A black Toyota 4x4 was parked outside on the tarmac. It looked new to Porter. The smaller man opened the back door, revealing the dark leather seats and blackened-out windows inside. Porter was about to climb in when the taller man touched his arm. ‘Wait,’ he said.

His tone was low and controlled, with a slight accent, but Porter could tell his English was good. ‘Here,’ he added.

There was a strip of black cloth in his hand. Porter knew instantly what it was.

A blindfold.

‘OK,’ he said.

He turned to face the car. The taller man stood behind him, and his height gave him at least three inches over Porter. He was stretching the cloth in his hand, then laid the strip across Porter’s face. The skin on his fingers was rough, like a builder’s, but his touch was as soft as a little girl’s, and Porter could feel himself growing nauseated by the sense of the man’s flesh touching his. He wrapped the blindfold around, once, twice, three times, so that the top half of Porter’s face was completely covered. The light totally vanished, and Porter could see nothing. A hand pushed him down into the back seat of the Toyota, and as he sunk back into the leather, he could hear the ignition turn, and feel the surge of power as the car started to move out into the street.

The blackness was total. Porter knew this was inevitable. If they were going to the place they had hidden Katie Dartmouth, then they had to be certain he had no idea where they had taken him. If he knew where she was, they would have to kill him, of that there could be no doubt. Even if they were planning to kill him – and he suspected they were – they would still go through the blindfold routine. If they didn’t, he’d know he was a dead man, and they’d surely save up that piece of information for later. A condemned man is always a nuisance: he knows he has nothing to lose, and that makes him dangerous. So, whatever the plan, the blindfold was unavoidable.

‘Where are we going?’ he said.

Silence.

He could hear only the hum of the engine, and the rumble of the tyres against the rough tarmac.

‘How long will it take?’ said Porter.

Again, silence. He could feel the Toyota turning first left, then right. Whether they were travelling north, south, east or west, he no longer had any idea. No doubt that was the intention.

‘I said, how long will it take?’

Silence.

OK, thought Porter. Don’t talk if you don’t want to. Just take me to Hassad.

FIFTEEN

The Toyota kept ploughing on over harder and harder terrain. Porter had long since lost track of what time it was. Two, maybe three hours they had been driving. It was hard to keep up, as it was to keep tabs on your direction when a blindfold was strapped over your eyes: lose that most basic of the senses, and the others seem to go as well.