Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 16

  Lynch was so far away he had forgotten her. She sat and let him speak, the sunlight glowing red and the shadows deepening the lines on his face. Lynch closed his eyes for a long time. He reached to the table and refilled their glasses.

  ‘I mean, I thought we were talking about a money-laundering racket, not an out of control Lebanese Christian militia smuggling nuclear warheads. I’d never have used an irregular on something that dangerous if I’d known.’ He fell silent again and she turned to scan the skyline of Ain Mreisse, almost missing his whisper. ‘Christ have mercy on me.’

  Nathalie was surprised. ‘You are religious?’

  His quick laugh was sardonic. ‘It’s more a figure of speech.’

  The sound of raised voices carried from the street below. Nathalie leaned over the balcony’s cast iron railing. Two men were arguing. One of them was selling radishes and herbs from a cart, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he waved the other man away, the other calling on those around him to witness some iniquity or another.

  ‘They always argue here. It must be the water.’ She turned to Lynch. ‘You cannot blame yourself for Paul’s death.’

  He took his time to answer her. ‘They both died, that young couple, because of me. I owe it to Paul to at least avenge his murder, so an’ I do.’

  ‘What about the warheads?’

  ‘It’s strange, you know. I’ve never got out of the habit of being grateful for being able to stand on this balcony without worrying about being shot. In the war, you’d not have lasted two seconds out here.’

  Nathalie sipped her drink and watched him. Lynch turned his back on the shimmering blue expanse to face her.

  ‘Your father was right. There’s nothing to stop Michel trying again. We’ll be very lucky to pin any involvement with those warheads on him, particularly if he gets the presidency. But the question is what he wanted to do with the damn things and to answer that, we need to get inside Falcon Dynamics.’

  ‘We haven’t been able to penetrate their networks. My team here has been working on it for days. And they’re good, the best.’

  ‘So why don’t we get all old-fashioned and go for humint? Find someone who’ll let us in?’

  Nathalie nodded. ‘Agreed. My thoughts entirely. We have been looking for known defence contacts with links to Falcon. We have also been trying to find local contacts, employees and so on. It’s not easy. Strangely, Falcon Dynamics is highly advanced digitally, but Lebanon is still a very analogue country in so many ways. It makes things harder than you would imagine.’

  ‘Grand. If you focus on that, I’ll go and play around in Malta. Is that okay with you?’

  Nathalie held her glass to clink against and then drained her whisky. ‘Not bad, this stuff. We need to get some Ricard, though. I miss Ricard. I am going to get dressed, I have promised to have dinner with a friend.’

  Nathalie put her head around the door. ‘I’m going. Don’t wait up for me. Good luck in Malta.’

  Lynch whistled. ‘You brush up well, so. I hope he’s worth it.’

  She grinned. ‘You’ll never know.

  He stared at the diamonds around her neck. ‘Are those real?’

  ‘Again, you’ll never know.’ She laughed and turned away, her heels clacking down the corridor. The front door closed. After a short time staring at the sea, Lynch took his mobile and called Leila. This time she picked up.

  ‘Lynch.’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were,’ he said. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘What does it matter? Are you enjoying your games?’

  He looked up at the whiteness of Sannine’s peak towering beyond the city in the waning light. ‘They’re not games. It’s what I do. You’ve always known that. It’ll be over soon. Will you come back?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know, Lynch. My head’s in another place right now. I have some living to do.’

  ‘I have to go away for a while. Can I see you when it’s over?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Her voice trembled. ‘Then I can’t trust you. You understand that? I’m a secret from your secret life. That’s just not me.’ She sniffed, the sound faint through her hand cupped over the receiver, he guessed. They shared the silence for what seemed like an eternity, the line was hissy.

  ‘Okay. If you come back, Lynch. Call me first, yes?’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks, I will.’

  Lynch should have felt elation, but he was filled with a terrible sadness. Sitting back with his whisky, he drifted, the sound of the city street below him lulling him as the shadows gathered. Someone was cooking in the apartment below and had the window open. He could hear pans. He was a child again, dustbin lids clattering on the Falls Road. He was upstairs, fighting for his life as Cathal tried to take his money from him, the two quid from his paper round. He was in the kitchen, shouting at their foster mother, her kind, lined face shocked at his words. He was standing in the bathroom over Cathal’s still form, the older boy’s lips blue and a needle lying on the tiled floor. Gerry Lynch was sent back to the Sisters of Charity after that. The family hadn’t been able to cope with the trouble. Nobody had told them the older boy was an addict. Nobody had known, to tell the truth. Nobody except Gerry. And somehow they blamed him for knowing.

  He woke with a start, the air cool. His cigar had gone out. He checked his watch and swore softly. His mobile was ringing and he hurried inside to answer it, Marcelle’s smoky voice his reward. ‘Can you come over, Lynch?’

  He pocketed the phone and headed for the door. He paused for a second, uncertain whether to take the Walther. On the balance of it, he decided, no.

  Lynch leaned against the bar, drinking an Almaza, tearing up a beer mat and trying not to want to smoke. It was early and the club was almost empty, a few huddled couples whispering in the dark corners and a party of loud suits drinking champagne at the other end of the long walnut counter.

  Marcelle joined him. She was angry, her tone urgent. ‘What the fuck happened there, Lynch? Freij has paid me ten thousand bucks to say sorry and hopes that the girl wasn’t hurt in the “unfortunate accident”.’

  Lynch tossed the soggy shreds onto the bar. ‘So it’s a win-win, Marcie. Your girl gets patched up, you get to earn bank and Michel stays clean. Why buck that?’

  Decorated for the evening shift, Marcelle was resplendent in a clinging black velvet dress accentuating her curves, cut perfectly under her taut breasts. Gold hung from her ears and neck, her bangle glittered with diamonds and kohl framed her eyes.

  ‘Come on. Have a drink and celebrate your luck.’

  She gauged him, her lips tight. He smiled at her and patted the red leather stool. She sat and snapped her fingers at the barman. ‘Martini. Dirty.’

  Lynch’s gaze ran up her legs to her face and met her frown.

  ‘Forget it, Lynch. You got a freebie. Count your blessings. But forget it.’

  He smiled, shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember a thing.’

  She leaned forward, drawling, her touch light on his thigh. ‘Babe, I have known a shitload of men. I so know you.’

  Lynch lowered his eyes, smiling. ‘Marcie, take his money and keep the girl quiet. Did he mention anything else to you?’

  ‘Nothing. That girl almost died. He’s an animal.’

  ‘Sure, but he’s playing nicely, so just go along with it. You have my number. Please take care.’

  The barman placed her Martini on the bar, waiting on her reaction as she lifted the frosted cocktail glass, the queen olive speared on its cocktail stick, which rolled into her full lip as she sipped. ‘Good. Thank you.’ She tipped her chin, dismissing him.

  She turned to Lynch, her deep eyes half-lidded. Her contempt was languid. ‘Lynch, you have a short memory. I used to take care of you, remember? You were a kid when you came to Beirut. You were scared of loud noises. You pissed yourself in the air raids. Don’t presume to mother me.’

  The lights dimmed and music start
ed to pump. The first floor-show of the evening was starting.

  Lynch stepped down from the bar stool, smiling. His hand caressed her thigh with a light, passing touch that slid inside her leg fleetingly. He leaned into her to speak over the music. ‘You’re getting older, Marcie. You can’t afford all that pride.’

  He left her without a backwards glance, ignoring the two listless girls he passed as they stroked each other’s breasts automatically in time to the pumping music.

  Marcelle Aboud tossed back the rest of her drink and flung her glass on the floor, her eyes flashed at the wide-eyed barman as she stood. ‘Clear it up, you idiot.’

  Ghassan Maalouf sipped his Caipirinha delicately. Nathalie tried not to feel out of place. She knew her dress was elegant and complemented her slim figure and full bust, was perhaps even a little too daring. She had checked her makeup and it was the best she could do, the red lipstick contrasting with her fine skin and black bobbed hair, a touch of colour on her cheeks and her green eyes framed with mascara. She wore diamonds, borrowed from the ambassador’s wife, an elegant lady in her fifties who had declared herself Nathalie’s surrogate mother. She clutched an Hermès evening bag that had likewise been pressed on her by her new companion. Yet she felt like an intruder, a dowdy little sparrow in the opulence of the Casino du Liban and its outré occupants. They swept by in a tide of silk and tumbling hair and pumped-up breasts, chattering parties of fleshy-lipped brilliant white smiles on the arms of dark-suited, swarthy men with blue-shadowed chins and male pattern baldness.

  Nathalie had watched as Maalouf won and then lost five hundred dollars at roulette. He walked her through the gaming room to the bar afterwards, acknowledging the attention of the many people who greeted him or stopped him to offer their wishes. Always deferentially, Nathalie noted.

  Maalouf’s rumbling voice brought her back to earth, to her seat at the table in the elegant salon. ‘You are not drinking.’

  Nathalie smiled and lifted her glass to her lips, the cold, sweet aniseed flowing over her tongue. ‘It is very kind of you to invite me to join you here. I had not visited this place before.’

  ‘But you lived in Lebanon.’

  ‘As a child. This is not a place for children, Monsieur.’

  Maalouf chuckled, his merry eyes looking her up and down. ‘Absolutely not. You certainly are no child now, though. You are every piece as beautiful as your mother was.’

  ‘You are a flatterer.’

  He shook his head, his expression becoming serious. ‘No, the truth. It is important to be aware of the difference between these as it is to be aware of the difference between love and hate. Both are too close, so some subtlety is required. But truth is important.’ He studied her face.

  She held his gaze. ‘Then let us practice, Monsieur. What do you seek, precisely?’

  His white-whiskered face broke into a smile. ‘Ah, so the interrogation begins. Are you, I wonder, as effective as your mother was? Are we to anticipate the same mixture of intellect and persistence?’

  ‘You said you knew her. Did you know her well?’

  ‘Yes, since before she met your father. She was a famous beauty, but you know this. She was well known here.’ He gestured at the opulent bar, taking in the whole hillside complex of concert halls, gaming rooms, bars and restaurants overlooking the bay north of Jounieh. ‘In better times.’

  Nathalie’s face clouded. ‘Her family was from Jounieh. Before ...’

  ‘I am sorry. We should perhaps change the subject.’ Maalouf brushed the lapel of his tuxedo. ‘It was insensitive of me to talk like this of the past.’

  Seeing the little red thread in his buttonhole took Nathalie back to Vivienne Chalabi’s house and their first meeting and reminded her of Lynch. She wondered what he was doing and rather thought he would still be drinking whisky.

  Maalouf shifted in his chair and sighed. ‘I shall cut, as they say, to the chase. I run the organisation ultimately responsible for Lebanon’s antiterrorist operations.’

  Having checked him on the European Joint Intelligence Centre database, Nathalie knew this. She also knew he had graduated from a long career in the mukhabbarat, the secret police, and had a long history of affiliation to the Syrians and close ties to Syrian intelligence. Maalouf was a highly respected and influential member of the Christian community, an assiduous networker and one of the few figures to enjoy the confidence of key leaders in every one of Lebanon’s many, many political camps. An assassination attempt against him in the early nineties by a group of Shi’ite hotheads had led to the would-be assassins being handed over personally to Maalouf by Hezbollah. An unfortunate and fatal accident had sadly prevented the young hotheads from being brought to justice. Maalouf was thought to be a strong candidate for head of Lebanese intelligence when the current incumbent retired. It was thought the date of the retirement would be set by Maalouf himself.

  Maalouf smiled at Nathalie, pushing his drink on the tabletop with his forefinger, a shy gesture for such a powerful man. ‘We have been watching you and Mr Lynch with some interest. It is clear you are involved in a major operation targeted against Michel Freij. Are you not?’

  Nathalie felt her pulse rising. Careful girl. She sipped her drink and met his eyes over the brim of the glass. ‘We are.’

  ‘You have been adding significant resources to the French Embassy staff. Given your own role within EJIC, this would lead me to believe you are involved in an electronic surveillance or interception operation against a Lebanese target.’

  She smiled, relaxing. ‘We are all led to belief, are we not? How much nicer to have belief brought to us. So much more convenient.’

  Maalouf banged his glass on the table. She managed not to jump. Maalouf lifted a finger to her. ‘Don’t be facetious. You and your British friend are playing around in my backyard and we would have stepped in many days ago if we did not happen to share a common goal.’

  ‘And what is that, Monsieur?’

  Maalouf snorted. ‘Freij, of course. Michel Freij. We know what he’s doing. And we want him stopped. We can help you.’

  NINETEEN

  Gonsalves had watched with relief the lights of Gibraltar twinkling on the horizon behind them. He was nervous about the nosy Brits and their fast little Scimitar-class patrol boats, but the passage through the straits the night before had been uneventful. They had travelled in a state of blackout close to the Moroccan side, the commercial shipping lanes interspersed between them and the Spanish coast. As dawn broke, Gonsalves charted a course farther out to sea. He called Martinez, the sullen Spaniard, to take the wheel. Gonsalves was running the boat with a skeleton crew of four: Boutros; little Panamides the silent killer from Bogota, a surly Frenchman called Blanc who cooked like an angel and swore like a trooper and Pedro Martinez, a wheezing, dirty old bastard with black fingernails. Filthy as he might be, Gonsalves reflected as he left the boat in Martinez’ hands, he knew his way around a boat. Gonsalves turned in and had spent much of the uneventful day’s cruise asleep, the unbroken blue brilliance of the Mediterranean lost on him.

  Now the dark sea stretched ahead of him again, the big boat’s pale wake kissed by the full moon. Gonsalves checked the route; they were set to make Malta the next morning. He scooped three chunks from the ice bucket and sloshed the last of the Macallan into the crystal tumbler at his side. He took the big boat to fifteen knots, enjoying the iodine night air. Gonsalves called down to Boutros on the intercom.

  ‘Come up and take the wheel.’

  He increased the thrust and the big twin engines responded, sending a powerful shudder through the boat to lift the prow, the wash rhythmic and the salt of the open sea in his nostrils. He sipped his whisky and steered the big yacht. Twenty knots and more in reserve. He grinned. Damn, but she was a fine ship.

  Gonsalves was laughing when Boutros arrived, his puzzlement at his skipper’s mood clear on his big face. Gonsalves moved aside. ‘Here. Take over. Keep us at this speed. Charts are over there.’

 
‘Skip.’

  ‘Give me the key to the girl’s room.’

  ‘Skip?’

  ‘The key to her room. Give it to me.’

  Boutros held the wheel, grinning sycophantically. ‘But Skip...’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Boutros handed over the key. Sipping from his glass, Gonsalves held the key in his other hand, stroking the little metal sliver between his thumb and forefinger as he picked his way down the stairway. He took his time, his hand sliding on the steel railing of the spiral staircase and the icy, pale liquid warming his mouth as he took the last turn onto the lower deck. He stopped by the guest cabin door and inserted the key in the lock, pushing it in smoothly. His heart hammered, his mouth dry with anticipation. He locked the door behind him.

  She was awake, disoriented. ‘Who are you?’

  He smiled at her, placing his tumbler on the bedside table. ‘I am the captain of this ship.’ His German didn’t even sound rusty. He exulted in his control as he sat on the bed beside her. ‘Do you feel better?’

  Her voice was thick. ‘Better? Better than what? I have been kidnapped. I demand to be released.’

  ‘And so you shall be,’ Gonsalves reassured her. ‘There has been a terrible mistake. Would you like some water?’

  She studied his face for a moment and he was careful to stay impassive and calm. ‘Yes, yes please.’

  He fetched a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom and she took it from him in the palms of her two hands, her extended fingers shaking as she gulped. The Fentanyl did that, thought Gonsalves. Dry mouth or retches.

  He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You’re hot. Want more water?’

  She recoiled from his touch. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘At sea. It’s okay now. You’re safe. We’ve sorted out the mix-up and we’ll get you to land soon enough.’