The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 12)

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It could have been worse—he could have been killed in that library, he could have been cut up in little pieces, maimed, scarred for life at the end of that crazy man’s hook. He could still be in jail, pacing that ridiculous five-by-five cell till the hairs on his head turned gray, thinking up cute names for the roaches that would creep out from under his bed to steal the crumbs from the corners of his mouth whenever he dozed off.

He was sure Mike Hammer had never experienced anything like what he had been through the last few days—not Hammer, not Shell Scott, not Travis McGee. It was the kind of adventure that would have made Jessica Fletcher wet her pants. He had thrown a shoe at the notorious Sheikh Riyadh ul-Haq, he had been arrested for breaking into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office in Lambeth, he had insulted Abu Hamza and because of that he now had a fatwa hanging over his head. How could he have done all that it such a short span of time without trying? It was a mystery.

He was lucky to be alive; he was lucky to be in one piece. It was Algernon A. Algernon who had saved his butt. The breaking and entering charges had been dropped—thanks to Algernon and his friends in M15 and to James Bond, too, no doubt. The Archbishop’s papers were back in the Archbishop’s safe and Piffy was free—free to get back to the States.

The search for Yaser Abdel Said was over. It was a shame. It had never got off the ground but he had to think about himself for a change. He knew when he was licked. Sarah and Amina Said would not be avenged. Not by Bernard Piffy. Maybe when he got back to the States he could talk Dan Tanna into taking up the cause though Dan might be too expensive for the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club. Or Edd Kookie Byrnes of the old 77 Sunset Strip gang—he could use the work. Piffy would find somebody.

It would be great to get back to the real world, to see Andy and the old gang again. Boy, would he have some stories to tell!

He went out to Heathrow, made reservations for Friday, found a nice little diner and settled down for some fish and chips with malt-vinegar Mayonnaise. With a little rhubarb pie and chickpeas fried in breadcrumbs he would have been in Hee Haw heaven.

He was finishing the last of his chips, glancing down at the Daily Mail that lay on the table alongside his plate when suddenly he smelled cordite! Something curdled in his stomach! Oh, no, not cordite, please not cordite! But it was! And phosgene!

He looked up as nonchalantly as he could. Not as distressed as Fay Wray getting her first glimpse of King Kong or Lou Costello on discovering he was sitting in the Frankenstein monster’s lap, it was more like a Boston Red Sox fan watching the ball go through Bill Buckner’s legs in a World Series game. Piffy had been there before.

It was the 9/11 twins, Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour. While he had been enjoying his first decent meal in three days, they had sidled, unbeknownst, up to his table. They were all smiles. Atta pushed in alongside Piffy, Honjour plopped down on the opposite side of the table.

“Fancy meeting you boys here,” gulped Piffy. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to be blunt about this, Piffy,” said Atta. “We want to make a deal. We can be generous. It’s up to you.”

“If it’s about the toenail clippings,” said Piffy, “I don’t have them, I don’t know where they are and I don’t care where they are.”

“We know that,” said Atta.

“I don’t have the fleas either,” said Piffy. “I don’t know where they are and I don’t care where they are.”

“We know that, too” said Atta. “It’s not about the clippings or the fleas.”

“You’re wasting your time,” said Piffy. “I don’t know anything about anything. I’m going back to the States. I’m through looking for Yaser Abdel Said. I’m sorry I threw the shoe at ul-Haq. It was an accident. I’ve got reservations for Friday.”

“You’re leaving?” said Atta. He glanced at Hanjour. They were puzzled.

“You damn bet-cha!” said Piffy. “I wouldn’t give a wet goat’s pizzle for all the fleas in Mohammed’s beard.”

Atta stood up. He was smiling. Well,” he said, “That’s a load off our minds. We thought we would have to pay you to leave. Bon voyage.”

“Pay me?” said Piffy. “You were going to pay me to leave? How much?”

Atta smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, a member of the Royal Family said he would be willing to go as high as a million dollars.”

“A million dollars?” gulped Piffy.

“But seeing as you are leaving anyway,” said Atta, “the offer is withdrawn. Of course, if you return we will be forced to kill you.” He bowed. “Allahu akbar.”

Well, if that didn’t beat all—if that didn’t beat all to hell and back! A million clams! A million dollars! He looked at the last chip wallowing in what was left of the Mayonnaise. Should he polish it off, save it for a souvenir to celebrate his stupidity or toss it at Atta and Hanjour? For a moment he considered chasing after them. But what would he say? I’ve changed my mind? I was only kidding? I’ll take the million bucks? No, he’d better leave well enough alone. He swished the last chip in the remaining sauce. He’d lost his appetite along with the million dollars. He finished his coffee, left a modest tip—a Bernard Piffy tip, not a Diamond Jim Brady windfall—and went back to his apartment over the Red Dragon.

Asma bint Marwan was waiting for him. He had been wondering when she was going to show up again. She had shed the Old Hag routine. He was glad, the getup had scared the life out of him. She had reverted to Moll Flanders. She was wearing a thin peasant blouse and a short skirt—a very short skirt. He couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. He swallowed. This is how Marilyn Monroe must have looked to JFK. Maybe he should make the sign of the cross. His last meeting with bint Marwan playing the Old Hag had been less than cordial. He could see her bra glowing beneath the thin peasant blouse—her time warp between the 21^st Century and the netherworld.

“I’ve got good news,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ve located a man who knows where Yaser Abdel Said is hiding.”

“I’m going back to the States,” said Piffy.

“He’s a member of the Keeper of the Fleas. We can kill two birds with one stone,” she said.

“I’m going back to the States,” repeated Piffy.

“You will really like this,” she said. “He is one of the elite Keepers. He carries on his person at all times a secret code that can release the King Flea from its cage.”

“I’m going back to the States,” said Piffy.

“We’ve been through this before,” warned bint Marwan. “We made a deal. I promised to take you to Yaser Abdel Said and I intend to keep that promise.”

“As much as I would like to take a trip in your magic carpet—“ began Piffy.

“Magic carpet?” she said.

This time when she grabbed him by the arm he didn’t try to pull away. The embrace lasted less than a few seconds but it was more than enough. Bint Marwan could be very persuasive.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Who is this guy and where do I find him?”

“He is very cautious. He is always on his guard. He runs a Madrassas. You will have to use a disguise.”

“A disguise?” he echoed. “Why?”

“Well, you can’t go like you are,” she said. “You would stick out like a sore thumb. You will have to pose as a student”

“A student?” he said. “At a Madrassas? Ain’t I little too old for that?”

“I’ve got a plan,” she said. “If you put your hand on my—ah, magic carpet—close your eyes and count to ten I can turn you into the little boy you were when you were ten years old and you will fit in perfectly at a Madrassas.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“Not at all,” said bint Marwan. “Physically you will be ten years old but you will retain your current mental capacity and your historical knowledge will remain intact.”

This was ridiculous! She could do no such thing. “So I’m ten-years-old again, then what do I do?”

“You enroll in Ahmad’s Madrassas and when you get the chance, you steal the secret code.”

This was not only ridiculous; it was preposterous! “I don’t think so,” he said.

But she was too quick for him. She grabbed his hand and drew it toward the magic carpet. “Now close your eyes,” she ordered.

Something strange was happening to him! A tingling sensation shot through his fingers, coursed up his arm, surged through his body, curled his toes! An incredible euphoria swept over him! He closed his eyes; he could hear someone counting. He could feel himself shrinking, shrinking; shrinking into himself! He went limp; he was loosing it…loosing it.

(to be continued)