The Israel Bond Omnibus (20 page)

Slowly, gingerly, he let his fingertips steal across his churning, pain-smitten head. It must be ignored, he told himself; time to work. “Sergeant Treshkova!”

She reappeared at the door. “Bring me the dossier of this
Ivriski Shpion
[7]
”
he snapped, scribbling a name on a pad and handing it to her.

A deep hearty laugh made him look up. “Imagine, dear Colonel. I have forgotten my gloves, ha! ha!” It was General Bolshyeeyit whose white suede gloves were quite safe in the deep pockets of his trenchcoat.

“I shall find them at once, Comrade General,” said Svetlova, who, of course, could not, despite several frantic seconds of overturning pillows, peering under chairs, shuffling papers.

“Ah, well, the GUM department store, I am sure, has another pair in stock. Again,
dobri noch
, Colonel.” The general’s hand flicked a casual salute, compelling Svetlova to return it. This time the jolt of pain sent him reeling into the wall. General Bolshyeeyit, preferring not to notice his fellow officer’s suffering, offhandedly remarked, “Ninety-eight,” and left the room.

To Svetlova it seemed his skull was crisscrossed with a network of barbed wire. To steady himself, he lit a Kemal, a superior Turkish cigarette which combined the finest, most aromatic tobacco leaf with a blend of the choicest halva. Inhaling and letting the tranquilizing smoke invade his lungs, he forced himself to pore over the folderful of material pertaining to the Hebrew agent in question.

With an American-made Bic pen, which operated somewhat haphazardly on paper, but was excellent for writing on ice, he underlined a Hebrew word, “mezuzah,” a word which meant the tiny cylindrical symbol of the ancient faith worn about the neck by all observant Jews. It contained a portion of the sacred scrolls.

But not this man’s mezuzah!

“This religious artifact,” he read from the dossier, “has been transmuted into a murderous device. By pressing the Star of David on its front it releases a sharp needle upon whose tip may be found an instantaneously acting nerve poison called Molochamovis-B. The Hebrew word Molochamovis is Biblical in origin. Let the agents of our service beware. It means ‘The Angel of Death!’ ”

As though he were in mortal peril that very moment, he reached into a drawer, pulled out the Walther PPK Reuther, shoved a clip into it and placed it in his shoulder holster. He remembered something else. From another folder, this one containing various miscellaneous materials dealing with Jewish history, customs, peculiarities, he removed the present year’s Jewish calendar. He looked at his Russian calendar; matched it against the corresponding date on the Jewish one.

“Ah... ha!” he said. “According to this, the Passover holiday is a week away. Rotten Roger’s data seems to fit in perfectly. It certainly would take a few days for couriers in Moscow’s Jewish community to ferry the matzoh to their coreligionists in other cities. And the International Home Show does conclude this evening. What an innocent, natural thing for the Israelis to do, dismantle their sample house quite legitimately; then make arrangements for transporting it to the airport by truck. Of course, there would be a terrible misfortune between the Institute and the airport. An accident, perhaps. Or a theft. And, alas, the prefabricated house would disappear. I cannot let such a thing come to pass.”

He ruminated upon the eye-opening telephone call from Rotten Roger. An unbelievable pseudonym! What was the man’s purpose? Money? He had no doubts that Israel’s secret service, working on the most insignificant of budgets, was underpaid. Yet, he had never before come across a case of defection concerning M 33 and 1/3 personnel. A grudge, perhaps? Failure to be promoted? Then a negative thought occurred to him. Could this “traitor” be sending KGB up a blind alley to obfuscate some even more devious Israeli plot?

Colonel Svetlova had been compelled to revise his opinion of Jewish determination and fortitude after reading the dossier of the Israeli operative whose snapshot lay in his hand. It had been taken by a seemingly harmless vendor of Italian ices near the famed Fountain of Levi, a bustling landmark in Rome’s Jewish quarter, where, legend had it, good fortune would come to him who tossed three Cohens into the azure waters. A series of regrettable drownings had made the
carabinieri
crack down on the traditional practice. The vendor, one Ronzoni Sonoboni, a paid KGB agent who took these pictures as a matter of routine, had snapped it with a tiny camera secreted in his lemon-ice scoop. The face was dark, cruelly handsome; the eyes cold and gray; a sensual mouth set in a hard line of decision; the total effect: the countenance of a man deep in the throes of some murderous thought.

This man, Svetlova reminded himself, is bad business. He holds an Oy Oy number in M 33 and 1/3, which grants him a license to kill! I must exercise ultra caution. To still his nerves, he pulled the cork from a bottle of kvass, kvenched his thirst kvickly and pressed the buzzer.

“Send in Federenko and Norelco immediately.”

They entered, both clad in shabby black suits, with bellbottom trousers, covered by dirty trenchcoats. Federenko was first: a tall, swaggering, strong-arm man of about forty-five, an expert in karate, judo, aikido and ring-a-levio; then Norelco: short, squat, with enormously muscled arms which when applied in a bear hug could splinter an opponent’s vertebrae. The little man paused to gaze longingly into the face of Sergeant Treshkova who had ushered them in. “You... hee hee... very beautiful woman.” A simpering blush stole across his vacuous peasant face. She also reddened and, flashing a warm inviting glance back at him, left the room whistling. “I want that woman, Comrade Colonel. I not see beautiful woman such like she back on farm.”

“And you shall have her, if all goes well tonight, my dear Norelco,” Svetlova assured him. “I am told she is very exciting in the bedchamber, my friend. Now,” and the levity left his tone, “we visit our Middle East neighbor’s extraordinary dream house.”

Athrob with tension, Svetlova’s chunky legs pistoned him into the darkened street. Thump! He collided with a figure in the shadows. His hand flew to his holster; the gun was out completely when a familiar chuckle aborted his action.

“Would you slay your superior, whose only crime is a relaxing stroll on this bracing April night, my dear Colonel Svetlova?”

“Forgive me, Comrade General. For a moment I thought—”

“But there is no time for thought, Colonel. You have a hard day’s night ahead of you. I shall not detain you further. Again,
dobri noch.”
The hawk-face crinkled its friendliest smile and the general saluted.

So did Svetlova.

General Bolshyeeyit, knowing his face was hidden by shadows, did not suppress his grin this time as he watched Federenko and Norelco prop up Svetlova, whose knees had buckled, and drag him into the car.

Blowing a smoke ring, he said tonelessly: “Ninety-seven.”

“Ah,” the colonel said wearily. “I had expected more intelligence from you, Rabbi. Or should I say more accurately—Oy Oy Seven? To utilize a poor pun from your own holy works, why beat about the burning bush? The game is up. A compatriot of yours, in fact, a member of your espionage branch, has told all. Or does the name Rotten Roger Colfax mean nothing to you?”

A tremorous hand stroked the beard in wonderment. “I have truly never heard of that name, sir.” Then the hand began to stray slowly downward, still stroking the beard, sliding toward the neck.

“Stop!” the colonel snarled. “Touch that mezuzah and I shall present you with a third eye. I’ll relieve you of that,
Rabbi
,” the appellation spat with hatred. Svetlova’s left hand shot out, ripped the chain brutally from the old man’s neck and hurled it upon the asphalt-tiled floor. His right jackboot stomped upon it again and again, the impact splitting asunder the cylindrical symbol of the rabbi’s faith.

“Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” screamed the old man. “To crush the sacred scrolls as though they were a cigarette! What do you hope to accomplish by this inhuman outburst?” The gnarled hands vibrated in righteous anger.

“Just removing the viper’s sting, dear Rabbi,” and the colonel bent down and felt among the pitiful wreckage for the needle. There was none. He unrolled a mashed scrap of paper in his free hand. There were Hebrew letters imprinted upon it.

And it was the colonel’s turn to wear a puzzled look. “But... but...”

“I shall demand an immediate apology from your government, sir. This barbarous conduct against a man of God....”

“Silence, man of God! You are now in the enlightened milieu of Soviet socialism. We need no hoary legends to sustain us. But,” and his voice took on its coloration of cunning again, “let us see if you are truly what you claim to be. We shall commence by—” the left hand sprang out—“by tearing off this handsome, albeit false, beard.”

From deep down came a volcanic, tormented roar.
“Gottenu!
spare me from further indignity. Better let me die now.” Tears glistened in the eyes. Svetlova, rattled, uncertain, tugged at it again; then the forelocks, the hair.

“They are... real.” The gash of a mouth had lost its hauteur. It now twitched with indecision. “And the eyes... filled with tears. Real tears. How could contact lenses produce such a phenomenon?”

The rabbi, heartened by Svetlova’s rapid loss of composure, had regained his own. “Why are you doing this to me, sir?”

Svetlova looked down at his boots. “My dear Rabbi. My dear, dear Rabbi.” There was genuine penitence in his speech now. “It appears that I have made an unforgivable mistake. You are, after all, a guest in the Soviet Union, Rabbi, uh... Rabbi...”

“Rabbi Chair. Spiritual head of Congregation Bethel Leslie, 354 Georgie Jessel Boulevard in the port city of Haifa. Graduate of the Moses Maimonides School of Rabbinical Training and Fund Raising, 1924. Author of several well-known treatises on Jewish lore and law; among them: ‘The Stage Delicatessen—A Look at the New Judaism,’ ‘The Negev Desert: World’s Most Frightening Sand Trap,’ coauthored with an American named Arnold Palmer, and my latest study, ‘Should Religion Be Allowed to Intrude at a Jewish Wedding?’“

“Impressive credentials, indeed,” muttered Svetlova, who jotted down the data in a black leather notebook as the rabbi intoned them. “Your first name, please, Rabbi Chair.”

“Morris.”

“Of course.” He closed the notebook. “Now, I do not think there is anything to be gained by your lodging a formal protest about my admittedly...” he sought to inject the proper adjective... “uh... untoward methods of interrogation. I apologize for them personally. The fact remains,” and he reverted to his officiousness again, “that innocent dupe though you may be you are nonetheless guilty indirectly of complicity in this shameful plot to foment unrest among our... uh... respected—and quite happy—Soviet citizens of Jewish lineage.”

Rabbi Chair’s mien was thoughtful. “My dear sir. I, of course, had no knowledge of this ‘plot,’ as you term it, but I am bound to tell you that morally I must align myself with its aims: If one of them is to make the Passover matzoh available to Russian Jews, I am in full sympathy with it. This stratagem would have been quite unnecessary in the first place if your State Baking Trust was not deliberately ignoring the need for matzoh during the coming holiday period. In general, Russian Jews would not be so restive if they were permitted to carry out a full-fledged program of Jewish activities, both religious and secular... if your book publishing agencies would print all the prayer books required by a Jewish population of three and a half million, instead of the pitiful few they do... if your building inspectors would cease their deliberate policy of condemning Jewish synagogues on trumped-up pretexts and then never reopening them nor permitting new ones to be constructed... if Jewish criminals mentioned in your newspapers were simply termed criminals, minus the sly references to their religion, a technique which cannot help but restoke the ancient coals of anti-Semitism which have bred pogroms at worst, hostile attitudes at best... if Jews were allowed to emigrate or at least travel to other countries, policies permitted by any humane government... if—”