Allah.’
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 toresolve 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 fewyears. 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.
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 toresolve 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 fewyears. 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.
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