Strike Back

NINE

Layla put a row of pills down on the table. Green, yellow, black and beige. Next to it, there was a glass of fresh orange juice, a jug of freshly brewed coffee, a bowl of cornflakes, and some toast, butter and jam. ‘More vitamins,’ she said sharply. ‘Make sure you take them. You’re probably in the worst shape of any agent we’ve ever sent into the field, but we’re doing our best.’

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Porter could see that it was just after ten in the morning. They must have let him sleep in on purpose. Maybe they even put something into the cocktail of drugs they jabbed into his arm last night. When he’d woken up, he had a quick shower, put on clean clothes from the cupboard, and as soon as he stepped out, Layla had already been waiting for him, leading him to breakfast. They must have a camera in the room, Porter thought. How else could they know exactly when I woke up? His eyes scanned the bed, the washroom and the walls, but he couldn’t see anything. That makes no difference. The cameras they make these days are so small I’ll never find them. I’ll just have to get used to being watched.

‘Here’s your schedule for the day,’ said Layla. ‘This morning we’re going to put you back in training. Basic firearms, self-defence and —’

‘I was in the Regiment, you know,’ interrupted Porter.

‘And it’s more than a decade since you left,’ said Layla. ‘Warfare has changed a lot since then. There’s a lot more kit, and a lot more brainwork.’

‘Lucky I’m out of it then,’ said Porter, taking a hit on the orange juice.

Layla nodded, then a brief smile flashed across her face. ‘Probably so.’

She poured herself a cup of coffee, then carried on. ‘The training should take all morning. Then this afternoon, we’re scheduling a series of planning meetings to talk through what you do when you get out there.’

‘Any breakthroughs?’

Layla shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. As she spoke, he caught the exhaustion in her voice. Her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept in several days. ‘We’ve got every intelligence agent in the region offering a fortune to their informants, but so far we’ve come up with nothing. The freelancers and mercenaries know we will pay handsomely for any lead, but nobody’s talking. The satellite systems are scanning the region, and our computer wizards are monitoring all the Internet chatter. And so far we’ve come up with absolutely sod all. She could be anywhere.’

‘I thought Perry Collinson was confident he’d find something,’ said Porter. ‘So they wouldn’t need me.’

‘He was talking rubbish as usual,’ said Layla. ‘Everyone in here hates the guy, starting with Sir Angus. He’s a complete waste of space. Unfortunately the PM likes him. He sounds plausible on TV, and he gives a good sound bite. It’s only when he tries to actually do something that it all goes tits up.’

‘So you’re left with me.’

‘Afraid so,’ said Layla. ‘Any questions?’

Porter paused. He finished his slice of toast, and took a gulp of hot coffee, waiting for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream. He was feeling better this morning. The headache was mostly gone, and although there was some soreness where they’d operated on his leg, he could tell it would be back to normal in a couple of days. Even his teeth were feeling better, although there was still some numbness where a couple of them had been extracted. Not exactly 100 per cent fit, he told himself. But fit enough to kill one man. And that would be all the strength he needed.

‘Who tried to kill me?’

The cup of coffee almost fell out of Layla’s hand. ‘Someone tried to kill you?’ she said cautiously.

‘At the station.’

‘What happened?’

‘Right after I’d seen Sandy, a car pulled out and drove straight towards me,’ said Porter. ‘The guy was planning to kill me, but I was lucky, I saw him coming and managed to jump back just in time. I might have been out of the game for a while, but you never lose the instinct.’

‘He could have been a dangerous driver,’ said Layla. ‘London’s full of them.’

Porter shook his head. ‘He was coming straight for me. I could see it in his eyes. He had orders to kill.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That somebody doesn’t want me to go out to Beirut.’

‘That’s impossible,’ snapped Layla.

The anger was evident in her voice.

Porter shrugged, knocking back the remaining coffee in his cup. Maybe I’ve made a mistake even talking to Layla about this, he thought. Maybe she’s the one who wants me killed.

‘Impossible or not, it’s what happened,’ he said, his voice even and calm. ‘Only a few people within this organisation know I’m here. I reckon somebody wants me stopped.’

‘I’ll investigate,’ said Layla. ‘In the meantime, you’re staying right here. I don’t want you leaving the building until we move out to the airport. We should be able to keep you alive until then.’

Porter finished his breakfast, then Layla took him down-stairs. Somewhere there was a mole, he felt certain of it. And someone was trying to stop him making it to Beirut. The gym was down in the basement: not quite as far down as the interrogation rooms he’d been taken to yesterday, but still below ground level. There was a row of fitness and weight machines, a small sauna, and an exercise room. A couple of the desk cowboys were on the cycling machines, but otherwise it was empty at this time of the morning. Sam Roberts shook Porter’s hand. He was a chunky man, with a shaved head that was as round as a football. ‘What kind of shape are you in?’ he asked.

‘Who’s asking?’ said Porter looking at the man suspiciously.

‘Para, sergeant and fitness instructor, 2001 to 2005,’ barked Roberts. ‘That good enough for you?’

Porter nodded.

‘Now, again, what kind of shape are you in?’

‘Terrible,’ replied Porter.

‘We’ll do what we can, but there’s not much that can be achieved in a couple of hours.’

‘Just do your best,’ said Layla. She looked at Porter. ‘I’ll investigate what happened last night and get back to you.’

Sam handed Porter a skipping rope. ‘Let’s start with this,’ he said.

Porter held the thing in his hand. ‘I’m not joining the bloody Brownies,’ he snapped.

Sam laughed. ‘I guess techniques have changed a bit since you were last in the Regiment. Everyone skips these days. It’s the best way of practising hand-to-eye coordination, which is what firing a gun is all about. If you can’t skip, you can’t shoot either.’

OK, thought Porter. It’s just a couple of hours. Humour the bastard. He took the ropes, and tried to jump over it, but he had never skipped, not even as a kid, and the technique wasn’t there. He threw it over his head, and tried to jump. Instantly, his feet tangled up in the rope. He tried again. Same result. ‘Jump, man, bloody well jump,’ Sam snapped.

For a moment, Porter was transported back to a windy, cold barracks, a quarter of a century ago, back in the days when you could still smoke on the tube, and your career choices amounted to signing up to shoot people or going down the pits. He could recall himself as a young recruit, being bashed through his first paces on the parade ground. It was cold and windy, his head was shaven, and the food was terrible, but at least I had plans back in those days, he reflected. He wanted to be a career soldier: regimental sergeant major was the rank he had his eye on. That was a long time ago, he realised bitterly. He tossed the rope swiftly over his head, watched it move through the air, then jumped. One foot cleared the rope. The other caught on the back of his ankle, tangling up with his trainers.

‘Fuck it, maybe I’ll go out to the playground, and see if I can find a six-year-old girl to show us how to do this,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe send her out to Beirut. She’s got more chance of getting out alive than you have.’

‘I’ll do it,’ snapped Porter, through gritted teeth.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ignored the pain still aching through him from where he’d been operated on the day before. Tossing the rope back, he swung it over his head, and concentrated. One jump, and he was over. He swung the rope again, following its arc as it cut through the air. Over. Just get the rhythm, he reminded himself. Then it’s easy.

‘Ten minutes,’ said Sam. ‘Then we’ll play with some real toys.’

By the time the skipping was completed, Porter could feel the sweat pouring off him. His shirt was wet through, and his skin felt sticky and clammy. He took the bottle of mineral water Sam offered him, and swigged it back in a couple of gulps. ‘Let’s start the fun stuff,’ said Sam.

The swing of his fist caught Porter by surprise. Sam’s arm flung back, then smashed into the side of Porter’s face. The palm of his hand hit his cheek, stinging the skin. Instinctively, Porter lashed out, thrusting a clenched fist forward, but Sam had already danced out of the way, and Porter was left flailing in thin air. His lungs were gasping for air, and he was still trying to recover his breath when Sam grabbed his right arm, and swung it viciously upwards. Porter gasped with pain as Sam slowly increased the pressure on the arm. He could feel the tendons starting to stretch, and his eyes started to water. ‘You’ve got to be faster than that, mate,’ said Sam.

Porter roared, filled his lungs with air, then snapped his right arm down. The pain was screeching through him, as he thrust backwards with his legs, smashing his back straight into Sam. He could feel Sam start to wobble as his groin took the impact of the blow. For a fraction of a second, the grip on his arm weakened. Porter tugged it free. He swung round, struggling to hold on to his balance. Ducking, he put his head down, then threw himself forward, smashing into Sam’s chest with his head. That was a technique he’d learnt on the street, he reflected, as he saw Sam shake under the impact of the strike, then fall back on the ground. When in doubt, headbutt the bastards. You might give yourself brain damage, but, let’s face it, when you were living rough and drinking two bottles of vodka a day, there wasn’t much point in worrying about that.

‘That fast enough for you?’

‘No marks for technique,’ said Sam. ‘But you’re still strong.’

‘Just remember, I was in the Regiment and you weren’t,’ Porter growled.

Sam picked himself up off the ground, and this time it was him drinking half a bottle of water, and struggling to recapture his breath. ‘You need to calm down though. You’re getting riled up too easily. Take your time, figure out your opponent’s weaknesses, then strike.’

Sam led him towards the shooting range. There wasn’t enough room underground for a full-scale range, but there was single block of enclosed concrete with a target at the end of a forty-foot strip. The firing point was just a white line printed on the ground, and next to it, there was black wooden table with a row of about thirty guns laid out on it. From a quick glance, Porter could see they covered the complete range of global arms manufacturers. There were Berettas, Brownings, Mausers, Walthers, Enfields, Webleys, Colts and, of course, Kalashnikovs, as well as a dozen different varieties of Asian and Eastern European knock-offs. ‘What do you want to have a go with?’ said Sam.

‘What type of kit are Hezbollah using these days?’ said Porter.

‘All kinds of stuff,’ said Sam. ‘They are pretty well financed, and of course you can buy just about any weapon you want in Beirut. It’s the B&Q of global terrorism out there. For assault rifles, it’s mainly going to be AK-47s and M16s you’re up against. For handguns, it could be just about anything. Berettas, Walthers, Brownings, take your pick. They use the good stuff mostly. None of that Bulgarian knock-off crap that blows up in your own face.’

Porter studied the desk. He hadn’t picked up a gun since he’d left the army more than a decade ago. Hadn’t even thought about it. Scanning the weaponry, he picked out a Beretta 92 pistol, a firearm he could recall training with back in the Regiment. The 92 was a short-recoil-operated, locked-breech weapon. It carried fifteen rounds, and its lightweight, aluminium frame weighed just slightly under 100 grams making it easy to hold, and even easier to slip inside a jacket or a pocket. It took a moment to reacquaint himself with the feel of the weapon, but once he curled his fingers around its cold, metal barrel, it was like welcoming back an old friend.

He took two strides forward. A white line was smeared across the floor, and the target was twenty metres away. Raising the gun with his right hand, Porter steadied himself, then lined up the target in the Beretta’s sights. He squeezed the trigger once, then twice, enjoying the powerful recoil as the gun kicked backed into him. A gun in your hand was like a suit and a tie: it made you feel like a man. It gave you power, and control, and certainty: and those were all the things you missed when you lived out on the streets.

‘An eye,’ said Sam approvingly. ‘It never leaves you.’

He was walking back from the target, noting where the bullets had struck. Neither was a bullseye, but both were close enough to it to at least disable an opponent, if not kill him outright. When you were in a firefight, that was all that counted, Porter told himself. If you wanted to kill the bastard, you could always do that with a double tap to the head afterwards.

‘Try it again,’ said Sam. ‘Legs a bit further apart, and keep your shoulders slightly squarer.’

Porter adjusted his position. He moved his left leg slightly, giving himself better balance, and relaxed his shoulder muscles. The pistol felt comfortable in his right hand, almost as if it was an extension of his own body. One squeeze on the trigger, then another. The noise of the explosion echoed around the room. Squinting, Porter could see where the bullets had struck: one just a fraction of an inch to the left of the target, and the second a bullseye.

Pretty good, he told himself. At least on a firing range. Combat will be very different.

‘Here, try this,’ said Sam.

He tossed an AK-47 to Porter. Grabbing a hold, Porter slipped it into his arms, the polished wooden stock of the gun and its elegantly shaped cartridge both instantly familiar. The missing fingers on his left hand were no problem. He could grip the gun between his two remaining fingers and his thumb, while his right hand was on the trigger. Slamming down hard, he loosened off a round of fire. The AK-47 was never a high-accuracy weapon: Mikhail Kalashnikov had designed it after being wounded in the Battle of Bryansk to support close-range infantry engagements. The bullets tore out of the muzzle of the machine, chewing up the paper target and leaving a pile of smoking ordnance on the floor.

‘I can still shoot,’ said Porter, turning to look at Sam.

‘So long as you can keep your head.’

The remark struck Porter with all the deadly force of the bullets he had just fired from his assault rifle. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ he growled.

Sam glanced at him, his eyes clouded with suspicion. ‘Nothing …’

‘You think I bottled it, don’t you?’

He was still holding the AK-47 in his fists. Now that he had turned round, it was pointing straight at the instructor’s chest. Sam was staring at it, and from the look on his face, he was unsure whether or not Porter might fire it.

‘Last time you heard live firing, it went tits up,’ snapped Sam. ‘That’s what I heard.’

‘It’s a bloody lie, I tell you,’ shouted Porter. His finger was twitching on the AK-47, and his head was throbbing with anger. ‘A bloody lie …’

‘But that’s what the record says,’ said Sam. ‘And you can’t go back and change the record. Not you. Not any man.’