SEVEN.

The doctor was young, no more than thirty, dressed in a white coat, with closely cropped black hair, and eyes that suggested he didn't like being disagreed with. His name was Simon, according to the tag on his jacket. 'Basically, you're in terrible shape,' he said. 'But I guess you already knew that.'

Porter nodded. The last time he'd seen a doctor had been more than ten years ago, before Diana had thrown him out. He'd gone to see him because Diana was driving him crazy, nagging him about his drinking. He'd dragged himself off to see the local GP in Nottingham, a kindly woman in her mid-thirties who offered to refer him for some counselling. Porter thanked her, and took the number of the therapist, but never made the call. What was the point? he thought at the time. He drank because it was the only way he could live with himself, knowing that he'd screwed up the only job he ever wanted, and carelessly thrown away the lives of three good men. No therapist could go back in time and change that. So what was the point in even talking about it?

'You want the good news or the bad news?' said Simon.

After leaving the conference room, Layla had taken Porter straight back to the elevator, and down to the operations room on the second floor of the building. A flight was already being arranged to get him to Beirut for Thursday morning. It was Tuesday afternoon now, which left them thirty-six hours to prepare him for the mission, and to resolve what kind of tactics he should deploy once he was confronted by Hassad. We'll take you to the medical centre first, Layla had told him. They had to find out what kind of shape he was in before they could do anything else.

For twenty minutes, he'd been sitting back in a comfy chair while they took blood samples, and X-rayed his whole body. 'I'll take the bad news,' said Porter grimly. 'It's what I'm used to.'

'Your lungs are in the worst shape,' said Simon. 'Smoker, right?'

'Only when I can afford them,' said Porter. 'Which isn't very often right now.'

'Just as well,' said Simon. 'Anyway, you've got several different infections. I'm going to put you on some high-strength antibiotics.' He looked down at the papers on his desk. 'There are a series of problems with your left leg. You have a nasty arterial ulcer infection just below the knee. You're going to need a small operation to fix that. We'll try and get that done right away. I'll put you under for that, otherwise it will hurt a bit. You've got a series of skin fractures around your back, and your feet have a nasty case of gout, so we're going to have to try and clean all of that up. We're still waiting for a full analysis of your blood, but I think we can safely say your liver isn't a prime specimen, but there's basically nothing we can do about that in the time we have available.' Simon glanced up at Porter and tried to smile. 'As for your teeth, well, we've put in a call to one of the best dentists in London, and he'll be here later today. It's going to take a while, I'm afraid.'

He put his pen down on his sheaf of papers. 'Any questions?'

'You said there was some good news.'

Simon shrugged. 'I lied about that. There isn't any.' He grinned. 'Let's put it this way, you're still alive, which is a miracle given the way you've been living for the past few years. You're basically pretty strong. Clean you up, and you'll live a few more years yet.'

'A few days is all I need,' said Porter. 'Fix me up so that I can hold out until Saturday night, and I'll be fine.'

Simon nodded. 'Then we'll start right away.'

Porter walked through to the room he'd been allocated within the Firm's headquarters. It wasn't the Ritz, but by the standards he'd become accustomed to, it was luxury. He had his own TV, a small but comfortable bed, and next to it an array of medical tracking kit. It was a cross between a chain hotel, and an upmarket, private hospital. Good to see the Firm isn't bothering with the NHS, Porter thought. They don't mind mixing it up with al-Qaeda, but they don't want their best men catching MRSA down at the local surgery.

Along one wall, there was a wardrobe and when he checked inside, there was a new charcoal-grey M&S suit, a white shirt and dark blue tie, and some black half-brogue shoes. Next to it, there were some cream chinos, a blue linen shirt, some loafers and a black sweater. Smart or casual, Porter thought, but either way, it was all a lot better than anything he'd worn for at least a decade. I guess they don't want anyone on the payroll who dresses at Asda.

On the table there was a bank statement. Porter checked it briefly. An account had been set up at the Westminster branch of Barclays. It was in the names of John and Sandy Porter, registered to her address in Nottingham. According to the opening balance there was 250,000 in the account, and it was giving 4 per cent interest, paid monthly. There were two debit cards, one in his name, and one in Sandy's. No nonsense about your card being in the post, and taking three working days to process a payment, thought Porter with a smile. Amazing how quickly you can get things done when you lean on the right people.

In the corner there was a fridge. Porter knelt down and took a look. Some bottles of mineral water, some Coke and lemonade, a couple of sports energy drinks, and some peanuts, he noted. No sign of a bottle of vodka.

'No boozing,' said a voice.

Porter turned round. The nurse was blonde, with hair that tumbled a couple of inches past her shoulders, and a shapely figure that had a couple of centimetres more flesh on display than was strictly necessary. She was standing in the doorway, dressed in a starched white uniform with a nasty-looking needle in her right hand. According to the name tag pinned just to the side of her ample left breast, she was called Danni.

'Where do they stash the alcohol in this place, then?' said Porter.

'They don't,' said Danni, stepping forward.

'It's dry?' said Porter.

'Like the Gobi Desert, sir,' said Danni. 'You've got more chance of getting a bevvy down at your local mosque than you have in this place.'

She had big blue eyes, and a face that was friendly rather than classically beautiful. 'What's that for?' he said, nodding towards the syringe.

'It's a syringe, so you take a wild guess,' she replied. 'Now lie back on that bed like a good boy. I can do this so it hurts or doesn't hurt. It doesn't make any difference to me either way.'

Porter lay back on the bed. The sheets were crisp and white and soft, and he realised as he put his head down on the pillow that it was years now since he'd gone to sleep between white linen.

'Just hold still,' said Danni.

He could feel the needle piercing his skin, but she was right. It hardly hurt at all. He let his head rest on the pillow, and closed his eyes. In only just over a day, I'll be face to face with Hassad. I can kill him, the way I should have killed him seventeen years ago. And then ...

But before he could finish the thought, he lost consciousness.

Porter struggled to open his eyes. A fierce, white light was shining down on him. He suddenly jerked back, and sat bolt upright. He was sitting on a metal chair padded with leather, and a man in a white coat was standing next to him. There were lights and equipment everywhere. 'What the ...' he started.

'Steady, old chap,' said the man in the white coat, pushing him back down into the chair with a firm hand.

He was about fifty, with brown hair, and a chubby, friendly face. Porter had not seen him before. His head was spinning, and his legs felt sore and weak.

'You've been under anaesthetic, and you're only just coming round,' said the man. 'We haven't got much time, so we decided to whisk you in here while you're still under. My name is Peter Shaperio. I do some dental work for these guys. I hope you don't mind me doing some work while you were still under, but since you were already out cold it seemed to make sense.'

Porter started to speak, but he could feel the numbness in his mouth. 'OK,' he said.

Not like I have much choice, he thought to himself.

'You've got a lot of problems, I don't mind telling you. I won't ask how long it is since you last had a check-up, since I suspect I won't like the answer. While you've been asleep, I've taken two teeth straight out. They are molars so you won't miss them that much. We could do implants to replace them if you like, but there's no time to do that before you head out of here. I've put another two crowns on teeth that needed to be reshaped. And I've got three fillings left to do before I've finished. So just lie back. We'll only be another half-hour or so.'

Porter put his head back on the chair, and closed his eyes. He could sense the lights coming in down close to his face, and feel their heat on his skin, but he was feeling so tired, and so drugged up by all the anaesthetics, it was hard to concentrate on anything. He could hear the drill grinding into action, scratching away inside his mouth, but he felt nothing apart from a slight headache. The dentist had put some jazz on in the background nice, light, relaxing music to try and soothe him, but it wasn't going to work. He was too hyped up. Too excited. It was impossible to relax, he reflected, when you'd just made 250,000 and you knew you might well die in the next forty-eight hours.

'All done,' said Shaperio, putting down his drill.

He offered Porter a glass of green liquid, which he swilled around his mouth, then spat out.

'Normally I'd give you a lecture on flossing regularly,' continued Shaperio. 'But somehow I don't think there would be much point.'

'I'll be fine,' said Porter. 'Thanks, anyway ...'

He started to lift himself out of the chair, but his legs were weak. He was starting to wobble, and it was only with Shaperio's help that he managed to steady himself. What they'd done to his legs in the operating theatre, he couldn't be quite certain, but there was a bandage around both his left knee and his right foot. His head was dizzy, and his body felt as if he just come off the worst in a pub brawl. 'You'll be OK,' said Shaperio, helping Porter to steady himself. 'You just need some rest, that's all.'

Through the door, Layla was already waiting for him. 'This way,' she said sharply.

He followed her down the brightly lit corridor. At the end of it, both Danni and the doctor, Simon, were waiting for him. Danni took hold of his arm, and he could smell the perfume of her neck, and see at least an inch of cleavage through the one opened button on her starched white tunic. Her skin felt good next to his. She was steering him towards a table.

Simon was already looking at him closely. 'Get some rest,' he said firmly. 'The operation went fine, and so did the dental work. I can give you something to help you sleep if you like. A good long rest, and you should be ready for action by the morning.'

'We've got you some food,' said Layla. 'You need building up badly.'

Danni put the food down on a tray in front of him: a pasta with some kind of meat and tomato sauce on it, some chips, a green salad, and bowl of steamed spinach. Porter couldn't even remember the last time he had had such a good meal: probably the last Christmas before Diana had kicked him out, although he'd been so drunk already by the time she'd got the turkey cooked he wasn't sure he'd been able to taste anything when he started eating.

'Where's the wine list?' asked Porter, smiling.

'Forget it,' said Layla.

Porter started to tuck in. His mouth felt sore and numb from all the dental work, but so long as he didn't chew too much, he was able to eat without too much pain. Simon put a row of sixteen different vitamin tablets down in front of him. 'Pudding,' he said. 'We ran a sample of your hair, and you are deficient in just about every major vitamin group.'

'Except vitamin B, funnily enough,' said Layla sharply. 'Maybe it's because you find that one in vodka.'

Porter ignored the remark, carrying on eating. No one else was having anything but that didn't bother him. He finished the pasta, and started swallowing the vitamins one by one, washing them down with the pint of orange juice that was on the table. 'I need to go out,' he said. 'Can you get me a car?'

Layla stared at him. 'You're kidding, right?'

Porter shook his head. He waited until Simon and Danni had left the room, then said, 'My daughter Sandy has been interviewed for a place at university today. I think she'll be on the eight o'clock train from St Pancras back to Nottingham. I'd like to say goodbye to her.'

Layla shook her head. From her expression, she wasn't even going to think about it.

'You can see her when you get back.'

I'm not coming back, thought Porter. I'm going to try to break Katie out. But the ragheads will probably cut my limbs off one by one and feed me to the dogs. But the ragheads will probably cut my limbs off one by one and feed me to the dogs.

'You know how risky this is.'

'And we're not going to take a chance on losing you.'

The words were still hanging between them, when the door was pushed open. Perry Collinson had already let himself in. He glanced over at Porter, an attempted smile creasing up his lips. 'Let him go,' he said quietly.

Layla glared at him angrily. 'We'll need to check with Sir Angus.'

Collinson shook his head. 'He can take my car, it's got a permanent police escort.'

'Who running this operation?' said Layla.

'Actually, my dear, I think you'll find I am,' said Collinson. 'The personal appointment of the PM, if I need to remind you.' He looked towards Porter. 'I've spoken to the PM about you, and he's bloody pleased you've come on board. Only bit of good news he's had so far on this whole bloody Katie Dartmouth saga.'

'If it was up to you, I'd be sleeping out on the streets tonight,' growled Porter.

'The last time I saw you, you were getting your fingers blown off,' snapped Collinson. 'And letting the enemy live because you felt sorry for the little buggers.'

Porter stood up. He could feel his head spinning, and had to put his hand down on the table to steady himself. 'And the last time I saw you, you were puking up because the sound of gunfire had you rattled.'

For a moment, Collinson stiffened. His face went white, and his lips were pursed together. Then he suddenly relaxed. Another grin creased up his face. 'Let's just bury the hatchet, shall we?' he said. 'We're all working together on this one. You wouldn't have been my first choice, but now you are on the team, I'm bloody glad we're working together.'

He patted him on the shoulder, but Porter instinctively recoiled from his touch.

'My car's outside, so take it and go and say goodbye to your girl,' he said.

'Sir Angus will ' Layla started to say.

'Will listen to me,' said Collinson. 'And if he doesn't I'll just have to get the PM on the phone.'

'Thanks,' said Porter tersely.

He headed for the door and left the room. As he reached the lift, he could see Layla walking along the corridor behind him. She followed him down to the foyer, then walked out of the building and started talking to the driver in the waiting Jaguar. 'Don't be more than an hour,' she said, looking up sharply at Porter. 'If you're not back here by eight thirty, then the police will bring you back. You need your rest. That understood?'

Porter nodded, climbing into the back of the car, and telling the driver to take him straight to St Pancras. 'Understood,' he said. 'I came in and volunteered, remember. I'm not about to bugger off now.'

EIGHT.

The cream leather upholstery of the Jaguar felt luxuriously comfortable as Porter sat back into it. He was wearing the charcoal-grey suit they'd left for him in his room, and he was surprised by how well it fitted. The shoes were comfortable, and even the tie wasn't pinching his neck too badly. Last time I wore one of these, I was being turned down for a nightguard job at a Tesco depot, Porter reflected. Maybe I just didn't know the right people.

The driver pulled the car away from the kerb, and started driving across Vauxhall Bridge for the short journey up to St Pancras station. I could get used to this, thought Porter. The food, the cars, the money. Shame I'm almost certainly going to die in the next few days. Shame I'm almost certainly going to die in the next few days.

He glanced over at Big Ben. It was already twenty to eight. Only a little more than twelve hours since he had stepped into the headquarters of the Firm, and less than twenty-four hours since Sandy had found him by the edge of the river. It seemed a lifetime ago already. His world had spun on a coin, and he couldn't be certain how long it was going to take him to get used to it.

'Step on it,' he told the driver. 'I have to be there by eight.'

There was some traffic up past Trafalgar Square: the Katie Dartmouth vigil was gathering strength, and from the windows of the car Porter could see several hundred people carrying banners, and singing Bruce Springsteen's retooled version of the Pete Seeger Vietnam classic 'Bring 'Em Home'.

The driver put the blue siren on top of the Jag, and managed to push his way through the stationary cars, and cut through Russell Square to take them through to the Euston Road. He pulled up sharply outside the station, with just a few minutes to spare. Porter climbed out, walking quickly through the evening crowds. He was sure Layla had some policemen following him, but decided to ignore them. He just needed to see Sandy once more.

His eyes scanned the departure board. The Nottingham train was leaving from Platform 5.

In three minutes.

Porter ran towards the platform and the waiting train. Walking swiftly along the platform, he scanned the passengers as he went. His eyes flickered across them as they took their seats, hooking their iPods into their ears, and opening up their books and newspapers. But he couldn't see her anywhere.

Where the hell was she?

He looked along the platform. There were people streaming towards the train, trying to decide which carriage to climb aboard. Porter pushed his way back through the throng, muscling his way past the suitcases.

'Sandy,' he shouted.

Porter could see her running towards the platform. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her coat was wrapped tightly around her. She was carrying a small leather holdall, and there was a magazine tucked under her arm.

'Dad,' she shouted back.

He swept her up in her arms, lifting her clean off the ground. She gasped as the strength of his embrace squeezed the air out of her chest, then kissed him on the cheek. I might not look like a million dollars, but I at least look like a couple of hundred, he thought. A lot better than I did last night anyway.

'How'd it go?' he asked, putting her back down.

Sandy shrugged and pulled a face. 'I hate interviews,' she says. 'I never know what to say.'

Porter wished there was some kind of advice he could give her, but nothing came to mind. 'We all do,' he said reassuringly. 'I'm sure it will be fine.'

Sandy pulled away.