In Judea is Jerusalem, clashing in style between the old city and its newer sections but united in feeling and faith.
And in Tel Aviv is an office where a small group of personnel are responsible for the security of Israel's nuclear bombs and for their detonation over Arab lands should Israel face destruction in a war against what some press elements in the United States insisted upon calling "their Arab neighbors." Until the body count of dead Israeli babies, murdered by Arab terrorists, finally rose too high for even The New York Times' op-ed page's understanding of neighborliness.
On the door of the office was an inscription in Hebrew. It translated into English as Zeher La-hurban, "Remember the Destruction of the Temple." It masqueraded as an archeological study group, but its mission was to see that Israel was not reduced to being an archeological footnote to history.
Inside the office, a man sat with his feet on his desk, trying not to scratch the right side of his face.
Yoel Zabari had been told by his doctor not to scratch the right side of his face. The doctor told him not to, because the itch was psychosomatic, since, literally speaking, Yoel Zabari didn't have a right side of his face. Not unless one called a mass of flat, numbed tissue and plastic a face.
His right eye was gone, replaced by an unblinking glass globe, his right nostril was a hole in the middle of a sloping mound, and the right side of his mouth was a surgically perfect slit.
Someone had left an old sofa in a garbage pile on the street outside his office a year ago. As Zabari left the building and turned left, the couch blew up. A large chunk of metal and plastic ripped across his head from his right ear to the bridge of his nose. The left side of his head suffered only a bump where he fell.
Yoel Zabari survived the terrorist tactic. Twelve other people, rushing home to their families after work, did not.
The prime minister called it a vicious and ugly attack upon innocent people. The new American representative for the U.N., caught between his heart and worldwide oil prices, called it no comment. Libya called it a courageous blow for the integrity of the Arab people. Uganda said it was retribution for aggression.
Zabari forced his rising hand to avoid his face and to settle onto the brown and gray curls atop his head. He was scratching his scalp when Tochala Delit, his first deputy, came in with his daily report.
"Toe," Zabari cried. "Good to see you back. How was your vacation?"
"Fine, sir," said Delit, smiling. "You are looking well yourself."
"If you say so," replied the director of the Zeher Lahurban, controller of nuclear security as well as of its archeology cover. "I have just managed to bring myself to look into the mirror again. I feel fine, but seeing only half a blush is always disconcerting."
Delit laughed without self-consciousness and sat in a plush red chair to the side of the broad green metal desk as he always did.
"The family well?" he inquired.
"As always, wonderful and the only reason for my life," Zabari said. "The light never dims in my wife's eyes, and my youngest this week wants to be a dancer. A ballerina yet." He shrugged. "That's this week. Wait till next."
Both the terror-scarred face and the gentle voice were sides of the man that was Yoel Zabari. A soldier, a spy, a war hero, an accomplished killer, and a fierce Zionist, he was also a fine husband, a good father, and a public-spirited man. His outward lack of full lips did nothing to mar his ability to communicate.
"You really should take a wife, Toe. As the Talmud says, 'An unmarried Jew is not considered a whole human being.' "
"The Talmud also says, 'The ignoramus jumps first,' " Delit replied.
Zabari laughed. "So now. What terrible news do you have for me today?"
Delit flipped open the folder on his lap.
"Our overseas agents report that two more American spies are being sent here."
"So what else is new?"
"These two are supposed to be special."
"All Americans think they are special. Remember the one who tried to convince us to share our weapons with whoever was leading the Lebanese government that week?"
Delit snorted.
"So what is these spies' mission here?" asked Zabari.
"We don't know."
"What agency are they from?"
"We are not sure."
"Where do they come from?"
"We are trying to find out."
"Do they have two eyes or three?" asked Zabari in desperation.
"Two," replied Delit, deadpan. "Each. Four, if you add up the total."
Zabari smiled and wagged his finger at his deputy. "All right. What do we know about them?"
"All we know is that they are called Remo and Chiun and that they are expected here tomorrow morning. And the only reason we know that is the American president told our ambassador as much during a state dinner."
"Why on earth would he do that?"
"Just showing how friendly a new president can be, I guess," said Delit.
"Hmmm," mused Zabari some more, "the trouble with the great number of various spies we have here is that we can never be sure whether any new arrival is meaningless or extremely important."
Delit looked up and his face was grave. "These agents come on orders from Washington. Near where Ben Isaac Goldman was murdered."
The left side of Zabari's face darkened. "And we sit in Tel Aviv, near where Hegez was murdered. I know, Toe, and I will keep this in mind. Put an agent on these two new American agents. I want to know what they are up to."
Delit's face remained grave. "Something seems to be stirring across the sand," he said. "First these murders, then increased transport between the Arab states and Russia, then this Remo and Chiun. I say it is no good. I say it is connected."
Zabari leaned forward, brought his hand up to the right side of his face, then brought it down suddenly to drum on the desk.
"No one is more aware of these things than I. We will keep a watchful eye out, we will cover our asses, and we will follow these two American operatives. If they are indeed related to the security of our… uh, material, we will take care of them."
Zabari leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply. "Enough of this doom saying. Toe, have you written any new poetry on your vacation?"
Delit's face brightened.
CHAPTER FOUR
"About 2000 b.c.," said the stewardess, "Israel was known as the land of Canaan. The Scriptures tell us that this was a good land, a land of brooks, of water, of fountains, and depths that spring out of valleys and hills. A land of wheat and barley and vines and fig trees and pomegranates; a land of olive oil and honey."
"A land of cheapskates," said Chiun.
"Shush," said Remo.
The jet was circling over Lod airport while the stewardess delivered sightseeing information over the intercom and Remo and Chiun had a deeply motivated religious discussion.
"Herod the Wonderful was a much abused person," Chiun was saying. "The House of David was always plotting against him. The House of Sinanju never got a day's work from the House of David."
"But Jesus and the Virgin Mary came from the House of David," said Remo.
"So?" replied Chiun. "They were poor. Royalty yet poor. That shows what can happen to a family that refuses to properly employ an assassin."
"I don't care what you say," said Remo, who was brought up in an orphanage by nuns. "I still like Jesus and Mary."
"Naturally you would. You choose to believe, not know. If everyone was like Jesus, we would starve," declared Chiun. "And since you like Mary so much, did you send it?"
"What?"
"The Norman Lear, Norman Lear message."
"Not yet, not yet," said Remo.
The jet finally received its runway coordinates and was slowly coming in for a landing when the stewardess on the intercom finished up.
"The Israelis have flourished as a nation of farmers and shepherds, of traders and warriors, of poets and scholars."
"Of cheapskates," said an Oriental v
oice in the back.
Remo had managed to convince Chiun, for ease of movement, to limit his traveling luggage to only two of his colorful, lacquered steamer trunks.
So Remo had to lug only the two trunks onto the Lod-Tel Aviv bus, since the wizened Oriental refused to have them on the roof with the other baggage.
"Baggage?" said Chiun, "Baggage? Are the golden sands merely dirt? Are the fluffy clouds merely smoke? Are the magnificent heavens merely black space?"
"All right, already," said Remo tiredly. So now he sat between two, upright, bouncing trunks as the old bus wound its way through the suburbs of Tel Aviv.
The roads were lined with Y-shaped lights, curling green bushes, and long rows of three-story, tan and gray apartment buildings.
Chiun sat behind Remo, both of them completely level at all times while the rest of the passengers bounced up and down.
"They have let this place go to rot," Chiun said.
"Rot?" said Remo. "Look around. Just a few years ago this was desert and dust. Now it's farmland and buildings."
Chiun shrugged. "When Herod had it, it was beautiful with palaces."
Remo chose to ignore him and watch the scenery. The steamer trunks kept bouncing in and out of his view but he managed to catch the sounds and flavor of Tel Aviv.
Snatches of Hebrew mingled with the aroma of fresh roasted coffee and the tinny noise of American rock and roll on a cheap record player. The guttural Arab hawking of a sidewalk salesman weaved through the thick odor of cooking oil and boiled sweet corn over charcoal on passing street corners.
A drumming, off-tune song drifted in from the other side of the bus as a loaded military truck passed by. Rattling conversations were bursting from every direction. From under canopied balconies, inside cafes, outside espresso shops, beside crowded bookstores. And everywhere, the large bold letters of Hebrew.
The bus passed the rich turquoise of the sea, and the dusty white of new apartment complexes. The hot red and glaring blue of neon lights shot through the gray heat haze and the light green of the Israel spring.
When the bus bumped to a stop in front of the hotel, Chiun left by the back door as Remo struggled through the crowds of excited American teenagers, marked by their expensive jeans and backpacks, middle-aged couples trying to recapture their roots on a two-week vacation and Japanese tourists checking Swiss watches and shooting German cameras at anything that moved.
Remo lowered the trunks to the sidewalk in front of the Israel Sheraton as three smiling men approached from behind Chiun.
"Ah, hello, hello, Mr. Remo. Welcome to Israel, ho, ho," said one dark, smiling face.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Remo," said another smiling face, putting out his hand, "Good to see you and your part… I mean, associate, Mr. Chiun."
"We were told to meet you," said the third, "by the American consulate, to take you and Mr. Chiun to a meeting with him right away."
"Oh, yes, oh, yes," said the first. "We have a car awaiting you just around the next corner, ho, ho."
"Ah, yes," said the second. "If you two gentlemen would merely step this way, please, if you would be so kind?"
Remo did not move. He looked at the third man. "Your turn," he said.
The three kept smiling, but their eyes darted back and forth. They were all dark-skinned and curly-haired, and wore loud Hawaiian shirts with baggy black pin-striped suits, as if they had confused "Hawaii Five-O" with "The Untouchables."
"Ah, we must hurry," cried the third. "The American ambassador awaits."
"The car, if you please," said the first.
"Around the corner," said the second.
"What about my trunks?" said Chiun.
The eyes darted back and forth again. Remo rolled his skyward.
"Uh, yes," said the third. "They will be taken care of, indeed."
"Well," said Remo, "if the trunks will be well taken care of, indeed, and the American ambassador or consulate or somebody wants to see us, we can't very well refuse, can we?"
"Ah, yes, ah, yes, very good," said all three, ushering Remo and Chiun around the corner in a "V" formation.
"Yes, we can," whispered Chiun. "These men have no intention of taking care of my trunks."
"Ssh," whispered Remo back, "this is a break. We can find out who is behind all these killings from them. Besides, I don't want them shooting up the crowd."
"These men are nothing," Chiun said. "Talk to them and you will get three dead men. Lose my trunks and you will get never-ending guilt."
"As opposed to?" asked Remo. Chiun folded his arms and set his lips in stubborn silence.
Around them, the three men in "V" formation chattered, and Remo called out, "What are you guys? That doesn't sound like Hebrew. You Arabic?"
"Oh, no," said the first.
"No, no, no," said the second and third quickly.
"Ho, ho, ho," they all said.
"We are from Peru," said the first.
"Yes. We are Perubic," said the second.
Remo looked at Chiun and rolled his eyes in disgust. "They're Perubic, Chiun."
"And you are normal," Chiun said. "What language they speak in Peru, Chiun?" Remo asked softly.
"The interlopers speak Spanish. The real people speak the Quechua dialects."
"And what are these three babbling in?"
"Arabic," said Chiun. "They are talking about how they are going to kill us." He paused, listening to the conversation around them for a moment, then shouted: "Hold. Hold."
The three men stopped short. Chiun let go a short machine-gun burst of Arabic.
"What'd you tell them, Chiun?" Remo asked.
"Insults. Insults. Must I always bear insults?"
"What now?"
"They said they were going to kill us."
"So?"
"They referred to us as the two Americans. I just let them know that you are American as can easily be determined by your ugliness, laziness, stupidity, and inability to learn proper discipline. On the other hand, I am Korean. A human being. This I told them."
"Terrific, Chiun."
"Yes." Chiun agreed.
"They'll never guess now that we're on to them, will they?"
"That is not my concern. Protecting the good name of my people from random insults by people who talk in the voices of crows is."
The three "Perubians" were backing away from Remo and Chiun, slowly removing guns from shoulder holsters. Remo sent out a left leg, and the biggest one went skidding down the alleyway, the gun clattering loose from his hand.
The two others stared open-mouthed at the thin American, taking their eyes off Chiun for a fraction of a second. A fraction too long. The next moment, they found themselves hunched in the dirt, deep in the alley, their chins on the ground.
"It is terrible," Chiun said, "when an old man cannot travel anywhere without being threatened with bodily harm. I have no time to play with you, Remo. I am going to sit with my trunks. These awful men with no sense of property have upset me greatly."
Chiun glided away and Remo stepped into the alley. One of the men was stumbling up. His pistol was in his hand. He glared in triumph and pointed it at a gently smiling Remo, then he stared in surprise as there was a tan blur, the gun fired, and the front of his own shirt blew off.
He fell forward muttering in gutter Arabic about fate and fickle gods.
The two men Chiun had pushed into the alley were reaching for their guns too. Remo slapped the guns away and turned one of the men over. He assumed the man was the leader because his suit almost fit.
Remo picked up one of the guns and pointed the barrel at the man's mouth.
"How did you do that to Rahmoud? You were five feet away from him and then his stomach blew all over?"
"I'll ask, you answer," Remo said. He stuck the gun barrel between the man's lips. "Name, please."
The man felt the warm steel between his teeth and saw the look in Remo's eyes. He spoke around the gun barrel. "Achmudslamoonce-muhoomoodrazoolech."
"Very
good, Ach," said Remo. "Nationality?"
Ahmed Schaman Muhumed Razolie saw his partner rising behind Remo. In his hand was a broken bottle from the alley's dirt floor.
"It is as I said before," he said slowly, stalling , for time. "I am from Peru."
"Wrong," said Remo. Without changing his stance, without looking back, he sent a kick behind him. The broken bottle flew into the air and hit the alley's deep dust with a soft thud, followed immediately by Ahmed's partner, who hit with a louder, terminal thud.
Ahmed Razolie looked around the alley at his two dead partners, and then again at Remo, who had just kicked a man's stomach out without looking at him.
"Lebanese," Ahmed said quickly. "I am Lebanese and pleased to welcome you to Israel, melting pot of the Middle East. I stand ready to answer any questions you might have."
"Good. Who sent you?" Remo said.
"No one. No one sent us. We are but simple thieves waylaying a simple pair of American tourists." He remembered Chiun and quickly corrected that. "An American and a human being from Korea."
"Last chance," Remo said. "Who sent you?"
Ahmed saw Allah at that moment. Allah bore a striking resemblance to Muhammad Ali. He was talking to Ahmed.
"Fess up to this American fast, Or your next breath will be your last. Give him the news and make it the latest, And, as you go, Allah's the greatest."
Ahmed was just about to tell Remo of this heavenly vision when his face exploded.
His eyes popped and his cheeks purpled and puffed up. His jaw dropped while most of his hair, left ear, and chin spun back into the alley.
Remo looked at Ahmed's corpse, then turned, straight into the breasts of a dark, brown-haired woman in a khaki uniform.
"Remo Williams?" asked the woman. She pronounced it "R-r-r-emo Weeel-yums."
"I hope so, I'm the only one left standing."
The young woman in the khaki mini and blouse shifted her Uzi submachine gun from her right palm onto her left shoulder, then extended her hand.
"Zhava Fifer, Israeli Defense," she said through rich pulpy lips. "Welcome to Israel. What is your mission here?"
"I'm inspecting your hospitality for the Best Western Motel Chain." He took her hand. It was surprisingly cool for having just blown a man's head apart.
The Last Temple td-27 Page 4