The Pirate (15 page)

“You would think after being so insistent, he would at least be on time,” Harris said.

“He’s an old man,” Eshnev said apologetically. “And he insists on using his own car, an old Volkswagen that keeps breaking down. He won’t take one of ours. If I didn’t leave special word outside I’m sure they wouldn’t even let him into the parking lot.” The telephone in front of him buzzed. He picked it up, nodded and put it down. “The general is on his way, gentlemen.”

The electronic doors opened silently and every head turned. The man who stood there was tall, over six feet, and clothed in dusty sand-encrusted Bedouin robes. The white hair and beard covering his lined, sun-blackened face made him look more Arab than Jew. Only the startling dark-blue eyes denied Arab heritage. His walk was firm and proud, as he moved toward General Eshnev. His voice was raspy as if eroded by time and the desert sand. “Lev,” he said, holding out his hand.

“General,” Lev Eshnev replied, rising. They shook hands. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce General Ben Ezra.” He then introduced each man, beginning counterclockwise from the old man’s right.

Ben Ezra looked directly into each man’s eyes and repeated his name. When the introductions were completed, they sat down.

Eshnev turned to the old man. “It’s your meeting, general.”

“Thank you.” The old man spoke in unaccented English. “I suppose you have all been made aware of the buildup along the Suez Canal by the Egyptians and by the Syrians along the Golan Heights. And I suppose you are also aware of the new military equipment that is arriving in greater quantities than ever before from Russia and China. I suppose you realize that if this rate of supply continues they will soon achieve a military parity and perhaps a strike potential in excess of our own within a very short time.”

“That’s true,” Eshnev said. “We know all that.”

“I’m sure you also know of the heavy influx of North Korean fighter and bomber pilots.”

“Yes,” Eshnev said. “But we also know that Sadat is under heavy criticism from the moderates about the Russian influence.”

Ben Ezra nodded. “But we can’t allow that to lull us into a false sense of security. For the first time they are building a capable war machine. And that’s something you don’t do unless you intend to use it.”

“Granted,” Eshnev said. “But, it could be another year and a half before they are ready.”

“No,” Ben Ezra said. “They are ready now. They can strike anytime.”

“Then what are they waiting for?” Eshnev’s voice was polite but there was a faint note of impatience. “So far you’ve told us nothing we do not know.”

Ben Ezra was unruffled. “This time, we cannot evaluate their decisions simply on a military basis. Other factors play a part in their plan. They have been infiltrating the Western world through financial investments. In addition, they are lining up the oil-producing countries to create an economic force that can be used to reduce the support we’ve been getting from the technological countries. They will strike when they have those plans worked out and not before.”

“Do you have specific information on that?” Eshnev asked.

“No. All I know is what I have picked up in my wanderings. There are rumors in the Sinai that the Fedayeen are exerting pressure on the moderates. They are selecting targets among the Arabs themselves in order to coerce cooperation from the rich oil producers.”

“Any specifics on that?”

The old man shook his head. “That’s why I asked for this meeting.” He looked across the table at the Americans. “I thought our busy friends might have some knowledge of that pressure.”

Harris looked at his companions. “I wish we did,” he said. “But there is very little we do know.”

Ben Ezra’s face was inscrutable. “You’re State Department?”

Harris nodded.

“That’s understandable,” Ben Ezra said. He looked directly at the CIA man. “How about you?”

Smith was uncomfortable. “We’re aware of their economic plans.”

“Yes?”

“But we haven’t been able to tie them together,” Smith said. “The economic thrust seems to be under the direction of one man, Prince Feiyad’s personal representative, Baydr Al Fay. But he appears to be completely independent, a known conservative and an advocate of rapprochement with Israel. Not because he likes you but because he thinks it would bring about an economic solution that would benefit the entire Middle East. But we have no way of knowing for sure. We haven’t been able to infiltrate this organization so far.”

Eshnev looked at him. “You haven’t?”

The American shook his head. “No.”

Eshnev smiled with faint triumph. “Then maybe we can be of help. We have a man in there.”

There was a moment’s silence around the table. It was Ben Ezra who broke it. “So?” he asked.

Eshnev’s voice was calm. “Al Fay’s principal interest at the moment seems to be his desire to make a film based on the life of Muhammad, to be called
The Messenger
. We also know that he has rejected a proposal by Al-Ikhwah to handle certain purchases for them.”

Ben Ezra looked at him. “Was Ali Yasfir involved in that proposal?”

It was Eshnev’s turn to be surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” the old man said. “But Yasfir just turned up in one of the Al-Ikhwah training camps in Lebanon with what they call the most important recruit they ever made. The daughter of the richest man in the Arab world. Does this man have a daughter?”

“He has two,” Eshnev said. “One is married and lives in Beirut near her mother, Al Fay’s former wife. The youngest is in a school in Switzerland.”

“You’re sure of that?” Ben Ezra asked.

“We’ve had no word to the contrary,” Eshnev said. “But we can check on that easily enough.”

“He has other children?”

“Yes. Two sons with is present wife, an American. The eldest son, now ten, is to be appointed by Prince Feiyad as heir to the throne.”

“Then if they have the girl, they may have the key to Al Fay,” Ben Ezra said.

“Possibly.”

“I’ll see what can be found out in the Sinai,” Ben Ezra said. “You people pursue your sources.”

“We’ll do that,” Eshnev said.

“Agreed,” Smith added.

“That still leaves us with the important question,” Eshnev said. “When do you think they will attack?”

“Ben Ezra looked at him. “Right after the feast of Ramadan,” he said flatly.

Eshnev could not keep the shock from his voice. “But that’s around the High Holy Days. They wouldn’t do that. Respect for the laws of Moses is still an important part of their religion.”

Ben Ezra got to his feet. “Not as much as it is of ours.”

Eshnev looked up at him. “If they come we’ll be ready for them.”

“I hope so,” the old man said. “But there are better ways.”

“Preemptive strike?” Eshnev asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You know we can’t do that. Our allies won’t permit it.”

Ben Ezra looked at him, then at the Americans. “Maybe they will if they realize that without us they lose their power in the Middle East. The Sixth Fleet can’t cross the desert and occupy the oil fields.”

“It is the belief of the State Department that there will be no attack by the Arabs in the foreseeable future,” Harris said stiffly.

Ben Ezra smiled. He looked at the CIA man. “Is that also your opinion?”

Smith didn’t answer. It was not his place to make official statements.

Ben Ezra turned to the American soldier. “Installation of the latest Russian ground-to-air missiles have been completed in the Suez and on the Golan Heights. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Don’t you agree that the time to attack has come when your own defenses are set?”

Weygrin nodded. “I would think so.”

Ben Ezra looked around the table. “Then they’re ready.” He paused for a moment. “All they’re waiting for now is to get their house in order.”

“How will we know when that is?” Eshnev asked.

“We won’t,” the old man shrugged. “Until they attack. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

A thoughtful expression came into the old man’s eyes. He seemed lost for a moment in memory, then his eyes cleared. “It may sound strange to you but in an old man’s bones there is a feeling that we may find the answer in Al Fay. The winds that blow across the desert no longer originate in the East—they come from the West. The Arab sheiks have awakened to the power of their wealth. That will be the real end of Russian influence. Communism has no answer for them. And control of the Middle East is only the beginning. If they invest their wealth wisely they may be able to soon control the world without ever firing a shot.”

He looked around the silent table. “I hate to disillusion you, gentlemen, but the fact is that we are no longer important to Islam except to their pride. They must achieve some victory no matter how minor just to regain face. The big thrust will come after the battle is over.”

He turned to the Americans. “We will need your help. For now. Later, you will need ours.”

Harris was polite but disdainful. “What makes you think that?”

“Because we, more than anyone in the world, understand them,” the old man said, his face settling into grim hawk-like lines. “And because you, not we, are the real target.”

Again there was silence. Finally Eshnev spoke. “You will continue to keep us informed of what you learn?”

The old man nodded. “Of course. I would also appreciate a favor.”

“If I can do it, it will be done,” Eshnev answered.

“I would like a complete dossier on Al Fay. His whole life. Everything—personal and business. I want to know all about him.”

Eshnev looked around the table. There were no objections. He nodded. “It will be done immediately.”

“You will relay my opinions to the Prime Minister?” Ben Ezra asked.

“Yes, I will.”

“Also give her a kiss for me,” Ben Ezra said, smiling. “I think she could use it.”

There was a polite murmur of laughter around the table. The telephone rang and Eshnev picked it up. He listened for a moment then put it down. “There’s been another hijacking,” he said. “A Lufthansa plane out of Düsseldorf. It’s on its way to Beirut.”

Ben Ezra shook his head sadly. “How sad. How stupid.” He looked at the Americans. “The net effect is nothing but headlines. And while we are distracted by the news, quietly, under our very noses, without anyone really being aware of it, they are hijacking the world.”

BOOK TWO

The End of Summer
1973

CHAPTER 1

Youssef entered the restaurant at Tahiti Plage through the roadside door. He looked out of place in his dark suit, white shirt and tie as he threaded his way through the half-naked men and women to the beach. He blinked his eyes as he came out into the bright sunlight once again. Squinting, he looked around at the tables. After a moment he saw him, seated near the frond-covered beach bar. He was talking earnestly to a good-looking young black man.

Jacques looked up as Youssef’s shadow fell across him. “Youssef,” he said in French, rising. “What a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”

Youssef didn’t return his smile. “I can see that,” he said coldly. “Tell your petit ami to get lost.”

A sullen look crossed Jacques’ face. “What right have you—”

Youssef didn’t let him finish. “I own you, you cunt!” he snarled. “Now, tell him to get lost, or I’ll throw you back into the gutters of Park where I found you! Hustling tourists for ten-franc blow jobs!”

The black man got to his feet, the muscles tensing in his arms as he tightened his fists. “Do you want me to get rid of him for you, Jacques?”

Youssef stared at Jacques. Jacques’ eyes fell after a moment. “I think you better go, Gerard.” He didn’t look at the black.

Gerard’s lips curled contemptuously. “Poule!” he snapped at Jacques, then turned his back on them. He dropped to the sand a few feet away and covered his eyes with his arm, seeming to pay no attention to them.

The waiter came up as Youssef sat down in the chair the black had just vacated. “Monsieur?”

“Coca. Beaucoup de glace.” He turned to Jacques, who was sinking back in his chair. “Where is she?”

Jacques didn’t look at him. “How the hell should I know?” he retorted sullenly. “I’ve been waiting here on the beach for her almost two hours.”

“You’re supposed to know!” Youssef snapped. “What the hell do you think I am paying you all this money for? To fuck around with petits négres on the beach?”

The waiter put the Coca-Cola on the table and went away. Youssef picked it up and drank thirstily. “Were you with her last night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The pictures? Did you get them?”

“How could I?” Jacques asked in return. “She never came to the apartment. She left me in the disco at three o’clock and told me to meet her on the beach today at noon.”

“Were you with that black all night?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Jacques answered defensively. “Save myself for her?”

Youssef reached into his inside coat pocket and took out his new gold cigarette case. He opened it slowly and carefully took out a cigarette. He tapped the cigarette on the cover of the case. “You’re not very smart,” he said, placing the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. “Not smart at all.”

Jacques stared at him. “How can I get the pictures when she does not come to the apartment? Never. Always we do it where she chooses.” He looked over Youssef’s shoulder at the sea. “Ah, she is coming now.”

Youssef turned to look. The big San Marco was heading toward the shore from the open sea. He reached into his jacket and threw a key on the table in front of Jacques. “I have an apartment reserved for you at the Byblos. All the equipment is there. The room is bugged and a photographer will be waiting in the next room for you to let him in. You get her there. I don’t care how you do it but you get her there. You have only this night left.”

Jacques stared at him. “What is the sudden rush?”

“I have a telegram in my pocket from her husband. Tomorrow afternoon she will be on a plane to California.”

“What if she does not want to stay? What am I supposed to do, hit her on the head? If it is like last night she will leave at three o’clock in the morning, return to the San Marco and go back to Cannes.”