The Pirate (13 page)

CHAPTER 13

Baydr looked at his wristwatch. “We have five hours before the market opens in New York,” he said.

“That doesn’t leave us much time to refinance ten million pounds sterling, Monsieur Al Fay,” M. Brun, the Swiss banker, said. “And it’s too late to recall the buy orders.”

John Sterling-Jones, his British associate, nodded in agreement. “It will be impossible. I suggest you reconsider your position, Mr. Al Fay.”

Dick Carriage watched his employer from the far side of the room. No expression crossed Baydr’s face though he knew what the British banker was suggesting. It would be simple enough to pick up the telephone and let Abu Saad know that he would go along with their new proposition. But once he did that they would own him. And he was not about to let that happen. Not after all the years he’d spent building his independence. No one could own him now. Not even his sovereign prince.

“My position remains the same, Mr. Sterling-Jones,” Baydr said quietly. “I do not intend to go into the armaments business. If I had, I would have done so years ago.”

The Englishman didn’t answer.

Baydr turned to the Swiss. “How much can I cover from here?” he asked.

The Swiss looked down at his desk. “You have a free cash credit balance of five million pounds, Monsieur Al Fay.”

“And a borrowing credit?”

“Under the present circumstances?” the Swiss asked.

Baydr nodded.

“None,” the Swiss said. “Unless you alter your position. Then, of course, you can have any amount you want.”

Baydr smiled. Bankers were always the same. “If I did that, I wouldn’t need your money. Monsieur Brun”—he reached into his pocket and took out a checkbook—“may I borrow a pen?”

“Of course, Monsieur Al Fay.” The Swiss handed over his pen with a flourish.

Baydr placed the book on the corner of the desk and quickly wrote a check. He tore the check from the book and pushed it together with the pen back to the banker.

The banker picked up the cheek. “Monsieur Al Fay,” he said in a surprised voice, “if we pay this check for five million pounds it would empty your account.”

Baydr rose to his feet. “That’s right, Monsieur Brun. And close it. I’ll expect a copy of your transfer advice to my bank in New York at my hotel within the hour.” He walked to the door. “You will also receive instructions on the disposition of the funds in the other trustee accounts under my jurisdiction before the morning is over. I trust that you will give the same attention to the closing of those accounts as you did to their opening.”

“Monsieur Al Fay,” the banker’s voice rose to a squeak. “No one has ever withdrawn forty million pounds from a bank in one day.”

“Someone has now.” Baydr smiled, then gestured to Carriage, who followed him out the door. They started through the bank toward the street.

They were almost at the street entrance when Sterling-Jones caught up with him. “Mr. Al Fay!”

Baydr turned to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Sterling-Jones?”

The Englishman almost stammered in his haste to get the words out. “Monsieur Brun and I have reconsidered your position. What kind of bankers would we be if we did not grant a loan to an old valued client? You shall have the loan of five million pounds.”

“Ten million pounds. I see no reason why I should have to use any of my own money.”

The Englishman stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Ten million pounds.”

“Very good, Mr. Sterling-Jones.” He turned to Dick. “You go back with Mr. Sterling-Jones and collect the check I just gave them. I’ll go on to the Aramco meeting and you catch up with me there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Baydr nodded pleasantly to the banker and without saying goodbye went out through the doors to the curb, where the limousine was waiting. The chauffeur leaped out of the car to open the door for him.

Baydr sank into the comfortable seat with a sigh of relief. What the bankers did not know was that it all had been a bluff. There was no way he could close the trustee accounts without the consent of the principals. But that check for five million pounds had made them forget that.

He lit a cigarette. By tomorrow it wouldn’t matter. Chase Manhattan in New York would give him seventy percent of the market value on the stock as collateral. He would return that to the Swiss bank because the New York bank’s interest rates were much lower. That would leave his exposure here at only three million pounds, which he could cover from his own account if necessary.

Meanwhile it wasn’t all bad. Perhaps he really owed Ali Yasfir a note of thanks. Because of the withdrawal of their support, he had wound up as the controlling stockholder of a small bank in La Jolla, California, a mail-order insurance company based in Richmond, Virginia, and a home-loan and finance company with forty branches in Florida. The three companies alone had assets of over sixty million dollars, of which at least twenty million was in cash with an annual profit of ten million dollars after taxes.

Abruptly, he decided not to go to the Aramco meeting. There was really nothing to be accomplished. Production and sales quotas for the year were being met. Instead, he directed the chauffeur to take him back to the President Wilson Hotel, where he maintained a suite.

He picked up the phone and called Aramco, apologized for canceling the meeting at the last moment and asked that Carriage be sent to the hotel when he got there. Then he called his pilot at the airport and asked him to prepare to depart for the States immediately.

He went into the bedroom, took off his jacket and stretched out on the bed. Jabir appeared, almost immediately, from his little room behind Baydr’s.

“Would the master like me to draw him a bath?”

“No, thanks. I just want to lie here and think.”

“Yes, master.” Jabir turned to leave.

Baydr called him back. “Where is the girl?” He had almost forgotten that he had brought Suzanne, the little red-headed French actress that Youssef introduced to him in Cannes.

“She went out shopping, master,” Jabir answered. “She said she would return shortly.”

“Good. See to it that I am not disturbed for at least an hour.”

“Yes, master. Shall I draw the drapes?”

“Good idea.” When the servant left, Baydr closed his eyes. There was so much to do and so much to think of and so little time. It was hard for him to believe that just yesterday afternoon he had been water-skiing with his sons.

He had spent every hour of daylight with the boys. They had gone to beaches, looking for shells which they never found, rented paddle boats at St. Tropez, snorkeled off the Porquerolles, picnicked on the Isle of Levant. In the evening after their dinner, they watched the Disney films he kept for them in the film library on the boat. He also had other films but they were not for children.

But it hadn’t been until they were on their way back to Cannes on Sunday evening that he realized something had been troubling him.

They were in the salon watching
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
when it came to him. He looked down at their rapt faces watching the screen. He held up his hand, signaling the steward who was performing as projectionist. The film stopped and the salon lights came up.

The boys looked at him. “It’s not bedtime yet, Daddy,” Muhammad said.

“No, it’s not,” he answered in Arabic. “It’s just that I realized we’ve been so busy having a good time we haven’t had time to talk.”

“Okay, Daddy,” the boy said agreeably. “What shall we talk about?”

Baydr looked at him. Muhammad had answered him in English. “Supposing we talk in Arabic,” he said with a gentle smile.

An uncomfortable look crossed the boy’s face but he nodded his head. “Yes, Baba,” he answered in Arabic.

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.