Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (36 page)

‘
I don’t know
anything about you. I don’t want to know.’

‘
Kazab
. Liar. Of course you want to
know. It’s in your blood. You’re a spy.’

‘
Deputy
Commercial Attaché. Only information I have an interest in is
commercial opportunities for the boys and girls of the
DTI.’

‘
DTI?’

‘
Department
of Trade and Industry.’

It was a
conversation from the early days and recalling it made Lynch smile.
At that point, Leila faded, become a dove and flew up into the blue
Mediterranean sky above the green sea, circling the Manara
lighthouse and swooping in the warm currents of the sunny
afternoon.

Lynch opened
his eyes. He focused slowly, resolving Dubois’ gentle smile. ‘Good
afternoon. How are you feeling?’

Lynch licked
his dry lips, taking the Dubois’ proffered plastic cup of water. He
flopped back on the pillow. He let his breathing slow.
‘Lentini?’

‘
In ICU. He
has been shot eight times. He’s a remarkable man. They think he
will pull through now, but he has been in theatre all
night.’

‘
He got
Meshkallah.’ It was a statement.

‘
Yes, he did.
Meshkallah was Meier’s man, had been selling arms from Albanian
caches and stockpiles to Meier for years. They flew the warheads
using two army choppers to the Sazan Island base. The Albanians
have arrested a number of officers and men who have links with
Meshkallah. They are very embarrassed. The warheads are in two
containers, both painted with NATO markings, according to the men
we caught at Sazan. We’ve got a whole team wrapping up the Albanian
end of this.’

Lynch
signalled at the water cup and Dubois helped him to sip from it.
Lynch moved his head, his voice still slurred. ‘And me?’

‘
Injuries,
you mean?’ Dubois used his fingers to enumerate Lynch’s wounds.
‘You have a gash to your forehead, a bullet graze. You have two
nasty contusions from mild bullet impacts, one in your thigh and
one in your stomach, both bullets had passed through the door panel
at an angle and had lost most of their force. You have numerous
glass cuts and extensive bruising. You have some grazing from the
airbag cover and some bruising on your shoulder and chest. You have
been remarkably lucky. You are almost untouched.’

‘
The
boat?’

Dubois
tutted. ‘Do not concern yourself with this boat, Gerald. You have
been through hell. Leave it.’

‘
No.’ Lynch
stared at the ceiling, the bars of light from the windows splashed
across the white plaster. ‘Tell me.’

‘
We have not
found the boat.’

‘
And
now?’

Dubois
paused, scrutinising Lynch’s expression. He seemed to reach a
resolution. ‘Nathalie’s youngsters have finally compromised Falcon
Dynamics’ security and we have teams now working to assess and
catalogue the product. The facility you identified in the mountains
north of Beirut is, we believe, the destination of the Russian
warheads. We do not know what they intend to do with them, but we
believe there is a mobile missile system developed there that would
be compatible with the warheads. We suspect the target may be
Israel.’

Lynch gazed
across the wing of the Gulfstream jet to the azure blue waters of
the Aegean Sea, the Turkish coastline coming into view. He shifted
in the soft leather seat and reached for the porcelain mug of
coffee the attendant had brought him. Dubois sat facing him,
tapping on his Mac keyboard. Two other men sat in the six-seater
executive jet, but Lynch hadn’t been introduced to them. Both were
lean and fit, wearing baggy jogging pants and t-shirts.

‘
So do you
get to travel like this all the time?’ Lynch asked.

Dubois,
peering up from his computer, took a second to focus. He
smiled.

‘
I am afraid
not. Only when it is considered to be urgent and when there is no
reasonable commercial flight available. There are no direct flights
between Tirana and Beirut and we are chasing nuclear warheads. So
we get lucky a little.’

‘
Will we get there before the
Princess
does?’

Dubois
glanced over the screen again. ‘We have alerted the Greeks, the
Turks and the Syrians as well as the Lebanese. All believe this is
a drugs enforcement operation, all have stepped up patrols. We are
being, sadly, a little economical with the truth, but we think this
wisest given the nature of the boat’s cargo. There is a major
regional patrol operation being run by helicopters from RAF
Akrotiri quartering the Lebanese coast in conjunction with the
Lebanese air force. I think the
Princess
will not get
there.’

‘
And if it
does?’

Dubois stared
out of the window. ‘We will have to tell the Americans.’

‘
So why not
tell them now?’

‘
No,’ said
Dubois. ‘Our instructions from our masters are quite clear on this.
The nature of that cargo remains top secret. As far as the world is
concerned, we are on a drugs enforcement mission. Besides, we’re
starting to wonder quite how the Americans are involved in
this.’

Lynch was
incredulous. ‘
Involved
?’

‘
Oh, it
doesn’t matter,’ Dubois assured him, his hands placatory. ‘It’s
only one line we’re following.’

Lynch nodded.
He returned to gazing out of the window and left Dubois to peer and
poke at his Mac.

Lynch was
thinking of Leila again. A dove in Manara.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Yves Dubois
checked on progress in the operation with Nathalie as the car took
him from Rafic Hariri International Airport to the British Embassy,
where Channing had arranged a temporary office for him. He had
little choice, Dubois had confided in her. Channing had been a
political whirlwind. ‘I get the feeling he just wants me where he
can see me,’ he told her.

Now, sitting
in the embassy, Dubois hesitated, picked up the handset and dialled
the number at the bottom of the document. Dubois had read the
contents of the memory key given to his daughter by Ghassan Maalouf
with growing horror before deciding to make the call. It had taken
him hours to pluck up the courage to take the key from his jacket
pocket at all.

‘
Maalouf.’

Dubois
steadied himself, his mouth dry. ‘You understand talking to you
gives me no pleasure.’

Maalouf’s
voice was cautious. ‘I appreciate this. There is nothing, I know, I
can say to you. But I am sorry. And I am truly sorry to hear of
your loss. Of her death.’

‘
Where did
this document come from?’

‘
That is not
germane. It is genuine. We are offering our cooperation, a
partnership. We can help with more information of this nature. You
have access to the resources and tools I believe we need if we are
to bring this matter to a conclusion. Our friend is dangerous to us
all and must be stopped.’

‘
And if we
choose not to cooperate?’

‘
You are on
Lebanese soil, Yves. I would be perfectly within my rights to
protect our sovereignty. I told this to Nathalie.’

Dubois
sighed. ‘We meet, then.’

Dubois trod
up the stone front steps of the old house. It loomed, shadowed and
disused-looking, the plasterwork cracked and the stonework green
with lichen and streaked rust marks from the rotting ironwork. He
pushed open the flaking door. There was a mean bulb hanging from
the ceiling at the end of the long corridor, its yellow glow
shadowing the peeling walls, the littered floorboards. Dubois
picked his way down the corridor, the doors to the left and right
shut against him, but that at the end ajar, a crack of light
showing through.

He pushed
open the door. Ghassan Maalouf sat by the cold fireplace facing
him, two men in greatcoats flanking him. They held guns. Maalouf
examined him, then dismissed the men, who left either side of
Dubois.

Theatrical
Lebanese bastard.

‘
Please, sit.
My French is rusty, forgive me.’ Maalouf spoke in impeccable
French. ‘It has been a long time.’

Maalouf
gestured to the chair facing him. Between them was a thin-legged
coffee table which held a small crystal ice bucket flanked by two
glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

‘
Not long
enough. I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of the
operation against Freij. I will never forgive you, you must know
that.’

‘
I
understand. Sit anyhow, you can’t stand.’

Dubois
scanned the shabby room distastefully. ‘Your standards are
slipping.’

Maalouf
smiled. ‘As I become old, I find I have developed a fine eye for
decrepitude.’ He poured himself a drink, waving the bottle at
Dubois, who shook his head, standing with his hands behind his
back.

‘
The document
you gave to Nathalie asserts Michel Freij is in the pay of the
American government and his controller is an Israeli working in a
joint Mossad and CIA operation.’

‘
That is
correct. You see why we cannot possibly accept his accession to the
presidency of Lebanon. A man with a successful defence company and
links to America would be a great asset to Lebanon, particularly if
it brought us more American aid, funding and investment. But to
have a man who is a puppet of the Israelis? Even elements of the
Christian community would find it hard to swallow that. But the
rest of them ...’

‘
This is a
remarkable assertion and one I cannot support. We have very good
reason to believe while Freij does indeed have remarkably close
links to a number of American defence companies, he is most
certainly operating against American and Israeli interests in this
region.’

Maalouf
inclined his head. He sipped from his drink and regarded Dubois
cautiously. ‘Your good reason being based upon quite what evidence,
Monsieur?’

Dubois
ignored him. ‘Do you have corroboration for your assertion
regarding Freij and Israeli interests? Who is this Israeli
controller?’

‘
His name is Amit Peled. What is the reason for your very
strong interest in Michel Freij, if I may ask? He is hardly a
...
European
problem, is he not?’

‘
Nothing
much.’

Maalouf
chuckled. ‘Of course, only a minor investigation, this. An
Anglo-French joint operation under the aegis of EJIC, involving
elements of British forces in Cyprus, specialist communications
equipment being flown in by military freighter and installed in the
Résidence des Pins, along with something like fifteen French
digital intelligence operatives. The rise in the level of data
traffic between here, Brussels and London has been phenomenal.’
Maalouf sipped his whisky, talking to himself. ‘Quite phenomenal.
...’

Dubois
remained silent. Maalouf continued. ‘Let alone traffic to Valetta
and, Vlora, isn’t it? Albania. Remarkable.’ He paused, unrewarded
with a response. ‘Tell me, Yves, tell me about the
Arabian Princess
.’

Despite years
of training and experience, Dubois blinked. ‘How did you
...’

Maalouf
leaned forward. ‘Michel Freij is not intending to target Israel
with these warheads he has acquired, Yves. His target is Iran. Your
analysts have over-emphasised the role Selim Hussein has played in
this. Hussein is Shia, yes and he is also Freij’s partner and close
ally. But,’ Maalouf raised a finger, ‘no, listen to me, Yves. Freij
is the Israeli’s monster and he is dancing to their tune. As his
father was before him, as you well know. Remember Raymond Freij?
Sabra? Chatila?’

Dubois was
silent, his eyes on his clasped hands.

Maalouf rose,
brushing down the front of his trousers. ‘Anyway, I have to go. I
can’t sit around in tumbledown houses all night.’ He offered his
hand to Dubois, who did not take it. Maalouf shrugged. ‘Do your
stuff on Peled, then get in touch with me. You have the number. I
know we should be working together on this. I know you’ll come
round. We can’t heal the past, but we can surely be aspirants to a
better future. For
her
, Yves, if no-one else.’

Smiling,
Maalouf walked past Dubois who stared into the empty fireplace, his
knuckles white with the effort of keeping his fists at his sides
rather than smashing them into Maalouf’s smug face.

Lynch woke in
pain to the sound of knocking on his bedroom door. He called out,
nothing coherent but a cry to let the knocker know he was awake and
wanted them to go away.

‘
Lynch. It’s
me. Get up, we need to go to the embassy.’

Nathalie.

He propped
himself up on the bed, his mouth so dry his tongue felt like
sandpaper. He reached for the plastic bottle of water he kept by
the bed and drank, the effort bringing waves of pain to his
splitting head. He finished the bottle, gasping.