Tochala Delit listened to the voices from outside, declaring their national anthem, "Hatikva."
"So long as still within our breasts
The Jewish heart beats true.
So long as still toward the East
To Zion looks the Jew.
So long as hopes are not yet lost
Two thousand years we cherished them
To live in freedom in the land
Of Zion and Jerusalem."
But that was not what Horst Vessel heard. Swaying in a near hallucinatory state, he heard:
"So long as it is still within your breasts
The Jewish end is due.
So long as Hitler towers o'er the rest
To destruction is the Jew.
You think your hope is not yet lost
In this, stupid people, you are wrong.
You will die here from your own bombs.
So long, Jewish swine, so long."
Tochala Delit reached under his pale jacket to his inside pocket. As the echoes died away, he pulled out a small rectangular black box with wiring coming from it. It looked like a metal tarantula lying in his palm.
He was ready. The ones who weakened had been destroyed. They had been cast away in a manner befitting their treachery. Ripped into the swastika shape.
But now the dead did not matter. The millions of Jews did not matter. The two Americans did not matter. The tiny black box would send them all into space where the ghost of Hitler awaited.
The Fourth Reich was about to begin. The heavenly Reich.
From outside the abstract pattern of anguished, agonized steel that made up the Yad Vashem doors came trembling voices singing "Ani Ma'amin." Zhava Fifer, Yoel Zabari, and all the others gathered there sang it. It expressed their faith in God even during their darkest moments. It had often been sung by Jews on their way to the Nazi gas chambers and ovens.
Tochala Delit slipped the box back into his Jacket and left the room still glowing with pride.
After all, they were singing his song.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Is that your idea of a joke?" Remo said in the middle of the Israel Sheraton lobby. "A body in the middle of the living room? Not even a towel dropped anywhere to soak up the blood?"
Chiun sat with his back to Remo, lost in the passing of air across his face.
"I am getting sick and tired of this stuff," Remo said. "You are inconsiderate. As well as petty."
Chiun began to study the intricate pattern of the lobby carpet.
"I won't go away," said Remo, "just because you're impersonating a wall."
Remo stared at the back of Chiun's neck.
"Answer me."
Silence.
"All right, then," Remo said, "I'm going to sit here until you do."
"Good," Chiun said suddenly, "We can wait for my tapes together. What is this that you interrupt my meditative leisures? Are you speaking of your mess upstairs?"
"My mess? My mess? How can you call that up there my mess?"
"No doubt that the mess was looking for you, since I am only of secondary importance. Why should any mess seek out one as petty and inconsiderate as my simple self?"
Remo felt the inevitable grip on him as surely as a hand around his throat. He decided to surrender by silence.
Chiun would not have it. "You know what you have not done?"
"What?"
"You have not sent the Norman Lear, Norman Lear message."
"If I send the letter, you will clean up the mess?" he asked.
"If you send it, I will allow you to clean it up."
"And if I do not send it?" Remo asked.
"Then you will need something else to occupy your time. Cleaning will keep your mind from mischief."
Remo threw his hands into the air in disgust. Then the ringing voice of Schlomo Artov burst into his ear.
"Aha," it cried. "At it again, eh? I warned you about abusing your father, young man. What is the matter with you?"
"Yes," Chiun echoed. "What is the matter with you?"
"Keep out of this," Remo growled to Artov.
"I heard the whole thing," Artov said. "Imagine, yelling at your father." He turned to Chiun. "Mr. Lear, you have my sympathy."
"Mr. Who?" said Chiun.
"And you, Norman," Artov told Remo. "For shame."
"Who is this lunatic?" Chiun asked Remo.
"Ignore him," Remo said. "He's just another man about to have an asthma attack."
"Nonsense," said Artov. "I never felt better in my… agha-woosh." Artov suddenly got the worst asthma attack in his aghawoosh. He leaned over in breathless pain and allowed Remo to escort him back to his desk. Remo assured him that he would be feeling better soon, then took his protective hand from deep inside the bones of Schlomo's right shoulder. He sat the poor reservations man down, and soon Artov did feel better even though his full speaking voice would not return for two weeks.
Remo walked back to Chiun.
"Why don't we just mosey upstairs," Remo said pleasantly through clenched teeth, "where we can talk without disturbing anyone else."
"I like it here. I am waiting for my daytime dramas," said Chiun.
"Smith might be trying to call," said Remo.
"Let him. I have dealt with enough lunatics in one day."
"I will never mail that letter," Remo said,
"Very will," begrudged Chiun. "I suppose I must supervise your cleaning. I can never trust you to do anything right yourself."
Remo stopped off at the gift shop to buy some luggage and string before they arrived back at their bloody suite. As Remo was cramming Irving Oded Markowitz in, the phone rang.
"Janitorial service," Remo said. "You kill 'em, I clean 'em."
The silence on the other end was like a look into a black cave.
"It's incredible, Smitty," said Remo. "Even your silence is sour."
"If I had never seen you," said Harold W. Smith, "I would not believe you could exist."
"What have you got, Smitty? I'm pretty busy." Remo cracked the right knee of the corpse to fit him into the bag.
"Maybe nothing, maybe everything," said Smith, "The men who… er, greeted you on arrival came through the concentration camp Treblinka during World War II."
"So?"
"The murdered industrialist, Hegez, and Goldman, were also in Treblinka."
"Oh?"
"And Dr. Moishe Gavan."
"All of them? Same place? Are you sure?" Remo asked.
"Yes," said Smith. He sat in Rye, New York, looking at the sole outlet to a network of computer systems whose size, range, and scope made the IBM warehouse look like an erector set. This small outlet on his desk enabled him to tap the resources of millions of people, thousands of businesses, schools, libraries, and churches, hundreds of nooks and a good many crannies.
But it was up to Smith to take the reams of fossilized information and see what it meant in terms of the nation and the world. Usually his desk was covered with a fair amount of this information, but now the only thing there was a typewritten, four-page list he had discovered because a woman's sister, who belonged to the American Jewish Committee, which combats anti-Semitism, and E'nai Brith, a fraternal order, had a daughter who met a man through B'nai Akiba, a religious youth organization, whom she married, and they had a son who was counseled as he grew older by the U.S. Jewish Board of Guardians, which specializes in child guidance, which led to the boy joining the YMHA, the Young Men's Hebrew Association, which provides cultural activities to Jewish youth, where his first endeavor was to contribute a report on oppression in World War II, complete with concentration-camp lists, which so impressed his counselor that he sent it to the United Synagogue, a union of American temples, which entered it into their bank of computerized microfilm, where it happened to cross Smith's desk and the head of CURE saw a connection. A slim, impossible connection. The kind CURE specialized in. "I'm very sure," said Smith. "Why?"
"Hold on a minute," said Remo. He opened the suitca
se, which he had just stood on to close. He ignored the bulging blue eyes that popped out of the purple face, instead reaching down across the body's torso and plucking something out of its blood-soaked jacket. He closed the suitcase again and tried to open the small billfold.
"Just a second," he called down to the receiver. "The blood is all sticky." He found what he was looking for and picked up the phone.
"How about an Irving Oded Markowitz?" he asked.
"Just a second," said Smith.
Remo hummed as Chiun appeared in the room, as if by magic.
"Yes," said Smith, "Markowitz was at Treblinka too. How did you know?"
"He came to visit Chiun. I'll get back to you."
Remo hung up. He felt a surge of self-discovery like a mental connection and an electric belt buckling. A swirling wind coursed through his body, clearing out the cobwebs. Now he knew how Sherlock Holmes felt when he discovered the truth of a crime. Detective work could be fun.
"You look sick," said Chiun. "Did Smith say my daytime dramas were delayed?"
"Relax, Little Father," Remo said happily, dialing another number. "They'll arrive tomorrow, after the Jewish holiday."
"A day without drama…" said Chiun.
"Is like a morning without orange juice," finished Remo, phone to his ear. "Hello? May I speak to Zhava please? What? Huh? Speak English, please. Zhava! No speak-a de lan-guage. Bagel! Come on, get-me-Zha-va!"
Chiun took the phone from Remo's hand. "Must I do everything?" he inquired of the ceiling. Then he held a conversation in fluent old world Hebrew with the woman on the other end.
After what seemed like a half-hour, he handed the phone back to Remo. "She is getting the young lady. Ask Zhava why she never writes."
"What were you two talking about?" asked Remo, phone to his ear again.
"The universal problem of all good people," Chiun replied. "The ingratitude of our children."
"Keep telling yourself that," Remo said, as Zhava came on the line.
"Remo, already? You pick the worst times."
"Well, this is important," Remo said, then told her the information Smith had related.
"But Tochala Delit said he found no connections between the men," Zhava said when Remo had finished.
"Zhava, where was Delish during the war?"
"Which one?"
"World War II."
"Everyone know that. He went through torture in… Oh, my God! Treblinka."
Remo took that in, savoring his following words. "I thought so."
"I was right then," said Zhava. "There is something going on."
"And what better day than your Fourth of July or whatever you call it?"
"We must learn what this means. Remo, meet me at Delit's house, right away." She gave him an address and hung up.
"You have that same sickly look as before," said Chiun. "It must be the water."
But Remo would not let Chiun dampen his joy. "The game is afoot, Watson," he said. "Want to come?"
"Who is Watson?" Chiun asked.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tochala Delit had a small home on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. It was a simple affair of sand-blasted brick with a large library, a comfortable living room, a small bedroom, a cozy tile porch, and a wet bathroom.
When Zhava Fifer drove up, Remo and Chiun were sitting on the front stoop reading a sheet of paper. Both looked relaxed except for some dirt that had accumulated on the bottom of Remo's tan slacks. Chiun wore a blood red kimono with black and gold highlights. Both men were barefoot.
"How did you get here so fast?" asked Zhava. "I was driving like a mad person all the way."
"We ran," said Remo simply. "We would have been here sooner. But Chiun wanted to change his clothes."
"I was not wearing a running kimono," Chiun explained. "It is a small city, but still no reason to waste an opportunity."
Zhava got out of the jeep and ran over to them.
"Is he here? Where is Delit?" she asked.
"He's out," said Remo, not looking up from the white lined sheet of paper he held in his hand.
"What is that?" asked Zhava. "What have you found?"
"It is a poem," said Chiun.
"The bathroom is lined with them. But I think this one will interest you."
"I tried to have him give you a nicer one," said Chiun, "but he would not listen. His lack of taste is well known."
Zhava read aloud,
"As the khamsin roars in from the plain.
So too comes the glorious pain,
A blasting sun-like solar heat,
Covers the Jews with its shroud-like sheet.
Eyes will bake,
Feet will cake,
Heads will burst,
That is not the worst,
Cities will crumble,
The skies will rumble.
The ghost of Hitler is satisfied at last,
When the home of the Jews is in the past.
Look for the death across the sand,
The last independence day in Jewland."
"He is planning to detonate a nuclear bomb," Zhava cried.
"That's what I figured," said Remo.
"That is what you figured," scoffed Chiun. "Who had to read this poem to you?"
"I can't help it if I don't know Hebrew. Besides, you edited it. I don't remember anything about feet caking."
"I thought it ineffective," said Chiun. "I improved it."
" 'Vultures will mate' is an improvement?"
"Please, please," interrupted Zhava. "We cannot waste time. We still do not know where he is planning to detonate. We have installations in the Sinai, Galilee, Haifa…"
"Can I open a franchise?" asked Remo.
"This is not funny," screamed Zhava. "He is going to blow up Israel."
Remo rose quickly. "All right, going crazy won't do much good. Look, it says right in the poem something about khamsin and the death from the sand. The sand must be the desert, but what's khamsin?"
"Brilliant," said Chiun.
"Elementary," Remo replied.
"Khamsin are easterly winds that blow across the Negev," said Zhava. "He must be returning to the Sodom installation."
"I could have told you that," said Chiun.
Remo grimaced at Chiun, then talked quickly,
"Zhava, you get Zaborich…''
"Zabari."
"And we'll meet you at the Dead Sea."
"All right," said Zhava leaping into her jeep. Remo watched her speed off.
"Hey, this detective stuff is easier than I thought," Remo said.
"Brilliant one," intoned Chiun from the stoop.
"Your wisdom is all-encompassing. Not only have you allowed the one method of four-wheel transportation to leave without us, but you stand about declaring your brilliance. To be elated at nothing is to lose hold on reality. How can such a one be truly a master of himself?"
Remo would not let Chiun dampen his pride. "Petty," he growled.
"If Petty were here," said Chiun, "it would not be necessary to cross the desert by foot."
"What the hell, Chiun," said Remo. "This way is faster."
He began to run.
Zhava burst into the Zabari home as Mrs. Zabari was lighting the Sabbath candles. Zhava was dusty and out of breath. As she staggered in, Yoel and his four children looked up from the table.
They had just finished dessert and the children's faces were flushed with satisfaction and pride. For their father's work today during the Remembrance services had been well received.
"What is it?" asked Yoel. "What is the matter?"
Zhava stared at the Sabbath candles. She remembered from her lessons as a child that the eight candles, lit every Friday, represented peace, freedom, and the light that radiates from the human soul.
Zhava's eyes turned to the children. Blond, dark-eyed Daphna, who would make a fine ballerina one day. Eight-year-old Dov, whose hope for peace touched everyone he met. Stephen, the athlete, the fighter, the believer in an ultimate truth.
And Melissa, stepping from childhood into being a woman. A whole woman in a world of fragmented femininity.
Zhava saw the looks on their faces and the innocence in their eyes, remembering why she had come here. She thought of what Tochala Delit was planning to do. It must not happen. She could not let it.
She felt the warm hand of Shula, Mrs. Zabari, on her arm, and saw the concerned face of Yoel Zabari.
"You must come," she said breathlessly. "It is important."
Zabari looked deep into her eyes. He turned to look at the Sabbath candles. He turned to his wife, who stood, asking silent questions. He turned to his children, who had already forgotten Zhava's entrance and were entertaining themselves at the table. Dov had put one spoon on top of another and now brought his hand down. One spoon served as a catapult and the other spoon flipped end over end until Dov caught it in mid-air. He smiled. Daphna applauded.
"Yes," said Yoel. "I will come. Now?"
Zhava nodded.
"Excuse me, my dear," he said, brushing his wife's cheek with the ravaged right side of his face. She smiled warmly. "Excuse me, children, I will be back soon," he said waving at the table.
"Aw, Dad, do you have to?" said Stephen.
Zabari nodded sadly, then looked up at the ceiling. "Excuse me, Lord." After all, it was the Sabbath.
Yoel Zabari went with Zhava.
"Are we going back to the labyrinth of pipes so that you can get lost again?" asked Chiun.
"Not this time," said Remo. "I'm rolling now."
They continued running. Remo's strides were long, even, and smooth, as if he were walking along a moving conveyor belt. Certainly not as if he were struggling across the sands of a desert. His arms moved easily at his sides, in rhythm with the drumming of his legs.
Chiun's hands, however, were deep in the sleeves of his red and black kimono, his skirt-like train billowing behind him. The hem always just touched the desert sand. He was arched slightly forward and slicing across the air like a thrown knife. He never seemed to move his legs because his kimono remained back in the wind, uninterrupted by any forward movement.
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