Strike Back

by Chris Ryan

  There was a jeer from the men in the room. They were talking in Arabic, but Porter didn’t need a translation. Whatever the raghead word was for ‘tosser’, that’s what they were saying. If the local Lebanese are shocked and horrified, thought Porter, then somebody forgot to tell these blokes. In fact, they forgot to tell the whole sodding country, judging by the people I met when I was travelling through it.

  ‘But have you got any leads?’ asked Sam, putting his microphone up close to Collinson. ‘Does anyone have any real idea where Katie is being held captive?’

  Collinson nodded. The same look, Porter noted. The one the Ruperts adopted when they were about to lie to you. ‘I can’t give away any confidential information that might help our enemies,’ he said. ‘But I can assure people that the net is closing all the time. As Winston Churchill once said, “If you are going through hell, keep going.” Well, that’s just what we are going to do. Keep going, until we are victorious.’

  ‘No one will have spoken to that fool,’ said Hassad. ‘This hiding place is totally secure. Even most of the leadership of Hezbollah don’t know where we are.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I shall be travelling to Israel,’ continued Collinson. ‘The Israeli government has promised us every support and assistance.’

  ‘I told you,’ snapped Nasri, slamming his fist on the ground, and looking in Porter’s direction. ‘The British and the Zionists are working hand in hand, just as they always have done. That’s why we can never negotiate.’

  The rest of the news bulletin scrolled by. Porter watched it, with dread mounting inside his heart. There was a report from the all-night vigil in Trafalgar Square. A couple of women were weeping hysterically as they held up ‘Stop the War’ posters: at least ten thousand people were now planning to spend the night out in the Square, according to the police. The peace march scheduled for tomorrow morning was expected to be hundreds of thousands strong, snaking its way through Parliament Square, and up to Downing Street. Sky’s political editor popped up, explaining that the PM was planning to travel down to Chequers tomorrow morning, and so wouldn’t see the demo, but would be monitoring the situation from there. According to government sources, he explained, the PM was now relying on Sir Perry to find Katie Dartmouth, and had given up on a diplomatic solution. The by-election on Thursday was now looking like a disaster, if the execution went ahead, and there were rumours of a leadership challenge. The news bulletin switched to a live report from Katie’s home village in Hampshire. Her family were no longer talking to the press, explained the reporter. Katie’s mother had been taken to hospital after suffering a stress-related collapse. A couple of people from the village said how shocked they were, and how they all hoped for a miracle tomorrow. A special prayer service was being held on Saturday morning, said the reporter as he closed the bulletin. Better pray for a miracle, thought Porter grimly. The big guy upstairs might be the only person who can help us now. Finally, the thumping, insistent piano chords of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ rolled out across the room as the break for the adverts began. A soft-focus picture of Katie stared out at them from the TV screen: a pretty, vibrant young woman, a million miles away from the beaten husk tied to a stake less than a hundred metres from where they were sitting.

  ‘I don’t understand why they play this song all the time,’ said Nasri. ‘This Elton man, with the funny glasses, is he some sort of religious figure?’

  Porter tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. ‘He’s just a singer,’ he said.

  ‘You think the British will break?’ said Asad, looking closely at Porter.

  He sighed. He felt revolted sitting among these men. Whatever their cause, this was no way to fight. Skulking away in a bunker, torturing a woman, manipulating the media. If you wanted a war, it should be honest combat, man to man. But, much as he hated it, he could see that it was having an impact. The country was going crazy. The bastards down in this mine might be evil, but they were effective: what they were doing to Katie was hitting home a lot harder than lobbing a few bombs at the British Army down in Basra. ‘Never,’ snapped Porter. ‘We stood up to the Nazis and we’ll stand up to you.’

  Christ, he thought to himself. I sound just like that tosser Collinson. But what else am I meant to say?

  ‘Then we just have to put more pressure on them,’ said Hassad. He stood up. ‘Follow me.’

  They started to move. Hassad was leading the way, and Nasri, Jabr and Asad were following on behind Porter. He walked down the corridor, through the meeting point of the tunnels, then straight towards the room where Katie Dartmouth was incarcerated. The door swung on its hinges, and Hassad stepped inside. Porter glanced into the room. Katie was still tied to the stake. She seemed close to losing consciousness. Her head had drooped to one side, and her eyes were so swollen it was as if they were bulging out of their sockets. There was a rotting stench of decay all around her, as if she had already died and her body had started to decompose. Maybe she already has died inside, thought Porter. Maybe she’s just waiting for the rest of her body to catch up.

  Not many people would have the strength to survive five days in this hell.

  Hassad muttered something in Arabic. In response, Asad walked across to the camcorder. He trained it straight on Katie, and then switched on a powerful light that illuminated her face. You could see her much more clearly now: every cut, bruise and scab on her skin was bathed in white light. Her eyes flinched from the lamp, and she tried to look away, but there wasn’t even enough strength in her eyeballs to turn away. A tear rolled down the side of her cheek. Then a gasp of pain escaped from her lips.

  Christ, I can hardly bear to look, thought Porter. What the hell are the bastards doing now?

  ‘I need you to make a statement,’ said Hassad firmly, standing two feet in front of Katie, looking straight into her face.

  ‘Wha … wha …’

  She was trying to speak, but the words died on her lips.

  Hassad took half a step forwards. Porter could see Katie flinching. Like an abused child, she now expected to be hit whenever anyone approached her.

  ‘We will hold up some words on a card in front of you,’ he said. ‘We want you to look at the camera and read them out. We will send them through to the TV station you work for, and post them onto the Internet. When they wake up in the morning, the British people will be able to hear you making one last desperate appeal for your life.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man,’ growled Porter. ‘The woman is in no fit state to talk.’

  ‘Shut up,’ shouted Hassad.

  ‘You’re killing her tomorrow, isn’t that enough?’ said Porter.

  ‘I’ve already told you to keep out of this,’ said Hassad. There was a flash of anger across his face as he turned to Porter. ‘She will do exactly what she’s told to do.’ He turned back to face Katie again. ‘Now read,’ he snapped coldly.

  Asad was standing behind the camera. Above his head, he was holding a strip of white card with letters neatly stencilled in black ink. Porter glanced at it. ‘My name is Katie Dartmouth,’ it said. ‘I am scared. Very scared. I don’t want to die. These are not bad men, and their cause is a just one. They just want British soldiers off their land. So I appeal to the British people, go out of your homes, demand that your government brings your soldiers home. Please. Because if you don’t, I will die, and my blood will be on all of your hands.’

  Christ, thought Porter. They can’t make her read that. Can they?

  ‘Read it,’ repeated Hassad.

  Katie rolled her eyes towards the card. She was struggling to focus. Porter watched as her bruised and swollen eyeballs screwed up, trying to get a fix on the words. Slowly, from the expression on her face, he guessed that she was starting to make sense of the rows of black stencilling.

  ‘Fu …’ she stuttered.

  The words still wouldn’t come.

  Hassad took a step sideways. He grabbed the jug in the corner, filled a tin cup, and took two steps towards Katie. She f
linched. Grabbing hold of her chin with his left hand, he pushed the water to her lips with his right. She drank quickly, drawing down the liquid in two fierce gulps. ‘Now speak,’ said Hassad.

  ‘Fuck you,’ spat Katie.

  Although his face remained as impassive as lump of rock, Porter was smiling inside. That’s the spirit, girl, he told himself. Show the bastards what you’re made of.

  Hassad took a moment to compose himself.

  ‘Fuck you,’ spat Katie again. ‘You can kill me if you want to, but I’m not reading that shit for you.’

  Hassad looked at Nasri. ‘Deal with her,’ he said curtly.

  Nasri vanished from the room, but within an instant he’d returned. In his right hand he was holding a long stretch of hosepipe. ‘You want to read?’ said Hassad, turning menacingly back towards Katie.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Nasri took two steps forward then paused. He raised his right hand high in the air, and flicked the hose so that it was hanging over the side of his back. For a moment he just held the pose, giving Katie a moment to look straight at him. The dread was already evident in her eyes: she knew the pain that was about to be inflicted on her, and she was scared witless. Her lips were shaking, and it looked as if a trickle of urine was dribbling down her leg. Nasri tensed his muscles. He was a thin but strong man, and his biceps were like cannonballs: round and as hard as steel. An unimaginable strength was about to be transferred into the lash. ‘No,’ muttered Katie, the words so weak they were barely audible. ‘Please no …’

  Nasri started to raise his arm. In the still, dank silence of the room, you could hear the plastic start to cut through the fetid air. Porter lunged forwards. He moved with an agility that surprised even him. Crashing through the five metres of space that separated them, he collided hard into Nasri’s ribs, knocking him off balance. The hose was already travelling through the air, but its flight had changed. It cracked viciously, but was hitting only thin air. Porter pummelled one fist, then another, into Nasri’s ribcage. The man had the strength of an armoured vehicle: putting your fist into his muscles was like slamming your hand into the skin of a tank. He rolled with the first punch, but the second hit a nerve, sending him crashing to the floor, a cry of pain escaping from his lips. Porter fell on top of him, bringing his knee up sharply as he did so, so that it crashed hard into Nasri’s chin, sending his neck snapping back. Porter could feel a surge of adrenalin running through his bloodstream as the blows hit home: I’ve built up so much anger towards these bastards since I’ve been here, he reflected, that it is good to finally get some of it out of my system.

  There’s plenty more where it came from as well.

  He could feel a set of hands on his shoulders. They were tugging at his sweatshirt, pulling him back. He roared with anger, and tried to shake them away, but it was too late. Another set of hands was grabbing him around the chest. Both Hassad and Jabr had caught hold of him and were tugging him away. He lashed out a fist, aiming for Nasri’s face, but missed, hitting only air. Jabr had a lock on his chest, and with one swift movement, heaved Porter upwards, and threw him up against the wall. Porter could feel his back slamming into the stone, bruising the skin.

  Hassad slammed a fist straight into the centre of his stomach. The blow landed hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Porter started coughing violently. As he looked sideways, he could see Nasri getting to his feet. He had taken a couple of bruises where Porter’s kneecap has smashed into his chin, but otherwise he wasn’t badly hurt. Leaning over, he picked the hose up from the floor, reeled it back into the air like a fishing road, then lashed it through the air. The tip of the hose slashed across Porter’s chest. Its impact was softened slightly by his sweatshirt, but it still stung viciously. Porter cried out as the pain ripped through him. In front of him, he could see a cruel smile cross Hassad’s face. ‘Next time, we kill you,’ he said.

  Nasri had already turned round. The hose was high in the air. It flicked back, then lashed into Katie’s side. The sound of plastic ripping into skin filled the small room, then there was a brief moment of silence. Porter already knew what was happening from painful experience. It took a moment for the brain to figure out what the body had just experienced. The pain didn’t register instantly. But when it did, it was like having a hundred sharp blades cutting into your skin in the same moment.

  ‘No,’ screamed Katie. ‘No, no, no …’

  Nasri had already drawn the hose back again. His muscles were tense and bulging. In that moment, Porter realised he had only made things worse. The man’s blood was up now. There was real anger in each blow. The hose was moving through the air with the venom of a snake. It curled through the air, then kicked into Katie’s skin, cutting through the cloth that was covering her, and drawing a line of blood that ran across her belly and up into her breast. ‘Please no, please no, please no,’ she whimpered.

  Don’t lose it again, Porter commanded himself. It doesn’t matter how much they provoke you. It only makes things worse.

  Hassad raised a hand. Nasri had already drawn the hose behind his back, but he paused. ‘You’ll read now?’ said Hassad.

  ‘I’ll …’

  ‘You’ll read, or you’ll keep tasting the whip,’ snarled Hassad.

  There were tears streaming down Katie’s cheeks, but they were tears of pain, not regret. Specks of blood had splattered across her chest, and her face was so pale and beaten, it was as if she had already taken another step into the grave. They planned this, Porter realised. He felt another stab of fury drilling into his heart. They knew she’d refuse, and they’d decided to whip her, just so she would look even more pitiful for the camera. Every move, every step, was planned with a brutal, unfeeling callousness that disgusted him.

  What was it that bastard Hassad said? We celebrate death. He wriggled his leg to make sure the knife he’d hidden inside his trouser pocket was still there. I’ll give that fuck-head something to celebrate, all right. Just as soon as I find the moment to strike.

  ‘My name is Katie Dartmouth,’ she started.

  Her voice was fractured and rough, but you could see the sincerity in her eyes, and you could hear the pleading in her voice. Porter could see Hassad smiling to himself. He knew what he was doing when he kidnapped a TV reporter. He needed someone who could play for the cameras, and Katie was just perfect. Even in death, she could deliver.

  ‘I am scared,’ she continued. ‘Very scared. I don’t want to die. These are not bad men, and their cause is a just one. They just want British soldiers off their land. So I appeal to the British people, go out of your homes, demand that your government brings your soldiers home. Please. Because if you don’t, I will die, and my blood will be on all of your hands.’

  Asad snapped the camera shut, and switched off the light. The small room was suddenly dark and silent: only the sound of Katie sobbing gently broke the stillness.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hassad. ‘Your words have served a noble purpose.’

  Katie snivelled. The tears had blocked up her nose and her throat. The lash of the whip would still be stinging, Porter reckoned: the pain from where the hose had cut into his own skin was still burning through him, and he knew it would be hours before it started to subside.

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ Katie stuttered. ‘I just want to die.’

  ‘Soon enough,’ said Hassad. ‘There are less than twenty hours for you to wait now.’

  ‘I want to die now,’ Katie screamed. There was a sudden energy and violence in her voice, as if she had suddenly found some strength from somewhere.

  ‘I’ve told you to wait.’

  ‘Now,’ said Katie, gasping for breath. ‘I’ve had enough. If you’re going to do it, just fucking get it over with.’

  ‘The deadline has been set,’ snapped Hassad.

  ‘Film it now, do whatever you want, I just can’t take this any more.’

  There were tears streaming down her face and Porter could see in her eyes that the will to live had ab
andoned her. It happened sometimes to men on the battlefield: once their spirits were broken, they’d just march straight into the line of fire. When they knew they were going to die anyway, they just wanted to get it over with. It was the waiting they couldn’t stand.

  His eyes met hers, and suddenly he saw a spark of anger flicker within her. She wants to know why I haven’t saved her yet. And it’s a bloody good question.

  ‘Tonight at eight, precisely,’ said Hassad. ‘We’re expecting a huge global audience. We don’t want to disappoint them.’

  Katie fell silent. The moment of hysteria had passed. Now she just looked sad and bitter, as if she was reflecting on the life that was about to be snatched away from her. ‘Leave me alone with the Englishman,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What?’ asked Hassad.

  ‘I want to be alone with one of my own people.’

  Porter listened closely. Has she got a plan? he wondered.

  Katie was looking up now. ‘You said you weren’t cruel men,’ she said. ‘Well then, you’ll grant a woman one simple request before you kill her.’

  Hassad looked at her, then at Porter. ‘No tricks,’ he said.

  Porter nodded.

  ‘A man will be posted at the door,’ said Hassad. ‘Five minutes, that’s all. Then we’re taking you out of here.’

  He walked from the room, the others following behind him. The door slammed shut. For a couple of seconds, Porter remained silent. He reckoned he knew something of what she was going through. Only a day earlier, the bastards who captured him told him he was about to be beheaded, and he’d believed them. He’d sensed the fear, the dread, the expectation of the pain, and the challenge of dying alone and miserable in a strange and hostile place.