President, that is Maha, beautiful Maha, kills the President. Then the United States, in rage and revenge, declares all out war on terrorism and the nations who support and sponsor terrorism. And of course billions more for defense and additional money and arms for Israel. But even greater profits for Mohammed al Nagib and his criminal organization. Providing arms to both sides was a very lucrative business.
The phone rang again at Dr. Melikian’s office. Matt placed his shirt sleeve over the mouthpiece. He had a vague plan which just might work. It had to because it was his only plan at the moment.
“Hello? I must speak with Dr. Melikian right away. This is Dr. Schultz from the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. There’s been a traffic accident involving a taxi that was carrying a Dr. Margaret Khalid. It’s important I speak with Dr. Melikian right away. Ms. Khalid’s life may depend up on it.”
“Oh God. Not Maggie. The doctor’s not here. He’s gone home ill.”
“Then give me his home number and his cell phone as well. I’ll call him directly.”
“But I’m not supposed to give out personal numbers-”
“Listen, miss, I know you’re doing your duty but this woman may die in the next half hour. I’m a doctor, my job is to save lives now hurry up.” Matt’s urgency was all too real. He jotted down the two numbers and then reached into his pocket for more coins. He froze. Slowly he lowered the handset.
A large white man in a dark suit walked into the store and asked for two cups of hot coffee. Matt picked up the phone and turned his face away, pretending to be talking. Soon the bell in the front door jingled and the man was gone. Matt shook as the fear gripped his entire body. Why am I reacting? He filed away the description of the man. Two coffees? That could mean a stakeout car was watching Elijah’s apartment. They were onto him. He was running out of time.
On the third ring the automatic answering machine picked up the call. A recording came on. “You have reached the residence of Dr. Noubar Melikian. Please leave a message and a number and I will return your call as soon as possible.” Matt fumbled for another set of coins and this time dialed the cell phone. He hoped that like most physicians Melikian would answer his private line day or night.
On the second ring a scraggly voice answered. “Dr. Melikian.”
“Dr. Melikian, listen to me carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“Are you sick or incapacitated?”
“I have food poisoning but I’ll live. How did you get this number? And who the devil are you?”
“Dr. Khalid poisoned you. What was it? Coffee, tea?”
Silence, then retching.
“Dr. Melikian, you are the only person who can save the President of the United States from being assassinated tonight. Right now, Dr. Khalid, if that’s her real name is on her way to the Oval Office in your place. She is a terrorist. She plans to kill the President.”
“I know your voice.”
“Listen to me. She plans to kill the President.”
“You’re Dr. Summers from the other day…”
“Will you listen to me? Dr. Khalid is on her way to kill the President. She made an appointment under your name for 7:15 this evening knowing full well that you would be unable to attend.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m on my way to the White House right now. Get dressed and get over there if you want to save the President, and Dr. Khalid.”
“Summers?” Melikian paused, his voice steady. “I can’t go anywhere I’ve got food poisoning. I can barely move.”
“You don’t have food poisoning. She probably gave you a large dose of Bethanechol. As you know it produces similar symptoms. If you have any atrophine in your medical bag use it. The symptoms will quickly subside. It’s an old trick we used to use in medical school.”
“What did you say about Maggie?”
“She’s a terrorist. Her real name is Maha Hammad. She’s Jordanian and a close friend of the suicide bomber that killed Dr. Norman. It’s all part of a plan to get into the White House and kill the President.”
“How do you know she’s a terrorist?”
“Because she has a scar on her left wrist. I was there when she got it in 1968. And long ago I was in love with her. Now take the atrophine, get dressed and I’ll meet you at the first gate on Pennsylvania Ave, just in from 17 ^th Street. There’s no time to lose.”
Matt hung up as the bell jingled. He turned around not knowing what to expect. Oh, my God. A face from the past. Demetrie Antonopolis. Older, with taut bronze skin and a graying ponytail.
He blocked the aisle leading to the door. “It’s over, Matt. Let’s go. Quietly if you don’t mind.” A silenced pistol emerged from the pocket of his black overcoat.
“What do you mean it’s over?” Matt backed against the rack of canned vegetables.
“Think, man, think. Or are you still muddled from all that booze?”
“Ah, yes. How convenient. I’m the fall guy and the real rats go free. And are you still a dope head, Demetrie? Can’t you see you’re being used, just like me?”
“Pathetic attempt. Now step over here. There’s a car outside. We’re going on a little ride.”
Reaching into his pocket Matt brought out a can of warm diet soda. He slumped shoulders, the body language of the defeated, and walked slowly toward Demetrie.
“I thought you’d have a bottle of scotch, not a soda can.” He laughed at his own joke. The car honked. Demetrie turned to look.
Matt shook the can and quickly pulled the ring tab. Foam sprayed into the killer’s face. His hands instinctively went up to protect his eyes. Matt grabbed two large peach cans off the shelf and slammed them into the side of Demetrie’s head with all his might. Blood spurted out from both ears. Demetrie staggered, then roared in pain. Matt leapt feet first into the Greek’s chest. The ponytail whipped as his head snapped to one side. Demetrie crashed into a wooden fruit container. A shrill cry left him. His back was impaled on one of the metal bars protruding upwards. Demetrie Antonopolis went limp.
Desperately Matt scanned the store for a way out. “Here! Here!” He heard a call from the back. The elderly Asian proprietor was holding open a door just beyond the bins of wilted lettuce. “Thanks,” Matt said, squeezing his shoulder. “Call the cops. Tell them he tried to rob you. Shit, tell them anything.” He ducked into the alley and sprinted towards the street.
A young black man was climbing into a dark maroon Mini Cooper with tinted windows. Matt jerked open the passenger door and dove in.
“What the fuck you doin’ man? Get the hell out of here,” the driver bunched up his fist and swung wildly. Matt pulled out a $100 bill and held it up. The man stared. “Okay, you got my attention, but I ain’t into no queer stuff.”
Matt ripped another bill from his wallet. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the White House right away. It’s a national emergency. Unless you want to be responsible for another September 11 let’s see how fast you can drive.”
“Bullshit, but keep the C-notes coming.” He put the Mini into gear. The tires screamed. The little car shot out into the street. “Shit, man, you some kind a James Muthafuckin’ Bond?” He stomped on the accelerator. “There’s a big car with an ugly looking white guy chasing us.” He looked at Matt, then grinned. “Well Whitey this is your lucky day. Because I’m the Rolf Schumacher of Washington, D.C. I know this town like my bitch’s titties.” The car slid into a narrow alleyway knocking over garbage cans and crushing cardboard boxes.
Matt looked at his watch-6:45 P.M. The car chasing them was the least of his worries. How was he going to gain entry to the White House, uninvited and wearing the face of an assassin? God, Maha. Don’t do this.
What had Dr. Melikian said? Just phone the White House. That’s right, simple as that. Get the Marine guards to charge down the halls and arrest her. So why hadn’t he done that? He was putting the President at risk – why?
Maha. He needed to confront Maha. He needed to be there. Evil people had kidnapped him, robbed him of his face, and destroyed his life. And by God he was going to stop them, and save Maha. He saw her wrist, packed in ice, the memory shimmering like her tears that day. Red blood pooled on the virgin snow at her feet, so innocent. But now… The car hurtled through an intersection, horns blared in protest.
“We’ve lost the car.” The Mini Cooper responded with a lurch as he downshifted.
