It was two minutes to twelve and the place was busy with tourists. I carried a Harrods carrier bag full of passports, a large amount of money in various currencies, forged documents, packs of codeine and the file of papers and reports on the massacre—the whole contents of my safety deposit box. The well-worn envelope sat in my inside jacket pocket, digging into my armpit every time I moved. I had chosen a young taxi driver sitting on his own to deliver the note to the PLO mission, offering him £100 and strict instructions to hand-deliver it to someone inside. He’d jumped at the chance. The mission was a short taxi ride from Harrods—I knew where it was after using it for trade-craft practice when I’d first arrived in London, spotting the surveillance who were watching the place. I hoped the note had been passed to whoever was responsible for security. All I’d written was, “I worked for Abu Leila and was with him when he was martyred in Berlin. I have his personal effects.
