The Israel Bond Omnibus (15 page)

M. said, “Go on, Oy Oy Seven.”

“It’s obvious that Der Führer never died in the bunker. One of his many doubles undoubtedly was torched up with his mistress, Eva Braun. Oh, and remember that name. It also figures in.

“What probably happened was this: He saw the end coming and was smuggled out of Berlin, probably in an Allied soldier’s uniform, those lethal eyes disguised by incredibly blue contact lenses. A sub took him to Argentina with a few trusted confederates. And as for money, Switzerland, yes, but it came from a Swiss bank account established for just such a getaway. The Swiss never question who dumps the money in their banks.

“Years in the jungle, a plastic surgery job probably. Someone tutoring him in English, Hebrew and Yiddish, the essential languages he’d have to know to pull off this stunt. A concocted story about an escape from a concentration camp, a new name, forged papers, a built-up reputation among the Jews in Rio ... he threw a few bucks around there, too, to ingratiate himself ... and then he was ready for his brazen trip to Israel.

“Consider this: In his celebrated ‘Plowshare Papers’ Loxfinger never said anything that some of our would-be peacemakers haven’t been saying for years—with negative results, of course. Why then were the Arab leaders suddenly positive? Because ... they’re in on the whole devilish plot! I’ll swear to heaven a tiny clique of Arab bigshots knows exactly who Lazarus Loxfinger is. That’s why they pretended to swallow his proposals.”

“Then the attack on him at the Kahn-Tiki,” broke in Goshen. “A phoney.”

“Of course,” Bond said. “No pro killer would have missed point-blank, rattled or not, unless he was trying to miss. It was Loxfinger’s hope that we’d dispose of the ‘busboy’ before he could spill the beans, which we did on the Quickway.

“That night at the Kahn-Tiki was enlightening, however. Well in his cups, he spotted this blonde Germanic-looking hustler, Eve Brown, and for a moment the mask slipped off. Her name threw him. For a moment he thought he was with Eva Braun again! Eva he called Eve, remember? And the reference to the snow-covered peaks. Their trysting place at Berchtesgaden, of course.

“His slurs in my presence. ‘Sheeny,’ he called me, and derived some twisted pleasure knowing I’d have to swallow it. But when Saxon used similar language to me and Loxfinger, as a supposed fellow Jew should have made him shut up, he said nothing. Nothing. I still don’t know yet where Saxon and that monster Macaroon fit in but ...”

“I do,” Goshen said quietly. “But continue.”

“That snatch of conversation between Saxon and Loxfinger at K’far K’farfel ... the words ‘my,’ then ‘furor.’ Knowing I’d overheard it, the doctor tried to palm it off as the word ‘furor,’ f-u-r-o-r, the excitement caused by his overtures to the Arabs. A lie. Saxon was saying ‘my führer!’

“Loxfinger’s unrestrained rage at the poor little kid’s retelling of the Haman parable at Purim time. The doctor, I suppose, must have nearly gone mad on the spot, quite logically identifying himself with Haman, his spiritual ancestor, especially when the kid said that all Hamans were doomed in the end. Monroe, you fill in some blanks right now.”

“I will, Iz,” said the solemn CIA man. “And thanks for spelling out the word ‘furor.’ It helped me a lot with this
New York Times
crossword puzzle I’ve been doing while listening to you.”

Bond shrugged. “Nothing really.”

“Those photos you sent me sure paid off,” said Goshen. “Saxon popped out of our files as Lincoln Faubus Madison, a key goon in the American Nazi Party. He probably was instructed to link up with Loxfinger in Argentina and coordinate a host of Nazis, right-wing loonies and cranks who would crawl out of the woodwork and support the doctor when the time was fortuitous. Macaroon is a Black Muslim terrorist from their elite branch on Madison Avenue. His real name is Brand X. The Muslims, you know, have an affinity for the Arab cause due to their shared religious beliefs. Go on.”

“I will,” said Bond. “By the by I owe Saxon and Macaroon quite a lot, Saxon for killing Poontang, my love, and Macaroon for the honey job that set me up for the marabunta. No doubt Loxfinger had seen these horrible insects at work during his years in the jungle. He brought a few colonies of them here, waiting for the chance to see some Jew eaten alive. Incidentally ...”

Way ahead of him, M. cut in: “It’s been taken care of, Oy Oy Seven.” She was the cool pro again. “We left a skeleton at the site. If they ever go back to check, they’ll think it’s yours. So now you’ll have a free hand to smash these monstrous
pascudnyaks
.”

Bond nodded his approval. “They killed poor Poontang because they knew she was in love with me and they didn’t feel safe with her around any more. Now some addenda—Loxfinger is seventy-six years of age. History books tell us Hitler was born in 1889—seventy-six years ago. Never conceiving we’d ever get onto him in a million years he arrogantly used his right age.

“The very name ‘Loxfinger’ ... another slur. To Der Führer all hated Jews have fishy hands. And, Monroe, he takes a rap at your parish, too, mocking your New Testament. Remember Poontang’s dying words? ‘Lazarus ... legend ...’ She apparently had overheard something just before they hypnotized her. You remember the story of Lazarus?”

“He ... he rose from the dead,” said a stunned Goshen. “I see. Hitler is telling us that the allegedly dead Führer has been resurrected.”

“Precisely,” said Bond. “And here’s the capper ... the phrase that made me wince during Loxfinger’s speeches. I didn’t know why at the time. I do now. Can you guess it?”

Dazed by the complete unreality of his whole monologue, they were unable to answer.

“The ‘final solution.’ Remember Eichmann’s phrase? Well, still obsessed is Der Führer. He’s still after that ‘final solution’ —the destruction of Eretz Israel.”

M. broke in again. “Now I shall tell you boychikls a few things only I and our highest officials know. We’ve swallowed his scheme, all Loxfinger, stock and barrel of it. We’ve even planned a ceremonial meeting with the Arabs at Eilat to show our good faith, during which a rifle will be broken to symbolically indicate our plans to disarm. Loxfinger will be there, some Arab muckamucks, our own P.M. and his aides. It’ll be on the first day of Passover, just a few days away. If we cancel, we’ll tip our hand. They’ll know that we know something isn’t Kosher. Then they’ll say we are, indeed, aggressors with no wish for peace whatsoever. They’ll murder us with propaganda.”

“Yes, but if we follow through don’t be surprised when on that first joyous Passover day an Eretz Israel, its guard down, is overrun, their armies pouring on us from all sides like those damned marabunta,” said a bitter Bond.

“I’ve got to make a very important phone call in the next few minutes,” said Goshen from taut lips. “A tall man of the West with a mournful hound-dog face must be told of this evil plot.”

“What the hell good can John Wayne do at a time like this?” snapped Bond, morose, his eyes seeing the annihilation of his people.

“If that phone call is to whom I think it is,” said M. shrewdly, “go make it, young man. And don’t call collect. We’ll pay for it. Of course, if you could make it station to station ... after 9
p.m. …”

Even now, she’s trying to save my poor little country a few pennies, Bond thought. What a magnificent old woman! Then he snapped his fingers. “M.! Loxfinger told me he was clearing the way for peace with a secret meeting with some Arab moguls on a dhow in the Red Sea ... around Passover. That would fit in with the ceremony. They’ll probably be making final plans for the invasion. I’ve got to get on that boat, hear that conversation.”

“Don’t be a fool,” M. said. “You’ll never get within a mile of that boat. They’ll have frogmen, sonar, the whole
gedilla
. Besides, it isn’t necessary. Agent D. will handle it very nicely.”

Agent D.! Again that name!

“M.,” said an emboldened Oy Oy Seven. “Nothing should be withheld from me at this stage of the game. I’ve been in it from the start. I broke the case. Now ... who is Agent D.?”

“Only three people know that—the P.M., a certain scientist, and me. That’s how it must stay, Oy Oy Seven. Now get down to Eilat, disguise yourself and be ready for anything. Big things will be happening in a few days. And at the right time, Agent D. will make his ... or her ...” M. said cleverly, “presence known to you. Now go kill and be well.”

Bond and Goshen sat on the terrace of the Sheraton, which had an outstanding view of the terrace of the Hilton.

The Israeli, who had bummed one of Goshen’s cigarettes, inhaled deeply on the Benson & Hedges. “Too much Benson, not enough Hedges,” he said glumly, his mind far away.

“You’re thinking about the girl,” ventured Goshen softly.

“Yes, the girl, me, but most of all, Eretz Israel. In a few days we’ll all be under the heels of Adoph Hitler and the Arabs.”

“Look,” the CIA man said sharply, “I have just been in contact with the most important phone number in the world. The very heartbeat of the capital of the United States.”

“You got through to Johnson City, Texas, huh?” said Bond, his eyes aimless, beaten. But they narrowed to cold, furious slits at the sight of the waiter, a wiry Levantine, who entered with two tall cool drinks on a tray. Bond said, “Scramble, Ramble, Mountain Rocky! Knuckle, Buckle Down Winsocki!” Goshen’s alert ears caught the signal. They both rose casually, yawned, and hit the waiter from both sides, hurling him over the railing onto a bus ten stories below. It later developed the poor fellow was an Israeli, having recently arrived from Morocco, but the two cloak-and-dagger men were in no mood to take chances in these last spine-tingling days of their greatest adventure together.

“Hey, Iz,” said Goshen peering at the panorama of bustling Tel-Aviv. “This town has me buffaloed. How do I get around?”

Bond flipped him a copy of Joel Lieber’s authoritative
Israel on $5 a Day
.

“Can you really see this burg of yours on a finski a day?”

“It can be done,” Bond said, “if your guide happens to be Golda Meir.” (Bond himself had written a travel book that had not been successful,
Levittown on $5 a Week
.)

They walked over to Dizengoff Square and watched the diverse types that make up the tiny democracy passing in review. Old Orthodox Jews in yarmulkehs with curly payis (sideburns) ... darker Jews from Arab nations ... an occasional Druse leading his camel into a movie theatre (Although Israel had no discriminatory laws, it was generally agreed that camels should sit upstairs in moviehouses.) ... trim, lovely Sabra girls dancing horas and singing “Hava Nagila” (Oh, Come Let Us Double Our Jewish National Fund Pledges), the song written many years ago for the new nation by Willie The Lion Smith... tourists, obviously American, gazing with reverence upon a famed monument depicting the heroes of the War for Independence, Paul Newman and Sal Mineo pointing their rifles defiantly while Eva Marie Saint dressed their wounds. So many types, Bond thought. Would they be taking the sun, bathing in the green Mediterranean a few days from now? Or would the carefree melody echoing in the square be “Deutschland Über Alles?”

The knowledge of impending disaster hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles. Well, at least there’s one man who’s getting a little happiness out of this ugly mess, he knew. Damocles.

Aware his confrere in espionage, “the great game” as Kipling had called it, was still in a funk, Goshen barked: “Snap out of it! At least we know the score. And Loxfinger thinks you’re dead, that he’s still got your government bamboozled. So you can play a lone hand undisturbed. Leave Saxon and Macaroon to me; they’re U.S. citizens so they’re my pigeons.”