The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  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 aw
ay.”

  “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.”