The Israel Bond Omnibus (78 page)

The intensity in his expression won Domo over. “Hop in, Mr. Bond.”

They came in fast over the Imperial Hotel, the palace moat, populated by huge golden-red carp, the high wall of brownish-gray boulders, then skimmed over gingkos, pines and brilliant clumps of cherry blossoms.

Crack! Crack!
Bullets flew up from the carbines of a band of guards deployed into a human shield at the archway to the Imperial reception room.
Thwack!
Domo caught one in his shoulder, but bravely stayed at the controls and brought the craft to a jolting stop.

He staggered out, ignoring the blossoming patch on his jacket, and shouted something to the guards. “They’ll pass you, Mr. Bond. Go!” Then he fell on his back.

Bond dropped a life-sustaining Excedrin into the gaping mouth. “Chew it, Domo.” He ran through the arch down a tiled walkway, under a torii gate, and dived through a screen, landing catlike on his feet a couple of yards from the gold-and-black-robed Emperor of Japan, who was squinting into a glass tank held by the top-hatted, white-tie-and-tailed Salvar. “This, Your Majesty,” the diplomat intoned, “contains—”

“Death! Caveat Emperor!” He flattened Salvar with a quarter-strength South Korean karate cut to the midriff taught him by a Seoul-brother, made a sensational shoestring catch of the falling tank and raised it high.

The cry of “Death!” in the presence of the Emperor started the adrenal coursing in Sanka, who whipped out a black Wembley-Vicar, got Bond in its sights and squeezed the trigger three times.

“Sanka, you fool,” muttered Bond, pressing the long, tapering fingers of his left hand against his punctured abdomen.

With a moan he cocked the fish tank in his hand like a football and let it fly in a Bart Starr-bullet through the screen. He smiled thinly and toppled to the carpet.

A red ball artichoked into the sky; there was the oppressive smell of Calgonite, and fragments of the torii gate flew into the room.

“By the belly of Buddha!” screamed Sanka. “There was a Calgonite charge in that tank! Oy Oy Seven!” He went down on his knees before the Israeli. “The royal physician, quickly!”

“Cocky.” Bond’s voice was almost inaudible. “Got a last great one-liner for you,
boychikl
. It’s adieu to espionage. I... just... haven’t... got... the”—there was a ghost of a chuckle as he got in the punch line—“stomach for it... any more....” The sensual, vein-free eyelids rolled over the gray eyes.

Sanka felt for the pulse, caught the tiniest of throbs. Then nothing.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing slowly and gracefully. “Your life has been saved by the greatest practitioner of espionage the world has ever known. It was his gesture of
sayonara
to you, to me and to the people of Japan. The royal physician will be of no use now. Israel Bond is dead.”

“I have ruled out that one, my friend. Because of an operation I underwent two years ago, I have only a semicolon. No, I have decided upon a modern technique created by the founder of our national sound-recording system, Muzaki—from anus to larynx, from Memphis to St. Joe, wherever the four winds blow.”
How Izzy-san, who had been so enamored of humor, would have appreciated that one,
Sanka sighed.

In his mind’s eye he could still see the El Al jet with its sad cargo, the simple pine box wrapped in a giant-size trenchcoat (a sentimental touch requested by Miss Katz), winging to Eretz Israel, where the state funeral would be held.

Because of the unusual nature of Bond’s passing and the need for complete secrecy, the simplest sort of ceremony had been conducted at the Jewish Community Center of Tokyo, attended by only a handful of mourners: Kopy Katz in a black chain and plunger, and her escort, a humpbacked, bearded man in dark glasses she’d introduced as her father; the embassy people, including a handcuffed, red-eyed Schlomo Salvar, who’d been permitted to attend by a special order from Sanka; Ginza-Burg, a yarmulke jammed over his cabby’s cap, and Sanka, Pishaka and Propaganda Minister Kato, who’d been sent to express the official grief of a stunned Emperor.

Ginza-Burg had said the Kaddish, the Prayer for the Dead, and added an affecting aside. “I gotta leave real
schnell
. There’s a fare in my cab and the meter’s still running, but I just wanna say this. If there’s a shining spot that’s like a Kosher Camelot, that’s where this wonderful warrior is right now.
Olav Hashalom
—may he rest in peace.”

An unexpected visitor had come to the front of the chapel, a little man in a white frockcoat, string tie and thirty-gallon Pedernales River sombrero.

“Folks, I’m Oral Vincent Graham, the traveling evangelist, and it was my privilege to have known Mr. Bond during two of his adventures. When his boss lady in Jerusalem learned I was in Japan spearheading my latest crusade, she cabled me and asked me to say a few words that might comfort you in this moment of tragedy. During my oration there’ll be a tambourine passed among you. Any offering you’d care to make will be deeply appreciated. If you find yourselves without coins or folding money, just throw in your credit cards. We accept ‘em.”

He lit a long, odoriferous cigar, leaned against the casket and spoke his piece:

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

If you don’t like my figure,

Take your hands off my bust.”

He hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, clearly embarrassed.

“You’ll pardon that unfortunate lapse into childish doggerel, folks. Funny how them little outhouse-wall poems come back to you at a time like this.” He extinguished the cigar on the casket and resumed.

“We all came from Clay—or Muhummad Ali, if ye subscribe to another faith—and back to Clay we must go. Did not John the Baptist sayeth upon discovering a precious stone in the waters of the Jordan: ‘Holy mackerel! It’s Sapphire!’ And, yea, unto ye I say, did not Ezekiel crieth when he saw the wheel, ‘Number five on the black!’

“The Lord freed Sam Sheppard; he shall not want. Yes, let he who is without stones cast the first sin. For out of the mouths of babes comes Pablum and pacifiers. And Nashua fit de battle at Pimlico and the odds came a-tumblin’ down.

“Be that as it may. Ye shall know the truth and it will make you sick.

“You’ve got to walk that lonesome valley; you’ve got to walk it by yourself. So walk on through the wind; walk on through the rain; for a rose must remain in the sun or the rain or its lovely promise won’t come true. I know that Israel Bond’s indomitable spirit is walking right now through that lonesome valley, the wind and the rain and those crappy waterlogged roses, and he’ll never stop, though he’s scorned and covered by scars, until he climbs every mountain, fords every stream and reaches the unreachable stars.

“I thank you.” Oral Vincent Graham had taken the cigar butt from the casket, relit it by scratching a match on the seat of his pants and poked through the tambourine.

“Cheap crowd,” someone heard him mutter.

Even the Japanese observers, who had been trained all their lives to conceal their deepest emotions, had wept quarts of tears.

A curious incident had occurred as Sanka got in the line moving past the casket to pay his last respects. Miss Katz, who surprisingly was dry of eye, shook his hand warmly, but her bent old father cursed at him and landed a sharp kick in the
Kyodo Kikaku leader’s groin. “You trigger-happy fascist bastard! When I think of that beautiful boy lying in there all shot up and all the women in the world who’ll never know what true ecstasy is because of your precipitate action, I could—”

“Please, Dad,” Miss Katz had said. “The Baron was only doing his duty, which was to safeguard the Emperor.” She had then led the fractious codger away.

Now the sword was in Sanka’s hand and finger. “Count Pishaka, please grant an old crony a last wish. Use every bit of your considerable influence to cool the temper of our people. Bond gave his life to prevent war. And while I as yet have not penetrated this mystery, I am certain his nation is not at fault. Give Major Domo the records of this case and tell him to institute a thorough investigation until the real culprits are in chains. And now,
sayonara,
Pishaka.”

The men exchanged deep bows.

“Stop him!” The scream of Kopy Katz came through the paper screen.

“Let him do it already. I’m not going to make a career out of stopping this
schmuck
from doing himself in,” said a familiar whimsical voice. “All right, I’ll stop him. But it’s the last time.”

Kopy’s father walked into the suite from the garden. He wrested the sword from Sanka and broke it over his knee, pulled off his beard and dark glasses, lit a Raleigh, removed his Chesterfield coat, to whose rear lining a pillow was fastened, then ignited his Chesterfield coat with his Raleigh. “Wish I could light my Raleigh with this Chesterfield” he muttered.

Baron Cockimamiyama Sanka’s eyes rolled like marbles gone mad; he grasped at his throat and fainted dead away.

“Any spirits of ammonia around here, Count Pishaka?” said Israel Bond, stomping on his coat to stop the fire.