Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 11


Tony DiNozzo glanced around the Israeli embassy, getting a feel for his surroundings as the young IDF guard led them into the building. "Officer Bashan's office, ma'am," the guard said, holding open an impressive-looking door. "He's in charge of operations for the embassy."

"Thank you, Rav Turai," Ziva said politely. She gave a slight nod to Bashan's receptionist before turning her attention to the elder Mossad officer standing behind said receptionist.

"Rav Seren Kenig," he said pleasantly. "I trust your flight went well?"

"It was long, but that was to be expected, sir," she replied with a small nod. "Officer Bashan, this is Dr. Anthony Dinallo. He is an analyst at NCIS." Knowing her inflictions the way he did, DiNozzo couldn't help but hear the slight humor in her voice, both at his address and at the fact that she was making the introduction. When they had been creating background information, Ziva had sarcastically suggested that Analyst Dinallo have a Ph.D. in international relations, and DiNozzo just as sarcastically agreed. McGee took this one step further and even wrote an abstract of a Ph.D. dissertation and posted it online, much to DiNozzo's chagrin—it just meant he had to be that much more knowledgeable. As far as standing in Bashan's office pretending that she had never met the man, well, she had never given the names of any of the Mossad officers in the embassy, but he guessed from her attitude and Vance's comments a few days before that Bashan was her usual contact.

"Your belongings arrived earlier today," Bashan was saying. "They are in my private office. Come, please," he said gesturing toward a set of wooden doors to their left. "Thank you, Rav Turai," he said, dismissing the guard.

They entered the office, closing the doors behind them. "None of the guards working today have been here on any of your previous visits," Bashan said, answering DiNozzo's silent question of why Ziva had bothered to introduce him to someone who clearly already knew who he was. "Special Agent DiNozzo. It is nice to meet you. I have heard many things."

"I wish I could say the same, Officer Bashan," DiNozzo replied with a slight frown as he shook the Mossad officer's hand.

"You do not have the resources I do," Bashan said, a note of amusement in his voice. He turned back to David. "Your things," he said, gesturing toward a trunk in the corner.

She nodded as she crossed the room, kneeling in front of the industrial-looking thick plastic military crate. The first thing she saw was the bluish-gray of an officer's field uniform shirt. She fingered the fabric, almost reverently. It feels the same, she mused.

"It has been awhile since you have been in uniform, no?" Bashan noted with amusement. Ziva nodded.

"And that uniform was green," she replied.

"I'm glad you decided to leave the IDF and go into Mossad. You're much too beautiful for that drab olive green."

Ziva laughed as her eyes met her sister's in the mirror. "Only three more years, Tali, and you'll be the one in olive drab."

She blinked aside the memory as she moved past the officer's field uniform, giving it only a cursory glance as she continued through the contents of the crate. It looked as if all her required uniforms were there—the field uniform, dress uniform, and even a mess dress uniform, all with the gold leaf of a rav seren and the proper pins and patches of an intelligence officer. She saw that they didn't miss any detail; she had all the ribbons and awards that she had earned during her years in the intelligence corps, as well as a number of others that would be expected of an officer with her rank, had she stayed in the IDF. They had also included the proper belts, boots, dress shoes, and a green beret identical to the one she last wore twelve years before.

"What is this?" she asked, pulling out what appeared to be a long, thin package wrapped in blue fabric. A smile appeared on her lips as she unwrapped the cloth.

"What is it?" DiNozzo asked, leaning closer. It looked like two tall silver candlesticks to him.

"My Shabbat candles," she explained. He saw the amused remembrance in her eyes. "My aunt Nettie—you remember her, yes?" He grimaced, remembering the misunderstanding over a phone call years before. "She sent them to me when I left the house at eighteen, saying that now that I was on my own, I needed my own Shabbat candlesticks." She smiled as she rewrapped the silver candlesticks. "I guess she did not remember that IDF privates were not on their own." She continued to go through the trunk. A quizzical expression crossed her face. DiNozzo was about to ask what it was when she pulled out a pile of framed photographs.

He craned his neck to look at them over her shoulder. "You look so young," he said, almost in amazement, as he studied the picture.

"I was young," Ziva countered, her eyes still on that photo. "I was eighteen." She had been leaning against a tan Humvee in that olive drab uniform of an enlisted IDF solider, the rank on her sleeve identifying her as private, a green beret tucked into the shoulder loops, a rifle of some sort leaning against her leg, her thick dark hair pulled into a simple ponytail. She wore a wide grin on her face, one different from any that Tony had ever seen. She had her arm over the shoulder of another girl in an identical uniform, who in turn had her arms around the waist of a third young soldier.

After another few seconds of studying the photo, she moved it aside to see the next. "Oh," she said softly.

"Ziva!" her mother called out. The young IDF soldier groaned inwardly at the sight of the camera in her mother's hand. "Come, Ziva! Let's get a picture!"

"Ima, no," she protested, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. "I just got off the train, I am tired, and I just want a shower and to change into clean clothes."

"One picture," her mother insisted. "Tali! Come over here and sit on the steps next to your sister. I want a picture of my girls."

"Tali?" DiNozzo guessed. He figured that would be the only explanation for her reaction, and probably the only reason Ziva had a picture of herself as a young soldier, sitting on the steps to what looked like a house, a rifle on her lap and an even younger girl resting her head on her shoulder.

Ziva nodded. "I was nineteen, she was thirteen. I was home for Passover, and my mother insisted on a picture. She liked to take pictures."

"She looked like you," Tony commented softly. Ziva only nodded before setting the rest of the pictures aside. She would go through them later.

She reached the bottom of the trunk and pulled out one more item, laughing as she did so. "I believe this is for you," she commented, tossing what looked like a cloth Frisbee to her partner. He caught it and looked at her questioningly.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked with a frown.

"If we are going to be making regular appearances at a synagogue, you will need a kippah," she informed him with a nod.

"I thought it was called a yarmulke?"

"That is the Yiddish word," she informed him. "It is more traditional to use the Hebrew kippah in Israel. Here, you will probably hear 'yarmulke' more commonly." She pulled out a note, which Tony could see was written in Hebrew. "I believe my father included it so you would not have to wear one of the communal ones at the synagogue."

"I guess I should thank him for that," Tony grumbled, not knowing how he felt about the fact that Ziva's father knew they were going undercover as a couple. He tried placing the small skullcap on his head, only to have it slide off. "How does this work, anyway?"

She looked over at him and laughed. "I will help you when we go to services." She turned to Officer Bashan, who had been silently observing as the two younger agents went through the trunk. "Are the services on Friday or Saturday?"

"Saturday," Bashan replied. "The synagogue has both, but Saturday mornings would be more amendable to your schedule as an instructor. I have already been in contact with Rabbi Grossman and informed him that Major Kenig was coming into the country today and would be at the service on Saturday morning. He will be looking for you." His eyes flickered over to DiNozzo. "I believe you should hint to him that you would be interested in the couple's classes."

She nodded slightly. "The personnel here at the embassy, do they attend this synagogue?"

"Many do," he confirmed with a nod. "The ones who know you, I have informed of your general mission. They know not to engage you." He paused. "I will be at the Saturday morning service this week. If you have not had contact with Rabbi Grossman by the time I find you after the service, I will introduce you."

She nodded in reply as she closed the lid of the trunk. "My apartment?" she prompted.

"The embassy has several condominiums three blocks from the synagogue for visiting diplomats from Israel," he informed her. "You will have one of those for the duration of the mission. It has been prepared for you already. There are several Shabbat modifications—"

"I don't have a problem flickering a light switch on Saturday," Ziva interrupted with a frown.

"Flicking or flipping," DiNozzo corrected without thinking. Both Mossad officers turned to him, Bashan with his eyebrows raised and an annoyed expression on Ziva's face. "Just saying," he muttered. Ziva rolled her eyes and turned back to Bashan, a challenging expression on her face.

"I realize that," he said diplomatically. "However, we do have many guests who stay in these apartments who are more…observant than you. As a result, we do have Shabbat lamps and clocks." He stopped at the expression on Ziva's face. "Rav Turai Diamant will point them out when he takes you to the apartment." He walked over to his desk and pulled a key ring out of his top drawer. "Your car for the mission. The blue BMW 135i out back. Diamant will show it to you."

"Nice," DiNozzo said approvingly. "Trading in the Mini for a Beemer." Ziva smiled slightly as she accepted the keys from Bashan.

"Perhaps I should not tell you of the other cars I have driven on other missions," she said to him. "I would not want you to be jealous." She turned back to Bashan. "And the surveillance?"

He blinking, feigning misunderstanding. "Surveillance?"

"On the apartment," she clarified. "Perhaps the car as well, although I care less about that." He continued to wear a blank expression, which she rolled her eyes to. "I am a Mossad officer, Bashan. I know you do not house dignitaries without ensuring their safety through constant surveillance."

"The condominiums are wired," he finally admitted. "It is transmitted here."

"And how do we turn it off?" He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. She blew air through her lips, annoyed. "I will not have nineteen-year-old corporals watching me in my home."

"There is a second switch by the sink disposal that does not appear to do anything," Bashan informed her. "When the switch is in the off position, the system is active."

"You keep something like that out in the open?" DiNozzo asked with a frown.

"Plain sight is often the best place to hide something," David explained. "And with a switch, a guest will try to turn it on, and when nothing happens, they will turn it back off. People seem to like switches to be in the off position." He nodded his understanding as she turned back to Bashan. "That feed will have to go to NCIS as well. The live feed, without a delay."

"We will arrange it," he said with a nod. "If there is nothing else, I will have Rav Turai Diamant take you to your apartment." He pressed the button for an intercom and gave a short command in Hebrew before turning back to his guests. "I understand you have dinner reservations for tonight. There are some items in the closet I believe you will find satisfactory for such an occasion." He smiled thinly as the door opened, revealing the same young soldier who had escorted them in. "Rav Seren Kenig, good luck to you," he said, shaking the hands of both agents in turn. "And Dr. Dinallo," he said, putting the slightest emphasis on DiNozzo's new title, "it was nice to meet you. Lehitraot." He waited until the door closed behind the two agents before he picked up the phone and dialed out.