“Perhpas in a few days. If I’m still alive. Right now I don’t want to send anyone on a wild goose chase.”
“Dr. Thomas,” Nicole said, “I’ve never heard of a face transplant before. That’s super advanced medical technology, isn’t it?”
“It used to be,” Dr. Thomas replied. “However in the last two years the techniques have advanced greatly. The Israelis seem to be the leaders in this procedure at the moment but the Austrians, Swiss and Germans aren’t far behind. Where did you say this clinic was?” he turned to Matt.
“I’m not sure,” Matt lied. “Somewhere outside of Washington. I was so drugged up I doubt if I could ever find it again. Doctor, do you have your old AUB yearbook from 1968-69? Maybe that will jog my memory. And have you kept in touch with any of the students from that period?”
“Not a one. When I came back at the end of that year I was pursuing my genetics research at Yale. Then NIH called a few years later and asked me to join their management team. Since then it’s been a steady round of work and speeches. But retirement is only a year away.” Weariness entered his voice.
“There’s more to this position than just trying to provide for the health of the nation. In fact, too much politics for me.” Dr. Thomas shrugged. “My yearbook should be on the bookshelf, just over
here,” he said, getting up. “Ah yes, there it is. American University of Beirut, 1969.”
For the next twenty minutes, Matt and Martin Thomas pored over the pictures in the yearbook. Nicole took notes in her reporter’s shorthand. The doctor’s memory was better than Matt’s but then he hadn’t worked his way through a tanker load of scotch in the last thirty plus years.
“I’m sorry to break this off, Matthew, but I’ve got a dinner guest due to arrive in a few minutes.” His hand came up and reexamined Matt’s surgery. “Whoever did it, Matt, its very good work.”
“I’m not sure my mother would approve,” Matt said, pulling back.
Dr. Thomas winced. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Are you sure you don’t want me to make a call and get you both into a safe house or something?”
“No thanks. But I would like your private cell phone number just in case.”
Dr. Thomas plucked a business card from a silver holder on his desk and wrote on the back. “Now I really must see to my guest. He’s too important for me to cancel at the last minute. Probably arrived by now. Please keep in touch. And good luck.”
“You will keep this just between us for the time being, won’t you?” said Matt, reaching for the card.
“Of course.” They shook hands firmly. “Take care Matt, and you too, Ms. Delacluse. Anderson will show you out. Now you really must excuse me.”
The butler appeared. As they were gathering their coats from a closest in the hallway, a small door opened. Senator Mason T. Stevens stepped out, smoothing his tie and adjusting a tight vest.
“Oh, I didn’t know Martin had guests. I was just freshening up. Haven’t we met before? I’m Senator Stevens,” he said, holding out a fleshy hand to Matt. He smiled approvingly at Nicole.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Senator Stevens.” Matt gripped his hand equally hard. “I’m Dr. Hunter and this is my wife, Veronica. We’re NIH researchers in plastic surgery. I never forget a face. A carryover from my profession. We met about three months ago at the reception for Dr. Melikian. Nice meeting you again, Senator.”
As they got into the car and headed down the driveway, Nicole turned and looked at Matt. “If we live through this, Matthew Richards, I’m going to marry you.”
When they were a block away, Nicole touched his arm. “This is a good spot.”
Matt watched her unwrap the small digital recorder and battery operated receiver. “What if it rains?”
“Haven’t a clue. Dad didn’t mention that. Let’s hope the weather stays good. I’ll just be a moment. She stepped out of the car and set the recorder in a dense hedge bordering a large residence.
“How long is it good for?”
“Dad said up to six hours. We should at least be able to hear what the Senator has to say. If they talk in the library, that is.”
An hour later Matt and Nicole walked arm in arm into Eli’s safe house. Matt used one of the fake IDs and a credit card from the collection in his valise to book the early flight out of Washington’s Ronald Reagan National Airport for Pittsburgh. Tomorrow they had an appointment with Todd Cummings.
“This ain’t the Ritz,” said Elijah, “but it does have a small guest room. You guys figure out the arrangements. I’m going to bed. We’ll listen to the recording first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about us, Dad, and by the way…” She opened the paper bag an pulled out the distinctive pinch bottle of Glenrothes Single Malt Scotch. “Sweet dreams.”
Matt and Nicole crawled into the small twin bed and slipped into each other’s arms. They were exhausted but Matt’s mind kept churning. Past and present bombarding him with images. Somewhere in the assault of images, he slept, and dreamed.
Cairo, early December 1968
The soot-covered train from Aswan to Cairo pulled into the station. It was early morning after a nighttime run along the Nile River and the end of the AUB group’s two week educational trip to the monuments and museums of ancient Egypt. In two days they would be on a plane heading back to Beirut.
Most of the seventeen American students hadn’t slept that night. Instead the journey on the train was an excuse for a party, with beer and liquor flowing freely. Twice during the night Dr. Martin Thomas, their chaperone, tried to confine their revelry to one car and stop them roaming through the train howling like banshees. When the train finally did pull into the Cairo station several of the bedrooms stunk of vomit and booze.
Matt and Todd Cummings wearily dumped their luggage onto the bed of their shared hotel room. “What should we do with our last day in Cairo?”
“I’m gonna sleep.” Todd crashed heavily onto the bed. “You do what you want.” Matt bathed and changed into something loose and comfortable. He was also tired but the covered bazaar, the famous Souk of Cairo, was where he wanted to be.
It was an easy ten-minute walk from the Sheraton Hotel on the banks of the Nile River to the exotic alleys and merchant districts of the bazaar. The ancient market in Cairo was many times larger than the one in Beirut.
At the entrance Matt stood beneath the great arched portico. Dark passageways ran in all directions. Pungent smells from the spice vendors assaulted his nostrils. Merchants and shoppers, many still dressed as they had for thousands of years eyed him curiously. Old women carried string bags full of food and other merchandise bought at the morning market somewhere deep inside the souk. Matt wandered about aimlessly, every once in a while coming across the central courtyard of a mosque.
He found a food stall and ordered a cup of grainy Arabic coffee, a bowl of yogurt with honey and a pita bread sandwich filled with roast lamb. If only Maha were beside me now. Her face filled his memory, sweet and innocent.
With his back turned they didn’t notice him as they hurried by. William Fisher and an elderly Middle Eastern man in an expensive western business suit. Both spoke in animated Arabic as they moved quickly along the crowded thoroughfare.
What is Fisher doing here? Curious, Matt left several bills on the table and followed at a safe distance.
“You are American, yes?” A dirty Egyptian boy came up beside him, walking in lockstep. He smiled, showing rotten teeth. He was young, but his eyes knew more than his age.
“That’s right.” Matt smiled down at him. “And who are you?”
“My name is Saleem. Allah in his infinite wisdom has chosen me to be your guide today.” The boy bowed. “Where would you like to go and what would you like to see?”
Matt glanced after Fisher and his companion. “Your English is very good, Saleem. Where did you learn it?”