It was his third try. The pictures that flashed across the MTAC screen earlier now flashed in his mind. The toppled furniture, the disheveled bed sheets, and the blood. Clearly there had been a struggle. Clearly Ziva had been injured. And while the amount of blood was minimal, there was no way of telling the true severity of her injuries. Panic was beginning to set in, several scenarios playing out, like the movies he so loved. "Come on Ziva. Answer, dammit," Tony pleaded through the phone. On the fifth ring, he was preparing to hang up and dial again, when the ringing was replaced by silence. "Ziva?"
"Hello, Tony," came her winded reply.
Relief washed over him, rinsing away the anger built up by the first two unsuccessful attempts. Now, fear pressed painfully into his chest. "Ziva. Where are you?"
"What? No, 'How are you doing' or 'I miss you,' Tony?" Ziva asked calmly, softly, almost peacefully. The fear gripped his heart even tighter at her resigned tone.
Tony ran his free hand through his hair and turned toward the sereneness of the courtyard, seeking solace. "Ziva. I need a sitrep," Tony demanded harshly, jaw tight.
She gave a humorless sniff. "You are not my boss, Tony," she snapped.
Tony felt some relief at the sharp reply, indicating she still possessed the will to fight, but he still needed to know more information about her situation. "Come on, Zi. There are a lot of people worried about you."
Relenting, she continued more civilly. "They should not be. I may have tried to leave a life of violence behind, but I still remember how to defend myself." Tony could still hear the difficulty she had breathing, but it was not as labored as on her voicemail message. When he didn't respond, she conceded. "Oh, alright. A man, Russian I believe, took out the security detail ordered to protect me, then broke into my apartment. I was taken by surprise. We struggled. I eventually made it into the bedroom, grabbed my gun, and shot him. I gathered what I needed, left you the clue hoping Mossad would contact NCIS, and proceeded to a safehouse."
"Are you injured?" Tony asked, knowing she omitted those details purposefully.
"I am fine, Tony," came her automated reply.
"No. You're not. I can hear it when you speak. Please Ziva, don't shut me out now," Tony implored with a hushed tone.
A long pause followed by a huff indicated her concession. "I have a few scrapes and bruises. I have at least two broken ribs. My shoulder was dislocated, and I was stabbed twice." She could hear his sharp intake of breath, and hurried on. "I managed to track down an old contact, one who now works peacefully in the medical field. He came to the safehouse and did his best to… oh, how do you say… patch me up."
"Did his best?"
"We did not have sophisticated equipment. There was no way to tell if any internal damage was done," Ziva stated very matter-of-factly.
"Where are you, Zi?" Tony asked again, every syllable laced with concern.
"No, Tony. I am not dragging you into this. Whatever this is," Ziva defied.
"Ziva, we have a pretty good idea of who is after you. Tell me where you are and I'll fill you in when I get there," Tony tried.
"Tell me now, Tony, or I am hanging up and the trace that I know McGee is running will lead you nowhere," she threatened.
Tony cursed her intuitiveness. "Fine. Does the name Sergei Mishnev mean anything to you?"
There were a few seconds of silence as Ziva pondered the name. Tony could almost see her furrowed brow and scrunched nose. She was probably pinching the bridge of her nose, he thought. "No. Should it?"
"He's a Russian mercenary who dealt in arms, among other things, and let's just say that we shared some of the same clients."
"Who?" Ziva demanded, interrupting Tony.
Tony hesitated, knowing the past was about to rear its ugly head yet again. "There were several names we recognized…"
Ziva interrupted again, voice sharper this time. "Who, Tony?"
"Bodnar. Saleem. Hell, even The Frog." He paused, knowing the next name would have the biggest impact. "And Ari."
Silence.
"Ziva? You still there?" Tony asked, masking his panic.
"Yes, Tony. What connection did my brother have to this Mishnev?"
"Apparently, Ari was a loyal customer of Mishnev's and the two became close. They bonded over illegal dealings, and Mishnev viewed Ari as a son. When he was killed, he vowed revenge." Another pause. Ziva just waited, knowing Tony would finish. "He already came after Gibbs, Ziva. He did his homework and discovered that Ari was killed in Gibb's basement. But, the guy he hired kept digging and they discovered that it wasn't actually Gibbs who killed Ari."
"It was me," Ziva whispered, finishing the summary heavily.
Tony sank to a nearby bench as he began to feel the weight of the situation mounting. "Ziva. Where are you? We can help. Please. Let us help you."
Frustration seeped into her reply, aimed directly at her past, but catching Tony in the crossfire. "No, Tony! Like I said when I left that message, these are my sins to face. I will not drag anyone else into my mess."
Tony snapped back, his own frustration boiling over. "Ziva. Stop! You are injured. You have no idea what this Mishnev looks like or who he's working with. Just tell me where you are, or so help me, I will search every city, every town, hell, every village in Europe to find you, I don't care if it takes me the rest of my life!" he finished dramatically.
Ziva smiled into the phone. "By now, I am sure McGee has a fix on my current location, so that would narrow your search some."
Tony heard the tired playfulness in her voice, but was not in the mood. "Ziva, please just tell me," Tony begged.
"Others may be monitoring calls from this location to the United States and Israel in the hope of tracking me, Tony, so telling you will do no good. I will begin traveling to a new location as soon as I am done talking to you."
Trying to reign in his mounting frustration, Tony tried another approach. "Okaaay. So, tell me where you are going then."
"I cannot do that Tony. I do not know how secure this number is anymore," Ziva continued to hedge.
"Ziva, I'm serious. I will use McGee's trace as a starting point and track you from there if I have to," Tony threatened.
Ziva knew this could place him and possibly the others in danger if there was indeed someone monitoring the call. Relenting, Ziva decided to give Tony a crumb. "I plan to head to the city where I danced with the man who deserves my love," she whispered. And, with that, she was gone.
Tony sat on the bench with his elbows propped on his spread knees, his hands linked, eyes closed, and head hung. Berlin. The dance. The kiss. The shared bed. While nothing more than the kiss physically happened, emotionally, they realized the feelings that each of them held for the other. They realized, and more importantly, accepted their love. Neither declared it, but it was there, between them, as if it were a physical being. Had things gone down differently with Bodnar, had things happened differently with Parsa, he was sure they would have declared it long before Israel. Hell, Ziva would never have left and Israel would never have happened, Tony thought bitterly.
Realizing that playing the "what if" game wasn't going to bring Ziva home, Tony stood and turned to return to the bullpen. His long strides and fixed gaze spoke of his determination.
The elevator's ding announced his arrival and he exited with the same stride, the same determination. McGee glanced up from his computer, anticipating Tony's return since the ended call minutes ago. "I got a fix, Tony. We know where she's at. Northeast France. Near Metz."
Tony look up from his desk drawer, the one that still housed the necklace he treasured more than his Bond collection. She was near Paris, he thought, another shared bed flashing through his mind. He eyed McGee another second before refocusing on the drawer. "Yeah, McGee? Well, I know where she's going," Tony answered as he pocketed the necklace and the photograph he looked at every day.
Tony took the steps two at a time up to the next level. He was ready to continue fighting for her.