‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Bramley, looking straight at Porter.
‘To help my country, sir,’ he replied, his tone even and controlled. ‘And that young girl, well, I’ve seen people held hostage in the Lebanon and it’s pretty bloody rough.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ insisted Sir Angus. ‘I say we let him make the call.’
Just then Layla switched on a speakerphone placed at the centre of the conference table. ‘We have Hassad Naimi on the line,’ she said softly.
The room went quiet. Each man sitting around the table was suddenly rigid with anticipation.
Sir Angus leant forward on the table, speaking clearly so that his voice could be picked up by the phone. ‘There’s a man here who says he saved your life,’ he said. ‘An SAS guy with two fingers missing on his left hand.’
There was a pause, almost audible on the line. But Hassad said nothing.
The entire room remained silent. At his side, Porter could hear Layla taking a sharp intake of breath.
‘Know him?’ snapped Sir Angus impatiently.
There was another long pause. Nobody was looking at Porter. They were staring at the table.
‘No tricks,’ Hassad replied. ‘The woman dies at eight on Saturday.’
The voice was pinched and dark, with a slight American accent to it.
‘Do you know this man?’ repeated Sir Angus.
Another pause. ‘It makes no difference …’
Porter stood up, and walked five paces along the table. Leaning over, he wiped a thin film of perspiration from the back of his neck. Looking at the speakerphone, as if he were looking straight into the eyes of the man on the other end of the line, he started to speak. ‘You said you were so grateful I was an “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”,’ he growled. ‘A debt is a debt. All I ask is that you meet with me.’
The pause was even longer this time. One, two, then three seconds during which the only sound in the room was the muffled hiss of the speakerphone. ‘When can you be here?’ said Hassad.
‘Where is here?’ said Porter.
Everyone in the room exchanged glances.
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Hassad swiftly. ‘But if you fly to Beirut … then we can collect you.’
Porter glanced up at Sir Angus. He’d already scribbled one word down on a piece of paper, and was pushing it down the table.
‘Thursday,’ said Porter. It was Tuesday today, so that gave him less than forty-eight hours to get ready. ‘I can arrive in Beirut on the Thursday-morning flight.’
‘Then I’ll make arrangements for you to be picked up,’ says Hassad. ‘I owe you a conversation, I acknowledge that. But any tricks, and I’ll slice off your head right after I kill the girl.’
Silence.
The phone connection had already been severed.
Up at the head of the table, Porter could see Sir Angus glance at Collinson, and he could see the anger written into the creases around the man’s mouth. ‘Looks like you’ve got a job as a negotiator, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘Welcome to the team.’
Porter stood up straight, and started walking back to his own chair. The perspiration was still running down his back, but hopefully no one would notice it. ‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.
Sir Angus stiffened. The fingers of his right hand were tapping on the tabletop. ‘I thought you were volunteering to help your country,’ he said coldly.
‘I did that when I was younger, thanks,’ growled Porter. ‘And I ended up in the gutter.’
‘Then how much?’ said Sir Angus.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, paid into my bank account tomorrow morning.’
Sir Angus glanced down at the papers on his desk. ‘You haven’t even got a bloody bank account,’ he snapped. ‘You haven’t even had a proper job for seven years.’
‘Then run down to sodding Barclays and open one,’ said Porter. He could feel his confidence growing now he’d spoken to Hassad: they needed him now. If he could just put enough money in the bank to take care of Sandy, well, then at least she’d have some respect for his memory. That would make it worthwhile, even if he didn’t return from the mission.
‘I’m risking my life for you,’ he said.
‘A quarter of a million pounds is a lot of money,’ said Sir Angus.
Porter was resting his hands on the edge of the table. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins as the argument took hold of him. ‘You don’t learn much on the streets, except that most people don’t give a fuck about their fellow man, but you do learn this,’ he said. ‘When people are desperate they’ll do just about anything. I reckon I’m the last bloke in England you want back on the payroll, and that means you’re desperate. So you’ll pay all right.’
Sir Angus was about to say something, but along the side of the table Geoff Bramley had already raised his hand. ‘Just pay it,’ he said. ‘We’ll send the bill to the Chancellor. Always good to ruin that miserable Scottish bastard’s morning.’
Porter nodded towards the defence minister. He’d lost two fingers in the Regiment, and they’d never even paid him a proper pension, so this was the least they could do for him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the details sorted. If I die on this mission, and let’s face it, we all know there is a pretty good chance that I will, then I want the money to go to my daughter Sandy. Set the account up in our joint name, and make sure the money is paid in before the plane takes off.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sir Angus wearily. ‘If you need a certain colour of socks, be sure to let us know, and we’ll see if it can be arranged.’ He smiled at his own joke, but his expression quickly turned serious again. ‘Layla’s going to get you cleaned up, and back into training,’ he says. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours to get briefed and to decide our tactics.’
Layla had already stood up, her expression purposeful and businesslike. Porter started to follow her towards the door. ‘One other thing, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘What the hell is the “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”?’
From the right side of the desk, the Foreign Office’s James Middleton looked up. A thin man, with a balding head, and a shirt that seemed at least one collar size too small for him, he had remained silent throughout the entire meeting so far. ‘It’s a reference to the Society of Muslim Brothers, Sir Angus,’ he said. ‘They are the most extreme and secretive of fundamentalist Muslim sects. They were set up in Egypt in 1928, and its offshoots include Hamas, Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, the whole bloody lot of them. But the Society is where it all started — and many people think it still controls the entire Muslim fundamentalist movement. Evidently Hassad is a member, and when he referred to it to Porter all those years ago he was acknowledging the extent of his debt to him. Just to mention the name of the Society to a Westerner is a mark of extraordinary respect, and places the speaker under an obligation that he can never break.’
Porter smiled, reserving his widest grin for Collinson, still fuming at Sir Angus’s side. ‘Looks like I’ve got honorary membership,’ he says. ‘Praise be to sodding 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.’