Nathalie shuddered, her skin felt clammy. She whispered, just to make it sound real, ‘They’re here already.’
She lunged for her phone.
‘Dubois.’
‘It’s me. The warheads have already landed. They are up at Deir Na’ee. Lynch has identified a plane that flew from Santorini today, we have found Falcon owns a facility near there. They must have taken them from the boat and transferred them. What shall we do?’
‘Wait. Slowly. How is it Lynch is at Deir Na’ee?’
‘He took a helicopter.’
Dubois almost shouted. ‘Is he mad?’
‘He found the missiles, Papa.’
‘Tell him to come back immediately. Thank you, Nathalie.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Find the guidance systems in that damn network.’
Nathalie dropped the handset. She ran her hand through her hair and walked to the balcony to look out over Ain Mreisse. They had failed. There were nuclear warheads in Lebanon. She tried not to think of what might happen next.
A message flashed on her screen from Jean Meset.
‘Found rogue system. IBM Blue Giant. Attempting access now.’
Nathalie tapped at her screen and sent back, ‘Odd. Not listed anywhere.’
The world’s biggest supercomputers are listed, the opportunity to boast about how big yours really is being one everyone finds too good to pass up. Nathalie opened a window, a status bar flashed and Jean Meset appeared onscreen.
He spoke French. ‘Hey, Nathalie. It’s the core research and development mainframe. It’s big, very big and the latest configuration. This should rank top twenty at least. Maybe top ten.’
‘Jean, we need to find out if that system contains the missile command and control infrastructure.’
‘It’s certainly the machine you’d use for that. We’re trying to get in now, but it’s very secure.’ Meset paused, distracted by events off-camera. ‘One second, if you please.’
Nathalie reached for her coffee while Meset clacked on his keyboard. It was cold and she pulled a face.
‘Here.’ Meset looked pleased with himself. ‘See what you make of this.’
Nathalie opened the folder he sent, clicking on the first file. ‘Right. What’s this?’
‘It’s an exact match for the two images we captured from the CCTV system. It’s an intermediate-range missile system. The design is American.’
‘What’s its range?’ Nathalie asked.
Meset nodded. ‘The original design was a ballistic missile system that sat between tactical and medium-range use. We think this one has been extended. The analysts in Paris are onto it, but a preliminary guess would be somewhere around three thousand kilometres.’
‘Why would they want a missile with such range to target Israel?’
Meset was interrupted again, holding his hand up to his unseen colleague. ‘Sorry. About the range, I don’t know. This missile system had a very sophisticated guidance system that didn’t rely on GPS, which would make it hard to jam with electronic counter measures. I’m sorry, I have to go. Is there anything else, Nathalie?’
‘No thanks, Jean. Let me know when you get into the big machine.’
His shy smile in response was rather sweet, thought Nathalie. But her heart was thumping in her chest for other reasons.
The jeep bumped towards them on the broken concrete runway. Lynch turned away from it, switched his mobile to silent and slipped it into his boot. He gave up a silent thanks to God for his insistence on using his slimline smartphone rather than the bulky ‘highly secure’ MI6 issue handset. He reached for the camera and slid out the memory card.
‘Whatever you do, don’t piss them off,’ urged Nimr, climbing down from the cockpit. ‘They’re headbangers, I’m tellin’ ya.’
The jeep shrieked to a halt, side on to the Alouette. Four men, all wearing camouflage fatigues and caps, jumped out. Lynch and Nimr waited in front of the helicopter.
The first of the men jabbed at them with the AK47 slung over his shoulder. ‘Hands up.’ They raised their hands. Lynch read the nametag on his chest as he strode towards them: Danni.
‘Turn around. Spread. Now. Hands on the chopper.’
Lynch staggered as one of the men patted him down roughly. The search was thorough, but stopped at the top of his boots. Amateur.
‘Okay.’ They turned. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Who are you?’
Banging came from the helicopter behind them, the fourth guy searching it. He smiled winningly. ‘Depends who you are.’
The man unholstered his pistol, clicking off the safety. He pointed the Desert Eagle towards Lynch and fired. The bullet hit the Perspex of the Alouette’s windshield, sending shards of plastic into the side of Lynch’s face as he flinched away. Nimr shouted out, moved forwards and then halted at the distinctive click-clack of AK47s being cocked. Red-faced, the pistol still held out in front of him, the man screamed, ‘I asked you who the fuck are you.’
Lynch answered, his hand coming away from his cheek streaked with blood. ‘I’m a tourist. I chartered this guy to take me up into the mountains. Someone shot at us.’
The gunman twisted the pistol to point at Nimr, who stammered, ‘True, man, true.’
‘Liars. On your knees.’
They sank to their knees and their hands were pulled down behind and tied, the distinctive little ‘zip’ sound of the cable ties coming an instant before the pain as they were overtightened.
The crackle of a radio. ‘Danni.’ A burst of Arabic, a response from the radio. ‘Okay.’
Lynch picked out ‘Deir Na’ee’ in the stream of Arabic before it broke off. He kept his eyes on the ground. A boot crunched on the broken concrete. His chin was pulled up, gripped in the gunman’s big hand. Blinking with the violence of the movement and the bright sun, Lynch stared into a sneering face. The Desert Eagle was placed against the top of his nose.
‘A tourist packing countermeasure flares? You think we’re fucking idiots?’
Lynch shook his head minutely, his eyes focused on the face above him. He wished he could stop blinking, the cold metal of the gun triggering the reaction. A click sounded, Lynch screwed his eyes shut. His head was pushed back contemptuously.
‘Oom wla,’ the man commanded Lynch and Nimr in Arabic. They staggered to their feet and were jabbed towards the jeep by the butts of AK47s.
They drove up the valley, climbing the face of Kalaa mountain, the road wet and the ground white with snow. Lynch tried to lessen the pain of the cable tie but moving his wrists worsened it, the rocking motion of the jeep making him cry out in pain. The gunman barked at him to shut up.
Deir Na’ee looked more ramshackle from the ground. They drew up to a barbed-wire fence where a surly-faced militia man raised the barrier. A second barrier a hundred metres later was protected by tank traps and a machine gun emplacement. Waved through again, they drove through the big compound, warehouses to the left and right. There was a building set into the side of the steep escarpment to the left, jutting from the rock wall and fronted by huge picture windows.
They arrived at a large hangar backed into the mountain, the big double doors opened for them by invisible hands. The area inside was a yawning space, a roadway running down the centre of the steel-framed building, leading to a far doorway in the back of the hangar. The jeep’s engine roared, the noise bouncing back off the steel panels. They approached the doorway and stopped, the engine idling as they waited.
A red light flashed above the studded heavy steel door and its two leaves opened outwards to the intermittent loud beeping of an alarm.
They drove into the mountain, a long tunnel. They passed side tunnels, pulling up at a loading bay several hundred metres in, Lynch guessed. They were pulled from the jeep and marched through into a warehouse-like area. Lynch had seen rooms like this on the compromised CCTV system. That meant Nathalie’s team could see him now. He searched for the camera, earning himself a ringing punch on the ear fr
om Danni. They marched into another corridor. Lynch was driven into a side room with a brutal blow to his side from a rifle butt. His knees gave way and he slid to the floor, gasping. The door slammed behind him.
Lynch took time to regain his breath, his eyes closed and his face upturned. He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. The room was small, a shabby camp bed against the wall. There was no window. Lynch got up from the floor, bent in a painful, low crouch and reached into his boot for the mobile. He overbalanced and fell on his side. He tried again by using the wall to balance against as he reached into the boot with his tied hands.
Held dn il gone militia hold hamat. ok.
Lynch pressed send. The door flew open. Two gunmen burst into the room, screaming abuse. He leapt to his feet, unable to stop the mighty blow to his face. A flurry of damaging punches to his stomach doubled him up. He tried to retaliate, but his legs gave way again and he fell backwards against the wall.
Danni towered over him, the mobile held in his big hand, screaming ‘Kiss ikhtak! Kiss ikhtak ya kalb!’
On the floor, Lynch fought for breath, his pinioned arms painful behind his back, knees drawn up, and his head lowered. The door slammed again. Lynch thought of the grubby farmhouse near Batroun where he had found Paul Stokes’ body. The stench of death and the buzzing of flies came back to him.
THIRTY-FOUR
Yves Dubois arrived at the fourteenth floor of the opulent Phoenicia Intercontinental Hotel and headed straight for room 1430. He tapped on the door, noting the service trolley outside the room two doors down, the uniformed staff member apparently unhurried as he folded a piece of linen and placed it in front of him. A guest walked up the corridor towards Dubois, again in no particular hurry. Dubois noted both men and, given who he was about to meet, he assumed both were CIA operatives.
The door was answered by a grey-haired man in shirtsleeves. ‘Yves. Good to see you again.’
Dubois smiled thinly. ‘Frank. Good to see you too. It must be, oh, years since we had the chance to talk.’
‘Come in, come in. Don’t be a stranger now.’
Frank Coleman was CIA station chief, Beirut, and a man whose past was intimately intertwined with Dubois’ own. Coleman’s call had come out of the blue, a surprise so total it had left Dubois in a state of shock. He and Channing had argued bitterly about the decision to accept Coleman’s request for a crash meeting. It was only when Dubois agreed to absolve Channing of any knowledge of his decision to agree to meet the CIA man that he had been able to talk Channing down from his towering rage. The news that Maalouf had precise knowledge of the cargo the Arabian Princess carried hadn’t helped Channing’s temper.
Dubois strode past Coleman’s outstretched hand into the room.
‘Buddy, this is Yves Dubois, an old friend and a good friend to America.’ Coleman grinned, his teeth dazzling. The gesture never quite reached the washed-out blue gaze even as Coleman gave the impression of being in a rush to spread bonhomie on the world. Dubois held his hand out to the man who had risen from the sofa, leaning over the coffee table with a smile. He was stocky, pale but dark haired, his brown eyes nervous and his greeting given with a fleeting, uncertain smile.
‘Hi. Buddy Steele. Steel with an e on the end.’
‘Can we get you a coffee, Yves?’
Dubois sat. ‘No, thank you.’
Coleman took the opposite armchair, Steele between them on the sofa. Coleman’s smile made his crow’s feet wrinkle up. Sun damage, thought Dubois, who sat with his hands clasped together, his forefingers against his lips.
Coleman picked up his mobile and tapped it against his palm. ‘I am so glad you could join us today, Yves, and we truly appreciate your fitting us in at such short notice. Especially as you are travelling so far from home. Mind you, this place must seem like home to you after all those years.’
Dubois inclined his head in acknowledgement, watching Coleman’s face transform into a picture of earnest friendliness.
‘You’re normally in Brussels these days, aren’t you? What brings you back to Beirut? You on a nostalgia trip?’ Coleman laughed, alone. Steele smiled dutifully, sitting back and draping his arm on the back of the sofa.
‘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 warhea
ds. 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.’
Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Page 29