Porter started to eat. He took a chunk of the pitta filled with chicken, and swallowed it quickly. There were jugs of water on the rug: he poured some into a cup, and gulped it down, drawing strength from the food and water. ‘We can negotiate,’ he said, looking back at Hassad. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

Hassad raised his hand. ‘We’ll listen to what you have to tell us,’ he said. ‘But you should know my colleagues didn’t want you to come here.’

Nasri leant forward. ‘It is Hassad’s debt,’ he said softly. ‘He owes you his life, we know that, but his debts are not our debts. So you see, your coming here can only create problems for us. Indeed, three of our men have already died, and one has been wounded, because you were captured on the way.’

‘All I’m asking is that you listen to what I have to say,’ said Porter. ‘A woman’s life is at stake.’

He was still trying to figure out which of the men was the most senior: Hassad spoke with the most authority, and seemed to make more decisions, but Nasri was the oldest, and the Arabs respected years. If I can get through to Nasri then maybe he can bring the rest of them round.

‘Then talk,’ said Nasri. ‘But we don’t have much time, so talk quickly.’

Porter looked at the man. His hair and his beard were greying, and his face was lined and weather-beaten, but he had a rock-like strength to him which reminded Porter of the sergeants who’d trained him. His muscles were like lumps of stone, and his eyes were as fierce and unyielding as storm clouds. At a guess, Porter would say he was the guy in charge of the fighting. He trained the men, and gave them their orders. And if I have to fight my way out of here, it’s you I’m going to be up against.

‘I’ve offered to take her place, and that offer still stands,’ Porter started.

‘And I’ve already told you, we’re not interested,’ Hassad interrupted.

He turned to the others, smiled and muttered something in Arabic. They laughed briefly yet harshly, then all looked back at Porter again.

Christ, how did I ever get myself into this job? Porter wondered. The only thing I’ve ever been able to negotiate is a couple of quid to buy myself a drink. And I wasn’t even much good at that.

‘I’ve been told I can bring you a message from the British Prime Minister,’ said Porter, recalling the lines he had been fed back in Vauxhall. ‘He has a “Roadmap to Peace” which he is prepared to kick-start so long as you let Katie Dartmouth go. He can talk to the Israelis and to the other regional players, and start …’

At his side, Porter could see Jabr slamming his fist down into the rug. ‘The Jews don’t care what any British Prime Minister thinks,’ he growled. ‘There will never be peace. Not until the Jews are driven back into the sea.’