The Last Temple td-27 Read online

  He hit the door with his right shoulder.

  There was a small cracking sound as the door bolt was ripped clean out of the frame, popping across the room and onto a bed.

  Irving moved into the suite low and fast, pulling out his sleek, dark blue, Italian pistol. He was two steps in as his mind registered the sitting figure not ten feet away. The thirty years of exercise and muscle development had been waiting for this very moment. Even as Irving's eyes were taking in the pale yellow kimono that nestled around the sitting figure, his hand snapped in front of him. Even as his mind registered the sparse wisps of white hair atop the sitting figure's head, the gun barrel was pointed and Irving's finger tightened twice.

  The soft coughs of the silenced revolver were wrapped in the heavy suite's carpeting and curtains. Those sounds died as the color television set across the room crackled and spit sparks. Two spider-web holes were visible in the darkened screen.

  A high-pitched Oriental voice said calmly, "You may tell Emperor Smith it is not necessary for him to destroy the previous set upon delivery of a new one. I can take care of that myself."

  Irving straightened as the final frustrated sputter died from the TV set. Sitting on the bed, fingering the door bolt, was a small wizened Oriental.

  "It was an arithmetic program," the Oriental said. "Tell the emperor that his prompt delivery has been much appreciated and his wisdom is all encompassing. Now, please, my daytime dramas?"

  Markowitz snapped his weapon into a clean line with his eye so that the pistol's sights seemed to be holding up the Chinaman's nose. Get hold of yourself, Helmut, he told himself, shooting at figures on a television screen is not good. Remember, technique is the key.

  His finger tightened on the trigger once more.

  He heard the soft cough and felt the warm kick of the recoil. It was a fine shot. Smooth, clean, technically perfect. What the Chink was doing in the Americans' apartment, and whatever he was asking for, Markowitz would never know. Because the bullet would soon spread his yellow brains all over the wall.

  "I suppose this means that you are not the American messenger and are merely more of the amateur help that abounds in this land of little beauty," said an Oriental voice in his ear.

  Irving stared in wonder at the smoking hole in the backboard of the bed, then turned to see the Oriental at the room's writing desk.

  He spun toward the small man, crying, "What trick is this, swine?" His gun centered itself on the Oriental's stomach. Messenger? Amateur help? Beauty? He thought, Do not let this clutter your mind. You are Helmut Dorfmann, finest shot in your class. Think of the stimulus, direct the bullet with your mind, then fire.

  Irving's trigger finger tightened thrice more. The mirror above the writing desk cracked, and the bureau's formica top shattered. The Oriental sat in the lotus position in an armchair across the room. "One cannot trust Americans for anything," he said. "Not even a simple delivery. I await beauty. Instead, I get a creature with pieces of plastic in his eyes, blond roots in his hair, and scars of surgery around his neck, and a gun in his hand. Why do you hate the furniture of my room? Because if it is simply ugliness you punish, you will need a bigger gun."

  Markowitz's mind reeled. How could the Chinaman have known about the surgery? The hair dye? The contact lenses? Was it all a trap? His gun sought out the Oriental's heart as if by its own will. He cried out: "For the German people, die. Die." The gun jerked twice in his hands. Irving squeezed his eyes shut, then pried them open again.

  The Oriental was standing directly before him, shaking his head. "Not for the German people," he said. "Oh, no. They hired this house once for a mission, and they did not pay. Would you like to hear about it?"

  Markowitz stood dumbly in the center of the room. His eyes flitted over the damage to the bed, the shattered television, the writing desk. The back of the reading chair was torn into little pieces. Small bits of stuffing still floated down to the carpet. Chips of wood had smashed a lamp and wedged themselves into a closet. But the Oriental stood unharmed before him.

  Markowitz cried in rage, gripped his gun in both hands, pushed the barrel into the Oriental's face and fired. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

  "I will tell you," said the Oriental from behind Markowitz. "They asked me to solve a problem concerning the little man with the little mustache. He heard I was coming. He was so frightened he killed even a woman."

  Markowitz blinked. He looked down at the barrel of his revolver. It was straight. Perhaps his food had been poisoned.

  "And then they refused to pay us," the old Oriental said. "It was not our fault he killed himself, this little fool. Did you know he ate carpeting?"

  Too much. First to make a fool of the son of the Keich and then to insult the Fuehrer himself. Too much. The man must die.

  "Demon," cried the man who had been Helmut Dorfmann. "I must kill you with my own two hands."

  His hands stretched across the space between them, his fingers claws, toughened by his years on the sea, by his daily exercise, to rip out the cursed yellow throat from which poured the evil lies about Hitler.

  But before his fingers could grip, there was a blur passing before his eyes. Suddenly, he did not seem to have hands to kill with.

  His charge stopped, and he brought up his arms. Mounds of red were sliding down his jacket and his throat constricted into a horrible, choking sound. He found his feet, but before he could run, there was another blur, and the blur seemed to encircle him, and there were two small tugs at his shoulders.

  Irving's numbed shock turned into bursting pain and his mouth opened and his eyes squeezed shut. He felt as if he were floating and his legs were gone. Then he thought he felt the thick hotel carpeting on his back. Then there was only the incredible pain. Then nothing.

  Chiun decided to wait in the lobby for his shipment of video tapes. Hopefully Remo would be back soon to clean up the mess.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Remo," said Zhava, "this is Yoel Zabari, the head of the Zeher Lahurban, and Tochala Delit, my immediate superior. Gentleman, this is Remo Williams."

  "Mr. Weel-yums," said Yoel Zabari.

  "Mr. Zahoring, Mr. Delish," said Remo.

  "Zabari, Delit," said Zhava.

  "Gotcha," Remo said.

  They stood in the third-floor office of the nuclear security agency, after a three and a half hour drive that did almost nothing to diminish the aroma of the desert flowers that clung to them.

  Two more comfortable-looking red padded chairs had been added to the office, one facing Zabari's desk, the other across from where Delit sat.

  Now the two of them moved into the room as the male Israelis sat. Zhava, still somewhat flushed, her skin clinging to a never before experienced creamy tone, strode to the chair by Zabari's side. Delit sat across from her.

  "Please sit down," said Zabari in heavily accented English. "Zhava, you are looking well. Mr. Williams, it is with great pleasure that we meet."

  Remo saw that this was what the man's half-a-mouth said. The look in his one good eye and the way he sat said, "It is a pleasure to have someone as dangerous as yourself in a position where I can kill you if necessary."

  Remo sat in the chair across from him. "You got banged up pretty bad. A bomb? And it's no pleasure being here. What kind of a country are you people running anyway?"

  Zhava sucked in her breath and her flush blushed, turning her the shade of tomato soup. Zabari, however, replied easily.

  "So this is the famous American bluntness, eh? Surely, Mr. Williams, we cannot be to blame for your problems. 'Tourists' must be careful when they walk the desert at night. As the Talmud says, 'A human being is here today, in the grave tomorrow.' " The left side of his face smiled.

  The right side of Remo's face smirked back. "The Book of Sinanju says, 'I have lived fifty years to know the mistakes of forty-nine.' "

  "Ah," said Yoel Zabari, looking pleased, "but the Talmud also states, 'The Lord hates him who talks one way and thinks another.' "
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  "The Book of Sinanju replies, 'We sleep with legs outstretched, free of true, free of false.' "

  "I see," Zabari mused. "The Wisdom of the Talmud includes, however, 'One who commits a crime as an agent, is also a criminal.' "

  "How true," said Remo cordially. "Sinanju says, 'The perfect man leaves no trace of his conduct.' "

  "Hmmm," said Zabari, considering, then quoted, " 'Worry kills the strongest man.' "

  Remo replied in Chiun's sing-song, " 'Training is not knowledge and knowledge is not strength. But combine knowledge with training and one will get strength.' Or at least I think that's how it goes."

  Zabari cocked his one good eye at Remo and leaned forward in his chair.

  " 'Loose talk leads to sin,' " he said, then as an afterthought, adding the Talmudic source, "Abot."

  " 'Think twice, then say nothing,' " Remo replied. "Chiun."

  Delit and Fifer still sat on either side of the desk, between the two combatants, their heads moving back and forth, as if watching a tennis game.

  It was Zabari's serve.

  " 'Even a thief prays that he will succeed.' "

  Remo returned, " 'Never cut a man with words. They become a weapon against you.' "

  Delit's and Fifer's heads turned to Zabari.

  " 'Silence is good for the learned. All the more for fools.' "

  Back to Remo.

  " 'Learn to cut a man with your eyes. They are sometimes stronger than your hands.' "

  Zabari: " 'A man is born with closed hands; he expects to grab the whole world. He dies with open hands; he takes nothing with him.' "

  Remo: " 'Everything is a weapon in the hands of a man who understands.' "

  Match point.

  Zabari burst out laughing, slapping the desk with an open palm. "By God," he cried, turning to Fifer, "he is one of us."

  Zhava smiled warmly.

  "I'm glad you're happy," said Remo. "All I had left was, 'Spring comes and the grass grows.' "

  Zabari laughed harder. "I will tell you the truth," he finally managed. "All I had left was, 'A man should teach his child a profession-also how to swim!' "

  Remo and Zhava joined in the laughter until Delit coughed softly.

  "Of course," said Zabari, calming. "Sorry, Toe, but you know how much I love the Talmud." Still, Zabari could not hide a left-sided grin as he turned to Remo. "Now, Mr. Williams…"

  "Remo."

  "Very well, Remo. We have checked and double-checked," Zabari said, "but we can find no evidence of your standing as an American agent."

  Remo wanted to ask how they had found out he was an agent in the first place, but instead he said, "I'd say that ought to be proof enough."

  Zabari looked at Delit, who nodded. "A fair appraisal," Zabari conceded, "since everywhere you go there follows damage and destruction to both sides of the conflict. Besides the extermination of four terrorists…"-Zabari took a moment to spit in the wastepaper basket- "… there was a blast at an Israeli sulphur plant not far away.

  Our agent Fifer reported you were in the area. We could not overlook that coincidence."

  Zhava looked as if she wished they had.

  "I can't help it if I'm unlucky," said Remo. "But I thought the idea of this meeting was to share opinions, not cross-examine my references."

  "True," said Zabari, his left profile darkening. "We can find no connection between any of these terrorists and the Israelis that were so brutally mutilated. True, Toe?"

  Tochala Delit ran his hand through his dark hair while checking the latest reports on his lap. "True," he said finally.

  "Mr. Will… uh, Remo, have your people uncovered a connection?"

  Remo looked at their faces. There was an electric silence in the room for a moment, then he replied, "No."

  Zhava's face did not change, Zabari leaned back in his chair. Delit sighed.

  "Then, what do you think is going on?" asked Zabari.

  "You got me," said Remo. "As far as I know, the Arabs are trying to acquire a chicken soup monopoly. My people have come up with zilch."

  "There it is then," interrupted Delit, "It is as I said it was, Yoel. Israel is overrun with foreign agents. There is no connection between these mutilations, the attempts on Remo, and the security this office is responsible for."

  "I tend to agree, Toe," said Zabari, then directed himself back to the American. "These men who have been trying to kill you probably see you as just another American spy to be gotten rid of. It has nothing to do with our agency or our… uh, project." Even though everyone in the office knew what they were talking about, no one could seem to bring himself to say it.

  Tochala Delit checked the time on his extra-width Speidel twist-a-flex wristwatch, then motioned a high sign to Zabari.

  "Oh, yes, Toe, quite right. You must excuse us. It is the Yom Hazikaron today." He saw the question on Remo's face, then explained, "Our Remembrance Day. I am afraid we must call this meeting to a close since Mr. Delit and myself have many obligations to fulfill."

  Zabari and Delit rose. Zhava got up to show Remo the way out.

  "However," Zabari continued, "I do suggest that you consider another line of work since your cover is so completely blown. Say, continued study of this book of See-nan-you. It would be of great sorrow to me if you were to meet your ancestors in Israel."

  Remo rose, raising his eyebrows. Was that a thinly disguised threat?

  "Don't worry about me," he told Zabari. "As the Book of Sinanju says, 'Fear not death and it cannot become your enemy.' "

  Zabari was shaking his head sadly as Zhava showed Remo out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The service, as always, was in the evening, the eve of Yom Ha'atsmaut, the Israeli Independence Day. It always fell on the fifth day of lyar on the Hebrew calendar, but it is different each year on Western calendars.

  It is also different from the West in many other important ways. There are no celebrations, no fireworks, no barbecues. There is no poetry, and little sermonizing. There is only the continuing agonizing awareness of reality, the tortured memories of past persecution, and the firm conviction that the massacres, the pogroms, the holocaust must-never-happen-again.

  They honored the dead for one night, then went back to war the following morning.

  Zhava explained this to Remo before she too had to leave in order to pay tribute to her family and traditions. She gave Remo her telephone number, at her grandmother's in case he wanted to reach her, then left. As Remo ambled back to the hotel, Tochala Delit and Yoel Zabari marched in a somber military parade up the Avenue of the Righteous Gentiles.

  They marched up the ridge called Har Hazikaron, the Hill of the Remembrance, then stopped before a rectangular building made of uncut boulders and jagged, twisted steel. The Yad Vashem Memorial.

  The Israeli military fired salutes, British style. A confused little girl, who was too young to remember, or even comprehend what she was doing here, ignited the Memorial Flame. Then the kaddish was recited. The Prayer for the Dead.

  Some in the crowd remembered how it had been. Some hated. Some cried at the memory of murdered loved ones. One man was swelled with pride.

  This man knew that without him, and others like him, they would not be standing before this nightmarish memorial. Without him and those like him, no hill could have been dedicated to the six million dead. Without him, there would be no fears, no hate. This was his monument. This was the memorial to a nation of Nazis.

  The man who had been Horst Vessel slipped away from the crowd as a government official began a speech. He wandered inside the Yad Vashem to see again what he had helped do and to commune with his past.

  It would be all right. No one would notice him gone. Not Zhava Fifer, too pious, too dedicated to her cause to lift her head up from prayer. Not the incredibly stupid Yoel Zabari, who was even now listening to the piteous platitudes that rolled over the crowd of sullen fools.

  No one would notice if Tochala Delit slipped away.

  Tochala Delit
stepped into the crypt-like inner room of the memorial. He stood proudly in the huge stone room, the lone, naked flame in the middle sending an eerie burning light flickering across his high cheekbones and dark hair.

  The muscles in his thick wrists clenched and unclenched as he slid his heels across the floor, across the plaques that recorded the Nazi death camps of World War II. Across Bergen-Belsen, across Auschwitz, across Dachau, until Tochala Delit came to his own. Treblinka. His personal holocaust. The man who had been Horst Vessel remembered, trembling with pride.

  It had been his idea. They were losing the war. It was not traitorous to admit that. Not if he had a plan to use that very fact against the enemy. The only true enemy. The Jews. The others were only fighting for their misdirected ideals. They would soon come around. But the Jews, who embodied those misdirected ideals, they would have to be dealt with.

  Tochala Delit heard words being chanted from outside. He dimly recognized them as the prophet Maimonides' thirteen articles of Faith. He heard the words that were chanted every morning by many Israelis and translated them.

  "God is our only Leader."

  Hitler is mine, thought Delit.

  "God is One."

  It is only a matter of time.

  "God has no body."

  Soon, neither will any of you.

  "God is first and last."

  The last part of that is true.

  "We should pray to Him only."

  See if that will help.

  "The words of the Prophets are true, the prophecies of Moses are true."

  Soon you can ask them yourselves.

  "The Torah was given through God to Moses. The Torah will never be changed."

  Not changed. Destroyed.

  "God knows the thoughts of all. God rewards good deeds and punishes evil."

  Then God must feel I'm right.

  "We shall await the coming of the Messiah."

  You do not have long to wait.

  "We believe in the Resurrection of the Dead."

  You had better.

  Tochala Delit felt very good. On this, the last day of the last Jewish temple, he remembered it all. How he had trained a specially selected group of Nazis. Fritz Barber, who had become Moishe Gavan. Helmut Dorfmann, who had become Irving Markowitz. Joseph Brunhein, who became Ephraim Hegez. And Leonard Essendorf who had become Ben Isaac Goldman. He remembered how they had starved themselves to join the ranks at the concentration camp, Treblinka. How they had all circumcised themselves as a sign of faith. How they all became Jewish in the closing days of World War II. How they had all infiltrated the Jewish state with their specialized talents and how they were all united in the fervent dream of destruction.