Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (14 page)

‘
Mr Lynch?’
She smiled down at him. Lynch rubbed his hands over his face.
‘He’ll see you now. This way.’

Lynch
followed her down the corridor and into the big room, the long oval
table scattered with the detritus of a recent meeting, a clutter of
coffee cups, pens and notepads with doodles and jottings. The
panoramic window looked out onto the Boulevard de
Charlemagne.

Yves Dubois
rose to greet him.

‘
Gerald. Good
to see you and thank you for the excellent work you have done.’ He
turned to the secretary. ‘Anna, could you please ask housekeeping
to get this table cleared? And could we get some coffee for Mr
Lynch? He looks like he could use it.’

Lynch
sloughed off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair.
Dubois peered at him.

‘
Are you
okay, Gerald?’

‘
Fine, sure I
am.’ Lynch grimaced. ‘I was having a few drinks with Liberec last
night when we got the news.’

‘
A few is it?
Well, there’s little enough time for that sort of thing now. I
cannot stress how important this affair has now become. Brian
Channing has briefed your prime minister. I have briefed mine. We
have agreed this will remain essentially an Anglo-French operation
carried out in the strictest secrecy but under the coordination of
EJIC at the highest level only. We cannot afford to widen the
briefing to other European heads of state. The Czechs and Russians
are both embarrassed and have agreed to cooperate fully with us and
also to keep this news confidential until we have better evaluated
the location of these devices. If the news that two nuclear
warheads have been stolen gets out, we will face widespread panic
at the very least. The Czechs have moved quickly, thank God, and
told their media that a cold war arms cache has been uncovered and
is being catalogued prior to its safe destruction by the United
Nations under existing treaties.’

Lynch pushed
his hands back over his hair. ‘So what’s next?’

‘
The British Navy has deployed several patrol boats from
Gibraltar to search for the
Arabian
Princess
. We have also requested US
satellite imaging, using the excuse that this is a
narcotics-related investigation. We are hoping to intercept the
boat in the Straits of Gibraltar. A blockade, if you like, although
we haven’t got enough resources available to make it as effective
as I would like. We need to find the boat before it gets into the
Mediterranean and is lost to us.’ Dubois brightened. ‘Ah, here’s
your coffee.’

‘
Lost to
us?’

‘
The
Mediterranean is packed with large, expensive yachts, Gerald. One
more won’t really stand out. It would be searching for your needle
in the haystack.’

Lynch sugared
his coffee and sipped. It was piping hot, strong and good. Dubois
was still talking, his fingers picking at papers. He slid a file
across to Lynch.

‘
Peter
Heinrich Meier was born in Frankfurt July 7th, 1962, the son of a
steelyard worker. His first criminal records date back to when he
was eleven, when he was cautioned for shoplifting. A ward of court
at fourteen and then six months in a young offenders’ institution
at fifteen. After this, we have nothing until he was thirty.
Nothing. He went to school, did his homework and obtained his
examinations. His results academically were excellent. He worked
for a shipping company and rose quickly. His colleagues mention he
kept long hours and was exceptionally committed and talented. He
was popular. He left to found his own company in 1990 and quickly
won contracts to ship materials to Kuwait from the armed forces
stationed in Germany. In 1992, there was an investigation into some
of these shipments, but the paperwork exonerated Meier from the
charge of shipping materiel stolen from British Forces Germany.
Since then, there have been several reports of illegal arms
shipments linked to Meier and two full-scale investigations, but he
has not been found guilty of any misdemeanour.’

Starting to
drowse, Lynch jerked as Dubois slapped the desktop. The Frenchman
jumped to his feet, fists clenched. ‘We’ve known Meier’s rotten for
twenty years and yet we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing. Now he is
gone so bad on us that we lust for him like a bitch in heat, but we
are blind. We have nothing to go on at all. We don’t even know
where he is, the bastard.’

Lynch
regarded Dubois over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What about the
Enigma machine? The customs guy, Duggan said Hoffmann had an Enigma
machine.’

Dubois pulled
another paper from the pile in front of him. ‘We talked to the man
who presented the machine to Hoffmann, a Maltese called Joseph
Scerri. He is one of the world’s leading experts on Enigma and the
wartime work of SOE, especially the X and Y section radio teams.
Rather than let the Germans know the Allies had cracked the Enigma
code, Churchill allowed the Germans to bomb Malta. Scerri’s parents
were killed in the attacks. He is eighty-two. Scerri corresponded
extensively with Hoffmann. Hoffmann’s father was involved in the
development of Enigma. They had arranged to meet next
week.’

Lynch’s tired
muscles tautened. ‘Where?’

‘
Valetta,
Malta. We have a team interviewing Luxe Marine’s staff. Hoffmann’s
secretary at Luxe Marine told our people Hoffmann was planning to
visit Scerri in Valetta.’

‘
That’s where they’re going to refuel the
Arabian Princess
. The boat’s range
was reduced when they added the extra storage. Hoffmann planned to
be on that boat.’

Dubois
nodded. ‘That is what we think. We’re going to set up a welcoming
committee. You’re flying back to Beirut today, are you
not?’

‘
Sure am. I
have a score to settle with a Lebanese businessman who has a taste
for nuclear warheads.’

‘
Nathalie
Durand will fly back with you. It is probably best she stays with
you in Beirut.’

Stays with
me
? Lynch tried to keep the shock from his
face but he was too tired to play act. ‘I’d rather not,
actually.’
Christ
, he sounded English.

The apartment
in Beirut was his bolthole, a private life away from the prying —
his rebellious retreat. The little world where he was himself.
Where he was with
her
. No.
Not there.

Dubois’ smile
was tight. ‘Believe me, Mr Lynch, I share your feelings regarding
the arrangement, perhaps more than any other man alive would.
However, given the absolute secrecy this operation necessitates, it
is crucial you minimise any communication across public networks.
This is the only viable way to proceed.’

Lynch
staggered from Dubois’ office, trying to work out how he was going
to break the news to Leila Medawar.

The
immigration official handed back Nathalie’s passport and took notes
in a ledger. In all his years of travelling in and out of Beirut,
Lynch could never fathom why this system remained manual. He caught
the look of surprise on Nathalie’s face as she waited for the man
to finish fussing with her papers. Here was a network her team
wasn’t going to knock down in a hurry, thought Lynch with a wicked
mental grin.

They waited
for Nathalie’s bag and waited again as the bored customs official
opened it and pawed through her clothes. Lynch noticed she liked
expensive lingerie. He caught the customs man’s eye and held it
until the man looked away and dismissed Nathalie and her underwear
with a flick of the wrist.

It was cool
outside the terminal, the afternoon sun washing the shabby airport
in mild orange light. A car pulled up, the driver grinning.
‘Welcome back,
seer
.’

Lynch reached
in through the window and slapped the man’s shoulder. ‘Hassan. Good
to see you.’

Lynch opened
the back door for Nathalie and took the front seat himself. They
pulled away, Lynch and Hassan sharing pleasantries. Lynch turned to
Nathalie, caught her preoccupied air. ‘You okay?’

Her voice was
distant as if Lynch had somehow intruded and she gazed out of the
window as she spoke. ‘Yes. Sorry, it’s all a little new to me. I’m
sure I’ll get used to it quickly enough.’

Lynch
snorted. ‘Beirut takes more than getting used to. It’s a
complicated old place at the best of times. You’d want it in your
blood, so you would.’

She turned,
her hair swinging. ‘That is lucky, is it not? I was born here.’ She
held his gaze, her lips tight. He felt the challenge rising in the
silence between them. He hadn’t seen the fire in her before and
retreated, amused, from her glare, his hand held up in
supplication.

‘
Sure, how
was I to know that? Welcome home, then, dear. Welcome
home.’

Concrete
blocks lined the way to the airport, listless red-capped soldiers
dotted the roadside, occasional pedestrians in leather jackets and
heavy winter coats meandered, chatted or just stood incuriously
watching the traffic jostle past.

Lynch’s neck
prickled, an uneasy frisson he knew meant trouble. Born to good
Irish stock, he was a great believer in the sixth sense. His finely
honed feeling for danger had saved his bacon on many an occasion.
He checked the side mirror. The white car behind them had pulled
out at the airport but hadn’t picked up any passengers, the two men
in it had sat smoking with the windows open. Something about them
caught his eye. They hung back now, but he noted they always moved
to keep the taxi in sight.

‘
Hassan,
we’ve got company. Step on the gas, would ye? Big time.’

The white car
inched closer. Hassan glanced in the mirror, grinned and gunned the
engine. They swerved through the cars on the Al Assad Highway,
Hassan’s eyes flickering between the road ahead and the
mirror.

Nathalie
steadied herself against the car’s swaying. ‘What the hell’s going
on?’

‘
We were
picked up at the airport.’ Lynch watched the white car gain on
them, then its bonnet as it started to pull abreast of them.
‘Jesus, Hassan, can’t you get this thing to go any
faster?’

Lynch caught
Hassan’s eye in the mirror. The white car was almost alongside, its
passenger trying to hold a gun steady with both hands, a forage cap
jammed on his head. The man grimaced and Lynch hoped it was from
the wound in the bastard’s leg. He swore softly. Unarmed, he felt
naked.

He barked at
Nathalie. ‘Get down.’ He lunged back to pull her down across the
back seat.

The impact of
the white car against the rear of Hassan’s Mercedes sent them
crabbing across the carriageway, narrowly missing the big container
lorry to their left. Hassan was deft, bringing the car under
control. Lynch jerked at the thunk of a bullet impacting the
bodywork to his right.

He caught
Hassan’s pained grimace. ‘It’s okay, I’ll pay.’

Hassan
nodded, his mouth set in a line. ‘If we live,
seer
.’

The screech
of metal against metal and another impact, this time smashing the
car against a battered bread van in the slow lane. All three
vehicles locked together for a suspended moment. Nathalie screamed.
Hassan dropped a gear and wrenched the wheel right, accelerated and
released them from the grip of the van. The move sent the white car
careening across the highway to the right.

Lynch punched
Hassan’s shoulder and pointed. ‘Go right here, at the stadium. Into
Chatila.’

‘
Chatila?’
Hassan was incredulous.

‘
Just do
it.’

The screaming
of the engine masked the gunshot, but the crack of the bullet
exploding the rear windscreen was deafening. It collapsed, tiny
shards of glass falling into the back seat and a starred crack
appearing on the passenger’s side front windscreen. Hassan barked
in fear; the car swerved as he jerked in reaction. They cut across
the path of the white car, another impact as they clipped its
bumper. Hassan tried to edge past a slow-moving water bowser
exiting in front of them. They scraped along the grimy concrete
wall of the exit, the sound of rending metal piercing the air, a
coruscating shower of sparks flying behind them. They cleared the
bowser and were free into the slip road, swerving to pass the cars
ahead of them, jinking first left and then right to roar past the
slow traffic. They burst onto the roundabout. The tyres screeched
as Hassan fought the curve and flung the car right towards the
exit. They narrowly missed a blue BMW, its driver stood on the
brakes to avoid them, the car spinning to a halt by the roundabout
exit. The driver leant on his horn, red-faced and gesticulating
from the window. The white car hit the BMW hard and swerved out of
control. The driver fought to control its bucking slide, righted it
and came after them again. Nathalie sobbed, a low constant moan.
She hunched in on herself, her hands tightly wrapped around her
head.

The white car
fell behind as they slowed for the crossroads to the Chatila
refugee camp. Caught in the slow moving traffic, they were enfolded
in a new world of dirty-faced children and sullen-eyed men gazing
at them. Lynch watched the white car pause in the traffic behind
them, then peel away back towards the airport road. He
grinned.