Concord, Massachusetts
“That’s her house.” Nicole pointed out a white Cape Cod standing alone at the end of a long lane overlooking the frozen pond. The two-story home was surrounded by pine trees. Several other houses fringed the lake.
Elijah had filled them in on Anne-Marie Khoury’s background after surfing the Internet and talking with private sources late into the night. “It’s definitely an artist’s life,” he told them as they listened on the phone in a motel room not far from Concord.
“After returning from Beirut she finished her senior year at Boston College as an art major and married a medical student. He became a renowned medical researcher but eight years ago died of leukemia. Childless and widowed she threw herself into art and established a reputation for watercolors. It seems she travels extensively, using bleak landscapes around the globe as a backdrop for her paintings. There are a few posted on her personal website.”
“Anything that could connect her to the terrorists?” Matt felt tired and frustrated.
“I’m getting there. A good agent gathers every scrap of detail no matter how trivial. It may save your life one day.”
“Sorry.”
Elijah continued his story. “Anyway most of her paintings are exhibited at a posh gallery in Boston and she donates a great deal from the sale of her paintings to a charity for orphaned Palestinian children.” His words quickened. “And get this. She’s also on the board of advisors of the Halaby Foundation, established in the early 1980s by a wealthy Lebanese businessman and his wife. It provides scholarships for Middle Eastern students to study in the United States and Canada. Interestingly, Dr. Noubar Melikian serves on the foundation’s board of directors. And so does a shady Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib.”
Matt knocked on the door and waited. What would Anne-Marie look like? What would he see from behind his new face? A widow shorn of companionship without children, she would pour herself into her art, of that he was certain. Had she lost herself in her world of pigment just as he had lost himself in scotch? Or would she be the same fun-loving girl he remembered?
When the door opened Matt strove to keep his new face friendly and anonymous. She was just as he remembered. Long black hair now streaked with grey. A fuller face, but the eyes still twinkled.
“You must be Matt’s cousin. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Ms. Khoury. This is my wife Veronica. Please call me Tom.” They followed her into the warm and comfortable home.
“I hope you like herbal tea? Fennel actually. It’s all I have on hand.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Her pleasant voice echoed through the large rooms. “Please sit down. I’ll be right out with the tea. It’s been a busy morning already. The people from the gas company were here earlier checking the meter in the basement. They left about an hour ago. Usually I don’t get many visitors, but that’s the way I like it.”
Soon the tea was being poured. “Since your call yesterday,” Anne-Marie said, “I’ve found myself thinking a lot about Matt. We had such great times together that year with our small circle of friends. It was a magical time for all of us. Not without its heartbreaks, I might add, but still a pivotal time in my life. It was during that year I decided to dedicate my life to painting and to helping Palestinian orphans. I’ve been doing it ever since.” She took a long, slow sip from the pungent herbal tea. “And we had some pretty crazy times as well.” Her eyes sparkled over the cup as she looked at Matt.
“Like the time you wrapped our heads in toilet paper to make us look as if we were wearing turbans?” Matt smiled.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Anne-Marie. It’s me, Matt.”
She stood up, her face contorted with confusion and anger. “Get out. Now!”
“Please listen to him, Ms. Khoury. I beg you,” Nicole said.
“Actually, I’m getting used to this reaction,” Matt said, still smiling. “After you show people your new face and tell them who you are you develop a pretty thick skin. So I’ll say it one more time. I’m Matt Richards. And I really like that painting over there, the seascape with the rich violet tint. It’s where we used to gather after class, isn’t it. You captured the mood and light really well.”
Anne-Marie sat down. Paint smears decorated her smock.
“Are you all right?” Nicole asked, putting her hand on Anne-Marie’s shoulder.
“She’s all right,” Matt said. “She’s already using that artistic eye on my face. The scars are hidden under the hairline, Anne-Marie. What do you think? Am I still a handsome stud?”
A tentative smile bent her mouth upwards. “Whoever said you were good looking?”
Matt laughed and sat next to her. They hugged. Her cheek was salty as he kissed her.
Her hand came up to her cheek. “That was very strange…” She recovered. “I really missed you all these years, Matt. Every time I spoke with Todd he was always running you down. But we had such fun. You were so alive then.” She leaned back and examined his face. “What has happened to you?”
“Look, Anne-Marie. I’m in big trouble and I need your help. People are trying to kill me and they appear to be going after some of our AUB friends as well. Did you know Dr. Thomas died two nights ago?”
She collapsed into her chair, stunned, as he explained the possible connection between that death, Brian Walker’s, and his own kidnapping.
“Mia, do you remember that night we went to the Maronite monastery near Basharri on our way back from skiing? My diary puts it in February.”
“How could I forget?” she replied. “All those murals on the ceiling and the whole thing carved out of the cliff…”
“We were smoking hash and I must have passed out because I don’t remember much. What do you recall about that night?”
“I remember you coughed a lot, and then drank quite a few beers.” Her smile faded as she probed into the past. “You’re right. We did get pretty stoned, thanks to Demetrie and his ever present hash block. Let me think now… No doubt we talked about politics in the Middle East, we always did. That might have been the night… Come to think of it, yes, it was. That was the night we made a pact to try and stop the madness. Brian swore he would become a famous lawyer and defend oppressed people’s rights. And he did. Poor Brian, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
She squeezed Matt’s hand then pointed across the room to a tiny alcove. “I painted the Maronite Monastery. I had to. It was such a pivotal place in my life, a holy place that inspired me beyond words. But I’m not happy with the painting. I could never get the real feel of the place.” She gave a lopsided smile. “Anyway I promised that night I would raise money for Palestinian orphans. Karl
Mitchell and T.J…”
Matt jumped. “They were there? I don’t remember them going skiing with us.”
“They arrived at the monastery later. I guess it was after you passed out.” She stared at the teapot.
“Did some other people show up, two Arab men maybe?”
“Yeah, those two were weird.”
Just then the phone rang. Anne-Marie went into the kitchen to answer it. She called back. “I have to take this call. It’s the gallery in Boston. Won’t be too long. Why don’t you go out and take a look at the lake? It’s beautiful this time of year.”
Matt and Nicole put on their overcoats and strolled down the neat gravel path to the frozen lake. A flat gray light hit the surface, accenting the frozen, rippled texture. Cold air swept off the lake in gusts. Matt pulled his collar up. “Perfect place to inspire a painter,” he said. Nicole pressed close.
They trod the worn planks of the wooden dock, soaking up the peaceful surroundings after days of fear. Canadian geese honked overhead. Matt smelled smoke from a nearby cottage. “Someone is enjoying a leisurely morning by a warm fire.
A massive explosion turned the grey light into an orange hell. Splinters of wood and debris flew past them as if expelled from a cannon. The shock wave threw them from the dock onto the frozen lake. Matt landed on his hands. Screaming in pain he grabbed his wrist and twisted onto his back. The house was a wall of flames and billowing smoke. Burning shingles rained down on all sides, sizzling as they hit the lake ice. Samir Hussein’s blazing body seared through his mind. “Not again,” Matt groaned, but this time he forcefully pushed the paralyzing image away. “Nicole! Nicole!” He grabbed at her.
“Get down! Crawl along the edge of the lake,” he yelled in her ear. “They might still be watching. Keep hidden beneath the weeds along the bank. We need them to think we were inside.”
They dragged themselves toward the weedy bank. From there they rose into a half-crouch and skirted the lake until they reached a neighbor’s boat dock, 200 yards away.
Matt stopped. “I’ve got to go back.” He was turning around when Nicole gripped his arm.
“Don’t play the hero now, Matt. I need you alive, with me.”
“But I’m a doctor, I’ve got to try and-”
“You’re a doctor, not a miracle worker. She’s dead.” Nicole held him close, her body absorbing his pain. In a few moments he stopped shaking.
Sirens blared across the small community of Concord. “The volunteer firemen are responding,” said Matt. “They’ll be here soon. We’ve got to get away.”
They sprinted a short distance to the dock, scrambled through the reeds and up onto a snow covered lawn. In seconds they stood panting alongside a wooden garage.
“What is it?” Nicole asked, feeling Matt jerk as if struck by an electric shock.
“A phony gas company serviceman must have rigged the house. The timer was probably detonated remotely. They must have been watching the house.” Matt slid down onto the cold ground. “To top it all off I left my journal on the coffee table.”
“Not quite,” said Nicole. “Call it habit or reporter’s instinct, but I always carry important papers with me, even when I go to the bathroom. I crammed your journal inside my bag just before we stepped outside,” she pulled it out and held it up.
“Thank God!” he said. “Now what?”
“Let’s see what’s inside this garage. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
Matt broke a small window with his elbow, reached in and opened the door. A shiny 1956 Packard caught the light.
“Matt, I can hotwire this antique. You’ll have to decide where we go.” In less than a minute she found a screwdriver, pried open the steering column and was arching two wires together. The motor purred to life and the gas gauge showed half full. She looked at Matt, some of the strain leaving her face.
The wail of the fire engines grew louder. “You are definitely your father’s daughter,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s pay a visit to Dr. Karl Mitchell. He’s all we’ve got. Our research had him pinpointed as a retired professor of geology at the University of Rhode Island. That’s on the way back to Washington. When we get clear of here call your father and ask him to track down Karl’s most recent address and phone number.”
The old Packard lumbered from the garage. The sirens were closer now. They watched the mirrors and checked the road ahead. No one seemed interested.
Rock Creek Parkway, Washington, D.C.
The usual joggers were out in the late afternoon braving the cold and wind of Washington’s Rock Creek Parkway, intent on getting their exercise fix for the day. “Running is one of the few positive addictions,” said the slim doctor, slightly winded as she approached her halfway mark and the endorphins began to kick in. Every day Dr. Margaret Khalid took a 5 mile run in the mid-afternoon and then went back to work, usually until late evening. It was a good thing her apartment was only a few blocks away from the office; daily runs helped keep her sanity.
As she ran along the asphalt path that wound through the canyon a lean male runner in blue leggings and a dark hooded jersey slowly overtook her.
“Just keep your natural pace,” he said. His breathing was easy and relaxed. “We’re moving the timetable forward. You must be ready to act within the next seven days. Go to an Internet cafe every morning for the next week. Log into www.beirut69.com and sign on as ‘asset1’. We’ll send you instructions about the exact date.” He sprinted away opening a large gap between them, then took one of the many uphill trails to the main streets lining both sides of the narrow canyon. In less than a minute he had vanished.
Maggie Khalid finished her run, added another tube of black rinse to her hair while showering, cleaned and reinserted her brown-tinted contact lenses, and was back in Dr. Melikian’s office in less than an hour.
Kingston, Rhode Island
“I’m looking for Dr. Karl Mitchell.” A thin, attractive man answered the door of a two-story home on a street next to the University of Rhode Island campus. Matt recognized the man right away, Theodore Janus. But everyone always called him T. J.
“Are you the person who called about Matt Richards, his cousin?”
“Yes, I’m Thomas Black, and this is my wife Veronica. It’s good of Dr. Mitchell to see us on such short notice.”
“I’ll tell Karl you’re here. Come in. You’re in luck. He’s having one of his better days.” T. J. led the way through a living room adorned with white rugs and marble statues. It had the look of a boudoir. Matt glanced at Nicole, raising his eyebrows. They emerged onto a south-facing sun porch where a fragile-looking man with a ponytail was sitting up in a hospital bed, reading Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time.
“This is the man who phoned yesterday, Matt’s cousin,” said T. J., arranging a blanket over Karl’s feet. “Keep your feet covered or you’ll get pneumonia again.”
Dr. Mitchell studied his guests over the rims of his bifocals. “I’ve been reading Hawking’s book. Funny thing about time. There are moments when it seems as if the past and the present are the same, only separated by the blink of an eye. Like now, wouldn’t you say, Matt?”
“No, Karl,” T. J. sighed, “he’s Matt’s cousin, not-”
“Karl knows what he’s talking about, T. J.,” Matt said. Still sharp as a tack.
“Who did the work, Matt?”
“Wish I knew. I was kidnapped and the surgery performed against my will.”
“Your face has been on the news. Every hour.”
“Just what I need.” Matt waited as T.J. stepped closer.
“Jesus. How does that feel? Does it hurt?”
Matt smiled. “Actually, it itches more than it hurts.”
“How can I help you, Matt?” Karl Mitchell closed the book and tossed it on the floor.
“I’m in big trouble, Karl. The people who did this to me are now trying to kill me. I escaped from the hospital and for the past several days I’ve been running for my life. And I don’t know why.”
“And you come here?”
“Because I think there’s a link to that night in the monastery, near Basharri.”
“Basharri. That was quite a night.”
“Someone was there, Karl, someone from outside our AUB group. Do you remember who?” Matt moved closer to the elevated hospital bed.
“How much do you know about AIDS, Dr. Richards? Not what it says in the medical books. The real life and death of it? The pain, the hopelessness, the guilt… Herpes is something you live with. AIDs is something you die with. And more often than not something you give to others, even your loved ones.” He reached out for T. J.’s thin hand.
“I just have to look at you, Karl, and then look at T.J. It maybe about suffering and death, but it’s also about love and partnership.”
T.J. looked at Matt. “We had to get out of Beirut. Gays were not very well accepted in the Middle East, even now but especially back in the late 60’s.”
“As I look back over my life I realize I was terminally irresponsible,” the scientist went on, his mind drifting a little. “At least you have a chance to make up for your mistakes. I don’t have the time or energy to even try. I’ll die soon knowing I could have prevented this and didn’t. Brains I had, but wisdom?” He coughed again. This time bright red blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth.
“The fact is, Dr. Mitchell, none of us has much time,” Nicole said. “This goes as high up as the President of the United States.”
“Ah, yes. The suicide bomber. Bedouina.”
“So it was her?”
“Of course. So she didn’t die in the explosion? And Maha?”
“I wish I knew.”
Karl Mitchell looked over at Nicole. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally found someone who loves you, Matt. As I grow older I realize what a true blessing love is. Let’s see…Basharri.” He closed his eyes. “Everyone was stoned when T. J. and I arrived, but it didn’t take us long to get into the groove. Demetrie certainly had the best hash.”
“Why did you show up in the first place?” Matt pressed. “It seemed to me like a spontaneous decision for us to stop in Basharri that night and visit the monastery.”
“We were invited by Demetrie,” T. J. said. “He’d met a man who was trying to organize a group to help the Palestinians. It sounded interesting so we drove up that afternoon and arrived a little after you guys. The others drifted in later.”
“What others?” asked Matt looking from T. J. to Karl.
“An Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib. And another Arab wrapped in a red keffiyeh who didn’t speak and barely showed his face. I’ve forgotten his name.”
“Yassar?” Matt said.
“That may have been it. Anyway, Nagib spoke that evening about a special organization he was helping. Its mission was to take a stand for the Palestinians and their right of statehood. As I recall the more influential and wealthy Arab countries were not very supportive of the Palestinian cause, still aren’t. But the Israelis were growing in strength and presented a threat to the traditional way of life in the Middle East. He painted a graphic picture of the refugee camps, the suffering of women and children, the torture and humiliation of Palestinian men at the hands of Zionist aggressors. He even read some poems written by refugee children from the Chatilla camp. The longer he went on the more interested everyone seemed-unless I’m mistaking being stoned for interested.”
Matt glanced at Nicole. “What happened after that?”
“I don’t know if anyone ever joined his fledgling organization. I never saw him again and no one in the group ever spoke about it to me…”
T. J. signaled that Karl was growing sleepy. It was time to leave.
“Just one more question, Karl,” Matt said. “Has anyone else from the old AUB days been in touch with you recently?”
Karl Mitchell lay still. Matt glanced back at Nicole. As the silence lengthened they moved out of the sunroom toward the front door.
Matt gave T. J. a hug then reached out for the door. Karl’s reedy voice echoed into the hallway. “Just one person… Todd Cummings. He called, yesterday, and wanted to know what I remembered about that night in Basharri. He also asked if I’d spoken to William Fisher recently. Will was at the monastery that night as well. In fact it was Will who organized the entire meeting, not Demetrie.” Dr. Mitchell paused, trying to rally his limited strength. “Be careful, Matt. You deserve a second chance to make things right.”
CNN Headline News
The CNN anchorman, seated in front of a large bank of monitors, spoke quickly. “Sometime within the next week President Roswell Pierce will be making a major policy speech. According to a recent announcement from the White House press secretary President Pierce has been working on a US response to the escalating violence in the Middle East. When asked by reporters why this official response has been so long in coming Press Secretary Sheila Morgan replied that President Pierce would not be goaded into rash action by threats or acts of terrorism. His response would be well thought out, prudent, and comprehensive.
“CNN will keep you informed as soon as we know the date and time of this important policy statement by the President.”
Washington, D.C.
“I certainly am glad to see the two of you,” Elijah paced in front of the sofa where Matt and Nicole rested in the small living room of his hideaway apartment. “What did you do with the car you stole in Concord?”
“We parked it in a long-term lot at BWI Airport, wiped off our fingerprints and then took the train back into town,” replied Nicole. “What a great old car, that Packard. We parked it out of the way. I hope no one will damage it. Maybe after this thing is all over we’ll drive it back to its rightful owner.”
“Our lives may be over if we don’t figure out what the hell is going on,” Matt said, tired and frustrated. “Anne-Marie and Dr. Thomas are dead and it’s my fault.”
Eli poured himself another two fingers of Glenrothes. “We need to think this through. Look at things from a fresh perspective.”
“Dad, what did you find out about Mohammed al Nagib and William Fisher?”
“Quite a bit,” Eli said. “William Fisher’s had a very unusual career. I still can’t figure out how he wound up as one of the top dogs at the National Security Agency. His first assignment was as an embassy attache posted in Beirut, where he stayed until 1982, the year his wife was killed.”
“What?” said Matt, coming out of his depression. “How did she die?”
“She was killed in one of the Palestinian refugee camps in southern Lebanon during an Israeli raid. She was a volunteer nurse. Every so often the Israeli commandos would sneak into southern Lebanon, either across the border or come in from the sea, looking for Arab terrorists hiding out in the camps. She was shot in the back by an Israeli colonel who was leading the raid. Word among the intelligence community is Fisher took it pretty hard and became a recluse. Then about a year later he landed a plum job at the National Security Agency and steadily rose through the ranks.”
“”What exactly is the NSA?” Nicole asked.
“It’s the communications and research arm of the U.S. intelligence network. Originally, the National Security Agency staff were the code breakers but now they’re also experts on terrorism and clandestine communications used by hostile foreign governments and political groups. Fisher was recently promoted to director of Middle Eastern affairs for the NSA and is a standing member of President Pierce’s Special Task Force on Terrorism. He never remarried and is known to be dedicated, hard working, intelligent, and highly opinionated.”
“Sounds like the same jerk I met in Beirut thirty years ago,” replied Matt. “But why did he arrange that meeting at the monastery? And how did he know the Egyptian, Mohammad al Nagib?”
Eli savored his scotch, ignoring the look on his daughter’s face. “You don’t have time to read all there is about Mohammed al Nagib. Not only is he fabulously wealthy, he also shows up at high-society functions up and down the East Coast and in Europe. He has homes in London, Zurich, Athens, Rio de Janeiro, Bermuda and Cairo, plus a large estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains where he often entertains dignitaries from other countries. And he’s a big contributor to both the Republican and Democratic parties.”
“Sounds like a real slime ball,” Nicole said sourly.
“That and more. Al Nagib immigrated to the United States in the early 1970s from Egypt and somehow bought his way into the computer business. He’s now chairman of one of the biggest technology and software conglomerates in the United States. It’s based just outside Washington, near Dulles Airport, where a large number of defense and military technology companies are headquartered. He’s regularly seen in the company of a wealthy Greek shipping magnate.”
“Don’t tell me,” Matt said. “His last name is Antonopolis, right?”
“How did you know that?” Eli said, raising his eyebrows.
“One of the regulars in our AUB group was Demetrie Antonopolis, playboy son of some Greek industrialist. Demetrie’s father must be mixed up in all this and probably Demetrie as well. Anything known about al Nagib’s early days?”
“Absolutely nothing is known about him before he arrived in the United States. The record is a blank,” said Eli.
How convenient. “So,” Matt mused, “he shows up in Beirut in early 1969 trying to organize a radical group and then one year later winds up in the United States. You say he immigrated. He’s an American citizen?”
Eli nodded. “Quite the patriot. Well known and admired for throwing elaborate Fourth of July parties and lavishing thousands of dollars on fireworks.”
“Cut to the chase, Dad,” said Nicole. “What’s the unofficial word on this bastard?”
“Well, it’s never been proven but he’s suspected of being an international arms dealer and global financier. Some people believe he’s been responsible for putting people into key positions of power. Like a few heads of state, African dictators, and even some elected officials in Europe and the United States. And then when it suits him financially, he helps remove them. Think of all the recent leadership changes in the Congo and other African countries. At any rate he earns his money during times of war, not peace. And his close business ties to a Brazilian mining industrialist named Jorge Molinas are suspect. Molinas financially supports Hezbollah terrorist camps in the tri-border region of Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil.”
Matt drummed his fingers on the table, something tugging at his thoughts. A name, a face, a fact. What is it?
“I’ve made a fresh pot of tea,” said Nicole reaching across the table to pour the piping hot herbal tea into Matt’s mug. Opening his eyes he stared at the diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist. He’d never really paid much attention to it before. It glimmered in the overhead lights of the kitchen.
“I’ve got it! Your bracelet- it just reminded me of the wrist band. It was there all along in the back of my mind.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Matt?” Nicole exclaimed. She looked at her bracelet, trying to read its secrets.
“When I was escaping from the hospital I ducked into a dark room to avoid one of the guards. I was still a little groggy but there was a young woman lying in a hospital bed. I looked at her face but didn’t recognize her. She had scars like mine, another face transplant. She must have been having a bad dream because her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I remember her saying something like, ‘No, Daddy, No.’ When I put her hand back on the bed I noticed the hospital tag around her wrist. It caught the light from the ceiling. There was no name. Only a blood type, A-negative, and two small letters. I didn’t register those letters at the time but now I can see them clear as day: K. S. Kelly Stevens.”
Eli’s face clouded. “If the press reported both of you dead,” he said slowly, “it suggests that Senator Mason Stevens is somehow involved.”
Matt sipped his piping hot tea. “What if he helped fake the accident in order to get his wayward daughter cleaned up, off of drugs, and out of sight? The last thing a powerful senator needs is a drug addict daughter. Maybe that’s why he insisted Kelly come to the reception for Dr. Melikian. He arranged the whole thing.”
“What?” asked Nicole.
“Didn’t Dr. Thomas say it was the Israelis who were the most advanced in facial transplant procedures?”
Nicole’s face went white. “You don’t think Senator Stevens is working with the Mossad, do you?”
“Whoa, young lady, you’ve been watching too many James Bond movies,” said Eli, pouring another two fingers of Scotch. “First of all foreign intelligence agencies aren’t allowed to operate inside the United States, period. And second it would be a treasonable offense, not to mention political suicide, for an elected official to be involved with any foreign government operating clandestinely on American soil.”
“Are you saying this kind of thing doesn’t happen?”
“It can happen, but certainly not with the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He’s cleaner than clean.”
“My father had a sophisticated medical term for situations like this,” Matt said. “Bullshit. Here’s how I see it, farfetched as it may sound. The Israelis promise Stevens that his wayward daughter will get rehabilitated, a new face and a faraway job. And they probably give him a pile of cash to deposit in some Swiss bank account. All he has to do is help them get hold of me to use as their ferret and make it look like an accident. With all his intelligence contacts that should be pretty easy to arrange. So far so good. However the Mossad now have him perfectly positioned for blackmail so he probably reports to them everything that goes on in the President’s Special Advisory Council on Terrorism.” Matt faced them, his excitement mounting. “Somehow the Israelis know a terrorist cell exists right here in Washington. And if they can find it they might be able to control it. Even use it to their benefit. ”
“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.