“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 Luckily your license was revoked before you killed someone on the operating table.”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.”
