‘What are you doing here?’ said the man with the scar. He had edged a foot closer to Porter, and he could smell the cheap cologne and the nicotine clinging to his skin. ‘There are no foreigners up here.’
Porter paused for just a fraction of a second. ‘Family business,’ he said. ‘A Lebanese family in London, they need some land sorted out. I’ve no interest in politics.’
He walked past the man, sitting down at a plastic table at the far end of the bar. Taking two sugars from the bowl, he stirred them into the thick black coffee, then discreetly took out the tiny bottle of Johnnie Walker he had taken from the plane and poured half of it into the cup. He sipped on the small cup, and could instantly feel the rich mixture of caffeine, sugar and alcohol all hitting his bloodstream at the same time. He could feel his head start to spin, and his eyes were getting dizzy, but the whisky worked its magic, the way it always did, and he could feel his head start to clear and his spirits reviving. The guy with the scar had gone back to his group of mates, but he was still looking occasionally across at him, a glint of anger in his eyes.
If only you knew what I was really here for, thought Porter with a grim smile, you’d kill me on the spot.
He glanced at the clock. Six twenty. Hassad hadn’t given the Firm any precise time for the pickup. But they expected him to be getting to the bar around five thirty, so they should have scheduled the collection for shortly after that. Maybe it’s a set-up, thought Porter. Maybe they are just going to leave me, and then let that bloke with the scar cut my throat open as soon as it gets dark.
A man walked up to the bar. Late forties, Porter noted, with a linen jacket, a bald head and one of those Saddam Hussein moustaches that men wore throughout the Middle East. Is that my contact? wondered Porter. For a moment, he could feel his muscles tensing with anticipation. But the guy just ordered some chilled water and tea, and went to sit outside by himself. Porter emptied the rest of the Johnnie Walker bottle into his coffee cup, and knocked it back in one gulp. Much more of this and I’ll be looking for somewhere to spend the night.
Six forty. Porter took out the book the Firm had packed into his bag. Pretty good, he decided, after a few pages, but it was difficult to concentrate on reading anything. One of scarface’s friends had left the bar, but the rest of them were still arguing over the contents of that day’s paper. The barman had switched on the radio, and as the news came through Porter caught the name of Katie Dartmouth, but the presenter was talking so fast in Arabic he couldn’t begin to translate what he was saying. Who knows, thought Porter, maybe the bastards have already killed her.
‘Mahmudiyya,’ said a voice behind him.
The instant he heard the word, Porter could feel his heart thump against the walls of his chest. This is where it all kicks off, he realised grimly.
Porter looked up. There were two men standing right next to him. The taller of the two was almost six foot, slim with slicked-back hair, around thirty, with the hardened face and the muscles of a man who’d been in plenty of fights. The shorter man was about five eight, with thin dark hair, a face that was running to fat even though he couldn’t even have reached his mid-twenties yet. A pair of sunglasses were wrapped around his eyes, and there was a gold chain glinting through the black hairs on his chest that were visible through his open-necked shirt.
This is it, thought Porter. He drained the last few dregs of his whisky-soaked coffee and stood up. Time for the kickoff.
‘Let’s go,’ he said quietly.
The two men remained silent. They turned on their heels, heading towards the door. Scarface and the barman were watching as he left, their jaws dropping slightly, but neither of them moved from their spot. Do they know these goons? wondered Porter. Do I …?
A black Toyota 4x4 was parked outside on the tarmac. It looked new to Porter. The smaller man opened the back door, revealing the dark leather seats and blackened-out windows inside. Porter was about to climb in when the taller man touched his arm. ‘Wait,’ he said.
His tone was low and controlled, with a slight accent, but Porter could tell his English was good. ‘Here,’ he added.
There was a strip of black cloth in his hand. Porter knew instantly what it was.
A blindfold.
‘OK,’ he said.
He turned to face the car. The taller man stood behind him, and his height gave him at least three inches over Porter. He was stretching the cloth in his hand, then laid the strip across Porter’s face. The skin on his fingers was rough, like a builder’s, but his touch was as soft as a little girl’s, and Porter could feel himself growing nauseated by the sense of the man’s flesh touching his. He wrapped the blindfold around, once, twice, three times, so that the top half of Porter’s face was completely covered. The light totally vanished, and Porter could see nothing. A hand pushed him down into the back seat of the Toyota, and as he sunk back into the leather, he could hear the ignition turn, and feel the surge of power as the car started to move out into the street.
The blackness was total. Porter knew this was inevitable. If they were going to the place they had hidden Katie Dartmouth, then they had to be certain he had no idea where they had taken him. If he knew where she was, they would have to kill him, of that there could be no doubt. Even if they were planning to kill him — and he suspected they were — they would still go through the blindfold routine. If they didn’t, he’d know he was a dead man, and they’d surely save up that piece of information for later. A condemned man is always a nuisance: he knows he has nothing to lose, and that makes him dangerous. So, whatever the plan, the blindfold was unavoidable.
‘Where are we going?’ he said.
Silence.
He could hear only the hum of the engine, and the rumble of the tyres against the rough tarmac.
‘How long will it take?’ said Porter.
Again, silence. He could feel the Toyota turning first left, then right. Whether they were travelling north, south, east or west, he no longer had any idea. No doubt that was the intention.
‘I said, how long will it take?’
Silence.
OK, thought Porter. Don’t talk if you don’t want to. Just take me to Hassad.
FIFTEEN
The Toyota kept ploughing on over harder and harder terrain. Porter had long since lost track of what time it was. Two, maybe three hours they had been driving. It was hard to keep up, as it was to keep tabs on your direction when a blindfold was strapped over your eyes: lose that most basic of the senses, and the others seem to go as well.
How far have we gone? Porter tried to calculate. Sixty, perhaps seventy miles. But in which direction it was impossible to tell.
The roads had been getting rougher as time moved on. He wasn’t even sure they were still on a road at all. At a guess, Porter reckoned they had been driving north, but he couldn’t be certain. They might well have crossed into Syria by now. Neither of the men up front had uttered a single word the whole time, and Porter had long since given up trying to talk to them. They didn’t even talk to each other.
Suddenly, he felt the Toyota judder to a halt. Porter didn’t react. It had stopped several times in the past couple of hours as it encountered some obstacle on the road, but each time it quickly restarted. This was different. The engine had been turned off. He could hear doors opening. Somewhere in the distance — outside the car — he could hear voices.
‘Get out.’
From the tone of the voice, Porter could tell it was the taller man speaking.
He levered himself out of the back seat, and swung his legs down onto the ground. Still unable to see anything, he knocked his head against the roof of the car, and he could feel a dull ache where a bruise might be starting to form. He kept on moving, until he was standing, he guessed, just next to the car.