John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

“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.”

Matt’s hand trembled as he put down the payphone situated inside the neighborhood convenience store. Dear God. It’s happening? Who could he call? Who would believe him?

Matt approached the elderly Asian proprietor behind the counter. “Can you change this $5 bill for coins for the pay phone?” Noticing a bandage on the man’s forearm he forced a smile. “I’m a doctor. Are you okay?”

Was Maha already at the White House? Was she talking to President Pierce at this very moment? How would she do it? A poisoned tongue depressor? An injection? The Asian proprietor broke through his fears.

“It’s a deep scratch from my cat and it’s not healing very well.” He moved the bandage a little to expose a red and swollen gash.

“You’ve got an infection. If you have some iodine or betadine, swab it twice a day for several days and let the air get to it. Cuts heal better with fresh air.” His smile was brittle. “Oh and could I have some change for the pay phone?”

Matt looked at the television above the cash register. The 6:30 evening news. A picture of the White House appeared behind a fast-talking female correspondent. “Tonight,” she announced, “President Pierce and the secretary of state are hosting the crown prince of Saudi Arabia at an official state dinner here at the White House. This visit certainly comes at an auspicious time as the President is in what appears to be the final stages of preparing his response to the nation and the world on the approach the United States will take toward the escalation of terror on American soil. We still don’t have a date for the President’s speech but the White House press corps says we can expect it to come sometime within the week.”

Matt thumbed a coin at the slot. It dropped to the floor. Coins rattled in his hand. He fed the rest into the payphone. The White House correspondent droned on but Matt was playing his own scenario. They kill the President, that is Maha, beautiful Maha, kills the President. Then the United States, in rage and revenge, declares all out war on terrorism and the nations who support and sponsor terrorism. And of course billions more for defense and additional money and arms for Israel. But even greater profits for Mohammed al Nagib and his criminal organization. Providing arms to both sides was a very lucrative business.

The phone rang again at Dr. Melikian’s office. Matt placed his shirt sleeve over the mouthpiece. He had a vague plan which just might work. It had to because it was his only plan at the moment.

“Hello? I must speak with Dr. Melikian right away. This is Dr. Schultz from the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. There’s been a traffic accident involving a taxi that was carrying a Dr. Margaret Khalid. It’s important I speak with Dr. Melikian right away. Ms. Khalid’s life may depend up on it.”

“Oh God. Not Maggie. The doctor’s not here. He’s gone home ill.”

“Then give me his home number and his cell phone as well. I’ll call him directly.”

“But I’m not supposed to give out personal numbers-”

“Listen, miss, I know you’re doing your duty but this woman may die in the next half hour. I’m a doctor, my job is to save lives now hurry up.” Matt’s urgency was all too real. He jotted down the two numbers and then reached into his pocket for more coins. He froze. Slowly he lowered the handset.

A large white man in a dark suit walked into the store and asked for two cups of hot coffee. Matt picked up the phone and turned his face away, pretending to be talking. Soon the bell in the front door jingled and the man was gone. Matt shook as the fear gripped his entire body. Why am I reacting? He filed away the description of the man. Two coffees? That could mean a stakeout car was watching Elijah’s apartment. They were onto him. He was running out of time.

On the third ring the automatic answering machine picked up the call. A recording came on. “You have reached the residence of Dr. Noubar Melikian. Please leave a message and a number and I will return your call as soon as possible.” Matt fumbled for another set of coins and this time dialed the cell phone. He hoped that like most physicians Melikian would answer his private line day or night.

On the second ring a scraggly voice answered. “Dr. Melikian.”

“Dr. Melikian, listen to me carefully.”

“Who is this?”

“Are you sick or incapacitated?”

“I have food poisoning but I’ll live. How did you get this number? And who the devil are you?”

“Dr. Khalid poisoned you. What was it? Coffee, tea?”

Silence, then retching.

“Dr. Melikian, you are the only person who can save the President of the United States from being assassinated tonight. Right now, Dr. Khalid, if that’s her real name is on her way to the Oval Office in your place. She is a terrorist. She plans to kill the President.”

“I know your voice.”

“Listen to me. She plans to kill the President.”

“You’re Dr. Summers from the other day…”

“Will you listen to me? Dr. Khalid is on her way to kill the President. She made an appointment under your name for 7:15 this evening knowing full well that you would be unable to attend.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m on my way to the White House right now. Get dressed and get over there if you want to save the President, and Dr. Khalid.”

“Summers?” Melikian paused, his voice steady. “I can’t go anywhere I’ve got food poisoning. I can barely move.”

“You don’t have food poisoning. She probably gave you a large dose of Bethanechol. As you know it produces similar symptoms. If you have any atrophine in your medical bag use it. The symptoms will quickly subside. It’s an old trick we used to use in medical school.”

“What did you say about Maggie?”

“She’s a terrorist. Her real name is Maha Hammad. She’s Jordanian and a close friend of the suicide bomber that killed Dr. Norman. It’s all part of a plan to get into the White House and kill the President.”

“How do you know she’s a terrorist?”