the best you can. And tell Mr. van Ness I must see him right away.” He gestured at his old friend. “Sit down, Todd. And don’t leave out one scrap of information or you’ll find your ass transferred to Mongolia. The chairman of Monument Oil owes me a couple of big favors and I won’t hesitate to use them. By the way, I’m going to record this conversation.”
For the next half hour Todd Cummings filled the President of the United States in on his Beirut experiences of thirty years ago. He described his recent visit from Matt Richards, Matt’s association with Senator Stevens’ daughter, the phony account of his death, his kidnapping, face transplant, and someone’s attempts to use him as a ferret.
“A face transplant?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Grotesque as it sounds.”
“Dear God.”
“Matt and I spent a year together in some pretty unusual circumstances and I haven’t seen him in over thirty years until the other day,” Todd went on. “He’s a recovering alcoholic and a failed physician. But on the inside he’s made of solid stuff.”
“What I want to know is, do you trust him?”
“Yes. I trust him. He’s in big trouble and he came to me for help. And I know it cost him his pride to do that.”
“Can you find him?”
“That I don’t know. We didn’t part under the best of circumstances the other day. And he’s wanted by the D.C. Metro police in connection with the death of Dr. Martin Thomas so he’s probably gone into hiding. Although if I know Matt he’ll try to get to the bottom of this himself. He was with a woman, Nicole Delacluse of the International Herald Tribune. We could start there.”
“I’ll see what the spooks can find out. Now there must be more. What about this mole in my council?”
Todd Cummings laid out all he knew about the complex web of relationships among the members of his old AUB circle and their acquaintances. President Pierce cancelled all official appointments for the rest of the day. The only person allowed into the Oval Office was Karl van Ness.
Miriam took two ibuprofen to combat a splitting headache and an avalanche of phone calls.
Chapter Thirteen
Elijah’s Safe House
Matt laid all the phony passports, credit cards and wads of money from the leather satchel out on the kitchen table. He began sifting through them. It was just before dawn.
“What are you doing, Matt?”
“I want to know more about the person whose face I’ve inherited, Nicole. He was one well traveled guy.” Matt scratched the thin scar under his hairline. “I wonder how many people he killed in his job as a free-lance assassin?” Plucking a passport from the pile he studied a photo of his predecessor in a fake beard. “Here’s an idea. Maybe I could alter my looks to get into Dr. Melikian’s office.”
Nicole picked up an expensive leather wallet lying on the table. Inside was a small black folder resembling a bank deposit book. The cover was embossed in gold with the name Bahamas Overseas Bank, Ltd, in flowing script. Curious, she turned it over in her hand. An odd-shaped gray metal key fell out and bounced on the floor. They stared down at the worn linoleum.
“That looks like a safe deposit key,” Matt said reaching down and picking it up. “A 7-digit number. Look in that passbook and see if it matches this number: J-8317077.”
Nicole opened the booklet and flipped through several pages. “Oh my God, Matt, there’s over fifteen million dollars in here.” Her hand shook as she handed him the thin booklet.
“The numbers don’t match, but the deposit box must be in the same bank. Not only did he travel a lot but he was very well paid as well.”
Elijah appeared in the kitchen doorway. Bloodshot eyes surveyed them both. “Fancy passports. Used to have a few myself, once.”
“So what did you find out?” said Nicole.
“I need a cup of coffee first.”
“Dad, don’t torture us.”
“Alright,” he took a sip from the hot mug of coffee Matt held out. “I went to an out-of-the-way watering hole last night where a number of old spooks hang out. We had a few drinks and shared old war stories. We also did some real talking. Turns out the Armenian-American doctor has led a charmed life. A veritable ‘Cinderfella’. Some big money paid for medical school in Switzerland. And somebody helped him get established in Washington. By all accounts he’s an outstanding physician as well as a tireless spokesman for a peaceful solution in the Middle East.”
“Anything suspicious?” asked Nicole.
“Only that his father, a low-level engineer in Cairo, worked for a cement company owned by a rich Egyptian family.”
“Let me guess, Mohammad Al Nagib,” Matt said.
“Bingo. This whole thing stinks. Al Nagib is playing all sides against the middle. No matter which way it turns out, he wins big.” Eli gulped his coffee. “This needs more sugar or maybe some scotch.”
Matt put the key, the Bahamian bankbook and the wallet with thirteen hundred dollars in his pocket. He selected one of the passports. The rest of the documents he stuffed into the leather satchel. “I’m going to hide the rest of this stuff in the bathroom closet. For safe keeping.”
Elijah nodded. “And what was Nicole hollering about?”
“Just a bunch of zeros. She’ll tell you. I’ll be right back.”
As Matt shut the bathroom door the lights flickered and went out. Eli was up and moving but too late.
A loud crash echoed down the hallway. The front door blew off its hinges. Eli grabbed his daughter and pulled her down onto the floor. Four men in black ski masks burst into the kitchen. Blinding light came from the M-3 Streamlights fitted to their Hoch and Kessler 9 mm pistols. Laser beams pinned Elijah and Nicole.
“We’re not armed.” Elijah thrust his hands high into the air. Nicole did the same. Silenced rounds sent them crumpling to the floor.
Matt turned the lock on the bathroom door. A small window faced onto the fire escape. He yanked with all his might but several layers of thick white paint held it shut. He picked up a small stool and flung it at the window. Glass flew outwards.
“Somebody’s in the back!” Boots echoed down the hall. Seconds later two intruders turned the doorknob. Matt squeezed through the window, ignoring the glass shards that cut into him. A blast from a shotgun splintered the bathroom door. Matt took the rusty fire escape four steps at a time. He jumped from the last rung as another blast from the shotgun ricocheted off the fire escape.
The alley was dark, hidden from the encroaching dawn. He sprinted towards the street and emerged onto N Street then forced himself into a lazy walk, lungs heaving.
Moments later a beige sedan roared passed and swerved into the alley, sparks flying as the chassis scraped the curb. A second sedan skidded to a halt blocking the alley entrance. Men in suits piled out with automatic weapons at the ready.
Matt blended into the stream of commuters headed for the Metro. They were bundled up against the cold wind. Women wore tennis shoes, the official footwear for commuting to downtown office jobs. Matt followed the flow of bodies down into the station, descended the stairs and caught a train heading towards the Kennedy Center and the west side of DC. He remained in the alleys and shadows until the shops opened, slipped into a clothing store and emerged with a navy pea coat, a stocking cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. He pushed out the dark lenses and put on the black-rimmed frames then got back onto the Metro to Union Station where he settled into a public telephone booth on the mezzanine level. He was well out of the way of the commuter crowds.
There in the telephone booth Matt let go, weeping into a dead phone. Everything caught up with him. Kelly Stevens imprisoned in her new face. The dead; Dr. Martin Thomas, Brian Walker, Anne-Marie. The dying; Karl
