stood before the plane defiantly smashing another board as though he were challenging the great bird whose bowels had quartered him.
The secret agent tossed his Raleigh into a pool of fuel near the jetliner and hailed a cab. Soon he stood in front of the gleaming yellow one-story factory.
THIS IS THE HOME OF MOTHER MARGOLIES’ ACTIVATED OLD WORLD CHICKEN SOUP.
And under the sign, one of her proverbs:
I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE; I AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY VOLLEYBALL TEAM.
It was grand to be back at the same old stand. Now he could drop his cover role for a while and devote his full thirty percent effort to being just Oy Oy Seven.
As he entered the modernistic structure, he heard the familiar lamentive strains of the violin evoking memories of another era in the Jewish saga. His eyes looked up. Yes, the fiddler was still there on the roof.
“Welcome home, Oy Oy Seven!” said M.’s bewitching private secretary, Leilah Tov, flicking her tongue at him alluringly. It had been a long time since he and Leilah ...
“M. wants a full report on the double.”
He quickened his pace, zipping past the Chicken Soup division, the Mushroom & Barley section, the Blueberry Blintze room. He stopped in front of a door.
MOTHER MARGOLIES
He knocked. The sweet, quavering old voice he loved so well said, “Come in, Mr. Bond.”
Her back was to him and he could hear the rocker creak and the assiduous click, click, click of her omnipresent knitting needles. What was she making now? A sweater for the prime minister? Socks for Abba Eban? Or was she still knitting that lovely, multi-hued doily she had started two years ago? Someone will certainly receive a splendid present when she finally gets that thing done, he thought. But it should be someone who can really make good use of it, someone with a fifty-foot ashtray.
The rocker spun around and the kindly, wise old eyes of Mother Margolies were on him. Dear, dear Mother, the wonderful lady whose factory it was and who had permitted a secret portion of the building to be utilized solely for the dark manipulations of M 33 and 1/3.
For a very good reason. M. stood for “Emma.”
Dear old Mother Emma Margolies was—M., No. 1 in the Secret Service of Eretz Israel!
10 “You’ll Like Mara, Mr. Bond”
“Let’s have it already,” said M.
Bond opened his carrying case, dumped a mound of Raleigh coupons on her desk. “Four thousand, three hundred and eighty-two, M. How’s that?”
She sniffed. “Just so-so, Oy Oy Seven. Oy Oy Nine really gave us a full measure of devotion when he was with us. More than six thousand.”
“Was with us?” Bond said. “You speak as though he....”
“He is,” M. said flatly. “We buried him yesterday. Lung cancer, emphysema, smoker’s heart, and a particularly bad case of adenoids.” She sighed. “Very clumsy at judo, botched up codes ... but, vay tzu mineh yooren , could that boy smoke! We got seventy-five walkie-talkie radio sets from his last batch. Which reminds me ...”
Her gnarled but nimble fingers touched a knob on the master control box under her yarn pile. He wondered what station she would try to contact. Station A—Asia? E—Europe? P—Pacific Area? But he should have guessed.
“ so, toe-tappin’ teeneroonies, avast let’s blast with Castro and the Cuban Heels and their big, big ...”
It was Station RR (Rock ’n Roll). At heart old M. was a “toe tapper.” Worse, a Rockin’ Robby Robbins fan.
Bond lit a Raleigh, offered her one.
“Are you crazy?” M. said indignantly. “You can die from that garbage. Now let’s have the report.”
He began with the Miami Beach affair, relating fully everything that had happened since, placing emphasis on certain puzzlements that had occurred during the Loxfinger phase of the assignment. “My capsule opinion: It’s a weirdo setup. I’d like your permission to snoop around.”
“Granted. Snoop. But you should be extra careful. The doctor is more
The secret agent tossed his Raleigh into a pool of fuel near the jetliner and hailed a cab. Soon he stood in front of the gleaming yellow one-story factory.
THIS IS THE HOME OF MOTHER MARGOLIES’ ACTIVATED OLD WORLD CHICKEN SOUP.
And under the sign, one of her proverbs:
I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE; I AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY VOLLEYBALL TEAM.
It was grand to be back at the same old stand. Now he could drop his cover role for a while and devote his full thirty percent effort to being just Oy Oy Seven.
As he entered the modernistic structure, he heard the familiar lamentive strains of the violin evoking memories of another era in the Jewish saga. His eyes looked up. Yes, the fiddler was still there on the roof.
“Welcome home, Oy Oy Seven!” said M.’s bewitching private secretary, Leilah Tov, flicking her tongue at him alluringly. It had been a long time since he and Leilah ...
“M. wants a full report on the double.”
He quickened his pace, zipping past the Chicken Soup division, the Mushroom & Barley section, the Blueberry Blintze room. He stopped in front of a door.
MOTHER MARGOLIES
He knocked. The sweet, quavering old voice he loved so well said, “Come in, Mr. Bond.”
Her back was to him and he could hear the rocker creak and the assiduous click, click, click of her omnipresent knitting needles. What was she making now? A sweater for the prime minister? Socks for Abba Eban? Or was she still knitting that lovely, multi-hued doily she had started two years ago? Someone will certainly receive a splendid present when she finally gets that thing done, he thought. But it should be someone who can really make good use of it, someone with a fifty-foot ashtray.
The rocker spun around and the kindly, wise old eyes of Mother Margolies were on him. Dear, dear Mother, the wonderful lady whose factory it was and who had permitted a secret portion of the building to be utilized solely for the dark manipulations of M 33 and 1/3.
For a very good reason. M. stood for “Emma.”
Dear old Mother Emma Margolies was—M., No. 1 in the Secret Service of Eretz Israel!
10 “You’ll Like Mara, Mr. Bond”
“Let’s have it already,” said M.
Bond opened his carrying case, dumped a mound of Raleigh coupons on her desk. “Four thousand, three hundred and eighty-two, M. How’s that?”
She sniffed. “Just so-so, Oy Oy Seven. Oy Oy Nine really gave us a full measure of devotion when he was with us. More than six thousand.”
“Was with us?” Bond said. “You speak as though he....”
“He is,” M. said flatly. “We buried him yesterday. Lung cancer, emphysema, smoker’s heart, and a particularly bad case of adenoids.” She sighed. “Very clumsy at judo, botched up codes ... but, vay tzu mineh yooren , could that boy smoke! We got seventy-five walkie-talkie radio sets from his last batch. Which reminds me ...”
Her gnarled but nimble fingers touched a knob on the master control box under her yarn pile. He wondered what station she would try to contact. Station A—Asia? E—Europe? P—Pacific Area? But he should have guessed.
“ so, toe-tappin’ teeneroonies, avast let’s blast with Castro and the Cuban Heels and their big, big ...”
It was Station RR (Rock ’n Roll). At heart old M. was a “toe tapper.” Worse, a Rockin’ Robby Robbins fan.
Bond lit a Raleigh, offered her one.
“Are you crazy?” M. said indignantly. “You can die from that garbage. Now let’s have the report.”
He began with the Miami Beach affair, relating fully everything that had happened since, placing emphasis on certain puzzlements that had occurred during the Loxfinger phase of the assignment. “My capsule opinion: It’s a weirdo setup. I’d like your permission to snoop around.”
“Granted. Snoop. But you should be extra careful. The doctor is more
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