Chapter 14
Ziad's nerves were pretty taught by the time the nurse left for the last time. His hands were shaking again, but this time he couldn't calm them down.
The nurse bid him goodnight, turned the lights off, and left.
Ziad counted to sixty three times, then yanked the IV out of his arm ("Ow!") and climbing out of bed. He collapsed immediately.
He pulled himself up onto his shaking legs. He steadied himself against the bed, and pulled his hospital gown up over his head, and stuffed it under the pillow. He then stumbled over to the chair, and pulled the army uniform out and clumsily assembled it over himself. His shaking fingers had trouble with the buttons.
He sat heavily down after getting the trousers and socks on, and then slipped the slightly-too-big boots over his feet and laced them up.
Ziad stood up again and appraised himself on the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
"Father would be too busy killing me to be angry..." he muttered.
He stared in the mirror. An Israeli soldier with Ziad's eyes stared back.
An hour later, the door opened. Shlomi appeared. He was wearing an identical uniform to Ziad's.
"Come on." he whispered, "Act drunk."
"How?"
"Stumble around a bunch, slur your words if you talk, and generally pretend you're really, really stupid and clumsy."
Ziad's legs collapsed from under him, "Shit!"
"That's great acting! Spot on!"
"I'm not acting, asshole! I've been in bed for a month, and on painkillers for most of that time!"
Shlomi pulled Ziad back to his feet and dusted off his olive-green uniform. "Keep it up."
"That will be easy," Ziad mumbled.
Ziad stumbled out of the room, and into the hallway. Shlomi put a steadying arm around Ziad's shoulders as they limped down the hall.
They reached an elevator. Shlomi pushed the down button. They waited.
Ziad was sweating quite a bit.
Shlomi was too.
The elevator door opened. Inside stood two older men, both wearing military uniforms with various metal and cloth bits that indicated high rank. They stepped aside to allow Shlomi and Ziad in. The shorter of the two eyed Ziad's uniform with what approached fear, or intimidation.
The other sneered at Ziad and said something in Hebrew.
Shlomi answered.
The door opened, the two officers left.
"What the hell was all that about?" asked Ziad.
"The taller one said, 'aren't you a little young to be in Sayeret Matkal?'"
"What's that?" asked Shlomi.
"Sayeret Matkal is one of Israel's hardcore special operations units. They work directly with Aman- Military Intelligence directorate. They don't wear unit insignia," answered Shlomi.
"So what'd you say?"
"I said that you were young- the youngest in battalion history, and were accepted last night and got just a little too excited in celebration."
"So now I'm a drunk Israeli special forces soldier? That's pretty much every single abomination wrapped up in one delicious meal. Next you'll tell me I'll be having premarital sex on a motorcycle with President Clinton in France before marrying a Shia."
"That's the next step in my plan."
"I'm all for it."
The elevator door opened again, and Shlomi and Ziad stumbled out into the hospital lobby. Nurses, doctors, and patients walked past them as if they didn't exist. Two soldiers standing by the exit just nodded at them and stared apprehensively at the lack of unit insignia on their uniforms.
Shlomi and Ziad walked out of the doors and into the hot night air.
"So what's next, oh master planner?"
"Actually, that's all the plan I have so far," said Shlomi.
"You're joking, right?"
Shlomi looked Ziad dead in the eye. "I never joke."
"Your wit is so sharp it's cutting my ability to laugh."
"We should probably actually think seriously about this," said Shlomi.
Ziad limped over to a knee-high stone wall and sat down.
"We need to get to where McCormack is. Do you know where that is?"
"Yeah, he's at a UN base on the border. We can get there."
"How?"
"Everyone thinks we're Sayeret Matkal guys on leave. We can get there."
Ziad sighed, "I don't speak Hebrew, and you're an intelligence worker. How are we going to pull this off?"
Shlomi smiled grimly, "Apparently Mariam didn't tell you everything. When I was in the Army, I worked with Sayeret Matkal a couple of times. I flew helicopters for them, and several other special forces units. I know how they work. Plus, I played Romeo in my school's rendition of Romeo and Juliet, so I can act."
"You're an odd person, Shlomi."
"I know."
They found a taxi, and went back to Shlomi's house. Ziad immediately went to the kitchen and gulped down a glass of water.
"If you want to get there, we should leave right now," said Shlomi.
"Don't you have work, or something?" asked Ziad.
"I called in sick when you told me about the second letter. This is important," responded Shlomi forcefully.
"Oh. Thanks." Ziad was genuinely moved- he didn't think Shlomi cared enough, but was quite pleasantly surprised at this upsetting of his world view.
"You'll need the help, anyway. I can't leave a relative floundering about in my country, now can I?"
"That would be pretty inconsiderate," said Ziad.
"Exactly."
As Ziad sat at the kitchen table eating a sandwich, Shlomi packed a small duffel bag with water bottles, money, food, two handguns, and several boxes of ammunition. He then walked upstairs and returned with two rifles and a big brown bag bursting with brass bullets.
"Big brown bag bursting with brass bullets... Big brown brag brur... Big brown bra.."
Shlomi stopped and asked, "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm trying to say it ten times fast- you know what, it doesn't matter." Ziad nodded towards two rifles and the brig brown brag brursting with brass brullets. "Is that... Is that entirely necessary?" he said uneasily.
"Probably not, but you can't be too safe, can you? Plus it would be more suspicious for Sayeret Matkal soldiers to be running around a war zone without guns, wouldn't it?"
"Perhaps."
Shlomi finished packing, and faced Ziad, arms crossed, face contemplative.
"You can't be 'Ziad Jarrah.' That's too Lebanese. From now on, you're going to be Oshri... Oshri Cohen, I think. And I suppose I'll be... Tomer... Tomer Zitlaui. I'm a lieutenant, you're a sergeant. Sound good?"
Ziad sighed, "I'm already wearing the uniform of the sworn enemy, and I've pretended to be drunk. I suppose I can accept this one last affront to my upbringing. I accept, Lt. Zitlaui."
"Are you ready, Sgt. Cohen? You ready to go back to Lebanon, meet an Irishman, and face grave dangers?"
"No."
Ziad limped upstairs, grabbed his wand and a book, and limped back downstairs.
"Are you ready now?"
"Yeah."
"Excellent. Let's go."
After a moments thought, Shlomi removed the two handguns from the duffel bag, loaded each, and put them in the front seat of his car. The rifles and supplies went into the back seat. Shlomi and Ziad sat down, Shlomi started the car, and the drove off.
They made their way on the highway west towards the Mediterranean, and Tel Aviv, where they turned North- towards Haifa and eventually Lebanon. There was heavy traffic- a mixture of civilian and military vehicles- going both directions, despite the late hour. It was approaching midnight.
Shlomi drove into the next morning, stopping for gas and food once or twice. Ziad mostly dozed off, utterly exhausted by the relatively strenuous activity. Ziad spent the last two hours of the drive asleep, snoring occasionally.
You spin me right round, baby
right round like a record baby
Right round round round...
Ziad awoke. "What the hell is this noise you're subjecting my ears to, Shlomi?"
Shlomi nodded his head to the music, "It's a classic, Ziad. Appreciate it."
"No?"
Shlomi shrugged, "Suit yourself. If it offends your 'upbringing' or some crap like that, know that Uday Hussein really likes this song."
Ziad sat up in his seat, "Uday Hussein? That sick bastard? Sorry, that makes it worse."
Shlomi laughed, "I see his, ah... exploits... have offended even extremists like your father."
"Everything he does offends everybody."
"Ha. Either way, we're approaching our destination. See how there are so many more military vehicles? Yeah. Get ready."
Ziad sighed, "I was born ready." He put his hand into his pocket, and fingered his wand.
Shlomi eased the car towards a cluster of olive-green vehicles and people. They pulled up next to a soldier who looked like he was directing traffic, and rolled down the window. Shlomi and the soldier began a heated discussion, accompanied, of course, by excessive gesturing. Eventually another soldier of higher rank was called over, and Shlomi repeated the process. The higher ranking soldier was shaking his head, and Shlomi was starting to look a bit browbeaten.
Ziad eased his wand out of his pocket, aimed, and whispered, "Confundo... Confundo..."
The two soldiers stopped what they were saying, shivered a little, and looked incredibly confused.
The higher ranking soldier said "Um" several times before distractedly waving Shlomi forward.
Shlomi continued down the road, somewhat more confidently.
"So... That's magic, eh? Pretty fancy. Very useful. I could definitely use some of that in my line of work."
Ziad nodded, "You and everyone else. We can't do all your work for you. There aren't enough of us."
The roads they now drove down were occupied entirely by military vehicles. Abandoned civilian vehicles and other detritus littered the side of the road.
"Refugees," said Shlomi, "Thousands of them fled this part of Israel when the Hezbollah rockets started falling. It will be worse across the border."
As if on cue, large signs, barbed wire fences, and an increase in concentration of dark-green vehicles and people marked the border. They drove across.
Ziad was home. Back in Lebanon. Shlomi had been right- the detritus of war and abandonment littered the roads and countryside. Burned out vehicles, spent artillery casings, and barbed wire lay scattered everywhere.
"Welcome home, Ziad."
"Wonderful," said Ziad ruefully, "Doesn't look like your people have left much of it for me to go home to."
"It would seem so."
Eventually, the road was blocked entirely by a collection of concrete barriers and Israeli military vehicles. After a brief discussion, Shlomi left his car with the soldiers.
"They won't mess it up," he assured Ziad, "Or else I'll ruin their careers."
Ziad nodded, "So, what's next?"
"We can catch a ride to the UN base with those guys over there-" he waved towards a group of Israeli soldiers huddling around an armored personnel carrier (olive-green, of course), "-who are headed there now to do some Israeli-UN public relations crap."
"Great."
Ziad and Shlomi pulled their supplies and weapons out of the car, slung them over their backs, and walked over to the vehicle. They climbed into the cramped, pokey interior and found a place to sit down. Three Israeli soldiers followed them. They nodded at Shlomi and Ziad apprehensively.
Ziad attempted to doze off, but was interrupted by Shlomi nudging his elbow, and muttering, "He's asking your name!"
Ziad jerked up, "Uh... Z-... Oshri. Oshri Cohen. Samal Rishon Oshri Cohen."
The three Israelis glanced at each other. They replied to Ziad.
Shlomi answered quickly. Shlomi and the soldiers engaged in a discussion. Ziad pretended to doze off again, which was, of course, ridiculous considering the cramped and uncomfortable conditions inside the armored personnel carrier, what with all the metal knobbly things poking everywhere.
After about fifteen minutes driving, the door opened, and everyone unfolded themselves out into the sunny air. They were surrounded by foreign soldiers, all heavily armed and looking doubtfully at them.
One of the foreign soldiers approached, flanked by two armed men wearing blue helmets with the letters 'UN' emblazoned in white across the front.
"Welcome! I am Colonel João Vieira, of the UN mission to Lebanon, with the Portuguese Army. I know who these other soldiers are-" he gestured at the soldiers Ziad and Shlomi had shared the uncomfortable ride with, "-but I do not know who you are or why you are here?"
Shlomi stepped forward, "I am Lieutenant Tomer Zitlaui, of the Sayeret Matkal, and this is my First Sergeant Oshri Cohen. We need to talk to Robert McCormack."
Colonel Vieira nodded, but glanced sceptically at Ziad's youthful face and noticeable limp. "That can be arranged. But first you must leave your weapons with my soldiers. You can collect them when you leave."
Shlomi nodded, "Of course. Thank you."
Ziad and Shlomi were led into a white concrete building, inside of which there were a few foldable metal chairs, a water dispenser, and a black-and-white television playing Israeli TV shows.
"Wait here," said one of the Portuguese soldiers who had brought them to this desolate room, "Major McCormack will be available soon."
Four hours later, a different Portuguese soldier entered, and refilled the water dispenser, and left.
Two more hours later, and Shlomi was getting pissed off. Right when he was about to burst a vein, Colonel Vieira entered, "Please, gentlemen, follow me. Major McCormack can meet you now."
"Allahu akbar!" Ziad let loose reflexively. Colonel Vieira stared at him.
"It's only a saying. It bears no correlation to the truthfulness of the story you were told earlier by my colleague Lt. Zitlaui." mumbled Ziad.
"Naturally," said Colonel Vieira, "Come with me."
Shlomi and Ziad followed Vieira to another building in the UN compound, this one a bit nicer in that it had air-conditioning and dividers that divided (of course) the room into various individual offices, each labeled with stuff like Cpt. Yassin (Malaysia- Army) or Cpl. Øgaard(Norway- Army). Eventually they reached a larger, completely closed off office labeled "Maj. McCormack (Ireland- Army)."
Colonel Vieira knocked. A muffled voice said, "Come in."
Shlomi pushed open the door and entered. Ziad followed. Vieira closed the door behind him.
Inside, a small bald man sat behind a desk piled high with papers and notebooks. He glanced up at the visitors and set down his pen.
"Now, what can I help you with, gentlemen?" he said, with a thick Irish brogue.
Ziad sat in the one chair in front of McCormack's desk. He sighed.
"I am Ziad Jarrah. You wrote me twice, once to inform me of my sister's death in April, and again a week later. You used owls."
McCormack leaned back. "Ah. I thought your story sounded suspicious. But who is your friend?"
Shlomi stepped forward, "I am Shlomi Bar-Dayan. I am Ziad's guardian, and I work for Shin Bet."
McCormack laughed, "Of course. I knew Mr. Jarrah would need your help in some form. I suspected Mr. Jarrah would ask you for your help."
Shlomi was puzzled, and expressed his confusion eloquently.
"What?"
"Mr. Bar-Dayan, Mr. Jarrah, I will drop the charade."
McCormack stood up, pulled a wand from his pocket, and cast several charms about the room. "As you can clearly see, I am a wizard. I went to Hogwarts many years ago, and now I for a certain organization that has assigned me to work with the Irish military, who has in turn deployed me here with the UN task force. They do not know I am a wizard, but I will need contacts in Magical Britain and the Israeli government to, well, to put it bluntly, save the world."
Ziad put his face in his hands. Shlomi slumped.
"You see, The Dark Lord Voldemort has risen again, as Ziad knows well enough. The British Ministry is unlikely to do anything to stop Voldemort's rise. As we speak, he is spreading tendrils of doubt, distrust, and fear throughout Britain. His followers scour the world, looking for weapons to increase his power. And, I fear, one of them has found one, here in the Holy Land."
He sat back down again, and leaned forward. "When poor Mariam was killed in Qana, I was already tracking this follower of Voldemort, who was sneaking about Israel and Lebanon, searching. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, when writing you that first letter, Ziad, that you had gone off to Hogwarts. I then wrote you the second letter."
There was a knock on the door. Vieira entered, a look of panic on his face, "Major," he began, "My soldiers have been ambushed by Hezbollah fighters on the Section 7 road!"
McCormack sighed, and stood up. "Call General Øgaard, and get some support out there." He turned to Shlomi and Ziad.
"I'm afraid I'll have to leave now. I'll arrange for you to return with the Israeli soldiers you came in with. Mr. Bar-Dayan- I will contact you later about seeking your assistance with the Israeli government. Mr. Jarrah- I hope you have a safe year at Hogwarts. I will contact you later with more information and questions, as I hear you have met, and are perhaps even friends with, Harry Potter."
McCormack walked to the door and opened it, "Oh, and one last thing. Ziad- do not get on the Patil's bad side. Mr. Patil and I work for the same organization, and let me tell you- he is incredibly intelligent and driven, but he can be ruthless when the mood takes him."
McCormack left Shlomi and Ziad in his office.
Shlomi laughed mirthlessly, "I believe the phrase 'this shit just got real' would be appropriate for this situation, don't you?"
Author's Note:
Whoo! Longest chapter yet.
Ziad's exciting summer is nearing an end, and he will soon be back at Hogwarts. Don't worry- there will be less politics/military and more hogwarts/magic/actual fanfiction stuff for the rest of the story.
Enjoy, and don't hesitate to write a review- if I don't get feedback, I can't improve it.