Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 17
A/N: We have what is known as "the intern game": since the intern's job seems to be primarily to discharge patients, winning the intern game means that you have discharged all of the patients on the team. Well, I won the game yesterday, so I earned myself an extra day off, and I'm choosing to celebrate by posting another chapter (as I'm going to be spending a good chunk of time today writing).
As far as the story: We just dropped in on Special Agent Kim Tomblin, at the Bahrain field office. While Special Agent Stan Burley, the Special Agent in Charge in Bahrain, was in Afghanistan to lead the investigation at Camp Phoenix, she stayed behind to coordinate things with Tony and Ziva and the State Department. Things with State got off to a rocky start, but she was still able to find the location of Ezra Hardoon, known to the Americans as Kazem Shirazi. Back in DC, Ducky and Gibbs are looking into the backgrounds of Dr. Aachen and Peter Kirkan while Tony and Ziva continue to work the detainee/terrorism angle. Thanks to DiNozzo's newly-discovered competence on anti-terrorism matters, Gibbs was able to figure out that those two have been working on convincing Vance to give Tony his own team, and gave his blessing, in a very Gibbs-like manner.
Ezra Hardoon was instantly alert at the sound of the morning bell, and barely suppressed a groan at the sound. Four years in the IDF—including an amount of time that couldn't be disclosed in Sayeret Matkal—following by Mossad training and almost a year in the field, and he was still far from being a morning person. If he had his way, operations would be run from 1400 to 0400, followed by a nice long run, and going to bed around dawn—not the other way around.
He rose from the bed—the Americans provided them with bunkbeds, an amazing luxury, considering that many of the men they had captured had never slept on anything more comfortable than a mat on a dirt floor—and headed over to the sink, where the men were beginning to gather to wash their faces, the first step of wudu, the ritual cleaning before prayers. Prior to this assignment, he thought the rituals of Judaism were over-the-top. Of course, the largest difference could be that he didn't usually follow the rituals of the culture he was born into, whereas this current assignment dictated that he appear to be everything he was raised to despise: a radical Muslim.
He had just pulled the knit white taqiyah over his head—the one issued by the Americans, as he had been captured without one, and they didn't want to be accused of violating his religious freedoms—when one of the US Marine MPs stepped into the detainee's area. "Kazem Shirazi?" he asked, sounding uncertain. Hardoon quirked an eyebrow in his direction.
"You are not to interfere with Fajr," he said mildly, holding out his Quran—also issued by the Americans upon capture—as emphasis.
"Uh," the Marine stammered. "Sorry, sir." He bowed his head respectfully and stepped out, earning a subtle smirk from the Mossad operative. If he was going to be held in an American prison for doing his job, he was at least going to enjoy himself whenever he could while doing so.
When he returned from his dawn prayers, he found that same Marine MP standing by the door, this time accompanied by a powerfully-built black man in the digital camouflage of the US Army, the Velcro spaces and pockets free of any patches or other identifying marks. He kept his expression carefully neutral even as he felt a surge of adrenaline and fear coursing through his bloodstream. He knew from his own time in special operations in the military, as well as his career in Mossad, that a 'sterilized uniform' - one that didn't leave anything that could be used to identify the wearer - rarely meant good things for the enemy. "Mr. Shirazi," the new man said forcefully. "If you're done with your prayers, we'd like you to come with us."
"Of course," he said politely, focusing on keeping his accent appropriate in the setting of his fear. "May I return my Quran?"
He thought he detected a knowing smirk in the eyes of the man he presumed was an interrogator, but he gestured for Hardoon to do so. He kept his motions even, his posture giving nothing away as he returned the Quran to its place among his belongings, even as he fought to keep from running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
He was led down a darkened hallway, the Marine MP and the 'Army' interrogator flanking him on either side, into an equally darkened 'interview' room. They sat him down in a chair on one side of the non-descript flaking wood table before shackling his ankles and wrists. The MP left the room; the 'soldier' remained standing, leaning against the wall in the corner, watching Hardoon with a look of eager anticipation.
He didn't know how long he was sitting silently at that table before the door opened again, this time revealing a blond man in his late thirties or early forties, wearing a sterilized uniform of a US Marine. Hardoon almost did a double-take at the next person walking through the door. Upon seeing the tall and lean woman, also in a sterilized uniform of a US Marine, his first thought was to wonder why Mossad was interrogating prisoners side-by-side with the Americans. His next thought was to wonder if he had been drugged, because he was surely seeing things. There was no other explanation for the sudden appearance of Raanan Thal in his interrogation room.
But then she turned to face him, a smile hidden in her large chocolate-brown eyes, and he refused to believe that she wasn't really there. He didn't care if she was a delusion or not; at that moment, he needed her there, needed to see that smile cross her soft features, needed the reminder of her light touch, of her skin against his, of his fingers tangled in that long, thick straight dark hair. And then the man in the Army uniform spoke again, bringing Hardoon out of his memories of one stolen night in Baghdad and back to that dark concrete cell in Afghanistan. "This him?" The words were directed at Thal, and Hardoon felt heart jump in his chest. It was over. The nightmare of the last several weeks, being held in American detainee centers, being mixed up with Shiites and Sunnis alike, being forced to face Mecca and offer his prayers five times daily, was over. After believing it would never end, that he would be there for the rest of his life, it truly was over.
He caught the amused glint in Thal's eyes as she made a show of sweeping her eyes over Hardoon's form. She stepped closer to him, invading his personal space, standing close enough he could feel her there through her borrowed uniform and his white jumpsuit. She removed the prayer cap from his head and slowly rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, her fingers burning trails over the roadmap of scars that could be found there before moving to his face, and her amusement grew as she took in the shaggy beard and unruly dark hair, so different than eight months before, the last time they stood face-to-face, when he was still as clean-cut as he had been during his days in the IDF. "This is him," she finally declared, the smile expanding to take over her whole face. "Ezra Hardoon. He is one of my operatives."
He closed his eyes at her words, taking in a deep breath of relief that he hadn't realized he would feel. He had experienced much worse than a couple of American detainee centers in his time in special ops and Mossad, but it wasn't the conditions that had bothered him; it was the loss of freedom, the inability to plan for his future, that had almost done him in. He muttered a short prayer to himself before speaking to her. "You found me," he finally said in Hebrew as he opened his eyes, meeting hers from where they were still fixed on him.
"Did you doubt that I would?" she replied in the same language.
"Never," he replied honestly, beginning to feel himself smile.
The 'soldier' cleared his throat. "English, please," he said dryly. He stepped behind Hardoon and freed the Mossad operative from his shackles. Hardoon rolled his wrists as he chuckled slightly.
"I apologize, sir," he said, again speaking in English, this time with his natural voice and in his usual accent, which sounded almost strange to his ears. "For almost a year, I have spoken only Arabic, Dari, and broken English. It has been too long since I have spoken my native language."
The 'soldier' smiled slightly at that, pulling up a chair to the table and turning it backwards before sitting down. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you and Officer Thal will be back in Tel Aviv, completely surrounded by people speaking Hebrew." Hardoon knew his surprise must have shown on his face when the man smiled slightly. "What did you think would happen, Hardoon? How are you supposed to go from being captured by the Americans to back working for the Taliban?"
"Something I had not yet figured out," Hardoon admitted.
"Well, if you think of something, let us know," he replied with a slight smile. "In the meantime, it's nice to meet you. You've had a lot of important people searching for you. I'm just glad we found you. I'm Ellis Pride, CIA. This is Special Agent Stan Burley, NCIS." Hardoon shook each man's hand, still slightly in a daze, not quite believing this was happening.
"NCIS?" he echoed, focusing on the man with the Marine uniform lacking any identifying marks, before his eyes went to Thal. "There is a Mossad liaison to NCIS."
"Yes," Burley replied with a nod. "Ziva David. She had been working with Officer Thal on your release." Hardoon frowned as his eyes traveled to Raanan. Seeking out anybody's help was unlike her, and he could tell by the set of her jaw that it wasn't quite her idea.
"I do not understand," he said. "Why would my capture have gotten the attention of the Americans? One Mossad officer, operating without the protection of his government, is not something that the United States government would typically care about."
"Is that why you've been held for a month without a single word to any of your interrogators about who you really work for?" That was Pride who had spoken, and Hardoon turned to him and nodded gravely.
"You would not have believed me," he said, and Pride knew he was right. Especially in his current state, unshaven and unkempt, looking much more like an Iraqi living and working in Afghanistan than a highly-trained Israeli soldier and spy. And with his parents' history—born and raised in Iraq, immigrating to Israel as religious refugees less than a year before Hardoon's birth—the operative had done a very good job looking and acting the part.
"You're right," the CIA interrogator replied, nodding slightly. He slid a water bottle across the table to Hardoon, which the Mossad operative gratefully accepted. "No offense, but the Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of the State couldn't care less about one foreign agent operating in a war zone. What they do care about is finding a Navy physician abducted from Camp Phoenix two days ago."
Hardoon blinked before his eyes traveled over to Thal. Her expression was as blank as a Mossad control officer's should be, but he could see the expectant look in her eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. "I am sorry," he said truthfully. "I never went through Camp Phoenix. I have never been anywhere near Kabul. My activities have mostly been in the western part of Afghanistan. I do not recall talking to any other detainees who been through Camp Phoenix, either."
Pride leaned forward over the table. "You haven't heard anybody talking about Dr. Alyse Aachen, or any military physician in general?" Hardoon shook his head again.
"I am sorry," he repeated. He began to sincerely hope that his freedom wasn't dependent on knowing something about this Dr. Aachen. "I had not heard anything that fits that description." He saw Agent Burley hang his head slightly, and even Raanan closed her eyes briefly. "However," he continued, "I had operated in Taliban camps for almost six months and have been in the detainee system for a month. I do know other information that you might find important."
"By all means, Mr. Hardoon, please continue," Pride said dryly. He nodded and took a sip of the bottled water.
"There is a man," he began. He had been trained to start with the most useless information and gradually go up from there, with the hopes that the interrogators would either bore with the minor information or determine that he could be trusted before giving away any big secrets, but this time, he started with the biggest thing he had. He figured he owed it to these men, willing to deal with two foreign intelligence agents and involve their Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of State, to free him. He didn't know what the deal was with this doctor or why she was so important, but someone with that much pull deserved the best information he had. "He is Ukrainian, or maybe Belarusian—I had heard conflicting reports on his nationality—but he is known in social circles in Western Europe and the United States. He is a very rich man, his wealth accumulated by multiple nepharious means—arms dealing, drug dealing, people dealing—and he spreads it among equally nepharious 'charities'. He is rumored to be financing a number of Taliban cells in the Kabul area. He may be behind this abduction, or know something about who is."
"Even if he's not directly responsible, he sounds like someone we might want to talk to," Pride said, his tone still dry. "Does he have a name?"
"A code name, and a name," Hardoon replied with a nod. "He is known in Afghanistan as Shahryar. It means 'friend'. For most people, that is the only name they know."
"But you know his real name?"
Hardoon smiled thinly. "There are advantages to being a highly-trained Iraqi amidst one of the most powerful Taliban cells in the area," he said, his tone dry and slightly self-depreciating. He caught the amused gleam in Raanan's eyes and couldn't help but smile. He knew why other intelligence agencies preferred not to deal with Mossad on a regular basis; they were trained not to trust anyone, and rarely shared information easily, but even more than that, they used methods that gave even the most maverick of American intelligence operatives pause. Kazem Shirazi had been a real Iraqi citizen, an American-trained member of the Iraqi police force who had been secretly communicating with his counterparts on the Afghani front before Hardoon got to him. It was, after all, easier to assume someone else's identity and reputation than to create one from scratch. The scorched body amidst the taxi car bomb that had 'prematurely detonated' without harming any of its 'intended targets' had been the perfect way of getting rid of the evidence of the real Shirazi. "I was trusted by groups that your American spies try for years to infiltrate. Shahryar's real name is Niko Zajac, and as of the information I heard over the midday meal a week ago, he decided to spend some time in one his summer estates a little bit early this year, at the request of his eldest son." He smiled thinly. "Damir is fifteen and is just beginning to realize the social status he can have of as a result of his father's money. I am not personally familiar with American society locations, but I have heard of this place, the Hamptons. I believe that where Shahryar and his family are for the next few weeks." He drained the last of the water bottle before recapping in carefully. "I have other information on other matters and am more than happy to share it, but first, I was wondering if it would be possible to shave. I have not done so in eight months, and in the interest of all of this sharing, this beard itches a great deal."