Washington, D.C.
At 8:30 the next morning Matt Richards emerged from the homeless shelter thinking again about his meeting with Dr. Noubar Melikian. He was assaulted by the city noise and smell from the sidewalk garbage. “Ah! The fragrance of the most powerful city on earth. And one of the top five U.S. cities for dangerous crimes. No wonder the White House is barricaded like Fort Knox. Some role model for the rest of the world.” He looked about. People hurried by, eyes down at their feet.
As Matt walked he reviewed the evidence against Dr. Melikian. Item: he’s in a perfect position to assassinate the President. Item: he was plucked from obscurity in Cairo and given a first class education by a benefactor who just happens to be an international terrorist financier and arms dealer. Item: strings are pulled to get him into medical school in Switzerland. And the final item: the benefactor maneuvered Dr. Melikian into the highly sought after post of Personal Physician to the President of the United States.
Matt watched the morning traffic, surging and stopping, everyone going nowhere in a hurry. In reality he had nothing. No real evidence. Only paranoid hunches.
It must be him. But something still bothered Matt about this whole affair, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He decided to find an Internet cafe and do a little research on Dr. Melikian. He was also uncertain of how he could warn the President, especially without any real proof and wearing an international killer’s face.
Inside a telephone booth plastered with suggestive ads displaying the sexy attributes of a quick call to various 1-900 numbers he found a Bell Atlantic Yellow Pages book. The pages he needed were still intact. The nearest Internet cafe was on 17 ^th Street near Dupont Circle, about ten blocks away. After a brisk walk along Q Street he turned the corner and saw the entrance to the cyberSTOP Cafe, a block ahead. Still wary he looked over his shoulder. A police car cruised up the street. He turned and gazed into a storefront window. The cruiser continued its patrol up the street and turned the corner.
Then he saw her. Walking out of the cyberSTOP Cafe wearing a brown fur coat. Her athletic stride took her swiftly to the curb, arm raised to hail a cab. Almost immediately a metro cab pulled up and the black-haired woman climbed in.
It can’t be. The other physician in Dr. Melikian’s office. Why would a prominent physician go out of her way to use an Internet cafe when undoubtedly she had Internet access at the office and at home? He shook his head. The taxi moved off down the street. He walked into the cafe, buffeted by the warm air from the heating system. The heat triggered images of a white cafe overlooking the Mediterranean where Samir and the others had died. He bumped into someone standing at the counter. “Sorry.”
He ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry muffin then sat down in a cubicle with a large flat screen, mouse and keyboard.
Dr. Melikian didn’t have a personal or business website so Matt went to Google and typed in Noubar Melikian, MD. A surprising number of entries popped up onto the screen, most of them articles in newspapers, domestic and foreign. One article described his background and contained extensive information about his commitment to a peaceful solution to the Middle East crisis. Camouflage for a deep cover assassin? While he couldn’t rely on his own intuition, especially after years as an alcoholic, he had to admit he’d been impressed with the sincerity of the doctor yesterday. Dr. Melikian certainly didn’t seem like an assassin, but then that was the point.
After an hour of scanning articles Matt started visiting websites searching for photos. There were numerous pictures of Dr. Melikian with President Pierce. He found family photos and even a few old grainy pictures of Noubar Melikian as a young boy. There was even a photo on his graduation day from medical school in Switzerland.
Why Switzerland? His mind wrestled with the alternatives. Why not the U.S.? What was al Nagib up to?
Frustrated with more questions than answers Matt was about to log off when a picture of Dr. Melikian and his associate, Dr. Margaret Khalid, slowly took shape on the screen. “Oh my God!” The other users stared at him, not used to someone talking out loud to their computer terminal.
He studied her face. The glasses. The eyes. But something else about the picture bothered him. What is going on here? He leaned forward, studying the image. The more he stared at the image the more it began to resemble Maha, only with glasses, brown eyes instead of green and black hair instead of red.
More images swirled. The cafe in Beirut. Anne-Marie in the monastery. Maha’s red hair and green eyes drawing him in. He was about to log off when he saw it. He peered closely at the image on the screen. Dr. Melikian and Dr. Khalid were shaking hands and waving to photographers. What’s that on her left hand? The detail was too small to discern. He had to know more.
Matt got up and walked towards the front. He felt sick. It took all his effort to calm down. After a few minutes of deep breathing he reached the counter. “Yes?” said a pasty-looking young man with multiple body piercing, wearing a name tag of Aubrey. “Something wrong with your machine?”
“Can you show me how to enlarge an Internet photo?” They both walked back to his cubicle. A couple of clicks of the mouse later, the image filled the screen.
“If you want better resolution or you want to zoom in on a particular area I know a website that has a really cool program,” the young man said, glad to be doing something other than ringing up the cash register. “All we need to do is select this image, save it, then log into a certain website, transfer the picture, and bingo. There it is with nearly a dozen zooming and enhancement tools.”
“Can you enhance the woman’s left hand?”
“No problem,” Aubrey said. Matt got up and the young man slid into the seat like a veteran fighter pilot entering the cockpit. “How big do you want it?”
“What I want is a close up of her face, and then one of her left hand.” Matt watched as the screen evolved into a kaleidoscope of images.
“That’s great. Perfect. Can I get a print of each of those?” he said handing the young man a crisp $50 bill. “This should cover the prints and something extra.” Matt sat back down in the warm chair and stared at the two enhanced sections of the original photograph. In a few minutes the young man returned with the two prints. He looked back over his shoulder as he walked away.
Matt managed to compose himself. His eyes grew moist but he blinked back the emotion. The ache was unbearable. The scar on the left hand. Where her brother’s knife cut her that day up on the ski slope in the mountains high above Beirut. He vividly recalled putting a ball of frozen snow on her bleeding hand then wrapping it in a bandage.
This isn’t an hallucination. Matt ran his fingers along the edge of the print. Maha’s alive. He could barely form the thoughts. She must be the terrorist.
Matt grabbed his pea coat, stepped out of the small computer cubicle and froze. Two policemen were standing in the doorway of the cafe. Young Aubrey was pointing in his direction. “Metro Police, stay right where you are.” A tall black policeman put his hand on his weapon.
Matt pushed hard on the top of his cubicle, sending it crashing to the floor then raced down the rows to a rear door. Don’t be locked! He reached the rear door but it wouldn’t budge. Frantically looking up he saw a slide bolt at the top and threw it. Outside, he ripped off his pea coat and threaded one of the bulky arms through the two handles of the double door and tied a thick knot with the two sleeves. He ran toward the end of the alley. Loud kicking came from the cafe door.
As he turned onto 18 ^th Street an empty taxi cruised by. Matt whistled loudly, waving his arms. The taxi stopped on the other side of the street. Matt raced across the street and yanked open the door. “My wife’s been in a traffic accident. She’s at a hospital in Georgetown. I’m so scared I can’t remember which one. You must know. Just get me there quickly.” He shoved a $100 bill through the slot in the thick Plexiglas security enclosure. The taxi driver, an Indian by his accent and high-pitched voice, floored his vehicle. Matt looked back to see the two policemen emerge onto the street. One pointed at the retreating taxi. The cab slid around the corner and they were lost from view.
Matt made a gagging noise in the back seat. “I’m going to vomit,” he yelled. “Stop the cab, I feel sick.” The taxi driver looked back in disgust. He stopped the cab next to the Dupont Circle Metro station. Matt doubled over and moaned then burst out of the taxi and sprinted down the steps into the Metro station.
The taxi driver stared for a few moments, checked the back seat to see if there was any puke, then fingered the $100 bill and slowly drove away. “Crazy Americans.”
The Oval Office
“The Israeli ambassador is here to see you, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Miriam.” President Pierce flipped the switch and picked up his tin cup, rolling it back and forth between his hands.
“I am honored to be invited to the Oval Office, Mr. President.” Ibrahim Barak was a short stocky man with a rugged and suntanned face. He stood at attention. His years of desert fighting and covert operations gave him a strength of character his more political colleagues lacked. “The Prime Minister of Israel sends his personal greetings.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Please call me Ibrahim, Mr. President. It would be an honor.”
“Certainly. Would you like some coffee, Ibrahim? Or perhaps something stronger? Please, you can sit here, in front of the tape recorder.” The President pressed the buzzer on his desk. A discrete side door opened.
Barak watched as Senator Mason Stevens and William Fisher entered. He looked directly at the President then at the man escorting the others.
“I’m certain you recognize Mr. Howard Duncan, Director of the FBI.”
General Barak nodded. He waited, a film of perspiration forming on his forehead.
After everyone was seated the President continued. “Mr. Ambassador, you were accepted onto United States soil as a representative of the sovereign nation of Israel. As such you are free to remain in this country as long as you obey the laws of our great nation.”
“Mr. President, I must protest…”
“When did your patriotism get twisted and corrupted, Ibrahim?”
Barak stood up. “With all due respect, Mr. President…”
“Sit down, you pathetic asshole. If you want to leave this room be may guest. However the FBI and Secret Service will welcome you with open arms. You’ve broken just about every law of diplomacy on the books.”
Ambassador Barak sat down. “I am an Israeli citizen. I am my nation’s ambassador to the United States of America. I have diplomatic immunity.”
“At this moment you’ve got squat. Take a look at the pathetic men beside you. Senator Mason T. Stevens for instance. What do you think he had to say about you and your espionage activities?”
Barak blanched. “You have no evidence against me or the nation of Israel.”
President Pierce slowly raised his tin cup then slammed it down on the Resolute desk. “Look you sorry sonofabitch. I know all about your sordid dealings with the Senator here. Bribery and extortion are serious crimes in this country.”
The former Israeli army officer again stood up, slowly and in control. “I am an Israeli citizen and my nation’s ambassador to the United States. I have diplomatic immunity. I don’t know what kind of game you are playing but I will be leaving now and returning to my embassy at once.”
“You will do no such thing.” President Pierce watched him. “You’re going to cooperate and I mean fully.”
Barak hesitated then sat down.
“Now we know all about your relationship with Senator Stevens here. Like I said, bribery and extortion of a U.S. senator is a serious crime in this country. We also know of your illegal intelligence-gathering operations, partly through Senator Stevens who is a member of my Special Advisory Council on Terrorism and the Middle East. Then there’s your close association with an internationally known contract assassin wanted in connection with the murder of Dr. Martin J. Thomas.”
The general’s eyes went cold. “Are you trying to frame me for the death of Dr. Thomas? I had nothing to do with that. You’re putting two and two together and coming up with a number that fits your needs. I’d say the guilty party here is Senator Stevens.”
Mason Stevens’ face turned beet red. “Why you sonofabitch…”
“Take it easy, both of you,” the FBI Director said.
“We were only trying to help the United States track down a deep cover terrorist cell. Israel was actually trying to protect your country.” Barak replied. “Maybe we did go a little overboard in our efforts but we were trying to save our two great nations from the fanatical and perverted terrorists who threaten world peace.”
William Fisher’s words were cold in the silence. “Is that what you were thinking when you shot my wife at point blank range in the Chatilla refugee camp in 1982?” Director Duncan stepped behind Fisher. “You called her a whore of the Palestinians then killed her in cold blood and never even flinched. One day when you’re least expecting it, General, I will shoot you in the face.” Howard Duncan put his hands on Fisher’s shaking shoulders. “What is it you say? An eye for an eye?”
“I am not on trial here,” Barak said evenly. “Military actions of the State of Israel are none of your business. Now what do you want from me?”
“Information, Mr. Ambassador,” President Pierce said as he walked across the room and stood directly in front of the Israeli ambassador. “I want to know about your unofficial meetings and dealings with the international arms dealer Mohammed al Nagib. Mr. Fisher here has given us his version now I want your side of the story. You are aware, aren’t you, Mr. Ambassador, that Mohammed al Nagib recruited, organized and personally ran the same deep cover terrorist cell you say you were trying to locate?”
Ibrahim Barak looked ill. “Oh, God.”
“Looks like you’ve been set up and double crossed, Ibrahim.”
Dr. Melikian’s Office
“Hello? This is Dr. Margaret Khalid calling on behalf of Dr. Melikian, the President’s physician. May I speak to Miriam, President Pierce’s personal secretary? It’s very important. Dr. Melikian needs to see him right away. Yes of course, I’ll wait.” Glancing up from her desk to make certain her office door was locked, Maggie Khalid took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart.
“Hello Miriam, this is Dr. Margaret Khalid calling from Dr. Melikian’s office. The doctor has found something that concerns him in the President’s last blood test. An abnormal high prostate specific antigen count.” She heard a gasp on the other end of the line. “Yes, well, since the doctor is attending the White House dinner this evening for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia he wondered if he could come a few minutes early and take another blood sample from the President. After all these tests are often a little finicky. It may just be a false alarm. But it’s better to be on the safe side. Thank you, he’ll be there at 7:15 this evening. In the Oval Office? Fine. And thank you, Miriam. Sorry to trouble you with this but it is important.”
Dr. Khalid leaned back in her swivel chair. She closed her eyes. It was a few moments before the trembling subsided. In the beginning she could not sleep, always frightened. The daily rituals had been the worst. Putting in the brown contact lenses, making sure her dyed hair was just right. And always the fears. A brown contact lens dropping out, a haunting green eye looking around in horror at who might be looking. Wondering what else she was hiding.
But the biggest fear of all was being watched, being suspected. Like that man with Dr. Melikian at the clinic. And it was him again at the cyberSTOP cafe. But it couldn’t be. The first man was well dressed, a professional. The second almost a derelict. Stubble on his face. The stress was unnerving her. Even the increased dosage of Valium didn’t help. But the end was near. It would all be over soon. She would martyr herself. Maha, not Margaret, would once again gain respect in the eyes of her family. United after all these years with her loving father. Her courage and dedication returned.
Now it’s time for Dr. Melikian to have a lunch that doesn’t agree with him. She reached for her medical bag and pulled out the small bottle. A couple of drops in a coffee mug and within an hour or two the recipient would have all the symptoms of a full-blown case of food poisoning. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Cold shivers. Two days in bed, guaranteed.
“You did eat lunch today, didn’t you?” Dr. Khalid said as she entered the large office carrying two cups of fresh brewed coffee. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Their usual time to review the day and talk over any pressing issues.
Dr. Melikian smiled. “Yes, Mother.” He looked up from his pile of papers. “I took a walk down by the river and had a quick bite at the Memorial, my favorite delicatessen. Their roast beef sandwiches are marvelous. And the pickles are enormous. That’s the one thing that always amazes me about America. The portions are so huge. It’s a contest to see who can choke the most customers.”
“Here’s your coffee. I used the Starbucks’ special blend that you like. As close as we can get to real Arabic coffee without going to a restaurant.” She smiled, setting the mug with the Presidential seal on his desk. For the next twenty minutes they discussed their cases and made plans for the rest of the week. “Don’t forget, Doctor, you have the state dinner at the White House for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia this evening. Eight o’clock sharp.”
“I did forget. I was actually thinking about an early evening in bed with a bowl of popcorn and a good book.”
“I wish I could go to the White House and hobnob with the Saudis,” she said. “Maybe I’d find a wealthy man there to take me away from all of this.” She waved her arms about. “I’ll come back and check in on you about six o’clock, just to make certain you haven’t slipped out the back door with a suitcase full of popcorn.” She walked down the hall to her office, setting the timer on her Nike running watch.
At four o’clock the intercom rang. “Maggie, can you go to Dr. Melikian’s office right away? He just buzzed me and said he’s not feeling well. Maybe you should check on him. And you might need to take his patients.”
“I’ll be right there, Irene.” She fed the last of her papers into the shredder, tied up the black plastic bag and placed it in the special incineration can. It would be reduced to ashes at the end of the day.
The sound of retching and the sour smell of vomit came from the doctor’s private bathroom. She found him on all fours, head over the toilet bowl.
“I knocked, but you didn’t answer, so I… Are you all right?”
“I’d be better off dead.” He slowly stood up and wiped his mouth with a towel. “After what I’ve just been through I have a lot more empathy for our patients.”
“Sit down and I’ll take your temperature. You look awful, a U.S. Army green color.” Dr. Khalid smiled, trying to inject some humor. “One hundred and three. Between that and the shivering and vomiting, I’d say you’ve either got a bout of the flu or a classic case of food poisoning. What was that you ate for lunch?”
“Roast beef and too much of it. Doesn’t taste nearly so good on the way back up.” He managed a wry smile before urgently returning to the toilet bowl.
Back in his chair Dr. Melikian put his head on his desk, trying to slow down the spinning. “Have Irene reschedule as many patients as possible. You’ll have to handle any others. It shouldn’t be too heavy a load since I was scheduled to go to that White House dinner.”
“I’ll have Irene call your wife. You can’t drive in this condition. If it’s food poisoning it will work itself out of your system in about twenty-four hours. But you must rest.”
“Very well, Dr. Frankenstein. For my sins I will go home and rest. And for your sins you will go to the White House in my place.”
“Oh no. They’ll probably sit me somewhere close to either the President or the crown prince. I’ll have to stay awake and look interested.”
“I’ll call Miriam right now and arrange it,” he said about to reach for the phone. Instead, he grabbed his stomach and ran for the toilet.
“Alright, I’ll go. And don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything with the President’s office. But first I’ll have Irene call your wife.”
Within half an hour Dr. Melikian was lying in the back of a taxi on his way home. Dr. Margaret Khalid struggled with his caseload, fighting down her fears, smiling through her brown eyes at patients and thinking about killing the President.
At 6:15 pm Maggie freed herself from the office and went home to change. She checked her black medical bag. The appointment with the President was scheduled for 7:15 pm in the Oval Office. The Oval Office, seat of aggression and oppression. She had been there only once but knew the layout perfectly. This night she would be so far from the sun drenched city of Beirut where once young students had passionately discussed politics and freedom. This night she would make history for their cause.
Irene Leonard stayed late at Dr Melikian’s office frantically trying to rearrange his schedule for the next several days. When the phone rang she cursed under her breath. “No, I’m sorry, Dr. Melikian has left for the day. And he won’t be in tomorrow or the next day, he’s taken ill. Oh, yes, I remember you, Dr. Summers… Dr. Khalid? No, I’m sorry you just missed her. She’s standing in for Dr. Melikian at a function at the White House this evening. Yes, I’ll tell him you called. Good night, Dr. Summers.”
Matt’s hand trembled as he put down the payphone situated inside the neighborhood convenience store. Dear God. It’s happening? Who could he call? Who would believe him?
Matt approached the elderly Asian proprietor behind the counter. “Can you change this $5 bill for coins for the pay phone?” Noticing a bandage on the man’s forearm he forced a smile. “I’m a doctor. Are you okay?”
Was Maha already at the White House? Was she talking to President Pierce at this very moment? How would she do it? A poisoned tongue depressor? An injection? The Asian proprietor broke through his fears.
“It’s a deep scratch from my cat and it’s not healing very well.” He moved the bandage a little to expose a red and swollen gash.
“You’ve got an infection. If you have some iodine or betadine, swab it twice a day for several days and let the air get to it. Cuts heal better with fresh air.” His smile was brittle. “Oh and could I have some change for the pay phone?”
Matt looked at the television above the cash register. The 6:30 evening news. A picture of the White House appeared behind a fast-talking female correspondent. “Tonight,” she announced, “President Pierce and the secretary of state are hosting the crown prince of Saudi Arabia at an official state dinner here at the White House. This visit certainly comes at an auspicious time as the President is in what appears to be the final stages of preparing his response to the nation and the world on the approach the United States will take toward the escalation of terror on American soil. We still don’t have a date for the President’s speech but the White House press corps says we can expect it to come sometime within the week.”
Matt thumbed a coin at the slot. It dropped to the floor. Coins rattled in his hand. He fed the rest into the payphone. The White House correspondent droned on but Matt was playing his own scenario. They kill the President, that is Maha, beautiful Maha, kills the President. Then the United States, in rage and revenge, declares all out war on terrorism and the nations who support and sponsor terrorism. And of course billions more for defense and additional money and arms for Israel. But even greater profits for Mohammed al Nagib and his criminal organization. Providing arms to both sides was a very lucrative business.
The phone rang again at Dr. Melikian’s office. Matt placed his shirt sleeve over the mouthpiece. He had a vague plan which just might work. It had to because it was his only plan at the moment.
“Hello? I must speak with Dr. Melikian right away. This is Dr. Schultz from the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. There’s been a traffic accident involving a taxi that was carrying a Dr. Margaret Khalid. It’s important I speak with Dr. Melikian right away. Ms. Khalid’s life may depend up on it.”
“Oh God. Not Maggie. The doctor’s not here. He’s gone home ill.”
“Then give me his home number and his cell phone as well. I’ll call him directly.”
“But I’m not supposed to give out personal numbers-”
“Listen, miss, I know you’re doing your duty but this woman may die in the next half hour. I’m a doctor, my job is to save lives now hurry up.” Matt’s urgency was all too real. He jotted down the two numbers and then reached into his pocket for more coins. He froze. Slowly he lowered the handset.
A large white man in a dark suit walked into the store and asked for two cups of hot coffee. Matt picked up the phone and turned his face away, pretending to be talking. Soon the bell in the front door jingled and the man was gone. Matt shook as the fear gripped his entire body. Why am I reacting? He filed away the description of the man. Two coffees? That could mean a stakeout car was watching Elijah’s apartment. They were onto him. He was running out of time.
On the third ring the automatic answering machine picked up the call. A recording came on. “You have reached the residence of Dr. Noubar Melikian. Please leave a message and a number and I will return your call as soon as possible.” Matt fumbled for another set of coins and this time dialed the cell phone. He hoped that like most physicians Melikian would answer his private line day or night.
On the second ring a scraggly voice answered. “Dr. Melikian.”
“Dr. Melikian, listen to me carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“Are you sick or incapacitated?”
“I have food poisoning but I’ll live. How did you get this number? And who the devil are you?”
“Dr. Khalid poisoned you. What was it? Coffee, tea?”
Silence, then retching.
“Dr. Melikian, you are the only person who can save the President of the United States from being assassinated tonight. Right now, Dr. Khalid, if that’s her real name is on her way to the Oval Office in your place. She is a terrorist. She plans to kill the President.”
“I know your voice.”
“Listen to me. She plans to kill the President.”
“You’re Dr. Summers from the other day…”
“Will you listen to me? Dr. Khalid is on her way to kill the President. She made an appointment under your name for 7:15 this evening knowing full well that you would be unable to attend.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m on my way to the White House right now. Get dressed and get over there if you want to save the President, and Dr. Khalid.”
“Summers?” Melikian paused, his voice steady. “I can’t go anywhere I’ve got food poisoning. I can barely move.”
“You don’t have food poisoning. She probably gave you a large dose of Bethanechol. As you know it produces similar symptoms. If you have any atrophine in your medical bag use it. The symptoms will quickly subside. It’s an old trick we used to use in medical school.”
“What did you say about Maggie?”
“She’s a terrorist. Her real name is Maha Hammad. She’s Jordanian and a close friend of the suicide bomber that killed Dr. Norman. It’s all part of a plan to get into the White House and kill the President.”
“How do you know she’s a terrorist?”
“Because she has a scar on her left wrist. I was there when she got it in 1968. And long ago I was in love with her. Now take the atrophine, get dressed and I’ll meet you at the first gate on Pennsylvania Ave, just in from 17 ^th Street. There’s no time to lose.”
Matt hung up as the bell jingled. He turned around not knowing what to expect. Oh, my God. A face from the past. Demetrie Antonopolis. Older, with taut bronze skin and a graying ponytail.
He blocked the aisle leading to the door. “It’s over, Matt. Let’s go. Quietly if you don’t mind.” A silenced pistol emerged from the pocket of his black overcoat.
“What do you mean it’s over?” Matt backed against the rack of canned vegetables.
“Think, man, think. Or are you still muddled from all that booze?”
“Ah, yes. How convenient. I’m the fall guy and the real rats go free. And are you still a dope head, Demetrie? Can’t you see you’re being used, just like me?”
“Pathetic attempt. Now step over here. There’s a car outside. We’re going on a little ride.”
Reaching into his pocket Matt brought out a can of warm diet soda. He slumped shoulders, the body language of the defeated, and walked slowly toward Demetrie.
“I thought you’d have a bottle of scotch, not a soda can.” He laughed at his own joke. The car honked. Demetrie turned to look.
Matt shook the can and quickly pulled the ring tab. Foam sprayed into the killer’s face. His hands instinctively went up to protect his eyes. Matt grabbed two large peach cans off the shelf and slammed them into the side of Demetrie’s head with all his might. Blood spurted out from both ears. Demetrie staggered, then roared in pain. Matt leapt feet first into the Greek’s chest. The ponytail whipped as his head snapped to one side. Demetrie crashed into a wooden fruit container. A shrill cry left him. His back was impaled on one of the metal bars protruding upwards. Demetrie Antonopolis went limp.
Desperately Matt scanned the store for a way out. “Here! Here!” He heard a call from the back. The elderly Asian proprietor was holding open a door just beyond the bins of wilted lettuce. “Thanks,” Matt said, squeezing his shoulder. “Call the cops. Tell them he tried to rob you. Shit, tell them anything.” He ducked into the alley and sprinted towards the street.
A young black man was climbing into a dark maroon Mini Cooper with tinted windows. Matt jerked open the passenger door and dove in.
“What the fuck you doin’ man? Get the hell out of here,” the driver bunched up his fist and swung wildly. Matt pulled out a $100 bill and held it up. The man stared. “Okay, you got my attention, but I ain’t into no queer stuff.”
Matt ripped another bill from his wallet. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the White House right away. It’s a national emergency. Unless you want to be responsible for another September 11 let’s see how fast you can drive.”
“Bullshit, but keep the C-notes coming.” He put the Mini into gear. The tires screamed. The little car shot out into the street. “Shit, man, you some kind a James Muthafuckin’ Bond?” He stomped on the accelerator. “There’s a big car with an ugly looking white guy chasing us.” He looked at Matt, then grinned. “Well Whitey this is your lucky day. Because I’m the Rolf Schumacher of Washington, D.C. I know this town like my bitch’s titties.” The car slid into a narrow alleyway knocking over garbage cans and crushing cardboard boxes.
Matt looked at his watch-6:45 P.M. The car chasing them was the least of his worries. How was he going to gain entry to the White House, uninvited and wearing the face of an assassin? God, Maha. Don’t do this.
What had Dr. Melikian said? Just phone the White House. That’s right, simple as that. Get the Marine guards to charge down the halls and arrest her. So why hadn’t he done that? He was putting the President at risk – why?
Maha. He needed to confront Maha. He needed to be there. Evil people had kidnapped him, robbed him of his face, and destroyed his life. And by God he was going to stop them, and save Maha. He saw her wrist, packed in ice, the memory shimmering like her tears that day. Red blood pooled on the virgin snow at her feet, so innocent. But now… The car hurtled through an intersection, horns blared in protest.
“We’ve lost the car.” The Mini Cooper responded with a lurch as he downshifted.
“Either they already know where we’re headed or they’re not welcome there,” Matt said. “Listen, when you get to the intersection of Pennsylvania and 17 ^th Street just let me out and take off. There’s no need for you to get involved in this.”
The young driver nodded. Matt shoved three one hundred-dollar bills into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Are we gonna’ win, Mister?”
“Absolutely, my friend. Absofuckinglutely.”
Ahead loomed the White House with its stately columns glowing in the huge spotlights. As the Mini roared down 17 ^th Street he could see the Old Executive Office Building. It marked the intersection with Pennsylvania Ave. Matt got ready to flip the door handle and jump out. Some hundred yards away a taxi screeched to a halt in front of the guard barrier blocking the entrance to the White House. The taxi driver got out and opened the rear door. A bent-over figure with white hair staggered out of the taxi and stumbled toward the entrance gate.
“How’d you like to earn some bragging rights?” asked Matt turning to the young black man.
“What you got in mind?”
“Can you crash into that taxi? Not too hard, just hard enough to cause a commotion and distract the Marines? You’ll get arrested, but don’t worry. I’ll see that you get released. And maybe a special citizenship award as well. Let me out here and then give it your best shot.”
“You crazy, you know that, dude?” he grinned then stopped the car. “My mama’s gonna kill me, but I’ll do it.” The boy gave Matt a broad grin and stomped on the accelerator. The little car gained speed then quickly went into a controlled skid. It slid into the idling taxi. The cab driver began yelling and cursing, flailing his arms in the air. The young black man flung open the car door, staggered a few steps and collapsed on the sidewalk, screaming and rolling. Alarm bells blared on the big iron gates. Secret Service guards and Marines raced toward the young man, their guns drawn.
Matt sidled up to Dr. Melikian and supported him with an arm. “It’s me,” Matt said as they moved up to the entrance gate.
“Dr. Summers. Or are you an imposter as well?”
“In more ways than one. What made you decide to believe me?”
“I don’t believe you. But if there’s one chance in a million of preventing war in the Middle East I’ll do just about anything, even listen to a crazy man like you. Besides,” the doctor smiled weakly, “your anecdote, atropine, helped right away. It must have been Bethanechol she slipped in my coffee.”
“Halt.” A tall marine, hand on his side arm, stood just inside the heavy iron gate.
“I am Dr. Noubar Melikian, President Pierce’s personal physician and I have to see the President at once. It’s a matter of national security. The President is in danger at this very moment.” He held up his White House ID.
“Shoot us later if we’re lying,” Matt said. “We must get to the President at once. Escort us in or you may be responsible for the death of the President of the United States and the start of World War Three.”
The marine was not to be pressured. He peered closely at Dr. Melikian’s ID then quietly spoke into his walkie-talkie. The gate opened and two other marines took Matt and Noubar by the arm. They quickly escorted them into the west wing of the White House, barking orders as they went. “Secure the President, secure the President. Where is he?” they demanded of a guard in the hallway.
“In the Oval Office with Dr. Khalid. She just went in.”
Dr. Margaret Khalid kept her smile in place as she watched him standing at the window. A big man, an attractive man, perhaps more relaxed than she had remembered. She was here in the Oval Office, power center of a nation intent on destroying the entire Middle East. Her hands shook as she opened her black bag and reached in.
“Dr. Khalid?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
He smiled without turning around. “Most people who come into the Oval Office are eager to talk. I don’t recall you being the shy type.”
“I’m filling in for Dr. Melikian. I guess I’m a little unnerved and overwhelmed.”
“Frankly, I’m used to the trappings now. Did you know that out there in the dark garden new shoots are emerging from the thorny stalks of the roses? It’s amazing. Even after a severe pruning in the fall and the freezing temperatures of a harsh winter the lengthening daylight of spring will again produce her miracle. In a couple of months we’ll see big bright roses again.”
“Really, sir?” She examined the tiny needle smeared with the deadly toxin.
“Speaking of seeing things again. I saw an old friend of yours the other day.”
She stopped, the syringe held up to the light. “Of mine, Mr. President? I really don’t think…”
“Matthew Richards.”
The syringe fell onto the carpet. Her hand trembled as she reached down. After picking it up she found the President of the United States looking directly at her, unsmiling.
“Are you all right, Doctor?”
“Of course.” Where did her response come from? Her shocked heart? The twisted pit of her stomach?
“Let me tell you a story, Doctor. And you might want to listen very closely. A long time ago I was in love with a woman I couldn’t have.” Pierce stood with his hands behind his back. “She was the daughter of a wealthy Mexican rancher. If I close my eyes I still see her. Jet black hair, a fiery temper and the bearing of a spirited mustang. I was shy and she was wild and free. Yet we fell deeply in love. For one fantastic summer we had a wild, forbidden love affair. Then she went away to school in Mexico City and I back to the States to go to college. I never saw her again.
“I suppose I could have become bitter and angry over lost love. But instead I decided to use that experience as an example of what is possible between two different people. The memory of that love helped save my sanity when I was a POW in Vietnam. I believe the capacity to connect at a meaningful level with another human being is hardwired into all people, Doctor. No matter what their culture, race, religion, or political beliefs. And no degree of brainwashing can take that from us. It can be crusted over but never eliminated.”
“Mr. President…”
“By the way, Maha, Matt still loves you.”
She knew she should charge him. Her trainers had recited it over and over. As a last resort, charge. The needle only has to scratch the skin for the toxin to take effect. Do it now. Now. She really should charge, lunge, drive the needle home. But instead she walked slowly forward, as if in a trance. Matt Richards. A name from another time yet always deep within her. He had spoken his name. How fine it tasted in the air, spoken out loud, not locked away in some forbidden place. Good times, great times. The sounds of the sea, the evening breeze on their faces, starlight. Bedouina and Samir laughing; Maha and Matt finding excuses to steal away in the moonlight. To be alone. To be lovers.
“Stop right there.” A loud voice from the side of the room.
Her feet kept slowing moving. Odd, she didn’t like the harsh lighting. Her contact lenses, awash in tears, gathered the bright light. “Some choices open up a great future, others seal one’s fate forever,” she said, moving toward the President, syringe raised. Just a prick on the skin with the coated needle and death would be irreversible.
“At first we thought Dr. Melikian might be the deep cover assassin after learning of his affiliation with Mohammed al Nagib. But when my secretary said you called earlier about my blood test and that you were coming instead of Dr. Melikian things just sort of fell into place for us. Didn’t they Karl?”
Karl van Ness had come into the Oval Office through the side door. He looked first at Maha, then the President. When the young Marine behind him raised his 9mm Baretta pistol, van Ness stopped him.
“It’s still not too late, Maha,” Pierce said. “Never too late for love and understanding to conquer the bitterness of hate and sorrow.” He looked into her face, but it was slack, blanked out, like some of the POWs in Hanoi. Maha took another faltering step forward, more like a zombie than a purposeful assassin. “If you move any closer the guards will be forced to shoot. You can stop this madness now. We will help you.”
The main door of the Oval Office opened. Noise from outside shattered the silence. Matt, Dr. Melikian and three marine guards stepped in.
“Maha?”
She turned towards Matt’s voice. “Your face. What has happened to you?”
“It’s still me.”
Maha bent over and took out her contact lenses. They fell onto the carpet, landing on the head of the woven eagle. Her green eyes flooded with tears. “I want to see you clearly one last time.” She smiled. Her face was now serene.
“I loved you from that very first moment on the airplane.”
“Matt, I can’t see you behind that face. But I feel it really is you.”
“Everything will be all right. Now put down the syringe, Maha. Just lay it down.”
Her face was again a smooth facade. Empty. She brought the needle to her arm. “It’s time for me to leave, Matthew.” For a brief moment she held his gaze. “May Allah in his infinite wisdom have mercy on my soul.”
“No! Maha!”
The needle slid easily into the back of her left hand, next to the long scar. “My father will be waiting…”
Matt caught her as she fell. A marine quickly grabbed the syringe and stepped back. She looked up at him. “We have seen each other one last time, my darling. I hoped we would.” Her breathing was short and labored.
“What’s on the needle? Tell me,” pleaded Matt. “We’ll get the antidote.”
“I’m sorry I left you so long ago,” she said, ignoring his plea. “But at least I’ll die in your arms.” She coughed. Her face broke out in a cold sweat. “Perhaps something good will come of all this. You must remember all the days of your life, Matthew, that I loved you and only you, with all my heart.”
“It doesn’t have to end, Maha, please tell me. What’s the toxin on the needle?” Her eyes dulled. Matt looked up at the others. “Help. Won’t someone help?”
No one moved. “There is no antidote,” Maha whispered. “That’s the whole point to this game, Matthew. There is no going back. We must start from the here and now. What’s done is done, whether it’s my life or the history of failures in the Middle East. The future of the world will depend on decisions made now. Right now. You must forget the past and move forward.”
“Maha, please.”
She shook her head. “Your arms feel the same. I imagined them around me every day.” She tried to touch his cheek but her hand fell back.
Dr. Melikian checked her pulse. “I’m sorry.”
Matt shook her. “Oh my God. Please… Please.” He held his former love tightly against his chest, feeling the life force slowly draining from her. Suddenly her body sagged, a limp package in his trembling hands. He checked for a pulse. Nothing. Only memories. And an opportunity to start anew.
Someone gently put an arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Matt. I know this is painful.” He found himself staring straight into the eyes of the other woman he thought was dead.
“Nicole?.” He jerked when he saw Elijah standing at the back. “I don’t understand.” His arms remained around Maha.
She pulled her hand away, embarrassed.
A marine brought Matt to his feet. “The President, sir.”
President Pierce waited while Matt gathered his faculties. He tried not to look at Maha. Or Nicole.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Dr. Richards. I’m sorry it’s like this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We should leave the room now. Let those who know how to handle these things take over. I need you to come with me, Dr. Richards. I want to talk with you about the Middle East. Karl and I need to know what you know and your ideas will also be welcome. Will you stay here at the White House for a few days? In fact Ms. Delacluse and Mr. Tajikian should stay also. You’ll all be my personal guests, of course.”
Matt nodded.
“I’ll stay if you want me to, Matt,” said Nicole.
He stared at Nicole. “Please stay.”
The President was quiet as the marine guards picked up the body of Maha Hammad and carried her out of the Oval Office. “Noubar?” he said to Dr. Melikian. “I’m asking you to stay also. I have a feeling you may wind up playing a pivotal role.”
“I’d stay anywhere I can get some rest, Mr. President.”
“And Matt? Nicole?”
They waited.
“Give it time.” Pierce walked over to his desk and pressed the intercom. “Miriam? Tell the vice President to stand in for me at tonight’s dinner. Tell them I’m not feeling well. Hell, tell them anything. And get Ms. Black, the secretary of state, the directors of the CIA and FBI, and the attorney general into the situation room at once.” The President picked up his treasured tin cup. “Yes, it’s time we made the decisions everyone has been avoiding. And I believe with what we have from Senator Stevens, Ambassador Barak, and William Fisher, we may have found a way to a lasting solution.”
The President of the United States leaned over to the intercom and buzzed his secretary. “One more thing, Miriam. Tell the White House Press Secretary that my address to the nation will take place in five days, from right here in the Oval Office.” He looked up. “Now let’s get out of here.”