The Last Temple td-27 Read online

  "Enough levity," she said severely. "What is your mission?"

  "Are you always this subtle?" Remo asked.

  "I have no time for games, Mr. Williams," she said, coldly. "As I see it, you owe me your life. You were lucky I arrived when I did."

  "As I see it, that's a matter of opinion." He looked around the alley. "Why don't we get away from this party, it's dying anyway, and go some place where you can slip out of your uniform and get comfortable?"

  Zhava Fifer took a deep breath. Her uniform, fitted like a second skin, took a deep breath with her.

  "My uniform is very comfortable," she said.

  Remo looked down at her bosom, only inches away from his chest.

  "That's odd," he said.

  "What is odd?"

  "Your uniform makes me very uncomfortable."

  "As your people says, 'tough toochis.' " She met Remo's eyes and smiled. "Your Mr. Chiun is waiting for us at the hotel restuarant. There we can talk together."

  "Swell," said Remo without enthusiasm. "I can't wait to see Chiun again."

  "I would have arrived sooner to save him," Zhava Fifer was telling Chiun, "but I left my magazine in a book stall."

  "National Geographic'? Playgirl?" Remo asked.

  "No, Mr. Williams. This one." She touched the clip for the submachine gun, which hung on the back of her chair.

  The small restaurant was done in green and orange plastic with red tablecloths, to soak up any blood that might be spilled, Remo decided. In New York City, a uniformed soldier carrying a gun might cause a riot stepping into a restaurant. At the least, his visit would bring the police-and a consultation with the restaurant manager. In Israel, in a restaurant built for tourists, soldiers carrying guns and grenades were scattered around, eating and drinking, and no one paid them any attention. Zhava Fifer drew eyes, but only as a woman, not as a soldier.

  "May I help you?" inquired a waiter with a deep Israeli accent.

  "Why?" asked Remo. "Don't you know me? Everybody else in the country seems to."

  "Do you have nice fish?" asked Chiun.

  "Yes, sir," replied the waiter. He started to scribble on his pad and said, "Nice-fried-fish."

  "No," said Chiun, "I did not ask if you sold grease, only if you sold fish. When I say fish, I mean fish."

  The waiter blinked. "You could peel it, sir," he said, hopefully.

  "Fine," said Chiun. "You serve me fried fish, I will peel it, then I will drop it all on the floor, and at the end of the meal you will pay me for doing your work for you."

  "We'll have two waters," interrupted Remo. "Mineral if you have it, clean glasses if you don't."

  "Nothing for me, thank you," said Zhava.

  The waiter fled.

  "So," said Remo to Zhava. "Who is killing the Israelis and leaving them in the shape of a swastika?"

  "If you had been more careful with those men who attacked you, we might have found out."

  "Sorry," Remo said. "I'll remember not to fight back the next time I am attacked."

  Zhava looked deep into Remo's eyes and, to his surprise, she blushed. Suddenly, she looked down and started to pull at her napkin.

  "I am sorry," she said. "I know that it was my fault. I-I shot too soon. We were so close to finding out and I, and I…"

  She rose quickly and ran to the ladies' room. She shot by the waiter, nearly knocking him over, and pounded through the door.

  Remo turned to Chiun, who was inspecting the silverware for cleanliness.

  "She must really be upset," Remo said. "She left her gun."

  The Uzi still hung on her chair.

  "Very clever girl," replied Chiun, still intent on the forks, "moments with you and she begins to cry. Very clever. She took from the gun the thing that holds the bullets."

  The waiter served the two glasses of water, looking very carefully at Chiun and at Remo, who was checking Zhava's gun. The clip of shells was gone. Remo looked around and saw four Israeli soldiers watching him from other tables, their hands resting on their own guns. Remo sat back. The soldiers relaxed.

  Chiun picked up a water glass, examining it carefully. Remo turned toward the lavatory door. Chiun sniffed at the clear liquid. Remo thought there was something strange about Zhava Fifer. Kills a man one moment, starts crying the next. Either extremely unbalanced or a little girl trying to be a big soldier. Or trying to get sympathy. Or trying to escape. Or going to report. Or…

  Remo stopped thinking along those lines. It was getting too confusing.

  But there were two facts that were not confusing. First, she had killed Remo's one lead. And two, like Ahmed, in the alley she had known who Remo was.

  Zhava was coming out of the ladies' room, eyes dry and head high, when Chiun sipped at the water. The Korean held the liquid in his mouth, looked at the ceiling, swirled it from one cheek to the other, then spat it out.

  Looking directly at the waiter, Chiun poured out the water onto the floor.

  As Zhava reached the table, Remo was up and handing her the Uzi. "The water maven is displeased," he said. "Chiun, I'll meet you later."

  "Good," said Chiun. "See if you can find some good water."

  "I think the PLO is behind these killings," said Zhava.

  "Who else?" said Remo, who did not know who the PLO was. "I knew all along it was the BLO," he added for emphasis.

  "PLO," Zhava corrected. "The Palestine Liberation Organization. Really, Remo, I am amazed at what you don't know."

  They were walking along Allenby Road, in front of its more than 100 bookstores where Israeli civilians, soldiers, Arabs, Italians, Swiss, and others bought and discussed the more than 225 weekly, biweekly, monthly, bimonthly, quarterly, biyearly, and yearly editions of Israel's magazines, usually at the tops of their voices. Any discussion here would be indistinguishable from any other, no matter what the topic.

  "I'll tell you some things I do know," Remo said testily. "Everybody in this country apparently knows who I am. So much for security. Some have already tried to kill me. I'd say the secret agent business isn't what it used to be."

  "I don't know who you are," said Zhava.

  "I'm the man who came to protect your atomic bombs," Remo said.

  "What atomic bombs?" she asked innocently.

  "The ones I read about in Time magazine," said Remo.

  "Who believes anything in Time magazine?" she replied.

  "But you do have them, don't you?" said Remo.

  "Have what?" Zhava answered gently.

  "That reminds me," said Remo. "I've always wondered. Why do Jews always answer a question with a question?"

  Zhava laughed. "Who says Jews always answer a question with a question?"

  They both laughed, and Remo, said, "Who wants to know?"

  Zhava laughed harder. "Who knows?" she said.

  "Who cares?" Remo said, and Zhava began to laugh so hard that she soon had tears streaming down her cheeks and was trying to clap her hands together, but kept missing. At last, Remo thought. His opportunity.

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear, "I've been sent to protect your bombs. Want to see my big red 'S'?"

  Zhava screamed in glee and nearly fell over. Remo smiled and held onto her shoulders as she quaked and shook and got red. Passers-by grinned and gave them plenty of room.

  Zhava turned in his hands and buried her head on Remo's chest, hitting his shoulders with her palms and laughing.

  "Wooo, hic, ha, ha," she said. "For the, hee, hee, record, hoooo, I know, hic, ha, ha, ha, ha, nothing about, ha, ha, ha, hee, heh, any, hic, atomic, heh, heh, heh, bombs. Hic."

  So much for taking advantage of her. Remo continued to smile and pat her back until she calmed down. Suddenly he felt her stiffen under his hands, and she backed off. Remo saw something like dread pass across her face. She was back to being herself again. Zhava Fifer, girl soldier. She hiccupped.

  "Tell you what," said Remo. "Let's try word association. You say the first thing that pops into your head."

&nb
sp; "Tail."

  "Not yet. Wait until I say a word first."

  "Second."

  "Wait a minute, will you?" Remo laughed. "Now. Home."

  "Then-kibbutz."

  "Sand."

  "Sea."

  "Work."

  "Play."

  "Death," tried Remo.

  "Sex," said Zhava.

  "Doom."

  "Love."

  "Bombs."

  "Hic!"

  "Hic?"

  Zhava hiccupped again.

  "Tell you what. Let's find another place to talk."

  "What?" said Zhava.

  "Talk," said Remo.

  "Dinner," said Zhava.

  "What?"

  "Dance."

  "Dance?"

  "Fine," said Zhava. "It's a date. I'll meet you at your hotel later this afternoon."

  She blew a forced-looking kiss at Remo, then disappeared into the crowd.

  Remo shook his head. Some soldier.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "The Talmud says, 'The lion roars when he is satisfied, the man sins when he has plenty.' "

  "The Talmud also says, 'Chew with your teeth and you will find strength in your feet.' "

  "You have stumped me again," Yoel Zabari laughed. "Now, what else does our agent Fifer tell us?"

  "That is about all," Tochala Delit replied, "except that she has arranged a further meeting with this Remo and feels more information will be forthcoming."

  The two sat in their customary places, papers strewn across Delit's lap and Zabari playing with a plastic photograph cube he had picked up in America. All four sides were filled with snapshots of his children, while the top was reserved for a smiling color print of his wife. Zabari often flipped their images before him while thinking.

  "She is a good agent, our Zhava. How does she feel about this assignment?"

  "She finds both the American and Oriental eccentric, but sees their potential as, in her words, 'devastatingly effective.' "

  "I did not mean that," said Zabari. "I meant her personal standing. Do you think she is ready for espionage work again?"

  Delit looked up from his reports. "If you doubt my choice, I can always…"

  "Of course not, Toe. When have I ever doubted your methods? It is just that… Well, Fifer has suffered a great loss," Zabari explained.

  "I felt the job would be the best thing for her," said Delit.

  "And you are right. Hmmm," Zabari mused. "Have you found any connection between the two dead Israelis and the three terrorists?"

  "None," said Delit.

  "None?" echoed Zabari.

  "Whatsoever," finished Delit.

  Zabari stood, his left eye gleaming and the left side of his face flushed. "This is bad. This is very bad. Either these attacks are the most fantastic of coincidences or our enemies are taking great trouble in eluding us." He paced around the office, past his wall of books, his wall of awards and degrees, his wall of family mementos and pictures, then back to his desk again. Zabari picked up his family photograph cube and made the circuit again.

  Book wall, award wall, family wall, desk, book wall, award wall. He stopped, flipping the cube, beside a scrawled crayon drawing of a rocket, embossed with a Star of David, blasting toward a green cheese moon.

  Below the large construction paper picture was a coarse sheet of lined yellow paper that read, "The Magic Rocket of Peace"-Dov Zabari-Aged Eight-and the teacher's red pencil mark, "A + ."

  "Keep checking," Zabari finally said, flipping the cube. "There must be a connection."

  "Very well," said Delit, "but if you want my opinion…"

  "Yes, of course, Toe, go ahead."

  "I think we should concentrate on these two new spies. This Remo and Chiun. They will lead us to what we want to know. Terrorists we have plenty of. If I continue wasting my time checking, there is no guarantee that we will find out anything."

  "True," said Zabari, "but, in life, there are no guarantees for anything. Keep looking. I have a hunch about this. Our American friends are well in hand. You said so yourself. Fifer knows what she is doing. If she needs help, give it to her."

  The two talked for another twenty minutes about various legal and archeological matters, including the shipment of new protective security devices, until Delit excused himself and went to the bathroom.

  Zabari rubbed the left side of his face and thought about growing half a beard.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Petty," said Remo. "Petty, childish, spoiled pettiness."

  "Thank you, Remo," said the Master from his mat in between the suite's two beds.

  The suite looked like every other suite in every other Sheraton Hotel all over the world. Remo wanted to get a single since Chiun never used a bed anyway, but the Reservation Desk man would not hear of it.

  "How many of you are there?" he asked.

  "Of me? One," said Remo.

  "No, of your party," said the Reservation Desk man who had a little red and white plasticene name tag that read, "Schlomo Artov."

  "Two," Remo said miserably.

  "Then you will want a double, correct?"

  "No, I will want a single," insisted Remo.

  Schlomo got angry. "Do you mean to tell me that you would deny that sweet old man a comfortable bed to sleep in?"

  Chiun, who had been instructing four bellboys, and one bell captain who had the misfortune of being on duty that day, in the fine art of steamer-trunk carrying, swung around.

  "Deny? Deny? What are you going to deny me now, Remo?"

  "Keep out of this, Little Father," said Remo, turning to him.

  "Oho!" cried Schlomo, his righteous indignation really rankled, "So he is your father. And this is not the first time this has happened."

  "No," said Chiun, "he has denied me many things over the years. Every small pleasure I request is denied. Remember last Christmas? I ask you, is Barbra Streisand so hard to get?"

  "We'll take a double," shouted Remo.

  "Well, that is better," said Schlomo, ripping a key from the wall. As Artov handed the key over, Chiun returned to his instructions as if he had never been interrupted.

  As Remo signed the register, Schlomo warned, "You had better watch yourself, young man. If you mistreat your father in this hotel, I will have you arrested so fast, it will make your head spin."

  Remo finished signing the register as Norman Lear, Sr., and Norman Lear, Jr., then advised Artov, "As long as you're concerned, my father insists upon being called by his full name." Before Artov could reply, Remo was collecting Chiun and the luggage to go upstairs.

  "Petty," Remo repeated. "Petty, petty, petty."

  "Four thank yous," Chiun replied. "That is the nicest thing you have said to me since our arrival, Remo."

  "What are you talking about?" Remo asked as he started to change into a light blue short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks he had bought in the states and sneaked in between two of Chiun's kimonos.

  "I know," said Chiun sagely. "You compare me to the great American who goes quickly in circles to destroy ugly pollution machines. It is not much of a compliment. But for an American with so little worthwhile to compare me to, it suffices."

  Remo felt as if he were going in circles too. "I've got big news for you, Little Father. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "That is not news, Remo. Heh, heh, heh. That is not news. But I thank you because you know that I too try to destroy pollution. I pour out tainted water when it is filled with dangerous amounts of magnesium, copper, mercury, iodine, toxic alloys…"

  The truth finally struck Remo. "Petty. Right. Petty. I don't mean Richard Petty, the race driver. I mean petty, the word. Meaning small, trivial, shallow, chintzy, nit-picking."

  "Because I try to do what is right and good, you throw words at me. With a female at your side, even tainted water in your stomach is of no importance to you. When will my efforts be recognized?"

  "Don't worry," said Remo, slipping on the brown loafers he had worn to Israel. "I'm sure they
've been heard all over the hotel by now."

  "Good. It is good that they know," said Chiun, settling down on his mat and turning on the suite's television set.

  "And I've got more news for you," said Remo, going to the door. "That female happens to be an Israeli agent."

  Chiun turned. "As we met in Hollywood?" he asked excitedly. "Can she get me good water?"

  "No, not that kind of agent. A secret agent, like me."

  "In that case," said Chiun turning back, "she is no agent of mine."

  Remo opened the suite's door. "I'm going out to make a call. This phone might be tapped. Want anything?"

  "Yes," said Chiun, face intent on the screen, "some good water and a son who recognizes undying effort."

  "I'll look for water," Remo said.

  Remo drifted down the access road that serves as a kind of beach-front driveway for all the hotels on Tel Aviv's Mediterranean shore.

  On this spring day, thousands of people were crowding the beaches of Israeli's "Miami," so Remo simply watched the groups of tourists dragging beach chairs, teenagers running with surfboards, and venders hawking ice cream and popsicles. Off the boardwalk, some soldiers were batting at a rubber ball, with frenzied determination, making it look like a red pole and sound like a locomotive.

  Remo looked beyond all this, trying to spy a phone. He had not raised his body temperature to match that of the 105-degree air around him, because he wanted to sweat. In case Chiun had not merely been complaining about the water, he wanted to get its poisons out of his body quickly. He wiped the water from his forehead as he moved past the crowd onto Hagarkon Road and arrived at the main shorefront strip of Ben Yehuda.

  Still no phone. Remo moved down a block to Keren Kayemet, where he asked a passing old man, "Telephone?"

  The old man raised a weak arm and gestured down the hill along Ben Yehuda, indicating quite a distance and saying, "Shamma."

  Remo continued on his way, enjoying the suntanned passersby and the outdoor cafes with their colorful umbrella tables. That is, he enjoyed them for five blocks, and then he began to get impatient.

  He stopped a passing tourist, "Do you know where Shamma is?"

  Remo guessed that the man with meat on his breath and fat on his belly was a tourist because of the two cameras, a binocular case, and a Mexican tequila medallion that were hanging from his shoulders.