Warren Murphy: The Last Temple

Inside the office, a man sat with his feet on his desk, trying not to scratch the right side of his face.

Yoel Zabari had been told by his doctor not to scratch the right side of his face. The doctor told him not to, because the itch was psychosomatic, since, literally speaking, Yoel Zabari didn't have a right side of his face. Not unless one called a mass of flat, numbed tissue and plastic a face.

His right eye was gone, replaced by an unblinking glass globe, his right nostril was a hole in the middle of a sloping mound, and the right side of his mouth was a surgically perfect slit.

Someone had left an old sofa in a garbage pile on the street outside his office a year ago. As Zabari left the building and turned left, the couch blew up. A large chunk of metal and plastic ripped across his head from his right ear to the bridge of his nose. The left side of his head suffered only a bump where he fell.

Yoel Zabari survived the terrorist tactic. Twelve other people, rushing home to their families after work, did not.

The prime minister called it a vicious and ugly attack upon innocent people. The new American representative for the U.N., caught between his heart and worldwide oil prices, called it no comment. Libya called it a courageous blow for the integrity of the Arab people. Uganda said it was retribution for aggression.

Zabari forced his rising hand to avoid his face and to settle onto the brown and gray curls atop his head. He was scratching his scalp when Tochala Delit, his first deputy, came in with his daily report.

"Toe," Zabari cried. "Good to see you back. How was your vacation?"

"Fine, sir," said Delit, smiling. "You are looking well yourself."

"If you say so," replied the director of the Zeher Lahurban, controller of nuclear security as well as of its archeology cover. "I have just managed to bring myself to look into the mirror again. I feel fine, but seeing only half a blush is always disconcerting."

Delit laughed without self-consciousness and sat in a plush red chair to the side of the broad green metal desk as he always did.

"The family well?" he inquired.

"As always, wonderful and the only reason for my life," Zabari said. "The light never dims in my wife's eyes, and my youngest this week wants to be a dancer. A ballerina yet." He shrugged. "That's this week. Wait till next."

Both the terror-scarred face and the gentle voice were sides of the man that was Yoel Zabari. A soldier, a spy, a war hero, an accomplished killer, and a fierce Zionist, he was also a fine husband, a good father, and a public-spirited man. His outward lack of full lips did nothing to mar his ability to communicate.

"You really should take a wife, Toe. As the Talmud says, 'An unmarried Jew is not considered a whole human being.' "

"The Talmud also says, 'The ignoramus jumps first,' " Delit replied.

Zabari laughed. "So now. What terrible news do you have for me today?"

Delit flipped open the folder on his lap.

"Our overseas agents report that two more American spies are being sent here."

"So what else is new?"

"These two are supposed to be special."

"All Americans think they are special. Remember the one who tried to convince us to share our weapons with whoever was leading the Lebanese government that week?"

Delit snorted.

"So what is these spies' mission here?" asked Zabari.

"We don't know."

"What agency are they from?"

"We are not sure."

"Where do they come from?"

"We are trying to find out."

"Do they have two eyes or three?" asked Zabari in desperation.

"Two," replied Delit, deadpan. "Each. Four, if you add up the total."

Zabari smiled and wagged his finger at his deputy. "All right. What do we know about them?"

"All we know is that they are called Remo and Chiun and that they are expected here tomorrow morning. And the only reason we know that is the American president told our ambassador as much during a state dinner."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"Just showing how friendly a new president can be, I guess," said Delit.

"Hmmm," mused Zabari some more, "the trouble with the great number of various spies we have here is that we can never be sure whether any new arrival is meaningless or extremely important."

Delit looked up and his face was grave. "These agents come on orders from Washington. Near where Ben Isaac Goldman was murdered."

The left side of Zabari's face darkened. "And we sit in Tel Aviv, near where Hegez was murdered. I know, Toe, and I will keep this in mind. Put an agent on these two new American agents. I want to know what they are up to."

Delit's face remained grave. "Something seems to be stirring across the sand," he said. "First these murders, then increased transport between the Arab states and Russia, then this Remo and Chiun. I say it is no good. I say it is connected."

Zabari leaned forward, brought his hand up to the right side of his face, then brought it down suddenly to drum on the desk.

"No one is more aware of these things than I. We will keep a watchful eye out, we will cover our asses, and we will follow these two American operatives. If they are indeed related to the security of our… uh, material, we will take care of them."

Zabari leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply. "Enough of this doom saying. Toe, have you written any new poetry on your vacation?"

Delit's face brightened.

CHAPTER FOUR

"About 2000 b.c.," said the stewardess, "Israel was known as the land of Canaan. The Scriptures tell us that this was a good land, a land of brooks, of water, of fountains, and depths that spring out of valleys and hills. A land of wheat and barley and vines and fig trees and pomegranates; a land of olive oil and honey."

"A land of cheapskates," said Chiun.

"Shush," said Remo.

The jet was circling over Lod airport while the stewardess delivered sightseeing information over the intercom and Remo and Chiun had a deeply motivated religious discussion.

"Herod the Wonderful was a much abused person," Chiun was saying. "The House of David was always plotting against him. The House of Sinanju never got a day's work from the House of David."

"But Jesus and the Virgin Mary came from the House of David," said Remo.

"So?" replied Chiun. "They were poor. Royalty yet poor. That shows what can happen to a family that refuses to properly employ an assassin."

"I don't care what you say," said Remo, who was brought up in an orphanage by nuns. "I still like Jesus and Mary."

"Naturally you would. You choose to believe, not know. If everyone was like Jesus, we would starve," declared Chiun. "And since you like Mary so much, did you send it?"

"What?"

"The Norman Lear, Norman Lear message."

"Not yet, not yet," said Remo.

The jet finally received its runway coordinates and was slowly coming in for a landing when the stewardess on the intercom finished up.

"The Israelis have flourished as a nation of farmers and shepherds, of traders and warriors, of poets and scholars."

"Of cheapskates," said an Oriental voice in the back.

Remo had managed to convince Chiun, for ease of movement, to limit his traveling luggage to only two of his colorful, lacquered steamer trunks.

So Remo had to lug only the two trunks onto the Lod-Tel Aviv bus, since the wizened Oriental refused to have them on the roof with the other baggage.

"Baggage?" said Chiun, "Baggage? Are the golden sands merely dirt? Are the fluffy clouds merely smoke? Are the magnificent heavens merely black space?"

"All right, already," said Remo tiredly. So now he sat between two, upright, bouncing trunks as the old bus wound its way through the suburbs of Tel Aviv.

The roads were lined with Y-shaped lights, curling green bushes, and long rows of three-story, tan and gray apartment buildings.