by Chris Ryan
Porter tensed and felt a wave of anger surge up inside him. Permanent Staff Instructors were the guys in charge of the TA units. There could be no greater shame for a Regiment man than having to bark orders at a bunch of weekend warriors for the next two years. Porter looked across at his mucker. Could tell he was thinking the same thing. Lifting some ex-Rupert out of an African hellhole might be a crap mission, but it’s still better than being posted as a PSI.
‘Fine,’ he said to Hawkridge. ‘We’ll do it.’
Hawkridge relaxed his face into a slight smile.
‘You’ll fly out today,’ he went on. ‘This afternoon, in fact. We’ve booked you in on the next available flight from Heathrow to Freetown. Once you land you’ll be greeted by a local handler. Fellow by the name of Mike Shoemaker. He’ll be waiting for you at the airport. He’s got your descriptions. Which reminds me.’
The agent slid out of his chair, paced over to the AmSec safe at the back of the room and punched in a six-digit code on the backlit keypad. The safe made a bunch of whirring and clunking noises. Then Hawkridge cranked the heavy door open and retrieved a set of documents from the top shelf, plus a dark green Motorola satellite phone the size of a brick with a long black aerial as thick as a tube of Smarties. He dumped the items on the desk in front of Bald and Porter.
‘For your travels,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find that everything is in order.’
Porter reached for the set of documents. There were two business-class tickets for a British Airways flight from London to Lungi International Airport at 1355 hours, with a stopover in Morocco. The return portions of the tickets were open-ended. There was a third ticket in the name of Ronald Soames. Also in business class. Along with the tickets there were four bands of cash. Two thick ones in Leones, the local currency, and two smaller wads of US dollars. Porter picked up a couple and thumbed them. He counted five hundred in twenty-dollar bills in the US bundle, and two hundred and fifty thousand in the Leone one. A total of a thousand dollars in Yank currency, and roughly the same again in the local coinage. Probably not a lot to a guy like Soames, Porter thought. Probably less than the bloke earned in a day.
‘Walking-around money,’ Hawkridge explained. ‘You’ll need it. You can’t get anything done out there without greasing a few palms. Bribery is the second biggest industry in Sierra Leone, after diamonds. But try not to blow the lot. This isn’t some government jolly we’re sending you on.’
‘Sure,’ Porter said, grinning. ‘We’ll just ask the rebels for receipts.’
Hawkridge made a face. Then he pointed to the sat phone. ‘Iridium Motorola 9500. There’s a UK number stored on the SIM card. Call it and you’ll be put through to a secure line over at Vauxhall. As this is an overseas affair Angela and I will be liaising with Six on this operation. Contact us once you’ve located Soames. The battery only lasts for sixteen hours on standby, although I doubt you’ll be on the ground for much longer than that. Understood?’
Both men nodded. Then Hawkridge stood up and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s quarter to eight, chaps. We’re already on the clock. A driver will pick you up at ten o’clock sharp and drop you at the airport.’ He buttoned up his jacket. ‘Now, unless you have any further questions . . .?’
Bald and Porter looked at one another. Porter turned back to Hawkridge and shook his head.
‘Good. Then I suggest you both get leave and pack your bags.’
The two operators stood up simultaneously and turned to leave. Then Hawkridge cleared his throat. Bald and Porter both looked inquiringly at their handler.
‘A word of warning,’ Hawkridge said. ‘A lot of people are desperate to make sure that Ronald stays out of trouble. People higher up the food chain than us. There’s more at stake here than the diamond mines inside Sierra Leone. Ronald is a high-value asset. If the Russians get to him first, our past operations involving him will be at risk of being exposed. Operations we prefer to remain secret. Do whatever it takes to get him out of Freetown. Am I clear?’
‘Yeah,’ Porter replied tersely. ‘Crystal.’
‘Good.’ There was a hard look in Hawkridge’s eyes. But there was something else there too, thought Porter. Something unexpected. A cold blue glimmer of fear. ‘If you fuck up, heads are going to roll inside Whitehall. And I’ll make damn sure that yours will be the first ones on the block.’
FIVE
1000 hours.
The car pulled up opposite the safehouse at exactly ten o’clock. A plain grey Ford Mondeo. The kind of anonymous car the Firm specialised in. Bald and Porter were waiting a few doors down from the safehouse, outside a grubby B&B called the Grosvenor Park Hotel. As soon as the briefing had finished the two Blades returned to their Firm-owned flats across town and grabbed their overnight bags and passports. Both guys also changed into civvies better suited to the tropical Sierra Leone climate. They wore 5.11 Tactical khakis and olive-green t-shirts under short-sleeved Valiant Softshell jackets, and XPRT urban boots. With their plane tickets and their travel bags, Bald and Porter looked like just another couple of out-of-towners waiting for a lift to the airport.
They dumped their bags in the boot and climbed into the back of the Mondeo. They didn’t ask the driver for his name and he didn’t offer it. The Firm had plenty of drivers on the Thames House payroll, ferrying agents and contacts around the country, and they all kind of looked the same. The guy gunned the engine and set off for Heathrow, arrowing slowly through the choked London streets. Porter gazed out of the tinted window and sipped from a bottle of Evian water he’d brought along for the flight. He’d emptied the bottle back at his flat and topped it up with Asda own-brand vodka. A neat little trick he’d learned from his old man. You take a sip whenever you need it, and it doesn’t even look like you’re on the piss.
Now I’m thinking like a true alcoholic, just like my father, Porter thought to himself. Well, fuck it. He took another swig and felt the warm soothing glow spread through his chest as the booze juiced his bloodstream. Bald stared at him with obvious contempt.
Fuck him too, thought Porter. Twelve hours from now I’m going to be in the middle of the worst fucking city in the world. Might as well have a drop of the good stuff while I still can.
The drive to the airport took forty-six minutes. They trundled west past Lancaster Gate and Queensway, skirting around the edge of Kensington Gardens, hung a left at Notting Hill Gate and rolled down High Street Kensington, past the overpriced designer shops and organic food halls and the imposing redbrick apartment blocks worth more than Porter would earn in his lifetime. Then past Hammersmith onto the M4. The road finally opened up. From there it was a straight drive west for ten miles to Heathrow. Porter took regular sips from his bottle. Twenty minutes later the Mondeo eased to a halt outside the entrance to Terminal 3. A little over three hours until their flight.
Bald and Porter unfolded themselves from the back seats and grabbed their bags. Then they swept into the departure hall and made for the BA desk. They got the business-class treatment, which meant they skipped the long lines at check-in and breezed through security. By the time they arrived at the duty-free shops Porter was practically gasping for another swig of his voddie. They found a bar on the first floor with Guinness on tap, garish lighting and a big-screen TV in the corner tuned to Sky News. There was a report on the TV about the deteriorating situation inside Sierra Leone. A solemn-looking brunette reporter stood at the side of a road outside Freetown. Behind her, a long line of scrawny locals were passing by, dragging carts piled high with their worldly possessions.
Everyone else is leaving the city, thought Porter Except us. We’re the only fuckers heading in.
Bald pulled up a pew and browsed the food menu while Porter knocked back a long slug of vodka. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, slicked down into his guts. After a few seconds his hand stopped shaking. The sharp stabbing pain behind his eyes faded to a dull, rhythmic ache.
Ah, better.
‘Fucking sad,
that,’ Bald said.
Porter wiped his mouth and frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You, mate.’ Bald nodded at the Evian bottle. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what you’ve got in that bottle. It’s not fucking water in there, is it?’
Porter looked away at the TV. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Piss off,’ Bald snapped. ‘You might have them pen-pushers over at the Firm fooled, but I’m not buying it. You’re on the drink again. I can smell your fucking breath from here.’
‘It’s a nightcap, that’s all,’ Porter replied defensively. ‘A little something to help me sleep on the flight.’
Bald screwed up his face. ‘Call that a bloody nightcap? There’s enough booze in there to knock an elephant out.’
‘Chill the fuck out.’ Porter gripped the bottle tightly. ‘I’ve got it under control. I know how to handle myself. It’s not like you don’t like a drink yourself, Jock.’
‘True, but I’m Scottish. I can handle it. You bloody can’t. I mean, just look at you. You look like a ten-pound shit stuffed into a one-pound sack. I’ve taken dumps that look better than you, mate.’
Porter set his teeth on edge. Anger coursed through his veins, mixing with the booze. Part of him knew Bald was right. The other part of him just wanted another drink.
‘I’m fine.’
Bald snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Just like you were fine back at the townhouse with them Albanians. You almost took my fucking head off.’
Porter clamped his jaws shut. ‘I told you, that gun was dodgy. It won’t happen again.’
‘Bollocks.’ Bald shook his head angrily. ‘You used to be a good operator. Some of the younger fellas at Hereford looked up to you, hard as that is to believe. Now fucking look at you.’
Porter balled his hand into a fist but said nothing. Maybe Bald is right, he thought. Maybe I am a disgrace to the Regiment. But I’ve got my reasons. No alcoholic drank because they wanted to feel good about themselves. That wasn’t the point. You drank to forget. To try and numb the pain. And I need to feel as numb as fucking possible. All Porter had left in this world was his daughter. Now they were taking Sandy away from him as well. She would grow up calling some other bloke ‘Daddy’. I’ll just become some sad, distant memory, he thought. A few years from now, she probably won’t even recognise me in the street.
I’ve got nothing left in this world. So I might as well have another bloody drink.
‘I’ve still got what it takes,’ Porter muttered under his breath.
Bald laughed cynically. ‘Just keep telling yourself that, pal. All I know is, where we’re going, we’re gonna have to be on top of our fucking game. Especially with those chogie nutters running all over the place.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Bullshit.’ Bald stared levelly at his mucker. ‘Look, I couldn’t give a good fuck what you do on your own time. But as long as we’re on this op, you’re off the drink. Or you and me have got a problem. Got it?’
For a moment Porter was tempted to hit back at Bald, but then he bit his tongue. The two of them had their differences in the past and hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye. They had barely socialised during their time together in the Regiment. They weren’t friends, but they had developed a grudging respect for one another over the past year while working for the Firm. Deep down, Porter knew Bald was right. I’ve got a problem. He’d hit the bottle hard eleven years ago after a hostage-rescue mission in Beirut had gone tits-up, leaving three Blades dead. Porter had taken the blame. The other lads at Hereford had lost their respect for him, and he became a Regiment outcast. Eventually, he turned to the drink. The booze had nearly cost him his career in the Regiment, as well as his family. Unless you sort yourself out, the drink is going to kill you.
I’ve just got to get through this mission first, thought Porter. Just this one last op, then I’m good. He cast a forlorn look at the half-empty plastic bottle in front of him. Then he looked up at Bald. Nodded.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay off the booze. For now.’
Bald studied his mate for a moment, then looked away. Over on the TV the camera cut away to the next news item, a live interview with an overweight Tory MP wearing small wire-framed glasses and a crumpled suit with a garish yellow shirt and purple tie. Porter vaguely recognised the MP from his smug grin and shiny bald pate. One of the new breed of career politicians. They all looked the same, sounded the same made the same empty promises. Porter hated them.
‘You think we’ll get to Soames before the rebels attack?’ Bald said.
Porter mulled it over as he rubbed his jaw. ‘Even if we do get there first, we’ve still got to bug out of the city without bumping into the Russians.’
Bald grunted. ‘If we manage to get that ex-Rupert on a plane before the country goes tits up, it’ll be a fucking mirade.’
1340 hours.
Two-and-a-half hours later, Porter and Bald boarded the Boeing 767. Their business-class tickets got them each a luxury reclining seat the approximate size of a single bed, a free copy of the Financial Times and a warm smile from a chatty blonde stewardess called Tiffany. It was a long way from the all-inclusives Porter had gone on with Diana and Sandy, in the days before he’d started draining their joint bank account to pay for his drinking binges. He eased back in his chair, resting his head against a plump white pillow. I could get used to this, he thought. The travel, the service. The five-star lifestyle. But he’d been working for the Firm long enough to know how they operated. They only picked up the tab for as long as they needed you.
Once you’ve extracted Soames, they’ll soon send you back to your dingy flat and the crap surveillance missions.
The captain went through the usual litany of pre-take-off announcements. Then the engines droned into life, and the plane taxied across the runway. Outside it had started to rain. Big drops tumbled down from the lead-grey clouds, spattering the asphalt, pebble-dashing the plane windows. As the Boeing lifted into the sky Porter felt a tingle of excitement running up his spine. Ever since he and Bald had transferred to MI5, they had been itching to get back into the frontline.
Back to where the action was.
I don’t give a crap about some shady ex-Rupert. But this is still better than gunning down crackheads in Hackney.
The plane banked as it climbed through the clouds. Porter gazed out of the window and watched London disappear behind a dense bank of grey. Then the seatbelt lights switched off, and the stewardess called Tiffany pulled the curtain across the divider between business and economy. A short while later she did the rounds with the drinks trolley. Porter greedily eyed the selection. They had miniatures of Johnnie Walker, Woodford Reserve and Glenlivet 18-year single malt, plus a large selection of beers and vodkas. Bloody hell, he thought. They’ve got everything here. It’s all complimentary too. He was sorely tempted to get a few rounds in. But he could see Bald turning in his seat, giving him the evil eye.
‘Just give us a Diet Coke, love,’ he said sourly.
The stewardess smiled and handed Porter a miniature-sized can, plus a plastic cup half-filled with ice. Then she moved on.
‘Fuck me, mate,’ Bald said under his breath, turning in his seat and gazing admiringly at the stewardess as she bent over to serve another customer. ‘That bird’s giving me a hard-on a cat couldn’t scratch.’
He unbuckled his belt and stood up from his seat. ‘Where are you going?’ Porter asked.
‘Need a piss,’ Bald said, his eyes planted firmly on the stewardess. ‘Then I’m gonna try some of the old John Bald magic on that lass. See if I can persuade her to join the Mile High club.’
He shuffled past Porter then marched down the aisle towards the toilets at the rear of the plane. Porter reached inside his jacket pocket and fished out the Evian bottle. He’d lied to Bald back at the airport, telling him he’d emptied the vodka in one of the public restrooms. Now Porter was glad he’d saved it. There was still a decent amount sloshing a
round in the bottle. He discreetly emptied a generous measure into his cup. Took a sip and smiled. That’s more fucking like it, he thought. Sod what Jock says. He doesn’t have the right to tell me what to do.
Bald returned to his seat several minutes later. Porter sipped at his vodka mixer. Within a few minutes the booze had started to work its magic. Bald gave him a suspicious look but said nothing. That’s the difference between me and Jock, Porter thought. He actually enjoys a drink. The bastard can put it away with the best of them, but he always stays functional. He doesn’t need to drink himself into oblivion. He doesn’t understand why I need it. Because it’s the only way of blocking out all the shit in my head.
The only way I can put a lid on the pain.
‘What’s the deal with you and Soames?’ Bald said. ‘I saw the look on your face when that FO lass mentioned his name. You looked ready to snap.’
‘Nothing.’ Porter shrugged. ‘You know what all them Ruperts are like, mate. Soames was no different. The guy’s a tosser. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Except he’s got the Firm in his pocket.’
‘It’s not important,’ Porter said.
‘Yeah,’ Bald said. ‘It fucking is. Soames is our objective. We need him on our side if we’re gonna pull him out of Freetown. If there’s bad blood between you and him, I’ve got a right to know about it.’
Porter looked away. ‘Soames was the CO when I joined the Regiment. He was calling the shots when that clusterfuck in Beirut went down. He blamed me for what happened.’
‘Them three lads who died?’
Porter nodded. ‘After the debrief, Soames did his best to shaft my career. He made my life fucking hell.’
He fell silent and looked out of the window. The bad memories came rushing back at him. All the guys in the SAS were divided into two streams, A and B. The guys in A stream were the ones who were really going places. They were fast-tracked onto all the courses, given the best postings, and nailed-on for one of the RSM spots down the line. The guys in B stream were the ones who got left behind. Back then Porter had a promising future in the SAS, a young wife and a child on the way. He had his plans all laid out. First Troop Sergeant, then Squadron Sergeant Major, then RSM.