Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (43 page)

‘
No, Frank.
Only duty, as usual. I am afraid I am not very interesting these
days. I merely push paper.’

‘
Sure, sure.
I understand. Well, listen I got a little local problem here that I
thought maybe you could give me a hand with. See, we got an
operation going here that’s real tough, so we’re working with our
good friends next door on it. It’s kind of sensitive, so much so
that it’s run strictly on need to know, all the way up the chain.
So I don’t really have the clearance to, you know, go into so much
detail as I’d like.’

Coleman’s
easy smile transported Dubois back to the Lebanese Civil War, to
his past in another world, one of fear and intrigue amongst the
wreckage of Beirut, the great city torn apart by sectarian
factions, militia and Israeli bombardment before the Palestinians
left, a ragged mob deserting the broken ruins.

Coleman had
smoked back then, a lazy-looking fat kid with brown hair who wore
wide-collared shirts. Dubois had denied the charges made against
him, but couldn’t deny that he was present during the interrogation
of the farmer by Christian militia. Dubois remembered a young
Coleman stabbing his two fingers, the cigarette held between them
as he peered through the smoke. And Coleman’s snarled rebuke: ‘You
could have stopped them, Dubois. You killed the old man as sure as
if you used your own fucking hands.’

Looking
across the coffee table at the smiling American, Dubois knew that
Coleman was back in the early eighties as well, striding in the
little dark interview room as Dubois sneered back at him, still
pumped on the adrenaline and arrogance of war.

Coleman’s
eyes shifted to Steele, who nodded. He turned to Dubois. ‘Our
operation is very important to our Israeli allies. It will stop a
man who has gone too far, a former client of the United States who
has become a terrorist. It is an entrapment operation of some
complexity that has been ongoing for a great deal of
time.’

Dubois
listened raptly. There was something strange about the way Buddy
Steele spoke English and he couldn’t place it. He opened his hands
flat and hammed up his accent. ‘A terrorist in Beirut?
Dis donc
!’

He was
rewarded with a momentary tightening of Coleman’s silver brows.
‘We’re asking you to suspend your operation against the
Arabian Princess
, Yves.
We are perfectly well aware that it is not drug enforcement. We
will take care of Michel Freij and his partner. But we need clear
space to operate in.’

Dubois rose
and Coleman, with an alarmed glance, did the same. Walking to the
closed curtains, Dubois pulled them open, gazing from the picture
window to the sapphire Mediterranean. He half expected a bullet
through the glass. The street below was busy, traffic roaring past
the Rafic Hariri monument.
The blast that
killed him blew every window out of this hotel.

He wondered
why they had used Coleman. Anybody else would have done, but they
sent Coleman. He watched a small speedboat at sea, its white wake
spreading behind it in the dappled turquoise. He closed the curtain
and turned to face the room.

‘
Absolutely
not. This is a EJIC operation which concerns assets stolen from an
EU member country by EU nationals and you have no jurisdiction over
it. I will not countenance any interference in our
operation.’

Coleman’s
face flickered with a brief wave of naked hate. He composed himself
and forced a sympathetic smile, a reasonable man who appreciated
the issues that caused Dubois to be so hot-headed.

Behind him,
Buddy Steele clapped slowly. ‘Bravo, Monsieur. I would have done no
less than you. But you must understand we are at the end of a long
and expensive operation that could result in tens of thousands of
deaths if this terrorist is allowed to get away with this. They are
intending to target nuclear missiles.’ He paused to raise his
finger. ‘
Nuclear
missiles at Israel. We can take no chances. If you insist on
interfering, we will inform all EU member states that EJIC has lost
two nuclear warheads. You will be paralysed from operating in the
uproar and we will have the space we need to finish our work. We
would obviously prefer to come to a ... quieter
arrangement.’

Intuition
came to Dubois. He swung to face Coleman. ‘Do you have authority
for this?’

The American
rubbed his chin. ‘We are deniable, but believe me we have
sanction.’

‘
Then fuck
you.’ Dubois strode towards the door. Coleman moved to block him
but Steele stepped in and restrained the American. Dubois slammed
the door, rewarded by the sight of the nondescript hotel guest,
still lounging in the corridor, taking a dive sideways and fumbling
towards his left armpit.

Dubois stood
outside the Phoenicia Intercontinental and glared across the Hariri
monument to the ruins of the St. Georges Yacht Club and the blue
sea beyond. He ignored the staff asking if he wanted perhaps a
taxi, lost somewhere in an interview room in the 1980s, drenched in
the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He fished the pack from his
bag and undid the elastic band around it he used to make himself
think twice about smoking. He lit up with deep pleasure.

The black
Mercedes slid by in front of him, its back door opening as it
halted to reveal a beige leather interior.

‘
Come, Yves.
It’s time we talked.’ Ghassan Maalouf beckoned him in. Dubois
hesitated, his mind rebelling at the idea of getting closer to the
older man. ‘We must act. Forget who I am to you. Forget the past.’
Maalouf’s face implored him, a weak, conciliatory smile so
uncertain it had to be genuine. ‘Give me a few minutes. I have no
right to ask you for anything, I know, but I ask you
this.’

Dubois
flicked his cigarette into the gutter and got into the
car.

Maalouf spoke
French. ‘Thank you.’

‘
Save your
breath.’

‘
You met with
Coleman and a guy called Steele.’

‘
What do you
want?’

‘
We track
them. They track us. We track them tracking us. We all play games.
It is our way of all staying employed. Coleman asked to speak with
you because we rattled his chain. He is scared.’ Maalouf gazed out
of the window as they left the Phoenicia and joined the road. ‘It
is always better when we play parlour games like this than when we
make wars. Better to have men behaving like children on the
playground than like savages.’ He sighed. ‘Forgive me, Yves, I am
an old man and have much to regret.’

‘
Spare
me.’

‘
As I told
you, this Buddy Steele is Israeli. He is operating under the
protection of the US Embassy. His real name is Amit Peled and he is
a Mossad operative of senior rank. It is a clever name, this, a new
Israeli name for an old Diaspora name. Peled is Hebrew for steel,
replacing the German Yid name Stahlman. Amit means friend. So we
have a friend, a buddy, of steel. Why are you not laughing, Yves?
It is a subtle joke, no?’

Dubois
recalled Steele’s odd accent and awarded Maalouf a brownie point.
An Israeli, then.

‘
They tried
to stop you, Yves. We know this because they had no other option.
Their operation is illegal. We have been watching them for a long
time. You have the data from Falcon. I know you do. Together we can
find out everything, apart we are blind. I know you hate me and I
don’t pretend to be anything other than the monster you think I am.
But we need to work together. There is no time.’

Consumed by a
dangerous lassitude, Dubois faced Maalouf and looked him in the
eye. ‘Why do you even take an interest? Let the Israelis stop
them.’

Maalouf’s
gaze flitted between Dubois’ eyes, his lined face registering his
surprise. He cried out in frustration. ‘I told you, Israel is not
the target of these missiles. Steele is Michel Freij’s control.
Israel is Freij’s
backer
, not his target. Freij will
fire these missiles at Iran in a deniable strike to eradicate the
Iranian nuclear programme. And the missiles will come from Lebanon.
We will have another war after this. A real one. The Gulf will be
in flames, the oil wells will go up. And Israel will have
everything it wants. So will the right-wing Americans behind
them.’

Dubois and
Maalouf stood listening to the waves together. They leaned on the
cold metal railing that snaked along the wide-paved corniche.
Maalouf was first to break the long silence. ‘I live with it even
now, you know. I see her still in my dreams and wake up crying
because I am sorry for what I did.’

‘
I don’t want
to talk about it. I agreed to talk business, not about this. I will
not let you unburden yourself to me. Shut up. Talk
business.’

‘
We become
brutal at times like that. Brutal times. Do you remember they used
to fly along this very stretch of corniche, dropping their flares
before they came inland and dropped hell on us all?’

Dubois
shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t move away. ‘Business. Now. The
future. Not the past.’ He drew on his cigarette and glared at
Maalouf, who was also smoking. ‘I will not go back with you. You
are on your own.’

‘
Even you,
who are so self-righteous. Even you were sent home because you let
your precious standards slip.’ Maalouf turned to him. ‘She wasn’t
your wife then, Yves. You didn’t even know her.’

Dubois’ lips
were drawn. ‘Enough or I walk. Warheads or not. Enough.’

Maalouf
turned to look across the rocky foreshore to the iridescent sea.
Dubois followed his gaze, the waves breaking against the abandoned
concrete of some long-forgotten restaurant or gun emplacement. He
couldn’t remember which.

‘
Their target
is Iran. Two strikes against the remaining Iranian nuclear research
facilities, two nuclear explosions near Qom and Tehran. All
evidence will be wiped out in the explosions, which they will claim
were caused by Iranian negligence. If by chance any evidence
remains, it is Russian nuclear technology and a missile made from
stolen designs. The missiles flew from Lebanon, not
Israel.’

Maalouf
puffed on his Gitane. He waved the cigarette at Dubois. ‘Michel has
prepared his militia. They will strike against Hezbollah and other
Shia targets, hard. They are well equipped. When Freij talks of a
strong Lebanon, this is what he means. When he talks about ceasing
outside interference, this is what he means.’

‘
What about
Selim Hussein? His partner? The guy is Shia, no?’

‘
Hussein is
technical genius, but he is stupid with people. He believes Freij
is the best of men. He loves Freij. Not like a brother, more than
this.’

Dubois ground
out his cigarette butt with his heel. ‘And if Iran
retaliates?’

Maalouf
sighed. ‘It will be against Lebanon. And the Middle East will erupt
into flames in any case, you know this.’ He turned to Dubois, his
palms up. ‘Now, Yves, will you work with us?’

Dubois’
mobile rang and he checked the screen. ‘Hi,
Nino
. What is it?’ He listened,
nodded, and caught Maalouf’s gaze. His face grave, he nodded again
and asked, ‘Are you sure? When?’ He rubbed his cheek and chin.
‘Where’s Lynch?’ A pause, then, ‘How long for?’

Maalouf
flicked his cigarette butt over the railings and lit another one,
crouching over his lighter to shield the guttering flame from the
sea breeze. Dubois ended the call. ‘The missiles arrived here this
morning by air. They are at Falcon’s main R&D centre, a mainly
underground facility called Deir Na’ee in the Northern
mountains.’

Maalouf was
grave. ‘We know of this place.’

Dubois turned
to face Maalouf, his finger stabbing. ‘You do not speak to her, you
understand? Not one word. Especially not about—’

‘
I
understand. If I would say something, I would have said it to her
by now. She has her life and she can live it without concerning
herself about me. And so can you, Yves, if you will only let
yourself.’

Maalouf
offered his hand and Dubois, surprising even himself, took
it.

THIRTY-FIVE

Brian
Channing sat back in the armchair, his hands behind his head and
his eyes closed as Dubois talked and paced Channing’s office. When
the older man finished, Channing didn’t move a muscle, his fleshy
face in repose. Dubois waited, wondering quite what it was about
Channing that scared him. Perhaps it was this very languor, a state
that Channing seemed to retreat into when at his most dangerous.
The man was certainly smooth, always dressed in fine blue
pinstripes, with tie-pins, collar studs, cufflinks and other
accoutrements. Every bit the English gentleman, cool and poisonous
behind the politician’s smile. Yet Channing was very good at his
job, a genial host and unmatched in his ability to feel his way
around the corridors of power, a call here, a
bon mot
there. He was, in short,
everywhere.

Channing’s
voice was a drawl, his eyes still closed. “Frank Coleman’s an old
warhorse, but his remit has been eroded by the current round of
power-grabbing in Washington and station chiefs have nothing like
the authority they used to have. They’re being marginalised by the
more vertical approach to counterterrorist operations that
Washington’s taking. It seems odd, though, that they’d shake sticks
at you here at the operational level. It would make more sense to
escalate the back off request up to Daddy in Washington so your
mealy-mouthed buggers over at Berlaymont pull their noses out of
the trough long enough to call us off the kill.’