salad with Two Thousand Island dressing—we don’t stint on El Al—raisins with almonds, the whole ethnic bit. Later we’ll all line up in the aisle and Miss Tigerblatt will teach us the hora. For your amusement we’ll have continuous showings of The Jolson Story ; it’ll tear out from you the heart. Or if you like canasta, join us here in the pilot’s cabin ... we’ll set ’er on automatic control and play for any stakes you want—the plane, if necessary. Later, when we’re over the Middle East you’ll all get a real thrill watching us bombing the Suez Canal. But for now just settle back and read your complimentary copy of Harry Golden’s wonderful book Enjoy! Enjoy! I did, and, believe me, I enjoyed it, enjoyed it!”
Bond gazed into the hostile eyes of the wiry Levantine traveling under the name of Mr. Herzl. “Hello,” he said pleasantly. The man thrust something on Bond’s lap, hissing, “Die, Israeli jackal!”
Bond’s heart pounded. A black widow spider crawled onto his bare knee, sand shifting into the bottom of the tell-tale red hourglass on its obscenely swollen belly laden, he knew, with excruciating poison.
Counteraction 12! The old words of the service manual rang a bell in his mind. There was a rebuttal for this loathsome thing on his kneecap. He unscrewed one of the large gold buttons of his cape. Out sprang a praying mantis!
Removing its little prayer shawl and yarmulkeh, the mantis gulped down the arachnid with one bite of its awful jaws. “Good show, Mendel!” he whispered to the mantis. Not all mantises were as devout these days, Bond knew. Some of the younger ones were out and out atheists, but they all retained good Jewish hearts, and that was what mattered.
Counteraction 13! As the Levantine reached for his gun, Bond’s ring sprayed fiery chrain (horseradish) into his face. He drove his meat knife home into the blinded Levantine’s innards. The man slumped dead against the window.
His head spinning with tension, Bond applied Counteraction 14. He fainted.
Minutes later he revived and dragged the man down the aisle with an apologetic, “My ol’ buddy just can’t take that schnapps,” to the hostess. Inside the lavatory Bond lifted the seat and stuffed his victim into the bowl. Thanks be to heaven he’s lanky, he thought, pushing the “flush” button.
“Takes just one good flush to get rid of a four-flusher,” he said casually, wishing that Zvi had been there to guffaw at this latest Bondism.
Back in his seat he rifled the man’s attaché case, no mean feat with the end of a rifle. Mr. Herzl, he discovered, was a member of the Cairo Legion Armed Police. But who had put him onto Bond?
But there was no more time for pondering. A favorable sirocco wind had brought the craft in nine hours ahead of schedule. Lydda Airport twinkled its lights below. “Fasten your seatbelts. Smoke if you wish,” said Miss Tigerblatt.
Eretz Israel! At last!
He lit up a Raleigh and watched the last few moments of the picture.
“Asa, you’re home from Broadway just in time,” a tear-stained mother on the screen said to the black-faced vaudevillian on his knees before her. “Poppa is very sick, Asa, very sick. But before he goes, he wants to know ... this Colleen McCarthy the papers say you’re going to marry. She’s a Jewish girl?”
Bond’s eyes were wet. He’d seen the picture fifty-six times on many El Al flights. Still it had the power to tear out from him the heart.
The wheels jolted against the soil of his adopted homeland.
He bade farewell to Loxfinger and his retinue. “We’ll be meeting again, doctor. I’ll probably be assigned to your kibbutz.”
Those unbelievably blue eyes focused on him. “Of course, Mr. Bond. We ...” again he nudged Bond’s ribs conspiratorily ... “sheenies must stick together.” His breath was alcoholic.
Bond felt a strange chill as he watched Loxfinger and the others depart in a waiting Rolls-Royce. For an instant Macaroon had
Bond gazed into the hostile eyes of the wiry Levantine traveling under the name of Mr. Herzl. “Hello,” he said pleasantly. The man thrust something on Bond’s lap, hissing, “Die, Israeli jackal!”
Bond’s heart pounded. A black widow spider crawled onto his bare knee, sand shifting into the bottom of the tell-tale red hourglass on its obscenely swollen belly laden, he knew, with excruciating poison.
Counteraction 12! The old words of the service manual rang a bell in his mind. There was a rebuttal for this loathsome thing on his kneecap. He unscrewed one of the large gold buttons of his cape. Out sprang a praying mantis!
Removing its little prayer shawl and yarmulkeh, the mantis gulped down the arachnid with one bite of its awful jaws. “Good show, Mendel!” he whispered to the mantis. Not all mantises were as devout these days, Bond knew. Some of the younger ones were out and out atheists, but they all retained good Jewish hearts, and that was what mattered.
Counteraction 13! As the Levantine reached for his gun, Bond’s ring sprayed fiery chrain (horseradish) into his face. He drove his meat knife home into the blinded Levantine’s innards. The man slumped dead against the window.
His head spinning with tension, Bond applied Counteraction 14. He fainted.
Minutes later he revived and dragged the man down the aisle with an apologetic, “My ol’ buddy just can’t take that schnapps,” to the hostess. Inside the lavatory Bond lifted the seat and stuffed his victim into the bowl. Thanks be to heaven he’s lanky, he thought, pushing the “flush” button.
“Takes just one good flush to get rid of a four-flusher,” he said casually, wishing that Zvi had been there to guffaw at this latest Bondism.
Back in his seat he rifled the man’s attaché case, no mean feat with the end of a rifle. Mr. Herzl, he discovered, was a member of the Cairo Legion Armed Police. But who had put him onto Bond?
But there was no more time for pondering. A favorable sirocco wind had brought the craft in nine hours ahead of schedule. Lydda Airport twinkled its lights below. “Fasten your seatbelts. Smoke if you wish,” said Miss Tigerblatt.
Eretz Israel! At last!
He lit up a Raleigh and watched the last few moments of the picture.
“Asa, you’re home from Broadway just in time,” a tear-stained mother on the screen said to the black-faced vaudevillian on his knees before her. “Poppa is very sick, Asa, very sick. But before he goes, he wants to know ... this Colleen McCarthy the papers say you’re going to marry. She’s a Jewish girl?”
Bond’s eyes were wet. He’d seen the picture fifty-six times on many El Al flights. Still it had the power to tear out from him the heart.
The wheels jolted against the soil of his adopted homeland.
He bade farewell to Loxfinger and his retinue. “We’ll be meeting again, doctor. I’ll probably be assigned to your kibbutz.”
Those unbelievably blue eyes focused on him. “Of course, Mr. Bond. We ...” again he nudged Bond’s ribs conspiratorily ... “sheenies must stick together.” His breath was alcoholic.
Bond felt a strange chill as he watched Loxfinger and the others depart in a waiting Rolls-Royce. For an instant Macaroon had
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