The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 56)

CHAPTER 56:

TWINKLE TOES

Piffy should have been thankful the skylight was made of plastic and not of glass, that the Mujahideen who had crawled atop the Midnight Rider hadn’t sprayed the little compartment with bullets from their AK-47s: that they hadn’t lobbed hand grenades down on them or poured boiling oil on their heads! But it was bad enough.

The “Allahu akbars!” spewing from their bearded lips would have ruined a surprise party for the Devil in Dante’s Inferno, made Herr Goebbels forget to shout “Heil Hitler!” on das Fuhrer’s birthday.

The ten-year-old grabbed Aisha by the hand and dragged her from the bed as the plastic from the shattered skylight showered down on them.

The Mujahideen came next. It should have been a soft landing but the mattress had more bounce to the ounce than a Mexican jumping bean as Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble had discovered to his utter mortification.

The second Mujahid through the skylight hit the bed, lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. Somewhere along the way he lost his AK-47. He got up with an embarrassed grin on his face.

The weapon bounced across the floor and landed close to Piffy’s feet but not close enough. The other Mujahideen got there first.

Twinkle Toes retrieved his AK-47.

The kid was trapped! He couldn’t run and there was no place to hide! He grabbed Aisha and they clung to each other. He was in for it now! They were two plug-uglies that had accompanied Duldul when the ex-donkey master had accosted the ten-year-old near the little outhouse at the edge of the wood.

The younger one—Twiinkle Toes—was grinning from ear to ear and waving his AK-47 as if he had just stormed the Playboy Mansion and had liberated Little Annie Fanny and Wicked Wanda from a fate worse than death. But it wasn’t long before the grin on his bucolic face turned to a scowl. It wasn’t Little Annie Fanny and Wicked Wanda he had rescued. It was two terrified little girls in pretty dresses clinging to each other! He was confused. What in the hell was this? Where were the grown women with the long limbs and the big breasts he had been promised—the temporary marriages? Where were the spoils of war? This was supposed to be Jihad, wasn’t it?

The big dumb schmuck gaped at the two little girls. There had to be some reward for the risks he was taking. It couldn’t be all work and no play. It would make him a dull boy. It was inconceivable that he should have to wait till he reached Paradise for the spoils of war. It didn’t make sense!

“Preserve their chastity,” said the Qur’an. “Except with their wives and the slave girls they possess—for which there is no blame.”

No blame!

Their wives and their slave girls…that’s what it said, but there were no wives and no slave girls here—only children. He had been misled. It would take a dozen of these little girls to make a Yasmin Fostok, a Britney Spears!

He had sacrificed much to become a Mujahideen. He had given up a career as a stable hand; he had trained hard—and for what…for this?

He should have heeded the words of Mostafa Pourhammad, Iran’s brilliant Minister of the Interior. A very wise man, Pourhammad—he had written extensively on the situation in which Twinkle Toes and a million other Muslim men just like Twinkle Toes found themselves. He should have heeded the warning.

“We have to find a solution to meet the sexual desire of the youth who have no possibility of marriage,” wrote Pourhammad.

How true. Twinkle Toes had plenty of sexual desire and no possibility of marriage!

If those men rioting in the streets of Cairo—all good Muslim men—had women to meet their sexual desires, to provide a possibility for marriage things would be different! Women would give them something to do. If they had women to occupy there time they wouldn’t have to hang around the mosque all day; they wouldn’t have to throw stones at the Copts and curse the Jews and the Americans. They wouldn’t have to sneak off to Internet cafes to sate their sexual desires by viewing pornography. They would have women!

But the women were kept hidden from them, tucked away in private homes and harems. And when they did appear in the streets it was under tons of burqas and nikabs! It wasn’t right!

He might as well be rioting in the streets of Cairo or Tripoli. He wasn’t any better off than they were and he was a Mujahideen. A Mujahideen! How was he to find a mate, even a temporary one when all the women were hidden from him? It was like Pourhammad said. It was confusing.

“And all married women (are forbidden unto you) save those (captive) whom your right hand possess”

What did he possess?

“Force not your slave-girls to whoredom if they desire chastity, that you many seek enjoyment of this life. But if anyone forces them, then after such compulsion, Allah is oft-forgiving.”

Yes! Oft-forgiving!

He looked at Piffy and then at Aisha. They were young—but perhaps not that young. They were his captives, weren’t they? He had captured them—no one else had. They were beginning to flower. It was possible…and Allah was oft forgiving. And when they were through with this day’s work they would kill everybody and burn the Midnight Rider. So what did it matter?

The other Mujahid was the boss. He was older; more stable, there was no nonsense about him. He didn’t smile and he hadn’t fallen on his face. “Where’s the Sheikh?” he demanded gruffly.

Piffy pointed at the master bedroom.

The Boss slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and strode into the bedroom. He eyed the unconscious man on the bed. “What happened to him?” he asked.

“He had intercourse with a fan,” said Piffy.

“Don’t be funny, Hooriya,” warned the Boss.

Twinkle Toes escorted Piffy and Aisha to the lounge. Fatima saw them coming and ran to the bathroom and bolted the door. Twinkle Toes started after her.

“Forget her,” said the Boss. “We got more important things to do.”

They found Hanadi stuffed under the pool table. They pulled her halfway out.

“Why is she gagged?” asked the Boss.

“Because she has a foul mouth,” said Piffy.

Twinkle Toes eyed the body under the burka. What he could see was tempting. If Allah willed it she could be his temporary wife. He would have to untie her. He looked at the knots. He would need a knife. Maybe when the Muslim Brotherhood seized control things would be better. Maybe…

The Boss nudged Hanadi with his foot. He looked at Twinkle Toes. “Isn’t she the one that was supposed to marry the Sheikh?” he asked

“The marriage was cancelled,” said Piffy.

“Nobody asked you, Hooriya,” said the Boss.

“My name is Krista,” said Piffy.

The Boss grabbed the ten-year-old by the wrist. His face was as ugly as the inside of Joe Stalin’s coffin. “Know anything about a lockbox, Krista?” he asked

Piffy yelped; he tried to break free.

Fortunately, a rumbling noise followed by a long wracking cough came from the front of the mammoth limo and the Boss was distracted. He let go of Piffy’s wrist.

The Midnight Rider was coming out of its siesta. The chauffeur had turned on the ignition and the vehicle was shaking gently as the throttle was adjusted.

Slowly the great machine gathered its strength and pulled away from the beach house. It gained speed as it turned onto the highway. Was it the road to Cairo or the road to Perdition?

Stockton Bonds glanced at the cell phone lying on the dashboard. “I’m not used to driving one of these things,” he warned Duldul.

The ex-donkey-master jabbed Six-and-seven-eights in the ribs with his Beretta 85 TS Cheetah. “Drive!” he said.

Bonds pressed his foot to the accelerator and the Midnight Rider settled into cruise speed.

Duldul glanced out the window at the passing scenery.

Bonds studied the former donkey-master from the corners of his eyes. “I don’t have a license,” he said.

“Drive!” ordered Duldul.

“I don’t see so good,” warned Bonds. “That’s why they took my license. I could go off the road and strike a tree or something.” He reached for his cell phone.

“Uh-uh!” warned Duldul. He jabbed Bonds again with the Beretta. “Keep both hands on the wheel or I will blow your brains out.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to do that,” said Bonds, “Who would drive this thing then? Honey Rider?”

Duldul pointed toward a low range of hills. “I want you to make a right turn when we come to the first crossroads. So stay alert…understand?”

Bonds understood. As the vehicle gained speed he appeared to relax. “Well,” he said, “this is like old times. You remind me of Goldfinger’s manservant, Oddjob. Remember Oddjob? He was an unusual chap. He lifted weights and walked on his hands. I believe he could have taken Gorgeous George and Hulk Hogan on the same day. You remind me of him. You watch wrestling? He was electrocuted—poor chap.” He looked at Duldul. “If I were you I would stay away from high tension wires and electro-cardio grams.”

Duldul was not interested in tripping down memory lane with Six-and-seven-eights. “Look, Bonds,” he said, “I’ve got nothing against you. I’m willing to make it as easy as I can. I want the lockbox and the flea. You give me the lockbox and the flea and I’ll let you go. Is it a deal?”

“I don’t have the lockbox with me,” said Bonds. “It’s in the other limo.”

“No, it ain’t,” said Duldul. “We looked.” He jabbed Agent Six-and-seven-eights with the Beretta 85 TS Cheetah harder than before—hard enough to make the old man grunt. “We want the lockbox!”

“Maybe Honey Rider took it,” suggested Bonds.

“Honey Rider?” repeated Duldul.

“Or Holly Goodhead,” said Bonds.

Duldul scowled. It took him a while to figure out who Honey Rider was. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “if she has the lockbox Mach and Moud will find it if they have to turn her upside down and inside out.”

“They’re here?” said Bonds.

“They’re back with the Sheikh and the girls right now,” said Duldul. “Where’d you think they would be?”

Bonds grimaced. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned his little Honey Rider. There was no telling what Allah’s apes and pigs might do to her if they thought she had the lockbox.

“Watch it!” Duldul warned suddenly. “Slow down! Here’s where we turn off! We don’t want to end up in the ditch!”

Whenever the Mujahideen took their eyes from him, even for a second, Piffy edged closer to the bedroom. If he could get his hands on the gun under the mattress he would have a chance. He was sure he could get at least one of them before they knew what he was up to. After that it would be a turkey shoot. He was Mayberry County’s all-time skeet-shooting champion. He was nine-years-old when he won his first State title. He was not much older now, not physically, but he was stronger, quicker and more mature. All he needed was a distraction.

Then the door to the bathroom popped open and Fatima peeped into the lounge! It was the distraction he had been waiting for but no one could have been more distracted then the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra.

Twinkle Toes had been waiting for something to happen. He leapt toward the bathroom and thrust his foot inside the door. The door was wedged open. Fatima screamed!

It was only then that Piffy started for the bedroom and by then it was too late. The Boss swung his AK-47 toward the ten-year old and let loose with a short burst that tore the upholstery where the kid had been sitting to shreds!

Piffy stopped right where he was, a million miles away from the gun under the mattress! His heart was in his throat and his knees were trembling! There was so much white stuff in the air that for a moment he thought it was snowing! But it wasn’t snow—it was stuffing from the upholstery where he had been sitting! He was lucky to be alive!

By then Twinkle Toes had dragged a squealing Fatima into the lounge. “I got her!” he cried. “I got her!”

The Boss motioned with his Ak-47 for Piffy to sit down.

The ten-year-old sank down on the chewed-up cushions. He dropped his hands in his lap. His knees were jumping up and down and he couldn’t swallow. He was sweating bullets. He had had one hell of a close call! His Albert Einstein plan had turned into a Fat Albert pratfall. He wasn’t Charles Bronson; he was Charlie Brown and if he could get his knees to stop shaking he would turn in his Junior G-man’s badge and go home!

Bonds slowed for the crossroads, turned the Midnight Rider onto what amounted to a glorified cow path and accelerated slowly. There was a ditch on one side of the road and a low wall on the other.

It was then that Duldul reached across Agent Six-and-seven-eights for the cell phone. “It’s in the phone, isn’t it?” he gloated. “You’ve hid the lockbox in your cell phone! That’s why we couldn’t find it in the other limo!”

Bonds grabbed at Duldul’s arm. What else could he have done?

The Midnight Rider hit a large stone at the edge of the road and the steering wheel spun out of Six-and-seven-eights’ hands. In a moment the lumbering vehicle was out of control. It crossed the road and plunged into the ditch! It flipped on its side and skidded fifty feet before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust!

And then the engine caught fire!