He still wasn’t sure whether he trusted Hassad. But it wasn’t Hezbollah who had just attacked them. It was Collinson’s men. I can trust Hassad more than my own side.

‘I’ll take the mechanic,’ said Hassad.

He started walking towards the garage. Porter watched from a distance, noting a couple of shouts as Hassad knocked the man out, then tied him up. A Fiat van came up the road, turning into the garage. One driver, Porter noted. The van had pulled up next to a diesel pump, and the driver was filling his tank. After he finished, he walked towards the office to pay. Porter could see that Hassad was waiting for him, his AK-47 still strapped to his back. Within seconds, Hassad had pointed the gun at the man, taken his keys off him, then bound and gagged him. He ran back out onto the forecourt towards the van. The engine was still warm, and started with the first turn of the key. He gripped the wheel, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and turned the Fiat round, steering back towards the side of the road. ‘Get the hell in,’ he said, pulling up alongside Porter and Katie. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

There were some chickens in the back of the van: live ones, trussed up three to a crate. Hassad put Katie alongside them, then climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Ten kilometres, straight ahead,’ he snapped. ‘Then we’ll see the doctor.’

‘Why not go straight to the bloody border?’ Porter growled.

‘I told you, I need the doctor,’ said Hassad.

‘And I need to get out of this craphole.’

‘Then you can do it by yourself.’

Porter paused. It was a possibility. He had the van, and Katie was probably well enough to survive the journey. The plasma and fluids pumped into her at the safe house had perked her up already. But it was a hundred miles to the border, and it was heavily fortified. He had a hostage he’d snatched from Hezbollah with him. They controlled this territory, and they’d be looking for both of them. I need help. And in this hellhole, Hassad is likely to be the only person I can even begin to rely on.

‘We only stop for an hour maximum,’ said Porter.

‘One hour,’ said Hassad nodding. ‘Then we hit the border.’

He put on the radio. There was some terrible local pop music, then the news bulletin. It was eleven in the morning. Outside, the sun was up now, but some clouds were starting to drift across the sky. The road was long and straight, a stretch of tarmac rolled out like a carpet across an arid and dry piece of scrubland. A few miles up ahead, Porter could see a turning off to the left, and a dusty, grey smudge on the landscape that looked like a village. In the back of the van, some of the chickens were starting to squawk as Porter slammed his foot hard on the accelerator, pushing the van up close to its top speed of ninety miles an hour. On the radio, the newsreader was talking in Arabic. The sound washed past Porter: he was too busy concentrating on the road.