Smart Bombs

by Len Levinson

  “We’re Americans,” Wilma replied, because Hebrew was among the repertoire of languages she could speak. “And we come in peace.”

  “Americans?” the Israeli asked in English, raising his eyebrows. “CIA?”

  “No,” Butler said. “We represent a private organization. We’ve learned of these electronic microwave Doom Machines and have come to destroy them and photograph the blueprints. Our intention was to furnish the blueprints to Israel and the western countries so that the balance of power in the world could be maintained.”

  “What were you going to destroy the machines with?”

  “The plastic explosives that we are carrying on our person.”

  “And you have cameras with you?”

  Butler took out his little spy camera. “Yes.”

  The Israeli squinted his eyes at Farouk. “Is he an American too?”

  “No, he’s an Egyptian.”

  “An Egyptian!”

  The Israelis trained their submachine guns on poor Farouk, whose eyes darted about in fear as he raised his hands in the air.

  “But he’s a friendly Egyptian,” Butler said.

  “A truly fine fellow,” Wilma added.

  “He is working for world peace,” Butler said.

  “And the brotherhood of man,” Wilma added.

  “He’s practically an American citizen,” Butler said.

  “Used to teach at the University of North Carolina,” Wilma added.

  The Israeli said something in Hebrew, and then retreated to a corner of the room for a muted conversation with some of his cohorts, while the others continued photographing the blueprints. After a few minutes the group broke up and the Israeli with the beard advanced toward Butler, Farouk, and Wilma.

  “One of you should start photographing the blueprints, and the other two should start placing your explosives, but do so in a manner so that no Syrians get killed. We don’t want to make somebody mad at us and start another war. We just want to do what we have to do and get out of here, understand?”

  “Gotcha,” Butler said.

  Butler told Wilma to photograph the blueprints, while he and Farouk went out to the workshop to set the explosives. They made little mounds of plastic and stuck them to the various machines, then attached detonators and strung out their wires. Splicing together the wires, they attached them to a timing device made from Butler’s wristwatch. Next they dragged ail the drugged bodies out of range of the blast, and finally returned to the office, where Wilma was photographing the blueprints feverishly, and the Israelis were getting ready to leave.

  “Can we give you a lift anyplace?” the Israeli commander asked.

  “Thanks, but we’re not finished yet,” Butler replied.

  “Well, good luck,” the Israeli said.

  “Shalom.”

  “Shalom.”

  The Israelis turned and left the office. They could be heard running through the workroom of the factory, and then there was silence again. Butler and Farouk took out their cameras and helped Wilma photograph the blueprints. They worked quickly, snapping their shutters and turning over blueprints. The tension was building; they knew that the longer they were in the factory, the more vulnerable they would be. Finally the last blueprint was photographed, and they put away their cameras.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Butler said.

  They left the office, and in the workshop Butler set the timing device to go off in fifteen minutes. Then they left the workshop and entered the room that held the gigantic vats, moving quickly among them and up the stairs to the machine shop. They crept along the wall and climbed out the window. Running toward the fence, they pushed through the opening and crossed the street. They found their motorcycles in the bushes on the other side. Starting up their motorcycles, they roared away.

  A few blocks later, as they were passing a mosque, they heard the explosions. They weren’t very loud, and turning around, they could see nothing, because there wasn’t that much explosive material involved. Just enough to destroy the Doom Machine project.

  But their mission wasn’t over yet. They still had to get their film to the Institute. They headed in that direction, intending to drop the film off with whoever was on duty, but they began to hear the sirens. The Syrian constabulary finally realized that something was amiss in the Abdul Faheem Munitions Plant.

  The sound of sirens grew louder, and in the distance down the long boulevard they could see swarms of headlights.

  “We’d better ditch these motorcycles,” Butler said.

  They drove toward the curb, went over it, turned off their engines, and pushed the motorcycles into an alley. They waited, and soon a convoy of military trucks and jeeps went speeding by on its way to the factory. The trucks were loaded with soldiers wearing helmets and carrying rifles.

  “I think we ought to leave the motorcycles here and go on foot the rest of the way,” Butler said.

  Wilma shook her head. “We can get there faster if we take the motorcycles.”

  “But they’ll have roadblocks and they’ll stop the motorcycles. If we’re on foot it’ll be harder for them to see us.”

  Farouk shook his head. “If we go on foot we might never get there. I think Wilma is right.”

  Butler wished he had a cigarette. “I think you’re both wrong.”

  “It’s two against one,” Wilma said.

  “This mission is not a democracy,” Butler replied. “I’m in charge here, and I say we go on foot.”

  “Brute,” Wilma said.

  “Dictator,” Farouk added.

  “Get off your motorcycles and let’s go,” Butler ordered.

  They dismounted and Butler led them through the alley to the next street, which was lined with white stucco homes. They continued walking, and on the next block came to a series of stores closed for the night. One of the stores sold clothes, and Butler got an idea.

  “I think we’d better break in here and get some authentic native garb,” he said, taking out his laser pen.

  He burned through the lock and they entered the dark store. Piles of clothes were stacked on tables. Butler selected a brown robe with black burnoose, Wilma dressed in white, and Farouk chose green. They put the clothes on and soon they looked like three traditional Arabs.

  “Okay,” Butler said. “This is what we’re going to do now. It’ll look very suspicious to be out on the streets tonight, so I think we’d better check into the nearest hotel and go to the institute in the morning.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Farouk asked. “The Arabs will frown on two men and one woman checking into the same hotel room.”

  “So we’ll separate and take private rooms.”

  “How are you going to check into a hotel if you don’t speak Arabic?” Wilma asked Butler.

  “That’s right too,” Butler replied. “That means I’ll have to check in with Farouk.”

  Farouk shook his head. “No good, because that’ll mean Wilma will have to take a room all by herself, and that will look very suspicious. They’ll think she’s a prostitute and she’ll probably be arrested. No, someone will have to share a room with Wilma.”

  Butler pointed at Farouk. “You share the room with Wilma.”

  Farouk looked exasperated. “Then how are you going to get a room, since you don’t speak Arabic?”

  “That’s right too,” Butler said.

  “The inescapable solution,” Farouk continued, “will be for you to share the room with Wilma.”

  “Oh, shit,” Wilma said.

  “There must be another way,” Butler said.

  “No,” Farouk replied. “There is no other way. Think about it.”

  Butler thought about it. “You’re right.”

  “Oh, shit,” Wilma said.

  Butler squared his shoulders. “Well, I suppose we have to do what’s best for the mission. Wilma and I will get a room together in one hotel, and you will check into another hotel. In the morning we’ll go to the Institute separately, yo
u alone Farouk, and me with Wilma. And to make sure the film gets there, I think I’d better carry it all, just in case.”

  Wilma looked at him haughtily. “What makes you think you have a better chance than us of getting through.”

  “Because I’m more experienced at this stuff. Now hand over the film and shut up.”

  Farouk and Wilma reached under their robes and removed handfuls of the tiny film cartridges which they gave Butler. He put them in the pockets of his jeans.

  “We might as well split up now,” Butler said. “You go first, Farouk. Check into the first hotel you see, and in the morning go directly to the Institute. Got it?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “So long, and good luck.” Butler patted him on the shoulder.

  Wilma kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Farouk.”

  “Good luck to the both of you,” Farouk replied. Then, covering his face with the robe, he walked to the door of the shop, where he paused, listened, and then slipped out into the street. Butler stood in the shadows near the front window and watched Farouk walk along the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched over, a typical Arab to anyone who didn’t know better. Butler waited a few minutes, then turned to Wilma.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She pointed her finger at him. “Listen you—I want to get something straight with you right here and now. There’s not going to be any funny business between us, understand?”

  He snorted. “I’m a professional, and I don’t have time for funny business. Now let’s go.”

  He opened the door and they left the clothing shop. They walked down the dark street to the corner and then turned east toward the direction of the Institute. A convoy of three armored personnel carriers passed, speeding toward the factory, and Butler huddled next to Wilma.

  After a few blocks they entered the Casbah district of Damascus. There were cafes and restaurants still open, and a number of non-Arabs prowling the streets. Policemen stood on the street corners, and Butler tried to pretend that he was a humble, ignorant man.

  Next to a movie theatre showing a French film they found a seedy five-story hotel. They stood outside and looked into its lobby.

  “I guess this one’s as good as any,” Butler mumbled into her ear. “Let’s go.”

  “But it looks nasty in there.”

  “We don’t have much choice, because we have to get off the streets.”

  “Isn’t that a hotel there on the next block? See the sign?”

  “I can’t read Arabic, remember?”

  “Let’s try that one.”

  “I said, let’s go in this one.”

  “You’re a tyrant, do you know that?”

  “I’m just the commander of this mission,” he replied. “I am the General and you are the Private, so let’s go.”

  “I hate you,” she hissed.

  “Kiss my ass. What in the hell do I care what you hate, you silly little bitch.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Someday you’re going to pay for that remark.”

  “Shut up and let’s check into this damned hotel, you pain in the ass.”

  He took her arm and together they walked into the hotel lobby. A few Arabs were sprawled on dilapidated sofas, huge circular fans turned lazily overhead, and behind the counter was another Arab in a fez, resting on his elbows and reading a newspaper. He had a long mustache and a nose like a banana.

  Wilma bowed to him like a shy peasant woman. “My husband I would like to have a room for the night, sir,” she said in Arabic.

  “Hmmmmm,” he said, looking them over. “Hmmmm. Where are you folks from?”

  “Aleppo. We’ve come seeking work.”

  The Arab looked at Butler. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Butler stared at him and began to turn green.

  Wilma pointed her finger in the air. “My husband has taken a vow of silence to Allah,” she said. “He will not speak until Israel is destroyed.”

  The Arab shook his head. “That was not a very smart vow. Israel probably never will be destroyed. Your husband may never speak again. Perhaps he should reconsider.”

  “Oh, no, sir. He feels very strongly about it. He hates the Israelis with all his heart and soul.”

  “He’s a good man,” the Arab said, saluting Butler.

  Butler smiled and saluted back, although he didn’t know what was going on.

  Wilma signed the register, paid the man, and accepted the key to the room. She took Butler’s arm and they climbed the stairs to the third floor, walked down the murky corridor, and stopped at the door of a hotel room. She inserted the key in the lock and they entered the room. He closed the door and bolted it, while she flicked the light switch near the door. A lamp beside the bed went on. The bed wasn’t very wide and sagged in the middle. It was covered with a moth-eaten blanket and had two pillows. The window was open and the sounds of the street could be heard. Adjacent to the room was a tiny bathroom with a sink, commode, and bathtub with a dirty ring around it.

  “What a joint!” Butler said.

  Wilma removed her shawl, revealing her gleaming black hair. “It’s only for a night. Mind if I use the toilet first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She went in the bathroom and closed the door, and he walked to the window and looked down. A cafe was across the street and men in white suits sat at outdoor tables playing dominoes and drinking tea out of glasses. From afar a woman was singing an Arabic song, and the sound was mournful.

  Wilma came out of the bathroom, the sound of the toilet flushing behind her. “Your turn,” she said.

  Butler went into the bathroom, took a leak, and washed his face and hands. Now that the pressure was momentarily off, he was aware of his jangled nerves and the unpleasant throbbing sensation underneath his temples. When this operation was over he was going to take a long vacation. Maybe he’d go to Cairo and see the pyramids, King Tut’s tomb, and the other relics of that old and distinguished civilization. And then perhaps he’d go to Alexandria to see if it really was the way Lawrence Durrell described it in his books, with exotic depraved women everywhere. Yes, that was a good idea. The Institute owed him some back pay and he’d blow it all in Alexandria. What the hell.

  He returned to the hotel room and saw Wilma lying on the bed with her clothes on.

  “What the hell are you doing with your clothes on?” he asked.

  “Wearing them,” she replied.

  “Take them off.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. These hotels are full of police spies. What will they think if they come in here and find a husband and wife in bed with their clothes on? They’ll know something’s fishy immediately and drag us both down to the nearest police station, where they’ll find the film and all the other goodies, and we’ll never be heard from again.”

  “You’re just making all that up for low, sexual reasons,” she said in an accusing, condescending voice.

  “I am not.”

  “You are too.”

  He pointed his finger at her. “Listen here, you little twerp. What makes you think I want to see your funny little body? I’m interested solely in the safety of our mission. Don’t forget—the fate of the world is in the balance here.”

  “The Israelis have the damned Doom Machine plans. They’ll give it to America and the other Western countries.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? We’ve got to follow through on our mission. Now take your clothes off and get under the covers. I’ll look the other way, since you’re so concerned about your ridiculous little body being seen by me.”

  “Is that a direct order?” she asked.

  “You’re damned right it is.”

  She looked at him with hate in her eyes. “I’ll never go out on another operation with you, no matter what it is.”

  “I wouldn’t let you. You’re a little pain in the ass. No, I take it back. You’re a big pain in the ass.”

  “Harumph,” she said, raising her n
ose in the air. “Turn around.”

  He turned around and heard her rise from the bed and start undressing. He heard cloth gliding against cloth and garments falling to the floor. He chuckled to himself because she was right—he did have ulterior motives of the lowest sort. He felt certain that if he could get into bed naked with her, he could screw her. She was a woman, after all, and she had normal feelings. She wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  “Can I leave my underclothes on?” she asked.

  “Of course not. Arab women don’t wear underwear from fancy American department stores.”

  “I get mine in Paris,” she said.

  “Take them off, nitwit.”

  “You know,” she said, “you really do make me sick.”

  “Shut up and hurry up. I want to go to bed.”

  He heard the sound of silk against skin, and imagined her underpants coming down. It occurred to him that it was the most beautiful and subtle sound in the world, a bit like music, actually. He heard her get into bed, the springs creaking.

  “You can turn around now,” she said.

  He turned and saw her in bed, covered up to her chin. He also saw that when he joined her they’d have to touch, because the bed was that narrow. Snorting in anticipation of fun and games, he took off his burnoose. She rolled the other way so she couldn’t see.

  “You can look—I don’t give a damn,” Butler said, pulling off his robe.

  “Yuk. Who wants to look at you?”

  “If you didn’t care, it wouldn’t matter to you at all.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me at all.”

  “Then why don’t you just look?”

  “Oh, shut up and get undressed.”

  “Are you afraid that you’ll see something that you’ll like?”

  “You don’t have anything that I like, Mr. Butler. Get that through your head right now.”

  Chuckling to himself, Butler undressed. He gathered together his American clothes and Wilma’s and hid them under the mattress on his side of the bed, in case there was a search. The exposed film also went under the mattress. He put his Colt .45 under the pillow, while she lay still with her eyes closed shut.

  “I’m coming to bed now,” he said.