Wanting for Independence: Chapter 38
Ziva David swiped at the screen of her iPad to turn the page on her Kindle novel. It was a free novel from the Kindle store, not bad, but a bit predictable. If it weren't for the long wait times at her obstetrician's office, she would be tempted to put it aside in favor of reading something more interesting, or even something work-related. But it was good enough entertainment for killing time in a waiting room that didn't have magazines.
"Mrs. DiNozzo?" the nurse called out, prompting Ziva to switch off the iPad and follow the nurse, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. Going to the doctor in a modernized but yet still somewhat traditional Muslim country was a bit of an ordeal for the Americans on base; for an Israeli Jewish woman, it was far more than a hassle. She had tried explaining that she did not go by her husband's name, but they either failed to understand or just didn't want to advertise who they had in their waiting room by using her real name. After all, a name didn't get much more Israeli than Ziva David.
"How have you been feeling?" the nurse asked in Arabic as she led Ziva to the screening room.
"Well," Ziva replied in the same language. They may not be happy about taking care of an Israeli, but at least she tried to appease them by speaking their language.
"Any contractions?"
"Occasionally," Ziva replied. "Nothing regular, and they do not last long. Only a few seconds." The Braxton-Hicks contractions had started a few weeks before, and were thus far only a mild annoyance.
"And your kick counts?"
"He is most active at night," Ziva replied. She wondered if that meant he had inherited his father's distaste of mornings. "He has slowed down the last week, but still more than ten kicks in two hours."
"Good," the nurse replied as she rolled up Ziva's shirt to reveal her large pregnant belly, measuring just how large it was before squirting on the gel and attaching the fetal monitors, the sound of a fast heartbeat distorted by the speakers filling the room. "Dr. Rahma will be in in about ten minutes."
"Thank you," Ziva replied as she pulled out her iPad again.
It was more than fifteen minutes later before the obstetrician came in, a tall and thin woman in her late thirties who wore a long white coat over expensive clothes and her dark hair uncovered in a bun at the nape of her neck. "Good morning, Mrs. DiNozzo," she said distractedly as she studied the monitors. "Baby's heart rate looks good, no contractions," she commented before picking up Ziva's chart. A frown began to appear as she looked up at Ziva. "Your blood pressure is still elevated," she said bluntly. "It is higher than last week's, in fact."
"I have not changed anything," Ziva replied.
"And your weight is two kilograms higher than it was a week ago."
"I assumed that was normal during pregnancy."
"Not that much, and not at in the third trimester. Have you noticed swelling in your legs?"
"I thought that—"
"What about shortness of breath when walking up the stairs?
"Yes."
"Difficulty breathing when lying down?"
"I thought—"
"I'm going to call the cardiologist," Dr. Rahma interrupted.
"The cardiologist?" Ziva echoed. "Why? What is wrong?"
"These symptoms may be signs of cardiomyopathy of pregnancy," the obstetrician explained. "Swelling of your heart. We do not know what causes it. We need an echocardiogram to evaluate."
"And treatment?"
Dr. Rahma frowned. "There is a regimen of drugs that you will have to be started on immediately. The exact drugs will depend on what the echocardiogram demostrates."
"And?" Ziva pressed. She didn't spend her entire adult life in the intelligence game without learning how to tell when people weren't telling her the whole story.
"You are at 37 weeks, which is full-term—"
"Dr. Rahma," Ziva interrupted impatiently.
"We will have to a cesarean section."
"When?"
"Today."
Ziva blinked in surprise before she collected herself. "But you need to do the echocardiogram first," she said, keeping her voice even. "And then we will discuss a cesarean section."
"Yes," Dr. Rahma said. She hesitated again before continuing. "There is a specialist in maternal and fetal medicine at the Navy base. I will consult her while you are meeting with the cardiologist. I do not have much experience with cardiomyopathy. She likely does."
"Alright," Ziva agreed, knowing that there was nothing else she could do but agree.
Five minutes later, she was the office of an elderly cardiologist who didn't say a single word to her as he scanned her heart, and then the only words he said were that he would email Dr. Rahma the results and that he should go back to her office, which Ziva did.
To find her obstetrician sitting with a woman in a Navy uniform who looked far too young to be a doctor. "You must be Mrs. DiNozzo," the Navy lieutenant commander said as she rose from her chair. Ziva decided not to correct her. "I'm Dr. Kerry Frey. Dr. Rahma told me about your case. I understand you just met with the cardiologist."
"Yes, but he did not tell me the results."
"I have them," Dr. Rahma said from her computer. Ziva only realized at that moment that that was the first time she had heard her speak English. Dr. Rahma turned to Dr. Frey and said, "EF is 30%."
"Okay," Dr. Frey said with a nod. She turned back to Ziva. "Normal ejection fraction is over 55%. You look like you're pretty athletic, so I'm guessing yours was even higher than that. And I'm guessing your heart is working pretty hard to keep that 30%. Which is why I think we should do a cesarean as soon as possible."
Ziva didn't understand half of what had just been said, but neither did she try. All she had heard was that last line. "What about medications?" she asked. "Dr. Rahma mentioned that there are medications that can be used."
"Yes," Dr. Frey said, nodding again. "And if you were less than 34 weeks pregnant, we would be starting you on them immediately and planning on doing a cesarean when you hit full term. Which is 37 weeks, where you are now. The best treatment is to deliver the baby and begin the medications right after."
"My husband…" Ziva began, realizing only at that second why this seemed so difficult. "My husband is out of town," she finally said. "Can this wait?"
"When he can be back?"
"I do not know," Ziva admitted. "He is on a mission."
"If he's Navy, they can—"
"He is not," Ziva interrupted and didn't elaborate further.
Dr. Frey sighed and frowned. "We can wait seven hours," she finally said. "And not a minute more. If you can get hold of your husband, tell him that's his time line."
Tony DiNozzo knew that his cover as a western businessman was gone sometime around when he ran out of clean clothes and hotels with working showers, but he no longer cared. This mission was no longer about spycraft and subterfuge.
It was about finding a man and arresting him.
The interviews with Mahamud took them to Baidoa and to a 'businessman' whose business seemed to be centered around getting stuff for Al-Shabaab. He very quickly gave up more names and even more locations, which somehow involved DiNozzo and Dunham crossing the border into Kenya and into Dadaab, home of the world's largest refugee camp, where humanitarian aid was occasionally used as a recruiting tool by Al-Shabaab.
And where they were told they could find the man who was behind not only the blackmailing of Kaseem Khalid, but also the plan to release mustard gas in Washington, D.C.
But first they had to find him among a series of refugee sub-camps that covered 50 square kilometers and housed 500,000 people.
They had gotten a good lead from their 'businessman' friend, who was very clear to state that he didn't know the exact location of Ahmed Haji, but as of January, he was 'pretty sure' that Haji was in Ibo II, one of the sub-camps that made up Dadaab, so that's where DiNozzo and Dunham headed. They tried to find out from legitimate humanitarian workers if anyone knew anything about Haji, but Doctors Without Borders blatantly refused to speak to them once they found out about their affiliation with the U.S. military, UNHCR claimed to know nothing, and nobody else even answered their questions.
It was going to be an interesting search.
His phone rang as he stepped back into the passenger seat of the Jeep Dunham had managed to procure in the town of Dadaab, Ziva's name on the display. "Hey," he greeted. "Sorry I didn't call you—"
"Tony, listen to me," she commanded, and he obeyed. He knew that tone of voice, even distorted by a bad cell phone connection. "The doctors said they need to do a cesarean section today. They said they will wait seven hours for you to come home but no longer. Can you leave without compromising the mission?"
"What?" he asked.
"Dr. Rahma and a doctor from the base—"
"No, I heard you, I mean, why do they need to a c-section today? You're still three weeks early."
"They said there is a problem with my heart."
"With your heart?"
"Yes, Tony, it is related to the pregnancy and they need to deliver the baby. I asked if they could wait, and they said that they cannot."
"I'm coming home," he said immediately. "Forget the mission." If it was bad enough that they needed to deliver the baby right away, then it was bad enough that he had to be there.
"No, Tony, you cannot forget the mission," Ziva said patiently. "Not this mission." He knew she didn't say anything else because of the fact that they were on an unsecured connection, but he knew what she was saying—not when they were tracking down terrorists who wanted to attack the capital of the United States. "If you can come home without compromising the mission, then please come home. If not, we will see you when you come home."
We. There was going to be a 'we' waiting for him when he came home, because he was going to have a baby in seven hours whether or not he was there. "Okay," he said. "I'll see you in a few hours. I love you, Ziva."
"I love you, too." She ended the call before he did, as always, and for a second after he hung up, he stared out at the dusty landscape that surrounded them before he turned to Dunham.
"We have seven hours to find this guy and get back to Bahrain," he informed him. "I don't care what it takes. Let's go."