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interest was number 39, a dark, dingy, brick-fronted place, coated with years of London grime. On its windows, opaqued in dark green enamel, the name MIDDLE ORIENT CONSOLIDATED AGENCIES LTD was lettered in gold.

5
    Mahmoud el Ka’ed and his men separated on emerging from the alleyway where they’d left the body of Colonel Rashid Dahan. Though they were all bound for the rendezvous behind Shed 27 they went by different routes, swiftly and silently, the sound of their footsteps muffled by rubber-soled shoes. The chosen place was a recess between two stacks of timber, well shielded from passers-by. As each man arrived, no more than a dissembled shape in the night, he answered Ammar Tarik’s whispered, ‘eight-two-one’, with, ‘five- three-nine ’, the challenge and reply for the night. Ka’ed and his bodyguard, Abdu Hussein, were the last to reach the rendezvous. Ka’ed saw that the time was 1.48 am.
    ‘Issam and Abu Ali,’ he called in a low voice. The men’s answering ‘Here’ was barely audible in the darkness.
    ‘Go now,’ he said. ‘One to each end of the shed. If you are not back by two o’clock I will assume it is all clear. Then we move in. When you see us come on to the loading platform , you join us.’
    ‘Yes, Mahmoud.’
    ‘In the name of Allah be silent. Your lives will depend upon it.’
    They moved past him and out into the night, and Ka’ed touched their shoulders in a gesture of affection. Like the rest of the party each had in their overalls a Walther automatic with silencer, a cosh in one hand, a combat knife in the other. They were dressed as dock labourers, but for Ka’ed who still wore the uniform of an assistant port captain.
     
    It was 2 am. Issam and Abu Ali had not returned.
    In the recess Ka’ed whispered, ‘Ready, Ammar?’
    ‘Yes. We are ready.’
    ‘Move now. We shall follow.’
    Ammar Tarik with two men slipped out and made for Shed 27. Soon afterwards, on hearing Ka’ed’s muted ‘Come’, the other men followed him into the darkness.
    The moon had set but the sky was bright with stars, the night air warm. From distant quays came the hum of machinery and the noise of cargo working by the night shift. Occasionally the far-off shrill of stevedores’ whistles pierced the thin curtain of sound.
     
    Movement could be discerned on the loading ramp along the front of the shed. Dark shapes, hidden in the shadows, pressed against the walls near the main entrance. Others moved along the ramp to join them until there were eight in all.
    When the last man was in position, Tarik knocked on the door. He heard voices in the shed, then footsteps making for the door.
    A man called out, ‘Is that you, Colonel?’
    Tarik replied, ‘Yes,’ and moved to the edge of the loading ramp, five or six metres from the door. He leant over the side, looking down into an empty railway truck on the spur-line feeding the ramp. Behind him he heard bolts being drawn, the sound of a door opening, a voice calling, ‘Colonel?’
    Without turning, Tarik – dressed in the Colonel’s clothing and looking very much like him – hissed, ‘Sheesh!’ and beckoned to the man at the door to join him.
    The Syrian officer came towards him, automatic in hand. He had gone only a few paces when he was struck down by two men who came from the shadows. Within seconds they had stabbed him in the heart and pushed his body into the empty truck. Tarik turned, went back to the half-closed doors.
     
    The Syrian officer who had answered the knocking wasMajor Aramoun, the second-in-command. Captain Azhari and the other officers had taken cover behind the trucks in accordance with Aramoun’s orders. They saw him go to the door and call out, ‘Is that you, Colonel?’ They heard the answering, ‘Yes,’ saw him unbolt the door, hesitate and step out, his Stetchkin automatic at the ready. As the door swung back on its hinges he was lost to sight. There were sounds of movement outside. Soon afterwards the door opened