“Maybe by the end of the week, perhaps sooner. I’ve told you a hundred times, medicine and politics don’t work on the same timetable-I’ll let you know as soon as he’s fully recovered.” And with that the surgeon ushered the two men out of the hospital room. Slowly he returned, staring at the vital signs flashing on the machines in the otherwise darkened room. Matt could sense his presence, watching, waiting.
“Where am I?” Matt aimed his words at three out of focus faces staring down at him.
“You’re in a private clinic, Dr. Richards. And, I might add, you’re recovering very nicely. Today I can take the bandages off.”
Matt slowly felt his face. Shaky hands moved cautiously back and forth, then up and down. His entire head was bandaged. “Must have been a hell of an accident.” He vaguely recalled screaming tires and Kelly slamming on the brakes. Everything else was lost behind a dense mental fog.
“Can’t you get rid of that damned Muzak? It’s driving me crazy, and God knows what it does to the rest of the patients.” The two visitors turned to each other.
“So, do I look like a codfish? And you still haven’t answered my first question. Where am I?”
“Dr. Weissman is leaving now, but we’ll be able to answer all your questions.” A heavy-set olive-skinned man faced the doctor. “We’ll call you when we need you, doctor. Stay close at hand.”
“Very well.” He left without looking back. The door secured itself automatically with a faint hydraulic hiss.
“You’re in a private hospital in the Blue Ridge mountains,” the stranger said, pulling a chair next to the bed. “It’s reserved for only the most special patients.” The motor whirred as he lowered the height of the bed so they could talk face to face. The other man, younger and taller, grabbed another chair. He slammed it down next to his partner. The heavy metal legs struck the bed frame. Matt winced at the noise.
“What’s happening….” Matt stuttered as his mushy mind slowly came to grips with the conversation.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You haven’t seen the headlines, have you?” The younger man unlatched his briefcase. “Here, let me read it to you. It’s the Washington Post, dated February 23, the morning after.”
“After?” he muttered.
“After the accident.”
Matt tried to sit up. His body barely moved. He grunted. After a few attempts, he finally propped himself up against the thick foam hospital pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully as the stranger spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Daughter of Senator Mason Stevens Killed in Drunk Driving Accident.” Matt groaned through the layers of gauze. “That’s the headlines, front page no less. Now I’ll read you the story.” He held the paper in Matt’s direct field of vision.
Ms. Kelly Stevens, 22, only child of U.S. Senator and Mrs. Mason T. Stevens of Virginia, died in a tragic single-car accident on the George Washington Parkway at approximately 11:15 P.M. last night. According to the D.C. Metro police, who arrived a short time after the accident, Ms. Stevens’ yellow Porsche Boxter apparently went out of control and swerved across the highway, crashed through a guard rail and struck a large tree. Police estimate the small sports car was traveling at excessive speed. Ms. Stevens died instantly.
Kelly Stevens, a senior at Sweet Briar College in Lynchburg, Virginia, was attending a reception for newly appointed personal physician to President Pierce, Dr. Noubar Melikian. She was accompanied by a friend, Dr. Matthew Richards, assistant professor of biology and anatomy at Sweet Briar. Dr. Richards, who was driving at the time, was also pronounced dead at the scene…
“What the hell?” Matt jerked into an upright position and tried to grab the newspaper. The other man shoved him back, restraining his arms. “God damn it. What’s going on here? And let me go, you big ape.” Matt’s head exploded with pain. He collapsed back onto the pillow.
“Relax, doc, we haven’t finished.” He cracked a tight smile. His dark skinned face seemed to glow.
Matthew Richards, 54, son of famous heart surgeon Dr. Wilson Richard, and disbarred from practicing medicine several years ago in an alcohol-related incident had a blood alcohol content of 0.25 % at the time of the accident, nearly three times the legal driving limit.
Matt grabbed the paper, the print wavering before his weak eyes as his mind absorbed the words. Shit. The pages fluttered to the floor. Somewhere in the dark distance an intercom crackled.
“Not only are you a drunk and a murderer, Dr. Richards, but you’re also legally dead. Your past is pretty messed up, and I’d say your future doesn’t look too bright either.” The older man stood up. Matt noticed coarse black hair growing out of his ears.
Matt gathered his strength, fighting back the pain. “Okay. You got my attention. Now what do you want from me? This is some sort of setup. I should have known something was up when that black car kept trying to ram us from behind.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate. We lost two good men that evening, but they did their job, forcing you to speed up for our little reception party ahead.”
“What do you want from me?” Thinking and moving were taking a toll. He felt nauseous. In a futile gesture of defiance Matt gave them the finger under his bedcovers.
The younger man got up and put his ear against the door, gave the okay signal, then sat down again. Hairy Ears spoke again. “We need your help.”
“Go to hell.”
“We want you to help us track down a terrorist cell – “
“A terrorist cell!”
“Yes. A group that has placed highly trained assassins in deep cover, right here in the U.S.”
Matt’s head pounded. He formed his words distinctly through the bandages. “Man, have you got the wrong guy.”
“We think not, Doc.”
“Oh? And what twisted logic leads you two idiots to choose me?”
The younger man’s face hardened. “Our sources tell us this cell was organized by a group of radical students who went to the American University of Beirut.”
Bedouina’s intense face shimmered. Unbidden, Maha swirled, auburn hair glowing, then Samir’s smiling face… But they’re dead. Dead… Matt kept quiet.
“So? What’s going on Doc? You checking out again?”
“No. Just thinking this is some kind of sick joke.”
Hairy Ears was leaning close to Matt’s face. “Guess what year these students were at the American University? 1966 to 1970. Ring any bells?”
“Go to hell.”
“You were there.”
“Sure, I was there. But I was only twenty-one years old, a naive college student from the States. I just wanted to experience a new culture, drink some beer and get laid. I had no interest in politics or political causes then, and I don’t now. Besides, I’m not a detective or a secret agent. And now I’m just an ex-doctor and a two-bit college anatomy professor, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re also a stinking drunk.” The younger man leaned over the bed. A jagged white scar ran from his left cheek down to his chin. “And a doctor who couldn’t handle the pressure. Luckily your license was revoked before you killed someone on the operating table.”
Hairy Ears watched the eyes beneath the bandages. He gauged their anger. “Is he right, Doc?”
“I drank more than I should. I won’t deny it.”
“How nice. More than I should. What a crock. You were and still are a lousy drunk.” Hairy Ears sat back in the chair. “There are two types of alcoholics, Dr. Richards. The unfortunate person who has a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and the coward who tries to hide from the past, present and future inside a bottle. You’re not a real alcoholic, Doctor. You’re just a miserable wimp running away from a failed career, dozens of failed relationships, and a legend of a father to whom you could never measure up.” The words cut into Matt like the double-edged sword of truth that it was. He closed his eyes, wondering where this was heading. What he really wanted was to drift off to sleep. Forever.