“Knock it off, Terry. That bullshit line is over. Gone. Blown away. Like the safety of our country. Like peace in the Middle East.”
The President poured himself a glass of water. “So, number one, you guys get your acts together. I want some facts that I can give to the reporters, and the American people, when they come ready to chew my ass off. Taxes are crippling the average American and with all the money spent after September 11, what do they get? A severed head on the streets of Washington, D.C.”
“If I may, Mr. President?”
“Okay, Bill. What’s the view from Homeland Security?”
“I’m grossly under funded as it is. Guys work two, three nights in a row just checking out all the leads we get. I need…”
Ross nodded, cutting him off. “It’s a thankless job, I know. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe your new partners here will give you some extra manpower?”
“Shit, Mr. President. We can’t even get our databases to talk to each other. Different systems running on different software platforms.” The bald head of the FBI Director beaded with sweat, but he was committed now. “Everyone agrees it will take at least another year to marry up our database systems.”
“Well, gentlemen, wake up and smell the coffee. Reality has just pitched us a big roundhouse curve. I definitely wasn’t ready when that missile shot down my A6 Intruder, but I had to deal with it real quick. And that’s what we’re going to have to do now. Deal with it!”
“Just how are we supposed to…?”
“I wish I knew, gentlemen. I wish I knew. But it’s your job, not mine. I’ve got to keep the world from blowing up.”
Again the P/A system echoed in a faraway hall. Ross Pierce refilled his glass.
“Look, gentlemen. You know your jobs, your people. You’re the best in the world at this stuff. And you know the predicament we are in. If we don’t find out how this happened and shut it down, every two-bit terrorist with a knife, gun or bomb will think its open season on Americans. Whose head will it be in the gutter next time?”
Wearily he stared at the bed sheets. “I want your first joint report on my desk at 7am tomorrow morning. Something substantial for my address to the nation.” He peeled off a bandage from his hand.
“And we will meet every Tuesday at 7am in the Oval Office from now on. You’re my new cabinet on terrorism, security and the Middle East. I’ll add a few more members, but keep it small. No substitutes. If you don’t come to a meeting I’ll assume you’re dead or dying. And you will be.”
He reached out and shook each member’s hand, holding it firmly, communicating his resolve. “And about that funding, I hear you, Bill. We’ll get more money from somewhere. I guarantee it.”
They all nodded, both hopeful and fearful. “Get some rest, Mr. President. I think we’re all going to need it.”
“Thanks Frank. But I doubt if any of the Secret Service will be sleeping tonight. Nor will I.”
The door closed firmly. Marine guards snapped to attention as the four senior directors quietly left the room.
Alone again. Ross Pierce picked at his bandages. Like in a jet fighter, timing was everything. Angela Wu arrived late at the press conference. She lived. He stood a few yards behind Dr. Andrew Norman. He lived. Life and death, turning on the smallest of actions. But just what were the right actions from now on? Was there one right decision that could shift the momentum of the world from destruction to global peace? Could he find it? Could he use it?
He picked up the phone. “Nurse, I need to use the head.” He listened. “I know that. Send her in, but I’m closing the damned door.”
While the army nurse stood in the empty room, just next to the bathroom door, the President of the United States reached for a towel. The tears overtook him like a malignant wave, he buried his face, muffling the sobs. He slumped to the cold floor, his back bumping against the door.
“Are you all right, Mr. President?”
Roswell Clayton Pierce was fine, but he knew the world was running out of time.
Chapter Two
The American University of Beirut, Lebanon, 1969
“Come on, Samir, I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat.” Matt Richards threw his pencil down on his dormitory desk and stretched. “We’ve been studying for three solid hours. My ass is flat and my stomach is growling.”
“You Americans, all you think about is your stomach. In the Koran it says prayer is the food of the righteous.” Samir Hussein was a psychology major, Palestinian, and Matt’s roommate.
“Well, in the King James version of the Bible it says the Lord helps those who help themselves. And right now I’d like to help myself to a bowl of humus, a mountain of tabouli, a big juicy lamb kebab and a couple of beers.”
“You can afford to be causal about studying. At the end of the school year you’ll be headed back to your home in America.”
A grin filled Matt’s suntanned face. “Yeah.” A summer job in the fruit orchards outside of Seattle, then his final year at Harvard. “Don’t forget med school, Samir. Next time we meet you’ll have to call me Doctor Richards.”
“Just like your father and older brother.” After nearly seven months of living with him every day, Samir still wondered about his American roommate. Was he following his heart, or someone else’s expectations? With a world renowned heart surgeon for a father, who could ever measure up?
“No matter what I become, surgeon or bum, I’ll never forget this year.” Matt studied Samir’s face. Born in Jerusalem in the, then, independent state of Palestine. Soon to be lost forever in a sea of chaos and conflict. “This year has been the most influential of my life. I know it. I’ll always remember the sights, the sounds, the smells, the food, the history. And the women. What can I say?”
“Speaking of women, are we going to meet up with Bedouina and Maha tonight, or are you going to give me one of your ‘I love Beirut’ monologues that puts me to sleep?” Samir stood up. Anxious fingers ran through his thick black hair. “However, my friend, I think we’re out of luck. Its past curfew and the school gates are locked. We’re stuck. Besides, you’ve seen the guards carrying machine guns posted at all the University gates. They’re loaded with real bullets.”
“Don’t be a wimp. Ever since the Israeli attack on the Beirut Airport in December, they’ve had guards everywhere. Who cares? We’ll just climb over the wall like I always do. You can do it. We’ll be back in less than two hours.”
“But you saw bullet-ridden airport terminal and the burned out carcasses of the Middle East Airlines planes scattered across the runway. The city has never been the same since. Armed patrols on the streets, guards at the University gates, fighting between the Christians and the Moslems, right here in the city.”
“Screw that. I’m off. You coming or not?”
“Okay, Okay. I’ll call and tell the beauties to meet us at the kebab restaurant at the end of Rue Bliss. If we’re going to die, it might as well be in the arms of the lovely Maha and Bedouina.” He dialed and spoke rapidly in Arabic.
“Shit,” Matt said, searching for his windbreaker. “Why can’t I pick up Arabic? I speak French like a native, thanks to my Mom, but that language totally baffles me.”
“It’s simple, blockhead.” Samir laughed and punched his roommate. “By the way, I like these American terms you’ve taught me.”
“So what’s so simple?”
“Life is too easy here for you. French is one of the two official languages of Lebanon. And all the courses at the American University are taught in English. Do you really expect to learn Arabic?”
“It might help my love life.”
“I’d say you’re doing pretty well with Maha as it is.” The relationship between Matt and Maha, a Jordanian
