Enough to kit out a small army, thought Porter with a grim smile.
Then he corrected himself.
This is a small army.
And the bastards back at Vauxhall expect you to deal with them single-handedly.
The boy led him to the largest room he had yet seen in the mine. It was at least twenty metres deep, and twenty wide, cut to a height of about two and a half metres. The floor was mostly covered with straw, but there were a couple of rugs at its centre. There were no chairs — the blokes were all squatting or kneeling on the rugs — but at the far end there were a couple of long wooden tables with plates of food on them. Along one side, there was a wall of electric lights: about six in total, filling the room with a busy glow. And next to that, there was a bank of computer kit. Porter counted five PCs, each one on its own work table, and two flat-screens TVs that were picking up satellite broadcast signals. Beside them, there was a mess of wires and routers that were feeding data into and out of the cave. Hunched over them, there was one boy who didn’t look more than twenty. Thin, with a straggly beard, and a T-shirt that was at least one size too small for him, he was busily programming one of the computers. The IT department, Porter reflected. That’s how they are communicating with the rest of the world. And that’s why we can never track them. That kid is smart enough to route any message they send through so many hijacked PCs around the world, the source always remains untraceable.
All the men in the room turned to look at him as soon as he stepped inside. In total, Porter calculated there were around twenty guys in the room. They ranged in ages, from the boy who had led him here, up to a couple of guys who looked like they were past sixty. The bulk of them, however, were in their twenties or thirties. Old enough to know how to fight, thought Porter. But also young enough to be fast on their feet. Just the kind of men you’d want in any army.
Three were clean-shaven, but the rest of them all had black beards. There was no formal uniform. Most of the men were dressed in jeans, trainers and a shirt. All of them were armed. There were curved, brutally sharp knives tucked into the waists of their trousers, and pistols tucked neatly into their pockets. A few still had their assault rifles strapped to their chests, others had checked them in at the door. Christ, thought Porter, a man feels underdressed in this place if he doesn’t have at least a couple of hundred rounds on him.
‘You must be hungry,’ said Hassad.
His tone was formal, polite, yet distant as well, Porter noted. He must remember that he killed my mates, and he must know that I’m not likely to forgive that. I’d be distant as well if I thought a bloke had travelled a couple of thousand miles just to cut my throat.
‘Starving,’ said Porter.
It was true as well. Porter hadn’t had anything proper to eat since he’d picked up some grub at the bus stop. He hadn’t thought about it, but now he could feel the hunger chewing away at his stomach. The men were eating out of tin containers, very similar to the ones Porter had used out in the field when he was in the army. There were plates of food spread across the wooden table: piles of flat, warm pitta bread, some salads made of olives, cucumbers and chickpeas, and piles of cold lamb and chicken, all of them covered in spicy sauces. Porter chucked come chicken and lamb into the pitta, and put some of the salad on the side. Then he took a knife and fork, and followed Hassad towards the centre of the room. ‘Why not give Katie something to eat?’ he said.
Hassad shook his head. ‘I know you think we are cruel men, but really it isn’t true,’ he replied. ‘A woman dies better on an empty stomach.’
‘Bollocks,’ snapped Porter. ‘Even on death row they give a man a decent last meal.’
‘That is not our way,’ said Hassad, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Believe me, when a person is beheaded, then their bowels automatically empty. It is better if there is nothing there. We do not wish to humiliate her. Insofar as it is possible, we would like her to have a dignified death, one she can be proud of.’
‘There’s no pride in dying.’
‘That is where you are wrong, my friend,’ said Hassad. ‘Osama bin Laden himself has spoken eloquently on this subject. The difference between our two civilisations is that while you celebrate life, we celebrate death. For us, there is no shame in dying, no fear either.’
‘You didn’t see it that way when you were a kid,’ said Porter. ‘I was about to kill you then, and I decided not to. Maybe that’s because, as you say, we celebrate life.’
Hassad paused, and for a moment Porter thought he might have got through to the man, but then he started to pick at the food he had piled onto his plate. They were sitting down now, on a rug to the left of the tables full of food. There were three men next to them, and they introduced themselves briefly: Nasri, Jabr and Asad. Nasri looked to be around sixty, but the other two seemed to be in their early thirties, the same age as Hassad. From the way they acted, Porter reckoned the four of them were in charge of the place: they looked more senior than any of the other guys, although what the hierarchy was between the four of them, Porter couldn’t figure out.
‘That’s different,’ said Hassad, when Porter had sat down. ‘I was just a boy then. I didn’t ask you to spare my life, although I am grateful that you did, and I recognise the debt that I owe you. But I was fighting as a warrior for my people and my God that day, and if I had died I would not have objected.’
Porter started to eat. He took a chunk of the pitta filled with chicken, and swallowed it quickly. There were jugs of water on the rug: he poured some into a cup, and gulped it down, drawing strength from the food and water. ‘We can negotiate,’ he said, looking back at Hassad. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
Hassad raised his hand. ‘We’ll listen to what you have to tell us,’ he said. ‘But you should know my colleagues didn’t want you to come here.’
Nasri leant forward. ‘It is Hassad’s debt,’ he said softly. ‘He owes you his life, we know that, but his debts are not our debts. So you see, your coming here can only create problems for us. Indeed, three of our men have already died, and one has been wounded, because you were captured on the way.’
‘All I’m asking is that you listen to what I have to say,’ said Porter. ‘A woman’s life is at stake.’
He was still trying to figure out which of the men was the most senior: Hassad spoke with the most authority, and seemed to make more decisions, but Nasri was the oldest, and the Arabs respected years. If I can get through to Nasri then maybe he can bring the rest of them round.
‘Then talk,’ said Nasri. ‘But we don’t have much time, so talk quickly.’
Porter looked at the man. His hair and his beard were greying, and his face was lined and weather-beaten, but he had a rock-like strength to him which reminded Porter of the sergeants who’d trained him. His muscles were like lumps of stone, and his eyes were as fierce and unyielding as storm clouds. At a guess, Porter would say he was the guy in charge of the fighting. He trained the men, and gave them their orders. And if I have to fight my way out of here, it’s you I’m going to be up against.
‘I’ve offered to take her place, and that offer still stands,’ Porter started.
‘And I’ve already told you, we’re not interested,’ Hassad interrupted.
He turned to the others, smiled and muttered something in Arabic. They laughed briefly yet harshly, then all looked back at Porter again.
Christ, how did I ever get myself into this job? Porter wondered. The only thing I’ve ever been able to negotiate is a couple of quid to buy myself a drink. And I wasn’t even much good at that.
‘I’ve been told I can bring you a message from the British Prime Minister,’ said Porter, recalling the lines he had been fed back in Vauxhall. ‘He has a “Roadmap to Peace” which he is prepared to kick-start so long as you let Katie Dartmouth go. He can talk to the Israelis and to the other regional players, and start …’