The Intercept

by Dick Wolf

  “Us?” said Maggie, looking at the others.

  “Speculation,” said Gersten, “but it made sense. Terrorists don’t need to demolish office buildings anymore. They want to strike at symbols. This is psychological warfare as much as anything else. And you people are the human equivalents of the tower being dedicated tomorrow. Icons of the new post-nine-eleven America.”

  Aldrich, the retired auto parts dealer, said, “Jumping Jesus Christ. These animals.”

  Nouvian also looked shocked. Jenssen, on the other hand, seemed doubtful about the whole thing.

  Sparks said, “So what does this mean for us?”

  Gersten said, “For you it means very little. Tonight we have the fireworks at nine P.M. Some of you have expressed interest in attending. We have the One World Trade Center building dedication tomorrow morning at eight—but otherwise, and this is direct from the mayor’s office, the night is yours. If you want to get a bite to eat, if you want to meet with your family if they are local—great. We request—and by request I mean that we strongly urge—that you allow one of us to accompany you if you do decide to head out tonight. Only because it is our job to deliver you to the Ground Zero ceremony safe and sound—and you wouldn’t want us to lose our jobs, would you?”

  “And then?” asked Jenssen.

  “After the ceremony tomorrow morning? Then you’re on your own. Cut loose. Released into the wild.”

  That drew a few smiles.

  Frank spoke up. “We definitely need to huddle at some point before we go our separate ways so we have a general game plan. I just want to point out that our bargaining position is much stronger if we stay together, as a team, as opposed to six smaller books on the same topic racing to be the first one out. Some of us have already made plans to get together later for drinks down in the lobby after the fireworks—that seems like a great time to toast the future and get on the same page. If not, then tomorrow morning before the big show.”

  Gersten nodded. “Those of you who are planning to head over to the West Side to see the fireworks need to be ready to go in a little while. We have a surprise viewing spot we think you’ll like.”

  Gersten stopped outside Nouvian’s room in the middle of the twenty-sixth-floor hallway. She was surprised to hear nothing, no cello practicing. She rapped a knuckle against the door.

  Nouvian opened. He was wearing a white Hyatt robe, his hair wet.

  “No practicing?” she said.

  “Soon. I’ve been asked to perform at the ceremony tomorrow. Maggie’s suggestion. On top of everything else. But how could I say no?”

  Gersten nodded amiably. “Mind if I come in for just a minute?”

  “Certainly,” he said, surprised, stepping back. She moved into the room. The sheers were drawn but not the heavier curtains, allowing a gauzy view of the skyline at sundown. The entranceway was humid from Nouvian’s recent shower, the bathroom smelling of aftershave. She moved farther inside.

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” she suggested.

  He did, plopping down on the corner of his bed. His cello case stood against the wall near him. He looked a little puzzled.

  Gersten said, “Here’s the thing. You probably know you’ve been acting in a suspicious manner.”

  His interested expression immediately flattened out.

  “You went missing earlier today, and when I found you, you didn’t seem like yourself,” she continued. “This raised red flags, and I checked into what you might have been doing and discovered some pay phones down behind the elevator bank.”

  He did not know how to react, and so kept quiet.

  “I followed up on it, because that is my job. I visited Mr. Pierrepont less than an hour ago at his apartment, and interviewed him.”

  Nouvian did not know which way to go with this. “I don’t know what you’re . . .” he started to say, which then gave way to “This is an outrage.”

  She tipped her head to one side, trying to defuse the situation. “He told me everything.”

  Nouvian looked down, coming to grips with this. Then he searched her face, perhaps for signs of disapproval, of which there were none. “If he did, then what do you want me to say?”

  “You have your own phone.” She pointed to it, charging on the nightstand. “Why not call him from here?”

  Nouvian shrugged, his eyes misty. “I assumed you had bugged them or tapped them or whatever you do.”

  Gersten smiled understandingly, shaking her head. “We are truly here to keep an eye on you. But when you start acting—”

  “He was panicking that someone would find out.”

  “He was? Funny. He said you were the one panicking.”

  Nouvian sighed, looked away. “Well, I am the one with a wife and family. I am the one under a microscope now.” He rubbed his hands together. “The Secret Service check. All the questions up in Bangor. I thought, if I can just hang in there . . . if we can just ride this out . . .”

  “Those background checks were just looking for red flags. This is a situation where you always want to be scrupulously honest. Trust me. Otherwise—as happened here—the machine turns around on you.”

  He shook his head. “Easy for you to say.”

  She moved closer to reassure him. “I don’t have any need to go any further with this. I thought you would like to hear this from me. And it is none of anybody’s business, about you and Mr. Pierrepont. Except your wife and children.”

  Nouvian sighed, nodding. “I am at a crossroads, Officer Gersten.”

  “Detective Gersten,” she said. “But you can call me Krina.”

  “Krina. I know what you are thinking, and believe me, it is what I have been thinking about for . . . it’s been almost a year now. I was very unprepared for what happened with . . . him. This affair. That’s what it is. I know I don’t need to explain anything to you, but I love my children, nothing has changed there. And nothing will ever change.”

  He looked away, across the room. As difficult as this was for him—and for Gersten—he seemed to want to air it with somebody impartial.

  “What has changed . . . is my mind-set. This incident . . . my so-called heroic action . . . in many ways it has decided things for me. I need to act, and I know that now. And now I know that I can, you understand? But—in such a way that I can make the best future for my family as possible.”

  Gersten raised her hands. “Again—your private, personal business. I think you’ll do the right thing. But will you do one favor for me? Not a favor—I’m going to insist upon it.”

  He waited to hear what it was.

  “No more scares like that. Okay? Let me and my fellow detectives finish our job here, and then you can go on to face whatever you have to.”

  Nouvian nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

  Gersten smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  She turned and went to the door. Nouvian did not stand up from the corner of the bed.

  “Krina,” he said, before she could get the door open.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to write a book and I don’t want to make any money from this. I just want to play my music and raise my children. And that’s about it.”

  Gersten nodded, feeling for him. “Well then, my advice, if you’re asking for it, is to just wait until after tomorrow to tell Colin Frank. Because it’s going to break his greedy little heart.”

  Chapter 51

  Back inside her own room, Gersten kicked off her shoes, watching NY1 on mute, her phone to her ear.

  “Bin-Hezam was just a few blocks from Penn Station, Krina,” said Fisk. “He was right here. Can you believe it?”

  “You saw his face,” she said, envious. “What did it say?”

  “Great question.” She smiled, waiting while he thought it through. “You know what it said? It said that he knew he was goi
ng to die. He knew he was walking to his death. He wasn’t just resigned to his fate, he was dictating the terms.”

  “Wait. After he got outside?”

  “No. I never saw his face outside, his back was to me out on the sidewalk. This was in the lobby. The elevator door opened, and I looked at him—and it was like he had arrived at the pearly gates already. He was reporting for death. You just helped me confirm that.”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “Dubin thinks he was going somewhere on another errand, but I don’t. I think he was headed to death. That’s the reason he came downstairs.”

  “With a half pound of homemade acetone peroxide explosives in a bag?”

  “Boom in bag, gun in hand. I think he heard that helicopter . . . I don’t know, maybe even before that. I mean, he called Saudi Air directly and spoke in Arabic. The first time all weekend he used his native language over the phone. He knew we’d be able to screen for that. He had to.”

  Gersten chewed on that. “Maybe the helicopter over the hotel told him the game was up. That’s what it would tell me. If he knew he wasn’t going to get out of that building a free man, then what’s left for him? Instead of biting down on a cyanide pill, he went out the hard way.”

  More silence from Fisk, then, “Another fair point. Maybe I’m overthinking this. Hey, you know what I miss? Cops and robbers. Jesus. Why can’t these shitheads just rob a bank?”

  “The bad guy is gone. Focus on that. You found him—doesn’t matter how now. Bin-Hezam sleeps with the virgins. Call it a win.”

  “I want to,” said Fisk. “But what can I do? I don’t feel good about feeling good about this. That’s the bottom line. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it for a while. What about you? Catch me up on Nouvian.”

  She did. Fisk listened.

  “I think he’s making a big mistake,” said Fisk. “Given what you just told me, I bet his book would outsell all the others.”

  “It was kind of fascinating, though. He sees the foiled hijacking, and his role in it, as giving him permission to change. Like a near-death experience.”

  “Hmm.” Fisk waited for more. “What does that say to you?”

  She smiled. She was going to say this. “I’m thinking about maybe transferring out of Intel.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “Like you just said. I miss cops and robbers. Look at me here. I could get shit assignments like this out of a regular precinct. But at least I’d be doing something.”

  Fisk said, “You’re serious.”

  “I’m getting there,” Gersten said. “Maybe it would be better for us.”

  “For us?” He thought about that. “Maybe it wouldn’t, though.”

  “Not living this twenty-four seven?”

  “Look,” he said, realizing she wasn’t just bitching about this, but that she was serious. “It’s been a rough weekend. We need to go somewhere so I can talk you out of this.”

  “You’re welcome to try. Supposedly we’re meeting with the group later for a nightcap in the hotel lounge, after the fireworks.”

  “Sounds totally unprofessional,” he said. “I’ll be there. Assuming nothing else breaks in the next few hours. Where you headed now?”

  “Nowhere. Paperwork is calling to me. I’ve got to write up everything from the past two days. I’m going to play some music and get into it.”

  “No fireworks?” he said.

  “Depends on you. I’ve got a nice hotel room all to myself here.”

  “Ah, you’re killing me. I have so much to clean up with this Bin-Hezam thing.”

  “I know, I know. Try for the drink.”

  “Sunday night,” he said. “That’s my goal.”

  “What are you thinking? Cafe Luxembourg?”

  “Like two regular people.”

  “Sounds marvelous. Only problem is, we’ll probably both fall asleep before getting out the door.”

  He said, “Takeout’s okay too.”

  She smiled. It was good to talk to him. It helped. “Hey—I think maybe his mission was to get blown up and take out a bunch of cops in the process. Including you. So be more careful, all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later.”

  She hung up, dwelled on the conversation for a few minutes, then set it aside.

  Focus on paperwork. Get through this. Table everything else until Sunday.

  Chapter 52

  Back at the Hyatt, Colin Frank sat in the common room, alone with his laptop. He was framing out the story in the form of a book and transmedia proposal. He knew some documentary filmmakers and was considering going that route first, a video document that would coincide with the book’s release in six to eight months, each one promoting the other.

  He cracked open a second nip of Bacardi and dumped half of it into his Diet Coke, pushing back his ball cap and cycling through e-mails, leisurely reading the ones from prospective literary agents and managers, and a handful of personal introductions from various big-name movie producers.

  When it all became too much, Frank at once leaped up out of his chair and gave a Tiger Woods–like fist pump, rejoicing silently in the empty hotel room.

  Joanne Sparks put the finishing touches on her face in front of the bright bathroom mirror, smoothing out the cracked lipstick in the corners of her mouth. That bitch Maggie Sullivan was going to the fireworks, and this was Sparks’s first—and maybe last—shot at the Swede without the others serving as an audience.

  She checked the skirt again—clingy-tight but not desperate-looking—tugging down the fabric at her slender hips and then grabbing her handbag, heading out to Jenssen’s room.

  She paused halfway out her door, spotting Jenssen in running shorts and a wicking T-shirt down at the far end of the hall, talking to someone. Sparks stared down the hallway, unseen as yet. That far down the hall, she realized, were the cops’ rooms.

  Detective Gersten.

  Sparks watched a few moments longer—long enough—and then stepped back inside her own room, her door closing with a click.

  She turned and whipped her handbag at the wall over her bed. It bounced off the headboard and landed on the nightstand, knocking over her alarm clock and television remote.

  She returned to the bathroom mirror, face-to-face with her furious self.

  “Cocksucker,” she said, gripping the counter.

  She was done with Jenssen. Or even if not, she sure was going to act that way from now on.

  Gersten stood in the doorway to her room, shoeless, feeling short. Jenssen stood almost a head taller than she. One of the sporting goods chains had sent over some swag, and he wore a blue-and-white Adidas shirt and shorts, and New Balance running shoes.

  “You’re sure,” he said, “I can’t change your mind?”

  Dangerous, dangerous man, thought Gersten. He knew just how to say it, delivering the line with just the right amount of play, in such a way that she felt somehow foolish declining.

  At the same time, she didn’t appreciate the attempt at manipulation.

  “Too much work, unfortunately,” she told him. “Appreciate the invitation, though. Nothing like a nighttime run.”

  “Actually, more satisfying is the cool shower that follows.”

  Gersten smiled, as much at the sentiment as the cheekiness.

  “You’re certain I can’t change your mind?” he said. “What if I get lost?”

  “Tell you what,” she said. She had her phone in hand. She quickly dialed DeRosier. “Detective DeRosier? Mr. Jenssen needs a buddy for a night run.”

  “Aw, fuck,” said DeRosier. “I just ate.”

  Gersten smiled at Jenssen. “He’d be thrilled to accompany you.”

  Jenssen smiled wanly. “The feeling is mutual.”

  Gersten smiled for real. She felt as though she’d gotten the up
per hand in this exchange. “Be careful in the dark,” she told him, and closed her door.

  She felt a little short of breath. She was flattered by Jenssen’s attention, and briefly wondered what sort of vibe she was putting out there.

  “I hope I brought my sneakers.”

  The voice surprised her. DeRosier was still on her phone.

  “Good luck,” she told him, and hung up.

  With Nouvian in a self-imposed exile, practicing the cello in his hotel room, flight attendant Maggie Sullivan and retired auto parts dealer Doug Aldrich were the only ones interested in attending the fireworks.

  They left the hotel in a lone Suburban, no motorcycle escort, only an off-duty cop driving them and the mayor’s office’s PR person. The driver used his grille lights only when they hit the barricade on Tenth Avenue.

  “Gonna be tough going back to being a regular citizen,” said Maggie, looking out at the revelers walking toward the water.

  “Wish I was able to bring my grandkids to this,” he said.

  The Suburban pulled over at a mobile NYPD checkpoint. At the corner was a rectangular box with windows, not much bigger than an SUV. Security cameras and satellite dishes stood on top of it.

  “Here we are,” said the PR woman.

  She opened the door for them and walked them to the enclosure. People looked their way, but nobody was close enough to identify either Maggie or Aldrich.

  “In here?” said Maggie.

  “You first,” said the PR woman.

  Maggie entered the hinged door. Aldrich followed, then the PR woman. She had her phone out, but for taking photographs, not calls.

  The door closed and the box started to rise. Maggie realized now, she had seen these things before in Times Square. It was like a hydraulic riser, a promontory nest giving a good view of the street below . . . but an even better view of the night sky, from above street level.

  “Best seats in the house,” said the PR woman.

  Maggie laughed hard and hugged Aldrich. “The others are going to absolutely kick themselves!”