Strike Back (20 page)

The bus station was just beyond the main square. About five buses, each one painted a pale green, were parked next to it. Stanton pulled up the Volvo next to them, killing the engine. ‘The Jezzoine bus leaves in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Then again, punctuality isn’t rated as very important around here. It’ll probably leave when they’ve got all the chickens they’re taking with them to sit down nicely.’

Porter slung his bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of the car. He paused, smelling the stiff breeze blowing in from the nearby shore, its salt flavour mixed with the fried oils, nuts and spices from the row of six food stands lining the edge of the bus station. It was good to smell the Med one more time, he told himself. He wanted to savour as many experiences as possible. When you were almost certainly going to die in the next twenty-four hours, then you saw the world with a fresh eye. It was like being a kid again. Everything seemed funny, interesting, challenging: the desire to embrace the world was all the more intense for the knowledge that you were about to leave it.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Porter.

He walked over to the food stands, and got Stanton to order a couple of snacks: tiny chicken and lamb meatballs, mixed with chickpeas and a spicy sauce, and served wrapped up in a pitta bread with a bottle of iced tea to wash it all down. Porter ate them in a couple of bites, then asked for another. ‘Any advice?’ he said.

Stanton hesitated before replying. He was scanning Porter’s face, looking, Porter reckoned, for traces of fear. But he wasn’t going to find any. He’d been scared before in his life. Going into combat had turned his stomach into jelly the same way it did for all the men. Taking a beating out on the streets had been just as bad. But he wasn’t scared now.

‘Turn in your resignation,’ said Stanton. ‘Take a holiday. Phone in sick …’

Porter smiled, but remained silent. He walked slowly
towards the bus. A couple of women were climbing on board, buying their tickets, talking to each other. Porter handed across a Lebanese ten-pound note, collected his ticket, then nodded towards Stanton. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said tersely.

The bus was already running ten minutes late by the time it pulled out of Sidon and started wheezing its way up the hill inland. Porter had positioned himself near the centre of the bus, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible. The two women in front of him were still chattering away: there were obviously a lot of unfaithful husbands and disloyal daughters in Sidon to catch up on, thought Porter. There were a few old men, a couple of families, and several schoolchildren scattered around the vehicle. Some of them were talking. But mostly, just like Porter, they were looking out of the window and keeping themselves to themselves.

The journey took just over an hour, twisting along the only main road that led up into the mountains that ran along the spine of the coast then down again into the valleys and plains below. There were some farms you could see stretched along the side of the road, growing dates, oranges, lemons and chickpeas, with the occasional herd of goats chewing the grasslands between the orchards and the fields. But the evidence of war was everywhere. Farms that had been abandoned were slowly being taken over by weeds, trees and scrub. Barns and houses that had been broken up by RPGs and mortar fire, roads that had been smashed to rubble, and the occasional burnt-out husk of a tank, or the familiar dugouts used to shelter a machine-gun crew, littered the side of the road.

That’s what soldiers leave behind, thought Porter to himself. Lots of shattered communities, and broken lives. Not much of an advertisement for the trade.

Jezzoine wasn’t the last stop on the route but it was where
Porter was getting off. He climbed from the bus, and out onto the tarmac of the bus station, glancing quickly around. The clouds were heavier now. It was just after five in the afternoon, and although sunset was still some way ahead, the light was already growing murky. Sidon may not have been much of a place, thought Porter, but compared with Jezzoine, it was Biarritz. There were just three buses waiting at the station, and the tarmac was pitted with holes: some of them might have been left there by shells, but most of them were there because nobody had bothered to fill them up at any time in the last fifty years. The ticket office had shut, and a dog was prowling around it menacingly. Glancing across the street into the town, Porter could see a couple of beatenup cafés, with a group of surly-looking men outside, sipping cups of thick, black coffee, and one shop selling some food, hardware and car parts.

Not many tourists, thought Porter. I’m going to stand out like Victoria Beckham in the local Primark. I’m probably the first white guy mad enough to come here in years.

He checked the bus schedule. The Sidon bus had rolled into town ten minutes late, but he still had twenty minutes to spare before the next bus headed out to Anjar. Take in the sights, he thought to himself with a grim smile.

Walking across to the shop, he took a bottle of water from the cooler cabinet, chose a couple of bars of chocolate, and handed across a Lebanese twenty-pound note to pay for them. He didn’t say anything, and although the woman serving could see he wasn’t local, she didn’t seem to care. A small boy was emptying out his pockets, seeing if he had enough coins to buy a packet of sweets. He glanced suspiciously at Porter, then looked away. Porter took the coins he’d been given in change, and handed them down to the boy. He started to say something in Arabic, but Porter just shook his head and turned round.

No need for the thanks, mate, thought Porter as he
walked back towards the bus stop. Where I’m going, I won’t be needing any loose change.

I’m dealing in a harder currency.

Blood.

Another hour, another bus station.

Porter stepped down from the ten-year-old Mercedes vehicle and glanced around. It was gone six now, and the skies were growing darker: back in England it would be pitch black by this time, but the days were longer out here. The journey had taken longer than expected. His bus had left twenty minutes after the scheduled time, and had taken fifteen minutes longer than it should have done to get to Anjar: the driver had picked one woman up, then turned round and gone back again when it turned out she had forgotten something. The waiting was driving Porter crazy. Just get on with it, he muttered to himself. I want to get stuck into this mission.

There were two food stands at the far end of the bus station, and a couple of guys were hanging around the ticket office. One of them, Porter noted, very obviously had some kind of gun tucked inside his leather jacket. They glanced at Porter, but neither seemed very interested. All through the journey, Porter had been watching, wondering whether the Firm had put some kind of tail on him. It was, he well knew, their most obvious move. After all, he was going to lead them straight to Katie Dartmouth’s kidnappers. Follow him, and they’d find her. All they would have to do then was rustle up a crack unit from Hereford to go and get her out. The only risk was, if the tail was spotted, Porter would be killed on the spot. Then they would have nothing. If there was a tail, he had to spot it before Hassad did.

As much as he scanned the bus and the streets for evidence of anyone keeping tabs on him, he felt certain he hadn’t seen the same face twice throughout the whole journey. He
hadn’t seen anyone acting suspiciously. There was nobody lurking in the shadows. And no passing of the watch from one person to another. Not that he could see anyway.

Either they are not here,
or else they are bloody good.

He started walking towards the bar. It was just a single room, built into a ragged concrete structure on the street directly opposite the bus station. There were a couple of cars parked alongside, and a few plastic tables and chairs. About a dozen guys were sitting around outside, drinking coffee and tea, and there were heaps of dog ends at their feet. Sandwiched close to the Lebanese, Syrian and Israeli borders, it was hardly surprising Anjar didn’t exist as anything more than a brutally fought-over dot on a map. Why the hell would anyone want to live here? Porter wondered. There was nothing to tie you to the place except for war, poverty and anger.

Crossing the road, he paused before the entrance to the bar. It had no name, just a dirty brown awning that would provide some shade when the sun was shining. Still, there was no mistaking the place. Anjar only had about four proper streets and two of those appeared to have been abandoned. It had a couple of shops, but this was the only café or bar. Porter started to step inside, yet for a brief moment he could feel himself hesitating. This is the line, he thought to himself. On one side, there’s this world. On the other a different one, probably the next world, if that happens to exist.

Cross it and there’s no going back.

Sod it, he told himself with a grim smile. There’s nothing to go back to. And the next world probably isn’t so bad. There’s bound to be a place where a bloke can doss down for the night. Who knows, you might even be able to get a drink.

The only trouble is I wouldn’t ever see Sandy again.

The guy at the counter looked around thirty, with a black
T-shirt, and blue jeans hanging loose over his white trainers. There were a few men inside the bar: where they stashed the women in this place, Porter had no idea, but he hadn’t seen any apart from at the shop and on the bus. The men were all drinking tea and pouring over a single copy of a newspaper. There was some kind of discussion going on, but whether it was about sport, or politics, or business, Porter couldn’t tell. He nodded towards the barman. There were some beer bottles in the cooler, and Porter felt tempted. A beer was just exactly what he needed right now. Lebanon was a Muslim country, but it wasn’t dry like some of them. Still, the locals hardly ever drank, and ordering a beer would only attract attention to himself. And that was the very last thing he wanted.

‘A coffee,’ he said in English.

He’d learnt a few words of Arabic back in the Regiment, but he didn’t want to try them out now. The barman looked at him, his expression puzzled. Not many English guys up here, thought Porter. The only foreigners you ever got around this place were probably Israelis and they didn’t usually get out of their fighter jets to say hello.

‘You speak English?’ said Porter.

The man nodded. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘You want coffee?’

‘That’s why I asked for it,’ said Porter.

The man went to the machine behind the bar. ‘Where you from?’

Porter took the small white china cup that had just been placed on the counter, and flicked away two flies that were sitting on the sugar bowl next to it. He pushed a couple of Lebanese one-pound coins across the bar. For a moment, he thought about lying. The British weren’t popular in Lebanon: they never had been, and they’d got a lot less so since the Iraq war kicked off. He didn’t need to get into any kind of argument with the locals. He could pretend to be Australian or a Kiwi: the trouble was they would probably
recognise the accent. And who knows, they probably hate the Aussies as well. ‘England,’ he said.

A couple of the men from the group around the newspaper looked at him. One of them had narrow eyes and a thick scar that ran down the side of his cheek and into his neck. He spat the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and ground it beneath the heel of his boot. You don’t need a translator to figure out what he’s saying, thought Porter. He’s tooling up for a fight. And the next thing he wants to put underneath that boot is my face.

‘You hear about the English girl,’ said the barman. ‘The one who got kidnapped?’

Christ, thought Porter. It’s even a big story out here.

‘Something,’ he replied tersely.

‘What they think of that back in London?’ said the barman, with a smile.

‘Maybe they get their soldiers out of our country now?’ said the man with the scar, standing up and walking over to the bar.

‘We’re not in your country,’ said Porter.

‘The Arab nation is one nation,’ said the man. His scar quivered slightly as he spoke, as if it was the wound talking. ‘You occupy one land, you occupy all our lands.’

Shit, thought Porter. The last thing I need here is a bar-room brawl.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t really know anything about it. I’m just getting a coffee while I wait for the next bus.’

‘What are you doing here?’ said the man with the scar. He had edged a foot closer to Porter, and he could smell the cheap cologne and the nicotine clinging to his skin. ‘There are no foreigners up here.’

Porter paused for just a fraction of a second. ‘Family business,’ he said. ‘A Lebanese family in London, they need some land sorted out. I’ve no interest in politics.’

He walked past the man, sitting down at a plastic table at the far end of the bar. Taking two sugars from the bowl, he stirred them into the thick black coffee, then discreetly took out the tiny bottle of Johnnie Walker he had taken from the plane and poured half of it into the cup. He sipped on the small cup, and could instantly feel the rich mixture of caffeine, sugar and alcohol all hitting his bloodstream at the same time. He could feel his head start to spin, and his eyes were getting dizzy, but the whisky worked its magic, the way it always did, and he could feel his head start to clear and his spirits reviving. The guy with the scar had gone back to his group of mates, but he was still looking occasionally across at him, a glint of anger in his eyes.

If only you knew what I was really here for, thought Porter with a grim smile, you’d kill me on the spot.