Beirut - An Explosive Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

twit left in the diplomatic service
and drew a deep breath. ‘Fine, Tony. We all do what we have to do.
Sorry for the trouble.’
    ‘ I understand. Anything I can do to help, let me know. I’ll
check out the address.’ Chalhoub patted Lynch on the arm. ‘Don’t go
near General Security with this. Anything to do with Freij and
Falcon is off limits and loaded with a cocktail of
sectarianism, wasta , bribery, and vested interests. They’ll just fuck you
around, pass any information onto Michel and Selim and then shaft
you. The Yanks will stamp on your ass, too. Those boys are way off
limits. Way, way off.’
    Lynch scraped
his hand over the stubble on his chin. He gazed into the mirror
behind the stacked bottles. He was pale, the dark patches either
side of his nose circling down to underpin the fleshy bags padding
the bottom of his eyes. His open shirt was a washed-out blue and
his collar was worn. He caught Chalhoub’s sympathetic
gaze.
    Chalhoub slid
off his bar stool. ‘Come on, Gerald. You should get some
rest.’
    Lynch nodded,
drained his bottle and banged it down on the bar top. ‘You’re
right, Tony. I’m beat. Thanks for the shoulder and the hint about
Michel and company. I’ll back off a bit until we have formal
guidance from London. I was just pissed off they killed my
boy.’
    Lynch patted
his friend’s shoulder, palm-slapping Chalhoub’s bodyguard on his
way into the night with its cicadas and the smell of apple shisha smoke on the
breeze carried along with snatches of conversation and the clink of
glasses.
    Lynch flagged
down a servees ,
the ancient Mercedes taxi squeaking and groaning its way across the
busy traffic until they reached Ain Mreisseh. Force of habit had
him pay off the grubby old driver ten minutes’ walk from his
apartment and take to the streets alone and watchful.
    Lynch froze
at his apartment door. A sliver of light shone under it. He had
switched the lights off before he left. He paused to catch his
breath and slipped open the door. He crept down the hallway lined
with books, framed photographs and Bedouin artefacts, his hand
ready under his jacket, the butt of the P99 cool against his
fingers. The muted notes of violin music sounded. He glanced at the
black iPod in the cradle of the Bose speaker and
relaxed.
    She was
reading, curled up on the rattan chair by the open door to the
balcony, her poetry notebook at her side. She glanced up, her
faraway eyes focusing on the present and her full lips
smiling.
    ‘ Lynch.
You’re done snooping for the day?’
    Leila
Medawar, student activist, dissident, blogger and poet to the
leftist anti-sectarian intelligentsia. Born into wealth and
privilege, she was heart-rendingly idealistic. Lynch sighed at the
sight of her, beautiful dark-haired Leila, lover of freedom,
equality and British spies. Well,
spy.
    Lynch had
been looking into a student protest that threatened to march
against the British Embassy, a boring little job he was only taking
half-seriously. Leila was one of the ringleaders. Her defiant eyes
had caught his across the student bar and held them. A week later
they were lying together in his bed, her hair a tumble of brown
curls across the pillow, and sweat glistening on her full breasts.
The memory made him randy for her. He kissed her, a brief touch of
the lips then a second, lingering, open-mouthed melting. She
laughed and ran her hand back through her hair.
    ‘ You are
dirty minded always, Lynch.’
    He caressed
her cheek. ‘Thanks for washing up. Sure, you didn’t have to do
that.’
    ‘ An Arab
girl, Lynch. It’s what you wanted, no?’
    Lynch
regarded her seriously. ‘Just let me know, Leila, before you come
round. We discussed that before. Anyway, I thought you were
studying.’
    ‘ I got bored.
Beside, you live like a pig, so I thought at least I would clean
the sty. Why don’t you get a cleaner?’
    Lynch snorted
as he poured a whisky. ‘It’s not very secure, is it, hiring
cleaners?’
    ‘ You fuck