Strike Back (13 page)

He straightened himself up, and climbed into the back of the waiting Jag: the driver had been too engrossed in his paper to even notice anything had happened. The drive back to Vauxhall didn’t take long. Layla was waiting for him in the entrance foyer. She asked how his daughter was, but Porter just brushed aside the questions, telling her that he needed some rest.

Back in the room, he splashed some water onto his face. He rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet, but there
were no bandages or plasters, not even any disinfectant. They hadn’t even left him a razor blade, just an electric shaver: they obviously didn’t want him getting his hands on anything that could be used as a weapon.

‘You need a jab,’ said Danni.

He spun round. She was standing in the doorway, still dressed in the nurse’s uniform, a syringe in her hand.

‘I need a drink,’ said Porter.

‘We all need a drink after a day in this place,’ said Danni, striding towards him.

‘What’s in that?’ he asked, nodding towards the syringe.

‘More antibiotics,’ said Danni. ‘The doctor says you need them for another twenty-four hours. There’s still a lot of rubbish to clear out of your system.’

He lay down on the bed. ‘You’re going out to rescue Katie Dartmouth, aren’t you?’ said Danni, as she prepared the syringe.

Porter nodded.

‘Poor girl,’ Danni continued. ‘It’s terrible what those bastards are doing to her.’

For a moment it struck Porter that he hadn’t really thought about it. He’d been so focused on doing something for Sandy that he’d hardly thought about Katie Dartmouth’s plight. And better not to, he told himself. Because there is probably sod all I can do for her even once I’m out there.

‘There was a picture of her strung up against a post,’ Danni carried on. ‘She looked terrible. And I saw her mum being interviewed on TV. I felt
so
sorry for her.’

Her touch felt soft and gentle to Porter, and he couldn’t help noticing that a button was still undone on her crisp white tunic, revealing a few centimetres of her pink bra. The needle jabbed into his arm. Porter winced briefly, then let the medicine hit his bloodstream. He could feel his eyes closing drowsily. ‘You’re a brave man, John Porter,’ Danni was saying softly. ‘If it’s any help, I’ll be rooting for you.’

Layla put a row of pills down on the table. Green, yellow, black and beige. Next to it, there was a glass of fresh orange juice, a jug of freshly brewed coffee, a bowl of cornflakes, and some toast, butter and jam. ‘More vitamins,’ she said sharply. ‘Make sure you take them. You’re probably in the worst shape of any agent we’ve ever sent into the field, but we’re doing our best.’

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Porter could see that it was just after ten in the morning. They must have let him sleep in on purpose. Maybe they even put something into the cocktail of drugs they jabbed into his arm last night. When he’d woken up, he had a quick shower, put on clean clothes from the cupboard, and as soon as he stepped out, Layla had already been waiting for him, leading him to breakfast. They must have a camera in the room, Porter thought. How else could they know exactly when I woke up? His eyes scanned the bed, the washroom and the walls, but he couldn’t see anything. That makes no difference. The cameras they make these days are so small I’ll never find them. I’ll just have to get used to being watched.

‘Here’s your schedule for the day,’ said Layla. ‘This morning we’re going to put you back in training. Basic firearms, self-defence and –’

‘I was in the Regiment, you know,’ interrupted Porter.

‘And it’s more than a decade since you left,’ said Layla.
‘Warfare has changed a lot since then. There’s a lot more kit, and a lot more brainwork.’

‘Lucky I’m out of it then,’ said Porter, taking a hit on the orange juice.

Layla nodded, then a brief smile flashed across her face. ‘Probably so.’

She poured herself a cup of coffee, then carried on. ‘The training should take all morning. Then this afternoon, we’re scheduling a series of planning meetings to talk through what you do when you get out there.’

‘Any breakthroughs?’

Layla shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. As she spoke, he caught the exhaustion in her voice. Her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept in several days. ‘We’ve got every intelligence agent in the region offering a fortune to their informants, but so far we’ve come up with nothing. The freelancers and mercenaries know we will pay handsomely for any lead, but nobody’s talking. The satellite systems are scanning the region, and our computer wizards are monitoring all the Internet chatter. And so far we’ve come up with absolutely sod all. She could be anywhere.’

‘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.