"Last chance," Remo said. "Who sent you?"
Ahmed saw Allah at that moment. Allah bore a striking resemblance to Muhammad Ali. He was talking to Ahmed.
"Fess up to this American fast, Or your next breath will be your last. Give him the news and make it the latest, And, as you go, Allah's the greatest."
Ahmed was just about to tell Remo of this heavenly vision when his face exploded.
His eyes popped and his cheeks purpled and puffed up. His jaw dropped while most of his hair, left ear, and chin spun back into the alley.
Remo looked at Ahmed's corpse, then turned, straight into the breasts of a dark, brown-haired woman in a khaki uniform.
"Remo Williams?" asked the woman. She pronounced it "R-r-r-emo Weeel-yums."
"I hope so, I'm the only one left standing."
The young woman in the khaki mini and blouse shifted her Uzi submachine gun from her right palm onto her left shoulder, then extended her hand.
"Zhava Fifer, Israeli Defense," she said through rich pulpy lips. "Welcome to Israel. What is your mission here?"
"I'm inspecting your hospitality for the Best Western Motel Chain." He took her hand. It was surprisingly cool for having just blown a man's head apart.
"Enough levity," she said severely. "What is your mission?"
"Are you always this subtle?" Remo asked.
"I have no time for games, Mr. Williams," she said, coldly. "As I see it, you owe me your life. You were lucky I arrived when I did."
"As I see it, that's a matter of opinion." He looked around the alley. "Why don't we get away from this party, it's dying anyway, and go some place where you can slip out of your uniform and get comfortable?"
Zhava Fifer took a deep breath. Her uniform, fitted like a second skin, took a deep breath with her.
"My uniform is very comfortable," she said.
Remo looked down at her bosom, only inches away from his chest.
"That's odd," he said.
"What is odd?"
"Your uniform makes me very uncomfortable."
"As your people says, 'tough toochis.' " She met Remo's eyes and smiled. "Your Mr. Chiun is waiting for us at the hotel restuarant. There we can talk together."
"Swell," said Remo without enthusiasm. "I can't wait to see Chiun again."
"I would have arrived sooner to save him," Zhava Fifer was telling Chiun, "but I left my magazine in a book stall."
"National Geographic'? Playgirl?" Remo asked.
"No, Mr. Williams. This one." She touched the clip for the submachine gun, which hung on the back of her chair.
The small restaurant was done in green and orange plastic with red tablecloths, to soak up any blood that might be spilled, Remo decided. In New York City, a uniformed soldier carrying a gun might cause a riot stepping into a restaurant. At the least, his visit would bring the police-and a consultation with the restaurant manager. In Israel, in a restaurant built for tourists, soldiers carrying guns and grenades were scattered around, eating and drinking, and no one paid them any attention. Zhava Fifer drew eyes, but only as a woman, not as a soldier.
"May I help you?" inquired a waiter with a deep Israeli accent.
"Why?" asked Remo. "Don't you know me? Everybody else in the country seems to."
"Do you have nice fish?" asked Chiun.
"Yes, sir," replied the waiter. He started to scribble on his pad and said, "Nice-fried-fish."
"No," said Chiun, "I did not ask if you sold grease, only if you sold fish. When I say fish, I mean fish."
The waiter blinked. "You could peel it, sir," he said, hopefully.
"Fine," said Chiun. "You serve me fried fish, I will peel it, then I will drop it all on the floor, and at the end of the meal you will pay me for doing your work for you."
"We'll have two waters," interrupted Remo. "Mineral if you have it, clean glasses if you don't."
"Nothing for me, thank you," said Zhava.
The waiter fled.
"So," said Remo to Zhava. "Who is killing the Israelis and leaving them in the shape of a swastika?"
"If you had been more careful with those men who attacked you, we might have found out."
"Sorry," Remo said. "I'll remember not to fight back the next time I am attacked."
Zhava looked deep into Remo's eyes and, to his surprise, she blushed. Suddenly, she looked down and started to pull at her napkin.
"I am sorry," she said. "I know that it was my fault. I-I shot too soon. We were so close to finding out and I, and I…"
She rose quickly and ran to the ladies' room. She shot by the waiter, nearly knocking him over, and pounded through the door.
Remo turned to Chiun, who was inspecting the silverware for cleanliness.
"She must really be upset," Remo said. "She left her gun."
The Uzi still hung on her chair.
"Very clever girl," replied Chiun, still intent on the forks, "moments with you and she begins to cry. Very clever. She took from the gun the thing that holds the bullets."
The waiter served the two glasses of water, looking very carefully at Chiun and at Remo, who was checking Zhava's gun. The clip of shells was gone. Remo looked around and saw four Israeli soldiers watching him from other tables, their hands resting on their own guns. Remo sat back. The soldiers relaxed.
Chiun picked up a water glass, examining it carefully. Remo turned toward the lavatory door. Chiun sniffed at the clear liquid. Remo thought there was something strange about Zhava Fifer. Kills a man one moment, starts crying the next. Either extremely unbalanced or a little girl trying to be a big soldier. Or trying to get sympathy. Or trying to escape. Or going to report. Or…
Remo stopped thinking along those lines. It was getting too confusing.
But there were two facts that were not confusing. First, she had killed Remo's one lead. And two, like Ahmed, in the alley she had known who Remo was.
Zhava was coming out of the ladies' room, eyes dry and head high, when Chiun sipped at the water. The Korean held the liquid in his mouth, looked at the ceiling, swirled it from one cheek to the other, then spat it out.
Looking directly at the waiter, Chiun poured out the water onto the floor.
As Zhava reached the table, Remo was up and handing her the Uzi. "The water maven is displeased," he said. "Chiun, I'll meet you later."
"Good," said Chiun. "See if you can find some good water."
"I think the PLO is behind these killings," said Zhava.
"Who else?" said Remo, who did not know who the PLO was. "I knew all along it was the BLO," he added for emphasis.
"PLO," Zhava corrected. "The Palestine Liberation Organization. Really, Remo, I am amazed at what you don't know."
They were walking along Allenby Road, in front of its more than 100 bookstores where Israeli civilians, soldiers, Arabs, Italians, Swiss, and others bought and discussed the more than 225 weekly, biweekly, monthly, bimonthly, quarterly, biyearly, and yearly editions of Israel's magazines, usually at the tops of their voices. Any discussion here would be indistinguishable from any other, no matter what the topic.
"I'll tell you some things I do know," Remo said testily. "Everybody in this country apparently knows who I am. So much for security. Some have already tried to kill me. I'd say the secret agent business isn't what it used to be."
"I don't know who you are," said Zhava.
"I'm the man who came to protect your atomic bombs," Remo said.
"What atomic bombs?" she asked innocently.
"The ones I read about in Time magazine," said Remo.
"Who believes anything in Time magazine?" she replied.
"But you do have them, don't you?" said Remo.
"Have what?" Zhava answered gently.
"That reminds me," said Remo. "I've always wondered. Why do Jews always answer a question with a question?"
Zhava laughed. "Who says Jews always answer a question with a question?"