‘Call me Perry,’ Collinson interrupted. His voice rang out around the tiny room, at least a couple of decibels too loud. We’re just having a chat, mate, Porter thought. You’re not addressing a battle-ready battalion.

‘I’ll call you Gloria,’ muttered Steve.

Porter was already laughing when he heard Pemberton snap: ‘What was that?’

‘Glorious, sir, glorious,’ said Steve.

Pemberton ignored him. ‘I know we don’t usually include men from any other regiments on our briefings, but Perry is a fine soldier, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help out.’

There was no time for any of the men to worry about him: they had just a few minutes to memorise their instructions. After weeks of patient detective work, the Firm had identified the address where Bratton was being held. Hostages were moved every eighteen to twenty-four hours to reduce the chances of their location being revealed, usually using Hezbollah operatives posing as taxi drivers. Agents inside Beirut had managed to turn one of them: the man was desperate for money, and grateful for the fifty thousand dollars handed over in crisp, clean notes. In return, he’d been given a Coke tin with a satellite tracking device hidden inside it. When he had a fix on the hostage’s location, he crushed the tin to activate the tracker and dropped it in the gutter outside the house. He’d left it there two hours ago, and ever since then the Firm had known precisely where Bratton was. But they had to go in tonight. By morning, he could have been switched to another location.

Intelligence reckoned there were twelve Hezbollah guards, on two rotating shifts of six men. There was backup not far away, so they would have to move fast. Thirty minutes was the maximum window from touchdown to evacuation. Any longer than that and they would be overrun by the enemy. The plan was what they’d trained for over the years. Standard hostage-evacuation procedure. A Puma chopper would take them in, and drop them onto the roof of the building. They would go in hard, kill everything that wasn’t nailed down to the floor, then get the hell out. If anything went wrong there was a backup unit waiting on the ship. They had all done it at the killing house back in Hereford a dozen times. There was no need to change the formula now. Just make it work.

‘One word of warning,’ said Pemberton, his voice turning grave. ‘The Firm reckons its man inside Hezbollah has put this marker outside the right building but you never know if you can trust any of those bastards. Beirut is the most dishonest, double-crossing few square miles of real estate in the world. They could have turned our informant, or he might have been double-crossing us all along. Just be prepared to have a welcoming party waiting for you.’

His eyes rested for a brief moment directly on Porter. ‘So you could be walking straight into a trap. The moment you smell anything fishy, don’t stop to investigate. Shoot your way clear of danger then get the hell back to base. The last thing we need is five British soldiers taken prisoner in that hellhole, and we won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you if that happens. Remember, just living to fight another day is a victory in itself. So good luck, and give them hell.’