False Flags
pt. 9
With the excuse that her people would want to know the status of their agent, she pocketed the phone. The embassy staffed were well-trained: none blinked an eye at her disheveled, dirty state as she wended her way through the halls.
She found her as the doctor was suturing the chest tube in place.
"I think that should do it. Between the pneumothorax and the broken ribs, I want you to remain as still as possible for the next few days."
Jenny's forehead wrinkled and she shook her head, but when she tried to speak she was wracked by deep coughs. The doctor frowned as Ziva stepped inside the door.
"Her Hebrew isn't that good," she told him.
"Ah." He repeated the instructions in Arabic and Jenny stilled, nodding.
"Where else are you hurt?"
Ziva didn't miss the way Jenny's eyes cut to her or the shadow that passed over the prone woman's face. Jenny wafted her hand toward her left leg.
"Yes, I'll have to set that. Where else?"
The gears turning in Jenny's head were almost audible.
"I need to call your people," Ziva said to break the silence. "I'll tell them you're all right." Jenny gave a terse nod but Ziva could see her visibly relax as she eased toward the door.
The call didn't last overly long. She spoke directly to the director of NCIS, who embarrassed her by thanking her for doing her job and made her more uncomfortable by asking after her health.
"I am fine, thank you," she said, sounding to herself like an English learning tape.
Ziva made sure to make more noise going back down the hall. As she stepped into the room, the doctor turned and spoke in rapid Hebrew. "I need to set that leg, and it's going to hurt like hell. My supplies are pretty limited, and I think oral pain medication would likely do more harm than good at this point."
Ziva nodded and moved to sit next to Jenny on the narrow bed, trying not to jostle her as she sat down. "Did you understand?"
"Not really." Her voice was scratchy. "But I think I can guess."
"We'll have to work on your Hebrew."
"Looks like I'll have some unexpected free time for lessons." Jenny's eyes stayed firmly fixed on Ziva's face as the doctor sorted his supplies and positioned himself alongside her mangled leg.
"Is the op blown?"
"I don't know." Ziva had to lean in a bit to catch her words. "They kept asking me questions about Port Said—two men I'd never heard of. They didn't ask about Rafah at all. I don't think they have any idea that we were tracking the shipments there. They were mostly grasping at straws, anyway. They're nervous, jumpy. They figured out pretty quickly that I didn't know anything. After the first few hours they didn't even bother with more questions."
Which meant that as long as they could provide a cover for the deaths at the warehouse, the operation might be intact. She'd have to call Mossad, tell them not to pull Atef. It didn't explain why they hadn't either killed Jenny or let her go, but Ziva had been around long enough to guess, particularly given the state of her clothes and that she'd found her chained to a pipe.
"Ready?" the doctor asked.
Ziva was surprised to feel Jenny take her hand, but she didn't say anything. The grip tightened at the sound of bone rasping over bone, and Jenny's face contorted in pain.
"What's her prognosis?"
The doctor, pulling the door closed, started at her voice. She handed him the clothing she'd been able to scrounge. All of it would be too large for Jenny, but given the circumstances that probably wasn't a bad thing.
"I would still feel more comfortable if she were in a hospital. She's in mild shock and needs blood and fluids. She also really should have an x-ray to follow-up on her lung, and I'm worried about infection developing in the leg."
"Is she in any immediate danger?"
"No."
Ziva looked at the doctor's earnest, open face and wondered if she'd ever been that innocent. "Then it isn't possible," she told him. "Make a list of what you need; I will have someone bring it to you here."
He opened his mouth to argue, but her expression must have made the futility of such a course clear.
He finally settled for shaking his head. "Do you know her blood type?"
"A positive," Ziva answered without hesitation. It was in her file.
"I'll need the supplies quickly."
"You will have them."
He turned, the donated clothes under his arms, moved back into Jenny's room, muttering to himself. "Intravenous antibiotics and fluids, plaster to set the leg…"
Ziva sagged a little against the wall. In the momentary quiet, the tinnitus from the shootout was worse, and she knew her headache wouldn't go away until she managed some sleep. But there was much else that needed to be done. Mikhail and his team had called. They'd staged the scene, and Tel Aviv was already disseminating misinformation identifying the shooters as a group of local arms dealers.
The rest of the cell would know that Jenny had been taken, but there was nothing to be done about that. They couldn't just create a body out of thin air. She'd call her local contact in a few minutes. The old man could suggest that the shooters had been seen leaving with a redhead. If Jenny were right and they'd discovered she didn't know anything, Sayf Udeen's men were unlikely to worry too much about what had happened to her. They'd be focused on saving their own skins—and their business.
She'd gotten her agent out, and they could ride out the coming storm at the embassy with few people any the wiser. For now, it was enough.
End 9
