‘Don’t worry, we’re sitting down,’ said Porter.

He patted the spare bottles tucked into his jacket pocket as he walked back to his seat. Doesn’t matter what she says, he told himself bitterly. The woman knows nothing.

‘Just stay where you are,’ said Layla sourly, making sure his seat belt was fastened. The stewardess was walking quickly away from them, relieved that the trouble had passed. Porter grabbed for some peanuts, pulled open the pack, and threw them into his mouth in a couple of handfuls, chewing on them angrily.

The turbulence had passed, and the clouds had split open, and suddenly Porter was looking out of the window at the clear blue sea leading up to the Lebanese coastline. The last time I was here I was flying in on a Puma to rescue a hostage and my life was about to fall apart. This time, I’m coming in on a commercial flight to rescue a hostage, and my life is almost certainly going to end.

The years roll by, and sod all changes.

FOURTEEN

Layla glanced at Porter’s face. She was scowling, and he could tell she was still furious with him for the drink he’d taken on the journey. They had walked off the plane in silence, accompanied by the silent flunkies from the Firm, then followed the signs through to the arrivals hall. Most of their fellow passengers were waiting to collect their bags from the carousel. But Porter didn’t have anything to collect. Just the holdall the Firm had given him, and he had that tucked under his arm.

When you’ve got a life expectancy of about two days, thought Porter, you really don’t have to worry about packing. You can even skip baggage reclaim – which just goes to show, there is some upside to every situation.

‘You know the drill?’ said Layla.

Porter nodded. ‘Yes, sir …’

‘Remember, no heroics,’ said Layla. ‘Your job is to get Katie Dartmouth out of there, or at least delay her execution, so that we have a chance to organise a rescue mission. We don’t need you trying to do this single-handed.’

‘We’ve been through this,’ Porter growled, walking towards passport control.

‘John,’ said Layla.

He turned round.

‘Good luck …’

Porter smiled. ‘Thanks …’

She nodded towards him. ‘If you get back alive, I might even buy you a drink.’

‘Make it a sodding double then,’ said Porter.

He turned on his heels and kept on walking towards the desk. Even inside the airport, Porter could feel the heat and humidity surrounding him. He stood in line alongside what appeared to be mostly a group of Arab businessmen passing through security. In total, there were no more than a dozen white faces among the two hundred or so people filling the arrivals hall. Up ahead, there were two armed policemen manning each desk, and they were checking each passport carefully. They were mostly Syrians, Turks and Egyptians, and all of them had visas, but they all needed to be checked. Porter glanced down at his own document. He noted that the Firm had backdated it a couple of years, and it already had Turkish and Lebanese entry and exit visa stamps in it: a passport that had already been used to get into and out of a country a few times was a lot less likely to provoke suspicion than one that was brand new.