fundamentalism eating away at the heart of things in the Middle East. Don’t know the answer.” He raised his glass. “Here endeth the lesson.”
“Very unhealthy,” she said. “Poor old Dillon. You’re a doer, not a philosopher. Let’s remember that and get on with it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Now if you’ll put your jacket on and come next door to my room, Walid Khasan is on his way up.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
He picked up a lightweight navy-blue blazer and followed her next door. Her room was exactly like his and he checked the French windows to the terrace. There was a knock at the door. When Hannah opened it, a man in his mid-forties stood there. He wore a crumpled white suit, had long black hair, a wrinkled face and olive skin.
“Good afternoon. I am Walid Khasan.” He spoke with a strong foreign accent.
“Amy Cooper,” Hannah told him, “and this is Harry Gaunt. Do come in.”
“Please, this is not necessary,” he said as he entered and placed a briefcase on the table. “I am very well aware of who you are, Miss Bernstein, and you, Mr. Dillon.”
She closed the door and Dillon said in fluent Arabic, “So Ferguson filled you in totally?”
“Yes, but then he usually does,” Walid Khasan replied in the same language.
“Good.” Dillon switched back to English. “I’m afraid the Chief Inspector has no Arabic.”
“Hebrew only, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.
Walid Khasan replied at once in excellent Hebrew. “Oh, I can speak that also, but it is not to be recommended in Beirut. The Israelis are not popular here.”
“What a pity,” she said in Hebrew. “I’ll remember that, of course. We have enough problems.”
Walid Khasan opened the briefcase, took out two Walther PPK pistols with silencers, and several clips of ammunition. “I trust these will hold you. I can supply heavier artillery, Mr. Dillon, if necessary, but I’ll require notice.”
“You’ll get it when necessary.” Dillon checked the Walther and put it in his waistband at the rear and an extra clip in his blazer pocket. Hannah put hers in her shoulder bag.
“So,” Dillon said, “what about our friends from Belfast?”
Walid Khasan opened the French window and sat down in a wicker chair. “Francis Callaghan is staying here on the floor below and uses his own name. He’s supposed to represent an Irish electronics firm from Cork. I’ve checked and the firm is genuine. They specialize in hotel contracts, security, and that sort of thing.”
Hannah leaned on the rail and Dillon sat opposite Khasan. “And Quinn?”
“I’ve seen him only once and he certainly isn’t staying here.”
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
“I’ve had Callaghan followed by people working for me. He seems to have spent his time as any tourist would. Visiting historic remains, shopping.” He smiled. “It may surprise you, but there is still a certain normality here.”
“And nothing out of the ordinary?” she asked.
“Oh yes. One day, when I was following him myself, he had lunch at a cafe right on the waterfront. The sort of place dockworkers might use. He met Daniel Quinn there.” He smiled. “The Brigadier supplied me with color faxes of these men. It was definitely Quinn.”
“You’re sure?” Hannah demanded.
“Oh yes. More interesting was the fact that they were joined by two men I am familiar with. Selim Rassi, a very important figure in the Party of God movement, and a man from the Russian Embassy called Ilya Bikov. He’s supposed to be in public relations, but he’s a Captain in the Federal Service of Counter Espionage.”
“KGB,” Dillon said.
“Change the name, but the same smell. They went down to a dock, boarded a high-speed boat, and took off. I couldn’t follow, so I don’t know where they went. A lot of shipping out there.”
“So what happens now?” Hannah Bernstein asked.
Walid Khasan smiled. “Callaghan always has a drink in the bar around six o’clock.” He checked
“Very unhealthy,” she said. “Poor old Dillon. You’re a doer, not a philosopher. Let’s remember that and get on with it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Now if you’ll put your jacket on and come next door to my room, Walid Khasan is on his way up.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
He picked up a lightweight navy-blue blazer and followed her next door. Her room was exactly like his and he checked the French windows to the terrace. There was a knock at the door. When Hannah opened it, a man in his mid-forties stood there. He wore a crumpled white suit, had long black hair, a wrinkled face and olive skin.
“Good afternoon. I am Walid Khasan.” He spoke with a strong foreign accent.
“Amy Cooper,” Hannah told him, “and this is Harry Gaunt. Do come in.”
“Please, this is not necessary,” he said as he entered and placed a briefcase on the table. “I am very well aware of who you are, Miss Bernstein, and you, Mr. Dillon.”
She closed the door and Dillon said in fluent Arabic, “So Ferguson filled you in totally?”
“Yes, but then he usually does,” Walid Khasan replied in the same language.
“Good.” Dillon switched back to English. “I’m afraid the Chief Inspector has no Arabic.”
“Hebrew only, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.
Walid Khasan replied at once in excellent Hebrew. “Oh, I can speak that also, but it is not to be recommended in Beirut. The Israelis are not popular here.”
“What a pity,” she said in Hebrew. “I’ll remember that, of course. We have enough problems.”
Walid Khasan opened the briefcase, took out two Walther PPK pistols with silencers, and several clips of ammunition. “I trust these will hold you. I can supply heavier artillery, Mr. Dillon, if necessary, but I’ll require notice.”
“You’ll get it when necessary.” Dillon checked the Walther and put it in his waistband at the rear and an extra clip in his blazer pocket. Hannah put hers in her shoulder bag.
“So,” Dillon said, “what about our friends from Belfast?”
Walid Khasan opened the French window and sat down in a wicker chair. “Francis Callaghan is staying here on the floor below and uses his own name. He’s supposed to represent an Irish electronics firm from Cork. I’ve checked and the firm is genuine. They specialize in hotel contracts, security, and that sort of thing.”
Hannah leaned on the rail and Dillon sat opposite Khasan. “And Quinn?”
“I’ve seen him only once and he certainly isn’t staying here.”
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
“I’ve had Callaghan followed by people working for me. He seems to have spent his time as any tourist would. Visiting historic remains, shopping.” He smiled. “It may surprise you, but there is still a certain normality here.”
“And nothing out of the ordinary?” she asked.
“Oh yes. One day, when I was following him myself, he had lunch at a cafe right on the waterfront. The sort of place dockworkers might use. He met Daniel Quinn there.” He smiled. “The Brigadier supplied me with color faxes of these men. It was definitely Quinn.”
“You’re sure?” Hannah demanded.
“Oh yes. More interesting was the fact that they were joined by two men I am familiar with. Selim Rassi, a very important figure in the Party of God movement, and a man from the Russian Embassy called Ilya Bikov. He’s supposed to be in public relations, but he’s a Captain in the Federal Service of Counter Espionage.”
“KGB,” Dillon said.
“Change the name, but the same smell. They went down to a dock, boarded a high-speed boat, and took off. I couldn’t follow, so I don’t know where they went. A lot of shipping out there.”
“So what happens now?” Hannah Bernstein asked.
Walid Khasan smiled. “Callaghan always has a drink in the bar around six o’clock.” He checked
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