Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 8

  His mobile rang and he grabbed the secure handset. Dubois.

  ‘What happened at the Hoffmann house, Gerald?’

  ‘Both shot at close range. I’d swear it was Meier, but Dieter and his boys aren’t convinced.’

  Dubois’ voice was silky. ‘A transfer was made from Luxe Marine’s account to a private bank in Liechtenstein four hours ago. Forty million dollars precisely.’

  ‘Meier. They haven’t blocked his passport yet, you know. Dieter’s onto it now.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Lynch was impressed. Dubois was far too smooth to swear. The silky voice paused, then gained an edge. ‘Gerald, I have a favour to ask. The Czechs have located the arms cache. It is close to the border in an area of heavy woodland. I need someone there.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. But Michel Freij is in Beirut, not in Czecho.’

  ‘Time enough for him, Gerald. Let’s see what Meier’s sold to him first. Let’s see how much trouble is stored on that boat.’

  Lynch gripped the handset. ‘Sure. Let’s.’

  TEN

  Lynch ran doubled over until he was well clear of the rotors. He straightened up to shake hands with Branko Liberec, his liaison in Czech Security Intelligence. Liberec was tall with square hands, and prematurely grey cropped hair. Lynch put him in his early fifties. Dressed in a heavy greatcoat, Liberec shouted above the roar of the helicopter, his face screwed up against the wind and the hail of wet leaves whipped up by the rotors. ‘Welcome to the Czech Republic. You have brought light to our week, you know?’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Lynch laughed as they strode together away from the helipad. ‘Dubois said your guys have found the facility.’

  Liberec opened the passenger door of his black Skoda with a flourish. ‘We have found it, indeed. It is ten minutes from here. We shall go there first, yes?’

  A silver squad car followed them as they pulled away, its lights flashing but no siren breaking the calm of the brown-flecked, sodden countryside.

  ‘We had some witnesses to this boat of yours. It is not always we see this type of vessel on the Elbe, you know. We get mainly cargo or pleasure cruisers. Not so much the luxury yachts.’

  ‘Do you inspect shipping at the border?’

  Liberec winced. ‘We are all Europeans, Mr Lynch. Our customs wave through ninety-nine point nine percent of traffic. The Elbe has been an open river for over a hundred years.’ He chuckled. ‘With occasional periods of disruption, obviously.’

  They motored through the increasingly hard rain, the wipers whipping as Liberec slowed in the face of the onslaught, the lorries on the motorway lashing spray. Lynch settled deep into his jacket. Liberec glanced across. ‘They said you’re based in Beirut.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Is that where this materiel is headed, then?’

  Lynch nodded. ‘We think so. We’re sort of keen to define what “this materiel” actually means.’

  Liberec glanced across at Lynch. ‘We have many very expensive specialists here finding that out just for you, Mr Lynch.’

  Lynch liked Liberec’s sardonic grin. ‘I am honoured, Branko. Deeply honoured.’

  They took a series of increasingly unimportant branches into the muddy bronchioles of the wooded hillside, eventually halting in a clearing packed with pulsing blue lights and silver Skodas, vans with rear doors open, revealing banks of equipment and figures bustling in white boilersuits. After a short, squelching walk down a muddy track, Lynch halted by the concrete doorway set into a long barrow in the woods, Liberec panting by his side. Wooden sheeting led away from the opening, long lines of tape cordons floated lazily.

  ‘So this is it?’

  ‘Come,’ said Liberec. ‘It’s still being dusted, so hands off please.’

  Lynch followed Liberec down the steep steel stairway, the handrail glowing with the reflection of the strip lighting. At the bottom was a wide corridor with six great grey steel bulkhead doors leading off.

  Lynch was open-mouthed. ‘Christ. An honest-to-goodness cold war museum piece.’

  Liberec signalled to one of the boiler-suited figures, who bustled towards them. ‘As you say. One we had forgotten about. We are officially embarrassed.’ He grinned at Lynch. ‘Unofficially, we are barely surprised. This was a messy time and our record keeping is not as good as we would like. Many records were kept in Moscow, not in Prague. Certainly not here in Děčín.’

  A woman in a rustling Tyvek suit gave her hand to Liberec and then to Lynch. She was blonde, with wide-set blue eyes. She looked, Lynch thought, typically Slavic, as if she had escaped from a propaganda poster exhorting the people to farm the happy collective.

  ‘I am Milena.’

  ‘Gerald. Nice to meet you.’

  She smiled, her speech halting. ‘I am sorry, I not speak very good English.’

  ‘Better than my Czech. Do you know what was taken from here yet?’

  She nodded. ‘This is big facility. We have some record now but some Moscow claim it is lose. We are ask again. Mostly we guess because of gap in stacking.’

  Liberec led the way through one of the great bulkhead doors. The poorly lit storeroom stretched back into gloom. Clear spaces were apparent in the phalanxes of stacked boxes. He gestured at the piles of crates. ‘High explosive 122mm warheads. These are designed for the RM70 launcher. We think they took something like five hundred of these. The RM70 launches up to forty at a time.’ He grimaced.

  Milena cut in. ‘We think two hundred they took are early Trnovnik.’

  Lynch shook his head. ‘Sorry, Trnovnik?’

  Milena turned to him. ‘Yes. They are ban from Czech army now. They are HEAT warhead. You know this, cluster bomb.’

  Lynch whistled. ‘Nice.’

  She read from her clipboard. ‘The rest is Soviet 9M22 type Grad warhead. HE fragmentation. This is ordinary shit.’

  Liberec led the way into the gloom, his hands shoved deep into his pockets against the cold of the concrete and steel bunker. He turned towards Lynch. ‘So, a mixture of tactical short-range missiles. Maybe forty of these are chemicals grade.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Milena tapped down the list with her pen. ‘These are perhaps two tonnes of explosive in these warhead. There is plastic also. This we are not sure is good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Liberec cut in. ‘It’s Semtex, pre-1991, so it hasn’t had a tagging vapour added to it. Semtex has a nominal ten-year shelf life, so this explosive could be useless. But conditions here are good – if it is well packed, it perhaps is viable.’

  Lynch pulled a black notebook from his inner pocket and started to catch up.

  Milena’s voice was matter of fact. ‘We are still count. Perhaps 250 Russian Vampir launchers and projectile, maybe two thousand in total.’

  Lynch felt the cold sweat on his back. ‘Headed for Lebanon? This is enough to start a small war. Question is, whose war is it?’ Lynch wandered along the central corridor, marvelling at the sheer weight of the huge, open grey doors and at the stacks of crates behind them. He called back to Liberec. ‘They took only a fraction of what’s stored here.’

  ‘Yes. We think they were planning to come back for more but for some reason were interrupted.’

  Lynch stopped by the last door. ‘This one’s still shut.’

  Milena and Liberec caught up with him. Milena held her clipboard to her chest. Lynch could see the faint mist of her breath escaping her full lips and smelled mint.

  ‘We have not access code for this door. We think it is Russian access only.’

  Lynch scanned the door. ‘Russian access? I don’t understand.’

  Liberec spoke slowly. ‘These facilities are many in Czech Republic and other countries around us. The Russians controlled them even if they nominally belonged to the host country. Sometimes the Russians keep access to areas only for Russian personnel. At that time we Czechs had to allow this.’

  ‘And you have no records of what is stored here?’

  ‘No. Th
e records are in Moscow and we have requested them, but we have no idea of what they kept. We are little bit concerned because obviously they would only use access codes for highly controlled materiel. It does appear as if your friends had access to this area. There are some scrape marks here showing recent activity.’

  Lynch reached for the door. ‘So how did they get in?’

  Liberec shrugged. ‘There are sophisticated systems that can manage this type of lock. It is over thirty years old, please remember, although it was very advanced for its time. We have asked for electronics specialists, they will take perhaps a few more hours to arrive. Come.’

  Liberec nodded his thanks to Milena and led Lynch up to the door. ‘The thieves used the lift, over there at the end of the corridor. We have lorry tracks up to the exit. They did not bother to hide their traces. They used one lorry. This has been found abandoned. The tracks confirm it performed many trips. We think perhaps ten men or more were involved in this. We have found no significant fingerprints but we are still dusting. Sorry.’

  Sorry for what, thought Lynch. For the lack of prints or the certain evidence they were now chasing the biggest shipment of illegal munitions he had ever heard of since the Libyans had sent their heavily laden ships across to the IRA? Sorry for the destruction these crates of metal and plastic were going to cause when they got to the Middle East to be lifted out by eager hands? Lynch breathed deeply as they emerged from the bunker, clearing his head of the musty premonition of death.

  ‘What next?’ Liberec asked.

  ‘Report back to Dubois and then I have to get back to Beirut. I guess they’re going to start looking for this boat, but the Germans are all tied up in red tape. Me, I want to find out what the Lebanese hoods that bought this lot from Meier and Hoffmann want to use it for. Did you get descriptions of the boat?’

  Liberec turned. ‘Yes. They matched those you sent us from Hamburg. We even had one witness who confirmed the name. It’s the Arabian Princess, surely. She must have been low in the water on the journey back down the Elbe, though.’

  ‘And she just sailed through the border.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Liberec. ‘Today is my day to be sorry to you, no?’

  Lynch waved Liberec’s protestations down. ‘Sure, ye can buy me a drink to say sorry properly when we get back to Prague.’

  Liberec surveyed the hotel reception area appreciatively as Lynch led the way to the bar. The sumptuous art deco room buzzed to the low chatter of well-heeled tourists preparing for their concerts and dinners in the bustling heart of Prague. ‘This place is expensive. They treat you well at EJIC, no?’

  ‘I’m not EJIC,’ said Lynch. ‘That whole thing’s a crock of shit as far as I’m concerned. They can take European cooperation in intelligence and shove it. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Beer, thanks.’

  Lynch called to the barmaid. ‘Two draught beers, please.’ He settled on the wooden bar stool, turning to face Liberec. They were alone at the long wooden counter, at the opposite end of the bustling service area. The tables in the bar were packed with revellers, a chattering throng. People bustled past on the street outside, couples and groups looking in from the cold night air through the bar’s wide glass frontage.

  The beers came and they clinked glasses. Lynch licked the foam from his upper lip. ‘I’m with SIS, British intelligence. EJIC’s running this operation, and I got caught up in it. As far as I can see, EJIC is just more European bureaucracy getting in the way of good people’s hard work. As usual.’

  Liberec raised his glass. ‘Amen to that. We already have liaison committees and European intelligence coordinators on our staff. Soon they will be running our service.’ He drank. ‘Let’s not worry about them now. We have full hands, no? How do you get caught up in something like this, my friend?’

  ‘Dunno, you just do. Like you say, there’s a lot of “joint European cooperation” going on these days. I should be back in Beirut. I just got mixed up in this end of it.’

  Liberec laughed, a short bark. ‘Get unmixed. Our people are having huge row with the Russians already. This whole mess is toxic. That is one hell of boat those boys are sailing around in, Gerald. Enough to blow them to kingdom come and back again.’

  Lynch ran his finger down the frosted glass. ‘A row with the Russians?’

  ‘It is a Russian installation. We are asking them for a full inventory. Before, they started to cooperate, but something has changed. Now they are denying it ever existed. It brings back some long memories, this kind of thing. We all wish it had stayed buried.’

  They were silenced by a group of young men who arrived and clung to the bar nearby. Lynch shared small talk about Prague and the glories of tourism for a few drinks more. By the time the noisy group moved on, Liberec had introduced Lynch to Becherovka and they had started to chase their beers with schnapps as Liberec embarked on an alcoholic tour of Czech culture.

  Lynch held his hand up at the third shot. ‘I need to eat something.’

  ‘Good, so I order some bramboráky. This is good drinking food.’

  As Liberec turned to the barmaid and negotiated in Czech, Lynch thought of Leila and the waves along Beirut corniche, a sense of alienation washing over him. He was feeling out of his depth, playing the freelance plod for Dubois in a territory he knew nothing about. Where were the specialists, he wondered. Why was this operation being run as a one-man show? Now they knew the boat was loaded with hundreds of rockets and cluster munitions, surely it was up to the defence boys?

  Liberec mistook his preoccupation, gripping his elbow. ‘Gerald, you are sad.’

  Lynch drained his glass. ‘No, not really, Branko. A passing cloud.’ He gestured to the barmaid. ‘Two more, please.’

  Lynch scanned the room. He leant towards Liberec. ‘So when was it last in use, this arms dump?’

  Liberec blinked, understanding dawning on his face. ‘Ah, this place. Bad place. Long time, I think. We had Velvet Revolution in 1989, but the Russians did not all leave until 1993. Is hard to tell. How this guy Hoffmann ever found this is beyond us, really.’

  ‘His daughter says he found it by accident when he was a kid. He lived by the border and must have played in the woods with his friends. It seems odd, because that’s probably back in the seventies?’

  Liberec’s face was a picture of wonderment. ‘This is impossible. How could they let kids into this place? No, I cannot accept this. Before Velvet Revolution, it would have been guarded heavy.’

  ‘Unless it was abandoned and then recommissioned.’

  Liberec was silent, his hands on his head as he considered Lynch’s point. He gazed around the bar as if searching for an answer. He pushed his forefinger into Lynch’s chest. ‘Yes. Yes. My God. This is why the bastards won’t tell us about the place. Because they stock it up ready to put down the Czech independence movement – will they, won’t they? They think doing it again to us, another invasion, another Jan Palak. Sure, bastards. Russian tanks on the Charles Bridge once more and we Czechs learn another lesson in how to suck Russian dick. Thank you for stop Velvet Revolution, Commissar bastard. Thank you for rescue this poor whore from Europe and freedom. Hoffmann found old dump, we found new dump. Always these bastards dump, no, Gerald? Always on us.’

  Lynch slipped off his bar stool, patting Liberec’s shoulder. ‘Toilet.’ He wove through the increasingly busy bar.

  When he returned there was food on the counter and more beer. The potato fritters were crisp and hot, the pickled sausage piquant. There was cheese, too. Lynch hadn’t eaten properly since Belfast airport’s overpriced stodge, beans and chips.

  Liberec waved his finger owlishly as Lynch ate. ‘That boat of yours, she full of ammunition meant for Czechs, Gerald. That dump, she Russian last gift to the Czech people, but it was lost in post.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure. It’s just something you made up.’

  Liberec was bright-eyed, gripping the bar to steady himself. ‘Consider careful and you find is only answe
r. Your German loot Soviet dump was part of a build-up against Czech independence.’ He breathed heavily, waving his beer glass at Lynch. ‘Now we toast Czech men and women who are still alive because the bastards not have guts to use this weapons.’

  Lynch spread his hands. ‘But new bastards have them.’

  ‘You will find them. I trust you. Come, we drink for Czech people!’

  Liberec’s mobile rang and he fished in his pockets for the handset, cursing and flailing at the folds of cloth. Lynch couldn’t help grinning at the performance.

  Liberec listened, blinked, frowned and started to interrupt. The blood drained from his face. The mobile dropped onto the counter from his limp hand.

  ‘What the fuck is it?’ Lynch demanded.

  ‘Wait. Not in here. We pay bill.’ Liberec called the barmaid and settled with her. He led the way unevenly through the massed tables to the street door. Lynch followed him, mystified. They walked together in the cold air, the orange streetlights reflecting off the cobbles.

  Liberec held onto Lynch’s shoulder as they made their way together up the street, just two more drunks in Prague. Liberec’s voice slurred as he struggled to sober up. He enunciated slowly. ‘The closed door, remember? They have opened this door. This is store for twenty Russian missiles, Oka missiles. Two of these have warhead you can remove. Two, you hear? Both are remove now. They have take them. Leave missile body, take warhead.’

  Lynch massaged his cheeks to clear his head. ‘So what? What are two more warheads in a bunker full of them? You said already they took hundreds of missiles.’

  Liberec’s expression was desperate as he struggled against the drink to speak in English. ‘No, not this warhead. They are tell me that only warhead you can remove from Oka missile like this is designation 9N63. Other warhead is fix. Only this one you can remove. This 9N63 is nuclear warhead. Czech government destroy these missile when we part with Slovakia. But this Russian facility. Forgotten. Russia is denying. There is now trouble between Czech Republic and Russia. Big trouble.’