Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (20 page)

The velvet
laughter was synthetic. ‘I thought perhaps we could meet. The Gray?
At eleven for coffee? I am sure you would find the assignation in
your interest.’

‘
Sure. I’ll
see ye there.’

He cut the
line and turned to Marcelle. ‘Freij.’

‘
What did he
want?’

‘
To meet.
This is going to be interesting. Are you okay to take the girl home
while I’m gone? Hassan will come over, no?’

Hassan,
Marcelle’s driver, was devoted to her, loyal in a way only an older
generation would understand loyalty: absolute, unthinking, and pure
as the fire of faith. Hassan had been there when Lynch had come to
Lebanon as a kid to work as a barman at Marcelle’s first, doomed,
enterprise, a shady little club in Monot called ‘Le Chat Botté’.
Hassan had always been there.

Marcelle’s
eyes flickered uncertainly, scanning Lynch’s face for signals.
‘Yes, of course. I think we’ll be okay. I’ll call him.’

‘
Good. Do
that.’ He was half out of bed, his body hair dark against his pale
skin. He turned, the cotton duvet billowing as he threw himself
across the bed, his swift kiss surprising her. ‘Thanks,
Marcie.’

Her smile
died on her lips as Lynch left the room, the trembling taking over
and the tears welling up in her eyes. She hadn’t felt this way
since the war had ended. Marcelle Aboud, whore and inveterate
survivor, was scared.

The back door
of the big limousine opened, blocking the pavement in front of
Lynch as he rounded the corner towards the two pristine ornamental
bay trees in stainless steel containers marking the entrance to the
Gray Hotel.

‘
Mr Gerald
Lynch?’ A blonde in a tight-fitting black dress rose elegantly from
the leather seat and invited him into the car.

He stopped
walking. ‘Yes.’

‘
Would you
like to come with me? Mr Michel Freij sent me for you.’

He gestured
towards the sleek, brushed facade of the hotel. ‘I thought we were
meeting here?’

She smiled,
efficient yet sympathetic. ‘A change of plan. Please?’

Lynch got
into the car. She closed the door, joining him from the street
side, her skirt parting to show her long legs as she sat, her
perfume heady and floral.

The Maybach’s
smooth acceleration pushed him back into the leather. ‘So where are
we meeting, then?’

‘
At the Freij
Foundation’s private museum. Michel had an urgent meeting with the
trustees regarding an important acquisition. He hopes you
understand.’

Lynch gazed
over the city’s towers, some new and clad in smoked glass, others
older, concrete and bearing the pockmarks of history. ‘Oh, sure. I
understand totally.’

She missed
the irony and smiled at him. Lynch’s face flickered with the
sunlight escaping between the city’s shadowed tower blocks as she
chattered in Arabic on her mobile. He was surprised at how short
the drive was. The car slowed at a security checkpoint and then
turned to halt in a cobbled courtyard. He surveyed the garden,
Beirut laid out below like a carpet of matchboxes. The formal
walkways and shrubs were dotted with white marble Byzantine busts
and pillars, each carrying a little brass plaque. Lynch wandered
through them as the woman finished her call. She caught up with him
as he admired a thirteenth-century piece, a woman in flowing
gowns.

He gestured
at the statue. ‘This is beautiful.’

She snapped
off a smile. ‘Mr Freij shares his father’s impeccable taste in
fine
objets
.
Shall we?’

Lynch
followed her up the stone staircase into the large villa dominating
the gardens. She left him in the reception area filled with cases
displaying opaque pieces of green Roman glass.

Michel
Freij’s voice echoed down the marble staircase. ‘Mr Lynch. Thank
you for joining me.’

Lynch waited
as Freij’s footsteps clacked down the ornate stairs, taking in the
man’s crisp linen shirt, glistening cuffs and English wool suit.
Freij’s hands were manicured and his oiled hair was swept back.
Lynch was dressed in a crumpled cotton shirt and jeans.
Mind you, wanker
,
you have to pay for what I get for
free.

Freij shucked
off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder. ‘I am so sorry to
have diverted our meeting, but business calls on occasion, does it
not?’

‘
Oh, yes,’
said Lynch, ‘it surely does.’

Freij
relaxed, gesturing at the high-vaulted room ‘Come, Mr Lynch. I
shall show you some of my collection and we shall perhaps talk a
little.’

Lynch stayed
alongside Freij as he led the way into the colonnaded central hall
of the building. Peach, white and black marble cladding decorated
every surface. They turned left into a long, shaded room with a
sumptuous Ottoman roof and a long central cabinet packed with
artfully arranged pieces of age-frosted, fine glass. Each wall
space carried cabinets of artefacts. Four alcoves held white marble
statuary – Roman noblemen in perfect condition, their aquiline
noses and sightless noble eyes gazing into the middle distance.
Each piece in the impeccably curated collection was lit by its own
cluster of tiny halogen lamps.

‘
This is the Roman room. This collection was amassed by my
father. I have only added a few
objets
such as this,’ he gestured to
a collection of tiny amphorae, ‘set of early Roman ladies’ scents.
Amazingly, one of my companies was able to take samples from one of
the bottles and use spectrometers to recreate the scent. It is
fascinatingly complex. We hope to market it in the near future.’
Freij’s voice echoed in the cool silence.

Lynch nodded.
‘Impressive.’ He dropped behind, glancing over the greenish, matte
shapes of the ancient glass. ‘These must be worth an amazing amount
of money.’

Freij
surveyed the garden, his hands clenched behind his back, his
smiling face in sharp relief in the sunlight. ‘Yes,
they—’

He wheeled at
the crash of Lynch’s fist slamming down on the glass case. The
sound reverberated through the building. One of the amphorae fell
over, rolling across the dark velvet.

Lynch beamed
at Freij. ‘Just wanted to check it was secure. You can’t be too
careful, can you?’

Freij’s fury
gave way to confusion.

Lynch turned
to face the bulky figure framed in the doorway. ‘And you can put
the gun away, monkey man. Mickey and I were only having a little
chat.’

At a nod from
Freij, the suited gunman relaxed and placed his pistol back in its
shoulder holster.

Lynch was
genial. ‘Shall we sit down and talk, Mr Freij? I think I’ve seen
enough history for now.’

Freij opened
his bunched fists, his mouth a grim line. He nodded slowly,
scanning the jumbled objects in the case. ‘Very well.’ He led the
way from the room, the gunman standing aside for him. Lynch
followed, snapping a grin at the sour-faced guard as he
passed.

Leading the
way up the ornate stone staircase to the first floor, Freij’s
handsome face was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight streaming
through the large vaulted windows. His movements were stiff, Lynch
guessed from suppressing his anger. It gave Lynch enormous,
childish pleasure.

Freij halted
by a double doorway framed by brass-studded carved woodwork. ‘I
regret ever trying to buy that yacht, Mr Lynch. I am now in
litigation with Luxe for the return of my funds. Please, after
you.’

Lynch entered
the meeting room, blinking at the transition from Ottoman marble to
minimalist chic. He sat on the black leather sofa.

‘
Coffees
please, Annette,’ Freij addressed the tall, pencil-skirted girl who
had appeared through a connecting door. He draped his jacket over
the back of the chair across the coffee table from
Lynch.

Lynch leaned
back, an arm stretched along the back of the sofa and gazed around
the room. ‘I’m getting a bit upset by your militia, Mr Freij, if I
were to tell you the truth. They appear to favour the heavy-handed
approach and I can’t say I appreciate it. Attempting to abduct one
of my associates was ...’ Lynch cast his gaze to the ceiling. He
threw a broad smile at Freij, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘Rude.’

Freij’s
composure flickered. ‘I am not aware of any attempt to abduct
anybody, Mr Lynch. I understand there was some unpleasantness at
the One Lebanon rally. Were you involved in this?’

‘
Where is
Peter Meier?’

Freij’s smile
was tight and Siberian. ‘Who, more to the point, is Peter
Meier?’

‘
Come on,
Mickey, stop fucking around. Meier’s the hood you bought two
nuclear warheads from.’

Freij sat
back into the armchair by the coffee table, his face an incredulous
portrait. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, man? This is all
too much. I am a man of standing in Lebanon, a public figure and I
am respected. I will not have this, this idiocy bandied about. This
is the wildest, most insane accusation.’

Lynch
remained silent, examining Freij’s body language. The man was so
precise in everything he did. Now he leaned forward, his elbow on
the coffee table and his finger raised at Lynch, who wanted to lean
forward and break it. ‘Can you prove this, Mr Lynch? Do you really
think you have a case to make?’

The silence
roared between them. Freij leaned back in his chair. ‘No, no you
don’t, do you?’ Freij crossed his arms. ‘I told you in London, I
have no interest in smuggling arms – I intend to stand as the
president of Lebanon and my very expensive campaign has started. I
do not want this affair hanging over my head.’ Freij reached into
the jacket and withdrew an envelope, which he pushed across to
Lynch. ‘Here. Take this and go. I almost regret putting the effort
into this now.’

Lynch pulled
out a folded sheet of vellum of the same type he had found by Paul
Stokes’ corpse. He opened it to find a set of coordinates written
in the careful, black script he recognised from reading Paul’s name
on a note in a stinking farmhouse down a dusty track near
Tripoli.

‘
What
the—’

‘
It is the
location of a farm in the Bekaa owned by a man called Jamal. He was
a hashish farmer forced out of business following the last
government’s crackdown on the drugs trade. Apparently he does odd
jobs for money. Dirty jobs others don’t like to do. He is the man
who killed Paul Stokes.’

Lynch
gestured with the folded paper. ‘This you carrying on the
tradition? Raymond leave you that little Indian teak desk of his,
did he?’

Freij rose,
distaste on his proud face. ‘I promised you this information. I
have delivered. As I said, I almost regret it.’

Lynch smiled
as he got to his feet, his hands held palms up. ‘What, an’ no
coffee?’

Freij smiled
coldly. ‘I find I, too, have lost my interest in history for
now.’

Lynch escaped
into the cool, sunny garden, admiring a fine Byzantine statue of a
woman carrying a baby. Electric motors whirred: the cameras
tracking his progress out to the street. He strode uphill to a
T-junction. He glanced behind, but the streets were quiet. He
called Tony Chalhoub.

‘
Hey,
Lynch.’

‘
Okay, Tony,
I’ve got a name and location for Stokes’ killer. It’s in the
Bekaa.’

‘
How did you
get it?’

‘
Freij gave
it to me just now. On one of those pieces of paper he’s so fond of.
It’s pretty mad, I know. I can only imagine he wants to burn his
boy for some reason and I’m perfectly happy helping him do it. You
can have your moment of fame, Tony. Freij thinks this’ll buy me off
and he’s got another thing coming.’

‘
Fine. I’ll
pick you up in, say, an hour?’

‘
Done. I’ll bring Palmer so we’re, um,
diplomatic
about
it.’

The quiet
snoring from the back of the car grew louder. Lynch turned to view
Palmer slumped across the beige leather back seat of Tony
Chalhoub’s Audi Q7. He noticed Chalhoub using the driver’s mirror
for the same purpose. Palmer’s trademark linen suit was rumpled on
his corpulent frame, his hand dangling off the edge of the
seat.

Chalhoub’s
brow was wrinkled. ‘Jesus, Lynch, why’d you have to bring
him?’

‘
For the same
feckin’ reason as you want to meet up with your boys from Baalbek.
I need consular cover if this all goes to fuck. Just like you’ll
need the local lads to clear up.’

Chalhoub
grunted as he steered around the last roundabout out of Zahle,
leaving the agricultural town behind as they drove up the Bekaa
Valley. Wood smoke rose in little pillars across the misty plain.
The air was fresh after the late morning shower, the clouds passing
to leave an azure sky.

Lynch stared
at the passing farms and villas, a cluster of Bedouin tents
steaming in the cool spring sunlight. He wanted to smoke. He turned
to Chalhoub.