“Right away, Mr. Nagib.” The tall Swiss-German girl looked worried as she hurried away.
Within moments, Claude Villiers in his spotless white culinary jacket and floral bow tie strode up to the table. “Don’t tell me. My wife always complains that I overcook the beans,” he said, bowing.
“Oh, no. The meal was fabulous as usual. I won’t live long enough to wait for you to make a mistake in the kitchen, my old friend. But I am disappointed with the champagne. Last time I was here you gave me the name of the makers, Daniel and Gerald Fallet, two brothers outside Drachy, as I recall. Well, my personal assistant rang them up and ordered five hundred cases. They told him no. They said they have a limited number of private clients who have been with them for generations and since they only produce a small number of bottles a year they aren’t taking any new clients.
“Can you imagine that? I even offered to buy the entire production at a premium price. They still said no.” Nagib gave the tall slim chef a quizzical look. “Is this your sly handiwork? Making us come to your club in order to sample this outstanding bubbly?”
“I wish it were true,” Villiers said, sighing histrionically. “However, I am allowed very little myself and it is reserved for my favorite guests. Shall I bring you another bottle, then?” He bowed and backed away, then stopped briefly at a nearby table to greet the other guests.
Once they were alone Achilles Antonopolis spoke. “Please enlighten us about this little situation.”
“It seems that someone well connected with the intelligence community in the U.S. believes that a deep- cover cell is in place in the United States. They’re attempting to uncover it.” He looked at each of them.
“But how could anyone know about our plan? You don’t suspect a leak in our group, do you?” The Swiss banker looked at the others suspiciously.
“I do not know,” Nagib flicked white ash from the Cuban cigar. “But what I do know is that somehow they’ve gotten hold of a list of American students attending the American University of Beirut during 1968-69 and they believe one or more of them may be involved. In fact they seem to be using one of the former students to search out the others.”
The Greek shipping magnate began to perspire. “And their objective?”
“If it were me,” said Herr Hofer, “I wouldn’t want to eliminate the cell. I’d want to control it. For example, depending upon the potential benefits I would either expose it and reap the rewards or help it finish its job and reap a different set of rewards. Or maybe even use it for my own political and financial purposes.” He sat back, polishing Dickensian tiny spectacles. “Interesting situation we have here, very interesting.”
“That’s why you’ve been such a good partner all these years, Helmut,” Nagib smiled. “You think of all the ways to profit from any situation.”
“What have you done about this so far?” quizzed the Brazilian.
“So far our associate in one of the major U.S. intelligence agencies has assisted in thwarting their efforts. But it’s only a matter of time. My suggestion is that we accelerate our plan and in the next week or so find the best opportunity available to put our asset into action. In the meantime if we can eliminate or contain the individual they’re using as a ferret it would be helpful.”
The Swiss banker frowned. “But will this acceleration negatively impact our profits?”
“Perhaps, Helmut, perhaps. But only by a few million. Minor compared to the billions we stand to gain when America goes to war against the entire Muslim world. After all we supply a great deal of the chemicals, arms, equipment, and also make the loans to finance those poor Middle Eastern nations being attacked. We can settle for being fortunate, we don’t have to be greedy.” With that the Egyptian-American raised his flute of bubbling Fallet- Dart Millesime in a toast. He said no more. At this point the less the others knew about his ultimate plans the better.
At 11:30 pm the dining party left the dining table and took the elevator up to the casino. Waiters quickly cleared the table. A few minutes later a small recording device, previously concealed beneath al Nagib’s table was slipped into a cashmere overcoat as it was being opened for its owner. The distinguished gentleman buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, and slipped a small wad of bills into the hand of the cloakroom manager.
“My best to your family, Angelo.”
“And a very good evening to you, Mr. van Ness.”
Chapter Twelve
Concord, Massachusetts
“That’s her house.” Nicole pointed out a white Cape Cod standing alone at the end of a long lane overlooking the frozen pond. The two-story home was surrounded by pine trees. Several other houses fringed the lake.
Elijah had filled them in on Anne-Marie Khoury’s background after surfing the Internet and talking with private sources late into the night. “It’s definitely an artist’s life,” he told them as they listened on the phone in a motel room not far from Concord.
“After returning from Beirut she finished her senior year at Boston College as an art major and married a medical student. He became a renowned medical researcher but eight years ago died of leukemia. Childless and widowed she threw herself into art and established a reputation for watercolors. It seems she travels extensively, using bleak landscapes around the globe as a backdrop for her paintings. There are a few posted on her personal website.”
“Anything that could connect her to the terrorists?” Matt felt tired and frustrated.
“I’m getting there. A good agent gathers every scrap of detail no matter how trivial. It may save your life one day.”
“Sorry.”
Elijah continued his story. “Anyway most of her paintings are exhibited at a posh gallery in Boston and she donates a great deal from the sale of her paintings to a charity for orphaned Palestinian children.” His words quickened. “And get this. She’s also on the board of advisors of the Halaby Foundation, established in the early 1980s by a wealthy Lebanese businessman and his wife. It provides scholarships for Middle Eastern students to study in the United States and Canada. Interestingly, Dr. Noubar Melikian serves on the foundation’s board of directors. And so does a shady Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib.”
Matt knocked on the door and waited. What would Anne-Marie look like? What would he see from behind his new face? A widow shorn of companionship without children, she would pour herself into her art, of that he was certain. Had she lost herself in her world of pigment just as he had lost himself in scotch? Or would she be the same fun-loving girl he remembered?
When the door opened Matt strove to keep his new face friendly and anonymous. She was just as he remembered. Long black hair now streaked with grey. A fuller face, but the eyes still twinkled.
“You must be Matt’s cousin. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Ms. Khoury. This is my wife Veronica. Please call me Tom.” They followed her into the warm and comfortable home.
“I hope you like herbal tea? Fennel actually. It’s all I have on hand.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Her pleasant voice echoed through the large rooms. “Please sit down. I’ll be right out with the tea. It’s been a busy morning already. The people from the gas company were here earlier checking the meter in the basement. They left about an hour ago. Usually I don’t get many visitors, but that’s the way I like it.”
Soon the tea was being poured. “Since your call yesterday,” Anne-Marie said, “I’ve found myself thinking a lot about Matt. We had such great times together that year with our small circle of friends. It was a magical time for all of us. Not without its heartbreaks, I might add, but still a pivotal time in my life. It was during that year I decided to dedicate my life to painting and to helping Palestinian orphans. I’ve been doing it ever since.” She took a long, slow sip from the pungent herbal tea. “And we had some pretty crazy times as well.” Her eyes sparkled over the cup as she looked at Matt.
“Like the time you wrapped our heads in toilet paper to make us look as if we were wearing turbans?” Matt smiled.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Anne-Marie. It’s me, Matt.”
She stood up, her face contorted with confusion and anger. “Get out. Now!”
