“… after the welcome remarks by AUB President Dr. Samuel B. Kirkwood, we will be receiving the first of five lectures on the politics and economics of Lebanon and the Middle East by William Fisher of the U.S. State Department.” Matt turned and walked out. He grabbed another beer and sat down on the steps of College Hall. He’d wait for Fisher’s talk. A group of male Arabic students glared at Matt as they walked by. He smiled but they muttered something in Arabic and walked off.
When Matt wandered back into the large hall William Fisher, a tall, lanky man in his late 20’s strode up to the podium and began to speak. Matt found a seat among the other students.
“Most of you have never heard the word terrorist before. But by the time you’re in your forties, terrorism will be a household word and your worst nightmare.”
Thus began an hour and a half of the most riveting political and current affairs lecture Matt and the other students had ever experienced. William Fisher had a firm command of facts and drew conclusions about the future that, to his assembled audience of fresh-faced youth from America, were shocking and unsettling. Back home in America everyone believed the future would be both prosperous and safe, thanks to years of economic and technological superiority and the benefits of freedom and capitalism. Even now they were ridding Vietnam of the communists and preserving peace.
“The greatest threat to peace in the next two to three decades will be the sudden and prolific spread of refugee camps. Right now the center of attention seems to be on the Palestinian refugee camps in southern Lebanon, but in the years to come there will be more and more concentrations of uprooted people living in poor and squalid conditions. Recognized by no country, they will have no legal citizenship, no adequate representation, and no hope. This is the deadly mix that will spawn a massive rise in terrorism, and it won’t stop at regional boundaries-it will inflame the entire world.”
Matt looked around. Todd was sitting next to Anne-Marie, who was sitting rigid, engrossed in what was being said. On the other side of the room, Brian and Susan were whispering to each other. He had his arm around her.
“When young people have no hope, no dreams, no outlet for their desire to create something positive, then out of frustration and anger they will focus their energy on ways to destroy. Youth who grow up in crowded refugee camps are the perfect prey for sinister organizations around the world that wish to destroy any hopes of peace.
“And why would they want to destroy? For profit. They make money when peace is shattered and countries go to war.” Fisher took a drink of water and looked out at the fresh faces of America’s youth. “Who are these people? They are the international arms dealers, the suppliers of traditional as well as chemical weapons, and of course the armed mercenaries. And there are many shadowy organizations who stir up conflict to generate profit. By sponsoring regional and global terrorism, they can line their own pockets with millions and millions of dollars. They hold allegiance to no country, religion or political doctrine. Their only devotion is profit, their only allegiance, power.”
Anne-Marie clapped. All heads turn towards her. Both she and Todd sank down in their seats. “And the thirst of angry refugees for arms and ammunition will lead to a rise in the growth, manufacture and distribution of illegal drugs, which will become the prime currency for funding terrorist activities. Terrorists may disguise their motives under a banner of religious or political injustice, but the organizations supplying them with arms don’t have noble disguises. Their motive is greed-pure, unadulterated, transparent greed, and on a scale that the world has never seen before. Global greed.”
William Fisher paused. Only twenty-eight years old and on his first assignment overseas, he was already one of the brightest stars in the State Department. He took a sip of water.
“Because of the weakness of President Helou and the current Lebanese administration, a deep divide is growing within the Lebanese Parliament. On one side are the Muslim Lebanese, who consider the Arab position in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict a sacred cause. Opposing them, the Christian Lebanese, who are fanatical about the continued independence of Lebanon and who worry about their own security in light of the rising tide of terrorism. This schism within the Parliament is the opening the terrorists and their financial backers need to dramatically increase their presence and support. I predict that the newly organized Palestinian Liberation Organization, and other so-called political action groups, will quickly transform themselves into ruthless global terrorists.
“I wish I could see a more optimistic future for this beautiful country, but I’m afraid all signs point to Lebanon as the battleground upon which terrorists, Israelis, the Western world, and surrounding Arab countries will wage war. And that war will escalate to engulf the entire world.”
“Is there any good news?” Todd Cummings called out, waving his hand in the air.
“The best solutions often begin with the best questions, Mr. Cummings,” replied William Fisher. “The good news is that there are various nations, including the United States, that are quietly trying to support President Helou and bring the two factions in Parliament closer together. We hope these efforts will prevent, or at least delay, the spread of terrorism. In addition, certain nations are working hard to gather information on terrorist groups and their supporters. The more we know about their plans, organizations, sources of income and where they get their weapons, the better chance we have of preventing the deaths of thousands of innocent people around the world.”
“You mean to tell us these terrorists will target civilians instead of the military?” asked Matt, dumbfounded at the thought of deliberately killing innocent people just to make a point on the world stage.
Anne-Marie Khoury jumped up. “Have you ever been to a refugee camp before, Mr. Fisher?”
“No.”
“So you’ve never spoken with the mothers, the children, the abandoned old men, the eager young people who can’t find work other than being garbage collectors, brick layers, housemaids, or kitchen workers? These people used to have homes, they used to have land. They once had a nation, Palestine. All of which was stolen from them by the Zionists, with the blessing of many of these same Western nations who you say are now so afraid of terrorism. Well, in case it slipped your mind, you guys helped create this mess.” She pointed dramatically at Fisher, her hand shaking. “Why can’t you see that the problem really lies with Israel and the West, and not the Palestinians?”
“Believe it or not, Ms. Khoury, I agree with you.” T.J.’s Nikon flashed a photo of the young woman pointing angrily at the speaker. “We did create this mess; it’s arrogant Western colonialism that’s to blame. But what most people fail to realize is these refugees, whom you so passionately defend, are the unwitting pawns in a much bigger game of global terror perpetrated by shadowy people with no morals at all. They won’t be fighting in a conventional manner for political or religious rights. They will be systematically murdering innocent women and children, office workers and shop attendants, restaurant staff, Israelis, Arabs, Palestinians, Christians, Muslims, Jews, Europeans, and even Americans. One day it may even happen on American soil. And there will be no warning. Just a massive explosion or a burst of machine-gun fire. They are mass murderers whose only motive is greed, and right now the displaced and disheartened Palestinians are their cannon fodder.”
“Professor Fisher?” Brian Walker stood up. “Or should I call you 007? This sounds like another one of those righteous speeches that the rich capitalists give to justify keeping the rest of the world permanently in the Stone Age. Are you dudes looking for another Vietnam? I doubt if you’ll do any better here than you’re doing over there. And all in the name of freedom, or so you say.”
The speaker smiled. “Let’s have this discussion at the end of the school year, Mr. Walker, after you’ve been here a while. I’d be curious to see if any of your views have been altered by living in the real world, and not just on an American university campus.”
“Well.” Dr. Thom
as said, coming up on the podium at the end of William Fisher’s presentation. “It looks like this year promises to be quite different from a normal junior year in the States. Mr. Fisher will be conducting four more workshops over the next two weeks, which is a part of your Junior Year Abroad orientation process. In addition, one professor from each of the academic departments, as well as the schools of Medicine, Pharmacy and Nursing will be giving you short and informative presentations. We believe that by the end of the month, you will all better understand the Middle East and Lebanon, where you will be spending your academic year.”
“I could use a beer,” said Matt loudly as the meeting broke up and everyone mingled outside on the front steps of College Hall. “Anyone care to join me?”
It was the beginning of an exciting school year for Matt, a year of discoveries and new friendships. By the end of the first month, in addition to his core of American friends, Matt’s social group included Maha Hammad, Samir Hussein and his girlfriend Bedouina, and Demetrie Antonopolis, a somewhat older rich Greek student with a long pony tail. He knew all the interesting places to go in Lebanon and had even rented a large apartment in the mountains for ski weekends. Nobody knew much about Demetrie, but he was outgoing, popular, obviously with a rich father somewhere, and would never say no to a party.
They were together nearly every weekend for seven months, until the explosion that killed Samir, Bedouina and Maha, and turned Matt’s life upside down.
Chapter Five
London
“Ah, my favorite member of the St. James’s Club. Welcome back, Mr. Nagib.” Andrew, the well-groomed Club Manager, beamed with delight. “It’s been quite some time since you last blessed us with a visit here in London.”
The stylish and very private St. James’ Club and Casino, housed in an 18 ^th Century marble columned building near Piccadilly, had something the rest of London coveted; freedom from gawking tourists. An exclusive membership list, healthy annual fee, fabulous nouvelle cuisine, and a large casino made the club the luncheon choice for diamond-laden ladies of leisure. It was also a discrete haven for international business dinners late into the evening. And tonight was no exception.
Mohammad al Nagib grunted, finally shedding his size XXL overcoat. “You’re as charming and as full of bullshit as ever, Andrew. I assume my guests have been well taken care? I would have been here earlier, but important business needed my personal attention.”
Andrew beamed. “Everything is as you requested, sir.” The casino staff were trained to lavish personal attention on their private members. Like a handful of other exclusive dining clubs around the world, The St. James Club was a place where superior service was both expected and delivered.
“Excellent. Then bring a bottle of Fallet-Dart champagne to the table.”
“Of course, Mr. Nagib. It will be my honor to deliver it personally to your table.” Andrew discretely signaled that the guests in the walnut paneled cocktail lounge should be escorted to the dining room. He then bowed, repeating an ancient blessing: “May you be the father of 100 sons, Mr. Nagib.”
“Sons? Who the hell wants sons? They are weak and easily influenced. Haven’t you yet learned, young man, that women are by far the more effective of the species? It is daughters we should develop, not sons.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I will be along in a moment.”
Mohammed al Nagib strode into the gentlemen’s washroom. He stood in front of the marble sink and oversized antique mirror. A half smile broke the permanent scowl. He carefully combed his thinning silver hair. The confident face in the mirror echoed his thoughts. Three decades of planning, manipulating, bribing, threatening, and even a few disappearances. Now we are ready. The clock on the wall ticked. He checked the time against his gold Rolex, then strode towards the dining room.
“Ah, there you are my good friend.” Achilles Antonopolis stood up as Mohammed al Nagib walked through the large double doors into the formal dining room. They embraced warmly, kissing once on each cheek. The other two members of tonight’s special dinner meeting, a Swiss and a Brazilian, each took turns hugging and kissing their host and business partner. Warm greetings were exchanged all around in French and English. The champagne glasses were filled and the ever-bowing Andrew withdrew. They were seated at a corner table, slightly away from the rest of the guests.
Nagib briskly raised his glass to Jorge Molinas, sitting directly opposite. “Congratulations on your success.”
The short, neatly dressed Brazilian returned the toast. “Sometimes the best strategy is to let your opponent believe you have failed while your plan is proceeding.” He nodded to the others as they all drank deeply of the vintage champagne.
“Now that we are on schedule,” Nagib went on, “I can report that within one week, two at most, our asset will be securely in situ and waiting for the signal.”
“It is truly exhilarating to have destiny in our hands-and to be in control of the timetable.” The diminutive Helmut Hofer adjusted his thin wire-rimmed glasses, never making direct eye contact.
“And when the timing suits our needs, we can act at will,” added Antonopolis.
Nagib raised his bubbling flute of champagne. “For over thirty years we have pledged our lives together. Planning, testing, and revising our overall plans. I remember the old days when we would loan each other money during tough times. But thanks to all of your hard work and sacrifices, our business empires are not only expanding, but highly profitable. To our most ambitious project ever.”
“My mining and logging conglomerate would have never survived without your assistance.” The Brazilian bowed his bald head. “But now it’s profitable beyond my wildest dreams.”
Herr Hofer spoke just above a whisper. “My little bank has benefited handsomely from our long-term business dealings. And it’s benefited those who know a Swiss bank is the safest place for their money.”
“Ah, here comes the head chef himself,” Nagib announced. Lowering his voice, he added, “I suggest we change the conversation, gentlemen. All plans for the next phase are available through the secure network.” He looked up at the celebrity chef, decked out in a white smock, chef’s hat and colorful bowtie. Everyone stood up, shook hands all around and the pleasantries began.
***
The Tonight Show
“I’m no longer allowed to tell ethnic or political jokes,” the venerable late-night host quipped towards the end of his opening monologue. “The network brass get too many threatening phone calls from senators and congressmen. So tonight my writers have opted for a more scientific approach.” He shuffled his feet as if in deep thought. “Let’s see, the subject is… oh yeah, genetics.” The live audience broke into organized clapping, encouraging him on. “Okay, Okay, patience. You don’t get a scientific degree overnight, you know, these things take a while.”
A wry grin spread across his elongated face, making his chin look even more prominent than it was. He stared straight into the camera. “What do you get when you cross an Arab woman with a stick of dynamite?
“… Nothing.”
***
Blue Ridge Private Clinic and Hospital
A soft noise pierced the foggy veil of his mind. “Muzak. God, I hate Muzak.” Matt Richards fell back into a narcotic-induced sleep. For the past several weeks, he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. It was strange. In the mornings he would wake up to a set of electrodes placed on his arms and legs, stimulating his muscles, keeping atrophy at bay. He was just barely conscious as the machine kept up its steady rhythm of muscle contraction and relaxation. He could also feel a thick material covering his face, like large bandages. Then as soon as the machines were unplugged, he would fall into a deep sleep. More like a zombie than a living being.
But today, amidst a collage of bizarre dreams, he surfaced into semi-consciousness again.
“No. No.” The crisp bed sheet jerked uncontrollably. The dream came back. In and out of a vague blackness floated a face- her face. The same face capture
d on television. The suicide attack on the President. Bedouina Missoumi. It was her. He was certain of it. The image skimmed across his drug-fogged mind, smiling, snarling, laughing, brooding, beckoning. Soon more figures began to appear, misty, facing away from him. But each time they turned the face was always the same, Bedouina. Samir’s long dead girlfriend wafted closer and closer. He reached out with an invisible hand. She melted away. He sat up, trying to reach the evaporating form, then fell back into the soft pillow. More Muzak.
Again he awoke with a start. Another dreamy face.
“Who are you?” he called aloud. “Go away. Don’t look at me. Go away.” He didn’t want to know. He wanted the screen of his mind to go blank, but it glowed even brighter as the fragments of images coalesced. His mind reached out. He could feel every contour of her face as if it were etched into his DNA. Matt tried to close his mind. To shut off the thoughts.
“Oh, God.” He let out a low moan. It was the red-haired beauty he comforted so many years ago during a thunderstorm in the skies. The goddess he had fallen in love with-Maha.
“Calm down now, take a few deep breaths.” A soothing male voice came from directly overhead. “You must have been having a nightmare or a vivid hallucination. They’re common with concussions and injuries of your type.” Flashes of light moved back and forth across his eyes. The doctor held his lids apart and peered at his pupils.
“He’s regaining consciousness. The swelling of the lining of the brain seems to be going down as a result of the drugs. It looks like your patient is making a speedy and complete recovery. But he still needs rest.” The doctor turned slowly to face two men standing just behind him. Then all three men peered at the figure lying on the hospital bed. White bandages encircled head and face. Only the eyes were visible, with small holes for the nostrils.
The Beirut Conspiracy Page 7
