The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 60)

CHAPTER 60:

A CAT NAMED POOBAH

Dr. Haribert ul-Heim stared at the ten-year-old ‘girl’ strapped to the examination table. “Well,” he said slowly, “this is a surprise. Yes, I see what you mean by a wart, Nurse Tungsten. But we have work to do here—so if you will make our patient presentable, I shall proceed with the interrogation. We can worry about the wart later. We will have to tell the ulema.” He smiled. “This could require wart removal surgery. I hope not though. I am too old to learn a new skill.”

Nurse Tungsten smirked. She could have been Keith Olbermann priming for an attack on Sarah Palin. “I thought there was something odd about her right from the start,” she said as she tugged Piffy’s underpants over his hips.

The ten-year-old in the Bratz bra had closed his eyes. He had never been so embarrassed and so frightened at the same time. He felt as if he had just wet his pants like the time Grandma Piffy had caught him and Spud playing show-and-tell games with Darla behind the garage in the Piffy backyard. He ran away from home that day—for two or three hours—and he would have run now if he could have.

He strained as hard as he could against the straps holding him to the examination table but he couldn’t budge—not so much as an inch! It was horrible; it was debilitating! His heart was pounding against his chest like a hammer on an anvil and he was covered with sweat from head to toe.

The hypodermic needle was in and out of his arm so quickly he never noticed it! By the time the middle-aged brain gained control of the ten-year-old body little Opie was dragging him under.

Yeah, dragging him under…the pathetic ridiculous old fool…the dumbest private eye in the world…was going under…

The question and answer session was over in ten minutes.

“A cat named Poobah?” scowled Diabolica Tungsten.

“Yes,” said Dr. ul-Heim. “A cat named Poobah. Our little girl-boy continues to give us the same answers to the same questions and very few of them at that. There’s something strange going on here.”

“What about the wart?” asked Nurse Tungsten “Is it a boy-wart on a girl or a normal boy wart?”

“That’s an interesting question,” mused ul-Heim. “We’ll have to contact Hamas and the local Imams. They’ll want to know the details—what few of them we have. I do not believe the child is a hermaphrodite—if there is such a thing.”

“A hermaphrodite?” smirked Diabolica. Now she was Rachel Maddow. She had had a good look at the child’s immensity. He was a boy.

Ul-Heim nodded. “We have our jinns,” he said, “and they have their she-males.” Perhaps he didn’t care what the child was; he had seen more than he had cared to see the past twenty years. “I ask you—who do you suppose possesses the superior civilization? Islam—or the West?”

“Perhaps corrective surgery will cure the child of what ails it,” suggested Nurse Tungsten.

“It is too early to tell if such an extreme measure will be necessary,” said ul-Helm. “I hope not.”

“I have never assisted at a sex reassignment surgery,” said Nurse Tungsten. “It could be interesting.”

The Doctor turned to the interns. “Take her back to the ward,” he ordered.

“The ward?” said one of the interns.

“You heard me!” snapped ul-Heim.

“But it’s a girls ward!’ said the intern.

“Take her back to the ward,” said ul-Heim. “We don’t know what she is and neither do you.”

The intern shrugged. They freed the ten-year-old from the examination table and half-dragged, half-carried him from the room.

“Well, Nurse Tungsten,” smiled ul-Heim, “how about some coffee and schnapps?”

“I thought you would never ask.” smirked Diabolica.

Coffee and schnapps—it would be like old times. It was obvious the Doctor needed some rest and relaxation. He was moody, unsure of himself. She had never seen him so morose. He had changed since Kosovo and Bosnia. In the old days they had been known as Islam’s Gomez and Morticia—always ready for fun and games after a hard day in the operating room. She would put some spice back into his life or her name wasn’t Diabolica Tungsten.

Beauregard Zolo stopped just inside the entrance to the coffee shop. He leaned on his cane as he studied the crowd. He had been in Gaza City before—more times then he cared to remember. He was staying at the Grand Palace Hotel on Al Rasheed Street. He couldn’t have asked for better accommodations—a beautiful view of the sea, a restaurant, a bar, a clothier and the room service was out of this world. Rooster Cogburn could have had his horse shod and his cat, the illustrious General Sterling Price, shampooed and the Fonz could have got a sprocket for his hog.

The Man from AUNTIE (Authorized United Nations Terrorist and Insurgency Eliminators) was looking for someone in particular. He was looking for Bonds—Stockton Bonds. They had business—important business.

The Man from AUNTIE found Agent Six-and-seven-eights sipping coffee at a table near the kitchen. It was the smallest table in the joint—scarcely large enough for a cup of coffee and a doily. He had a napkin on one knee and he was in the direct line of traffic from the kitchen. Every time the door opened he had to dodge out of the way. He appeared, old, broken down and neglected—used-up. Could this be the man who vanquished Dr. No and Goldfinger?

Zoilo took a deep breath, shook his head sadly and limped across the room, his cane tap-tap-tapping a morose code on the polished floor. He stopped by the little table. “Bonds, I presume?” he asked

Agent Six-and-seven-eights glanced up from his coffee. “Zolo?” he said

“Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?” asked the Man from AUNTIE.

“If you’re willing to pick up the tab you can sit,” said Bonds.

The Man from AUNTIE eyed the tattered remains of the uniform Bonds was wearing. “I heard you’d hired yourself out as a chauffeur,” he said. “What happened? Have a flat tire?”

“Wish I had,” said Bonds. “I ran into some of Prince Charlie’s Asians.”

Zolo dragged a chair to the tiny nightstand. “I heard about that,” he said. “How many kills does this make—86 or 88?”

“I don’t keep track,” said Bonds. “The chaps on the Internet take care of that. They arrange the deceased in alphabetical order. It’s quite interesting. I believe Duldul will fit in somewhere between Hugo Drax and that ugly little bloke that looked like Peter Lorre.”

“That was Peter Lorre,” said Zolo.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Bonds. “If I had killed Peter Lorre I would have remembered it.”

The Man from AUNTIE sighed. “What about this Duldul fellow?” he asked.

“A very nasty chap,” said Bonds. Then he smiled. “If I may say so it was one of the most extraordinary pieces of shooting I’ve ever done. You should have been there. I could hardly see the old bloke through the smoke and the fire from a burning limo. It was worse than Casino Royal. For a split-second I thought I was shooting at a little girl. It was quite frightening. Must have been those damn cataracts.”

Zolo studied Agent Six-and-seven-eights carefully. He could take only so much blarney. He would cut to the chase. “How many Bernard Piffies do you think there are?” he asked.

Bonds raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like trick questions. Zolo was up to something. “One,” he said.

“No, “ said Zolo. “There are three Bernard Piffies.”

“Three?” scowled Bonds.

“Yes,” said Zolo. “Three. After an exhaustive study of all the available evidence AUNTIE has come to the conclusion that there are three, not one, Bernard Piffies—a middle-aged private detective, a young boy and an old man. A troika—a criminal organization—the most successful in the history of the world! AUNTIE believes they have mastered the art of duplicating fingerprints!”

“Duplicating fingerprints?” said Bonds. “G’wan! That’s the kind of stuff you see in the movies.”

“I’m telling you what AUNTIE has told me,’ said Zolo.

“Ridiculous!” said Bonds.

“Maybe,” said Zolo. He glanced round the coffee shop. He appeared nervous.

“On edge?” asked Bonds.

“No,” said Zolo. “I’m just dying for a cigarette. Can I bum one?”

“Bonds laughed. “You wont get one from me,” he said “I’ve been on Nicoderm for years. You ought to try it. Nicoderm and extract from the effluvia of the North Siberian Yak—it’s what keeps me going.”

The Man from AUNTIE frowned. Bonds was pulling his leg. The North Siberian Yak had been extinct for three thousand years. But that wasn’t what bothered him. He was sure he had caught sight of a box of Chesterfields sticking out of Bonds’ breast pocket.

“I haven’t smoked since Honey Rider was knee high to a red-bellied piranha,” bragged Bonds.

Zolo glanced over his shoulder to see if they were being watched. He could bum a cigarette later. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Two of the Piffies are in Gaza City right now,” he said. “Where the old man is we don’t know. He may be dead. The private detective has dropped out of sight temporarily but the boy—he’s about ten-years-old—is currently a patient at the ul-Heim Sanitarium, Rehabilitation Center and Experimental Psychology Laboratory.”

“Really?” said Bonds. He sat up straight. That was where Hamas took his little Honey Rider after the limo had ended up in the ditch! He had went to the Sanitarium and had asked to see her but was told there was no such person there and that if he didn’t leave they would beat the crap out of him.

He had talked to a friend at the UN about his little ten-year-old femme fatale and had been told there was nothing the UN could do about her because the Sanitarium was under the supervision of the Arab League. It was a matter of sovereignty. The UN couldn’t intervene in the internal affairs of a member state. Besides, she was probably dead by now his friend had said.

Bonds could not believe that. He would get in to see her one way or another. He was Bonds—Stockton Bonds.

And now fate was smiling at him—fate in the shape of Beauregard Zolo. A plan was already taking shape in the mind that had foiled Goldfinger, Dr. No and Siegfried. No, it wasn’t Siegfried, it was that other fellow—what was his name? Blofeld?

He would pretend to cooperate with Zolo. He would get into the ul-Heim Sanitarium and Rehabilitation Center and rescue his little Honey Rider while Zolo wasted his time trying to snatch some ten-year-old boy they had mistakenly identified as Bernard Piffy.

It would be like old times. He had already forgotten the trials and tribulations of his three days in the bulrushes. He would need an extra gun and the special shoes he had purchased at the final liquidation sale of the Maxwell Smart estate. He would get in touch with immigration, call Miss Moneypenny…

The Man from AUNTIE broke in. “Have you heard of Dr. Haribert ul-Heim?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Bonds. “A very nasty chap.”

“What do you know about him?” asked Zolo.

“He would make Dr. Mengele look like Doogie Howser,” said Bonds”

Zolo nodded at a table on the other side of the coffee shop. “Don’t look now,” he said, “but there he is—the master of ul-Heim enterprises. The lady with him is Diabolica Tungsten.”

Bonds glanced across the room. It was ul-Heim all right—he recognized the triangular face, the hooded eyes and the beard. But it was the Doctor’s companion that really caught his eye. She was exquisite in a frightening sort of way. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must have a few words with Dr. ul-Heim.”

Zolo watched in amazement as Bonds produced a pack of Chesterfields from out of nowhere and popped one in his mouth.

“I must ask the lady for a light,” said Agent Six-and-seven-eights.

“By all means,” muttered Zolo.

Bonds stood up. He felt twenty years younger. Suddenly it was the 1960s again. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He crossed the coffee shop, stopped at ul-Heim’s table, enjoyed a short conversation, got a light for his cigarette from Diabolica Tungsten and returned to his little nightstand.

“Learn anything?” asked Zolo.

Bonds snuffed his cigarette out on the tabletop. “Ms Tungsten and I have a date for later tonight,” he said.

Zolo looked at his watch. “Our contact from Abu Afaq’s Gaza Agency will be here in a few minutes,” he warned.

Bonds scowled. “Abu Afaq?” he said.

He didn’t like the sound of that a one bit. Had M lost his mind? Calling on Abu Afaq? Had England gone that far down hill? This was not the way Stewart Menzies would have handled things—maybe Benny Hill but not Stewart Menzies! M should be ashamed of himself.

He glanced across the coffee shop at Dr. ul-Heim and Diabolica. The times were a-changing. One of these days he would wake up in the morning and learn M had hired Barney Fife to load his gun for him. He didn’t need any help. He was Bonds—Stockton Bonds.

Sure, he had taken a few years off, went on sabbatical, toured the world, rode the tsunami, sewed his fourth generation of wild oats, sort of lost track of things…

And suddenly they were serving halal food in the prisons and Prince Charlie was talking about how immigration from Pakistan was going to put new life into Merry Old England and “Allahu akbar” had replaced God save the Queen in the streets of England. Maybe he had outlived his usefulness; maybe he was an anachronism waiting for a pedestal at Delphi.

In the meantime Zolo droned on and on:

“If we’re going to penetrate the ul-Heim Medical Center and grab the youngest of the Piffies,” said the Man from AUNTIE, “we’ll need all the help we can get. We’ll need scale maps and vector finders. We’ll need to know the security arrangements, the locations of the surveillance cameras and the dead zones; we’ll need to know how to get into the ventilation system if we have to—and how to get out of it if we get stuck in it. We’ll need to know the locations of the communications center and the arms room, even the cracks in the sidewalks. We don’t want to take a header running across a quad with AK-47s blasting away at us with a ten-year-old kid stuffed in a bag over our shoulders.”

Bonds shook his head sadly. “We’ve sunk a long way, haven’t we, Zolo? “ he said. “Imagine having to rely on someone like Abu Afaq.”

“You’ll like his agent,” smiled Zolo. “She’s a great gal. Her name’s Wheatley—Wheatley W. Wheatley.”

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