Strike Back Read online

  She edged another few inches closer. With her left hand, she was brushing a lock of hair away from her face, and her right hand was resting on the top of the bed. Slowly, she uncrossed and then crossed her legs again, and Porter was struggling to keep his eyes away from her. She was so close to him that Porter couldn’t escape the heady smell of the perfume splashed across her body.

  ‘I hope so too,’ she said softly, leaving her lips slightly parted, and her eyes half closed as she completed the sentence, ‘because it’s a bloody brave thing to do.’

  Porter’s hand edged forwards on the bed, so that it was just inches from hers. Christ, she’s coming on to me, he told himself. Unless the signs have changed completely in the years since I last tried it on with a girl, I could be in with a chance here. He could feel his heart thumping. He wanted her, of course. She was blonde, and buxom, and dressed in a white, crisply starched nurse’s uniform: what man wouldn’t want her in his bed. But when you live out on the streets, he reminded himself, you stop even thinking about women. They aren’t on your radar screen. Christ, I’m buggered if I even know what to do any more.

  ‘Not that brave,’ said Porter, his tone turning weaker.

  ‘I think you’re plenty brave,’ she said. ‘And strong …’

  Her hand was almost touching his now. Porter let his right hand stretch out, his fingers creeping across the bedding, until slowly they reached hers. He could feel the warmth of her skin against his, and as he looked up at her face, her eyes were still half closed and her lips still parted a fraction. He moved closer towards her, gripping her hand in his, and suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she looked straight at him and smiled. ‘Kiss me,’ she said slowly.

  Porter leant into the kiss, and in the next instant could feel her tongue lashing into his. The embrace was passionate and urgent, as if they were both painfully aware of how little time there was. He could taste the wine on her lips as he flicked his tongue against hers, and her breath was warm against his skin. He could feel her breasts thrusting into his chest, and even through her lace bra, he could feel her nipples stiffening. Porter ran his hand down towards her legs, making impact just above the knee. Small gasps of pleasure started to moan from her lips as he ran his hand slowly up the side of her thigh, until it was nestling in the warmth of her crotch. Danni’s own hands were roaming across Porter’s chest, tugging at his sweatshirt. She rolled onto her side, and then suddenly was underneath him, pulling him down into the warmth of her body. ‘Fuck me,’ she muttered, her voice husky and harsh. ‘Fuck me right now.’

  Porter pulled away her tunic, and buried his face in her chest. His tongue was lashing against her nipples, enjoying the way her large breasts rose and swelled under his touch. As he did so, her hands were busy unbuckling his trousers. In the next moment, Danni had turned him over, stripping the last of his clothes off him, then making him wait a few tantalising moments as she slowly peeled away her dress and tights, leaving just her lace knickers for him to feast his eyes upon. Jesus, thought Porter, as he lay back on the bed and watched her head disappearing towards his groin, girls have learnt a new trick or two since the last time I did this.

  The sex was hot and frantic, over in a matter of minutes, but no less satisfying for that. Porter had worried briefly about someone coming in, but the door was bolted. When they finished, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, and for a second Porter found himself wondering about the security cameras he felt certain they had installed in the room. Sod it, he thought with a wry smile. They can watch if they want to. I might even buy a copy of the tape from them.

  Danni lay on the side of the bed, her body still vibrating with pleasure. She looked up into his eyes, then planted another kiss on the side of his cheek. ‘They don’t think you’re coming back, you know,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  He could feel her hands tickling his chest, and couldn’t help himself from smiling. It was so long since he’d been with a woman – there had been one brief girlfriend when he managed to hold down a job for three whole months quite soon after Diana threw him out of the house but since then nothing – that he’d forgotten how good it felt to have someone’s arms around you. It made him feel alive again, pushing away the demons that raged inside his mind: already he was wondering about when he might see her again.

  ‘They were talking about it, I heard them,’ said Danni. ‘Layla and some of the other case officers.’

  ‘What did they say exactly?’

  ‘They reckon there isn’t much you can do,’ said Danni. ‘This Hassad guy, they reckon he’s a ruthless bastard, and whatever you offer him, he won’t accept it. He’ll kill Katie Dartmouth just like he said he would, and then … well, it’s not going to leave you in much of a position, is it?’

  Her eyes flickered up tenderly towards Porter’s.

  Porter remained impassive. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said firmly. ‘Whether I can get her out or not …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hell, I don’t know. It’s worth trying, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘Of a few ragheads? Fuck, no. They run around screaming to Allah and all that bollocks, but you put in a bullet into them and they fall over pretty quick.’

  ‘But … of dying?’ asked Danni.

  Porter paused. He’d thought about that sometimes over the last few years. When you lived out on the streets, you got used to the idea you weren’t going to reach a ripe old age. ‘Dying isn’t so bad,’ he said. ‘There are worse things that can happen to man. Trust me, I’ve been there.’

  Slowly, Danni climbed on top of him, grinding her crotch into his groin. There was a wicked, lustful smile playing across her smudged red lipstick. ‘I want to fuck you one more time before you go,’ she said.

  THIRTEEN

  The BMW 520 pulled smoothly away from the kerb, and turned sharp right onto Vauxhall Bridge. Porter sat back, listening to the low hum of the engine. Don’t get used to it, he warned himself. They’ll take you to the airport in style because it suits them. But once you get off that plane, they’ll toss you straight back into hell.

  It was only just after six and there wasn’t much traffic around at this time of the morning. Living rough, Porter had learnt there was no such thing as a quiet time on the London streets: it was a cliché, he knew, but the place really had forgotten how to sleep. Still, as the BMW turned up through Pimlico and Kensington on its way to meet the M4 heading out towards Heathrow, the school-run mums hadn’t yet started wheeling out their Chelsea tractors, and the delivery vans hadn’t begun their rounds, so the place was relatively calm. He watched as the silent, darkened streets slipped past, recognising places where he’d kipped down for the night, tried his hand at begging, or grovelled to some puffed-up arsehole for a few hours’ work washing up or sweeping steps.

  I might never see this place again, he thought. And so what? I won’t miss a single street of it.

  He’d come down to London after Diana had thrown him out. They had a house they’d bought together soon after Sandy was born on the outskirts of Nottingham: Diana liked it because she’d grown up there, but Porter had come from Luton, and had never really felt at home that far up into the Midlands. Without Diana, there hadn’t been much reason to stay, and, if he was being honest with himself, if you were a heavy drinker, it wasn’t a great place to hang around: the pubs all got to know you, and wouldn’t serve you any more after your first ten or twelve drinks. He’d come down to London to try his hand on the security circuit, and he’d managed to get a couple of bodyguard jobs, but after they caught him with alcohol on his breath that work had all dried up. Nobody wanted some drunk bastard looking after them. He’d stayed in London, though, even as his life gradually fell apart. You could always get a drink, so long as you had a few pounds in your pocket, and sometimes even when you didn’t.

  ‘Sleep OK?’ said Layla, sitting by his side in the back of the BMW.

  He glanced at her. She was dressed more casually today, in
jeans, and a white blouse and blue jacket, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She had brought an overnight bag with her, even though she was planning on getting the afternoon flight back to London, because anyone who turned up at airport without any luggage automatically made themselves look suspicious.

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Porter gruffly.

  That just about described it, he reflected. After making love to Danni for the second time, he’d fallen fast asleep in her arms, and slept probably better and more deeply than he had done for years. By the time he’d been woken up by the ringing of the alarm clock, she was gone, with just the lingering smell of her perfume, and a thin trace of lipstick on the pillow to remind him that she’d ever been there at all. I’ll probably never see her again, and might not even want to, he’d thought as he stepped into the shower. She was way too young for their relationship to be anything more than brief or physical, but the few hours they’d stolen together had been memorable all the same. Something to cheer myself up with when the ragheads are about to put a bullet through my head or a sword through my heart.

  ‘Medical treatment help you sleep?’ said Layla.

  Porter looked at her again. There was just a trace of a smile around her lips, and suddenly it was clear to him exactly what had happened.

  ‘How much did you pay her?’

  ‘Pay who?’ said Layla lightly.

  ‘The nurse,’ said Porter.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I might have had too much to drink over the last few years,’ growled Porter. ‘But the alcohol hasn’t rotted all my brain cells, not yet anyway. I’ve still got enough going on upstairs to know that young girls don’t go to bed with guys old enough to be their father unless somebody is making it worth their while.’

  ‘Maybe she likes you,’ said Layla with a shrug.

  ‘I have many faults, but I’m not vain,’ said Porter. ‘What’s the deal?’

  Layla paused. The BMW had passed through Hammersmith now, and was roaring along the fast lane of the M4 towards the airport. ‘She’s not really a nurse at all, although she knows how to give someone an injection, and stick a plaster on them if they’re cut. She does the honey traps for us. She beds men, usually middle-aged men, and then we threaten to tell their wives unless they do something we want them to do. It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course, but a damned good one all the same, and still works a treat.’

  ‘So why me?’

  ‘One of the psychologists we got to watch a video of you talking suggested it,’ said Layla. ‘He said he reckoned your self-esteem was low.’

  ‘Well, you just spoilt it by telling me.’

  Layla shrugged. ‘You’d already guessed.’

  Porter laughed, ‘Well, if by some bloody miracle I get back from this hellhole you’re sending me to, tell them I’m still feeling a bit down,’ he said. ‘I might need a repeat prescription.’

  ‘I’ll try …’

  ‘And ask her to bring her sister as well.’

  The BMW had already pulled up in the short-stay car park at Heathrow. Porter followed Layla towards Terminal 4. They still had an hour and a half to go before the flight, but the check-in rules meant they had to be there in plenty of time. Porter was carrying a single leather holdall the Firm had brought for him, with a spare pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, some shaving kit, and a paperback to read on the plane. He slung it over his back, and walked alongside her in the direction of the check-in. His eye caught a newspaper display. All of them were leading on the Katie Dartmouth story: the Guardian had a poll showing support for the government slumping as the crisis worsened, predicting a wipeout in the by-election; the Mail had signed up Katie’s mum to write a kidnap diary; the Sun was carrying a Katie countdown measure – ‘D-DAY MINUS 3’ screamed its headline.

  They whizzed through the VIP lounge, then went on to passport control. Porter naturally hadn’t had a passport: it wasn’t the kind of thing you needed when you slept rough. The Firm had rustled one up overnight. Amazing what you could do when the fate of the government was on the line, he reflected. Even the picture doesn’t look too bad, he decided, as he took the passport back from the immigration officer and tucked it into his jeans. Maybe they didn’t have to pay that Danni girl too much for the shag: at the rate my life is improving, he thought with a wry smile to himself, the next one might even be free.

  ‘We’ll be staying away from the duty-free, I think,’ said Layla sharply, steering him towards the coffee bar in the departures lounge. ‘You’ve got quite enough in your system, without stocking up on the vodka.’

  ‘Maybe I should bring my old mate Hassad a gift from Blighty,’ said Porter with a grin. ‘A T-shirt with Big Ben on it. Or some nice biscuits from Harrods.’

  Layla had already ordered a couple of large lattes and croissants: Porter had grabbed some cereal and toast in his bedroom, but his hunger was still far from satiated, and he wolfed down the croissant in a couple of bites. ‘I somehow imagine the Society of Muslim Brothers doesn’t break out the Johnnie Walker when they get together for a meeting,’ said Layla.

  ‘I could grab a bottle just in case,’ said Porter.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘Maybe get them all pissed, then sneak out with the girl while they’re sleeping it off.’

  Layla just rolled her eyes.

  ‘You eating that?’ said Porter, pointing towards her croissant.

  ‘There’ll be food on the plane, I suppose,’ she replied with a shake of her head.

  He grabbed the croissant, and ate that in two bites as well. Looking around, Porter couldn’t tell where the rest of the flunkies the Firm had ordered to accompany them on the flight might be, but he felt certain they wouldn’t be far away. They were flying on an A320, which in economy class had six seats in each row, three on either side of the aisle, making sixteen additional officers once you took out the two seats occupied by Porter and Layla. Quite a party, he thought to himself. They would all be in plain clothes. They would slip quietly into the background. The Firm was good at that: it could tap an endless supply of grey men who shuffled unobtrusively into the shadows, only to appear as if from nowhere when they were needed.

  ‘I need the loo,’ said Porter, standing up.

  Layla looked at him sharply.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ growled Porter. ‘I’m not doing a runner. I might need my head examining, but I actually want to get out there.’

  ‘Just don’t be long.’

  Porter walked in the direction of the toilets. He glanced towards the duty-free, and couldn’t help but notice the vast display of whiskies, vodka and gin stacked high in the shop window. Bloody cheap, he reflected bitterly to himself. Johnnie Walker at twelve quid a bottle. They are practically giving the stuff away. No, he told himself, as he carried on walking. Nothing to drink. Not yet anyway.

  The Firm had given him a hundred quid along with his luggage: to head up to Heathrow without any money in your pocket was just one more thing that would make him appear suspicious. He had another five hundred in Lebanese pounds, and Ben Stanton would have plenty more if he needed it. Just beyond the duty-free shop, there was a row of gift and clothes stores. Porter slipped inside one, and told the girl at the desk to give him a pair of jeans, a white shirt, some socks, pants and a pair of trainers, size nine. When she asked what label, he told her he didn’t care. And no, he didn’t mind what colour the jeans were, whether they were straight or boot cut, nor did he want to try them on. Within a couple of minutes, she had returned with a bulging bag. Porter counted out the money, thanked her and left.

  Swiftly, he walked the last few yards to the Gents, then, locking himself into one of the cubicles, Porter quickly undressed. It was a cramped space, but he was soon naked. He ran his hands across his body, making absolutely certain there wasn’t any kind of tracking device planted anywhere on him. When he was sure, he took the new clothes from the bag, dressed himself, washed his face, and walked quic
kly back towards the coffee bar where Layla was waiting for him. Glancing up at the departures board, he could see there were still forty minutes until their flight, but passengers were already being asked to make their way to Gate 26.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ said Layla, looking up at him.

  ‘Changed,’ said Porter gruffly.

  Layla shook her head, the expression on her face that of a nursery-school teacher faced with a particularly unruly pupil. ‘You didn’t like the clothes we bought you?’ she said. ‘Christ, we’re taking you to Beirut. We’re not going to Milan for a bloody fashion shoot.’

  Porter leant over the table. She’d ordered herself as chocolate muffin while he was gone, and he grabbed a piece, putting it in his mouth. ‘Like I said in the car, I may have had a bit too much to drink over the past few years, but my brain’s not completely gone. Not yet anyway. I have to be absolutely certain you lot haven’t planted any tracking devices on me. Because if you’ve put a tracker on me, then sure as hell Hassad is going to find it. You can slip one into my clothes easily enough, even into the heel of a shoe, or just the button of a shirt. The only way I can be certain I’m clean is to be wearing clothes I just bought in the shop right here. Because if Hassad does find anything, he’s going to kill me on the spot. And frankly I wouldn’t blame the bastard.’

  ‘Christ, John, don’t you trust us?’

  Porter shook his head firmly from side to side. ‘I trust only myself.’

  The flight was only about half full, and that was including the seats the Firm had booked. Not many people flying to Beirut, thought Porter as he walked along the aisles to the toilets at the back of the plane. And who the hell can blame them. No business to be done, half the hotels are shut, and unless you’re dressed in a burka or a headscarf, the chances are some nutter will kidnap you and phone home asking for a million quid or he’ll chop your head off.