A/N: This is almost the end of the tale, folks. It is most certainly the end for a certain NCIS agent. I do plan on posting at least 2 epilogue-type chapters just to tie everything up. Hope you 'enjoy', in spite of the tragic content.
10.
It was late, by my usual standards, when I awoke Wednesday morning. I'd intentionally turned off my alarm so as not to be roused earlier than necessary. If Director Shepard truly didn't want me in until Friday, a few extra hours of sleep today could only be beneficial. Besides, I probably needed it. I didn't feel as achy this morning as I'd felt on mornings previous this week.
I enjoyed a much more leisurely breakfast than my hectic schedule normally allowed. I slowly sipped my coffee while I read the newspaper. The pages were blessedly devoid of any reference to Sunday's tragedy, but there was an item tucked away in the back about a shootout at a "small computer software firm that caters to handicapped individuals". The article stated that the lone gunman had been killed before harm came to anyone else in the building.
They were referring to Kertek, of course. Journalists had not yet made any connection between the deceased Salman Umar and Yahzeed Fahad. I wondered if they ever would, since the piece itself was little more than a blurb; something a reader would skim with passing interest. In a way, I was relieved no reporter, eager for a scoop, had gone digging with this one. Local news hounds seemed to have given up harassing me since no new messages had been registered. I didn't want any renewed interest.
After putting away the breakfast dishes, I settled in at a desk in an alcove I have set up as a sort of unofficial office-space. It was time to tackle the project I'd assigned myself. For hours I sat, composing letters to several individuals, both family and friends. I let my thoughts run free, pen scrolling swiftly on pages of stationery I always have on hand.
Dear Mom and Dad...
Dear Stevie...
Dear Uncle Hy...
Dear Brian...
Dear Jennifer...
The clichéd words I'd spoken to Tony on Monday were in my mind very prominently. It somehow seemed important to tell my parents and my siblings how much I loved them. Mom and Dad hadn't originally been too thrilled with my decision to study at Georgetown, and had serious reservations when I advised them of my intentions to join up with NCIS. But they knew I loved the challenge and the thrill each new assignment brought me. Dad had moved the family every two or three years during his early career as an engineer - until Mom had had enough and he settled us down in California. That early experience must have contributed to my sense of wanderlust.
When I was done writing to them, I addressed the letter to my parents: Mrs. D.J. Cassidy, 2792 Avenida Simi, Simi Valley CA, 93065, knowing Mom collected the mail, and that she would obviously pass the letter on to Dad, as she always had in the past.
D.J... For Donna-Julia. For as long as I could remember, 'D.J.' has been her nickname. She probably thought her full name was too stuffy, or maybe she opted for a more 'American' styled moniker as a new immigrant. She's never told me. My Dad, Reginald, has always been 'Reg', or 'Reggie' if people were being especially informal. I could picture the two of them, reading my letter in their kitchen. My mother might perhaps wistfully reiterate her worry for my safety on the job, and my father might do his best to reassure her...
I wrote the same address for my widowed uncle. He'd suffered a stroke years ago that left him weak on one side, and unable to work. His good-for-nothing son, my cousin, Reilly, hadn't the compassion to support his father when he lost his house. My father stepped in and graciously opened his door to his brother. On more than one occasion, I've written to Uncle Hy that even if his rotten son can't quite bring himself to reciprocate the love he's received, he'll always be my favorite uncle, and I love him.
In my letters to Amy Nelson and to Tom and Mary Hall, I poured out my heart and emotions to them. I tried my very best to explain that if I could re-live those final moments, I would exchange places with Jim and Rick without hesitation. Such words would be of little real comfort, but after signing my name to the pages, it was my ultimate hope they'd know I was being genuine... and that they'd be able to forgive me. It had been my decision to take the Hotline duty. Their fate had hinged on a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer from me. As I sealed and stamped the envelopes, I still didn't think I'd ever be able to forgive myself.
Almost as an afterthought, I pulled a new, blank sheet of stationery.
Dear...
I paused, pen hovering over the single word, pondering the appropriate way I should address the person I wanted to write. 'Agent Gibbs'? 'Jethro'? 'Leroy'? I put down the pen. Yes, there were some things I'd been wanting to say to him for a long time. I'd never quite worked up the nerve to say them to his face, and the continued tension between the two of us probably ensured I'd never say what I wanted, at least in person. It wasn't that I was afraid of, or intimidated by Gibbs. Far from it. Something inside me just kept telling me that the older agent was, and would always be, closed to me. But then that was his reputation, wasn't it? Being an unapologetic bastard? I sometimes wondered what could make a man like that...he couldn't have always been that way, could he? Whatever his reasons, I honestly wished things had been different.
Well, not that it mattered. After this peace conference, it was unlikely our paths would continue to cross. He'd probably continue to think I was a screw-up, no matter what I did. I was back to my earlier dilemma about what I'd be doing with my life after all this blew over. And I was still no closer to a resolution. Maybe I did need to talk with a shrink: explore my options, which were looking more like a closed door with nothing on the other side but emptiness.
***
The alarm jarred me awake. With a groan of protest, I clumsily reached out to shut off the screeching device. I rolled over to the edge of the bed and sat up, slowly opening my eyes. Today was Friday. I was due back at NCIS HQ today.
The peace conference was today.
A sense of foreboding suddenly started creeping in, clouding my mind with a fog of confusion. It settled heavily on me like an invisible shroud. I felt haunted; chilled, and I involuntarily shivered.. I could almost feel it in my bones that something terrible was going to happen.
Tuesday's events – the shootout at Kertek – had been so anti-climactic, it was as if another full-blown disaster had only been staved off. Postponed until today? I cringed at my own thoughts...
With a stretch and a yawn, I stood and ambled slowly to the bathroom. My head was swirling with uncertainty and worry. Had Tony and the others uncovered anything more in the past two days? Had they any idea who'd really been type-talking to me the day Jim and Rick met their fate? I ran a weary hand over sleep-filled eyes. The small butterfly bandage over my eyebrow slid right off on my fingers. The wound was looking more like a deep scratch now, but most of the soreness was gone.
After a brisk shower, I dressed in attire appropriate for the conference and protection duty we were to undertake. I examined my hand, which was looking much better. I nevertheless applied a clean dressing, and hoped that if anything at all happened, it would not impede my ability to fire my weapon. I trashed the plastic wrapping from the dry-cleaners I used yesterday when I realised my favourite black blazer with a faint pin-stripe needed laundering. 'Dry clean only', of course.
I ate a hurried breakfast, all the while noting my stomach's protests. (Why were my nerves so raw?) I grabbed my badge and my Sig, locked my apartment door and made the drive to the Navy Yard once again. Along the way, I stopped at the post office to mail my bulk of letters, since I'd forgotten them during Thursday's errand to the dry cleaners' place.
***
The plasma screen displayed images of the clerics we were to be covering. Ziva flicked by them all, calling out their names and announcing the assignments as she did so.
Sheik Abu Taled Yusef, senior Sunni cleric, would be Tony's responsibility for the day. Sheik Ali Bashir, senior Shia cleric, was my assignment. I looked intently at his picture and committed his face to memory. The third and most senior cleric in attendance was Imam Abdul Al-Maliki.
"He is mine," Agent Gibbs announced, as he strode into the bullpen. He then stated his desire for Ziva to 'float' between all three, depending on what the situation may call for.
The Mossad officer commented that the best way to disrupt the conference would be to target one of the three men; Gibbs answered her concerns by pledging that we weren't going to let anything of the sort happen. It gnawed at my insides that they had not turned up any new leads since Tuesday. Abby had been reduced to meticulously reviewing what scant fingerprint evidence we had from the laptop in hopes of uncovering something helpful. As of that moment, I knew she had nothing. Any potential 'disruption' to the conference was still an unknown disruption.
Agent McGee piped up: "Boss, what about me?"
Gibbs handed the young man a stack of papers listing the names of the conference attendees. He instructed McGee to run down all the names, looking for any links to terrorist groups.
McGee frowned in dismay. "Um, looks to be over three hundred names here, and the conference starts in less than six hours." Clearly, he wasn't too thrilled being saddled with the mind-numbing busy-work.
"Yeah, uh-huh..." Gibbs said dismissively. "Why are you still standing there, McGee?" He didn't seem particularly interested in hearing the complaint as he retrieved his badge and weapon from his desk.
"Right," McGee said, resigned to his fate, and went off to begin his task.
Ziva asked if we would be picking the clerics up at their hotels one hour before the conference, but Gibbs responded in the negative; that there was a slight change in plans.
"We pick them up now. Little field trip."
He looked over at me. "They want to hold a ceremony for Yahzeed and Cassidy's team."
Stunned by this revelation, I asked: "What kind of ceremony?"
"A memorial," Gibbs answered simply.
"Where?" asked Tony.
Gibbs held out the keys to the car and dropped them into my hand. "Where they died," he responded.
***
We arrived at the gutted store for what I hoped would be the last time I'd ever have to see the place. Tony and I ventured in to make sure it was clear of danger. Throughout the drive to collect the clerics, with the assistance of local metro PD, I'd been thinking about how surprised I'd been when I heard that they wanted to hold a memorial service for my team: men they'd never even met. I wasn't sure what it was all going to entail, but I supposed to them it held some sort of religious significance.
My own knowledge of Muslim beliefs and practices had been mainly gleaned from my appointment at Gitmo. And not too many of those detainees were particularly interested in holding memorial services for dead NCIS agents. My own religious beliefs and practices were rather non-existent as my parents had been nominally Catholic, much to the dismay of my devout grandparents. I wasn't even sure what I believed.
I sighed as I stared up at the destroyed ceiling, wiring and ducts exposed and blackened with soot. "I've never been much for praying," I admitted to Tony, "but after this, I..."
"Hall and Nelson were good men," he broke in.
"They were the best," I declared. Were. Now, no more. An unwelcome wave of sadness swept over me. Any minute I knew I was going to be weeping again. I breathed in and let it out to calm myself. "I could have saved them."
"Paula," Tony said in contradiction, "that's not true."
But I had to continue. I had to make him understand. "I could've turned down the weekend duty. There's just no way we should have had it two weeks in a row!"
"It was supposed to be us," Tony said quietly.
I looked at him. "'Us', what?"
"It was our team that was supposed to take it."
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I stood there, silent, as it sank in. Oh, God. Why had it never occurred to me? It was supposed to be Tony, Gibbs, Ziva and Tim on Hotline duty? Instead of my team, it would have been Gibbs' team lying dead on the floor?...I couldn't stop from feeling shell-shocked and guilty for being so selfish! How could I have been so self-absorbed? I realized it didn't matter who had pulled the Hotline duty. It would mean we'd have lost them, too. For all our differences, I knew I'd be mourning Gibbs. For the past we'd had, I knew I'd be mourning Tony. I fleetingly wondered if either man held the same sentiments about me.
"Oh...I mean...it doesn't matter," I mumbled. "Nothing does." I needed a distraction. I walked over to the corner where some of the portable lights were set up. I had no real reason to, but I picked one of them up and moved it further down the wall. "I was supposed to be in here. I know it."
Feeling at loose ends, I just stood there, looking around the empty room again. "But...here I am," I concluded, still heartsick over the implications of Tony's revelation.
We were startled by the sudden appearance of Ziva as the hidden door sprung open.
"Ha!" she cried. "Very clever! This side is clear." She stepped over from the other room. She looked at us with a satisfied smile on her face. The door slammed shut behind her, and I saw her jump back into a defensive stance, hand over her weapon.
"I didn't think anything could make you jump, Officer David," I said with genuine respect, making sure I pronounced her name properly this time.
"That was merely a reflex," she responded.
"In America, we call that jumping," I parried, not unkindly.
"In Mossad," she said, her expression growing serious, "we call that the difference between life and death."
I looked at her, and nodded in assent. Whatever it was that had initially motivated her earlier snide remarks and disdainful behavior was totally gone, now, and I was glad for the peace; for the tacit reconciliation. I glanced over at a silent Tony, and informed the pair that I was going to advise Gibbs that everything was clear.
Outside, I could see the clerics waiting with the surviving members of the Muslim Coalition for Peace: Abdul Wahid and Jamal Malik. I approached Gibbs and advised him if they were ready to start, we'd cleared the rooms.
Tony appeared behind me. "They ready, Boss?"
Gibbs nodded, and motioned to Abdul Wahid that we could proceed with the memorial service.
The clerics, assisted by Malik and Wahid, carried in a collapsible table and folding chairs for the ceremony. We filed into the room behind them. Tony asked Gibbs how long the whole thing was supposed to take, and Gibbs responded by saying it would be longer than if he helped them set up. Tony took his cue and went over to lend a hand.
Gibbs turned to Ziva and told her he wanted her out front when the ceremony started. I suppose he felt we needed a pair of eyes outside to warn of any possible threats. She departed right away.
"What about me?" I asked.
Gibbs turned his attention my way. "I didn't bring you here for security."
I was feeling oddly uncomfortable at these words. If not security...then what? Was he depriving me of my duties? Some sort of punishment? "Look," I said under my breath, "I know I screwed up at Kertek Computers, but I'm-"
"Say a prayer, Cassidy," Gibbs interjected gently, "for your team."
Surprised at his request, I didn't know how to respond.
"We'll take the heavy lifting on this one," he said, and turned back to observe the preparations.
Say a prayer? I hardly knew where to start. Would God, or Allah or whatever deity was really out there hear anything I'd say? These clerics were readying to honor Jim, Rick and Yahzeed, innocent victims of a war. Their faith in a higher power obviously meant something important to them. I closed my eyes and tried to quiet my thoughts.
O God...if there really is a God...and I'd like to think there is...I'm sorry that I've been so selfish to think that only my team mattered, and for hating Yahzeed Fahad. I want to believe that their deaths meant something. I hope they didn't suffer. Please, if there's any way I can atone for what happened...I don't want to hurt like this anymore...
My thoughts were broken by Abdul Wahid's words as the clerics sat at the table, opening their Korans. "This was Yahzeed's dream," he stated earnestly, "to show the world that these terrorist groups do not speak for us. We thank you for making it a reality."
"Well, at least something good's going to come from all of this," Tony said, while Gibbs' cell phone started ringing.
Gibbs moved away from the table and answered the call. "Yeah, Gibbs," he said. I looked at him with interest as he listened to the caller. His face didn't betray a single emotion over what he was hearing, but I sensed it had to be something important. He snapped the cell phone shut and in two strides he was at Wahid's side.
"Put your hands on top of your head," he instructed the other man, roughly gripping his arms and twisting them upwards to restrain him.
"Boss?!" Tony said questioningly. The clerics stood up in surprise and panic.
"It's one of them, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "The prints on Umar's laptop match the painting gear."
I quickly stepped forward towards the clerics while Gibbs gave Wahid a pat-down.
"What laptop?!" Wahid cried in confusion. Clearly, he hadn't a clue what Gibbs was talking about.
"Where is Jamal Malik?" Gibbs asked, realizing Wahid was not the one we were seeking. Everyone in the room cast hurried glances all around.
Jamal Malik was nowhere in sight.
"He was here a minute ago!" Wahid replied. I backed up towards the wall; hand sliding to my Sig.
"Ziva!" Gibbs called out. "It's Malik! Find him."
I heard the hidden door swinging open even as Tony yelled: "Behind you!"
I whirled around and came face-to-face with Jamal Malik. My brain registered his cold, impassive expression; the bomb strapped around his waist; the detonator gripped in his right hand.
My brain was running at a million miles a second. I knew that if he even sighted the flash of a weapon, he'd blow us all up before we could shoot him. I had no way of knowing if it was a dead man's switch. So even if one of us managed to get a shot off, there were no guarantees the bomb wouldn't explode anyway. There was only one way to make sure he didn't get a chance to kill anyone: take him down, physically. Before I even knew my feet were moving, I jumped through the open door. I thought that if Malik managed to throw the switch now, maybe my body would take the brunt of the blast; maybe shield the others from serious harm and injury. I tackled him solidly, and landed on top of him at we hit the floor. I heard the door slam shut behind us.
I heard Tony's muffled cry: "Paula!" and frenzied pounding on the wall. I frantically grabbed at the detonator with my bandaged left hand.
"Allahu akbar!" Malik screamed, as he armed the device. I fought against his struggles; tried to wrest the beeping detonator from him as we thrashed around.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw two persons who could not possibly be standing there.
Jimmy? Rick? They were looking down at me, as fresh and unscathed as if they'd never been killed in the first place. How could this be? I forgot about the enemy I was fighting for a split second and gazed in awe at the apparition before me.
Malik detonated his bomb.
In that split second, I glimpsed eternity. I saw everything I had ever done in my life: good and bad, and I saw that this, my last act, would do far more good than anything else that had ever come before. And at last I understood why Jim and Rick were there: I had been right all along. I wasn't able to be with them when they died like I knew I should have, so they had come to be with me. My last regret was that my family and friends would receive my letters I sent only after I had died.
I finally let go as the explosion consumed me.