Kort lifted his palm to his nose, seeking out the traces of the scent Jennifer Shepard wore. Honey. Jasmine? He snuffed it in with a single sharp intake of breath and held it in his lungs, much like the first breath from opening a new foil-sealed pack of Fortnum & Mason's tea leaves. These were small pleasures to be savoured.

"Why is NCIS calling you?" commented a flat voice from the back of the car. "Agent Gibbs?"

"Not your concern," Kort shut down the question, returning his hand to discretely adjust himself. His eyes followed the trajectory of the jerky yellow blip on the tiny screen, rather than acknowledging the man shrouded in shadow. "What is your concern, is that the evidence follows a particular pattern."

The man sighed irritably. "It makes things more complicated."

"Complicated," Kort agreed curtly. "But necessary."

Kort placed the device into a holder attached to the windscreen and reached for the ignition key.

"Is the target expecting me?"

"On the contrary, if anything."

"I don't like mind games."

Kort lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror, mentally scanning the conversation he had just had with Gibbs. He realised belatedly that he should have been more careful. His weapon of choice was tried and tested. Government sponsored even, but now held more information that strictly necessary to execute the job in hand. It gave Kort an uneasy feeling and if there was anything he disliked, it was a loose end.

There had been indications of late that the weapon may be misfiring. He put them aside for now, they were…inconvenient. It did mean however, that if an excuse was needed, tonight would add accelerant to an already flickering flame, and ultimately make his job easier. Disposal was always distasteful, but often opened opportunities for an upgrade. He forced himself to relax. His co-conspirator looked away out of a side window rather than meet his stare. Kort studied his profile.

He didn't look like a killer, Kort pondered, but then, what did a killer look like? His build was unexceptional, his features unremarkable, outside of the deadness in his eyes. He could be charming. A certain type of woman enjoyed his company. He thought about Shepard and discarded it swiftly, shifting uncomfortably. If it went well, there would be no conversation.

"Consider it more along the lines of politics."

"I don't like politics either."

"Just get it done," Kort's patience snapped. "No collateral damage."

Kort put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb, calculating a more direct route than the one shown on the satnav. The man in the back of the car stared fixedly out of the window at the blurred grey cityscape rushing past.

…][…

"I should have asked him who she might have called," McGee berated himself.

"Who whom called?" queried Ziva, peering around the edge of her computer screen from the desk diagonally opposite.

"The Director," McGee replied irritably.

"Weren't you tracking her cell for Gibbs?"

"Yeah, it's at her home," replied McGee, typing furiously.

"And where is Gibbs?"

"Not sure," said McGee distracted. "But he's not happy," he finished plaintively.

"He said he was going to take care of the Director," Ziva sat back.

McGee looked startled for a moment and reached for his keyboard again. Seconds later, he piped up, "that's weird."

"What is?"

"He's in the same location as the Director's cell."

"So, with the Director."

"Nuh huh. I don't think so. He asked me to trace stuff he could just ask her for." McGee shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The signals are separating."

"Maybe he doesn't want to."

"Maybe she's not there."

"And the last person she spoke to was Benoit?"

"As far as we know," said McGee dubiously.

"Kidnapping?

"I don't know. The whole situation between those two is weird."

"The Director and Benoit?"

McGee gave Ziva a significant look.

Ziva settled back in her chair. He meant Gibbs and the Director. What McGee didn't know wouldn't hurt him, probably; although the same could hardly be said of Tony. She certainly wasn't going to volunteer a confidence. Not when she wasn't certain she had it all straight herself.

Jenny had never actually admitted anything, but then silence often spoke louder than words. The way the Director and Gibbs behaved around each other in the office was a strange juxtaposition of partners and antagonists. It could be so easily be put down to student outstripping mentor, except there was more.

Ari had said so when he read the file and demanded to meet Jenny. At the time, Ziva had seen no harm in it. Now she was not so sure, that it wasn't that night, when Ari had become fixated. Ziva tracked over the conversation with Jenny, after Ari had left.

Jenny had been curled up on the couch nursing a glass of wine when Ziva returned from seeing Ari out. The tea towel with its cargo of ice lay discarded on the coffee table.

"Who is he?"

"My half brother."

"No," Jenny said slowly. "I mean who is he really?"

Ziva shrugged, as if she was not certain exactly what was being asked. There was trust between them, but as ever with outsiders, a residual reticence. Eventually, she said, "like me."

"Mossad?"

"Of course."

"Not exactly like you." Ziva watched Jenny stare into her wine, suddenly quiet.

"What do you mean?" She joined her on the couch, drawing her feet up under her to make herself more comfortable.

"He likes to kill," Jenny stated softly.

"It comes with the territory," Ziva replied offhand.

"No, it doesn't."

Jenny flexed the fingers on her right hand, adjusting around the bowl of the glass. The back of the hand was red and swollen, distinctly bruised.

"You've seen that move before. I could tell by your face, but you let him do it to you anyway."

"You're right, I knew what I was doing," Jenny turned to face her host. "I wanted to know what sort of person he really was. Why he was so interested in Gibbs?"

"Because he is interested in you."

Jenny turned away.

"Gibbs is gone."

For a split second, Ziva thought Jenny looked mournful.

"From this country, yes. From you I am not so sure. I'm sorry, I should have told Ari to come back later."

"No, I'm sorry." Jenny looked down at her damaged hand. "I didn't expect...it to hurt so much."

"He is a man who wants what he wants."

Jenny had stared at her blankly. Ziva had been talking about Ari. She thought for a moment that Jenny was talking about her old partner.

"You care very much for him," Ziva said tentatively.

"Relationships change."

"People do not."

McGee broke her from her reverie. "I think I might have something."

Ziva rose and padded across the office space to McGee's desk. She took up a position behind him, leaning on him to look over his shoulder. McGee regarded her nervously and licked his suddenly dry lips. She leant on him a little heavier to direct his attention.

"Show me."

"So Gibbs wanted to know if there were any outgoing calls from the Director's place not on her landline or cell."

"And…"

"There are two towers that a call would hit from there," he pointed to a map on his screen centred on the Director's house. "Here and here."

"Which one?"

"Umm doesn't really matter. What matters is the calls that fit the time window."

"How many?"

"Thousands." McGee's screen flicked to a list of cell numbers, times and packet information. "So, I cross-referenced those with numbers that the Director's cell had received a call from in the last week. Gibbs' number came up a lot." The screen flickered to a second list with similar information.

"She is going to kill you."

"She has to be alive to do that."

McGee winced as Ziva smacked him half-heartedly on the shoulder. It was a possibility, however unpleasant. Ziva squinted at the highlighted rows and their time stanps.

"If she is, I would not recommend that you tell her you know Gibbs calls her alot."

McGee took in a sharp breath at Ziva's sudden stillness. It was unnerving, the same but different from when Gibbs did the same thing when he was thinking. He flipped back to the cell tower listings. "Kort also called her. Tonight. About the right time." He turned awkwardly in his chair so that he could see Ziva's face. "He's on our side, right?"

"I think he is on his own side," said Ziva under her breath.

…][…

Shepard squeezed her left wrist with her right hand, and in one easy movement, switched hands to hook a finger into her right hand sleeve to read the time off her watch. It was a move she used to mask the fact that she could never remember which wrist she wore her watch on. Undercover with Gibbs, they had taken on a role replacing a dead mobster and his girlfriend. Left-handed girlfriend. Her perfectionist nature meant she had taught herself to shoot left handed, but it was Gibbs silent exasperation that made her wear her watch on her right wrist long after the op was over. She did it now some mornings without thinking about it.

A small square, the size of a postage stamp peeled away from her sleeve and spun as it fell, gleaming in the light from the street lamp. Shepard snatched at it, holding it close to her face to inspect it. She squinted her eyes, taking in the thin plastic embedded with a printed circuit sticking to the fingertip of her glove. Her heart jumped into her throat.

"You bastard," she swore. "Me first."

Angrily she tore the tiny patch in half and dropped the pieces, knowing the damage was done. Tony had used something similar to stick to La Grenouille's luggage. It was a tracker. The owner could only be Kort. From this location there was really only one destination, which meant that Kort would know she was heading for the harbour.

As close as she had come to La Grenouille, he had always managed, somehow, to pull away at the last moment. If Kort got to him first, Shepard was certain it would happen again. This time, it would be the final time. The Frog was running for his life. He had turned back for Shepard. It would be the ultimate betrayal for him to find Kort at the docks rather than herself. Maybe he deserved it, she thought. Her face twisted in to a mask of hate. No, she decided. She deserved her moment. Her one tiny moment in all of this hateful thing between them.

She dragged on her helmet, checked the Glock handgun remained secure in the back of her waistband and kicked viciously to start the bike. The bike squealed away, leaving the layby with a smear of smoking rubber.