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Dever’s Café

Hyde Park, London

Friday morning

The imam waved him to the seat across from him. A young man dressed in Dever’s signature red and black wove his way through the tables and took Khaled’s order of tea. Khaled waited respectfully for the young imam to speak. Khaled saw no anger in his eyes, no hint of why he’d wanted to see him here, of all places. Could it be the imam had asked to meet him because he’d finally noticed him, heard good things about him? Well, why not? For the past six months, Khaled had been an ardent worshipper, always respectful and admiring, speaking only when spoken to. At the mosque, Ali wore his traditional loose white robe, the jalabiya, and his feet were always bare for public prayer because it would be disrespectful to pray with something on that had a taint, like the sole of a shoe. But today, at Dever’s, Ali was a fashion plate—Savile Row black slacks and jacket, white silk shirt, alligator loafers and no socks on his narrow feet. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair finely barbered.

“I’ve never been here before. It’s quite impressive.”

Ali nodded toward the window. “It is always raining in London, so very different from Syria. Have you adapted to it?”

As Ali continued to speak of the mundane, Khaled felt his tension ease. Ali was either an excellent actor, or he had no idea Khaled was an officer with MI5.

After Khaled was served, he put one teaspoon of sugar in his cup and sipped his tea. He sighed in pleasure.

Ali said, “Khaled, I have a favor I wish to ask of you.”

Khaled’s heart kicked up. “Of course, Imam.” He set down his teacup and bowed his head in diffident silence.

So the imam had verified the legend created for him by Eiserly’s people at JTAC, and it had held, or Khaled wouldn’t be sitting here. JTAC suspected the aged accountant Rehan al-Albiri had for many years been presiding over two vastly different sets of books, only one submitted to HMRC, the other recording the real sources of the mosque’s funding and outgoing sums to support jihadist groups. Khaled doubted he’d be trusted with seeing the real books anytime soon, if at all, but there was a chance he could find them once he took Rehan al-Albiri’s place. Did one of his promised assistants know all about the second books? Rehan had been an intimate of the former imam for many years, and he was a wily old fox. MI5 could never find direct evidence against him, so Rehan still walked in the sunlight, when there was sunlight in London.

“Yes, that is what he would prefer. You may phone to set up a convenient time for both of you.”