“Sorry. It must have been a cordless phone and he probably moved away from the desk.”
Nicole stepped close to Matt. “What time were the calls?”
Eli scanned the digital readout. “Just before midnight.”
“Stevens was obviously gone by then. Shit. I wish we had more.”
Chapter Eleven
Pittsburgh
Once dominated by steel mills and buried under black smoke, Pittsburgh was an American renaissance city. The riverfront and old docks were transformed into malls and tree-lined parks. Hosting several major league sports teams and world-class universities the city was well known for its innovative medical, computer and software companies.
Monument Oil and Gas Company occupied the top ten floors of a magnificent high rise soaring above the downtown skyline. Todd Cummings, chief legal counsel and corporate secretary, had his office in the executive suite just below the boardroom and executive dining rooms. While executive dining rooms were going out of fashion in corporate America, they were a necessity for Monument Oil. It was there that foreign dignitaries and the heads of major oil and gas companies from around the world, especially the Middle East, were entertained. The corporate dining rooms were not only a quiet place to talk business. They were also secure, swept daily for listening devices.
Nicole’s interview with Todd Cummings was scheduled for 11:30 A.M . and her eyes widened as they were shown into the anteroom of Cumming’s office. It was lushly appointed with dark mahogany paneling, Persian carpets and a large oil painting by Thomas Hart Benson depicting industrial Pittsburgh during the 1920s. “There’s more money tied up in the furnishings here than I’ll ever see in a lifetime,” she murmured to Matt as they sat down on a sofa. “Look at this, real damask.”
“If you got it, flaunt it. That’s the motto of corporate America,” Matt said, preoccupied by what he was going to say to his old friend, Toad.
Nicole noticed Matt’s frown. “Are you worried?”
He nodded.
“You did well with Dr. Thomas. Cummings is no physician so he may be tougher to convince. I’ll back you up.” She squeezed his hand.
“Mr. Cummings is ready to see you now,” said the secretary, her dark hair elegantly arranged in a chignon. Her smile was big and practiced. “You’ll be having lunch with Mr. Cummings. Are there any special dietary requirements for either of you? Our chefs are used to special needs.”
Nicole shook her head. “No alcohol for either of us,” Matt said, “but other than that, we’ll eat anything.” Nicole gave him a quick smile.
The secretary ushered them into a spacious corner office overlooking the Allegheny River.
“Ah, Ms. Delacluse,” said a trim man with a closely cropped beard and neatly styled salt and pepper hair, “I’ve been looking forward to your visit. It’s not everyday I get an opportunity to talk about something other than oil and gas.” He smiled, extending his hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Cummings, but I brought one of my colleagues along. It’s his first assignment with our paper and I’m showing him the ropes. This is, ah… Sam Parsons.”
Matt studied the sleek features obviously maintained by an active outdoor life. He’s aged well. Better than me. As Matt watched him from behind his new face, he recalled Beirut. Splashing azure blue water, intense conversations, Maha…
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parsons,” Cummings said, extending his tanned hand.
Matt just nodded as they shook hands. Three decades. Where did it all go?
“We’ll soon go upstairs for lunch,” Cummings went on, “but we can begin here.” He motioned them over to a sofa while he sat down in a large wing chair. “It was Beirut in the late 1960s you were interested in, wasn’t it?”
For the next half hour Nicole was the consummate journalist, starting out with questions that allowed Cummings to brag a little about his career then when he seemed relaxed, posing interesting but superficial questions about Beirut; his first impressions, special things he remembered vividly, any people he still kept in contact with.
“Actually, I’ve not kept in touch with too many from those days,” Cummings said, fingers touching his neatly trimmed beard. “But I do stay in touch with a couple of old friends, Anne-Marie Khoury, a brilliant artist, and another good friend, Theodore Janus.”
“Good friends from our early days are to be treasured,” Nicole said, closing her notebook, offering no threat.
“Yes indeed. In fact, sadly we’ve just lost two friends from the AUB days. Brian Walker. Perhaps you read of his death at that Palestinian rally; an appalling business. And then Matt Richards.” Cummings leaned back in his chair. “Odd the paths our lives take. Matt was a brilliant student, great promise all around. But I hear drink got him pretty bad.” He waived his hand. “Sorry, I’m drifting off the subject, Ms. Delacluse.”
Matt doodled in his reporter’s notebook. He’s still a pompous ass.
Todd Cummings rose abruptly. “Time for lunch.”
After lunch had been served in one of the small private dining rooms on the top floor and the waiter had left Matt knew it was time to begin. Here goes nothing.
“There’s something I must say to you.”
Cummings paused, fork in mid arc. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Parsons?”
“Brace yourself, Toad.” Matt gazed intently in his eyes. “I’m not Sam Parsons. It’s me, Matt-Matt Richards.”
“That’s a sick joke. Just what the hell is going on here, Ms. Delacluse?”
Nicole reached over and touched Cumming’s hand. “You should listen, Mr. Cummings.”
Matt noticed the eyes change. The corporate animal was on alert. No telling what he would do next.
“I suggest you explain yourself.”
“Of course. I called you Toad because that’s what I always called you. Remember? Back at Harvard. And at AUB.”
Cummings stood up. Nicole pulled hard on his sleeve. He settled silently back into his chair.
“I suggest you listen, Toad.” Matt leaned forward. “Listen to my voice. You can’t deny it’s my voice.”
Cummings stared. His eyes darted between Matt and Nicole. “What in God’s name are you two doing…?”
“I had surgery. A face transplant. And it wasn’t my idea. And they faked my death as well. It’s me, Toad.”
“Dear God. I don’t believe it.”
“He’s telling the truth, Mr. Cummings. You can check his stitches,” Nicole said.
“That won’t be necessary. Okay. So if you are Matt, which I still very much doubt. What do you want?”
“Matt’s in big trouble. He desperately needs your help. That’s why we are here.” Nicole stopped talking.
They all sat quietly while the waiter refilled the water glasses and left.
“Tell me exactly what is going on,” Cummings said. “And tell me everything. And don’t think I won’t call the security guards if…”
Matt nodded. “You were right about my drinking, I went downhill fast. But I’m recovering now. Only things are happening which I don’t understand. I really need your help, Todd.”
Tension left the table. “How can I help?”
“I’m going to tell you everything I know. I only hope you will believe me because it’s pretty far fetched.”
“Try me. What you’ve already said is far fetched.” Cummings’ voice was cold. He was a practiced negotiator.
“I was kidnapped, portrayed as dead and given a face transplant. Someone wants to use me as a ferret to track down a terrorist cell planning to kill the President of the United States.”
