Bald Eagle Estate, Blue Ridge Mountains
“There’s the entrance to the clinic. Keep going, the Egyptian’s estate is a half mile ahead. And slow down, the ice on this road is tricky at this hour of the morning.” The ambassador sat back into the plush seat and looked out the darkened, bullet-proof windows. The driver and bodyguard, both armed, concentrated on the road ahead.
Turning left, they were waived through the gate, the guard not even coming out of his warm hut. “Wow, what a fortress.” The bodyguard studied the layout. “Most eyes would miss the electronic bullocks and tire shredding spikes submerged in the road.”
“You two know the drill,” the ambassador said, buttoning his coat. “Park the car and wait. And keep on the alert. I should be only a half hour or so.” His look skewered the driver. “And maintain radio silence. We’re not officially here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ambassador opened the door. A cold blast of morning air made him shiver. He hated this evil place.
“Welcome, my friend,” cooed Mohammed al Nagib, still in his warm-up suit, his white hair reflecting the bright morning sun. “On time as usual.” They shook hands stiffly.
“I see you’ve been out for a walk.”
“As always. It gets the juices flowing and wakes up the brain cells. Must keep our wits about us during these, shall I say, interesting times.”
“And your dogs? For protection?”
Al Nagib smiled. “Good companions. They never offer opinions, just loyalty.”
“Such odd names,” replied the ambassador, cocking his head. “Rough and Tumble.”
“A little whimsy on my part.” His host gestured towards the large double door. “Shall we go inside? On a crisp day like this, some hot Arabic coffee is in order. Or should I say Middle Eastern coffee?”
The Israeli ambassador to the United States looked back at his car, now tucked into a small space just next to the circular driveway.
“Ah. You are looking at my statue. Magnificent, isn’t it?” The thirteen-foot bronze bald eagle, wings outstretched in full flight, dominated the circular driveway. Its wingtips shimmered in the cold sunlight. “It’s the American symbol of liberty and freedom. Did you know that Benjamin Franklin argued strongly that the Turkey should be the national bird? Perhaps he was prescient.” They laughed, then turned and walked into the main house.
The warm inviting aroma of bacon and eggs drifted out from the kitchen, situated just to the left. Silverware clattered. A maid giggled. Inside the colonial period breakfast room, the ambassador, a former Israeli Army general, pulled out a small electronic device, turned it on and slowly swept through a full 360-degree circle. All three lights remained green. He smiled, and then sat down opposite his host.
“We both have much to hide, Mr. Ambassador,” said his Egyptian-American host. “Sadly, that it is the way of the world. Politics makes strange bedfellows, and in our case, very strange indeed.”
“On that point I can easily agree.”
“Let me assure you, you have nothing to fear here in my home. This room isn’t bugged and we are perfectly alone.”
“As per our agreement,” nodded the Israeli, his back ramrod straight.
“I prefer the old-fashioned type of meeting,” Nagib smiled, “where two people, both with as much to gain as to lose, look each other squarely in the eyes, make commitments, and keep them. Nothing could be simpler, and it seems in today’s crazy world, nothing could be more difficult.”
Al Nagib picked up the silver pot. Steam furled from the spout. “Coffee, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Thank you, Mr. Nagib.” He took a small sip of the thick aromatic coffee. “As always, excellent.” The small cup met the saucer with a delicate chink.
“I asked for this brief meeting to make certain that everything was in order before we consummate our arrangement. I too believe in looking my partners, as well as my victims, directly in the eye. Is everything ready at the clinic?”
“Thanks to my modest funding and your exceptionally talented physicians, the new private wing at the clinic is ready and waiting. Tonight’s reception in Washington will provide the occasion to welcome our first guests to the private wing.”
“Splendid.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Ambassador. And of course I have no need to worry that you have a firm commitment from the senator?” Nagib passed a large bowl of dried dates and figs.
“He is most anxious to support the cause of the United States against those who threaten its borders and its people. And he already has the first deposit in his new Swiss bank account. Ah,” the ambassador held a date up, admiring it, “Medjoul dates from Jordan. We have a hard time getting them in Israel.”
“Then this unruly terrorist cell will be discovered by your people?”
“There is an excellent possibility. And if all goes well, it will soon be under our control.” The ambassador savored the sweet dried fruit.
“It is good that we have a common goal,” Nagib said. “It proves that Israelis and Arabs can work together.”
The Israeli’s eyes narrowed. “Do not delude yourself, Mr. Nagib. My purpose is to safeguard the nation of Israel, at any cost. Your only purpose is profit.”
A glass shattered in the kitchen. The ambassador turned with a start. Al Nagib remained motionless.
“Perhaps we differ in motivation, but not in the end result,” the host laughed nervously, standing up to escort his guest out. The ambassador’s car crept forward. As they walked out the front door, another cold blast of air buffeted the general. He shivered more deeply this time. The bodyguard held the door as the ambassador turned and nodded farewell. Mohammed al Nagib replied with a faint wave and returned to the breakfast room.
“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?”
“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.
Matt never showed the letter to his father. He was certain it would have sparked an ugly shouting match and he didn’t have the courage, nor the confidence, to speak his mind. But Sam’s death crystallized a growing uncertainty about his own path in life. A bitter divorce, then the ensuing loneliness. He sought sanctuary in a bottle of Single Malt. It was social at first. Then the despair took his legs out from under him. He quickly slid into insecurity, then depression. And the pain of the past descended. Why didn’t he have the courage as Sam? He wanted to be strong like Sam, but he couldn’t. His career took a careening bobsled ride downhill. After two botched operations in a row, his partners in their successful Chicago medical practice gently but firmly eased him out.
When he was on his fourth drink-or was it his fifth?-two arms encircled his chest. “There you are, I missed you.” Kelly whispered in his ear, then flicked her tongue in and out quickly. Matt jerked his head away, now fully back in the present.
“Are you behaving yourself?” Kelly went on. “I’ve just had the most interesting conversation with a gentleman from the U.S. Foreign Service. He said I would be the perfect candidate for an embassy job somewhere in the world. He even gave me his card.” She held up the small white business card with the seal of the United States of America embossed on it.
Matt put down his empty glass. “You know what I wish?”
“What?” Her bulging breasts pressed into his back.
“I wish you would stay at this age, just as you are, forever.”
“But I want to grow older. Get a job. Make a difference. I’ve got to prove myself.” She moved around to face him. Her face showed both defiance and hurt.
“What you don’t appreciate, at your tender age, is that only pain, suffering and betrayal lie ahead. In a few years, out there,” he jerked his thumb to indicate the crowd in the room, “you’ll become like all the rest of us. Cynical, distrustful, resentful. My father had a saying for it. Ridden hard and put away wet.”
“Oh Christ. You’re drunk.” Kelly looked around nervously. No one was paying attention. She looked over at the entrance to the ballroom.
“Come on, we have to hurry, they’re going to introduce the guest of honor.” She pulled on his arm and led him into the grand salon. He concentrated on walking.
“Holy shit. It’s big enough to be a hotel conference center.” Matt found a spot near the buffet table along a far wall. From here they had a clear view of a lectern set up in front of the large bay window overlooking the back lawn. He gulped down a caviar canape. His fingers smelled of fish. The rest of the guests noisily filed in. The room buzzed with expectation. Someone dropped a glass. Secret Service agents turned with a start, scanning the crowd. The marines, stationed next to all the doors and windows, stiffened.
A hush descended over the crowd as Dr. Thomas stepped up to the lectern, which was emblazoned with the seal of the President of the United States. “Ladies and Gentlemen. I am very pleased you were able to accept my personal invitation this evening to what I believe to be a very special event.” He paused as more people entered the already crowded room.
“As you know, many of us here this evening knew Dr. Andrew Norman personally, and our heartfelt prayers and wishes go out to his family. He was a unique individual, an outstanding physician, and a long-time friend of President Pierce and the first family.
“Dr. Norman carried out his duties as personal physician to the President of the United States with the utmost discretion and professionalism. Yet, in a twisted and savage act of terrorism his life, along with the lives of dozens of other fine men and women of the United States, was destroyed. But no act of terrorism, even this one on American soil, can stop the quest for freedom that all civilized individuals crave. The freedom to choose their own career, their own religion, to have access to education for their children, to receive adequate health care, to live in a secure home safe from outside threats and usurpers-to choose their own lifestyle. These are just some of the freedoms that make all of us here tonight dedicated to the noble American vision of democracy and world peace.”
Matt looked around. The elderly crowd stood respectfully. Claustrophobia closed in on him again. He pulled at his bow tie. His breath was turning stale from the oily caviar and the scotch. He gulped down a half empty glass of punch. The former owner had worn bright maroon lipstick.
Dr. Thomas lowered his voice. “Without this precious freedom, a young African-American boy, the fifth son of a poor but proud steel worker from Pittsburgh, could never have realized his dream of becoming a Ph. D. and a professor of genetics. Whatever my race, religion or economic background, this great country afforded me that opportunity. And we must continue to protect these freedoms.” The assembled crowd clapped loudly. The sound assaulted Matt’s senses.
“So this evening, I’m pleased to host this reception for the new personal physician to the President of the United States, Dr. Noubar Melikian. As you all know, this is a somewhat controversial appointment by the President. But it’s one which I believe displays President Pierce’s true greatness and courage.
“Some of my less visionary colleagues, and several loud voices in Washington and the press, say that appointing someone from the Middle East to such a sensitive position, especially in the wake of recent events, is political grandstanding. But to my mind, such an appointment rises above politics and petty prejudices. In fact, if we really want peace in all corners of the world, then the United States must take the lead in showing the decent people of the Middle East and the rest of the world that it is not them we are fighting against, but the terrorists, whoever they are and wherever they come from.” Again a loud burst of applause.
Matt uttered a loud groan. Kelly grabbed his arm tightly and glared.
“Dr. Melikian, who has practiced for the past twenty-five years in the Washington metro area, is eminently qualified for this position. He is a highly respected physician and a recognized specialist in skin cancer, a longstanding member of the AMA, an outstanding humanitarian and a vociferous advocate of a peaceful solution to the problems in the Middle East. Without further ado, it is my great honor to present Dr. Noubar Melikian.”
Dr. Thomas stood aside as the robust white-haired doctor stepped up onto the podium. As the African-American and the Palestinian-American shook hands and then kissed on the cheek, Middle Eastern style, the room roared its approval.
Matt moved with a start. Kelly whispered. “What’s wrong? You’re not about to throw up again, are you?”
“I’m Okay. I just thought I recognized that man for a moment. But I guess not, or maybe I saw him at a medical convention some years ago.” Kelly listened to the lie.
Dr. Melikian faced the crowd, his eyes twinkling as he held out his hand urging them to stop the applause. The warm welcome subsided. Dr. Melikian took a small sip of water. Then he looked up, excitement burning in his eyes.
“It is a very great honor to be here this evening. But I must first thank our host, Dr. Martin Thomas, a colleague and friend, for supporting my appointment to this post. In fact, it was Dr. Thomas and several of his esteemed colleagues, along with my good friend Senator Mason Stevens, who initially urged me to consider this appointment. At first, I must admit I was skeptical. But their arguments eventually convinced me to take them seriously.
“Who would have ever thought that an Armenian boy who grew up in the nation of Palestine would ever be able to serve the world in such a meaningful manner? I thoroughly enjoy being a physician, but like all of you, I am also many other things-a husband, the father of three wonderful children, but not yet a grandfather, thank goodness.” The crowd laughed. “I am a dedicated and hardworking physician. Too hard working says my wife.” A few snickers of understanding and acknowledgment bubbled forth from the crowd, heavily populated with doctors and their spouses.
“And I am also an Armenian, born and raised in Palestine. And to me that is very important. None of us can deny, nor should we, our heritage. It is the DNA of our past, present and future. Like many of your ancestors, mine suffered greatly. Between 1915 and 1923, over 1.5 million Armenians perished at the hands of the Ottoman Empire, nearly three-quarters of the population of my tiny country. And this horrible eradication of a nation was barely noticed. In fact, Adolph Hitler used the Armenian genocide in persuading his followers that a Jewish holocaust would be tolerated by the West. ‘Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?’ he said.”
Matt listened to the murmurs of acknowledgement and understanding. “Pretty effective public speaker for a doctor.” Kelly glared at him again. He looked down as Kelly turned back to listen. Matt slowly edged around the table, nodded at the marine, and stepped out onto a terrace. The fresh air revived him a little. The doctor’s speech could still be heard.
“Because of what is now called the first genocide of the modern age, Armenians all over the world are committed to opposing racism, bigotry and prejudice, wherever they exist. And like my Jewish brothers, who also know the horrors of genocide, our suffering has made us stubbornly passionate about freedom, liberty, and the personal responsibility that goes with these precious gifts.” There were open expressions of agreement from the large Jewish population of doctors and other professionals in the crowded room.
“And I am also a Christian. Most people don’t realize that in 314 A.D. Armenia became the first country in the world to declare itself a Christian nation. Everywhere Armenians fled during centuries of persecution, they took the Christian faith with them. Even today there are pockets of Armenian Christians in Syria, Jordan, Iran, Iraq, Jerusalem, Lebanon, and the United States, where we have established over one hundred Maronite Christian churches.
“And most proudly, I am an American. I became a U.S. citizen two years after moving to Washington from Switzerland, where I studied medicine. It was one of the proudest days of my life, as I stood among other immigrants from all corners of the globe reciting the oath of citizenship and pledging allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. My wife and children are natural-born Americans. And I would venture to say that I am a pretty typical American. I have three cars, two dogs and a mortgage. Too big a mortgage for my liking.” The crowd laughed its approval.
Matt walked back into the room. The voice was vaguely familiar. It bothered him, like the buzz of a mosquito, distant then near, loud then faint. Kelly took his arm again, this time tenderly.
“But there is no denying that I am also a man of the Middle East. I was born in what was then known as the state of Palestine. I grew up with Muslims, Christians, and Jews as my playmates. We stole candy and smoked our first cigarettes together. I hated the taste.” He made a face which drew forth chuckles. “A good thing, too, because nowadays in America it’s practically a crime to even think about smoking.” The doctors in the room roared with laughter.
“Seriously, being from the Middle East gives me a unique vantage point in Washington, because I understand many of the feelings of the Arab world concerning today’s precarious global and political situation. Only the insane want war and killing. Yet somehow a small but active minority of terrorists have continued to drive a wedge deeper and deeper between the peace-loving peoples of the Middle East and the West. It is time this wedge was torn out and replaced with strong sutures sewn by skillful and dedicated hands.”
“I’ve dedicated my life to two things: healing the sick and working towards a peaceful solution in the Middle East. I will continue to carry out these two commitments in my new post as personal physician to the President of the United States. Thank you for your encouragement and support.”
Amid generous applause, a loud female voice caught the attention of the speaker. “Dr. Melikian? That was a tremendous and, I must say, moving speech. Can I ask just one or two questions?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t expect a question and answer session and I’m not very experienced in these matters,” he said. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Delacluse. Nicole Delacluse of the International Herald Tribune, although I’m not here in an official capacity tonight,” she was quick to add. “This is an important appointment by the President, and as you’ve said, there are skeptics. Is it true, Dr. Melikian, that you received several death threats after it was announced that you were one of those being considered for this position?”
“The truth is yes, but I’m not at liberty to say much about it other than that I’m not too concerned. It seems rock stars and TV news commentators are in much more danger from deranged individuals than I am.”
“And is it true you’ve hired a security service to protect yourself and your family?” she said quickly, catching him slightly off guard.
“That’s not quite accurate, Ms. Delacluse. The Secret Service, in recognition of the recent tragedy, has provided my family with a certain measure of security. That is what the President wanted, so of course I agreed. Now, since this is a reception and not a press conference, thank goodness, I’ll turn my attention to the guests here this evening. But when I do have my first official press conference, I hope all the journalists are as professional as you.” It was a polite but firm dismissal, after which Dr. Melikian shook hands with Dr. Martin Thomas and stepped down.
At the edge of the makeshift podium, Senator Stevens discreetly pulled over two men in dark suits for an animated conversation. They kept glancing in Matt’s direction. The guests descended upon the buffet table and Matt was slowly pushed aside by the crowd. Presently the men nodded to Stevens and moved off, whereupon the portly senator stepped down and began working the crowd.
“Miss Stevens? Dr. Richards? The Senator would like a few private words with you both. Please follow me.” A non-descript man in a non-descript grey suit stood in front of them. They nodded, sharing quizzical glances. Matt and Kelly followed him down the hallway, through an open door and into a dimly lit study. Persian carpets and red velvet curtains added to the richness of antique oak furniture. Ornate wall sconces offered hazy shadows. The walls were lined with books, diplomas and photos of Dr. Thomas with numerous dignitaries. Matt surmised this was Dr. Thomas’s personal office. He wondered how many hours he spent here. The place was certainly conducive to relaxation and reflection. And it reeked of power.
The door closed solidly behind then. A gravelly voice from the far corner of the room boomed out. Senator Mason T. Stevens, his face red, fists shaking, stepped out of the shadows towards the center of the room. He pressed a button on a side table and the lights came up to full strength. Both Matt and Kelly squinted.
“So,” Stevens said, “you’re not only a cradle robber and a disgrace to the medical profession, Dr. Richards, you’re a god-damned drunk as well.” Shaking, he moved forward until he pressed up against Matt, backing him into the large desk.
“Daddy, stop it. What’s gotten into you? Can’t we talk about this some other time? Please, Daddy?”
“You shut up.” The Senator’s slurred words tumbled out, but his eyes kept boring into Matt. “I’ll deal with you later, young lady. You’ve had too damn much freedom at that sissy girl’s school and now you’ve gone way overboard. I’ve heard all about your drinking, the drugs, and now your affair with this loser. I’ve a mind to yank you out of that school for your own good.” Kelly’s tears caught the light. She collapsed onto the sofa.
“You fat son-of-a-bitch,” Matt grated. The esteemed senior senator from the great State of Virginia never saw the roundhouse left that broke his nose and knocked out two teeth. The large man slumped to the floor. Matt stood in a half-drunk stupor, hardly registering the pain where his knuckles had collided with the senator’s teeth.
Kelly jumped up. “Daddy? Daddy? Oh God. What have you done? Get away from him.” She pushed at Matt, then knelt on the floor, trying to stem the blood from her father’s nose.
Secret Service agents and marine guards materialized. Matt was gripped firmly from behind.
“Get the hell away from me. This is none of your business,” he shouted. “I’m leaving anyway. You better attend to Mr. Big Mouth. His big nose is bleeding all over the expensive Persian carpet.” When they let go he grabbed Kelly’s hand, and started weaving toward the door. Kelly Stevens hesitated, gazed worriedly at her father on the floor, then helped Matt maneuver down the hall towards the front door. Her father’s verbal onslaught and abuse still rang in her ears. She stopped, turned around, hesitated, then made her decision.
The Porsche was parked under the portico. The parking attendant quickly produced the keys and the two of them helped ease the wobbly Dr. Richards into the passenger seat. The attendant buckled the seatbelt. As the sports car turned left out of the big iron gates, a late model black Pontiac with tinted windows followed a safe distance behind.
“Well, Dr. Richards, you really are something, you know? Not only do you get drunk, but you knock my father unconscious, break his nose and his teeth. Why didn’t you screw an ambassador’s wife? At least then no one would have cared.” Her acidic words fell on deaf ears-Matt Richards was out cold, head slumped against her shoulder.
Turning onto the George Washington Parkway, the Porsche sped west, intending to link up with I-95 and the main road back to central Virginia. The parkway, a major commuter artery into and out of Washington, was nearly deserted at 10:45 P.M. The well-traveled commuter artery was lined on one side by trees and forest, on the other by the Potomac River, at its high watermark from the rain that had descended on the area in recent days.
Kelly shoved him with her shoulder. “Matt, wake up. Someone’s following us, wake up.” After two more pushes she heard a moan, then a familiar, “God damn son-of-a-bitch. What time is it?”
“Thank God you’re awake. A car has been following us ever since we left the reception.”
“So?” he bent his neck from side to side to work out some of the kinks.
“It keeps getting closer.”
Matt looked down and struggled with his seat belt. I hate being confined. It released with a strong click. “Goddamn belt. Now what were you saying?”
The black Pontiac roared up behind the sports car and banged its large steel bumper into the rear of the little sports car. The Porsche lurched. “What’s happening?” Kelly screamed. “I can’t steer. They’re. . they’re trying to force us off the road.”
Adrenalin pulled Matt around. When the second jolt came it was more forceful, more threatening.
“Speed up, Kelly,” he said, gripping the headrest. “Drive as fast as you can.”
She jammed down hard on the accelerator. “Jesus Matt,…”
“Now listen to me,” Matt said slowly. “When I tell you to slow down, do it quickly- very quickly, just short of slamming on the brakes. But don’t slam on the brakes or we’ll skid out of control. Just press down forcefully. At the same time, try to hold us in the center of the road. Do you understand?”
She was gripping the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “But what if they rear-end-”
“Do you understand?”
“Okay. Okay. Just don’t shout.” Her hands shook as she gripped the wheel.
“Do what I say. You have to trust me. Do you understand?”
Kelly nodded. Her face was ghostly white.
Matt looked out the rear window. “Get ready. Alright then, now… slow down.”
She geared down hard and applied the brakes at the same time. The rapid deceleration caught the Pontiac off guard. It swerved, skidded back and forth, then slid off the road. Matt glimpsed the driver, his face contorted, trying to regain control, but it was too late. The car crashed through the guardrail and went rolling down the steep bank. Kelly screamed and floored the car. The black Pontiac plunged into the dark swirling waters of the Potomac.
“Okay, Okay. Let up, let up.” Matt yelled, but her foot stayed hard down.
“I want to go home.” Her upper lip quivered. “First you almost kill my father and now someone’s trying to kill us.” The car tore ahead, weaving back and forth.
Matt reached over. “For God’s sake Kelly, slow down…”
She screamed, her eyes wide. Two large cars blocked the road. Men in dark suites with flashlights frantically signaled them to stop. Kelly panicked and slammed down hard on the brakes. Matt Richards smashed into the windshield, then ricocheted back against the passenger seat. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the high-pitched squeal of Pirelli tires sliding sideways.