‘Thank you, sir,’ said Porter.

‘But let me tell you my terms,’ Sir Angus continued. He was already starting to turn back to the revolving door. ‘If you’re wasting our time, I’m going to get them to beat the bloody hell out of you, then take you to the back of this building, and feed you to the sodding fish. Got that? You can leave now if you want –’

‘I’ll take those terms,’ said Porter with quiet determination.

FIVE

On the table in front of him, there was jug of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Porter took the jug, and poured himself a third cup of coffee, drinking it down in a couple of gulps, then eating another of the biscuits. He’d have polished off the whole plate in the next few minutes, he realised. When you lived on the streets, you ate your food quick, before someone stole it, the same way a wild dog does.

He’d been sitting here for ten or fifteen minutes already. The guards had taken him down three flights in the elevator, into the network of cells and interrogation rooms that lay deep underneath the Firm’s headquarters. They’d remained silent during the time it took to bring him here: Porter could tell the guy in charge was looking forward to roughing him up if his story didn’t check out. ‘Someone will be along to see you in a minute,’ he had said briskly, as he ushered Porter into the room.

It didn’t look like a prison cell, Porter thought, but that’s what it was. The door was locked behind him, and he reckoned you’d need at least a couple of pounds of Semtex to break through it. There was grey carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted a grey-white. A simple table was in the centre of the room, with the coffee jug on it, and next to it there was a chair. A flat-screen TV nestled in one corner. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.

Porter took another biscuit, and flicked on the TV. Sky News was covering the Katie Dartmouth hostage story twenty-four hours a day now. The presenter was going over live to Downing Street, where the Prime Minister was about to make a statement. Porter watched with interest, as the familiar figure appeared on the screen. He paused, and there was catch in his throat as he concentrated on what he was about to say. ‘Let me just start by saying that all our thoughts are with Katie Dartmouth and her family at this time,’ he began, looking straight at the camera. ‘I just say this to the people who have taken her. Whatever your quarrel is with the British government, then we can talk about that, but there is nothing to be gained from taking the life of an innocent young woman. Now, to the British people I say this. They are asking for British troops to be withdrawn from Iraq, but nothing is more important than that we stay the course, and don’t turn our back on the war on terror. Sir Perry Collinson has been put in charge of our diplomatic efforts to bring Katie Dartmouth out of the Lebanon. Whatever he needs to bring that about, you may be assured it will be put at his disposal.’ The PM paused, coughing slightly. ‘This certainly isn’t the moment for sound bites,’ he continued. ‘But in our darkest hours, our finest men come forward. Perry Collinson one of those men.’