The Israel Bond Omnibus (23 page)

“But, Lavi,” Bond said ruefully, “I’ll be entirely without weapons. I don’t know what’s waiting for me out in the field. Whatever it is I can’t face it defenseless. Remember, I am licensed to kill.”

Thus, the QM had relented, fashioned the
plastique
talis and the killing skullcap with its hidden rim of razor-sharp Swedish steel.

Finally the big night had come, the confrontation with Svetlova. Thank God for his insistence on weapons and the creative powers of HaLavi!

At the airport he had arrogantly shoved his way aboard a British European Airlines jet for London, bumping off one Fedya Zhivago, an osteopathic veterinarian, who had quailed at the flashed KGB card and gratefully fled the plane. All during the flight he had played the overbearing no-nonsense role of the colonel to the teeth, slipping just once when the overawed passenger next to him had timidly ventured, “Comrade Colonel, you must be very proud of that red star on your uniform. Who presented it to you?” Bond, his mind elsewhere, had answered: “Texaco.” His eyes had peered into the velvety blue, picking out from the myriads of stars the constellation known as the Big Dipper, a pattern of celestial bodies which, when connected by the imaginary line of the mind, formed the face of Wilt Chamberlain.

Then a bump... the jet’s wheels caressed the free soil of Great Britain. At the airport with a change of clothes was Judah Ben Gay, a British liniment manufacturer who also happened to be 456 in the service, licensed to rub. And a dash for the BOAC jet and, six hours later, New York.

Rowena moaned, stirred in his arms. “I’m naked.”

“You’re very observant,” said Bond, his lips curved into a suave, humorous smile.

“Who are you?” she said incuriously, rubbing the sleep from her Booth-hazel eyes. “Oh, yes,” a worldly wise smile on the baby mouth. “The teach-in. M-m-m... it was... enlightening. I think I’ll go for sixteen more credits.” Her plump arms pulled him down to the rose garden of her body. Bond, ever the green thumber, took it from there.

Rebellious, but a wonderful kid, he thought, as she hurried away to start a rent strike at the Essex House (where she lived). He would stop in at the Gene Baylos Boutique and have them send Rowena a little token of his affection, perhaps one of their charming hand-tooled pot-holders. He was certain she smoked it.

He slipped into his Ralston lounging robe, the colorful checkerboard square pattern set off tastefully by a Timmie Rogers “Oh Yeah” ascot, let his electric toothbrush play over his firm, even white teeth and rich red gums. Then a five-second session with the latest oral appliance, Westinghouse’s new electric toothpick which deftly ferreted out the insidious particles between those dazzling molars. He was finishing his third gargle with new improved Listerine, relishing the dying screams of a million throat bacteria, when the phone burred.

“Long distance, Mr. Bond,” squeaked the hotel’s operator, Miss Gloria Halfon, who was fascinated by Bond but too shy to make any overtures beyond leaving a nude photo of herself in his mailbox. “Tel Aviv, Israel, calling. Mother Margolies on the line.”

Mother Margolies? Calling direct? His steely left fist clenched, the Speidel watchband snapping off in his anxiety. It was unthinkable of Mother to make a personal call unless a Code 3-D condition existed—Danger-Doom-Disaster! It signified to any truly astute Israeli “op” that something was amiss.

Mother Emma Margolies, known to an adoring humanity as the kindly wise soul of eighty-one golden years whose renowned cooking (Betty Crocker asked
her
for recipes) was savored by lipsmacking gourmets from somewhere east of Suez to China ’crost the bay. Her celebrated chicken soup graced the elegant tables of presidents, kings, Indian rajahs, British rock ‘n’ roll stars. Yes, she was everybody’s Jewish mother (even Dan Greenberg’s), dispensing equal dosages of gastronomic delights and straight-from-the-heart proverbs of universal understanding, such as: “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. But you
can
teach an old dog to teach a young dog
old
tricks.” (Pundits of every major religion and philosophy were still probing for the inner meaning of that one; only the Dalai Lama was even close.) Once she had whispered to the American ambassador at a glittering state reception: “Remember, mine dear Yankee—the enemy of my enemy is my enemy’s enemy.” Bond himself had felt a catch in his throat when Mother had once remarked after his return from a hazardous outing: “Live each day as though it were your last because, if it really turns out to be your last, you will have made it last as long as a last day can last.” He had gleaned most of the import of those words; only the last part had thrown him.

Yes, this was her image to everyone but the little band of brothers who comprised M 33 and 1/3, the men and women who slithered in the dark jungle of espionage. They knew her as M., Number One! She had allocated a small wing of her chicken soup factory for their nefarious activities. There they schemed, trained for mortal combat with their hostile Arab neighbors, conceived idealistic operations such as the one he had just completed.

“Shalom,
Oy Oy Seven,” her voice pierced the crackling static of the overseas cable. “How was your Slavic interlude?”

“The sale was transacted. However, three directors of the rival company were taken off the board. And one of their factories was destroyed.”

“So I have been reading in the Moscow papers. Unfortunate.”

“I must inform the office that one of our salesmen has been wooed away by the rival firm. He has been selling them information about next year’s line.”

In Tel Aviv, Mother sucked on a piece of rock candy clamped in her dentures; sipped, from a glass hot tea at her elbow. A traitor! “Who is the unethical salesman?”

Bond bit on the Raleigh between his own teeth. “I cannot say. But I feel he is one of the sales task force which accompanied me to Moscow. We can better discuss this problem when I return home for the first Passover Seder night, five days hence.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Bond. A distressing sales problem has come up in our branch office at Station WI. Detailed information will be available from Ben Bon Ami, whose address may be found in the Spanish edition of our catalogue. There is a plane leaving tomorrow at 8 A.M. from JFK. On it will be the other three members of your ‘Matzohball’ team—Gates, Franklin, Spector. You will need all the assistance you can get. And, perhaps during the course of your next enterprise, you can unearth the identity of our unethical salesman.
Shalom
... and remember the fool plays his cards close to his vest, but the wise man has a marked deck and five aces
under
his vest.”

Long after M. had rung off Bond stood silent, his handsome dark face caught up by a frown of deep concentration. Rotten luck! This Passover would find him far from his beloved Israel, involved in heaven alone knew what kind of assignment, the whole mess compounded by a queasy feeling that one of his teammates was a turncoat. Well, that was an Oy Oy agent’s lot, danger and double-dealing. Don’t go soft, Bond, he sneered at himself. It’s got to be done. Now let’s look at the Spanish edition and find out where we’re heading.

From a thick black Spanish “catalogue” titled “Soup y Sales” he extracted a slim pamphlet hidden in the binding and unrolled it. His fingers skimmed the contents. “Station WI.” The West Indies. Under that category he found the name Ben Bon Ami, 41 Cinco de Finko, Vera Hruba.

Vera Hruba! Good God! The capital city of the sinkhole of the world! Israel Bond was going to the pestilential, revolution-racked, murder-ridden Caribbean island of—El Tiparillo!

He was just about to hang up when he heard her sobbing voice say, “I am sorry, Gospideen Colfax. The general cannot be—”

“Wait!” he thundered, then tried to soften his voice. “I have been a little harsh... unnecessarily, Comrade Ponyebratzie. I shall take the call.” Fool that I am! He thumped his brow in self-anger. Colfax! The very man who might extricate me from this mess.

“This is General Bolshyeeyit.”

“General, this is Rotten Roger Colfax. I have some information which may be of use to you. But this time it will cost you.”

“How much, Gospideen Colfax?”

“One million rubles. To be delivered by tomorrow. It must be left with a Dr. Nu at the Temple of Hate on El Tiparillo. Your people on that unhappy island will know of the establishment. If it is delivered, I shall call many more times with tasty items... at a price, of course.”

Bolshyeeyit, a man used to making decisions of paramount importance in a hurry, said, “I accept your terms. The money will be there, I promise you. Now, what is the information you have now?”

“By now you have guessed that I am attached to M 33 and 1/3. I was part of the band that perpetrated the killing of your colonel and his two aides and the blowing up of your Institute. The leader of that strike was Israel Bond, our beloved secret agent here.”

Was that apposition cast in a sarcastic vein? This man must have a personal vendetta against Bond. It can be highly useful to me.

“Where is Bond now?”

“He leaves 8 A.M. tomorrow, New York time, on Southeast Accident Airlines. The plane will make a stop at Miami at 10:14 A.M., also New York time. Since that airline does not go to El Tiparillo, he will be compelled to take the only line that services the island, Tailspin Tannenbaum’s Flying Aardvark Airways. It leaves at 9 A.M., Miami time, the following day.”

“I am most grateful for that information, Gospideen Colfax. Am I correct in assuming that any... uh... misfortune that Bond might incur would not displease you a great deal?”

“You are.”

“Excellent. I have assigned a very beautiful courier to arrange for the misfortune. Now, how can I contact you for further data?”

“You may leave word at the Temple of Hate.
Dosvedanyah,
General.” And Rotten Roger signed off.

General Bolshyeeyit pounded his fist into his palm.
“Chorosho!
[14]
There is time. It will be close, but there is time. Israel Bond, prepare to meet your maker.”