Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (40 page)

Gonsalves
nodded. ‘Not a problem. Where is—’

‘
Gone.’ Freij
got to his feet. ‘He never did join the boat. His whereabouts is a
total mystery. You can leave that with us. He did not fulfil his
obligation and we are only generous,’ Freij scrutinised his
fingernail, ‘with those who deliver.’

Gonsalves’
quick eyes flickered from Freij’s goatee-bearded face to the
burgundy case on the black marble-topped table. He licked his lips.
‘I understand.’

‘
Tripoli,
then. Thank you, Captain.’

Gonsalves had
an erection. Luckily, Freij had turned to leave without waiting for
him to stand and shake or any such demonstrativeness. He sat back
and luxuriated in the sight of ten thousand dollars in notes, just
like in the films, running his thumbnail absently, if pleasurably,
up and down the tumescence pushing against the length of his
zip.

The two
Albanian girls Meier had brought along in case Freij had wanted to
be entertained were still on board. Gonsalves grinned. Life was
about to become very good indeed.

They were in
the open sea again, free of the hangar on Anhydrous. Joel Gonsalves
scanned the blue horizon in front of him and took the cigarette
smoke deep into his lungs. Life, he had to admit, was good. He had
got rid of Freij and Meier and their toxic cargo, finished the job
and had been paid. Now he was clean, free and driving a fifty-metre
superyacht carrying two fine Albanian hookers on board and headed
to Beirut where a small fortune awaited him. It doesn’t get better
than this, he reflected. He sipped his whisky and laughed out loud
for joy and exhilaration.

One of the
girls, the brunette, was lying topless on the sun deck above and
Gonsalves had the feeling she might want some suntan lotion. He
picked up his lighter and softpack, cut the boat to autopilot and
climbed up the circular stairwell. Sure enough, she was on her
back, her skin glistening with tanning oil, naked and shaved.
Shading her eyes from the sun to look at the new arrival, she
smiled, turning so her legs opened. His eyes flickered across her
breasts, firm and dotted with beads of sweat. He could smell the
palm oil.

‘
Gonsalves.
You have cigarette for me?’

He swaggered
over to kneel beside her sunlounger, its blue foam covering
darkened with the moisture from her lithe body. Her toenails were
painted crimson and she wore a Snoopy ankle chain. She opened her
full lips for him to insert the cigarette, holding his wrist as he
lit it, her fine gold bangle sliding down her arm. He laid his hand
on her belly. She exhaled, moving to push it downwards. Gonsalves
let his fingers glide down her slippery skin. He took his time,
revelling in the smell of her, licking his lips as her legs parted
wider. His finger poised at the top of her, trembling a little. She
moaned. A bead of sweat rolled down her inner thigh.

The explosion
tore them apart. The fireball engulfed the big yacht, ripping
through all five decks and sending wreckage high into the Wedgwood
sky. The sea around the
Arabian
Princess
, compressed by the hammering
force of the concussion, threw up a great wave that reflected the
mass of flame in glittering golden splashes. The black smoke rose,
smearing the sky above the red flames that roiled at the centre of
the great conflagration, detritus splashing into the water, falling
into scattered fires of polystyrene and fuel stretched across a
huge area of water.

Michel Freij
was nothing if not fastidious when it came to tidying up loose
ends.

THIRTY-TWO

Lynch sat at
the dark wood bar and ordered an Almaza, paying in dollars. He
clipped a Siglo III and lit it, inhaling half a mouthful with
guilty pleasure. He regarded the glowing tip of the cigar and
thanked God that Lebanon’s smoking ban had turned out to be yet
another piece of legislation not worth the paper that bore
it.

He took back
the change. ‘I’m looking for Marwan Nimr. Know him?’

The barman
turned away. Lynch sighed and drank his beer. He sensed the
movement beside him, turning to face the stocky, round-shouldered
figure in the faded green army shirt pulling up a
barstool.

‘
And say you
found Marwan,’ the man growled. ‘What then?’

Lynch
grinned, his blue eyes wrinkling with delight. ‘Sure, I’d buy the
man a drink. Any friend of Spike’s is a friend of mine.’

‘
Jack and
Coke, double. Easy on the Coke. Heavy on the ice.’

Lynch called
the barman over and ordered the drink. He glanced aside at
Nimr.

‘
I understand
you offer transportation services. Did you offer them to Paul
Stokes? Remember him? Journalist fellow.’

‘
I charter
helicopters, yes.’ The drink arrived and Nimr toasted Lynch with
the frosted glass. ‘Cheers. Don’t remember the name.’

‘
Cheers.’
Lynch raised his bottle. Nimr was bald, his head creased above the
ear from wearing sunglasses. His dark goatee beard framed full
lips, his prominent nose leading in an arc to indolent hazel eyes
beneath his heavy eyebrows.

‘
So you want
to charter a bird. Where you going?’

‘
Up into the
mountains, North. Above the Bekaa.’

‘
Why?’

‘
I’m a nosy
tourist.’

Nimr laughed,
a throaty chuckle. ‘Bullshit, dude. You ain’t got no
Nikon.’

‘
I left it at
home.’

Nimr’s smile
died. ‘Who sent you here?’

‘
Tony
Chalhoub mentioned you drank here.’

Nimr nodded.
‘Yeah, I know him. Cop. You a cop?’

‘
Nope.’ Lynch
lowered his voice mock-conspiratorially. ‘You still a
robber?’

Nimr finished
his drink. ‘Again, Mike. His tab.’ He turned to Lynch. ‘Where in
the mountains?’

‘
Place called
Deir Na’ee. Kalaa Mountain, near Dannieh. Where you took
Stokes.’

Nimr drained
his glass. ‘I know where it is. What’s your business with Michel
Freij?’

Lynch leaned
forwards, lowering his voice. ‘I want the motherfucker behind bars.
What’s yours?’

‘
So you
are
a cop.’

‘
No, I’m not.
I’m James Bond, me. I’m what students of oxymorons laughingly call
British intelligence.’

‘
No, thanks,
man. I don’t need all this cop stuff. I’m private
enterprise.’

‘
So I
understand. Which is why you ended up in Roumieh Prison. I’m
offering you a nice stable government job, Marwan. You know,
guaranteed hours and a good, clean salary check. Even a little, how
do I express this, gratitude if you should ever find yourself
needing a friend.’

Nimr cast up
his eyes at the bottles stacked on shelves behind the bar, took a
drink from his glass and shook his head. ‘No, thanks, man. Nice of
you to think of me.’

Lynch turned
to Nimr. ‘You were supposed to learn from jail, Marwan. They’re
meant to be correctional institutions. You’re still running shit
from the Bekaa.’

He glimpsed
the big man’s fist bunched in his trouser leg, stretching the
material.

‘
No way. I’m
clean, man.’

‘
Bullshit.
Look, I’m offering you a sweet, all expenses paid chance to help me
fuck up the Freijes. I think you owe them something,
no?’

Nimr
considered Lynch’s words. He nodded. ‘Sure I do. But I don’t do
public sector, man. No way.’

Lynch fished
in his pocket, emerging with a black pellet that he held under
Nimr’s nose. Take a sniff of that,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Really
first-class stuff.’

Nimr’s eyes
were fixed on Lynch, his face pale. Beads of perspiration dotted
his head. He inhaled hesitantly, his nose crinkling.

Lynch was
still smiling. ‘Hash laced with opium. Very nice, top quality. From
the Bekaa. You know they farm that stuff up there still? Land
belongs to a flyboy who doesn’t understand that the civil war is
over. You might have heard of him, Nimr. Marwan Nimr. Flies fruit
by day, gear by night. Fat bald guy.’ Lynch pulled on his cigar,
ignoring Nimr’s raised hand. ‘Chalhoub will take you down the
second I call him, Marwan. For the murder of Paul
Stokes.’

‘
I had
nothing to do with the kid, I just took him on a ride. Najimi
wanted him, I didn’t. Najimi worked for Freij.’

‘
Worked? My,
but word gets around quickly.’

The sweat
trickled off Nimr’s bald head. He turned to face Lynch. ‘Was it
you?’

Lynch handed
the pellet of marijuana to Nimr, who nodded and slipped it into his
pocket. ‘Okay. But you pay.’

Lynch lifted
his second beer. ‘I just said that. Jesus, Marwan, can we not be a
touch more subtle about the money stuff.’ He screwed up his face in
disgust. ‘I hate talking about fucking money.’

‘
Ten
thousand.’

‘
Lire?’

‘
Fuck you
man. US.’

‘
Five. You
have a vested interest in helping me, believe me.’

‘
Ten.’

Lynch drew on
his cigar. ‘So how long
did
you spend in Roumieh? Time go quickly, did it? Or
did you settle in nicely with all the pretty young things they sent
in there to keep you company?’

Nimr growled.
‘Don’t fuck with me like that, man.’

‘
Five
thousand, Marwan. I’ll buy the fuel. Last.’

Lynch tapped
his cigar on the ashtray, dislodging the fine grey ash from its end
and studying the glowing tip. He took a puff.

Nimr nodded.
‘Okay. I’ll live with that. You better have a strong stomach,
though, James Bond.’

Lynch
considered this for a second. ‘Uh, no. My name’s Lynch. Gerald
Lynch.’

‘
I preferred
Bond.’

‘
You’ll get
used to it.’

Soaring above
Beirut, they left the city behind. The great mountain, Sannine,
loomed to their right as they banked away from the sea and flew
over the foothills. Nimr’s helicopter, an ex-army Alouette II, was
registered as a crop sprayer. It wasn’t carrying any tanks or spray
rig.

Nimr was in
his element, his hands deft on the controls and joy in his voice as
he pointed out landmarks to Lynch, the wooded slopes below dotted
with farmhouses. They flew across a green valley, the white-capped
mountains rising to their right.

Nimr raised
his voice above the whine of the rotors. ‘That’s Feraya, where
Beirut likes to go ski. Nice place. We’re about half an hour from
Deir Na’ee but I have to make a quick stop first.’

Lynch turned,
but the helmet, glasses and microphone made Nimr’s expression
impossible to gauge. ‘Why?’

‘
I have to
get some stuff prepared. No big deal, take about fifteen
minutes.’

Lynch turned
back to see the dramatic folds of the mountainside below them,
dotted with greenery with occasional patches of white as the spring
sun started to reclaim the ground from the winter.

Nimr gestured
to the land ahead of them, his voice carrying over the intercom
above the insistent whine of the engines. ‘This used to be deep
snow through this time of year right up to June. Snow’s been pretty
erratic last few years, comes late, comes early. It’s fucking up
the skiing industry.’

They passed a
freestanding crucifix perched on a rocky outcrop, which Nimr
pointed out. ‘See that? You’re in Christian country big time
now,
Kartaba
.’

They climbed,
banking to fly north above the valley, rising to its left. Nimr
leaned across Lynch pointing to the left and dipping the helicopter
so they looked down to the rocks that breasted the top of the
valley, a smattering of snow dusted across the rockscape. ‘See
there? That’s Jaj. I got a sister-in-law lives there.’

‘
Too much
detail, Marwan. Let’s get the fuck on with it, eh?’

‘
Only being
friendly, dude. Don’t wanna waste the scenery now.’

Lynch
laughed, shaking his head. ‘Fuck, no. Sure am’t I a tourist
only?’

They passed a
village to their right, terracotta roofs and an area of cultivated
fields rose, then dipped down, descending fast towards a small
wooded valley, the hillsides closing in on them as it deepened. A
blue warehouse building loomed ahead, blacktop laid to its front.
They dropped to the tarmac and landed gently, a last bump before
Nimr killed the rotors, their insistent whipping
slowing.

Nimr
unclipped his seatbelt and removed his helmet. The shades stayed
on. ‘Cigarette break.’

Lynch stepped
down from the chopper, his breath misty in the cold mountain air,
tucking his hands under his armpits for warmth. Nimr turned to him.
‘See that bowser over there? That’s fuel. Pull the pipe over this
way and fill her up. You engage the red handle.’ He strode towards
the warehouse, unlocking the side door and wrenching it open with a
screech.