The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 66)

CHAPTER 66:

KA-BOOM!

Dr. Haribert ul-Heim gazed at the group clustered around the operating table. “Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “you were invited here to witness the physical examination of a candidate for potential sex reassignment surgery not to perform one. So if you will be so kind as to step back a ways and give the patient some room to breathe we shall begin.”

Scrub nurse Diabolica Tungsten recognized her cue. She had been through this before in Kosovo. She pushed herself away from the operating table. “Okay! Okay!” she said sharply. “You heard the Doctor! Let’s give the patient some room!” She waved her arms as if she were shooing chickens across a farmyard, the scalpel in her hand flashing in the glare of the overhead lights. It was convincing and a bit scary.

The chickens shooed—there was no telling what she might do with the scalpel—they had heard the stories about her activities in the Balkans. They fell away from the operating table, al-Shafti, Hanadi Hamza, her brother, the assorted Mullahs, the salesman from Brunei, the interns; the three Drs. Muhammad from Cairo, Alexandria and Aleppo.

The Imam stayed where he was. He was the official observer. If a report had to be made, he would make it.

Diabolica tied a surgical mask over the lower part of her face.

Hanadi Hamza had been instructed beforehand as to her duties and as soon as the crowd receded from the operating table she produced a tray full of probes and swabs. She offered the tray to Dr. ul-Heim.

The doctor made a great show of selecting the right instrument. He held up one probe, then another, set them back down. He had been through this dozens of times—in Sudan, in Kosovo; it was an act meant to entertain or to terrify, depending on the audience.

There was a time in years gone by when the good doctor would flip a probe end for end, toss it over his shoulder and catch it behind his back. He could do the same trick with a scalpel. Occasionally a patient would faint. He had been Islam’s Doctor Kildare of corrective surgery. He was ashamed of it now but he would occasionally give an exhibition of his old sleight-of-hand because it was expected of him and it helped cover his flagging zeal.

“Aren’t you going to wear gloves?” asked the Imam.

Ul-Heim smiled. If there were any snipping and cutting to be done it would be left to the three Drs. Mohammad. “It won’t be necessary,” he said. “It’s only a preliminary examination. I performed dozens of circumcisions in Sudan and I don’t believe I wore gloves more than a couple of time and nobody ever died because of it…that I know of.”

Yes, dozens of circumcisions…and he regretted every one of them, but he could not undo the past and now he had to talk tough to maintain his reputation. His reputation! What a laugh! Another six months of this and he would be out of his mind! Being a Muslim was not the joy it had once been.

The ten-year-old strapped to the operating table winced. What was that the doctor had just said: No one had died that he knew of?

“Isn’t it a bit risky?” said al-Shafti. “There is always the chance of infection.”

“Yes,” said one of the Mullahs. “And someone could accuse you of malpractice The UN Human Rights Commission has spies everywhere.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of malpractice,” laughed ul-Heim.

“Just the same I think you should wear gloves,” said al-Shafti.

“I will should I get around to snipping and cutting,” said ul-Heim.

“Have you ever performed this surgery?” asked a Mullah.

“No,” said ul-Heim, “but I’ve been reading the literature the last few days and I have a pretty good idea of what it entails. And I’ve castrated my share of farm animals—plus a few dhimmis when I was in Sudan. If the sight of blood frightens you, I’d suggest you close your eyes or move to a part of the room where you won’t get splashed should somebody accidentally cut into a blood vessel.”

The Imam smiled uncomfortably. He was a man of great rectitude and social prominence. The thought of being splashed with blood in an operating room—especially a Kuffars’ blood—sent a shudder through his spare frame. Kuffars were tenth on the list of impure things and blood was fifth. It would be a double-curse—one to be avoided at all costs. He would have to be especially alert.

Dr. ul-Heim glanced at his patient. The boy was trembling. He wished he could say something to comfort the lad but that would be impossible.

He nodded at the Imam. “Normally I would give the patient a mild sedative or a local anesthetic before I go to probing some of the more sensitive areas but he’s a healthy boy and there have been budget cuts and we are short of just about everything—thanks to the uelma. I’m sure he won’t feel much pain if I should I have to snip a sample here or there.”

“Snip a sample?” said one of the Mullahs.

“Sex reassignment surgery is complicated,” said ul-Heim. “There’s more to it than removing the testes though I could remove them right now if it were an emergency.”

“Really?” said the Imam.

Ul-Heim nodded. “The boy wouldn’t suffer much pain but the loss to his self-esteem would be considerable,” he said.

There was a moment’s silence.

The ten-year-old squirmed on the operating table. The boy wouldn’t suffer much pain though the loss to his self-esteem would be considerable!

There was a shuffling of feet. An intern coughed. A Mullah giggled nervously.

The Doctor winked at Diabolica. He had been pulling their legs. It was one of the few enjoyments he had left in life—aside from Desirada. “Are you ready, Ms Tungsten?” he asked.

The ten-year-old looked at the probe in the Doctor’s hand. It was larger than the sword John Brown had used at Pottawatomie, larger than the blade Conan the Barbarian had used to hack Ajaga to pieces! He tried to swallow but something was stuck in his throat.

And that thing lying on the tray—the thing with the prongs—it looked like something Goober would use to jump-start a car! It could grab his childish immensity and twist it into a knot! He could be emasculated…deflowered…neutered…

It was too much! He was sweating profusely and tears were cascading down his cheeks, rolling into the corners of his mouth, spattering on the operating table. He would rather be turned over to Sheikh al-Kabibble than this! He couldn’t take it any longer!

“You son of a bitch!” he screamed. He made a grab for the probe. He missed by a foot-and-a-half!

Hanadi rapped the ten-year-old along the side of the head. Then she pressed her face against his and pinched his nipple as hard as she could. “Now you’re going to suffer just like I did, you little Kuffar bastard!” she hissed.

“Well, if this doesn’t beat all,” said Beauregard Zolo, “locked in a bathroom on the second floor of Islam’s version of The House of Frankenstein with Stockton Bonds.” He shook his head sadly, sank down on the floor alongside his backpack. He dug his Mountain High Handheld Oxygen System from his pocket and took a deep breath. He opened his backpack.

Agent Six-and-seven-eights was still standing by the door. “M will never believe me,” he mumbled. “He’ll think I made this up to get overtime pay.” He gave the door a half-hearted kick.

Zolo sighed. Ilya had warned him about Six-and-seven-eights, that the great Bonds was overrated, that SPLERSH couldn’t hold a candle to SPLUSH; that Dr. No and Goldfinger were little more than comedy relief, enough to tax the abilities of the likes of Deputy Dawg and Jethroe Bodine but not fit opposition for a genuine Man from AUNTIE but he hadn’t listened. Now here he was locked in a toilet with the superannuated remains of the legendary Stockton Bonds who seemed to spend most of his time reminiscing about the old days or fantasizing about some blonde bimbo from his Pleistocene years named Honey Rider who had apparently been reincarnated in a ten-year-old super tart named Krista.

And what was the great Bonds doing? Had he taken the bull by the horns? No, he was sitting on the floor by the door playing with his shoes. His shoes!

“Well,” said Zolo, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

Agent Six-and-seven-eights smiled. “Be of good cheer,” he said. “I’ll have us out of here in a couple of minutes.”

“How?” said Zolo. “With a thirty-year-old shoe-phone that doesn’t work?”

“Nope,” said Bonds. “The secret is in the other shoe. The heel is full of plastic explosive and a detonator.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Zolo. “This isn’t Mission Impossible. It’s Islamic fundamentalism. Your Maxwell Smart gimmickry isn’t science—it’s gimcracky. It will never work.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Bonds. He took off his shoe. “I got this little baby at the final liquidation sale of the Maxwell Smart estate. There were only three of them left. The bidding was terrific. As soon as I can stick some of this plastic stuff around the door and set the detonator we’re getting out of here.”

“Out of here?” echoed Zolo.

Bonds smiled. “Yeah. Ka-boom!” he said.

“Ka-boom?” said Zolo.

“Oh, it will be louder than that,” said Bonds. “I guarantee you that—a lot louder.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said the Man from AUNTIE. “I’ll turn down my hearing aid.”

A thirty-year-old shoe-bomb in the hands of a doddering old fool…it would never work. It was against the laws of nature. Zolo reached into his backpack for something to read. He had Plutarch’s Lives—all four volumes. Now where had he left off…

Wheatley W. Wheatley threw one last punch at St. Anthony and then collapsed in his arms. She was exhausted. She had hit the Holy Man with her best shots and he was still standing! A haymaker that would have felled an ox had failed to make an impression on him. A karate chop that would have sold for $25 dollars an ounce at a Tai Kwan Do convention hadn’t fazed him. And the irritating smile had never left his face! Never! It had grown brighter and brighter, the teeth more and more numerous until she had been all but blinded by their sparkle! The glare had begun to hurt her eyes!

“If you’ll turn off your smile for a minute,” she whispered hoarsely, “maybe we can talk this thing over.”

“Thank God!” wheezed St. Anthony. “It’s about time you came to your senses!”

The Holy Man had been at the end of his rope. If he had had to smile any longer his teeth would have burst into flames! His gums were already scorched and his lips were beginning to peel! It was said his smile could neuter a charging bull rhinoceros but it had had little if any effect on Wheatley.

In his 900 years as the Patron Saint of Lost Items he had never encountered anyone quite like Abu Afaq’s pint-sized dynamo. His shins were aching and the left side of his head was numb and a couple of beads were missing from his rosary! He wasn’t sure whether Wheatley had torn them loose sometime during the free-for-all or he had tried to strangle her with beads ten through forty. It was the worst pounding he had received since Gabe had taken him to the woodshed for failing to find Mona Lisa’s virginity.

“I’m done in,” groaned Wheatley “I don’t have a thing left.”

“Same here,” gasped St. Anthony. “If it’s okay with you—I’d like to sit down for a spell.”

It was okay with Wheatley and in a matter of seconds they were sitting side by side on the ground between the donkey cart and the manure pile. They rested silently for some time, neither wanting to sound more winded than the other.

St. Anthony was the first to stir. “Well, what do we do now?” he asked.

Wheatley stared at the manure pile. The business end of her one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip was lying in the middle of the most disgusting mess of animal wastes she had ever seen or cared to imagine. The stock was resting on the far side of the pile; St. Anthony’s aspergillum was lying somewhere in between.

“I’ll tell you what, St. Antonia—“ she begin.

The Holy Man interrupted her. “The name is St. Anthony,” he said.

Wheatley scowled. “Whatever,” she said. She tried again, “Seeing as you started this by tossing my whip into that pile of crap, St. Anthony, you go fetch it like a good little boy and I’ll forgive you.”

“Are you kidding?” said St. Anthony. “I don’t know if you have noticed it or not but I’m as barefoot as a newborn babe and that’s not exactly a flower garden out there! It’s poop!”

“That’s not poop,” said Wheatley. “It’s equine waste material. It makes flowers grow. It won’t hurt you if you trample around in it—you’re a saint.”

“One of us has to be,” said St. Anthony.

“Look,” she said patiently, “you’re the Christian. It’s up to you to turn the other cheek. Besides—isn’t it time you did your good deed for the day?”

“It’s your whip, not mine,” he said. “You go get it. And while you’re out there you can get my aspergillum.”

“I’m not crawling around in that crap!” said Wheatley.

“And neither am I!” said St. Anthony.

They were silent again, Wheatley grim and determined, her arms folded across her chest, St. Anthony fingering the beads of his rosary.

Suddenly a smile creased Wheatley’s sallow face. “I know!” she said brightly. “We can get the girls to do it!”

“That’s a great idea!” said St. Anthony. “I got a spare sponge and an emergency Holy Water canister in my money belt! I can be back in business in a couple of minutes!”

“And I can handle a whip without a stock,” Wheatley said enthusiastically. “It’s a little difficult but I’ve done it before and I can do it again!”

St. Anthony glanced toward the donkey cart. “Where are the children?” he asked.

Wheatley looked at the cart. There was no sign of the girls! “Oh, my God!” she cried. She hurried to the cart and pulled back the tarp—the girls were gone!

St. Anthony joined Wheatley beside the cart. He made a hurried sign of the cross. It didn’t help. They looked under the cart; they searched the shadows alongside the stable. They went into the nearby buildings and checked the stalls!

Nothing! Aisha and Fatima were gone!

Yes! The girls had struck out on their own to rescue their friend Krista—armed with a rusty old wrench they had found lying on the bed of the cart and an oversized brooch pin! They were all that was left of the expeditionary forces that had set out to rescue poor little Bernard Piffy from the clutches of the nefarious Dr. Haribert ul-Heim and a fate worse than death!

Two precious little preteen girls…

Aisha and Fatima…

Fatima and Aisha…