Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (34 page)

‘
He used to
fly for the big warlords, the drug runs. He’s good, the best. He
made good money, bought some land and went into business for
himself. The big boys didn’t particularly like that but he kept
them sweet and they turned a blind eye. After the war, they had the
sense to crystallise the profits, as it were, and leave the trade.
Nimr kept flying.’

‘
Until?’

‘
Where did
Najimi score lab grade smack, Gerald?’

‘
Must have
been a mix-up with his dealer, ain’t that the truth?’

Chalhoub
returned Lynch’s stare, standing his ground against the pent-up
violence in Lynch’s icy glare. Every word, every glance was imbued
with a cold viciousness Chalhoub had never seen so naked in his old
friend before. Lynch was very drunk and Chalhoub spoke to the
tabletop to avoid the anger in Lynch’s eyes.

‘
Marwan Nimr
was traded in by one of the warlords. We’d got a little too close
to some stuff that the big guy wanted to avoid having to answer to,
so he gave us a few little gifts and the news that if we didn’t
take the gifts, he’d start another war. One of the gifts was Nimr.
We hesitated, then my boss got hit in the shoulder by a sniper on
his way to the office. We took the gifts.’

Lynch drained
his glass, resting the
shisha
mouthpiece across the arm of his chair so that he
could lean over and slosh
arak
into his and Chalhoub’s glasses. ‘Which
warlord?’

‘
You already
know, Lynch.’ Chalhoub sighed. ‘Raymond Freij.’

Lynch grunted
and drank. ‘Anthony Najimi was a known associate of both Michel
Freij and Selim Hussein. He knew them both as students and was an
early employee of Falcon Dynamics. He was on their payroll for
years, a highly talented programmer with a particular
specialisation in security applications and encryption. Najimi
crashed out with a nervous breakdown three years ago. He got the
job at AUB thanks to an effusive reference and the personal
intervention of Michel Freij with AUB’s board. Najimi was
financially wealthy, held Falcon shares and had liquidated about
four million dollars’ worth in the past year.’

‘
So why kill
him?’

Lynch blinked
slowly, surfacing to grin roguishly at Chalhoub, tipping the
argileh
mouthpiece at
the policeman. ‘Naughty, Tony. Very naughty.’ He drank from
his
arak
, putting
the glass down too roughly, the sound of it smacking on the
tabletop stopping conversations around them. People glanced across
to see what was happening.

Lynch sat
back. ‘A good question, though. Why would someone want to kill
Anthony Najimi, broken genius, brilliant lecturer and mature
student activist? Why would someone think that it would be
appropriate to kill a man who would never want for money again in
his life and yet who chose to be a drug dealer, to peddle smack and
dope as gaily as he peddled influence among the young people he
preyed upon?’

Chalhoub
nodded. ‘And he killed Leila Medawar.’ Lynch’s face was impassive,
he was weaving on his chair. Chalhoub tried not to sound desperate.
‘So who killed Najimi?’

‘
Harry did,
Tony. Harry killed Anthony Najimi.’

With
exaggerated care, Lynch rested the
argileh
mouthpiece on the little
silver pan of the decorated pipe. He drained his
arak
and got to his
feet, swaying to maintain his balance. He threw some notes down on
the table, his voice sounding, Chalhoub noted for the first time
since he’d known the man, slurred.

‘
Gotta go,
Tony. Good luck with the druggie files.’

Chalhoub
watched Lynch weave between the tables and then turn to pick his
way back with studied care. Lynch leaned against a chair to ask,
‘By the way. Where would I find Nimr?’

Chalhoub
nodded, care in his voice. ‘He used to drink at the Red Lady in
Monot.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Take care, Gerald. You know if I can
help—’

‘
Yeah, I
know. Thanks, Tony.’

Lynch left,
consumed by the darkness. Chalhoub tossed back his
arak
. The night was cold
and he shivered despite his heavy jacket.

TWENTY-SIX

It was cold
and Lynch waited, huddled by the airstrip. Vlorë wasn’t the most
important of Albania’s military bases, part of a network of
facilities deemed critical in the cold war and still being
decommissioned, stockpiles slowly being identified and destroyed,
some disappearing into hands that would pass them to Iraq,
Afghanistan or Africa. Hands like Peter Meier’s. Lynch scanned the
tatty runway.

Brian
Channing had confounded Lynch’s plans to track down Marwan Nimr,
the bent helicopter pilot. Lynch had left Tony Chalhoub and struck
out for his apartment, arriving exhausted and very drunk at
midnight. Channing’s call delivered the news Lynch was booked on
the 4.30am flight to Albania. As usual, there were no direct
flights. He’d have to route through Istanbul. Lynch just made the
flight, was almost refused boarding and had to be shaken awake in
Istanbul. He slept again on the light plane that took him down the
Adriatic coast to Vlorë.

Lynch was to
meet up with Gabriel Lentini, the Maltese special forces officer
who had planned the raid on the
Arabian
Princess
in Malta and so knew the big
yacht’s layout. Lentini’s brief was to liaise with the Albanian
special forces, offering his expertise on the interior of the
yacht. Tirana had been grateful for the help, according to Dubois,
who had been in constant contact with his counterpart there since
Nathalie had unravelled the PIL connection. Albania had immediately
extended its fullest cooperation in the European-led operation
against arms smugglers. Whilst eager to help, the Albanians had
been mildly puzzled as to why anyone would want to smuggle arms
into a country still in the process of destroying and
decommissioning one of the greatest concentrations of weapons and
military assets remaining in the post-cold war era. Dubois, his
imperative as ever to keep international embarrassment and public
panic to a minimum, hadn’t been too clear on precisely what cargo
they were seeking. Dubois once again cautioned Lynch to go to all
and any lengths to maintain that lack of clarity. It had led to a
number of awkward conversations in Tirana and another set when he
had arrived in Vlorë.

Lynch had
straightway disliked his assigned liaison officer when he arrived
at the airbase. There was something oily about Lieutenant Colonel
Adnan Meshkallah as he met Lynch from the plane, covering Lynch’s
hands with both of his as he pumped them, an almost comical
Oriental effusiveness about everything the man did. Like a Turkish
pimp, Lynch thought.

Meshkallah
came into sight, scuttling across the crumbling concrete apron,
leaving the low building next to the hangars behind him. Lynch
returned his attention to the sky above the northern end of the
airfield, rewarded with the sight of an approaching aircraft’s
lights resolving into a shiny little CASA C-212. One of the newer
additions to the tiny Maltese Air Force, the light-blue liveried
plane wavered in the coarse shear wind as it swooped down to meet
the weed-whiskered concrete runway.

The turboprop
passed them by as Meshkallah reached Lynch. It slowed, its engines’
noisy buzz rose for the turn then lowered as the plane went around
parallel to them. It drew to a halt, the engines cut. A few seconds
later, Lynch watched Lentini’s uniformed bulk descend, the wind
gusting so the big man had to hold down his cap as he approached
them.

From Lynch’s
side, Meshkallah spoke, his voice filled with delight and
camaraderie. ‘Very good. We have help from Malta. Now we may
proceed together to solving this greatest mystery.’

Meshkallah’s
clipped military moustache, his oiled, dark hair and the ridiculous
little baton he carried under his arm along with his peaked hat all
made Lynch want to round on the toy soldier and demand a real
officer to talk to. He breathed deeply and strode to greet
Lentini.

‘
Gabe. Great
to see you.’

Lentini
grinned, his hard hand gripping Lynch’s, his castrato voice raised
against the strong breeze. ‘Good to see you, too, Gerald. Paul
Tomasi sends his regards and says you’re to get the
bastards.’

Meshkallah
joined them and clapped them both on the back. ‘Welcome to Vlorë,
gentlemen.’

Lynch bit his
tongue and forced a smile. ‘Thank you, Adnan. This is Captain
Lentini. Gabe, this is our liaison here in Vlorë. Lieutenant
Colonel Adnan Meshkallah is in charge of the operation against
Peter Meier and his illegal shipment.’

Lentini and
Meshkallah shook hands, and the shorter man led the way back to the
low administration block. Lentini’s hand darted to catch the door
as it swung in the wind. It slammed behind them as they reached the
warmth of the administration block. They clattered into a waiting
area with chipped metal seating bolted to the floor in sections, an
embarkation point for the military. It was disused and smelled
oily.

‘
There will
be a storm,’ grinned Meshkallah. ‘We must all take care tonight, I
think. Please, take a seat here, gentlemen and we will arrange the
necessary transport. We believe our quarry has passed the border
with Macedonia a little before the dawn. We are in wait for them.
We are crouched like the tiger.’

As Meshkallah
strutted off, Lynch leaned over to Lentini. ‘Gabe, he’s either an
incompetent fuckwit or a dangerous waste of space. I can’t make up
my mind.’

Lentini
laughed. ‘Let’s see. These guys still have a formidable military
machine. I flew in over Sazan Island. It used to be a huge Soviet
military base and it still seems like an active military zone. I’d
heard about it before, never expected to see it, somehow.’ He
leaned forwards in response to Lynch’s raised eyebrow. ‘I mean, I
doubt Meshkallah could have got to where he is by being
incompetent.’

There was no
sunset, just a deepening of the gloomy cloud cover to a sulky
slate. Lynch paced along the windows overlooking the airfield,
retracing his steps like a cage-happy animal. He caught his
reflection in a glass panel. The neon lighting made his face
ghostly.

Lentini
inspected his firearms, laying them down on the bench. He had
stripped each of the two pistols he carried, scrutinising each
piece and reassembling the guns with loving care.

He peered up
from his labour. ‘Easy, Lynch. You’ll wear a path in the
flooring.’

Lynch rounded
on Lentini, exasperated. ‘Gabe, we’ve been sitting in this dump for
over two hours now. I’m sick of waiting.’

Lentini
chuckled. ‘Relax, Gerald. You’ve obviously never been in the army.
We do more waiting than anything else. The Albanians shut the
border as soon as we talked to them. It’s their operation and we
have to respect that. Meshkallah’s in charge now.’

‘
So how long do we give them?’ Lynch gazed out of the window
at the deepening gloom outside, raindrops starting to dot the
glass. The
Princess
must be here by now. They could even be loading up and we
don’t know what the hell’s happening.’

Lentini
sighed. ‘I understand your frustration, but there’s really nothing
we can do. We can’t search the Vlorë coastline by ourselves, can
we? These guys have got the resources and Meshkallah’s the man in
charge. They’ll have patrols at sea, and overflights, too. There
are only two places with jetties that could load a boat as big as
the
Princess
and
Meshkallah’s bound to have them both covered.’

‘
What about
the houses Scerri made calls to?’

‘
Both under
surveillance. The Albanians have had people there since we called
this morning. Really, we can do nothing more than wait.’

Lentini’s
mobile rang and the big man’s shoulders stiffened as he listened,
turning and nodding at Lynch. Lentini hung up and bent to lift the
heavy holdall he had brought with him. ‘We’re go. Customs have
picked the consignment up, they’ve let it go through as agreed. The
tail is good. There’s a team ready to move on the Petrolifera
facility and the port’s been shut down. The navy is moving to
blockade the straits between Sazan and Vlorë. The cargo’s moving.
Meshkallah’s sent a driver. We can follow him. So relax, we’re
good.’

They strode
to the door. This time the soldiers on the other side nodded and
escorted them. They bustled through the empty, grey building,
gathering more men as they made their way, finally bursting through
the glass front doors as a large group of uniformed men with Lynch
and Lentini at its centre. There were two big Land Cruisers waiting
for them, new matte camouflage paintwork and regimental insignia
above their back bumpers, whiplash antenna waving in the air. Two
staff cars were queued up behind them, engines running. Officers
barked commands and they were surrounded by commotion. Behind it
there was a low beating sound. Lynch craned his head to try to hear
better over the noisy military around them. He strained to catch
the noise, tapping Lentini’s arm.