London
“Ah, my favorite member of the St. James’s Club. Welcome back, Mr. Nagib.” Andrew, the well-groomed Club Manager, beamed with delight. “It’s been quite some time since you last blessed us with a visit here in London.”
The stylish and very private St. James’ Club and Casino, housed in an 18 ^th Century marble columned building near Piccadilly, had something the rest of London coveted; freedom from gawking tourists. An exclusive membership list, healthy annual fee, fabulous nouvelle cuisine, and a large casino made the club the luncheon choice for diamond-laden ladies of leisure. It was also a discrete haven for international business dinners late into the evening. And tonight was no exception.
Mohammad al Nagib grunted, finally shedding his size XXL overcoat. “You’re as charming and as full of bullshit as ever, Andrew. I assume my guests have been well taken care? I would have been here earlier, but important business needed my personal attention.”
Andrew beamed. “Everything is as you requested, sir.” The casino staff were trained to lavish personal attention on their private members. Like a handful of other exclusive dining clubs around the world, The St. James Club was a place where superior service was both expected and delivered.
“Excellent. Then bring a bottle of Fallet-Dart champagne to the table.”
“Of course, Mr. Nagib. It will be my honor to deliver it personally to your table.” Andrew discretely signaled that the guests in the walnut paneled cocktail lounge should be escorted to the dining room. He then bowed, repeating an ancient blessing: “May you be the father of 100 sons, Mr. Nagib.”
“Sons? Who the hell wants sons? They are weak and easily influenced. Haven’t you yet learned, young man, that women are by far the more effective of the species? It is daughters we should develop, not sons.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I will be along in a moment.”
Mohammed al Nagib strode into the gentlemen’s washroom. He stood in front of the marble sink and oversized antique mirror. A half smile broke the permanent scowl. He carefully combed his thinning silver hair. The confident face in the mirror echoed his thoughts. Three decades of planning, manipulating, bribing, threatening, and even a few disappearances. Now we are ready. The clock on the wall ticked. He checked the time against his gold Rolex, then strode towards the dining room.
“Ah, there you are my good friend.” Achilles Antonopolis stood up as Mohammed al Nagib walked through the large double doors into the formal dining room. They embraced warmly, kissing once on each cheek. The other two members of tonight’s special dinner meeting, a Swiss and a Brazilian, each took turns hugging and kissing their host and business partner. Warm greetings were exchanged all around in French and English. The champagne glasses were filled and the ever-bowing Andrew withdrew. They were seated at a corner table, slightly away from the rest of the guests.
Nagib briskly raised his glass to Jorge Molinas, sitting directly opposite. “Congratulations on your success.”
The short, neatly dressed Brazilian returned the toast. “Sometimes the best strategy is to let your opponent believe you have failed while your plan is proceeding.” He nodded to the others as they all drank deeply of the vintage champagne.
“Now that we are on schedule,” Nagib went on, “I can report that within one week, two at most, our asset will be securely in situ and waiting for the signal.”
“It is truly exhilarating to have destiny in our hands-and to be in control of the timetable.” The diminutive Helmut Hofer adjusted his thin wire-rimmed glasses, never making direct eye contact.
“And when the timing suits our needs, we can act at will,” added Antonopolis.
Nagib raised his bubbling flute of champagne. “For over thirty years we have pledged our lives together. Planning, testing, and revising our overall plans. I remember the old days when we would loan each other money during tough times. But thanks to all of your hard work and sacrifices, our business empires are not only expanding, but highly profitable. To our most ambitious project ever.”
“My mining and logging conglomerate would have never survived without your assistance.” The Brazilian bowed his bald head. “But now it’s profitable beyond my wildest dreams.”
Herr Hofer spoke just above a whisper. “My little bank has benefited handsomely from our long-term business dealings. And it’s benefited those who know a Swiss bank is the safest place for their money.”
“Ah, here comes the head chef himself,” Nagib announced. Lowering his voice, he added, “I suggest we change the conversation, gentlemen. All plans for the next phase are available through the secure network.” He looked up at the celebrity chef, decked out in a white smock, chef’s hat and colorful bowtie. Everyone stood up, shook hands all around and the pleasantries began.
The Tonight Show
“I’m no longer allowed to tell ethnic or political jokes,” the venerable late-night host quipped towards the end of his opening monologue. “The network brass get too many threatening phone calls from senators and congressmen. So tonight my writers have opted for a more scientific approach.” He shuffled his feet as if in deep thought. “Let’s see, the subject is… oh yeah, genetics.” The live audience broke into organized clapping, encouraging him on. “Okay, Okay, patience. You don’t get a scientific degree overnight, you know, these things take a while.”
A wry grin spread across his elongated face, making his chin look even more prominent than it was. He stared straight into the camera. “What do you get when you cross an Arab woman with a stick of dynamite?
“… Nothing.”
Blue Ridge Private Clinic and Hospital
A soft noise pierced the foggy veil of his mind. “Muzak. God, I hate Muzak.” Matt Richards fell back into a narcotic-induced sleep. For the past several weeks, he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. It was strange. In the mornings he would wake up to a set of electrodes placed on his arms and legs, stimulating his muscles, keeping atrophy at bay. He was just barely conscious as the machine kept up its steady rhythm of muscle contraction and relaxation. He could also feel a thick material covering his face, like large bandages. Then as soon as the machines were unplugged, he would fall into a deep sleep. More like a zombie than a living being.
But today, amidst a collage of bizarre dreams, he surfaced into semi-consciousness again.
“No. No.” The crisp bed sheet jerked uncontrollably. The dream came back. In and out of a vague blackness floated a face- her face. The same face captured on television. The suicide attack on the President. Bedouina Missoumi. It was her. He was certain of it. The image skimmed across his drug-fogged mind, smiling, snarling, laughing, brooding, beckoning. Soon more figures began to appear, misty, facing away from him. But each time they turned the face was always the same, Bedouina. Samir’s long dead girlfriend wafted closer and closer. He reached out with an invisible hand. She melted away. He sat up, trying to reach the evaporating form, then fell back into the soft pillow. More Muzak.
Again he awoke with a start. Another dreamy face.
“Who are you?” he called aloud. “Go away. Don’t look at me. Go away.” He didn’t want to know. He wanted the screen of his mind to go blank, but it glowed even brighter as the fragments of images coalesced. His mind reached out. He could feel every contour of her face as if it were etched into his DNA. Matt tried to close his mind. To shut off the thoughts.
“Oh, God.” He let out a low moan. It was the red-haired beauty he comforted so many years ago during a thunderstorm in the skies. The goddess he had fallen in love with-Maha.
“Calm down now, take a few deep breaths.” A soothing male voice came from directly overhead. “You must have been having a nightmare or a vivid hallucination. They’re common with concussions and injuries of your type.” Flashes of light moved back and forth across his eyes. The doctor held his lids apart and peered at his pupils.
“He’s regaining consciousness. The swelling of the lining of the brain seems to be going down as a result of the drugs. It looks like your patient is making a speedy and complete recovery. But he still needs rest.” The doctor turned slowly to face two men standing just behind him. Then all three men peered at the figure lying on the hospital bed. White bandages encircled head and face. Only the eyes were visible, with small holes for the nostrils.
“When will he be recovered enough for us to talk to him, doc?”
Matt flinched but his eyes remained closed.
“Speak quietly. His ears are very sensitive at this stage.”
“When? We can’t wait much longer.” A hushed voice with a heavy accent.
“Not now. He still needs his daily exercise and then his rest. And it will be at least one more week before we can take the bandages off.”
“But it’s been five weeks already. We need to talk with him, time is running out.” The other man moved into the bright light hanging over the steel-framed bed. His bald head glistened with sweat. They were in a small, elaborately equipped recovery room, sealed off from the rest of the clinic by large doors and armed guards.
“Maybe by the end of the week, perhaps sooner. I’ve told you a hundred times, medicine and politics don’t work on the same timetable-I’ll let you know as soon as he’s fully recovered.” And with that the surgeon ushered the two men out of the hospital room. Slowly he returned, staring at the vital signs flashing on the machines in the otherwise darkened room. Matt could sense his presence, watching, waiting.
“Where am I?” Matt aimed his words at three out of focus faces staring down at him.
“You’re in a private clinic, Dr. Richards. And, I might add, you’re recovering very nicely. Today I can take the bandages off.”
Matt slowly felt his face. Shaky hands moved cautiously back and forth, then up and down. His entire head was bandaged. “Must have been a hell of an accident.” He vaguely recalled screaming tires and Kelly slamming on the brakes. Everything else was lost behind a dense mental fog.
“Can’t you get rid of that damned Muzak? It’s driving me crazy, and God knows what it does to the rest of the patients.” The two visitors turned to each other.
“So, do I look like a codfish? And you still haven’t answered my first question. Where am I?”
“Dr. Weissman is leaving now, but we’ll be able to answer all your questions.” A heavy-set olive-skinned man faced the doctor. “We’ll call you when we need you, doctor. Stay close at hand.”
“Very well.” He left without looking back. The door secured itself automatically with a faint hydraulic hiss.
“You’re in a private hospital in the Blue Ridge mountains,” the stranger said, pulling a chair next to the bed. “It’s reserved for only the most special patients.” The motor whirred as he lowered the height of the bed so they could talk face to face. The other man, younger and taller, grabbed another chair. He slammed it down next to his partner. The heavy metal legs struck the bed frame. Matt winced at the noise.
“What’s happening….” Matt stuttered as his mushy mind slowly came to grips with the conversation.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You haven’t seen the headlines, have you?” The younger man unlatched his briefcase. “Here, let me read it to you. It’s the Washington Post, dated February 23, the morning after.”
“After?” he muttered.
“After the accident.”
Matt tried to sit up. His body barely moved. He grunted. After a few attempts, he finally propped himself up against the thick foam hospital pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully as the stranger spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Daughter of Senator Mason Stevens Killed in Drunk Driving Accident.” Matt groaned through the layers of gauze. “That’s the headlines, front page no less. Now I’ll read you the story.” He held the paper in Matt’s direct field of vision.
Ms. Kelly Stevens, 22, only child of U.S. Senator and Mrs. Mason T. Stevens of Virginia, died in a tragic single-car accident on the George Washington Parkway at approximately 11:15 P.M. last night. According to the D.C. Metro police, who arrived a short time after the accident, Ms. Stevens’ yellow Porsche Boxter apparently went out of control and swerved across the highway, crashed through a guard rail and struck a large tree. Police estimate the small sports car was traveling at excessive speed. Ms. Stevens died instantly.
Kelly Stevens, a senior at Sweet Briar College in Lynchburg, Virginia, was attending a reception for newly appointed personal physician to President Pierce, Dr. Noubar Melikian. She was accompanied by a friend, Dr. Matthew Richards, assistant professor of biology and anatomy at Sweet Briar. Dr. Richards, who was driving at the time, was also pronounced dead at the scene…
“What the hell?” Matt jerked into an upright position and tried to grab the newspaper. The other man shoved him back, restraining his arms. “God damn it. What’s going on here? And let me go, you big ape.” Matt’s head exploded with pain. He collapsed back onto the pillow.
“Relax, doc, we haven’t finished.” He cracked a tight smile. His dark skinned face seemed to glow.
Matthew Richards, 54, son of famous heart surgeon Dr. Wilson Richard, and disbarred from practicing medicine several years ago in an alcohol-related incident had a blood alcohol content of 0.25 % at the time of the accident, nearly three times the legal driving limit.
Matt grabbed the paper, the print wavering before his weak eyes as his mind absorbed the words. Shit. The pages fluttered to the floor. Somewhere in the dark distance an intercom crackled.
“Not only are you a drunk and a murderer, Dr. Richards, but you’re also legally dead. Your past is pretty messed up, and I’d say your future doesn’t look too bright either.” The older man stood up. Matt noticed coarse black hair growing out of his ears.
Matt gathered his strength, fighting back the pain. “Okay. You got my attention. Now what do you want from me? This is some sort of setup. I should have known something was up when that black car kept trying to ram us from behind.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate. We lost two good men that evening, but they did their job, forcing you to speed up for our little reception party ahead.”
“What do you want from me?” Thinking and moving were taking a toll. He felt nauseous. In a futile gesture of defiance Matt gave them the finger under his bedcovers.
The younger man got up and put his ear against the door, gave the okay signal, then sat down again. Hairy Ears spoke again. “We need your help.”
“Go to hell.”
“We want you to help us track down a terrorist cell – “
“A terrorist cell!”
“Yes. A group that has placed highly trained assassins in deep cover, right here in the U.S.”
Matt’s head pounded. He formed his words distinctly through the bandages. “Man, have you got the wrong guy.”
“We think not, Doc.”
“Oh? And what twisted logic leads you two idiots to choose me?”
The younger man’s face hardened. “Our sources tell us this cell was organized by a group of radical students who went to the American University of Beirut.”
Bedouina’s intense face shimmered. Unbidden, Maha swirled, auburn hair glowing, then Samir’s smiling face… But they’re dead. Dead… Matt kept quiet.
“So? What’s going on Doc? You checking out again?”
“No. Just thinking this is some kind of sick joke.”
Hairy Ears was leaning close to Matt’s face. “Guess what year these students were at the American University? 1966 to 1970. Ring any bells?”
“Go to hell.”
“You were there.”
“Sure, I was there. But I was only twenty-one years old, a naive college student from the States. I just wanted to experience a new culture, drink some beer and get laid. I had no interest in politics or political causes then, and I don’t now. Besides, I’m not a detective or a secret agent. And now I’m just an ex-doctor and a two-bit college anatomy professor, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re also a stinking drunk.” The younger man leaned over the bed. A jagged white scar ran from his left cheek down to his chin. “And a doctor who couldn’t handle the pressure. Luckily your license was revoked before you killed someone on the operating table.”
Hairy Ears watched the eyes beneath the bandages. He gauged their anger. “Is he right, Doc?”
“I drank more than I should. I won’t deny it.”
“How nice. More than I should. What a crock. You were and still are a lousy drunk.” Hairy Ears sat back in the chair. “There are two types of alcoholics, Dr. Richards. The unfortunate person who has a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and the coward who tries to hide from the past, present and future inside a bottle. You’re not a real alcoholic, Doctor. You’re just a miserable wimp running away from a failed career, dozens of failed relationships, and a legend of a father to whom you could never measure up.” The words cut into Matt like the double-edged sword of truth that it was. He closed his eyes, wondering where this was heading. What he really wanted was to drift off to sleep. Forever.
Scarface stood up abruptly, the metal chair tipped onto the floor. Matt jumped at the noise.
“Okay. As you so eloquently put it, I’m not cut out for much of anything. So why me?”
“Two reasons,” Scarface said. “First, we believe you came into contact with several of the suspected members of this cell while you were in Beirut.”
“Like who?” Again Maha’s green eyes came into focus, then retreated.
“What I’m about to say is highly classified, known to only a few individuals. For the past several years we’ve been keeping an eye on a radical law professor from Berkeley, Dr. Brian Walker. You were at AUB with him between 1968 and 1969, weren’t you?”
Matt nodded, not having thought about Brian in many years.
“We have reason to believe that during that time, Walker, who we suspect may be the leader of this cell, recruited several other students, both American and Arab. How well did you know Brian Walker?”
“Jesus Christ, that was over thirty years ago. We were just kids on a junior year abroad program.”
“But you did know him.” Hairy Ears said.
“Of course I knew Brian, as well as a dozen other students who were my friends that year.”
Scarface watched him.
Matt explored his bandages. “Quit staring. There’s nothing to this. I haven’t spoken to any of them since 1969.”
“I see.”
“Fact is three of my Arabic friends were killed in a bomb explosion near the end of my last semester in Beirut. Things changed. I came home. No letters, no Christmas cards. Nothing.” Images of the explosion came roaring back. He could taste the ashes and feel the scorching heat-could still see Samir Hussein incinerated before his eyes. The nightmare was etched into his skin. A permanent searing of his psyche. Matt lay against the pillow, exhausted.
“Did you see the CNN footage of the suicide bomb attack on the President?” Scarface again.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Did you recognize the woman’s face?” He leaned in, looking straight into Matt’s eyes.
“Nope.” It didn’t seem right to tell them the woman looked like Bedouina Missoumi. After all, it couldn’t be-she died in the explosion at the restaurant. Besides, he didn’t trust these people. There was something ugly and dangerous going on. “Look, I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them since we left Beirut. So I’d say I’m the wrong guy for your little clandestine assignment, wouldn’t you?”
“Ah, yes, well that brings me to the second reason we’ve anointed you, Dr. Richards.” Hairy Ears picked the newspaper up from the floor, carefully folded it and laid it on the white hospital sheet.
“Which is?”
“You’re all we’ve got,” he said simply. “And you’re expendable. After all, you’re dead, as reported in all the newspapers and on television. They even held a funeral for you. Pretty sparsely attended, I might add. Your father didn’t even show up.”
“And if I refuse?”
He bent down close to Matt’s bandaged face. The smell of garlic made Matt nauseous. “You’re officially listed as dead. So who’s going to care if you die twice?” The words uncoiled slowly, like a lethal serpent.
“Okay, I get the message. But haven’t you dimwits overlooked one important point? I can’t go around looking up old college friends if I’m dead. Wouldn’t it look a little suspicious, a corpse suddenly springing back to life?”
Scarface walked over to a wall phone and pressed the intercom. “We need you in the safe room, Dr. Weissman.” He turned toward Matt. “The good doctor will make your decision a little easier.”
Minutes later, the last of the long cotton bandages was carefully lifted from around his head. He felt the movement of air against his face and on the matted hair follicles on his head. He felt ten times lighter as Dr. Weissman began removing gauze squares from his cheeks, chin, nose and around his eyes.
The accented words of Hairy Ears pulled Matt from his thoughts. “You suffered terrible facial lacerations as a result of the accident, Dr. Richards. Someone had to make a quick decision, so we asked Dr. Weissman here to give us a hand. He’s a very talented plastic surgeon and our little hospital has quite an array of sophisticated equipment for just such contingencies.” The man stared at Matt’s face with interest. “Well, well, well.”
He turned to the surgeon, busy putting the piles of cotton and gauze in the waste bin near the sink. “Where’s the mirror? It’s time Dr. Richards had a look at himself.”
A slow fear coursed through Matt’s body. He was perspiring. In that instant, Dr. Matthew Richards realized he was helpless. A prisoner. A pawn in some twisted political game where people could murder and kidnap at will, manipulate the press and possibly even governments. Who are these people and what do they want? With shaking hands he took the oval mirror from Dr. Weissman, gripping the smooth clinical handle with both hands. It wavered back and forth as he slowly turned it around.
“Oh my God… That’s not me, that’s not my face-you fucking bastards, you had no right. You had no right.” Matt stared at the stranger in the mirror. The hair color was the same, but the face was totally wrong. Matt’s face was lean and creased with deep lines, with an almost boyish upturned mouth. This new face was rounder, the cheeks fuller, the nose more prominent and slightly bent. The mouth was definitely not his. Thin, stern, joyless. The beard, though nearly all gray like his, was thicker and denser. The distorted image of an aging prizefighter wavered before him.
“What have you done?” was all he could manage. His body shook.
“Actually,” Dr. Weissman responded while watching the facial muscles move easily and naturally, “it’s a relatively new procedure. As a result of my recent research on nerve regeneration and facial muscle attachment, I have finally been able to perfect the technique of a full facial transplant. And we are able to achieve complete healing and full facial control in just 6 weeks, 7 at the most.”
Matt threw the mirror as hard as he could, catching Scarface on the temple. The mirror ricocheted and hit the floor, shattering the glass. No one moved.
Bleeding from the temple, Scarface pressed the barrel of a pistol into Matt’s ear. “Maybe we should just end your miserable life here and now, asshole. You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve got no choice in this matter. You belong to us and you’ll do exactly what we want you to do. It’s as simple as that. So stop trying to act like someone with a semblance of dignity and self-respect. You’ve been a coward and a weakling all your life. You should be thankful we’re giving you a second chance to finally do something with your miserable little life.” He released Matt and stepped back. The pistol slid back smoothly into the hand tooled shoulder holster. “We’ll be back after you’ve had a chance to sleep on it.” He nodded to the doctor. The syringe was already inserted into the IV tube.
Matt started to panic, his heart racing. “So what if I go along with your plan?”
“Several very important people will be extremely grateful, Dr. Richards. That, and your life won’t have been a total waste after all. But we’re not impressed with your sudden change of heart. It’s the only option you’ve got.” They walked out.
Dr. Weissman pulled out the empty syringe. In less than thirty seconds Matt Richards drifted into another drug-induced sleep. The dreams came again.
Beirut, December 29, 1968
The beckoning aroma of thick Arabic coffee floated into the bedroom of the ski chalet in the snow-covered mountains above Beirut. The soft mattress shook. Still half asleep, he sensed Maha’s presence. Her warmth. Her essence. Inhaling the scent of her perfumed skin, he recalled last evening’s lovemaking. His eyes slowly opened. She was over him, the tips of her long red hair tickling his face and eyelids. Matt closed his eyes again, committing every part of her to memory. He wanted to remember this moment forever. Eyes, hair, musky…
“Last night I took the most wonderful journey of my life. I went straight to heaven.” Her sweet breath was warm as her lips caressed his cheek. “I am changed, Matthew. Forever. Now I am a woman. Your woman. I have given to you everything that is sacred to me, willingly and with joy. And what you gave me was fantastic.” They kissed, and he drank her in, only to feel her body move quickly off the bed. “Now,” she giggled, as her large firm breasts bounced up and down. “Let’s see if you can ski as well as you make love.”
The mountains of Lebanon formed a giant barrier running the length of the narrow country, separating the fertile coastal plain edging the warm Mediterranean from the high desert expanses of the Bekka Valley. In Phoenician times, the entire 161 kilometer mountain range was covered with a dense forest of cedar trees, known in Arabic as Arz-ar-Rab, the Trees of the Lord. The huge trees became a valuable source of lumber for building the massive temples of Egypt. Trade with Egypt was brisk, and while the Phoenicians flourished, the cedars rapidly dwindled. Only a small stand of fewer than four hundred trees-some over a thousand years old-now remained. They were the survivors, a lonely reminder of how easily something so noble and beautiful can be lost forever.
“Aren’t these mountains exquisite? A paradise of virgin white snow. And just think, it lasts until May, sometimes later.” Maha laughed with delight as she strapped on her skis just outside the chalet door. It was midweek. The pristine slopes nearly deserted. Matt and Maha had slipped away to spend two days at the large chalet their friend Demetrie had rented for the season. This was their first extended time alone, and their first experience as lovers.
Tears filled her eyes. “Have you ever seen such an inspiring view?” Nearly out of breath she came to a stop, the edges of her Rossignol skis sending up a shower of snow. She was at the beginning of a steep run, about half a kilometer from where the lift had deposited them. Matt was also breathing heavily, having difficulty keeping up as she snaked across the slope, her skis perfectly parallel. Being from Seattle, Matt had grown up skiing, but next to Maha he felt like a rock tumbling down a bumpy hillside. He came to a showering stop alongside her, but his sharp edges struck a small rock and sent him flying onto his back. He looked up and laughed.
“Stop clowning around, Matthew. You must see this view. It’s magnificent. Imagine how the invading armies felt when they reached the mountaintop and looked out.”
Stretched out below them, well over thirty-five kilometers away, lay the city of Beirut. It glowed in the early-morning sunlight. The blue Mediterranean danced and shimmered. Several grey tankers slowly exited the harbor, plodding ahead of their frothy wakes. The Phoenician legacy was still as vibrant as ever. Where the lower end of Saint George’s Bay curved around, they could just make out the red-tiled roofs and lush gardens of the American University of Beirut.
“Wow,” Matt exclaimed, when he’d pulled himself back up. “It’s like we’re gods on Mount Olympus looking down on the world.” Besides biology and math classes, Matt was taking a course in ancient mythology taught by Professor Richmond Hathron, as eccentric as he was famous. Dr. Hathron, an American, had lived in the Middle East for many years. In their classes twice a week, he would often read passages from Homer’s Iliad, from the original Greek, translating the flowery text as he went. It was this class that had opened Matt’s eyes to the profound soul of the Middle East, where first the Greeks and then the Romans had such a strong and lasting influence on the culture.
“Hey,” he said, squinting into the sun, “what’s all that smoke over there? Isn’t that Beirut Airport?”
Maha didn’t hear him. “If you can catch me, you can kiss me.” she yelled, leaping off the snowy ledge. She tore down the steep face, gracefully carving a sinuous trail. Snow erupted at each turn.
Matt was about to race off after her when he noticed two skiers in dark clothing emerge from the left side of a snow bowl and head directly for Maha. They raced closer and closer, flying straight towards their target. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Matt. Instead she saw the two men. She slowed down, her skiing more rigid, jerking from side to side as she awkwardly turned. She looked tense and frightened. Matt watched, not knowing what to do. He looked closer. They were on a course that would take them by her. He relaxed.
But suddenly they veered directly in front of Maha and stopped. She tried to swerve out of the way but her ski tips crossed. She tumbled down into the snow, face first. Both skis flew off in opposite directions like feathers from a gunshot bird. He watched anxiously as she slid for twenty yards before coming to a stop next to a small mound of snow.
Matt catapulted off the ledge shouting, “Get away from her,” but they were too far away to hear. Or else they just ignored him. As he headed straight down, the two skiers closed in on either side of Maha, just sitting up and brushing off the snow. One of the men reached down to help her up, but she resisted, lashing out with a ski pole. In a few mad seconds Matt was within earshot. Maha was screaming in Arabic. Matt crouched down and headed straight for the nearest intruder-a human missile flying down the steep slope.
Looking up, Maha saw Matt barreling down towards them. “No, Matt, it’s all right. Don’t-”
The taller of the two skiers stood directly in his path. Grabbing the hood of the stranger as he flew past, Matt jerked him to the ground, then dug his ski edges and swished to a stop a few feet downhill. He yelled at the other man. “Get away from her, you sonofabitch.” Matt began sidestepping up the slope, frantic to reach Maha. The man he’d downed reached into his parka. A Damascus knife glittered in the sun. Matt stared at the deadly curved blade.
“Matt. Watch out.” The skier with the knife lunged at Matt’s back. Maha moved swiftly, reaching out. The deflected blade bit into the back of her hand. Bright red blood splattered across the snow.
“Stop it right now-stop it, all of you.” Maha screamed at the men, then clutched her hand in pain. Matt scooped up a handful of cold snow, packed it down over her wound, then began wrapping it tightly with his bandanna. The two Arabic men had come up alongside, the taller one threatening Matt with the knife.
“What are you doing, Saleem?” Maha screamed. “Are you crazy?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, sneaking around with this man. We’ve been looking for you all night.” Suddenly he fell to his knees, sobbing. “Father’s dead.”
The color drained from her face. “What?” She was shaking as she gripped her older brother by the arm. “Oh God. What happened?”
“He was at the airport late last night for a flight to Amman when Israeli commandos attacked. They blew up several planes on the runway and shot up the main building. Father tried to duck down behind a ticket counter…” When he looked up, a fierce hatred burned in his dark eyes.
“Zionist pigs. They shot him in the back. He bled to death. And where was the cowardly Lebanese army during all this? Their barracks are only five kilometers away.” He spit into the snow. “I will kill them all.”
His vow fell on deaf ears. Maha fainted into Matt’s arms, her warm blood melting the snow.