The Last Temple

But it was up to Smith to take the reams of fossilized information and see what it meant in terms of the nation and the world. Usually his desk was covered with a fair amount of this information, but now the only thing there was a typewritten, four-page list he had discovered because a woman's sister, who belonged to the American Jewish Committee, which combats anti-Semitism, and E'nai Brith, a fraternal order, had a daughter who met a man through B'nai Akiba, a religious youth organization, whom she married, and they had a son who was counseled as he grew older by the U.S. Jewish Board of Guardians, which specializes in child guidance, which led to the boy joining the YMHA, the Young Men's Hebrew Association, which provides cultural activities to Jewish youth, where his first endeavor was to contribute a report on oppression in World War II, complete with concentration-camp lists, which so impressed his counselor that he sent it to the United Synagogue, a union of American temples, which entered it into their bank of computerized microfilm, where it happened to cross Smith's desk and the head of CURE saw a connection. A slim, impossible connection. The kind CURE specialized in. "I'm very sure," said Smith. "Why?"

"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."

"What the hell, Chiun," said Remo. "This way is faster."

He began to run.

Zhava burst into the Zabari home as Mrs. Zabari was lighting the Sabbath candles. Zhava was dusty and out of breath. As she staggered in, Yoel and his four children looked up from the table.

They had just finished dessert and the children's faces were flushed with satisfaction and pride. For their father's work today during the Remembrance services had been well received.

"What is it?" asked Yoel. "What is the matter?"

Zhava stared at the Sabbath candles. She remembered from her lessons as a child that the eight candles, lit every Friday, represented peace, freedom, and the light that radiates from the human soul.

Zhava's eyes turned to the children. Blond, dark-eyed Daphna, who would make a fine ballerina one day. Eight-year-old Dov, whose hope for peace touched everyone he met. Stephen, the athlete, the fighter, the believer in an ultimate truth. And Melissa, stepping from childhood into being a woman. A whole woman in a world of fragmented femininity.

Zhava saw the looks on their faces and the innocence in their eyes, remembering why she had come here. She thought of what Tochala Delit was planning to do. It must not happen. She could not let it.

She felt the warm hand of Shula, Mrs. Zabari, on her arm, and saw the concerned face of Yoel Zabari.

"You must come," she said breathlessly. "It is important."

Zabari looked deep into her eyes. He turned to look at the Sabbath candles. He turned to his wife, who stood, asking silent questions. He turned to his children, who had already forgotten Zhava's entrance and were entertaining themselves at the table. Dov had put one spoon on top of another and now brought his hand down. One spoon served as a catapult and the other spoon flipped end over end until Dov caught it in mid-air. He smiled. Daphna applauded.

"Yes," said Yoel. "I will come. Now?"

Zhava nodded.

"Excuse me, my dear," he said, brushing his wife's cheek with the ravaged right side of his face. She smiled warmly. "Excuse me, children, I will be back soon," he said waving at the table.

"Aw, Dad, do you have to?" said Stephen.

Zabari nodded sadly, then looked up at the ceiling. "Excuse me, Lord." After all, it was the Sabbath.

Yoel Zabari went with Zhava.

"Are we going back to the labyrinth of pipes so that you can get lost again?" asked Chiun.

"Not this time," said Remo. "I'm rolling now."

They continued running. Remo's strides were long, even, and smooth, as if he were walking along a moving conveyor belt. Certainly not as if he were struggling across the sands of a desert. His arms moved easily at his sides, in rhythm with the drumming of his legs.

Chiun's hands, however, were deep in the sleeves of his red and black kimono, his skirt-like train billowing behind him. The hem always just touched the desert sand. He was arched slightly forward and slicing across the air like a thrown knife. He never seemed to move his legs because his kimono remained back in the wind, uninterrupted by any forward movement.

"Remo," Chiun said, "I would like to say that you have acted most wisely."

Remo stumbled. Struggling to regain his stride, he managed to speak. "Thank you, Little Father."

"Yes, my son," Chiun intoned, "training is not knowledge and knowledge is not strength, but combine training with knowledge and then you will have strength."

"Believe it or not, Chiun, I know that," Remo said.

The two continued across the deepening horizon.

"What I want to say, Remo, is that you are behaving as a Master should."

Remo was pleased. He stood straighter, his eyes took in the sky, and his stride grew wider and stronger. This was indeed his day.

"Thank you," he said. "I can't say how much…"

"Except," continued Chiun, "that you jump badly, you cannot drive, and you are insulting. You behave like a Master who is insulting and weak."

"You old faker," said Remo. "You set me up for that." Remo tried to race ahead, but Chiun matched his speed, foot for foot.

And his voice continued as clear as a desert breeze.

"You have not sent the Norman Lear, Norman Lear message. You begrudge a man his simple pleasures. You do not clean your mess. You are a litterbug. You…"

Remo and Chiun continued across the sand, side by side.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first perimeter guard had been surprised when the car on the main access road to the Zeher Lahurban sulphur plant stopped and Tochala Delit himself poked his head out.

The second perimeter guard had been stunned, and the third astonished. They had all found it unusual that Tochala Delit himself should be in the car alone and that his clothing was so heavy on so hot a day, but if Tochala Delit himself found it necessary, then it must have been necessary.

And if Tochala Delit himself said that no one else should be allowed in, then no one else would be allowed in. And if Tochala Delit himself said not even the prime minister, then not even the prime minister. And if Tochala Delit himself instructed that these orders were to be followed implicitly, then the three guards would be pleased and honored to lay down their lives for those orders.

But Tochala Delit himself acted strangely today, didn't he?

Tochala Delit himself entered the heart of the nuclear installation through a simple metal door, which he locked behind him.

He stood in the low, metal-reinforced concrete hallway sloping deep down to the room with no exit. He patted his inside jacket pocket for the hundredth time that afternoon. The layers of clothing and the hard, thin box were still there, giving him strength.

Thirty years. Thirty years, and now the end was in sight. But thirty years was a long time. Tochala Delit was an old man now. The man who had been Horst Vessel thought about his life. He felt warm blood flow in his veins again. He saw the twisted bodies of the people he had killed in the name of purity. He heard their cries, their screams, their prayers, their ranting. And now, to end like this. Riding the tip of a nuclear-powered mushroom cloud. Because whatever the bomb did not destroy, the surviving Arabs would. Israel was doomed.

Horst Vessel filled his lungs with the stuffy air and felt the salty beads of excitement on his brow. At that moment he would not have changed places with anyone on earth.

Remo took the first perimeter fence like a hurdler. Chiun followed like a parachute toy that one puffs into the air and it floats to the ground.

"We have entered a different part of the field,"

Chiun said. "We now stand on explosive ground."

"Mine field," said Remo. "I was wondering why the ground seemed different."

"Good," said Chiun. "You remain wondering, and I will see you in the kingdom of Heaven. Be sure to greet my ancestors for me."

"Come on," said Remo. "We don't have much time."

"Let us go quickly then," said Chiun, "for if you walk as badly as you jump, we are both doomed."

They moved across the sand with the combined weight of a tablespoon of whipped cream.

Coming to the second perimeter, the infrared fence, Chiun motioned to Remo ahead.

"Let us see if you have learned anything," he said.

Remo hopped over as easily as if he were taking a step. Chiun followed suit.

"Wonderful," said Chiun, "you now rank with the grasshopper, which jumps well."

"I'm sorry I opened my mouth," Remo said.

"So am I," said Chiun.

Since the area was barren and neither of them had tripped an alarm, their paths were uncrossed by blazing lead or flaming missiles. They easily transversed the third perimeter, and soon Remo and Chiun stood among the spiraling machinery of the sulphur plant.

"So here we are," said Remo. "See any atomic bombs laying around?"

Chiun stood implacable, looking like an ancient cog in a giant machine.

Remo leaned against a bolted metal door and felt vibrations emanating from its other side. Part of the sulphur machinery, he thought.

"Since this is still the outskirts of the plant," he said, "I guess we can figure the nuclear area is closer to the middle. A couple of miles in that direction." Remo pointed west.

Chiun turned and looked in that direction for a moment, then put his hand through the metal door Remo was leaning against, as simply as if it were paper.

"When vibrations speak to you, listen," Chiun said.

Remo looked through the ragged gap in the door and saw a sign with big red Hebrew letters at the end of a long concrete reinforced hallway.

"Don't tell me what it says," said Remo.

"Danger. Radioactivity. No unauthorized personnel beyond this point," said Chiun.

"I knew it all the time," Remo said, reaching through the hole and unlocking the door.

The two moved down to the end of the hallway where an impressive-looking door attached to the danger sign blocked their way.

"Hmmm," said Remo, looking it up and down and sliding his hands over several security devices. "Looks like a special key lock and a combination lock. This looks like a time-clock mechanism and a special reinforced lock guard."

Chiun walked to the other side of the door and ripped the hinges out of the concrete wall with two rhythmic taps of his hands, taps that looked slow and gentle.

"Formidable," he said as he opened the two-foot-thick obstruction from the other side.

"Showoff," said Remo as he stared down a maze-like corridor filled with sensory equipment, pressure-sensitive panels, sliding cast-iron partitions, warning lights, video-tape cameras, and more infrared devices. All inoperative.

"Delish must have switched them all off," said Remo.

Remo and Chiun moved through the hallway until they reached a last closed metal panel. Remo put his ear against it.

"I hear something," he said.

"That is good," replied Chiun. "It means you are not deaf."

"No, it means that Delish is probably in there," Remo moved back a step and was preparing to rend the door apart when it slid open.

Remo looked at Chiun, who looked back, and then they moved through the opening onto a long stairway that wound around a large circular room of dull blue metal. It gave the impression of being the insides of an upright bullet. The entire area was filled with the latest technical equipment that America could provide.

Standing in the middle of the room was Tochala Delit, tall and proud in a full S.S. uniform that he had worn under his street clothes. It was all there, from the wide red and black Nazi armband to the green, red, blue, and silver medals that gleamed on his chest.

"Who does your suits?" Remo asked.

Delit did not answer. Instead, he looked to his side where a twelve-foot-long cylinder lay. It was rounded at one end and finned at the other. The sides were rounded and smooth except for a flat, rectangular shape that stuck halfway up the tube. The rectangular thing was ticking.

Tochala Delit looked up and his eyes were shining. "You are too late," he said.

Yoel Zabari could not convince the first guard to stand aside.

"How do I know you are Mr. Zabari?" asked the guard. "You have never visited us before, and Mr. Delit left instructions to allow no one else in. Not even the prime minister."

"I'm not the prime minister," shouted Zabari, "and Tochala Delit is a traitor. You know me, damn it, you have seen pictures of me. How could anyone fake this?" he stabbed at the right side of his face.

"Well, I do not know…" began the guard.

"You do not know?" yelled Zabari incredulously.

That settled it for the guard. The Zeher Lahurban was probably just testing them again. Mr. Delit had said no one. No one it would be.

"I'm sorry, sir, you will have to wait for authorization."

"Damn it, that will be too late. There will not be anything to authorize if you do not let me through. And now."

Zhava Fifer saw her boss's rage mount as she sat behind the wheel of the jeep.

The guard understood that their loyalty had to be tested, but this was going a bit far.

"Sir…" he began. Suddenly Zabari smashed him across the neck with the side of his hand.

"Drive," he said savagely as the guard spun to the ground, unconscious. "Drive, damn it!"

Zhava ground the jeep into gear and rammed forward as Zabari pulled her dashboard automatic up.

The second perimeter guard was clicking the safety off his weapon when Zabari shot him through the leg. Zhava drove fast and straight as the second guard fell backward, spouting blood, and Zabari sprayed the entrance to the third perimeter guard shack, trying to keep the man from reaching it safely.

"Hit him," Zabari said.

"What?" cried Zhava.

"Hit him," Zabari repeated. "Try not to kill him, but hit him."

Zabari kept firing away as Zhava swerved the car and sideswiped the running guard. His body flew off the ground and somersaulted three times across the sand before finally landing in a dusty stillness.

Zabari's face was stretched tightly across his skull, and Zhava felt like crying. They tore across the plant to the nuclear area. Less than ten seconds had passed.

Remo stepped off the stairway and moved into the room that housed the atomic bomb.

"I sent away the technicians," Delit said, "and have silenced the protective devices. No alarm can be raised. The bomb cannot be neutralized. It is now only a matter of time."

Remo saw on the side of the thin rectangular bump on the bomb an electronic counter that kept tract of the passing seconds.

One hundred and eighty, one hundred and seventy-nine, one hundred and seventy-eight…

"Time, Herr Williams," said Delit. "That is all that is left. After thirty years, we are down to this. Just minutes before the bomb explodes."

Chum joined Remo beside the bomb. One hundred and sixty, one hundred and fifty-nine, one hundred and fifty-eight…

"It is useless to tinker with time, gentlemen. If the device is tampered with, even by myself, it will explode. And I doubt that even you, who have eluded my people for so long, could survive that."

"We'll see," said Remo. "You killed Hegez and Goldman?"

"Yes," said Delit.

"You sent those Palestinians and Markowitz after us?"

"Dorfmann? Yes."

"And you slaughtered Gavan?"

"Yes, yes, yes, I did all that. Please, Herr Williams," said the man who had been Horst Vessel, "do with me as you like. I am merely a servant of the master race."

"You do not look Korean," said Chiun, who still stood staring at the bomb and its ticking detonation device. One hundred and forty-six, one hundred and forty-five, one hundred and forty-four…

Delit went on as if there had been no interruption. "Germany, gentlemen. The glorious Third Reich. And now I, single-handedly, am creating the Fourth Reich."

Remo moved in. "That's your problem, pal. Don't you know that three Reichs don't correct a wrong?"

Remo's hand moved in a deceptively lazy pattern.

"Kill me, Herr Williams," invited Delit. "I do not care. Now or later. It makes no difference."

One hundred and thirty-two, one hundred and thirty-one, one hundred and thirty…

"Toe!"

Both Delit and Remo looked toward the source of that awful voice. It seemed to shake the room with its terrible pain. The ripped, broken voice came from the very bottom of Yoel Zabari's soul. He stood in the doorway of the room with Zhava Fifer.

"Toe," he cried again. "How could you do this? After what we have been through together? After all of it? Has it not touched you at all?"

Tochala Delit smiled sadly. "You Jews," he said, "you never learn. Yoel, I am only doing what the world wants me to do. Even now with your faith, you hold back the world. It wants no part of you. You have heard it through its newspapers and its United Nations votes. I have heard it. The world whispers in my ear, 'Throw your Gods away, Jews, we do not need them. We do not want them.' "

One hundred and fourteen, one hundred and thirteen, one hundred and twelve, one hundred and eleven…

"The world can only march forward when you and everything you represent are gone, like the dirt you sprang from and the past you represent."

"It cannot be," Zhava burst. "It will not. Our allies will avenge us."

Delit moved directly under the landing where the pair stood.

"Stupid girl," he said. "What allies? You have no friends, only guilty enemies. Too weak, too hypocritical to say what they feel. Where were your friends during the war? Where were your allies when the six million died? Where were the Americans? Where were your own people in Jerusalem? I am killing you because the world wants you dead. You might say…" Tochala Delit smiled, "… I am only following orders."

The room was shattered by a roar as Yoel Za-bari sprang. His body hurled down upon Delit's, and the two men smashed to the floor.

Remo stood back as Zabari rose, his hands clenched tightly around Delit's neck, tears streaming down the left side of his face.

The death head grew red, then purple, then green. Even as the eyes bulged and the bloodless lips curled back on his teeth, Delit's fuzzing pupils locked onto those of Yoel Zabari.

The gritting teeth parted and a dying voice whispered, "The Nazis will not die. The world does not want them to."

Then the tongue forced its way from between the flaxen lips, the eyes rolled up, the brain died, and the heart stopped beating. Horst Vessel was dead.

Eighty-five, eighty-four, eighty-three…

Zabari let the corpse fall from his hands. Zhava came down the stairs and walked up to him. He looked up at her and said, "I hurt my own men for this garbage." Then he kicked the body.

Zhava Fifer wrapped her arms around Zabari and wept. Zabari looked haunted, his hands like claws. Delit lay still, the thirty years ending as he had wanted them to, in death. Remo turned to Chiun who still stood before the bomb.

Seventy-eight, seventy-seven, seventy-six…

Well, this is it, then, Remo thought. Technology versus the Destroyer, and no one in the world he could kill to make this bomb stop ticking. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and all that, but give him a machine without a plug to pull out and he was helpless.

Remo walked to Chiun and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, Little Father," he said gently, "do you think your ancestors will be expecting us? I'm sorry."

Chiun looked up. "Why?" he asked. "You have done nothing. Do you not know that the only use of machinery is to break down? Stand back."

And with that, the Master began to unscrew the top of the bomb.

Yoel Zabari broke out of his trance and ran forward. "Wait! What are you doing?"

Remo blocked his way. "Take it easy. What do we have to lose?"

Zabari pondered that for a second, then stood back. Zhava fell to her knees in prayer.

Chiun pulled off the top of the bomb and nothing happened. "I would have this fixed sooner," he said, "if everyone had not been talking so much." He bent down and looked into the cylinder.

Fifty-two, fifty-one, fifty…

"Well?" asked Remo.

"It is dark," Chiun replied.

"For the love of Jesus, Mr. Chiun," Zabari began.

"Now you've done it," said Remo.

"For Jesus?" cried Chiun, straightening. "Oh, no. We never got a day's work from Him. Now, Herod, that was something else."

Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three…

"Chiun, really," said Remo.

"If you read the history of Sinanju as you are supposed to, I would never have to tell you this," said Chiun.

"It's hardly the time for a history lesson, Little Father," said Remo, pointing to the bomb.

"It is never too late to learn," replied Chiun.

Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…

"This is what really happened to the poor wretch, Herod the Maligned. Abused by his own people, used by the Romans, he turned in pain finally to his assassin, an ancient Master of Sinanju, and said, 'I was wrong. If only I had listened to you instead of the whores and counselors who abound in this wretched land.' "

Thirteen, twelve, eleven…

"The ancient Master buried him in the desert."

Nine, eight, seven…

"Chiun, please!"

Six. five, four…

"To Herod the Maligned!" Chiun cried, ripping out handfuls of wires.

"It's still ticking," Zhava screamed.

Three, two, one… zero.

Nothing happened.

"Of course, it is still ticking," said Chiun. "I broke the bomb, not the clock."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

No one saw them off.

Yoel Zabari had declared undying allegiance to both Korea and America. Zhava Fifer had declared undying allegiance to Remo's body. Tochala Delit had been riddled with bullets and dropped behind enemy lines, which was not difficult since all Israel's borders were enemy lines.

But Israel still existed, so life went on as if nothing had happened. Israel nearly having been destroyed did not mean anything. Zionism was still outlawed by the UN. The Arabs were still denying the Jewish state's existence. The price of gasoline was still sixty-three cents a gallon for regular, sixty-five cents for high-test. Nothing had changed.

Yoel and Zhava went back to work, wishing Remo well and asking that he give them at least three years' notice before his next visit.

"Israel is not a place," said Chiun. "It is a state of mind. The thought has not stopped, so the thought continues."

Things were not all bad, Remo learned. Smith had discovered the source of the original leak, who had revealed Remo and Chiun's mission to Israel.

"It was a simple matter of elimination," he had told Remo. "It wasn't me and it wasn't you and it wasn't Chiun so it could only have been one other person."

When Smith had mentioned the folly of ever repeating such a leak to the guilty party, the president had apologized profusely and almost choked on a peanut.

Smith had also sent instructions on to Remo to return home immediately since his job was done and Israel could safely get back to its primary national mission: staying alive.

So what the hell was Remo doing on the tea trail?

"What the hell am I doing on the tea trail?" asked Remo.

"I have done you a service, so now you must do me a service," replied Chiun.

They were walking along the centuries-old caravan trail that was lined with prayer-inscribed rocks, into the Sinai Desert.

"What other service do I owe you?" asked Remo. "You got your daytime dramas, didn't you? I sent the Norman Lear, Norman Lear letter, didn't I?"

Chiun had watched him do it, too. Only what Chiun had not seen was that Remo failed to put stamps on the envelope and had written the return address as:

Captain Kangaroo CBS Television City Hollywood, California

"So what other favor do I owe you?" Remo finished.

"Those were not services," said Chiun, "those were obligations. But do not worry, my son, I am merely looking for a sign."

"Well, hurry up, Little Father, or we'll miss the plane."

"Be calm, Remo, we could do much worse than to remain here," said Chiun.

"What is this?" retorted Remo. "Are you getting soft in the head? Where is 'this land of little beauty'? Where are the palaces of yesteryear, remember?"

"They are gone," said Chiun, "gone with the sand and returned to the earth like the bones of Herod. As it should be. The surface beauty of this land has been destroyed but if Israel itself is destroyed, it might be best that the rest of the world be destroyed with it. Except Sinanju, of course."

"Of course," said Remo. "Quit fooling yourself. If Israel was destroyed, the world would probably turn the other way and keep going."

"Yes. Keep going to certain destruction," said Chiun, "for everything this land is, the world needs. Israel is based on the same beauty, love, and brotherhood as is Sinanju."

Remo laughed. The two places did have similarities all right. Both tended to look barren. Israel looked like a giant beachfront to Remo.

Sinanju like a mountain of crab grass littered with outhouses.

"What are you saying?" he said. "Love? Brotherhood? Sinanju? We're killers, Chiun. Sinanju is the spawning ground of the world's greatest assassins."

"Sinanju is an art before it is a place," said Chiun, his face grave. "Do you think I have just fought the atomic forces of the universe and won? I have not done this. Sinanju has done this. I am everything Sinanju is. Everything Sinanju is, is me. Israel holds the same power. It is up to the people here to tap that power."

Remo remembered the smell of sulphur and the ticking of the bomb. He remembered Delit's words and Chiun's actions. He remembered the nuclear device not exploding. But Sinanju a love nest? A monument to Brotherhood Week?

Chiun turned toward the Sinai and continued along the trail, speaking as if he had read Remo's mind.

"Yes, without our love, our brotherhood, and our home, Sinanju would just be another way of killing people. A toy to break bricks with. The world would be wise to pay heed to the lessons of the land with little visual beauty."

Remo looked out across the desert, experiencing its breathtaking view again. Just because every other landscape was a mine field and the town you passed through might not be there by the time you got back didn't mean that one could still not learn to love the place. Remo thought about Zhava and the flowers.

"There," came Chiun's voice, interrupting Remo's dreams. Remo turned and saw the Korean kneel by a rock, then leap to his feet and move quickly across the desert.

Remo ran past the other prayer-inscribed rocks until he came to the one Chiun had been by.

"Praise be to Herod the Wonderful," Chiun's voice drifted across the sand, "a fine, noble, honest man whose word even after centuries is as good as gold."

The rock had been inscribed with the letters, "C-H-I-U-N." Remo ran after the aged Korean.

"It is the sign I have been promised by the ancient chapters in the Book of Sinanju," Remo heard. "Come quickly into the desert, my son."

Remo plowed after Chiun's diminishing shape. "Where are we going?" Remo called into the wind.

"We are going to collect a debt," answered the Oriental's voice.

The dust rose in Remo's face from the speed of the Korean. Remo shut his eyes and kept running until he felt the grittiness disappear from his senses.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing with Chiun before a small cave, seemingly etched out of the sand and rock. Chiun smiled at him knowingly, then went inside. Remo followed, bending over to fit through the small opening.

"Ah," said Chiun, "you see?"

Inside the cave was a small room lit by a series of canals cut into the solid rock. Atop a thick rug was a skeleton wrapped in royal robes and wearing jewelry. Before the body were two heaps of gold. The walls were lined with silk.

"Friend of yours?" asked Remo.

"Herod is a man of his word," said Chiun.

"Was a man of his word," replied Remo. "This can't be Herod. He was buried in Herodonia." Remo looked at the mummified bones and the diamonds and ruby encrustations, then at the expression on Chiun's face. "Wasn't he?"

Chiun felt it unnecessary to reply. "We will take the gold that belongs to Sinanju," he said, instead. "Come." He handed Remo a silken bag.

"Why me?" said Remo. "You should pick up your own pay."

"This is the service that you owe," said Chiun. "You should be honored that I am allowing you to glimpse the innermost workings of Sinanju."

"Yeah, collecting money," said Remo, wondering how the hell he might get a silken bag filled with gold through customs. "Lucky me."

After the gold was secure, Chiun took the sack and walked to the mouth of the cave. As Remo joined him, the Oriental turned for a last look at the skeleton that had once been an emperor of one of the strongest empires that had ever existed.

"So it is. So it was. So it always shall be. Poor Herod the Maligned. The Book of Sinanju states, 'A human being is here today-in the grave tomorrow.' "

Remo turned to the reigning Master of Sinanju and remembered where he had heard that before. And from whose lips.

"That's funny, Chiun," he said. "You don't look Jewish."