by Chris Ryan
‘Do you think they’ll really do it?’ asked Katie.
Porter nodded. There was no point in trying to kid her. That wasn’t going to do any good now.
‘They’re bastards,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll do anything.’
Katie started to speak, but she choked on the first word. Maybe some small part of her had hoped through the past week that it was just a bluff, that when the moment came, they’d call it off. Lock her up instead. He’d heard that men on death row often thought that. It was the only way they could handle the pressure. If so, he’d punctured that now. The flat certainty with which he delivered the answer had extinguished what hope remained as surely as a closed fist will extinguish the flame on a candle.
‘It won’t be so bad,’ he said. ‘It’ll be quick. And …’
He paused, trying to complete the sentence, but it was hopeless. It wasn’t going to be quick, and she knew it. That was why she was so afraid.
‘Kill me now,’ she said.
Porter could hear the desperation in her voice.
‘At least it will be over,’ she continued.
‘There’s still hope,’ he persisted. ‘That’s one thing you learn in the army. While you’re still alive, there’s still a chance. Something may turn up.’
‘Have you negotiated?’ asked Katie, her voice pale and frightened.
Porter shrugged. ‘They’re not interested.’
‘Did they … did they give you anything to offer?’
‘Just the bollocks you’d expect,’ said Porter. He sighed. ‘Some half-arsed peace talks. Some money. That’s not what they want though, is it? They want our boys out of Iraq. And we’re not going to give them that.’
A tear was falling down the side of Katie’s cheek. ‘Did … did Perry get involved?’
‘Collinson?’ said Porter.
Then he remembered. She’d been tied to this miserable stake for the past week. She had no idea what was going on at home.
‘We were …’
‘I know,’ growled Porter.
There’s no need for her to know the history between us. It will only make things worse. If that was possible. ‘He’s meant to be heading up the effort to rescue you,’ said Porter. ‘I saw the latest broadcast. He’s been in Beirut today, and he might be in Israel by tomorrow.
‘If there’s a way, he’ll find me,’ sniffed Katie.
Dream on, girl, Porter reflected bitterly. If he can find a TV camera, he’ll pose for it. The bastard would have trouble finding his own arse and elbow. And if he did, he wouldn’t know how to get them in the right order.
‘You have to hold on in there,’ he said grimly. ‘If they have any idea where we are, they’ll come tonight.’
‘But you don’t think there’s any hope?’
Porter shrugged. He’d thought about it ever since he’d been here. He’d done hostage raids himself, he’d been trained for it, and there was no more difficult military operation, particularly if you wanted to get the hostage out alive. Even when it was on open ground, you had to get in quickly enough and take out enough of the opposition to secure control of the area before they killed the hostage. To stand much of a chance, you needed detailed maps, and you needed an access point where you could get a lot of men in fast. They didn’t have either. If they did get the location, they might try pumping some kind of nerve gas down into the mine to paralyse everyone down below: officially, those kinds of chemical weapons didn’t exist, but he’d heard rumours in the Regiment they were stockpiled somewhere for an emergency. They were meant to be sodding dangerous – unstable, rarely tested, and with potentially carcinogenic side effects – but that was all just hearsay. It was something they needed to be prepared for, though. If they had them, they’d surely use them tonight.
‘This place is bloody hard to find, and even if you get the location, it is going to be a bastard to break into, even for the Regiment.’
‘Stand closer to me,’ said Katie. ‘I’m scared.’
No point in telling Katie about the possibility of a chemical attack, Porter thought. It will only make her even more frightened. And I’m not sure there is much more terror she can handle.
‘Are you religious?’
Christ, no. The last thing I need right now is a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Porter shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘I’m a Catholic.’ She stifled another tear. ‘At least, at school. I’m not really a churchgoer or anything.’ She steadied herself, trying to stop her lips from trembling. ‘But I would like you to read me the last rites.’
‘I …’ Porter hesitated, unsure what to say. ‘I don’t think I know them.’
She leant her head forward, and whispered two short sentences.
‘I’m not a priest,’ said Porter, and immediately felt stupid for such a weak and pointless remark.
Katie attempted a smile. His lips were too battered, however, to turn up more than a couple of millimetres. ‘I’ll call one then, maybe.’
She looked at Porter. ‘You’re the only person here.’
Porter took a step closer. He was standing just inches away from her. The stench was unbearable: a suffocating mixture of rotting excrement, sweat and blood. Like a cross between an abattoir and a boghouse, he decided bitterly. With his right hand, he crossed himself, then closed his eyes so they were half shut. ‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,’ he said softly.
‘The rest,’ said Katie weakly. ‘Please.’
‘May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’
‘Hold me,’ said Katie.
Porter leant into her, and wrapped his arms around her body. She was thin, wasting away, and he could feel the cuts and fractures and bruises that covered her skin. She was dry, like an piece of old fruit, and her limbs seemed to be rotting away. ‘I’m so scared,’ she whimpered.
Hassad stepped into the room. He glanced first at Katie, then at Porter. ‘It’s time for you to leave,’ he said, a soft smile twisting up his deformed lip. ‘Next time you see her, she will be dead.’
TWENTY-ONE
The two men walked in silence down the length of the corridor. The path was dark, and even though they were deep underground, Porter could sense the night all around them. Two guards were already in position outside the door where Katie was being held captive, and two more where the corridor hit the meeting point. They looked strong and alert, and they were well armed. Nobody’s going to try to catch a few minutes’ kip on their watch tonight, Porter decided. They know just exactly how much is at stake.
If the Regiment does try and come in tonight, it’s going to be a slaughterhouse.
Hassad turned into the next corridor, and led Porter towards his room. As he passed through the sleeping quarters, Porter could see that most of the men were resting. The lights were out and there were bodies stretched out on the floor. He could hear a couple of guys snoring. Hassad pushed the door open. There was a dim light shining from a candle in one corner of the room he had been shown into earlier. As Porter glanced around, he suddenly felt something hard stabbing into the small of his back. He knew instinctively what it was.
A gun.
He spun round. Hassad was pointing a Beretta handgun right at him.
‘What the fuck?’ spat Porter.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Hassad. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Just as long as you do what I say.’
Porter looked at the gun, then up into the man’s eyes. There could be no doubt that he would kill him if he resisted. He nodded towards a stake driven into the ground in the far corner of the room. Porter could see precisely what was about to happen. The bastard was going to tie him up.
‘My apologies,’ said Hassad politely. ‘But you are a British soldier, and we can’t leave you roaming around here all night. And you have already attacked one of my men.’
Porter kept his eyes on the Beretta as he walked towards the stake. Inwardly, he was shuddering: maybe
they’re planning to behead me as well. There was no point in arguing right now: any trouble and they would probably just whack him on the head, then tie him up anyway while he was out cold. His vengeance would come later, he felt certain. The stake was a thick piece of wood, driven deep down into the floor, with about a metre protruding from the surface. Hassad nodded to him to lie down on the straw next to it, then took a rope and started to tie his foot to the stake. Next, he took Porter’s right arm, and bound that behind his back. The ropes were rough, and cut into his skin, but he had space to move and breathe, and if he curled up, he could lie flat on his side on the straw and get some sleep.
‘I’m sorry that your journey has been a wasted one,’ said Hassad, as he slipped the last of the knots into place. ‘I might have talked … but Nasri, and the others, wouldn’t allow it.’
‘I make one last appeal to you,’ said Porter, his eyes rolling upwards so that he could look directly into Hassad’s face. ‘Put me in her place. Leave the girl alone.’
Hassad shook his head. ‘We’ve already discussed it,’ he said. ‘Nothing can change the plan. Unless your government gives us what we want, the execution will go ahead as planned.’
‘I spared your life,’ snapped Porter.
‘And now I’m sparing yours.’
‘She’s sodding bricking herself. She can’t deal with this. I can.’
Hassad shrugged. ‘Everyone can deal with death,’ he said, speaking with a weary sigh. ‘There’s really nothing to it.’
Porter was about to speak, but Hassad had already stood up. He was walking towards the door. He looked exhausted, Porter thought, and he probably wasn’t going to get much kip either. Nobody would, he reflected bitterly. Not in this hellhole, with a young woman’s blood waiting to be spilt.
‘Now, get some sleep, if you want to,’ said Hassad. ‘Tomorrow, after the execution, we will blindfold you so that you won’t know where you’ve been, and we’ll drive you to a safe spot, and we’ll make sure you have directions and enough money to get back to Beirut. You can report to the British Embassy, they’ll take care of you.’
Porter grunted. We’ll both be dead long before then, mate, he decided.
‘I owed you a debt for sparing my life all those years ago,’ Hassad continued. ‘That’s why I agreed that you should come out here. But after tomorrow, that debt is paid in full. We are men on different sides of a war that may last for generations, and there should be no more dealings between us.’
Before Porter could reply, Hassad had already left the room. The door had been slammed tight shut, and he could hear a bolt being slid into place.
Porter lay back. The room was not completely dark: there was the single, small candle burning in a pool of molten wax in the corner. The straw felt damp, and he could feel the dirt within it. There was a drip somewhere in the room where some water was coming through the stone out of which it was carved.
‘Shit,’ he muttered.
He tried to make a mental calculation of the time. It had been midnight locally when they’d watched the news bulletin from London, and at least an hour had passed since then. So it could be one, possibly pushing two in the morning. The dead of night. If there was a rescue attempt coming, his best guess was that the Regiment would strike between three and four in the morning. There was no way of knowing for sure, but he reckoned nobody was coming. All that posturing on TV from Collinson: it suggested to Porter the bastard didn’t have a clue where Katie had been hidden. Hassad’s men were loyal, professional and dedicated, and they were operating in their own country.
He turned onto his side. The ropes were tight, but it was only his right leg and right hand that were immobilised, and that gave him space to move. He slipped his left hand into his jeans, and took out the knife he’d hidden there during the meal. It only measured five inches, with a black plastic handle, but it had a good sharp steel blade on it. It would do, Porter reckoned. Hassad must have decided that one arm and one leg was enough. A man couldn’t untie a knot with one hand: certainly not when the hand in question was short of a couple of fingers. But he could cut one.
Porter glanced towards the door. It was shut tight, and he reckoned they were leaving him alone for the rest of the night. It would be five, he judged, before the place came back to life. That gave him a couple of hours to play with. What was it Clayton had said to him? Play the bloody hero if you have to.
Gripping the knife in his left hand, he moved his body around until he was level with a piece of clean rock. Turning the blade flat, he started to slowly sharpen the blade by grinding it into the stone. The ropes binding him were thick, made from a plastic cord: the blade right now was nowhere near strong enough to cut through it, but with enough work he might be able to get it into shape for the job.
It was slow, painful work. A couple of times the blade sprung from his grasp, spinning across the rock, and once he was afraid it might be out of reach. The rock was certainly no grinding stone – just ragged, blunt ore – but if you drove it hard, the blade gradually sharpened. The work was dull and repetitive, but Porter was grateful for it. It took his mind off what was likely to happened next.
Within half an hour, the blade was sharpened. It wasn’t a razor, but the steel was thin, and pointed, and it would do the job. Twisting himself around, he positioned the blade in his left hand. Porter had never been naturally dexterous with that hand, and after he lost his fingers he’d found it wasn’t good for much more than holding the second bottle of vodka if he was ever lucky enough to get his hands on two at the same time. Still, he got a good enough grip between his thumb and his palm and, leaning forward, slashed it into the rope binding his right foot. The knot was strong, and so was the artificial fibre the rope was made from, but the knife was now sharp enough to saw its way through. In just a few seconds, it had been severed. With a kick of the knee, Porter shook his leg free of the stake. Still squatting on the ground, Porter kept the blade wedged tight into the palm of his left hand. A rope was still tied tight around his chest, strapping his right hand to him, but he quickly cut it open. Free, he told himself with satisfaction.
Porter looked up at the bolted door.
OK, he thought, feeling the resolve stiffen inside him. Let’s see if we can’t make some trouble for these bastards.
He collected the tiny candle, holding it up close to the door. There was enough of a crack that he could see out into the corridor. From here, it looked empty, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a guard just a few metres away. The bolt was made from metal, and slotted into position in a socket about four feet off the ground. Porter positioned himself close to the door, and held up the candle so that he had as much light to work with as possible. He slotted the knife into the gap in the door, and slowly worked it against the bolt: he dug the tip into the metal, twisted it to get as much grip as possible, then used all the strength in his wrist to flick it backwards a couple of millimetres. It didn’t move much, but it did shift a fraction, and to Porter that was all that mattered. He would get there eventually.
It took ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but eventually the lock was freed. He reckoned it was three fifteen in the morning now, although he couldn’t be certain. The door swung open: Porter had to grab hold of it to stop the thing from crashing back and raising the alarm. He blew out the candle, and held his breath tight in his chest. Very slowly, and with the knife gripped in his right hand, he squeezed the door ajar. He glanced into the corridor. The light was murky – there were some lamps in the meeting point but nothing in the corridor – and although he had got used to the semi-darkness it still took a second for Porter to adjust his eyes. So far as he could see the corridor was empty. He inched out, keeping one foot inside the door, so that he could snap back inside if necessary.
Porter already had a plan mapped out. He’d have liked to go straight to Katie, but that route was too well guarded. There was no way he could get through equipped just with an eating knife. Instead, he’d slip through to Hassad’s room. It w
as a distance of about twenty metres through the tunnels, and he calculated there would only be one guard along the way. The odds of success weren’t great, he thought. But at least they weren’t suicidal.
He moved quietly forward. The guard was standing just where the tunnel met the meeting point. He had his back to it, and he was leaning against the wall. Whether he was drowsing or alert, it was impossible to say from here. Porter inched out further, his back flat against the wall. The knife was nestling in the palm of his hand. He was gradually adjusting his eyes to the soupy light. He could see the barrel of the man’s gun. An AK-47: the lamp in the meeting point was catching on the gleaming wood of its polished stock. Porter kept moving. He was about ten metres from the man now. He was holding his breath: he knew from his time in the Regiment that it was the sound of your breathing that usually gave you away. The floor was just dust and grit so at least it wasn’t scratching against his trainers. Five metres. His back was tight against the wall, slipping into the shadows, making sure he was virtually invisible against the rock. Three metres. He could see the man’s shoulders twitch. He was a big man, Porter noted: six foot, with hefty shoulders, taking his weight up to two hundred pounds. He could hear him grunt. Or maybe a snore. His hand rose upwards. For a moment, Porter was certain he was going for the gun. All he had to do was look round, and he could spray the space with bullets: Porter would be shredded to pieces within seconds. He tried to melt into the rock. The man picked at his nose, grunted again, then slumped back against the side of the rock. Porter took a step closer, then another. He raised his right hand, and steadied himself. With a sudden, swift movement, he darted forward. He cupped his left hand around the man’s mouth, dragged back hard with all the muscles in his shoulders. He could hear the man starting to cry, but the hand was effectively stifling the noise. He was starting to shudder, and as his muscles absorbed the sudden shock of the attack, he heaved backwards. Porter struggled to contain him. You’ve only got a fraction of a second, he reminded himself. Once you get into a fair fight with this bastard, then you’re a dead man.
