Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Read online

  ‘Sister Helena Mary, please.’

  The smell of wood polish and frankincense and a vague hint of institutional cookery brought the sound of hushed children’s voices back to him, echoing in the corridors down the years. He took the seat she offered, steadying himself as he pushed back the tide of memory, as he always did.

  A nurse appeared. ‘This way, please Mr—?’

  Lynch followed her in silence, the light shining off the wooden floor polished by a million childish feet. The room was airy, the walls a cornflower blue. The tiny woman in the hospital bed twisted her sparsely haired head to see him enter. Her skin was lined and yellow.

  ‘Ah, I wondered what all the noise was. Gerald Lynch, you always did sound like a herd of elephants in a terrible tear.’

  Her voice was reedy and her breath came in gasps after she spoke, but the strength in her eyes was astonishing. He sat on the bed and took her emaciated little hand. Like a monkey’s paw.

  ‘How are ye keepin’, Sister?’

  ‘Sure, ye know yerself. The days are gettin’ shorter as me life’s gettin’ longer.’

  He picked at the blanket, pulling it up over her chest. ‘I brought you some Kendal Mint Cake,’ he said, laying the white plastic-wrapped bars out on the side table.

  ‘Are ye married yet?’

  He shook his head, smiling at her. ‘Ah no, Sister. Sure, amn’t I busy enough in Beirut?’

  ‘Is that where you are now?’ She noticed the nurse hovering by the door. ‘Thank you, Simone.’

  Lynch unwrapped the mint cake and broke off a corner. ‘Yes, Sister, Beirut’s nice, a very old city. It’s a lively place, all right. I was there before, you know, during the war.’

  She took the white triangle and popped it into her mouth. ‘Well, as long as you’re staying in trouble.’

  Lynch laughed at that, her little brown eyes in the wrinkled, moist lids dancing in response.

  ‘I am so, Sister.’ He frowned, stroking her hand. ‘The old place seems quiet now. Where have the children gone?’

  ‘They’d close it down, Gerry, if they could. Sure, they’d have shut it already if it weren’t for me and Darina and a few other throwbacks the likes of which they’d rather not be dealing with. This place is too likely to go telling stories.’

  She grabbed him, squeezing hard, the coughs bursting from her. She turned to wipe her mouth and fell back on her pillows, her breathing laboured and her eyes closed. He remembered the younger Helena, brown-haired and laughing, the nursing Sister who had befriended him: Gerry Lynch, the scared toddler they had brought in after the bomb whipped away his family. Sister Helena brought him up when everyone had decided this rebellious child of a mixed marriage belonged to the devil. She had been there for him, even when the foster parents had returned him to the Sisters as unsuitable material, their son dead from a drug overdose and Gerry blamed for leading the lad astray. Gerry Lynch who had never taken a drug in his life.

  Her breathing softened and Lynch waited as she slipped asleep. Gently, he slid his hand from under hers. He crossed himself and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

  Darina was looking old, too, thought Lynch. She had suckled him as a child, her own baby torn away from her. He recalled with awful clarity the warmth of her breasts and the smell of washing powder that clung to her until one day he was judged too old to sleep with the fallen woman from Derry who worked in the laundry.

  ‘You’re looking good, Darina.’

  ‘I’m fine, Gerry, I am. I’m leaving here soon. I’ve a man, you know.’

  He knew the game. He spun, taking her shoulders and laughing, her own eyes laughing back at him. ‘Never. That’s fine news altogether. What’s he like?’

  She twirled and counted on her fingers. ‘He’s handsome, well-spoken, darkish, a little like Mr Darcy, and he has his own money.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a blacksmith. His name’s George.’

  There never was a man. Lynch always wanted to cry when he walked with Darina, her mind shattered by a lifetime of injustice and cruelty. She took his hand and they gazed across the park together. The clouds, heavy with rain, blotted out the last of the watery sunshine.

  ‘She’s going to die, isn’t she, Gerry?’

  The clarity of Darina’s question halted him. ‘Yes, Darina, one day. Not quite yet, now.’

  ‘No. Sooner than that. I feel it. I’m not always stupid, you know.’

  ‘You’re not stupid, Darina.’

  ‘She killed him. I heard her, so an’ I did.’

  Lynch was still. ‘Killed who?’

  Darina searched his face. ‘Come on. Let’s go back. I’m cold.’

  He caught up with her. ‘Killed who?’

  She twirled again, a little dance. Coquettish. ‘Who?’

  ‘You said she killed him. Who did she kill?’

  The words tumbled out of her. ‘Father McLaughlin. She killed him. She kept it secret all these years. They thought she was going to die last week and she had a last confession from Father Didier, the new priest at the cathedral in town. I listened. I know I’m not supposed to, but I did.’

  When Lynch got back to the cornflower room, Sister Helena was still asleep. He kissed her forehead, gave Darina a final hug and left.

  On the flight from Belfast to Hamburg, Lynch dreamed of Father Eammon McLaughlin’s hot breath on his shoulder, the man’s weight on his back. He had to be woken by the flight attendant; his shouting was disturbing the other passengers.

  NINE

  Hamburg was cold and the sky bore down on the huddled humans below. Gerhardt Hoffmann pressed his bulk into the seat as he drove through the huddle of men outside the boatyard gates. Their shouting, reddened faces pressed against the glass and fists pummelled the bodywork. Hoffmann reached the point of just hitting the accelerator and ploughing through the press when he made it through the gates, the security guards stopping the men trying to follow them in. The shouts died away behind him and the car drew to a smooth halt outside the office.

  Hoffmann stood panting by the car as Bayer, the uniformed head of the security team, strode up.

  ‘Herr Hoffmann.’

  Hoffman had brought in the private security contractor the second he had confirmed the Beirut transfer. Bayer’s team of six burly men had secured the premises well.

  ‘Herr Bayer. Thank you for your assistance. These men are very ... unruly.’

  Bayer frowned. ‘They have a grievance. It is perhaps understandable.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Hoffmann turned to the office steps.

  ‘The guard on the gate reports a journalist came yesterday, but he did not stay. He said he had an appointment with you. I tried to call you, but your mobile was switched off.’

  Hoffmann stopped in his tracks. ‘A journalist?’

  ‘Yes, from Der Spiegel. Philip Grossman, his name.’ Bayer smiled nervously at Hoffmann’s outraged stare. ‘A Bavarian from his accent.’

  Hoffmann frowned at the incongruous detail. ‘I set no meeting with a journalist, Herr Bayer. Who met with him?’

  Bayer stuttered. ‘Nobody, apparently. The guard said he waited for you and then left. Nobody came here otherwise. None of the management or office team have come to work since last Friday.’

  Hoffmann started up the steps. ‘Thank you, Bayer. Thank you.’

  A very particular man, Hoffmann noticed a number of small things in his office had moved. He pulled open the filing cabinet and immediately noticed the theft of his Inmarsat file. He called Peter Meier on the mobile, but there was no answer. Hoffmann gazed from his window over the deserted sheds to the great dull expanse of the Elbe. It started to rain, the droplets on the glass gathering and running down in glittering streams.

  Hoffmann sighed and turned to go home, patting the case housing his beloved Enigma machine, the absurdly generous gift from Joseph Scerri, the Maltese Enigma expert and his old friend. The two men shared a fascination for Enigma and the world of wartime encryption an
d intelligence. They had long corresponded, meeting at occasional Enigma symposia like long-lost brothers. Hoffmann’s father had helped to develop Enigma, Scerri had lost his parents to the Luftwaffe raids the British had allowed to happen over Malta rather than reveal they had broken the Enigma code. Hoffmann and Scerri had long ago buried the hatchet over a bottle of good malt. Soon he’d see old Scerri again and they’d have a glass and a laugh in the Mediterranean sunshine. The thought cheered him. Whoever had been snooping in his office could go to hell.

  Hoffmann’s residence in the country outside Hamburg was large, white and set in formal gardens bordered by pretty woodland. His apartment in Berlin was similarly sumptuous, decorated with fine art. Some of the more expensive items had recently been repurchased. Many remained to be located or replaced with similar fineries. It was here, though, in his Hamburg house he kept his second wife, Hilde.

  Hoffmann’s first marriage had started as a stormy, sexy and fulfilling adventure then slowly degenerated into merely stormy. Hoffmann, frustrated, had discovered Hilde and promptly fallen head over heels for her. He found himself less motivated to spend time with his wife and more energised by the company of his younger paramour. Hoffmann’s wife had walked out one night, curtailing the pretence of marriage and leaving behind their daughter Elli. Hoffmann had always spoiled Elli, who had repaid his love and dutiful affection by rejecting Hilde, the partner he had chosen to replace her mother.

  Hoffmann could not understand how the girl he had given so much could betray him like this. To his intense annoyance, Elli’s rows with Hilde had eventually become untenable and the rebellious child was packed off to boarding school. This made Hoffmann sad, but, as he often told the chaps at the Landsee where he would go to relax on a weekday evening, Elli had clearly made her choice and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned. Hoffmann didn’t appreciate disobedience.

  Weekends and the first two or three days of the working week were, of course, spent with Hilde at his Hamburg residence. Hoffmann had at first regretted being dragged away from his new love by the exigencies of business, although recently his regret had diminished to the point where he would habitually spend the entire working week in Berlin. As the money started to run out, Hilde had started taking out her many frustrations on those nearest to her – particularly Hoffmann. His growing inability to react properly to her needs had been an especially painful chapter in their short but expensive time together.

  Hoffmann drew up to the grand front porch, flanked with its square pillars. The thud of the Mercedes door sounded flat in the damp air. He pulled his jacket around him. He knocked on the red wood panelling and waited, eventually snatching his keys from his deep greatcoat pocket and opening it himself.

  Hoffmann called out, ‘Hilde?’

  The house was warm but silent. Hoffmann found her in the living room, asleep, an empty glass on the coffee table and her hand draped over the arm of the chair. He scanned the room, its expensive furnishings and the great colourful vase of flowers exuberantly cresting the Ormolu sideboard he had bought at auction in Bremen. He grimaced. It was two in the afternoon and Hilde was already dead drunk, her head lolling back on the sofa. He didn’t bother going to face her.

  Hoffmann sighed and went to the kitchen, dropping his attaché case, gloves and keys on the worktop. Filling the kettle, he became aware of another presence in the room. He placed the stainless steel cordless jug on its base and flicked it on as he turned to face his visitor, an expression of friendly puzzlement on his broad face.

  ‘Peter? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I am sorry, Hoffmann.’ Meier wore a beige greatcoat tied tight at the waist. Tall and lean, he was clean-cut, with peppery temples. His hand, raised to Hoffmann, carried a mean-looking, long-barrelled gun.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry for what—’ said Hoffmann as the bullet from the silenced Glock pistol entered his chest, knocking him back against the sideboard. Blood sprayed the wall behind as the bullet exited. His mouth worked spastically as his hand scrabbled on the worktop, the strength gone out of him and all the world’s sounds reduced to the pumping hiss of blood in his ears.

  With a disappointed groan, Gerhardt Hoffmann fell to the floor, bringing the kettle crashing down with him, the water gushing to mix with the blood on the floor in a viscid wave across the white tiles.

  Meier picked his way past the spreading tide and walked into the living room, where the crash from the kitchen had woken Hilde from her torpor. Her makeup had smeared on the white arm of the chair. She blinked at him, an uncertain half-smile on her face and her hand flying to her messy hair.

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise you —’ Once again the gun spat. This time Meier didn’t apologise.

  He detached the silencer from the still-warm Glock and fitted both into the grey foam lining of the small suitcase on the kitchen table. He left the house quickly and strode down the driveway to the road.

  Three minutes later, Meier reached his car. He drove quickly but within the speed limit, heading for the outskirts of Hamburg, where he pulled over in the middle of a busy little neighbourhood and swiftly completed a transaction on his notebook computer, crediting a forwarding account in Liechtenstein with forty million dollars from the Luxe Marine holding account. It wasn’t as if Hoffmann needed the money anymore.

  It was not often the countryside outside the sleepy Schleswig-Holstein town of Wedel, a quiet suburb of the great city of Hamburg, played host to major crime scene investigations. Officers deployed on the taped-off roads around the Hoffmann house turned back curious locals and news crews alike. Inside the house, the forensics teams were at work. In the driveway, standing by Lynch’s hire car, Dieter Schmidt was placatory.

  ‘Look, Gerald, we can’t act on the instant. We had no reason to suspect Hoffmann’s life was in danger. You don’t get judges out of bed on a Sunday here without a very good reason.’

  ‘You weren’t taking this seriously, Dieter. Dubois took the decision to act on the information on Friday. You had time to get your order, even from a provincial judge in Bad fucking Bramstedt.’

  Schmidt sighed. ‘Dubois also agreed that we weren’t going to make arrests until we had performed at least some basic investigations. We needed time to plan and assign responsibilities in this operation, particularly considering the resource limitations we all face. But I’m not going to argue about it, Gerald. We can’t roll back the clock. If you don’t like it, complain to Dubois.’

  Lynch’s frustration found expression in his physicality, shifting his body weight from heel to heel and tapping the roof of the car. Schmidt handed a plastic folder across the roof.

  ‘Here. GSG 9 helped us interview the workers and the office staff at the Luxe Marine boatyard. The customs man Duggan was right. The boat they converted was a Luxe 500, a fifty-metre luxury cruiser. We have a copy of the general arrangement before the refit, but there is no copy of the new layout. The boat left the yard at night and crossed the Czech border, coming back ten days later. We’ve now confirmed it passed the Kiel Canal on the twenty-eighth. Its reported destination was Southampton.’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  Schmidt nodded. ‘No Luxe 500 reported entering Southampton. We’ve requested air patrols from the British and the French, but that boat could be almost anywhere.’

  Lynch whistled. ‘Amazing. They floated the whole fucking lot down the Elbe in a luxury yacht. Have they located the bunker?’

  Schmidt was cautious, his hand held out to slow Lynch down. ‘Whatever ‘the lot’ was. We still don’t know what this is all about, Gerald. The Czechs are still searching for it. All we have is the girl’s word there was something illegal on that boat.’

  ‘Have they brought Meier in?’ Lynch flicked through the folder.

  ‘No, it appears they just missed him at his office. He gave them the slip. He hasn’t been near his apartment. We have circulated his car details and photograph to all stations.’

  ‘Have you alerted the border people, at least
?’

  Schmidt shook his head. ‘That would be a serious escalation. We would need to have made some sort of charge. There is no charge against Meier—’

  Lynch slammed his hand down on the car roof. ‘For fuck’s sakes, Dieter, why aren’t you guys taking this seriously? You want a charge? Try two counts of fucking murder for a start!’

  Schmidt had been leaning against the car. He straightened up to face Lynch. ‘You think Meier did this?’ He gestured back to the house with his thumb.

  Lynch reached into the car and tossed the folder onto the passenger seat. He spoke slowly, controlling himself with an obvious effort. ‘Hoffmann didn’t struggle at all. He didn’t run, the shot was clean in the chest. He just stood and took it. So did she, sitting up on her sofa. She sat there while he levelled a gun at her head without even uncrossing her legs or putting up her hands to protect herself precisely because he was her brother.’

  ‘That’s one possible scenario. There is any number of others.’

  Lynch’s fists clenched and his jaw tightened. ‘I don’t care. That’s the one I’m going with. That and the one involving a shitload of arms from a cold war dump that’s heading for a city which really does not need supplied with any more bloody guns and rockets. You’re not taking this seriously, Dieter, any of you. But if that girl was right, God help her, Meier is a major fucking hood, and if I’m right, he’s a murderer as well. So why don’t you people get off your arses and prove me wrong? Or do you want to wait for more people to get killed?’

  Lynch waited for an answer but Schmidt merely looked down at the roof of the car. The grey sky reflected on the paintwork. Lynch tore the door open and got in. He wrenched the key in the ignition. Schmidt leaned in the passenger window.

  ‘Okay, Gerald, we’ll play it your way. But we’ll need time to alert the border police.’

  Lynch gripped the wheel. ‘Time? I’m not sure we’ve got much of that left.’