“Have them wait a little longer.” He watched his mentor.
“Not only would recognition be political suicide, Mr. President, but there’s no telling what the Israeli secret service would do if they got wind of it. Many influential and powerful people depend on America’s financial and military support of Israel. A third of our annual foreign aid-close to seven billion dollars-goes to Israel, a country no bigger than the state of Kentucky. They definitely wouldn’t take it lying down.”
The deadly Mossad. “Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve got another reason for seeking a peaceful solution.”
Van Ness remained quiet.
“Oil. And the oil lobby is even bigger than the Jewish lobby.” Pierce stood up and came around the wide desk. “Imagine the potential, Karl? With skillful negotiations, we could obtain massive concessions, even partial ownership of vast oil fields. And to complicate matters, these same oil fields have long been coveted by the Russians. It would definitely be in the long-term interests of the United States to keep the Russians away from the Middle East’s massive oil deposits.”
“Then you are going to need some very big leverage.”
“Just what kind of leverage, Karl?”
“I might have a few ideas. If you will excuse me, Mr. President, I have some work to do.”
***
Long Beach, California
“Thank God I arrived last night.” Brian Walker was being escorted through the basement from the hotel to the main hall of the Long Beach Convention Center. “What do you make of the mobs out there?” The two heavyset security guards shrugged. Walker had a resume a mile long-among other things, he was a professor of law at the University of California, Berkeley, an internationally recognized expert on terrorism, and a renowned criminal defense lawyer- and today he was scheduled to give the keynote address at the Southern California Convention of Palestinian-Americans.
“I’ve been working as a security guard at the convention center for nearly ten years, and this is the biggest and meanest crowd of protestors I’ve ever seen,” said one of the guards, fingering his holstered gun. “I’m expecting that mob to come rushing through these underground corridors any minute now.”
“You sure picked a crappy time to give a speech, mister,” the other guard said. “I hope you got a helicopter waiting.”
Protestors began arriving several days before. Campers, vans, rented buses and motor homes were filled with people from all walks of life who had an opinion to express about terrorism and America. Some traveled for days to reach the southern California beach community. By 9 A.M., the official start of the convention, over four thousand people were pressed together in the grounds surrounding the convention building. More spilled over onto Ocean Boulevard. The undermanned and inexperienced Long Beach police force had given up trying to control the swelling throng. At the moment, they were just waiting, and hoping the day wouldn’t turn ugly.
“Support Israel,” shouted some. “Recognize Palestine,” shouted others. The mob had separated into two camps. On one side were those deeply concerned about terrorism on American soil and blindly opposed to anything Arab. This noisy, unruly group included rednecks, bikers and NRA supporters hoisting incendiary placards, Get a Free Carpet, Shoot a Rug-Head. On the same side were zealous, vociferous supporters of Israel carrying equally inflammatory banners: God Chose the Jews-Not the Palestinians and Support Israel, Attack Now.
And strangely, nestled within this camp, was a large contingent of fundamentalist Christians, clean-cut God Bless America types led by a charismatic minister who loudly belted out ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. They carried their own posters: Jesus Died for Our Sins-It’s Time the Arabs Died for Theirs.
In a small bricked area in front of the brightly painted convention center, the smaller half of the crowd, mothers with young children, college students, liberal ministers with congregations from numerous faiths, as well as Arab-Americans of many backgrounds, were equally loud and committed to the ideas indicated by their placards: We’re American Citizens, Not Terrorists; Stop the Madness-Recognize Palestine; Support Peace-Not Israel; and Down with Zionist Imperialism. There were numerous women’s rights advocates protesting the exploitation of women in both America and the Muslim countries.
Inside the round convention hall gathered nearly six hundred of southern California’s most prominent Palestinian-Americans. During the 1970s when Israel shoved Palestinians out of their homeland and neighboring Arab nations failed to offer them refuge-in the Arab world Palestinians are looked down upon as dirty, uneducated troublemakers, common laborers, housemaids, and garbage collectors-a large number of wealthy and educated Palestinians had moved to southern California. The group assembled inside the convention center were the elite; doctors, pharmacists and successful business people. A large number were Armenian Christians. No matter what their faith, all the delegates that morning were committed to one objective, the restoration of the State of Palestine and an end to conflict in the Middle East.
It was hoped that this convention would help raise awareness and understanding among the American people that Palestine was not a terrorist state. Terrorism was the desperate act of a handful of deranged people. The overwhelming majority of Palestinians were willing to find a way to live with their new neighbor, Israel. All they wanted was their country back.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. It is time to begin.” As the chairman of the convention welcomed the attendees, the muffled chants from the growing crowds outside formed an eerie backdrop, a faint threat rising and falling against the walls. Dr. Ahmed Khoury quickly finished his welcoming remarks and introduced the keynote speaker. Thunderous applause momentarily drowned out the chanting outside.
Dr. Brian Walker strode confidently up to the lectern, shook hands with his host and acknowledged the enthusiastic applause of the crowd with a nod of his head. At fifty-five years of age, Brian Walker portrayed a commanding presence. His long black hair tied in a ponytail showed striking silver streaks at the temples. He still had the easy gait of an athlete. Accustomed to controversy as a result of his radical views on freedom and international law, he had accepted this speech as an opportunity to address not just these Palestinian expatriates but also the American people. Numerous reporters from the major print media were in the audience, as were camera crews from CNN and the other major networks. A team of reporters from the Arabic news network, Al Jazeera, had their TV cameras ready. With all the exposure, Dr. Walker was looking forward to helping America understand the gravity of the country’s growing tide of hostility towards foreigners.
“During my lectures at Berkeley, I’m used to the angry mob being on the inside instead of the outside.” The crowd laughed nervously.
He stared at the audience filling the circular hall, then his voice boomed out. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, and that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” After a long pause, during which the only sound was the muffled chanting outside, Dr. Walker continued. “So begins the second paragraph of one of the most important political documents concerning human freedom ever written. The Declaration of Independence, signed on July 4, 1776, by fifty-six courageous individuals representing the original thirteen United States of America.
“What a powerful and visionary document.” he declared, his voice gaining in intensity. “It’s a shame America won’t live up to it.” Many in the audience gasped, several murmured angrily. “And I’m not talking about those people outside. I’m talking about our elected officials, the supposedly courageous upholders of our sacred Constitution. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States of America, and the Bill of Rights were intended to be guidelines to help this nation live its values. But they have become a collection of highly malleable words that can be interpreted to fit the needs of whoever is in power at the time. Let me explain. And listen closely, because it is ab
out to happen again.
“It is early 1942. The days following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor witnessed a great drop in American resolve. Unable to strike back effectively against the mighty Japanese empire, America instead lashed out at fellow U.S. citizens and peaceful resident aliens of Japanese descent. Executive Order 9066, signed by President Franklin D. Roosevelt on February 19, 1942, called for the deporting of all Japanese and Americans of Japanese ancestry from the Western coastal regions of the United States to concentration camps in the interior. Canvas-tented camps ringed with barbed wire and armed guard towers were hastily erected in such garden spots as Posten, Arizona, Manzanar, in the cold and bleak California high desert, and Topaz, Utah.
“The sad truth, as this deplorable act proves, is that constitutions and laws are not sufficient of themselves to protect the citizens of a nation from their own government. Despite the clear and concise language in the U.S. Constitution that writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, and despite the Fifth Amendment’s statement that no person shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law, these constitutional safeguards, these inalienable rights, were denied to over 110,000 people, many of whom were American citizens, under Executive Order 9066.
“Then in 1944 this travesty, born out of fear, was upheld by our Supreme Court in a 6-3 decision against an American citizen, Fred T. Korematsu, convicted in a federal court in 1942 for refusing to report to a relocation center, instead remaining at his home in San Leandro, California, a designated ‘military area’ at the time.” Dr. Walker paused, sweeping the room with his dark eyes. Suddenly, as if on cue, the assembled throng outside the convention center let out an angry roar. “In the not too distant future,” Dr. Walker went on, unfazed, “I suggest our Constitution will again be grossly violated, except the names will not be Korematsu, Kodani or Yamamoto, but Hussein, Mohammed, or Markarian.
“Let me be perfectly clear. Even though all of you here today are American citizens, some naturalized and some born in this country, you must stand up for your constitutional rights. If you don’t, the crown on the Statue of Liberty will be tarnished once again by the fear and ignorance of our elected officials. As you know, attacks on those of Arab descent in the United States are dramatically escalating. Some Americans, in their ignorance and insecurity, are lashing out at anybody with dark skin and an Arab-sounding name. Just as in 1942, the first attacks will come from frightened citizens in local communities. These will be followed by military intervention, and then an executive order.”
A woman in the audience began to weep. The chants from the angry mob outside swelled to a frightening crescendo.
“You think it can’t happen? That America has learned from its prior mistakes? Well, think again. It can happen again, and it will.” Professor Walker’s voice, strident at the microphone, was drowning out the noise of the crowd outside. His hands clutched the lectern.
“And who are these people who will trample on your constitutional rights? They are the individuals, the political organizations, and the nations who profit from terrorism. The Palestinian people are not terrorists, they just want their homes back. No, I am talking about greedy elected officials, entire countries, and highly sophisticated criminal organizations who profit from war and international upheaval. They don’t want peace and will do whatever they can to perpetrate unrest, generate fear, and provoke conflict. And, believe it or not, one of those countries is the United States.” Walker coughed, then paused for a drink of water from the cold sweating tumbler atop the lectern.
“Yes, our country is no longer free, but held hostage by special interest groups-the Jewish lobby, the fundamentalist Christian lobby, the defense and aerospace industry lobbies. All pour massive amounts of money into the coffers of politicians across the nation, many of whom are now so deeply indebted that they no longer represent the will of the American people. Our elected representatives have become political pawns of special interest groups, and if unchecked, these servants of the people will take away your inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Dr. Brian Walker paused to sip some water. All at once the heavy double doors to the convention hall crashed open, startling him. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, as the water glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the stage.
For a few frozen moments, no one moved. An eerie stillness gripped the convention hall as it dawned on both groups that an ugly scene was about to explode. The emotional venting outside had gone unchecked for too long. Someone hurled a flaming Molotov cocktail up onto the stage. In a panic, one of the security guards drew his pistol and fired in the direction of a tattooed biker, poised to throw a second gasoline-filled cocktail. Before the biker released it, the bullet struck, spraying flaming gasoline all over him, instantly igniting his long greasy hair and beard. He dove to the floor, screaming and rolling, while people nearby backed away, protesters and delegates alike, shoving each other in an attempt to flee to safety. The shoving quickly escalated to physical blows.
For a select group of well-paid men posing as protestors, the moment for action had arrived. Knives, brass knuckles, lead-filled pipes and hammers suddenly appeared. Their first targets were television cameras. Each was expertly put out of action. Then they turned their attention to the Palestinian-Americans and the protestors, tearing into the defenseless men and women with ruthless efficiency. Many of the elderly delegates never saw the clubs that struck the deadly blow on the back of their head, or the knife that punctured a heart. In less than ten minutes, fifty of the delegates and two dozen protestors lay strewn about the convention hall, most of them already dead.
With two short blasts from a small whistle, the men dropped their weapons and melted away into the crowd. By the time they slipped out into the relative calm of the convention parking lot, sirens were blaring as police raced to the scene. Invisible in the turmoil, the provocateurs climbed into several large 4X4’s and sped away among other vehicles fleeing the scene. Their thin rubber gloves, which left no fingerprints on the weapons, would be incinerated later. “Pretty easy way to make a couple of thousand bucks,” one of the men marveled as he clicked on the radio, a heavy metal station blaring out a savage beat.
Back in the hall Dr. Walker, crouching behind the lectern, glanced nervously from side to side. Just then one of the security guards ran up and crouched down behind the lectern. “You need to go, Dr. Walker.” he shouted over the noise of chairs being overturned, fists flying, and people screaming.
Walker nodded, expecting the guard to lead him to safety. Instead the man, his hand covered in a thin latex glove, reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small-caliber pistol. “What I mean, asshole,” he hissed, “is you need to go, permanently.” He pumped a bullet into Dr. Brian Walker’s forehead, tossed the gun out into the roiling crowd, and moved toward his partner, the other fake security guard. Both vanished in the turmoil. With the money now in an account in the Cayman Islands, they were set for life. The bodies of the two real security guards would never be found.
Chapter Seven
Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital
The door opened. A lone figure slipped in. It was time to check on his patient-just a quick look at vital signs while the sedative was still working. Whatever else he’d become, he was still, first and foremost, a man of healing.
As the pneumatic door hissed closed, Dr. Weissman walked lightly to the bank of monitors, awash with red lights and blinking numbers. “What on earth.” he exclaimed, stopping halfway there. A flat line was etched across the heart monitor screen. The oxygen level registered zero. His head snapped around. The sheet was pulled up over the patient. He went over to the bed and as he began lifting the sheet, a low, muffled voice came from underneath
“Act normal, Doctor, and don’t say anything or I’ll sever your femoral artery with this scalpel. Remember, I’m a doctor too. You’ll bleed to death in seconds.”
Dr. Weissman
remained motionless as he felt the surgical steel pressing against his leg. “What do you want?”
“I want to get out of here, and you’re going to help me.” Matt emerged from under the bed and pushed the surgeon into the shadows behind the bank of monitors.
“But there are CCTV cameras everywhere, even in this room. You’ll be spotted in seconds.” Weissman’s voice trembled. He felt tired and oddly lost. “I can’t get you out of here. There are guards patrolling the corridors of this wing constantly. I’m afraid, Dr. Richards, we’re both trapped in here.”
“Tell me,” said Matt, “whose face do I have? And who are these people?”
The elderly doctor put his finger to his lips. “I honestly don’t know who they are, but I can tell you that the face you have, and it’s a masterful job of a transplant if I do say so myself, belonged to an international contract killer, an assassin. He killed for the Mossad, KGB, CIA and others. He was just about to join Al-Qaeda when he was killed by a female Mossad operative. Al-Qaeda offered better pay, I guess.”
An international assassin? “How do you know all this?”
“I overheard the two men you met earlier talking about it just before the surgery. It was his body they buried in the closed casket at your funeral.”
“And you don’t know who these people are?”
“No. I was brought here two years ago from Israel by the clinic director. I was promised enough money and equipment to rapidly advance my research on facial transplants. Mostly I work on private patients with badly disfigured faces. You’re one of two patients to be put in this secure area of the hospital and given a full facial transplant.”
“Well, you’re my only hope at the moment, Doc, so let’s figure out a way for me to get out of here. Otherwise we both might wind up dead. Did this dead guy have any documents on him? Passports, identification, stuff like that?”
The Beirut Conspiracy Page 10
