“That’s sensible of you. May I see your license, sir?” The trooper seemed relieved, if still somewhat suspicious. Every police officer in the country knew of incidents where policemen had been killed during routine traffic stops by lunatics or junkies.
“Stubbs, officer. William Stubbs. I’m coming home from a business meeting at the Greenbriar Hotel. Wanted to get home before my kids went off to school.” Matt dug into the wallet and handed the license through the window to the officer. “Don’t think I’ll make it though. I just had to stop and rest.” His hands shook.
Shining his large flashlight first on the license, then on Matt’s face, he stepped back and signaled to his partner that everything was okay. The other officer started up the police vehicle. Routinely passing his flashlight into the driver’s compartment and then over the back seat, the officer seemed satisfied. “Rest as long as you need to, Mr. Stubbs. And have a safe journey home.”
In a few moments the police cruiser pulled out of the overlook and headed back up the mountain. Matt slumped over the steering wheel while his entire body shook. Will the rest of my life be filled with lies? Racked with a fear he’d never experienced before, he turned on the ignition and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires squealing, he spun across the gravel and shot back onto the dark highway.
“Get a grip, Matthew – William,” he said to himself, trying to regulate his breathing. Over the next several minutes he forcefully willed himself to calm down. The speedometer fell from nearly 90 miles an hour down to just below the speed limit. The added oxygen relieved his anxiety and soon he was back in control. He settled in for the three-hour drive to Sweet Briar College.
As his brain cleared, it occurred to him that his captors probably decided to keep his disappearance quiet. They couldn’t risk exposure. Instead, whoever they were would probably come after him. And they had a huge advantage-they knew his face while he had no idea who they were. At least he had a head start.
Baltimore-Washington International Airport
Faint streaks of orange and gold exploded across the eastern horizon, chasing away the blackness but not the bitter cold. The silver Jaguar XJS slid into an empty space in the four-level parking garage in front of the Baltimore-Washington-International main terminal. The airport, built in 1950 and first named Friendship International, was modernized and enlarged in the 1970s to serve Washington, D.C., to the south and Baltimore to the north. As on any weekday morning, the parking complex was alive with business travelers scrambling out of their vehicles and heading for flights in the early morning darkness. No one would notice two men talking inside a car in the parking lot, especially since the entire level was now full. The long line of incoming cars kept climbing up the ramp to the levels above.
“It is good to see you again, my friend,” said Mohammed Al Nagib as the rear door opened and the tall man from the Jaguar settled down. They were nestled in the plush leather seats of a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A soundproof, tinted-glass barrier separated them from the chauffeur.
“You flatter yourself, Mr. Nagib. I am neither your friend, nor am I pleased to see you. The less we meet, the better, as far as I am concerned.” His guest was elegantly dressed in a black business suit. “Let’s make this quick. What problem is so great that we couldn’t talk on secure phone lines?”
“Actually, there is no problem, Mr. Fisher. On the contrary, everything is on schedule and running according to plan.”
“So why the urgent meeting?”
“There is an old passage from the Koran: ‘ Trust in God, but tie your camel.’ I just wanted to look you in the eyes and hear firsthand that you are still in position to get the information we need. Telephones are wonderful inventions, but nothing beats a direct, face-to-face conversation.” The Egyptian smiled.
“I am not amused, nor do I have all day.” William Fisher, director of Middle Eastern intelligence at the National Security Agency, glared in the gloomy interior.
“Of course,” Nagib sighed. “The fact is we’ve spent years carefully developing our contacts. I must be certain that you’ll be able to deliver us the right information before anyone else knows about it. We must know the President’s decision before it is made public. The future depends on it.”
“President Pierce has called a special meeting for today.” William Fisher was a member of the President’s Special Task Force on Terrorism and the Middle East, along with Senator Mason Stevens, the director of the CIA, secretary of state, national security advisor, secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “He needs to decide on an official course of action in response to the suicide bombing attack and he’s running out of time. And the Israelis keep pressuring everyone for more arms, more money and more support against the Arabs. Senator Stevens seems to be firmly on their side. In every meeting he pushes forward their security issues.” Fisher looked around at the parked cars and the occasional hurrying traveler.
“But it won’t be much longer. Soon I should know what course of action the United States will pursue. As soon as I find out, you’ll know,” Fisher caught al Nagib’s eye. “Just remember our agreement-I’m counting on you to eliminate the Israeli bastard who led the raid that killed my wife. Now, unless you have any more stray camels that need tying, I must get to my office.”
“I do so look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.” Nagib murmered. William Fisher slammed the door and returned to his Jaguar.
The tinted barrier slowly descended and the liveried driver turned around. Demetrie Antonopolis took off his chauffeur hat, his long ponytail tumbling out. “I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I, Demetrie.” Nagib lit a Cuban cigar, his first of many for the day. “But I still feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a shallow man who acts only out of revenge. Because of his hatred and bitterness he is harmless. When this affair is over he will slink away into the darkness with his fat Swiss bank account.”
“So why feel sorry for him?”
“Because he will never find the peace he desperately seeks. Revenge never brings peace. There’s an ancient proverb: When a man goes for revenge, he must first dig two graves. Remember Demetrie the truly dangerous men are those who act with forethought and meticulous planning, driven by a vision and burning desire. Those who dream of a new future and are committed to pursue that vision are the ones to fear. Men like Fisher are simply pawns in a global chess game, and I control their every move.”
The elegant Rolls Royce exited the BWI parking garage. A non-descript grey vehicle positioned itself a safe distance behind.
Washington, D.C.
“Our practice has certainly picked up since you became personal physician to the President,” Dr. Margaret Khalid said. She was the only other physician in Dr. Noubar Melikian’s small medical practice. “Guess everyone is hoping they will hear the latest gossip about the President-or else they want bragging rights.” She studied the appointments listed on her computer screen.
“The good news is most of President Pierce’s medical issues are handled at Walter Reed Military Hospital. We’re just around for general checkups and the occasional bad fish dinner.” Dr. Melikian sat at his desk reviewing the same screen. “Remember to keep your evenings free whenever I’m invited to political or social dinners. You may have to stand in for me in case the President has a medical emergency.”
“So much for my personal life,” groaned the black-haired fifty-four-year-old. “It’s hard enough getting a date with a decent man in this town without having to spend most of my evenings sitting by the telephone waiting for the President to have indigestion or choke on a pretzel.”