The Israel Bond Omnibus (51 page)

“This smacks of TUSH handiwork all the way, Miss Lawrence,” Bond said. In the next few minutes he gave her a recap of his adventures, including the showdown with James Bund, detailed descriptions of the episodes with Liana Vine and Indira Mookerjie, and threw in for good measure the Loxfinger and Matzohball cases, plus his entire sexual history.

As she stirred in his arms during certain portions of the narrative, he thought, Good-o! She’s all worked up. Before long this captivating creature will be mine evermore. What a find! Beauty, warmth, a “class broad” from Great Britain with a tony upbringing. She’s the only woman worthy of your love, name, number and license to kill, Oy Oy Seven. A man needs to sink roots some time, and maybe I’m too far over the hill to stay in this racket any longer—I’ve already caused the deaths of almost five dozen good folks. This magnificent woman in my arms can redeem me, uplift me and maybe, since it’s obvious she’s loaded, set me up in my own high class shoe salon (nothing but I. Miller’s and British Walkers) on Kings Highway in Brooklyn. True, I’ve sworn to my sainted mother that I’ll never place a wedding band on any finger except that of a Daughter of Sharon; yet, that too can be worked out. I know the moment I take Sarah Lawrence of Arabia in a way she’s never known before, she’ll see the ultimate value of Judaism and convert with celerity. Wonder if Milton’ll give me a 25 percent discount on the wedding at the Pinochle Royale? He should, really—I’m his brother, and besides I saved the joint for him and I think I’d be justified in telling him so.

He was already under the traditional canopy with Sarah Lawrence of Arabia, the rabbi intoning the sacred marriage contract, when her scent nudged him back to Sahd Sakistan. “It’s driving me wild, Miss Lawrence. What is it?”

“A special blend, ‘Evening with Profumo,’ made for me by Maitland of Moreland Street. I am pleased at its effect on your olfactory sense. But we are at the Road of the Feculent Figs and I shall take my leave.”

He slid off Latakia and motioned for the car to halt. “Shall I see you again, Sarah Lawrence of Arabia? There are things a man and a maid must talk of and they are best said by moonlight.”

For another 120 seconds black and grey eyes flashed fire and desire into two another, his crossfire causing the rim of her veil to smoulder, hers turning his Talon zipper into red-hot mesh, charring his Arrow briefs. “Some aim high for happiness, Mr. Bond, while others....” She left her proverb unfinished, but its corollary proposition was quite clear.

“You haven’t answered me, Miss Lawrence.” His voice was husky, his hands betraying his febrile state by abrasive rubbing that expunged the lifelines from his palms.

“It is my wont to be each night at 9:30 at the Oasis of the Sheik’s Spear to commune with the spirits of the desert. Good day, Mr. Bond.”

“One thing more, Miss Lawrence. Learn Hebrew. You’ll need it the rest of your life because, Miss Lawrence, from this moment on, it’s you for me, babe... only two for tea, babe....”

Was that a sigh breaking through the glacial Pommy reserve? He was not to know. She issued a command and Latakia loped off into the distance, the sun transforming her into a golden figurine.

Well, Oy Oy Seven, he thought, she’s named the trysting place. An oasis by moonlight—in the company of a heaven-sent woman. It can be the kind of cataclysmic joining of kindred souls to be found only in those Kathleen Winsor reprints you keep buying.

Gottenu!
he breathed, and to somehow dispel the unendurable passion surging through his marrows, he swung his bronze, muscular arm and struck Neon Zion in the face, splitting open his startled subordinate’s lips. “Someday, Neon, when you’re a man of the world, you’ll understand.”

113 made no reply as he searched the haunted grey eyes of Oy Oy Seven for a clue to the outburst. There was none, save the curious word repeated over and over by the panting lips. “Moonlight... moonlight... moonlight....”

I know what’s on his mind, Goshen ruminated. He’s thinking the enemy’s in there, the ghoulish krauts who’ve killed and crippled his comrades, blown up his people’s vittles... and my ol’ fire-eatin’ buddy’s dying to go in there and have at them. But I spoke to M., Z. and Op Chief Beame via the carrier’s Ship N’ Shore Blue Denim Network and I know what the odds are of getting the goods on TUSH— maybe a million to one—and even Oy Oy Seven, the man I and the whole world have come to idolize, won’t get out of there alive. I’m an atheist—the only day I take off all year is Madalyn Murray’s birthday —but if I were the praying kind I’d offer one now for Eretz Israel, the Promised Land, where there are there Cohens in every fountain, and Secret Agent Israel Bond, the neatest guy I’ll ever know!

They were cruising through the modern section of Baghs-Groove, passing Young Moussa Koussa’s Spy Secrets Exchange, Farouk’s Bargain Souk with a 40% off sale on borth whirling and non-whirling dervishes, and Loew’s Hosni, the art movie house where Dennis Morgan in
The Desert Song
had been packing them in since the 1940s, and finally the Simulac swerved into a palm tree-lined driveway up to the entrance of the US Embassy.

Waiting for them with a pasted-on smile was a weedy, sun-reddened man in a Sy Devore orange Eden Roc-weave tropical suit and Redd Foxx safari beret, who introduced himself as Tender N. Callowfellow, the ambassador, with a promise of a dinner “fit for a—” he began to giggle—“king.” So it was, the braised sloth paws in flavored
eau de Conigliaro
parve fluoridated sauce a revelation to even the most jaded tastebuds, washed down with
vin scully
‘24 from the vineyards of Chavez Ravine, and “of course, your Majesty, Ambassador Scotch—” he chuckled again—“on the rocks,” and he poured it over the dolomite chips.

“I think,” said Ambassador Callowfellow, pulling a bell rope, “it’s time for After-Dinner Mintz. Ah, there you are, Mintz, my man.” A short, white-haired oldster entered and served them pungent circles of Certs on red hot coals.

Goshen and Bond spent the next hour discussing the job at hand, while Callowfellow and the king retired to the former’s study for a chat about the upcoming coronation.

“I’ve splendid news,” beamed Callowfellow, re-entering. “His Majesty has consented to have America host his coronation at the Sahd Sakistani embassy located in the Empire State Building in New York. It will serve to remind the world of the unbreakable link between our respective nations, and will have the benefit of our superior news coverage. I’m terribly excited about it.”

“I, as well,” retorted the bright-eyed monarch pressing the ambassador’s hand in fond farewell, and then departing for his new home.

Built by John McShain from a design based on a collect phone call from Frank Lloyd Wright’s widow, the palace of the late Hakmir was an up-to-date Alhambra of harrylimestone, upon whose slanted roofs rested alternating cupolas and parabolas. In the front, lined on two sides by proud rows of Afghani opium poppies, was an immense pool on whose surface floated sprigs of wolfbane and spiderwort nibbled at by chattering les cranes, fred robins, and a rare merv gryphon. Overhead winged a brilliant red herb jeffries flamingo like a flame in the sky, flying over the enclave to its lover nearby. Near the entrance was a pewter statue of the late monarch from whose nostrils came a continual spray of provocative Vegamato, the essence wafted to the Middle East by the thermal air current originating in New York’s Wall Street known as the “Underwriters’ Wind.”

“Iz,” said Goshen, “for heaven’s sake, don’t try anything foolish. As far as the world knows, Shivs is a perfectly respectable outfit that pays its taxes and keeps its nose clean. You can’t go in there like Gang Busters without proof. Anyway, your first job’s keeping his Majesty here safe and sound; we’re all agreed on that. I’ll be in touch. See you later, fella.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, Monroe, you ol’ Rockport chowderhead,” Bond pledged, throwing a salute to the departing CIA op chief. Once inside the royal suite, he told Neon, “Keep Tabs on Baldroi—or regular Coke, if you’re not watching your calories,” and was rewarded by 113’s prolonged laughter. He showered with distilled Culligan rain water, applied No Sweat, the deodorant that checks unseemly perspiration by destroying the glands that produce it, to his virile armpits, removed his beard with the super-keen Schlock blade that gives a man twenty slick shaves and thirteen bloody ones, donned a heavy-duty Haitian Papa Jacques-strap, Chantilly lace sunslax, a Krishna Menon waistcoat of bleeding madras (LeFagel saw it, meowed, “I go for men who use Menon” and was cursed at by Bond for backsliding), Royal Blakeman Andalusian bedsocks, slung on M.’s paisley shoulder holster with one of Lavi HaLavi’s deadly new inventions inside the Instant Processed Cold Rolled Extra Strength Steel device. Bond put on the Korvette’s luau car coat and swallowed six Excedrins (there might be agonizing pain ahead) and twelve Benzedrine tablets (if there was to be pain, he wanted to stay awake and enjoy it to the fullest; it was, after all, as much a part of life as pleasure) and a homer radio capsule whose signal could be traced by any “friendly” with a standard M 33 and 1/3 Ribicoff-Javits bipartisan receiver-transmitter-juice blender, then inserted one of the new anti-homer capsules into his belt buckle compartment under the cherry salve ointment he always toted for wounds and infections.

“You’re going on a job, Oy Oy Seven, against orders.” A shocked Neon said it.

“Just forget what you’ve seen, kid,” Bond snarled. “I’m going to take the MBG for a little spin. If I just happen to lose my way and it just happens to stop at Shivs, well....”

To save time he slid down the copper rainspout outside the king’s window to a rear courtyard and walked into the empty garage which once had quartered the thirty Cadillacs now sharing Hakmir’s eternal rest in a mass grave. Grinning at him like an old chum was the grill of the MBG. She roared her delight at perilous adventures in the offing when he put her in reverse, depressed the accelerator, and zoomed out, the armor-plated rear deck killing the tethered sacred white elephant with a pulverizing smash to its side. He got out, clucked in sympathy, and pressed Button 5, whose concealed acetylene torch emerged. He used it to slice the tusks into portable sections, which he heaved into the back seat. Tough luck for Mr. Pachyderm, he thought, but what’s done is done and there’s a grand (or even more) piano in it for me.

As the exhaust from the MBG’s quadruple pipes singed the Portland Cement driveway to the main road, the Togliatti that had been parked behind the garage for two hours eased out. The beep-beep-beep of the homer on the MBG made the four swarthy men exchange evil grins.

From 1000 feet up in a helicopter, the two cars seemed to the giant CIA Negro agent like insects, Bond’s a silverfish, the TUSH vehicle a beetle. The flapping of the huge sign being towed by the chopper was a disturbance Brown had long since gotten used to. It told the people below: YOU ARE ONLY 8126 MILES FROM FLORIDA’S FAMOUS STUCKEY’S, THE HOME OF DELICIOUS PECANS, SOUVENIRS AND PASSIONATE PAGAN LOVE RITES BETWEEN SEMINOLE INDIANS AND GIANT ALLIGATORS. A perfect cover, he knew; Stuckey’s advertising was famous the world over and no one would question its presence in the Middle East.