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.’