Swiftly, he walked the last few yards to the Gents, then, locking himself into one of the cubicles, Porter quickly undressed. It was a cramped space, but he was soon naked. He ran his hands across his body, making absolutely certain there wasn’t any kind of tracking device planted anywhere on him. When he was sure, he took the new clothes from the bag, dressed himself, washed his face, and walked quickly back towards the coffee bar where Layla was waiting for him. Glancing up at the departures board, he could see there were still forty minutes until their flight, but passengers were already being asked to make their way to Gate 26.

‘What the hell have you done?’ said Layla, looking up at him.

‘Changed,’ said Porter gruffly.

Layla shook her head, the expression on her face that of a nursery-school teacher faced with a particularly unruly pupil. ‘You didn’t like the clothes we bought you?’ she said. ‘Christ, we’re taking you to Beirut. We’re not going to Milan for a bloody fashion shoot.’

Porter leant over the table. She’d ordered herself as chocolate muffin while he was gone, and he grabbed a piece, putting it in his mouth. ‘Like I said in the car, I may have had a bit too much to drink over the past few years, but my brain’s not completely gone. Not yet anyway. I have to be absolutely certain you lot haven’t planted any tracking devices on me. Because if you’ve put a tracker on me, then sure as hell Hassad is going to find it. You can slip one into my clothes easily enough, even into the heel of a shoe, or just the button of a shirt. The only way I can be certain I’m clean is to be wearing clothes I just bought in the shop right here. Because if Hassad does find anything, he’s going to kill me on the spot. And frankly I wouldn’t blame the bastard.’

‘Christ, John, don’t you trust us?’

Porter shook his head firmly from side to side. ‘I trust only myself.’

The flight was only about half full, and that was including the seats the Firm had booked. Not many people flying to Beirut, thought Porter as he walked along the aisles to the toilets at the back of the plane. And who the hell can blame them. No business to be done, half the hotels are shut, and unless you’re dressed in a burka or a headscarf, the chances are some nutter will kidnap you and phone home asking for a million quid or he’ll chop your head off.

The A320 had been in the air for three hours now, and so far the flight had been pretty smooth. It was the first time Porter had been on a plane in nearly fifteen years, and they’d come on a bit since the charter flight to Spain he had taken with Diana and a three-year-old Sandy on the last family holiday they’d gone on before his drinking meant they no longer had any money for luxuries like that. The wings didn’t scream with pain every time the pilot changed direction. The seats were comfier. You could plug forty or more channels of music into your ear. And there was a neat little screen hanging on the ceiling that tracked the progress of the plane over Europe and told you how far you were from your destination. They were just passing over Sicily, Porter noted, and heading out into the Mediterranean. The pilot was banking left to steer them away from Egypt and towards Israel and the Lebanon. Not long now before they started their descent into Beirut.