"My father is here."
Ziva watched him process the information, though he kept his face blank. "And that's a problem because…" She could tell he was stalling.
"Gibbs, please do not do this now. Just go, please, do not let him see you." She felt a sinking sensation in her core as she watched her lover gearing up for a fight. Her pleading words kept flowing out of her mouth, as much as she wanted to shoot herself for sounding so vulnerable. "I cannot deal with this right now. Please. Do this, for me." He gave her a long stare, his expression neutral as he weighed his options. Finally he nodded, and she felt an invisible weight lift from her shoulders. "Thank you." Gibbs turned left with speaking, and she knew that her words had hurt him on some level. Was it her weakness? Did he think she was ashamed of being involved with him? Did he finally decide she was not worth the trouble her family wrought in her life?
She forced these doubts from her mind, focusing her attention on the all-too-familiar man quickly approaching. Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva noticed Gibbs vanishing behind a door on the far side of the room. She realized then that she was desperately wanted to be there with him, not here facing her father for the first time since being assigned to NCIS.
"Shalom, Officer David," the Director of Mossad said, immediately setting the stage for their conversation. It was clear to Ziva that it was a talk between superior and inferior, not father to daughter. She was slightly relieved; it was more familiar than acting like a functional family.
"Shalom, Director," she replied, her voice short and impersonal: the voice of a soldier. Her shoulders squared themselves automatically in response to his voice.
"Enjoying the festivities, I see." She could not help but notice the condescension in his voice. "Director Shepard is here as well: are you here as her security detail?"
"Not directly," she replied. "An extra pair of eyes is always helpful, but she invited me as a fellow guest. She recognized my talent for international relations."
"I hope you have stayed away from the Iranian ambassador," Director David said. "He still has not forgotten the small problem of his son-in-law's death."
"I have been judicial in my interactions, sir."
"Good." All of a sudden, the Director's facial expression shifted, and Ziva felt her fingers twitch in anticipation for needing to draw one of her hidden weapons. "How have the Americans been treating you?" His tone was almost warm, and she found the conversation sliding rapidly out of her comfort zone.
"I am well," she responded.
"I can see that," her father said. He paused, looking her up and down. "You look beautiful tonight, bat." Her instincts were immediately on edge. She searched for some altruistic goal behind his comment. She could not remember the last time he had complimented her appearance, unless it was related to an undercover operation which required particular attention to physical details.
"Thank you, aba," she replied guardedly.
"You remember Michael Rivkin, yes?" And there it was. She was surprised when she felt the sensation of her spirits falling when she realized she had been correct in her assumptions. She had thought she was past the point where she cared what her father thought of her; apparently not.
"I do. We spoke just a few minutes ago."
"He still likes you, Ziva, despite what you did to him all those years ago." Ziva resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to Michael to blow something out of proportion to gain sympathy.
"Aba—"
"It would be wise of you, Officer David, to remember where your priorities, and your loyalties, lie." Director David was back. "Do not dismiss him, or your duties, so quickly." He turned and started to move away. "Good evening, Officer David."
"And you, Director." But he was already gone. Ziva closed her eyes, drained. When she opened them again, she tracked her father's movements intently, remaining motionless. As she watched, he approached Rivkin and embraced him genially. She observed with practiced impartiality as they conversed pleasantly for a few moments, and then left together through the front door. She saw three men leave as well; she recognized them as her father's personal protection detail. Their departure told her that the Director did not expect to return.
She waited a few moments more to be certain they were gone for good, and then Ziva was making her way towards the room she had seen Gibbs enter. Suddenly, she was feeling cramped in the previously comfortable room and she gave silent thanks that no one tried to engage her in conversation as she passed. She reached the door, and reached out a hand to grasp the elegant metal handle. Soundlessly she opened the door and slipped inside. Once she had closed the door again, she leaned against it and took a deep breath.
Her mind was tumultuous, racing from thought to thought so quickly that she herself could barely keep up. Questions about what her father wanted from her were foremost, followed by flashbacks of scenes between her and Rivkin. She burned with anger that he, Rivkin, had succeeded where she had failed so many times; he had managed to find his way into her father's good graces. Confusion was next: she had thought she had long ago abandoned her puzzlement as to why her father sacrificed his paternal duties in favor of the responsibilities of being the Director. But it had returned, unbidden and unwanted… much like her father himself.
She shook her head to clear it, pushing everything below the surface. Ziva studied her surroundings, and was surprised to find herself in a greenhouse. Vegetation was everywhere, and their subtle fragrance soothed her. She could detect the familiar scents of mint and aloe, along with others she could not identify. She meandered down the plant-lined path, taking the time to smell some of them, inventorying their aroma for future reference. About thirty feet from the door, and in the midst of a particularly dense span of foliage, she found a wrought iron bench. She perched on the seat, still slightly on edge from the encounter with her father.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear Gibbs' approach until he brushed against a branch about five feet from her. She did not acknowledge his arrival, hoping that if she did not, perhaps he would not ask questions. But on the other hand, she was also hoping that he would ask questions. She could not, would not, answer whatever questions he had, but it would mean that he did not hate her for the weakness she had shown him.
"Are you all right?" His question was quiet, but full of concern. Again, she both hated and was thankful for it. She looked at him, but the empathy in his eyes made her look away quickly.
"Yes." She did not elaborate.
"What did he want?" Ziva could hear the investigator in him wake up a bit when she did not respond. "Ziva," he continued, "if he threatened—"
"No," she interrupted. "He is not planning anything regarding you or this country. Regardless of how it seems, he values the alliance between Israel and America." She paused. "His words were personal."
"Personal?" he asked. She nodded; it was not a complete lie, at least. He did not contest her statement. She let silence reign for a minute or so, before she spoke again.
"I apologize for how I reacted. It was not fair of me to ask you to leave without an explanation."
"Ziva," Gibbs said before she could continue. "I'm not going to pretend that it didn't bother me. It did. You were obviously in distress, and I wanted nothing more than to be there for you. But I understand why you asked me." He paused. "And if you can't ask me to trust you, than who can you?" Another pause. "We could have hidden us from him, you know. It would have been just two coworkers, attending a social event at the request of their superior—"
"No." Her voice was hard, and left no room for doubt. "It was not about us, Gibbs. I would have asked you to leave even if we were not personally involved." Her eyes darkened. "He still believes you killed Ari. He has not mentioned you in any of our conversations, but I am not naïve enough to believe he would not exact revenge if given the chance."
"Ari was a murderer and a—"
"Traitor. Yes, I am aware of that, as is my father. But my father is very traditional when it comes to his public image. That includes family honor. Ari has tarnished the family's name, but more important, has made my father look like a fool. It is my father's duty to restore the honor of our family. You took that chance from him, and he hates you for it. In a way, you have twice offended him: once by exposing his mole in Hamas as a traitor and then again by denying him the chance to eliminate Ari himself." She paused. "It may not make much sense to Americans, but to Israelis, sometimes family is all we have, and shame can last for generations." She looked away, finding the greens and yellows of foliage around her oddly comforting. "He might not have killed you here, in front of all of these diplomats, but I did not want to remind him that you still live. It would only lead to trouble."
"And what happens if he realizes my report was falsified?" Gibbs asked, voice low. She remained silent for a moment or two. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and resigned.
"He would not hesitate to execute me." She saw his head whip around to look at her. "The fact I am Mossad will only make it easier for him to do so discreetly. He could recall me back to Tel Aviv, and then send me on a suicide mission. It has happened before. Those outside the organization, like the officer's family, honor them as martyrs, but the rest of us know that they were simply screw-ups." She sighed. "
But I think my father would prefer something more personal," she continued, "though my connections with NCIS would make it suspicious. I do not know how he would do it, but my transgressions call for the harshest of punishments." She folded her hands in her lap. She could see the questions in his eyes. It was times like this that she realized how naïve he was, despite his years as a Marine. He had honor, but it was a different kind from what she was used to, to what had been pounded into her since childhood.
"My sins are greater than Ari's," she continued. "Not only did I fulfill a duty that belongs exclusively to my father, but I killed my brother. That alone is a heavy crime. Not only was he my brother, but he was also my father's only heir, his only son. In our religion, our heritage is matrilineal: titles and honor are passed down from the mother. But in the rest of our world, we have been so greatly influenced by Western society that riches and power are passed from father to son. I took away my father's only chance to pass on his legacy in a traditional way. It all adds up to be too much. I would be a traitor to my family, if my father ever found out. And I would be dealt with swiftly."
Gibbs shifted in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what you're telling me," he said, "is that you saved my life, knowing you were signing your own death warrant." He shook his head. "You didn't know I was going to lie on the report. You knew you were going to die." She reached out and took his hand gently. He turned to face her, and found her gazing at him with startling intensity.
"I would do the same thing, if given the chance to do it over," she said. "I am glad I did it, Jethro. Now more than ever." As Ziva watched, his face creased into a smile. She frowned in confusion. "What?" she asked, curious as to what had caused the change in his mood. Not that she was complaining; she always liked to see his eyes twinkle like that. He shifted again, so that his back was leaning against the iron bench.
"That's the first time you've called me Jethro," he answered, his smile growing.
"Oh," she said, surprised at the revelation. She had not even realized she had said it. "Does it bother you?" she asked. Warmth spread through her when he gave her hand a squeeze.
"No, it doesn't," he said. "Not at all."
