If only you knew what I was really here for, thought Porter with a grim smile, you’d kill me on the spot.

He glanced at the clock. Six twenty. Hassad hadn’t given the Firm any precise time for the pickup. But they expected him to be getting to the bar around five thirty, so they should have scheduled the collection for shortly after that. Maybe it’s a set-up, thought Porter. Maybe they are just going to leave me, and then let that bloke with the scar cut my throat open as soon as it gets dark.

A man walked up to the bar. Late forties, Porter noted, with a linen jacket, a bald head and one of those Saddam Hussein moustaches that men wore throughout the Middle East. Is that my contact? wondered Porter. For a moment, he could feel his muscles tensing with anticipation. But the guy just ordered some chilled water and tea, and went to sit outside by himself. Porter emptied the rest of the Johnnie Walker bottle into his coffee cup, and knocked it back in one gulp. Much more of this and I’ll be looking for somewhere to spend the night.

Six forty. Porter took out the book the Firm had packed into his bag. Pretty good, he decided, after a few pages, but it was difficult to concentrate on reading anything. One of scarface’s friends had left the bar, but the rest of them were still arguing over the contents of that day’s paper. The barman had switched on the radio, and as the news came through Porter caught the name of Katie Dartmouth, but the presenter was talking so fast in Arabic he couldn’t begin to translate what he was saying. Who knows, thought Porter, maybe the bastards have already killed her.

‘Mahmudiyya,’ said a voice behind him.

The instant he heard the word, Porter could feel his heart thump against the walls of his chest. This is where it all kicks off, he realised grimly.

Porter looked up. There were two men standing right next to him. The taller of the two was almost six foot, slim with slicked-back hair, around thirty, with the hardened face and the muscles of a man who’d been in plenty of fights. The shorter man was about five eight, with thin dark hair, a face that was running to fat even though he couldn’t even have reached his mid-twenties yet. A pair of sunglasses were wrapped around his eyes, and there was a gold chain glinting through the black hairs on his chest that were visible through his open-necked shirt.

This is it, thought Porter. He drained the last few dregs of his whisky-soaked coffee and stood up. Time for the kickoff.

‘Let’s go,’ he said quietly.

The two men remained silent. They turned on their heels, heading towards the door. Scarface and the barman were watching as he left, their jaws dropping slightly, but neither of them moved from their spot. Do they know these goons? wondered Porter. Do I …?