Free Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb Page B

not
like the DGSE people you have worked with before, I think. I work
in network intelligence, online security, digital networks. It’s an
office job. I do not really become involved in knocking down doors
and these things. My team just knocks down computers. Like
skittles.’ She sipped from her glass with an impish peek at him
over the rim. She wiped the condensation from her slim fingers on
her jeans.
    No rings,
Lynch noted. She wore a long black leather jacket, a plain t-shirt
and black cowboy boots. She pulled a stray curve of hair back from
her mouth.
    ‘ What about
you, Mr Lynch? You knock down doors, is it not?’
    He nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do.’
    They had
dinner at the hotel’s ‘international restaurant’, drinking too much
to compensate for the appalling food. After they parted, Lynch
stayed up in his room, popping miniatures from his mini-bar and
channel-hopping. He had finally settled on the ‘premium
entertainment’ channel.
    The plane
approached the runway in drizzle, streaks on the rounded windows. A
tendril of vapour streamed over the wing as they came down. A
little over two hours after he had dropped his hire car at
Heathrow, Lynch carried a set of keys from the Hertz office in
Belfast and headed for the car park, an unusual cash
customer.
    Driving under
the surly grey sky with his lights on, Lynch left the drab city
behind him. The road was slick, the sparse drizzle intermittent.
The wipers squeaked across the windscreen and he switched them off.
He left the motorway, turning by the outskirts of the town into the
long driveway up to the sprawling red brick building. He shivered
as he passed the gates.
    His shoes
crunched on the loose stones as he reached the steps to the front
doors of the convent. He paused at the bottom to take a deep
breath. The memories threatened to engulf him. His chest tight, his
hand flew involuntarily to his open shirt as he cleared his throat
to speak to the big, cow-eyed nun at reception.
    ‘ Sister
Helena Mary, please.’
    The smell of
wood polish and frankincense and a vague hint of institutional
cookery brought the sound of hushed children’s voices back to him,
echoing in the corridors down the years. He took the seat she
offered, steadying himself as he pushed back the tide of memory, as
he always did.
    A nurse
appeared. ‘This way, please Mr—?’
    Lynch
followed her in silence, the light shining off the wooden floor
polished by a million childish feet. The room was airy, the walls a
cornflower blue. The tiny woman in the hospital bed twisted her
sparsely haired head to see him enter. Her skin was lined and
yellow.
    ‘ Ah, I
wondered what all the noise was. Gerald Lynch, you always did sound
like a herd of elephants in a terrible tear.’
    Her voice was
reedy and her breath came in gasps after she spoke, but the
strength in her eyes was astonishing. He sat on the bed and took
her emaciated little hand. Like a monkey’s
paw .
    ‘ How are ye
keepin’, Sister?’
    ‘ Sure, ye
know yerself. The days are gettin’ shorter as me life’s gettin’
longer.’
    He picked at
the blanket, pulling it up over her chest. ‘I brought you some
Kendal Mint Cake,’ he said, laying the white plastic-wrapped bars
out on the side table.
    ‘ Are ye
married yet?’
    He shook his
head, smiling at her. ‘Ah no, Sister. Sure, amn’t I busy enough in
Beirut?’
    ‘ Is that
where you are now?’ She noticed the nurse hovering by the door.
‘Thank you, Simone.’
    Lynch
unwrapped the mint cake and broke off a corner. ‘Yes, Sister,
Beirut’s nice, a very old city. It’s a lively place, all right. I
was there before, you know, during the war.’
    She took the
white triangle and popped it into her mouth. ‘Well, as long as
you’re staying in trouble.’
    Lynch laughed
at that, her little brown eyes in the wrinkled, moist lids dancing
in response.
    ‘ I am so,
Sister.’ He frowned, stroking her hand. ‘The old place seems quiet
now. Where have the children