‘Blast you, Laurence, I can make my own introductions.’ The man turned to Hepton and Jilly. His face was stern, as though he were late for something else of more importance. What Sanders had said was true: the two intelligence services did not get on, even at their upper echelons. ‘Blake Farquharson,’ the man said. Then, with a glance towards Sir Laurence, ‘Not yet knighted. This is my assistant, Tony Poulson.’ His finger was stabbing towards the man next to him, who nodded agreement. Farquharson and Poulson were like young-and-old versions of the same person: same thinning hair, same thick black-rimmed glasses, same grimly set faces and worry lines.

‘Fine,’ said Jilly. ‘We know who you are now, but not what you are.’

‘Of course.’ This from Sir Laurence again, seeming more urbane with every moment. ‘I’m director general of what you probably know as MI5.’

‘Ditto MI6,’ snapped Farquharson.

Jilly nodded satisfaction, trying to look less impressed than she actually felt. She knew journalists who would give their non-writing arm for the chance to sit in the same room as the heads of both intelligence services.

‘So,’ said Hepton, ‘what can we do for you?’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Sir Laurence, ‘bearing in mind that Miss Watson is a journalist, though with no disrespect to that estimable profession’ – there were smirks at this – ‘we would remind you both that you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Now, that being understood, really what we’d like is your version of events thus far.’

Jilly nodded towards the file in front of him. ‘Isn’t it all in there?’

He laid a proprietorial hand on the cover of the file. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘But these are … facts. What we’d like now are opinions, thoughts.’

‘Thoughts?’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve been doing plenty of thinking this past day, and I’ll tell you what I think.’ Hepton had to admire her. Coming to London had made her more assertive, not afraid to voice her opinions or to ask for other people’s. She held up one finger. ‘I think you don’t want the American troops to pull out of Britain.’ Another finger. ‘I think the military is planning a coup, and I think you’re going to let them do it.’ A third. ‘I think they’re being aided by the Americans, and I think both countries are going to turn themselves into fortresses.’ She paused, but no one seemed ready to refute her allegations, so she continued. ‘What I’d like to know is how much the government knows.’ The three fingers became one, pointed straight at Sir Laurence. ‘How much do you know? The prime minister is still head of the Security Service, isn’t that right?’