The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 26)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF version“Don’t you worry, Mr. Piffy,” said Cowsnofsky. “We’ll get you the best damn lawyer in England and you’ll be out of jail before those rat-bag government plumbers can aim your toilet at the good old red, white and blue.”   Piffy said something like "Tie me kangaroo down, sport,” and it was off he went.   Piffy knew the routine. At length he was ushered into the interrogation room. Deputy Chief Constable Stumble, no-smoke pipe clenched between his bulldog jaws, eyed the interrogatee silently for some time. He waited till Piffy began to fidget and then he spoke. “Well, well,” he said. “So you’re the Bernard Piffy that threw his shoe at Riyadh ul-Haq and broke into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office at Lambeth Palace and stole the Archbishop's private papers.”   “That’s what they say,” said Piffy.   “And I take it you’re the Bernard Piffy that assaulted Abu Hamza al-Masri in the prison library by throwing—what was it—a ham sandwich at him?” said Stumble.   “That’s what they say,” said Piffy.   “An unusual choice of weapons,” said Stumble.   “You want to know the truth, Inspector,” said Piffy, “it was a waste of a perfectly good ham sandwich. Abu Hamza isn’t worth a goat’s pizzle that’s been soaked in hog urine and roasted in hell.”   “It’s Constable, not Inspector,” corrected Stumble.   A uniformed Bobby poked his head into the interrogation room. “Mr. Piffy’s lawyer is here,” he said.   Stumble stood up. “Ah, yes,” he said. "Mr. Rumpole, no doubt.”   “No,” said the Bobby. “It’s a little guy in a wheelchair. He says his name is Softsides.”   “Softsides?” mused Stumble. “Softsides? Never heard of him.”   He would and very soon for a loud voice from an anti-room shattered the fragile silence of the interrogation chamber. “Where’s my client?” it roared. “I demand to see my client!” It must have been Softsides. “We still have rights in England. This isn’t Sharia country—not yet, if I have anything to say about it!”   “We had better let him in, Constable,” the Bobby said nervously. “He’s run his wheelchair into just about everything but Ms Trimble’s coffeemaker.”   Stumble sighed. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said. “We’ll have to let him in—but this is highly unusual.”   “He says he’s Abu Afaq’s London agent.”   Piffy would be out of the interrogation room and on his way to his apartment in less than an hour, a quarter pound of black Transylvania garlic for puppy dog in his pocket, compliments of ‘Softsides.’ Algernon A. Algernon could be a Godsend—at times.   Meanwhile Aisha was enjoying lunch with Mrs. Cowsnofsky and Henrietta in a tiny restaurant nestled in the shadows of the Village at Westfield Shopping Center in Shepard’s Bush. Under the circumstances, it had been pleasant if not terribly exciting morning. They hadn’t purchased anything—Mrs. Cowsnofsky was as tight-fisted as Calvin Coolidge and Henrietta didn’t have a schilling to his name and was too proud to beg. The ten-year-old didn’t quite know what to make of Henrietta—was she a he or a he pretending to be a she. Cross-dressing was haram in Islam. But whatever Henrietta was, he certainly knew more about cosmetics than Mrs. Cowsnofsky and he was more ladylike. It wasn’t that Aisha didn’t like Mrs. C. She liked her fine. Mrs. C reminded Aisha of an old lady she had seen in a black-and-white movie the one time she had been allowed to stay up after 10 o’clock. A strong woman with a heart of gold, the mother of a gangster—she kept a blackjack in her purse and knew how to use it.   Henrietta finished his desert, dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth with a napkin; applied a bit of gloss to his lips. He winked at Aisha, crossed one leg delicately over the other and stowed his compact in his purse. Aisha was impressed.   Henrietta lowered his voice and nodded toward the kitchen area. “See that man over there?” he said. “He’s been watching us like a hawk for the last ten minutes.”   Mrs. Cowsnofsky was instantly on the alert. “What man?” she asked.   “The man by the kitchen door,” whispered Henrietta.   Mrs. C scowled. “ Maybe it you’d stop flashing your legs every ten seconds he would stop looking,” she said.   “Oh, Auntie C!” pouted Henrietta, “I’m not flashing. I know better than to do that!”   “What man?” asked Aisha.   “The Asian,” said Henrietta.   “That’s not an Asian,” said Mrs. Cowsnofsky. “It’s a Muslim.”   Aisha gasped. Mrs. C was right! It was a Muslim! It was Mohammed Atta! The color drained from her face and she slopped Coca-Cola across the tabletop.   “What’s the matter, dearie?” said an alarmed Mrs. C. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know that man?”   “She’s trembling!” said Henrietta.   “I have to go to the bathroom,” Aisha whispered desperately.   “He’s one of them, isn’t he?” said Mrs. C.   “I think he’s leaving,” said Henrietta.   “Play it cool now,” warned Mrs. C. “Don’t let him know we’re on to him.”   Mohammed Atta was, indeed, leaving. He passed within a few feet of their table without giving them a glance. He stopped at the front to pay his tab. He joked with the maitre d, glanced briefly over his shoulder at Aisha—or was it Henrietta—left a large tip and sauntered out the front door as nonchalantly as Richie Cunningham would leave Al’s Diner.   Aisha had covered her face with her hands.   “It’s Mohammed Atta, isn’t it?” said Mrs. C.   Aisha nodded. Her ‘yes’ was barely audible.   “Maybe I’d better follow him,” said Henrietta.   “Don’t be silly,” hissed Mrs. Cowsnofsky. “You’d be no match for him! That’s why Joe hired Piffy.” She looked round the restaurant. If Mr. C were here she would feel a lot better. “You two stay right here,” she ordered. “I’ll get us a taxi.” She looked at Henrietta. “And don’t let her out of your sight,” she warned.   Before Henrietta could protest Mrs. C had snatched up her purse and was out the front door. Well, that’s what he got for being a daddy’s girl! But there were things he was good at. He put his arm around Aisha. “Don’t you worry, honey,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”   Aisha buried her face in Henrietta’s shoulder. She was crying, softly, silently.   Henrietta gave her a hug. “Uncle Bernie will get after that guy,” he said. “Now let’s see a big smile.”   “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.   “Okay, can’t be no harm in that,” he said.   He walked her to the little girls room. She paused at the door. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked,   “No,” he said. “I’ll wait out here—so Mrs. C won’t think we’ve disappeared.” It wasn’t like he had never used the ladies room—he had, plenty of times, enough to be comfortable in one but he never with someone he knew.   Aisha disappeared through the door. Henrietta waited a few seconds, then he began to have second thoughts—maybe he should have stayed with her. He remembered what Mrs. C had said, “Don’t leave her out of your sight.” There were separate stalls in there—no one need be embarrassed. Who knew what might be lurking inside—a Hanadi Jaradat wannabe perhaps. It was possible. Maybe he had better check. He opened the door. “Aisha?” he whispered.   “Henrietta?” she said.   It took Mrs. Cowsnofsky a lot longer to flag down a cab than she had expected. When at last a hack drew up at the curb, she handed the driver a few quid, told him to wait and then hurried back into the restaurant. Once inside, she stopped dead in her tracks. Henrietta and Aisha weren’t anywhere in sight. The table where they had been sitting was empty. “Where did they go?” she snapped at a waitress.   “To the little girls room,” said the waitress, surprised at Mrs. C’s vehemence.   Mrs. Cowsnofsky hurried to the restrooms, her heart thumping furiously. Couldn’t Henrietta ever do what he was told? If anything happened to Aisha…Scarcely knowing what to expect she threw open the door to the ladies room. Henrietta was sitting on the floor, his clothing in disarray, blood flowing freely from his nose—and Aisha was missing!   (To be continued)