They had promised to meet a jaar after their goodbye, in Paris, the city of love.
Ziva David left terminal 2E in a taxi. The driver was a small stout man with a red face, who had taken her small case and thrown it in the back of his car. “Où vàs tu?” Her asked her from the front zitplaats, stoel of the small black car. “La Tour de Eiffel, merci” The car drove through the packed Parisian streets as the dag retreated to night. The car pulled a few streets away from the tower and Ziva heard the man mumble something about too many cars. She smiled and decided a walk would clear her stomach of the...
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