not possible.”
“’Fraid so,” added Lovey. “Plus, they like music.”
“Music!”
“We have no churches,” the Cuban clarified. “So they listen to music.”
“How are we supposed to destroy Western civilization if they listen to music?! Martyrs hate music!”
“Look,” the Venezuelan reassured him, “we’re working on it. We’ll figure something out. We’ll contact the Professor in Chicago. He’s a jackass, but at least he’s a Ph.D. jackass.”
“A brilliant jackass,” Lovey said, choking back a laugh.
“I never liked the blundering fool,” Akhmed reminded them. “He’s a buttocks-kissing toady.”
“Precisely. Plus, he was raised in Miami,” Thurston reminded him in return, “so he may know someone of our particular mindset. Which is why Skipper suggested we bring him onboard as a standby. That, and the fact that he despises America as much as we do. If not an actual martyr per se, he may know of at least a reliable…courier, shall we say?”
Akhmed puckered, unconvinced.
“Meanwhile,” Thurston went on, “our engineers are working on the satellite signal transducer. They’re arranging a final experiment as we speak. It should only be a matter of days.”
Akhmed’s eyes narrowed. “Days?”
“Chill out, my man. Cecilia! Bring Little Buddy a dish of ice cream.”
“Ice cream? Well, yes, I do like ice cream. What flavor, may I ask?”
“We have a complete variety,” Cecilia said, without a hint of sarcasm.
“You’re joking?”
“Name a flavor.”
Akhmed rubbed his hands. “Spumoni!”
“Spumoni it is. Also, we’re testing a new flavor of the month—Mango Schmango. Would you like to try some?”
He licked his lips. “Mango Schmango? Sounds intriguing. Yes, yes, I believe I would.”
“By itself or with spumoni?”
“I can have both. Really?”
“Of course.We Cubanos are nothing if not good hosts.”
“I can see that.”
“Besides, you are the president of Iran.”
Akhmed puffed his cheeks. “Then, yes, I believe I will have them both. When in Rome—”
“Spumoni and Mango Schmango, coming up.” She winked furtively at her own president, who swallowed a giggle. “Would you like whipped cream?” she asked the Iranian.
“You’re kidding.”
“How about a nice cherry?”
“I’m not a cherry man, but I do love whipped cream! Whipped is good! And I’m crazy about nuts.”
“And a little hot fudge?” Lovey asked.“Quite the thing.”
“Fudge! Oh, this is wonderful!” Akhmed exclaimed. “I feel completely relaxed now. I’m sorry I got upset before, my good comrades.”
“No problema. Cecilia, bring the man his dessert.”
She glided into the house.
Akhmed smacked his lips. “Hot fudge!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lovey asked.
“Your promise,” Thurston, blowing bubbles with his straw, reminded him.
“Really, gentlemen—”
“Now, Little Buddy,” the Cuban leader scolded. “I won’t have you going back on your promise. It’s a matter of trust—international goodwill.”
“Well, if you put it like that.” And just as Cecilia stepped back out with a drooping, unadorned, mostly melted glob of vanilla ice cream, Akhmed let out a pipsqueak peep of intestinal gas. Cecilia gazed at Lovey; Lovey gazed at Thurston;Thurston gazed at Cecilia, and they all burst out in a collective, doubled-over, gasping guffaw.
Not Hazeem, though. He knew better.
In truth, Hazeem was uneasy having sat in on the meetings with those three witless troublemakers, bearing witness to the mischief percolating in their ninny brains. He had not asked for this assignment but, as usual, had been conscripted by the head ninny, Akhmed. True, back in Iran and other venues supportive of Akhmed’s various zany schemes and antics, Hazeem had been present during many meetings in which various bizarre and asinine ideas were exchanged to drive Israel into the sea, wipe Christianity off the map of Europe, reestablish the continent to pre-Crusades demography, and other-such lunatic notions.
But while this cabal’s lame-brained scheme, which they had goofily named “Operation Castaways’ Revenge,” was in a class of nuttiness by itself, the truth was, it was tinged with just enough real danger to give Hazeem a vague premonition of disaster. They weren’t in the Middle East anymore—they were in the Western Hemisphere, where even before 9/11 the United States did not put up with anti-American mischief, and post-9/11 had, as the Venezuelan dictator pointed out, spies everywhere.
So, yes, it was easy for Hazeem himself to chuckle at the loony ambitiousness of their plan: how they were going to find some poor sucker to carry Akhmed’s radioactive matzo balls into Miami and detonate them with conventional explosives from afar by radio transmitter, to kill many Jews and former Cubans and wreak havoc on American gasoline prices and create economic chaos and ensure the destruction of imperialist bullies and lay the groundwork for a rise of the oppressed and, not coincidentally, Muslims, and be El Maximo’s parting gift to the nation that had rejected him as a baseball pitcher. Easy for Hazeem to giggle at because he knew the degree to which these three so-called national leaders were such bungling boobs, and that their plan for international upheaval would eventually amount to nothing more destructive than Akhmed’s retarded little fart.
On the other hand, he also knew that America, not appreciating the inevitability of these three stooges running into one another and knocking themselves out cold, would, once it caught wind of Castaways’ Revenge, not find Little Buddy’s, Thurston’s, and Lovey’s bumbling incompetence the least bit funny.
There was something else that disturbed Hazeem, something ominous. When, as Cecilia was clearing off their table, the smirking Venezuelan greaseball, deliberately in plain view of everyone, stuck a five-hundred-peso bill down her bodice, his fingers attempting to massage her breasts (there could not be enough hot water in all of Cuba to wash away his filth), Hazeem for an instant had a dark premonition that perhaps at least one of these seeming nincompoops was not quite as incompetent as he appeared—that there was more cunning, calculating evil here than met the eye. A shiver ran through him. He feared for the innocent parador owner, who had overheard
