.He’s known as “the Pirate,” a millionaire business tycoon and globetrotting playboy who controls one of the most powerful oil-producing regions in the Middle East. A man of shocking contradictions, he is devoted to his business, his Muslim faith, and to the sensuous pleasures of the Western world. But Baydr Al Fay has a secret history that even he is unaware of—a story that began decades earlier in a raging desert sandstorm—and its shattering repercussions will be felt from Beirut to Paris to Los Angeles.
Baydr’s past and his vices have made him the target of a ruthless terrorist organization willing to hold his loved ones hostage. With his life, his family, and his empire threatened, the Pirate must now join forces with a sworn enemy to protect everything that he holds dear.
One of the most popular novelists of all time, Harold Robbins is an international phenomenon. With The Pirate, he delivers an epic tale of wealth, lust, secrets, terrorism, and international political intrigue that races at breakneck speed to every corner of the globe.
He’s known as “the Pirate,” a millionaire business tycoon and globetrotting playboy who controls one of the most powerful oil-producing regions in the Middle East. A man of shocking contradictions, he is devoted to his business, his Muslim faith, and to the sensuous pleasures of the Western world. But Baydr Al Fay has a secret history that even he is unaware of—a story that began decades earlier in a raging desert sandstorm—and its shattering repercussions will be felt from Beirut to Paris to Los Angeles.
Baydr’s past and his vices have made him the target of a ruthless terrorist organization willing to hold his loved ones hostage. With his life, his family, and his empire threatened, the Pirate must now join forces with a sworn enemy to protect everything that he holds dear.
One of the most popular novelists of all time, Harold Robbins is an international phenomenon. With The Pirate, he delivers an epic tale of wealth, lust, secrets, terrorism, and international political intrigue that races at breakneck speed to every corner of the globe.
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Overview
He’s known as “the Pirate,” a millionaire business tycoon and globetrotting playboy who controls one of the most powerful oil-producing regions in the Middle East. A man of shocking contradictions, he is devoted to his business, his Muslim faith, and to the sensuous pleasures of the Western world. But Baydr Al Fay has a secret history that even he is unaware of—a story that began decades earlier in a raging desert sandstorm—and its shattering repercussions will be felt from Beirut to Paris to Los Angeles.
Baydr’s past and his vices have made him the target of a ruthless terrorist organization willing to hold his loved ones hostage. With his life, his family, and his empire threatened, the Pirate must now join forces with a sworn enemy to protect everything that he holds dear.
One of the most popular novelists of all time, Harold Robbins is an international phenomenon. With The Pirate, he delivers an epic tale of wealth, lust, secrets, terrorism, and international political intrigue that races at breakneck speed to every corner of the globe.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780795341304 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | RosettaBooks |
| Publication date: | 02/12/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| File size: | 670 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The needlepoint spray of the shower on his scalp drowned out the sound of the four big jet engines. Steam began to fog the walls of the narrow shower stall. Quickly, he rubbed the rich soap into a perfumed lather over his body, then rinsed and cut the water from hot to ice cold. Instantly, fatigue left him and he was wide awake. He turned off the water and stepped from the shower stall.
As usual, Jabir was waiting, the heavy terry-cloth robe and thick towels over his arm. He draped the towels over his master's body. "Good evening, master," he said softly in Arabic.
"Good evening, friend," Baydr said, rubbing himself vigorously. "What time is it?"
Jabir glanced at the heavy stainless steel Seiko chronograph that his master had given him. "It is nineteen hours, fifteen minutes, French time," he said proudly. "Did the master spend a restful time?"
"Yes, thank you," Baydr said, dropping the towels and slipping into the robe being held for him. "Where are we?"
"Over the English Channel," Jabir answered. "The captain has asked me to inform you that we will be in Nice at twenty hours and forty minutes."
"Good," Baydr said.
Jabir held the door of the small bathroom open as Baydr went through into his cabin. Though the master cabin was large, taking up almost one-third of the interior of the Boeing 707, the air was heavy and over laden with the pungent scents of hashish and amyl nitrite.
Baydr paused for a moment. He didn't mind the odors while he was using them but afterward they were distasteful to him. "It stinks in here," he said. "Too bad we can't open a window and air the room out. But at thirty thousand feet that might prove embarrassing."
Jabir didn't smile. "Yes, sir." He went through the cabin quickly, opening all the air jets, then picked up a perfumed aerosol spray and sprayed the room. He came back to Baydr. "Has the master decided on his costume?"
"Not yet," Baydr answered. He looked down at the giant king-sized bed that took up almost half the cabin.
The two girls lay in each other's arms, their naked bodies gleaming in the soft golden light of the cabin. They were dead to the world. Baydr's memory of what had happened hours before was as vivid as if it were happening now.
He had been standing at the side of the bed, looking down at them making love. Their heads were between one another's legs, their mouths and tongues viciously devouring each other when suddenly they rolled over one on top of the other and the twin half-moons of a pair of white buttocks was shining up at him. He felt the excitement race through him and glancing down saw his erection, hard and pulsing. Moving quickly, he scooped up the amies from the table and, kneeling over the girl, placed his penis at the opening of her anus. He slipped one strong arm under the girl's belly and held her tightly against him. He reached down with his hand until he felt her mound. The other girl's tongue, licking her clitoris, touched the edge of his fingertips. Savagely, he pulled her back against him and with a powerful thrust pushed himself deep into her anus.
The girl froze for a moment at the unexpected assault, then opened her mouth to scream. As she sucked in her breath for air, he broke two capsules under her face. Instead of screaming she climaxed in a frenzied spastic orgasm. A second later, he cracked an amie for himself and exploded in the orgasm he thought would never end. The room began to reel around him and he slipped into the dark. His next conscious act was awakening and going into the shower.
Now he stood at the side of the bed looking down at them once again. But this time he felt nothing. It was over. They had been used, and served their function. They had eased the boredom of the long flight from Los Angeles. Now he could not even remember their names. He turned away and went to the cabin door. He turned to Jabir from the doorway. "Wake them and tell them to dress," he said, and closed the door behind him.
He walked through the narrow corridor past the two guest cabins into the main salon. Dick Carriage, his executive assistant, was in the office at the forward end of the salon, seated at the desk, next to the telephones and telex. As usual, the young attorney was formally dressed: white shirt, tie, dark suit. Baydr could never remember having seen him in his shirtsleeves.
Carriage got to his feet. "Good evening, chief," he said formally. "Have a good rest?"
"Thank you, yes," Baydr said. "And you?"
The young attorney gave a brief grimace, the most expression he would allow himself. "I've never learned to sleep on planes." "You will," Baydr smiled. "Just give yourself time."
Carriage didn't smile. "If I haven't learned in two years, I'm afraid I never will."
Baydr pressed the service call button. "Anything happening?"
"Everything's quiet," Carriage answered. "Weekend, you know."
Baydr nodded. It was Saturday. He hadn't expected any action. By the time they'd left Los Angeles it had been one o'clock in the morning.
Raoul, the chief steward, came from the galley. "Yes, sir?"
"Coffee," Baydr said. "American coffee." His stomach wasn't quite up to the harsh filter coffee the steward preferred to serve. He turned back to Carriage. "Have you been in touch with the yacht?"
Carriage nodded. "I spoke with Captain Petersen. He has everything set for the party tonight. The Rolls and the San Marco will be at the airport. If the seas are good, he says the San Marco can get you to Cannes in twenty minutes. The car will take over an hour because of the film festival traffic."
The steward came back with the coffee. While he filled a cup, Baydr lit a cigarette. He took a sip of the coffee. "Would you care for something to eat?" the steward asked.
"Not just yet, thank you," Baydr said. He turned to Dick. "Is my wife aboard the yacht?"
"The captain told me she was at the villa. But Youssef came down from Paris and is already aboard. He asked me to inform you that he has some sensational talent lined up for tonight."
Baydr nodded. Youssef Ziad was chief of his Paris office. He had one in every country. Bright, charming, educated young men who loved money and being next to the seat of power. Their main function was finding pretty girls to decorate the parties that Baydr gave in the course of business. "Get Mrs. Al Fay on the phone for me," he said.
He walked back to the dining area and sat down at the round mahogany table. Raoul refilled his cup. Baydr was silent as he sipped his coffee. A moment later the phone buzzed. He picked it up.
Carriage's voice came through. "Mrs. Al Fay is not at home. I just spoke with her secretary, who informed me that she went to a film and said she would proceed directly to the yacht from there."
"Thank you," Baydr said, putting down the phone. He was not surprised. He hadn't expected Jordana to be at home — not when the film festival was on or there was a party going. She had to be where the action was. For a moment he was annoyed, then it passed. After all, it was that which had attracted him to her in the first place. She was American, not Arab. American girls did not stay at home. He had once tried to explain it to his mother but she never really understood. She was still disappointed that he hadn't married another Arab girl after he had divorced his first wife.
The phone buzzed again. He picked it up. It was the pilot, Captain Andrew Hyatt. "With your permission, sir," the pilot said. "I'd like to have Air France service the plane if we'll be in Nice long enough."
Baydr smiled to himself. It was the captain's polite way of finding out how much ground time he could give the crew. "I think we can plan on remaining here until Wednesday. Will that be time enough, Andy?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's been a good flight, Andy. Thank you."
"Thank you, sir." The pilot's voice was pleased as he rang off.
Baydr punched the button for Carriage. "Book the crew into the Negresco until Tuesday."
"Yes, chief," Carriage hesitated. "About the girls, shall we invite them to the party?"
"No." Baydr's voice was flat. Youssef had already taken care of that item.
"What shall we do with them?"
"Check them into the Negresco with the crew," he said.
"Give them each five hundred dollars and a return ticket to Los Angeles."
He put down the telephone and stared out the window. It was almost dark and far below him lights were beginning to twinkle on the French countryside. He wondered what Jordana was doing. It had been almost a month since he had seen her in Beirut with the children. They had arranged to meet in the south of France on her birthday. He thought of the diamond Van Cleef necklace and wondered whether she would like it. He just didn't know. Everything was tie-dyed jeans and fake jewelry now. Nothing was real anymore, even the way they felt about one another.
* * *
Jordana got out of the bed and started for the bathroom, picking up her clothing as she went.
"What's the hurry, darling?" the man's voice came from the bed.
She paused in the bathroom doorway and looked back at him. "My husband's coming in," she said. "And I have to be on the boat in time to change for the party."
"Maybe his plane will be late," the man said.
"Baydr's plane is never late," she said flatly. She went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She bent over the bidet and turned the taps, balancing the flow of hot and cold water until it was just the temperature she liked. Opening her purse she took out a plastic container of her own soap and straddling the bidet began to wash. "Someday I just won't wash," she thought. "I wonder if he would know when he ate me."
She rejected the idea, laughing to herself. Men were so obsessed with the idea of the irresistible power of their invincible cocks they could not imagine that any woman they penetrated would do anything but have orgasm after orgasm. She could almost count the number of times she had truly climaxed on the fingers of both hands. But of one thing she was sure. If they ever got around to handing out Academy Awards for acting out orgasms, she would win one every year.
She pressed the plug and stood up, drying herself as the water gurgled down the drain. French hotel bidets always sounded the same whether in Paris, Cannes or the provinces. Glug, glug, pause, glug, glug, glug. Dry now, she put some perfume on her fingertips and brushed it lightly across the silky soft public mound. Then quickly, she dressed and came out of the bathroom.
The man was sitting up, naked in the bed, playing with his penis, which was erect again. "Look what happened, darling."
"Goody for you," she said.
"Suces moi," he said. "Pas partir camme ça."
She shook her head. "Sorry, darling. I'm running late."
"Perhaps later at the party," he said. "We can find a quiet corner, away from the crowd."
She met his eyes. "You're not coming to the party."
"But, darling," he protested. "Why not? I have been on the boat with you all week."
"That's why," she said. "Baydr is no fool."
"Then when will I see you?" he asked, his penis already beginning to droop.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know." She opened her purse and came out with a small envelope filled with hundred-franc notes. She dropped it on the bed beside him. "This should cover your hotel bill and expenses," she said. "With something left to tide you over until you can make another connection."
The man's voice was hurt. "But, darling, do you think it was only for the money?"
She laughed. "I hope not. I would hate to think I was that bad."
"I will never find another woman like you," he said sadly.
"You just look," she said. "There are a lot of us around. And if you need any references, you just tell them that I said you were the best."
She was out of the room before he could answer. As she stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter to eight. She would just have time to get to the boat and take a hot tub before dressing for the party.
CHAPTER 2Youssef noticed Jordana's white Corniche convertible parked in front of the Carlton Hotel when he got out of his taxi. He looked for her as he paid the driver but all he saw was her chauffeur, Guy, talking with some other drivers. He turned and went into the lobby.
It was the day before the official opening of the film festival and already most of the signs were in place on the posts and the stands of the smaller film vendors. He paused for a moment to look at them.
The most prominent display was the giant banner overhanging the entire lobby. ALEXANDER SALKIND PRESENTS THE THREE MUSKETEERS. Slowly he read the list of credits: Michael York, Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, Raquel Welch, Charlton Heston, Faye Dunaway. It was truly an all-star cast. Even he, a film fan from the time he had been a child, was impressed. He turned toward the concierge's desk.
Elie, the chief concierge, smiled and bowed. "Monsieur Ziad, so good to see you again."
Youssef returned his smile. "It is always good to be here, Elie."
"And what can I do for you, Monsieur Ziad?" the little man asked.
"I am to meet Mr. Vincent here," Youssef said. "Has he arrived?"
"He awaits you in the little bar," Elie said.
"Thank you," Youssef said. He turned away and then back as if with an afterthought. "By the way, have you seen Madame Al Fay?"
Without hesitation, Elie shook his head. "I have not. Would you like to have her paged?"
"It's not important," Youssef said. He turned and walked toward the little bar near the elevators.
Elie picked up a telephone from behind the counter and whispered a number into it. The operator in the descending elevator answered. A moment later he put down the telephone and turned to Jordana.
"Monsieur Elie suggests that madame might like to descend by the elevator at the Rue de Canada side of the hotel. He has sent a man there to pick you up on the mezzanine floor."
Jordana looked at the operator. The man's face was blank; the elevator was already stopping at the mezzanine. She nodded. "Thank you."
She stepped out and walked down the corridor to the far corner of the hotel. True to his word, Elie had a man waiting there in the small old-fashioned cage elevator that still served that end of the building on special occasions.
She left the hotel through the Carlton Bar and walked out onto the terrace and then up the driveway to the hotel entrance. Guy, her chauffeur, saw her and sprang to the door of the Rolls. She turned and looked into the lobby before she went down the steps. Through the crowd of people in front of the conciergerie, she caught Elie's eyes. She nodded her thanks. Without changing expression, he bent his head forward in a small bow.
Guy held the car door as she got into it. She didn't know why Elie had flagged her down but it was enough that he had. The concierge was probably the wisest man on the Riviera. And probably the most discreet.
* * *
The little bar was crowded but Michael Vincent had a table away from all the others between the bar and entrance. He got to his feet as Youssef entered and held out his hand.
Youssef took it. "Sorry to be late. The traffic on the Croisette is just awful."
"No problem," Michael answered. It was amazing to hear the gentle voice emerging from a six-foot-four giant of a man. He gestured to the young women seated at the table with him. "As you can see, I have been most pleasantly occupied."
Youssef smiled. He knew them. They were part of the group he had brought down from Paris. "Suzanne, Monique," he murmured as he sat down.
They rose almost immediately. They knew the signals. This was a business meeting. They had to go to their rooms and prepare for the party that evening.
The waiter hurried over with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and held it out for Youssef's approval. Youssef nodded. The waiter quickly opened the bottle and offered the glass for him to taste. Again Youssef nodded and the waiter looked at Michael Vincent.
"I'll stick with the Scotch," the producer-director said.
The waiter finished filling Youssef's glass and left. Youssef raised the wine. "I trust your accommodations are to your liking."
The big man smiled. "The best suite in the place and you ask if I like it? What I want to know is how you did it. Two weeks ago when I called there wasn't a room available anywhere in town during the film festival. And you call one day in advance and, like magic, there is room."
Youssef smiled mysteriously. "Let us say that we are not without influence."
"I'll drink to that," the American said. He finished his whiskey and signaled for another.
"Mr. Al Fay asked me to express his appreciation for your trouble in arranging to be here. He is very much looking forward to your meeting."
"So am I," Vincent said. He hesitated a moment, then spoke again. "I find it almost too much to believe."
"What is that?" Youssef asked.
"The whole thing," Vincent said. "It took me more than five years to raise the money to make Gandhi and here you come to me with ten million dollars and ask if I am interested in doing the life of Muhammad as a film."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Pirate"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Jann Robbins.
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Prologue: 1933,
Book One: The End of Spring, 1973,
Book Two: The End of Summer, 1973,
Book Three: The End of Autumn, 1973,
Harold Robbins, Unguarded,
Harold Robbins titles from RosettaBooks,