“I’m sitting in the back of an MI5 limousine. How much more cooperation and notification do you require?”

“What about the passport?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Do the Germans know you’re abusing their 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.