Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb

use its ownership of this operation to include some
form of attempt to rebuild French operations there. You will be
offered “resources”. Kindly accept the offer
graciously.’
    ‘ You mean
I’ll get a French shadow?’
    ‘ Precisely. And you are, of course, to cooperate fully
and report fully
on what he gets up to.’
    ‘ Does it
matter? I mean, Beirut’s not exactly the jewel in SIS’ crown, is
it? I’m a one-man show most of the time. It’s a far cry from back
in the days when we had the language school in Shemlan and all that
carry on. You know yourself, you’ve mothballed pretty much every
source I’ve come up with since the Jordanian water affair blew
up.’
    ‘ Don’t be
bitter. It doesn’t suit you.’ Channing leaned forward. ‘Another
thing. Dubois is on the warpath. Watch the bastard. He’s empire
building and I won’t have it.’
    The door
opened and Yates pushed a small, creaking trolley into the room.
Channing rose, brushing imaginary dust from his trouser. ‘I’m going
down the corridor. Join us after your cup of tea, twenty minutes or
so. Be pleased to see me. I know you’re a natural actor, so it
shouldn’t be too onerous.’
    Lynch glared
at Channing’s back as he left. He grimaced at the teapot on the
trolley and winked at Yates. ‘Yates, can you fix that
scotch?’
    ‘ Course,
sir.’
    ‘ Good man,
yeself.’
     

SIX
     
     
    Lynch barged
into the meeting room. The faux-Georgian table hosted a collection
of ghost-faced waiters and watchers. Brian Channing was halfway to
his feet, surprised by the speed of Lynch’s entry, his mouth half
open. To his right, frozen in immortal tableau was Jefferson from
customs. Lynch had met him once, some shitty security conference in
a tatty Northern hotel, an internal affair. Next to Jefferson was a
big, sandy man wearing a beige jacket. Lynch guessed he was another
customs type and a stranger to the rest of the group, his big hands
cupped the cheap porcelain coffee cup in front of him.
    ‘ Top of the
morning to ye,’ Lynch said, thickening his Northern
accent.
    Channing’s
smile took in the room. ‘Everybody, I’d like you to meet our head
man in Beirut, Gerald Lynch. Gerald, I shall make the
introductions. You know Nigel Jefferson from Customs and Excise, to
his right is Charles Duggan. This is Yves Dubois, the chair of the
European Joint Intelligence Committee and to his right is Nathalie
Durand. Nathalie represents
the technical directorate of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité
Extérieure . Herr Dieter Schmidt represents the Bundesnachrichtendienst .’
    Lynch took
his place, stretching to help himself to sulky spurts of coffee
from the battered canteen.
    ‘ Shall I
summarise our discussion and bring Gerald up to date? Gerald, I
think I can speak for us all when I offer my condolences on the
death of your colleague. It was really most
unfortunate.’
    Channing
picked up a pencil as a baton for his exposition. Lynch settled in
for the long haul, a glance round the table confirming a similar
air of resignation among the listeners and earning him a
tight-lipped smile from Durand. Her lipstick was carmine,
offsetting her alabaster skin, her hair shoulder length and jet
black apart from a single red streak. A little badge of
individuality there, thought Lynch as he idly wondered why she was
in the room.
    Channing
extended his hand. ‘So, for Gerald’s sake, Mr Duggan here is a
customs officer involved in high-risk operations against organised
criminals in cross-border situations. Whilst on leave following his
injury in an unfortunately concluded operation in Hamburg, he
encountered a young lady who claimed to be the daughter of a
certain Gerhardt Hoffmann, a German businessman who is the CEO and
sole shareholder of Luxe Marine, a manufacturer of high-end luxury
yachts. The young lady claimed her father was trying to kill her
after she discovered he was in the process of selling illegal arms
to Arab buyers and shipping them using