John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

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 patients 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.

“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.