Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (21 page)

‘
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 bribes.’

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.

Lynch
scrambled for the cover of a pile of damaged tractor tyres as
Palmer’s shrieks cut off, leaving a terrible silence. From his low
vantage point, Lynch glimpsed the blotched linen, the white hands
flat on the ground and Palmer’s bloody face turned to the right,
away from him. Acutely conscious of minutiae, he watched the first
fat fly settle on the corpse’s pudgy white finger in nightmare
slo-mo.

Chalhoub
cried a warning. A figure behind the wall was silhouetted for a
second against the mountains. Chalhoub’s shot rang out. The figure
collapsed. Lynch sprinted for the wall. Chalhoub was first. The
Lebanese police car’s siren wailed as Lynch stared over the wall at
the body spread before him, the revolver still clasped in the man’s
hand and the back of his head blown away, dusty gore streaked
behind him in a monstrous splash. Lying on the ground some ten feet
beyond was a camouflage-patterned forage cap.

Lynch
reholstered his gun. ‘Well, that’s him done, then. Nice
shot.’

Chalhoub bent
down, patting the man’s pockets. ‘Thanks. Nothing on
him.’

Lynch
returned to Palmer’s bulky corpse. The bullet had hit him in the
eye and taken much of his right temple with it. No stranger to
violent death, Lynch still had to clench his mouth and fight the
impulse rising in his throat.

‘
Sorry,
Palmer. You weren’t cut out for this, son. Should have stayed
home.’

Chalhoub
joined Lynch, the two Lebanese policemen behind him. ‘This is going
to be a little messy, I think.’

Lynch shook
his head. ‘No, we needn’t be involved. Your two boys here can take
the credit. Terrorist, kidnapped British Embassy official, cannabis
farmer driven to extremes. Terrorist kills embassy man, brave
police shoot terrorist. This
was
a cannabis farm, wasn’t it?’

‘
Likely. The
fields haven’t been tended for years. We kept ploughing them up
until they stopped.’

‘
Only one
small detail you’ll have to brush over, Tony. Jamal there’s got a
gunshot wound in the right leg. A nine mill parabellum.’

Chalhoub
glanced at Lynch. ‘You’ve met before, then.’

‘
Twice before
and he didn’t mean me any good either time. He’s Freij’s man all
right, but not a freelance. He’s militia. He was expecting us. Now
I’m not sure if Freij was trying to use him to waste me or me to
waste him.’

Chalhoub held
up his palm, his fingers fanned in the universal Arab gesture that
means everything from
what’s going
on?
right through to
what the hell’s your problem?
He
turned to the policemen and spat a string of Arabic at them. They
brightened and, with a ‘
shukran
sidi
’, thank you, they raced back to their
car and started their urgent report over the radio.

Chalhoub
followed Lynch over to the caravan. The door was open. ‘I reckon
we’ve got about fifteen minutes before half of the Bekaa police
force arrives here,’ Chalhoub warned.

‘
We can leave
now, Tony. I have everything I need.’

Lynch turned
in the gloomy interior and offered the piece of paper he’d picked
up from the grubby, lino-topped table. Chalhoub took it, unfolding
the thick parchment to reveal the bold, flowing calligraphy:
Gerald Lynch
. There was
a photograph of Lynch clipped to the note.

‘
You
recognise it, yes?’

Chalhoub
stared. Lynch’s voice was bitter. ‘One of Freij’s little notes.
That photograph was taken in London.’ Lynch bent to sit at the
table, which bore the remnants of a meal, a crumpled bag of sugar,
a glass with a tea bag in it and a full ashtray. Next to the
ashtray was a half-empty jar of pickles, which Lynch picked up
distractedly. He turned it and watched the cucumbers dance in the
cloudy, green-tinged brine. ‘At Paul Stokes’ funeral. I met Freij
there. The bastard must have had a photographer with
him.’

‘
So he likes
you.’

‘
He’s in
fucking love with me, isn’t he? The kiss of death is what he wants
to give me, right enough.’ Lynch banged the jar down on the table,
making the ashtray jump. Chalhoub, too. ‘I’m going to have him,
Tony, I swear to God.’

‘
Let’s go,
Gerald. This place stinks.’

‘
Everywhere
stinks. Everywhere Freij goes smells of death. He’s
evil.’

Chalhoub put
his hand on Lynch’s shoulder. Lynch knocked it away, his dive for
the door rocking the caravan.

EIGHTEEN

For over 180
years, the Ottoman Grand Serail has commanded Beirut from its lofty
position atop the city, a huge quadrangle of pale stone capped with
a red-tiled roof. Lynch didn’t spare the great building a glance as
he hurried along its frontage, passing the towering gates and
ignoring the bored glances of the soldiers guarding the prime
ministerial headquarters. Nathalie Durand fell back and called to
him. Lynch turned and cast his eyes to heaven. She leant against
the wall, massaging her reddened ankle where her shoe had rubbed it
in the walk uphill from where the
servees
driver had dropped them in
Sodeco.

‘
Sorry,’ she
gasped. ‘I did not expect —’

‘
Wear flat
shoes in future. You’re operational, not on a shopping trip. Come
on.’ Lynch forged ahead, her limping clatter following him up the
street.

Entering the
British Embassy building, Lynch ignored the security guards and
their scanner and strode to the lift, stabbing the call button.
Nathalie regained her breath as Lynch glared around him, tapping
his foot.

They waited
together for the ambassador to see them, the only sound in the room
the faint echo of voices from the visa section echoing through the
oak door and the electronic tick of the clock on the wall. Minutes
of aching silence later, the great doors opened and St John
Winterton marched out.

He waved them
into the office as he left. ‘Go on, go on in. What the hell are you
waiting for?’

Brian
Channing and Yves Dubois sat at the head of the long mahogany
table, both working at laptops. Dubois kissed Nathalie on both
cheeks.

‘
Take a seat,
guys.’ Channing gestured along the table.

Lynch sat,
Nathalie three seats away from him.