by Chris Ryan
‘That should make things easier for us.’
‘Maybe,’ said Hassad with a shrug. ‘Or maybe nobody has spoken to the guys at this roadblock. We don’t know about the next one.’
‘Just so long as we get out here,’ said Katie, speaking through her burka.
‘We will,’ Hassad snapped. ‘Trust me.’
They picked up some speed. The road flattened out as they put the roadblock behind them. There were fewer potholes in the tarmac, and the landscape looked less damaged. On the left-hand side of the road, they were snaking close to Israel: at some points it was perhaps only twenty miles to the west of them. Another hour or so to the border point, Hassad told them. It was nearly nine now. They should hit it at around ten.
The Fiat pushed on into the darkness. Nobody was speaking. Porter was scanning the road ahead, keeping a watch out for more Hezbollah patrols. There were miles of empty countryside, broken only by the occasional small village. He saw some vans go by, and a couple of private cars. At one point he saw a truck full of Hezbollah fighters, their arms bristling with weapons, but they paid no attention to the van. As the countryside rolled by, Porter was thinking, planning. The pain in his mouth was terrible, the jawbone aching in a dozen different places, but he knew he had to concentrate on what happened next. With any luck, in the next couple of hours they would get across the border into Israel. But could they get in touch with the British Embassy in Tel Aviv, or would that just alert Collinson?
‘Does Sky have a correspondent in Tel Aviv?’ he said to Katie.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Jamie Breakton. You’ll get him at the Tel Aviv bureau. If he’s not answering, I can call the Fox News bureau, or The Times’s guy.’
‘Then we’ll ring him just as soon as we get over the border.’
Katie pushed her burka aside, and Porter saw her face for the first time in hours. There was still a starved, vacant appearance to her eyes, but her strength and confidence were steadily recovering.
‘The sooner we get this story on the air the better. The reason is, we can’t trust the British government, not with that fucker Collinson on the loose,’ said Porter, shaking his head. ‘Get Sky News to pick us up rather than the embassy, and we’ll be OK. If Collinson wants to shoot us, then he’ll have to do it live on TV.’
‘He wouldn’t –’
‘He bloody would,’ Porter snapped. ‘He’s already tried to kill us twice. Me, three times.’
The town of Beit Yahoun loomed up in the distance. A few lights, and some smoke rising in the air were all there was to mark it out from the rest of the desolate landscape. Porter saw the road sign, and then the outskirts of the place itself. The road worsened as they pulled into the first street leading down towards the demilitarised zone. The tarmac was cracked in so many places it might have been better to get out and complete the trip on foot, Porter thought. Along the way, there were the remains of houses, but they had been shelled virtually to oblivion. All that was left were the foundations, and the heaps of rubble that had collapsed into them. There were no street lights working, but about a mile away there were some streaks of neon shooting up into the night sky.
‘The demilitarised zone runs for about a mile to the west of here,’ said Hassad. ‘Get into there, and we’ll be OK.’
‘Any checkpoints?’ asked Porter.
Hassad nodded. The strain was evident in the man’s eyes, Porter noted. He was delivering them to the border, just the way he promised. But now he was up against his own people, and you could tell that troubled him. ‘One, and it’s heavily guarded,’ he replied. ‘But we got through the last one, so we have to hope for the same again.’
The suspension on the Fiat was creaking as it ploughed through the potholes in the road. Porter reckoned the machine wouldn’t hold out much longer. You needed an off-roader and preferably a jeep for this kind of territory. As they drew closer to the checkpoint, he could see a few men on the streets, but they were all soldiers or militia. Either the civilians had fled or they were cowering in their houses.
‘Just keep your faces covered, and don’t say anything,’ said Hassad. ‘I’ll take you to the border, then drop you there and make my own way home.’
Porter nodded.
Even if I wanted to say something, my mouth hurts too much, he thought.
At his side, he could feel Katie shaking. He gripped the side of her arm to provide some reassurance: the fear was getting to her, the same way he had seen it get to Collinson seventeen years ago. ‘Just try and hold yourself together,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll be out of here soon.’
The checkpoint was brightly lit. There were two big wooden watchtowers, reaching thirty feet into the sky, each one with a searchlight flashing onto the ground. Porter glanced up. A machine gun was placed in the centre of each tower, on a pivot so that it could fire in any direction. The road led to a gate. There were two sentry posts on either side of it, and beyond that the empty desolate scrubland of the demilitarised zone. Cross that, Porter told himself, and we’re safe.
‘What’s your story?’ said Porter, glancing across at Hassad.
‘My story?’
‘You’ve got to give them some reason why you’re driving a van into Israel. What is it?’
Hassad paused. ‘Medical supplies,’ he answered. ‘I’ll tell them we’re delivering some blood.’
‘With a couple of dozen chickens in the back?’
Hassad laughed. ‘This is the Lebanon. Everyone trades in chickens on the side.’
Porter looked back ahead. There were two soldiers manning the sentry posts, and three more checking the vehicles moving through. It was just before ten at night, Porter noted. Not a time when many people were likely to be attempting to get across any border, never mind the boundary between Lebanon and Israel. There was no more dangerous crossing anywhere in the world, he thought. No one would try to get through it unless they had to.
Back in Britain, people would be anxiously waiting for news about Katie. They might be starting to suspect something had happened. So far, however, they would have no idea what.
Two vehicles were parked at the side of the road: one van and one car. The car looked to be empty, and the van’s driver was standing outside it, smoking a cigarette. No traffic was coming through from the Israeli side. Hassad had pulled the Fiat up, but left the engine idling. One of the soldiers was walking towards them. Porter pulled the scarf up high around his neck, and made sure that Katie’s burka was drawn completely across her face. His hand was dropped beneath the seat, cradling the tip of his AK-47.
The soldier’s eyes flashed through the cabin of the Fiat. He was no more than twenty-five, with a clean-shaven face, and close-cropped black hair. But from the neat creases to his uniform, Porter reckoned he was some kind of Rupert, or Mustafa, or whatever the hell they called them out in this place. He was looking closely at Katie, his eyes running over her head, and down the length of her body. She was sitting rock still. How do they feel about lifting a burka round here? Porter wondered. In Britain, the border police are too politically correct, but I reckon around here they don’t give a toss. If they want to take a look they will.
The soldier snapped a couple of brief commands at Hassad.
Hassad tried to smile, then shrugged and muttered a few words in reply.
The soldier barked another command. One of his colleagues walked over from the gate, and stood right behind. His finger, Porter noticed, was twitching on the finger of his AK-47. No more than a teenager. Trigger-happy didn’t even begin to capture the look on his face. Trigger-bloody-ecstatic, Porter told himself grimly.
He gripped harder on the tip of his own assault weapon. Every muscle in his body was poised for action.
Another series of barked commands. Hassad was arguing, his face turning red. Then he suddenly smiled. He turned to look at Porter. ‘They’re letting us through,’ he said. ‘You’re out of here.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hassad slammed the door of the van shut
behind him. Porter watched as the man walked slowly back into the Lebanon. He wasn’t so bad, Porter thought. He did what he said he was going to do, and you couldn’t ask for more from a guy than that.
Shifting across to the driver’s seat, he grabbed hold of the wheel and tapped his foot on the accelerator. Up ahead, the gates were starting to swing open. The road stretched into the demilitarised zone, and there was one more set of Hezbollah guards on the other side, but they had already been cleared, and Porter wasn’t expecting any trouble from them.
‘We’ve made it,’ he said, looking at Katie. ‘We’re back.’
He could see the relief flooding through her. ‘Thank Christ for that.’
Porter drove slowly. It was a mile across the demilitarised zone, and then they would have to get through the Israeli border controls as well. Driving too quickly would only make the guards suspicious, Porter warned himself. Better to take it gradually.
The Fiat slid through the gates, which shut quickly behind them. Just ahead, about two hundred metres in the distance, Porter could see a guard flagging them down. The man was six feet tall, wearing a Hezbollah uniform, with some kind of scarf covering his face. He was holding an AK-47 in his arms, and motioning for the van to pull over.
‘Shit,’ Porter muttered.
‘What does he want?’ Katie asked anxiously.
‘How the hell should I know?’
Looking ahead, Porter wondered whether he should jam his foot on the accelerator, and make a dash for the Israeli border. He could see the one guard flagging them down, and two more men standing behind him. To the side, there was a small hut that seemed to be serving as a sentry post, but could be hiding more men. The Fiat wasn’t in bad shape, but it was still only a van, and there wasn’t much acceleration in the engine. The chances of getting away were minimal.
‘Maybe they only want some paperwork,’ said Porter.
He slowed down, pulling the Fiat to a stop at the side of the road. The tall soldier was walking towards him, his pace deliberately slow. Act casual, thought Porter. Don’t try and pretend to be an Arab, you’ll never fool them. Just tell them you need to get to the other side. Fast.
The man was standing right next to the van now. The two other soldiers were standing astride the road, their faces also masked, but with their guns gripped to their chests. In the blink of an eye, they could shatter the van with bullets, Porter realised. There’s no escape.
He wound down the window. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Porter,’ said Perry Collinson. ‘For a while there, we thought we’d never bloody find you.’
Porter froze.
The words had sliced straight through him, like a dagger cutting through his skin.
‘Now I suggest you and your lady friend step out of the vehicle, and walk across to the hut with me,’ he said.
Porter remained silent. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, red with fury.
The AK-47 was still positioned next to his feet. Its mag was full: there were more than enough bullets in there to finish Collinson and his two men. Tempting, he told himself. But there was not enough time to get the gun out, and slam the trigger. They’d have shot him to pieces before he’d even got it in his hands.
It was just suicide.
‘C’mon, man,’ Collinson growled. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
‘John, I –’ Katie started.
‘Do as he says,’ Porter snapped.
He pushed open the door of the van, stepping down onto the tarmac. It was completely dark now, and there was a bite the air. As he looked back, he could see they were firmly on the neutral side of the border. The gates had been shut behind them, and the Hezbollah soldiers had already gone back to their positions. Collinson must have come down to this position, and overwhelmed the Hezbollah guards in this hut, so that he could catch us after we came through the Lebanese border, but before we reached Israel, he thought.
He means to kill me. There can’t be any doubt about that.
Katie was now standing next to Porter. She was looking at Collinson, but there was no warmth in her expression. Her hands were shaking, and her skin was pale. ‘This way,’ said Collinson, pointing his AK-47 towards the hut.
Porter started to walk. It was ten metres across the empty ground from where he’d pulled up the van to the hut. It was a small, one-room structure, made out of concrete and corrugated iron. There was one glass window, looking out onto the road that led through the demilitarised zone. It was the kind of hut that was familiar to border guards right around the world. Porter could see the two soldiers from the road take up position behind him, walking five paces to his rear, their guns pointing straight at his back. More men from Connaught Security, he reckoned. And they won’t hesitate to fill my back with lead if they need to.
Collinson had already opened the door, and was pointing them inside. Porter stepped through. There was a coal brazier in one corner filling the small room with cosy warmth. A kettle and some cups were stacked up on a table next to the fire, and there was a bucket with some water in it. Otherwise, the room was empty.
With a slow movement of his hand, Collinson shut the door.
Porter and Katie were standing next to the wall. Collinson was standing next to the door, and the two soldiers were standing by the window.
‘You come with me, young lady,’ said Collinson, gesturing towards Katie. ‘We’ll make sure you get safely home.’
His voice was smug and self-satisfied: a mocking tone, with a note of vindictiveness threaded through it.
Only a single word was rattling through Porter’s mind.
Bastard.
Collinson’s eyes rested for a second on Porter’s face. ‘And this bugger can die right here.’
‘Just so you can take the credit like you did last time, you bloody coward,’ said Porter.
Collinson took a pace forward. His two soldiers were standing rigidly to attention, both their guns pointing straight at Porter. ‘You know about that, do you?’ he said.
‘I know exactly what happened,’ Porter snarled. ‘Steve, Mike and Keith died because of you. And you let me take the fall for it.’
He could see the edge of Collinson’s lip twitching. ‘I might be a coward, but at least I’m not a bloody loser,’ he said, his voice sombre. ‘And I’m not scared of killing a man in cold blood either.’
Slowly and deliberately, Collinson took from his belt a Beretta 9000S compact handgun, the first lightweight polymer gun the company had ever made, with twelve rounds stored in its clip. He motioned to Katie to come towards him.
‘How the hell did you know we were here?’ Porter snapped.
Collinson smiled. ‘It was a nice trick sending your tooth to Jordan,’ he said. ‘But once we reached it, we knew you’d found that tracking device. That meant you were coming here. It’s the only place to get across the border. The Israelis let us come through, and we took out the men on this side of the gate. So long as we checked every vehicle coming through, and there aren’t many of them at this time of night, we knew we’d find you eventually.’
‘Just like you got the Israelis to drop a bunker-busting missile into the mine,’ said Porter. ‘To kill us both.’
‘Quite so,’ said Collinson curtly. ‘You’ve figured everything out. Just a shame it’s a bit late in the day for you.’
He looked back at Katie. ‘Now come here, and we’ll get you home. There’s a camera crew that can be got ready to record the moment when I rescued you.’
She was still standing next to Porter. She glanced into his eyes, but Porter already knew there was nothing she could read there. They had been emptied of all emotion. Slowly and painfully, she started to move away from him, hobbling across the ten feet that separated the two men.
With his left hand, Collinson reached out to grab hold of her arm, pulling her towards him. He looked back to Porter, a twisted smile on his lips and a smirk in his eye. Then he raised his Beretta.
‘To quote Sir Winston, “The armies
must cast away the idea of resisting behind concrete lines or natural obstacles, and must realise that mastery can only be regained by furious and unrelenting assault,”’ he said. ‘“And this spirit must not only animate the High Command, but must inspire every fighting man.”’
He looked straight into Porter’s eyes, and chuckled. ‘And indeed, that spirit animates me today.’
I don’t mind dying if I have to, thought Porter. But I don’t think I can listen to this tosser much more.
He could see Collinson’s finger hovering on the trigger. And he could see into the man’s eyes, and tell that he meant to kill him.
There was a movement. Somewhere behind the window.
Suddenly, the rattle of a machine gun filled the air. The window had shattered, and a lethal storm of bullets had ripped through the hut, slicing into the backs of the two men standing guard. They had both tried to respond, their fingers reaching for the triggers of their guns, but the ordnance had already smashed up their spinal cords so badly they were no longer able to control their muscles. They had collapsed on their faces, their weapons sprawling out on the floor in front of them.
Porter threw himself to the ground, narrowly missing the bullets that were starting to slam into the wall behind him: he could feel the used rounds falling onto his body as they pinged off the wall. As he dropped to the ground, he caught sight of the man standing behind the window.
Hassad.
His AK-47 gripped to his fists, he was spraying round after round of bullets through the window and into the bodies of the men who had taken them captive.
Porter reached forward, grabbing hold of one of the guns that had spilt out onto the floor. He rolled away, so that his back was against the wall, then flashed the gun up and lashed his finger onto the trigger. It was pointing straight at Collinson.
Outside the firing had stopped. Hassad must have realised he’d already killed the two men, Porter guessed. To get any more he’d have to come inside.
