‘Enough. This is finished.’
Lynch grinned at the phrase. Hawala taken to the Internet age. It was the ability to turn a phrase like that which made Stokes a good journalist. Hawala, the ancient trust-based Arab system of transferring money from location to location remained a highly effective international funds transfer network. Once untraceable, hawala transactions now came under intense scrutiny by security agencies, particularly the US, precisely because it made money movements so hard to trace. Freij’s ingenious method of moving funds was just as effective. The listeners at Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham had been lucky to catch the fleeting flood of transactions as eighty million dollars bypassed the conventional banking system on its way from Beirut to Germany, transferred and laundered in microsecond bursts of Internet traffic. But catch it they had.
Lynch focused on the recording, the sound of the door bursting open and the ugly voices and scuffles, the violent crackle as Stokes grabbed his voice recorder.
Freij’s voice was furious. ‘Get him the fuck out of here.’
Stokes was shouting as he was manhandled from the office, the sound quality patchy as the recorder bounced in his pocket. ‘Why did you need eighty million dollars sent secretly to Germany, Mr Freij? What were you buying with this illegal money?’
More scuffles and the echo of voices shouting in a corridor, Stokes’ muffled ‘Get your hands off me,’ before the sound died out. Lynch looked at the red LED blinking on the little silver voice recorder for a long time. He leaned forward and switched it off.
Lynch was puzzled. Freij’s thugs must have let Stokes go, then. The recorder showed he had time to get back to his apartment, yet he hadn’t had time to call Lynch. There was no sign of a struggle and certainly Freij’s people hadn’t come and lifted Stokes’ laptop or the record of the interview that had been so incendiary it had forced Freij to call in security to terminate it.
Lynch pushed himself up from the sofa and looked out of the window across Gouraud Street, the drink in his hand. Dusk had deepened to night as he had listened to a dead man goading a living one. Did they know where Stokes lived? How had they picked him up?
The streetlight picked out two men striding across the street towards Stokes’ apartment building. Lynch recognised the type, both men burly and crew cut, one wearing a forage cap and camouflage trousers. Militia. He dodged back as one of the men stared up at the window. Lynch grabbed Stokes’ laptop and slid it into the bag lying on the floor. He drained the tumbler and slipped the voice recorder into his pocket, leaving the apartment with the laptop bag on his shoulder. He just made the corner. The men’s footsteps rang on the stairwell. They were making no effort to be quiet. He held his breath and listened to them unlock the door and enter the apartment. The door banged shut.
They had a key. There had been no key on the corpse. Had it taken them this long to figure out where Stokes lived? Lynch reached instinctively for the Walther P99 nestled under his armpit, the lightweight grip smooth in his hand. The urge to action gave way to rational thought. Lynch waited and, when they left the apartment a few minutes later, followed them into the darkness.
Lynch tailed the two men down Gouraud Street, dancing on and off the pavement to avoid groups of early revellers. He used the parked cars as cover. Many of the bars and restaurants were already busy with the evening shift, office workers clustered along the counters. The traffic was ponderous down the narrow street, the ebb of rush hour a press of cars, scooters and tatty vans.
The man in the forage cap bunched his fists as the pair barged their way down Gouraud. Lynch guessed they hadn’t found what they’d gone to Stokes’ apartment for. Sure they hadn’t. It was hanging on his shoulder. He loped after them.
The pair flagged down a servees, the broken-down shared taxis which ply Beirut’s streets, cheaper than regular private cabs because they’d stop for any other passenger going in your direction. Lynch strode past them as they got into the car, tempted to hop in and join them. Another servees drew up a few cars behind to set down a balding man and his pretty companion. Lynch slid into the back. ‘See that servees in front of us?’
‘What of it?’ The man’s yellowed fingers tapped on the wheel, his voice a low rasp.
‘Follow it.’
The driver chuckled, a wheezy rumble. The engine whined as they pulled away and he wrestled with the juddering steering wheel. ‘So we are in ze movies?’
Lynch glanced at the grubby grey jumper and the wisps of yellow-grey hair escaping from his woollen hat. ‘You could say that. I’ll pay you twenty dollars to be a movie star. How about that?’
The driver chuckled again. ‘Sure. Suit me.’
The servees in front turned right, picking up speed in the thinner traffic. The driver fought with the noisy gearbox, the ancient engine screeching in protest as he tried to keep up, muttering in throaty Arabic. The smell of exhaust was becoming overpowering – Lynch turned to wind down the window but there was a ragged gap in the door panel where the handle should be. The far-side door handle swung uselessly. Lynch gave up and focused on the car drawing away ahead of them on the long, straight road through the city. As Lynch craned to catch sight of it, they were plunged into darkness.
The driver laughed. ‘Power cut. Khara.’ Shit.
They were coming into the smart Christian enclave of Ashrafieh. The shop fronts, usually lavishly illuminated, were looming shadows. The car ahead slowed, Lynch caught its taillights turning right.
He raised his voice above the engine noise. ‘Right here.’
‘Sure, meester. No problem. Twenty dollar, I turn left, right, any way.’
The other car had stopped just beyond the turn. Lynch cursed quietly. ‘Carry on past him.’
‘As you like.’
Lynch turned away from the other car as they passed it. He waited a few seconds. ‘Okay, right here. Stop. Khalas.’ He held out a note. ‘Thanks.’
The driver was still thanking the effendi as Lynch shut the door. He took a deep breath of clean air before he padded back down the dark side street to the corner. The servees he followed drove past empty. Lynch peered round the corner. The two men were crossing the street towards him. Lynch pressed himself back against the wall.
Forage Cap was still angry, his voice carrying in the chill evening air. Lynch eased away from the shadows and followed the two men at a healthy distance, the unwieldy laptop bag on his shoulder annoying him. He adjusted it to hang the strap across his chest, right to left so he could still reach the P99 in its shoulder holster. He didn’t fancy his chances against two of them without it.
They turned left across a patch of waste ground. Lynch waited in the shadow until they reached the other side of the open space. They rounded the corner, lost behind an apartment block. Lynch crossed the uneven ground, picking his way through patches of broken-up asphalt.
The street lights flickered back on. Lynch muttered a quiet ‘Fuck’ as he scuttled for the safety of the periphery, feeling like an escapee caught in floodlights. He turned the corner into the street leading away from the open waste ground. The little blue enamel plaque read: Rue Abdul Wahab El Inglezi. The two men mounted the steps of a smart-looking office block on the other side of the street a hundred metres or so ahead. Lynch paused by the corner, shadowed by a faded shop awning.
Forage Cap halted on the steps, touching his companion on the shoulder to stop him. He turned and stared at Lynch. Barking a command at the other man, he started down the steps again. Lynch turned and ran, breaking across the open ground. He turned his ankle on a lump of concrete. His arms flailed wildly to try to regain his balance and maintain his forward momentum. The pain from his twisted ankle forced him to hobble. A shout rang out behind him and Lynch glanced back as the two men broke into the square. He reached the other side of the open space, the laptop smacking against him.
Lynch halted, his ankle jarring pain. He turned and crouched on his knee, drawing the P99 in a fluid motion. The two men’s faces regis
tered the danger a second before Lynch’s shot placed a red rose on Forage Cap’s upper leg and dropped him to squirm on the rough ground. The other man scrambled to a halt, his hands held towards Lynch, palms up.
Lynch backed away, leaving the man to tend to Forage Cap roaring in pain. He jogged across to Ashrafieh Street, where he flagged down a servees.
Early the next morning, when Lynch returned to get the address of the building the two men had entered, there was a large, rusty patch in the middle of the waste ground. His original intention had been to go into the building and discover more about it, but just in time he noticed first one, two then more tiny CCTV cameras mounted on top the of the buildings along the street. He told the driver to move on.
THREE
Charles Duggan’s shoulder ached, the bulky dressing rubbed against his heavy leather jacket. The chill Hamburg fog deadened his steps in the dark street as he passed a restaurant, beery smells escaping in a gust of warm air from the doorway as a couple entered. Even hunched against the cold, Duggan was a big man, his breaths puffing little trails as he forged ahead.
He reached the crossroads and was waiting for the lights when her soft call came in German and, when he didn’t respond, in English.
‘Would you like some company, sir?’
Duggan glanced at the young woman stepping from the shadows. Pretty, wearing a white leather jacket, red and white cropped tights and carrying a patent leather handbag. Snub nose, small breasts, shapely legs. Her hair, bleached white, was cut short and layered. She smiled uncertainly, her red lipstick striking against her pale skin. The lights changed and he crossed. Her high heels clattered as she kept up with his long stride.
‘Perhaps to be warm in the arms of a woman? This is not such a bad thing to want.’
Duggan’s jaw tightened. He replied in German. ‘No. Leave me alone.’
She stopped and he walked on.
‘Please?’
The desperation in her voice made Duggan turn to face her. The crossing lights behind her changed. The car speeding towards them had its headlights off. Duggan lurched forwards as she span to face the danger reflected in his eyes. The car mounted the pavement, chrome-work flashing in the streetlight. He shouted at her to move but she was frozen and Duggan hit her hard like a rugby player, spinning her away from the car, the wing mirror catching his thigh an excruciating blow.
They slammed against the wall as the car crabbed to a halt. Duggan’s wounded shoulder pulsed pain. A dark figure unfolded itself from the car, raising its arms, its hands clenched together. Duggan waited a split second, imagined the tightening knuckle. He pulled the girl with him to the ground. They rolled on the wet flagstones to the spit of a silenced gun and a stinging hail of stone chips. Held together by Duggan’s strong arms, they slumped off the pavement onto tarmac. A truck’s horn sounded. The massive wheels on the wet road spattered dirty gutter-water into their faces. The heavy vehicle jack-knifed to a halt, its big engine pulsing. The airbrakes released with a whistle and hiss. Duggan raised his head gingerly, but car and gunman had gone.
The truck driver barked at them. ‘You two are okay?’
Duggan slurred his voice, replying in German, a thick Bavarian accent. ‘Never better, my friend. Never better.’
‘Well, get out of the fucking road, then.’
Duggan beamed stupidly up at the truck driver’s pale face, hamming up the drunken reveller act. ‘Thanks. For the advice. And for stopping. It was good of you.’
The trucker tutted and slammed the lorry back in gear. ‘Jesus. Hamburg. Fucking drunks.’
Duggan held the girl up, weaving and waving at the departing truck. Dirt streaked her leather jacket. A small cut on her right temple fed a tendril of blood down into her dark eyebrow. She leaned against him, breathing in small gulps, her scared eyes searching his face.
He helped her away from the road and she slumped against the wall. He ran his fingers along the two pale bullet marks in the stone.
She smiled shakily. ‘Thank you. That was good of you. But they will come again.’
‘They?’
‘Those men.’
Duggan brushed the gritty dirt from his jacket sleeve, the movement triggering a dart of pain from his shoulder. ‘I only saw one. How do you know they’ll come back?’
She fought for control. ‘They are working for my father. He is trying to finish me.’
‘To kill you?’
She searched his face, wringing her hands. She dropped her gaze. ‘Yes.’
A customs officer by trade, Duggan had seen desperate people before. Trained in reading the tiny signals of body language, he had spent years scrutinising nervous travellers in airports as they walked through the customs channels. He had waited by lorry drivers as his officers had pulled little plastic bags of white powder from the prised-open boxes and had felt the heat they radiated as they tried to look calm. He was a specialist in fear, he reflected. Just the ticket for this girl, a man who understood frightened people. He weighed her up, took her unresisting arm.
‘Come on. I think I had better buy you a drink.’
Duggan guided her back towards the crossroads and into the warm fug of the bar before the traffic lights. He led her to the toilets at the back. ‘Here. You can freshen up. I’ll have a wash myself and meet you at the bar.’
Duggan wasn’t long in the gents. He went back into the bar, pulled up two stools and called for two double brandies. He wondered if the girl would slip through the back door. Looking back, he saw her coming back into the bar and relaxed. Duggan watched her scan the room and strike out towards him through the throng, her face pale and serious. She reached the bar and drained her glass in a gulp. Her nose was slightly off-centre, the imperfection lending her a quirky prettiness. The cut above her eye no longer wept blood now she had cleaned it up, but the nasty graze on her cheek burned crimson.
It seemed as if they were the only people in the bar not chattering to each other. The long room resounded with constant outbursts of bright laughter, the bitter reek of beer mixed with rich food smells.
‘So. We have not yet been introduced,’ he said in German, smiling. ‘I’m Charles.’
‘Elli. Elli Hoffmann.’ Her eyes were on her hands cupping the small brandy balloon.
‘You certainly know how to make a first impression, Elli.’
She grimaced. ‘My jacket is ruined.’
He acknowledged this with a wry dip of his glass at her. ‘You could have lost more than your jacket out there.’
She glared up at him. ‘It would perhaps have been better.’
‘Oh come, on. You’re being melodramatic,’ Duggan said, signalling the barman for more drinks. ‘You could have died back there. A jacket’s a small price most people would be glad to pay.’
‘Maybe I am not most people.’ She ran her hand through her short hair. ‘So, thank you for trying to help me. This was very nice of you. But now I think I would be better to leave.’
He signalled to the two glasses on the bar. ‘I bought you another drink. You’re still very shaken.’
She paused for a second, resettling herself on the stool. ‘And then I leave.’
‘As you like,’ he said. ‘It is after all a free world.’
He felt her eyes on him. ‘You know, you’re not a very good prostitute.’
Her laughter softened her fierce glare. ‘Is this a compliment, I wonder?’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘This is my business, Charles with no family name who speaks German like a Bavarian but who is not, I think, German.’
Duggan inclined his head, accepting the compliment. She talked to the glass again. ‘I am, as you say, not very experienced as a prostitute. You would have been my second customer. I washed myself so hard after the first one that I have been not able to work for the past week.’ Her small smile was a private mourning. She was fierce again. ‘I hurt myself.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘Thank you. You looked kind. You are kind.’
Dugg
an hadn’t expected her to be so vulnerable. Her eyes were dark under the makeup. He shook his head. ‘There are other ways to make money.’
‘Really? This was the only one that came to mind,’ she snapped. She raised her eyes to the roof, took a breath and held her palms up at him. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Charles with no name. I shall call you Charles English, I think. You are English, aren’t you? You speak very good German.’
‘British. And my family name is Duggan.’
‘So, Charles Duggan. I am running away from my home because it is dangerous for me. I cannot do any decent job because this requires identity and I cannot afford to have this identity because they will find me. And now I have no money, I must eat while I try to survive from these murderers.’
‘Your father?’
‘You say I am melodramatic, so you will not believe me, but yes, my father.’
‘Why would your father want to kill you, Elli?’
‘He is breaking the law for money. I know what he is doing. The bitch’s brother helps him.’
‘The bitch?’
‘His wife. Not my mother. His second wife. His business is doing badly and the bitch is bleeding him dry with her dresses and handbags, her surgeries and diamonds. They are selling bombs to the Arabs.’
Duggan kept his face neutral but his body tautened and his movements slowed. ‘Does he often do that?’
‘Sell to Arabs? Yes, but usually he sells them boats. Not bombs. This is the first time. It will make him a lot of money. They’re not his. He found them.’ Elli glanced up at him. ‘I am telling the truth, Charles.’
He left money on the bar. ‘I believe you,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Let’s go somewhere quieter and safer and perhaps get cleaned up properly.’
She pulled free. ‘And what if I don’t want to go with you?’
Duggan smiled down at her. ‘I will arrest you. Come.’
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 2
