The Israel Bond Omnibus (62 page)

The
Pacific Stars & Stripes
fluttered from Bond’s agitated hands to the floor. “The Bernardi,” he whispered out of his suddenly taut throat. “Hand me the Bernardi.”

Sensing the alarm in his request, Festering Wind flashed an enticing length of leg as she reached up to the overhead rack, unlocked the instrument case and gently deposited in his lap the violin carved out of huge blocks of vermicelli by the sixteenth-century Jew, Erschelli Bernardi, in the opinion of many the superior of Da Vinci in cartography, painting, alchemy (Bernardi had transformed gold into peat moss) and sophisticated weaponry. The second he tucked it under his sensual dewlaps he felt the cordovan-stained pasta radiating a mystical glow throughout his body. On the upper right side of the violin was the raised, two-inch copper Seal Of Bernardi, its somewhat vulgar acronym glinting in the first rays of the Eastern sun. For those of limited intellect a Stradivarius or an Amati would be quite adequate, thank you, but the minuscule handful of true stringed-instrument aficionados would settle for nothing less than a “Bernie.” Alas, the floods that had ravaged Florence had buried all of the Old World’s Bernardis in the muck and in all of creation there were but three extant, one owned by Heifetz, another by Henny Youngman and the third cradled in the reverent arms of Israel Bond, now en route to “the calm beauty of Japan at slightly under the speed of sound.”
[63]

When inexplicable events dictated a session of cogitation, Bond often found scraping the yellowed but still supple iguana-gut strings an invaluable aid in cranking up his mental processes. The gray eyes narrowed; the muscles of the right arm coaxed a spirited series of
cadenzas
and
wallendas
from the third movement of the
Emilio Largo
and he leaned back to mull over the shocking item from the
Pacific Stars & Stripes.

Gottenu!
So that was the gruesome fate of the
Blintz Charming!
It had been a mystery bedeviling the Israeli Ministry of Fisheries, who in desperation had thrown it to M 33 and the Secret Service. The trawler had been missing for weeks. No last-second SOS had ever been transmitted; no debris spotted on the Mediterranean. Now it had turned up in Japan, “The Land of the Rising Datsun,” to perpetrate a senseless attack on an Imperial craft. What the hell was going on here? Soon he’d be beseeching Baron Sanka for a helping hand in tracking down Dr. Ernst Holzknicht, sole survivor of the Nazi murder gang, the Terrorist Union for Suppressing Hebrews, TUSH,
[64]
that Bond had wrecked in the Queen caper—Holzknicht, the diabolical genius whose “Operation Alienation” had come within a whisker of wiping out Judaism; Holzknicht, who’d metamorphosed a joyous June wedding day into horror by murdering under the canopy Bond’s wife-to-be, the mysterious veiled rider of the desert, Sarah Lawrence of Arabia. And how disposed would Sanka be to lending that hand after this slap in the face from Bond’s adopted homeland?

He sawed away at the Bernardi for a few minutes, coming up with an acceptable ending to Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony—the seven notes that signified “Shave and a haircut, two bits!”— and wondered why the composer hadn’t resolved his problem that simply. Good-o! His mind was clicking on both cylinders. Now he had to rid his body of its sloth. To accomplish this he handed the Bernardi to the girl, opened the bamboo curtain and commenced a punishing chain of traveling pushups, deep elbow-and-knee bends and cartwheels down the aisle of the tourist section, which would not only start the vital juices coursing again but also allow him to check out any new arrivals on at Honolulu, a solid bit of security technique always to be practiced by an agent carrying an Oy Oy license to kill.

The passengers, all familiar to him since he’d boarded in San Francisco, were dozing. Except the new one in Seat 26A.

Crooning a prayer, “O mani pod may hom,”
[65]
his fork-bearded chin dug into a pot of a belly, was a moon-faced Oriental in the saffron robe of a monk. His sagacious black eyes scanned Bond’s intent expression and twinkled fractionally.

“My son.” The voice was low-keyed, irresistible. “There is a great sadness in your face. Sit by me and let me attempt to bring a little solace into your life. You have lost someone dear to you, is it not so?”

Bond, a grim smile on his sensual lips, slid in beside the newcomer. This was either a holy man blessed with acute perception or... someone in “the game.”

“You seem to know much about me, holy one.”

“It is my training, my son. I am the monk Aw Gee Minh, so named because my mother gave birth to me in a Hong Kong theater featuring an old Wallace Beery film. I am returning to my strife-torn land of Vietnam following a tour of Hawaii on a Rambler Foundation grant.”

“Rambler?”

“I applied too late to procure one from Ford. In Honolulu I was privileged to attend the Congress of Revelations by Acknowledged Psychics, the highlight of which was the candlelight wedding of Edgar Cayce to Bridey Murphy. We toasted the happy couple with glasses of Reincarnation Milk. Now let us consider your condition. Life’s vicissitudes have hurt you deeply. To revitalize your life force and start you on the road to
satori
or enlightenment, we must conduct a
mondo
, which is a Zen Buddhist dialogue between a monk and an acolyte. The dialogue may seem trivial, but it is a valid tool for probing the innermost secrets of the heart. Before we begin it will be necessary to purify our mouths of any hateful words lingering from past conversations.” He produced a paper packet from somewhere in the robe’s folds, slit it open with a deft thumbnail and poured some black specks into his palm and Bond’s. “Let us eat them, my son. They will produce phrases of sweetness and grace.”

Bond wolfed down the dots. “How spicy they are, holy one. What are they called?”

“Zen-Zen. Now the
mondo.
I shall put to you questions of an abstract nature and you will respond to the best of your ability. Question One:
What will you do if they ask you to kill the cuckoo?”

“I shall stand in front of the clock and shield it with my body, if need be.”

“Excellent! Despite your grief, you continue to display compassion. Second:
What will you do if they force you to kill the cuckoo?”

“I shall kill them. But who
are
they?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I must know. I have a right to know. I have a feeling the cuckoo wants to know.”

“Why should the cuckoo want to know? It is only a bird.”

“Hath not a bird the right to know? Hath it not eyes, ears, nose and throat? If ye prick it, will it not bleed?”

They were moving ever closer to the arcane meaning of the
mondo
, the monk making cuckoo-like noises, Bond doing his obscure and difficult impression of John Byner imitating Kirk Douglas imitating Frank Gorshin, when the girl’s urgent cry halted it. “Mr. Bond, please return to your compartment.”

Bond, a trifle miffed, rose reluctantly. “Forgive me, holy one. My governess calls. I can’t thank you enough for your concern. I’ve learned much about life in these simple exchanges. At least I now know that life is not a fountain.”

“If it is anything, life is the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach, my son,” Aw Gee Minh said sententiously. “Farewell. We shall meet again in the place where there is no darkness.”

“And no cuckoo,” Bond said with touching tenderness.

Back in his quarters, Bond told Festering Wind, “The interruption was quite unnecessary. He was a harmless, well-meaning old coot trying to do me some good in his own way.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Bond, but the Baron also ordered me to keep close surveillance on you. A man in your profession faces constant peril. And besides, it is time for your next MacLuhan massage.”

She once more removed his Mod tie and he vaulted onto the table. Her hands, of surprising strength for one so slight, were assiduous octopi on his ankles, calves and buttocks and he felt the chronic soreness fleeing these spots to settle permanently in his neck and shoulder muscles.

Suddenly he sensed tension in her hands and speech.

“All good things come in threes. Said Peter Gunn: ‘You’d better muzzle that badly trained mutt who’s on top of us.’”

He caught it at once, the cipher she was formulating after the key word “threes.”
Gunn... muzzle... trained... on... us.

The derisive voice said, “And what will you do, Oy Oy Seven, if the cuckoo turns on you and bites you in the TUSH?”

The silencer coughed twice and he heard Festering Wind’s “Oh” and felt her hands slide off his thighs. She crumpled at the foot of the massage table, a widening stain on her breast.

Fanatical eyes aglitter, the monk pushed through the curtain. “I also understand a simple three-cipher, Mr. Bond.” Smoke wafted up from the silencer attachment on the Toppo-Gigio, the little Italian mini-Mauser.

“You needn’t have killed the girl.”

“A maiden who knows ciphers and has strong hands is far too dangerous to let live, my son.”

“So the good, wise monk is a TUSH-y?”
[66]

“Ah, my
mondo
was not in vain. You have indeed grasped the meaning of life. Now my Toppo-Gigio will impart the meaning of death.”

“Who are you?”

“An old enemy, Mr. Bond. I had boarded this aircraft with a purpose. To destroy it. Imagine my glee at discovering your presence and realizing I could accomplish my primary mission and even two old scores to the bargain.” The gun wielder emitted a hard, cough-like laugh that sounded like his silencer. “Part of what I told you, Oy Oy Seven, is true. I am Aw Gee Minh from Vietnam but it should not take you an eternity to conclude what half of that nation claims my allegiance. I am the younger brother of that master of Communist guerrilla warfare Vi Teh Minh, whom you destroyed on the cigar-shaped Caribbean isle of El Tiparillo.
[67]
Long has his spirit cried out for vengeance.”

“And the second score?” Bond’s query was nonchalant as his right hand inched toward his mezuzah, the cylindrical symbol of his faith dangling on a chain around his neck.

“I’m afraid that won’t do at all, Mr. Bond,” the monk said equably, but the mouth twisted into a sneer, the fat forefinger squeezed the Toppo-Gigio’s trigger twice and it splashed its molten message into Bond’s body, the first severing the chain and nicking his neck, the second hammering into his right shoulder. Bond, battered to his knees by the one-two punch, gazed in disbelief at the bloodburst from the gouged-out shoulder top. Slug Two had whistled through the furrow of skin, flattening both sides. Through the haze of pain he thought,
Well, there goes the best damn match-scratcher a man ever had. But what’s he waiting for? I’m exsanguinating like a butchered steer. Where’s the finisher through the heart or between my sensual gray eyes?

“By now, Oy Oy Seven, your modus operandi is well known to us. That mezuzah and its hidden dart tipped with Molochamovis-B venom is far safer on the floor, don’t you agree? To continue: The second score I shall repay involves a niece who once was one of our topnotch agents until she was subverted by your sexuality in the so-called Loxfinger affair. You will recall Nu Kee, whose cover role was that of ‘Miss Vietcong’ in the beauty pageant.”

“Yes,” Bond panted. “A fine girl corrupted by your expansionist doctrines until I inserted a large”—he paused, seeking a tactful phrase—“Hebrew point of view. What has befallen her?”

“She died by my hand after we caught her working for the Americans in Saigon. Familial feelings have no place in this business.”

The blood kept gurgling from Bond’s shoulder and he bit his lip to fight off the tides of darkness threatening to sweep him into unconsciousness. “This primary mission you alluded to...”

“In a few minutes,” Aw Gee Minh said in a pedagogical manner, “after your demise, of course, I shall stroll into the pilots’ deck, place my weapon against the captain’s neck and command him to radio Haneda Airport that his plane is being hijacked by a crazed member of the Shinbet.
[68]
After he has made contact I shall shoot him and the copilot, set the plane on automatic control to keep it airborne awhile longer and step out of the door. My minichute will unfurl and during my descent to the Pacific I shall fire a Veery pistol so that the hydrofoil waiting for me at a certain coordinate will spot the flare and take me from the life raft presently tucked about my midsection. A hundred or more passengers from many nations will perish and Israel will be blamed for an insensate act, as the good
Herr Doktor
planned. Japan, in particular, will be outraged.”

“Holzknicht again.” The despairing words rasped out of Bond’s bone-dry throat. “How were you recruited into this cabal?”

“Dr. Holzknicht has quite a file on those holding grudges against Israel and, more specifically, against you, Oy Oy Seven. Now the
mondo
ends. The cuckoo calls.”

‘‘Wait! I beg of you, wait!”

“How disappointing,” the monk smirked. “The celebrated Israel Bond begs for his life like some common cutpurse.”

“Not for myself, holy one. For humanity. Take the Bernardi with you when you jump.”

The monk’s brows knitted in puzzlement. “But this is extraordinary. The glorious strains filtering back to the tourist section were not recorded? You possess a genuine Bernardi?”

“On my seat. See for yourself.”

A circumspect left eye followed Bond’s forefinger. “It is true. Capital! It will bring no less than twenty million colodnys into the coffers of TUSH when I peddle it in Macao. Your chance remark, Mr. Bond, has earned you another five minutes of life.”