Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 15

  Lynch scrambled for the cover of a pile of damaged tractor tyres as Palmer’s shrieks cut off, leaving a terrible silence. From his low vantage point, Lynch glimpsed the blotched linen, the white hands flat on the ground and Palmer’s bloody face turned to the right, away from him. Acutely conscious of minutiae, he watched the first fat fly settle on the corpse’s pudgy white finger in nightmare slo-mo.

  Chalhoub cried a warning. A figure behind the wall was silhouetted for a second against the mountains. Chalhoub’s shot rang out. The figure collapsed. Lynch sprinted for the wall. Chalhoub was first. The Lebanese police car’s siren wailed as Lynch stared over the wall at the body spread before him, the revolver still clasped in the man’s hand and the back of his head blown away, dusty gore streaked behind him in a monstrous splash. Lying on the ground some ten feet beyond was a camouflage-patterned forage cap.

  Lynch reholstered his gun. ‘Well, that’s him done, then. Nice shot.’

  Chalhoub bent down, patting the man’s pockets. ‘Thanks. Nothing on him.’

  Lynch returned to Palmer’s bulky corpse. The bullet had hit him in the eye and taken much of his right temple with it. No stranger to violent death, Lynch still had to clench his mouth and fight the impulse rising in his throat.

  ‘Sorry, Palmer. You weren’t cut out for this, son. Should have stayed home.’

  Chalhoub joined Lynch, the two Lebanese policemen behind him. ‘This is going to be a little messy, I think.’

  Lynch shook his head. ‘No, we needn’t be involved. Your two boys here can take the credit. Terrorist, kidnapped British Embassy official, cannabis farmer driven to extremes. Terrorist kills embassy man, brave police shoot terrorist. This was a cannabis farm, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Likely. The fields haven’t been tended for years. We kept ploughing them up until they stopped.’

  ‘Only one small detail you’ll have to brush over, Tony. Jamal there’s got a gunshot wound in the right leg. A nine mill parabellum.’

  Chalhoub glanced at Lynch. ‘You’ve met before, then.’

  ‘Twice before and he didn’t mean me any good either time. He’s Freij’s man all right, but not a freelance. He’s militia. He was expecting us. Now I’m not sure if Freij was trying to use him to waste me or me to waste him.’

  Chalhoub held up his palm, his fingers fanned in the universal Arab gesture that means everything from what’s going on? right through to what the hell’s your problem? He turned to the policemen and spat a string of Arabic at them. They brightened and, with a ‘shukran sidi’, thank you, they raced back to their car and started their urgent report over the radio.

  Chalhoub followed Lynch over to the caravan. The door was open. ‘I reckon we’ve got about fifteen minutes before half of the Bekaa police force arrives here,’ Chalhoub warned.

  ‘We can leave now, Tony. I have everything I need.’

  Lynch turned in the gloomy interior and offered the piece of paper he’d picked up from the grubby, lino-topped table. Chalhoub took it, unfolding the thick parchment to reveal the bold, flowing calligraphy: Gerald Lynch. There was a photograph of Lynch clipped to the note.

  ‘You recognise it, yes?’

  Chalhoub stared. Lynch’s voice was bitter. ‘One of Freij’s little notes. That photograph was taken in London.’ Lynch bent to sit at the table, which bore the remnants of a meal, a crumpled bag of sugar, a glass with a tea bag in it and a full ashtray. Next to the ashtray was a half-empty jar of pickles, which Lynch picked up distractedly. He turned it and watched the cucumbers dance in the cloudy, green-tinged brine. ‘At Paul Stokes’ funeral. I met Freij there. The bastard must have had a photographer with him.’

  ‘So he likes you.’

  ‘He’s in fucking love with me, isn’t he? The kiss of death is what he wants to give me, right enough.’ Lynch banged the jar down on the table, making the ashtray jump. Chalhoub, too. ‘I’m going to have him, Tony, I swear to God.’

  ‘Let’s go, Gerald. This place stinks.’

  ‘Everywhere stinks. Everywhere Freij goes smells of death. He’s evil.’

  Chalhoub put his hand on Lynch’s shoulder. Lynch knocked it away, his dive for the door rocking the caravan.

  EIGHTEEN

  For over 180 years, the Ottoman Grand Serail has commanded Beirut from its lofty position atop the city, a huge quadrangle of pale stone capped with a red-tiled roof. Lynch didn’t spare the great building a glance as he hurried along its frontage, passing the towering gates and ignoring the bored glances of the soldiers guarding the prime ministerial headquarters. Nathalie Durand fell back and called to him. Lynch turned and cast his eyes to heaven. She leant against the wall, massaging her reddened ankle where her shoe had rubbed it in the walk uphill from where the servees driver had dropped them in Sodeco.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I did not expect —’

  ‘Wear flat shoes in future. You’re operational, not on a shopping trip. Come on.’ Lynch forged ahead, her limping clatter following him up the street.

  Entering the British Embassy building, Lynch ignored the security guards and their scanner and strode to the lift, stabbing the call button. Nathalie regained her breath as Lynch glared around him, tapping his foot.

  They waited together for the ambassador to see them, the only sound in the room the faint echo of voices from the visa section echoing through the oak door and the electronic tick of the clock on the wall. Minutes of aching silence later, the great doors opened and St John Winterton marched out.

  He waved them into the office as he left. ‘Go on, go on in. What the hell are you waiting for?’

  Brian Channing and Yves Dubois sat at the head of the long mahogany table, both working at laptops. Dubois kissed Nathalie on both cheeks.

  ‘Take a seat, guys.’ Channing gestured along the table.

  Lynch sat, Nathalie three seats away from him.

  Channing grinned. ‘He really doesn’t like you, does he?’

  Lynch was momentarily mystified. ‘Oh, Winterton? Sure, he’s a teddy bear under that gruff exterior. Laugh a minute when you squirt a couple of scotches into him.’

  Dubois closed the lid of his laptop. ‘To bring you up to date, we have located the Arabian Princess. We have a satellite fix on her and we have a British patrol boat following her in long pursuit using radar. The analysts think she will try to refuel in Malta or possibly Tripoli.’

  Channing grunted. ‘My money would have said Tripoli, but we have additional intelligence that points to Malta. Thank God, because we’re damn close to the Maltese and the very idea of the bloody Libs getting hold of two hundred kilotons of mayhem makes me want to shit, to be honest, post-Ghaddafi or not.’

  Dubois raised an eyebrow at Channing, but he had returned to his laptop, his fingers pecking at the keyboard, leaving Dubois to continue. ‘C Company, the Maltese special forces, are planning to take the boat when it docks. Their unit has been strengthened by a unit from the British Special Boat Squadron. They’re flying in now. This boat will not leave Valetta if it docks there.’

  Nathalie crossed her arms. Lynch caught the movement in time to see her blouse part to expose the curve of her breast as she spoke. ‘Then it is end game, no?’

  Dubois made for the window, surveying the city below, his hands in his pockets. ‘That rather depends on you and Monsieur Lynch. We still don’t have Peter Meier and we still have no tangible evidence against Michel Freij and Selim Hussein.’ He turned, his face half-shadowed. ‘Unless you have something for me.’

  Nathalie bit her lip. ‘Nothing new. We have flown the team in and they are established at the Résidence des Pins, but Falcon’s security is highly sophisticated.’

  Channing’s head lifted. ‘Residence de what?’

  ‘Résidence des Pins,’ Lynch answered. ‘It’s the French Embassy. And no, we’ve still got nothing on Freij beyond a dead man who was sent to kill me.’

  ‘What do you think the president of Lebanon and the head of a successful defence systems manufacturer
would want with two nuclear warheads, Monsieur Lynch?’

  Lynch frowned. ‘He’s not president yet. Parliament has to vote him in.’

  Dubois’ rich voice was amused. ‘Oh, I rather think he has put it in the bag, Monsieur Lynch. The Americans are being very nice to him. He is very close to them. He will be interviewed by CNN, I understand. His rally this week was widely televised. Parliament knows he carries a populist card. He will almost certainly gain the parliamentary vote. He has been paying all the right people very generously indeed. His posters are all over the city. The campaign has been extraordinarily slick and very expensive. Mark my words, Michel Freij is the next president of Lebanon.’

  ‘Close to the Americans? His father was a major thug, Michel is no better. Why would he be close to the Yanks?’

  Dubois allowed himself a taut smile. ‘American and Israeli interests are closely aligned, as you well know. And so are Israel and the Christian militia. Falcon works extensively with American companies, Monsieur Lynch. They’re the biggest overseas contractor to the US defence industry outside Israel. It’s a virtuous circle of interests.’

  ‘Do you know if Freij has links to the CIA?’

  Channing stirred. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘Frank Coleman was hanging around at his rally the other day, didn’t like being seen in public.’

  Dubois leaned over and made a quick note. ‘We’ll look for it, but I would not be surprised at some degree of contact given Freij’s involvement in military procurement and defence.’

  Lynch rubbed his chin. He’d forgotten to shave. ‘Is this nuclear thing part of the presidential grab? You think he’s going to pull a Geagea if he doesn’t get the vote?’

  Nathalie shot him an irritated glance. ‘Pull a what?’

  ‘A Geagea,’ Lynch grinned. ‘Sure, haven’t ye ever met a Geagea?’

  Nathalie pushed her chair back, smoothing her skirt. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this childishness. I have work to do.’

  Dubois looked from Lynch to Nathalie. ‘It is good to see you are getting on. Sit down, Nathalie. What did you mean, Monsieur Lynch?’

  ‘Sure you know yourself. You were here, weren’t you? Samir Geagea and Michel Aoun held the Lebanese Parliament to ransom by surrounding it with militia in the late eighties. Geagea the kingmaker. Isn’t that Freij’s game? You know, vote for me or I push the button?’

  Dubois shook his head, his face registering disbelief. ‘I cannot find that conceivable. We are a long way from 1988. Lebanon has left that time behind it. Nobody would be mad enough to take the country back there, let alone use a nuclear device on their own country. No, Monsieur Lynch, there has to be another reason Freij wants to acquire two nuclear warheads. I need you two to work together and find what it is. We don’t know when we stop this attempt he is making he won’t make another one.’

  ‘If the Yanks are so fond of him, get Coleman to rein him in.’

  Dubois wheeled to face Lynch. ‘May I remind you we are not talking to “the Yanks” right now. We are very hopeful to avoid telling them the European Union has lost two nuclear warheads. We might have traced the boat, but we haven’t secured it yet.’

  Channing surfaced from his laptop again, beaming at Lynch and Nathalie. The screen cast a blue sheen over his face. ‘Need you to go to Malta, Gerald. Your friend Mister Freij owns a nice executive jet and it flew there this morning, apparently. Funny thing to be doing in the middle of a race for the presidency, isn’t it? Tootling off to Malta. At least Libya’s totally out of the picture now, so that’s one less worry. The Arabian Princess is making for Malta for sure.’ Channing closed his laptop and stood, the computer under his arm. ‘Right, must dash. Lovely to chat with you all. Come on, Gerald, let’s get you sorted with flights and things. You’ll like Malta. Nice weather. Food’s pants unless you know where to eat.’

  Lynch opened the door and turned to Nathalie. ‘Coming?’

  She glanced at him in disgust. ‘No. I want to talk to my father.’

  Lynch shrugged and followed Channing, the door slamming behind him.

  Dubois breathed deeply. Channing irritated him at times. He feared the Englishman’s political capability, wondered at times if Channing was goading him with his affectations. Lost in thought, he jumped when Nathalie hit the table and cried out. She spoke in French, the words tumbling from her.

  ‘In the name of God, he’s impossible, Papa. He spends all his time chasing women, drinking and fighting. It’s too much. He is infuriating. He has no ... subtlety.’

  Dubois laughed. ‘He is a man of action, Nathalie. You need a man of action to protect you, to follow up with the physical work that is undoubtedly going to be necessary. You need to work with him, to incentivise and guide him. You have the background in pure intelligence, in gathering data. Use him to help you in this, to provide the human intelligence. You will find you need this in Beirut. You are leading this effort, your team is here now and I understand they are working well. Manage Lynch. This is your big chance. Use him, Nathalie.’

  ‘But he is,’ Nathalie’s fists were clenched, ‘impossible. He takes the servees taxis and yet he can drive. He even has an embassy car. He breaks every rule of cover constantly. He drinks like a fish. And his temper ...’

  Dubois breasted the table, taking her in his arms and hugging her, his hand stroking her back. ‘Come, Nino. I have too much to do for now. Make me proud, eh?’

  She nodded into his shoulder and Dubois tried not to think of her mother, but Beirut brought back too many memories and he had to let her go and turn away so she wouldn’t see his tears as she left.

  Dubois looked over the city that had been his home for five years and where he had met a proud, glorious Lebanese girl with green eyes. Gazing over the rooftops, something cold crept over him, making him shudder. Dubois felt the spectre of the vicious civil war that destroyed this beautiful city and his own humanity. It was decades ago. Surely it couldn’t happen again? Dubois realised he had voiced the thought aloud.

  Lynch was sitting outside on the balcony smoking a cigar when Nathalie entered the apartment. She went into the kitchen, fished out the ice cube tray from the freezer, and filled a tumbler with ice, taking it through to the living room where she picked up two glasses and a bottle of Tyrconnell from the tray. She slipped through to the balcony, placed the glasses down on the plastic table and poured two drinks. She pushed one towards him and kept the plain tumbler with the blue glass teardrop in its base for herself. She quite liked it.

  ‘Ice?’

  Lynch stared at the drinks and up at Nathalie. ‘Not that glass.’ He got to his feet and held his hand out to her barely in time to stop her flinging the drink in his face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be funny, but not that glass. Here, I’ll get you another one.’

  She sat, mystified, while he took the glass away and brought her a crystal tumbler. ‘Ice?’

  She shook her head. ‘What was this about?’

  ‘Can I tell you another day?’ Lynch implored her.

  She nodded. She opened her mouth to speak but he caught her eye, his face solemn, holding his glass up between them pinched between his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers held up to silence her. ‘Look, I want to say I’m sorry. I haven’t been very considerate to you and I think you deserve better. We have a job to do together and I haven’t made it easy, I know. I’ll try and watch my mouth in future.’

  He seemed sincere enough, Nathalie reflected as she looked into his eyes. And yet she wanted to scream with frustration. She drew breath and touched her glass to his. He smiled, the waning sun catching his green eyes, the sudden urchin’s grin making her smile in return. She drank to hide her confusion. Oh, Maman, mais il est dangereux.

  ‘Peace?’

  ‘Peace.’

  Lynch sat back, puffing on his cigar. She liked the smell. It reminded her of being a child and sneaking downstairs when her parents had held dinner parties. A car horn sounded below them in the jostling traffic
, the sun warming her back.

  ‘When do you fly to Malta?’

  ‘First thing in the morning. No private jets for me and there aren’t any direct flights. Seven bloody hours.’

  ‘Lynch, can I ask you a question?’

  His shoulders stiffened. He tapped the cigar against the balcony railing and nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who was Paul Stokes, exactly?’

  She watched him, his face turning away from her to look to sea, the orange glow of the sun reflected in his eyes. He took a deep breath and turned to face her.

  ‘Paul was a young man I met in Jordan. He was working for a government ministry there, producing a magazine for them. I sort of hooked up with him because my masters had an interest in the ministry’s work.’ Lynch drew on his cigar. Nathalie waited, her eyes on Lynch’s grim face as he gazed back to the sea.

  ‘He was in love with a Jordanian girl, Aisha Dajani. Her brother was involved in a hare-brained scheme to drain the Israeli water supply in order to bolster Jordan’s. The Izzies wanted him stopped and the alternative to his scheme was a nice, profitable British consortium. So we stopped him.’ Lynch closed his eyes briefly. ‘There was some ...’ he caught Nathalie’s eye and smiled humourlessly. ‘Confusion. The Jordanians were too heavy-handed and Aisha was killed. I took Paul under my wing and brought him here. He was working for Beirut Today as a journalist. He did the occasional bit of research for me on the side.’

  Nathalie watched Lynch, his eyes focused far out to sea and into the past. She sipped her drink, the ice clinking. ‘And you were friends.’

  ‘I suppose I felt responsible for him. After all, she died because of me, even if that wasn’t something I wanted to happen. When we picked up the first clues Michel and his partner Selim were fiddling around with clandestine money transfers, I sent Paul to interview Freij and rattle his cage. They killed him. Michel killed him. Worse, it was casual, like, done as a warning to me, you know? They took a man’s life just to pass on a message. It was swatting a fly, no more than that.’