The
Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 64)
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 everything had gone as he had expected—the fate of one Bernard Piffy, the child blasphemer, had been decided. It was at times like this that he felt he was doing something useful for Islam. Of course, he would have to say something and it would have to be Islamic and erudite as well as appropriate. He leaned forward, clasped his hands in front of him and peering over the tips of his fingers, studied the faces of the others members of the ulema. It had become more and more difficult for him to quote from the Qur’an the last few years. Something was missing, the youthful energy was not there, the words did not come easily and with the great confidence he had once had. He was married now, had a child. He was growing old. He searched his mind; he felt something coming. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do.
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,” he
said.
“Allahu akbar!” said one of the interns standing guard at the door.
Hafez Hamza, the older brother of Hanadi Hamza and the lone representative of Hamas on the ulema, 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 Cairo. They have more experience in these things 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—it will be the perfect punishment!”
Dr. ul-Heim smiled. He loved this kind of give and take. It was as erudite as Islam got. He must contribute more. He cleared his throat. For a few seconds it was like old times.
(Qur’an 5:33) “The punishment for those who wage war against Allah and His Prophet and make mischief in the land,” he said, “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, he has made great mischief,” admitted al-Shafti.
“Ibrahim Hooper would say he has committed great mischief,” said one of the Mullahs.
“Tariq Ramadan and Azzam al-Tamimi would say he has committed great mischief,” said another Mullah.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, would say it was great mischief,” said a fourth. “The child is a potential Salman Rushdie.”
“Please! Please!” broke in ul-Heim. “I am sure even the Pope would agree the boy has committed great mischief.”
“Who will have Hanadi now that she has been rejected by al-Kabibble?” asked Hafez Hamza. “Who, I ask—who?”
Dr. ul-Heim studied the faces ringing the table. “It has been agreed,” he said slowly, “that the boy should suffer sex reassignment surgery.”
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. He liked the sound and the feel of the gavel. It was something he had learned from watching Judge Judy on TV. The gavel gave him a distinctive flair and it was a good way to get everyone’s attention and the noise, if nothing else, was comforting. “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 other Mullahs..
“And oft-forgiving,” said a third not to be outdone.
“And if the child does not accept Islam,” said the Imam, “then 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 an 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.”
“She will appreciate that,” said Hamza. “It will give her closure.”
“Then it is done,” said ul-Heim. He 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 before?” he asked.
“No,” said ul-Heim. “And I am looking forward to it. It will be quite an experience. If you want to observe the proceedings you can rent a gown from the quartermaster store in the annex.”
“I will try to make it,” said the Imam.
“Allahu akbar,” said ul-Heim.
“Allahu akbar,” said the Imam. It was at times like this that he felt most grateful to be a Muslim.
Do you have any idea where we are?” asked Napoleon Solo. 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 he was toting were beginning to cut into his shoulders. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken so much reading material. He didn’t think four volumes could be so heavy. He had hardly room enough for his oxygen tank.
Bond—James Bond glanced over his shoulder at his companion. Where are we? He looked at the washbasins and the commodes lining the walls. Was Solo blind? “What the does it look like?” he said. “We’re in a restroom.”
“I know we’re in a restroom,” grumbled the man from U.N.C.L.E. “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 Bond. “I’ll check my Baedeker.” He pulled a tattered map of Asia Minor from his pocket.
“What happened to the map Wheatley gave you?” asked Solo.
“I left it in the glove compartment,” said Bond. “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!”
Solo sighed. He set his backpack on the floor and laid his
cane across it. He hated always having to be the adult but and with Bond 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 007. “Remember what foot you used first when
you came through the door?” he asked.
“What?” Bond asked.
“Left or right?”
asked Solo. “What foot did you use first?”
“Why? Was I supposed
to walk in on my hands or something?” said Bond.
“It says here,”
said Solo, “you’re supposed to enter a bathroom with your left foot first while
praying to Allah to protect you from male and female demons.”
Bond scowled. “I’m
not a Muslim,” he said.
“It doesn’t
matter,” said Solo. “It’s a Muslim bathroom.”
“I didn’t see any
sign,” said Bond.
“You violated a
more,” said Solo.
“Mores are made to
be violated,” said Bond.
Solo stuck out his
chin and glared at 007 and 007 glared back. They were silent for some time.
Solo broke
first—someone had to be the adult. “Why don’t we call Wheatley,” he suggested.
“She knows more about Islam than we do. She can settle this. What did you do
with the BlackBerry?”
“I threw it away,”
said Bond—James Bond.
“You threw it
away?” exclaimed Solo.
“It wasn’t
working,” said Bond.
“It wasn’t
working?” cried Solo.
“Don’t worry,” said
007. “I got an old shoe-phone. They’re one-hundred-percent reliable. I picked up
a half-dozen of them at the final settlement of the Maxwell Smart estate.”
“Did they come with
batteries?” asked Solo.
“What do you
mean—batteries?” said Bond. “They don’t need batteries, they’re high tech.”
Solo 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 Clouseau and that Bodine kid…
And then there was
more bad news!
“The door won’t
budge,” announced Bond.
“What?” said Solo.
“The door won’t
budge,” said Bond.
“You’ve got to be
kidding,” said Solo.
Bond threw himself
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 Bond and Solo 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, 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 007
and the man from U.N.C.L.E. If they had been allowed to roam the halls of the
ul-Heim Experimental Psychology Laboratory they would have harmed themselves or
someone else. They would have gotten in his way; they would have disrupted his
plans. He had—for lack of a better phrase—decided to serve as their guardian
angel—to protect them, from themselves. He could rescue Bernard Piffy without
them. Henrietta would be pleased and Gabriel would forgive him for ‘purloining
‘ puppy dog.
But he must hurry.
If what ul-Heim was planning should transpire and the boy should be altered in
any shape or form, then he, St. Anthony, would be reduced once again to the
Patron Saint of Lost Items and one of the items he would be expected to find
might well be the portion of the boy’s anatomy that would be the least
findable. He did not want to become involved in what could become a 21st
Century Talisman
of Set! It would be a horror beyond comprehension and all the more reason
to hasten to the rescue of the brat that had caused him so much trouble.
The interns entered the mini-ward. It was the same pair that had come the last
time. Piffy swallowed heavily. Beads of perspiration popped out on his
forehead. He knew why they were here.
“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 a brawny
intern on either side of him. “Mother of God,” he muttered under his breath,
“I’ll get you bastards for this!”
One of the interns
jabbed him in the ribs so hard it brought tears to his eyes. Okay, it wasn’t
going to be easy. So what else could they do to him they hadn’t already done?
He would soon find out.
(To be continued)