"Shamma?" the tourist said, bathing Remo in the scents of yesterday's falafel, a purse-shaped sandwich of dough filled with deep fried, mashed, chick pea meatballs. "Let's see now."
The tourist unzipped his binocular case and pulled a map from between a bottle of vodka and a bottle of orange juice. He unfolded it across Remo's chest and began to read out loud.
"Judea, Samaria, Gaza, Sinai, Golan, Safed, Afula, Tiberias, Hedera, Nathania, sounds like the roll call for the goddamn Mickey Mouse Club, don't it, buddy? Ramleh, Lydda, Rehebot, Beer-Sheba. Nope, can't find no Shamma here. Want me to check the Arab map, mister?"
"Thanks, but no thanks," said Remo, moving away from the map on his chest.
"Sure, buddy," said the man, folding the map badly. "Any time."
Remo crossed Allenby Street and there, finally, in Mograbi Square, was a phone booth.
The phone looked about the same as the non-push-button variety back home except for the slanted glass tube just above the dial, which Remo was trying to slip a dime into. The phone was not having any. Remo then tried a dollar bill. Nope. He wondered if he could sign for the call. Probably not. Would the booth take a check? Not likely. Remo then considered how the Jewish Momma Bell would like a floating punch right in the receiver.
In the old days in Newark, when Remo and his pals wanted to make a call and nobody had a dime, Woo-Woo Whitfield would always hit the phone casing a certain way and the dial tone came on. Remo tried to remember how and where he hit it. Was it just above or just below the dial? Remo laid an effortless flat-edge slap across the metal housing, which elicited a high-pitched squeal from a small Arab boy who had appeared on the curb next to the booth.
Too bad, thought Remo. He never could beat Woo-Woo at anything, anyway. The Arab kid was shaking his head. "No, no, no," the boy said carefully.
Remo glanced down in his direction. "Not, now, kid, unless your name is Woo-Woo Whitfield."
Actually, the boy's name was Michael Arzu Ramban Rashi, and like Woo-Woo Whitfield, he was a master at what he did.
Some Arab men tried to be great fighters. Some tried to be great talkers and followers of Allah. Others even tried to live in peace in the Israeli occupied land, but none could match Michael Arzu at doing what he did best. Ramban Rashi was the finest 10-year-old tourist cheat Israel had ever seen.
The dark boy with the face of a greasy Arab angel hung around the seafront environs waiting for marks like the untanned American in the phone booth. Michael began his career selling maps, that he had drawn himself, of an Israel that did not exist. After creating incredible traffic foul-ups with that racket, he moved on up to hawking cups of ice cream with no ice cream in them. Graduating from that fix, Michael developed a talent for monetary exchange.
Ramban Rashi had come to the rescue of many a tourist who had found that he did not have enough Israeli currency to cover a check, Michael Arzu was kind enough to exchange their foreign money for the needed cash. All at a 300 percent rate of profit.
Michael Arzu was waiting for his credit-card machine from the black market, but he already accepted American Express Traveler's Checks.
Michael Arzu Ramban Rashi was enjoying Remo's displeasure immensely. He reached into his own pockets and pulled out a handful of what looked like silver subway tokens.
"Simmonim," the boy pronounced. "Telephone tokens," he then translated for the stupid tourist.
"Not shamma?" asked Remo. Michael stepped back a bit to protect his valuable treasure. "Simmonim," he repeated, grinning.
Remo looked carefully at the tokens. They were small, with round holes in the middle. "Metal bagels for the phones," Remo grumbled, pulling a $5 bill from his pocket.
But Michael Arzu shook his head fiercely and closed his hand around the goods.
Remo smiled pleasantly and produced a $10 bill from his pants. Michael shook his head, leering at the coins in his hands like a midwestern teenager with his first pack of dirty playing cards.
Remo took out a $50 bill and waved it at the boy.
Michael Arzu moved forward and with the speed and experience of a professional, plucked the bill from Remo's hand, dropped three simmonim, then raced away, laughing.
For two yards.
Then his feet were pointed straight up, his body was upside down, and his head hung a foot over the sidewalk.
His laugh turned into a frightened scream, then a string of choice expletives from many lands, as Remo, holding onto both his ankles, shook him out. The multilingual obscenities continued as pounds, francs, dollars, yen, agarots, IOUs, coins of all shapes and sizes, can openers, a few watches, fans, and monopoly money began to come down off Ramban Rashi's body.
Before Michael could start productively screaming for the police, he was on his feet again. Remo had already collected what simmonim there were, while several passing children were making short work of the rest of the spoils.
"That's a good old American shakedown," Remo announced. "When I was your age, I was rolling drunks." He saluted and turned toward the phone. Michael pushed through the children and aimed a vicious kick at the back of Remo's parting knee.
Suddenly Michael found himself gently floating over the other children in the opposite direction. All without the aid of his own legs, which were pointed out behind him. He fully enjoyed the euphoria of flight and watched the passing environment, which included several posts, a fence, and a jeep being driven in the opposite direction by a beautiful brunette. Then Michael met a curly thorn bush and came back to his senses. It was not the beginning of a beautiful friendship. It would be some time before Michael Arzu Ram-ban Rashi went out of his way to help a tourist again.
Remo began to feed the silver tokens into the phone until they completely filled the slanted glass tube. He dialed "O." A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Then some more. Several more seconds passed after that. Following this, a few more passed, followed by a few more.
Finally a voice came on the line and asked if she could be of assistance. In Hebrew.
Remo said, "What?"
The operator replied in kind. "Ma?"
Which was when Zhava Fifer pulled up to the curb in a jeep. "I have been looking for you," she said. "I saw a small Arab body fly by. Was he a suspect of yours?"
"Never mind," replied Remo. "Do you speak the language here?"
"Yes," said Zhava.
"Good," said Remo, handing her the phone. "The operator thinks I'm her mother."
On Remo's instructions, Fifer asked for the overseas operator, then handed the phone back to Remo, explaining that "ma" means "what."
"Thanks," said Remo, looking her over while he was being connected. She was wearing another khaki shirt and mini skirt, but both seemed tighter and shorter than before, if that was possible. Her deeply tanned arms and legs were exposed, plus an ample portion of cleavage. Remo was glad he was not enough like Chiun to think of her as just a female. Damn it, she was a woman. Her hair was down across her shoulders and shone as if just washed. Her lips were a deep rose without lipstick, and she looked remarkably fresh, considering the heat.
Remo decided to take her on a little trip to Shamma, once he found out where the hell that was.
"Overseas operator, may I help you?" said a voice in Remo's ear. Remo replied yes, then gave her Smith's number for that week. The operator promised to connect him, so while he waited, he looked at Zhava as she leaned against the booth. Her left breast was pressed up against the glass so that the tan of her shirt and brown of her skin and the green of her eyes made a fascinating landscape panorama.
"Zhava," said Remo, "where's Shamma?"
Zhava looked quizzically at Remo for a moment, then replied, "There."
"Where?" asked Remo.
"There," repeated Zhava.
"You're not pointing anywhere," said Remo, "Where's there?"
"Shamma," answered Zhava.
"Yes," said Remo, "I'd like to take you there."
"Hello?" came a distant voice. Even though it was very low volume
, it still cast a pallor halfway across the world. Remo did not mind, the interruption took his mind off the incredible confusion he had just created.
"Hello, Dr. Smith, head of the super-secret organization, CURE."
The silence was deep and unfathomable. When the reply finally came, two simmonim had been consumed by the phone.
"I do not believe you," came the voice of Smith, registering somewhere in the vicinity of shock, anger, exasperation, exhaustion, and citrus fruit.
"Don't worry, Smitty, even if someone is listening in, which I doubt since this is a public phone, who'd believe it?"
"Anybody who watches television," was the reply. "What do you have for me?"
"An ulcer, an invitation to shamma, which is there, and the names of three freaks who tried to kill us as soon as we arrived."
"Oh, my," Smith sighed wearily. "Who were they?"
"Just a minute," said Remo as three more telephone tokens disappeared into the machine.
"What were those names?" he asked Zhava. "You know, the LPO."
"PLO," she corrected. As she spoke each name, Remo repeated it into the phone.
"Who is that?" asked Smith. "It doesn't sound like Chiun."
"That's because it wasn't. That was an Isareli agent who knew just where to find me when I landed here and just what my name was and just where I came from. She wants to know my mission here. Can I tell her?"
Smith replied as if he were speaking with his head on the desk. "Remo. Try to control yourself. Please?"
"No sweat. I only tell my very best friends. Have you got anything for me?"
Smith breathed deeply a few times before replying. "Yes. The special devices we discussed, you will find them beneath a sulphur extraction plant near Sodom in the Negev desert. It might be worth taking a look. I'll check out your three friends."
Smith broke the connection with audible relief as the last simmonim disappeared. Remo smiled at Zhava and stepped out of the booth.
"That," she said hesitantly, "what you said on the phone. Was that true?"
"Sure," replied Remo. "I'm a secret agent and Chiun is the world's greatest assassin and taught me everything I know, and together we could make a nuclear bomb look like a sparkler."
"You Americans," Zhava laughed, "always with the stories."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Their jeep was racing across the dunes of the Negev desert due southeast toward the Dead Sea. Zhava bounced about, too busy trying to keep from falling out to notice that both Remo and Chiun remained level in their positions, seemingly oblivious to the jolting.
"It was awful," said Chiun from the back of Zhava Fifer's gray army jeep. "There was this wild man shouting English nonsense, and then they sang a song. Barbarism."
"That sounds like the afternoon English lesson telecast from Tel Aviv University," Zhava said. "I got my ooooh…" there was a few seconds pause while she regained her seat, "… start on your language from that show."
"My language?" said Chiun, "There is no need to be insulting."
"Come to the point, Little Father," said Remo from the driver's seat. "What was so bad about the show?"
"Ignorance is no excuse for enjoyment," reported Chiun, "You must be aware of all the facts before I tell you the ultimate barbarism."
Remo and Zhava had picked up Chiun outside the Sheraton, where he stood under a frail bamboo and paper umbrella in the middle of the rush-hour traffic. Since then, he had been haranguing the two about the poor quality of Israeli television.
"There is no daytime drama. There is no poetry. There is no beauty. There are only funny-looking men singing about… oh, it is too barbarous for me to think about."
Zhava perked up. "I know! I know! I remember the song now. It was about the perfect hamburger!"
She giggled girlishly, Remo laughed, and Chiun's face froze in an expression of disgust.
"Poor young thing," he said. "And I had thought there was hope for you. There is no such thing as the perfect hamburger."
"Uh-oh," said Remo.
"That's true," said Zhava. "But I have tasted a few very good ones in my time."
"I can tell," said Chiun, sniffing the air.
"Leave it alone," said Remo.
Chiun would not be deterred. "Soldier in skirts, I will say this only once and for your own good."
Zhava glanced at Remo, who shrugged. "This'll be the only thing he ever said just once. Pay attention."
"Pay attention," instructed the Korean, "to the age-old wisdom of Sinanju."
Zhava paid attention.
"There is no such thing as a perfect hamburger. There is no such thing as a good hamburger. There is such a thing as a poisoning, destructive, terrible hamburger. The book of Sinanju says, 'That which fills the Universe I regard as my body and that which directs the Universe I regard as my nature.' I do not choose to fill my Universe with hamburger."
"Very wise," intoned Remo.
"Nor do I choose to fill my Universe with useless television programs on reading, writing, and common sense."
"Those shows are not useless," Zhava cried. "Our children need to learn common sense." She turned in the seat to meet Chiun's cold hazel eyes.
"You have more than a dozen countries surrounding you, united in the hope of your destruction," he said. "You have nothing to offer the world but hope and love, so the world abandons you. Your children live in a desert, trying with all their hearts to make it a garden. You are a beautiful young woman who should be carrying a child and wearing royal robes. Instead, you carry a gun and wear the colors of the Army. And you talk to me of common sense."
Zhava opened her mouth to reply, then shut it tightly, looking straight ahead. Chiun looked out across the passing Negev. Remo drove the rest of the way to Sodom in silence.
On the southeast tip of the Dead Sea, they found the sulphur extraction plant, a town-sized site encompassing hundreds of square miles of piping, chemical tanks, mineral silos, transport vehicles, all visible, and a nuclear reactor with a fissionable center under twenty feet of prestressed, reinforced concrete, buried invisibly deep beneath the desert sand.
Remo and Chiun stood atop a dune five hundred yards from the first pipe.
"The young hamburger eater sits in the vehicle five miles away," said Chiun, "I have walked with you these five miles in silence. Why have we stopped?"
"Because we are here," said Remo.
"Where?"
Remo tried to figure out an explanation that Chiun would accept, then repeated, "Here."
That seemed to be enough. "That is good. Now what are we doing here?"
"We are going to check this place to see if it's secure."
"Why?"
"Because if it isn't, the whole world may be in trouble," Remo replied testily.
"And how are we to know if it is not secure?"
"By infiltrating it."
"That is truly most wise. I see now that I have walked these five miles with a true genius," Chiun said.
"There you go again. What is it, now?"
"If you succeed in infiltrating, the area is not secure. If you do not succeed in infiltrating, you will be dead. Tell me how you win this game."
Remo looked across the sands toward the sulphur plant. His widened pupils took in the early evening area, which looked as strange and bleak as a massive hunk of moon.
"Everything has got to be perfect for you," he said. "Petty, petty, petty."
Remo walked across the sand to the closest perimeter fence. Chiun shrugged and followed, muttering in Korean how even a Master could not create a tiger's fur from the pasty film covering a white man's body.
"This is probably an electric detector," Remo said of the first fence, looking at the obstructions further on.
"It detects electrics?" asked Chiun.
"No, it detects people through electricity," replied Remo. Fifty meters across the sand were evenly spaced metal posts, three meters apart from each other, but otherwise, unconnected by wires or steel crosspieces of any kind.
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"Bah," said Chiun, "this is not a detector. Where is its magnifying glass? Where is its lollipop? It is certainly no American detector."
"You're thinking of a detective," said Remo. "Come on."
The American leaped easily over the fence.
"First I walk, then I am called names, now I am ordered about as if I were a Chinese servant. I will not go. You must lose all by yourself." Chiun settled into the lotus position outside the first fence.
Remo was about to argue, but then shrugged.
"Suit yourself," he said, walking away.
"Take as much time losing as you wish," came Chiun's voice. "I will see if the fence detects me by the time you return."
Remo walked toward the second fence, his eyes focusing one hundred meters beyond to the third major obstacle. It appeared to be a simple series of concertina wire-three rows of curled, barbed strands-connected by steel pyramids and backed up by what looked like a deep, metal slit trench. The kind used for troops with light armor.
But there were no troops that Remo could see, just a few small groups of construction workers dotting the area far beyond the slit trench. Since it was night and the workers were without several decades of Sinanju training, their own eyes could not be adjusted to see the thin, thick-wristed, American walking toward them in his blue shirt, tan slacks, and bare feet.
Remo noticed twelve transport dump trucks facing in his direction as well, when he stopped just outside the seemingly unconnected fence posts.
Remo raised his eyes to cover the sulphur plant itself, which sat like a huge, sleeping monster, another one hundred meters back from the loading area, its tentacle-like towers reaching into the sky.
Remo returned his attention to the second group of uprights. Along two sides were a series of carefully drilled holes, interspaced between highly polished, rectangular pieces of metal, fused at various angles to the supporting post. It looked like a personnel barrier that was yet to be completed.
Remo stepped back and looked over the entire area, trying to decide what to do. He could leap over the poles, but perhaps the rods were air detectors. He could lob a small stone or some sand between two uprights and see what happened, but that might be like standing in front of a pay cannon. He could simply walk through as if the poles did not exist, but that might have the same effect as interrupting Chiun during his soap operas.
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