He tossed an AK-47 to Porter. Grabbing a hold, Porter slipped it into his arms, the polished wooden stock of the gun and its elegantly shaped cartridge both instantly familiar. The missing fingers on his left hand were no problem. He could grip the gun between his two remaining fingers and his thumb, while his right hand was on the trigger. Slamming down hard, he loosened off a round of fire. The AK-47 was never a high-accuracy weapon: Mikhail Kalashnikov had designed it after being wounded in the Battle of Bryansk to support close-range infantry engagements. The bullets tore out of the muzzle of the machine, chewing up the paper target and leaving a pile of smoking ordnance on the floor.

‘I can still shoot,’ said Porter, turning to look at Sam.

‘So long as you can keep your head.’

The remark struck Porter with all the deadly force of the bullets he had just fired from his assault rifle. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ he growled.

Sam glanced at him, his eyes clouded with suspicion. ‘Nothing …’

‘You think I bottled it, don’t you?’

He was still holding the AK-47 in his fists. Now that he had turned round, it was pointing straight at the instructor’s chest. Sam was staring at it, and from the look on his face, he was unsure whether or not Porter might fire it.

‘Last time you heard live firing, it went tits up,’ snapped Sam. ‘That’s what I heard.’

‘It’s a bloody lie, I tell you,’ shouted Porter. His finger was twitching on the AK-47, and his head was throbbing with anger. ‘A bloody lie …’

‘But that’s what the record says,’ said Sam. ‘And you can’t go back and change the record. Not you. Not any man.’

TEN

Porter could still feel the anger swirling through his veins as he sat down at the desk. He’d taken a quick shower, and changed out of the gym kit he’d been wearing for his training session with Sam, but he still felt charged up. Maybe it was having a gun back in his hands, he reflected. He didn’t need to put up with all the crap he had to endure while he was living on the street. From now on, he was taking charge. And if I’m dead in a few days, well, those are the breaks.

A plate of chicken and tuna sandwiches were sitting in front of him, and Porter reached out for a couple. It was amazing how hungry he was all the time. Maybe that was something else that came from living on the streets for too long. Your body became so used to scavenging for food that when it was there you couldn’t stop yourself from eating it.

He’d just polished off his third sandwich when Sir Angus Clayton walked swiftly into the room, followed by Layla. She patted Porter on the shoulder, and sat down behind him. Porter didn’t recognise the third man. He was in his early fifties, with a greying beard, and hair that straggled down towards his open-necked cream shirt. There was a slight stoop to his walk, and he was carrying a bundle of papers underneath his arm.