The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “So I still have to sit by the telephone, only this time it’s official,” she grinned. “Why don’t you find me a husband instead? Preferably one with tons of money in the bank so I never have to work again.” They both laughed. “In the meantime I guess we’d better get our schedules coordinated and attack another busy day.”

  Life had been doubly hectic for Dr. Melikian following his appointment as personal physician to the President of the United States; with security checks, briefings on protocol, training on how to respond to the press, and additional training to cover possible biological or chemical attacks. To make matters worse he was now at the top of every Washington socialite’s list for dinner parties and social functions. Not that it wasn’t exciting or flattering. But at his age he wouldn’t have minded a few quiet evenings reading.

  “Who will you be rubbing shoulders with this month?” Maggie asked.

  After a few strokes on the keyboard, Dr. Melikian’s HP printer creaked to life. “Here it is, the complete social life of the personal physician to the President of the United States.” He frowned and handed her a two-page printout. She scanned the pages with exaggerated awe.

  “Enough of this foolishness. We’ve got patients to look after-and another Secret Service security check of our offices.” Noubar Melikian stood up and walked out of the office.

  ***

  The Oval Office

  “Welcome, Mason.” President Pierce waved him to join the others around the antique coffee table in front of the fireplace. “Coffee? There’s sugar over there.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. Everyone knows the best coffee in Washington is served in the Oval Office. But it always comes with a high price tag.” Muffled chuckling broke out among the small group, all members of the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East.

  “I think you can afford it,” Pierce responded. As chairman of the powerful Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and one of the longest-serving US senators, Mason T. Stevens had assembled a massive war chest, which he spent freely during his re-election bids every six years. For a hefty campaign donation businesses with ties to Virginia could get Senator Stevens’ solid backing for their interests. And his backing meant big bucks in government contracts.

  “My family send their condolences, Senator,” the President remarked, turning serious.

  “Yes, we all send our condolences,” echoed General Ernie Reese, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “How’s your wife?”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. We’re doing as well as can be expected. God moves in mysterious ways.”

  An awkward silence filled the room. The President broke it. “Yes, well, I’ve asked you here this morning to get all the options out in the open, and your personal views, concerning our official response to the terrorist menace. It’s time we laid out our position to the American people and the world. We’ll meet every Tuesday and Thursday morning tackling this damn situation until we come up with some viable solutions. Here’s the main problem: the public seems to be evenly split on the issue. It would be easier if there was a solid majority opinion one way or the other.”

  The individuals seated around the table nodded. Senator Stevens continued to sip his coffee, watching the others closely.

  The President continued. “However, this situation may also be to our advantage. With the polls evenly split, once we decide a course of action we can engage in a little positive propaganda to build up support for our position. At least we won’t have to overcome overwhelming opposition. Your thoughts?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, there’s only one course of action,” General Reese said. “Bomb the hell out of the sonsofbitches and cut the balls off any left alive. These fanatics don’t play by any rules other than the murder of innocent people. We’d better take care of them quick before someone gets his hands on a nuclear or biological bomb and uses it.”

  “In this instance,” said Senator Stevens, gently returning his coffee cup to its matching saucer, “I happen to agree fully with General Reese. The time for a peaceful approach has long passed. Europe has given in to the demands of terrorists for so long they’re practically a legitimate special interest group now. And they all have UK passports. No, the world’s been too soft on these maniacs. The only option left is massive and deadly force. Somebody has to start making terrorism severely unattractive as a political option.” He looked at the others, flashing his practiced smile.

  “And thanks to the dedicated work of the NSA and CIA, we now have ample intelligence concerning the whereabouts of certain senior terrorist leaders as well as major training camps. This information, gathered at great expense and unfortunate loss of life, won’t be current forever. We need to strike now.”

  Director of the CIA Terry Finch, a man of few words whose organization had benefited over the past several years from the vociferous support of Senator Stevens and his intelligence committee, nodded in agreement. A brilliant academician and former professor of international policy at Harvard University, Dr. Finch administered the CIA as if it were a government think tank. “Mason’s right. I’m not certain how long this intelligence will remain current, but it’s high quality at the present time.”

  “Senator Stevens and the military-industrial complex are very persuasive,” said Secretary of State Nathan Vance, a long time senior statesman and former U.S. ambassador to the UN, “and I do agree that the world has been far too soft on terrorism. Every two-bit fanatic with a political or religious grievance now sees terrorism as a legitimate way of getting the world to take notice. Unfortunately, we’re no longer dealing with small-time fanatics. September 11 has proven just how organized and deadly this game has become. Nonetheless, I don’t believe direct attacks or all-out war will solve the problem.”

  “So what are your thoughts, Nathan?” the President asked. “And don’t hold back.”

  Vance colored a little. “Well, I’ve been traveling constantly for the past several months since the suicide attack, talking face to face with all the major foreign leaders. Most don’t have the stomach or the support at home for a full-scale war on terrorism. And those in the Middle East, I must tell you, are still extremely sympathetic to the issues of Palestinian statehood and curtailing Israeli expansion. Besides, most of our European allies are getting pretty fed up with Israel. It’s universally understood that if it weren’t for massive U.S. aid Israel would be forced to get along with their neighbors or perish.”

  “What are you driving at, Nathan?” Pierce said.

  “Simply put, direct war won’t work. Overt attacks and massive use of force will only intensify the terrorists’ resolve and lead to increased reprisal attacks. By waging direct war we’ll be inadvertently creating more terrorists and alienating the entire Muslim world.” Vance looked around at the Task Force members. Several gave him cold looks. He pressed on. “It’s like trying to fight the Hydra-cut off one head, and three more grow back to take its place. Anyway, it’s been proven that we can’t fully defend ourselves against terrorists. No matter how much we spend on homeland defense, they still slip through.”

  “And what is your solution?”

  “We’ve got to figure out a way to recognize Palestine as a legitimate country and tone down the Israelis. At the same time we need to make it perfectly clear to the terrorists that we aren’t giving in to them. We need some leverage to get all the parties to move in the direction of a lasting and peaceful solution. But I’m not sure yet what that leverage is.” The secretary of state looked sallow and tired from his marathon travels. “But a solution should surface if we continue open dialogue with the Arab nations and our allies.”

  “If I may add to that point, Mr. President?” National Security Advisor Caroline Black interjected cautiously. “Women in this country and around the world are beginning to protest in massive numbers against terrorism and global unrest. Their collective voice is becoming louder and louder. The graphic television footage of the death of a female suicide bomber on Amer
ican soil has galvanized them. They’re tired of seeing women used as tools for terrorists.”

  “For Christ’s sake.” exclaimed Senator Stevens, his face reddening. “I can’t believe the drivel I’m hearing. Who gives a damn if it’s a man, a woman, or a dog that carried the bomb? The fact is, little lady, this is war. We didn’t start it, but by God we’re in the middle of it and we have to respond. NOW!”

  The senator stood up, spreading his arms for effect. “Let me remind you all of the facts: The beginning of this whole mess was the hijacking of an El Al airliner on July 22, 1968. The hostages were released in exchange for sixteen Arab prisoners held in Israeli jails. The hijackers were also released. I’d say that was a successful operation. So success spawned repetition. And…”

  “We know the history, Senator,” sighed Nathan Vance.

  “Seems to me you need a reminder. Between 1968 and 1975, there were 204 terrorists arrested after hijackings and other attacks, and every one of the bastards was eventually released. Even those involved in the murders of the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics, thanks to the sniveling German government. Not surprisingly the rate and intensity of terrorist attacks and the death toll has continued to rise. In 1985 a TWA airliner was hijacked and flown to Beirut; an American passenger murdered and his body dumped onto the tarmac. And then there was poor Leon Klinghoffer, the man in the wheelchair killed by terrorists aboard the cruise ship Achille Lauro. And again the terrorists were released. Are you getting the picture here?”

  Stevens was yelling now. “At least three terrorists have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and several have received honorary degrees from leading American universities. How’s that for legitimizing terrorism?”

  Senator Mason Stevens sat down, his voice calmer. “The message is very clear. If you believe strongly enough in your cause and kill civilians in cold blood, then you must be justified and we should understand your position. Bullshit. The only possible solution is just the opposite. The United States of America must make it clear that if anyone resorts to terrorism to promote their cause, not only will their cause be hindered but they will be hunted down and killed.”

  “But all that changed after September 11,” protested National Security Advisor Black. “They went too far. Now the majority of the world condemns acts of terrorism.”

  “That’s just political rhetoric to placate us,” Stevens snapped. “We have evidence of terrorist buildups in the Sudan and Malaysia, and of terrorist leaders freely walking around in France and Italy. They all have second homes in London for christsake! Meanwhile, Hezbollah training camps flourish in the jungle where Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay intersect. And they are well funded, pumping out hundreds of assassins and suicide bombers every month. We suspect that the Arab woman who attacked the President came from one of those camps. Look, we have the targets and we know which countries are supporting and funding these bastards. The time to strike is now.” Meaty hands gripped the arms of his chair.

  “The problem with suicide bombers,” CIA Director Finch said softly, “is that the threat of retaliation against them is useless. They’re already dead.” He pulled his pipe out, ceremoniously tamped down the tobacco, and looked at the President, who nodded his approval. With a sleek silver lighter Finch took a few long puffs.

  “However,” he resumed, waving his hand through the smoke, “there is one way to dramatically reduce the number of individuals willing to become suicide bombers. And that is by retaliating with massive prejudice against their families. Many families of suicide bombers become minor celebrities in their countries. They receive sizeable amounts of money from the terrorist organizations as remuneration for the loss of their sons and daughters. It’s very simple. We can send a powerful, clear-cut message to the terrorist community: Become a suicide bomber and we kill your entire family.”

  A stunned silence fell over the Oval Office.

  “But that’s immoral.” Carrie Black protested, dumbfounded. “And illegal.”

  “Tell that to the families of the people buried under the rubble of the Twin Towers,” Senator Stevens said in an acrid tone. “This is war. Why should we play by the rules when they don’t? Now you are talking sense, Dr. Finch. I like that.”

  “But the U.N. would totally condemn us.”

  The senator looked at her, his voice cold with disgust. “Are you referring to that same stellar organization that appointed Libya as the head of the Human Rights Council? What kind of a farce is that? The U.N. is so mired in politics its members can’t even take a piss without a resolution.”

  “What do you think, Will?” President Pierce turned to the NSA director of Middle Eastern intelligence. William Fisher adjusted his tie, getting his thoughts together. The Task Force, with its polar opposite views was difficult for him to navigate safely.

  “As you all know, I’ve lived in the Middle East for years,” Fisher began. He sat, on the small sofa next to Carrie Black and took some comfort from her presence. “On the whole the Arab people are pretty much like everyone else. They don’t like war any more than the rest of us. However they’ve been backed into a corner on this Palestinian issue by their religious leaders. They don’t like the Palestinians any more than the Israelis do, but it’s become a Catch-22 for them. Supporting Palestine is the only way to save face. The radical clerics are the ones we should really be worrying about. They not only stir the pot, they finance, recruit and harbor the terrorists. Our organization is monitoring several of these right-wing clerics who preach out of mosques in London, Kuala Lumpur, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, France and Lebanon. If it were possible to neutralize them most of the direct connections to the terrorists would be severed.” He looked at the President, who stared back, his face blank.

  Fisher continued. “We’re also monitoring a remarkable surge of terrorist recruitment in Southeast Asia. As you know there are 250 million Muslims in that region, and they’re even less predictable than the Arab Muslims. Unless we put an end to being soft on terrorism, I’m afraid we’re going to have to do battle there as well.”

  “So you support the retaliation approach outlined by Senator Stevens and Dr. Finch?” said Pierce.

  “On this issue, we agree, Mr. President,” replied Fisher, conscious of Carrie Black’s cold look.

  “And what about you, Ron?” Pierce said, addressing Secretary of Defense Ronald Burns.

  “Mr. President, we’ve got the greatest military force in the history of the world, and if it comes to war, we’ll throw everything we’ve got into it. But I’m not certain we’re ready for an all-out war against an enemy that’s so elusive, so fluid, and spread all over the globe. I’d be happier if we had more allies willing to step up to bat and commit their troops and technology. But the fact is, the Europeans are hiding in the corners, and Britain, our only ready ally, doesn’t have all that much international muscle.”

  The secretary of defense paused, casting about for the right words. “In principle, I agree with Senator Stevens and General Reese, but I just don’t know how we can pull it off and still defend our own soil at the same time. I know I should be the guy waving the flag and charging up the hill, but I’m inclined to agree with Secretary of State Vance. We’ve got to find more ways to exert influence on the Arab countries, and Israel as well.”

  Abruptly, President Pierce stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, and Ms. Black,” he added, nodding toward the national security advisor. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll be in touch with each of you privately for further input. We’ll meet again on Thursday, same time. I’d like each of you to work out your best and worst case scenarios for our next meeting.”

  As the members of the Special Task Force gathered their papers and headed out, President Pierce asked Carrie Black to stay behind for a few moments.

  “So what’s eating you?” he asked, as soon as the door was closed.

  “Do you really trust these guys, Mr. President?” Black said. “It’s as if everyone has multiple hidden agendas.” She sighed, plunking he
rself down on the sofa. “Frankly, I get tired of trying to figure out who is doing what to whom and why.”

  “Let me tell you something, Carrie,” Pierce said, sipping his now cold coffee. “I learned a valuable lesson when I was eighteen. My father sent me for the summer to work on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. My job was to break the wild mustangs. Some days I swear they almost broke me instead. One of my daddy’s favorite sayings was, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. During my time there I worked with an old Mexican vaquero about four feet tall with no teeth. He was the foreman of the operation. He didn’t speak English and my Spanish was pretty basic, but somehow we communicated. It was he and the horses who taught me about trust.

  He smiled at her. “I trust everyone and no one, Carrie. Oh, I’m prepared to listen to anyone, but I never believe what they say, at least not fully. The truth, like fine wine, country music and a good-looking woman, is a matter of opinion. I’ve found listening to be the best policy for gathering input. But I prefer to decide for myself what is the truth and just whom to trust.” He took another sip of coffee. “Mason was right. It needs warming up, but we do have the best coffee in Washington.”

  “I prefer decaf,” she said.

  “I’ll make a note of that for our next meeting. Anyway, as a general rule in politics, and you may want to remember this, I’ve found it doesn’t pay to trust the newcomers or the old timers. The newcomers are too easily swayed and haven’t yet formed their own opinions. They are much too eager to kiss ass and get reelected or reappointed. As for the old timers, the fact that they’ve survived in Washington for any length of time means they’ve sold their soul to the highest bidder, or bidders. It’s the mid-career politicians I find most trustworthy. They’ve weathered the freshman temptations of corruption and bribery but haven’t been around long enough to be totally owned by special interests.” The President stood up and turned to stare out the window. With spring still to come the Rose Garden looked bleak and desolate, the thorny bushes severely trimmed.