The first time she woke up, everything was out of place.
She tried to move her way through a seemingly impenetrable fog of light and dark, but it blurred and something held her back down. She had no real physical awareness – not yet. The air was warm and thick and she was not capable of forming thoughts. Eyes open. Eyes shut. She blinked, unaware that she was even doing it.
(Still not there. Not yet.)
A hand latched on to her forearm, and immediately the muddled density faded and all of the sudden she was burning. Uncertainty and unbidden fear and aching pain slammed into her as she felt the warmth so intensely on her skin.
She blinked again, trying to bring it into focus.
"Ziva."
The word was sharp, concise, and had a power of its own.
Her head turned to his voice, out of the thick of her mind, into his steely blue eyes. No – no. Not steel. There was something soft behind them, and for a second she tried to pull her arm free of his grip, unsure of everything. Unsure of what she was really seeing. He disregarded her reaction and kept his hand steady, unwavering.
"Easy, you're in a hospital."
Her tired mind did not fully comprehend what he was saying and it was only the tone of his voice and the warmth of his hand that soothed her. She relaxed her arm, nodding dully, head sinking backwards into the pillow. She tore her gaze away from the man standing next to her.
Slowly, she started putting the pieces together. The room had all the makings of hospital, white sheets and tile floor and that funny sterile smell, but she could not get past that. Hospital. It did not look familiar at all.
"Do you remember what happened?" asked Gibbs, his voice somewhat withholding, reluctant. Tense silence stretched and he searched her bruised face for recognition, but he found none.
Then, her blank stare fading, a slackening of the jaw –
Her heart monitor increased, an incessant beeping growing louder, and she struggled to think as she was hit with a swirl of words and images flooding the heart of her memory. She remembered everything, yes, but it happened so quickly and all at once. Like it was non-sequential, uncontrollable. All of the sudden she was unable to breathe and his grip on her arm tightened.
A shattered window, glass against her skin. Hollowed brown eyes, cold and dead. An explosion. Bodies on the ground, screaming. A dark room. A darker man with eyes and hands that hate. Tony.
Her mind was torn between here and there, then and now. Just a flash, but it left her winded and sweating. The only thing that brought her out of it was the pain in her stomach and the rising nausea. Gibbs saw her sudden stop in motion, the look in her eye, and knew. He reached for the trash can and shoved it forward, the only thing between them a settled silence. She just turned over and vomited, unable to meet his eye when she was finished.
Convenient, because the attending nurse had seen enough, and the meaningful stare from Gibbs was not enough to keep her frozen in her position by the door. She firmly pushed Gibbs towards the exit, giving him a look of her own, one that clearly meant her previous generosity for letting him hang around had kindly expired. He complied, less than satisfied, but he kept his eyes fixed on Ziva, who had yet to realize he was no longer there.
She tried to breathe, eyes open, eyes shut. She only noticed the lack of warmth on her forearm after he was gone from the room. She tried to search for him but it slipped away from her, the nurse fiddling around with something above her.
Not long after, she was lulled back into sleep, into blissful nothingness.
(Outside, he sat in a lonely chair and wondered how the hell this happened.)
The second time she woke up, she was completely alone.
It did not take so long to remember where she was this time, but long enough that for a split second she mistook the darkness of the night sky for the darkness of somewhere else, and the panic twisted sharply before dissipating.
She closed her eyes and reopened them again, shaking the thought away.
When she tried to reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, everything backfired. Just the simple act of moving her arm took incredible effort, her muscles weak and thick as lead. As she used her one good, unbandaged arm to push herself up slightly, her chest burned and stabbed and she collapsed back down, unexpected spasms of hot pain running all down her side.
Her fist clenched and her jaw stiffened, but she made no noise. The back of her neck was damp with sweat.
(Jesus. How doped had she been if she didn't feel that before?)
When she tried to reach over to the table a second time, it was not the pain that stopped her. For a moment her mind went blank and she felt like something had punched her in the gut. Lying on the table's surface was a delicate chain, its familiar pendant plainly visible. There was no explanation given, no note, nothing. She fingered the necklace tentatively, the silver strangely cold against her warm hands. It had been strewn so casually on the table, whoever had put it there not knowing just what it meant.
Just what she'd lost.
The rage she had felt at the death of her sister had somehow burned out, not even a flicker or a spark itching at her veins. This new feeling – this gaping, oppressive burden – was not one she had anticipated. Salt and sweat stung against her eyes, but she remained silent as the lost soul of her sister threatened to choke her.
She clutched the chain in her fist, digging into her palm, waiting for the sleep that was her only reprieve.
"Anything new?" asked Special Agent Fornell, shutting the door to his hotel room almost silently before approaching the far side of the room, where McGee was hunched over a well-lit desk, poring through files and reports.
At the sound of the unexpected voice, he jumped a little, his concentration broken.
"God, no wonder you and Gibbs are friends," he muttered, turning his attention back to the array of paperwork scattered around his workspace. His laptop lay open to his right, bearing the look of a piece of equipment that had been used very frequently.
"Sorry. Old habit," replied Fornell, smirking at the younger agent's discomfort. "So, you find anything yet?" he tried again, referring to the ongoing investigation of the international mess Tony and Ziva had been caught in.
McGee sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking entirely frustrated.
"Nothing. I've searched through witness statements, phone logs, security footage. I still don't understand who these people are or how they did these things."
Fornell leaned against the side of the desk, half-sitting, half-standing. He looked intently down at the cluttered desk below him for a minute, then back to McGee.
"Okay. Take me back to the beginning. Run me through everything we know."
McGee nodded as he began shuffling through the pile, setting things aside and pulling out things that were hiding underneath. He took a breath and began to speak, his voice full of focus.
"Ten days ago I tried to contact Tony and Ziva about this Marine that had been following her, but Mossad had them on lockdown in that house and I couldn't reach them. I tried tracking their phones, but I lost them halfway through. I did manage to trace them to Cairo, which, unfortunately," he trailed off, pulling up a rather thick file and sliding it to the forefront, "was literally a dead end."
"Mm," recalled Fornell, flipping through the pictures of mangled steel and carnage. "Know what caused the explosion yet?"
"RPG. It hit the gas tank of the first truck. Security footage from one of the storefronts caught the whole thing."
"And these guys were soldiers," he mused, tapping the known casualty list. "Did anyone from the convoy survive?"
"A few, but one of them is still in the burn unit. The others told us they were escorting two citizens – male and a female – back to our embassy. And their statement was corroborated by this witness," continued McGee, pulling out an official-looking document from the back of the folder, "who claims he saw a man and a woman matching their descriptions at the scene, both of them injured – he almost tripped over them on the sidewalk. Gibbs doesn't think he's involved, but Mossad is still holding him."
Fornell studied the statement for a minute and then spoke again, his voice questioning.
"But why there, why that street? Any evidence that they were forced to leave the safe-house in Tel Aviv?"
"No signs of forced entry, no other calls to their phones except us, and the surveillance detail didn't report any disturbances. And the only thing the neighbors noticed was that their Jeep was missing."
"They stole a car?" repeated Fornell, wondering whose brilliant idea that had been.
McGee just shrugged.
"They probably thought driving was less conspicuous than flying, there's less risk of being recognized. And I don't think they were forced. We just haven't figured out what was so important in Cairo yet."
"Have you tried asking them?" asked Fornell, a little humor in his voice at the obviousness of the situation.
"Can't. Last time I was updated, Ziva was in and out of consciousness and apparently Tony ditched his room. Gibbs is trying to find him."
Trying to erase the mental image of DiNozzo wandering around and flirting with everything that walked, Tobias sighed.
"Okay, so until they can talk, are there any other leads?"
"Just one. The embassy informed us that the tip about Tony and Ziva being in danger came from the home of Amir Nazari, real name Kadin Bashandi –"
"Real name?"
"He told us, when we interviewed him. Nazari is an alias, he works for the CIA. He said he was childhood friends with Ziva, he didn't want us to waste our time digging through files. Director David confirmed it."
"So he made the call. Why?"
"He said one day Ziva just showed up at his house, looking for information about her sister."
"Why would he know that?"
"I have no idea, and neither did he. Her sister died a long time ago. And I find it hard to believe that she would up and leave her safehouse just to reminisce with an old friend in another country, or that Tony would let her."
Fornell frowned.
"Yeah, never saw her as the sentimental type. What did this – Bashandi – say about it?"
"Not much. Just that she seemed distracted, but that having a sniper take a shot at you could do that to a person."
"Huh. Maybe her sister is still alive. Maybe David found out somehow."
"Come on."
"Think about it!" urged Tobias, spurred on by McGee's disbelief. "You know that family is up to their neck in espionage and confidentiality and all kinds of crap."
"What – like a body swap?" he mocked, sounding even more ridiculous when spoken out loud.
"It's possible."
"I doubt it. And even if it was possible, I think Eli David would have said something if it meant finding Ziva."
"Maybe," conceded Fornell, "but that still leaves the question of why the hell –"
"The sniper," deadpanned McGee, his eyes suddenly miles away. A cold, stomach-churning realization was slowly working its way up his throat.
"What?"
"How did he know about the sniper?"
"Who?" demanded Fornell incredulously, not following the younger agent's sudden enlightenment.
"Bashandi – that stuff he said about Ziva. How did he know someone took a shot at her?"
Fornell shrugged, nonplussed.
"Didn't they stay for a day or two? She could've talked about it."
"Nah, she wouldn't. And anyway, he had no idea someone was targeting her, remember? He said he called for the escort the second he got word of it from another asset. Don't you think he would've figured out she was in danger if the sniper had come up?"
Apparently Fornell had no answer for that, because he just sat there in silence, studying the desk with pensive concentration.
"Interesting. That does seem strange. Do you have his file?" he added as an afterthought, turning to the man beside him.
"Parts of it. I think Vance may have called in a few favors, I heard him on the phone with Gibbs."
He leafed through a few sheets of paper before finding what he was looking for, adjusting the lamp so that it was directly shining down on the print.
"Kadin Bashandi, born 1978 in Tel Aviv, Israel. His mother was a radiologist who moved to Israel from Egypt, to marry his father, who was Jewish. His father worked for Mossad as a Metsada operative under the command of…Eli David. He spent his childhood in the same neighborhood as Ziva, served in the IDF, started taking classes – not important. Okay, here. In 2000 his father was killed – probably when he started going by his mother's surname – and he moved to the United States to finish college. He was recruited by the CIA – must have had some skills – seven months later and by October 2001 he was stationed in Cairo. The rest of it is redacted."
"Of course it is," muttered Fornell, having had one too many dealings with that particular sister agency.
"All this says is that he has mixed heritage and that he definitely knew the David family."
"Which we knew."
"Yep."
"I don't like it," stated Tobias matter-of-factly, crossing his arms across his chest.
"Which part?" McGee replied, his tone sour, not impressed with how much they seemed to be in the dark.
"The timing is too perfect. Your agents jeopardize themselves and their investigation to visit this Bashandi for no apparent reason? Then they disappear four miles from his house? He has to be hiding something."
"You think he was involved?"
"He knew about the sniper when he shouldn't have. Isn't that what you just said?"
"Yes, but – he works for the CIA! He's Ziva's friend!" countered McGee loudly, hardly daring to believe where Fornell was taking this.
But, at the same time, he couldn't deny that some of the pieces were falling into place in his head. It did nothing for the slowly growing knot in his stomach.
"Maybe he works for someone else as well."
Not needing clarification, as he had guessed it himself already, McGee lowered his voice.
"Like Hamas."
He suddenly felt very sick, and very stupid.
"It's a theory. It would explain how DiNozzo and David got captured."
"But not why they left," the junior agent pointed out, still waiting on the phone call from his boss that would hopefully shed some light on that little tidbit.
As if reading his mind, Fornell checked his watch.
"Think Gibbs found DiNozzo yet?"
Frown.
(The hell was he doing going MIA in a hospital?)
"Probably."
Then, a rising, curious thought struck him, driving the senior field agent out of his mind.
"You said before that you were tipped off about the cell stateside because of bank activity, right?"
"Mostly one in particular, why?"
McGee shuffled hastily through his stack of folders, fingers flying across pages as he found the information he had stashed away over a week ago.
"What was it called?" he asked quickly, studying the page in front of him.
"Something local, I think River –"
"Riverwalk Credit Union?"
Temporarily silenced, Fornell stared expectantly at McGee.
"Bashandi is a member there. I saw an envelope addressed to his alias when we were at his house. I remember thinking it was odd that a CIA operative would leave his mail lying around."
"It's suspicious, but not enough for –"
"Jason Walker is a member too. That's how I knew the name," he explained, tapping a finger against the sheet he had been reading off of.
"The ex-Marine you guys are sitting on," clarified Fornell, scratching at the scruff he had neglected to shave.
"Right. And I think I know who hired him."
"How?"
"The fifty grand Walker was paid? I have the transaction receipt. That money didn't come from any of the guys you killed in that warehouse, I looked over your records on their bank statements. And I set up an alert on his account when we first discovered it. He got the other half of his payment – this morning," finished McGee dramatically, plainly excited at the discovery.
"What are you saying?"
"The rest of the guys were killed when we raided the bunker. That only leaves Bashandi."
"Who wants Walker to finish the job when David gets back," completed Fornell, eyes narrowed in distaste.
"He knows she survived."
Shit.
"Son of a bitch," exclaimed Fornell, shaking his head, anger getting the best of him.
McGee looked stunned, staring at the paper mess in front of him as if it was responsible. He turned to no one in particular, hanging onto disbelief.
"He sold them out."
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