The Swiss banker frowned. “But will this acceleration negatively impact our profits?”
“Perhaps, Helmut, perhaps. But only by a few million. Minor compared to the billions we stand to gain when America goes to war against the entire Muslim world. After all we supply a great deal of the chemicals, arms, equipment, and also make the loans to finance those poor Middle Eastern nations being attacked. We can settle for being fortunate, we don’t have to be greedy.” With that the Egyptian-American raised his flute of bubbling Fallet-Dart Millesime in a toast. He said no more. At this point the less the others knew about his ultimate plans the better.
At 11:30 pm the dining party left the dining table and took the elevator up to the casino. Waiters quickly cleared the table. A few minutes later a small recording device, previously concealed beneath al Nagib’s table was slipped into a cashmere overcoat as it was being opened for its owner. The distinguished gentleman buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, and slipped a small wad of bills into the hand of the cloakroom manager.
“My best to your family, Angelo.”
“And a very good evening to you, Mr. van Ness.”
Chapter Twelve
Concord, Massachusetts
“That’s her house.” Nicole pointed out a white Cape Cod standing alone at the end of a long lane overlooking the frozen pond. The two-story home was surrounded by pine trees. Several other houses fringed the lake.
Elijah had filled them in on Anne-Marie Khoury’s background after surfing the Internet and talking with private sources late into the night. “It’s definitely an artist’s life,” he told them as they listened on the phone in a motel room not far from Concord.
“After returning from Beirut she finished her senior year at Boston College as an art major and married a medical student. He became a renowned medical researcher but eight years ago died of leukemia. Childless and widowed she threw herself into art and established a reputation for watercolors. It seems she travels extensively, using bleak landscapes around the globe as a backdrop for her paintings. There are a few posted on her personal website.”
“Anything that could connect her to the terrorists?” Matt felt tired and frustrated.
“I’m getting there. A good agent gathers every scrap of detail no matter how trivial. It may save your life one day.”
“Sorry.”
Elijah continued his story. “Anyway most of her paintings are exhibited at a posh gallery in Boston and she donates a great deal from the sale of her paintings to a charity for orphaned Palestinian children.” His words quickened. “And get this. She’s also on the board of advisors of the Halaby Foundation, established in the early 1980s by a wealthy Lebanese businessman and his wife. It provides scholarships for Middle Eastern students to study in the United States and Canada. Interestingly, Dr. Noubar Melikian serves on the foundation’s board of directors. And so does a shady Egyptian businessman, Mohammed al Nagib.”
Matt knocked on the door and waited. What would Anne-Marie look like? What would he see from behind his new face? A widow shorn of companionship without children, she would pour herself into her art, of that he was certain. Had she lost herself in her world of pigment just as he had lost himself in scotch? Or would she be the same fun-loving girl he remembered?
When the door opened Matt strove to keep his new face friendly and anonymous. She was just as he remembered. Long black hair now streaked with grey. A fuller face, but the eyes still twinkled.
“You must be Matt’s cousin. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Ms. Khoury. This is my wife Veronica. Please call me Tom.” They followed her into the warm and comfortable home.
“I hope you like herbal tea? Fennel actually. It’s all I have on hand.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Her pleasant voice echoed through the large rooms. “Please sit down. I’ll be right out with the tea. It’s been a busy morning already. The people from the gas company were here earlier checking the meter in the basement. They left about an hour ago. Usually I don’t get many visitors, but that’s the way I like it.”
Soon the tea was being poured. “Since your call yesterday,” Anne-Marie said, “I’ve found myself thinking a lot about Matt. We had such great times together that year with our small circle of friends. It was a magical time for all of us. Not without its heartbreaks, I might add, but still a pivotal time in my life. It was during that year I decided to dedicate my life to painting and to helping Palestinian orphans. I’ve been doing it ever since.” She took a long, slow sip from the pungent herbal tea. “And we had some pretty crazy times as well.” Her eyes sparkled over the cup as she looked at Matt.
“Like the time you wrapped our heads in toilet paper to make us look as if we were wearing turbans?” Matt smiled.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Anne-Marie. It’s me, Matt.”
She stood up, her face contorted with confusion and anger. “Get out. Now!”
“Please listen to him, Ms. Khoury. I beg you,” Nicole said.
“Actually, I’m getting used to this reaction,” Matt said, still smiling. “After you show people your new face and tell them who you are you develop a pretty thick skin. So I’ll say it one more time. I’m Matt Richards. And I really like that painting over there, the seascape with the rich violet tint. It’s where we used to gather after class, isn’t it. You captured the mood and light really well.”
Anne-Marie sat down. Paint smears decorated her smock.
“Are you all right?” Nicole asked, putting her hand on Anne-Marie’s shoulder.
“She’s all right,” Matt said. “She’s already using that artistic eye on my face. The scars are hidden under the hairline, Anne-Marie. What do you think? Am I still a handsome stud?”
A tentative smile bent her mouth upwards. “Whoever said you were good looking?”
Matt laughed and sat next to her. They hugged. Her cheek was salty as he kissed her.
Her hand came up to her cheek. “That was very strange…” She recovered. “I really missed you all these years, Matt. Every time I spoke with Todd he was always running you down. But we had such fun. You were so alive then.” She leaned back and examined his face. “What has happened to you?”
“Look, Anne-Marie. I’m in big trouble and I need your help. People are trying to kill me and they appear to be going after some of our AUB friends as well. Did you know Dr. Thomas died two nights ago?”
She collapsed into her chair, stunned, as he explained the possible connection between that death, Brian Walker’s, and his own kidnapping.
“Mia, do you remember that night we went to the Maronite monastery near Basharri on our way back from skiing? My diary puts it in February.”
“How could I forget?” she replied. “All those murals on the ceiling and the whole thing carved out of the cliff…”
“We were smoking hash and I must have passed out because I don’t remember much. What do you recall about that night?”
“I remember you coughed a lot, and then drank quite a few beers.” Her smile faded as she probed into the past. “You’re right. We did get pretty stoned, thanks to Demetrie and his ever present hash block. Let me think now… No doubt we talked about politics in the Middle East, we always did. That might have been the night… Come to think of it, yes, it was. That was the night we made a pact to try and stop the madness. Brian swore he would become a famous lawyer and defend oppressed people’s rights. And he did. Poor Brian, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
She squeezed Matt’s hand then pointed across the room to a tiny alcove. “I painted the Maronite Monastery. I had to. It was such a pivotal place in my life, a holy place that inspired me beyond words. But I’m not happy with the painting. I could never get the real feel of the place.” She gave a lopsided smile. “Anyway I promised that night I would raise money for Palestinian orphans. Karl