Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to who's read, favorited and followed. Extra thanks to those who left a review.
Long chapter here.
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If Tim expects an answer, Tony doesn't have it. He puts his hand on his hip, eyes on the floor and sighs quietly. Tony would like to think if he waits long enough, Tim might forget about the question. The quiet continues around them, pressing downward like a pressure cooker. Even though Tim still stares at Tony intently, he can't meet the junior agent's eyes.
Then, there's a gentle hand on Tony's shoulder, squeezing tight enough to return him to the moment. Tony glances up, setting his jaw as he holds Tim's gaze. The younger man's expression is a mix of everything Tony feels but won't admit. Anxiety, worry, fear, and shock.
His phone rings, shrill and loud, piercing whatever bits of calm remain.
He answers: "DiNozzo."
The sound of someone breathing fills the line and Tony wills his heart to stop racing. It skips a beat before galloping away. He fully expects it to be Ducky with the words, Gibbs didn't make it. Just behind him, Tony feels Tim's eyes boring a hole in his back. Tony shudders.
"DiNozzo." Tony fights to keep his voice level.
"Is this Agent DiNozzo?" a timid voice asks.
Thankfully, it's only Steve Barrows' probationary agent, Kenji Suzuki, a man so frightened of everything he makes Tim look every inch a hardened Marine. He releases a relieved sigh, but suddenly, the aggravation of dealing with Suzuki washes over him like a tidal wave. Something beeps in the background of the phone line.
"What's going on, Suzuki?" Tony asks.
"How did you know it was me?"
"Lucky guess."
Suzuki clears his throat. "Oh, interesting. Um, look, I'm calling because I found something interesting. I already told Steve, but he wanted me to keep you in the loop. I'm in Abby's lab and – "
"I'll be there in a sec," Tony says.
A squawking of protest erupts from the phone, but Tony flips it closed. Tim slips into Tony's line of vision, pale and wide-eyed like a lost ghost.
"Was that Ducky…?" He takes a deep breath. "Is Gibbs…did he…is he…" His voice trails off, too pained to finish the thought.
Tony shakes his head. "Suzuki is filling in for Abby. I need to check in."
When he starts to move, Tim follows. Tony stops short, turning back.
Tim stares at him, expectant.
"McGee, I need you to find an image of the guy you saw."
Hesitation momentarily flashes in Tim's eyes as if Tony just asked for the impossible. But that's always been one of Tim's best qualities, the ability to deliver the impossible when no one else can. Conjuring something out of literally nothing if a computer is involved.
Tim clips a nod. "On it."
And with that, he's gone. Tony darts in the opposite direction, taking the steps straight to the forensics lab. The movement feels good, working a case and doing something. It's the only thing he's good at.
He makes a stop at the Caf-Pow vending machine to grab one, the result of Abby Scuito's most recent list of demands to keep working for the agency. Along with it, the promise of no assistant. Ever. Which isn't a problem—Abby might as well be the overly caffeinated Energizer bunny—until now.
Tony heads down the darkened hallway, eyes locked on the lab door ahead. The space is quiet, too quiet and still. Missing is the bumping of Abby's subwoofer and the odd explosion and gunshots.
Tony marches into the forensic lab to find Billy Joel's Piano Man playing at a respectable volume. The air in the lab is heavy and thick, rife with the smell of the heater pumping out hot air. As soon as he heads inside, Tony nearly passes out from the heat. He stops to soak up the space. It's absolute chaos. Abby will lose her mind when she gets back.
Kenji Suzuki works at the lab bench, splayed out with test tubes and chemical bottles and not one, but two Bunsen burners. Abby's carefully organized chemicals are tossed haphazardly across the benchtop. Suzuki places a clear liquid into a test tube. He's wearing Abby's gloves, lab coat, and safety glasses. When he notices Tony, he swings around. The lab coat just touches the floor.
Abby is going to kill him.
"This wasn't necessary, Agent DiNozzo," he says. "I tried to call you back, but you didn't answer."
Tony half-nods. "It's easier to talk in person."
Suzuki throws his hands out. "As you wish."
"'As you wish' was all he ever said to her."
Suzuki cocks his head to the side. "Huh?"
"The Princess Bride?" When Suzuki squints at him, Tony heaves a sigh. "Cary Elwes? Robin Wright Penn?" Suzuki makes no motion, so Tony waves his hand. "What have you got?"
Suzuki steeples his hands. "I must preface this by saying, I have some forensics training, but not much. This would be easier if Abby were here – "
"We aren't bothering Abby because she's at the hospital."
"I know, but if she had an assistant then I would have some help." When Tony glares at him, Suzuki half-nods. "Anyway, I'm doing my best."
Tony raises his eyebrows. "How marvelous."
"Was that another movie quote? What did you say before? The Princess Bride?" Tony remains silent, prompting Suzuki to continue: "I completed a GSR test on Petty Officer Morgan's hands."
He gestures at the pile of lab bottles and test tubes as though Tony could figure out where this was going. He understands just enough forensics to make an arrest, not to do the job.
"It was negative," Suzuki concludes. "Morgan didn't fire a weapon today."
"And the gun?" Tony gestures at the weapon in the evidence bag, innocuously sitting on the far side of the bench.
"It hasn't been fired recently. When we get the slug, I can try to check ballistics." Suzuki's expression turns sheepish. "Though we may need to wait for Abby or send it to another lab."
"Thanks."
Dropping the Caf-Pow on the lab bench, Tony starts to leave. Suzuki makes a strangled noise.
"What's that?" he asks, pointing at the Caf-Pow.
Tony makes a face. "Abby likes it."
Suzuki wrinkles his nose. "Don't you know too much caffeine is bad for you, Agent DiNozzo?"
"And what do you prefer?"
"A chamomile tea or hot chocolate would be nice," Suzuki says wistfully.
When Tony just narrows his eyes at him, Suzuki seems to understand he won't be getting tea or hot chocolate today. He returns to busying himself with the lab work, his shoulders drooping. Leave it for Barrows or Davenport to bring their junior agent a drink after Tony already brought an offering, even if it was for the wrong person. At least, he tried.
With a certain contempt, he scoops up the Caf-Pow and darts out of the lab. He takes the stairs again, leaving his chest heaving and heart pounding by the time he reaches the bullpen. The sickly sweet smell of Caf-Pow turns his stomach and he holds it at arm 'slength. As he heads to his desk, he abandons the drink on Tim's desk. Tim, halfway through a Nutter Butter, glances up with a small smile.
"Did you forget Abby was at the hospital?" he asks.
"Apparently, Suzuki doesn't drink caffeine."
Looking dumbfounded, Tim takes a huge slug of the Caf-Pow. The red liquid slithers up the straw. Tony holds his breath, looks away. He never realized it was the color of blood. All he sees for a moment is Gibbs' blood. Everywhere. All over him. Tony inhales sharply.
"McGee," Tony starts.
"I'm still looking," Tim offers.
Nodding, Tony turns to his own computer. Tim is still watching him, as though he needs to know what Tony will be working on. As though the announcing of their activities makes it feel like Gibbs is right there, barking and snarling to keep them marching forward.
"I'm putting out a BOLO on Ziva," Tony explains.
Tim presses his lips together, appearing so uncertain.
"A BOLO on Ziva?" he repeats slowly.
"We don't know what's going on, Probie," Tony says gently. "If we find her, we might get some answers. For all we know, something bad might've happened."
Tim's eyes widen slightly. Even though Tony knows nothing bad happened, it's better for Tim to believe there is a chance. Tony might not know exactly what's going on right now, but he is hedging that it's on the worst side of bad. He hopes—prays, even—that he's wrong, but his years in law enforcement taught him to follow his gut instinct. And that is pushing the worst of the worst scenarios through his addled brain. If everything was fine, Ziva would be running down leads with them.
"Did you check if Ziva came back here?" Tony asks.
Tim licks his lips. "Yeah, I checked the sign-in logs. It matches up with the time she could've spent talking to Morgan. The videos in interrogation were disabled at the same time. I checked with Davenport, but she didn't see Ziva."
"We need to find her."
After another nod, Tim attacks his computer with a surprising ferocity. Clicking and typing and the smacking of his mouse erupts from his side of the bullpen.
Tony works through the tedious process for filling out a BOLO. His old hunt-and-peck method of typing slows the process considerably compared to Tim. At some point, he pulls a Twix bar out of his desk and inhales it. Tim must smell it because his attention perks up, eyes leveling at Tony. The senior agent fishes a Nutter Butter out and throws it to Tim. Sure, it might be Tim's second so far, but this is promising to be a long, long night. Tony receives a nod of thanks, but that's it. There's too much work to be done.
Tony adds a BOLO of their suspect, but there is too little information to really go on. Average build, average height with curly, dark shoulder-length hair. It describes probably a tenth of the male population in DC. And that's just based on what Tim told him because Tony never saw the man. Deep down, he is certain—so certain—that Tim is right, but he just can't remember.
If Abby Scuito were here, she would lock him in the Inner Sanctum of her lab and cast a voodoo spell on him. It would probably involve a couple Snickers bars, three gallons of Caf-Pow, and a bucket of fried chicken from KFC. With the way her 'magic' worked, there'd be a fifty-fifty chance he would remember everything including the name of his fifth-grade hamster—Alexander Hamilton—or become a soulless zombie.
Across the bullpen, Tim nearly chokes on a Nutter Butter. His eyes are huge, his mouth agape. He clutches the Caf-Pow tightly to his chest.
"Oh my G-d," he whispers.
Tony stares at him, clearly expecting him to explain. But he doesn't.
"Got something, McGee?" Tony asks.
Tim remains still, gaze locked on his computer screen and absently gnawing on his cookie. His face grows as pale as it did when Gibbs was shot.
"McGee?" Tony repeats.
Blinking owlishly, Tim looks over as though he forgot Tony was here. When Tim jabs his cookie toward the screen, it sends crumbs flying everywhere. Tony waits as patiently as he can for Tim to send whatever he's got to the plasma screen.
Tim doesn't.
Clenching his teeth, Tony climbs to his feet and heads to Tim's desk. Once he sees it, he understands what rendered Tim silent. Tony's jaw drops at the sight, and he can't form coherent words either. He leans in closer, squinting and tilting his head, as though it could change what's on the screen.
A close-up image of Ziva and their suspect from a traffic camera a few blocks away from where Gibbs was shot. The image might be of her back, but it's undeniably Ziva with her ponytail and distinctive long jacket and her military posturing. Ziva stands with her gun holstered, hands out and body relaxed. The suspect is nervous, face pulled into a grimace and eyes glancing to the side.
Tony swallows hard.
Why didn't she have her gun drawn? Why wasn't she putting that bastard down like she did with Ari?
"What the hell is she doing?" Tony rasps.
Somewhere far away, Tim is explaining how it's only a single picture. How it was caught because a driver blew through a red light. How it's the only image they have. Tony can't rip his eyes off the picture. It's exactly how Ziva stands in the bullpen while she's harassing him. At ease.
That bastard shot Gibbs…
"Did she let him go?" Tim whispers, disbelieving.
Tony chokes out, "I – uh…"
And thankfully, Tim quickly moves on. He is already isolating the image of their suspect's face and plugging it into a facial recognition search. Right before he launches it, Tony grabs Tim's arm. Tony's eyes are locked on their suspect's face.
Those eyes. There's something about those eyes.
"What?" Tim asks.
"Include Mossad as a keyword."
Tim swivels around in his chair, eyes searching Tony's. "You can't think…"
"I don't know," Tony says, standing to his full height.
Tim types a few words, tweaks a parameter, and clicks away. The search begins. Then, Tim transfers the search to the plasma. Moving away, Tony stands in front of the plasma with his arms crossed. Numbly, he watches the images fly across the screen. Headshot after headshot being checked so quickly that the faces are blurring into one image in Tony's mind, but they look nothing like their suspect's.
Tony knows there is something he should be doing right now, but he can't think of it. He checks his phone, but there aren't any updates from Abby or Ducky. It hasn't been an hour yet. That seems standard for Ducky, but he feels like he needs to hear from them. The last he heard, Gibbs was still in surgery and that's what he'll hold on to until they reach out again.
Sighing, he watches the images cascading rapid-fire across the screen.
He doesn't know how long it takes to get a hit. It isn't a picture, but an insanely detailed sketch of their suspect—an olive-skinned man with deep-set, coal-colored eyes and dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Here he is, the man who might've shot Gibbs, and Tony can't remember a damned thing about him. To his mind, he has never seen the man before. He never felt forsaken in his abilities until this moment.
The suspect's alias is, at the time, Arram Biton with a list of other aliases so long it doesn't fit on the screen. His real name is unknown. He has suspected ties to Mossad, MI:6, the CIA and the KGB.
Jesus, this guy might as well be a ghost.
With the lack of helpful information, the Wanted Poster from Interpol might as well be empty. However, the list of charges from all over Europe is quite detailed. More-drug related offenses than Tony can count and the murder of two gendarmes from a small town outside Paris in a drug deal gone wrong.
Something brushes against his arm.
Tony hadn't even noticed that Tim had joined him. Tim's face is pulled into an angry mask, his finger pointing at the screen as he is nearly hyperventilating.
"That's him," Tim growls. "He shot Gibbs."
Tony stays quiet.
"Don't you remember him?" Tim asks suddenly.
Biting his lip, Tony carefully shakes his head. "I only saw Gibbs go down."
Saying the words out loud makes it so much worse. In his own head, not remembering who shot Gibbs was unthinkable. An unmentionable atrocity that should never be breathed aloud. But to speak the words. To admit it to Tim. Jesus, he doesn't even know what to say.
Tim keeps his eyes on the plasma. "It's normal for eyewitnesses to blank out."
"I'm not a witness!" Tony slams his hands against his chest. "I'm a federal agent!"
Tim wilts. "Right now, we're both and we're doing our best."
"You are, McGee. But me, I'm just here."
And what is Tony supposed to say? That, inside his own head, he isn't the calm, collected federal agent everyone is used to. The one who knows the next step and what they're supposed to do. The one who everyone looks to in a time of crisis, just like this, and expects him to have all the answers. How is he supposed to admit he doesn't know what they're supposed to do, or he doesn't have any answers. All he wants to do is wait by Gibbs' beside until his boss was up, but he can't because that isn't how Gibbs trained him. There's no rest for the wicked and the working and the unworthy. That Gibbs taught him no matter how much your heart is breaking, you keep going until the task is complete or you're dead. He wants to be able to tell Gibbs they got the guy when he wakes up.
If he…
One way or another, the bleeding stops.
"You're trying," Tim says softly.
Clenching his teeth, Tony steps away from Tim. He leaves the younger man, who's still staring at the plasma with those concerned eyes. Then, Tony updates his BOLO to include Arram Biton, a half-dozen aliases and his general description—five feet, nine inches and 165 pounds, as roughly translated from metric—thanks to the Interpol Wanted Poster.
Tony drums his fingers against his desk, suddenly restless. Thoughts he can't control pinball around his brain, slamming into each other until they've grown into the size of boulders. How he wishes he could be in a thousand places at once and scrounging up answers. How he wishes he could have the answers. All he finds are more questions and a gnawing uncertainty.
Ziva talked to our suspect, but she didn't arrest him. Why?
Tony stops drumming. Swallows hard.
Does she know him?
Tony tries Ziva's phone again because he feels like he should. Feels like he should give her a chance to explain herself. It goes straight to voicemail, but he didn't expect anything different.
Tony's eyes flit around the bullpen before landing on Ziva's desk. It's mostly empty except for a few case files and a postcard from a friend in Israel. Not quite as Spartan as Gibbs, but close. If he can't talk to her, he might as well search her computer.
Rising, Tony darts across the bullpen. He slips into her chair and adjusts it for his height. From his position at the plasma, Tim's face folds into a question. He throws his hands out.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
Ignoring him, Tony boots up Ziva's computer. He types in her password from memory. After all those times lurking behind her and messing with her, he managed to see her type it once when she thought he wasn't looking. Thankfully, she hasn't changed it.
He combs through her recent files, loads her browser history and skims into the internals. After joining him, Tim leans over his shoulder. Tim is breathing down Tony's neck, but it's oddly comforting in a way that someone invading your personal space can be.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Tim warns.
"You mean searching a computer?" Tony asks.
Tim swallows audibly.
"She isn't answering her cell phone." Tony gestures at Arram Biton's picture on the plasma. "She let the perp walk. I need to know what's going on. There might be something here."
"This is an invasion of Ziva's privacy," Tim protests.
When Tim inhales deeply, Tony sees it coming a mile away. It's that long-winded explanation Tim gives about how they need a warrant to obtain information through proper channels and how he isn't authorized to hack into…whatever they're doing that day. Then, Gibbs tells Tim that he needs the information now and Tim mysteriously pulls what they need out of thin air.
"I don't even know if we need a warrant," Tony says. "I don't know what I'm looking for."
Tony keeps working at the computer. Leaning forward, Tim's eyes follow as Tony clicks through several windows. Tim's eyes take on that predatory glare he gets whenever a computer is involved. Based on his body language, Tim is thisclose to telling Tony how he's doing it wrong. Tim is clearly holding back.
Tony double-clicks on the wrong icon and loads the internet browser. He makes a face because he's already been here before. Tim makes a face, his fingers dancing in the air as though he's controlling the mouse. While Tony could find what he needed—given a few pots of coffee and all the time in the world—he knows Tim is far better and faster than him.
He feigns uncertainty. Opens the web browser. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I didn't mean to do that," he says. "Crap."
Tim is on him in a flash. Eyes hardened and jaw clenched, he elbows Tony aside to take control of the mouse and keyboard. Tony remains in the chair, but Tim shoots him a look.
"Do you mind?" Tim asks.
Tony glances around. "What?"
Tim stares at the chair until Tony says, "Oh!"
Then, he climbs to his feet. Tim claims the seat. Thankfully, neither of them mentions how Tim fell into Tony's trap of searching the computer. Tim probably would've done it anyway without Tony's less than gentle prodding.
Tim takes a moment to look at the computer's specifications.
"Huh," he whispers. "There's more disk space used than there should be."
"Okay," Tony says. Then, a moment later: "Remind me if that's good or bad."
"I don't really know yet," Tim says. "Every file on a computer occupies a certain amount of disk space. Say, a computer game, might be a huge file while our reports aren't. If a lot of space is being used, there are some larger files here or more files than I thought."
"What are they?"
Tim's brow furrows. "I don't know."
Tony presses his lips together. "Well, Ziva doesn't seem like the computer game type."
Tim answers with a clipped nod. "There are a lot of files on here, but the amount of used disk space isn't matching up. It's just…weird."
Tony tilts his head. "In English, McGee."
"Aha," Tim continues as though Tony didn't speak. "There's a hidden partition on here. Let's see what's on there because that's where the good stuff always is. I love hidden partitions."
Tony could make a thousand snarky comments about that reply. He lets it slide.
The screens fly past in rapid succession as Tim slips through the files quickly. Tony wishes he could say he knows what Tim is doing, but he doesn't. He could figure it out given enough time and if he let Tim talk until he was blue in the face, but that's a luxury they don't have right now.
Finally, Tim brings up a file hidden deep in the computer's hard drive. Tony thinks he said it was on the hidden partition, but he doesn't want to ask. He doesn't need Tim to get started. What loads appears to be in the format of an NCIS personnel report, but the characters are in Hebrew. In the top left corner, there is a picture of a baby-cheeked Tim, who is smiling like a little kid on class picture day. He looks exactly like he did when Tony met him in Norfolk. Excited and green and so G-damned earnest. That's the same personnel picture Tony pulled to know who their point of contact was before they met.
Tim's mouth gapes like a fish. He closes it, but he can't form a coherent thought. A mangled mash of words pours out until he laughs nervously.
"That's my first personnel photo," he says slowly. "Some guy from FLETC told me we were supposed to smile. The bigger, the better, he said. They never told me not to…"
Tony doesn't know what to say.
With a click of Tim's mouse, the report disappears. A click and moments later, there is another report in the same format. Except this time, Tony's picture is in the left-hand corner. His photo is more recent because it's the one on the creds in his desk. His face is expressionless and relaxed, exactly how they were supposed to pose for the pictures. Another click and Gibbs' file appears.
"Shit," Tony breathes.
"She has our personnel files," Tim says somberly.
"I wonder if Ziva added any notes." Tony raps his hand on the desk. "How many are there?"
"Several." Tim clicks a bunch more. "Us. Barrows' team. The director. Some agents we've worked with over the past years. Fornell and his team from the FBI. Holy cow. There's a lot of information here."
"Abby and Ducky?"
While Tim searches, Tony covers his eyes with his hand.
How could Ziva have accumulated all that information undetected? And better yet, why did she even have it? How did they not even know?
"It doesn't look like it," Tim says.
"Good." Tony shifts his weight. "Now, tell me what she was doing with those."
"I'll cross-reference the files and then – "
"Just tell me when you're done."
Tim nods. "Right."
Standing by Tim's side, Tony is too nervous to even breathe as he works. Tim searches through the computer's hard drive and combs through Ziva's e-mails. By now, Tony knows there's no way for him to even guess what Tim is doing. He doesn't even try. By the time Tim is done, there is a flashing list in the e-mail server.
"It looks like she sent the files to this e-mail address." He gestures at the flashing e-mail address. "I double-checked the address, but I couldn't turn up anything. It's a free e-mail account from an ISP that doesn't tend to share information with law enforcement willingly. I tried to see where the e-mail was accessed from, but they're running a VPN so they could be anywhere."
Tony presses his lips together. "Anywhere?"
"Anywhere in the world," Tim says ominously. "It says that the receiver is located Berlin, Germany, but I doubt that's the case. If I had Abby's help, I might be able to isolate the location to the original country. But that's probably about the best we can get."
Tony shakes his head. "Abby's at the hospital with Gibbs. We aren't bothering her."
"I know," Tim replies.
Shaking his head, Tony draws himself to his full height. Their personnel files—and all the nitty, gritty details that comes along with them—were shared by a computer in their own bullpen, to, what appears to be, a foreign intelligence agency. Tony, hand pressed over his mouth, paces around the bullpen. Tim keeps his eyes fixed on Ziva's computer monitor.
"Does this mean what I think it does?" Tim asks.
"If you're thinking Ziva is a mole, then yes."
As soon as he says the words, it feels as though all of the air is sucked out of the bullpen. The words slowly sink in for Tony, pressing into him with a weight he never knew possible. Anger bubbles up inside Tony. He tries to push it away, tries to keep a level head that he needs as an investigator. He fails. Miserably.
Tim's mouth pulls down, his expression turning crestfallen. "Are we sure, Tony?"
Tony stops dead in his tracks to size up Tim. "She's a spy, McGee. That's her job. Not a federal agent or liaison officer or whatever the hell she's supposed to be. Based off that – " he waggles his hand at Ziva's computer " – she never stopped doing her job for Mossad."
Tim purses his lips. "She's been part of the team for over a year. She always had our six."
Tony throws his hands out. "Did she? Or is what we were supposed to think?"
Flinching, Tim huddles into himself. He turns back to the computer as though it could hide him from Tony. And if Tony had to guess, Tim is having a hard time believing it. Hell, if he hadn't seen his own personnel report rewritten in Hebrew, Tony probably wouldn't either. Ziva, in her own way, did have their back for all that time. Protected and worked beside them as part of the team.
What the hell happened?
He needs answers. He deserves to know what is going on.
Tony's eyes skirt toward the director's office. And suddenly, he's moving. Taking the steps two at a time.
"Where are you going?" Tim calls after him.
"To talk to the director!"