The Pirate Read online

“Morning,” Vincent grumbled as he sat down. He blinked his eyes. “How do you do it? It had to be six o’clock before you got to bed. Yet here it is only nine thirty and you call for a meeting.”

  “When the chief’s around, nobody sleeps,” Youssef said. He picked up the binoculars and gave them to the director. “See for yourself. He’s out there water-skiing already.”

  Vincent peered through the binoculars adjusting the glasses until the view of the yacht was clear and sharp. He picked up the Riva as it raced across the bay. Behind it, holding on to the towlines with one hand, was Baydr; the other hand held a small boy sitting on his shoulders. “Who is the boy?” Vincent asked.

  “The chief’s younger son, Samir,” Youssef answered. “He’s four and named after his grandfather. The older son, Prince Muhammad, is skiing off the Riva just behind his father. He’s ten.”

  Vincent, who had been following Baydr, hadn’t noticed the second speedboat. He swung his glasses and picked up the boy. The ten-year-old was a miniature of his father; slim and strong, he too held the tow with one hand. “Prince Muhammad?” he questioned. “Is Baydr a—”

  “No,” Youssef said quickly. “Baydr is first cousin to Prince Feiyad, the reigning prince. Since he has no male heirs, he has indicated that Baydr’s son will be the successor to the throne.”

  “Fascinating,” Vincent said. He put the glasses down as the waiter came to the table. “Is it too early to get a Bloody Mary?”

  “Not here,” Youssef smiled. “Bloody Mary.”

  The waiter nodded and disappeared. Youssef leaned toward the director. “I apologize for disturbing you so early but the chief called me this morning and I must leave with him for a few days so I thought it important that we conclude our business.”

  “I thought everything was agreed on last night,” Vincent said.

  The waiter returned with the drink. Youssef waited until the man left and Vincent had taken his first sip. “Almost everything,” he said smoothly. “Except the agent’s commissions.”

  “I have no agent,” Vincent said quickly. “I always conduct my own negotiations.”

  “You have this time,” Youssef said. “You see, it’s a matter of custom. And we are great people for custom.”

  Vincent was beginning to understand but he wanted to hear Youssef say it. “And who is my agent?”

  “Your greatest fan,” Youssef said urbanely. “The man who recommended you for the job. Me.”

  Vincent was silent for a moment, then he took another sip of the Bloody Mary. He felt his head beginning to clear. “The customary ten percent?” he asked.

  Youssef shook his head, still smiling. “That’s the Western custom. Our custom is thirty percent.”

  “Thirty percent?” Vincent’s voice expressed his shock. “That’s an unheard-of amount.”

  “It’s not unfair in view of your fee for this film. A million dollars is an unheard-of amount. I happen to know it’s five times what you received for your last film. And you would not have been offered that if I hadn’t known that this picture had been a dream of Baydr’s for a long time and that he should make you an offer that would ensure your cooperation.”

  Vincent studied Youssef’s face. The Arab was still smiling but his eyes were deadly serious. “Fifteen percent,” he offered.

  “I have many expenses,” Youssef said. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. “But you are my friend. I will not bargain with you. Twenty-five percent.”

  “What expenses?” Vincent was curious. “I thought you worked for Baydr. Does he not pay you well?”

  “Well enough for a good existence. But a man must think of the future. I have a large family to support and must put a few dollars aside.”

  Vincent fished in his pocket for cigarettes. Youssef anticipated him. He clicked open a gold cigarette case and held it toward the director. “That’s a beautiful case,” Vincent said, taking a cigarette.

  Youssef smiled. He placed it on the table in front of the director. “It’s yours.”

  Vincent stared at him in surprise. He just didn’t understand this man at all. “That’s solid gold. You just can’t give it to me like that.”

  “Why not? You admired it.”

  “Still that’s not enough reason,” Vincent protested.

  “You have your customs, we have ours. We consider it a blessing to give gifts.”

  Vincent shook his head in resignation. “Okay. Twenty percent.”

  Youssef smiled and held out his hand. “Agreed.”

  They shook hands. Vincent put the cigarette in his mouth and Youssef lit it with a gold Dupont lighter. Vincent dragged on the cigarette, then laughed. “I don’t dare admire your lighter or you’ll give that to me too.”

  Youssef smiled. “You learn our customs quickly.”

  “I’ll have to,” Vincent said, “if I’m going to make this picture.”

  “Very true,” Youssef said seriously. “We will work very closely together on this film and when the time comes I think I can show you how we both can make a great deal of money.”

  Vincent picked up his Bloody Mary and sipped it. “In what way?” he asked.

  “The money they would ask you to pay for services and material is much more than they would ask from me,” Youssef said. “Together we might be able to save the chief a great deal and at the same time find some reasonable benefit for our diligence.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Vincent said. “I’ll probably call on you a great deal.”

  “I am at your disposal.”

  Vincent looked across the table. “When do you think the contracts will be ready for signature?”

  “Within the week. They’re being drawn in Los Angeles and will be telexed here when completed.”

  “Why Los Angeles?” Aren’t there good lawyers in Paris?”

  “Of course there are, but you have to understand the chief. He demands the best in everything. And the best film attorneys are in Hollywood.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go,” he said. “I’m late. The chief wants me to gather up the girls and bring them on board with me.”

  Vincent rose with him. He was puzzled. “The girls? But won’t Mrs. Al Fay object?”

  “Mrs. Al Fay has decided to remain in the villa in order to give the chief more time to spend alone with his sons.”

  They shook hands and Youssef walked out into the lobby. Vincent sank back into his chair. There was so much about these people he would have to learn. They were not quite as simple as they had first seemed. The waiter came up and he ordered another Bloody Mary. Might as well start the day right.

  The actresses and Patrick were waiting in the lobby with their luggage when he came out of the restaurant. He asked Elie to have the bagagiste carry the bags to the pier and place them on board the Riva.

  “You go ahead,” he told them. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I have one more call to make.”

  He made his way up the small landing to the telephones and placed a call to Jacques at the Martinez. The telephone rang ten times before the sleepy voice answered.

  “C’est moi, Youssef,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes,” Jacques’ voice was surly.

  “The chief has asked me to go on the boat with him for a few days and I am leaving now. I wanted to know how you left it with her.”

  “She is supposed to call me.”

  “Do you think she will?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have much trouble getting her to whack me off.”

  “She will call then,” Youssef said with satisfaction. “The first step in getting in between her legs is getting it in her hands.”

  “When will you be back?” Jacques asked.

  “Sunday evening. The chief is leaving for Geneva that night. And if you haven’t heard from her by then, I will give a dinner party for the American director and you will meet her then.”

  “I don’t have to come with that Princess Mara again, do I?” Jacques asked. “I can’t stand that woman.” />
  “No. This time you will come alone.” Youssef came out of the booth and gave the telephoniste a few francs tip. He fished in his pocket for the cigarette case, then remembered he had given it away. He swore to himself, then smiled as he went down the steps toward the street. It wasn’t a bad deal. The three-hundred-dollar cigarette case got him the last five percent. And fifty thousand dollars was not to be laughed at.

  ***

  She was standing at the window looking out at the sea when he came into her room. “Are you packed?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said without turning back to him. “My father’s boat is leaving.”

  He came to the window and looked out. The yacht was turning and moving out to sea toward the Estérel. The sky and the water were a matching blue and the sun was bright. “It will be warm today,” he said.

  She still didn’t look at him. “He was water-skiing with his sons.”

  “Your brothers?”

  Her voice was bitter. “They are not my brothers! They are his sons.” She turned back into the room. “Someday he will find that out.”

  Ali Yasfir was silent as he watched her cross the room and sink into a chair near the bed. She lit a cigarette. She didn’t realize how much her father’s daughter she really was. That slim strong body was not her mother’s lineage. Her mother, like most Arab women, ran to weight.

  “I remember when I was little he would take my sister and me water-skiing with him. He was very good and it was such fun. Then after he divorced my mother, nothing. He never even came to see us. He threw us away like old shoes.”

  Despite himself Ali found himself defending Baydr. “Your father needed sons. And your mother could bear no more children.”

  Leila’s voice was contemptuous. “You men are all alike. Maybe someday you will learn that we are not just creatures of your convenience. Even now, women are giving more to the cause than most men.”

  He didn’t want to argue the point with her. That wasn’t his job. His job was to get her to Beirut and then into the mountains to the training camp. After that she could argue all she wanted to. He pressed the button for the porter.

  “What plane are we making?” she asked.

  “Rome via Air France, then MEA to Beirut.”

  “What a drag,” she said. She got out of the chair and walked back to the window and looked out. “I wonder what my father would think if he knew I was here?” she asked.

  CHAPTER 13

  Baydr looked at his wristwatch. “We have five hours before the market opens in New York,” he said.

  “That doesn’t leave us much time to refinance ten million pounds sterling, Monsieur Al Fay,” M. Brun, the Swiss banker, said. “And it’s too late to recall the buy orders.”

  John Sterling-Jones, his British associate, nodded in agreement. “It will be impossible. I suggest you reconsider your position, Mr. Al Fay.”

  Dick Carriage watched his employer from the far side of the room. No expression crossed Baydr’s face though he knew what the British banker was suggesting. It would be simple enough to pick up the telephone and let Abu Saad know that he would go along with their new proposition. But once he did that they would own him. And he was not about to let that happen. Not after all the years he’d spent building his independence. No one could own him now. Not even his sovereign prince.

  “My position remains the same, Mr. Sterling-Jones,” Baydr said quietly. “I do not intend to go into the armaments business. If I had, I would have done so years ago.”

  The Englishman didn’t answer.

  Baydr turned to the Swiss. “How much can I cover from here?” he asked.

  The Swiss looked down at his desk. “You have a free cash credit balance of five million pounds, Monsieur Al Fay.”

  “And a borrowing credit?”

  “Under the present circumstances?” the Swiss asked.

  Baydr nodded.

  “None,” the Swiss said. “Unless you alter your position. Then, of course, you can have any amount you want.”

  Baydr smiled. Bankers were always the same. “If I did that, I wouldn’t need your money. Monsieur Brun”—he reached into his pocket and took out a checkbook—“may I borrow a pen?”

  “Of course, Monsieur Al Fay.” The Swiss handed over his pen with a flourish.

  Baydr placed the book on the corner of the desk and quickly wrote a check. He tore the check from the book and pushed it together with the pen back to the banker.

  The banker picked up the cheek. “Monsieur Al Fay,” he said in a surprised voice, “if we pay this check for five million pounds it would empty your account.”

  Baydr rose to his feet. “That’s right, Monsieur Brun. And close it. I’ll expect a copy of your transfer advice to my bank in New York at my hotel within the hour.” He walked to the door. “You will also receive instructions on the disposition of the funds in the other trustee accounts under my jurisdiction before the morning is over. I trust that you will give the same attention to the closing of those accounts as you did to their opening.”

  “Monsieur Al Fay,” the banker’s voice rose to a squeak. “No one has ever withdrawn forty million pounds from a bank in one day.”

  “Someone has now.” Baydr smiled, then gestured to Carriage, who followed him out the door. They started through the bank toward the street.

  They were almost at the street entrance when Sterling-Jones caught up with him. “Mr. Al Fay!”

  Baydr turned to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Sterling-Jones?”

  The Englishman almost stammered in his haste to get the words out. “Monsieur Brun and I have reconsidered your position. What kind of bankers would we be if we did not grant a loan to an old valued client? You shall have the loan of five million pounds.”

  “Ten million pounds. I see no reason why I should have to use any of my own money.”

  The Englishman stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Ten million pounds.”

  “Very good, Mr. Sterling-Jones.” He turned to Dick. “You go back with Mr. Sterling-Jones and collect the check I just gave them. I’ll go on to the Aramco meeting and you catch up with me there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Baydr nodded pleasantly to the banker and without saying goodbye went out through the doors to the curb, where the limousine was waiting. The chauffeur leaped out of the car to open the door for him.

  Baydr sank into the comfortable seat with a sigh of relief. What the bankers did not know was that it all had been a bluff. There was no way he could close the trustee accounts without the consent of the principals. But that check for five million pounds had made them forget that.

  He lit a cigarette. By tomorrow it wouldn’t matter. Chase Manhattan in New York would give him seventy percent of the market value on the stock as collateral. He would return that to the Swiss bank because the New York bank’s interest rates were much lower. That would leave his exposure here at only three million pounds, which he could cover from his own account if necessary.

  Meanwhile it wasn’t all bad. Perhaps he really owed Ali Yasfir a note of thanks. Because of the withdrawal of their support, he had wound up as the controlling stockholder of a small bank in La Jolla, California, a mail-order insurance company based in Richmond, Virginia, and a home-loan and finance company with forty branches in Florida. The three companies alone had assets of over sixty million dollars, of which at least twenty million was in cash with an annual profit of ten million dollars after taxes.

  Abruptly, he decided not to go to the Aramco meeting. There was really nothing to be accomplished. Production and sales quotas for the year were being met. Instead, he directed the chauffeur to take him back to the President Wilson Hotel, where he maintained a suite.

  He picked up the phone and called Aramco, apologized for canceling the meeting at the last moment and asked that Carriage be sent to the hotel when he got there. Then he called his pilot at the airport and asked him to prepare to depart for the States immediately.

  He went into the bedro
om, took off his jacket and stretched out on the bed. Jabir appeared, almost immediately, from his little room behind Baydr’s.

  “Would the master like me to draw him a bath?”

  “No, thanks. I just want to lie here and think.”

  “Yes, master.” Jabir turned to leave.

  Baydr called him back. “Where is the girl?” He had almost forgotten that he had brought Suzanne, the little red-headed French actress that Youssef introduced to him in Cannes.

  “She went out shopping, master,” Jabir answered. “She said she would return shortly.”

  “Good. See to it that I am not disturbed for at least an hour.”

  “Yes, master. Shall I draw the drapes?”

  “Good idea.” When the servant left, Baydr closed his eyes. There was so much to do and so much to think of and so little time. It was hard for him to believe that just yesterday afternoon he had been water-skiing with his sons.

  He had spent every hour of daylight with the boys. They had gone to beaches, looking for shells which they never found, rented paddle boats at St. Tropez, snorkeled off the Porquerolles, picnicked on the Isle of Levant. In the evening after their dinner, they watched the Disney films he kept for them in the film library on the boat. He also had other films but they were not for children.

  But it hadn’t been until they were on their way back to Cannes on Sunday evening that he realized something had been troubling him.

  They were in the salon watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs when it came to him. He looked down at their rapt faces watching the screen. He held up his hand, signaling the steward who was performing as projectionist. The film stopped and the salon lights came up.

  The boys looked at him. “It’s not bedtime yet, Daddy,” Muhammad said.

  “No, it’s not,” he answered in Arabic. “It’s just that I realized we’ve been so busy having a good time we haven’t had time to talk.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” the boy said agreeably. “What shall we talk about?”

  Baydr looked at him. Muhammad had answered him in English. “Supposing we talk in Arabic,” he said with a gentle smile.

  An uncomfortable look crossed the boy’s face but he nodded his head. “Yes, Baba,” he answered in Arabic.