"Oh? And why is that?"
"She's pretty memorable."
"Describe her."
"Dark hair, dark eyes. Feisty."
"That isn't enough for me to go on. That describes most of the women that I meet."
"Some sick, malignant, son-of-a-bitch, brought her to you."
"I am going to need more to go on."
"This was about two years ago."
"That still isn't enough."
"In Somalia."
"That doesn't help."
"It was late August, or early September."
"You're going to have to keep going."
"You delivered her baby."
"I am a midwife," she replies.
"I don't know what else to tell you."
"Does she have a name?"
"Of course."
"Tell me what it is."
"You're going to remember?"
"You won't know, if you don't tell me."
"Ziva."
"Ziva? I recognize the name, tell me more."
"A dirt bag named Saleem brought her to you. Her baby was premature. She fell unconscious after the birth."
"Yes, I remember."
"You do?"
"Yes," she nods.
He folds his arms across his chest.
"That is what brings you here?" she questions.
"Yes," he nods.
"How do you know all of this?"
"She told me."
"She told you? When?"
"A few days ago."
"Days ago?" she looks at him in complete disbelief.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course, why?"
"I thought that he had killed her."
"He would have, but we came to take her home."
"Does she know that you're here?"
"No."
"Why didn't she come herself?"
"I don't think it's a wound that she wants to reopen."
"I can't say that I blame her."
"And why is that?"
"I was a very long, and traumatic labor."
"Tell me about it."
"She was in labor for thirty six hours. She was in excruciating pain, and even though I had pain medication, Saleem would not let me give her any. The baby was breech. Her blood pressure was through the roof. I was afraid that she was going to stroke out. After the baby was born she started to hemorrhage. She had a third degree laceration. It was a mess. The whole time, he sat in the corner and watched. He never once wiped the smile off his face. He enjoyed her pain."
"He was one sick bastard."
"Was?"
"He's dead."
"But, she's not?"
"No," he shakes his head.
"So why are you here?"
"I guess I just want some answers."
"Answers? What answers do you want?"
"That what Saleem told her was really true."
"What did he tell her?"
"That the little boy died. That you buried him."
She laughs.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because none of that is true."
"None of it? What do you mean, none of it is true?"
"Not a single bit of that is true."
"What is the truth?"
"It wasn't a boy, it was a girl."
"And you didn't bury her?"
"Bury her? Why would I bury her?"
Tony shakes his head. He tries to figure out what's going on. He looks around the room. There are dozens of children, on the floor of the room, playing, with wooden blocks, or dolls, or cars.
He tries to figure out if her years working for terrorists had hardened her that much. Was she joking? Why had she laughed? What was going on? Why was she smiling? They were recounting a terrible event, and she was beaming. Finally he decides that he has to ask, that he has to know.
"Because you bury the dead."
"Yes, you do," she agrees.
"So why didn't you bury her?"
"She wasn't dead."
"When she was born she wasn't breathing."
"She just needed some help."
"She was months premature, you didn't have the equipment, for her to sustain life."
"I had enough to keep her alive for a few hours."
"And then you buried her?"
"The nice thing about working with such terrible people, is that they have a lot of pull, in the world. They can offer a lot of resources, that aren't available to average people, because the world is afraid of them."