False Flags
pt. 13
For another three days and nights she shuffled between the featureless bedroom and the bland conference room that Ziva had commandeered. Stranded out of the field, Jenny began to follow the money, piecing together scattered bits of information from the files their agencies maintained. Most of the intelligence remained raw; since 9/11, it had been flowing in at an ever-faster rate and the US, at least, hadn't yet managed to train enough warm bodies to keep up. She combed through lists of numbers, rumors, names--all the detritus that their people and machines churned up-- only stopping when the throbbing in her leg became bad enough to blur her vision.
She envied Ziva her mobility. The Mossad agent was in constant motion-- in and out of her chair and of the embassy, meeting with her contacts and her colleagues. Meanwhile, getting to and from the bathroom remained a fifteen minute process for Jenny and bathing took an hour. She focused on getting lost in the rhythm of the work-- and on not moving her leg too quickly or breathing too deeply.
She and Ziva worked well together. The younger woman had a flexible mind, despite her by-the-book appearance. It led Jenny to wonder if wasn't possible the Mossad book she worked from was a little different from NCIS's-- even given the fact that her own training had included some extra material.
"Jenny?" Ziva was finally back, then.
"Hmm?" She didn't lift her head until the smell of food wafted into the room, making her stomach gurgle.
"What are you doing? That was the third time I called your name."
"I might have figured out where the money is coming from."
"Really?" Ziva leaned over to peer at the computer screen, a hand on Jenny's shoulder for balance. She could smell the other woman's day on her skin: the sharpness of sweat under dust, the sweet overlay of shisha smoke and tea. Ziva smelled of warm life and adventure, a stark contrast to the beige room filled with inoffensive art and cheap furniture where Jenny had spent the last eight hours.
"This name." She gestured toward the screen. "It's shown up in too many places to be a coincidence."
"Ghazan Marwat. Who is he?"
"I don't exactly know. Yet. The name indicates that he's Pashtun, and on the surface he appears to be a legitimate businessman, but I haven't been able to dig up any more biographical detail. I put together what I had and sent it back to DC and to the Joint Terrorism Task Force for the region. They have resources we don't." She felt Ziva's hair brush her cheek as she turned toward her.
"What do you think?"
"I think this might be it. It fits. On the ground they're probably moving small amounts of money to the individuals cells through hawala—you know, pay a man in Quetta and he calls his uncle in Kandahar or Tehran and that guy calls his son in Cairo who transfer the money to your man on the other end. I'm almost positive that's how Hassan was getting his payments. Those transactions are a dead end-- impossible to trace unless we can make one of the hawaladers talk.
"So at first I looked for travel patterns, transactions, anything that was happening at the same time as events we could trace. But it occurred to me that I was going about it wrong. Marwat's movements precede all the important events. Everywhere things happen, he was there before—sometimes a week, sometimes a month, sometimes it's even just a company he owns doing a deal with someone local-- but he's always been there. And it's not just the Cairo cell. This is much bigger."
Turning from the computer, she used a pen to point out to Ziva the small bits of information that had added up to a theory: an immigration record here, a stray remark there, dozens of tiny fragments that might—or might not—make up a whole. Ziva slowly examined the papers she had spread across the table, putting each one back in the position it had started with a carefulness that made Jenny smile.
Finally, Ziva sat down and folded her hands. "It is a good find. But, as you say, we need more information."
"I know that." Jenny tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. "I've already sent the data back to NCIS. They'll pass it on to other agencies. We'll know soon enough."
Ziva just nodded and opened the paper sack she'd brought with her. The rustling sound was followed by the tantalizing odor of dinner.
"Oh, thank god," Jenny groaned. "I'm starving."
"Did you not eat enough for lunch?"
"Lunch?" She definitely remembered having a cup of coffee. Or three.
"Jenny, you must eat to keep up your strength."
"Oh, sure. For all this strenuous working I'm doing." She reached for the aysh Ziva held out, stuffed with ta'miyya and slathered with tahina. The first bite was still warm and she closed her eyes in appreciation. She opened them to find Ziva smiling at her. "Thanks," she said, sheepishly.
"If I had known you skipped lunch, I would have brought extra."
They ate in silence. Jenny was aware of Ziva's eyes on her but didn't meet them. Instead, she skimmed back over the notes she'd taken, looking for holes in her theory, trying to assess whether she'd simply seen something because she wanted it to be there.
"I talked to my father today" Ziva was crumpling the bag their dinner came in, twisting it into a tight spiral.
"Oh?" Ziva had never called him by anything other than his title in her presence.
"Atef has been providing us valuable information. And Mikhail's team has been investigating the men from the warehouse."
Jenny was grateful that her job had given her a lot of practice in keeping her thoughts off of her face. "Any progress?"
"Mossad thinks that it will soon be possible to determine the source of their supplies and instructions."
"I certainly don't think they're making the big decisions." Her official account of her captivity had included the valuable insight that taking her had been an exercise of initiative that clearly wasn't sanctioned by the higher-ups. When she didn't provide information, her abductors had begun to sweat.
"We agree. The Cairo cell is more muscle than brains."
"Yeah." She wasn't going to think too much about how accurate that statement was. Ziva was still twisting the bag, which was shredding under the strain. She nodded pointedly toward it. "What else did he say?"
Ziva was clearly considering whether to answer. She took her time, running her fingers through her hair, pulling it out of the ponytail and combing out the knots.
"He wants me to come back to Tel Aviv."
"Atef?"
"Can be run remotely as long as we need him."
"And Mikhail wants you out of his hair anyway," Jenny guessed.
"As soon as possible."
"What do you want?" she asked, consciously echoing their earlier conversation.
"They will not put me behind a desk," Ziva said softly. "But they will look over my shoulder."
"Can't be easy to be the boss's daughter. That why you started in a different division?"
"I had the appropriate skills."
"I know. I've seen you in action." It was the first time since it happened that Jenny had brought up the rescue. She was pleased to see a slight blush rise on Ziva's cheeks.
Just then the computer chimed. Jenny turned to open the new email. "It's the Task Force," she relayed to Ziva. "They've found something on Marwat."
End 13
A/N: One more chapter to go. Perhaps two. Thanks for hanging in there.