The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “When will he be recovered enough for us to talk to him, doc?”

  Matt flinched but his eyes remained closed.

  “Speak quietly. His ears are very sensitive at this stage.”

  “When? We can’t wait much longer.” A hushed voice with a heavy accent.

  “Not now. He still needs his daily exercise and then his rest. And it will be at least one more week before we can take the bandages off.”

  “But it’s been five weeks already. We need to talk with him, time is running out.” The other man moved into the bright light hanging over the steel-framed bed. His bald head glistened with sweat. They were in a small, elaborately equipped recovery room, sealed off from the rest of the clinic by large doors and armed guards.

  “Maybe by the end of the week, perhaps sooner. I’ve told you a hundred times, medicine and politics don’t work on the same timetable-I’ll let you know as soon as he’s fully recovered.” And with that the surgeon ushered the two men out of the hospital room. Slowly he returned, staring at the vital signs flashing on the machines in the otherwise darkened room. Matt could sense his presence, watching, waiting.

  ***

  “Where am I?” Matt aimed his words at three out of focus faces staring down at him.

  “You’re in a private clinic, Dr. Richards. And, I might add, you’re recovering very nicely. Today I can take the bandages off.”

  Matt slowly felt his face. Shaky hands moved cautiously back and forth, then up and down. His entire head was bandaged. “Must have been a hell of an accident.” He vaguely recalled screaming tires and Kelly slamming on the brakes. Everything else was lost behind a dense mental fog.

  “Can’t you get rid of that damned Muzak? It’s driving me crazy, and God knows what it does to the rest of the patients.” The two visitors turned to each other.

  “So, do I look like a codfish? And you still haven’t answered my first question. Where am I?”

  “Dr. Weissman is leaving now, but we’ll be able to answer all your questions.” A heavy-set olive-skinned man faced the doctor. “We’ll call you when we need you, doctor. Stay close at hand.”

  “Very well.” He left without looking back. The door secured itself automatically with a faint hydraulic hiss.

  “You’re in a private hospital in the Blue Ridge mountains,” the stranger said, pulling a chair next to the bed. “It’s reserved for only the most special patients.” The motor whirred as he lowered the height of the bed so they could talk face to face. The other man, younger and taller, grabbed another chair. He slammed it down next to his partner. The heavy metal legs struck the bed frame. Matt winced at the noise.

  “What’s happening….” Matt stuttered as his mushy mind slowly came to grips with the conversation.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. You haven’t seen the headlines, have you?” The younger man unlatched his briefcase. “Here, let me read it to you. It’s the Washington Post, dated February 23, the morning after.”

  “After?” he muttered.

  “After the accident.”

  Matt tried to sit up. His body barely moved. He grunted. After a few attempts, he finally propped himself up against the thick foam hospital pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully as the stranger spoke slowly and distinctly.

  “Daughter of Senator Mason Stevens Killed in Drunk Driving Accident.” Matt groaned through the layers of gauze. “That’s the headlines, front page no less. Now I’ll read you the story.” He held the paper in Matt’s direct field of vision.

  Ms. Kelly Stevens, 22, only child of U.S. Senator and Mrs. Mason T. Stevens of Virginia, died in a tragic single-car accident on the George Washington Parkway at approximately 11:15 P.M. last night. According to the D.C. Metro police, who arrived a short time after the accident, Ms. Stevens’ yellow Porsche Boxter apparently went out of control and swerved across the highway, crashed through a guard rail and struck a large tree. Police estimate the small sports car was traveling at excessive speed. Ms. Stevens died instantly.

  Kelly Stevens, a senior at Sweet Briar College in Lynchburg, Virginia, was attending a reception for newly appointed personal physician to President Pierce, Dr. Noubar Melikian. She was accompanied by a friend, Dr. Matthew Richards, assistant professor of biology and anatomy at Sweet Briar. Dr. Richards, who was driving at the time, was also pronounced dead at the scene…

  “What the hell?” Matt jerked into an upright position and tried to grab the newspaper. The other man shoved him back, restraining his arms. “God damn it. What’s going on here? And let me go, you big ape.” Matt’s head exploded with pain. He collapsed back onto the pillow.

  “Relax, doc, we haven’t finished.” He cracked a tight smile. His dark skinned face seemed to glow.

  Matthew Richards, 54, son of famous heart surgeon Dr. Wilson Richard, and disbarred from practicing medicine several years ago in an alcohol-related incident had a blood alcohol content of 0.25 % at the time of the accident, nearly three times the legal driving limit.

  Matt grabbed the paper, the print wavering before his weak eyes as his mind absorbed the words. Shit. The pages fluttered to the floor. Somewhere in the dark distance an intercom crackled.

  “Not only are you a drunk and a murderer, Dr. Richards, but you’re also legally dead. Your past is pretty messed up, and I’d say your future doesn’t look too bright either.” The older man stood up. Matt noticed coarse black hair growing out of his ears.

  Matt gathered his strength, fighting back the pain. “Okay. You got my attention. Now what do you want from me? This is some sort of setup. I should have known something was up when that black car kept trying to ram us from behind.”

  “Yes, that was unfortunate. We lost two good men that evening, but they did their job, forcing you to speed up for our little reception party ahead.”

  “What do you want from me?” Thinking and moving were taking a toll. He felt nauseous. In a futile gesture of defiance Matt gave them the finger under his bedcovers.

  The younger man got up and put his ear against the door, gave the okay signal, then sat down again. Hairy Ears spoke again. “We need your help.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “We want you to help us track down a terrorist cell – “

  “A terrorist cell!”

  “Yes. A group that has placed highly trained assassins in deep cover, right here in the U.S.”

  Matt’s head pounded. He formed his words distinctly through the bandages. “Man, have you got the wrong guy.”

  “We think not, Doc.”

  “Oh? And what twisted logic leads you two idiots to choose me?”

  The younger man’s face hardened. “Our sources tell us this cell was organized by a group of radical students who went to the American University of Beirut.”

  Bedouina’s intense face shimmered. Unbidden, Maha swirled, auburn hair glowing, then Samir’s smiling face… But they’re dead. Dead… Matt kept quiet.

  “So? What’s going on Doc? You checking out again?”

  “No. Just thinking this is some kind of sick joke.”

  Hairy Ears was leaning close to Matt’s face. “Guess what year these students were at the American University? 1966 to 1970. Ring any bells?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You were there.”

  “Sure, I was there. But I was only twenty-one years old, a naive college student from the States. I just wanted to experience a new culture, drink some beer and get laid. I had no interest in politics or political causes then, and I don’t now. Besides, I’m not a detective or a secret agent. And now I’m just an ex-doctor and a two-bit college anatomy professor, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re also a stinking drunk.” The younger man leaned over the bed. A jagged white scar ran from his left cheek down to his chin. “And a doctor who couldn’t handle the pressure. Luckily your license was revoked before you killed someone on the operating table.”

  Hairy Ears watched the eyes beneath the bandages. He gauged their anger. “Is he right
, Doc?”

  “I drank more than I should. I won’t deny it.”

  “How nice. More than I should. What a crock. You were and still are a lousy drunk.” Hairy Ears sat back in the chair. “There are two types of alcoholics, Dr. Richards. The unfortunate person who has a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and the coward who tries to hide from the past, present and future inside a bottle. You’re not a real alcoholic, Doctor. You’re just a miserable wimp running away from a failed career, dozens of failed relationships, and a legend of a father to whom you could never measure up.” The words cut into Matt like the double-edged sword of truth that it was. He closed his eyes, wondering where this was heading. What he really wanted was to drift off to sleep. Forever.

  Scarface stood up abruptly, the metal chair tipped onto the floor. Matt jumped at the noise.

  “Okay. As you so eloquently put it, I’m not cut out for much of anything. So why me?”

  “Two reasons,” Scarface said. “First, we believe you came into contact with several of the suspected members of this cell while you were in Beirut.”

  “Like who?” Again Maha’s green eyes came into focus, then retreated.

  “What I’m about to say is highly classified, known to only a few individuals. For the past several years we’ve been keeping an eye on a radical law professor from Berkeley, Dr. Brian Walker. You were at AUB with him between 1968 and 1969, weren’t you?”

  Matt nodded, not having thought about Brian in many years.

  “We have reason to believe that during that time, Walker, who we suspect may be the leader of this cell, recruited several other students, both American and Arab. How well did you know Brian Walker?”

  “Jesus Christ, that was over thirty years ago. We were just kids on a junior year abroad program.”

  “But you did know him.” Hairy Ears said.

  “Of course I knew Brian, as well as a dozen other students who were my friends that year.”

  Scarface watched him.

  Matt explored his bandages. “Quit staring. There’s nothing to this. I haven’t spoken to any of them since 1969.”

  “I see.”

  “Fact is three of my Arabic friends were killed in a bomb explosion near the end of my last semester in Beirut. Things changed. I came home. No letters, no Christmas cards. Nothing.” Images of the explosion came roaring back. He could taste the ashes and feel the scorching heat-could still see Samir Hussein incinerated before his eyes. The nightmare was etched into his skin. A permanent searing of his psyche. Matt lay against the pillow, exhausted.

  “Did you see the CNN footage of the suicide bomb attack on the President?” Scarface again.

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “Did you recognize the woman’s face?” He leaned in, looking straight into Matt’s eyes.

  “Nope.” It didn’t seem right to tell them the woman looked like Bedouina Missoumi. After all, it couldn’t be-she died in the explosion at the restaurant. Besides, he didn’t trust these people. There was something ugly and dangerous going on. “Look, I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them since we left Beirut. So I’d say I’m the wrong guy for your little clandestine assignment, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ah, yes, well that brings me to the second reason we’ve anointed you, Dr. Richards.” Hairy Ears picked the newspaper up from the floor, carefully folded it and laid it on the white hospital sheet.

  “Which is?”

  “You’re all we’ve got,” he said simply. “And you’re expendable. After all, you’re dead, as reported in all the newspapers and on television. They even held a funeral for you. Pretty sparsely attended, I might add. Your father didn’t even show up.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He bent down close to Matt’s bandaged face. The smell of garlic made Matt nauseous. “You’re officially listed as dead. So who’s going to care if you die twice?” The words uncoiled slowly, like a lethal serpent.

  “Okay, I get the message. But haven’t you dimwits overlooked one important point? I can’t go around looking up old college friends if I’m dead. Wouldn’t it look a little suspicious, a corpse suddenly springing back to life?”

  Scarface walked over to a wall phone and pressed the intercom. “We need you in the safe room, Dr. Weissman.” He turned toward Matt. “The good doctor will make your decision a little easier.”

  Minutes later, the last of the long cotton bandages was carefully lifted from around his head. He felt the movement of air against his face and on the matted hair follicles on his head. He felt ten times lighter as Dr. Weissman began removing gauze squares from his cheeks, chin, nose and around his eyes.

  The accented words of Hairy Ears pulled Matt from his thoughts. “You suffered terrible facial lacerations as a result of the accident, Dr. Richards. Someone had to make a quick decision, so we asked Dr. Weissman here to give us a hand. He’s a very talented plastic surgeon and our little hospital has quite an array of sophisticated equipment for just such contingencies.” The man stared at Matt’s face with interest. “Well, well, well.”

  He turned to the surgeon, busy putting the piles of cotton and gauze in the waste bin near the sink. “Where’s the mirror? It’s time Dr. Richards had a look at himself.”

  A slow fear coursed through Matt’s body. He was perspiring. In that instant, Dr. Matthew Richards realized he was helpless. A prisoner. A pawn in some twisted political game where people could murder and kidnap at will, manipulate the press and possibly even governments. Who are these people and what do they want? With shaking hands he took the oval mirror from Dr. Weissman, gripping the smooth clinical handle with both hands. It wavered back and forth as he slowly turned it around.

  “Oh my God… That’s not me, that’s not my face-you fucking bastards, you had no right. You had no right.” Matt stared at the stranger in the mirror. The hair color was the same, but the face was totally wrong. Matt’s face was lean and creased with deep lines, with an almost boyish upturned mouth. This new face was rounder, the cheeks fuller, the nose more prominent and slightly bent. The mouth was definitely not his. Thin, stern, joyless. The beard, though nearly all gray like his, was thicker and denser. The distorted image of an aging prizefighter wavered before him.

  “What have you done?” was all he could manage. His body shook.

  “Actually,” Dr. Weissman responded while watching the facial muscles move easily and naturally, “it’s a relatively new procedure. As a result of my recent research on nerve regeneration and facial muscle attachment, I have finally been able to perfect the technique of a full facial transplant. And we are able to achieve complete healing and full facial control in just 6 weeks, 7 at the most.”

  Matt threw the mirror as hard as he could, catching Scarface on the temple. The mirror ricocheted and hit the floor, shattering the glass. No one moved.

  Bleeding from the temple, Scarface pressed the barrel of a pistol into Matt’s ear. “Maybe we should just end your miserable life here and now, asshole. You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve got no choice in this matter. You belong to us and you’ll do exactly what we want you to do. It’s as simple as that. So stop trying to act like someone with a semblance of dignity and self-respect. You’ve been a coward and a weakling all your life. You should be thankful we’re giving you a second chance to finally do something with your miserable little life.” He released Matt and stepped back. The pistol slid back smoothly into the hand tooled shoulder holster. “We’ll be back after you’ve had a chance to sleep on it.” He nodded to the doctor. The syringe was already inserted into the IV tube.

  Matt started to panic, his heart racing. “So what if I go along with your plan?”

  “Several very important people will be extremely grateful, Dr. Richards. That, and your life won’t have been a total waste after all. But we’re not impressed with your sudden change of heart. It’s the only option you’ve got.” They walked out.

  Dr. Weissman pulled out the empty syringe. In less than thirty seconds Matt Richards dr
ifted into another drug-induced sleep. The dreams came again.

  ***

  Beirut, December 29, 1968

  The beckoning aroma of thick Arabic coffee floated into the bedroom of the ski chalet in the snow-covered mountains above Beirut. The soft mattress shook. Still half asleep, he sensed Maha’s presence. Her warmth. Her essence. Inhaling the scent of her perfumed skin, he recalled last evening’s lovemaking. His eyes slowly opened. She was over him, the tips of her long red hair tickling his face and eyelids. Matt closed his eyes again, committing every part of her to memory. He wanted to remember this moment forever. Eyes, hair, musky…

  “Last night I took the most wonderful journey of my life. I went straight to heaven.” Her sweet breath was warm as her lips caressed his cheek. “I am changed, Matthew. Forever. Now I am a woman. Your woman. I have given to you everything that is sacred to me, willingly and with joy. And what you gave me was fantastic.” They kissed, and he drank her in, only to feel her body move quickly off the bed. “Now,” she giggled, as her large firm breasts bounced up and down. “Let’s see if you can ski as well as you make love.”

  The mountains of Lebanon formed a giant barrier running the length of the narrow country, separating the fertile coastal plain edging the warm Mediterranean from the high desert expanses of the Bekka Valley. In Phoenician times, the entire 161 kilometer mountain range was covered with a dense forest of cedar trees, known in Arabic as Arz-ar-Rab, the Trees of the Lord. The huge trees became a valuable source of lumber for building the massive temples of Egypt. Trade with Egypt was brisk, and while the Phoenicians flourished, the cedars rapidly dwindled. Only a small stand of fewer than four hundred trees-some over a thousand years old-now remained. They were the survivors, a lonely reminder of how easily something so noble and beautiful can be lost forever.

  “Aren’t these mountains exquisite? A paradise of virgin white snow. And just think, it lasts until May, sometimes later.” Maha laughed with delight as she strapped on her skis just outside the chalet door. It was midweek. The pristine slopes nearly deserted. Matt and Maha had slipped away to spend two days at the large chalet their friend Demetrie had rented for the season. This was their first extended time alone, and their first experience as lovers.