The rest of the news bulletin scrolled by. Porter watched it, with dread mounting inside his heart. There was a report from the all-night vigil in Trafalgar Square. A couple of women were weeping hysterically as they held up ‘Stop the War’ posters: at least ten thousand people were now planning to spend the night out in the Square, according to the police. The peace march scheduled for tomorrow morning was expected to be hundreds of thousands strong, snaking its way through Parliament Square, and up to Downing Street. Sky’s political editor popped up, explaining that the PM was planning to travel down to Chequers tomorrow morning, and so wouldn’t see the demo, but would be monitoring the situation from there. According to government sources, he explained, the PM was now relying on Sir Perry to find Katie Dartmouth, and had given up on a diplomatic solution. The by-election on Thursday was now looking like a disaster, if the execution went ahead, and there were rumours of a leadership challenge. The news bulletin switched to a live report from Katie’s home village in Hampshire. Her family were no longer talking to the press, explained the reporter. Katie’s mother had been taken to hospital after suffering a stress-related collapse. A couple of people from the village said how shocked they were, and how they all hoped for a miracle tomorrow. A special prayer service was being held on Saturday morning, said the reporter as he closed the bulletin. Better pray for a miracle, thought Porter grimly. The big guy upstairs might be the only person who can help us now. Finally, the thumping, insistent piano chords of ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ rolled out across the room as the break for the adverts began. A soft-focus picture of Katie stared out at them from the TV screen: a pretty, vibrant young woman, a million miles away from the beaten husk tied to a stake less than a hundred metres from where they were sitting.

‘I don’t understand why they play this song all the time,’ said Nasri. ‘This Elton man, with the funny glasses, is he some sort of religious figure?’

Porter tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. ‘He’s just a singer,’ he said.

‘You think the British will break?’ said Asad, looking closely at Porter.

He sighed. He felt revolted sitting among these men. Whatever their cause, this was no way to fight. Skulking away in a bunker, torturing a woman, manipulating the media. If you wanted a war, it should be honest combat, man to man. But, much as he hated it, he could see that it was having an impact. The country was going crazy. The bastards down in this mine might be evil, but they were effective: what they were doing to Katie was hitting home a lot harder than lobbing a few bombs at the British Army down in Basra. ‘Never,’ snapped Porter. ‘We stood up to the Nazis and we’ll stand up to you.’