‘How many were there?’ Porter asked.
‘Ten,’ said Hassad. ‘Tough men as well. We lost men trying to rescue you —’
‘Who the fuck were they?’
‘You don’t know?’
Porter shook his head.
Hassad just shrugged. ‘If you don’t know, then nobody does.’
Porter nodded. ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said tersely.
‘I invited you out here,’ said Hassad. ‘That makes you my guest.’
The Unimog started to roll again. The courtyard was surrounded by a series of farm buildings and barns, as well as the main building where Porter had been kept since last night. Beyond it, at the bottom of the hillside, there was a road leading away from the site. All around him, Porter could see the debris of the battle, and feel the smell of death in the air.
Next to a wall he could see two corpses. And even though both men were covered in dust and blood, Porter could see one of them was white.
‘Stop a minute,’ snapped Porter.
‘We need to leave,’ said Hassad. ‘There could be more of them.’
‘I need to look at these guys.’
He jumped down from the cabin, kneeling down next to the dead body. The guy had taken about two dozen hits, even though the first two or three had probably killed him. The bullets had smashed up his face, turning his skull into paste, and smearing blood over every surface. One eyeball had been blown out, and the other was still bleeding. Even for a corpse he looked in pretty rough shape. From what Porter could see of him, he was almost forty, with dark brown hair, and tanned, grooved skin. He was wearing an olive-green military uniform, the kind you might pick up in an army surplus store. Porter couldn’t see any sign of a flag, or insignia. ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Porter, glancing back up at Hassad.
Hassad just shrugged. Porter didn’t get the impression he was very interested in corpses. Maybe he’d seen too many of them.
‘What the hell is a white man doing out here, taking British guys hostage?’ growled Porter.
He started rifling through his pockets. In one, he found thirty Lebanese pounds, along with some loose change. In another, he found a picture of a woman: dark-haired, with freckled pale skin, pretty but slightly overweight, probably in her late twenties. Other than that, there was nothing that might identify who he was or who he was fighting for. No passport, no credit card, no dog tag. The unknown soldier, thought Porter. And you’re welcome to an unmarked grave, mate. You sodding deserve it.
‘They must have some kit somewhere,’ said Porter, looking around.
Hassad grabbed him by the arm. He gestured to the hillside. Now that they were on the other side of the wall, Porter could see the scrubland sloping away to a dusty track. ‘We’ve got to move,’ he hissed.
‘I need to find out who these bastards were,’ snapped Porter.
‘We haven’t any time,’ said Hassad. ‘There may be more of them here any minute. There are only a few of us left alive —’
‘I need to find out why they bloody took me,’ said Porter. ‘It might be important.’
Another of Hassad’s men was already walking towards them. He was carrying a wounded man who was hobbling, resting on his mate’s shoulder.
Hassad flashed him a smile. As he did so, the deformity of his mouth was cruelly apparent: the smile twisted his mouth into a hideous mangled shape that gave no hint of pleasure or humour. ‘Welcome back to the Middle East, Mr Porter,’ he said. ‘Nothing out here is ever what it seems.’
‘But —’
‘I told you nothing out here is what it seems …’
Porter had already noticed the AK-47 slung around Hassad’s shoulders was suddenly cocked. His finger was on the trigger, and there was no mistaking the casual way its black metal barrel was pointing straight at Porter’s chest. A mistake? Not likely, thought Porter.
‘Take your clothes off,’ Hassad snapped.
‘What —’
‘I said, take your clothes off. We need to make sure you are clean.’
As he finished the sentence, he barked something in Arabic to one of his men. The guy came back from the Unimog with a pair of black jeans, a sweatshirt and some trainers, and a can of petrol. Porter realised what they were doing: he’d have done the same in their position.
They wanted to make sure he didn’t have any bugs on him before they took him back to their base.
He ripped the clothes off himself, tossing them on the dusty ground. While he was pulling on the fresh jeans, the soldier had already soaked Porter’s clothes with petrol, and set fire to them.
‘OK,’ said Hassad. ‘Now we can get out of here.’
EIGHTEEN
The drive took two hours, but it seemed like much longer. The Unimog was at least five or six years old, Porter reckoned, and its suspension had taken a hammering from the rough dirt tracks it had spent its life driving along. There were six of them in totaclass="underline" Hassad, the four men who had survived the firefight, plus Porter. Hassad sat in the front, along with the driver, while Porter was squeezed into the back with the other blokes. The wounded man was brave enough, but every jolt and bump in the road was tearing up the wound in his chest, and he was moaning with pain through most of the trip.
Where they were going, Porter had no idea, and he judged it better not to ask. He reckoned they were travelling somewhere through the Lebanese and Syrian borderlands, but the driver was keeping to the dirt tracks, steering away from anything that looked like a main road, so Porter never got a chance to look at a road sign that might help him establish his bearings. From time to time, he could see the lights of a small village, but even if the track they were on went through it, the driver veered off, and pushed the vehicle cross-country until they could connect with the track on the other side of the village. Whether he was doing it because they didn’t want to be seen, or because they didn’t want Porter to see where he was going, he couldn’t tell. A bit of both maybe, he decided. After driving for an hour, they put a blindfold on him, so after that, Porter had even less idea where they were going.
Porter had tried to talk to Hassad when the Unimog had pulled away from its hiding place, but he told him to be quiet. His men had to rest. He handed around some pitta breads, spread with some kind of chickpea mixture, and they all swigged on the same bottle of water. He was grateful for the food even though it didn’t taste of much. Then the other blokes in the back went to sleep. As the vehicle powered forward, Porter couldn’t get any rest. He was trying to think, to straighten out in his own mind what had just happened, and what he needed to do next. He had no idea who had captured him, or why they wanted him dead. If it wasn’t Hassad, then someone must have leaked where he was, and what mission he was on. And that could only be someone back at the Firm.
By the time the Unimog came to a halt, even Porter was fighting off sleep, struggling to keep himself alert. He judged that it must be nine or ten at night. Only twenty-three hours or so until the deadline set for Katie Dartmouth’s execution. And probably my own as well, he reflected.
To Porter, their destination looked like a disused mine. The Mercedes had turned off the track, and down a steep, rough slope that led inside a massive crater. There was a roadblock across the track leading into it, manned by three armed men, and even though they knew Hassad they still checked the vehicle before letting it pass. Taking their security seriously, Porter noted. This place is hard enough to get into. It will be even harder to get out again.
Around him, he could see some tall cranes, and a long conveyor belt led along the length of the crater towards an old, abandoned processing plant. A metal mine, thought Porter. Maybe copper or zinc. The crater must have measured two hundred yards, by a hundred: perhaps they started with an open-cast mine and then went underground, because there were doorways dotted around the crater that looked as if they led down into mineshafts. A perfect place to keep a hostage. Discreet, easy to defend, and virtually impossible to escape from. Even if I did manage to get Katie loose, how would I ever get her out of here?