Book Post - Shemlan On Target

As they climbed up into the hills above Beirut, Hartmoor gazed out of the car window at the buildings around them. No scent of spring for this trip, he reflected, the February rain greying out the scenery. Misty tendrils snaked around the treetops. He remembered his first journey on this road, past the sprawling village of Bchamoun at the foothills then the road winding through the villages clinging to the plunging gorges of the Chouf Mountains. Now, as then, the houses in the villages seemed stacked up on top of each other, densely packed on the steep hillsides.
To the side of the road ran a concrete storm drain that crossed the tarmac as the camber and direction changed, the grating covering it clanging under the taxi’s wheels. The taxi hit a pothole hard, the engine note jumping and a dark cloud left behind as the driver changed down a gear. The rosary hanging on his rear mirror jangled.
They passed the village of Ainab, Hartmoor marvelling at the number of new stone-clad villas, gated developments and building sites overlooking Beirut spread out far below. A blue sign proclaimed ‘Shimlan.’ He leaned forward and asked the driver to slow down, ‘Shway, Shway.’
From Shemlan - A Deadly Tragedy

The mornings and evenings this week have been a tad hectic, with proofreader Katie Stine chucking up no less than 230 line errors (where the hell did THEY come from?) in her edit of the MS of Shemlan - A Deadly Tragedy and my last editing round, performed using a Kindle, now almost over.

Its amazing that after so many edits, beta reads, a professional edit and a professional proof read (Katie's VERY good) that I'm still chucking stuff up but that's the way it goes with books. You can do a lot with 85,000 words, including word repetitions, lazy adjectives, little touches to clarify points, better word choices, filters (he saw the shiny spoon = the spoon shone) and more.

I'm giving a follow up workshop for the Hunna Ladies Writer's Group on Saturday at the Emirates LitFest's home, the Dar Al Adab - on how to self-publish a book. Last time we looked at how to write and edit, so now we're going to complete the exercise and look at how you can use POD and ebooks to make your work available to a truly global audience. What better example to use in the live demos than Shemlan itself? So I'll be publishing the e-book on Saturday.

That doesn't mean you'll be able to get your hands on it Saturday. Amazon Kindle takes 12-24 hours to populate, Createspace for the paperback can take longer (including the Book Depository which can actually take a couple of weeks to bring up a title) and Smashwords' Premium Catalogue (iBooks and the like) can similarly take a while. I reckon by my 'official' target publishing date of November 5th you'll be good to go and the links can go up.

Book Post - Finishing Shemlan

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I finished writing Shemlan - A Deadly Tragedy back in March. Today I finished work on the book.

Once it was written, it got sent out to a bunch of 'beta readers', basically people who represent a good cross-section of book readers and whose opinions - for better or worse - I value. Some give some broad brush feedback, much what you'd expect from a casual reader commenting, others go into considerable depth, questioning word choices, structure, character motivations and so on. The result is a hard edit or two, often requiring a scene added or redone here and there.

Once all that was done, I sent the book out to my agent to see what his reaction would be. That resulted in me ending my relationship with him, but by this time we're at the end of June - one of my issues here is it took my own agent three months to get around to looking at the MS. I blew another month sending to another couple of agents and it wasn't until early August I got the MS off to editorial consultancy Bubblecow. Early September saw them return the edits with some notes on structure that have resulted in some reasonably large changes to the manuscript. It's taken until today to put those into action.

Writing a book is just like building a house. And sometimes you just have to knock down rooms and rebuild them - and then clear up after you.

The good news is that I've found my cover image and it is, IMHO, the mustard. That search alone has taken months.

Anyway, the end of the tunnel's in sight. Now there are just another round of beta reads and another edit - then I can start formatting the ebook. If we're lucky we'll make October.

And you thought online publishing moved at the speed of light!!!

Beirut - Explosive Thrills At TwitBookClub

Dubai's Twitter Book Club - or @TwitBookClub as it's fondly known - is a regular gathering of book reading types enabled by that most real time of fun technologies, Twitter.

They normally meet at Wild Peeta (the famously social shawarma joint) at Dubai World Trade Centre, but that's temporarily out of order so this Saturday will see them meeting at Café Nero DWTC instead (at 11am, as you asked). The TwitBookClub website is linked here.

This'll be the first book club outing for Beirut, and should be interesting. It was certainly an eye opener talking to book clubs about Olives last year, readers' perspectives are a wonderful thing indeed to encounter. You find people question motives, examine reactions and generally go about prodding and tweaking your work in ways you simply wouldn't have thought possible. Beirut, being quite a badly behaved book, will probably respond to a tweak with a hefty kick in the groin, but let's see...

I have generally gone much easier on promoting Beirut than I did with Olives (if you're a regular, you will no doubt have noticed and possibly even been appreciative), which has had the direct  impact of a lower uptake - noise begets noise, so a softly softly approach has really meant little conversation around the book, fewer reviews and so on. This, one suspects, might be about to change.

In the meantime, do feel free to buy and speedread Beirut - An Explosive Thriller in time for this Saturday's meeting (it's in all good UAE bookshops as well as available from Amazon, iBooks et al) or, if you've read the book and you'd like to complain or apply for a refund, I'll be at Café Nero on Saturday facing a branch loaded with Tweeters!!!

Book Post - Shopping Beirut

Part of my list of the fourteen London publishers Robin shopped 'Beirut'  

to - pretty much a 'who's who' of publishing. One by one, I got to cross 'em off...

I started writing Beirut - An Explosive Thriller in late 2009, just after a reader working for British literary agent called Eve White rejected Olives - A Violent Romance after a ‘full read’ with the comment that it wasn’t dramatic enough. Right, I thought. If you want dramatic, mate, you can have it. It wasn't until I'd done with the book that I realised I had created precisely the type of novel I'd set out to spoof with my first attempt at a book, the amusing Space (although I have to point out that Space's first Amazon review cites the book as almost entirely unamusing!).

I finished in June 2010, but it wasn’t until spring 2011 Beirut was picked up by literary agent Robin Wade, who signed me on the strength of it.

Now, for the uninitiated, getting signed by an agent is quite a deal. Step one is typically a query letter which may lead to a request for the 'first three', which is the first fifty pages of your book and a synopsis. If this pushes more of the right buttons, an agent will ask for a 'full read' - by this stage you're very close to the top of the slush pile - let us not forget agents in the UK will receive something like forty brown envelopes full of someone's hope a day. If an agent signs you, you're bloody well made. They're not charity cases, these boys, they're running businesses with that most admirable of objectives in mind - making money. An agent signing you means they think you have commercial potential in the 'competitive market' they all remember to mention in their rejection letters.

I can't begin to tell you how much hope was packed in my heart as Robin touted Beirut - An Explosive Thriller around the London Book Fair. But I was giddy with it - 250 rejections from agents later, I was actually in with a chance here. Robin faithfully reported back on the reactions he got back from each editor. To a man, they rejected it. What's more, it took them seven months to get around to it! The rejection that hurt most praised the book’s qualities but noted the editor in question ‘couldn’t see it selling in supermarkets’.      

"There are lots of elements to it that I like – there’s an austere, almost Le Carre feel which I like and the author can clearly write. The dialogue and plotting stood out for me in particular. I’m afraid though that it is – for my purposes – a bit too low-key; the ‘commercial’ bit of my job title requires me to pick out titles which are going to appeal directly to supermarkets and the mass-market, and I feel that this would be too difficult a sell in that context. "     

It was that reaction pushed me over the edge into self-publishing. "Low key"? The book's an adrenaline soaked catalogue of machismo lunacy and violence! Caviling apart, there was clearly a major change – and massive contraction – taking place in the world of ‘traditional’ publishing and it wasn’t favouring a new author writing hard-to-peg novels about the Middle East.I was clearly wasting my time at the gates of Gormenghast castle. It was time to pack up my motley collection of carvings and take them to market myself.

The whole process had wasted a year. I lost little time in getting Olives into print in December 2011, with a view to following with Beirut the next Spring. In retrospect, this was silly - the whole wearying cycle of promotion sucks down time, as does editing and polishing - publishing Olives taught me an awful lot, not the least lesson being that there are readers out there. I'm not kidding - up until that point it had been about me and my books. Now it was about them and my books. Meeting readers, talking about the characters, their motivations and feelings with complete strangers changes the way you write, it really does. And then Beirut went off for editing and I started getting permissions, readying different files for print, Kindle, and ePub formats.

It's all taken pretty much a year. but a year better spent than one waiting around for publishers to think of new and inspiring ways to say no.

So on December 1st, at 7pm, the Middle East print edition of Beirut - An Explosive Thriller will launch at Jashanmal's book store at the Mall of the Emirates, Dubai. If you can't wait, or you're not in the UAE, you can buy your very own copy from the outlets listed here. The launch is going to be a lot of fun and I'll share details as I confirm things, but do mark the date in your diary!

Book Post - Beirut In Print

Beirut - An Explosive Thriller will be in UAE bookshops by December. With a little luck (and the permission of censors) it will go on sale in Lebanon some time in January. If there's a Lebanon left for it to go on sale in.


It's odd, watching history threaten to take away the setting of your book. I suppose few writers have that problem, but writing books framed by the backdrop of the Middle East makes it something of an occupational hazard. The odd thing is I have long feared Israeli action against Iran's nuclear programme would sideline the plot of Beirut, I hadn't reckoned on Syria collapsing and drawing Lebanon into its conflict.

I remain an optimist, though. Lebanon has been through a number of aftershocks since the 15-year earthquake that flattened Beirut and claimed 150,000 lives. It can muddle through this one, too. With many friends there, with a longstanding fondness for the city, I have to believe that.

Meanwhile, I've got my UAE permission to print, I just have to get my ISBN and finish formatting the manuscript for the book's prnted size- this one will be in a standard format for thrillers, smaller than Olives - A Violent Romance and chunkier, too.

I'd much rather have stayed with an online only edition, but there are too many hurdles for the majority of people in the UAE to jump - it's clear that, as with Olives, people want to buy from a local bookshop rather than go online and the majority still don't have e-readers or use their tablets as reading devices. Amazon, and Apple et al, still do not serve content to this region. And I have the strong feeling that the print edition of Olives generated much of the word of mouth that fuelled online sales (as of now, sales have been split pretty evenly between the Middle East and International editions).

I'm planning on a launch sometime in the first week of December - as things get finalised you will be the first to know. In the meantime, start saving up (cover price will be Dhs59) or if you can't wait, you can go here to buy Beirut in print, delivered to your doorstep FREE or as an ebook which is just as free for delivery and considerably faster.

Book Post - Beirut And The Disposable Character

   Lynch called across to Leila. ‘Where’s Deir Na’ee?’
   She uncurled and came to him, looking over his shoulder at the screen, her blouse opening to show the warm brown mound of her breast. ‘Deir Na’ee? The lonely home? Sounds like something up in the Bekaa. Never heard of it. Try Googling it. Might be a village somewhere.’
   ‘And “Spike”?’
   She paused, then turned to regain her place on the sofa. ‘No idea, habibi. I’m not a phone book.’
   Lynch chuckled, the search phrase ‘Deir Na’ee’ for some reason returning the Irish poem A bhonnán bhuí, The Yellow Bittern. He read it out loud, the Irish words coming back to him from the mists of distant childhood, the disinfectant reek of the Sisters of Charity’s classroom. ‘A bhonnán bhuí, is é mo léan do luí, Is do chnámha sínte tar éis do ghrinn, Is chan easba bidh ach díobháil dí, a d'fhág i do luí thú ar chúl do chinn.’
   Leila was laughing at him. ‘What are you saying?’
   ‘It’s Irish. Deir Na’ee gets that in Google. Christ alone knows why.’
   ‘That is not a language. It sounds like dogs fighting.’
   ‘Póg mo thóin.’
   From Beirut - An Explosive Thriller

Today brings a treat - a guest post and quizzing from Micheline Hazou, patroness of genteel blog MichCafé, friend and Beirut wandering companion as well as beta reader of Beirut – An Explosive Thriller...

It is quite exciting to be a beta reader. It is also something I take very seriously.

I had the privilege to beta-read Alexander McNabb’s first novel, Olives – A Violent Romance. I was even more flattered to be offered the chance to beta-read Beirut – An Explosive Thriller a couple of months ago.

It’s not as easy as it seems, because you often get sucked up in the story and forget to keep an eye out for anything that might be wrong, from proofreading to translations and anything you don’t quite like. So I had to re-read many a chapter with that in mind.

From the first few pages of Beirut I felt Alex had come into his own. I got caught up in the “explosive” thriller and rediscovered the main character, Gerald Lynch, in another light. Whereas he had seemed pompous, uptight and unlikeable in Olives, here he is chasing the bad guys with a conscience and sexy on top of it.

As with Olives, I was drawn by the local female character in the book. I can identify with them. And I wonder why they are so disposable. As most of you have read Olives by now, you must know Aisha Dajani’s fate. But Leila Medawar? Why, Alex?

As described in the book, Leila Medawar is the “student activist, dissident, blogger and poet to the leftist anti-sectarian intelligentsia. Born into wealth and privilege she was heart-rendingly idealistic… beautiful dark haired Leila, lover of freedom, equality and British spies. Well, spy.”

Without giving too much away, here are a few questions I would like to ask about Leila Medawar, Gerald Lynch’s lover:

I like Leila Medawar. She humanizes Lynch. Why is she so disposable?
That's partly why she's there. And partly it seals her fate. It's odd but I seem to have this habit of killing the characters I love the most, from the delicious Kylie in my first book, Space, through to a number of characters in Olives, Beirut and, yes, Shemlan.

I often recall an incident involving The Niece From Hell. We were on a walk along the Thames when I was pulled up by the realisation I recognised a particular bench on the towpath. ‘Wow,’ I exclaimed. ‘I killed a guy on this bench!’

The niece glanced carelessly at the bench and shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

I know I am involved in murdering a number of attractive Arab women, but don't take that personally - I'm an equal opportunities killer. I do for a number of occidental men in my books too. And some of them are quite ugly.

On the bright side, it's probably a good thing I'm getting this stuff out of my system. And anyway, there are a thousand and one Leilas...

I sound like I’m gabbling guiltily. I probably am.

How come she knew he was in intelligence?
It's how he met her - when on a surveillance job involving a student protest. In fact, that’s not mentioned until much later in the book in the 'beta' MS but part of the feedback from readers made me bring that history right up front.

Lynch isn't really very good at observing some of the traditional modalities of intelligence, he's far too Arabised for that. Leila is very much into his 'home life'. They live a cocooned existence together - she has his key, they keep their relationship secret (she leaves the room when Palmer comes from the embassy with Lynch's ticket because they have agreed discretion is the way to go for both of them) and Lynch knows who she is. She trusts him not to spy on her and he, I rather think, trusts her not to use her relationship with him in her activities.

Where is Leila’s family? How is it that she was able to live with Lynch, and then in the flat he provided her?
She doesn't actually live with him, just has a key and comes around a lot. He was hoping the flat in Hamra would be a bolthole for them both but was surprised by the strength of her reaction to the news he would be shacking up with another spy type.

Her family is living in Dubai, as it happens - but she's got away with going back to Beirut to study at AUB. That gives her independence beyond reason - and the freedom to go out with a man over twice her age.

And no, it's not one of my secret fantasies sneaking into a book. There's a certain journalist living in Ain Mreisse who might be influencing some of Lynch's lifestyle...

What is the story of the Orrefors tumbler?
I've long been a huge fan of Orrefors glass and have a number of those beautiful pieces with the blue teardrop.  It just seemed natural that it should sneak into the book - and tells us that Leila's moneyed, incidentally. That stuff's hideous expensive.

Leila being particular about how she takes her whisky is a mannerism I stole from a rather lovely Lebanese friend...

I also let my personal preferences sneak in with the Lamiable champagne later in the book, which is a stunning single grower extra brut - a hard champagne to make well as it has little or no 'dosage' and is therefore incredibly dry. I have a nice chap called Charles who ships it to me in the UK. One has a literary agent and a vintner, don't you know...

Why the choice of Proust? And which of his works was she reading? 
Remembrance of things past of course, silly! Probably The Prisoner, a reflection of Lynch’s ardour for her mixed with a desire to control her, perhaps why he offers her the flat in Hamra. Leila’s not Albertine, of course – but she is enjoying casting herself in the role.

Leila is possibly reading it because she likes Proust, or because she likes to be seen to be liking Proust – that’s a very Lebanese dilemma. She was reading it in the original French because, of course, she speaks French like a native. And she likes to tell friends she finds the Moncrieff translation sloppy.

Why did Lynch only try calling her? Why didn’t he go over to see her? And why didn’t she have protection?
He was scared of finding some ape from AUB in her bed. He was also rather busy saving the world and flying to and from Europe. He talked to the concierge, too, which just confirms his worst fears.

Lynch had checked with the concierge and yes, she moved in to the flat in Hamra. Yes, she had indeed taken male company, the old crone told Lynch, laughing dirtily and pocketing the fifty thousand lire tip.

There was no protection - Lynch operates as a lone wolf most of the time, he's not often part of the 'framework', but a maverick operator Channing uses for the messy stuff. His approach to intelligence is 'go local, go low-key' rather than bringing in the Keystone cops every time. It's one reason why he prefers to use a servees rather than an embassy car.

Part of Lynch would also let her cool her heels, perhaps even be angry at her and take an 'Youse know what? F youse too' approach to her flouncing off like that. And yet she's under his skin. Not quite as much as Michel gets under hers, though...

Does Lynch fall in love again in Shemlan (please say yes…).
No, but Shemlan is very much a love story – although not a very straightforward one.

Don't forget all you need is to click on this here handy link to get your own print copy of Beirut - An Explosive Thriller shipped to your doorstep or downloaded instantly to your reader!

Book Post. Beirut And Prostitutes

   She was silk and she was jasmine, ivory and frankincense, her skin a pale golden slide for the smooth satin riding up her legs as she mounted the stairs. Her hips moving under the wrap were a provocation, her long hair cascaded down her mobile back.
   Reaching the top ahead of them, she strutted across the dance floor and sat on a high stool at the bar. Lynch ducked behind the counter and started to fix coffee at the gleaming red espresso station. This was obviously some sort of well-worn ritual – Nathalie noticed Lynch’s deft movements as he manipulated the machine.
   The white filter of Marcelle Aboud’s cigarette was reddened by her lipstick, her dark, kohl-lined eyes coolly gauging Nathalie as the younger woman waited, her hand resting on the back of a bar stool.
   ‘Come, sit,’ Marcelle purred, gesturing at the stool. Her very movements were languorous and sensual, her voice husky, rolling and dirty. Nathalie caught the flash of a full breast trying to escape the cascades of smooth bronze material as Marcelle turned her magnificent face to Lynch.
   ‘So you’re buying or selling, Lynch?’
   He brought the espresso cup over to her. ‘Her? You can have her for free.’
   Nathalie twisted off her stool. ‘Sorry, not putting up with this.’
   ‘Sit down,’ Marcelle’s languorous voice wasn’t raised, but her tone stopped Nathalie in her tracks. ‘Make her a coffee, Lynch, Play nicely.’
   Lynch busied himself with the espresso machine as Marcelle examined Nathalie, who met the dark brown eyes after they finished travelling lazily up her body like a slow touch. The clink of the espresso cup on the bar broke the moment.
   Marcelle turned to Lynch. ‘So what do you want, you and your assistant?’
   Lynch waited behind the bar with his hands laid on the marble top. Nathalie was surprised at how he eased into the role of barman and fancied perhaps he had worked here many, many years ago as a young man.
From Beirut – An Explosive Thriller

Who did you think of when you created Marcelle?
There was no inspiration as such for Marcelle, she just happened that way. Probably Jessica Rabbit. I suppose in the same way as Anne was a metaphor for Paul’s homeland and Aisha Jordan in Olives – A Violent Romance, Marcelle is Beirut. She’s beautiful, sinful, capricious and a little dangerous.

Why a prostitute? Could she have been doing something else instead and still be integral to the plot?
Perhaps, but she just wouldn’t have been the same if she was a welder, would she? Marcelle is part of Lynch’s seamy side, the underworld of a city and someone with power and contacts in her own strange way. She knows men, she knows Lynch and is perhaps a counterpoint to his intensity and anger. Their relationship is stormy and yet they clearly are very fond of each other.

Nathalie’s big contact is the wealthy and philanthropic Vivienne Chalabi, Lynch’s is the madam of a cat house. It sort of speaks to their respective approaches to life and, I guess, their work...

There’s a hint of a past with Lynch...
Oh yes. It’s not fully explored in Beirut, but Lynch first lived in Beirut towards the end of the civil war, sent undercover to track down some unpleasant IRA drug runners and close the gold seam. His ‘cover’ was working as a barman at Marcelle’s.

Lebanese politics is about religion, won't the Marcelle character create more controversy for you?
What, as much as a future president whose daddy was a warlord and who has a taste for nuclear warheads? There’s bound to be someone who finds something offensive in Beirut – An Explosive Thriller, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a by-product of the lack of fiction in the region, this inability to divorce creativity from reality.

I’m looking forward to the first person telling me there are no prostitutes in Lebanon. I already had one person point out that Marcelle couldn’t possibly be Christian, if she was a prostitute she’d be Shia. Which tells you more about Lebanon than I’d care to admit.

I also think you can approach this whole angle of controversy two ways. You could tiptoe around in a constant state of fear and dumb down everything you do so it couldn’t possibly offend or be contrary to anyone’s preconceptions or the way they publicly present themselves while acting differently privately. Or you can just get on and do your thing with integrity, making it as good as you can and perhaps even playing with some of the situations and personalities you encounter in this part of the world.

How did you research Lebanese bordellos?
Cheeky! I made it up. I’ve never been in one. Honest. Ask the Spot On girls, they keep me out of trouble.

Is Marcelle in the next book?
Now that would simply be telling...

Interview by Beirut - An Explosive Thriller beta reader Mita Ray.

The Beirut Website - Including Handy Links to Buy eBooks or Print Books is here!

Book Post: An Interview With Gerald Lynch

Bob Studholme is a lecturer in English at the Al Ain branch of Abu Dhabi University. One of the beta readers who gave valuable and extensive early feedback on the book, he volunteered to interview Gerald Lynch, the Northern Iriish spy who plays such a key role in Olives - A Violent Romance (where all agree he is a complete cad) and Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (where readers learn that Paul Stokes' view of Lynch might have been somewhat skewed by circumstance).

Either way, Bob let himself in for this. And here's how it went:

An unnamed hotel in Beirut. Yesterday.

 

   A knock sounds on the door.
  'Come.'
  Bob Studholme slinks into the room with a nervous grin. A university lecturer, he’s been forced to adopt the role of journalist and, even if he lectures in English, the prospect of facing down a difficult subject in person is not one he had counted on actually having to physically endure. He feels sweaty. Difficult doesn’t quite do it justice, he thinks. Dangerous. He gulps.
  The man he is here to meet stands, brushing his trouser legs. Studholme advances, his hand held out. He bobs a little. The man shakes the proffered hand and gestures to the armchair opposite his own. Studholme sits.
  ‘Would you like a drink? Something for the nerves?’ says Gerald Lynch.
  Peering up, he nods. ‘Umm, yes please.’
  Lynch wanders to the sideboard and fixes two stiff scotches. ‘Here. You’ll take ice.’
  Studholme almost spills the drink, gulping it too fast and wiping his bearded chin with the back of his hand.
  ‘So they’ve sent you to interrogate me, is it?’
  ‘Well, not so much that as interview you.’ He finishes the drink and Lynch pours him another.
  ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ the Irishman sits back, his hands steepled and his blue-eyed regard on the English lecturer with his notebook and HB pencil. Studholme produces a voice recorder and places it on the table between them. His voice is stronger than he feels.
  ‘To start with the one that puzzles me most, Mr. Lynch. You are an Irishman.  A Catholic Irishman from the North, where it matters even more than it does in the South. So why are you working for the Empire?’
  Lynch waves his condensation-frosted glass at Studholme, his finger pointing. ‘You’re a cheeky bugger, aren’t you? That’s a fine start, that is.’
  Studholme, fortified by whisky, stands his ground. There is a long silence. Lynch turns to put his drink down.
  ‘Let me tell you something, Bob. It is Bob, isn’t it?’ Studholme nods his assent. ‘I grew up in an orphanage but they put me out to a family whose kid was on heroin. He died and they blamed me for the habit their son had and they didn’t know about. So I got sent back. A few years later I met the dealer who sold him that last hit and he was an IRA man. That was the day the truth first hit me. They didn’t mind how they made the money to buy guns, see? They became criminals, as bad for decent folk trying to get by as the Brits, even worse. I used to join in, throwing stones and stuff down on the Falls Road. But after that I sort of lost my appetite for people who deal heroin for their so-called fight for freedom. So when the Brits came calling, I answered.’
  ‘Still, working for the people that you do has got to mean working with the British Establishment. Forgive me for saying it, but I can't see that being a mix of personality types that is exactly made in Heaven. In fact, I think you'd piss each other off royally. How do you get on with your superiors?’
  Lynch laughs. ‘You’d be right on the money there. Look, you have to understand how these people work. They don’t really care too much for the niceties of life, they have a job to do. And I’m the guy they like to give the messy stuff to. Channing understands the Middle East is hardly what you might call a ...’ Lynch makes air quotes, ‘conventional environment. So we have conventional assets in the region but it suits him to have someone around who isn’t too ...’ Lynch reaches for his drink and takes a slug. ‘Prissy. As far as getting along, we rub along okay as long as we avoid each other.’
  Lynch leans back and favours the room with an indifferent glance as Studholme scratches away at his notebook with the pencil.
  ‘You writing shorthand there, Bob, are you?’
  ‘Umm, no. Just catching up.’
  ‘Thought they taught you journalists shorthand. ‘spose they just teach you Facebook now, is it?’
  Studholme grinns weakly, sips his drink and raises his gaze to meet Lynch’s intensity. ‘I can't remember who was supposed to have said it, but there is a story of a Lebanese whose reaction to Churchill's description of Russia (a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma) was to say that in Lebanon, such stories are told to little kids, who like simple tales. So how do you find working there? And, while we're on the subject, how do you get on with your counterparts in the Lebanese intelligence world?’
  ‘There’s one simple law in the Middle East. “My brother against my cousin, my cousin against the stranger.” Once you cop on to that, you’ll be fine. I like working here plenty, you don’t get bored easy here. Mostly my masters leave me alone, sometimes they remember me and throw some bones my way. I’m a dustman, me. I clean up mess. Lebanese intelligence? Most of their intelligence consists of blood and sawdust, let me tell you. Tony’s good people, but he’s a copper not a spook. If their spooks get you, let me tell you now, Bob, you’d better have non-conductive balls.’
  Lynch’s dry chuckle turns into a cough. He sips his drink, shaking his head at his own wit.
  Tongue protruding from his lips, Studholme toils away with his pencil. Lynch regards him with amused tolerance. Finally, the man raises his head from the notepad.
  ‘Someone once defined the stress that the police are under because of their work as: That feeling and desire, along with the ensuing bodily effects, experienced by a person who has a strong and true longing to choke the living shit out of someone who desperately deserves it, but can't. Get that much in your job?’
  ‘I usually just choke ‘em. Next.’
   ‘On the same line, the police are generally a reasonably honest group, but their divorce rate shows that they have difficulty in keeping relationships going. You, being a professional liar, can't have an easier time. At the risk of sounding like a Women's magazine, how do you keep relationships going?’
  ‘Professional liar, is it? Liar?’ Lynch’s smile is Siberian. ‘You’re a cheeky fecker, are you not? I keep relationships going or not as I see fit and by Christ that’s all I’ll tell the likes of youse about my bloody relationships.’
  His eyes drop to the notebook momentarily before Studholme faces Lynch, rebellion in the set of his shoulders. ‘In your job you might talk about sources and assets, but what you often mean is the people you lean on and use. Those people can't all have happy endings. How do you deal with it when bad things happen to good people because of you?
  Lynch leaps to his feet. He leans across the coffee table. He raises his hand, his two fingers together pointing at Studholme’s forehead. ‘I know precisely who you’re talking about and you can drop that line of questioning before you find yourself wearing a laser fucking bhindi, you understand me? I was not responsible for what happened to him. They told me to play nicely with you but I find my desire to conform to my empirical masters’ wishes is being very fast eroded. I hope I make myself clear to you. Bob.’
  Studholme drains his whisky, his face pale and crimson patches high on his cheeks. Perched on the edge of his armchair, his body weaves and he blinks a little. ‘Sure.’ He says, before burping. ‘Look, last question. James Bond always gives the impression that spying is about having the right gadget and a really nice suit, but there must be more to being a spy than that.  How much intelligence is involved in the intelligence business?
  Lynch ponders the question, then laughs. The tension leaves him and he curls back into his seat. ‘Intelligence?  There’s precious little intelligence goes on. Just shit and fear, small people trying to get by and big people crapping on them from a great height. Sure an’ you get the pure data from people like GCHQ and outfits like Nathalie Durand’s, but that’s no substitute for what the Yanks call humint. What you and I might call people. It’s all about people, scared people and happy people, bad people and sometimes even good people. People who care, people who’ve got things to lose. Loved ones.’ Lynch pauses, a puzzled look on his dark features as if he has even surprised himself. He stands, pulling down the lapels of his jacket. ‘Right. That’s us then. Here, I’ll show you the door so’n I will. You might want to get a taxi home.’