Up above, he could still hear the sound of gunfire. They’re under attack, Porter thought. And they want to finish me off while they still can.

‘You are facing Mecca,’ said the swordsman. ‘This is as good a place to die as any.’

He was standing behind Porter now, so close that he could smell the man’s warm, stale breath. Porter’s hands started shaking slightly as the executioner drew even closer. He put his sword against the chair, and Porter could feel the cold steel of the weapon touching his skin. Drawing a black cloth from his pocket, he placed his warm hand across Porter’s face as if to close his eyes, then tied the blindfold into position. As he did so, Porter was plunged into darkness, and a sense of terror started to overcome him. Get ready for it, thought Porter bitterly. It is dark all the time where you’re going, mate.

He could hear the executioner picking up the sword. Then he felt a slight stab in the neck, where the swordsman had nicked his skin, drawing a few drops of blood. It was a technique Arab executioners had developed over the centuries to prime their victims for the blow that would kill them: a small nick numbed and stiffened the neck, making it easier for the blade to sever the neck.

And then he could hear the slight movement of the sword through the air.

Porter closed his eyes tight, even though he could see nothing through the blindfold. His knuckles were white and shaking, and he felt as if he was about to vomit.

So this is it, he thought grimly.

‘First your tooth,’ said the executioner.

Porter was confused. What could he possibly mean?

He felt the man’s hand gripping his neck. With his fingers, he prised Porter’s jaw apart, and slammed something inside.

Some kind of metal, Porter judged. Maybe a wrench.

He reeled back in pain, and tried to shake his jaw away, but the man was too strong for him.

The wrench was smashing down into his lower left jaw.

Just then, he heard a terrifying crash behind him. It was as if a wall had fallen down.

The noise was so loud that it echoed viciously around the tiny, dank cell. It burst onto Porter’s eardrums, exploding within his brain. Then there was a shot, and another. The rattle of gunfire and the smell of smoke filled the room.

He could hear one body falling to the floor. Maybe two. In the confusion, and in the darkness behind the blindfold, it was impossible to tell.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.

Nothing. Silence.

‘Who the fuck is it?’

Porter could feel a blade against his skin. It was small, but still sharp, and he could feel a hand next to it. There was a sharp sound, then a tug, as the blade cut through the ropes that were binding him to the chair. First the ropes around his hands were severed, then his legs, and finally the bindings around his chest.