Chapter 16
After exchanging his shekels for pounds in muggle London, Shlomi looked a little less amused at the quirks of the wizarding world.
When Ziad wand-tapped their way back into Diagon Alley, their first sight was, of all people, young Marcus Twombley, formerly lieutenant of Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts, walking down the street with his parents.
Twombley spotted Ziad, dropped his bags, snapped to attention, and delivered a crisp salute.
"As-salamu alaykum, Director!"
"Wa alaykum al-salaam, Lt. Twombley. How was your summer?"
"It was quite enjoyable, sir. I did not encounter any zionists on my trip to the French Riviera, but the place was teeming with infidels."
"Hmmm... That would be annoying, wouldn't it?"
"Indeed, sir."
Shlomi and Twombley's parents stared at him. Shlomi looked at Ziad.
"What the hell have you done to this kid?" he said in Arabic.
"Um... I recruited him to an organization that acted to destroy one of our teachers, who was a mole for the Ministry of Magic."
"And was this organization based on certain organizations that I have spent the last twelve years of my life fighting?"
"I will not answer for fear of incriminating myself in a future court of law."
"Real classy, Ziad. Way to break down ethnic stereotypes."
"I couldn't help it!"
"Hmmph."
Meanwhile, Lt. Twombley's parents were barraging him with dangerous questions like "What the hell are you talking about?" and "What the hell does 'assy llama lake womb mean?'"
Twombley stoically resisted all attempts by the infidels to interrogate him. Ziad offered him a mental field-promotion to acting-Captain Twombley and a Gold Star for Valor in the Face of Extreme Trials and Tribulations.
Before Twombley's parents water-boarded him, Ziad burst him from his prison.
"It's just our little joke, Mrs. Twombley. Nothing to worry about, or contact the police about."
"What?"
"Just a little joke."
Shlomi butted in, "It was nice meeting you." Then, he whispered to Ziad in Arabic, "Let's go before my Mossad friends appear and shoot you in the face!"
Shlomi and Ziad walked back down the street towards Gringotts. This time, they were able to exchange the British pounds for Galleons quite easily.
"Shekels are better than pounds!" Shlomi shouted as the doors swung shut behind them.
"Cool it, Shlomi," muttered Ziad. "Don't want the Goblin police on our asses, do we?"
"The goblins have police?!"
"Wouldn't put it past them."
"Shit! Wizards and their ilk are bloody everywhere!"
"Watch your back, okay?"
Shlomi looked a little perturbed, "I will... I will. And I have the means to not just watch my back, but protect it too." He reached into his satchel and showed Ziad the large and very powerful looking handgun hidden inside.
"One of the perks of your portkeys is that I can bring whatever the hell I want to in country without the customs or border security of either Israel or Britain checking my stuff. If I wanted to smuggle things, I'd be filthy stinking rich in just a few months with your power."
Ziad thought about it.
"Well, everyone needs a summer job. And I've got summers ahead of me, don't I?"
Shlomi gave Ziad an appraising look.
"I'm all for the rule of law, but I like the way your mind works. Plus, I really don't want to have to buy you everything. I am on a government salary, after all, and London is bloody expensive."
"Well, I like the idea. I've always wanted to be a gun-runner. It sounds so romantic."
"Indeed."
Ziad and Shlomi made their way back down the street, buying a few things Ziad assumed he'd need in the coming year. One of the perks of becoming unwittingly homeless, effectively orphaned, and then illegally visiting another country was that he had received no correspondence from Hogwarts, meaning he had no bloody clue if he was still enrolled, let alone what school supplies and books he'd need.
This was a fear he kept deep down, as he didn't want to give Shlomi an aneurism.
To be safe, he bought all the books the nice lady at Flourish and Blotts told him were on the Hogwarts list, second to seventh year. He then bought a few new sets of robes and wizarding accoutrements, as he still suffered from the dread plague known by many as puberty.
When he exited the clothing shop and waved towards Shlomi (who had sat on a bench in front of the shop in a position widely recognized as that of men going clothes shopping), Ziad also noticed Harry Potter and his posse walking down the street. Ron nodded at him, but otherwise the dynamic trio left Ziad unnoticed.
"Risk your bloody life, kill somebody, and all you get is a nod, eh?" he said loudly, in Arabic.
Ron glanced back at him, confused, but kept walking.
Shlomi grunted, "Join the club, Ziad. We are the Great Underappreciated. We martyr ourselves and nobody cares."
"We're still alive, so we can't be martyrs. Trust me, I know this kind of stuff."
"Hush, Ziad. You're ruining my grandiose speech."
"Oh, sorry. Continue."
"You've already ruined it."
"Damn."
As Ziad and Shlomi gathered their belongings and began heading back into muggle London, Ziad had an idea.
"Shlomi, I'm going to need some spending money for when I'm at Hogwarts, and need to woo the ladies. Alas, witches don't appreciate Shakespeare, but money talks, with an unidentifiably foreign but deeply attractive voice, no matter where you are. But I don't want to ask you for more money. So, I propose this: Do you have anything that can be quickly smuggled into Britain from Israel that could fetch a high price?"
Shlomi stopped and turned to Ziad and gave him a grave look.
"I work for Israeli internal security. Of course I know people. And if you want, we can start tomorrow."
"Cool."
That afternoon, Ziad portkeyed their way back to Jerusalem. Shlomi made a few calls, looked some things up in a notebook, and got in his car. He came back two hours later with two large boxes in the trunk.
Ziad looked at the boxes.
"What's in the boxes?"
"That's cheating. Can you get us to Northern Ireland?"
Ziad stared at Shlomi.
"Your moral compass is really shitty! I love it! Yes, I think I can get us there."
An hour later, they were in a sheep pasture outside Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Ziad shivered.
"Why is it so bloody cold here?"
"Do you really want a geography and meteorology lesson right now?"
"No. It was a rhetorical question."
A dark blue van turned around a hill in the distance and slowly approached the pasture.
Shlomi had his hands firmly gripped around something in his jacket pocket.
The van stopped fify meters away. The back door opened, and half a dozen men jumped out. Each wore a ski mask and carried an assault rifle. Ziad gripped his wand behind his back.
Shlomi muttered to Ziad, in Arabic, "Remember, you're the head dealer. I'm just your hired muscle!"
Ziad nodded.
One of the masked men approached Ziad.
"You got the stuff?"
"Yeah, I got it. You got the money?"
"Show me the stuff first. I'm not stupid."
"Show me the money first. I'm not either."
"Oh yeah? You show me the stuff first."
"Oho! Two can play at this game. You show me the money first!"
"Damn! You got me this time. Niall, show him the money."
One of the men, presumably Niall, returned to the van and pulled a large suitcase out of the back. It was apparently quite heavy. Niall hefted it over and dropped it in front of Ziad.
It went ker-thunk.
Ziad gestured at Shlomi to open it, while whispering, "How much money is it supposed to be?"
His question was answered before Shlomi could reply, "There's two million quid there, like you asked. We don't cheat sellers who offer what you do."
Ziad had to steady himself against one of the large crates to prevent himself from collapsing.
"TWO MILLION?!" he hissed at Shlomi. Shlomi just shrugged and unzipped the suitcase, revealing piles and piles and piles of money. More money than had any right to belong in one place.
The leader of the Irishmen turned to Ziad.
"Now you can show us the stuff."
Ziad turned to the boxes. Shlomi pulled a crowbar out of his bag and opened the first box.
Inside were ten or fifteen meter-long missiles.
Shlomi opened the second box.
Inside were three shoulder launchers.
The Irishmen dropped all pretense of badassery and fawned over the weaponry.
"Stinger Missiles? Christ almighty, I can just imaging the fookin' British helicopters falling over Ulster already!"
Ziad turned an even paler shade of white.
The leader of the Irishmen clapped Ziad on the back.
"Boy, if you ever need help from the Irish Republican Army, just say my name."
"Which is...?"
"Dave McCormack."
"Shit."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dave McCormack shook Ziad's hand. "What should we call you? I expect we'll be doing business in the future."
Ziad thought about it, then said, "I am... I am The Director. It's been good doing business with you."
The Irishmen grabbed their missiles, and packed them in the van. The van drove off.
Ziad rounded on Shlomi.
"DID WE JUST SELL STINGER MISSILES TO IRISH TERRORISTS?!"
"Yes."
"WHAT THE FU-"
"Calm down, Ziad. We have the money, and I've notified British intelligence."
"Oh. BUT YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME!"
"Yes, I could have. But that would have ruined the fun."
Ziad sighed, "I seriously question your judgement, sometimes."
Shlomi laughed, "Well, you are two million pounds richer, aren't you?"
Ziad looked at the suitcase.
"Yup."
Ziad and Shlomi traversed back to Gringotts later that evening, after a fine dinner in Belfast and some shopping at the high-fashion shops of London. Despite his earlier misgivings, it was immensely satisfying to spend twenty minutes counting out cash on the counter at Gringotts, to the growing incredulity of both goblins and customers.
It was even more satisfying to watch that paper turn into gold and silver, which weighed the suitcase down rather more.
It was with ever growing satisfaction that Shlomi and Ziad put on the aviator sunglasses they had bought earlier and walked down Diagon Alley carrying nearly four hundred thousand galleons and wearing custom-tailored Hugo Boss suits.
Ziad dearly wished Parvati could have seen him. It was so badass.
Author's Note:
Next chapter will feature Ziad's return to Hogwarts, I promise.
Apologies for the short length. Next chapter should be a bit longer than usual to make up for it, if all goes well.
For the uninitiated, a Stinger Missile is a shoulder-fired anti-air missile that was highly sought after during the '80s and '90s for its ability to shoot down helicopters.
For the even more uninitiated (some people know virtually nothing about military things), it's a bazooka that shoots down helicopters and planes.
Irish and other terrorist groups spent a lot of money to get them, or try to get them.