The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 68)

CHAPTER 68

“IT’S IN THE COVET

CLAUSE”

Piffy was up against it now. In a minute or two his childish immensity would be history! In the twinkling of an eye, in the flash of a scalpel he would be divested of his male sovereignty and he would become something else—a eunuch, a castrato with a horrendous bandage between his legs. He wouldn’t be fit for anything ever again—except maybe to keep watch on the antics of the girls in some endomorphic Sheikh’s seraglio.

Perhaps he could wait on Aisha and Fatima. Yeah, with his immensity gone there wouldn’t be much difference between them. His voice would get higher and higher until he would sound like Barney Fife imitating Roy Orbison and the fuzzy hairs on his chin would curl and die.

And there would be no future. The middle-aged private detective on the trail of Yaser Abdel Said, the notorious Dallas taxi driver, who had murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic rage would be gone forever. And so would the ten-year-old boy. He knew too much for his own good. He would be dead within a few days and no one would ever know what had happened to him, not Mike Hammer, not Travis McGee, not Bulldog Drummond.

Oh, sure, Asma bint Marwan would know and so would Ka’b but they would do nothing. Perhaps he would meet them somewhere in the netherworld and then he could give them a piece of his mind…if there were a netherworld…Damn! This was not the way he had planned on cashing in his chips!

He looked at the scalpel—the Sword of Damocles. In a matter of seconds the sex reassignment surgery would begin and it would be the end of Bernard Piffy!

And then the Doctor’s cell-phone rang! It was loudest clash of cymbals Piffy had ever heard! He was sure God had intervened on his behalf!

Ul-Heim handed his scalpel to Diabolica and picked up his phone. “Ul-Heim here,” he said.

It was Masoud, ul-Heim’s concierge and security chief. ”We got a problem, Doctor,” he said bluntly.

“It better be important,” warned ul-Heim.

“It’s those two little girls,” said Masoud, “the ones Hamas brought in—the friends of the jinn—they escaped from the mini-ward.”

“Impossible!” said ul-Heim. “There are more guards in that building than Hitler had in his Fuhrerbunker!”

“Nonetheless they escaped,” said Masoud.

“How could that be?” said ul-Heim.

“The squad leader said they were assaulted by a strange lady in a black hat who ran off with the girls.”

“There were six men in that detail!” said ul-Heim. “Couldn’t six men handle one lady no matter how strange she was? This is ridiculous! If they don’t find those girls in the next half-hour fire the lot of them!”

“I’ve already found the girls” said Masoud.

“You have?” said ul-Heim.

“Yes,” said Masoud.

“Good!” said ul-Heim. “I’ll want to question them. Where are they?”

“They’re with me,” said Masoud. “We’re right outside the door.”

“Then bring them in,” said ul-Heim.

“Aren’t you in the middle of castrating somebody?” asked Masoud.

“It’s not a castration,” said ul-Heim. “It’s sex reassignment surgery. And it will be a while yet before we get started.”

“I don’t know,” said Masoud. “It’s not something I would want my daughters to see.”

“Bring them in,” ordered ul-Heim. “They won’t see anything I wouldn’t let Desirada see and they will back in their ward in a couple of minutes.”

The door opened and Masoud prodded Aisha and Fatima into the operating room. A dozen heads turned to stare at them.

“Subhan Allah!” cried the Imam. “They are children!”

“What are they doing here?” exclaimed Diabolica. “We don’t need any more witnesses to what we are doing—we got enough already.”

“This is most unusual!” said Dr. Muhammad of Aleppo.

“And un-Islamic!” said Dr. Muhammad of Alexandria.

Masoud nudged the girls toward Dr. ul-Heim and it wasn’t long before they caught sight of their friend Krista strapped to the operating table. That he was naked didn’t bother them—they had become accustomed to that by now—what bothered them was the number of spectators on hand for the exhibit and especially the presence of Diabolica and Hanadi. And there was the scalpel in Diabolica’s hand.

Fatima clutched at Aisha. Wheatley W. Wheatley had frightened them but this was different. It was House of Frankenstein different—it was terrifying. The only thing missing was Marty Feldman and the Invisible Man.

Piffy glared at ul-Heim. To subject the girls to this was the last straw. “You dirty rat-bag!” he muttered. “You dirty stinking rat-bag!”

Dr. ul-Heim winced. He resented being the heavy; he was not a bad man—his evil deeds lay in the past. He took the scalpel from Diabolica and flipped it end for end. If they wanted a show he would give them one! He would catch the scalpel behind his back and play tic-tac-toe on the brat’s stomach! How would they like that? He was not a monster, but if they wanted one…

Then Aisha screamed and ran toward Krista…

Wheatley W. Wheatley looked at the manure pile then at St. Anthony then back at the manure pile. No matter how much she would have liked to toss Saint Antonia into that stinking, reeking morass it wouldn’t have done her any good. She needed her whip and he needed his aspergillum and both were laying smack dab in the middle of the Devil’s cesspool and further fisticuffs would settle nothing and so far the Holy Man had refused to play Sir Walter Raleigh.

Okay, she would outsmart him. She had an idea. She dug a coin from her pocket. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “How about flipping a coin? Winner keeps his feet clean; loser trots out there and brings back my whip and your Holy Water sprinkler. Heads, I win: tails, you lose. How about it?”

St. Anthony frowned. “That would be gambling,” he said.

“Not heads I win; tails, you lose,” she said.

“Gambling is a sin,” said St. Anthony.

“Who said so?” said Wheatley.

“God said so,” said St. Anthony. “It’s against the Ten Commandments.”

“Which one?” she demanded.

“One of them,” he said.

“I’ve read the Ten Commandment,” said Wheatley. “None of them say anything about gambling.”

“It’s in the covet clause,” said St. Anthony.

“What covet clause?” said Wheatley.

“The one that says not to covet your neighbor’s wife or his house or his oxen.”

“I’m not your neighbor,” said Wheatley.

St. Anthony scowled.

“And I don’t have a wife or a house or an oxen you can covet,” she said. “Besides—it won’t be gambling unless somebody wins something.”

The Saint stared at the ground. She was right. He was losing the argument and he did want his aspergillum. So he prayed to St. Francis of Assisi, the only saint with whom he was still on speaking terms. And just like that he had his answer.

“It’s still gambling,” said St. Anthony, “because one of us would be winning the other’s labor. It would be okay if I were St. Cayetano and you would bet me a rosary or a Holy Candle that I wouldn’t do something.”

“St. Cayetano?” said Wheatley. “That’s crazy! Where am I going to find a rosary or a Holy Candle in this Muslim pesthole?”

St. Anthony pointed toward the stable. “Maybe you could ask that gentleman over there,” he said.

Wheatley glanced toward the stable. A man had appeared from around the corner of the squat little building and was approaching them cautiously. “That’s no gentleman!” she exclaimed. “That’s al-Qaeda!”

Wheatley was wrong in her assessment. The man was not al-Qaeda; he was a member of al-Thi’b’s cutthroat gang, an offshoot of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and was toting an AK-47. He was an advanced scout for al-Thi’b’s main force that had already penetrated the outer defenses of the medical complex—such as they were.

For better or for worse: Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble and his mercenaries had arrived!

“Maybe he has a rosary,” suggested St. Anthony.

“Are you kidding?” said Wheatley. “What would he be doing with a rosary? He’s a Musselman! He’s a Saracen!”

“You could ask,” said St. Anthony. “He’s coming this way.”

“Why don’t you just ask him to fetch your Holy Water sprinkler?” suggested Wheatley.

“You think he would do it?” said St. Anthony.

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask,” said Wheatley.

The Mujahideen pointed his AK-47 at St. Anthony. “Hands up, Kuffar swine” he snarled.

Wheatley dragged the unconscious Mujahideen into a corner of the stable and covered him with a tarp. “You shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” she said. “He did a pretty good job once he understood what you wanted.”

“I didn’t hit him hard,” said St. Anthony. “He fell against my aspergillum.”

“Yeah, like Chris Calloway fell against Shane’s fists in Grafton’s Saloon,” said Wheatley.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said St. Anthony. “I don’t watch Western Movies.”

“Oh, come on,” said Wheatley. “You were the poster boy for Little House on the Prairie.”

St. Anthony sank down on a bale of hay. He took a spare sponge and a canister of Holy Water from his money belt. He unscrewed the head from his aspergillum, removed the old sponge and inserted the fresh one into the head. Then he broke the seal on the canister, stuffed it into the head and then screwed the head back to scepter. And voila! The smell was gone and he was ready for business. It was amazing what a little Holy Water could do.

All he had to do now was locate Bernard Piffy, save him from whatever trouble he was in and he would be back in the good graces of Gabriel and he could return to being the Patron Saint of Lost Items. No more of this Guardian Angel stuff for him—no sir!

Wheatley checked her whip. It was in two pieces thanks to St. Anthony. It would be difficult to manage without the stock but she had done it before and with a fair amount of success. It was in the wrist—if she could apply the proper torque at the right moment, all would go well. The last thing she wanted to do was to take out an eye instead of a tongue. Abu Afaq would have a fit and she would lose her seat on the Lash LaRue Retirement Board.

She took a couple of practice swings, went to the stable door for a look outside. It was one she wouldn’t forget. “Holy crap!” she said.

Yes, holy crap, nothing could have prepared her for the sight she saw unless she had been standing on Cemetery Ridge south of Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. The yard between the stable and the Laboratory building was crawling with heavily armed men in camouflage uniforms!

St. Anthony came up beside Wheatley. He eyed the armed men. ”Hamas?” he whispered.

“Don’t you wish,” said Wheatley. “It’s worse than Hamas. It’s Sheikh al-Kabibble with al-Thi’b’s part of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade!”

“Al-Kabibble?” said St. Anthony.

Yes, al-Kabibble!

Even as St. Anthony spoke the words the Midnight Rider was edging up the drive towards the ul-Heim Experimental Laboratory administration building!