The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “And I am also a Christian. Most people don’t realize that in 314 A.D. Armenia became the first country in the world to declare itself a Christian nation. Everywhere Armenians fled during centuries of persecution, they took the Christian faith with them. Even today there are pockets of Armenian Christians in Syria, Jordan, Iran, Iraq, Jerusalem, Lebanon, and the United States, where we have established over one hundred Maronite Christian churches.

  “And most proudly, I am an American. I became a U.S. citizen two years after moving to Washington from Switzerland, where I studied medicine. It was one of the proudest days of my life, as I stood among other immigrants from all corners of the globe reciting the oath of citizenship and pledging allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. My wife and children are natural-born Americans. And I would venture to say that I am a pretty typical American. I have three cars, two dogs and a mortgage. Too big a mortgage for my liking.” The crowd laughed its approval.

  Matt walked back into the room. The voice was vaguely familiar. It bothered him, like the buzz of a mosquito, distant then near, loud then faint. Kelly took his arm again, this time tenderly.

  “But there is no denying that I am also a man of the Middle East. I was born in what was then known as the state of Palestine. I grew up with Muslims, Christians, and Jews as my playmates. We stole candy and smoked our first cigarettes together. I hated the taste.” He made a face which drew forth chuckles. “A good thing, too, because nowadays in America it’s practically a crime to even think about smoking.” The doctors in the room roared with laughter.

  “Seriously, being from the Middle East gives me a unique vantage point in Washington, because I understand many of the feelings of the Arab world concerning today’s precarious global and political situation. Only the insane want war and killing. Yet somehow a small but active minority of terrorists have continued to drive a wedge deeper and deeper between the peace-loving peoples of the Middle East and the West. It is time this wedge was torn out and replaced with strong sutures sewn by skillful and dedicated hands.”

  “I’ve dedicated my life to two things: healing the sick and working towards a peaceful solution in the Middle East. I will continue to carry out these two commitments in my new post as personal physician to the President of the United States. Thank you for your encouragement and support.”

  Amid generous applause, a loud female voice caught the attention of the speaker. “Dr. Melikian? That was a tremendous and, I must say, moving speech. Can I ask just one or two questions?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t expect a question and answer session and I’m not very experienced in these matters,” he said. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Delacluse. Nicole Delacluse of the International Herald Tribune, although I’m not here in an official capacity tonight,” she was quick to add. “This is an important appointment by the President, and as you’ve said, there are skeptics. Is it true, Dr. Melikian, that you received several death threats after it was announced that you were one of those being considered for this position?”

  “The truth is yes, but I’m not at liberty to say much about it other than that I’m not too concerned. It seems rock stars and TV news commentators are in much more danger from deranged individuals than I am.”

  “And is it true you’ve hired a security service to protect yourself and your family?” she said quickly, catching him slightly off guard.

  “That’s not quite accurate, Ms. Delacluse. The Secret Service, in recognition of the recent tragedy, has provided my family with a certain measure of security. That is what the President wanted, so of course I agreed. Now, since this is a reception and not a press conference, thank goodness, I’ll turn my attention to the guests here this evening. But when I do have my first official press conference, I hope all the journalists are as professional as you.” It was a polite but firm dismissal, after which Dr. Melikian shook hands with Dr. Martin Thomas and stepped down.

  At the edge of the makeshift podium, Senator Stevens discreetly pulled over two men in dark suits for an animated conversation. They kept glancing in Matt’s direction. The guests descended upon the buffet table and Matt was slowly pushed aside by the crowd. Presently the men nodded to Stevens and moved off, whereupon the portly senator stepped down and began working the crowd.

  “Miss Stevens? Dr. Richards? The Senator would like a few private words with you both. Please follow me.” A non-descript man in a non-descript grey suit stood in front of them. They nodded, sharing quizzical glances. Matt and Kelly followed him down the hallway, through an open door and into a dimly lit study. Persian carpets and red velvet curtains added to the richness of antique oak furniture. Ornate wall sconces offered hazy shadows. The walls were lined with books, diplomas and photos of Dr. Thomas with numerous dignitaries. Matt surmised this was Dr. Thomas’s personal office. He wondered how many hours he spent here. The place was certainly conducive to relaxation and reflection. And it reeked of power.

  The door closed solidly behind then. A gravelly voice from the far corner of the room boomed out. Senator Mason T. Stevens, his face red, fists shaking, stepped out of the shadows towards the center of the room. He pressed a button on a side table and the lights came up to full strength. Both Matt and Kelly squinted.

  “So,” Stevens said, “you’re not only a cradle robber and a disgrace to the medical profession, Dr. Richards, you’re a god-damned drunk as well.” Shaking, he moved forward until he pressed up against Matt, backing him into the large desk.

  “Daddy, stop it. What’s gotten into you? Can’t we talk about this some other time? Please, Daddy?”

  “You shut up.” The Senator’s slurred words tumbled out, but his eyes kept boring into Matt. “I’ll deal with you later, young lady. You’ve had too damn much freedom at that sissy girl’s school and now you’ve gone way overboard. I’ve heard all about your drinking, the drugs, and now your affair with this loser. I’ve a mind to yank you out of that school for your own good.” Kelly’s tears caught the light. She collapsed onto the sofa.

  “You fat son-of-a-bitch,” Matt grated. The esteemed senior senator from the great State of Virginia never saw the roundhouse left that broke his nose and knocked out two teeth. The large man slumped to the floor. Matt stood in a half-drunk stupor, hardly registering the pain where his knuckles had collided with the senator’s teeth.

  Kelly jumped up. “Daddy? Daddy? Oh God. What have you done? Get away from him.” She pushed at Matt, then knelt on the floor, trying to stem the blood from her father’s nose.

  Secret Service agents and marine guards materialized. Matt was gripped firmly from behind.

  “Get the hell away from me. This is none of your business,” he shouted. “I’m leaving anyway. You better attend to Mr. Big Mouth. His big nose is bleeding all over the expensive Persian carpet.” When they let go he grabbed Kelly’s hand, and started weaving toward the door. Kelly Stevens hesitated, gazed worriedly at her father on the floor, then helped Matt maneuver down the hall towards the front door. Her father’s verbal onslaught and abuse still rang in her ears. She stopped, turned around, hesitated, then made her decision.

  The Porsche was parked under the portico. The parking attendant quickly produced the keys and the two of them helped ease the wobbly Dr. Richards into the passenger seat. The attendant buckled the seatbelt. As the sports car turned left out of the big iron gates, a late model black Pontiac with tinted windows followed a safe distance behind.

  “Well, Dr. Richards, you really are something, you know? Not only do you get drunk, but you knock my father unconscious, break his nose and his teeth. Why didn’t you screw an ambassador’s wife? At least then no one would have cared.” Her acidic words fell on deaf ears-Matt Richards was out cold, head slumped against her shoulder.

  Turning onto the George Washington Parkway, the Porsche sped west, intending to link up with I-95 and the main road back to central Virginia. The parkway, a major commuter artery into and out of Washington, was
nearly deserted at 10:45 P.M. The well-traveled commuter artery was lined on one side by trees and forest, on the other by the Potomac River, at its high watermark from the rain that had descended on the area in recent days.

  Kelly shoved him with her shoulder. “Matt, wake up. Someone’s following us, wake up.” After two more pushes she heard a moan, then a familiar, “God damn son-of-a-bitch. What time is it?”

  “Thank God you’re awake. A car has been following us ever since we left the reception.”

  “So?” he bent his neck from side to side to work out some of the kinks.

  “It keeps getting closer.”

  Matt looked down and struggled with his seat belt. I hate being confined. It released with a strong click. “Goddamn belt. Now what were you saying?”

  The black Pontiac roared up behind the sports car and banged its large steel bumper into the rear of the little sports car. The Porsche lurched. “What’s happening?” Kelly screamed. “I can’t steer. They’re. . they’re trying to force us off the road.”

  Adrenalin pulled Matt around. When the second jolt came it was more forceful, more threatening.

  “Speed up, Kelly,” he said, gripping the headrest. “Drive as fast as you can.”

  She jammed down hard on the accelerator. “Jesus Matt,…”

  “Now listen to me,” Matt said slowly. “When I tell you to slow down, do it quickly- very quickly, just short of slamming on the brakes. But don’t slam on the brakes or we’ll skid out of control. Just press down forcefully. At the same time, try to hold us in the center of the road. Do you understand?”

  She was gripping the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “But what if they rear-end-”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Okay. Okay. Just don’t shout.” Her hands shook as she gripped the wheel.

  “Do what I say. You have to trust me. Do you understand?”

  Kelly nodded. Her face was ghostly white.

  Matt looked out the rear window. “Get ready. Alright then, now… slow down.”

  She geared down hard and applied the brakes at the same time. The rapid deceleration caught the Pontiac off guard. It swerved, skidded back and forth, then slid off the road. Matt glimpsed the driver, his face contorted, trying to regain control, but it was too late. The car crashed through the guardrail and went rolling down the steep bank. Kelly screamed and floored the car. The black Pontiac plunged into the dark swirling waters of the Potomac.

  “Okay, Okay. Let up, let up.” Matt yelled, but her foot stayed hard down.

  “I want to go home.” Her upper lip quivered. “First you almost kill my father and now someone’s trying to kill us.” The car tore ahead, weaving back and forth.

  Matt reached over. “For God’s sake Kelly, slow down…”

  She screamed, her eyes wide. Two large cars blocked the road. Men in dark suites with flashlights frantically signaled them to stop. Kelly panicked and slammed down hard on the brakes. Matt Richards smashed into the windshield, then ricocheted back against the passenger seat. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the high-pitched squeal of Pirelli tires sliding sideways.

  Chapter Four

  Orly Airport, Paris, August, 1968

  “There’s the sign: ‘AUB Junior Year Abroad Program,’ ” Matt barked. He and Todd Cummings, both from Harvard University, had traveled together from Boston to the meeting place at Orly Airport for the official beginning of their year-long adventure.

  “Think the living conditions will be as good as Harvard?”

  “Who cares, Toad? This is our year to live it up. See and do everything. Explore a new world. Live free.” Matt punched his friend playfully. While they were in the same dormitory, Toad, as Matt liked to call him, wasn’t one of Matt’s regular drinking and carousing buddies.

  “Yeah. Well I’m here because you wanted a familiar face around. And my parents thought it would be good for me to see the world a little. But I’m still not sure this is a good idea. I mean, being away from Harvard for a whole year. What if we don’t learn anything?”

  “Look, Toad. I know I talked you into coming along on this Junior Year Abroad program. But think of the things we can see and do. This is about as far away from Massachusetts as you can get. And I don’t just mean in miles. What kind of students do you think have signed up for this year?” Matt eagerly strained his neck to look at the students milling about ahead.

  Both young men moved through the crowded waiting area. “I hope they’re not just a bunch of rich dope heads getting away from their parents for a year.”

  Matt laughed. “Don’t be such a cynic, Toad. Not everyone in the world is as serious as you are, thank God. This is our year to experience, to experiment. ‘See all and do all,’ that’s my motto for this year. It would be a relief to talk to a few beery souls after spending four days in Paris with you. I’ve seen enough museums to last a lifetime.”

  Matt slapped his traveling companion on the back good-naturedly. “Come on, Toad, let’s go meet the others.”

  On the other side of the waiting area they could see a small group of students clustered around a banner. A short black man with horn-rim glasses and a pipe was at the center of the group.

  “That must be Dr. Thomas.” Todd moved ahead, curious. “He’s a professor of genetics on sabbatical from Georgetown. He’s our faculty advisor for the year. His photo’s in the briefing packet.”

  “I lost mine. Is he our official den mother or something?”

  “Very funny. He’s a world-renowned geneticist.”

  “Who’s the tall guy that looks like a banker?”

  “That’s William Fisher. He recently graduated from Yale. Middle Eastern Affairs. He joined the State Department and now he’s moving to Beirut with his wife to be a cultural attache at the U.S. Embassy. He’ll be giving us several lectures on the Middle East during orientation week. The briefing packet says he speaks fluent Arabic. Think you’ll pick up any Arabic?”

  “I’ll give it a try, Toad. But thank God my mother was French. I hear French is the official second language of Lebanon, after Arabic of course.”

  Middle East Airways Flight No. 148 left Orly Airport at 3:25 P.M. for Beirut, with a brief stop in Athens to pick up passengers and refuel.

  She came onboard in Athens. As she walked down the aisle, long red hair bounced and fiery green eyes radiated confidence. “Excuse me. I believe I have the window seat.” Matt and Todd stood up to let her slide in. They scrambled for the middle seat. Matt won.

  A severe thunderstorm quickly took the spirit out of her. Amid flashes of lightning the plane rocked violently. Her olive skin paled as she shrank down in her seat, gripping the armrests.

  Matt leaned over. “Are you all right? Why don’t you tighten your seat belt and close your eyes? It’s just a little electrical storm and these planes are extremely sturdy.” He reached over and pulled down the window shade. “There, that’s better. It’ll keep out the lightning flashes.”

  The airplane shuddered. She gripped his arm. Her eyes shut tight. “Just make it go away, please.”

  “I wish I could. But I’m not God, just an American. Why don’t we talk a little and try to distract ourselves?” He looked at her, absorbing her breathtaking beauty, only partially tarnished by her anxiety. Slowly she opened her eyes. He fell into the deep green pools. She spoke slowly at first. Matt was mesmerized by her accent and the soft power of her voice.

  “My name is Maha Hammad. I’m Jordanian.”

  “What a beautiful name. Maha. Does it mean something?”

  “In Arabic it means laughing eyes.” She winced as lightening illuminated the cabin and the plane pitched.

  “A fitting name for such eyes, and such a beautiful face.” He squeezed her hand with true care and concern.

  She turned away.

  “Sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.” Matt leaned back in his seat, feeling foolish.

  “He often does that to people,” remarked Todd, leaning over to speak
to her.

  She looked directly at Matt. “I have been visiting friends in Athens,” she said, her confidence returning. “But now I am on my way back to Beirut for my third year in the School of Pharmacy at the American University. And what about you? Why are you traveling to Beirut?”

  “I’m attending a junior year abroad program at AUB. I’ll be going there for the entire school year. Along with my friend here. Todd. We’re both from Harvard. It’s our first time out of the US.”

  They talked long past the patch of turbulence until the jet touched down at Beirut International Airport five hours later. They agreed to meet in three days on the university tennis courts.

  Matt Richards floated off the plane and thanks to serious-minded Todd was able to collect all his baggage and join up with the rest of the group near the taxi stand just outside the main airport doors. The warm humid night air assaulted him as he stepped through the doors.

  “Wow,” Matt said.

  “Wow, what?”

  “Can’t your feel it? Marco Polo and Alexander the Great passed through this country. This exotic Lebanon. Take a deep breath, Toad. The air is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The sea, the mountain trees, the desert sands, exotic spices, smoke from cooking fires. God, it’s an ancient recipe. This must have been what enticed great generals and early explorers to journey all the way to Lebanon. They were drawn here. Just like me.” Matt dropped his bags and stood still, exhilarated at his first experience of the Middle East.

  “Smells like diesel fumes to me,” Todd said, “and open-air toilets. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Before either of them could get their bearings, they were bundled into a battered Mercedes taxi with one other American student. After luggage had been precariously strapped into the open trunk and stuffed into the vacant passenger seat, the cab tore off.