Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (16 page)

‘
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
by. 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.