The Pirate (30 page)

Ben Ezra’s voice was matter of fact. “I did. I thought I made that very clear at our last meeting.”

“It was a wild guess,” Harris said defensively.

“Everything’s guesswork,” Ben Ezra said quietly. “But even if it hadn’t been, you people weren’t going to do anything about it, were you?”

Harris didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” the old general’s voice was confidential. “Did you report back to your chief?”

Harris nodded. “Of course.”

Ben Ezra looked at him. He shook his head sadly. “All this tragedy could have been prevented.”

“I don’t see how,” Harris said.

“We should have done what we did the last time. The war would have been over now.”

“And world opinion would have been against you,” Harris said.

“A lot of good world opinion is doing us now,” Ben Ezra retorted. “I don’t see any armies coming in to help us.”

“It’s all after the fact,” Eshnev said quickly. “That’s not the purpose of this meeting, general. We’re here to listen to your evaluation of the present situation.”

“So that you can ignore it as you did the last time,” Ben Ezra said sarcastically. He saw the expression of hurt in Eshnev’s eyes and was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said in a gentler voice. “I forgot that your frustrations must be even greater than mine.”

Eshnev didn’t answer.

Ben Ezra looked across the table at the Americans. “It is lonely when you grow old,” he said.

No one at the table spoke.

“Would you gentlemen be kind enough to answer a question for me?” he asked. “Tell me, why are you at this meeting? It must be as obvious to you as it is to me that nothing will come of it, nothing will be changed, nothing will be done.”

“That’s not true, General Ben Ezra,” Colonel Weygrin said quickly. “We have the highest respect for your opinions and ideas.”

Ben Ezra smiled. “And I for yours. If only I could understand them. I still can’t make up my mind whether you love us or hate us.”

Again Eshnev tried to bring the meeting back on track. “You received the Al Fay file?”

“Yes,” Ben Ezra nodded.

“What conclusions do you draw from it?”

“If the Arabs were smart they would disband their armies, find three more like him and conquer the world without firing a shot.”

“How could that be done?” Harris asked.

Ben Ezra permitted himself a smile. “Simply enough. They would buy the world.”

No one laughed.

“The war is already lost, you know that,” the old man said.

“What do you mean?” Weygrin asked. “It’s not over yet. The Israelis are on the move into Egypt and Syria. Sadat is already talking peace. He knows when he’s licked.”

“He knows when he’s won,” Ben Ezra said dryly. “What he wanted to do was to restore Arab pride. He’s done that. The Arab soldiers have fought bravely. Their honor has been restored. That was what he set out to do.” He reached into his robe and took out a sheet of paper. “We might still win this war but it depends on how much time you will allow us.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Harris said.

“We need two more weeks,” Ben Ezra said. “Egypt is no longer important. We must bypass Cairo, occupy Libya on one side and take Syria. If we do that, we break the back of the threatened oil blockade; if we do not, then it’s just a question of time and we will be isolated.”

“What have we got to do with giving you time?” Harris asked. “Russia is already putting on the pressure for a cease-fire.”

Ben Ezra looked at him. “You can’t be that stupid.” He shook his head sadly. “Where was Russia when the Arabs were winning? Trying to protect us with a cease-fire demand? No. They were silent until the tide of battle had turned. Now they want a cease-fire to protect their gains. The Arabs have come up with a better weapon than they ever dreamed of—an oil embargo. That can stop the Western world faster than an atom bomb.

“If we control the oil of Libya and the Syrian pipelines, the embargo would fall apart. We could supply the whole world if we had to. Iran is already in the Western camp, Jordan would jump in quickly and there would be no threat.

“But if we do not, the whole world economy may come tumbling down around our ears. The Arabs will split the world. France will immediately try to leap into the breach and break the European entente. Japan will be forced to go along because they get eighty percent of their oil from the Arabs. Bit by bit, the Arabs will turn the countries of the world away from us. And I would not blame them, because their own survival is as important to them as ours is to us.”

“If you pushed the war into Syria and Libya, Russia might intervene,” Harris said.

“I doubt it,” Ben Ezra said. “They are as fearful as you are of a confrontation.”

“That’s your opinion,” Harris said coldly.

“True,” the old man said. “Still, if your Mr. Kissinger would slow down just a little, we could accomplish it.”

Harris looked at Eshnev. “Fortunately this is not your government’s policy.”

Eshnev nodded reluctantly. “It is not.”

Harris turned back to Ben Ezra. “It is Mr. Kissinger’s hope to have an effective cease-fire agreement in two days.”

“My congratulations to Mr. Kissinger.” Ben Ezra’s voice was sarcastic. “He may yet prove himself the Neville Chamberlain of the seventies.”

“I think this discussion is beyond the scope of our meeting,” Harris said stiffly, “and should be dealt with on a higher level. What we are most interested in now is what we can say about Al Fay.”

Ben Ezra looked at him. “I don’t think there is anything we can do about him except to pray that he continues to resist the pressures from the left and holds as close as he can to the middle course. He certainly isn’t interested in turning his wealth and power over to the masses, anymore than any of the other rich sheiks. But they are all walking a narrow line. How long they can maintain it is anyone’s guess.” He turned to Eshnev. “Have you had any further information about him since the war began?”

“Very little,” Eshnev replied. “Communication has been difficult. Al Fay was called home just before the conflict began and has remained there ever since. We know that he is going to head up the unified investment committee for all the oil-producing countries but that the actual oil negotiations are to be conducted by a joint committee of the foreign ministers of those countries. They are being very cautious about separating the exploitation of oil as a political tool and the use of the money they receive from its sale. Internally, they are deemphasizing the profit line. The new line is ‘Oil for justice.’”

“Do you think he will have any influence over the oil policies?” Harris asked.

“Very little at first,” Eshnev said. “Perhaps more later when they realize that slowing down or collapsing the world economy will only result in losses of their own investments. I think Al Fay and his Prince Feiyad recognize that and that is the reason he took over that committee rather than playing a more political role. By virtue of being nonpolitical he will be in a good position to negotiate freely with both sides.”

“Where is his family?” Ben Ezra asked.

“His wife and sons are still in Beirut,” Eshnev answered. “Also his ex-wife and daughter.”

“The one that was in the Swiss school?” the old man asked curiously.

“Yes,” Eshnev answered.

“Not anymore.” For the first time the CIA agent spoke. “The younger daughter, Leila, left three days ago on a flight to Rome. There was another girl and a young man with her.”

Eshnev was surprised. “How did you happen to find out?”

“The young man,” Smith answered. “We’ve had him under surveillance for a long time. He was mixed up in the drug traffic in Vietnam and lately moved over to the Middle East.” He reached for a cigarette. “He used to be associated with the Mafia but recently went to work for Ali Yasfir.”

“What’s the connection with the Al Fay girl?” the old man asked.

“We’re checking into it,” Smith said. “I have some information already. She left school last spring for guerrilla training. For some reason, after she got out she spent the entire summer at home. Then this man contacted her and in less than a week they took off.”

“Does our intelligence have this information?” Eshnev asked.

“Yes. I passed it on to them the same day I got it.”

“Are they still in Rome?” Eshnev asked.

“I don’t know,” Smith answered. “They split up at the airport. The girls got in one taxi and the man in another. My man could only follow one cab. He stuck with the man.”

“Is the man still in Rome?” Eshnev asked.

“Yes. In the morgue. He was killed two hours after he arrived. The police think it was a gang killing. It probably was. The Mafia doesn’t like losing one of its soldiers to the competition.”

“We should locate the girl,” the old man said.

“I’ll have our people get on it,” Eshnev replied. He got to his feet. “I guess that does it, gentlemen. Unless you have anything further to discuss?”

The Americans looked at one another. The meeting was over. They rose and shook hands. Colonel Weygrin and Harris were very formal with the old man but Smith was different.

He wrinkled up his face as he stared up at Ben Ezra. “You know, general,” he said in his nasal Midwestern voice, “you’re absolutely right. I wish more of our people would listen to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith. I wish they would too.”

“You have my card,” the CIA man said. “Give me a call if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Thank you again,” Ben Ezra said.

The Americans left the room and the two Israelis looked at one another. “What do you think, Isaiah?” Eshnev asked.

The old man shrugged. “Do you speak Yiddish, Lev?”

“No,” Eshnev answered. “I’m sabra. I never learned it.”

“They have a saying,” the old man said. “I think it originated many years ago in Poland or Russia during one of the pogroms. ‘Schver tzu zahn a Yid.’”

“What does that mean?” Eshnev asked.

The old man smiled, but there was no humor in it. “It’s tough to be a Jew,” he said.

BOOK THREE

The End of Autumn
1973

CHAPTER 1

Dick Carriage knocked on the door of Baydr’s bedroom. Baydr’s voice came through the door, slightly muffled. “Come in.”

Dick opened the door and blinked for a moment. The drapes were drawn wide and the room was flooded with the Swiss morning sun. Baydr was seated at the small desk with his back to the window. His face was shadowed by a light coming from behind him. He looked up at Carriage. “Yes?”

“The French are here, chief.”

Baydr looked at his watch. “They’re up early.”

Carriage smiled. “They’re taking no chances. They don’t want anyone to get to you before they do.”

Baydr laughed. “That’s the nice thing about the French. You can always depend on them not to honor any allegiances except to themselves.”

“What shall I tell them?”

“Tell them to wait.” He held some papers out to Carriage. “What do you know about this?”

Carriage took the report and looked down at it. The block letters printed across the top read: ARABDOLLS LTD. Inside the folder was a series of shipping tickets and billing invoices. Each bill was stamped paid. He looked back at Baydr. “No more than you do, except that they pay their bills promptly.”

Baydr took back the folder. “That’s just it. It’s out of character. Do you know any Lebanese who pays his bills promptly?”

“I don’t understand. They’re good customers. What have we got to complain about?”

“Another thing,” Baydr said. “They’re paying premium for express delivery. What the hell is so important about dolls that they should pay premium for shipment? That’s out of character too. The Lebanese wouldn’t be willing to pay premium for anything even if their lives depended on it.”

“Christmas is coming. Maybe they want the dolls in the stores before then.”

“Could be if they were shipping now. But they began in September.” Baydr gave the file to Carriage. “Get me a rundown on that company.”

“Will do, chief.” He went to the door. “Anything else?”

Baydr shook his head. “Give the French some coffee. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

When the door closed behind Carriage, Baydr rose, opened the French doors behind his desk and went out onto the terrace. The clear morning air held the first promise of the coming Swiss winter. Baydr breathed deeply, taking it into his lungs.

In the distance the mountains loomed clear and blue-green, snow already gracing the peaks. Baydr looked down at the city, which was just coming awake. There was a feeling of excitement in the streets.

Geneva. It was all here. The money, the power, the diplomacy, the trading. This was where the war would be won, not on the battlefields of the Middle East. The banks and trading halls of this strange old Swiss city gave the illusion of being above strife and struggle, but they were willing to take profit from every changing wind no matter what direction it came from.

Baydr went back into his room and looked around. The suite in the hotel was leased on an annual basis and it had served its purpose for his occasional visits. But now, he wondered. For the next year he would have to spend a great deal more time here. It would not be big enough, important enough, for the entertainment he was supposed to do.

The more he thought about it the more sense it began to make. A permanent base here would not be wasted. Besides, the winter season in Switzerland was always good. Between St. Morita and Gstaad the whole world would be there. And he had no doubt that Jordana would love it, the parties, the social scene, the winter sports.

He made a note to call her later and tell her of his decision. Also to have Carriage let the real estate broker know he was in the market for a home in Geneva and a villa in Gstaad. He was sure he would find something quickly. Money had a way of getting things done.

He walked over to the mirror and looked at himself. In his white shirt and dark slacks, he looked more European than Arab. He went to the closet. A moment later he came out with his robes in his hand. Quickly, he slipped into the dark brown mishlah and the black-banded, white headcloth that fell to his shoulders. Again he looked into the mirror. This time he nodded in satisfaction. Now he looked like an Arab. He smiled to himself as he went to the door. There were advantages in going native. Especially when it came to dealing with the French, who thought themselves superior to everyone on the face of the earth.