John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

“Because she has a scar on her left wrist. I was there when she got it in 1968. And long ago I was in love with her. Now take the atrophine, get dressed and I’ll meet you at the first gate on Pennsylvania Ave, just in from 17 ^th Street. There’s no time to lose.”

Matt hung up as the bell jingled. He turned around not knowing what to expect. Oh, my God. A face from the past. Demetrie Antonopolis. Older, with taut bronze skin and a graying ponytail.

He blocked the aisle leading to the door. “It’s over, Matt. Let’s go. Quietly if you don’t mind.” A silenced pistol emerged from the pocket of his black overcoat.

“What do you mean it’s over?” Matt backed against the rack of canned vegetables.

“Think, man, think. Or are you still muddled from all that booze?”

“Ah, yes. How convenient. I’m the fall guy and the real rats go free. And are you still a dope head, Demetrie? Can’t you see you’re being used, just like me?”

“Pathetic attempt. Now step over here. There’s a car outside. We’re going on a little ride.”

Reaching into his pocket Matt brought out a can of warm diet soda. He slumped shoulders, the body language of the defeated, and walked slowly toward Demetrie.

“I thought you’d have a bottle of scotch, not a soda can.” He laughed at his own joke. The car honked. Demetrie turned to look.

Matt shook the can and quickly pulled the ring tab. Foam sprayed into the killer’s face. His hands instinctively went up to protect his eyes. Matt grabbed two large peach cans off the shelf and slammed them into the side of Demetrie’s head with all his might. Blood spurted out from both ears. Demetrie staggered, then roared in pain. Matt leapt feet first into the Greek’s chest. The ponytail whipped as his head snapped to one side. Demetrie crashed into a wooden fruit container. A shrill cry left him. His back was impaled on one of the metal bars protruding upwards. Demetrie Antonopolis went limp.

Desperately Matt scanned the store for a way out. “Here! Here!” He heard a call from the back. The elderly Asian proprietor was holding open a door just beyond the bins of wilted lettuce. “Thanks,” Matt said, squeezing his shoulder. “Call the cops. Tell them he tried to rob you. Shit, tell them anything.” He ducked into the alley and sprinted towards the street.

A young black man was climbing into a dark maroon Mini Cooper with tinted windows. Matt jerked open the passenger door and dove in.

“What the fuck you doin’ man? Get the hell out of here,” the driver bunched up his fist and swung wildly. Matt pulled out a $100 bill and held it up. The man stared. “Okay, you got my attention, but I ain’t into no queer stuff.”

Matt ripped another bill from his wallet. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the White House right away. It’s a national emergency. Unless you want to be responsible for another September 11 let’s see how fast you can drive.”

“Bullshit, but keep the C-notes coming.” He put the Mini into gear. The tires screamed. The little car shot out into the street. “Shit, man, you some kind a James Muthafuckin’ Bond?” He stomped on the accelerator. “There’s a big car with an ugly looking white guy chasing us.” He looked at Matt, then grinned. “Well Whitey this is your lucky day. Because I’m the Rolf Schumacher of Washington, D.C. I know this town like my bitch’s titties.” The car slid into a narrow alleyway knocking over garbage cans and crushing cardboard boxes.

Matt looked at his watch-6:45 P.M. The car chasing them was the least of his worries. How was he going to gain entry to the White House, uninvited and wearing the face of an assassin? God, Maha. Don’t do this.

What had Dr. Melikian said? Just phone the White House. That’s right, simple as that. Get the Marine guards to charge down the halls and arrest her. So why hadn’t he done that? He was putting the President at risk – why?

Maha. He needed to confront Maha. He needed to be there. Evil people had kidnapped him, robbed him of his face, and destroyed his life. And by God he was going to stop them, and save Maha. He saw her wrist, packed in ice, the memory shimmering like her tears that day. Red blood pooled on the virgin snow at her feet, so innocent. But now… The car hurtled through an intersection, horns blared in protest.

“We’ve lost the car.” The Mini Cooper responded with a lurch as he downshifted.

“Either they already know where we’re headed or they’re not welcome there,” Matt said. “Listen, when you get to the intersection of Pennsylvania and 17 ^th Street just let me out and take off. There’s no need for you to get involved in this.”

The young driver nodded. Matt shoved three one hundred-dollar bills into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Are we gonna’ win, Mister?”

“Absolutely, my friend. Absofuckinglutely.”

Ahead loomed the White House with its stately columns glowing in the huge spotlights. As the Mini roared down 17 ^th Street he could see the Old Executive Office Building. It marked the intersection with Pennsylvania Ave. Matt got ready to flip the door handle and jump out. Some hundred yards away a taxi screeched to a halt in front of the guard barrier blocking the entrance to the White House. The taxi driver got out and opened the rear door. A bent-over figure with white hair staggered out of the taxi and stumbled toward the entrance gate.

“How’d you like to earn some bragging rights?” asked Matt turning to the young black man.

“What you got in mind?”

“Can you crash into that taxi? Not too hard, just hard enough to cause a commotion and distract the Marines? You’ll get arrested, but don’t worry. I’ll see that you get released. And maybe a special citizenship award as well. Let me out here and then give it your best shot.”

“You crazy, you know that, dude?” he grinned then stopped the car. “My mama’s gonna kill me, but I’ll do it.” The boy gave Matt a broad grin and stomped on the accelerator. The little car gained speed then quickly went into a controlled skid. It slid into the idling taxi. The cab driver began yelling and cursing, flailing his arms in the air. The young black man flung open the car door, staggered a few steps and collapsed on the sidewalk, screaming and rolling. Alarm bells blared on the big iron gates. Secret Service guards and Marines raced toward the young man, their guns drawn.

Matt sidled up to Dr. Melikian and supported him with an arm. “It’s me,” Matt said as they moved up to the entrance gate.

“Dr. Summers. Or are you an imposter as well?”

“In more ways than one. What made you decide to believe me?”

“I don’t believe you. But if there’s one chance in a million of preventing war in the Middle East I’ll do just about anything, even listen to a crazy man like you. Besides,” the doctor smiled weakly, “your anecdote, atropine, helped right away. It must have been Bethanechol she slipped in my coffee.”

“Halt.” A tall marine, hand on his side arm, stood just inside the heavy iron gate.

“I am Dr. Noubar Melikian, President Pierce’s personal physician and I have to see the President at once. It’s a matter of national security. The President is in danger at this very moment.” He held up his White House ID.

“Shoot us later if we’re lying,” Matt said. “We must get to the President at once. Escort us in or you may be responsible for the death of the President of the United States and the start of World War Three.”

The marine was not to be pressured. He peered closely at Dr. Melikian’s ID then quietly spoke into his walkie-talkie. The gate opened and two other marines took Matt and Noubar by the arm. They quickly escorted them into the west wing of the White House, barking orders as they went. “Secure the President, secure the President. Where is he?” they demanded of a guard in the hallway.