Beirut - An Explosive Thriller

by Alexander McNabb

  Nathalie nodded. ‘Janice?’

  A girl rose, grinning nervously. A London accent, skinny and nervous. Curly hair, pale skin. ‘Um, thanks. We’ve started tracing the subsidiaries Maurice’s team is identifying and deep diving into the public records on each one before we assign a team to profile their security systems. Bryony’s team is managing the subs. So far we’re finding a lot more interests and holdings than any public source would acknowledge. It’s a very big company indeed. And very privately held.’

  Nathalie smiled, ‘Tha—’

  ‘And diverse,’ said Janice, wringing her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Diverse. It’s a diverse company.’

  ‘Thank you, Janice. Gerald?’

  Lynch started at the unexpected question. He tried to think of something useful to ask. Dubois’ words to him, it seemed like a lifetime ago, came to his aid – a comment about Falcon working for the American defence industry.

  He scanned the room. ‘Has anyone come across any obvious links to US companies? Particularly in the defence sector?’

  Several people threw their hands up, but it was Maurice who spoke for them. ‘Yes, a lot. There are many, many references.’

  Lynch glanced at Nathalie. ‘Can we get someone to start profiling and analyzing the scope of that relationship? It seems odd to me that someone who actually makes missile systems would want to steal them.’

  Nathalie nodded. ‘Carmen? Can you make this your focus?’

  ‘Sure thing. Will I report results to you or Gerald?’

  ‘To both of us, please.’ Nathalie paused for a second to scan the room. ‘Let’s keep the information moving, people. Carry on.’

  Lynch found himself smiling at Nathalie’s obvious command of her team as they left the room. He had to admit he was impressed at the way the gang of misfits looked up to her – and at the fact they seemed to know what they were doing.

  Walking in front of him, her swinging hips a provocation, she spoke back at him. ‘What are you grinning about, Lynch?’

  ‘Ah, sure and ye know yerself,’ he replied, watching the outline of her legs moving in her tight skirt.

  His head still hurt, though.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Lynch and Nathalie sat together on the sofa watching CNN’s Middle East Report. Michel Freij was looking sharp, an open-necked white shirt and black suit, composed and relaxed. The woman interviewing him announced a report on the man who had come from nowhere to set Lebanese politics alight, the head of the One Lebanon Party. The programme cut away to the package, a voiceover announcing that Freij and his unlikely partner had founded the Lebanese computer and electronics company Falcon Dynamics when they were at university, recruiting the brightest talent from around the Middle East and even bringing young people back from Dubai to join in the success of the growing defence and communications company. Freij and Hussein crossed the sectarian divide, successful business partners from the Christian and Shia Muslim communities who worked together to build operations in the Middle East, West Africa, Central Europe and now mainland Europe. Diversification had taken Falcon into telecoms, dotcoms and even tourism and transportation. Falcon’s significant contributions to charitable work, social development programs and educational programs were a major element of its work and had won it award after award.

  ‘I feel sick,’ said Lynch. Nathalie shushed him. The programme cut back to the studio, the CNN anchor gesturing with her pen.

  ‘So, Michel Freij, you and Selim Hussein have built a multibillion-dollar business together. Why this move into politics now?’

  Freij inclined his head. ‘Well, first let me say thank you for having me here on Middle East Report, Tina. It is truly an honour and privilege for me.’ He paused to smile. ‘To answer your question, it is something that Selim and I have often discussed, that our nation is partisan, too polarized and built around sectarian lines and self-interest. I am already wealthy. I have no need of corruption or what we Arabs call wasta. I consider myself a testament to the success of a non-sectarian approach to building something significant in the shape of our business and I think Lebanon has the same opportunity to build and grow if it can put sectarianism behind it. So I think I can make a difference.’

  ‘There were disturbances at your recent Beirut rally. What do you have to say to those who oppose your point of view so strongly that they use violence?’

  Freij nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I do not believe this is the solution. We all know where violence has taken the Lebanese people in the past. I am proposing a new Lebanon, a Lebanon that can rebuild herself. A Lebanon of unity and prosperity, of fairness and equality because we will be capable of repelling all outside interests, of defending our shores against all force. Our new Lebanon will be a nation of strength, capable of deterring others from interfering in our rights and sovereignty.’

  ‘You have often referred to a Lebanon that can defend herself against outsiders. How will you achieve this?’

  Freij sat back in the chrome and leather studio chair, throwing his arms out expansively. ‘The key is strength as a nation. We are not a football for others to kick around. The key to a strong Lebanon is a strong deterrent to others. We must have a strong police, a strong civil defence so we have the rule of law in our country. At the same time, hand in hand with this, we must have a deterrent against others who choose to make incursions into our airspace and onto our land. Once we have that deterrent in place, and our enemies accept we can and will use this deterrent, we can focus on rebuilding our nation together as one people. We can focus on our future. We need to secure our outside so we can focus our efforts on ourselves, on our nation. One nation.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Lynch.

  Tina adjusted her clipboard, leaning forward for the killer question. ‘You have said that Lebanon must work with America and the United Nations. How can you reconcile that with a policy of military aggressiveness in the region?’

  Freij’s features relaxed into a picture of reasonableness. He leaned forwards, his hand outstretched, palm up and fingers curled. ‘I do not talk of aggression, but of deterrence. What purpose would aggression serve? It is aggression that has done this to Lebanon, brought her low. Now we will bring her high, but not through aggression, but by asserting our right to sit at the table with other nations, to take our rightful place as a leader in the region and the world.’

  ‘If you are successful in your bid for the presidency, does any ambition remain for you, Mr Freij?’

  ‘My ambition is for Lebanon. Winning the popular vote and gaining the presidency through a parliamentary vote is only the start for my ambition, because it will mark the start, insh’Allah, of a new era for our country. One of hope, togetherness and prosperity for all people born in Lebanon. One people.’

  Tina laid her clipboard flat on her knees, slapping the pen down on top of it with a satisfied air.

  ‘Michel Freij, head of the One Lebanon Party, thank you.’

  Lynch snatched the remote and snapped the television off. ‘Fuck, are you seriously telling me anyone buys that schtick?’

  Nathalie rose, rubbing her back. ‘Of course. They love him. He is a hero in the Palestinian camps because he offers them nationality, passports in place of travel documents. They are treated as second-class citizens and now he is offering Lebanon to them on a plate. The Christians love him because he is such a strong figure. His father was a hero in the civil war and Michel has carried on with brilliance. Some even credit him with an informal leadership of the big Maronite families. The Shia love him because of Selim. He has built schools, workshops and factories employing thousands of Druze. He’s almost a hero in areas of the Chouf. He is a very powerful man. And he does truly appeal to them all.’

  She walked into the kitchen. Lynch threw down the remote and pushed himself out of the sofa, walking towards the drinks cabinet. He poured a whisky.

  ‘Really, Lynch, it is only four o’clock.’

  He turned, the tumbler in his
hand and his finger pointing at her. ‘Did I ever tell you what to do with your life?’ She halted, the apple she had taken held halfway up to her mouth. He dropped his gaze to the glass and breathed deeply. ‘Ah, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I—’

  ‘No, you’re right. It’s none of my business if you want to be drunk all the time. It must be a secret British intelligence strategy, this drinking. You are very good at it. Here, let me try.’

  Grabbing a bottle, Nathalie poured a stiff measure of whisky into a tumbler. ‘Not the blue teardrop one, right?’ She knocked it back. ‘Bon. So now am I more intelligent, Lynch?’ She glared at him, the glass held almost sideways in her hand.

  He stepped towards her. ‘Look—’

  She raised her face, her eyes flashing defiance. Her pouting lips full and her black hair shining as it tumbled against her cheek, her warning gesture too late as he moved into her and put his hand on her lower back, pulled her to him and kissed her, tasting the whisky from her open mouth. Her hand was behind his neck, the tumbler spinning in the air as their bodies coalesced and she met his tongue with hers.

  The glass smashed, unheeded.

  They lay together in the darkness, the sheets on the floor and their bodies cool. Lynch broke the long silence.

  ‘I’m going up there.’

  ‘Deir Na’ee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you decide this?’

  ‘Just now. Lying here, thinking.’

  ‘So you don’t think about making love?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well. You drift, no?’

  She laughed, her breath on his ear. ‘Yes, you drift.’ She ran her fingers across the hairs on his chest. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do I want to go up there?’

  She moved onto her elbow, reaching to pull his chin to face her. ‘Obviously, you irritant.’

  ‘I want to get a GPS marker for that shed, the one where they’re storing the transporters, but I want to try and see what the hell it is they’ve got going on up there. I want to have a look around. You know, take a walk.’

  ‘Lynch, that is insanely dangerous.’

  ‘We don’t know what’s up there, do we? I think it’s time we did.’

  She felt his nipple stiffen under her fingertip. ‘Can we plan this properly?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, sliding his hand down her back. ‘No rush, like.’

  THIRTY

  Peter Meier gazed over the wooden railing, the sea breeze whipping his hair. He sipped from the mug of coffee, putting it down to light one of Gonsalves’ cigarettes. He pointed to a thin blue line on the horizon.

  ‘Where’s that?’ His English was faintly accented, his voice deep and commanding.

  Gonsalves flicked the base of the soft pack and shook a cigarette free for himself. ‘Zakynthos, boss. Greece.’ He lit it, his signet rings clinking against the glittering gold lighter. ‘We’ve made good time.’

  They had left the storm far behind, the early morning sky clear and warming from grey dawn to the cobalt blue of a warm Mediterranean spring day. Meier smiled, drawing on his cigarette and reflecting on the sense of freedom and space the open sea brings to a man who has faced an impossible and deadly challenge and won. Hoffmann’s blundering stupidity had come close to wrecking everything Meier had built so carefully, his stupid mad bitch of a daughter running around and telling her wild stories. Meier was amazed she hadn’t gone to the newspapers, but grateful she had chosen to go to ground in Malta. He had enjoyed killing her, which perturbed him a little. Meier had no issues with death as an operational necessity, but didn’t approve of killing for pleasure.

  A cloud descended on Meier’s sunny outlook. He shook his head and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray Gonsalves kept on the bridge. Michel Freij hated smoking and this was, technically at least, now his boat. Meier clapped Gonsalves on the shoulder, letting his hand stay there and weigh down on the man. ‘You did well to find that mobile in Malta, Joel. It let us tie up those loose ends nicely.’ Meier’s voice didn’t miss a beat or change in pitch. ‘Why didn’t you kill her when I told you to?’

  Meier kneaded Gonsalves’ shoulder gently. He felt the man’s muscles stiffen. Gonsalves’ forehead was damp. ‘I thought I had, boss. Boutros, the guy I described to you, was supposed to take care of it. But he helped her get away instead.’

  ‘You want to be careful, making mistakes like that, Joel. You could get hurt. Worse than the nasty bruise you have on your face.’ Meier watched Gonsalves swallow, the puncture wounds from Elli’s fork still livid scars on his cheek. Later, he thought. There was time to take it out on Gonsalves later. For now, Meier had a more pressing problem on his hands. ‘How is Mister Freij enjoying the stateroom?’

  Gonsalves’ voice betrayed his fear and relief at the change of subject. ‘No complaints, boss. Guess he’ll be having breakfast now, one of the crew woke him up almost an hour ago.’ Gonsalves flicked a switch on the small black panel beneath the screen to his side, a view of the dining saloon showing a slim figure standing by the sideboard. ‘Yup. Breakfast.’

  Meier peered at the screen. ‘Arrogant pig. Right, I’m going down. How long until we get to the island?’

  ‘We should be there this time tomorrow. I’m trying to stick to the busiest shipping lanes, change our course a little bit in case we’re being tracked but still behave like a regular old gin palace.’

  ‘Talking of which, where are Meshkallah’s girls?’

  Gonsalves grinned. ‘On the sun deck already, boss. They’re real babes.’

  ‘Hands off, Gonsalves. They’re for the pleasure of my client.’

  Gonsalves’ face was a picture of innocence. ‘You know you can trust me, boss. Besides, I’m not sure that’s where your client’s tastes lie, if you—’

  ‘Shut up, Gonsalves. Drive the damn boat.’

  Gonsalves met Meier’s eyes for a second but there was something animal there and he dropped his gaze. ‘Boss.’

  Meier turned and left the wheelhouse, taking the spiral staircase down to the dining saloon, his face genial as he spied Michel Freij sitting at the great twelve-seater maple and walnut table, a collection of plates spread in front of him. A uniformed crew member poured coffee, one of four Albanian waiting staff they had taken on in Vlorë. Meier saw no reason why he shouldn’t make his customer comfortable while they handed over the boat and its cargo.

  ‘Michel, Michel. How good to see you.’ Meier pulled up a chair, flinging his arm out to encompass the saloon. ‘Is she not beautiful in the daylight?’

  Freij dabbed at his lips. He chewed at some length as Meier waited. He swallowed, bestowing a thin smile on Meier that didn’t reach his watchful eyes. ‘When do we reach Anhydrous?’

  Meier signalled for coffee. ‘Tomorrow morning. All that remains is to sit back and enjoy this beautiful craft and the company on board.’

  Freij scanned the dishes in front of him, taking a piece of flat bread, scooping up a piece of herbed cheese and pinching an olive to make a little parcel. He stared at Meier. ‘We are carrying two tactical nuclear warheads, Meier. We hold the future of a nation on this ship. This isn’t a pleasure cruise.’ He popped the parcel in his mouth, wiping his hands on the napkin. Chewing, Freij regarded Meier.

  ‘But of course.’ Meier smiled as he reflected on his newfound pleasure, the contemplation of an act of murder. He rolled it around in his mind as one would a fine brandy in the mouth.

  Meier stood in the wheelhouse next to Gonsalves and watched the dusty light brown soil and green clumps of scrubby vegetation on the island as it slid past. Dressed in white trousers and a polo shirt, Meier wore a pair of binoculars around his neck. Gonsalves turned the wheel as they rounded the headland, taking them closer in. Michel Freij’s sure, light-footed step came up the stairs to the wheelhouse.

  ‘There we go boss,’ said Gonsalves, pointing as a large white building came into view.

  Meier brought the binoculars to his eyes and scanned it. ‘Good God.’

&n
bsp; ‘Ah, so you like our little holiday home?’ Freij smiled tightly.

  Meier let the binoculars fall. ‘This belongs to you?’

  ‘Welcome to The Near East Institute for Oceanographic Research.’ Freij bowed slightly. ‘It was built as a hotel but we took the site over and extended it. As you can see, we have made a number of additions to the original building.’

  Trees surrounded the hotel building, a green lawn stretched down to the white, sandy beach. To its side was a large concrete structure that looked like an aircraft hangar, its sea-doors open.

  Freij smiled, his disdainful demeanour infuriating Meier, who hid his intense dislike behind a smiling mask.

  ‘This is the island of Anhydrous. It is, as you will deduce from the name, waterless. We lease it from the government of Thira, who are most accommodating in many ways. The lack of water was the eventual downfall of the hotel project. The developers lacked vision and purpose. We funded a proper hydrographic survey and brought up the water that had been there all along. We have a Jordanian team that specialises in such technologies.’

  Meier bowed slightly. ‘You are most astute.’

  ‘Yes,’ Freij seemed surprised. ‘I suppose we are. Gonsalves, you can enter the hangar, dock to the right if you please.’

  Meier, burning with resentment, stood by as Gonsalves acted on the instruction. It was technically Freij’s boat, but the man’s casual assumption that Gonsalves was now his man was infuriating. Meier glared towards the island and the hangar as it loomed up towards them. He shivered as they slid into the big space, lighting hung from the gantries above, boiler-suited men standing on the dockside, staring. The huge sea-doors started to close behind them, the rattle of the heavy chains echoing in the hangar.