Eli savored his scotch, ignoring the look on his daughter’s face. “You don’t have time to read all there is about Mohammed al Nagib. Not only is he fabulously wealthy, he also shows up at high-society functions up and down the East Coast and in Europe. He has homes in London, Zurich, Athens, Rio de Janeiro, Bermuda and Cairo, plus a large estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains where he often entertains dignitaries from other countries. And he’s a big contributor to both the Republican and Democratic parties.”
“Sounds like a real slime ball,” Nicole said sourly.
“That and more. Al Nagib immigrated to the United States in the early 1970s from Egypt and somehow bought his way into the computer business. He’s now chairman of one of the biggest technology and software conglomerates in the United States. It’s based just outside Washington, near Dulles Airport, where a large number of defense and military technology companies are headquartered. He’s regularly seen in the company of a wealthy Greek shipping magnate.”
“Don’t tell me,” Matt said. “His last name is Antonopolis, right?”
“How did you know that?” Eli said, raising his eyebrows.
“One of the regulars in our AUB group was Demetrie Antonopolis, playboy son of some Greek industrialist. Demetrie’s father must be mixed up in all this and probably Demetrie as well. Anything known about al Nagib’s early days?”
“Absolutely nothing is known about him before he arrived in the United States. The record is a blank,” said Eli.
How convenient. “So,” Matt mused, “he shows up in Beirut in early 1969 trying to organize a radical group and then one year later winds up in the United States. You say he immigrated. He’s an American citizen?”
Eli nodded. “Quite the patriot. Well known and admired for throwing elaborate Fourth of July parties and lavishing thousands of dollars on fireworks.”
“Cut to the chase, Dad,” said Nicole. “What’s the unofficial word on this bastard?”
“Well, it’s never been proven but he’s suspected of being an international arms dealer and global financier. Some people believe he’s been responsible for putting people into key positions of power. Like a few heads of state, African dictators, and even some elected officials in Europe and the United States. And then when it suits him financially, he helps remove them. Think of all the recent leadership changes in the Congo and other African countries. At any rate he earns his money during times of war, not peace. And his close business ties to a Brazilian mining industrialist named Jorge Molinas are suspect. Molinas financially supports Hezbollah terrorist camps in the tri-border region of Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil.”
Matt drummed his fingers on the table, something tugging at his thoughts. A name, a face, a fact. What is it?
“I’ve made a fresh pot of tea,” said Nicole reaching across the table to pour the piping hot herbal tea into Matt’s mug. Opening his eyes he stared at the diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist. He’d never really paid much attention to it before. It glimmered in the overhead lights of the kitchen.
“I’ve got it! Your bracelet- it just reminded me of the wrist band. It was there all along in the back of my mind.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Matt?” Nicole exclaimed. She looked at her bracelet, trying to read its secrets.
“When I was escaping from the hospital I ducked into a dark room to avoid one of the guards. I was still a little groggy but there was a young woman lying in a hospital bed. I looked at her face but didn’t recognize her. She had scars like mine, another face transplant. She must have been having a bad dream because her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I remember her saying something like, ‘No, Daddy, No.’ When I put her hand back on the bed I noticed the hospital tag around her wrist. It caught the light from the ceiling. There was no name. Only a blood type, A-negative, and two small letters. I didn’t register those letters at the time but now I can see them clear as day: K. S. Kelly Stevens.”
Eli’s face clouded. “If the press reported both of you dead,” he said slowly, “it suggests that Senator Mason Stevens is somehow involved.”
Matt sipped his piping hot tea. “What if he helped fake the accident in order to get his wayward daughter cleaned up, off of drugs, and out of sight? The last thing a powerful senator needs is a drug addict daughter. Maybe that’s why he insisted Kelly come to the reception for Dr. Melikian. He arranged the whole thing.”
“What?” asked Nicole.
“Didn’t Dr. Thomas say it was the Israelis who were the most advanced in facial transplant procedures?”
Nicole’s face went white. “You don’t think Senator Stevens is working with the Mossad, do you?”
“Whoa, young lady, you’ve been watching too many James Bond movies,” said Eli, pouring another two fingers of Scotch. “First of all foreign intelligence agencies aren’t allowed to operate inside the United States, period. And second it would be a treasonable offense, not to mention political suicide, for an elected official to be involved with any foreign government operating clandestinely on American soil.”
“Are you saying this kind of thing doesn’t happen?”
“It can happen, but certainly not with the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He’s cleaner than clean.”
“My father had a sophisticated medical term for situations like this,” Matt said. “Bullshit. Here’s how I see it, farfetched as it may sound. The Israelis promise Stevens that his wayward daughter will get rehabilitated, a new face and a faraway job. And they probably give him a pile of cash to deposit in some Swiss bank account. All he has to do is help them get hold of me to use as their ferret and make it look like an accident. With all his intelligence contacts that should be pretty easy to arrange. So far so good. However the Mossad now have him perfectly positioned for blackmail so he probably reports to them everything that goes on in the President’s Special Advisory Council on Terrorism.” Matt faced them, his excitement mounting. “Somehow the Israelis know a terrorist cell exists right here in Washington. And if they can find it they might be able to control it. Even use it to their benefit. ”
“How so?” quizzed Nicole. “How would it benefit the Israelis to control this terrorist cell?”
“Why to make certain it does its job,” replied Eli. “Or, on the other hand expose it to the U.S. authorities. The American people would rise up against the Arab world if they knew there was a terrorist cell about to kill the President. Either way the Israelis win.”
Matt nodded. “It’s a clever gambit. After all, they don’t want peace with the Arabs any more than the terrorists want the liberation of Palestine. It’s moved way beyond those idealistic days. The Israelis, or at least a certain faction within Israel, want the United States to wage a full-scale war on the Muslims which means more dollars and more protection for Israel.”
“But that’s monstrous.” Nicole looked at Matt, then her father.
“No,” Eli said, swirling his glass. “That’s global politics.”
“What about al Nagib? Where does he fit in?” Nicole asked.
“That’s the easy part,” Matt replied. “Al Nagib organized and financed the terrorist cell. He probably recruited the members over thirty years ago just for this special purpose. I’ll bet Bedouina and Maha were taken out the back of the restaurant before the blast. I’ll bet they went underground and became members of Nagib’s terrorist organization. And I’ll bet Samir was supposed to accompany them. But the bomb went off too soon and he died in front of my eyes. That night Bedouina lost the only love she had ever known. She would have been extremely vulnerable to al Nagib’s propaganda. She became the perfect candidate for a suicide bomber.”
“You don’t think they planned to kill Samir in order to soften up Bedouina?” Nicole asked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone was sacrificed for the greater good,” Eli said. “I’ve seen it more than once.”