Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Read Online Free PDF

Internet microbursts which turned
out to be a stream of small payments to a company in Germany about
ten days ago. Looking at it from the German side, it would have
seemed like ordinary international e-commerce traffic, but we
tracked the payments back to a tiny range of IP addresses, all here
in Beirut. Each of the bank accounts they used had received
transfers from a British Virgin Islands company. It was clever
stuff, virtually undetectable unless you are looking very hard for
it. The BVI company is Falcon Finance, a subsidiary of Falcon
Dynamics. Falcon is a Lebanese defence systems company – Selim
Hussein and Michel Freij.’
    ‘ How
much?’
    ‘ Eighty
million US.’
    ‘ And the
German company?’
    ‘ An
e-commerce website, sells home security stuff and gadgets. And it
belongs to Michel bloody Freij and his fat friend. Another Falcon
subsidiary.’
    ‘ So what’s
the problem? It’s their money, isn’t it?’
    ‘ Come on,
Tony. Don’t be bloody daft. They laundered offshore money to
Germany using a complex Internet scam. Why? To avoid regulators?
Us?’
    Chalhoub
shook his head, his hand raised in negation, the smoke trailing
from his cigarette. ‘No way, José. These people are legit, Gerald.
They don’t need to launder money. Falcon Dynamics is a highly
respected company and close to the government here as well as the
Americans. Freij and Hussein are heroes. They’re the successful
business partnership that transcended sectarianism and outdid the
Israelis at their own game, the defence business. Christ, Michel
Freij is running for president. And he’ll do it, too. This One
Lebanon party of his is already strong in the coalition and they’re
likely going to piss the elections next year. He’s
untouchable.’
    ‘ I don’t
care. They’re fucking crooks. My masters want to know why Falcon
sneaked eighty million dollars into Europe through the back door.
And I want to know why they’d kill to protect that
reason.’
    Chalhoub
paused. ‘Kill?’ He peered at Lynch across the frosted green neck of
the bottle he had been about to drink from, understanding dawning
on his baggy-eyed features. ‘This dead journalist. Stokes. He’s one
of yours.’
    Lynch drank,
nodding. ‘The dead journalist is one of mine.’
    ‘ Now I get
it,’ Chalhoub drew on his cigarette. ‘Finally. You must think I’m
slow, yes?’
    ‘ No. I
don’t.’
    ‘ Kazab. Liar. You were trying to
flush them out, but they bit you on the ass.’
    Lynch
signalled the barman for another Almaza. ‘Whatever.’
    ‘ This Stokes
guy. He was close?’
    Lynch studied
the label on his beer bottle intently. ‘Yes, yes he was. Move on,
Tony.’
    ‘ How are you
so sure it was Freij?’
    ‘ They left a
little note with his name on. A little vellum note in fine
calligraphy.’
    Chalhoub
whistled. ‘That was Raymond Freij’s thing, wasn’t it? The little
notes? You think Michel’s started doing the same his father used
to? That’s crazy, Gerald. It just points the way straight back to
him.’
    ‘ I went to
Stokes’ apartment yesterday. Two militia thugs let themselves in
just after me. They had a key. There were no keys or papers left on
Stokes’ body. I followed them up into Ashrafieh.’ Lynch pushed a
scrap of paper across to Chalhoub. ‘Here. It’s a new building in
Abdul Wahab El Inglezi Street. There are a large number of
high-tech CCTV cameras watching it. Check it out, but I bet you a
hundred bucks it’s something to do with Freij.’
    Chalhoub
folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Okay. I’ve got
your little white Irish butt covered, but you can’t go around
beating up security guards in billionaire presidential candidates’
offices. Not even in Beirut. I got the case dropped, but we’ll
still be lodging a formal protest with H.E.’
    Lynch winced.
H.E. was His Excellency, the British Ambassador to Beirut, Sir St
John Winterton. He raised his bottle in a tight-lipped toast to the
last crusty old cold war era