The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  Baydr turned to his youngest son. “Is that all right with you, Samir?”

  The little one nodded without speaking.

  “Have you both been studying your Koran?” he asked.

  They both nodded.

  “Have you come to the Prophecies yet?”

  Again they nodded without speaking.

  “What have you learned?” he asked.

  “I have learned that there is but one God,” the older boy said haltingly. “And that Muhammad is His prophet.” From the child’s answer, Baydr knew that he had forgotten his lessons.

  Indulgently, he turned to Samir. “And what have you learned?”

  “The same thing,” the little one replied quickly in English.

  “I thought we were going to speak Arabic,” he said softly.

  The little one met his eyes. “It’s hard to say, Daddy.”

  Baydr was silent.

  A look of concern came over Samir’s face. “You’re not angry with me, are you, Daddy?” he said. “I know the words in French—la même chose.”

  “I’m not angry with you, Samir,” he said gently. “That’s very good.”

  The little one smiled. “Then can we go back to watching the movie?”

  He nodded and signaled the steward. The salon lights went down and the picture came back on the screen. A few moments later they were again lost in Snow White’s adventures. But there was a hint of tears in Muhammad’s eyes.

  He reached over and drew the boy to him. “What is the trouble, my son?” he asked in Arabic.

  The boy looked up into his face for a moment, then the tears began to roll down his cheeks. He tired to stifle his sobs.

  Baydr felt helpless. “Tell me, my son.”

  “I speak so badly, Father,” the boy said in Arabic with a heavy English accent. “I feel you are ashamed of me.”

  “I’ll never be ashamed of you, my son,” he said, holding the child close to him. “I’m very proud of you.”

  A smile burst through the boy’s tears. “Really, Father?”

  “Really, my son. Now watch the movie.”

  After the children had gone to bed, he sat in the darkened salon for a long while. Youssef and the two French women came into the room and Youssef turned the lights on before he realized that Baydr was there.

  “I’m sorry, chief,” he apologized. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “That’s all right,” Baydr said, rising. “I was just going to my room to change.” A thought flashed through his mind. “You were here when Jordana and the children arrived from Beirut?” he asked in Arabic.

  “I saw them through customs.”

  “Was their Arabic tutor with them?”

  Youssef reflected for a moment. “I don’t think so. Only the nanny.”

  “I wonder why Jordana didn’t bring him.”

  “I don’t know, chief. She never said anything to me.”

  Baydr’s face was impassive.

  “But then, Jordana and I don’t have much chance to talk. She’s always busy. There are so many parties here.”

  “I guess so. Remind me to cable Beirut in the morning. I want my father to send a tutor on the next plane.”

  “Yes, chief.”

  Baydr started for his room.

  “Mouscardins okay for dinner at ten o’clock in St. Tro?” Youssef asked.

  “Les Mouscardins will be fine.” Baydr went down the corridor to his room. Leave it to Youssef. Les Mouscardins was the finest restaurant in St. Tropez and Youssef wanted nothing but the best.

  Baydr called Jordana from the airport and next morning before the plane took off for Geneva. “What happened to the Arabic tutor?” he asked. “I thought he was coming with you.”

  “He was ill, and there was no time to get another.”

  “No time?” he said sarcastically. “You could have called my father. He would have found one and sent him right out.”

  “I didn’t think it was important. After all, it is their summer vacation. They shouldn’t have to study.”

  His voice was cold with anger. “Not important? What gives you the right to decide what is important and what is not? Do you realize that Muhammad is going to be the ruler of four million Arabs and he cannot even speak his own language?”

  She was silent.

  “I see I’ve left too much in your hands,” he said. “I’ve cabled my father to send a tutor and when they return this fall, I’m sending them to my parents’ home to live. Maybe there they’ll be brought up properly.”

  She was silent for a moment. When she spoke there was hurt in her voice. “And me?” she asked. “What plans have you made for me?”

  “None at all,” he snapped. “You can do anything you goddamn well please. I will let you know when I need you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jordana was drunk, drunker than she had ever been in her life. It was the kind of peculiar drunken high that comes only after a deep depression, a high that let her watch herself as if she were outside her own body. She was being gay, charming, witty and brilliant all at the same time.

  She had been down all day after Baydr’s call that morning. The two things she truly loved in all the world were her sons. Once she thought she had loved Baydr like that. But now she did not know how she felt about him. Maybe it was because she did not know how he felt about her.

  For the first time, she had been pleased to receive Youssef’s invitation. She didn’t like Youssef, but then she never had liked any of Baydr’s full-time flunkies and part-time pimps. She never understood Baydr’s need to surround himself with those kind of men when he could get any woman he wanted with just a snap of his fingers. He was still the most exciting and attractive man she had ever met.

  When Youssef had explained that he was giving a small dinner party for Michael Vincent, the man who was to direct Baydr’s film, The Messenger, she had agreed that it would be a nice gesture if she were to act as hostess. Especially when Youssef had hinted that Baydr would be very pleased by her action.

  Youssef’s small dinner party was for twenty people at La Bonne Auberge, a restaurant halfway between Cannes and Nice. As hostess, she was seated at the head of the table with Vincent, the guest of honor, on her right. Youssef sat on her left. Since Baydr was not there, the foot of the table was left significantly vacant. Halfway down the table, between two pretty women, sat Jacques, the blond gigolo whom Princess Mara had introduced to her the night of her birthday party. Idly, she wondered who he was with.

  The dinner, ordered by Youssef, was superb. And the Dom Pérignon came in a never-ending flow. She knew from the very first sip that she was going to feel the wine. But tonight she didn’t care. Michael Vincent was a bright man even though he drank nothing but Scotch, and also he was an American with whom she could share jokes that no one else at the table really understood.

  Halfway through dinner, she became aware that Jacques had been watching her continually. Each time she would look down the table, his eyes would try to fix her gaze. But they were too far away from one another to engage in conversation.

  After dinner, Youssef suggested that they all go to a discotheque to continue the party. By that time, she was high enough to think it was a wonderful idea. She loved to dance. It was not until they had been at Whisky for almost an hour that she looked up and saw Jacques standing in front of her.

  He bowed almost formally. “May I have this dance?”

  She listened to the music, responding to the hard driving beat of the Rolling Stones. She looked at Vincent. “Excuse me,” she said.

  He nodded and turned to talk to Youssef, who was sitting on his other side. She was dancing even before she was on the floor.

  Jacques turned to face her and began to dance. For a moment she looked at him critically. Rock really wasn’t a Frenchman’s style. He danced with the uptight stingy movements that to a Frenchman passed for cool. He would be better off if he stayed with ballroom numbers. But she soon forgot about him as she lost herself in he
r own dancing.

  His voice rose over the sound of the music. “You said you would call me.”

  She looked at him. “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. She honestly didn’t.

  “You’re lying,” he said accusingly.

  Without a word, she turned and started off the floor. His hand caught her arm, pulling her back.

  “I apologize,” he said earnestly. “Please dance with me.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then let him lead her back to the floor. The record changed from rock to ballad. He took her into his arms and held her tightly against him.

  “For the past three days I have not been able to eat or sleep,” he said.

  She was still cool. “I don’t need a gigolo.”

  “I, better than anyone else should know that,” he said. “Someone as beautiful as you. I want you for myself.”

  She looked up at him skeptically. His hardness pressed into her. “Feel how much I want you,” he said.

  Her eyes closed and she rested her head against his shoulder. She allowed herself to enjoy the pressure. The high inside her head seemed to take on a rosy hue. Maybe he was telling the truth after all.

  What she didn’t see was the smile that passed between him and Youssef.

  ***

  The coarse cotton khaki of her shapeless shirt and trousers scratched at her skin as she followed the five other new women into the barracks of the commanding officer. The stiff leather boots clumped heavily on the wooden floor. The yellow light of the oil lamps cast an unsteady glow in the room.

  The commanding officer sat at a table at the far end of the room, a uniformed soldier seated on each side. She was studying a paper on the table and did not look up until they came to a halt in front of her.

  “Attention!” their sergeant barked.

  “An-nasr. Victory,” they shouted as they had been trained to do on the very first night they arrived in camp a few days before.

  Leila felt her brassiere pull tight against her breasts as she snapped her shoulders back. The brassiere too was made of coarse cotton. She looked straight ahead.

  Slowly the commanding officer rose to her feet. Leila saw that she wore the equivalent of a colonel’s pips on the shoulders of her blouse. She stared at them silently for a moment, then abruptly in a surprisingly strong voice she shouted, “Idbah al-adul.”

  “Slaughter the enemy!” they yelled back.

  She nodded, a faint smile of approval coming to her lips. “At ease,” she said in a more normal voice.

  There was a rustle of the coarse cloth as the women settled into a more relaxed position. The CO came around the front of the desk.

  “In the name of the Brotherhood of Palestinian Freedom Fighters, I welcome you to our holy struggle. The struggle to free our peoples from the bondage of Israel and the enslavement of imperialism. I know that each of you has made many sacrifices to come here, estrangement from loved ones, perhaps ostracism from your own neighbors, but I can promise you one thing. At the end of our struggle lies a freedom greater than has ever been known.

  “And because of this, your struggle is only beginning. You will be called upon to make many more sacrifices. Your honor, your body, even your life may have to be given to win the freedom we seek. For we will have victory.

  “Here, you will be taught many things. Weaponry. Guns, rifles, knives. How to make bombs. Small and large. How to kill with your bare hands. How to fight. All so that we, together with our men, can drive the Zionist usurpers back into the sea and restore the land to its rightful owners, our people.

  “You have already, each of you, taken the sacred oath of allegiance to our cause. And from this moment on your real names will be forgotten and never used in this camp. You will answer only to the name assigned to you and in this manner, in the case of unforeseen capture, you will never give away the names of your comrades. From this moment on your only loyalty is to your cause and your brethren in arms.”

  The commanding officer paused for a moment. The women were silent in rapt attention. “The next three months will be the most difficult any of you have ever known. But at the end you will be able to go forth to take your place beside Fatmah Bernaoui, Miriam Shakhashir, Aida Issa and Leila Khaled, others of our sex who have proven themselves the equals of their brothers in the struggle.”

  She walked back around the table and took up her position between the two men. “I wish you luck.”

  “Attention!” the sergeant barked.

  “An-nasr,” they yelled, straightening up.

  “Idbah al-adu!” the CO cried.

  “Idbah al-adu!” they shouted back.

  The commanding officer saluted. “Dismissed.”

  They broke ranks and followed the sergeant back out into the night. “Get to your barracks, girls,” the sergeant said dryly. “Your day begins at five tomorrow morning.”

  He turned and went off to the men’s section of the camp as they started for their own small building. Leila fell into step with the tall young woman who occupied the bed next to hers.

  “Wasn’t the CO wonderful?” Leila asked. “For the first time I feel my life has a meaning.”

  The woman looked at her as if she were a creature from another planet. “I’m glad you feel that way,” she said in a common-sounding voice. “The only reason I came up here is to be near my boyfriend. But I haven’t even been able to get anywhere near him and I’m getting so horny that I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself in your bed eating your pussy tonight.”

  ***

  Thirty-Five thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean in a dark blue star-filled sky, Baydr slept as his plane raced time on its way to New York. Suddenly he awoke with a start. He sat up in the bed, his eyes wet with tears.

  He brushed them away with his fingers and reached for a cigarette. It must have been a bad dream. But there was a presentiment of dread within him, a curious foreboding that lay heavily on his heart.

  The girl beside him stirred. “Q’est-ce que c’est, chéri?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Rien,” he said. “Dors.”

  She was silent and after a while the drone of the engines made him drowsy. He put out the cigarette and went back to sleep.

  ANOTHER PLACE

  JUNE 1973

  The black Cadillac limousine bearing diplomatic plates rolled to a stop in front of the administration building and three men got out—two men dressed in civilian clothing and an American Army colonel. They started up the steps toward the building. The Israeli soldiers standing guard at the entrance presented arms. The colonel saluted and the three men went into the building.

  The senior staff sergeant at the reception desk rose from his chair, saluting. The colonel returned the salute. The sergeant smiled. “You know where to go, colonel?” It was more a statement than a question.

  The colonel returned his smile, nodding. “I’ve been here before, sergeant.” He turned to the other two men. “If you’ll follow me—”

  He led them down a corridor to an elevator and pressed the call button. The doors opened silently and they boarded the car. He pressed a button on the panel and the elevator began its descent. Six levels underground it stopped and the doors opened again.

  The colonel led them out into another reception area, where another senior staff sergeant sat. This time the sergeant did not get up. He looked at then, then sat down at the list on his desk. “Please identify yourself, gentlemen?”

  The colonel spoke first. “Alfred R. Weygrin, Colonel, United States Army.”

  The civilian in the three-button suit: “Robert L. Harris, United States Department of State.”

  The man in the rumpled sports jacket: “Sam Smith, American Plumbing Supply Company.”

  The sergeant didn’t crack a smile at the absurd cover name for the CIA agent. He ticked the names off the list and gave each of the men yellow plastic identification cards, which they affixed to their lapels. He pressed a sign
al button on his desk and a corporal appeared from a door on his right. “Please escort these gentlemen to Conference Room A.”

  Conference Room A was at the end of a long narrow gray corridor, guarded by two soldiers and still another sergeant at a desk. The corporal halted in front of the desk while the sergeant checked their plastic ID cards, then pressed a signal button which opened the electronically controlled doors. The visitors went into the room and the doors shut automatically behind them.

  There were approximately nine men already in the room, only two of whom were in the uniform of the Israeli Army, one a brigadier general, the other a colonel. The brigadier came forward, his hand outstretched. “Alfred, it’s good to see you again.”

  The American smiled as he shook his hand. “Good to see you, Lev. I’d like you to meet Bob Harris of State and Sam Smith. Gentlemen, General Eshnev.”

  They exchanged handshakes. The general introduced them to the others and then gestured to a large round table set at the far end of the large conference room. “Supposing we find our seats, gentlemen.”

  Printed nameplates indicated their places, and when they had all been seated there was only one vacant chair remaining at the table. It was positioned just to the left of the Israeli general, and inasmuch as he was the highest-ranking officer it meant that the vacant place belonged to his superior. The Americans glanced at the nameplate curiously but without comment.

  General Eshnev caught the glance. “I’m sorry for the delay, gentlemen, but I am informed that General Ben Ezra is on his way. He has been tied up in traffic and should be here at any moment.”

  “Ben Ezra?” Harris whispered to the colonel. “I never heard of him.”

  The soldier smiled. “I’m afraid he was a little before your time, Bob. The Lion of the Desert is almost a legendary figure. Honestly, I thought he was long since gone.”

  General Eshnev caught the tail end of the remark. “Was it your MacArthur who said, ‘Old soldiers never die, they just fade away’? Ben Ezra proves how wrong that statement is. He refuses to die or to fade away.”

  “He must be in his seventies by now,” the CIA man said. “The last we heard he’d gone back to his kibbutz after the sixty-seven war.”