Infernal Liaisons 1 (NCIS/BTVS)
"A werewolf attack?" McGee asked, beer mug frozen halfway to his lips. "Really?"
"Right out of American Werewolf in London," DiNozzo said, sipping his own draft with relish. "First year on the Baltimore homicide squad. Five chewed-up bodies, spread over three nights all over the Western. What we used to call a 'full Cleveland'."
"A serial killer who wore leisure suits and white belts?" McGee's brow wrinkled in confusion.
"Points for the obscure 70's fashion reference." DiNozzo leaned back to assume his patented "reveal wisdom to Probie" pose. "It's cop slang. Everyone knows Cleveland's where the Weekly World News gets half its material. A full Cleveland is a case is the stone whodunnit every smart detective roundfiles if he can. Those are career death if you follow them up."
"That sounds like a very high profile case," Ziva said. "I am surprised you were able to shovel it away."
"Command did use a big spade to spread the manure," DiNozzo replied. "'Feral pit bull pack'. Brilliant. Right up there with--"
"Barbecue fork accident," Ziva muttered.
"Murder by ice pick for us." DiNozzo poured himself another glass from the communal pitcher. "Was that Mossad's pet explanation for vampire attacks?"
"No such thing as vampires," Gibbs said, seated at the bar with bourbon glass in hand.
"No argument from me, canopy beds from hell aside." DiNozzo winked at Ziva. "Mossad agents have to, quote, 'be open to things one cannot see'. Bet sweetcheeks here has a bottle of that garlic cologne Abby was passing out last month in case Dracula goes kosher."
"Actually, Dracula might have been an Israeli ally," McGee said,"at least the historical Vlad Tepes..."
Ziva David half-listened to the conversation degenerate into a combination historical lesson of Wallachia and debates over who was the best Dracula ever. According to Tony, Bela Lugosi's iconic performance was technically inferior to Christopher Guest. Gibbs had already turned his attention to his drink. Ziva dropped a hand to a hidden pocket sewn into her cargo pants. The wooden stake concealed there was still secure. So was the--even after a month, she could not suppress a mental wince--'ankh' hanging on its chain, out of sight below her Magen David necklace. In another pocket was a small plastic bottle of holy water. They had become as much a part of her as the snubnosed revolver in her ankle holster or the blade at her belt.
Ever since that morning she had picked up Abby from a handsome British gentleman's home, Ziva's worLd-view had headed down-- what animal had it been? Badger? Mouse? No, rabbit. Down the rabbit hole she had gone. The Fells Point tavern seemed to be full of people. Yet, as Ziva now understood better than ever, appearances could be deceiving. An awkward young man you once had over for dinner could shift into something other than human. One of the drinkers might not reflect in the ranks of liquor bottles. The two young women at the pinball machine--one redhaired, the other a dreadlocked African-American--might well be--
Amazing. In the middle of expounding on horror film history, Anthony DiNozzo was checking out the black woman's derriere. Entirely on the sly. He was truly a master. Ziva would never have spotted it without years of intelligence agent training and dealing with DiNozzo's corn-doggery. Ziva blotted out the annoyance with a sip of wine. It was Tony being, well, Tony. As Gibbs might say, birds fly. Fish swim. And when there was of a pair of jeans that Ziva was perfectly willing to admit were well-filled in view, Tony would check them out. Old habits died hard. Especially if one were to use any number of techniques which prolonged the life of an interrogation subject under what her people called "moderate physical pressure".
Said jeans swiveled around and swayed over to their table.
Around the rim of her wine glass, Ziva's lips curved in a sadistic smile.
"Head's up, Goose." Tony's line of sight seemed to be glued on a midriff bared by a Coppin State University t-shirt. "Camp Fire Girls approaching three o'clock. You're on my wing tonight, so target the redhead."
"Ziva's right--" McGee straightened. "Redhead. Right on it, Maverick."
"You don't mind, Ziv?" Tony asked, Charming Grin #27A already plastered on. "Little flirting, nothing serious."
"Are you ever serious?" Perhaps a touch too much acid, there.
"I can abort the training flight on the runway." Under the table, a hand on her knee.
"Oh, I enjoy watching the Rav at work," Ziva replied, chin on hand. "This should be very instructive."
"Thanks. Watch and learn, campers." DiNozzo nodded to McGee. "Rule #4: when caught, never act guilty. Flop sweat is the sign of the amateur."
"Saw you from over there," said the dreadlocked woman. "I like a man who appreciates the sisters."
"Celebrate diversity." With a snap of his fingers, he summoned another couple of beer glasses. "Mi casa et su. Unless you're waiting for someone."
"Matter of fact, we are." The dreadlocked woman leaned close. "We have a little time. See, Vi and me were having a little argument you could help me with."
"What category? I'm great with entertainment and sports."
"It's personal. See--" Eyes half-lidded. Voice low, conspiratorial. "I was wondering if--well, white guys. Are you...bigger?"
DiNozzo's confident grin twisted into a rictus.
"Need this, Maverick?" McGee asked, offering a napkin. "You're glistening."
"I would tell you to reach between your legs," Ziva said, showing teeth, "and pull the big red lever. But that may not help at all. Hello, Rona."
"You're the new interns we were supposed to meet here, aren't you?" he finally managed.
"I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here, of some sort," Vi Brady said.
"Totally screwing with me, huh?" Tony said.
"Aw, isn't that cute!" Rona Silvers snagged Tony's beer mug. "Like the great man Martin Luther King, man has a dream!"
Ziva counted off the seconds. Three, two, one...
"OW!" Tony rubbed the back of his head. "Rule 12, one minute warning, boss?"
"Next time, read the files on the new hires," Gibbs growled. "Glad to meet you. Welcome to NCIS."
++++
The clash of arms echoed off the golden stones of the Crusader castle.
Eli David watched, transfixed, at the scene in the courtyard below. The surroundings of the old Templar stronghold would have drawn his attention under other circumstances. Set atop a hill a few miles east of the Dead Sea, it commanded the dry wadis and ridges of the plateau. An archaeologist would have been entranced by the mixture of Crusader and Ottoman architecture in the stronghold's fortifications. Eli and the Jordanian soldiers on the ramparts had eyes only for the three young women sparring in the inner ward. The trio all dressed modestly in the manner of their faiths. One wore the dark skirts and headscarf of a Haredi Jew, another in the navy-blue habit and grey veil of a Catholic sisterhood, the third the loose shalwar kameez and dupatta of an Indian Muslim. The longsword, halberd, and tulwar they respectively wielded were not traditional at all. At least for women in the societies they represented.
Eli had often watched Ziva at krav maga classes. Swift, lethal, graceful despite throwing about men outweighing her by fifty pounds or more of muscle mass. The young women in their casual practice made Ziva appear as if a stumbling colt. Metal hissed through the air with inhuman speed and force. Bodies contorted and leapt in a manner no mortal could possibly manage. Each blow of their dulled blades could have torn someone in two. A fourth, smaller figure in thobe robes and white mandil joined the trio. Fourteen years old, with the coltishness of a girl just entering puberty. Siham Haswari could have torn apart a squad of his best Kidon operatives with the bare hands that so casually disarmed the Indian girl.
In that respect, she was truly her father's daughter.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Aleph had exchanged his kippah for a brocade tiquiya prayer cap when they had crossed the Jordanian border. "A good thing they are on our side."
"So this is why SWORD forbids them to use guns," Eli said, watching steel flash.
"I've seen footage provided by the American military of Miss Summers," Aleph said, "defeating a squad of their best soldiers armed with rifles within seconds. Hand to hand. An army of Slayers with modern arms would be a threat to any human government."
"Not to mention bullets do not work well on vampires," Eli commented. "I read the reports of kidon agents who served on Gevurah missions. Only large-caliber bullets to the head make much of an impression."
"There are tricks. Tracers, semi-wadcutters with crosses on the flat tips." Aleph discussed lethal weapons as if lecturing on the Talmud. "Handy for a hunter without their powers, though not reliable. They also attract attention even if suppressed. Some slayers do carry guns. There's an Boer slayer in Africa who uses an express rifle, and those who work as police use what is issued. Most slayers prefer the traditional weapons: stake, blade, crossbow, rocket launcher--"
"What?"
"Miss Summers grandfathered in rocket launchers and high explosives." Aleph chuckled. "If you ever meet, ask her about it. A very amusing story."
"I'm surprised they're working together." Eli followed Aleph downstairs into the cooler shadows of the cloisters around the courtyard. "In this region, we aren't known for our co-operation."
"They're the exception." Aleph grimaced. "All of them are veterans of Sunnydale. The bond transcends religious differences. The SWORD patrol here only exists because the Jordanian Hashemites gave royal patronage of the old Watchers Council from the days of the British empire. Do you know how much negotiation we had to do with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem to allow them to work in the West Bank and Old City? Rivkah and Sister Maricar are officially his slaves under Muslim law, like mamluks or janissaries."
"And Siham?" Eli watched his grand-daughter at "play".
"Less so." Aleph grunted. "Miss Summers' successor to the Council is limited in Muslim lands. The Wahabbists in Saudi Arabia have their own cadre of slayers. They are married to or adopted by Rakib to keep them 'pure'. Siham was smuggled to Iran by a Hamas activist after being nearly killed by shedim in 2002. Trained with at least thirty other Chosen by the hunter units of Qods Force."
"The special forces of the Revolutionary Guards?" Eli's throat was parched from more than the high summer heat. "The same men who instruct Hezbollah and have conducted the worst terrorists acts against Israel?"
"It was so much simpler under the Ottomans." Aleph sighed. "My predecessors in the Yishuv might have been second-class dhimmis. Yet there was cooperation and some respect. Everyone had a common goal: to prevent the shedim from corrupting Hashem's creation. Only one slayer we had to worry about. Now? Hundreds or thousands of Chosen, scattered over the planet. It's not about good or evil now, Director David. It is about power."
"You told me there were treaties--" Eli said.
"I overstated. More in the nature of tacit understandings." Aleph shook his head. "Which are...strained at the moment. 'Lead us not into temptation' is a fine Christian sentiment, but not one to be relied upon. Gevurah, Rakib, Church--a cold peace at best, like with the Egyptians. Many on the other side are happy when an abomination confines its massacres to the 'enemy'. We need to build as many bridges as we can."
"Her first words to me," Eli said, as Siham knelt down with the Jordanian soldiers for afternoon prayers, "were 'may your eyes be filled with molten brass by Iblis, mamzer'."
"At least she understands some Hebrew." Aleph caught Eli's sleeve. "She had had years of indoctrination by those meshugenah ayatollahs She's been sent by them to serve in the Territories. By some small mercy, she wishes to spend time with Ziva before she takes her post. Apparently her father spoke well of her aunt in the times he spent with his daughter. "
"Small mercies," Eli repeated. "Are you insane?"
"No, I'm the man who can have you fired if I say the right words." Aleph clapped his hands. "Don't worry, Eli. Consider it a mitzvah. I'm sure that Ziva and Siham will become one happy family."
"Right out of American Werewolf in London," DiNozzo said, sipping his own draft with relish. "First year on the Baltimore homicide squad. Five chewed-up bodies, spread over three nights all over the Western. What we used to call a 'full Cleveland'."
"A serial killer who wore leisure suits and white belts?" McGee's brow wrinkled in confusion.
"Points for the obscure 70's fashion reference." DiNozzo leaned back to assume his patented "reveal wisdom to Probie" pose. "It's cop slang. Everyone knows Cleveland's where the Weekly World News gets half its material. A full Cleveland is a case is the stone whodunnit every smart detective roundfiles if he can. Those are career death if you follow them up."
"That sounds like a very high profile case," Ziva said. "I am surprised you were able to shovel it away."
"Command did use a big spade to spread the manure," DiNozzo replied. "'Feral pit bull pack'. Brilliant. Right up there with--"
"Barbecue fork accident," Ziva muttered.
"Murder by ice pick for us." DiNozzo poured himself another glass from the communal pitcher. "Was that Mossad's pet explanation for vampire attacks?"
"No such thing as vampires," Gibbs said, seated at the bar with bourbon glass in hand.
"No argument from me, canopy beds from hell aside." DiNozzo winked at Ziva. "Mossad agents have to, quote, 'be open to things one cannot see'. Bet sweetcheeks here has a bottle of that garlic cologne Abby was passing out last month in case Dracula goes kosher."
"Actually, Dracula might have been an Israeli ally," McGee said,"at least the historical Vlad Tepes..."
Ziva David half-listened to the conversation degenerate into a combination historical lesson of Wallachia and debates over who was the best Dracula ever. According to Tony, Bela Lugosi's iconic performance was technically inferior to Christopher Guest. Gibbs had already turned his attention to his drink. Ziva dropped a hand to a hidden pocket sewn into her cargo pants. The wooden stake concealed there was still secure. So was the--even after a month, she could not suppress a mental wince--'ankh' hanging on its chain, out of sight below her Magen David necklace. In another pocket was a small plastic bottle of holy water. They had become as much a part of her as the snubnosed revolver in her ankle holster or the blade at her belt.
Ever since that morning she had picked up Abby from a handsome British gentleman's home, Ziva's worLd-view had headed down-- what animal had it been? Badger? Mouse? No, rabbit. Down the rabbit hole she had gone. The Fells Point tavern seemed to be full of people. Yet, as Ziva now understood better than ever, appearances could be deceiving. An awkward young man you once had over for dinner could shift into something other than human. One of the drinkers might not reflect in the ranks of liquor bottles. The two young women at the pinball machine--one redhaired, the other a dreadlocked African-American--might well be--
Amazing. In the middle of expounding on horror film history, Anthony DiNozzo was checking out the black woman's derriere. Entirely on the sly. He was truly a master. Ziva would never have spotted it without years of intelligence agent training and dealing with DiNozzo's corn-doggery. Ziva blotted out the annoyance with a sip of wine. It was Tony being, well, Tony. As Gibbs might say, birds fly. Fish swim. And when there was of a pair of jeans that Ziva was perfectly willing to admit were well-filled in view, Tony would check them out. Old habits died hard. Especially if one were to use any number of techniques which prolonged the life of an interrogation subject under what her people called "moderate physical pressure".
Said jeans swiveled around and swayed over to their table.
Around the rim of her wine glass, Ziva's lips curved in a sadistic smile.
"Head's up, Goose." Tony's line of sight seemed to be glued on a midriff bared by a Coppin State University t-shirt. "Camp Fire Girls approaching three o'clock. You're on my wing tonight, so target the redhead."
"Ziva's right--" McGee straightened. "Redhead. Right on it, Maverick."
"You don't mind, Ziv?" Tony asked, Charming Grin #27A already plastered on. "Little flirting, nothing serious."
"Are you ever serious?" Perhaps a touch too much acid, there.
"I can abort the training flight on the runway." Under the table, a hand on her knee.
"Oh, I enjoy watching the Rav at work," Ziva replied, chin on hand. "This should be very instructive."
"Thanks. Watch and learn, campers." DiNozzo nodded to McGee. "Rule #4: when caught, never act guilty. Flop sweat is the sign of the amateur."
"Saw you from over there," said the dreadlocked woman. "I like a man who appreciates the sisters."
"Celebrate diversity." With a snap of his fingers, he summoned another couple of beer glasses. "Mi casa et su. Unless you're waiting for someone."
"Matter of fact, we are." The dreadlocked woman leaned close. "We have a little time. See, Vi and me were having a little argument you could help me with."
"What category? I'm great with entertainment and sports."
"It's personal. See--" Eyes half-lidded. Voice low, conspiratorial. "I was wondering if--well, white guys. Are you...bigger?"
DiNozzo's confident grin twisted into a rictus.
"Need this, Maverick?" McGee asked, offering a napkin. "You're glistening."
"I would tell you to reach between your legs," Ziva said, showing teeth, "and pull the big red lever. But that may not help at all. Hello, Rona."
"You're the new interns we were supposed to meet here, aren't you?" he finally managed.
"I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here, of some sort," Vi Brady said.
"Totally screwing with me, huh?" Tony said.
"Aw, isn't that cute!" Rona Silvers snagged Tony's beer mug. "Like the great man Martin Luther King, man has a dream!"
Ziva counted off the seconds. Three, two, one...
"OW!" Tony rubbed the back of his head. "Rule 12, one minute warning, boss?"
"Next time, read the files on the new hires," Gibbs growled. "Glad to meet you. Welcome to NCIS."
++++
The clash of arms echoed off the golden stones of the Crusader castle.
Eli David watched, transfixed, at the scene in the courtyard below. The surroundings of the old Templar stronghold would have drawn his attention under other circumstances. Set atop a hill a few miles east of the Dead Sea, it commanded the dry wadis and ridges of the plateau. An archaeologist would have been entranced by the mixture of Crusader and Ottoman architecture in the stronghold's fortifications. Eli and the Jordanian soldiers on the ramparts had eyes only for the three young women sparring in the inner ward. The trio all dressed modestly in the manner of their faiths. One wore the dark skirts and headscarf of a Haredi Jew, another in the navy-blue habit and grey veil of a Catholic sisterhood, the third the loose shalwar kameez and dupatta of an Indian Muslim. The longsword, halberd, and tulwar they respectively wielded were not traditional at all. At least for women in the societies they represented.
Eli had often watched Ziva at krav maga classes. Swift, lethal, graceful despite throwing about men outweighing her by fifty pounds or more of muscle mass. The young women in their casual practice made Ziva appear as if a stumbling colt. Metal hissed through the air with inhuman speed and force. Bodies contorted and leapt in a manner no mortal could possibly manage. Each blow of their dulled blades could have torn someone in two. A fourth, smaller figure in thobe robes and white mandil joined the trio. Fourteen years old, with the coltishness of a girl just entering puberty. Siham Haswari could have torn apart a squad of his best Kidon operatives with the bare hands that so casually disarmed the Indian girl.
In that respect, she was truly her father's daughter.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Aleph had exchanged his kippah for a brocade tiquiya prayer cap when they had crossed the Jordanian border. "A good thing they are on our side."
"So this is why SWORD forbids them to use guns," Eli said, watching steel flash.
"I've seen footage provided by the American military of Miss Summers," Aleph said, "defeating a squad of their best soldiers armed with rifles within seconds. Hand to hand. An army of Slayers with modern arms would be a threat to any human government."
"Not to mention bullets do not work well on vampires," Eli commented. "I read the reports of kidon agents who served on Gevurah missions. Only large-caliber bullets to the head make much of an impression."
"There are tricks. Tracers, semi-wadcutters with crosses on the flat tips." Aleph discussed lethal weapons as if lecturing on the Talmud. "Handy for a hunter without their powers, though not reliable. They also attract attention even if suppressed. Some slayers do carry guns. There's an Boer slayer in Africa who uses an express rifle, and those who work as police use what is issued. Most slayers prefer the traditional weapons: stake, blade, crossbow, rocket launcher--"
"What?"
"Miss Summers grandfathered in rocket launchers and high explosives." Aleph chuckled. "If you ever meet, ask her about it. A very amusing story."
"I'm surprised they're working together." Eli followed Aleph downstairs into the cooler shadows of the cloisters around the courtyard. "In this region, we aren't known for our co-operation."
"They're the exception." Aleph grimaced. "All of them are veterans of Sunnydale. The bond transcends religious differences. The SWORD patrol here only exists because the Jordanian Hashemites gave royal patronage of the old Watchers Council from the days of the British empire. Do you know how much negotiation we had to do with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem to allow them to work in the West Bank and Old City? Rivkah and Sister Maricar are officially his slaves under Muslim law, like mamluks or janissaries."
"And Siham?" Eli watched his grand-daughter at "play".
"Less so." Aleph grunted. "Miss Summers' successor to the Council is limited in Muslim lands. The Wahabbists in Saudi Arabia have their own cadre of slayers. They are married to or adopted by Rakib to keep them 'pure'. Siham was smuggled to Iran by a Hamas activist after being nearly killed by shedim in 2002. Trained with at least thirty other Chosen by the hunter units of Qods Force."
"The special forces of the Revolutionary Guards?" Eli's throat was parched from more than the high summer heat. "The same men who instruct Hezbollah and have conducted the worst terrorists acts against Israel?"
"It was so much simpler under the Ottomans." Aleph sighed. "My predecessors in the Yishuv might have been second-class dhimmis. Yet there was cooperation and some respect. Everyone had a common goal: to prevent the shedim from corrupting Hashem's creation. Only one slayer we had to worry about. Now? Hundreds or thousands of Chosen, scattered over the planet. It's not about good or evil now, Director David. It is about power."
"You told me there were treaties--" Eli said.
"I overstated. More in the nature of tacit understandings." Aleph shook his head. "Which are...strained at the moment. 'Lead us not into temptation' is a fine Christian sentiment, but not one to be relied upon. Gevurah, Rakib, Church--a cold peace at best, like with the Egyptians. Many on the other side are happy when an abomination confines its massacres to the 'enemy'. We need to build as many bridges as we can."
"Her first words to me," Eli said, as Siham knelt down with the Jordanian soldiers for afternoon prayers, "were 'may your eyes be filled with molten brass by Iblis, mamzer'."
"At least she understands some Hebrew." Aleph caught Eli's sleeve. "She had had years of indoctrination by those meshugenah ayatollahs She's been sent by them to serve in the Territories. By some small mercy, she wishes to spend time with Ziva before she takes her post. Apparently her father spoke well of her aunt in the times he spent with his daughter. "
"Small mercies," Eli repeated. "Are you insane?"
"No, I'm the man who can have you fired if I say the right words." Aleph clapped his hands. "Don't worry, Eli. Consider it a mitzvah. I'm sure that Ziva and Siham will become one happy family."