Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (39 page)

‘
Yes,’ Freij
seemed surprised. ‘I suppose we are. Gonsalves, you can enter the
hangar, dock to the right if you please.’

Meier,
burning with resentment, stood by as Gonsalves acted on the
instruction. It was technically Freij’s boat, but the man’s casual
assumption that Gonsalves was now
his
man was infuriating. Meier
glared towards the island and the hangar as it loomed up towards
them. He shivered as they slid into the big space, lighting hung
from the gantries above, boiler-suited men standing on the
dockside, staring. The huge sea-doors started to close behind them,
the rattle of the heavy chains echoing in the hangar.

The closing
impact boomed in the great space, a signal for the men on the dock
to start moving. The crew cast ropes to them, snaking white lines
picked out by the floodlights. The yacht slowed to a standstill,
its wash sloshing inside the hangar. The gangway lowered and a team
of men in white biohazard suits raced up it, deploying across the
covered pool area and directing the crane swinging around over the
boat.

On the upper
sun deck, Meier watched the heavy panels covering the pool roll
back. Michel Freij was impassive at his side. More lamps snapped on
high above them, lighting up the two green, tapered cones nestled
in their sophisticated aluminium and black foam cradles.

‘
They don’t
look so evil, do they, Meier?’ Freij chuckled, a sound Meier
thought, sourly, was a first. ‘Yet each one can destroy a
city.’

‘
I know their
capabilities, Mr Freij.’

‘
Do you? Do
you really? How fascinating.’ The low chuckle sounded again. ‘The
standard Russian missile was capable of propelling these almost
five hundred kilometres. It was unbelievably,’ Freij cast about for
the right word, smiling when he found it, ‘crude. Solid fuel,
barely better than a Scud, really. We have developed hybrid
propellant systems that will send this warhead four times the
distance and yet are still capable of a mobile launch with fast
deployment. We have, of course, developed the most sophisticated
electronic countermeasures to protect our delivery
system.’

Meier made an
effort to keep his voice steady, his mind racing to try to assess
the potential of Freij’s assertions. ‘You are to be commended. But
why would you need such long reach? I had thought your target to be
the Zionist state.’

Freij patted
Meier’s shoulder heavily forcing Meier to steady himself against
the handrail. ‘Why? Because we can reach London from anywhere in
Lebanon if we wish to, Herr Meier. Imagine. London, this great
city. And of course we can reach out to touch any other great city
in mainland Europe. Or indeed into Asia. Any city we choose. Is
that not ...
splendid
?’

Meier watched
the first warhead rise in its cradle, the whir of the crane and the
muffled sound of men calling instructions echoed in the great,
covered space.

Freij turned
away from the handrail. ‘Come, Herr Meier. Our work here is done.
We can leave this good ship to the careful ministrations of my men
now. We can celebrate success.’

Meier watched
the missile lift as if in a dream, gripping the varnished wood to
steady himself. The cone encased in its cradle swung onto the
dockside where it was grabbed by a team of men in white coveralls
and guided onto a trolley. The straps dropped and the crane moved
back over the boat. Meier followed Freij down the spiral staircase
to the bridge deck. He called out as he descended. ‘Where are you
taking them now?’

‘
To Beirut,
Herr Meier.’

‘
Yes, yes,
but how?’

They reached
the main deck and Meier caught up with Freij. ‘How are you going to
get them to Beirut?’

Freij glared
down at Meier’s hand on his arm and Meier let it drop. The dark,
glittering eyes flickered over Meier’s face and Meier felt like
prey. ‘To Beirut, Herr Meier? Why, I am going to fly them there
like little angels.’ He grinned. ‘I shall give them
wings.’

They
descended the gangway to the dockside, the workmen making way for
Freij and two supervisors attending him anxiously. Meier paused and
watched the second warhead lifted from the yacht, its cradle
glittering in the overhead lights. Meier tore his gaze away from
the warhead and turned to follow Freij away from the wharf into the
corridor beyond, his heels sounding on the concrete
floor.

They waited
by the brushed steel lift doors, stepping in when they opened to a
soft digital tone. They turned and waited as the door closed. Meier
gazed at the orange display counting the floors until they stopped
on the third. He was surprised to find himself in a corporate-style
office, partition windows sandblasted with striped patterns lining
a blue-grey carpeted corridor that carried them along to a small
reception area. A wooden door opened and a smiling,
efficient-looking woman in her thirties emerged to meet them,
speaking English then impeccable German with a soft, Alsatian
accent.

‘
Mister Freij, welcome back, sir. Herr Meier.
Bitte,
kommen Sie
herein
.’

THIRTY-ONE

Freij’s
office was impressive indeed and Meier, despite his growing dislike
for Freij and his damned arrogance, had to admit the man had taste.
Meier breathed in the smell of leather from the beige hide sofa and
chairs around a glass coffee table perched on a stone head of
Buddha,
killims
strewn on the floor and a hidebound desk to one side. The
desk was flanked by shelves containing books, little figurines and
pieces of ancient glass. The wall to the right hosted a bank of
plasma screens showing the
Arabian
Princess
at her mooring, the second
missile now sitting dockside.

Michel Freij
draped his jacket over one of the hide chairs. The woman directed
Meier to a sofa by a coffee table. She left and Freij turned from
the dark wood sideboard, two champagne flutes in his
hand.

‘
Herr Meier,
I think you will find everything you expected is in the attaché
case before you.’

Meier leaned
forward to pull the gold latches of the red calfskin case with his
thumbs. He pulled open the lid of the case, which contained a
single cream parchment envelope with his name written on it in
careful calligraphy worked in dark brown ink. Tucked into the
document pockets attached to the lid were more envelopes and a
passport.

Freij placed
a flute in front of Meier and one by his own seat. He went back to
the sideboard. ‘All as we agreed, Herr Meier. A price of one
hundred and twenty million dollars. Eighty million has already been
transferred to Herr Hoffman. A Lebanese passport in the name of
Hans Allawi, whose mother is German and whose father is Lebanese.
Herr Allawi holds an account with Bank Audi containing ten million
dollars. He is also the sole owner of Allawi Holdings of Bermuda
and this company owns a mixed portfolio of stocks and bonds with a
current market value of thirty million dollars held in Beirut,
Bogotá and six other markets. The case also contains a first-class
ticket from Beirut to Colombo booked two weeks ago in that name.
You may keep the case with our compliments. We thank you for your
efforts.’

Meier nodded,
trying not to react. ‘It has been a pleasure to do business with
you and your esteemed partner, I am sure.’ He opened the envelope
and unfolded the expensive-looking parchment. The fine calligraphy
read ‘Peter Meier’. Meier waved it at Freij. ‘What is
this?’

‘
An old
family tradition, Herr Meier. It is a gift tag. Here.’ A gentle pop
sounded. Freij returned carrying a grey-labelled bottle. ‘Lamiable,
Herr Meier. A fine, single grower extra brut champagne. It is a
particular indulgence of mine.’ He poured the fine, pale liquid
into the glasses. The dancing bubbles glittered.

‘
Bi sahtak
. Your
health.’

‘
Auf Dich,
’ Meier responded, raising
his glass to toast Freij. He sat back, watching the screens where
the second warhead was being lifted into a white container marked
with blue lettering. He gestured with his glass at the screen.
‘UNWRA?’

Freij turned
to the screens. ‘Oh, the containers? Yes, we are now an aid
shipment.’ He beamed at Meier. ‘A small container vessel will take
them to Thira and then we shall take them to Beirut. You also, Herr
Meier. Ellen has booked you a ticket from Santorini to Beirut under
your new name. Sadly, your flight must connect in Athens and then
Larnaca.’ Freij pulled a tragic face. ‘Direct flights are so often
a problem for us in Lebanon.’

Meier nodded
graciously. He sipped his champagne, noticing how fine the flute
was, holding the dry, complicated drink in his mouth and revelling
in the fact that a lifetime’s work had culminated in this – a new
identity, a new life of reward and luxury. The stress of the past
few weeks was making itself felt now as he relaxed, a feeling of
lassitude creeping over him.

He placed the
glass down on the coffee table, and Freij reached over to top it
up.

‘
It is a
particularly fine champagne, no, Herr Meier?’

Meier nodded.
‘I have always preferred Sekt, of course, being German. But I have
to confess, when the French get it right ...’

Freij sat
back in his chair. ‘Lamiable is a small house, a grand cru, of
course, from near Tours. Sixty percent Pinot Noir, forty percent
Chardonnay. We can enjoy champagne because of the Levant, you know
this, Herr Meier? The Chardonnay grape was taken back to France by
the Crusaders. My ancestors.’

Meier shook
his head, tiredness slowing his movements. He settled back into the
big chair, letting Freij’s enthusiastic torrent of words wash over
him. The man was positively garrulous now he had his blasted
warheads safe. Meier would be pleased to turn his back on Michel
Freij, for sure. Having said that, however irritatingly superior
the man was, he had made Meier a rich man. Meier raised up a
private toast to that. He reached for his glass, but his hand
wouldn’t respond.

‘
You must be
tired, Herr Meier. So much achieved, so much energy. This has been
a flawless operation on your part, carried out with considerable
... what is the word I need here, Herr Meier? I am so very clumsy
sometimes with these words. My English is not so good. Brio? Is
this the word?’

The stitching
on the sofa was a pale terracotta colour, the new leather soft and
welcoming. Meier tried to move his head, to nod assent. He felt
sheer panic. He was incapable of movement, his breathing fast
reducing to short gasps.

Freij’s voice
was chatty. ‘It is a powerful form of potentiated chlorzoxazone
developed by our pharmaceuticals company. Sadly, it did not result
in a clinical compound we felt could find a market, but it is a
very powerful muscle relaxant indeed. It dissolves quite nicely in
alcohol, which further potentiates the drug. It must feel strange,
Herr Meier,’ Freij leaned forwards to peer into Meier’s eyes, ‘To
find oneself relaxing to death.’ There was garlic on Freij’s
breath. Houmos for breakfast, thought Meier.

Meier’s
breath rasped as Freij sat back, beaming at him. ‘I forgot to
mention that the flight we had booked for you was a cargo shipment.
I am so sorry that my memory is such a traitor to me.’

Meier made
one last supreme effort, sweat beading his upper lip as he forced
his mouth to move, Freij craning forwards to catch the word as he
formed it.

‘
Fucker.’

‘
Herr Meier,
I am shocked,’ Freij mocked, standing. ‘Shocked, I tell you. I
think perhaps you had better take a chill pill.’ He looked down
with a dry chuckle. ‘Oh, sorry. You did already.’

Meier’s
breathing froze, his lungs betraying him an instant before his
heart stopped beating. Peter Meier expired with a long sigh, hate
burning in his furious eyes and his face a picture of calm
repose.

Gonsalves
swept an appreciative hand over the fine hide of the attaché case,
the gold catches glittering in the lights from the
Arabian Princess’
bar
area.

Michel Freij
gestured at the case. ‘Go ahead, open it.’

Gonsalves
snapped the catches and pulled the lid up to reveal neat packages
of twenty dollar bills. He nodded, swallowed and looked up at
Freij, who was gauging his reaction. ‘There is ten thousand dollars
in the case. You may consider this yours to keep.’

Freij leaned
towards Gonsalves, offering an envelope. Gonsalves took
it.

‘
This is the
necessary information to access your account with the Bank Audi of
Lebanon containing five hundred thousand dollars, double the fee
that you agreed with Herr Hoffmann and Herr Meier, I
believe.’

Gonsalves
swallowed. ‘I—’

Freij waved
him silent. ‘We may well do business again, Mister Gonsalves. You
now know that we are generous and fair-minded employers and so I
consider this to be in the way of an investment. The bonus in front
of you is to ensure that you get this hulk to Tripoli quickly and
in good order. I want to be able to enjoy my yacht without Meier’s
stink all over it.’