John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

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.”

“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…”