The Pirate Page 5

He didn’t answer.

  “You’d better dress too.”

  “I will,” he answered.

  He watched her walk into the bedroom and close the door behind her, then he turned back to the bed. The black velvet case still lay there on the pillow. She hadn’t even noticed it.

  He walked back to the bed and picked it up, then quietly went back into his own stateroom. He pressed the button for Jabir.

  Jabir appeared as if by magic. “Yes, master?”

  Baydr held out the jewel case. “Have the captain place this in the safe. We will return it in the morning.”

  “Yes, master,” he replied, putting the jewel case in his pocket.

  “I have prepared the blue shantung dinner jacket for this evening. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Baydr nodded. “It will be fine.”

  “Thank you,” Jabir said. He bowed and left the stateroom.

  Baydr stared at the door the servant had closed behind him. It was impossible. She could not have failed to see the jewel case on the pillow beside her. She had chosen to ignore it.

  Abruptly, he turned and went back into her room. She was seated at her dressing table, looking into the mirror. She saw his reflection and turned toward him.

  His open palm caught her across the face. She crashed from the chair to the floor, her arm sweeping the perfume and assorted bottles of cosmetics off the dressing table. She stared up at him, her eyes wide, more in surprise than fear. She touched her cheek and could almost feel the imprint of his hand. She made no move to get up. “That was stupid of you,” she said, almost impersonally. “Now I won’t be able to come to my own birthday party.”

  “You’ll come to the party,” he said grimly. “Even if you have to wear a veil like all good Muslim women.”

  Her eyes followed him as he walked back to the door. He paused and looked down at her. “Happy birthday,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  ***

  Dick stood near the bar looking across the deck at his employer. Baydr was standing with Youssef and several other people, listening in his quietly attentive manner as Youssef told one of his interminable stories. Dick glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. If Baydr was disturbed that Jordana had not yet appeared, he did not show it.

  The music came through the loudspeakers that had been placed above the canopy over the sundeck. Several couples were dancing, their bodies fluid in the lights that had been strung across the ship for the party. Other couples were seated on the banquettes along the railings and at small cocktail tables around the dance floor. The buffet had been set up on the main deck below, but Baydr had not yet given the signal for dinner.

  Ali Yasfir came toward him. The pudgy Lebanese’s face was shining with perspiration despite the coolness of the evening. “This is a beautiful ship,” he said. “How big is it?”

  “A hundred and eighty feet,” Dick said.

  Yasfir nodded. “It seems larger.” He glanced across the deck at Baydr. “Our host seems to be enjoying himself.”

  Carriage smiled. “He always does. I know no other man who can combine business and pleasure in the same way that he does.”

  “Apparently pleasure comes first.” Yasfir’s voice was faintly disapproving.

  Carriage’s voice was polite but cold. “This is madame’s birthday after all and he did not expect to do business this trip.”

  Yasfir accepted the implied rebuke without comment. “I haven’t met the lady yet.”

  Carriage allowed himself a smile. “It’s her birthday and you know how women are. Perhaps she’s planning a grand entrance.”

  Yasfir nodded solemnly. “Western woman are very different from Arab. They take liberties our women would never dream of. My wife—” His voice trailed off as he stared at the stairway from the lower deck.

  Carriage followed his gaze. Jordana had just made her appearance. All sounds of conversation faded away. Only the music blared from overhead, and abruptly it changed to the wile strains of “Misirlou.”

  A light seemed to envelop Jordana as she moved to the center of the dance floor. She was dressed as an Oriental dancer. A hammered gold brassiere covered her breasts, below which she was bare to the jeweled band from which hung the multicolored panels of sheer chiffon that made up her skirt. On her head, she wore a coronet and her long golden hair flowed down over her shoulders. A silken veil covered her face so that only her seductive eyes were visible. She raised her hands over her head and stood poised for a moment.

  Carriage heard the Lebanese catch his breath. Jordana had never looked so beautiful. Every line of her magnificent body was revealed. Slowly, Jordana began to sway with the music.

  First the finger cymbals on her hands picked up the rhythm, and as the beat became more pronounced, she moved into the dance. Carriage had seen many belly dancers in his time. He came from a Middle Eastern family and had known the dance since he was a child. But he had never seen it performed like this.

  This was the height of sexuality. Her every movement brought back memories of the many women he had known, all concentrated in the eroticism of her dance. Deliberately, he tore his eyes away from her and looked around the deck.

  Everyone there felt it, man and woman alike. Their passions and hunger were revealed in the way they looked at her as the dance thrust wildly toward its peak. All except Baydr.

  He stood there silently watching her every move. But his face was impassive, his eyes withdrawn. And his expression did not change even as she moved in front of him and kneeling made him the classic offering movements. The music crashed to its climax and she sank to her knees before him, her forehead touching his feet.

  For a moment there was silence, then applause. There were cries of brava mixed with the Arabic ahsanti. Still Jordana did not move.

  After a moment, Baydr bent over and, taking her hand in his, raised her to her feet. They were still applauding as he turned toward them. He raised a hand to still them. The applause died away.

  “On behalf of my wife and myself we thank you for being with us on this joyous occasion.”

  There was more applause and cries of happy birthday. He waited until they were silent again. “Now, there is nothing more we can say, except that… dinner is served.”

  Still holding her hand, he led her to the staircase and they began to descend. Once again the sounds of conversation began to fill the night as the others moved to follow them.

  CHAPTER 5

  Uniformed stewards were standing at the buffet table to help the guests. The table was laden with food—roast beef, baked hams, turkeys and a giant loup caught fresh that day in the Mediterranean. The centerpiece was a huge fish carved of ice on the top of which was set a crystal bowl holding five kilos of Malossol grosgrain beluga caviar.

  Many of the tables and banquettes were already occupied by hungry guests when Carriage saw Baydr excuse himself and cross to the salon doors. He turned and looked back at Carriage, then nodded in the direction of Yasfir, who was still waiting in line for the buffet. Baydr turned and entered the salon without looking back.

  Carriage crossed to the Lebanese. “Mr. Al Fay waits at your convenience.”

  Yasfir looked at the buffet table, then at Carriage. The little man’s stomach had begun to rumble at the sight of food. Reluctantly, he began to put down the empty plate he had been holding.

  Dick took the plate from his hand. “I will arrange for a steward to bring you dinner.”

  “Thank you,” Ali said.

  Dick gave the plate to a steward and instructed him to bring it to Mr. Yasfir in the study, then turned back. “If you will follow me.”

  Yasfir followed him through the salon into the corridor which led to the staterooms. Midship, he paused at a closed mahogany door and knocked.

  Baydr’s voice came from inside. “Enter.”

  Carriage opened the door and stepped aside to allow Yasfir to precede him into the study. He did not enter. “Will there be anything further, sir?” he asked.

>   “Turn your beeper on,” Baydr said. “I may want you later.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carriage answered. A steward arrived with Yasfir’s dinner plate. “Place it inside,” he directed. When the steward came out he closed the door. He heard it lock as he went back down the corridor.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Baydr said.

  The Lebanese was already seated and eating. “It is no problem,” he said, between mouthfuls of caviar. A black driblet escaped from the corner of his mouth and he patted it deliberately with his napkin.

  Baydr walked over to the small desk and took out a folder from the center drawer. He placed it on the table next to Yasfir’s plate. “In accordance with my discussions with your principals,” he said, “I have prepared a portfolio of investments, comprising blue chip stocks and real estate, which we conservatively estimate should throw off a return of twelve percent annually over a ten-year period. This includes a growth rate of six percent and cash dividends in the same amount. It means that at the end of the ten-year period we will have received a cash return of better than forty percent, or ten million pounds sterling, while our principle will double in value.”

  “That’s very good,” Yasfir said, his mouth working on a piece of chicken.

  “All I need to put the plan in operation is approval from your principals,” Baydr said.

  Yasfir made no move to look at the folder. He put the chicken bone back on the plate and smacked his lips politely to show how much he had enjoyed the food. “May I wash my hands?” he asked.

  Baydr nodded. He took the Lebanese to the small lavatory just off the study. When the little man returned, Baydr was sitting behind his desk. The Lebanese left the folder on the table next to his empty plate and took a chair opposite the desk. Baydr waited politely for him to speak.

  “Man proposes, God disposes,” Yasfir said.

  Baydr was silent.

  “Circumstances necessitate a change in our plans,” Yasfir said. “I am afraid we will not be able to go forward with the investment plan.”

  Baydr’s face was impassive. He did not speak.

  “Other commitments had to be made for the funds,” the Lebanese said.

  “I understand,” Baydr said quietly. “I will arrange to have the ten million pounds returned to you immediately.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Yasfir said quickly. “We see no reason why you cannot handle this affair for us. At your usual rates of commission, of course.”

  Baydr nodded silently.

  “As you know, Israel is growing more powerful every day. And more oppressive. The suffering of our people under their domination continues to increase. They cry out to their brothers for help. Time is growing short. Soon we must move or all will be lost forever.” The Lebanese paused for breath. “We have entered into certain arrangements with the Société Anonyme Matériel Militaire for supplies in the amount of six million pounds. Because of the trust we have in you, we have agreed that you would be an approved purchasing agent. For this we are prepared to pay you your usual ten-percent commission above the expenditure.”

  Baydr was still silent.

  “For the balance of three million four hundred thousand pounds left after that purchase, we have earmarked a million pounds for investment in Colombian farmlands, coffee plantations, of course.”

  “Of course,” Baydr said. But both realized that he knew better. “That leaves two million three hundred.”

  Yasfir smiled. The little man was pleased. He knew that once the money had been placed in Baydr’s account, there would be no problem in securing his assistance. No matter how rich he was, he always wanted more. “We have made no plans for the balance,” he said. “We thought perhaps that you might prepare a portfolio for that amount and we would give you a list of certain numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Bahamas to which it would be credited.”

  “I see,” Baydr nodded.

  “You would, of course, receive your ten-percent commission on that balance also,” Yasfir said quickly. “That means you would receive almost a million pounds just to clear the money through your account.”

  Baydr looked at him. This was the weakness of the Arab world. Corruption and graft had almost become an integral part of their commerce. Out of ten million pounds, only six million pounds was going to be used for the benefit of the people. And that benefit was highly questionable. What the people needed was food and education, not guns. And certainly they did not need to enrich their leaders at their own expense.

  The Lebanese took his silence for assent. He rose to his feet. “Then I can inform my principals that you will attend to the matter for them,” he said with satisfaction.

  Baydr looked at him. “No.”

  Yasfir’s mouth fell in surprise. “No?” he echoed.

  Baydr got out of his chair. He looked down at the little man. “The money will be returned when the banks open Monday morning,” he said. “You will express to your people my regrets at not being able to be of service to them. But I am not equipped to function in that capacity. I am sure they can find others more qualified in those matters than I.”

  “It is written that a decision made in haste is often regretted,” the little man said.

  “It is also written,” Baydr quoted pointedly, “that an honest man lives his life without regret.” He pressed a button on the signaling device built into the digital clock on his desk. He started for the door.

  “Mr. Al Fay,” Yasfir said.

  Baydr turned to him. “Yes?”

  “There will be war before the winter comes.” The Lebanese spoke in Arabic for the first time. “When it is over we will be in control of the Middle East. Israel will no longer exist because we will force the world to its knees. The old order is changing—a new force is coming from the people. If you join us now, you will be with the victors.”

  Baydr didn’t answer.

  “The sands of the desert will turn red with the blood of our enemies,” Yasfir added.

  “And our own,” Baydr answered. “And when it is over, nothing will be changed. A few hundred yards here, a few hundred there. We are merely pawns in the hands of greater powers. Russia and America cannot afford to let either side win.”

  “They will have to listen to us,” Yasfir said. “We control their oil supply. If we turn it off they will come to their knees.”

  “Only to a point,” Baydr said. “Then they will force us to our own knees.”

  There was a knock at the door. Baydr unlocked and opened it. “Please escort Mr. Yasfir back to the party,” Baydr said to Carriage. He turned back to the Lebanese. “If there is anything you should require to make your visit more pleasurable, we are at your disposal.”

  Yasfir stared at him. The bitterness of his disappointment rose like gall in his throat. But he forced himself to smile. Things would change quickly once Baydr discovered they had his daughter with them. “Khatrak,” he said. “With your permission?”

  “Go with peace,” Baydr said formally in Arabic. He closed the door behind them and crossed to the table and picked up the portfolio. He looked at it for a moment, then dropped it into a wastebasket.

  It had merely been a ploy to involve him. They had never intended to go through with the portfolio. He knew that now. He also knew that they would not give up. They would not rest until they dragged the world down to their own level. Or, failing that, destroyed it.

  Suddenly weary, he went back to his desk, sat down and closed his eyes. He saw the gentle, earnest eyes of his father looking into him, almost to his very soul. The scene was one from childhood. He had been ten years old at the most.

  The children had been playing at war and he had been beating his playmate with a wooden scimitar, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Die, infidel, die! In the name of the Prophet, die!”

  He felt the scimitar snatched from his hands and turned in surprise to see his father. His playmate was sniffling and crying. “Why did you stop me?” he asked angrily. “Ahmad was pretend
ing to be a Jew.”

  His father knelt so that their faces were on the same level. “You were blaspheming,” he said gently. “You were taking the name of the Prophet to justify your own actions.”

  “I was not,” he retorted. “I was defending the Prophet.”

  His father shook his head. “You forget, my son, that the Prophet you try to defend by an expression of violence is also known as the Messenger of Peace.”

  That had been thirty years ago and now other yesterdays crowded and fought their way into his memory.

  CHAPTER 6

  The airstrip shimmered in the heat of the noonday sun as the twin-engine DC-3 circled the field at the edge of the desert in preparation for its landing. Baydr looked down from the window at the field as he heard the landing gear lock into place. At the far end of the airstrip, there were several large black Cadillac limousines waiting; beyond them, resting in the shade of a cluster of palm trees, were some camels and their drivers. The grinding sound of the flaps signaled that the plane was on its final approach.

  Baydr turned back to the cabin. The stewardess was already in her seat, with her seatbelt fastened. Opposite him, Jabir, too, was strapped in. He fastened his own belt as the plane dropped smoothly toward the desert.

  The sand was rushing below his window and it seemed as if the pilot were about to land on the desert floor. Then the concrete landing strip raced beneath him and a shudder ran through the plane as the wheels touched down. A moment later, the pilot hit the brakes and Baydr felt himself thrust against the seatbelt. Abruptly, the pressure ceased and the plane rolled gently toward the end of the airstrip. The noise of the motors lessened in the cabin and the stewardess rose from her seat and came down the cabin toward him.

  A blond American, she had the same impersonal, professional smile that stewardesses seemed to cultivate no matter what airline they worked for. The fact that this was his father’s private plane seemed to make no difference in her attitude. “I trust you enjoyed the flight, Mr. Al Fay.”

  He nodded. “It was fine, thank you.”

  “We made good time,” she said. “Only eighty-seven minutes from Beirut.”