Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (31 page)

‘
You
can’t—’

‘
Yes, he
can,’ Dubois interjected. ‘Brian is heading up the operation and
the decisions are his now.’

Dubois felt a
lump in his throat at Nathalie’s horrified look. She knew well what
a setback to his career this was.. He looked down at the table to
avoid her pity, his distorted, pale features reflected on the
polished mahogany.

Lynch took
Nathalie’s arm, his touch startling her as he drew her away. Dubois
looked up as the door closed. Standing at the window, Channing was
a silhouette.

‘
Yves, you
and I are in a unique position, my old son. Together, we have
managed to lose two nuclear warheads capable of wiping out a
reasonably large city. They aren’t on the damn boat, and they sure
as hell aren’t here in Beirut. So my best suggestion would be that
we nip off back to Brussels and start to find out quite where the
hell they, and Mr bloody Meier, have got to.’

‘
I told you.
They’re on the way here.’ Dubois fought to keep the desperation
from his voice.

Channing
strode from the window, bending down to hiss in Dubois’ ear. ‘No,
they’re bloody not. Not without proof.’ He straightened. ‘We’re
focusing on the wrong place and we’re wasting valuable time
here.’

Dubois waited
for Channing to bustle from the meeting room before slumping back
in his chair. He felt dull. He had been so sure the boat was
carrying the warheads. Much as he disliked the idea, Channing had
reason: the funds transfer from Beirut to Hoffmann had been the
pointer. Without the certainty of the warheads’ destination, Dubois
faced widening the scope of the investigation massively. They had
no choice but to go public with the loss of a pair of hundred
kiloton Soviet Oka-class warheads.

Lost in
thought, Dubois let his mobile ring out. It rang again and he
surfaced and reached for the slim black case and the green
key.

‘
Monsieur.
Dubois? Branko Liberec, in Prague. I hope I don’t disturb you.’
Liberec’s voice was tense.

Dubois rubbed
his eyes. ‘No, not at all. How are things with you,
Branko?’

‘
The warheads are not on the
Arabian
Princess
, sir.’

Dubois sat
back, marvelling at God’s sense of timing. ‘Really, Branko? Where
are they, then?’

Lynch and
Nathalie wandered down into the cobbled streets of Sodeco, passing
the army guard and their red and white painted barrier. The café
tables on the street were empty under their striped awnings, the
weather too cold for anyone to sit outside, despite the sun that
fell across the rich beige frontages of the restored
buildings.

Nathalie’s
mobile rang and she pulled it from her pocket. She bit her lip as
she listened to the voice on the line. The signal, as usual in
Beirut, was bad.

‘
Oui. Maintenant. ’Voir
.’

The sunlight
lit the side of her face as she stopped walking and turned to
Lynch, her expression worried. ‘It is my father. He wants to meet
again. Something’s changed.’

Lynch screwed
up his face in disgust. ‘Jesus. Are we going to spend all day
walking up and down this fucking hill?’ He turned on his heel and
led the way back up to the British Embassy, reprising their walk
past the Ottoman charms of the Grand Serail.

They entered
the meeting room. Dubois was a man transformed, his eyes alive with
excitement. Channing sat at the head of the table, feigning sleep,
his hands clasped on his lap.

Playing with
an empty coffee cup, Dubois was losing his English in his
excitement. ‘They are in containers. The Czechs have traced them.
They have crossed the Slovakia-Hungary border before four days. The
Croatian, Romanian and Serbian road borders with Hungary are all
closed. All of the Balkan border posts are on high alert. We have
them. They are entrapped.’

Lynch
whistled. ‘They had balls, all right. How did they expect to get
away with that?’

Dubois
beamed. ‘Oh, come, it is not so difficult, is it? Meier, he knows
every corrupt officer and easy customs post in Europe with his
history of trafficking. They will have been using different sets of
documents.’ Dubois paused for reflection for a second. ‘Most
customs men do not really look for nuclear warheads, is it not? It
is not a ...
everyday
problem.’

Lynch drew a
map of the Balkans in his mind. ‘So what was the plan? Through
Romania and down through Turkey?’

‘
We cannot
know for sure, but this would seem likely. The operation has
obviously had to expand to cover a wide area, but we are staying
very imprecise on the nature of the cargo. It is still top
secret.’

‘
Because you
don’t want the Yanks to know?’

‘
Because we
want nobody to know. Imagine the media and the public reaction,
without even to think of the political backlash. That is my waking
nightmare at this moment. It is why Brian and I have to return to
Brussels and manage the operation. We must leave you both here to
try to find what Freij intends for these warheads. I surely know he
is behind this. If we fail and those weapons get to Beirut, I want
us at least to be ready for them when they come.’

Channing’s
lazy drawl froze the conversation, his eyes still closed. ‘They
won’t. Half of Europe’s armed forces are mobilised to stop them
now.’

Lynch poured
another coffee, even though the stuff was vile. ‘Fair
enough.’

Nathalie
reached across the meeting table and touched her father’s hand. ‘We
have been approached by the head of the Lebanese security
directorate. He is an associate of Madame Chalabi’s. He is offering
their cooperation.’

Dubois’ face
darkened. ‘What is his name?’

‘
Ghassan
Maalouf.’

Dubois shook
his head. ‘Not in a million years. I already told Lynch
that.’

Nathalie
glanced at Lynch, who met her eyes. She nodded, her lips
tightening. ‘He said you’d react like this. He said to tell you he
was genuine, that this matter is of great importance to Lebanon.
That I should give you this.’

Nathalie
handed a plain silver memory key over to Dubois, who regarded it
with mild revulsion and dropped it into his pocket. ‘Where did you
meet him?’

Nathalie
gestured to Lynch. ‘First we met with Madame Chalabi at Cedars. I
had dinner with him a few days ago at the Casino du
Liban.’

‘
Alone? With
him
?’

Lynch paused,
studying Nathalie’s bewildered reaction to her father’s cold fury.
‘But, yes.’

Dubois got to
his feet, glaring down at Nathalie, his hand held up to her. ‘Never
again let yourself be alone in the company of this man. Do you hear
me? Never.’ Striding to the door, Dubois turned. ‘I will not hear
of it.’

As the door
slammed behind Dubois, Channing opened his eyes and glanced around
the table. He closed them again, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Odd
fellow, that. Very odd.’

TWENTY-FOUR

Lynch and
Nathalie stepped downhill together, away from Hamra’s garish
shopfronts and flickering light displays, towards the vast American
University of Beirut campus. The full moon cast a milky glow over
the quiet streets, the deep-set doorways and side alleys plunged
into shadow. Lynch hopped into the street to avoid a telegraph pole
rooted in the uneven pavement. Nathalie brushed against his
arm.

They made way
for a passing group of revellers, the bright chatter of the men and
laughter of the women fading into the dark behind them. They
rounded a corner and made for the orange light and bustle of
Barométre
, the student
bar by the American University, known simply as AUB.

Lynch leaned
on the counter, surveying the smoky bar, the rough tables piled
high with glasses, the ashtrays overflowing. The benches and chairs
were dense with animated young people, some sitting on each other’s
laps to squeeze into the haphazard arrangement of tables and
chairs. He signalled to the shiny-haired young barman with a
twenty-dollar bill. ‘A beer and a white wine.’

Nathalie
stood with her back to the bar. Her dark hair reflected the orange
light, her pale cheeks flushed from the walk in the cool night air.
She turned and caught Lynch looking at her, flashed him a
smile.

The barman
banged the drinks down. ‘Twelve.’

Lynch handed
the note to the barman who took it with studied indifference. He
passed the warm glass of white wine to Nathalie, who winced when
she tasted it.

The barman
tossed the change on the countertop. Lynch left it there. ‘Know a
guy called Spike?’

The barman’s
eye flickered to at a table near the door where an older man was
holding forth to a small but attentive audience of female students.
He recovered, indifferent again. ‘No, never heard of
him.’

‘
Thanks for
your help,’ said Lynch, taking his change and walking away from the
bar to the table by the door. He slammed his bottle on the table,
flashing a grin at the group. ‘Hi. Sorry to interrupt. Anthony
Najimi?’

Najimi’s
goatee beard gave him a dashing air and, Lynch noted, masked a weak
chin. He wore a black and white Palestinian
keffiyeh
around his neck, his dark
green linen shirt and beige photographer’s waistcoat hinting at a
revolutionary, a man of action. He brushed a wavy strand of hair
aside as he turned to Lynch.

‘
Do I know
you?’

‘
Peter
Dominic, The Guardian. I’m working on a piece on AUB and several
people told me you’d be a good guy to talk to. I wondered if we
could have a quiet word or two alone.’

‘
No thanks,
dude.’ Najimi turned back to his audience with a superior grin. ‘I
only talk to Arabic newspapers.’

There was a
dutiful ripple of laughter around the table, which settled down to
wait for Lynch’s next move. He made it.

‘
Oh, that’s
such a shame. I thought you might be interested in talking about a
friend of mine called Paul Stokes. I don’t really care which
fucking language you do it in. Do you remember Paul Stokes,
Spike?’

Najimi rose
and turned to face Lynch, who gripped his beer bottle by the neck.
Lynch’s voice was silky, his eyes boring into Najimi’s. ‘Or Deir
Na’ee? Ring any bells with you? Or Leila Medawar?’

Najimi’s
furious expression froze, replaced by animal panic. His glance
flicked across the room. He snarled, ‘Fuck you, man.’

Flinging his
drink in Lynch’s face, Najimi leapt for the door, sending a girl
flying. Her glass tumbled to smash on the floor. Screaming broke
out. Najimi threw a punch at Nathalie as she moved to cut him off.
His shoulder caught the doorway a glancing blow. He sprinted
through the tables scattered outside the bar.

Lynch gave
chase, a more powerful runner. He rounded the street corner
downhill from the bar, grabbed a handful of Najimi’s shirt and
pushed him into the side of a garage exit, using the ramp to pull
the man round and slam him into the concrete wall. Najimi held his
hand up to shield his face as Lynch hammered a series of twisting
blows into the man’s face, chest and stomach.

Nathalie
caught up with them. She pulled Lynch away from the huddled figure
on the dusty floor. Blood streaked from the man’s nostrils across
his face in a dark parabola. ‘Christ, Lynch, leave him. What has
taken over you?’

Lynch wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand, regaining his breath.
‘Nothing. We’ve got to get this pile of shit off the street. Hang
on.’ He fished his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialled.
‘Marcie, I’ve got a problem. I need a room and a loan of Hassan.
Sure. Thanks. Barométre. No, right now.’ He turned to Nathalie.
‘Done. He’ll be here in five minutes, there’s no traffic this late.
If you go back up to the bar, he’ll be in a black Touareg. Bring
him down here and I’ll take care of this fuckwit.’

‘
Okay, but
stop hitting him, yes?’

‘
Sure, fine.
Just go.’

He listened
to her fading footfalls for a few seconds. Turning to Najimi, he
swung his boot into the man’s ribs, feeling the bone
crack.

‘
So I lied,’
Lynch spat. ‘That was for Leila.’

Lynch helped
Marcelle’s driver Hassan carry Anthony Najimi into the small room
and let him down onto the bed. The movement forced a groan from the
man’s broken mouth and renewed the flow of blood from his
tissue-packed nose.

Marcelle drew
on her cigarette nervously. ‘Was this all because he slept with
your Leila?’

Nathalie
wheeled to face Lynch. ‘Leila? The girl in the
apartment?’

‘
He’s too fond of secrets,
habibti
, is our Lynch.’ Marcelle
chuckled nastily. ‘He was screwing a student chick from AUB. She
walked out on him and even then he was fool enough to pay for a
flat for her.’