Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 18

  Boutros watched for a second more before he turned and hurried along the right hand gangway. He climbed to the bridge deck, waving at Blanc and Panamides standing on the wharf. Gonsalves was smoking and gazing at the lights of Valetta as dawn broke over Malta.

  ‘Magdy. You did well last night.’

  ‘Thanks, Skip. It was my ... you know, the first ...’

  ‘You said. I appreciate that.’ He blew smoke and smiled, clapping Boutros on the shoulder. ‘Good man, Magdy.’

  ‘Is it okay to go ashore later, Skip? I sort of need to. You know. Let off steam.’

  Gonsalves’ face clouded. He regarded the tip of his cigarette. ‘Sure, why not? We’re sailing before lunchtime though, so you can’t go too crazy out there. Not that there’s much to do in Valetta, you understand? You can pick up a mobile SIM for me while you’re there.’

  Boutros nodded fervently. ‘Aye, Skip. It’s good to breathe in the land air sometimes. To get a taste of it, you know?’

  ‘You’re a romantic, Magdy. It’ll get you in trouble one day, that big heart of yours. Be back by eleven, you hear? You don’t tell anyone a word about this boat. Not a word.’

  ‘Sure, Skip. Thanks.’ Boutros grinned. He slid down the stairwell and spent an hour pacing in his berth, marking time so he didn’t appear too eager to get ashore.

  Boutros took a long shower, splashed on aftershave, slicked back his hair, and took care to dress well. Finally, he strode down the gangplank past surly little Panamides leaning on the railing and smoking. Boutros’ heart felt like a kettle drum, the blood rushed in his ears, every second an eternity expecting to hear a shout behind him. The early morning sunlight was on his back.

  He struck out down the wharf and rounded the corner towards the main road leading off Manoel Island. He had arranged to meet Elli at the Excelsior, and he looked forward to being with her in safety.

  It wasn’t until he reached the main road he patted his pocket for his mobile phone. He hesitated for a second, but there was no way he was going back on that boat now. Boutros cursed and walked on, glancing back every now and then, just in case.

  TWENTY

  Lynch hadn’t been in Malta two minutes before catching up with his old friend – Paul Tomasi was waiting at the top of the jetway as the plane disgorged its weary passengers. In his early forties, tanned and fit, Tomasi was flanked by police officers. Lynch recognised him instantly, the swarthy features and impish grin that marked a man who didn’t necessarily take a career in law enforcement as an invitation to lose his humanity or lust for life. One of the policemen took Lynch’s wheelie-bag as Tomasi stepped forward with a hug for an old friend.

  ‘Gerald Lynch, you old rascal. Welcome to Malta.’

  Lynch grinned. ‘Paul Tomasi, by God. It’s been a long time.’

  They backed up to regard each other. Tomasi laughed. ‘Come on, we’ll whisk you through immigration like magicians.’

  They chatted as the police officers managed the formalities. Lynch punched his old friend’s arm. ‘So how the fuck did you get involved in this one, Paul?’

  ‘A job like this would naturally come to me these days. I got promoted to Director of Enforcement last year. They reckoned I’d messed up enough over at SIAT and pushed me uphill, some idea I’d do less damage behind a desk.’

  The easy, self-deprecating lie wasn’t lost on Lynch, who had known Tomasi as the head of Malta’s small but efficient Special Investigation Action Team. Lynch cast his memory back into his turbulent history as an SIS operative in the Levant and to the operation against the Iranian-backed gang smuggling Lebanese-refined heroin into Europe through Malta. ‘It’s been, what, five years?’

  Tomasi was lost in thought for a second. He nodded, ‘Sure. Five years. And you know what? Those bastards we worked so hard together to put behind bars got free before we ever got the chance to meet each other again. They released Renzo last August, you know? The fucker’s back in Malta now walking free on the street and there’s not a thing we can do about it. Tell me, how does that work, eh, Gerald?’

  Lynch’s face darkened. ‘I didn’t know, Paul. It’s crap. He was down for a fifteen-year stretch. I attended court for that one.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Good behaviour. Like someone fucked up enough to ship heroin will ever understand good behaviour. We should have kept him in Malta to do his stretch. I’d have made sure he didn’t get out before his time.’

  ‘Sorry. You know how the deal panned out.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know. Is this going to go the same way, then?’

  ‘This is way bigger. Way, way bigger.’ Lynch grinned. ‘And it’s travelling the other way, too. This one’s going from Europe to the Middle East.’

  Tomasi held Lynch’s eyes for a second then nodded. ‘We’re two minutes away from my headquarters. You can brief us when we get there.’

  As they left the airport building, a large black Lincoln pulled up. They got into the back, the front seat taken up by a burly army man with a shaven head and high cheekbones.

  Tomasi did the honours. ‘Gerald, this is Captain Gabriel Lentini. He heads up the unit of C Company we’re working with on this one. You might not know C Company, but they’re the Maltese version of your Special Boat Squadron. We’ve got some SBS boys here helping us out with this too. They’re reporting to Captain Lentini.’

  Lentini leaned back, his thick neck creasing as he turned to offer his hand. Lynch took it. ‘Good to meet you, Captain.’

  ‘Call me Gabe,’ Lentini replied in a soft, high-pitched voice.

  Tomasi’s voice was tight with excitement. ‘There are four teams watching the yacht and we have patrol boats on standby on the seaward side of Grand Harbour. We’ve delayed their refuelling with a cock and bull story about shortages on the island because of a fuel-workers’ strike. Gabe and his boys are going in tonight.’

  Lynch had nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I’m impressed, Paul. What about Freij?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is. His jet’s parked up at the airport but we got the heads up from Brian Channing too late to track him. And we have no record at all of any Peter Meier coming to Malta. Certainly not by air.’

  The ancient city of Valetta sped past, winding streets of deep yellow stone buildings capped by terracotta-tiled roofs. He longed for a shot of energy drink or another strong coffee. The car smelled of leather, the pale seats soft and comfortable, the powerful engine a soporific bass hum.

  The jerk of the car drawing to a halt wakened him. He glanced around to discover Paul Tomasi looking sympathetically at him from the open door. ‘Come on, Gerald, let’s get on with this. You can sleep after tonight.’

  Lynch rubbed his eyes. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Police headquarters, Floriana.’

  ‘Sorry, Paul. Too much flyin’ around I guess.’

  Lynch rang the doorbell, replaying Channing’s words in his mind. ‘Joseph Scerri. Expert on Enigma, Ultra and all that wartime stuff. Lives alone out in the country, place called Sh’ayra. He’s an old man, Lynch. Go gently, you hear me? None of your rough house stuff.’

  He waited on Scerri’s doorstep, shivering. The early afternoon light was pale and weak, presaging more rain. His patience was rewarded with the sound of shuffling footsteps and fumbling chains. The door opened and Scerri peered at him from the dark interior. Lynch smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Peter Jones. We spoke on the phone.’

  Scerri’s white hair was combed over a balding head spotted with age freckles. His eyes were red-rimmed with heavy bags. He wore a loose-fitting jumper, a remnant of a younger man’s clothing. His deep voice was stronger than he looked.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. You had better come in.’

  Lynch brushed past the old man into a corridor lined with books and tottering stacks of papers, the swirled brown and beige carpet matched by dark cream textured wallpaper. The over-warm house smelled musty and airless.

  ‘Living room’s first on the left,’ said Scerri as he closed the door. ‘Co
ffee?’

  ‘No thanks, just had breakfast,’ Lynch replied. He had, too. A tray of lukewarm omelette on the plane from Beirut treated with a powerful flavour-removing process and a mean cup of cold coffee served just in time for him to have finished eating the food. Lynch wasn’t a happy flier.

  Scerri gestured to the room. ‘Sit, sit, do.’

  Lynch avoided the worn armchair, obviously Scerri’s favourite. He found a space on the sofa between the piles of books. He picked up one of the weighty volumes and read the dust jacket. ‘Enigma Symposium. X and Y Sections.’

  Scerri let himself down into his chair. ‘Yes. It’s rather been my life’s work, you know. That’s one of Hugh Skillen’s books you have there. A great researcher into Enigma. He worked on de-Nazifying German radio with Airey Neave, actually. A wonderful man. Marvellous linguist.’

  Lynch shifted on the soft cushions, stemming the slide of a pile of books with a grab. ‘Well, as I said on the phone, I am writing a feature for the magazine on Enigma and the community around it, particularly Bletchley and the museum. Mr Hoffmann was very kind to give me a great deal of his time and he did suggest that you were the authority.’

  Scerri harrumphed. ‘Enigma killed my parents, Mr Jones. The breaking of the Enigma code meant the Allies were able to read German naval and army signals. The intelligence this gave them was obviously of inestimable value. So much so that when the British found the Germans were planning a major air assault on Malta through an intercepted Enigma message, Churchill decided to sacrifice our island rather than let the Germans know the Allies had broken the code. They bombed us mercilessly day and night as we cowered in the caves, unprepared and ill-supplied to withstand their terrible rage. I was barely more than a child. I left my parents in order to forage for scraps. They were gone when I returned. There was nothing remaining of them. Nothing.’

  Lynch was silent as Scerri took off his half-frame glasses and polished them on his tie, his watery eyes half-closed. He replaced them on his prominent nose and glared at Lynch. ‘I grew up wanting to know what it was my parents died for. I was in the army here, made it something of a specialisation, you see. And when I retired, particularly after Fran died, it gave me a focus. Something to do.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘So this shared interest is how you met Gerhardt Hoffmann.’

  ‘A shared passion. We met at an Enigma Symposium in the UK many years ago. As you’ll know, his father was in the Abwehr. He is a respected authority. We are to meet this week. He is coming to Valetta.’ Scerri blinked owlishly. ‘I am surprised he did not tell you, in fact, if you had already interviewed him.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it.’

  Scerri’s face showed his growing confusion. ‘But he is meeting his daughter here, joining her on his yacht. He would surely have mentioned it if you were talking to him about Enigma and coming to Malta.’ Scerri scanned Lynch’s face. He raised an accusing forefinger. It trembled. ‘You’re not a journalist at all, are you? What are you, Mr Jones?’

  Lynch’s voice was gentle. ‘No, no I’m not.’ He hunched forwards, his hands opening. ‘I am sorry, but Gerhardt Hoffmann is dead.’

  Scerri slumped back, winded. ‘Good God.’

  The shock and confusion on Scerri’s face turned to indignation. He straightened. ‘So what the hell are you doing here then?’

  ‘I’m working with European intelligence. I’m investigating Hoffmann’s death. We believe he was murdered by a man called Meier. Peter Meier.’

  ‘His brother-in-law? Why would Meier kill Hoffmann? I am sorry, Mr Jones, but you have introduced me to a new world and I rather think I prefer my old one,’ Scerri gestured at the book-strewn room.

  Lynch sat forward. ‘Do you know Meier?’

  ‘I have met him. He tried to sell me an Enigma once, but I refused it. I believed it to have been stolen. I did not much care for the man, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Here. He was in Valetta earlier this year, in fact. A flashy type, stayed at the Excelsior. Hoffmann always stayed at the British Hotel, although for some reason this time he asked me to book the Excelsior. I joked with him about coming into a fortune and he said that indeed he had.’ Scerri paused, musing. ‘Was it over money, then, he was killed?’

  ‘Do you know why Meier was in Malta, Mr Scerri?’

  Scerri turned on him with the unpredictable asperity of age. ‘No, I didn’t. He was on his way to Albania.’

  ‘Albania?’

  ‘Yes. Vlorey. Vlora? Something like that. He was going on a cruise, he said. Seemed to find it highly amusing. Didn’t seem the type to tell you the truth. Fran and I used to enjoy cruises, you know. We toured every summer.’

  Lynch rose to leave. ‘Thank you, Mr Scerri. I believe I have disturbed you enough. I am sorry to have brought you bad news.’ He turned at the doorstep. ‘This is my number, Mr Scerri. If you think of anything which might be of assistance to our investigation, I’d appreciate a call.’

  Scerri took the card in his age-spotted hand. ‘His yacht. The Arabian Princess. It docked here this morning.’

  Lynch froze in amazement. ‘How did you know that?’

  Scerri blinked, a look of mild puzzlement on his face as if the knowledge had come as a surprise to him as well. ‘Why, his daughter of course. Elli. She called me. Very early, in fact. Woke me and I’m an early riser as a rule. She wanted to know where her father was staying. I made a reservation at the Excelsior for her as well. I did think it was odd she hadn’t called her dad. I supposed it was on account of the argument. They had fallen out, he told me. He was hoping they could reconcile here in Valetta. But now we know she couldn’t have called him at any price, could she? Poor, lost child.’

  ‘You know her?’

  Scerri whickered crustily, one hand on the door. ‘Of course I know her. I dandled her on my knee. They found it difficult recently, I understand. Getting on, I mean. But children are like that, aren’t they?’

  ‘Do you have children?’ Lynch regretted the automatic question as Scerri withdrew into himself with a pained look.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with an air of finality. ‘We did. Goodbye, Mr Jones.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Scerri. Thank you very much.’

  His boots skittered on the tiled steps down to the nondescript car Tomasi had lent him. The customs guy, Duggan, had said Elli Hoffmann was kidnapped by Meier, that he thought she may be on the boat. The boat was here in Malta, Freij was here and now Elli Hoffmann was here. Everything converges on Valetta, Lynch thought as he sped through the country roads. Meier must be here, too. If he had kidnapped Elli, he must be with her now. The thought of catching Michel Freij tied up with a kidnapped girl, a murderer and a boat full of nuclear warheads brought Lynch great and savage joy.

  Lynch called Paul Tomasi. ‘Paul? Gerald. Okay, Scerri’s been in contact with the Hoffmann girl. She’s at the Excelsior.’

  Tomasi’s voice was incredulous. ‘She’s supposed to be on the damn yacht. What’s she doing at the Excelsior? This all gets more insane by the minute. We have one of the crew in custody. He just walked off the yacht this morning, shortly after she docked. The watchers tracked him for a while then picked him up when he was well clear. He didn’t seem to know where the hell he was going. Or at least, he wasn’t saying.’

  Lynch shifted the mobile against his ear as he negotiated a turn in the winding coast road. ‘What does he know?’

  ‘Whatever it is, he’s not telling. He’s crying for a lawyer and much as I’d like to, I can’t torture the bastard.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Can you put the Excelsior under observation?’

  ‘We’ll have the place locked down within thirty minutes. We’re holding the crew member here at Floriana. You want to come here or meet at the hotel?’

  Lynch thought fast. ‘I’ll come to you. There’s something odd about an international weapons smuggler wandering off his ship for tea in Valetta. I’ll call you when I
get lost.’

  Tomasi laughed easily. ‘Sure enough.’

  There was a small gap between the piles of books and papers on the table next to Joseph Scerri’s armchair and it was here he carefully placed his cup of tea, giving himself up to the chair’s embrace with a sigh. Living in a fine, scholarly solitude, he resented journalists who weren’t journalists. Sighing, he picked his gold-rimmed glasses up from the tatty cloth and settled them on his nose, peering at the text in his hand until it came into focus. He settled back, licking his finger to turn the dry paper, the muted clock marking insistent seconds. The sunbeam falling across the top of the chair warmed him and the paper fell as he dozed. The sound of the kitchen door closing woke him and he sat up, blinking and peering to bring the room into focus. The blur in front of him resolved into a man.

  Scerri frowned. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  Peter Meier smiled. ‘Good morning, Herr Scerri. I trust you are well.’

  Scerri nodded. ‘As can be expected. What brings you here?’

  Meier stepped forwards. ‘Oh, just tidying up a few loose ends. You took a telephone call this morning.’

  Puzzled, Scerri was querulous. ‘Yes, from Elli Hoffmann. She is here in Valetta.’

  ‘Staying where, precisely?’

  ‘The Excelsior, room 255. I told the journalist that.’

  Meier stilled, poised with his hand in his jacket. ‘What journalist?’

  ‘Jones was his name. Peter Jones. He was looking for Elli. ‘What happened to Hoffmann, Meier?’

  Meier’s face was grim as he withdrew his hand. ‘Never you mind.’

  The bullet punched through the back of the armchair, blowing out a cloud of kapok and cloth tatters. Scerri’s hand spasmed, his cold tea splashing upwards, papers tumbling to the floor. The impact pushed him back deep into the chair and his body bounced slackly.