by Chris Ryan
The A320 had been in the air for three hours now, and so far the flight had been pretty smooth. It was the first time Porter had been on a plane in nearly fifteen years, and they’d come on a bit since the charter flight to Spain he had taken with Diana and a three-year-old Sandy on the last family holiday they’d gone on before his drinking meant they no longer had any money for luxuries like that. The wings didn’t scream with pain every time the pilot changed direction. The seats were comfier. You could plug forty or more channels of music into your ear. And there was a neat little screen hanging on the ceiling that tracked the progress of the plane over Europe and told you how far you were from your destination. They were just passing over Sicily, Porter noted, and heading out into the Mediterranean. The pilot was banking left to steer them away from Egypt and towards Israel and the Lebanon. Not long now before they started their descent into Beirut.
He looked towards the drinks trolley. The stewardess – a pert little blonde who introduced herself as Chloë while serving Porter his microwaved breakfast – had already been through the cabin offering people a drink but it was still only mid-morning and there weren’t many takers. Layla had told her sharply that they didn’t need anything, and Porter had had to settle for finishing her breakfast instead. There was a row of tiny, airline bottles: whisky, vodka, gin, rum, several different types of beer, quarter-bottles of red and white wine. Porter could hardly remember the last time he’d seen so much booze in one place. And all of it free as well. He grabbed two vodkas, one gin, and a double-sized serving of Johnnie Walker, and slipped them inside his jacket.
There’s only one place they manufacture the kind of courage a man needs to face what I am about to put myself through, he told himself.
A brewery.
He grabbed another vodka bottle, and twisted its cap. It came loose in his hand, and he put it to his lips. He could feel the warm glass against his skin, and then the steady, strong liquid started to trickle down into his throat. Porter had never found a drink he didn’t like the taste of. He’d drink paint-stripper if that was all he could find. But vodka was his favourite. A real drinker’s drink: maybe that was why the Russians loved it so much. Vodka didn’t mess around with flavours or aromas. There was no nonsense about grains or vintages. It was the closest you could get to pure alcohol without visiting a hospital. And it got you fired up with the minimum fuss and the maximum efficiency.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ snapped Layla.
Porter spun round. She was standing right next to him, her dark eyes alive with anger. Already her right hand had grabbed for the vodka bottle. She was trying to take it from him but had only succeeded in spilling half its contents down his shirt.
‘What the fuck do you think I’m doing?’ growled Porter. ‘Admiring the pretty cloud formations out of the window? I’m having a bloody drink.’
‘Put it down,’ said Layla, her tone rising sharply.
Porter held on to the bottle. There were only a few drops left in it, but he wasn’t about to let them go.
‘Put it down,’ said Layla again, even more loudly this time.
Porter could hear the roaring of the plane’s engines in his ears. It had just hit a patch of turbulence, and the A320 bounced sharply, then plunged downwards. Porter steadied himself against the plane wall with his left hand. Ahead of him he could see that the pilot had switched on the seat-belts sign.
‘I know you’re practically an alcoholic,’ said Layla, trying to keep her grip as the plane rolled and swerved through the sky, ‘but you’ve had a couple of days without a drink, and you’re starting to clean up.’
‘I needed a drink,’ snapped Porter.
‘What the hell for?’ shouted Layla. ‘We’re pinning everything on you. We’re paying you two hundred and fifty grand. The last thing we need is a fucking wino crawling off the plane too drunk to even remember his own name.’
‘One drink, that’s all I bloody needed.’
‘It’s always one drink, then one more,’ said Layla. ‘You were a sodding tramp. We’ve taken you in, given you a chance, but we damn well expect to be repaid. That means you deliver what we expect. That’s the deal, and if you break it, we’ll fucking break you. You hear me, John Porter. We’ll break you like a fucking matchstick.’
Porter paused for a moment. He could already feel the vodka he had drunk a few moments ago hitting his bloodstream. The plane was starting to balance out again, but the weather was still rough, and the undercarriage was thumping against pockets of air. The alcohol was already working its lethal magic, calming his nerves and soothing his anxieties. People said the juice stopped you from thinking straight, but they were wrong. He could always see things much more clearly when he had some alcohol inside him, and right now he could see there was some truth to what she was saying. He’d had nothing, not any kind of life to speak of, but now he had a daughter again, and he’d had done something for her, and that was something he could take to his grave and feel proud of. He had the Firm to thank for that. It didn’t mean he couldn’t handle a drink, though. She was wrong about that.
‘What the hell do you know about soldiering?’ he said, levelling a stare right into her eyes. ‘There are only two rations every commander in history has made sure his men have plenty of before they go into battle. Booze and smokes. In the trenches of the Somme, that was all the blokes lived on. Rum and tobacco. And you know why? Because it is fucking frightening. Most blokes wouldn’t be able to fight unless they were too drunk to know any better.’ He paused again, waiting for the plane to pass through another patch of rough weather. ‘Well, this is a battle, and I reckon it’s going to be a bloody nasty one,’ he continued, his voice dropping down to no more than a whisper. ‘And I’m going to need all the courage I can get. Some men get it from a church, and some from their country. I get mine from a bottle, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Layla snapped, her face red with anger. ‘One more, and we’ll turn straight round and go home.’
The stewardess was standing next to them, her eyes switching nervously from Porter to Layla and back again. Trouble, thought Porter. It was what every stewardess feared the most. ‘I’ll have to ask you to take your seats,’ she said. ‘The captain –’
‘Don’t worry, we’re sitting down,’ said Porter.
He patted the spare bottles tucked into his jacket pocket as he walked back to his seat. Doesn’t matter what she says, he told himself bitterly. The woman knows nothing.
‘Just stay where you are,’ said Layla sourly, making sure his seat belt was fastened. The stewardess was walking quickly away from them, relieved that the trouble had passed. Porter grabbed for some peanuts, pulled open the pack, and threw them into his mouth in a couple of handfuls, chewing on them angrily.
The turbulence had passed, and the clouds had split open, and suddenly Porter was looking out of the window at the clear blue sea leading up to the Lebanese coastline. The last time I was here I was flying in on a Puma to rescue a hostage and my life was about to fall apart. This time, I’m coming in on a commercial flight to rescue a hostage, and my life is almost certainly going to end.
The years roll by, and sod all changes.
FOURTEEN
Layla glanced at Porter’s face. She was scowling, and he could tell she was still furious with him for the drink he’d taken on the journey. They had walked off the plane in silence, accompanied by the silent flunkies from the Firm, then followed the signs through to the arrivals hall. Most of their fellow passengers were waiting to collect their bags from the carousel. But Porter didn’t have anything to collect. Just the holdall the Firm had given him, and he had that tucked under his arm.
When you’ve got a life expectancy of about two days, thought Porter, you really don’t have to worry about packing. You can even skip baggage reclaim – which just goes to show, there is some upside to every situation.
‘You know the drill?’ said Layla.
Porter nodded. ‘Yes, sir …’
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‘Remember, no heroics,’ said Layla. ‘Your job is to get Katie Dartmouth out of there, or at least delay her execution, so that we have a chance to organise a rescue mission. We don’t need you trying to do this single-handed.’
‘We’ve been through this,’ Porter growled, walking towards passport control.
‘John,’ said Layla.
He turned round.
‘Good luck …’
Porter smiled. ‘Thanks …’
She nodded towards him. ‘If you get back alive, I might even buy you a drink.’
‘Make it a sodding double then,’ said Porter.
He turned on his heels and kept on walking towards the desk. Even inside the airport, Porter could feel the heat and humidity surrounding him. He stood in line alongside what appeared to be mostly a group of Arab businessmen passing through security. In total, there were no more than a dozen white faces among the two hundred or so people filling the arrivals hall. Up ahead, there were two armed policemen manning each desk, and they were checking each passport carefully. They were mostly Syrians, Turks and Egyptians, and all of them had visas, but they all needed to be checked. Porter glanced down at his own document. He noted that the Firm had backdated it a couple of years, and it already had Turkish and Lebanese entry and exit visa stamps in it: a passport that had already been used to get into and out of a country a few times was a lot less likely to provoke suspicion than one that was brand new.
‘Business?’ said the policeman, glancing from the picture on Porter’s passport and up into his eyes.
‘Social visit,’ said Porter.
The policeman nodded but remained suspicious.
‘I’ve made a few friends while doing business here,’ Porter continued.
‘Hotel?’ said the policeman.
His tone, Porter noted, was just on the wrong side of indifference.
‘The Marriott,’ he replied.
The policemen flicked through the pages, checking the different visas, then lost interest and waved Porter through. He kept on walking, past another row of armed soldiers, then stepped out into the main airport hall. He could feel a sudden shot of adrenalin buzzing through him. This is where the waiting ends, he told himself. Another few hours and I’ll be in the thick of it. God help me.
People were swarming through the main hall. There were big families welcoming passengers off the planes. A few taxi drivers were holding up placards with names attached to them, but none of them said John Porter. Up ahead, there was a bank of money changers, car-rental offices, and hotel booking agencies, and just alongside them a group of taxi drivers touting for business. As he paused for a moment to take in the atmosphere, Porter couldn’t help but notice the unmistakable smell of the Middle East. It was a mixture of sweat, and dates, mixed with almonds, stewed meat and sweet tea. It clung to the air, and got onto your skin: even one breath was enough to remind Porter that he hated the place, and would be happier turning round and taking the next plane home again.
‘Need help with that bag,’ said a voice that appeared as if from nowhere at his side.
Porter looked round. Ben Stanton was around forty, with short brown hair, and a deep tan to his face. He was wearing grey chinos and a blue linen jacket, with no tie. His smile was engaging yet distant, as if he could think of places he’d rather be but was too polite to mention them. What does it take to get the Firm’s Beirut posting? Porter wondered. You’re either the best man they’ve got, so they give you the toughest posting. Or else you’re a loser they don’t know what to do with, so they ship you off to some hellhole hoping you’ll get yourself shot, and they can save themselves the cost of your pension.
Stanton looked like the latter, but with spies, Porter thought, it was always risky to judge by appearances. The good ones were masters of deception – and the first thing they always lied about was themselves.
‘I’ve got a car waiting,’ Stanton continued. ‘Follow me.’
Porter glanced from side to side. There were soldiers lining the exits, scanning everyone suspiciously, their machine guns gripped tight to their chests, ready to be fired. Stanton ignored them, walking straight past, as if they were just adverts plastered to the walls. So did everyone else. That’s Beirut, thought Porter to himself. Everyone is so used to war, they no longer even notice it.
The car park was five hundred metres from the main terminal. It was a grey, overcast afternoon, with clouds hanging low in the sky. Stanton pressed the locks on a Volvo C70, and slung Porter’s bag on the back seat. ‘We’re heading south, then your bus will take you to the border,’ he said, his tone suggesting they were plenty of places he’d rather be going.
‘What’s it like there?’ said Porter.
‘Pretty much like the rest of this hellhole,’ said Stanton. ‘Bloody awful.’
The Volvo pulled out of the car park, and started heading up towards the exit ramps. There was a roadblock with Lebanese soldiers checking vehicles as they left, but Stanton had diplomatic papers and they waved him straight through. He turned onto the roundabout, swearing furiously at a truck that tried to cut him up as they turned towards the highway leading out of the city. A barrage of honking and swearing filled the air, but Stanton tapped his foot on the accelerator, ignoring it.
‘Bloody Lebanese,’ he muttered, concentrating on the road. ‘When they aren’t trying to kill each other with guns they’re doing it with the sodding cars.’
Porter grinned. Welcome to hell, he thought. I should be right at home.
‘What’s the situation like up at the border?’
‘What is it you army boys say?’ said Stanton. ‘Snafu – situation normal, all fucked up? That’s about it. The war between Israel and Hezbollah is officially supposed to be over, but that doesn’t mean they’ve given each other a big hug and made up. The border region is swarming with armies, some of them private, some of them religious, some of them Lebanese government, some of them Hezbollah. Basically, you see a bloke with a gun, then he’s going to be fighting for someone, but you won’t have a clue who until he’s put a few rounds of ammunition into you. In short, it’s a nasty place, full of very nasty people.’
‘That’s where I’m going?’
‘For starters, anyway.’
‘You don’t reckon Katie Dartmouth is up by the border anywhere?’
Stanton shrugged. They were out on the main highway now, heading along the coastline that would take you straight into Israel if you kept going for long enough. The traffic was light, apart from some tanks and jeeps hogging the slow lane. There was some sign of damage to the road: places where shelling or Israeli bombers had knocked chunks out of the concrete, but nothing bad enough to stop the flow of vehicles. ‘By now, probably not,’ he replied. ‘They’re planning on collecting you up there, so I reckon it’s a decoy. Hezbollah might be nutters, but they are as cunning as sewer rats. They wouldn’t have survived as long as they have in this hellhole if they weren’t. They’re picking you up by the Syrian border, so they have to figure we’ll think she’s somewhere around there. Which means she probably isn’t.’
‘And you haven’t a clue where she is?’
Stanton shook his head. ‘We don’t have great contacts out here. Iraq has been a bloody disaster for the British in the Middle East. They all hate us now, rather than just 90 per cent of the buggers like before. We’ve been told to spend whatever money is necessary, and we’ve put the word out on the street that there’s some easy cash to be earned by tipping us off about where they’ve stashed her.’
‘No takers?’
‘Not a bloody sausage,’ said Stanton. ‘Usually in these situations there’s somebody who wants to move to Geneva with a few hundred grand tucked away in his bank account and will turn snitch. They are Arabs after all. They’re not famous for swapping their grandmothers for a new camel for nothing. They tell us where the body is, and we make a discreet payment into a bank account. That’s the way it works. This time around, nothing.’
‘Why n
ot?’
For a moment Stanton looked genuinely puzzled, as if he had asked himself that question, but had yet to figure out a proper answer. ‘You know what, I think they believe they’ve got us on the run,’ he answered eventually. ‘This whole show is being run out of Tehran. The Iranians are desperate to get their hands on the oil fields of southern Iraq, and they know the British can’t hang in there much longer. The trouble is, everyone else wants a piece of that action as well. The oil is the only thing worth having in Iraq. The Kuwaitis are stirring things up, hoping to install their own strongmen in the south. If they get their way, they’ll operate through the locals for a decade or two, then one day you’ll wake up and find Basra is a part of Greater Kuwait. They are smart boys, the emirs, and they play the long game – which is, of course, the only game worth playing in this godforsaken part of the world. Then there is the Sunni up in the middle. That’s Saddam’s old mob, and they need to secure the oil fields as well, since if they don’t get their grubby hands on the oil, the only other alternative is date farming, and there isn’t much money in that.’ Stanton paused, honking furiously at an ancient BMW that was backfiring badly in front of him. ‘So you see, the mullahs in Tehran can’t hang around. They need the British out now so they can get control of the place. They took Katie Dartmouth as just another piece of the campaign, but they aren’t stupid. They read the papers and watch TV, and they can see what an impact it’s all made back in Britain. So they are going to play this one hard, and get the maximum leverage out of it if they can. They can see there is a real chance of concessions, and even if there isn’t, the British position in Basra will still be weakened, and that’s what this is all about.’ He glanced over at Porter. ‘I don’t mean to be negative, and all that. Chin up, et cetera, et cetera.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘But you’ve got more chance of shagging the Ayatollah’s sister than you have of getting Katie Dartmouth out of that hellhole. Come Saturday night, I reckon the pretty head is going to be rolling off the elegant shoulders and all of it live on TV. And what happens then? Fucked if I know. I reckon our beloved leader will be in even deeper trouble than he is already and the boys out in Basra can start emailing their wives and girlfriends to expect them back for Christmas.’