Zaf hadn't even realised that it was the first day of December. Then again, when you're in the middle of trying to prevent a major terror attack, festive celebrations are often forgotten.

He remembered Adam tacking up a massive team advent calendar one year which he obviously got for free somewhere and there was a raffle to decide who opened the door each day - Zaf had struck lucky and scored six of the little chocolates. He also remembered a certain Christmas party round Adam's and some inexcusable amounts of alcohol that were consumed.

This year, he had no advent calendar and an empty flat.

Zaf's recent physical assessment deemed that he was fit enough to move from the temporary accommodation suite in Thames House which he had been occupying since arriving back in England. His flat-hunting was brief and unenthusiastic; he opted for whatever was cheapest and closest to work. His new home was pretty small and cosy, but horribly quiet.

Zaf didn't have much time for pondering as he was taking in the sights and sounds of the busy London street. Of course, there were Christmas lights snaked around lampposts and decorating shop-fronts, and a deliciously crisp evening air and light patter of snow ensured that a wintery atmosphere was firmly in place. A couple of shops had Christmas music playing, different generic tunes mixing into one whirlpool of glorious sound. Zaf loved Christmas music and noted to himself to find all of his CD's in one of the boxes so that he could start celebrating Christmas – that, and buying several boxes of mince pies.

It was not a long journey from Thames House to the pub in which Rupert Moore of GCHQ had a share. It was called the White Hart, and being the fifth most popular name for a pub it wasn't particularly distinguishable from the many other alcoholic-based establishments littered across London that Zaf had been to. The windows were large and misty, flecks of snow clinging to the glass, and Zaf felt the warmness of the place as he opened the door, abandoning the chill of the evening for a cosier atmosphere.

Rupert Moore was invited to the meeting in Suite 5 earlier today but didn't attend, and Zaf wanted to know why.

Of course, the fact that he had a share in this pub wouldn't necessarily mean that he would be here, but at least Zaf could establish something about the man and at least if he didn't want to be cooperative it was a material item they could threaten him with, rather than a family member or friend. Fahir's bomb was scheduled for tomorrow, and if MI5 thought that Rupert Moore had any involvement they would use whatever means necessary to make him talk. Zaf understood this entirely but it made him uneasy bringing in other people and using them.

Trevor Harvey was fairly low-key, working as a translator based entirely in the Turkish Embassy. However, this would mean that he would potentially know about any happenings within the embassy. Erin had been sent to butter him up.

Alastair Cooper was the last person who didn't attend the Suite 5 meeting. He was probably the most respectable figure out of them all – Harry had given Ros specific instructions to tread carefully. Then again, treading in any region of safe ground wasn't always Ros' style.

Zaf took a seat on a stool at the bar and ordered a beer and a portion of chips, realising he hadn't had any sufficient amount of food all day. He had been able to swipe the occasional biscuit or sandwich from the kitchens as David but nothing that would constitute a proper meal.

The service was fast and Zaf was chomping chips when five minutes later a familiar looking man entered the bar. He efficiently shook the snow from his coat and hung it upon the towering wooden rack by the door, moving to take a seat in the large armchair opposite the fireplace which appeared to be reserved for him. One subtle glance in his direction and Zaf could confirm that this was in fact Rupert Moore. Rather coincidental, but Zaf was going to use it to his advantage.

Gathering the plate of chips in one hand and clasping his beer in the other, Zaf moved through the bustle at the bar to the quieter lounge area. The fireplace was full of roaring flame, the wood crackling in that irresistible sound that just spoke of winter evenings and marshmallow toasting. He placed his purchases on a small table and sunk into an armchair, watching the flames dance.

Zaf took one sip of his beer and spoke. "You're Rupert Moore."

The other man moved his eyes to Zaf's face. "You're MI5."

Zaf was a little stumped at this early response but continued regardless. "Yeah, and I'm not called David, either."

"So, what's a boy who was serving me tea a few hours ago doing interrogating me in my bar?" asked Rupert, leaning forward. His use of the word 'boy' was irritatingly patronising – the man was only a year or so older than Zaf.

"I want to know why you weren't in the meeting in Suite 5 today," said Zaf simply.

"I wasn't invited," lied Rupert smoothly, but Zaf knew otherwise.

"So, our record of your invitation by phone call three days ago was faked?" questioned Zaf.

Rupert paused. "This may be surprising to someone who works at MI5, but I have other things to do than attend meetings to help other people sort out their own problems."

"Such as attend a meeting with Alastair Cooper and Trevor Harvey to discuss something in a rather angry manner?" asked Zaf.

"Oh, well done. You've done a face match and looked up some names."

"Well, we've done a bit more than that. We've spoken to Robert Camden actually, who wants your full cooperation in helping us with any questions we may have."

Zaf had lied but knew that name-dropping a figure much senior to both of them might just prompt Rupert into shedding some light as to what was being discussed in this little private meeting.

Rupert sighed in irritation, rubbed a hand across his forehead and moved his piercing eyes to Zaf's face. "Let's just say the British government are caught up helping the Turkish government and are ignoring some rather important agendas."

"Like Fahir's bombing scheduled for tomorrow?" Zaf asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Who's Fahir?" asked Rupert tiredly.

"Doesn't matter." Zaf had taken a stab in the dark but it seemed Rupert's little meeting didn't involve discussing Fahir. "What agendas are they ignoring?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother you with this; you've got this bombing nonsense to sort out." Rupert grinned, a wide sarcastic thing that incorporated his whole face in a stretched out, displeasing shape.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to have to threaten your share in this pub in order to get you to give information to us. Or your wife, or three children for that matter, who will have stopped tennis club for the winter now and so will all be at home having dinner – fish and chips tonight, I seem to recall - ready for the CO19 van I can send in immediately," said Zaf smoothly. It was scary how much they could find out about anyone and Zaf had been reluctant to threaten the family, but Rupert's facetiousness combined with secrecy was a rather lethal combination and suggested that asking politely wouldn't be an effective strategy.

"Now, Zafar," said Rupert, lifting himself from the armchair and clapping Zaf's shoulder with a leather-gloved hand. "I don't think someone who has experienced such horrific torture would have the balls to inflict it upon someone else." The smile was back. "Enjoy your beer." Rupert plucked a chip from Zaf's plate and played it between his teeth, moving to the door to re-envelope himself in his black winter coat before heading outside, the clatter of the door and breeze that had sneaked in being the only indication that he had been there at all.

What a bastard.

Zaf finished the chips, although they felt pretty tasteless now, and downed the beer, watching the snow swirl more insistently outside and wondered whether to call a taxi back to Thames House. He would have to explain this conversation in-depth and hope that Erin and Ros were having more success with Trevor and Alastair.

Zaf decided to embrace the snow, feeling the tiny flakes kiss his nose and hearing the crunch as his shoes connected with the frost-slathered paving slabs. The entire conversation with Rupert Moore had made him uneasy. What agendas were the government ignoring? Was he lying about never having heard of Fahir? How did a worker at GCHQ have enough leftover cash to invest in a pub? It also seemed awfully coincidental that Rupert had actually been at the bar on the evening that Zaf became aware of his connection to it. The whole thing felt pre-arranged, as if Zaf wasn't supposed to be there...

Someone else was.

Rupert's eyes had moved to the door too many times to escape Zaf's notice. He had hung his coat on the rack, expecting to spend a decent amount of time there. He hadn't yet ordered any food or even a drink. He had glanced at his watch as he left.

Rupert had gone to his bar that night to meet someone.

Next step: find out who.