Porter looked round. She was sitting in the back seat, dressed in a crisp black suit, and with a pair of dark glasses dropped over her eyes.
‘It’s not a story,’ Porter snapped.
She leant forward, and he could smell a trace of perfume on her neck. ‘You work for us, Mr Porter,’ she said. ‘The driving job is useful cover. It will make people think you’re living a normal life.’
‘I’m finished with soldiering, I told you that.’
‘We don’t pay two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for one week’s work,’ she said. ‘What do you think this is? Goldman Sachs —’
‘We had a deal,’ said Porter.
‘And we want to get our money’s worth,’ said Layla. ‘Or would you rather we took it all back, and Sandy found out that her daddy wasn’t such a big shot after all?’
Porter paused. The traffic lights had switched to green, but he didn’t feel like putting the gear back into drive. Behind him, someone was starting to hoot. ‘What is it you want?’ he said finally.
‘There’s someone else we want you to get in touch with for us,’ said Layla. ‘Another man you came across during your time in the Regiment.’
‘Who?’
‘An Irishman … from the bad old days.’