The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  Tears filled her eyes. “Have you ever seen such an inspiring view?” Nearly out of breath she came to a stop, the edges of her Rossignol skis sending up a shower of snow. She was at the beginning of a steep run, about half a kilometer from where the lift had deposited them. Matt was also breathing heavily, having difficulty keeping up as she snaked across the slope, her skis perfectly parallel. Being from Seattle, Matt had grown up skiing, but next to Maha he felt like a rock tumbling down a bumpy hillside. He came to a showering stop alongside her, but his sharp edges struck a small rock and sent him flying onto his back. He looked up and laughed.

  “Stop clowning around, Matthew. You must see this view. It’s magnificent. Imagine how the invading armies felt when they reached the mountaintop and looked out.”

  Stretched out below them, well over thirty-five kilometers away, lay the city of Beirut. It glowed in the early-morning sunlight. The blue Mediterranean danced and shimmered. Several grey tankers slowly exited the harbor, plodding ahead of their frothy wakes. The Phoenician legacy was still as vibrant as ever. Where the lower end of Saint George’s Bay curved around, they could just make out the red-tiled roofs and lush gardens of the American University of Beirut.

  “Wow,” Matt exclaimed, when he’d pulled himself back up. “It’s like we’re gods on Mount Olympus looking down on the world.” Besides biology and math classes, Matt was taking a course in ancient mythology taught by Professor Richmond Hathron, as eccentric as he was famous. Dr. Hathron, an American, had lived in the Middle East for many years. In their classes twice a week, he would often read passages from Homer’s Iliad, from the original Greek, translating the flowery text as he went. It was this class that had opened Matt’s eyes to the profound soul of the Middle East, where first the Greeks and then the Romans had such a strong and lasting influence on the culture.

  “Hey,” he said, squinting into the sun, “what’s all that smoke over there? Isn’t that Beirut Airport?”

  Maha didn’t hear him. “If you can catch me, you can kiss me.” she yelled, leaping off the snowy ledge. She tore down the steep face, gracefully carving a sinuous trail. Snow erupted at each turn.

  Matt was about to race off after her when he noticed two skiers in dark clothing emerge from the left side of a snow bowl and head directly for Maha. They raced closer and closer, flying straight towards their target. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Matt. Instead she saw the two men. She slowed down, her skiing more rigid, jerking from side to side as she awkwardly turned. She looked tense and frightened. Matt watched, not knowing what to do. He looked closer. They were on a course that would take them by her. He relaxed.

  But suddenly they veered directly in front of Maha and stopped. She tried to swerve out of the way but her ski tips crossed. She tumbled down into the snow, face first. Both skis flew off in opposite directions like feathers from a gunshot bird. He watched anxiously as she slid for twenty yards before coming to a stop next to a small mound of snow.

  Matt catapulted off the ledge shouting, “Get away from her,” but they were too far away to hear. Or else they just ignored him. As he headed straight down, the two skiers closed in on either side of Maha, just sitting up and brushing off the snow. One of the men reached down to help her up, but she resisted, lashing out with a ski pole. In a few mad seconds Matt was within earshot. Maha was screaming in Arabic. Matt crouched down and headed straight for the nearest intruder-a human missile flying down the steep slope.

  Looking up, Maha saw Matt barreling down towards them. “No, Matt, it’s all right. Don’t-”

  The taller of the two skiers stood directly in his path. Grabbing the hood of the stranger as he flew past, Matt jerked him to the ground, then dug his ski edges and swished to a stop a few feet downhill. He yelled at the other man. “Get away from her, you sonofabitch.” Matt began sidestepping up the slope, frantic to reach Maha. The man he’d downed reached into his parka. A Damascus knife glittered in the sun. Matt stared at the deadly curved blade.

  “Matt. Watch out.” The skier with the knife lunged at Matt’s back. Maha moved swiftly, reaching out. The deflected blade bit into the back of her hand. Bright red blood splattered across the snow.

  “Stop it right now-stop it, all of you.” Maha screamed at the men, then clutched her hand in pain. Matt scooped up a handful of cold snow, packed it down over her wound, then began wrapping it tightly with his bandanna. The two Arabic men had come up alongside, the taller one threatening Matt with the knife.

  “What are you doing, Saleem?” Maha screamed. “Are you crazy?”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, sneaking around with this man. We’ve been looking for you all night.” Suddenly he fell to his knees, sobbing. “Father’s dead.”

  The color drained from her face. “What?” She was shaking as she gripped her older brother by the arm. “Oh God. What happened?”

  “He was at the airport late last night for a flight to Amman when Israeli commandos attacked. They blew up several planes on the runway and shot up the main building. Father tried to duck down behind a ticket counter…” When he looked up, a fierce hatred burned in his dark eyes.

  “Zionist pigs. They shot him in the back. He bled to death. And where was the cowardly Lebanese army during all this? Their barracks are only five kilometers away.” He spit into the snow. “I will kill them all.”

  His vow fell on deaf ears. Maha fainted into Matt’s arms, her warm blood melting the snow.

  Chapter Six

  The Tonight Show

  As the host began to wind up his opening monologue, the live audience was in an exceptionally festive and jovial mood. “Well, I see you people are really wound up, and just as well. We have a great show for you tonight. Of course, unlike Bill Clinton, we can’t get our current President on the show. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who’s even heard from him lately. And speaking of the President,” he said, with a wink, “I’ve been continuing my study of genetics. I find the subject fascinating.” Several in the audience jeered loudly, recalling his earlier jokes.

  “My recent studies have led me to some startling discoveries. As you know, genes control such things as hair color, eye color, and even, I have recently discovered, behavior. Why just this afternoon I made a startling discovery while comparing the DNA of an ostrich and the President. They both contain the same gene for putting one’s head in the sand.”

  ***

  The Oval Office, 7am

  Horns from early morning traffic blared along 17 ^th Street. President Ross Pierce, insulated by thick glass from the outside noise and outside threats, sat alone at his desk in the West Wing. He looked straight ahead. A bust of Abraham Lincoln, sitting on the fireplace mantle, stared back. “I wonder which is better, Mr. President, to know you’re an assassination target or be taken by surprise?” Lincoln just kept staring.

  Nearly three months after the suicide attack that killed Dr. Andrew Norman and so many others, he was still troubled. His minor flesh wounds were healed, but he still ached for all the people slaughtered. Even more troubling was how to respond. Congress, the press, the American people-indeed, the entire world-clamored for an official U.S. response to the attack, as well as a major policy statement on terrorism. Everyone demanded some type of action.

  The hidden door next to the office of the Chief of Staff opened slowly. “You wanted to talk with me, Mr. President?”

  Ross Pierce stood up and motioned to a chair. “Yes, Karl. I do. I thought maybe we could talk a little before the day really hits.”

  Karl van Ness sat comfortably in the massive wing chair. “What about?”

  “Why don’t you sit over here, out of the sunlight. It shows off your wrinkles, and reminds me of mine.”

  “Both sets earned in the service of our country, Mr. President,” van Ness said gravely.

  “Mine were earned getting my ass in a sling, and yours were earned saving it. For which I’m eternally grateful, Karl.”

  “So, how can I help?” V
an Ness sat uneasily now.

  “Coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  Ross poured his mentor a cup of coffee, a touch of deference reserved only for this man he both trusted and needed.

  “I want to talk about that female terrorist attack, how things are shaping up.”

  Van Ness waited. His coffee was hot, and bitter.

  “As you know, I’ve made dozens of speeches since the attack. I’ve promised the American people, and the world, that the United States would not stand for such cowardly acts.”

  “And they’ve been good speeches, Mr. President. People can feel your conviction and..”

  “My string is running out, Karl. I know it and you know it. People want action, not talk.” Pierce set his coffee mug on the desk, careful to place it on the coaster.

  “And what are you not telling me?”

  Ross stared, startled at the blunt question. Then he nodded. “Something big is afoot, something evil. I don’t know what, but someone tried to kill me once, and I don’t think they will stop. I got into this seat on promises of bringing about peace, one way or another. Now they bring the issue right to my doorstep, and I still don’t have a fucking plan of action I can believe in.”

  “I understand, Mr. President. And I wouldn’t advise an approach like your predecessor launched in the wake of September 11. Costly and unfortunately ineffective.”

  “I know. That’s one of the reasons I’m sitting in this chair today. However, in the eyes of the world it looks as if the war on terrorism is being lost, not won.”

  Van Ness continued to listen. The coffee cup sat on the side table, ignored.

  “Let me spell it out for you. The polls tell us the American people are fed up with the fear and uncertainty. Not knowing when and where the next attack will come. They’re afraid terrorism will reach into their local communities. No one feels safe anymore. And I don’t blame them. I’m practically a prisoner of this office. I can hardly go out and meet the people.” President Pierce stood up, clutching the large coffee.

  “And the protesters. Have you seen those slogans, Karl? Nuke the Bomber Bitches, Fight Back Now Before It’s Too Late, and Don’t Wait for Another Pearl Harbor. ”

  “They’re difficult to miss.” Van Ness watched the President move towards the windows facing the south lawn.

  “I’m getting thousands of letters and e-mails demanding America take a firm stand to protect itself. Most of them want us to launch a retaliatory strike right now.” He shook his head. “In all my years as a governor, senator, and now President, I’ve never seen such vitriolic displays of public anger.”

  “From my discussions, Mr. President, it appears the military, along with the CIA, fully support the public demands for all-out retaliation.”

  “I know. I’ve been briefed until I can’t look at another slide. They keep saying they have the targets and the means. All they need is a thumbs-up from me and the righteous force of America’s high-tech weaponry will put the terrorists out of action forever.” He glanced at his mentor. “That’s a direct quote.”

  Karl van Ness nodded. “The major defense contractors are pressing their Congressmen. And several senior politicians are afraid of losing their hefty PAC contributions. It’s not pretty on the hill, Mr. President.” He stood by the fireplace, waiting for the name he knew would come up.

  “And that arrogant asshole, Mason Stevens, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, has been meeting with the press almost daily. He’s leading the crusade for retaliation. Shit, his office phones here just about every hour for another meeting to press his case.”

  “He has a point,” van Ness said. “If there is fresh intelligence data identifying the nations harboring and actively supporting terrorist networks, it could become obsolete if we don’t strike soon.”

  “I know it, Karl, that’s what worries me. And he’s whipping the American people into a frenzy. Just watch this tape of the Larry King show last night.” Ross Pierce walked over to the wall unit and grabbed the remote control. A large flat screen TV boomed to life. The tanned face of Senator Stevens emerged. “Watch this sonofabitch. And look at that hairdo. Coiffed for the occasion.”

  The Senator’s deep voice boomed out. “The reason we’re confronted with increasingly bold and bloody acts of terrorism is because terrorism works,” the senator barked. “Blatant acts of murder and mayhem get these cowards an enormous amount of attention from the liberal media and catapult them onto the world stage.”

  “Whoa, Senator,” replied King, pushing back his chair. “Are you saying terrorism is also a propaganda tool?”

  “That’s right. Then the ineffective United Nations and certain cowardly members of the international community go soft whenever there is an opportunity to prosecute and put the terrorists in jail.” Senator Stevens pounded his meaty fist on the table. “Their lame excuse is that they need to better understand the causes of terrorism. Some governments even express the stupid opinion that these groups must have some validity to their grievances if they engage in such open displays of violence. It’s all just rhetoric-what they’re doing is avoiding the real issues.”

  “And your solution, Senator?”

  “The time for talk is over, Larry. These murderers grow bolder by the minute. If the President doesn’t strike now, and strike hard, I fear that American soil will become a prime target for every half-crazed terrorist on the planet. Some of whom our intelligence tells us already have access to deadly biological weapons and makeshift dirty bombs.”

  The senator, his face red, gazed directly into the camera. “Swift and severe reprisal is the only language these international criminals can understand. It’s time President Pierce showed some backbone. We’ve got to convince the terrorist organizations and their backers-not to mention those spineless nations hiding within the United Nations-that we mean business.”

  Ross Pierce threw down the remote control. “I’m not a coward, Karl. And by God I do have the force of character and courage to unleash the wrath of America’s military and technological might on these bastards. I’m even willing to support targeted covert operations and assassinations if necessary.”

  “But…?” Karl van Ness watched his protege.

  “When I was in Vietnam I saw first hand the senseless futility of war. No outsider can really force a country into submission. Hate and violence only breed more hate and violence, never peace.”

  “But this isn’t a conventional war.”

  “I know. The terrorists have moved well beyond seeking recognition or understanding for their cause. By amassing body counts, their goal now seems to be to destabilize the global economy and weaken the willpower of the West.”

  “So what keeps you from letting the military strike?”

  “A couple of things. For one, the polls are pretty evenly split. While half of the American people favor retaliation, the other demand a peaceful solution. They believe its time the United States took a stand for what is right. To stop the global escalation of terrorism, retaliation, more terrorism, and more retaliation. Look at the mess the Israelis are in. Tit for tat, bodies for bodies. And it spills over to other parts of the world as well.” President Pierce sat down in his chair once again and closed his eyes.

  Karl van Ness waited, his coffee cup still untouched. “Let’s have your views, Mr. President.”

  Ross Pierce spoke again, much calmer now. “The solution is really straightforward, Karl. Recognize the State of Palestine and stop giving support to Israeli aggressiveness.”

  Beyond the bulletproof glass traffic honked on 17 ^th Street and protestors chanted and carried signs in front of the White House. Van Ness listened, trying to make out the words, but only the anger came through clearly. “That wouldn’t be a very wise political move.”

  “I know that, Karl. But a growing percentage of Americans feel that Israel’s true purpose is not self-defense, but territorial expansion. And full recognition would immediately erode Arab sympathy for the
terrorists, whose stated aim after all is recognition of the rights of the Palestinian people.” Ross took a sip of coffee. “Once we’ve recognized Palestine, the Arab nations will have to withdraw their support of terrorism, or face being branded by the UN as terrorists themselves.”

  Van Ness nodded. “Believe it or not, Mr. President, I do see the logic of this approach. For years the United States and the international community have seen the recognition of Palestine as the only real solution, the only path to lasting peace. The problem was none of our politicians and elected officials had the courage to make the final decision. In fact, as we both know, several times over the past fifty years the United States, on the verge of official recognition, has pulled out at the last hour. Always for political reasons.”

  “I know, Karl. But it is the right decision. If we hope to maintain a position of positive influence in the world, then we must take the high road in times of international crisis. Especially now.”

  “You may be right, Mr. President. But you certainly won’t be very popular with the supporters of Israel. You know as well as anyone the financial muscle and political strength of the Jewish lobby. And the fundamentalist Christians, another strong lobby, also back a strong Israel.”

  “So what’s your advice, Karl?”

  “The peaceful path might work. But if you chose to follow it, you need more political ammunition than you have at the moment. A lot more. You also need some leverage. Big leverage. Against Israel. Against the Arabs. And here in the U.S. Otherwise, you won’t survive your first term in office.” Karl van Ness now stood directly in front of the President.

  The intercom buzzed, breaking the mood. “Your next appointment is waiting, Mr. President.”