Poor Bernard Piffy! He lay there on the operating table in the innermost sanctum of Dr. Haribert ul-Heim’s laboratory devoid of the most simplest of garments—not so much as a loincloth or a G-string to cover his nakedness, not even a pastie though he was scarcely in need of anything of that sort for everyone could plainly see that he was, indeed, after all, a boy. That the brain of a dangerous middle-aged private detective—the brain of the man who had released the Sufi flea and thrown his shoe at Riyadh ul-Haq—lurked somewhere inside the svelte preteen body and was perhaps planning more mischief was beyond their knowledge or comprehension.

Dr, Haribert ul-Heim sat at the head of the conference table in the bin Laden room of the ul-Heim Experimental Psychology Laboratory. It was the second meeting of the local ulema in two days and everything had gone as he had expected—the fate of one Bernard Piffy, the child blasphemer, had been decided. It was at times like this that he felt he was doing something useful for Islam. Of course, he would have to say something and it would have to be Islamic and erudite as well as appropriate. He leaned forward, clasped his hands in front of him and peering over the tips of his fingers, studied the faces of the others members of the ulema. It had become more and more difficult for him to quote from the Qur’an the last few years. Something was missing, the youthful energy was not there, the words did not come easily and with the great confidence he had once had. He was married now, had a child. He was growing old. He searched his mind; he felt something coming. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do.

Groggy, still wobbly on his feet, the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra and the Shirley Temple smock managed to avoid the first slashing thrust of Diabolica’s knife but only by the narrowest of margins. The blade nicked his left shoulder, slit an inch gash in the sleeve of the Shirley Temple. He pawed at his bloody nose; then clenched his fists in front of his chest in the most ludicrous and childish display of self-defense seen since the day Alfalfa took a dive in his fight with Butch in the back room at Darla’s dance recital.

Wheatley W. Wheatley opened the door to the hotel room. They couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind Bond—James Bond—but there he was lying unconscious on the floor with one shoe on and one shoe off. She shook her head in disgust. “Doesn’t anybody listen to reason anymore?” she said. “I told him it was 2009 not 1960. These Muslima Mujahideen are tough cookies. Hanadi Jaradat would make Rosa Klebb look like a Camp Fire Girl. These babies wear polka-dot abayas and what’s underneath them would probably scare the pants off the Marquis de Sade and maybe even Hugh Heffner and Woody Harrelson.”  

The interns half-dragged half-carried Bernard Piffy back to the mini-ward he shared with Aisha and Fatima and tossed the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra and Shirley Temple smock across the nearest bed. He fell on his face and lay still.

Aisha and Fatima were stunned. They stood there speechless, eyes wide and mouths agape, witnesses to a Dachau moment, a slice of time from the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

Dr. Haribert ul-Heim stared at the ten-year-old ‘girl’ strapped to the examination table. “Well,” he said slowly, “this is a surprise. Yes. I see what you mean by a wart, Nurse Tungsten. But we have work to do here—our work, Hamas’s work; Allah’s work—so if you will make our patient presentable, I shall proceed with the interrogation. We can worry about ‘wart’ surgery, should it become necessary, when this is over.”

“Solo? Napoleon Solo?” said Bond—James Bond. “You’re calling in Napoleon Solo? Blimey! Have you gone mad?  What do we need him for? I can handle this! What does he know about fleas? He’s an old man! He uses a cane! Duldul would have chewed him up and spit him out! Why not his Russian friend—Ilya what’s-his-name? Have you asked Don Quixote? I don’t want to be stuck with some washed-up old has-been. Couldn’t you have found a Charlie's Angel? I can handle this! How old do you think I am?”

“Hello…M? This is Bond—James Bond. I’m afraid the mission has been a failure. I am asking permission to abort.”

“Now don’t be hasty, Bond,” said M.

Bond was not being hasty. He had been crouching in a foot of water for more than an hour. He had managed to retrieve his cell phone but the lockbox with the flea was gone. So were Hamas, little Honey Rider, Al Kabibble and the others. He was alone with the remains of the limo and a curious little animal that looked like a cross between a packrat and a gerbil with a thyroid condition.

“Duldul’s dead,” he said. “I had to shoot him…him and Jaws. No…wait a minute it wasn’t Jaws. It was some other chap. He looked like Jaws…without the jaws. Or was it Oddjob? They’re all beginning to look alike. Anyway…Duldul’s dead and so is the other bloke and the flea is gone.”

Piffy was in the lounge of the Midnight Rider when it went off the road. He was sitting there, hands clasped in his lap, wondering if he was going to see the light of another day or if this were it, really it, when the tsunami hit and suddenly he was upside down and then right-side up and then upside down again. The air was full of unidentified flying objects. A bottle of Vat 69 glanced off his shoulder and what was left of a champagne glass whizzed past his ear. But it wasn’t a tsunami, it was only a minor earth tremor and though it seemed to last for minutes it was over in seconds and Piffy was James Dean giggling at the edge of the cliff while the other guy went to his doom.