The Beirut Conspiracy

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The target was in plain sight. The short figure, notebook in hand, elbowed towards the front. The brightly colored press badge lay clearly visible against a dark wool overcoat. While necessary for the chilly January air, the bulky coat’s main task was not warmth. It concealed a vest of tightly packed steel ball bearings imbedded in a matrix of plastic explosives. What looked like another eager news reporter was a human bomb waiting to unleash holy terror.

The button of the detonating device was moist from the perspiring hand that reverently cradled it. A practiced smile masked a racing heart and morbid fear that something would go wrong after all the years of preparation, all the sacrifices. On the outside the illusion was perfect. Inside burned an all-consuming hatred. The harbinger of death in Allah’s just cause was in place.

President Roswell Clayton Pierce respectfully shook the hand of his friend and personal physician, Dr. Andrew Norman. They then turned to the press, a perfect photo opportunity. The first of the New Year. The two men smiled as they stood in front of the luxury brownstone, waving to the crowd and television cameras below. Turning up the collar of his overcoat against the chill, President Clayton flashed his charismatic boyish smile, then moved athletically down the steps. A jostling mass of reporters, cameramen, D.C. police and Secret Service agents pressed up against the tall iron fence, keeping everyone at a respectful and safe distance.

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