Read The Israel Bond Omnibus Online
Authors: Sol Weinstein
The Israel Bond Omnibus (29 page)
Sister put down the phone, quite dazed. “He’s a hard man to say no to, Mr. Bond.”
“Wonder if he’s interested in a group called the Rocking Rabbis? Or four Anglican caretakers... the Beadles?”
“You have a unique sense of humor, Mr. Bond,” the nun observed.
“It’s you, Sister. You bring out the best in me. But now to business. I’ve got to find that child. Any leads for me?”
“Yes. One. The last time he was seen he was playing in the vicinity of that godless place, the Temple of Hate.”
“Then that’s where I’m going tonight.”
“No!” she cried. “In your condition? And even if you were healthy, you can’t go wandering about this unfamiliar jungle at night.”
“Perhaps,” Bond suggested, “you would guide me there. I’d be glad of the company, Sister, especially yours.”
Her eyes grew soft. “I can’t let you stumble in there alone. Meet me in front of OLEO after evening vespers.”
He pressed her hand; then on an impulse lifted it to his lips.
“You mustn’t...” she said in a tiny voice.
“Tonight then. The Temple of Hate... and Dr. Nu.”
12 A Good Skate
A far more tractable beast under the familiar guidance of the nun, Old Kemtone clopped his cantrece nylon hooves at a leisurely clip, Bond and Sister Sweetcakes wedged in the deep trough of his swayed back. So emaciated was the horse that Bond thought he was sitting upon a xylophone and indeed, by certain posterior movements he was able to play “I’m Walking Behind.” Both he and Sister were silent, though they felt the mysterious beginnings of a subtle electricity between them. This incandescent creature, his heart told him, was the supreme example of womanhood. Could Corporal Annatevkah at her best ever have matched this magnificent specimen of physicality and soul? He felt in his shirt pocket for the garnet ring he had very sensibly taken from Anna’s dying hand. Life and love must go on, Bond, he told himself, and one doesn’t splurge on nearly a tenth of a carat every day.
Halfway down to the Valley of the Blind, the strains of a familiar operetta filtered through the liana vines and odiferous
johni-johni
trees.
“It is from Camp Camp,” she informed him. “Each night the artists and musicians put on some kind of a production for their guests. Usually, they take some well-known musical work and augment it with highly modern touches.”
Bond’s powerful field glasses were trained on an open air stage. “I know the music. I see a mezzo-soprano singing an aria from Oscar Straus’
The Chocolate Soldier.”
“‘My Hero,’ I believe,” Sister added.
“Correct. ‘My Hero’ it is. Only she is singing it to a gigantic Italian sandwich cradled in her arms.”
They heard the cries of the audience exhorting the singer on to new artistic heights: “Let’s go, mezzo! Let’s go, mezzo!”
“From this point on it can be dangerous, Mr. Bond,” she said. “There are many guards in the vicinity of the temple.”
I won’t worry, he thought. HaLavi’s new rifle looks to have the firepower of a whole regiment. It was strapped to the horse’s side, 75 Melba rounds in the magazine. Bond glanced at its unusual stock, four times wider than any he’d ever handled. He knew why and grinned. That HaLavi genius!
I could use that genius tonight, he conceded. This mystery and my problems are mushrooming by the minute. Where is the boy? Which of the three dead Israelis had masqueraded as Rotten Roger Colfax, the traitor? Or was Roger none of them at all? Who is this Dr. Nu and why has he chosen to make money out of the bigotry in this world? That shot that killed
el tigre...
was it fired by LaBonza? And Sister Sweetcakes... does she know what I feel for her? Could she give up this ennobling but barren way of life and take my hand forever? Will the cost of the Annatevkah woman’s funeral be deducted unfairly from my salary?
“We are here,” the nun whispered.
“Stay here with this noble steed. Or better still, Sister, get thee to thy nunnery. It’s my show from here on in.”
“May God go with you, Israel Bond.”
“See you in church, Sister. Mine, I hope.”
Pushing two branches aside, he got his first glimpse of the Temple of Hate bathed in the whiteness of a full moon that imparted a chalky patina to its gangrenous green-grey walls.
It was approximately two hundred feet tall, he estimated, with Byzantine-style minarets standing like spears at each of its four corners. From a number of windows light blazed and drunken voices sang cursed and shouted. The hate set is having a wingding tonight, he thought. Pretty soon they’ll be swapping all the “Jew-boys” jokes: “Hey, Abie, vash der toilet paper; der landlord says ve got to move.” Yes, Bond, you try to push the brotherhood bit all your life, go out of your way to fit in, but you meet rejection wherever you go. But what else can you expect from
goyim?
Drop the philosophy of alienation bit, Oy Oy Seven; there’s a job to be done.
He tied handkerchiefs over his shoes to muffle his footsteps and walked into a large paved area between the edge of the jungle and the temple. For cars? No, there were none around. A place to land a helicopter, more likely. As if to confirm his suspicion, he heard the chopper far off and flattened his body in the shadows cast by the pillars of the main entrance.
It came down a minute later. Out stepped a short man in a sporty Tyrolean-type Adams hat with a sprig of edelweiss stuck into the brim and a black trenchcoat, his face hidden by its pulled-up collar. Two Orientals in ski-type outfits, rifles slung over their shoulders, walked out of the doorway to greet him. Then up went the chopper in a swift vertical climb.
Whoever the visitor was he seemed to be accorded the highest respect. Bond could make out the guards’ voices now.
“A pleasure to see you back, Rotten Roger, sir. Dr. Nu has been anxiously awaiting you. You’ll be pleased to know that the Russian courier dropped off the million rubles today.”
Rotten Roger Colfax! So there he was. And obviously not one of my poor dead lads, thank heaven!
The trio walked into the temple but, just before the door slammed thunderously, he heard a fragment of a sentence. “... greatest terror organization the world has ever known” and something that sounded like “Spector.”
Spector? Were they making some callous jibe about little Nochum’s agonizing end in the stake-lined pit? Wait a second, Bond. “Greatest terror organization the world has ever known.” Could it be true? Yes, you dunce. There are
two
words pronounced like Nochum’s surname and one of them is spelled— SPECTRE! Then the fabled organization of infinite evil was a reality! Naturally, it would have been the diabolical agency behind Pablito’s kidnapping, the attack on the Israeli camp, the murders of Zvi, Itzhok and Nochum. Paid handsomely for these foul services by the Russians (he had already heard of one Russki payoff) and probably behind every significant act of terrorism and revolution on this benighted island. No doubt the Chinese and Fidelistas were kicking into the SPECTRE treasury, too. It made sense. If anything ever went awry there would be no proof of their involvement in these heinous undertakings.
If he had not been so engrossed in unraveling the puzzle, he would have seen the six-inch isosceles scorpion coming down the door, springing onto his neck and—arrgh!—its venomous sting flaying his wounded shoulder. He brushed it off with a shiver, ground his heel into it until it was a mashed heap of protein. Except for the diamond-hard black disc in the middle of the mess. Another transistor ‘bug’! They know I’m here;
Katz
is out of the bag!
An alarm sounded in the temple, sending a bevy of uniformed Orientals vaulting out with brandished carbines. Shots echoed through the night, one of them kicking up a chunk of cement and hurling it into his face, opening a gash on his cheek. He kneeled, aimed HaLavi’s rifle.
Zetz! Zetz! Zetz!
The Moishe Dyan model spoke its message three times; that many guards fell screaming. Good! Now three from Column B! But more were swarming out as the alarm went off again. He saw a flash, felt a hot projectile skin his ankle. There were two dozen of them now, lined up between Bond and the edge of the paved strip. Beyond it lay the safety of the thick jungle. How to get past them? No time to stop and pick them off. Too many!
Israel Bond’s brain clicked out a solution in a microsecond. His finger jabbed at a button in the huge rifle stock. Four wheels slid out of the wood and Bond was now standing atop a skateboard!
He crouched low over it, pushed his toe into the cement, kicked out to pick up momentum and smashed through the first line of guards. He felt nails futilely tearing at his face as he bowled them over. Now he was ramming into the second line, the Dyan firing automatically, ripping ankle bones and insteps, as the skateboard sped on.
A few feet more and freedom! But at the jungle’s edge he saw a figure slip out from behind a
yeki-yeki
bush. It kneeled in the classic rifleman’s position, bent a finger.
Bond ducked. In time to save his life; too late to avoid being hit altogether. Torquemada LaBonza’s Tanaka sang its
saki! saki!
One slug creased the dark, cruelly handsome forehead and Bond went down face first in the cement.
The last thing he remembered, before a blessed Ken Murray blackout, was lying on the airstrip looking blearily at a pair of elegant brocaded Chinese sandals with curled-up toes.
And a mocking voice: “Welcome to the Temple of Hate, Mr. Israel Bond. My leader and I have been expecting you. I am Dr. Nu.”
13 Herbie
“I shall give you a capsulized history of my illustrious life, Mr. Bond,” said the cool articulate voice of Dr. Nu to the bound Bond, who sat in a chair, blood dripping from his shoulder, ankle, and head into a pool on the floor, a feast for a herd of buffalo leeches and a vampire bat on a silken tether, the other end tied about the Chinaman’s right hand. “Drink sparingly of this rich Jewish blood, my beloved bat, Masterson,” the doctor said fondly to his pet. “Too much and you’ll get diabetes.”
“I don’t think I’m particularly interested in your life,” Oy Oy Seven said with a stiffness that matched that of his ripped aching body. “So get on with whatever you’ve dreamed up for me.”
“Not interested, Mr. Bond?” Dr. Nu’s rebuke was mild, which made it all the more menacing. “Topjob, put our celebrated guest in the proper frame of mind for history.”
Gottenu!
A bludgeon split the side of his cheek, reopening the wound. It was the calloused side of a hand swung by a stocky Asiatic in a loose-fitting white robe.
“Meet my personal bodyguard. Topjob, so named because his favorite libation is an American liquid detergent of some potency. Like myself he is half-Chinese, born in Korea, and extremely adept at karate. He holds a black belt. Everyday he practices for an hour, chopping those awesome hands into Del Monte’s creamed corn.”
“How in hell can they get so callused from hitting creamed corn?”
“It is still in the can. Excellent work, Topjob. As a reward you may eat the leeches and Masterson.
Sayonara,
old bat.”
Bond took his first good look at Dr. Nu. He was an unbelievable caricature of a man, bigger than life; from the tip of his curled-up toes to the green velvet Mitsubishi hat he must have easily stood six feet six inches. His face jarred Bond. Only one of the eyes was slanted. And his hair was a most un-Oriental ash blond. The bean pole body was clad in a dazzling long coat of Cantonese silk and black pajamas. On the coat were superb Hakusai water colors of great moments in Far Eastern history; Genghis Kahn playing handball off the Great Wall of China, a sad-eyed Buddha contemplating his navel, obviously having no ball, and another depicting two giant mastiffs with the remains of a Baptist minister in their cruel jaws, which Bond guessed was a depiction of the Boxer Rebellion.