Porter finished his breakfast, then Layla took him down-stairs. Somewhere there was a mole, he felt certain of it. And someone was trying to stop him making it to Beirut. The gym was down in the basement: not quite as far down as the interrogation rooms he’d been taken to yesterday, but still below ground level. There was a row of fitness and weight machines, a small sauna, and an exercise room. A couple of the desk cowboys were on the cycling machines, but otherwise it was empty at this time of the morning. Sam Roberts shook Porter’s hand. He was a chunky man, with a shaved head that was as round as a football. ‘What kind of shape are you in?’ he asked.

‘Who’s asking?’ said Porter looking at the man suspiciously.

‘Para, sergeant and fitness instructor, 2001 to 2005,’ barked Roberts. ‘That good enough for you?’

Porter nodded.

‘Now, again, what kind of shape are you in?’

‘Terrible,’ replied Porter.

‘We’ll do what we can, but there’s not much that can be achieved in a couple of hours.’

‘Just do your best,’ said Layla. She looked at Porter. ‘I’ll investigate what happened last night and get back to you.’

Sam handed Porter a skipping rope. ‘Let’s start with this,’ he said.

Porter held the thing in his hand. ‘I’m not joining the bloody Brownies,’ he snapped.

Sam laughed. ‘I guess techniques have changed a bit since you were last in the Regiment. Everyone skips these days. It’s the best way of practising hand-to-eye coordination, which is what firing a gun is all about. If you can’t skip, you can’t shoot either.’

OK, thought Porter. It’s just a couple of hours. Humour the bastard. He took the ropes, and tried to jump over it, but he had never skipped, not even as a kid, and the technique wasn’t there. He threw it over his head, and tried to jump. Instantly, his feet tangled up in the rope. He tried again. Same result. ‘Jump, man, bloody well jump,’ Sam snapped.

For a moment, Porter was transported back to a windy, cold barracks, a quarter of a century ago, back in the days when you could still smoke on the tube, and your career choices amounted to signing up to shoot people or going down the pits. He could recall himself as a young recruit, being bashed through his first paces on the parade ground. It was cold and windy, his head was shaven, and the food was terrible, but at least I had plans back in those days, he reflected. He wanted to be a career soldier: regimental sergeant major was the rank he had his eye on. That was a long time ago, he realised bitterly. He tossed the rope swiftly over his head, watched it move through the air, then jumped. One foot cleared the rope. The other caught on the back of his ankle, tangling up with his trainers.

‘Fuck it, maybe I’ll go out to the playground, and see if I can find a six-year-old girl to show us how to do this,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe send her out to Beirut. She’s got more chance of getting out alive than you have.’