The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 12)
It could have been worse—he could have been killed in that library, he could have been cut up in little pieces, maimed, scarred for life at the end of that crazy man’s hook. He could still be in jail, pacing that ridiculous five-by-five cell till the hairs on his head turned gray, thinking up cute names for the roaches that would creep out from under his bed to steal the crumbs from the corners of his mouth whenever he dozed off.
He was sure Mike Hammer had never experienced anything like what he had been through the last few days—not Hammer, not Shell Scott, not Travis McGee. It was the kind of adventure that would have made Jessica Fletcher wet her pants. He had thrown a shoe at the notorious Sheikh Riyadh ul-Haq, he had been arrested for breaking into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office in Lambeth, he had insulted Abu Hamza-al-Masri and because of that he now had a fatwa hanging over his head. How could he have done all that in such a short span of time without trying? It was a mystery.
He was lucky to be alive; he was lucky to be in one piece. It was Algernon A. Algernon who had saved his butt. The breaking and entering charges had been dropped—thanks to Algernon and his friends in M15 and to James Bond, too, no doubt. The Archbishop’s papers were back in the Archbishop’s safe and Piffy was free—free to go back to the States.
The search for Yaser Abdel Said was over. It was a shame. It had never got off the ground but he had to think of himself for a change. He knew when he was licked. Sarah and Amina Said would not be avenged. Not by Bernard Piffy. Maybe when he got back to the States he could talk Dan Tanna into taking up the cause though Dan might be too expensive for the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club. Or Edd Kookie Byrnes of the old 77 Sunset Strip gang—he could use the work. Piffy would find somebody. If necessary he would run an ad in the Dogpatch shopper’s guide.
It would be great to get back to the real world, to see Sheriff Wild Bill Bascomb and the old gang again. Rope a few calves, bust a few broncos, maybe ride an alligator. And would he have the stories to tell!
He went out to Heathrow, made reservations for Friday, found a nice little diner and settled down for some fish and chips with malt-vinegar Mayonnaise. With a little rhubarb pie and chickpeas fried in breadcrumbs he would have been in Hee Haw heaven.
He
was finishing the last of his chips, glancing down at the Daily Mail that lay on
the table alongside his plate, when suddenly he smelled cordite! Something curdled in his stomach! Oh, no,
not cordite, please not cordite! But it was! And phosgene too!
He looked up as
nonchalantly as he could. He was not as distressed as Fay Wray was on getting her
first glimpse of King Kong or Lou Costello on
discovering he was sitting in the lap of the Frankenstein
monster, it was more like a Boston Red Sox fan watching the ball roll
through Bill Buckner’s
legs in a World Series game. It was the kind of feeling a Captain of an oil tanker
would get after taking a torpedo in the galley on the Murmansk Run in 1941-42. He had
been there before.
It was the 9/11
twins, Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour. While he had been enjoying his first
decent meal in three days, they had sidled up unbeknownst. They were all
smiles. Atta pushed in alongside him, Honjour plopped down on the opposite side
of the table.
“Fancy meeting you
boys here,” said Piffy. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to be
blunt about this, Kuffar swine,” said Atta. “We want to make a deal. We can be
generous. It’s up to you.”
“If it’s about the
toenail clippings,” said Piffy, “I don’t have them, I don’t know where they are
and I don’t care where they are.”
“We know that,”
said Atta.
“Okay,” said Piffy.
“I don’t have the fleas either and I don’t know where they are and I don’t care
where they are.”
“We know that, too”
said Atta. “It’s not about the clippings or the fleas.”
“You’re wasting
your time,” said Piffy. “I don’t know anything about anything. I’m going back
to the States. I’m through looking for Yaser Abdel Said. I’m sorry I threw the
shoe at ul-Haq. It was an accident. I’ve got reservations for Friday.”
“You’re leaving?”
said Atta. He glanced at Hanjour. They were puzzled.
“You bet I am!”
said Piffy. “I wouldn’t give a dried goat’s pizzle for all the fleas in
Mohammed’s beard.”
Hanjour scowled,
muttered something under his breath.
Atta stood up. He
was smiling. Well,” he said, “that’s a load off our minds. We thought we would
have to pay you to leave. Bon voyage.”
“Pay me?” said
Piffy. “You were going to pay me to leave? How much?”
Atta smiled—he was
a Cheshire cat perched on a limb. “An unnamed member of the Royal Family said
he would be willing to go as high as a million dollars,” he said.
“A million
dollars?” gulped Piffy.
“One point two
million,” corrected Hanjour.
“But seeing as you
are leaving anyway,” said Atta, “the offer is withdrawn. Of course, if you
return we will be forced to kill you.”
“Yeah, the details
are always in the small print,” said Piffy.
Atta bowed. “Allahu akbar,” he said. They left taking their cordite and phosgene with them.
Well, if that didn’t beat all to hell! A million clams! One
point two million clams! That
would buy a lot of chowder! He stared at the last chip wallowing in what was left of the
Mayonnaise. Should he polish it off or save it as a reminder of his stupidity?
Or should he toss it at Atta and Hanjour? For a moment he considered chasing
after them. But what would he say? I’ve changed my mind? I was only kidding?
I’ll take the million bucks? No, he’d better leave well enough alone. He
swished the last chip in the remaining sauce. Somehow it didn’t taste like the
others. He’d lost his appetite along with the million dollars. He finished his
coffee. He expected to find a dead fly in the bottom of the cup. He remembered
the time he had survived on roots and goat pee in the Sierra Madre. It was sort
of like that. He left a modest tip—a squid or two or maybe it was a farthing.
He didn’t know. What the hell—he wasn’t coming back. He went back to his
apartment over the Red Dragon.
Asma bint
Marwan was waiting for him. He had been wondering when she would show up again. She had shed the Old Hag
routine. He was glad—the
getup had scared the life out of him. She had reverted to Moll Flanders. She
was wearing a thin peasant blouse and a short skirt—a very short skirt. He
couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. He swallowed. This is how Marilyn Monroe must have
looked to JFK. Maybe he should make the sign of the cross. His last meeting
with bint Marwan masquerading as an Old Hag had been less than cordial. He
could see her bra glowing beneath the thin peasant blouse—her time warp between
the 21st Century and the netherworld. He would love to crowd in
there. Maybe she would fly him to the States. Yeah…to the States…
He would have no such
luck.
Bint Marwan was
enthusiastic, exuberant. “I’ve got good news,” she said. “I’ve located a man
who knows where Yaser Abdel Said is hiding.”
“I’m going back to
the States,” he said.
“He’s a member of
the Keeper of the Fleas,” she said. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m going back to
the States,” he said.
“You will really
like this,” she said. “He is not just a Keeper—he is an Elite Keeper. He
carries a secret code on his person that can release the King Flea from its
cage.”
“That’s all well
and good,” he said. “but I’m going back to the States.
Bint Marwan
scowled. “We’ve been through this before,” she warned. “We made a deal. I
promised to take you to Yaser Abdel Said and I intend to keep that promise.”
“As much as I would
like to take a trip in your magic carpet—“ he began
“Magic carpet?” she
said.
”Your bra,” he said. “As much as I
would like to, I’m going to pass.”
This time when she
grabbed him by the arm he didn’t try to pull away. The embrace lasted less than
a few seconds but it was more than enough. Bint Marwan could be very
persuasive.
“Okay,” he sighed.
“Who is this guy and where do I find him?”
“He is very
cautious. He is always on his guard. He runs a Madrassas. You will have to use
a disguise.”
“A disguise?” He
frowned. “Why?”
“Well, you can’t go
like you are,” she said. “You would stick out like a sore thumb. You will have
to pose as a student”
“A student?” he
said. “At a Madrassas? Ain’t I little old for that?”
“I’ve got a plan,”
she said. “If you put your hand on my—ah, magic carpet—close your eyes and
count to ten I can turn you into the little boy you were when you were ten
years old and you will fit in perfectly at a Madrassas.”
“You’re kidding,”
he said.
“Not at all,” said
bint Marwan. “Physically you will be ten years old but you will retain your
current mental capacity and your historical knowledge will remain intact.”
It was ridiculous!
She could do no such thing. “So I’m ten-years-old again,” he said. “Then what
do I do?”
“You enroll in
Ahmad’s Madrassas and when you get the chance, you steal the secret code.”
It was not only
ridiculous; it was preposterous! And he might even go so far as to say stupid.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
But she was too
quick for him. She grabbed his hand and drew it toward her magic carpet. “Now
close your eyes and count to ten,” she ordered.
From the very first
contact something strange began to happen to him. A tingling sensation shot
through his fingers, coursed up his arm, surged through his body, curled his
toes! An incredible euphoria swept over him! He closed his eyes; he could hear
someone counting. He was whirling round and round…a drum was beating…Be-Bop-A-Lula it said…he
was getting smaller, smaller, shrinking into what he had once been…he felt like
crying. Then he went limp; he was loosing it…loosing it…
(To be continued)