No time to hide the body, he decided. The shifts could change at any moment, and as soon as someone came along, they would know the base was under attack and raise the alarm. They might even think they were under a full-scale assault from British special forces. If that was the case, so much the better. In the chaos, some kind of opportunity to escape might open up.

Porter pulled the knife free from the man’s throat, and wiped the blood away on the back of his jeans. You’ll taste more before this night is out, he told himself grimly.

He picked up the man’s handgun and tucked that into his jeans. A compact Browning M1900, Porter was familiar enough with how it worked. He walked swiftly across the meeting point. He knew where Hassad’s quarters were.

Porter turned into the corridor. The moment of truth has arrived, he told himself.

The light leading up to Hassad’s room was dim, but Porter’s eyes had already adjusted to the murky conditions, and he didn’t have any trouble identifying the right door. He laid his palm flat against it, and exerted the slenderest amount of pressure. It gave. Hassad slept with his door unlocked, the way Porter had figured he would. Soldiers didn’t bolt themselves in, especially when there was possibility of any enemy assault. They needed to be ready to move the moment an attack started: in the time it took them to unlock their doors, they might already be dead.

Porter held the knife in his hand, savouring the cold sharpness of its blade against his skin. If he could, he’d use that rather than the gun: a shot would alert the whole base, and there would be a dozen soldiers on top of him within seconds. He paused for a brief moment, controlling his breathing. He suddenly recalled Steve, Mike and Keith. He could see them laughing as they went into the battle. He could hear the jokes and the banter, and then the desperate commands as the action kicked off. And then he could recall the moment when he’d seen the three stretchers with white cloths covering them being carried out of the chopper. He remembered the funerals, and the moving tributes from their mates as the bodies were buried in the ground. And he could remember the looks of all the other guys in the base back at Hereford. The looks that said, ‘Here’s the bloke who let three of his mates die because he didn’t have the bollocks to finish off some raghead kid who was intent on killing the lot of them.’

OK, boys, Porter thought bitterly. It’s a bit late, I know. This is a cheque that should have been cashed years ago. But you’re about to get your payback on the bastard that killed you.

He pushed the door open. Hassad was lying on a simple straw mattress by one wall of the small room. In the corner there was a small candle floating in a pool of wax that filled the room with a pale light. He was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt he wore during the day, although he’d kicked off his trainers and put them at the bottom of the mattress. Next to it, there was a paperback book in Arabic left half open and a tin cup of water. There was also an open packet of some kind of medicine although Porter couldn’t read at this distance what it was. His AK-47 was laid down flat on the straw right next to him. There was a knife as well. Under attack, he could reach for both within seconds. What was under the cushion he was using as a pillow Porter couldn’t tell. But it was more likely to be a pistol than a spare pair of pyjamas, he thought with a half-smile.