‘We’ll be staying away from the duty-free, I think,’ said Layla sharply, steering him towards the coffee bar in the departures lounge. ‘You’ve got quite enough in your system, without stocking up on the vodka.’

‘Maybe I should bring my old mate Hassad a gift from Blighty,’ said Porter with a grin. ‘A T-shirt with Big Ben on it. Or some nice biscuits from Harrods.’

Layla had already ordered a couple of large lattes and croissants: Porter had grabbed some cereal and toast in his bedroom, but his hunger was still far from satiated, and he wolfed down the croissant in a couple of bites. ‘I somehow imagine the Society of Muslim Brothers doesn’t break out the Johnnie Walker when they get together for a meeting,’ said Layla.

‘I could grab a bottle just in case,’ said Porter.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘Maybe get them all pissed, then sneak out with the girl while they’re sleeping it off.’

Layla just rolled her eyes.

‘You eating that?’ said Porter, pointing towards her croissant.

‘There’ll be food on the plane, I suppose,’ she replied with a shake of her head.

He grabbed the croissant, and ate that in two bites as well. Looking around, Porter couldn’t tell where the rest of the flunkies the Firm had ordered to accompany them on the flight might be, but he felt certain they wouldn’t be far away. They were flying on an A320, which in economy class had six seats in each row, three on either side of the aisle, making sixteen additional officers once you took out the two seats occupied by Porter and Layla. Quite a party, he thought to himself. They would all be in plain clothes. They would slip quietly into the background. The Firm was good at that: it could tap an endless supply of grey men who shuffled unobtrusively into the shadows, only to appear as if from nowhere when they were needed.

‘I need the loo,’ said Porter, standing up.

Layla looked at him sharply.

‘Don’t worry,’ growled Porter. ‘I’m not doing a runner. I might need my head examining, but I actually want to get out there.’

‘Just don’t be long.’

Porter walked in the direction of the toilets. He glanced towards the duty-free, and couldn’t help but notice the vast display of whiskies, vodka and gin stacked high in the shop window. Bloody cheap, he reflected bitterly to himself. Johnnie Walker at twelve quid a bottle. They are practically giving the stuff away. No, he told himself, as he carried on walking. Nothing to drink. Not yet anyway.

The Firm had given him a hundred quid along with his luggage: to head up to Heathrow without any money in your pocket was just one more thing that would make him appear suspicious. He had another five hundred in Lebanese pounds, and Ben Stanton would have plenty more if he needed it. Just beyond the duty-free shop, there was a row of gift and clothes stores. Porter slipped inside one, and told the girl at the desk to give him a pair of jeans, a white shirt, some socks, pants and a pair of trainers, size nine. When she asked what label, he told her he didn’t care. And no, he didn’t mind what colour the jeans were, whether they were straight or boot cut, nor did he want to try them on. Within a couple of minutes, she had returned with a bulging bag. Porter counted out the money, thanked her and left.