The building shook as he heard the almost deafening explosion on the other side of the wall. Chunks of plaster rained down among other larger pieces of debris from the already compromised ceiling.
Malik just blew himself up! Tony thought in a panic. He blew himself up with Paula in there with him!
The roar of the blast retreated. His ears were still ringing, but he leaned his head against the wall in a vain attempt to hear something; praying he'd hear a cough, a sigh, a groan, a shuffle of limbs; anything that would indicate she had somehow survived. But the only sound was an almost musical tinkle, a pinging echo that reached a crescendo and then lulled to complete silence as quickly as it had risen. Horrified, he realized those noises had been caused by the bomb's nails and ball-bearings battering the walls, rolling and skittering across the concrete floor. He'd seen first-hand what a bomb and pieces of flying shrapnel had done to the bodies of Hall, Nelson and Fahad...
Tony slammed his open hand against the bricks in futility and resignation, head still pressed to the wall. But there was nothing more. That was it. There was no possible way to deny the awful truth now; no way to rewind those last 10 seconds and produce a different outcome.
Paula was dead.
No! Tony thought furiously, fighting tears. She was alive only a minute ago. This can't have happened. Not again. First Kate; now Paula.
Both had been killed in such close proximity to him, and both times Death had turned a blind eye; breezed right past him to claim a victim in a violent and untimely fashion. And both times he'd been helpless to do anything about it.
He didn't know if his mind was playing tricks on him, but even amidst the acrid smell of smoke and fire, he thought he caught one last, lingering scent of her Escada...
***
"Agent Gibbs is on line for you, Director," Cynthia Sumner's voice carried through the inter-comm. "He says it's urgent."
"Thanks, Cynthia," Director Jenny Shepard said, and picked up the call in her office. "You have an update for me, Agent Gibbs?"
"Yeah. We need to call off the peace conference."
"Why?" Jenny asked. "We've planned full protection for the clerics which I know you're more than capable of handling...Has there been a new threat?"
"Oh, you could say that," Gibbs replied enigmatically. "You know those calls you don't like to have to make in your capacity as director of NCIS?"
"Jethro..." There was a note of warning in her voice. She hated being strung along.
"You're going to have to make another one."
"Damnit, Jethro. What the hell happened?" Jenny sputtered, realizing the implications of his words. "Who?!"
"Cassidy." Gibbs answered. "Jamal Malik pulled a vanishing act." He thought fleetingly of the irony of his words, given that the building had once housed a magic/joke shop. "Then he showed up with a bomb strapped around himself."
"My God," Jenny whispered, gripping the edge of her desk.
"Agent Cassidy...took him down with a flying tackle. They ended up in the other room and the door shut behind them. Bastard knew he was caught. Knew he wouldn't be able to get at the clerics or anybody else...son of a bitch still threw the switch, anyway."
"Jethro, was anyone else hurt?" Jenny asked quietly, fearing more unwelcome news.
"No, everyone else is safe and accounted for. But you'll need to send in Ducky and another team to take this one. I'm sending DiNozzo home. I'll hold down the fort with Ziva 'til the replacements arrive."
Gibbs hung up without even waiting for the Director to confirm his request.
Outside, Ziva had felt the shock-wave; heard the boom and the subsiding rumbles. Her frantic mission to track down the suddenly missing Jamal Malik on Gibbs' shouted orders was instantly abandoned. She had one thought now: the safety of her team, and she rushed back towards them. With a small sense of relief, she realised the blast had come from the other store, not the one where everyone had gathered. Still, she had to make sure...
"Gibbs! Tony!" she shouted from the entrance into the dusty room. She saw them inside, apparently unharmed by whatever device had been detonated. Ziva did a quick head-count to assuage her fears. One, two, three clerics...Gibbs, Tony, Abdul Wahid... but no sign of Jamal Malik - or Paula...
"Where is Agent Cassidy?" Ziva asked, troubled by the absence of the other woman. A sudden knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She caught Tony's stricken face and his shocked, wide-eyed expression. His silence was all the answer she needed.
Ziva turned to Gibbs. He was on his cell phone, talking to someone; Director Shepard, from the sound of it. The clerics and Wahid were huddled together, the shock of the event rendering them speechless. Already she could hear emergency sirens blaring, no doubt responding to the explosion and fire.
She turned her gaze once again to Tony's dust-speckled form, seeking answers that no one seemed eager or able to provide. "What happened?"
"It was Malik." Tony's voice was hard as stone. "He had this... bomb strapped to him. He was just coming through the secret door. Paula did the only thing she could to save everyone. She...she charged at him..." He stopped, his face contorting, unable to continue the telling of the awful event that had just transpired.
Ziva didn't need to be told anything more. She mentally filled in the blanks: Malik had a bomb... Paula charged at him...She must have shoved him back into the other room, through the hidden door, and died with him when he detonated the bomb.
She thought now of how she'd been purposely insulting to Paula with cutting sarcasm earlier on. Her intention had been to distract the grieving, angry agent, hoping to be a place Paula could focus her anger. Gibbs had pointed out that far from being thankful for such a gesture, Paula would probably hate her for life. I was willing to live with a lifetime of hatred from you if it helped you get through losing your team... If I'd only known 'for life' would mean less than a week for you, Paula...At least we came to an understanding near the end, didn't we?
She observed Tony, knowing he was deeply affected by what had just happened. He looked so helpless and forlorn, but Ziva knew not how to offer comfort.
He noticed her eyes on him. Self-conscious, he moved away from the wall and sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and exhaled.
Ziva stepped in to intercept him when he made a purposeful move to exit the store.
"Where do you think you're going?" she queried, already guessing his destination.
"There is a crime scene to secure, Ziva," he ground out.
"No." Ziva blocked his path, sensing an air of hostility about him. "You're not going in there," she said with a quick shake of her head and a restraining hand on his chest. She could feel him trembling.
"And why not, Ziva?" Tony balked, feeling the pressure of her palm against him; his heart thumping wildly.
"It is not how you want to remember her," Ziva said softly; tactfully. "Not like that." She dropped her hand to her side and looked at him, silently begging him to relent, and that for once in his life, he listen to her advice. I know what I'm talking about, Tony...please...I am trying to spare you unnecessary grief. You have never had the burden of seeing what a terrorist's bomb does to someone you care about. You will never wash that horror from your eyes. Never.
Tony was about to protest further when Gibbs snapped his phone shut and broke in: "She's right, DiNozzo. I've requested the assistance of another team to handle this one."
The younger man gaped at the older man. "Boss..." He couldn't just leave right now. Not after what happened. I owe Paula. I owe it to her to handle...this.
"Take the car back to NCIS headquarters, " Gibbs put a firm hand on Tony's shoulder, fixing him with a steely gaze that left no room for argument. "You need to go home. Ziva and I'll get a ride back with Ducky and Palmer when they're through here. Go. You can worry about reports another day."
Tony's head sank in resignation. He patted his pockets for the keys to the requisitioned car, but they weren't there. "I, uh, I don't have the keys," he said meekly.
Gibbs checked his own pockets and also came up empty. "Ah, hell," he muttered.
"What's wrong?" Ziva asked. "You don't have them?"
Gibbs ran a hand over his mouth and sighed, remembering who'd been driving. "I gave them to Paula."
It took every ounce of control not to turn and look at the wall that separated them from the tragedy on the other side; to not turn and see the last place Paula had been.
"Spare's back at NCIS," Gibbs said in a business-like fashion. "I'll ask McGee to bring 'em." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
As Gibbs waited for the other man to answer his call, he shot a sidelong glance at Tony. "DiNozzo," he said in a harsh whisper, just in case Tim answered in-between, "what're you still doing here? Grab a taxi already! Get outta here."
Tony silently complied, and walked out of the gray room without another word.
***
Tim was about to leave the lab and return to his desk with its stack of names waiting for him when his phone buzzed. He saw it was Gibbs.
"Yeah, Boss," he answered. "Did you get them?"
Abby excitedly clasped her hands and grinned, bouncing on her toes in anticipation.
"Yeah, we got 'em..." Gibbs replied vaguely.
Tim smiled, failing to register the heaviness in Gibbs' half-hearted reply. "They got them," he said to Abby, covering the tiny mouthpiece for discretion. Abby's smile intensified, and she pumped her arms in triumph.
"But not clean," Gibbs' voice carried over loud enough for both Tim and Abby to hear.
Abby halted her celebratory dance and frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, Boss?" Tim brought the phone back to his ear.
"It was Malik. He disappeared long enough to strap a bomb to himself. He took Cassidy with him when he blew it."
Too shocked to speak, Tim stood rooted to the spot. All traces of celebration drained away from his face. He'd only really worked with Paula once before, but she was still one of them. He remembered from past conversations that Jim Nelson had had only good things to say about her leadership. Now they were both gone, along with Rick Hall.
Gibbs didn't wait to hear a response from McGee and proceeded with his original intent for the call.
"McGee," Abby whined, "what's happening?" She noted his distress and realized that something was very wrong.
The young agent held up a finger, indicating he wanted silence.
"Yeah, Boss...yes, I'll bring 'em with me. I'll head down to Ducky right away."
Tim pocketed his phone. His forehead was creased; eyes downcast, deeply saddened that in spite of their best efforts, they'd been too late to halt a suicide bomber.
Abby put both hands on Tim's shoulders. "Spit it out, McGee," she said. "What did Gibbs say? Why are you going to see Ducky?"
With a small sigh, Tim looked up and met Abby's perplexed gaze. "He said...he said that it was Jamal Malik..."
"How'd they know for sure?" Abby asked. "It could be either one of the two who were painting..."
"Because Malik just blew himself up. And Gibbs says he took Paula with him, too."
Abby's hands flew to her mouth as she bit back a cry. Her eyes started misting over.
"Hey, Abs, hey," Tim said comfortingly. He hadn't been expecting that reaction. He pulled the Goth-scientist into an embrace. "It's okay. Come on. You couldn't have known..."
"But I should have known. You don't understand, McGee," Abby sobbed. "This is all my fault. If I'd just thought about isolating those prints from the laptop sooner, we'd have known it was one of them sooner. Gibbs would have pulled them in for questioning. He would have got the truth out of them..."
"Abby, it is not your fault," Tim said forcefully.
"No!" Abby blurted, and pushed away from Tim. "This is the second time it's happened...and it's my fault."
"The second time what's happened?" Tim asked helplessly. "Abby, you're not making any sense. Please, you need to get a grip. I know it's upsetting news, but you can't blame yourself, okay?"
"Last year." Abby folded her arms, her eyes burning with conviction. "Last year with the copy-cat, Adam O'Neill. Whose fault was it we didn't figure it out until he'd grabbed Paula? Whose fault was that?!"
"I, uh, um..." Tim stammered. He remembered how upset Abby had been when she realized she had made some assumptions about the Polaroid photos in the serial killer's scrapbook. But the truth was that none of them had even an inkling that the last victims filed in the album were not victims of the original killer.
"Whose fault?!" Abby repeated more strenuously. "It was mine! And now, look. I screwed up again, only this time Paula's not just missing because of it, she's dead."
"Abby," Tim tried his best soothing tone. "You know Paula didn't blame you back then, and she wouldn't be blaming you now. You didn't strap a bomb to Jamal Malik, and you didn't detonate it. You just can't control everything, Abs. You'll drive yourself crazy if you try to."
Abby sniffed and turned away from him. He made a move towards her, then decided to let her have her space.
"Look... I gotta go. Gibbs needs me to bring the spare car keys. I'm leaving with Ducky. Are you gonna be okay?"
Her head bobbed up and down furiously, but she made no verbal reply.
"Okay," Tim said, and left the lab, hoping she'd take his words to heart. Sometimes, he thought sadly, Abby is just too sensitive and caring for her own good.
***
Emergency vehicles and fire crews were just pulling up to the curb outside the bombed-out stores. Metro police were setting up barricades to keep gawkers at bay.
Tony paid them no heed. The streets were being cordoned off. Damn. No traffic allowed through except those whose business it was to be there in an official capacity.
Tony had to walk two blocks to flag down a cab.
The driver stared open-mouthed at Tony's rumpled, messy person through the partition for a good five seconds before Tony snapped: "What?!"
Chastened, the cabbie shut his mouth, turned around and put the car in gear. "Where to, pal?" he asked in a placating tone. He obviously didn't want to upset his fare any further past what his unwanted staring had already done.
In a monotone, Tony recited his address. He slumped in the backseat. His head was starting to buzz, and his ears were registering a phantom hum that swam just beneath the purr of the car's engine. It was a discordant arrangement that was beginning to annoy him.
Home... I don't want to go home, he thought bitterly. I've just cheated death and I'm going home, like it's just another end of the work day; another run-of-the-mill Friday.
He could feel his eyes starting to tear up. He couldn't stop seeing her final move; her desperate dive to ensure they all lived to see another day, at the cost of her own life.
Paula was alive ten minutes ago. I was standing next to her. I was talking with her. Now I'll never talk with her again. We'll never play our silly games. No more jokes and teasing. No more creative put-downs and rebuffs. She's dead. What a horrible way to die: facing a suicide bomber like that.
Tony almost couldn't imagine a worse way to die. At least Kate didn't know what was coming...but Paula...she knew.
Did you have any regrets, Paula? He thought now of their candid conversation the day they discovered that damned hidden door. Was there someone you cared about, Paula? Was there someone you wanted to say those three clichéd words to?
With a sardonic smile, Tony thought of the 'boyfriend' Paula had obviously invented on the spot in order to bait him over a year ago. He knew 'Bob the lawyer' wasn't real; knew the red Ferrari and Redskins box-seats were pure fabrication. But right now, part of him almost wished this person was real. It would have meant that Paula somehow wasn't alone when she died. It was one of his own worst fears: dying alone; dying without someone's love. Dying a lonely death, no matter what form that death ultimately took, was not something he ever wanted for himself, or those he cared about.
I'm not dead, yet, Tony thought. I am still alive. Because of Paula, I'm alive...
Tony suddenly knew what he had to do. He knew how he could honor Paula. He leaned forward to speak to the cab driver.
"Hey, I've changed my mind. I need to get somewhere else."
"Sure thing, buddy," the cabbie replied. "Name the place and you're there."
***
Director Jenny Shepard sat quietly in her office for a long time after Agent Gibbs' call, and after dispatching an available team to the site. She'd requested a hold on all calls for the time being.
She felt stunned by Gibbs' shocking news. She almost couldn't comprehend how it could happen that now three agents had been lost in the line of duty during her tenure as NCIS director.
This isn't Iraq, or Afghanistan! My people are not supposed to be killed by suicide bombers on American soil...The sentiment from when agents Hall and Nelson died ran through her mind again.
My people are not supposed to die like this. But they had, and Jenny was heartsick over it.
She remembered it had only been days ago that Paula had sat opposite her in this very office. Jenny couldn't miss the look of sheer disappointment and frustration on Paula's face over the imposed two-day 'vacation'. The younger woman had been so broken by the loss of her team, blaming herself; yet so defiant and determined to secure justice for them. She'd been in so much pain, the walking wounded among them, but had covered up her physical and emotional suffering and soldiered on in spite of it. And now, according to Gibbs, she had given her life making sure nobody else was lost.
You said you weren't going to rest until you'd made sure all the ones responsible for the deaths of Hall and Nelson were in the ground, Jenny thought sadly. I hope you're resting now, Paula. I hope you've found your peace.
Jenny pulled herself together and decided it was time to get moving on the duty she'd been avoiding.
"Cynthia," she paged her secretary. Her voice sounded tired to her own ears.
"Yes, Director," came the ever-alert reply from the woman in the anteroom.
"I need you to pull Special Agent Paula Cassidy's personnel file for me immediately."
"Right away, Director," Cynthia replied.
With a sigh, Jenny sat back in her chair, mentally preparing herself to make another call, the kind she had hoped she would never have to make again.
***
Tony climbed the first flight of stairs to the second-floor landing. He slowly approached her familiar door, numbered 202. He extended his arm and rapped with his knuckles. She was home, he knew. He could hear an R.E.M. tune turned up loud, the music wafting through the walls. He recognized the melancholy piece about everybody hurting, sometimes. Clearly, she was in a moody place right now. Well, he was hurting right now, too, and he was hurting plenty. He only hoped that his confession would be accepted now as truth.
The door swung open. She looked a little surprised to see him, shyly regarding him as he stood silently on the threshold. Her eyes then challenged him to say something; to account for his unexpected intrusion into her self-pity party.
Paula died so I could live. I could have been killed and you never would have known...you never would know that I...His eyes were brimming again. He finally found his voice:
"I love you, Jeanne," he said, as plainly and as honestly as he could ever hope to say those words.
Her eyes lit up. A smile of joy broke out on her face, and she rushed forward to him, melted into his arms, accepted his eager, hungry kiss. He pulled back and held her face in his hands, and gazed down at her. To him, she was a vision of beauty; a sight for sore eyes. He drew her in for another kiss, then just held her as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.
A single tear slid down his cheek, for this reconciliation held for him a bitter edge. His relief at Jeanne's forgiveness and acceptance was tempered by the fact that it had all been bought with a very heavy price. He wondered if it were possible that Paula was somehow aware of this reunion; that she could somehow know it had been made possible because of her sage words and her courageous actions... If it were possible, then he prayed she also knew that he would be eternally grateful.