Porter stood up straight, and started walking back to his own chair. The perspiration was still running down his back, but hopefully no one would notice it. ‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.

Sir Angus stiffened. The fingers of his right hand were tapping on the tabletop. ‘I thought you were volunteering to help your country,’ he said coldly.

‘I did that when I was younger, thanks,’ growled Porter. ‘And I ended up in the gutter.’

‘Then how much?’ said Sir Angus.

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, paid into my bank account tomorrow morning.’

Sir Angus glanced down at the papers on his desk. ‘You haven’t even got a bloody bank account,’ he snapped. ‘You haven’t even had a proper job for seven years.’

‘Then run down to sodding Barclays and open one,’ said Porter. He could feel his confidence growing now he’d spoken to Hassad: they needed him now. If he could just put enough money in the bank to take care of Sandy, well, then at least she’d have some respect for his memory. That would make it worthwhile, even if he didn’t return from the mission.

‘I’m risking my life for you,’ he said.

‘A quarter of a million pounds is a lot of money,’ said Sir Angus.

Porter was resting his hands on the edge of the table. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins as the argument took hold of him. ‘You don’t learn much on the streets, except that most people don’t give a fuck about their fellow man, but you do learn this,’ he said. ‘When people are desperate they’ll do just about anything. I reckon I’m the last bloke in England you want back on the payroll, and that means you’re desperate. So you’ll pay all right.’

Sir Angus was about to say something, but along the side of the table Geoff Bramley had already raised his hand. ‘Just pay it,’ he said. ‘We’ll send the bill to the Chancellor. Always good to ruin that miserable Scottish bastard’s morning.’

Porter nodded towards the defence minister. He’d lost two fingers in the Regiment, and they’d never even paid him a proper pension, so this was the least they could do for him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the details sorted. If I die on this mission, and let’s face it, we all know there is a pretty good chance that I will, then I want the money to go to my daughter Sandy. Set the account up in our joint name, and make sure the money is paid in before the plane takes off.’

‘Agreed,’ said Sir Angus wearily. ‘If you need a certain colour of socks, be sure to let us know, and we’ll see if it can be arranged.’ He smiled at his own joke, but his expression quickly turned serious again. ‘Layla’s going to get you cleaned up, and back into training,’ he says. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours to get briefed and to decide our tactics.’

Layla had already stood up, her expression purposeful and businesslike. Porter started to follow her towards the door. ‘One other thing, Mr Porter,’ said Sir Angus. ‘What the hell is the “amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun”?’