The firefight looked to have subsided.

‘Is it safe to leave?’ Porter asked.

Hassad barked a few words in Arabic to one of the men behind the Honda, waited for the reply, then looked back at Porter. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘We can move out.’

He gestured to the four men, and one by one they climbed onto the back of the Unimog.

‘How many were there?’ Porter asked.

‘Ten,’ said Hassad. ‘Tough men as well. We lost men trying to rescue you –’

‘Who the fuck were they?’

‘You don’t know?’

Porter shook his head.

Hassad just shrugged. ‘If you don’t know, then nobody does.’

Porter nodded. ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said tersely.

‘I invited you out here,’ said Hassad. ‘That makes you my guest.’

The Unimog started to roll again. The courtyard was surrounded by a series of farm buildings and barns, as well as the main building where Porter had been kept since last night. Beyond it, at the bottom of the hillside, there was a road leading away from the site. All around him, Porter could see the debris of the battle, and feel the smell of death in the air.

Next to a wall he could see two corpses. And even though both men were covered in dust and blood, Porter could see one of them was white.

‘Stop a minute,’ snapped Porter.

‘We need to leave,’ said Hassad. ‘There could be more of them.’

‘I need to look at these guys.’

He jumped down from the cabin, kneeling down next to the dead body. The guy had taken about two dozen hits, even though the first two or three had probably killed him. The bullets had smashed up his face, turning his skull into paste, and smearing blood over every surface. One eyeball had been blown out, and the other was still bleeding. Even for a corpse he looked in pretty rough shape. From what Porter could see of him, he was almost forty, with dark brown hair, and tanned, grooved skin. He was wearing an olive-green military uniform, the kind you might pick up in an army surplus store. Porter couldn’t see any sign of a flag, or insignia. ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Porter, glancing back up at Hassad.

Hassad just shrugged. Porter didn’t get the impression he was very interested in corpses. Maybe he’d seen too many of them.

‘What the hell is a white man doing out here, taking British guys hostage?’ growled Porter.

He started rifling through his pockets. In one, he found thirty Lebanese pounds, along with some loose change. In another, he found a picture of a woman: dark-haired, with freckled pale skin, pretty but slightly overweight, probably in her late twenties. Other than that, there was nothing that might identify who he was or who he was fighting for. No passport, no credit card, no dog tag. The unknown soldier, thought Porter. And you’re welcome to an unmarked grave, mate. You sodding deserve it.