The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  Matt broke a small window with his elbow, reached in and opened the door. A shiny 1956 Packard caught the light.

  “Matt, I can hotwire this antique. You’ll have to decide where we go.” In less than a minute she found a screwdriver, pried open the steering column and was arching two wires together. The motor purred to life and the gas gauge showed half full. She looked at Matt, some of the strain leaving her face.

  The wail of the fire engines grew louder. “You are definitely your father’s daughter,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s pay a visit to Dr. Karl Mitchell. He’s all we’ve got. Our research had him pinpointed as a retired professor of geology at the University of Rhode Island. That’s on the way back to Washington. When we get clear of here call your father and ask him to track down Karl’s most recent address and phone number.”

  The old Packard lumbered from the garage. The sirens were closer now. They watched the mirrors and checked the road ahead. No one seemed interested.

  ***

  Rock Creek Parkway, Washington, D.C.

  The usual joggers were out in the late afternoon braving the cold and wind of Washington’s Rock Creek Parkway, intent on getting their exercise fix for the day. “Running is one of the few positive addictions,” said the slim doctor, slightly winded as she approached her halfway mark and the endorphins began to kick in. Every day Dr. Margaret Khalid took a 5 mile run in the mid-afternoon and then went back to work, usually until late evening. It was a good thing her apartment was only a few blocks away from the office; daily runs helped keep her sanity.

  As she ran along the asphalt path that wound through the canyon a lean male runner in blue leggings and a dark hooded jersey slowly overtook her.

  “Just keep your natural pace,” he said. His breathing was easy and relaxed. “We’re moving the timetable forward. You must be ready to act within the next seven days. Go to an Internet cafe every morning for the next week. Log into www.beirut69.com and sign on as ‘asset1’. We’ll send you instructions about the exact date.” He sprinted away opening a large gap between them, then took one of the many uphill trails to the main streets lining both sides of the narrow canyon. In less than a minute he had vanished.

  Maggie Khalid finished her run, added another tube of black rinse to her hair while showering, cleaned and reinserted her brown-tinted contact lenses, and was back in Dr. Melikian’s office in less than an hour.

  ***

  Kingston, Rhode Island

  “I’m looking for Dr. Karl Mitchell.” A thin, attractive man answered the door of a two-story home on a street next to the University of Rhode Island campus. Matt recognized the man right away, Theodore Janus. But everyone always called him T. J.

  “Are you the person who called about Matt Richards, his cousin?”

  “Yes, I’m Thomas Black, and this is my wife Veronica. It’s good of Dr. Mitchell to see us on such short notice.”

  “I’ll tell Karl you’re here. Come in. You’re in luck. He’s having one of his better days.” T. J. led the way through a living room adorned with white rugs and marble statues. It had the look of a boudoir. Matt glanced at Nicole, raising his eyebrows. They emerged onto a south-facing sun porch where a fragile-looking man with a ponytail was sitting up in a hospital bed, reading Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time.

  “This is the man who phoned yesterday, Matt’s cousin,” said T. J., arranging a blanket over Karl’s feet. “Keep your feet covered or you’ll get pneumonia again.”

  Dr. Mitchell studied his guests over the rims of his bifocals. “I’ve been reading Hawking’s book. Funny thing about time. There are moments when it seems as if the past and the present are the same, only separated by the blink of an eye. Like now, wouldn’t you say, Matt?”

  “No, Karl,” T. J. sighed, “he’s Matt’s cousin, not-”

  “Karl knows what he’s talking about, T. J.,” Matt said. Still sharp as a tack.

  “Who did the work, Matt?”

  “Wish I knew. I was kidnapped and the surgery performed against my will.”

  “Your face has been on the news. Every hour.”

  “Just what I need.” Matt waited as T.J. stepped closer.

  “Jesus. How does that feel? Does it hurt?”

  Matt smiled. “Actually, it itches more than it hurts.”

  “How can I help you, Matt?” Karl Mitchell closed the book and tossed it on the floor.

  “I’m in big trouble, Karl. The people who did this to me are now trying to kill me. I escaped from the hospital and for the past several days I’ve been running for my life. And I don’t know why.”

  “And you come here?”

  “Because I think there’s a link to that night in the monastery, near Basharri.”

  “Basharri. That was quite a night.”

  “Someone was there, Karl, someone from outside our AUB group. Do you remember who?” Matt moved closer to the elevated hospital bed.

  “How much do you know about AIDS, Dr. Richards? Not what it says in the medical books. The real life and death of it? The pain, the hopelessness, the guilt… Herpes is something you live with. AIDs is something you die with. And more often than not something you give to others, even your loved ones.” He reached out for T. J.’s thin hand.

  “I just have to look at you, Karl, and then look at T.J. It maybe about suffering and death, but it’s also about love and partnership.”

  T.J. looked at Matt. “We had to get out of Beirut. Gays were not very well accepted in the Middle East, even now but especially back in the late 60’s.”

  “As I look back over my life I realize I was terminally irresponsible,” the scientist went on, his mind drifting a little. “At least you have a chance to make up for your mistakes. I don’t have the time or energy to even try. I’ll die soon knowing I could have prevented this and didn’t. Brains I had, but wisdom?” He coughed again. This time bright red blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth.

  “The fact is, Dr. Mitchell, none of us has much time,” Nicole said. “This goes as high up as the President of the United States.”

  “Ah, yes. The suicide bomber. Bedouina.”

  “So it was her?”

  “Of course. So she didn’t die in the explosion? And Maha?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Karl Mitchell looked over at Nicole. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally found someone who loves you, Matt. As I grow older I realize what a true blessing love is. Let’s see…Basharri.” He closed his eyes. “Everyone was stoned when T. J. and I arrived, but it didn’t take us long to get into the groove. Demetrie certainly had the best hash.”

  “Why did you show up in the first place?” Matt pressed. “It seemed to me like a spontaneous decision for us to stop in Basharri that night and visit the monastery.”

  “We were invited by Demetrie,” T. J. said. “He’d met a man who was trying to organize a group to help the Palestinians. It sounded interesting so we drove up that afternoon and arrived a little after you guys. The others drifted in later.”

  “What others?” asked Matt looking from T. J. to Karl.

  “An Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib. And another Arab wrapped in a red keffiyeh who didn’t speak and barely showed his face. I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “Yassar?” Matt said.

  “That may have been it. Anyway, Nagib spoke that evening about a special organization he was helping. Its mission was to take a stand for the Palestinians and their right of statehood. As I recall the more influential and wealthy Arab countries were not very supportive of the Palestinian cause, still aren’t. But the Israelis were growing in strength and presented a threat to the traditional way of life in the Middle East. He painted a graphic picture of the refugee camps, the suffering of women and children, the torture and humiliation of Palestinian men at the hands of Zionist aggressors. He even read some poems written by refugee children from the Chatilla camp. The longer he went on the more interested everyone seemed-unless I’m mistaking b
eing stoned for interested.”

  Matt glanced at Nicole. “What happened after that?”

  “I don’t know if anyone ever joined his fledgling organization. I never saw him again and no one in the group ever spoke about it to me…”

  T. J. signaled that Karl was growing sleepy. It was time to leave.

  “Just one more question, Karl,” Matt said. “Has anyone else from the old AUB days been in touch with you recently?”

  Karl Mitchell lay still. Matt glanced back at Nicole. As the silence lengthened they moved out of the sunroom toward the front door.

  Matt gave T. J. a hug then reached out for the door. Karl’s reedy voice echoed into the hallway. “Just one person… Todd Cummings. He called, yesterday, and wanted to know what I remembered about that night in Basharri. He also asked if I’d spoken to William Fisher recently. Will was at the monastery that night as well. In fact it was Will who organized the entire meeting, not Demetrie.” Dr. Mitchell paused, trying to rally his limited strength. “Be careful, Matt. You deserve a second chance to make things right.”

  ***

  CNN Headline News

  The CNN anchorman, seated in front of a large bank of monitors, spoke quickly. “Sometime within the next week President Roswell Pierce will be making a major policy speech. According to a recent announcement from the White House press secretary President Pierce has been working on a US response to the escalating violence in the Middle East. When asked by reporters why this official response has been so long in coming Press Secretary Sheila Morgan replied that President Pierce would not be goaded into rash action by threats or acts of terrorism. His response would be well thought out, prudent, and comprehensive.

  “CNN will keep you informed as soon as we know the date and time of this important policy statement by the President.”

  ***

  Washington, D.C.

  “I certainly am glad to see the two of you,” Elijah paced in front of the sofa where Matt and Nicole rested in the small living room of his hideaway apartment. “What did you do with the car you stole in Concord?”

  “We parked it in a long-term lot at BWI Airport, wiped off our fingerprints and then took the train back into town,” replied Nicole. “What a great old car, that Packard. We parked it out of the way. I hope no one will damage it. Maybe after this thing is all over we’ll drive it back to its rightful owner.”

  “Our lives may be over if we don’t figure out what the hell is going on,” Matt said, tired and frustrated. “Anne-Marie and Dr. Thomas are dead and it’s my fault.”

  Eli poured himself another two fingers of Glenrothes. “We need to think this through. Look at things from a fresh perspective.”

  “Dad, what did you find out about Mohammed al Nagib and William Fisher?”

  “Quite a bit,” Eli said. “William Fisher’s had a very unusual career. I still can’t figure out how he wound up as one of the top dogs at the National Security Agency. His first assignment was as an embassy attache posted in Beirut, where he stayed until 1982, the year his wife was killed.”

  “What?” said Matt, coming out of his depression. “How did she die?”

  “She was killed in one of the Palestinian refugee camps in southern Lebanon during an Israeli raid. She was a volunteer nurse. Every so often the Israeli commandos would sneak into southern Lebanon, either across the border or come in from the sea, looking for Arab terrorists hiding out in the camps. She was shot in the back by an Israeli colonel who was leading the raid. Word among the intelligence community is Fisher took it pretty hard and became a recluse. Then about a year later he landed a plum job at the National Security Agency and steadily rose through the ranks.”

  “”What exactly is the NSA?” Nicole asked.

  “It’s the communications and research arm of the U.S. intelligence network. Originally, the National Security Agency staff were the code breakers but now they’re also experts on terrorism and clandestine communications used by hostile foreign governments and political groups. Fisher was recently promoted to director of Middle Eastern affairs for the NSA and is a standing member of President Pierce’s Special Task Force on Terrorism. He never remarried and is known to be dedicated, hard working, intelligent, and highly opinionated.”

  “Sounds like the same jerk I met in Beirut thirty years ago,” replied Matt. “But why did he arrange that meeting at the monastery? And how did he know the Egyptian, Mohammad al Nagib?”

  Eli savored his scotch, ignoring the look on his daughter’s face. “You don’t have time to read all there is about Mohammed al Nagib. Not only is he fabulously wealthy, he also shows up at high-society functions up and down the East Coast and in Europe. He has homes in London, Zurich, Athens, Rio de Janeiro, Bermuda and Cairo, plus a large estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains where he often entertains dignitaries from other countries. And he’s a big contributor to both the Republican and Democratic parties.”

  “Sounds like a real slime ball,” Nicole said sourly.

  “That and more. Al Nagib immigrated to the United States in the early 1970s from Egypt and somehow bought his way into the computer business. He’s now chairman of one of the biggest technology and software conglomerates in the United States. It’s based just outside Washington, near Dulles Airport, where a large number of defense and military technology companies are headquartered. He’s regularly seen in the company of a wealthy Greek shipping magnate.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Matt said. “His last name is Antonopolis, right?”

  “How did you know that?” Eli said, raising his eyebrows.

  “One of the regulars in our AUB group was Demetrie Antonopolis, playboy son of some Greek industrialist. Demetrie’s father must be mixed up in all this and probably Demetrie as well. Anything known about al Nagib’s early days?”

  “Absolutely nothing is known about him before he arrived in the United States. The record is a blank,” said Eli.

  How convenient. “So,” Matt mused, “he shows up in Beirut in early 1969 trying to organize a radical group and then one year later winds up in the United States. You say he immigrated. He’s an American citizen?”

  Eli nodded. “Quite the patriot. Well known and admired for throwing elaborate Fourth of July parties and lavishing thousands of dollars on fireworks.”

  “Cut to the chase, Dad,” said Nicole. “What’s the unofficial word on this bastard?”

  “Well, it’s never been proven but he’s suspected of being an international arms dealer and global financier. Some people believe he’s been responsible for putting people into key positions of power. Like a few heads of state, African dictators, and even some elected officials in Europe and the United States. And then when it suits him financially, he helps remove them. Think of all the recent leadership changes in the Congo and other African countries. At any rate he earns his money during times of war, not peace. And his close business ties to a Brazilian mining industrialist named Jorge Molinas are suspect. Molinas financially supports Hezbollah terrorist camps in the tri-border region of Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil.”

  Matt drummed his fingers on the table, something tugging at his thoughts. A name, a face, a fact. What is it?

  “I’ve made a fresh pot of tea,” said Nicole reaching across the table to pour the piping hot herbal tea into Matt’s mug. Opening his eyes he stared at the diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist. He’d never really paid much attention to it before. It glimmered in the overhead lights of the kitchen.

  “I’ve got it! Your bracelet- it just reminded me of the wrist band. It was there all along in the back of my mind.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Matt?” Nicole exclaimed. She looked at her bracelet, trying to read its secrets.

  “When I was escaping from the hospital I ducked into a dark room to avoid one of the guards. I was still a little groggy but there was a young woman lying in a hospital bed. I looked at her face but didn’t recognize her. She had scars like mine, another face transplant. She must have been
having a bad dream because her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I remember her saying something like, ‘No, Daddy, No.’ When I put her hand back on the bed I noticed the hospital tag around her wrist. It caught the light from the ceiling. There was no name. Only a blood type, A-negative, and two small letters. I didn’t register those letters at the time but now I can see them clear as day: K. S. Kelly Stevens.”

  Eli’s face clouded. “If the press reported both of you dead,” he said slowly, “it suggests that Senator Mason Stevens is somehow involved.”

  Matt sipped his piping hot tea. “What if he helped fake the accident in order to get his wayward daughter cleaned up, off of drugs, and out of sight? The last thing a powerful senator needs is a drug addict daughter. Maybe that’s why he insisted Kelly come to the reception for Dr. Melikian. He arranged the whole thing.”

  “What?” asked Nicole.

  “Didn’t Dr. Thomas say it was the Israelis who were the most advanced in facial transplant procedures?”

  Nicole’s face went white. “You don’t think Senator Stevens is working with the Mossad, do you?”

  “Whoa, young lady, you’ve been watching too many James Bond movies,” said Eli, pouring another two fingers of Scotch. “First of all foreign intelligence agencies aren’t allowed to operate inside the United States, period. And second it would be a treasonable offense, not to mention political suicide, for an elected official to be involved with any foreign government operating clandestinely on American soil.”

  “Are you saying this kind of thing doesn’t happen?”

  “It can happen, but certainly not with the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He’s cleaner than clean.”

  “My father had a sophisticated medical term for situations like this,” Matt said. “Bullshit. Here’s how I see it, farfetched as it may sound. The Israelis promise Stevens that his wayward daughter will get rehabilitated, a new face and a faraway job. And they probably give him a pile of cash to deposit in some Swiss bank account. All he has to do is help them get hold of me to use as their ferret and make it look like an accident. With all his intelligence contacts that should be pretty easy to arrange. So far so good. However the Mossad now have him perfectly positioned for blackmail so he probably reports to them everything that goes on in the President’s Special Advisory Council on Terrorism.” Matt faced them, his excitement mounting. “Somehow the Israelis know a terrorist cell exists right here in Washington. And if they can find it they might be able to control it. Even use it to their benefit. ”