Lunatics (21 page)

CHAPTER 42

The NBC Nightly News

BRIAN WILLIAMS:
Good evening. They're calling it “The Miracle of the Bananas.” It's an amazing story from famine-stricken Africa—a story of compelling human drama and international intrigue, with an almost unbelievable twist. That twist involves the two most wanted men in the world—Philip Horkman and Jeffrey Peckerman, the mysterious, now-legendary
Fantasmas de la Noche
who allegedly masterminded the recent terrorist attacks in New York City before spearheading the lighting-strike overthrow of the Cuban regime. After that, Horkman and Peckerman seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. Today they suddenly resurfaced in, of all places, Somalia, where in one astonishing stroke, they struck a major blow against three scourges that have plagued that nation for years—hunger, corruption, and international piracy. For more on these developments, we go to NBC News African correspondent Andrew Sable in Somalia.

SABLE:
Brian, the story began early today aboard the cargo ship
Sonia
, which you see grounded behind me on the Somali coast. The
Sonia
was bound for Lebanon carrying a massive shipment of bananas when it was hijacked off the African coast by one of Somalia's most feared and brutal pirates, a man named Ali. Details on what happened next are sketchy, but it appears that Horkman and Peckerman were aboard the
Sonia
posing as crewmen, having apparently boarded in Cuba. Somehow they were able to turn the tables on the pirates, hijacking the ship and killing the pirate leader Ali. It appears that Horkman and Peckerman then deliberately steered the ship onto the coast, grounding it in such a way as to spill literally millions of bananas onto the shore less than two miles from a camp housing thousands of starving famine refugees. When word of the spill reached the camp, the refugees—mostly women and children—started walking toward the ship, only to find their path blocked by local militants, who for months have been preventing international aid from reaching the refugees. Somehow, Horkman and Peckerman—who, according to the refugee eyewitnesses I spoke to, were armed only with bananas—were able to defeat the militants and open the path to the spill. What followed, as you can see in this video, was a dramatic and heartwarming scene, as thousands of women and children, many on the brink of starving to death, were able, for the first time in weeks, to eat, and to hope. Brian, I've covered a lot of stories in my day, but I don't think I've ever covered one as moving as this.

WILLIAMS:
Incredible. And what happened to Horkman and Peckerman?

SABLE:
Brian, they have once again vanished. Witnesses say that only moments after defeating the militants, the two men were whisked away in a black helicopter. Evidently they had this operation planned right down to the second.

WILLIAMS:
Does anybody know where the helicopter came from, or where it went?

SABLE:
Not a clue, Brian. The
Fantasmas de la Noche
—the Ghosts of the Night—are truly living up to their name.

WILLIAMS:
Indeed they are, and thank you, Andrew. Meanwhile, video of the Miracle of the Bananas quickly spread around the world, and the response has been overwhelming. In the words of the secretary-general of the United Nations, “If two men, acting alone, can do so much for so many in such desperate need, how can we, the nations of the world, stand by and do nothing?” The UN Security Council is meeting in emergency session, and is expected to approve massive new emergency aid to Somalia, with UN troops to ensure its delivery. The public response has also been extraordinary, as millions of ordinary citizens, in America and abroad, have flooded relief agencies with donations and offers of help. As for Philip Horkman and Jeffrey Peckerman, in the eyes of millions around the globe, they are now seen as heroes, almost superheroes—a fact that has put the U.S. government in an awkward position. For more on that story, we go to NBC Washington correspondent Jeffrey Berkowitz.

BERKOWITZ:
Brian, officially Horkman and Peckerman are still tied for the title of America's Public Enemy Number One—wanted by the feds for their alleged role in the New York attacks. But behind the scenes, according to my sources, the administration is deeply conflicted about the mystery duo. Not only have Horkman and Peckerman become hugely popular, they've achieved this popularity for stunning achievements in Cuba and Somalia that are exactly in line with official U.S. policies. As one White House source told me, “We don't know what game these guys are playing. But whatever it is, they're playing it brilliantly.” I'm told that the president himself wants to contact the two men, but sources tell me that nobody in the entire American intelligence community has any idea how to find them. The million-dollar question now is, will they strike again? And if so, where?

WILLIAMS:
Already there have been reported sightings of Horkman and Peckerman in London, Moscow, Paris, Rome, Cairo, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, New Delhi, several upscale restaurants in Los Angeles, and Graceland. Although none of those reports turned out to be accurate, one thing is certain: Wherever these two men appear next, the eyes of the entire world will be on them.

CHAPTER 43

Philip

I had never been
to Asia before. But that's where the helicopter took us. Over the Gulf of Aden. To an airport in the town of Aden.

We were in Yemen.

“Pretty smart of these Yemenos,” said Peckerman. “Gulf of Aden, town of Aden. This way they only have to remember one name. Saves time.”

This was one of the remarkable things about Peckerman. That he dealt with each moment as it came along with absolutely no residual effects from what had just occurred. As if depositing a literal boatload of bananas onto a beach, a pirate's head exploding on a rock, and being lifted into a black helicopter by four army guys who said absolutely nothing during a flight to a hostile country didn't matter. Or happen.

On the one hand, I envied him, because I was a nervous wreck. On the other hand, I knew he was displaying the behavior of the true sociopath that he was. The same way Jeffrey Dahmer would go to a movie shortly after he ate the limbs of a young man he'd been dancing with the night before.

The army guys showed us to an awaiting limousine at the edge of the small landing strip. Standing next to its open back door was a Middle Eastern man who was dressed the way, well, the way Middle Eastern men dress.

“Welcome to Yemen, Mr. Horkman!” said the man, before shaking my hand for a very long time, then grasping my elbows for an equally long time, and then hugging me to the right and then to my left.

Then it was Peckerman's turn.

“Welcome to Yemen, Mr. Peckerman!” said the man, before shaking his hand for a very long time, then grasping his elbows for an equally long time, and then hugging him to the right and then to his left.

Twenty minutes later, this interminable greeting mercifully behind us, Peckerman and I got into the limo and took a seat opposite the man.

“Roomy,” said Peckerman, looking around.

I agreed. It was a rather large limo. Had a bar. Television. Retractable sunroof. The kind of limo used only by heads of state and suburban kids on prom night.

“Mr. Horkman, Mr. Peckerman,” he said as the car pulled away. “It is indeed an honor to meet you both.”

“The feeling is mutual, Your Royal Majesty,” replied Peckerman.

“Are you sure about that ‘royal majesty' business?” I asked under my breath.

“No.”

“With all due respect,” I finally said to the man, “what should we call you?”

“Call me Ishmael!” he said, with a hardy Middle Eastern laugh that seemed to last as long as his hug. But the close quarters gave me and Peckerman no choice but to laugh along with him. So we did.

“Why is that funny?” Peckerman sneaked in during an over-the-top guffaw.

“You know, because of
Moby
-
Dick
.”

“Moby
-
Dick?”

“That's how the book starts.”

“Moby-Dick the singing whale?”

“Please tell me you didn't really just say ‘singing whale.'”

We rode the downward arc of this guy's laugh, and when calm was finally restored I asked him to elaborate.

“So your name is Ishmael?”

“Close enough,” he answered.

His name was Ismail Haniyeh. And he was the Prime Minister of Hamas. The political party that governs the Gaza portion of the Palestinian territories.

“When Ali called to let us know you were on the freighter, I dispatched that helicopter to assure your safety.”

“Thank you,” we said in unison.

“No. Thank
you
, gentlemen. Thank you in advance for what you are about to do to help us settle this once and for all.”

“You're welcome,” we said reflexively—too afraid to ask what it was we were about to do or what the “this” was that we were going to settle once and for all.

When the limo suddenly left the main road, I looked out the window and saw sand. And some intermittent hills made from natural rock formations. The kind of desert terrain one would expect to be traversing in an ATV as opposed to a stretch limo.

“Where are we going, Ismail?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“It's probably best you don't know.”

“And why's that?” I asked.

“For your own security.”

“Of course,” I said. This time Peckerman didn't say anything. He was too busy wetting the seat we were sitting on to be bothered with talking.

It didn't really matter, though. Ismail did all of the talking. Telling us, or should I say confiding in us, the frustrations that the Arab governments were having. Within their own borders where it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain tight grips on populations who saw the downfall of rulers like Mubarak and Qaddafi and wanted to seize control of their destinies as well.

And of the trouble those nations were having with each other as enmities between militant power groups like Hamas, Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, and Fatah was a constant threat to the stability of the region.

However, he said, they were united by one common sentiment. That Israel should no longer exist.

“And that's where the two of you could be of help to us,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You don't want us to be suicide bombers, do you?” asked Peckerman, who then burst out crying like the day he was born—after the doctor who delivered him kicked him in the face.

“Calm down, Peckerman,” I said, though I could hear my own voice cracking.

Ismail looked at the two of us. A curious stare I had trouble reading and scared me even more than I already was, until he burst out laughing again.

“Ali told me how funny you two are,” he said. “And that's exactly how we would like to use you.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” I told him.

Again I glanced out the window and saw the same nothingness as before. I remember wondering how the driver knew where we were, given there were no signs or landmarks or
anything
, for that matter, to differentiate one mile from the next.

I looked back at Ismail, when he started to explain.

“The way I see it, Mr. Horkman, laughter's a language that transcends culture and unites people the world over,” Ismail answered. “And it is while people are disarmed enough to sit back and laugh that they are most receptive to whatever message's being conveyed—whether they realize it or not. It's subliminal. Done in advertising all the time. Enjoy the commercial and they'll buy the product.”

The driver steered the limo to the right.

“Same thing with propaganda,” he continued. “Keep their attention long enough and you'll change their minds.”

The limo was slowing down.

“So our thinking is that while the entire Arab population is laughing at the comedy of two funny people, two funny Jews no less, whose message is that Israel is the common enemy, it won't be too long before everyone unites and jihad can begin.”

“Jihad?” I whispered to Peckerman.

“What the fuck?” he whispered a little too loudly.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Peckerman?” asked the Prime Minister of Hamas.

“Absolutely!” he responded a little too loudly. “We love jihads!” he added with a raised clenched fist, which I made a mental note to shove up his butt if the opportunity ever arose.

The car came to a stop next to the base of a hill. Our doors were opened by two soldiers with rifles who nodded their greetings and flanked us as we climbed the rocks to a flat level where we entered a cave. Dark. Cold. Damp. The adjectives people generally use to describe the inside of a cave.

We walked farther into the belly of the mountain, turned a corner and came upon an open area with, of all things, lights. Big overhead klieg lights like they would have in a television studio. And cameras. Three broadcast cameras like they would have in a television studio.

“What is this place?” asked Peckerman.

“It's a television studio,” said Ismail.

“And why are we here?” I asked.

Ismail said this is where Peckerman and I would be uniting all Arab nations in laughter with our own show on the Al Jazeera network. Followed by jihad.