He took a helping of salad on his fork, then some more meat, and when he had finished he held the knife in the palm of his hand. 'How about money, then?' he said. 'If a man isn't interested in peace then he should at least be interested in cash.'

Again Hassad paused before he answered. You could get a better measure of the deformity around his mouth when you were sitting close to him. It stopped him from speaking properly, and when he chewed, his lips contorted upwards, making it impossible for him to conceal the food he was swallowing. 'How much money is on the table?'

For a brief moment, Porter could feel his pulse racing. Maybe it was just money they were after all along. They didn't look like gangsters. There were plenty of guys here, and they were living in pretty rough conditions. Men put up with that because they believed in a cause, not because they wanted to make themselves rich. Gangsters would be hanging out by a pool somewhere down in Beirut, with a harem of Russian hookers, a fridge full of cold beer and a big satellite dish beaming down Sky Sports. They wouldn't be down here reading the Koran to one another.

'A million at least,' said Porter looking Hassad straight in the eye.

Hassad turned away to speak to his colleagues, talking quickly. While he was doing so, Porter slipped the knife inside the belt of his trousers. Then he took another chunk of food in his hands, and ate it quickly. 'If a million, why not more?' said Hassad looking back at him. 'Why not two million or three million?'

'Name your price,' snapped Porter. 'Then we can negotiate.'

'But the money doesn't matter, does it?' interrupted Nasri. 'One million, five million, ten million, what difference does it make? The British government just takes the money out of the bank, hands it over and carries murdering our people. The money doesn't change anything.'

'You take money from the French,' said Porter.

'That's different,' said Asad. 'The French aren't occupying our lands.'

It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice was by far the weakest of the four men. He was paler than the others, and his beard was struggling to cover his face. Maybe the brains of the outfit, thought Porter. In any terrorist cell, there would be a planner, a frontman and a fighter, and Porter's was guessing that Asad was the planner. Maybe he was the man to convince?

'So you see, money won't work for us,' said Hassad. 'If we wanted money, we'd just steal it.'

'Then what?' said Porter. 'Arms?'

'We can get all the weapons we need from Iran,' said Hassad.

'We've told you,' Nasri butted in. His tone was amused, but with an underlying layer of contempt. 'British troops must be taken out of Iraq and Afghanistan. Then the girl may live.'

'Then why are you rejecting the PM's roadmap?' said Porter. 'If there was peace, then the troops could come home. Believe me, I don't think any of the poor bastards want to be there.'

'Your PM's promises mean nothing, no British promises do,' said Asad. 'It is the British who have brought war to this region. The British let the Jews into Palestine, and drove our people out. And now the British are in Iraq, keeping our people oppressed.'

'They've liberated the country,' Porter growled.

'Some liberation,' Asad spat. 'Men are tortured in jails. Women are raped by your soldiers. Families are blown up daily. You call that liberation?'

'You think it would be better if they left?' said Porter. 'It would be a sodding bloodbath.'

There was a silence. Porter scooped up the last of the food from his plate, and stuffed it into his mouth. He could feel the blood raging through his veins, and food was about the only way he could think of to keep his mouth shut. Talk any more, and he was only getting himself into worse trouble.

Keep the conversation rolling, that's what they'd told him to do at the Firm. Engage their sympathy. Get them on your side. Well, they chose the wrong man for the job. I've never been able to persuade anyone of anything. If I had been, I wouldn't have found myself sleeping in the gutters.

I've got one more card, Porter decided. And there isn't going to be a better time to play it than now. 'Fouad Karem,' he said. 'Heard of him?'

'Karem?' said Hassad. 'He's one of our leaders, of course we've heard of him.'

'The imperialists have him,' said Asad. 'In Guantanamo.'

'We could arrange for him to be released,' said Porter. 'An exchange. You give us Katie Dartmouth, and we'll give you Fouad Karem.'

Not so much as a second passed before Asad replied, Porter noticed. They weren't even going to consider it. 'Hezbollah doesn't do prisoner exchanges, not with the Israelis, not with the Americans, not with anyone,' he said. 'Every person who joins us is willing to lay down their life for the cause. That is the deal, and they accept it.'

'He's your own man,' said Porter. 'You could get him out of there.'

'And make your life easy?' said Hassad. 'If we did that, every time you wanted something, you'd take one of our people and then offer to release them in exchange. We've told you. We don't negotiate with the infidel. That's our policy, and it is final.'

Turning away from Porter, he shouted across to the boy fiddling with the computers. 'Get us the British news,' he said, with a broad grin on his face. 'Let us see how they are preparing for the country's biggest execution since they cut the head off King Charles.'

TWENTY.

Even though the signal was being dragged down from a distant satellite, the reception was crystal clear. Porter folded his legs under him, and looked up at the screen as the Sky News logo flashed across it. This was the ten o'clock news, which, since Beirut time was two hours later than London time, meant that it was midnight here.

Saturday morning, Porter reflected. The day set for Katie Dartmouth's execution.

And probably my own. It's forty blokes against one. How can any man survive odds like that?

Porter could feel an icy shiver down his spine. He'd thought about the death plenty of times any soldier had but he had never felt it so close as he had over the past forty-eight hours. It was so near, he could almost reach out and touch it. Embrace it, he told himself. Show no fear. That's the only way to handle it.

'KATIE DARTMOUTH, MINUS TWENTY-TWO HOURS' beamed the headline on Sky News.

Porter glanced around the room. Most of the men had stopped eating and were looking up at the screen. Some of them were talking feverishly, but Porter couldn't make out a word they were saying: obviously they didn't talk in English, but they seemed to understand it well enough on the television. He could smell their mood, however: the unmistakable, triumphal aroma of soldiers who believe they are winning the battle.

'With twenty-two hours left before the scheduled time for the beheading of the Sky News reporter Katie Dartmouth, we'll bring you the latest on the story,' said the newsreader. 'The PM makes a last-minute appeal for calm. Sir Perry Collinson is already in Beirut to mastermind the hunt for Katie. Thousands gather in Trafalgar Square for an all-night vigil for peace. Stop the War protestors plan a mass rally tomorrow through London calling for British troops to be brought home. And we'll be live in Katie Dartmouth's home village getting the latest reactions from friends and family.'

On the screen, Porter could see the familiar figure of the PM standing on the steps outside Downing Street. 'I just want to say this,' he began. 'I know people have many different views on the war in Iraq, and I respect that, but in the end we're there to do a job, and we have to stay there until the job is done. So I say to the kidnappers of Katie Dartmouth, we have offered you talks, I have said I am willing to fly to the Middle East, to bring all the sides together, so that we can find a way of stopping the bloodshed. I am willing to meet the leaders of Hezbollah to discuss a way forward. But we can't start moving soldiers out of a country just because one group or faction wants us to. We are willing to talk, but we are not willing to surrender. So delay this terrible act by at least a few days, so that we can start discussions.'

'You see,' Hassad muttered towards Porter. 'He's not interested in peace.'

'He's just interested in war,' Asad spat. 'That's all the British ever want.'

Porter remained silent. He looked back at the screen. 'We're now crossing live to Beirut, where Sir Peregrine Collinson landed tonight. Our reporter Sam Davenport spoke to him outside the British Embassy in the city. Sam ...'

In the next instant, Collinson's face appeared on the screen. He was wearing a casual shirt, and his face had the worried, concerned, slightly disappointed look he could recall seeing on the face of every Rupert whenever they were about to dump you right in the crap. 'I can assure everyone back at home we're doing everything we can to locate Katie Dartmouth and bring her back out alive before tomorrow,' he said, his tone serious yet also calm. 'We're getting help from our allies, from the local authorities, and also from the ordinary Lebanese people who are shocked and horrified at what is being done in their name.'

There was a jeer from the men in the room. They were talking in Arabic, but Porter didn't need a translation. Whatever the raghead word was for 'tosser', that's what they were saying. If the local Lebanese are shocked and horrified, thought Porter, then somebody forgot to tell these blokes. In fact, they forgot to tell the whole sodding country, judging by the people I met when I was travelling through it.

'But have you got any leads?' asked Sam, putting his microphone up close to Collinson. 'Does anyone have any real idea where Katie is being held captive?'

Collinson nodded. The same look, Porter noted. The one the Ruperts adopted when they were about to lie to you. 'I can't give away any confidential information that might help our enemies,' he said. 'But I can assure people that the net is closing all the time. As Winston Churchill once said, "If you are going through hell, keep going." Well, that's just what we are going to do. Keep going, until we are victorious.'

'No one will have spoken to that fool,' said Hassad. 'This hiding place is totally secure. Even most of the leadership of Hezbollah don't know where we are.'

'Tomorrow, I shall be travelling to Israel,' continued Collinson. 'The Israeli government has promised us every support and assistance.'

'I told you,' snapped Nasri, slamming his fist on the ground, and looking in Porter's direction. 'The British and the Zionists are working hand in hand, just as they always have done. That's why we can never negotiate.'

The rest of the news bulletin scrolled by. Porter watched it, with dread mounting inside his heart. There was a report from the all-night vigil in Trafalgar Square. A couple of women were weeping hysterically as they held up 'Stop the War' posters: at least ten thousand people were now planning to spend the night out in the Square, according to the police. The peace march scheduled for tomorrow morning was expected to be hundreds of thousands strong, snaking its way through Parliament Square, and up to Downing Street. Sky's political editor popped up, explaining that the PM was planning to travel down to Chequers tomorrow morning, and so wouldn't see the demo, but would be monitoring the situation from there. According to government sources, he explained, the PM was now relying on Sir Perry to find Katie Dartmouth, and had given up on a diplomatic solution. The by-election on Thursday was now looking like a disaster, if the execution went ahead, and there were rumours of a leadership challenge. The news bulletin switched to a live report from Katie's home village in Hampshire. Her family were no longer talking to the press, explained the reporter. Katie's mother had been taken to hospital after suffering a stress-related collapse. A couple of people from the village said how shocked they were, and how they all hoped for a miracle tomorrow. A special prayer service was being held on Saturday morning, said the reporter as he closed the bulletin. Better pray for a miracle, thought Porter grimly. The big guy upstairs might be the only person who can help us now. Finally, the thumping, insistent piano chords of 'Someone Saved My Life Tonight' rolled out across the room as the break for the adverts began. A soft-focus picture of Katie stared out at them from the TV screen: a pretty, vibrant young woman, a million miles away from the beaten husk tied to a stake less than a hundred metres from where they were sitting.

'I don't understand why they play this song all the time,' said Nasri. 'This Elton man, with the funny glasses, is he some sort of religious figure?'

Porter tried to smile, but his heart wasn't in it. 'He's just a singer,' he said.

'You think the British will break?' said Asad, looking closely at Porter.

He sighed. He felt revolted sitting among these men. Whatever their cause, this was no way to fight. Skulking away in a bunker, torturing a woman, manipulating the media. If you wanted a war, it should be honest combat, man to man. But, much as he hated it, he could see that it was having an impact. The country was going crazy. The bastards down in this mine might be evil, but they were effective: what they were doing to Katie was hitting home a lot harder than lobbing a few bombs at the British Army down in Basra. 'Never,' snapped Porter. 'We stood up to the Nazis and we'll stand up to you.'

Christ, he thought to himself. I sound just like that tosser Collinson. But what else am I meant to say?

'Then we just have to put more pressure on them,' said Hassad. He stood up. 'Follow me.'

They started to move. Hassad was leading the way, and Nasri, Jabr and Asad were following on behind Porter. He walked down the corridor, through the meeting point of the tunnels, then straight towards the room where Katie Dartmouth was incarcerated. The door swung on its hinges, and Hassad stepped inside. Porter glanced into the room. Katie was still tied to the stake. She seemed close to losing consciousness. Her head had drooped to one side, and her eyes were so swollen it was as if they were bulging out of their sockets. There was a rotting stench of decay all around her, as if she had already died and her body had started to decompose. Maybe she already has died inside, thought Porter. Maybe she's just waiting for the rest of her body to catch up.

Not many people would have the strength to survive five days in this hell.

Hassad muttered something in Arabic. In response, Asad walked across to the camcorder. He trained it straight on Katie, and then switched on a powerful light that illuminated her face. You could see her much more clearly now: every cut, bruise and scab on her skin was bathed in white light. Her eyes flinched from the lamp, and she tried to look away, but there wasn't even enough strength in her eyeballs to turn away. A tear rolled down the side of her cheek. Then a gasp of pain escaped from her lips.

Christ, I can hardly bear to look, thought Porter. What the hell are the bastards doing now?

'I need you to make a statement,' said Hassad firmly, standing two feet in front of Katie, looking straight into her face.

'Wha ... wha ...'

She was trying to speak, but the words died on her lips.

Hassad took half a step forwards. Porter could see Katie flinching. Like an abused child, she now expected to be hit whenever anyone approached her.

'We will hold up some words on a card in front of you,' he said. 'We want you to look at the camera and read them out. We will send them through to the TV station you work for, and post them onto the Internet. When they wake up in the morning, the British people will be able to hear you making one last desperate appeal for your life.'

'For Christ's sake, man,' growled Porter. 'The woman is in no fit state to talk.'

'Shut up,' shouted Hassad.

'You're killing her tomorrow, isn't that enough?' said Porter.

'I've already told you to keep out of this,' said Hassad. There was a flash of anger across his face as he turned to Porter. 'She will do exactly what she's told to do.' He turned back to face Katie again. 'Now read,' he snapped coldly.

Asad was standing behind the camera. Above his head, he was holding a strip of white card with letters neatly stencilled in black ink. Porter glanced at it. 'My name is Katie Dartmouth,' it said. 'I am scared. Very scared. I don't want to die. These are not bad men, and their cause is a just one. They just want British soldiers off their land. So I appeal to the British people, go out of your homes, demand that your government brings your soldiers home. Please. Because if you don't, I will die, and my blood will be on all of your hands.'

Christ, thought Porter. They can't make her read that. Can they? Can they?

'Read it,' repeated Hassad.

Katie rolled her eyes towards the card. She was struggling to focus. Porter watched as her bruised and swollen eyeballs screwed up, trying to get a fix on the words. Slowly, from the expression on her face, he guessed that she was starting to make sense of the rows of black stencilling.

'Fu ...' she stuttered.

The words still wouldn't come.

Hassad took a step sideways. He grabbed the jug in the corner, filled a tin cup, and took two steps towards Katie. She flinched. Grabbing hold of her chin with his left hand, he pushed the water to her lips with his right. She drank quickly, drawing down the liquid in two fierce gulps. 'Now speak,' said Hassad.

'Fuck you,' spat Katie.

Although his face remained as impassive as lump of rock, Porter was smiling inside. That's the spirit, girl, he told himself. Show the bastards what you're made of.

Hassad took a moment to compose himself.

'Fuck you,' spat Katie again. 'You can kill me if you want to, but I'm not reading that shit for you.'

Hassad looked at Nasri. 'Deal with her,' he said curtly.

Nasri vanished from the room, but within an instant he'd returned. In his right hand he was holding a long stretch of hosepipe. 'You want to read?' said Hassad, turning menacingly back towards Katie.

'Fuck you.'

Nasri took two steps forward then paused. He raised his right hand high in the air, and flicked the hose so that it was hanging over the side of his back. For a moment he just held the pose, giving Katie a moment to look straight at him. The dread was already evident in her eyes: she knew the pain that was about to be inflicted on her, and she was scared witless. Her lips were shaking, and it looked as if a trickle of urine was dribbling down her leg. Nasri tensed his muscles. He was a thin but strong man, and his biceps were like cannonballs: round and as hard as steel. An unimaginable strength was about to be transferred into the lash. 'No,' muttered Katie, the words so weak they were barely audible. 'Please no ...'

Nasri started to raise his arm. In the still, dank silence of the room, you could hear the plastic start to cut through the fetid air. Porter lunged forwards. He moved with an agility that surprised even him. Crashing through the five metres of space that separated them, he collided hard into Nasri's ribs, knocking him off balance. The hose was already travelling through the air, but its flight had changed. It cracked viciously, but was hitting only thin air. Porter pummelled one fist, then another, into Nasri's ribcage. The man had the strength of an armoured vehicle: putting your fist into his muscles was like slamming your hand into the skin of a tank. He rolled with the first punch, but the second hit a nerve, sending him crashing to the floor, a cry of pain escaping from his lips. Porter fell on top of him, bringing his knee up sharply as he did so, so that it crashed hard into Nasri's chin, sending his neck snapping back. Porter could feel a surge of adrenalin running through his bloodstream as the blows hit home: I've built up so much anger towards these bastards since I've been here, he reflected, that it is good to finally get some of it out of my system.

There's plenty more where it came from as well.

He could feel a set of hands on his shoulders. They were tugging at his sweatshirt, pulling him back. He roared with anger, and tried to shake them away, but it was too late. Another set of hands was grabbing him around the chest. Both Hassad and Jabr had caught hold of him and were tugging him away. He lashed out a fist, aiming for Nasri's face, but missed, hitting only air. Jabr had a lock on his chest, and with one swift movement, heaved Porter upwards, and threw him up against the wall. Porter could feel his back slamming into the stone, bruising the skin.

Hassad slammed a fist straight into the centre of his stomach. The blow landed hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Porter started coughing violently. As he looked sideways, he could see Nasri getting to his feet. He had taken a couple of bruises where Porter's kneecap has smashed into his chin, but otherwise he wasn't badly hurt. Leaning over, he picked the hose up from the floor, reeled it back into the air like a fishing road, then lashed it through the air. The tip of the hose slashed across Porter's chest. Its impact was softened slightly by his sweatshirt, but it still stung viciously. Porter cried out as the pain ripped through him. In front of him, he could see a cruel smile cross Hassad's face. 'Next time, we kill you,' he said.

Nasri had already turned round. The hose was high in the air. It flicked back, then lashed into Katie's side. The sound of plastic ripping into skin filled the small room, then there was a brief moment of silence. Porter already knew what was happening from painful experience. It took a moment for the brain to figure out what the body had just experienced. The pain didn't register instantly. But when it did, it was like having a hundred sharp blades cutting into your skin in the same moment.

'No,' screamed Katie. 'No, no, no ...'

Nasri had already drawn the hose back again. His muscles were tense and bulging. In that moment, Porter realised he had only made things worse. The man's blood was up now. There was real anger in each blow. The hose was moving through the air with the venom of a snake. It curled through the air, then kicked into Katie's skin, cutting through the cloth that was covering her, and drawing a line of blood that ran across her belly and up into her breast. 'Please no, please no, please no,' she whimpered.

Don't lose it again, Porter commanded himself. It doesn't matter how much they provoke you. It only makes things worse.

Hassad raised a hand. Nasri had already drawn the hose behind his back, but he paused. 'You'll read now?' said Hassad.

'I'll ...'

'You'll read, or you'll keep tasting the whip,' snarled Hassad.

There were tears streaming down Katie's cheeks, but they were tears of pain, not regret. Specks of blood had splattered across her chest, and her face was so pale and beaten, it was as if she had already taken another step into the grave. They planned this, Porter realised. He felt another stab of fury drilling into his heart. They knew she'd refuse, and they'd decided to whip her, just so she would look even more pitiful for the camera. Every move, every step, was planned with a brutal, unfeeling callousness that disgusted him.

What was it that bastard Hassad said? We celebrate death. He wriggled his leg to make sure the knife he'd hidden inside his trouser pocket was still there. I'll give that fuck-head something to celebrate, all right. Just as soon as I find the moment to strike.

'My name is Katie Dartmouth,' she started.