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  One of them moved, squeezing its way through the crowd and sounding its horn. Lynch lashed out at the people in his way as he struggled through the panicked press of bodies trying to avoid the big car. Moving fast along its black slab sides, he shot out the front tyre and pushed to the back of the car to take out the rear and driver’s side tyres. Lynch wrenched open the driver’s door and shoved the Walther into the man’s shocked face. ‘Stop the car. Now.’

  The blown-apart tyres flapped on the tarmac. The driver braked hard, slamming Lynch against the open door. He recovered too slowly, the driver’s foot lashed out and caught him hard in the stomach. Lynch doubled up, instinct made him reach to catch the foot. He pulled hard and twisted to yank the man from his seat. Lynch hit him a crushing blow on the cheek with the pistol and the man dropped to the ground. He jumped into the driver’s seat and shoved his gun into the face of the nervous young militiaman in the back of the car next to Nathalie. Lynch barked, ‘Get the fuck out now or I’ll shoot your fucking face off.’

  After a second’s hesitation, the militiaman opened the door. He turned to speak and Lynch fired, the report deafening in the car’s confined space. Nathalie screamed. The militiaman dropped out, his hands over his head, a neat hole drilled in the roof just above him.

  Lynch slammed the SUV into gear and leant on the horn, the crowd angry and fearful as he drove into them, the broken tyres slapping, the heavy car harder to control. The flop of tyre was replaced by the screech of metal as the big car forged through the fleeing press on its rims. The crowd thinned beyond the edge of the square and Lynch put his foot down, struggling with the steering wheel. Reaching Debbas Square, Lynch gave up and pulled the Lincoln to a halt, its battered wheel rims smoking. He helped Nathalie get down and they jogged uphill, Lynch checking behind them for signs of pursuit.

  He holstered his gun.

  SIXTEEN

  Lynch and Nathalie returned to the apartment after the rally and cleaned up, both coming down from the tension high, laughing too much and still a little breathless. Nathalie left with a French Embassy driver to join her digital surveillance team. Lynch went down to Manara to meet an informant who knew a lot less about Michel Freij and Falcon Dynamics than he had made out when they talked on the phone. After returning, Lynch settled down to spend the afternoon going through Paul Stokes’ laptop. He worked systematically, jotting down directory names as he pored through them looking for anything that Stokes might have kept there.

  Flicking through Stokes’ memoir again, unable to stay away like a man whose eyes are drawn to a car crash, Lynch hadn’t noticed the light failing and now it was evening. He closed the document, stretched and hobbled over to switch the light on, hours of crouching over a keyboard taking their toll.

  Nathalie pushed the apartment door open with her back, heaving the four bulging jute bags of shopping to kick the door shut behind her. She staggered down the corridor to the kitchen. Lynch reached her as she hoisted her loot onto the kitchen worktop.

  He laughed. ‘What on earth are you up to?’

  She blew on her reddened fingers. ‘I’m cooking dinner tonight. I decided. I had one of the security guys go shopping for me.’ She smiled impishly. ‘Isn’t that what security guys are for?’

  Lynch was wide-eyed. ‘Cooking? At a time like this?’

  Nathalie smiled defensively. ‘Yes, cooking. I am French and it is time you ate decent food. To thank you for saving my life.’

  Why not, indeed. Lynch tried to contain the little surge of anger her presumption had caused in him. He desperately missed Leila, his dark, clever dissident girl. Nathalie Durand was entertaining, intelligent company, graceful and, yes, beautiful. But Leila was wild, angry and bursting with the challenge and certainty of rebellious youth. And she was his, given to him and part of his inner life, a secret within a life already lived in secret. Nathalie was only a colleague operating within cover.

  Leila hadn’t returned a single call since she walked out. Lynch had checked with the concierge and yes, she moved in to the flat in Hamra. Yes, she had indeed taken male company, the old crone told Lynch, laughing dirtily and pocketing the fifty thousand lire tip.

  Lynch banished the thought and threw his hands up. ‘Sure, why not?’

  Nathalie smiled bravely. ‘Why not? You are too enthusiastic, Lynch.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring you down. It’s just that I had a life here before—’

  ‘Before what? Before I came? Before she walked out?’

  Lynch steadied himself against the wooden worktop. ‘How did you—’

  ‘She left herself behind, Gerry. She’s all over this place. Whatever has happened between you, I cannot help. But I am here to do a job. If I need to stay in a hotel, tell me and I will find some way. If not, I will try to have a life as well I can as I do this job. But staying here was supposed to be cover, no? You remember this thing, this cover?’

  Lynch fought the urge to correct her. It’s Gerald. He held his hands out, palms down against her passion, ‘Okay, okay. Look, I’m sorry. We—’

  The doorbell sounded, its staccato repetitions stilling him. He took in Nathalie’s silent response to his glance and padded up the corridor to the echoes of its clamour.

  He spoke through the door. ‘Hello?’

  Marcelle’s urgent voice was throaty. ‘Lynch, open the fucking door.’

  Lynch tore off the security chain, the door handle yanked from his hand. He fell back as the door smashed against the wall. Marcelle stumbled through, half-carrying the blood-smeared deadweight of a girl in her arms. He lunged forward to take the burden, carried the girl into the living room and laid her on the couch. She was badly bruised, her lip split and a cut above her right eye, abrasions across her cheeks where she had been smashed against a rough surface. Her tumbling blonde hair was matted and stiff with so much blood she smelled of iron. Feeling her head, Lynch winced as he encountered the massive swelling at the side, carefully parting the sticky hairs to find the moist lips of the ragged gash where her skin had split like a tomato. One of her arms hung limply and her breathing was ragged. Lynch pulled her smeared blouse open to show the massive mauve bruising on the pale skin stretched over at least one broken rib. Her breast was milky and full with dark, tight nipples, obscenely beautiful amongst the bloodied cloth and contused skin.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Marcelle stooped, breathless, flinging a small memory key at Lynch. ‘Here. This is what you wanted. This is all your fault, Lynch. Get her a doctor.’

  ‘Jesus, Marcie, Couldn’t you find one?’

  Marcelle braced herself against the door and snarled at him. ‘Get her a fucking doctor, Lynch. You know how. One who don’t talk about whores who billionaires beat to death. Do it.’

  She collapsed against the frame, her cheek pressed to the painted wood. Nathalie caught her as she slid, supporting her to guide her into a round wicker seat. Marcelle’s harsh breathing slowed as Nathalie sat beside her, stroking her hair.

  Lynch talked on the mobile. ‘This is Nikola. I need the doktor now, bil bait.’ He listened, nodding. ‘Na’am. Daroori. Ta’al, bsiraa. yalla.’

  Lynch used a damp flannel to clean the girl up as best he could. They waited silently together for the doorbell to ring, the long silences broken by the girl’s ragged coughs and Marcelle’s low-voiced reassurances. It seemed an age, but could only have been fifteen minutes when the bell rang. Lynch opened the door to a small, white-haired man in his late sixties wearing a tweed suit and thin, gold-framed glasses.

  ‘The patient’s through here.’

  Lynch grasped the memory key Marcelle had thrown at him in his pocket, the little chip containing the video of whatever had happened to this girl in the room at Marcelle’s cathouse Lynch used to ‘burn’ the occasional politician or business leader. It wasn’t the most up-to-date camera SIS had, but then the last three candidates he had offered up to Brian Channing for recruitment had all been turned down. Channing wasn’t interested in Bei
rut these days; he was frying bigger fish in the Gulf and playing European politics. Lynch’s thumb slipped on the memory key and he realised he was sweating.

  They moved the girl to the other spare bedroom where the doctor worked for over an hour. Lynch admired the fussy little man’s courage. He finished treating the girl and rose, puffing himself up to his full height. His combed-over wisps of white hair barely reached Lynch’s chest.

  ‘This is very serious. You understand it is a matter for the police.’

  Lynch looked down at him kindly. ‘Yes, it likely is, but that is not our arrangement.’

  The doctor pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his glasses. ‘The girl has been seriously assaulted. This was not an accident or any,’ he graced Lynch with a bitter little smile, ‘operational expediency.’

  Lynch was as gentle as he knew how, but his impatience was palpable. ‘No. No, it wasn’t. But your help was necessary.’

  The doctor’s lined face cleared. ‘Ah, yes. My help is necessary. Then I can sleep well tonight knowing I was, as you say, necessary.’

  Lynch took the old man’s arm as they went up the corridor, squeezing his withered bicep through the thick tweed jacket. ‘We all do everything we can, Doktor. Everything we can. Even in necessitas.’

  The old man turned at the doorway, his lined face smoothed in repose. ‘Do they all suffer for a reason, then, these poor faceless people you bring me to see, Nikola?’

  Lynch smiled sympathetically down at the frail man facing him. ‘You are being emotional, doktor. I ask for your help rarely and only when there is no reasonable alternative.’

  ‘And you sit in judgement of what is reasonable, I see. The girl belongs in hospital. She is very seriously injured. She is lucky to be alive. She will need further attention.’

  ‘Thank you, Doktor. We will transfer your fee as usual.’ Lynch pulled the door open and waited for the old man to move but he shook his head.

  ‘No, no. Not this time, thank you, Mr Nikola of the Russian Embassy. No fee.’ He put on his hat, a shabby tweed trilby with a tatty Alpine feather in its green band. ‘Please do not call me again. I will not do this more.’

  He strode out of the door. Resolution had straightened the old man’s back. Lynch closed the door and walked back to the living room where Marcelle sat looking into a tumbler of whisky, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulder as if she had arranged it. Which she probably had, Lynch thought. He poured himself a glass and went to the balcony. He clipped, then lit, a Cohiba and drew the smoke down as he gazed across the streetlights and surrounding buildings to the distant lights of the boats at sea. He really needed to stop smoking these things. The spring air was cool.

  The balcony door slid open and the musk of Marcelle’s perfume carried on a waft of warmth from the apartment. She put her hand on his hip, her voice low. ‘Thank you. I was scared for her.’

  ‘She’ll be okay. What the hell happened?’

  ‘You’ll see on the video. He came by after lunchtime. He called ahead. He does that sometimes, in the mid-afternoon. There was a rally this morning, you know? He was on a real high, you could tell. He had been drinking. After they made love, Mirielle asked him about this place like you wanted. Michel went crazy, Lynch. Really crazy. Okay, he likes a little roughhouse, but this was insane. My boys are ex-army, yes? They are tough. There are three of them before they stop him. His security they arrive then, with guns. It was bad. Like those days, you know? The war. Like that again. They nearly tore the place apart. I was scared of the police so I had Hassan bring us here.’

  He curled his arm around her shoulder. ‘I didn’t realise this would happen, Marcie. I’m sorry.’ He felt her moisture on his hand as he rubbed her cheek. A car horn sounded twice on the street below, a pickup. She broke free to drink from her glass and nestled her head against his shoulder again.

  He thought about Stokes. Every time he sent someone in to find out something about Freij and Hussein, they got hurt. Maybe it’s time to go yourself, Gerald, and stop getting others to do your dirty work.

  Marcelle’s voice was concerned. ‘Will she really be okay?’

  ‘I think so. The doctor wasn’t happy. She’ll need to rest, might need to see someone else later. Is there somewhere you can take her?’

  Marcelle nodded against Lynch’s hand. ‘Yes, but not tonight. Please not tonight.’

  ‘No, no. Not tonight.’

  Lynch flicked his cigar butt over the railing to spin down into the darkness as the balcony door opened. He turned with Marcelle to see Nathalie framed in the soft light from the living room, her mouth open in shock.

  ‘How many women do you need, Lynch?’

  Marcelle moved first, pulling her wrap closed. ‘Nathalie, please.’

  Lynch let Marcelle follow Nathalie through the door. He admired Marcelle’s red-painted toenails and lithe, gypsy feet. He stood on the balcony and took a reflective drink from his glass, letting the sound of raised voices from inside the apartment mingle with the night-time sounds of the Ain Mreisse area, the traffic noises mixed with the clink of glasses from the balcony of an apartment below. Laughter from a party across the street carried on the cool breeze. He went inside in time to hear the slam of Nathalie’s bedroom door. Marcelle stood perplexed in the living room.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She wouldn’t talk to me. She’s a crazy one.’

  The girl Mirielle was sleeping, her breathing relaxed. Lynch turned off the light and closed the bedroom door softly. Marcelle followed him down to the kitchen. He pulled an ice tray from the freezer, cracked a series of lumps into his glass, and filled it from the stand of bottles in the living room. She held hers out and he obliged. He took her hand and they held onto each other as they strolled into the master bedroom.

  Lynch woke. The moonlight shone through the window across the bed; he’d forgotten to draw the curtain. He lay, his mind racing with inchoate thoughts, watching the rise and fall of Marcelle’s breathing as the moonlight cast shadows down her elegant back. She was half covered by the duvet, her leg bent so the smoothness of her perfect skin glowed blue, a slope that led down into the mysterious warmth in the shadows.

  He crept out of bed and into the living room. He opened his laptop and inserted the memory key from his jeans pocket.

  The camera in Marcelle’s ‘special room’ had been there for three years, replacing the microphone that had served for the ten years prior. London had grudgingly sent a technician to replace the mike, but the camera was obsolete, only recorded an hour of footage onto a memory key and was relatively low resolution. Wireless connection was deemed insecure and Lynch’s constant requests for an upgrade had eventually earned a lecture from Channing on budget cuts. Little wonder, he thought. Nobody gave a shit for anything he caught in Marcelle’s little honey trap anyway, although Lynch took care not to tell her. A little over a year ago, Marcelle had delivered some juicy footage of a high-ranking member of the armed forces and a couple of underage girls. Lynch’s proposal to burn the man had been turned down by Channing, who had pointed out that 98 percent of Lebanon’s pitiful armoury was supplied and maintained by the Yanks and anything the Lebanese armed forces had to say in bed or out was likely to have been dictated by the Americans.

  The video file opened. Michel Freij watched the girl strip. Freij tapped the arm of his chair, grinding his cigarette out in the glass ashtray. When she was ready, he was peremptory, gesturing at her to kneel on the bed. He undid his belt and advanced on her. Facing the camera, she had closed her eyes. Her face was pretty, milky skin and heavy lashes. Freij’s voice was indistinct and Lynch cursed the old equipment. He watched, mesmerised as Freij thrust, the girl’s eyes snapping open and a cry forced from her lips.

  Later, she cradled Michel Freij’s head and stroked his hair. The sound was still indistinct, but her mouth formed the words, ‘Deir Na’ee’. Freij scrambled to his feet, shouting as the girl cowered. He lashed at her with his fists then his heavy-buckled
belt, looping it around his knuckles and punching down at her pitiful, hunched body. He screamed at her, a strange mixture of French and Arabic, ‘Who told you about that? Who told you to ask me about it, whore?’

  Indistinct figures rushed the room, the amount of movement overwhelming the ageing camera, the recording breaking up. The video file ended in static. Lynch sat at the blank laptop screen, his face illuminated by its dull light, until Marcelle softly called his name. She stood in the doorway, wearing his shirt.

  ‘Come back to bed. Leave it.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The insistent treble of his mobile woke Lynch. He scrabbled for the handset, his face screwed up against the daylight streaming through the window. A Beirut mobile, an unknown number.

  He croaked. ‘Lynch.’

  ‘Mr Lynch. I trust you are well. It has been too long since we last talked.’

  Lynch sat up, stilling Marcelle as she turned to speak, the duvet rustling. He had last heard the voice on a video file: Michel Freij. ‘Too long for you, maybe.’

  The velvet laughter was synthetic. ‘I thought perhaps we could meet. The Gray? At eleven for coffee? I am sure you would find the assignation in your interest.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see ye there.’

  He cut the line and turned to Marcelle. ‘Freij.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To meet. This is going to be interesting. Are you okay to take the girl home while I’m gone? Hassan will come over, no?’

  Hassan, Marcelle’s driver, was devoted to her, loyal in a way only an older generation would understand loyalty: absolute, unthinking, and pure as the fire of faith. Hassan had been there when Lynch had come to Lebanon as a kid to work as a barman at Marcelle’s first, doomed, enterprise, a shady little club in Monot called ‘Le Chat Botté’. Hassan had always been there.