Scarface stood up abruptly, the metal chair tipped onto the floor. Matt jumped at the noise.
“Okay. As you so eloquently put it, I’m not cut out for much of anything. So why me?”
“Two reasons,” Scarface said. “First, we believe you came into contact with several of the suspected members of this cell while you were in Beirut.”
“Like who?” Again Maha’s green eyes came into focus, then retreated.
“What I’m about to say is highly classified, known to only a few individuals. For the past several years we’ve been keeping an eye on a radical law professor from Berkeley, Dr. Brian Walker. You were at AUB with him between 1968 and 1969, weren’t you?”
Matt nodded, not having thought about Brian in many years.
“We have reason to believe that during that time, Walker, who we suspect may be the leader of this cell, recruited several other students, both American and Arab. How well did you know Brian Walker?”
“Jesus Christ, that was over thirty years ago. We were just kids on a junior year abroad program.”
“But you did know him.” Hairy Ears said.
“Of course I knew Brian, as well as a dozen other students who were my friends that year.”
Scarface watched him.
Matt explored his bandages. “Quit staring. There’s nothing to this. I haven’t spoken to any of them since 1969.”
“I see.”
“Fact is three of my Arabic friends were killed in a bomb explosion near the end of my last semester in Beirut. Things changed. I came home. No letters, no Christmas cards. Nothing.” Images of the explosion came roaring back. He could taste the ashes and feel the scorching heat-could still see Samir Hussein incinerated before his eyes. The nightmare was etched into his skin. A permanent searing of his psyche. Matt lay against the pillow, exhausted.
“Did you see the CNN footage of the suicide bomb attack on the President?” Scarface again.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Did you recognize the woman’s face?” He leaned in, looking straight into Matt’s eyes.
“Nope.” It didn’t seem right to tell them the woman looked like Bedouina Missoumi. After all, it couldn’t be-she died in the explosion at the restaurant. Besides, he didn’t trust these people. There was something ugly and dangerous going on. “Look, I haven’t seen or spoken to any of them since we left Beirut. So I’d say I’m the wrong guy for your little clandestine assignment, wouldn’t you?”
“Ah, yes, well that brings me to the second reason we’ve anointed you, Dr. Richards.” Hairy Ears picked the newspaper up from the floor, carefully folded it and laid it on the white hospital sheet.
“Which is?”
“You’re all we’ve got,” he said simply. “And you’re expendable. After all, you’re dead, as reported in all the newspapers and on television. They even held a funeral for you. Pretty sparsely attended, I might add. Your father didn’t even show up.”
“And if I refuse?”
He bent down close to Matt’s bandaged face. The smell of garlic made Matt nauseous. “You’re officially listed as dead. So who’s going to care if you die twice?” The words uncoiled slowly, like a lethal serpent.
“Okay, I get the message. But haven’t you dimwits overlooked one important point? I can’t go around looking up old college friends if I’m dead. Wouldn’t it look a little suspicious, a corpse suddenly springing back to life?”
Scarface walked over to a wall phone and pressed the intercom. “We need you in the safe room, Dr. Weissman.” He turned toward Matt. “The good doctor will make your decision a little easier.”
Minutes later, the last of the long cotton bandages was carefully lifted from around his head. He felt the movement of air against his face and on the matted hair follicles on his head. He felt ten times lighter as Dr. Weissman began removing gauze squares from his cheeks, chin, nose and around his eyes.
The accented words of Hairy Ears pulled Matt from his thoughts. “You suffered terrible facial lacerations as a result of the accident, Dr. Richards. Someone had to make a quick decision, so we asked Dr. Weissman here to give us a hand. He’s a very talented plastic surgeon and our little hospital has quite an array of sophisticated equipment for just such contingencies.” The man stared at Matt’s face with interest. “Well, well, well.”
He turned to the surgeon, busy putting the piles of cotton and gauze in the waste bin near the sink. “Where’s the mirror? It’s time Dr. Richards had a look at himself.”
A slow fear coursed through Matt’s body. He was perspiring. In that instant, Dr. Matthew Richards realized he was helpless. A prisoner. A pawn in some twisted political game where people could murder and kidnap at will, manipulate the press and possibly even governments. Who are these people and what do they want? With shaking hands he took the oval mirror from Dr. Weissman, gripping the smooth clinical handle with both hands. It wavered back and forth as he slowly turned it around.
“Oh my God… That’s not me, that’s not my face-you fucking bastards, you had no right. You had no right.” Matt stared at the stranger in the mirror. The hair color was the same, but the face was totally wrong. Matt’s face was lean and creased with deep lines, with an almost boyish upturned mouth. This new face was rounder, the cheeks fuller, the nose more prominent and slightly bent. The mouth was definitely not his. Thin, stern, joyless. The beard, though nearly all gray like his, was thicker and denser. The distorted image of an aging prizefighter wavered before him.
“What have you done?” was all he could manage. His body shook.
“Actually,” Dr. Weissman responded while watching the facial muscles move easily and naturally, “it’s a relatively new procedure. As a result of my recent research on nerve regeneration and facial muscle attachment, I have finally been able to perfect the technique of a full facial transplant. And we are able to achieve complete healing and full facial control in just 6 weeks, 7 at the most.”
Matt threw the mirror as hard as he could, catching Scarface on the temple. The mirror ricocheted and hit the floor, shattering the glass. No one moved.
Bleeding from the temple, Scarface pressed the barrel of a pistol into Matt’s ear. “Maybe we should just end your miserable life here and now, asshole. You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve got no choice in this matter. You belong to us and you’ll do exactly what we want you to do. It’s as simple as that. So stop trying to act like someone with a semblance of dignity and self-respect. You’ve been a coward and a weakling all your life. You should be thankful we’re giving you a second chance to finally do something with your miserable little life.” He released Matt and stepped back. The pistol slid back smoothly into the hand tooled shoulder holster. “We’ll be back after you’ve had a chance to sleep on it.” He nodded to the doctor. The syringe was already inserted into the IV tube.
Matt started to panic, his heart racing. “So what if I go along with your plan?”
“Several very important people will be extremely grateful, Dr. Richards. That, and your life won’t have been a total waste after all. But we’re not impressed with your sudden change of heart. It’s the only option you’ve got.” They walked out.
Dr. Weissman pulled out the empty syringe. In less than thirty seconds Matt Richards drifted into another drug-induced sleep. The dreams came again.
Beirut, December 29, 1968
The beckoning aroma of thick Arabic coffee floated into the bedroom of the ski chalet in the snow-covered mountains above Beirut. The soft mattress shook. Still half asleep, he sensed Maha’s presence. Her warmth. Her essence. Inhaling the scent of her perfumed skin, he recalled last evening’s lovemaking. His eyes slowly opened. She was over him, the tips of her long red hair tickling his face and eyelids. Matt closed his eyes again, committing every part of her to memory. He wanted to remember this moment forever. Eyes, hair, musky…