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beside the plane. Standing next to the car was Raoul and a man in the uniform of the French customs service. The man touched his cap in a semisalute. “Vous avez quelque chose pour déclarer, monsieur?”
    Baydr shook his head. “No.”
    The douanier smiled. “Merci, monsieur.”
    Baydr got into the car. Jabir closed the door behind him and got into the car beside the driver. The motor started and the car swung around and headed for the western tip of the airfield.
    The San Marco was there, tied to a rickety old pier. Two sailors and the first officer of the yacht were waiting for him. The first officer saluted as he got out of the car. “Welcome back, Mr. Al Fay.”
    Baydr smiled. “Thank you, John.”
    A sailor held out his hand and Baydr took it as he stepped down into the speedboat. Jabir followed, then the sailors. Baydr moved forward and stood behind the controls.
    The first officer held up a yellow slicker and cap. “I have some wet gear here, sir. There’s a bit of wind and this baby kicks up quite a spray.”
    Silently, Baydr held out his arms as the sailor helped him into the slicker. Jabir picked up a slicker and got into it, as did the sailors. Baydr turned back to the controls and touched the starter button. The engine sprang into life with a roar that shattered the night. Baydr looked back over his shoulder. “Cast off.”
    The sailor nodded and snapped the tie line. The rope jumped up from the post like a rippling snake and the sailor pushed the boat away from the pier. “All clear, sir,” he said, straightening up and coiling the rope at his feet.
    Baydr threw in the clutch and the big speedboat began to move slowly forward. Gently Baydr advanced the throttle and headed the boat out to sea. Effortlessly, it slipped through the water. Baydr sat down and fastened the seat belt across his lap. “Tie yourselves in,” he said. “I’m going to open her up.”
    There was the sound of movement behind him, then the first officer’s voice shouted over the roar of the engine. “All ready, sir.”
    Baydr moved the throttle all the way up. The boat seemed to climb out of the water in a sudden forward surge and the spray from the bow made an incandescent arch over their heads. The wind whipped his face and he bared his teeth in a grimace as he caught his breath. A glance at the speedometer told him they were already doing forty knots. He almost laughed aloud as he turned the wheel gently to head the boat for Cannes. The strength of three hundred and twenty horses at his fingertips, the wind and water tearing at his face. In some ways it was better than sex.
    ***
    The telephone began to ring in Ali Yasfir’s apartment. The pudgy Lebanese waddled to the telephone and picked it up. “Yasfir.”
    The American voice crackled in his ear. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, of course. It will be my pleasure. I am looking forward to meeting with his excellency.” He put down the telephone and waddled back to his friends.
    “It is done,” he announced with satisfaction. “We are to meet on his boat tonight.”
    “That is good for you,” the slim, dark Frenchman on the couch said. “But it still does not solve our problem.”
    “Pierre is right,” the American in the brightly colored sport shirt said. “My contacts in America have a greater problem.”
    Ali Yasfir turned to him. “We understand and we’re doing all we can to resolve it.”
    “You’re not doing it fast enough,” the American said. “We’re going to have to do business with other sources.”
    “Damn!” Pierre said. “Just when we had the processing plants operating smoothly.”
    “And there has been no shortage of the raw material,” Ali said. “The farmers have come through. The harvest has been good. And deliveries to the plants here have been without interference. It seems to me, Tony, that we’re bearing the brunt of a breakdown in your own delivery system. The last two major shipments from France have been