Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 12

  Lynch pushed his chair back and walked out, giving the bobbing, grinning Antoine a familiar punch on the shoulder as he wove through the little forest of tables. Nathalie, rising, was embroiled in a moment of confusion, catching the proprietor’s shrug and moue. She followed Lynch down the sunny street as he flagged down a passing servees, a battered yellow Mercedes.

  She slammed the door as the driver pulled away, the car’s engine coughing. ‘Where are we going?’

  Lynch sat back and gazed out of the window as the driver urged the old car into the jostling stream of morning traffic with a hand flapping to cajole his passage.

  She was silk and she was jasmine, ivory and frankincense, her skin a pale golden slide for the smooth satin riding up her legs as she mounted the stairs. Her hips moving under the wrap were a provocation, her long hair cascaded down her mobile back.

  Reaching the top ahead of them, she strutted across the dance floor and sat on a high stool at the bar. Lynch ducked behind the counter and started to fix coffee at the gleaming red espresso station. This was obviously some sort of well-worn ritual – Nathalie noticed Lynch’s deft movements as he manipulated the machine.

  The white filter of Marcelle Aboud’s cigarette was reddened by her lipstick, her dark, kohl-lined eyes coolly gauging Nathalie as the younger woman waited, her hand resting on the back of a bar stool.

  ‘Come, sit,’ Marcelle purred, gesturing at the stool. Her very movements were sensual, her voice husky, rolling and dirty. Nathalie caught the flash of a full breast trying to escape the cascades of smooth bronze material as Marcelle turned her magnificent face to Lynch.

  ‘So you’re buying or selling, Lynch?’

  He brought the espresso cup over to her. ‘Her? You can have her for free.’

  Nathalie twisted off her stool. ‘Sorry, not putting up with this.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Marcelle’s languorous voice wasn’t raised, but her tone stopped Nathalie in her tracks. ‘Make her a coffee, Lynch, Play nicely.’

  Lynch busied himself with the espresso machine as Marcelle examined Nathalie, who met the dark brown eyes after they finished travelling lazily up her body like a slow touch. The clink of the espresso cup on the bar broke the moment.

  Marcelle turned to Lynch. ‘So what do you want, you and your assistant?’

  Lynch waited behind the bar with his hands laid on the marble top. Nathalie was surprised at how he eased into the role of barman and fancied perhaps he had worked here many, many years ago as a young man.

  Lynch was diffident. ‘Michel Freij. He’s a customer, no?’

  Marcelle’s eyes narrowed. She lifted the espresso cup to her full lips, watching Lynch warily. Nathalie, fascinated, was a voyeuse as Marcelle made her decision, a little sag of her fine, proud shoulders. ‘Michel? Sure. For years. Since Raymond brought him to be broken in.’

  ‘One of yours?’

  Marcelle raised her head. In the name of God, thought Nathalie, she’s like a horse. Proud, Arab and untamed.

  ‘My fucking business.’

  ‘How regular?’

  ‘Every month or so. Usually on a Saturday night.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Marcelle pulled a cigarette from her packet. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What does he like to do?’

  ‘Just straight. Nothing funny. He can get little rough on the younger girls. We’ve had to pay a few extra. One girl needed some little piece dental work.’

  Lynch grinned wolfishly. ‘You mean he knocked her teeth out.’

  Nathalie watched the tension in the older woman, the way she treated Lynch like a hunter, was scared of him and yet seemed somehow to own him.

  Marcelle pursed her lips. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘He come alone or with company?’

  ‘Sometimes with company. His friends. Hanging on.’

  ‘Hangers on?’

  ‘Adi, like this. So what you want, Lynch?’

  Lynch reached into his jacket pocket, passing an envelope across the counter. ‘I want him in our little room. I want her to sweet talk him and ask him about Deir Na’ee. I want to know where it is.’

  Marcelle slid off the stool, the sinuous rotation of her hips pulling the soft material up her leg as she leaned over to scoop up the envelope. Nathalie caught a glimpse of the dark mound at the top. The rich scent mingled with strong coffee. She started at Marcelle’s touch on her cheek, a warm fingertip, purring. ‘Bring her next time, Lynch, will you? I like her.’

  Nathalie couldn’t help the blush washing across her cheeks.

  FIFTEEN

  Beirut’s early spring morning was cold, the soldiers hunched for warmth by their little green huts, the growing tide of pedestrians jinking past the red and white painted barriers and concrete blocks marking the secure areas of Sodeco. The cobbled streets echoed to an increasing number of feet, shuffling, striding and skipping as the crowds grew. The tide flowed into the open spaces of Martyrs’ Square, traffic blocked by the streams of people, many young.

  The scent of charcoal and hot sweetcorn from the vendors who had moved their carts from their pitches on the corniche mingled with tobacco smoke on the cold air, a faint hint of the sea behind them. The usual early morning miasma of car exhaust was absent, the barriers diverting the traffic from its habitual course, creating little jams, confusions and jostling altercations around the big square.

  Banners hung all over the huge open area, the clusters of logos intensifying towards the large stage set up in the centre of the square. Speaker stacks were mounted on each side of the stage, its red, white and green decorations proclaiming ‘One Lebanon’. Traffic barriers festooned with banners declaimed ‘One Lebanon, One People’. Polo-shirted staff handed out decorated plastic flags at each entry point, slapping themselves to stay warm.

  Lynch and Nathalie joined the growing throng, their breath puffing in little clouds. The sound of Koullouna lil-watan, the Lebanese anthem, started to play tinnily across the square, the embarrassed, bastard child of the Marseillaise and an Edith Piaf lament.

  Lynch scowled at a huge panel carrying Michel Freij’s portrait as they passed it.

  ‘Unhappy, Lynch?’

  ‘Uncomfortable. There’s a difference.’

  Nathalie dug her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. ‘Sure.’

  The echo of the parping, staccato music from the brass band on the stage splashed back from the frontages of the buildings lining the open area, Ottoman stone and ironwork mixed with smoked glass and restored finery, each a unique testament to its era. Lynch brooded, surveying the chattering crowd of excited youngsters, their breath misty in the morning air, their faces reddened by the cold. Behind them all, Mount Sannine glowed against the Mediterranean sky.

  Nathalie grabbed at Lynch’s arm as the crowd grew denser and started to gravitate toward its focus, the big stage in the centre of the square. Militiamen in camouflage fatigues dotted with glittering insignia, all carried the stylised green One Lebanon badge on their arms and breasts, an upraised sword. The euphoric throng washed against the stage. The smiling militiamen formed a benign wall, stopping people from crushing against the steel supporting formwork, the banners tied to it flapping lazily. Her hand was cold and, unthinkingly, he cupped his warmer palm over it. He scanned the solid wall of young, shaven-headed men standing arm in arm, smiling and chatting with the crowd.

  The music stopped, halfway up its rousing crescendo. The shuffling and murmuring died with it. Lynch surveyed the expectant faces, registering the hope and curiosity reflected there. He focused on a girl, pretty and lush-haired, her brown eyes flickering from the stage to meet his as she sensed his interest. The crowd shifted and compressed. Thousands of voices built into a gathering roar, a wave of hands punching the air. He lost her.

  ‘Michel! Michel! Michel!’

  It settled into a rhythmic pattern, two syllables: ‘Mee shell,’ each repetition punctuated by a handclap. Lynch hated crowds like this. He darted a glance at the ecstatic faces
and felt the first quivering of fear, the resonance of childhood turning the massed chants into the tinny cacophony of dustbin lids, the raised faces losing their dusky, Mediterranean tone and gaining the pasty, desperate pallor of Belfast.

  He was back on the Falls Road and his body prickled, sweat running down inside his shirt. Returning to the present, he caught the concern on Nathalie’s face, smiling reassurance at her.

  ‘You okay, Lynch?’

  ‘Never better,’ he lied. He was there again, surrounded by the shouting throng and throwing stones, watching the bottle flying over his head to hit the khaki Land Rover, petrol splashing across the white face of the Brit who’d been stupid enough to jump from the big car. The liquid ignited with a great whoomp pierced by the soldier’s high pitched screams as he ran, flailing at himself, in ever-diminishing circles.

  The stone fell from Gerry Lynch’s limp fingers as the thing that had been a soldier dropped down to its knees in front of him, its blackened face bursting with the heat. It finally fell forward. Transfixed by the sight, Gerry was pulled away by his friends.

  Nathalie was shouting at him over the crowd noise. He let go of her hand and she took it back, gripping it under her armpit.

  ‘Ouch, Lynch, you nearly crushed me to death. What’s wrong with you?’

  Scattered clapping broke out, welling into an ovation as Michel Freij took to the microphone, smiling and waving acknowledgement at the crowd, his eyes taking them all in and locking, for a sickening instant, with Lynch’s.

  Freij’s hands descended, palm down, calming the crowd. ‘Thank you, thank you all.’ He smiled, pausing to grip the sides of the lectern. ‘It is my intention to speak to you today in Arabic, but I wanted to say a few words in English first. Please, I beg your indulgence.’

  Freij scanned the crowd. His voice rang out across the square. ‘We are here today because we share a vision. A vision of one Lebanon. A strong Lebanon. A country we can all be proud of. A united country, a country whose people can finally, after all these years of conflict, be free of fear and suffering. A country rid of the evil of sectarianism, proud of its nationhood and unity, of its one identity and its one people. If you are Orthodox, Copt, Maronite, Shia, Sunni, Druze, you are all one people. South and North, Bekaa and Chouf, you are all one people. From the camps or the cities, the mountains or the farms, you are all one people. If you were born in this country, you are Lebanon’s child and Lebanon shall love you, be proud of you and nurture you. We are all, all of us, one people. One Lebanon.’

  Freij waited as a tide of applause broke across the square, acknowledging it with a magisterial wave. The sound died, a few whistles then silence. In his dark blue suit, Freij held the lectern, his head bowed. Lynch could almost feel the indrawn breaths of the crowd, the sense of anticipation.

  Freij raised his head, throwing his hand towards Sannine’s white peak.

  ‘Lebanon’s tragedy is that we have been weak. We have too long been subject to the forces around us, we have too long been others’ battleground. We have been forced to depend on others for protection as foreign armies clash on our soil. No longer. Lebanon will rebuild herself as a nation, a nation of unity and prosperity, of fairness and equality because we will be capable of repelling all outside interests, of defending our shores against all force. Our new Lebanon will be a nation of strength, capable of deterring others from interfering in our rights and sovereignty. Never again will war be waged on us in the name of another nation’s security or interests. Lebanon shall have peace because she demands peace. And she shall be strong enough to make demands.’

  The crowd erupted, roaring approbation. The air filled with flags, scarves and waving hands. The sound of clapping echoed off the buildings. Lynch managed to turn in the press, his arm around Nathalie keeping them together as they forged their way through the tightly packed crowd, returning the smiles and grins of the people they passed. Freij was speaking again, in Arabic, his voice rising and falling, his tone urgent and declamatory.

  Another wave of cheers rippled through the square as Freij embarked on a series of rhetorical questions, his voice low, raising in enquiry and each time answering, after a perfectly timed pause, in the negative: ‘La.’ The crowd rustled in reaction to his voice, breaking into cacophonous applause and cheering.

  Lynch and Nathalie finally pushed through to the top edge of the square, standing by the imposing bulk of the Al Amine Mosque to gaze down over the huge sea of people to the blue Mediterranean beyond.

  Nathalie pointed to their right. ‘Lynch, look.’

  A noisy crowd was pushing its way down Gouraud Street and starting to burst into the square, blowing air horns and chanting. They carried green banners daubed with flowing white Arabic script. Towards the back of the insurgent crowd, Lynch could make out placards with a turbaned, white-bearded mullah on them. Others carried black flags. They were joined by another flow striding down Damascus Street, the leaders’ faces wrapped in black scarves.

  Scanning the scene, Lynch did a little double take. A face he recalled drew his eyes back to the shadow of a shopfront by the entrance to Gouraud. Their eyes met, the other man’s gaze dropped. A trench coat and green tartan scarf. The man turned away and walked uphill through the sparser crowd along the square’s edge. Frank Coleman, by the grace of God, thought Lynch as he lost the big man’s figure. Lynch lost no love on the CIA’s station chief in Beirut, an old hand who’d been stooging around the Middle East since the civil war. Lynch shrugged off his curiosity. Coleman had a nose for trouble and there was certainly trouble breaking out today. He searched the streets behind them, assuring himself of a safe exit and started to pull Nathalie back. The crowd rippled as the new wave of marchers pushed into it like a wave breaking against a sandcastle. The wail of sirens echoed from the streets uphill of them.

  Two black Lincolns pushed across the crowded square, blocking Gouraud Two more backed across nearby Damascus Street, stemming the flow of new entrants into the square. The packed knots of demonstrators jostling for position tried to retreat, confronted by a flow of One Lebanon militia wearing combat fatigues and brandishing laths. Their arms started to rise and fall, the leaders of the incursion cut off by the Lincolns and falling to the hammering sticks. Between the two black cars on Gouraud, Lynch glimpsed many more uniformed men beating the demonstrators up towards Gemayzeh and away from the crowded square, many running from the relentless beating of the militia, their banners dropping.

  The screams of the beaten demonstrators were drowned by Freij’s echoing voice as he started the run to the finish, calling out to the crowd as they cheered, raising his voice above their cheers to tease more noisy support from them. They gave it, crying out and punching the air, their voices combined in chanting his name. He finished with a flourish and the square rang to the sound of thousands of voices calling out, the roar drowning the sound only Lynch caught because he had been waiting for it: automatic gunfire.

  Lynch pulled Nathalie away from the square. ‘Come on, time to get out of here. They’re shooting.’

  ‘Who are they? They’re not Lebanese Army, for sure.’

  Lynch strode ahead, passing through the people walking towards the square, latecomers curious as to the fuss. ‘Freij’s militia. Those demonstrators looked like one of the Shia parties, possibly Hezbollah, but I’m not sure. Those militia guys were brutal altogether.’

  A surge in the crowd parted them. Lynch caught a glimpse of a face he recognised, a man in militia uniform. He scanned the blur of faces for Nathalie, struggling to place the man even as he craned to get a glimpse of her black hair and pale skin. He spotted her across the sea of people being ushered by a group of uniformed men. She turned her head anxiously but her arm was gripped and her head jerked back. She was engulfed by the crowd. Lynch was jostled hard. He elbowed his way after Nathalie. A hand gripped his right arm. He turned. That face again. He placed it, the thugs who had ransacked Stokes’ apartment, the car that had followed him from the airport. Forage Cap’s
friend. The one he hadn’t shot. Looking at the reddened face of the man shouting, he reflected what a pleasure it would have been.

  The man’s lips were spittle-flecked. ‘You must come with us.’

  He felt another hand clamp on his left arm. He let both arms stay loose. A hand scrabbled in his jacket for his holster. Lynch moved fast, head-butting the man to his right, feeling cartilage breaking as his head bore down onto the top of the man’s nose. The grip on his arm loosened and Lynch drove his fist into the man to his left. Lynch wheeled to send the man flying over his outstretched leg, following through with a powerful lip-splitting blow. Lynch span to forge ahead into the crowd, his gun drawn. He cried out Nathalie’s name. He caught glimpses of her ahead, but was constantly frustrated by the press of people. The clashes on the side streets caused waves in the crowd, unpredictable eddies of people fleeing the conflict at the exits to the square. Lynch fancied he could smell the growing fear, tension on people’s faces, wide eyes and flared nostrils as the sound of screams mingled with the crack of gunfire. The crowd was thickest around the group of black Lincolns. For a second it parted and Lynch glimpsed Nathalie struggling in the grip of two militiamen. He redoubled his effort to push through the crowd, earning himself several blows on his shoulders and back from aggrieved people he shoved out of his way.

  Lynch turned to see the man whose nose he’d broken was following him through the crowd, shoving people aside with his big, bloody hands and leaving a swath of outraged expressions and stained clothing in his wake. Lynch held the gun out, a double-handed grip. The man saw the gesture and stopped, fear replacing anger on a face half-covered by the hand holding his nose. Lynch gestured him back with the gun, the crowd parting miraculously as they saw the weapon, to leave an empty corridor between Lynch and the blood-spattered militiaman. For the second time in days, the man held his hands out in supplication. Lynch lowered the gun to point at the man’s leg, the movement earning a look of terror. Lynch turned and pushed toward the Lincolns.