The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 24: Fatwa

Freddy looked furtively at the only exits of the restaurant. There were swarthy bearded men seemingly everywhere. Their dark eyes bored holes in his sallow flesh. “We can’t get out,” he said, his voice trembling.

Looking just as nervous, Alfie tried his cell phone to no avail. “We’re in the basement. There’s no coverage. What do we do?”

“The only line out is the house phone.”

“And there’s two of them sitting at the bar; we’re screwed.”

Freddy stood up and took his jacket off. “Get your clothes off.” He threw the jacket on the floor and started unbuttoning his shirt. People looked his way, murmuring about what he was doing as Freddy began to pull his shirt off.

“What?”

“Strip now! Do it!”

Alfie stood up and did as he was told. “What are we doing?”

“We’re trying to get them to call the police!” Freddy told him.

The bartender looked at them with surprise, yelling over to them, “What are you doing? Put your clothes back on! Crazy Americans!”

“Make me!” Freddy yelled back. “I’m an American. We saved your ass twice last century! I can eat naked anywhere in the world I want to!” Freddy stripped off his underwear, showing off his hairy, scraggly, uncircumcised privates.

The patrons of the restaurant gasped, shielding their children’s eyes. The Arabs looked around in consternation, at a loss for what to do.

The bartender still hadn’t reached for the phone. Freddy stepped up to Alfie, who was naked now as well, and put his hands on his shoulders. “He’s not making the call. Get on your knees and blow me!”

“What? I’m not going to blow you Alfie!”

“You want your head sawed off by these animals?”

Alfie reluctantly got on his knees. Freddy grabbed his frizzy hair and shoved Alfie’s face in his crotch.

“Oh God!” cried Alfie.

“Mon Dieu!” came from across the room.

The bartender grabbed the phone. “Crazy Americans! Crazy Americans!” he shouted to the gendarmes. A moment later the sound of sirens wailing came down through the stairwell.

The Arabs left scowling.

“Thank God they’re gone; we’re all right!” Freddy sighed, collapsing into his chair.

“Speak for yourself!” Alfie groaned, retching onto the restaurant floor.

A moment later the gendarmes arrived along with four plain clothes detectives. One of them, a ginger haired, mustachioed man smoking a cigarette stepped up to Freddy and Alfie.

“I sure could use one of those,” Freddy said.

“I’d like one a bit stronger,” Alfie commented. “Thanks all the same. Those jihadists were going to behead us right in this bar!”

“Were they?” the man smiled, blowing smoke at the, “I am Agent Brueget of INTERPOL. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Such as what?” Freddy asked, irritated.

“Such as why you have consorted with known terrorists like Colonel Nikahd? Why you have photographs of NATO military personnel on your computer — the same photos we found in the jihadist’s possession — photos of personnel targeted for assassination. Yes, Mr. Waters and Mr. Alford, we have much to talk about.”

The gendarmes cuffed both Freddy and Alfie, not very politely, and not without protest. Then they were hustled away to an undisclosed location. When the INTERPOL agent working for Brueget asked what he wanted done, he smiled, and said, “International terrorists like this can’t wait to talk and tell stories. Let them sit in solitary — say, for a month. Then we will talk.”

“They’re claiming to work for the American president. What if the embassy calls requesting to see them?”

“You’re due for vacation aren’t you Gerard?”

“Why, yes, but I’m too junior to take vacation at this time of year.”

“I will swap with you,” Brueget said, slapping him on the back. “Margareta wants to be in Paris during opera season anyway. Process these terrorists into some hole and put the paperwork in your desk. Go to the Riviera and report back to me in a month!”

“Oui monsieur, with pleasure!”