'You think there's someone out there?'

'I'm sure of it.'

He scanned the landscape once more. At first glance, all he could see was scrubland. Acres and acres of dust stretched into the distance. No, he told himself. There is something there. I am sure of it.

A man.

He flicked the field glasses a fraction of a millimetre to the left, twisting the lens to increase the magnification.

A man was lying flat on his belly. He was covered head to toe in dusty-coloured uniform, effectively camouflaging him. To the naked eye, he was just a ridge of dirt in the ground. Porter locked the binoculars tight onto him. The man was fifty metres away, between the road and the house. Although he was flat on the ground, he was advancing steadily towards them. He passed the glasses across to Hassad. 'We're under attack,' he said.

'How many?'

'I can only see one guy,' said Porter. 'But there will be more of them. We can be sure of it.'

Somewhere behind him he heard a crash. He ran to the back of the house. A fragmentation grenade had been lobbed through the window. Glass was shattered across the floor. The grenade was lying in the hallway: there was no time to get rid of it before it blew. Porter clamped his mouth shut, and ran towards Katie. He hauled her over his back, ran towards the front door and flung it open. Looking around desperately, his eyes were searching for some cover. Without it, they were about to get cut down like dogs. There was a small wall close to where they had parked the Polo, only four feet high but just tall enough to provide some shelter. 'Get the fuck out of there,' he shouted at Hassad.

He dived towards the wall, flinging himself and Katie to the ground. Behind him, he could hear the grenade blowing inside the building, throwing a cloud of dust and smoke into the air. In the same moment, Hassad emerged coughing and spluttering from the house. He must have taken a lungful of fumes when the grenade blew, Porter guessed. Let's just hope it's not enough to put him out of action.

There could be a dozen of the bastards out there.

Are they Hezbollah? Porter asked himself. Maybe Hassad only brought me here so he could finish us both off.

Katie was muttering something, but there was no time to listen to her now. He unhooked the AK-47 from his back, and checked there was still some ammo left in the clip.

Hassad was running towards them, covering the ten metres from the house to the wall. He hurled himself down next to the others, and promptly threw up on the dusty ground. 'Puke it up, man,' Porter snapped. 'It's the only way to get the bloody smoke out of your lungs.'

Another explosion rocked through the house. Porter turned round. They must have put at least two, maybe three grenades into the place, igniting the munitions dump. A huge fireball rocked up into the sky, followed by a heavy cloud of thick black smoke. Porter tried to ignore it. A diversion, he told himself. The bastards are trying to move us out of here. Then they can gun us down.

Porter found a gap in the wall. Carefully, he slipped the AK-47 through it, so that only his hand was exposed, and even that was mostly protected by the muzzle of the assault rifle. He squeezed hard on the trigger, unleashing a barrage of fire into the space directly in front of them.

He heard a man scream, then another one.

The bastards were charging me, he noted with grim satisfaction.

But who the hell are they? And how did they know we were here?

'Lay down some fucking fire,' he shouted at Hassad.

He pulled the AK-47 back from the wall, discarding the empty clip. Glass and plaster had blown out of the house, covering the area with debris. He could feel the dirt clinging to his face. A hole had been blown in the roof, and waves of intense heat were billowing out of the burning building.

'Fucking fire,' he screamed.

Hassad spat the last of the vomit heaving out of his chest onto the ground. He lifted his head to the edge of the wall, his finger poised on the trigger of his gun.

'Keep your fucking head down,' shouted Porter, jamming a fresh clip into his own rifle. 'They're coming straight at us.'

Both guns were lodged over the wall, and Porter and Hassad fired in unison, unleashing a lethal barrage of bullets. Porter heard another scream, and the sound of a man roaring with pain. Suddenly there was a thump as something collided with the wall. He felt his heart skip a beat. In the next instant, a man had landed on the ground, just five feet from where Porter was positioned. He was about six foot tall, with a stocky build, and jet-black hair. His skin was tanned and lined, but he didn't look more than thirty. He didn't look like an Arab either, Porter noted. He crashed straight into Hassad, knocking him to the ground. Blood was pouring from his shoulder where he must have taken a bullet while charging the wall. His gun had fallen to the ground, but a hunting knife was gripped in the palm of his right hand, and was pointing straight at Hassad's throat. Porter aimed the AK-47 at him, and tried to line up a shot. It was too difficult. As the two men struggled, they turned into a blur. Shoot and the chances were he'd kill Hassad as well. Glancing at the wall, he could see that there were no more men jumping over. He threw the gun aside, and jumped across to where the two men were wrestling. Hassad was lying on the ground. His right hand was sticking up, gripping his assailant's arm, trying to stop him plunging the knife straight into him. Porter rammed a fist straight into the man's ribcage. It was as hard as rock. The man barely flinched. He spat down into Hassad's face. 'Die, you bastard,' he said.

Porter punched again. This time the blow connected, and he could feel a rib cracking under the force of the blow. The man groaned. He spat a mouthful of his blood down onto Hassad's chest. Porter clenched his fist, drew his arm back, and smashed it into exactly the same spot. He could feel the man's ribcage splintering: one, maybe even two bones cracked open as the blow hit home. He screamed in pain, rolling off Hassad onto the dusty ground. In the same moment, the knife in his hand lashed out. Porter leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the blade slicing open his stomach. He stamped hard, bringing his new trainer down on the man's hand. The knife fell away. Porter ground his foot down, making sure the fingers were driven down into the dirt. With the other foot, he kicked hard into the man's stomach. The wind emptied out of him, and more blood dribbled out of his lips.

Hassad had already picked himself up from the ground. He had grabbed hold of the knife and was holding it tight into the man's throat. 'Who the fuck are you?' Porter growled.

The man remained mutely silent.

Porter paused. Glancing again over the short wall, he could see three bodies. All of them looked dead, killed as they tried to run into the wall. At his side, the safe house was still burning, throwing off an intense heat. It looked like there had been a total of four men making the assault, and they had now dealt with all of them. He looked back at the man. 'I said, who the fuck are you?'

The man looked back at him. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but although there was fear in his expression, there was defiance as well.

'Piss off,' he spat.

Even through a couple of broken teeth, and a mouthful of blood, Porter recognised the accent. A Scouser.

'What the fuck are you doing out here?' he said. 'There's nothing to nick. Now tell me who sent you '

'Fuck off.'

Porter glanced towards Hassad. 'Cut him,' he snapped. 'Work on the gunshot wound.'

Hassad leant into the man's chest. He ripped open his shirt, and sliced open a wide, deep cut in his shoulder. Blood bubbled up out of the open wound, spilling down into the ground.

Porter knelt down, leaning into the man's ear. He picked up a handful of dust and dirt and chucked it into the open wound. 'The Arabs are fucking savages, and so am I,' he said. 'Now just tell us, and then you can go out and sleep in the scrub with your mates.'

There were tears of pain streaming down the man's cheeks.

Porter punched him hard in the stomach. He coughed violently, and a fresh river of blood tipped out of the gaping wound in his stomach.

'Just tell me,' Porter growled, 'and I'll let you fuck off to the great Scouser-nicking shop in the sky.'

'We work for Connaught Security,' he shouted. 'Perry Collinson is ultimately in charge of it. He sent us out here to kill you.'

Porter slammed another foot into the man's stomach. 'Fucking mercenaries,' he spat. 'There's a lot of competition for who's the lowest scum in this hellhole. But I reckon you blokes are right at the bottom.'

I'm bloody through with bastards trying to kill me, he told himself. I'm going to take it out on someone.

'Why?'

Another half-pint of blood spilt onto the dusty ground.

'Why?' shouted Porter, louder this time.

But the man's eyes had already closed.

I already know why, Porter thought. And the only man I have left to speak to is Collinson himself. And the only man I have left to speak to is Collinson himself.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Katie felt heavy in Porter's arms. He lifted her clean from the ground, and ran quickly towards the car. The safe house might be isolated, and there wasn't much in the way of law and order in this part of Lebanon, but the explosions in the house would attract attention. We don't want to be around when the police or the Hezbollah militia show up, Porter thought.

'Want me to finish him?' said Hassad, pointing towards the wounded man on the ground.

'Let him die slowly,' said Porter. 'A quick death is too good for that bastard.'

With Katie still in his arms, Porter ran across to the Polo. She needed rest, and the firefight had only made her worse: if he didn't treat her gently she wasn't going to make it through the next few hours. Waves of heat were rolling out of the house as the flames licked up inside it. Across the scrubland that separated it from the road, there were three dead bodies, all of them lying face down in the dirt, their bodies shot to pieces. It hadn't been much of an attack, Porter reflected grimly. Whoever that bastard Collinson was using to do his dirty work for him, it wasn't Regiment guys. These blokes had no proper training. First they'd tried to kill them with fragmentation grenades inside the house, and when that hadn't worked, they'd created a diversion with some more grenades and had reckoned that would be enough to allow them to charge the wall. Idiots, thought Porter. The Regiment would have taught them that a well-dug-in target, with plenty of ammunition, had to be taken by surprise or ground down slowly and relentlessly. Otherwise you were just committing suicide.

He flung open the door of the Polo, but it came away clean in his hand. The car had been caught in the crossfire as Porter and Hassad had opened fire with their AK-47s and been shot to pieces. The windscreen had been shattered and the petrol tank pierced, spilling its fuel out over the ground. It was a miracle the thing hadn't gone up in flames.

'Sod it,' he muttered. 'Now we've no transport.'

'We can't walk,' snapped Hassad. 'It's still a hundred miles to the Israeli border.'

Porter nodded to the petrol station a mile up the road. He waved his AK-47, then slipped it over his shoulder, making sure he slipped a fresh mag of ammo into place as he did so. 'Then we'll just have to borrow one,' he said. 'And I reckon one of these could be pretty persuasive.'

He still didn't have a watch on, but by now he reckoned it must be at least eleven on Saturday morning. The sun had risen in the sky, but it wasn't especially hot: no more than a mild twenty degrees centigrade. He was still carrying Katie on his back, though. He was cut, bruised and exhausted. And he had no idea when, if ever, they were going to get home.

They paused a hundred metres short of the filling station. It was a small place. Four pumps on a dusty forecourt, with a back office and a repair shop. Porter reckoned the best plan was to wait for a driver to pull up, then hit him just after he'd paid for his petrol. If you're going to nick a car, you might as well take one with a full tank, he told himself with a half-smile.

The mechanic glanced up at them suspiciously as he walked across the forecourt to the car he was working on. Maybe he's seen the guns on our backs, thought Porter. Or maybe this is the kind of road where you don't talk to strangers. He scanned the highway. A couple of trucks rolled by, then a van, but nobody was stopping for petrol. It was Saturday morning, and business was probably slow anyway.

Porter put Katie down at the side of the road. Hassad was sitting next to her, gripping the side of his shoulder with his hand. 'I need a doctor,' he said. 'I'm hurt.'

Glancing towards him, Porter couldn't see what the fuss was about. There was blood where the knife had cut into him, but it was only a field injury. 'You'll be OK,' he snapped. 'Once we get to the border, you can get yourself sorted.'

'I need a doctor now,' he said. 'There a place nearby we can go. It's safe.'

Porter shrugged. What we really need is a drink. But I suppose it isn't going to do us any harm to get ourselves fixed up before we try to travel much further. God knows how many more people are going to attack us before we manage to get across into Israel.

He still wasn't sure whether he trusted Hassad. But it wasn't Hezbollah who had just attacked them. It was Collinson's men. I can trust Hassad more than my own side. I can trust Hassad more than my own side.

'I'll take the mechanic,' said Hassad.

He started walking towards the garage. Porter watched from a distance, noting a couple of shouts as Hassad knocked the man out, then tied him up. A Fiat van came up the road, turning into the garage. One driver, Porter noted. The van had pulled up next to a diesel pump, and the driver was filling his tank. After he finished, he walked towards the office to pay. Porter could see that Hassad was waiting for him, his AK-47 still strapped to his back. Within seconds, Hassad had pointed the gun at the man, taken his keys off him, then bound and gagged him. He ran back out onto the forecourt towards the van. The engine was still warm, and started with the first turn of the key. He gripped the wheel, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and turned the Fiat round, steering back towards the side of the road. 'Get the hell in,' he said, pulling up alongside Porter and Katie. 'We haven't got much time.'

There were some chickens in the back of the van: live ones, trussed up three to a crate. Hassad put Katie alongside them, then climbed into the passenger seat. 'Ten kilometres, straight ahead,' he snapped. 'Then we'll see the doctor.'

'Why not go straight to the bloody border?' Porter growled.

'I told you, I need the doctor,' said Hassad.

'And I need to get out of this craphole.'

'Then you can do it by yourself.'

Porter paused. It was a possibility. He had the van, and Katie was probably well enough to survive the journey. The plasma and fluids pumped into her at the safe house had perked her up already. But it was a hundred miles to the border, and it was heavily fortified. He had a hostage he'd snatched from Hezbollah with him. They controlled this territory, and they'd be looking for both of them. I need help. And in this hellhole, Hassad is likely to be the only person I can even begin to rely on.

'We only stop for an hour maximum,' said Porter.

'One hour,' said Hassad nodding. 'Then we hit the border.'

He put on the radio. There was some terrible local pop music, then the news bulletin. It was eleven in the morning. Outside, the sun was up now, but some clouds were starting to drift across the sky. The road was long and straight, a stretch of tarmac rolled out like a carpet across an arid and dry piece of scrubland. A few miles up ahead, Porter could see a turning off to the left, and a dusty, grey smudge on the landscape that looked like a village. In the back of the van, some of the chickens were starting to squawk as Porter slammed his foot hard on the accelerator, pushing the van up close to its top speed of ninety miles an hour. On the radio, the newsreader was talking in Arabic. The sound washed past Porter: he was too busy concentrating on the road.

Then he heard the words 'Katie Dartmouth'.

Porter turned the volume up.

'What's he saying?' he asked, glancing across at Hassad.

Hassad raised a hand. He was listening intently to the broadcast. In the back of the van, Katie had woken up. Porter could see her lifting herself up. Her eyes looked clearer, and some of the vigour had returned to her skin. She still looks pretty terrible. But she's a tough young woman. With the right treatment, she's going to be OK again.

'They're talking about ' she started.

'Quiet,' Porter hissed.

They waited a few more seconds until the broadcast finished. When the terrible Arabic singing started up again, Porter leant across to switch off the sound. 'What was he saying '

'Here,' said Hassad, pointing to the turning. 'The doctor is down this road.'

Porter flicked the indicator, and started to pull the van across the corner. 'What were they saying about Katie?'

'They don't know anything,' said Hassad.

'Nothing about the explosion?'

Porter looked across at Hassad. His face was tight and taunt, as if the muscles in his skin were being stretched out on a rack.

'They are just saying the execution is scheduled for eight o'clock this evening.'

The road was rough, just a dirt track, and there were a few goats grazing alongside it. The village up ahead looked to be no more than a single street nestling into the side of a hill, with a dozen houses, a shop and a couple of workshops. Up in the hills behind there were some cultivated fields, making a break from the scrubland all around them. 'Why are Hezbollah saying nothing about an attack?' he asked, looking back at Hassad.

'Because they don't want to admit it,' said Hassad.

'But Katie's with us,' said Porter. 'They must know that.'

'Then it looks like they're planning on getting her back by eight tonight. This is their country, remember. So long as they find her, then the execution can still go ahead.'

Porter pulled the van up on the side of the road. A farmer was heading up towards the hills with a tractor and donkey. He turned round, looking at the van suspiciously, then when he saw Hassad climb out, quickly turned back and started driving faster. Porter killed the engine, and got down from the driver's seat. As he did so, he unhooked the AK-47 from his back and tucked it under his arm. He could feel the smooth wood of the weapon next to his skin, and checked the mag. Plenty of ammo, he noted, feeling reassured by that. It doesn't matter what the PR department at Hezbollah is telling or not telling people, he reminded himself. There's no execution tonight. We'll fight our way out of here by ourselves if we have to.

A cat was snarling at them as Porter helped Katie down onto the track. 'You OK?' he asked.

She nodded. Her legs were wobbling, and she clung on to Porter for support, but there was enough strength in her knees for her to stand. 'I think so.'

'Good girl.'