The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 62)

CHAPTER 62:

IF THE SHADOW

OF A WOMAN…

Wheatley W. Wheatley opened the door to the hotel room. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes behind Bonds—Stockton Bonds—but there he was lying unconscious on the floor with one shoe on and one shoe off.

Wheatley shook her head in disgust. “Doesn’t anybody listen to reason anymore?” she said. “I told him it was 2011 not 1960. These Muslima Mujahidah are tough cookies. Hanadi Jaradat would have made Rosa Klebb look like a Camp Fire Girl. These babies wear polka-dot abayas and what’s underneath them would probably scare the pants off the Marquis de Sade.”

“Is he alive?” croaked Beauregard Zolo. Wheatley didn’t answer. The Man from AUNTIE muttered something under his breath and poked her in the derriere with his cane.

“Careful with that dang thing, Methuselah,” she said.

This time it was Zolo who didn’t say anything.

Wheatley detached her one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip from her belt as she slipped into the room. The place was empty save for Bonds. A breeze was stirring the curtains beside a window on the opposite side of the room.

She smiled grimly. It was time for a little Lash LaRue to entertain the old folks. The whip snaked across the room, the Mujahideen pizzles tore the curtains from the window and the escape route was revealed. “If you want to chase after the little vixen,” she said, “that’s the way she went.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” said Zolo.

Wheatley smiled grimly. She shut the window then dropped to one knee alongside Agent Six-and-seven-eights to feel for a pulse. .

“Is he okay?“ Zolo asked from the doorway. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“He’s alive,” said Wheatley.

“How about some smelling salts?” asked Zolo. “I got some smelling salts?”

”Don’t worry,” said Wheatley. “He’ll live through this. All they wanted was information and from the looks of it they got it. He’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

Zolo clumped into the room. He prodded Wheatley and then Six-and-seven-eights with his cane. He was Blind Pew seeing what he could get away with. There were times when it was fun being old.

Wheatley snatched the cane from the old man’s hands. “You’ll get this back when we leave,” she said.

Zolo looked down on the unconscious Bonds. He shook his head grimly. “He couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes,” he said. “We were right behind him. Look—“ He gestured at the $1,000 John Lobb Kipling Loafer lying on the floor near Bonds’ outstretched hand. “One shoe on and one shoe off!” He smiled. “He looks kind of cute lying there, doesn’t he?”

“He’s been drugged,” said Wheatley. “SP13.”

“SP13?” said Zolo. “Are you sure it’s SP13?”

“Of course,” said Wheatley. “It was invented at Abu Afaq Enterprises. I got the first dose myself—right in the tookus.”

“Is it any good?” asked Zolo.

“Good?” laughed Wheatley. “I’ll say it’s good! It would have made Clark Kent tell Lois Lane how many times he used his X-ray eyes to spy on her while she was in the bathroom.”

“Clark Kent spied on Lois in the bathroom?” gasped Zolo.

“He used to amuse himself by reading the labels on her lingerie,” smirked Wheatley.

Bonds had begun to stir. “Honey?” he mumbled. “Is that you, Honey?”

Wheatley went to the window and looked out. “Well, this throws a monkey wrench into our plans,” she said. “Nobody can resist SP13. He’ll have spilled everything he knows. I’ll have to draw up a new précis. I’ll have to change all the numbers, make a new geological survey, multiply the resonance factor by three; reconstitute the ossification chamber and a lot of other technical stuff. I’ll have to toss a fresh grenade into the box, so to speak. This is going to cost the British Secret Service a pretty penny. Abu Afaq doesn’t come cheap.”

Bonds sat up, scratched the back of his head. He picked up his shoe and then noticed Beauregard Zolo. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” said the Man from AUNTIE.

“Nice try,” said Bonds. He glanced round the room. “Where’d what’s-her-name go?”

He was Bonds all right—Stockton Bonds.

Bernard Piffy sat on the bed in the mini-ward he shared with Aisha and Fatima with his knees drawn up to his chin. He had been thinking. He wasn’t going back to Dr. Haribert ul-Heim’s chamber of horrors under any circumstance. He would fight them tooth and nail, that’s what he would do. If they got him back on that examination table there was no telling what he might say. They would break him—that’s what they would do. One way or another they would break him. Asma bint Marwan’s protection couldn’t last forever.

Ul-Heim was not a low-level Jihadist. He was the equal of Anjem Choudary and Omar Bakri Muhammad. He would chip away and chip away at the ten-year-olds psyche until he laid bare the soul of the middle-aged private detective ensconced in the fragile preteen body and then he would drive splinters under the kid’s fingernails or make him gargle turpentine while reading select passages from the Qur’an—passages about disbelievers suffering eternal torment.

And then they would go after Aisha and Fatima. The girls would suffer along with their preteen heresiarch because they had been parties to his blasphemies

.

Maybe he should give up; call it quits; confess; toss in the towel, throw himself upon the mercy of Islam, be treated like a prisoner of war, like one of the People of the Book, recognize his inferiority, feel subjected and pay the jizya.

He blamed his sorry state on bint Marwan. She had done something to his psyche when she had turned him into a ten-year-old boy before sending him into the London Madrassas—something Ka’b hadn’t bothered to do in Gaza. A lot of what he would call extraneous knowledge had become a permanent part of his memory. In moments of stress like in the basement below the London Madrassas he would speak in tongues.

It was confusing. One moment he would be Hondo; the next he would be a combination of Jefferson and Churchill with a dash of Cump Sherman thrown in! Then he would be Cicero! Then he would be Eric Hoffer! He didn’t know where the words were coming from but he understood them. It was bint Marwan’s fault…the beauteous bint Marwan…with the halo…the magic bra…

“What are you thinking about, Bernie?” asked Aisha.

Suddenly the ten-year-old was back in the mini-ward. He looked at Aisha…his friend…his young friend…his lovely young friend…his friend as no other friend had ever been…a friend spanning the generations. He wanted to smile at her but he couldn’t.

He was angry, as angry as Mike Hammer had been with the thug who had killed his best buddy, as angry as Zeus had been with Kronos, as angry as Andrew Jackson had been with the man that had insulted Rachel. He was angry at Islam, at Islam’s treatment of women; at Islam’s treatment of little girls; especially at Islam’s treatment of Aisha and Fatima. Islam made the worst of Grimm’s Fairy Tales seem like a day with Rebecca at Sunnybrook Farm.

His mind was wandering again…to bint Marwan…yeah, to bint Marwan…always to bint Marwan…he couldn’t keep her out of his thoughts…she was everywhere he was…she was reaching out to him…

“Bukhari V1B22N28” he mumbled, “The Prophet said: ‘I was shown the Hell Fire and the majority of its dwellers were women who are disbelievers or ungrateful.’ When asked what they were ungrateful for, the Prophet answered, ‘All the favors done for them by their husbands.’”

“I didn’t know you had memorized the Qur’an,” said Aisha.

Piffy continued as if he hadn’t hard her. “Poor Sarah and Amina Said,” he whispered. “Children…just children…as innocent as Lucy and Peppermint Patty…as innocent as Charlie Brown’s sister…

“Sarah and Amina Said…what in the hell were they ungrateful for?” He shook his head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing that I can think of. Nothing God in Heaven could think of. They were kids. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And that damn stinkin’ madman with a gun…stuffed full of hatred from the Qur’an…he shot them! He shot them down like dogs! What were they ungrateful for—for that worthless bastard?

“Jefferson Davis had more respect for his slaves than that bastard had for his own daughters. More respect than the Prophet had for his wives…

“The Qur’an says women are less than dirt… for they possess nothing themselves…so that bastard shot them…shot them. Am I the only person in the world still mad about it?

“If the shadow of a woman passes across a Muslim man at prayer, is the prayer no good? The Qur’an says so. Tell that to Geraldo Rivera…tell that to those morons on MSNBC. Don’t tell me.”

Fatima had joined Aisha. “What’s the matter with Krista?” she asked.

“I don’t know!” wailed Aisha.

Krista didn’t hear them. A verse was tugging at the back of his mind and it wasn’t There was once a lady from Wooster. When he found the key the words came quickly:

“Qur’an 4:43:’Believers, approach not prayers with a mind befogged or intoxicated until you understand what you utter. Not when you are polluted, until after you are bathed. If you are ill, or on a journey, or come from answering the call of nature, or you have touched a woman and you find no water, then take yourselves clean dirt, and rub your faces and hands. Lo! Allah is Benign! Forgiving.’

“Yeah…as Benign as black wart cancer and as Forgiving as Adolph Hitler…if you have touched a woman and can find no water…no water…when I catch that bastard Said I’m going to urinate on his Qur’an and grind his face in it.”

“Bernie!” cried Aisha. “Careful what you say!”

If Bernie was aware of Aisha it was dimly at best.

“’Qur’an: 86:l3” he said, ‘Lo this is a conclusive word; it is not a thing for amusement. It is no pleasantry. And it is no joke.’

“It is no joke…no joke…no joke…See? Nobody is laughing…

“The Redeemers had their Black Codes and the Ku Klux Klan; Islam has its Book.

George Wallace repented…so did Nathan Bedford Forrest…what moderate Muslim has ever repented? They are waiting…waiting…

“‘…take not Jews or Christians for friends…’

“Wallace had black friends; the Prophet had what? Christian friends? Jewish friends?

“Qur’an 8:39 ‘Fight them until all opposition ends and all submit to Allah.’”

The ten-year-old paused. He had grown angry, very angry. When he resumed his eyes were flashing. “We shall fight them in the fields and in the streets,’ he said. “We shall fight them in the hills; we shall never surrender!”

“Bernie! Watch out!” screamed Aisha

How long Diabolica Tungsten had been standing there listening to Bernard Piffy’s grand soliloquy would be a matter of much debate to future generations of Piffies—was it ten seconds or was it ten minutes? In the end it didn’t matter. Dr. ul-Heim’s scrub nurse hit the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra and Shirley Temple smock so hard across the face she knocked him across the bed!

“You killed him!” cried a horrified Fatima

Diabolica glared at Piffy. “You miserable slimy sinking Kuffar pig!” she screeched.

Stunned, not knowing were he was, the ten-year-old rolled to his hands and knees. The wig on his head had been turned sideways and the skirt of his Shirley Temple smock was draped over his derriere like a flag at a bullring. He looked like Carl Alfalfa Switzer about to get his butt kicked by Butch in the back room at one of Darla’s dance recitals. It took him a while to realize where he was and what had happened to him and when he got up Diabolica knocked him down again!

“If any one resists Allah,” snarled Ms Tungsten, “verily, Allah is severe in Punishment, Stern in reprisal.”

Piffy got up again, this time more slowly. “There is no compulsion in religion,” he gasped. “It says so in your book.”

She hit him again and he went down again just like Jersey Joe Walcott had in the Thirteenth Round of his fight with Rocky Marciano.

“Those who reject Islam are disbelievers,” she screeched at him, “denying our signs and revelations—they shall be the owners of the Hell Fire!”

It must have been the spirit of George Washington or of Sergeant York or of Audie Murphy or of Robbie Stethem or of Todd Beamer with a little assist from bint Marwan but Piffy got to his feet again. Blood was dribbling from his nose and his breath was coming in tortured gasps.

It was too much for Diabolica Tungsten. She produced a knife from beneath her burka. “Killing disbelievers is a small matter to us,” she snarled. And with that she leapt at the ten-year-old boy in the Bratz bra.

It was Rosa Klebb day at the ul-Heim Laboratory…and Agent Six-and-seven-eights was nowhere in sight.