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CHAPTER TWO

The hole was wet and cold, the rain cutting in sheets across the corner of the field in front of them, and the water from the branches which concealed their hiding place dripping down on them. They had been there three days, at two the next morning it would be four, one of them sleeping, wrapped in the waterproof bag they had smuggled in, the other watching, waiting.

The path through the trees into the edge of the field was almost lost in the dusk. Somewhere he heard a car, knew it was too far away, knew how sound travelled at this time of day.

They had come in at night, skirting the village, knowing the dogs were there and taking care not to disturb them, taking care not to leave even the slightest indication that they had come; by the morning they had dug the hole, concealed it and begun their wait. Fifty yards behind them lay the back-up, their hole similarly covered, running wet and freezing cold.

Between two and six days and the men would come for the arms and explosives hidden in the cache in the corner of the field, Special Branch had told them the informant had said. Between two and six days and the centre of Belfast would be hit. He lay still, the Ml6 dry by his side, looking across the field to the single track where they had worked out the men would appear. Three men, Special Branch had said, all of them active Provos, one of them on the run since the break-out from the H-Blocks the year before. A small job, Special Branch had also said, an indication by their man of the amount and quality of information he possessed, an indication of his standing in the Provisional IRA, a promise by the informant of things to come.

In an hour, Graham Enderson thought, it would be dark, then it would be his turn to crawl into the sleeping bag and sleep; he had once spent fifteen days in such a hole, he reminded himself, fifteen days in a winter even colder than this one. He checked his watch again and wondered when the men would show.

Today was his son’s birthday, he had remembered that morning; he had intended to telephone, could not send a card, knew his wife would have taken care of it as she always did. The light was fading. He thought again of the three men who would come to the cache, how many people they intended to kill, whether they had ever thought about the moment they themselves would die. He would be careful, as he always was; he distrusted informants, wondered why they informed, wondered why the men he was about to kill were being set up, wondered who was being set up, them or him. So many tricks, he knew, so many times to be careful, never a time when he could not afford to be careful. It was almost dark.

He had been with the SAS nine years; most of that time on active service, except for the training months in Hereford, except for the language courses, except, he knew others would find it ironic, for the six months he had spent in the emergency ward of the hospital learning how to save life instead of taking it away. On his belt Enderson carried not only his spare ammunition, but also a sophisticated medical pack.

His son’s birthday, he thought again, and wished he was not missing it.

In the grey at the top of the path into the field he saw the three men, knew immediately they did not suspect, did not know they had been betrayed. He slid his hand across the hole, not taking his eyes from them, and shook the shoulder of the man in the sleeping bag. The man woke noiselessly and rolled over. There was a new silence in the air. As soon as they uncovered the cache and picked up the first gun. The men were careful, Enderson thought, had checked the area, for cars, for traces of people like himself. They were edging forward, out of the trees, three of them, as the informer had said. He recognised the second man, the one who had escaped from the H-Blocks, remembered his reputation, the charges on which the man had been convicted, the other things he had done. No challenge, he thought, no formal procedure. As soon as the first man picked up the first gun. He was looking down the sights, knowing the system, watching the three men skirting the barn, heading towards the corner of the field, closing on the cache.

He and his men could still be caught in a trap, Enderson was still thinking. He had always distrusted people like the informer, had never trusted anyone except his own. The men had come to the cache, were looking around for the last time, bending down. So many tricks, so many traps to walk into; he had not even inspected the cache in case it was boobytrapped, in case there was a sniper in the hills above waiting for him to show himself. The men in front were bending down, uncovering the cache.

The first man picked up the first gun.

The Special Branch briefing was brief, Special Branch briefings were always brief. Graham Enderson was not sure whether it was because the need to protect sources was as strict as the men concerned insisted, or because it was a game they played, not only with their contacts but also with him.

The informant who had passed them the details of the arms cache had approached them again, said the sergeant. He would not say who the man was or where the meeting had taken place, would not even confirm that such a meeting had taken place. There was to be a high-level conference in Belfast, the man had said, some of the big boys were coming for it, from Dublin, from Derry, he had given them the time and the location.

‘Who’s involved?’ asked Enderson. The meeting was taking place in the army centre in Lisburn.

The Special Branch sergeant gave him the names. Enderson knew all of them. ‘Where?’ he asked. He remembered the night at the arms cache, how he had managed to phone home that evening after all, managed to wish his son happy birthday.

The Special Branch man gave him the address.

‘The Sportsman’s,’ said Enderson, ‘just along from McDonald’s place.’ He knew the addresses, knew the IRA man who lived along the road.

‘That’s right,’ confirmed the sergeant, giving nothing away.

‘Will McDonald be going to the meeting?’ No problems, he was thinking; he already knew where they could keep watch on the house, where they had already kept watch on the house, the secret place from where they had logged McDonald’s movements, his wife’s movements, his son’s movements, till they knew them all as if they were family: McDonald himself, the hard man, the planner behind the deaths and mutilations, the wife Eileen, even the son Liam.

‘Yes, McDonald will be going to the meeting.’

Typical Special Branch briefing, Enderson thought again, the sergeant had omitted McDonald from the original list; he knew, nevertheless, that McDonald was not the informant, knew that McDonald would never be an informant.

One problem, he was already thinking. He did not know the interior of the bar in which the meeting would take place, which rooms were above it, which doors led to it, away from it.

‘When?’ he asked.

The Special Branch man told him.

Not much time, he thought, only a matter of days, almost the end of term for the kids, he thought, knew he would not be home for Christmas, almost the beginning of their Christmas holidays.

‘OK,’ he said.

The Special Branch briefing lasted a mere fifteen minutes, the briefing which Enderson gave to his teams lasted almost three hours; at the end of it they had worked out the covers as well as the approach routes, plus what they would do inside. The only things they did not know, the only things they still needed to know, were the movements of McDonald and the interior lay-out of the bar where the meeting would take place.

By five thirty the IRA planner called McDonald had been given the code-name Michael, by five forty-five Enderson had solved the problem of the lay-out of the bar. At seven thirty that evening a house in the Falls Road opposite the home of the IRA planner called McDonald was broken into whilst the family who lived there were out. Nothing was stolen and the entry was not even noticed. When they returned at nine that evening there was no way the family could have known that concealed in the roofspace of their house was a man, lying in a hammock strung between the beams of the roof, looking through a hole where he had removed a tile, his radio on whisper.

* * *

By twelve fifteen the next day Enderson confirmed the arrangements he had set in motion to examine the internal lay-out of the Sportsman’s. Eighty-five minutes later Jimmy Roberts flew into Aldergrove Airport.

If he had asked them, he knew, they would have said no; instead he left the flat he shared in Earls Court, took the tube to Heathrow and caught the twelve thirty shuttle to Belfast. There was no trouble with security or Special Branch at either airport. Jimmy Roberts was, after all, an American citizen.

It was almost six weeks since the first message from California that his grandmother was ill, three days since she had died, two days since he had known of it.

He arrived at Milltown Cemetery fifteen minutes before they arrived to lay her to rest, the rain sheeting across the headstones and the mud churned round the hole they had dug for her. He had met her only twice in his life, on the two occasions she had visited the branch of her family on the West Coast of America, yet even there, he remembered, she had been fêted, even there they had known of her republicanism.

Roberts stayed at the gate till he saw the procession wind its way up from the city, the outline of Belfast almost lost in the clouds, and turn into the cemetery. Not many for such a fine woman, he thought, knowing again he should not have come, was glad he had. They passed by him, staring ahead; he watched the faces through the car windows, white, colourless, the men and women not looking at him, seeing him nevertheless, wondering who he was, what he was doing. Only when they had slid the wooden coffin from the hearse and the Holy Father was praying over his grandmother for the last time, did Roberts leave the gate and join the handful of mourners. They nodded at him and looked back at the priest.

He looked on as the box was lowered into the ground, remembering how he had listened to her, remembering the stories she had told him, the heady days of the Easter Rising, the mystery of the death of Michael Collins, the dread of the despised Black and Tans. Only when the coffin was still, and the earth had been sprinkled on it, did they turn to him.

‘I’m Sean.’ He had already worked out what he would say, knew there was no way they could check, no way any of them would know. They recognised his accent, knew he was who he said he was.

‘You’re Sean,’ one of them was saying, ‘all the way from America, you’re her Seamus’s boy.’

It was amazing, he thought, how the family ties still spread across the world, how they were still remembered. ‘Yes,’ he thought of his cousin, ‘I’m Seamus’s boy.’

The rain was harder: not a fitting day, they all agreed, asked him how he was getting back to the city, offering him a lift, someone suggesting he might like a drink. He thanked them, meaning it, was only sorry that he could not tell them the truth, that he never had the chance to tell his grandmother the truth.

Jimmy Roberts was twenty-six years old, his father had emigrated to America with his wife three years before Jimmy had been born. His uncle, the father of the man called Sean, had joined them two years later. They had settled on the West Coast, in the Bay area of San Francisco, where the old lady had visited them, once when Jimmy was four, the last time when he was eighteen. Roberts was both intelligent and industrious, he also shared his grandmother’s zeal for a united Ireland. In late 1982, after four years in the United States army, he had volunteered, through a complicated series of checks and cut-off points, for active service in the cause of the land he considered his own. His last meeting, in a bar in New York, was with a man introduced to him as the head of the movement in North America, whom he knew only by the nick-name or code-name, he was not sure which, of Chopper. The following summer he had been sent to the republic, where he met the men with whom he would live and fight until the movement tired of him, or he of it. Or, he always knew, until the day they buried him with the black beret and the tricolour on his coffin. Three months later Roberts and three others had been posted to London as a sleeper unit of the Provisional IRA. The job of the unit was simple, to lie low, build up a supply of arms and explosives and to wait for the moment the men who gave the orders decided it was time to bomb both the body and the soul out of the mainland. It was for this reason, he knew, that they would have said no if he had asked them permission to attend the funeral of his grandmother, for this reason he had not asked them.

The Falls Road was already dark when the car stopped outside the Sportsman’s. He followed the men inside, the car continuing, taking the women home. The room was small and warm, the condensation running from the windows. He reminded himself who he had said he was and knew that he should not have come. One drink with the family and then he would leave, he told himself; before anyone saw him, before anyone who might recognise him from the training in the Republic entered the bar. The family would not let him get away with just one drink, he knew. He knew again why he had not asked permission, knew he should not have come.

The door flew open and the troops came in. The Green Jackets, he knew, smashing through the tables, forcing the drinkers to get up, pushing them against the wall. He felt the panic rising in him and forced himself to stay calm, to act like the others, tried to persuade himself it was routine, looking at them hurrying through the bar, through the door at the end, up the stairs to the flat above.

The bastard on the end, he suddenly thought, same uniform as the others, same badges, same weapons hanging from his arm, same beret. He wondered why he had noticed the man, why he had singled him out, told himself to remember the face.

They were gone as quickly as they had come, crashing out through the door, the last man covering the others. He heard them moving along the street, the engines starting, pulling away, then he finished his drink and left.

By ten thirty that evening Jimmy was back in the flat in Earls Court which the active service unit used as a base and a bomb factory. He did not tell anyone where he had been or what had happened. It was almost Christmas; he remembered feeling the sadness that his grandmother would not see it, was glad, at least, that he had said goodbye.

By eleven Enderson had drawn out the plans of the bar from the details he had memorised on the raid that afternoon and briefed his teams. It was almost Christmas, he remembered; perhaps, he thought, he could phone his wife on Christmas Day, perhaps he could speak to the children.

* * *

Twelve days after the meeting in the villa outside Comarruga, Issam Sharaf reported back to Abu Nabil. Except for the tight circle of advisors who had need to know, there was no indication to anyone that either he or Nabil had been away; even within that circle no one knew where they had been or why they had gone.

It was almost lunchtime. Only after the bodyguard who sat behind Nabil had left the room did the soldier begin his briefing on the Barcelona conference and his meetings in West Germany; at no stage did Nabil inform Sharaf of his own discussions in Paris and London and at no stage did Sharaf ask.

The sky outside had the thinness of winter, cold and watery.

Sharaf listed those present in the villa at Las Piñas, describing the general atmosphere and detailing the consensus on the three-point agenda, his summary brief and businesslike.

‘Under the general policy that all actions must be seen as part of a coordinated campaign, it has been accepted that assassinations and kidnappings, if any, will be directed against figures connected to the military-industrial complex, and that bombings, which are more likely, will be restricted to companies and institutions linked directly to NATO.’ His voice was level, matter-of-fact.

Nabil nodded his agreement. ‘Weapons and explosives?’ he asked.

‘Arrangements have already been made for the groups involved to share weapons and explosives. There were some objections: some groups feared that it would suggest they were short of such items. It took time to persuade them that the effect would be the opposite.’

Nabil nodded again. ‘And communiqués?’

‘Also agreed. Communiqués will carry joint responsibility. There will also be a link-up between joint communiqués and the exchange of weapons.’ Nabil waited for an illustration. ‘If Action Directe, for example, carries out an assassination in France using a weapon previously used by the Red Brigades in Italy, then the communiqué claiming responsibility will be signed by those two groups. If the Belgians use explosives of a type already used in Germany, then the communiqué will carry the names of the CCC and the RAF.’

Nabil looked up from his drink. ‘It should set them thinking,’ he mused. ‘I wonder how long it will be before anyone picks it up?’

‘Not long at all.’

Nabil tapped the rim of his cup. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Yes. Action Directe are already planning the execution of the man in charge of French arms sales, General René Audran. They’ll postpone that action until ordered to carry it out. The weapon they’ll use will be a machine pistol already used by the Red Brigades in Italy.’

‘What was it used for in Italy?’

‘The killing of a magistrate in Turin in August.’ Sharaf’s voice was still matter-of-fact.

‘Any other specifics?’

‘The Germans and Belgians have agreed on a list of firms they’ll both attack, using explosives from the same source. They have also said that they are prepared to hold off.’

Nabil interpreted the nuance of his words. ‘They will hold off until what?’ he asked.

‘Until one condition has been met, the same with the French.’

‘The condition we assumed they would impose?’

‘Yes,’

They stopped for lunch: Nabil did not consider they should eat while discussing the next subject. The meal, in any case, was light and they completed it in fifteen minutes. When the plates had been cleared and they were again alone in the room, Sharaf raised the subject of the second stage of his European itinerary.

‘The hunger strike,’ he began. It was the part of the plans Nabil had requested him to set in motion which he had anticipated would be the most difficult, but the part which, to the contrary, had proved the easiest.

‘The West Germans have agreed. Contact has been made with those in prison for what the state calls acts of terrorism or who have connections, at whatever levels, with the Red Army Faction; all these are prepared to join a hunger strike.’ One other requirement, Nabil thought, one other prerequisite he had emphasised to Sharaf. ‘Contact has also been made with those in prison in West Germany for political offences not connected with acts of violence,’ continued the soldier. ‘Of these, a number are also prepared to join a hunger strike.’

‘How far are they all prepared to go?’

Sharaf looked at him. ‘As far as necessary,’ he replied simply.

‘What about the authorities? Will they try to stop the hunger strike in any way?’ He did not ask how the man had communicated with those in prison.

‘No,’ said Sharaf.

‘What about force feeding?’

‘The authorities will view the hunger strike as an extension of the campaign against them. Any attempt at force feeding would be considered a victory for the hunger-strikers.’

‘And how will the German public react?’

Sharaf was realistic. ‘At first they won’t care a damn, they won’t even notice. As the first death draws near, however, they’ll begin to think about it, about what it means.’

They would begin to sense the fear, Nabil knew. ‘How long will it take?’ he asked, partly out of consideration of those he was about to sacrifice, partly out of necessity for his timetable.

‘The key,’ Sharaf began to explain, ‘is water. On average, the human body can only survive ten to fifteen days without water, so a hunger strike with no food or water would be over very quickly.’ Too quickly for them, he was thinking, though he did not say so.

‘And if the person took water but no food?’

‘A lower limit of thirty to forty days, an upper limit of approximately seventy to seventy-five.’

‘Is there any way of calculating the probable length of a hunger strike given the individual’s personal characteristics, his weight and body type for example?’

Sharaf guessed the reason for the question. ‘Only within broad outlines. It depends on more factors than just body size and shape. The amount of fat on the body is important. Women therefore tend to survive longer than men, but it also depends on how much exercise the person takes, even the temperature of the room. In the IRA hunger strike of 1981, Bobby Sands was expected to die after about fifty days but survived sixty-five. Joe McDonnell lasted sixty-one, but Kieran Doherty took seventy-three days to die.’

Nabil was staring across the room. ‘So what do you suggest?’

Sharaf’s recommendation was brutal and straightforward. ‘We start one a week, as the IRA did in Belfast. That way the public are made aware of the campaign as each person joins it, that way they are more exposed to the pressure as the deaths become imminent or the people start dying.’ He realised Nabil was looking at the photograph on the desk at the side of the window. ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘the pressure only comes after the first death.’

Nabil took a long time to reply. ‘So the really important person is the second one to die?’ he said at last.

‘Yes. The first death is a necessary sacrifice; it is the second death which is important.’

Nabil was nodding slowly, thinking of it, thinking of the fear it would bring, of the full awesomeness of the pressure he had asked Sharaf to set in motion. ‘You have arranged the second group as I requested?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And they have all agreed?’

‘They have all agreed.’

Nabil knew how important they would be, how important they would all be. ‘Who goes first?’ he asked.

‘Klars Christian Mannheim.’

Abu Nabil knew it would be Klars Christian Mannheim. ‘He knows he will die?’

‘Yes, he knows he will die.’

For the second time, Nabil did not ask how Sharaf had communicated with those in prison. ‘How long will it take?’

The soldier had already made the calculation. ‘He weighs sixty-eight kilos. Within the limits we discussed, about seventy days.’

‘When will he start?’

‘He will announce his intention to go on hunger strike on Christmas Eve. He will start in the New Year.’

Nabil knew that Klars Christian Mannheim had worked it out, that he had set himself a timetable, that there was a reason for it.

‘How will it be for him, for all of them?’ he asked quietly.

‘Hell,’ said Sharaf simply.

Neither of them spoke for thirty seconds.

‘You said the campaign in Europe was dependent upon one condition?’ It was Nabil who broke the silence.

Sharaf nodded. ‘They ask that we start the campaign.’

‘As we expected.’

‘Yes.’ He knew Nabil had already selected both the target and the place.

‘Hassan Nabulsi,’ Nabil’s voice was without emotion. ‘The PLO man in London.’

The choice neither surprised nor displeased Sharaf: the target would satisfy those who had made the request at the Spanish conference, and assassinations within the various factions of the Palestinian movement were not uncommon.

‘Nabulsi is in Tunisia with Arafat at the moment,’ he said.

‘He returns next week.’

Sharaf did not need to know how the other man knew. ‘When?’

‘Before Christmas. Before Klars Christian Mannheim announces his hunger strike. That way he’ll know we’re serious.’

‘Who will do it?’ Sharaf asked at last.

If Walid Haddad was going to end it all, Nabil had already thought, then it was only fitting that Walid Haddad should begin it.

‘Walid Haddad,’ he said.

* * *

The mood in the centre of the city, even a city continuously under siege like Belfast, was festive; the mood in the operations room was tense. Today, Special Branch had confirmed.

At two in the afternoon Enderson left Lisburn and drove into the city; although he was wearing civilian clothes, he carried his personal Browning inside his coat and was accompanied by two members of his team. In Belfast, they had long learned, in the civil war in Ireland, they never went anywhere unaccompanied.

The streets were busy, the shop fronts lit and decorated; he realised how close it was to Christmas, how he had forgotten it was almost Christmas. The driver stopped the car outside a hamburger bar and they went in, not because they were hungry, simply to while away the waiting. It was crowded. Even at the table they did not relax, one always looking at the car, another at the door, looking at who might be looking at them, leaving, setting them up as they left. Outside the afternoon was already getting dark. He looked across the road at the shoppers, hearing the music in the background, the words of the carol.

‘They said there’d be snow at Christmas,

They said there’d be peace on earth.’

Today, the Special Branch had said. This evening. Definitely, they said their informant had told them, without fail. They rose and left the café.

The man whom Abu Nabil had personally chosen to both begin and end his campaign of terror arrived at Heathrow fifteen minutes late at ten forty-five in the morning on Scandinavian Airlines SK501 from Copenhagen. Neither the timing nor the flight was a coincidence. SK501 was one of seven flights to arrive from Europe in a half-hour period; the immigration halls would therefore be crowded and congested. And passengers from Copenhagen attracted less attention from immigration and Special Branch than those from other European cities, such as Rome and Athens, with reputations for terrorist connections.

Walid Haddad was twenty-eight years old, neatly though not expensively dressed in a dark blue business suit. The briefcase he carried contained, among a number of other items all related to his supposed profession of petroleum analyst, a diary with a list of business appointments in London over the next two days which had been easy to arrange but which, if they had been checked, would have provided him with justification for visiting Britain.

He followed the line of passengers off the plane, through the walkways and connecting doors, and into the large impersonal hall lined, at the far end, by the immigration desks. Four queues, he saw immediately, knowing he would have no problem, looking anyway for his insurance. The queues were longer than he had anticipated, with three officials on duty at each desk. Normally two, he thought, wondering why the security was tighter than he had expected, and glanced again at the desks. One official checking passports, a second looking over his shoulder at the person at the desk, looking for the tell-tale signs, the third concentrating on the queue itself. He moved forward, wondering again about the increase in security and looking again for the insurance he needed.

A flood of passengers from another flight began spilling into the hall. There was a moment of confusion as the new group mingled with those already in the hall, deciding which queue to join. He looked round, ignoring the mêlée, and saw the woman. She was young, in her mid-twenties, of Arab appearance, with olive skin and dark piercing eyes, taller than average with long black hair. She also had the one quality above all, the single characteristic he was looking for: that of arrogance. In the way her eyes flashed, the way she held herself. He knew the men at the desks were already looking at her.

The woman was moving towards the third queue from the far side of the hall. He hurried after her, waited till she had almost joined the queue, then stepped in front of her, almost bumping into her. He turned and apologised, politely, not friendly. The queue moved forward. He knew again they had already seen her, already singled her out. The queue to his right was moving faster, already growing shorter. Stay behind me, he spoke silently to the woman, stay where you are, give me cover. The queue shuffled forward, he reached the desk, gave the official his passport, entry visa on page five.

‘Name?’ The voice was harsh. He knew the other two men at the desk were looking at the woman and gave the name in his false passport.

‘What are you doing in London?’

‘Business. I’m a petroleum analyst.’ He thought about the appointments he had arranged in case they questioned him, knew it was a formality, felt himself relax, did not let it show, controlling the degree of eye contact that would give the woman away even though she was entirely innocent. Abruptly the official stamped his passport, snapped it shut and handed it back to him. Forty-five minutes later he had retrieved his one suitcase, cleared customs, collected his hire car, and was driving down the M4 motorway into London. Behind him, he knew, the first tentacles of the security net were beginning to tighten round the woman, the first arrangements for a Special Branch surveillance, the first requests, formal or informal, for a telephone intercept wherever she was staying.

By two thirty he had checked in at the Holiday Inn in Swiss Cottage, unpacked his suitcase and showered. The telephone in the room was direct dial. He checked the number he had been given in Damascus, and phoned the London office of the Palestine Liberation Organisation in Green Street.

‘Good afternoon,’ he spoke politely. ‘This is Mohsen Masri from An-Nahar.’ He named a prominent Middle Eastern publication. ‘Is it possible to speak with Mr Nabulsi?’

The receptionist was equally polite. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nabulsi is away at the moment, can anyone else help?’

He thanked her, but said he needed to speak to the PLO representative personally and asked when she suggested he should phone again.

‘He flies in tomorrow and will be back in the office on Friday. Can I get him to contact you then?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Haddad kept his voice friendly and informal. ‘I’ll try him then.’

‘Make it early,’ she answered. ‘He’s busy after eleven.’

He thanked her and put the phone down. Abu Nabil was right, he thought, Abu Nabil was always right.

The traffic in London’s West End, where the offices of the PLO were situated, was congested, made worse by Christmas. It took Haddad twenty minutes to drive from the hotel to the office and another ten to find a parking space, even though it was on a yellow line. If a traffic warden came, he knew he would only have to move.

The black Ford Granada was parked outside the building which housed, amongst other offices, that of the London office of Yasser Arafat’s faction of the Palestinian movement. It was interesting, he thought, that the chauffeur came to work even when the representative himself was away, even more interesting that he came in the Granada. On a car radio he heard the sound of a Christmas carol. He waited, lost in the crowd of shoppers, the afternoon losing its light and the Christmas lights already on, shining in the dusk.

At five o’clock a man he supposed was the chauffeur left the building and unlocked the car. The man, he noted, checked neither around nor underneath the vehicle. Either, he imagined, because the car was visible from the front windows of the PLO office, or because the man assumed that because the representative was away, there was no security risk.

It was interesting, thought Haddad, how often people made the wrong assumption.

The traffic was heavy. He followed the car across Oxford Street, skirting behind Marylebone station and through the side streets to the west of Regent’s Park. At the intersection on the corner dominated by the cricket ground at Lord’s, he had checked on the street map, the chauffeur should drive straight on, towards the representative’s house in St John’s Wood and the security of the garage, electronically protected, at the side of the house. He knew what the man would do, that when the end came it would be so sudden and unexpected that the chauffeur would have no time to question when he had made his mistake. In front of him, the man turned right, away from St John’s Wood, towards Camden Town.

Ten minutes later Haddad watched the chauffeur reverse the Granada into the garage below the mews flat where the man lived with his wife. In front of the entrance to the flat was a Ford Escort which he assumed was their own vehicle. He parked the hire car and walked down the mews, the air cold, his hands pushed into his pockets, taking his time, as if he had every right to be there. The chauffeur was concentrating on his driving, taking care not to scratch the Granada as he backed it into the narrow space, giving Haddad plenty of time to see what he needed to know. No security, no tell-tale wires, not even a burglar alarm, or the pretence of one. Just the wooden door with the Yale lock.

He returned to the hotel, had another coffee, and waited till it was time to make the telephone call. The same number, Nabil had instructed him, the same time each evening.

At seven o’clock exactly he dialled the number. To his surprise, the voice which answered was American. West Coast, he thought. ‘Hello, John,’ he began, using the names of the code. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes,’ replied the American in the public telephone kiosk. ‘Is that you, Peter?’ The same public telephone kiosk, his masters in Belfast had told Jimmy Roberts, the same time each evening.

‘Yes, it’s Peter.’ Haddad wondered why it surprised him that the IRA contact was an American. Definitely West Coast, he was thinking, the accent too soft to be anywhere else.

Roberts waited for the next part of the code, and wondered why the IRA should give a bomb to the Arabs, why the Arabs needed it, had asked for it specifically, even the type, when he knew they had plenty of their own.

The same thought had occurred to Haddad when he had been briefed by Nabil in Damascus. He had not queried it, assuming there was a reason; with Abu Nabil there was always a reason. ‘Look, John,’ he continued the coded conversation, ‘I’ve got a couple of girls and I need someone to help me out with them.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

The Arab was in a hurry, Roberts thought. ‘Do I get the blonde or brunette?’ Blonde for a straightforward meeting, brunette if he needed to bring the explosive device and detonator.

‘They’re both brunettes.’

Christ, Roberts thought, the Arab really was in a hurry. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the saloon bar at eight thirty.’

The first report came in at four. The car carrying the men from Dublin had crossed the border and was heading north. Three hours to go, thought Enderson. The second report came in half an hour later. The car carrying the men from Londonderry had left the city and was heading south. Two and a half hours, thought Enderson. He went through the plan again, how the man in the roofspace would tell them what was happening, who was arriving, how they were protected, the signal for the moment the unmarked cars would close in, which of his team would cover the back, the ways out, who would go in the front, what they would do when they were inside.

‘Michael leaving his house with his wife and son, getting in cars.’ Enderson heard the voice of the man in the roofspace overlooking the street. McDonald the IRA planner, he thought, the man whose house was less than thirty yards from the drinking club where the informant had said the meeting was to take place. He wondered why he was leaving and what he was doing, why he was taking his wife and son, thought for a moment that the informant was wrong then knew that he was not, realised what McDonald was doing. Putting on a front, acting normally, covering himself for what lay ahead. Two hours to go, he thought. Stand-by, the voice in his head told him, stand-by, stand-by.

The second report from the south came in at five, the men from Dublin closing on the city; he checked with the tail on the car from the north and heard the confirmation. An hour, less than an hour, then he and his men would move into position, any later and they would be too late, any earlier and they would be noticed.

The car from the south entered the city, the car from the north closing fast. They seemed to have been waiting for ever, Enderson thought. It had been dark two hours. Time to move in. Except where the hell was McDonald?

‘Vehicle check, urgent.’ It was the voice of the man in the roofspace. Enderson took the make and registration number of the car and passed it to Lisburn; knew they would only take seconds to run the computer check. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Probably nothing, but the car’s been up and down the road twice now, first day I’ve seen it.’

The computer check came through.

‘Stolen three hours ago from the city centre,’ Enderson told the man in the roofspace. Not kids, he thought, not the sort of car the teenagers stole for their joy-rides.

‘Passing by again.’ He heard the voice. ‘Slowing in front of Michael’s house.’

The other reports were coming in, the men from Dublin driving through the city, the men from Derry just entering Belfast. He wondered what the car was doing, who it was. Not the Provos, definitely not the Provos.

‘Three men,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Windows wound down.’

He knew what it was, began to radio the information back to Lisburn.

‘Michael’s car in street, slowing down. Stopping outside house. Michael and wife getting out.’

He saw what was going to happen.

‘Car coming again. Opening fire, front and rear seats.’ The voice of the man in the roofspace was cold, clinical, factual.

He knew the operation was off, that the men from Dublin and Derry would already have been warned.

‘Michael and wife OK, sheltering behind car. Other car still firing.’

He knew they could not move, could not betray their positions, could not disclose the fact that they had been waiting for the men from the north and south. ‘Alert RUC and army,’ he was informing Lisburn. ‘Probably ambulance as well.’

‘Bomb going in,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Car catching fire.’

The kid, Enderson was suddenly thinking, the IRA man’s bloody kid: he wasn’t there, the man in the roofspace hadn’t seen him. He knew that McDonald had expected trouble, had left the boy somewhere.

‘Boy in car,’ he heard the voice, still dispassionate. ‘Mother trying to get door open, door seems stuck. Car on fire. Attackers’ car moving off.’

‘Move it,’ Enderson was saying, the driver already accelerating, tyres screeching as they turned off the street. The women were already on the street, the crowd already gathering. ‘Fire spreading in car,’ the man in the roofspace was saying. ‘Can see boy inside.’

He knew what they would say when he returned to base, how they would tell him he shouldn’t have blown the operation, knew the Special Branch people would accuse him of endangering their informant. They were in the Falls, the driver cutting between the crowd, he could see the car, the flames beneath it. ‘Cover me,’ he was saying, the driver braking hard and the men moving fast.

Eileen McDonald heard the sound and knew it was the car again, knew they had come back for her and her husband, ignored it, pulled at the door, tried to get her Liam out. On the other side she could see her husband, picking himself off the ground, coming round, trying to help her. The car behind her was stopping, she half turned, waiting for the bullets, the next bomb, saw the men, faces blackened, British army uniforms. No insignia, she saw, no markings, knew who they were, did not have to think what they were doing there. The flames were spreading, the door handle jammed. The man was coming forward, the others protecting him, not looking at the car, looking out, guarding him. She saw the weapons on his body, the sawn-off shot gun in his hand. He was pushing her out of the way, pushing her husband out of the way, blasting the door open, pulling her Liam out, the fire licking at the petrol tank.

The door was only half open; Enderson reached in, trying to open it, felt the tearing and burning in his arm as he pulled at the door, the flames on his jacket.

She saw the man pulling the boy out, saw he had been injured, one of the other men coming forward, putting out the fire. She saw the injury to his arm, tried to move to help him, watched as he pulled her son away from the car, the men round him moving with him, everyone moving back, away from the car, away from the explosion. She was looking at her son, at the way the man was laying him on the ground, seeing the red, so much red she was suddenly thinking, the blood pouring from her son’s body, knew he was not breathing, knew he was dying, his insides pouring out, his tiny lungs giving up the fight for breath. Somewhere, she did not know where, she heard the ambulance, knew they would not know what to do, would not know how to save her son, knew they would be too late.

The man with the blacked-out face was reaching to his gun belt, pulling out a pack, inserting the tube into her son’s mouth, clearing the airway, enabling him to breathe, pulling his body together, ramming the padding and bandages on his wounds, stopping the red pouring from him. Just like the accident unit at Birmingham Hospital, Enderson was thinking, just like when he had done his six months on the emergency unit, just like the night they had brought in the first victims of the motorway pile-up.

The photographer was parking his car by the drinking club on the corner, his camera on the seat beside him. He had been on the nightly tour, hoping for a picture, knowing there would be nothing so close to Christmas, when he had heard the shooting, known where it had come from. He heard the sound as the car blew up, knew he had missed it and ran anyway. The crowd was parting, he saw the woman kneeling over the boy, knew who the man treating the boy was, not who he was, not his name, what he was. The ambulance was pulling up, the ambulancemen pushing through the crowd. One chance, he thought, was reacting automatically. Seven thirty, he checked the time, worrying about the deadlines, if he would make them, if the photograph was as good as he thought.

Within twenty-five minutes he had developed the film and alerted the picture desks in London.

The image began to appear, he tilted the tray, letting the liquid run evenly over the print, and watched the details emerging, growing stronger, saw that the photograph was even better than he had remembered, knew without thinking what he would call it, what they would all call it. It was so close to Christmas, he thought. Knew the impact the photograph would have, the impact the three words of the title would have.

The saloon bar of the public house in Charlotte Street was busy, it would get even busier later. The walls were draped with decorations and a sprig of mistletoe had been pinned on the ceiling by the fireplace. Walid Haddad arrived five minutes early, bought himself an orange juice and stood against the bar, sipping it. Behind him a group of men he could not help overhearing were talking to two attractive young women he assumed were their secretaries. At eight thirty he made his way across the room, through the door at the side of the bar, and followed the signs to the gents’ toilet. A man in a business suit was leaning against the urinal singing to himself; he looked up, his eyes red and blurred, then turned back to the wall. The cubicle was empty, Haddad closed and locked the door and felt behind the cistern. The envelope was taped in place, he pulled it off, flushed the toilet and left.

Fifteen minutes later he collected the briefcase from the left luggage locker at Euston station and returned to the Holiday Inn, stopping at a chemist shop in Camden Town to purchase a pair of surgical gloves and a torch. Only when he was in his hotel room did he open the case, pull on the gloves, and examine the contents. The four ounces of plastic explosive were in a soap container, the transmitter, receiver unit, detonator and battery wrapped separately. He connected the receiver unit and battery to the bulb from the torch, and activated the transmitter, seeing the bulb light up and confirming the system was working, then he disconnected the bulb, replaced it with the detonator and began to assemble the bomb. At twenty minutes to ten he locked his bedroom door and left the hotel.

The mews in Camden Town was quiet and dark, the only light was through the curtains of the windows of the flats on the first floors and the street lamp thirty yards away at one end. It took Haddad less than a minute to open the garage door and another eight to attach the bomb to the petrol tank of the Granada. By eleven thirty he was back in his room. He helped himself to a drink and turned on the television, searching the channels for the in-house feature film. As he passed BBC 2, a late-night news flash caught his attention; he flicked past, then back again.

‘We are receiving more details of the terrorist incident in Belfast earlier this evening,’ the announcer was saying.

He turned up the sound.

The rain outside was heavy, the windows were running with condensation. In the corridor outside she could hear the clamour of the children as they began their morning break. In the corner someone was smoking, they had tried to ban smoking in the staff-room, but some people had objected. She joined the queue for tea, enjoying the atmosphere, and sat down. The morning newspapers were on the table in the centre of the room, the men amongst the staff were talking about them. ‘Amazing,’ she heard one of them saying, ‘absolutely amazing.’ She hadn’t seen the papers, been too busy to look at them. End of term, carol service that evening, the reports for her English class to finish. And the Christmas shopping, all of it, for her and the kids. One day, she sometimes thought, she ought to sit down and work out how she managed it all by herself, except there wasn’t any time. In the far corner the men were still talking about the newspapers. ‘Incredible,’ one of them was still saying, ‘absolutely bloody incredible.’ She took a cup of tea and sat down.

‘What are they on about?’ she asked.

‘Haven’t you seen the photo in the papers today?’

She said she hadn’t had the time; a colleague reached across, pulled one from the pile and gave it to her.

The picture filled the entire front page; it had been taken at night, she knew, the image grainy, almost unreal.

In the centre, lying, screaming, on the ground, was a small boy. He was burned, she could see, horribly burned and shot, the insides of his body seemed to be pouring from him, the remnants of his clothes hanging from his limbs. He was looking up, white-eyed with fear, at the two people bending over him, at the woman – she knew instinctively it was his mother – kneeling beside him, holding his hand, looking at the other figure, the man in the camouflaged clothing of the British army. She looked at the man, not aware she was sipping her tea; not aware of the noise in the staff-room. His hair was long and his face was streaked with black. He was bending over the child, his hands pulling the remnants of the shattered body together, stemming the blood that was flowing from the boy’s arteries, soothing the terrible burns. Even in the photograph she could see he was treating the child as if he was a doctor, as if he himself was a father. From his left shoulder hung a short squat weapon, she did not know what it was, a belt of cartridges across his chest, the pistol and grenades hanging from his belt. His left arm appeared to be injured, she could see by the way he was holding himself, see the way his own clothing had been burned away. The woman beside him was looking at him, appealing to him. She stared at the picture then read the handful of words below.

Late the previous evening, the single paragraph stated, a British army unit had gone to the help of a Catholic family who had been bombed and shot in their car. Both the father, a leading member of the Republican movement who was high on the Protestants’ wanted list, and the mother had escaped unharmed.

She read the words a second time, still not hearing the conversations around her, then looked at the three words of the headline across the top of the page, ‘Peace On Earth’.

It was almost Christmas, she remembered.

‘Anyone noticed this chap here?’ The deputy head was looking out the window. ‘He’s been standing there since half past nine.’ She put down the newspaper and went to the window, wiping away the condensation. On the pavement opposite the school entrance was a man, his hair was long and he was wearing a mackintosh, the collar turned up against the weather. The rain had flattened his hair and soaked through the shoulders of the coat.

The left sleeve of the mackintosh seemed empty.

The school bell went, she finished the tea and returned to the classroom, not concentrating, thinking of the photograph in the newspaper and of the man on the pavement. When the bell went for lunch she hurried back to the staff-room, left her books on the table, and pulled on her coat. At the last moment she remembered that those staff not on duty were going for a Christmas drink and that she had said she would go with them. They were waiting for her. She apologised to them, waited till they had gone, then went to the car park and started the car. It was still raining. She drove out the gate. The man was still there. She pulled across the road, stopped and opened the door for him.

‘Hello, Grah,’ she said.

‘Hello, love,’ said Enderson.

* * *

Haddad knew every inch of the route from Heathrow. He had driven it that morning, again and again, till he was sure.

He looked at his watch and decided to check it again, make sure there were no last-minute obstructions, no hold-ups.

He started the car, left the short-stay car park, and followed the road through the tunnel from the airport towards the M4. At the precise moment he pulled onto the motorway he pushed the indicator to record the mileage, remembering that he was accustomed to thinking in kilometres and forcing himself to think in miles. The traffic was light and moving quickly, he slid into the centre lane and headed towards London, noting again the marks he had identified earlier. One mile, first bridge over motorway; two miles, A312 exit and second bridge; three miles, service station. He ignored the time it took and concentrated on the distances. Four miles, fourth bridge; five miles, fifth bridge. Not much time anyway, even at the speed limit of seventy miles an hour, and the PLO driver wouldn’t stick to the limit. Six miles, three-lane carriageway into two lanes. And the cameras, the bloody cameras. Two of them, two hundred yards apart, the first facing west, the second east, towards London. He assumed they were for traffic control, that at the time of day he would follow the PLO car along the motorway the police would be paying little attention to them, knew nevertheless that they might be recording the pictures on tape, that it was a risk he could not afford to take. Seven miles, onto the flyover. Plenty of distance, he thought, as long as nothing went wrong; not much time though, he also thought, wondered what would go wrong. Eight miles, off flyover, almost into the suburbs. Nine miles, traffic lights at Hogarth roundabout. If it wasn’t over by then there would be problems. He circled the roundabout and turned back for Heathrow.

The black Granada arrived thirty minutes before Tunis Air flight TU790 was due. Haddad followed it into the airport complex, overtaking it as it slowed outside the terminal, then drove back to the short-term car park. The driver of the Granada parked outside the main entrance of the building, in front of a policeman, got out of the car, showed the man his credentials and disappeared inside. Haddad confirmed it was the man he had followed to the mews in Kentish Town the evening before and watched as the uniformed policeman spoke into the radio he carried on his left shoulder. Two minutes later an unmarked white transit van pulled up thirty yards behind the Granada. Ten minutes later the chauffeur came out, spoke to the policeman, and pulled away, the unmarked transit remaining in position.

The chauffeur had stepped up the security level, thought Haddad, was acting as he should do. Except that it was already too late. He sank back into his seat and looked again at the newspaper he had bought in the hotel foyer that morning, the picture covering the entire front page, the image of the man stemming the boy’s life as it flowed away from him. After fifteen minutes the black Granada returned and parked in front of the unmarked transit. The chauffeur got out and went again into the terminal building. Haddad laid the newspaper on the front passenger’s seat of the hire car, pulled the transmitter from beneath the seat, placed it on the newspaper, and folded the paper over it. The picture of the man in Belfast, he could not help notice, was staring at him.

He had waited another ten minutes when the chauffeur reappeared, carrying a suitcase; with him was a middle-aged man, slightly balding, whom Walid Haddad recognised from photographs as the PLO representative in London. The driver put the case in the boot and opened the door for the delegate, thanked the policeman, put up his hand to the unmarked transit then pulled away.

No second man, thought Haddad, no bodyguard. Only the driver. Not that it would have done any of them any good.

He moved after the Granada, not wanting to be either too close or too far back, remembering the points before the motorway at which he could become separated from his target. The traffic lights at the roundabout before the tunnel were green, the driver of the car in front of him was lost, the man’s wife telling him what to do. The Granada was almost at the lights. Still green. He was getting too far back, tried to pull round the car in front, was cut off by an airport coach crowded with schoolchildren. The lights turned to red. He looked for the Granada, saw that it had also stopped, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The lights changed, he followed the cars down the slope and into the tunnel. The Granada was in the left-hand lane, not travelling as quickly as he had imagined it would; the airport coach was in the right-hand lane, pulling away. He drove out of the tunnel, turned right at the roundabout, and headed towards the M4. Nine miles, he began to think, nine miles in which he had to kill the PLO man and his chauffeur. It did not occur to him that they were Palestinians like himself. He passed the Trust House Forte Hotel on the left, drove round the roundabout beneath the motorway and turned back onto the M4 towards London. At the precise moment he did so he leaned forward and pressed the mileage counter. One mile, first bridge. The Granada picking up speed, the driver talking to his passenger. Not much traffic, even less traffic than before. The Granada pulled into the central lane and began accelerating. Two miles, A312 exit and second bridge. Never much time, almost a quarter the distance already gone.

In front he could see the airport bus, the one filled with children. Three miles, service station. The PLO driver was sticking to the speed limit, he suddenly thought, knowing he could not do it from behind, could not be caught in the traffic jam that would pile up behind the blast, knowing also that if he was too far in front he would not be able to check that the road round the Granada was clear. The airport bus moved into the inside lane, the Granada overtaking it. ‘Yallah,’ he urged the driver. ‘For the love of Allah, move it.’ Four miles, fourth bridge, the Granada pulling away from the coach. Ideally he would need half a mile between the coach and the car. Could do it with less, of course, could overtake and do it now. Run the risk of killing the kids. Kids had died before, would die again. Except his orders were specific – only the PLO man and his driver should die, no one else. Especially not a busload of kids, Nabil would have said.

Four miles gone, another five to do it.

Plenty of time, he told himself, not believing it, beginning to accelerate, preparing to overtake the Granada. The coach six hundred yards behind.

The sirens blasted in his ear. Instinctively he slowed down, saw the white police BMW level with him, lights flashing. He had been set up, he thought. The device was only six inches from his left hand. Do it anyway, he thought, get the PLO man. The Granada driver had heard, was slowing down. Fool, Haddad thought, he should be reacting, pulling his man out of trouble. Do it anyway, he thought again. Saw the coach. Alongside him. The children looking at him, waving at him. The Granada only twenty yards in front.

Five miles, fifth bridge, only four miles to go. He told himself to calm down, looked across at the police car, ignoring him, ignoring the Granada, already pulling away. Six miles, three-lane motorway into two lanes. Almost too bloody late. The Granada beginning to accelerate again. Not quickly enough, the coach still too close. The cameras, one facing west, the other east. Never much time, he thought, almost no time at all.

The blind spot, the two hundred yards between the cameras. He pulled the wheel violently to the left, and jerked the hire car across the inside lane, braking hard. Behind him the coach driver slammed on his brakes, the children tumbling forward. In his rear view mirror Haddad saw the coach suddenly fill the entire frame. The Granada was pulling away, three hundred yards, almost four hundred. Bloody drivers, the coach driver was shouting at him, waving his fist. The Granada five hundred yards away, nearly six hundred. The children picking themselves up from the floor. Madman, the driver was gesticulating at him, bloody loony. He changed into third, accelerating away from the coach. Seven miles, onto the flyover, the office blocks on either side. The Granada was three hundred yards ahead, two hundred. The road in front and behind clear. Almost out of distance, he thought, almost out of everything. Eight miles, off the flyover and past the Granada. A hundred yards, two hundred yards clear, closing on another group of cars. In his rear view mirror he could see the Granada clearly.

He reached across to the passenger’s seat and unfolded the newspaper.

* * *

Pan Am flight number PA1 arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport on time, taxied across the runway, and began disgorging its three hundred and fifty-two passengers into the terminal building. Three hundred and fifty-one of them were innocent citizens, the three hundred and fifty-second was Abu Nabil. By six thirty he had cleared immigration and customs, using the passport he had used in Paris and London, and taken a cab to the Plaza Hotel. He checked into his room, switched on the early evening news programme and made a single telephone call confirming his meeting for the following morning.

The third item oh the news bulletin was the assassination in London of the PLO spokesman Hassan Nabulsi. The report showed video pictures of the remains of the man’s Ford Granada motor car, on the M4 motorway near Heathrow Airport. He had just returned from a meeting with Yasser Arafat, the report continued, adding that unofficial sources had confirmed that the type of bomb used was believed to be identical to that used by the IRA in Northern Ireland. The reporter, standing at the side of the motorway, the wreckage of the car behind him, speculated that the assassination was the latest episode in the struggle for supremacy within the various factions of the Palestinian movement. More sinister, he suggested, his collar turned up against the biting wind and the first cutting flakes of sleet, was the possibility of a link-up between the IRA and one of the extremist Palestinian groups.

If Haddad was to end it, Nabil had thought to himself in Damascus, then Haddad may as well start it. He flicked between the channels, catching the same report on CBS and NBC. Haddad had now started it.

He showered, took a light supper of cold meats and salad, and went to bed.

He woke at four, a combination of the time difference between Damascus, London and New York, and the air conditioning, which he found oppressive, slept fitfully for another two hours and rose at six. He left the hotel and spent the next ninety minutes walking the streets. The weather was brisk and cold. On the corner of Times Square he bought copies of the New York Times, the International Herald Tribune and the Wall Street Journal.

He was getting hungry. In a delicatessen six blocks from the hotel he took lox and bagels, sitting in the seat farthest from the window. The service was friendly, he wondered for the briefest of moments what the shabab, the boys, would have thought, how the owners would have reacted, if they had known that he, Abu Nabil, planner of death, executioner of violence, survivor of at least three Israeli attempts on his life, was breakfasting in a Jewish deli in New York, served by a smiling Jewish waiter whom he called David and whom, as he left, he would tip and who would tell him to have a good day. His battle, however, had never been personal. Besides, the lox was good and the second cup of coffee was free. And the place was warm and crowded. He thought, not for the first time that day, of the photograph he had again left in the emptiness of his flat in Damascus and turned to the newspapers.

The assassination in London featured on the front pages of both the Times and Tribune and the international page of the Journal. On the front page of the Herald Tribune there was also a photograph, taken two nights before, of the moment in Northern Ireland when a British soldier had saved the life of the son of a leading member of the IRA. The British government, the article said, had declined to comment on press speculation that the soldier concerned had been a member of the Special Air Service, the SAS.

The waiter refilled his cup. He drank it slowly then rose to leave, paying the bill and leaving a good tip. As he left, the man he had called David told him to have a good day.

At eight thirty that morning, Paris time, the head of arms sales for the French government, General René Audran, was shot dead at his home outside Paris. An hour later, in a communiqué to the Paris and Rome offices of Agence France Presse, responsibility was claimed jointly by Action Directe and the Red Brigades. Forensic tests conducted within twenty four hours established that the weapon used appeared to match that used in the murder of a magistrate in Turin the preceding August.

Two hours later a West German industrialist, Hans Martin Schneider, was murdered when he answered the door to an attractive young woman claiming to be a friend of his daughter.

In the next forty-eight hours there were bombings in West Germany and Belgium; in West Germany the targets were the American companies of Litton, MAN and Honeywell in that order; in Belgium the targets were the American companies of Litton, MAN and Honeywell, also in that order. In all the attacks, it was suggested, the explosives came from the same source: 816 kilos of plastic explosives stolen at Ecoussines, in Belgium, six months before.

The meeting with the industrialist Ahmad Hussein was at ten; it was almost seven weeks since they had met on the quai at St Germain-en-Laye, on the outskirts of Paris. Nabil walked to Macy’s, enjoying the Christmas decorations, and bought two gifts, one of them a chess set, asking for both to be wrapped, then took a cab to the block which housed the offices of the businessman. His host was waiting. He poured them coffee from a percolator in the corner and asked whether Nabil had breakfasted. Nabil confirmed that he had without saying where.

The room was comfortable, well furnished, a Persian rug on the floor and three paintings of Jerusalem by Suleiman Mansour on the walls.

‘A sad affair in London,’ Hussein suggested, handing Nabil a coffee.

‘A sad affair indeed.’

For the next ten minutes they discussed the implications of the London assassination; when they had finished Hussein unlocked the top right drawer of his desk and took a file from it.

‘In January,’ the industrialist began, establishing the background, ‘Ronald Reagan will officially begin his second term as president of the United States. He will be seventy-four years old when he starts, seventy-eight at the end. For reasons of his age, and because he cannot, under the Constitution, hold office for a third term, many people believe the next four years will be what Americans like to call a lame-duck presidency.’ He paused. ‘In Paris, we agreed this would not be the case. In Paris, we agreed that, partly because of his own background, partly because it is what every president wants, Reagan will seek to do something that will allow him to go down in history. In Paris,’ he concluded, ‘we also agreed that the obvious area is foreign policy. Within this, we agreed, Central America was too controversial, too many comparisons with Vietnam. The obvious area, therefore, other than any agreement with the new Russian leadership, was the Middle East.’

He moved the file to the centre of the desk.

‘You wanted two names. Firstly, the name of the man who will be the president’s foreign policy advisor in the foreseeable future, the man who would run his Middle East policy for him, who would do the negotiations. Secondly, you wanted the name of the person most likely to have influence with that man.’

He opened the file. ‘As regards the first,’ he said, ‘there are three possibilities. The first, and luckily for us not the favourite, is pro-Israeli, strong connections with the Jewish Lobby here.’ Nabil listened intently. ‘The second,’ continued Hussein, ‘would be a strong candidate, except that his wife is seriously ill. It may be that she recovers by the dates we are discussing, it may also be that she is no longer with us.’ His voice had dropped slightly. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘the man in question might have both the time and motivation to do something.’

‘But?’

‘But he would be preoccupied with his wife’s illness during the lead-up to that period, during the time he would have to be convinced that he wanted the job and others persuaded that he was the man for it.’

‘And the third candidate?’

Hussein pulled a photograph from the file and handed it to Nabil. ‘Henry Armstrong is fifty-six years old. He was associated with Reagan, albeit at a distance, when the president was governor of California, he is also reported to have had links with George Bush when the vice president was head of the CIA.’

‘Does that go against us?’

Hussein shook his head. ‘Henry Armstrong is a wealthy man, a prominent businessman, a success in his own right. Fortunately for us, he is also a very practical man. His companies have close connections with companies in the Middle East, Arab companies.’

‘How will you manage it?’ asked Nabil.

Hussein looked up from his coffee. ‘I have already started,’ he smiled, knowing Nabil wanted to know more. ‘A little financial backing where necessary,’ he began to explain, ‘sometimes a long way from the target itself, even from the people who will have influence when it matters, but to the people who will influence those people.’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes you don’t even say he’s a good man to have around, sometimes it’s better to say he’s a real bastard and the last man they should let anywhere near the Oval office.’ His eyes gleamed at the thought.

‘So Henry Armstrong will be the next major foreign affairs negotiator for the United States of America?’

‘Yes.’

Nabil leaned forward and turned the photograph of Henry Armstrong face down on the desk. Not from disdain or disrespect, but from habit. ‘And who will be the catalyst?’ he asked. ‘Who will be the man who will have his ear?’

Hussein took a second sheet of paper from the file. Attached to it was another photograph and a cutting from a newspaper.

‘The Jacksonian Institute is a political think tank in Washington. It is highly respected, both nationally and internationally, with considerable justification. Henry Armstrong is a regular contributor to its foreign affairs seminars, he is also a major benefactor of the institute.’ He smiled again. ‘Most things in America are, of course, tax deductible.’

‘That aside the institute plays an important role in Armstrong’s life. It is one of the reasons he must be considered in line for a top post in government.’ Nabil heard the words and knew that Armstrong was the man he wanted, wondering whether Hussein’s second choice would be as good as his first. ‘Each year,’ continued the industrialist, ‘the institute hosts a number of international forums to which guest speakers from various parts of the world are invited. Several years ago Armstrong himself chaired a seminar on strategic politics at which one of the guest speakers was this man.’ He unclipped the photograph from the sheet of paper in front of him and passed it to Nabil. The man in it was in his late thirties, good-looking, immaculately groomed. ‘The speaker was a British Member of Parliament, one of the up and coming breed who seem set to control things in the future. Armstrong was so impressed that he invited him back. They are now close friends.’

‘How important was he?’

‘He wasn’t important then, he is important now, he will be extremely important in the future.’ He passed Nabil the sheet of paper with the newspaper cutting fastened to it.

Nabil took it. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

Hussein looked at him. ‘John Kenshaw-Taylor entered the British Parliament in a bye-election in 1978 after a successful career in the City. Like others of his kind, it was important to him that he was seen to make his first million by the time he was thirty. Politics, in any case, was always a strong possibility for him; his family has had its hands on British foreign affairs for most of the past half-century, probably well before that. Since 1978 his rise has been spectacular. Two years ago he was made Minister of Energy.’

Nabil knew there was more.

‘Eight weeks ago he was promoted to Number Two at the British Foreign Office. The day he moved, the London Times said it was merely one more step to his becoming Prime Minister.’

Nabil looked at the dates on the newspaper cutting Ahmad Hussein had given him. The day, he thought, that he had seen the article which had planted the first seed of the plan in his mind, the day he had played tawli with the old man in the café. The day, he did not know, that Yakov Zubko and his family had left Moscow and begun their journey to the West.

‘How can we get at him?’ he asked.

‘He’s ambitious,’ Hussein replied, equally succinctly.

The meeting finished at twelve. At twelve thirty Hussein drove them to a Lebanese restaurant where they ate a quiet and discreet lunch. When they parted, Nabil gave him the gifts he had bought for his children; that night Hussein gave them to his son and daughter; when they asked who they were from, he told them they were from an uncle who loved them very much but whom they had never met. His wife knew not to ask.

At four thirty that afternoon Nabil made a single international telephone call, checked out of the Plaza Hotel, took a cab to John F. Kennedy, and caught the six forty-five TWA flight to Rome.