(2013) Collateral Damage (23 page)
'Stephen Dove?' said the gaunt Lebanese detective with iron grey
in his hair. He declined one of Fitchett's Senior Service with a slap of his chest
and a wan smile - a local gesture that could mean anything from indigestion to lung
cancer. 'I don't recall the case. Our Interpol messages often get lost nowadays.
It's the events, you know - telex links are not what they were.'
Fitchett didn't mind the evasion. He could not imagine the Yard
exactly jumping through hoops of fire over a Lebanese request for assistance, either.
'These things happen,' he said.
This time the Lebanese smiled his best smile, rang a little bell
on his desk and asked the Englishman if he preferred tea or coffee.
'Tea,' said the Special Branch man gruffly, apparently about
to incinerate his cigarette with a blazing torch. On closer inspection the Lebanese
saw that it was
an old
-fashioned petrol lighter.
'According to some British reporters in town,' said Fitchett,
'he first disappeared from his hotel, then, a couple of days later, so did some
of his things.'
'He didn't pay the bill and he - he did a bunk,' said the Lebanese
triumphantly, proud of his idiom. It had taken about ten seconds to establish that
Fitchett's French barely covered a menu and, of course, Arabic was too much to expect
from an English policeman.
'Not exactly,' said Fitchett, 'his things were taken after he
disappeared. It looks like somebody grabbed him then went back for his belongings.'
'And the journalists told your embassy?'
'Yes.'
'You say he's wanted for, what is it, grieving bodies?'
'Grievous bodily harm.
He beat up a
girl - badly.'
'I see,' said the Lebanese, who plainly didn't. He brought out
a tipped cigarette, screwed it into a long holder, and lit it with a Dunhill.
'A crime of passion?'
'No, but she was a cabinet minister's daughter - a big man in
our government,' added Fitchett, just in case he had missed the point. Fitchett
believed all foreigners were stupid, some more than others.
'Ah,' said the Lebanese. It was a friendly, knowing, Levantine
'aah', which said that politicians were the same the world over and a policeman's
lot was not a happy one. 'Now I see why you're here.'
The tea arrived, brought in by a youth who carried it on a little
grey aluminium tray which he held by a short chain. To Fitchett's horror it was
served in glasses and without milk.
'Any milk?' he enquired.
'Milk?'
The Lebanese looked puzzled.
'For the tea.'
'Ah, le anglais!'
The Lebanese said
something to the youth, who had been waiting for payment. When he had gone he placed
a large, uneven lump of sugar in his mouth and proceeded to dissolve it with sips
of tea.
'Why did he beat up the girl?' he asked when his mouth was free.
Fitchett told him. In the course of his explanation the youth
returned bearing a whole glass of milk, most of which Fitchett managed to pour over
the carpet.
'No matter,' said his host sadly.
'No wonder this place is such a shit-hole,' thought the Special
Branchman. 'They can't even make tea.'
'But surely there is no problem,' said the Lebanese when Fitchett
had finished with the milk. 'If this unfortunate man has been seeking Koller among
the Palestinians here then he is almost certainly dead. That is your explanation.
They killed him and then came back to examine his papers.'
'If that's the case,' said Fitchett, 'we'd like to find his body.'
'Why? There are so many bodies here.'
'Well, there's a lot of interest in this case in London and now
the press are sniffing around, although so far they've got it wrong - they think
he's a spy.'
'Naturally, he isn't?'
'I think we could do a bit better than that,' said Fitchett stiffly,
although privately he had his doubts.
'Forgive me - it's the
national paranoia.'
'Anyway, we'd like to clear it up one way or the other. If the
papers find out who he really is they'll make a hero out of him.'
'You don't approve of what he tried to do?' As far as the Lebanese
was concerned Dove was undoubtedly in the past tense.
'We're policemen. We don't have a point of view. It isn't allowed.'
'Of course.'
There was an awkward silence. 'Let's say I have some sympathy
for the bloody fool,' said Fitchett.
The Lebanese smiled one of his sad smiles. 'Monsieur,' he said.
'You realise the situation here. This isn't your Scotland Yard. Oh, don't misunderstand
me. Once, before the events, we were quite good and criminals got arrested. Now
it's different. Perhaps the civil war is over, officially they say it's over at
least, but nobody could pretend that things are back to normal.'
As if to emphasize his point the Syrians chose that moment to
lob another rocket salvo into East Beirut and the explosions floated in above the
traffic noise outside. The Lebanese didn't appear to hear them. 'Sometimes one of
my policemen might hand out a traffic ticket,' he continued. 'But only if the unfortunate
motorist doesn't have enough money to bribe him. Occasionally, we may even arrest
someone for a crime - providing he is poor and inoffensive, which means that he
is not connected in any way with any of the militias, whether Christian, Leftist
or Palestinian. In the meantime, people like
myself
send
our families abroad, come into the office, pretend to work, and pray for better
days.'
Fitchett sat back and fished in his pockets for another cigarette,
uncomfortable with such honesty from a stranger. 'But even if you can't do anything
about it you might be able to find out what happened to him?'
'It's possible. We still have our informers – if the price is
right.' This was more like it, thought Fitchett; he was expecting this.
The Funny at the embassy had even rehearsed him for it. 'And
don't ask for a receipt,' he had concluded.
Patronizing bastard.
'Of course, there'll be expenses,' said Fitchett. 'And we realise that there's no
reason why the Lebanese police should pay for them. What we thought we might do
is make an ex-gratia payment of say, five hundred pounds sterling to cover payment
to the informers, etcetera. It's a very unofficial payment.'
'Well,' said the Lebanese,
shrugging and turning both palms upwards, 'it would help. There is no doubt it would
help.'
'Good,' said Fitchett. He pulled out a bulging wallet and began
to count out fifty twenty-pound notes. There had been a lot of aggravation back
at the Yard about taking the money in cash rather than travellers' cheques. Accounts
kept twittering on about Bank of England regulations. In the end, the man at the
top had had to take responsibility, and they had given Fitchett a thousand pounds.
He was wondering whether he should help himself to a drink out of the rest. It was
tempting.
'I'll get you a receipt,' said the Lebanese. It was almost as
if he was reading his thoughts. 'It's not necessary.'
'I insist. If you're one of the last honest policemen left in
Beirut then you must have proof,' he laughed.
He called for a secretary and the receipt was prepared on paper
letter-headed in Arabic and French. The document was completed with a large rubber
stamp under his signature. Fitchett folded it carefully into his inside pocket and
thought - just my luck. But he was relieved that the temptation was over.
'How long will you be in the Lebanon, Inspector?'
'I was hoping no more than a week.'
'Give me two or three days. Perhaps I will have something for
you.'
'Extraordinary - an honest copper,' the Funny said when he heard
the story about the receipt. Fitchett didn't like that. His tone implied that all
coppers, from Lithuanians to Lebanese and not excluding Scotland Yard, were bent.
'It's been known,' said Fitchett. 'Cheers.'
The Funny raised his whisky glass to his lips in silence. 'Damn,'
thought Fitchett, 'Funnies don't say Cheers.
Too pleb.'
Then his embarrassment annoyed him. 'Bottoms up,' he added aggressively, and drained
his glass.
He wondered when his dislike of Funnies began.
Partly the Philby affair he supposed- a bunch of Oxbridge pansies shielding
one of their own.
But there was something else. Something Fitchett found
even more difficult to stomach. They were above the law, licensed criminals accountable
only to remote tribal chiefs who made their own rules. Even blackmail and murder
could be sanctified.
This particular product of Century House was under embassy cover,
a Second Secretary whose official duties included being the mission's press officer.
He annoyed Fitchett by punctuating his conversation with a silly, humourless grin
which lit up an otherwise immobile face like a candle in a Hallowe'en turnip. He
was also infuriatingly relaxed. While Fitchett sat on the edge of his chair, dapper
but proper in a lightweight suit and tie, the Funny, wearing jeans and a striped
shirt, lounged on a huge suede pouffe against the wall. He reminded Fitchett of
a sneering con-man he had once arrested for flogging dud real estate to old ladies.
His prejudice was confirmed by the fact that, despite the gathering dusk, his host
wore canvas yachting-shoes without socks.
They were sitting in the Funny's flat near the American University.
On the walls were photographs of College sports teams. Fitchett noted that the dates
on them made the Funny slightly older than he had thought. They took their drinks
to the balcony and watched, through the conifers below, the night swallowing up
the Mediterranean. Syrian shelling had started something burning near the port.
'It's terrorism, you know,' said the Funny quietly.
'What is?'
'Shelling civilians.
They won't go after
the gunmen. They're too well dug in and the Israelis have given them some good antitank
stuff. It's as if the British Army blasted the Falls Road every time they're sniped
at. It's always the civilians who cop it. They want to turn them against the militias.'
'Hmm,' said Fitchett. Sometimes he could see little wrong with
shelling the Falls Road.
'I know one or two people,' the Funny said, suddenly business-like.
'I'll make some enquiries myself. But your policeman friend is probably right -
he's almost certainly dead.'
'Poor bugger.'
'Yes, it would have been interesting to see how the amateur fared
against the player. "
A hero perish
, or a sparrow fall".'
'What?'
'Pope.
Alexander Pope. Not that Koller's
much of a sparrow. More like a hawk.'
'Yes,' said Fitchett, thoroughly irritated.
At the door the Funny
said: 'I'll try and keep the press off your back.'
Neither of them had broken the official fiction that he was the
press officer.
It was three days before the Lebanese detective called Fitchett,
at the three-quarters-empty hotel he had chosen because the Beirut press corps seemed
unaware of its existence. He sounded excited. Fitchett wanted to see him right away,
but he said it was 'difficult'. They agreed to meet for dinner and the Lebanese
named a French restaurant. 'I think it is the best one,' he said. 'It was robbed
last night so it probably won't be robbed again tonight.'
When they had placed their orders and the wine had arrived, the
Lebanese policeman said: 'The first thing I have to tell you
is
that he is alive.'
He looked at Fitchett, expecting some reaction, but the Yardman
was too old a hand for that. Disappointed, he went on, slapping down his ace long
before he meant to. 'He's more than alive. He's free-and training with the Front.'
At first Fitchett's only reaction was to search his pockets for
cigarettes and flame-thrower. When he had taken a deep drag he said: 'I suppose
you're going to tell me that they've turned him that he's England's answer to
Patty Heart.'
The Lebanese looked hurt and assured him it was the truth.
'My God.
Why?'
'I don't know. If I knew I would be a clever man. It's the craziest
thing I've ever heard.'
'Where is he?'
'Somewhere in the south.
If I had to
guess I would say probably around Beaufort Castle.'
'Can we get to him?'
'No, not there.
It's fedayeen territory.
Our only chance is if he tries to leave the country through the airport. We still
have some control there - an army unit which is supposed to be loyal.'
'I see. What sort of training are they giving him? Do you know?'
'The way I understand it they are teaching him to shoot. I'm
hoping to find out more.'
But it was the Funny who came up with the rest of the story.
'It's quite sexy stuff,' he said. Fitchett winced. They were standing on the Funny's
balcony again, sipping watery whiskies. The night smelled of blossom and there was
hardly any shelling.
'The Front
have
cried pax. They want
to make it up with the other lot. Claim that they were infiltrated - that Koller
wasn't obeying their orders when he started exploding things in London. But the
Realists want their pound of flesh - Koller. He's to be the sacrificial lamb and
Dove the executioner.'
'Why don't they kill him themselves?'
'Bad for the morale of the rank and file.
He's not the only Kraut working for them. There are other foreigners as well. This
deal is strictly between the sheikhs. Much better if some crazy Englishman does
the dirty work.'
'But surely there's a danger that Dove might talk one day. Tell
somebody that Koller's own organisation betrayed him, led him to the man who murdered
his wife?'
