Beirut - An Explosive Thriller

by Alexander McNabb

  The closing impact boomed in the great space, a signal for the men on the dock to start moving. The crew cast ropes to them, snaking white lines picked out by the floodlights. The yacht slowed to a standstill, its wash sloshing inside the hangar. The gangway lowered and a team of men in white biohazard suits raced up it, deploying across the covered pool area and directing the crane swinging around over the boat.

  On the upper sun deck, Meier watched the heavy panels covering the pool roll back. Michel Freij was impassive at his side. More lamps snapped on high above them, lighting up the two green, tapered cones nestled in their sophisticated aluminium and black foam cradles.

  ‘They don’t look so evil, do they, Meier?’ Freij chuckled, a sound Meier thought, sourly, was a first. ‘Yet each one can destroy a city.’

  ‘I know their capabilities, Mr Freij.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really? How fascinating.’ The low chuckle sounded again. ‘The standard Russian missile was capable of propelling these almost five hundred kilometres. It was unbelievably,’ Freij cast about for the right word, smiling when he found it, ‘crude. Solid fuel, barely better than a Scud, really. We have developed hybrid propellant systems that will send this warhead four times the distance and yet are still capable of a mobile launch with fast deployment. We have, of course, developed the most sophisticated electronic countermeasures to protect our delivery system.’

  Meier made an effort to keep his voice steady, his mind racing to try to assess the potential of Freij’s assertions. ‘You are to be commended. But why would you need such long reach? I had thought your target to be the Zionist state.’

  Freij patted Meier’s shoulder heavily forcing Meier to steady himself against the handrail. ‘Why? Because we can reach London from anywhere in Lebanon if we wish to, Herr Meier. Imagine. London, this great city. And of course we can reach out to touch any other great city in mainland Europe. Or indeed into Asia. Any city we choose. Is that not ... splendid?’

  Meier watched the first warhead rise in its cradle, the whir of the crane and the muffled sound of men calling instructions echoed in the great, covered space.

  Freij turned away from the handrail. ‘Come, Herr Meier. Our work here is done. We can leave this good ship to the careful ministrations of my men now. We can celebrate success.’

  Meier watched the missile lift as if in a dream, gripping the varnished wood to steady himself. The cone encased in its cradle swung onto the dockside where it was grabbed by a team of men in white coveralls and guided onto a trolley. The straps dropped and the crane moved back over the boat. Meier followed Freij down the spiral staircase to the bridge deck. He called out as he descended. ‘Where are you taking them now?’

  ‘To Beirut, Herr Meier.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but how?’

  They reached the main deck and Meier caught up with Freij. ‘How are you going to get them to Beirut?’

  Freij glared down at Meier’s hand on his arm and Meier let it drop. The dark, glittering eyes flickered over Meier’s face and Meier felt like prey. ‘To Beirut, Herr Meier? Why, I am going to fly them there like little angels.’ He grinned. ‘I shall give them wings.’

  They descended the gangway to the dockside, the workmen making way for Freij and two supervisors attending him anxiously. Meier paused and watched the second warhead lifted from the yacht, its cradle glittering in the overhead lights. Meier tore his gaze away from the warhead and turned to follow Freij away from the wharf into the corridor beyond, his heels sounding on the concrete floor.

  They waited by the brushed steel lift doors, stepping in when they opened to a soft digital tone. They turned and waited as the door closed. Meier gazed at the orange display counting the floors until they stopped on the third. He was surprised to find himself in a corporate-style office, partition windows sandblasted with striped patterns lining a blue-grey carpeted corridor that carried them along to a small reception area. A wooden door opened and a smiling, efficient-looking woman in her thirties emerged to meet them, speaking English then impeccable German with a soft, Alsatian accent.

  ‘Mister Freij, welcome back, sir. Herr Meier. Bitte, kommen Sie herein.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Freij’s office was impressive indeed and Meier, despite his growing dislike for Freij and his damned arrogance, had to admit the man had taste. Meier breathed in the smell of leather from the beige hide sofa and chairs around a glass coffee table perched on a stone head of Buddha, killims strewn on the floor and a hidebound desk to one side. The desk was flanked by shelves containing books, little figurines and pieces of ancient glass. The wall to the right hosted a bank of plasma screens showing the Arabian Princess at her mooring, the second missile now sitting dockside.

  Michel Freij draped his jacket over one of the hide chairs. The woman directed Meier to a sofa by a coffee table. She left and Freij turned from the dark wood sideboard, two champagne flutes in his hand.

  ‘Herr Meier, I think you will find everything you expected is in the attaché case before you.’

  Meier leaned forward to pull the gold latches of the red calfskin case with his thumbs. He pulled open the lid of the case, which contained a single cream parchment envelope with his name written on it in careful calligraphy worked in dark brown ink. Tucked into the document pockets attached to the lid were more envelopes and a passport.

  Freij placed a flute in front of Meier and one by his own seat. He went back to the sideboard. ‘All as we agreed, Herr Meier. A price of one hundred and twenty million dollars. Eighty million has already been transferred to Herr Hoffman. A Lebanese passport in the name of Hans Allawi, whose mother is German and whose father is Lebanese. Herr Allawi holds an account with Bank Audi containing ten million dollars. He is also the sole owner of Allawi Holdings of Bermuda and this company owns a mixed portfolio of stocks and bonds with a current market value of thirty million dollars held in Beirut, Bogotá and six other markets. The case also contains a first-class ticket from Beirut to Colombo booked two weeks ago in that name. You may keep the case with our compliments. We thank you for your efforts.’

  Meier nodded, trying not to react. ‘It has been a pleasure to do business with you and your esteemed partner, I am sure.’ He opened the envelope and unfolded the expensive-looking parchment. The fine calligraphy read ‘Peter Meier’. Meier waved it at Freij. ‘What is this?’

  ‘An old family tradition, Herr Meier. It is a gift tag. Here.’ A gentle pop sounded. Freij returned carrying a grey-labelled bottle. ‘Lamiable, Herr Meier. A fine, single grower extra brut champagne. It is a particular indulgence of mine.’ He poured the fine, pale liquid into the glasses. The dancing bubbles glittered.

  ‘Bi sahtak. Your health.’

  ‘Auf Dich,’ Meier responded, raising his glass to toast Freij. He sat back, watching the screens where the second warhead was being lifted into a white container marked with blue lettering. He gestured with his glass at the screen. ‘UNWRA?’

  Freij turned to the screens. ‘Oh, the containers? Yes, we are now an aid shipment.’ He beamed at Meier. ‘A small container vessel will take them to Thira and then we shall take them to Beirut. You also, Herr Meier. Ellen has booked you a ticket from Santorini to Beirut under your new name. Sadly, your flight must connect in Athens and then Larnaca.’ Freij pulled a tragic face. ‘Direct flights are so often a problem for us in Lebanon.’

  Meier nodded graciously. He sipped his champagne, noticing how fine the flute was, holding the dry, complicated drink in his mouth and revelling in the fact that a lifetime’s work had culminated in this – a new identity, a new life of reward and luxury. The stress of the past few weeks was making itself felt now as he relaxed, a feeling of lassitude creeping over him.

  He placed the glass down on the coffee table, and Freij reached over to top it up.

  ‘It is a particularly fine champagne, no, Herr Meier?’

  Meier nodded. ‘I have always preferred Sekt, of course, being German. But I have to confess, when the French get it right
...’

  Freij sat back in his chair. ‘Lamiable is a small house, a grand cru, of course, from near Tours. Sixty percent Pinot Noir, forty percent Chardonnay. We can enjoy champagne because of the Levant, you know this, Herr Meier? The Chardonnay grape was taken back to France by the Crusaders. My ancestors.’

  Meier shook his head, tiredness slowing his movements. He settled back into the big chair, letting Freij’s enthusiastic torrent of words wash over him. The man was positively garrulous now he had his blasted warheads safe. Meier would be pleased to turn his back on Michel Freij, for sure. Having said that, however irritatingly superior the man was, he had made Meier a rich man. Meier raised up a private toast to that. He reached for his glass, but his hand wouldn’t respond.

  ‘You must be tired, Herr Meier. So much achieved, so much energy. This has been a flawless operation on your part, carried out with considerable ... what is the word I need here, Herr Meier? I am so very clumsy sometimes with these words. My English is not so good. Brio? Is this the word?’

  The stitching on the sofa was a pale terracotta colour, the new leather soft and welcoming. Meier tried to move his head, to nod assent. He felt sheer panic. He was incapable of movement, his breathing fast reducing to short gasps.

  Freij’s voice was chatty. ‘It is a powerful form of potentiated chlorzoxazone developed by our pharmaceuticals company. Sadly, it did not result in a clinical compound we felt could find a market, but it is a very powerful muscle relaxant indeed. It dissolves quite nicely in alcohol, which further potentiates the drug. It must feel strange, Herr Meier,’ Freij leaned forwards to peer into Meier’s eyes, ‘To find oneself relaxing to death.’ There was garlic on Freij’s breath. Houmos for breakfast, thought Meier.

  Meier’s breath rasped as Freij sat back, beaming at him. ‘I forgot to mention that the flight we had booked for you was a cargo shipment. I am so sorry that my memory is such a traitor to me.’

  Meier made one last supreme effort, sweat beading his upper lip as he forced his mouth to move, Freij craning forwards to catch the word as he formed it.

  ‘Fucker.’

  ‘Herr Meier, I am shocked,’ Freij mocked, standing. ‘Shocked, I tell you. I think perhaps you had better take a chill pill.’ He looked down with a dry chuckle. ‘Oh, sorry. You did already.’

  Meier’s breathing froze, his lungs betraying him an instant before his heart stopped beating. Peter Meier expired with a long sigh, hate burning in his furious eyes and his face a picture of calm repose.

  Gonsalves swept an appreciative hand over the fine hide of the attaché case, the gold catches glittering in the lights from the Arabian Princess’ bar area.

  Michel Freij gestured at the case. ‘Go ahead, open it.’

  Gonsalves snapped the catches and pulled the lid up to reveal neat packages of twenty dollar bills. He nodded, swallowed and looked up at Freij, who was gauging his reaction. ‘There is ten thousand dollars in the case. You may consider this yours to keep.’

  Freij leaned towards Gonsalves, offering an envelope. Gonsalves took it.

  ‘This is the necessary information to access your account with the Bank Audi of Lebanon containing five hundred thousand dollars, double the fee that you agreed with Herr Hoffmann and Herr Meier, I believe.’

  Gonsalves swallowed. ‘I—’

  Freij waved him silent. ‘We may well do business again, Mister Gonsalves. You now know that we are generous and fair-minded employers and so I consider this to be in the way of an investment. The bonus in front of you is to ensure that you get this hulk to Tripoli quickly and in good order. I want to be able to enjoy my yacht without Meier’s stink all over it.’

  Gonsalves nodded. ‘Not a problem. Where is—’

  ‘Gone.’ Freij got to his feet. ‘He never did join the boat. His whereabouts is a total mystery. You can leave that with us. He did not fulfil his obligation and we are only generous,’ Freij scrutinised his fingernail, ‘with those who deliver.’

  Gonsalves’ quick eyes flickered from Freij’s goatee-bearded face to the burgundy case on the black marble-topped table. He licked his lips. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Tripoli, then. Thank you, Captain.’

  Gonsalves had an erection. Luckily, Freij had turned to leave without waiting for him to stand and shake or any such demonstrativeness. He sat back and luxuriated in the sight of ten thousand dollars in notes, just like in the films, running his thumbnail absently, if pleasurably, up and down the tumescence pushing against the length of his zip.

  The two Albanian girls Meier had brought along in case Freij had wanted to be entertained were still on board. Gonsalves grinned. Life was about to become very good indeed.

  They were in the open sea again, free of the hangar on Anhydrous. Joel Gonsalves scanned the blue horizon in front of him and took the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. Life, he had to admit, was good. He had got rid of Freij and Meier and their toxic cargo, finished the job and had been paid. Now he was clean, free and driving a fifty-metre superyacht carrying two fine Albanian hookers on board and headed to Beirut where a small fortune awaited him. It doesn’t get better than this, he reflected. He sipped his whisky and laughed out loud for joy and exhilaration.

  One of the girls, the brunette, was lying topless on the sun deck above and Gonsalves had the feeling she might want some suntan lotion. He picked up his lighter and softpack, cut the boat to autopilot and climbed up the circular stairwell. Sure enough, she was on her back, her skin glistening with tanning oil, naked and shaved. Shading her eyes from the sun to look at the new arrival, she smiled, turning so her legs opened. His eyes flickered across her breasts, firm and dotted with beads of sweat. He could smell the palm oil.

  ‘Gonsalves. You have cigarette for me?’

  He swaggered over to kneel beside her sunlounger, its blue foam covering darkened with the moisture from her lithe body. Her toenails were painted crimson and she wore a Snoopy ankle chain. She opened her full lips for him to insert the cigarette, holding his wrist as he lit it, her fine gold bangle sliding down her arm. He laid his hand on her belly. She exhaled, moving to push it downwards. Gonsalves let his fingers glide down her slippery skin. He took his time, revelling in the smell of her, licking his lips as her legs parted wider. His finger poised at the top of her, trembling a little. She moaned. A bead of sweat rolled down her inner thigh.

  The explosion tore them apart. The fireball engulfed the big yacht, ripping through all five decks and sending wreckage high into the Wedgwood sky. The sea around the Arabian Princess, compressed by the hammering force of the concussion, threw up a great wave that reflected the mass of flame in glittering golden splashes. The black smoke rose, smearing the sky above the red flames that roiled at the centre of the great conflagration, detritus splashing into the water, falling into scattered fires of polystyrene and fuel stretched across a huge area of water.

  Michel Freij was nothing if not fastidious when it came to tidying up loose ends.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lynch sat at the dark wood bar and ordered an Almaza, paying in dollars. He clipped a Siglo III and lit it, inhaling half a mouthful with guilty pleasure. He regarded the glowing tip of the cigar and thanked God that Lebanon’s smoking ban had turned out to be yet another piece of legislation not worth the paper that bore it.

  He took back the change. ‘I’m looking for Marwan Nimr. Know him?’

  The barman turned away. Lynch sighed and drank his beer. He sensed the movement beside him, turning to face the stocky, round-shouldered figure in the faded green army shirt pulling up a barstool.

  ‘And say you found Marwan,’ the man growled. ‘What then?’

  Lynch grinned, his blue eyes wrinkling with delight. ‘Sure, I’d buy the man a drink. Any friend of Spike’s is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Jack and Coke, double. Easy on the Coke. Heavy on the ice.’

  Lynch called the barman over and ordered the drink. He glanced aside at Nimr.

  ‘I understand you offer transportati
on services. Did you offer them to Paul Stokes? Remember him? Journalist fellow.’

  ‘I charter helicopters, yes.’ The drink arrived and Nimr toasted Lynch with the frosted glass. ‘Cheers. Don’t remember the name.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Lynch raised his bottle. Nimr was bald, his head creased above the ear from wearing sunglasses. His dark goatee beard framed full lips, his prominent nose leading in an arc to indolent hazel eyes beneath his heavy eyebrows.

  ‘So you want to charter a bird. Where you going?’

  ‘Up into the mountains, North. Above the Bekaa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m a nosy tourist.’

  Nimr laughed, a throaty chuckle. ‘Bullshit, dude. You ain’t got no Nikon.’

  ‘I left it at home.’

  Nimr’s smile died. ‘Who sent you here?’

  ‘Tony Chalhoub mentioned you drank here.’

  Nimr nodded. ‘Yeah, I know him. Cop. You a cop?’

  ‘Nope.’ Lynch lowered his voice mock-conspiratorially. ‘You still a robber?’

  Nimr finished his drink. ‘Again, Mike. His tab.’ He turned to Lynch. ‘Where in the mountains?’

  ‘Place called Deir Na’ee. Kalaa Mountain, near Dannieh. Where you took Stokes.’

  Nimr drained his glass. ‘I know where it is. What’s your business with Michel Freij?’

  Lynch leaned forwards, lowering his voice. ‘I want the motherfucker behind bars. What’s yours?’

  ‘So you are a cop.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m James Bond, me. I’m what students of oxymorons laughingly call British intelligence.’

  ‘No, thanks, man. I don’t need all this cop stuff. I’m private enterprise.’