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bomb theory.’

      Proctor looked at the floor. ‘They don’t know.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I haven’t told them yet.’

      Stephanie felt herself tensing again. ‘Why not?’

      ‘I spoke to most of them before I found out. And when I did find out, I wasn’t sure it was true.’

      ‘But you are now?’

      ‘As sure as I can be, yes.’

      ‘When did you discover this?’

      ‘Three days before I came to see you for the first time. I never meant to say a word about it but when you refused to talk to me, I just blurted it out without thinking. It was frustration. It was unprofessional. And now it’s too late to take it back.’

      Stephanie shivered and then felt hot. ‘Who else knows?’

      ‘No one. It’s just you and me.’

      She made no attempt to conceal her incredulity. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

      ‘It’s true.’

      ‘Why haven’t you told anyone else?’

      Proctor bit his lower lip for a moment. ‘Because I’m scared.’

      The building in which Proctor lived was a small Victorian mansion block. It was not smart but his apartment had some style, although most of it seemed to have been lifted from a magazine. There was a Bose sound system, a widescreen Sony TV, and Danish furniture – armchairs, lamps, bookcases – all of it minimalist and clean. A beautifully-made wooden table dominated the centre of the sitting room. There were Turkish kilims on the floor, African batiks on the walls.

      Stephanie lit a cigarette and noted his reaction, a grimace. When she asked him for an ashtray, he produced a saucer.

      She said, ‘What do you know about him?’

      ‘I know that he’s young, probably no more than thirty, and that he’s a Muslim. I know that he’s living somewhere in this city. And I know that this is known at MI5, SIS and the CIA. And I’d guess we could include the FBI in that group, although I don’t know that for sure.’

      ‘Does he have a name?’

      ‘He probably has several but I don’t know any of them.’

      ‘Nationality?’

      ‘Same answer.’

      ‘What about a photo?’

      ‘I haven’t seen one.’

      ‘You’ve hardly narrowed the field much, have you?’

      ‘I can tell you that outside of those groups I’ve already mentioned, you and I are the only two people who know about this. And that we’re not supposed to.’

      Stephanie’s cigarette was making her feel worse. She stubbed it out, half of it unsmoked. ‘That’s another thing. How come you know all this?’

      ‘I was contacted by a man at MI5.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      She pinched the top of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will the pain into recession. ‘Why did he get in touch with you?’

      ‘Apparently, he discovered what was going on and couldn’t live with it.’

      ‘But when it comes to leaking classified information, he has no problem living with that?’

      ‘I don’t know what his deeper motive is. I think it’s possible that he had a relative or a friend on the flight. The point is, when it became apparent that the bomber was in London, MI5 were detailed to do the surveillance on him.’

      ‘Why wasn’t he arrested?’

      ‘I still don’t know that.’

      ‘Your whisperer at MI5 didn’t say?’

      ‘No. I think if he had and then it had come out straight away, it would have been too easy to trace back. He wants me to work it out myself so that it can look like it’s all my own effort. He needs to protect himself.’

      ‘And you believe that?’

      ‘Increasingly. At first, I was sceptical. But not now.’

      ‘How come he picked you?’

      ‘Because he discovered I was preparing this series of articles. There aren’t many journalists who are still working this story. For most people, it’s yesterday’s news.’

      ‘But if this is true, there’s no journalist in the world who wouldn’t take the bait. This story will make a legend out of the one who breaks it. He could have given it to anyone.’

      ‘He wanted someone who had a genuine interest, not an opportunist.’

      ‘Is that what he told you?’

      ‘No. It’s what I think, but …’

      Stephanie suddenly felt faint. Her vision shimmered. She closed her eyes and hoped the moment would pass. It didn’t.

      ‘Are you okay?’ asked Proctor.

      She swallowed and found her throat hot and dry. ‘I think I’m going to throw up …’

      She rose to her feet and was dizzy. She stuck out a hand for balance. Proctor took her by the arm, guiding her swiftly to the bathroom. He left her there and returned to the living room, trying to ignore the sound of her retching. When she reappeared, her skin was grey and damp with perspiration.

      He said, ‘I hope you don’t feel as ill as you look.’

      The muscles in her stomach were trembling. ‘I thought it was some kind of hangover …’

      ‘Sit down. I’ll get you some water.’

      ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’

      ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ When Proctor returned with a glass in hand, Stephanie had put on her coat and was fetching her rucksack. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘I’ve got to go.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘That’s none of your bloody business.’

      ‘Look, you don’t have anywhere to go to.’

      She looked insulted, then defiant. ‘I can’t stay here.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Her eyes said it first. ‘Because I don’t trust you.’

      ‘Well, I don’t trust you, either. But I’m willing to take that risk.’

      ‘Then you’re an idiot. If you knew what I know, you wouldn’t say that so easily.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re right but if I was going to harm you, I’d have probably done it by now. You can leave if you want to. I won’t stand in your way. But if you want to stay here, you can.’

       5

      It was a savage strain of influenza that laid Stephanie low. Proctor offered her his bed but she refused, preferring the sofa. He made her soup, brought her tea, fed her aspirin. She was sullen and silent. For four days, she did little more than sleep. Her temperature fluctuated wildly and during the first forty-eight hours, she vomited repeatedly. The aches never ceased. It was like narcotic withdrawal, the destructive drug being Stephanie herself, her body rejecting every aspect of her poisonous life. At one point, Proctor considered consulting a doctor but Stephanie was adamant that

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