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 overpowered 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.
“Thank you. Tell Dr. Melikian I’ll be over within the hour.”
His next call was to the American Airlines reservation desk. In a few minutes he had a booking under the name of Brian Scott, the name on the passport he’d pocketed back at Eli’s. At least they had the same face. The flight for Nassau left at noon from Dulles Airport. Plenty of time.
For the past several days Matthew Richards had been pondering the situation he found himself in. Presumed dead, wearing the face of an international contract killer, wanted by the police and who knows else, it was only a matter of time before a sniper or a police officer put a bullet through his head. When Nicole found the bank book and the key it struck him as a golden opportunity to go into hiding before he was killed. All he had to do was catch a plane to Nassau, use the passport that matched the name on the bank book, transfer the money, fly to Argentina and buy a small ranch. Maybe in Tierra del Fuego, far enough away where nobody would care who he was. After all, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid fled to Argentina and lived quite happily for several years. Until they got restless and returned to the business of robbing banks and trains. Now that Nicole was dead his noble thoughts of saving the President and preventing world war three were a cruel joke.
Matt walked over to a corner kiosk and ordered a hot coffee and an almond croissant. Sacraments for sound decision making.
The White House Situation Room
“They’re coming around, sir,” said one of the Secret Service agents. The President strode through the door of the basement bunker. The Director of the CIA, Dr. Terry Finch, stood up.
“Any sign of the other one?” President Pierce walked over to a sofa where Elijah and Nicole were sprawled. A female agent handed him a cup of coffee.
“Not yet Mr. President, but it shouldn’t be long now. And these two should be able to give us some idea where he might be hiding. Tajikian will tell us what we need to know.” Finch cleared his throat. “He was a loyal employee of the Agency for quite a few years.”
“Could you be any more naive?” President Pierce asked acidly. He took another long sip from his coffee mug.
Elijah Tajikian sat up, moved his head from side to side and slowly looked around. He glanced over at his daughter, also slowly coming out of her drug-induced stupor. “I always wondered what the aftertaste was from those knock-out pellets. Now I know. Like a mouthful of horse shit.” He noticed the President of the United States towering over him. “Slumming, Mr. President?”
Karl van Ness whispered in President Pierce’s ear.
“The rest of you are excused.” No one in the room mistook the President’s remark as a suggestion. “Dr. Finch! One of the marine guards will escort you to a waiting room upstairs. I’ll need to speak with you as soon as I’m finished here. And no telephone calls. Period.”
Once the CIA director and the rest of the entourage had left the room, Ross Pierce pulled up a chair and sat down facing the sofa. Elijah and Nicole were now fully conscious.
“How are you, Ms. Delacluse?”
She stared blankly at the President, her eyes still drooping.
“She’ll be okay in a few minutes, Mr. President,” Elijah said. “Right now she thinks she’s hallucinating.”
“Nicole?”
“I’m here. Just give me a minute. Two and two keeps coming up thirteen.”
Pierce smiled at the former CIA case officer. “Karl says you were a good agent. And so does Finch.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President. Finch is an analyst and a bona fide asshole. He couldn’t care less if men and women of courage put their lives on the line every day for the safety and security of this great country. All he cares about is balancing his budget and getting more appropriations from Congress for research and technology. Electronic espionage, what a crock-”
“Thank you, Mr. Tajikian. You’re apparently coming around faster than your daughter.” The President focused on Nicole. “With us now, Ms. Delacluse?”
“Yes, Mr. President. As a reporter I’m used to the unexpected. But I’m not prepared for this. What happened?”
“Well, first of all, let me apologize for kidnapping you and your father. It’s not how we normally do things, entering private homes under force and…” He cast about for words. “Look. I need your help. America needs your help. Shit, the entire goddamned world needs your help.”
Nicole looked at her father.
“What can we do?” Elijah said.
“I want you to tell me in as much detail as you can what the hell is going on. I had a visit recently from a Mr. Todd Cummings. I think you know him, Ms. Delacluse? He convinced me that I’m in grave danger and a Middle East war could break out soon. We don’t have much time and I’m prepared to move quickly if I need to.”
“What about my daughter’s safety?”
“As far as I can tell neither of you have done anything wrong though your daughter is wanted for questioning in the death of Dr. Martin Thomas. I’ll see to it that she’s exonerated if you give me the information I need,” the President said. “If she’s innocent, of course.” Pierce smiled. “No pressure. Now why don’t you let your daughter start at the beginning and tell me everything that might be important. I’m having this conversation recorded, we might need it. Right now I’m most interested in what you know, Ms. Delacluse. Tell me about Dr. Matthew Richards and this deep cover terrorist cell. And where the heck is he, anyway?”
“You mean he wasn’t captured too?”
“If he was I wouldn’t have bothered with you, now would I?”
Elijah interrupted. “He must have escaped out the bathroom window. He was headed that way before your goons broke down our door.”
“I apologize for the theatrics,” Pierce said. “Everything will be repaired. It was the only way I could get you here without anyone knowing. Especially those who might be involved. Now that’s the last apology you’re going to get from me. Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or am I going to have to do this the hard way?”
Eli motioned for his daughter to sit down. He had been in similar situations in his career and it was best to acknowledge reality. “OK, let’s get down to business.” Elijah looked up at van Ness.
“I assume you two know each other,” said President Pierce. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I would very much like to hear what is going on in my country.”
For the next forty-five minutes Eli and Nicole told President Pierce, Karl van Ness, and the invisible tape machine everything they knew about Matt Richards. They documented what had transpired and how it might be connected to the fate of the Middle East.
President Roswell Clayton Pierce stared into the sudden quiet. “I could use a drink.”
“If you’ve got any scotch, Mr. President, make mine a triple,” Elijah said
Van Ness spoke quietly into the telephone.
“You say Dr. Matt Richards had a face transplant, against his will, and now has the identity of an international contract assassin?”
“As implausible as it may sound, yes.”
“And you believe Senator Stevens’ daughter is alive, also with a face transplant, and may still be in that clinic in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“That’s right.”
The President gestured to Karl van Ness. “Have someone research face transplants and their threat to national security.”
Van Ness nodded and went back to his phone conversation.
“You do realize how well connected and important Mr. Mohammed al Nagib is? These are pretty serious accusations against such a prominent American citizen.”
“He’s a fucking slime ball-oops, that’s a technical term, Mr. President,” Nicole said.
“I’ve used the term myself, Ms. Delacluse and under current conditions it is quite apt,” laughed the President. “Would you stake your journalistic career on all you’ve just told me?”
“Frankly sir, right now I don’t have a career to protect. But, yes, I believe what we have told you is the truth.”
The drinks arrived. President Pierce watched Elijah gulp down his scotch, hug his daughter, then face him. “Great Scotch, Mr. President.”
“No slumming here, Mr. Tajikian.”
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
Two marine helicopters descended onto the gravel driveway of the Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic. Twelve armed secret service agents quickly entered the building while others rounded up the guards at the front gate near the highway. The telephone lines were disabled and the executive staff secured in the private wing of the hospital. Dr. Weissman, his white hair whipped by the whirling rotors of the lead helicopter, escorted his patient, strapped to a folding hospital bed, into the chopper. It took off and headed directly for the south lawn of the White House.
An urgent message was sent to the office of Senator Mason T. Stevens, summoning him to the Oval Office for a private meeting with the President. The subject was national security and he was to appear promptly at 1:30 pm.
The White House
When President Pierce entered the small ante room down the hall from the Oval Office, CIA director Finch quickly stood. “Look Ross, I don’t know what you think you’re doing holding me here like this, but…”
“Sit down and shut up, Terry,” Pierce said. “We’ve got a major situation here and I need your full cooperation. If you give me that you just might keep your job. But if I find out that you had anything to do with this mess I guarantee I will personally hang you by the balls, if you have any, from the Capitol Rotunda.”
Finch blanched and quickly sat down.
“Do you remember that remark you made the other day in our meeting on terrorism?” the President said. “The one about an effective way to deter future suicide bombers?”
“You mean by eliminating their immediate families as a future disincentive?”
“Can that be done on the families of the last four or five major suicide bombers? And quickly? I know this is highly irregular and I’m not even going to think about what Congress might say but I’m asking your opinion and I want a straight answer. No theory, just yes or no.”
Dr. Finch nodded, his color coming back. “It can be done, Mr. President, and in such a way that we aren’t even involved. The names and locations of the close families of the recent suicide bombers are known by most intelligence services. In particular Israel, Australia, and of course the United States. And there are highly qualified independent contractors who are not traceable to us.”
Pierce’s eyes turned cold. “You’ll report directly to me and tell no one else about this. I’ll be calling a meeting of my Special Advisory Council on Terrorism at 7 A.M., three days from now in my office. If you can’t get this operation accomplished before then, tell me now.”
“It can and will be done, Mr. President.”
“All right. This is your opportunity to put in place one of the major planks in a platform that will bring about a lasting peace in the Middle East. It could also end organized global terrorism.” Pierce felt as if he was back in his A6 Intruder responding smoothly while everything was happening at once. “Oh, and I want the nations sponsoring those terrorist scum and the terrorist leaders themselves to clearly understand that the U.S. will no longer tolerate suicide bombings. There will be swift reprisals against the families of the terrorists. This will be the standard response from now on. Now get the message out and put some teeth into it.”
Finch stood up. Pierce noted the perspiration on his upper lip. A bean counter Tajikian had said.
“Dr. Finch. You will personally make all necessary calls to the various people involved and you will assure them the CIA will guarantee the funding for the contracts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when this is all over you and I will sit down and discuss your future, assuming either of us still have one left by then.”
The Medical Office of Dr. Noubar Melikian
“Dr. Melikian will see you now, Mr. Summers. His office is the first door on the left.” Irene Leonard, the receptionist, pointed down the hall of the renovated townhouse.
“Thank you.” Matt walked down the hall and paused in front of a white wooden door. He was sweating as he knocked lightly just below the brass nameplate.
“Please come in.”
A thick red and blue Persian carpet covered the floor. A built-in bookcase covered one entire wall, loaded with reference books. The medicinal smell and the comfortable feeling in the room transported Matt to his father’s office in their home. As a boy he would often push open the heavy door and sit in his father’s worn leather chair, pretending he was a famous surgeon. Matt had wasted his whole life pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Now he was at it again. This time with a false face. What about Dr. Melikian-was he a pretender, too?
A white-coated physician came around from behind the cluttered desk with his hand extended.
“Thank you for taking a few moments out of your busy schedule, Dr. Melikian,” Matt said, shaking his hand. “I’m Dr. Bill Summers. I work for an international medical organization called Esperanca.”
“Ah, yes, the organization founded by that Franciscan friar. Father Luke Tupper, wasn’t it? Don’t you operate a hospital boat on the Amazon?”
“Actually, two hospital boats. We also provide primary and secondary medical care to impoverished people in the forests of Bolivia, Belize and several African nations. We also provide nurse and health worker training in developing countries. But I doubt if we’re as busy as you are.”
Dr. Melikian motioned for Matt to sit down. “To be honest it’s the social activities that wear me out. I’m becoming allergic to rubber chicken dinners.”
Matt smiled. “As I told your secretary I have a message from Dr. Wilson Richards. I saw him in the Amazon a few weeks ago. He’d like to visit you when he returns to the States. He wanted me to wish you the best as you travel the thin line between the Hippocratic Oath and the pressures of political Washington. I’m not certain what he meant by that, but he asked me to deliver the message directly to you.”
“I know all too well what Dr. Richards means. Tell him it would be an honor to meet him. He’s one of the early pioneers in heart surgery, of course. But he’s also a great humanitarian as well.” Dr. Melikian glanced down at his watch.
“I’d appreciate it if you could give me a brief tour of your offices. I understand you’re a specialist in both benign and malignant basil cell carcinomas and that you do some advanced research right here in your own offices. We are seeing a growing number of skin cancers in the Amazon and some other tropical areas and we’re at a loss as to why.”
The doctor nodded. “I can give you a quick tour, Dr. Summers, but then I really must be getting back to my patients. As for the growing incidence of skin cancer in the heavily forested tropics, I don’t have a clue. I do know the increase in skin cancers in Australia has been traced to the degradation of the Ozone Layer and the resulting increase in solar radiation. I’d be interested in knowing more about your findings.”
“I’ll send you some of our findings on e-mail as soon as I can.”
“A quick tour, then. Let’s start with our small research laboratory upstairs.”
Dr. Melikian moved with a surprisingly quick stride up the staircase to the second floor and at the end of the hall opened the laboratory door. Matt was about to follow him in when down the hall another door opened and an elderly patient emerged, followed by a tall woman in a white coat. She was a striking woman with thick black hair. Stunned, Matt tripped over the threshold, drawing their attention. The woman doctor raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes a dark brown behind glasses.
Matt smiled awkwardly, entered the lab and closed the door.
“That’s my associate, Dr. Margaret Khalid,” Dr. Melikian said, anticipating the question. “A brilliant physician recommended to me by my benefactor. She’s a gold mine of intelligence and competence, and the patients adore her. It’s been tough for her starting over in the States. Anywhere else she would be medical director. I’m fortunate to have her on my staff. And the President likes her too.”
“Starting over, being your partner and having the favor of the President of the United States doesn’t sound too bad.”
Melikian laughed. “A good point. I’ll tell her that.”
After the quick tour Matt and Dr. Melikian made their way back down to the reception area and shook hands. “Tell Dr. Richards I look forward to his visit anytime.”
“I certainly will. And thank you for your hospitality and the cook’s tour.” Matt put on his pea coat. “By the way, may I ask who your benefactor was?”
“You may have heard of him. An Egyptian-American named Mohammed al Nagib.”
The Oval Office
“Have a drink, Howard. I think you’re going to need it,” President Pierce motioned with his tin cup toward the well stocked liquor cabinet. FBI Director Howard Duncan poured himself a double scotch, neat. Having been summoned to the Oval Office several times before under previous administrations he knew that when the President of the United States said have a drink something big was coming down the pike.
Over the next hour the tin cup occasionally slammed down on the coffee table as President Pierce laid out the situation. “That’s what we know so far. A deep cover terrorist cell operating inside the U.S. The kidnapping and face transplant of Dr. Matt Richards. The suspicious deaths of Dr. Martin J. Thomas, Professor Brian Walker and Anne-Marie Khoury, all connected to each other during their time in Beirut in 1968-69.” Pierce also mentioned his recent discussions with Todd Cummings of Monument Oil and the possible connection between William Fisher and the international financier and industrialist, Mohammed al Nagib. Without naming his source President Pierce also related some startling facts and the transcripts of a conversation held in London at the St. James Casino.
“May I have another drink, Mr. President?”
“Look Howard, time is short. And if people as high up as Mason Stevens and William Fisher are involved then I don’t know whom to trust. So I’m going solo on this one. And I’m definitely not going through Congress. Don’t have the time or the inclination. Besides, the longer we wait the greater the risk that we’ll lose the advantage of surprise.”
FBI Director Duncan gulped his second drink.
“Very rarely does a man in my position get the opportunity I’m being presented with. I’m not a brilliant academic, Howard, but I’ve been put into a position of global responsibility and Lady Luck has just aligned the stars in our favor. By God I’m not going to miss this chance to do something bold and lasting.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. President?”
“I want you to be here when Senator Stevens arrives. Which will be in about five minutes. I sent him an urgent message requesting a highly confidential meeting in my office at 1:30.” The President checked the old clock on the fireplace mantle against his Gold Rolex Oyster watch. “As you already know agents have recovered his daughter from that clinic in Virginia. You’ll never guess who its primary backer is.”
“Mohammed al Nagib.” the director smiled. “I’ve been doing a little digging of my own since you called a couple of hours ago. He’s well hidden among all the legal entities. But in essence the clinic is on land he owns, it’s next to his private mountain estate, and one of his medical technology companies is the primary funding source. Oddly there are prominent Israeli physicians and industrialists on the board of directors. Even the Israeli ambassador to the United States. Not to mention our own esteemed senior senator, Mason T. Stevens.”
“You have been busy, Howard,” Pierce said. “Now, I have Senator Stevens’ daughter waiting in the room next door. Why don’t you go in and get acquainted then bring her in when I buzz?” Pierce opened a door hidden in the paneling and waved the FBI head through. “This is a distasteful affair, Howard. But if we do our job right we may just save the world from a bloody and senseless war. And we might even secure a lasting peace at the same time.”
“Let’s hope so, Mr. President. I’d like to retire and do some fly fishing without worrying about being nuked or gassed in my own country.”
The intercom buzzer sounded. “Mr. President, Senator Stevens is here for his 1:30 appointment.”
Ross Pierce shut the door behind Howard Duncan and flipped the intercom switch. “Send him in, Miriam. And proceed with the arrangements we discussed.”
Senator Stevens’ bulk filled the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” His confident, convivial and practiced public voice boomed out. Not every Senator was summoned for a private meeting in the Oval Office. “I cleared my calendar as soon as I received your urgent message.”
“Sit down, Senator Stevens.” The President studied him. “As we speak the FBI is entering your office in the Hart building, as well as your home office, and placing your entire staff and household under arrest. All your files and correspondence as well as computer equipment, telephone logs and bank records are being confiscated. You are under arrest for high treason against the United States of America.” He watched as Stevens blanched, his posture imploding upon itself. Fear overtook his bravado.
“Mr. President. I don’t understand…” Then the arrogance and confidence of years in the Senate returned. “Is this some sort of sick joke, Ross? Just what the fuck are you playing at?” Stevens boomed in a voice usually reserved for the floor of Congress.
Off to the side of the oval office a barely visible door opened. A young woman, pale and gaunt, entered the Oval Office, followed by the director of the FBI. No one spoke as she approached Senator Stevens. She stood in silence before her father.
“Daddy, it’s me, Kelly. Why did you do this to me and to Dr. Richards?” she tried to hold back her tear but failed. Trembling, she moved into the FBI Director’s arms.
No one spoke, yet silent curses, pleas, lies, prayers, and unspoken rebuttals mingled with a flood of regret, broken dreams, shattered trust and decades of guilt. Like no other time in history this special room, the heart of a great nation, witnessed the merging of a profound set of events that could possibly change the face of modern civilization. For all the pain and suffering at that moment a new opportunity for world peace was at hand.
Senator Stevens avoided the gaze of his daughter. He looked first at the FBI Director and then to President Pierce. “I don’t know what you’re after, Mr. President,” he finally announced, “but of course I’ll cooperate fully. And in return for my full cooperation I’d like to be able to retire gracefully after this is all over.”
“At the moment, Mason, I’m not in the mood to make deals nor am I really concerned about what happens to your sorry ass. You got caught for a crime that men better than you have been hung for. Now I suggest you sit right here with FBI Director Duncan and myself and tell us everything. And I mean everything. We’re short on time.”
“And what about my daughter? I was only trying to help with her drug problem. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
Kelly flew at her father, screaming. The President restrained her at the last minute. “I hate you, Daddy. I hate you! You’re only concern about me was whether or not I would embarrass you. Did you know I won an award for creative writing at Sweet Briar as a sophomore? Do you even care?”
“Come on now, sweetheart, you know I was only trying to protect you from the ugliness of this world. I know I should have spent more time with you but I just couldn’t get away from my duties in Congress. I wanted so much to be someone you could look up to. Someone you could be proud of.”
“How can I be proud of someone I don’t even know?” She stood her ground, perhaps for the first time.
Dr. Weissman entered with a marine guard. After a nod from the President they escorted Kelly Stevens from the room. She held back for a moment and called to her father. “You never knew me. You don’t know anything about me. And you have no idea how much pain you’ve caused. To be honest, I like my new face. It separates me from your crimes and your ugly self indulgence.”
When the door closed Ross Pierce stared at Senator Stevens who was staring vacantly at the floor. His shoulders stooped. A political giant, an esteemed and feared senior senator now a lonely and broken man.
“Listen to me, Mason,” the President said quietly. “You’re going to tell us everything, right from the sordid beginning. I know you’re in bed with the Israeli ambassador and I want to know exactly what the two of you are up to. I have a feeling you probably don’t know how much of a pawn you’ve been in whatever game they are playing but we’ll discuss your situation later.” Stevens’ eyes remained fixed on the floor. The time for filibustering and goading was over. At least he was smart enough to know it.
“You can start with how much they paid you and where you’ve stashed the money,” FBI Director Duncan said.
For the better part of two hours the senator told them everything. He began with his growing concern over the past several years that the US was going soft on Arab terrorists and how, in his opinion, Israel deserved additional military and financial assistance. The struggling little nation needed to be fully equipped to support the United States in a war of retaliation to wipe out the terrorists and their sponsoring regimes once and for all. As far as the senator was concerned the only solution was a military one and he had pledged his support to assist Israel through his position in Congress and from his seat on various committees.
“Several months ago the Israeli ambassador came to me with a way of helping my daughter. He would help with her drug addiction by getting her into a special clinic for rehabilitation. He could arrange for a change in her identity and get her out of the country before she did me severe damage in the Senate. He would even arrange for a good job in one of the foreign embassies.” His mouth formed a hard thin line, well known on the Senate floor. “She’s my daughter. I had a responsibility to her. I did what I thought was right.”
“Where does Dr. Matthew Richards fit in?” Duncan asked.
“Him? The Israelis knew about his disgusting affair with my daughter. I imagine he got her hooked on drugs in the first place. They said they could get rid of him. All they wanted in return was some advance information on our strategies against terrorism.”
Pierce stood up. “That’s enough for now, Mason. You’ll be going with Director Duncan down to FBI headquarters to make an official statement.”
“But I must call my wife…”
“I’ll have someone call your wife and tell her not to expect you home for a few days.”
“But what about the Senate? I’ve got meetings and responsibilities…”
“It will be taken care of. And after this is all over you and I will sit down and decide what to do. And what would be in the best interests of the United States.”
Senator Stevens stood up to his full height. “And what if I just tell you to fuck off and I go to the press instead? My life is ruined already but I won’t let you ruin this great country. You’ve already gone soft on these Arab bastards. I knew you were a broken man after your time as a POW but no one would listen to me. You haven’t got the stomach for a real fight.”
“You only know one way to fight, Mason.” The President turned and looked out at the rose garden. “Head-on, guns blazing and mouth roaring. There is a time and a place for that approach, but if the only tool you’ve got is a hammer, then everything looks like a nail ready to be pounded. Democracy and the people of the United States of America will win this war, Senator, on that score you can be damned certain. But it will be done my way. In case you may have forgotten the American people elected me to run this country, not you, and certainly not the Israelis. If you want I can have you arrested for treason right now. Or we can do this the easy way for all of us.”
Ross Pierce looked directly into the Senator’s eyes. “Now dig deep, Senator. This may be the biggest decision of your life. You have served this great country for a long time. Don’t stop now.”
An ugly silence permeated the Oval Office. The director of the FBI stood back, immobile, a mere witness to the fate of a man, a Presidency, and a nation.
“Do you play poker, Mr. President?”
“Only occasionally, Senator. And tonight I’ve got the stronger hand.”
Senator Mason T. Stevens stepped back. “Good luck, Mr. President,” he said, his back ramrod straight, his jaw set. “You have my full cooperation. May God bless America.” A marine guard came in and escorted him down to the basement garage where Director Duncan’s car waited.
Director Duncan exhaled. “Jesus. I’m glad that’s over.”
“Me too.”
“Think he’ll play?”
“He’ll play. He’s a professional politician.”
“Maybe when this is over he should get one of those face transplants.”
Pierce shook his head. “No need for that.”
“Mr. President?”
“He’s two faced already. I’ve got one more job for you, Howard. I want your most trusted men to take William Fisher into custody and put the squeeze on him until he tells you everything concerning his association with Mohammed al Nagib. Use whatever methods work. I don’t care how you do it but I want every scrap of information out of him. Names, dates, places, contacts, everything. And keep him hidden away. We may need him again. Tomorrow morning you and I are going to meet with the Israeli ambassador and, how shall I say it, gain his unequivocal cooperation in putting an end to this terrorist game once and for all.”
“You’re walking a fine line here, Mr. President,” Duncan said shaking his head. “Some of what you’re asking me to do is illegal, or at least would be highly distasteful in the eyes of Americans. And I don’t have to tell you that what you’re about to do will probably put an end to your career.”
“My career is the least of my worries at the moment, Mr. Director. Besides, being President doesn’t pay that well. Now are you with me or not?”
“It would be my personal pleasure to help you solve this mess, Mr. President. I have grandchildren who deserve to live their life free from the threat of terrorist attacks and those who want to curtail freedom of thought and choice. I’ll call you this evening with an update on Mr. Fisher.” Duncan moved to the door. He paused before opening it. “When I was stationed in the Far East many years ago I heard a Chinese curse that went something like this: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ I’d say we are both cursed, Mr. President.”
“Let’s review that in six months, Howard.”
When the door closed President Pierce called the secretary of state, the national security advisor, and the attorney general to an impromptu meeting in the Oval Office. Then he got ready for his meeting with the Israeli Ambassador. After that, if fortune was still on his side he would craft his policy statement on terrorism to the nation and the world.
The Streets of Washington, D. C.
There are numerous obscure places in the nation’s capitol where people can find shelter and food for the night, away from prying eyes. The Greater Good Mission on Q Street gave Matt a hot meal, a warm place to sleep and nobody asked any questions. As he lay on the dirty thin mattress the only one asking questions was Matt. What did he really see in the hallway of Dr. Melikian’s office?
An elderly patient emerged first, then the woman. Tall, black hair, brown eyes, heavy frame glasses. Dr. Melikian said it was his assistant and partner. Dr. Margaret Khalid. She stood some distance away in the darkness of the hallway. Like a dream. Like one of his drunken hallucinations, shimmering just beyond what was real, but close enough to hurt. How long since he’d had a drink? Weeks? Months? Could this all be real? He knew of cases of long-term alcoholics who continued to have hallucinations months and even years after they’d stopped drinking. Maybe that was it. Plus the stress and fear.
Matt Richards looked around the basement and wondered if he would wind up like these forgotten men and women. Spread out across the floor, drunk, homeless and alone. When they were young and full of life did they ever think they would end up here? Shit. This could be me.
A raspy voice whispered from the mattress next to him, “Try and get some sleep, young fella. Nighttime is worst. The gremlins take control of your head. It’s the past they live in. The dark and evil past. It’s in all of us. You’ll either learn to go to sleep or they’ll drive you crazy. That’s why most of us drink at night.” Matthew Richards closed his eyes and nodded with understanding. He tried not to think about Maha-or Nicole.