The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 52)

CHAPTER 52:

THE MIDNIGHT RIDER

Piffy eyed Bonds—Stockton Bonds—from the corners of his eyes. He hoped he hadn’t given himself away by any display of emotion. He was sweating, that was for sure, more than a ten-year-old girl would be expected to sweat and his face was flushed and well it might have been. He was excited.

It was the same box he had held in his hands that night in Yasser Arafat’s Fuhrerbunker—the one that had contained the so-called Sufi Flea; the Flea the adult Bernard Piffy had let loose on mankind. But none of this made any sense. There was no way Bonds could have found the flea, no way he could have known it had been let loose, let alone get it back in the box. It just wasn’t possible. It was either a different flea or an empty box—a hoax!

Besides, it was 2011 and the British Secret Service wasn’t anywhere near what it had once been. Mountbatten and Churchill were dead. Thatcher was in retirement. Socialism had replaced blood sweat and tears with a whining lassitude drenched in fear and Islam had done the rest. An aura of doom lay over England. Any Double Naught Spy with access to Jed Clampett’s bank account could have done a better job preventing 7/7 then the Keystone Kops currently employed by Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

“Can I open it?” asked Piffy.

Bonds smiled. “You had better not,” he warned.

“Just a little peek?” asked Piffy. He would really like to see what was inside.

“No,” said Bonds.

“Please?” said Piffy.

The little girl pout didn’t work and Bonds reached for the box.

“Can I show it to Aisha?” begged Piffy.

The eyes in the wrinkled face said no.

“I’ll bring it right back,” promised Piffy.

“Give—me—the—box,” Bonds said slowly and deliberately, his voice ugly, distant, the voice Dr. No had heard.

Piffy hesitated. With his scant store of feminine wiles depleted there wasn’t much he could do. He was about to return the box when a rumbling sound in the background grew to a loud roar and the sudden blare of a horn cut through the heavy air like D’artagnan’s sword through one of Cardinal Richelieu’s lackeys.

A huge vehicle, a transport of some kind, had turned into the drive leading to the beach house. It was a Midnight Rider, the largest and most luxurious limousine in the world. Piffy had never seen one before and at first he didn’t know what it was. It had five sets of wheels, air-ride suspension, playpen seating and a bathroom. It had a crew of five when fully operational and was capable of holding 40 passengers.

It pulled up in front of the beach house, gave another blast on the horn and the Sheikh came running out, hallowing and waving his arms as if the Spirit of St. Louis had just landed at Le Bourget Field. Aisha and Fatima were right behind him. The driver got out of the cab and bowed to the Sheikh.

Bonds glanced in the direction of the Midnight Rider. “I do believe my valiant SUV is being retired,” he said. Then he turned to Piffy. “Now give me the box.”

Piffy gave him the box. What else could he have done? A make-believe ten-year-old girl in a Bratz bra against the greatest secret agent who had ever lived—he wouldn’t have lasted a minute. He wasn’t The Mouse That Roared; he was Shirley Temple in a borrowed dress.

He picked up his skirts and ran toward the Midnight Rider where al-Kabibble was arguing with the driver.

Yes, instead of being pleased with the presence of the magnificent limo the Sheikh was on the verge of tears. He was wringing his hands; he was sniffling; he was wheezing. The news could not have been worse.

The driver had just informed the Sheikh that the limo’s air-conditioning system was on the fritz. How could that be? It was a brand new limo. It still had chalk marks on its tires! And what did the driver mean—on the fritz? That meant it wasn’t working said the driver but not to worry.

“Not working?” wailed al-Kabibble. “How am I going to get to Cairo if the air-conditioning is not working?”

Piffy perked up. Cairo? They were gong to Cairo? Then he would be able to locate Ka’b in time to put his hand under the poet’s robe and be reacquainted with the real Bernard Piffy, the middle-aged private detective on the trail of the notorious Yaser Abdel Said, the Dallas cabdriver who had murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, and then fled to parts unknown!

Well, Hallelujah! There was a God in Heaven after all!

He would be an adult again—a man! Imagine that! A man! He was tired of being decorous and minding his skirts and doing little girl things. He wanted to do men things—go bowling, shoot craps, hang glide, drink raw eggs!

Okay, maybe he didn’t do any of those things but he would be wearing pants again—long pants, men’s pant. How that would affect his relationship with Aisha he didn’t know. It would probably kill it. Maybe they could work something out. Yeah, he just couldn’t disappear. He would have to say something, wouldn’t he? But what could he tell her? I’m really a grown man in a little boy’s body…

Jeez! Why did life have to be so complicated and death so simple? He snuck a look at Aisha from the corner of his eyes. She smiled at him. He felt like bawling.

“We have augmented the air-conditioning system with fans,” the driver was explaining.

“Fans?” echoed al-Kabibble.

“Yes, fans,” the driver said enthusiastically. “Large fans…several of ‘em…we’ve placed them where they will do the most good. They were used by the U. S. Army in the mess halls at a place called Sukiran on Okinawa in the 1950s. They were purchased from Adnan Khashoggi Ltd. They have been cut down to fit close to the floor. You won’t even know they’re there.”

“Close to the floor?”

“Yes, close to the floor.”

Al-Kabibble had his doubts. “Well, if you say so,” he said.

“The remodeling went well,” said the driver. “You will be pleased.”

“I should hope so,” said the Sheikh.

Piffy raised an eyebrow. They had remodeled a Midnight Rider…a brand spanking new Midnight Rider…the most posh limousine in existence? What on earth for? Donald Trump wouldn’t remodel a Midnight Rider; King Abdullah wouldn’t remodel a Midnight Rider; Jethro Bodine wouldn’t remodel a Midnight Rider; not even Tim the Tool Man Taylor would remodel a Midnight Rider. Not even Red Green…

But the Midnight Rider had, indeed, been remodeled and to al-Kabibble’s own specifications.

A short tour of the mammoth transport confirmed that everything was as it should be and the Sheikh was pleased—inordinately pleased. The three lounges and the full bar had been converted into two bedrooms, a lounge and a moderate-sized bar. And, of course, there were the huge movable fans, three feet in diameter, two in each bedroom and one in the lounge and one in the bar, squatting on the floor, their height having been reduced from six feet to three feet by cutting three feet out of the pedestals. The fans were silent now but when in full operation could be expected to create monsoon winds and enough noise to drown out normal conversation.

Despite the Rube Goldberg air-conditioning system Piffy was impressed—sweaty but impressed. It was steamy in the limo and the fans were lying dormant. He might as well have been lounging on the banks of the Zambezi during the middle of the tsetse fly season as in the Midnight Rider. If he didn’t get out of the limo soon he would float away on his own perspiration.

The Sheikh passed a sweaty hand across his brow. “Better turn on the fans,” he said.

Yes—better turn on the fans. The ceiling was sweating and beginning to drip.

The driver plugged a cord into a socket and the eletricical went shoosting through the wires just like it did on Green Acres and in seconds all six fans—placed in their convenient locations—were blowing up a Kansas windstorm. Piffy’s skirt was tossed over his hips exposing his nylon-lycra rosebud panties.

The Sheikh smiled, much delighted by the sudden and unexpected show, but he was far from pleased with the gale force winds and while Piffy was using both hands to control his Southern exposure, the Sheikh turned angrily on the driver. “This will never do!” he cried. “What were you thinking?”

The driver was apologetic. “It’s not as bad as it seems,” he said. “The secret is to use only a couple of the fans at one time. Say—one in the bedroom and one in the lounge…something like that.”

The Sheikh sighed. “Well, so be it,” he said, still titillated by the sight of the ten-year-old girl with her skirt over her hips. Soon…soon, this lovely little Lolita would be his.

“How soon before you leave?” asked the driver.

“It will be a while yet,” said al-Kabibble. “I’ll have to get my things out of the other limo.”

The driver unplugged the fans and the Sheikh and his entourage filed out of the Midnight Rider.

“Cairo!” thought Piffy. “Cairo! Hallelujah!” It would be great to be normal again.

Al-Kabibble went to the beach house to see to Hanadi and his fermenting kumis and the driver to the cab to bring his log up to date. Aisha and Fatima, chattering excitedly, hurried to the large bedroom to gather their meager belongings and to prepare for the surprise trip to Cairo.

With nothing to do and with time on his hands, Piffy went to the ‘old ‘ limo to retrieve General Patton. He had hidden the weapon behind one of the TVs. It was still wrapped in a towel inside the shopping bag. He would hide it somewhere in the Midnight Rider.

He took the Single Action Colt .45 1873 Army Revolver from the shopping bag and stuck it in the waistband of his panties. Well, that would never do. What he needed was a holster. Yeah, a holster—he would be Kim Darby in True Grit; wouldn’t he look nice.

When he was sure no one was looking, he slipped over to the Midnight Rider and stuffed General Patton, the towel and the shopping bag under the mattress in the first bedroom. That wouldn’t be too hard to remember.

He was stepping out of the limo when he saw Duldul approaching from the wood. He ducked back inside the vehicle. He made it just in time.

Duldul stopped alongside the Midnight Rider less than a foot and a half from where the ten-year-old was hiding. He appeared nervous and kept looking over his shoulder. Within seconds the man who had driven the Midnight Rider to the beach house joined him.

Piffy sucked in his breath. He was in a perfect position to hear what they would say.

“Did you get the box?” the driver whispered anxiously.

“No,” said Duldul. “The girl wouldn’t cooperate and Hamas showed up. Someone must have tipped them off. We’re going to try again tonight. I’ve hired two of the toughest Mujahideen in Gaza. We ought to be able to handle that damned old fossil.”

”Which one of the girls did you approach?” asked the driver. “The one with the shiny underpants?”

Duldul frowned. “Which one is that?” he asked.

“The one the Sheikh has the hots for,” said the driver. “He drools when he looks at her. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No,” said Duldul. “I’m not into child molestation.”

The driver laughed. “Are you are going to tell me you’re not familiar with the books the Sheikh has written?” he asked.

“No,” said Duldul. “I do not read the prattlings of old fools.”

“He pays well,” said the driver.

Duldul nodded at the Midnight Rider. ‘Where did you get those fans?” he asked. “I could hear them from the wood. They could wake the dead.”

“Khashoggi purchased them from a US Army surplus store,” said the driver. “They must have been forty years old when he bought them. They’ve been sitting around one of his warehouses; the US Army condemned them because of water damage and corrosion caused by high humidity. If you press your fingers against the wires that are supposed to keep your hand out of the fan the wires will collapse. You have to be careful around them. Khashoggi made a lot of money on them. I didn’t think there were any of them left. This must be the last of them.”

Duldul glanced toward the beach house. He had caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. “The Sheikh’s coming!” he said. “We shouldn’t be seen together. I’ll see you when it gets dark.”

The driver took off for the front of the Midnight Rider and Duldul headed across the sand toward the wood.

Piffy slipped out of the limo. He was gasping for breath and soaked to the skin. He must remember never to hide in the Midnight Rider unless the fans were going.

He looked toward the beach house expecting to see the Sheikh hurrying toward him.

But it wasn’t the Sheikh—it was Wheatley W. Wheatley. There was no mistaking the black whipcord pants, the black slouch hat, the high-button shoes, the coiled whip attached to the belt, the Gothic eye shadow—she was Elvira on the loose, the Wicked Witch of the East on the prowl, built low to the ground, heavily endowed in front with enough ballast in the rear to keep a sinking ship afloat for days; she was grim and determined, Circe in search of a victim.

She stopped short at the sight of the ten-year-old girl. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “let me guess. You’re the little girl in the Katzenjammer Kids. Or did Ellen Degeneris sprinkle you with fairy powder?”

“It’s me, “ said Piffy. “Bernard Piffy.”

“I know who you are, kid,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” She looked the ten-year-old over carefully. “Where did you get the duds? Did Little Orphan Annie have a fire sale?”

“It’s a disguise,” said Piffy.

“I should hope so,” said Wheatley.

“There have been complications, “ he said.

“You’re telling me?” she said

“I’ve got to warn Bonds—Stockton Bonds,” said Piffy. “He’s driving the other limo.”

Wheatley frowned. “Bonds?” she said.

“Duldul intends to kill him.”

“So will you when you find out what Mr. Six-and-seven-eights has been up to,” she said.

Piffy did not like the way she was staring at him. He tugged at his skirt. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve come to warn you,” she said.

“Warn me?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Algernon says they had one hell of a big conference in London last week. All the big shots were there—from the government, the secret service, the Church of England, the Exchequer, everybody that counts and they were talking about renewing Bonds’ license to kill; the one the Socialists took away from him a couple of years ago.”

“Wow!” said Piffy. “That’s great! They’re finally going to do something about terrorism!”

“Don’t you wish,” said Wheatley. “They weren’t discussing terrorism—they were discussing you, kiddo, in your various manifestations. You have become an embarrassment to the Crown. They called in Ramadan and ul-Haq and Bunglawala for their input, and that other guy—what’s his name—oh, yeah, Abu Hamza al-Masri and now they’re considering renewing Bonds’ license to kill. And the only person they were talking about was Bernard Piffy. Ever hear of him? Bernard Piffy? If you have, tell him to watch out.”

“A license to kill Bernard Piffy?” said Piffy. “That’s ridiculous!”

Yes, it was ridiculous! He hadn’t done anything! He hadn’t hurt anybody! Sure, he had accidentally broken into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace and had thrown ham at Abu Hamza and there was the Cro-Magnon he had shot dead in the basement of Ahmad’s Madrassas and the member of the Saudi Royal family he had punched out on the Kharma With Darma Show…and the attempted kidnapping of Aisha but that was a bum rap

“You’re a member of an International Gang, kid, a gang of Bernard Piffies,” said Wheatley. “And it’s terrified the hell out of them. You come in all ages and sizes and you all have the same fingerprints. Now ain’t that a puzzler? They don’t exactly know what you’re up to but it must be bad because the Asians have complained so they have sent out their best.”

“Does Bonds know that I’m Bernard Piffy?” he asked.

“No,” said Wheatley. “But if I were you I wouldn’t bend over too often in his presence.”

The ten-year-old blushed. He would have to be more careful with what he displayed around Agent Six-and-seven-eights. He’d been a bit careless with his skirt and there were times when he had pranced around like a boy. Maybe he should ask Aisha for a pair of cargo pants or Capri shorts though where she would get them he didn’t know.

But so far Bonds hadn’t caught on to his masquerade. Apparently the old geezer had seen what he had wanted to see—a prepubescent Honey Rider with a shy grin and flirty, flirty eyes.

As long as he kept his ten-year-old body within the boundaries of his Bratz bra and nylon-lycra rosebud panties he should be able to get to Cairo before Humbert Humbert could figure out who he was.

“I wish I could have brought you better news, kid,” said Wheatley.

Piffy sighed and tugged at his skirt

“You’re not scared now, are you?” she asked.

Scared? Bernard Piffy sacred? Her Majesty’s Government was considering giving Stockton Bonds—his one-time idol—a license to kill him. Was he scared?

Sure, he was scared. He had been scared before. It was kind of fun being scared. It was being terrified that bothered him and if he had known what Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble had in store for little Krista he would have been more than terrified, he would have been petrified.

But Bonds…he was an old geezer…he could handle him…

Sure, he could handle him. He was Bernard Piffy, wasn’t he?