Strike Back by Chris Ryan Page A

table.
    She motioned to Porter to sit down opposite her, but he preferred to stand.
    ‘The problem is, John Porter is a fuck-up,’ she continued.
    Layla glanced down at a sheaf of computer printouts she’d been carrying under her arm. ‘We’ve retrieved your records. And indeed, you were in the SAS from 1988 to 1992. But, how shall I put this delicately, you weren’t exactly gunning for any medals, were you?’
    ‘I was good enough to get in,’ growled Porter.
    ‘But not good enough to stay in,’ said Layla, her tone laced with sarcasm. ‘You fucked up in the Regiment. You were sent off to be a range warden but you couldn’t handle that either. After you left the army, you tried a few jobs, but you couldn’t hold them down. Your wife kicked you out more than ten years ago. She divorced you five years ago – but you probably didn’t even know because her lawyers didn’t have anywhere to send the papers.’
    She shrugged, flicking a piece of dust off the shoulder pad of her black jacket. Porter watched it fall to the floor: he knew how it felt.
    ‘If I may put it this way, John Porter isn’t exactly the first person the nation would turn to in its hour of need.’
    Porter stared at the floor. I shouldn’t have bothered, he was telling himself. I should have just gone somewhere I could get a drink.
    ‘I shouldn’t have come …’
    He started to walk towards the door.
    ‘Hold it,’ said Layla.
    He looked at her. She was flashing a smile at him, and for the first time he noticed how pretty she was. There’s a woman underneath that black suit somewhere, he thought. But you need some sturdy pickaxes and shovels to find her, because she’s buried a long way underground.
    ‘What’s passed is passed,’ she said, her tone softening. ‘What we do know is that you were in the SAS, and you went into the Lebanon. Do you really know this Hassad bastard?’
    Porter nodded. ‘I spared his life …’
    ‘And you reckon he’ll speak to you?’
    Porter nodded. ‘I already told you that.’
    Layla stood up. ‘If we had any other options, believe me, we’d take them,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’m going to talk to the boss. He doesn’t always listen to me, but if he does, well, you might have just talked yourself into a job.’

SIX

    Porter glanced at Layla in the elevator. They were moving swiftly up towards the tenth floor, where all the top brass had their offices. One shot, thought Porter. That’s all I’m going to get at this. Within an hour, I could be back on the streets.
    A brief flicker of doubt crossed his mind. This might end up costing me my life. Then again, what sort of life is it anyway?
    The elevator cruised to a halt, and as the door opened, Porter stepped out onto the thickly carpeted corridor. He’d been waiting back down in the interrogation room for three hours before they’d said they were ready to talk to him. Plenty of time to practise my lines, he told himself.
    He trod swiftly down the corridor, following as Layla led the way. There were no windows on this floor of the Firm: the building has already suffered one rocket attack by a dissident IRA group back in 2000, and the walls were now built of thick, armoured steel, but there was no way a window could be made completely secure, so they had got rid of them. There was a soft artificial light along the corridor, and the walls were decorated with striking pieces of modern art. The main conference room was fifteen yards down from the elevator, sealed off behind a frosted-glass door. Its entrance was guarded by two men, neither of them in uniform, but both with MP-5 assault rifles strapped to their chests.
    ‘Porter,’ said Layla, pausing before the door to the conference room, ‘if you want to make yourself look like a bloody idiot, that’s up to you. If you make me look like one as well, then I’m going to have your balls chopped off. Is that clear?’
    Porter ignored her, walking inside. The room was at least thirty feet long,