Brute Force

93

Lynn would have made a crap interrogator. Part of the job was never to react to any information given, but his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

Mansour's little bombshell had achieved its desired effect.

I knelt down, my eyes level with the Libyan's. 'Prove it. Tell us the number . . .'

Mansour was trying the oldest bluff in the book. The Libyan blinked innocently before fucking me off and shifting his eyes back to Lynn. 'I'm sorry, Leptis. You and I – we know each other of old. But your friend here. Why don't you introduce us? After all, you are both, in a sense, my guests . . .'

I stood up, wanting to walk away from this bad black and white movie. Where the fuck had these two been for the last twenty years?

Lynn was finally rejoining planet earth. His tone stiffened. 'You have no need to know that, Mansour.'

Mansour paused. I could see him assessing me, weighing up how the power was shared out around here. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. 'Country code four-four, then two, then oh, then seven, then two one eight . . .' Mansour paused.

I looked at Lynn. The flushed cheeks were turning white.

The Libyan reeled off the rest of the number. Lynn gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'That was my old number at Vauxhall Cross . . .'

'Ah, so you are retired now, Leptis. This I didn't know. I always thought that men like you and me, we never really retired . . .'

'How did you know my number? I don't understand.'

'You don't? Let's see. You are Colonel Julian Francis Lynn. Born fourth of September, 1949. Son of Brigadier Robert Anthony Lynn, the great 'Al-Inn' of Cairo, scourge of Nasser's young officers' movement. You had a good, solid British education at a minor public school.' He stopped for effect and smiled up at Lynn. 'Three very respectable A-levels in Latin, Greek and English literature – good enough to get you a place at Cambridge, where you studied Classics, our mutual interest, of course. We have a great deal in common, Leptis. Like me, you decided to make the army your chosen career; and, like me, you switched to intelligence – not surprising, given your father's very considerable connections.'

I half expected him to bring out a red, leather-bound book and tell Lynn he was on Tripoli's answer to This Is Your Life.

'I know, Leptis, that you understand the Arab mentality. You know very well how we work, our methods, our thinking.'

He glanced at me now with the same look my school teachers used to give me. 'Not all of us are the dumb goatherds or fanatical hijackers portrayed in the Western media. There are many shades to us, just as there are many shades to you.'

He didn't seem to get that he was the one in the clingfilm. Ignoring me, he turned back to Lynn. His tone was softer as he addressed a fellow gentleman.

'Of course, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, Leptis. You know that I spent many years in custody at the pleasure of our Supreme Leader because of what happened that night. It was a stupid mistake. I should never have let it happen. Just as I should never have allowed my . . . feelings . . . to get the better of me in London when I was sent by our Great Guide as his special envoy over Lockerbie . . .'

Mansour paused to study his bindings. He raised his head to me and spoke in a voice people normally reserve for the waiter. 'Do you think I might have a glass of water? All this talking . . .'

I didn't move. It was Lynn who turned to the fridge.

A moment later, he lifted a bottle of Evian to Mansour's lips and the Libyan took a couple of gulps. He thanked Lynn, held his gaze and continued.

'I have no proof, Leptis, but I am sure that it was you who called off the dogs – or should I say the wolves – after that regrettable little incident.

'This, I believe, is what the new detente is all about. We were the best of enemies. But that is all in the past. I do not know what it is that has brought you to Libya – only that it is somehow meant. Men like you and me, Al- Inn, we live complicated lives. If you trust me, if the answers you seek are in Libya, then I can help.'

So, Lynn was the great 'Al-Inn' now. Nice touch. Flattery usually got you somewhere. But it wasn't going any further.

'A few days ago, I found an explosive device under my car. It had a very distinctive signature – the same as the devices on the Bahiti. Ben Lesser – that name ring a bell?'

'Of course . . .'

'That same day, someone left a phone message for me at a TV station in Dublin. Words to the effect that Leptis had the answers and I should go and see him. The only person who ever called Lynn Leptis was you. So I'm going to ask you again: did you set up that call?'

'No.'

'OK, then – who was Lesser's mentor?'

Mansour's brow furrowed. 'Mentor?'

'The person who trained him.'

'Ah!' A light went on somewhere in Mansour's head. He turned and looked at Lynn. 'After the failure of the Bahiti operation, so soon after the Eksund, there was a lot of . . . well, I guess you would call it soul-searching. People wanted to know what had gone wrong. These efforts to