***
The old Prince finished reading the sheet of paper, then took off his glasses with palsied fingers. His wrinkled hawk-like face under the ghutra looked at Baydr and his father sympathetically. “I know of this organization,” he said. “They are a splinter group expelled from Al Fatah because of their nihilistic aims.”
“I had heard that, your highness,” Baydr said. “I thought that with your sponsorship we could gather enough support to force them into the open.”
“And then what would you do?” the Prince asked.
“Destroy them!” Baydr said savagely. “They are thieves, blackmailers and murderers. They demean and bring dishonor to the cause they pretend to serve.”
“Everything you say is true, my son. But there is nothing we can do.”
“Why not?” Baydr demanded. He had all he could do to contain his anger. “It is your heir, the heir to your throne, whose life they endanger.”
The old man’s eyes were weak and rheumy, but his words were clear and distinct. “He is not yet my heir. And he will not be until I appoint him.”
“Then you offer no help?” Baydr asked.
“I cannot—officially,” the Prince replied. “And neither can the heads of any other states you might go to. This organization that calls itself the Brotherhood has garnered great support among certain elements. Even Al Fatah finds that it must leave them alone.” He picked up the sheet of paper and held it toward Baydr.
Baydr took it silently.
“Unofficially, if you can locate where these fiends are holding your family, you can call on me for as many men and as much money as it takes to free them.”
Baydr rose to his feet with a heavy heart. “I thank you for your boons, your highness,” he said properly. But he knew it was of no use. Without official help they would never be found.
The old Prince sighed as he held out his hand. “If I were a younger man,” he said, “I would be at your side in your search. Go with God, my son. I shall pray to Allah for the safety of your loved ones.”
Outside the great palace, in the blinding sun, Dick waited in the air-conditioned limousine. He saw them walking toward the car. “What did he say?” he asked.
“There’s nothing he can do,” Baydr’s father answered.
Baydr stared out the window as the car began to roll down the road. “It’s hopeless,” he said in a dull voice. “There’s nothing anyone can do. There’s no one willing to help me.”
Dick was silent for a long moment. So much was at stake, so many years. All the work, all the effort that had gone into getting him here would go down the drain. But there were some things that were more important than work. Like the lives of innocent children. He thought of his own two and how he would feel if they were in the same position. That was what finally decided it.
He turned on the jump seat so that he could face Baydr. “I know of some that would help you,” he said.
“Who?”
Dick’s voice was quiet. “The Israelis.”
Baydr’s laugh was bitter. “Why should they want to help me? I was born their enemy.”
Samir looked at his son. “Men are not born enemies. That is something they learn.”
“What difference does it make?” Baydr retorted sarcastically. He turned back to Dick. “Why should they help me?” he asked again.
Dick’s eyes went straight into his. “Because I’ll ask them to,” he said quietly.
Baydr was silent for a moment. Then a small weary sigh escaped his lips. “You work for them?”
Dick nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re not Israeli,” Baydr said. “Why?”
“My parents went back to Jordan to live,” Dick said. “One day a man named Ali Yasfir came to visit them and asked them to allow his organization to use their small village as a base. After a few months, during which three girls were raped and many were abused, the villagers demanded that they leave. What the Fedayeen gave them in answer was death. Ali Yasfir personally led his men on a systematic house-by-house extermination of the village. Only a small boy and two girls managed to escape. They told us the true story, while the Fedayeen loudly proclaimed the latest Israeli atrocity. The two girls personally saw Ali Yasfir slaughter my mother and father.”
“And so now that you have betrayed me,” Baydr said bitterly, “you think that you should help me.”
Dick met his look honestly. “Not for that reason. But because we both believe that the Arabs and Israelis can live and work together in peace. It is men like Ali Yasfir who kill this possibility. They are our enemies. They are the ones who must be destroyed.”
CHAPTER 13
Baydr looked at the two men in the doorway. If anything, they looked more Arab than either his father or himself. The old man was tall. His headcloth almost hid his face except for the large hawk-like nose, and his dusty faded jellaba trailed to the floor. The young man was dark and swarthy with a heavy Syrian mustache over his lips. He wore faded tan khaki shirt and trousers.
Baydr and his father rose as General Eshnev led them to him. “Dr. Al Fay, Mr. Al Fay—General Ben Ezra.”
The general stared at Samir for a moment, then smiled. “It has been a long time, my friend.”
Samir’s face suddenly went pale. He felt himself trembling inside. From the corner of his eye he looked at Baydr, hoping that his nervousness would not be noticed. Baydr was looking at the general.
“And this is your son,” the general said. “Allah has been good to you. He is a fine man.”
Samir’s nervousness left him. “It is good to see you again, general.”
Baydr looked at his father. “You know each other?”
His father nodded. “Our paths crossed one time in the desert. Many years ago.”
General Eshnev spoke quickly. “I must repeat our official position, gentlemen, so that we may all understand it clearly. A very delicate cease-fire exists at the moment so we dare not condone any official action which might involve entering enemy territory. Such an action could destroy the sincere efforts that are being made to maintain the peace that Israel so profoundly desires.”
He paused for a breath. “But there is nothing that we can do about the actions of private citizens as long as we are not aware of what they are doing. Have I made myself clear?”
The others nodded.
“Good,” he said. “General Ben Ezra is of course a private citizen. He has been retired from the Israeli army for many years. And so is the young man with him. A former first sergeant in the Syrian army, he was taken prisoner on the Golan Heights and at the general’s request was released in his custody. He goes by the name of Hamid.”
The Syrian bowed respectfully. “I am honored.”
“The honor is ours,” Baydr and his father replied.
“And now, gentlemen, I must leave you,” General Eshnev said. “Unfortunately I have duties that take me elsewhere.”
When the door closed behind him, they sat down at the small round table. From beneath his jellaba, Ben Ezra produced several rolls of maps. He spread them open on the table. “One week ago, after your arrival in Tel Aviv, I was told of your problem. On my own, I undertook to examine the feasibility of a rescue plan. But first I knew we had to locate the camp in which the prisoners were held. In order to do that, I asked that Hamid be released in my custody. Many years ago, when we were both very young, Hamid’s grandfather and I soldiered together in the British army and Hamid in the family tradition grew up as a professional soldier. I knew that before the war Hamid’s last job was as an instructor in a particular camp where the Brotherhood was training a women’s corps similar to that of Al Fatah. It failed.”
He looked at Baydr, then continued in the same even tone. “Your daughter, Leila, spent three months in that camp. Hamid reports to me that she was a good soldier, much more serious than most in her application to duty and much more idealistic in her politics. After her stint at the camp, Hamid accompanied her to Beirut, where he remained until he decided to return to Syria for military duty since there was no longer any opportunities for mercenaries among the Fedayeen.”
Baydr looked at Hamid. “Then you knew my daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she ever talk about me?”
“No, sir.”
“What did she talk about?”
“Freeing Palestine mostly,” Hamid answered. “It was her feeling that it was not only the Jews who held back the liberation but also the wealthy, elite Arabs who wanted to perpetuate their power over the land and its peoples.”
“Do you think she included me in that group?”
Hamid hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir, I believe she did.”
Baydr turned back to Ben Ezra. “I’m sorry, General, I’m still trying to understand what happened.”
The general nodded. He looked down at the map and pointed to a spot. “We think we have located the one camp where they might be. You say your plane was a 707?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m sure we have it,” he said, a faint note of triumph entering his voice. “There is an old camp built by the Syrians and abandoned more than ten years ago. It is located just north of the Jordanian border, west of your own country. At the time it was built, they had planned to use it as a base for giant bombers but since they could not purchase the planes, the entire project was given up. But the airstrip is still there and there have been rumors in the countryside that the camp has been occupied by the Brotherhood. There is one major difficulty however: the airstrip is in the mountains on a plateau seven hundred meters up and the camp itself is one hundred and fifty meters higher. There are only two ways to penetrate. We could go in by air, but the sound of planes would give them too much warning and they would have the captives executed before we could get to them. The other was is to go on foot. To avoid detection we would have to set down at least fifty miles from the camp, concealing ourselves by day and traveling by night through terrible terrain. We would have two nights of forced march and attack on the third night. My estimate based on the size of the camp is that they may have as many as one hundred men there. So even if we are successful in freeing the captives, we will still have the problem of getting them to safety before we are pursued.”
He looked up at them. “That’s my speech. Any questions?”
“How do we know that we’re going to the right camp? Or that they will be there when we get there?” Baydr asked.
The general’s voice was flat. “We don’t. But that’s the chance we take. Right now it’s the only possibility we have. Unless you know of another place where a 707 can land.”
“I don’t know of any other.”
“Then it is you who must make the decision to go or not to go.”
Baydr looked at his father for a moment, then he turned back to the general. “I say we go.”
The general smiled. “Well said. Since this is an unofficial action we will need to recruit volunteers. I say fifteen, not more than twenty men. Anymore than that would be unwieldy and make us too visible. They will be paid very high wages, of course, for such dangerous work.”
“I will pay whatever they ask.”
“Good. I know of ten men I can be sure of.”
“I would like to volunteer,” Hamid said. “I have been at that camp once. I know the layout.”
“Accepted,” the general said grimly. “Even though you have already been drafted.”
“My prince promised me as many men as I needed,” Baydr said.
“Are they good?”
“His personal guards are all mountain warriors from the Yemen.”
“They’ll do,” the general said. The Yemeni mountain men were considered the most savage fighters in all Islam. “We will need equipment, guns, grenades, portable rocket launchers, food, water and other supplies as well as planes to get us to our starting point. It will be expensive.”
“You will have them.”
“And one more thing. We will need a helicopter to get us out. We will time its arrival at the airstrip with our attack.”
“That too,” Baydr said.
The general nodded.
“How long will it take to get ready?” Baydr asked.
“Three days if you can get your men here by then.”
“They’ll be here,” Baydr answered. He turned to his father. “Would you to be kind enough to see the Prince and ask him for the assistance he promised? I would like to remain here with the general and see that everything is in readiness.”
Samir nodded. “I will do that.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Samir looked at him. “They are my grandchildren also.” He turned to Ben Ezra. “My heartfelt gratitude, my friend,” he said. “Once again, it seems, Allah sent you to me in my time of need.”
“Do not thank me, my friend,” Ben Ezra said in Arabic. “It would seem to me that we are both blessed.”
CHAPTER 14
“Mommy, when will Father come for us?”
Jordana looked down at Samir’s little face peering at her over the edge of the blanket that was tucked under his chin. She glanced at Muhammad in the other cot. He was already asleep, his eyes tightly shut, his face pressed against the hard pillow. She turned back to Samir. “Soon, my darling, soon,” she whispered reassuringly.
“I wish he would come tomorrow,” Samir said. “I don’t like it here. The people are not nice.”
“Daddy will come soon. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“Good night, Mommy.”
She bent and kissed his forehead. “Good night, darling.” She straightened up and walked back into the other room of the small two-room cabin in which they were living. A small oil lamp glowed in the center of the little table where they took their meals. The three other women were sitting around the table, staring into the lamp. There was nothing for them to do, nothing to read. Even conversation had run dry. After two weeks there was nothing left to talk about, and they hadn’t had much in common to begin with.
“The children are asleep,” she said, just to hear the sound of a voice.
“Bless the little darlings,” Anne, the nanny, answered. The others did not even raise their heads.
“My God!” Jordana exclaimed. “Look at us. We’re as tatty a bunch of females as ever existed.”
This time they did look up. “We have to make up our minds,” she said forcefully. “Tomorrow we’ll have to do something about ourselves. Surely there has to be a needle and thread somewhere in this damned camp.”