Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital
The door opened. A lone figure slipped in. It was time to check on his patient-just a quick look at vital signs while the sedative was still working. Whatever else he’d become, he was still, first and foremost, a man of healing.
As the pneumatic door hissed closed, Dr. Weissman walked lightly to the bank of monitors, awash with red lights and blinking numbers. “What on earth.” he exclaimed, stopping halfway there. A flat line was etched across the heart monitor screen. The oxygen level registered zero. His head snapped around. The sheet was pulled up over the patient. He went over to the bed and as he began lifting the sheet, a low, muffled voice came from underneath
“Act normal, Doctor, and don’t say anything or I’ll sever your femoral artery with this scalpel. Remember, I’m a doctor too. You’ll bleed to death in seconds.”
Dr. Weissman remained motionless as he felt the surgical steel pressing against his leg. “What do you want?”
“I want to get out of here, and you’re going to help me.” Matt emerged from under the bed and pushed the surgeon into the shadows behind the bank of monitors.
“But there are CCTV cameras everywhere, even in this room. You’ll be spotted in seconds.” Weissman’s voice trembled. He felt tired and oddly lost. “I can’t get you out of here. There are guards patrolling the corridors of this wing constantly. I’m afraid, Dr. Richards, we’re both trapped in here.”
“Tell me,” said Matt, “whose face do I have? And who are these people?”
The elderly doctor put his finger to his lips. “I honestly don’t know who they are, but I can tell you that the face you have, and it’s a masterful job of a transplant if I do say so myself, belonged to an international contract killer, an assassin. He killed for the Mossad, KGB, CIA and others. He was just about to join Al-Qaeda when he was killed by a female Mossad operative. Al-Qaeda offered better pay, I guess.”
An international assassin? “How do you know all this?”
“I overheard the two men you met earlier talking about it just before the surgery. It was his body they buried in the closed casket at your funeral.”
“And you don’t know who these people are?”
“No. I was brought here two years ago from Israel by the clinic director. I was promised enough money and equipment to rapidly advance my research on facial transplants. Mostly I work on private patients with badly disfigured faces. You’re one of two patients to be put in this secure area of the hospital and given a full facial transplant.”
“Well, you’re my only hope at the moment, Doc, so let’s figure out a way for me to get out of here. Otherwise we both might wind up dead. Did this dead guy have any documents on him? Passports, identification, stuff like that?”
“There’s a box of his personal effects in the storage closet. They left it there, along with a suitcase of clothes. I think in all the activity surrounding the operations they just forgot about it.” He touched Matt’s arm. “Will you please put that scalpel away?”
“Okay. Give me your lab coat and I’ll pretend to be you. You crawl around the back and climb into the bed while I shield it from the CCTV camera, then I’ll tie you up. You can tell them I overpowered you, gave you a sleeping drug, and escaped.” Matt paused. How to escape? “Where’s your car?”
“It’s a white VW Passat, and it’s in the private staff parking lot just next to this wing.” Dr. Weissman fumbled around. “The keys are here in my pocket, but you’ll be seen by the guards and the cameras. It won’t work.”
“It’s better than staying here. Now, take off your coat and get into the bed.” Matt put on the white surgeon’s smock and stood up beside the bed. Using cabling from the monitors, he bound the doctor’s arms and legs. “If you lie here and give me a chance to escape, we both might live a little longer.” The elderly surgeon nodded.
Matt opened the closet. He stared at a single piece of leather carry-on luggage, Hartman. It contained a few shirts, some pants, a sports coat and a pair of Italian leather shoes. His eyes registered on a green surgeon’s cap on a shelf. Putting it on and draping several clean lab coats over the valise to hide it, Matt made his way into the hall. It was clear for now. Like the doctor he was, he confidently strode down the hall towards the rear exit sign.
A voice rang out. “What are you doing, Doctor?” A security guard, he guessed.
“Making rounds,” replied Matt. “Would you like to help me change a few dressings and bedpans?” Not bothering to turn around, he opened the door on his left and strode in.
“All doctors are arrogant assholes.” The guard strode back up the hallway, muttering to himself.
Inside the room Matt leaned against the door. He was sweating. His heart racing. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the accident, which must have been over seven weeks ago. He’d always wondered what going cold turkey would be like, but never had the courage or desire to quit drinking. I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Could he remain sober once he was free-if he got free?
After a few deep breaths, he scanned the room. It was nearly identical to his but without the security door or a CCTV camera. A single bed lay in the center with a short figure under the sheets. A female voice moaned. He stepped over to the bed and carefully lifted the sheet. It was a young woman, about twenty years old, obviously under heavy sedation. In the faint light from the instruments on the wall he noticed the nearly healed stitches around the edge of her face. He was replacing the sheet when suddenly her hand sprang out like a claw and gripped his arm.
“No, Daddy, no.” she moaned, then fell quiet. Her grip loosened. Her arm dangled over the side of the bed. She was asleep again. Matt reached down and gently placed her arm back on the bed. The white hospital tag around her wrist was blank except for the blood type, O-positive, with two capital letters, like initials, next to it.
Matt’s medical mind began to wonder about this strange woman, but his survival instincts pulled him away from the bed and back toward the door. The guard should be making his rounds now. How long would he have to wait? He cracked open the door.
Nothing. He opened the door a little further, trying to get a view up and down the corridor without being seen. Now or never. Summoning some long forgotten reservoir of courage, he strode out of the room as if he were the normal staff doctor moving on to his next patient. He turned left, the red exit sign clearly visible just twenty paces away.
Reaching the door, Matt looked back up the dimly lit hallway. The guard must have returned to his desk, probably for a few moments of sleep. He reached for the door handle but his hand froze just above the knob. The sign shimmered in the shadows. “Door locked and alarmed at all times. For staff use only.”
Matt swallowed hard. His heart pounded. Sober or not, I’m in deep shit! Reaching into the lab coat, he produced Dr. Weissman’s keys. One was obviously a VW key, the logo prominently embossed on the top. Several others looked like house keys. One stood out as plain and unmarked, like the key to an office or business. Matt slowly inserted the key into the lock. It fit, but when he gently tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move. Then he remembered that this was a new wing. Perhaps the locks and keys weren’t well worn yet. He applied more force. The key turned. He pushed the door open, revealing the brightly lit parking lot. The VW Passat sat only three spaces from the door.
Here goes nothing. Half wishing he was in a drunken stupor Matt moved swiftly to the car. His hands shook as he climbed in and shut the door. A moment later a battered Ford Taurus pulled into the lot and parked just opposite. Matt ducked down onto the passenger seat, fighting the urge to throw up. He breathed deeply, trying desperately to calm his nerves and stomach. The drugs he had been given were still very much in control of his system. He closed his eyes to keep from blacking out. A car door slammed. He heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.
After what felt like a year, Matt sat up. He scanned the parking lot then noticed the clock on the dash. 4:45 am. They would soon discover Dr. Weissman. He reached up to adjust the rear view mirror.
“Oh God.” A strange face stared back at him. “How long will it take to get used to this new face?” He reached up to feel the prominent nose and strong square chin. It was a handsome face, refined yet rugged. He had read medical journals about patients whose entire personalities changed after getting major facial surgery. Maybe that was a good thing for him. So far his life had been a failure. But the face of a wanted international assassin wasn’t cause for celebration.
Pulling the green surgeon cap down as far as possible, Matt slowly drove the car towards the front gate, barely controlling his urge to jam down the accelerator and flee this evil place. Slowing down, he lowered the window, raised his arm and waved.
“Leaving early, Dr. Weissman?” The guard reached inside to push the button for the gate. Matt rolled up the window, keeping his head down, as if looking for something. The gate slowly swung open. He accelerated briskly, narrowly missing one side of the gate. To his right was a large ornate sign: Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital, Admittance by Appointment Only.
“Or kidnapping,” he muttered, heading down the road towards what he hoped would be the main highway.
Safe, but for how long? About a mile down the asphalt lane he came to the Blue Ridge Parkway which wound along the backbone of the Blue Ridge Mountains, running nearly 460 miles, all the way from Shenandoah National Park in northern Virginia to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina.
“Before I go much further, I’d better look at these documents and see who the hell I am,” he said, listening to his voice. It sounded disembodied in the car’s confines. “At least I still sound like me.” Pulling into a turnout overlooking the lowlands of Virginia, Matt stopped the car and reached for the carry-on bag. The clothes, he was relieved to discover, were nearly his size, though the man was definitely more muscular. He tried on a shirt-a little loose, but it would do for the time being. The pants needed to be tightened with a belt. He dressed in the darkened car then turned on the overhead light. Taking out the wallet first he noticed it was fine-grain calfskin Pierre Cardin. Not a pauper.
The wallet contained a valid Maryland driver’s license in the name of William Stubbs, age forty-seven. Matt didn’t recognize the address, but it was his new face staring back from the plastic card. There were also several Visa cards and an American Express Platinum Card, all in the name of William Stubbs, and all current. Nestled in the wallet lay a large number of hundred-dollar bills and some tens and twenties. He gripped the money tight, his new lifeline. His mind raced. How to stay alive? Who to talk to? Matt reached into the bag again.
What he found next shocked him-twelve valid passports from various countries, all with different names. Two were U.S. passports, one in the name of Stubbs and the other Scott. Each carried the same photo but a separate selection of credit cards, driver’s licenses and identity cards. The other nationalities included France, Germany, England, Russia, and Switzerland, as well as Brazil, South Africa, Egypt, Morocco and Lebanon. At the bottom of the bag, in a bulging zippered wallet, a small fortune in currency matching each of the countries.
Matt sat back. Bile rose up, sour in his throat. His new face belonged to a hired assassin who was no doubt known by nearly every major government. A perfect target.
Blue lights flashed behind him. Gravel crunched under tires coming to an abrupt halt. Matt froze, realizing a Virginia state trooper vehicle had came to a stop directly behind him. Quickly he shoved the documents back into the leather valise, threw it on the floor, and opened the car door.
“Stay in the vehicle, sir,” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “Please have your driving license ready for inspection.”
The passenger door of the police car opened and a large black man emerged in a round-brimmed felt hat. Keeping his right hand on his pistol holster, he walked up to the white VW.
Matt’s hand was shaking as he jabbed at the button which operated the window. “You woke me up, officer. I was trying to catch a few winks before continuing my drive.”
“That’s sensible of you. May I see your license, sir?” The trooper seemed relieved, if still somewhat suspicious. Every police officer in the country knew of incidents where policemen had been killed during routine traffic stops by lunatics or junkies.
“Stubbs, officer. William Stubbs. I’m coming home from a business meeting at the Greenbriar Hotel. Wanted to get home before my kids went off to school.” Matt dug into the wallet and handed the license through the window to the officer. “Don’t think I’ll make it though. I just had to stop and rest.” His hands shook.
Shining his large flashlight first on the license, then on Matt’s face, he stepped back and signaled to his partner that everything was okay. The other officer started up the police vehicle. Routinely passing his flashlight into the driver’s compartment and then over the back seat, the officer seemed satisfied. “Rest as long as you need to, Mr. Stubbs. And have a safe journey home.”
In a few moments the police cruiser pulled out of the overlook and headed back up the mountain. Matt slumped over the steering wheel while his entire body shook. Will the rest of my life be filled with lies? Racked with a fear he’d never experienced before, he turned on the ignition and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires squealing, he spun across the gravel and shot back onto the dark highway.
“Get a grip, Matthew – William,” he said to himself, trying to regulate his breathing. Over the next several minutes he forcefully willed himself to calm down. The speedometer fell from nearly 90 miles an hour down to just below the speed limit. The added oxygen relieved his anxiety and soon he was back in control. He settled in for the three-hour drive to Sweet Briar College.
As his brain cleared, it occurred to him that his captors probably decided to keep his disappearance quiet. They couldn’t risk exposure. Instead, whoever they were would probably come after him. And they had a huge advantage-they knew his face while he had no idea who they were. At least he had a head start.
Baltimore-Washington International Airport
Faint streaks of orange and gold exploded across the eastern horizon, chasing away the blackness but not the bitter cold. The silver Jaguar XJS slid into an empty space in the four-level parking garage in front of the Baltimore-Washington-International main terminal. The airport, built in 1950 and first named Friendship International, was modernized and enlarged in the 1970s to serve Washington, D.C., to the south and Baltimore to the north. As on any weekday morning, the parking complex was alive with business travelers scrambling out of their vehicles and heading for flights in the early morning darkness. No one would notice two men talking inside a car in the parking lot, especially since the entire level was now full. The long line of incoming cars kept climbing up the ramp to the levels above.
“It is good to see you again, my friend,” said Mohammed Al Nagib as the rear door opened and the tall man from the Jaguar settled down. They were nestled in the plush leather seats of a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A soundproof, tinted-glass barrier separated them from the chauffeur.
“You flatter yourself, Mr. Nagib. I am neither your friend, nor am I pleased to see you. The less we meet, the better, as far as I am concerned.” His guest was elegantly dressed in a black business suit. “Let’s make this quick. What problem is so great that we couldn’t talk on secure phone lines?”
“Actually, there is no problem, Mr. Fisher. On the contrary, everything is on schedule and running according to plan.”
“So why the urgent meeting?”
“There is an old passage from the Koran: ‘ Trust in God, but tie your camel.’ I just wanted to look you in the eyes and hear firsthand that you are still in position to get the information we need. Telephones are wonderful inventions, but nothing beats a direct, face-to-face conversation.” The Egyptian smiled.
“I am not amused, nor do I have all day.” William Fisher, director of Middle Eastern intelligence at the National Security Agency, glared in the gloomy interior.
“Of course,” Nagib sighed. “The fact is we’ve spent years carefully developing our contacts. I must be certain that you’ll be able to deliver us the right information before anyone else knows about it. We must know the President’s decision before it is made public. The future depends on it.”
“President Pierce has called a special meeting for today.” William Fisher was a member of the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East, along with Senator Mason Stevens, the director of the CIA, secretary of state, national security advisor, secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “He needs to decide on an official course of action in response to the suicide bombing attack and he’s running out of time. And the Israelis keep pressuring everyone for more arms, more money and more support against the Arabs. Senator Stevens seems to be firmly on their side. In every meeting he pushes forward their security issues.” Fisher looked around at the parked cars and the occasional hurrying traveler.
“But it won’t be much longer. Soon I should know what course of action the United States will pursue. As soon as I find out, you’ll know,” Fisher caught al Nagib’s eye. “Just remember our agreement-I’m counting on you to eliminate the Israeli bastard who led the raid that killed my wife. Now, unless you have any more stray camels that need tying, I must get to my office.”
“I do so look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.” Nagib murmered. William Fisher slammed the door and returned to his Jaguar.
The tinted barrier slowly descended and the liveried driver turned around. Demetrie Antonopolis took off his chauffeur hat, his long ponytail tumbling out. “I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I, Demetrie.” Nagib lit a Cuban cigar, his first of many for the day. “But I still feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a shallow man who acts only out of revenge. Because of his hatred and bitterness he is harmless. When this affair is over he will slink away into the darkness with his fat Swiss bank account.”
“So why feel sorry for him?”
“Because he will never find the peace he desperately seeks. Revenge never brings peace. There’s an ancient proverb: When a man goes for revenge, he must first dig two graves. Remember Demetrie the truly dangerous men are those who act with forethought and meticulous planning, driven by a vision and burning desire. Those who dream of a new future and are committed to pursue that vision are the ones to fear. Men like Fisher are simply pawns in a global chess game, and I control their every move.”
The elegant Rolls Royce exited the BWI parking garage. A non-descript grey vehicle positioned itself a safe distance behind.
Washington, D.C.
“Our practice has certainly picked up since you became personal physician to the President,” Dr. Margaret Khalid said. She was the only other physician in Dr. Noubar Melikian’s small medical practice. “Guess everyone is hoping they will hear the latest gossip about the President-or else they want bragging rights.” She studied the appointments listed on her computer screen.
“The good news is most of President Pierce’s medical issues are handled at Walter Reed Military Hospital. We’re just around for general checkups and the occasional bad fish dinner.” Dr. Melikian sat at his desk reviewing the same screen. “Remember to keep your evenings free whenever I’m invited to political or social dinners. You may have to stand in for me in case the President has a medical emergency.”
“So much for my personal life,” groaned the black-haired fifty-four-year-old. “It’s hard enough getting a date with a decent man in this town without having to spend most of my evenings sitting by the telephone waiting for the President to have indigestion or choke on a pretzel.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.” Dr. Melikian smiled, looking over at his associate. “I know it’s been hard starting over. In any other country in the world you’d be a senior medical officer and probably have a large staff of your own. That’s why I took you into my practice. You’re one of the most experienced GPs I’ve ever met. It was difficult for me as well coming from Switzerland and settling into the medical profession in the United States. My only advantage is I came here in my late twenties so I’ve had longer to get established. And I guess I got a few breaks along the way as well. I still thank my lucky stars that my father’s employer took such an interest in me and supported my education and career.”
Noubar Melikian walked over to where his associate was standing, a pile of patient files in her hands. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stand in for me anytime, even with the President. In fact, I’m going to send a letter to the White House making certain that if I’m not available, you’re my stand-in, no questions asked.”
“So I still have to sit by the telephone, only this time it’s official,” she grinned. “Why don’t you find me a husband instead? Preferably one with tons of money in the bank so I never have to work again.” They both laughed. “In the meantime I guess we’d better get our schedules coordinated and attack another busy day.”
Life had been doubly hectic for Dr. Melikian following his appointment as personal physician to the President of the United States; with security checks, briefings on protocol, training on how to respond to the press, and additional training to cover possible biological or chemical attacks. To make matters worse he was now at the top of every Washington socialite’s list for dinner parties and social functions. Not that it wasn’t exciting or flattering. But at his age he wouldn’t have minded a few quiet evenings reading.
“Who will you be rubbing shoulders with this month?” Maggie asked.
After a few strokes on the keyboard, Dr. Melikian’s HP printer creaked to life. “Here it is, the complete social life of the personal physician to the President of the United States.” He frowned and handed her a two-page printout. She scanned the pages with exaggerated awe.
“Enough of this foolishness. We’ve got patients to look after-and another Secret Service security check of our offices.” Noubar Melikian stood up and walked out of the office.
The Oval Office
“Welcome, Mason.” President Pierce waved him to join the others around the antique coffee table in front of the fireplace. “Coffee? There’s sugar over there.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Everyone knows the best coffee in Washington is served in the Oval Office. But it always comes with a high price tag.” Muffled chuckling broke out among the small group, all members of the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East.
“I think you can afford it,” Pierce responded. As chairman of the powerful Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and one of the longest-serving US senators, Mason T. Stevens had assembled a massive war chest, which he spent freely during his re-election bids every six years. For a hefty campaign donation businesses with ties to Virginia could get Senator Stevens’ solid backing for their interests. And his backing meant big bucks in government contracts.
“My family send their condolences, Senator,” the President remarked, turning serious.
“Yes, we all send our condolences,” echoed General Ernie Reese, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “How’s your wife?”
“Thank you, gentlemen. We’re doing as well as can be expected. God moves in mysterious ways.”
An awkward silence filled the room. The President broke it. “Yes, well, I’ve asked you here this morning to get all the options out in the open, and your personal views, concerning our official response to the terrorist menace. It’s time we laid out our position to the American people and the world. We’ll meet every Tuesday and Thursday morning tackling this damn situation until we come up with some viable solutions. Here’s the main problem: the public seems to be evenly split on the issue. It would be easier if there was a solid majority opinion one way or the other.”
The individuals seated around the table nodded. Senator Stevens continued to sip his coffee, watching the others closely.
The President continued. “However, this situation may also be to our advantage. With the polls evenly split, once we decide a course of action we can engage in a little positive propaganda to build up support for our position. At least we won’t have to overcome overwhelming opposition. Your thoughts?”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, there’s only one course of action,” General Reese said. “Bomb the hell out of the sonsofbitches and cut the balls off any left alive. These fanatics don’t play by any rules other than the murder of innocent people. We’d better take care of them quick before someone gets his hands on a nuclear or biological bomb and uses it.”
“In this instance,” said Senator Stevens, gently returning his coffee cup to its matching saucer, “I happen to agree fully with General Reese. The time for a peaceful approach has long passed. Europe has given in to the demands of terrorists for so long they’re practically a legitimate special interest group now. And they all have UK passports. No, the world’s been too soft on these maniacs. The only option left is massive and deadly force. Somebody has to start making terrorism severely unattractive as a political option.” He looked at the others, flashing his practiced smile.
“And thanks to the dedicated work of the NSA and CIA, we now have ample intelligence concerning the whereabouts of certain senior terrorist leaders as well as major training camps. This information, gathered at great expense and unfortunate loss of life, won’t be current forever. We need to strike now.”
Director of the CIA Terry Finch, a man of few words whose organization had benefited over the past several years from the vociferous support of Senator Stevens and his intelligence committee, nodded in agreement. A brilliant academician and former professor of international policy at Harvard University, Dr. Finch administered the CIA as if it were a government think tank. “Mason’s right. I’m not certain how long this intelligence will remain current, but it’s high quality at the present time.”
“Senator Stevens and the military-industrial complex are very persuasive,” said Secretary of State Nathan Vance, a long time senior statesman and former U.S. ambassador to the UN, “and I do agree that the world has been far too soft on terrorism. Every two-bit fanatic with a political or religious grievance now sees terrorism as a legitimate way of getting the world to take notice. Unfortunately, we’re no longer dealing with small-time fanatics. September 11 has proven just how organized and deadly this game has become. Nonetheless, I don’t believe direct attacks or all-out war will solve the problem.”
“So what are your thoughts, Nathan?” the President asked. “And don’t hold back.”
Vance colored a little. “Well, I’ve been traveling constantly for the past several months since the suicide attack, talking face to face with all the major foreign leaders. Most don’t have the stomach or the support at home for a full-scale war on terrorism. And those in the Middle East, I must tell you, are still extremely sympathetic to the issues of Palestinian statehood and curtailing Israeli expansion. Besides, most of our European allies are getting pretty fed up with Israel. It’s universally understood that if it weren’t for massive U.S. aid Israel would be forced to get along with their neighbors or perish.”
“What are you driving at, Nathan?” Pierce said.
“Simply put, direct war won’t work. Overt attacks and massive use of force will only intensify the terrorists’ resolve and lead to increased reprisal attacks. By waging direct war we’ll be inadvertently creating more terrorists and alienating the entire Muslim world.” Vance looked around at the Task Force members. Several gave him cold looks. He pressed on. “It’s like trying to fight the Hydra-cut off one head, and three more grow back to take its place. Anyway, it’s been proven that we can’t fully defend ourselves against terrorists. No matter how much we spend on homeland defense, they still slip through.”
“And what is your solution?”
“We’ve got to figure out a way to recognize Palestine as a legitimate country and tone down the Israelis. At the same time we need to make it perfectly clear to the terrorists that we aren’t giving in to them. We need some leverage to get all the parties to move in the direction of a lasting and peaceful solution. But I’m not sure yet what that leverage is.” The secretary of state looked sallow and tired from his marathon travels. “But a solution should surface if we continue open dialogue with the Arab nations and our allies.”
“If I may add to that point, Mr. President?” National Security Advisor Caroline Black interjected cautiously. “Women in this country and around the world are beginning to protest in massive numbers against terrorism and global unrest. Their collective voice is becoming louder and louder. The graphic television footage of the death of a female suicide bomber on American soil has galvanized them. They’re tired of seeing women used as tools for terrorists.”
“For Christ’s sake.” exclaimed Senator Stevens, his face reddening. “I can’t believe the drivel I’m hearing. Who gives a damn if it’s a man, a woman, or a dog that carried the bomb? The fact is, little lady, this is war. We didn’t start it, but by God we’re in the middle of it and we have to respond. NOW!”
The senator stood up, spreading his arms for effect. “Let me remind you all of the facts: The beginning of this whole mess was the hijacking of an El Al airliner on July 22, 1968. The hostages were released in exchange for sixteen Arab prisoners held in Israeli jails. The hijackers were also released. I’d say that was a successful operation. So success spawned repetition. And…”
“We know the history, Senator,” sighed Nathan Vance.
“Seems to me you need a reminder. Between 1968 and 1975, there were 204 terrorists arrested after hijackings and other attacks, and every one of the bastards was eventually released. Even those involved in the murders of the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics, thanks to the sniveling German government. Not surprisingly the rate and intensity of terrorist attacks and the death toll has continued to rise. In 1985 a TWA airliner was hijacked and flown to Beirut; an American passenger murdered and his body dumped onto the tarmac. And then there was poor Leon Klinghoffer, the man in the wheelchair killed by terrorists aboard the cruise ship Achille Lauro. And again the terrorists were released. Are you getting the picture here?”
Stevens was yelling now. “At least three terrorists have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and several have received honorary degrees from leading American universities. How’s that for legitimizing terrorism?”
Senator Mason Stevens sat down, his voice calmer. “The message is very clear. If you believe strongly enough in your cause and kill civilians in cold blood, then you must be justified and we should understand your position. Bullshit. The only possible solution is just the opposite. The United States of America must make it clear that if anyone resorts to terrorism to promote their cause, not only will their cause be hindered but they will be hunted down and killed.”
“But all that changed after September 11,” protested National Security Advisor Black. “They went too far. Now the majority of the world condemns acts of terrorism.”
“That’s just political rhetoric to placate us,” Stevens snapped. “We have evidence of terrorist buildups in the Sudan and Malaysia, and of terrorist leaders freely walking around in France and Italy. They all have second homes in London for christsake! Meanwhile, Hezbollah training camps flourish in the jungle where Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay intersect. And they are well funded, pumping out hundreds of assassins and suicide bombers every month. We suspect that the Arab woman who attacked the President came from one of those camps. Look, we have the targets and we know which countries are supporting and funding these bastards. The time to strike is now.” Meaty hands gripped the arms of his chair.
“The problem with suicide bombers,” CIA Director Finch said softly, “is that the threat of retaliation against them is useless. They’re already dead.” He pulled his pipe out, ceremoniously tamped down the tobacco, and looked at the President, who nodded his approval. With a sleek silver lighter Finch took a few long puffs.
“However,” he resumed, waving his hand through the smoke, “there is one way to dramatically reduce the number of individuals willing to become suicide bombers. And that is by retaliating with massive prejudice against their families. Many families of suicide bombers become minor celebrities in their countries. They receive sizeable amounts of money from the terrorist organizations as remuneration for the loss of their sons and daughters. It’s very simple. We can send a powerful, clear-cut message to the terrorist community: Become a suicide bomber and we kill your entire family.”
A stunned silence fell over the Oval Office.
“But that’s immoral.” Carrie Black protested, dumbfounded. “And illegal.”
“Tell that to the families of the people buried under the rubble of the Twin Towers,” Senator Stevens said in an acrid tone. “This is war. Why should we play by the rules when they don’t? Now you are talking sense, Dr. Finch. I like that.”
“But the U.N. would totally condemn us.”
The senator looked at her, his voice cold with disgust. “Are you referring to that same stellar organization that appointed Libya as the head of the Human Rights Council? What kind of a farce is that? The U.N. is so mired in politics its members can’t even take a piss without a resolution.”
“What do you think, Will?” President Pierce turned to the NSA director of Middle Eastern intelligence. William Fisher adjusted his tie, getting his thoughts together. The Task Force, with its polar opposite views was difficult for him to navigate safely.
“As you all know, I’ve lived in the Middle East for years,” Fisher began. He sat, on the small sofa next to Carrie Black and took some comfort from her presence. “On the whole the Arab people are pretty much like everyone else. They don’t like war any more than the rest of us. However they’ve been backed into a corner on this Palestinian issue by their religious leaders. They don’t like the Palestinians any more than the Israelis do, but it’s become a Catch-22 for them. Supporting Palestine is the only way to save face. The radical clerics are the ones we should really be worrying about. They not only stir the pot, they finance, recruit and harbor the terrorists. Our organization is monitoring several of these right-wing clerics who preach out of mosques in London, Kuala Lumpur, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, France and Lebanon. If it were possible to neutralize them most of the direct connections to the terrorists would be severed.” He looked at the President, who stared back, his face blank.
Fisher continued. “We’re also monitoring a remarkable surge of terrorist recruitment in Southeast Asia. As you know there are 250 million Muslims in that region, and they’re even less predictable than the Arab Muslims. Unless we put an end to being soft on terrorism, I’m afraid we’re going to have to do battle there as well.”
“So you support the retaliation approach outlined by Senator Stevens and Dr. Finch?” said Pierce.
“On this issue, we agree, Mr. President,” replied Fisher, conscious of Carrie Black’s cold look.
“And what about you, Ron?” Pierce said, addressing Secretary of Defense Ronald Burns.
“Mr. President, we’ve got the greatest military force in the history of the world, and if it comes to war, we’ll throw everything we’ve got into it. But I’m not certain we’re ready for an all-out war against an enemy that’s so elusive, so fluid, and spread all over the globe. I’d be happier if we had more allies willing to step up to bat and commit their troops and technology. But the fact is, the Europeans are hiding in the corners, and Britain, our only ready ally, doesn’t have all that much international muscle.”
The secretary of defense paused, casting about for the right words. “In principle, I agree with Senator Stevens and General Reese, but I just don’t know how we can pull it off and still defend our own soil at the same time. I know I should be the guy waving the flag and charging up the hill, but I’m inclined to agree with Secretary of State Vance. We’ve got to find more ways to exert influence on the Arab countries, and Israel as well.”
Abruptly, President Pierce stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, and Ms. Black,” he added, nodding toward the national security advisor. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll be in touch with each of you privately for further input. We’ll meet again on Thursday, same time. I’d like each of you to work out your best and worst case scenarios for our next meeting.”
As the members of the Special Task Force gathered their papers and headed out, President Pierce asked Carrie Black to stay behind for a few moments.
“So what’s eating you?” he asked, as soon as the door was closed.
“Do you really trust these guys, Mr. President?” Black said. “It’s as if everyone has multiple hidden agendas.” She sighed, plunking herself down on the sofa. “Frankly, I get tired of trying to figure out who is doing what to whom and why.”
“Let me tell you something, Carrie,” Pierce said, sipping his now cold coffee. “I learned a valuable lesson when I was eighteen. My father sent me for the summer to work on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. My job was to break the wild mustangs. Some days I swear they almost broke me instead. One of my daddy’s favorite sayings was, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. During my time there I worked with an old Mexican vaquero about four feet tall with no teeth. He was the foreman of the operation. He didn’t speak English and my Spanish was pretty basic, but somehow we communicated. It was he and the horses who taught me about trust.
He smiled at her. “I trust everyone and no one, Carrie. Oh, I’m prepared to listen to anyone, but I never believe what they say, at least not fully. The truth, like fine wine, country music and a good-looking woman, is a matter of opinion. I’ve found listening to be the best policy for gathering input. But I prefer to decide for myself what is the truth and just whom to trust.” He took another sip of coffee. “Mason was right. It needs warming up, but we do have the best coffee in Washington.”
“I prefer decaf,” she said.
“I’ll make a note of that for our next meeting. Anyway, as a general rule in politics, and you may want to remember this, I’ve found it doesn’t pay to trust the newcomers or the old timers. The newcomers are too easily swayed and haven’t yet formed their own opinions. They are much too eager to kiss ass and get reelected or reappointed. As for the old timers, the fact that they’ve survived in Washington for any length of time means they’ve sold their soul to the highest bidder, or bidders. It’s the mid-career politicians I find most trustworthy. They’ve weathered the freshman temptations of corruption and bribery but haven’t been around long enough to be totally owned by special interests.” The President stood up and turned to stare out the window. With spring still to come the Rose Garden looked bleak and desolate, the thorny bushes severely trimmed.
“And what about Senator Stevens?”
“If you follow my rule the senior senator from the great State of Virginia is definitely not to be trusted. To flourish on the Hill as long as he has means he must be pretty deep in someone’s pocketbook and he probably has a blackmail dossier on nearly every politician of any importance. Including you and me.”
The President turned back to face her. “But what I can’t figure out about Senator Stevens is how he’s able to get hold of such current intelligence on the terrorists. Everyone knows the American intelligence community is still organized for a cold war. It’s going to take them another ten years to fully adjust to the realities of terrorism and the new world order.” President Pierce shook his head, wondering how the United States of America had made it this far without being decimated from the inside out. “It’s the mountain of information he has at his fingertips that I don’t trust. If I were a betting man I’d say he’s been bought by a very powerful interest. The question is which one?”
Caroline Black gathered her briefing papers and with an approving nod from the President headed for the door. With her hand on the doorknob, she asked, “And what about me, Mr. President?”
“Well, you fall into the newcomer category, Carrie. If you ever graduate I’ll let you know.” President Pierce sat down behind his desk and watched the door close behind her.
A small door on the left side of the Oval Office opened. “Come in Karl. Did you hear the proceedings this morning?”
“Yes Mr. President. Very interesting.”
“I only have a few moments. What have you got?”
“Just a few thoughts on your dilemma. May I continue?”
President Pierce switched on his intercom. “Hold my next appointment for a few moments, will you, Miriam?”
The Hart Senate Office Building
“He’s beginning to waver.” Senator Stevens spoke into his private cell phone. “Now he’s trying to decide which path to choose. And he’s actually listening to input from all sides for Christ sakes.”
“Is that all you have to report?” The voice at the other end was synthesized and scrambled. “I wish you had more information for me because we have a major problem.”
“Now what?” Stevens sat down in his armchair. “You people always create problems and then blame the world for not helping you out.”
“He escaped from the hospital sometime in the early morning.”
“Escaped? Shit. Well, it’s your problem. My job was to bring you the doctor for a change of identity so you could use him to track down his old Beirut friends and the terrorist cell. I did my job and quite frankly I couldn’t care less if you’ve gone and messed up your job.”
“But he could draw attention to us, and ultimately to you.”
“Then put out an alert to the police. After all, he has the face of a known assassin.”
“And when they find him and he divulges his true identity?” the voice said. “Someone is certain to start an investigation. And the terrorist cell may accelerate their timetable before we find out who they are. No, we’ll find him quickly, and if we can’t capture him then we’ll eliminate him. In the meantime my people will track down all the American students at AUB that year and put pressure on them. One of them must know something about these terrorists.”
“If you’re going to hunt him down, use some of the money we keep lavishing on you people and hire real professionals. I don’t want you implicated. If anyone finds out about your activities on American soil it might tip the opinion polls the wrong way.” Senator Stevens paused, hearing only silence in his receiver. “Are you still there? Have you fainted or just shit in your pants?”
“I’m still here, Senator. I was just thinking about what this little incident might do to your illustrious career…”
“Don’t threaten me, you bastard. Go find your lost doctor.” He clicked his cell phone shut and tossed in onto the sofa. Muttering, he returned to his desk. “They’re all the same. Too much religion and definitely too much inbreeding.”