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  She paused in the bathroom doorway and looked back at him. “My husband’s coming in,” she said. “And I have to be on the boat in time to change for the party.”

  “Maybe his plane will be late,” the man said.

  “Baydr’s plane is never late,” she said flatly. She went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She bent over the bidet and turned the taps, balancing the flow of hot and cold water until it was just the temperature she liked. Opening her purse she took out a plastic container of her own soap and straddling the bidet began to wash. “Someday I just won’t wash,” she thought. “I wonder if he would know when he ate me.”

  She rejected the idea, laughing to herself. Men were so obsessed with the idea of the irresistible power of their invincible cocks they could not imagine that any woman they penetrated would do anything but have orgasm after orgasm. She could almost count the number of times she had truly climaxed on the fingers of both hands. But of one thing she was sure. If they ever got around to handing out Academy Awards for acting out orgasms, she would win one every year.

  She pressed the plug and stood up, drying herself as the water gurgled down the drain. French hotel bidets always sounded the same whether in Paris, Cannes or the provinces. Glug, glug, pause, glug, glug, glug. Dry now, she put some perfume on her fingertips and brushed it lightly across the silky soft public mound. Then quickly, she dressed and came out of the bathroom.

  The man was sitting up, naked in the bed, playing with his penis, which was erect again. “Look what happened, darling.”

  “Goody for you,” she said.

  “Suces moi,” he said. “Pas partir camme ça.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, darling. I’m running late.”

  “Perhaps later at the party,” he said. “We can find a quiet corner, away from the crowd.”

  She met his eyes. “You’re not coming to the party.”

  “But, darling,” he protested. “Why not? I have been on the boat with you all week.”

  “That’s why,” she said. “Baydr is no fool.”

  “Then when will I see you?” he asked, his penis already beginning to droop.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.” She opened her purse and came out with a small envelope filled with hundred-franc notes. She dropped it on the bed beside him. “This should cover your hotel bill and expenses,” she said. “With something left to tide you over until you can make another connection.”

  The man’s voice was hurt. “But, darling, do you think it was only for the money?”

  She laughed. “I hope not. I would hate to think I was that bad.”

  “I will never find another woman like you,” he said sadly.

  “You just look,” she said. “There are a lot of us around. And if you need any references, you just tell them that I said you were the best.”

  She was out of the room before he could answer. As she stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter to eight. She would just have time to get to the boat and take a hot tub before dressing for the party.

  CHAPTER 2

  Youssef noticed Jordana’s white Corniche convertible parked in front of the Carlton Hotel when he got out of his taxi. He looked for her as he paid the driver but all he saw was her chauffeur, Guy, talking with some other drivers. He turned and went into the lobby.

  It was the day before the official opening of the film festival and already most of the signs were in place on the posts and the stands of the smaller film vendors. He paused for a moment to look at them.

  The most prominent display was the giant banner overhanging the entire lobby. ALEXANDER SALKIND PRESENTS THE THREE MUSKETEERS. Slowly he read the list of credits: Michael York, Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, Raquel Welch, Charlton Heston, Faye Dunaway. It was truly an all-star cast. Even he, a film fan from the time he had been a child, was impressed. He turned toward the concierge’s desk.

  Elie, the chief concierge, smiled and bowed. “Monsieur Ziad, so good to see you again.”

  Youssef returned his smile. “It is always good to be here, Elie.”

  “And what can I do for you, Monsieur Ziad?” the little man asked.

  “I am to meet Mr. Vincent here,” Youssef said. “Has he arrived?”

  “He awaits you in the little bar,” Elie said.

  “Thank you,” Youssef said. He turned away and then back as if with an afterthought. “By the way, have you seen Madame Al Fay?”

  Without hesitation, Elie shook his head. “I have not. Would you like to have her paged?”

  “It’s not important,” Youssef said. He turned and walked toward the little bar near the elevators.

  Elie picked up a telephone from behind the counter and whispered a number into it. The operator in the descending elevator answered. A moment later he put down the telephone and turned to Jordana.

  “Monsieur Elie suggests that madame might like to descend by the elevator at the Rue de Canada side of the hotel. He has sent a man there to pick you up on the mezzanine floor.”

  Jordana looked at the operator. The man’s face was blank; the elevator was already stopping at the mezzanine. She nodded. “Thank you.”

  She stepped out and walked down the corridor to the far corner of the hotel. True to his word, Elie had a man waiting there in the small old-fashioned cage elevator that still served that end of the building on special occasions.

  She left the hotel through the Carlton Bar and walked out onto the terrace and then up the driveway to the hotel entrance. Guy, her chauffeur, saw her and sprang to the door of the Rolls. She turned and looked into the lobby before she went down the steps. Through the crowd of people in front of the conciergerie, she caught Elie’s eyes. She nodded her thanks. Without changing expression, he bent his head forward in a small bow.

  Guy held the car door as she got into it. She didn’t know why Elie had flagged her down but it was enough that he had. The concierge was probably the wisest man on the Riviera. And probably the most discreet.

  ***

  The little bar was crowded but Michael Vincent had a table away from all the others between the bar and entrance. He got to his feet as Youssef entered and held out his hand.

  Youssef took it. “Sorry to be late. The traffic on the Croisette is just awful.”

  “No problem,” Michael answered. It was amazing to hear the gentle voice emerging from a six-foot-four giant of a man. He gestured to the young women seated at the table with him. “As you can see, I have been most pleasantly occupied.”

  Youssef smiled. He knew them. They were part of the group he had brought down from Paris. “Suzanne, Monique,” he murmured as he sat down.

  They rose almost immediately. They knew the signals. This was a business meeting. They had to go to their rooms and prepare for the party that evening.

  The waiter hurried over with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and held it out for Youssef’s approval. Youssef nodded. The waiter quickly opened the bottle and offered the glass for him to taste. Again Youssef nodded and the waiter looked at Michael Vincent.

  “I’ll stick with the Scotch,” the producer-director said.

  The waiter finished filling Youssef’s glass and left. Youssef raised the wine. “I trust your accommodations are to your liking.”

  The big man smiled. “The best suite in the place and you ask if I like it? What I want to know is how you did it. Two weeks ago when I called there wasn’t a room available anywhere in town during the film festival. And you call one day in advance and, like magic, there is room.”

  Youssef smiled mysteriously. “Let us say that we are not without influence.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” the American said. He finished his whiskey and signaled for another.

  “Mr. Al Fay asked me to express his appreciation for your trouble in arranging to be here. He is very much looking forward to your meeting.”

  “So am I,” Vincent said. He hesitated a moment, then spoke again. “I find it alm
ost too much to believe.”

  “What is that?” Youssef asked.

  “The whole thing,” Vincent said. “It took me more than five years to raise the money to make Gandhi and here you come to me with ten million dollars and ask if I am interested in doing the life of Muhammad as a film.”

  “It is not surprising to me,” Youssef said. “And it won’t be to you when you meet Mr. Al Fay. He is a man of great instincts. And after seeing your films of the great philosophers—Moses, Jesus Christ and Gandhi—what could be more natural than his turning to you, the one man who could possibly bring this great story to life?”

  The director nodded. “There will be problems.”

  “Of course,” Youssef said. “There always are.”

  Vincent frowned. “It will not be easy to get a release. There are many Jews in the film business.”

  Youssef smiled. “We will worry about that when we get to it,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps Mr. Al Fay will buy one of the major companies and distribute the film himself.”

  Vincent took another sip of his Scotch. “He must be quite a man, this Mr. Al Fay of yours.”

  “We think so,” Youssef said quietly. He studied the film maker and wondered if the man would feel the same way if he knew how carefully he had been investigated before Baydr chose him. Everything Vincent had done since he had been a child was in a dossier on Baydr’s desk. No element of the man’s private life was unknown. The girls, the women, the drinking, even his membership in the secretive John Birch Society and certain other subtly anti-Semitic groups. It was all there. Down to an analysis of why he was persona non grata in the film industry. Anti-Semitism was hard to hide in an industry as sensitive as the film business. It had been five years since Gandhi had been made and it had not yet been released in the Western world. And not a single new project had materialized for the man since then. He had been living on friends and promises for the last few years. And the whiskey bottle.

  Youssef didn’t tell him that Baydr had approached many others before coming to him. But they had all turned down the offer. Not because they did not agree that the Prophet was a good subject for a film, but because they thought its purpose at this time would be more propagandistic than philosophical. All of them knew better. It was the Jews they feared; the Jews had a stranglehold on the business and they were afraid to antagonize them.

  He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. “I’m sorry but I must be off. There are some important matters that I must attend to.”

  Vincent looked up at him. “Of course, I understand. Thank you for looking in on me.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Youssef looked down at him. “The yacht will be in the bay in front of the hotel. From ten thirty on there will be a fleet of speedboats at the end of the Carlton pier to ferry you out to the boat. You’re welcome anytime after that.”

  The waiter came up with the check. Youssef signed it as Vincent rose. The two men shook hands and Youssef left the bar as Vincent ordered another Scotch.

  He noticed that Jordana’s car was gone when he came out of the hotel. He glanced at the Piaget on his wrist. It was a few minutes after eight o’clock. He went down the steps and turned toward the Martinez. Already the curious were gathering. There would be a mad scene every evening during the next few weeks as people came from all over to gawk at the celebrities and movie stars. He walked rapidly through the crowd, looking neither left nor right. He had at least another hour to spare before he had to return to the boat and meet Baydr.

  The Martinez lobby was not as crowded as the Carlton had been. He went directly to the elevator and rode to the top floor. From the elevator, he walked down the corridor to the corner penthouse suite. He pressed the button. Inside a chime rang softly. He waited a moment, then impatiently pressed the button again.

  The husky resonant voice came through the closed door. “Qui est là?”

  “C’est moi. Ouvrez la porte.”

  There was the sound of the chain being removed, then the door swung open, revealing a tall blond young man. He looked at Youssef truculently. “You’re late,” he accused. “You said you’d be here an hour ago.”

  “I told you I had some business,” Youssef explained, walking past him into the suite. “I have to work for a living, you know.”

  “You’re lying!” The young man’s voice was angry as he shut the door. “You were with Patrick.”

  “I told you Patrick’s in Paris,” Youssef said. “I didn’t want him down here.”

  “He’s here,” the blond young man said flatly. “I saw him on the plane this afternoon. He was with that Englishman who owns the department stores.”

  Youssef was silent, controlling the anger that seethed inside him. He had given Patrick express orders to stay in the hotel and not come out until tomorrow. “The bitch!” he swore. “I’ll take care of him when I see him.”

  He crossed the room to the table, where a bar had been set up. There was an open bottle of Dom Pérignon in an ice bucket. He poured a glass for himself and turned to the younger man. “Would you like some wine, darling?”

  “No.” The young man was sullen.

  “Come on, Jacques,” Youssef said placatingly. “Don’t be like that. You know the plans I have for you.”

  For the first time since he had entered, Jacques looked at him. “When am I going to meet her?” he asked.

  “This evening. On the yacht,” Youssef said. “I have it all arranged.”

  “I am going with you?” Jacques asked.

  Youssef shook his head. “No. You do not even know me. If she suspects that we are friends, you will have no chance. I have arranged that you will escort the Princes Mara to the party. She will present you to the hostess.”

  “Why Mara?” Jacques protested. “You know I can’t stand her.”

  “Because she will do what I say,” Youssef answered flatly. “She will take Jordana aside sometime during the evening and tell her how great you are in bed and what a magnificent cock you have.”

  Jacques looked at him. “And that will make the lady fall in love with me?”

  “No,” Youssef answered. “That is up to you. But Jordana is still enough of an American to be impressed when a woman as experienced as Mara recommends you. Besides, Jordana is cock crazy.”

  The younger man was silent as he crossed to the bar and poured himself a glass of champagne. “I hope you’re right,” he said as he took a sip. “But what if there’s someone else she is interested in?”

  “There was,” Youssef said. “I picked that up from the crew on the boat. But if I know Jordana, she has gotten rid of him because she will have no complications while her husband is around.”

  “What if she doesn’t like me?” Jacques asked.

  Youssef smiled and put down his glass. He walked over to the young man and pulled the sash that held his bathrobe. The robe fell open. Youssef took Jacques’ penis in his hand and stroked it gently. “Ten beautiful inches,” he murmured. “How can she not help liking it?”

  CHAPTER 3

  The teletype began to clatter as soon as the plane came to a stop at the west end of the field near the warehouse. Dick Carriage unfastened his seatbelt and walked over to the machine. He waited until the sound ceased, then he tore the message from it, sat down at the desk and opened the codebook he always carried with him.

  Baydr glanced at him, then turned back to the two girls. They were already unbuckled and getting to their feet. He rose with them and smiled. “I hope you enjoy your stay on the Riviera.”

  The blond girl returned his smile. “We’re very excited. It’s our first trip here. The only thing we’re sorry about is that we won’t see you.”

  He gestured vaguely. “Business. Always business.” His mind was on the message. It had to be important if the teletype worked on the weekend. “But if there’s anything you need, just call Carriage; he will take care of things.”

  “We will,” the dark girl said. She held out her hand formally. “Thank you very much for
a lovely trip.”

  The blond girl laughed. “It was a real trip.”

  Baydr laughed with her. “Thank you for coming along.”

  Raoul approached them. “The ladies’ car is waiting at the gate.”

  Baydr watched the women follow the steward to the exit and turned back to Carriage. A moment later the young man finished decoding the message. He tore it from the pad and handed it to Baydr.

  TEN MILLION £ STERLING DEPOSITED YOUR ACCOUNT BANQUE DE SYRIE GENEVE ACCORDING TO AGREEMENT. CONTACT ALI YASFIR MIRAMAR HOTEL CANNES FOR FURTHER DETAILS.

  [signed] ABU SAAD.

  Baydr looked at the message impassively, then carefully tore it into shreds. Carriage did the same with the teletype and put the pieces in an envelope. He walked back to the desk and, from under it, pulled out what looked like an ordinary wastepaper basket with a slotted cover. He opened the basket and threw the papers into it, closed it and pressed a small button on its side. The button glowed bright red for a moment, then faded to dark. He opened the container and looked in. All that was left of the papers was crinkly gray ashes. He nodded and went back to Baydr.

  “When would you like to se Mr. Yasfir?” he asked.

  “Tonight. Invite him to the party.”

  Carriage nodded and went back to the desk. Baydr leaned back in his chair, thinking. It was always like this. No matter how carefully he planned his holidays, something always came up that interfered. But this was important and had to be attended to. Abu Saad was the financial agent for Al-Ikhwah, one of the most powerful of the Fedayeen splinter groups, and the sums of money that passed through his hands were astronomical. Contributions came from the rulers of oil-rich sheikdoms and monarchies like Kuwait, Dubay and Saudi Arabia that were anxious to keep their images in the Muslim world intact. And with typical Middle Eastern caution, part of the money was set aside for investment and safekeeping in case the movement should fail. Perhaps no more than fifty percent of the total amounts received were funneled back into the struggle for liberation.

  Baydr sighed gently. The ways of Allah were strange. Freedom had always been an elusive dream for the Arab world. Perhaps it was written that it would always remain so. Certainly there were those like himself upon whom He smiled, but for the others there was only bleak existence and struggle. But the gates of paradise were open to all who believed. Someday they would reach those gates. Maybe.