The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 67)

CHAPTER 67:

TREAT WOMEN WELL…

“Where are we?” asked Fatima.

They had been creeping across the endless expanse of the ul-Heim medical complex for what had seemed to be hours, two precious little preteen girls—and they were lost, hopelessly lost. The fading shadows of the night had swallowed them, engulfed them in their own fears. A boogieman lurked behind each tree; an infidel crouched inside each bush; jinn waited alongside the pathways to leap at them. The Israeli that had killed Hamas Mouse might be around the next corner. It was frightening.

They should have stayed with Wheatley W. Wheatley but Abu Afaq’s Gaza agent with the black slouch hat; the high-button shoes and the remorseless bat-shredding whip had frightened them more than anything they had so far encountered at the hospital. So they had struck out on their own. They were already regretting it.

This was the first time they had been outside the mini-ward since Hamas had deposited them at the ul-Heim Laboratory and everything was new to them. They couldn’t tell one building from another; the stables were identical; the flowerbeds were shaped alike; the sidewalks led to the same destinations. They were trapped in a stygian maze. But they persevered. They would find their friend Bernie and rescue him though how they would accomplish so incredible a feat armed with a rusty old wrench and a bent brooch pin had not been discussed—it would have been too frightening.

They would have gone back to the mini-ward if they had known the way. If an owl had hooted or a jackass had brayed they would have ran for their lives. They had been going in circles from the moment they had left Wheatley and St. Anthony and they must have known it. By now, Aisha had lost heart and when she stopped to peer around the corner of a building Fatima blundered into her

That was when Fatima asked, “Where are we?”

Aisha peeked around the corner. “Oh, oh!” she said. “There’s a man there.”

Indeed there was—a big husky fellow with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He was standing beneath the security light in front of one of the Laboratory’s emergency exits.

“Why don’t you ask him where Krista is?” whispered Fatima.

“Are you crazy?” hissed Aisha. “I can’t ask him that!”

“If you won’t, I will!” said Fatima.

“Keep quiet!” hissed Aisha.

It was too late for that. The guard had been alerted. “Who’s there?” he said. He stepped away from the exit, and suddenly the AK-47 was pointed at the two little girls!

Fatima stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the emergency exit. “Can you tell us where we can find Krista?” she asked.

Dr. Haribert ul-Heim studied the boy on the operating table. There was something about him—something different, something he had never encountered before—an iron resolve unnatural in one so young. Perhaps he should try again. Perhaps one last try would break the logjam. Perhaps he could find a chink in the jinn’s armor. Yes, a jinn, for he was sure by now that the little fellow was a jinn of some sort.

One of the mullahs surrounding the examination table cleared his throat. The sound brought ul-Heim out of his reverie. He glanced at the Imam. “I would like to question him one more time before I go to probing if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Not at all,” said the Imam.

The doctor bent his lank form across the operating table so he could look the ten-year-old straight in the eye. “Would you tell me your name?” he asked as softly as he could.

“Christopher Odin,” mumbled Piffy. It was the name he gave whenever he was asked. It was the name Asma bint Marwan had implanted in his brain when she had turned him into a ten-year-old boy and had sent him into the Mohammad Ahmad Madrassas in London and the name was still there subject to instant recall.

“What are the names of your parents?” asked ul-Heim.

“My mother is dead,” said the ten-year-old. “My father’s name is Christopher Odin Senior. He is a metallurgy professor at the University. I am from Aden. I have a cat named Poobah.”

The Doctor sighed. “It’s no use,” he said “ It’s the same old story. He’s been programmed. I’ve never seen anything like it. I might as well start probing.”

“Poobah? What kind of a name is that?” said Diabolica.

“It must be Hindi,” sneered Hanadi. She pushed closer to the operating table.

“Hold it, Nightingale!” said Diabolica. “I’m the scrub nurse here!” She grabbed Hanadi by the elbow. Angry words were exchanged.

A scuffle might have taken place were it not for Dr. ul-Heim. “Girls, please!” he said. “This is a pre-op physical examination not the World Wrestling Federation.”

He motioned to the three guest experts in sex reassignment surgery. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if you will …”

The experts stepped forward. They had donned surgical masks while ul-Heim had been questioning the ten-year-old and now with the aid of Diabolica and Hanadi they drew latex gloves over their hands. They were Islam’s leading practitioners in the field of sex reassignment surgery. Each was a tenured professor of medicine. They were Dr. Mohammad al-Aziz from the University of Aleppo, Dr. Mohammad al-Battani of the University of Cairo and Dr. Mohammad Nafis of the University of Alexandria. They were known as the Three Drs. Muhammad. They were to observe, assist and instruct ul-Heim to the extent necessary. They would—if it should come to that—perform the surgery. Of course, that is what had been intended from the first.

Dr. ul-Heim produced a scalpel. He flipped it end for end in his hand. He had an idea. He would play a trick on the child. Maybe he should have tried it earlier, when only he and Diabolica would have been on hand to hear what was said. But it was too late for that now. Everything they said would be public. Nonetheless it was worth a try. He would make Christopher think the sex reassignment surgery was about to begin.

He winked at Diabolica, waited for the professors to gather round the operating table. When they had, he nodded at them. Then bending over the operating table, he laid the flat of his scalpel against the terrified child’s immensity! He smiled. The response was encouraging. Maybe, just maybe, the child would open up. “One more time, Krista,” he said. “Will you be a good little boy and tell me your name—your real name?”

The response startled him. It was what he had wanted. And it was so easy. He should have tried it earlier.

Whatever protection the ten-year-old had been under had been swept aside by a wave of terror! The sight of the scalpel and its cold touch against his immensity had been the straw that broke the camel’s back! The middle-age brain went into reverse, the adult lost control, the child took over and Asma bint Marwan’s controlling aura was replaced with a plethora of goblins spewed up from the depths of Jahannam.

“My name’s Bernard Piffy!” he shrieked.

“Bernard Piffy?” ul-Heim said softly.

The words came in a torrent. “Please, don’t cut my thing!” the child cried. “I’m sorry I lied! I’ll be a good boy! I’ll do what you want! I’ll say my prayers! I’ll make a novena! I’ll do an Act of Contrition! I’m sorry! Please don’t cut my thing!”

The man and boy were now a single entity—one brain, one body, one experience, a single immensity; a single terrifying threat! He was trembling; a trickle of saliva was creeping across his chin. His eyes were frantic with fright. He was ten-years-old again—not a day more, not a day less—caught in a nightmare of his own making.

Dr. ul-Heim smiled. “It was you who killed the Mujahideen in the basement of the Madrassas in London, wasn’t it?” he said.

Piffy understood the words. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Allahu akbar!” exclaimed Imam al-Sayyid Khomeini.

“It was your dog that tore the foot off Hani Hanjour, wasn’t it?” said ul-Heim.

“Yes,” answered Piffy. What did it matter now? It was over—all over.

“And it was you who killed Duldul and your dog, perhaps, that severed the jugular of the janitor in the madrassas, wasn’t it?”

Piffy nodded.

Diabolica was outraged. “Kuffar swine!” she hissed.

Ul-Heim should have been furious but he wasn’t. The child hadn’t done any worse than what he, ul-Heim, had done in Sudan…in Bosnia…in Kosovo…

“And it was you who let the Sufi flea loose in Yaser Arafat’s Fuhrerbunker, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Yes,” said Piffy.

He was calm now. The litany of his crimes against Islam had given him strength. He was Claus von Stauffenberg in the courtyard of the Bendlerblock; he was one of Jimmy Doolittle’s fly boys shot down in the raid over Tokyo facing a military tribunal; he was John Brown on trial at Charles Town for Harper’s Ferry. He was in good company.

“You forgot the shoe I threw at Riyadh ul-Haq,” he said.

“That too,” said ul-Heim.

The Imam was stunned. “He threw a shoe at ul-Haq? How can this be?” he said. “He is a child—a mere child!”

“Yes, a mere child,” said ul-Heim, and a brave one indeed—if he was a child.

“There can be no peace with such as he,” said Dr, Mohammad of the University of Alexandria.

“He should be killed forthwith,” said one of the Mullahs.

“He ruined my marriage—the Kuffar swine!” screeched Hanadi. She pushed through the interns and before they could stop her she had slapped Piffy across the face.

It did not have the desired effect. The ten-year-old was not cowed. If anything, the slap emboldened him. He was Stauffenberg; he was one of Jimmy Doolittle’s boys; but mostly he was John Brown. He looked at Hanadi. He pitied her. Yes, he pitied her.

“Tabari IX:113,” he said, “Treat women well for they are like domestic animals and they possess nothing in themselves. Allah has made the enjoyment of their bodies lawful in his Qur’an.”

“Infidel!” screeched Hanadi. She threw herself at Piffy. She hit him again, harder than before, as hard as she could.

The blow brought blood from Piffy’s nose. He swallowed. Yes, he pitied her. He pitied all Muslim women—1,400 years of slavery and all because of one man, the Prophet.

“Tabari I:280,” he said, “Because Allah afflicted Eve, all the women of this world menstruate and are stupid.”

“Stupid?” raged Hanadi. She went at Piffy again and would have gouged the eyes from his head had not ul-Heim and Dr. Mohammad of Alexandria intervened.

“I am not stupid!” she stormed as they dragged her away from the operating table. “I am not stupid!”

The blood gushed from Piffy’s nose, ran across his chin and dribbled onto his chest. “Yeah, you’re stupid!” he shouted. “Your belief in the Qur’an has made you stupid!”

“Silence, Christian dog!” warned the Imam.

“I’m not a Christian dog,” said Piffy. “I’m an Abolitionist. I didn’t used to be but I am now.” He looked the Imam in the eye. “ Do you know what an Abolitionist is, moron?”

The Imam drew back his hand as if to hit the ten-year-old.

“Ah, what do you know,” said Piffy. “You’re a sexist, chauvinist, homophobic pig! You’re all sexist, chauvinist homophobic pigs!”

The Imam hit Piffy across the face.

The ten-year-old shook off the blow. He was getting used to them by now, he was like Benny Kid Paret in the last fight of his life. “Do your worst,” he said. “I came here looking for Yaser Abdel Said and I got sidetracked but I’m going to find that rat-bag if it’s the last thing I do—if I have to look under every bed in Allah’s Great Whorehouse in the Sky. Yeah! Under every last bed! How many are there? 72? And when I’m done I going to burn the damn place down.”

Whack! The Imam hit him again. It was a stunner.

Piffy blinked. Blood was flowing freely now from his much-abused nose. He shook his head, took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “you turn me loose and I’ll take on anyone of you—unarmed—and you can use the largest damn weapon you can find, a sword if you want, and we’ll fight it out, man to man, till one of us is dead.”

He looked at ul-Heim. “How about you, Doc? Are you brave enough to take on a ten-year-old kid? How about it?”

Ul-Heim swallowed nervously. He knew better than to risk something like that. The kid was no kid—not in the normal sense. He could not have wreaked the havoc he had if he had been a child.

“Scared?” challenged Piffy.

Ul-Heim was not frightened but he was a doctor, a man of medicine, a man of science, a devout Muslim; he had signed the UN declaration of Human Rights; he would engage in no such foolishness. And he did not hate the child. The lad was no worse and probably a lot better than he had been at the same age. He did not know what to do—that’s all. He wished he weren’t there.

The Imam had no such qualms. “I have heard enough!’ he said. “It is time to operate on this Kuffar swine!’

“Allahu akbar!” The cry came from a dozen throats.

Yes, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”