‘Then you can do it by yourself.’
Porter paused. It was a possibility. He had the van, and Katie was probably well enough to survive the journey. The plasma and fluids pumped into her at the safe house had perked her up already. But it was a hundred miles to the border, and it was heavily fortified. He had a hostage he’d snatched from Hezbollah with him. They controlled this territory, and they’d be looking for both of them. I need help. And in this hellhole, Hassad is likely to be the only person I can even begin to rely on.
‘We only stop for an hour maximum,’ said Porter.
‘One hour,’ said Hassad nodding. ‘Then we hit the border.’
He put on the radio. There was some terrible local pop music, then the news bulletin. It was eleven in the morning. Outside, the sun was up now, but some clouds were starting to drift across the sky. The road was long and straight, a stretch of tarmac rolled out like a carpet across an arid and dry piece of scrubland. A few miles up ahead, Porter could see a turning off to the left, and a dusty, grey smudge on the landscape that looked like a village. In the back of the van, some of the chickens were starting to squawk as Porter slammed his foot hard on the accelerator, pushing the van up close to its top speed of ninety miles an hour. On the radio, the newsreader was talking in Arabic. The sound washed past Porter: he was too busy concentrating on the road.
Then he heard the words ‘Katie Dartmouth’.
Porter turned the volume up.
‘What’s he saying?’ he asked, glancing across at Hassad.
Hassad raised a hand. He was listening intently to the broadcast. In the back of the van, Katie had woken up. Porter could see her lifting herself up. Her eyes looked clearer, and some of the vigour had returned to her skin. She still looks pretty terrible. But she’s a tough young woman. With the right treatment, she’s going to be OK again.
‘They’re talking about —’ she started.
‘Quiet,’ Porter hissed.
They waited a few more seconds until the broadcast finished. When the terrible Arabic singing started up again, Porter leant across to switch off the sound. ‘What was he saying —’
‘Here,’ said Hassad, pointing to the turning. ‘The doctor is down this road.’
Porter flicked the indicator, and started to pull the van across the corner. ‘What were they saying about Katie?’
‘They don’t know anything,’ said Hassad.
‘Nothing about the explosion?’
Porter looked across at Hassad. His face was tight and taunt, as if the muscles in his skin were being stretched out on a rack.
‘They are just saying the execution is scheduled for eight o’clock this evening.’
The road was rough, just a dirt track, and there were a few goats grazing alongside it. The village up ahead looked to be no more than a single street nestling into the side of a hill, with a dozen houses, a shop and a couple of workshops. Up in the hills behind there were some cultivated fields, making a break from the scrubland all around them. ‘Why are Hezbollah saying nothing about an attack?’ he asked, looking back at Hassad.
‘Because they don’t want to admit it,’ said Hassad.
‘But Katie’s with us,’ said Porter. ‘They must know that.’
‘Then it looks like they’re planning on getting her back by eight tonight. This is their country, remember. So long as they find her, then the execution can still go ahead.’
Porter pulled the van up on the side of the road. A farmer was heading up towards the hills with a tractor and donkey. He turned round, looking at the van suspiciously, then when he saw Hassad climb out, quickly turned back and started driving faster. Porter killed the engine, and got down from the driver’s seat. As he did so, he unhooked the AK-47 from his back and tucked it under his arm. He could feel the smooth wood of the weapon next to his skin, and checked the mag. Plenty of ammo, he noted, feeling reassured by that. It doesn’t matter what the PR department at Hezbollah is telling or not telling people, he reminded himself. There’s no execution tonight. We’ll fight our way out of here by ourselves if we have to.
A cat was snarling at them as Porter helped Katie down onto the track. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
She nodded. Her legs were wobbling, and she clung on to Porter for support, but there was enough strength in her knees for her to stand. ‘I think so.’
‘Good girl.’
The street smelt of dried olives and raisins. It was around midday now, and there were no people on the street of the tiny village. There were some fruit and vegetables on sale at the single shop, but Hassad had already walked through an open doorway ahead of them. Porter took Katie’s arm, guiding her forward. She was walking unsteadily, like a toddler. ‘Ever broken a leg?’ Porter asked.
Katie shook her head.
‘You’ve been strapped to a stake for a week by these bastards,’ said Porter. ‘The nerves in your legs have packed up, same as when you have a plaster cast on. It takes a week or two to learn how to walk properly again. You’ll need some physio. You can get used to anything.’
‘Like your fingers?’ she said, looking down at the hand that she was holding on to.
‘Yeah, that took a lot of getting used to.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘That bastard’s lot right up there,’ said Porter, nodding towards Hassad.
‘How …’
‘It’s a long story,’ interrupted Porter. ‘I’ll tell you about it over a long cool beer when we’re tucked up on a couple of first-class seats on the British Airways flight home.’
‘That would be nice,’ she said, attempting a smile.
As her lips creased up, Porter could see that the cuts and bruises covering her were making her wince with pain. They were following Hassad into a small building two doors down from the shop. It was basically one room, measuring twenty feet by fifteen. There was a kitchen at one end, and a curtain sealing off a bedroom area at the other. The only light was coming through a couple of skylights built into the roof. Close to the door, there was desk and a chair, and a collection of elderly pieces of medical equipment: some scales, a blood-pressure pump, a stethoscope and a few reusable syringes.
Out of the shadows, there emerged a woman. She was dressed entirely in black, with a face like a pickled walnut. Her eyes were piercing, but her skin was dried up as if she had been left out in the sun for too long, and she walked with a slight stoop. From the way she looked up at Hassad, it was clear that she knew him, but there was no smile, nor any kind of a greeting. She merely pointed at the chair, and waited for him to sit down.
Hassad took off his sweatshirt. The woman examined the shoulder silently. The knife had dug into the skin, then been twisted, creating a nasty corkscrew wound. Porter had seen those kinds of injuries before, indeed he’d taken a few himself over the years, and although they hurt like hell, he knew they weren’t serious. Taking a swab of cotton wool, the woman drenched it with raw alcohol and pushed it hard into the raw skin. Porter winced. He knew how painful that was: he admired the way Hassad sat there impassively, taking the pain, with nothing more than the clenching of a fist to suggest what he was going through.
When she’d finished, she bound up the wound with gauze. Next, the woman looked at Katie. She worked quickly and swiftly, checking where Porter had patched up her cuts and wounds, redressing them, and then giving her another dose of antibiotics. She muttered a few words to Hassad in Arabic.
‘She’s going to be fine,’ Hassad said to Porter. ‘She needs a few days in hospital, with maybe a drip to get some fluids and calories back into her, but apart from that she’ll be OK.’
Porter could see the look of relief on Katie’s face. She was getting stronger by the minute, and you could see it in her face and eyes. Just knowing she had a chance of escaping had brought her back to life again.