The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “Thank you. Tell Dr. Melikian I’ll be over within the hour.”

  His next call was to the American Airlines reservation desk. In a few minutes he had a booking under the name of Brian Scott, the name on the passport he’d pocketed back at Eli’s. At least they had the same face. The flight for Nassau left at noon from Dulles Airport. Plenty of time.

  For the past several days Matthew Richards had been pondering the situation he found himself in. Presumed dead, wearing the face of an international contract killer, wanted by the police and who knows else, it was only a matter of time before a sniper or a police officer put a bullet through his head. When Nicole found the bank book and the key it struck him as a golden opportunity to go into hiding before he was killed. All he had to do was catch a plane to Nassau, use the passport that matched the name on the bank book, transfer the money, fly to Argentina and buy a small ranch. Maybe in Tierra del Fuego, far enough away where nobody would care who he was. After all, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid fled to Argentina and lived quite happily for several years. Until they got restless and returned to the business of robbing banks and trains. Now that Nicole was dead his noble thoughts of saving the President and preventing world war three were a cruel joke.

  Matt walked over to a corner kiosk and ordered a hot coffee and an almond croissant. Sacraments for sound decision making.

  ***

  The White House Situation Room

  “They’re coming around, sir,” said one of the Secret Service agents. The President strode through the door of the basement bunker. The Director of the CIA, Dr. Terry Finch, stood up.

  “Any sign of the other one?” President Pierce walked over to a sofa where Elijah and Nicole were sprawled. A female agent handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Not yet Mr. President, but it shouldn’t be long now. And these two should be able to give us some idea where he might be hiding. Tajikian will tell us what we need to know.” Finch cleared his throat. “He was a loyal employee of the Agency for quite a few years.”

  “Could you be any more naive?” President Pierce asked acidly. He took another long sip from his coffee mug.

  Elijah Tajikian sat up, moved his head from side to side and slowly looked around. He glanced over at his daughter, also slowly coming out of her drug-induced stupor. “I always wondered what the aftertaste was from those knock-out pellets. Now I know. Like a mouthful of horse shit.” He noticed the President of the United States towering over him. “Slumming, Mr. President?”

  Karl van Ness whispered in President Pierce’s ear.

  “The rest of you are excused.” No one in the room mistook the President’s remark as a suggestion. “Dr. Finch! One of the marine guards will escort you to a waiting room upstairs. I’ll need to speak with you as soon as I’m finished here. And no telephone calls. Period.”

  Once the CIA director and the rest of the entourage had left the room, Ross Pierce pulled up a chair and sat down facing the sofa. Elijah and Nicole were now fully conscious.

  “How are you, Ms. Delacluse?”

  She stared blankly at the President, her eyes still drooping.

  “She’ll be okay in a few minutes, Mr. President,” Elijah said. “Right now she thinks she’s hallucinating.”

  “Nicole?”

  “I’m here. Just give me a minute. Two and two keeps coming up thirteen.”

  Pierce smiled at the former CIA case officer. “Karl says you were a good agent. And so does Finch.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President. Finch is an analyst and a bona fide asshole. He couldn’t care less if men and women of courage put their lives on the line every day for the safety and security of this great country. All he cares about is balancing his budget and getting more appropriations from Congress for research and technology. Electronic espionage, what a crock-”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tajikian. You’re apparently coming around faster than your daughter.” The President focused on Nicole. “With us now, Ms. Delacluse?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. As a reporter I’m used to the unexpected. But I’m not prepared for this. What happened?”

  “Well, first of all, let me apologize for kidnapping you and your father. It’s not how we normally do things, entering private homes under force and…” He cast about for words. “Look. I need your help. America needs your help. Shit, the entire goddamned world needs your help.”

  Nicole looked at her father.

  “What can we do?” Elijah said.

  “I want you to tell me in as much detail as you can what the hell is going on. I had a visit recently from a Mr. Todd Cummings. I think you know him, Ms. Delacluse? He convinced me that I’m in grave danger and a Middle East war could break out soon. We don’t have much time and I’m prepared to move quickly if I need to.”

  “What about my daughter’s safety?”

  “As far as I can tell neither of you have done anything wrong though your daughter is wanted for questioning in the death of Dr. Martin Thomas. I’ll see to it that she’s exonerated if you give me the information I need,” the President said. “If she’s innocent, of course.” Pierce smiled. “No pressure. Now why don’t you let your daughter start at the beginning and tell me everything that might be important. I’m having this conversation recorded, we might need it. Right now I’m most interested in what you know, Ms. Delacluse. Tell me about Dr. Matthew Richards and this deep cover terrorist cell. And where the heck is he, anyway?”

  “You mean he wasn’t captured too?”

  “If he was I wouldn’t have bothered with you, now would I?”

  Elijah interrupted. “He must have escaped out the bathroom window. He was headed that way before your goons broke down our door.”

  “I apologize for the theatrics,” Pierce said. “Everything will be repaired. It was the only way I could get you here without anyone knowing. Especially those who might be involved. Now that’s the last apology you’re going to get from me. Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or am I going to have to do this the hard way?”

  Eli motioned for his daughter to sit down. He had been in similar situations in his career and it was best to acknowledge reality. “OK, let’s get down to business.” Elijah looked up at van Ness.

  “I assume you two know each other,” said President Pierce. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I would very much like to hear what is going on in my country.”

  For the next forty-five minutes Eli and Nicole told President Pierce, Karl van Ness, and the invisible tape machine everything they knew about Matt Richards. They documented what had transpired and how it might be connected to the fate of the Middle East.

  President Roswell Clayton Pierce stared into the sudden quiet. “I could use a drink.”

  “If you’ve got any scotch, Mr. President, make mine a triple,” Elijah said

  Van Ness spoke quietly into the telephone.

  “You say Dr. Matt Richards had a face transplant, against his will, and now has the identity of an international contract assassin?”

  “As implausible as it may sound, yes.”

  “And you believe Senator Stevens’ daughter is alive, also with a face transplant, and may still be in that clinic in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”

  “That’s right.”

  The President gestured to Karl van Ness. “Have someone research face transplants and their threat to national security.”

  Van Ness nodded and went back to his phone conversation.

  “You do realize how well connected and important Mr. Mohammed al Nagib is? These are pretty serious accusations against such a prominent American citizen.”

  “He’s a fucking slime ball-oops, that’s a technical term, Mr. President,” Nicole said.

  “I’ve used the term myself, Ms. Delacluse and under current conditions it is quite apt,” laughed the President. “Would you stake your journalistic career on all you’ve just told me?”

  “Frankly sir, right now I don’t have a career to protect. But, yes, I believe what we
have told you is the truth.”

  The drinks arrived. President Pierce watched Elijah gulp down his scotch, hug his daughter, then face him. “Great Scotch, Mr. President.”

  “No slumming here, Mr. Tajikian.”

  ***

  Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

  Two marine helicopters descended onto the gravel driveway of the Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic. Twelve armed secret service agents quickly entered the building while others rounded up the guards at the front gate near the highway. The telephone lines were disabled and the executive staff secured in the private wing of the hospital. Dr. Weissman, his white hair whipped by the whirling rotors of the lead helicopter, escorted his patient, strapped to a folding hospital bed, into the chopper. It took off and headed directly for the south lawn of the White House.

  An urgent message was sent to the office of Senator Mason T. Stevens, summoning him to the Oval Office for a private meeting with the President. The subject was national security and he was to appear promptly at 1:30 pm.

  ***

  The White House

  When President Pierce entered the small ante room down the hall from the Oval Office, CIA director Finch quickly stood. “Look Ross, I don’t know what you think you’re doing holding me here like this, but…”

  “Sit down and shut up, Terry,” Pierce said. “We’ve got a major situation here and I need your full cooperation. If you give me that you just might keep your job. But if I find out that you had anything to do with this mess I guarantee I will personally hang you by the balls, if you have any, from the Capitol Rotunda.”

  Finch blanched and quickly sat down.

  “Do you remember that remark you made the other day in our meeting on terrorism?” the President said. “The one about an effective way to deter future suicide bombers?”

  “You mean by eliminating their immediate families as a future disincentive?”

  “Can that be done on the families of the last four or five major suicide bombers? And quickly? I know this is highly irregular and I’m not even going to think about what Congress might say but I’m asking your opinion and I want a straight answer. No theory, just yes or no.”

  Dr. Finch nodded, his color coming back. “It can be done, Mr. President, and in such a way that we aren’t even involved. The names and locations of the close families of the recent suicide bombers are known by most intelligence services. In particular Israel, Australia, and of course the United States. And there are highly qualified independent contractors who are not traceable to us.”

  Pierce’s eyes turned cold. “You’ll report directly to me and tell no one else about this. I’ll be calling a meeting of my Special Advisory Council on Terrorism at 7 A.M., three days from now in my office. If you can’t get this operation accomplished before then, tell me now.”

  “It can and will be done, Mr. President.”

  “All right. This is your opportunity to put in place one of the major planks in a platform that will bring about a lasting peace in the Middle East. It could also end organized global terrorism.” Pierce felt as if he was back in his A6 Intruder responding smoothly while everything was happening at once. “Oh, and I want the nations sponsoring those terrorist scum and the terrorist leaders themselves to clearly understand that the U.S. will no longer tolerate suicide bombings. There will be swift reprisals against the families of the terrorists. This will be the standard response from now on. Now get the message out and put some teeth into it.”

  Finch stood up. Pierce noted the perspiration on his upper lip. A bean counter Tajikian had said.

  “Dr. Finch. You will personally make all necessary calls to the various people involved and you will assure them the CIA will guarantee the funding for the contracts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when this is all over you and I will sit down and discuss your future, assuming either of us still have one left by then.”

  ***

  The Medical Office of Dr. Noubar Melikian

  “Dr. Melikian will see you now, Mr. Summers. His office is the first door on the left.” Irene Leonard, the receptionist, pointed down the hall of the renovated townhouse.

  “Thank you.” Matt walked down the hall and paused in front of a white wooden door. He was sweating as he knocked lightly just below the brass nameplate.

  “Please come in.”

  A thick red and blue Persian carpet covered the floor. A built-in bookcase covered one entire wall, loaded with reference books. The medicinal smell and the comfortable feeling in the room transported Matt to his father’s office in their home. As a boy he would often push open the heavy door and sit in his father’s worn leather chair, pretending he was a famous surgeon. Matt had wasted his whole life pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Now he was at it again. This time with a false face. What about Dr. Melikian-was he a pretender, too?

  A white-coated physician came around from behind the cluttered desk with his hand extended.

  “Thank you for taking a few moments out of your busy schedule, Dr. Melikian,” Matt said, shaking his hand. “I’m Dr. Bill Summers. I work for an international medical organization called Esperanca.”

  “Ah, yes, the organization founded by that Franciscan friar. Father Luke Tupper, wasn’t it? Don’t you operate a hospital boat on the Amazon?”

  “Actually, two hospital boats. We also provide primary and secondary medical care to impoverished people in the forests of Bolivia, Belize and several African nations. We also provide nurse and health worker training in developing countries. But I doubt if we’re as busy as you are.”

  Dr. Melikian motioned for Matt to sit down. “To be honest it’s the social activities that wear me out. I’m becoming allergic to rubber chicken dinners.”

  Matt smiled. “As I told your secretary I have a message from Dr. Wilson Richards. I saw him in the Amazon a few weeks ago. He’d like to visit you when he returns to the States. He wanted me to wish you the best as you travel the thin line between the Hippocratic Oath and the pressures of political Washington. I’m not certain what he meant by that, but he asked me to deliver the message directly to you.”

  “I know all too well what Dr. Richards means. Tell him it would be an honor to meet him. He’s one of the early pioneers in heart surgery, of course. But he’s also a great humanitarian as well.” Dr. Melikian glanced down at his watch.

  “I’d appreciate it if you could give me a brief tour of your offices. I understand you’re a specialist in both benign and malignant basil cell carcinomas and that you do some advanced research right here in your own offices. We are seeing a growing number of skin cancers in the Amazon and some other tropical areas and we’re at a loss as to why.”

  The doctor nodded. “I can give you a quick tour, Dr. Summers, but then I really must be getting back to my patients. As for the growing incidence of skin cancer in the heavily forested tropics, I don’t have a clue. I do know the increase in skin cancers in Australia has been traced to the degradation of the Ozone Layer and the resulting increase in solar radiation. I’d be interested in knowing more about your findings.”

  “I’ll send you some of our findings on e-mail as soon as I can.”

  “A quick tour, then. Let’s start with our small research laboratory upstairs.”

  Dr. Melikian moved with a surprisingly quick stride up the staircase to the second floor and at the end of the hall opened the laboratory door. Matt was about to follow him in when down the hall another door opened and an elderly patient emerged, followed by a tall woman in a white coat. She was a striking woman with thick black hair. Stunned, Matt tripped over the threshold, drawing their attention. The woman doctor raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes a dark brown behind glasses.

  Matt smiled awkwardly, entered the lab and closed the door.

  “That’s my associate, Dr. Margaret Khalid,” Dr. Melikian said, anticipating the question. “A brilliant physician recommended to me by my benefactor. She’s a gold mine of intelligence and competence, and the p
atients adore her. It’s been tough for her starting over in the States. Anywhere else she would be medical director. I’m fortunate to have her on my staff. And the President likes her too.”

  “Starting over, being your partner and having the favor of the President of the United States doesn’t sound too bad.”

  Melikian laughed. “A good point. I’ll tell her that.”

  After the quick tour Matt and Dr. Melikian made their way back down to the reception area and shook hands. “Tell Dr. Richards I look forward to his visit anytime.”

  “I certainly will. And thank you for your hospitality and the cook’s tour.” Matt put on his pea coat. “By the way, may I ask who your benefactor was?”

  “You may have heard of him. An Egyptian-American named Mohammed al Nagib.”

  ***

  The Oval Office

  “Have a drink, Howard. I think you’re going to need it,” President Pierce motioned with his tin cup toward the well stocked liquor cabinet. FBI Director Howard Duncan poured himself a double scotch, neat. Having been summoned to the Oval Office several times before under previous administrations he knew that when the President of the United States said have a drink something big was coming down the pike.

  Over the next hour the tin cup occasionally slammed down on the coffee table as President Pierce laid out the situation. “That’s what we know so far. A deep cover terrorist cell operating inside the U.S. The kidnapping and face transplant of Dr. Matt Richards. The suspicious deaths of Dr. Martin J. Thomas, Professor Brian Walker and Anne-Marie Khoury, all connected to each other during their time in Beirut in 1968-69.” Pierce also mentioned his recent discussions with Todd Cummings of Monument Oil and the possible connection between William Fisher and the international financier and industrialist, Mohammed al Nagib. Without naming his source President Pierce also related some startling facts and the transcripts of a conversation held in London at the St. James Casino.