I came down onto a floor, went through a door and found myself in a sumptuous apartment. It had evidently been furnished by an interior decorator to be all that the hospitality apartment of a successful corporation should be, with acres of thick broadloom, Italian porcelain lamps, bronze sculptures in the style of Giacometti, and a master bedroom that any exiled king would have been proud to have died in. It lacked a lived-in feeling, but fortunately it also lacked an occupant.

The larder had been stocked by someone who knew about good food. It was piled with tins of expensive delicacies, as was the freezer, and the booze cabinet had been stocked by someone who knew about good booze. At least I now had the consolation that my Christmas dinner might consist of something a little more exotic than the packets of sandwiches, chocolate bars and apples that lay at the bottom of my hold-all.

There was a large television set, the chairs looked inviting, and I decided it would be sensible to wait until daylight tomorrow to begin my search; the treasures of Sleder’s office, on the floor below, would be my Christmas present to myself in the morning.

I helped myself to a large gin, a cold quinine, as tonic is called in the States, a generous portion of ice cubes from the electric dispenser attached to the fridge, and settled myself into an armchair that reclined as I sat in it. I lit a Marlboro, sat back, and decided that I didn’t feel too bad … didn’t feel too bad at all.

As I sat, I reflected on everything that I had learned in the last few weeks. Operation Angel was backed by the Soviet Union and fronted by Namibia. In France, Baader-Meinhoff, doubtlessly in conjunction with the French left wing, was involved. In Spain, ETA was involved. In the US it was Joel Ballard, a professional terrorist. He was in charge of Canada too, although doubtless there was an FLQ connection there. The Front Libération de Québec had been quiet for many years, and although many of their aims had been achieved, many had not. This was no doubt their chance of a return to the big time. In England, as usual, it was the Irish and, for a change, a Namibian with a grudge.

The deadline was eleven days away, and we had no idea which power stations were threatened. We couldn’t take any of the people in because we had no evidence, and in any event it would have served little purpose, probably setting us back rather than advancing us. They were almost certainly all operating in individual units, or cells, as the IRA call them, which would be able to survive and continue their work, even without the leaders.