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  “Thank you,” said Bin-Hezam.

  “Anytime, come again,” said the man. “And stay cool out there.”

  He would remember Bin-Hezam, of that there was little doubt.

  One final stop that morning. At a medical supply store on West Twenty-fifth Street—not a Duane Reade, but an actual supply store for nurses and home health care workers—he purchased white gauze impregnated with fast-drying calcined gypsum, also known as plaster of paris. He also picked up a box of rolled cotton batting and a sheet of light fiberglass roving rolled into a tube about a foot long. His total purchase came to thirty-eight dollars.

  Bin-Hezam returned to his hotel room. It had already been cleaned by the maid; everything appeared to be in order.

  He hung the do not disturb sign on the doorknob and quickly shed his light jacket and sneakers, sitting with the television tuned loudly to some nonsense hotel entertainment channel. His purchases were laid out atop the bed, the loaded pistol removed from the safe and set upon the pillow.

  Holy articles. Sacred totems. He had plucked these commonly available items from obscurity, just as God had selected him. Soon he would make them sacred by association.

  His greatest duty was yet to come.

  He muted the television and performed Dhuhr right on time. Full of gratitude for the flow of this day, he beseeched God’s blessing for the rest of it. So far, everything had gone perfectly, as Bin-Hezam traveled in God’s own footsteps. With the gift of grace, it would continue, and soon their paths truly would be one.

  Chapter 28

  By midmorning on Saturday, July 3, Fisk was no closer to finding the Saudi from Flight 903 than he had been the day before. Baada Bin-Hezam had vanished into—or from—New York.

  At seven o’clock that morning, Fisk scrambled an interdiction team to Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. An Arab man matching Bin-Hezam’s physical description had been spotted parked in a loading zone and entering a building carrying a satchel. Fisk captained the sweep from Intel headquarters, listening as crash units sealed off the block. The man was taken down without incident upon exiting the building. He claimed to be a jeweler checking on his aging mother before catching an early bus to Atlantic City to play in a five-thousand-dollar minimum buy-in poker tournament.

  Verifying his story took nearly two hours. During that time, the man’s distraught mother phoned a family friend whose daughter was a lawyer with the Brooklyn office of the ACLU. So piled on top of Fisk’s disappointment in the case of mistaken identity, he then had to spend precious minutes on the phone with the ACLU lawyer. He tried sweet talk first, then a straight-up apology, but she would have none of it. An admittedly clumsy appeal to her patriotism was similarly rebuffed. Only dropping the name of her boss, with whom Fisk had dealt some months before in an ongoing surveillance case, prevented her from taking her client’s case straight to the media.

  At least—he hoped it had. Fisk’s only real success so far, in the midst of one of the largest manhunts in the history of the city, was that it was still operating under the media’s, and therefore the public’s, radar.

  He was getting nothing from his people on the street. Ten o’clock came and went, and the swarm of hourly contact reports from his rakers in the Muslim neighborhoods all turned up negative. Nothing. Not for the first time did Fisk wonder if he had launched a career-killing goose chase.

  Maybe the hijacker Abdulraheem really had been just another jihadist looking for a moment of glory in a world that memorialized evil more often than good. Maybe this Saudi Bin-Hezam really was an art dealer.

  Of course they had looked into his past. Early hours still, but they found deals he had brokered. Bin-Hezam’s name was on a number of transactions, none of them major, none in six or even high five figures. His past travel synced up with the sales and festivals. The few clients he maintained checked out as legitimate sculptors and painters, along with a handful of galleries.

  So on paper, he was legit. The question was, was this just a shadow career, meant to pacify exactly such scrutiny into his background? Or was Bin-Hezam simply another of life’s minor players, like the vast majority of us, with his own shortcomings, hang-ups, and foibles?

  This was a big part of Fisk’s job. Being a viewfinder, locating an individual within the vast sea of humanity and bringing him into focus as quickly as possible in an attempt to determine whether he truly was one of the peaceable ones.

  On the plus side, he did not believe that, in the real world, the shared kinship between Abdulraheem, Bin-Hezam, and bin Laden could be sheer coincidence. Such a random occurrence was possible but—and here Fisk snapped the ring of circular logic that was squeezing his mind like a tourniquet—realistically improbable.

  If thirteen years as a criminal investigator had taught him anything, it was that coincidence was the stuff of Russian novels and television sitcoms. When people converged without any apparent reason, it was only because the objective viewer—Fisk—could not yet determine the reason.

  Fisk returned to mouse-clicking the stream of images dispatched to him from the city police cameras. All night, and now into the day, he had been looking at computer-screen pictures of men who looked vaguely like Bin-Hezam. Hell, he’s probably in disguise, thought Fisk. That’s what I would do.

  The cameras could compensate for certain obvious disguises: wigs, mustaches, sunglasses. But he knew that finding the Saudi solely via camera technology was the longest of his long shots.

  A few minutes later, Fisk’s phone finally rang. One of Fisk’s best rakers had information on a taxi driver who claimed to have picked up a man meeting Bin-Hezam’s description, but wearing a trim mustache and eyeglasses. It wasn’t much, but at this point a tip was a tip.

  The raker, a dispatcher for a Brooklyn cab company, said that his driver was a Kuwaiti Sikh. “He picked up a fare uptown. I can get you the name of the hotel. The fare was not a guest, he walked up off the street. How the driver remembers him. He had a mustache and glasses, but he also wore a suit jacket. Something’s not right.”

  “Go ahead,” said Fisk.

  “Usually he would have refused the man, because you know you want the hotel fares, not the ten-block errand trips. But this was a fellow Arab. He says that he remembers the man seeming visibly relieved once he closed the door, though he wasn’t out of breath or anything like that. He gave him an address. The driver doesn’t remember where. They never got there anyway. Somewhere in the East Sixties at a red light the fare pushed cash through the window and got out. Driver doesn’t remember the intersection because another fare got right in.”

  Most likely the Saudi walked another block or two and hailed another cab. “I’m sending over somebody with pictures for your driver to look at. Meanwhile, get me the name of that hotel.”

  Fisk’s adrenaline was flowing. This felt like something. The intercept.

  The Capricorn Hotel lobby had Oriental rugs hanging on the walls. There was no restaurant adjacent, only a small sports bar that was, at that hour, still serving a limited breakfast.

  Fisk showed his shield and explained why they were there. His explanation approached the truth. His people printed out the register and quickly entered all the names into the Intel database. Fisk posted two men in the lobby, just to be careful. None of the registered guests matched Bin-Hezam’s description, and none of the staff reacted strongly positively either to Bin-Hezam’s passport photograph scan or to another image augmented with a digitally added mustache and eyeglasses.

  The cabdriver, on the other hand, made a positive identification. Fisk liked cabbies as witnesses; all cops did. Juries too.

  Fisk walked outside to the cabstand, empty at that time of the morning. He watched the cars and people going past, squinting into the rising sun, feeling its heat.

  Baada Bin-Hezam had stood there some twelve to fifteen hours before.

  The question now was: where had he been coming
from?

  Chapter 29

  Gersten was up early Saturday morning, her trusted phone alarm summoning her from sleep. She checked for overnight messages from Fisk but there were none.

  He was plenty busy, she told herself. He had real work to do.

  Gersten was looking forward to another day as a camp counselor.

  She pulled on running pants, New Balance sneakers, and a nylon Windbreaker, and dug her ear buds out of her travel bag. She stowed her sidearm in the hotel room safe, then rode the elevator down to the street. Even that early in the morning, the sticky July heat was oppressive. Any other day she might have reconsidered, or else hopped in a cab to her gym. But she needed the streets, the distance, the workout.

  NPR’s Weekend Edition carried her to Park Avenue and straight up to Sixty-first, where she turned left and then north again on Fifth Avenue, running uptown along the wide sidewalk outside some of the city’s best residences, opposite Central Park.

  At Seventy-ninth, she turned left into the park itself, cutting back south along East Drive. She ran in the shade when she could. She changed radio stations, riding her presets until she hit disco music. One of her presets was having a Summer of ’76 flashback weekend, and it was perfect, just what she needed. The groove carried her south through the park.

  A typical Saturday morning: joggers, walkers, nannies, bikers. The sky was clear blue, the rising sun ready to turn brutal in just a few hours. The kind of day air-conditioning was invented for.

  She emerged from the park at Fifty-ninth Street, continuing south, stopping for a cold protein shake outside Grand Central before entering the chrome-and-glass lobby of the Grand Hyatt and riding up to the twenty-sixth floor. Still flushed from her run, yet chilled by the artificially cool air, she nodded to the two new watch cops guarding the hallway and proceeded past the open suite toward her room at the end of the hall.

  A door farther down opened as she was passing by, and Gersten saw Maggie Sullivan slipping out into the hallway, still wearing her clothes from the previous night’s Nightline interview. Her hair was mussed, and her shoes were in her hand.

  “Um . . . morning?” said Maggie, giving her a funny look, a cross between embarrassed and giddy.

  Gersten realized that the Scandinavian Air flight attendant wasn’t leaving her own room. Gersten glanced inside as she passed, and caught just a glimpse of Magnus Jenssen standing near the table at the foot of his bed, shirtless and in boxer shorts, the blue cast on his left wrist. He looked up from checking his wristwatch, his eyes meeting Gersten’s in the instant she was passing.

  His look was cool and unfazed, showing neither the guilt nor the apparent pleasure Maggie had shown.

  Then the door clicked shut.

  Gersten stopped and turned back, watching Maggie complete her walk of shame, fumbling her room card into the slot of her door, nudging it open with her hip and slipping inside. Gersten smiled, properly scandalized. What happened to Joanne Sparks? she wondered. The IKEA store manager had been pursuing Jenssen pretty hard last night, but had apparently lost the sweepstakes to the small-town flight attendant.

  Gersten continued to her own room, entering, wishing she had someone with whom she could share this fun bit of gossip. She checked her phone first thing, but still had no messages beyond the usual work e-mails she would rather handle on her laptop.

  Good for tousle-haired Maggie, thought Gersten, pausing to look at herself as she undressed, the water running for her shower. Not only had she bagged a hot, well-built Swede, but she had also bedded the man who saved her life. Not bad, going from reading romance novels to actually living one.

  The shower felt great, and Gersten allowed her mind to wander, as well as her hand, bringing herself to orgasm with a minor fantasy involving shirtless Jenssen and a locked hotel room with a Jacuzzi tub and good champagne. Then out of the shower and into her robe, knocking down overnight Intel reports on her laptop.

  Nothing new on the hunt for Bin-Hezam. If not for Fisk, she would be totally out of the loop, marooned here in this midtown hotel.

  She dressed and headed down the hall to breakfast, and to relieve Patton. A buffet was set up along one wall of one of the adjoining rooms, and the first person Gersten saw was Maggie. She too had showered and changed, and despite the bags beneath her eyes she looked refreshed, energized. They were alone.

  “Good morning,” said Gersten, with a smile.

  “Oh my god,” said Maggie, shaking her head, her smile complicit.

  “Sleep well?” asked Gersten.

  “Beautifully,” said Maggie, dumping eggs and toast onto her plate. “For about two hours.”

  “What happened?” Gersten wanted to know.

  “Too much rum,” said Maggie. “Too much excitement, too many emotions.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gersten, looking around quickly, “but I thought the IKEA manager . . .”

  “So did I,” said Maggie. “This . . . this really isn’t my style, normally, you know? I think she nodded off maybe. I don’t know. He made the first move, and I was like, lead the way.” She heard herself say that and laughed. “Oh my god.”

  “I’m sure you just felt sorry for him. The cast and all.”

  Maggie smiled. “I was not myself last night,” she said. “But the person I was is very, very happy this morning. Should I leave it at that?”

  “No,” said Gersten. “You should tell me every single detail.”

  Maggie went away laughing, eating her much-needed breakfast.

  Patton came over, anxious to leave. “What was that about?”

  “Girl talk, you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Ask me how I slept,” he said.

  “Like a baby, I’m sure.”

  “Exactly. Not at all.”

  “Things get a little crazy in here last night?”

  “A little bit. Lots of giggling in that room. Then snoring. I had the Yankees on, a late West Coast game.”

  “They win?”

  “A-Rod bounced to third with two men on. They lost, four to three.”

  Gersten looked at Maggie devouring her breakfast. “Well, we can’t win ’em all.”

  “Yes we can,” said Patton. “We’re the Yankees.” He grabbed a muffin off the table. “Hey, one person you need to meet before I get outta here.” He led her over to a man wearing a suit jacket that was just slightly too large. He looked like someone who spent a fair amount of each day working out in a gym, yet his chest was bulked out a little more than was natural. Gersten made him as Secret Service before she even shook his hand.

  “Tim Harrelson,” he said.

  Gersten introduced herself. “I take it things are about to get a little more interesting around here,” she said.

  “It seems so,” he said, with a confident smile.

  Patton rubbed his hands together and made for the door. “Have fun, kids. See you later.”

  Gersten excused herself, leaving Harrelson to return to the head of the buffet table. She smeared cream cheese over half a sesame bagel and carried it into the other room. CNN was running clips from The Six’s Nightline appearance, but the sound was low. Nouvian stood by the window, his hands in the pockets of his wool pants. Aldrich was working on a clump of bacon, looking grumpy as usual. Frank was rolling through messages on his phone, perhaps already putting out feelers and fielding interest for a book or life-rights deal.

  Joanne Sparks, looking sharp in flared pants and a tight blouse, sat on the cushioned arm of Jenssen’s chair, nibbling an English muffin. Jenssen looked up as Gersten entered, not smiling or acknowledging her, just looking.

  Gersten couldn’t look at Sparks. Apparently, she had no knowledge of Jenssen’s visitor the previous night. Maggie sat near the window, her legs crossed, sipping orange juice. Things were about to get interesting indeed.

  The publicist
from Mayor Bloomberg’s office looked like she was in the corner talking to herself, but she was actually finishing up a phone conversation via her Bluetooth ear clip.

  “Okay,” announced the publicist, stepping forward. “I have your schedule for today, and it’s going to be a fun one, something you’re all going to remember for the rest of your lives.”

  Skepticism, rather than enthusiasm, was their reaction. Aldrich and Nouvian eyed Harrelson, who had stepped into the adjoining doorway, warily.

  “We are leaving here within the half hour and going a few blocks over to the Today show studio for a live interview with Matt Lauer, who is coming in on the weekend especially for you folks, which I’m told he never does. Because you’re big stars, right? You deserve the best.”

  Sparks straightened her back, excited, but most of the rest were waiting to hear what else.

  “I want you to know we’ve turned down scores of offers, some wacky, some interesting. But we don’t want to overload or overtax you. So after the Today show, you will be heading back here to one of the event rooms, which we will have set up for a pool interview with print journalists. That means the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, et cetera, will send one reporter each to interview you all at the same time, rather than parceling out your story over ten, twelve, even twenty little interviews. Those things turn your minds into mush, trust me.”

  Aldrich said, “I’ll talk to the Wall Street Journal, but not the New York Times.”

  The publicist kept smiling while she nodded. “And of course you can answer or not answer whichever questions you like. But your answers will be available to any and all of the participating news outlets.”

  Aldrich scowled, but seemed satisfied to have had his say.

  “And now on to the big event of the day,” said the publicist. “No matter where your political sensibilities lie, I think you’ll all be both proud and honored to be guests of the president of the United States this afternoon.” She kept talking before anyone—Aldrich—could interrupt. “He asks that you join him and Mrs. Obama aboard the aircraft carrier Intrepid, which is permanently moored on the Hudson River on the West Side. President Obama will be delivering remarks honoring the men and women of the armed forces on this July Fourth weekend. You know, of course, he is in town for the One World Trade Center dedication tomorrow morning, July Fourth.”