by Dick Wolf
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, he
r 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.”
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?”