Hussein wandered through Speaker’s Corner. In no hurry, he stopped occassionally to listen. This place, this country, was so different from his native Jordan. It took some getting used to. He glanced at his watch. It was six’clock. He expected to be dead in three hours.

For the next two hours, Hussein ambled through Hyde Park. The evening was cool. He walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, his right hand resting comfortably on the grip of his pistol.

By eight o’clock, he was at the front entrance of the building at 49 Deaney St. Two men waited for him in the shadows. They exchanged nods as Hussein approached.

“He’s in there?” Hussein asked quietly, inclining his head toward the Dorchester Hotel.

“Yes.”

They settled into the shadows, talking amicably for a while about anything at all except for the reason that they were there. At least one of them had the hotel’s entrance in sight at all times.

“There he is.”

It was shortly after nine. Together, the three strode toward the Israeli ambassador.