The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  He held out his arms toward her and she came down into them. He pressed his mouth to her lips almost roughly.

  “Take it easy,” she whispered. “You still have your clothes on.” She began to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Relax. Let me undress you.”

  Later, when she was moaning beneath him, when he was marveling at the firm strength in her young rounded body, when he felt the power of her clutching loins drawing him into her like a vacuum, he heard her begin to whimper almost inaudibly.

  He forced his mind to clear so that he could listen to her words. They were the same word over and over as she was caught in the throes of strange physical and mental orgasm.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Despite the late November chill and rain that covered Paris like a gloomy gray wrapping, Youssef felt good as he walked up Avenue George V, turning past Fouquet’s into his offices on the Champs-Élysées. He entered the narrow French elevator, closed the gate and pressed the button for the top floor. Slowly the iron cage climbed toward the roof.

  He smiled to himself, thinking about his new little friend, a Greek boy, slim and young, with dark black ringlets around his face and enormous dark eyes. The boy was in love with him. He was sure of that. It had to be the real thing. When he had offered him money, the boy had been hurt, his eyes filled with tears. He apologized quickly and kissed away the tears. The boy had smiled radiantly when he promised to see him the following evening.

  The iron cage creaked to a stop at his floor. He left the elevator, closing the gate carefully behind him, so that it could respond to another summons. In true French style the office door was wooden with the company name stenciled in black lettering on the large pane of opaque glass: MEDIA (FRANCE) SA.

  His secretary, who also served as the receptionist, looked up as he came in the door and smiled. “Bonjour, Monsieur Ziad.”

  “Bonjour, Marguerite,” he answered, walking past her into his office. He closed the door behind him, took off his raincoat and went to the window. Despite the rain the Champs-Elysées was crowded. Already tourists were buying tickets for tonight’s performance at the Lido on the other side of the boulevard, and the stores were filled with customers.

  The door opened behind him and, without turning around, he held out his raincoat. “Anything new?” he asked, as the woman took the coat from him.

  “There was a telex from Genéve on the machine when I arrived this morning,” she answered.

  “Where is it?”

  “In the folder on your desk. I put it on top of the other papers.”

  He opened the folder, picked up the yellow telex sheet and read it quickly.

  ZIADMED. CANCEL FILM PROJECT AND SETTLE VINCENT CONTRACT IMMEDIATELY STOP. ALSO REFUSE FURTHER SHIPMENTS ON A/C ARABDOLLS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. WE HAVE COMPANY UNDER INVESTIGATION STOP. INFORM ME OF TERMS VINCENT SETTLEMENT SOONEST. STOP. REGARDS. ALFAYMED.

  He felt a clutch of pain in his bowels. He sank into his chair, and the sweat broke out on his forehead. Thoughts raced through his brain. Something had gone wrong. Somehow he had been discovered. He felt the nausea in the back of his throat and barely made it to the bathroom.

  After he had thrown up, he felt better. He took a glass of water from the carafe on his desk and sipped it slowly as he reread the telex. His stomach began to settle down. Maybe it wasn’t at all what he had first thought. It had been his own guilt and fear that had choked him. Baydr could have had a thousand valid business reasons for his decisions other than the ones he feared.

  He had to remain calm, so that he could think and determine the true reasons for Baydr’s actions. Then he would know what to do. He lit a cigarette and turned the telex face down on the desk. Right now, he had to execute the orders he had received. He picked up the telephone. “Locate Michael Vincent for me,” he said to his secretary.

  “Oui, Monsieur Ziad,” Marguerite answered. “Do you wish to speak with him?”

  “Not just yet,” he replied. “First I want to speak with Monsieur Yasfir. You will have to locate him also.”

  He put down the telephone and started trying to get his thoughts in order. He had received four hundred thousand dollars on Vincent’s account already but he had only disbursed half of that amount to him. He wondered if he could make a deal to close at that figure. They would then be out only for what they had already paid. Baydr could not help but be impressed by that. He began to feel better. Maybe things were not as bad as they had seemed.

  The telephone on his desk buzzed. It was his secretary. “I Have Monsieur Yasfir on the telephone for you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Genéve.”

  He punched the button, and spoke in Arabic so that if anyone overheard they would not understand. “I have received instructions to stop shipments for Arabdolls. Do you have any idea why?”

  Yasfir’s voice was calm. “No. Did they give a reason?”

  “Not really. All they said was that they had the company under investigation.”

  Yasfir was silent.

  “I will have to cable our office in Beirut,” Youssef said.

  “No.” Yasfir’s voice was cold. “We have shipments scheduled twice a week until Christmas. This is the most important season of the year for us.”

  “I can’t help it,” Youssef explained. “If I do not comply it will mean my job.”

  “Then you have a problem, my friend. If those shipments are not made my associates could lose more than twenty million dollars. And that is something they would not care to do.”

  “I can’t help it,” Youssef repeated. “I don’t like to lose my commission either. But I must keep my job.”

  “You are missing the point,” Yasfir said. “To be unemployed and alive, or to be employed—and dead.”

  Abruptly the connection was broken. The French operator came on quickly. “Avez vous terminé, monsieur?”

  Youssef stared at the telephone a moment. “Oui,” he answered quickly. Again he felt the pain in his bowel, and the sweat came out on his forehead. He placed his head in his hands. He had to think. He had to find a way to make Baydr change his mind.

  The telephone buzzed again. He picked it up. His secretary’s voice was annoyingly cheerful. It was amazing how the French considered each successfully completed long-distance call a personal victory. “Monsieur Vincent has just left London for Paris,” she said. “He is expected at the George V at one o’clock.”

  “Leave word that I must see him for lunch. It is most important.”

  He put down the telephone and picked it up again almost immediately. “Bring me two aspirin,” he said. “And then get Monsieur Carriage in Genéve.”

  The aspirin didn’t help much and now the circuits to Geneva were busy. Youssef looked at his watch. It was after eleven o’clock. Ordinarily he was not a drinking man but this time he could make an exception.

  He got to his feet and left his office. “I will return in a few moments,” he said to his secretary.

  Marguerite was puzzled. “Are you all right?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. He went out into the hallway and got into the iron cage, which slowly took him down to the ground floor. He walked out of the doorway of his office building and turned left into Fouquet’s.

  He walked up to the bar. The bartender came forward immediately. “Bonjour, Monsieur Ziad. What is your pleasure?”

  “What do you have to settle a nervous stomach?”

  The bartender looked at him. “Alka-Seltzer. I find that very effective.”

  “No.” Youssef was abrupt. “Something stronger than that.”

  “Fernet-Branca, monsieur,” the bartender said quickly. “It is an old remedy but still the best.”

  “I will have that. And make it a double.”

  “A double, monsieur?” The bartender looked at him strangely.

  “Yes. And be quick about it.” Youssef was annoyed. Why did everything have to be so difficult?


  “Oui, monsieur.” The bartender turned and took down a bottle. A moment later the dark brown liquor was in an old-fashioned glass in front of Youssef. “Je pense que c’est trop, monsieur,” he said. “Va doucement.”

  Youssef looked at him with contempt. The French always insisted that you had to do things their way. He picked up the glass and threw the drink back. For a moment, he stood paralyzed as the horrible-tasting liquor burned its way down his throat. Then clapping his hand over his mouth, he turned and ran up the stairs to the washroom.

  ***

  Michael Vincent was relaxed as he opened the door for Youssef. He smiled and held out his hand. “I have good news,” he said warmly. “I’ve completed the first draft of the screenplay.”

  Youssef looked at him without enthusiasm. “We have problems we must discuss, my friend.”

  Vincent was instantly wary. He knew that “problems” in the lexicon of the film business was a word of doom. But he also knew better than to respond directly. “There are no problems that cannot be solved.”

  Youssef looked at the American. For the first time since he had met him, the man seemed completely sober. Why did it have to be at this time? He always felt better dealing with Vincent when he was partly drunk. “I have taken the liberty of reserving a table downstairs for lunch,” he said.

  Vincent smiled. “Excellent. I’m starved. I haven’t had any breakfast.”

  “What would you like to drink?” Youssef asked after they had been seated at their table.

  Vincent shook his head. “Never drink on an empty stomach.”

  Youssef turned to the captain. “We will see the menu then.”

  “We have an excellent poached salmon, Monsieur Ziad,” the captain suggested.

  Youssef didn’t care what he ate. “That sounds fine.” He took at the American. “How about you?”

  “Sounds good to me too.”

  Youssef cursed to himself. The man was entirely too pleasant. He had hoped he would take a drink. “A bottle of Montrachet,” he said to the captain. Perhaps a good white wine would help.

  The captain bowed and went away. For a moment the two men were silent. Vincent spoke first. “You mentioned problems?”

  “Yes,” Youssef replied seriously. He looked at Vincent and decided to use a direct approach, however foreign it was to his own nature. “I have just received instructions this morning to cancel the project.”

  There was no expression on Vincent’s face. Then a small sigh escaped his lips. “I thought something like that might happen. It was going too well to be true.”

  “You’re not surprised?”

  The director shook his head. “No. Not since I read in the Hollywood trades a few weeks ago that another company was ready to begin filming a story of the Prophet in Morocco next spring.”

  Youssef felt an immediate sense of relief. So that was the reason for the telex. At least it was not because they suspected his arrangement. “Yes,” he said, keeping his face impassive.”

  “Don’t look so glum,” Vincent said. “If you’d been around the film business as long as I have, you would have seen worse.”

  “Even so,” Youssef said, “there is still an unpleasant matter for us to deal with. I have been asked to work out a settlement of your contract.”

  Vincent was alert. “There is nothing to settle. My contract is firm. I receive a million dollars regardless of whether or not the film is made.”

  “I don’t think so. As I mentioned it, half your fee is to be paid during the filming. If we do not begin production that would mean payment would not be made. Also the million dollars includes two hundred thousand for expenses contingent on performance. If that is halted we do not have to pay that sum either.”

  “I read the contract differently. I think I can enforce the payment of the whole amount.”

  “How?” Youssef asked flatly. “If you read the contract, you will find that the laws of Lebanon govern the agreement and any questions regarding it are to be settled in Lebanese courts. Do you think that you, a foreigner, would have a chance against Al Fay? You would get nothing. In fact you would probably not even find an attorney who would take your case against us.”

  Vincent was silent. That was the one clause in the contract he had not liked. It was also the one clause in the contract they had been firm about. Now he knew why.

  Youssef felt more secure now. “Friends have no place in a court of law,” he said. “It would be much more agreeable to work out a settlement between us. The world is small. You never can tell when we may be of help to one another in the future.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “You have already received two hundred thousand. Payment of another one hundred thousand completes our obligation for the screenplay. I suggest that we stop at that.”

  Vincent was silent.

  “And I will waive my commission,” Youssef said quickly. “I think that’s only fair, since the project did not go through. That way all the money would be yours.”

  “What about my expenses?” he asked. “One hundred thousand of that was supposed to be paid during the writing of the screenplay.”

  Youssef thought for a moment. What the American said was true. In addition, he already had the money with which to pay him so there would be no problem. As far as Baydr knew the money had already been dispersed. Still, he could not suppress his natural greed. “If we pay the expenses then I will insist on my commissions.”

  Vincent did the arithmetic in his head. Three hundred thousand dollars net or four hundred thousand less twenty percent. The difference was only twenty thousand dollars but it was better than nothing. He laughed suddenly. “Agreed,” he said. “With one condition.”

  “What is that?” Youssef asked cautiously.

  “That you use every effort to get me on the other picture.”

  Youssef smiled in relief. “We would do that anyway,” he said.

  The wine steward arrived, opened the bottle with a flourish and poured a taste for Youssef’s approval. “Trés bon,” Youssef said, gesturing to the steward to fill Vincent’s glass.

  Vincent held up his hand. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Bring me a double Scotch on the rocks.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ali Yasfir walked into the cafe across the street from the President Wilson Hotel in Geneva. He looked at his watch. It was almost six o’clock and the cafe was crowded with office people having a drink before they left the city for their homes in the outskirts. He found a quiet table in the back of the restaurant against the wall, ordered a coffee and prepared to wait. She had told him she didn’t think she could get away much before six o’clock. He opened his copy of the Paris Herald Tribune.

  The newspaper was filled with stories of the panic in the United States over the oil embargo. At first the country had been in a state of shock. People could not believe that it was really happening to them. But then they had settled in and begun to maneuver to increase their supplies. He smiled to himself. There was not very much they could do. By winter they would really feel the pinch. By spring, when they realized it would take five years for them to redevelop their own sources of oil which they had allowed to lapse because of the cheapness of import, they would be on their knees begging for mercy.

  That is, if the Arabs were able to maintain their unity. Already chinks were beginning to develop in the armor. There were rumors that oil tankers bound for America were still slipping through the Gulf of Oman not only from Iran but also from the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait and even Saudi Arabia. He never doubted for a moment that the rumors were true. All of those countries were tied to America not only by sentiment but by cold hard money. Their investment in the American economy was so great that they dared not tamper with it too much for fear that it would lead to chaos and the loss of all their investments. The fact that their self-interest stood in the way of complete freedom for the Arab world meant nothing to the select few who ruled those countries. They only used the crisis to en
hance their own power and wealth. These were men like Al Fay—perhaps the worst of all—men who would have to be purged before the Arabs could assume their rightful place in the sun. What they gave to the movement was a mere pittance when measured against their own benefit.

  The Prophet had said, “Look to the day of judgment.” But they were not ready to wait that long. Already plans had been made to turn the power of these men against themselves. Soon it would begin and in time they would feel the wrath of a people betrayed.

  Ali Yasfir was on his second cup of coffee when the young woman came in and stood before him. He gestured to the chair across the table without speaking.

  She sat down and the waiter appeared. “Coca-Cola avec citron,” she said. When the waiter had gone, she looked at him. “I’m sorry I’m late, but it was difficult for me to get away on such short notice.”

  “I would not disturb you if it were not important.”

  “I understand that.” The waiter came with her drink and went away again. “What is happening?” she asked.

  “Many things,” he said heavily. “Perhaps the worst is that the embargo is in danger of being bypassed.”

  She sipped at her drink without speaking, her eyes fixed on his face.

  “The United States is bringing a great deal of pressure to bear on men like your father. They threaten confiscation of their investments in the States.”

  “I haven’t seen anything like that. And I am in the office every day. I read almost every piece of paper that comes through.”

  “They are not that stupid. There are some things that would never be committed to paper. But the threats are still there. And your father is responding to them.”

  “How? My father has nothing to do with the allocation of oil.”

  “But his influence in the council is great. Sooner or later they will listen to him and others like him.”