The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “May I have another drink, Mr. President?”

  “Look Howard, time is short. And if people as high up as Mason Stevens and William Fisher are involved then I don’t know whom to trust. So I’m going solo on this one. And I’m definitely not going through Congress. Don’t have the time or the inclination. Besides, the longer we wait the greater the risk that we’ll lose the advantage of surprise.”

  FBI Director Duncan gulped his second drink.

  “Very rarely does a man in my position get the opportunity I’m being presented with. I’m not a brilliant academic, Howard, but I’ve been put into a position of global responsibility and Lady Luck has just aligned the stars in our favor. By God I’m not going to miss this chance to do something bold and lasting.”

  “What are you suggesting, Mr. President?”

  “I want you to be here when Senator Stevens arrives. Which will be in about five minutes. I sent him an urgent message requesting a highly confidential meeting in my office at 1:30.” The President checked the old clock on the fireplace mantle against his Gold Rolex Oyster watch. “As you already know agents have recovered his daughter from that clinic in Virginia. You’ll never guess who its primary backer is.”

  “Mohammed al Nagib.” the director smiled. “I’ve been doing a little digging of my own since you called a couple of hours ago. He’s well hidden among all the legal entities. But in essence the clinic is on land he owns, it’s next to his private mountain estate, and one of his medical technology companies is the primary funding source. Oddly there are prominent Israeli physicians and industrialists on the board of directors. Even the Israeli ambassador to the United States. Not to mention our own esteemed senior senator, Mason T. Stevens.”

  “You have been busy, Howard,” Pierce said. “Now, I have Senator Stevens’ daughter waiting in the room next door. Why don’t you go in and get acquainted then bring her in when I buzz?” Pierce opened a door hidden in the paneling and waved the FBI head through. “This is a distasteful affair, Howard. But if we do our job right we may just save the world from a bloody and senseless war. And we might even secure a lasting peace at the same time.”

  “Let’s hope so, Mr. President. I’d like to retire and do some fly fishing without worrying about being nuked or gassed in my own country.”

  The intercom buzzer sounded. “Mr. President, Senator Stevens is here for his 1:30 appointment.”

  Ross Pierce shut the door behind Howard Duncan and flipped the intercom switch. “Send him in, Miriam. And proceed with the arrangements we discussed.”

  Senator Stevens’ bulk filled the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” His confident, convivial and practiced public voice boomed out. Not every Senator was summoned for a private meeting in the Oval Office. “I cleared my calendar as soon as I received your urgent message.”

  “Sit down, Senator Stevens.” The President studied him. “As we speak the FBI is entering your office in the Hart building, as well as your home office, and placing your entire staff and household under arrest. All your files and correspondence as well as computer equipment, telephone logs and bank records are being confiscated. You are under arrest for high treason against the United States of America.” He watched as Stevens blanched, his posture imploding upon itself. Fear overtook his bravado.

  “Mr. President. I don’t understand…” Then the arrogance and confidence of years in the Senate returned. “Is this some sort of sick joke, Ross? Just what the fuck are you playing at?” Stevens boomed in a voice usually reserved for the floor of Congress.

  Off to the side of the oval office a barely visible door opened. A young woman, pale and gaunt, entered the Oval Office, followed by the director of the FBI. No one spoke as she approached Senator Stevens. She stood in silence before her father.

  “Daddy, it’s me, Kelly. Why did you do this to me and to Dr. Richards?” she tried to hold back her tear but failed. Trembling, she moved into the FBI Director’s arms.

  No one spoke, yet silent curses, pleas, lies, prayers, and unspoken rebuttals mingled with a flood of regret, broken dreams, shattered trust and decades of guilt. Like no other time in history this special room, the heart of a great nation, witnessed the merging of a profound set of events that could possibly change the face of modern civilization. For all the pain and suffering at that moment a new opportunity for world peace was at hand.

  Senator Stevens avoided the gaze of his daughter. He looked first at the FBI Director and then to President Pierce. “I don’t know what you’re after, Mr. President,” he finally announced, “but of course I’ll cooperate fully. And in return for my full cooperation I’d like to be able to retire gracefully after this is all over.”

  “At the moment, Mason, I’m not in the mood to make deals nor am I really concerned about what happens to your sorry ass. You got caught for a crime that men better than you have been hung for. Now I suggest you sit right here with FBI Director Duncan and myself and tell us everything. And I mean everything. We’re short on time.”

  “And what about my daughter? I was only trying to help with her drug problem. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  Kelly flew at her father, screaming. The President restrained her at the last minute. “I hate you, Daddy. I hate you! You’re only concern about me was whether or not I would embarrass you. Did you know I won an award for creative writing at Sweet Briar as a sophomore? Do you even care?”

  “Come on now, sweetheart, you know I was only trying to protect you from the ugliness of this world. I know I should have spent more time with you but I just couldn’t get away from my duties in Congress. I wanted so much to be someone you could look up to. Someone you could be proud of.”

  “How can I be proud of someone I don’t even know?” She stood her ground, perhaps for the first time.

  Dr. Weissman entered with a marine guard. After a nod from the President they escorted Kelly Stevens from the room. She held back for a moment and called to her father. “You never knew me. You don’t know anything about me. And you have no idea how much pain you’ve caused. To be honest, I like my new face. It separates me from your crimes and your ugly self indulgence.”

  When the door closed Ross Pierce stared at Senator Stevens who was staring vacantly at the floor. His shoulders stooped. A political giant, an esteemed and feared senior senator now a lonely and broken man.

  “Listen to me, Mason,” the President said quietly. “You’re going to tell us everything, right from the sordid beginning. I know you’re in bed with the Israeli ambassador and I want to know exactly what the two of you are up to. I have a feeling you probably don’t know how much of a pawn you’ve been in whatever game they are playing but we’ll discuss your situation later.” Stevens’ eyes remained fixed on the floor. The time for filibustering and goading was over. At least he was smart enough to know it.

  “You can start with how much they paid you and where you’ve stashed the money,” FBI Director Duncan said.

  For the better part of two hours the senator told them everything. He began with his growing concern over the past several years that the US was going soft on Arab terrorists and how, in his opinion, Israel deserved additional military and financial assistance. The struggling little nation needed to be fully equipped to support the United States in a war of retaliation to wipe out the terrorists and their sponsoring regimes once and for all. As far as the senator was concerned the only solution was a military one and he had pledged his support to assist Israel through his position in Congress and from his seat on various committees.

  “Several months ago the Israeli ambassador came to me with a way of helping my daughter. He would help with her drug addiction by getting her into a special clinic for rehabilitation. He could arrange for a change in her identity and get her out of the country before she did me severe damage in the Senate. He would even arrange for a good job in one of the foreign embassies.” His mouth formed a hard thin line, well known on the Senate floor. “She’s my daughter. I had
a responsibility to her. I did what I thought was right.”

  “Where does Dr. Matthew Richards fit in?” Duncan asked.

  “Him? The Israelis knew about his disgusting affair with my daughter. I imagine he got her hooked on drugs in the first place. They said they could get rid of him. All they wanted in return was some advance information on our strategies against terrorism.”

  Pierce stood up. “That’s enough for now, Mason. You’ll be going with Director Duncan down to FBI headquarters to make an official statement.”

  “But I must call my wife…”

  “I’ll have someone call your wife and tell her not to expect you home for a few days.”

  “But what about the Senate? I’ve got meetings and responsibilities…”

  “It will be taken care of. And after this is all over you and I will sit down and decide what to do. And what would be in the best interests of the United States.”

  Senator Stevens stood up to his full height. “And what if I just tell you to fuck off and I go to the press instead? My life is ruined already but I won’t let you ruin this great country. You’ve already gone soft on these Arab bastards. I knew you were a broken man after your time as a POW but no one would listen to me. You haven’t got the stomach for a real fight.”

  “You only know one way to fight, Mason.” The President turned and looked out at the rose garden. “Head-on, guns blazing and mouth roaring. There is a time and a place for that approach, but if the only tool you’ve got is a hammer, then everything looks like a nail ready to be pounded. Democracy and the people of the United States of America will win this war, Senator, on that score you can be damned certain. But it will be done my way. In case you may have forgotten the American people elected me to run this country, not you, and certainly not the Israelis. If you want I can have you arrested for treason right now. Or we can do this the easy way for all of us.”

  Ross Pierce looked directly into the Senator’s eyes. “Now dig deep, Senator. This may be the biggest decision of your life. You have served this great country for a long time. Don’t stop now.”

  An ugly silence permeated the Oval Office. The director of the FBI stood back, immobile, a mere witness to the fate of a man, a Presidency, and a nation.

  “Do you play poker, Mr. President?”

  “Only occasionally, Senator. And tonight I’ve got the stronger hand.”

  Senator Mason T. Stevens stepped back. “Good luck, Mr. President,” he said, his back ramrod straight, his jaw set. “You have my full cooperation. May God bless America.” A marine guard came in and escorted him down to the basement garage where Director Duncan’s car waited.

  Director Duncan exhaled. “Jesus. I’m glad that’s over.”

  “Me too.”

  “Think he’ll play?”

  “He’ll play. He’s a professional politician.”

  “Maybe when this is over he should get one of those face transplants.”

  Pierce shook his head. “No need for that.”

  “Mr. President?”

  “He’s two faced already. I’ve got one more job for you, Howard. I want your most trusted men to take William Fisher into custody and put the squeeze on him until he tells you everything concerning his association with Mohammed al Nagib. Use whatever methods work. I don’t care how you do it but I want every scrap of information out of him. Names, dates, places, contacts, everything. And keep him hidden away. We may need him again. Tomorrow morning you and I are going to meet with the Israeli ambassador and, how shall I say it, gain his unequivocal cooperation in putting an end to this terrorist game once and for all.”

  “You’re walking a fine line here, Mr. President,” Duncan said shaking his head. “Some of what you’re asking me to do is illegal, or at least would be highly distasteful in the eyes of Americans. And I don’t have to tell you that what you’re about to do will probably put an end to your career.”

  “My career is the least of my worries at the moment, Mr. Director. Besides, being President doesn’t pay that well. Now are you with me or not?”

  “It would be my personal pleasure to help you solve this mess, Mr. President. I have grandchildren who deserve to live their life free from the threat of terrorist attacks and those who want to curtail freedom of thought and choice. I’ll call you this evening with an update on Mr. Fisher.” Duncan moved to the door. He paused before opening it. “When I was stationed in the Far East many years ago I heard a Chinese curse that went something like this: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ I’d say we are both cursed, Mr. President.”

  “Let’s review that in six months, Howard.”

  When the door closed President Pierce called the secretary of state, the national security advisor, and the attorney general to an impromptu meeting in the Oval Office. Then he got ready for his meeting with the Israeli Ambassador. After that, if fortune was still on his side he would craft his policy statement on terrorism to the nation and the world.

  ***

  The Streets of Washington, D. C.

  There are numerous obscure places in the nation’s capitol where people can find shelter and food for the night, away from prying eyes. The Greater Good Mission on Q Street gave Matt a hot meal, a warm place to sleep and nobody asked any questions. As he lay on the dirty thin mattress the only one asking questions was Matt. What did he really see in the hallway of Dr. Melikian’s office?

  An elderly patient emerged first, then the woman. Tall, black hair, brown eyes, heavy frame glasses. Dr. Melikian said it was his assistant and partner. Dr. Margaret Khalid. She stood some distance away in the darkness of the hallway. Like a dream. Like one of his drunken hallucinations, shimmering just beyond what was real, but close enough to hurt. How long since he’d had a drink? Weeks? Months? Could this all be real? He knew of cases of long-term alcoholics who continued to have hallucinations months and even years after they’d stopped drinking. Maybe that was it. Plus the stress and fear.

  Matt Richards looked around the basement and wondered if he would wind up like these forgotten men and women. Spread out across the floor, drunk, homeless and alone. When they were young and full of life did they ever think they would end up here? Shit. This could be me.

  A raspy voice whispered from the mattress next to him, “Try and get some sleep, young fella. Nighttime is worst. The gremlins take control of your head. It’s the past they live in. The dark and evil past. It’s in all of us. You’ll either learn to go to sleep or they’ll drive you crazy. That’s why most of us drink at night.” Matthew Richards closed his eyes and nodded with understanding. He tried not to think about Maha-or Nicole.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Washington, D.C.

  At 8:30 the next morning Matt Richards emerged from the homeless shelter thinking again about his meeting with Dr. Noubar Melikian. He was assaulted by the city noise and smell from the sidewalk garbage. “Ah! The fragrance of the most powerful city on earth. And one of the top five U.S. cities for dangerous crimes. No wonder the White House is barricaded like Fort Knox. Some role model for the rest of the world.” He looked about. People hurried by, eyes down at their feet.

  As Matt walked he reviewed the evidence against Dr. Melikian. Item: he’s in a perfect position to assassinate the President. Item: he was plucked from obscurity in Cairo and given a first class education by a benefactor who just happens to be an international terrorist financier and arms dealer. Item: strings are pulled to get him into medical school in Switzerland. And the final item: the benefactor maneuvered Dr. Melikian into the highly sought after post of Personal Physician to the President of the United States.

  Matt watched the morning traffic, surging and stopping, everyone going nowhere in a hurry. In reality he had nothing. No real evidence. Only paranoid hunches.

  It must be him. But something still bothered Matt about this whole affair, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He decided to find an Internet cafe and do a little research on Dr. Melikian. He was also uncertain of how he could w
arn the President, especially without any real proof and wearing an international killer’s face.

  Inside a telephone booth plastered with suggestive ads displaying the sexy attributes of a quick call to various 1-900 numbers he found a Bell Atlantic Yellow Pages book. The pages he needed were still intact. The nearest Internet cafe was on 17 ^th Street near Dupont Circle, about ten blocks away. After a brisk walk along Q Street he turned the corner and saw the entrance to the cyberSTOP Cafe, a block ahead. Still wary he looked over his shoulder. A police car cruised up the street. He turned and gazed into a storefront window. The cruiser continued its patrol up the street and turned the corner.

  Then he saw her. Walking out of the cyberSTOP Cafe wearing a brown fur coat. Her athletic stride took her swiftly to the curb, arm raised to hail a cab. Almost immediately a metro cab pulled up and the black-haired woman climbed in.

  It can’t be. The other physician in Dr. Melikian’s office. Why would a prominent physician go out of her way to use an Internet cafe when undoubtedly she had Internet access at the office and at home? He shook his head. The taxi moved off down the street. He walked into the cafe, buffeted by the warm air from the heating system. The heat triggered images of a white cafe overlooking the Mediterranean where Samir and the others had died. He bumped into someone standing at the counter. “Sorry.”

  He ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry muffin then sat down in a cubicle with a large flat screen, mouse and keyboard.

  Dr. Melikian didn’t have a personal or business website so Matt went to Google and typed in Noubar Melikian, MD. A surprising number of entries popped up onto the screen, most of them articles in newspapers, domestic and foreign. One article described his background and contained extensive information about his commitment to a peaceful solution to the Middle East crisis. Camouflage for a deep cover assassin? While he couldn’t rely on his own intuition, especially after years as an alcoholic, he had to admit he’d been impressed with the sincerity of the doctor yesterday. Dr. Melikian certainly didn’t seem like an assassin, but then that was the point.