Black Mountain by Greig Beck Read Free Book Online

or someone he trusted. A friend.
    General Shavit lit another cigarette, then lifted his pen and made some notes. When his niece finished her current mission, he’d organise for her to pay Captain Alex Hunter a visit. Maybe even spend some prolonged time with him.
    As he signed the order, a sound came from deep in his chest that could have been the beginning of a cough or a rumbling laugh. He liked to gamble, and he liked to win.

FIVE
    Beirut, Lebanon
    The woman walked slowly with the stiff-ankled rocking motion of the old and arthritic. Her traditional black abaya attracted the heat and must have made the ninety-degree early summer temperature significantly warmer. To anyone watching her pass, she appeared to be a devout Muslim, also wearing a niqab, or face veil, and black gloves. Around her neck, reading glasses with thick black frames hung from a short length of string and banged against her ample bosom as she walked.
    She paused and looked back down the steep, cobbled street. Beirut was a mix of ancient and modern, home now to major industry and corporations and even considered as a candidate for the 2024 Summer Olympic Games. A smart black AMG Mercedes shot past, no doubt headed for one of the fine restaurants on the waterfront that did a roaring trade with the tanned and well-heeled locals. The woman inhaled deeply; the city’s leafy avenues, rich with the smell of coffee and cinnamon, made it seem a world away from the troubles of the south. Beirut reflected all the magnificence of modern Lebanon, with Christians, Druze, Shias, Sunnis and many more seeming to live together in cultural and political harmony. The modern mixed with the ancient, the religious with the carefree; in Beirut it seemed the Middle East was one of the happiest places on earth.
    The woman walked on, towards Gemmayze Street in the Ashrafieh district. The streets narrowed to thin, winding lanes here and it was easier to get lost. She checked her bearings, and hoisted her string bag a little higher; the loaves of fresh bread, cheese and onions would be a welcome breakfast for the men. She paused to rest on an old wooden chair in the shade of a young olive tree. Beirut was a small pool of calm water in a turbulent sea; unlike the south, where the poor begged in the streets, resentment fomented, vengeance was plotted and hatred often boiled over into bloody violence. The south had been the frontline for the Israel–Lebanon conflict for many years. It was where Hezar-Jihadi ruled – the Party of a Thousand Martyrs, they called themselves. They were political, religious and paramilitary; their leaders called for the destruction of Israel, war with the West and a true Islamic state in Lebanon. Violence was their first negotiating tool of choice.
    The woman lifted the glasses from her chest and placed them on her face, then sat as immobile as the street’s surrounding bricks and mortar as she watched a young man walk quickly up the street towards a solid wooden door recessed into an old-fashioned apartment block. He looked around furtively, then knocked three times.
    The woman waited for another minute after he’d disappeared inside, then she got to her feet and hobbled towards the same door.
    *
    Abu ibn Jbeil opened the door a crack and peered out. He looked the old woman up and down. She lifted her bag a little higher and groaned softly under its weight. The eyes behind the thick glasses were like blurred pools of oil – unreadable. She moaned again, her arm shaking from the weight of the bag.
    Abu ibn Jbeil could not care less about her suffering, but she was expected and her food would be welcome. He opened the door a little wider, but as she entered he stopped her with his hand and roughly felt her sides, back and front, searching for guns, knives or explosives. She coughed wetly, and he held his breath, hurrying through his examination. How he detested being so close to the old hag, touching her body. It was probably a waste of time, but it