‘With twenty-two hours left before the scheduled time for the beheading of the Sky News reporter Katie Dartmouth, we’ll bring you the latest on the story,’ said the newsreader. ‘The PM makes a last-minute appeal for calm. Sir Perry Collinson is already in Beirut to mastermind the hunt for Katie. Thousands gather in Trafalgar Square for an all-night vigil for peace. Stop the War protestors plan a mass rally tomorrow through London calling for British troops to be brought home. And we’ll be live in Katie Dartmouth’s home village getting the latest reactions from friends and family.’
On the screen, Porter could see the familiar figure of the PM standing on the steps outside Downing Street. ‘I just want to say this,’ he began. ‘I know people have many different views on the war in Iraq, and I respect that, but in the end we’re there to do a job, and we have to stay there until the job is done. So I say to the kidnappers of Katie Dartmouth, we have offered you talks, I have said I am willing to fly to the Middle East, to bring all the sides together, so that we can find a way of stopping the bloodshed. I am willing to meet the leaders of Hezbollah to discuss a way forward. But we can’t start moving soldiers out of a country just because one group or faction wants us to. We are willing to talk, but we are not willing to surrender. So delay this terrible act by at least a few days, so that we can start discussions.’
‘You see,’ Hassad muttered towards Porter. ‘He’s not interested in peace.’
‘He’s just interested in war,’ Asad spat. ‘That’s all the British ever want.’
Porter remained silent. He looked back at the screen. ‘We’re now crossing live to Beirut, where Sir Peregrine Collinson landed tonight. Our reporter Sam Davenport spoke to him outside the British Embassy in the city. Sam …’
In the next instant, Collinson’s face appeared on the screen. He was wearing a casual shirt, and his face had the worried, concerned, slightly disappointed look he could recall seeing on the face of every Rupert whenever they were about to dump you right in the crap. ‘I can assure everyone back at home we’re doing everything we can to locate Katie Dartmouth and bring her back out alive before tomorrow,’ he said, his tone serious yet also calm. ‘We’re getting help from our allies, from the local authorities, and also from the ordinary Lebanese people who are shocked and horrified at what is being done in their name.’
There was a jeer from the men in the room. They were talking in Arabic, but Porter didn’t need a translation. Whatever the raghead word was for ‘tosser’, that’s what they were saying. If the local Lebanese are shocked and horrified, thought Porter, then somebody forgot to tell these blokes. In fact, they forgot to tell the whole sodding country, judging by the people I met when I was travelling through it.
‘But have you got any leads?’ asked Sam, putting his microphone up close to Collinson. ‘Does anyone have any real idea where Katie is being held captive?’
Collinson nodded. The same look, Porter noted. The one the Ruperts adopted when they were about to lie to you. ‘I can’t give away any confidential information that might help our enemies,’ he said. ‘But I can assure people that the net is closing all the time. As Winston Churchill once said, “If you are going through hell, keep going.” Well, that’s just what we are going to do. Keep going, until we are victorious.’
‘No one will have spoken to that fool,’ said Hassad. ‘This hiding place is totally secure. Even most of the leadership of Hezbollah don’t know where we are.’
‘Tomorrow, I shall be travelling to Israel,’ continued Collinson. ‘The Israeli government has promised us every support and assistance.’
‘I told you,’ snapped Nasri, slamming his fist on the ground, and looking in Porter’s direction. ‘The British and the Zionists are working hand in hand, just as they always have done. That’s why we can never negotiate.’
The rest of the news bulletin scrolled by. Porter watched it, with dread mounting inside his heart. There was a report from the all-night vigil in Trafalgar Square. A couple of women were weeping hysterically as they held up ‘Stop the War’ posters: at least ten thousand people were now planning to spend the night out in the Square, according to the police. The peace march scheduled for tomorrow morning was expected to be hundreds of thousands strong, snaking its way through Parliament Square, and up to Downing Street. Sky’s political editor popped up, explaining that the PM was planning to travel down to Chequers tomorrow morning, and so wouldn’t see the demo, but would be monitoring the situation from there. According to government sources, he explained, the PM was now relying on Sir Perry to find Katie Dartmouth, and had given up on a diplomatic solution. The by-election on Thursday was now looking like a disaster, if the execution went ahead, and there were rumours of a leadership challenge. The news bulletin switched to a live report from Katie’s home village in Hampshire. Her family were no longer talking to the press, explained the reporter. Katie’s mother had been taken to hospital after suffering a stress-related collapse. A couple of people from the village said how shocked they were, and how they all hoped for a miracle tomorrow. A special prayer service was being held on Saturday morning, said the reporter as he closed the bulletin. Better pray for a miracle, thought Porter grimly. The big guy upstairs might be the only person who can help us now. Finally, the thumping, insistent piano chords of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ rolled out across the room as the break for the adverts began. A soft-focus picture of Katie stared out at them from the TV screen: a pretty, vibrant young woman, a million miles away from the beaten husk tied to a stake less than a hundred metres from where they were sitting.
‘I don’t understand why they play this song all the time,’ said Nasri. ‘This Elton man, with the funny glasses, is he some sort of religious figure?’
Porter tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. ‘He’s just a singer,’ he said.
‘You think the British will break?’ said Asad, looking closely at Porter.
He sighed. He felt revolted sitting among these men. Whatever their cause, this was no way to fight. Skulking away in a bunker, torturing a woman, manipulating the media. If you wanted a war, it should be honest combat, man to man. But, much as he hated it, he could see that it was having an impact. The country was going crazy. The bastards down in this mine might be evil, but they were effective: what they were doing to Katie was hitting home a lot harder than lobbing a few bombs at the British Army down in Basra. ‘Never,’ snapped Porter. ‘We stood up to the Nazis and we’ll stand up to you.’
Christ, he thought to himself. I sound just like that tosser Collinson. But what else am I meant to say?
‘Then we just have to put more pressure on them,’ said Hassad. He stood up. ‘Follow me.’
They started to move. Hassad was leading the way, and Nasri, Jabr and Asad were following on behind Porter. He walked down the corridor, through the meeting point of the tunnels, then straight towards the room where Katie Dartmouth was incarcerated. The door swung on its hinges, and Hassad stepped inside. Porter glanced into the room. Katie was still tied to the stake. She seemed close to losing consciousness. Her head had drooped to one side, and her eyes were so swollen it was as if they were bulging out of their sockets. There was a rotting stench of decay all around her, as if she had already died and her body had started to decompose. Maybe she already has died inside, thought Porter. Maybe she’s just waiting for the rest of her body to catch up.