Read Online Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb - Free Book Online Page A

find at the
boatyard?’
    ‘ The men were on strike. They hadn’t been paid in months. This
last refit was meant to be their big payoff. It was a Luxe 500,
rebadged the Arabian Princess under a Monaco flag. They fitted extra stowage
under the pool deck. The boat was floated off at night, went
upriver according to the shop steward there, guy called Jan Wolfe.
One of the workers saw it come back downriver again ten days later.
That was two days ago.’ Duggan gestured at the last car leaving the
drive to the front of the house. ‘These idiots have burned valuable
time waffling.’
    ‘ What was in
the arms dump? There’s nothing about it in the report you
filed.’
    ‘ That’s because she didn’t know anything about it. She was
listening in and heard it mentioned, that it was across the Czech
border. The Arabian Princess sailed up the Elbe for ten days.’ Duggan
shrugged. ‘You sort of put two and two together.’
    And get
twenty, Lynch thought.
    Yates poked
his head around the door. ‘Here we are, sir. Mister Channing says
it’s to be your last.’
    ‘ It’s not for
me, Yates. It’s for him. Tell Channing to fuck himself.’
    ‘ Right you
are, sir.’
    Duggan took
the glass. His face was drawn. ‘Will she be all right?’
    ‘ Did you
sleep with her?’
    Duggan froze,
the glass to his lips. He drained it and stared into the
mist.
     
     

SEVEN
     
     
    Lynch pulled
off the main road into the cemetery. The rain had died back to a
light drizzle. Fat droplets slapped the car as he passed under the
Victorian gateway. The air smelt of leaves and moist earth. His
shoes crunched on the path across the green. He passed a great oak
and headed for the small group huddled around a freshly dug
grave.
    He recognised
Paul Stokes’ mother, her face crushed by grief, holding onto the
arm of a strong-chinned man in a greatcoat. Dark hair, smooth
features – Stokes’ brother Charles. The earth-smell was stronger
here. The droning of the priest ended, an abrupt silence. The flat
tattoo of wet soil on wood interrupted the little sounds of
grief.
    Paul in the
damp of a South London cemetery. Paul crying in the smashed remains
of his house in Jordan, Lynch helping him to his feet after
the Mukhabarrat raid that killed the woman he loved. Paul coming to terms
with Aisha’s death, slowly healing after Lynch arranged his
relocation to Beirut. Paul drunk, hammering his fists against
Lynch’s chest and screaming abuse. Paul in a cupboard, fat flies
crawling on his eyes.
    Lynch watched
his clouded breath, felt his warm body inside his rustling jacket,
his barrier against the dank air. He offered up a silent prayer for
the gift of life. He noticed the lone watcher standing by the oak.
Crossing himself like a good Irishman, Lynch turned away from the
grave and struck out across the silvered grass to meet Michel
Freij.
    Freij wore a
Crombie. Underneath the heavy jacket, his striped tie was held in
place with a golden pin that reflected like a little buttercup on
his crisp shirt. Droplets from the grass glistened on his black
shoes. He smiled and held out his hand as Lynch strode up. ‘Mr
Lynch. How pleasant to see you.’
    ‘ What are you
bloody doing here?’ Lynch ignored the hand.
    Freij tilted
his precisely clipped chin upwards towards the little group of
people breaking up. ‘I was in London for meetings with your foreign
office. I came to pay my respects. It was,’ Freij smiled
humourlessly, ‘unfortunate Mr Stokes died in this way.’
    Freij turned
to the path, stamping his feet on the asphalt to dry his shoes.
Lynch, following, kept his hands in his pockets with an effort.
‘Unfortunate? It was pretty fucking disproportionate.’
    ‘ Disproportionate to what, Mr Lynch? I am not aware of the
circumstances surrounding his death. But I had never considered
death to be a matter of ...’ he paused and turned to Lynch with a
half-smile, ‘proportion. It always seemed to me to be a matter
rather of finality.’
    Lynch