Chapter 23, or 24. Take your pick.
"Oooohhh . . . Ooohhhhh . . . Wee-ell- Now!"
Hollywood, California.
Ziad was in Hollywood with Pete Burns, lead singer for the band Dead or Alive.
"This 'Frankie' fellow," began Ziad, "What's he look like?"
Pete Burns smiled as they walked down the palm-tree lined avenue.
"I'll tell you when we see 'him.'"
"Pete?"
"Yes, Ziad?"
"I noticed the quotation marks around 'him.'"
Pete Burns grimaced. "I suppose we're not actually following a fellow named Frankie. 'Frankie' is codename for the Dark Lord Steve, a.k.a. Holly Johnson, a.k.a singer for the British band Frankie Goes To Hollywood."
"Relax! Don't do it, when you want to go to it . . ."
Ziad buried his face in his hands.
"Dark Lord Steve?"
"It is rather ridiculous, isn't it?"
Ziad stopped walking and stared at Pete Burns.
"Ridiculous? Ha!"
Pete Burns stopped and faced Ziad.
"Ridiculous? You want me to tell you about ridiculous?" shouted Ziad. "A month ago I was at a school for magical people in Great Britain! Then I was kidnapped by Russian special forces! Then I met the most absurdly mysterious man on Earth! Then I aided in a major terrorist attack that could cause World War Three! Now I'm in fucking Hollywood with Pete Burns searching for the lead singer for a band that hasn't been popular since 1985! That's ridiculous!"
"Relax! Don't do it, when you want to come! Relax, don't do it, when you want to come! When you want to come!"
Ziad turned towards the expansive stucco mansion they were standing in front of that had loud dance music blaring from its opened french windows. A group of people stood around or danced poorly to the '80s-style beat.
"Shut! The! Hell! Up! With! That! Bloody! Noise!" he shouted.
Pete Burns cocked his head toward the music.
"No, Ziad, wait . . . This song is by Frankie Goes To Hollywood."
Ziad sighed, exasperated.
"I suppose you want us to crash a party, now?"
Pete Burns grinned.
"No. I want us to do espionage work."
Ziad stared at Pete Burns.
"Are you crazy? You're a singer for a one-hit-wonder band! Your solo stuff sucks! What experience do you have in espionage?"
Pete Burns turned a sparkly and severely disapproving glance to Ziad.
"Ziad, my dear . . . Do you think The Man would have sent me here on a very important and dangerous mission if I were just a celebrity with a propensity for bad plastic surgery? Ha. No. I've been working for the Russian foreign-intelligence agency Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noy Upravleniye, or GRU, since 1979. And one-hit-wonder? I'm offended. Even Uday Hussein likes my song."
"And Uday Hussein makes Caligula look like a Hasidic Jew."
"Watch yourself, Ziad. You're in Hollywood right now."
Pete Burns put on his celebrity expression, pushed open the gate to the mansion, and entered. Ziad said a quick prayer and followed.
"But shoot it in the right direction. Make making it your intention-ooh yeah . . ."
Pete Burns took control of the party. He spun that party right round like a record baby, right round round round. Unfortunately, the hosts of the party decided to play that song.
While sipping ice water and staring forlornly at the massive pool, Ziad heard someone take a seat next to him on the pool's edge.
"Why do you sit by yourself and sip water?" said a woman's voice in a heavy French accent.
"Oh God, my God, why must you test me so? I beg you, return me to a normal life and I swear I shall never sin again." muttered Ziad in Arabic.
"Bonjour, I am Audrey Tautou. You may have seen my films?"
Ziad turned to the woman, who turned out to be a pretty dark-haired girl of about twenty.
"I haven't seen a movie since 1993. It was a Hezbollah propaganda film about how to strip and clean an AK-47 and use it to kill the dirty Zionist Israeli pigs, and how, if all else fails, I should throw myself onto the Israeli bayonets to martyr myself for Allah."
Audrey Tautou's mouth swung in the wind. She attempted to jam a cigarette in her open mouth to lessen the awkwardness, but instead simply crushed the thin cancer-stick into one of her teeth, spilling tobacco into the pool.
"I haven't seen that one," she rebounded, "is it good?"
"Well, I can strip an AK-47 in less than thirty seconds, I know how to set detonators in improvised explosive devices, and I know how best to waste my life in a fruitless unwinnable war against a people who are essentially identical to myself, so yes, I think it was good."
Ziad was not feeling generous or flirtatious.
Luckily for the hapless French actress, Pete Burns swept down, grabbed Ziad by the collar, and wrenched him away.
"Sorry, Audrey, but my friend Ziad here can be such a kill-joy." he simpered.
"Ah, Pete, so good to see you." said Audrey.
Pete gave a fake smile at her before whispering to Ziad, "Check upstairs. 'Frankie' is here. I need you to plant this-" Pete handed Ziad a small object, "-it's a small microphone- near 'Frankie.' Okay?"
Ziad sighed, "And what does 'Frankie' look like?"
"You'll know."
Ziad sighed, took the tiny microphone, and made his way through the boozed-up crowd of celebrities, has-beens, and have-nots, to the staircase. He slowly crept up the stairs, wand gripped in his hand. He contemplated simply portkeying to some tropical island and living his life as the sole Imam in the Bahamas, or starting a Madrassah in Jamaica, but remembered that Shlomi was still in the hands of The Man and the Russians, or whoever it was The Man worked for.
Ziad steeled himself, then turned the last corner and stepped onto the last step. He heard a faint rhythmic thumping noise behind one of the three doors on the landing. He crept over to the door and leaned down to slide the microphone under the crack beneath the door.
The door opened.
Ziad glanced up.
"Shit."
"Relax."
Ziad sat across the table from the interrogator.
"Ah, I see now." said the interrogator. "That is why you are now here, in my interrogation room, being asked questions by me. I have heard that Agent Khan is very efficient with his tranquilizers. Agent Khan overheard your discussion with the singer Pete Burns, spread the rumor that 'Frankie' was upstairs engaged in something, and then tranquilized you when he saw you planting the bug? You were then stuffed into a suitcase and flown to a secret base in Kashm- um . . . Nowhere . . . and stripped of your wand. You were then flown here to Delhi for this interrogation."
"I know no other way to state it more concisely. You are correct." said Ziad, chewing on another donut. He belched.
The interrogator grimaced.
"Off the record," he said, changing the subject, "Who's better at being mysterious and spy-movie-esque, the Russians or us?"
"The Russians, hands down. You Indians just don't have as much experience with the whole, you know, James Bond, KGB-type thing that the Russians or Americans have. No offense, of course. You'll be there eventually."
The interrogator looked crestfallen.
"But tracking me down to Hollywood? That is damn good. You may not be as filmesque as the Russians, but damn, you have good intelligence."
The man looked noticeably happier.
"Although . . ." began Ziad, "I think I know why."
"Go on?"
"Patil."
"Sorry?"
"Mr. Patil."
The man looked worried, and glanced at the mirror behind Ziad.
"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Ziad just smiled.
"Well, it has been a most fruitful day." said the interrogator, "The guards will now take you to your cell. Rest assured that your wand has been snapped and the pieces burned. You are stuck here. I hope you enjoy your brief stay here in Delhi, and may God have mercy on your soul."
"I'll be out of here soon. McCormack will find me, or Patil will learn I am effectively innocent. You mark my words . . ."
The Indian man gathered his papers and tape recorder and stood, brushing donut crumbs off his uniform.
"You're speaking gibberish. Trust me, for the crimes you committed against this nation, you will be punished."
Ziad laughed.
"Even Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts is better than you at intimidating people, and they're eleven years old. Twelve now, I suppose."
Three armed guards entered the interrogation room and dragged Ziad through the doors and to his cell. The cell was already occupied by a pale-faced man with long blond hair.
The man glanced up. Recognition dawned in his eyes.
Ziad laughed mirthlessly and turned to the guards.
"You guys are so fucked."
The guards wordlessly locked the door.
"Hello, Director." said the man, voice heavy with a thick Irish accent.
"Hello, Dave. What are you doing all the way in Delhi? Stingers not working out for you?"
Author's Note:
Whew, finally bringing it back to some plots I opened up a long time ago.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.