The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 70)

CHAPTER 70:

FLOWER GIRLS AND

BRIDESMAIDS

Masoud tied a white handkerchief to a stick, took a deep breath and hurried across the lawn toward the Midnight Rider. Even though al-Thi’b’s mercenaries were everywhere they showed little interest in ul-Heim’s security chief. One Mujahideen waved and another shouted a greeting of some sort. They were in a festive mood, talking and laughing as they lounged in the doorways and sprawled on the grass. Some were sipping Jihad Cola; others were checking their weapons.

An officer was setting up a guard post near the entrance to the building. A couple of pickup trucks towing artillery pieces from some long-ago war came roaring across the sward. Masoud grimaced. Artillery pieces! Long guns! Field howitzers against a handful of AK-47s! Ul-Heim’s tiny force wouldn’t have a chance.

If it was up to Masoud he would surrender right now, give up the boy/girl and live another day but it was his job as security chief to stall for time and that is what he would do. After all, he was a friend of ul-Heim’s, a brother-in-law by marriage and they shared many secrets, including a flagging zeal for Islam.

By the time he reached the Midnight Rider the artillery pieces had been cut loose from the pickup trucks and had been rolled into positions at opposite ends of the Laboratory. Masoud didn’t know much about artillery but he knew what pointblank range was. One shell from either of those monsters would bring down ul-Heim’s fledgling medical empire and Masoud would be looking for a new job.

He hurried up the ramp to the Midnight Rider. Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble was waiting for him in the middle of the lounge. A Mufti in a bulky brown robe was standing at his side.

Masoud was surprised at how tiny the Sheikh appeared in the flesh. He had expected a large man, a man as large as his reputation, but here was this little itty-bitty guy. Oh sure, he was impressive. He had a perfectly trimmed beard, a pair of quick darting eyes and a face the color of freshly drawn ashes. He was not well. He was still recuperating from the emergency surgery he had undergone to save the remains of his immensity. He seemed nervous and kept glancing from Masoud to his advisor in the brown robe then back to Masoud. He should have been in bed.

The Mufti, a short squat fellow with an oversized turban pulled tight across his brow, eyed Masoud suspiciously. There was an angry look on his face.

The Sheikh cleared his throat. “Well,” he squawked, “are you ready to give up the girl?”

Masoud bowed. “We will need some time, effendi,” he said.

“Time?” said al-Kabibble. “How much time?”

“At least an hour,” said Masoud.

“An hour?” said the Sheikh. “That’s seems reasonable—as long as it is not more than that.” He paused and a fleeting smile crossed his tired face. ”Time is money, you know.”

The Mufti interrupted. “No!” he said. He had a harsh feminine voice. ”An hour is too long!”

Masoud scowled. He glared at the Mufti. Who did this ugly little toad think he was—interrupting the Sheikh as if he were a schoolchild? .

Al-Kabibble glanced nervously at the Mufti. He swallowed and his lower lip trembled. “Yes,” he whispered. It was almost a whimper. “You are right, your eminence. An hour is too long.”

Masoud fiddled with the handkerchief he had tied to the stick. He shuffled uneasily. Since when had the Sheikh needed an adviser to tell him what to do? He glared at the Mufti. “We are not ready yet,” he said.

“Not ready yet?” echoed the Sheikh.

Masoud searched for something to say, a ploy to buy ul-Heim some time, an excuse of some sort…but what? The child was sick? She was having her hair done? She had gone to Timbuktu to attend a wedding? He remembered ul-Heim saying something about a trousseau. A trousseau? Yes, a trousseau! That was it! The child was going to marry the Sheikh, wasn’t she? She would need a trousseau!

Masoud grinned. “We need time to complete her trousseau,” he said. Suddenly he was confident. “The tailors have just started on the wedding gown. It’s a complicated design. And there’s the lingerie…and the sleepwear!”

“Lingerie…sleepwear?” echoed the Sheikh.

“Oh, yes,” said Masoud. “There are still a hundred things to do. Dr. ul-Heim had taken a liking to the child. He wants everything to be perfect. He has gone to great expense to provide for her. When he heard you were coming he sent to Cairo for the finest cashmeres and to Paris for the best silk underwear.”

Al-Kabibble smiled. The light was back in his eyes. “Really!” he said. “That is good! I had no idea!” He was pleased. Yes, pleased! His immensity was tingling—hurting but tingling. It was a sign of healing.

Again the squat ugly Mufti interrupted. “No!” he said. “We must have the child now, not next week!”

The Sheikh glanced at the Mufti. The smile disappeared from his face. He licked his lips and looked at the floor. He was a beaten man. ”You are right,” he said quietly. “We must have her now.”

Masoud glared at the squat little toad. He would have hit the wretch if he could have. But he had to be careful. “And there’s the jewelry,” he said. He was desperate. “The child loves jewelry! And the hospital staff has taken up a collection to buy her a bracelet!”

“A bracelet?” said al-Kabibble. “For my little Krista?”

“Yes, a bracelet,” said Masoud.

A smile swept over the Sheikh’s cracked lips. Something stirred again in his immensity! It was painful but stimulating! He would die of ecstasy! Surely Allah was rewarding him for his years of dedication to Islam! He would have everything he had ever dreamed of! He would be following in the footsteps of the Prophet! He would name a mosque after the generous Dr. ul-Heim! Yes—a mosque!

“We can hold the wedding in the lobby of the Administration Building,” offered Masoud.

The Sheikh could not believe his ears. “How much time will you need?” he asked.

“Two hours,” said Masoud. He would have asked for more but did not want to push his luck.

Al-Kabibble smiled. Two hours would be fine. He would need some time for the pain in his immensity to subside and to make himself presentable. Perhaps there were some drugs he could take to prepare himself. But no Viagra! He was not ready for that—not yet. Maybe someday when he was properly healed. “You shall have two hours!!” he said. “Three, if you want.” He could not believe his incredible good luck.

But the squat ugly toad in the brown robe took the wind from the old man’s sails. “No!” he said in his harsh feminine voice. “Absolutely not! Not three hours, not two, not one!”

The Sheikh seemed to cringe. He swallowed nervously. He looked fearfully at the Mufti. He seemed on the verge of tears.

Masoud ignored the Mufti. “We’ll need time to organize the flower girls and the bridesmaids,” he said.

“Flower girls and bridesmaids?” echoed the Sheikh. He had forgotten the flower girls and the bridesmaids! But he had not come to the medical center with a wedding in mind. He had come to rescue his Krista.

“The bridesmaids have to be measured for their gowns,” said Masoud. “It will take time.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” nodded the Sheikh. What kind of a wedding would it be without bridesmaids?

The Mufti grabbed al-Kabibble by the elbow. “Are you crazy?” he hissed. “By the time ul-Heim is ready the child will have reached puberty and will be of little use to you!”

The Sheikh trembled. One touch and a few words and his little rebellion was over! Sweat was pouring down his pallid cheeks like blood from the heart of a freshly slain gorgon. “What do you suggest I do?” he whimpered.

“Give them ten minutes,” said the ugly little toad. “If they don’t cough up your little Krista in ten minutes we’ll open fire!”

Masoud was aghast. “Open fire?” he cried. “You can’t do that! There are innocent people in that building! Doctors…Mullahs…nurses! An Imam! There are little children in there! The only sex reassignment surgery team in all of Islam is in there! Even now they are operating on a patient! You can’t open fire on them—not with artillery you can’t!”

The Mufti scowled. “Artillery?” he said. “What artillery?”

Al-Kabibble smiled weakly. “I purchased two cannon—the best available on the International market—from Adnan Khoshoggi Ltd. for al-Thi’b in case he should have trouble with ul-Heim. They were used in the Korean War. They are in perfect working order. Al-Thi’b is anxious to try them out.”

The Mufti’s face turned purple with rage. “Of all the stupid—“ he growled. “People could be killed in there!” He grabbed al-Kabibble by the arm and shook him. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you stupid old fool?”

The Sheikh tried to pull away from the Mufti but his arm was caught in an iron grip. “I am sorry,” he said. “They are only intended for show. I would never harm anybody—never!”

The Mufti turned on Masoud. “You go tell ul-Heim that he’s got an hour and a half,” he said. “That’s all! No more! ‘Cause when I get done figuring out this artillery thing I’m coming after the kid and he had better be alive and in one piece or I’ll tie your carcass across the muzzle of one of those artillery pieces and send you to hell without a postage stamp! You hear me?”

Masoud heard. He glared at the Mufti. Who was this bastard—this ugly little wart with the oversized turban pulled down over his eyes? Who did he think he was? Ordering the Sheikh around like he was a slave of some kind?

And that voice—it was scary, like that of a witch, almost feminine in its intensity. He looked like an Imam in one of those Jyllands-Posten Muhammad cartoons—ugly clean through! It was people like him that gave Islam a bad name! Well, he would take care of him later—when this was over he would seek him out…

“An hour-and-a-half,” said the Mufti.

Masoud bowed to al-Kabibble. “Insha Allah,” he said and then he backed toward the door. When he got to the bottom of the ramp he turned and ran as fast as he could for the Laboratory.

Wheatley W. Wheatley removed the oversized turban from her head and tossed it into a corner. “I thought the bastard would never leave,” she said.

The Sheikh sank down on the nearest couch and buried his face in his hands He would have cried but he was too exhausted. He sighed and stared at the floor. The pain in his groin had started again. Oh, woe was he!

St. Anthony came out of the bedroom. He glared at Wheatley. “Don’t you suppose you could have handled that a little better?” he said.

Wheatley went behind the bar to fix herself a drink. “How?” she said. “I put the run on the sodbuster, didn’t I?” She could have been Rufus Ryker.

“You gave him an hour-and-a-half!” exclaimed St. Anthony. “An hour-and-a-half! Do you know how much mischief a Devil can make in an hour-and-a-half?”

“I’m not going to give them a hour-and-a-half,” said Wheatley. “I propose to move immediately upon their works—as soon as I fix myself a little drink.”

“Ulysses S. Grant didn’t take time out for a little drink at Fort Donelson,” said St. Anthony.

“Says you,” said Wheatley.

“Sometimes I wish I weren’t a saint,” said the Holy Man.

Wheatley rummaged around behind the bar. “Anybody know where the olives are?’ she asked. “I can’t make a dry martini without an olive! There’s plenty of gin but there’s no olives.”

St. Anthony squeezed past the Sheikh to look out the back door. Something was troubling him. “That sex reassignment surgery that fellow mentioned,” he said. “What did he mean by that?”

“Who knows,” said Wheatley. She had found the olives.

“That kind of talk makes me nervous,” said St. Anthony.

“Everything makes you nervous,” said Wheatley.

“I’m serious,” said St. Anthony.

Wheatley poured some gin in a glass. “I’d like to see a sex reassignment surgery,” she said. “I think I could learn something.”

“How gross can you get?” muttered St. Anthony. He sank down on the couch alongside al-Kabibble. He fiddled with his aspergillum and then looked at Wheatley. “If Gabriel ever suspected I was working with someone like you—even for the betterment of mankind—he would have me turn in my aspergillum and say a thousand Hail Mary’s kneeling on a bed of red-hot coals!”

“Hey, don’t knock sex reassignment surgery!” said Wheatley. “How do you think I get the pizzles for my Mujahideen-pizzle whips? They don’t grow on trees!”

St. Anthony glanced at his aspergillum. Maybe if he gave Wheatley a taste of Holy Water it would help. He didn’t like this kind of talk. Sex reassignment surgery scared him. It was something one would expect to hear on the Rachel Maddow Show when she ran out of teabagger jokes.

And then he remembered something ul-Heim’s courier had said. “Even now they are operating on a patient.” A patient? What patient? There couldn’t be more than two or three patients in the entire medical complex—if that many! And Bernard Piffy was one of them! And the other two were little girls…

Something curdled in St. Anthony’s stomach! Holy Mother of God! It was little Bernie they were operating on! It was his sex that was going to be reassigned! He gripped his aspergillum so hard his knuckles turned white! The look of anguish on his face would have made the Frankenstein monster weep.

Wheatley noticed the Holy Man’s distress. “Don’t take it so hard, St. Antonia,” she said. “You don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not you that’s going under the knife. It’s some other poor sap. He’s probably got an identity problem. When they get done snipping and cutting he’ll be missing a few old parts and he’ll have a few new ones. They’ll be doing him a favor.”

“It’s not some other poor sap I’m worried about,” said St. Anthony. “I’m worried about our little Bernie Piffy. If they go to snipping and cutting on him and he should get reassigned for some reason or other Gabe will have a fit! I could be sent to Purgatory!”

Suddenly it dawned on Wheatley. All that goofy talk about a marriage! A trousseau…and bridesmaids! Masoud had been serious! It hadn’t been a silly little ploy to dupe the Sheikh into giving them some extra time in which to escape! They were going to reassign the kid! She beat her fist on the bar so hard the olive jumped out of her martini. “Holy crap!” she said.

“Yes, holy crap,” said St. Anthony.

Wheatley finished her drink with one gulp. “It’s Bernie that’s on that operating table!” she muttered. “Those bastards are going to reassign our little Bernie!” She turned on St. Anthony. “How could you be so stupid? You’re supposed to be his guardian angel! We got to get into that building right now! That’s why they wanted an hour-and-a-half—so they could go to snipping and cutting!”

St. Anthony slapped the head of his aspergillum against the palm of his hand. “I pity those poor devils when I get through with them he,” he muttered.

Wheatley looked at al-Kabibble. “Hey, Chief,” she said. “Make yourself useful! Call a couple of those monkeys in here. We’re going to need a couple of uniforms and a couple of AK-47s to get through al-Thi’b’s goons. We got a kid to rescue—the one you got the hots for!”

The Sheikh sighed. He should have stayed in the hospital—given his immensity a chance to heal. But no, he had been so obsessed with his darling little Krista he couldn’t wait—he had ignored the advice of his doctors, the advice of his staff, the recommendations of the Council of Imams, even the advice of his political liaison with al-Qaeda. Oh, what a fool he had been. He got to his feet and though he ached in every limb he shuffled to the door.

They were ready in much less than an hour. The Sheikh came down the ramp first. He was trembling and his face was the color of a morgue slab. He glanced nervously from side to side as if he expected to be assailed at any moment by a dozen Imams quoting the Qur’an.

Wheatley and St. Anthony were right behind the Sheikh. No one would have mistaken them for Nidal Malik Hasan or Asan Akbar but with the camouflage uniforms they were wearing and the Ak-47s slung over their shoulders they could have passed for Islam’s version of Willie and Joe.

Willie and Joe? Sure, Willie and Joe with a touch of Dwayne Doberman and Beetle Bailey thrown in but if one looked closely one could not help but notice the steely glint in their eyes and the grim determination in their faces. They were following in the footsteps of Audie Murphy and John Basilone—they would not be denied.

Wheatley kept one hand on the Sheikh’s elbow to keep him pointed in the right direction. A bag of olives and a bottle of gin were tucked in her cartridge belt. She was ready for anything.

At the very moment Wheatley and St. Anthony were stepping from the Midnight Rider Masoud was slipping into the operating room in the ul-Heim laboratory.

“Well?” asked an anxious Dr. ul-Heim.

“We’ve got an hour-an-a-half,” whispered Masoud.

Ul-Heim smiled. “That will be enough,” he said, “more than enough.”