Strike Back by Chris Ryan Page A

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 andtook 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 himseventeen 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