John Childress - The Beirut Conspiracy

“This really is a unique appointment, you know?” A heavily bejeweled matronly woman stood in front of them, tugging on her husband’s sleeve. “It was a very courageous move on the part of the President. Finally someone is trying to do the right thing and show some conciliation.”

“Quiet, Grace, we’re almost there.” He eased her hand away.

“Well I’m just saying-”

“It’s a pandering political appointment.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “And the Jews are mad as hell.”

Matt spotted Senator Mason T. Stevens up ahead in the reception line. Tall, slightly stooped, with shock white hair and a theatrical profile. At one time he must have cut a dashing figure as an up and coming politician. But the heavy travel, lack of exercise and far too many late night meals had extended his girth. The long hours on the golf course had turned his skin leathery.

“Well, if it isn’t my lovely little girl,” the senator said as Kelly approached. “You’ve grown since I saw you last. Have you matured as well?” He offered his practiced political smile, at once urbane and warm, then kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I’m glad you decided to listen to your father for once. There are lots of people here I want to introduce you to.”

Matt held back in line to observe the interaction between famous father and headstrong daughter. He remembered how his father would lecture he and his elder brother Sam about the benefits of hard work and respecting your elders-but this was different. Under patented smiles and feigned warmth, there was a steely, almost threatening edge to the senator’s voice.

“And you must be Dr. Richards,” the senator said, glancing his way. “I look forward to speaking with you a little later in the evening. I’m certain I’ll find you hanging around the bar.”

Matt, realizing he had been inspected, found lacking, and summarily dismissed, held his tongue.

“Matt? Dr. Matthew Richards? Is that you?” The elderly Dr. Thomas extended his hand. “I haven’t seen or heard from you since Beirut. How are you, my boy? And what’s your father doing these days?”

“Good to see you, Dr. Thomas,” Matt said. “Dad’s retired now, as you probably know. And thoroughly enjoying himself. In fact, I haven’t seen him in two years. He’s busy fly fishing in South America at the moment, I believe.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother Samuel. He was a fine doctor and an excellent humanitarian. The world will miss him.”

Matt was sorry too. Sam had always been the one who kept him from going off the deep end. Too late now. The deep end was where he lived.

“And what are you up to these days, Matthew?”

“I’m retired, sort of. Just doing some college teaching at the moment.” He felt claustrophobic in the tuxedo and the crowded room. “You’ll have to excuse me. I hope we can talk a little later, maybe catch up on Beirut days?” He broke away and headed for the bar, leaving Kelly floating along through the receiving line, chatting excitedly with numerous dignitaries. Perspiration broke out on his upper lip. “Why were these damned functions always so hot and stuffy?” He reached down for the handkerchief that wasn’t there.

He found the bar situated in an oak-paneled library. He quickly ordered a double scotch, neat. The scotch swirled around the glass as his hands shook. A bad sign for a surgeon, but then he hadn’t been in the operating theater for almost ten years. “I’m not even sure I ever was a real doctor,” he said to no one in particular. He took a long sip from the crystal tumbler. The liquor began to work its magic, beating back the gremlins once again.

“You seem to be enjoying that.” A soft feminine voice from behind. “Can you order me one as well? Only much smaller, if you don’t mind.” The auburn-haired journalist came up beside him at the bar. A seductive fragrance of perfume mixed with the scent of warm skin reached him. “And whom do I have the pleasure of drinking with?”

“Richards. Dr. Matt Richards. I’m a professor at Sweet Briar College in Virginia,” he said. His extended hand shook slightly.

“Nicole Delacluse, from the International Herald Tribune. I actually have a real invitation-I’m not here to snoop. But you never know. Leopards don’t change their spots very easily.” She belted down her drink, then gently placed the tumbler on the bar, her eyes locked onto his. “One needs a little reinforcement before swimming with the sharks.” She drifted away as quietly as she had arrived.

Matt watched her weave effortlessly through the throng, then drained his glass and ordered another. She was right, of course. You did need a little reinforcement with this crowd. But this wasn’t his crowd. His had been Samir, Maha and Bedouina. And a long time ago, 1969, when they had discussed life, love, and politics beside the Mediterranean under twinkling stars. When Maha had kissed his trembling lips.

He began to shake. Images of the female assassin, frozen on the TV screen, flooded his mind. That face; hating, pleading, grinning. Fear engulfed his body. The ice rattled against crystal. Why was this happening again? It’s impossible. Matt took a deep breath.

The deaths of Samir, Maha and Bedouina in 1969 had forever destroyed his youth. Self-confidence and the invincibleness of youth evaporated along with his friends. But however badly the explosion cracked his soul, on the surface at least he seemed to recover. Back in the States the young Matt Richards was quickly caught up in the academic grind of his senior year at Harvard. An excellent student, he had his choice of several outstanding medical schools. “Not a real choice,” he thought. There was no question that he would attend Harvard Medical School, where his father had gone, and from which, just a few years earlier, his brother Sam had graduated.

“I should have made an effort. I should have tried to get closer to Sam.” He spoke into his empty tumbler, his reverie now traveling a well-worn path. Not overly close, Matt and Sam rarely spoke as they went about building their professional lives. The first, last and only letter Matt ever received from Sam was postmarked Santarem, Brazil. After a distinguished career in orthopedic surgery, Sam informed the Richards family that he was resigning from his medical practice in Seattle and joining a Jesuit medical organization called Esperanca, which meant ‘Hope’ in Portuguese. After years of fixing bones for the rich and famous, he wanted to do something for the poor of the world. Esperanca ran a hospital boat up and down the Amazon River. On board was a small operating theater where visiting physicians from the United States donated their expertise to fix cleft pallets, deformed hips, club feet and other surgical problems. In addition, the organization trained nurses and healthcare workers to deliver primary and secondary care in the remote regions of the Amazon.

His sad reverie ended as a burst of laughter erupted from the hallway. Matt gulped down another double Scotch. He looked down at the polished bar. The letter…

He recalled it was written only a few days before the accident. Sam had been helping secure the hospital ship at a remote Amazon village when he slipped and fell overboard. He was crushed between the hull and wooden dock. The letter was full of enthusiasm. “I’ve finally found a home,” it began, in Sam’s neat script, so unlike a physician’s typical scrawl. “The Esperanca organization has shown me there is much more to medicine than healing wealthy patients and writing articles for medical journals. At last I feel as if I’m doing something worthwhile. And it suits my personality. I never liked the doctor cocktail circuit.”

Matt had read the letter with shock. His older brother, like Matt himself, labored under the burden of their famous father’s expectations. They both bore the intense pressure to succeed in the lofty circles of medical greatness in stoic and lonely silence.