The other week, I headed to a deserted car park at 11pm in the evening in North London. There was one other car — a long wheelbase Mercedes with darkened windows — parked waiting for my arrival on the 5th floor of the multistorey, engine still running, headlights off.
A chap in an overcoat was standing by the car’s open door and as I pulled up, he walked over to me and passed an unmarked padded envelope in through my opened window.
“Your instructions for the visit,” he said, before turning smartly away.
Within seconds the car was gone and I was alone.
I ripped open the envelope as my pulse rate quickened. Inside there was a single A4 sheet.
From the like of my N95, I saw the page was completely blank except for this:
0870 521 3232. 8am. 19-11-08. 112345-998407.
So, I’m going to phone that number tomorrow (Wednesday) at precisely 8am to get my next set of instructions.
If there’s phone signal, I’ll try and update you via Ping.fm, provided they don’t take my Blackberry off me when I arrive.