Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (32 page)

‘
Shut up,
Marcie.’

Marcelle
gestured at Nathalie with her cigarette. ‘She walked out when you
walked in, dear.’

Nathalie
shook her head. ‘How do you—’

‘
Because I
make it my business to know things. That piece of shit is a heroin
dealer and he sells to a few of the girls. They sell it on to their
clients. Sometimes they don’t have enough left. Then he takes
payment in kind.’

Lynch
steadied himself against a chair, part of the room’s sparse, cheap
furnishing, his hand gripping the plastic back. He had to clear his
throat to speak. ‘He didn’t just sleep with Leila. He killed her
for Freij. She was found injected with an overdose of heroin. There
were signs she was tied, had struggled. One of Freij’s notes was
beside her. Leila never touched junk. Ever. He was the last person
she was seen alive with.’

Marcelle’s
calculating gaze weighed Lynch up. She nodded, her dark eyes
dropping. ‘I’m sorry, Lynch. I didn’t know.’

Lynch glanced
at Nathalie, who was staring at Najimi moaning on the bed. Her
voice was a whisper. ‘If I hadn’t come, she would never have moved
away.’

‘
It doesn’t
matter.’ Lynch ran a hand over his tired face, his voice lowering.
‘It doesn’t matter. But the only reason this piece of shit is alive
is that he’s key to finding out what Freij is up to.’ Lynch glared
up at them both. ‘The only reason.’

An Indonesian
girl in a maid’s shift bustled into the room carrying an enamel
bowl and a wad of cotton wool. She started to dab at Najimi’s
broken face.

‘
She’s good.
Used to be a nurse. Come on, I need a drink.’ Marcelle led the way
from the room, glancing back to her driver. ‘Look after him,
Hassan. He’s not to go anywhere.’

Hassan nodded
and closed the door behind them.

They followed
Marcelle down the corridor and up a short flight of steps to her
plush, modern office, the furnishings contemporary and minimalist,
abstract art on the walls and coffee-table books scattered. The
right-hand wall had an angled floor to ceiling window overlooking
the club. Nathalie watched a skinny, pale girl on the stage
pretending to masturbate with a teddy bear.

Marcelle
glided over to the drinks cabinet and poured whisky into two
tumblers, handing one to Lynch, who helped himself to ice. She went
over to the window, draping her hand on Nathalie’s shoulder and
massaging it gently. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘
No, no
thanks,’ Nathalie said, her face reflecting the purple glow of the
stage lights, the audience of Japanese businessmen, solitary
figures and noisy groups of balding suits oblivious of her regard
behind the one-way glass.

Marcelle
drawled, gesturing at the stage with her tumbler. ‘You
like?’

‘
No. No, I
don’t actually.’ She turned away.

Lynch poured
another drink. ‘I’ll need your help, Marcie. We’ll have to keep him
here for a while. Okay?’

Marcelle
rounded on Lynch. ‘Lynch, you’ve already had one of my girls
near-killed.’ She searched his face. Whatever she read there, her
mouth pursed in resolution. ‘You’re paying, Lynch. Five hundred a
day.’

‘
Done.’

‘
Dollars.’

‘
I wasn’t
talking lire, Marcie. It’s fine. Just don’t let him go anywhere.’
Lynch topped his glass up. ‘Najimi was a dealer. Was he a
user?’

Marcelle sat
down on the white leather sofa. ‘How do I know? Go ask
him.’

‘
Thanks, I
will.’

Lynch went
back down the corridor and nodded at Hassan, who let him into the
room. The maid had taken off Najimi’s shirt and had bandaged his
ribs, the livid bruises already forming a patchwork across his
torso. His eyes opened, one swollen and bloodshot, nestled in a
livid, blackening bruise. Hassan had bound his feet with cable
ties.

Lynch reached
over to his arm and wrenched it, making Najimi cry out. The track
marks were there. It was a mess, the vein collapsed. The other arm
was little better. He grabbed Najimi’s chin.

‘
Leila
Medawar. Why?’

‘
I know
nothing, man. I swear.’

‘
Okay. You
want to tell me about Deir Na’ee now or you want to wait until
tomorrow when your skin’s crawling?’

Najimi’s
voice was a croak. ‘No. I know nothing.’

‘
Kazab
. Okay, you made your
choice.’

Lynch turned
to Hassan. ‘Tie his hands. Gag him, too. He’ll start making a noise
soon enough. Tell the Indonesian chick, “nil by mouth.” Got
that?’

Hassan
nodded. Lynch returned to Marcelle’s office to find the two women
sitting together, Marcelle’s hand on Nathalie’s thigh.

‘
Kiss immak
, don’t you ever
knock?’

He pretended
not to notice Nathalie’s blush. ‘We’re going. We’ll be back in the
morning.’

Marcelle
smiled down at Nathalie. ‘I look forward to it.’

It had been a
long day. Nathalie had disappeared into the bowels of the French
Embassy where her team of hackers was trying to break, undetected,
into Falcon’s security system. Apparently the ‘undetected’ was the
hard bit. Lynch had feigned interest. He himself had visited a
number of people with dubious histories, including a dangerous
foray into the heart of Chatila, the infamous Palestinian refugee
camp. It had all come to nothing and Lynch could barely wait to get
back to Marcelle’s club. When he did, he bounded up the stairs to
find the dutiful Hassan on guard.

Lynch nodded
to Hassan, who opened the door. Anthony Najimi, gagged and lying on
the bed, was mumbling. His skin had a sweaty sheen. There were
livid red marks on his wrists where the cable ties had bitten into
him. He strained against himself, his unfocused gaze roamed the
room.

Lynch
grinned. ‘Good evening. How’s she hangin’?’

Najimi jerked
at the sound of a voice, then collapsed back on the bed, breathing
heavily, his eyes screwed shut. Lynch sat on the side of the bed
and removed the gag. He cupped the man’s head and offered him
water, watching him gulp.

Najimi
gasped, water running down his chin. His breath stank. ‘Stop it.
You know you can. Stop it. Give me some stuff, man.’

‘
Here’s the
deal.’ Lynch’s voice was a gentle whisper and Najimi had to crane
his head painfully in order to hear. Lynch pulled a plastic bag
from his pocket. It contained a disposable syringe and a small bag
of white powder. He held it out. Najimi tried to reach for it, but
Lynch pushed his shoulder, making him wince with pain at the grip
on his tender skin.

‘
Talk. You
talk first.’

Najimi’s
bruised mouth worked as he held his tied hands out to Lynch, drool
collecting on his cheek. ‘Jesus, man, have some fucking mercy. Look
at what you’ve done to me.’

Lynch’s smile
was cold. ‘Mercy? You show Leila Medawar any mercy? You sell drugs
to kids,
Anthony
.
Don’t you presume to lecture me about mercy.’ Lynch got to his
feet, looking down on the mess on the bed. ‘And for the record,
son, I had my mercy glands removed a long time ago. So, Leila
Medawar. Why?’

‘
I know
nothing, man.’

Lynch slapped
him. Najimi cried out. ‘Freij. Michel Freij made me. I was seeing
her. She’d just split up with some guy. Freij gave me a choice, it
was me or her. I chose her. No brainer, right?’

‘
Sure,’ Lynch
confided. ‘No brainer.’

Najimi’s
breathing was ragged. His eyes tracked Lynch moving the syringe to
the other side of the room. Lynch returned to the bed but the tied
man’s eyes stayed on the little bag of gear in the
corner.

‘
Now,’ Lynch
said, sitting with his bended knee on the bed touching Najimi’s
leg. ‘Deir Na’ee. What can you tell me about Deir
Na’ee?’

Najimi moaned
and licked his lips, jerking his head painfully. ‘I don’t know
anywhere called Deir Na’ee.’

Lynch’s
hard-handed slap bounced Najimi’s head off the mattress. His sodden
hair flew up, suspended like a halo for an instant. He drew his
legs and arms foetally into his stomach. Snot ran from his nose and
onto the cotton sheet in a constant stream he didn’t bother to
sniff up.

‘
We’ve got
all evening, you know,’ Lynch said. ‘It’s only you that can’t get
what you need. I’m good, see?’ He called to Hassan and the door
opened, the driver’s brown, lined face impassive, a flash from the
door handle as the red stone on his crude signet ring caught the
light.

‘
Seer
?’

‘
Get me a
scotch on the rocks. A double.’

‘
Seer
.’

Lynch sat
back, his tone conversational. ‘How did you first meet them,
Anthony? Michel and Selim? You’re great pals, aren’t
you?’

Najimi glared
sideways at him, his eyes fixed on the bag in the corner of the
room, his words tumbling out between shuddering breaths. ‘AUB. At
the university. They were hiring.’

‘
Did they
hire you?’

Najimi shook
his head, sniffing and swallowing with an effort.

Lynch waited
as the man on the bed gulped and gagged, heaving for breath. The
bed was cast iron, the white-enamelled frame topped with dented
brass ornamentation. It was Marcelle’s cheapest room, ill-favoured
and above the kitchen to the back of the club. A faint stench of
boiled vegetables and frying had soaked into the mean
fittings.

Najimi tossed
his head back to flick the lank, damp hair from his eyes. ‘I heard
you talk to the French chick. You’re British intelligence.’ He
licked his lips. ‘We’re on the same side you know, man. My people
are gonna be pretty pissed when they find out how you’ve treated
me.’

Lynch
snorted. ‘Your people? Who might they be when they’re at
home?’

‘
That’s how I
met Freij and Hussein. I was Michel’s bag man, see? Look, let me
have some stuff. I’ll tell them I was hurt in an accident. They
don’t need to know. You’ll be okay. I can fix it.’ His smile of
triumph was cut short by a grimace as his lip split again. ‘Ah,
shit.’ He sniffed again. ‘Come on, dude, we can sort this
out—’

‘
Shut up,’
Lynch said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘What intelligence
outfit would be stupid enough to trust a piece of shit like
you?’

Najimi was
eager now, his battered face lit up with hope. ‘See? I knew you’d
be okay with it in the end. It’s gonna be cool, it’s okay. I work
for the CIA, dude. The Americans. I’m their man, see? Their man in
the university, that’s me. Come on, man, the stuff. It’s cool,
we’re on the same side. We’re good, no?’

‘
Where’s Deir
Na’ee?’

The sweat was
beading on Najimi’s high forehead, running down his cheek. He pawed
at Lynch, nodding and smiling. ‘In Dannieh, in the mountains. It’s
their big hideout, man. Their research place. All top secret, see?
It’s where they do the heavy shit. Nobody gets near that place that
Michel doesn’t know it. Big security, see?’

Lynch spoke
to himself. ‘How’s nobody heard of the place?’

Najimi’s
laugh was a broken, high-pitched cackle. ‘It’s the biggest secret
in Lebanon, man. In the world. There’s more security around Kalaa
than anywhere, man.’

‘
Kalaa?’

Najimi
nodded. ‘Yeah. The mountain. Where it is. Deir Na’ee. Kalaa. It
used to be a nunnery. The whole place belongs to the Freij militia.
One Lebanon.’ He stretched an entreating hand. ‘Come on, man, give
me the stuff.’

‘
Soon
enough.’ Lynch pulled a micro recorder from his pocket and switched
it on. ‘But first take me through this one bit at a time. I’m
feeling stupid.’

The man they
called Hassan had come into the room and cut his hands free. His
wrists were sore but he didn’t notice, curled up in a ball on the
bed and shivering, sniffing away as much of the constant tide of
snot as he could, his hands shaking so hard he could barely focus
on them when he did summon the energy to lift his head. His skin
crawled, grey sago with cockroaches scuttling on its pliant
surface, slipping off his bones in great strips of sloughing
lifeless matter.

Najimi cried
out, the soft rasp of the linen on his ear. He had pissed himself,
the warm pungency from his damp groin filled his nostrils. He
forced his caked eyes open, focused on the sordid little room. The
bag was there, where Lynch had tossed it in the corner. He regarded
it for some time, starting to cry with the need for it, but too
weak to make the effort to get to it. Eventually he focused,
summoned his will and forced himself upright on shaking arms,
groaning with the pain in his side. He pushed the plastic water
bottle from the bedside table onto the floor. He slid to the floor
as gently as he could, his legs still pinioned by nylon ties. He
cried out from the pain in his bruised thighs and broken
ribs.

He fell too
fast, crashing to the ground. He lay weeping with the pain and the
need, the latter driving him to drag himself along the floor with
his elbows, wriggling as much as he could despite the screaming of
his bound ribs. Each breath too short to fill his aching lungs, he
could hear his own ragged gasps and the rustle of his clothes on
the faded rug.