The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 65)

CHAPTER 65:

WOMEN AND CHILDREN

FIRST

Poor Bernard Piffy! He lay there on the operating table in the innermost sanctum of Dr. Haribert ul-Heim’s laboratory devoid of the most simplest of garments—not so much as a loincloth or a G-string to cover his nakedness, not even a pastie for his nipples though he was scarcely in need of anything of that sort for everyone could see that he was, for better or worse, a little boy. That the brain of a dangerous middle-aged private detective—the brain of the man who had released the Sufi flea and thrown his shoe at Riyadh ul-Haq—lurked somewhere inside the svelte preteen body and was perhaps planning more mischief was beyond their knowledge or comprehension.

They had gathered round the operating table like a bunch of school kids at a zoo. They had come to gawk at the creature they had heard so much about. Their faces were a mixture of emotions. There was surprise, relief, awe, disappointment, a little fear left over from some of the wildly exaggerated stories they had heard and, of course, that old Islamic standby, hatred of the unbeliever.

“That’s him?” wondered Mullah al-Shafti. He was disappointed. “Why he’s a mere child. He couldn’t harm a flea.”

“He could and he has!” snarled Hanadi Hamza.

The eleven-year-old girl who was to have been the bride of the illustrious Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble could scarcely contain her rage. She was every bit as mad at the little Kuffar as she was the day he had gagged and hogtied her and had stuffed her naked body under Aisha’s bed at the Osama bin Laden Madrassas for Girls in Gaza. This would be her revenge.

Diabolica Tungsten, Dr. ul-Heim’s scrub nurse, glared at the little dhimmi. She would not have traded her spot at the operating table for a place next to Muhammad Atta on 9/11. The little monster had kicked her butt in the girl’s mini-ward amidst the giggles and laughter of his preteen accomplices and the smirks and obscene remarks of the interns that had rescued her. The stories the two loudmouths had spread about the ugly confrontation had set tongues to wagging at the medical complex and the snickering behind her back had been continuous and degrading. She had been humiliated—disgraced. She had become an object or derision.

Now she would have her revenge—she would witness his rite of passage from one sex to another, his humiliation: his gender transformation. And if things went according to plan she would assist in the surgery. She would have the ultimate revenge.

The press around the operating table was so great there was scarcely room to move. Everyone of importance was there—Hanadi’s brother Hafez, the Imam al-Sayyid Khomeini, four or five Mullahs plus the usual interns, security personnel, a visiting Imam, and a used-Qur’an salesman from Brunei with an attaché case full of samples. And there were the three special guests invited by the Imam, experts in sex reassignment surgery—the illustrious Drs. Muhammad of Cairo, Alexandria and Aleppo. Nothing was being left to chance.

A tap came upon the door and a sturdy fellow in a brown uniform pushed his way into the crowded room. It was Masoud, ul-Heim’s concierge and security chief. He had come to enjoy the show, no doubt.

Piffy closed his eyes. Enough was enough. Lying naked on the operating table exposed to the gaze of Islam’s intelligentsia was the most degrading thing that had ever happened to him. He could have died.

Maybe if he held his breath long enough he would lose consciousness—pass out or something. Maybe he could cloud his mind, think about something else…about the last time the Cubs were in the World Series…about Grandpa Piffy’s homemade beer. But even with his eyes closed he would know they were looking at him…staring at him…gawking at him…commenting on his physique or lack of it…making fun of his immensity…ogling him like a picture on a kiddie porn website.

He was a guinea pig without hair, that’s what he was! Maybe if he counted to a million. He tried but he couldn’t make it to ten! He could hear them talking…he could hear them snickering. They were calling him names. He was a Kuffar, a dhimmi: an infidel! Couldn’t they shut up? Maybe he should pray, but to whom…St. Anthony? He wished he were wearing his Bratz bra and his nylon-lycra rosebud panties. Anything…

The salesman from Brunei produced a BlackBerry from his attaché case and squeezing between an intern and Diabolica, he aimed the BlackBerry at the naked child. Good grief! He was going to take pictures!

Piffy glared at the rat-bag! His arms were free—the mob had surged around the operating table before the interns had been able to finish strapping him down—but there wasn’t much he could do. Every time he had tried to cover his childish immensity Diabolica had pulled his hands away and had snickered. Yeah, snickered…it was humiliating; it was disgusting; it was mortifying…more than mortifying…if only he had a gun…

Masoud made no attempt to join the crowd around the operating table. He was there to see ul-Heim. Piffy was able to pick up a word or two of what they said.

“It’s al-Kabibble,” said Masoud. “He’s been talking to rogue elements in the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade and I’ve been told he’s on his way here.”

“It’s only a rumor,” said ul-Heim.

“He has a lot of money,” said Masoud. “I still have friends in the Brigade and they tell me the Sheikh has purchased the services of al-Thi’b.”

“Al-Thi’b?” frowned ul-Heim. “I thought he was dead.”

“They say the Sheikh was furious over what happened to him in the Midnight Rider and has vowed revenge,” said Masoud. “He wants his Krista back. He’s been making threats. They say he is prepared to attack the Complex.”

“Doesn’t he know that Krista is a boy?” asked ul-Heim.

“So far no one has had the guts to tell him,” said Masoud.

Ul-Heim scowled. “Forget the Sheikh,” he said. “He’s a blustering old fool and he’s still recovering from surgery.”

“That may well be,” said Masoud. “But al-Thi’b is a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous is as dangerous does,” said the doctor.

“My informants tell me money has already changed hands and the Colonel has recruited a sizeable force,” said Masoud.

“We will be done long before they can get here,” said ul-Heim. Then he smiled. “Besides—I will give the Sheikh a present when he arrives, compliments of the ul-Heim medical center. I will present him with the new, improved and anatomically correct version of his beloved Krista. He will thank me.”

“I will alert the guard anyway,” said Masoud.

“Yes, by all means,” said ul-Heim. “Take no chances.”

Masoud nodded and left.

Dr. ul-Heim stared at the door for some time. Perhaps sex reassignment surgery was the best he could hope for. It might not be fair to the boy but life wasn’t fair and it could be Dr. Haribert ul-Heim’s ticket out of this mess…out of the medical profession…out of Gaza…out of Islam.

Aisha and Fatima had never seen anyone quite like Wheatley W. Wheatley in their entire lives—maybe on the fringe of a nightmare but never in the flesh.

She was too large for a gnome, almost twice the size of a dwarf. She looked like a cross between the bad girl in a World Wrestling Federation tag-team match and a Willie Elder rendering of Tug Boat Annie. The Wicked Witch of the East would have crossed the street to avoid her—she was scary.

The black slouch hat, the high-button shoes, the whip coiled in the tiny white fist, the thrust of her ample forecastle and the sway of her prodigious stern would have sent Jolly Roger to the confessional and Otis Campbell to AA. She didn’t walk like a normal person; she seemed to float like a ship at sea, fore and aft, aft and fore, forecastle and stern never going in the same direction at the same time.

The girls should have been terrified but the sheer number of stunned and unconscious interns lying in the corridor, one of them half-in and half-out of the mini-ward, had allayed the worst of their fears.

“Who are you?” croaked Aisha.

“I’m Wheatley W. Wheatley,” said Wheatley “I’m Abu Afaq’a ‘s Gaza agent and you’re coming with me, Little Miss Muffett.”

“Who?” said Aisha. She had never heard of Little Miss Muffet.

“Don’t argue,” said Wheatley. “Pack up your tuffet. We’re getting out of here.”

“Tuffet?” said Aisha.

“What’s the matter?” said Wheatley. “Don’t you read poetry? We’re scramming before another spider sits down beside you…you do know what a spider is, don’t you?” She grabbed Aisha by the hand.

“What about me?” asked Fatima.

“You’re coming too, squirt,” said Wheatley.

Aisha resisted. “What about Bernie?” she said. “I’m not going anywhere without my Bernie!”

“Abu Afaq rule number one,” said Wheatley. “Women and children first. I’ll get Bernie after I’ve tucked you and you’re little pal in the company’s Rolls Royce. Now, come on!”

It didn’t take much urging. What other choice did they have? They followed Wheatley into the corridor where they came across one of the interns. The wretch was on his hands and knees trying to get up. Wheatley paused long enough to tap the rascal on the head with the stock of her whip. It was done so quickly and efficiently it passed almost without notice. She was Wyatt Earp pistol-whipping a drunk in the Long Branch Saloon at four in the morning after everyone had gone home. No wonder Abu Afaq was so proud of her.

They took the elevator to the first floor. Wheatley scouted ahead to make sure the coast was clear. She was back in less than a minute. They left the building by a side door and scurried across a long empty sward to the half-dozen or so buildings that comprised the sanitarium stables.

A donkey cart minus the donkey was waiting for them in front of the main building. A large black tarpaulin covered the back of the cart. Wheatley pulled the tarp back and gestured for the girls to crawl under it. Neither of them moved. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” she said, “crawl under that thing and keep quiet! I’ll be back with Bernie and a donkey in a couple of minutes.”

Fatima wrinkled her nose. “It’s dirty and it stinks,” she said.

“Make believe you’re Cinderella and it’s a pumpkin,” said Wheatley.

“Haven’t you got a Jeep Cherokee or something?” asked Fatima.

“Well, la-de-da,” said Wheatley. “I know I promised you a Rolls Royce but this is the best I can do under the circumstances. If you want to get out of this place alive you’ll crawl under that tarp, Miss Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and keep your mouth shut.”

“It stinks!” said Fatima.

“You’re lucky it’s not a manure cart,” said Wheatley. She uncoiled her whip. It was time to demonstrate her expertise. She took out a bat and the light over the stable door with one snap of the lash and the yard was plunged into a semidarkness full of the shadows that had terrified the Cowardly Lion on the way to Oz.

Fatima’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “Are you a jinn?” she asked hoarsely.

“Get in the cart!” ordered Wheatley.

The girls climbed up on the cart and crawled under the canvas and Wheatley tucked them in. “I’ll be back in a coupled of minutes,” she said.

Wheatley couldn’t have taken more than a dozen steps from the cart when St. Anthony eased out of the shadows of the stable. He slipped past an enormous manure pile and stepped directly in front of her. There was a smile on his face. “Are you in the guardian angel business now, Ms Wheatley?” he asked.

Wheatley stopped in her tracks. “You again!” she exclaimed. She uncoiled her whip.

“If you think you’re going to rescue Bernard Piffy,” he said, “you’ve got another think coming. You’re not a guardian angel. Only a duly authorized Heavenly appointed, God-fearing Christian guardian angel can do what you intend to do. You had better go back to Abu Afaq and leave this in the hands of a competent professional.”

“You’re crazy, St. Antonia,” said Wheatley. “You better pick up your skirts and get out of here before they get dirty. Abu Afaq has the contract for this job and I’m Abu Afaq’s legitimate agent.”

“Legitimate?” said St. Anthony. “Since when have you been legitimate? They’re still looking for you in the Maldives for pinching pennies from drunken sailors!”

Wheatley mumbled something under her breath and the one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip sliced through the air!

St. Anthony got out of the way in the nick of time! Nonetheless, he looked down to see if he still had ten toes. He had been hoping to avoid something of this sort. He glanced at the girls in the cart. “You’d better get yourself under control,’ he whispered. “We don’t want to frighten the children.”

It was too late to worry about frightening the children. They were peering goggle-eyed from beneath the tarpaulin.

Wheatley turned to the girls. “I thought I told you kids to stay out of sight!” she barked.

It was the distraction St. Anthony had been waiting for. He lunged at Wheatley, tore the whip from her hand. He had a knife and he cut the whip in half! He made a hurried sign of the cross and tossed the pieces into the nearby manure pile!

Wheatley was stunned—nothing like this had ever happened to her before! She flew into a towering rage. Suddenly she had the strength of Hercules! She knocked St. Anthony to the ground, tore the aspergillum from his belt, unscrewed the bulb and before the horrified saint could react, she had tossed the sponge filled with Holy Water into the manure pile! The handle followed!

And then St. Anthony lit into Wheatley W. Wheatley and they rolled over and over on the ground and such a gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair hadn’t been heard or seen since the Yanks and the Johnny Rebs went at each other in the Bloody Angle at Spotsylvania Court House! It was Dante’s Inferno without Dante! The Island of Dr. Moreau without Dr. Moreau!

The two precious little girls in the donkey cart watched as the Saint and Abu Afaq’s Gaza agent tore at each other as it they were Grant and Lee deciding the fate of the Union!

First St. Anthony went down and then Wheatley.

Fatima nudged Aisha. “Who’s side are you on?” she asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know!” wailed Aisha. “I don’t want to be on anybody’s side! I want to be on Bernie’s side! What are we going to do?”

Yes, what were they going to do?

Dr. ul-Heim turned away from the door. Diabolica!” he snapped. “Prepare the patient for a thorough physical examination.”

Stockton Bonds…Beauregard Zolo…St. Anthony of Padua…Wheatley W. Wheatley…friends and enemies…who was going to rescue Bernard Piffy?

Anyone?