‘Shit,’ he muttered.
He tried to make a mental calculation of the time. It had been midnight locally when they’d watched the news bulletin from London, and at least an hour had passed since then. So it could be one, possibly pushing two in the morning. The dead of night. If there was a rescue attempt coming, his best guess was that the Regiment would strike between three and four in the morning. There was no way of knowing for sure, but he reckoned nobody was coming. All that posturing on TV from Collinson: it suggested to Porter the bastard didn’t have a clue where Katie had been hidden. Hassad’s men were loyal, professional and dedicated, and they were operating in their own country.
He turned onto his side. The ropes were tight, but it was only his right leg and right hand that were immobilised, and that gave him space to move. He slipped his left hand into his jeans, and took out the knife he’d hidden there during the meal. It only measured five inches, with a black plastic handle, but it had a good sharp steel blade on it. It would do, Porter reckoned. Hassad must have decided that one arm and one leg was enough. A man couldn’t untie a knot with one hand: certainly not when the hand in question was short of a couple of fingers. But he could cut one.
Porter glanced towards the door. It was shut tight, and he reckoned they were leaving him alone for the rest of the night. It would be five, he judged, before the place came back to life. That gave him a couple of hours to play with. What was it Clayton had said to him? Play the bloody hero if you have to.
Gripping the knife in his left hand, he moved his body around until he was level with a piece of clean rock. Turning the blade flat, he started to slowly sharpen the blade by grinding it into the stone. The ropes binding him were thick, made from a plastic cord: the blade right now was nowhere near strong enough to cut through it, but with enough work he might be able to get it into shape for the job.
It was slow, painful work. A couple of times the blade sprung from his grasp, spinning across the rock, and once he was afraid it might be out of reach. The rock was certainly no grinding stone — just ragged, blunt ore — but if you drove it hard, the blade gradually sharpened. The work was dull and repetitive, but Porter was grateful for it. It took his mind off what was likely to happened next.
Within half an hour, the blade was sharpened. It wasn’t a razor, but the steel was thin, and pointed, and it would do the job. Twisting himself around, he positioned the blade in his left hand. Porter had never been naturally dexterous with that hand, and after he lost his fingers he’d found it wasn’t good for much more than holding the second bottle of vodka if he was ever lucky enough to get his hands on two at the same time. Still, he got a good enough grip between his thumb and his palm and, leaning forward, slashed it into the rope binding his right foot. The knot was strong, and so was the artificial fibre the rope was made from, but the knife was now sharp enough to saw its way through. In just a few seconds, it had been severed. With a kick of the knee, Porter shook his leg free of the stake. Still squatting on the ground, Porter kept the blade wedged tight into the palm of his left hand. A rope was still tied tight around his chest, strapping his right hand to him, but he quickly cut it open. Free, he told himself with satisfaction.
Porter looked up at the bolted door.
OK, he thought, feeling the resolve stiffen inside him. Let’s see if we can’t make some trouble for these bastards.
He collected the tiny candle, holding it up close to the door. There was enough of a crack that he could see out into the corridor. From here, it looked empty, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a guard just a few metres away. The bolt was made from metal, and slotted into position in a socket about four feet off the ground. Porter positioned himself close to the door, and held up the candle so that he had as much light to work with as possible. He slotted the knife into the gap in the door, and slowly worked it against the bolt: he dug the tip into the metal, twisted it to get as much grip as possible, then used all the strength in his wrist to flick it backwards a couple of millimetres. It didn’t move much, but it did shift a fraction, and to Porter that was all that mattered. He would get there eventually.
It took ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but eventually the lock was freed. He reckoned it was three fifteen in the morning now, although he couldn’t be certain. The door swung open: Porter had to grab hold of it to stop the thing from crashing back and raising the alarm. He blew out the candle, and held his breath tight in his chest. Very slowly, and with the knife gripped in his right hand, he squeezed the door ajar. He glanced into the corridor. The light was murky — there were some lamps in the meeting point but nothing in the corridor — and although he had got used to the semi-darkness it still took a second for Porter to adjust his eyes. So far as he could see the corridor was empty. He inched out, keeping one foot inside the door, so that he could snap back inside if necessary.
Porter already had a plan mapped out. He’d have liked to go straight to Katie, but that route was too well guarded. There was no way he could get through equipped just with an eating knife. Instead, he’d slip through to Hassad’s room. It was a distance of about twenty metres through the tunnels, and he calculated there would only be one guard along the way. The odds of success weren’t great, he thought. But at least they weren’t suicidal.
He moved quietly forward. The guard was standing just where the tunnel met the meeting point. He had his back to it, and he was leaning against the wall. Whether he was drowsing or alert, it was impossible to say from here. Porter inched out further, his back flat against the wall. The knife was nestling in the palm of his hand. He was gradually adjusting his eyes to the soupy light. He could see the barrel of the man’s gun. An AK-47: the lamp in the meeting point was catching on the gleaming wood of its polished stock. Porter kept moving. He was about ten metres from the man now. He was holding his breath: he knew from his time in the Regiment that it was the sound of your breathing that usually gave you away. The floor was just dust and grit so at least it wasn’t scratching against his trainers. Five metres. His back was tight against the wall, slipping into the shadows, making sure he was virtually invisible against the rock. Three metres. He could see the man’s shoulders twitch. He was a big man, Porter noted: six foot, with hefty shoulders, taking his weight up to two hundred pounds. He could hear him grunt. Or maybe a snore. His hand rose upwards. For a moment, Porter was certain he was going for the gun. All he had to do was look round, and he could spray the space with bullets: Porter would be shredded to pieces within seconds. He tried to melt into the rock. The man picked at his nose, grunted again, then slumped back against the side of the rock. Porter took a step closer, then another. He raised his right hand, and steadied himself. With a sudden, swift movement, he darted forward. He cupped his left hand around the man’s mouth, dragged back hard with all the muscles in his shoulders. He could hear the man starting to cry, but the hand was effectively stifling the noise. He was starting to shudder, and as his muscles absorbed the sudden shock of the attack, he heaved backwards. Porter struggled to contain him. You’ve only got a fraction of a second, he reminded himself. Once you get into a fair fight with this bastard, then you’re a dead man.
In an instant, Porter’s right hand was thrusting towards the man’s neck. The knife pierced the skin, making a neat incision, in the space between the jawbone and the collar bones where a blade could cut straight through to the wind-pipe. Porter had barely a moment, and he knew he had to slice the man open as skilfully as any surgeon: except his purpose was to end the creature’s life, not preserve it.