Strike Back

by Chris Ryan

  Hassad shook his head. ‘It’s you they’re following.’

  ‘Then maybe a satellite?’

  ‘There’s no satellite that can look into a mine,’ said Hassad. ‘Before they sent you out here, did they do any dental work on you?’

  Porter paused. ‘They fixed up my teeth,’ he admitted.

  ‘A crown? Implants?’

  Porter nodded.

  ‘Then get in the chair.’

  Porter sat down.

  Hassad muttered something to the woman in Arabic. She leant forward, switching on a torch so she could have a better look at Porter’s mouth.

  ‘Open wide,’ said Hassad, tapping his shoulder.

  Porter felt certain he could detect a hint of pleasure in the man’s voice.

  ‘Is she a dentist?’ he asked, glancing back at Hassad.

  ‘In a tiny village like this, you have to be a bit of everything, ’ Hassad replied. ‘Don’t worry, yours aren’t the first teeth she’s examined.’

  He could feel a spatula pressing down his tongue, the cold steel pressing into his flesh, and then winced slightly as she started tapping on his teeth. Her breath was warm on his skin as she worked: a mixture of goat’s milk and stewed fruits filled the air around him. Next, she started prodding them with a scalpel, nicking his gums in the process.

  She paused, looking up at Hassad, talking quickly in Arabic.

  ‘Two of the crowns feel odd to her,’ said Hassad quietly.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘There may be some kind of tracking device inside them.’

  ‘In a tooth?’

  Hassad nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it before, but I’ve never seen it done.’ He shook his head, in sorrow as much as anger. ‘Usually you can’t put a tracker inside a tooth because the tooth blocks out the signal, but if you use a mostly hollow crown then it’s possible, although the signal is never great.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Pull it out and take a look, of course.’

  Porter looked at the old woman suspiciously. ‘Can she do that?’

  ‘If there’s a tracker, the guys from Connaught are going to find us anytime soon, and they’ll almost certainly finish us off before we get to the border.’

  He said something to the old woman, then looked back at Porter. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

  His deformed lips twisted up into a mocking smile.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an anaesthetic is there?’

  Hassad rolled his eyes.

  ‘How about a shot of vodka then?’

  ‘Just do it,’ said Hassad to the old woman. ‘Open your mouth and shut up. Every minute we waste you may be transmitting signals back that tell Collinson exactly where we are. For all we know, they are preparing their assault right now.’

  ‘Then get on with it.’

  Porter gripped the sides of the chair. He closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. He could smell the stewed fruit washing over him as the old woman leant into his face. She said something to Hassad, and he replied, but Porter couldn’t make out a single word. She tapped one tooth then another with a scalpel: two of the teeth that had been replaced for him back at the Firm’s headquarters. Porter could feel a clamp being placed inside his mouth to hold it open, then a wrench being screwed on to one of his teeth. Hassad knelt down, pressing a strip of leather into Porter’s hand. ‘Here, pull on this,’ he said quietly.

  Don’t yell, he told himself grimly.

  The woman yanked at the wrench. Porter could feel a bolt of pain jabbing right through him as the nerves attaching the tooth to the jaw screamed out in agony. It was like having a needle threaded straight into your veins. There was a crunching sound, then the scratching of metal against bone. Porter gripped hold of the strip of leather, twisting it into his hand, trying to keep the pain under control.

  Another yank. A fresh wave of pain swept through every nerve in Porter’s body. Christ, he muttered, making sure he kept his mouth open and the word to himself. He could feel the sweat dripping off his brow. The woman said something to Hassad. Porter opened his eyes. He could tell the wrench was still clamped to his tooth. Hassad was leaning into the wrench, a grimace on his face. Porter steeled himself, shut his eyes tight and gripped hard on the sides of the chair. He could feel the force of the wrench smashing into his gums. Then a snapping sound. A searing pain ran up through his mouth, colliding inside his head.

  He opened his eyes. He could feel some blood hitting the back of his throat, and washing across his tongue. The side of his mouth was numb from the impact. In front of him, Hassad was holding the tooth inside the wrench, showing it to the old woman. There was still some blood dripping from the stem. ‘It’s clean,’ said Hassad with a shrug. ‘Maybe it’s the other one.’

  ‘Christ!’

  As he spoke, some blood and fragments of broken tooth spat clean from his mouth.

  Hassad nodded towards the old woman. ‘I wouldn’t take the name of any of the prophets in vain in here,’ he said casually. ‘She’s very devout, and Muslims revere Jesus as well as Muhammad. Make her angry, and she might not be so gentle with you.’

  Porter closed his eyes. The pain was stinging through his jaw, but he knew there was no choice. There has to be some explanation for how they found out where I was, and I can’t think of a better one. If we don’t pull the tooth, Collinson’s going to have his men onto us any moment, and then I’ll never get a chance to kill the bastard. ‘Then do it.’

  He could feel the tapping of the scalpel, then the cold hard steel of the wrench clamping on to his tooth. This time it was on the right side of his mouth. The woman moved away, and as he briefly opened his eyes, Porter could see Hassad gripping hold of the wrench with his muscular fists. Even with the wound in his shoulder, he was a strong guy. Porter gripped on to the strip of leather. He twisted hard on it, pulling it between both hands. Closing his eyes again, he could feel a stuttering series of jabbing pains as Hassad started to put pressure on the tooth. There was nasty crunching sound inside, and he could feel more blood trickling into the back of his throat where the wrench was nicking against the side of his gums.

  ‘One more heave,’ Hassad muttered.

  He slammed his fist down hard. Porter’s head snapped sideways. The force of the blow was ripping into his neck muscles, making it impossible for him to hold himself steady. The pain was searing through him now, making his eyes water and his head spin. It was like having a jackhammer drill into the side of your jaw. ‘Hold his head,’ Hassad growled to the old woman.

  Her medical training had equipped her with enough English to follow the command. Porter felt her hands clamping around the side of his head, gripping him tight, while her frail body pushed into him, providing a countervailing force to the wrench. Hassad immediately leant into a fresh blow. The tooth creaked. Porter summoned up one more ounce of resistance, trying to bring the pain under control. If this doesn’t work, maybe they should just toss me aside. Let Katie get to the border by herself. Collinson’s men can catch up with me and I’ll just have to deal with them as best I can.

  Suddenly there was a sound like a floorboard cracking open. Porter’s eyes shot open. He could see Hassad rocking backwards, the wrench still in his hand, blood dripping from the small lump of white tooth at its tip.

  The old woman was handing Porter a glass of water. He took it from her, but his hands were shaking so badly he was hardly able to hold the thing, and spilt much of it down the front of his shirt. A terrible pain was throbbing through his jaw. He swilled the water back, rinsing out his mouth, and spitting out the blood and tooth debris into the bin at the side of the chair. Next, she handed him six white pills. Porter took them in his shaking hand, and swallowed them methodically. Painkillers, or cyanide? he wondered to himself as the tablets sunk down the back of his throat. Let’s hope it’s the latter. That’s the only thing that’s going to make this pain go away.

  ‘They put that one in with concrete,’ said Hassad, holding t
he tooth in front of Porter. ‘I guess they didn’t want to take any chances of it falling out if you got into a fight.’

  ‘You found something?’

  Tears were still streaming down Porter’s face, and he was finding it difficult to speak.

  Hassad nodded, pointing to the underside of the tooth. Porter’s vision was still fuzzy, and the pain ripping through his head was making it hard for him to concentrate. The painkillers were still a long way from kicking in. But he could see a sliver of dark matter on the underside of the tooth.

  ‘Silicon,’ said Hassad. ‘A micro tracking device, sending out a signal that can be picked up by a satellite.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Porter muttered. ‘They promised me I was going in clean.’

  He could feel the anger burning inside him. He’d walked into the Firm voluntarily. He’d put himself into the line of fire for them, because he wanted to get Katie out. And this was how they repaid him. By putting a tracking device into his tooth, and then trying to kill both of them. And just so they could save face.

  Hassad chuckled. ‘Never trust the British government,’ he said. ‘That’s a lesson we learnt out in this part of the world a long time ago.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The truck had Jordanian number plates, and it looked empty. That means it is on the way home, Porter decided. Completely the opposite direction to us. He checked that the driver was still in the café next to the shop, then knelt down, pulling out a piece of chewing gum he’d found in the Fiat, and carefully sticking the tooth to the underside of the lorry. ‘That’ll take care of them,’ he said, glancing back at Hassad. ‘Collinson’s boys will spend half the day searching for this vehicle, and when they catch up with it, they’ll just have a Jordanian truckie and bunch of empty crates.’

  They climbed back into the Fiat. Hassad had taken the wheel, explaining that he knew the roads better, and was less likely to attract attention from other drivers. As they’d left the old woman’s house, they had borrowed a burka for Katie. It covered up her face effectively, and it made sure no one would recognise her as they drove towards the border.

  It was close to mid-afternoon. After an hour’s drive, Hassad had suggested they stop for some food, and wait for darkness. They were fifty miles from the Israeli border by now, and Hassad was convinced they needed to plan their breakout. The strip of land between Lebanon and Israel was used by Hezbollah to launch its rocket attacks on its neighbour. The territory was swarming with fighters, making it one of the most heavily militarised places on earth.

  ‘Where’s the best place to get through?’ asked Porter.

  While they were still in the van, Hassad pointed to the map the driver kept on the front seat. ‘Here,’ he said.

  Porter glanced down. Beit Yahoun. It meant nothing to him.

  ‘Never heard of the place,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a border village, and one of the main crossing points between Lebanon and Israel,’ said Hassad. ‘There used to be about ten thousand people living there, but the place has been shelled to bits over the years. There are about a thousand people there now, and most of them are soldiers.’

  ‘Can’t we sneak through somewhere a bit quieter?’

  Hassad laughed, but his expression quickly turned serious again. ‘Quiet? On the Israel–Lebanon border?’ He shook head. ‘There is no such place. Every inch is heavily fortified, and if the soldiers see you, they shoot you on sight. That goes for the Israelis as well. They see us coming through the wire, they’ll open up their machine guns, and worry about who the hell we are later on.’

  ‘And you think this Beit Yahoun place is safer?’

  ‘There’s a demilitarised zone of about a mile, a bit like the no-man’s-land that used to exist between the Berlin Wall and the West. There isn’t much trade or traffic that goes between Israel and Lebanon, but what there is, mostly goes through there. Get into the no-man’s-land, and we should be able to walk through to Israel without being shot.’

  Porter glanced around. ‘Then let’s go,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hassad.

  Porter checked the time. It was just after four in the afternoon. The execution was scheduled for eight, and he’d have wanted to get Katie out of this hellhole long before then. ‘When?’ he snapped.

  ‘We have another fifty miles to travel, and the roads aren’t great,’ said Hassad. ‘Plus there are roadblocks to get through. It will take us about six hours. We stay here about two more hours, and travel when it’s starting to get dark. It’s safer that way.’

  The time passed slowly. They stayed in the van. Porter managed to buy some more painkillers, and swallowed most of the packet. They would make him feel drowsy, and slow his reaction times if they came under attack, but it was better than the terrible pains that were still throbbing through his jaw and up into his head. Porter tried to nap. Sleep was impossible, however. He was too wired up. Another few hours, he told himself. Then I can get Katie out of here, deal with that fucker Collinson, and start getting on with the rest of my life.

  As soon as we get back to Britain, I’ll reveal that man’s treachery to everyone.

  And maybe even see Sandy again.

  By six, it was getting dark outside. Hassad judged it was safe for them to start moving again. After buying some bottles of water and some food from the café, they loaded themselves back into the Fiat van. Hassad took the wheel, while Katie sat between then, her face completely covered by the burka. Porter had tucked the AK-47 underneath his feet, but he made sure the mag was full again, and that he could reach it within a couple of seconds. They could have used the ammo that had been destroyed back at the safe house, Porter thought bitterly, and another couple of guns. If it hadn’t all been blown up by Collinson’s men.

  The first hour passed without incident. The road was long and straight, and there wasn’t much traffic around. The weather was clear enough. It was turning cold, and there was some cloud spitting across the night sky but the half-moon would occasionally break through. It is always the same, thought Porter. The closer you get to the end of a mission, the more you long for home.

  It was close on seven in the evening by the time they turned due south. The road they were on snaked along the border, and would eventually take them all the way down to the coast. The road was terrible. The surface of the tarmac was regularly broken up into rubble. For the past couple of years, the Israelis and Hezbollah had been shelling each other across this narrow strip of land, and the Israeli tanks had rolled through it, decimating everything they encountered. There were a couple of villages along the way, but they had long since been abandoned: just collections of empty, crushed buildings, without even any wild dogs still living in them. After ten miles, there was a single petrol station, but it only had two pumps, the price was double what it was in the rest of the country, and the owner had put up a steel bunker to hide the payment kiosk. Territory doesn’t get much more hostile than this, thought Porter. And we’re driving straight into it.

  ‘If anyone stops us, just leave the talking to me,’ said Hassad.

  They managed another ten miles without any trouble. The roads were practically empty. The Fiat slowed down to a crawl. There were so many potholes in the road it was impossible to take the van much above ten or fifteen miles an hour. A couple of times, Porter had to climb out and push when a back wheel dropped into a shell hole. The chickens squawked furiously as he pushed, and Porter suggested ditching them, but Hassad said it would look better if they had some kind of cargo. As they progressed steadily on, Porter could sense that Katie was becoming more and more afraid. She’d been living with death for a week now, but she still hadn’t learnt how to handle the fear. On the rare occasions a truck or a car passed them in the other direction, he could feel her shaking. She’s right on the edge, Porter realised. Much more, and she’s going to fall completely to pieces.

  ‘Roadblock,’ said Hassad. His voice was tense and strained.

  Porter peered into the darkness up ahead of t
hem. He could see a couple of cars pulled across the road. Next to it there was a brazier with some hot coals in it, where some men were keeping themselves warm. In total, there looked to be about three men, all with AK-47s hung over their shoulders. But there could be many more lurking in the background.

  Hassad slowed the Fiat to a crawl. Between the two cars, a long wooden plank had been placed, and beneath that there was a net studded with nails. You could try to ram your way through, but the nails would blow out your tyres. You’d be easy meat for the gunmen standing right behind you.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ whispered Hassad.

  A man was leaning into the side of the car. Hassad wound down the window, and they exchanged a few terse words in Arabic. Katie was sitting still, her face covered by the burka, while Porter had wrapped a scarf he found on the floor of the van up high around his neck. In the dark, with the weather-beaten appearance his skin had had ever since he started sleeping rough, it wasn’t hard for him to pass for an Arab. Even so, his hand was under the seat, holding the AK-47.

  The door opened. The soldier’s gun was raised, and he was snapping something at Hassad, but Porter couldn’t follow the conversation. Another soldier walked over. An older man, Porter judged. Thirty maybe, with a close-cropped black beard, and eyes as hard as steel. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder, and leant forwards. Porter glanced across. It was clear that he recognised Hassad. They exchanged greetings but there was no warmth there, Porter noted. More words. Then suddenly the door slammed shut, and Hassad had fired up the engine. The plank and the net that were slung across the road were removed, and the Fiat was moving on again.

  Porter remained silent, but inwardly he was breathing a sigh of relief. He took a quick look back, making sure they were a safe distance from the roadblock and that no one was following them.

  ‘Do they know Katie’s escaped?’ he asked.

  Hassad shook his head. ‘Not yet, but they might soon. Apparently a lot of communications are down because of the missile strike, and it’s going to take a few days to get them back up again. Until then, they won’t know that she’s out.’