The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 64)

CHAPTER 64:

G-H-A-Z-Z-A-T

Dr, Haribert ul-Heim sat at the head of the conference table in the bin Laden Room of the ul-Heim Experimental Psychology Laboratory. It was the second meeting of the local ulema in two days and nothing had gone as he had hoped. He had lost control of the agenda at the outset and the fate of one Bernard Piffy, the child blasphemer, had been decided contrary to his wishes. It was at times like these that he felt most embarrassed for Islam.

As an ad hoc member of the ulema and their medical expert, he would have to say something and it would have to be Islamic and erudite as well as appropriate. He leaned forward across the table. He clasped his hands in front of him and studied the faces of the members of the ulema.

With the passing of the years it had become more and more difficult for the doctor to quote from the Qur’an. The youthful zest was gone. The words did not come as easily or with the great confidence they once had. He had married; he had a child. His wife had been killed in the bombing of a mosque in Pakistan. He was growing old.

He searched his mind; at last he felt something coming. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do. His emotions were mixed. He cleared his throat:

(Qur’an 70:26) “Fear the torment of the Lord, for the Lord’s torment is such none can feel secure.”

“Allahu akbar!” said one of the interns standing guard at the door.

Hafez Hamza, the older brother of Hanadi Hamza and a guest representative from Hamas, thumped his fist vigorously on the table. “Allahu akbar!” he said. “Justice for Hanadi and sex reassignment surgery for the Christian dog!”

Al-Shafti, a local Mullah, was hesitant. “I don’t know,” he said. “The child could be a jinn. We should wait till we hear from Islamabad. They have more experience in these matters than we do.”

“He is not a jinn!” said Hafez Hamza. “He is a Christian dog! An infidel! He dresses as a girl!”

“If he is no more than a Christian dog,” said al-Shafti, “how was he able to mesmerize Sheikh al-Kabibble—to turn that worthy old gentleman, as great a slave of Allah as ever existed, into a slavering, dithering, pathetic old fool?”

“Bah!” said Hamza. “The Sheikh has always been a slavering, dithering, pathetic old fool! He has disgraced himself and he has disgraced my sister and he has disgraced my family! My poor mother is heartbroken. Uncle Mahmoud says the family has been so dishonored it will never recover. He has gone so far as to suggest that Hanadi should be killed…yes, killed! It is only fair that the Christian dog should suffer and sex reassignment surgery will be the perfect punishment!”

Dr. ul-Heim sighed. Once upon a time he had loved this kind of give and take. It was Islam at its best. Now it rang hollow. But he would have to say something more than “fear the torment of the Lord.” It was too trite; too commonplace. This was his jurisdiction—the medical complex, the psychology school, everything. He cleared his throat:

(Qur’an 5:33) “The punishment for those who wage war against Allah and His Prophet and make mischief in the land is to murder them, crucify them, or cut off a hand and foot on opposite sides…their doom is dreadful. They will not escape the fire, suffering constantly.”

“Allahu akbar!’ shouted the interns standing guard at the door.

“Indeed, the child has made great mischief,” admitted al-Shafti.

“Even a moderate such as Ibrahim Hooper would say the child has committed great mischief,” said one of the Mullahs.

“Tariq Ramadan and Azzam al-Tamimi would say he has committed great mischief,” said a second Mullah.

“The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, would say the child has committed great mischief,” said a third. “The Kuffar dog is a potential Salman Rushdie.”

“Please! Please!” broke in a disgusted ul-Heim. “I am sure even the Pope would agree the child has committed great mischief.”

“Poor Hanadi, “ said Hafez Hamza. “No one will have her for a wife because she was rejected by al-Kabibble and the infidel dog is the cause of it!”

One of the Mullahs looked at his watch. “Then it is agreed,” he said slowly, “that the boy should suffer sex reassignment surgery?”

“Allahu akbar!” came the cry from around the conference table.

“But the Qur’an says nothing about sex reassignment surgery,” protested ul-Heim. “It calls for crucifixion or the cutting off of a hand and foot on opposite sides.” He did not mention that murder was one of the recommended punishments for making mischief.

Up until now the presiding officer of the ulema, the Imam al-Sayyid Khomeini, had been silent. Now he stirred. He nodded at ul-Heim and rapped his gavel sharply against the table. “May I suggest,” he said carefully, “that we offer the child—if, indeed, it is a child—a chance to embrace Islam. Remember—Allah is most gracious and merciful.”

“And most tolerant,” said al-Shafti.

“And most beneficent,” said one of the Mullahs.

“And oft-forgiving,” said another.

“And if the child does not accept Islam,” said the Imam, “then it will be time to exact justice.”

“Allahu akbar!” they all shouted.

“I have a boon to ask,” said Hafez Hamza. “Seeing as Hanadi has been the injured party to the evil machinations of this Christian dog, I was wondering—would it be at all possible for her to witness the sex reassignment surgery?”

Dr. ul-Heim shrugged. “It would be unusual,” he said. “But if she has a white burqa and can stand the sight of blood I can squeeze her in as an assistant scrub nurse.” It was an absurd idea but what else could he have said?

“She will appreciate that,” said Hamza. “It will give her closure.”

Closure? Another absurd idea…there was no closure in Islam, no forgiveness, no nothing. .

“Then it is done,” said the Imam.

Dr. ul-Heim turned away from the conference table and gestured to the interns standing by the door. “Bring the child to the main operating room,” he said.

The Imam stood up. “Have you ever performed a sex reassignment surgery?” he asked.

“No,” said ul-Heim. He had but they were little more than circumcisions—hurried butcheries in guerilla hovels and squalid jail cells, actions he no longer took much pleasure in, actions he was ashamed of. As far as he was concerned that part of his life was a closed book.

But he had a part to play. He grinned. “I must admit I am looking forward to it,” he lied. “It will be quite an experience. I may try my hand at it if the three Drs. Muhammad should be so kind as to invite me to participate.” He stood up. “If any of you want to observe the surgery you can rent a gown from the quartermaster store in the annex.”

“I intend to be there should it be possible,” said the Imam.

“Allahu akbar,” said ul-Heim.

“Allahu akbar,” said the Imam. It was at times like these that the Imam felt most proud to be a Muslim.

Do you have any idea of where we are?” asked Beauregard Zolo.

They had been inside the ul-Heim Experimental Psychology Laboratory for more than fifteen minutes and they had been up and down and around and the straps of the backpack Zolo was toting were beginning to cut into his shoulders. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken so much reading material. He hadn’t thought four volumes could be so heavy or would take up so much space. He had scarcely enough room for his spare oxygen canisters.

Bonds—Stockton Bonds—glanced over his shoulder at his companion. Where were they? What a stupid question. He looked at the washbasins and the commodes lining the walls. Was Zolo blind?

“What the hell does it look like?” he said. “We’re in a restroom.”

“I know we’re in a restroom,” grumbled the Man from AUNTIE. “I can tell a restroom from a blacksmith’s shop!” He was getting more exasperated by the minute. “But where are we? Are we on the third floor? Are we on the second floor? Are we anywhere near where they’re keeping Bernard Piffy? Do you have any idea?”

“Just a minute,” said Bonds. “I’ll check my Baedeker.” He pulled a tattered map of Asia Minor from his pocket. He was having fun.

“What happened to the map Wheatley gave you?” asked Zolo.

“I left it in the glove compartment,” said Bonds. “It was too complicated. It had dotted lines all over it…there were points of ingress…points of egress. Couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. And all those contour lines hurt my eyes. Besides—the one I’m using is a lot better. It’s simple…it’s uncomplicated. And it’s got historical value. It’s the one Lawrence of Arabia used. It’s got Gaza spelled the old-fashioned way. G-h-a-z-z-a-t. How do you like that? Ghazzat!”

Zolo sighed. He set his backpack on the floor and laid his cane across it. He hated always having to be the adult but with Agent Six-and-seven-eights as a companion he had no other choice. He pulled his ace-in-the-hole from his back pocket—the 2008 edition of Everyman’s Guide to the Middle East: Muslim Manners, Mores, Folklore and Good Hygiene; things to do and not to do in the sub-Orient.

He flipped through the pages. He looked at Bonds. “Remember what foot you used when you came through the door?” he asked.

“What foot?” asked Bonds

“Yeah…what foot,” said Zolo. “What foot did you put through the door first? Your left or your right?”

“Why?” asked Bonds.

“It says here,” said Zolo, “when you enter a Muslim bathroom, you’re supposed to enter with your left foot first while praying to Allah to protect you from male and female demons.”

Bonds scowled. “I’m not a Muslim,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Zolo. “It’s a Muslim bathroom.”

“I didn’t see any sign,” said Bonds.

“You violated a more,” said Zolo.

“Mores are made to be violated,” said Bonds.

Zolo stuck out his chin and glared at Six-and-seven-eights and Six-and-seven-eights glared right back. They were silent for some time.

The Man from AUNTIE sighed. “Maybe we should call Wheatley,” he said. “She knows more about Islam than we do. She can settle this. What did you do with the BlackBerry?”

“I threw it away,” said Bonds—Stockton Bonds.

“You threw it away?” exclaimed Zolo.

“It wasn’t working,” said Bonds.

“It wasn’t working?” said Zolo. He was dumbfounded.

“Don’t worry,” said Agent Six-and-seven-eights. “I got an old shoe-phone. They’re one-hundred-percent reliable. I picked up a half-dozen of them at the final liquidation of the Maxwell Smart estate.”

“Did they come with batteries?” asked Zolo.

“What do you mean—batteries?” said Bonds. “They don’t need batteries, they’re high tech.”

The Man from AUNTIE wanted to bang his head against the wall. “I think we had better get out of here while we still can,” he said. He picked up his backpack and his cane. Of all the lame-brained stooges…and to think he had turned down Rousseau and that Bodine kid…

And then there was more bad news!

“The door won’t budge,” announced Bonds.

“What?” exclaimed Zolo.

“The door won’t budge,” said Bonds.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Zolo.

Bonds threw his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times “Nope,” he said. “Won’t budge. We’re locked in!”

St. Anthony stepped away from the door. One little sprinkle of Holy Water from his aspergillum had been enough to seal Bonds and Zolo in the lavatory. The Holy Water would wear off in a couple of hours and they would be free to go. By then he would have accomplished his mission.

Sure, sure, it was a dirty trick but he had been in a hurry. He seldom interfered in the affairs of mere mortals, in fact, he was instructed not to, but he had felt he had had to do something.

He had never encountered a more confused or inept pair than Agent Six-and-seven-eights and the Man from AUNTIE. If they had been allowed to roam the halls of the ul-Heim Experimental Psychology Laboratory free of all restraint they would have harmed themselves if not somebody else.

They would have gotten in his way; they would have disrupted his plans. He had decided—for lack of a better phrase—to serve as their guardian angels long enough to protect them from themselves. He could rescue Bernard Piffy without them. Henrietta would be pleased and Gabriel would forgive him for stealing puppy dog from St. Roch.

But he had to hurry. If ul-Heim should experiment on the boy and damage him in any way, then he, St. Anthony, would be held responsible. He could lose his temporary status as a guardian angel. He would be back to pounding a beat as the Patron Saint of Lost Items and one of the items he could be expected to find could well be a certain portion of the child’s anatomy! If that should happen his humiliation would be complete and the dastardly ul-Heim was well known for his many—what was the word—circumcisions?

He shuddered. A search for a 21^st Century Talisman of Set—no matter how miniscule or ridiculous it might be—would be a horror beyond comprehension. It would make combing the outhouses behind the Dogpatch Old Folks’ home for lost corncob pipes seem like child’s play. He would have to hurry. The child’s future was not the only thing at stake!

The interns entered the mini-ward. It was the same pair that had come the last time.

Piffy swallowed heavily. Beads of perspiration had popped out on his forehead. He knew why they were there.

“Krista?” said the large one.

Piffy stood up.

“Bernie!” wailed Aisha.

Piffy smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, “ he said. “I shall return.” They were brave words. He had heard them somewhere. Maybe it was Mother Goose. The middle-aged brain in Opie Taylor’s body was shutting down.

“Don’t you dare hurt, Krista!” cried Fatima. Dear, sweet Fatima…

The ten-year-old boy in the Bratz bra and the Shirley Temple smock left the mini-ward with a brawny intern on either side of him. “Mother of God,” he muttered, “Mother of God…”

Fatima ran into the corridor after them. “Don’t you dare!” she called.

Aisha pulled her back into the mini-ward.

“They’re not going to hurt Krista, are they?” asked Fatima.

“I don’t know!” wailed Aisha. “I don’t know!”

“God won’t let them!” cried Fatima. “God won’t let them!”

No, God wouldn’t let them…