For the next forty-five minutes Eli and Nicole told President Pierce, Karl van Ness, and the invisible tape machine everything they knew about Matt Richards. They documented what had transpired and how it might be connected to the fate of the Middle East.
President Roswell Clayton Pierce stared into the sudden quiet. “I could use a drink.”
“If you’ve got any scotch, Mr. President, make mine a triple,” Elijah said
Van Ness spoke quietly into the telephone.
“You say Dr. Matt Richards had a face transplant, against his will, and now has the identity of an international contract assassin?”
“As implausible as it may sound, yes.”
“And you believe Senator Stevens’ daughter is alive, also with a face transplant, and may still be in that clinic in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“That’s right.”
The President gestured to Karl van Ness. “Have someone research face transplants and their threat to national security.”
Van Ness nodded and went back to his phone conversation.
“You do realize how well connected and important Mr. Mohammed al Nagib is? These are pretty serious accusations against such a prominent American citizen.”
“He’s a fucking slime ball-oops, that’s a technical term, Mr. President,” Nicole said.
“I’ve used the term myself, Ms. Delacluse and under current conditions it is quite apt,” laughed the President. “Would you stake your journalistic career on all you’ve just told me?”
“Frankly sir, right now I don’t have a career to protect. But, yes, I believe what we have told you is the truth.”
The drinks arrived. President Pierce watched Elijah gulp down his scotch, hug his daughter, then face him. “Great Scotch, Mr. President.”
“No slumming here, Mr. Tajikian.”
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
Two marine helicopters descended onto the gravel driveway of the Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic. Twelve armed secret service agents quickly entered the building while others rounded up the guards at the front gate near the highway. The telephone lines were disabled and the executive staff secured in the private wing of the hospital. Dr. Weissman, his white hair whipped by the whirling rotors of the lead helicopter, escorted his patient, strapped to a folding hospital bed, into the chopper. It took off and headed directly for the south lawn of the White House.
An urgent message was sent to the office of Senator Mason T. Stevens, summoning him to the Oval Office for a private meeting with the President. The subject was national security and he was to appear promptly at 1:30 pm.
The White House
When President Pierce entered the small ante room down the hall from the Oval Office, CIA director Finch quickly stood. “Look Ross, I don’t know what you think you’re doing holding me here like this, but…”
“Sit down and shut up, Terry,” Pierce said. “We’ve got a major situation here and I need your full cooperation. If you give me that you just might keep your job. But if I find out that you had anything to do with this mess I guarantee I will personally hang you by the balls, if you have any, from the Capitol Rotunda.”
Finch blanched and quickly sat down.
“Do you remember that remark you made the other day in our meeting on terrorism?” the President said. “The one about an effective way to deter future suicide bombers?”
“You mean by eliminating their immediate families as a future disincentive?”
“Can that be done on the families of the last four or five major suicide bombers? And quickly? I know this is highly irregular and I’m not even going to think about what Congress might say but I’m asking your opinion and I want a straight answer. No theory, just yes or no.”
Dr. Finch nodded, his color coming back. “It can be done, Mr. President, and in such a way that we aren’t even involved. The names and locations of the close families of the recent suicide bombers are known by most intelligence services. In particular Israel, Australia, and of course the United States. And there are highly qualified independent contractors who are not traceable to us.”
Pierce’s eyes turned cold. “You’ll report directly to me and tell no one else about this. I’ll be calling a meeting of my Special Advisory Council on Terrorism at 7 A.M., three days from now in my office. If you can’t get this operation accomplished before then, tell me now.”
“It can and will be done, Mr. President.”
“All right. This is your opportunity to put in place one of the major planks in a platform that will bring about a lasting peace in the Middle East. It could also end organized global terrorism.” Pierce felt as if he was back in his A6 Intruder responding smoothly while everything was happening at once. “Oh, and I want the nations sponsoring those terrorist scum and the terrorist leaders themselves to clearly understand that the U.S. will no longer tolerate suicide bombings. There will be swift reprisals against the families of the terrorists. This will be the standard response from now on. Now get the message out and put some teeth into it.”
Finch stood up. Pierce noted the perspiration on his upper lip. A bean counter Tajikian had said.
“Dr. Finch. You will personally make all necessary calls to the various people involved and you will assure them the CIA will guarantee the funding for the contracts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when this is all over you and I will sit down and discuss your future, assuming either of us still have one left by then.”
The Medical Office of Dr. Noubar Melikian
“Dr. Melikian will see you now, Mr. Summers. His office is the first door on the left.” Irene Leonard, the receptionist, pointed down the hall of the renovated townhouse.
“Thank you.” Matt walked down the hall and paused in front of a white wooden door. He was sweating as he knocked lightly just below the brass nameplate.
“Please come in.”
A thick red and blue Persian carpet covered the floor. A built-in bookcase covered one entire wall, loaded with reference books. The medicinal smell and the comfortable feeling in the room transported Matt to his father’s office in their home. As a boy he would often push open the heavy door and sit in his father’s worn leather chair, pretending he was a famous surgeon. Matt had wasted his whole life pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Now he was at it again. This time with a false face. What about Dr. Melikian-was he a pretender, too?
A white-coated physician came around from behind the cluttered desk with his hand extended.
“Thank you for taking a few moments out of your busy schedule, Dr. Melikian,” Matt said, shaking his hand. “I’m Dr. Bill Summers. I work for an international medical organization called Esperanca.”
“Ah, yes, the organization founded by that Franciscan friar. Father Luke Tupper, wasn’t it? Don’t you operate a hospital boat on the Amazon?”
“Actually, two hospital boats. We also provide primary and secondary medical care to impoverished people in the forests of Bolivia, Belize and several African nations. We also provide nurse and health worker training in developing countries. But I doubt if we’re as busy as you are.”
Dr. Melikian motioned for Matt to sit down. “To be honest it’s the social activities that wear me out. I’m becoming allergic to rubber chicken dinners.”
Matt smiled. “As I told your secretary I have a message from Dr. Wilson Richards. I saw him in the Amazon a
