‘Para, sergeant and fitness instructor, 2001 to 2005,’ barked Roberts. ‘That good enough for you?’
Porter nodded.
‘Now, again, what kind of shape are you in?’
‘Terrible,’ replied Porter.
‘We’ll do what we can, but there’s not much that can be achieved in a couple of hours.’
‘Just do your best,’ said Layla. She looked at Porter. ‘I’ll investigate what happened last night and get back to you.’
Sam handed Porter a skipping rope. ‘Let’s start with this,’ he said.
Porter held the thing in his hand. ‘I’m not joining the bloody Brownies,’ he snapped.
Sam laughed. ‘I guess techniques have changed a bit since you were last in the Regiment. Everyone skips these days. It’s the best way of practising hand-to-eye coordination, which is what firing a gun is all about. If you can’t skip, you can’t shoot either.’
OK, thought Porter. It’s just a couple of hours. Humour the bastard. He took the ropes, and tried to jump over it, but he had never skipped, not even as a kid, and the technique wasn’t there. He threw it over his head, and tried to jump. Instantly, his feet tangled up in the rope. He tried again. Same result. ‘Jump, man, bloody well jump,’ Sam snapped.
For a moment, Porter was transported back to a windy, cold barracks, a quarter of a century ago, back in the days when you could still smoke on the tube, and your career choices amounted to signing up to shoot people or going down the pits. He could recall himself as a young recruit, being bashed through his first paces on the parade ground. It was cold and windy, his head was shaven, and the food was terrible, but at least I had plans back in those days, he reflected. He wanted to be a career soldier: regimental sergeant major was the rank he had his eye on. That was a long time ago, he realised bitterly. He tossed the rope swiftly over his head, watched it move through the air, then jumped. One foot cleared the rope. The other caught on the back of his ankle, tangling up with his trainers.
‘Fuck it, maybe I’ll go out to the playground, and see if I can find a six-year-old girl to show us how to do this,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe send her out to Beirut. She’s got more chance of getting out alive than you have.’
‘I’ll do it,’ snapped Porter, through gritted teeth.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ignored the pain still aching through him from where he’d been operated on the day before. Tossing the rope back, he swung it over his head, and concentrated. One jump, and he was over. He swung the rope again, following its arc as it cut through the air. Over. Just get the rhythm, he reminded himself. Then it’s easy.
‘Ten minutes,’ said Sam. ‘Then we’ll play with some real toys.’
By the time the skipping was completed, Porter could feel the sweat pouring off him. His shirt was wet through, and his skin felt sticky and clammy. He took the bottle of mineral water Sam offered him, and swigged it back in a couple of gulps. ‘Let’s start the fun stuff,’ said Sam.
The swing of his fist caught Porter by surprise. Sam’s arm flung back, then smashed into the side of Porter’s face. The palm of his hand hit his cheek, stinging the skin. Instinctively, Porter lashed out, thrusting a clenched fist forward, but Sam had already danced out of the way, and Porter was left flailing in thin air. His lungs were gasping for air, and he was still trying to recover his breath when Sam grabbed his right arm, and swung it viciously upwards. Porter gasped with pain as Sam slowly increased the pressure on the arm. He could feel the tendons starting to stretch, and his eyes started to water. ‘You’ve got to be faster than that, mate,’ said Sam.
Porter roared, filled his lungs with air, then snapped his right arm down. The pain was screeching through him, as he thrust backwards with his legs, smashing his back straight into Sam. He could feel Sam start to wobble as his groin took the impact of the blow. For a fraction of a second, the grip on his arm weakened. Porter tugged it free. He swung round, struggling to hold on to his balance. Ducking, he put his head down, then threw himself forward, smashing into Sam’s chest with his head. That was a technique he’d learnt on the street, he reflected, as he saw Sam shake under the impact of the strike, then fall back on the ground. When in doubt, headbutt the bastards. You might give yourself brain damage, but, let’s face it, when you were living rough and drinking two bottles of vodka a day, there wasn’t much point in worrying about that.
‘That fast enough for you?’
‘No marks for technique,’ said Sam. ‘But you’re still strong.’
‘Just remember, I was in the Regiment and you weren’t,’ Porter growled.
Sam picked himself up off the ground, and this time it was him drinking half a bottle of water, and struggling to recapture his breath. ‘You need to calm down though. You’re getting riled up too easily. Take your time, figure out your opponent’s weaknesses, then strike.’
Sam led him towards the shooting range. There wasn’t enough room underground for a full-scale range, but there was single block of enclosed concrete with a target at the end of a forty-foot strip. The firing point was just a white line printed on the ground, and next to it, there was black wooden table with a row of about thirty guns laid out on it. From a quick glance, Porter could see they covered the complete range of global arms manufacturers. There were Berettas, Brownings, Mausers, Walthers, Enfields, Webleys, Colts and, of course, Kalashnikovs, as well as a dozen different varieties of Asian and Eastern European knock-offs. ‘What do you want to have a go with?’ said Sam.
‘What type of kit are Hezbollah using these days?’ said Porter.
‘All kinds of stuff,’ said Sam. ‘They are pretty well financed, and of course you can buy just about any weapon you want in Beirut. It’s the B&Q of global terrorism out there. For assault rifles, it’s mainly going to be AK-47s and M16s you’re up against. For handguns, it could be just about anything. Berettas, Walthers, Brownings, take your pick. They use the good stuff mostly. None of that Bulgarian knock-off crap that blows up in your own face.’
Porter studied the desk. He hadn’t picked up a gun since he’d left the army more than a decade ago. Hadn’t even thought about it. Scanning the weaponry, he picked out a Beretta 92 pistol, a firearm he could recall training with back in the Regiment. The 92 was a short-recoil-operated, locked-breech weapon. It carried fifteen rounds, and its lightweight, aluminium frame weighed just slightly under 100 grams making it easy to hold, and even easier to slip inside a jacket or a pocket. It took a moment to reacquaint himself with the feel of the weapon, but once he curled his fingers around its cold, metal barrel, it was like welcoming back an old friend.
He took two strides forward. A white line was smeared across the floor, and the target was twenty metres away. Raising the gun with his right hand, Porter steadied himself, then lined up the target in the Beretta’s sights. He squeezed the trigger once, then twice, enjoying the powerful recoil as the gun kicked backed into him. A gun in your hand was like a suit and a tie: it made you feel like a man. It gave you power, and control, and certainty: and those were all the things you missed when you lived out on the streets.
‘An eye,’ said Sam approvingly. ‘It never leaves you.’
He was walking back from the target, noting where the bullets had struck. Neither was a bullseye, but both were close enough to it to at least disable an opponent, if not kill him outright. When you were in a firefight, that was all that counted, Porter told himself. If you wanted to kill the bastard, you could always do that with a double tap to the head afterwards.
‘Try it again,’ said Sam. ‘Legs a bit further apart, and keep your shoulders slightly squarer.’
Porter adjusted his position. He moved his left leg slightly, giving himself better balance, and relaxed his shoulder muscles. The pistol felt comfortable in his right hand, almost as if it was an extension of his own body. One squeeze on the trigger, then another. The noise of the explosion echoed around the room. Squinting, Porter could see where the bullets had struck: one just a fraction of an inch to the left of the target, and the second a bullseye.