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.
“Mr. Cummings is ready to see you now,” said the secretary, her dark hair elegantly arranged in a chignon. Her smile was big and practiced. “You’ll be having lunch with Mr. Cummings. Are there any special dietary requirements for either of you? Our chefs are used to special needs.”
Nicole shook her head. “No alcohol for either of us,” Matt said, “but other than that, we’ll eat anything.” Nicole gave him a quick smile.
The secretary ushered them into a spacious corner office overlooking the Allegheny River.
“Ah, Ms. Delacluse,” said a trim man with a closely cropped beard and neatly styled salt and pepper hair, “I’ve been looking forward to your visit. It’s not everyday I get an opportunity to talk about something other than oil and gas.” He smiled, extending his hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Cummings, but I brought one of my colleagues along. It’s his first assignment with our paper and I’m showing him the ropes. This is, ah… Sam Parsons.”
Matt studied the sleek features obviously maintained by an active outdoor life. He’s aged well. Better than me. As Matt watched him from behind his new face, he recalled Beirut. Splashing azure blue water, intense conversations, Maha…
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parsons,” Cummings said, extending his tanned hand.
Matt just nodded as they shook hands. Three decades. Where did it all go?
“We’ll soon go upstairs for lunch,” Cummings went on, “but we can begin here.” He motioned them over to a sofa while he sat down in a large wing chair. “It was Beirut in the late 1960s you were interested in, wasn’t it?”
For the next half hour Nicole was the consummate journalist, starting out with questions that allowed Cummings to brag a little about his career then when he seemed relaxed, posing interesting but superficial questions about Beirut; his first impressions, special things he remembered vividly, any people he still kept in contact with.
“Actually, I’ve not kept in touch with too many from those days,” Cummings said, fingers touching his neatly trimmed beard. “But I do stay in touch with a couple of old friends, Anne-Marie Khoury, a brilliant artist, and another good friend, Theodore Janus.”
“Good friends from our early days are to be treasured,” Nicole said, closing her notebook, offering no threat.
“Yes indeed. In fact, sadly we’ve just lost two friends from the AUB days. Brian Walker. Perhaps you read of his death at that Palestinian rally; an appalling business. And then Matt Richards.” Cummings leaned back in his chair. “Odd the paths our lives take. Matt was a brilliant student, great promise all around. But I hear drink got him pretty bad.” He waived his hand. “Sorry, I’m drifting off the subject, Ms. Delacluse.”
Matt doodled in his reporter’s notebook. He’s still a pompous ass.
Todd Cummings rose abruptly. “Time for lunch.”
After lunch had been served in one of the small private dining rooms on the top floor and the waiter had left Matt knew it was time to begin. Here goes nothing.
“There’s something I must say to you.”
Cummings paused, fork in mid arc. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Parsons?”
“Brace yourself, Toad.” Matt gazed intently in his eyes. “I’m not Sam Parsons. It’s me, Matt-Matt Richards.”
“That’s a sick joke. Just what the hell is going on here, Ms. Delacluse?”
Nicole reached over and touched Cumming’s hand. “You should listen, Mr. Cummings.”
Matt noticed the eyes change. The corporate animal was on alert. No telling what he would do next.
“I suggest you explain yourself.”
“Of course. I called you Toad because that’s what I always called you. Remember? Back at Harvard. And at AUB.”
Cummings stood up. Nicole pulled hard on his sleeve. He settled silently back into his chair.
“I suggest you listen, Toad.” Matt leaned forward. “Listen to my voice. You can’t deny it’s my voice.”
Cummings stared. His eyes darted between Matt and Nicole. “What in God’s name are you two doing…?”
“I had surgery. A face transplant. And it wasn’t my idea. And they faked my death as well. It’s me, Toad.”
“Dear God. I don’t believe it.”
“He’s telling the truth, Mr. Cummings. You can check his stitches,” Nicole said.
“That won’t be necessary. Okay. So if you are Matt, which I still very much doubt. What do you want?”
“Matt’s in big trouble. He desperately needs your help. That’s why we are here.” Nicole stopped talking.
They all sat quietly while the waiter refilled the water glasses and left.
“Tell me exactly what is going on,” Cummings said. “And tell me everything. And don’t think I won’t call the security guards if…”
Matt nodded. “You were right about my drinking, I went downhill fast. But I’m recovering now. Only things are happening which I don’t understand. I really need your help, Todd.”
Tension left the table. “How can I help?”
“I’m going to tell you everything I know. I only hope you will believe me because it’s pretty far fetched.”
“Try me. What you’ve already said is far fetched.” Cummings’ voice was cold. He was a practiced negotiator.
“I was kidnapped, portrayed as dead and given a face transplant. Someone wants to use me as a ferret to track down a terrorist cell planning to kill the President of the United States.”
“That’s the biggest crock of shit…”
“Listen to him!” Nicole interjected.
“I escaped from the clinic where I was held prisoner and am trying to find out who these people are. They have tried to kill me twice already. I have to find out why.” Matt stood up. “Look, Todd. We didn’t always see eye to eye during college, but we trusted each other once. And I’m asking you to trust me again.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid they may try to eliminate those who were at AUB with me that year. And that means you might be in danger as well.” Matt sat down again. He doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. Matt plunged in again. “Look, don’t you think the deaths of both me and Brian are a strange coincidence in timing? Well, I’ve got worse news. Dr. Thomas died last night of an apparent heart attack just a few hours after Nicole and I visited with him. Someone is systematically eliminating all the people we went to Beirut with.”
“Okay, okay-if you really are Matt Richards, then why don’t you just go to the FBI? Why talk to me under false pretenses?” He reached for his water glass. His hand trembled.
“Because we have reason to believe someone high up in the federal government might be involved,” Nicole said.
Matt debated with himself. One last chance. “Todd, you saw the television pictures of the assassination attempt on the President. Did you happen to look closely at the face of the bomber?”
“Of course, they only showed it a thousand times. Why do you ask?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I did think for a second that she resembled Bedouina…but it couldn’t have been. What are you driving at?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking this over and over in my mind for years, all with no answers – except one.”
“Which is?”
“The only person I actually saw killed that night at the restaurant in Beirut was Samir.”
Todd Cummings went white. “You are Matt Richards.”
Matt lost it, nerves snapping. “Jesus Christ, Toad! I thought we were past that…” What an asshole.
“Yeah, well you expect too much, like always. You come in here unrecognizable, with a reporter, notebooks, and lies. I need time.”
“I need time too. But I haven’t got much. They’re trying to kill me!” Matt’s sweeping arm knocked his glass on the floor. They froze as the waiter opened the door.
“No problem, Charles. Close the door please.” Cummings pushed back his chair and studied Matt and Nicole. “So what you are saying is that Maha and Bedouina may not have died that night. Then where did they go?”
“I don’t know but it was Bedouina who…”
“You don’t know that. It may have been someone who looked like her.”
“I feel it. It was her.”
“Look, Matt. You were in love with a beautiful redheaded Jordanian, deeply in love.” Cummings glanced at Nicole. She nodded for him to continue. “The human mind is pretty complicated. I can understand your yearning for Maha to be alive but it’s just a romantic delusion. And there’s no evidence about either Maha or Bedouina.” Cummings stood up. “There’s nothing I can do for you. I want you both to leave right this moment. This is sickening.”
“You think losing my face isn’t sickening?”
Todd Cummings glared at Matt. “I don’t doubt that something is going on, something violent and ugly. But take a look around you. I’m a senior officer here. I’m not putting my firm at risk, jeopardizing my career, because of a college acquaintance I knew over thirty years ago.” He paused. “Sorry, you’re on your own. Now get out.”
Nicole begged. “Please Mr. Cummings, we need…”
“I’ll show you both to the express elevator. If you’re still in the building after five minutes I’ll call security. They’re armed.”
At the elevator, Matt stared at his old friend. “You can’t just walk away from this, Toad.”
“Just watch me.”
As the elevator door closed, Matt held the door open for a few moments. “Hey, Toad? You always were number one.” Matt extended his middle finger. “Watch your back old friend.” The door hissed shut.
Opening his office door, Todd Cummings growled to his secretary. “No calls.”
“Was lunch satisfactory, Mr. Cummings?”
“Fine. I need some quiet time to think about the upcoming director’s meeting.” He smiled coldly. “Hold back the hordes for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ice crackled as he poured straight bourbon and sat behind his desk. He swung his leather chair to face the view over the river. Cummings had risen high. He worked hard. He had talent, patience, and could make ruthless decisions when required. He was a professional problem solver and about to put those skills to work once more.
“What is that bastard up to?” he said, swirling the bourbon in the glass. “Suppose there is a terrorist cell operating in the U.S. planning to kill the President?”
Cummings stood up. He always thought best by talking out loud. “Now if there is a terrorist plot on the life of the President… Trace the repercussions… Item 1: if this cell tries to kill Pierce, even if they miss, almost certainly the U.S. would demand full retaliation. Item 2: If war breaks out, Monument Oil and Gas and its delicate negotiations for oil concessions in the Middle East could be ruined. Shit! We need peace, not war if we are to secure those oil reserves for ourselves. But with that deranged asshole Richards running around…”
He paused by the television, absently tuning it to CNN. He scanned the running ticker tape. Then it came…
“We’re interrupting this portion of Inside Asia with a special late-breaking headline news report from Washington, D.C. Metropolitan police have now confirmed they are looking for a possible suspect in the death late last night of Dr. Martin J. Thomas, retired director of the National Institutes of Health.
The suspect, known by the FBI and CIA as an international assassin was identified by both Dr. Thomas’s personal butler and Senator Mason Stevens, who had had dinner with Dr. Thomas earlier in the evening. According to the butler the suspect was accompanied by a woman whom authorities have identified as Nicole Delacluse, formerly an investigative journalist for the International Herald Tribune. Both Senator Stevens and the butler gave identical descriptions. The two are wanted for questioning and are believed to be somewhere in the greater metropolitan D.C. area.”
A full-face photograph flashed up on the screen. “The male suspect seen here in this CIA photo may be armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.” Todd Cummings leaned forward and stared at the image of the man he’d just had lunch with.
“Matt, you sorry sonofabitch. You’re in a heap of trouble. And it’s time to make that phone call.” He returned to his desk.
Matt jumped at the sound of Nicole’s cell phone chirping inside her purse. “Yes? Oh, Hi Dad. We’re driving back to the Pittsburgh airport. What’s up?” Her face turned ashen. “Okay, we’ll call you from a service area in about an hour. Of course we will be careful.”
Nicole turned to Matt. “Well, we’re famous now. CNN has just shown our photos on Headline News. We’ve been named as possible suspects in the death of Dr. Thomas. And to top it off the CIA has identified you as an international assassin, armed and dangerous. Dad suggests we drive back to Washington instead of fly, ditch the rental car in the suburbs and take the Metro back to his safe house.” They were both deep in thought as the rental car continued down the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
“Maybe it’s time we turned ourselves in, Matt, and told them the truth? Besides, they didn’t alter your fingerprints did they? You can still convince them you’re really Matthew Richards. They’ve got to believe you.”
“Just how long do you think we’ll live if I do that?” Matt replied. He pulled the car into a service area. “There’s another way to do this. Remember Cummings mentioned Anne-Marie Khoury?”
“The artist?”
“That she is. And if anyone knows what all the old gang is doing, she’s the one. Maybe she can shed some light on who might be involved with the terrorists.”
“What’s she like?”
“Well, it’s been a long time. But she was warm, fun loving, sensitive. She was well liked by everyone at AUB. It’s worth a try.” Matt recalled some of the fun they had that year. A fleeting smile crossed his new face, an odd congruence of past and present.
“And if she’s not home?”
“Damn it, Nicole, work with me, please. I haven’t got much hope left.”
“But we can’t just drive all over the country looking up your old Beirut pals. Someone will recognize us.”
Matt nodded. “You’re right. But we’ve got to talk with her, in person. It’s our only chance. Then we’ll get back to Washington, I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her.
“Hold it there, cowboy. Not while I’m driving. Are you hungry?”
“Now that you mention it, I’m starved. I didn’t eat much back there in the executive dining room. I could murder for a Big Mac right now.”
“Okay. I’ll park at the next services area. But you stay in the car. We stand a better change of not being recognized that way. What do you want on your hamburger?”
An hour later they were headed for Massachusetts. Matt gestured for the cell phone. When he heard her voice his mind relaxed. Her soothing hello spanned decades and continents. He kept the conversation brief, just as they had planned. He was Matt’s cousin who found a few things in his effects with her name on them. They agreed to meet at her home in the morning.
Nicole smiled. “Tomorrow, then?”
Matt nodded. “Best bet is to find an out of the way motel where we can spend the night and make the final drive early in the morning.”
“Okay.” Nicole stared ahead at the turnpike.
Matt looked at her. “What is it?”
“I shouldn’t say anything. Just fatigue I guess.”
“We’re partners, remember? And I do care for you, Nicole.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Who, Anne-Marie?”
“No. Todd Cummings talked about Maha. The redhead. He said you were deeply in love. I need to know, Matt, because I care for you too.” She swallowed hard.
Matt looked away. The tires rattled on the center markers as the car changed lanes. Maha. The name brought back memories both painful and exhilarating. He kept his emotions in check. Nicole deserved that.
“My first real love, the only woman I guess I ever loved. It wasn’t just a heady combination of adolescent love and lust but a deep, powerful, and lasting love-or so I thought. But in the years following her death I often wondered if it was her I loved or just the idealized vision of a woman I could never spend a life with.”
And so Matt began telling Nicole about the first and only love of his life. Had it been reality or just a myth built in the sand of his personal loneliness and despair? “She was Jordanian, a third year pharmacy student at AUB.” He went on and on sparing no details, their first meeting on the plane, the ski weekends, the visits to historic sites, the parties, and even their love-making. He was just about to relate events leading up to the restaurant explosion when he stopped in mid-sentence. That’s it. Something at the back of his mind, clearer now since he hadn’t had a drink in several months began to pull at him.
“I’m sorry,” Nicole said quietly, “I didn’t mean to pry into your personal life. Let’s just drop it.”
“No, it’s fine. Wait a minute.” Matt breathed. “I remember now. After the death of her father, she changed. In my lovesick memory she was always the same loving girl, full of life, optimism and sensuality. But she changed. I can see it clearly now. I guess I didn’t want to admit it to myself earlier. The truth is she gradually became more and more cynical.”
“What do you mean?”
“She started making off-the-cuff comments about life in the Middle East, the Palestinian situation, even our relationship. At one point just before the bomb explosion I remember her saying that her future was already chosen. She seemed sad and far away.” Matt fell silent, his mind racing. Finally he murmured something.
“What’s that?” Nicole said.
“I said maybe it is possible-maybe her death was faked, and Bedouina’s too. Maybe it was all part of a long-term plot. But what could make two young girls turn into cold-blooded murderers? And suicide bombers?”
“You really don’t know much about women, do you?” Nicole said. “All women feel alienated from their true selves by the rules and stereotypes that prevail in male-dominated societies. And the alienation is proportional to the degree of repression. Did you know that even today, in Jordan, there’s a law that allows a father to kill his daughter if she is seen walking in the street with a man not approved by the family? And it really happens. Imagine living with absolutely no rights? Like chattel. And yet they watch television programs from other parts of the world showing women in powerful positions, being able to speak their minds. It’s easy to see why most of the women in the Middle East are unsure of themselves and highly susceptible to male pressure.”
“You’re saying young women can easily become suicide bombers?”
“Yes. And the terrorists take full advantage. It’s not difficult to convince a young girl that by giving her life for a noble cause she can gain the respect and adulation normally only accorded to men. She can finally be on an equal footing and her family will gain a measure of stature because of her sacrifice. And if she’s suffered some trauma already, rape by a relative, the death of a loved one, then that sense of hopelessness might make her even more susceptible.”
“Maha’s father was killed at the airport.” Matt turned to look out the window.
“Okay. Then add to that a little incentive. Terrorists usually promise a sizeable monetary reward to the family and bingo, you’ve got a candidate ready and willing to blow herself to bits for Allah.” Nicole shuddered. “Think how many bright Muslim women have been turned into bomb-carrying zombies by these madmen. Just recently a suicide bombing was carried out by a young Palestinian lawyer. An educated woman with much to contribute.”
“Didn’t the Israelis kill her brother earlier?”
Nicole nodded and kept driving.
“Guess that makes both Bedouina and Maha likely candidates?” said Matt, subdued. The magnitude of their suffering and loneliness etched across his face. God I’m tired.
After a few miles of awkward silence his words were faint and hesitant. “Do you think it’s too late for her? Maha, I mean, if she’s still alive?”
Nicole stared at him incredulously. “After all you’ve been through in your life you still ask about a woman you haven’t seen for over thirty years? You must have loved her deeply, Matt. You may not realize this but it’s every woman’s dream to have a man love her forever. You are a very special man, Matthew Richards. Very special indeed.” She stared into the rearview mirror. No one following.
The St. James Club, London
They were together again for the second time in two months, unprecedented for the four businessmen. Yet these were unprecedented times. A light snowfall deadened the sounds of traffic slowly moving up St. James’ Street. The lights from the men’s clothing stores on Jermyn Street were bright against the falling snow.
“The time is rapidly approaching when our planning will bear fruit,” Mohammed al Nagib said. They were seated at a quiet corner table at one end of the dark mahogany paneled dining room. “But we need to accelerate certain parts of our plans, gentlemen.”
“What do you mean, accelerate?” asked the Brazilian, Jorge Molinas. “This is supposed to be an opportunistic timetable not a forced one. We will only have one chance.”
“As agreed. However new developments have taken place which we need to discuss. I’m certain after all the facts are known we will arrive at the best decision.” Nagib slowly lit a Cuban cigar. The meal had been outstanding, the service impeccable, the wine nectar.
“Waiter?” Nagib beckoned. “Tell the head chef I have a complaint.”
“Right away, Mr. Nagib.” The tall Swiss-German girl looked worried as she hurried away.
Within moments, Claude Villiers in his spotless white culinary jacket and floral bow tie strode up to the table. “Don’t tell me. My wife always complains that I overcook the beans,” he said, bowing.
“Oh, no. The meal was fabulous as usual. I won’t live long enough to wait for you to make a mistake in the kitchen, my old friend. But I am disappointed with the champagne. Last time I was here you gave me the name of the makers, Daniel and Gerald Fallet, two brothers outside Drachy, as I recall. Well, my personal assistant rang them up and ordered five hundred cases. They told him no. They said they have a limited number of private clients who have been with them for generations and since they only produce a small number of bottles a year they aren’t taking any new clients.
“Can you imagine that? I even offered to buy the entire production at a premium price. They still said no.” Nagib gave the tall slim chef a quizzical look. “Is this your sly handiwork? Making us come to your club in order to sample this outstanding bubbly?”
“I wish it were true,” Villiers said, sighing histrionically. “However, I am allowed very little myself and it is reserved for my favorite guests. Shall I bring you another bottle, then?” He bowed and backed away, then stopped briefly at a nearby table to greet the other guests.
Once they were alone Achilles Antonopolis spoke. “Please enlighten us about this little situation.”
“It seems that someone well connected with the intelligence community in the U.S. believes that a deep-cover cell is in place in the United States. They’re attempting to uncover it.” He looked at each of them.
“But how could anyone know about our plan? You don’t suspect a leak in our group, do you?” The Swiss banker looked at the others suspiciously.
“I do not know,” Nagib flicked white ash from the Cuban cigar. “But what I do know is that somehow they’ve gotten hold of a list of American students attending the American University of Beirut during 1968-69 and they believe one or more of them may be involved. In fact they seem to be using one of the former students to search out the others.”
The Greek shipping magnate began to perspire. “And their objective?”
“If it were me,” said Herr Hofer, “I wouldn’t want to eliminate the cell. I’d want to control it. For example, depending upon the potential benefits I would either expose it and reap the rewards or help it finish its job and reap a different set of rewards. Or maybe even use it for my own political and financial purposes.” He sat back, polishing Dickensian tiny spectacles. “Interesting situation we have here, very interesting.”
“That’s why you’ve been such a good partner all these years, Helmut,” Nagib smiled. “You think of all the ways to profit from any situation.”
“What have you done about this so far?” quizzed the Brazilian.
“So far our associate in one of the major U.S. intelligence agencies has assisted in thwarting their efforts. But it’s only a matter of time. My suggestion is that we accelerate our plan and in the next week or so find the best opportunity available to put our asset into action. In the meantime if we can eliminate or contain the individual they’re using as a ferret it would be helpful.”
The Swiss banker frowned. “But will this acceleration negatively impact our profits?”
“Perhaps, Helmut, perhaps. But only by a few million. Minor compared to the billions we stand to gain when America goes to war against the entire Muslim world. After all we supply a great deal of the chemicals, arms, equipment, and also make the loans to finance those poor Middle Eastern nations being attacked. We can settle for being fortunate, we don’t have to be greedy.” With that the Egyptian-American raised his flute of bubbling Fallet-Dart Millesime in a toast. He said no more. At this point the less the others knew about his ultimate plans the better.
At 11:30 pm the dining party left the dining table and took the elevator up to the casino. Waiters quickly cleared the table. A few minutes later a small recording device, previously concealed beneath al Nagib’s table was slipped into a cashmere overcoat as it was being opened for its owner. The distinguished gentleman buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, and slipped a small wad of bills into the hand of the cloakroom manager.
“My best to your family, Angelo.”
“And a very good evening to you, Mr. van Ness.”