The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  Baydr watched him reach for a cigarette and light it with trembling fingers. “Tell me,” he said softly, “how much did Ali Yasfir give you to make those shipments?”

  Youssef fell apart before his eyes. Now his voice was trembling as well as his fingers. “He made me do it, master,” he cried. “He forced me into it. I only did it to protect you!”

  “Protect me?” Baydr’s voice was cold.

  “He had pictures, master. He threatened to expose them to the world.”

  “Who would give credence to pictures of me? Especially from a source like that? Why didn’t you come to me at once?”

  “I did not want to hurt you, master. They were pictures of your wife.” Youssef’s eyes were filled with real tears.

  “You have them with you?”

  “Yes, master.” Youssef’s voice was hushed. “They are in a valise I left in the entrance hall. I was hoping it would not come to this.”

  “Get it,” Baydr said calmly.

  Youssef almost ran from the room and came back a moment later carrying the suitcase. Baydr watched him silently as he opened the suitcase and removed the portable video cassette player and a small-screen American television set. Quickly he connected the two machines. He looked around the room for an electrical outlet. There was one at the side of the desk. He plugged the wire into it, then placed the cassette in the player.

  He hesitated, looking down at Baydr. “I still feel you should not subject yourself to this, master.”

  Baydr’s voice was almost savage. “Turn it on!”

  Youssef pressed the button and the screen filled with bright empty light. There was a faint hum from the unwinding tape. A moment later the first blurred images appeared in color. Youssef made an adjustment and the pictures were suddenly in sharp focus.

  Jordana and a man were lying on their backs in bed, apparently filmed from a camera overhead. They were both naked and passing a cigarette between them while obviously watching something happening offscreen. Abruptly the screen went blank for a moment, and resumed with the sound of their voices issuing from the speaker. Jordana was going down on the man. “Just beautiful,” the man said, looking down at her.

  Baydr did not say a word until the cassette had finished and the screen had gone blank. Then he reached across the desk and turned it off. His face was inscrutable. “I’ve seen the man before. Who is he?”

  “An American actor,” Youssef answered. “Rich Sullivan. His real name is Israel Solomon.”

  “A Jew?”

  Youssef nodded. “That was another reason I did not want to have the pictures exposed.”

  There was still no expression on Baydr’s face. “When did this take place?”

  “At a party at the actor’s home in California after you left for Tokyo.”

  “Was Yasfir at this party?”

  “No.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes. I accompanied Michael Vincent and your wife to the party. But I left early with a headache.”

  “How did Yasfir get this tape?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  “Are there other copies?”

  Youssef took a deep breath. If Baydr believed his next statement, he might still save himself. “He said he had others which he would distribute if anything happened to stop the shipments.”

  “Why did he leave this with you?”

  Youssef hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t suggest to you that if there were any problems you were to show the tape to me?”

  “No, master, you must believe me,” Youssef said sincerely. “Only the thought that you believed I betrayed you forced me to reveal this to you.” He fell to his knees before Baydr, then seized and kissed his hand. “By my father’s life, I would rather die than betray you.” He began to weep.

  Baydr looked down at him silently for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. “Compose yourself, man. Do not weep like a woman.”

  Youssef got to his feet, the tears falling on his cheeks. “I must have the words of forgiveness from your lips, oh, master,” he cried.

  “I forgive you,” Baydr said heavily. He got to his feet, gesturing to a door. “There is a washroom. Bathe your face. It would not do to have you appear thus before the servants.”

  “Thank you, master!” Youssef said fervently, seizing Baydr’s hand again and kissing it. “The light once more comes back into my life now that the burden has been lifted from my soul.”

  Baydr watched him go into the bathroom and close the door behind him. He didn’t believe a word the man had said. He had condemned himself with his own words. No one but Youssef himself could have obtained that tape. There was no way Yasfir could have gotten it if he was not at that party. Silently, he moved across the room and opened the door.

  Jabir was seated on a bench across the corridor. He rose to his feet when he saw Baydr. Baydr crossed the hall to meet him.

  “Yes, master?”

  Baydr’s voice was calm. “That piece of camel dung has brought grave dishonor to our name.”

  Jabir’s eyes turned cold, the skin tightening across his cheekbones. He did not speak.

  “A mile down the road there is a curve around the mountain where the cliff drops off almost two hundred meters. It is too bad that his car must skid off the icy road.”

  Jabir nodded. His voice was a deep growl in his throat. “It will be a tragedy, master.”

  Baydr went back into the library. A moment later he heard the sounds of an automobile engine coming through the closed window. He turned and looked out between the drapes in time to see Jabir’s Land Rover disappear down the driveway. He went back to his desk and sat down wearily.

  A moment later, Youssef returned from the bathroom. He looked more like himself. Even the tone of his voice reflected the return of his confidence. “What shall we do about this, Chief?”

  “I must have time to think before I can make my decision. There is nothing more we can accomplish tonight.”

  “I guess not,” Youssef said hesitantly.

  “We might as well try to get some rest. You’d better go back to the hotel.”

  Youssef looked at the video cassette player. “Would you like me to guard that for you?”

  “No. Leave that with me.” He got to his feet. “I will let you out. The servants have all gone to bed.”

  It wasn’t until the powerful Land Rover, its headlights blacked out, came at him from his blind side, pushing his tiny rented Opel inexorably toward the precipice, that Youssef looked back frantically to see Jabir hunched grimly over the steering wheel and remembered the one thing he never should have forgotten. The thought came to him at exactly the same moment that his car snapped the frail wires that served as a guardrail at the edge of the cliff and went hurtling into the air. He never heard the scream of fear that leaped from his throat as he plunged toward oblivion, but the thought burned in his brain.

  Jabir never went to sleep when Baydr was awake.

  CHAPTER 9

  Baydr was seated alone in the breakfast alcove overlooking the garden, reading the Paris Herald Tribune and sipping coffee when the snobbish English butler came into the room. The man cleared his throat, and Baydr looked up.

  There was a disapproving tone in the butler’s precise voice. “There are some gentlemen from the police asking to see your excellency.”

  Baydr looked at him. No matter how many times he had explained to the butler that he did not hold a rank which entitled him to be addressed as “excellency,” the man refused to address him in any other manner. His last employer had been the pretender to the throne of Spain and “excellency” was about as far down as he would descend from “highness.”

  “Show them into the library,” Baydr said. “I will join them in a moment.”

  “Yes, your excellency.” The butler left the room, his straight back and squared shoulders somehow carrying a hint of disapproval.

  Slowly Baydr folded the newspaper and placed it
neatly on the table. He took a last sip of coffee, then rose and went into the library.

  There were two policemen, one in uniform, one in plainclothes. The plainclothesman bowed. He spoke in English. “Mr. Al Fay?”

  Baydr nodded.

  The policeman bowed again. “Permit me to introduce ourselves. I am Inspector Froelich and this is my associate, Sergeant Werner.”

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “First I must apologize to you for intruding upon your breakfast but I am afraid I bring some rather unpleasant news. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Youssef Ziad?”

  “Yes. He is the managing director of my Paris bureau. We had a meeting here last night. Why do you ask about him? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

  “No, Mr. Al Fay, he is in no trouble at all. He is dead,” the inspector said.

  “Dead?” Baydr pretended shock. “What happened?”

  “Apparently he lost control of his car and went off the road. The car fell almost two hundred meters.”

  Baydr stared at him for a moment, then walked around behind the desk and sat down. His face was grim. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “But this is quite a shock. Mr. Ziad was an old and valued associate.”

  “We understand, sir,” the plainclothesman said politely. “We have a few routine questions but we will try to be as brief as possible.” He took a small notebook from his pocket and opened it. “You mentioned that you met with Mr. Ziad last night. At what time did he arrive here?”

  “About half past twelve.”

  “Was there any particular reason for his arrival at that late hour?”

  “There were important business matters to discuss. And unfortunately my wife and I had guests for dinner which precluded our meeting earlier.”

  “And approximately what time did he leave?”

  “About two o’clock, I imagine.”

  “Did Mr. Ziad have anything to drink while he was here?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “We had a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He drank almost all of it. But that shouldn’t have bothered him. Mr. Ziad drank it constantly. It was his favorite wine.”

  “He had good taste,” the inspector said. He looked at the uniformed sergeant. A subliminal signal passed between them. The inspector closed his book and turned back to Baydr. “I guess that completes our questions, Mr. Al Fay,” he said, satisfaction in his voice. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Baydr rose. “I will have to make arrangements for the funeral. His body will have to be flown home. Where is he now?”

  “At the police morgue.” This was the first time the sergeant had spoken. “What there is left of him.”

  “That bad?”

  The inspector shook his head sadly. “We have gathered what remains we could find. Identification was made from his wallet and passport. The car itself is in a thousand pieces. It is too bad the people don’t realize what a difference even the smallest amount of alcohol can make on an icy road at night.”

  Baydr sat for a moment after the policemen had left, then reached for the telephone and called Dick in Geneva.

  “Call me back on the scrambler,” Baydr said when Dick answered. A moment later the other telephone rang and he picked it up. “Dick?”

  “Yes.”

  Baydr kept his voice expressionless. “The police just left. Youssef ran his car off the road last night and was killed.”

  “My God! What happened?”

  “The road was icy and the police think he had a little too much to drink. He was quite upset when he left here and he did finish almost a whole bottle of champagne.”

  Dick was silent for a moment. “Did you learn anything from him about Arabdolls?”

  “He claimed that he was coerced into it by Ali Yasfir.”

  “Then we were right. Did he admit that he was paid for it?”

  “No. He swore that he received no money from them.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s dead and it’s over.”

  “Is it?” Dick replied. “We don’t know what Yasfir will do now.”

  “There’s very little he can do. He knows that he can’t coerce us.”

  “I hope so. But you never can tell with a son of a bitch like that. You don’t know what he’ll come up with next.”

  “We’ll deal with him when it comes,” Baydr said calmly. “Right now, we have some unfinished business. I may send you down to the Paris office next week to take over until we can find a replacement for him.”

  “Right.”

  “Meanwhile see to it that his family and the Paris office are notified of the accident. Also make arrangements with a mortician to collect the remains from the police morgue in Gstaad and ship them to his home.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Alert the crew to have the plane ready for a flight to Beirut on Friday. Jordana and the boys will be going home.”

  “Isn’t that a week earlier than planned, chief?”

  Baydr’s voice grew edgy. “Just do it. I think they’ll be better off at home.” He slammed down the receiver and sat there staring at the videotape player.

  Abruptly he crossed the room and locked the doors. Then, taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the center drawer of the desk and took out the cassette. He inserted it into the machine and pressed the start button.

  The screen went white for a moment then the picture and the sound came on. He sat almost immobilized as the tape unreeled before him. It was all there, just as it had been with him. The beauty of her body, the languorous sensuous movements, the words, the tiny animal-like cries rising to screaming orgiastic crescendos. It was all there, but this time it was not for him. It was for another man. A Jew.

  The screen went blank just as the knot in his stomach exploded into blazing pain. Angrily he slammed his fist down on the stop button, almost smashing the machine. Then he held his hands in front of him and looked at his trembling fingers.

  Abruptly he closed them into fists and beat them against the desk. Over and over, he pounded them in unison to the muttered words—“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!”—until his hands were painful and swollen.

  He stared again at his hands, then at the machine. “Jordana!” he cried as if she were inside the machine. “Is it for this I have made myself into a murderer?”

  The screen did not answer him. It was blank. He put his face down on the desk and wept, as he had not done since he was a boy. A prayer he had not uttered since childhood came to his lips:

  In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.

  I seek refuge in the Lord of men,

  The King of men,

  The God of men,

  From the evil of the whisperings of the slinking devil,

  Who whispers into the hearts of men.

  The comfort of the prayer flowed through him. The tears dropped and he felt the hurt and pain leave him. Too easily one forgot the wisdom of Allah, the wisdom revealed by the Prophet. And much too easily, one forgot that the laws of Allah, revealed by the Prophet, were given to men to live by.

  For too long had he tried to live by the laws of the unbelievers but they were not for him. Now he would live as he was intended. By the one true law. The laws of Allah.

  ***

  Jordana came into the library. The shock was still in her voice. “I just heard about Youssef,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “He was dung,” he said coldly. “But now he stands before the throne of judgment and must answer himself for his own sins. And even Allah, the most merciful, will not find forgiveness for him. Certainly he will see the fires of hell for all eternity.”

  “But he was your friend.” She could not understand the change in him. “He has served you for many years.”

  “He served only himself. He was no man’s friend but his own.”

  She was bewildered. “What happened between the
two of you? What did he do?”

  His face was an impenetrable mask, his eyes hooded. “He betrayed me, as did you.”

  She stared at him. “Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He looked at her almost as if he did not see her. “You don’t.”

  She shook her head silently.

  “Then I will show you.” He went back to the desk, and pressed the button on the videotape player. “Come here.”

  She stood behind the desk next to him and looked down at the small screen. It was white and shining for a moment then the picture came on. She half-cried, her breathing catching in her throat in shocked disbelief. “No!” she cried aloud.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “I won’t watch!” she said, starting to leave.

  His hand gripped her arm tightly, so tightly that she felt a pain shoot up into her shoulder. “You will stay, woman, and watch.”

  She closed her eyes and turned her head away. His fingers gripped her chin like claws of steel, forcing her face back to the screen. “You will watch,” he said coldly. “All of it. All of your shame. As I had to.”

  Silently she stood there as the tape unwound. It seemed to last forever. She felt the sickness in her. It was crazy. All of it. There had been a camera on them all the time and there was only one way it could have been done. Sullivan had to have controlled it himself.

  Then it all came back to her. That time he left the room, just before they began. He was starting the machine. And his insistence at always staying in the upper portion of the giant bed. The camera must have been fixed to cover that area. He had to be sick, sicker than anyone knew.

  Suddenly, it was over. The screen went black and Baydr turned off the player. She turned to look at him.

  His face was expressionless. “I had asked discretion of you. You were not discreet. I had specifically told you to avoid Jews. The man is a Jew.”

  “He is not!” she flashed. “He is an actor named Rick Sullivan.”

  “I know his name. His real name is Israel Solomon.”

  “I didn’t know.”