by Chris Ryan
‘The guy’s a fuck-up, we can’t trust him,’ said Collinson suddenly.
The technicians were still fiddling around with the Internet connections. The Skype call was going through so many different routers, it was taking several minutes just to reach Hassad. He’d answer, there was no question of that. He’d already been in touch to confirm he’d taken Katie hostage, and to show them the webcam that was going to broadcast her execution live to the world next Saturday night. Wherever he was holed up, he had an Internet connection, and it was kept live twenty-four hours a day. It was just a question of patching the call through.
Porter could feel his heart thumping. He knew it was still possible to blow this.
‘We’ve read the files,’ said Peter Thornton. ‘On Porter’s one and only combat mission for the Regiment, three men died. It was the worst round of casualties since the Falklands, and there was nothing as bad until Iraq One. So, no, he didn’t exactly cover himself in glory. But no blame was officially attached to Porter, and …’ He paused, deciding not to continue along that path. ‘We haven’t seen him or heard from him for at least a decade. So his record isn’t great, but it doesn’t disqualify him either.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Bramley, looking straight at Porter.
‘To help my country, sir,’ he replied, his tone even and controlled. ‘And that young girl, well, I’ve seen people held hostage in the Lebanon and it’s pretty bloody rough.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ insisted Sir Angus. ‘I say we let him make the call.’
Just then Layla switched on a speakerphone placed at the centre of the conference table. ‘We have Hassad Naimi on the line,’ she said softly.
The room went quiet. Each man sitting around the table was suddenly rigid with anticipation.
Sir Angus leant forward on the table, speaking clearly so that his voice could be picked up by the phone. ‘There’s a man here who says he saved your life,’ he said. ‘An SAS guy with two fingers missing on his left hand.’
There was a pause, almost audible on the line. But Hassad said nothing.
The entire room remained silent. At his side, Porter could hear Layla taking a sharp intake of breath.
‘Know him?’ snapped Sir Angus impatiently.
There was another long pause. Nobody was looking at Porter. They were staring at the table.
‘No tricks,’ Hassad replied. ‘The woman dies at eight on Saturday.’
The voice was pinched and dark, with a slight American accent to it.
‘Do you know this man?’ repeated Sir Angus.
Another pause. ‘It makes no difference …’
Porter stood up, and walked five paces along the table. Leaning over, he wiped a thin film of perspiration from the back of his neck. Looking at the speakerphone, as if he were looking straight into the eyes of the man on the other end of the line, he started to speak. ‘You said you were so grateful I was an “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”,’ he growled. ‘A debt is a debt. All I ask is that you meet with me.’
The pause was even longer this time. One, two, then three seconds during which the only sound in the room was the muffled hiss of the speakerphone. ‘When can you be here?’ said Hassad.
‘Where is here?’ said Porter.
Everyone in the room exchanged glances.
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Hassad swiftly. ‘But if you fly to Beirut … then we can collect you.’
Porter glanced up at Sir Angus. He’d already scribbled one word down on a piece of paper, and was pushing it down the table.
‘Thursday,’ said Porter. It was Tuesday today, so that gave him less than forty-eight hours to get ready. ‘I can arrive in Beirut on the Thursday-morning flight.’
‘Then I’ll make arrangements for you to be picked up,’ says Hassad. ‘I owe you a conversation, I acknowledge that. But any tricks, and I’ll slice off your head right after I kill the girl.’
Silence.
The phone connection had already been severed.
Up at the head of the table, Porter could see Sir Angus glance at Collinson, and he could see the anger written into the creases around the man’s mouth. ‘Looks like you’ve got a job as a negotiator, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘Welcome to the team.’
Porter stood up straight, and started walking back to his own chair. The perspiration was still running down his back, but hopefully no one would notice it. ‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.
Sir Angus stiffened. The fingers of his right hand were tapping on the tabletop. ‘I thought you were volunteering to help your country,’ he said coldly.
‘I did that when I was younger, thanks,’ growled Porter. ‘And I ended up in the gutter.’
‘Then how much?’ said Sir Angus.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, paid into my bank account tomorrow morning.’
Sir Angus glanced down at the papers on his desk. ‘You haven’t even got a bloody bank account,’ he snapped. ‘You haven’t even had a proper job for seven years.’
‘Then run down to sodding Barclays and open one,’ said Porter. He could feel his confidence growing now he’d spoken to Hassad: they needed him now. If he could just put enough money in the bank to take care of Sandy, well, then at least she’d have some respect for his memory. That would make it worthwhile, even if he didn’t return from the mission.
‘I’m risking my life for you,’ he said.
‘A quarter of a million pounds is a lot of money,’ said Sir Angus.
Porter was resting his hands on the edge of the table. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins as the argument took hold of him. ‘You don’t learn much on the streets, except that most people don’t give a fuck about their fellow man, but you do learn this,’ he said. ‘When people are desperate they’ll do just about anything. I reckon I’m the last bloke in England you want back on the payroll, and that means you’re desperate. So you’ll pay all right.’
Sir Angus was about to say something, but along the side of the table Geoff Bramley had already raised his hand. ‘Just pay it,’ he said. ‘We’ll send the bill to the Chancellor. Always good to ruin that miserable Scottish bastard’s morning.’
Porter nodded towards the defence minister. He’d lost two fingers in the Regiment, and they’d never even paid him a proper pension, so this was the least they could do for him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the details sorted. If I die on this mission, and let’s face it, we all know there is a pretty good chance that I will, then I want the money to go to my daughter Sandy. Set the account up in our joint name, and make sure the money is paid in before the plane takes off.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sir Angus wearily. ‘If you need a certain colour of socks, be sure to let us know, and we’ll see if it can be arranged.’ He smiled at his own joke, but his expression quickly turned serious again. ‘Layla’s going to get you cleaned up, and back into training,’ he says. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours to get briefed and to decide our tactics.’
Layla had already stood up, her expression purposeful and businesslike. Porter started to follow her towards the door. ‘One other thing, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘What the hell is the “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”?’
From the right side of the desk, the Foreign Office’s James Middleton looked up. A thin man, with a balding head, and a shirt that seemed at least one collar size too small for him, he had remained silent throughout the entire meeting so far. ‘It’s a reference to the Society of Muslim Brothers, Sir Angus,’ he said. ‘They are the most extreme and secretive of fundamentalist Muslim sects. They were set up in Egypt in 1928, and its offshoots include Hamas, Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, the whole bloody lot of them. But the Society is where it all started – and many people think it still controls the entire Muslim fundamentalist movement. Evidently Hassad is a member, and when he referred to it to Porter all those years ago he was acknowledging the extent of his debt to him. Just to mention the name of the Society to a Westerner is a mark of ex
traordinary respect, and places the speaker under an obligation that he can never break.’
Porter smiled, reserving his widest grin for Collinson, still fuming at Sir Angus’s side. ‘Looks like I’ve got honorary membership,’ he says. ‘Praise be to sodding Allah.’
SEVEN
The doctor was young, no more than thirty, dressed in a white coat, with closely cropped black hair, and eyes that suggested he didn’t like being disagreed with. His name was Simon, according to the tag on his jacket. ‘Basically, you’re in terrible shape,’ he said. ‘But I guess you already knew that.’
Porter nodded. The last time he’d seen a doctor had been more than ten years ago, before Diana had thrown him out. He’d gone to see him because Diana was driving him crazy, nagging him about his drinking. He’d dragged himself off to see the local GP in Nottingham, a kindly woman in her mid-thirties who offered to refer him for some counselling. Porter thanked her, and took the number of the therapist, but never made the call. What was the point? he thought at the time. He drank because it was the only way he could live with himself, knowing that he’d screwed up the only job he ever wanted, and carelessly thrown away the lives of three good men. No therapist could go back in time and change that. So what was the point in even talking about it?
‘You want the good news or the bad news?’ said Simon.
After leaving the conference room, Layla had taken Porter straight back to the elevator, and down to the operations room on the second floor of the building. A flight was already being arranged to get him to Beirut for Thursday morning. It was Tuesday afternoon now, which left them thirty-six hours to prepare him for the mission, and to resolve what kind of tactics he should deploy once he was confronted by Hassad. We’ll take you to the medical centre first, Layla had told him. They had to find out what kind of shape he was in before they could do anything else.
For twenty minutes, he’d been sitting back in a comfy chair while they took blood samples, and X-rayed his whole body. ‘I’ll take the bad news,’ said Porter grimly. ‘It’s what I’m used to.’
‘Your lungs are in the worst shape,’ said Simon. ‘Smoker, right?’
‘Only when I can afford them,’ said Porter. ‘Which isn’t very often right now.’
‘Just as well,’ said Simon. ‘Anyway, you’ve got several different infections. I’m going to put you on some high-strength antibiotics.’ He looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘There are a series of problems with your left leg. You have a nasty arterial ulcer infection just below the knee. You’re going to need a small operation to fix that. We’ll try and get that done right away. I’ll put you under for that, otherwise it will hurt a bit. You’ve got a series of skin fractures around your back, and your feet have a nasty case of gout, so we’re going to have to try and clean all of that up. We’re still waiting for a full analysis of your blood, but I think we can safely say your liver isn’t a prime specimen, but there’s basically nothing we can do about that in the time we have available.’ Simon glanced up at Porter and tried to smile. ‘As for your teeth, well, we’ve put in a call to one of the best dentists in London, and he’ll be here later today. It’s going to take a while, I’m afraid.’
He put his pen down on his sheaf of papers. ‘Any questions?’
‘You said there was some good news.’
Simon shrugged. ‘I lied about that. There isn’t any.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s put it this way, you’re still alive, which is a miracle given the way you’ve been living for the past few years. You’re basically pretty strong. Clean you up, and you’ll live a few more years yet.’
‘A few days is all I need,’ said Porter. ‘Fix me up so that I can hold out until Saturday night, and I’ll be fine.’
Simon nodded. ‘Then we’ll start right away.’
Porter walked through to the room he’d been allocated within the Firm’s headquarters. It wasn’t the Ritz, but by the standards he’d become accustomed to, it was luxury. He had his own TV, a small but comfortable bed, and next to it an array of medical tracking kit. It was a cross between a chain hotel, and an upmarket, private hospital. Good to see the Firm isn’t bothering with the NHS, Porter thought. They don’t mind mixing it up with al-Qaeda, but they don’t want their best men catching MRSA down at the local surgery.
Along one wall, there was a wardrobe and when he checked inside, there was a new charcoal-grey M&S suit, a white shirt and dark blue tie, and some black half-brogue shoes. Next to it, there were some cream chinos, a blue linen shirt, some loafers and a black sweater. Smart or casual, Porter thought, but either way, it was all a lot better than anything he’d worn for at least a decade. I guess they don’t want anyone on the payroll who dresses at Asda.
On the table there was a bank statement. Porter checked it briefly. An account had been set up at the Westminster branch of Barclays. It was in the names of John and Sandy Porter, registered to her address in Nottingham. According to the opening balance there was £250,000 in the account, and it was giving 4 per cent interest, paid monthly. There were two debit cards, one in his name, and one in Sandy’s. No nonsense about your card being in the post, and taking three working days to process a payment, thought Porter with a smile. Amazing how quickly you can get things done when you lean on the right people.
In the corner there was a fridge. Porter knelt down and took a look. Some bottles of mineral water, some Coke and lemonade, a couple of sports energy drinks, and some peanuts, he noted. No sign of a bottle of vodka.
‘No boozing,’ said a voice.
Porter turned round. The nurse was blonde, with hair that tumbled a couple of inches past her shoulders, and a shapely figure that had a couple of centimetres more flesh on display than was strictly necessary. She was standing in the doorway, dressed in a starched white uniform with a nasty-looking needle in her right hand. According to the name tag pinned just to the side of her ample left breast, she was called Danni.
‘Where do they stash the alcohol in this place, then?’ said Porter.
‘They don’t,’ said Danni, stepping forward.
‘It’s dry?’ said Porter.
‘Like the Gobi Desert, sir,’ said Danni. ‘You’ve got more chance of getting a bevvy down at your local mosque than you have in this place.’
She had big blue eyes, and a face that was friendly rather than classically beautiful. ‘What’s that for?’ he said, nodding towards the syringe.
‘It’s a syringe, so you take a wild guess,’ she replied. ‘Now lie back on that bed like a good boy. I can do this so it hurts or doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make any difference to me either way.’
Porter lay back on the bed. The sheets were crisp and white and soft, and he realised as he put his head down on the pillow that it was years now since he’d gone to sleep between white linen.
‘Just hold still,’ said Danni.
He could feel the needle piercing his skin, but she was right. It hardly hurt at all. He let his head rest on the pillow, and closed his eyes. In only just over a day, I’ll be face to face with Hassad. I can kill him, the way I should have killed him seventeen years ago. And then …
But before he could finish the thought, he lost consciousness.
Porter struggled to open his eyes. A fierce, white light was shining down on him. He suddenly jerked back, and sat bolt upright. He was sitting on a metal chair padded with leather, and a man in a white coat was standing next to him. There were lights and equipment everywhere. ‘What the …’ he started.
‘Steady, old chap,’ said the man in the white coat, pushing him back down into the chair with a firm hand.
He was about fifty, with brown hair, and a chubby, friendly face. Porter had not seen him before. His head was spinning, and his legs felt sore and weak.
‘You’ve been under anaesthetic, and you’re only just coming round,’ said the man. ‘We haven’t got much time, so we decided to whisk you in here while you’re still under. My name is Peter Shaperio. I do some dental work for these guys. I hope
you don’t mind me doing some work while you were still under, but since you were already out cold it seemed to make sense.’
Porter started to speak, but he could feel the numbness in his mouth. ‘OK,’ he said.
Not like I have much choice, he thought to himself.
‘You’ve got a lot of problems, I don’t mind telling you. I won’t ask how long it is since you last had a check-up, since I suspect I won’t like the answer. While you’ve been asleep, I’ve taken two teeth straight out. They are molars so you won’t miss them that much. We could do implants to replace them if you like, but there’s no time to do that before you head out of here. I’ve put another two crowns on teeth that needed to be reshaped. And I’ve got three fillings left to do before I’ve finished. So just lie back. We’ll only be another half-hour or so.’
Porter put his head back on the chair, and closed his eyes. He could sense the lights coming in down close to his face, and feel their heat on his skin, but he was feeling so tired, and so drugged up by all the anaesthetics, it was hard to concentrate on anything. He could hear the drill grinding into action, scratching away inside his mouth, but he felt nothing apart from a slight headache. The dentist had put some jazz on in the background – nice, light, relaxing music – to try and soothe him, but it wasn’t going to work. He was too hyped up. Too excited. It was impossible to relax, he reflected, when you’d just made £250,000 and you knew you might well die in the next forty-eight hours.
‘All done,’ said Shaperio, putting down his drill.
He offered Porter a glass of green liquid, which he swilled around his mouth, then spat out.
‘Normally I’d give you a lecture on flossing regularly,’ continued Shaperio. ‘But somehow I don’t think there would be much point.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Porter. ‘Thanks, anyway …’
He started to lift himself out of the chair, but his legs were weak. He was starting to wobble, and it was only with Shaperio’s help that he managed to steady himself. What they’d done to his legs in the operating theatre, he couldn’t be quite certain, but there was a bandage around both his left knee and his right foot. His head was dizzy, and his body felt as if he just come off the worst in a pub brawl. ‘You’ll be OK,’ said Shaperio, helping Porter to steady himself. ‘You just need some rest, that’s all.’
