Strike Back Read online

  He’d been sitting here for ten or fifteen minutes already. The guards had taken him down three flights in the elevator, into the network of cells and interrogation rooms that lay deep underneath the Firm’s headquarters. They’d remained silent during the time it took to bring him here: Porter could tell the guy in charge was looking forward to roughing him up if his story didn’t check out. ‘Someone will be along to see you in a minute,’ he had said briskly, as he ushered Porter into the room.

  It didn’t look like a prison cell, Porter thought, but that’s what it was. The door was locked behind him, and he reckoned you’d need at least a couple of pounds of Semtex to break through it. There was grey carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted a grey-white. A simple table was in the centre of the room, with the coffee jug on it, and next to it there was a chair. A flat-screen TV nestled in one corner. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.

  Porter took another biscuit, and flicked on the TV. Sky News was covering the Katie Dartmouth hostage story twenty-four hours a day now. The presenter was going over live to Downing Street, where the Prime Minister was about to make a statement. Porter watched with interest, as the familiar figure appeared on the screen. He paused, and there was catch in his throat as he concentrated on what he was about to say. ‘Let me just start by saying that all our thoughts are with Katie Dartmouth and her family at this time,’ he began, looking straight at the camera. ‘I just say this to the people who have taken her. Whatever your quarrel is with the British government, then we can talk about that, but there is nothing to be gained from taking the life of an innocent young woman. Now, to the British people I say this. They are asking for British troops to be withdrawn from Iraq, but nothing is more important than that we stay the course, and don’t turn our back on the war on terror. Sir Perry Collinson has been put in charge of our diplomatic efforts to bring Katie Dartmouth out of the Lebanon. Whatever he needs to bring that about, you may be assured it will be put at his disposal.’ The PM paused, coughing slightly. ‘This certainly isn’t the moment for sound bites,’ he continued. ‘But in our darkest hours, our finest men come forward. Perry Collinson one of those men.’

  Porter turned the sound down. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered out loud. That tosser couldn’t get a Cheesy Wotsit out of its packet. He certainly doesn’t know how to get Katie Dartmouth out of a cellar in Beirut.

  Porter snapped rigidly to attention as he heard the lock turn in the door. A woman was coming into the room. He guessed she was about thirty-five, with dark hair that stretched down no further than the bottom of her neck, and with clear blue eyes that were set in a solid, serious face. She was wearing a black jacket and black skirt, with a white blouse and an amber necklace hooked around her delicate white skin. Just keep yourself focused, Porter told himself. Finally show Sandy that you can do something.

  ‘My name is Layla Thompson,’ she said, looking straight at Porter. ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Porter,’ he replied crisply. ‘John Porter.’

  She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. There was a notepad and a pen in front of her, and she instinctively reached for them, but Porter noticed she wasn’t writing anything down. Just drawing a series of rectangles. ‘Sir Angus says you know how to get to Hassad Naimi,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been through it once with the boss,’ said Porter. ‘I was in the SAS back in ’89. We went into the Lebanon to get out a hostage. Hassad was there. He was just a kid then, so I spared his life. I recognised him from the shape of his mouth. It’s deformed, you can’t miss it.’

  ‘And you think he’ll talk to you?’ said Layla.

  She was about to pour herself a coffee and take a biscuit, but then she noticed they were all gone.

  ‘Like I said, I let him live,’ said Porter. ‘Three good men died on that mission, and I lost two fingers on my left hand. I’ve regretted it every bloody day since, but that doesn’t change the facts. He owes me. Arabs may not be good at much, and I wouldn’t trust the bastard any further than I could throw a camel. But they never forget an obligation. Not when their honour is at stake.’

  ‘Why did you let him live?’

  ‘Christ, he was just a kid …’

  ‘A dangerous one, however.’

  ‘We’ve been through all that,’ snapped Porter. ‘It’s not important now.’

  ‘Which years were you in the Regiment?’ said Layla.

  ‘From ’88 to ’92,’ answered Porter.

  Layla nodded. She had the same patient manner of a doctor, listening carefully to what you said, while neither approving or disapproving. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll take some fingerprints, and a snip of your hair, so we can run ID checks, and a DNA test. We need to make sure you are who you say you are. If that works out, then we can have a conversation. OK?’

  Porter nodded. It was going to take time, he told himself. You couldn’t walk back in from the cold after fourteen years and expect the security services to start trusting you.

  It took only a few moments to snip a lock of hair and take an impression of his fingertips, and then Porter was alone again. Layla had left, locking the door behind her: they didn’t believe him yet, he noted, but they weren’t going to risk losing him either.

  Porter flicked on the TV, but there were just replays of the PM’s statement on Katie Dartmouth. One of the political commentators was talking about the by-election coming up in nine days’ time, and how the government faced a potential humiliation if Katie was executed at the weekend. There were more calls from the Opposition for troops to be taken out of Iraq, and a vigil had already been started by the ‘Stop the War’ coalition in Trafalgar Square. Porter turned it off again. He’d watched enough by now to know how badly they wanted Katie out of there.

  Alone with my own thoughts, he reflected. Always a dangerous place. An hour slipped by and then another. Porter could feel himself growing desperate for a drink. The coffee pot was empty, and the biscuits were all gone. As he stared at the walls, the doubts start to creep up on him, like maggots crawling across rotten meat. What the hell am I doing here? Who in the name of Christ do I think I am kidding?

  I must be mad to want to get back into this, he decided, as he stood up to pace around the small room. Whatever it is a man needs to be made of to turn him into a warrior, I haven’t got it. And there is no point in thinking I’m suddenly going to acquire it at my age.

  He looked at the door again. If only it wasn’t locked, he’d just walk straight out of here. Get back to his archway, use his spare cash to buy a couple of bottles of vodka, and get some rest. If they don’t come back soon, I’m going to start banging on the door. I can’t deal with this much longer. Not without something to drink.

  Just then the door started to open. Layla walked in. ‘OK, so you are who you say you are,’ she said, sitting down behind the table.

  She motioned to Porter to sit down opposite her, but he preferred to stand.

  ‘The problem is, John Porter is a fuck-up,’ she continued.

  Layla glanced down at a sheaf of computer printouts she’d been carrying under her arm. ‘We’ve retrieved your records. And indeed, you were in the SAS from 1988 to 1992. But, how shall I put this delicately, you weren’t exactly gunning for any medals, were you?’

  ‘I was good enough to get in,’ growled Porter.

  ‘But not good enough to stay in,’ said Layla, her tone laced with sarcasm. ‘You fucked up in the Regiment. You were sent off to be a range warden but you couldn’t handle that either. After you left the army, you tried a few jobs, but you couldn’t hold them down. Your wife kicked you out more than ten years ago. She divorced you five years ago – but you probably didn’t even know because her lawyers didn’t have anywhere to send the papers.’

  She shrugged, flicking a piece of dust off the shoulder pad of her black jacket. Porter watched it fall to the floor: he knew how it felt.

  ‘If I may put it this way, John Porter isn’t exactly the first per
son the nation would turn to in its hour of need.’

  Porter stared at the floor. I shouldn’t have bothered, he was telling himself. I should have just gone somewhere I could get a drink.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come …’

  He started to walk towards the door.

  ‘Hold it,’ said Layla.

  He looked at her. She was flashing a smile at him, and for the first time he noticed how pretty she was. There’s a woman underneath that black suit somewhere, he thought. But you need some sturdy pickaxes and shovels to find her, because she’s buried a long way underground.

  ‘What’s passed is passed,’ she said, her tone softening. ‘What we do know is that you were in the SAS, and you went into the Lebanon. Do you really know this Hassad bastard?’

  Porter nodded. ‘I spared his life …’

  ‘And you reckon he’ll speak to you?’

  Porter nodded. ‘I already told you that.’

  Layla stood up. ‘If we had any other options, believe me, we’d take them,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’m going to talk to the boss. He doesn’t always listen to me, but if he does, well, you might have just talked yourself into a job.’

  SIX

  Porter glanced at Layla in the elevator. They were moving swiftly up towards the tenth floor, where all the top brass had their offices. One shot, thought Porter. That’s all I’m going to get at this. Within an hour, I could be back on the streets.

  A brief flicker of doubt crossed his mind. This might end up costing me my life. Then again, what sort of life is it anyway?

  The elevator cruised to a halt, and as the door opened, Porter stepped out onto the thickly carpeted corridor. He’d been waiting back down in the interrogation room for three hours before they’d said they were ready to talk to him. Plenty of time to practise my lines, he told himself.

  He trod swiftly down the corridor, following as Layla led the way. There were no windows on this floor of the Firm: the building has already suffered one rocket attack by a dissident IRA group back in 2000, and the walls were now built of thick, armoured steel, but there was no way a window could be made completely secure, so they had got rid of them. There was a soft artificial light along the corridor, and the walls were decorated with striking pieces of modern art. The main conference room was fifteen yards down from the elevator, sealed off behind a frosted-glass door. Its entrance was guarded by two men, neither of them in uniform, but both with MP-5 assault rifles strapped to their chests.

  ‘Porter,’ said Layla, pausing before the door to the conference room, ‘if you want to make yourself look like a bloody idiot, that’s up to you. If you make me look like one as well, then I’m going to have your balls chopped off. Is that clear?’

  Porter ignored her, walking inside. The room was at least thirty feet long, and ten wide. It was dominated by a thin glass table, with black leather chairs all around it. There were pots of coffee and bottles of mineral water distributed along it. On the left-hand wall, there was a row of flat, black, plasma screens: they were tuned to Sky News, CNN, BBC News 24, Fox News and al-Jazeera, all with the sound turned down. On the opposite wall, there was a bank of computer screens and a table of telecoms kit. Lots of kit, Porter noticed, but you wouldn’t learn anything here you wouldn’t find out from watching TV at home. They don’t trust me enough to let me see any sensitive intelligence.

  The lion’s den, thought Porter as he took another step forward. This is what the Christians must have felt like when they got tossed into the Colosseum. Except at least they had some faith in themselves.

  Sir Angus was sitting at the head of the table. And directly to his right was Perry Collinson.

  Porter’s eyes flashed towards him, the contempt unconcealed.

  Collinson returned the look, and as he did so a thin, detached smile crossed over his lips. It was more than fifteen years since Porter had last seen him, but he still looked in remarkably good shape for a man in his mid-forties. His hair had grown darker, but there was still plenty of it. There was a little more flesh on him, but he was still lean and trim.

  ‘John, sit down,’ said Layla quietly.

  She pulled out a chair at the head of the table. He could see how her manner changed as soon as she saw Sir Angus: in control when she was interrogating him, she suddenly became quiet in the presence of the boss. No doubt about who’s in charge of this place, Porter noted. No doubt either that he scares the crap out of the lot of them.

  ‘You’ve turned up rather unexpectedly, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘And I suppose we’ll find out in the next few minutes whether you are unwelcome or not.’

  Porter nodded, but remained silent. Don’t open your mouth more than you need to, he told himself. It’s never done you any good before, and it probably won’t now either.

  Sir Angus waved a hand around the table. ‘Let me make the introductions,’ he said, nodding to each man in turn. ‘Peter Thornton, the man in charge of your old Regiment, the SAS. Sir Gerald Daniels, the Chief of the Defence Staff. James Middleton, who runs the Foreign Office’s Middle East desk. You’ll probably recognise Geoff Bramley, the Secretary of State for Defence. Jim Muir, from Downing Street, who runs the press operations. And, of course Sir Peregrine Collinson, the Prime Minister’s special envoy to the Middle East.’

  ‘We’ve met before,’ said Collinson.

  Porter didn’t flinch. ‘I believe so,’ he said quietly.

  There was something about Sir Angus’s tone when he mentioned Collinson’s name that suggested he didn’t like him very much. Join the club, mate.

  ‘Let’s forget the poxy reunions, shall we, boys?’ snapped Muir. ‘There’s a poll out in the Evening Standard this morning showing that 75 per cent of the British public think British troops should be taken out of Iraq rather than have fucking Katie Dartmouth executed. So shall we just get down to sodding business?’

  Porter noticed that Muir was doodling a picture of a woman with huge breasts and a very short skirt on the notepad lying in front of him on the desk. He looked back at Sir Angus.

  ‘So you think this Hassad man will speak to you?’ said Sir Angus.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Porter. ‘Tell him there is an SAS man who spared his life in ’89, who lost two fingers on his left hand.’

  Sir Angus nodded. ‘And if he’ll talk …?’

  ‘Then send me out to negotiate,’ said Porter.

  ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ snapped Muir. ‘Where the fuck did you find him?’

  ‘Actually, he found us,’ said Sir Angus. ‘He came in this morning –’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t fucking believe it,’ said Muir, his tone exasperated. ‘We spend a couple of fucking billion a year on our security services, and we have to rely on some bloke who wanders in off the street. Christ Almighty. Your budget’s getting chopped in the next spending review, along with your balls.’

  Muir was scribbling even more frantically on his pad – the breasts on the woman were growing larger and her skirt shorter.

  ‘He was one of our men,’ said Peter Thornton. ‘Porter was in the Regiment from ’88 to ’92.’

  ‘And he says Hassad will talk to him,’ said Sir Angus.

  ‘I don’t think we need him,’ said Collinson, leaning forward on the table.

  Porter looked towards him, but made sure not a single muscle on his face even twitched.

  ‘No offence, Porter,’ said Collinson. ‘Good to see you again, and all that. But we’ve got men scouring the Middle East, looking in all the usual rat cellars, and we’re bound to turn up something. You’ve been out of this game for a long time.’ Another thin smile started to spread across his lips. ‘And all in all, it’s a shame you didn’t kill the man seventeen years ago.’

  ‘You …’ Porter was about to continue, but he stopped himself at the last moment. Looking up the table, he could see Sir Angus flinch as soon as Collinson spoke. So long as he’s against me, I’m in with a shout, he realised. Within the Firm, your enemy’s enemy had always bee
n your friend. I can use that, he realised. So long as I play it right.

  ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll understand, sir,’ said Porter quietly, looking straight at Sir Angus, then glancing towards Muir.

  ‘And how many other leads do you have?’ said Muir to Sir Angus.

  ‘At this moment, precisely none,’ said Sir Angus. ‘And however confident Perry might be, the truth is we don’t have much of a clue where she is. Could be the Lebanon. Could be Syria or Jordan. They might even have taken her to Iraq.’

  ‘We’ve talked to Mossad,’ said Sir Gerald Daniels. ‘They’ve got the best network of spies throughout the Middle East, and even they don’t have a clue where Hassad might be hiding the woman. They can’t even give us any pointers as to why Hezbollah are pulling this stunt now.’

  ‘Looks like this guy is the best chance we have,’ said Muir.

  Sir Angus looked down the table. ‘Please try not to screw it up.’

  Porter felt a surge of adrenalin shooting through his veins: maybe, just maybe, I’ve pulled this off. He glanced at Collinson. He could see a flash of irritation pass across his face, but within the next few seconds it was replaced by a relaxed smile. At his side, Layla stood up, saying she would get the technicians to put through the call. Hassad hadn’t given them a phone number. It was too dangerous: even a mobile phone could be tracked by the American satellite systems, and the Firm could always borrow the CIA kit for a day. Instead he’d given them a Skype number, which allowed him to make a call over the Internet. The call would be routed through the Web, and would contact Hassad at the other end. The technicians had been trying to use the number to get a location, but it was impossible. The call was routed though a hundred different Web servers and computers, some of them just Internet cafés in the back streets of Damascus or Cairo, and some of them home computers that had been hijacked by viruses. There was no way of telling where the call had come from. Hezbollah, along with al-Qaeda, were experts in using the Internet to communicate safely, with no chance of their location being cracked.