The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “The suicide bomber that killed Dr. Norman…?”

  “Probably the same group,” responded Matt. “That’s why I’m here; why I came to you. To find out who among our group might be involved.”

  “But that doesn’t explain your face transplant, Matt.”

  “I was to be used to track down my old AUB friends. But I escaped from the hospital where I was being held. I’m trying to figure this out but there are a lot of missing pieces.”

  Dr. Thomas sat back, lost in thought. “That’s quite a story young man. Why don’t we just call the FBI and let them get to the bottom of this? The deputy commissioner is a good friend of mine.” He walked over to his desk. “And it’s our duty to warn the President if he really is in danger.”

  “Dr. Thomas?” Nicole jumped up from the sofa and wedged herself between him and the desk. “Someone’s trying to kill Matt. They’ve made several attempts on his life already and innocent people have been killed. Anyway, the President’s adequately protected, especially following the recent attempt on his life.”

  “I don’t believe I got your name, Ms…?”

  “Delacluse, Nicole Delacluse of the International Herald Tribune. I’m on a special investigative assignment following the suicide attack on the President. Don’t you think it’s a little too coincidental that Dr. Brian Walker was killed recently? He was one of Matt’s best friends at AUB. And from what’s happened to us in the past few days we know the people trying to kill Matt must have connections high up in our government. Either that or some friendly foreign country, or both. Please-don’t make that call.”

  “Kill Matt?”

  Matt shook his head sadly. “There have been several attempts on my life. Innocent bystanders have been murdered. These people are ruthless and determined.”

  “Alright, it may be too dangerous to involve the authorities at this time. But what on earth can I do?”

  “I need your help locating all the junior year abroad students,” Matt replied. “I also recall a graduate student, William Fisher I believe. He was much older than the rest of us but he came over with our group. He gave some terrific lectures about the Middle East. Could he be somehow involved?”

  “There’s no way. Will Fisher is one of the top directors at the National Security Agency. In fact he’s on the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East. He’s a genius at synthesizing information and drawing conclusions. The NSA and the President are fortunate to have him. In fact, maybe he could shed some light on all of this. I can probably get you a meeting with him.”

  “Perhpas in a few days. If I’m still alive. Right now I don’t want to send anyone on a wild goose chase.”

  “Dr. Thomas,” Nicole said, “I’ve never heard of a face transplant before. That’s super advanced medical technology, isn’t it?”

  “It used to be,” Dr. Thomas replied. “However in the last two years the techniques have advanced greatly. The Israelis seem to be the leaders in this procedure at the moment but the Austrians, Swiss and Germans aren’t far behind. Where did you say this clinic was?” he turned to Matt.

  “I’m not sure,” Matt lied. “Somewhere outside of Washington. I was so drugged up I doubt if I could ever find it again. Doctor, do you have your old AUB yearbook from 1968-69? Maybe that will jog my memory. And have you kept in touch with any of the students from that period?”

  “Not a one. When I came back at the end of that year I was pursuing my genetics research at Yale. Then NIH called a few years later and asked me to join their management team. Since then it’s been a steady round of work and speeches. But retirement is only a year away.” Weariness entered his voice.

  “There’s more to this position than just trying to provide for the health of the nation. In fact, too much politics for me.” Dr. Thomas shrugged. “My yearbook should be on the bookshelf, just over

  here,” he said, getting up. “Ah yes, there it is. American University of Beirut, 1969.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Matt and Martin Thomas pored over the pictures in the yearbook. Nicole took notes in her reporter’s shorthand. The doctor’s memory was better than Matt’s but then he hadn’t worked his way through a tanker load of scotch in the last thirty plus years.

  “I’m sorry to break this off, Matthew, but I’ve got a dinner guest due to arrive in a few minutes.” His hand came up and reexamined Matt’s surgery. “Whoever did it, Matt, its very good work.”

  “I’m not sure my mother would approve,” Matt said, pulling back.

  Dr. Thomas winced. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Are you sure you don’t want me to make a call and get you both into a safe house or something?”

  “No thanks. But I would like your private cell phone number just in case.”

  Dr. Thomas plucked a business card from a silver holder on his desk and wrote on the back. “Now I really must see to my guest. He’s too important for me to cancel at the last minute. Probably arrived by now. Please keep in touch. And good luck.”

  “You will keep this just between us for the time being, won’t you?” said Matt, reaching for the card.

  “Of course.” They shook hands firmly. “Take care Matt, and you too, Ms. Delacluse. Anderson will show you out. Now you really must excuse me.”

  The butler appeared. As they were gathering their coats from a closest in the hallway, a small door opened. Senator Mason T. Stevens stepped out, smoothing his tie and adjusting a tight vest.

  “Oh, I didn’t know Martin had guests. I was just freshening up. Haven’t we met before? I’m Senator Stevens,” he said, holding out a fleshy hand to Matt. He smiled approvingly at Nicole.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Senator Stevens.” Matt gripped his hand equally hard. “I’m Dr. Hunter and this is my wife, Veronica. We’re NIH researchers in plastic surgery. I never forget a face. A carryover from my profession. We met about three months ago at the reception for Dr. Melikian. Nice meeting you again, Senator.”

  As they got into the car and headed down the driveway, Nicole turned and looked at Matt. “If we live through this, Matthew Richards, I’m going to marry you.”

  When they were a block away, Nicole touched his arm. “This is a good spot.”

  Matt watched her unwrap the small digital recorder and battery operated receiver. “What if it rains?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Dad didn’t mention that. Let’s hope the weather stays good. I’ll just be a moment. She stepped out of the car and set the recorder in a dense hedge bordering a large residence.

  “How long is it good for?”

  “Dad said up to six hours. We should at least be able to hear what the Senator has to say. If they talk in the library, that is.”

  An hour later Matt and Nicole walked arm in arm into Eli’s safe house. Matt used one of the fake IDs and a credit card from the collection in his valise to book the early flight out of Washington’s Ronald Reagan National Airport for Pittsburgh. Tomorrow they had an appointment with Todd Cummings.

  “This ain’t the Ritz,” said Elijah, “but it does have a small guest room. You guys figure out the arrangements. I’m going to bed. We’ll listen to the recording first thing in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Dad, and by the way…” She opened the paper bag an pulled out the distinctive pinch bottle of Glenrothes Single Malt Scotch. “Sweet dreams.”

  Matt and Nicole crawled into the small twin bed and slipped into each other’s arms. They were exhausted but Matt’s mind kept churning. Past and present bombarding him with images. Somewhere in the assault of images, he slept, and dreamed.

  ***

  Cairo, early December 1968

  The soot-covered train from Aswan to Cairo pulled into the station. It was early morning after a nighttime run along the Nile River and the end of the AUB group’s two week educational trip to the monuments and museums of ancient Egypt. In two days they would be on a plane heading back to Beirut.

  Most of the seventeen American stude
nts hadn’t slept that night. Instead the journey on the train was an excuse for a party, with beer and liquor flowing freely. Twice during the night Dr. Martin Thomas, their chaperone, tried to confine their revelry to one car and stop them roaming through the train howling like banshees. When the train finally did pull into the Cairo station several of the bedrooms stunk of vomit and booze.

  Matt and Todd Cummings wearily dumped their luggage onto the bed of their shared hotel room. “What should we do with our last day in Cairo?”

  “I’m gonna sleep.” Todd crashed heavily onto the bed. “You do what you want.” Matt bathed and changed into something loose and comfortable. He was also tired but the covered bazaar, the famous Souk of Cairo, was where he wanted to be.

  It was an easy ten-minute walk from the Sheraton Hotel on the banks of the Nile River to the exotic alleys and merchant districts of the bazaar. The ancient market in Cairo was many times larger than the one in Beirut.

  At the entrance Matt stood beneath the great arched portico. Dark passageways ran in all directions. Pungent smells from the spice vendors assaulted his nostrils. Merchants and shoppers, many still dressed as they had for thousands of years eyed him curiously. Old women carried string bags full of food and other merchandise bought at the morning market somewhere deep inside the souk. Matt wandered about aimlessly, every once in a while coming across the central courtyard of a mosque.

  He found a food stall and ordered a cup of grainy Arabic coffee, a bowl of yogurt with honey and a pita bread sandwich filled with roast lamb. If only Maha were beside me now. Her face filled his memory, sweet and innocent.

  With his back turned they didn’t notice him as they hurried by. William Fisher and an elderly Middle Eastern man in an expensive western business suit. Both spoke in animated Arabic as they moved quickly along the crowded thoroughfare.

  What is Fisher doing here? Curious, Matt left several bills on the table and followed at a safe distance.

  “You are American, yes?” A dirty Egyptian boy came up beside him, walking in lockstep. He smiled, showing rotten teeth. He was young, but his eyes knew more than his age.

  “That’s right.” Matt smiled down at him. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Saleem. Allah in his infinite wisdom has chosen me to be your guide today.” The boy bowed. “Where would you like to go and what would you like to see?”

  Matt glanced after Fisher and his companion. “Your English is very good, Saleem. Where did you learn it?”

  “My mother is a maid for a woman who teaches at the American University in Cairo. I also learn some English at school,” he said, beaming.

  “And shouldn’t you be in school now?”

  “Oh no. Allah says it is my duty to help you. So here I am.” The eyes hardened. “Why are you following those men?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Matt said. “Actually, I know one of them. I was just curious where they were going.”

  “Follow me. I know where they are going and we will get there before them.” Saleem disappeared around the next corner. “Are you coming?” he said, poking his head back around.

  Matt weaved and ran through the dark lanes of the covered bazaar, barely keeping his guide in sight. Abruptly they came upon a lavish nightclub at the edge of the bazaar. Matt stared at the carved door. An immense white sign announced the entrance to the Hidden Veils Nightclub.

  Saleem pulled hard on his sleeve, almost dragging Matt into the dark recesses of a carpet shop just across from the nightclub. They both watched as William Fisher and the older man walked by and disappeared into the nightclub.

  “Would you like me to take a look for you?” asked Saleem. “I can get in and out without being seen. It would be fun.”

  “Yes. But be careful,” said Matt. “And come out in five minutes and tell me what you see. Then I’ll let you guide me around the city for a few hours.”

  “It will be a great honor to be your esteemed guide. I shall return shortly.”

  Matt stood in a dark alley a few shops away from the entrance to the nightclub and waited. Several elderly men came and went over the next few minutes. Matt looked at his watch. Ten minutes passed and no Saleem. Matt looked around. Shit.

  Matt waited a few more minutes, then stepped out of the shadows and headed for the nightclub.

  “Hey. Watch where you’re going,” said Matt, regaining his balance after being nearly knocked over by someone from behind.

  “Oh, a thousand pardons, Sir. I was late for a meeting and didn’t see you. Are you all right?” A young man a few years younger than Matt looked up, again making apologies.

  “I’m okay,” said Matt. “Your English is very good.”

  “Why thank you. I am a student. My name is Noubar. My benefactor insists I become fluent in English, and French, German and Russian. He says it will be important for my future success.” The boy looked at his watch. “Now if you will excuse me I must hurry. May Allah protect you.” He hurried towards the nightclub, opened the door, and slipped passed Saleem who was just exiting.

  Later that afternoon at a food stall near the giant Helipolis obelisk on the banks of the Nile Saleem told Matt what he had seen in the nightclub. The tall American had been seated with a large Egyptian man watching the belly dancers and drinking Arabic coffee. A man in a Palestinian headdress joined them. The three of them talked very quietly to each other.

  “Can you describe them?” asked Matt.

  “The man in the red keffiyeh had a hooked nose, large lips, and hadn’t shaved, like my brothers sometimes,” Saleem laughed easily. “He was Palestinian. That is all I can tell. And just before I left, another man, about your age, joined them. He looked like a college student. I have seen many of them at the house where my mother works. And he had an Armenian accent.”

  ***

  Washington, DC

  Eli gently shook Nicole and Matt. “Better wake up.”

  Matt stirred, then sat up. Tension hardened his eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “Get dressed. We need to talk. Right away.”

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Dr. Martin Thomas is dead.”

  “Oh, God.” Nicole drew the bedcover up to her neck.

  “It’s on the morning news. He died of an apparent heart attack in bed last night. His butler found him.”

  Matt dressed quickly. “Were there any signs of violence?”

  “If there were it wasn’t reported in the news. All they said is the butler heard noises coming from his room. It seems he died after a coughing fit that was too much for his heart. He had been taking heart medication for the past year.”

  Nicole talked as she dressed. “We’ve got to retrieve that recorder. Maybe we can find out something about his death.”

  Matt pulled on his trousers and reached for his shoes.

  Nicole stood in the doorway. “I’ll go retrieve it. Make some coffee will you?”

  “Watch yourself,” Elijah said.

  “Just have the coffee ready.”

  When Nicole returned Matt was on his third rerun of the Dr. Thomas story on CNN. “Nothing new. Did anyone see you?”

  “No. Believe me, I was careful. I parked a block away and walked to the hedge. Dad?” Nicole handed the recording device to her father.

  “Give me a few minutes.” Elijah produced a set of headphones and began listening. Matt and Nicole waited, watching as he sat hunched over, listening, eyes fixed in time and space.

  “Okay. He made two calls. Most of its blank but the two calls had him phoning his son, a physician in California, and one to William Fisher in Baltimore.”

  “Fisher?”

  “What did he and Fisher talk about?” Nicole asked, an impatient edge in her voice.

  “I couldn’t hear clearly what he was saying to Fisher but he mentioned Matt’s name several times.”

  “That’s all? No details about the conversation?”

  “Sorry. It must have been a cordless phone and he probably moved away from the desk.�
��

  Nicole stepped close to Matt. “What time were the calls?”

  Eli scanned the digital readout. “Just before midnight.”

  “Stevens was obviously gone by then. Shit. I wish we had more.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Pittsburgh

  Once dominated by steel mills and buried under black smoke, Pittsburgh was an American renaissance city. The riverfront and old docks were transformed into malls and tree-lined parks. Hosting several major league sports teams and world-class universities the city was well known for its innovative medical, computer and software companies.

  Monument Oil and Gas Company occupied the top ten floors of a magnificent high rise soaring above the downtown skyline. Todd Cummings, chief legal counsel and corporate secretary, had his office in the executive suite just below the boardroom and executive dining rooms. While executive dining rooms were going out of fashion in corporate America, they were a necessity for Monument Oil. It was there that foreign dignitaries and the heads of major oil and gas companies from around the world, especially the Middle East, were entertained. The corporate dining rooms were not only a quiet place to talk business. They were also secure, swept daily for listening devices.

  Nicole’s interview with Todd Cummings was scheduled for 11:30 A.M . and her eyes widened as they were shown into the anteroom of Cumming’s office. It was lushly appointed with dark mahogany paneling, Persian carpets and a large oil painting by Thomas Hart Benson depicting industrial Pittsburgh during the 1920s. “There’s more money tied up in the furnishings here than I’ll ever see in a lifetime,” she murmured to Matt as they sat down on a sofa. “Look at this, real damask.”

  “If you got it, flaunt it. That’s the motto of corporate America,” Matt said, preoccupied by what he was going to say to his old friend, Toad.

  Nicole noticed Matt’s frown. “Are you worried?”

  He nodded.

  “You did well with Dr. Thomas. Cummings is no physician so he may be tougher to convince. I’ll back you up.” She squeezed his hand.