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Dalara: By all means. If I make a mistake in the Russian, please correct me. Thanks alot

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Russian

English

Gibbs watched the computer screen as Mcgee flipped through computer files on Daniel Stevens's killer.

"Taras Taraevich Stanislav. Born on October 14th 1982 to Taras and Milena Stanislav in Moscow Russia. Was sent to Juvenile for murder in 1998, was released in 99, arrested again for armed robbery and sent to a prison in Siberia in 2000 then was released again, and joined the FSB in 2003. Went rogue in 2007 and was arrested in 2008 by Interpol. He came here on a student visa in 2010 and has been living here ever since. He is an active member of the Eastern Orthodox diocese here in Washington D.C."

"Quite a fan of tats this Russian." Tony remarked as Mcgee flipped through pictures.

"Most Russian criminals have tattoos Dinozzo. It's how they identify each other."

"What like cats marking their territory or something?" Tony yelped as Gibbs slapped him.

"No."

"Ok boss."

"Mr. Stanislav has a rap sheet a mile long, and has been arrested but not convicted for three times as many crimes. He has a history of being an aggressive and disorderly prisoner, and according to the FSB file, he was in the top ten cadets the year he graduated from the Spetsnaz Academy. The man has over eighty successful ops under his belt, and no failures." Mcgee continued.

"But we know where he is?"

"Yes Gibbs." Ziva replied. "There have been no flights out of town with passengers matching his description. Presumably, he is still here."

"It's Christmas sunday boss. If he's religious, then he'd probably be at a mass."

"Grab your gear. We're going to church."

The Charger pulled up outside the ornate Church of Saint Nevsky a few minutes later. The rain that had started the night before was still falling, puddles forming on the sidewalk. As NCIS team entered the empty and silent church, they heard the sounds of two voices talking in hushed tones. Two men sat in the front pew, one dressed in the traditional robes of a Russian priest, the other clad in a dark dress coat.

"You will come back tomorrow for the service?"

"Yes father."

"Good. That is how it should be. Take care of yourself my friend."

"Dasvidania Father."

The two men rose, shook hands, then the man in the coat turned and walked past the NCIS team and out of the church. The priest followed the man down the aisle between the pews, stopping in front of Gibbs.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. We wanted to know if you'd seen this man before." Gibbs passed a picture of Stanislav to the priest.

"Oh yes I've seen Taras before. He came in a few minutes ago in fact. He needed confession."

"What about?"

"I can't share that with you agent Gibbs. A confession is a confidential matter."

"The man you gave absolution to is a criminal Father. I think you can let confidentiality slide here."

"No Agent Gibbs, I cannot. I would not break my vow of secrecy to anyone, not even the Almighty."

"Can you at least tell us where Taras Stanislav would be right now."

"Of course. He just walked out the door. He's probably in the parking lot right now."

"Tony, Ziva! Go!"

Tony and Ziva ran outside, just as a black Cadillac pulled out of a parking lot next to the church. Inside the car, sat the man from the bolo photo, Taras Stanislav. Except this man was holding a gun. Gunshots rang out as Taras fired blindly at the two NCIS agents as his car sped away. Rounds ricocheted off the stone steps of the church, one round grazing the side of Ziva's face. Both Ziva and Tony tried to draw their guns, but the Russian was far gone by the time they began to return fire.

"What the hell just happened?" Gibbs snapped as he and Mcgee ran outside.

"He opened fire on us boss."

"Get in the car. Mcgee!"

"Yeah boss?"
"I want this assholes address."

"Got it boss."

When the door of the apartment opened, Taras was sitting on his couch. The Russian did not move as the agents roared at him to raise his hands and stand up. He picked up the remote, and changed the channel instead. He then turned to the agents and spoke.

"I assume you have a warrant for kicking down my door?"

Three of the agents started. The last one just elbowed Taras in the head.

Taras was grinning as he passed out.

"Hey asshole. Wake up."

Taras opened his eyes. He was sitting in a small room one side of which was dominated by a large mirror. Two way probably. Across a small metal table sat a middle aged man who was glaring angrily at Taras.

"You didn't have a warrant did you?"

"Be quiet. You are Taras Taraevich Stanislav?"

"Should I be quiet or answer the question?"

"Don't make this difficult."

"Then don't be contradictory."

"Are you Taras Stanislav, yes or no?" the agent growled.

"Yes I am."

"Where were you last night."

"Did you have a warrant for my arrest inspector?"

"What?"

"If you did not have a warrant, then I am sorry to say I will have to be leaving. Dasvidania."

Taras rose, and smiling at the expression of apoplectic rage on the agent's face, walked out of the room.

The last thing he heard before the door closed was the agent say three words.

"Ziva, detain him."

A black blur hit him on the side of the face. A fist connected with his temple, and Taras saw stars explode in front of his eyes. Training kicked in and the black blur soon became a panting middle eastern woman, whose face was beginning to resemble one very large bruise. Taras stepped away from the woman and settled into a relaxed stance. The woman came at him again, her leg colliding with the side of his knee, making Taras buckle. As he fell, his left leg came up, his heavy boot slamming into the woman's head. She reeled back, cursing loudly. Taras jumped back to his feet and came at her again, this time aiming for her midsection with his right. She blocked, twisted his arm, and tugged. Taras felt his arm wrenched from its socket with agonizing slowness, and whipped himself around, slamming the knuckles of his left hand into the woman's nose. There was a crack, and blood spurted from the woman's nostrils. Taras felt the cold barrel of a pistol press up against his neck, and heard a very angry voice tell him to release Ziva, who ever that was. For the second time that day, Taras's world went black.

Taras smelt roses. Not the dark blood red flowers of Europe, but something drier. A memory tugged at the back of the Russian's mind. A garden in Afghanistan. A rose garden. Gunfire, blood, screaming, a dark cave, knives, fire, blood. Taras cried out in alarm and opened his eyes. The woman was sitting across from him, a look of concern on her still bruised face.

"Mr. Stanislav?"

Taras tugged on the chair he was sitting on, check that, bound to. It was a mentally unstable harness, supporting his dislocated arm, now back in its socket, and keeping him restrained.

"Just the touch of demons." Taras murmured quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"You hit very hard."

"I know."

"Where did you learn to fight?"

Taras was silent. He lowered his head to his chest, trying to quell the splitting head ache that was pounding on the inside of his skull.

"Where did you get that tattoo?" the woman pointed to a tattoo on the back of his head which was now visible.

"Prison."

"What prison?"

"Russian Prison."

"Do you remember the name?"

"Never bothered to check."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't matter."

The woman was silent for a bit. Then she pushed a photograph over to Taras.

"You know this man?"

"No."

"You killed him."

"Yes."

"But you didn't know who he was?"

"So what? I don't have to know you to kill you."

"So you just killed him for no reason."

"There is always a reason."

"What was your reason?"

"It doesn't matter."

The woman fidgeted in her seat. Taras knew he was making her uncomfortable. He smiled inwardly. He did love mind games.

"Why doesn't it matter?"

"He's dead."

"He's a human being."

"Was."

The silence was almost painful. Taras looked up into the woman's face. She was staring at him with something akin to fear. But there was something else, an understanding sort of look.

"You are charged with the murder of Daniel Stevens, a petty officer in the U.S Navy. We have enough evidence to send you to prison for at least the next thirty years. The best I can do is offer you a deal to shorten the sentence."

"Why would you give me a deal."

"We would like to know who hired you to kill Petty Officer Stevens."

"Was I hired by someone?"

"We have reason to believe you were."

"Why should I betray them?"

"To avoid a life sentence." The woman answered quickly. She clearly assumed Taras feared prison. The idea made Taras smile.

"You can't charge me with anything."

"What?"

"You did not have a warrant when you arrested me, nor have I been read my rights, nor have I been given a lawyer. As of now, I can sue you for over a million dollars, and you most certainly cannot charge me with anything. Please unstrap me from this chair."

Silently, the woman rose and released the straps from the chair. Taras rose, stretched, grimaced as he swung his right arm around experimentally, then walked out.

Taras walked quickly down the hallway, past the still glowering middle aged agent, past an equally angry looking younger man, and almost bumped into a rather petite redheaded woman.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stanislav?"

"Da?" Taras stared down at the woman who he had nearly run over.

"I am the director of NCIS. I would like to apologize on behalf of the NCIS agency for my agent's behavior. There is a Russian Embassy car waiting for you outside."

"Thank you but no. I will call a friend. I have no intention of suing NCIS. Who was the young woman who dislocated my arm?"

"Agent Ziva David."

"Israeli?"

"Mossad Lea-son to NCIS."

"Tell her I was going to win. Dasvidania Miss Director."