John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

“Demetrie?” Al Nagib’s voice echoed.

Demetrie Antonopolis, brown hair tied back in a long pony tail, stepped through the glass doors facing the enormous garden. “I got every word clear as a bell from the pool house,” he announced. “These new laser directional microphones are remarkable.”

The Egyptian stared at the aging international playboy, and professional assassin. “Process and file it with the other recordings, and send digitized copies via our secure network to the others.” Nagib watched him closely. “We’ll be leaving for London this afternoon. Make certain the Falcon is fueled and ready. Do not be late this time. And for your sake, leave the hashish at home. If it weren’t for your father, I’d consider you more of a liability than an asset.”

Later that same day, US Route 29, Virginia

The bright yellow Porsche Boxter sped northeast through the afternoon haze toward Washington, D.C. Matt Richards slumped down in the narrow passenger seat, brooding.

“Please remember, Ms. Stevens, that I am attending this stupid shindig under formal protest.” he shouted loudly above the revving engine. “And for Christ’s sake, slow down. Porsches fly well, but they don’t land worth a shit.” Matt glanced over at his ardent admirer and secret lover, her hand firmly on the steering wheel. The wind whistled about the small car’s windows.

“But Professor Richards,” Kelly grinned, “you look so dashing in that tuxedo. Just like Harrison Ford, only more rugged.”

This affair is absurd. Yet he needed company. Someone to hold him, to help him make it through the lonely evenings before the Scotch took over, keeping the memories at bay. Images of pain, past and present, cascaded like flickering TV screens across his brain.

“And I’m so excited about this evening,” she said. “I want to get to the reception early to show you off to all the politicians and society people.”

“The only good politicians are the ones in jail for life. And remind me again why we’re going to a reception for the new personal physician to the President of the United States?”

“Because my daddy insisted I come along. He said it would be good for me to meet some of the VIPs there. Especially since I graduate this spring and his embassy friends can help me get a job.” Tires squealed as they snaked around another sharp corner. “Besides, he wants to meet my new boyfriend.”

“You told your father about me? Are you out of your sweet little mind? The illustrious Senator from Virginia, Mason T. Stevens? He’s one of the longest-serving members of Congress, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and a mean political son-of-a-bitch. You told him about us?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, Kelly. Think it through, for God’s sake. He’s going to kick my ass the moment he sees me. And he won’t even have to get his hands dirty. He’s got hundreds of professional assassins at his beck and call.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” The engine purred as she downshifted through the gears. “You’ll charm him, just like you did me. Besides, what can he do? I’m free, white and twenty-one.”

As she pretended to pout, Matt asked himself again why he was so enchanted by her youthful vigor and naivete. Or was he just an alcohol soaked dirty old man? No, in many ways she reminded him of a young person some thirty-odd years ago as he prepared to venture forth to Beirut, Lebanon-lifetimes ago, and a whole lot of empty scotch bottles by the wayside.

“Famous last words, Ms. Stevens,” he said. “Like those uttered by the historically insignificant and long forgotten General Spottswood. And I quote: ‘Don’t worry men. Their cannons couldn’t hit the broadside of an elephant at this dist-.’” They both laughed. Matt gripped the armrest. “Okay, okay, you can slow down now. I’d rather die running from assassins than strapped into a pocket rocket going up in flames.”

The February afternoon faded to twilight as they crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge. The Porsche wound its way through tree-lined residential streets into the exclusive community of Potomac. Lights in the large mansions set back from the road burned faintly. By the time they reached their destination, the home of the chairman of the National Institute of Health, it was pitch dark.

“Now this is a palace.” Matt muttered as Kelly gave the marine guard their invitation. “So who’s the host?”

“Dr. Martin Thomas is an African-American Ph. D., a specialist in genetic research.” She tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. “He founded several successful biotech companies and earned a ton of money before he entered politics. He’s a heavy contributor to the Republican party.” Kelly glanced over at Matt. “And I might add, a regular golfing buddy of my father’s.”

The Georgian mansion was set back from the road and surrounded by an expansive lawn, brilliantly lit up for the evening affair. The yellow Porsche caught the light as they pulled under the grand portico. It stood out among the sleek black and gray limousines.

Matt watched the limos discretely deliver well-dressed elderly couples. “You know, these people could probably buy two or three of these mansions out of petty cash.”

Kelly inspected her lipstick in the visor mirror before remarking, “What’s eating you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve gone into one of your moods.”

“Okay. I was just mulling over your African-American Ph. D.”

“What are you talking about?” She stole a quick glance back into the mirror to check her lipstick.

“Well, I knew a Dr. Martin Thomas once. A long time ago. But I doubt if they’re the same.”

“Fine. Whatever. Can we go now?”

Matt released his extra-tight seat belt. “Well, whoever he is, by the looks of the marine guards and the not-so-obvious Secret Service agents, this is going to be a well-attended and well-armed soiree. Just what I need in my life, more idiots with guns and attitudes.”

Matt waved away the young marine in dress uniform about to open the car door for him. Kelly placed her hand on his shoulder. “Now, behave yourself and have a good time.”

“Where’s the bar?”

“Mingle and make small talk.”

“That’s what I do best.”

“And please don’t drink too much,” Kelly bit her lip. “When I spoke to daddy this morning he wasn’t in a great mood-try not to get into trouble.”

“Who, me?”

“Remember your award-winning performance at the faculty party in September?”

“I’m trying to forget, thank you very much.”

“Well, just do the opposite tonight and everything will be fine.” She kissed him again and they both unfolded from the sports car.

Up ahead, a tall attractive woman was arguing with one of the security guards at the front door. Matt and Kelly passed easily through, showing their invitation and moving up for a thorough and meticulous security check before entering. The woman stepped into the line behind Matt.

“No respect for the press.” Her words spat out. “Even though I’m a real guest this time.”

Matt turned around. He was nearly six foot tall. Their eyes met evenly. She was in her early to mid-forties, with light auburn hair piled on top of her head. Around her neck she wore a large diamond cross. Its ornate design reminded him of crosses he had seen on Coptic and Armenian churches in Lebanon and Egypt. Her nose, slightly too large for her face, somehow made her more attractive.

“The receiving line is through the left in the great room,” a stocky marine lieutenant said after checking Kelly’s purse. Matt and Kelly passed through the arch of the metal detector, which remained silent. Another marine admired the buxom young girl with a man more than twice her age. He raised his eyebrows, then firmly but politely suggested they move along so other guests could enter the hallway. Matt gave the marine a cheesy grin, flipped him the finger, and followed Kelly towards the reception line. Behind him he could hear the tall woman complaining again. “It’s just my digital camera. Want me to take your picture?”