Chapter 34
"Well... That was fun," sighed Ziad.
"Yeah... Wow. Unexpectedly so," said Parvati.
"'Unexpectedly?' Excuse me?" asked Ziad, hurt.
"I mean... I didn't exactly know what was going on half the time. I'm not exactly experienced. Quite the opposite, really. That was my first time, after all."
"Same here, but you don't just go telling a guy that you didn't expect him to be good!"
"That's not what I- You know what, forget it. I'm getting dressed."
"Suit yourself."
Parvati stood up and began re-clothing herself. Ziad watched, appreciatively.
"So, I don't particularly want to stay at Hogwarts. Or Great Britain, for that matter," he said.
"Neither do I. I can't leave Padma here, though. And I'd feel pretty awful abandoning magical Britain to You-Know-Who"
Ziad sat up and began gathering his clothes.
"I don't intend to abandon them either. I do intend to get help to make it easier to get rid of Ol' Voldie. I have some friends in Argentina I can call on, and I'm sure that in a few months I can rustle up some badass posses to come in and ruin the Death Eater's day."
He decided against wearing the suit and instead dressed himself in the military clothes. He didn't expect to be staying at Hogwarts for much longer.
"And I need to figure out what happened to Shlomi. I won't be happy in any life if I don't know whether he's dead or alive. He's like a brother and a father figure rolled into one sarcastic asshole of a package. Plus he'd be very useful in taking down the baddies."
He finished lacing up his boots. He folded up the suit and packed it into the duffel bag.
"I have a proposition for you, Parvati."
"Shoot."
"You stay here. Keep an eye on Padma and keep me informed through owl about what's happening. I'll get you some good protection- guns, ammunition, explosives, and other weapons you can hide somewhere safe to be used if necessary. I'll also get you some useful literature about guerilla warfare, espionage, sabotage, and general firearm safety."
"Do you think I should come to Hogwarts next year? Dumbledore may not have been an upstanding guy, but he was protecting us against You-Know-Who."
Ziad contemplated this.
"Obviously, it's up to you. Free country, after all. But not for long, I think. If You-Know-Who is taking over, it'll presumably become basically a pseudo-Nazi or pseudo-Stalinist totalitarian regime. You should be safe so long as you're not caught doing anything revolutionary. I'd argue that you should come next year. I want a contact on the inside."
Ziad finished packing his bag.
He walked over to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and gave one last look at Parvati.
"Meet me outside your house on the first day of summer, at midnight. I'll have your weapons."
"I hope you'll keep your other package ready."
"Please don't talk like that. Anyway, I'll be back."
Ziad walked with a purpose out of the castle and away from the boundaries that prevented fast travel.
A plan was formulating in his head. A beautiful plan that just couldn't fail.
Which meant, he realized, that it would inevitably fail.
He also had an ominous feeling about saying 'I'll be back!' to somebody. That almost always meant he would not, in fact, be back.
Ziad dearly hoped to defeat that particular literary and cinematic trope.
Ha ha ha, Ziad, you poor bastard. You don't know who you're fuckin' with.
Ziad's first destination was Shlomi's house in Jerusalem. Just in case Shlomi had escaped and gone home.
Nope. No Shlomi. Not particularly surprising, really. Ziad decided to use Shlomi's house as a staging point.
Okay, where next?
That warehouse in Russia. Ziad filled duffel bag after duffel bag with guns, ammunition, and equipment.
Shlomi's house soon resembled some sort of terrorist hideout. Which it kind of was, really.
Next stop, a public library. Not exactly badass-central, but Ziad managed to steal a number of books on the topics he had discussed with Parvati. Shlomi had some good books as well, that Ziad put in the care package.
Ziad then ate a nice dinner before traveling to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to try and find Captain Karpukhin. After searching the city for several days, he discovered that the Captain had been hired by an Indonesian security firm and was working in Jakarta.
Well, a quick look at a postcard of Jakarta and Ziad was there.
The heat, the humidity, the sun. Such fun.
One thing Ziad hadn't anticipated was the fact that the Indonesian government had not forgotten the disappearance of twelve of its prime soldiers.
Don't tempt fate, Ziad. I am fate. You have tempted me.
Ziad was walking through downtown Jakarta, looking for the address he had obtained in Buenos Aires when a knife was put to his throat and fingers ran through his pockets.
His wand was taken.
Crap.
An officious-looking man wearing a badge labeled "POLISI" swaggered up to Ziad.
"My name is Bunawar. You fucked with us. Now we fuck with you."
Ziad's hands were rapidly handcuffed.
"What are you even arresting me for?" yelled Ziad as he was shoved into the back of a police car.
"Suspicion for the murder of Indonesian soldiers. If convicted, the penalty is death. If not, well, we can still put you in prison for a very long time based on immigration policy. You are illegal, after all."
"Wait... How on earth could you possibly know who it was who killed- er- was involved with the disappearance of those soldiers? There were no survivors- I mean- I'd assume there were no survivors."
Bunawar spoke to him through the open car window.
"There was another man taking a piss, and was therefore a hundred metres or so behind the rest of the squad. He heard gunfire and saw you, of all people, talking to FALINTIL. He took a nice picture, even. We've been looking for you ever since. I believe the Indian government still wants you, Mr. Jarrah. But we want you all to ourselves."
The car sped away.
Indonesian prison is not fun.
Admittedly, no prison is fun. But in this prison, Ziad didn't speak the language, nor was he too happy with the heat and humidity.
Oh, and it's a prison. Things weren't too happy in there.
First he got beat up because... Well, he had no idea.
Then he got beat up again. It became routine.
After one beating he was limping back to his cell to get some rest when a tall man pulled him aside and spoke to him in Arabic.
"I see they were not lying... another Arab at last. My name is Bejo."
He extended his hand.
Ziad cautiously shook it.
"My name is Ziad Jarrah. I'm Lebanese."
"Ah... Lebanon. My mother was Saudi, my father Indonesian. Hence, I can speak both languages."
"Quite well, actually."
"Thank you. I've been practicing."
Bejo put an arm around Ziad's shoulder and spoke conspiratorially.
"Look. I was in a similar position as you when I first came here. They didn't like that I seemed foreign. Nor did they like who I had killed to get in here."
"And who was that?" asked Ziad.
"Oh, just the scumbag son of some scumbag crime lord named Tama. Admittedly, I too am a scumbag, but at least I don't cloak myself in the veneer of humanity like Tama and his ilk. Tama's men make up most of this wing of the prison, unfortunately."
They had made their way to Ziad's cell.
"I can put you in touch with somebody who can help. He's... A bit crazy, yes? He can teach you what you need to know."
Ziad leaned against the bars of his cell.
"And what do I need to know?"
"You'll learn. He will meet you tomorrow. I've arranged with the guards to have him as your cellmate."
Bejo leaned close.
"I intend to get rid of Tama's men and take over this prison. Then, when I am released insha'allah, I can get rid of Tama himself and begin my rise to power. To do that, I need help. I sense in you a fire that I need. Join with me, and hopefully you won't die in the next week."
"Fair enough."
They shook hands once more, and Bejo left.
Ziad entered his cell and lay down on the thing mattress.
"Can I please just have my plans work out, just once?"
Nope.
The next day the prison guards arrived at Ziad's cell with another prisoner.
He was a small man with a lined face and long hair tied back in a ponytail.
The only words he said were, "Mad Dog," in heavily accented English.
"Hello, Mad Dog," said Ziad in English and Arabic. No response.
Mad Dog lay down on his mattress and fell asleep.
An hour or so later, Bejo arrived at the cell door and spoke through the bars.
"He will teach you Pencak Silat. He is without a doubt the best there is. Nobody ever fights him anymore because they always lose."
"What the bloody hell is Pencak Silat?"
"An Indonesian martial art. It works quite well. Please, let Mad Dog teach you."
"How can he teach me if I can't talk to him?"
"He speaks English. Not very well, but passably. You will learn Indonesian, too. I can teach you. Come, you have much to learn."
Author's Note:
I'm bored and sick, okay. I'm allowed to write two chapters a day. Too much free time spent lying down.
This is not what I was originally planning to have happen, but I like it better than the original plan. The original plan sucked.
Plus I've now seen The Raid 2: Berandal twice in theaters. Without a doubt my favorite movie of all time, and since my story is pretty much all references, I feel justified in heavily referencing my favorite movie.
I'm afraid Ziad's story will get increasingly dark the more I see where his story leads him. I like the progression from the light-hearted nonsensical whimsy of the first chapters. Yet at the same time I'm afraid I'm straying from the original purpose of the story.
Either way, I hope the two or three people who actually read this are enjoying it.