The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “There’s a box of his personal effects in the storage closet. They left it there, along with a suitcase of clothes. I think in all the activity surrounding the operations they just forgot about it.” He touched Matt’s arm. “Will you please put that scalpel away?”

  “Okay. Give me your lab coat and I’ll pretend to be you. You crawl around the back and climb into the bed while I shield it from the CCTV camera, then I’ll tie you up. You can tell them I overpowered you, gave you a sleeping drug, and escaped.” Matt paused. How to escape? “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s a white VW Passat, and it’s in the private staff parking lot just next to this wing.” Dr. Weissman fumbled around. “The keys are here in my pocket, but you’ll be seen by the guards and the cameras. It won’t work.”

  “It’s better than staying here. Now, take off your coat and get into the bed.” Matt put on the white surgeon’s smock and stood up beside the bed. Using cabling from the monitors, he bound the doctor’s arms and legs. “If you lie here and give me a chance to escape, we both might live a little longer.” The elderly surgeon nodded.

  Matt opened the closet. He stared at a single piece of leather carry-on luggage, Hartman. It contained a few shirts, some pants, a sports coat and a pair of Italian leather shoes. His eyes registered on a green surgeon’s cap on a shelf. Putting it on and draping several clean lab coats over the valise to hide it, Matt made his way into the hall. It was clear for now. Like the doctor he was, he confidently strode down the hall towards the rear exit sign.

  A voice rang out. “What are you doing, Doctor?” A security guard, he guessed.

  “Making rounds,” replied Matt. “Would you like to help me change a few dressings and bedpans?” Not bothering to turn around, he opened the door on his left and strode in.

  “All doctors are arrogant assholes.” The guard strode back up the hallway, muttering to himself.

  Inside the room Matt leaned against the door. He was sweating. His heart racing. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the accident, which must have been over seven weeks ago. He’d always wondered what going cold turkey would be like, but never had the courage or desire to quit drinking. I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Could he remain sober once he was free-if he got free?

  After a few deep breaths, he scanned the room. It was nearly identical to his but without the security door or a CCTV camera. A single bed lay in the center with a short figure under the sheets. A female voice moaned. He stepped over to the bed and carefully lifted the sheet. It was a young woman, about twenty years old, obviously under heavy sedation. In the faint light from the instruments on the wall he noticed the nearly healed stitches around the edge of her face. He was replacing the sheet when suddenly her hand sprang out like a claw and gripped his arm.

  “No, Daddy, no.” she moaned, then fell quiet. Her grip loosened. Her arm dangled over the side of the bed. She was asleep again. Matt reached down and gently placed her arm back on the bed. The white hospital tag around her wrist was blank except for the blood type, O-positive, with two capital letters, like initials, next to it.

  Matt’s medical mind began to wonder about this strange woman, but his survival instincts pulled him away from the bed and back toward the door. The guard should be making his rounds now. How long would he have to wait? He cracked open the door.

  Nothing. He opened the door a little further, trying to get a view up and down the corridor without being seen. Now or never. Summoning some long forgotten reservoir of courage, he strode out of the room as if he were the normal staff doctor moving on to his next patient. He turned left, the red exit sign clearly visible just twenty paces away.

  Reaching the door, Matt looked back up the dimly lit hallway. The guard must have returned to his desk, probably for a few moments of sleep. He reached for the door handle but his hand froze just above the knob. The sign shimmered in the shadows. “Door locked and alarmed at all times. For staff use only.”

  Matt swallowed hard. His heart pounded. Sober or not, I’m in deep shit! Reaching into the lab coat, he produced Dr. Weissman’s keys. One was obviously a VW key, the logo prominently embossed on the top. Several others looked like house keys. One stood out as plain and unmarked, like the key to an office or business. Matt slowly inserted the key into the lock. It fit, but when he gently tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move. Then he remembered that this was a new wing. Perhaps the locks and keys weren’t well worn yet. He applied more force. The key turned. He pushed the door open, revealing the brightly lit parking lot. The VW Passat sat only three spaces from the door.

  Here goes nothing. Half wishing he was in a drunken stupor Matt moved swiftly to the car. His hands shook as he climbed in and shut the door. A moment later a battered Ford Taurus pulled into the lot and parked just opposite. Matt ducked down onto the passenger seat, fighting the urge to throw up. He breathed deeply, trying desperately to calm his nerves and stomach. The drugs he had been given were still very much in control of his system. He closed his eyes to keep from blacking out. A car door slammed. He heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  After what felt like a year, Matt sat up. He scanned the parking lot then noticed the clock on the dash. 4:45 am. They would soon discover Dr. Weissman. He reached up to adjust the rear view mirror.

  “Oh God.” A strange face stared back at him. “How long will it take to get used to this new face?” He reached up to feel the prominent nose and strong square chin. It was a handsome face, refined yet rugged. He had read medical journals about patients whose entire personalities changed after getting major facial surgery. Maybe that was a good thing for him. So far his life had been a failure. But the face of a wanted international assassin wasn’t cause for celebration.

  Pulling the green surgeon cap down as far as possible, Matt slowly drove the car towards the front gate, barely controlling his urge to jam down the accelerator and flee this evil place. Slowing down, he lowered the window, raised his arm and waved.

  “Leaving early, Dr. Weissman?” The guard reached inside to push the button for the gate. Matt rolled up the window, keeping his head down, as if looking for something. The gate slowly swung open. He accelerated briskly, narrowly missing one side of the gate. To his right was a large ornate sign: Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital, Admittance by Appointment Only.

  “Or kidnapping,” he muttered, heading down the road towards what he hoped would be the main highway.

  Safe, but for how long? About a mile down the asphalt lane he came to the Blue Ridge Parkway which wound along the backbone of the Blue Ridge Mountains, running nearly 460 miles, all the way from Shenandoah National Park in northern Virginia to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina.

  “Before I go much further, I’d better look at these documents and see who the hell I am,” he said, listening to his voice. It sounded disembodied in the car’s confines. “At least I still sound like me.” Pulling into a turnout overlooking the lowlands of Virginia, Matt stopped the car and reached for the carry-on bag. The clothes, he was relieved to discover, were nearly his size, though the man was definitely more muscular. He tried on a shirt-a little loose, but it would do for the time being. The pants needed to be tightened with a belt. He dressed in the darkened car then turned on the overhead light. Taking out the wallet first he noticed it was fine-grain calfskin Pierre Cardin. Not a pauper.

  The wallet contained a valid Maryland driver’s license in the name of William Stubbs, age forty-seven. Matt didn’t recognize the address, but it was his new face staring back from the plastic card. There were also several Visa cards and an American Express Platinum Card, all in the name of William Stubbs, and all current. Nestled in the wallet lay a large number of hundred-dollar bills and some tens and twenties. He gripped the money tight, his new lifeline. His mind raced. How to stay alive? Who to talk to? Matt reached into the bag again.

  What he found next shocked him-twelve valid passports from various countries, all with different names. Two
were U.S. passports, one in the name of Stubbs and the other Scott. Each carried the same photo but a separate selection of credit cards, driver’s licenses and identity cards. The other nationalities included France, Germany, England, Russia, and Switzerland, as well as Brazil, South Africa, Egypt, Morocco and Lebanon. At the bottom of the bag, in a bulging zippered wallet, a small fortune in currency matching each of the countries.

  Matt sat back. Bile rose up, sour in his throat. His new face belonged to a hired assassin who was no doubt known by nearly every major government. A perfect target.

  Blue lights flashed behind him. Gravel crunched under tires coming to an abrupt halt. Matt froze, realizing a Virginia state trooper vehicle had came to a stop directly behind him. Quickly he shoved the documents back into the leather valise, threw it on the floor, and opened the car door.

  “Stay in the vehicle, sir,” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “Please have your driving license ready for inspection.”

  The passenger door of the police car opened and a large black man emerged in a round-brimmed felt hat. Keeping his right hand on his pistol holster, he walked up to the white VW.

  Matt’s hand was shaking as he jabbed at the button which operated the window. “You woke me up, officer. I was trying to catch a few winks before continuing my drive.”

  “That’s sensible of you. May I see your license, sir?” The trooper seemed relieved, if still somewhat suspicious. Every police officer in the country knew of incidents where policemen had been killed during routine traffic stops by lunatics or junkies.

  “Stubbs, officer. William Stubbs. I’m coming home from a business meeting at the Greenbriar Hotel. Wanted to get home before my kids went off to school.” Matt dug into the wallet and handed the license through the window to the officer. “Don’t think I’ll make it though. I just had to stop and rest.” His hands shook.

  Shining his large flashlight first on the license, then on Matt’s face, he stepped back and signaled to his partner that everything was okay. The other officer started up the police vehicle. Routinely passing his flashlight into the driver’s compartment and then over the back seat, the officer seemed satisfied. “Rest as long as you need to, Mr. Stubbs. And have a safe journey home.”

  In a few moments the police cruiser pulled out of the overlook and headed back up the mountain. Matt slumped over the steering wheel while his entire body shook. Will the rest of my life be filled with lies? Racked with a fear he’d never experienced before, he turned on the ignition and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires squealing, he spun across the gravel and shot back onto the dark highway.

  “Get a grip, Matthew – William,” he said to himself, trying to regulate his breathing. Over the next several minutes he forcefully willed himself to calm down. The speedometer fell from nearly 90 miles an hour down to just below the speed limit. The added oxygen relieved his anxiety and soon he was back in control. He settled in for the three-hour drive to Sweet Briar College.

  As his brain cleared, it occurred to him that his captors probably decided to keep his disappearance quiet. They couldn’t risk exposure. Instead, whoever they were would probably come after him. And they had a huge advantage-they knew his face while he had no idea who they were. At least he had a head start.

  ***

  Baltimore-Washington International Airport

  Faint streaks of orange and gold exploded across the eastern horizon, chasing away the blackness but not the bitter cold. The silver Jaguar XJS slid into an empty space in the four-level parking garage in front of the Baltimore-Washington-International main terminal. The airport, built in 1950 and first named Friendship International, was modernized and enlarged in the 1970s to serve Washington, D.C., to the south and Baltimore to the north. As on any weekday morning, the parking complex was alive with business travelers scrambling out of their vehicles and heading for flights in the early morning darkness. No one would notice two men talking inside a car in the parking lot, especially since the entire level was now full. The long line of incoming cars kept climbing up the ramp to the levels above.

  “It is good to see you again, my friend,” said Mohammed Al Nagib as the rear door opened and the tall man from the Jaguar settled down. They were nestled in the plush leather seats of a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A soundproof, tinted-glass barrier separated them from the chauffeur.

  “You flatter yourself, Mr. Nagib. I am neither your friend, nor am I pleased to see you. The less we meet, the better, as far as I am concerned.” His guest was elegantly dressed in a black business suit. “Let’s make this quick. What problem is so great that we couldn’t talk on secure phone lines?”

  “Actually, there is no problem, Mr. Fisher. On the contrary, everything is on schedule and running according to plan.”

  “So why the urgent meeting?”

  “There is an old passage from the Koran: ‘ Trust in God, but tie your camel.’ I just wanted to look you in the eyes and hear firsthand that you are still in position to get the information we need. Telephones are wonderful inventions, but nothing beats a direct, face-to-face conversation.” The Egyptian smiled.

  “I am not amused, nor do I have all day.” William Fisher, director of Middle Eastern intelligence at the National Security Agency, glared in the gloomy interior.

  “Of course,” Nagib sighed. “The fact is we’ve spent years carefully developing our contacts. I must be certain that you’ll be able to deliver us the right information before anyone else knows about it. We must know the President’s decision before it is made public. The future depends on it.”

  “President Pierce has called a special meeting for today.” William Fisher was a member of the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East, along with Senator Mason Stevens, the director of the CIA, secretary of state, national security advisor, secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “He needs to decide on an official course of action in response to the suicide bombing attack and he’s running out of time. And the Israelis keep pressuring everyone for more arms, more money and more support against the Arabs. Senator Stevens seems to be firmly on their side. In every meeting he pushes forward their security issues.” Fisher looked around at the parked cars and the occasional hurrying traveler.

  “But it won’t be much longer. Soon I should know what course of action the United States will pursue. As soon as I find out, you’ll know,” Fisher caught al Nagib’s eye. “Just remember our agreement-I’m counting on you to eliminate the Israeli bastard who led the raid that killed my wife. Now, unless you have any more stray camels that need tying, I must get to my office.”

  “I do so look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.” Nagib murmered. William Fisher slammed the door and returned to his Jaguar.

  The tinted barrier slowly descended and the liveried driver turned around. Demetrie Antonopolis took off his chauffeur hat, his long ponytail tumbling out. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Neither do I, Demetrie.” Nagib lit a Cuban cigar, his first of many for the day. “But I still feel sorry for him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a shallow man who acts only out of revenge. Because of his hatred and bitterness he is harmless. When this affair is over he will slink away into the darkness with his fat Swiss bank account.”

  “So why feel sorry for him?”

  “Because he will never find the peace he desperately seeks. Revenge never brings peace. There’s an ancient proverb: When a man goes for revenge, he must first dig two graves. Remember Demetrie the truly dangerous men are those who act with forethought and meticulous planning, driven by a vision and burning desire. Those who dream of a new future and are committed to pursue that vision are the ones to fear. Men like Fisher are simply pawns in a global chess game, and I control their every move.”

  The elegant Rolls Royce exited the BWI parking garage. A non-descript grey vehicle positioned itself a safe distance behind.

  ***

/>   Washington, D.C.

  “Our practice has certainly picked up since you became personal physician to the President,” Dr. Margaret Khalid said. She was the only other physician in Dr. Noubar Melikian’s small medical practice. “Guess everyone is hoping they will hear the latest gossip about the President-or else they want bragging rights.” She studied the appointments listed on her computer screen.

  “The good news is most of President Pierce’s medical issues are handled at Walter Reed Military Hospital. We’re just around for general checkups and the occasional bad fish dinner.” Dr. Melikian sat at his desk reviewing the same screen. “Remember to keep your evenings free whenever I’m invited to political or social dinners. You may have to stand in for me in case the President has a medical emergency.”

  “So much for my personal life,” groaned the black-haired fifty-four-year-old. “It’s hard enough getting a date with a decent man in this town without having to spend most of my evenings sitting by the telephone waiting for the President to have indigestion or choke on a pretzel.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie.” Dr. Melikian smiled, looking over at his associate. “I know it’s been hard starting over. In any other country in the world you’d be a senior medical officer and probably have a large staff of your own. That’s why I took you into my practice. You’re one of the most experienced GPs I’ve ever met. It was difficult for me as well coming from Switzerland and settling into the medical profession in the United States. My only advantage is I came here in my late twenties so I’ve had longer to get established. And I guess I got a few breaks along the way as well. I still thank my lucky stars that my father’s employer took such an interest in me and supported my education and career.”

  Noubar Melikian walked over to where his associate was standing, a pile of patient files in her hands. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stand in for me anytime, even with the President. In fact, I’m going to send a letter to the White House making certain that if I’m not available, you’re my stand-in, no questions asked.”