Beirut - An Explosive Thriller

by Alexander McNabb

  Lynch signalled at the water cup and Dubois helped him to sip from it. Lynch moved his head, his voice still slurred. ‘And me?’

  ‘Injuries, you mean?’ Dubois used his fingers to enumerate Lynch’s wounds. ‘You have a gash to your forehead, a bullet graze. You have two nasty contusions from mild bullet impacts, one in your thigh and one in your stomach, both bullets had passed through the door panel at an angle and had lost most of their force. You have numerous glass cuts and extensive bruising. You have some grazing from the airbag cover and some bruising on your shoulder and chest. You have been remarkably lucky. You are almost untouched.’

  ‘The boat?’

  Dubois tutted. ‘Do not concern yourself with this boat, Gerald. You have been through hell. Leave it.’

  ‘No.’ Lynch stared at the ceiling, the bars of light from the windows splashed across the white plaster. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We have not found the boat.’

  ‘And now?’

  Dubois paused, scrutinising Lynch’s expression. He seemed to reach a resolution. ‘Nathalie’s youngsters have finally compromised Falcon Dynamics’ security and we have teams now working to assess and catalogue the product. The facility you identified in the mountains north of Beirut is, we believe, the destination of the Russian warheads. We do not know what they intend to do with them, but we believe there is a mobile missile system developed there that would be compatible with the warheads. We suspect the target may be Israel.’

  Lynch gazed across the wing of the Gulfstream jet to the azure blue waters of the Aegean Sea, the Turkish coastline coming into view. He shifted in the soft leather seat and reached for the porcelain mug of coffee the attendant had brought him. Dubois sat facing him, tapping on his Mac keyboard. Two other men sat in the six-seater executive jet, but Lynch hadn’t been introduced to them. Both were lean and fit, wearing baggy jogging pants and t-shirts.

  ‘So do you get to travel like this all the time?’ Lynch asked.

  Dubois, peering up from his computer, took a second to focus. He smiled.

  ‘I am afraid not. Only when it is considered to be urgent and when there is no reasonable commercial flight available. There are no direct flights between Tirana and Beirut and we are chasing nuclear warheads. So we get lucky a little.’

  ‘Will we get there before the Princess does?’

  Dubois glanced over the screen again. ‘We have alerted the Greeks, the Turks and the Syrians as well as the Lebanese. All believe this is a drugs enforcement operation, all have stepped up patrols. We are being, sadly, a little economical with the truth, but we think this wisest given the nature of the boat’s cargo. There is a major regional patrol operation being run by helicopters from RAF Akrotiri quartering the Lebanese coast in conjunction with the Lebanese air force. I think the Princess will not get there.’

  ‘And if it does?’

  Dubois stared out of the window. ‘We will have to tell the Americans.’

  ‘So why not tell them now?’

  ‘No,’ said Dubois. ‘Our instructions from our masters are quite clear on this. The nature of that cargo remains top secret. As far as the world is concerned, we are on a drugs enforcement mission. Besides, we’re starting to wonder quite how the Americans are involved in this.’

  Lynch was incredulous. ‘Involved?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Dubois assured him, his hands placatory. ‘It’s only one line we’re following.’

  Lynch nodded. He returned to gazing out of the window and left Dubois to peer and poke at his Mac.

  Lynch was thinking of Leila again. A dove in Manara.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Yves Dubois checked on progress in the operation with Nathalie as the car took him from Rafic Hariri International Airport to the British Embassy, where Channing had arranged a temporary office for him. He had little choice, Dubois had confided in her. Channing had been a political whirlwind. ‘I get the feeling he just wants me where he can see me,’ he told her.

  Now, sitting in the embassy, Dubois hesitated, picked up the handset and dialled the number at the bottom of the document. Dubois had read the contents of the memory key given to his daughter by Ghassan Maalouf with growing horror before deciding to make the call. It had taken him hours to pluck up the courage to take the key from his jacket pocket at all.

  ‘Maalouf.’

  Dubois steadied himself, his mouth dry. ‘You understand talking to you gives me no pleasure.’

  Maalouf’s voice was cautious. ‘I appreciate this. There is nothing, I know, I can say to you. But I am sorry. And I am truly sorry to hear of your loss. Of her death.’

  ‘Where did this document come from?’

  ‘That is not germane. It is genuine. We are offering our cooperation, a partnership. We can help with more information of this nature. You have access to the resources and tools I believe we need if we are to bring this matter to a conclusion. Our friend is dangerous to us all and must be stopped.’

  ‘And if we choose not to cooperate?’

  ‘You are on Lebanese soil, Yves. I would be perfectly within my rights to protect our sovereignty. I told this to Nathalie.’

  Dubois sighed. ‘We meet, then.’

  Dubois trod up the stone front steps of the old house. It loomed, shadowed and disused-looking, the plasterwork cracked and the stonework green with lichen and streaked rust marks from the rotting ironwork. He pushed open the flaking door. There was a mean bulb hanging from the ceiling at the end of the long corridor, its yellow glow shadowing the peeling walls, the littered floorboards. Dubois picked his way down the corridor, the doors to the left and right shut against him, but that at the end ajar, a crack of light showing through.

  He pushed open the door. Ghassan Maalouf sat by the cold fireplace facing him, two men in greatcoats flanking him. They held guns. Maalouf examined him, then dismissed the men, who left either side of Dubois.

  Theatrical Lebanese bastard.

  ‘Please, sit. My French is rusty, forgive me.’ Maalouf spoke in impeccable French. ‘It has been a long time.’

  Maalouf gestured to the chair facing him. Between them was a thin-legged coffee table which held a small crystal ice bucket flanked by two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

  ‘Not long enough. I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of the operation against Freij. I will never forgive you, you must know that.’

  ‘I understand. Sit anyhow, you can’t stand.’

  Dubois scanned the shabby room distastefully. ‘Your standards are slipping.’

  Maalouf smiled. ‘As I become old, I find I have developed a fine eye for decrepitude.’ He poured himself a drink, waving the bottle at Dubois, who shook his head, standing with his hands behind his back.

  ‘The document you gave to Nathalie asserts Michel Freij is in the pay of the American government and his controller is an Israeli working in a joint Mossad and CIA operation.’

  ‘That is correct. You see why we cannot possibly accept his accession to the presidency of Lebanon. A man with a successful defence company and links to America would be a great asset to Lebanon, particularly if it brought us more American aid, funding and investment. But to have a man who is a puppet of the Israelis? Even elements of the Christian community would find it hard to swallow that. But the rest of them ...’

  ‘This is a remarkable assertion and one I cannot support. We have very good reason to believe while Freij does indeed have remarkably close links to a number of American defence companies, he is most certainly operating against American and Israeli interests in this region.’

  Maalouf inclined his head. He sipped from his drink and regarded Dubois cautiously. ‘Your good reason being based upon quite what evidence, Monsieur?’

  Dubois ignored him. ‘Do you have corroboration for your assertion regarding Freij and Israeli interests? Who is this Israeli controller?’

  ‘His name is Amit Peled. What is the reason for your very strong interest in Michel Freij, if I may
ask? He is hardly a ... European problem, is he not?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  Maalouf chuckled. ‘Of course, only a minor investigation, this. An Anglo-French joint operation under the aegis of EJIC, involving elements of British forces in Cyprus, specialist communications equipment being flown in by military freighter and installed in the Résidence des Pins, along with something like fifteen French digital intelligence operatives. The rise in the level of data traffic between here, Brussels and London has been phenomenal.’ Maalouf sipped his whisky, talking to himself. ‘Quite phenomenal. ...’

  Dubois remained silent. Maalouf continued. ‘Let alone traffic to Valetta and, Vlora, isn’t it? Albania. Remarkable.’ He paused, unrewarded with a response. ‘Tell me, Yves, tell me about the Arabian Princess.’

  Despite years of training and experience, Dubois blinked. ‘How did you ...’

  Maalouf leaned forward. ‘Michel Freij is not intending to target Israel with these warheads he has acquired, Yves. His target is Iran. Your analysts have over-emphasised the role Selim Hussein has played in this. Hussein is Shia, yes and he is also Freij’s partner and close ally. But,’ Maalouf raised a finger, ‘no, listen to me, Yves. Freij is the Israeli’s monster and he is dancing to their tune. As his father was before him, as you well know. Remember Raymond Freij? Sabra? Chatila?’

  Dubois was silent, his eyes on his clasped hands.

  Maalouf rose, brushing down the front of his trousers. ‘Anyway, I have to go. I can’t sit around in tumbledown houses all night.’ He offered his hand to Dubois, who did not take it. Maalouf shrugged. ‘Do your stuff on Peled, then get in touch with me. You have the number. I know we should be working together on this. I know you’ll come round. We can’t heal the past, but we can surely be aspirants to a better future. For her, Yves, if no-one else.’

  Smiling, Maalouf walked past Dubois who stared into the empty fireplace, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping his fists at his sides rather than smashing them into Maalouf’s smug face.

  Lynch woke in pain to the sound of knocking on his bedroom door. He called out, nothing coherent but a cry to let the knocker know he was awake and wanted them to go away.

  ‘Lynch. It’s me. Get up, we need to go to the embassy.’

  Nathalie.

  He propped himself up on the bed, his mouth so dry his tongue felt like sandpaper. He reached for the plastic bottle of water he kept by the bed and drank, the effort bringing waves of pain to his splitting head. He finished the bottle, gasping.

  Lynch called out hoarsely. ‘What embassy?’

  ‘French. We have total access to Falcon’s security system.’

  He slid from the bed, propping himself up against the wall as the room spun. Shit, arak does that. Comes back at you with water the next day.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he croaked. ‘Give me five.’

  When Lynch emerged, red-eyed with his hair still damp, she handed him a pint glass of orange juice and soda. He gulped the drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned away from her to walk into the kitchen and refill his glass from the fridge, reaching up to pop four Panadol from the blue packet in the cupboard. His side hurt like hell. ‘Any coffee?’

  ‘There is not time. Come, we need to go to the embassy.’

  He threw the rest of the juice into the sink and followed her from the apartment into the ancient lift, leaning against the wood panelling as they creaked their way down to the ground floor, his eyes closed against the waves of nausea.

  Nathalie brought a servees to a halt with a wave, opening the door for Lynch who clambered in, noticing the crucifix dangling from the battered old Mercedes’ cracked rearview mirror.

  How does she always manage to get fucking Christians?

  Lynch sank into the worn upholstery as they jerked through the busy streets, the stench of exhaust fumes overpowering and the erratic driving reawakening every wound. He noticed the driver’s hand, blue veins standing out with age spots, blue fingertips too. No wonder, the guy must be half dead with carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Brian Channing had met him at the airport when he flew in from Albania the day before, a separate embassy car from Dubois’. On the road to Beirut, Channing updated Lynch on the progress they had made tracking the Arabian Princess as she headed into the Eastern Mediterranean. Lynch listened compliantly, the pain from his wounds keeping him quiet. Channing dropped him at Raouché on Lynch’s insistence and Lynch had walked home in pain. Slipping into the apartment, he had taken a bottle of arak and a bottle of spring water into his room and locked the door, then sat and thought of Leila until sleep had taken away the pain.

  Lynch paid off the driver outside the French Embassy compound and followed Nathalie through security and into the impeccably groomed formal gardens of the imposing Résidence des Pins, through the dappled shadows cast by the big trees behind the colonnaded classical building. A guard stopped them. Nathalie showed her ID. Waved on, they rounded a corner to a large mobile home with a whip antenna and a brace of satellite dishes on its roof. Nathalie smiled at the guard by the side door.

  Lynch followed her up the steps and inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloomy interior as Nathalie closed the door behind them. An impressive display of technology greeted him, banks of screens and racks, displays and keyboards. Two men sat on swivel chairs at the far end of the cramped space, wearing earphones and peering at screens, their ghostly faces illuminated by the displays. A third figure, podgier but younger than the other two, was stretched out on the floor, a dreamy, delighted expression on his fleshy face as he tapped on a Mac keyboard.

  Nathalie kicked the kid’s booted foot and his head jerked around in surprise. He focused, peering up at them.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ He scrambled to his feet, flicking a switch on a rack and pulling off the headphones. Breathless from the exertion, he gasped. ‘Sorry. Rammstein.’

  Nathalie turned to Lynch. ‘This is Jean. He’s heading up our local surveillance and interception resources. Jean, this is Lynch. He is an English spy with bad manners.’

  Lynch’s hand met a damp grip. Brown eyes took him in and a sensual little mouth smiled. ‘Jean Meset. Nice to meet you.’

  Lynch replied in French, trying not to breathe alcohol fumes in the confined space. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  Nathalie gestured to the wall of blinking electronics. ‘So where are we?’

  Meset ran a hand through his sparse light-brown hair, grinning as his eyes flickered between Nathalie and Lynch. ‘We have penetrated the security system of Falcon Dynamics and we are analysing the product. For now we are being careful so we are not detected, but I can give you access to the CCTV system at the Deir Na’ee facility. We believe we have layouts of the facility, too. We have not identified any R&D systems on the networks we have compromised, but this is to be expected. The very sensitive data would not be directly online and would be protected with more sophisticated layers of security.’ He sniggered. ‘I must say, the systems we have encountered have been of a surprising sophistication.’

  Lynch rubbed his eyes. ‘Okay, let’s take a look.’

  ‘Here.’ Meset turned to his right. ‘I will scroll through screens and you can tell me when to stop or ask where we are, okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lynch said.

  Meset brought up a camera view, a classroom of some sort. Next a corridor, then another set of theatre-style seating. The screen flickered again, an empty storage space, an entranceway then a larger warehouse.’

  ‘Stop. Can you zoom?’

  ‘A little. It’s risky, in case they’re using this camera themselves.’

  ‘There,’ Lynch pointed at the screen. ‘Zoom there.’

  Two grey shapes became larger, more distinct. Meset licked his lips, fiddling with the keyboard and mouse. The screen wiped down as the pixellation hardened, blurred and then the screen redrew once, twice.

  Lynch peered at the image in front of them, unmistakeably a mobile missile launcher. Beh
ind it was the soft focus outline of another. The cradles were empty. He whistled softly. ‘It looks as if they are waiting for something, no?’

  Meset hit a key. ‘Printing it.’

  ‘Okay. More, then.’

  They scrolled through more corridors, a series of workspaces divided into cubicles and empty warehouse areas. Lynch stopped the procession of grainy images in an open storage area. ‘There, no, back. Yes, there. Enhance it.’

  The shadowy cylinders flickered as the screen redrew once, twice. Finned tails, long bodies held in cradles. At their heads where there should have been a nose cone, they presented a flat surface.

  ‘Okay, print that for me too,’ Lynch said.

  Nathalie Durand pressed her finger to the panel and presented her eye to the scanner. The door clicked and they left the opulent reception rooms of the Résidence des Pins and entered a plain white corridor, their shoes clacking on the shiny floor. They entered a side room, a large open-plan office filled with terminals, piles of equipment and banks of electronics. Cabling snaked between the racks and LEDs flashing on the black and silver panels.

  Jean Meset called out in English, his voice stilling the group of people working at the terminals, mostly men but a handful of women, all young.

  ‘Guys, meet Gerald Lynch from England. And of course you know our own lovely Nathalie.’

  There was a ragged cheer from the group. Nathalie smiled and waved her hands to silence them. ‘Okay, guys. What have we got on Falcon? Maurice?’

  A youth wearing a torn black denim jacket and sporting a chin strip ran his hand through his untidy hair. ‘We are proceeding carefully. We are in and nobody knows this so we try to keep it. We have the building security systems, as Jean will have told you.’ He raised an eyebrow at Meset. ‘You have been in the mobile, yes?’ Meset nodded and Maurice continued, wiping his hand on his jacket. ‘We have start to look at email traffic and we have mirrored the mail server, so this let us analyze the email archives offline. The financial system, it is on a different server and we are not in there yet, but soon this will happen. Their security, it is good, but some of the deeper network is not well done. We also think there are other systems at this site. It is probable there exist a supercomputer for the modelling and other research work.’