‘Next time we have dinner, maybe I can get Mum to come along,’ said Sandy. ‘Or perhaps you could come up on Boxing Day or something.’

Porter laughed, climbing into the driver’s seat and snapping the seat belt into its lock. ‘I don’t mind taking on the bloody Hezbollah,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to face your mother again.’

Porter glanced across the station forecourt. Last time he’d stepped across it, someone had tried to run him down. Now he knew it must have been one of Collinson’s men: the bastard had known exactly where he was going, and wanted to stop him ever getting out to the Lebanon and finding out about what happened all those years ago. He checked the cars. There were no drivers sitting anxiously at their wheels. Collinson is dead, Porter reminded himself. That’s all finished with now.

He opened the door on the Mercedes, fired up the engine and pulled the car gently out into the road. It was just after nine, and he was done in for the day. All he wanted to do was catch some sleep.

‘Did she buy that story about you just being a driver for Sky?’ said Layla.

Porter looked round. She was sitting in the back seat, dressed in a crisp black suit, and with a pair of dark glasses dropped over her eyes.

‘It’s not a story,’ Porter snapped.

She leant forward, and he could smell a trace of perfume on her neck. ‘You work for us, Mr Porter,’ she said. ‘The driving job is useful cover. It will make people think you’re living a normal life.’

‘I’m finished with soldiering, I told you that.’

‘We don’t pay two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for one week’s work,’ she said. ‘What do you think this is? Goldman Sachs –’

‘We had a deal,’ said Porter.

‘And we want to get our money’s worth,’ said Layla. ‘Or would you rather we took it all back, and Sandy found out that her daddy wasn’t such a big shot after all?’

Porter paused. The traffic lights had switched to green, but he didn’t feel like putting the gear back into drive. Behind him, someone was starting to hoot. ‘What is it you want?’ he said finally.

‘There’s someone else we want you to get in touch with for us,’ said Layla. ‘Another man you came across during your time in the Regiment.’

‘Who?’

‘An Irishman … from the bad old days.’