David Sinclair let Special Agent DiNozzo drive, and was glad that he did. David knew D.C., but that had been a while ago and the memories had already faded. DiNozzo seemed to know all the short cuts, all the back routes to get to Tyson's Corner while avoiding the rush hour traffic that occurred twenty four hours every day.

Likewise, he didn't know Tyson's Corner. That didn't matter; DiNozzo turned on the GPS that delivered them through all the various turns to arrive at a small but pleasant home surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs. It didn't look like either a major crime lord's abode—too small and unpretentious—or an illegal alien's hovel—too well kept—but it could, David reflected, be occupied by someone who really wanted to keep a low profile. This was just the sort of home that wouldn't attract attention one way or the other.

This was just the sort of home to be occupied by someone who would want to know the contents of a missing cipher that could alter the course of human history.

DiNozzo pulled up in front of the house, turning off the engine. David didn't wait; he was already out of the passenger seat and halfway up the walk when DiNozzo caught up with him.

David slowed. "How do we play this? We have anything on this guy? A traffic stop, anything like that?"

"Not a thing." DiNozzo kept going, forcing David to keep up. "Let's rattle his cage, Sinclair; see what falls out." He rapped sharply on the door, ignoring the slender plastic doorbell screwed into the edge of the doorframe. "NCIS! Open up, Santos."

Nothing.

David, with a sideways look at his new colleague, saved his knuckles and rang the doorbell. "Federal agents! Mr. Santos, we need to talk to you."

"Hold on! Hold on! I'm coming; just hold your horses." The door opened to display a wizened old man, an elegant goatee the most prominent feature to look at. He peered at them through rheumy eyes. "What do you fellers want?"

"Federal agents, Mr. Santos." David briefly displayed his badge, not at all certain that the old gentleman saw anything beyond a flash of gold. "I'm Special Agent Sinclair from the FBI; this is Special Agent DiNozzo from NCIS."

Santos looked harder at the badge that DiNozzo held up. "What's this NCIS?" He glared at DiNozzo. "You wastin' taxpayers' money, sonny?"

DiNozzo kept his face frozen. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he replied, refusing to look at his fellow government agent with a better known set of initials. Likewise, he declined to acknowledge the man's second question.

David took advantage of the situation. He held up a picture of the late Yuri Schinoff, one that had been taken after the blood spatter had been cleaned up. Dr. Mallard hadn't been able to do anything about the hole that marred the otherwise pristine forehead, but David wasn't complaining. He showed the picture to Mr. Santos. "Know this man?"

Santos blinked. "Nope. Never saw him before in my life."

They caught it, both of them: that unconscious hesitation before the blink. The hesitation wasn't any longer than the time it took for a gnat to beat its wing once, but both agents caught it. There was also the lack of shock—only a certain class of people failed to be moved by the picture of a murdered body.

DiNozzo moved in. "That's odd, Mr. Santos, because he made a call to this very house just yesterday." He cocked his head. "Want to change your story?"

Santos stood fast. "Sonny, the only calls I get here are from bill collectors and scam artists." He tried to look at the picture again, frowning. "You sure you're from the FBI?"

"I am," David repeated patiently. "Special Agent DiNozzo is with NCIS."

"Never heard of 'em," Santos announced.

Proclaiming his new partner's legitimacy wasn't going to get him anywhere, and there were better topics to pursue. David moved on to the next one, something more likely to determine the whereabouts of a missing FBI consultant and a missing NCIS agent. "May we come in? We'd like to look around." He almost held his breath.

Santos furrowed his brows. "Don't think I like the sound of that," he said. "You fellers got a warrant?"

Clearly something was up. David grimly felt the exultation somewhere deep inside. He moved up closer to give the appearance of looming, sensing his newfound fellow NCIS agent doing the same. "Do we need a warrant, Mr. Santos?" he asked, his tone half-pleasant and half-threatening. "An honest citizen wouldn't hesitate to let us in. They'd have nothing to hide."

"What do you have to hide, Mr. Santos?" DiNozzo didn't miss a beat. It was as if the pair had been working together for years instead of hours. "This is national security. We could get that warrant in a heartbeat."

"Or," David had been elected peace-keeper, "we could come in, look around, and leave. No one would know that we were here. Unless, of course, we found something suspicious. We're only interested in certain things," he added. "We're not with the DEA. We're not on any gun-running detail, either."

The eyes that darted nervously back and forth didn't look quite so befuddled as Mr. Santos had initially presented. There were plans moving at lightning speed in that brain.

However, this was no time to be playing around. Priorities: national security, which meant recovering one missing message; mathematician and NCIS agent not necessarily included. Two lives against the thousands, perhaps millions, that would be lost if the threat enclosed in that message wasn't intercepted in time. Was the message physically located inside Santos's house? Both agents had experienced stranger things—and the message could lead to both Charlie and McGee.

DiNozzo was the one who couldn't wait. "Time's up." He pulled out his cell and flipped it open. He hit speed dial. "Boss? DiNozzo, here. You got Ziva standing outside the judge's chamber, right? Yup, he's not cooperating—"

"All right!" Santos broke, right in front of them. "Come in!"

DiNozzo didn't flinch. "Cancel that, boss." He flipped the cell shut, and David declined to give any indication that he knew that the call hadn't gone anywhere, that it was all for show. It had worked.

Inside the home was just as unremarkable as the outside. David caught the signs of someone who wanted the world to think that he was simply an aging gentleman left alone in the world, whose family occasionally looked in on him and hoped that someone else would eventually take care of putting him into a nursing home when the time came. The family would handle the odious task of the disposal of his fortune, whatever was left of it. The sofa in the parlor still had quite a bit of life in it, and the mail was neatly stacked on a small and elegant end table, all the ends slit open by the letter opener that sat next to the pile of mail. Every letter was positioned so that the opened side was facing the same way; obsessive-compulsive disorder, David couldn't help thinking. Dust had fled the scene, meaning that the man spent most of his time dusting or that he'd invested in a very competent house-keeping service—or both. David compared the place to his own: David was by no means a slob, but what he wouldn't give for Santos's maid!

David glanced through the mail, noting the large quantity of return addresses from countries south of the Mexican border. The letters seemed innocuous, just missives from friends and families overseas, but they raised suspicion. The world had changed, and there was the Internet. Why were people writing letters requiring expensive postage when there was faster and cheaper methods like email? These letters were coming from major cities, places with adequate electricity and technology, and the letters themselves were well written with attention to grammar and spelling. These were not simple peasants writing to their favorite uncle in the States, hoping for an invite. If he hadn't suspected it earlier, David knew it now: Santos was dirty.

A sideways look at DiNozzo told him that the NCIS agent had picked up on the same thing. The question, however, was: did it relate to the current crime? Was Santos involved?

Time to find out. David picked up one letter, translating the Spanish in his head: Good day, uncle. I hope that the season finds you well and in good health for all eighty three of your years. Cousin Ramon sends his regards, and those of all of his children, all three of them. He hopes to see you very soon, perhaps within eight days, at your hacienda to the south. Your loving nephew, Diego.

There were two translations taking place, and David was providing both of them, frowning. He turned to his new partner. "Agent DiNozzo," he said, still holding the letter in his hands, "can you tell me if there was a recent theft of guns from any of the military or paramilitary arsenals. Say, eighty three of something was stolen? Perhaps accompanied by three of something else?"

DiNozzo's eyes narrowed. "Yes, Agent Sinclair, I believe that a report like that crossed my desk fairly recently. Eighty three cases of M-16s were stolen, along with three cases of grenades. Why do you ask?"

"We have a coincidence, Agent DiNozzo." David indicated the letter. "Mr. Santos is eighty three years old, and his cousin has three children." He turned to Santos. "I work with a consulting mathematician, Mr. Santos. He would consider that a remarkable coincidence."

"I'm sure he would," DiNozzo agreed, not letting Santos speak. "Are there any other remarkable coincidences in that letter, Agent Sinclair?"

David frowned again, but this was just for show. "You have a hacienda, Mr. Santos? Where is it?"

"Not a hacienda, despite what my cousin writes," Santos said hastily. Sweat beaded on his brow. "Just a small home. I have a small home in…Florida."

DiNozzo offered a tight little smile. "That should be fairly easy to check. Who knows what we would find there?" He turned to David. "Think our agencies would spring for a quick trip to Florida, Agent Sinclair?"

"I don't think we'd have to bother, Agent DiNozzo," David responded, his eyes on the old man. "I think a simple check of the records could be accomplished with a little computer time."

DiNozzo snapped his fingers in disappointment. "Aw, and I was hoping to spend a day or two in the sun."

"Better luck next time, Agent DiNozzo," David sympathized dryly. "We'll simply have to let our Florida branch handle the on site visitation. Just to be certain that Mr. Santos's 'hacienda' wasn't damaged by any hurricanes."

"I thought that hurricane season didn't start for another two months, Agent Sinclair."

"One can never be too careful, Agent DiNozzo."

Mr. Santos had had enough. "Maybe I got a more recent letter," he suggested somewhat desperately. "Something maybe from that feller you was talkin' about, what was his name?" He started to ruffle through the neatly stacked envelopes, searching for something that would send the agents away.

"You mean Yuri Schinoff," DiNozzo prompted, all three of them well aware that Santos hadn't forgotten the name at all. "Yes, that would be of far greater interest to us, Mr. Santos. In fact, it might be so important to us that we wouldn't have time to notify our Florida NCIS branch to check for hurricane damage."

"Here it is." Santos pounced on the missive, holding it out to David as though he'd suddenly discovered that the thing was covered with lice.

David took the paper, aware that after all this time there would be no convenient fingerprints for anyone to track. They would have to make do with other clues that the letter possessed. He scanned the contents. "We'll need to take this with us, Mr. Santos."

"Do what you gotta do," Santos nodded amicably. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

"See that you don't," DiNozzo told him sternly. "We may have more questions for you. Don't leave town, Mr. Santos."

"Oh, I won't."

David led the way back to DiNozzo's car. "He's going to rabbit. You know that."

"Sure I do," DiNozzo replied promptly, "but he's not who we're after." He waved Mr. Santos's letter in the air. "This is far more important."

"What about the weapons that were stolen? You're going to let that go?"

DiNozzo grinned. "I told him that I wouldn't have time to notify our Florida NCIS branch. I didn't say anything about the FBI."

Colby swallowed hard, certain that his liver had been left somewhere in the vicinity of Fourth and Lamont. It wasn't as bad as jumping a plane over the mountains of Afghanistan, but it came close. "You get traffic like this all the time in D.C.?" he asked, hoping that the words came out in his usual baritone and not in a little girl squeak.

Ziva David spared him a glance, one that was far too long diverted from the flow of traffic for Colby's sense of self-preservation. "I was given to understand, Agent Granger, that your Los Angeles traffic is by far the worst in the United States."

"It has its moments," Colby agreed, thinking that it wasn't really the traffic that he was worried about and wondering how this car he was sitting in had managed to avoid more scratches than it already had with a driver like the one currently behind the wheel. "This looks like the dry cleaning place," he said, trying not to sound relieved and wondering how he could offer to drive back without coming off as either patronizing or panic-stricken. Aw, the hell with it. Either obnoxious and alive, or politely dead. "How do you want to handle this? Good cop, bad cop?"

"I have usually found," Ziva informed him, "that 'bad cop, bad cop' is the most effective way to obtain information."

"Right." I hope this guy isn't size extra large, and I hope he doesn't have any friends nearby. From the sound of this chick, I may need to talk our way out. How does her team put up with her? Hell, they're probably just as bad…

The dry cleaning store was not particularly large, wedged between two other buildings. The store itself could have used a thorough cleaning: the welcome mat bore three rips in it, the walls hadn't been washed in long enough for the dust to grow legs, and the racks of clothes looked as though the majority of customers had forgotten to pick up their dry cleaning over the last several months. Front, was Colby's immediate conclusion. This was a place with little to no overhead, little business, that stayed alive because a lot of people needed to have something laundered and Colby wasn't talking about clothing. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and the weight of his handgun was comforting as it hung from his shoulder holster, hidden under his jacket. He hoped that he wouldn't need it.

Okay, he really hoped that he wouldn't need it. Problem number one: the guy behind the counter was big enough to make Colby think twice. That in itself wasn't necessarily a problem: Colby was a firm believer in the use of leverage to reduce a large man to manageable proportions and he knew plenty of techniques to assist in the reduction process, but a fast look down the length of the shop showed three more men of comparable size. Colby was good but four to one were odds that he didn't care to bank on. Even with this slip of a girl next to him and his gun in his holster, they'd be lucky to get out alive.

Okay…I start talking first, before Dynamo-Girl opens her mouth. He flipped open his badge, letting the gold flash in whatever sunlight slipped through the filthy windows. "Granger, FBI," he said tersely to the thug behind the counter. "Officer David," he added, indicating his new partner, neglecting to tell them which department she was with. What the hell; they wouldn't recognize it, anyway. "Got a few questions."

The thug decided to be not interested. "What makes you think we got the answers?" A small smile told everyone that Thug One knew that Thugs Two, Three and Four were likewise listening intently to the conversation.

Colby had his response ready. "'Cause we traced a few calls to this place, duuuude." He drew the last word out.

Thug One continued to follow the script. "We get calls here all the time, duuuude," he sneered, giving the word the same emphasis as Colby.

Yup. Right answer. "But not from a guy who's now dead, man. His brains are splattered on the rug," Colby told him. "Not real pretty. Care to get chatty?"

Flash from the eyes. Not obvious, but Colby had been watching for it, knew for a fact that the Israeli agent beside him had picked up on the same thing.

Thug One made his decision. "Don't know anything about no dead guy," he said.

Also predictable, and Colby shrugged. "Too bad." He sighed, making the point clear. "I guess we'll have to go through everything in the place. Who knows what we'll find in the back room? Maybe in the pockets of some of the clothing here?" he asked rhetorically, noting the flicker of concern that rippled across the three thugs seated in the back. One started to rise; the others followed suit, coming toward the front.

Crap. That meant that there really was something here that they wanted to hide, which meant that Colby and this Officer David had better get it now before somebody destroyed it. Waiting for a warrant to be delivered on a silver platter was likewise out of the question; whatever they had would be long gone by the time anybody got through to a judge.

This had a pretty reasonable chance of turning into a mushroom cloud if they didn't find out what was going on. It was one of those career-altering moments: if things worked out right, everybody applauded and gave you medals. If it didn't? Well, there was always an opening on the night shift for a security guard at the kiddie museum. Colby took a moment to wonder what the Israeli equivalent was, and then dismissed the thought; Israeli's went crazy over security. They'd give Ziva a medal for ripping this guy's lungs out through his ears even if they didn't find anything.

I should be so lucky. Mushroom cloud, here we come. "Talk, dude, or we're taking you downtown," Colby said, trying to sound tough and threatening and cajoling all at the same time. "You and all your friends." Was it really downtown, or was it uptown? Colby couldn't remember the directions. Not that it mattered.

Thug One glanced back at his fellows: four against two. "Don't think so, duuuude," he drawled.

Colby couldn't quite read the expression on his new partner's face; was it anticipation? Her eyes narrowed. "I wasn't aware that you were in the habit of thinking," she told Thug One, apparently well aware that she was baiting the bear. Ziva pulled out the picture of the dead Yuri Schinoff, brains splattered over the living room carpet in what would now be considered his estate, proceeds to be turned over to heirs and/or creditors once the Forensics Unit had finished with it. "Tell me about him."

"Don't know him," Thug One said.

Not good enough; once again, Colby caught the widening of the pupils that said lie.

Ziva caught it, too. "We will go through this place, and tear it apart," she threatened. "You will disclose what we need to know and you will do it now, or I will remain here until I get what I want."

"This is national security, guy," Colby warned, wondering how to keep this situation from turning into a scene from the Wonderful World of Wrestling. "We got a couple of judges standing by, just for a moment like this one." That was actually the truth; the mislaid code was of such importance that Special Agent Fornell had let drop that he had a man sitting in a Federal judge's living room with a cell phone in his hand.

Thug One wasn't impressed. "Hah. You don't got no probable cause for a warrant."

Ziva placed her hand over Thug One's. And leaned.

Thug One's face whitened. He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth.

Crap! What the hell is she doing? How the hell is she doing it—?

Ziva leaned some more.

Thug One moaned. It wasn't a sound that he chose to utter; it simply seeped out of him before he could order it to stop.

That was the signal for the other three to jump up. Chairs scattered behind them, and they advanced.

"Hold it right there, dudes!" Colby ordered. "David!" Chill out, he wanted to say.

Not in front of the opposition. Ziva heard him—he could see it in the lines of her body—and she reluctantly eased up.

Color trickled back into Thug One's face. He inhaled more than his share of oxygen, trying to prevent any more whimpers from emerging to humiliate himself. He pulled his hand back from where Ziva could get at it, massaging the back of his hand furiously. "Bitch."

Ziva smiled as if he'd paid her a compliment, a tight little stretch of the lips that would have done the Mona Lisa proud. Maybe he did, Colby couldn't help but think.

Ziva perched herself on the edge of the counter, taunting them. "Was there something, perhaps, that you wanted to tell us?" she asked crisply. It was very clear that she was perfectly willing to inflict the same sort of persuasive tactics on the three in the back. How she expected to do it to the remaining three without getting killed was a mystery to Colby, but the Mossad agent was carrying on.

Nothing to do but to back his new partner's play. Colby shrugged, making it dramatic. "Your choice," he told them, including all four in his statement. "We can talk here, or we can take this some place more difficult."

Thug One coughed, trying to clear his throat of the pain in his hand. "What do you want to know?"

It wasn't a real question, just a chance for the man to catch his breath and a few scattered wits. Colby allowed him the opportunity. "Yuri Schinoff," he repeated, "dude called here three times yesterday. Why?"

The three in the back glowered, trying to decide whether or not to rush the pair of agents, while Thug One really considered his answer. "Wanted to get hold of someone."

"Who?"

There was a long pause, filled with a very loud silence.

"Let's not go backwards, dude. Who?"

Heavy sigh. "Guy named Mort."

"Last name?"

"Not a clue," Thug One said grimly, with the full expectation that he wouldn't be believed.

Ziva started to pull herself to a standing—and fighting—position.

Colby made a small gesture, holding her in place. "What's your connection to this guy Mort?"

Thug One eyed Ziva nervously. "He comes in every one or two days."

"What does he want?"

"This is a dry cleaning place. He gets his suits done."

"Right. His pockets get cleaned out?"

Thug One flushed. "Yeah."

Thug Three, in back, coughed ominously.

Ziva caught it. "You have something you wish to add?"

He glared at her. The others glanced at each other, discomfort written large across each face.

Colby really wished that they had a back up squad sitting outside. This was too big a group to cope with, and something was going to get lost. He only hoped that whatever evidence was about to get destroyed wasn't the piece that would lead them to Charlie.

It was going down.

"Dude, let's keep this easy on everyone," Colby warned. "We're hunting bigger fish than the four of you, and I think you know how easy it is to disappear if you don't have the FBI on your ass. We're not interested in penny-ante stuff. We're looking at National Security crap."

Thug Three was inching his way toward the back. It was too much to hope for that there was only one exit, that the D.C. fire inspectors had allowed a supposedly public business establishment to operate without a back door in case of fire. Colby saw Ziva edging around the counter for a straight run, and this time he wasn't about to hold her back. This one was going to fly.

No time like the present. "You," Colby ordered, pointing at Thug Number Three. "Come on up here. Talk—"

Had Colby said 'talk' or 'run away like a scared rabbit'? He could have sworn that 'talk' was what came out of his mouth.

Didn't matter. Thug Number Three took off like a bat out of hell, and Ziva peeled off after him.

No choice. You didn't let your partner go in hot pursuit alone. They'd just have to hope that whatever was in the dry cleaner's shop wasn't related to their current case, and that the turkey running out through the back was. Colby shoved Thug One aside to dash after the smaller Israeli agent.

The back exit opened out into a narrow alley. The fugitive shoved a trashcan down behind him, and Ziva leaped over it like a desert gazelle. Colby swore; he was fast, but hurdles weren't his favorite sport.

The alley broke onto the street, the sidewalk clear and relatively free from pedestrians. Colby used the flat ground to put on a burst of speed, overtaking and passing his NCIS partner. Ziva shouted something incoherent at him, the words lost in the wind, but she pointed to the left and he understood her to mean that she would circle around and cut off the escape route.

Fine with him. Anything to bring the perp down. Colby demanded more speed from himself, closing the gap between Thug Three and the pursuit. Adrenalin pumped, and hunter vision narrowed down to one thing: the fleeing man in front of him.

Close enough—Colby left the ground, a straight shoulder tackle from behind. He took the man around the waist, grabbing onto the man's jeans with strong fingers that wouldn't let go. They rolled onto the ground, and rocks slammed into Colby's shoulder as he tucked it under to protect himself from the fall.

Thug Three was twice as big as Colby and twice as mean, but Colby had something that Thug Three didn't: smarts. Thug Three threw a roundhouse, and Colby blocked it with his forearm. The force of the blow rattled up and down his bicep, but Colby ignored it. He went for the uppercut, returning the force with interest to the guy's chin. Glass jaw? No such luck; the blow barely staggered Thug Three. He came back, ready for more with fists flailing.

Okay, boxing was out. Colby could throw punches all day and not take this bozo down. That meant wrestling and judo. Colby grabbed the guy's shoulder and slammed him up against the brick wall, trying to wrap the thug's arm behind his back for a half Nelson. Where the hell was the Mossad chick? She ought to have caught up with them by now.

Thug Three was waiting for the move. He blasted out of Colby's hold through sheer power, nearly ripping Colby's arm off in the process. With a roar, he charged at Colby, head down, intent on slamming Colby into the wall opposite and flattening him into FBI paste.

Crap! Colby sidled aside enough to avoid the pancake part, but not enough to allow Thug Three to careen into the wall himself and knock himself out. The pair wrestled, falling to the cold hard pavement. Colby struggled to keep the man from gaining his own hold, one that had the potential to break Colby's spine, while seeking any opportunity to finish this. Dammit, they needed a suspect who could talk!

Small surges: Colby forced his fingers further up toward the all important head. Control the head, control the body. Voices of instructors from high school up through Quantico chanted little mantras into his brain, all variations on the concept of win. Shove, push, grab, lock! Colby felt a vicious little thrill as his fingers clamped into the submission hold. No way this dude was going anywhere!

A shadow fell over them. "Having fun?" a female voice, accented, inquired.

Colby tried to look up, and couldn't. "Could've used a bit a help here," he grunted.

"Help has arrived," Ziva observed archly, snapping the bracelet of her handcuffs over a richly deserving wrist. Colby relaxed enough to allow the second cuff to be applied, and hauled Thug Three to his feet.

"I told you to make it easy on yourself," he told the man, keeping a firm grasp on the dude's bicep, just in case there were still any thoughts of escape floating in what passed for the man's brain.

Ziva allowed herself a tight smile. "We will see what you have to say for yourself when I interrogate you at NCIS headquarters."

Colby couldn't butting in. "When I interrogate him, you mean."

Cooperation over. "Either I will do it, or Gibbs."

"Me, or Don Eppes."

"Gibbs," she insisted, taking hold of the suspect's other arm.

"Eppes. My collar, David. I ran him down."

"I obtained his name and those of his friends at the shop—"

"FBI bust, David. Eppes does the interrogation."

"Gibbs—"

Crack!

A slender dot blossomed in a blood-shot fountain through Thug Three's eye. He slumped in their grasp, no longer breathing.

Ziva David stared at Colby Granger, an unreadable expression in her deep brown eyes. "You win, Granger. It is an FBI bust. You are welcome to the corpse."