Strike Back by Chris Ryan

pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. There was a notepad and a pen in front of her, and she instinctively reached for them, but Porter noticed she wasn’t writing anything down. Just drawing a series of rectangles. ‘Sir Angus says you know how to get to Hassad Naimi,’ she said.
    ‘I’ve been through it once with the boss,’ said Porter. ‘I was in the SAS back in ’89. We went into the Lebanon to get out a hostage. Hassad was there. He was just a kid then, so I spared his life. I recognised him from the shape of his mouth. It’s deformed, you can’t miss it.’
    ‘And you think he’ll talk to you?’ said Layla.
    She was about to pour herself a coffee and take a biscuit, but then she noticed they were all gone.
    ‘Like I said, I let him live,’ said Porter. ‘Three good men died on that mission, and I lost two fingers on my left hand. I’ve regretted it every bloody day since, but that doesn’t change the facts. He owes me. Arabs may not be good at much, and I wouldn’t trust the bastard any further than I could throw a camel. But they never forget an obligation. Not when their honour is at stake.’
    ‘Why did you let him live?’
    ‘Christ, he was just a kid …’
    ‘A dangerous one, however.’
    ‘We’ve been through all that,’ snapped Porter. ‘It’s not important now.’
    ‘Which years were you in the Regiment?’ said Layla.
    ‘From ’88 to ’92,’ answered Porter.
    Layla nodded. She had the same patient manner of a doctor, listening carefully to what you said, while neither approving or disapproving. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll take some fingerprints, and a snip of your hair, so we can run ID checks, and a DNA test. We need to makesure you are who you say you are. If that works out, then we can have a conversation. OK?’
    Porter nodded. It was going to take time, he told himself. You couldn’t walk back in from the cold after fourteen years and expect the security services to start trusting you.
    It took only a few moments to snip a lock of hair and take an impression of his fingertips, and then Porter was alone again. Layla had left, locking the door behind her: they didn’t believe him yet, he noted, but they weren’t going to risk losing him either.
    Porter flicked on the TV, but there were just replays of the PM’s statement on Katie Dartmouth. One of the political commentators was talking about the by-election coming up in nine days’ time, and how the government faced a potential humiliation if Katie was executed at the weekend. There were more calls from the Opposition for troops to be taken out of Iraq, and a vigil had already been started by the ‘Stop the War’ coalition in Trafalgar Square. Porter turned it off again. He’d watched enough by now to know how badly they wanted Katie out of there.
    Alone with my own thoughts, he reflected. Always a dangerous place. An hour slipped by and then another. Porter could feel himself growing desperate for a drink. The coffee pot was empty, and the biscuits were all gone. As he stared at the walls, the doubts start to creep up on him, like maggots crawling across rotten meat. What the hell am I doing here? Who in the name of Christ do I think I am kidding?
    I must be mad to want to get back into this, he decided, as he stood up to pace around the small room. Whatever it is a man needs to be made of to turn him into a warrior, I haven’t got it.
And there is no point in thinking I’m suddenly going to acquire it at my age.
    He looked at the door again. If only it wasn’t locked, he’d just walk straight out of here. Get back to his archway, usehis spare cash to buy a couple of bottles of vodka, and get some rest. If they don’t come back soon, I’m going to start banging on the door. I can’t deal with this much longer. Not without something to drink.
    Just then the door started to open. Layla walked in. ‘OK, so you are who you say you are,’ she said, sitting down behind the