Strike Back

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 was 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.

In an instant, Porter’s right hand was thrusting towards the man’s neck. The knife pierced the skin, making a neat incision, in the space between the jawbone and the collar bones where a blade could cut straight through to the wind-pipe. Porter had barely a moment, and he knew he had to slice the man open as skilfully as any surgeon: except his purpose was to end the creature’s life, not preserve it.

There was a hiss of air: the unmistakable sound of oxygen wheezing out of a collapsing windpipe, like an old tyre with a puncture. Porter twisted the knife around, letting it complete its deadly work, while at the same time keeping his hand gripped tight on the man’s mouth. He stifled a bolt of pain as his victim summoned up enough strength to bite into the palm of his hand, but that was the man’s last moment of resistance as the life drained out of him. Giving the blade a final twist, Porter made sure the windpipe was completely cut open, making it impossible for any air to get through to the brain. He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, and checked his pulse. Dead. He yanked his body back, lying him down flat on the ground.

No time to hide the body, he decided. The shifts could change at any moment, and as soon as someone came along, they would know the base was under attack and raise the alarm. They might even think they were under a full-scale assault from British special forces. If that was the case, so much the better. In the chaos, some kind of opportunity to escape might open up.

Porter pulled the knife free from the man’s throat, and wiped the blood away on the back of his jeans. You’ll taste more before this night is out, he told himself grimly.

He picked up the man’s handgun and tucked that into his jeans. A compact Browning M1900, Porter was familiar enough with how it worked. He walked swiftly across the meeting point. He knew where Hassad’s quarters were.

Porter turned into the corridor. The moment of truth has arrived, he told himself.

The light leading up to Hassad’s room was dim, but Porter’s eyes had already adjusted to the murky conditions, and he didn’t have any trouble identifying the right door. He laid his palm flat against it, and exerted the slenderest amount of pressure. It gave. Hassad slept with his door unlocked, the way Porter had figured he would. Soldiers didn’t bolt themselves in, especially when there was possibility of any enemy assault. They needed to be ready to move the moment an attack started: in the time it took them to unlock their doors, they might already be dead.

Porter held the knife in his hand, savouring the cold sharpness of its blade against his skin. If he could, he’d use that rather than the gun: a shot would alert the whole base, and there would be a dozen soldiers on top of him within seconds. He paused for a brief moment, controlling his breathing. He suddenly recalled Steve, Mike and Keith. He could see them laughing as they went into the battle. He could hear the jokes and the banter, and then the desperate commands as the action kicked off. And then he could recall the moment when he’d seen the three stretchers with white cloths covering them being carried out of the chopper. He remembered the funerals, and the moving tributes from their mates as the bodies were buried in the ground. And he could remember the looks of all the other guys in the base back at Hereford. The looks that said, ‘Here’s the bloke who let three of his mates die because he didn’t have the bollocks to finish off some raghead kid who was intent on killing the lot of them.’

OK, boys, Porter thought bitterly. It’s a bit late, I know. This is a cheque that should have been cashed years ago. But you’re about to get your payback on the bastard that killed you.

He pushed the door open. Hassad was lying on a simple straw mattress by one wall of the small room. In the corner there was a small candle floating in a pool of wax that filled the room with a pale light. He was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt he wore during the day, although he’d kicked off his trainers and put them at the bottom of the mattress. Next to it, there was a paperback book in Arabic left half open and a tin cup of water. There was also an open packet of some kind of medicine although Porter couldn’t read at this distance what it was. His AK-47 was laid down flat on the straw right next to him. There was a knife as well. Under attack, he could reach for both within seconds. What was under the cushion he was using as a pillow Porter couldn’t tell. But it was more likely to be a pistol than a spare pair of pyjamas, he thought with a half-smile.

Porter had a fraction of a second. That was all the time available to determine success or failure. He kicked against the stone floor, and threw himself across the few metres that separated the doorway from the straw mattress.

He landed hard on top of Hassad. Immediately, the Arab woke up, looking straight at Porter, his eyes ablaze with anger. But it was too late. Porter was lying right across him. He was a big man, with at least a fifty-pound weight advantage on Hassad, and the sheer bulk of his body was pinning him down to the floor. Porter could feel a heady sense of elation surging through him. Almost as good as double vodka, he told himself. Right now, I’ve got this bastard exactly where I want him. And now he’s going to help me get Katie out of here.

Porter drew back his right hand just a few inches, hovering close to Hassad’s neck. His blade was sharp, it would only need the minimum of force to break open the man’s skin. His hand held steady and his eyes darted across the man’s body, scanning it the same way a butcher glances across a carcass, looking for the best places to cut up the meat. He could feel a surge of anger running through his veins. I’ve waited too long for this, he told himself grimly. Far too bloody long.

He jabbed the knife forwards, using the strength in his elbow. It collided with the skin, nicking open a cut, and suddenly the blade was crimson with blood. In the same moment, however, Hassad had rolled his head to one side, stretching enough of his neck muscles to deflect the worst of the attack. Porter was still lying flat on top of the man, crushing him into the straw bedding, and making it impossible for him to move. ‘Stay still, you murdering raghead scum,’ Porter spat viciously.

He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, and smell the sweat pouring off him. It was the same look he’d seen seventeen years ago, the one that had persuaded him to spare the life of a small frightened boy. But this time it was the expression of a man, not a kid, and rather than sympathy it aroused only contempt. This time you’re going to do exactly what I tell you, Porter thought. And no mistake.

‘You killed my mates after I spared your life. Now I’m going to kill you, you bastard. Now take it like a bloody man …’

Hassad bucked forward. He was desperately trying to loosen Porter’s vice-like grip on him, but the dead weight lying across his chest made it impossible for him to get up enough strength to free himself.

‘I didn’t kill anyone, I swear it,’ Hassad pleaded.

‘Don’t give me that bollocks, you Arab scum,’ Porter hissed. ‘I spared your life once before, and you took out three of my mates.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Hassad squealed.

‘You lying bastard.’

Porter drew his hand back the few inches necessary to skewer the knife into the man’s neck. He’d already scanned the flesh, and knew exactly where the windpipe was. With little more than a flick of the wrist he could sever the bastard’s life.

And this is the moment …

‘It was that man on television,’ said Hassad. ‘Collinson.’

Porter paused. ‘Who?’

‘The man on TV.’ Hassad’s body was wheezing with fear, and there was a foul stench of sweat all over him. ‘I recognised him. It was the same man on the raid, I swear it, and it was because of him the British soldiers died.’

‘You’re just a lying raghead scum,’ Porter growled. ‘You’re just trying to save your miserable skin. I bloody know it. Well, it’s not going to work, I tell you. I was going to kill you nice and quick, but now it’s going to be slow and bloody painful, just so you know not to start telling lies.’

‘It was Collinson, I tell you,’ said Hassad. ‘The man was a fucking coward.’

Porter’s hand paused again.

What if he’s right? he wondered suddenly. Christ, maybe, just maybe, the bastard isn’t lying to me.

Hassad’s hand snapped sideways so it was resting on the barrel of the AK-47. Porter immediately slammed his fist down on the hand so that he couldn’t pick up the gun. ‘Take it,’ said Hassad. ‘Take the fucking gun, and hold it on me. I’ve got no chance of escaping. I’ll tell you the real story of that day, and if I don’t convince you, then you can shoot me all the same.’

‘It’s a trick,’ snarled Porter.

‘No trick,’ snapped Hassad.

‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ said Porter. ‘No more.’

He dropped the knife from his hand, and grabbed the AK-47. He climbed off Hassad’s chest, and knelt beside him, jabbing the muzzle of the gun straight into the man. ‘OK, mate,’ he said roughly. ‘Tell me what really happened that night.’

Hassad pulled himself up. He was sitting now, with his back to the wall. He had sweat dripping off his face: the cold, angry perspiration that Porter had smelt before on men who were convinced they were about to die. There was a deep cut on his neck where the knife had caught his skin, and some blood was still oozing out of the wound, although a scab would soon start to form around it. The side of his neck and the top of his sweatshirt were both stained crimson. But in his eyes there was a brightness again: the hope of saving his life had begun to return.

‘You knocked me out cold,’ he said, some calm in his voice now. ‘I remember that as clearly as if it was yesterday. But you didn’t make a great job of it. A couple of blows to the head, enough to make me dizzy, but not enough to put me out for long. Perhaps it was because I was so young. Boys can take a terrible beating and come back pretty quickly.’

‘Go faster,’ growled Porter. ‘Don’t play for bloody time.’

‘I think it was only a few minutes later that I came round. I was scared out of my life, and so I just lay there on the ground, with my eyes mostly shut. Playing dead, or at least unconsciousness, seemed like the best strategy. But I could see enough of what was going on, and hear it as well. That man Collinson was insisting on taking command, and the others were arguing with him. There was a lot of shouting between him and the other guys. You’d already been evacuated, and they were clearing a space for another chopper to come in to take them out. Just then, a unit of Hezbollah reinforcements arrived. About a dozen men in all. It started to turn nasty. There was a lot of shooting, and a few grenades. The British managed to subdue the attack, but it was impossible for the chopper to come down to the roof. There was too much incoming fire. I didn’t reckon there was any serious danger, though. Patience and a little perseverance, that was all that was required. But Collinson panicked. I could see and hear it. He was shouting a series of stupid and contradictory orders. He wanted a couple of them to march out of the building straight into the line of fire so that he could get up onto the roof. They were screaming at him not to be an idiot.’

Keeping his eyes on Porter, his expression turned deadly serious. ‘Then he shot one of them in the back, and told the other two they were bloody cowards, and if they didn’t go forward he’d make sure they were going to be court-martialled on charges of desertion. They started to run towards the man who had been shot in the back, but he was right by the window and the poor guys had no chance. They were both mowed down by raking machine-gun fire. While that was happening, Collinson used the cover to sneak up to the roof, and guide the chopper home. There was no point in fighting any more, and the Hezbollah guys fell back. The chopper took off. I just stayed there, must have been a couple of hours at least, waiting until I was sure the fighting had all died down.’

Hassad’s expression was now calm and composed. ‘So whatever the official report said, the reason three of your guys died was because that Collinson man lost his nerve.’

Porter could feel a hardening of his skin. It was the same feeling you got when the doctor gave you a local anaesthetic. Your body gradually turned numb. The nerves stiffened up, and all your senses withered away. The last seventeen years, he told himself, had all been a lie.

I’ve wasted an entire lifetime regretting something that never even bloody happened.

‘That fucker,’ he muttered aloud.

‘What …?’

‘He said you came round and shot Steve, Mike and Keith. That made it my fault for not finishing you off when I had the chance. But it was his fault all along … the cowardly fuckhead didn’t know how to fight, and he didn’t know how to take the rap when he screwed things up either.’

He let three men die because of his cowardice, thought Porter bitterly.

He let another man die inside because he didn’t want to take the blame.

And offered the choice between believing Hassad’s version of what happened and Collinson’s, then Hassad’s seem the more credible.

I always knew Collinson was a coward.

I saw it the moment he started puking up when he stepped off that Puma and into the fighting.