8 Weeks Post Exfiltration: Safe House
Sounds of anguish startled Jackie awake. She had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, book still open on her chest. The sounds were in the room…like someone thrashing. She turned her head slightly in the direction of the sound and, in the dim orange glow of the last remaining embers, recognized a dark shape lying awkwardly on the couch. She picked up the flashlight on the table in front of her and directed its light towards the couch.
Eli David grimaced and shielded his eyes from the light, papers falling from his lap to the floor. His cheeks were wet, beads of sweat on his forehead. The room was empty besides the two of them.
"Eli? Are you ok?" she asked, genuinely concerned.
He stared at her briefly, disoriented. Then, almost inaudibly, he said, "It is nothing. A dream. I am fine."
"It's nothing?" Jackie said in disbelief. "It certainly doesn't look that way."
"It is not of your concern!" Eli shot back angrily—defensively.
Jackie kept her flashlight trained on him, noted the silent tears on his cheeks and the pain in his expression. His angry words did not match.
Eli stood up, made a show of loading his gun, and said flatly, "I'm going for a walk."
A door slammed and Jackie listened as Eli's heavy footsteps crunched in the gravel outside. He was circling the house like a caged animal. Eventually, he would give up and break. She got up and made two cups of tea. She would wait.
Muffled, but terse, words exchanged in Hebrew preceded a second door slam and Eli heaving himself into the living room recliner. Jackie waited patiently—giving him time to settle—to compose himself. Then, she entered, bearing the tea as a peace offering.
Eli looked up briefly, a momentary expression of gratitude quickly replaced by an expressionless mask.
"We've been stuck in this hell hole for two months, Eli. You're getting under my skin. I'm getting under yours. I don't know how much more of this I can take."
Without acknowledging her, staring straight ahead as if talking to someone unseen, Eli exposed his carefully guarded heart. "Tali, my youngest, was turning sixteen. She never asked for much, but she begged me to buy her tickets to an opera. She loved to sing...told me her mother could not afford such a thing…told me I had to promise her I would come. I relented. She was the child with heart…kind, compassionate…innocent. I could not say no. But, when the day came, I was called into the office—rise in suicide bombings. She called me from the opera, asked me where I was-reminded me I had made promise. I…I told her I was sorry…Used the same old lie—'I will make it up to you'. I could feel her disappointment though I could not see her face. She told me to forget about it, but not before driving a knife into my heart, 'I want to hate you for your empty promises. But, I can't. I still love you Abba-leh.'"
A shadow fell across Eli's face, remorse, regret…heartache?
Somberly, he continued. "An hour passed, maybe two…I don't know. I was trying to lose myself in my work. Then I heard the shouts. My door flew open and…Ziva. I do not know how she got in—she was young, a probational officer. She was not yet in a position of authority. But, there she was standing in the doorway, eyes full of fire. 'She is dead,' she said. I knew what she meant without asking, but I did not want to believe her."
Jackie searched Eli's face for any sign of emotion and, to her surprise, Eli met her gaze briefly before looking away. His eyes were wet. How many times had Eli shared this story—bared his soul? She guessed few, if any. Eli David was not a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. No, he kept it hidden behind layers of defenses—shielding it from those who might turn it against him, from himself, from ghosts of the past.
Eli smiled sadly as he stared into the empty space behind them. This story was not for her, it was for him. He needed this. He needed to find in himself a reason to forgive his sins. So, he pressed on, "Hadar pushed his way in behind her, pride broken, hand covering a broken nose. His expression told me all I needed to know. 'There was a car bomb,' Hadar began, but Ziva would not let him finish. 'Hamas is to blame,' she growled. 'I will not rest until I have taken from them what they took from me.' I could see she was hungry for revenge. This was dangerous. So, I told her, 'You are not thinking rationally. You are in mourning. I will handle this'. I did not want to lose her too."
A single tear escaped his well-trained self-defenses. Jackie averted her gaze, allowing him a private moment—recognizing that beneath the hardened exterior, the layers of complexity, there was a broken man—a man, who had buried a child long before their time. A man who had been in a position of great power and learned the hard way that power is not only strength, but also weakness.
"But, she was not hearing me. She demanded, 'No, you will go to her like you should have earlier tonight. You will bury your daughter. You will at least show her this final respect.' I could say nothing. I was lost. I was a father trying to fathom how he had out-lived his child. I knew Ziva would act regardless of my wishes. So, I just let her go. I told Hadar to make sure she completed her quest and I went to bring home the body of my little girl. I buried Tali and, I buried my heart. I promised Tali that her sister would outlive me. I promised that I would mold Ziva into someone that could withstand the iniquities of a father, the peril of a country always on the verge of war, the dangers of a broken heart...Ziva does not know this, but after Somalia I realized I was powerless to keep my promise to Tali. I let Ziva think I did not care because I wanted her to believe she was better off in America—at NCIS—with people who had shown her the meaning of trust, love, security. My sins are too great."
