Tony indiscriminately tossed a pile of shirts, pants and boxers into a large suitcase on his bed. Suits. He would probably need a few suits. That meant he had to find his garment bag. He swore as he tripped over a pair of shoes and took a header into the bed. His face sank into the thick down comforter. He'd only been with Ziva twice in his own bed, but he swore he could still smell her in the linens. He had already changed the sheets and washed the duvet cover twice. Her scent lingered. It was inescapable. He sometimes thought he could smell her on his hands, as if he had just run them through her silky hair, letting her curls twist around his fingers and fall into his face as she…
He pushed himself off the comforter. He had to pack, not let his imagination run riot with his absent…girlfriend? Lover? Soul mate? He settled on just Ziva. His Ziva. He grasped her necklace.
The garment bag was in the hall closet, he suddenly remembered. To get to it he had to push aside her long gray coat, the one with the vivid red lining. He'd almost fallen out of his chair the first time she'd walked into the office wearing that coat. She'd left it hanging in the closet when they'd woken up to an unseasonably warm morning. That had been the second time they'd been in his apartment. The soft wool brushed his cheek as he leaned down to get his bag and he inhaled her again. Why did scent have to be the strongest sense tied to memory? Come to think of it, she'd always been unusually fixated on the way he smelled, even when she was complaining about it; it had never stopped her from getting close, that was certain. He abruptly slammed the closet door on the coat and stalked back to his bedroom. He'd forgotten to throw any socks in his suitcase.
An hour later, he was completely packed and attempting to eat pizza from a box in his passenger seat as he drove back to NCIS. A gob of cheese and pepperoni landed in his lap. "Dammit!" He swerved into oncoming traffic in his attempt to retrieve the greasy little stain-maker. The rising pitch of a car horn alerted him to his position. He veered back into his own lane, popping the fugitive pepperoni into his mouth. She was affecting his driving, if not his eating habits. They always got mushrooms and green peppers when they ordered pizza; she claimed pepperoni wasn't kosher, but he could swear he'd seen her eat it at least once. She only pulled the kosher card to get her own way. He was starting to hate knowing all her quirks. It was fine when she was around, but it was all he could do not to imagine her response to every little thing now that she was gone, cruising the Riviera with…
Thoughts like that were likely to get him into an accident. Logically, he knew she was working, that it didn't mean anything. Those pictures, though. Tushkevich's hands were on her. On Ziva. On his Ziva. And she'd been returning the scum's kisses, his caresses. What upset him even more was what wasn't in the photos. Jenny had said Ziva was ostensibly engaged to Tushkevich. Direct experience with her sexual aggressiveness told Tony that meant bad news. He knew she was a damn fine actress, but there was only so much a man could take. And what kind of man wouldn't respond zealously to Ziva in that microscopic scrap of a bikini bottom? Heck, even McGee hadn't been able to restrain himself. Oh, had she looked tan and gorgeous in those CIA pictures. She probably smelled like sand and coconut oil, and felt even warmer to the touch than normal. He would tease every bit of exposed skin, working her into a frenzy, before slipping his hands into that little piece of light blue fabric.
Tony looked around and realized he was in the NCIS parking lot. Fantasizing really passed the time. Not as well as having her with him, but well enough. For the time being. He fumbled his luggage and pizza up to the squad room.
"All packed, Probie? Got your toothbrush? Got your blankie?"
"Director Shepard said she didn't know how long we'd be there."
"Yeah, but she didn't tell us we each have our own Sherpa, either."
"I happen to believe in being prepared."
"So all that Boy Scout training is finally paying off? Might as well have been a Girl Scout the way you've packed."
"Yeah, well when you run out of clean shirts after a week or ten days, don't come crying to me to borrow one."
"Okay, number one, they do have washing machines in Europe, and number two, I wouldn't be caught dead in some of the stuff you wear."
"What is wrong with the way I dress?"
"It's not that there's something really wrong with it. It's fine for you, it's just not really me."
"And who are you, Beau Brummell?"
"You're defending your fashion sense by making nineteenth century references? I'd demand satisfaction, sir, if not for fear of disarranging my cravat!"
"Why are you in such a good mood all of a sudden?"
"Must be the pizza."
"Can I have a slice?"
"What do I get?"
"You want payment for a piece of pizza? C'mon, it's not like you were gonna eat the whole thing."
"I still might."
"Fine. Don't share with me. I'll just sit here examining those photos the CIA sent us earlier."
"Take the damn pizza."
"Tony, I wasn't really going to…"
"I'm going to the bathroom."
Jenny Shepard checked her watch. It was 9:34 PM in Washington, so it was…plus seven hours or six?…seven, definitely seven…so, 4:30 in the morning in Tel Aviv? Trying to call Director David at this hour would be an exercise in futility.
She hadn't bothered to go home; she'd had her bags packed since Ziva had left. She was more eager than she cared to admit about going back into the field. Administration had its perks, but it was distinctly lacking in what could only be classified as 'the rush.' No one in a suit ever pointed a gun at her. Frankly, she would have preferred the direct approach to the underhanded maneuverings on the Hill. Her temporary substitute would be arriving from San Diego in the morning, long after she'd left. She checked her weapon for the umpteenth time.
Their flight didn't leave for another two hours and her agents weren't due for at least twenty minutes. Packing in advance had been her mistake. She'd been ready to leave since informing the team of her plans in MTAC. All intervening time had been spent worrying and speculating. She wasn't surprised that Moussad had let them find out Tushkevich was alive on their own, but she had hoped Ziva would be more forthcoming.
She sighed and collapsed into her chair, lost in thought. They'd been through a lot together subsequent to Ziva's first assignment with the Molot. Jenny had been the one to pick her up in Vienna a week after she killed Selfin. The next six months had been spent on a whirlwind driving tour of Eastern Europe, flushing out the latest on who had killed who within the group, and occasionally doing the job themselves. Ziva had actually done most of the shooting; fourteen months undercover had made the whole thing very personal for her. They'd managed to confirm or cause the death or arrest of almost everyone who could potentially fill the power vacuum left by Tushkevich when they located their final targets, Pavel and Boris Praskov. They'd made the trip from Warsaw to Rome in record time.
It's probably a bad sign when remembering homicides you've committed makes you feel nostalgic, she reflected. Still, Jenny would never forget Ziva collapsing in exhaustion and relief across the room from the Praskovs' bodies, cradling her arm, wrapped in rags and several sections of rebar scrounged from a construction site. She'd broken it falling off a roof while conducting surveillance on the targets two weeks previously. If Fitzgerald had ever seen that Ziva, he'd never question her dedication or loyalty.
Jenny checked her gun and watch again. 4:56 AM in Tel Aviv. Five minutes until the team arrived. They'd probably been sitting in the squad room, waiting for her. She steeled herself for five more minutes; she didn't want them to see her impatience.
"Wow. Private jet."
"What, did you think we were flying coach, Probie?"
"No, it's just nice."
"And we don't deserve 'nice' every so often?"
"Look, I just assumed we would be stuck in the back of a C-130 or something like that."
"I think we rate a little higher than cargo."
"The last time the Navy sent us somewhere on a private jet we were going to Kate's funeral."
"…"
"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I'll just, uh, start bringing my luggage over."
"Maybe Tenzing Norgay over there could help you."
"I said I was sorry, Tony."
"I heard you."
Gibbs found the movable leather seats on metal tracks and oak conference table ostentatious. The Gulfstream G550 felt too big for just the four of them. Even the bathroom was too big for a goddamn airplane. The only thing he found impressive was the selection in the bar. He poured himself a generous glass of Famous Grouse, neat. He had already tucked the bottle of Johnnie Walker Green Label into his small carry-on. LJ Tibbs would be proud.
He sat at the conference table and surveyed his team. Tony had made himself a Stoli and cranberry just after takeoff, but barely touched it. McGee was drinking a Diet Coke. Jen was on her second Glenlivet on the rocks. Whatever she was planning to brief them on really had to suck. Despite their current height over the Atlantic, she didn't look ready to start. Gibbs prompted, "What else do we need to know about what we're getting into here?"
She placed her drink on the table and stared down at a folder. "Let's start at the very beginning."
"A very good place to start," Tony muttered.
Jen sounded rehearsed as she said, "A little over five years ago, the intelligence community started seeing a lot of chatter regarding a group of arms dealers calling themselves the Molot. They were Russians and they specialized in selling Cold War-era weapons. They gained access to old Soviet arms and sold them to the highest bidders, mainly terrorist organizations. We've never been sure how they did it or if we caught all their suppliers.
"The leader of the group was Dmitri Tushkevich, a former Spetsnaz commando. He was young, but he knew what he was doing. Not surprising considering his father was suspected to be Alexander Nozdryov, who made his living selling weapons to South American drug cartels, among others. Multiple attempts were made to infiltrate the Molot, but all were unsuccessful. NCIS lost three agents. I don't know how many other agencies lost, but there were confirmed casualties from the CIA, MI-5 and Moussad.
"No one could even get into the organization, much less close to Tushkevich, not until a deputy director at Moussad devised a plan. Ziva's original assignment was to attach herself to a minor player, go in and get close enough to assassinate Tushkevich, but circumstances proved more fortuitous. He fell for her and he fell hard. Things got more complicated from there.
"She ended up telling him she was Moussad and had been sent to kill him, but couldn't do it because she'd fallen in love with him. He believed her and thought he had a double agent working for him. She would feed some information to Moussad, much of it useful in taking out the Molot's enemies and rivals. Moussad would arrest arms dealers, the Molot would strengthen its market share.
"Being so close to Tushkevich, Ziva was able to learn the layout of the entire organization. Not only that, she gained the trust of many of the key members. She was eventually able to create a divide in the group – those loyal to Tushkevich and those wanting a change. I've already told you how she set up Selfin.
"She and I spent the next six months ensuring that the Molot would no longer be an active participant in the arms trade. We thought we'd eliminated them as a whole." Jen stopped to take a sip of her drink.
Gibbs swirled his own around the glass, watching the liquid's circular path leave a wet ring that quickly evaporated. "But Tushkevich isn't dead."
"No. He's not. I haven't been able to get in touch with Director David yet, but I suspect he's sent Ziva back in on the same mission as last time. She'll gather information until the Molot becomes too powerful, then engineer its collapse."
"And she's supposed to do this by herself? Again?"
"That's why we're flying to Europe, Jethro. So she won't have to do it alone. We don't make contact unless she gives us a signal, but we stay close enough to be immediately effective."
"And the dead sailor?" McGee asked.
"We already know the Molot killed him."
"Rule number eight, Jen."
"Trust me. It's not an assumption."
Gibbs glanced over the crime scene photos on the table. Hell of a way to go.
"So how do you like France so far, Probie?"
"We've been riding in a car, in the dark, for three hours. France looks like any back road in Virginia at this point."
"Cheer up. When we get to Toulon we get to visit a warehouse! And a morgue!"
"Somehow I never envisioned my first trip to France involving a sailor murdered by vicious Russian mobsters."
"It can't all be hours roaming the Louvre and romantic kisses on top of the Eiffel Tower."
"I see you've got everything planned out for when Ziva rejoins the good guys."
"Yeah, like I'm going to a museum. Didn't you pack an inflate-o-date in one of your suitcases?"
"Funny, Tony. Seriously though, aren't French women supposed to be…well, they've got the topless beaches and…"
"Unshaved underarms. That's all you need to know."
"There must be some that shave."
"I wouldn't wager money on it."
"Doesn't Ziva shave?"
"Uh-huh, but she's Israeli, not French."
"Oh, yeah. But the French women, I should be able to see any hair on the beach, right?"
"If we ever get some downtime on a beach, you can go up to them and ask them to do the wave."
Ziva yawned and pulled a knee up to her chest as Ivan, their top security man, handed Dmitri a black folder embossed with a silver hammer. She snickered, "I see you've already had stationary made, Mitya. I hope you'll at least allow me to have some input on the new china patterns." She pushed the fresh fruit around her plate.
He reached across the breakfast table set up in the bow and took her hand. "Appearances count. The naturally beautiful often forget that." He placed a kiss on her knuckles and held onto her hand as he read.
She sipped her coffee. "Anything interesting?"
"Jenny Shepard." He looked up. "She arrived in Marseilles this morning with a small group of men."
Ziva's brows contracted in a severe line. "I didn't contact her."
"Will she be a problem?"
"She knows better than to get involved without my go-ahead, although it is odd that she's in Europe at all. She's the Director of NCIS now," she explained at Dmitri's questioning look. "Administrators shouldn't be getting involved in operations."
He laughed. "Is that how it works at Moussad?"
"I meant American administrators. Who was with her?" She pulled her hand from his and looked at a grainy photo. "She brought an entire NCIS team with her?"
"This is Smerdyakov's doing. He told me the deal with that petty officer had gone sour."
"He was stupid enough to murder a member of the US Navy? I'll never understand why you didn't just let me kill him three years ago."
"He has his uses. But to return to Shepard – how much does she know?"
"She knows as much as everyone else. She may think she has some inside information, but she doesn't know you helped me plan the cleansing of the organization."
"If we have to do that again, I am wearing a bulletproof vest." He rubbed his chest. "Or perhaps we could skip the 'assassinate Dmitri' step altogether. I do not have to tell you how enjoyable it is to be shot."
"Hm." She touched her stomach. "It was necessary. You had to be dead in everyone's eyes for it to work."
"So you are saying I should be glad I am one in one million?"
"Statistically speaking, I believe it's one in ten thousand. At least when someone tells you your heart is in the wrong place, you can blame it on genetics."