The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 24)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionThe nikab proved to be an excellent disguise. No one paid much attention to him. He passed within an arm’s length of three different Bobbies and one even smiled at him. He got back to his apartment without any difficulty It was when Piffy removed the nikab that he discovered that Asma bint Marwan, as usual, had had the last laugh. Secreted in one of the pockets of the bulky garment was puppy dog! Yes, puppy dog! The infernal pooch had been dozing. It came awake at the first touch—or maybe it was the sudden exposure to fresh air. It bared its shark’s teeth and hissed like a cat. Piffy set St. Anthony’s gift guard dog on a chair and searched the nikab for the Transylvania garlic. It was the only thing that could keep the mutt under control. But he couldn’t find it! He turned the garment inside out, felt along every seam; even slammed it against the wall but no Transylvanian garlic! Bint Marwan had left him with a problem—a big problem. He sat down to take stock of his situation. Just what had he accomplished since he had landed in England? On a scale of one-to-ten it was less than zero. The boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club had hired him to track down the notorious Dallas taxi drive, Yaser Abdel Said, who had murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic rage. He had promised to bring the wretch to justice. So far he hadn’t seen hide or hair of Said, had made no major arrests, in fact, it had been Piffy who had been arrested by the duly constituted authorities and not just once but three times, once as himself, once as a ten-year-old boy and lastly as a doddering old man. If that wasn’t bad enough he had been sidetracked from his search for Said by the machinations of bint Marwan and Inspector Clouseau—he had been caught up in the search for the fleas from the Prophet’s beard. No one knew where they were, not even their Keepers—someone had stolen them and the world was in eminent danger; at least that is what James Bond had told him. And there was Aisha—poor, sweet, ten-year-old Aisha! He was responsible for her predicament. He had to get to Ahmad’s Madrassas and rescue her before she was dragged off to Gaza and enrolled in a suicide bomber’s class. But first he had to do something about puppy dog. He put on his Magnum P.I. outfit and went down to the nearest drugstore. He was told he could get Transylvania garlic at a regular grocery store. Piffy said it was a special kind of garlic. Black or white, asked the druggist. Black, said Piffy. Ah, said the druggist, the black was very rare and Piffy would have to go to the Transylvanian Alps and see Ygor at Castle Stoker. Piffy tried a couple of other drugstores. They had never heard of black Transylvanian garlic. Piffy went back to his apartment and called Algernon A. Algernon. If anyone knew where to get black Transylvanian garlic it would be Algernon. Sure, said Algernon, he could get some but when Piffy told him what it was for, Algernon changed his mind. He wouldn’t have anything to do with one of St. Anthony’s ‘guard dogs,’ wouldn’t get within a mile of one. Get a cage, he told Piffy—get a cage with steel-reinforced titanium bars and if you’re ever in the same room with one of the mutts don’t go to sleep for more than five minutes at a time. It was sound advice but disheartening. It was getting dark and there was a chill in the air so Piffy changed into his retro-Sam Spade togs and went out to look for a pet store. He was in luck—there was one just down the street. He purchased the strongest carrying cage they had available and lugged it back to his apartment. While he had been gone puppy dog had chewed his spare Buster Browns into spaghetti strings and had devoured half of his genuine leather Hudson suitcase. The mutt had eaten itself into a world-class stupor. Piffy put puppy dog in the carrying case and locked it. He had collected the tools he would need to break into Ahmad’s Madrassas when a fierce thumping commenced upon his apartment door. It was the building’s super. “I hear you got a mutt in there,” he said. “A little one,” said Piffy. “He’s in a cage. He’s already eaten. He won’t be any trouble.” “Trouble or no,” said the super, “you get him out of here right away.” “Right away?” echoed Piffy. “Can’t I wait till morning?” “Look,” said the super, “there’s Muslims living in this building—they don’t like dogs and what they don’t like I don’t like. You get rid of the dog or I call the cops.” “Okay! Okay!” said Piffy. The super left. Piffy put on his coat and picked up the pet carrier. It was a light load. Puppy dog couldn’t have weighted more than one of Gaylord Perry’s doctored baseballs. He went out into the street. It was dark. He took a taxi to the Madrassas. He was lucky the driver wasn’t a Muslim or there might have been a scene. The Madrassas classrooms were ablaze with lights but the living quarters were dark. That might or might not be a good sign. He paced back and forth beneath a second-story window. When he was properly oriented he found a ladder and placed it in an advantageous position alongside the building. It would be clumsy going up the ladder with a dog in a cage but he couldn’t leave the mutt behind—it could fall into innocent hands and there was no telling what horrors might ensue. So he went up the ladder like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters—or was it Nancy Drew. It certainly wasn’t like Mike Hammer in any of his adventures. He had brought along some masking tape and a rock to break the glass in the window frame but it turned out he didn’t need them. The window was unlocked; he pushed it open, squeezed through the aperture and dragged puppy dog’s cage over the sill. When he straightened up the cage thumped against the side of the window frame and slipped from his hand. It hit the floor with the same sound Wilson's gun made when it blasted Stonewall Torrey into the mud wallow in front of Grafton’s Saloon. Good grief! He might as well have announced his coming with a blast from Gabriel’s horn! Eleanor Roosevelt must have heard it! He froze right where he was. He held his breath, ears straining to catch any untoward sound. But there was nothing—no Apache scream, no thundering cavalry charge, only silence. It was as dark as pitch and as quiet as a graveyard in Gun Blast, Texas, would be on George W. Bush’s birthday. He picked up puppy dog’s cage and moved warily through what must have been a bedroom. At length, he found a door and eased into the corridor he was sure led to Aisha’s room. He had taken no more than a half dozen steps when puppy dog hissed! Damn, did the mutt have to act like a cat? “Shhh!’ he said. Suddenly a voice fraught with alarm and fear lunged at him from out of the paralyzing dark. “Who’s there?” it said. It was Aisha! Piffy paused. She might not be alone. What should he do? He didn’t want to give himself away all at once. "Tra-la-la, twiddle-dee, dee-dee,” he sang softly. “Bernie?” she said. He moved quickly down the corridor and to a room on the right. He opened the door and flipped on the light switch. Aisha was seated on the edge of her bed. Her hands were manacled in front of her and tears streaked her face. Her hair was a tangled mess and there was an ugly bruise on her cheek. “You’re not Bernie,” she said. He set puppy dog’s cage on the floor. “I’m Bernie’s older brother,” he said. “I’ve come to get you.” Yeah, he had come to get her and what he was about to do could get him in big trouble for there were people who might call it kidnapping—people with badges and government authority to back up their beliefs, but it was too late to turn back now. He examined the manacles. They were meant more for punishment than confinement. They might have confused Deputy Dawg for a day or two but they were no match for Bernard Piffy and his Tenth Anniversary Shell Scott Lock Pick and Skeleton Key Set and in a matter of seconds, Aisha, her eyes wide with wonderment, was massaging her sore wrists. “You must be Bernie’s brother!” she said. “Come on; let’s go!” he urged. “I’ve got a ladder up against the side of the house.” “I can’t go like this,” she protested. She was right; she was in her pajamas. “Let me get some things.” “Okay,” he said. “But hurry.’ He didn’t know what she intended so he slipped out into the corridor to give he some privacy. The light from the bedroom was casting ugly shadows down the length of the hall. He glanced at his watch. They didn’t have much time. They could be discovered any minute. The dogs of war, girded with their Qur’ans, might already be on their way. “You’ll have to hurry!” he urged. “I’m changing,” she said. He waited another few seconds; then went back into the room. Aisha was kneeling in front of puppy dog’s cage. The door was open and the mutt was gone! “Oh, no!” he said. “Your doggie was crying,” said Aisha. “When I opened the door he ran out.” Well, that did it—puppy dog was free to do what he pleased! Let his new owner beware! He grabbed Aisha by the hand and tugged her out into the corridor. “My clothes!” she protested. “I’ll buy you some new ones!” he said. He led her into the room with the open window and started her down the ladder. That was when the lights came on and Ahmad thundered into the room like a thirsty bison sensing water on a dry Kansas prairie. His rage knew no bounds and he made straight for Piffy. He was too angry for his own good. Piffy had been a Close Combat Instructor during the Viet Nam War and he knew all the tricks. He could have killed Ahmad if he had wanted. He got the larger man by the elbow and the wrist, applied only a fraction of the techniques he had learned in Nam and Ahmad went down quicker than Max Schmeling in his second fight with Louis. In another ten seconds Piffy had the Madrassas owner hog-tied with curtains ripped from alongside the open window. Then he went back into Aisha’s room to retrieve the dog cage. He still had time and he would try to find puppy dog. The first place he looked was under the bed. There was a strange smell in the room, seeping in through the garlic he had smeared on his feet and behind his ears. By the time he realized what it was it was too late. It was cordite! And phosgene! The 9/11 twins! He was still in a kneeling position when a Glock 17 was pressed to the side of his head! It was Hani Hanjour! The assassin was smiling from ear to ear. “You didn’t leave England like you promised,” he chortled. “Now you will be punished. Allahu akbar!” Mohammed Atta was standing behind Hanjour. “We might as well kill him right here,” he said. “This place is going to blow up in a half hour. It will save us the trouble of disposing of his body.” “Allahu akbar!” said Hanjour, his finger pressing against the trigger. “Allahu akbar!” said Atta. (To be continued)