[Thank you to all the reviews! It keeps my muse alive and kicking!]
Chapter 3
*************************************8
Tony received the invitation to attend the dinner two days after he'd met with the infamous Mafia Don, Vincent DiCarlo, Sr., or Vinny as he liked to be called, and not to be confused with his oldest son, who preferred the more formal "Vincent".
On his way back to his hotel room, Tony flipped the invitation over in his hand: sturdy card stock with embossed raised lettering. Formal attire was mandated, and no other name but his was scripted on the envelope. Things were looking good. It had been less than a month, and he'd already made inroads into the targeted crime syndicate. Inside his hotel room, he tossed his jacket over a chair and sat on the sofa, exhaling. Here, he could be Tony DiNozzo instead of Tony Villani. Here, he could think, scheme, plan, and postulate about his moves as a Mafia soldier for a notorious crime family in semi-private quarters. Semi-private may be too generous a description. In fact, it was closer to being a public room than a private one with all the electronic paraphernalia strewn surreptitiously about.
He'd been leasing this room for the better part of three weeks, and it pleased him that the FBI was picking up the tab because it was one of the nicest rooms in the whole damn city in one of the best five star hotels in DC. Everyone who was anyone stayed here. But the more important reason for having that particular room was the occupants next door. The government had abandoned MTAC in favor of a more favorable locale. They had leased the adjacent room for an indeterminate length of time and on the rare occasion when he had entered through the adjoining door, he let it be known that he felt like a fish in a fishbowl with all the cameras, audio, and surveillance equipment hidden about the suite and aimed right at him.
But also on those rare occasions when he had entered, he had always been relieved to see Ziva and McGee. He wasn't sure why he was relieved, but he was. Even though Gibbs usually wasn't around, Fornell and Kort were, and by the looks of their loosened ties and wrinkled dress shirts, they seemed to be making it their home away from home. And then there was Agent Dalton, hunched over a small desk wearing head phones. From the look on her face, she was intent on listening in on someone's conversation somewhere. Each and every time he had seen her, he debated on acknowledging her existence, but in the end, he'd decided against it. Of course, the glare she shot his way wasn't exactly inviting. He knew it stemmed from him taking her assignment. Yeah, HER assignment! The assignment that should have been hers, the one she was uniquely qualified for, and the one that would have catapulted her to the top of her career had been snatched from her. She had been on the fast track until that moment. That moment when NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had upstaged her and stole her opportunity, or so that's how she had explained it to him, making sure to spare no expletive along the way. He had become acutely aware of her disdain a month ago when she was assigned as his FBI handler and damned near wrecked her rental car yelling at him. He realized at that point that it was quite accurate to assume that she didn't like him very much, perhaps not at all. Even still, the visits next door were usually brief, mostly just to relax his brain and reset his nerves. He shook his head and looked at the clock.
He still had some time to kill before he had to get ready for the party and he really wanted to see McGee. He snickered as he thought about his colleague. Why he wanted to see Timothy McGee was beyond explanation, but sometimes he just felt like he needed to see his face. He'd like to see Ziva too, for that matter, but it was McGee who often soothed him before a mission. He turned the TV to the agreed upon channel, exposing all to some Bridezilla show, and waited. He knew that once they saw what he was watching, they would begin the process of scanning the hallways, running a check of the hotel's exterior, and basically looking for anything that wasn't there (or was there) the day they moved into the room. When all was clear, which he knew it would be because nobody suspected him of being a Fed, Tony heard the sound of the door being unlocked.
He walked through, not remembering it being quite so loud. Looking around the nerve center, a nickname he used to refer to the room filled with electronics, he saw Gibbs for the first time, and Ziva. In fact, the room seemed somewhat more crowded than the last time he had visited, but no sign of McGee.
"What's up?" Gibbs asked.
"Oh, umm, I just wanted to make sure we're set for tonight?"
Gibbs immediately saw through the facade and stared at his agent an extra beat. "We're set."
Fornell, who was much more accustomed at running long term undercover operations, seemed to understand the question a little better and elaborated, "We sent two technicians in today to wire the private dining room where the party is being held." He flicked a switch and a monitor lit up displaying an elegant room, small, with an oblong table in the center, already set with fine china and silver and crystal. Tony studied it and counted, "Twelve chairs? He's hosting a dinner for only twelve people? I thought it was going to be a big party?"
When nobody answered his questions, he furrowed his brow and asked, "Why would I be invited to such a small dinner party?"
"Maybe they're setting you up with one of the daughters?" Sacks stated, finding it all a little amusing, although he wasn't sure if it was that thought that amused him or the idea that for the first time since this ordeal began, DiNozzo actually looked worried.
Fornell continued, "We have audio drops spaced intermittently around the room so it'll be easy to hear the conversation. We can't wire you because they'll search everyone, so don't talk into your cuff link. We think Vinny DiCarlo might be planning a large shipment of some kind and that's the reason for the dinner. He likes to disseminate information this way: You know, inform everyone of what's coming. After you ratted out Bobby Villanova, you most likely earned a spot at the head table."
"But how'd he figure it out so fast? I only said something two days ago."
Fornell picked up a stack of photos and held them out. Tony flipped through them and on each one, he saw a slender woman hanging off the arm of Villanova. Then he flipped to one up close and realized that the woman was the one and only FBI Agent Denise Dalton. He could only imagine how pissed off she must have been at being used this way. "These are the incriminating photos?"
"Yep."
"Where is he?"
Fornell shrugged, "We haven't seen him. The last time we heard his name mentioned was when we listened in on one of Cutty's conversations, and he said that he and Bobby were doing a job for the Bossman. Haven't seen him since."
Tony put the photos down. If he allowed it, he'd let his brain go to that dark place where he realized that he'd just got a man killed. And if he allowed it, he would let his brain realize just how easy it would be for them to kill him. But he pushed those thoughts to the back recesses of his brain and smiled at Dalton, "Nice job, Denise. You dress up good. Maybe when this is all over—"
"—Not in your lifetime, DiNozzo," she shot back at him.
"But I thought we could exchange stories—"
"—Like I said, not even if you were the last man alive. When this is over, I go back to Kansas City, and never see you again. And you can go back to your little NCIS job doing whatever NCIS people do." Turning away, she mumbled, "NCIS…what a joke."
Seeing the expression on Ziva's face, Tony challenged, "I bet our former Mossad agent could kick your FBI butt any day of the week."
"Bring it on—"
"ALL RIGHT!" Fornell said. "Enough of this! Go back to your individual corners and when we call you, you can come out swinging, but not until the bell rings! You got it!"
"Yeah, I got it," Tony agreed, only to turn to Ziva and say, "My money's on you any day of the week."
She winked and offered a lopsided grin at his confidence.
But Tony gave no indication that he was returning to his room. He looked around, stared a few moments at a screen, then picked up a file folder and thumbed through it.
"Hey," Gibbs said, recognizing a stall tactic when he saw one. "What do you want?"
"Where's McGee?"
Ahh, Gibbs mused, discovering the real reason for his visit. So Tony is feeling a little insecure about tonight. "He went to pick up Secretary Jarvis."
"So, the big man's comin' to the show? Don't like the sound of that very much."
Gibbs studied his agent, as did everyone else in the room. Tony was doing a great job. Actually, he was doing a fantastic job. Nobody would say it out loud because deep down, even though no one would admit it, there's always an air of anxiety that hangs over every covert operation, and no one wanted to jinx the good work that had been done by saying something.
Tony sauntered back to the connecting door and said, "Keep your fingers crossed that something good comes out of tonight." With that, he disappeared back into his room and Slacks closed and bolted the door behind him.
Everyone seemed frozen at their station. It was a strange visit by the man who was at the center of this operation, and because it was so out of character, they seemed to be looking at Gibbs for guidance. He remained pensive, sipping his cup of coffee, allowing them to wallow in the already awkward silence. But his thoughts were with his agent. Tony knew something that everyone else didn't. His experience with the Mafia was a double edged sword.
Gibbs would have to stay close tonight.
*************************************8
As the evening progressed, the suite continued to fill with people. Now dubbed Command Central by even the lowliest of agents, the room had become crowded, and it smelled. At one point, there were more people than chairs to sit in.
The furniture had been pushed aside to allow for tables, easels, and mini-computer hubs. The kitchen had two coffee pots percolating at all times and another on standby. Nothing was in the refrigerator until one of the agents brought back a grocery bag full of deli meats and breads, which, based on the grumbling, wasn't such a popular choice for surveillance cuisine.
"Why can't we get Chinese food?" asked a young, nondescript and very junior FBI agent whose ID read Steven Long.
"Because we would smell up the entire corridor with the amount we'd have to bring in. In case you weren't aware, we're trying to maintain a low profile," Fornell explained, frustrated at having to deal with several very rookie undercover personnel, but these were some of the concessions one made when running a mission out of a five star hotel. "As it is, we have to sneak people up through the maintenance elevator just to avoid suspicion on this floor."
The acne faced junior agent slunk down into his seat at the chastisement and tried to become invisible again. Gibbs smirked at Fornell's frustration and asked, "This room getting a little too small for you?"
"If memory serves," Fornell said, "it usually takes a little longer for that to happen."
Ziva stood up and declared, "I will make everyone sandwiches. Maybe Agent Dalton would like to help me?"
Completely taken by surprise, Dalton stuttered, "I—I—I am busy—"
"Good suggestion, Officer David," Fornell said. He faced the Kansas City agent, who was still wrapping her brain around the sexist job she was being asked to perform. Fornell added, "I like my sandwich with mustard."
Careers could be made or broken in moments like these. If she refused, she could be removed from the operation. If she complained, the fact that Special Agent David had volunteered to prepare the sandwiches would have undermined her claim. But acquiescing would have gone against every fiber of her being. Figuring this was a lose-lose situation, she decided that swallowing her pride was better than losing her career, so she stiffly removed her headphones and placed them neatly on the table. With a smile that only included her pursed lips, she walked stiff legged into the kitchen to begin making sandwiches for the dozen or so men and women now occupying the hotel suite, and with an Israeli woman whom she really just wanted to kill.
"David did that on purpose," Fornell mused.
"O'yeah," Gibbs replied, having enjoyed the exchange.
"Agent Fornell?" the young FBI agent, Stephen Long, said, hoping to redeem himself.
"Yeah?"
"Agent McGee and the Secretary of the Navy have arrived."
"Let's hope they have enough sense to come up the back way." They studied the monitor, watching the entourage of people enter the hotel lobby. After a minute, the men split up and McGee and Jarvis headed towards the dining room.
"They must be getting something to eat, Sir."
Fornell stared at the youngster and wondered where in the hell the FBI got their recruits. "Agent Long," he patiently began, "they are heading for the dining room because there is a delivery elevator there. Every five star hotel has its own elevator for room service. I suspect that's how they're going to get up to our floor unnoticed."
"Oh," he replied, slinking down once again in embarrassment.
By the time McGee and Secretary Jarvis entered the room, the sandwiches had been made and passed around. Ziva offered her tray to McGee, who gratefully accepted a ham and cheese sandwich, but Secretary Jarvis declined his.
"McGee," Ziva said, "Tony came by to see you."
"Wha'd 'e 'ant?" McGee said through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Nothing, just nervous about tonight."
To Dalton, those words were in-congruent with the agent she knew as Tony DiNozzo; he didn't seem fazed by anything, more like cocky and arrogant, but nervous? To Fornell and Sacks, those words were a shock too. DiNozzo didn't come across as ever being nervous, ever. They looked at Gibbs for an explanation, but got nothing. To Jarvis, those words seemed just about right. From the short time he'd worked with DiNozzo, he observed certain nuances about the agent, and one was whenever he got nervous, he sought out a familiar face. In this case, it must be Tim McGee.
Gibbs continued to shift from foot to foot, replaying Tony's entrance over and over in his head. Tony knew something, or he felt something. Either way, Gibbs' gut was doing somersaults.
*************************************8
Tony showered and dressed in his tuxedo. He stood at the mirror in the suite adjusting his tie and mumbling, "How the Hell do they get these things tied the first time. Where's Ducky when you need him?"
Gibbs smiled. He was looking over McGee's shoulder at the monitor that was locked onto Tony's room. There were three screens in front of McGee, each attached to a camera in Tony's suite: one aimed at the front door, one aimed at the living space, and one in the bedroom. No privacy for him.
After several attempts, Tony finally managed to get the bow tie looking good, so he slipped on his jacket. Knowing that they were listening, he decided to regale them with his thoughts, "I hope tonight's dinner is linguine topped with scallops and shrimp. My mother used to make the best Alfredo sauce. After she died, Marguerite, that was the name of our cook, tried to make it, but hers was never as good as Mom's."
"Does he always ramble like this?" Fornell asked.
"Not always," Gibbs answered.
McGee added, "As long as he's rambling, he's fine. It's when he stops talking that you know something's wrong."
Tony drove his car to the restaurant and parked on a narrow alley two blocks away. The neighborhood wasn't the best in the city, but it wasn't the worst either. From the street, the restaurant looked like nothing; a brick building with a front door that was four steps below street level. A small faded sign hung from a wrought iron arm that read, "Villa Cuchina". Sometimes these hole-in-the-wall dives were the best places to get magnificent authentic cuisine, and his mouth began to salivate even before he opened the door. But there was that feeling again. The one where his gut was trying to tell him something, but he had no idea what that something was. He straightened his jacket and entered the restaurant.
Agent Sacks announced, "I've got him on video; he just entered the restaurant." Sacks pushed the video feed to the large plasma screen on the wall so the powers at hand could watch the evening unfold.
Inside, Tony looked around. The place was dimly lit. Checkered table cloths adorned the square tables, and the perimeter of the room was lined with booths.
"Buona sera!"
"Buona sera," Tony replied, smiling at the short rotund woman whose face lit up when she heard the Italian.
"Il mio giovane. Lei parla l'italiano!"
"Si."
Her eyes were disproportionately huge behind her thick glasses and judging by her giddy expression, she wanted to say more, but an older gentleman came up behind her. "Mama," he began, "please don't delay his arrival. If you talk to everyone who comes in tonight, we won't get anyone fed."
"But he is so handsome, Papa. And he speaks Italian! We should introduce him to Bella!"
Tony smiled at the elderly couple and followed the man through the restaurant, up a flight of stairs and into a large, elegantly decorated room; the same one he'd seen earlier on the monitor. "Thank you," Tony said, but the old man didn't stick around long enough to hear it.
Back at command central, Jarvis and Vance sat on the overstuffed sofa watching the feed on the plasma screen. Kort sat in a wing backed chair, while the matching chair remained empty, reserved for his Director, who they were expecting any minute. Gibbs stood behind McGee, shifting from foot to foot. It was nice to have the big screen set up so the agents who didn't have any activity on their particular screens could still keep an eye on their undercover operative. Ziva liked the FBI's way of doing things and said, "Why can't we have this kind of set up?"
"We do, Ziva," Gibbs answered, "It's called MTAC."
Feeling a little stupid, she clarified, "I mean when we have to run surveillance. It's nicer to lease a room and set up the equipment in something like this than to be crammed into a cold uncomfortable utility van on some dark street."
"Remember, Agent David," the SECNAV offered, "this is a joint operation, which means it's jointly funded. You can do a lot more when three agencies are paying the bill."
Fornell had been ignoring the conversation in favor of watching his NCIS counterpart. Finally, the curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "What's wrong, Jethro? You look anxious."
"What do we know about this meeting?"
The question got Vance and Jarvis' attention.
"We think Vinny DiCarlo, Sr. is going to announce his ties with the terrorist cell, and we hope to get a name, if not many names, tonight."
"You know what I'm asking, Tobias. Who's going to be there?"
Fornell shrugged, "We're not sure."
"That's why I'm anxious."
Suddenly the suite became eerily silent. The seriousness of the evening was coming into focus. Tony was heading into a meeting where any number of people could blow his cover— if it hadn't been blown already. Fornell soothed, "We have people in place to intervene if necessary. We're not expecting any problems, Jethro."
Gibbs shifted, wondering if Fornell really meant that or if he was trying to convince himself everything was okay. They silently focused their attention back to the screen where DiNozzo was making his entrance.
Tony looked directly at the camera before turning and looking at the room. He recognized Michel and his father, Vinny. He also recognized the other sons, but that was it. Everyone else in the room was a mystery. When Michel saw him, he waved him over, "Hey, Tony? Come here, I want to introduce you to some people."
He made his way across the room and Michel began the introductions, "Tony, I'd like you to meet my brothers. This is Vincent, he's the oldest brother. And this is Nicholas." They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. "And my two younger brothers here are Frank and Mario."
Tony shook their hands, making small talk as the brothers chided and teased each other. But it was Vincent who sized him up and down, making his stomach constrict with every inch of inspection. Finally, the oldest brother said, "I've heard about you, Tony. I think my sister Angela mentioned your name."
"You remember her, don't cha?" Michel asked, "you met her on our rolling casino night."
"Oh, yeah, I remember her. She's quite beautiful if memory serves me correctly."
"Yes, she is, but unfortunately, she's currently unavailable."
"Oh," Tony said, sensing that Vincent was wary of his intentions. "Well, a beautiful girl like that doesn't stay single long, that's for sure."
"Are you dating anyone, Tony?" Vincent asked.
"No. When I was in New York, I had a girl, but she dumped me when she found out what I did. Damn East Coast girls; all they think about is money." Tony felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny and wondered what Vincent was thinking. His stolid nature made it difficult to decipher his feelings.
The brother studied him a beat, analyzing him. "But isn't that what we all think about?"
Tony nodded, "That and sex, and not necessarily in that order."
The brothers laughed at his candor and Michel clapped him on the back, "I can't imagine you having problems getting the ladies."
Tony felt relieved by Michel's boyish enthusiasm, and agreed, "Usually I don't, but it's keeping them interested that's a challenge."
"Say," Michel asked, "you ever date a Protestant girl?"
Tony was intrigued by the question and thought back on all the ladies he'd ever dated. "Maybe, I can't say for sure. I once knew this Israeli chick."
"A Jew? Really? Did you date her?"
"Nope. Too scared. Reminded me of a snake, lying in wait, ready to strike."
Ziva narrowed her eyes as she monitored the conversation. "I might kill him," she whispered.
"Not if DiCarlo does it first," Gibbs somberly reminded everyone.
Tony enjoyed Michel and his brothers, everyone except for Vincent, who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time studying him. But Michel's other brothers were like any other guys. They talked about cars, sports, and girls. The only time the conversation became serious was when they discussed the other crime families, and Vincent listened carefully to Tony's previous experiences with the Mafia, asking seemingly mundane questions, but being particularly interested in his answers.
All was going smoothly until Tony saw a small group of men enter the room and he recognized one of them: Bobby Villanova. He could feel himself tense and knew that Vincent would have noticed it as well.
Fornell froze; Gibbs straightened; the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach grew. "What's he doing there?"
Fornell leaned forward, "I don't know, but this can't be good."
"What's your plan to extract DiNozzo if he needs it?" Secretary Jarvis asked.
Fornell paused. "We can have the restaurant surrounded in a matter of minutes, and if necessary, we can storm the place."
"I asked about DiNozzo's extraction. What's your plan?"
Fornell paused, hesitant to say what had to be said. Finally, he laid it out, "He's on his own for at least three to four minutes. He'll have to fend for himself until we can get to him." If it were possible, the suite became even more silent. Only the occasional beeping of the electronic equipment floated through the room.
*************************************8
Mr. Vinny DiCarlo, Sr. held up his wine glass to get his guests' attention. When all was quiet, he announced, "Gentlemen, I have an important announcement to make tonight… several important announcements, in fact. We have personnel issues to discuss, money policies to introduce, and new alliances to forge. I've taken the liberty of assigning seats, so if you'll look for your name, we shall dine on a feast fit for a king."
Tony followed Michel to the table and found his name card. He was relieved when he saw that he was seated next to Michel, not so happy when he saw the name card next to his. Bobby Villanova pulled out the chair and sat down, barely giving him a second glance. Tony caught the eye of the Boss, Vinny DiCarlo, but it was fleeting, and unreadable. Thoughts of feigning sickness skittered through his brain, but in the end, he slowly pulled out his chair and sat down.
The dinner conversation was light, nothing too heavy and no business was discussed while they were enjoying the cuisine. The food was better than anything Tony had ever remembered having as a child. In true Italian fashion, the serving plates were piled high and seemed endless. The antipastos included cured meats, olives, and cheeses. Tony remembered from his childhood not to take too much of the antipasto because there would be no room for the second and third courses that were coming. Sure enough, the next course arrived, which was a selection of fish and truffles. That was followed by a selection of pasta dishes, from deep, cheesy lasagna to tortellini. A palate-cleanser came next in the form of sorbet, and that was followed by another selection of different cheeses and meats. Then, the coffee came, expresso. The smell reminded him of family dinners when he was very young. Finally, after several hours of innocuous conversation, the plates were cleared and the dishes removed and each guest was delivered a glass of Sambuco.
Tony hadn't eaten this much authentic Italian food in years. He wanted to undo the button on his slacks, but only the man seated at the head of the table could do that. So instead of loosening his pants, he leaned back, allowing his body to digest what felt like five pounds of food.
He was thankful that Bobby Villanova never once spoke to him; instead, he seemed to prefer the conversation with one of the Street Captains whose face Tony didn't recognize. Fortunately, Michel, who was quite the talker, kept him engaged in conversation and before long they were discussing the possibility of Tony dating his younger sister, Daniella. According to the family, she was even more beautiful than Angela, but Tony's past experience with match-makers was that the girls never quite lived up to their reputed beauty. Besides, he preferred to get his own dates.
"Hey, Pop," Michel said, "how 'bout we hear your good news. Dinner's over and I for one am anxious to hear about our new alliance."
Vinny DiCarlo, Sr. wiped the napkin across his mouth. He had enjoyed the food and he had especially enjoyed having his sons around. Michel, in particular, was one of his favorites, but he'd never tell his other sons this fact. He leaned back. "All right. I think it's time."
Vincent rarely gave away what he was feeling, but he managed a pursed smile, tossing a glance Tony's way, like he knew something was coming.
"Did you see that?" Fornell asked.
Gibbs nodded. "Something's up."
"Like what?" Ziva asked, not following the silent communication that seemed to be going on. She looked around when she didn't get an answer.
McGee whispered in her ear, "I don't think they know what it means."
Ziva nodded, like she understood, but she really didn't.
Mr. DiCarlo waited until he had everyone's full attention before beginning. "As you know, Uncle Dan was gunned down in New York City almost six months ago." He paused long enough to cross himself. "And as you know, no deed like that can go unpunished. We know the Guidinetti Family is responsible for his death and as we dine here tonight, I have already signed the contract on Rolf Guidinetti, the youngest son and the one who murdered our beloved Uncle Dan."
There was a low rumble of satisfaction as heads nodded appreciatively and toasts were made.
Vinny continued, "Before you shower me with too much adulation, I'd like to share my next piece of news: our future business partners. They are not our typical partners in that we haven't ever conspired with such an organization before. In fact, it took me a long time to bring them into the fold, but they have proven themselves on more than one occasion, which is why I want to introduce them to you now."
Michel furrowed his brow. He set his drink down and leaned forward, listening closely to his father.
"As you know," Vinny, Sr. continued, "in the years since September 11, more groups have established themselves in the United States who…how shall I say …challenge the law enforcement community. Some aren't nearly as sophisticated as we are, and others are more. Those that have the sophistication and finesse that we have are what our US government might label 'sleeper' cells."
Michel furrowed his brow and whispered, "We're working with terrorists?"
Vinny DiCarlo might be a ruthless mobster, but he was a caring father, and he didn't like hearing the disappointment in his son's voice. "We're not working with them, Michel. I've simply struck an alliance."
"What does that mean?"
Vinny took a sip of his Sambuco before answering. "It means that I plan to use them to do our dirty work. In the past twelve months, I've lost four of my best men, God Rest Their Souls, and I'm tired of it. If we're not being gunned down by our competitors, we're getting busted by the Feds. If we don't change the way we do business, we're not going to last down here in DC. So I have a two-fold plan to turn that trend around. First, I've enlisted the help of a small group that calls themselves 'Freedom from America.' I've been in talks with Ahmed Abu-Wahib, the head of this group, and he's been anxious to learn how we operate."
"Wait a minute," Michel said. "I think I've heard of this group. Aren't they anti-American?"
His father nodded. "Yes. Like I've mentioned, they're actually what the US government is calling a terrorist sleeper cell."
Tony observed the expressions around the table and sensed a measure of displeasure.
DiCarlo sensed it too because he quickly added, "Like I said, they've been anxious to learn how we do business. In return, Abu-Wahib has agreed to take care of some of our messier problems."
"Like removing Rolf Guidinetti," Vincent added, pleased that his father had taken his advice.
"Yes. He and his people are the ones who will be exacting revenge on the Guidinetti family tonight for killing your Uncle Dan. When they get caught, the Feds won't be able to connect the crime back to us."
Tony's eyes widened at the statement. 'When?' DiCarlo just said, 'When they get caught,' and like a head slap from Gibbs, Tony realized what DiCarlo was doing.
Slowly the members around the table began to warm to the idea. A few nods coupled with a few positive remarks seemed to please Vinny. All except for Michel, who wasn't totally on board yet. "But, Pop, working with terrorist? Doesn't that go against what we stand for?"
"Not at all," Tony answered before his father could. "Think of this way, Michel, those terrorist are the perfect fall guys. If you can get them to do our dirty work, then your father can flip on them and he kills two birds with one stone. He keeps his men from getting arrested or, worse, killed, and he takes out the competition at a strategically convenient time. Nice plan actually. I'm sure the US government will be appreciative."
Vinny cocked his head at the explanation, but before he could say anything, Michel said, "So why don't we just flip on them now. I don't feel right about having any kind of alliance with terrorists."
His dad turned his attention away from Tony and answered, "What you don't know is that these terrorists have the perfect money laundering plan. I'd like to learn a little more about it, perhaps even acquire some of their businesses before I wipe them out." Seeing that his middle son wasn't completely convinced, he became almost jovial and said, "Listen, Michel, when we take these men out, I'll bet my last dollar that the Feds will be hailing us as heroes. You mark my words. By doing this my way, the terrorists end up with their hands dirty, we end up cleaning our money faster and more efficiently than ever before, and when we no longer need them, we flip on them. They won't even know what happened."
After hearing it put like that, Michel slowly nodded, seeing the value of the plan. "Okay, I see that working in our favor."
"Good!" Vinny DiCarlo said, anxious to move on. Now that that's settled, I can move onto my next, and final, announcement." The waiter came in carrying a bag of golf clubs. Smiling, Vinny stood up and stretched. He was a big man, over six feet tall, and weighed in around 230 pounds. In his prime, he was considered one of the handsomest men in the business. He still is by most accounts, but an extra twenty pounds and a slightly thinning hairline have added a few years to his already sixty-two year old body. It didn't slow him down any and anybody who played a round of golf with him knew he was at the top of his game, both professionally and personally. And there was no other pastime that he preferred engaging in than golf. Rummaging through his bag, he pulled out one of the fatter clubs. "Do you know what I've got here?"
The men, of course, knew. At one time or another, they'd all played with him and so they recognized the stick immediately. But the way Vinny caressed the club and looked at it made most of them a little uncomfortable, but more importantly, eased them all into silence.
"This, my friends, is my favorite club. It can be used so many different ways. If I need a long hitter, this will take my ball 190 yards. If I need to get out of trouble from a much shorter distance, this will do it, too. This club alone can knock a few strokes off my handicap without even trying." He walked around the table, rubbing the head of the club and admiring its long shaft. "The problem with this club is that it can't talk, because then it would truly be my closet ally." A few chuckles were heard. "But if it could talk, I think it'd tell me that there is a traitor amongst us."
The air left Gibbs' lungs, as did Fornell's. There were few things in life that drained the blood from his face, but sensing what was coming was doing just that.
Vinny continued making his way around the table, his slow yet deliberate moves causing fear among the diners. "How do I know that there is a traitor sitting in this room? Because I've done my research. I did my own investigation into Uncle Dan's death, and all leads bring me right back here to someone sitting in this very room, at this very table. A traitor. The worst of the worst kind of family member." Tony swallowed, sweat pouring from his body as Vinny closed in behind him.
"Now, just to be clear so that everyone understands what I'm saying, I don't like traitors, and I don't like snitches, and I don't like double crossers. It's difficult enough battling the Feds when they aren't being supplied family secrets, but it's damn near impossible to do it when they are."
Tony looked at the door, ready to bolt, figuring his odds of escaping alive were slim, but he'd have to give it a shot.
And that's the moment it happened. Vinny swung the golf club with all his power, bringing it down on Bobby Villanova's head, spewing bone fragments, hair, and brain matter as far away as the wall. Tony shielded his face with his arm as Vinny brought the club down again and again until there were very few recognizable features left of Villanova's head. The shoulders were there, twitching, as the arms hung limp at his sides, and the viscous red and grey pulp that was once his head, lay oozing on the dessert plate.
Tony stared, trying to take his eyes away, but unable to move. If the truth be told, he didn't have any recollection of what happened next. He didn't dare take a breath, or move, or even blink. He sat frozen, not even able to use his napkin to clean off some of the more gruesome pieces of the man's brains from his own body. The next fifteen minutes were a blur. There was some talk of a new second in command, but all he could see was the bashed in skull and oozing gelatinous substance of what was left of Bobby Villanova, and nothing on Ducky's autopsy table had ever prepared him for this.
Nobody at command central spoke for ten minutes. It all happened so fast that mobilizing anyone would have been after the fact, and much too late to prevent anything. They studied Tony's face, but he was hard to get a read on. Gibbs and Fornell exchanged looks, and without saying anything, they both knew that that was way too close for comfort.
Tony stumbled to his car. As he reached for the handle, his gut lurched, and he barely made it to the nearby bushes before he emptied the contents of his stomach. He must have retched and heaved for ten straight minutes. Sweat covered his body, and his head pounded like he'd slung back a dozen Sambuca's instead of one.
Driving proved to be even more difficult than walking as every five minutes he had to suppress his body's urges to continue vomiting even though there was nothing left in his stomach. Somehow, he made it to the hotel and if he had known where the damn lot was, he would have driven straight there and parked his car himself, but he hadn't any idea, so he pulled over to the curb, cutting the engine and trying his damndest to squelch the images that kept invading his brain.
His door flung open and an all-too enthusiastic valet stood at attention, waiting for him to vacate his seat.
Tony slowly pulled himself out and leaned heavily against his car. The attendant's expression vastly changed when he saw him. "Are you okay, Sir?"
Tony ignored the question, opting instead to steady himself on the side of the car. Slowly, he began making his way up the steps and into the hotel lobby.
In command central, McGee picked him up on the outside camera, "Boss, I have him." He pushed the image of Tony to the plasma. The image of their always in control agent shocked them. McGee and Ziva exchanged a worried look while Fornell snuck a peak at his counterpart. Like a gruesome scene from a train wreck, nobody could take their eyes off the undercover agent. From this angle, it was evident that he was not the same agent of just a few hours ago. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes flinty, his face pale, and his jaw set.
Inside the opulently decorated hotel lobby, Tony felt like he was suffocating. He took in the smells of several large bouquets of flowers in an attempt to steady his breathing, but that didn't help. His tuxedo was splattered with human tissue, bones, and blood and for obvious reasons his appearance was difficult to ignore. The staff tried, but even they stared at bit too long, no doubt wondering what happened to the handsome man they had all grown to admire and enjoy during his stay.
Inside the elevator, he leaned heavily against the wall as it grinded slowly upwards. Rubbing his stomach, he could feel his anger growing at the situation he'd been placed in. His whole body shook and he wasn't sure if it was due to circumstance or resentment. A few deep breaths seemed to help, but when he thought about the SECNAV, or Fornell, or Kort, and the role they played in this whole charade, it only served to piss him off more. The elevator made no stops on the way to its ninth floor destination, but it seemed to be taking forever. Suddenly, he punched the doors, leaving a dent in the thin decorative veneer.
The agent's anger was not lost on the occupants of command central, who had followed him through the lobby and watched his every move in the elevator. Kort sneered, "It looks like your boy isn't going to be able to handle it?"
Fornell shot back, "Even you'd be hard pressed to come out of that unscathed, Kort, so back off him and let him work it out."
Ziva looked around the room and realized something. Everybody, even Denise Dalton was wide eyed with anticipation. Not a single agent sitting in the room seemed certain on how to proceed. This may well have been a joint operation, but no one, not even Mossad, had ever experienced anything quite like what they'd just witnessed. There were a lot of people who were wading into uncharted waters, and there was only one agent at the center of it all. The question on everyone's mind was how to handle Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.
Tony was now making his way down the hallway. They watched as he slid the plastic card into the door and turned the handle. No one was surprised when they heard the banging on the connecting door.
Fornell unlocked the bolts and opened it. They were not prepared for the visual attack on their eyeballs. Tony, who was by far one of the most handsome and suave men in all three agencies, was pale, and his eyes were dark and callous. His jaw and mouth were set, causing his breathing to be easily heard in the now silent room. Blood darkened the already black tuxedo jacket and mottled the white dress shirt. Brown and beige flecks of human brain covered his sleeves, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he stood. Through it all, his body involuntarily trembled.
In a slow, deliberate voice, he toned, "What the Hell was that?"
Coming off somewhat aloof, Kort answered, "It's evident you're upset…"
"Upset! You think I'm upset?" he seethed.
Kort continued, "Our intelligence may have been off—"
"—Intelligence! You call what I went into INTELLIGENT?"
Fornell tried to assuage his anger, "Listen, Agent DiNotzo—"
"—LISTEN! Listen to what! Listen to how that could have been my head tonight? Listen to the bones as they crunched and the flesh as it ripped less than two feet from me!"
"We had no idea that was going to happen."
Having the words catch in his throat, he backed up, still reeling from the experience.
Gibbs studied him. To say he was shaken was an understatement, but if he knew anything about his agent, he knew Tony needed time to process the episode: time to manage it, time to understand it, and then time to deal with it. Unfortunately, time was not a commodity that was in abundance. Even though Tony could handle more than the typical federal agent, he had his limits.
To Tony, it felt like the walls were closing in and his stomach twisted again. He backed out of command central, trying to rid his brain of the images that sat on his eyeballs. He threw his jacket on the floor and followed that with his tie. He yanked out his shirt tails and unbuttoned his shirt until the nausea hit him again and he had to concentrate hard on working through it. He thought about what Kort said, narrowing his eyes at the audacity of the spook. Storming back to the other room, he demanded, "What kind of intelligence are you getting here!"
Kort answered, "We are running the most state of the art surveillance on DiCarlo and his associates. Had we'd known that he was going to use his golf clubs as a weapon, we would have intercepted them."
Tony just stared at his nemesis' nonchalant attitude until the claustrophobia enveloped him again. Once again, he backed away, ripping off his shirt and throwing it on the floor next to his tie and jacket. He kicked off his shoes and socks. Suddenly whipping around, he returned to command central and looked directly at Gibbs. "Did you know?"
Gibbs shook his head, carefully studying his agent.
Most everyone had stopped what they were doing and was wary of the agent, watching his every move, sensing a dangerous side that every undercover agent had, but few openly displayed it.
Tony left again, and this time he headed straight for the bathroom where he turned on the shower. He pulled off his undershirt and black slacks and threw them into a corner. Thinking of yet one more thing to say, he stormed back into the suite and looked straight at Jarvis and stated, "You got the information you wanted, now I'm done! And don't tell me you own me 'cuz you don't fuckin' own me anymore!" With that, he stormed back into his bathroom, stripped off his boxers, and stepped into the scalding hot shower.
"McGee," Gibbs said, ticking his head towards the door. "Go."
Tim pulled his headphones off and left. As he entered Tony's suite, he gathered up his clothes and put them in a bag for the cleaners. Then he went into the bathroom and listened as the water sprayed from the nozzle. "You okay?" he said. When he got no response, he leaned against the sink and waited. After a while, McGee said, "You're gonna rub your skin off, Tony."
McGee noticed a cessation in scrubbing and wondered how long he would stay in the shower. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked.
An hour later, the water was still running and he figured both questions had been answered.
TBC
[Author's note: This chapter was the one that spent months in my head and which is the reason for the story. I had hoped to bring it to a fast conclusion after writing it, but it didn't work out that way. Credit for the inspiration of this scene will be stated at the end of this story.]