Sebastian scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Well, which of us do you place on the side of the angels, Vince? Which is the anarchist, which the representative of the status quo? It's confusing, the class thing, isn't it? Never clear-cut. Alan Clark described the nouveau riche as "people who bought their own furniture".'

'Yes,' said Vince, 'but Alan Clark is exactly the sort who confuses snobbery with wit.'

'Hmm. Yes, you have a point there.'

This was odd. Here he was, once more face to face with someone whom he had lately come to think of as the devil incarnate, only to find his feelings unchanged. There was still something disturbingly charismatic about Sebastian. Some animals had it; the ability to charm and repel simultaneously. Vince settled in his seat. 'I guess I consider myself to be representative of most people my age.'

'Unlikely, given your background and your fondness for supporting strikes. And what a little marcher you are! You've been on them all! The miners' protests, the Anti-Nazi League, the Greenpeace initiatives, the Gay Pride rallies, the Anti-Racism demos, the Pro-Choice bike-a-thons. They only have to set foot on the streets and you've fallen into step beside them chanting, haven't you? Well, you've fallen in behind the wrong group this time.'

One of the others poured a tall measure of port into a crystal Lady Hamilton goblet and set it on the table before him.

'Do you understand the consequence of your actions, I wonder?' asked Sebastian, sipping at his own glass. The others were at ease now, pouring drinks, lounging in the armchairs. Vince glanced at the door and was dismayed to see two of the largest men in the room standing either side of it.

'You see, my friend, it's always people like you who cause problems. You profess to care about the fate of your country but you don't really care about your own people. You don't care enough to do something. This group, on the other hand, cares very deeply. Ask the average man on the street about the history of his own city and his ignorance will appal you. Few of the rising generation are even capable of articulate speech, or speech of any kind. They only know what they hear and see 'on the telly'. Ask them for a reasoned opinion, ask them for a solution to our troubles, ask them anything and all you will get back is a knee-jerk reaction, a mooing noise, the lowing of an ignorant animal. A belch of chips, a scratching of the head. And although I am loath to do so, I have to include you, Vincent. You're one of the street people. That's where you come to life. You own the street, but we own all the houses.' Somebody sniggered. Vince shifted forward in his chair, growing increasingly annoyed. This is all very interesting,' he said, 'but you can't just suppress the things you don't agree with.'

'Of course not, I'd be the first to admit that. People are never prepared to see the error of their ways, their godlessness. All we can do is make sure that those of us with the right intentions have a clear path to power.'

'Besides, you're outnumbered,' Vince persisted. 'There are a lot more of us than there are of you.'

'Really? Then why are you the one standing there alone? Your back-up crew are being a bit apathetic. Something good on the telly tonight, was there? Vince, you just have to accept that we know best.'

'That sounds like the classic attitude of old money. I can't say I blame you, wanting to hang onto it. I'd probably do the same in your position. When I first met you, I thought your lack of self-awareness was engaging. Now I just think of you as deluded.'

Sebastian looked back at the men flanking him. 'You're damned lucky to be allowed to speak to your superiors in this manner.'

Vince gave a derisive snort. 'Don't see yourselves as empire builders. Your forefathers might have been, but you're not. You didn't fight to make the country great. You didn't build the mills and the factories. You talk about the apathy of people like me – well, you've been missing for the last fifty years, when the country could have done with strong leadership. Now it's too late, and you no longer serve any useful purpose at all. You're certainly not my fucking superiors.' He drained his glass in one gulp and set it down gently.

'And here, gentlemen, we find it once more, the language of the gutter finally making its appearance.' His flash of anger faded to a look of disfiguring blankness. 'Now listen, lad, this is serious. The League of Prometheus was founded in the reign of George the Fifth. No non-member has ever been allowed to enter its halls…'

'They have now,' Vince offered.

'This is just one of our offices. You won't have found much here. What worries me more is your lack of repentance, and the need to teach you a resounding lesson.'

'You've already taught me a lot. Which cutlery to use with asparagus, how to ask for a toothpick in French. Surely you must have expected me to betray your trust?' To think I picked his name out of a magazine, thought Vince. Jesus.

'I can't believe you're the same boy who wanted so desperately to know how I lived. What a dreadful disappointment you are. Right now I feel like smacking that smug little smile from your face.'

'Lay a finger on me and I'll get you locked up somehow. I don't give a fuck who your friends are.' It was brave talk, but his heart was knocking against his ribs. What could they do? he asked himself. What could they really do? Sebastian beckoned to a couple of his pals and they moved off to a corner of the room. Everyone else stood around looking embarrassed, waiting for their leader to return. After speaking for little more than a minute, he dispersed the meeting. Several members started bundling files of paperwork into briefcases. Sebastian walked up to Vince and stood watching his face, his hands clasped behind his back.

'Listen to me carefully, Vincent. It would be easy for me to simply punish you, but you're clearly unrepentant about this, so go back to your grim little flat and continue writing, fuelled by the thought that you've uncovered something. You don't understand what any of this means. You think your actions will have no consequences. You have issued me with a challenge, and I – we – accept that challenge.' He looked to the others for approval.

'I pick up your gauntlet.' He waved a hand, gesturing Vince up from his seat. 'We'll behave like civilised men. Go on, return to your home. At some point in the weeks to come you will receive a summons, and then we shall see who is on the side of the angels. But before that, Prometheus will bring you a sign. It will be the sign of fire, Vincent, and I hope it will make you realise the gravity of the challenge. Go, go, go.'

The men at the entrance doors stepped aside to allow him through. The room was pin-drop silent as he took his leave. He felt sure they would set upon him and at least give him a good kicking, but no, moments later he was walking briskly along the fourth-floor corridor, then down the thickly-carpeted stairs and back out onto the streets of Holborn, half-wondering if he had imagined the entire episode.

He returned to his apartment more determined than ever to write about Prometheus. So far he had a plastic ring-binder full of notes, some pages of observations and research references, his Internet material, a stack of source books and seven and a half chapters of the first draft, all of which had somehow been pawed over by Sebastian's burglarising playmates. That night he searched the flat for signs of a break-in. Nothing was missing. Nothing appeared to have been moved. He asked the couple who lived in the flat across the landing if they had seen anyone calling, but they were unable to help.

The phone rang, but he did not answer it. Probably Louie, wanting to know what had happened.

That night he fitted a deadbolt on the front door. Drove screws into the window frames to keep them closed. Put Louie's old cricket bat under his bed. Made a copy of his notes, and sent them to his brother at his army base in Southampton. Then he began looking for evidence that would really take the wind out of Sebastian's sails.