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Underground—you know, the usual things people discuss over tea and biscuits.”
    “Where’s it coming from?”
    Seymour hesitated, then said, “Finsbury Park.”
    “But of course.”
    There was perhaps no more appropriate symbol of Britain’s current predicament than the North London Central Mosque, known commonly as the Finsbury Park mosque. Built in 1990 with money donated by the king of Saudi Arabia, it was among the most radical in Europe. Richard Reid, the infamous shoe-bomber, had passed through its doors; so had Zacarias Moussaoui, the so-called twentieth hijacker, and Ahmed Ressam, the Algerian terrorist who was arrested shortly before the millennium for plotting to blow up Los Angeles International Airport. British police raided the mosque in January 2003—inside they discovered such sacred items as forged passports, chemical-protective suits, and a stun gun—and eventually it was turned over to new leadership. It was later revealed that one member of the new board of trustees was a former Hamas terror mastermind from the West Bank. When the former terrorist gave the British government assurances that he was now a man of peace, he was permitted to remain in his post.
    “So you think Samir is the cell leader?”
    “That’s what my source tells me.”
    “Has your source ever been right in the past?”
    “Do you remember that plot to shoot down an El Al jetliner at Schiphol last year?”
    “The one that the Dutch broke up?”
    “The Dutch didn’t break it up, Graham. We broke it up, with the help of this same source.”
    Seymour looked down at the photographs. “It’s not much to go on,” he said, “but I’m afraid it does fit the profile of a major attack scenario we’ve developed.”
    “What sort of scenario?”
    “An action cell based abroad, working with surveillance and support cells buried within the local community here. The action cell members train and prepare in a place where we can’t monitor them, then come ashore at the last minute, so we have no time to find them and disrupt their plans. Obviously it would take complex planning and a skilled mastermind to pull it off.” He held up the snapshots. “Can I keep these?”
    “They’re yours.”
    “I’ll have Immigration run the names and see if your boys have actually entered the country, and I’ll give copies of the pictures to our colleagues in the Anti-Terrorist Branch of Scotland Yard. If the Metropolitan Police deem the threat credible, they might put a few more men at some of the sites al-Masri visited.”
    “What about raising the overall threat level?” Gabriel asked. “What about stepping up the surveillance of your local Egyptian radicals in Finsbury Park?”
    “We’re not like our American brethren. We don’t like to move the needle on the threat meter each time we get nervous. We find it only serves to make the British public more cynical. As for our local Egyptians, we’re watching them closely enough already.”
    “I hope so.”
    “How long are you planning to stay in London?”
    “Just tonight.”
    Seymour handed him a business card. It had nothing on it but a telephone number. “It’s for my mobile. Call me if you pick up anything else in Amsterdam. Can I drop you at your hotel?”
    “No thanks, Graham.”
    “How about your safe flat?”
    “Our embassy would be fine. I’m going to have a quiet word with our local chief of station and the head of embassy security to make sure we take appropriate measures.”
    “Give my best to your station chief. And tell him to behave himself.”
    “Is it your intention to follow me after I leave the embassy?”
    “I don’t have the spare manpower or I would.”
    He was lying, of course. Honor among spies went only so far.
     
     
     
    Gabriel’s meetings at the embassy ran longer than expected. The chief of security had turned what should have been a five-minute briefing into an hour-long question-and-answer period, while the Office’s chief of station had