The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  Up ahead, a tall attractive woman was arguing with one of the security guards at the front door. Matt and Kelly passed easily through, showing their invitation and moving up for a thorough and meticulous security check before entering. The woman stepped into the line behind Matt.

  “No respect for the press.” Her words spat out. “Even though I’m a real guest this time.”

  Matt turned around. He was nearly six foot tall. Their eyes met evenly. She was in her early to mid-forties, with light auburn hair piled on top of her head. Around her neck she wore a large diamond cross. Its ornate design reminded him of crosses he had seen on Coptic and Armenian churches in Lebanon and Egypt. Her nose, slightly too large for her face, somehow made her more attractive.

  “The receiving line is through the left in the great room,” a stocky marine lieutenant said after checking Kelly’s purse. Matt and Kelly passed through the arch of the metal detector, which remained silent. Another marine admired the buxom young girl with a man more than twice her age. He raised his eyebrows, then firmly but politely suggested they move along so other guests could enter the hallway. Matt gave the marine a cheesy grin, flipped him the finger, and followed Kelly towards the reception line. Behind him he could hear the tall woman complaining again. “It’s just my digital camera. Want me to take your picture?”

  “This really is a unique appointment, you know?” A heavily bejeweled matronly woman stood in front of them, tugging on her husband’s sleeve. “It was a very courageous move on the part of the President. Finally someone is trying to do the right thing and show some conciliation.”

  “Quiet, Grace, we’re almost there.” He eased her hand away.

  “Well I’m just saying-”

  “It’s a pandering political appointment.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “And the Jews are mad as hell.”

  Matt spotted Senator Mason T. Stevens up ahead in the reception line. Tall, slightly stooped, with shock white hair and a theatrical profile. At one time he must have cut a dashing figure as an up and coming politician. But the heavy travel, lack of exercise and far too many late night meals had extended his girth. The long hours on the golf course had turned his skin leathery.

  “Well, if it isn’t my lovely little girl,” the senator said as Kelly approached. “You’ve grown since I saw you last. Have you matured as well?” He offered his practiced political smile, at once urbane and warm, then kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I’m glad you decided to listen to your father for once. There are lots of people here I want to introduce you to.”

  Matt held back in line to observe the interaction between famous father and headstrong daughter. He remembered how his father would lecture he and his elder brother Sam about the benefits of hard work and respecting your elders-but this was different. Under patented smiles and feigned warmth, there was a steely, almost threatening edge to the senator’s voice.

  “And you must be Dr. Richards,” the senator said, glancing his way. “I look forward to speaking with you a little later in the evening. I’m certain I’ll find you hanging around the bar.”

  Matt, realizing he had been inspected, found lacking, and summarily dismissed, held his tongue.

  “Matt? Dr. Matthew Richards? Is that you?” The elderly Dr. Thomas extended his hand. “I haven’t seen or heard from you since Beirut. How are you, my boy? And what’s your father doing these days?”

  “Good to see you, Dr. Thomas,” Matt said. “Dad’s retired now, as you probably know. And thoroughly enjoying himself. In fact, I haven’t seen him in two years. He’s busy fly fishing in South America at the moment, I believe.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your brother Samuel. He was a fine doctor and an excellent humanitarian. The world will miss him.”

  Matt was sorry too. Sam had always been the one who kept him from going off the deep end. Too late now. The deep end was where he lived.

  “And what are you up to these days, Matthew?”

  “I’m retired, sort of. Just doing some college teaching at the moment.” He felt claustrophobic in the tuxedo and the crowded room. “You’ll have to excuse me. I hope we can talk a little later, maybe catch up on Beirut days?” He broke away and headed for the bar, leaving Kelly floating along through the receiving line, chatting excitedly with numerous dignitaries. Perspiration broke out on his upper lip. “Why were these damned functions always so hot and stuffy?” He reached down for the handkerchief that wasn’t there.

  He found the bar situated in an oak-paneled library. He quickly ordered a double scotch, neat. The scotch swirled around the glass as his hands shook. A bad sign for a surgeon, but then he hadn’t been in the operating theater for almost ten years. “I’m not even sure I ever was a real doctor,” he said to no one in particular. He took a long sip from the crystal tumbler. The liquor began to work its magic, beating back the gremlins once again.

  “You seem to be enjoying that.” A soft feminine voice from behind. “Can you order me one as well? Only much smaller, if you don’t mind.” The auburn-haired journalist came up beside him at the bar. A seductive fragrance of perfume mixed with the scent of warm skin reached him. “And whom do I have the pleasure of drinking with?”

  “Richards. Dr. Matt Richards. I’m a professor at Sweet Briar College in Virginia,” he said. His extended hand shook slightly.

  “Nicole Delacluse, from the International Herald Tribune. I actually have a real invitation-I’m not here to snoop. But you never know. Leopards don’t change their spots very easily.” She belted down her drink, then gently placed the tumbler on the bar, her eyes locked onto his. “One needs a little reinforcement before swimming with the sharks.” She drifted away as quietly as she had arrived.

  Matt watched her weave effortlessly through the throng, then drained his glass and ordered another. She was right, of course. You did need a little reinforcement with this crowd. But this wasn’t his crowd. His had been Samir, Maha and Bedouina. And a long time ago, 1969, when they had discussed life, love, and politics beside the Mediterranean under twinkling stars. When Maha had kissed his trembling lips.

  He began to shake. Images of the female assassin, frozen on the TV screen, flooded his mind. That face; hating, pleading, grinning. Fear engulfed his body. The ice rattled against crystal. Why was this happening again? It’s impossible. Matt took a deep breath.

  The deaths of Samir, Maha and Bedouina in 1969 had forever destroyed his youth. Self-confidence and the invincibleness of youth evaporated along with his friends. But however badly the explosion cracked his soul, on the surface at least he seemed to recover. Back in the States the young Matt Richards was quickly caught up in the academic grind of his senior year at Harvard. An excellent student, he had his choice of several outstanding medical schools. “Not a real choice,” he thought. There was no question that he would attend Harvard Medical School, where his father had gone, and from which, just a few years earlier, his brother Sam had graduated.

  “I should have made an effort. I should have tried to get closer to Sam.” He spoke into his empty tumbler, his reverie now traveling a well-worn path. Not overly close, Matt and Sam rarely spoke as they went about building their professional lives. The first, last and only letter Matt ever received from Sam was postmarked Santarem, Brazil. After a distinguished career in orthopedic surgery, Sam informed the Richards family that he was resigning from his medical practice in Seattle and joining a Jesuit medical organization called Esperanca, which meant ‘Hope’ in Portuguese. After years of fixing bones for the rich and famous, he wanted to do something for the poor of the world. Esperanca ran a hospital boat up and down the Amazon River. On board was a small operating theater where visiting physicians from the United States donated their expertise to fix cleft pallets, deformed hips, club feet and other surgical problems. In addition, the organization trained nurses and healthcare workers to deliver primary and secondary care in the remote regions of the Amazon.

  His sad reverie ended as a burst of laughter erupted from the hall
way. Matt gulped down another double Scotch. He looked down at the polished bar. The letter…

  He recalled it was written only a few days before the accident. Sam had been helping secure the hospital ship at a remote Amazon village when he slipped and fell overboard. He was crushed between the hull and wooden dock. The letter was full of enthusiasm. “I’ve finally found a home,” it began, in Sam’s neat script, so unlike a physician’s typical scrawl. “The Esperanca organization has shown me there is much more to medicine than healing wealthy patients and writing articles for medical journals. At last I feel as if I’m doing something worthwhile. And it suits my personality. I never liked the doctor cocktail circuit.”

  Matt had read the letter with shock. His older brother, like Matt himself, labored under the burden of their famous father’s expectations. They both bore the intense pressure to succeed in the lofty circles of medical greatness in stoic and lonely silence.

  Matt never showed the letter to his father. He was certain it would have sparked an ugly shouting match and he didn’t have the courage, nor the confidence, to speak his mind. But Sam’s death crystallized a growing uncertainty about his own path in life. A bitter divorce, then the ensuing loneliness. He sought sanctuary in a bottle of Single Malt. It was social at first. Then the despair took his legs out from under him. He quickly slid into insecurity, then depression. And the pain of the past descended. Why didn’t he have the courage as Sam? He wanted to be strong like Sam, but he couldn’t. His career took a careening bobsled ride downhill. After two botched operations in a row, his partners in their successful Chicago medical practice gently but firmly eased him out.

  When he was on his fourth drink-or was it his fifth?-two arms encircled his chest. “There you are, I missed you.” Kelly whispered in his ear, then flicked her tongue in and out quickly. Matt jerked his head away, now fully back in the present.

  “Are you behaving yourself?” Kelly went on. “I’ve just had the most interesting conversation with a gentleman from the U.S. Foreign Service. He said I would be the perfect candidate for an embassy job somewhere in the world. He even gave me his card.” She held up the small white business card with the seal of the United States of America embossed on it.

  Matt put down his empty glass. “You know what I wish?”

  “What?” Her bulging breasts pressed into his back.

  “I wish you would stay at this age, just as you are, forever.”

  “But I want to grow older. Get a job. Make a difference. I’ve got to prove myself.” She moved around to face him. Her face showed both defiance and hurt.

  “What you don’t appreciate, at your tender age, is that only pain, suffering and betrayal lie ahead. In a few years, out there,” he jerked his thumb to indicate the crowd in the room, “you’ll become like all the rest of us. Cynical, distrustful, resentful. My father had a saying for it. Ridden hard and put away wet.”

  “Oh Christ. You’re drunk.” Kelly looked around nervously. No one was paying attention. She looked over at the entrance to the ballroom.

  “Come on, we have to hurry, they’re going to introduce the guest of honor.” She pulled on his arm and led him into the grand salon. He concentrated on walking.

  “Holy shit. It’s big enough to be a hotel conference center.” Matt found a spot near the buffet table along a far wall. From here they had a clear view of a lectern set up in front of the large bay window overlooking the back lawn. He gulped down a caviar canape. His fingers smelled of fish. The rest of the guests noisily filed in. The room buzzed with expectation. Someone dropped a glass. Secret Service agents turned with a start, scanning the crowd. The marines, stationed next to all the doors and windows, stiffened.

  A hush descended over the crowd as Dr. Thomas stepped up to the lectern, which was emblazoned with the seal of the President of the United States. “Ladies and Gentlemen. I am very pleased you were able to accept my personal invitation this evening to what I believe to be a very special event.” He paused as more people entered the already crowded room.

  “As you know, many of us here this evening knew Dr. Andrew Norman personally, and our heartfelt prayers and wishes go out to his family. He was a unique individual, an outstanding physician, and a long-time friend of President Pierce and the first family.

  “Dr. Norman carried out his duties as personal physician to the President of the United States with the utmost discretion and professionalism. Yet, in a twisted and savage act of terrorism his life, along with the lives of dozens of other fine men and women of the United States, was destroyed. But no act of terrorism, even this one on American soil, can stop the quest for freedom that all civilized individuals crave. The freedom to choose their own career, their own religion, to have access to education for their children, to receive adequate health care, to live in a secure home safe from outside threats and usurpers-to choose their own lifestyle. These are just some of the freedoms that make all of us here tonight dedicated to the noble American vision of democracy and world peace.”

  Matt looked around. The elderly crowd stood respectfully. Claustrophobia closed in on him again. He pulled at his bow tie. His breath was turning stale from the oily caviar and the scotch. He gulped down a half empty glass of punch. The former owner had worn bright maroon lipstick.

  Dr. Thomas lowered his voice. “Without this precious freedom, a young African-American boy, the fifth son of a poor but proud steel worker from Pittsburgh, could never have realized his dream of becoming a Ph. D. and a professor of genetics. Whatever my race, religion or economic background, this great country afforded me that opportunity. And we must continue to protect these freedoms.” The assembled crowd clapped loudly. The sound assaulted Matt’s senses.

  “So this evening, I’m pleased to host this reception for the new personal physician to the President of the United States, Dr. Noubar Melikian. As you all know, this is a somewhat controversial appointment by the President. But it’s one which I believe displays President Pierce’s true greatness and courage.

  “Some of my less visionary colleagues, and several loud voices in Washington and the press, say that appointing someone from the Middle East to such a sensitive position, especially in the wake of recent events, is political grandstanding. But to my mind, such an appointment rises above politics and petty prejudices. In fact, if we really want peace in all corners of the world, then the United States must take the lead in showing the decent people of the Middle East and the rest of the world that it is not them we are fighting against, but the terrorists, whoever they are and wherever they come from.” Again a loud burst of applause.

  Matt uttered a loud groan. Kelly grabbed his arm tightly and glared.

  “Dr. Melikian, who has practiced for the past twenty-five years in the Washington metro area, is eminently qualified for this position. He is a highly respected physician and a recognized specialist in skin cancer, a longstanding member of the AMA, an outstanding humanitarian and a vociferous advocate of a peaceful solution to the problems in the Middle East. Without further ado, it is my great honor to present Dr. Noubar Melikian.”

  Dr. Thomas stood aside as the robust white-haired doctor stepped up onto the podium. As the African-American and the Palestinian-American shook hands and then kissed on the cheek, Middle Eastern style, the room roared its approval.

  Matt moved with a start. Kelly whispered. “What’s wrong? You’re not about to throw up again, are you?”

  “I’m Okay. I just thought I recognized that man for a moment. But I guess not, or maybe I saw him at a medical convention some years ago.” Kelly listened to the lie.

  Dr. Melikian faced the crowd, his eyes twinkling as he held out his hand urging them to stop the applause. The warm welcome subsided. Dr. Melikian took a small sip of water. Then he looked up, excitement burning in his eyes.

  “It is a very great honor to be here this evening. But I must first thank our host, Dr. Martin Thomas, a colleague and friend, for supporting my appointment to this post. In fact, it was Dr. Tho
mas and several of his esteemed colleagues, along with my good friend Senator Mason Stevens, who initially urged me to consider this appointment. At first, I must admit I was skeptical. But their arguments eventually convinced me to take them seriously.

  “Who would have ever thought that an Armenian boy who grew up in the nation of Palestine would ever be able to serve the world in such a meaningful manner? I thoroughly enjoy being a physician, but like all of you, I am also many other things-a husband, the father of three wonderful children, but not yet a grandfather, thank goodness.” The crowd laughed. “I am a dedicated and hardworking physician. Too hard working says my wife.” A few snickers of understanding and acknowledgment bubbled forth from the crowd, heavily populated with doctors and their spouses.

  “And I am also an Armenian, born and raised in Palestine. And to me that is very important. None of us can deny, nor should we, our heritage. It is the DNA of our past, present and future. Like many of your ancestors, mine suffered greatly. Between 1915 and 1923, over 1.5 million Armenians perished at the hands of the Ottoman Empire, nearly three-quarters of the population of my tiny country. And this horrible eradication of a nation was barely noticed. In fact, Adolph Hitler used the Armenian genocide in persuading his followers that a Jewish holocaust would be tolerated by the West. ‘Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?’ he said.”

  Matt listened to the murmurs of acknowledgement and understanding. “Pretty effective public speaker for a doctor.” Kelly glared at him again. He looked down as Kelly turned back to listen. Matt slowly edged around the table, nodded at the marine, and stepped out onto a terrace. The fresh air revived him a little. The doctor’s speech could still be heard.

  “Because of what is now called the first genocide of the modern age, Armenians all over the world are committed to opposing racism, bigotry and prejudice, wherever they exist. And like my Jewish brothers, who also know the horrors of genocide, our suffering has made us stubbornly passionate about freedom, liberty, and the personal responsibility that goes with these precious gifts.” There were open expressions of agreement from the large Jewish population of doctors and other professionals in the crowded room.