‘Lost to us?’
‘The Mediterranean is packed with large, expensive yachts, Gerald. One more won’t really stand out. It would be searching for your needle in the haystack.’
Lynch sugared his coffee and sipped. It was piping hot, strong and good. Dubois was still talking, his fingers picking at papers. He slid a file across to Lynch.
‘Peter Heinrich Meier was born in Frankfurt July 7th, 1962, the son of a steelyard worker. His first criminal records date back to when he was eleven, when he was cautioned for shoplifting. A ward of court at fourteen and then six months in a young offenders’ institution at fifteen. After this, we have nothing until he was thirty. Nothing. He went to school, did his homework and obtained his examinations. His results academically were excellent. He worked for a shipping company and rose quickly. His colleagues mention he kept long hours and was exceptionally committed and talented. He was popular. He left to found his own company in 1990 and quickly won contracts to ship materials to Kuwait from the armed forces stationed in Germany. In 1992, there was an investigation into some of these shipments, but the paperwork exonerated Meier from the charge of shipping materiel stolen from British Forces Germany. Since then, there have been several reports of illegal arms shipments linked to Meier and two full-scale investigations, but he has not been found guilty of any misdemeanour.’
Starting to drowse, Lynch jerked as Dubois slapped the desktop. The Frenchman jumped to his feet, fists clenched. ‘We’ve known Meier’s rotten for twenty years and yet we’ve got nothing on him. Nothing. Now he is gone so bad on us that we lust for him like a bitch in heat, but we are blind. We have nothing to go on at all. We don’t even know where he is, the bastard.’
Lynch regarded Dubois over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What about the Enigma machine? The customs guy, Duggan said Hoffmann had an Enigma machine.’
Dubois pulled another paper from the pile in front of him. ‘We talked to the man who presented the machine to Hoffmann, a Maltese called Joseph Scerri. He is one of the world’s leading experts on Enigma and the wartime work of SOE, especially the X and Y section radio teams. Rather than let the Germans know the Allies had cracked the Enigma code, Churchill allowed the Germans to bomb Malta. Scerri’s parents were killed in the attacks. He is eighty-two. Scerri corresponded extensively with Hoffmann. Hoffmann’s father was involved in the development of Enigma. They had arranged to meet next week.’
Lynch’s tired muscles tautened. ‘Where?’
‘Valetta, Malta. We have a team interviewing Luxe Marine’s staff. Hoffmann’s secretary at Luxe Marine told our people Hoffmann was planning to visit Scerri in Valetta.’
‘That’s where they’re going to refuel the Arabian Princess. The boat’s range was reduced when they added the extra storage. Hoffmann planned to be on that boat.’
Dubois nodded. ‘That is what we think. We’re going to set up a welcoming committee. You’re flying back to Beirut today, are you not?’
‘Sure am. I have a score to settle with a Lebanese businessman who has a taste for nuclear warheads.’
‘Nathalie Durand will fly back with you. It is probably best she stays with you in Beirut.’
Stays with me? Lynch tried to keep the shock from his face but he was too tired to play act. ‘I’d rather not, actually.’ Christ, he sounded English.
The apartment in Beirut was his bolthole, a private life away from the prying — his rebellious retreat. The little world where he was himself. Where he was with her. No. Not there.
Dubois’ smile was tight. ‘Believe me, Mr Lynch, I share your feelings regarding the arrangement, perhaps more than any other man alive would. However, given the absolute secrecy this operation necessitates, it is crucial you minimise any communication across public networks. This is the only viable way to proceed.’
Lynch staggered from Dubois’ office, trying to work out how he was going to break the news to Leila Medawar.
The immigration official handed back Nathalie’s passport and took notes in a ledger. In all his years of travelling in and out of Beirut, Lynch could never fathom why this system remained manual. He caught the look of surprise on Nathalie’s face as she waited for the man to finish fussing with her papers. Here was a network her team wasn’t going to knock down in a hurry, thought Lynch with a wicked mental grin.
They waited for Nathalie’s bag and waited again as the bored customs official opened it and pawed through her clothes. Lynch noticed she liked expensive lingerie. He caught the customs man’s eye and held it until the man looked away and dismissed Nathalie and her underwear with a flick of the wrist.
It was cool outside the terminal, the afternoon sun washing the shabby airport in mild orange light. A car pulled up, the driver grinning. ‘Welcome back, seer.’
Lynch reached in through the window and slapped the man’s shoulder. ‘Hassan. Good to see you.’
Lynch opened the back door for Nathalie and took the front seat himself. They pulled away, Lynch and Hassan sharing pleasantries. Lynch turned to Nathalie, caught her preoccupied air. ‘You okay?’
Her voice was distant as if Lynch had somehow intruded and she gazed out of the window as she spoke. ‘Yes. Sorry, it’s all a little new to me. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly enough.’
Lynch snorted. ‘Beirut takes more than getting used to. It’s a complicated old place at the best of times. You’d want it in your blood, so you would.’
She turned, her hair swinging. ‘That is lucky, is it not? I was born here.’ She held his gaze, her lips tight. He felt the challenge rising in the silence between them. He hadn’t seen the fire in her before and retreated, amused, from her glare, his hand held up in supplication.
‘Sure, how was I to know that? Welcome home, then, dear. Welcome home.’
Concrete blocks lined the way to the airport, listless red-capped soldiers dotted the roadside, occasional pedestrians in leather jackets and heavy winter coats meandered, chatted or just stood incuriously watching the traffic jostle past.
Lynch’s neck prickled, an uneasy frisson he knew meant trouble. Born to good Irish stock, he was a great believer in the sixth sense. His finely honed feeling for danger had saved his bacon on many an occasion. He checked the side mirror. The white car behind them had pulled out at the airport but hadn’t picked up any passengers, the two men in it had sat smoking with the windows open. Something about them caught his eye. They hung back now, but he noted they always moved to keep the taxi in sight.
‘Hassan, we’ve got company. Step on the gas, would ye? Big time.’
The white car inched closer. Hassan glanced in the mirror, grinned and gunned the engine. They swerved through the cars on the Al Assad Highway, Hassan’s eyes flickering between the road ahead and the mirror.
Nathalie steadied herself against the car’s swaying. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘We were picked up at the airport.’ Lynch watched the white car gain on them, then its bonnet as it started to pull abreast of them. ‘Jesus, Hassan, can’t you get this thing to go any faster?’
Lynch caught Hassan’s eye in the mirror. The white car was almost alongside, its passenger trying to hold a gun steady with both hands, a forage cap jammed on his head. The man grimaced and Lynch hoped it was from the wound in the bastard’s leg. He swore softly. Unarmed, he felt naked.
He barked at Nathalie. ‘Get down.’ He lunged back to pull her down across the back seat.
The impact of the white car against the rear of Hassan’s Mercedes sent them crabbing across the carriageway, narrowly missing the big container lorry to their left. Hassan was deft, bringing the car under control. Lynch jerked at the thunk of a bullet impacting the bodywork to his right.
He caught Hassan’s pained grimace. ‘It’s okay, I’ll pay.’
Hassan nodded, his mouth set in a line. ‘If we live, seer.’
The screech of metal against metal and another impact, this time smashing the car against a battered bread van in the slow lane. All t
hree vehicles locked together for a suspended moment. Nathalie screamed. Hassan dropped a gear and wrenched the wheel right, accelerated and released them from the grip of the van. The move sent the white car careening across the highway to the right.
Lynch punched Hassan’s shoulder and pointed. ‘Go right here, at the stadium. Into Chatila.’
‘Chatila?’ Hassan was incredulous.
‘Just do it.’
The screaming of the engine masked the gunshot, but the crack of the bullet exploding the rear windscreen was deafening. It collapsed, tiny shards of glass falling into the back seat and a starred crack appearing on the passenger’s side front windscreen. Hassan barked in fear; the car swerved as he jerked in reaction. They cut across the path of the white car, another impact as they clipped its bumper. Hassan tried to edge past a slow-moving water bowser exiting in front of them. They scraped along the grimy concrete wall of the exit, the sound of rending metal piercing the air, a coruscating shower of sparks flying behind them. They cleared the bowser and were free into the slip road, swerving to pass the cars ahead of them, jinking first left and then right to roar past the slow traffic. They burst onto the roundabout. The tyres screeched as Hassan fought the curve and flung the car right towards the exit. They narrowly missed a blue BMW, its driver stood on the brakes to avoid them, the car spinning to a halt by the roundabout exit. The driver leant on his horn, red-faced and gesticulating from the window. The white car hit the BMW hard and swerved out of control. The driver fought to control its bucking slide, righted it and came after them again. Nathalie sobbed, a low constant moan. She hunched in on herself, her hands tightly wrapped around her head.
The white car fell behind as they slowed for the crossroads to the Chatila refugee camp. Caught in the slow moving traffic, they were enfolded in a new world of dirty-faced children and sullen-eyed men gazing at them. Lynch watched the white car pause in the traffic behind them, then peel away back towards the airport road. He grinned.
‘Lost the bastards.’
Nathalie uncurled, her ashen face streaked with tears and her makeup smeared. She stared about as if at a new dawn. ‘How did that happen?’
Lynch gestured. ‘This is Chatila, the Palestinian refugee camp, where the Israelis stood by as their Christian militia allies massacred thousands of innocent people during the civil war. I didn’t think Michel’s Christian thugs would be too keen to come in here firing off their guns. They’d never have got out alive.’ He patted the driver on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Hassan. You did a good job. I was serious, I’ll pay for the damage. Next time you meet me flying in, bring a gun in the glovebox.’
Hassan smacked the steering wheel, wheezing laughter. ‘It was like driving during the war, huh? Shit, those guys were crazy.’
Lynch brushed shards of glass from the armrest between him and Hassan. He glanced at Nathalie, who was trying to repair some of the damage to her makeup and dignity. ‘Now, there’s a proper greeting committee for you. Welcome back to your homeplace, Miss Durand.’
Her brief smile in response was tight-lipped.
THIRTEEN
The strollers along Beirut’s paved corniche hunched against the buffeting cold, the watery late afternoon sunlight tempered by the looming shadows across the railings and sea wall. On the roadside by the silvery thrust of the Manara lighthouse, a street vendor handed steaming sweetcorn to a group of young men who tossed the cobs from hand to hand, laughing. Above the city’s swaths of buildings and the green hills rising up from the rich blue Mediterranean, the snowy peaks of Mount Sannine gleamed.
Lynch and Leila waited together for their double espressos at Uncle Deek’s roadside coffee shop, the two coffees handed over in brown plastic cups with wooden stirrers thrown in with surly panache by the coffee man. They crossed the corniche road, wary of the speeding cars. Leila was warm in his arm, nestled against him as they promenaded along the seafront, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. Her pale, fine skin reddened in the chill, the cold making her sniffle. Lynch’s smile faltered, his happiness tempered by the necessity of breaking their idyll.
He stopped at a railing overlooking a tumble of barnacle-encrusted concrete slabs, remnants of one of Lebanon’s many conflicts. Leila hooked the hair blowing in her face back behind her ear, uncertain as she gauged his expression.
‘What is it, Lynch? You’ve been funny since we met today.’
Lynch spoke to the sea, the clouds reflected in his green eyes. ‘You have to stop coming to the flat. I’ve arranged a place for you nearby, you can stay there and I can come and see you there. I have a big job on and you can’t stay with me or come to the apartment for now. Apart from anything else, it’s dangerous.’
Lynch knew she’d be unhappy, but this was worse. She was shocked, searching his face. He focused resolutely on the sea, the breakers smashing against the rust-streaked concrete.
Her voice was low. ‘You have someone staying with you.’
‘Yes.’
‘From intelligence.’
‘Yes.’
‘A woman.’
Lynch glanced down at the little brown plastic cup in his hand. Damn her intuition. ‘Yes.’
‘Fine.’
He reached for her. ‘Leila, come back.’
He followed her, striding to catch up until they were both almost running down the corniche. He caught her, spun them both around and held her pinioned against the cold metal as she pummelled his chest, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Fuck off, Lynch.’
‘It’s not personal. It’s what I do – we’re part of a big operation against,’ God help him, but Lynch the practised liar faltered for a split second, drug smugglers and they need her to be here. She’s an expert in electronic surveillance and online security stuff. She’s nothing to me, just a colleague from another intelligence service.’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh come on, you hardly expect me to ...’
‘To what? To tell me?’ Leila broke away, stepping back from him. ‘To let me into your private world? The secret garden, where all you little boys play your dirty little games with the destinies of decent people?’
‘Look, here’s the key to the flat. It’s in Hamra, it’s close by. The fob has the address and everything on it. It’s furnished. I’ll call you.’
‘I don’t want it, Lynch.’
‘Here. Just take it.’
He took her unresisting hand and placed the key there, closing her limp fingers on it.
‘I will not wait for you, Lynch. Not while you play with your Bond girl.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
He reached for her, but she turned her head away, leaving his unfulfilled kiss a brief contact against her cold, salty cheek.
Lynch watched her walk away up the corniche, the urge to smoke a cigarette clawing at his frayed nerves. When she had gone, he turned to the sea. He wandered along the seafront until darkness fell, flagging down a servees to take him home to his apartment with the stranger who’d moved in.
He drew on his cigar and sat back in the chair, settling down to enjoy the dusk bringing the streets to life. The umber sunset tinged the waters of the Mediterranean, the sea at the end of the street. Church bells rang out far away across the city, answered a few seconds later by the sweet tones of a nearer bell. One by one, the azan sounded from the mosques, joining the bells.
Nathalie stepped onto the balcony, held the railing and surveyed the street below. ‘It is a very beautiful city, no?’
Lynch puffed smoke. ‘It has its upsides.’
Nathalie raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure it is no problem I stay here?’
Lynch shook his head and tapped the cigar on the rim of the faded green plastic ashtray he kept outside for cigar nights, stolen from a pub somewhere in Monot a million years ago.
‘Not at all,’ he lied. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here.’
Nathalie had settled into the spare room and sat gazing at her laptop on the coffee table in the
living room when Lynch returned from his awful confrontation with Leila. He had called her mobile but she hadn’t picked up. He found himself constantly resisting the temptation to go across to the flat in Hamra, torn between wanting to give her space and his dread of her threat to pass him by. Lynch knew her too well to shrug off Leila’s fiery revenge. He abhorred the thought of a tousle-headed girl answering the door in the oversized shirt she liked, some swarthy ape calling from the bedroom, ‘Who is it, Lei-Lei?’
Lynch shuddered as his imagination ran amok.
Nathalie turned from the railing, her voice breaking his bleak reverie. ‘There are two nuclear warheads on this yacht. What do you think Freij intends with them when he brings them here?’
Fuck. Shop. Lynch drew on his Cohiba. ‘That’s the big question, isn’t it? Freij is a spoilt billionaire brat who holds huge political power and wants to be president on a unity ticket. He never disbanded his father’s militia, just folded it up into his political party. Yet his business partner is a respected figure in the Shia community, someone you’d have thought would be violently opposed to Freij’s Christian militia thugs. It’s hard to call. I just know they’re not safe hands to put those warheads in. Actually, come to think of it, there are no hands here I’d put them in.’
‘Our analysts have found this question hard, too. They have compiled a list of known assets of Falcon Dynamics. It owns many companies. Falcon has major holdings in Germany, Albania, Greece and Lebanon, and offices in several more countries. They are obviously very close to the Americans. We do not know how close.’
Lynch drew on the cigar again, sending blue smoke into the encroaching darkness. ‘And that’ll be the tip of the iceberg. Freij and his fat friend have a whole network of offshore companies.’
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 10
