by Chris Ryan
Enough to kit out a small army, thought Porter with a grim smile.
Then he corrected himself.
This is a small army.
And the bastards back at Vauxhall expect you to deal with them single-handedly.
The boy led him to the largest room he had yet seen in the mine. It was at least twenty metres deep, and twenty wide, cut to a height of about two and a half metres. The floor was mostly covered with straw, but there were a couple of rugs at its centre. There were no chairs – the blokes were all squatting or kneeling on the rugs – but at the far end there were a couple of long wooden tables with plates of food on them. Along one side, there was a wall of electric lights: about six in total, filling the room with a busy glow. And next to that, there was a bank of computer kit. Porter counted five PCs, each one on its own work table, and two flat-screens TVs that were picking up satellite broadcast signals. Beside them, there was a mess of wires and routers that were feeding data into and out of the cave. Hunched over them, there was one boy who didn’t look more than twenty. Thin, with a straggly beard, and a T-shirt that was at least one size too small for him, he was busily programming one of the computers. The IT department, Porter reflected. That’s how they are communicating with the rest of the world. And that’s why we can never track them. That kid is smart enough to route any message they send through so many hijacked PCs around the world, the source always remains untraceable.
All the men in the room turned to look at him as soon as he stepped inside. In total, Porter calculated there were around twenty guys in the room. They ranged in ages, from the boy who had led him here, up to a couple of guys who looked like they were past sixty. The bulk of them, however, were in their twenties or thirties. Old enough to know how to fight, thought Porter. But also young enough to be fast on their feet. Just the kind of men you’d want in any army.
Three were clean-shaven, but the rest of them all had black beards. There was no formal uniform. Most of the men were dressed in jeans, trainers and a shirt. All of them were armed. There were curved, brutally sharp knives tucked into the waists of their trousers, and pistols tucked neatly into their pockets. A few still had their assault rifles strapped to their chests, others had checked them in at the door. Christ, thought Porter, a man feels underdressed in this place if he doesn’t have at least a couple of hundred rounds on him.
‘You must be hungry,’ said Hassad.
His tone was formal, polite, yet distant as well, Porter noted. He must remember that he killed my mates, and he must know that I’m not likely to forgive that. I’d be distant as well if I thought a bloke had travelled a couple of thousand miles just to cut my throat.
‘Starving,’ said Porter.
It was true as well. Porter hadn’t had anything proper to eat since he’d picked up some grub at the bus stop. He hadn’t thought about it, but now he could feel the hunger chewing away at his stomach. The men were eating out of tin containers, very similar to the ones Porter had used out in the field when he was in the army. There were plates of food spread across the wooden table: piles of flat, warm pitta bread, some salads made of olives, cucumbers and chickpeas, and piles of cold lamb and chicken, all of them covered in spicy sauces. Porter chucked come chicken and lamb into the pitta, and put some of the salad on the side. Then he took a knife and fork, and followed Hassad towards the centre of the room. ‘Why not give Katie something to eat?’ he said.
Hassad shook his head. ‘I know you think we are cruel men, but really it isn’t true,’ he replied. ‘A woman dies better on an empty stomach.’
‘Bollocks,’ snapped Porter. ‘Even on death row they give a man a decent last meal.’
‘That is not our way,’ said Hassad, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Believe me, when a person is beheaded, then their bowels automatically empty. It is better if there is nothing there. We do not wish to humiliate her. Insofar as it is possible, we would like her to have a dignified death, one she can be proud of.’
‘There’s no pride in dying.’
‘That is where you are wrong, my friend,’ said Hassad. ‘Osama bin Laden himself has spoken eloquently on this subject. The difference between our two civilisations is that while you celebrate life, we celebrate death. For us, there is no shame in dying, no fear either.’
‘You didn’t see it that way when you were a kid,’ said Porter. ‘I was about to kill you then, and I decided not to. Maybe that’s because, as you say, we celebrate life.’
Hassad paused, and for a moment Porter thought he might have got through to the man, but then he started to pick at the food he had piled onto his plate. They were sitting down now, on a rug to the left of the tables full of food. There were three men next to them, and they introduced themselves briefly: Nasri, Jabr and Asad. Nasri looked to be around sixty, but the other two seemed to be in their early thirties, the same age as Hassad. From the way they acted, Porter reckoned the four of them were in charge of the place: they looked more senior than any of the other guys, although what the hierarchy was between the four of them, Porter couldn’t figure out.
‘That’s different,’ said Hassad, when Porter had sat down. ‘I was just a boy then. I didn’t ask you to spare my life, although I am grateful that you did, and I recognise the debt that I owe you. But I was fighting as a warrior for my people and my God that day, and if I had died I would not have objected.’
Porter started to eat. He took a chunk of the pitta filled with chicken, and swallowed it quickly. There were jugs of water on the rug: he poured some into a cup, and gulped it down, drawing strength from the food and water. ‘We can negotiate,’ he said, looking back at Hassad. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
Hassad raised his hand. ‘We’ll listen to what you have to tell us,’ he said. ‘But you should know my colleagues didn’t want you to come here.’
Nasri leant forward. ‘It is Hassad’s debt,’ he said softly. ‘He owes you his life, we know that, but his debts are not our debts. So you see, your coming here can only create problems for us. Indeed, three of our men have already died, and one has been wounded, because you were captured on the way.’
‘All I’m asking is that you listen to what I have to say,’ said Porter. ‘A woman’s life is at stake.’
He was still trying to figure out which of the men was the most senior: Hassad spoke with the most authority, and seemed to make more decisions, but Nasri was the oldest, and the Arabs respected years. If I can get through to Nasri then maybe he can bring the rest of them round.
‘Then talk,’ said Nasri. ‘But we don’t have much time, so talk quickly.’
Porter looked at the man. His hair and his beard were greying, and his face was lined and weather-beaten, but he had a rock-like strength to him which reminded Porter of the sergeants who’d trained him. His muscles were like lumps of stone, and his eyes were as fierce and unyielding as storm clouds. At a guess, Porter would say he was the guy in charge of the fighting. He trained the men, and gave them their orders. And if I have to fight my way out of here, it’s you I’m going to be up against.
‘I’ve offered to take her place, and that offer still stands,’ Porter started.
‘And I’ve already told you, we’re not interested,’ Hassad interrupted.
He turned to the others, smiled and muttered something in Arabic. They laughed briefly yet harshly, then all looked back at Porter again.
Christ, how did I ever get myself into this job? Porter wondered. The only thing I’ve ever been able to negotiate is a couple of quid to buy myself a drink. And I wasn’t even much good at that.
‘I’ve been told I can bring you a message from the British Prime Minister,’ said Porter, recalling the lines he had been fed back in Vauxhall. ‘He has a “Roadmap to Peace” which he is prepared to kick-start so long as you let Katie Dartmouth go. He can talk to the Israelis and to the other regional players, and start …’
At his side, Porter could see Jabr slamming his fist down into the rug. ‘The Jews don�
��t care what any British Prime Minister thinks,’ he growled. ‘There will never be peace. Not until the Jews are driven back into the sea.’
‘He says he’ll talk to the White House,’ said Porter. ‘If the American President gets behind the roadmap –’
‘Nice try, but it’s not going to work here,’ said Hassad. He was chuckling as he spoke. ‘Everybody knows that the Americans couldn’t care less what the British think. You are just the poodles.’
Nasri jabbed a finger in Porter’s direction. ‘America is controlled by the Zionists. They do what the Israelis want them to do. The British are America’s poodles, so it follows that you are the tools of the Zionists as well.’
Porter knew he was struggling. He hadn’t imagined they would be interested for a moment in the offer of peace talks. But he was being paid to speak to them. I’ll do my job the best I can. And then I’ll take matters into my own hands.
He took a helping of salad on his fork, then some more meat, and when he had finished he held the knife in the palm of his hand. ‘How about money, then?’ he said. ‘If a man isn’t interested in peace then he should at least be interested in cash.’
Again Hassad paused before he answered. You could get a better measure of the deformity around his mouth when you were sitting close to him. It stopped him from speaking properly, and when he chewed, his lips contorted upwards, making it impossible for him to conceal the food he was swallowing. ‘How much money is on the table?’
For a brief moment, Porter could feel his pulse racing. Maybe it was just money they were after all along. They didn’t look like gangsters. There were plenty of guys here, and they were living in pretty rough conditions. Men put up with that because they believed in a cause, not because they wanted to make themselves rich. Gangsters would be hanging out by a pool somewhere down in Beirut, with a harem of Russian hookers, a fridge full of cold beer and a big satellite dish beaming down Sky Sports. They wouldn’t be down here reading the Koran to one another.
‘A million at least,’ said Porter looking Hassad straight in the eye.
Hassad turned away to speak to his colleagues, talking quickly. While he was doing so, Porter slipped the knife inside the belt of his trousers. Then he took another chunk of food in his hands, and ate it quickly. ‘If a million, why not more?’ said Hassad looking back at him. ‘Why not two million or three million?’
‘Name your price,’ snapped Porter. ‘Then we can negotiate.’
‘But the money doesn’t matter, does it?’ interrupted Nasri. ‘One million, five million, ten million, what difference does it make? The British government just takes the money out of the bank, hands it over and carries murdering our people. The money doesn’t change anything.’
‘You take money from the French,’ said Porter.
‘That’s different,’ said Asad. ‘The French aren’t occupying our lands.’
It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice was by far the weakest of the four men. He was paler than the others, and his beard was struggling to cover his face. Maybe the brains of the outfit, thought Porter. In any terrorist cell, there would be a planner, a frontman and a fighter, and Porter’s was guessing that Asad was the planner. Maybe he was the man to convince?
‘So you see, money won’t work for us,’ said Hassad. ‘If we wanted money, we’d just steal it.’
‘Then what?’ said Porter. ‘Arms?’
‘We can get all the weapons we need from Iran,’ said Hassad.
‘We’ve told you,’ Nasri butted in. His tone was amused, but with an underlying layer of contempt. ‘British troops must be taken out of Iraq and Afghanistan. Then the girl may live.’
‘Then why are you rejecting the PM’s roadmap?’ said Porter. ‘If there was peace, then the troops could come home. Believe me, I don’t think any of the poor bastards want to be there.’
‘Your PM’s promises mean nothing, no British promises do,’ said Asad. ‘It is the British who have brought war to this region. The British let the Jews into Palestine, and drove our people out. And now the British are in Iraq, keeping our people oppressed.’
‘They’ve liberated the country,’ Porter growled.
‘Some liberation,’ Asad spat. ‘Men are tortured in jails. Women are raped by your soldiers. Families are blown up daily. You call that liberation?’
‘You think it would be better if they left?’ said Porter. ‘It would be a sodding bloodbath.’
There was a silence. Porter scooped up the last of the food from his plate, and stuffed it into his mouth. He could feel the blood raging through his veins, and food was about the only way he could think of to keep his mouth shut. Talk any more, and he was only getting himself into worse trouble.
Keep the conversation rolling, that’s what they’d told him to do at the Firm. Engage their sympathy. Get them on your side. Well, they chose the wrong man for the job. I’ve never been able to persuade anyone of anything. If I had been, I wouldn’t have found myself sleeping in the gutters.
I’ve got one more card, Porter decided. And there isn’t going to be a better time to play it than now. ‘Fouad Karem,’ he said. ‘Heard of him?’
‘Karem?’ said Hassad. ‘He’s one of our leaders, of course we’ve heard of him.’
‘The imperialists have him,’ said Asad. ‘In Guantànamo.’
‘We could arrange for him to be released,’ said Porter. ‘An exchange. You give us Katie Dartmouth, and we’ll give you Fouad Karem.’
Not so much as a second passed before Asad replied, Porter noticed. They weren’t even going to consider it. ‘Hezbollah doesn’t do prisoner exchanges, not with the Israelis, not with the Americans, not with anyone,’ he said. ‘Every person who joins us is willing to lay down their life for the cause. That is the deal, and they accept it.’
‘He’s your own man,’ said Porter. ‘You could get him out of there.’
‘And make your life easy?’ said Hassad. ‘If we did that, every time you wanted something, you’d take one of our people and then offer to release them in exchange. We’ve told you. We don’t negotiate with the infidel. That’s our policy, and it is final.’
Turning away from Porter, he shouted across to the boy fiddling with the computers. ‘Get us the British news,’ he said, with a broad grin on his face. ‘Let us see how they are preparing for the country’s biggest execution since they cut the head off King Charles.’
TWENTY
Even though the signal was being dragged down from a distant satellite, the reception was crystal clear. Porter folded his legs under him, and looked up at the screen as the Sky News logo flashed across it. This was the ten o’clock news, which, since Beirut time was two hours later than London time, meant that it was midnight here.
Saturday morning, Porter reflected. The day set for Katie Dartmouth’s execution.
And probably my own. It’s forty blokes against one. How can any man survive odds like that?
Porter could feel an icy shiver down his spine. He’d thought about the death plenty of times – any soldier had – but he had never felt it so close as he had over the past forty-eight hours. It was so near, he could almost reach out and touch it. Embrace it, he told himself. Show no fear. That’s the only way to handle it.
‘KATIE DARTMOUTH, MINUS TWENTY-TWO HOURS’ beamed the headline on Sky News.
Porter glanced around the room. Most of the men had stopped eating and were looking up at the screen. Some of them were talking feverishly, but Porter couldn’t make out a word they were saying: obviously they didn’t talk in English, but they seemed to understand it well enough on the television. He could smell their mood, however: the unmistakable, triumphal aroma of soldiers who believe they are winning the battle.
‘With twenty-two hours left before the scheduled time for the beheading of the Sky News reporter Katie Dartmouth, we’ll bring you the latest on the story,’ said the newsreader. ‘The PM makes a last-minute appeal for calm. Sir Perry Collinson is already in Beirut to mastermind the
hunt for Katie. Thousands gather in Trafalgar Square for an all-night vigil for peace. Stop the War protestors plan a mass rally tomorrow through London calling for British troops to be brought home. And we’ll be live in Katie Dartmouth’s home village getting the latest reactions from friends and family.’
On the screen, Porter could see the familiar figure of the PM standing on the steps outside Downing Street. ‘I just want to say this,’ he began. ‘I know people have many different views on the war in Iraq, and I respect that, but in the end we’re there to do a job, and we have to stay there until the job is done. So I say to the kidnappers of Katie Dartmouth, we have offered you talks, I have said I am willing to fly to the Middle East, to bring all the sides together, so that we can find a way of stopping the bloodshed. I am willing to meet the leaders of Hezbollah to discuss a way forward. But we can’t start moving soldiers out of a country just because one group or faction wants us to. We are willing to talk, but we are not willing to surrender. So delay this terrible act by at least a few days, so that we can start discussions.’
‘You see,’ Hassad muttered towards Porter. ‘He’s not interested in peace.’
‘He’s just interested in war,’ Asad spat. ‘That’s all the British ever want.’
Porter remained silent. He looked back at the screen. ‘We’re now crossing live to Beirut, where Sir Peregrine Collinson landed tonight. Our reporter Sam Davenport spoke to him outside the British Embassy in the city. Sam …’
In the next instant, Collinson’s face appeared on the screen. He was wearing a casual shirt, and his face had the worried, concerned, slightly disappointed look he could recall seeing on the face of every Rupert whenever they were about to dump you right in the crap. ‘I can assure everyone back at home we’re doing everything we can to locate Katie Dartmouth and bring her back out alive before tomorrow,’ he said, his tone serious yet also calm. ‘We’re getting help from our allies, from the local authorities, and also from the ordinary Lebanese people who are shocked and horrified at what is being done in their name.’
