The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 57)

CHAPTER 57:

SATANIC VERSES

Piffy was in the lounge of the Midnight Rider when it went off the road. He was sitting there, hands clasped in his lap, wondering if he was going to see the light of another day or if this were it, really it, when the tsunami hit and suddenly he was upside down and then right-side up and then upside down again! The air was full of unidentified flying objects. A bottle of Vat 69 glanced off his shoulder and what was left of a champagne glass whizzed past his ear!

But it wasn’t a tsunami, it was only a minor earth tremor and though it seemed to last for minutes it was over in seconds and Piffy was James Dean giggling at the edge of the cliff while the other guy went to his doom.

Everything was askew, the vehicle was on its side and he was on his hands and knees near the entrance to the small bedroom—just where he would have wanted to be if he had had a choice.

Fatima was screaming. Twinkle Toes was lying across one of the sectionals, his head twisted in an absurd angle, his dreams of a temporary marriage gone a-glimmering with a broken neck. Allah had not been kind to him.

Aisha was near the pool table. She was on her feet and appeared no worse for wear and tear but she was frightened. Her mouth was open and she was staring wide-eyed at poor old Twinkle Toes.

The remaining Mujahideen, the Boss, kicked Twinkle Toes in the ribs to see if he were still alive—he wasn’t. He cursed, picked up the dead man’s AK-47 and looked around for an exit. With the Midnight Rider lying on its side, the side door was now in the roof. He would have to go straight up to get outside. He got up on the pool table. He was a very strong man and he was able to open the door. He pulled himself onto what had become the top of the Rider. He took his accouterments with him. He didn’t say good-bye; he didn’t offer anybody a hand.

Piffy grabbed Aisha by the arm. “Are you okay?” he shouted.

“I guess so,” she said.

“Get Fatima out of here!” he yelled. “I’ll be right with you! There’s something I got to get in the bedroom!”

When Bonds—Stockton Bonds—lost control of the steering wheel and the Midnight Rider plunged into the ditch and flipped onto its side he also lost his grip on Duldul’s wrist. Something hit him in the head and blood gushed across his face. He crawled through what was left of the windshield on his hands and knees. A cloud of dust and debris had enveloped the cab. Damn! This was too much like Old Times to be fun. Goldfinger! Dr. No! Blofeld! He had handled them…but that had been years ago.

Then he remembered his gun! He crawled back into the cab to get the Walther P99 from the glove compartment. Egad! How could he have forgotten his gun? It was something one would have expected of Maxwell Smart! Maybe he was getting old…but M had promised him babes…yeah, lusty babes like Honey Rider…

He got his gun and crawled back through the windshield. With the dust and the debris and the blood flooding across his face he could scarcely see! And with his cataracts and the floaters and flashers Duldul would shoot him dead! A third-rate goon like Duldul! What in ignominious end for the greatest secret agent ever!

“I’m over here, Bonds,” gloated Duldul. He had the Beretta 85 FS Cheetah in his hand.

“Damn!” said Bonds.

”Insha Allah!” laughed Duldul.

It didn’t take Piffy long to find General Patton. The gun had popped out from under the mattress and was lying on the floor near the bed. He scooped up the Single Action Colt 45 1873 Army Revolver. There were only three rounds in the chamber. It would be enough—he didn’t intend to miss. The middle-aged brain in the ten-year-old body was in complete control. Danger seemed to bring out the best in him.

“Something’s burning!” screamed Aisha. She was helping a whimpering Fatima toward the rear doors that had popped open during the plunge into the ditch.

“I’ll be right back!” shouted Piffy. He was on the pool table and through the door and onto what had become the top of the Midnight Rider. He was only seconds behind the Mujahideen with the AK-47. The rat-bag was less than twenty feet away looking down at the cab. Smoke was swirling around his ankles.

Piffy could have shot the rascal in the back but that was not the way he operated. He always warned his enemies. “Fill your hands, you sons-of-bitches!” he screamed. It wasn’t accurate—there was only one son-of-a-bitch and his hands were already filled—but it was a great quote and it would give the bastard a chance.

For a moment it looked as if the Boss hadn’t heard the warning. Then he turned and the AK-47 swung toward the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra with the enormous Single Action Colt 45 1873 Army Revolver clutched in her hand. The Boss may have blinked.

Piffy shot the bastard between the eyes. He watched as the wretch toppled over the side of the Midnight Rider; then he hurried forward to see what he had done. When he looked down at the cab, he saw Duldul aiming his Beretta at Bonds—Stockton Bonds. There was no time for a foolish warning of some kind nor did he intend to give one, his well of human kindness had run dry.

He fired at the same time as Bonds and perhaps a fraction of a second after Duldul. The former donkey master missed Bonds by a hair’s breadth. Agent Six-and-seven-eights came nowhere close to hitting Duldul—in fact, he almost shot Piffy, the bullet from his Walther P99 slamming into the Midnight Rider a few inches below the ten-year-olds feet!

Piffy did not miss—ten-year-old Mayberry County skeet-shooting champions never miss. The bullet from General Patton slammed through the back of Duldul’s head and blood and brains sprayed across Agent six-and-seven-eights!

Bonds fired again. The bullet whizzed past Piffy’s head! Good Grief! What the hell was this? Was the old bastard blind?

The Walther P99 cracked again and a third slug slammed into the Midnight Rider a foot to the left of the ten-year-old!

Piffy flopped down on his stomach to get out of the line of fire. Smoke was boiling up from the cab; hot tongues of fire were playing hide and seek in the billows. Bonds must have mistaken him for Duldul! He crawled to the opposite end of the limo. From there he had a good view of the cavalry coming to the rescue.

The Cavalry? What cavalry?

Two armed personal carriers with sirens wailing were racing down the dirt road toward the Midnight Rider! Once upon a time they had been ambulances but Piffy wasn’t fooled. He had read about them in the newspapers. He wouldn’t find Hawkeye Pierce or Trapper John or Margaret Houlihan in the back of either of them. It was the enemy!

The vehicles were two of the 46 ambulances the Arab states had donated to the Palestinian people to upgrade their medical services—ambulances Hamas had seized from the Palestinian Health Ministry and had converted into armed personal carriers to fight the Jews and to terrorize their fellow Muslims when they weren’t begging supplies from the cowardly European nations

Obviously it wasn’t an errand of mercy. They must have been lying in wait or shadowing the Midnight Rider. They meant business .It would be suicidal to stick around for a chat.

Piffy had one bullet left—not a strong bargaining position. He was a middle-aged private detective in the body of a ten-year-old boy and Bonds was an old geezer. They might make a pretty good tag team for a wrestling match at the old folks home but this was Apocalypse Now and the last chopper had left for the States years ago.

It was time to get a move on. He stood up and looked around for Aisha and Fatima. He didn’t see either of them anywhere. He started for the front end of the limo, hoping to find Bonds. He glanced over his shoulder at the Hamas ambulances.

He should have been looking downwards instead of backwards. He fell through the open door! What a stupid fool!

His head hit something on the way down and his stomach slammed into the edge of the pool table! He lost his grip on General Patton. The wind spilled from his lungs and he sprawled across Twinkle Toes. He lay where he had fallen gasping for breath like an eighty-year-old man after a date with Roseanne Barr. It felt like somebody was standing on his chest.

“Bernie! Bernie!” a voice was calling from afar.

It was Aisha! She had come back into the Midnight Rider to get Hanadi. The vehicle was filled with smoke. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat.

By now the ambulances had pulled up alongside the Midnight Rider. Someone shouted a command and a wave of Hamas warriors in black uniforms swarmed over al-Kabibble’s fabulous limo like ants over a Snickers bar. A couple of them had fire extinguishers and they went to work on the flames that had engulfed the front of the vehicle.

Aisha was hovering over Piffy as Hamas swept into the lounge. She straightened the wig on her hero’s head. “Oh, Bernie,” she whispered, “what’s going to happen to us now?”

Hamas cleared the Midnight Rider of its passengers in short order—the living, the dead and the wounded; Aisha, Hanadi, Twinkle Toes, al-Kabibble. Two husky Mujahideen dragged Piffy outside. He was still out of breath, his ribs ached from his collision with the edge of the pool table and there was an angry cut on his forehead—all in all, a normal day.

One of the Mujahideen was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” someone asked.

“We’re using these vehicles for what they were made for,” said the Mujahid.

“What’s that?”

“They’re ambulances, stupid! Don’t you get it? We’re using them for ambulances!”

The second man smiled. “Allah is indeed the most magnificent!” he said.

“Allahu akbar!” someone cried.

Yes, Allahu akbar! God knew best and worked in mysterious ways his wonders to perform—but would He have been so generous had He known the ten-year-old in the dress was a boy—a Kuffar in drag?

Still gasping for breath, Piffy was half-dragged, half-carried to the nearest ambulance. He kept one hand on his wig and the other on the hem of his skirt. The last thing he wanted at this stage of his career was to be publicly outed.

“There’s a couple of dead guys near the front of the limo!” someone shouted.

A man poked his head inside the ambulance. “Hey, Hamza!” he yelled. “They’ve got your sister in the other PC!”

The Mujahideen who had been ministering to Piffy stared at the speaker. “Hanadi?” he said incredulously. “They’ve got Hanadi?”

“Yeah,” said the Mujahideen.

“Is she…is she okay?” asked Hamza.

“Oh, she’s okay, all right,” said the Mujahideen. “And she’s as mad as a hornet stuck in a honey bucket.”

“Allahu akbar!” cried Hamza. He was out the door and on his way to the other ambulance so quickly he left the other Mujahideen exchanging glances.

“Better keep an eye on him, Abdul,” said an officer. “He has threatened to kill those who kidnapped his sister and we want live witnesses more than we want dead bodies—at least for now.”

“Witnesses?” said Abdul. He glanced at Piffy. “What could this pretty little girl know? She can’t be more than nine-ten years old.”

“She could be one of the kidnappers,” snapped the officer.

“A kidnapper? Ridiculous!” said Abdul. “She could dress more modestly, but a kidnapper?”

A kidnapper? Bernard Piffy, a kidnapper? Was the hard hand of Islamic justice about to descend on Mayberry County’s all-time skeet-shooting champion? How could that be? He wasn’t Benjamin Netanyahu! He wasn’t Salman Rushdie? He was just a kid! A ten-year-old kid!

Yes, a ten-year-old kid that had been writing his own Satanic Verses with a Single Action Colt 45 1873 Army Revolver! He had just killed two Jihadists and Hanadi had a big mouth and she would talk and when she talked it would be curtains for the ten-year-old Kuffar in the Bratz bra and the nylon-lycra rosebud panties!