The Beirut Conspiracy
John R Childress
The Beirut Conspiracy
John R. Childress
Chapter One
Washington, D.C., Early January
The target was in plain sight. The short figure, notebook in hand, elbowed towards the front. The brightly colored press badge lay clearly visible against a dark wool overcoat. While necessary for the chilly January air, the bulky coat’s main task was not warmth. It concealed a vest of tightly packed steel ball bearings imbedded in a matrix of plastic explosives. What looked like another eager news reporter was a human bomb waiting to unleash holy terror.
The button of the detonating device was moist from the perspiring hand that reverently cradled it. A practiced smile masked a racing heart and morbid fear that something would go wrong after all the years of preparation, all the sacrifices. On the outside the illusion was perfect. Inside burned an all-consuming hatred. The harbinger of death in Allah’s just cause was in place.
President Roswell Clayton Pierce respectfully shook the hand of his friend and personal physician, Dr. Andrew Norman. They then turned to the press, a perfect photo opportunity. The first of the New Year. The two men smiled as they stood in front of the luxury brownstone, waving to the crowd and television cameras below. Turning up the collar of his overcoat against the chill, President Clayton flashed his charismatic boyish smile, then moved athletically down the steps. A jostling mass of reporters, cameramen, D.C. police and Secret Service agents pressed up against the tall iron fence, keeping everyone at a respectful and safe distance.
“How was the medical checkup, Mr. President?”
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” The 58-year old first term President quipped. “I believe that’s how Dr. Norman describes my fitness level.”
“Dr. Norman? Dr. Norman? Can you give us an official statement concerning the health and well-being of the President?” called an attractive correspondent from Fox News. “Was this just a routine checkup, or is there some sort of health problem?”
President Pierce stepped back and gave the spotlight of the nation to his friend. “You’re up, Andrew.” A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Not since John F. Kennedy had a US President enjoyed such an easy relationship with the press.
The elderly physician moved toward the fence, eager to field questions about the health of the President of the United States.
“ In the name of Allah, Most Beneficent, Most Merciful!” A high-pitched voice screamed loudly, but the explosion was even louder.
The black overcoat disintegrated, along with bone, flesh, blood and viscera. 7,000 4mm round steel projectiles rushed outward in all directions at a velocity of 7,100 meters per second. Those closest to the assassin were instantly torn to shreds. The deadly spheres hurtled outwards in an ever-expanding circle of death and carnage. Slamming into the metal casing of a shoulder-held television camera, they effortlessly decapitated the young cameraman. In seconds the tree-lined street was littered with corpses and screaming bodies, fallen as if stalks of wheat before an invisible scythe. Bright red rivers of blood formed into steaming pools in the frigid air.
The first suicide bomber on American soil killed fifty-seven people that cold January morning. Seventy-five were seriously wounded. The pain and anger unleashed that day in Washington, D.C. erased all hopes for peace in the Middle East.
***
Sweet Briar College, Virginia
“Matt, Matt, wake up. Something terrible has just happened in Washington.” Kelly Stevens dashed from the kitchen, her plate of toast falling to the tile floor. Bare feet slapped as she ran into the bedroom of the modest wooden house on faculty row.
Matt Richards lay still, seemingly paralyzed, his nerves and muscles bound tight in an all too familiar alcohol induced haze. He listened. The sound of a press interview. President Pierce at his most ingratiating. Then the detonation. The sound of it shook his clogged brain. The memory, the fear, the terrible sorrow rose up again. The past, suppressed and locked away, kept in check with ample quantities of scotch, broke through the surface. He gripped the pillow. Oh God, not again, please!
She sprang onto the rumpled sheets of the wrought-iron bed, tangled blond hair cascading into the face of her secret lover.
“Wake up,” she pleaded, shaking him. “There’s been a suicide bomb attack on the President.”
“Score one for the ragheads.” Dr. Matthew Richards, assistant professor of anatomy and human biology rolled over and slowly sat up, legs dangling, head in hands covering blood-shot eyes. “And close those god-damned curtains. It’s uncivilized for any decent human being to see the sun before noon.”
“You only say that because you drink yourself into a stupor every night.” Kelly smiled, somehow enjoying the unique opportunity to reprimand one of her teachers.
He watched her close the curtains, this lithe coed from his anatomy class, reaching, stretching, buttocks round and taut, a nymph in the slanting sunlight. Then the memories crowded in. She was Kelly’s age when she died.
“Here, have a puff of this. It’ll keep your liver from shutting down.” She exhaled and held out a thin wrinkled joint.
Never again. Matt shook his head. He reached for the remnants of his scotch. Miraculously, one swallow was left. A quick gulp and slowly the world came into focus. He looked down at his slim body, contoured with hard sinewy muscles, his skin tanned and weathered as a result of a lifetime of distance running, the last real vestige of an attempt at self preservation. He had the gaunt look of a wrangler, old and youthful at the same time.
“I’ll stick with my liquid gold. I tried marijuana once, in Beirut. Actually it was hashish and it nearly killed me. Gave me hallucinations for two days straight. Now turn off that damned noise-box and climb in bed.”
“But something important is happening. Don’t you even care anymore?” She left the darkened bedroom for the kitchen and the blaring news.
Matt stared into the empty glass, his empty life. The excited words of an anchorman floated in from the kitchen, hesitant, seemingly free of the teleprompter and the blandness of politically correct broadcasting.
“We can now confirm that the President of the United States is alive. I repeat, President Roswell Clayton Pierce is alive, having sustained only superficial wounds as a result of a suicide bomber attack this morning outside the Washington, D.C. residence of Dr. Andrew Norman, his personal physician. The President, at this moment, is at Walter Reed Hospital, where he will remain under tight security as military doctors tend to him. At this time, all indications are that the President of the United States has escaped a suicide bomber attack in Washington, D.C. with only minor injuries.”
Matt propped his trembling frame against the kitchen doorway. The empty scotch glass was warm in his hand.
“Oh My God, look at this. Can you believe it?”
He reached for the pinch-shaped Scotch container and half-filled the tumbler. It hadn’t just been Samir. There was Bedouina. Intense, eager to right injustices, passionately in love with Samir. And of course Maha. Ravishing red-hair, alabaster skin, beckoning green eyes. Drop dead figure, totally in love with, melt your heart for. Maha. Beirut. 1968. A magical year abroad. Study. Debate the world’s problems. Party hardy. Stare into Maha’s eyes. Run fingers through that soft red hair. Three young lives wiped away by a terrible explosion. Another reduced to a drunken zombie
“While we now know for certain that the President of the United States is alive and safe, his personal safety is overshadowed by the horrible carnage that took place at 10:38 this morning on the lawn outside the residence and private office of Dr. Andrew Norman. Dr. Norman, personal physician to the President and one of his closest famil
y friends, along with fifty-six others, mostly journalists, photographers, policemen, and Secret Service agents assigned to guard the President, were savagely murdered by a suicide bomber. Many of the dead were standing in close proximity to the explosive-strapped assassin. They were killed instantly. Early reports indicate scores of casualties, many seriously injured. Dozens of ambulances have taken the wounded to hospital emergency rooms throughout the greater Washington, D.C., area.”
“Shit,” Matt Richards said. Trying to rebury the painful memory from thirty years ago seemed impossible now. He slumped down into the wooden kitchen chair. “I hate bombs.”
“They’ve stopped showing the bodies. Now it's just long shots of the area.” Kelly nipped out the joint, setting it aside for later.
“Political correctness moves in.” Matt tightened the drawstring on his pajama bottoms.
“Look, something is happening. It’s that popular CNN reporter, Angela Wu. This is a big break for her.”
“I see cynicism isn’t just reserved for us old geezers.”
“You’re not old, just ridden hard. Look how she’s shaking.”
The scene changed from the newsroom to a chaotic, tree-lined street. “This is Angela Wu reporting just up the street from the Washington, D.C. home of Dr. Andrew Norman, personal physician to the President, who, along with scores of others was savagely murdered this morning during a suicide bomber attack obviously intended for the President of the United States. The police, FBI and Secret Service have cordoned off most of the area around the blast scene. It’s a site of horrific carnage, blood and body parts scattered everywhere. When I first arrived on the scene a severed head lay against the curb.”
“She’s gonna throw up,” Matt said taking another long pull on his scotch. I know how she feels.
The camera held steady, following closely as she bent over. Sounds of retching mingled with the shouts of medics and blaring sirens. The camera swung away in a circle, panning over policemen, firemen, trucks, ambulances and more bodies. Frantic shouts carried. “This one’s still breathing.” “Get a medic over here right now.” “For God’s sake, someone help me.”
Then the strained face of Angela Wu returned. “…I was supposed to be here this morning reporting on the President’s routine checkup but my car wouldn’t start and, as a result, the crew left the studio without me. My colleague, Sylvia Stone, went in my place. She’s out there somewhere. Ruthlessly cut down. Senselessly murdered.”
The shrill sound of an ambulance siren caused the microphone to squeal in harsh protest.
“Stay on me. Stay on me. I’ve got to finish this.”
“I’ve got you, Angela. Keep going. We’re live.”
Tears streamed unchecked. Lips quivered uncontrollably. “Who are these beasts, these criminals, these cowards? This isn’t a noble political cause, it’s just premeditated murder. The savage and brutal slaughter of dozens of innocent people. First we have the horrible destruction and mayhem of September 11, and now this, the first suicide bomber on American soil in a cold-blooded assassination attempt on the life of the President of the United States.”
Another quick panorama shot. Ambulances racing away. Paramedics zipping black body bags.
“When is this senseless killing going to stop? I’m angry, depressed, tired, and just plain sick of all this shit. The whole world has turned into a bloody battlefield. Is no one safe from the madness? What do we tell our children? Kill first before you’re the next victim? What’s it going to take to finally bring peace to the Middle East and put an end to these attacks? When is someone going to do the right thing and make the courageous decisions that will put an end to this madness?”
Her face reflected the chaos all around her. And the chaos inside of her. She looked straight into the camera and out at the world.
“That’s it. I’m finished. I quit.”
The camera held on her, another casualty added to those strewn about the street. The world watched as she threw down the microphone, tore off her earpiece, turned around and forced her way through the large crowd pressing against the yellow police cordon.
“Oh my God,” cried Kelly. The cannabis intensified her tears.
“She’ll be back.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Matt. Don’t you feel anything? Doesn’t this move you even a little bit?”
More than you know. He wanted to say something. But what was the use? How could he help a privileged young college coed, pampered daughter of a senior US Senator, raised on first class trips to Europe and monogrammed underwear, understand the pain and sorrow of something like this? To be really moved, he realized, you had to be close enough to feel the heat from the blast and smell the death.
The screen flashed back to the anchorman at CNN headquarters looking quizzically to his left. Excited voices could be heard. Aware of the probing lens he regained his professional demeanor and faced the camera.
“A senseless tragedy like this affects all of us in different ways. Even the most professional newscasters find it difficult to remain detached when something as horrible as this happens in our own nation’s capital.
“We have just received some remarkable footage of the moments before the blast, taken by our CNN crew on location. Due to the graphic nature of this material CNN has decided not to broadcast all of it. However, we are able to show the moments leading up to the assassination attempt.”
Fade to black. Two seconds later appeared the image of President Pierce shaking hands with Dr. Norman at the top of the stairs in front of a Washington brownstone.
“Here we see the President emerging from the offices of his personal physician and coming down the front steps to make a statement to the press,” the anchorman spoke easily, now comfortable with tape and hindsight. “And here is brief footage from one of our CNN cameramen whose job it was to film the crowd. If you look closely you’ll see a short figure wearing a large fur hat and a black overcoat moving steadily through the crowd, trying to get as near the front as possible.”
Someone in the newsroom drew a yellow circle, like the highlights on Monday Night Football, around a small figure in a large fur hat pushing through the crowd. The hat obscured the face but the intent evident. Squirming through the assembled mass, press badge visible, finally standing at the front of the press corps. A voice called out to the President. The assassin looked up. The camera found its mark.
“ In the name of Allah…”
The picture froze. Matt Richards screamed. “No. It’s… not possible.” The chair crashed to the floor. Matt fell to his knees. Sour vomit spewed across the kitchen floor.
“Jesus, Matt. What’s the matter?”
The deep voice of the newscaster came alive again. “While we currently have no information on the suicide bomber’s identity, we can say at this time that the individual was of Middle Eastern origin, approximately forty-five to fifty-five years of age, with thick black hair.” CNN enlarged the image on the screen. “And as you can see, a woman.”
***
Walter Reed Military Hospital
Roswell Clayton Pierce lay under the starched white sheets, his eyes glued on the television news. A large bandage covered the deep sutured gash in his forehead. Several other bandages were scattered around his arms, legs, and hands. While he managed the pain in his body, the emotional pain was overwhelming. CNN was showing a rerun of Angela Wu. “I quit…”
As she threw down the microphone and tore off her earpiece, the President of the United States jabbed at the remote control. The screen went silent.
His first visitor since the attack said nothing. He waited. He always waited. Van Ness was a counter-puncher; a fixer of the highest order. A skillful shadow player in the recesses of the global stage.
“She’s right, Karl. Someone should do the right thing. Make the tough decisions. And that someone is supposed to be me.”
Van Ness stared at the scrubbed linoleum. “Anyone can make decisions, Ross. It’s having everything in place behind the scenes tha
t makes a decision stick. We need a little time yet.”
“Time for what? I’m the decisive President, remember?”
“I understand your anger about Andrew but it’s not your fault.”
“He was keen to be in the spotlight. He practically ran forward to talk to the press.”
“No guilt then? You can’t face the nation, and the wolves, showing even the slightest bit of guilt.”
Ross threw the remote against the wall. The plastic exploded and batteries rolled across the floor. “You know me pretty well, Karl.”
“Perhaps better than anyone.” Van Ness rubbed the smooth outline of his faithful pipe, resting in his coat pocket. “They’re outside, waiting.”
“I know. I know. CIA, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland Security. I can just imagine the denials and finger pointing.” Ross Pierce touched the wound on his forehead.
“As always. But like I said, we need a little time. Get yourself together. The next few hours may well set the course of history. And your political career.”
“It’s a funny thing about being a Navy Intruder pilot, Karl. Every moment is filled with potential and real danger. Heat seeking missiles, random fire from the ground, enemy aircraft, and night landings on a pitching deck. Shit scary. But none of them ever had a face. Christ, Karl, she was right in front of me. I saw her face. Twisted hatred and serenity at the same time.”
Van Ness nodded, and he waited.
“Remember how back in New Mexico we talked about running for the presidency?”
“Over some excellent Napa Valley wine as I recall. Sundown in the desert is a good time for thinking.”
“You’ve always been an excellent listener and sounding board. Look what we pulled off together: an enviable record as governor of New Mexico, then as a US Senator.”
“You worked hard, Ross. And you fought hard. Just like all your posts along the way: the Navy, the construction business, the ranch. It was more your effort than mine, Mr. President. You’re into your second year after a close race. And I have a feeling you may just pull off the biggest miracle of all.”
The Beirut Conspiracy Page 1
