Marcelle’s eyes flickered uncertainly, scanning Lynch’s face for signals. ‘Yes, of course. I think we’ll be okay. I’ll call him.’
‘Good. Do that.’ He was half out of bed, his body hair dark against his pale skin. He turned, the cotton duvet billowing as he threw himself across the bed, his swift kiss surprising her. ‘Thanks, Marcie.’
Her smile died on her lips as Lynch left the room, the trembling taking over and the tears welling up in her eyes. She hadn’t felt this way since the war had ended. Marcelle Aboud, whore and inveterate survivor, was scared.
The back door of the big limousine opened, blocking the pavement in front of Lynch as he rounded the corner towards the two pristine ornamental bay trees in stainless steel containers marking the entrance to the Gray Hotel.
‘Mr Gerald Lynch?’ A blonde in a tight-fitting black dress rose elegantly from the leather seat and invited him into the car.
He stopped walking. ‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to come with me? Mr Michel Freij sent me for you.’
He gestured towards the sleek, brushed facade of the hotel. ‘I thought we were meeting here?’
She smiled, efficient yet sympathetic. ‘A change of plan. Please?’
Lynch got into the car. She closed the door, joining him from the street side, her skirt parting to show her long legs as she sat, her perfume heady and floral.
The Maybach’s smooth acceleration pushed him back into the leather. ‘So where are we meeting, then?’
‘At the Freij Foundation’s private museum. Michel had an urgent meeting with the trustees regarding an important acquisition. He hopes you understand.’
Lynch gazed over the city’s towers, some new and clad in smoked glass, others older, concrete and bearing the pockmarks of history. ‘Oh, sure. I understand totally.’
She missed the irony and smiled at him. Lynch’s face flickered with the sunlight escaping between the city’s shadowed tower blocks as she chattered in Arabic on her mobile. He was surprised at how short the drive was. The car slowed at a security checkpoint and then turned to halt in a cobbled courtyard. He surveyed the garden, Beirut laid out below like a carpet of matchboxes. The formal walkways and shrubs were dotted with white marble Byzantine busts and pillars, each carrying a little brass plaque. Lynch wandered through them as the woman finished her call. She caught up with him as he admired a thirteenth-century piece, a woman in flowing gowns.
He gestured at the statue. ‘This is beautiful.’
She snapped off a smile. ‘Mr Freij shares his father’s impeccable taste in fine objets. Shall we?’
Lynch followed her up the stone staircase into the large villa dominating the gardens. She left him in the reception area filled with cases displaying opaque pieces of green Roman glass.
Michel Freij’s voice echoed down the marble staircase. ‘Mr Lynch. Thank you for joining me.’
Lynch waited as Freij’s footsteps clacked down the ornate stairs, taking in the man’s crisp linen shirt, glistening cuffs and English wool suit. Freij’s hands were manicured and his oiled hair was swept back. Lynch was dressed in a crumpled cotton shirt and jeans. Mind you, wanker, you have to pay for what I get for free.
Freij shucked off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder. ‘I am so sorry to have diverted our meeting, but business calls on occasion, does it not?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lynch, ‘it surely does.’
Freij relaxed, gesturing at the high-vaulted room ‘Come, Mr Lynch. I shall show you some of my collection and we shall perhaps talk a little.’
Lynch stayed alongside Freij as he led the way into the colonnaded central hall of the building. Peach, white and black marble cladding decorated every surface. They turned left into a long, shaded room with a sumptuous Ottoman roof and a long central cabinet packed with artfully arranged pieces of age-frosted, fine glass. Each wall space carried cabinets of artefacts. Four alcoves held white marble statuary – Roman noblemen in perfect condition, their aquiline noses and sightless noble eyes gazing into the middle distance. Each piece in the impeccably curated collection was lit by its own cluster of tiny halogen lamps.
‘This is the Roman room. This collection was amassed by my father. I have only added a few objets such as this,’ he gestured to a collection of tiny amphorae, ‘set of early Roman ladies’ scents. Amazingly, one of my companies was able to take samples from one of the bottles and use spectrometers to recreate the scent. It is fascinatingly complex. We hope to market it in the near future.’ Freij’s voice echoed in the cool silence.
Lynch nodded. ‘Impressive.’ He dropped behind, glancing over the greenish, matte shapes of the ancient glass. ‘These must be worth an amazing amount of money.’
Freij surveyed the garden, his hands clenched behind his back, his smiling face in sharp relief in the sunlight. ‘Yes, they—’
He wheeled at the crash of Lynch’s fist slamming down on the glass case. The sound reverberated through the building. One of the amphorae fell over, rolling across the dark velvet.
Lynch beamed at Freij. ‘Just wanted to check it was secure. You can’t be too careful, can you?’
Freij’s fury gave way to confusion.
Lynch turned to face the bulky figure framed in the doorway. ‘And you can put the gun away, monkey man. Mickey and I were only having a little chat.’
At a nod from Freij, the suited gunman relaxed and placed his pistol back in its shoulder holster.
Lynch was genial. ‘Shall we sit down and talk, Mr Freij? I think I’ve seen enough history for now.’
Freij opened his bunched fists, his mouth a grim line. He nodded slowly, scanning the jumbled objects in the case. ‘Very well.’ He led the way from the room, the gunman standing aside for him. Lynch followed, snapping a grin at the sour-faced guard as he passed.
Leading the way up the ornate stone staircase to the first floor, Freij’s handsome face was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight streaming through the large vaulted windows. His movements were stiff, Lynch guessed from suppressing his anger. It gave Lynch enormous, childish pleasure.
Freij halted by a double doorway framed by brass-studded carved woodwork. ‘I regret ever trying to buy that yacht, Mr Lynch. I am now in litigation with Luxe for the return of my funds. Please, after you.’
Lynch entered the meeting room, blinking at the transition from Ottoman marble to minimalist chic. He sat on the black leather sofa.
‘Coffees please, Annette,’ Freij addressed the tall, pencil-skirted girl who had appeared through a connecting door. He draped his jacket over the back of the chair across the coffee table from Lynch.
Lynch leaned back, an arm stretched along the back of the sofa and gazed around the room. ‘I’m getting a bit upset by your militia, Mr Freij, if I were to tell you the truth. They appear to favour the heavy-handed approach and I can’t say I appreciate it. Attempting to abduct one of my associates was ...’ Lynch cast his gaze to the ceiling. He threw a broad smile at Freij, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Rude.’
Freij’s composure flickered. ‘I am not aware of any attempt to abduct anybody, Mr Lynch. I understand there was some unpleasantness at the One Lebanon rally. Were you involved in this?’
‘Where is Peter Meier?’
Freij’s smile was tight and Siberian. ‘Who, more to the point, is Peter Meier?’
‘Come on, Mickey, stop fucking around. Meier’s the hood you bought two nuclear warheads from.’
Freij sat back into the armchair by the coffee table, his face an incredulous portrait. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, man? This is all too much. I am a man of standing in Lebanon, a public figure and I am respected. I will not have this, this idiocy bandied about. This is the wildest, most insane accusation.’
Lynch remained silent, examining Freij’s body language. The man was so precise in everything he did. Now he leaned forward, his elbow on the coffee table and his finger raised at Lynch, who wanted to lean forward and break it. ‘Can you prove this, Mr Lync
h? Do you really think you have a case to make?’
The silence roared between them. Freij leaned back in his chair. ‘No, no you don’t, do you?’ Freij crossed his arms. ‘I told you in London, I have no interest in smuggling arms – I intend to stand as the president of Lebanon and my very expensive campaign has started. I do not want this affair hanging over my head.’ Freij reached into the jacket and withdrew an envelope, which he pushed across to Lynch. ‘Here. Take this and go. I almost regret putting the effort into this now.’
Lynch pulled out a folded sheet of vellum of the same type he had found by Paul Stokes’ corpse. He opened it to find a set of coordinates written in the careful, black script he recognised from reading Paul’s name on a note in a stinking farmhouse down a dusty track near Tripoli.
‘What the—’
‘It is the location of a farm in the Bekaa owned by a man called Jamal. He was a hashish farmer forced out of business following the last government’s crackdown on the drugs trade. Apparently he does odd jobs for money. Dirty jobs others don’t like to do. He is the man who killed Paul Stokes.’
Lynch gestured with the folded paper. ‘This you carrying on the tradition? Raymond leave you that little Indian teak desk of his, did he?’
Freij rose, distaste on his proud face. ‘I promised you this information. I have delivered. As I said, I almost regret it.’
Lynch smiled as he got to his feet, his hands held palms up. ‘What, an’ no coffee?’
Freij smiled coldly. ‘I find I, too, have lost my interest in history for now.’
Lynch escaped into the cool, sunny garden, admiring a fine Byzantine statue of a woman carrying a baby. Electric motors whirred: the cameras tracking his progress out to the street. He strode uphill to a T-junction. He glanced behind, but the streets were quiet. He called Tony Chalhoub.
‘Hey, Lynch.’
‘Okay, Tony, I’ve got a name and location for Stokes’ killer. It’s in the Bekaa.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘Freij gave it to me just now. On one of those pieces of paper he’s so fond of. It’s pretty mad, I know. I can only imagine he wants to burn his boy for some reason and I’m perfectly happy helping him do it. You can have your moment of fame, Tony. Freij thinks this’ll buy me off and he’s got another thing coming.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up in, say, an hour?’
‘Done. I’ll bring Palmer so we’re, um, diplomatic about it.’
The quiet snoring from the back of the car grew louder. Lynch turned to view Palmer slumped across the beige leather back seat of Tony Chalhoub’s Audi Q7. He noticed Chalhoub using the driver’s mirror for the same purpose. Palmer’s trademark linen suit was rumpled on his corpulent frame, his hand dangling off the edge of the seat.
Chalhoub’s brow was wrinkled. ‘Jesus, Lynch, why’d you have to bring him?’
‘For the same feckin’ reason as you want to meet up with your boys from Baalbek. I need consular cover if this all goes to fuck. Just like you’ll need the local lads to clear up.’
Chalhoub grunted as he steered around the last roundabout out of Zahle, leaving the agricultural town behind as they drove up the Bekaa Valley. Wood smoke rose in little pillars across the misty plain. The air was fresh after the late morning shower, the clouds passing to leave an azure sky.
Lynch stared at the passing farms and villas, a cluster of Bedouin tents steaming in the cool spring sunlight. He wanted to smoke. He turned to Chalhoub.
‘So who’s yer man, this Dubois bloke? He was here in the civil war, wasn’t he? French intelligence. You must have known him.’
Chalhoub’s hand was light on the wheel. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it, the Bekaa? It’s God’s Own place, this. Fertile, magical.’
‘Sure and you’re a poet, Tony.’ Lynch tapped the leather dash. ‘Dubois.’
Chalhoub frowned. ‘He was the French head of station, was a double act with his wife. She was some lady. She used to stop talk in rooms when she walked in. I mean, I’m talking stopping conversations in Beirut, right? She was Lebanese, a Christian from Jounieh. He was good, one of those operators who is everywhere and nowhere. They kicked him out in the end. He was very thick with Raymond Freij.’
‘He was close to Freij?’
Chalhoub nodded, his eyes scanning the lush planted fields as he drove. ‘Very much so. The Americans had Dubois thrown out. The French were backing Raymond a little too enthusiastically and his goons started shooting up the US Marines in his sector with Sarpac rockets. The Yanks had a real problem with their boys getting killed with French munitions for some reason, but they couldn’t pin anything on Dubois. Then some guy at the UN comes along with a story about a brutal interrogation in Saida, a couple of Palestinian kids were killed by Maronite militiamen and Dubois was present. The Yanks went for him. They got their man.’
Lynch watched the scenery ahead of them. Arid, rocky terrain rose to their left framed by the hazy white-capped mountains. Palmer shifted and grunted in the back. ‘You know a woman called Chalabi? Rather grand old dame, lives in Hamra, big old place called Cedars.’
‘Sure. Everyone knows her. Vivienne Chalabi. Big money. Her husband used to be close to Gemayel. He was a big shot in the militia, the Lebanese Forces. Got himself killed near the end of the civil war. What about her?’
‘Was at her place having dinner with Ghassan Maalouf.’
Chalhoub whistled. ‘Maalouf, wow. He’s a spider with a big old web. You’re moving in high circles these days, Gerald. These guys are all big players in the old Christian power base. That’s more Dubois’ clique.’
‘Were they close? Maalouf and Dubois?’
‘Dubois’ wife was from one of the big Maronite families in Jounieh, so they would have socialised for sure. Why?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘Ah, sure, it’s nothing. Curious, I guess. Maalouf asked me to talk to Dubois about cooperation, so I called Dubois and he was pretty cold about the whole idea. Strange, no? I mean, you’d want Maalouf and his boys onside, wouldn’t you?’ He tapped the map on his knee. ‘You’re taking a left here just at the end of the village. Are these your coppers?’
Chalhoub hit the horn as they passed the black police car and it swung out behind them to follow. The sound of the horn woke Palmer, who rubbed his face and moaned.
Lynch’s voice reflected his contempt. ‘With us now, are you?’
‘Sorry.’ Palmer’s mouth tightened. ‘Dropped off.’
Chalhoub turned off the main road towards the mountains, leaving the russet soil of the valley behind as they jinked through the village and then up the dusty road curving toward the foothills.
Lynch held up his hand. ‘It’s off to the left, there. Looks like farm buildings.’
Chalhoub pulled off the main track and stopped the car. ‘One second. I’m going to tell my friends to hold back here for now. I don’t want anyone getting scared.’
As Chalhoub walked back to the police car, Palmer shifted in the back seat, his clothes rasping in the silence. The car rocked with his weight.
‘What do you think you’ll find here, Lynch?’
Lynch glanced back at Palmer in the vanity mirror, regretting his decision to bring the Embassy man. Jesus, but he’s got a silly fucking face on him. He’s scared witless. ‘I don’t know, Palmer. Maybe another dead body. You gonna throw up again, son?’
Palmer was querulous. ‘That’s not funny. You must have some idea of what’s here, surely?’
Lynch shook his head, speaking up at the grey hills. ‘He’s Michel Freij’s man, this Jamal. Freij has given him to us to avoid taking the rap for Paul Stokes’ murder. Freij doesn’t need the hassle right now. He’s running for the top job. So boy Jamal will have been paid off handsomely to take it on the chin on Freij’s behalf. Christ, with good behaviour and some of that Freij wasta, he’ll be out in three to five. Michel’s betting I’ll take the credit for the nick and shut up like a good boy. He thinks I’m just a plod, see? Like the Lebanese plods he br
ibes.’
Palmer frowned. ‘Whatever. But you know it wasn’t Jamal. You know Michel Freij ordered Stokes’ murder.’
Lynch turned in his seat, his steady regard making Palmer look away. ‘Yes, I do. But right now we’re going to play nicely.’
Palmer was sweating, his hands kneading his crotch. Chalhoub returned to the SUV. He caught the look of contempt Lynch directed at Palmer. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ Lynch growled. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
They drove up to the scattered buildings, the land strewn with rocks, the spring grass forming a fine green down over the unkempt fields. A large barn was rusting, its door hanging off its hinges. An old American motorhome was parked by the barn, a battered white caravan behind it. Several cars were rusting to one side near a single, tired tree.
‘What a mess,’ said Lynch, ‘Some farmer.’
Lynch left the car, scanning the buildings. Chalhoub joined him. They started to walk to the caravan together. The car door slammed behind them and Palmer cried out, ‘Wait for me.’
Lynch turned back towards the caravan. He caught the glint from above the low wall behind it and shouted to Chalhoub. Lynch dived left and reached for his shoulder holster. He felt the bullet twist the air by his ear as he went down, his shoulder smashing into the dry ground. The shot’s echo cracked back from the hills.
Palmer’s heavy body crashed into the ground behind. The air filled with a series of short, high-pitched screams and the sound of Palmer kicking and threshing in the dust. Lynch crabbed left, knowing left-handed Chalhoub would move right. He jabbed his gun out, scanning the rough wall-top for any movement. Lynch risked a glance behind – Palmer’s back was arched, his hands held to his face. Blood pulsed through the man’s fat fingers and dribbled down his arm.
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 14
