The Beirut Conspiracy
Page 3
“I’ve got an idea.” A devilish grin lit up Maha’s lovely face. “Why not marry me and take me back with you? I’ll be your official Middle Eastern chef and I guarantee you’ll never go hungry again, for anything.”
“And your brothers would hunt you down and chop me into little pieces.” Matt shuddered at the thought.
Bedouina scowled, shaking her dark mop at the foolish ideas of her Jordanian friend. “If only life were that simple. It would take a major cataclysm for our lives to deviate from the course Allah has set for us. You, Matt, will return to the United States and be a famous doctor. Maha will become a successful pharmacist back in Jordan and have a dozen kids from an arranged marriage.”
Matt raised his arms in protest. “Whoa. This is the 20 ^th Century, not the Middle Ages. Maha is a modern woman, a pharmacist no less, and the last thing she would agree to is an arranged marriage. Besides, I’ve got some ideas of my own for her.” His arm gently caressed her shoulder. He planted an affectionate kiss on her blushing forehead.
“I dream of that,” Maha sighed. “But actually, Bedouina is right; my fate has been chosen.” Her head turned and looked at the moonlit sea. A tear slipped down here cheek.
Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Matt quickly changed the subject. “And what about you two?”
“Samir and I will die fighting to free Palestine, our rightful homeland, from the oppressive clutches of the expanding Zionist usurpers.” Her words rushed out, a rote of unbreakable commitment.
“Hold it,” Samir protested. “I believe in the freedom of Palestine. But I’m not ready to die just yet, not for a long time.”
“Okay, time to go,” Matt stood up. “Politics always ruins a good meal. It’s getting late and we’ve all exams coming up.”
Bedouina shrugged, her ebony eyes narrowing. “You Americans don’t want to discuss anything serious, do you? Sometimes I wonder if America isn’t just one big Disneyland.”
They had all turned twenty-one during the school year. It was the beginning of adulthood, a turning point of their lives. And though Bedouina had suggested that soon they would part ways, Matt wasn’t so sure. In the back of his mind, he sensed – beyond the question of what happened to him and Maha, and whether their love was strong enough to weather their differences – that their fates would be entwined forever. When, where, and how the four of them would cross paths in the future he couldn’t foresee, but that didn’t shake the prescient feeling. Matt shivered.
“You guys wait out front.” Bedouina winked at Samir. “Maha and I need to freshen up. We’ll be right out, and then you can walk us back to our dorms.”
The glow from the Beirut nightlife reached up into the dark night, overpowering the smaller stars, but giving the larger celestial bodies an even more radiant glow. Waves from the warm Mediterranean thudded against the cliff face like far off ancient drummers sending out messages to distant gods. The sounds and smells of the vibrant exotic city filled Matt’s memory to overflowing. He would never forget such wonderful evenings as this. Nor would he ever forget these special friends.
Matt and Samir crossed the street, Samir’s hand Matt’s shoulder in a sign of friendship. “We are so different, my friend, yet we have become so close. I know all about your family, your home, your hopes, dreams. And I still like you.” They both laughed.
“It’s different for me, Samir. We talk about everything, yet I still don’t understand your deep feelings about this Palestinian thing. The Middle East is only a small part of the world. There’s so much else going on that’s positive and exciting.”
“Yeah, like Vietnam.”
“Well, besides that,” shrugged Matt.
“This area may be just a small region at the moment, but if something isn’t done, then more and more people will be evicted from their homes, their land, their roots. All with the blessing of the western nations. It may even reach you in America. Disneyland would never be the same.”
They approached a tall stone wall, parts of which were said to contain carved blocks from the original 12 ^th Century Crusader fortress in the Ras Beirut area. The twisted branches of a fragrant plumeria tree, bursting with waxy yellow flowers, spread over the wall from someone’s garden on the other side.
Samir turned. “How long does it take to powder a nose?” He glanced nervously up and down the street, then checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. “I’m going to hurry them up. You wait here.” He sprinted across the street.
Matt inhaled the heady fragrance of the plumeria blossoms. The rich meal, several bottle of cold Amstel beer and the city lights added to his blissful contentment. Samir stepped onto the far sidewalk. And headed for the door of the restaurant.
The door handle seemed jammed. Samir pulled harder. The flash came first, followed by searing heat, then the shock wave. The front of the restaurant burst into orange flame, and then disintegrated.
For the next thirty years Matt’s nightmares would replay over and over that scene; his roommate’s hand yanking on the restaurant door and then the explosion. It couldn’t have lasted more than a second, the deafening explosion and the brilliant flash, just before the huge orange ball of fire. Samir’s high-pitched scream was cut off as he vaporized right before Matt’s eyes.
Matt couldn’t move or cry out. Samir’s death wail reached his ears, but only for a second, and then the blast’s shock wave hurled him against the stone wall, unconscious and bleeding.
Chapter Three
Bald Eagle Estate, Blue Ridge Mountains
“There’s the entrance to the clinic. Keep going, the Egyptian’s estate is a half mile ahead. And slow down, the ice on this road is tricky at this hour of the morning.” The ambassador sat back into the plush seat and looked out the darkened, bullet-proof windows. The driver and bodyguard, both armed, concentrated on the road ahead.
Turning left, they were waived through the gate, the guard not even coming out of his warm hut. “Wow, what a fortress.” The bodyguard studied the layout. “Most eyes would miss the electronic bullocks and tire shredding spikes submerged in the road.”
“You two know the drill,” the ambassador said, buttoning his coat. “Park the car and wait. And keep on the alert. I should be only a half hour or so.” His look skewered the driver. “And maintain radio silence. We’re not officially here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ambassador opened the door. A cold blast of morning air made him shiver. He hated this evil place.
“Welcome, my friend,” cooed Mohammed al Nagib, still in his warm-up suit, his white hair reflecting the bright morning sun. “On time as usual.” They shook hands stiffly.
“I see you’ve been out for a walk.”
“As always. It gets the juices flowing and wakes up the brain cells. Must keep our wits about us during these, shall I say, interesting times.”
“And your dogs? For protection?”
Al Nagib smiled. “Good companions. They never offer opinions, just loyalty.”
“Such odd names,” replied the ambassador, cocking his head. “Rough and Tumble.”
“A little whimsy on my part.” His host gestured towards the large double door. “Shall we go inside? On a crisp day like this, some hot Arabic coffee is in order. Or should I say Middle Eastern coffee?”
The Israeli ambassador to the United States looked back at his car, now tucked into a small space just next to the circular driveway.
“Ah. You are looking at my statue. Magnificent, isn’t it?” The thirteen-foot bronze bald eagle, wings outstretched in full flight, dominated the circular driveway. Its wingtips shimmered in the cold sunlight. “It’s the American symbol of liberty and freedom. Did you know that Benjamin Franklin argued strongly that the Turkey should be the national bird? Perhaps he was prescient.” They laughed, then turned and walked into the main house.
The warm inviting aroma of bacon and eggs drifted out from the kitchen, situated just to the left. Silverware clattered. A maid giggled. Inside the colonia
l period breakfast room, the ambassador, a former Israeli Army general, pulled out a small electronic device, turned it on and slowly swept through a full 360-degree circle. All three lights remained green. He smiled, and then sat down opposite his host.
“We both have much to hide, Mr. Ambassador,” said his Egyptian-American host. “Sadly, that it is the way of the world. Politics makes strange bedfellows, and in our case, very strange indeed.”
“On that point I can easily agree.”
“Let me assure you, you have nothing to fear here in my home. This room isn’t bugged and we are perfectly alone.”
“As per our agreement,” nodded the Israeli, his back ramrod straight.
“I prefer the old-fashioned type of meeting,” Nagib smiled, “where two people, both with as much to gain as to lose, look each other squarely in the eyes, make commitments, and keep them. Nothing could be simpler, and it seems in today’s crazy world, nothing could be more difficult.”
Al Nagib picked up the silver pot. Steam furled from the spout. “Coffee, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Thank you, Mr. Nagib.” He took a small sip of the thick aromatic coffee. “As always, excellent.” The small cup met the saucer with a delicate chink.
“I asked for this brief meeting to make certain that everything was in order before we consummate our arrangement. I too believe in looking my partners, as well as my victims, directly in the eye. Is everything ready at the clinic?”
“Thanks to my modest funding and your exceptionally talented physicians, the new private wing at the clinic is ready and waiting. Tonight’s reception in Washington will provide the occasion to welcome our first guests to the private wing.”
“Splendid.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Ambassador. And of course I have no need to worry that you have a firm commitment from the senator?” Nagib passed a large bowl of dried dates and figs.
“He is most anxious to support the cause of the United States against those who threaten its borders and its people. And he already has the first deposit in his new Swiss bank account. Ah,” the ambassador held a date up, admiring it, “Medjoul dates from Jordan. We have a hard time getting them in Israel.”
“Then this unruly terrorist cell will be discovered by your people?”
“There is an excellent possibility. And if all goes well, it will soon be under our control.” The ambassador savored the sweet dried fruit.
“It is good that we have a common goal,” Nagib said. “It proves that Israelis and Arabs can work together.”
The Israeli’s eyes narrowed. “Do not delude yourself, Mr. Nagib. My purpose is to safeguard the nation of Israel, at any cost. Your only purpose is profit.”
A glass shattered in the kitchen. The ambassador turned with a start. Al Nagib remained motionless.
“Perhaps we differ in motivation, but not in the end result,” the host laughed nervously, standing up to escort his guest out. The ambassador’s car crept forward. As they walked out the front door, another cold blast of air buffeted the general. He shivered more deeply this time. The bodyguard held the door as the ambassador turned and nodded farewell. Mohammed al Nagib replied with a faint wave and returned to the breakfast room.
“Demetrie?” Al Nagib’s voice echoed.
Demetrie Antonopolis, brown hair tied back in a long pony tail, stepped through the glass doors facing the enormous garden. “I got every word clear as a bell from the pool house,” he announced. “These new laser directional microphones are remarkable.”
The Egyptian stared at the aging international playboy, and professional assassin. “Process and file it with the other recordings, and send digitized copies via our secure network to the others.” Nagib watched him closely. “We’ll be leaving for London this afternoon. Make certain the Falcon is fueled and ready. Do not be late this time. And for your sake, leave the hashish at home. If it weren’t for your father, I’d consider you more of a liability than an asset.”
***
Later that same day, US Route 29, Virginia
The bright yellow Porsche Boxter sped northeast through the afternoon haze toward Washington, D.C. Matt Richards slumped down in the narrow passenger seat, brooding.
“Please remember, Ms. Stevens, that I am attending this stupid shindig under formal protest.” he shouted loudly above the revving engine. “And for Christ’s sake, slow down. Porsches fly well, but they don’t land worth a shit.” Matt glanced over at his ardent admirer and secret lover, her hand firmly on the steering wheel. The wind whistled about the small car’s windows.
“But Professor Richards,” Kelly grinned, “you look so dashing in that tuxedo. Just like Harrison Ford, only more rugged.”
This affair is absurd. Yet he needed company. Someone to hold him, to help him make it through the lonely evenings before the Scotch took over, keeping the memories at bay. Images of pain, past and present, cascaded like flickering TV screens across his brain.
“And I’m so excited about this evening,” she said. “I want to get to the reception early to show you off to all the politicians and society people.”
“The only good politicians are the ones in jail for life. And remind me again why we’re going to a reception for the new personal physician to the President of the United States?”
“Because my daddy insisted I come along. He said it would be good for me to meet some of the VIPs there. Especially since I graduate this spring and his embassy friends can help me get a job.” Tires squealed as they snaked around another sharp corner. “Besides, he wants to meet my new boyfriend.”
“You told your father about me? Are you out of your sweet little mind? The illustrious Senator from Virginia, Mason T. Stevens? He’s one of the longest-serving members of Congress, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and a mean political son-of-a-bitch. You told him about us?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Kelly. Think it through, for God’s sake. He’s going to kick my ass the moment he sees me. And he won’t even have to get his hands dirty. He’s got hundreds of professional assassins at his beck and call.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.” The engine purred as she downshifted through the gears. “You’ll charm him, just like you did me. Besides, what can he do? I’m free, white and twenty-one.”
As she pretended to pout, Matt asked himself again why he was so enchanted by her youthful vigor and naivete. Or was he just an alcohol soaked dirty old man? No, in many ways she reminded him of a young person some thirty-odd years ago as he prepared to venture forth to Beirut, Lebanon-lifetimes ago, and a whole lot of empty scotch bottles by the wayside.
“Famous last words, Ms. Stevens,” he said. “Like those uttered by the historically insignificant and long forgotten General Spottswood. And I quote: ‘Don’t worry men. Their cannons couldn’t hit the broadside of an elephant at this dist-.’” They both laughed. Matt gripped the armrest. “Okay, okay, you can slow down now. I’d rather die running from assassins than strapped into a pocket rocket going up in flames.”
The February afternoon faded to twilight as they crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge. The Porsche wound its way through tree-lined residential streets into the exclusive community of Potomac. Lights in the large mansions set back from the road burned faintly. By the time they reached their destination, the home of the chairman of the National Institute of Health, it was pitch dark.
“Now this is a palace.” Matt muttered as Kelly gave the marine guard their invitation. “So who’s the host?”
“Dr. Martin Thomas is an African-American Ph. D., a specialist in genetic research.” She tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. “He founded several successful biotech companies and earned a ton of money before he entered politics. He’s a heavy contributor to the Republican party.” Kelly glanced over at Matt. “And I might add, a regular golfing buddy of my father’s.”
The Georgian mansion was set back from the road and surrounded by an expansive lawn, brilliantly lit up for the ev
ening affair. The yellow Porsche caught the light as they pulled under the grand portico. It stood out among the sleek black and gray limousines.
Matt watched the limos discretely deliver well-dressed elderly couples. “You know, these people could probably buy two or three of these mansions out of petty cash.”
Kelly inspected her lipstick in the visor mirror before remarking, “What’s eating you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve gone into one of your moods.”
“Okay. I was just mulling over your African-American Ph. D.”
“What are you talking about?” She stole a quick glance back into the mirror to check her lipstick.
“Well, I knew a Dr. Martin Thomas once. A long time ago. But I doubt if they’re the same.”
“Fine. Whatever. Can we go now?”
Matt released his extra-tight seat belt. “Well, whoever he is, by the looks of the marine guards and the not-so-obvious Secret Service agents, this is going to be a well-attended and well-armed soiree. Just what I need in my life, more idiots with guns and attitudes.”
Matt waved away the young marine in dress uniform about to open the car door for him. Kelly placed her hand on his shoulder. “Now, behave yourself and have a good time.”
“Where’s the bar?”
“Mingle and make small talk.”
“That’s what I do best.”
“And please don’t drink too much,” Kelly bit her lip. “When I spoke to daddy this morning he wasn’t in a great mood-try not to get into trouble.”
“Who, me?”
“Remember your award-winning performance at the faculty party in September?”
“I’m trying to forget, thank you very much.”
“Well, just do the opposite tonight and everything will be fine.” She kissed him again and they both unfolded from the sports car.