Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb Page A

licked the foam from his upper
lip. ‘I’m with SIS, British intelligence. EJIC’s running this
operation, and I got caught up in it. As far as I can see, EJIC is
just more European bureaucracy getting in the way of good people’s
hard work. As usual.’
    Liberec
raised his glass. ‘Amen to that. We already have liaison committees
and European intelligence coordinators on our staff. Soon they will
be running our service.’ He drank. ‘Let’s not worry about them now.
We have full hands, no? How do you get caught up in something like
this, my friend?’
    ‘ Dunno, you
just do. Like you say, there’s a lot of “joint European
cooperation” going on these days. I should be back in Beirut. I
just got mixed up in this end of it.’
    Liberec
laughed, a short bark. ‘Get unmixed. Our people are having huge row
with the Russians already. This whole mess is toxic. That is one
hell of boat those boys are sailing around in, Gerald. Enough to
blow them to kingdom come and back again.’
    Lynch ran his
finger down the frosted glass. ‘A row with the
Russians?’
    ‘ It is a
Russian installation. We are asking them for a full inventory.
Before, they started to cooperate, but something has changed. Now
they are denying it ever existed. It brings back some long
memories, this kind of thing. We all wish it had stayed
buried.’
    They were
silenced by a group of young men who arrived and clung to the bar
nearby. Lynch shared small talk about Prague and the glories of
tourism for a few drinks more. By the time the noisy group moved
on, Liberec had introduced Lynch to Becherovka and they had started
to chase their beers with schnapps as Liberec embarked on an
alcoholic tour of Czech culture.
    Lynch held
his hand up at the third shot. ‘I need to eat
something.’
    ‘ Good, so I order some bramboráky . This is good drinking
food.’
    As Liberec
turned to the barmaid and negotiated in Czech, Lynch thought of
Leila and the waves along Beirut corniche, a sense of alienation
washing over him. He was feeling out of his depth, playing the
freelance plod for Dubois in a territory he knew nothing about.
Where were the specialists, he wondered. Why was this operation
being run as a one-man show? Now they knew the boat was loaded with
hundreds of rockets and cluster munitions, surely it was up to the
defence boys?
    Liberec
mistook his preoccupation, gripping his elbow. ‘Gerald, you are
sad.’
    Lynch drained
his glass. ‘No, not really, Branko. A passing cloud.’ He gestured
to the barmaid. ‘Two more, please.’
    Lynch scanned
the room. He leant towards Liberec. ‘So when was it last in use,
this arms dump?’
    Liberec
blinked, understanding dawning on his face. ‘Ah, this place. Bad
place. Long time, I think. We had Velvet Revolution in 1989, but
the Russians did not all leave until 1993. Is hard to tell. How
this guy Hoffmann ever found this is beyond us, really.’
    ‘ His daughter
says he found it by accident when he was a kid. He lived by the
border and must have played in the woods with his friends. It seems
odd, because that’s probably back in the seventies?’
    Liberec’s
face was a picture of wonderment. ‘This is impossible. How could
they let kids into this place? No, I cannot accept this. Before
Velvet Revolution, it would have been guarded heavy.’
    ‘ Unless it
was abandoned and then recommissioned.’
    Liberec was
silent, his hands on his head as he considered Lynch’s point. He
gazed around the bar as if searching for an answer. He pushed his
forefinger into Lynch’s chest. ‘Yes. Yes. My God. This is why the
bastards won’t tell us about the place. Because they stock it up
ready to put down the Czech independence movement – will they,
won’t they? They think doing it again to us, another invasion,
another Jan Palak. Sure, bastards. Russian tanks on the Charles
Bridge once more and we Czechs learn another lesson in how to suck
Russian dick. Thank you for stop Velvet Revolution, Commissar
bastard. Thank