“That’s nothing,” the Venezuelan leader protested with a wave. “Try flying out of San Juan sometime! Screaming Puerto Rican kids running up and down the aisles, squirting you with water pistols. One time we had to make an emergency landing, and they found one of the little brats wedged behind the altimeter.”
“I like to fly,” the Cuban piped. “My feet swell and get stuck in my combat boots, so I have a good excuse for never taking them off. I also go crazy for pedal cabs.When I was in Vietnam, I hired a girl to take me around for days, just so I could stare at her rump.”
“What about Caracas women? They have good rumps.”
“I’m not saying they don’t.”
“Stop!” Akhmed wailed. “Why do you have to always do me one better? Is it because I’m short?”
Their host called to Cecilia, “Get Little Buddy a nice bowl of three-bean soup.”
“I don’t want soup! I want to discuss the mission! I’ve already proven my goodwill. I’ll fart only after we discuss the mission!”
Lovey, puckering, and Thurston, running his tongue around the inside of his lip, passed each other nods. “All right, my friend,” said the Cuban leader. “We’ll discuss the mission first. But at least cross your heart about the fart.”
Akhmed gazed dementedly at his co-tyrants, as if wanting to impale them on his fork. Instead, he sighed, lowered the utensil, and crossed his heart.
“You have to say it,” the Venezuelan insisted.
“Okay! I cross my heart!”
“I’m satisfied.”
“Me too.”
“Then let’s get on with business,” Akhmed barked.
“I like business!” exclaimed Lovey.
“The mission,” Thurston agreed, sucking a garbanzo.
Akhmed’s glance careened from one cohort to the other. “Was that so hard?”
“I guess not,” the Venezuelan admitted.
“The instrument of devastation is almost ready,”Akhmed said. “Any day now. All we are waiting for is your martyr.”
His colleagues fidgeted.
“What?” Akhmed, smelling a rat, demanded.
“There’s a slight glitch in the martyr department,” Thurston explained. “Face it, these people are basically Christians. Sad to say, they’d rather sit around praying to Jesus all day than strap explosives to themselves and blow up civilians. Go figure.”
“It’s 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