Those fingers in my hair, that sly come hither stare
That strips my conscience bare, it's witchcraft
Leigh & Coleman
The club wasn't as dire as Tony had predicted. It was a reasonable run-of-the-mill establishment for its genre; girls, poles, thumping music and what might, loosely, be termed 'mood' lighting. Most of the activities within the walls were, perhaps, sordid not criminal. Some of it would only be considered lawful if squinting at the legislation. And a small proportion was undoubtedly illegal; which is how Fornell had been able to establish his people on the premises. Pleasantly convincing the management, minor local undesirables, the FBI would turn a blind eye to any wrong-doing – their interest had a much wider scope. That, plus the less pleasant suggestion of charges involving domestic terrorism if assistance was not completely forthcoming, was persuasive.
Over the past week, on two non-consecutive nights, the team conducted the charade for nothing. The persons of interest had been no-shows. The FBI had acted on a tip their targets would be doing business here – and all they could do was wait. Additionally, one night was scratched as information changed at the last minute. Tony found the process interminably boring. He had been in more, and better, venues like this than he cared to remember. There was no novelty factor. For the third night he surveyed the room. His experience as cop, and natural ability to read people meant he could size up the clientèle with little or no effort. Tony occupied himself by dividing them into categories by value as witnesses. The respectable types too ashamed to confess they were at a strip club; guaranteed to involve lawyers. The types happy to admit they were present and willing to help; useless by virtue of partying too hard. There were the types who hated cops – any kind of cops – and would let their mother die before co-operating. Finally, the pathetic types so lost in implausible fantasies, the pope could sit next to them and they wouldn't notice.
Tony was sat to the side, toward the back, pondering Alice. The erratic schedule dictated he explain a little more about his job. Her legal background and intelligence meant she quickly grasped the principles and was impressed. They spent a great weekend together. Although he suspected it would crop up, in the future, the topic of Ziva wasn't discussed. Tony had been hopeful for the possibilities. Until this morning, when he woke, at four, sweating and frustrated. She had danced through his dreams again like an alluring, unattainable wraith.
He tried not to pass the time watching Ziva, though he was unable to refrain entirely. Set up strictly as a waitress; no hands on and no performing. She and Gibbs had crafted a Turkish identity. The chances of anyone in the place being able to converse with her were slim to none; the language barrier an excellent deterrent to unwelcome advances. That notwithstanding, due to the character of the club and its patrons, as the nights wore on and liquor consumption increased, there were inevitable skirmishes. Tony was entertained by her various methods for dampening over-enthusiastic ardor. He also speculated on where she had the weapon concealed and its nature. His prime suspects were a knife and her cleavage – staking a hefty amount on his deduction in a private wager with McGee.
Tony noticed four men taking seats. He recognized three as faces which had graced the plasma screen recently. Tony watched them for a while and Ziva hovered, monitoring their chatter. An added advantage to her cover; they might rely on her not understanding anything she overheard. Another unfamiliar man arrived.
"Still no sign of Harris," Tony rolled his head from side to side and sighed.
She was straddled across his legs, leaning back, with her elbows rested on the table. The move had upgraded Tony's visible status from that of creepy-voyeur-in-the-corner to bogus-but-believable customer. Ziva glanced over toward the bar. Their barman wasn't present.
"He may not meet with them tonight." She fixed him with a reproving look. "It was a knife and, yes, you are correct as to the location." displaying that unnatural prescience, once again.
Tony had been slowly running his middle finger-tip up along her diaphragm - to win his bet, to play his rôle and, if he were honest, because he was enjoying it. Tony suspected she was enjoying it too, despite the look. If she hadn't, his finger would be close to dislocation. He cocked an eyebrow.
"Was?"
Ziva shrugged carelessly. "It was uncomfortable with this." 'This' meant the green mini-dress she was wearing; which clung in all the right places and plunged in all the others.
"You should write a piece for Vogue; tips for accessorizing an assassin." He grinned, making fun of her reasoning - nodding toward the group under observation.
"Anything of interest from our very own Party of Five?"
"No. It is pleasure before business." Without warning, she shifted forward a little, loosening his tie and undoing his collar. "I believe they have ordered some personal entertainment."
A mischievous smile flitted around her mouth and Ziva slid forward much further.
"You're blocking my line of sight."
Realizing she just raised the stakes on his earlier caress. And deciding it had been a very bad move to set that particular ball in motion. He scrutinized her, trying to gauge where the undercover act ended and revenge for the ceaseless stripper jokes of the past few days began. When Ziva played, she usually did it for keeps.
"They are not going anywhere. See?"
As if she had synchronized the event to the second, a group of girls joined their targets. Ziva's smile became provocative.
"Sperando per una scopata facile più tardi, Antonio." She murmured against his ear.
Occasionally, when searching for the right phrase in English, Ziva would give Tony the Italian or Spanish equivalent. It was a sort of game they played. No-one acquainted with him was surprised to discover he had an extensive vocabulary of Italian slang, curses and sexual terminology. Except Tony was damn sure Ziva knew how to say 'an easy fuck' in English. Her inflection meant he could interpret it as a comment on the aspirations of their suspects - or an offer.
Tony had one arm stretched over the back of an adjacent chair. The other hand was holding a glass; his grip tensing slightly as he restrained the impulse to touch her again.
"Christ Zee-vah, this is unfair."
Not able to believe the incongruity of that remark as applied to himself. Sitting on his lap, whispering dirty Italian to him was one of the more innocuous means of retaliation available to her. It was a vastly improved method for relieving the tedium of watching guys hit on girls who were paid to be a sure thing. However, they were supposed to be working - even if, as Tony believed, the whole scheme was completely pointless – which meant paying attention. She was wreaking havoc on his ability to concentrate.
"And I don't recall requesting a fucking lap-dance."
The premonition he was destined for another night of disturbed sleep caused a trace of resentment.
"Would you?"
There was a different, less artificially seductive, note in her voice.
"No."
The exasperated answer firmly ending the game – she might view an affirmative as encouragement. He thought he detected a tiny flicker of rejection shadow Ziva's eyes. Her quicksilver personality had flipped through competent professional to playful Siren to his Ninja; captivating, contradictory Ziva. And, although he knew he shouldn't, Tony continued more softly;
"'Cause the rules only let you take it so far."
Ziva held his gaze unwaveringly as she breathed her next query.
"Would you ever break the rules?"
Tony swallowed, hesitating. They were no longer talking about strip club etiquette. The conversation had strayed, imperceptibly, into a negotiation about their singular, protracted waltz. It was a Pandora's Box on the scale of Fort Knox and equally as impenetrable. Neither of them would risk opening it more than the tiniest crack. Imprisoned by habitual avoidance, Tony bounced her fledgling bid back to Ziva.
"Would you want me to?"
FBI Agent Teodoro Martinez approached Tony and Ziva with admiration. They appeared exactly like a businessman and a call-girl on the verge of making out; faking the ruse with astonishing authenticity. Faces just inches apart; the intensity of the stare reminding him of the day he had married the wife he adored. The skill of the pretence wasn't entirely unexpected. Agent Yussif had given him a heads' up. This was the pair who, apparently, went all the way - just to sell a cover whilst under surveillance by two, separate, law enforcement agencies. The alleged existence of thermal-imaging footage had acquired near mythic status in some quarters of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Martinez had brought drinks and, more importantly, communication devices. The real purpose behind Tony and Ziva's tête-à-tête; it was a pre-arranged plan to be acted upon once any suspects arrived. Until there were people to monitor, there had been little point previously. In truth, no-one in the van would choose to listen to the background noise unless there was something worth listening in on. The agent assigned as part of club 'security' had been relaying photos of anyone noteworthy. The unknowns run through facial recognition software – a slow process.
"News of the mystery guests?" Tony glanced up at Martinez, who shook his head and returned to his post at the bar.
The interruption had re-established the status quo. The question between Tony and Ziva remained unanswered – equivocation their standard operating procedure. They only ever seemed to broach the subject at the most inopportune moments. A pattern of partially begun, eternally unfinished, mistimed dialogues; managed with such regularity it could almost be by design. Tonight, it was the renewed focus on the mission which allowed each to deflect without venturing any further; nothing resolved and nothing broken.
"Watch it with the big guy, Zee-vah."
"Why?" Her tone and expression implying his concern was unwarranted.
"Just a feeling." Tony's gut instinct was a close rival to Gibbs' for precision hunches. "Zee-vah, I'm not kidding." Sensing she was already dismissing the caution. She stood up.
"Is this the part where I make an indecent proposal so you can slap my face and flounce away?" He grinned. "'Cause, you know, I'm sure I can think of something a lot more inappropriate than Redford did." Suddenly adding, "Or did you decide I'm too old for you?"
Ziva narrowed her eyes slightly; enigmatically studying him.
"It would be more realistic for the reason to be I discovered you were in a relationship."
Tossing her head and leaving him to wonder how she defined 'realistic'.