Free Strike Back by Chris Ryan Page A

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 eventhough 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