‘Did you believe her story?’
‘Not at first, it seemed pretty far-fetched to be honest.’ Duggan stood and peered out of the window. ‘But there was no doubt she was scared. I thought she was safe enough in the hotel, took a trip to the Luxe boatyard to have a look myself. My mistake. They took her.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
Duggan grimaced. ‘Meier’s people. Where can I get one of those?’
‘Hang on,’ said Lynch. He opened the door and called down to Yates. He grinned at Duggan. ‘There’s a bloke makes them here. Very civilised, I must say.’
The big man sat down again at the window, his hands clenched in his lap. Lynch pulled a chair over to join him. ‘What did you find at the boatyard?’
‘The men were on strike. They hadn’t been paid in months. This last refit was meant to be their big payoff. It was a Luxe 500, rebadged the Arabian Princess under a Monaco flag. They fitted extra stowage under the pool deck. The boat was floated off at night, went upriver according to the shop steward there, guy called Jan Wolfe. One of the workers saw it come back downriver again ten days later. That was two days ago.’ Duggan gestured at the last car leaving the drive to the front of the house. ‘These idiots have burned valuable time waffling.’
‘What was in the arms dump? There’s nothing about it in the report you filed.’
‘That’s because she didn’t know anything about it. She was listening in and heard it mentioned, that it was across the Czech border. The Arabian Princess sailed up the Elbe for ten days.’ Duggan shrugged. ‘You sort of put two and two together.’
And get twenty, Lynch thought.
Yates poked his head around the door. ‘Here we are, sir. Mister Channing says it’s to be your last.’
‘It’s not for me, Yates. It’s for him. Tell Channing to fuck himself.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Duggan took the glass. His face was drawn. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘Did you sleep with her?’
Duggan froze, the glass to his lips. He drained it and stared into the mist.
SEVEN
Lynch pulled off the main road into the cemetery. The rain had died back to a light drizzle. Fat droplets slapped the car as he passed under the Victorian gateway. The air smelt of leaves and moist earth. His shoes crunched on the path across the green. He passed a great oak and headed for the small group huddled around a freshly dug grave.
He recognised Paul Stokes’ mother, her face crushed by grief, holding onto the arm of a strong-chinned man in a greatcoat. Dark hair, smooth features – Stokes’ brother Charles. The earth-smell was stronger here. The droning of the priest ended, an abrupt silence. The flat tattoo of wet soil on wood interrupted the little sounds of grief.
Paul in the damp of a South London cemetery. Paul crying in the smashed remains of his house in Jordan, Lynch helping him to his feet after the Mukhabarrat raid that killed the woman he loved. Paul coming to terms with Aisha’s death, slowly healing after Lynch arranged his relocation to Beirut. Paul drunk, hammering his fists against Lynch’s chest and screaming abuse. Paul in a cupboard, fat flies crawling on his eyes.
Lynch watched his clouded breath, felt his warm body inside his rustling jacket, his barrier against the dank air. He offered up a silent prayer for the gift of life. He noticed the lone watcher standing by the oak. Crossing himself like a good Irishman, Lynch turned away from the grave and struck out across the silvered grass to meet Michel Freij.
Freij wore a Crombie. Underneath the heavy jacket, his striped tie was held in place with a golden pin that reflected like a little buttercup on his crisp shirt. Droplets from the grass glistened on his black shoes. He smiled and held out his hand as Lynch strode up. ‘Mr Lynch. How pleasant to see you.’
‘What are you bloody doing here?’ Lynch ignored the hand.
Freij tilted his precisely clipped chin upwards towards the little group of people breaking up. ‘I was in London for meetings with your foreign office. I came to pay my respects. It was,’ Freij smiled humourlessly, ‘unfortunate Mr Stokes died in this way.’
Freij turned to the path, stamping his feet on the asphalt to dry his shoes. Lynch, following, kept his hands in his pockets with an effort. ‘Unfortunate? It was pretty fucking disproportionate.’
‘Disproportionate to what, Mr Lynch? I am not aware of the circumstances surrounding his death. But I had never considered death to be a matter of ...’ he paused and turned to Lynch with a half-smile, ‘proportion. It always seemed to me to be a matter rather of finality.’
Lynch scanned the horizon. ‘I should have you nicked right now. You’re well aware of why he died.’
‘That’s as may be, Mr Lynch. But I am unaware of how he died.’
‘He—’
Freij held up his hand. ‘Please, I’d rather not know. You assaulted my secretary and security guard on an assumption, Mr Lynch, which you cannot prove. You have a specious motivation, Mr Stokes’ interview with me. Mr Stokes was not respectful, I had him removed from my office. That is scarcely a motivation to murder.’
Lynch halted. ‘You cheeky fucker. Your thugs were all over Stokes’ apartment.’
‘You shot one of them, Mr Lynch. They were overzealous and have been reprimanded. What consequences have you faced for the shooting precisely?’
‘So what about the note on Stokes’ body? The Freij family trademark?’
‘Mr Lynch,’ Freij frowned and arched his hand across his temples. ‘Please credit me with at least a basic level of intelligence and believe that if I were to embark on a series of murders, I would not scatter them with clues that directly implicated me.’
‘Why not? Your father did.’ Lynch rounded on Freij, his hand freed from the voluntary constraint of his coat. ‘You can well afford to drop the act, Michel. Your whole fucking family is steeped in blood and you’ve killed more than most men could even imagine.’
Freij’s eyes narrowed. ‘My family has survived in Lebanon since the Crusades and we have done so by being strong in the face of our many enemies. I do not make a habit of snuffing out the lives of every annoying Brit I meet, Mr Lynch, even when the provocation is severe.’
‘How do you explain the payments to Germany?’
Freij paused and gazed obliquely at Lynch. ‘I do not propose to explain them. There is no reason why I should be called to do so. It is not illegal to transfer money under Lebanese law, Mr Lynch. My lawyers inform me that it is similarly not illegal to transfer money into a German company. And it is most certainly not illegal to buy a luxury yacht. My partner Selim and I have worked very hard, Mr Lynch. We are successful men and we believe we deserve to enjoy the fruits of our success. Luxe Marine makes very good yachts indeed.’
Lynch struggled to keep his face neutral and mask his growing confusion.
Freij offered a silver cigarette case. ‘Do you smoke, Mr Lynch?’
‘I gave up.’ He felt the little adrenaline kick, the desire to take one and give in to the momentary urge.
‘Congratulations.’ Freij’s glance was sardonic as he lit up. ‘Mr Lynch, I have a proposal to make to you. As you likely know, I am launching a significant political campaign and I have no particular desire to be under constant surveillance by the British or any other intelligence organisations. I will ask my people to try and trace Paul Stokes’ murderers and place the resources of my family and company behind the search for justice. But please, no more bursting into offices or wild accusations.’
‘Political? Like your father? The Phalange?’ Lynch inhaled the sweet smoke from Freij’s cigarette, feeling like a Bisto kid.
Freij stopped in his tracks, stabbing the cigarette at Lynch. ‘No. Not the Phalange. A new way, a centrist way. A voice against sectarianism. Selim and I built Falcon Dynamics together. Selim was the technical genius. I provided the resources, marketing and sales. He is a Shia Muslim. I am a Maronite Christian. Together we have shown by casting aside sectarianism we Lebanese can forge true success
. I want to give that opportunity to our nation. A new Lebanon. One Lebanon.’
Lynch couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. He hadn’t expected idealism, not from this polished son of privilege. Leila’s Lebanon was idealism and activism – Freij’s Lebanon was power, control and rapacity.
Freij grunted. ‘You see? We mean change and a new hope for the future. There are many men who would like to see us fail. I will not let that happen. Do not join their ranks, Mr Lynch.’
Lynch followed as Freij turned and made his way back towards the car park, leaving a fine tendril of blue-grey smoke rising from his cigarette, slow-moving in the still air. ‘Not that it is any of your business, you understand, but part of the funds we transferred to Germany were used to pay for a new corporate identity and communications campaign for the One Lebanon Party. I am going to win, Mr Lynch. I am going to cure the greatest ill that has ripped our nation apart. A strong government that truly represents the people and welcomes them regardless of belief or origin. A strong Lebanon that can stand up to its neighbours and can rebuff Israel and Syria alike. One people brought together under one nation, not divided by sectarianism.’ Freij flicked the butt onto the grass, his Rolex rattling. ‘I did not, and do not, want our opponents knowing how we are disbursing funds to support my campaign.’
The large Mercedes was waiting in the car park, the driver standing by his open door.
‘I am going to win, Mr Lynch. And I am not going to let this,’ Freij gestured at the cemetery, ‘get in the way of winning.’
Freij offered his hand. Lynch took it, automatically, his mind revolting too late at the gesture.
‘Goodbye, Mr Lynch. My people will be in touch.’
Footsteps approached from behind, turning as the bulky figure passed and got into the front of the car. The big guard pulled the door shut as Lynch glimpsed the unmistakeable bulge of a shoulder holster. He hadn’t spotted the security and was glad he hadn’t given in to his initial urge to give Freij a slap.
Lynch watched Freij’s car leave. He paused by his own, shook his head and fetched the wheel a savage kick.
EIGHT
Peter Meier liked to drive down Unter Den Linden; it gave him a sense of history and perspective. Berlin could be a fine city, he reflected. A lady of rare taste and breeding. She could also be a harlot. Meier could deal with either quite happily, his expensive lifestyle masking a life born into poverty and grown up on theft.
Meier thought of fat, stupid Hoffmann and the fortune the man had made him. He settled into the soft leather seat and imagined the sound of hooves and iron wheels, the creak and clatter of the tack as Germany’s beau monde took the air in Europe’s first and finest boulevard, whiskered gentlemen upright in their smart uniforms as their women smiled and waved with grace and sensibility. Turning right with a sigh, he found himself once again back in modern East Berlin, the glass and steel architecture a rude awakening from his period daydream. A young couple necked passionately on the street corner.
Meier guided the Mercedes into the narrow street at the rear of the prestigious building that housed his elegant offices. He raised the remote control for the basement car park, but paused in the act of pressing the button as he noticed the back of a police car tucked into the parking area of the apartment block opposite.
Men are usually born of instinct or logic. Meier was unusual in that he comprised both. An accountant’s eye for detail and a constant need for order sat alongside a predator’s ability to distinguish opportunity from danger. He dropped the remote and drove on. He turned at the end of the alley into the main road and parked a short distance away in front of a row of shops. Walking back, he sniffed the air: fresh springtime tainted with exhaust fumes, a strong whiff of coffee as he passed a busy café and turned into the sunlight and the wide pedestrian area to the front of his offices. He strode past the boutiques and restaurants, then peered into the smoked glass frontage of his office building. He stepped through the sliding door into the atrium.
Meier veered away from the marble reception desk and the two men talking to the uniformed security guard. His purposeful stride took him to the lifts and he waited impatiently, watching the numbers on the display counting down. He controlled the strong urge to flee. The lift door opened.
‘Herr Meier! Herr Meier!’
It was the security guard. Meier entered the lift, turning to catch the man’s idiot face and his raised arm. The two suited men talking to the guard turned. One started to run. The other, unsure, was swept along by his colleague’s momentum. Meier punched at the fifth floor button. The lift doors closed on the sound of skittering feet. A body thumped against the door. Meier watched the display count up, tapping his fingers on the wall as the impersonal female voice announced the fifth floor and the doors opened. He crossed the corridor to the opposite bank of lifts, slammed the down button and waited, shifting his case from hand to hand and biting his lip. The doors opened to reveal a woman in a suit. Meier lunged inside and shoved her out. She screamed, flailing at him with her bag as his thrust sent her flying backwards to smack against the steel doors opposite. He hammered the basement button, pushing G twice to cancel the woman’s request. The door shut out her shocked face.
Meier cursed his stupidity in trying to reach the office when he had sensed something wasn’t right. Caution in everything, care above everything. Now, with so much at stake, he had let himself down.
The door opened and Meier peered out, scanning the basement. He turned left along the wall, following the carefully planned route that avoided the CCTV cameras his own company had installed at a sizeable discount for the building owner.
Emerging from the ramp up to the street, he squeezed past the car scanner and number plate camera. Meier ignored the two men in the police car. He turned left down the street, walking at a harried businessman’s pace and checking his watch. A car door opened behind him. He walked on. The cry he dreaded didn’t come and Meier rounded the corner, his own car in sight along the busy main road where he had parked.
It had been too close. Meier never took risks like that. He threw his case onto the front seat and pulled out into the traffic. He dug at the call button on the centre console. The line answered after three rings.
‘We leave tonight at six.’
The dusty voice on the line was factual. ‘The paint won’t be dry.’
‘I don’t care. It can dry as we drive. Tonight at six. Tell them all.’
‘You’re the boss.’
Yes, thought Meier as he cut the line. I most certainly am.
Lynch woke up with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He spent a full thirty minutes in the shower, letting the jet massage his neck and shoulders. He packed and went downstairs to check out at the hotel’s functional front desk. He had a last job to do before he travelled to Hamburg. Lynch never went back to the UK without going over to Belfast, his home town. He left Nathalie a note at reception before he headed for the airport: Thanks. See you in Beirut.
Alone and the master of an entire row of empty seats on the plane to Belfast, Lynch stared at the grey clouds below him and thought about her. They had eaten together at the hotel, a nondescript Sofitel near Vauxhall after they had met for a few drinks at the bar. ‘We might as well get to know each other,’ Lynch had told her. ‘We’re going to be in each others’ pockets for a while.’
She had agreed. He drank pints while she drank gin and tonic. She pronounced it ‘jeene’, which delighted him.
She lifted her drink. ‘So you must not be pleased to work with me, I think.’
Lynch bobbed his glass at her and took a deep pull. ‘I have absolutely no problem with that at all. Sure, and this game can be lonely at times. I respect the way the DGSE trains its people. I’ve worked with your guys before in Beirut. I’m sorry about the Levesques scandal. I understand you’ve had to virtually start your Beirut operations again from scratch.’
Nathalie Durand inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘However, I am not like th
e DGSE people you have worked with before, I think. I work in network intelligence, online security, digital networks. It’s an office job. I do not really become involved in knocking down doors and these things. My team just knocks down computers. Like skittles.’ She sipped from her glass with an impish peek at him over the rim. She wiped the condensation from her slim fingers on her jeans.
No rings, Lynch noted. She wore a long black leather jacket, a plain t-shirt and black cowboy boots. She pulled a stray curve of hair back from her mouth.
‘What about you, Mr Lynch? You knock down doors, is it not?’
He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do.’
They had dinner at the hotel’s ‘international restaurant’, drinking too much to compensate for the appalling food. After they parted, Lynch stayed up in his room, popping miniatures from his mini-bar and channel-hopping. He had finally settled on the ‘premium entertainment’ channel.
The plane approached the runway in drizzle, streaks on the rounded windows. A tendril of vapour streamed over the wing as they came down. A little over two hours after he had dropped his hire car at Heathrow, Lynch carried a set of keys from the Hertz office in Belfast and headed for the car park, an unusual cash customer.
Driving under the surly grey sky with his lights on, Lynch left the drab city behind him. The road was slick, the sparse drizzle intermittent. The wipers squeaked across the windscreen and he switched them off. He left the motorway, turning by the outskirts of the town into the long driveway up to the sprawling red brick building. He shivered as he passed the gates.
His shoes crunched on the loose stones as he reached the steps to the front doors of the convent. He paused at the bottom to take a deep breath. The memories threatened to engulf him. His chest tight, his hand flew involuntarily to his open shirt as he cleared his throat to speak to the big, cow-eyed nun at reception.
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 6
