The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 71)

CHAPTER 71:

UNION RULES

Bonds—Stockton Bonds—looked up from the mess he had made of the detonator. Instead of banging it against the wall until something happened he had decided to take it apart. Now in putting it back together he discovered he had too many pieces. “I got an extra fuse and a little curly thing that looks like a fishhook,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” mumbled Zolo—Beauregard Zolo.

Bonds scowled at the man lying on the floor near the backpack. “Know where they go?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t have taken it apart,” said Zolo

Bonds stood up—the Man from AUNTIE was right. “You got something in that backpack of yours I can use to bend a couple of wires?” he asked.

Zolo set aside the book he was reading. He had been waiting for this moment. “What kind of a detonator is it?” he asked. He knew but he wanted Agent Six-and-seven-eights to tell him one more time.

“It’s a Maxwell Smart detonator,” said Bonds.

“Yes,” said Zolo. “A Maxwell Smart detonator. It’s thirty to forty years old. The chances are the ratio of Potassium Chloride to sulfur is not what it once was. It has deteriorated. Why don’t you just flush it down the toilet? It’s worthless.”

“How are we going to get out of here if I do that?” asked Bonds.

“Don’t worry,” said Zolo. “Somebody will come along in a few days and let us out.”

“You mean wait?” said Bonds. He had never waited for anything in his entire life—not for Octopussy, not for Holly Goodhead, not even for Honey Rider.

“Find something to read,” suggested Zolo. He gestured at his backpack. “I’ve got Plutarch’s Lives in here—all four volumes.”

Bonds frowned. “What do we do for food?” he asked. They had to have food.

“How about food for thought?” said Zolo. He picked up the book he had been reading—Plutarch’s Lives, Volume Two. “I’ve got enough oxygen canisters in my backpack to last me ten days.”

Bonds gathered up the parts of the detonator he had dismantled. Maybe if he washed them—ran some water over them—got some of the grease off of them. He took them to the washbasins at the other end of the Ladies Room.

“What are you mens doing in here?” said the little girl in the camouflage uniform.

Bonds—Stockton Bonds could not have been more surprised. With the water splashing in the sink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his back to the door, the voice cut through him like the angel of death on its a way to Hell. He swung away from the sink; slipped in the water he had splashed on the floor and took a seat in the audience. But he was up in a flash more embarrassed than anything else. He was, after all Bonds—Stockton Bonds. He stared at the little girl. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“Through the door,” she said. “It’s kinds of sticky and it didn’t wants to open so I had to kick it.”

Zolo was as surprised as Bonds. He clambered awkwardly to his feet, his Mountain High handheld oxygen system in one hand, Volume Two of Plutarch’s Lives clutched in the other.

“This is the Ladies Room,” said the little girl. She was still standing by the door, holding it open with one hand as if she were getting ready to flee. “You mens are not supposed to be in here. I’m going to tell my daddy.”

Bonds smiled at the little girl. “We’re janitors,” he said. “We’re here to fix the toilets.”

“You’re not janitors,” said the little girl. “Janitors don’t wear suits.”

Bonds smiled again. He wanted to pat the little girl on the head—but not in a Ladies Room. “Who told you that?” he said.

“Masoud,” she said.

“He must not have read our last contract,” said Bonds. “We make a hundred dollars an hour now and new Union Rules say we have to wear suits. Personally, I prefer bib overalls. They’re better for carrying wrenches and Lysol sprays.”

“I’ve seen janitors before,” she said. “They’re dirty and grimy and tell un-Islamic stories. If you don’t gets out of here I’ll call my daddy and he will have Masoud come and arrest you.”

Zolo gulped some oxygen. Not once in all of his years with Ilya Kurbovnik had he been involved in such a ridiculous situation—not once. “Would you mind telling us who your daddy is, little girl?” he asked.

“My daddy is Dr. Haribert ul-Heim. And this is his hospital,” said the little girl.

Bonds glanced at Zolo. “I think we got our ticket to ride,” he said. “She can take us anywhere in this joint.”

“It’s not a joint,” said the little girl. “It’s a hospital.”

Bonds smiled. Ladies Room or not he wanted to pat the little girl on the head. “Did anybody ever tell you, you look like Honey Rider?” he said.

Dr. Haribert ul-Heim had to squeeze past the Mullahs to get to the operating table. He gazed at the naked ten-year-old boy. In spite of the beating the child had taken he was holding up well—perhaps too well. “The Sheikh has given us another hour-and-a-half,” he said to Dr. Muhammad of Aleppo.

“Then the operation is still on?” asked Mullah al-Shafti.

“Of course,” said ul-Heim. “We have no other choice. Science marches on.” He flipped the scalpel in his hand end for end.

The used-Qur’an salesman from Borneo swallowed nervously. He had heard all the stories about ul-Heim’s activities in Sudan and the Balkans. “Surely, you’re not going to operate on this child without having any experience in this kind of surgery?” he said.

Ul-Heim scowled. He had had enough of this nonsense. He glared at the little man from the Borneo “Of course not,” he said. “I am not a fool!”

The salesman eyed the scalpel in the doctor’s hand. “I have heard from reliable sources that the only surgeries you have ever performed have been circumcisions on little girls in the back alleys of Cairo and London and in the remote villages of Sudan,” he said.

Dr. ul-Heim forced a smile. His past was none of this little man’s business but he felt he had to say something in his own defense. “I will admit to a checkered past,” he said. “It’s part of my mystique but I am a bona-fide surgeon. I have been to the Harvard Medical School. I know the difference between a tonsil and an adenoid. I have dissected my share of frogs. I can tell a testicle from an ovary. I met with Dr. Josef Mengele shortly before his death in Sao Paulo. We had an interesting conversation. I intend some day to replicate his experiments. But if you think I am so stupid as to operate on this child with my life hanging in the balance on its results, you must be one of the dumbest persons in the world.”

There were other things ul-Heim could have said, that he was terribly ashamed of his past and would give anything to be forgiven but he couldn’t say that here—not in the presence of these people—and expect to continue as a successful neurosurgeon and perhaps, more importantly, as a Muslim.

“Then the operation is off? ” said one of the Mullahs.

“No, it is still on,” said ul-Heim. “And it will be performed as intended—by surgeons experienced in this kind of surgery.”

A murmur of approval came from around the operating table.

Ul-Heim gestured at the three doctors lined up on the opposite side of the table. “Let me introduce my surgical team,” he said, “Dr. Muhammad al-Battani from the University of Cairo; Dr. Muhammad Nafis from the University of Alexandria and Dr. Muhammad al-Aziz from the University of Aleppo. These gentlemen have enough expertise to turn a St. Bernard dog into a Cheshire cat.”

“Muhammad, Muhammad and Muhammad!” exclaimed the used-Qur’an salesman. “I have heard of them! They are good!”

Hanadi Hamza edged closer to the operating table. “I have a request,” she said hesitantly.

“A request?” scoffed Diabolica. “What do you think this is…a game show? Hamas Mouse is dead! Grow up, little one!”

“No, no,” said ul-Heim. He had taken a liking to Hanadi, something Diabolica had detected. “Let’s hear her out.” He studied the eleven-year-old girl who had broken every record for diligence and perseverance at the Osama bin Laden Madrassas for Girls. “What is it?”

Hanadi swallowed. “I would like to make the first incision,” she said.

“You?” exclaimed Diabolica. She was stunned—flabbergasted.

“I have been grievously wronged by this Kuffar swine,” she said. “It would make me feel better. It would give me closure.”

“Closure?” scoffed Diabolica. “Where did you get that word? From Kharma With Darma?”

Dr. al-Heim smiled at Hanadi. “It’s highly unusual,” he said, “but I don’t see why not—as long as Drs. Muhammad, Muhammad and Muhammad don’t object. Of course, you will need to have a steady hand.”

“My hand will be steady,” promised Hanadi.

Diabolica snorted.

The Imam said something about Islamic justice.

The eleven-year-old girl edged closer to the operating table. She looked down at naked ten-year-old boy, her lips curling in contempt.

Oh, how she loathed this dhimmi brat… lying there with his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, his left cheek twitching. He had ruined her life! He was terrified! Good! She could see the sweat on his brow, his heart thumping against his naked chest. She could hear it…thump- thump-thump…

Wheatley and St. Anthony had reached the entrance to the Laboratory building. Their ad hoc rescue party had made good time up to this point but now it came to a stop. Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble was exhausted and was about to collapse. Wheatley gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.

“Please, please,” begged the Sheikh. “I cannot go another step. My immensity is killing me…”

The officer in charge of the guard post hurried over from his desk in the lobby. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Wheatley. “The Sheikh needs to catch his breath—he’s an old man. He’s tuckered out.”

A second man came running across the lobby. “Hey! Hey!” he shouted. “Nobody is allowed in this building!”

It was al-Thi’b! Wheatley winced. Things could get ugly!

The former Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade commander had a reputation for both shrewdness and violence and no one, least of all his enemies, could tell which it was likely to be at any given moment. He was a squat powerfully built man—a speeding locomotive; he was Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids; he was Mike Tyson on an anabolic binge; he was what Charles Starkweather and the Barker boys thought they were after three beers. He would have made two of St. Anthony, three of Wheatley and four of al-Kabibble.

The Sheikh sagged against St. Anthony. “It’s okay,” he said to al-Thi’b. “We’re going up to see Krista.”

“Like hell you are!” thundered al-Thi’b. “Nobody’s going up to see Krista! This place is Off Limits!”

“It is?” said al-Kabibble. He was confused and disappointed. “Who said so? I don’t remember putting it Off Limits…”

“I put it Off Limits!” barked al-Thi’b, “I’m running this operation!”

“I beg your pardon!” said Wheatley. “The Sheikh is running this operation! He’s the big cheese around here! He pays the bills! If you don’t like it you can pack up and leave! We’re going up to see the little tyke whether you like it or not!”

Al-Thi’b blew his top. He grabbed Wheatley by the front of her camouflage jacket. His intention was to jerk her off her feet and fling her against the wall or perhaps toss her through a window but the jacket was several sizes too large and al-Thi’b, in the throes of a grand furor barbaricus, pulled the garment—the pockets, the buttons, the collar, the shirt tail; the whole shebang—up over her shoulders and head until the jacket was the only thing that remained in his hand and Wheatley was left standing where she was, a short large-breasted woman in a George W. Bush T-shirt with a very angry look on her face!

Al-Thi’b was dumbfounded. He reached for the gun strapped to his waist and Wheatley reached for her one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip!