Strike Back

FOUR

The river looked better in the morning, Porter thought. The tide was high, and the water was lapping right up close to the barricades. A couple of tourist boats were heading down towards Greenwich for their first run of the day. Sunshine was breaking out across Battersea Park, sending shafts of brilliant light skimming out across the water. Hell, we all look better at dawn, Porter told himself. The day is still fresh, and we can still hope.

He glanced up at the headquarters of the Firm, right next to Vauxhall Bridge. He’d walked past it a thousand times during the few years he’d dossed down in the area. Until he saw Sandy again, and realised how much she’d missed him, it had never occurred to him to go inside.

I thought my soldiering days were buried. Until now.

Porter checked himself in the reflection from a phone box. Not so bad, he decided. After leaving the pub, he’d found a quiet spot close to the bus depot, and bedded himself down among some tossed-out cardboard boxes. He hadn’t slept well, but then he never did. At five in the morning, he’d walked a mile down to the Asda superstore on the road that snaked towards Brixton. The place was open all night, it was as cheap as dirt, and they didn’t mind what the customers looked like. Porter picked himself out a new pair of jeans, a white shirt, some socks and trainers, and a sweater. The whole outfit came to thirty quid. He slipped into the toilets, washed himself as best he could in the sink, then put on the new clothes. He tossed the old ones into the bins outside, then went to the café and blew another fiver on a full English breakfast, and a jug of coffee. The water, at least, was free. By the time he’d finished that, he felt almost like a human being again.

He glanced one more time at the Firm. The office was deliberately forbidding: a mass of turrets and spikes, with a huge inner courtyard. There were a dozen armed and uniformed police officers at the entrance, and no doubt twice as many plain-clothes men keeping an eye on it as well. There was no building in London more heavily guarded. Don’t worry about it, Porter told himself. You can do this. It’s just a matter of holding your nerve.

He walked steadily towards the building, at an even, unvarying pace. Run into this place and they were likely to gun you down. Looking across the river to the clock on Big Ben, he noted that it was just after seven in the morning. Early. But the spooks never slept. And certainly not when they were in the middle of a crisis.

The policemen looked at him suspiciously as he walked across the driveway, and into the entrance lobby, but they made no attempt to stop him. It’s a public building, Porter reflected. They have to at least let people walk into the place. It was only once you checked in at the desks that they ran you over for guns and knives.

The foyer was decorated in grey, with slate floors, and a bank of glass at the front. Marble-clad walls led up to a bank of elevators. Along one side there was a reception desk with three uniformed guards sitting at it. At the other, there was a pair of black leather sofas, and a collection of the day’s papers spread out on a coffee table. All of them, Porter noticed, had pictures of Katie Dartmouth on them. ‘BRING OUR BOYS HOME TODAY’ said huge letters across the front page of the Independent. ‘SAVE HER’ said the Mirror.

Porter walked steadily up to the desk. A thickset man in his forties looked straight at him, his expression as welcoming as a chunk of granite.

‘I know how to get Katie Dartmouth out,’ said Porter.

Even as he delivered the sentence, Porter knew how ridiculous he sounded. If it wasn’t for the fact he knew it was true, he’d be laughing at himself.

The receptionist looked at him, taking half a second to make a judgement, and then reached underneath his desk to press a button. Even though he was trained to remain impassive, Porter could tell he had already reached his own verdict. He thinks I’m a nutter. Who know, maybe he’s right?

Five armed officers appeared from the door that led away from the elevators. They walked quickly across the slate floor. Not running, but moving with purpose. A few people were coming through the entrance doors, heading towards the lifts to get to their desks, but they simply made way for the armed men, paying them no attention. ‘We’ll have to ask you to leave, sir,’ said the first officer, standing in front of Porter.

He glanced at the man’s face. It was expressionless, like rock. He was wearing no uniform but he didn’t need to. There was an MP-5 assault rifle strapped to his chest, and that gave him all the authority he needed.

Porter looked straight into his steely blue eyes. ‘I know how to get Katie Dartmouth out.’

He could see the man’s reaction in his face. Nutter, he was thinking. Just like the other guy. But he remained silent.

‘I can get her out.’

‘This way, please, sir,’ said the officer.

Porter could feel his chest thumping. This was his one chance to show Sandy he could amount to something. To look her in the eye without feeling ashamed of himself. He’d no more throw it away than he’d throw away his own life.

‘I’m the only man who can get through to her kidnappers,’ Porter shouted.

He could see a few of the office workers looking at him distastefully before hurrying on. None of them wanted to hear what he was saying, and none of them were looking in his direction. The five guards were slowly closing in on him, forming a tight semicircle from which there was no chance of escape.

‘This is your one chance to save her,’ said Porter. ‘I was SAS, I know something about the man who’s holding her, something we can use.’

He could feel a hand grabbing hold of his arm. The MP-5 wasn’t jabbing into his chest, but it was definitely pointed in his direction, and the expression of the man with his finger on the trigger suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he had to. They were starting to move him towards the door. Porter shrugged himself free. These goons weren’t going to listen to anyone, he reflected bitterly. Osama bin Laden could walk through the door offering to turn himself in, and they’d tell him to come back when he’d made an appointment. ‘I can walk,’ he growled.

A fresh blast of cold air struck Porter in the face, as he stepped out into the morning air. A gust of wind was blowing through him. It can take my hopes and blow them away, Porter told himself. I must have been mad to think they would listen to me.

‘Don’t come back,’ said the officer firmly.

A Jaguar was pulling up outside, and a man in a charcoal-grey suit was climbing out of the back seat. Porter recognised him at once. Sir Angus Clayton, the director general of the Firm. Porter had seen his picture in the papers he sometimes fished out of the bins he slept next to. He might even have used his mugshot as a blanket once or twice. A tall man, with a fast-disappearing head of black hair, and a face that was shallow and drawn, he looked tired even though he hadn’t started work yet. Porter was standing only a few yards away from him. If I don’t take this chance, he told himself, then I’ll never get another.

‘I can get Katie Dartmouth out for you, Sir Angus,’ he shouted.

The man looked at him. His eyes were focused, intent, as the words struck home. He was assessing Porter in an instant, scanning his face, using a lifetime of experience in the intelligence trade to make a snap judgement on whether the man might be worth listening to. He slammed the door shut on the Jaguar, and started walking towards the entrance doorway.

The guard was tightening his grip on Porter’s arm. ‘We’ve already asked you to leave, sir,’ he snapped.

Porter took a step forward. ‘One minute of your time,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m asking for.’

Sir Angus kept walking towards the revolving glass door that led into the Firm’s headquarters. From the expression on his face, you couldn’t even tell if he had heard Porter.

‘If you make any more trouble, sir —’ started the guard.

Porter shrugged him aside.

‘That woman is going to die in five days’ time, Sir Angus,’ said Porter. ‘And I’m the only man who can do anything about it.’

The guard was tugging him back.

‘One bloody minute. I’m SAS, I’m —’

‘Sir, you are risking arrest,’ the guard said.

Sir Angus paused. His hand was already pushing the revolving door open, but his feet had stopped moving. Slowly, he turned round. His eyes were looking straight at Porter, questioning and probing at the same time. ‘You’re Regiment?’

Porter nodded.

‘What was the code name of the Firm’s liaison officer in Hereford in 1990?’

‘Zebra, sir,’ replied Porter, without a flicker of hesitation.

‘And do you keep in touch with Jim West?’

‘Not likely, sir,’ replied Porter. ‘The bloke died on a black op in Somalia.’

I’ve passed the test, thought Porter. Only a Regiment man could answer those questions.

‘A minute is too long,’ said Sir Angus quietly. ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds.’

The guard let go of Porter, but he was still standing just a couple of feet behind him, and his gun was still cocked, ready to drop him if he created any trouble. Porter paused. Thirty seconds, he told himself. Better make this good.

‘In 1989, I was in the SAS,’ he said, his tone confident and strong. ‘There was a hostage-rescue mission in Beirut. A guy called Kenneth Bratton. There was a young kid, one of the Hezbollah boys. I spared his life. It’s that Hassad bloke, the one who is holding Katie Dartmouth hostage. I recognised him because of the deformed mouth.’ Porter paused, looking straight into Sir Angus’s eyes. He could tell he’d caught his interest: whether he’d convinced him or not it was impossible to say. ‘He’ll talk to me, because he owes me,’ he continued. ‘I know it might not work, but it’s worth a try, and what else have you got? If you’ve got a secure line to him, tell him there’s an SAS guy with two fingers missing on his left hand. Tell him I want to come and talk to him.’

Sir Angus glanced down at Porter’s left hand. He could see at once the two stumps where his fingers used to be. He rubbed his brow as his face creased up into a frown.

Porter could feel his heart thumping against the walls of his chest. ‘I’m on the level,’ he said. ‘I was Regiment. You can check my records.’

Sir Angus hesitated. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do,’ he said. He nodded towards the guards. ‘These gentlemen are going to take you to a secure room. A case officer is going to come down and check out your story.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Porter.

‘But let me tell you my terms,’ Sir Angus continued. He was already starting to turn back to the revolving door. ‘If you’re wasting our time, I’m going to get them to beat the bloody hell out of you, then take you to the back of this building, and feed you to the sodding fish. Got that? You can leave now if you want —’

‘I’ll take those terms,’ said Porter with quiet determination.