Free Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb

not join their ranks, Mr Lynch.’
    Lynch
followed as Freij turned and made his way back towards the car
park, leaving a fine tendril of blue-grey smoke rising from his
cigarette, slow-moving in the still air. ‘Not that it is any of
your business, you understand, but part of the funds we transferred
to Germany were used to pay for a new corporate identity and
communications campaign for the One Lebanon Party. I am going to
win, Mr Lynch. I am going to cure the greatest ill that has ripped
our nation apart. A strong government that truly represents the
people and welcomes them regardless of belief or origin. A strong
Lebanon that can stand up to its neighbours and can rebuff Israel
and Syria alike. One people brought together under one nation, not
divided by sectarianism.’ Freij flicked the butt onto the grass,
his Rolex rattling. ‘I did not, and do not, want our opponents
knowing how we are disbursing funds to support my
campaign.’
    The large
Mercedes was waiting in the car park, the driver standing by his
open door.
    ‘ I am going
to win, Mr Lynch. And I am not going to let this,’ Freij gestured
at the cemetery, ‘get in the way of winning.’
    Freij offered
his hand. Lynch took it, automatically, his mind revolting too late
at the gesture.
    ‘ Goodbye, Mr
Lynch. My people will be in touch.’
    Footsteps
approached from behind, turning as the bulky figure passed and got
into the front of the car. The big guard pulled the door shut as
Lynch glimpsed the unmistakeable bulge of a shoulder holster. He
hadn’t spotted the security and was glad he hadn’t given in to his
initial urge to give Freij a slap.
    Lynch watched
Freij’s car leave. He paused by his own, shook his head and fetched
the wheel a savage kick.
     
     
     
     

EIGHT
     
     
    Peter Meier
liked to drive down Unter Den Linden; it gave him a sense of
history and perspective. Berlin could be a fine city, he reflected.
A lady of rare taste and breeding. She could also be a harlot.
Meier could deal with either quite happily, his expensive lifestyle
masking a life born into poverty and grown up on theft.
    Meier thought
of fat, stupid Hoffmann and the fortune the man had made him. He
settled into the soft leather seat and imagined the sound of hooves
and iron wheels, the creak and clatter of the tack as Germany’s
beau monde took the air in Europe’s first and finest boulevard,
whiskered gentlemen upright in their smart uniforms as their women
smiled and waved with grace and sensibility. Turning right with a
sigh, he found himself once again back in modern East Berlin, the
glass and steel architecture a rude awakening from his period
daydream. A young couple necked passionately on the street
corner.
    Meier guided
the Mercedes into the narrow street at the rear of the prestigious
building that housed his elegant offices. He raised the remote
control for the basement car park, but paused in the act of
pressing the button as he noticed the back of a police car tucked
into the parking area of the apartment block opposite.
    Men are
usually born of instinct or logic. Meier was unusual in that he
comprised both. An accountant’s eye for detail and a constant need
for order sat alongside a predator’s ability to distinguish
opportunity from danger. He dropped the remote and drove on. He
turned at the end of the alley into the main road and parked a
short distance away in front of a row of shops. Walking back, he
sniffed the air: fresh springtime tainted with exhaust fumes, a
strong whiff of coffee as he passed a busy café and turned into the
sunlight and the wide pedestrian area to the front of his offices.
He strode past the boutiques and restaurants, then peered into the
smoked glass frontage of his office building. He stepped through
the sliding door into the atrium.
    Meier veered
away from the marble reception desk and the two men talking to the
uniformed security guard. His purposeful stride took him to the
lifts and he waited impatiently, watching the