Strike Back (9 page)

‘I can get Katie Dartmouth out for you, Sir Angus,’ he shouted.

The man looked at him. His eyes were focused, intent, as the words struck home. He was assessing Porter in an instant, scanning his face, using a lifetime of experience in the intelligence trade to make a snap judgement on whether the man might be worth listening to. He slammed the door shut on the Jaguar, and started walking towards the entrance doorway.

The guard was tightening his grip on Porter’s arm. ‘We’ve already asked you to leave, sir,’ he snapped.

Porter took a step forward. ‘One minute of your time,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m asking for.’

Sir Angus kept walking towards the revolving glass door that led into the Firm’s headquarters. From the expression on his face, you couldn’t even tell if he had heard Porter.

‘If you make any more trouble, sir –’ started the guard.

Porter shrugged him aside.

‘That woman is going to die in five days’ time, Sir Angus,’ said Porter. ‘And I’m the only man who can do anything about it.’

The guard was tugging him back.

‘One bloody minute. I’m SAS, I’m –’

‘Sir, you are risking arrest,’ the guard said.

Sir Angus paused. His hand was already pushing the revolving door open, but his feet had stopped moving. Slowly, he turned round. His eyes were looking straight at Porter, questioning and probing at the same time. ‘You’re Regiment?’

Porter nodded.

‘What was the code name of the Firm’s liaison officer in Hereford in 1990?’

‘Zebra, sir,’ replied Porter, without a flicker of hesitation.

‘And do you keep in touch with Jim West?’

‘Not likely, sir,’ replied Porter. ‘The bloke died on a black op in Somalia.’

I’ve passed the test, thought Porter. Only a Regiment man could answer those questions.

‘A minute is too long,’ said Sir Angus quietly. ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds.’

The guard let go of Porter, but he was still standing just a couple of feet behind him, and his gun was still cocked, ready to drop him if he created any trouble. Porter paused. Thirty seconds, he told himself. Better make this good.

‘In 1989, I was in the SAS,’ he said, his tone confident and strong. ‘There was a hostage-rescue mission in Beirut. A guy called Kenneth Bratton. There was a young kid, one of the Hezbollah boys. I spared his life. It’s that Hassad bloke, the one who is holding Katie Dartmouth hostage. I recognised him because of the deformed mouth.’ Porter paused, looking straight into Sir Angus’s eyes. He could tell he’d caught his interest: whether he’d convinced him or not it was impossible to say. ‘He’ll talk to me, because he owes me,’ he continued. ‘I know it might not work, but it’s worth a try, and what else have you got? If you’ve got a secure line to him, tell him there’s an SAS guy with two fingers missing on his left hand. Tell him I want to come and talk to him.’

Sir Angus glanced down at Porter’s left hand. He could see at once the two stumps where his fingers used to be. He rubbed his brow as his face creased up into a frown.

Porter could feel his heart thumping against the walls of his chest. ‘I’m on the level,’ he said. ‘I was Regiment. You can check my records.’

Sir Angus hesitated. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do,’ he said. He nodded towards the guards. ‘These gentlemen are going to take you to a secure room. A case officer is going to come down and check out your story.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Porter.

‘But let me tell you my terms,’ Sir Angus continued. He was already starting to turn back to the revolving door. ‘If you’re wasting our time, I’m going to get them to beat the bloody hell out of you, then take you to the back of this building, and feed you to the sodding fish. Got that? You can leave now if you want –’

‘I’ll take those terms,’ said Porter with quiet determination.

On the table in front of him, there was jug of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Porter took the jug, and poured himself a third cup of coffee, drinking it down in a couple of gulps, then eating another of the biscuits. He’d have polished off the whole plate in the next few minutes, he realised. When you lived on the streets, you ate your food quick, before someone stole it, the same way a wild dog does.

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 person 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.’