Fic: A Goat for Azazel, (Tony, Ziva, Team), [9/15]
Title: A Goat for Azazel, chapter 9/15
Authors: Hagar and Sailor Sol
Category: gen
Rating: overall M for captivity elements and intense emotional content
Summary: Goes AU after Aliyah. When Tony disappears two days before the Saleem op is a go, the team scrambles to find him - and to understand what an associate of La Grenouille and Israeli domestic intelligence have to do with it.
Chapter Title: Flashpoint
Chapter Rating: T for manipulation, discussion of previous “enhanced interrogation” and references to violence
Chapter Summary:‘Understanding’ does not necessarily follow ‘knowing’, Team Gibbs discovers.
AO3 | DW | LJ Below:
Abby's face turned white, her eyes suddenly large. "Gibbs!" she shrieked, raising her hand to point. "It's him!"
His gun was there when he reached for it; luckily he'd just returned with his coffee and hadn't secured it in his desk yet. Standing by the elevator, accompanied by a clearly useless security guard, was Werth.
Werth raised his arms, promptly but not moving so fast as to get himself shot. "I'm here to help, Agent Gibbs," he said. "I have information for you."
Gibbs didn't lower his weapon. "McGee," he snapped, jerking his head towards Werth. McGee took his sweet time hesitating, but eventually did as instructed and stepped forward to cuff Werth. Werth didn't resist, though the look he gave Gibbs put his teeth on edge. Werth was the suspect, here.
He slipped his weapon back into its holster, draining his cup of coffee as McGee led Werth towards interrogation, Cassie close at their heels. He would let Werth stew for a few minutes before heading in to find out what the hell was going on.
In the meantime, he turned to Abby. "Good work, Abs."
Abby was still pale and wide-eyed, but some of her earlier excitement had returned. "Will he tell us where Tony is? He has to know, Gibbs."
"I know, Abby," he said. "He'll talk." He made sure his tone implied, one way or the other.
Abby nodded, tight-lipped. "Good. I'll be in my lab, when you need me," she said, and left.
Which left him with Dunski. Rather than remain standing by McGee's desk, implicitly removing herself from the situation, she came and stood by his shoulder, just half a step behind him. She's been doing things like that since their little chat three days before.
Apparently she was going to play shadow. He didn't bother to try and hide a scowl as he headed towards interrogation, stopping short to go into observation. McGee and Cassie were there, of course, with Werth sitting on the other side of the glass patiently. It didn't tell him anything he didn't already know, so he turned on his heel and headed into interrogation.
Dunski, mercifully, didn't try to follow.
Gibbs slammed the door behind him as he entered interrogation, which was about as unsurprising as Werth not responding to the sudden, loud noise.
Gibbs dropped into the chair, all restless energy. "Start talking," he said shortly.
Werth leaned forward slightly. Honesty, engagement; a plea for trust. Yael knew the history between those too. "Ziva sent me."
Straight to the point, wasn't he.
Gibbs shoulders tensed minutely. However, his flat tone did not waver as he asked, "What do you mean, she sent you?"
"It was part of the plan."
"What plan?"
And as if it was completely obvious, Werth said, "The plan to stop the Israeli terrorists."
McGee's and Yates' stares prickled on her skin. Gibbs turned out to glare at her through the glass for a long moment before he turned back around to continue the interview.
"Keep talking," he said. His voice changed its quality and turned predatory.
"She infiltrated their group," Werth said, "promised to use her Gisele cover to get them some sort of weapon. Now everybody who works for Gisele and her Israeli contacts are at the same place, and none of them are going anywhere until Monday morning."
Gibbs would be working out the math, Yael knew. ‘The plan' was to ‘stop the Israeli terrorists,' and that was Yael's prerogative; he would presume that Ziva was loaned out for this operation. The questions that followed were how a former US Marine became involved, and why did said Marine come to report to Gibbs.
"And what's your part in this mess?"
Werth's reaction was complex. He made an effort to sit straighter but his shoulders were decidedly stiff - pinched, if one had a good enough eye - and that was shame on his face, not stubborn pride. "I... got into some trouble. I didn't have too much luck finding work. She - I mean Gisele - took out the last man I worked for. She decided to trust me." The last part was said with a small shrug. It did not take an expert to read the disavowal in the gesture, the lack of confidence: I don't know why she chose me. And its corollary, in the minute adjustment of Werth's shoulders, the smoothed-out frown: but I am not letting her down.
Gibbs' voice turned flat again. No: almost disdainful. "And now you want me to trust you."
Shoulders hunched in, comparatively, but kept straight, with the chin tucked up: submission and defiance in one. "I'm not lying to you, Gibbs. I've got no reason to lie."
Gibbs said nothing and moved not at all; his glare, from this angle, was left to the imagination. He could do this for hours, Yael knew, and while Werth couldn't hope to out-stubborn him and would eventually roll over, she'd already seen enough to know that he would last a while. And she needed to know what orders to give.
She stepped back from the glass and towards the door.
Tim's instinctive reaction when Dunski turned to leave was a small spark of schadenfreude. Gibbs absolutely hated to be interrupted in interrogation, even on his good days and even when it was absolutely justified. This was neither, and Tim couldn't help but look forward - at least a little - to the epic ass-chewing Dunski was about to receive.
She didn't even bother to knock before opening the door, though at least she had the sense to not turn around to close the door. If that was her purpose: she seemed to be considering Werth, not Gibbs, which really wasn't the smart choice considering the death glare Gibbs was levelling at her.
"Tears are small," she said, stepping closer to Werth.
For a split-second it seemed nonsensical, and then a shiver ran down his spine. Remember you promised not to cry/Because tears are small, and it's a very big sky. It was the refrain of the song Ziva had sent them all before she fell out of contact.
The chair got pushed back and rattled, nearly toppling over, as Gibbs pulled himself up to a standing position and drew on his full height, towering over Dunski. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Here comes the ass-chewing, Tim thought, but his thrill was short-lived. Dunski didn't shrink back, like most people would have done, or even go blank and empty-seeming, the way she was prone to do. She didn't even draw herself up in any noticeable way. Instead, it was as if some cloak had been thrown back, or as if a totally different person was standing there facing Gibbs. The ten inches he had on her meant nothing against the intensity Dunski was projecting, all of a sudden.
Back straight, but not in attention or defiance; shoulders solid, arms to the sides of her body; even the way her feet were splayed communicated calm and disconcertingly self-assured authority. The lines of her face drew in, losing the soft blankness and becoming something else. There was expression, there, but Tim couldn't read it. Gibbs' wrath crashed against it like waves against the rock.
"It's a very big sky," Damon said, making it almost a question. "You're Iris, right?"
Dunski's eyes did not leave Gibbs' face. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the same absolute solidness as the rest of her. "Yes."
"You, shut up," Gibbs said, pointing at Damon. His eyes didn't leave Dunski's face either. "I want answers. Now."
"Werth, do you have a package?"
The cheek of the woman was unbelievable. "Outside," Gibbs ordered with a snarl. "Now." His hand twitched with the desire to grab her by the arm and drag her out, but she was still a woman - though a devil of a one - and he well remembered Ducky's warning. Anything he gave this one, anything at all, she would used against him with vengeance. And as much as he hated to think that, the last few days were proof that he might not see her coming.
She followed him out without a word, though. Once in the hallway he turned around, backing her up against the wall. She liked it cold; fine, he'd give her cold. "Talk," he ordered, casting his voice down to the cadences of the sniper, the embodiment of death.
Her voice matched his. "He should be carrying a package, which should contain the stolen vial."
Too little, too late. "You knew," he said, keeping his voice quiet and dangerous. "All this time, you knew just what was going on, you knew just where DiNozzo is. You could've stopped this, but you didn't."
"True. With one exception."
"Yeah? And what the hell would that be?"
"Kidnapping DiNozzo was not part of the operation plan. There's an extraction scheduled for tonight, but I cannot give the order until I know whether the vial is secure or not. That vial needs to get to Sciuto."
"You could be lying."
"I don't lie about things that can be so easily verified. Call the FBI and ask; I'll give you the password. But first, that vial needs to get to Sciuto."
He stared at her for a moment longer, and then turned away and stepped back into the room.
Werth looked up at him.
"What's in the package?" he demanded.
"A vial of something nasty. That's all I know."
Gibbs held out his hand.
Werth pulled a padded envelope out of his jacket and handed it to him. It was bulky, but it weighed nothing in Gibbs' hand. It was probably just the vial and commercial amounts of bubble wrap, inside, but Gibbs wasn't about to find out himself, not if it really was the Y. pestis. He glanced up at the glass before stepping out again.
McGee met him in the hallway. He held his hand out for the envelope and took off with it without a word. Gibbs rounded on the damn woman again. "You," he spat at her. "With me."
Damon Werth had come to NCIS on his own. Gibbs would have quite the story to tell when he returned from interrogation, so Vance situated himself at the top of the stairs and settled in to wait. Scuttlebutt had to be working overtime, because Ducky Mallard showed up minutes later, idling in Team Gibbs' aisle. Vance nodded at him when Ducky glanced up and nodded but, otherwise, their wait was silent.
The first sign that something was wrong was Tim McGee, hurrying down the hall as if chased by the hounds of hell and holding a small padded envelope as if it might explode. The second was the fury radiating off of Gibbs when he strode into the squad room a moment later. The third was Officer Dunski by Gibbs' side, not looking even remotely benign and easy to overlook.
Something happened. Something that blew the hornets' nest wide open.
Gibbs glanced up on the way to his team's aisle, meeting Vance's eyes for a split-second, but that was all. He headed straight for his desk and grabbed the phone. Vance could only hear one side of the conversation, but it was enough to gather that Gibbs had called the FBI, who - upon being prompted by a pass phrase provided by Dunski - confirmed that one of their SWAT units was scheduled to launch an op that night.
Gibbs slammed the phone back into its cradle. That seemed like a good opportunity for Vance to intervene.
"Gibbs," he called out.
Gibbs looked up at him, glanced at Ducky, and then back at Dunski. The woman seemed utterly unaffected by the intensity of his hostility. "Stay," he ordered.
Dunski's smile was knowing, amused and entirely incongruous.
Gibbs hadn't told her to continue the interrogation. He also hadn't told her not to. Taking over someone else's subject without checking with them first was bad interrogation manners in general and often downright suicidal when that was Gibbs' subject one was taking over, but this was as far from normal circumstances as it got. Gibbs had left in a hurry and in a temper, and Cassie had the sneaking suspicion he'd be far more occupied with Dunski and that envelope than with the witness in the interrogation room. The witness who, chances were, knew more potentially helpful things and seemed willing - enthusiastic, really - to talk.
She agonized over the decision but, eventually, she left observation and headed into interrogation.
Werth's head snapped towards her as she entered. "Damon, right?" she said, taking the chair across from him.
Werth didn't seem particularly impressed by the friendly attitude. "Yeah," he said shortly. "You here to actually listen to what I've got to say, Agent...?"
Cooperative really wasn't a strong enough word. "Yates," she told him. "And yes, I'm listening."
By the time Cassie Yates came all but running into the squad room, the situation had progressed well beyond uncomfortable and into the realm of the truly hostile. Being left to supervise Officer Dunski was uncomfortable. Very much so, despite the woman's odd behavior. Ducky would have expected her to ignore him or, alternatively, to poke and prod at his obvious weakness. Instead, she spoke while he was still struggling for an interview opener, volunteering information, an update on recent developments.
Jethro returned some fifteen minutes later, his mood not noticeably improved in any way. Standing next to him and Dunski, as he made demands and she resisted his authority, information a hostage in this exchange, could be quite described as being trapped between Scylla and Charybdis.
And then, naturally, it got worse.
Cassie hurried into the squad room, all but running, her eyes wide with shock and worry. "Gibbs," she said, "we've got a big problem."
Jethro rounded up on her, though he made sure to keep Dunski in his sights. "Now what?" he demanded.
"Werth gave me information about Tony's condition," Cassie replied. Her words first came as rushed as the rest of her manner, but then she paused. Her expression, when she glanced at Jethro, seemed more worried than frightened and the way she tensed spoke of some guilt. Her eyes went to Ducky himself, too, before she said: "He probably has pneumonia."
Tony, with his scarred lungs; with the toll his immune system must have taken from months of depression and too little sleep, and what unknown torment the last two weeks held for him. Ducky's breath caught. Jethro, next to him, froze.
As if it was just another tactical decision, Dunski asked: "Should I arrange for air-evac or would an ambulance suffice? The operation is a go at two in the morning."
It was the first Cassie heard of the operation, to judge by the way her eyes went even bigger and rounder.
Jethro rounded on Dunski, but Cassie spoke up again before he had the chance to say anything scathing. "That's not all, Boss. David used some interrogation drug on him."
Dunski's reaction was terrifying. No: the woman herself was. "She did what?" she demanded. "La'azazel." She took a step forward, and then turned around and straight into Jethro before he could snap at her or stride away himself. "I'm going to question him," she said, and the flat authority in her voice was absolute. "And if you want the answers, you won't be in the way."
It was early afternoon by the time Yael was done with Werth and headed down to Autopsy. She doubted that Gibbs had truly become more professional, but he'd let her run her part of the interrogation and did not attempt to assign her an escort.
She would have thrown Gibbs out of the room if he'd attempted to interfere with her interrogation, but an escort might have been doing kindness unto Dr. Mallard.
The assistant scurried away at the sight of her, but she knew that was his regular manner rather than a response specific to her. Dr. Mallard was seated at his desk, and did not turn to see who it was; the sound of her steps could hardly be mistaken for anyone of Gibbs' team, though. His posture was slumped, dejected. Distressed, but in pain, not despaired.
She paused at four feet behind him. "Dr. Mallard," she said. Casting her voice into neutrality would be the opposite of helpful - it would only give him an empty canvas across which to imagine the worst - but she softened it as much as she thought he might believe.
"Officer Dunski," he replied. He kept his own voice monotone, but his posture didn't shift, and he did not turn around.
It would have been easier if there was a chair for her to sit on, but this room was not equipped with that in mind. "There are some things you may need to know."
He tensed at her words, but then straightened. His voice, when he spoke, was far too confident to be called merely dignified and not dramatic enough to be described as proud. "There are many things I may need to know, though I am not sure how many of them I wish to find out from you." Only then did he swivel around in his chair to face her.
She looked anything but benign and she knew it, but she'd seen his reaction the first time they were introduced, and even before that she'd known that he would not look over her the way most everyone did, when she wanted them to.
"Regarding the interrogation cocktail and its after-effects," she said plainly.
He pursed his lips, making a small noise of disapproval.
"The drug cocktail includes Scopolamine, a THC analogue, amphetamines and glucose. It's balanced to prevent the cardiovascular side effects, but not the GI tract ones." It would be disrespectful to try and sugarcoat this in any way. "The standard dosage is calculated per kilogram mass of a healthy person, and adjusted for physical and mental state. She had three full doses, in case of an emergency. She told Werth that she'd used a partial dose, but that is all he knows. Considering DiNozzo's likely state at that point, anything above 30% of the standard dose would have been overdoing it." To be truthful, she added: "Though most would say 50%."
His expression became more and more pinched as she spoke. "Oh, dear," he said softly.
She nodded once in acknowledgement. "The aftercare he received should have restored his electrolyte balance. We have Werth to thank for that. It's the potential long-term effects that concern me." Pausing would be sugarcoating, too, so she didn't. "This cocktail attenuates the typical amnesic effects. It also enhances hypnotic susceptibility and conditioned learning. The latter typically takes several cycles to manifest. Considering DiNozzo's likely vulnerability and without knowing what dose he'd been given, some behavioral modification should be expected."
"Somehow, memory loss seems preferable," he said, with a noticeable amount of venom.
Yael happened to agree, but he would never believe her on that. "Yes," she confirmed quietly. "There is a different cocktail that may be used for memory reconsolidation, if the conditioning is specific enough. It's not particularly pleasant, but it's effective and does not have other cognitive side effects. It can be mixed up from standard hospital drugs. I can write it down for you."
"Thank you." It was honest, at the core of it, but the sarcasm was laid on thick.
The words I don't consider it justified curled inside her mind like the fists she didn't clench. The doctor, like the rest of this team, focused on what she didn't stop rather than on her reasons for doing so. Still, she made the offer. "Anything else?"
"I think you've done quite enough."
She shrugged as she turned to leave. "The offer remains open."
It was dusk, and Tim was still at Abby's lab. He went down there bearing the envelope, and then just stayed. He ventured out a few times - mostly to bring more Caf-Pows and Nutter Butters or to go to the bathroom - but he hadn't dared up to the squad room. It was bad, Cassie said, and Gibbs had Tim's and the lab's numbers both. Abby's lab had Abby, Abby's art and - though he would never admit it out loud - Bert. Upstairs had Gibbs, Dunski and Vance.
Not that things were all right downstairs. Abby didn't even have her music on; there were rows upon rows of empty Caf-Pows lined up around the bench, which Tim tried hard not to count; and presently, Abby was glaring at the phone as if that would make Atlanta call any faster.
Tim could sympathise, though. DNA testing could be predictable almost to the minute, if one knew exactly what they were looking for - which, this time, they did. The CDC had kept them updated every step of the way through the day, and the final results were due any moment. Final if it really was Pandy's strain. Otherwise...
Tim tried to not think about the "otherwise."
The phone rang.
Abby lunged for it.
"Sciuto," she stated. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes!"
Tim's chest suddenly expanded.
"Thank you!" Abby said into the receiver, put it down and turned around to hug Tim. His arms went up automatically.
"It's the right plague!" she said, relieved. "And it was the right amount for what got stolen!"
He held her a little more tightly.
Clearly, that was when Gibbs' voice sounded out: "A little early for celebration, isn't it, McGee?"
Tim and Abby were three feet apart in a heartbeat. As if Gibbs alone wasn't enough, Dunski was there, too, and she was still giving off that aura that made Tim feel like taking cover under a desk.
"It's the right strain, Gibbs," Abby said. "And it's all of it that was stolen."
Gibbs nodded once, briefly. His fingers, where he clutched his coffee, became a little less deathly-white. Dunski turned aside, towards the wall, and her shoulders rose and fell in what was either a very deep breath or a sigh.
"Relieved, Officer Dunski?" Gibbs asked, an edge of challenge to his tone.
"Yes," she said, neutrally. She didn't turn around. "Having the vial delivered was planned as indication that she will be following Shimoni and his contacts, but..." It sounded like hesitation. It genuinely did. "She's been out of contact since she took him." She turned around, meeting Gibbs' eyes. "So yes, I'm relieved that I'm not required to execute my best friend."
Gibbs stared at her for a long moment, and then turned and walked out without a word. Tim didn't expect Dunski to leave before it was absolutely certain that Gibbs cleared the hallway, but he also didn't quite expect her to turn to Abby and him with a shrug that seemed to be mostly directed at herself. No one should be able to appear that distracted and that intense simultaneously, but at least it was slightly less disturbing than the undiluted intensity.
What he really didn't expect, and what was much more disturbing than anything else he had seen yet that day, was Abby's three quick steps across the lab before she enveloped Dunski in a hug. It took a second, but eventually Dunski's arms rose, resting lightly against Abby's back.
"Not that I don't appreciate your concern," she said, "but I was under the impression that you rather despise me."
"I do, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve a hug," Abby replied. "She's your friend, too."
Dunski sighed again and then carefully untangled the two of them. Rather than step back, though, she reached up to touch Abby's cheek. "We don't know why she took him," she said. Her voice was gentle and, if it was anyone else, Tim would say that she sounded sad. "I may yet have to."
Authors: Hagar and Sailor Sol
Category: gen
Rating: overall M for captivity elements and intense emotional content
Summary: Goes AU after Aliyah. When Tony disappears two days before the Saleem op is a go, the team scrambles to find him - and to understand what an associate of La Grenouille and Israeli domestic intelligence have to do with it.
Chapter Title: Flashpoint
Chapter Rating: T for manipulation, discussion of previous “enhanced interrogation” and references to violence
Chapter Summary:‘Understanding’ does not necessarily follow ‘knowing’, Team Gibbs discovers.
AO3 | DW | LJ Below:
Abby's face turned white, her eyes suddenly large. "Gibbs!" she shrieked, raising her hand to point. "It's him!"
His gun was there when he reached for it; luckily he'd just returned with his coffee and hadn't secured it in his desk yet. Standing by the elevator, accompanied by a clearly useless security guard, was Werth.
Werth raised his arms, promptly but not moving so fast as to get himself shot. "I'm here to help, Agent Gibbs," he said. "I have information for you."
Gibbs didn't lower his weapon. "McGee," he snapped, jerking his head towards Werth. McGee took his sweet time hesitating, but eventually did as instructed and stepped forward to cuff Werth. Werth didn't resist, though the look he gave Gibbs put his teeth on edge. Werth was the suspect, here.
He slipped his weapon back into its holster, draining his cup of coffee as McGee led Werth towards interrogation, Cassie close at their heels. He would let Werth stew for a few minutes before heading in to find out what the hell was going on.
In the meantime, he turned to Abby. "Good work, Abs."
Abby was still pale and wide-eyed, but some of her earlier excitement had returned. "Will he tell us where Tony is? He has to know, Gibbs."
"I know, Abby," he said. "He'll talk." He made sure his tone implied, one way or the other.
Abby nodded, tight-lipped. "Good. I'll be in my lab, when you need me," she said, and left.
Which left him with Dunski. Rather than remain standing by McGee's desk, implicitly removing herself from the situation, she came and stood by his shoulder, just half a step behind him. She's been doing things like that since their little chat three days before.
Apparently she was going to play shadow. He didn't bother to try and hide a scowl as he headed towards interrogation, stopping short to go into observation. McGee and Cassie were there, of course, with Werth sitting on the other side of the glass patiently. It didn't tell him anything he didn't already know, so he turned on his heel and headed into interrogation.
Dunski, mercifully, didn't try to follow.
Gibbs slammed the door behind him as he entered interrogation, which was about as unsurprising as Werth not responding to the sudden, loud noise.
Gibbs dropped into the chair, all restless energy. "Start talking," he said shortly.
Werth leaned forward slightly. Honesty, engagement; a plea for trust. Yael knew the history between those too. "Ziva sent me."
Straight to the point, wasn't he.
Gibbs shoulders tensed minutely. However, his flat tone did not waver as he asked, "What do you mean, she sent you?"
"It was part of the plan."
"What plan?"
And as if it was completely obvious, Werth said, "The plan to stop the Israeli terrorists."
McGee's and Yates' stares prickled on her skin. Gibbs turned out to glare at her through the glass for a long moment before he turned back around to continue the interview.
"Keep talking," he said. His voice changed its quality and turned predatory.
"She infiltrated their group," Werth said, "promised to use her Gisele cover to get them some sort of weapon. Now everybody who works for Gisele and her Israeli contacts are at the same place, and none of them are going anywhere until Monday morning."
Gibbs would be working out the math, Yael knew. ‘The plan' was to ‘stop the Israeli terrorists,' and that was Yael's prerogative; he would presume that Ziva was loaned out for this operation. The questions that followed were how a former US Marine became involved, and why did said Marine come to report to Gibbs.
"And what's your part in this mess?"
Werth's reaction was complex. He made an effort to sit straighter but his shoulders were decidedly stiff - pinched, if one had a good enough eye - and that was shame on his face, not stubborn pride. "I... got into some trouble. I didn't have too much luck finding work. She - I mean Gisele - took out the last man I worked for. She decided to trust me." The last part was said with a small shrug. It did not take an expert to read the disavowal in the gesture, the lack of confidence: I don't know why she chose me. And its corollary, in the minute adjustment of Werth's shoulders, the smoothed-out frown: but I am not letting her down.
Gibbs' voice turned flat again. No: almost disdainful. "And now you want me to trust you."
Shoulders hunched in, comparatively, but kept straight, with the chin tucked up: submission and defiance in one. "I'm not lying to you, Gibbs. I've got no reason to lie."
Gibbs said nothing and moved not at all; his glare, from this angle, was left to the imagination. He could do this for hours, Yael knew, and while Werth couldn't hope to out-stubborn him and would eventually roll over, she'd already seen enough to know that he would last a while. And she needed to know what orders to give.
She stepped back from the glass and towards the door.
Tim's instinctive reaction when Dunski turned to leave was a small spark of schadenfreude. Gibbs absolutely hated to be interrupted in interrogation, even on his good days and even when it was absolutely justified. This was neither, and Tim couldn't help but look forward - at least a little - to the epic ass-chewing Dunski was about to receive.
She didn't even bother to knock before opening the door, though at least she had the sense to not turn around to close the door. If that was her purpose: she seemed to be considering Werth, not Gibbs, which really wasn't the smart choice considering the death glare Gibbs was levelling at her.
"Tears are small," she said, stepping closer to Werth.
For a split-second it seemed nonsensical, and then a shiver ran down his spine. Remember you promised not to cry/Because tears are small, and it's a very big sky. It was the refrain of the song Ziva had sent them all before she fell out of contact.
The chair got pushed back and rattled, nearly toppling over, as Gibbs pulled himself up to a standing position and drew on his full height, towering over Dunski. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Here comes the ass-chewing, Tim thought, but his thrill was short-lived. Dunski didn't shrink back, like most people would have done, or even go blank and empty-seeming, the way she was prone to do. She didn't even draw herself up in any noticeable way. Instead, it was as if some cloak had been thrown back, or as if a totally different person was standing there facing Gibbs. The ten inches he had on her meant nothing against the intensity Dunski was projecting, all of a sudden.
Back straight, but not in attention or defiance; shoulders solid, arms to the sides of her body; even the way her feet were splayed communicated calm and disconcertingly self-assured authority. The lines of her face drew in, losing the soft blankness and becoming something else. There was expression, there, but Tim couldn't read it. Gibbs' wrath crashed against it like waves against the rock.
"It's a very big sky," Damon said, making it almost a question. "You're Iris, right?"
Dunski's eyes did not leave Gibbs' face. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the same absolute solidness as the rest of her. "Yes."
"You, shut up," Gibbs said, pointing at Damon. His eyes didn't leave Dunski's face either. "I want answers. Now."
"Werth, do you have a package?"
The cheek of the woman was unbelievable. "Outside," Gibbs ordered with a snarl. "Now." His hand twitched with the desire to grab her by the arm and drag her out, but she was still a woman - though a devil of a one - and he well remembered Ducky's warning. Anything he gave this one, anything at all, she would used against him with vengeance. And as much as he hated to think that, the last few days were proof that he might not see her coming.
She followed him out without a word, though. Once in the hallway he turned around, backing her up against the wall. She liked it cold; fine, he'd give her cold. "Talk," he ordered, casting his voice down to the cadences of the sniper, the embodiment of death.
Her voice matched his. "He should be carrying a package, which should contain the stolen vial."
Too little, too late. "You knew," he said, keeping his voice quiet and dangerous. "All this time, you knew just what was going on, you knew just where DiNozzo is. You could've stopped this, but you didn't."
"True. With one exception."
"Yeah? And what the hell would that be?"
"Kidnapping DiNozzo was not part of the operation plan. There's an extraction scheduled for tonight, but I cannot give the order until I know whether the vial is secure or not. That vial needs to get to Sciuto."
"You could be lying."
"I don't lie about things that can be so easily verified. Call the FBI and ask; I'll give you the password. But first, that vial needs to get to Sciuto."
He stared at her for a moment longer, and then turned away and stepped back into the room.
Werth looked up at him.
"What's in the package?" he demanded.
"A vial of something nasty. That's all I know."
Gibbs held out his hand.
Werth pulled a padded envelope out of his jacket and handed it to him. It was bulky, but it weighed nothing in Gibbs' hand. It was probably just the vial and commercial amounts of bubble wrap, inside, but Gibbs wasn't about to find out himself, not if it really was the Y. pestis. He glanced up at the glass before stepping out again.
McGee met him in the hallway. He held his hand out for the envelope and took off with it without a word. Gibbs rounded on the damn woman again. "You," he spat at her. "With me."
Damon Werth had come to NCIS on his own. Gibbs would have quite the story to tell when he returned from interrogation, so Vance situated himself at the top of the stairs and settled in to wait. Scuttlebutt had to be working overtime, because Ducky Mallard showed up minutes later, idling in Team Gibbs' aisle. Vance nodded at him when Ducky glanced up and nodded but, otherwise, their wait was silent.
The first sign that something was wrong was Tim McGee, hurrying down the hall as if chased by the hounds of hell and holding a small padded envelope as if it might explode. The second was the fury radiating off of Gibbs when he strode into the squad room a moment later. The third was Officer Dunski by Gibbs' side, not looking even remotely benign and easy to overlook.
Something happened. Something that blew the hornets' nest wide open.
Gibbs glanced up on the way to his team's aisle, meeting Vance's eyes for a split-second, but that was all. He headed straight for his desk and grabbed the phone. Vance could only hear one side of the conversation, but it was enough to gather that Gibbs had called the FBI, who - upon being prompted by a pass phrase provided by Dunski - confirmed that one of their SWAT units was scheduled to launch an op that night.
Gibbs slammed the phone back into its cradle. That seemed like a good opportunity for Vance to intervene.
"Gibbs," he called out.
Gibbs looked up at him, glanced at Ducky, and then back at Dunski. The woman seemed utterly unaffected by the intensity of his hostility. "Stay," he ordered.
Dunski's smile was knowing, amused and entirely incongruous.
Gibbs hadn't told her to continue the interrogation. He also hadn't told her not to. Taking over someone else's subject without checking with them first was bad interrogation manners in general and often downright suicidal when that was Gibbs' subject one was taking over, but this was as far from normal circumstances as it got. Gibbs had left in a hurry and in a temper, and Cassie had the sneaking suspicion he'd be far more occupied with Dunski and that envelope than with the witness in the interrogation room. The witness who, chances were, knew more potentially helpful things and seemed willing - enthusiastic, really - to talk.
She agonized over the decision but, eventually, she left observation and headed into interrogation.
Werth's head snapped towards her as she entered. "Damon, right?" she said, taking the chair across from him.
Werth didn't seem particularly impressed by the friendly attitude. "Yeah," he said shortly. "You here to actually listen to what I've got to say, Agent...?"
Cooperative really wasn't a strong enough word. "Yates," she told him. "And yes, I'm listening."
By the time Cassie Yates came all but running into the squad room, the situation had progressed well beyond uncomfortable and into the realm of the truly hostile. Being left to supervise Officer Dunski was uncomfortable. Very much so, despite the woman's odd behavior. Ducky would have expected her to ignore him or, alternatively, to poke and prod at his obvious weakness. Instead, she spoke while he was still struggling for an interview opener, volunteering information, an update on recent developments.
Jethro returned some fifteen minutes later, his mood not noticeably improved in any way. Standing next to him and Dunski, as he made demands and she resisted his authority, information a hostage in this exchange, could be quite described as being trapped between Scylla and Charybdis.
And then, naturally, it got worse.
Cassie hurried into the squad room, all but running, her eyes wide with shock and worry. "Gibbs," she said, "we've got a big problem."
Jethro rounded up on her, though he made sure to keep Dunski in his sights. "Now what?" he demanded.
"Werth gave me information about Tony's condition," Cassie replied. Her words first came as rushed as the rest of her manner, but then she paused. Her expression, when she glanced at Jethro, seemed more worried than frightened and the way she tensed spoke of some guilt. Her eyes went to Ducky himself, too, before she said: "He probably has pneumonia."
Tony, with his scarred lungs; with the toll his immune system must have taken from months of depression and too little sleep, and what unknown torment the last two weeks held for him. Ducky's breath caught. Jethro, next to him, froze.
As if it was just another tactical decision, Dunski asked: "Should I arrange for air-evac or would an ambulance suffice? The operation is a go at two in the morning."
It was the first Cassie heard of the operation, to judge by the way her eyes went even bigger and rounder.
Jethro rounded on Dunski, but Cassie spoke up again before he had the chance to say anything scathing. "That's not all, Boss. David used some interrogation drug on him."
Dunski's reaction was terrifying. No: the woman herself was. "She did what?" she demanded. "La'azazel." She took a step forward, and then turned around and straight into Jethro before he could snap at her or stride away himself. "I'm going to question him," she said, and the flat authority in her voice was absolute. "And if you want the answers, you won't be in the way."
It was early afternoon by the time Yael was done with Werth and headed down to Autopsy. She doubted that Gibbs had truly become more professional, but he'd let her run her part of the interrogation and did not attempt to assign her an escort.
She would have thrown Gibbs out of the room if he'd attempted to interfere with her interrogation, but an escort might have been doing kindness unto Dr. Mallard.
The assistant scurried away at the sight of her, but she knew that was his regular manner rather than a response specific to her. Dr. Mallard was seated at his desk, and did not turn to see who it was; the sound of her steps could hardly be mistaken for anyone of Gibbs' team, though. His posture was slumped, dejected. Distressed, but in pain, not despaired.
She paused at four feet behind him. "Dr. Mallard," she said. Casting her voice into neutrality would be the opposite of helpful - it would only give him an empty canvas across which to imagine the worst - but she softened it as much as she thought he might believe.
"Officer Dunski," he replied. He kept his own voice monotone, but his posture didn't shift, and he did not turn around.
It would have been easier if there was a chair for her to sit on, but this room was not equipped with that in mind. "There are some things you may need to know."
He tensed at her words, but then straightened. His voice, when he spoke, was far too confident to be called merely dignified and not dramatic enough to be described as proud. "There are many things I may need to know, though I am not sure how many of them I wish to find out from you." Only then did he swivel around in his chair to face her.
She looked anything but benign and she knew it, but she'd seen his reaction the first time they were introduced, and even before that she'd known that he would not look over her the way most everyone did, when she wanted them to.
"Regarding the interrogation cocktail and its after-effects," she said plainly.
He pursed his lips, making a small noise of disapproval.
"The drug cocktail includes Scopolamine, a THC analogue, amphetamines and glucose. It's balanced to prevent the cardiovascular side effects, but not the GI tract ones." It would be disrespectful to try and sugarcoat this in any way. "The standard dosage is calculated per kilogram mass of a healthy person, and adjusted for physical and mental state. She had three full doses, in case of an emergency. She told Werth that she'd used a partial dose, but that is all he knows. Considering DiNozzo's likely state at that point, anything above 30% of the standard dose would have been overdoing it." To be truthful, she added: "Though most would say 50%."
His expression became more and more pinched as she spoke. "Oh, dear," he said softly.
She nodded once in acknowledgement. "The aftercare he received should have restored his electrolyte balance. We have Werth to thank for that. It's the potential long-term effects that concern me." Pausing would be sugarcoating, too, so she didn't. "This cocktail attenuates the typical amnesic effects. It also enhances hypnotic susceptibility and conditioned learning. The latter typically takes several cycles to manifest. Considering DiNozzo's likely vulnerability and without knowing what dose he'd been given, some behavioral modification should be expected."
"Somehow, memory loss seems preferable," he said, with a noticeable amount of venom.
Yael happened to agree, but he would never believe her on that. "Yes," she confirmed quietly. "There is a different cocktail that may be used for memory reconsolidation, if the conditioning is specific enough. It's not particularly pleasant, but it's effective and does not have other cognitive side effects. It can be mixed up from standard hospital drugs. I can write it down for you."
"Thank you." It was honest, at the core of it, but the sarcasm was laid on thick.
The words I don't consider it justified curled inside her mind like the fists she didn't clench. The doctor, like the rest of this team, focused on what she didn't stop rather than on her reasons for doing so. Still, she made the offer. "Anything else?"
"I think you've done quite enough."
She shrugged as she turned to leave. "The offer remains open."
It was dusk, and Tim was still at Abby's lab. He went down there bearing the envelope, and then just stayed. He ventured out a few times - mostly to bring more Caf-Pows and Nutter Butters or to go to the bathroom - but he hadn't dared up to the squad room. It was bad, Cassie said, and Gibbs had Tim's and the lab's numbers both. Abby's lab had Abby, Abby's art and - though he would never admit it out loud - Bert. Upstairs had Gibbs, Dunski and Vance.
Not that things were all right downstairs. Abby didn't even have her music on; there were rows upon rows of empty Caf-Pows lined up around the bench, which Tim tried hard not to count; and presently, Abby was glaring at the phone as if that would make Atlanta call any faster.
Tim could sympathise, though. DNA testing could be predictable almost to the minute, if one knew exactly what they were looking for - which, this time, they did. The CDC had kept them updated every step of the way through the day, and the final results were due any moment. Final if it really was Pandy's strain. Otherwise...
Tim tried to not think about the "otherwise."
The phone rang.
Abby lunged for it.
"Sciuto," she stated. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes!"
Tim's chest suddenly expanded.
"Thank you!" Abby said into the receiver, put it down and turned around to hug Tim. His arms went up automatically.
"It's the right plague!" she said, relieved. "And it was the right amount for what got stolen!"
He held her a little more tightly.
Clearly, that was when Gibbs' voice sounded out: "A little early for celebration, isn't it, McGee?"
Tim and Abby were three feet apart in a heartbeat. As if Gibbs alone wasn't enough, Dunski was there, too, and she was still giving off that aura that made Tim feel like taking cover under a desk.
"It's the right strain, Gibbs," Abby said. "And it's all of it that was stolen."
Gibbs nodded once, briefly. His fingers, where he clutched his coffee, became a little less deathly-white. Dunski turned aside, towards the wall, and her shoulders rose and fell in what was either a very deep breath or a sigh.
"Relieved, Officer Dunski?" Gibbs asked, an edge of challenge to his tone.
"Yes," she said, neutrally. She didn't turn around. "Having the vial delivered was planned as indication that she will be following Shimoni and his contacts, but..." It sounded like hesitation. It genuinely did. "She's been out of contact since she took him." She turned around, meeting Gibbs' eyes. "So yes, I'm relieved that I'm not required to execute my best friend."
Gibbs stared at her for a long moment, and then turned and walked out without a word. Tim didn't expect Dunski to leave before it was absolutely certain that Gibbs cleared the hallway, but he also didn't quite expect her to turn to Abby and him with a shrug that seemed to be mostly directed at herself. No one should be able to appear that distracted and that intense simultaneously, but at least it was slightly less disturbing than the undiluted intensity.
What he really didn't expect, and what was much more disturbing than anything else he had seen yet that day, was Abby's three quick steps across the lab before she enveloped Dunski in a hug. It took a second, but eventually Dunski's arms rose, resting lightly against Abby's back.
"Not that I don't appreciate your concern," she said, "but I was under the impression that you rather despise me."
"I do, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve a hug," Abby replied. "She's your friend, too."
Dunski sighed again and then carefully untangled the two of them. Rather than step back, though, she reached up to touch Abby's cheek. "We don't know why she took him," she said. Her voice was gentle and, if it was anyone else, Tim would say that she sounded sad. "I may yet have to."