“Very good time,” he said.
The plane came to a stop. Through the windows he could see the limousines begin to move in closer. A number of men dressed in semi-uniforms emerged from the first car. Each carried a submachine gun, and they ran to take up their assigned places around the plane. The doors of the second limousine remained shut. Baydr could not see into it because of the heavily shaded brown sunglasses. The landing ladder rolled toward the plane, pushed across the airstrip by four workmen.
Baydr pulled the buckle and got to his feet. He started toward the door. Jabir held out a restraining arm. “If the master would be kind enough to wait for a moment.”
Baydr nodded and let the servant advance toward the door in front of him. The copilot had come from the flight cabin and was standing with the stewardess at the exit. They made no move to open it. Jabir opened his jacket and from under his sleeve withdrew a heavy Luger automatic. He pulled back on the safety and held the gun at the ready.
A knock came at the door. One, two, three. The copilot raised his hand. He looked at Jabir.
“One, two,” the servant said. “They should answer with one, two, three, four. Anything else and we leave.”
The pilot nodded. His fist rapped on the door. One, two.
The reply was instant and correct. The pilot pulled the latch on the door and it swung open. Two guards with guns were already at the top of the landing ramp and two more were at the foot of the stairs.
Baydr started for the door but again Jabir held out his hand. “With your permission, master.”
He stepped out onto the ramp and exchanged a quick word in Arabic with one of the guards, then turned back to Baydr and nodded.
The intense heat of the desert hit the young man even before he reached the doorway. Baydr stepped out into the sun, blinking his eyes in the white light. He started down the ramp just as the door of the second limousine opened and his father emerged.
His father stepped out in front of his guards and slowly walked to meet Baydr. He wore the soft traditional robes of the desert sheik, and his head and neck were protected from the hot rays of the sun by his ghutra. Baydr moved quickly to his father and took the outstretched hand and pressed it to his lips in the traditional gesture of respect.
Samir reached out and raised his son’s head. For a long moment, his eyes searched the young man’s face, then he leaned forward, to embrace him and kiss him on each cheek. “Marhab. Welcome home, my son.”
“Ya halabik. I am happy to be home, my father.” Baydr straightened up. He was a head taller than his father.
Samir looked up at him. “You have grown, my son,” he said proudly. “You have become a man.”
Baydr smiled. “It is nineteen fifty-one, Father. One does not remain a boy forever.”
Samir nodded. “We are proud of you, my son. We are proud of your achievements in the American schools, proud of the honors you have brought to us, proud that you have been accepted in the great University of Harvard in Boston, Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
“I only seek to bring honor and pleasure to my parents,” Baydr said. He looked toward the car. “How are my mother and sisters?”
Samir smiled. “They are well. You will see them soon enough. Your mother awaits you eagerly at home and tonight your sisters and their husbands will come and join us for dinner.”
If Baydr felt disappointment at their not being at the airfield to greet him, he knew better than to show it. This was not the United States, where he had been living the past five years. Arab women did not appear in public, at least not the respectable women. “I look forward to seeing them,” he said.
His father took his arm. “Come, get into the car. We will be cool in there. It is the latest model and air-conditioned against this unbearable heat.”
“Thank you, Father.” Baydr waited politely until his father got into the car before he entered.
A guard with a submachine gun ran quickly to the car and closed the door behind them, then got into the front seat beside the driver. Other guards piled into the limousine in front of them. As the cars began to move away, Baydr saw the drivers beating the pack camels toward the plane to collect the luggage and supplies. The car left the airfield and turned onto a concrete road that led to the mountains a few miles distant. An armored Land Rover with a mounted machine gun fell into the lane behind them.
Baydr looked at his father. “The war has been over this many years—I thought guards would no longer be necessary.”
“There are still many bandits in the mountains,” his father said.
“Bandits?”
“Yes,” his father said. “Those who slip across our borders to steal, rape and kill. There are some who think they are Israeli guerrillas.”
“But Israel has no borders near here,” Baydr said.
“True,” the older man replied. “But they could be agents in their employ. We cannot afford to relax our vigilance.”
“Have you ever been bothered by these bandits?” Baydr asked.
“No. We have been fortunate. But we have heard of others who have.” Samir smiled. “But let us talk of other more pleasant matters. Have you heard that your eldest sister is expecting a child in a matter of weeks?”
The automobiles began to climb into the mountains. After a few minutes Baydr saw the first hint of green on the sides of the road. Cacti gave way to scrub pine, then to flowers, bougainvillea and green grass. His father reached over and pressed the button to let down the windows. The fresh scented air flowed into the car, replacing the stale, cooled air of the machine.
His father took a deep breath. “There are many inventions of man but they cannot duplicate the scent of mountain air.”
Baydr nodded. They were climbing rapidly to the crest of the mountain. Their home was on the far side overlooking the sea. He wondered if it was as he remembered it.
The house came into view as they turned at the top of the hill and started down. Baydr, looking from his window, saw the white roofs of the house below him. It was larger than he remembered. More buildings had been added. A large swimming pool had been built at the far end of the property, looking out toward the sea. There was something else he had never seen before. A high wall had been erected all around the complex, and stationed on top of the wall at approximately fifty-yard intervals were small booths, each manned by a guard with a machine gun.
The house itself was hidden by trees. Baydr turned back to his father. “Are all the homes like this?”
His father nodded. “Some have even more guards. The Prince has more than one hundred men at his summer estate.”
Baydr didn’t comment. Something had to be wrong if men had to make prisoners of themselves in order to feel safe. The car turned off the road onto the driveway leading to the house. A moment later, they passed the trees that concealed it from the road and came to the giant iron gates in the wall. Slowly the gates, powered by silent electrical motors, began to swing open. Without stopping, the automobiles rolled through. A quarter-mile farther, they stopped in front of the huge white house. A servant ran to the doors of the car. His father got our first. Baydr followed.
His eyes looked up the giant marble steps that led to the door. It was open. A woman, unveiled but wearing a headcloth and a long, white tob appeared in the doorway.
“Mother!” he cried, running up the steps and taking her in his arms.
Nabila looked up at her son, tears in the corners of her eyes. “Forgive me, my son,” she whispered. “But I could no longer wait to see you.”
***
Since it was not a formal occasion and only members of the family were present, they all ate together. On formal occasions the men dined alone, and the women ate afterward or not at all.
Baydr looked down the table at his sisters. Fatima, three years older than he, her face round and body heavy with child, was beaming as she sat proudly next to her husband. “It will be a boy,” she said. “There have been nothing but boys in Salah’s family and they all say
that I look just like his mother did when she was carrying him.”
Her father laughed. “Old wives’ tales. Not very scientific but until we do find a way that is more exact, I’m willing to go along with it.”
“I will give you your first grandson,” Fatima said pointedly, looking at her sister Nawal, whose first child had been a girl.
Nawal said nothing. Her husband, Omar, a doctor who worked in his father-in-law’s hospital, was also silent.
“Boy or girl,” Baydr said, “it will be the will of Allah.”
To that they could all agree. Samir rose to his feet. “The Westerners have a custom,” he said. “The men retire to another room to enjoy a cigar. I find that very pleasant.”
His father led the way to his study. Baydr and his brothers-in-law followed. A servant opened and closed the door behind them. Samir opened a box of cigars on his desk. He took a cigar and sniffed it with satisfaction. “Cuban cigars. They were sent to me from London.”
He held out the box. Salah and Omar each took one but Baydr shook his head. He took a package of American cigarettes from his pocket. “I’ll stick to these.”
Samir smiled. “Even your language is more American than Arabic.”
“Not to the Americans,” Baydr said. He lit his cigarette and waited while the others lit their cigars.
“What do you think of them?” Samir asked curiously.
“In what way?” Baydr asked.
“They are mostly Jews,” Salah said.
Baydr turned to him. “That is not true. In proportion to the whole population there are very few Jews.”
“I have been to New York,” Salah said. “The city is crawling with Jews. They control everything. The government, the banks.”
Baydr looked at his brother-in-law. Salah was a heavy-set, pedantic young man whose father had made a fortune as a moneylender and now owned one of the major banks in Beirut. “Then you deal with Jewish banks?” he asked.
An expression of horror crossed Salah’s face. “Of course not,” he said stiffly. “We deal only with the biggest banks, the Bank of America, First National and Chase.”
“They’re not Jewish?” Baydr asked. Out of the corner of his eye he caught his father’s smile. Samir had already gotten the point.
“No,” Salah answered.
“Then the Jews do not control everything in America,” Baydr said. “Do they?”
“Fortunately,” Salah said. “Not that they wouldn’t if they had the opportunity.”
“But America is pro-Israel,” Samir said.
Baydr nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“You have to try to understand the American mentality. They have sympathy for the underdog. And Israel has very successfully played upon that in their propaganda. First against the British, now against us.”
“How can we change that?”
“Very simply,” Baydr said. “Leave Israel alone. It is only a tiny strip of land in our midst, no bigger than a flea on an elephant’s back. What harm can they do us?”
“They will not remain a flea,” Salah said. “Refugees from all over Europe are coming in by the thousands. The scum of Europe. They will not be content with what they have. The Jew always wants it all.”
“We do not know that yet,” Baydr said. “Perhaps if we welcomed them as brothers and worked with them to develop our lands, rather than opposing them, we would find out differently. A long time ago it was said that a mighty sword can fell an oak tree with one blow but cannot cut a silken scarf floating in the air.”
“I’m afraid it is too late for that,” Salah said. “The cries of our brothers living under their domination are ringing in our ears.”
Baydr shrugged. “America does not know that. All they know is that a tiny nation of a million people is living in the midst of an enemy world which surrounds and outnumbers them one hundred to one.”
His father nodded solemnly. “There is much thinking to be done. It is a very complex problem.”
“It is not complex,” Salah said heavily. “Mark my words, in time you will all see what I tell you is true. Then, we will unite to destroy them.”
Samir looked at his other son-in-law. “What is your opinion, Omar?”
The young doctor cleared his throat with embarrassment. He was inordinately shy. “I am not political,” he said. “So I really do not think of these matters. In the foreign universities of England and France where I studied, there were many professors who were Jews. They were good doctors and good teachers.”
“I also,” Samir said. He looked at Baydr. “I trust you have made no plans for tomorrow.”
“I am home,” Baydr said. “What plans do I need to make?”
“Good,” Samir said. “Because tomorrow we are to have dinner with his excellency, the Prince Feiyad. He wishes to celebrate your eighteenth birthday.”
Baydr was puzzled. His birthday had passed some months before. “Is his excellency here?”
“No,” Samir said. “He is in Alayh, enjoying a holiday from his family and duties. We are invited to join him tomorrow.”
Baydr knew better than to ask the reason. His father would tell him in his own good time. “It will be my pleasure, Father,” he said.
“Good,” his father smiled. “Now shall we rejoin your mother and sisters? I know they are waiting eagerly to hear more of your stories about America.”
CHAPTER 7
Alayh was a tiny village in the mountains thirty miles from Beirut. There was no industry, no trade, no farming. It had only one reason to justify its existence. Pleasure. Both sides of the main street that ran through the center of the village were lined with restaurants and cafes which featured Oriental dancers and singers from all over the Middle East. Western tourists were discouraged and seldom if ever seen here. The clientele were the rich sheiks, the princes and businessmen, who came here to escape the rigid moralities and boredom of their own world.
Here they could indulge in all the things that were not acceptable at home. They could drink the liquor and taste the foods and delights that strict Muslim law forbade them. And perhaps most important was the fact that here they were anonymous. No matter how well one man knew the other, he did not recognize him or speak to him unless invited to do so.
It was after ten o’clock the next evening that Samir’s limousine rolled to a stop in front of the largest cafe on the street. In keeping with his importance, Prince Feiyad had taken over the entire establishment for the night. It would not be proper for him to mix with the casual visitor. He was absolute monarch of a thousand-square-mile piece of land bordering on four countries, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Jordan. That his land infringed somewhat into each of these countries did not matter because it served a useful purpose. It was to his country that each could come with impunity and in safety to work out disagreements and problems between them. Baydr’s grandmother was the sister of Prince Feiyad’s father and as cousins to the royal family the Al Fays were the second most important family.
It was to Baydr’s father that the Prince had given the rights to all public utilities. The electric and telephone companies were owned by Samir and in return the family had built schools and hospitals where free care was provided for all who sought it. They had been rich to begin with, but with the grants they had grown even richer almost without effort.
It was a great disappointment to the whole family that the Prince had no male heirs to whom he could pass the throne. He had married a number of times and always performed his duties. And as each wife failed to produce the required heir, he had divorced her. Now, sixty years old, he had long ago decided that if it was the will of Allah that he should have no direct heir, he would see to it that his cousin would provide one for him.
It was for this reason that eighteen years earlier, Samir had made his pilgrimage to Mecca. His prayers had been answered with the birth of Baydr. But, despite his promise, Feiyad had still not designated the boy as his heir. Instead, he had insisted that Baydr be educate
d in Western ways and live and learn about the Western world. In many ways, Samir had been pleased. His son would become a doctor as he had been and together they would work, side by side.
But the Prince had other ideas. There were others who could become doctors. Baydr had to be educated in more important matters—trade, investment. It was only through increased sophistication in commerce that the country, meaning himself and his family, would continue to grow in wealth and stature. He had the basic Arab distrust of the Western people he did business with: he felt they regarded him as somehow inferior, almost childlike in his lack of knowledge. And so it was that he decided that Baydr would not go to England to follow in his father’s footsteps, but to America, where business was the admired and respected profession.
Samir looked proudly at his son as he stepped from the limousine. Dressed in traditional Arab clothing, the ghutra falling down his neck, the robes clinging to his tall lean frame, he was a handsome figure. The strong chin, prominent nose and blue-black eyes set deeply into high-boned, olive cheeks gave promise of the strength and character of the young man. The Prince would be pleased. Perhaps, now, he would designate Baydr as his heir.
Mentally, he begged Allah’s forgiveness for his earthly hopes and vanities. It was enough of a miracle that he had brought a son to him in the desert. With that he should be content. Allah’s will be done.
He gestured to Baydr, who followed him up the steps into the cafe. The Prince’s major-domo was at the door with two armed guards. He recognized Samir. He bowed in the traditional greeting. “As-salaam alaykum.”
“Alaykum as-salaam,” Samir replied.
“His excellency has been awaiting the arrival of his favorite cousin with great anticipation,” the major-domo said. “He has requested that I bring you to him as soon as you arrive. He is in his apartment upstairs.”
They followed the major-domo through the empty cafe to the staircase at the rear of the great room. The cafe itself was quiet. The usually busy waiters stood around in clusters gossiping with one another, and near the stage, the orchestra sat smoking and talking. None of the singers or dancers was visible. Nothing would begin until the Prince gave the signal.
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