Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (23 page)

‘
I mean, I thought we were talking about a money-laundering
racket, not an out of control Lebanese Christian militia smuggling
nuclear warheads. I’d never have used an irregular on something
that dangerous if I’d known.’ He fell silent again and she turned
to scan the skyline of
Ain
Mreisse
, almost missing his whisper.
‘Christ have mercy on me.’

Nathalie was
surprised. ‘You are religious?’

His quick
laugh was sardonic. ‘It’s more a figure of speech.’

The sound of
raised voices carried from the street below. Nathalie leaned over
the balcony’s cast iron railing. Two men were arguing. One of them
was selling radishes and herbs from a cart, a cigarette dangling
from his mouth as he waved the other man away, the other calling on
those around him to witness some iniquity or another.

‘
They always
argue here. It must be the water.’ She turned to Lynch. ‘You cannot
blame yourself for Paul’s death.’

He took his
time to answer her. ‘They both died, that young couple, because of
me. I owe it to Paul to at least avenge his murder, so an’ I
do.’

‘
What about
the warheads?’

‘
It’s
strange, you know. I’ve never got out of the habit of being
grateful for being able to stand on this balcony without worrying
about being shot. In the war, you’d not have lasted two seconds out
here.’

Nathalie
sipped her drink and watched him. Lynch turned his back on the
shimmering blue expanse to face her.

‘
Your father
was right. There’s nothing to stop Michel trying again. We’ll be
very lucky to pin any involvement with those warheads on him,
particularly if he gets the presidency. But the question is what he
wanted to do with the damn things and to answer that, we need to
get inside Falcon Dynamics.’

‘
We haven’t
been able to penetrate their networks. My team here has been
working on it for days. And they’re good, the best.’

‘
So why don’t
we get all old-fashioned and go for humint? Find someone who’ll let
us in?’

Nathalie
nodded. ‘Agreed. My thoughts entirely. We have been looking for
known defence contacts with links to Falcon. We have also been
trying to find local contacts, employees and so on. It’s not easy.
Strangely, Falcon Dynamics is highly advanced digitally, but
Lebanon is still a very analogue country in so many ways. It makes
things harder than you would imagine.’

‘
Grand. If
you focus on that, I’ll go and play around in Malta. Is that okay
with you?’

Nathalie held
her glass to clink against and then drained her whisky. ‘Not bad,
this stuff. We need to get some Ricard, though. I miss Ricard. I am
going to get dressed, I have promised to have dinner with a
friend.’

Nathalie put
her head around the door. ‘I’m going. Don’t wait up for me. Good
luck in Malta.’

Lynch
whistled. ‘You brush up well, so. I hope he’s worth it.’

She grinned.
‘You’ll never know.

He stared at
the diamonds around her neck. ‘Are those real?’

‘
Again,
you’ll never know.’ She laughed and turned away, her heels clacking
down the corridor. The front door closed. After a short time
staring at the sea, Lynch took his mobile and called Leila. This
time she picked up.

‘
Lynch.’

‘
I didn’t
know where you were,’ he said. ‘I was worried.’

‘
What does it
matter? Are you enjoying your games?’

He looked up
at the whiteness of Sannine’s peak towering beyond the city in the
waning light. ‘They’re not games. It’s what I do. You’ve always
known that. It’ll be over soon. Will you come back?’

She sighed.
‘I don’t know, Lynch. My head’s in another place right now. I have
some living to do.’

‘
I have to go
away for a while. Can I see you when it’s over?’

‘
Where are
you going?’

‘
I can’t tell
you.’

Her voice
trembled. ‘Then I can’t trust you. You understand that? I’m a
secret from your secret life. That’s just not me.’ She sniffed, the
sound faint through her hand cupped over the receiver, he guessed.
They shared the silence for what seemed like an eternity, the line
was hissy.

‘
Okay. If you
come back, Lynch. Call me first, yes?’

‘
Thanks.
Thanks, I will.’

Lynch should
have felt elation, but he was filled with a terrible sadness.
Sitting back with his whisky, he drifted, the sound of the city
street below him lulling him as the shadows gathered. Someone was
cooking in the apartment below and had the window open. He could
hear pans. He was a child again, dustbin lids clattering on the
Falls Road. He was upstairs, fighting for his life as Cathal tried
to take his money from him, the two quid from his paper round. He
was in the kitchen, shouting at their foster mother, her kind,
lined face shocked at his words. He was standing in the bathroom
over Cathal’s still form, the older boy’s lips blue and a needle
lying on the tiled floor. Gerry Lynch was sent back to the Sisters
of Charity after that. The family hadn’t been able to cope with the
trouble. Nobody had told them the older boy was an addict. Nobody
had known, to tell the truth. Nobody except Gerry. And somehow they
blamed him for knowing.

He woke with
a start, the air cool. His cigar had gone out. He checked his watch
and swore softly. His mobile was ringing and he hurried inside to
answer it, Marcelle’s smoky voice his reward. ‘Can you come over,
Lynch?’

He pocketed
the phone and headed for the door. He paused for a second,
uncertain whether to take the Walther. On the balance of it, he
decided, no.

Lynch leaned
against the bar, drinking an Almaza, tearing up a beer mat and
trying not to want to smoke. It was early and the club was almost
empty, a few huddled couples whispering in the dark corners and a
party of loud suits drinking champagne at the other end of the long
walnut counter.

Marcelle
joined him. She was angry, her tone urgent. ‘What the fuck happened
there, Lynch? Freij has paid me ten thousand bucks to say sorry and
hopes that the girl wasn’t hurt in the “unfortunate
accident”.’

Lynch tossed
the soggy shreds onto the bar. ‘So it’s a win-win, Marcie. Your
girl gets patched up, you get to earn bank and Michel stays clean.
Why buck that?’

Decorated for
the evening shift, Marcelle was resplendent in a clinging black
velvet dress accentuating her curves, cut perfectly under her taut
breasts. Gold hung from her ears and neck, her bangle glittered
with diamonds and kohl framed her eyes.

‘
Come on.
Have a drink and celebrate your luck.’

She gauged
him, her lips tight. He smiled at her and patted the red leather
stool. She sat and snapped her fingers at the barman. ‘Martini.
Dirty.’

Lynch’s gaze
ran up her legs to her face and met her frown.

‘
Forget it,
Lynch. You got a freebie. Count your blessings. But forget
it.’

He smiled,
shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember a thing.’

She leaned
forward, drawling, her touch light on his thigh. ‘Babe, I have
known a shitload of men. I so know you.’

Lynch lowered
his eyes, smiling. ‘Marcie, take his money and keep the girl quiet.
Did he mention anything else to you?’

‘
Nothing.
That girl almost died. He’s an animal.’

‘
Sure, but
he’s playing nicely, so just go along with it. You have my number.
Please take care.’

The barman
placed her Martini on the bar, waiting on her reaction as she
lifted the frosted cocktail glass, the queen olive speared on its
cocktail stick, which rolled into her full lip as she sipped.
‘Good. Thank you.’ She tipped her chin, dismissing him.

She turned to
Lynch, her deep eyes half-lidded. Her contempt was languid. ‘Lynch,
you have a short memory. I used to take care of you, remember? You
were a kid when you came to Beirut. You were scared of loud noises.
You pissed yourself in the air raids. Don’t presume to mother
me.’

The lights
dimmed and music started to pump. The first floor-show of the
evening was starting.

Lynch stepped
down from the bar stool, smiling. His hand caressed her thigh with
a light, passing touch that slid inside her leg fleetingly. He
leaned into her to speak over the music. ‘You’re getting older,
Marcie. You can’t afford all that pride.’

He left her
without a backwards glance, ignoring the two listless girls he
passed as they stroked each other’s breasts automatically in time
to the pumping music.

Marcelle
Aboud tossed back the rest of her drink and flung her glass on the
floor, her eyes flashed at the wide-eyed barman as she stood.
‘Clear it up, you idiot.’

Ghassan
Maalouf sipped his Caipirinha delicately. Nathalie tried not to
feel out of place. She knew her dress was elegant and complemented
her slim figure and full bust, was perhaps even a little too
daring. She had checked her makeup and it was the best she could
do, the red lipstick contrasting with her fine skin and black
bobbed hair, a touch of colour on her cheeks and her green eyes
framed with mascara. She wore diamonds, borrowed from the
ambassador’s wife, an elegant lady in her fifties who had declared
herself Nathalie’s surrogate mother. She clutched an Hermès evening
bag that had likewise been pressed on her by her new companion. Yet
she felt like an intruder, a dowdy little sparrow in the opulence
of the Casino du Liban and its outré occupants. They swept by in a
tide of silk and tumbling hair and pumped-up breasts, chattering
parties of fleshy-lipped brilliant white smiles on the arms of
dark-suited, swarthy men with blue-shadowed chins and male pattern
baldness.

Nathalie had
watched as Maalouf won and then lost five hundred dollars at
roulette. He walked her through the gaming room to the bar
afterwards, acknowledging the attention of the many people who
greeted him or stopped him to offer their wishes. Always
deferentially, Nathalie noted.

Maalouf’s
rumbling voice brought her back to earth, to her seat at the table
in the elegant salon. ‘You are not drinking.’

Nathalie
smiled and lifted her glass to her lips, the cold, sweet aniseed
flowing over her tongue. ‘It is very kind of you to invite me to
join you here. I had not visited this place before.’

‘
But you
lived in Lebanon.’

‘
As a child.
This is not a place for children, Monsieur.’

Maalouf
chuckled, his merry eyes looking her up and down. ‘Absolutely not.
You certainly are no child now, though. You are every piece as
beautiful as your mother was.’

‘
You are a
flatterer.’

He shook his
head, his expression becoming serious. ‘No, the truth. It is
important to be aware of the difference between these as it is to
be aware of the difference between love and hate. Both are too
close, so some subtlety is required. But truth is important.’ He
studied her face.

She held his
gaze. ‘Then let us practice, Monsieur. What do you seek,
precisely?’

His
white-whiskered face broke into a smile. ‘Ah, so the interrogation
begins. Are you, I wonder, as effective as your mother was? Are we
to anticipate the same mixture of intellect and
persistence?’

‘
You said you
knew her. Did you know her well?’

‘
Yes, since
before she met your father. She was a famous beauty, but you know
this. She was well known here.’ He gestured at the opulent bar,
taking in the whole hillside complex of concert halls, gaming
rooms, bars and restaurants overlooking the bay north of Jounieh.
‘In better times.’

Nathalie’s
face clouded. ‘Her family was from Jounieh. Before ...’

‘
I am sorry.
We should perhaps change the subject.’ Maalouf brushed the lapel of
his tuxedo. ‘It was insensitive of me to talk like this of the
past.’

Seeing the
little red thread in his buttonhole took Nathalie back to Vivienne
Chalabi’s house and their first meeting and reminded her of Lynch.
She wondered what he was doing and rather thought he would still be
drinking whisky.

Maalouf
shifted in his chair and sighed. ‘I shall cut, as they say, to the
chase. I run the organisation ultimately responsible for Lebanon’s
antiterrorist operations.’

Having
checked him on the European Joint Intelligence Centre database,
Nathalie knew this. She also knew he had graduated from a long
career in the
mukhabbarat
, the secret police, and
had a long history of affiliation to the Syrians and close ties to
Syrian intelligence. Maalouf was a highly respected and influential
member of the Christian community, an assiduous networker and one
of the few figures to enjoy the confidence of key leaders in every
one of Lebanon’s many, many political camps. An assassination
attempt against him in the early nineties by a group of Shi’ite
hotheads had led to the would-be assassins being handed over
personally to Maalouf by Hezbollah. An unfortunate and fatal
accident had sadly prevented the young hotheads from being brought
to justice. Maalouf was thought to be a strong candidate for head
of Lebanese intelligence when the current incumbent retired. It was
thought the date of the retirement would be set by Maalouf
himself.