The Intercept Page 17

  She then introduced Agent Harrelson, who strode to her side with the balance and ease of a man accustomed to handling groups of strangers. “First of all, let me just say that my hat goes off to all of you,” he began. “As a man whose profession it is to protect people for a living, I know that what you did on that plane took an immense amount of courage. So first let me add my voice to the rest of the country’s in thanking you personally for your bravery, for your selflessness, and for being people of action. You have my respect.”

  The Six were blown away by the depth of Agent Harrelson’s sincerity, the honor his words did them. Gersten thought she detected a tiny bit of flattery in his presentation, which was perhaps advantageous in getting what he needed.

  To that end, he held up six sheets of paper. “Each of you must complete a background form, standard procedure for anyone who is going to be in immediate proximity to the president. Yes, I know you have been answering questions and perhaps filling out similar forms since this all went down, and yes, I still have to ask you to do it one more time each. One page only, standard form. All we need to know are your full legal name, date and place of birth, names of your parents and children, occupation, addresses going back twelve years, and the names of three people to whom you are not related and who have known you for at least ten years.”

  Agent Harrelson distributed the pages as he spoke. Each person took a form without comment. Aldrich, especially, had apparently been sufficiently pacified by Agent Harrelson’s praise, and offered no objections to an audience with the Democratic commander in chief.

  “Because of the short window of time, I’m going to need you to complete these this moment, so we can clear everybody before the event this afternoon. The speech has a three o’clock start, I believe . . . ?” He looked to the publicist for confirmation.

  “We will be leaving here no later than one thirty for the event,” she said. “Agent Harrelson will be part of our team from here on in, until we return from the event late this afternoon.”

  Agent Harrelson added, “These might help you as well,” passing out hotel pens to each of The Six like congratulatory cigars.

  Aldrich, his patriotism stirred, went right to work on his form. The others looked it over before starting in. Surprisingly, it was Alain Nouvian, the cellist, who objected, his voice quivering a bit with either emotion or uncertainty.

  “What if we—I—no longer want to participate in any of this?”

  Harrelson and the publicist looked at each other. The publicist was the first to answer.

  “Mr. Nouvian, like it or not, you have become a public figure. I think political differences should be set aside at a time like this—”

  “It is not a political issue,” he said, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I was very happy to vote for Mr. Obama. I just . . .” He shook the sheet. “Why all this?”

  Harrelson showed a little bit of professional suspicion. “Because I require it, sir. This is due diligence.”

  “And if I would simply like to go home?” This Nouvian directed at Gersten. “I told you . . . I have a performance to prepare for, and I am very tired . . . This is still a free country, isn’t it?”

  Jenssen looked up from his form, interjecting in his Swedish accent. “Unless you have something it wants, apparently,” Jenssen said.

  Sparks looked back at Jenssen with surprise and a look of reproach. “I really don’t mind doing my part in all this,” she said. “But I do agree that this Patriot Act stuff is bullshit. Truly. I mean, look at us.”

  Nouvian said, “How much of our background do we need to . . . ?” He shook his head. “We are reaching the point where we are being punished for stopping a hijacking.”

  “Punished?” said Frank, looking up over his eyeglasses.

  Nouvian shook his head, appealing directly to Gersten. “I don’t like to be on television. I don’t need to meet the president. What I need is time to practice my instrument, time to be alone. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  Gersten said, “Of course, Mr. Nouvian, you are free to get the advice of a lawyer. Maybe file a writ of habeas corpus. But even that would take time. Until and unless we get a court order, nothing has changed. The ceremony this afternoon aboard the USS Intrepid is of course a very big deal. And, as with anything regarding the president, security is paramount. Your choice is to remain with the group and enjoy the afternoon, or I suppose stay here at the hotel. But to be honest with you—not going will have the effect of bringing more attention your way, specifically as to why you refused to participate.” Gersten checked with Harrelson as she continued. “And regardless, we’re still going to need these background checks.” Harrelson nodded sternly. “Is that the problem, Mr. Nouvian?”

  “No.” Nouvian shook his head. “No, it is the general intrusion . . .”

  “I’m sorry, but it has to be this way. We have a full morning and afternoon, but as of right now the evening is completely free.”

  Frank, the journalist, had removed his glasses, addressing Nouvian and Jenssen. “If I can just interject.” He stood up to address the group. “It’s one weekend. A celebratory occasion, and we find ourselves—rather unbelievably—as the toast of the town. I strongly advocate that we hang tight, play the game, be the people they want us to be, accept what we are offered . . . and at the end of this, all of us, The Six, could very well be set for the rest of our lives. You have children, Nouvian?”

  Nouvian nodded.

  “You?” Frank asked Jenssen.

  Jenssen shook his head and smiled. The smile appeared to be in reaction to Frank’s careerism.

  “It costs us nothing to participate, but the payoff could be huge.” Then Frank turned to Gersten. “But I have a question. About these newspaper interviews, how in-depth will they be?”

  Gersten showed him a shrug. “Not my party,” she said.

  He looked to the publicist.

  “As in-depth as each of you chooses to be,” she said.

  Frank waved it off. “No matter. We can huddle beforehand. I think we should keep our personal narratives to a minimum. That’s what people will want to know about—the ‘real’ us, the humans behind the heroes. But—never mind that right now. Let’s get through this first.”

  He went back to filling out his form. Nouvian looked out the window and sighed, then picked up his pen and began completing his form too.

  A doctor and nurse entered the adjoining room of the suite, and Gersten guessed why they were there. “Mr. Jenssen,” she said, “looks like you need to get your arm checked out again. Maybe you can take the form with you?”

  Jenssen looked at his blue wrist cast, then pushed himself off the armrest to stand, following her to the doctor.

  “Any pain?” asked Gersten.

  “Very little,” he answered. “It itches, though.”

  “Going to be tough with this heat today,” she said, crossing the hall with him to an adjoining room where the medics had set up a small examining area. Gersten stood aside and invited him through first. That close, she was impressed again by his height and size. He carried himself effortlessly.

  “You are a runner?” he said, pausing in the doorway.

  “A little bit,” she answered, realizing he was referring to their earlier encounter, when she saw Maggie leaving his room.

  “Ever marathon?”

  “No, never,” she said. “Not for me. Triathlons are more my cup of tea.”

  He nodded approvingly. “You are obviously in excellent shape.”

  Gersten smiled at the compliment and at the obvious flattery behind it.

  Jenssen held up his cast. “A triathlon is out, unfortunately. But maybe you will join me for a run before we are through here.”

  Again she wanted to smile, now at the apparent shamelessness of his flirtation, but could not. She hoped he couldn’t see the lightn
ess in her eyes. “I don’t think so,” she answered, polite but firm.

  A crooked smile undercutting his Scandinavian attractiveness. That close, his ice-blue eyes acted like mirrored lenses. Behind them, she realized, was a mischievous little boy. “I’m just looking for a good workout partner,” he said.

  “I thought you’d already found one,” she responded.

  “I like to vary my workouts,” he said, then continued into the room.

  Gersten returned to the hospitality suite, flattered but puzzled by Jenssen’s sudden interest. Perhaps it had to do with her seeing him in the aftermath of his night with Maggie. She had caught him at something. He had revealed himself to be a bit of a cad, in contrast to his outward behavior. Maybe that was a turn-on for him.

  The others were filling out their forms in silence, the occasional clinking of a coffee cup and silverware the only noise. Gersten stood against the gold brocade wall, shaking off the odd feeling after her exchange with Jenssen. When he had taken his blue eyes off her, she had felt released. His magnetism was unsettling.

  Gersten checked her phone again, but still no update from Fisk. She texted him then, one word, “Hello?” realizing only afterward that it made her sound like a neglected girlfriend.

  Chapter 30

  Fisk was back in his car and pulling away from the Capricorn Hotel with the air-conditioning cranking when he got the call. He was at the intersection of 116th and Seventh in minutes.

  A resident had called 911 after seeing, from the window of the bathroom in her second-floor apartment, what looked like a child trying to drag a man across a small, fenced yard full of junk below. The boy, she said, was struggling to pull the man’s body toward a garage. The man appeared to be dead or unconscious.

  A few minutes before police had arrived, 911 received a second call from the cell phone of a man waiting outside the Meme Amour barbershop on 116th Street. The man reported that there was a line of customers waiting to get in for their Saturday morning haircuts, but that the shop was locked. He said that in his sixteen years of coming there for weekly haircuts, the shop had never failed to open, and the customers were concerned.

  Arriving officers could do nothing about the closed shop, but quickly gained entry into an adjoining door that led, through a narrow, tunnel-like corridor, to the yard in back. There they met a four-foot-one-inch-tall, thirty-seven-year-old Senegalese dwarf named Leo, who made his living as a barber. He was sweating and red-eyed, and upon seeing the officers raised his stubby arms.

  He showed them to the garage, which was locked. Then he showed them to the west corner of the yard, where he had dragged the dead body of the obese Senegalese man who managed the building and rented the garage. Leo had covered him temporarily with cardboard boxes, completely exhausting himself in the process.

  Fisk, arriving soon after, learned from Leo that the fat man had last been seen alive late in the previous afternoon, when the barbershop closed for the night. Leo had discovered his body upon his arrival in the morning.

  Leo admitted that he believed his friend, who he knew as Malick, was involved in some slightly shady activities, but insisted that he was overall a good, good man.

  A homicide detective arrived to catch the murder, and Fisk wasted a few minutes explaining his presence as an Intel officer on the scene, without really explaining anything. He asked Leo what was inside the locked garage. Leo, his short, burly arms barely long enough to cross, said he did not know, but that Malick always carried the key with him.

  Fisk was ready to pull on gloves in order to search the dead man’s sweat suit pockets when Leo admitted that he had already looked for the key and that it was gone.

  The homicide detective agreed with Fisk that they had probable cause to enter the garage. Fisk found a length of discarded rebar in the junkyard and used it to pry off the dead bolt plate, forcing open the door.

  The sight of neat workbenches inside surprised him. Machine tools hung on the Peg-Boards over electronics in various stages of repair. Fisk pulled on gloves before entering, ordering everyone else back from the entrance. He was wary of booby traps, though the morning light allowed him a clear view of the interior.

  He went in alone. The shop did not appear to have been ransacked, though a lockbox sat open upon the counter, a cloth bag cast to one side of it. Fisk examined the bag, which was empty. He raised it to his nose and smelled polish and solvent. He placed the scent immediately: handgun maintenance.

  Fisk went back outside to where Leo was sitting cross-legged on the ground, smoking a cigarillo while he answered the detective’s questions.

  Fisk crouched down on his haunches. “Here it is, Leo,” he said. “I need straight answers, and I need them fast. You tried to cover up a murder and apparently interfered with a crime scene. For all we know you killed this man.” Fisk knew this wasn’t true—the dwarf’s emotions were all too plain—but he needed to cut right to the chase. “Why did you try to hide his body?”

  “I . . . I panicked. I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Most people call an ambulance, or 911.”

  Leo nodded, agreeing with him. “I’m not most people.”

  “You guys roommates, lovers, what?”

  “None! Neither. We worked here.”

  “His death, his murder—it doesn’t surprise you.”

  Leo took a deep drag on the cigarillo. “He wasn’t the sort of man you can warn.”

  Fisk nodded. “Your late friend Malick—what kind of weapons did he deal in?”

  Leo looked surprised but not shocked. “He was a tinkerer. He could take apart anything and fix it up again better than before.”

  “But I’m not talking about electric razors here,” said Fisk. “Malick was killed by someone he met here after-hours. Someone who either didn’t want to pay for something or couldn’t pay. Malick sold guns. What else?”

  Leo shook his head, teary-eyed. “I know nothing about that. Truly. I cut hair.”

  Fisk believed him, which made him even more frustrated. “What was the last thing he said to you yesterday?”

  Leo thought back. “It was ‘Au revoir.’ He had his mouth full. He always had his mouth full.”

  Fisk said, “Last question. Answer me directly. Did you ever see any chemicals coming through here? Any strange smells?”

  Leo shook his head again. “No. Just food.” He stubbed the cigarillo into the ground and began to cry. “Am I going to be taken away?”

  Fisk said, “No. Nothing’s going to happen to you, you’re not going anywhere. So long as you tell us every little thing you know about Malick and his associates.”

  “I told him he would find trouble.”

  “It found him,” said Fisk, straightening and walking back to the dead man in the black sweat suit. Fisk looked around the junkyard, hands on his hips. A homicide just two blocks from the only confirmed sighting of the disguised Baada Bin-Hezam. This was no coincidence.

  But a handgun? It was a dumb weapon, essentially useless for urban terror. There had to be more to it than that.

  His phone buzzed on his hip. Intel headquarters. “Fisk,” he answered.

  It was someone from the surveillance desk. “We have a street camera image we think might be your target. E-mailed it to you, though you’ll want to use your laptop for better resolution.”

  “Full face? Mustache and eyeglasses?”

  “Negative for mustache and glasses.”

  “Where and when?” asked Fisk.

  “Thirtieth and Ninth. Time-coded a little more than an hour ago.”

  Fisk was already running back toward his car.

  Chapter 31

  The caravan of three black NYPD Chevrolet Suburbans, sandwiched front and back by lit-up NYPD patrol cars, skirted the barricaded streets and descended into a VIP parking area beneath 30 Rockefeller Plaza. There they were m
et by an assistant producer and her own headset-monitoring assistant, who led them through a warren of corridors festooned with celebrity photos to the makeup salon adjacent to ground-floor studio 1A.

  As The Six walked into the long, narrow room of mirrored walls and makeup chairs, the staff lined up along either side applauded. While the group was not exactly used to spontaneous applause, Gersten noted that they were no longer shocked by it and seemed to take the salute in stride.

  They had been hastily brushed and powdered in the green room for Nightline the previous evening, but here at the Today show they sat together three at a time in black leather salon chairs facing a bright mirror thirty feet long for hair spray and primping.

  They eyed each other in the mirror, the women smirking as they pretended not to love the attention. Doug Aldrich grumbled when a woman with a diamond nose stud tucked tissue into his collar. “Heavy or light on the rouge?” she asked, and Aldrich gripped the armrests as though he were about to bolt. “I’m kidding!” said the makeup artist, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Just giving you some base so you don’t look like a ghost in front of ten million people.”

  “Ten million people?” said Joanne Sparks, eyeing her progress in the mirror.

  The makeup artist said, as she brushed at Sparks’s cheek, “Probably more, are you kidding? You guys are all anybody wants to hear about! My mom called me today when she heard you were going to be on. My mother never calls me.”

  Sparks said, “I hope a few of my ex-boyfriends are watching.”

  Colin Frank sat quietly, reading a New York Times article about them, his leg crossed at the knee as though getting made up for network television was a routine occurrence in his life. He, more than any of them, was the most interested in the way their story was being framed by the media.