Chapter 42
Tehran. A city of millions. Millions of people, living their lives, going about their daily routines. Soldiers wearing blue helmets from the United Nations Observation and Preventative Deployment Force Iran patrolled the streets, speaking Spanish, Portuguese, Bengali, Afrikaans. The local police watched them warily.
And, in the courtyard in front of a small apartment complex deep in the city, a young man appeared as if from thin air.
Not very tall, but not very short either. Black hair cut very short. Olive brown skin made darker with the sun.
Upon closer inspection, one might realize the skin on his arms and torso (a very intimate close inspection, if you're seeing that much. He was wearing a shirt when he appeared, of course) was darkened not just by sun but by the maze of tattoos that blanketed his skin from his neck down to his wrists, across his chest and back and down to his stomach.
Each tattoo was different. Words in Arabic, English, and Indonesian constituted some, while various symbols and images were others.
Upon yet closer inspection, one might notice his crooked nose, broken and never properly healed from some past fight. Scars broke the lines of some tattoos, while one long scar ran from his forehead, over his left eye, and down his cheek several inches.
It was really quite dramatic.
His eyes, however, presented a different vision of this young man.
While his body, while lean and muscled from extensive exercise and general use, presented a vision of hard fighter, a thug, perhaps a career criminal, the young man's eyes instead showed a ray of hope. A vision that somehow his bodily presence was merely an act or a necessity.
Wait, no, that's bullshit.
You can't actually tell that much about somebody from their eyes.
The thing most visually telling about his eyes was that they looked pretty tired. You know, big bags under them, slightly bloodshot. That sort of thing.
So, to sum it all up, you got a kinda scary looking dude appearing out of nowhere and looking up at an apartment building, to a specific window, and looking like he's ready to fuck some shit up.
What shit shall this young man be fucking up?
Well just read the damn story, ok? I'm not gonna spoil it.
Wait, yeah I will.
This young man, obviously, was Ziad Jarrah.
He turned away from the apartment building and began walking with purpose.
He promptly got lost in the alleys and streets.
Ziad turned a corner and bumped into a UN peacekeeping soldier.
"My apologies," he said.
The soldier stopped and stared at him.
"Do I know you?" the soldier said in Portuguese. "You look very familiar."
"I'm afraid not, I don't know any Portuguese soldiers," responded Ziad in Portuguese. The benefits of clockwork-god-given language abilities means Ziad learned Portuguese from reading some books a while ago, or something.
"Yes you do," said the soldier.
"Excuse me?"
"We met briefly in Lebanon last summer. You're that Israeli special forces soldier, aren't you?"
Ziad's mind raced.
"Uhh..."
"Yes! Your name was... Um... Oh, yes, Sergeant Oshri Cohen! What the hell are you doing here?"
Ziad decided to just go with it.
"Yes, that is me. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I do not remember your name."
The Portuguese soldier stood proudly straight.
"Colonel João Vieira, 2nd Lancers Regiment, Portuguese Army."
They shook hands.
"But really, Sergeant Cohen, what are you doing in Tehran?"
"I might ask you the same thing, Colonel Vieira."
"Well, that's easy. After the revolution and overthrow of the Ayatollah, the new democratic government requested UN troops to help them maintain order while they strengthen the government. We're basically here to make sure everything stays stable while they get everything organized. I'm in charge of the Portuguese contingent of UN peacekeeping troops. We've also got troops from Argentina, Brazil, Bangladesh, and South Africa. I'm actually here in Tehran just visiting- my unit is stationed outside Isfahan."
Ziad replied, "You know what, I never asked for a novel, but thank you. I'm here on special business from the Israeli government. Obviously, the future of Iran is of great importance to Israel. Before this recent revolution, the Iranian government provided weapons and training to Hamas, Hezbollah, and PLO terrorists to kill Israelis. They threatened our complete annihilation. So obviously, getting an Israel-friendly Iran is a major victory for us. That is why I am here."
Colonel Vieira nodded with understanding.
"That makes sense. Are you here with the other Israeli agent- his name is Shlomi Bar-Dayan, I believe. He and his wife are working closely with the new Iranian government to develop pro-Western policy."
Ziad froze.
"Shlomi? He's alive?"
Vieira frowned, confused.
"Yes, of course. He's been incredibly helpful for several months now."
Suddenly something Vieira said finally processed through Ziad's brain.
"Wait, did you say 'he and his wife?'"
"Yes, I did. What's her name... Ah yes, Mariam."
Ziad's brain overheated and shut down before restarting.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" he screamed incredulously in Arabic.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak Hebrew," replied Vieira, his face displaying his confusion.
"Mariam. You said Mariam and Shlomi are working together. Where are they now?"
"I'm not sure, I think they're staying at the International Hotel. Why do you ask?"
"I must speak with them. Now."
Ziad began walking furiously.
"It's the other way!" shouted Vieira.
Ziad furiously walked in the opposite direction.
"Dammit, not that way. The other other way!"
Ziad turned on Vieira.
"Point in the right direction, please."
"I'll just drive you there, ok?"
"Ok."
Ziad followed Vieira to his vehicle. Three Portuguese soldiers were leaning against it, smoking cigarettes, rifles casually slung on their backs.
With a nod from the Colonel, they threw their cigarettes on the ground and stomped them out and quickly climbed back into the car. Ziad got in after them.
Vieira got in the front passenger seat. He turned to Ziad.
"At this time of day they'll likely be at the main government building. Are you truly in a hurry?"
"The biggest hurry in the world."
"Oh, good." Vieira turned to the soldier behind the steering wheel.
"Private Sousa, this is where your experience as a Formula One racer comes in handy. Haul ass, soldier. That's an order."
Rubber was burned with great gusto.
The military vehicle screeched to a halt in front of a large, bland, government building.
The two soldiers and Ziad, slowly closed their mouths and opened their eyes.
"Good job, private Sousa. You could have skimmed a few seconds off if you had swerved around that South African tank a little faster, but I was quite amazed when you managed to avoid those schoolchildren. I'll buy you a drink for that."
Ziad quietly said a prayer of thanks that he was still alive.
Vieira turned to Ziad, "Well, here you are. If you need any more help, just call the UN."
"T...Thank you." muttered Ziad.
He opened the door and fell out of the car. He got to his feet and stumbled across the sidewalk and into the building. He pushed open the door and approached the anxious-looking man sitting behind the reception desk.
He heard a vroom sound and the screech of rubber being stressed beyond it is designed to do.
Ziad leaned on the desk.
"Excuse me, do speak Arabic? Or English?" he asked the receptionist.
"Arabic. How can I help you?"
"I'm looking for an Israeli man by the name of Shlomi Bar-Dayan. I heard from a UN soldier that he works in this building?"
"Ah yes, Mr. Bar-Dayan. I believe he's currently in a conference with the President. He should be done in an hour or so. His wife is in her office at the moment, if your business can be carried out with her?"
"Y... Yes, I think that would work."
"I'll call her and ask if she's available for a meeting. May I ask your name?"
"Of course. Tell her... Tell her it's Ziad. Ziad Jarrah."
The receptionist put a phone to his ear and hit some buttons.
He spoke with somebody on the other end of the phone in Hebrew. He nodded and hung up the phone.
"She says she is available for a meeting. She's on the fourth floor, third office down the hall. Just sign in here, please," he pushed a paper and pen across the desk to Ziad, who wrote his name and the time down.
"Have a nice day," said the receptionist.
Ziad entered the elevator and hit the button for the fourth floor.
The doors closed.
The numbers climbed to a great big "4."
The doors opened.
Ziad slowly stepped out and walked down to the third office down.
He apprehensively raised his hand.
"Oh, God, what are you doing to me? What is your plan? Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?"
Ziad knocked twice.
"Come in."
Author's Note:
Oooooh what's happening now?
Well, you'll have to wait for the next chapter, obviously.
This is a cliffhanger worthy of a Korean soap opera. Namely, it's a total ploy.
Anywho, I hope you enjoy the chapter and stay tuned for more.