‘Before then, we offer you the chance to make your peace with Allah.’
‘I’ll make peace with my own God, thank you,’ Porter spat contemptuously.
The man smiled. ‘You will die in accordance with the teaching of the Koran,’ he said. ‘That is our way, and if you attempt to resist us, you will only make things worse for yourself. You will be led from here, and taken to a courtyard, where you will be allowed to face Mecca. You will be allowed to kneel, and whether you wear a blindfold or not is up to you.’ The man’s face creased up in another pudgy smile. ‘The blade will be sharp, but of course you are a strong man, with a thick neck, and as I am sure you can imagine, it is hard for even the most skilful swordsman to sever a neck in one blow. I have watched several beheadings and the head nearly always comes away from the neck on the third or fourth strike of the sword.’
Porter could feel the muscles on his arms straining against the ropes that bound him to the chair: if there was even the remotest possibility of release, he would flatten the bastard in a hailstorm of punches. But there was not so much as a millimetre of leeway in his bindings.
The man started to unroll some sheets of paper he was holding in his hand.
‘The holy book says, “When a man dies they who survive him ask what property he has left behind. The angel who bends over the dying man asks what good deed he has sent before him.”’ He paused. ‘You should take heed of those words.’
Porter caught his breath inwardly, and remained silent.
The man folded his arms and began to pray, and as he did so, his voice turned from a whine into a slow, respectful chant.
Porter could feel a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his spine. I don’t mind dying, he thought bitterly. But I could do without the bloody RE lesson.
The man had briefly closed his eyes at the end of the prayer, in a moment of religious contemplation, but now he opened them again. ‘I will leave these with you,’ he said, holding out the few sheets of paper in his hand. ‘You are an infidel, and maybe you wish to die an infidel. That is your choice. But we are holy men, and we wish you to have the opportunity to come to know the one and true God before you pass from this world to the next.’
‘Maybe I’d rather not die at all,’ growled Porter.
‘A soldier always wants to die,’ said the man.
He placed the sheets of paper down on Porter’s lap. It took all the self-control Porter could muster to stop himself from spitting on them. Instead, he merely looked up impassively into the man’s eyes. Don’t give him the satisfaction of even the smallest victory over you, he told himself. It will just be one more regret to take with you to your grave.
Porter watched as the door clunked shut, and listened as the bolt was slotted into place. Even though he was securely bound to the chair, with no possibility of freeing himself, they weren’t taking any chances on his escape. Porter could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. His blood was beating furiously, and even though the cell was dark and damp it was impossible to stop the sweat dripping down his back.
Now there can be no doubt, he told himself morosely. Within the hour, I shall be dead.
He was afraid, he didn’t mind admitting that. When he was a soldier he knew he might die, but that was in a firefight, with a weapon in his hand, when he would at least have had a chance to defend himself. This was different: a cold and premeditated death at the hands of a bunch of religious psychopaths and gangsters. Of all the ways to go, Porter reckoned, being murdered was the worst, for the simple reason that some bastard was getting the better of you.
And it made it worse to die without knowing who was killing you or why they wanted you dead so badly?
He peered into the darkness. His arms were still straining against the ropes binding him to the chair, but he knew it was useless: the wrestling with the bindings was just the instinctive desperate reaction of a condemned man, like a person who has been accidentally buried alive clawing hopelessly at the lid of their own coffin.
Hassad wasn’t here, he told himself. Or at least, if he was, he had no intention of showing himself. If it had been a trick all along, just to lure me out here to my death, then I don’t suppose he is about to change his mind now. But maybe it isn’t a trick? Perhaps someone back at the Firm betrayed me. Maybe someone who wants Katie Dartmouth to die, perhaps so the government will fall? After all, someone already tried to kill me back in London. Who’s to say they aren’t trying again out here? And this time, they look like making a better job of it.
I can wrestle with the riddle. But unless the bastard chooses to tell me in the last seconds before the sword cuts into the back of my neck, I will never know the answer.
Porter tried to calm himself. He knew he had to keep himself together if he was to walk out of here and face his execution. Avoiding humiliation was the only shred of control he had left over what remained of his life, and he was determined not to squander that now: for all he knew, the beheading might be broadcast on television or the Internet. The minutes were ticking by, although without a watch he had no sure way of knowing how much time was left to him. Half an hour maybe? It could even be less.
What’s the bloody point of the last hour? he asked himself bitterly. If they were going to kill me why didn’t they just do it in the back of the car last night?
Just then, a noise echoed down through the tiny slit window.
Gunfire.
Porter froze. He felt certain of it.
The noise he had just heard was gunfire.
He tried to turn round but it was impossible. The ropes binding him to the chair lashed him in place. All he could rely upon were his ears. And they were telling him the place was under attack.
Heavy attack.
With RPGs and machine guns.
‘Move the fuck up against the wall.’
Porter sat bolt upright, the ropes cutting into his skin as he did so. It was an English voice, he could have sworn it. It was carried on the breeze and drifted down through the slit window at the back of the cell. It was little more than a murmur by the time it reached Porter’s ears. He had to strain his ears to catch it above the din of Arabic and the rattle of gunfire. It was enough to give him hope, however.
Maybe the Firm were tracking me? Maybe Katie Dartmouth is holed up in one of these cells and they’ve sent some boys in to break us both out.
A condemned man will grab hold of just about any straw, he reminded himself. But it could just be true.
He listened harder, aware of the adrenalin surging through him. There was the sound of gunfire, and a couple of mighty explosions as RPG rounds smashed into concrete walls. He could hear shouting above the din, all of it in Arabic, and he started to think he’d just imagined the English voice. The battle had been raging for three or four minutes now, and showed no signs of abating: the flow of noise rocked from side to side, as the two opposing forces unleashed lethal firepower.
Whatever’s going on up there, he thought, it’s a hell of a firefight.
The bolt.
Porter’s eyes shot to the door.