“You’re saying young women can easily become suicide bombers?”
“Yes. And the terrorists take full advantage. It’s not difficult to convince a young girl that by giving her life for a noble cause she can gain the respect and adulation normally only accorded to men. She can finally be on an equal footing and her family will gain a measure of stature because of her sacrifice. And if she’s suffered some trauma already, rape by a relative, the death of a loved one, then that sense of hopelessness might make her even more susceptible.”
“Maha’s father was killed at the airport.” Matt turned to look out the window.
“Okay. Then add to that a little incentive. Terrorists usually promise a sizeable monetary reward to the family and bingo, you’ve got a candidate ready and willing to blow herself to bits for Allah.” Nicole shuddered. “Think how many bright Muslim women have been turned into bomb-carrying zombies by these madmen. Just recently a suicide bombing was carried out by a young Palestinian lawyer. An educated woman with much to contribute.”
“Didn’t the Israelis kill her brother earlier?”
Nicole nodded and kept driving.
“Guess that makes both Bedouina and Maha likely candidates?” said Matt, subdued. The magnitude of their suffering and loneliness etched across his face. God I’m tired.
After a few miles of awkward silence his words were faint and hesitant. “Do you think it’s too late for her? Maha, I mean, if she’s still alive?”
Nicole stared at him incredulously. “After all you’ve been through in your life you still ask about a woman you haven’t seen for over thirty years? You must have loved her deeply, Matt. You may not realize this but it’s every woman’s dream to have a man love her forever. You are a very special man, Matthew Richards. Very special indeed.” She stared into the rearview mirror. No one following.
***
The St. James Club, London
They were together again for the second time in two months, unprecedented for the four businessmen. Yet these were unprecedented times. A light snowfall deadened the sounds of traffic slowly moving up St. James’ Street. The lights from the men’s clothing stores on Jermyn Street were bright against the falling snow.
“The time is rapidly approaching when our planning will bear fruit,” Mohammed al Nagib said. They were seated at a quiet corner table at one end of the dark mahogany paneled dining room. “But we need to accelerate certain parts of our plans, gentlemen.”
“What do you mean, accelerate?” asked the Brazilian, Jorge Molinas. “This is supposed to be an opportunistic timetable not a forced one. We will only have one chance.”
“As agreed. However new developments have taken place which we need to discuss. I’m certain after all the facts are known we will arrive at the best decision.” Nagib slowly lit a Cuban cigar. The meal had been outstanding, the service impeccable, the wine nectar.
“Waiter?” Nagib beckoned. “Tell the head chef I have a complaint.”
“Right away, Mr. Nagib.” The tall Swiss-German girl looked worried as she hurried away.
Within moments, Claude Villiers in his spotless white culinary jacket and floral bow tie strode up to the table. “Don’t tell me. My wife always complains that I overcook the beans,” he said, bowing.
“Oh, no. The meal was fabulous as usual. I won’t live long enough to wait for you to make a mistake in the kitchen, my old friend. But I am disappointed with the champagne. Last time I was here you gave me the name of the makers, Daniel and Gerald Fallet, two brothers outside Drachy, as I recall. Well, my personal assistant rang them up and ordered five hundred cases. They told him no. They said they have a limited number of private clients who have been with them for generations and since they only produce a small number of bottles a year they aren’t taking any new clients.
“Can you imagine that? I even offered to buy the entire production at a premium price. They still said no.” Nagib gave the tall slim chef a quizzical look. “Is this your sly handiwork? Making us come to your club in order to sample this outstanding bubbly?”
“I wish it were true,” Villiers said, sighing histrionically. “However, I am allowed very little myself and it is reserved for my favorite guests. Shall I bring you another bottle, then?” He bowed and backed away, then stopped briefly at a nearby table to greet the other guests.
Once they were alone Achilles Antonopolis spoke. “Please enlighten us about this little situation.”
“It seems that someone well connected with the intelligence community in the U.S. believes that a deep-cover cell is in place in the United States. They’re attempting to uncover it.” He looked at each of them.
“But how could anyone know about our plan? You don’t suspect a leak in our group, do you?” The Swiss banker looked at the others suspiciously.
“I do not know,” Nagib flicked white ash from the Cuban cigar. “But what I do know is that somehow they’ve gotten hold of a list of American students attending the American University of Beirut during 1968-69 and they believe one or more of them may be involved. In fact they seem to be using one of the former students to search out the others.”
The Greek shipping magnate began to perspire. “And their objective?”
“If it were me,” said Herr Hofer, “I wouldn’t want to eliminate the cell. I’d want to control it. For example, depending upon the potential benefits I would either expose it and reap the rewards or help it finish its job and reap a different set of rewards. Or maybe even use it for my own political and financial purposes.” He sat back, polishing Dickensian tiny spectacles. “Interesting situation we have here, very interesting.”
“That’s why you’ve been such a good partner all these years, Helmut,” Nagib smiled. “You think of all the ways to profit from any situation.”
“What have you done about this so far?” quizzed the Brazilian.
“So far our associate in one of the major U.S. intelligence agencies has assisted in thwarting their efforts. But it’s only a matter of time. My suggestion is that we accelerate our plan and in the next week or so find the best opportunity available to put our asset into action. In the meantime if we can eliminate or contain the individual they’re using as a ferret it would be helpful.”
The Swiss banker frowned. “But will this acceleration negatively impact our profits?”
“Perhaps, Helmut, perhaps. But only by a few million. Minor compared to the billions we stand to gain when America goes to war against the entire Muslim world. After all we supply a great deal of the chemicals, arms, equipment, and also make the loans to finance those poor Middle Eastern nations being attacked. We can settle for being fortunate, we don’t have to be greedy.” With that the Egyptian-American raised his flute of bubbling Fallet-Dart Millesime in a toast. He said no more. At this point the less the others knew about his ultimate plans the better.
At 11:30 pm the dining party left the dining table and took the elevator up to the casino. Waiters quickly cleared the table. A few minutes later a small recording device, previously concealed beneath al Nagib’s table was slipped into a cashmere overcoat as it was being opened for its owner. The distinguished gentleman buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, and slipped a small wad of bills into the hand of the cloakroom manager.
“My best to your family, Angelo.”
“And a very good evening to you, Mr. van Ness.”
Chapter Twelve
Concord, Massachusetts
“That’s her house.” Nicole pointed out a white Cape Cod standing alone at the end of a long lane overlooking the frozen pond. The two-story home was surrounded by pine trees. Several other houses fringed the lake.
Elijah had filled them in on Anne-Marie Khoury’s background after surfing the Internet and talking with private sources late into the night. “It’s definitely an artist’s life,” he told them as they listened on the phone in a motel room not far from Concord.
“After returning from Beirut she finished her senior year at Boston College as
an art major and married a medical student. He became a renowned medical researcher but eight years ago died of leukemia. Childless and widowed she threw herself into art and established a reputation for watercolors. It seems she travels extensively, using bleak landscapes around the globe as a backdrop for her paintings. There are a few posted on her personal website.”
“Anything that could connect her to the terrorists?” Matt felt tired and frustrated.
“I’m getting there. A good agent gathers every scrap of detail no matter how trivial. It may save your life one day.”
“Sorry.”
Elijah continued his story. “Anyway most of her paintings are exhibited at a posh gallery in Boston and she donates a great deal from the sale of her paintings to a charity for orphaned Palestinian children.” His words quickened. “And get this. She’s also on the board of advisors of the Halaby Foundation, established in the early 1980s by a wealthy Lebanese businessman and his wife. It provides scholarships for Middle Eastern students to study in the United States and Canada. Interestingly, Dr. Noubar Melikian serves on the foundation’s board of directors. And so does a shady Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib.”
Matt knocked on the door and waited. What would Anne-Marie look like? What would he see from behind his new face? A widow shorn of companionship without children, she would pour herself into her art, of that he was certain. Had she lost herself in her world of pigment just as he had lost himself in scotch? Or would she be the same fun-loving girl he remembered?
When the door opened Matt strove to keep his new face friendly and anonymous. She was just as he remembered. Long black hair now streaked with grey. A fuller face, but the eyes still twinkled.
“You must be Matt’s cousin. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Ms. Khoury. This is my wife Veronica. Please call me Tom.” They followed her into the warm and comfortable home.
“I hope you like herbal tea? Fennel actually. It’s all I have on hand.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Her pleasant voice echoed through the large rooms. “Please sit down. I’ll be right out with the tea. It’s been a busy morning already. The people from the gas company were here earlier checking the meter in the basement. They left about an hour ago. Usually I don’t get many visitors, but that’s the way I like it.”
Soon the tea was being poured. “Since your call yesterday,” Anne-Marie said, “I’ve found myself thinking a lot about Matt. We had such great times together that year with our small circle of friends. It was a magical time for all of us. Not without its heartbreaks, I might add, but still a pivotal time in my life. It was during that year I decided to dedicate my life to painting and to helping Palestinian orphans. I’ve been doing it ever since.” She took a long, slow sip from the pungent herbal tea. “And we had some pretty crazy times as well.” Her eyes sparkled over the cup as she looked at Matt.
“Like the time you wrapped our heads in toilet paper to make us look as if we were wearing turbans?” Matt smiled.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Anne-Marie. It’s me, Matt.”
She stood up, her face contorted with confusion and anger. “Get out. Now!”
“Please listen to him, Ms. Khoury. I beg you,” Nicole said.
“Actually, I’m getting used to this reaction,” Matt said, still smiling. “After you show people your new face and tell them who you are you develop a pretty thick skin. So I’ll say it one more time. I’m Matt Richards. And I really like that painting over there, the seascape with the rich violet tint. It’s where we used to gather after class, isn’t it. You captured the mood and light really well.”
Anne-Marie sat down. Paint smears decorated her smock.
“Are you all right?” Nicole asked, putting her hand on Anne-Marie’s shoulder.
“She’s all right,” Matt said. “She’s already using that artistic eye on my face. The scars are hidden under the hairline, Anne-Marie. What do you think? Am I still a handsome stud?”
A tentative smile bent her mouth upwards. “Whoever said you were good looking?”
Matt laughed and sat next to her. They hugged. Her cheek was salty as he kissed her.
Her hand came up to her cheek. “That was very strange…” She recovered. “I really missed you all these years, Matt. Every time I spoke with Todd he was always running you down. But we had such fun. You were so alive then.” She leaned back and examined his face. “What has happened to you?”
“Look, Anne-Marie. I’m in big trouble and I need your help. People are trying to kill me and they appear to be going after some of our AUB friends as well. Did you know Dr. Thomas died two nights ago?”
She collapsed into her chair, stunned, as he explained the possible connection between that death, Brian Walker’s, and his own kidnapping.
“Mia, do you remember that night we went to the Maronite monastery near Basharri on our way back from skiing? My diary puts it in February.”
“How could I forget?” she replied. “All those murals on the ceiling and the whole thing carved out of the cliff…”
“We were smoking hash and I must have passed out because I don’t remember much. What do you recall about that night?”
“I remember you coughed a lot, and then drank quite a few beers.” Her smile faded as she probed into the past. “You’re right. We did get pretty stoned, thanks to Demetrie and his ever present hash block. Let me think now… No doubt we talked about politics in the Middle East, we always did. That might have been the night… Come to think of it, yes, it was. That was the night we made a pact to try and stop the madness. Brian swore he would become a famous lawyer and defend oppressed people’s rights. And he did. Poor Brian, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
She squeezed Matt’s hand then pointed across the room to a tiny alcove. “I painted the Maronite Monastery. I had to. It was such a pivotal place in my life, a holy place that inspired me beyond words. But I’m not happy with the painting. I could never get the real feel of the place.” She gave a lopsided smile. “Anyway I promised that night I would raise money for Palestinian orphans. Karl
Mitchell and T.J…”
Matt jumped. “They were there? I don’t remember them going skiing with us.”
“They arrived at the monastery later. I guess it was after you passed out.” She stared at the teapot.
“Did some other people show up, two Arab men maybe?”
“Yeah, those two were weird.”
Just then the phone rang. Anne-Marie went into the kitchen to answer it. She called back. “I have to take this call. It’s the gallery in Boston. Won’t be too long. Why don’t you go out and take a look at the lake? It’s beautiful this time of year.”
Matt and Nicole put on their overcoats and strolled down the neat gravel path to the frozen lake. A flat gray light hit the surface, accenting the frozen, rippled texture. Cold air swept off the lake in gusts. Matt pulled his collar up. “Perfect place to inspire a painter,” he said. Nicole pressed close.
They trod the worn planks of the wooden dock, soaking up the peaceful surroundings after days of fear. Canadian geese honked overhead. Matt smelled smoke from a nearby cottage. “Someone is enjoying a leisurely morning by a warm fire.
A massive explosion turned the grey light into an orange hell. Splinters of wood and debris flew past them as if expelled from a cannon. The shock wave threw them from the dock onto the frozen lake. Matt landed on his hands. Screaming in pain he grabbed his wrist and twisted onto his back. The house was a wall of flames and billowing smoke. Burning shingles rained down on all sides, sizzling as they hit the lake ice. Samir Hussein’s blazing body seared through his mind. “Not again,” Matt groaned, but this time he forcefully pushed the paralyzing image away. “Nicole! Nicole!” He grabbed at her.
“Get down! Crawl along the edge of the lake,” he yelled in her ear. “They might still be watching. Keep hidden beneath the weeds along the bank. We need them to think we were inside.”
They dragge
d themselves toward the weedy bank. From there they rose into a half-crouch and skirted the lake until they reached a neighbor’s boat dock, 200 yards away.
Matt stopped. “I’ve got to go back.” He was turning around when Nicole gripped his arm.
“Don’t play the hero now, Matt. I need you alive, with me.”
“But I’m a doctor, I’ve got to try and-”
“You’re a doctor, not a miracle worker. She’s dead.” Nicole held him close, her body absorbing his pain. In a few moments he stopped shaking.
Sirens blared across the small community of Concord. “The volunteer firemen are responding,” said Matt. “They’ll be here soon. We’ve got to get away.”
They sprinted a short distance to the dock, scrambled through the reeds and up onto a snow covered lawn. In seconds they stood panting alongside a wooden garage.
“What is it?” Nicole asked, feeling Matt jerk as if struck by an electric shock.
“A phony gas company serviceman must have rigged the house. The timer was probably detonated remotely. They must have been watching the house.” Matt slid down onto the cold ground. “To top it all off I left my journal on the coffee table.”
“Not quite,” said Nicole. “Call it habit or reporter’s instinct, but I always carry important papers with me, even when I go to the bathroom. I crammed your journal inside my bag just before we stepped outside,” she pulled it out and held it up.
“Thank God!” he said. “Now what?”
“Let’s see what’s inside this garage. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
The Beirut Conspiracy Page 20