He could hear the bolt being slammed back, then the key turning in the lock.
Who is it now? he asked himself.
As the door opened, Porter briefly hoped it might be a Regiment guy, dressed in the olive-grey uniform he’d once been so proud to wear himself: if the Firm was breaking them out, there was only one unit of soldiers who would get the job. But the figure who stepped through the door was dressed in a long black robe, and had dark skin and a thick black beard. He was at least six feet tall, with thick, muscled forearms.
‘I hope you have read those verses,’ he said, leaving the door open to the corridor behind him. ‘Because within a few seconds you will have to explain yourself to Allah.’
In his right hand, he was holding a long, curved, stainless-steel sword. From one end to the other, it must have measured five feet, Porter reckoned, and with its finely chiselled brass handle it couldn’t have weighed less than fifty pounds. It might be a medieval piece of technology but that didn’t mean it wasn’t one of the most deadly weapons ever created. In the right hands, it could do as much damage as a tank. And the thick, stout hands of the man who had just walked into the room looked as if they knew exactly what to do with it.
Porter could feel his neck numbing with fear. ‘I thought you were taking me to the courtyard,’ he said.
Up above, he could still hear the sound of gunfire. They’re under attack, Porter thought. And they want to finish me off while they still can.
‘You are facing Mecca,’ said the swordsman. ‘This is as good a place to die as any.’
He was standing behind Porter now, so close that he could smell the man’s warm, stale breath. Porter’s hands started shaking slightly as the executioner drew even closer. He put his sword against the chair, and Porter could feel the cold steel of the weapon touching his skin. Drawing a black cloth from his pocket, he placed his warm hand across Porter’s face as if to close his eyes, then tied the blindfold into position. As he did so, Porter was plunged into darkness, and a sense of terror started to overcome him. Get ready for it, thought Porter bitterly. It is dark all the time where you’re going, mate.
He could hear the executioner picking up the sword. Then he felt a slight stab in the neck, where the swordsman had nicked his skin, drawing a few drops of blood. It was a technique Arab executioners had developed over the centuries to prime their victims for the blow that would kill them: a small nick numbed and stiffened the neck, making it easier for the blade to sever the neck.
And then he could hear the slight movement of the sword through the air.
Porter closed his eyes tight, even though he could see nothing through the blindfold. His knuckles were white and shaking, and he felt as if he was about to vomit.
So this is it, he thought grimly.
‘First your tooth,’ said the executioner.
Porter was confused. What could he possibly mean?
He felt the man’s hand gripping his neck. With his fingers, he prised Porter’s jaw apart, and slammed something inside.
Some kind of metal, Porter judged. Maybe a wrench.
He reeled back in pain, and tried to shake his jaw away, but the man was too strong for him.
The wrench was smashing down into his lower left jaw.
Just then, he heard a terrifying crash behind him. It was as if a wall had fallen down.
The noise was so loud that it echoed viciously around the tiny, dank cell. It burst onto Porter’s eardrums, exploding within his brain. Then there was a shot, and another. The rattle of gunfire and the smell of smoke filled the room.
He could hear one body falling to the floor. Maybe two. In the confusion, and in the darkness behind the blindfold, it was impossible to tell.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.
Nothing. Silence.
‘Who the fuck is it?’
Porter could feel a blade against his skin. It was small, but still sharp, and he could feel a hand next to it. There was a sharp sound, then a tug, as the blade cut through the ropes that were binding him to the chair. First the ropes around his hands were severed, then his legs, and finally the bindings around his chest.
For a moment, Porter just sat there, immobilised. Fear and shock had frozen him. Then up above, he could hear the dull rattle of gunfire cranking up again. Whatever kind of danger he was in, it was far from over.
He stood unsteadily to his feet, taking a second to restore his sense of balance.
Reaching behind his neck, he grabbed the blindfold and ripped it free from his face. He blinked once, then twice, taking time to adjust to the dim, fading light of the cell. The wall that led up and out towards the courtyard had been smashed down by a big Mercedes Unimog truck — there was dust and rubble everywhere where the huge front end of the vehicle had punched a hole straight through the bricks.
Porter glanced across to the man standing before him, the man who had just rescued him.
Many years had passed since he had last laid eyes on him. He had grown older, turned from a boy into a man, and the years had hardened as well as aged him.
But there was no mistaking the face. It was burned into Porter’s memory, the way a branding iron is burned into the flesh of a bull.
Hassad.
SEVENTEEN
Hassad grabbed hold of Porter by the shoulder. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he hissed. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
Porter’s eyes were still blinking. Dust and debris were filling the room, and the massive engine on the Unimog was still roaring. Porter’s legs were weak and his head was still spinning. He’d kicked back the chair, and glanced only briefly at the executioner: the man was lying flat on the floor, with his sword at his side, his body punctured by three precisely aimed bullets that had smashed through his chest and into his heart.
‘Just move,’ snapped Hassad, louder this time.
Hassad was already getting into the driver’s seat. Porter rushed round the side and climbed into the cabin. He could feel some blood trickling along his gums where the executioner had tried to wrench out one of his teeth, and he had a dozen different cuts and bruises, but otherwise he was in OK shape.
‘Let’s go,’ he muttered.
Hassad hit the reverse gear on the Unimog into position, then tapped his foot on the accelerator. A big piece of machinery built mainly for farmers, the Unimog was like a cross between a pickup truck and a tractor. It had big tyres, four-wheel-drive and an engine powerful enough to kick down a building when it needed to.
It started to edge into reverse. The route it had taken had smashed its way from the courtyard into the room where Porter had been held prisoner, and now it was taking the same route back again. The vehicle shook and shuddered as its tyres crunched backwards over the rubble, but it held steady.
As Hassad flung the steering wheel to the right, turning it swiftly round, Porter looked over to the courtyard. Outside the building, a Honda CR-V had been turned on its side, and was being used as a makeshift wall by four men. By the way they greeted him, Porter guessed they were Hassad’s blokes. They were staying close to the underside of the car. All of them were dressed in black, and had neatly trimmed beards and moustaches and close-cropped hair. Two of them had dark glasses pulled down over their eyes. All four had AK-47s gripped tight to their chests, as well as hand pistols and big, lethal hunting knives strapped into their belts. Porter didn’t have much idea what they did to the enemy, but they certainly frightened him.
The firefight looked to have subsided.
‘Is it safe to leave?’ Porter asked.
Hassad barked a few words in Arabic to one of the men behind the Honda, waited for the reply, then looked back at Porter. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘We can move out.’
He gestured to the four men, and one by one they climbed onto the back of the Unimog.