Strike Back

TEN

Porter could still feel the anger swirling through his veins as he sat down at the desk. He’d taken a quick shower, and changed out of the gym kit he’d been wearing for his training session with Sam, but he still felt charged up. Maybe it was having a gun back in his hands, he reflected. He didn’t need to put up with all the crap he had to endure while he was living on the street. From now on, he was taking charge. And if I’m dead in a few days, well, those are the breaks.

A plate of chicken and tuna sandwiches were sitting in front of him, and Porter reached out for a couple. It was amazing how hungry he was all the time. Maybe that was something else that came from living on the streets for too long. Your body became so used to scavenging for food that when it was there you couldn’t stop yourself from eating it.

He’d just polished off his third sandwich when Sir Angus Clayton walked swiftly into the room, followed by Layla. She patted Porter on the shoulder, and sat down behind him. Porter didn’t recognise the third man. He was in his early fifties, with a greying beard, and hair that straggled down towards his open-necked cream shirt. There was a slight stoop to his walk, and he was carrying a bundle of papers underneath his arm.

‘You OK?’ said Sir Angus.

From the look on his face, Porter could tell it was a pleasantry, not a question. He doesn’t give a toss how I am, or what happens to me. ‘Fine, sir,’ he replied, pouring himself a coffee from the jug in front of him.

Sir Angus nodded. ‘You need that coffee,’ he said. ‘There are still no leads on where Katie Dartmouth might have got to, and the way the PM is wobbling, our boys might be packing up their bags in Basra by the weekend. So right now, you’re still our best shot at sorting out this bloody mess.’

‘God help us,’ said Porter.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Sir Angus. ‘I reckon you’re a man who never liked school very much, so we’ll try and keep this as short as possible. But we’re going to have to cram as much knowledge as we can into your head in a very short space of time.’

He nodded towards the man with the grey beard. ‘Professor Gilton here is going to fill you in on as much as we know about Hezbollah. Next up, we’ve got one of our top hostage guys coming in for a chat. Then we’ve got the head of Sky News coming down to talk to you about Katie. Over dinner, we’ll be giving you your instructions, then packing you off to bed. You’ll need all the sleep you can get.’ He looked sharply at Porter. ‘That agreed?’

Porter nodded.

Professor Gilton leant forward on the desk. He’d already drunk one coffee and was starting on the next. ‘How much do you know about Hezbollah?’ he asked.

‘Bunch of mad fuckers with towels on their heads,’ said Porter. He grinned, but quickly noticed that nobody else in the room was smiling and straightened up his lips.

‘Yes, well, that’s one interpretation, although the towels are more often around their necks, actually,’ said Gilton.

Porter shot him a quick glance. ‘Hezbollah was formed after the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon,’ he said. ‘It is a Shiite Islamic organisation, and came together as various extremist organisations joined forces to fight the Israelis. It was largely backed by the Iranians, who sent them large sums of money, and about two hundred armed fighters which formed the backbone of its military strength. But it’s important to remember that they aren’t just militants. They have plenty of support in the Lebanon as the main resistance to the Israeli occupation of that country, and without that support it is unlikely they would have survived as long as they have. If you go into the Lebanon, you have to remember, you are fighting on their territory. Don’t expect any support from the locals.’

The professor took another sip of his coffee. That’s shown him not to treat me like an idiot, thought Porter.

‘Quite right,’ said the Professor. ‘Hezbollah virtually invented modern Islamic terrorism. In 1983, it created the suicide bomber when it used them to blow up the American military barracks in Beirut, killing 241 soldiers in one go. And within a few minutes it blew up an apartment block housing French peacekeepers. All the basic elements of Islamic terrorism are there. Suicide bombers. Coordinated strikes. Targets chosen with precision for maximum impact. There is nothing al-Qaeda is doing today that Hezbollah didn’t do first, and often more effectively as well.’

‘So they’re the best,’ said Porter. ‘I think we already knew that.’

Gilton nodded. ‘Afraid so. They started with suicide bombing because they wanted to get the Americans and the French out of the Lebanon, and they just about succeeded. Then they moved on to kidnappings. They’re masters at that as well. In 1985, they kidnapped the CIA bureau chief in Beirut, an army officer called William Buckley. They held him captive for fifteen months, tortured him and then they killed him. His body wasn’t recovered until 1991, when his remains were found in a plastic bag by a roadside in Beirut. Between 1984 and 1992, they kidnapped and held hostage about thirty Westerners, including the Archbishop of Canterbury’s special envoy Terry Waite, the journalist John McCarthy, and the Ulster writer Brian Keenan. Of course, you know about one of them yourself, Kenneth Bratton. He was one of the very few who was ever successfully broken out. In each and every case, the individual was held for long periods of time, usually in terrible conditions.’

‘And what do they want?’ asked Porter.

‘Power, like all terrorist organisations,’ said Gilton. ‘You’ll get a lot of rhetoric about Islamic revolutions, and fighting the infidel, and all the usual nonsense. That’s just to help them recruit. Hezbollah is primarily a political movement intent upon dominating the Lebanon, and particularly southern Lebanon. They are closely allied to the Iranians, and they believe in a Shiite theocracy, but they believe mostly in themselves.’

Porter straightened up in his chair. He knew he was being examined as well as informed: they were looking to see how fast his mind still worked, and how well he could absorb information. He was still feeling hungry, so he grabbed another tuna sandwich. ‘Then why do they care about our boys in Iraq?’

‘Because the Iranians do,’ said Gilton. ‘The Iranians are desperate to get the British out of Basra as quickly as possible, because that way they can dominate the area. Southern Iraq is Shiite as well, and it’s going to be virtually an Iranian puppet state once we get out of the way.’

‘So they’re doing the dirty work …’

‘Precisely,’ said the professor. ‘The Iranians don’t want to start kidnapping British hostages and threatening to behead them. They don’t have much of an image in the world, but even for them that is a step too far. They get Hezbollah to do it for them, and since they are the main supplier of money and arms to that organisation, they don’t have much choice but to go along. Hezbollah take the girl, demand that British troops get out of Basra, and the Iranians can move into southern Iraq, which is where most of the oil is incidentally, unopposed. Meanwhile their hands are clean.’

‘So it’s not just some random kidnapping?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Gilton. ‘They have a plan, and I have to admit a pretty clever one. It all fits together very well. They know just how vulnerable British public opinion is over Iraq, and they picked Katie Dartmouth because she is young, attractive and popular, and because they knew the story would get round-the-clock coverage. They knew there was a by-election coming up next month as well, and if the government loses that, then the PM is probably toast. Like I said, it’s a plan, and a damned clever one.’

Sir Angus leant back in his chair. ‘So maybe the only flaw in the plan is you, Porter,’ he said. ‘They didn’t reckon on you.’

‘What are their weaknesses?’ asked Porter.

‘They don’t really have any, I’m afraid,’ said Gilton. ‘Hezbollah is a tight-knit organisation. There are none of the splits between the military and political wings you used to get with the IRA, for example. And there’s none of the factionalism you get within al-Qaeda. They have their orders, and they’ll execute them ruthlessly.’

‘But it’s not their war,’ said Porter.

‘Right, that’s our one advantage,’ said Gilton. ‘They’ve taken Katie Dartmouth to help the Iranians. They don’t themselves care very much whether the British are in Iraq or not. Israel is the enemy for them. If you get into conversation with them, you need to hammer home that point. This isn’t really their fight. They’re just working for the Iranians. If you can persuade them to believe that, then maybe you can start to weaken their resolve.’

‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ said Porter. ‘I mean, they don’t care what I think of them.’

The professor remained silent. He probably knows that as well I do, thought Porter, you can’t talk these bastards out of anything. There was more coffee, and another plate of sandwiches before Gilton shuffled out of the room and Sir Angus brought in David Provost. A thin, intense man, with reading glasses, and blond hair that was combed across his forehead, he glanced briefly at Porter before taking his seat and reaching for a glass of water. He was described as the Firm’s top hostage expert: he’d visited sieges all over the world, and studied the subject for years. There was nothing he didn’t know about kidnappers, and how to deal with them.

‘There’s just one major principle in every hostage negotiation,’ he said, looking at Porter. ‘Keep the conversation going. It doesn’t really matter what you’re talking about, or whether the discussion seems to be going anywhere. Every minute you spend talking achieves two things, and they are both important for you. One, it delays the moment of execution. When they’re talking, they aren’t killing. Next, it draws you closer to the kidnappers. The more of a relationship you build up, the harder it becomes for them to kill the victim.’

‘So what do I talk to them about?’ asked Porter.

‘First, find out what they want,’ said Provost. ‘One thing you learn about most kidnappers is, they say they want one thing, but they really want something else completely. You need to burrow away at that. Dig and dig, and find out if there is something else that would satisfy them.’

‘Like what?’ said Porter. ‘They’ve said they want British troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan. How the hell am I meant to negotiate that?’

Provost ran a hand through his stringy hair, and glanced nervously across at Sir Angus. Porter sensed he wasn’t being told everything. The Firm had its own ideas and plans, and they weren’t about to let him into their secrets. For all I know, he thought, they might even have started negotiating with Hassad without thinking to tell me.

‘Again, that’s what they say they want,’ said Provost ‘Don’t believe it. They can’t really expect a whole British Army to be withdrawn in response to a single kidnapping. So, there’s your answer. That’s not what they want at all.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Publicity,’ said Provost firmly. ‘Look at how they are operating. Who do they kidnap? A TV journalist. If you want to influence politics, you kidnap a politician. If you want money, you kidnap a businessman. But if it’s publicity you want, then you kidnap a journalist, particularly a pretty blonde one.’

‘And they’ve certainly got it.’

‘Right,’ said Provost. ‘But the point is, there is no more perishable commodity. Katie Dartmouth might as well have a sell-by date stamped on her forehead. As soon as they kill her, the story is dead too. So what you need to do is string it out for them. Keep reminding them that when they kill her, they’ve basically lost. They haven’t got the troops out, and in a few days’ time they are not going to be in the news any more either.’

‘Why the hell should they listen to me?’ said Porter.

‘That’s the first thing to do, engage them in conversation. Make it clear that you sympathise with them, and then they’ll start listening. The next thing to do is to get them talking to Katie. From the picture they’ve put out on the Web, she is bound and gagged. That’s no good. Tell them she needs water and food, and she needs to breathe more easily. Do anything to get that gag off her. As soon as you’ve done that, get her talking. About anything, it doesn’t matter what. If needs be, the two of you should sit there chatting. At the moment, she’s just a symbol, and they are easy to kill. Turn her into a human being, however, and it gets a lot harder.’

‘I need to be able to offer them something,’ said Porter.

‘We’ll get to that later,’ said Sir Angus.

Porter nodded. We’re not getting anywhere, he told himself. All this talking isn’t going to make any difference to anyone.

‘When you get out there, Sir Angus will have given you some concessions you can make,’ continued Provost. ‘Every hostage negotiator always has those. You go in knowing what concessions you’ll make, but never make them right away. You need to feed them out slowly. That way the other side feel like they are extracting something from you.’

‘Any questions?’ said Sir Angus.

Porter rested his arms on the desk. ‘So, in your experience, has anyone ever negotiated a hostage out of Hezbollah?’

Provost coughed, and glanced at Sir Angus. ‘No,’ he said crisply.

‘Then I better have a plan B,’ growled Porter.

The coffee tasted good. Porter sipped on it slowly as he waited for the next talking head to be wheeled into the room. Layla had disappeared to get a fresh pot by the time Ken Stuart was led into the room. He was wearing cream cargo trousers, a blue jacket and a pink open-necked shirt. His dark hair was worn long, but his face was lined and craggy, making him look a lot older than his forty years.

‘Ken is in charge of Sky News,’ said Sir Angus. From his expression, Porter judged Sir Angus didn’t much care for journalists, and would be relieved when he could get Stuart off the premises. ‘We’re completely off the record here, and he’s agreed that not a word of your mission will be leaked on air. But he knows Katie better than anyone, so he might be able to help us.’

Stuart scrutinised Porter’s face like it was an exhibit in a museum: his eyes ran across him, probing and questioning as he scoured his features. ‘You’re really going out there?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Porter.

Stuart nodded. ‘She’ll be damned pleased to see you.’

‘What’s she like?’

Stuart paused before replying, giving himself space to think. ‘Most TV journalists are pretty tough, particularly the ones that get sent abroad,’ he said. ‘But even among a hardened breed Katie stood out for her toughness. Forget all that soft-soap stuff we’ve been putting on air for the last few days about Katie as the nation’s darling, the kind-hearted girl from the Hampshire village. It’s just for the ratings, twenty-four-hour TV news is a competitive business, and we couldn’t afford to let an opportunity like that pass us by. Katie’s a great girl. She works hard, and she doesn’t mind bruising a few egos if she needs to get a story on the air fast, but her heart’s in the right place.’

‘What’s her background?’ said Porter.

‘She went to Cambridge, and read English, just like they all do,’ Ken answered. ‘Then she got a job in local TV news, down in Devon, and did that for a couple of years, before joining Sky. We put her on the regional news beat for a couple of years but she was clearly a star right from the start. The camera loves her.’

‘And you think she’ll hold up under captivity?’

Stuart sighed. ‘We’ve seen the pictures of her, and there are more you can get off the Web that we haven’t even wanted to broadcast. Let’s face it, she’s bound and gagged, and we don’t even know if she’s been given anything to eat or drink in the past few days. We can’t be certain, but the chances are she knows they are threatening to execute her in a few days’ time. I don’t know how anyone would hold up in those circumstances. But I’ll tell you this much, if anyone can, then Katie can.’

Porter nodded. There was nothing left to ask. The woman was unlucky, that was all. They needed a British TV personality, and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘One thing you should know,’ Stuart added. ‘I think she might have had some kind of relationship with Sir Perry Collinson.’

Sir Angus looked bored: that piece of gossip is already on his files, Porter decided.

‘You sure?’ asked Porter.

Stuart shrugged. ‘Just newsroom gossip, which is never the most reliable of sources,’ he said. ‘But she did a threepart series of specials on him just over a year ago, the same time that his book was on the best-seller charts. Afterwards, they were seen at a couple of drinks parties together. I don’t mean to be sexist, but Katie didn’t mind sleeping with her contacts, at least from what I hear. It doesn’t even have to be that cynical. She’s a young single woman, and she likes powerful older men. Nothing strange about that.’

‘Thanks, that’s all,’ interrupted Sir Angus.

Stuart started walking from the room. As he passed Porter, he paused, resting his hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s not a bad kid, so do your best. We’ll all be rooting for you.’

Porter nodded. ‘If I can,’ he said, ‘I will.’

Stuart grinned. ‘And don’t forget to take some hairspray with you. If by some miracle you get her out of there, we want her right on camera. And if you don’t give her something to fix her hair, then you really will be in trouble.’