Sitting at his desk by Barrows' area, Tony DiNozzo digs into his cold case. The one involving the convenience store clerk in a robbery gone wrong. There were no witnesses. No one in the victim's life held a grudge. It appears to be a simple smash and grab, but there is something still bugging Tony about one of the people in the victim's life. A coworker, who had just enlisted. Sure, the victim was in the reserves. And they served at different times and their paths never crossed.

But still, it's bugging him.

Cold cases tend to hold Tony's interest because he loves to pick through the work of an old team. Loves to see how new technology makes breakthroughs and helps breathe new life into the case. Most of all, he loves to uncover the previous teams' mistakes. He knows, at some point, there will be an agent uncovering the mistakes his team made. But that's why they review old cases.

He wants to double-check a lead for his current one by examining the victim's financials. That involves checking into an old bank account that was closed nearly twenty years ago. For some reason, the investigating agent never bothered to input the ending balance into the file. It shouldn't matter, but Tony thinks her death might be related to someone draining her bank account. It might be a targeted hit, not a smash and grab. He needs to run with the lead.

Tony attempts to investigate the history with the originating back. Once. Twice. He goes for a third time, but he ends up abandoning the attempt. He hates to admit that it's out of his league. And if he wants it—officially—he needs a warrant, but without the evidence, he can't get a warrant.

I know who can do this in his sleep.

And that's how Tony ends up in the sub-basement on the way to Cybercrimes. It feels like a dungeon down here. The recirculating air is several degrees warmer than upstairs. Tony isn't sure whether it's due to the heat of the computers or all the cold air being pumped down to autopsy.

And it's dark. It might be just after lunch, but it feels like it's the middle of the night. Tony fully expects Hal from 2001 to pop over a cubicle and start asking him questions.

Tony finds Tim McGee at his workstation, typing frenetically while pictures slither across his computer screen. His whole body is taut. His shoulders are hunched nearly up to his ears. Tony hasn't seen this version of Tim since the younger man first joined Gibbs' team. An anxious ball of energy ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

Tony still isn't sure what led him to come down here. Justice for, he checks the file, Petty Officer Marian Arroyo. Yeah, that's exactly what brought him here.

Sure, it is.

There's something more going on with Tim. That must Tony knows. Without talking, Tony won't figure it out. Whatever it is bugs him, eats at him, gnaws at him from the inside out. He has to figure it out like that phantom itch that can't get rid of no matter how much he scratches. The way they left things at his apartment, when Tim came by, it's under his skin. He needs to solve it, needs to figure out what the hell is going on. If he can solve his cold case at the same time, well, that's just icing on the cake.

In a robotic voice, Tony drawls: "'Shall we play a game?'"

Tim nearly leaps out of his skin. Whirling around, he keeps his left hand pressed against his chest. His eyes are wide, his mouth hangs open. There are bags under his eyes and his skin is pale.

"Tony?" he whispers.

Smiling, Tony holds his hands out like Ta-da, you caught me.

"You scared the crap out of me," Tim says.

Tony plays for normal. "You're getting soft, McScaredy Cat."

Tim rolls his eyes. "I'm working."

"I can see that." Tony moves closer toward Tim as he ogles the computer screen. "I need to do the voodoo that only you do."

When Tim stays quiet, Tony plasters on his best smile. That doesn't work, so Tony puts on his best pouty face with puppy dog eyes and sad smile and pleading hands. Tim works his jaw, rolls his eyes.

"Then you'll leave me alone?" he asks.

To keep himself quiet, Tony bites the inside of his mouth. Maybe this was a waste of time. Maybe he shouldn't have bothered coming down here to ask for Tim's help. He could've asked any of the other basement dwellers for help and they would've fangirled over him being a real, living breathing field agent in their cubicle. He thought he might be able to work with Tim, but maybe he was wrong.

"Of course," Tony says as civilly as he can. "I need the ending balance on that account. I think my vic might've had her account cleaned after she died. Except I can't get a warrant without that information. You know how it goes."

Sadness slips across Tim's face, gone as quickly as it came, because he does know how it goes. And now, he isn't a part of it anymore.

Tim turns back to his computer. Tony leans over his shoulder, watching the younger man work. He keeps one hand on the back of Tim's chair and the other on his desk. It's a rather mundane moment, something he used to do in the bullpen all the time. And this, it'll probably be the last time. Tony crowds into Tim's space as he watches fingers fly over the keyboard and numbers on the screen. Mere seconds later, exactly what he requested appears on screen as if by magic.

Then, the printer whirs to life.

When Tim slides his chair back, it bumps into Tony. He mutters an apology as he grabs the paper off the printer and hands it over. As Tony takes it, the air around them turns charged as if there is electricity coursing through it. Maybe it's from all the computers and the Wi-Fi. Tim must feel it too because he doesn't turn back to his computer right away.

Tony holds Tim's gaze. "For what it's worth, it never should've happened. I tried to stop her."

Tim looks away. "I know it wasn't your fault."

"I just wish you hadn't done it to me."

Tim runs his tongue along his teeth. "I never stopped listening, Tony. Why can't you believe me?"

"Because you haven't told me why I should." Tony accidentally bends the case file in his hands.

"Because you're my partner." Tim voice breaks. "You're my friend and the fact that you think that I would do that to you." He presses his lips together, shaking his head.

"If you were really my friend, you'd trust me enough to tell me what's going on."

When Tony leans into Tim's face, his eyes are shining with a surprising intensity. There's fear on Tim's face, something primal and real. He stays quiet.

Tony doubles down. "If you trusted me, you'd tell me."

Since Tim remains quiet, Tony starts to walk away. He heads towards the elevator, not sure what he is planning to do. Maybe his gut was wrong and there is nothing here. Maybe he'll manage to close his cold case while having to turn his back on a partner and a friend. Maybe –

Behind him, Tim mutters unintelligibly.

Tony turns back. "What was that, McGee?"

Tim's face is cherry red, all the way to his ears. Tony feels his eyebrows jump.

Tim barely whispers something that sounds remarkably like, "Ziva threatened me, okay?"

And Tony double-back so fast that he doesn't even realize he closed the distance. Tim slides his chair back into his desk, but Tony still nearly runs him over. They are both inside Tim's tiny, coffin-sized workspace with only the whirr of his computer fan to break the silence. Tony crowds so close into Tim's personal space that he feels the younger man's breath on his cheeks.

"What did you say?" Tony's voice comes dangerously low.

Tim's words come as a breath. "Ziva threatened me."

"What did she say exactly?"

Tim looks at the floor. "That it was good for me to be her friend because I know what happens to her enemies. Because she's told me what happens to them. Because I know how she ends them and disposes of them. Because she told me I don't want to be one of them." His voice jumps a full octave when he says, "She used to do wetwork. Did you know that?"

Those words turn Tony's own blood to ice. They both know what Ziva is capable of when allowed to run loose. Tony heard the quips at the crime scenes they cleared together. How if the killer worked a different way, there'd be less mess. How their suspect left evidence. At the time, Tony thought she was sharing her experience. Now, he wonders if she might've been offering critiques.

I never thought she'd turn her training on us.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "How long, Tim?"

Tim's face blazes even redder. "Not long after we got back from Somalia."

Tony just stares at Tim, poleaxed. Tim hugs his arms to his chest.

"Jesus…" Tony breathes. "Why didn't you report it? You could get fired."

"Don't you think I know that? That's why I never said anything." Tim shakes his head. "It's been going on for too long now."

Tony's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "How did it even start?"

Tim laughs morosely. "At first, I thought she was joking with me. Then, a few weeks later, I realized she wasn't kidding. That's what happened with cutting the mic during your undercover ops. She wanted to turn it off, but I kept saying no. One day, I couldn't say no. Thankfully, I bought enough time to write a program to send your undercover feed to my earwig when the device was off."

"You didn't stop listening," Tony says.

Tim nods. "It's like I said. I wouldn't do that to you."

Setting his jaw, Tony puts his hands on his hips. "You should've said something."

"To you and Gibbs?"

When Tony remains quiet, Tim laughs mirthlessly. He shakes his head, looks away.

"We could've helped," Tony offers.

"Helped?!" Tim replies. "You probably would have made fun of me for being scared of Ziva. And Gibbs…do you really believe he'd kick Ziva off the team for me?" He runs his tongue against his teeth. Baleful, now. "He probably would've told me man up and deal with it. Then, Ziva would've known I ratted her out and she'd…" He shudders at the thought. "This was easier."

Tony glances at the side of Tim's face where the bruise used to be. If he looks hard enough, there might be a ghost of one, an imprint of their other teammate' double-cross. It might be Tony's imagination, but he still sees it. Black and purple and blue, the turgid skin. Tim must notice Tony staring because he covers the spot with his hand. His eyes dart back to his computer screen.

"It was easier, huh?" Tony asks.

Tim lets the silence speak for him. Just keeps his eyes fixed on his monitor where the screen save is nothing more than a geometric shape sliding around into hypnotizing angles.

"You told Harris, right?" Tony asks.

Tim's voice is barely a whisper. "Uh, um, well, no…not exactly."

And that's when Tony clamps his hand on Tim's upper arm. Tim tries to pull away, but Tony doubles down on his grip. Tim's gaze jumps between Tony's hand and his angry face.

Tony drags Tim towards the elevator.

"Where are we going?" Tim bleats.

"We're going to talk to Harris." Tony's voice is scary calm. "You're going to tell him everything."

Tim's body goes rigid in Tony grasp, but he keeps moving. The elevator is a blur, all stainless steel and sliding doors. Tony is hellbent on getting Tim to their destination. Conference Room Three. It was bad enough when Tony thought Tim was cutting the mic on him. And yet, this—not knowing Tim was being threatened by their teammate—this is so much worse.

Tony keeps a tight grip on Tim's arm, partly to keep the younger man from panicking and partly to keep him from hightailing it to the Canadian border. He doesn't know what Ziva said, but for Tim to react this way, it can't be good.

Tony barrels into Harris' de facto office with Tim in tow. Harris spins around his chair, good eye wide and annoyance blasting across his face. As though he is tired of all the interruptions. There's a woman there too, tall and thin with short grey hair. Tony's heart clenches because he knows her from somewhere. It takes a moment for Tony to place her.

Oh my G-d, I know her.

They met during one of his first weekends in Washington after he joined NCIS. He thought she was a badge bunny, but quickly figured out she was an agent at some unnamed agency. It was a long holiday weekend that blurred into bars and sightseeing tours and his bed. He fell hard into like, but she gave him a fake phone number. He never managed to hunt her down.

"Irene?" Tony asks.

Golden looks up, shocked. "Oh hey, it's you." Her pretty face crinkles in thought. "What's your name again? Tommy, right?"

The flush engulfs his face. "Tony."

"It's been a long time, Tony."

At that moment, her expression takes a wistful turn. She might not know his name, but she clearly remembers their weekend. Tony loosens his tie.

Harris clears his throat, bringing Tony crashing straight down to earth.

"Excuse me, Agent DiNozzo," he says. "How exactly do you know Agent McGee's association rep?"

Golden begins to answer, likely with the truth, but Tony answers for her.

"We met at a firearms conference a few years back," he explains. "We ate lunch together."

Golden snorts. "Yeah, lunch. Let's call it lunch. And we had dinner too."

Harris shakes his head. "Okay, fine. I don't want to know. What's going on, Agent DiNozzo? I thought we had finished our interviews."

Tony takes a moment to glance at Tim, whose eyes are locked on Harris' computer. When Tony checks, he notices a jump drive sticking out from the side. Tony doesn't know what that is, but clearly Tim does.

"You need to talk to McGee," Tony says.

"We just spoke a few hours ago." Harris' brow furrows. "Has something changed?"

"Yeah," Tim says quietly. "A lot."

With that, Harris slides to the laptop aside to grab his notepad. He gestures at an open chair with his pen where Tim sits. Then, he switches on his recording device. He doesn't do his usual introduction, seemingly trying not to spook Tim again. Tony keeps watch by the door.

"What happened?" Harris asks.

Tim's eyes slide back to Tony, who nods. "Just tell him the truth, McGee."

"Where should I start?" Tim whispers.

"How about the beginning?" Harris says gently.

Tim licks his lips before pressing them together. An odd sort of resignation settles over his face. As though he understands the price of absolution and renewing his friendship with Tony. The truth, it seems, is a small price to pay.

"Ziva came back from Somalia all wrong," he says. "She – "

"Somalia?" Harris interrupts.

"Ziva was taken captive by a terrorist cell in Somalia," Tony interjects. "Spent a couple of months there. McGee and I, we headed over to infiltrate the same cell. We also, may or may not, have been taken captive by the same terrorist cell for a few days. Gibbs sniped the head dirtbag and we rescued Ziva." He lets the stunned silence take hold of the room. "It's a tale as old as time..."

"Song as old as rhyme? Yeah, I don't think so." Harris' expression turns dumbfounded. "Are you telling me that you were sent on a rescue mission for a foreign national in a country where the United States doesn't have jurisdiction? And that it was sanctioned?"

Tony makes a deer in the headlights face. "Maybe."

Golden releases a hollow laugh. "And you thought the DEA are cowboys there, Harry."

"This a different league than cowboys." Harris makes a face before turning back to Tim: "Now, tell me what you mean when you said Ziva returned different."

"Okay." Tim inhales shakily. "She came back wrong. Broken. She was meaner. More brutal. Violent."

When Harris glances at Tony for clarification, the senior agent nods because he noticed it too. It wasn't much different than when she left. Her threats against him didn't seem like they were joking anymore. She truly had sounded like she wanted to kill him. Her reactions with suspects were more over the top, more altercations and confrontations. She was the first to throw a punch and the last to stop. He always figured Ziva had some kind of trauma that she was still working through. She was still doing her job, albeit in a more forceful way, so he never pressed her about it.

Tim rubs at the back of his neck. "I caught her roughing up a suspect. She asked me not to tell anyone. I should have, but I didn't. I thought it was a bad day, you know? We all have those. Before long, she started on me…"

"She was violent with you?" Harris asks carefully, brow furrowing.

"No, not like that," Tim shakes his head. "Comments about what she could. Would do. Things like that. She told me how our perps messed up. She used to do wetwork."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"She told me what she could do to me if I told Gibbs about what she'd been doing." He pushes a breath through puffed cheeks. "Roughing up suspects. Lying to get confessions. Turning off the listening device on Tony." He lets the silence stretch for a long moment. "She broke into my apartment last night to remind me to keep my mouth shut. I think she expects me to take the fall for this."

That makes Harris flinch violently and Tony catches it. He tilts his head, wondering just why Harris reacted the way he did. There is something going on here too. Even Golden notices because she shoots Tony a questioning glance, but he just shrugs.

Then, Harris leans into Tim's field of vision where he stares blankly at the wall. "Agent McGee, I need you to tell me what's been going on. Please, start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

After a moment, Tim starts talking and doesn't stop for a long time. Their time in Somalia. The first threat and the subsequent ones. Tim's book and how she was his source for his assassin character. Her and Tim's dinners, under the guise of friendship, were there only to remind him that she expected him to be on her side, that she might've been trying to make Tony jealous. How Tim is expected to be Ziva's scapegoat when she was caught for some wrongdoing.

By the time he is done, Harris' face is as white as his scar and Golden's mouth hangs open. Even Tony, as much as he hates to admit it, feels a little queasy. It was the old pizza he found in the back of the staff fridge last night, he tells himself. He shouldn't have eaten it for dinner. Yeah, that's it.

Why didn't McGee think I would have his six?

And why would Ziva do all this?

After Tim finishes talking, an eerie silence looms over Conference Room Three for what feels like a long time. As if out of everything they all expected, it hadn't been Ziva threatening Tim to keep him in line. Tony wants to ask Tim if he knows that Ziva is still with Mossad, but he doesn't want to stress the younger man out anymore. Tim is already haggard and drawn, staring down at his hands.

Harris is the one to act first. He clears his throat, puts down his pen. He pushes a breath through his teeth before glancing at Tony. By the door, Tony still carefully watches Tim.

"I think that's all I need for right now, Agent McGee," Harris says. "Until this is over, I think protective custody would be beneficial. Perhaps I could call – "

"I'll be fine," Tim says.

Harris starts again, "But – "

"No," Tim snaps.

Golden leans over to whisper into Tim's ear, but his face just settles deeper into his stance. He is shaking his head, jaw set and eyes hard. Harris throws Tony a look that says, Can talk to him? Tony nods.

"How about we drop it for now?" Tony asks.

"Fat chance, Tony," Golden says. "You know he needs it. And hell, you probably do too."

Tony shoots Golden a look, then says as pleasantly as he can: "We'll drop it. For now."

Relief floods across Tim's face as he nods. "Yeah."

When Golden starts to ream Tony out, he holds out his hand as if to say I'll take care of it. She must understand because she raises her chin in understanding. Then, she tilts her head towards the door.

"Come on, Agent McGee," she says. "Let's go get some coffee. There's gotta be some decent brew around here somewhere."

Based on her tone, Tony knows she'll try to push the protective custody issues. Tim doesn't seem to notice because he is on his feet, ready to head to the cafeteria. Tony prepares to follow, readying himself to badger the younger man into taking the protection. Under usual circumstances, they'd camp out in Gibbs' basement, but after everything, Tony doubts he'll be able to convince Tim to go.

As Tony heads into the hallway, Harris stands up. His shoulders are back, chin raised. At attention.

"Agent DiNozzo," he says, "I need a few minutes."

Tim and Golden are still moving towards the door. Tim hangs back as if expecting to wait for Tony, so they can drink the cafeteria's awful coffee together. Though once Tony looks into Harris' good eye, he knows they need to talk alone.

"I'll catch up, McGee," Tony says. Then to Golden: "I take cream and sugar in mine."

Golden throws him a lively look. "Get your own."

And with that, they're gone. Once they're alone, Tony closes the door. He turns to face Harris, but he wants the IA agent to speak first.

"Do you know have any idea what you brought me?" Harris asks.

"I don't." Tony shrugs. "That's why I gave it to you."

"Look, I couldn't translate the documents on my own. I had to call a contact at the FBI and – "

"You got the FBI involved?" Tony blurts out.

"I couldn't exactly ask my rabbi to translate it," Harris shoots back.

Harris pulls a few printer pages out from a manila folder beside his computer. He places them on the table in front of him. Tony closes the distance between them. He leans forward as he reads over the words, but they're still the original Hebrew documents.

Harris sighs. "Look, I couldn't find anyone at NCIS that I trusted to translate the documents on short notice. Only a handful of agents have a Hebrew language certification. Ziva was the only one around here and the agent from the Northeast Field Office is on vacation this week."

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Who did you have to ask?"

"An FBI agent named Ron Sacks. He seemed quite nice on the phone."

Tony throws his hands out. "Slacks is in on this now. That's just great."

Harris tilts his head, clearly ready to ask, but he doesn't get there. As if on cue, Harris' phone begins ringing. He checks the caller ID before sighing loudly. He sends the call to voicemail and chucks the phone back on the table.

"Now I have his SSA hounding me. This guy, Fornell, won't stop calling. He probably wants to chew me out over the misappropriation of his agency's resources." Harris heaves a sigh. "I'll call him back when we're done."

Tony is still turning the documents over in his hands as if he could read them.

"I'll deal with Fornell," he offers. "I'll just tell him you're busy."

"Have you worked with him?"

Tony half-smiles. "He is BFFs with Gibbs. To say I know him is an understatement."

"Right," Harris says. "Thanks for taking care of it. Look, Sacks only sent me the Cliffs' Notes version of Ziva's papers. Said he needs more time for a full translation. They aren't particularly riveting. They're a report of your team's daily activities. Only code names for each of you though. They include Ziva's thoughts on how the team is handling each other. Updates on cases. Personnel details. Things like that."

Tony squints at the pages in his hands. "Are they personal documents? Like a diary?"

Harris' head bobs from side to side as he thinks. "I don't know because I can't read them. Sacks didn't think it was a diary. More like a report that we write after an op."

Tony just stares at him.

"I don't like the implication of what they could mean."

Sliding into the nearest chair, Tony gives Harris his full attention. He simply watches the man because he wants him to speak the words that on Tony's mind. Voice exactly what the senior agent is already thinking. Say exactly what Tony knew the moment that he found those documents in Ziva's desk.

"Is still Ziva updating her contacts at Mossad?" Tony asks.

Harris rubs at the back of his neck. "That's what she was doing when she was a liaison. As far as I've been told, that was part of the agreement. Now that she's an agent, communication between her foreign contacts should have ceased. If she's still sending information, that's…."

Harris' voice trails off as if he can't bring himself to even breathe the word. As if he can't consider what he stumbled into during what should've been an easy case.

Between them, the air takes on a brittle, electric quality. To Tony, it feels as though it could spark at any moment. He leans forward, hand on the desk until Harris looks at him.

Tony finishes for him: "That's espionage."