Of Jews and Gentiles (7/12)
Chapter 21
The bar was louder and more crowded than DiNozzo would have expected for six in the evening, but he quickly explained that away by the number of people in the various uniforms of the United States military. Not that soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines were always heavy drinkers, it was just that it wasn't the first time that he had visited a bar on a case to find members of the armed services unwinding with their buddies before heading home. He wouldn't be surprised if this same bar was all but deserted by eleven that night. It was, after all, a Monday, and people in the military had a tendency to get up early.
“I thought officers weren't supposed to drink in uniform,” he said with a teasing voice as he approached his partner from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his lips to her temple. He felt a brief flash of paranoia at the thought of approaching the wrong woman by the bar-that would have been difficult to explain-but he realized belatedly that she was the only one in an IDF uniform. He could feel, rather than hear, her chuckle before she turned around and gave him a small kiss on the lips.
“Maybe that is a rule of your military officers,” she replied. “I do not remember that lecture in my officer courses back in Israel.” She turned to face the two men standing by her who were now watching with eyebrows raised. “Sunil, Brad, this is my boyfriend, Tony Dinallo. He is a senior Middle East analyst at NCIS. Tony, my co-instructors, Commander Sunil Patel and Major Brad Austin.”
“Nice to meet you,” DiNozzo said, shaking each man's hand in turn. “Ziva's been talking about how excited she is to teach this course ever since she arrived.” He noticed the smiling expressions on all three faces. “And I take it the first day went well?”
“I think it's going to be a good sixteen weeks,” Major Austin replied. DiNozzo got the distinct impression that he was being sized up by the Army major. “You getting anything, Tony?”
Yup, definitely in a silent pissing match with this one, DiNozzo thought, taking in the bite when Austin said his name. He gave a small smile. Oh, you have no idea what you're fighting for, do you? he thought as he flagged down the bartender. “Sam Adams lager, on the tap,” he ordered. The short brunette gave a quick nod as she got his drink.
And then, suddenly, Austin's attitude changed completely as he again turned to size up the NCIS 'analyst'. “Hey, man, you a Buckeye?” he asked, nodding toward the lapel pin camera. DiNozzo grinned.
“Class of '93,” he replied proudly.
“No way! I graduated in '98! You been following the team?”
DiNozzo gave him a 'are you kidding?' look. Football was probably the most important aspect of OSU culture. “After last season, I was tempted not to,” he joked.
“Oh, come on! We lost two games. And the USC game wasn't even our fault!”
“You know, I never believed all that stuff they said about PAC-10 refs until that game,” DiNozzo admitted. “Talk about your shitty calls.”
“Have they released rankings for this year yet?” The two continued their discussion about NCAA football, neither noticing the slightly exasperated look on Ziva's face until she gave DiNozzo a small kiss on the cheek.
“You boys and your football,” she joked. He had the good graces to look sheepish.
“Sorry, sweetcheeks, it's not every day I run into another Bucks fan out here.” He turned back to Austin. “I guess since she lives in Israel she's allowed to not follow college football, but still...” Both men chuckled knowingly, earning an eye roll from the faux-IDF officer. “We can talk about something else,” DiNozzo offered.
“No, continue your all-important analysis of what Coach Trexel-”
“Tressel,” both DiNozzo and Austin corrected.
“Right. Coach Tressel will do next season. I will go have an adult conversation with Commander Patel.”
“You're too good for me,” DiNozzo joked as he gave her another small kiss.
“I know,” she replied. “And I will expect payment later.” She gave him a teasing leer before sweeping her eyes up and down his body appreciatively. He could have sworn she sashayed the few steps to where Commander Patel was standing.
“Damn. You're lucky with that one,” Austin commented, both men's eyes still on David's back. “How'd you two meet, anyway?”
“I was just-”
“Having phone sex?”
“Joint IDF/NCIS mission in Jerusalem a few years ago,” DiNozzo said briefly. Sometimes, lies were easier than the truth. And more believable. “But anyway, have you heard anything about the D-line for next season's team? Because defense has been a major weakness the last few years...”
---
“So, when do you expect this 'payment'?” DiNozzo joked as the two NCIS agents walked out to the parking lot, his arm around her shoulders. She gave a deep laugh in response.
“I have not yet decided what this payment should be,” she joked in return. “I think my car does need to be washed...”
His eyes widened with excitement at the thought of driving the little sports car, even it was only as far as a carwash. “I can do that,” he said quickly. She saw the look on his face and 'tsk tsk'ed lightly.
“A car like that, Tony, deserves a real car wash. By hand. I expect to see you outside my apartment with shorts and a bucket of soapy water...” She intentionally let her voice trail off, watching his reaction with amusement.
“You're evil, woman,” he finally managed, unable to clear his mind of a slight Israeli with black curls pinned back, soapy water cascading over a bikini-clad body... Think about something else. Like McGee giving the car a wash...yup, that did it.
“You did a good job tonight,” Ziva said, her tone abruptly becoming more serious. They had arrived at their cars-he had unintentionally parked right next to her blue BMW-leaning against them as they continued their conversation.
“It's not much of a stretch for me to sit around a bar talking football,” he joked. “It was actually fun.”
She looked as if she was going to say something, but then just nodded and turned toward her car. “I will see you tomorrow after my last lesson,” she said as she opened her door. “Good night, Tony. And...thank you.”
Although he wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, he nodded as he walked over to the driver's side of his car. “You're welcome,” he replied. “Good night, sweetcheeks.”
---
Although Quinn's cold case box had arrived from Metro PD the afternoon before, some unusual activity in the Middle East that DiNozzo figured he should be aware of prevented him from looking at it until Tuesday morning. Now, relatively up-to-date with the situation abroad and finding himself otherwise unoccupied, he wandered down to the evidence locker, where he had stored the box before leaving for the bar.
He wasn't a huge fan of the evidence locker: too quiet, too dreary, too boring for his tastes. Usually, he lasted just long enough to sign in or out whatever he needed before retreating back to the bull pen. Knowing that he needed enough space to spread out the material, though, he resigned himself to what could be hours alone at the uneven table in the dark space. He glanced down at his cell phone, almost willing it to ring announcing a new case and rescuing him from this task.
He was barely into the first binder of case notes when he felt his vision begin to blur. Focus, DiNozzo, he ordered himself. Like the notes from the Daltron case a few days ago, these were mind-numbingly boring, but this time, he didn't have an attractive, intelligent Israeli sitting with him to dull the pain. He began to take his own notes in an attempt to keep himself focused.
Dr. Stephanie Quinn was a thirty-one-year-old emergency room physician at Georgetown University Hospital when she was gunned down in her Chevy Chase townhouse sixteen months ago. Chevy Chase to Georgetown? he jotted on the notepad with a frown. It was a nice zip code to have, but there were other nice places much closer to the hospital-and much closer to Dr. Jeremiah Silvers, the Jewish boyfriend who had been out of town. Along those lines, he grabbed for another binder-this one marked 'Interviews'-and searched for the one with Dr. Silvers, again taking notes as he read. Dr. Jeremiah Silvers, thirty-five, trauma surgeon at Georgetown. Started dating Dr. Quinn seventeen months before incident-that was a bit of a long time for two adults to seriously date without living together-was visiting parents in New York for Hanukkah at time of incident. He frowned and reached for the first binder again. If they were seriously dating, why didn't Quinn join him? Ah, he thought as he read, she had just returned from a shift at the hospital. She was scheduled to work. From his own experience dating a doctor, he knew how rigid those shifts could be; after all, nobody really wanted to be working on a holiday, but somebody had to do it.
Reading through Dr. Silver's interview, DiNozzo couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. He was a trauma surgeon, usually worked fourteen to sixteen hour days, five or six days a week. The only times he was consistently scheduled to be off were-Saturdays and Thursday evenings. For a class at the synagogue, DiNozzo read, feeling a strange surge of triumph. So this couple had definitely been involved in the couples adult education classes. And since they were there sixteen months ago... He frowned, trying to remember when Shaw and Sault started going. He knew they had been dating for longer than that, but he wasn't sure when they started attending classes. He made a mental note to ask Ziva if she knew.
It was small, but it was something. He was finally feeling like he was making progress. He had proof that at least three of the four couples attended the same synagogue in Georgetown, and at least two of those were in the same adult education class, possibly at the same time.
He was reaching for the case notes binder again when he felt his phone vibrating on his belt. “DiNozzo,” he said, not even bothering to check the ID.
“Where are you?” he heard his partner ask.
“Ziva?” he asked dumbly before glancing at his watch. “Oh. I guess I've been here longer than I realized. I'm in the evidence locker, going over the Quinn case.”
There was a pause before she spoke again. “You got the records from Metro PD's Cold Cases?”
“Yeah. Do you want to come down and join me?”
“I have a conference call in MTAC in five minutes,” she reported. “Have you found anything?”
“Well, Drs. Jeremiah Silvers and Stephanie Quinn definitely attended the couples class, so we know that at least three of the four couples went to the same synagogue.” Now that he had said it aloud, it didn't seem like that big of a discovery; after all, Ziva had assumed that much weeks before. “I'm still looking for more than that.”
“I will let you know when I done here. Shalom.” He snapped the phone closed and dove back into the dry reports and files. It may not have been much, but even that small discovery buoyed his spirits. At least he knew for himself-finally-that they were on the right track. He vowed to never doubt his partner again.
Chapter 22
Unfortunately for the case, the MCRT had gotten a call about an apparently murdered lance corporal at Quantico, which occupied all of DiNozzo's time for the next two days, preventing him from going back to either the Quinn or Daltron cases. In fact, it prevented him from doing much at all, including spend time with his undercover girlfriend. He realized as he stepped into the elevator at 0400 on Thursday morning for a few hours of much-needed sleep how much harder the job was with three agents instead of four. He tried to remember how they managed before McGee before he realized with a start that at one point, the MCRT had only two agents. What the hell did Gibbs and I do before Kate? he wondered as he made his way to the car.
By the time he returned to the office-a few hours late, but he was proud of himself for coming back at all-Abby had found some pretty conclusive evidence that the corporal's death was actually a very well-staged suicide. Apparently, the kid liked to read murder mysteries in his free time and all but copied one of his favorite novels to stage his own death. Ducky had spoken to a psychiatrist at Bethesda who had been treating him for PTSD after his return from Afghanistan two months before, a tour that included the death of his sniper spotter. All the evidence showed that he hadn't been doing as well as the psychiatrist had thought.
Ziva showed up in the office that afternoon just as Gibbs was storming out, barking something about needing more coffee as they passed each other in the lobby. She was still frowning when she stepped off the elevators.
“What is with Gibbs?” she asked as she dropped her bag at her desk.
“Marine sniper committed suicide three months after his spotter was killed in Afghanistan,” DiNozzo summed up in one sentence, his eyes focused on the report in front of him.
“Ah,” she replied knowingly. Gibbs didn't quite get into cases involving snipers the way he did those involving children, but they could all see that such cases never failed to affect their boss.
He finally glanced up to see his partner still in her IDF uniform and made a show of looking at his watch. “We're going to be late if you don't hurry up and change,” he pointed out. She usually arrived at NCIS after a day of teaching already in her civvies.
“I had to stay late today,” she said as an explanation as she dug through her bag for something that would be appropriate for the synagogue. “Is this shirt too low-cut?” she asked, holding one up.
“Not low-cut enough,” DiNozzo replied with a quick grin before getting back to what she had just said before. “Why'd you stay late?”
“Commander Patel and I had to consider an appropriate punishment for a petty officer who talked back during the lecture.”
“What'd you do, slap his knuckles with a ruler?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “He is being removed from the course.”
DiNozzo gave a low whistle. “That seems a little extreme.”
“He was disrespectful and derogatory to an officer, Tony,” she snapped. “It was an appropriate action. If you had any military training, you would know that.”
“Hey, I went to a military high school,” he said defensively. “Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I don't know about toeing a line.” He softened as he realized belatedly that Ziva must have been the officer who had been disrespected. “What'd the guy say, anyway?”
“It is not important. I need to go change now.” She turned and quickly made her way to the women's restroom before he had the chance to say anything further.
They were almost to the synagogue-and running five or ten minutes late-before Ziva brought it up again. “We were discussing retaliatory action,” she said out of the blue, “which apparently this petty officer found amusing. When I stopped the lecture to ask him to share his thoughts, he said it was ironic that an Israeli military officer was teaching appropriate retaliatory actions considering the events in the Gaza Strip a few months ago.”
“Oh,” was all he could think to say. He knew how hard Ziva had taken that particular event and how much it bothered her that she was stuck in the States while her country was headed for war.
She shifted the car harshly. “It was a stupid thing for him to say.”
“Yeah,” he replied, not sure what other response she wanted from him. He knew any words he said would sound completely hollow.
“You do not understand what it is like to live in a country literally surrounded by your enemies,” she continued, her voice picking up tempo as she spoke. “You do not know what it is like to be in the military of such a country and to know that everyone around you is just waiting for their opportunity to attack, to know that you do not have a friendly nation in over a thousand miles. You do not-”
“Ziva,” he interrupted as they pulled into the parking lot. “Stop saying 'you'. I didn't say anything.”
She glared before deflating somewhat as she stepped out of the car. “I know, Tony. I am sorry. It is just...frustrating, to be in a situation where people who should know better do not.”
“I know,” he said gently, stopping to rub her arms. They were already late; what was a few more minutes? “Just remember, not all Americans are the same. Just like not all Israelis are the same and not all Arabs are the same.”
“You are right,” she acknowledged. “I should not have taken my anger out on you.”
“I don't mind the yelling,” he said with a smile. “Just...be sure to stop before you get to the physically lashing out stage.”
That finally got a smile out of her. It was a small one, but it was there. “I can not guarantee anything, Tony,” she joked. He smiled and pulled her close for a moment before dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
“Come on, we're late,” he said gently before guiding her into the synagogue. This time, it was her who sought out his hand and didn't let it go.
---
Like the week before, it was easily 2130 by the time they left the synagogue. “Do you want me to drive you back to your car?” Ziva asked as they crossed the parking lot toward her BMW. DiNozzo turned and studied his partner for a second, trying to interpret the question. Was she asking if he wanted to go to NCIS versus straight to his apartment, or was she asking if he wanted to go back to her place?
“Do you want to drive me back to my car?” he asked in return. Two can play at that game. Maybe this way he could actually figure out what she was saying.
“I could use a night close,” she finally said, sounding strangely vulnerable for a trained Mossad assassin. Still, he couldn't help but grin at the error.
“Night cap,” he corrected. “That sounds good. Any particular place in mind?”
She shook her head slightly. “I do not feel like being around other people right now. Would my apartment be okay?”
Hell, yes, he thought but didn't vocalize. “Sure,” he said instead.
They drove the few blocks back to her complex in silence, and they continued to not say anything as they rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. It wasn't until they were in the kitchen of the Georgetown condo that Ziva spoke again. “This looks like a nice bottle of wine, yes?” she asked, pulling a shiraz from the wine rack. It wasn't his favorite red, but he wasn't in a mood to complain as he nodded his assent.
“Tell me what you found in the Quinn files,” Ziva said as she curled up next to Tony on the couch, wine glasses in hand.
He frowned. “Are you sure that's what you want to talk about?”
“Yes,” she said forcefully. She softened at the look on his face. “We have already talked about what had happened today. Now I want to talk about something else. Please, Tony.”
Knowing how much she hated talking about her feelings-although she hated it even more when people implied she didn't have them-he nodded and began talking. Just like with the Daltron case, he found that things made a lot more sense when there was someone else there to bounce ideas off of, and the fact that this someone happened to be someone he often tried to impress certainly didn't hurt matters.
Still, they both frustratingly realized by the time they drained the bottle of wine that they still didn't know what it all meant. They had looked at three separate cases, with three separate MO's, with no common link in occupations or lifestyles. The only thing that connected the three was the fact that they were all in serious relationships where one of the parties attended the same synagogue in Georgetown.
“Wait,” Ziva said, sitting up suddenly, a frown on her face. “Lt. Shaw, Dr. Quinn, Daltron-they were all the non-Jewish member of the relationship.” Her eyes were shining at the sudden realization. “We did not see it before, because two are male and one is female-it appeared random. What if someone was specifically targeting the one who was not Jewish?”
“But, why?” he asked, not wanting to think about the fact that that meant that he would definitely be the target, if they succeeded at their mission. “Why try to take out people who are dating Jews? It sounds like a really strange form of anti-Semitism.”
“Because so many American Jews marry non-Jews,” she said. “It is a problem, especially in Orthodox and Conservative congregations, if the non-Jew is the woman.”
“Because whether or not the kids are Jewish is determined by the mother,” DiNozzo said, beginning to understand. “But then it would make no difference if Shaw and Sault got married, or Daltron and Rosen. So in that theory, the only one that makes sense is Quinn and Silvers.”
“But even if the kids are technically Jewish, they would be less likely to be raised Jewish,” she said. “Even many fully Jewish American families have Christmas trees. I would imagine that almost all mixed families do. In a country organized by the Christian calendar, it is not easy to be otherwise. Many American rabbis have spoken about the loss of Jewish culture in America.”
“We're not organized by a Christian calendar,” he protested, realizing as the words passed his lips how wrong they were. Ziva rolled her eyes at him.
“If stores are closed on one day a week, the majority of those are Sunday. Christmas and Easter are national holidays. Many school districts have your 'Holy Week' off for spring break. Your--”
“Okay, okay!” he interrupted with a small laugh. “I was wrong. Can we get back to the point? What are you thinking with this-that our murderer is someone who thinks he's protecting the Jewish culture? So then why take out the couples that are learning about being Jewish? Don't you think it would make more sense to target mixed couples that have no interest in Jewish culture? And what about Shaw? Didn't someone say he talked to Rabbi Grossman about converting?”
“I do not know,” Ziva admitted. “But maybe it gives us somewhere to look?”
He shrugged. “I'll cross-reference the congregation with published articles or statements about Judaism in America. Maybe we'll get a hit.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Maybe we will get lucky.” Maybe it was just the wine, but DiNozzo could have sworn that there was something in her voice that made him wonder if she was completely referring to the case.
Chapter 23
Friday afternoons were free from teaching, a fact of the schedule in this international intelligence course that Officer Ziva David was sure was entirely an invention of her two co-instructors so they could have an extra few hours of the weekend. For her, though, it meant it was time to return to her primary job and her life as Officer Ziva David.
“Welcome back, Officer David,” Agent Gibbs said dryly as she stepped into the bullpen, removing her weapon from her holster. She wouldn't admit to actually thinking about it to her coworkers, but it felt good to be back in her cargo pants and a lightweight sweater, free from the service uniform she wore while teaching or the conservative clothes she wore to the synagogue. “How long are you staying this time?”
“It is Friday, Gibbs,” she replied. “I will stay until it is time to leave to begin observation of Shabbat before sunset.”
“Your big dinner party is this Sunday, right?” he asked. She nodded slightly.
“Yes. And the surveillance feed will be sent here, as it has been for our Saturday conversations with Abby and McGee.”
As it turned out, there wasn't much for Ziva-or anyone else-to do around the bullpen, so after an hour of reorganizing the files in her desk drawer, she sauntered over to her partner's desk. “You trying to bust us out early, Ziva?” he asked with a grin.
“Better not be,” Gibbs muttered from his desk. They ignored him.
“We do not yet have a menu for dinner Sunday night,” she informed him. “Since we are co-hosting this event, I figured you should have a say.”
“Steak,” he replied promptly. “Those same ones we had last week. Those were amazing.” They were also fifteen dollars apiece, but he didn't need to know that.
“We could do steak,” she said thoughtfully, perched on the top of his desk. “But I was going to make cheesecake for dessert. We will need to think of another dessert.”
“No!” he said quickly. He had had Ziva's cheesecake before; he wasn't going to pass up on it. “The cheesecake stays.”
“Then the steak must go. We can not serve dairy so close after serving meat.”
“I thought it was okay as long as you cleansed your palate between meals or something.”
“That is the other way around,” she said. “From eating to dairy to eating meat. You must wait at least three hours after eating meat to have dairy.”
“So you're saying we can't have anything with meat.”
“Yes, Tony, that is what I'm saying.”
“No steak.”
“No.”
“Salmon?”
“No.”
“Oh! What about lobster? Is shellfish meat?”
She threw her hands in the air in exasperation and turned to Gibbs. “Is it too late to change partners? McGee is much more easily trained than Tony.”
“Uh, thank you?”
“I don't think that was a complement, McGeek,” DiNozzo shot back before giving his partner a wide grin. “So I take it lasagna with sausage is out as a main course?”
“I think we should take a new look at Rosen for Daltron's death,” Ziva deadpanned, “because I can see where it would be tempting to poison one's boyfriend.”
“Aww, you know you love it.”
---
“Did you have any luck cross-referencing the members of the congregation with statements about the preservation of Jewish culture?” Their Shabbat dinner consumed, Tony and Ziva were again in the living room, bent over the three boxes of evidence, as Shaw's and Quinn's cases had also found their way to Ziva's condo.
“Rabbi Grossman had written a few articles about the secularization of American Jews, but that was it,” he replied, flipping absently through the Quinn case notes. “Just like you said on Thursday, most rabbis of large congregations had said something at one time or another.”
She sighed. “So that did not get us anywhere?”
“Not unless you're looking at Rabbi Grossman as a suspect, and personally, I can't see him firing a gun or lacing someone's food with cyanide.”
“He does seem to be the non-violent type,” Ziva agreed. DiNozzo grinned; she almost made that sound disdainful. “What do we do now?”
“We put away the boxes,” he declared. She looked up in surprise. “It's late and we shouldn't be working on the Sabbath anyway. Let's put in a movie.”
“We should not be watching television on Shabbat, either,” Ziva pointed out.
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But this way, at least one of gets to do something we want to do while we're breaking the rules.”
---
After another mind numbing morning at the synagogue, nonproductive afternoon with McGee and Abby, entertaining piano lesson, and frustrating night sleeping on the futon of the spare bedroom in the Georgetown condo, it was Sunday morning, and after Ziva went on a particularly long run (DiNozzo didn't know what time she left, but she didn't return until 8:30), she dragged him out of the condo to the kosher grocery store she had visited the week before. He glancing longingly in the back toward the butcher, but she steered him clear of the meats as they got everything they needed for their dinner that evening, including a few bottles of white wine that appeared to be the same quality-by their labels as much as their price tags-as the ones that the Israeli embassy had provided them with when Ziva moved in.
“So now what?” he asked as they returned to the apartment, arms laden with groceries.
“Now I will start the cheesecake,” Ziva declared, “while you wash the vegetables. I should hope someone who has watched the Food Network can handle that.”
They worked side-by-side in the familiar rhythm of two people who were accustomed to sharing a kitchen, and it didn't escape Ziva's notice how comfortable and natural it felt to be working with Tony, how they knew how to step around each other without getting in each other's way, knew how to anticipate the other's needs, knew how to joke with each other and make the other laugh. As she had more and more often over the last few weeks, she felt a pang of regret at the thought that it would all be ending soon, that as soon as the mission was over, they would go back to their old lives and their old routines.
She didn't have much time to dwell on that, however, as it seemed they had just pulled the garlic bread appetizer out of the oven when the doorbell rang. “Rabbi, Rebbetzin,” Ziva said with a smile as she stepped aside to welcome the older couple. “Welcome. Please come in.” She glanced over at DiNozzo just as he was casually flipping the switch to activate the surveillance. The evening had begun.
Chapter 24
“So, tell us, how did you two meet?” Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David glanced at each other before groaning good-naturedly at the question.
“It seems that everybody assumes that when an Israeli military officer dates an American intelligence analyst that there is a good story,” Ziva said, smiling toward Dara Levi as she refilled her glass of wine. Dinner had gone well, and although Tony had complained loudly the entire time they were cooking about how much he disliked vegetable lasagna, he had ended up with two servings before they moved the party to the living room before dessert. Now, as expected, the conversation had shifted from amusing gossipy stories to amusing gossipy questions.
“Well, it is interesting, sweetcheeks,” Tony said with a grin, resting his hand on her thigh as he leaned over to give her a quick kiss. He turned his attention to Levi, whose face was fixed in that 'isn't it sweet' expression that women always seemed to have when another was couple was caught being cute. “I was working over in Jerusalem a few years ago when NCIS got a tip about a possible Hamas action-”
“Be careful, Tony,” Ziva chastised lightly. “You do not want to be spilling state secrets at a dinner party.”
“I may not be a master intelligence officer, but I do know when to stop talking,” he shot back with a grin. “Cutting out all the details, we consulted with the IDF-Israeli Defense Force-and who do they send over to liaise with NCIS but the lovely Captain-she was still a captain then-Ziva Kenig. First it was late nights in the office over take-out food-and you'd never believe how hard it is to get take-out in Israel-and then I asked her to dinner-”
“And the rest is history,” Ziva interrupted as she took a seat balancing on the armrest by Tony, who automatically slipped his arm around her waist as he grinned up at her. She rolled her eyes at him before leaning down to kiss him.
“That's so sweet,” Dr. Ashley Detert crooned. Ziva mentally rolled her eyes again; she would never understand what women found so fascinating about other people's relationships. If anyone ever accused her of the same, she'd be quick to use the excuse of needing to know the information for the purpose of gathering intel.
“This is a lovely picture,” Mrs. Grossman commented, not seeming to realize that another conversation was occurring only a few feet away. “Where was this taken? Jerusalem?” The picture in question was actually a fake-Abby had photoshopped a candid picture of Tony and Ziva at a crime scene together a few years ago, both in their street clothes, he grinning at some inside joke as she pointed out something out of the frame. She had taken the two NCIS agents out of the woods around DC and placed them on a street in one of the touristy areas of Jerusalem, the type of place an American living in Israel would want to see once.
“Yes,” Ziva said smoothly, rising from her seat to join the rabbi's wife at the mantel, where that picture had joined the ones sent by her father. “That was Tony's last week in Israel before returning to DC, and I told him he could not leave the country without seeing some of the historic sights. Most of his time in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv had been spent looking for a bar that would show his precious American football games.”
“Not most of the time,” DiNozzo protested with a grin. “That was only a few months. I spent some time looking for a bar that had college basketball, too.”
“Oh, I apologize,” Ziva said dryly before returning her attention to Mrs. Grossman.
“And this looks familiar,” the rabbi's wife said with a chuckle, pointing at the picture of Ziva as a young IDF soldier. “I remember my two years as an IDF soldier very well. The summer before my last year of high school, when I was seventeen and going through my initial recruit training...” She trailed off, her voice ending in a chuckle. “Well, that was a lifetime ago now.”
“What did you do with the IDF?” Ziva asked. Mrs. Grossman began to explain in English before lapsing into Hebrew, which Ziva also switched to. Most of the other people in the room appeared to be following the conversation closely, reminding DiNozzo of when he was little and the family gatherings had devolved into Italian-a language he didn't get a very good handle on until he began learning Spanish in high school-which everyone the parents' generation spoke, but only when they were drinking. And family gatherings in the DiNozzo family always meant that everyone was drinking.
“Are you as lost as I am?” he finally whispered over to Dr. Detert, who nodded emphatically.
“I hate it when they do this,” she whispered back. “Jerry doesn't even notice-he was a clerk at the American embassy in Jerusalem for five years and speaks Hebrew better than Sam-but I've been going to the synagogue for almost two years as I still know about four phrases.”
“I've got you beat, then,” he whispered with a grin. “I know at least five. Do you want to come help me with dessert?” She nodded gratefully and followed him into the kitchen.
“So that story, about meeting Ziva while you were working in Israel, is that true?” she asked as he pulled the cheesecake out of the refrigerator-the dairy refrigerator, marked by a 'Got Milk?' magnet. He chuckled slightly.
“As true as they come,” he said. Well, as true as cover stories come, anyway. “I actually started in this business as a South America analyst. I minored in Spanish in college, and when I was finishing grad school I wrote my dissertation on Columbian drug lords and the destabilization of the national government. When 9/11 happened, though, most of the junior people got transferred to Middle East and antiterrorism groups. Best thing I could have asked for, really. Wouldn't have met Ziva if it weren't for that.”
Dr. Detert nodded slightly. “So, what happened after you came back here? I mean, I understand long distance relationships and all, but DC to Israel? That's ridiculous.”
He thought about how to answer that as NCIS analyst Tony Dinallo, and kept thinking about his own, real-life separation from Ziva for a couple of months while he was Agent Afloat. “I should have called,” he mused softly.
“What?”
“Oh,” he said, not realizing he had spoken aloud. “I mean, I should have called sooner. We thought having a clean break would be the best thing, since we were both busy people and El Al flights aren't cheap, but it took me about two days to realize that I was miserable without her around. I should have called her then and begged to figure out how we could make this work, but I didn't. She ended up emailing me after about a month saying pretty much everything I was thinking, but much better than I ever could. So we try to make it work, and it usually means we get about a week or two together every six months.”
“That's so sweet,” Detert commented, her green eyes large with that 'aww' expression that she had earlier. “Wow. I didn't think stories like that happened in real life.”
He chuckled, wondering if he overplayed his hand. He quickly changed the subject before she realized that those things really didn't happen in real life. “I've been a bit curious since that first group meeting a couple of weeks ago, but what's the story with that couple who used to be in the group? Shane or something?”
“Chris Shaw and Hannah Sault,” she replied before sighing heavily. “That was pretty much the worst thing ever. They were driving down to her cousin's bar mitzvah cerebration when the car wrecked. Chris died there, and Hannah went to the hospital with a collapsed lung and a concussion. She's down in Norfolk now with her parents.” DiNozzo noticed her eyes getting misty.
“You knew them well?” he asked gently. She nodded and sniffed once.
“Yeah, we started coming to the group about the same time, about a year and a half ago or so. They're really great people, a lot of fun to be around. You guys would have loved them.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Hannah and I had a tongue-in-cheek competition going-which of us would be the first to get a ring, which meant that Chris and I had a competition about which of us would finally be accepted by Rabbi Grossman. I was leading that race. I had been turned down the second time for conversion three weeks before he was.”
“Turned down?” DiNozzo asked with a frown. Detert smiled slightly.
“Oh, if you're even thinking about conversion, you're in for a treat. Traditionally, an Orthodox rabbi will turn down a Gentile's request for conversion three times before he or she is allowed to state their case in front of the council. And no conversion means no engagement.” She glanced down at her empty ring finger for a second before her eyes returned to DiNozzo. “It's a bigger deal for me and Sam than it was for Chris and Hannah-”
“Because you have to be Jewish for your kids to be Jewish,” he finished.
“Right,” she said with a nod, “and there's no way Sam would want to raise non-Jewish-or even non-Orthodox-kids. But Hannah still wanted that Jewish wedding. I think she was getting tired of waiting, though. I caught her checking out diamond prices on her phone one Thursday during dinner.” She wiped away a tear that had fallen down her cheek and gave a bitter smile. “I guess I'm going to be winning those competitions, huh? Really makes you realize how short life really is.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. Especially when you have to keep waiting for the right opportunity to come along.
“Were you planning on bringing us dessert sometime tonight, Tony?” His reverie was broken by the sudden appearance of his partner as she practically glided into the kitchen, an expression of mock-frustration on her face. He gave her a grin.
“I didn't want to interrupt the meeting of Hebrew Speakers Anonymous,” he said as he bent down to give her a kiss, much smaller and shorter than he would have liked, but, well, they were at work.
“We were hardly anonymous,” Ziva replied with a smile of her own, taking two plates of immaculate chocolate raspberry cheesecake from his hands. “We did not mean to exclude you.” Actually, she did-the two NCIS agents planned it out before hand, in order for Tony to pull Detert aside to ask about Shaw and Sault.
“I know, I know,” he grumbled, following her into the dining room, his eyes drifting downward slightly to enjoy the view. “And this is where you say 'if only you actually learned something while living in Israel...'” She turned her head to roll her eyes in reply.
It was a good hour later before Tony and Ziva said goodbye to Drs. Cohen and Detert as they walked out the door. Both sighed in relief as they closed the door behind the pair of dentists. “Do Jewish dinner parties always last all night?” DiNozzo asked. Ziva seemed to nod in agreement as she headed back to the kitchen.
“Just get in here and help me clean up,” she commented. Before doing so, he noticed the surveillance switch still in the 'off' position.
“Goodnight, Probie and Abby,” he said into the middle of the room. He had no idea where the cameras were located. “Laila tov, Israeli surveillance watchers.” He gave a quick grin before flipping the switch the other way, ending the recording.
After loading the dishwasher, Tony all but collapsed onto the couch, Ziva close behind him. “That was really good,” he finally said. “But I think I could really use another piece of that cheesecake.”
Ziva gave a chuckle low in her throat and reached over to pat her partner's stomach. “I do not think you need another piece of cheesecake,” she replied.
“Hey!” DiNozzo retorted, grabbing her hand and giving it a tug, which pulled her toward him. His breath caught for a second as he realized their position: he was still holding her hand out to the side, and she was practically on his lap facing him, their faces only inches apart. They had been in similar positions before, several times, but something always stopped them. This time, though, there were no armed Marines on the other side of the door and no Gibbs and McGee talking into their ears. When DiNozzo saw Ziva's eyes flicker ever-so-quickly to his lips, he made his move, the move that had been building for the past few weeks-hell, the past few years.
“Tony,” Ziva breathed, stopping when only fractions of a millimeter separated them. He could feel her lips brush his with every syllable. “What are we doing?”
“I'm about to kiss you,” he answered, his voice no louder than hers, “and you're asking stupid questions.” When she paused, he thought that was his cue, but then she spoke again.
“There is nobody around,” she murmured. “There is no need to act-.” He interrupted whatever she was going to say by definitively pressing his lips on hers. After a few stunned seconds, he began to feel her respond, deepening the kiss.
“Who's acting?” he asked a moment later as they separated. His eyes already opened, he saw Ziva open hers, dark eyes meeting lighter ones from inches apart. Hers widened slightly at what she saw in his as they both realized that, with the exception of whatever that was when she gave him the piano book the week before, this was the first time they had really kissed as Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David, with no undercover mission between them. Feeling a strange flutter of trepidation she couldn't quite identify, she leaned in to kiss him again.