The Pirate (38 page)

Abruptly he crossed the room and locked the doors. Then, taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the center drawer of the desk and took out the cassette. He inserted it into the machine and pressed the start button.

The screen went white for a moment then the picture and the sound came on. He sat almost immobilized as the tape unreeled before him. It was all there, just as it had been with him. The beauty of her body, the languorous sensuous movements, the words, the tiny animal-like cries rising to screaming orgiastic crescendos. It was all there, but this time it was not for him. It was for another man. A Jew.

The screen went blank just as the knot in his stomach exploded into blazing pain. Angrily he slammed his fist down on the stop button, almost smashing the machine. Then he held his hands in front of him and looked at his trembling fingers.

Abruptly he closed them into fists and beat them against the desk. Over and over, he pounded them in unison to the muttered words—“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!”—until his hands were painful and swollen.

He stared again at his hands, then at the machine. “Jordana!” he cried as if she were inside the machine. “Is it for this I have made myself into a murderer?”

The screen did not answer him. It was blank. He put his face down on the desk and wept, as he had not done since he was a boy. A prayer he had not uttered since childhood came to his lips:

The comfort of the prayer flowed through him. The tears dropped and he felt the hurt and pain leave him. Too easily one forgot the wisdom of Allah, the wisdom revealed by the Prophet. And much too easily, one forgot that the laws of Allah, revealed by the Prophet, were given to men to live by.

For too long had he tried to live by the laws of the unbelievers but they were not for him. Now he would live as he was intended. By the one true law. The laws of Allah.

***

Jordana came into the library. The shock was still in her voice. “I just heard about Youssef,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“He was dung,” he said coldly. “But now he stands before the throne of judgment and must answer himself for his own sins. And even Allah, the most merciful, will not find forgiveness for him. Certainly he will see the fires of hell for all eternity.”

“But he was your friend.” She could not understand the change in him. “He has served you for many years.”

“He served only himself. He was no man’s friend but his own.”

She was bewildered. “What happened between the two of you? What did he do?”

His face was an impenetrable mask, his eyes hooded. “He betrayed me, as did you.”

She stared at him. “Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He looked at her almost as if he did not see her. “You don’t.”

She shook her head silently.

“Then I will show you.” He went back to the desk, and pressed the button on the videotape player. “Come here.”

She stood behind the desk next to him and looked down at the small screen. It was white and shining for a moment then the picture came on. She half-cried, her breathing catching in her throat in shocked disbelief. “No!” she cried aloud.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“I won’t watch!” she said, starting to leave.

His hand gripped her arm tightly, so tightly that she felt a pain shoot up into her shoulder. “You will stay, woman, and watch.”

She closed her eyes and turned her head away. His fingers gripped her chin like claws of steel, forcing her face back to the screen. “You will watch,” he said coldly. “All of it. All of your shame. As I had to.”

Silently she stood there as the tape unwound. It seemed to last forever. She felt the sickness in her. It was crazy. All of it. There had been a camera on them all the time and there was only one way it could have been done. Sullivan had to have controlled it himself.

Then it all came back to her. That time he left the room, just before they began. He was starting the machine. And his insistence at always staying in the upper portion of the giant bed. The camera must have been fixed to cover that area. He had to be sick, sicker than anyone knew.

Suddenly, it was over. The screen went black and Baydr turned off the player. She turned to look at him.

His face was expressionless. “I had asked discretion of you. You were not discreet. I had specifically told you to avoid Jews. The man is a Jew.”

“He is not!” she flashed. “He is an actor named Rick Sullivan.”

“I know his name. His real name is Israel Solomon.”

“I didn’t know.”

He didn’t answer. It was obvious that he didn’t believe her.

Suddenly she remembered. Youssef had been at that party. “Did Youssef bring you that tape?”

“Yes.”

“That was more than three months ago. Why did he wait so long to give it to you?”

He didn’t answer.

“He had to be guilty of something,” she guessed shrewdly. “And he thought by using this he could clear himself.”

“He said he was coerced by someone who brought him this tape. And that unless he did their bidding they would expose you.”

“I don’t believe that! He was the only one there who would have an interest in getting it. He had to be lying!”

Again he didn’t answer. Everything she said only confirmed his own belief.

“Are there other copies?”

“I hope not, for my sons’ sake as well as your own. I would not like them to learn that their mother committed adultery with a Jew.”

For the first time the pain he felt crept into his voice. “Do you know what you’ve done, woman? If this were to become public, Muhammad could never be adopted heir to the throne. When we are at war with Israel, how can any Arab accept as his ruler and spiritual leader one whose mother has committed adultery with a Jew? Even his own legitimacy would become subject to question. By your action you could not only lose for your own son the heritage to which he was born but cause the loss of everything my father and I have struggled for all our lives.”

“I’m sorry, Baydr,” she said. “But we have grown so far apart that I thought nothing between us mattered anymore. I knew of your women. I even accepted them. Now I see I did not even have the right to accept the options you granted me. Perhaps if I were an Arab woman I would have known that. But I am not. And I could never live the life of pretense that they do, seeing but not seeing, believing the words that belied the deeds.”

“It’s too late for that now. I have made arrangements for you and the children to return to Beirut the day after tomorrow. You will remain there in our home in seclusion. You are not to leave the house, you are not to see anyone, you are not to correspond or talk to anyone by telephone except immediate members of our family and servants until January, when Muhammad is officially invested as prince and heir to the throne.”

“And after that?”

“The day after the investiture you will be permitted to return home to America to visit your parents. You will remain there quietly until you receive the papers of our divorce.”

“What about the children?”

His eyes were as dark as blue ice. “You will never see them again.”

The pain in her heart choked off her breath. “What if I refuse?” she managed to ask.

There was an implacability about him that she had never seen before. “You have no choice. Under the laws of Islam the punishment for an adulteress is death by stoning. Would you have your children see that?”

“You wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, horrified.

His eyes were unwavering. “I would.”

Suddenly, she knew the truth. “Youssef! You killed him!”

His voice was contemptuous. “Youssef killed himself,” he said, gesturing at the videotape player. “With this.”

She was beaten. No longer able to control her tears, no longer able to look at him, she sank to her knees, covering her face with her hands. Her body was racked by sobs.

He stood there impassively, looking down at her; only a pulse beating in his temple gave sign of his own effort at self-control.

After a while the tears stopped and she looked up at him. Her eyes were swollen, her face drawn with pain. “What will I do?” she whispered in a hoarse hollow voice almost to herself. “What will my life be without them?”

He didn’t answer.

Slowly she rose to her feet and began to walk toward the door. Halfway, she turned back. “Baydr,” she said, the pleading clear in her eyes and in her voice.

The cold implacability was still in his voice. “Don’t waste your time, woman, begging my forgiveness. Instead, go and thank Allah for His mercy.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment, then her eyes fell. There was no more fight left in her. Slowly she walked from the room.

He locked the door behind her and went back to the desk. He stood looking down at the videotape player for a long time, then he reached down and pressed the start button once more. Almost at the same moment, he pressed the other button, marked ERASE.

The tape raced through the machine at ten times normal playing speed. Forty minutes of tape went through the machine in only four minutes. There was a click and he pressed the stop. A moment later he pressed the start button again. This time the tape moved at playing speed. But the screen remained blank and empty.

The tape had been wiped clean.

Baydr pressed the stop button. Machines made everything so simple.

If only there were a button that one could press to wipe the ribbon of life clean so that one could begin again.

CHAPTER 10

When she boarded the plane, Jordana was surprised to find Leila there with two young men. The young men, dressed in ill-fitting dark suits with bulging pockets customarily worn by Middle Eastern office workers abroad, got to their feet politely.

“I didn’t know you were coming with us,” Jordana said.

There was a strange, challenging tone in Leila’s voice. She spoke in Arabic. “Do you mind?”

Jordana was puzzled. Leila had always spoken to her in English or French. But perhaps it was because her friends were not as proficient in these languages as she. She dismissed the thought and answered in Arabic. “Not at all. I am glad to have you with us. I was just surprised. Your father hadn’t mentioned it.”

“He might have forgotten,” Leila said.

He didn’t forget, Jordana thought. She hadn’t seen him since the morning when he told her she would have to leave. Later in the day he had returned to Geneva and had only stopped by at the house to say goodbye to the boys. “He has many things on his mind,” she said, still in Arabic. She turned pointedly to the two young men.

Leila got the hint and introduced them. “Madame Al Fay, my father’s second wife, this is Fouad Aziz and Ramadan Sidki. They are joining me for a weekend at home.”

“Ahlan,” Jordana said.

“Ahlan fiki,” they replied awkwardly, bowing jerkily as if it were not customary for them.

Just then the two children, their Scottish nanny, Anne, and her personal maid, Magda, came up the ramp into the plane. The boys broke into happy cries when they saw their sister. “Leila! Leila!” they exclaimed, running to her.

She was almost cool to them, though when they had first met, and she made a big fuss over them and spent the better part of two days playing with them before they left for Gstaad.

Jordana thought that she did not want to bother with them because of her friends. “Take your seats, children,” she said. “And remember to fasten your seatbelts. We’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”

“Can we sit next to Leila?” Samir asked. “Can we?”

She looked at Leila. “If your sister wouldn’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Leila said. Again Jordana noticed a grudging tone in her voice.

“All right, but you must behave yourselves.”

“Mother,” Muhammad asked, “why are you speaking Arabic?”

Jordana smiled. “I think it’s because your sister’s friends may not be as conversant in English as we are. That’s the polite thing to do if people don’t understand what you are saying.”

“We speak English, ma’am,” the young man called Ramadan said in a clear British accent.

“So you do,” she said. She looked at Leila, whose face was impassive. “I apologize for my misunderstanding then.”

Raoul, the steward, came back into the cabin. “Captain Hyatt would like to know if you are ready to take off, madame.”

“We will be as soon as everyone is in their places,” she said, moving to the rear seat near the round table that Baydr usually occupied.

There was a flurry of activity as the boys were strapped in and the others took their seats. Raoul and the stewardess, a pretty American named Margaret, made a swift round of the cabin checking the seatbelts. He nodded to Jordana, then went forward. A moment later the big plane moved down the runway.

Once they were in the air and the seatbelt sign was off, Jordana got out of her seat. She gestured to Raoul, who came forward. “Would you please prepare the bed in Mr. Al Fay’s cabin. I think I would like to lie down and rest.”

“Yes, madame.” He signaled swiftly, dispatching the stewardess to perform the function.

The boys were crawling all over Leila, who seemed nervous and barely able to tolerate them. “Don’t bother your sister,” Jordana said sharply. “Maybe she’s tired.”

Obediently the boys returned to their seats.

“I’m not feeling too well,” Jordana explained. “I thought I might lie down for a bit.”

Leila nodded without speaking. She watched Jordana make her way to the rear and enter the stateroom. She really could not understand what her father saw in her. In broad daylight, she was not as pretty as she had first thought. Without makeup, her face was drawn, there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was stringy and not quite as blond as it had seemed. Just as well the woman had gone to sleep. It might make things easier.

She looked across the aisle at Fouad and Ramadan. Fouad glanced at his wristwatch, then back at her. “Another half-hour,” he said.