Chapter 20
To Ziad's pleasure, a vast plate of donuts was brought in to the interrogation room. Ziad could feel his arteries clogging just looking at them.
Just the way donuts should be.
He grabbed a chocolate-glazed donut and chewed thoughtfully while the Man watched, annoyed.
Ziad finished, licked his fingers, opened his mouth-
The Man leaned forward expectantly, "What happene-"
Ziad grabbed another donut and stuffed it in his mouth.
"Oh God these are so good. I see you have a good donut budget. Your coffee budget could use improvement."
The Man leaned back again, sighed, and watched Ziad ruthlessly massacre his donut.
Eventually, Ziad had eaten the last bite, licked the last sugar off his hand, and cleared his throat with the offensive coffee.
"Are you ready to continue?" asked the Man.
"I suppose. Where was I? Ah yes..."
Some Russians wanted to return to the glory of Stalin.
Some wanted to become a democratic power.
Some wanted to be left well alone.
Some wanted to be left well alone, be a democratic power, and have the power that Russia did under Stalin.
Even fewer actually tried to achieve this goal. They had turned to, of all things, magic.
It was a week after the Indonesian deal, and 6 days and 6 hours after being employed by the Russian military.
Ziad and Shlomi were in a truly vast warehouse in one of Russia's vast stretches of barren land dedicated to rusted metal. Rows and rows of dilapidated fighter jets, bombers, tanks, and helicopters lay testament to the military decline after the fall of the Soviet Union. Acres and acres of empty warehouses were filled with military surplus, loosely guarded by a padlock and a fat old soldier with vintage East German equipment.
Ziad gazed at the contents of the warehouse. Crates, as far as the eye could see.
Mosin-Nagants, all manner of rifles, even the new AN-94's, RPG's, PKM's, PKP's, SVD's, RPK's... And hundreds of millions of bullets.
It was gun heaven.
Some may have seen the symbols of a fallen power.
Some may have seen the future weapons of child soldiers, murderers, terrorists.
Some may have seen the tools for power and domination.
Ziad saw thousands, millions, hundreds of millions of $$$.
"It's... It's..." he began.
"Beautiful." finished Shlomi.
"Art."
"A wonderful ballet."
"It's pretty much just Mozart, but practical. And more explodey."
"I wish I could use Christmas metaphors without people looking at me funny."
"Me too."
Their Russian handlers looked at them funny.
"To hell with it. It's like Christmas. Whoa. It feels kind of wrong."
"Yeah."
Colonel Perminov, who had been designated as their chief handler, chuckled.
"What you see here is the most weapons in any one place in the world. We want to give it to our friends. Which is your job now."
Ziad frowned, "I assume we will be well compensated? With US dollars or pounds sterling, preferably?"
"Naturally."
"Good."
The Man looked at Ziad with a strange expression. A strange mixture of amusement and horror.
"You were willing to do... Well... What you did... For money? With no regards for the consequences?"
"Yeah, pretty much." answered Ziad nonchalantly as he unstuck a donut from the plate and began chewing on it.
The Man wrote something in a notebook. Then he looked longingly at his watch and at the plate of donuts.
Ziad pushed it across the table. The man grudgingly slipped a donut off the plate and took a bite.
"Gngthtank 'oo."
"You're welcome."
Ziad shivered in the cold. Shlomi handed him another scarf. Ziad gladly wrapped it around his face.
They were on a mountain in northern Afghanistan. Snow capped the surrounding mountains, and a chill wind blew through the peaks.
Around the two protagonists sat, stood, or knelt a dozen Russian special forces soldiers. An ethnically-Tajik intelligence officer stood awkwardly to the side, hungrily smoking his way to lung cancer.
More important than the people, however, were the crates containing a thousand AK-74 assault rifles and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition.
One of the Russian soldiers stood up and said something. The other soldiers readied themselves, achieving a more dangerous look. In the valley below, several trucks had pulled up and a dozen men jumped out. The men began making their way up the mountain. Unfortunately for dramatic tension, the mountain was rather tall, so the climb lasted rather longer than it should have, were it a movie.
Eventually, the men reached Ziad's position. The Tajik officer stepped forward and began conversing with the leader of the men.
Ziad hated being left in the dark. But alas, he didn't speak either Russian or Tajik. He made a mental note to fix that problem. He made another mental note to buy a better jacket the first chance he got.
To make a short story even shorter, the men gathered up the weapons and took them down to the truck and loaded them up before driving off.
Ziad made a few more portkeys, and the small party grabbed on and disappeared.
The cold mountain wind blew through the now-empty valley.
Over the next week, Ziad and Shlomi made at least a hundred such trips, transporting weapons, ammunition, supplies, military instructors, and all manner of things to various remote areas in northern Afghanistan.
Three, four, five, twenty trips a day. Guns, food, people, gasoline. It was exhausting.
Each night he hit the bed of his military-provided apartment in Moscow and fell asleep instantly. Early the next morning, a man would knock on the door to wake him up, hand him a thick envelope with photographs of his destinations, and a list of what he would be bringing. Ziad would then awake Shlomi, take a shower, eat a small breakfast, and set out for another day's smuggling.
As Colonel Perminov had explained to him after one of his earlier trips, the men who picked up the weapons and who were trained by the hard, gruff men he transported were Afghanis and Tajiks who opposed the Taliban rule of Afghanistan. They opposed Pakistani interference in Afghani affairs. And they were more than willing to accept Russian training, weapons, and money to fight their enemies, and they didn't much care about the consequences.
Ziad didn't much care about the politics. Frankly, he enjoyed the trips. It was thrilling to be part of so clandestine and so important an activity.
It sure beat History of Magic class. Even potions.
The Russians didn't assign homework. They didn't give detentions. They just gave him money and a purpose.
According to Colonel Perminov, plans were being laid back where important plans are laid (usually dark, smoke-filled rooms with creaky plush-leather chairs) that involved more direct action in Afghanistan.
That meant more work for Ziad and Shlomi.
More tough-looking men who looked like they meant business and were very good at their business were carted from military camps across Russia to the mountains of Afghanistan. Even more weapons than usual were delivered to suntanned stony-faced men with beards.
Then, three weeks after work began, Colonel Perminov awoke Ziad personally.
"Good morning. Today we have a rather special mission for you."
"Joy of joys."
"It will be... Very dangerous," warned Perminov.
"Just what I needed."
"You're going to India."
Ziad abruptly stopped yawning and stared at Perminov, who looked... scared and very uncomfortable.
"India?"
"India."
Shlomi walked in, hands kneading his tired eyes. "India?"
"India," confirmed Perminov.
"But... India?" asked Ziad again.
"Yes, it's bloody India, okay?"
"I mean... India?" Shlomi asked yet again.
"Shut up smartass, this is serious!" said Perminov. "Sit down. I need to brief you."
"Fine, Mr. Bossypants," yawned Shlomi, "I'm just trying to keep a sense of humor in trying times. Surely you can appreciate it."
"No, I can't. I have no sense of humor. So shut the hell up and listen."
Ziad sighed, closed the door, and sat down across from Perminov.
"This operation is, of course, in the highest levels of secrecy," began the Russian. "It's a false-flag operation. We need to neutralize Pakistan's military before we make any direct move. So... We get Pakistan's mortal enemy to do that for us."
Ziad groaned, "So you need India to attack Pakistan?"
"I see you get the gist of it, yes."
Shlomi looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "So you want us to transport people to stage a terrorist attack in India, and make it look like Pakistan did it."
"More or less. You'll be taking men who have been preparing for this operation for several weeks, and have all the necessary covers. You two, however, are not as well prepared. You must take the men to their destination and leave immediately. Do not, and I will repeat this, do not stick around or be seen."
"Yes, because I want to stay and watch the pretty fireworks. Of course I'll leave." said Ziad tiredly.
Perminov stood up and gave a significant look to Ziad and Shlomi and gestured for them to follow him. Curious with this sudden secrecy, the two followed.
The Colonel led them out of the apartment building, down into the Metro, and onto a crowded platform. Noise reverberated off the tile walls.
"Now we can't be overheard." said the Colonel, as he glanced suspiciously around them, a move which, had anyone been paying attention, would have immediately drawn suspicion upon the Colonel.
"What's with all the sudden secrecy?" asked Shlomi.
The Colonel sighed and said, "Look. I think this operation is wrong, and I think you do too. Think about it. Committing terrorism on an innocent nation for the sake of pseudo-imperialistic policies for a country you don't care about? All for money? I don't believe you want to do it. I'll look the other way if you leave the country now. I'll take the hit. This plan... It's an abomination."
Perminov looked pleadingly at Ziad and Shlomi.
Ziad glanced at Shlomi before saying, "I don't want to be a terrorist. But at the same time, something tells me your government won't want us to say no. I don't think they'll let us."
Shlomi nodded.
Alas, their prediction was immediately proven correct.
"Your prediction is correct, Mr. Jarrah," said a black-suited man wearing sunglasses (underground, no less) who had appeared as if out of thin air from the crowd behind Perminov.
Perminov had a look of horror on his face, and he slowly turned around, as if turning slowly would make the man go away. The man didn't, in fact, go away. Quite the opposite, to be completely honest.
"I think you'll want to come with me." said the man ominously.
"Oh yeah?" said Shlomi, "You and whose army?"
A dozen more large, suited men wearing sunglasses appeared from the crowd.
Shlomi lost a little confidence.
"Well, there's only a dozen of you!" he said, attempting to remain defiant.
The man smiled sadly as the remainder of the crowd, down to the last man and woman, turned around, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, and patted various bulges in their clothing in a very dangerous manner.
"Oh."
"Is this a big enough army?" the man asked, waving his hand at the now dangerously silent and very focused crowd.
"I think so."
"Good. Now, come with me. Colonel Perminov, you're under arrest for treason. Ziad Jarrah and Shlomi Bar-Dayan, you have two choices. Die, or do what you're told. Choose now."
"Um..." began Ziad.
"Ah..." continued Shlomi.
"Three..." the man said, removing a silenced pistol from underneath his jacket and leveling it at Ziad's forehead. Another man pulled a similar gun on Shlomi.
"Two..." the man cocked the pistol. The click echoed off the walls of the metro station.
"There is no god but God..." prayed Ziad.
"Ziad..." said Shlomi. "Have you got a portkey on you?"
"And Muhammed is his messenger... No. Sorry Shlomi..."
"It's okay. Hey, if nothing else, this is a really metal way to die."
"True."
"One." the man tensed his hand-
"I'LL DO IT!" screamed Ziad. "I'll bloody do it. You bastards."
The man lowered his pistol. "Thank you. Now, follow me."
Author's Note:
Hmm... This one is a little more dramatic than usual. After all, it's some pretty dramatic stuff going down.
Bear with me here for a bit.
Enjoy!