Sweet Briar College
The brick buildings and grounds looked the same. So did the coeds walking to class in the cold air, or sharing cigarettes in the parking lot next to the library. Everything seemed the same, except him. Not only did he have the face of someone else, he was no longer a part of this place. Professor Matthew Richards was dead.
Was it foolish to come back? Wasn’t this the first place his pursuers would look? He needed that diary. The one Samir helped him buy that day in the bazaar. If there’s any hope of making sense of what was happening he’d have to recall his experiences in Beirut. The problem was, his memory was a bit foggy about that period. Actually, his memory was a bit foggy about nearly everything. But then that was the purpose for making Scotch one’s sole liquid intake. Dull the memories and pain of the past, present and future.
Matt calculated it had been six or seven weeks since he’d had a drink. He had to admit he did feel better physically. Hadn’t felt so light and energetic, except maybe in his teens when his body was hard and his hormones were on the rampage. Youth is definitely wasted on the young. Matt parked the stolen car at the far end of the faculty parking lot and cautiously headed for the Admin Building.
“May I help you, sir?” An attractive young student looked up from behind the counter in the faculty office. He recognized her immediately. One of his senior biology students, a bright African-American who studied hard and held down several jobs on campus. Sweet Briar College attracted two types of young women: the daughters of the rich and famous for whom money was no object, and bright students from middle- and lower-income families who helped defray the $26,000 tuition through scholarships. Even though she had a scholarship, this student still had to work.
Her “sir” caught him in mid-stride. He forgot he was a stranger. Would he ever get used to being himself on the inside and someone else on the outside? “Actually, yes. My name is William Stubbs. I’m Dr. Matthew Richards’s cousin. Is there someone I can speak to about picking up his personal effects?”
The student’s eyes registered sorrow. “I’ll go get Ms. Parsons, the assistant dean of faculty affairs. Please have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
Wonder who they got to take over my classes? Matt sat and fidgeted in the chair. As the seconds ticked by he grew more and more uncomfortable. How soon before they started looking for him? He shouldn’t have come back.
“Hello, Mr. Stubbs? My name is Fiona Parsons, assistant dean of faculty affairs. Sara tells me you were inquiring about Professor Richards?” She was a slightly overweight woman whom Matt had met once before, at the infamous faculty party where he drank more than usual and tried to French kiss the college President.
“Yes.” Matt stood and shook hands. “I’m Bill Stubbs, Matthew’s cousin. His father, Dr. Wilson Richards, is away in South America and asked me to collect Matt’s personal effects. I have some identification if you need it,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Stubbs. I’m sorry to tell you this, but-but just a few days after Professor Richards’s accident, the faculty house he lived in caught fire and burned down. We’ve been unsuccessful at reaching his next of kin. I don’t enjoy being the bearer of bad news. I’m certain there were mementos and personal effects his family would have wanted. Professor Richards was an unusual man, so… so full of life, shall we say?”
They’re way ahead of me. Someone had burgled his residence and burned it down to destroy any possible evidence. He tried to remain calm. “What about his office here on campus?” Matt smiled, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “Maybe he kept some personal effects there?”
“Why yes. Some of the students helped pack up his books and papers. A few pictures, boots, umbrellas, cardboard boxes, that sort of thing. They’re stored over at the campus maintenance shed. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming over. Shall I say right away?” she asked, picking up the phone.
Matt nodded. Just books, umbrellas and boots? He tried to recall what had been stored in his office. There was a chance one of the boxes contained the diary. He had to look. Ms. Parsons put down the phone, Matt thanked her and turned toward the door.
“Don’t you want directions, Mr. Stubbs?”
“I think I can find it. Thanks for your help. I’ll just load up the car and be on my way.” He quickly exited the small building.
“That whole family is weird,” remarked the dean as she returned to her office.
Matt moved quickly along the tree-lined asphalt road toward the maintenance shed. The brick and corrugated iron building was located at the rear of the campus. Snow still lay in piles over much of the campus. Bare branches of maple and elm trees defined themselves against the slate sky. “Bizarre,” he muttered to himself, raising the collar of his coat-the other guy’s coat. Not only did he not recognize himself in the mirror, now he was a stranger on a college campus where just a few weeks before he was recognized by everyone.
Can’t people see beyond the face!
He passed several students. They kept their heads down against the wind. As he approached the senior bench he spotted a woman. He’d never seen her on campus before, but she looked familiar. Tall and attractive, she was deep in conversation with one of the women teachers from the biology department.
Then he remembered. The outspoken reporter from the International Herald Tribune, the reception for Dr. Melikian. This time her auburn hair was flowing around her shoulders, not piled up on top of her head. He recognized her athletic figure, confident gait, prominent nose, and light-olive skin. Caution tightened his gut. What is she doing here?
The two women, deep in conversation, drifted across the large open quadrangle that formed the center of the campus. Matt followed. When they arrived at the library building, the women shook hands and the biology teacher disappeared inside.
Matt took the calculated risk and approached the reporter. “This is a strange coincidence,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t I see you at the reception for Dr. Melikian several weeks ago? I’m William Stubbs, Dr. Matt Richards’s cousin. I’ve come to collect his belongings.” Matt stuck out his hand, which she took and shook lightly. She stepped back for a good look at him in the morning light. “So what brings you to Sweet Briar, Ms…? I’m sorry, I recognize the face, but not the name.”
“Delacluse. Nicole Delacluse from the International Herald Tribune . Did you say you were Dr. Richards’s cousin?” She stared at him closely, reporter’s instincts in play.
Can she really see me? “Yes. Matthew’s father, Dr. Wilson Richards is in South America and asked me to come when I could to collect his personal effects. But not much is left. Seems his house burned down just after the accident.”
Matt decided to press his her. “And what are you doing here? Not much international news in a little out-of-the-way woman’s college is there?”
Her eyes stayed on him, burrowing deeper. “What say we move out of this cold wind and get some hot chocolate at the campus bistro? Or would you like something stronger?”
“Lead the way,” said Matt, checking Stubbs’ watch. It was mid-morning. Plenty of time before the maintenance shed closed for lunch, and he was curious about what this reporter was up to.
In the bistro, Nicole Delacluse continued to study him. “There’s something about you I can’t quite figure out,” she said after a long silence, then shook off the thought and took a sip from the piping hot mug.
“You were at that reception for Dr. Melikian, weren’t you?” Matt said.
“Hell yeah, I was at the reception-in fact, I saw your cousin, who happened to be drunk as a skunk, being dutifully escorted out by the Marines. Seems he fired a big roundhouse hook into Senator Mason Stevens’ fat face. I think he busted several teeth and broke his nose was well. There was blood everywhere.”
She grinned, then caught herself. “Hey, no offense-I’m sorry about your cousin…”
“Yeah, well, he was on a collision course-it was just a matter of time.”
She studied him again. “Anyway, I had a hunch there was a story brewing so I took a few pictures with my mini-digital camera. Nice photos of the unconscious senator. Then I headed for the front driveway.” She sipped her hot chocolate, still staring at Matt. “I saw Dr. Matthews with Senator Stevens’ buxom daughter. The good doctor was being strapped into the passenger seat of her Porsche. He was so drunk he passed out as soon as he hit the bucket seat. The parking attendant had to fasten his seat belt. I got a picture of that too.” The hot chocolate was rich and frothy and comforting. She cupped the mug in both hands. “This is nice. And the chocolate as well.”
“Yeah, nice against the cold,” Matt said. “As I said, he was on a collision course with life. It seems you think he was a bit of an asshole?”
“No, I only met him briefly at the reception. But from what I’ve heard here on campus he was a tortured soul-as well as quite a rascal.”
“And just why are you poking around asking questions about my cousin?”
“Well, first of all, the feds, or whoever they were, confiscated my camera. They told me it was a matter of national security. To which I replied with a very loud Bullshit. Then I read the report in the Washington Post the next day about the accident. It stated that Dr. Richards was driving. But that’s impossible. He was passed out in the passenger seat. No one could recover that quickly and drive.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then when I told my boss at the Tribune about all this, he told me to drop it. He said it was old news and to stay away from the Richards affair.” She shrugged..
“And it looks like you did exactly as you were told.” He couldn’t keep from grinning.
“No one tells me what I can and can’t investigate.” she said, her eyes hot. “I follow my instincts. And there’s something wrong about this whole affair. So I came to Sweet Briar to talk to a few of the teachers and students about the notorious Dr. Richards.”
“Find anything?”
“Not much. Your cousin was a drunk and a womanizer. He was having a heated affair with one of his students, who just happened to be Senator Stevens’ daughter. And she was a pothead, and a frequent cocaine user as well. She even supplied some of the girls in her dorm. Word is, she couldn’t function without a hit at least every 30 minutes. So what about you, Mr. Stubbs? Did you find any of your cousin’s things?”
Matt felt an anger. Kelly was buxom, so what? She took a hit now and then, so what? Just like him, Kelly had her demons but she was basically a good person. His messed-up life suddenly came rushing back at him. “Nothing left of the burned-out house,” he said. “But he did keep some personal effects in his office at the biology department. They were packed up and stored in the maintenance shed. I was just on my way there when I ran into you. Care to join me?”
Matt realized this woman reporter was both professional and tenacious. She knew he hadn’t been driving the car; she was smart. He needed someone on his side. He felt incredibly alone at the moment, and ruthless men were after him. I need to trust someone.
“Join you? Only if you pick up the tab,” she replied. “I never go to second base with a man who doesn’t pay the check.” They walked out of the warm bistro into the chilly air and headed for the maintenance shed.
“You certainly know your way around,” said Nicole, pulling up the hood of her quilted parka against the wind. She took in his rather thin jacket.
“They gave me directions in the Faculty office,” Matt said. He walked briskly to stay warm. This would be his last visit to the beautiful Sweet Briar College campus. Yet his mind was screaming it was time to leave, to get out of there while it was still safe.
An hour and a half later, they approached the faculty parking lot. Nicole had been giving him odd looks ever since they left the maintenance shed. “Okay,” she said, firmly grabbing Matt’s arm. “What the hell is going on? You said you came for Dr. Richards’ belongings, yet all you did was rummage through a few boxes and take an old leather journal. Who are you and what are you really after?”
Matt yanked his arm away. “Still working for the Tribune?”
“No. I’m on my own. I tried to get Dr. Richard’s death out of my mind and couldn’t, so I went to my editor and told him I wanted to investigate the Richards’s affair. He said no. I said yes. He said hell no. I said hell yes and told him to go fuck himself.”
“And?”
“He shit-canned me.”
“Do you always talk like a sailor?”
“Only when I’m drunk or angry. And I’m still pissed off at that SOB for sacking me.” She grinned sheepishly, cheeks colored in the cold wind. “So here I am investigating on my own. But I’m open for a good partnership. Assuming you level with me first.”
They resumed their walk and by the time they reached the VW Passat Matt had made his decision. His whole adult life had been a twisted tangle of drunken lies. It was time for a change. Matt stopped.
“What is it?” Nicole asked.
“I’m wondering two things: if you can stand the truth and how you just might have a terrific story – if it’s ever allowed in print.”
“Meaning what?”
“Okay. First, I’m trusting you with the truth.”
“I’m waiting. Spit it out.”
“I’m Matt Richards. And you’re right. I wasn’t driving that night, Kelly Stevens was.”
Her eyes narrowed in the cold air. “Bullshit. Go turn yourself in to some clinic. You may be nice, but you definitely need help.”
What can I say? Matt looked straight at her, wondering how to convince her. He smiled weakly.
“Something…” Nicole said, a professional gaze cutting into him.
“What? Something?”
“You’re not crazy. Something’s going on.”
Matt smiled and let out a long sigh. “Thank Christ for good reporter’s instincts.”
“So talk. The news reported Dr. Richards dead. It made the front page of the Washington papers and all the television stations-they even held a funeral.” She paused. “You don’t even look like him. Although I must admit, there is something familiar about you. But you’re definitely not Matthew Richards. So who are you and what’s going on?”
“Give me your hands. Come on, trust me. Give me your hands.”
Her hands were tense in his, ready to pull free. Slowly he directed them to the stitches under the hairline. “Feel the scars?”
As dispassionately as he could Matt told her what happened after he hit Senator Stevens. Everything from the car chase to waking up with a new face at the Blue Ridge Clinic. He took his hands from hers, watching the concentration in her eyes. Her fingertips were delicate. “You might recall my voice,” Matt said.
“Shut up.” She shook. “You were drunk that night. You spoke differently, if it was you.” The hands moved, fingertips now softly probing the scars around his hairline.
“Well?”
“It’s not your voice. Your eyes.”
“You remember my eyes?”
“I do believe you, weird as it sounds.” She lowered her hands. They still shook. “How did you get here?”
“I escaped late last night. I came back to Sweet Briar to find my old diary from when I was at college in Beirut.”
“What about the car that was forcing you off the road?”
Matt winced. “We braked hard and sent them over the edge and into the river. I assume they drowned.”
“Funny, there was no mention of any other car crash that evening in the police report. I got a hold of the police file on the accident.”
“Looks like they fixed that, like they fixed the phony accident.”
She shook her head. “Things certainly aren’t adding up. I’m still having a hard time believing the full facial transplant.”
Matt sucked in the cold air and looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention to them. “Well, I’m a doctor, or at least I was once. It’s a highly experimental procedure not yet perfected in the U.S. but the work is first class. Dr. Weissman said he was brought to the clinic so he could finish his transplant research. Somehow the bastards decided on me as a guinea pig.”
“Can I touch it again?” She traced her fingertips along the jaw line, around the hairline and the neck. “Yeah…”
“What?” Matt pulled back.
“Faint, but I can feel the scar tissue underneath. God, this is like a Frankenstein movie.”
“It gets worse. The face belongs to an international assassin, a contract killer. He worked for numerous governments till he fell out with one of them. I don’t know what’s happening yet I’ve got the face of a known assassin. Not a long life expectancy I’d say.” Matt turned towards the car. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys.
Nicole put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Look… Matt? Are you all right? I do want to help. And I do believe you.”
“At first I was a little unsteady from the drugs they were giving me, but that’s all cleared up-and I’m off the booze. In fact, I feel better than I have in years, though I’m not so sure I like this face.”
“It’s a funny thing, but when I met you briefly at the reception for Dr. Melikian, I instantly noticed your eyes, how light blue they were. To be honest I kind of fancied you, but then I saw you were, how should I say, attached?”
“That wasn’t one of my better evenings, and as you know it got a lot worse.”
“When you came up to me this morning in the campus yard the first thing I noticed was your eyes. I recalled the enchanting eyes, but the face didn’t match. It’s amazing, I thought face transplants were something out of science fiction. But it looks perfect. Quite swarthy and equally handsome as before.”
“Anyway,” Matt shrugged, “it’s mine now. But I came back to find my diary and here it is. Maybe it contains some details that will lead to this terrorist group before they strike again. If they even exist.”
Nicole watched him.
“In or out, Nicole?”
“In. I’m in. Definitely.”
“A great freelance story if we come through it alive.”
“Don’t patronize me, Matthew Richards.” She glared at him. “You’ve got yourself a partner, not a tag along bimbo.”
Matt unlocked the car door.
Loud voices rang out. A group of students dodged between the parked cars, chasing each other, laughing in the bright cold air. They both relaxed.
“Shit, if we’re late again for class the witch will kill us,” one of them squealed, dashing past Matt and Nicole, who flattened themselves against the car door to let her by. Matt reached for the door handle.
Blood splattered across the hood of the Passat. What the hell? The window exploded. Shards of glass flew in every direction, nicking the left side of Nicole’s face. The dead weight of the young student crashed onto the hood of the car. Nicole pulled Matt to the asphalt. No sooner had they hit the ground than they heard sharp pings ricocheting off the metal door frame where Matt’s head had just been. A sniper.
The young coed lay on the ground next to them, her neck gushing blood. The other girls screamed. Nicole grabbed the journal off the pavement and pulled Matt around to the other side of the car.
“We’re getting out of here,” she yelled over the screaming. “There’s a sniper out there trying to kill you. Follow me and run for your life.” Then she was up and away, sprinting and zigzagging behind parked cars toward a small wooded ravine at the edge of the parking lot. Several windshields exploded behind her.
Matt stayed put, his medical training kicking in. He crawled around the car toward the young woman, intent on checking her pulse. His heart sank. He yelled at the others to lie down, Only then did he sprint after Nicole, doubling over as he ran. In less than a minute they were both at the bottom of the ravine.
“Okay, Professor,” she said, breathing hard, “this is your campus-which way out?”
Matt got his bearings. “There’s faculty housing at the end of this ravine. Come on.” he jumped up and ran at a full sprint.
Had the sniper moved to another location? We can’t outrun a bullet. He stumbled over the frozen ground, suddenly weak. He looked around. How much longer before they get a clear shot and end his miserable life? If not today, then tomorrow, next week, or next month?
Well, maybe he could do a little damage before they blew his head off. The big problem was, he really didn’t know who they were. The best plan so far was to find a connection to the terrorist cell through his old Beirut friends. If I can locate them.
Minutes later, winded and cold, his legs shaking from exhaustion, Matt emerged from the ravine and stepped into the backyard of a small wooden house. His foot slipped on a patch of melting snow. He crashed onto the frozen lawn. Nicole, close behind and not breathing nearly as heavily, helped him to his feet. They scrambled up to the back door. “Stay here,” Matt whispered as he glanced around nervously. “I’ll only be a moment.” He slipped inside.
The house belonged to a faculty friend and Scotch drinking buddy. He knew the layout well and when he entered the kitchen a sense of relief flooded his senses. Hanging from a familiar nail in the wall were the keys to a battered Jeep Cherokee.
Two minutes later, Matt and Nicole were bouncing along a snowy track on the far side of the Sweet Briar campus. “This is a service road that comes out next to the Briar Patch Bar, near the town of Amherst.”
“Do you know all the bars around here?”
“That’s a low blow. I thought we were partners.”
“You asked if I could stomach the truth. Well, what about you?”
“It’s a bar the students and some horny faculty often frequent. It’s also right near the highway. I vote we head for the Charlottesville airport, leave the car, pick up a rental and get the hell out of this area.”
Nicole remained silent.
“Are you okay?”
“After shock, I guess. I’ll be fine.”
Matt glanced at her. “Hey, partner, you were pretty great back there. You sprang into action.” He paused. “Thanks for saving my life. I guess I froze.”
“To be honest, I was scared out of my wits. But I’ve covered conflicts and been caught in crossfire before, so I just reacted. Self-preservation is my middle name. But I got the journal,” she said, brandishing the leather volume. “What about that young woman?”
“Dead. The bullet must have passed through her neck, severing the carotid artery before it shattered the car window. Jesus Christ. Those bastards. They can’t just kill innocent people like that.”
“Look, Dr. Richards,” Nicole said, examining a torn fingernail. “Sweet Briar College is definitely not the real world. The world is a fucking jungle these days. Teenagers high on crack shooting their friends, corporate greed, political upheaval, state-sponsored terrorism, third-rate countries with nuclear arsenals, and the Middle East pushing everyone towards global war. Terrorists kill innocent people all the time and get away with it. And I’ll tell you this, whoever they are they must have a lot to lose.” Silence filled the interior of the Jeep, broken only by the mushy hum of the tires. Soon they were on US 29, heading north in the direction of Charlottesville.
“If we rent a Hertz car at the airport,” Nicole said, “I can use my corporate card from the newspaper. They won’t mind. Besides, if we live through this, it’ll be one hell of a story and they’ll probably make me managing editor.” She paused. “From Charlottesville we can drive to Washington. I know an ex-CIA guy who will help us. He’s retired. Got eased out about fifteen years ago during another round of budget cuts. Been doing freelance work ever since. And believe it or not, I trust him.”
“Is that an order or a suggestion?” Matt replied. Nicole punched him in the arm and slunk down into the passenger seat, warmed by the blasting heater.
“Nicole?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Look, I…”
“No, I mean it. For being smart on your feet and keeping us alive back there. But mainly for believing me.” He looked ahead as the Jeep sped down the highway.
“I do believe you, Matt. Frankly, I wish I were covering a local garden festival. Definitely safer. But I do want to help.”
“And another thing.”
“What?”
“I need you.”
Nicole smiled. “I don’t know. You escaped from that clinic, stole a car and made it back to Sweet Briar. Looks like you can manage quite well on your own.”
Matt shook his head. “I really do need you.” Don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone.
The Oval Office
“Come in, Doctor.” President Pierce was seated behind the massive Resolute Desk, made from the tough timber of HMS Resolute and presented to President Rutherford B. Hayes by the Queen of England in 1880. The walls to either side of him were adorned with paintings and photographs by Frederick Remington, Georgia O’Keefe, and Ansel Adams. Ross Pierce was proud of his Southwestern heritage. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, something a little stronger?”
“No thank you, Mr. President.” Dr. Noubar Melikian stepped into the Oval Office for the first time. He was immediately struck by the Presidential seal in the ceiling. Looking down, he noticed a matching seal woven into the large carpet that entirely covered the oval shaped room.
“This isn’t a medical emergency, Doc. I need your advice about something.” President Ross Pierce rose and motioned his guest over to the sofa.
“I hope it’s not politics, Mr. President. What I know in that department wouldn’t fill a #25-gauge needle.”
“When I need political input, Dr. Melikian, I’ve got a dozen spin doctors, analysts, and Ph. Ds waiting by the phone. Most have an axe to grind or an agenda to push, and the rest just want to kiss ass. What I want from you is a reality check. You’re from the Middle East-I want to know how you see the situation there. And I want the naked truth-don’t sugarcoat it just because of my position. I’m a big boy, I can take it, and I always listen carefully to everyone’s point of view before making a decision. So fire away.”
Ross Pierce sat back and studied Dr. Melikian. The briefing file expounded on the doctor’s tireless efforts to find a peaceful solution to the crisis in the Middle East. “Okay, Mr. President, if you really want my opinion, I’ll give it. The situation in the Middle East might be the catalyst that sets off a nuclear holocaust. It could be sparked in the West Bank or Palestine, but I suspect it’s more likely to start in Pakistan or India or some other peripheral country. Tensions are running high. Every country has something to lose, and more to gain with each day that the impasse and bloodshed continues.”
“So if you were the man in charge, what would you do?” Pierce leaned forward, his hands grasping the carved lion heads on the arms of his massive chair.
“It’s not that simple. I only know one small piece of what might be the solution. But since you asked, I’ll give it my best. Besides, I’ve got a funny feeling if anyone can pull off a miracle, it might just be you.”
Ross Pierce didn’t smile. “Get on with it, Dr. Melikian.”
“First, I would officially recognize the state of Palestine. But before making the announcement I would go to every one of the Arab nations involved-Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, the entire lot, one by one-and let them know what the United States was about to do. And then I would secure a commitment from each one to do something spectacular to ensure a lasting peace. For example, Syria and Jordan might donate land to give the Palestinians more room to breathe, which would take the land pressure off Israel. Others would deliver Osama bin Laden and his chief lieutenants in Al-Qaeda to the United States for trial. Or better yet, just bring in their dead bodies and save the expense and hassle of trials.”
President Pierce stared. “Shit, Noubar, I said I wanted to hear a different point of view, but I didn’t realize you were going to give me the whole enchilada. Keep going, you’re doing fine.”
“Okay. I’d also go to all the Arab nations with a big shopping list. And I’d remind them that they have all said many times to the world that the only reason they support terrorism is because of the Palestine issue. Recognize Palestine and you’ve taken away their excuse. Then pressure them to support global peace and stop supporting the terrorists. Get a commitment to shut down all terrorist support and funding, inside their own countries and abroad. And make them come to the United Nations, stand before the world, and show what they’ve done to eliminate terrorism.” Dr. Melikian stopped to take a sip from the glass of water on the coffee table.
Ross Pierce waited.
“The truth is, Mr. President, Israel is a pain in the ass. They gobble up billions in U.S. foreign aid money but don’t support the US globally. My father had a saying: ‘Why buy a cow when the milk’s free?’ Israel has yet to shoulder any responsibility for the mess the world is in. All the Israelis have to do is cry and the Americans come running with a bucketful of dollars. Meanwhile, Israel is illegally occupying the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. I’d say it’s time to make Israel a responsible and accountable world citizen and make them stand on their own two feet. If they’re going to have a Jewish state in the middle of an Arab region, they should learn to get along with their neighbors.”
“How would that be accomplished, Dr. Melikian?”
“Cut off all but a reasonable amount of aid to the Israelis, say $200 million a year contingent upon them demonstrating their commitment to peace. And give an equal amount of aid to the surrounding Arab states as well. Besides reducing our national debt by several billion dollars, the taxpayers would love you. Spend some of that money to get the U.S. economy cranked up again.”
Dr. Melikian hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Mr. President?”
“Fire away.”
“Do I still have a job?”
The President laughed. “Well, not having been treated by you, I’m not sure about your medical skills. So your position as my personal physician is still hanging in the balance. But you’ve always got a job as unofficial advisor.” Pierce got up and walked over to the picture window facing the south lawn of the White House. He felt trapped in the nation’s capitol and found himself yearning more and more for the open spaces of New Mexico. But the roses were just beginning to show the first new shoots of the year and he felt a little lighter. “Anything else?”
“One more suggestion.”
President Pierce slowly turned around.
“Why not make Jerusalem an international city? Owned by the world and not any one country? That was the original intent of the 1948 resolution that established Israel in the first place, only no one had the balls to make it stick. That way all the bullshit about religion and religious rights would be taken away. It would be a city for all faiths, with its own government, answerable only to the United Nations.”
President Pierce stared at his personal physician. The man was sweating and pale. In the past half hour this outstanding humanitarian had spilled all-his fears, his ideas, his dreams for the future. The danger in sharing one’s dreams, as Ross Pierce knew all too well, was that others might grind them to dust.
“My father had a saying too, Doctor,” he said quietly. “Cows got lots of smarts, they know there’s a time for eatin’ and a time for ruminatin’. This is my time for ruminating.” He stepped forward to shake his guest’s hand. “Thank you for your valuable insight. I may call on you again, and hopefully it won’t be because of some rotten fish. Meanwhile, I assume I can count on your discretion. Let’s agree that this discussion never took place.”
“Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” smiled Dr. Melikian. “My lips are sealed.”
When the door closed behind him, President Pierce buzzed his secretary. “Miriam? Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day. And tell Mr. van Ness I want to see him right away.”