Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 28
Mossad Officer Ziva David knew how to make an entrance, but she also knew how to blend in, which was why she didn't take it personally when she didn't notice any heads turning as she made her way through the crowd of well-dressed people milling around the DiNozzo estate. She had made a career out of being invisible, whether that was while chasing down thugs left unemployed at the fall of the Soviet empire, tailing a suspect down the streets of DC, or mingling at a gathering of some of America's richest and most famous in their own backyard.
She smiled at a waiter as she accepted a glass of champagne from his tray, having no intention at all to drink it, as she studied her surroundings. She brought the champagne flute to her mouth to hide her smirk as Niko Zajac came into view. Had this been one of Tony's movies, his Eastern European features would have made him instantly recognizable as the villain; the impeccably tailored tuxedo and scar that ran from the corner of his eye almost to the corner of his mouth did nothing to change that perception. The bodyguards were just as obvious—three thickly-built men with likely steroid use and no necks standing equidistance from Zajac, their eyes never resting on one person long, not even the scantily-clad models and actresses milling around.
Zajac glanced over in her direction, his eyebrows raising slightly at her frank gaze. She brought the flute to her lips again, pretending to drink as she smirked in his direction. He smiled—an expression that seemed to lack any mirth whatsoever—which she took as an invitation to approach. He made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring appreciatively at her body as she sashayed toward him.
"Mr. Zajac," she greeted as she trailed her hand down his forearms, trading her accent for one closer to that of someone from Latin America. One of the bodyguards stepped closer; Zajac waved him off with an annoyed look on his face.
"Do I know you?" he asked. Even his voice would have fit into the typecast role of the Cold War era villain, low and dangerous-sounding with his Russian accent.
"No," she replied, an amused expression on her face, "but I know you. Your reputation precedes you."
"And what reputation is that?"
"That you are someone who can obtain…merchandise of interest to my employers."
"That depends," he replied, his voice no less ominous with the amused tone it now contained, "on what business your employers are in."
She cocked an eyebrow at that. "Mr. Zajac," she replied, her tone almost mocking, "you should know better than to ask those questions."
He studied her intently as he took a slow drink of the clear liquid in his glass. "I may be able to get you what you need," he finally said. His eyes left hers to frown at something over her shoulder; she could tell without looking that Tony was paying to much attention to their conversation while trying to be discreet. It took all of her willpower not to frown at his over-protectiveness. Zajac returned his gaze to her. "You can contact one of my associates. You would know how to find them, I assume."
"Of course," she replied, annoyed. "But if I wanted to deal with one of your associates, I would have done so already."
He glanced around them. "This is not the best place," he finally said. "Meet me tomorrow—"
"Time is of the essence, Mr. Zajac," she interrupted, "and my employers are willing to pay a price that will be reflective of that."
He hesitated at that before nodding slightly. "Let us take this outside," he said, gesturing toward a back door from the estate. She nodded in reply as she began walking to it, Zajac's hand resting lightly on the small of her back. She saw in her peripheral vision the way he held his hand in the air to stop his bodyguards from following them outside.
They headed toward a section of the backyard draped in shadows and isolated from the other people mingling outside. "What guarantee do I have that your employers are serious?" he asked once sure that they were free from curious ears.
"Would a name help?" she asked mildly.
"That depends on the name," he replied. She smiled at that.
"Miguel Pulido Gamboa," she said slowly, naming one of Colombia's main drug lords. She smirked as he quirked an eyebrow. "How is that one?"
"Acceptable," he replied. "What, exactly, is it that Senor Pulido needs?"
"My employer has some…business rivals, who are threatening to make it a bit more difficult for him to conduct business."
"And he would like some negative reinforcement for those threats." She smiled.
"I believe we are on the same page here, Mr. Zajac." She held his gaze for a long moment. "The particulars are in my vehicle. I prefer to be mobile while discussing business. It helps discourage dishonest businessmen."
He hesitated at that, and she could practically see him weighing the pros and cons of going along with her demands. In the end, the chance to do business with a man of Pulido Gamboa's reputation won out. "Very well," he said. She nodded, a slightly victorious smile on her face, and turned to head back through the house without another word, trusting that he was following closely behind her. She left the champagne flute on a waiter's tray without breaking stride.
Just as arranged, the limo was idling right in front of the estate. As Ziva stepped through the doors of the estate, Tony stepped out of the driver's seat, crossing behind the car to open the door for her. She barely gave him a second glance as she stepped in, Zajac close behind.
They had been driving for about two minutes before Zajac cleared his throat, obviously ready to discuss what her employer would be needing. "Would you like a drink?" Ziva asked instead, ignoring his impatience. "In anticipation of your cooperation, I have a bottle of your favorite vodka very well chilled." She reached to a freezer under the seat next to her and pulled out a frosted clear bottle for him to see.
"I would prefer to get down to business," the arms dealer replied, his voice again cold. "I am afraid my bodyguards will start to worry if I am not returned soon, and you do not want to see them worried."
"We will get to our business when I am ready," she replied, her tone sharp. She paused and smiled slightly, as if embarrassed that she had let her hard edge as a Latin American security consultant show. She could tell by the blink and flat look on Zajac's face that the 'slip' had made its point. "First, a toast. Then, business."
"Very well," he replied, trying to make it appear that his acquiesce was anything but intimidation at the ideas of what she could do to him. The type of woman she was portraying had a reputation to rival that of a trained Mossad interrogator. He frowned as he realized that the car was no longer moving. "Why are we stopped?" he asked.
"Because it's time for a friendly chat, Mr. Zajac," Tony replied as he opened the door. He smiled as he pulled out his credentials. "NCIS. We have a few questions for you."
A panicked look appeared on the arms dealer's face as he spun, clearly trying to figure out how to gain the advantage. He realized he was caught when he came face-to-barrel with the handgun Tony had left for Ziva between the seat cushions. "Not a good idea, Mr. Zajac," she replied, no longer hiding her true accent. "I suggest you cooperate."
---
DiNozzo hung up the phone in the observation bay of the East Hampton Police Department interrogation room, having just talked to Gibbs and probably half of the audience in MTAC about what they have discovered thus far and how they should precede. As always happened when NCIS, FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security were all involved, nobody could agree on anything.
He returned his attention to the two-way mirror and the 'friendly chat' that was unfolding on the other side of it. He and Ziva had left Zajac sweating it out in there for over an hour as they discussed—argued—about who should do what, and as usual, Ziva won. He had to admit, it was quite intimidating to watch a beautiful and deadly woman in an evening gown conduct an interrogation.
She had pulled out the Mossad card early, calmly implying that if he cooperated, NCIS wouldn't be turning him over to the Israelis for his ties to a series of recent Palestinian bombings. DiNozzo had no idea if Zajac had anything to do with those, and no idea how Ziva would know if he had, but the arms dealer instantly became even more nervous at the threat, leaving Tony to believe that Zajac knew exactly how Mossad treated enemies of the State of Israel. Apparently, the Belarusian decided to take his chances with the American system, because he was singing like the proverbial canary.
"And the recent abduction of Dr. Alyse Aachen from outside Kabul?" Ziva pressed. Zajac blinked in confusion.
"I do not know what you are talking about," he replied, his voice a bit shaky. DiNozzo couldn't see the look on Ziva's face, but judging from the quick look of fear across Zajac's face, he figured it wasn't pretty. "I am not lying to you!" he insisted. "I told you, I gave them money, and nothing else. What they did with it was their business!"
"That does not sound like a very beneficial agreement for you," Ziva said calmly, returning to her seat. "There was more to it."
Zajac took a deep breath and nodded slightly. "I would give them money," he said, "and they would use that to buy weapons and supplies from one of my associates."
"But after your associates had taken their cuts, you are losing money," Ziva replied. Zajac smirked.
"War is profitable," he replied. "It is in my best interest to keep it going as long as possible." DiNozzo silently nodded his understanding; by giving the Taliban money to buy what they would need, he was keeping the war going and growing his reputation. The losses from his associates were nothing in the long run.
Ziva silently slid a piece of paper and pen across the table to Zajac. "The names of your Taliban contacts," she said coldly. He stared at it for a long minute.
"And what I get in return?" he finally asked.
"I will recommend that the Americans hold you themselves, instead of turning you over to one of the many nations who would like their chance with you," she replied. "My superiors in Mossad will be disappointed, but I believe they would understand." He continued to stare at the pen and paper until he reluctantly picked them up.
"You are wasting your time," he said as he wrote. "These men believe that they know the way their Allah wanted the universe to be run. They do not have your physician. If they wanted a doctor, they would have purchased one from my associate." He glanced up at her. "And they would have gotten one who would not have insulted their fanatical Muslim views of the woman's place in the world. If you are serious about finding this Dr. Aachen, I suggest you look for someone who would benefit more from her capture than I."
---
Dr. Alyse Aachen opened her eyes tentatively, blinking against the brightness. She groaned as she lifted her arm to read her watch, trying to figure out how long she had been asleep this time. She lowered it, deciding it wasn't worth the effort.
She lifted her head from the pillow slowly, stopping to assess the pain before deciding it was worth it to try to sit up all the way. Her vision swam momentarily, but the motion didn't send her stomach rolling. She decided to look on the positive whenever she could—adding more stress to the situation wasn't going to be helping her headaches any.
"Oh, good. You're awake." She rolled her eyes slightly as she turned her head to her captor. "You've been sleeping a lot."
"I needed my rest," she said sarcastically. "Being held against my will takes a lot out of me."
He smirked at her response before holding up a plastic grocery bag. "I brought you food from the mess," he said. She accepted it, making a face at the fried chicken fingers and French fries, but didn't voice her complaints, figuring something was better than nothing. He pulled up a chair, turning it backwards before sitting, resting his arms on the back. "So," he said conversationally, "what would your husband do to get you back?"
She glared. "Well, he was a scout sniper, and once a Marine, always a Marine, so do you really want an honest answer to that?"
He laughed at her response. "You sure are feisty, aren't you, Doc? No wonder he writes you into all his novels—you make a great character." His voice became serious. "No, seriously. How much?"
"How much what?"
"How much are you worth to your husband?" he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "And be honest."
"Honestly? Everything," she replied. She smirked. "But they're going to catch you before you see a single penny."