this year promises to be quite different from a normal junior year in the States. Mr. Fisher will be conducting four more workshops over the next two weeks, which is a part of your Junior Year Abroad orientation process. In addition, one professor from each of the academic departments, as well as the schools of Medicine, Pharmacy and Nursing will be giving you short and informative presentations. We believe that by the end of the month, you will all better understand the Middle East and Lebanon, where you will be spending your academic year.”
“I could use a beer,” said Matt loudly as the meeting broke up and everyone mingled outside on the front steps of College Hall. “Anyone care to join me?”
It was the beginning of an exciting school year for Matt, a year of discoveries and new friendships. By the end of the first month, in addition to his core of American friends, Matt’s social group included Maha Hammad, Samir Hussein and his girlfriend Bedouina, and Demetrie Antonopolis, a somewhat older rich Greek student with a long pony tail. He knew all the interesting places to go in Lebanon and had even rented a large apartment in the mountains for ski weekends. Nobody knew much about Demetrie, but he was outgoing, popular, obviously with a rich father somewhere, and would never say no to a party.
They were together nearly every weekend for seven months, until the explosion that killed Samir, Bedouina and Maha, and turned Matt’s life upside down.
Chapter Five
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.
