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travel documents?”
    “We abuse yours, too, Graham. It’s what we do.”
    “ We don’t do it. SIS makes a point of traveling only on British or Commonwealth passports.”
    “How sporting of them,” Gabriel said. “But it’s far easier to travel the world on a British passport than it is on an Israeli one. Safer, too. Take a trip to Syria or Lebanon some time on an Israeli passport. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.”
    “Smart-ass.” Seymour handed the passport to Gabriel. “What were you doing in Amsterdam?”
    “Some personal business.”
    “Elaborate, please.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t.”
    “Did the Dutch know you were there?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “I’ll take that as a no.”
    “I always heard you were good, Graham.”
    Seymour pulled his face into a fatigued frown, a sign that he’d had enough of the verbal sparring match. The inhospitality of his reception came as little surprise to Gabriel. The British services did not care much for the Office. They were Arabists by education, anti-Semites by breeding, and still resented the Jews for driving the Empire out of Palestine.
    “What have you got for me, Gabriel?”
    “I think an al-Qaeda cell from Amsterdam might have entered Britain in the last forty-eight hours with the intention of carrying out a major attack.”
    “Just one cell?” Seymour quipped. “I’m sure they’ll feel right at home.”
    “That bad, Graham?”
    Seymour nodded his gray head. “At last count we were monitoring more than two hundred networks and separate groupings of known terrorists. Half our Muslim youth profess admiration for Osama bin Laden, and we estimate that more than one hundred thousand supported the attacks on the London transport system, which means they have a very large pool of potential recruits from which to draw in the future. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t sound the alarm just because another cell of Muslim fanatics has decided to put ashore.”
    “Maybe it isn’t just another cell, Graham. Maybe they’re the real thing.”
    “They’re all the real thing,” Seymour said. “You said you think they’re here. Does that mean you’re not sure?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “So let me make sure I understand correctly. I have sixteen thousand known Islamic terrorists residing in my country, but I’m supposed to divert manpower and resources into finding a cell that you think might be in Britain?” Greeted by silence, Graham Seymour answered his own question. “If it were anyone but you, I’d pull over and let him out. But you do have something of a track record, don’t you? What makes you think they might be here?”
    Gabriel handed him the envelope of photographs.
    “This is all you have? Some snapshots of Ahmed’s holiday in London? No train tickets? No rental car receipts? No e-mail intercepts? No visual or audio surveillance?”
    “They were here on a surveillance mission four months ago. And his name isn’t Ahmed. It’s Samir.”
    “Samir what?”
    “Samir al-Masri, Hudsonstraat 37, Oud West, Amsterdam.”
    Seymour looked at the photo of Samir standing in front of the Houses of Parliament. “Is he Dutch?”
    “Egyptian, as far we know.”
    “As far as you know? What about the other members of this phantom cell? You have any names?”
    Gabriel handed him a slip of paper with the other names Ibrahim Fawaz had given him in Amsterdam. “Based on what we know, the cell was operating out of the al-Hijrah Mosque on the Jan Hazenstraat in west Amsterdam.”
    “And you’re sure he’s Egyptian?”
    “That’s the flag he was flying in Amsterdam. Why?”
    “Because we’ve been picking up some chatter recently among some of our more radical Egyptian countrymen.”
    “What sort of chatter?”
    “Blowing up buildings, bringing down bridges and airplanes, killing a few thousand people on the Underground—you know, the usual things people discuss over tea and biscuits.”
    “Where’s it coming from?”
    Seymour