Strike Back by Chris Ryan Page B

and ten wide. It was dominated by a thin glass table, with black leather chairs all around it. There were pots of coffee and bottles of mineral water distributed along it. On the left-hand wall, there was a row of flat, black, plasma screens: they were tuned to Sky News, CNN, BBC News 24, Fox News and al-Jazeera, all with the sound turned down. On the opposite wall, there was a bank of computer screens and a table of telecoms kit. Lots of kit, Porter noticed, but you wouldn’t learn anything here you wouldn’t find out from watching TV at home. They don’t trust me enough to let me see any sensitive intelligence.
    The lion’s den, thought Porter as he took another step forward. This is what the Christians must have felt like when they got tossed into the Colosseum.
Except at least they had some faith in themselves.
    Sir Angus was sitting at the head of the table. And directly to his right was Perry Collinson.
    Porter’s eyes flashed towards him, the contempt unconcealed.
    Collinson returned the look, and as he did so a thin, detached smile crossed over his lips. It was more than fifteen years since Porter had last seen him, but he still looked in remarkably good shape for a man in his mid-forties. His hair had grown darker, but there was still plenty of it. There was a little more flesh on him, but he was still lean and trim.
    ‘John, sit down,’ said Layla quietly.
    She pulled out a chair at the head of the table. He could see how her manner changed as soon as she saw Sir Angus: in control when she was interrogating him, she suddenlybecame quiet in the presence of the boss. No doubt about who’s in charge of this place, Porter noted. No doubt either that he scares the crap out of the lot of them.
    ‘You’ve turned up rather unexpectedly, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘And I suppose we’ll find out in the next few minutes whether you are unwelcome or not.’
    Porter nodded, but remained silent. Don’t open your mouth more than you need to, he told himself. It’s never done you any good before, and it probably won’t now either.
    Sir Angus waved a hand around the table. ‘Let me make the introductions,’ he said, nodding to each man in turn. ‘Peter Thornton, the man in charge of your old Regiment, the SAS. Sir Gerald Daniels, the Chief of the Defence Staff. James Middleton, who runs the Foreign Office’s Middle East desk. You’ll probably recognise Geoff Bramley, the Secretary of State for Defence. Jim Muir, from Downing Street, who runs the press operations. And, of course Sir Peregrine Collinson, the Prime Minister’s special envoy to the Middle East.’
    ‘We’ve met before,’ said Collinson.
    Porter didn’t flinch. ‘I believe so,’ he said quietly.
    There was something about Sir Angus’s tone when he mentioned Collinson’s name that suggested he didn’t like him very much.
Join the club, mate.
    ‘Let’s forget the poxy reunions, shall we, boys?’ snapped Muir. ‘There’s a poll out in the
Evening Standard
this morning showing that 75 per cent of the British public think British troops should be taken out of Iraq rather than have fucking Katie Dartmouth executed. So shall we just get down to sodding business?’
    Porter noticed that Muir was doodling a picture of a woman with huge breasts and a very short skirt on the notepad lying in front of him on the desk. He looked back at Sir Angus.
    ‘So you think this Hassad man will speak to you?’ said Sir Angus.
    ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Porter. ‘Tell him there is an SAS man who spared his life in ’89, who lost two fingers on his left hand.’
    Sir Angus nodded. ‘And if he’ll talk …?’
    ‘Then send me out to negotiate,’ said Porter.
    ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ snapped Muir. ‘Where the fuck did you find him?’
    ‘Actually, he found us,’ said Sir Angus. ‘He came in this morning –’
    ‘Jesus, I can’t fucking believe it,’ said Muir, his tone exasperated. ‘We spend a couple of fucking billion a year on