AL FALAMANKI RESTAURANT
MONOT STREET
BEIRUT, LEBANON
Sergent-Chef Lauren Didier of the 1er Régiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine reclined further on the sofa as he admired the nubile young females in the adjacent section behind the restaurant's strategically placed hedges.
"Is that him?" Inspector Alexandra Russell peered over the top of her outsize sunglasses at the French Special Forces soldier reclining in an impeccable white shirt and de rigeur blue jeans.
"That's Laurent. He bailed my ass out of a hotspot in Afghanistan in 2001." Christopher scrutinized the lush gardens of the restaurant.
In the seating area, several couches were strategically placed in seating pods and separated from each other by hedges or potted plants. "I can't believe this place is always busy. Even at four in the afternoon."
"This is Beirut – the Paris of the Middle East. At least it used to be that until the civil wars and the Israeli occupation. Do you want to meet with him alone?"
"It might be better." Christopher grinned. "You might distract him in that outfit of yours." He cast an admiring glance over the white sundress. "Laurent is a connoisseur of the female form."
"And this is Beirut and I can wear what I want!" Alexandra signaled a waiter to seat her. "Let me know if you need me."
At the Bar, CSM Primo grinned as he listened to the bickering while he provided oversight coverage to the combative pair.
**
"Mon colonel. You came!" Laurent stood up. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"No rank, Laurent. Just call me Chris. Are you referring to the feathered birds or the gardens?" He gestured to the four young ladies that Laurent had been admiring in the adjacent couch.
"Ah, Chris, I am French. The petite jeune filles always come first. It is you English who glorify gardens." The young soldier grinned and then dropped his voice. "I have recognized your Sergeant-Major Primo leering from the bar, but I did fail to recognize your charming companion. You are definitely becoming very fast with the ladies – perhaps it is our French influence on you." His grin widened as he teased.
Christopher accepted a glass from the waiter and poured some white wine from the bottle in the ice bucket. "Thank you. When are you returning to base?"
"Forty-eight hours. Do you need a ride?" The young Frenchman leaned forward and whispered.
"No, but Primo and two young girls need to get to Italy. Can you accommodate for me?"
"Yes, but I will need to speak to the Major. Are you being followed?" Laurent smiled as he gestured casually with his wine glass.
**
"Yes. Two men. Six feet. One with a beard." Chris touched his glass to Laurent's. "We spotted them at the restaurant. How will I know you have the necessary approval?"
The young soldier's grin was his only response.
"You're assuming your boss will say yes. So do I. Where do we meet?" The two soldiers discussed, in lowered voices, their pickup points and fallback plans as they feigned interest in the laughing quartet of petits jeune filles next to them.
To any observer, the two men were just two lechers discussing the many pleasures of Beirut without a care in the world.
AN HOUR LATER
YOU ARE READING
The Shaddad Conspiracy
Adventure“Your murder victim was not an innocent, naive woman. She was on our terrorist watch list. The fact that she escaped from Basra and lived a normal life in London buggers belief, but she was planted here by a foreign government to wreck the Taliban p...
