Then he heard the words ‘Katie Dartmouth’.

Porter turned the volume up.

‘What’s he saying?’ he asked, glancing across at Hassad.

Hassad raised a hand. He was listening intently to the broadcast. In the back of the van, Katie had woken up. Porter could see her lifting herself up. Her eyes looked clearer, and some of the vigour had returned to her skin. She still looks pretty terrible. But she’s a tough young woman. With the right treatment, she’s going to be OK again.

‘They’re talking about –’ she started.

‘Quiet,’ Porter hissed.

They waited a few more seconds until the broadcast finished. When the terrible Arabic singing started up again, Porter leant across to switch off the sound. ‘What was he saying –’

‘Here,’ said Hassad, pointing to the turning. ‘The doctor is down this road.’

Porter flicked the indicator, and started to pull the van across the corner. ‘What were they saying about Katie?’

‘They don’t know anything,’ said Hassad.

‘Nothing about the explosion?’

Porter looked across at Hassad. His face was tight and taunt, as if the muscles in his skin were being stretched out on a rack.

‘They are just saying the execution is scheduled for eight o’clock this evening.’

The road was rough, just a dirt track, and there were a few goats grazing alongside it. The village up ahead looked to be no more than a single street nestling into the side of a hill, with a dozen houses, a shop and a couple of workshops. Up in the hills behind there were some cultivated fields, making a break from the scrubland all around them. ‘Why are Hezbollah saying nothing about an attack?’ he asked, looking back at Hassad.

‘Because they don’t want to admit it,’ said Hassad.

‘But Katie’s with us,’ said Porter. ‘They must know that.’

‘Then it looks like they’re planning on getting her back by eight tonight. This is their country, remember. So long as they find her, then the execution can still go ahead.’

Porter pulled the van up on the side of the road. A farmer was heading up towards the hills with a tractor and donkey. He turned round, looking at the van suspiciously, then when he saw Hassad climb out, quickly turned back and started driving faster. Porter killed the engine, and got down from the driver’s seat. As he did so, he unhooked the AK-47 from his back and tucked it under his arm. He could feel the smooth wood of the weapon next to his skin, and checked the mag. Plenty of ammo, he noted, feeling reassured by that. It doesn’t matter what the PR department at Hezbollah is telling or not telling people, he reminded himself. There’s no execution tonight. We’ll fight our way out of here by ourselves if we have to.

A cat was snarling at them as Porter helped Katie down onto the track. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

She nodded. Her legs were wobbling, and she clung on to Porter for support, but there was enough strength in her knees for her to stand. ‘I think so.’