John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

“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 being 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.”