Strike Back Page 10

  ‘I thought Perry Collinson was confident he’d find something,’ said Porter. ‘So they wouldn’t need me.’

  ‘He was talking rubbish as usual,’ said Layla. ‘Everyone in here hates the guy, starting with Sir Angus. He’s a complete waste of space. Unfortunately the PM likes him. He sounds plausible on TV, and he gives a good sound bite. It’s only when he tries to actually do something that it all goes tits up.’

  ‘So you’re left with me.’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Layla. ‘Any questions?’

  Porter paused. He finished his slice of toast, and took a gulp of hot coffee, waiting for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream. He was feeling better this morning. The headache was mostly gone, and although there was some soreness where they’d operated on his leg, he could tell it would be back to normal in a couple of days. Even his teeth were feeling better, although there was still some numbness where a couple of them had been extracted. Not exactly 100 per cent fit, he told himself. But fit enough to kill one man. And that would be all the strength he needed.

  ‘Who tried to kill me?’

  The cup of coffee almost fell out of Layla’s hand. ‘Someone tried to kill you?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘At the station.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Right after I’d seen Sandy, a car pulled out and drove straight towards me,’ said Porter. ‘The guy was planning to kill me, but I was lucky, I saw him coming and managed to jump back just in time. I might have been out of the game for a while, but you never lose the instinct.’

  ‘He could have been a dangerous driver,’ said Layla. ‘London’s full of them.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘He was coming straight for me. I could see it in his eyes. He had orders to kill.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘That somebody doesn’t want me to go out to Beirut.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ snapped Layla.

  The anger was evident in her voice.

  Porter shrugged, knocking back the remaining coffee in his cup. Maybe I’ve made a mistake even talking to Layla about this, he thought. Maybe she’s the one who wants me killed.

  ‘Impossible or not, it’s what happened,’ he said, his voice even and calm. ‘Only a few people within this organisation know I’m here. I reckon somebody wants me stopped.’

  ‘I’ll investigate,’ said Layla. ‘In the meantime, you’re staying right here. I don’t want you leaving the building until we move out to the airport. We should be able to keep you alive until then.’

  Porter finished his breakfast, then Layla took him down-stairs. Somewhere there was a mole, he felt certain of it. And someone was trying to stop him making it to Beirut. The gym was down in the basement: not quite as far down as the interrogation rooms he’d been taken to yesterday, but still below ground level. There was a row of fitness and weight machines, a small sauna, and an exercise room. A couple of the desk cowboys were on the cycling machines, but otherwise it was empty at this time of the morning. Sam Roberts shook Porter’s hand. He was a chunky man, with a shaved head that was as round as a football. ‘What kind of shape are you in?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ said Porter looking at the man suspiciously.

  ‘Para, sergeant and fitness instructor, 2001 to 2005,’ barked Roberts. ‘That good enough for you?’

  Porter nodded.

  ‘Now, again, what kind of shape are you in?’

  ‘Terrible,’ replied Porter.

  ‘We’ll do what we can, but there’s not much that can be achieved in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Just do your best,’ said Layla. She looked at Porter. ‘I’ll investigate what happened last night and get back to you.’

  Sam handed Porter a skipping rope. ‘Let’s start with this,’ he said.

  Porter held the thing in his hand. ‘I’m not joining the bloody Brownies,’ he snapped.

  Sam laughed. ‘I guess techniques have changed a bit since you were last in the Regiment. Everyone skips these days. It’s the best way of practising hand-to-eye coordination, which is what firing a gun is all about. If you can’t skip, you can’t shoot either.’

  OK, thought Porter. It’s just a couple of hours. Humour the bastard. He took the ropes, and tried to jump over it, but he had never skipped, not even as a kid, and the technique wasn’t there. He threw it over his head, and tried to jump. Instantly, his feet tangled up in the rope. He tried again. Same result. ‘Jump, man, bloody well jump,’ Sam snapped.

  For a moment, Porter was transported back to a windy, cold barracks, a quarter of a century ago, back in the days when you could still smoke on the tube, and your career choices amounted to signing up to shoot people or going down the pits. He could recall himself as a young recruit, being bashed through his first paces on the parade ground. It was cold and windy, his head was shaven, and the food was terrible, but at least I had plans back in those days, he reflected. He wanted to be a career soldier: regimental sergeant major was the rank he had his eye on. That was a long time ago, he realised bitterly. He tossed the rope swiftly over his head, watched it move through the air, then jumped. One foot cleared the rope. The other caught on the back of his ankle, tangling up with his trainers.

  ‘Fuck it, maybe I’ll go out to the playground, and see if I can find a six-year-old girl to show us how to do this,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe send her out to Beirut. She’s got more chance of getting out alive than you have.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ snapped Porter, through gritted teeth.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ignored the pain still aching through him from where he’d been operated on the day before. Tossing the rope back, he swung it over his head, and concentrated. One jump, and he was over. He swung the rope again, following its arc as it cut through the air. Over. Just get the rhythm, he reminded himself. Then it’s easy.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Sam. ‘Then we’ll play with some real toys.’

  By the time the skipping was completed, Porter could feel the sweat pouring off him. His shirt was wet through, and his skin felt sticky and clammy. He took the bottle of mineral water Sam offered him, and swigged it back in a couple of gulps. ‘Let’s start the fun stuff,’ said Sam.

  The swing of his fist caught Porter by surprise. Sam’s arm flung back, then smashed into the side of Porter’s face. The palm of his hand hit his cheek, stinging the skin. Instinctively, Porter lashed out, thrusting a clenched fist forward, but Sam had already danced out of the way, and Porter was left flailing in thin air. His lungs were gasping for air, and he was still trying to recover his breath when Sam grabbed his right arm, and swung it viciously upwards. Porter gasped with pain as Sam slowly increased the pressure on the arm. He could feel the tendons starting to stretch, and his eyes started to water. ‘You’ve got to be faster than that, mate,’ said Sam.

  Porter roared, filled his lungs with air, then snapped his right arm down. The pain was screeching through him, as he thrust backwards with his legs, smashing his back straight into Sam. He could feel Sam start to wobble as his groin took the impact of the blow. For a fraction of a second, the grip on his arm weakened. Porter tugged it free. He swung round, struggling to hold on to his balance. Ducking, he put his head down, then threw himself forward, smashing into Sam’s chest with his head. That was a technique he’d learnt on the street, he reflected, as he saw Sam shake under the impact of the strike, then fall back on the ground. When in doubt, headbutt the bastards. You might give yourself brain damage, but, let’s face it, when you were living rough and drinking two bottles of vodka a day, there wasn’t much point in worrying about that.

  ‘That fast enough for you?’

  ‘No marks for technique,’ said Sam. ‘But you’re still strong.’

  ‘Just remember, I was in the Regiment and you weren’t,’ Porter growled.

  Sam picked himself up off the ground, and this time it was him drinking half a bottle of water, and struggling to recapture his breath. ‘You need to calm down though. You�
�re getting riled up too easily. Take your time, figure out your opponent’s weaknesses, then strike.’

  Sam led him towards the shooting range. There wasn’t enough room underground for a full-scale range, but there was single block of enclosed concrete with a target at the end of a forty-foot strip. The firing point was just a white line printed on the ground, and next to it, there was black wooden table with a row of about thirty guns laid out on it. From a quick glance, Porter could see they covered the complete range of global arms manufacturers. There were Berettas, Brownings, Mausers, Walthers, Enfields, Webleys, Colts and, of course, Kalashnikovs, as well as a dozen different varieties of Asian and Eastern European knock-offs. ‘What do you want to have a go with?’ said Sam.

  ‘What type of kit are Hezbollah using these days?’ said Porter.

  ‘All kinds of stuff,’ said Sam. ‘They are pretty well financed, and of course you can buy just about any weapon you want in Beirut. It’s the B&Q of global terrorism out there. For assault rifles, it’s mainly going to be AK-47s and M16s you’re up against. For handguns, it could be just about anything. Berettas, Walthers, Brownings, take your pick. They use the good stuff mostly. None of that Bulgarian knock-off crap that blows up in your own face.’

  Porter studied the desk. He hadn’t picked up a gun since he’d left the army more than a decade ago. Hadn’t even thought about it. Scanning the weaponry, he picked out a Beretta 92 pistol, a firearm he could recall training with back in the Regiment. The 92 was a short-recoil-operated, locked-breech weapon. It carried fifteen rounds, and its lightweight, aluminium frame weighed just slightly under 100 grams making it easy to hold, and even easier to slip inside a jacket or a pocket. It took a moment to reacquaint himself with the feel of the weapon, but once he curled his fingers around its cold, metal barrel, it was like welcoming back an old friend.

  He took two strides forward. A white line was smeared across the floor, and the target was twenty metres away. Raising the gun with his right hand, Porter steadied himself, then lined up the target in the Beretta’s sights. He squeezed the trigger once, then twice, enjoying the powerful recoil as the gun kicked backed into him. A gun in your hand was like a suit and a tie: it made you feel like a man. It gave you power, and control, and certainty: and those were all the things you missed when you lived out on the streets.

  ‘An eye,’ said Sam approvingly. ‘It never leaves you.’

  He was walking back from the target, noting where the bullets had struck. Neither was a bullseye, but both were close enough to it to at least disable an opponent, if not kill him outright. When you were in a firefight, that was all that counted, Porter told himself. If you wanted to kill the bastard, you could always do that with a double tap to the head afterwards.

  ‘Try it again,’ said Sam. ‘Legs a bit further apart, and keep your shoulders slightly squarer.’

  Porter adjusted his position. He moved his left leg slightly, giving himself better balance, and relaxed his shoulder muscles. The pistol felt comfortable in his right hand, almost as if it was an extension of his own body. One squeeze on the trigger, then another. The noise of the explosion echoed around the room. Squinting, Porter could see where the bullets had struck: one just a fraction of an inch to the left of the target, and the second a bullseye.

  Pretty good, he told himself. At least on a firing range. Combat will be very different.

  ‘Here, try this,’ said Sam.

  He tossed an AK-47 to Porter. Grabbing a hold, Porter slipped it into his arms, the polished wooden stock of the gun and its elegantly shaped cartridge both instantly familiar. The missing fingers on his left hand were no problem. He could grip the gun between his two remaining fingers and his thumb, while his right hand was on the trigger. Slamming down hard, he loosened off a round of fire. The AK-47 was never a high-accuracy weapon: Mikhail Kalashnikov had designed it after being wounded in the Battle of Bryansk to support close-range infantry engagements. The bullets tore out of the muzzle of the machine, chewing up the paper target and leaving a pile of smoking ordnance on the floor.

  ‘I can still shoot,’ said Porter, turning to look at Sam.

  ‘So long as you can keep your head.’

  The remark struck Porter with all the deadly force of the bullets he had just fired from his assault rifle. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ he growled.

  Sam glanced at him, his eyes clouded with suspicion. ‘Nothing …’

  ‘You think I bottled it, don’t you?’

  He was still holding the AK-47 in his fists. Now that he had turned round, it was pointing straight at the instructor’s chest. Sam was staring at it, and from the look on his face, he was unsure whether or not Porter might fire it.

  ‘Last time you heard live firing, it went tits up,’ snapped Sam. ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘It’s a bloody lie, I tell you,’ shouted Porter. His finger was twitching on the AK-47, and his head was throbbing with anger. ‘A bloody lie …’

  ‘But that’s what the record says,’ said Sam. ‘And you can’t go back and change the record. Not you. Not any man.’

  TEN

  Porter could still feel the anger swirling through his veins as he sat down at the desk. He’d taken a quick shower, and changed out of the gym kit he’d been wearing for his training session with Sam, but he still felt charged up. Maybe it was having a gun back in his hands, he reflected. He didn’t need to put up with all the crap he had to endure while he was living on the street. From now on, he was taking charge. And if I’m dead in a few days, well, those are the breaks.

  A plate of chicken and tuna sandwiches were sitting in front of him, and Porter reached out for a couple. It was amazing how hungry he was all the time. Maybe that was something else that came from living on the streets for too long. Your body became so used to scavenging for food that when it was there you couldn’t stop yourself from eating it.

  He’d just polished off his third sandwich when Sir Angus Clayton walked swiftly into the room, followed by Layla. She patted Porter on the shoulder, and sat down behind him. Porter didn’t recognise the third man. He was in his early fifties, with a greying beard, and hair that straggled down towards his open-necked cream shirt. There was a slight stoop to his walk, and he was carrying a bundle of papers underneath his arm.

  ‘You OK?’ said Sir Angus.

  From the look on his face, Porter could tell it was a pleasantry, not a question. He doesn’t give a toss how I am, or what happens to me. ‘Fine, sir,’ he replied, pouring himself a coffee from the jug in front of him.

  Sir Angus nodded. ‘You need that coffee,’ he said. ‘There are still no leads on where Katie Dartmouth might have got to, and the way the PM is wobbling, our boys might be packing up their bags in Basra by the weekend. So right now, you’re still our best shot at sorting out this bloody mess.’

  ‘God help us,’ said Porter.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Sir Angus. ‘I reckon you’re a man who never liked school very much, so we’ll try and keep this as short as possible. But we’re going to have to cram as much knowledge as we can into your head in a very short space of time.’

  He nodded towards the man with the grey beard. ‘Professor Gilton here is going to fill you in on as much as we know about Hezbollah. Next up, we’ve got one of our top hostage guys coming in for a chat. Then we’ve got the head of Sky News coming down to talk to you about Katie. Over dinner, we’ll be giving you your instructions, then packing you off to bed. You’ll need all the sleep you can get.’ He looked sharply at Porter. ‘That agreed?’

  Porter nodded.

  Professor Gilton leant forward on the desk. He’d already drunk one coffee and was starting on the next. ‘How much do you know about Hezbollah?’ he asked.

  ‘Bunch of mad fuckers with towels on their heads,’ said Porter. He grinned, but quickly noticed that nobody else in the room was smiling and straightened up his lips.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s one interpretation, although the towels are mo
re often around their necks, actually,’ said Gilton.

  Porter shot him a quick glance. ‘Hezbollah was formed after the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon,’ he said. ‘It is a Shiite Islamic organisation, and came together as various extremist organisations joined forces to fight the Israelis. It was largely backed by the Iranians, who sent them large sums of money, and about two hundred armed fighters which formed the backbone of its military strength. But it’s important to remember that they aren’t just militants. They have plenty of support in the Lebanon as the main resistance to the Israeli occupation of that country, and without that support it is unlikely they would have survived as long as they have. If you go into the Lebanon, you have to remember, you are fighting on their territory. Don’t expect any support from the locals.’

  The professor took another sip of his coffee. That’s shown him not to treat me like an idiot, thought Porter.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the Professor. ‘Hezbollah virtually invented modern Islamic terrorism. In 1983, it created the suicide bomber when it used them to blow up the American military barracks in Beirut, killing 241 soldiers in one go. And within a few minutes it blew up an apartment block housing French peacekeepers. All the basic elements of Islamic terrorism are there. Suicide bombers. Coordinated strikes. Targets chosen with precision for maximum impact. There is nothing al-Qaeda is doing today that Hezbollah didn’t do first, and often more effectively as well.’

  ‘So they’re the best,’ said Porter. ‘I think we already knew that.’

  Gilton nodded. ‘Afraid so. They started with suicide bombing because they wanted to get the Americans and the French out of the Lebanon, and they just about succeeded. Then they moved on to kidnappings. They’re masters at that as well. In 1985, they kidnapped the CIA bureau chief in Beirut, an army officer called William Buckley. They held him captive for fifteen months, tortured him and then they killed him. His body wasn’t recovered until 1991, when his remains were found in a plastic bag by a roadside in Beirut. Between 1984 and 1992, they kidnapped and held hostage about thirty Westerners, including the Archbishop of Canterbury’s special envoy Terry Waite, the journalist John McCarthy, and the Ulster writer Brian Keenan. Of course, you know about one of them yourself, Kenneth Bratton. He was one of the very few who was ever successfully broken out. In each and every case, the individual was held for long periods of time, usually in terrible conditions.’