‘Fat friend?’
‘His partner, Selim Hussein. He’s a big lad, got more chins than fingers. They founded Falcon together. It’s built on Freij’s money and Hussein’s engineering skill. Freij is a Maronite Christian, Hussein is a Shia Muslim. As I said, it’s an odd pairing to find here in Beirut.’
Lynch finished his cigar, flicking the stub over the balcony. He pulled himself to his feet wearily. ‘Have your people had any luck getting past their security systems?’
Nathalie shook her head. She was wearing an elegantly understated evening dress and burgundy lipstick.
Lynch paused by the sliding door. ‘Are you going out?’
‘We have gone as far as we can with remote hacks and surveillance. Their systems are very good, and we are worried if we try any harder over networks, we will be identified. We are setting up a team here at the French Embassy but we need a physical intervention. And yes, I am going out for dinner. So are you, if you would like to clean up a little and come.’
Lynch crossed his arms behind his head, stretching. ‘Where?’
‘Chez Madame Chalabi. She worked for my father during the civil war. She has long been a great ally for France here in Beirut. I thought she might help us with some links to people associated with Falcon. She knows everybody.’
‘Your father? Here?’
Nathalie laughed at Lynch’s evident confusion. ‘Yves Dubois. My father is Yves Dubois, non? Do your British intelligence people not brief you at all?’
‘No,’ Lynch growled kicking the door to his bedroom open. ‘They bloody don’t.’
Nathalie and Lynch tramped together past the flashy boutiques and designer frontages of Beirut’s Hamra district. The dummies pouted and preened in lifeless tableaux of scant cloth and revealed flesh. Owl-eyed at the richness around them, cars honking and jostling to their left, a feeling of sadness washed over Nathalie and she hooked her arm into Lynch’s.
‘You know I said I was born here? My mother was Lebanese. I suppose they didn’t tell you that, either. This is the first time I have come back here since I was a child. It feels very strange to be here. Familiar, even safe.’
She caught the surprise in Lynch’s glance down at her. He was gruff. ‘It can be, sure. It can be vicious, too. When did you leave?’
‘Eighty-six. My father came out here at the start of the civil war. He met my mother here and they worked together.’
‘For French intelligence.’
Nathalie nodded, hopping up onto the uneven pavement to avoid a blaring servees as it squeezed past. ‘Yes.’
Nathalie forgot Hamra for a second and was back in the airy kitchen in Dijon, bees buzzing around the lavender outside the window. Blame Damour, her mother told her, laughing and still beautiful in middle age, despite the illness eating away at her. ‘We first became lovers after Damour. The massacres made everyone scared and many people found comfort in each other, then and in the years to come.’
Lynch’s voice broke in on her reverie. ‘So how come the name change?’
She blinked to clear her head. ‘The same way all women change their names, non? I was married. I think it is here if I understood the directions correctly. It has been a long time since I was here before.’
They passed a tatty shop front. Lynch pushed open the creaking iron gate to its side that led into a musky alleyway lit by a dirty glass carriage lamp. Leaves and rubbish littered the concrete path. Nathalie rang the doorbell as Lynch gazed up blinking at the arches and decorations of the fine Ottoman house looming into the darkness above them, the brass ornamentation on the mahogany door dull in the baleful light. She thought him attractive in a brutal sort of way but, really, not her type. Catching her eye, he smiled. Old enough to be her father, for a start. She smiled back.
Madame Chalabi answered the door herself, dressed in black and wearing a string of remarkably large, round pearls. She smiled regally.
‘Goodness, you must be Nathalie. Good evening, my dear. It has been so very many years. And welcome, Monsieur ...’
Distracted by setting up her team of hackers and online watchers, Nathalie had neglected to mention Lynch would be with her. She cringed inwardly at the crass oversight. Madame was far too genteel to make a fuss, which made it feel worse. ‘Lynch. Gerald Lynch. He is working with me. He is English.’
‘Well, welcome to Cedars. Come in now, both of you, don’t stand there in the cold.’ She led the way across the small, elegant courtyard, a small Moroccan-tiled fountain at its centre. Her accent was a riot of influences, a strong hint of French and perhaps a touch of Arab but above all public school English. ‘The drawing room, dear. Do you remember where it is?’
‘I do,’ Nathalie laughed. ‘How can I ever forget?’
Cedars hadn’t changed at all. The delight died on her lips as the memories flooded back and Nathalie gripped the wooden doorframe for support. She surveyed the room, transported back to her childhood. She had often played here when her parents had gone away. She had always been confused by the brittle hilarity that accompanied their return, a reaction she now recognised as laughter born of fear.
Vivienne Chalabi had worked tirelessly to aid the victims of the bloody war that had consumed Lebanon for some fifteen years, extending her protection and assistance to anyone in need, Christian or Druze, Shia or Sunni, like a polytheist Daniel. In the end, Tante Vivienne had survived the war in order to live without the one thing she had wished above all else to preserve – her beloved husband Maurice, hit by an Israeli phosphor shell. Vivienne had watched him burn to death in front of her. She was horrified to see his body catch fire again after they doused the persistent flames. Vivienne stayed until she could bear to watch no more and ran home to avoid the vision of her beloved husband in hell, bursting into flames each time his remains were unwrapped.
Nathalie’s father had wept with Tante Vivienne in the mortuary, returning to Cedars where his little girl played in the living room with Beauchamps, the French butler.
Nathalie stared into the room, her hand on the cool, white paint of the heavy door, hearing her own, girlish voice singing out, ‘Where’s Uncle Maurice?’ Her father scooping her up and whispering urgently, ‘He has gone to a better place than this, Nino. Hush now.’
Lost in the past, Nathalie started at the movement of the large-framed man as he rose from the sofa, leaning on a silver-topped black cane to move towards her. He was dressed formally, grey-haired and balding and sporting a bushy, white moustache which he brushed with the back of a finger as he took her hand, touching it to his lips. She found the gesture, like his tuxedo, old-fashioned and yet delightfully gracious. She recognised the subtle little red thread on his lapel that signified he held the Légion d'honneur. The man unsettled Nathalie, a familiarity about his features and demeanour at once comforting and worrying. Catching her eye, he smiled at her. She dropped her gaze.
Madame Chalabi fussed. ‘I am so sorry, I have not made the introductions properly. Nathalie is the daughter of Monsieur Yves Dubois.’
‘Is she? Remarkable.’ The man said with a throaty chuckle. He beamed at her with tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Enchanté. I am Ghassan Maalouf.’
Nathalie fancied something dark passed across Maalouf’s face as Lynch walked into the room behind her. Madame Chalabi’s arm embraced the air around Lynch. ‘And this is Monsieur Lynch, who is working with Nathalie.’
‘Good evening, Monsieur Lynch,’ Maalouf rumbled. ‘Vivienne had not mentioned we would find ourselves in such distinguished company.’
Madame Chalabi stood poised by the white marble fireplace, framed by the heavy gold decorated mirror. ‘Ghassan is a very old friend of the family. He was most keen to meet you, my dear. Please, Monsieur Lynch, take a seat. Nathalie, I must say, you have grown up to be a beautiful young woman.’
Nathalie curtseyed playfully. She sat, accepting a glass of sherry from the maid’s silver tray. Lynch’s eyes were on her. She was conscious of the moisture in her own.
Madame Chalabi
sipped at her sherry. ‘Tell me, my dear, how is your mother?’
Nathalie winced and wished desperately they were alone. Shooting an apologetic glance at Lynch, she spoke in French, her eyes on the ornate carpet. ‘I thought Father had kept in touch, I am sorry.’
She looked up to see Madame Chalabi’s hand fly to her mouth, her eyes widening with a survivor’s prescience.
‘Maman died six years ago. Of breast cancer. I still miss her every day.’
‘My dear, I am so sorry. I was deeply fond of Helene. She was a light in our darkness. Excuse me, I think I shall sit. I am too frail these days to bear loss as well as perhaps I might have done in times past.’
Maalouf moved to help her, supporting her from his own sitting position. She handed him her sherry glass to bend elegantly into the settee beside him. Maalouf turned to Nathalie, his deep voice trembling. ‘I knew your mother well. I am sorry to hear she is no longer lighting the world.’
She waited for him to say more, but he looked down, his face sad and far away, lost in reflection. She leaned forwards to place her hand comfortingly on Madame Chalabi’s. ‘It was quick, in the end.’
Nathalie glanced over at Lynch who was sitting forward, his blue eyes fixed on Maalouf. There was something feral in there. The pent-up violence was a constant tension in the man.
Madame Chalabi sat back and sipped. ‘Is your father well, at least, dear?’
‘Yes, thank you, Madame. He sends his regards, of course. He is very busy these days. He travels a lot, mostly within Europe. There are so many seminars and conferences, meetings and so on.’
‘So tell me, Monsieur Maalouf,’ Lynch sat back in his chair and drained his glass, ‘how is life in Lebanese intelligence?’
Nathalie watched Ghassan Maalouf’s hooded eyes move slowly to meet Lynch’s, his face totally devoid of expression. ‘Well, thank you, Lynch. Well.’
‘Shall we go through to dinner?’ chirped Madame Chalabi in a brittle voice. They rose and followed the butler through to the dining room.
Lynch sipped truffled consommé, lifting the Christofle spoon carefully from the Versace bowl. The silver and crystal glittered in the candlelight. Madame Chalabi was talking, her food untouched but her sherry glass replenished regularly by the attentive waiter.
Lynch’s eyes were on Maalouf. The old man kept stealing glances at Nathalie. It was unusual to see him so unguarded. The few times Lynch had seen the feared intelligence officer in public, he had been stiff and formal, giving away nothing. Lynch knew Maalouf better by reputation than he did in person. A career forged in the blood and sawdust of the mukhabbarat, the Lebanese secret police, Maalouf’s talents were recognised and he was sent to join the General Directorate for General Security. There was a rumour at the time that Maalouf had gone too far and killed someone linked to a powerful family. His career had faltered then risen again. Now he was the head of the directorate and a powerful man in his own right. Lynch wondered what had brought him here tonight.
She had.
It hit him hard. Maalouf had come on her account. Nathalie hadn’t expected him to be there and was blithely unaware of his interest in her. Maalouf was here for Nathalie.
The waiter removed Lynch’s soup dish with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, breaking his reverie.
Lynch turned to Madame Chalabi. ‘Does the name ‘Deir Na’ee’ mean anything to you? Perhaps in connection with Michel Freij?’
Maalouf’s expression was politely disinterested but Lynch glimpsed a momentary quickening. He turned back to Madame as she considered the question, her head held a little to one side. ‘No, no it doesn’t. Deir is a homeplace. Na’ee means lonely.’ She smiled and sipped her sherry. ‘Perhaps in the mountains, to the north? It sounds remote. The Freij family comes from the mountains, you know. They have lived around the village of Beit Hamza for hundreds of years. It is a beautiful village in the mountains.’
In an instant, Madame Chalabi was in another world, bright-eyed and talking to the chandelier with a beatific smile. Lynch marvelled at her histrionic talent.
‘You ask about the Freij family, Monsieur Lynch? They are a very great family, a powerful lineage. Michel’s grandfather helped to found the Phalange, you know. They were so very taken with European fascism. Raymond learned from his father and I am afraid Michel has learned from Raymond rather than his mother, a sweet girl. There is little compromise to be had from the people of the mountains. I rather think it is the terrain that creates absolutism. It forgives so little, the mountain.’
The entrée arrived. Beef, carved at the side table and served with creamy potato and a pouring of dark red wine into the cut glasses.
Maalouf was solicitous, his eyes following Chalabi’s increasingly grandiose gestures like a bodyguard.
It dawned on Lynch she was quite drunk as he speared a rosy slice of beef. ‘This is the best beef I have eaten in many years.’
Madame Chalabi inclined her head graciously. ‘I am glad. The compliment is particularly appreciated from an Englishman.’
Lynch smiled, his Irish Catholic heart black. ‘It is heartfelt, Madame.’
Nathalie leaned forward, her cheek dimpling as she smiled. ‘All too many men are governed by their stomachs. But what governs Michel Freij, Madame?’
Vivienne Chalabi placed her wine glass carefully upon the linen. ‘The most dangerous people are those who can convince themselves that a convenient thing is true. Why? Because they can use that skill to rationalise their selfishness. It is the key to good acting, I think. Michel is being presented for election as a moderate candidate, as a man who is against sectarianism. Selim helps him in this, his Shia business partner held up as a reason we should trust this new coalition, this new Lebanon. Their success, we are being told, could belong to us all. It is a lie.’
The old lady glared at Lynch unsteadily, raising her glass, the rim smeared with pale lipstick. Her eyes were moist. Lynch wanted to gather her frailty up in his arms for her bravery, compassion and wit, while also rejecting her fakery, the pomp and formality of Cedars, its staff and its carefully arranged place settings. It was living in a photo shoot, he thought as he regarded her. She was shaking, her fist clenched on the table cloth. Maalouf spoke for her, his hoarse voice breaking across the table.
‘Yes, this is a lie. Michel is a fundamentalist, a racist. Like his father, like his grandfather. Michel is a dangerous absolutist and always has been.’
Lynch raised his glass. ‘A toast. To be saved from absolutists.’
Vivienne Chalabi raised her glass to him and so, after a short pause, did Maalouf.
As they left Cedars, Maalouf took Lynch to one side. ‘Forgive Vivienne, Lynch. She is old and has seen, has lost too much.’ He waited for Lynch’s nod. ‘You have a significant operation building against Michel Freij, Mister Lynch. For myself, I am no supporter of this young man. But I would caution you to take great care. He is not to be trifled with.’
‘I rather think I’ve already found that out. He’s bad, like his father.’
‘Good luck. Anything to do with that man is bad business and I would frankly not wish to see Nathalie involved in it, but this vocation of espionage obviously runs in the family. She’s an extraordinary girl, the daughter of a very extraordinary woman. Take care of her, Lynch. If I thought for a second her father would consent to speak to me, I would offer you my assistance. I feel we have much to contribute to your investigation. You may like to mention the offer to him.’
If Maalouf had meant his words to be infuriatingly oblique, Lynch reflected he could have hardly done a better job. The old man pushed him away genially, stemming his questions with a handshake as they joined Nathalie, who was supporting the quite drunk Madame Chalabi. Nathalie handed the old lady into Maalouf’s care. Lynch escaped with her across the courtyard and, at the street door, they turned and waved their farewells like a couple.
FOURTEEN
The bright morning sunshine lit the square, people chatting as they bustled b
y. Nathalie and Lynch sat together, basking. She ate her croissant delicately, picking off slivers of toasted almond and placing them on her tongue. Lynch read the newspaper. He groped absently for his coffee across the café table.
‘So you start every day like this?’
‘Pretty much. I consider this to be one of the many perks of living in Beirut.’
Nathalie tore the crisp pastry, releasing the warm almond fragrance. She bit, licking brown flakes from her lips. Lynch watched her above the paper, took in her dark, bobbed hair and slender fingers. Her eyebrows were strong, her dark-edged green eyes alive and inquisitive.
She pretended not to notice his attention, wiping the corner of her mouth. ‘I have been talking to some of our contacts here. Michel Freij is to address a rally later this week. His agenda is centrist, his One Lebanon party that will apparently bring the peoples of Lebanon together, as Madame Chalabi said. They are running on a ticket of constitutional reform and non-sectarian values. The rally will be very large and take place in the Place des Martyrs. It is expected over two hundred thousand will attend.’
Lynch harrumphed. ‘Your contacts?’
She smiled sweetly at him. ‘Yes, our contacts. You surely recognise the French government has an extraordinary relationship with Lebanon. We founded the country, after all. My father lived and worked here throughout the civil war. My mother was Lebanese. I probably know more people in Beirut than you do, Monsieur Lynch. For instance, our dinner last night was with my contact, was it not?’
Lynch snapped the newspaper shut. ‘And here was me thinking we were Europeans.’
‘And so we are. But some of us are, after all, a little more European than others. Shall we ask for the cheque?’
Lynch caught the eye of the man at the till, his voice genial. ‘Antoine? L’addition, s’il te plait.’ He leaned towards Nathalie, his cold urgency belying the smile. ‘You know, my dear, this isn’t your city. It isn’t even what you’d call my city after over thirty years living here. It never has been anything but their city. The sooner you grow up and realise it, the better off we’d all be. It does not matter one shit how many contacts your daddy scooped up during the civil war. This is Beirut and this is now. They don’t need colonising or patronising anymore.’
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 11
