we need to be careful. If not tonight then certainly by tomorrow they’ll be looking for you.”
“Goodnight, Dad,” Nicole said. He locked up his house. Inside one of the kitchen cupboards he flicked a small, nondescript switch, activating sensor pads installed around the property. He took the receiver unit upstairs to his bedroom, checked his. 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol and placed in on the nightstand.
“Matt,” Nicole whispered, “can I come in?”
“Sure.”
She walked over to the side of the bed, paused, and then crawled in beside him. Her lithe body touched his and a momentary charge passed between them. “You’re warm,” she said.
“And you feel really good.”
“But something is wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Matt, you must believe me. I’m on your side, but – “
“But what?”
“I can’t help notice you’ve been avoiding reading your diary.”
He stroked her long hair. “True.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Matt’s hand moved tenderly across her silk night gown. “That’s a lovely fragrance you’re wearing.”
“Dr. Richards.”
His hand withdrew. “I’m afraid to read the diary because of what I was then and what I am now.”
“But you were young. Having big dreams and idealistic notions are normal at that age.”
His smile was bitter. “And now?”
“Okay, let’s hit it head on. In 1968 you were cocky and brash. Today you’re worn and cynical. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“I’ve made a mess of my life, Nicole. It’s hard to face. And reading that diary will make it pretty clear what a jerk I’ve become.” He buried his head next to her shoulder.
She stroked his forehead. “Did you ever hear the story of the Scotsman who went out partying one night and was so drunk he fell asleep under a tree on his way home?”
“What?”
“Well, you obviously haven’t. Anyway, about an hour later along came sweet Mary down the lane. She sees this big bloke passed out under a tree, with his kilt up around his neck. So she took off one of her hair ribbons and tied it around his big Willy. The next morning he wakes up, staggers over to the side of the lane to take a pee and notices a blue ribbon tied around his rather large member. At first he was amazed. Then he thought for a moment. ‘I don’ know where ye been, laddie, but I’m pleased ta see ya won first prize.’”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he laughed.
“What I’m trying to say, Dr. Matthew Richards, is that you’re a great man.
Matt smiled. “That’s laying it on a bit thick.”
“Not so. You’ve got courage and compassion, I’ve witnessed it. You also have a keen sense of right and wrong.”
“So pluck up my courage and read the journal. Is that what this pep talk is all about?”
She kissed him. “I liked the way you turned down dad’s double scotch.”
“It wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
“I know that. Now read the journal.” She climbed out of the bed.
“Do you have to go just now?”
“We both need some real sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
For the first time in over thirty years Matt opened the leather journal. He thumbed through the pages, barely recognizing the neat handwriting as his own. One page, three-quarters through the book, had a purposefully bent corner. He stopped there. The entry was dated February 3, 1969. A fabulous weekend of skiing in the mountains above Beirut. He read a few pages, devouring the details of a long-ago life in a faraway place. After half an hour of reading he fell into a deep sleep beset by troubling dreams.
Beirut, February, 1969
“What say we stop for coffee?” Demetrie Antonopolis pulled the silver Mercedes off the winding mountain road and into the village of Basharri. “We’ve skied hard all weekend. I need a pick-me-up before driving the rest of the way down the mountain.”
“Fine with me,” said Matt. Maha opened one eye and looked out to see where they were. Brian Walker and Susan Miller were fast asleep in the back seat. The big green land cruiser, carrying Samir, Bedouina, Todd Cummings and Anne-Marie Khoury pulled off the road just behind them.
“This is Basharri, isn’t it?” Maha sat up fully awake.
Demetrie nodded. “Basharri. Birthplace of the mystical poet Khalil Gibran. There’s also an ancient Maronite monastery carved into the side of the cliff.”
“Who or what are Maronites?” asked Matt.
“Early Christians,” Maha said. “They gathered around a priest named Maron and adopted his monastic way of life. They were connected to the Roman Catholic See, and even established a Maronite College in Rome. The Maronites were heavily persecuted by the Ottomans and the other non-Christian invaders of Lebanon, but the Pope didn’t show much interest in their plight.”
“Nothing new there,” Matt said.
“As a result of endless persecution they retreated for several centuries into a 1,000-meter-deep gorge in the Kannoubine Valley, right below us. They built monasteries in the cliffs and grew crops on the valley floor. The history of the Maronites is one of struggle to preserve their Christian faith amid the growing influence of Islam.”
“We can climb down to the monastery,” said Demetrie. “I’ve been there before. It’s fabulous-an entire complex carved into rock.”
“I need some coffee first,” Brian grumbled, waking up in the back seat.
After coffee they set off down a narrow path that negotiated the cliff face in ever tightening turns. They picked their way down about seventy meters to a small landing. A rock archway marked the entrance to the ancient monastery, long since abandoned. The last rays of the sun could be seen far out in the Mediterranean as darkness rolled over the tops of the mountains. With flashlights taken from the car they lit the way through the arch and into the first series of elaborate caves.
Matt aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. Immediately, colorful murals of holy men, angels and a floating figure of Christ erupted before them.
“It’s lovely,” Maha gasped. “I’ve always read how special these monasteries were; now I know why.”
Anne-Marie grabbed Todd’s hand. “Just imagine how difficult it must have been to carve these monasteries out of the cliff face-and while they were hiding from enemies.”
“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” said Bedouina. “There’s still religious persecution, only this time it’s the Jews persecuting the Palestinians. And the Palestinians don’t have monasteries to hide in. Just dusty refugee camps with open-air toilets.”
“Relax and have a beer, Bedouina,” Matt said, breaking open a six pack of Amstel.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Demetrie said, producing a leather pouch carried on a cord inside his shirt. Ceremoniously, he took out a dark block of hashish. Besides being a graduate student in biology, Demetrie was also the local supplier of “killer hash” which he smoked several times a day. Matt wondered how he could function as well as he did, let alone drive.
They watched as Demetrie set the block down on the cold stone floor, drew his thumbs across the top, and peeled off a thin layer of the fibrous hallucinogenic weed. Rolling the wad of hemp between his fingers, he then wrapped a double size cigarette paper around its moist oblong shape. In seconds it was lit and on its way around the group seated on the floor.
Maha and Bedouina were the only ones who abstained. Matt at first refused, arguing that a beer was good enough for him but finally gave in to the urging of Todd and Brian. He took a small puff and held it in his lungs. At
