Beirut - An Explosive Thriller by Alexander McNabb Page B

you for rescue this poor whore from Europe and
freedom. Hoffmann found old dump, we found new dump. Always these
bastards dump, no, Gerald? Always on us.’
    Lynch slipped
off his bar stool, patting Liberec’s shoulder. ‘Toilet.’ He wove
through the increasingly busy bar.
    When he
returned there was food on the counter and more beer. The potato
fritters were crisp and hot, the pickled sausage piquant. There was
cheese, too. Lynch hadn’t eaten properly since Belfast airport’s
overpriced stodge, beans and chips.
    Liberec waved
his finger owlishly as Lynch ate. ‘That boat of yours, she full of
ammunition meant for Czechs, Gerald. That dump, she Russian last
gift to the Czech people, but it was lost in post.’
    ‘ We don’t
know for sure. It’s just something you made up.’
    Liberec was
bright-eyed, gripping the bar to steady himself. ‘Consider careful
and you find is only answer. Your German loot Soviet dump was part
of a build-up against Czech independence.’ He breathed heavily,
waving his beer glass at Lynch. ‘Now we toast Czech men and women
who are still alive because the bastards not have guts to use this
weapons.’
    Lynch spread
his hands. ‘But new bastards have them.’
    ‘ You will
find them. I trust you. Come, we drink for Czech
people!’
    Liberec’s
mobile rang and he fished in his pockets for the handset, cursing
and flailing at the folds of cloth. Lynch couldn’t help grinning at
the performance.
    Liberec
listened, blinked, frowned and started to interrupt. The blood
drained from his face. The mobile dropped onto the counter from his
limp hand.
    ‘ What the
fuck is it?’ Lynch demanded.
    ‘ Wait. Not in
here. We pay bill.’ Liberec called the barmaid and settled with
her. He led the way unevenly through the massed tables to the
street door. Lynch followed him, mystified. They walked together in
the cold air, the orange streetlights reflecting off the
cobbles.
    Liberec held
onto Lynch’s shoulder as they made their way together up the
street, just two more drunks in Prague. Liberec’s voice slurred as
he struggled to sober up. He enunciated slowly. ‘The closed door,
remember? They have opened this door. This is store for twenty
Russian missiles, Oka missiles. Two of these have warhead you can
remove. Two, you hear? Both are remove now. They have take them.
Leave missile body, take warhead.’
    Lynch
massaged his cheeks to clear his head. ‘So what? What are two more
warheads in a bunker full of them? You said already they took
hundreds of missiles.’
    Liberec’s
expression was desperate as he struggled against the drink to speak
in English. ‘No, not this warhead. They are tell me that only
warhead you can remove from Oka missile like this is designation
9N63. Other warhead is fix. Only this one you can remove. This 9N63
is nuclear warhead. Czech government destroy these missile when we
part with Slovakia. But this Russian facility. Forgotten. Russia is
denying. There is now trouble between Czech Republic and Russia.
Big trouble.’
    ‘ And?’
    Liberec’s
drink-reddened face was haggard as he turned in the street and
pinioned Lynch’s shoulders. ‘You not understand, Gerald? These are nuclear warhead they
have take. This is on your boat, these Oka warhead. Going to your
Beirut.’
    My
Beirut . Lynch struggled to grasp the
facts, trying to work out what Michel Freij would want with nuclear
warheads. ‘So how big is an Oka warhead?’
    Liberec
swayed, speaking with an incredulous, open-mouthed expression. ‘How
big? Warhead only is maybe less than three metres.’
    ‘ No, I meant
how big in terms of power.’
    Holding on to
Lynch’s shoulder, Liberec was crying. ‘Oka is tactical warhead. One
hundred kiloton. Each. You understand, Gerald? Two hundred thousand
ton of dynamite total. Dirty dynamite. Each one can destroy city.
Poison whole country. Your country.’
    They’re not
headed for Ireland flashed through Lynch’s
mind before he realised Liberec meant