‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Bramley, looking straight at Porter.

‘To help my country, sir,’ he replied, his tone even and controlled. ‘And that young girl, well, I’ve seen people held hostage in the Lebanon and it’s pretty bloody rough.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ insisted Sir Angus. ‘I say we let him make the call.’

Just then Layla switched on a speakerphone placed at the centre of the conference table. ‘We have Hassad Naimi on the line,’ she said softly.

The room went quiet. Each man sitting around the table was suddenly rigid with anticipation.

Sir Angus leant forward on the table, speaking clearly so that his voice could be picked up by the phone. ‘There’s a man here who says he saved your life,’ he said. ‘An SAS guy with two fingers missing on his left hand.’

There was a pause, almost audible on the line. But Hassad said nothing.

The entire room remained silent. At his side, Porter could hear Layla taking a sharp intake of breath.

‘Know him?’ snapped Sir Angus impatiently.

There was another long pause. Nobody was looking at Porter. They were staring at the table.

‘No tricks,’ Hassad replied. ‘The woman dies at eight on Saturday.’

The voice was pinched and dark, with a slight American accent to it.

‘Do you know this man?’ repeated Sir Angus.

Another pause. ‘It makes no difference …’

Porter stood up, and walked five paces along the table. Leaning over, he wiped a thin film of perspiration from the back of his neck. Looking at the speakerphone, as if he were looking straight into the eyes of the man on the other end of the line, he started to speak. ‘You said you were so grateful I was an “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”,’ he growled. ‘A debt is a debt. All I ask is that you meet with me.’

The pause was even longer this time. One, two, then three seconds during which the only sound in the room was the muffled hiss of the speakerphone. ‘When can you be here?’ said Hassad.

‘Where is here?’ said Porter.

Everyone in the room exchanged glances.

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Hassad swiftly. ‘But if you fly to Beirut … then we can collect you.’

Porter glanced up at Sir Angus. He’d already scribbled one word down on a piece of paper, and was pushing it down the table.

‘Thursday,’ said Porter. It was Tuesday today, so that gave him less than forty-eight hours to get ready. ‘I can arrive in Beirut on the Thursday-morning flight.’

‘Then I’ll make arrangements for you to be picked up,’ says Hassad. ‘I owe you a conversation, I acknowledge that. But any tricks, and I’ll slice off your head right after I kill the girl.’

Silence.

The phone connection had already been severed.

Up at the head of the table, Porter could see Sir Angus glance at Collinson, and he could see the anger written into the creases around the man’s mouth. ‘Looks like you’ve got a job as a negotiator, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘Welcome to the team.’