The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 10)

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It was too much! Fleas from the Prophet’s beard—or from wherever else they might come—loose in the 21^st Century! It was mind-boggling! If what Inspector Clouseau said were true and the fleas were as dangerous as he said then the entire world was at risk! An attack by these hellacious insects would make Osama bin Laden’s assault on the World Trade Center look like Richard Reid fumbling with his shoelaces.

Well, he couldn’t go back to the States now. He would have to tough it out. The boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club would have to cough up a few more pounds—that’s all. He would have to notify the authorities. He would have to tell M-15 and M-16 and 17 and 18 and 19! He would have to tell Blair and Brown and Bush and Obama and Thatcher and Bond. They would have to call out the Marines, the National Guard; the RAF…

Wait a minute! Wait a minute! What was he going to tell them? What would Inspector Clouseau to tell them? “Mr. Brown, Mr. President, fleas from Mohammed’s beard are, uh, loose in London and are plotting the destruction of English civilization? Fleas…1,400-year-old fleas? That one of them got loose once in a trench filled with German soldiers in 1918 but was corralled by its keeper before it could do any damage—only one man, an Austrian Corporal, had been infected and he had reportedly died in a military hospital in Pasewalk, Germany? Who would believe a story like that? Asma bint Marwan? Mohammed Atta? Sure. Maybe Harry Potter. But who else this side of Spanky and Alfalfa? It was absurd.

He was exhausted. He needed some rest Maybe things would look better in the morning. He curled up on the bed, the airline tickets still tucked in his shirt pocket.

Piffy awoke with Clouseau’s feet in his face. Pink socks? Egad! He sat up quickly. Someone had cleaned the room. He smelled bouillabaisse. Clouseau’s manservant Cato was puttering over a portable stove. “Smells good,” said Piffy.

“Not for you,” said Cato. “For boss man.”

Clouseau had made a remarkable recovery. He was as dashing as ever. He danced about the ‘remodeled’ apartment, took a trench coat from an oversized portmanteau that had appeared from nowhere, tugged a crown hat down over his head. “Now zat I am properly attired,” he said, “let’s see if mine can salvage something from the mess you have made of zis thing. Of course, mine shall be off to France to contact Chirac. I trust you will inform Blair and the Archbishop.”

Clouseau scarcely sampled the bouillabaisse and was gone—just like that! It was almost as if he hadn’t been there at all and if it weren’t for the three unconscious ‘Asians’ Cato had left in the corridor alongside Piffy’s door no would have known he had been.

Piffy finished the bouillabaisse. It was cold. What the hell was going on here? Blair? The Archbishop? What Archbishop? He didn’t know any Archbishop! He didn’t want to call on Asma bint Marwan again. He had had enough of halos and shopping bags. Besides, she might not be alive. He would go home first.

Then he remembered Algernon A. Algernon, the little guy with the whip, Abu Afaq's London agent. Compared to the others he seemed reasonable. He looked in the phonebook and there it was: Algernon A. Algernon: London Agent, Abu Afaq Enterprises.

Algernon waited for his secretary to leave the room. Piffy was the first caller he had had in more than two years and he didn’t want to screw it up. Abu Afaq kept track of things like that. He actually monitored them—public relations, he called it.

Algernon adjusted his tie, smiled at Piffy, bit the end off a cigar and spat it on the floor. “The Archbishop?” he said. “That would be Rowan Williams.” He got up, walked around the desk, kicked the fragment of cigar into a corner and stared at Piffy. “How bad do you want to see the Archbishop?” he demanded.

”It’s a matter of life and death,” said Piffy.

“It’s about the fleas, isn’t it?” said Algernon.

“Yes,” admitted Piffy.

“Well, it won’t be easy,” said Algernon. “Have you been cleared by the CIA? How about the FBI? How about Rush Limbaugh?”

Piffy swallowed. “Ah, no,” he said.

“No matter. Will it be Master Card or Visa or would you prefer our new 10-year plan?”

Piffy thought quickly. “Ah, the 10-year plan,” he said.

“Smart choice.”

“How soon can you get me in to see the Archbishop?”

“Right now, if you want. It will be dark in an hour or so.”

“Okay,” said Piffy. “That sounds good.”

“I’ll get my whip,” said Algernon.

Whip? Why would he need a whip? They were only going to see the Archbishop. This was not a bit reassuring…

Something wasn’t right. If this was one of the entrances to Lambeth Palace, the Archbishop’s main London residence, where were the church officials? Where were the young acolytes with the candles? Where were the guards in their gaudy uniforms? Where was the old geezer in the long robe mumbling something from Leviticus as he led them to the Archbishop’s inner sanctum? They hadn’t seen a single living soul! And why was it so dark? And that sound of trickling water! It was scary! Were they near an artesian well?

They were being watched. Piffy was sure of that! Something scurried out of their way. Was it a rat? “Where the hang are we?” he croaked.

“Quiet!” hissed Algernon. “We’re almost there.”

“There?” echoed Piffy. “Where’s there?”

“The Archbishop’s loo,” said Algernon.

“The Archbishop’s loo?” gasped Piffy.

“Yes,” whispered Algernon. “I always come this way to avoid the crowds. It’s where we turn to the left. Now be quiet. You don’t want to get arrested, do you?’

Arrested! What had he gotten into now? He should have risked bint Marwan’s halo!

“Follow me,” hissed Algernon. “I know this place like the back of Moll Flander's bum.”

That was precisely what worried Piffy. Of all the dumb decisions he had made this was positively the worst. He could end up in Newgate. But he kept quiet and it wasn’t long before they were climbing a series of crumbling, curving steps. It was still as dark as the Devil’s colon and the passageway was so narrow that his shoulders seemed to brush both walls at the same time. He could hear muted voices coming from somewhere. He coughed.

Again Algernon cautioned silence. “Do not make any sudden noise, you could disturb the ghost of William Whittlesey. He is said to inhabit these precincts.”

Fine! Ghosts were all Piffy needed to make the evening complete! By now they had come to a stop. Algernon felt along the wall. He removed a small piece of canvas from a porthole of some kind and a spray of light penetrated into the passageway. “Whatever you do now,” he warned, “do not push forward—you could fall through the wall. I will be back in a minute. I have to visit the Archbishop’s loo.”

Algernon was gone before Piffy could object. Well, that did it! He was alone! He had been deserted! He couldn’t have followed Algernon in that black maze if he had wanted. He might as well make the best of it. He edged closer to the porthole in the wall. If he put his face right up to the small opening he should be able to see what was on the other side of the passageway.

Well, so far, so good. There was a conference room on the other side of his hiding place. Yeah, that’s what it was, a hiding place. He was a first class sneak. Several men were seated around a large table. He was looking down at them. He didn’t know it at the time but he was observing them from behind a portrait of William Whittlesey. One of the men at the table appeared to be the Archbishop. He was talking and gesticulating. Piffy strained to hear what he was saying.

“So the second objection to an increased legal recognition of communal religious identities can be met,” said the Archbishop, “if we are prepared to think about the basic ground rules that might organize the relationship between jurisdictions, making sure that we do not collude with unexamined systems that have oppressive effect or allow shared public liberties to be decisively taken away by a supplementary jurisdiction.”

“Here! Here!” someone said.

Piffy didn’t know whether he agreed with that or not. He snuggled closer to the aperture so he could see from the corners of his eyes.

“Once again, there are no blank cheques,” said the Archbishop.

“Here! Here!” someone interjected enthusiastically.

The Archbishop droned on and on. “There is a bit of a risk here in the way we sometimes talk about the universal vision of post-Enlightenment politics.”

“Here! Here!”

That was well and good thought Piffy but how was he to get the Archbishop’s attention? They were unaware of his presence—he was sure of that. If he said something—anything at all—he might scare the be-Jesus out of them. That would never do. They might think it was Whittlesey’s ghost. Maybe he should wait till they were done but that might take hours. What should he do? And where was Algernon?

And then an alarm went off somewhere—a smoke detector or a burglar alarm! It might as well have been an air-raid siren! It was if the Devil had blown a trumpet in his ear! Startled, he did the one thing Algernon had told him not to do, he pushed forward. Yeah, he pushed forward! He went right through the wall, right through the portrait of Whittlesey and down, down, head over heels into the conference room, arms flailing like a drunken sailor trying to grab a Maypole.

If he hadn’t fallen on the Archbishop he might have been hurt!