They both laughed, and Remo, said, "Who wants to know?"
Zhava laughed harder. "Who knows?" she said.
"Who cares?" Remo said, and Zhava began to laugh so hard that she soon had tears streaming down her cheeks and was trying to clap her hands together, but kept missing. At last, Remo thought. His opportunity.
He leaned close and whispered in her ear, "I've been sent to protect your bombs. Want to see my big red 'S'?"
Zhava screamed in glee and nearly fell over. Remo smiled and held onto her shoulders as she quaked and shook and got red. Passers-by grinned and gave them plenty of room.
Zhava turned in his hands and buried her head on Remo's chest, hitting his shoulders with her palms and laughing.
"Wooo, hic, ha, ha," she said. "For the, hee, hee, record, hoooo, I know, hic, ha, ha, ha, ha, nothing about, ha, ha, ha, hee, heh, any, hic, atomic, heh, heh, heh, bombs. Hic."
So much for taking advantage of her. Remo continued to smile and pat her back until she calmed down. Suddenly he felt her stiffen under his hands, and she backed off. Remo saw something like dread pass across her face. She was back to being herself again. Zhava Fifer, girl soldier. She hiccupped.
"Tell you what," said Remo. "Let's try word association. You say the first thing that pops into your head."
"Tail."
"Not yet. Wait until I say a word first."
"Second."
"Wait a minute, will you?" Remo laughed. "Now. Home."
"Then-kibbutz."
"Sand."
"Sea."
"Work."
"Play."
"Death," tried Remo.
"Sex," said Zhava.
"Doom."
"Love."
"Bombs."
"Hic!"
"Hic?"
Zhava hiccupped again.
"Tell you what. Let's find another place to talk."
"What?" said Zhava.
"Talk," said Remo.
"Dinner," said Zhava.
"What?"
"Dance."
"Dance?"
"Fine," said Zhava. "It's a date. I'll meet you at your hotel later this afternoon."
She blew a forced-looking kiss at Remo, then disappeared into the crowd.
Remo shook his head. Some soldier.
CHAPTER FIVE
"The Talmud says, 'The lion roars when he is satisfied, the man sins when he has plenty.' "
"The Talmud also says, 'Chew with your teeth and you will find strength in your feet.' "
"You have stumped me again," Yoel Zabari laughed. "Now, what else does our agent Fifer tell us?"
"That is about all," Tochala Delit replied, "except that she has arranged a further meeting with this Remo and feels more information will be forthcoming."
The two sat in their customary places, papers strewn across Delit's lap and Zabari playing with a plastic photograph cube he had picked up in America. All four sides were filled with snapshots of his children, while the top was reserved for a smiling color print of his wife. Zabari often flipped their images before him while thinking.
"She is a good agent, our Zhava. How does she feel about this assignment?"
"She finds both the American and Oriental eccentric, but sees their potential as, in her words, 'devastatingly effective.' "
"I did not mean that," said Zabari. "I meant her personal standing. Do you think she is ready for espionage work again?"
Delit looked up from his reports. "If you doubt my choice, I can always…"
"Of course not, Toe. When have I ever doubted your methods? It is just that… Well, Fifer has suffered a great loss," Zabari explained.
"I felt the job would be the best thing for her," said Delit.
"And you are right. Hmmm," Zabari mused. "Have you found any connection between the two dead Israelis and the three terrorists?"
"None," said Delit.
"None?" echoed Zabari.
"Whatsoever," finished Delit.
Zabari stood, his left eye gleaming and the left side of his face flushed. "This is bad. This is very bad. Either these attacks are the most fantastic of coincidences or our enemies are taking great trouble in eluding us." He paced around the office, past his wall of books, his wall of awards and degrees, his wall of family mementos and pictures, then back to his desk again. Zabari picked up his family photograph cube and made the circuit again.
Book wall, award wall, family wall, desk, book wall, award wall. He stopped, flipping the cube, beside a scrawled crayon drawing of a rocket, embossed with a Star of David, blasting toward a green cheese moon.
Below the large construction paper picture was a coarse sheet of lined yellow paper that read, "The Magic Rocket of Peace"-Dov Zabari-Aged Eight-and the teacher's red pencil mark, "A + ."
"Keep checking," Zabari finally said, flipping the cube. "There must be a connection."
"Very well," said Delit, "but if you want my opinion…"
"Yes, of course, Toe, go ahead."
"I think we should concentrate on these two new spies. This Remo and Chiun. They will lead us to what we want to know. Terrorists we have plenty of. If I continue wasting my time checking, there is no guarantee that we will find out anything."
"True," said Zabari, "but, in life, there are no guarantees for anything. Keep looking. I have a hunch about this. Our American friends are well in hand. You said so yourself. Fifer knows what she is doing. If she needs help, give it to her."
The two talked for another twenty minutes about various legal and archeological matters, including the shipment of new protective security devices, until Delit excused himself and went to the bathroom.
Zabari rubbed the left side of his face and thought about growing half a beard.
CHAPTER SIX
"Petty," said Remo. "Petty, childish, spoiled pettiness."
"Thank you, Remo," said the Master from his mat in between the suite's two beds.
The suite looked like every other suite in every other Sheraton Hotel all over the world. Remo wanted to get a single since Chiun never used a bed anyway, but the Reservation Desk man would not hear of it.
"How many of you are there?" he asked.
"Of me? One," said Remo.
"No, of your party," said the Reservation Desk man who had a little red and white plasticene name tag that read, "Schlomo Artov."
"Two," Remo said miserably.
"Then you will want a double, correct?"
"No, I will want a single," insisted Remo.
Schlomo got angry. "Do you mean to tell me that you would deny that sweet old man a comfortable bed to sleep in?"
Chiun, who had been instructing four bellboys, and one bell captain who had the misfortune of being on duty that day, in the fine art of steamer-trunk carrying, swung around.
"Deny? Deny? What are you going to deny me now, Remo?"
"Keep out of this, Little Father," said Remo, turning to him.
"Oho!" cried Schlomo, his righteous indignation really rankled, "So he is your father. And this is not the first time this has happened."
"No," said Chiun, "he has denied me many things over the years. Every small pleasure I request is denied. Remember last Christmas? I ask you, is Barbra Streisand so hard to get?"
"We'll take a double," shouted Remo.
"Well, that is better," said Schlomo, ripping a key from the wall. As Artov handed the key over, Chiun returned to his instructions as if he had never been interrupted.
As Remo signed the register, Schlomo warned, "You had better watch yourself, young man. If you mistreat your father in this hotel, I will have you arrested so fast, it will make your head spin."
Remo finished signing the register as Norman Lear, Sr., and Norman Lear, Jr., then advised Artov, "As long as you're concerned, my father insists upon being called by his full name." Before Artov could reply, Remo was collecting Chiun and the luggage to go upstairs.
"Petty," Remo repeated. "Petty, petty, petty."
"Four thank yous," Chiun replied. "That is the nicest thing you have said to me since our arrival, Remo."
"What are you talking about?" Remo asked as he started to change into a light blue short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks he had bought in the states and sneaked in between two of Chiun's kimonos.