Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (10 page)

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 and
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.’