A/N: This chapter takes place during the same general time period as the last one but it's about what Ziva got up to during her period of radio silence... the next chapter will feature Tony and Ziva finally talking again. Here's a fun challenge for this chapter… usually, this story is primarily told from the point of view of Tony, but this chapter features a fair amount of stuff from Ziva's perspective! How many Ziva-isms can you spot now that there's no one around correcting her for the little mistakes she makes in English? (The main difference is that this time, they're mostly in her thoughts.)
One week earlier…
Ziva settles in behind her desk after returning from taking Tony to the airport, stifling a yawn. It's a little early to be here, even by Mossad standards, but she doesn't have enough time to sleep or shower at home and figures she might as well be here. After all, she played looky the last few days with her boyfriend; now that she's back, she has a fair amount to catch up on. It's best if by the time her father returns, she's not behind but has rather gotten ahead. That'll take some effort, for sure, but it isn't like she isn't used to dealing with her father's high expectations.
Ziva is sure she can't keep Mossad's director from finding out that Tony was here and that she spent several days with him—in fact, there's no way they would have gotten away with it at all if her father had been in Tel Aviv at the time—but Eli will have less of an excuse to be angry with her if she proves that her weekend did nothing to hurt her work ethic.
She spends the morning working at what Tony would probably call worm speed, zooming through all assignments as quickly as she can without making errors. She's usually a fairly efficient worker, but she's on a pole today.
Partway through the day, she's almost entirely finished with Monday's workload when Malachi stops briefly at her desk and leans in. "I thought you would like to know that your father will return around 1400 today."
Ziva hadn't heard that the team Mossad tasked with finding La Grenouille—headed by her father—had succeeded, but that's the only reason she can think of for him coming back so soon. "Oh! Did they find the man for whom they were—" She stops herself when she sees Malachi purse his lips, and she knows he won't say any more on the subject. That gives her a brief flash of annoyance, wishing Malachi wasn't so hell bent on kissing her father's rear end, but the fact remains that he didn't have to warn her at all of Eli's impending arrival and he did anyway. "Okay," she says instead of snapping like she wants to, changing knacks. "Thank you for letting me know."
Malachi gives her a tight smile, maybe hearing sarcasm in her tone that she didn't mean to let in. "Really. Thank you."
That earns her a more genuine smile, and her old friend nods before moving on.
Ziva throws herself back into her work at twice the already feverish pace she'd been working at; with her father arriving back in Tel Aviv so much sooner than expected, there's no way she'll be able to finish everything. She'll plow through as much as she can get to, though. She still has two hours left in which to work, if she skips her midday meal.
It's 1415 when she sees her father arrive at his office, looking harried. Straightening up, she gives him as genuine a smile as she can muster when he meets her eye, but rather than smiling back, he raises his hand and crooks a finger at her in a clear 'come here' gesture.
Ziva feels the smile slide off her face—so it's time for her scolding already, is it? It figures that her father would make this his first order of business now that he's back.
She gets to her feet, tamping down the urge to stretch at length to get out of the hunched position she's been locked in all day, and heads to her father's office. He's behind the desk, but the door is open, and she knocks lightly on the frame. "Ah, Ziva," Eli greets, looking tired but giving her a small smile. "Come in, come in."
"Hello, Father," Ziva replies, crossing to his desk to formally exchange cheek kisses as expected before landing lightly on the chair across from him. "How was your trip to America?" Though it's tough, she manages to keep any bitterness out of her voice at the question; maybe it's easier to do because she now knows that going with the La Grenouille team would have meant not seeing Tony.
"It was not as productive as I had hoped it would be, but it is no matter." Eli waves a hand dismissively. "I would like to talk about you, my dear."
"Me?" Ziva parrots, raising her eyebrows but otherwise keeping her expression neutral. She's not going to volunteer anything about her weekend with Tony, that's for sure. She'll wait until Eli drags it out of her, word by word; anything less would make her feel like a puppy, dancing this way and that as her father tugs her strings.
He probably sees what she's doing, because an expression of mild amusement rises to his features, but he doesn't call her out on it. "Yes. You. Tell me, Ziva, what is most important to you about working at Mossad?"
The question surprises her, and she has to think about it. Rather than getting impatient with her, though, her father lets her contemplate it for a moment without demanding an answer—that surprises her even more than the question. "It is most important to me, I think, that I feel as if my work is important. I want to know that I am accomplishing something real, not simply 'poofing papers'." Perhaps it's the unexpected nature of the question, but something makes her answer honestly, up to and including adding an untranslated English phrase that feels fitting.
Eli nods as if he's seriously considering her answer, and after a moment, he throws an easier question at her. "And do you feel as if the work you are doing now fulfills that purpose?"
Again, Ziva feels compelled to answer candidly. "No, Abba, I do not."
"If you were in charge of assignments, how would you change your own to better suit your goals?"
This feels so strangely like a job interview, something she's rarely had an occasion to do, and it makes her a little extra suspicious. Where's the lecture? Where's the anger, the yelling, the pissy fits? Shaking her sleep-deprived brain out of that line of thought, she reminds herself to focus on the conversation at hand and analyze it later. "I think… I would give myself more field assignments. I am not a computer expert by any means, but the vast majority of my assignments right now require computer work almost exclusively. I believe I can make a bigger difference and be a bigger help out in the field."
Eli nods once more, looking as if he was expecting this answer. "Do you think your time working with the Americans improved your fieldwork skills?"
This is the first time he's brought up her time with NCIS since her first day back, and she isn't sure what to make of him doing it now. "Very much so."
"In what way?"
"When I left Israel, I was a good agent—mm, officer—in some ways, but I was very yellow in others. Working with the Americans, I learned things that strengthened my ability to solve problems, not just to let my weapons solve them for me." Ziva can't stop the minuscule smile that floats to her lips when her own too-forthright answer calls a memory to mind. 'I have been with NCIS for a year. I am not just a killer anymore, I am an investigator,' she remembers saying to Gibbs, Tony, and McGee. 'Now can I go home?'
If her father notices her brief moment of emotion, he doesn't comment. Instead, he focuses on what she said. "Can you apply those abilities to situations that involve Israeli law rather than American?"
"Yes, Father." Ziva certainly feels like she's falling into a trap here, but she cannot for the death of her figure out what it is.
Eli considers her for one last long moment. "Very well," he announces as if he's made a big decision. "In that case, I have an assignment for you."
Ziva tries to tamp down the excitement that this announcement sends coursing through her—surely, there's a big catch. There's no way finally getting back in her father's good graces is this easy. "And that would be?" she asks, trying to sound only idly curious.
"Come. It will all become clear to you soon."
Several hours later, Ziva has been fully read into a new assignment, and she feels as if she's waltzing on sunshine. She held onto her suspicions right up until the moment when she was able to flip through a case file and see what it is; for once, her father is not tricking her. In fact, he's doing exactly what she's longed for months for him to do—he's putting her on a major task force, and more than that, he's putting her at the head of the team.
She's now in charge of the manhunt for René Benoit.
As her father explains to her, he's been called back to Israel on urgent business. He was heading the team in question himself and now needs someone else to step in and take his place… he's leaving behind big shoes to drill, for sure, but Ziva can't wait to get started.
The remainder of the team is in Europe at the moment, and she'll be on a flight out tonight to join them. She'll coordinate efforts between the team in Serbia and the supporting officers back in Tel Aviv, and she alone will decide the direction in which the search should go. Though she's never led a team this large or important before, focusing in her past Mossad work on solo or small team assignments, she's sure she's up to the task if she pulls out her inner Gibbs.
She barely has time to grab her go-bag from her desk before she's being ushered out the door by her father; Eli has kept up a steady stream of information and background since they walked out of his office together, and he doesn't stop until she's halfway into the car that's waiting to take her to the airport. "Good luck, Ziva," her father finishes as she closes the door behind her, though her window is open and she can still clearly see and hear him. "I expect to be kept updated on your team's progress, am I understood?"
"Of course," Ziva answers quickly, trying not to sound like she's rushing him. She's ever-so-slightly afraid that if she doesn't get going, Eli will change his mind and tell her that she's not allowed to go. "I will call you as soon as—" She breaks off speaking suddenly, having been reflexively checking her pockets for her phone. They're empty. Did she leave her phone on her desk? "Oh, ben-zonna," she curses, making her father snort. "I do not know where I left my phone."
Eli gives her a look through the window and holds up a little silver flip phone. "The time it took you to notice that I had taken your phone makes me worry about leaving you in charge alone, Ziva," he admonishes lightly, but he chuckles when Ziva reaches out for it and he's able to keep it from her grasp. "Now, now, your time with the Americans has also made you impolite. I do not appreciate your snatching."
Ziva bites her tongue to keep from pointing out that it was he who had snatched it in the first place; now is not the time to anger him. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and waits, expression impassive, to see if he'll return the device or not.
He doesn't. "There is a reason I removed this from your possession. You are a smart girl—can you figure it out?"
Feeling slightly patronized, Ziva briefly considers him. "Certainly to send a message, yes?" she begins, her tone making it clear that the question is rhetorical. "It is not only to point out my failure to notice its absence, because if that was the case, you would not have already pointed that out to me." Eli nods in approval, gesturing for her to keep going. "You also want me to realize that this is a mission of the utmost secrecy. You are afraid that I will either foolishly allow myself to be tracked using my cell phone, or I will willfully use my phone to distribute information to those who you do not wish to know details of this case. Am I close?"
The look that her father gives her is as close to approving as she's gotten in a long time, and she tries not to let that make her proud. She reminds herself that beyond his ability to make her life miserable at work, she doesn't care what he thinks.
"You are close," Eli agrees, the approval on his features mixing with light amusement and something darker. "You have missed one facet of my reasoning, however—I also wish to remind you that I am aware of the people with whom you communicate. Do not make the mistake of going behind my back again, Ziva David." The warning in his voice is suddenly deadly and clear.
Ziva could just kick herself—how did she not see this coming!? Of course her father would wait until a properly strategic moment to blow Tony's visit in her face… if he means to throw her off at the beginning of her mission—and knowing him, he absolutely does—then he's succeeding.
Before she can think of a good way to reply, he's talking again, and she can see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes. "You will get your phone back when you return. In the meantime, buy a burner phone once you arrive in Europe to use to communicate with myself and with the team you are leading. Farewell, Ziva. I wish you the best on this assignment. We will evaluate your future at Mossad depending on your performance on this task, so take care to do the job correctly. You know what I expect."
With that, he walks away, and Ziva, fuming, watches him go.
Ziva's flight to Belgrade is smooth enough to allow her to nap if she wishes, and she tries to catch up on sleep while she still can. Though she far prefers field work to desk work, she knows very well that field work's biggest downside is in its chronic unpredictability; she may have a soft feather bed to sleep in every night for the duration of this mission, or she may be catching five-minute flower naps sitting against tree trunks in between bouts of running for her life. There's just no way to tell going in.
Despite this knowledge, she spends most of the flight staring blankly out the window, wishing for rest that won't come. Her thoughts are too tumultuous, each one twisting and jumping and tangling with the ones before it. She's been accused before of being emotionless or soulless, and sometimes, she knows she can certainly come across that way. Sometimes, though, like on her flight to Belgrade, she wishes for it to be true.
This mission would be far simpler if she could just push her father out of her mind! It's infuriating that even though she knows the games he's playing, she's never been able to stop herself from falling right into every trap he sets. Even worse, she can't stop herself from becoming disappointed and angry every damn time he acts like this, because for her entire life, she's longed for Eli to be the father that she needs him to be. He has his moments, to be sure, and there are memories of the Abba of her childhood that are genuinely fond now… but it seems that he's become so used to manipulating people that it's now all he knows to do. Unfortunately, Ziva, being the only one of his children left alive, is his favorite target.
She hears Gibbs' voice in the back of her mind: 'Don't forget rule thirty-six, Ziver. If it feels like you're being played, you probably are.'
Ducky's voice reminds her of something else: 'Ah, but my dear girl, Jethro's rules work best together! Might I suggest that you consider rule sixteen… if someone thinks he has the upper hand, break it!'
Tony's voice is back there somewhere, too, though, and it's his little reminder that echoes the loudest. 'But this one's important, sweet cheeks—rule number one, or one of the number ones, anyway: never screw over your partner.'
Ziva shakes her head sharply to dispel the voices of her well-meaning American (and Scottish) friends, wondering where on earth her own subconscious was going there. Now is not the time to think about it, though. If she can't sleep, she needs to spend the last half of the three hour flight preparing for the job ahead.
She opens the case file again, flipping through it a page at a time and putting herself through memorization exercises to ensure focus. It takes a little time, but it works, and by the time her plane touches down, she's absolutely ready to work. She only stops to purchase a burner phone at an airport shop before obtaining a taxi.
Once in the taxi, she makes her way straight into the city, and she meets her new team at the hotel they've been working out of. It would be rather late to begin a meeting at NCIS, but officers of Mossad are well used to work hours that are equal parts long and oddly kept. No one complains when she summons them, and they all gather quickly, ready to fill her in on what has been learned in Serbia. Ziva holds the meeting campfire-style, thinking of Tony, and though she sees a couple of secretive smiles arise when they understand her directions, her new team obeys, to their credit, without question.
She sends them to bed once she's been brought up to speed on everything; after composing a quick email message to her father via the burn phone, she goes to bed, too. She can't shake the feeling that they won't be staying at this hotel long, for better or for worse.
The next day is a busy one—mindful of her father's thinly veiled threats, she makes sure to delegate tasks that involve working with NCIS's European field agents. She refuses to give her father the satisfaction of thinking he's right about her.
Unfortunately, she's quickly able to see why this investigation has been going so slowly, not only for Mossad but for NCIS, MI-5, and everyone else that has been attempting to track René Benoit. He's as slippery as a jellyfish, and it's clear that his ability to broker arms deals is second only to his ability to evade detection. Every lead they can track down terminates in a dead end.
It's another two days before the first solid clue appears—they find security footage of La Grenouille boarding a train bound for Vienna via Budapest. Saying a quick blessing in relief, Ziva dives right into formulating a plan of action. She leaves one officer in Belgrade, ordering him to lay low, blend in, and make certain that his presence isn't made known as he keeps digging to make sure La Grenouille actually left. She's not completely sure he has, and she's not completely sure he'll stay gone if he has. The only thing she is certain of is that if he was ever headed to Budapest or Vienna, he won't be in either place for long.
Discounting the officer in Belgrade, she's left with seven other officers at her disposal, including herself; she buys a detailed train map of Europe to use in planning, a rough strategy cobbling itself together in her mind before the money used to purchase the map has even changed hands. Her knowledge of European human geography comes in handy because, following a hunch, she chooses the seven most likely destinations for La Grenouille to be traveling toward. Then, working off of both her father's notes and her own observations, she decides which officer can be most efficiently utilized in each city.
She sends one team member each to seven major nearby cities, selecting towns with easy, frequent transeuropean train service and excluding France, Monaco, and French-speaking Switzerland. Knowing that La Grenouille is too smart to return to his Parisian roots, she finds it unlikely that he'd choose a predictable endpoint at all… if it was her running away, knowing she was being followed, she would paradoxically avoid the places that would be easiest for her to assimilate into. She'd instead stick to those cities and nations where no one following would expect her to go, stops where her strongest languages weren't dominantly spoken. René Benoit may not speak as many languages as Ziva herself does, but he speaks both French and English fluently, effectively ruling out a number of nations as likely choices.
Thinking along those same lines, she adds Luxembourg, Belgium, the UK, and Ireland all to her running list of unlikely places, and completes her assignments.
She ends up with an officer each in Sarajevo, Zagreb, Vienna, Krakow, Prague, and Bucharest. Each officer has strict instructions to follow up on his or her assigned city until it becomes clear that the man they're hunting is either there or not there; following the first wave of investigations, Ziva can mobilize officers to nearby cities quickly and efficiently, herding La Grenouille in one direction or another until he's cornered.
Her biggest difficulty comes in placing herself. She has something of an advantage because of the number of languages she can speak, and it would make sense to head for one of the places where she could make use of her knowledge… she briefly considers Nuremberg or maybe Milan, but her gut is telling her that Benoit isn't in Germany or Italy. If she's right, he's not in Russia, Turkey, or Spain, either, all places she could navigate with ease.
No, if she's right and he's avoiding places that he knows would be easy on himself, she can only assume that he's done his due diligence and will be working to avoid places that will make it easy for Ziva to find him, too. That leaves portions of Eastern Europe, the Baltics, Scandinavia, and few other scattered countries as possibilities, if he hasn't left Europe entirely… and Ziva's sure he hasn't. It's not a feeling she can explain, and she tries to gloss over that part when she explains her strategy to her father, but… she knows better by now than to discount gut feelings.
In the end, she heads for the Netherlands on a whim, reasoning that Central Europe is well-covered for now and there are several agents within easy travel of Eastern Europe, should the clues lead that way. Her father instructs her not to inform the local NCIS agents of her plans, and though she hates doing it, she listens. She sends off a silent apology somewhere in the direction of Washington for intentionally foiling their investigation.
Ziva thinks her strategy is a good one, but the next several days are still very frustrating. She gets regular reports from her team members, some of whom seem to be making small leaps of progress and some of whom find little to nothing—she consults her map again, moving the Vienna officer to nearby Bratislava and the Zagreb officer to Ljubljana.
Finally, Ziva catches what feels like the lucky break that she needs—she speaks to a train conductor in Utrecht who remembers checking the ticket of a man matching La Grenouille's description on a route to Amsterdam earlier in the day. Despite not having any Dutch credentials, she manages to sweet talk an NS worker into tracking Benoit's train ticket. It takes some searching, but eventually, they use security footage and electronic time stamps from ticket barriers to conclude that Benoit alighted at Amsterdam Bijlmer ArenA.
Then it gets tricky, but Ziva can feel that she's getting close, and she won't let anything stop her. The security coverage at this station is with older cameras, and even though she successfully talks her way into viewing it again, she doesn't find much that's helpful. Not discouraged, she takes to canvassing the station, talking to anyone who will slow down for long enough for conversation but trying to focus on the workers that are there all day, every day.
Finally, finally, she's able to track Benoit down retroactively to a bus heading for Amstelveen, and she follows him there.
Amstelveen turns out to be considerably smaller than Amsterdam or Utrecht, and that further complicates the job that Ziva is trying to do. Without large train stations and bus depots, it will be much more difficult to find helpful security camera coverage, so rather than waste time looking for it, Ziva follows her intuition.
According to Mossad's files, Benoit has what Ziva would classify as classic Parisian tastes—his credit card statements show him to be an enthusiast of fine wine and pricey alcohols, French food, expensive art, and a vast array of coffee products. Most of those things, of course, would be easy to track down in nearby Amsterdam, but which of them can be found in a wealthy little suburb? Fine wine, probably, though even a Frenchman would likely not risk the wrath of the politie by drinking in public in the early evening if he was trying to stay under the radar. French food? Maybe, though it's doubtful that a Dutch take on French food would be satisfactory to a born-in-bread Parisian. Expensive art? Doubtful, except in museums. Coffee, however? That's likely to be plentiful, and it seems as logical a place as any to start.
Going on foot, Ziva moves from cafe to cafe, keeping her eyes peeped. She once again simply trusts her gut feelings, which lead her away from Amselveen's center and out in the general direction of Uithoorn. When she's just starting to doubt herself, she sees René Benoit himself.
He's clearly waiting on her, sitting alone at an outdoor table; he has an empty noisette cup resting neatly by his elbow and there's a pleasant smile on his face. He shows no surprise when their eyes meet. "Ah, Ms. David. I did wonder if you would be joining me. Would you care to sit?" His voice is polite and congenial and his spoken English is polished, but his clothes are dirty and his face is lined with exhaustion.
Ziva feels a very unexpected surge of pity as it occurs to her that he might simply be tired of running. He's not exactly a young man anymore.
Still, she has no choice but to make him move a little further, so she shakes her head, giving him a smile that matches his own. "No, but I thank you for your offer," she answers in French. "I think we should take a walk instead."
Something in Benoit's smile becomes more authentic as Ziva speaks his mother tongue, and he shrugs, rising to his feet with surprising grace despite his apparent frailty. "If you wish, my dear."
Ziva gestures in the direction she was walking before, away from more populated areas. She doesn't need any witness when she kills him, and though she's sure Benoit knows what she's doing, he seems delighted to do as she suggests… he seems to be a hard man to pin up, both in location and personality, and Ziva suggests as much to him as they walk. "Finding you was more of a challenge than I anticipated," she admits.
Benoit laughs. "Oh, the arrogance of youth," he answers fondly. "Perhaps that's why you managed when no one else did."
"You were waiting for me when I arrived," Ziva points out, mild.
"Yes, but it was only a matter of time before you caught me anyway. I rather enjoyed your plan, my dear… creating a web of officers to catch the juicy fly was ingenious. Tapping on the strands of the web to draw in your little spiders? That was inspired."
Ziva is amused despite herself. "Are you admitting defeat?"
"Yes—is that really such a surprise?"
"Well, you are French."
Benoit lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a hacking cough, which Ziva listens to a little sympathetically. "How long would you have lived, if you were not found first?" she asks; she skips directly past the question of whether he's ill, because it's clear as night that he is.
"I am told that my lungs will fail me in ninety days, perhaps a little less."
Ziva nods. "I can only hope that I remain as spry in my final days," she compliments him genuinely.
That makes Benoit laugh again, and they stop walking so he can catch his breath when that laugh inevitably gives way to a harsh cough, too. While she waits, Ziva considers his surprising level of charm—he reminds her a little of Ducky, and she can also see parts of the man that his daughter clearly inherited. He's likeable on a level that she wasn't expecting, particularly since she nearly died on his orders mere months ago.
When Benoit seems up to walking again, they resume, and Ziva asks another question. "Does it count as defeat if it is part of your plan to surrender?"
"Now, that is an interesting question," Benoit praises. "What do you think?"
"I think making deliberate choices, knowing the outcome, is not the same as being defeated," Ziva answers with total honesty.
"I'm inclined to agree. Does that mean that I won?"
Ziva chuckles. "What do you think?" she mimics.
"I think I did win, yes. If I must end, at least I will end on my terms."
"What are your terms?"
Benoit gives her a look so reminiscent of Tony's flirtiest expression that she has to laugh again. "The last face I see will be a pretty woman's. I hope it will be a quick end, not too painful. I had one last coffee, even if it was Dutch, and this is a pretty place to die." He gestures to the flower-lined canal they're walking alongside, and Ziva's inclined to agree. "I even got to see my daughter one last time, from a distance. She is the best part of me, you know."
Ziva can see nothing but sincerity in his face, and she feels compelled to kindness in a way she usually would not be. "She is a good woman, and an excellent doctor. She will do fine in life."
"Thank you for saying that—am I right in assuming that you are not one for empty compliments?"
Ziva laughs again, shaking her head. "No. I try to be honest when at all possible."
"An admirable quality, to be sure." Benoit pauses for a moment before inclining his head toward Ziva. "Now, this seems as good a stopping place as any, I think. Do what you have come to do—I simply ask that you do not draw it out. I have little taste for torture, you have to understand, and I suspected long ago that you don't have much of a taste for it, either."
Ziva draws her spare gun and screws on a silencer. "You were holding out for my father to put me in his place," she surmises as she works, having caught what he was implying.
Benoit nods. "He and I have quite a history, and if we had more time, I would tell you about it. Just know, though, that you are not the only spider in Israel capable of spinning webs. Your father's web would be a crueler place to die; he would try to draw secrets out of me that I no longer possess. He may soon do the same to you."
Of all the things Benoit has said today, this one shocks her the least. "I do not have any trouble believing you." She's been caught in that web before herself.
"Then maybe you will outsmart him yet," Benoit declares. "Well, if there's nothing left to say or do, I believe I am ready."
"I do have one more question."
"I'm happy to answer."
"When you told Jeanne to trust Jenny Shepard, who were you warning her about?"
Benoit gives her a look she can't quite decipher. "You made it this far, Ms. David. Can't you guess?"
Ziva can guess, but surely she's wrong. "My father?"
Benoit quirks his lips up in answer. "In the end, I needn't have worried, because your father never made an attempt on Jeanne's life. He promised to, though, a very long time ago when Jeanne was small. I worried when I found myself getting sicker in the last few months that he would use her to get to me once he found out how weak I was becoming. That's why I put so much effort into running. Jenny Shepard may have wanted my blood, but she wouldn't cross that line—Eli David, on the other hand, would not hesitate."
Ziva nods, digesting this, and asks a question that she hasn't planned on asking. "Do you regret any of it?" she wants to know. "All of the—the arms dealing, the war mongering, the kidnapping and shooting and killing and…" she trails off.
Benoit appears to take the question seriously, but he doesn't think about it for long. "I know you Americans have ideals about good and bad and what it means to be human… I'm sorry to disappoint, but no. We all make our own way in this world. I chose mine, you chose yours, and it is what it is."
"Hmm… Thank you for your candor. Which way would you like to face?"
"Away, I think. Toward the water, and I can imagine I'm in a Monet painting. Farewell, my dear." He gives her a smile and turns around.
"Au revoir," Ziva murmurs, then aims and pulls the trigger. It only really sinks in as she watches the body fall that he called her American, and she wonders why he did.
When Ziva calls her father after to inform him that she has done as asked, he tells her to leave the country as stealthily as possible, return to Belgrade and gather her team, and move on to Tel Aviv on the first available flight. For reasons he doesn't disclose to Ziva, Eli doesn't want Mossad getting the credit for this particular assassination; she suspects it's because Mossad never had formal permission from the Dutch government to carry out a mission on Dutch soil.
Luckily, stealth is nothing new for Ziva, and Schengen's open borders make departing the country painless and easy. She policed her brass at the scene and took the gun with her; after wiping her prints off to be safe, she disposes of the weapon in the Rhine River in Cologne once over the Dutch-German border. From there, it's a quick flight to Serbia—her team members arrive back in Belgrade one by one, ready to depart—and a slightly longer one back to Israel.
They arrive in Tel Aviv on the seventh day after leaving, and walking into Mossad headquarters feels something like receiving a subdued hero's welcome. Officially, the team set out to accomplish nothing and came back having accomplished nothing, but there isn't a single person working in the building who doesn't know what went down in Europe. Even Eli gives Ziva a quiet "I am proud of you" and seems to mean it.
Ziva lets herself enjoy the celebratory mood a little, but as soon as possible, she corners her father in his office. "Let me guess," he says lightly, looking up at her knock and waving her in. "You are eager for your performance review, yes?"
Ziva cracks a smile, but it's fake again; René Benoit's warnings are still ringing in her ears, adding to her ever-present distrust of her father. "Maybe tomorrow would be better, Abba. I am very tired and I would like to go home and sleep." This, at least, is no lie. She's exhausted. "Can I please have my phone before I go?"
It's a mark of how impressed Eli is with her completion of the case that he gives her the phone without argument. "Thank you," she acknowledges softly, and turns to go. Her father's voice stops her, though, and she listens in disbelief.
They often switch between Hebrew and English when it's just the two of them, because some things flow better in one language and some in the other. As Ziva leaves her Abba's office, however, she hears him say something in Hebrew that she has not heard since she was very small: "Laila tov, ahava shelli." It's a simple thing, but it immediately makes her feel small again. She and Tali shared a bedroom when they were very young, and Abba would come in to kiss them goodnight on the rare occasion that he was home for bedtime. That was always the last thing he said to each of them.
Good night, my love.
After an incredibly long day of travel, all Ziva wants is to burrow under the quilts on her bed and go straight to sleep, but there are things she needs to do first.
The most important one is to call Tony.
She knows he can't be thrilled with her absence, and she wishes that she'd been allowed possession of her phone during the mission. If she'd realized before she left that it would be taken, she would have warned Tony and at least left him a voicemail or a text. Instead, she disappeared for over a week. At least this isn't her fault, and she's sure Tony will understand once she explains what happened. After all, he knows enough about Eli by now to recognize the Mossad director's manipulative behavior for what it is.
When she rings him, though, he doesn't answer, and Ziva quickly thinks through the time difference—it's probably still during the workday for him, so it isn't strange for him not to answer. She'll stay up as long as she can to wait for him to call back.