quick search of the surrounding property revealed little else that was helpful. There was no basement access and no easy way onto the roof from the outside. The neighboring buildings were close, but not close enough for her to hold out hope of connecting passages or a leap from the top of one to the other.

Finally she took a moment to pull out her mobile and have a hasty, whispered conversation with Mikhail. While she didn't know for sure what was inside the warehouse, she'd driven Sayf Udeen to ground and didn't think that waltzing in through the backdoor without backup was advisable.

That was the plan, anyway, until her ear pressed against the door caught the rising sound of several men's voices and then a faint low moan.


End 7


A/N: Sorry it's a little short. I'll make it up to you, I promise.