Strike Back (31 page)

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.

Porter was still holding the AK-47. His finger was still twitching nervously on the trigger. And the gun was still pointed straight at Hassad’s chest.

‘I owe you my life, nothing else,’ said Hassad.

‘Take me to her,’ said Porter.

Hassad remained silent. His eyes were fixed on the barrel of the gun. ‘And you expect me to help you?’

‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

‘You are my enemy,’ said Hassad softly. ‘I allowed you to come here because I owed you, but now that you have discovered the truth, all the debts between us are ended. And the woman dies at eight tonight.’

Porter caressed the trigger of the AK-47. ‘This gun says differently.’

‘Kill me if you want to,’ Hassad snapped. ‘If that’s what you came for, just do it, then … the woman stays right where she is.’

For a moment Porter was about to fire. Why the hell not? he asked himself. Whatever the truth of what happened seventeen years ago, Hassad was still a brutal terrorist who had tortured an innocent woman until the will to live had been drained out of her. Even if he didn’t deserve to die for killing Steve, Mike and Keith, then he certainly deserved to die for that.

His finger stopped.

I don’t have it in me to pull the trigger, he thought.

As he gripped the barrel of the AK-47, everything was slotting into place for Porter. Someone had tried to kill him back in London – someone who knew the details of the mission he was about to go on. When he arrived, he was captured by a British-led private military corporation – by someone who knew precisely where he was going, and what passwords needed to be used.

That person could only be Sir Peregrine Collinson.

Why? Because he was desperate to prevent me from seeing Hassad again, for the simple reason that I might learn the truth of what happened on that bungled mission to Beirut all those years ago.

The bastard is going to pay for that.

‘Take me to her,’ Porter growled.

‘I can’t.’

Porter stood up, and jabbed the barrel of the AK-47 into Hassad’s chest. He could feel the hard, solid muscle as he prodded it with the cold steel of the gun. ‘You bloody well can, and you bloody well will,’ Porter snapped. ‘I just want to talk to her, that’s all. I won’t cause any more trouble, not for you anyway.’

Hassad got slowly to his feet. Maybe he’s just playing me along, Porter thought. Perhaps he’s just going to walk me straight into a trap. I have to take that chance: it’s the only hope I have of breaking Katie out of here.

They strode briskly through the meeting point. Hassad glanced at the one corpse Porter had left behind, then glanced at Porter. He could tell from the expression on his face that he knew exactly what had happened. Porter jabbed him forward with the AK-47. They kept walking towards the room where Katie had been tied to a stake. Porter was struggling to keep track of time: he reckoned it was three thirty in the morning, but it could be as late as four. The two soldiers stood rigidly to attention as they saw them approach. Their own assault rifles were snapped into position.

‘It’s OK,’ said Hassad softly. ‘We’re just going inside for a moment.’

Smart, thought Porter. He knows they could shoot me, but it would be a bloodbath, and probably all four of us would die. Once you started letting off AK-47s in a confined space, the bullets would shred everyone. Better to let me inside: there’s still a chance he might be able to talk me into dropping the gun.

Pale light had spread across the room. Porter glanced at Katie. It was only a couple of hours or so since he had last seen her, but her condition was even worse. So far as he could see, she had lost consciousness: she could be sleeping, but with the pain she had endured Porter reckoned she’d gone under.

He kept his gun trained on Hassad.

‘Untie her,’ he snapped.

He knew his drill. Get her off the stake, then try and fight his way out of here, room by room. It was probably the worst plan he’d ever heard. Against so many men, there was practically no chance of success. But at least this way they’d take a few of the bastards with her. And it wouldn’t be on worldwide TV.

‘No,’ said Hassad, with quiet determination.

As he spoke, Porter could see Katie’s eyes slowly open. He could see the pain each movement caused her, but there was a glimmer of defiance in her expression. Her boss was right, thought Porter. The woman has nerves of steel. She glanced first at Hassad, then at Porter. ‘I …’ she croaked, coughing as she struggled to form the words on her lips.

Porter raised a hand to stop her from speaking. He pushed the AK-47 closer to Hassad’s chest. ‘Then she’ll at least have the satisfaction of watching you die first,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll untie her myself.’

‘I hope she enjoys the show.’

‘Please just do …’ started Katie, her voice turning into a cough.

While Porter’s attention was distracted, Hassad leapt forwards, smashing the AK-47 from Porter’s grip as he did so. He jammed as hard as he could on the trigger, loosening off a few rounds of bullets, but the barrel of the gun had already been deflected, and the shots smashed harmlessly into the solid stone walls of the cell. Christ, thought Porter. The noise of that gunfire is certain to alert the rest of the guards.

Hassad was forcing him onto the ground, crushing him with his weight. Using his right hand, Porter curled his fist, and smashed it into the man’s jaw. He could tell at once the blow was a good one: he could feel his knuckles crunching into the bone underneath the skin. Hassad reeled back, the pain shooting through him. A smear of blood was trickling away from his lips.

Hassad was preparing to strike back, and even though he’d been unbalanced by the blow, his boot was drawing back, and Porter could see at once he was about to take a kicking. He started to try and scramble to his feet, moving as fast as he could to deflect the impact of the first inevitable blow.

A huge explosion rocked through the mine.

For a second, Porter was too stunned to react. His mind went numb. He could hear the sound of explosives detonating, and the crumbling of rock. How far away? he wondered. The explosion was muffled at first, but the noise was rumbling through the tunnels and rock like a train rumbling through the night.