The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  Matt’s hand trembled as he put down the payphone situated inside the neighborhood convenience store. Dear God. It’s happening? Who could he call? Who would believe him?

  Matt approached the elderly Asian proprietor behind the counter. “Can you change this $5 bill for coins for the pay phone?” Noticing a bandage on the man’s forearm he forced a smile. “I’m a doctor. Are you okay?”

  Was Maha already at the White House? Was she talking to President Pierce at this very moment? How would she do it? A poisoned tongue depressor? An injection? The Asian proprietor broke through his fears.

  “It’s a deep scratch from my cat and it’s not healing very well.” He moved the bandage a little to expose a red and swollen gash.

  “You’ve got an infection. If you have some iodine or betadine, swab it twice a day for several days and let the air get to it. Cuts heal better with fresh air.” His smile was brittle. “Oh and could I have some change for the pay phone?”

  Matt looked at the television above the cash register. The 6:30 evening news. A picture of the White House appeared behind a fast-talking female correspondent. “Tonight,” she announced, “President Pierce and the secretary of state are hosting the crown prince of Saudi Arabia at an official state dinner here at the White House. This visit certainly comes at an auspicious time as the President is in what appears to be the final stages of preparing his response to the nation and the world on the approach the United States will take toward the escalation of terror on American soil. We still don’t have a date for the President’s speech but the White House press corps says we can expect it to come sometime within the week.”

  Matt thumbed a coin at the slot. It dropped to the floor. Coins rattled in his hand. He fed the rest into the payphone. The White House correspondent droned on but Matt was playing his own scenario. They kill the President, that is Maha, beautiful Maha, kills the President. Then the United States, in rage and revenge, declares all out war on terrorism and the nations who support and sponsor terrorism. And of course billions more for defense and additional money and arms for Israel. But even greater profits for Mohammed al Nagib and his criminal organization. Providing arms to both sides was a very lucrative business.

  The phone rang again at Dr. Melikian’s office. Matt placed his shirt sleeve over the mouthpiece. He had a vague plan which just might work. It had to because it was his only plan at the moment.

  “Hello? I must speak with Dr. Melikian right away. This is Dr. Schultz from the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. There’s been a traffic accident involving a taxi that was carrying a Dr. Margaret Khalid. It’s important I speak with Dr. Melikian right away. Ms. Khalid’s life may depend up on it.”

  “Oh God. Not Maggie. The doctor’s not here. He’s gone home ill.”

  “Then give me his home number and his cell phone as well. I’ll call him directly.”

  “But I’m not supposed to give out personal numbers-”

  “Listen, miss, I know you’re doing your duty but this woman may die in the next half hour. I’m a doctor, my job is to save lives now hurry up.” Matt’s urgency was all too real. He jotted down the two numbers and then reached into his pocket for more coins. He froze. Slowly he lowered the handset.

  A large white man in a dark suit walked into the store and asked for two cups of hot coffee. Matt picked up the phone and turned his face away, pretending to be talking. Soon the bell in the front door jingled and the man was gone. Matt shook as the fear gripped his entire body. Why am I reacting? He filed away the description of the man. Two coffees? That could mean a stakeout car was watching Elijah’s apartment. They were onto him. He was running out of time.

  On the third ring the automatic answering machine picked up the call. A recording came on. “You have reached the residence of Dr. Noubar Melikian. Please leave a message and a number and I will return your call as soon as possible.” Matt fumbled for another set of coins and this time dialed the cell phone. He hoped that like most physicians Melikian would answer his private line day or night.

  On the second ring a scraggly voice answered. “Dr. Melikian.”

  “Dr. Melikian, listen to me carefully.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Are you sick or incapacitated?”

  “I have food poisoning but I’ll live. How did you get this number? And who the devil are you?”

  “Dr. Khalid poisoned you. What was it? Coffee, tea?”

  Silence, then retching.

  “Dr. Melikian, you are the only person who can save the President of the United States from being assassinated tonight. Right now, Dr. Khalid, if that’s her real name is on her way to the Oval Office in your place. She is a terrorist. She plans to kill the President.”

  “I know your voice.”

  “Listen to me. She plans to kill the President.”

  “You’re Dr. Summers from the other day…”

  “Will you listen to me? Dr. Khalid is on her way to kill the President. She made an appointment under your name for 7:15 this evening knowing full well that you would be unable to attend.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “I’m on my way to the White House right now. Get dressed and get over there if you want to save the President, and Dr. Khalid.”

  “Summers?” Melikian paused, his voice steady. “I can’t go anywhere I’ve got food poisoning. I can barely move.”

  “You don’t have food poisoning. She probably gave you a large dose of Bethanechol. As you know it produces similar symptoms. If you have any atrophine in your medical bag use it. The symptoms will quickly subside. It’s an old trick we used to use in medical school.”

  “What did you say about Maggie?”

  “She’s a terrorist. Her real name is Maha Hammad. She’s Jordanian and a close friend of the suicide bomber that killed Dr. Norman. It’s all part of a plan to get into the White House and kill the President.”

  “How do you know she’s a terrorist?”

  “Because she has a scar on her left wrist. I was there when she got it in 1968. And long ago I was in love with her. Now take the atrophine, get dressed and I’ll meet you at the first gate on Pennsylvania Ave, just in from 17 ^th Street. There’s no time to lose.”

  Matt hung up as the bell jingled. He turned around not knowing what to expect. Oh, my God. A face from the past. Demetrie Antonopolis. Older, with taut bronze skin and a graying ponytail.

  He blocked the aisle leading to the door. “It’s over, Matt. Let’s go. Quietly if you don’t mind.” A silenced pistol emerged from the pocket of his black overcoat.

  “What do you mean it’s over?” Matt backed against the rack of canned vegetables.

  “Think, man, think. Or are you still muddled from all that booze?”

  “Ah, yes. How convenient. I’m the fall guy and the real rats go free. And are you still a dope head, Demetrie? Can’t you see you’re being used, just like me?”

  “Pathetic attempt. Now step over here. There’s a car outside. We’re going on a little ride.”

  Reaching into his pocket Matt brought out a can of warm diet soda. He slumped shoulders, the body language of the defeated, and walked slowly toward Demetrie.

  “I thought you’d have a bottle of scotch, not a soda can.” He laughed at his own joke. The car honked. Demetrie turned to look.

  Matt shook the can and quickly pulled the ring tab. Foam sprayed into the killer’s face. His hands instinctively went up to protect his eyes. Matt grabbed two large peach cans off the shelf and slammed them into the side of Demetrie’s head with all his might. Blood spurted out from both ears. Demetrie staggered, then roared in pain. Matt leapt feet first into the Greek’s chest. The ponytail whipped as his head snapped to one side. Demetrie crashed into a wooden fruit container. A shrill cry left him. His back was impaled on one of the metal bars protruding upwards. Demetrie Antonopolis went limp.

  Desperately Matt scanned the store for a way out. “Here! Here!” He heard a call from the back. The elderly Asian propr
ietor was holding open a door just beyond the bins of wilted lettuce. “Thanks,” Matt said, squeezing his shoulder. “Call the cops. Tell them he tried to rob you. Shit, tell them anything.” He ducked into the alley and sprinted towards the street.

  A young black man was climbing into a dark maroon Mini Cooper with tinted windows. Matt jerked open the passenger door and dove in.

  “What the fuck you doin’ man? Get the hell out of here,” the driver bunched up his fist and swung wildly. Matt pulled out a $100 bill and held it up. The man stared. “Okay, you got my attention, but I ain’t into no queer stuff.”

  Matt ripped another bill from his wallet. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the White House right away. It’s a national emergency. Unless you want to be responsible for another September 11 let’s see how fast you can drive.”

  “Bullshit, but keep the C-notes coming.” He put the Mini into gear. The tires screamed. The little car shot out into the street. “Shit, man, you some kind a James Muthafuckin’ Bond?” He stomped on the accelerator. “There’s a big car with an ugly looking white guy chasing us.” He looked at Matt, then grinned. “Well Whitey this is your lucky day. Because I’m the Rolf Schumacher of Washington, D.C. I know this town like my bitch’s titties.” The car slid into a narrow alleyway knocking over garbage cans and crushing cardboard boxes.

  Matt looked at his watch-6:45 P.M. The car chasing them was the least of his worries. How was he going to gain entry to the White House, uninvited and wearing the face of an assassin? God, Maha. Don’t do this.

  What had Dr. Melikian said? Just phone the White House. That’s right, simple as that. Get the Marine guards to charge down the halls and arrest her. So why hadn’t he done that? He was putting the President at risk – why?

  Maha. He needed to confront Maha. He needed to be there. Evil people had kidnapped him, robbed him of his face, and destroyed his life. And by God he was going to stop them, and save Maha. He saw her wrist, packed in ice, the memory shimmering like her tears that day. Red blood pooled on the virgin snow at her feet, so innocent. But now… The car hurtled through an intersection, horns blared in protest.

  “We’ve lost the car.” The Mini Cooper responded with a lurch as he downshifted.

  “Either they already know where we’re headed or they’re not welcome there,” Matt said. “Listen, when you get to the intersection of Pennsylvania and 17 ^th Street just let me out and take off. There’s no need for you to get involved in this.”

  The young driver nodded. Matt shoved three one hundred-dollar bills into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Are we gonna’ win, Mister?”

  “Absolutely, my friend. Absofuckinglutely.”

  Ahead loomed the White House with its stately columns glowing in the huge spotlights. As the Mini roared down 17 ^th Street he could see the Old Executive Office Building. It marked the intersection with Pennsylvania Ave. Matt got ready to flip the door handle and jump out. Some hundred yards away a taxi screeched to a halt in front of the guard barrier blocking the entrance to the White House. The taxi driver got out and opened the rear door. A bent-over figure with white hair staggered out of the taxi and stumbled toward the entrance gate.

  “How’d you like to earn some bragging rights?” asked Matt turning to the young black man.

  “What you got in mind?”

  “Can you crash into that taxi? Not too hard, just hard enough to cause a commotion and distract the Marines? You’ll get arrested, but don’t worry. I’ll see that you get released. And maybe a special citizenship award as well. Let me out here and then give it your best shot.”

  “You crazy, you know that, dude?” he grinned then stopped the car. “My mama’s gonna kill me, but I’ll do it.” The boy gave Matt a broad grin and stomped on the accelerator. The little car gained speed then quickly went into a controlled skid. It slid into the idling taxi. The cab driver began yelling and cursing, flailing his arms in the air. The young black man flung open the car door, staggered a few steps and collapsed on the sidewalk, screaming and rolling. Alarm bells blared on the big iron gates. Secret Service guards and Marines raced toward the young man, their guns drawn.

  Matt sidled up to Dr. Melikian and supported him with an arm. “It’s me,” Matt said as they moved up to the entrance gate.

  “Dr. Summers. Or are you an imposter as well?”

  “In more ways than one. What made you decide to believe me?”

  “I don’t believe you. But if there’s one chance in a million of preventing war in the Middle East I’ll do just about anything, even listen to a crazy man like you. Besides,” the doctor smiled weakly, “your anecdote, atropine, helped right away. It must have been Bethanechol she slipped in my coffee.”

  “Halt.” A tall marine, hand on his side arm, stood just inside the heavy iron gate.

  “I am Dr. Noubar Melikian, President Pierce’s personal physician and I have to see the President at once. It’s a matter of national security. The President is in danger at this very moment.” He held up his White House ID.

  “Shoot us later if we’re lying,” Matt said. “We must get to the President at once. Escort us in or you may be responsible for the death of the President of the United States and the start of World War Three.”

  The marine was not to be pressured. He peered closely at Dr. Melikian’s ID then quietly spoke into his walkie-talkie. The gate opened and two other marines took Matt and Noubar by the arm. They quickly escorted them into the west wing of the White House, barking orders as they went. “Secure the President, secure the President. Where is he?” they demanded of a guard in the hallway.

  “In the Oval Office with Dr. Khalid. She just went in.”

  ***

  Dr. Margaret Khalid kept her smile in place as she watched him standing at the window. A big man, an attractive man, perhaps more relaxed than she had remembered. She was here in the Oval Office, power center of a nation intent on destroying the entire Middle East. Her hands shook as she opened her black bag and reached in.

  “Dr. Khalid?”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  He smiled without turning around. “Most people who come into the Oval Office are eager to talk. I don’t recall you being the shy type.”

  “I’m filling in for Dr. Melikian. I guess I’m a little unnerved and overwhelmed.”

  “Frankly, I’m used to the trappings now. Did you know that out there in the dark garden new shoots are emerging from the thorny stalks of the roses? It’s amazing. Even after a severe pruning in the fall and the freezing temperatures of a harsh winter the lengthening daylight of spring will again produce her miracle. In a couple of months we’ll see big bright roses again.”

  “Really, sir?” She examined the tiny needle smeared with the deadly toxin.

  “Speaking of seeing things again. I saw an old friend of yours the other day.”

  She stopped, the syringe held up to the light. “Of mine, Mr. President? I really don’t think…”

  “Matthew Richards.”

  The syringe fell onto the carpet. Her hand trembled as she reached down. After picking it up she found the President of the United States looking directly at her, unsmiling.

  “Are you all right, Doctor?”

  “Of course.” Where did her response come from? Her shocked heart? The twisted pit of her stomach?

  “Let me tell you a story, Doctor. And you might want to listen very closely. A long time ago I was in love with a woman I couldn’t have.” Pierce stood with his hands behind his back. “She was the daughter of a wealthy Mexican rancher. If I close my eyes I still see her. Jet black hair, a fiery temper and the bearing of a spirited mustang. I was shy and she was wild and free. Yet we fell deeply in love. For one fantastic summer we had a wild, forbidden love affair. Then she went away to school in Mexico City and I back to the States to go to college. I never saw her again.

  “I suppose I could have become bitter and angry over lost love. But instead I decided to use that experience as an example of what is possible
between two different people. The memory of that love helped save my sanity when I was a POW in Vietnam. I believe the capacity to connect at a meaningful level with another human being is hardwired into all people, Doctor. No matter what their culture, race, religion, or political beliefs. And no degree of brainwashing can take that from us. It can be crusted over but never eliminated.”

  “Mr. President…”

  “By the way, Maha, Matt still loves you.”

  She knew she should charge him. Her trainers had recited it over and over. As a last resort, charge. The needle only has to scratch the skin for the toxin to take effect. Do it now. Now. She really should charge, lunge, drive the needle home. But instead she walked slowly forward, as if in a trance. Matt Richards. A name from another time yet always deep within her. He had spoken his name. How fine it tasted in the air, spoken out loud, not locked away in some forbidden place. Good times, great times. The sounds of the sea, the evening breeze on their faces, starlight. Bedouina and Samir laughing; Maha and Matt finding excuses to steal away in the moonlight. To be alone. To be lovers.

  “Stop right there.” A loud voice from the side of the room.

  Her feet kept slowing moving. Odd, she didn’t like the harsh lighting. Her contact lenses, awash in tears, gathered the bright light. “Some choices open up a great future, others seal one’s fate forever,” she said, moving toward the President, syringe raised. Just a prick on the skin with the coated needle and death would be irreversible.

  “At first we thought Dr. Melikian might be the deep cover assassin after learning of his affiliation with Mohammed al Nagib. But when my secretary said you called earlier about my blood test and that you were coming instead of Dr. Melikian things just sort of fell into place for us. Didn’t they Karl?”