'I'm English, yes,' said Porter, looking straight at her.

For the first time it was possible to see something other than despair in her eyes. Not hope exactly, Porter realised. That would be putting it too strongly. But there was some strength there that he hadn't seen when he'd first walked in: a sign that she might be able to struggle through the next few hours at least.

'Who ... ?'

Suddenly she started to cough violently. Her whole body had become badly dehydrated over the last few days and as she started to speak, her throat seized up. Porter could see the shame and humiliation in her eyes as the saliva started to dribble down the front of her mouth. Without being able to lift either of her hands, there was nothing she could do to stop it.

'Who are you?' she said finally when she managed to bring the coughing under control.

'I'm the best news you've had since you got here,' said Porter.

It looked as if she was attempting a smile, but her face was too weak for the muscles to respond. 'I ... I ...'

The coughing started up again: a vicious hacking sound that appeared to throttle her, and caused teardrops to start forming around her strained and tired eyes.

'Give her some bloody water,' snapped Porter.

Hassad remained immobile, neither saying nor doing anything.

'Fuck it, man, she'll be bloody dead by tomorrow morning,' growled Porter.

He walked over to the jug of water, picked it up and poured some into the tin cup next to it. Then he stood next to Katie, holding the back of her head in his hand. The stench was vile, worse than anything he had ever experienced even while he was sleeping rough. Anyone who has ever been homeless has developed a strong stomach, but Porter was struggling to keep himself from vomiting. He pushed the cup up to her lips, holding her head in position to give her any chance of drinking it. Her throat was so dry that at first the water just washed over her lips, the way a heavy rainfall will wash over the land, but eventually she was able to swallow some of the water, gulping it down greedily. When the cup was empty, Porter turned round to refill it from the jug. But Hassad was now holding it. 'Here, let me,' he said contemptuously.

He filled the tin cup, and held it up to Katie's mouth. The first hit of water had started to strengthen her, and she was better able to drink this time: as soon as the cup was at her mouth, she drank down its entire contents in two swift gulps, with hardly a single drop spilling out over her face. 'We need to get you looking alive for the camera,' said Hassad. 'That way it will be all the more shocking when your head is severed from these shoulders for all the viewers watching back at home.'

'You can't execute her,' snapped Porter.

'I can and I will,' said Hassad.

'Who sent you?' said Katie, her eyes darting nervously from Porter to Hassad.

'Nobody sent me,' said Porter. 'I came of my own accord.'

'For ...' She started to cough again, and it took her nearly a minute to bring it under control. 'For what?'

'I might be able to get you out of here.'

Her head moved slightly from side to side. It was no more than a flick of the neck, and maybe she was just trying to stretch the few muscles she had been left in control of. But Porter could see something else in her expression. She didn't believe him. Even worse, she didn't want to believe him. He'd seen the same looks sometimes in the faces of guys dossing down in the street. They'd given up all hope. They no longer reckoned they could do anything for themselves, nor would anyone else be able to rescue them. They were just waiting to die. And the sooner their lives ended, the better.

'Just wait and see,' muttered Porter, as Hassad took hold of his shoulder, and guided him back towards the door.

But she had already closed her eyes.

Hassad looked back at her. 'One more night of suffering, and then your ordeal will be over,' he said softly.

I'll get you away from these bastards, Porter said to himself. Or I'll sure as hell die trying. Or I'll sure as hell die trying.

NINETEEN.

Porter walked alongside Hassad through the narrow, dank corridor. He knew the memory of what he had just seen would remain with him for the rest of his life all twenty hours of it. The woman tied to that stake was nothing like the young, tough, resourceful woman who was being talked about every night on the television back at home. She had been boiled down to nothing more than a skeleton with some skin and veins wrapped around it.

The bastards had only had her for five days. And they'd already drained every ounce of spirit and resistance out of her.

Porter knew he had to stay calm. Inside he was raging, but he knew he had to conceal that from Hassad. To show even the slightest trace of emotion would be a mistake. He had to make Hassad believe that he was here as a negotiator. He had to convince the man there was something he could do for him, some deal he could offer, that would persuade him to at least postpone the execution for a few days. If nothing else, maybe he could get them to cut her down from that stake, and let her get a few hours' rest.

But what? They had discussed it back at the Firm, and apart from releasing the prisoner in Guantanamo Bay nothing they had suggested sounded very convincing. Sometime in the next few hours, he realised, he would have to make the toughest call of his life so far. Shall I try and negotiate? Or should I just concentrate on breaking Katie out with my bare hands?

But what the hell can I do? Just one man against maybe dozens of them?

It was just a short walk back to the main junction where the staircase down from the lift shaft ended. Hezbollah had obviously chosen this part of the mine as their main base. How far the mine extended, there was no way of telling for sure: from the surface it looked like it had once been a pretty big operation, so it could go on for miles and miles. Even if only a tiny fraction of it was occupied, Hassad and his men would know the entire layout, and would almost certainly have booby-trapped the rest of the place to deal with any potential intruders. Even if by some miracle I knew exactly where we were, and I managed to transmit the location back to London, the Regiment would find this place tough to break into.

Porter was surveying the territory as he walked, making sure he knew every inch of the ground, and committed every face to his memory. The same two guards had still been standing mute outside Katie's door, but he reckoned there must be a shift change, probably three times a day: in any well-organised army, eight hours was the maximum sentry duty you could expect a man to perform before he started getting tired and careless, and Hassad's mob looked pretty professional to Porter. He made a mental note to see if he could figure out the time of the shift change: there might be a few seconds in which there was a chance to sneak into Katie's room unnoticed. As they walked into the main meeting point of the tunnels, Porter took note of another pair of heavily armed men standing guard at the bottom of the staircase. In total, Porter reckoned he had seen between fifteen and twenty different guys since they had arrived here, including the blokes they'd driven with in the Mercedes. As a rough rule of thumb, he calculated there could well be double that: some men would be sleeping, some would just be in different parts of the mine, some would up on guard duty above ground. That meant there could be anything up to forty Hezbollah fighters down here.

Forty to one, thought Porter grimly. That's just suicide.

Hassad steered him towards the third tunnel leading away from the main meeting place. Like the corridor in which Katie was incarcerated, it stretched back about thirty yards, except at the end this one dropped into what looked like a deep crevice the mining company must have cut into the rock. This must be where some of the men kip down, Porter reckoned. There were a few small rooms leading off the corridor, each one with three or four straw beds on the damp ground. Electric lamps illuminated part of the way, but some of them had been turned off, probably to save power. He saw a few men sitting around in each room. Some of them were cleaning their guns, or repacking the ammunition in their belts. One or two were reading or writing letters. The rest were just staring into space. Same as soldiers anywhere, thought Porter. They were trying to get as much rest as they could before the next firestorm kicked off.

'This will be your room,' said Hassad. 'So long as you are our guest, then you can stay here.'

How long are they expecting me to stay here? Porter wondered. Their plan is to kill Katie tomorrow evening. Maybe I'm the next hostage after they've finished with her.

He pushed open the door. It was no more than a cave: a space where the miners had blasted into the rock years ago. It was four metres deep and about three metres wide. Hassad knelt down to switch on an electric lamp, which filled the space with a pale, golden light. There was a straw bed and a bucket in the corner with some water in it. From the smell of the place, some men had been kipping down here pretty recently, but they seemed to have cleared out. 'Wash,' said Hassad. 'We will eat in twenty minutes, and then we will get some rest.' He smiled to himself. 'Tomorrow, after all, is a pretty big day for us.'

Porter turned to face him. The last time they had been this close was seventeen years ago when he had been about to plunge a knife into the man's neck. 'Let me take her place,' he said.

Hassad shook his head.

'You need blood, then take mine,' growled Porter. 'If you let her go, then I'll happily replace her.'

Again, Hassad shook his head. There was no trace of emotion in his eyes. Not even a trace of interest.

'We need headlines,' he said flatly. 'It's the only weapon your leaders understand. Certainly the only weapon with which we can match them blow for blow. And I'm afraid your face isn't pretty enough to make the same kind of impact on the television screens.'

'Then think of the headlines if you release her,' snapped Porter. 'You'll get massive sympathy right throughout the country. And you still have a hostage you can behead if the government doesn't give in to your demands.'

Hassad paused. In his eyes, Porter reckoned he could see a flicker of interest. His twisted mouth was set in a look of concentration, and Porter knew he had to press home whatever advantage he might briefly have. 'Just think about it,' he said. 'You'd have released Katie, and that would get you a lot of support. I'd be a hero for getting her out of this hellhole. And now it would be my life on the line. The pressure to save me from execution would be intense. You'd be closer to your goal than you can ever imagine.'

Porter was watching Hassad's eyes, and he could see the proposal dying even as he spoke. The man was losing interest, turning away. 'Interesting,' he said finally. 'But not possible.'

'Why the hell not?' said Porter.

He grabbed hold of the fabric of Hassad's T-shirt, but immediately regretted doing so. Don't show too much emotion, he told himself. Don't let the bastards get to you. Just get closer and closer to them until you can start to win them over. Hassad touched the side of hand that was holding on to his T-shirt disdainfully, and Porter instantly withdrew it. 'Because it would show weakness,' he said. 'You've been a soldier yourself, so you surely know that to show the slightest flexibility, to admit even the possibility of doubt, would be mistake. We are the underdog, remember, and we have to be harder and if necessary crueller than our enemy if we are to get anywhere.'

Porter was about to reply, but Hassad was already leaving. 'One of our men will collect you shortly,' he said.

The door shut behind him, and Porter was confined and alone. He noticed at once that the door wasn't locked. It was just a relatively flimsy piece of wood, wedged into a frame that had been built into the rock. It didn't have a lock, not even a bolt. Even if it did, one strong heave from the shoulders would probably take the whole thing down. Porter tapped against it twice. Chipboard, he decided. Cheap, and weak. If I wanted to, I could walk straight down this corridor, and find my way out of this place.

Except I'm not going to.

They haven't locked me up because they know I'm not going anywhere. Not without Katie Dartmouth anyway.

He walked across to the metal bucket in the corner. The smell of the room wasn't too bad: you could tell blokes had been kipping down on the straw, and certainly nobody had been in to change it, but when you'd been sleeping rough for a few years, you got used to far worse. The air was bad, however: there wasn't any proper ventilation down here, and what oxygen managed to filter its way into the mine was already stale and old. You could taste the bodies it had already passed through with every breath you took, and it made Porter feel more unclean than he had at any point in his life. Dipping his hands into the water, he scooped up the cold water, and splashed it across his face and his hair. It was the same way he'd washed when he was living on the street. At least I'm used to it, he reflected bitterly.

There was no mirror in the room, and no shaving kit either. Porter hadn't shaved since he'd left his room in the Firm, and that was getting on for forty-eight hours ago now. A beard was growing on his face: he'd always been a man who could put on a beard in a few days if he stopped shaving, and, living rough, he'd often had one when he hadn't been able to get to a proper bathroom. Out here it might even be an advantage, he decided. If by some miracle I escape, then it will help me blend in among the local Arabs.

Porter paced around the room once then twice. Even though he didn't know exactly what time it was, he thought it was late on Friday night. The execution was scheduled for eight tomorrow night: that meant if he didn't make any progress with Hassad and the rest of the raghead bastards tonight, he wasn't likely to get a second chance. Tomorrow, they'd all be sharpening their swords, ready for their big moment on TV.

He reckoned that for all their talk and for all Peregrine Collinson's talk in particular the Firm hadn't made any more progress in the last forty-eight hours. Katie was right here, and it was as clear as hell that the boys back in London didn't have the faintest clue where 'here' was. If they had, they'd be raiding the place. Tonight. They wouldn't leave it until the last minute. Too risky.

Porter paused for a second. He splashed some more water on his face, trying to clean the dirt that had clung to him from the cell and the firefight. There were a couple of small scabs from the cuts he'd picked up, but they flaked away easily enough. It was nothing too serious. If they do know where she is, then they might come tonight. If the Regiment have discovered this mine, they'll send in a unit, probably around three or four in the morning. Even with regular shift changes, the guards were always a lot sleepier around then, and that pushed the odds up in your favour. They'd probably sneak in a few men first, and try and cut a few throats quietly before they set off the big fireworks. I need to be watching out for that in the next few hours. I might be in the middle of making my own move when suddenly a couple of dozen Regiment guys start rampaging through the place. Dressed the way I am, the bastards will probably shoot me on sight. I'll be just one more incident of 'friendly fire'.

There was a knock on the door. Porter spun round. There was a boy standing in the corridor. He couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen, Porter reckoned. His short hair was jet black, and his brown eyes shallow and dark, but there was nothing nervous or immature about the way he held himself. He stood up straight and tall, and carried himself with confidence. You remind me of someone, thought Porter. Someone from years ago. Of course, he told himself. The kid looked just like Hassad did the night I should have killed him all those years ago. A nephew, maybe. Or even a son. Christ, it looks like kidnapping, terrorism and torture is a sodding family business down here.

'Come,' he said. 'We eat now.'

Porter followed him down the corridor. The men had emptied out of the rooms, but he noticed there were still three guys with guns strapped to their chests standing where the corridor hit the main meeting point. They don't trust me that much, thought Porter. If I'd tried to walk out of here, those men would have stopped me.

The boy pointed left. In his head, Porter was starting to get a rough layout of the mine. The staircase brought you down to the meeting point. In one direction, they had the cells, where Katie and maybe a few other unfortunate souls were locked up. In another, there were the few rooms he'd seen earlier where the men kipped down. Next to that, there were a couple of cells with open bars. Inside one, he could see a pair of young Israeli soldiers chained to the wall: from the looks of them, they were slowly starving to death. And now there was this corridor, the one the boy was leading him along. This must be where they do the cooking, and keep all the kit.

As he glanced inside a couple of the small rooms cut into the rock, Porter could see a vast array of munitions. There were stacks of assault rifles: AK-47s mostly, but also a few of the American-made M16s he used to fight with when he was in the Regiment, and some IMI Galils they must have captured from the Israeli Army. There were at least a dozen machine guns, with thirty or forty neatly stacked boxes of ammo. A dozen RPGs. At least ten boxes of hand grenades. And a wall full of handguns: Berettas, Brownings, Colts. A whole bloody alphabet of the things.

Enough to kit out a small army, thought Porter with a grim smile.

Then he corrected himself.

This is a small army.

And the bastards back at Vauxhall expect you to deal with them single-handedly.

The boy led him to the largest room he had yet seen in the mine. It was at least twenty metres deep, and twenty wide, cut to a height of about two and a half metres. The floor was mostly covered with straw, but there were a couple of rugs at its centre. There were no chairs the blokes were all squatting or kneeling on the rugs but at the far end there were a couple of long wooden tables with plates of food on them. Along one side, there was a wall of electric lights: about six in total, filling the room with a busy glow. And next to that, there was a bank of computer kit. Porter counted five PCs, each one on its own work table, and two flat-screens TVs that were picking up satellite broadcast signals. Beside them, there was a mess of wires and routers that were feeding data into and out of the cave. Hunched over them, there was one boy who didn't look more than twenty. Thin, with a straggly beard, and a T-shirt that was at least one size too small for him, he was busily programming one of the computers. The IT department, Porter reflected. That's how they are communicating with the rest of the world. And that's why we can never track them. That kid is smart enough to route any message they send through so many hijacked PCs around the world, the source always remains untraceable.

All the men in the room turned to look at him as soon as he stepped inside. In total, Porter calculated there were around twenty guys in the room. They ranged in ages, from the boy who had led him here, up to a couple of guys who looked like they were past sixty. The bulk of them, however, were in their twenties or thirties. Old enough to know how to fight, thought Porter. But also young enough to be fast on their feet. Just the kind of men you'd want in any army.

Three were clean-shaven, but the rest of them all had black beards. There was no formal uniform. Most of the men were dressed in jeans, trainers and a shirt. All of them were armed. There were curved, brutally sharp knives tucked into the waists of their trousers, and pistols tucked neatly into their pockets. A few still had their assault rifles strapped to their chests, others had checked them in at the door. Christ, thought Porter, a man feels underdressed in this place if he doesn't have at least a couple of hundred rounds on him.

'You must be hungry,' said Hassad.

His tone was formal, polite, yet distant as well, Porter noted. He must remember that he killed my mates, and he must know that I'm not likely to forgive that. I'd be distant as well if I thought a bloke had travelled a couple of thousand miles just to cut my throat.

'Starving,' said Porter.

It was true as well. Porter hadn't had anything proper to eat since he'd picked up some grub at the bus stop. He hadn't thought about it, but now he could feel the hunger chewing away at his stomach. The men were eating out of tin containers, very similar to the ones Porter had used out in the field when he was in the army. There were plates of food spread across the wooden table: piles of flat, warm pitta bread, some salads made of olives, cucumbers and chickpeas, and piles of cold lamb and chicken, all of them covered in spicy sauces. Porter chucked come chicken and lamb into the pitta, and put some of the salad on the side. Then he took a knife and fork, and followed Hassad towards the centre of the room. 'Why not give Katie something to eat?' he said.

Hassad shook his head. 'I know you think we are cruel men, but really it isn't true,' he replied. 'A woman dies better on an empty stomach.'

'Bollocks,' snapped Porter. 'Even on death row they give a man a decent last meal.'

'That is not our way,' said Hassad, his voice barely more than a whisper. 'Believe me, when a person is beheaded, then their bowels automatically empty. It is better if there is nothing there. We do not wish to humiliate her. Insofar as it is possible, we would like her to have a dignified death, one she can be proud of.'

'There's no pride in dying.'

'That is where you are wrong, my friend,' said Hassad. 'Osama bin Laden himself has spoken eloquently on this subject. The difference between our two civilisations is that while you celebrate life, we celebrate death. For us, there is no shame in dying, no fear either.'

'You didn't see it that way when you were a kid,' said Porter. 'I was about to kill you then, and I decided not to. Maybe that's because, as you say, we celebrate life.'

Hassad paused, and for a moment Porter thought he might have got through to the man, but then he started to pick at the food he had piled onto his plate. They were sitting down now, on a rug to the left of the tables full of food. There were three men next to them, and they introduced themselves briefly: Nasri, Jabr and Asad. Nasri looked to be around sixty, but the other two seemed to be in their early thirties, the same age as Hassad. From the way they acted, Porter reckoned the four of them were in charge of the place: they looked more senior than any of the other guys, although what the hierarchy was between the four of them, Porter couldn't figure out.

'That's different,' said Hassad, when Porter had sat down. 'I was just a boy then. I didn't ask you to spare my life, although I am grateful that you did, and I recognise the debt that I owe you. But I was fighting as a warrior for my people and my God that day, and if I had died I would not have objected.'

Porter started to eat. He took a chunk of the pitta filled with chicken, and swallowed it quickly. There were jugs of water on the rug: he poured some into a cup, and gulped it down, drawing strength from the food and water. 'We can negotiate,' he said, looking back at Hassad. 'That's what I'm here for.'

Hassad raised his hand. 'We'll listen to what you have to tell us,' he said. 'But you should know my colleagues didn't want you to come here.'

Nasri leant forward. 'It is Hassad's debt,' he said softly. 'He owes you his life, we know that, but his debts are not our debts. So you see, your coming here can only create problems for us. Indeed, three of our men have already died, and one has been wounded, because you were captured on the way.'

'All I'm asking is that you listen to what I have to say,' said Porter. 'A woman's life is at stake.'

He was still trying to figure out which of the men was the most senior: Hassad spoke with the most authority, and seemed to make more decisions, but Nasri was the oldest, and the Arabs respected years. If I can get through to Nasri then maybe he can bring the rest of them round.

'Then talk,' said Nasri. 'But we don't have much time, so talk quickly.'

Porter looked at the man. His hair and his beard were greying, and his face was lined and weather-beaten, but he had a rock-like strength to him which reminded Porter of the sergeants who'd trained him. His muscles were like lumps of stone, and his eyes were as fierce and unyielding as storm clouds. At a guess, Porter would say he was the guy in charge of the fighting. He trained the men, and gave them their orders. And if I have to fight my way out of here, it's you I'm going to be up against.

'I've offered to take her place, and that offer still stands,' Porter started.

'And I've already told you, we're not interested,' Hassad interrupted.

He turned to the others, smiled and muttered something in Arabic. They laughed briefly yet harshly, then all looked back at Porter again.

Christ, how did I ever get myself into this job? Porter wondered. The only thing I've ever been able to negotiate is a couple of quid to buy myself a drink. And I wasn't even much good at that.

'I've been told I can bring you a message from the British Prime Minister,' said Porter, recalling the lines he had been fed back in Vauxhall. 'He has a "Roadmap to Peace" which he is prepared to kick-start so long as you let Katie Dartmouth go. He can talk to the Israelis and to the other regional players, and start ...'

At his side, Porter could see Jabr slamming his fist down into the rug. 'The Jews don't care what any British Prime Minister thinks,' he growled. 'There will never be peace. Not until the Jews are driven back into the sea.'

'He says he'll talk to the White House,' said Porter. 'If the American President gets behind the roadmap '

'Nice try, but it's not going to work here,' said Hassad. He was chuckling as he spoke. 'Everybody knows that the Americans couldn't care less what the British think. You are just the poodles.'

Nasri jabbed a finger in Porter's direction. 'America is controlled by the Zionists. They do what the Israelis want them to do. The British are America's poodles, so it follows that you are the tools of the Zionists as well.'

Porter knew he was struggling. He hadn't imagined they would be interested for a moment in the offer of peace talks. But he was being paid to speak to them. I'll do my job the best I can. And then I'll take matters into my own hands.