The Pirate by Harold Robbins Page B

they will force us to our own knees.”
    There was a knock at the door. Baydr unlocked and opened it. “Please escort Mr. Yasfir back to the party,” Baydr said to Carriage. He turned back to the Lebanese. “If there is anything you should require to make your visit more pleasurable, we are at your disposal.”
    Yasfir stared at him. The bitterness of his disappointment rose like gall in his throat. But he forced himself to smile. Things would change quickly once Baydr discovered they had his daughter with them. “Khatrak,” he said. “With your permission?”
    “Go with peace,” Baydr said formally in Arabic. He closed the door behind them and crossed to the table and picked up the portfolio. He looked at it for a moment, then dropped it into a wastebasket.
    It had merely been a ploy to involve him. They had never intended to go through with the portfolio. He knew that now. He also knew that they would not give up. They would not rest until they dragged the world down to their own level. Or, failing that, destroyed it.
    Suddenly weary, he went back to his desk, sat down and closed his eyes. He saw the gentle, earnest eyes of his father looking into him, almost to his very soul. The scene was one from childhood. He had been ten years old at the most.
    The children had been playing at war and he had been beating his playmate with a wooden scimitar, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Die, infidel, die! In the name of the Prophet, die!”
    He felt the scimitar snatched from his hands and turned in surprise to see his father. His playmate was sniffling and crying. “Why did you stop me?” he asked angrily. “Ahmad was pretending to be a Jew.”
    His father knelt so that their faces were on the same level. “You were blaspheming,” he said gently. “You were taking the name of the Prophet to justify your own actions.”
    “I was not,” he retorted. “I was defending the Prophet.”
    His father shook his head. “You forget, my son, that the Prophet you try to defend by an expression of violence is also known as the Messenger of Peace.”
    That had been thirty years ago and now other yesterdays crowded and fought their way into his memory.

CHAPTER 6
    The airstrip shimmered in the heat of the noonday sun as the twin-engine DC-3 circled the field at the edge of the desert in preparation for its landing. Baydr looked down from the window at the field as he heard the landing gear lock into place. At the far end of the airstrip, there were several large black Cadillac limousines waiting; beyond them, resting in the shade of a cluster of palm trees, were some camels and their drivers. The grinding sound of the flaps signaled that the plane was on its final approach.
    Baydr turned back to the cabin. The stewardess was already in her seat, with her seatbelt fastened. Opposite him, Jabir, too, was strapped in. He fastened his own belt as the plane dropped smoothly toward the desert.
    The sand was rushing below his window and it seemed as if the pilot were about to land on the desert floor. Then the concrete landing strip raced beneath him and a shudder ran through the plane as the wheels touched down. A moment later, the pilot hit the brakes and Baydr felt himself thrust against the seatbelt. Abruptly, the pressure ceased and the plane rolled gently toward the end of the airstrip. The noise of the motors lessened in the cabin and the stewardess rose from her seat and came down the cabin toward him.
    A blond American, she had the same impersonal, professional smile that stewardesses seemed to cultivate no matter what airline they worked for. The fact that this was his father’s private plane seemed to make no difference in her attitude. “I trust you enjoyed the flight, Mr. Al Fay.”
    He nodded. “It was fine, thank you.”
    “We made good time,” she said. “Only eighty-seven minutes from Beirut.”
    “Very good time,” he said.
    The plane came to a stop. Through the windows he could see the limousines begin to