"Hold on a minute," said Remo. He opened the suitcase, 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."