Beirut - An Explosive Thriller

by Alexander McNabb

  Lynch’s heart quickened as he recalled the note Paul Stokes had left: ‘Spike’ and ‘Deir Na’ee’. A connection with Stokes’ legacy and the words that triggered Michel Freij’s brutal assault on Marcelle’s prostitute after she had whispered them across a pillow.

  Nathalie reached her tablet from her handbag. ‘This is him.’

  Lynch took the device. He signalled the waiter for another beer and propped his elbow on the table, his food cooling as he swiped his way through the document. Lynch’s eyes widened as he read. ‘Jesus. He’s a fucking drug dealer.’

  Scanning the last page, Lynch’s body tensed. He tried to stay calm, slowing his breathing before he was sure enough of himself to slide the tablet back to Nathalie. The food he had eaten tried to come back up and Lynch struggled to stop himself from puking. He avoided her direct gaze and scanned the empty tables under the awnings on the sunny cobbled street, his breath rasping. He swept his hands back over his hair. ‘Jesus wept.’

  He couldn’t stop thoughts of Leila flooding his mind. Leila, mentioned in the Lebanese intelligence file on the tablet he was holding. Last seen by Lebanese intelligence in the company of a drug dealer, activist and rebel called Anthony Najimi whom everyone knew as Spike. What had she said as they’d stood together on the Beirut corniche? I’ll not wait for you, Lynch. Not while you play with your Bond girl. She hadn’t been kidding.

  ‘What is it, Lynch?’

  He signalled for the cheque. ‘Nothing.’ He tossed the file back to her. ‘Come on, we’re supposed to see your father at two. We’re late.’

  Standing, Lynch tossed a bundle of lire notes onto the table. Mystified, Nathalie joined him as he strode up the street towards the British Embassy.

  Dubois watched Channing stalk the ambassador’s meeting room, pausing at the picture window that looked over the sunny stone buildings and terracotta-tiled roofs of Beirut’s Solidere district, the area the Beirutis called Sodeco, and onto the azure Mediterranean beyond. He turned his back on the idyll and jabbed his finger at Dubois.

  ‘It’s finished, Yves. We close the whole operation now. This is in danger of turning into the biggest fuck-up in intelligence history.’

  Dubois was the older man but technically junior to Channing, the British deputy director for security and public affairs. He laid his hand on the French-polished wood, his melodious voice thickened by the effort to contain his rage. ‘We have every reason to believe Freij and Hussein are attempting to acquire viable nuclear warheads.’

  ‘No, you do not. What you have is a couple of Lebbo parvenus who tried to buy a luxury yacht for cash from a dodgy Kraut bankrupt whose daughter, our one witness, happened to be psychotic and is now, in any case dead. That’s what you have. In short, sweet fuck all. I should never have agreed to the operation in the first place.’ Channing grabbed a blue-capped bottle of spring water from one of the place settings at the table, wrenched the cap off and swigged from it. He gestured at the newspaper on the long table. ‘Worse, one of those parvenus is the future president of Lebanon and he’s given half a page of the Daily Star to explain why the Brits are the root of all fucking evil. Our host, His Excellency, is currently busy petitioning the Foreign Office for my balls on a plate.’

  Dubois’ lips were drawn tight. He glared up at Channing’s bulk, framed by the window. ‘Could you perhaps stop swearing at me, Brian?’

  Channing threw the plastic bottle to the floor. ‘No, I fucking can’t. I’ve got the Maltese government baying for my blood, the Special Boat Squadron bitching me out and the PM asking my boss why I’ve lost my fucking wits. Your big fat hunch led to a dead end, Dubois. That boat’s as clean as a whistle, Freij and Hussein are even more squeaky fucking clean and whoever Meier is, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s over, full stop. I’m pulling the plug. Sod European cooperation.’

  Channing sat at the head of the table and ran his fingers through his greying hair. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, linking his hands behind his neck. Dubois studied the man. Middle-aged, Channing wore jeans and a striped shirt, the casual clothes offset by a pair of expensive-looking silver cufflinks. A consummate politician himself, Dubois had to acknowledge Channing’s ability to play the game brilliantly. More brilliantly than he, Dubois admitted to himself with a twinge of envy. He almost fancied Channing had dozed off, the man was so still.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Dubois blurted.

  Channing’s eyes snapped open. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘I don’t need to. If those warheads aren’t on the Arabian Princess, where are they? We need to find them and we know there is a direct link with Hoffmann, Meier and the arms cache they came from. We also know there is a direct link between them and Falcon and Freij. We have a payment from one party to the other. In case you had forgotten, Brian, Hoffmann and his wife were murdered. So was Paul Stokes. Then there are Elli Hoffmann, Scerri and the Boutros man from the ship. This is a lot of dead people around the purchase of a luxury yacht, is it not?’

  ‘I don’t care. Murders are for the plods. We have to find those warheads all right, but they’re not in Beirut, are they?’

  Dubois paced the table. ‘Not yet, no. But this is where they are coming. I know it.’

  ‘Another hunch. Enough hunches. It’s over.’

  ‘French intelligence has supported the Freij family for many years. I cannot tell you by what degree, but our support has been significant. The French government has been very involved in Lebanese politics since the foundation of this country, as you very well know. Something is happening here. I do not know what yet, but something. It is not good. Michel Freij is not what he seems to be. He has become a client of the Americans but they do not understand him as we do. We need a little time. Just a little time.’

  Channing sat forward. ‘No. No more time. It’s over, Yves. Listen to yourself, man. You’re waffling. Freij is not a European problem and I won’t let you make him into one.’ He waved down the table to the folded newspaper. ‘And he’s certainly not a British problem except now we’ve obviously got to go on the world’s biggest arse-licking exercise since the invention of diplomacy.’

  Dubois lunged across the room and placed his hands over Channing’s. ‘We must stop him, we must.’

  Channing snatched his hands away, his face screwed up in disgust. ‘Stop him? Get a grip on yourself, Dubois. There are no warheads on the ship and Operation Beirut is closed with immediate effect.’

  Dubois snapped. ‘You can’t close it. You don’t have the authority. This is an EJIC operation and therefore under my purview.’

  Channing’s voice was mellifluous, creamy thought Dubois, realising his naiveté as Channing pronounced sentence.

  ‘I bloody can because I have been given precisely that authority by your mealy-mouthed political masters in Brussels. Sorry, it’s my show now and I can stop it or start it as I see fit.’

  Dubois opened his mouth to protest but Channing cut him off.

  ‘Check before you say something you’ll regret. I want us to work together, not fight each other. Just accept the new reality.’

  Both men’s heads turned at the tap on the door. Lynch entered, holding the door for Nathalie, whose hand flew to her mouth at her father’s abject demeanour. Lynch returned Channing’s glare with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry, did we pick a bad moment?’

  Dubois’ voice was husky, ‘No, no. Come in.’

  Standing in front of the fireplace with his hands behind his back, Channing’s tone was matter of fact. ‘Operation Beirut is over. Michel Freij and Selim Hussein are no longer of interest to us. Official.’

  Lynch tested the coffee pot and poured a cup for himself. He tipped the pot at Nathalie but she shook her head.

  ‘What about the murder of Paul Stokes? Or Elli Hoffmann? Or Leila Medawar?’ Lynch’s face was taut, his knuckles white on the cup’s handle.

  Channing craned forward. ‘Leila who?’

  ‘The activist girl.’ Dubois answered, watching Lynch and fear
ing violence.

  ‘Up to the police. Not an issue for us.’

  Lynch put the cup down, spilling the coffee. ‘Not an issue? How’s that, then?’

  ‘No. I said let the Lebboes handle it. I’ve had enough wild crusades to last me the rest of the year and I won’t have us playing cops and robbers in a foreign jurisdiction. Particularly not this one right now.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘Fair enough. Your call.’

  Puzzled by Lynch’s meek acquiescence, Dubois caught the glance between the Irishman and Nathalie. Lynch, he realised, was about to take the law into his own hands.

  Channing shoved his chair back. ‘What a fucking mess. Right. You.’ He waved at Lynch. ‘Get on with whatever you were doing before all this. You.’ Nathalie raised her head. ‘Get back to France, soonest. It’s over. Goodbye.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Yes, he can,’ Dubois interjected. ‘Brian is heading up the operation and the decisions are his now.’

  Dubois felt a lump in his throat at Nathalie’s horrified look. She knew well what a setback to his career this was.. He looked down at the table to avoid her pity, his distorted, pale features reflected on the polished mahogany.

  Lynch took Nathalie’s arm, his touch startling her as he drew her away. Dubois looked up as the door closed. Standing at the window, Channing was a silhouette.

  ‘Yves, you and I are in a unique position, my old son. Together, we have managed to lose two nuclear warheads capable of wiping out a reasonably large city. They aren’t on the damn boat, and they sure as hell aren’t here in Beirut. So my best suggestion would be that we nip off back to Brussels and start to find out quite where the hell they, and Mr bloody Meier, have got to.’

  ‘I told you. They’re on the way here.’ Dubois fought to keep the desperation from his voice.

  Channing strode from the window, bending down to hiss in Dubois’ ear. ‘No, they’re bloody not. Not without proof.’ He straightened. ‘We’re focusing on the wrong place and we’re wasting valuable time here.’

  Dubois waited for Channing to bustle from the meeting room before slumping back in his chair. He felt dull. He had been so sure the boat was carrying the warheads. Much as he disliked the idea, Channing had reason: the funds transfer from Beirut to Hoffmann had been the pointer. Without the certainty of the warheads’ destination, Dubois faced widening the scope of the investigation massively. They had no choice but to go public with the loss of a pair of hundred kiloton Soviet Oka-class warheads.

  Lost in thought, Dubois let his mobile ring out. It rang again and he surfaced and reached for the slim black case and the green key.

  ‘Monsieur. Dubois? Branko Liberec, in Prague. I hope I don’t disturb you.’ Liberec’s voice was tense.

  Dubois rubbed his eyes. ‘No, not at all. How are things with you, Branko?’

  ‘The warheads are not on the Arabian Princess, sir.’

  Dubois sat back, marvelling at God’s sense of timing. ‘Really, Branko? Where are they, then?’

  Lynch and Nathalie wandered down into the cobbled streets of Sodeco, passing the army guard and their red and white painted barrier. The café tables on the street were empty under their striped awnings, the weather too cold for anyone to sit outside, despite the sun that fell across the rich beige frontages of the restored buildings.

  Nathalie’s mobile rang and she pulled it from her pocket. She bit her lip as she listened to the voice on the line. The signal, as usual in Beirut, was bad.

  ‘Oui. Maintenant. ’Voir.’

  The sunlight lit the side of her face as she stopped walking and turned to Lynch, her expression worried. ‘It is my father. He wants to meet again. Something’s changed.’

  Lynch screwed up his face in disgust. ‘Jesus. Are we going to spend all day walking up and down this fucking hill?’ He turned on his heel and led the way back up to the British Embassy, reprising their walk past the Ottoman charms of the Grand Serail.

  They entered the meeting room. Dubois was a man transformed, his eyes alive with excitement. Channing sat at the head of the table, feigning sleep, his hands clasped on his lap.

  Playing with an empty coffee cup, Dubois was losing his English in his excitement. ‘They are in containers. The Czechs have traced them. They have crossed the Slovakia-Hungary border before four days. The Croatian, Romanian and Serbian road borders with Hungary are all closed. All of the Balkan border posts are on high alert. We have them. They are entrapped.’

  Lynch whistled. ‘They had balls, all right. How did they expect to get away with that?’

  Dubois beamed. ‘Oh, come, it is not so difficult, is it? Meier, he knows every corrupt officer and easy customs post in Europe with his history of trafficking. They will have been using different sets of documents.’ Dubois paused for reflection for a second. ‘Most customs men do not really look for nuclear warheads, is it not? It is not a ... everyday problem.’

  Lynch drew a map of the Balkans in his mind. ‘So what was the plan? Through Romania and down through Turkey?’

  ‘We cannot know for sure, but this would seem likely. The operation has obviously had to expand to cover a wide area, but we are staying very imprecise on the nature of the cargo. It is still top secret.’

  ‘Because you don’t want the Yanks to know?’

  ‘Because we want nobody to know. Imagine the media and the public reaction, without even to think of the political backlash. That is my waking nightmare at this moment. It is why Brian and I have to return to Brussels and manage the operation. We must leave you both here to try to find what Freij intends for these warheads. I surely know he is behind this. If we fail and those weapons get to Beirut, I want us at least to be ready for them when they come.’

  Channing’s lazy drawl froze the conversation, his eyes still closed. ‘They won’t. Half of Europe’s armed forces are mobilised to stop them now.’

  Lynch poured another coffee, even though the stuff was vile. ‘Fair enough.’

  Nathalie reached across the meeting table and touched her father’s hand. ‘We have been approached by the head of the Lebanese security directorate. He is an associate of Madame Chalabi’s. He is offering their cooperation.’

  Dubois’ face darkened. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Ghassan Maalouf.’

  Dubois shook his head. ‘Not in a million years. I already told Lynch that.’

  Nathalie glanced at Lynch, who met her eyes. She nodded, her lips tightening. ‘He said you’d react like this. He said to tell you he was genuine, that this matter is of great importance to Lebanon. That I should give you this.’

  Nathalie handed a plain silver memory key over to Dubois, who regarded it with mild revulsion and dropped it into his pocket. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  Nathalie gestured to Lynch. ‘First we met with Madame Chalabi at Cedars. I had dinner with him a few days ago at the Casino du Liban.’

  ‘Alone? With him?’

  Lynch paused, studying Nathalie’s bewildered reaction to her father’s cold fury. ‘But, yes.’

  Dubois got to his feet, glaring down at Nathalie, his hand held up to her. ‘Never again let yourself be alone in the company of this man. Do you hear me? Never.’ Striding to the door, Dubois turned. ‘I will not hear of it.’

  As the door slammed behind Dubois, Channing opened his eyes and glanced around the table. He closed them again, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Odd fellow, that. Very odd.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lynch and Nathalie stepped downhill together, away from Hamra’s garish shopfronts and flickering light displays, towards the vast American University of Beirut campus. The full moon cast a milky glow over the quiet streets, the deep-set doorways and side alleys plunged into shadow. Lynch hopped into the street to avoid a telegraph pole rooted in the uneven pavement. Nathalie brushed against his arm.

  They made way for a passing group of revellers, the bright chatter of the men and laughter of the women fading into the dark behind them. They rounded a corner
and made for the orange light and bustle of Barométre, the student bar by the American University, known simply as AUB.

  Lynch leaned on the counter, surveying the smoky bar, the rough tables piled high with glasses, the ashtrays overflowing. The benches and chairs were dense with animated young people, some sitting on each other’s laps to squeeze into the haphazard arrangement of tables and chairs. He signalled to the shiny-haired young barman with a twenty-dollar bill. ‘A beer and a white wine.’

  Nathalie stood with her back to the bar. Her dark hair reflected the orange light, her pale cheeks flushed from the walk in the cool night air. She turned and caught Lynch looking at her, flashed him a smile.

  The barman banged the drinks down. ‘Twelve.’

  Lynch handed the note to the barman who took it with studied indifference. He passed the warm glass of white wine to Nathalie, who winced when she tasted it.

  The barman tossed the change on the countertop. Lynch left it there. ‘Know a guy called Spike?’

  The barman’s eye flickered to at a table near the door where an older man was holding forth to a small but attentive audience of female students. He recovered, indifferent again. ‘No, never heard of him.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ said Lynch, taking his change and walking away from the bar to the table by the door. He slammed his bottle on the table, flashing a grin at the group. ‘Hi. Sorry to interrupt. Anthony Najimi?’

  Najimi’s goatee beard gave him a dashing air and, Lynch noted, masked a weak chin. He wore a black and white Palestinian keffiyeh around his neck, his dark green linen shirt and beige photographer’s waistcoat hinting at a revolutionary, a man of action. He brushed a wavy strand of hair aside as he turned to Lynch.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Peter Dominic, The Guardian. I’m working on a piece on AUB and several people told me you’d be a good guy to talk to. I wondered if we could have a quiet word or two alone.’