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Clerkenwell and—’
    Liz interjected quietly, ‘We know you went to Pakistan.’
    For a moment Khan looked uneasy. But then he simply shifted gear, moving back into the narrative that Liz could tell he had pre-prepared. ‘Of course I did. I’ve got relatives there. Another cousin, in fact – you can check it out. He has a shop in Islamabad – not a newsagent’s, but a butcher’s shop. He’s done well. In fact, he’s thinking of opening another shop–’
    This time Liz cut in less gently. ‘How did you get from Pakistan to Somalia?’
    Khan looked at her as if outraged that she should interrupt him. Liz pressed, ‘I said, how did you get there?’
    He sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’
    ‘Let’s hear it. We’ve got all day if necessary.’
    And for the next hour or so it looked as if all day was what Liz would need. For Khan launched into a lengthy, voluminously detailed, yet utterly preposterous account of his whereabouts since leaving Pakistan – involving a flight to Turkey, a boat trip to the Greek islands, another to Tunisia (where he claimed to have picked grapes for a month), three weeks of hitchhiking that included a harrowing jeep ride in the middle of the night . . . on and on he went with his story, an account so obviously fabricated that Liz could only smile.
    Each time she tried to pin him down – what airline had he taken to Turkey? What Greek island had he visited? – Khan’s memory would suddenly falter. ‘I can’t be sure,’ he’d say. Or, ‘Maybe I’ve got that wrong.’ And for every reluctant step towards Somalia his story took, he did his best to take two backwards.
    As Khan went on – by now he was trying to reach Egypt overland from Lebanon – she interrupted less, and gradually stopped asking any questions at all. He continued talking, apparently thinking that his avalanche of words somehow made his story credible. Finally he seemed to realise that he was not convincing her, and came to a sudden halt. There was silence in the room.
    ‘So,’ said Liz eventually, ‘where is your passport?’
    ‘I lost it.’
    ‘Then how did you get across all these borders?’
    He said nothing, obviously trying to think of an answer that would not incriminate him.
    It was time to up the pace. ‘Come on, Amir. Why were you in Somalia?’
    ‘I just wanted to see it.’
    ‘Who were you with?’
    ‘A couple of guys I met.’
    ‘Where did you meet them?’
    ‘In Egypt. We met in Cairo.’
    ‘What were their names?’
    ‘I can’t remember.’
    ‘How did you get to Somalia?’
    ‘By car. Jeep, actually.’
    ‘Whose car?’
    ‘It was rented.’
    ‘What, there’s a Hertz agency in Mogadishu?’
    Khan said nothing.
    Liz went on. ‘Were you in Yemen before then?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Have you ever been to Yemen?’
    ‘No,’ he said crossly.
    ‘Who in Pakistan gave you your orders?’
    And before he had time to think, he snapped back, ‘It wasn’t in Pakis—’ Then stopped, aware of his slip. He looked down at the table, mortified.
    Liz smiled. ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth now? You must be tired of inventing.’
    Khan hesitated, and for a second Liz thought his moment of carelessness might have broken down his guard. He seemed on the very edge of caving in. She waited but he said no more. Lifting his head, he looked straight at her.
    ‘Do you have any message for your parents?’ she asked.
    His eyes widened with shock. ‘What have they got to do with this? They don’t know anything about it.’ But as he looked at Liz tears started to well up. He bent his head to wipe them away with the shirt sleeve on his manacled arm.
    Liz waited but something, whether determination, fear or training, reasserted itself. Having regained control of himself, Khan’s features hardened and he squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you,’ he declared.
    Liz waited a moment but his gaze was steely again, determined. ‘I want to go back to my cell,’ he announced, and