The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “How so?” quizzed Nicole. “How would it benefit the Israelis to control this terrorist cell?”

  “Why to make certain it does its job,” replied Eli. “Or, on the other hand expose it to the U.S. authorities. The American people would rise up against the Arab world if they knew there was a terrorist cell about to kill the President. Either way the Israelis win.”

  Matt nodded. “It’s a clever gambit. After all, they don’t want peace with the Arabs any more than the terrorists want the liberation of Palestine. It’s moved way beyond those idealistic days. The Israelis, or at least a certain faction within Israel, want the United States to wage a full-scale war on the Muslims which means more dollars and more protection for Israel.”

  “But that’s monstrous.” Nicole looked at Matt, then her father.

  “No,” Eli said, swirling his glass. “That’s global politics.”

  “What about al Nagib? Where does he fit in?” Nicole asked.

  “That’s the easy part,” Matt replied. “Al Nagib organized and financed the terrorist cell. He probably recruited the members over thirty years ago just for this special purpose. I’ll bet Bedouina and Maha were taken out the back of the restaurant before the blast. I’ll bet they went underground and became members of Nagib’s terrorist organization. And I’ll bet Samir was supposed to accompany them. But the bomb went off too soon and he died in front of my eyes. That night Bedouina lost the only love she had ever known. She would have been extremely vulnerable to al Nagib’s propaganda. She became the perfect candidate for a suicide bomber.”

  “You don’t think they planned to kill Samir in order to soften up Bedouina?” Nicole asked.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone was sacrificed for the greater good,” Eli said. “I’ve seen it more than once.”

  “There’s a pattern here,” Matt said. “After Israeli commandos killed Maha’s father at the Beirut Airport her brothers must have hounded her unmercifully about being a slut and having an affair with an American. She was probably ostracized by her family, which would have made her susceptible to join the group along with Bedouina and Samir. Perhaps she’s already been used as a human bomb or maybe she’s still alive and waiting for her call to glory.” He looked at Nicole. “You think Maha’s here in Washington?”

  “And William Fisher?” Nicole came back quickly avoiding Matt’s eyes.

  “That’s easy enough,” Elijah said. “After the senseless death of his wife at the hands of the Israelis he could have easily been recruited by al Nagib. He preached about the rise in terrorism as far back as 1967 but the State Department ignored him for many years. Then it all turned out exactly as he predicted. Now he’s a celebrity. But with no wife and a burning hatred for the Israelis he would have been the perfect candidate to become a double agent. Maybe he was promised revenge on the man who killed his wife. Plus he undoubtedly got a mountain of cash. He’s probably feeding evidence to al Nagib about what goes on at the President’s Special Advisory Council meetings.”

  Holy Shit. Matt felt sick. “Christ, the two of them-Mason Stevens feeding the Israelis, and William Fisher feeding al Nagib. And neither knows what the other is doing.”

  “But this is all speculation,” Nicole said. “It could be a house of cards.”

  Matt watched her. “There may be two moles inside the President’s inner circle.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time for that, either, Dr. Richards,” Elijah said. “But I won’t bore you with a history lesson.” He drained his Scotch. “Wait a minute, what if the woman bomber wasn’t supposed to kill the President at all but his personal physician instead? Remember the President stood back to let Dr. Norman come front and center to face the press. The bomber could have easily killed the President, but waited.” Elijah stared at his empty glass then at Matt. “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “But what purpose would that serve?” said Matt.

  “That’s clever.” Nicole said. “Don’t you see, Matt? That way they could get their own candidate endorsed as personal physician to the President-Dr. Noubar Melikian.”

  “Dr. Melikian is the terrorist?”

  “Could be.” Elijah went over the possibilities. “Who better to assassinate the President of the United States whenever it becomes convenient for al Nagib and his organization? All Melikian has to do is call up the President and say he found something troubling in the last medical test and that he must see him right away. There are a number of ways the trusted personal physician could get into contact with the President on short notice. Hell, you’re the doctor, Matt. Think of the numerous toxins, biological agents and drugs that can kill instantaneously or over a period of time.”

  “Eli?” Matt said. “Can you call in some IOUs? Dig up some stats on the good doctor?”

  “Can do easy. And while I’m at it I’ll investigate the Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital. Find out the address, who owns it, who’s on the board of directors, what their expertise is, who goes there, everything. And if Kelly Stevens really is there then that’s how we’ll put the squeeze on Senator Stevens.”

  Matt nodded, assessing Elijah Tajikian, a most dangerous gentleman. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere. As for me I’ve got to figure out a way to meet Dr. Melikian myself. If I can just get into his office, look around, maybe speak to him. Easier said than done, however. I’m wanted by the police and the media have plastered the picture of an international assassin all over the place.” He stared at Elijah. “Take a good look, Eli. Have you any idea how obscene it is having the face of a killer? I wish I could tear it off right now.”

  “Maybe we’re just imagining all this,” Nicole said quietly. “I honestly don’t know. But if we don’t do something soon they may strike before the President makes his policy statement to the nation.”

  They all nodded. Elijah Tajikian poured another Scotch. The tumbling ice cubes echoed in the silence.

  ***

  The Oval Office

  The intercom buzzed. “Yes, Miriam?”

  “I’ve done the best I can to juggle your schedule, Mr. President, but I could only squeeze in five minutes. He’s here now, waiting.” Her voice was courteous and professional but he caught the exasperation.

  “Send him in. And thank you, Miriam.”

  He sported a closely cropped beard and neatly styled salt and pepper hair. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. President.”

  “This must be pretty damned important, Todd.” Pierce fingered his tin cup.

  “You know my position concerning the country’s continuing dependence on foreign oil. It’s critical for our future. And I’m certain you’re aware of the fact that a war in the Middle East could greatly damage our prospects of continued access to the huge reserves held by the Arab nations.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Todd, or don’t waste my time.” Pierce glared at his old friend.

  “Okay. I have good reason to believe that one of your trusted advisors is actually working for a terrorist group. They’ve placed a deep cover cell here in this country for the purpose of assassinating you or some other high public official. If that happens the American people will demand a full-scale war. Need I say more?” Todd Cummings stared back at his oil industry colleague and former golfing buddy.

  The President put down his tin cup. His face darkened as he turned toward the window facing the Rose Garden. New shoots were just beginning to emerge from the trimmed stems. “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Todd. Every person on my staff and in an advisory capacity has been thoroughly screened by the FBI. They’ve even had their assholes checked.”

  “I recognize that, Ross. But I’d say the consequences are too great to ignore the possibility. Let me tell you what I know and then you can decide for yourself. Sometimes, Mr. President, self-interest and the interests of the nation coincide. This is one of those times.”

  Pierce flipped his intercom switch. “Change of plans, Miriam. I need some more time with Mr. Cummings.
Do the best you can. And tell Mr. van Ness I must see him right away.” He gestured at his old friend. “Sit down, Todd. And don’t leave out one scrap of information or you’ll find your ass transferred to Mongolia. The chairman of Monument Oil owes me a couple of big favors and I won’t hesitate to use them. By the way, I’m going to record this conversation.”

  For the next half hour Todd Cummings filled the President of the United States in on his Beirut experiences of thirty years ago. He described his recent visit from Matt Richards, Matt’s association with Senator Stevens’ daughter, the phony account of his death, his kidnapping, face transplant, and someone’s attempts to use him as a ferret.

  “A face transplant?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Grotesque as it sounds.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Matt and I spent a year together in some pretty unusual circumstances and I haven’t seen him in over thirty years until the other day,” Todd went on. “He’s a recovering alcoholic and a failed physician. But on the inside he’s made of solid stuff.”

  “What I want to know is, do you trust him?”

  “Yes. I trust him. He’s in big trouble and he came to me for help. And I know it cost him his pride to do that.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “That I don’t know. We didn’t part under the best of circumstances the other day. And he’s wanted by the D.C. Metro police in connection with the death of Dr. Martin Thomas so he’s probably gone into hiding. Although if I know Matt he’ll try to get to the bottom of this himself. He was with a woman, Nicole Delacluse of the International Herald Tribune. We could start there.”

  “I’ll see what the spooks can find out. Now there must be more. What about this mole in my council?”

  Todd Cummings laid out all he knew about the complex web of relationships among the members of his old AUB circle and their acquaintances. President Pierce cancelled all official appointments for the rest of the day. The only person allowed into the Oval Office was Karl van Ness.

  Miriam took two ibuprofen to combat a splitting headache and an avalanche of phone calls.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elijah’s Safe House

  Matt laid all the phony passports, credit cards and wads of money from the leather satchel out on the kitchen table. He began sifting through them. It was just before dawn.

  “What are you doing, Matt?”

  “I want to know more about the person whose face I’ve inherited, Nicole. He was one well traveled guy.” Matt scratched the thin scar under his hairline. “I wonder how many people he killed in his job as a free-lance assassin?” Plucking a passport from the pile he studied a photo of his predecessor in a fake beard. “Here’s an idea. Maybe I could alter my looks to get into Dr. Melikian’s office.”

  Nicole picked up an expensive leather wallet lying on the table. Inside was a small black folder resembling a bank deposit book. The cover was embossed in gold with the name Bahamas Overseas Bank, Ltd, in flowing script. Curious, she turned it over in her hand. An odd-shaped gray metal key fell out and bounced on the floor. They stared down at the worn linoleum.

  “That looks like a safe deposit key,” Matt said reaching down and picking it up. “A 7-digit number. Look in that passbook and see if it matches this number: J-8317077.”

  Nicole opened the booklet and flipped through several pages. “Oh my God, Matt, there’s over fifteen million dollars in here.” Her hand shook as she handed him the thin booklet.

  “The numbers don’t match, but the deposit box must be in the same bank. Not only did he travel a lot but he was very well paid as well.”

  Elijah appeared in the kitchen doorway. Bloodshot eyes surveyed them both. “Fancy passports. Used to have a few myself, once.”

  “So what did you find out?” said Nicole.

  “I need a cup of coffee first.”

  “Dad, don’t torture us.”

  “Alright,” he took a sip from the hot mug of coffee Matt held out. “I went to an out-of-the-way watering hole last night where a number of old spooks hang out. We had a few drinks and shared old war stories. We also did some real talking. Turns out the Armenian-American doctor has led a charmed life. A veritable ‘Cinderfella’. Some big money paid for medical school in Switzerland. And somebody helped him get established in Washington. By all accounts he’s an outstanding physician as well as a tireless spokesman for a peaceful solution in the Middle East.”

  “Anything suspicious?” asked Nicole.

  “Only that his father, a low-level engineer in Cairo, worked for a cement company owned by a rich Egyptian family.”

  “Let me guess, Mohammad Al Nagib,” Matt said.

  “Bingo. This whole thing stinks. Al Nagib is playing all sides against the middle. No matter which way it turns out, he wins big.” Eli gulped his coffee. “This needs more sugar or maybe some scotch.”

  Matt put the key, the Bahamian bankbook and the wallet with thirteen hundred dollars in his pocket. He selected one of the passports. The rest of the documents he stuffed into the leather satchel. “I’m going to hide the rest of this stuff in the bathroom closet. For safe keeping.”

  Elijah nodded. “And what was Nicole hollering about?”

  “Just a bunch of zeros. She’ll tell you. I’ll be right back.”

  As Matt shut the bathroom door the lights flickered and went out. Eli was up and moving but too late.

  A loud crash echoed down the hallway. The front door blew off its hinges. Eli grabbed his daughter and pulled her down onto the floor. Four men in black ski masks burst into the kitchen. Blinding light came from the M-3 Streamlights fitted to their Hoch and Kessler 9 mm pistols. Laser beams pinned Elijah and Nicole.

  “We’re not armed.” Elijah thrust his hands high into the air. Nicole did the same. Silenced rounds sent them crumpling to the floor.

  Matt turned the lock on the bathroom door. A small window faced onto the fire escape. He yanked with all his might but several layers of thick white paint held it shut. He picked up a small stool and flung it at the window. Glass flew outwards.

  “Somebody’s in the back!” Boots echoed down the hall. Seconds later two intruders turned the doorknob. Matt squeezed through the window, ignoring the glass shards that cut into him. A blast from a shotgun splintered the bathroom door. Matt took the rusty fire escape four steps at a time. He jumped from the last rung as another blast from the shotgun ricocheted off the fire escape.

  The alley was dark, hidden from the encroaching dawn. He sprinted towards the street and emerged onto N Street then forced himself into a lazy walk, lungs heaving.

  Moments later a beige sedan roared passed and swerved into the alley, sparks flying as the chassis scraped the curb. A second sedan skidded to a halt blocking the alley entrance. Men in suits piled out with automatic weapons at the ready.

  Matt blended into the stream of commuters headed for the Metro. They were bundled up against the cold wind. Women wore tennis shoes, the official footwear for commuting to downtown office jobs. Matt followed the flow of bodies down into the station, descended the stairs and caught a train heading towards the Kennedy Center and the west side of DC. He remained in the alleys and shadows until the shops opened, slipped into a clothing store and emerged with a navy pea coat, a stocking cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. He pushed out the dark lenses and put on the black-rimmed frames then got back onto the Metro to Union Station where he settled into a public telephone booth on the mezzanine level. He was well out of the way of the commuter crowds.

  There in the telephone booth Matt let go, weeping into a dead phone. Everything caught up with him. Kelly Stevens imprisoned in her new face. The dead; Dr. Martin Thomas, Brian Walker, Anne-Marie. The dying; Karl Mitchell and T.J. Now Nicole and Elijah. Both dead. Anne-Marie’s face erupted in his mind, grotesque in bold azure paint strokes. Matt grabbed at his cheeks, trying to pull off the foreign face bonded to his. He collapsed back into the booth.

  After a few moments his father’s favorite phrase ove
rpowered his fear. It’s time to shit or get of the pot, Matt. Suck it up, son. He stood up. Air filled his lungs. His pounding heart calmed itself. He had loved only two women in his miserable life and both had been ripped from his grasp. He didn’t have much in the way of skills other than medicine. But he did have anger, real anger, and the knowledge that it was his time to shit or get off the pot. It was his time to fight back.

  In that state of heightened focus and cold ugliness he looked around the station. No one was interested in him. He was alone. Frighteningly alone this time. What sort of God runs this fucking universe? What’s wrong with love? He rattled the folding door back and forth. Several people stopped to stare at the lunatic in the phone booth. Realizing he was making a scene he left the mezzanine and headed for the tracks. Was he being followed? He stopped several times to check, once bending down to tie his shoe and scan the crowd. As he walked his breathing steadied. He rehearsed his lines, found an empty bank of phone booths and deposited the coins.

  “Good morning. My name is Dr. William Summers. I’d like to speak with Dr. Melikian. Yes…Tell him I’m a close friend of Dr. Wilson Richards…Richards, yes, the heart surgeon.” Matt looked up as people hurried for their trains. “I’ve just returned from Brazil and have an important message for Dr. Melikian from Dr. Richards. I’ve only got a few hours in town but I’ll only take a few moments of his time. Dr. Richards really wanted me to deliver the message, in person.” Matt waited as he was placed on hold by the receptionist. He scanned the crowds. Just people going about their private lives. Matt envied them.