Porter turned the sound down. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered out loud. That tosser couldn’t get a Cheesy Wotsit out of its packet. He certainly doesn’t know how to get Katie Dartmouth out of a cellar in Beirut.

Porter snapped rigidly to attention as he heard the lock turn in the door. A woman was coming into the room. He guessed she was about thirty-five, with dark hair that stretched down no further than the bottom of her neck, and with clear blue eyes that were set in a solid, serious face. She was wearing a black jacket and black skirt, with a white blouse and an amber necklace hooked around her delicate white skin. Just keep yourself focused, Porter told himself. Finally show Sandy that you can do something.

‘My name is Layla Thompson,’ she said, looking straight at Porter. ‘And you are …?’

‘Porter,’ he replied crisply. ‘John Porter.’

She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. There was a notepad and a pen in front of her, and she instinctively reached for them, but Porter noticed she wasn’t writing anything down. Just drawing a series of rectangles. ‘Sir Angus says you know how to get to Hassad Naimi,’ she said.

‘I’ve been through it once with the boss,’ said Porter. ‘I was in the SAS back in ’89. We went into the Lebanon to get out a hostage. Hassad was there. He was just a kid then, so I spared his life. I recognised him from the shape of his mouth. It’s deformed, you can’t miss it.’

‘And you think he’ll talk to you?’ said Layla.

She was about to pour herself a coffee and take a biscuit, but then she noticed they were all gone.

‘Like I said, I let him live,’ said Porter. ‘Three good men died on that mission, and I lost two fingers on my left hand. I’ve regretted it every bloody day since, but that doesn’t change the facts. He owes me. Arabs may not be good at much, and I wouldn’t trust the bastard any further than I could throw a camel. But they never forget an obligation. Not when their honour is at stake.’

‘Why did you let him live?’

‘Christ, he was just a kid …’

‘A dangerous one, however.’

‘We’ve been through all that,’ snapped Porter. ‘It’s not important now.’

‘Which years were you in the Regiment?’ said Layla.

‘From ’88 to ’92,’ answered Porter.

Layla nodded. She had the same patient manner of a doctor, listening carefully to what you said, while neither approving or disapproving. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll take some fingerprints, and a snip of your hair, so we can run ID checks, and a DNA test. We need to make sure you are who you say you are. If that works out, then we can have a conversation. OK?’

Porter nodded. It was going to take time, he told himself. You couldn’t walk back in from the cold after fourteen years and expect the security services to start trusting you.