Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (26 page)

It wasn’t
until he reached the main road he patted his pocket for his mobile
phone. He hesitated for a second, but there was no way he was going
back on that boat now. Boutros cursed and walked on, glancing back
every now and then, just in case.

TWENTY

Lynch hadn’t
been in Malta two minutes before catching up with his old friend –
Paul Tomasi was waiting at the top of the jetway as the plane
disgorged its weary passengers. In his early forties, tanned and
fit, Tomasi was flanked by police officers. Lynch recognised him
instantly, the swarthy features and impish grin that marked a man
who didn’t necessarily take a career in law enforcement as an
invitation to lose his humanity or lust for life. One of the
policemen took Lynch’s wheelie-bag as Tomasi stepped forward with a
hug for an old friend.

‘
Gerald
Lynch, you old rascal. Welcome to Malta.’

Lynch
grinned. ‘Paul Tomasi, by God. It’s been a long time.’

They backed
up to regard each other. Tomasi laughed. ‘Come on, we’ll whisk you
through immigration like magicians.’

They chatted
as the police officers managed the formalities. Lynch punched his
old friend’s arm. ‘So how the fuck did you get involved in this
one, Paul?’

‘
A job like
this would naturally come to me these days. I got promoted to
Director of Enforcement last year. They reckoned I’d messed up
enough over at SIAT and pushed me uphill, some idea I’d do less
damage behind a desk.’

The easy,
self-deprecating lie wasn’t lost on Lynch, who had known Tomasi as
the head of Malta’s small but efficient Special Investigation
Action Team. Lynch cast his memory back into his turbulent history
as an SIS operative in the Levant and to the operation against the
Iranian-backed gang smuggling Lebanese-refined heroin into Europe
through Malta. ‘It’s been, what, five years?’

Tomasi was
lost in thought for a second. He nodded, ‘Sure. Five years. And you
know what? Those bastards we worked so hard together to put behind
bars got free before we ever got the chance to meet each other
again. They released Renzo last August, you know? The fucker’s back
in Malta now walking free on the street and there’s not a thing we
can do about it. Tell me, how does that work, eh,
Gerald?’

Lynch’s face
darkened. ‘I didn’t know, Paul. It’s crap. He was down for a
fifteen-year stretch. I attended court for that one.’

‘
Yeah, right.
Good behaviour. Like someone fucked up enough to ship heroin will
ever understand good behaviour. We should have kept him in Malta to
do his stretch. I’d have made sure he didn’t get out before his
time.’

‘
Sorry. You
know how the deal panned out.’

‘
Yeah, yeah.
I know. Is this going to go the same way, then?’

‘
This is way
bigger. Way, way bigger.’ Lynch grinned. ‘And it’s travelling the
other way, too. This one’s going from Europe to the Middle
East.’

Tomasi held
Lynch’s eyes for a second then nodded. ‘We’re two minutes away from
my headquarters. You can brief us when we get there.’

As they left
the airport building, a large black Lincoln pulled up. They got
into the back, the front seat taken up by a burly army man with a
shaven head and high cheekbones.

Tomasi did
the honours. ‘Gerald, this is Captain Gabriel Lentini. He heads up
the unit of C Company we’re working with on this one. You might not
know C Company, but they’re the Maltese version of your Special
Boat Squadron. We’ve got some SBS boys here helping us out with
this too. They’re reporting to Captain Lentini.’

Lentini
leaned back, his thick neck creasing as he turned to offer his
hand. Lynch took it. ‘Good to meet you, Captain.’

‘
Call me
Gabe,’ Lentini replied in a soft, high-pitched voice.

Tomasi’s
voice was tight with excitement. ‘There are four teams watching the
yacht and we have patrol boats on standby on the seaward side of
Grand Harbour. We’ve delayed their refuelling with a cock and bull
story about shortages on the island because of a fuel-workers’
strike. Gabe and his boys are going in tonight.’

Lynch had
nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I’m impressed, Paul. What about
Freij?’

‘
We don’t
know where he is. His jet’s parked up at the airport but we got the
heads up from Brian Channing too late to track him. And we have no
record at all of any Peter Meier coming to Malta. Certainly not by
air.’

The ancient
city of Valetta sped past, winding streets of deep yellow stone
buildings capped by terracotta-tiled roofs. He longed for a shot of
energy drink or another strong coffee. The car smelled of leather,
the pale seats soft and comfortable, the powerful engine a
soporific bass hum.

The jerk of
the car drawing to a halt wakened him. He glanced around to
discover Paul Tomasi looking sympathetically at him from the open
door. ‘Come on, Gerald, let’s get on with this. You can sleep after
tonight.’

Lynch rubbed
his eyes. ‘Where are we?’

‘
Police
headquarters, Floriana.’

‘
Sorry, Paul.
Too much flyin’ around I guess.’

Lynch rang
the doorbell, replaying Channing’s words in his mind. ‘Joseph
Scerri. Expert on Enigma, Ultra and all that wartime stuff. Lives
alone out in the country, place called Sh’ayra. He’s an old man,
Lynch. Go gently, you hear me? None of your rough house
stuff.’

He waited on
Scerri’s doorstep, shivering. The early afternoon light was pale
and weak, presaging more rain. His patience was rewarded with the
sound of shuffling footsteps and fumbling chains. The door opened
and Scerri peered at him from the dark interior. Lynch smiled
reassuringly.

‘
Peter Jones.
We spoke on the phone.’

Scerri’s
white hair was combed over a balding head spotted with age
freckles. His eyes were red-rimmed with heavy bags. He wore a
loose-fitting jumper, a remnant of a younger man’s clothing. His
deep voice was stronger than he looked.

‘
Yes, yes, I
know. You had better come in.’

Lynch brushed
past the old man into a corridor lined with books and tottering
stacks of papers, the swirled brown and beige carpet matched by
dark cream textured wallpaper. The over-warm house smelled musty
and airless.

‘
Living
room’s first on the left,’ said Scerri as he closed the door.
‘Coffee?’

‘
No thanks,
just had breakfast,’ Lynch replied. He had, too. A tray of lukewarm
omelette on the plane from Beirut treated with a powerful
flavour-removing process and a mean cup of cold coffee served just
in time for him to have finished eating the food. Lynch wasn’t a
happy flier.

Scerri
gestured to the room. ‘Sit, sit, do.’

Lynch avoided
the worn armchair, obviously Scerri’s favourite. He found a space
on the sofa between the piles of books. He picked up one of the
weighty volumes and read the dust jacket. ‘Enigma Symposium. X and
Y Sections.’

Scerri let
himself down into his chair. ‘Yes. It’s rather been my life’s work,
you know. That’s one of Hugh Skillen’s books you have there. A
great researcher into Enigma. He worked on de-Nazifying German
radio with Airey Neave, actually. A wonderful man. Marvellous
linguist.’

Lynch shifted
on the soft cushions, stemming the slide of a pile of books with a
grab. ‘Well, as I said on the phone, I am writing a feature for the
magazine on Enigma and the community around it, particularly
Bletchley and the museum. Mr Hoffmann was very kind to give me a
great deal of his time and he did suggest that you were
the
authority.’

Scerri
harrumphed. ‘Enigma killed my parents, Mr Jones. The breaking of
the Enigma code meant the Allies were able to read German naval and
army signals. The intelligence this gave them was obviously of
inestimable value. So much so that when the British found the
Germans were planning a major air assault on Malta through an
intercepted Enigma message, Churchill decided to sacrifice our
island rather than let the Germans know the Allies had broken the
code. They bombed us mercilessly day and night as we cowered in the
caves, unprepared and ill-supplied to withstand their terrible
rage. I was barely more than a child. I left my parents in order to
forage for scraps. They were gone when I returned. There was
nothing remaining of them. Nothing.’

Lynch was
silent as Scerri took off his half-frame glasses and polished them
on his tie, his watery eyes half-closed. He replaced them on his
prominent nose and glared at Lynch. ‘I grew up wanting to know what
it was my parents died for. I was in the army here, made it
something of a specialisation, you see. And when I retired,
particularly after Fran died, it gave me a focus. Something
to
do
.’

Lynch nodded.
‘So this shared interest is how you met Gerhardt
Hoffmann.’

‘
A shared
passion
. We met at an Enigma Symposium in the UK many years ago. As
you’ll know, his father was in the Abwehr. He is a respected
authority. We are to meet this week. He is coming to Valetta.’
Scerri blinked owlishly. ‘I am surprised he did not tell you, in
fact, if you had already interviewed him.’

‘
He didn’t
mention it.’

Scerri’s face
showed his growing confusion. ‘But he is meeting his daughter here,
joining her on his yacht. He would surely have mentioned it if you
were talking to him about Enigma and coming to Malta.’ Scerri
scanned Lynch’s face. He raised an accusing forefinger. It
trembled. ‘You’re not a journalist at all, are you? What
are
you, Mr
Jones?’

Lynch’s voice
was gentle. ‘No, no I’m not.’ He hunched forwards, his hands
opening. ‘I am sorry, but Gerhardt Hoffmann is dead.’

Scerri
slumped back, winded. ‘Good God.’

The shock and
confusion on Scerri’s face turned to indignation. He straightened.
‘So what the hell are you doing here then?’

‘
I’m working
with European intelligence. I’m investigating Hoffmann’s death. We
believe he was murdered by a man called Meier. Peter
Meier.’

‘
His
brother-in-law? Why would Meier kill Hoffmann? I am sorry, Mr
Jones, but you have introduced me to a new world and I rather think
I prefer my old one,’ Scerri gestured at the book-strewn
room.

Lynch sat
forward. ‘Do you know Meier?’

‘
I have met
him. He tried to sell me an Enigma once, but I refused it. I
believed it to have been stolen. I did not much care for the man,
to tell you the truth.’

‘
Where did
you meet him?’

‘
Here. He was
in Valetta earlier this year, in fact. A flashy type, stayed at the
Excelsior. Hoffmann always stayed at the British Hotel, although
for some reason this time he asked me to book the Excelsior. I
joked with him about coming into a fortune and he said that indeed
he had.’ Scerri paused, musing. ‘Was it over money, then, he was
killed?’

‘
Do you know
why Meier was in Malta, Mr Scerri?’

Scerri turned
on him with the unpredictable asperity of age. ‘No, I didn’t. He
was on his way to Albania.’

‘
Albania?’

‘
Yes. Vlorey.
Vlora? Something like that. He was going on a cruise, he said.
Seemed to find it highly amusing. Didn’t seem the type to tell you
the truth. Fran and I used to enjoy cruises, you know. We toured
every summer.’

Lynch rose to
leave. ‘Thank you, Mr Scerri. I believe I have disturbed you
enough. I am sorry to have brought you bad news.’ He turned at the
doorstep. ‘This is my number, Mr Scerri. If you think of anything
which might be of assistance to our investigation, I’d appreciate a
call.’

Scerri took
the card in his age-spotted hand. ‘His yacht. The
Arabian Princess
. It
docked here this morning.’

Lynch froze
in amazement. ‘How did you know that?’

Scerri
blinked, a look of mild puzzlement on his face as if the knowledge
had come as a surprise to him as well. ‘Why, his daughter of
course. Elli. She called me. Very early, in fact. Woke me and I’m
an early riser as a rule. She wanted to know where her father was
staying. I made a reservation at the Excelsior for her as well. I
did think it was odd she hadn’t called her dad. I supposed it was
on account of the argument. They had fallen out, he told me. He was
hoping they could reconcile here in Valetta. But now we know she
couldn’t have called him at any price, could she? Poor, lost
child.’

‘
You
know
her?’

Scerri
whickered crustily, one hand on the door. ‘Of course I know her. I
dandled her on my knee. They found it difficult recently, I
understand. Getting on, I mean. But children are like that, aren’t
they?’

‘
Do you have
children?’ Lynch regretted the automatic question as Scerri
withdrew into himself with a pained look.

‘
Yes,’ he
said, with an air of finality. ‘We did. Goodbye, Mr
Jones.’