The Porsche was parked under the portico. The parking attendant quickly produced the keys and the two of them helped ease the wobbly Dr. Richards into the passenger seat. The attendant buckled the seatbelt. As the sports car turned left out of the big iron gates, a late model black Pontiac with tinted windows followed a safe distance behind.
“Well, Dr. Richards, you really are something, you know? Not only do you get drunk, but you knock my father unconscious, break his nose and his teeth. Why didn’t you screw an ambassador’s wife? At least then no one would have cared.” Her acidic words fell on deaf ears-Matt Richards was out cold, head slumped against her shoulder.
Turning onto the George Washington Parkway, the Porsche sped west, intending to link up with I-95 and the main road back to central Virginia. The parkway, a major commuter artery into and out of Washington, was nearly deserted at 10:45 P.M. The well-traveled commuter artery was lined on one side by trees and forest, on the other by the Potomac River, at its high watermark from the rain that had descended on the area in recent days.
Kelly shoved him with her shoulder. “Matt, wake up. Someone’s following us, wake up.” After two more pushes she heard a moan, then a familiar, “God damn son-of-a-bitch. What time is it?”
“Thank God you’re awake. A car has been following us ever since we left the reception.”
“So?” he bent his neck from side to side to work out some of the kinks.
“It keeps getting closer.”
Matt looked down and struggled with his seat belt. I hate being confined. It released with a strong click. “Goddamn belt. Now what were you saying?”
The black Pontiac roared up behind the sports car and banged its large steel bumper into the rear of the little sports car. The Porsche lurched. “What’s happening?” Kelly screamed. “I can’t steer. They’re. . they’re trying to force us off the road.”
Adrenalin pulled Matt around. When the second jolt came it was more forceful, more threatening.
“Speed up, Kelly,” he said, gripping the headrest. “Drive as fast as you can.”
She jammed down hard on the accelerator. “Jesus Matt,…”
“Now listen to me,” Matt said slowly. “When I tell you to slow down, do it quickly- very quickly, just short of slamming on the brakes. But don’t slam on the brakes or we’ll skid out of control. Just press down forcefully. At the same time, try to hold us in the center of the road. Do you understand?”
She was gripping the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “But what if they rear-end-”
“Do you understand?”
“Okay. Okay. Just don’t shout.” Her hands shook as she gripped the wheel.
“Do what I say. You have to trust me. Do you understand?”
Kelly nodded. Her face was ghostly white.
Matt looked out the rear window. “Get ready. Alright then, now… slow down.”
She geared down hard and applied the brakes at the same time. The rapid deceleration caught the Pontiac off guard. It swerved, skidded back and forth, then slid off the road. Matt glimpsed the driver, his face contorted, trying to regain control, but it was too late. The car crashed through the guardrail and went rolling down the steep bank. Kelly screamed and floored the car. The black Pontiac plunged into the dark swirling waters of the Potomac.
“Okay, Okay. Let up, let up.” Matt yelled, but her foot stayed hard down.
“I want to go home.” Her upper lip quivered. “First you almost kill my father and now someone’s trying to kill us.” The car tore ahead, weaving back and forth.
Matt reached over. “For God’s sake Kelly, slow down…”
She screamed, her eyes wide. Two large cars blocked the road. Men in dark suites with flashlights frantically signaled them to stop. Kelly panicked and slammed down hard on the brakes. Matt Richards smashed into the windshield, then ricocheted back against the passenger seat. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the high-pitched squeal of Pirelli tires sliding sideways.
Chapter Four
Orly Airport, Paris, August, 1968
“There’s the sign: ‘AUB Junior Year Abroad Program,’ ” Matt barked. He and Todd Cummings, both from Harvard University, had traveled together from Boston to the meeting place at Orly Airport for the official beginning of their year-long adventure.
“Think the living conditions will be as good as Harvard?”
“Who cares, Toad? This is our year to live it up. See and do everything. Explore a new world. Live free.” Matt punched his friend playfully. While they were in the same dormitory, Toad, as Matt liked to call him, wasn’t one of Matt’s regular drinking and carousing buddies.
“Yeah. Well I’m here because you wanted a familiar face around. And my parents thought it would be good for me to see the world a little. But I’m still not sure this is a good idea. I mean, being away from Harvard for a whole year. What if we don’t learn anything?”
“Look, Toad. I know I talked you into coming along on this Junior Year Abroad program. But think of the things we can see and do. This is about as far away from Massachusetts as you can get. And I don’t just mean in miles. What kind of students do you think have signed up for this year?” Matt eagerly strained his neck to look at the students milling about ahead.
Both young men moved through the crowded waiting area. “I hope they’re not just a bunch of rich dope heads getting away from their parents for a year.”
Matt laughed. “Don’t be such a cynic, Toad. Not everyone in the world is as serious as you are, thank God. This is our year to experience, to experiment. ‘See all and do all,’ that’s my motto for this year. It would be a relief to talk to a few beery souls after spending four days in Paris with you. I’ve seen enough museums to last a lifetime.”
Matt slapped his traveling companion on the back good-naturedly. “Come on, Toad, let’s go meet the others.”
On the other side of the waiting area they could see a small group of students clustered around a banner. A short black man with horn-rim glasses and a pipe was at the center of the group.
“That must be Dr. Thomas.” Todd moved ahead, curious. “He’s a professor of genetics on sabbatical from Georgetown. He’s our faculty advisor for the year. His photo’s in the briefing packet.”
“I lost mine. Is he our official den mother or something?”
“Very funny. He’s a world-renowned geneticist.”
“Who’s the tall guy that looks like a banker?”
“That’s William Fisher. He recently graduated from Yale. Middle Eastern Affairs. He joined the State Department and now he’s moving to Beirut with his wife to be a cultural attache at the U.S. Embassy. He’ll be giving us several lectures on the Middle East during orientation week. The briefing packet says he speaks fluent Arabic. Think you’ll pick up any Arabic?”
“I’ll give it a try, Toad. But thank God my mother was French. I hear French is the official second language of Lebanon, after Arabic of course.”
Middle East Airways Flight No. 148 left Orly Airport at 3:25 P.M. for Beirut, with a brief stop in Athens to pick up passengers and refuel.
She came onboard in Athens. As she walked down the aisle, long red hair bounced and fiery green eyes radiated confidence. “Excuse me. I believe I have the window seat.” Matt and Todd stood up to let her slide in. They scrambled for the middle seat. Matt won.
A severe thunderstorm quickly took the spirit out of her. Amid flashes of lightning the plane rocked violently. Her olive skin paled as she shrank down in her seat, gripping the armrests.
Matt leaned over. “Are you all right? Why don’t you tighten your seat belt and close your eyes? It’s just a little electrical storm and these planes are extremely sturdy.” He reached over and pulled down the window shade. “There, that’s better. It’ll keep out the lightning flashes.”