Chapter 21

A hood was placed over Ziad and Shlomi's eyes, and they were stuffed in some sort of vehicle. Ziad felt a sharp prick in his arm and -

- Groggily awoke some time later.

"Good evening, Mr. Jarrah." said a suitably enigmatic and appropriately disembodied voice in perfect, unaccented English.

"Shit." moaned Ziad, eyes held tightly shut. "I need to stop groggily awaking in some predicament even shittier than the one I was in before."

The voice chuckled.

"Well, Mr. Jarrah, you aren't dead, are you?"

"Am I? I mean, this could be Paradise. I suppose, if my whole faith is wrong and the Russians are right, you could be St. Peter? Frankly, I don't want to open my eyes and see the Pearly Gates and then be sent straight down to Hell."

"Are you so scared of death, Mr. Jarrah? Really, death is nothing more than another journey. It's like going to sleep."

"So if I stabbed you in the neck, right now, you'd be totally okay with it? It's just some permanent vacation?"

"Well, no."

"There's your answer."

The voice gave an amused sigh, "Were it so simple. See-"

"Just cut the crap, man. Where am I?"

"Ha. I'm afraid that's classified."

"Shit. So I'm still alive."

"An excellent deduction."

"And presumably you're not about to give me some donuts, a bunch of money, and a plane ticket to the Bahamas?"

"No."

"It was worth a shot."

"Not really."

"Hmmph."

There was a brief, awkward silence. Ziad decided to fill it.

"So there's no hope of you telling me the situation?"

"Not really."

"So... Why the hell are you here?"

"I'm the requisite calm wise man to give meaningless words of wisdom to those in a vulnerable, usually bedridden situation."

Ziad lay silently, eyes closed.

He thought about that for a moment.

"So..."

"Yes?"

"You're... Uh..."

"Continue, Mr. Jarrah. Don't be reticent. There's no need."

"You son of a bitch! You aren't real!"

"You really are a new Sherlock Holmes."

"I hate my goddamn brain."

"Me too."

"Shut up."

Ziad went back to sleep.

This time, when Ziad awoke, he opened his eyes immediately. His surroundings seemed quite real.

At the very least, if they were Paradise, God had a terrible sense of humor.

Bare concrete, Awful Sky Blue (sold worldwide in cheap, label-less one-gallon jugs to those who need to cover something, and a lot of it), metal beds, thin mattresses, thin olive-green sheets and blankets, and the general air of militaryness. Around him sat, stood, or lay a dozen large, strong, and above all dangerous looking men wearing military fatigues.

"Hello. I am awake." declared Ziad. "I wish to receive information," his stomach grumbled, "And food. I really want food, actually. Food first, information later."

The men stared at Ziad. One said something in Russian. The others laughed.

"Ha. Now stop dicking around and get me food."

One of the men stepped towards Ziad and displayed his large muscles, even larger knife, and still larger rifle.

"Ooh, so intimidating. If I was to be hurt or killed you would have done it already. Now, do what I say and fetch me food. Chop chop!"

The man, temporarily stymied, wrinkled his forehead. He wasn't used to people doing things other than whimpering in fear or saying, "Oh god, please, no!" when he did the muscle/knife/gun routine.

One of the other men chuckled and said something to Confused Man, who grunted and backed down.

"Thank you. I don't react well to intimidation." Ziad reached in his pocket and, to his horror, the complete lack of a wand. Yet he wasn't dead, so it appeared they still wanted his unique services for the glory of Russia.

His assumption was soon proven correct.

An officer entered the room. The men snapped to attention. The man barked some quick commands and the soldiers quickly left the room. The officer gave an almost pitying look at Ziad and followed the soldiers out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Ziad sighed and lay back on his thin, lumpy mattress. He rubbed his eyes. Feeling sleepy yet again, he started to doze off.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Jaaarrah, rise and... shine."

In the middle of the small room sat a man at a desk. A desk that surely hadn't been there before. He was a tall, thin, sharp-featured, pale-faced, middle-aged man with his brown hair styled into a military crewcut, a prominent widows peak, and wearing a plain gray two-piece suit.

"Not that I wish to im... ply you have been sleeping on the job. No one is more deserving of a rest, and all the effort in the world would have gone to waste, until... well... let's just say your hour has come again."

The man spoke in a slow, raspy voice that paused in all the wrong places.

"The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So wake up Mr. Jarrah. Wake up and smell the ashes."

Ziad stared.

As well he should, quite honestly.

"Who... who are you?"

"There is no need for that... Right now. You have a job to do. You and your... Little friend. Mr. Bar-Dayan. I frankly do not understand why you let him... tag along. He has exhibited no part... icular powers."

"He's useful."

"Ha. Ha. Ha." the man rasped mirthlessly. "I'm glad you didn't say... 'He's my friend.' I abhor... Such human weaknesses."

Ziad sighed.

"I meet the most interesting people."

"Very funny. Now... Lisssten to me. You will bring those men... you met earlier to the location. You will then return. Your job is very ssimple."

"And then what?"

"Well... I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

There was a knock on the door, Ziad glanced quickly at it, grateful for some respite from the man's creepy intensity. When he glanced back, the man was gone.

"Son of a-"

The door opened, and the officer from earlier stepped in. He gestured at Ziad to follow him. Ziad complied. Out the door was a sort of ready-room. Lockers lined the walls, and in the center of the room were two large, heavy, wooden tables festooned with weapons, ammunition, and clothing. A change of clothes was thrust at Ziad, who slipped them on over the pyjamas he was still wearing from... whenever it was he had been awoken by Colonel Perminov.

The twelve soldiers had replaced their fatigues with nondescript civilian clothing, and were all carrying large suitcases filled with guns and explosives.

Ziad was handed a twenty foot long length of rope and a photograph of a large, fancy bathroom. Ziad looked questioningly at the officer, who gestured first at the photograph, then at the rope, and made twirling motions with his hands.

"You want me to turn this-" Ziad brandished the rope, "-into a portkey to get me there?" he jabbed at the photo.

The officer concentrated for a few seconds, deciphering Ziad's words. He glanced at one of the soldiers, who shrugged. The officer turned back to Ziad with a pained expression.

He held up two fingers.

"What?"

The officer jabbed two fingers in the air.

"Uh... OH! Two words!"

The officer gave a relieved nod. He held up two fingers.

"Second word?" Nod.

The officer pointed at the rope.

"Rope?" Nod.

The officer held up one finger.

"First word?" Nod.

The officer held up one finger, then three fingers, then one finger.

"First word, three syllables... First syllable?" The officer nodded emphatically.

The officer began making chugging noises with his mouth while rotating his arms in a circular motion on the side of his body while walking in place.

"Uh... Um... Oh, this is so obvious."

The officer nodded, then continued making empassioned chugging noises. The soldiers had stopped packing and were watching with concentration, muttering amongst themselves.

"Oh! Train! You're a train! First syllable is train! Uh.. Train-duh-duh rope!"

The officer smiled and nodded. He held up a second finger.

"Second syllable!"

The main made his hand flat and slowly skimmed it along at chest level before bumping it into his other arm, joined by a few vocalized foghorns. The hand then made a crude anchor shape that slowly drifted to the ground with a soft vocalized thump.

"Oh, uh... Uh... Boat?" The officer tilted his head and gave a half-nod.

"But it has to do with boats, right?" The officer nodded.

"Umm..." The officer repeated the motion, this time emphasizing the arm that he bumped his hand into.

"So it has to do with what the boat does... Oh! Dock?" The man shook his head but gestured for Ziad to continue along that line of thought.

"Dock... Um... Boats... Uhh... Uh... Dock... Oh! Harbor?" The officer shook his head with a pained expression, all the while repeating the motion, accompanied by the foghorn sounds.

"OH! Port? It's port right?" The man nodded and grinned.

"Trains-port-blank Rope?"

The officer held up three fingers.

"Third syllable! This is fun!"

The officer held his two arms up vertically parallel to each other and made rippling motions.

"Seaweed?" No. "Water?" Close. "Ocean?" Not quite. "River?" Yes! Nod.

The officer continued that motion. The debate among the soldiers was now heated.

"River... River..."

The officer stopped for a second before pointing emphatically at Ziad, then repeating the river motion.

"Me... River? Uh... Arab... River." Nod nod nod.

"Uh... Tigris, Euphrates?" Nod! NOD! GESTURE!

"Tigris and Euphrates?" Nod, gesture.

"Iraq?" Head shake, backwards gesture, backwards gesture, river motion.

"Oh... Backwards... Backwards in time? Yes? Babylon? No..."

"Mesopotamia?" Yes! Nod, nod, gesture.

"Gilgamesh?" Head-shake.

"Mesopotamia... Um... Oh! Ur! Ur!" NOD NOD NOD!

"Trains-port-Ur Rope. Transporter rope? What the hell does that mean?"

The officer gestured at the rope and at the photograph.

"That's... Exactly what I said earlier, Mr. Officer."

The officer looked suddenly sad.

"But it was an excellent game, no question. Really reduced the stress." said Ziad hurriedly, not wanting to make the Russian special forces officer cry.

"Alright. I'll need my wand."

All brevity disappeared. The officer reached for his sidearm, the soldiers grabbed their rifles and held them at Ziad.

The officer glanced behind Ziad, a look of sudden fear plastered across his face.

Ziad turned around.

The gray-suited man stood there, a thin metal briefcase held loosely in his right hand.

"I see you have met... Captain Karpukhin. He cannot speak English, but his grasp of its... sound is quite impressive."

Ziad nodded mutely. Captain Karpukhin did not seem at all mollified by what may have been a compliment.

The man turned his eyes to the Captain and said one quick sentence in Russian. The captain took the soldiers out of the room.

The man turned back to Ziad. "See him and his men safely to the distination, Mr. Jarrah. He may require more care than was previously discussed."

The man sighed, and said, "I wish I could do more than keep an eye on you, but I have agreed to abide by certain... restrictions? Take care, Mr. Jarrah. I hope to be seeing you soon."

The man turned his back to Ziad and walked away. Ziad blinked, and the man was gone.

The Captain and his men re-entered the room, bearing with them Ziad's wand. Ziad took the wand and passed it between his hand. Ziad took a good look at the photograph.

He poked the rope.

"Portus!"

He nodded at the Captain and took hold of the rope, quickly followed suit by the Captain and his soldiers.

The group was jerked out of Russia-

- And deposited in the fancy bathroom depicted in the photograph.

"That bathroom..." said the man across from the table, twirling his moustache, "Was it..."

"Yes. It was the bathroom for the Indian Parliament in New Delhi."

The man looked at Ziad with a slightly horrified expression on his face.

"And then what?"

"Well, in order to hear the rest you're going to have to order some lunch."

The man stopped twirling his moustache.

"Is it really lunch time?" He glanced at the clock. "I suppose so. What do you like?"

"I dunno. Something halal? Vegetarian pizza? I'll eat just about anything."

The man picked up the phone on the table and dialed a number.

"Hello? Yes, Jenny? Yes, this is, uh-" he glanced at Ziad guiltily, "-uh, well, you know who it is. We'd like some lunch. Could you bring something up? Uh huh... Ten minutes? Okay. Thank you." The man hung up.

"Thank you," said Ziad. "Now... What happened next... Well... I don't think you'll want to hear it on an empty stomach."

Author's Note:

Well, things are starting to escalate for poor Ziad. Let's hope he gets out okay.

Enjoy!