‘Don’t worry,’ said Hassad. ‘I’ve had enough chances to kill you already, and maybe I should have taken them. I’ve said I’ll get you to the border, and I will. I’m just equipping myself with some kit in case we get attacked again.’

‘I thought you said this was a safe house?’

‘This is the Lebanon,’ said Hassad with a shrug. ‘Nowhere is safe.’

Porter had already checked out the munitions room. It was a big store cupboard just off the small kitchen. From a distance, it looked like a larder. Inside, there was enough weaponry to have a crack at taking Tel Aviv single-handed. Porter counted twelve assault rifles, each with a couple of hundred rounds of ammunition. There were six boxes of hand grenades neatly stacked in boxes. Two RPG launchers. One machine gun, plus a couple of belts of rounds. And a selection of handguns, hunting knives, ropes, handcuffs and chains.

Porter finished eating his cereal, then suddenly stopped. He could hear something.

Out in the scrubland.

He was sure of it.

He moved swiftly towards the window.

Scanning the land outside, he couldn’t see anything. A couple of trucks rolled by in the distance, but none of them seemed to be stopping. There were no cars parked anywhere in view apart from the Polo outside. But still he felt certain he’d heard something.

A voice.

An English voice.

‘Got any binoculars?’ he said to Hassad.

After rooting around in the munitions store, Hassad returned with a cheap pair of field glasses.

‘You think there’s someone out there?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

He scanned the landscape once more. At first glance, all he could see was scrubland. Acres and acres of dust stretched into the distance. No, he told himself. There is something there. I am sure of it.

A man.

He flicked the field glasses a fraction of a millimetre to the left, twisting the lens to increase the magnification.

A man was lying flat on his belly. He was covered head to toe in dusty-coloured uniform, effectively camouflaging him. To the naked eye, he was just a ridge of dirt in the ground. Porter locked the binoculars tight onto him. The man was fifty metres away, between the road and the house. Although he was flat on the ground, he was advancing steadily towards them. He passed the glasses across to Hassad. ‘We’re under attack,’ he said.

‘How many?’

‘I can only see one guy,’ said Porter. ‘But there will be more of them. We can be sure of it.’

Somewhere behind him he heard a crash. He ran to the back of the house. A fragmentation grenade had been lobbed through the window. Glass was shattered across the floor. The grenade was lying in the hallway: there was no time to get rid of it before it blew. Porter clamped his mouth shut, and ran towards Katie. He hauled her over his back, ran towards the front door and flung it open. Looking around desperately, his eyes were searching for some cover. Without it, they were about to get cut down like dogs. There was a small wall close to where they had parked the Polo, only four feet high but just tall enough to provide some shelter. ‘Get the fuck out of there,’ he shouted at Hassad.