The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  After an hour of scanning articles Matt started visiting websites searching for photos. There were numerous pictures of Dr. Melikian with President Pierce. He found family photos and even a few old grainy pictures of Noubar Melikian as a young boy. There was even a photo on his graduation day from medical school in Switzerland.

  Why Switzerland? His mind wrestled with the alternatives. Why not the U.S.? What was al Nagib up to?

  Frustrated with more questions than answers Matt was about to log off when a picture of Dr. Melikian and his associate, Dr. Margaret Khalid, slowly took shape on the screen. “Oh my God!” The other users stared at him, not used to someone talking out loud to their computer terminal.

  He studied her face. The glasses. The eyes. But something else about the picture bothered him. What is going on here? He leaned forward, studying the image. The more he stared at the image the more it began to resemble Maha, only with glasses, brown eyes instead of green and black hair instead of red.

  More images swirled. The cafe in Beirut. Anne-Marie in the monastery. Maha’s red hair and green eyes drawing him in. He was about to log off when he saw it. He peered closely at the image on the screen. Dr. Melikian and Dr. Khalid were shaking hands and waving to photographers. What’s that on her left hand? The detail was too small to discern. He had to know more.

  Matt got up and walked towards the front. He felt sick. It took all his effort to calm down. After a few minutes of deep breathing he reached the counter. “Yes?” said a pasty-looking young man with multiple body piercing, wearing a name tag of Aubrey. “Something wrong with your machine?”

  “Can you show me how to enlarge an Internet photo?” They both walked back to his cubicle. A couple of clicks of the mouse later, the image filled the screen.

  “If you want better resolution or you want to zoom in on a particular area I know a website that has a really cool program,” the young man said, glad to be doing something other than ringing up the cash register. “All we need to do is select this image, save it, then log into a certain website, transfer the picture, and bingo. There it is with nearly a dozen zooming and enhancement tools.”

  “Can you enhance the woman’s left hand?”

  “No problem,” Aubrey said. Matt got up and the young man slid into the seat like a veteran fighter pilot entering the cockpit. “How big do you want it?”

  “What I want is a close up of her face, and then one of her left hand.” Matt watched as the screen evolved into a kaleidoscope of images.

  “That’s great. Perfect. Can I get a print of each of those?” he said handing the young man a crisp $50 bill. “This should cover the prints and something extra.” Matt sat back down in the warm chair and stared at the two enhanced sections of the original photograph. In a few minutes the young man returned with the two prints. He looked back over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Matt managed to compose himself. His eyes grew moist but he blinked back the emotion. The ache was unbearable. The scar on the left hand. Where her brother’s knife cut her that day up on the ski slope in the mountains high above Beirut. He vividly recalled putting a ball of frozen snow on her bleeding hand then wrapping it in a bandage.

  This isn’t an hallucination. Matt ran his fingers along the edge of the print. Maha’s alive. He could barely form the thoughts. She must be the terrorist.

  Matt grabbed his pea coat, stepped out of the small computer cubicle and froze. Two policemen were standing in the doorway of the cafe. Young Aubrey was pointing in his direction. “Metro Police, stay right where you are.” A tall black policeman put his hand on his weapon.

  Matt pushed hard on the top of his cubicle, sending it crashing to the floor then raced down the rows to a rear door. Don’t be locked! He reached the rear door but it wouldn’t budge. Frantically looking up he saw a slide bolt at the top and threw it. Outside, he ripped off his pea coat and threaded one of the bulky arms through the two handles of the double door and tied a thick knot with the two sleeves. He ran toward the end of the alley. Loud kicking came from the cafe door.

  As he turned onto 18 ^th Street an empty taxi cruised by. Matt whistled loudly, waving his arms. The taxi stopped on the other side of the street. Matt raced across the street and yanked open the door. “My wife’s been in a traffic accident. She’s at a hospital in Georgetown. I’m so scared I can’t remember which one. You must know. Just get me there quickly.” He shoved a $100 bill through the slot in the thick Plexiglas security enclosure. The taxi driver, an Indian by his accent and high-pitched voice, floored his vehicle. Matt looked back to see the two policemen emerge onto the street. One pointed at the retreating taxi. The cab slid around the corner and they were lost from view.

  Matt made a gagging noise in the back seat. “I’m going to vomit,” he yelled. “Stop the cab, I feel sick.” The taxi driver looked back in disgust. He stopped the cab next to the Dupont Circle Metro station. Matt doubled over and moaned then burst out of the taxi and sprinted down the steps into the Metro station.

  The taxi driver stared for a few moments, checked the back seat to see if there was any puke, then fingered the $100 bill and slowly drove away. “Crazy Americans.”

  ***

  The Oval Office

  “The Israeli ambassador is here to see you, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Miriam.” President Pierce flipped the switch and picked up his tin cup, rolling it back and forth between his hands.

  “I am honored to be invited to the Oval Office, Mr. President.” Ibrahim Barak was a short stocky man with a rugged and suntanned face. He stood at attention. His years of desert fighting and covert operations gave him a strength of character his more political colleagues lacked. “The Prime Minister of Israel sends his personal greetings.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Please call me Ibrahim, Mr. President. It would be an honor.”

  “Certainly. Would you like some coffee, Ibrahim? Or perhaps something stronger? Please, you can sit here, in front of the tape recorder.” The President pressed the buzzer on his desk. A discrete side door opened.

  Barak watched as Senator Mason Stevens and William Fisher entered. He looked directly at the President then at the man escorting the others.

  “I’m certain you recognize Mr. Howard Duncan, Director of the FBI.”

  General Barak nodded. He waited, a film of perspiration forming on his forehead.

  After everyone was seated the President continued. “Mr. Ambassador, you were accepted onto United States soil as a representative of the sovereign nation of Israel. As such you are free to remain in this country as long as you obey the laws of our great nation.”

  “Mr. President, I must protest…”

  “When did your patriotism get twisted and corrupted, Ibrahim?”

  Barak stood up. “With all due respect, Mr. President…”

  “Sit down, you pathetic asshole. If you want to leave this room be may guest. However the FBI and Secret Service will welcome you with open arms. You’ve broken just about every law of diplomacy on the books.”

  Ambassador Barak sat down. “I am an Israeli citizen. I am my nation’s ambassador to the United States of America. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “At this moment you’ve got squat. Take a look at the pathetic men beside you. Senator Mason T. Stevens for instance. What do you think he had to say about you and your espionage activities?”

  Barak blanched. “You have no evidence against me or the nation of Israel.”

  President Pierce slowly raised his tin cup then slammed it down on the Resolute desk. “Look you sorry sonofabitch. I know all about your sordid dealings with the Senator here. Bribery and extortion are serious crimes in this country.”

  The former Israeli army officer again stood up, slowly and in control. “I am an Israeli citizen and my nation’s ambassador to the United States. I have diplomatic immunity. I don’t know what kind of game you are playing but I will be leaving now and returning to my embassy at once.”
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  “You will do no such thing.” President Pierce watched him. “You’re going to cooperate and I mean fully.”

  Barak hesitated then sat down.

  “Now we know all about your relationship with Senator Stevens here. Like I said, bribery and extortion of a U.S. senator is a serious crime in this country. We also know of your illegal intelligence-gathering operations, partly through Senator Stevens who is a member of my Special Advisory Council on Terrorism and the Middle East. Then there’s your close association with an internationally known contract assassin wanted in connection with the murder of Dr. Martin J. Thomas.”

  The general’s eyes went cold. “Are you trying to frame me for the death of Dr. Thomas? I had nothing to do with that. You’re putting two and two together and coming up with a number that fits your needs. I’d say the guilty party here is Senator Stevens.”

  Mason Stevens’ face turned beet red. “Why you sonofabitch…”

  “Take it easy, both of you,” the FBI Director said.

  “We were only trying to help the United States track down a deep cover terrorist cell. Israel was actually trying to protect your country.” Barak replied. “Maybe we did go a little overboard in our efforts but we were trying to save our two great nations from the fanatical and perverted terrorists who threaten world peace.”

  William Fisher’s words were cold in the silence. “Is that what you were thinking when you shot my wife at point blank range in the Chatilla refugee camp in 1982?” Director Duncan stepped behind Fisher. “You called her a whore of the Palestinians then killed her in cold blood and never even flinched. One day when you’re least expecting it, General, I will shoot you in the face.” Howard Duncan put his hands on Fisher’s shaking shoulders. “What is it you say? An eye for an eye?”

  “I am not on trial here,” Barak said evenly. “Military actions of the State of Israel are none of your business. Now what do you want from me?”

  “Information, Mr. Ambassador,” President Pierce said as he walked across the room and stood directly in front of the Israeli ambassador. “I want to know about your unofficial meetings and dealings with the international arms dealer Mohammed al Nagib. Mr. Fisher here has given us his version now I want your side of the story. You are aware, aren’t you, Mr. Ambassador, that Mohammed al Nagib recruited, organized and personally ran the same deep cover terrorist cell you say you were trying to locate?”

  Ibrahim Barak looked ill. “Oh, God.”

  “Looks like you’ve been set up and double crossed, Ibrahim.”

  ***

  Dr. Melikian’s Office

  “Hello? This is Dr. Margaret Khalid calling on behalf of Dr. Melikian, the President’s physician. May I speak to Miriam, President Pierce’s personal secretary? It’s very important. Dr. Melikian needs to see him right away. Yes of course, I’ll wait.” Glancing up from her desk to make certain her office door was locked, Maggie Khalid took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

  “Hello Miriam, this is Dr. Margaret Khalid calling from Dr. Melikian’s office. The doctor has found something that concerns him in the President’s last blood test. An abnormal high prostate specific antigen count.” She heard a gasp on the other end of the line. “Yes, well, since the doctor is attending the White House dinner this evening for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia he wondered if he could come a few minutes early and take another blood sample from the President. After all these tests are often a little finicky. It may just be a false alarm. But it’s better to be on the safe side. Thank you, he’ll be there at 7:15 this evening. In the Oval Office? Fine. And thank you, Miriam. Sorry to trouble you with this but it is important.”

  Dr. Khalid leaned back in her swivel chair. She closed her eyes. It was a few moments before the trembling subsided. In the beginning she could not sleep, always frightened. The daily rituals had been the worst. Putting in the brown contact lenses, making sure her dyed hair was just right. And always the fears. A brown contact lens dropping out, a haunting green eye looking around in horror at who might be looking. Wondering what else she was hiding.

  But the biggest fear of all was being watched, being suspected. Like that man with Dr. Melikian at the clinic. And it was him again at the cyberSTOP cafe. But it couldn’t be. The first man was well dressed, a professional. The second almost a derelict. Stubble on his face. The stress was unnerving her. Even the increased dosage of Valium didn’t help. But the end was near. It would all be over soon. She would martyr herself. Maha, not Margaret, would once again gain respect in the eyes of her family. United after all these years with her loving father. Her courage and dedication returned.

  Now it’s time for Dr. Melikian to have a lunch that doesn’t agree with him. She reached for her medical bag and pulled out the small bottle. A couple of drops in a coffee mug and within an hour or two the recipient would have all the symptoms of a full-blown case of food poisoning. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Cold shivers. Two days in bed, guaranteed.

  “You did eat lunch today, didn’t you?” Dr. Khalid said as she entered the large office carrying two cups of fresh brewed coffee. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Their usual time to review the day and talk over any pressing issues.

  Dr. Melikian smiled. “Yes, Mother.” He looked up from his pile of papers. “I took a walk down by the river and had a quick bite at the Memorial, my favorite delicatessen. Their roast beef sandwiches are marvelous. And the pickles are enormous. That’s the one thing that always amazes me about America. The portions are so huge. It’s a contest to see who can choke the most customers.”

  “Here’s your coffee. I used the Starbucks’ special blend that you like. As close as we can get to real Arabic coffee without going to a restaurant.” She smiled, setting the mug with the Presidential seal on his desk. For the next twenty minutes they discussed their cases and made plans for the rest of the week. “Don’t forget, Doctor, you have the state dinner at the White House for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia this evening. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  “I did forget. I was actually thinking about an early evening in bed with a bowl of popcorn and a good book.”

  “I wish I could go to the White House and hobnob with the Saudis,” she said. “Maybe I’d find a wealthy man there to take me away from all of this.” She waved her arms about. “I’ll come back and check in on you about six o’clock, just to make certain you haven’t slipped out the back door with a suitcase full of popcorn.” She walked down the hall to her office, setting the timer on her Nike running watch.

  At four o’clock the intercom rang. “Maggie, can you go to Dr. Melikian’s office right away? He just buzzed me and said he’s not feeling well. Maybe you should check on him. And you might need to take his patients.”

  “I’ll be right there, Irene.” She fed the last of her papers into the shredder, tied up the black plastic bag and placed it in the special incineration can. It would be reduced to ashes at the end of the day.

  The sound of retching and the sour smell of vomit came from the doctor’s private bathroom. She found him on all fours, head over the toilet bowl.

  “I knocked, but you didn’t answer, so I… Are you all right?”

  “I’d be better off dead.” He slowly stood up and wiped his mouth with a towel. “After what I’ve just been through I have a lot more empathy for our patients.”

  “Sit down and I’ll take your temperature. You look awful, a U.S. Army green color.” Dr. Khalid smiled, trying to inject some humor. “One hundred and three. Between that and the shivering and vomiting, I’d say you’ve either got a bout of the flu or a classic case of food poisoning. What was that you ate for lunch?”

  “Roast beef and too much of it. Doesn’t taste nearly so good on the way back up.” He managed a wry smile before urgently returning to the toilet bowl.

  Back in his chair Dr. Melikian put his head on his desk, trying to slow down the spinning. “Have Irene reschedule as many patients as possible. You’ll have to handle any others. It shouldn’t be too heavy
a load since I was scheduled to go to that White House dinner.”

  “I’ll have Irene call your wife. You can’t drive in this condition. If it’s food poisoning it will work itself out of your system in about twenty-four hours. But you must rest.”

  “Very well, Dr. Frankenstein. For my sins I will go home and rest. And for your sins you will go to the White House in my place.”

  “Oh no. They’ll probably sit me somewhere close to either the President or the crown prince. I’ll have to stay awake and look interested.”

  “I’ll call Miriam right now and arrange it,” he said about to reach for the phone. Instead, he grabbed his stomach and ran for the toilet.

  “Alright, I’ll go. And don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything with the President’s office. But first I’ll have Irene call your wife.”

  Within half an hour Dr. Melikian was lying in the back of a taxi on his way home. Dr. Margaret Khalid struggled with his caseload, fighting down her fears, smiling through her brown eyes at patients and thinking about killing the President.

  At 6:15 pm Maggie freed herself from the office and went home to change. She checked her black medical bag. The appointment with the President was scheduled for 7:15 pm in the Oval Office. The Oval Office, seat of aggression and oppression. She had been there only once but knew the layout perfectly. This night she would be so far from the sun drenched city of Beirut where once young students had passionately discussed politics and freedom. This night she would make history for their cause.

  ***

  Irene Leonard stayed late at Dr Melikian’s office frantically trying to rearrange his schedule for the next several days. When the phone rang she cursed under her breath. “No, I’m sorry, Dr. Melikian has left for the day. And he won’t be in tomorrow or the next day, he’s taken ill. Oh, yes, I remember you, Dr. Summers… Dr. Khalid? No, I’m sorry you just missed her. She’s standing in for Dr. Melikian at a function at the White House this evening. Yes, I’ll tell him you called. Good night, Dr. Summers.”