The Israel Bond Omnibus (18 page)

“What did the
New York Daily News
say?” asked M., a shrewd smile on that infinitely wise old face.

“Here,” said Zvi, handing her the gutsy big-city tabloid:

METS NIPPED BY JINTS IN 11-3 SQUEAKER

LIZ, DICK SHARE HOTDOG AT HARVEST MOON BALL FESTIVAL

Hitler Dies in Red Sea.

He switched on the TV. “... for the 98th time, Chet, in answer to the flood of phone calls to the station let’s rerun that tape shot from our NBC-TV helicopter on that fantastic business at Eilat. Here we see the Israeli agent stumbling as he makes it to shore. And now the waves smother the man believed by many to be ...”

M. snapped it off. “Better we should regain a little sanity in this organization.”

She turned on Station RR: “... and moving right up there is Number 1,003, ‘Long Lean Lena’ by Hairy Harry Haircream and the Harelips:

Long Lean Lena is the girl that we’ve adored,

Whenever we go surfin’ we use Lena for the board!

Long Lean Lena, yea, yea—

“Oh read this!” Leilah Tov shrieked. “They want to do his life story in the movies! And Cary Grant wants to play Oy Oy Seven! Cary Grant!” She fainted and was tenderly borne away.

“What’s the matter with me playing my own life? Though Cary
is
great, I’ll have to Grant it!” Bond, his eyes barely open, a slight grin on his cruel, pale, darkly handsome face, had said it. One of my weakest jokes, he thought, but the best I can do in this condition.

“Everybody out!” M. commanded. They scurried from the clinic, casting warm glances at the wounded secret agent.

“Israel, mine kindeleh,” said M. softly. “You’re all right.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said. There was a fondness in his tone, not the fondness of a secret agent for his superior, but that of a secret agent for his mother.

Please, dear Lord, don’t let me show my own weakness, a weeping M. pleaded. This is a cold, hard business. I can’t get sentimental over a boy I wish had been my own son.

“Oy Oy Seven, you did a fairly competent job. But we must rule out the ... uh ... divine aspects of your escape. We all know now that the Red Sea parted because of a row of strategically placed high explosives detonated by the oil company at the exact moment you fell off poor Duddy’s back. We don’t need miracles, my boy.”

“Our land
is
a miracle, M.”

“Exactly. I’m happy to see you haven’t lost your deftness with a phrase, Oy Oy Seven. But there can be no publicity, no personal interviews. If you are to remain with the Oy Oy .section you must slip into anonymity immediately. We will release a report that you have died from your wounds. Your friend, Goshen, will be told the truth, of course. You two may be forced to share another assignment some day. One question: Do you think you can ever be strong enough to return to the M 33 and 1/3 section? Make your answer truthful, no heroics. We’ve had enough of them, God knows. Remember, a crippled agent is a danger to himself and to his organization.”

Bond lit a Raleigh, scratching the match on his shoulder cast. Some of the section people had written on it in ink: “Get well, Oy Oy Seven.” He was touched. As a rule, M 33 and 1/3 personnel were necessarily an unsentimental lot. Or, so he thought.

“I’ll be all right in a while,” he said. “Can I at least write the screenplay of my own life? Maybe I can get a few bucks out of this affair for my trouble.”

“No,” M. was unrelenting. “Complete anonymity.”

“You’re the boss, M. I can’t give up my Oy Oy rank. It’s my world. Without a smoking gun in my hand and a broad in my kip, I’m better off dead.”

M. smiled with satisfaction. “Good. As to the latter ... uh ... pursuit, Leilah Tov is anxiously awaiting your recovery. But, remember, Oy Oy Seven, the wicked man will enter heaven more easily than a righteous man pushing a needle into the eye of a camel.”

“I’ll remember, M. And you remember this: Whenever my land is threatened by the forces of injustice, I want to be called in. With every breath in my body I vow this—Bond’s for Israel!”

Healing sleep overtook him.

Good lad! Good heart! Good soldier! M. thought. If only the
shmegeggi
could shoot straight.

Walking back to her cubicle, M. paused to think for a moment. She nodded to herself, her mind made up.

Switching on the factory-wide intercom, she snapped:

“Now you should hear this! Now you should hear this! This is M. speaking to all personnel. You are to promulgate a report that Oy Oy Seven has died. Repeat—has died. It is not true, but you will do so. Make sure in all interviews with press, TV, and magazine people that the true facts of Oy Oy Seven’s admittedly meritorious exploits in the line of duty are disseminated fully. Minus any fanciful allusions or analogies concerning our faith’s ancient history.
Dos is alles. Dos is alles. Shalom.”

Just the facts, she told herself. Just the facts. She was a great believer in hard facts. One could not run a top-flight Secret Service on fairy tales.

But there was one little fact, she decided, that she would withhold. It was totally irrelevant, meaningless. But she would sit on it for the sake of peace and quiet.

She opened the top drawer of her desk and looked at an object —a buoy marker which had been placed coincidentally in the Red Sea at the spot where the waters had first parted when the initial TNT charge went off. It had been blown onto the beach at the exact spot, again coincidentally, where Bond had fallen into the arms of the army boys.

A very simple, nondescript buoy marker really. Too small to permit the full name of the oil company, Gillespie-O’Day-Dameron, to be imprinted upon it.

But large enough for the initials of each member of the firm.

She had other important things to do. So she would not let herself dwell too long upon those three initials.

Of Sherm’s Deli, Long Branch, N. J.

BELOVED TANTEH RIVA ROSENBERG

JACK AND DORIS SHERMAN, JACK AND MARY SHERMAN, JACK AND FRANCES ROSENBERG, JACK AND SOPHIE ROSENBERG, JOSH SHERMAN, SHULAMITH AND LEO RUTKOFF & FAMILY, MR. AND MRS. DICK AXE, GAIL COATES, JACK CURTIS OF THE LATIN CASINO, LOU AND RUTH DELIN, JOHN DELBRIDGE, DR. KEN HENRY, AARON LENOFF, STAN AND MINDY LEDERMAN, GIDEON AND ELISHEVA GLAZ, BOB LANE, JAY LAWRENCE, DICK MATHEWS, BOB NESOFF, DON PALMER, MIKE ROSENFELD, DR. JOHN E. TURNER, ALICE HELGESON

ABEL GREEN

to whom Variety is the spice of life (and the bread)

EARL WILSON

and his B.W., B.M.L., T.W.A., R.C.A., M.I.T., etc.

SGT. MICKEY BRANNON, JERRY GAGHAN, “RED” BENSON, LEON BROWN, FRANK BROOKHOUSER, SANDY OPPENHEIMER, EMIL SLABODA, BIFF HOFFMAN, HERB RAU, LARRY KING, PHYLLIS BATTELLE, JANET CHUSMIR, MIKE McGRADY, THOMAS W. LIPPMAN, YUDEL SUSSMAN, CHARLIE SCOTT, DON SCOTT, FLORENCE (CHOO-CHOO) BLOCK

SYLVIA AND LIPPY EISNER, SCOTT SHUKAT, JANET AND BETTY EISNER, BERNIE SOHN, HARVEY AND HARRIETT BLATT, ALLAN DELIN, BENNIE AND JENNIE LINDENBAUM, SANDRA AND ARNIE SIMON, MILTON LEVINE, BOBBY AND MONA COURTNEY, CAROLE AND ARNIE BERNSTEIN, DORA KAPLAN, EDDIE AND ALICE GREENBERG, RONNIE AND STEVIE GREENBERG, LOUIE AND YETTA CRAVITZ, ROSIE, RICHARD, AND ELYSE RUDOW, SAM AND CEIL CRAVITT, HANNAH AND LENNIE ROTNOFSKY, SAUL AND HELEN ROTNOFSKY, LENNIE AND RUTH MARKOFF, TANTEH EVA LINDENBAUM, SIDNEY AND CHARLOTTE LINDENBAUM, YOUIE AND CHARLOTTE CAPILUPI, MARVIN AND NORMA GATES, PHYLLIS FISHMAN, CY AND MALVINA VOGEL, MARVIN AND MARSHA ROSENBERG, BOB AND JANE AMOROS, FREDDIE AND JOSIE TRAUM, HERB AND RAE STEIN, MEYER AND BESSIE GRUSMARK, ISADORE AND JENNIE KRAKOWER, RABBI AND MRS. WILLIAM FIERVERKER, SID AND RUTH SHUCKER, LEO AND FLORENCE FEINMAN, GENE AND JOYCE KONDASH, MOLLY LEVINE, LENA LEVITSKY, SYLVIA WEINSTOCK, MARTY AND MIRIAM LAIBOW, WALT LAMOND, MARV AND ERICA LAZOFF, MORRIS AND ADRIANNE BERENBAUM, FRED AND NETTIE BERK, GEORGE COHEN, MAX YOUNG, RUTH GOVER, RON AND JUDITH EDELMAN, OWEN LASTER, DENNIS PAGET, ESTELLE RAE ADLER, “DOC” GREENE, MARK BELTAIRE, SHIRLEY EDER, ED FISHER, BOB GOLDMAN, NORMIE LAYTON, MAX ASNAS, BILL GAINES, AL FELDSTEIN, NICK MEGLIN, JERRY DE FUCCIO, JOHN PUTNAM, LENNIE BRENNER, the “boys” from MAD MAGAZINE.