‘Business?’ said the policeman, glancing from the picture on Porter’s passport and up into his eyes.

‘Social visit,’ said Porter.

The policeman nodded but remained suspicious.

‘I’ve made a few friends while doing business here,’ Porter continued.

‘Hotel?’ said the policeman.

His tone, Porter noted, was just on the wrong side of indifference.

‘The Marriott,’ he replied.

The policemen flicked through the pages, checking the different visas, then lost interest and waved Porter through. He kept on walking, past another row of armed soldiers, then stepped out into the main airport hall. He could feel a sudden shot of adrenalin buzzing through him. This is where the waiting ends, he told himself. Another few hours and I’ll be in the thick of it. God help me.

People were swarming through the main hall. There were big families welcoming passengers off the planes. A few taxi drivers were holding up placards with names attached to them, but none of them said John Porter. Up ahead, there was a bank of money changers, car-rental offices, and hotel booking agencies, and just alongside them a group of taxi drivers touting for business. As he paused for a moment to take in the atmosphere, Porter couldn’t help but notice the unmistakable smell of the Middle East. It was a mixture of sweat, and dates, mixed with almonds, stewed meat and sweet tea. It clung to the air, and got onto your skin: even one breath was enough to remind Porter that he hated the place, and would be happier turning round and taking the next plane home again.

‘Need help with that bag,’ said a voice that appeared as if from nowhere at his side.

Porter looked round. Ben Stanton was around forty, with short brown hair, and a deep tan to his face. He was wearing grey chinos and a blue linen jacket, with no tie. His smile was engaging yet distant, as if he could think of places he’d rather be but was too polite to mention them. What does it take to get the Firm’s Beirut posting? Porter wondered. You’re either the best man they’ve got, so they give you the toughest posting. Or else you’re a loser they don’t know what to do with, so they ship you off to some hellhole hoping you’ll get yourself shot, and they can save themselves the cost of your pension.

Stanton looked like the latter, but with spies, Porter thought, it was always risky to judge by appearances. The good ones were masters of deception – and the first thing they always lied about was themselves.

‘I’ve got a car waiting,’ Stanton continued. ‘Follow me.’

Porter glanced from side to side. There were soldiers lining the exits, scanning everyone suspiciously, their machine guns gripped tight to their chests, ready to be fired. Stanton ignored them, walking straight past, as if they were just adverts plastered to the walls. So did everyone else. That’s Beirut, thought Porter to himself. Everyone is so used to war, they no longer even notice it.