The next time Harris schedules Ziva for an interview, he is far more prepared than before. He takes the time to re-read her agency file in as great a detail as he can. This time, he reads between the lines. He catches what is interfered with by Human Resources' turn of phrase and what isn't implicitly stated. He puts it together on his own, but in the end, he realizes she was one of Mossad's top wetwork operatives and interrogation specialists. A little detail that is buried in a bullet point's bullet point's bullet point.
She was an assassin employee of the month every month until she joined NCIS.
He mistakenly let his guard down last time. She is a diminutive woman who worked it to her advantage with the lowered eyes and the quiet speaking patterns. He won't let that fool him again.
Ziva David is an operative, trained and skilled. Harris can't help but wonder what brought her to NCIS. She'd likely be far more effective on Mossad's teams, continuing her work. The only thing he can think of is that her father pushed her into a career that he could consider safer. Liaisons tends not to be killed as readily as operatives.
When Harris calls to set up another meeting, she is as accommodating as the first time. Likely, she is trying to keep up appearances of being available and willing to meet. The more accessible she makes herself, the less guilty she looks. Harris is starting to believe the opposite.
He sets up Conference Room Three as he should. His notes are safely stored, and locked, in Conference Room Two. Harris doesn't really know—or trust—anyone here at the moment, but in the end, he leaves the only key with Tony DiNozzo. There is a shared goal between them, and Harris finds himself embracing the unlikeliest of allies. Tony and Golden and even, the FBI. It breaks every protocol he knows, but strange times make for strange bedfellows.
In Conference Room Three, Harris leaves his laptop powered on, but it's locked. He has a notepad at the ready, but it's the one where he records his expenditures from his trips. The recording device is ready and waiting for him to start the interview.
Just out of reach, he keeps a single file folder, labeled with Ziva's name, that contains everything that will bury her. Harris only hopes she is as interested in it as he thinks she'll be.
Security notified him a few minutes ago that Ziva David and her handler—or whatever the hell Moshe Mizarchi is—arrived. Harris should have realized it the last time, but after he checked with the embassy, no one under the name Moshe Mizrachi works there. Neither does anyone matching his general description. The man is a ghost.
A spook is more like it.
Harris flicks his pen, clicking and unclicking the top until it grates on his own nerves. That familiar sense of dread settles down into the pit of his stomach, crystallizing like ice through his internal organs. He recognizes it from a past life where he used to head onto the desert battlefield on a moment's notice. An odd detachment where he knows he needs to do his job and nothing more. That's it. See the job through. Get the confession and move on with life.
This shouldn't feel personal, but it's starting to.
A quiet knock on the door sends Harris to his feet. Only a few steps and he opens the door.
He takes a deep breath to settle himself.
Ziva David stands there, hand on her cocked hip and a friendly smile on her face. Based on her expression, she appears more than ready for an interview. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of him as if she is sizing him up.
They share the same thought. They're both ready for war.
Behind her, Mizrachi stands flanked by a pair of security guards. His limbs appear to have grown inches since the last time Harris saw him. He scratches at his temple, all sharp angles. He moves to follow Ziva, but Harris raises his hand.
"Not today," Harris says firmly. "I would like to speak with Agent David alone."
Mizrachi's dark eyes turn to fire. "She will not speak without me."
Harris stays quiet.
"We will leave," Mizrachi threatens.
And for a moment, Ziva appears as though she just might.
Harris studies her passive expression. "If you leave, it won't look good. You can stay and talk with me alone or we're done here. If you want to keep your job, this could be your only chance."
There's no way she is keeping her job, but Harris would like to give her the hope. Because the hope will make her stay and talk.
Mizrachi starts to protest, but Ziva holds up her right hand.
"I will speak with him," she says.
Mizrachi starts, "But you should – "
"Alone," she snaps.
Before he can protest again, Ziva leaves Mizrachi with their security escort. Harris doesn't look at the man, but he feels Mizrachi's eyes boring into the back of his head. That's the third person this week to picture putting a bullet into his brain. By the end of today's interview, Ziva will be on that list too.
And four isn't even my personal record.
Talking to Ziva alone is a huge risk on his part. Even with security on the other side of the door, she is still a trained wetwork operative and he is nothing more than a disabled federal agent. He'll fall back onto his Marine training, if needed, but the moves are rusty from disuse. He would be trusting muscle memory now, but who knows how well that works. And yet, if he brings back-up, he will never get his answers. He needs to keep playing the side of apparent weakness to allow Ziva to think she is in complete control.
When he gestures toward the table, Ziva claims his seat. Right beside his notebook. It is a power play and an attempt to gain information all rolled into one.
Harris allows her to steal his chair. This time, he isn't anxious because she won't glean anything from that notebook. Let her discover that he paid $7.43 for an extra-large mocha with extra whipped cream when he landed in San Franscico two months ago. The only thing she'll learn is that he likes his coffee big, sweet, and overdressed and NCIS still hasn't reimbursed him for it.
He slides into the interviewee's chair. He grabs his notebook, watching as Ziva's eyes follow it. Then he unpockets his pen. When she catches him staring, Ziva smiles beatifically.
She tilts her head. "You have more questions."
"That I do," he replies. "Should we get started?"
"If we must."
Leaning over, Harris switches on the recording device. "This is Agent Schuyler Harris from Internal Affairs with Agent Ziva David for a follow-up interview. Please, state your name."
"Ziva David." She sounds almost bored.
"Today, I'd like to discuss the microphone being turned off during Agent DiNozzo's undercover missions."
Her face pinches slightly. "I believed we would discuss McGee."
"We already know what happened during Agent McGee's assault."
"And what was that?"
"You already know," he bites out.
Shifting back in the chair, she licks her lips to regroup. Her eyes skirt towards the file folder with her name on it, but Harris clicks his pen. She glances at his face, studying his scar for a long moment. He tries to hide his flinch. Now, she's trying to get under his skin.
"While Agent DiNozzo was undercover," Harris says, "I have data showing the microphone's communication was interrupted on several different occasions. Can you explain that?"
She relaxes a little. "It was a device malfunction. I reported that in my notes."
"Why didn't you send the device for maintenance?"
Harris turns the pen over in his hand while he watches Ziva's reaction. She leans further back in her chair, raising her hands in an apparent shrug.
"It is like I explained during our previous discussion. I did not know the proper protocol. Perhaps there was a miscommunication from my superiors."
"You'd been on the team for almost six years now, correct?"
Her brow furrows. "Yes."
"You should know protocol by now." He leans forward, free hand on the table. "I think there was more to it than that."
"I do not understand," she says.
Harris starts, "I asked forensics review the audio footage and – "
"You have spoken with Abby?" Ziva interrupts.
"Do you mean Abby Scuito?" When she nods, he shakes his head. "No, definitely not. I asked the digital forensics department out of Great Lakes to review it. They confirmed the audio device was switched off."
"It is like I have said." She points to the laptop. "There was a malfunction."
"It was switched off. Manually."
The news makes her pale slightly. When Harris looks at her, Ziva schools her face into the perfect picture of concern and confusion. She looks away, almost upset. It doesn't take much for Harris to notice that she is glancing at the file with her name on it.
Eventually, she sighs quietly. Her shoulders slouch as she leans forward.
"I do not wish to cause trouble for my friend," she says.
Harris blinks at her. "What are you talking about?"
She looks away, eyes downcast. Still staring at the file. He hates to admit that if he hadn't re-read her file, he might've bought her show again.
"It was McGee," she whispers. "It was he, who turned off the device."
Leaning back in his chair, Harris clicks his pen a few times. He scribbles a note into his notepad to avoid looking at her while he considers his next line of questioning. He hadn't thought she would sacrifice Tim McGee quite so readily.
"I didn't expect that." Harirs meets her sad eyes. "So, tell me how Agent McGee did it."
After rising from her seat, she moves across the room. While keeping her back to Harris, her head tilts towards the file as if she could read through the cover. She hunches her body as she tries to fold herself inward. She is playing up being the victim. Despite everything he knows, a protective urge pulls deep inside Harris. Squeezing his pen, he manages to squash it.
"McGee requested we turn off the device because he no longer wished to hear Tony talking." She heaves a broken sigh. "He said Tony was too loud and said too many things. It was like, as you Americans says, screws into a wall."
It takes Harris a minute before he asks: "Do you mean nails on a chalkboard?"
"I believe that could be correct." Ziva considers for a moment. "I believe so, yes."
When she turns back, there are real tears clinging to her eyelids. Harris presses his lips together before making a few notes on his notepad. It's nothing more than gibberish because he doesn't want her to get any information if she steals the notepad. He just needs the movement to help him connect the dots. He needs to play along as though he believes the lie. The more she thinks he is buying it, the more she'll give him. The deeper the hole she'll dig for herself.
"Why did you go along with it?" he asks.
She makes a face. "He outranks me."
"Forgive me, Agent David, but you don't strike me as the kind of person who easily gets pushed around. By anyone." He raises his good eyebrow. "Let alone someone like Agent McGee."
She merely offers a shrug.
Harris exhales loudly. "Remind me, Agent David. What is it that Agent DiNozzo likes to talk about? The thing that allegedly drove Agent McGee crazy. It was books, right?"
"Movies," Ziva snaps.
Her sudden vitriol causes Harris to stop writing. He looks at her, almost shocked to find the anger deepening her beautiful face. When she notices him, she chases it away. Right back to playing the victim. She tries for an easy smile.
"He has a quote for every situation and every moment," she explains harshly. "You cannot cross a room without reminding him of a film no one has ever seen. I do not believe most of them exist."
Harris keeps his sight on her. There is a terrifying anger behind her words Harris can't fathom. For a moment, he is staring into the dead eyes of an insurgent on the battlefield. Right now, she is somewhere far away from here and Harris latches onto it.
"Does he use these quotes while undercover?" he asks.
Ziva's eyes narrow into slits. "To the marks and back to McGee and me when we are in the car. It is so much to listen for an entire day. The noises, they never cease. Even after I spoke with Gibbs, it never ceased and…"
She stops suddenly, as if she realized she caught herself.
"And those movie quotes, that's what lead – " Harris makes a face as if the words don't taste right" – Agent McGee to switch off the listening device. He just couldn't take it anymore?"
"That is correct," she says.
Crossing her arms, she stares down her nose at Harris. The corner of her mouth twitches upward as if she believes she has already won their battle. He might not know her endgame, but he knows she thinks that she'll be returning to her job shortly.
"Right," he says.
The word makes Harris tilt his head. At that moment, he latches onto an idea. Under ordinary circumstances, he might consider it crazy, but some of the best plans are borne from insanity. She will be the only one to see him, so if it doesn't work, he'll never have to admit it to anyone. Though, it is such a cliché, and he hates how low he'll stoop to try to close this case.
I can't believe what I'm about to do.
My partner will never let me live it down if he finds out.
He hunches his body forward, purses his lips. Draws his pinky to his mouth.
Ziva looks at him as though he has lost his mind.
"Riiiiight," he drones out like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery.
Ziva's right eyelid develops a full-fledged twitch. She sets her jaw, her face darkening like a thunderstorm. That's when he realizes he might be on to something.
"That is one of them!" She points out the way Harris is play acting. "It is one of the films Tony likes to quote. The one with the terrible spy with the terrible teeth, who does not act like a true operative. And the stupid, stupid man with the scar on his face."
When she looks at him pointedly, Harris drops character long enough to narrow his good eye at her. Once she starts to return to normal, he draws his pinky finger back to his lips.
"Riiiiiight," he drawls again.
Ziva works her hands into fists, lumbering around the room like a caged animal. Harris isn't sure what he expected from lobbing a movie quote at her, but he certainly didn't expect her to become enraged. He'd like to think she won't attack him, but he isn't quite so sure. Whatever it is about movies is pushing her right over the edge.
"Tony did it for a whole day once." She is rambling now. "He said he wished to see if any of the suspects would notice and you know what, not even a single one did. No one noticed he quotes that movie for the entire day!"
"Do you mean Austin Powers?" Harris asks.
Ziva works her hands into fists. "Yes, it is an infuriating movie!"
"I can see that." Harris flicks at his pen. "And did those quotes make you angry?"
She stops, mid-step, and turns to look at him strangely. Harris gestures at her with the pen.
"My mistake," he says. "It made Agent McGee angry."
She is nodding now. "Yes, it made him turn off the device."
"And what about you?" Harris asks.
Blinking, she tilts her head as though she doesn't understand the question.
"What did you do, Agent David?" Harris waves his pen at her again. "When Agent McGee turned off the device. Did you just allow him?"
She tilts her head. "I told him it was not a good idea."
"Riiiiight," Harris drawls again like Dr. Evil.
Ziva exhales loudly through her nose. Harris thinks it was loud enough for the recording device to pick up from across the room. His good eyebrow rises slowly.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Harris asks.
When he doesn't continue the train of thought, she raises her chin to spur him on.
"I think it was you who couldn't stand Agent DiNozzo's movie quotes." Harris leans forward in his chair. "I think it was you who wanted the peace and quiet."
Ziva interrupts, "But McGee – "
"Might've pushed the button." Harris locks his good eye on hers. "But it was you who made him do it."
She crosses her arms, scoffing. "That you cannot prove."
Harris tilts his head. "You'd be amazed what I can prove, Agent David."
And that's when he reaches for the file with her name on it. She is blinking owlishly as though she hadn't noticed the file. It's a rouse, that much he knows now. When she moves closer, there is a certain confusion on her face. He places its contents on the table, ensuring each one hits with a thwack. They are copies of the papers from her desk. One set in Hebrew with the partial translations on the bottom.
"Do you recognize these?" he asks.
Suddenly, the color drains from her face and she goes as white as the pages. She swallows hard, licking her lips, before speaking.
"You have discovered my notes," she says.
"You mean your communication with Mossad."
Her eyes rove back towards the door. "They are merely notes. I grew into the habit of taking notes. They were like a journal. They assist me in organizing my thoughts. Certainly, you – " she gestures to his pad " – understand what it is like."
"Then why did forensics find copies of these documents e-mailed to an e-mail that belongs to who, I suspect, is your handler?" Harris leans forward, shoving the papers toward her. "Forensics recovered a burner e-mail account from your work computer. You are still corresponding with Mossad."
She doesn't say a word, just looks at the papers.
Harris leans closer, drops his voice. "Did you think you wouldn't get caught?"
Her face pinches. "Because…"
When she raises her head, Ziva glares balefully at Harris. There is malice and rage in her eyes that sends a chill hop, skip and jumping down his spine. He sets his jaw, doubling down.
"I shouldn't have to remind you that sending information to a foreign agent without an agreement in place is espionage."
She cracks a pained laugh. "You have no proof they are sent to Mossad. As for the taking of the notes, old habits, they expire."
"Old habits die hard," Harris corrects. "And I might not have proof yet, but I will soon."
Ziva's eyebrows jump as she continues to stare at Harris. Her expression has taken a slightly surprised quality. As though the prey she couldn't be bothered with has turned out to be a formidable foe. The mouse that roared.
She crowds into his personal space.
The hair on the back of his neck rises. Harris' heart gives a start in his chest. He settles into it, latching onto that feeling he hasn't felt in so long. He remembers it from his time in the Marines.
Ziva's right hand lands on the recording device, her left on his notepad. He leans his full weight against his notepad. Their eyes meet and for an instant, he is back facing an insurgent on the battlefield.
"You will not speak of this again." Her voice is as sharp as a blade.
He tilts his head. "Are you threatening me, Agent David?"
"No, it was merely a suggestion."
He raises his pen to point at a spot near the ceiling. When she glances upward, she catches the small box with the blinking red light. A camera with a microphone that is currently being monitored by security downstairs. He had it installed after their last interview when he realized she bugged his room.
She looks back at him, wearing a scary, little half-smile.
"This is not over," she says.
He just grins at her. "Riiiight."
Her eyelid twitches and she starts to bolt out of the conference room.
"Oh, and Agent David?" Harris calls after her.
She turns back, silent. Brooding. Death in her eyes.
"I'll be in touch at the conclusion of the investigation," he says. "Don't leave Washington."
She just rolls her eyes before leaving. The slamming door cuts through Harris like a gunshot, but he leans back in his chair, feeling oddly self-satisfied. He hooks his hands behind his head as he smirks to himself.
Then, he mutters in his best Austin Powers voice: "It's time to swing, baby."