Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (30 page)

‘
What do you
think?’

‘
The
alternative is that he’d arrest us, which he has the authority to
do. They’re aware we’re involved in an operation against Freij.
They could make it look bad for us. He made this quite clear. He
knows our operations and networks in Lebanon are all
compromised.’

Lynch was
sharp. ‘
Our
? Is
that a European ‘
Our’
or a French ‘
Our
’, I wonder?’

Nathalie
tutted. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

The waiter
arrived with their drinks and a breadbasket, fussing around the
table and laying out cutlery.

‘
Steak et frites
,’ said
Lynch.

Nathalie
pointed to the menu.
‘
Le poulet, s’il vous
plait.
’

The waiter’s
features softened perceptibly.
‘
Mais vous etes bien
sûr Francaise, Madame.
’

‘
Oui.
’ She
smiled. ‘
Bien
sûr
.’

‘
Bienvenu! C’est mon plaisir de vous
servir.
’
He retreated, beaming.

Lynch
glowered at the waiter’s back. ‘Christ on a bike, what did you
people do here to make them so bloody grateful to see
you?’

‘
Us? The French? Honestly, Lynch? We took sides. We were
clear. Something you English never managed to do. At least the
Lebanese Christians love the French. In the
Monde Arabe
, everyone’s agreed on
what they think of the English.’

‘
That’s not
true and I’m not bloody English.’

Nathalie
broke a bread roll and delicately changed the subject. ‘The French
Embassy people are unhappy about my team. We have set up a mobile
surveillance unit in the grounds of the Résidence des Pins. They
are bureaucrats, these people. They are very old-fashioned. Papa
says things were better in his day.’ She grinned at Lynch. ‘It
always is like this,
non
? It is always better in the old
days, as they say.’

Lynch
finished his beer and signalled for another. ‘I wouldn’t know. I
haven’t quite had my day yet.’

Nathalie
popped a piece of bread into her mouth and sat back, one eyebrow
raised at Lynch. ‘We could benefit from the help of the Lebanese
now. Falcon Dynamics is highly secure and we have not been able to
gain access to any systems at all. It also has an Internet
footprint that is very vague, with little information that bears
the scrutiny. Many third party sources and reports, blogs and so on
can be traced back to Falcon Dynamics itself or become the dead
ends – they have created their own
legend.
You call it this,
non
?’ Lynch nodded and
she continued. ‘So, there is this
legend
on the Web. When we look at
known contacts, there exists almost nothing. Every senior associate
we have investigated has been pure as the snow. We have only one
contact who is viable, and likely still has security access to
Falcon and that is the man Maalouf told me about. We are, after all
this effort, reduced to one man.’

‘
So who is
he?’

The waiter
arrived, Nathalie acknowledging his bowing and scraping, Lynch’s
plate delivered without ceremony. Ravenous, he started to eat, the
steak tender and the fries breaking with little puffs of
steam.

Nathalie
picked up her fork. ‘He is a lecturer in Middle East history at the
American University of Beirut. His given name is Anthony Najimi,
but he is known as Spike. He is something of a character,
apparently. A big rebel figure. A folk hero to many of the
students.’

Lynch’s heart
quickened as he recalled the note Paul Stokes had left: ‘Spike’ and
‘Deir Na’ee’. A connection with Stokes’ legacy and the words that
triggered Michel Freij’s brutal assault on Marcelle’s prostitute
after she had whispered them across a pillow.

Nathalie
reached her tablet from her handbag. ‘This is him.’

Lynch took
the device. He signalled the waiter for another beer and propped
his elbow on the table, his food cooling as he swiped his way
through the document. Lynch’s eyes widened as he read. ‘Jesus. He’s
a fucking drug dealer.’

Scanning the
last page, Lynch’s body tensed. He tried to stay calm, slowing his
breathing before he was sure enough of himself to slide the tablet
back to Nathalie. The food he had eaten tried to come back up and
Lynch struggled to stop himself from puking. He avoided her direct
gaze and scanned the empty tables under the awnings on the sunny
cobbled street, his breath rasping. He swept his hands back over
his hair. ‘Jesus wept.’

He couldn’t
stop thoughts of Leila flooding his mind. Leila, mentioned in the
Lebanese intelligence file on the tablet he was holding. Last seen
by Lebanese intelligence in the company of a drug dealer, activist
and rebel called Anthony Najimi whom everyone knew as Spike. What
had she said as they’d stood together on the Beirut
corniche?
I’ll not wait for you, Lynch.
Not while you play with your Bond girl.
She hadn’t been kidding.

‘
What is it,
Lynch?’

He signalled
for the cheque. ‘Nothing.’ He tossed the file back to her. ‘Come
on, we’re supposed to see your father at two. We’re
late.’

Standing,
Lynch tossed a bundle of lire notes onto the table. Mystified,
Nathalie joined him as he strode up the street towards the British
Embassy.

Dubois
watched Channing stalk the ambassador’s meeting room, pausing at
the picture window that looked over the sunny stone buildings and
terracotta-tiled roofs of Beirut’s Solidere district, the area the
Beirutis called Sodeco, and onto the azure Mediterranean beyond. He
turned his back on the idyll and jabbed his finger at
Dubois.

‘
It’s
finished, Yves. We close the whole operation now. This is in danger
of turning into the biggest fuck-up in intelligence
history.’

Dubois was
the older man but technically junior to Channing, the British
deputy director for security and public affairs. He laid his hand
on the French-polished wood, his melodious voice thickened by the
effort to contain his rage. ‘We have every reason to believe Freij
and Hussein are attempting to acquire viable nuclear
warheads.’

‘
No, you do
not. What you have is a couple of Lebbo parvenus who tried to buy a
luxury yacht for cash from a dodgy Kraut bankrupt whose daughter,
our one witness, happened to be psychotic and is now, in any case
dead. That’s what you have. In short, sweet fuck all. I should
never have agreed to the operation in the first place.’ Channing
grabbed a blue-capped bottle of spring water from one of the place
settings at the table, wrenched the cap off and swigged from it. He
gestured at the newspaper on the long table. ‘Worse, one of those
parvenus is the future president of Lebanon and he’s given half a
page of the Daily Star to explain why the Brits are the root of all
fucking evil. Our host, His Excellency, is currently busy
petitioning the Foreign Office for my balls on a plate.’

Dubois’ lips
were drawn tight. He glared up at Channing’s bulk, framed by the
window. ‘Could you perhaps stop swearing at me, Brian?’

Channing
threw the plastic bottle to the floor. ‘No, I fucking can’t. I’ve
got the Maltese government baying for my blood, the Special Boat
Squadron bitching me out and the PM asking my boss why I’ve lost my
fucking wits. Your big fat hunch led to a dead end, Dubois. That
boat’s as clean as a whistle, Freij and Hussein are even more
squeaky fucking clean and whoever Meier is, he’s nowhere to be
found. It’s over, full stop. I’m pulling the plug. Sod European
cooperation.’

Channing sat
at the head of the table and ran his fingers through his greying
hair. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, linking his hands
behind his neck. Dubois studied the man. Middle-aged, Channing wore
jeans and a striped shirt, the casual clothes offset by a pair of
expensive-looking silver cufflinks. A consummate politician
himself, Dubois had to acknowledge Channing’s ability to play the
game brilliantly. More brilliantly than he, Dubois admitted to
himself with a twinge of envy. He almost fancied Channing had dozed
off, the man was so still.

‘
You’re
wrong,’ Dubois blurted.

Channing’s
eyes snapped open. ‘Prove it.’

‘
I don’t need to. If those warheads aren’t on the
Arabian Princess
, where
are they? We need to find them and we know there is a direct link
with Hoffmann, Meier and the arms cache they came from. We also
know there is a direct link between them and Falcon and Freij. We
have a payment from one party to the other. In case you had
forgotten, Brian, Hoffmann and his wife were murdered. So was Paul
Stokes. Then there are Elli Hoffmann, Scerri and the Boutros man
from the ship. This is a lot of dead people around the purchase of
a luxury yacht, is it not?’

‘
I don’t
care. Murders are for the plods. We have to find those warheads all
right, but they’re not in Beirut, are they?’

Dubois paced
the table. ‘Not yet, no. But this is where they are coming. I know
it.’

‘
Another
hunch. Enough hunches. It’s over.’

‘
French
intelligence has supported the Freij family for many years. I
cannot tell you by what degree, but our support has been
significant. The French government has been very involved in
Lebanese politics since the foundation of this country, as you very
well know. Something is happening here. I do not know what yet, but
something. It is not good. Michel Freij is not what he seems to be.
He has become a client of the Americans but they do not understand
him as we do. We need a little time. Just a little
time.’

Channing sat
forward. ‘No. No more time. It’s over, Yves. Listen to yourself,
man. You’re waffling. Freij is not a European problem and I won’t
let you make him into one.’ He waved down the table to the folded
newspaper. ‘And he’s certainly not a British problem except now
we’ve obviously got to go on the world’s biggest arse-licking
exercise since the invention of diplomacy.’

Dubois lunged
across the room and placed his hands over Channing’s. ‘We must stop
him, we must.’

Channing
snatched his hands away, his face screwed up in disgust. ‘Stop him?
Get a grip on yourself, Dubois. There are no warheads on the ship
and Operation Beirut is closed with immediate effect.’

Dubois
snapped. ‘You can’t close it. You don’t have the authority. This is
an EJIC operation and therefore under my purview.’

Channing’s
voice was mellifluous,
creamy
thought Dubois, realising his naiveté as Channing
pronounced sentence.

‘
I bloody can
because I have been given precisely that authority by your
mealy-mouthed political masters in Brussels. Sorry, it’s my show
now and I can stop it or start it as I see fit.’

Dubois opened
his mouth to protest but Channing cut him off.

‘
Check before
you say something you’ll regret. I want us to work together, not
fight each other. Just accept the new reality.’

Both men’s
heads turned at the tap on the door. Lynch entered, holding the
door for Nathalie, whose hand flew to her mouth at her father’s
abject demeanour. Lynch returned Channing’s glare with a raised
eyebrow.

‘
Sorry, did
we pick a bad moment?’

Dubois’ voice
was husky, ‘No, no. Come in.’

Standing in
front of the fireplace with his hands behind his back, Channing’s
tone was matter of fact. ‘Operation Beirut is over. Michel Freij
and Selim Hussein are no longer of interest to us.
Official.’

Lynch tested
the coffee pot and poured a cup for himself. He tipped the pot at
Nathalie but she shook her head.

‘
What about
the murder of Paul Stokes? Or Elli Hoffmann? Or Leila Medawar?’
Lynch’s face was taut, his knuckles white on the cup’s
handle.

Channing
craned forward. ‘Leila who?’

‘
The activist
girl.’ Dubois answered, watching Lynch and fearing
violence.

‘
Up to the
police. Not an issue for us.’

Lynch put the
cup down, spilling the coffee. ‘Not an
issue
? How’s that, then?’

‘
No. I said
let the Lebboes handle it. I’ve had enough wild crusades to last me
the rest of the year and I won’t have us playing cops and robbers
in a foreign jurisdiction. Particularly not this one right
now.’

Lynch nodded.
‘Fair enough. Your call.’

Puzzled by
Lynch’s meek acquiescence, Dubois caught the glance between the
Irishman and Nathalie. Lynch, he realised, was about to take the
law into his own hands.

Channing
shoved his chair back. ‘What a fucking mess. Right. You.’ He waved
at Lynch. ‘Get on with whatever you were doing before all this.
You.’ Nathalie raised her head. ‘Get back to France, soonest. It’s
over. Goodbye.’