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  “Thank you,” Samir replied. “And may Allah stand guard over your wife and child.”

  He left the curtained chamber that separated the rooms, as Ben Ezra turned back to his wife and began pressing the moistened cloth to her lips.

  ***

  It was in the hour just before dawn that the storm reached its zenith. Outside the tent the wind roared like the echo of distant cannon and the sand beat against the tent like hailstones flung from an angry sky. It was at that moment that Nabila screamed in pain and fear, “The child within me is dead. I can no longer feel its life and movement.”

  “Hush,” Samir said gently. “All is well.”

  Nabila reached for his arm. There was a note of desperation in her voice. “Samir, please. Remember your promise. Let me die.”

  He looked at her, the tears beginning to blur his vision. “I love you, Nabila. You will live to give me a son.” He was swift, so swift that she never felt the hypodermic needle find her vein, only the sweet surcease of the pain as the morphine took her.

  He straightened up wearily. For more than two hours now he had not been able to find the child’s heartbeat with his stethoscope. All the while, Nabila’s pains had been increasing but there had been little dilation.

  “Aida,” he said to the old serving woman. “Call the caravan master. I will need his help to take the child. But have him wash thoroughly before he enters the tent.”

  She nodded and fearfully ran from the chamber. Quickly, Samir began to lay out the instruments on the clean white cloth next to the bed.

  Suddenly Nabila shuddered and blood began pouring from her. Something was seriously wrong—Nabila was hemorrhaging. Her heaving body seemed to be trying to push the child out. But Samir could not feel the baby’s head. He knew now what the trouble was. The afterbirth was blocking the outlet of the womb.

  The stain on the sheets was growing rapidly and Samir worked madly against a quickening fear. With his hand he went into Nabila and dilated her cervix so that he could pull out the afterbirth. When he’d removed the bloody tissue, he broke the waterbag and guided the baby down and out of her body. Swiftly he cut the umbilical cord and turned back to Nabila. He held his breath for a moment, then let go a sigh of relief as the bleeding stopped. Now, for the first time, he looked at the child.

  The baby was a girl and she was dead. He knew that even without touching her. The tears rushed to his eyes as he turned and looked down at Nabila. Now she could never bear him a son. Nor any child. He would see to it that she would never become pregnant—the threat to her life would be too great. He felt a flood of despair. Perhaps she had been right. Death might have been preferable.

  “Doctor!” Ben Ezra stood at the curtained door.

  He stared at the Jew; his eyes blurred. He couldn’t speak.

  “My wife, doctor.” Ben Ezra’s voice was frightened. “She stopped breathing!”

  By reflex, Samir picked up his medical bag. He looked again at Nabila. The morphine had done its work well. She was sleeping comfortably. He went quickly into the other chamber.

  He knelt over the silent woman, searching for her heartbeat with his stethoscope. There was no sound. Quickly, he prepared an injection of adrenaline and shot it directly into the woman’s heart. He forced open her mouth and tried to breathe some air into her lungs but it was of no use. Finally, he turned to the man. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Ben Ezra stared at him. “She can’t be dead,” he said. “I see her stomach moving.”

  Samir looked down at the woman. Ben Ezra was right. The woman’s stomach seemed to be heaving. “The child!” Samir exclaimed. He reached into his bag and took out a scalpel.

  “What are you doing?” Ben Ezra demanded.

  “The child,” Samir explained. “It’s not too late to save the child.”

  Samir had no time to open the woman’s clothing. He cut it away swiftly. Now the woman’s belly was exposed, blue-tinged and swollen. “Now, close your eyes—do not look,” Samir said.

  Ben Ezra did as he was told. Swiftly, Samir made an incision. The thin skin cracked with an almost popping sound. Samir opened the abdomen and a moment later he had the child in his hands. Quickly, he cut the cord and tied it off. Two sharp slaps on the child’s bottom and the healthy wail of the baby filled the tent.

  He looked at the father. “You have a son,” he said.

  Ben Ezra stared back at him with a strange expression. He didn’t speak.

  “You have a son,” Samir repeated.

  Ben Ezra’s eyes filled with tears. “What will I do with a son?” he asked. “With no woman and six hundred miles of desert still to cross. The child will die.”

  “We will give you supplies,” Samir said.

  The Jew shook his head. “It won’t work. I am already hiding from the police. There is nothing I have to offer the child.”

  Samir was silent, still holding the child in his arms.

  Ben Ezra looked at him. “Your child?” he asked.

  “Dead,” Samir answered simply. “I guess Allah in His wisdom saw fit not to answer our prayers.”

  “Was it a son?” the Jew asked.

  Samir shook his head. “A girl.”

  Ben Ezra looked at him. “Maybe Allah is wiser than both of us and that is why He brought us together in the desert.”

  “I don’t understand,” Samir said.

  “If it were not for you, the child would have died with the mother. You are more his father than I.”

  “You’re mad,” Samir said.

  “No.” Ben Ezra’s voice seemed to gain strength. “With me, he will die. And the burden of taking him could lead to my death also. But Allah has answered your prayer for a son. With you, he will grow safe and strong.”

  Samir looked into the Jew’s eyes. “But he will be Muslim, not a Jew.”

  Ben Ezra stared back at him. “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Did you not tell me that we are all travelers on the same sea?”

  Samir looked down at the tiny boy-child in his arms. Suddenly he was filled with a love such as he had never felt before. Truly Allah had in His own way answered their prayers. “We must be quick,” he said. “Follow me. Take the other child.”

  Ben Ezra picked up the stillborn baby and went back through the curtain. Samir placed his son on the table and wrapped him in a clean white sheet. He had just finished when Aida and Fouad came in.

  He looked at the woman. “Clean and wash my son,” he commanded.

  The woman stared into his eyes for a moment, then her lips moved. “Allah be praised.”

  “There will be time for that at morning prayers,” he snapped. He looked up at the caravan master. “You come with me,” he said, leading the way through the curtain.

  ***

  As suddenly as it had come upon them, the storm had gone. The day dawned bright and clear. The two men stood at the side of the new graves at the edge of the oasis. Beside Ben Ezra were his two donkeys, one loaded down with water and supplies, the other with the old worn leather saddle. Ben Ezra and Samir looked at each other awkwardly. Neither knew what to say.

  Isaiah Ben Ezra held out his hand.

  Silently, Samir took it. There was a warmth and bond between them. After a moment they let go and the Jew swung up into the saddle. “Khatrak,” he said.

  Samir looked up at him. With his right hand, he made the traditional gesture. He touched his forehead, his lips and finally his heart. “As-salaam alaykum. Go with peace.”

  Ben Ezra was silent for a moment. He looked at the graves, then at Samir. The eyes of both men were filled the tears. “Aleichem sholem,” he said and turned the donkey away.

  For a moment, Samir stood looking after him, then slowly walked back into his tent. Aida was waiting at the entrance for him, an excitement in her voice. “The mistress is awakening!”

  “Did you tell her?” he asked.

  The serving woman shook her head.

  He went through the curtain and picked up the child. He was stand
ing next to his wife when she opened her eyes. Smiling, he looked down at her.

  “Samir,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said softly, placing the child in her arms. “Allah has answered our prayers. We have a son.”

  For a long moment she looked down at the baby, then she turned her face up to him. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I had the most terrible dream,” she half-whispered. “I dreamed that the baby had died.”

  “It was a dream, Nabila,” he said. “Just a dream.”

  Nabila looked down at the child, her fingers moving the white sheet away from the infant’s face. “He’s beautiful,” she said. Then a startled expression came into her face. She looked at up him. “Samir,” she exclaimed. “Our son has blue eyes!”

  He laughed aloud. “Woman, woman,” he said. “Will you never learn? All newborn children have blue eyes.”

  But Allah had really performed a miracle. For Baydr Samir Al Fay grew up with dark, almost violet, blue eyes, the color of the sky over the desert at night.

  BOOK ONE

  The End of Spring

  1973

  CHAPTER 1

  The needlepoint spray of the shower on his scalp drowned out the sound of the four big jet engines. Steam began to fog the walls of the narrow shower stall. Quickly, he rubbed the rich soap into a perfumed lather over his body, then rinsed and cut the water from hot to ice cold. Instantly, fatigue left him and he was wide awake. He turned off the water and stepped from the shower stall.

  As usual, Jabir was waiting, the heavy terry-cloth robe and thick towels over his arm. He draped the towels over his master’s body. “Good evening, master,” he said softly in Arabic.

  “Good evening, friend,” Baydr said, rubbing himself vigorously. “What time is it?”

  Jabir glanced at the heavy stainless steel Seiko chronograph that his master had given him. “It is nineteen hours, fifteen minutes, French time,” he said proudly. “Did the master spend a restful time?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Baydr said, dropping the towels and slipping into the robe being held for him. “Where are we?”

  “Over the English Channel,” Jabir answered. “The captain has asked me to inform you that we will be in Nice at twenty hours and forty minutes.”

  “Good,” Baydr said.

  Jabir held the door of the small bathroom open as Baydr went through into his cabin. Though the master cabin was large, taking up almost one-third of the interior of the Boeing 707, the air was heavy and over laden with the pungent scents of hashish and amyl nitrite.

  Baydr paused for a moment. He didn’t mind the odors while he was using them but afterward they were distasteful to him. “It stinks in here,” he said. “Too bad we can’t open a window and air the room out. But at thirty thousand feet that might prove embarrassing.”

  Jabir didn’t smile. “Yes, sir.” He went through the cabin quickly, opening all the air jets, then picked up a perfumed aerosol spray and sprayed the room. He came back to Baydr. “Has the master decided on his costume?”

  “Not yet,” Baydr answered. He looked down at the giant king-sized bed that took up almost half the cabin.

  The two girls lay in each other’s arms, their naked bodies gleaming in the soft golden light of the cabin. They were dead to the world. Baydr’s memory of what had happened hours before was as vivid as if it were happening now.

  He had been standing at the side of the bed, looking down at them making love. Their heads were between one another’s legs, their mouths and tongues viciously devouring each other when suddenly they rolled over one on top of the other and the twin half-moons of a pair of white buttocks was shining up at him. He felt the excitement race through him and glancing down saw his erection, hard and pulsing. Moving quickly, he scooped up the amies from the table and, kneeling over the girl, placed his penis at the opening of her anus. He slipped one strong arm under the girl’s belly and held her tightly against him. He reached down with his hand until he felt her mound. The other girl’s tongue, licking her clitoris, touched the edge of his fingertips. Savagely, he pulled her back against him and with a powerful thrust pushed himself deep into her anus.

  The girl froze for a moment at the unexpected assault, then opened her mouth to scream. As she sucked in her breath for air, he broke two capsules under her face. Instead of screaming she climaxed in a frenzied spastic orgasm. A second later, he cracked an amie for himself and exploded in the orgasm he thought would never end. The room began to reel around him and he slipped into the dark. His next conscious act was awakening and going into the shower.

  Now he stood at the side of the bed looking down at them once again. But this time he felt nothing. It was over. They had been used, and served their function. They had eased the boredom of the long flight from Los Angeles. Now he could not even remember their names. He turned away and went to the cabin door. He turned to Jabir from the doorway. “Wake them and tell them to dress,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  He walked through the narrow corridor past the two guest cabins into the main salon. Dick Carriage, his executive assistant, was in the office at the forward end of the salon, seated at the desk, next to the telephones and telex. As usual, the young attorney was formally dressed: white shirt, tie, dark suit. Baydr could never remember having seen him in his shirtsleeves.

  Carriage got to his feet. “Good evening, chief,” he said formally. “Have a good rest?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Baydr said. “And you?”

  The young attorney gave a brief grimace, the most expression he would allow himself. “I’ve never learned to sleep on planes.”

  “You will,” Baydr smiled. “Just give yourself time.”

  Carriage didn’t smile. “If I haven’t learned in two years, I’m afraid I never will.”

  Baydr pressed the service call button. “Anything happening?”

  “Everything’s quiet,” Carriage answered. “Weekend, you know.”

  Baydr nodded. It was Saturday. He hadn’t expected any action. By the time they’d left Los Angeles it had been one o’clock in the morning.

  Raoul, the chief steward, came from the galley. “Yes, sir?”

  “Coffee,” Baydr said. “American coffee.” His stomach wasn’t quite up to the harsh filter coffee the steward preferred to serve. He turned back to Carriage. “Have you been in touch with the yacht?”

  Carriage nodded. “I spoke with Captain Petersen. He has everything set for the party tonight. The Rolls and the San Marco will be at the airport. If the seas are good, he says the San Marco can get you to Cannes in twenty minutes. The car will take over an hour because of the film festival traffic.”

  The steward came back with the coffee. While he filled a cup, Baydr lit a cigarette. He took a sip of the coffee. “Would you care for something to eat?” the steward asked.

  “Not just yet, thank you,” Baydr said. He turned to Dick. “Is my wife aboard the yacht?”

  “The captain told me she was at the villa. But Youssef came down from Paris and is already aboard. He asked me to inform you that he has some sensational talent lined up for tonight.”

  Baydr nodded. Youssef Ziad was chief of his Paris office. He had one in every country. Bright, charming, educated young men who loved money and being next to the seat of power. Their main function was finding pretty girls to decorate the parties that Baydr gave in the course of business. “Get Mrs. Al Fay on the phone for me,” he said.

  He walked back to the dining area and sat down at the round mahogany table. Raoul refilled his cup. Baydr was silent as he sipped his coffee. A moment later the phone buzzed. He picked it up.

  Carriage’s voice came through. “Mrs. Al Fay is not at home. I just spoke with her secretary, who informed me that she went to a film and said she would proceed directly to the yacht from there.”

  “Thank you,” Baydr said, putting down the phone. He was not surprised. He hadn’t expected Jordana to be at home—not when th
e film festival was on or there was a party going. She had to be where the action was. For a moment he was annoyed, then it passed. After all, it was that which had attracted him to her in the first place. She was American, not Arab. American girls did not stay at home. He had once tried to explain it to his mother but she never really understood. She was still disappointed that he hadn’t married another Arab girl after he had divorced his first wife.

  The phone buzzed again. He picked it up. It was the pilot, Captain Andrew Hyatt. “With your permission, sir,” the pilot said. “I’d like to have Air France service the plane if we’ll be in Nice long enough.”

  Baydr smiled to himself. It was the captain’s polite way of finding out how much ground time he could give the crew. “I think we can plan on remaining here until Wednesday. Will that be time enough, Andy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s been a good flight, Andy. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The pilot’s voice was pleased as he rang off.

  Baydr punched the button for Carriage. “Book the crew into the Negresco until Tuesday.”

  “Yes, chief,” Carriage hesitated. “About the girls, shall we invite them to the party?”

  “No.” Baydr’s voice was flat. Youssef had already taken care of that item.

  “What shall we do with them?”

  “Check them into the Negresco with the crew,” he said. “Give them each five hundred dollars and a return ticket to Los Angeles.”

  He put down the telephone and stared out the window. It was almost dark and far below him lights were beginning to twinkle on the French countryside. He wondered what Jordana was doing. It had been almost a month since he had seen her in Beirut with the children. They had arranged to meet in the south of France on her birthday. He thought of the diamond Van Cleef necklace and wondered whether she would like it. He just didn’t know. Everything was tie-dyed jeans and fake jewelry now. Nothing was real anymore, even the way they felt about one another.

  ***

  Jordana got out of the bed and started for the bathroom, picking up her clothing as she went.

  “What’s the hurry, darling?” the man’s voice came from the bed.