The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “Not late, just giving you two a little time to get acquainted. Any tea left?” Elijah rubbed his hands together. “It’s cold out there. Actually, I could do with a little nightcap. Care to join me, Doctor?”

  Matt sat at the kitchen table drinking hot tea with Nicole. Their love making, born of fright and survival, had been both passionate and cathartic.

  It’s starting. “Care to join me, Doctor?” Matt repeated the phrase loudly. “You can’t believe how many times I’ve heard that.”

  “And what did you usually reply?” Eli asked, glancing at Nicole. She looked away.

  “Make mine a double Scotch, neat.” The words sprang so easily to his lips. This time, however, he hesitated. An old Robert Frost poem, a favorite of his mother’s, floated into his mind: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I took the one least traveled by, and that has made all the difference in the world.

  Matt held up his tea mug. “This’ll do fine.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ve got some great single malt Speyside scotch. A high-quality distillery called Glenrothes. It’s 1987 vintage scotch.” He moved toward a cupboard where he kept his special stash.

  Matt’s gaze followed hungrily. Elijah reached deep inside a cabinet and pulled out the pinch bottle of amber nectar.

  Nicole headed out of the kitchen. “It’s your life. What’s left of it.”

  “Seriously. I’ll take a rain check, Eli. I’m still not feeling quite right after the surgery and drugs.” Matt finished his tea. “In fact, I think I’ll turn in. Thanks for helping me out. I’m glad I didn’t blow up.”

  “Me too, Dr. Richards. Any friend of Nicole’s is a friend of mine.” Elijah Tajikian poured himself a generous two fingers of scotch. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next? They’ll keep coming after you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I really don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

  “Listen, I’ve worked with these types for too many years. I know how they think and move. To them you’re a dangerous and uncontrollable element. You know too much. They won’t rest until they eliminate you.”

  Matt sat back down at the kitchen table. “What are you saying?”

  Elijah gave a weary smile. “Two things really. Personally, I’m going to sleep with one eye open tonight. But you need to realize you’re the only one who can stop them. You’re the one person who has half a chance of finding this terrorist cell and exposing it. And you may be able to expose the bastards who stole your face as well.”

  Matt’s hands began to shake. God I need a drink. “You’re right. I can’t help thinking that I might be able to save the life of the President-does that sound absurd?”

  “It does. But in this case it’s probably accurate.” Elijah sat down across the table from Matt and swirled the warm, soothing nectar in his glass. “Let me give you some advice. The only way you’ll think straight is to forget about the consequences. Forget someone might be trying to kill you. Dwell on that stuff and it’ll interfere with any rational thought. It’s like playing soccer. If your mind is cluttered up you won’t perform at your peak. The great Brazilian star, Pele, once said, ‘A full mind means an empty net’. You’ve got to treat this as a puzzle and simply go about solving it. Forget about everything else.”

  Nicole came back into the kitchen. “So if this were just a simple exercise to find your old Beirut friends what’s the first thing you would do?” she asked, sitting down at the table.

  “Well, I’d probably visit Dr. Martin Thomas. He was our faculty advisor at AUB. His job was to make certain everyone behaved and came back in one piece. He got to know all of us pretty well. And funny enough, I just saw him before…” Matt touched his face. “He hosted the reception for the new personal physician to the President.”

  Elijah finished his scotch. “So why not drop in on him? See if you can learn something useful about your fellow students at AUB.”

  Nicole nodded. “You can review your Beirut diary. I’ll drive you over to the National Institutes of Health. I’ll call up first thing in the morning; make an appointment under my name. As a reporter I can almost always con my way into an interview.”

  Matt felt suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah. Good idea. But for now I think I’ll turn in.”

  When the door closed upstairs, Elijah Tajikian turned to his daughter. “That man’s got problems,” he said, pouring another two fingers of scotch. “And I don’t just mean his face transplant or the people who are after him. He’s got a deeper problem. Something’s eating at him. It’s in his eyes. There’s incredible talent yet it seems encased in an unnatural amount of insecurity and fear. Like he’s running away from something.” The old man shrugged, “But I like him. He’s solid at the core, just frayed at the edges.”

  “Can we keep him alive?”

  Elijah sipped the scotch. “Let’s hope so.”

  Nicole moved to where her father was sitting and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know I haven’t been the greatest daughter but I’d appreciate it if you could help Matt. He has no idea what he’s caught up in. And he’s totally inexperienced and naive.”

  “In the ugly side of politics perhaps. But his love life seems to be on target.”

  Nicole smiled. “And how would you know?”

  Her father raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay. So I like him. Don’t ask why because I don’t know. Maybe he’s just quirky enough to be the man for me.” She gave her father a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’ll do some checking around,” Elijah said. “Talk to some old spooks. See if I can’t find out something. But we need to be careful. If not tonight then certainly by tomorrow they’ll be looking for you.”

  “Goodnight, Dad,” Nicole said. He locked up his house. Inside one of the kitchen cupboards he flicked a small, nondescript switch, activating sensor pads installed around the property. He took the receiver unit upstairs to his bedroom, checked his. 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol and placed in on the nightstand.

  “Matt,” Nicole whispered, “can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She walked over to the side of the bed, paused, and then crawled in beside him. Her lithe body touched his and a momentary charge passed between them. “You’re warm,” she said.

  “And you feel really good.”

  “But something is wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Matt, you must believe me. I’m on your side, but – “

  “But what?”

  “I can’t help notice you’ve been avoiding reading your diary.”

  He stroked her long hair. “True.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Matt’s hand moved tenderly across her silk night gown. “That’s a lovely fragrance you’re wearing.”

  “Dr. Richards.”

  His hand withdrew. “I’m afraid to read the diary because of what I was then and what I am now.”

  “But you were young. Having big dreams and idealistic notions are normal at that age.”

  His smile was bitter. “And now?”

  “Okay, let’s hit it head on. In 1968 you were cocky and brash. Today you’re worn and cynical. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I’ve made a mess of my life, Nicole. It’s hard to face. And reading that diary will make it pretty clear what a jerk I’ve become.” He buried his head next to her shoulder.

  She stroked his forehead. “Did you ever hear the story of the Scotsman who went out partying one night and was so drunk he fell asleep under a tree on his way home?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you obviously haven’t. Anyway, about an hour later along came sweet Mary down the lane. She sees this big bloke passed out under a tree, with his kilt up around his neck. So she took off one of her hair ribbons and tied it around his big Willy. The next morning he wakes up, staggers over to the side of the lane to take a pee and notices a blue ribbon tied around his rather large member. At first he was amazed. Then he thought for a moment.
‘I don’ know where ye been, laddie, but I’m pleased ta see ya won first prize.’”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he laughed.

  “What I’m trying to say, Dr. Matthew Richards, is that you’re a great man.

  Matt smiled. “That’s laying it on a bit thick.”

  “Not so. You’ve got courage and compassion, I’ve witnessed it. You also have a keen sense of right and wrong.”

  “So pluck up my courage and read the journal. Is that what this pep talk is all about?”

  She kissed him. “I liked the way you turned down dad’s double scotch.”

  “It wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “I know that. Now read the journal.” She climbed out of the bed.

  “Do you have to go just now?”

  “We both need some real sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  For the first time in over thirty years Matt opened the leather journal. He thumbed through the pages, barely recognizing the neat handwriting as his own. One page, three-quarters through the book, had a purposefully bent corner. He stopped there. The entry was dated February 3, 1969. A fabulous weekend of skiing in the mountains above Beirut. He read a few pages, devouring the details of a long-ago life in a faraway place. After half an hour of reading he fell into a deep sleep beset by troubling dreams.

  ***

  Beirut, February, 1969

  “What say we stop for coffee?” Demetrie Antonopolis pulled the silver Mercedes off the winding mountain road and into the village of Basharri. “We’ve skied hard all weekend. I need a pick-me-up before driving the rest of the way down the mountain.”

  “Fine with me,” said Matt. Maha opened one eye and looked out to see where they were. Brian Walker and Susan Miller were fast asleep in the back seat. The big green land cruiser, carrying Samir, Bedouina, Todd Cummings and Anne-Marie Khoury pulled off the road just behind them.

  “This is Basharri, isn’t it?” Maha sat up fully awake.

  Demetrie nodded. “Basharri. Birthplace of the mystical poet Khalil Gibran. There’s also an ancient Maronite monastery carved into the side of the cliff.”

  “Who or what are Maronites?” asked Matt.

  “Early Christians,” Maha said. “They gathered around a priest named Maron and adopted his monastic way of life. They were connected to the Roman Catholic See, and even established a Maronite College in Rome. The Maronites were heavily persecuted by the Ottomans and the other non-Christian invaders of Lebanon, but the Pope didn’t show much interest in their plight.”

  “Nothing new there,” Matt said.

  “As a result of endless persecution they retreated for several centuries into a 1,000-meter-deep gorge in the Kannoubine Valley, right below us. They built monasteries in the cliffs and grew crops on the valley floor. The history of the Maronites is one of struggle to preserve their Christian faith amid the growing influence of Islam.”

  “We can climb down to the monastery,” said Demetrie. “I’ve been there before. It’s fabulous-an entire complex carved into rock.”

  “I need some coffee first,” Brian grumbled, waking up in the back seat.

  After coffee they set off down a narrow path that negotiated the cliff face in ever tightening turns. They picked their way down about seventy meters to a small landing. A rock archway marked the entrance to the ancient monastery, long since abandoned. The last rays of the sun could be seen far out in the Mediterranean as darkness rolled over the tops of the mountains. With flashlights taken from the car they lit the way through the arch and into the first series of elaborate caves.

  Matt aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. Immediately, colorful murals of holy men, angels and a floating figure of Christ erupted before them.

  “It’s lovely,” Maha gasped. “I’ve always read how special these monasteries were; now I know why.”

  Anne-Marie grabbed Todd’s hand. “Just imagine how difficult it must have been to carve these monasteries out of the cliff face-and while they were hiding from enemies.”

  “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” said Bedouina. “There’s still religious persecution, only this time it’s the Jews persecuting the Palestinians. And the Palestinians don’t have monasteries to hide in. Just dusty refugee camps with open-air toilets.”

  “Relax and have a beer, Bedouina,” Matt said, breaking open a six pack of Amstel.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Demetrie said, producing a leather pouch carried on a cord inside his shirt. Ceremoniously, he took out a dark block of hashish. Besides being a graduate student in biology, Demetrie was also the local supplier of “killer hash” which he smoked several times a day. Matt wondered how he could function as well as he did, let alone drive.

  They watched as Demetrie set the block down on the cold stone floor, drew his thumbs across the top, and peeled off a thin layer of the fibrous hallucinogenic weed. Rolling the wad of hemp between his fingers, he then wrapped a double size cigarette paper around its moist oblong shape. In seconds it was lit and on its way around the group seated on the floor.

  Maha and Bedouina were the only ones who abstained. Matt at first refused, arguing that a beer was good enough for him but finally gave in to the urging of Todd and Brian. He took a small puff and held it in his lungs. At first nothing happened and he gave the thumbs up sign. In the next instant he was doubled over in a fit of coughing. “Look you guys, I’m a drinker, not a smoker,” he protested. After more prodding from his friends, he finally inhaled deeply and tried to hold the pungent smoke inside his lungs, but it was no use-again he exhaled, his mouth spewing out thick white smoke, his lungs on fire, his eyes watering. “Shit,” he managed between coughing and spitting. “And you call this cool?”

  As the fat joint made its way around the circle Demetrie was busily preparing a second one. Within minutes, a mellow mood descended on the nine students seated on the floor of the ancient monastery. Matt, recovered from his coughing spasm, downed two beers and tried to cool his throat.

  “So what’s this crazy world coming to?” said Todd, the first to speak up after a long lull. “I mean is the Middle East going to be the crucible for world destruction?”

  “If you believe that spook William Fisher we’re all doomed to be dragged into a holy mega-war.” Brian Walker reached for a beer. “God this shit makes me thirsty.”

  “It’s all right for you Americans to have a few joints, drink and complain about conditions here in the Middle East,” sighed Bedouina. “It won’t be long before you jump on a plane and fly back to America and your safe lives. In the meantime we’re stuck here waiting for the Israelis to attack again like they did at the airport in December. Only this time they’ll probably drop a nuclear bomb.”

  Matt could barely understand the conversation as it bounced back and forth. His ears were ringing and his mind had morphed into a nonsensical kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, smells and images. He downed another beer, trying to stop the onslaught of images as Maha rocked him back and forth in her arms. Matt vaguely recognized Karl Mitchell and T. J. among the sea of faces; everything seemed surreal and disjointed. Sometime later, he opened his eyes as two older men joined the group.

  The next day, trying to recall the events of that evening he couldn’t determine whether they had been real or just drug induced hallucinations. The strangers were introduced by Demetrie as true patriots of the struggle of the Palestinian people. Matt vaguely recalled something about an organization, a red and white keffiyeh, and two names-Mohammed and Yassar.

  ***

  Washington, DC

  The clock on the nightstand registered 6 A.M. when Nicole slipped into bed with him. “I couldn’t sleep very well without you,” she confessed, wrapping her arms around his warm body.

  “I tried to read my journal,” Matt said groggily, rolling over and caressing her hair. “I must have fallen asleep. I don’t recall much.”

  They kissed, seeking each other’s caress. A few moments later Matt
fell back asleep. “Boy, have I got a great effect on men.” she murmured, climbing out of bed. Her toe struck the leather journal on the floor. She picked it up and silently closed the door.

  Elijah was rummaging around in the kitchen. “So how’s Prince Charming?” He put a pot of coffee on the table. Nicole tightened her bathrobe to ward off the early morning chill.

  “Comatose,” she smiled, pouring herself a steaming hot mug and wrapping her hands around its warmth.

  “It’s nice having you here,” Eli said, avoiding her eyes. “It’s like things used to be…”

  “Thanks for the sentiment but we’re both a little old to be playing family,” Nicole said. “And in case you don’t remember it was never like this. You were always gone. Mom worried you’d disappear forever during one of your clandestine forays.” Nicole caught herself too late-she could see the hurt in the old man’s face. He turned toward the sink and rattled a few dishes.

  Nicole went to him. “I’m sorry, Dad. That just came out. You’re right. We can enjoy the fact that we’re together now. Like I said to Matt the past should be filed in a dusty folder called ancient history.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’m going to have my coffee and skim Matt’s journal. Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed? I’ll whip up some bacon and eggs for breakfast. Then I want you to read some of this stuff before he wakes up.” Nicole gave him a gentle push out of the kitchen.

  Instead of leaving, Eli walked over to the kitchen cupboard and reached in the back.

  “I hope you’re not having scotch at this hour.”

  He withdrew a manila envelope closed with tape. Her name was written on it. “This is for you to open and read in case anything ever happens to me,” he said. “I suggest you put it in a safe deposit box somewhere, but only open it after I’m dead.”

  Tears welled up. “What’s this all about, Dad?”

  “It’s my life. I’ve written it all down over the past few years since I left the agency. There aren’t many national secrets in there, at least not anymore. I wanted you to know where I was and what I was doing during those times I wasn’t there for you and your mother. You should know. There are also a few other things in there that could be useful.” He turned to go.