Читать книгу The Morgan Files - Leo J. Maloney - Страница 8

Thanksgiving Day, 11:00 A.M.

The Bahrainis walked into the Park Avenue lobby of the Waldorf Astoria precisely at the appointed time, Acosta noted, looking down at his watch. Four of them, each in a sharp dark gray suit, tieless, all sporting facial hair in various styles. They walked with deliberate strides in a loose V formation, one man taking the lead. He had a trim black moustache on an angular face of light olive skin. His eyes were hidden behind dark gold-framed aviator sunglasses, but as he drew closer, Acosta saw an impassive expression—the face of a man who would be hard to please. Acosta adjusted his tie.

“That them?” asked Shane Rosso.

“I would believe so, Mr. Rosso.”

Rosso grunted in response. He was a simple man, an aging ex-cop of few words and, Acosta suspected, just as many thoughts. He was no good with guests, lacking the fine-tuned sense of politeness and propriety needed to work luxury hospitality. He was a fine head of security, though, and Acosta preferred him behind the scenes where he belonged. But the newcomers had asked for him to be present at their arrival, so here he was.

Acosta drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. Then he slipped on a solicitous smile and walked a few paces to meet the new arrivals, hand extended for a shake.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said.

“I am Makram Safar,” said the man, offering no sign that he’d seen Acosta’s hand. His accent was mostly BBC, with only a hint of the hardness of the Middle Eastern speech. “Head of security for Mr. Rasif Maloof.”

“Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria, Mr. Safar,” Acosta said, drawing back his hand, and, not knowing what else to do, bowing. “My name is Angelo Acosta, assistant manager. I’m here to help you with anything you might need in preparation for Mr. Maloof’s visit.”

Safar met Acosta’s gaze for the first time through dark lenses. “I was told that the general manager would be here.” He looked at Mr. Rosso, the fish-eyed, thin-haired grunt in the rumpled suit. “I take it this is not him.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Floyd will not be here today, sir,” said Acosta. “I guarantee that he will be here tomorrow for Mr. Maloof’s arrival. This is Mr. Rosso, our head of security.”

Safar raised an eyebrow. “But he is not here today?”

“My apologies, sir. I could certainly call him for you, sir, if you—”

“There will be no need,” said Safar, waving his hand. “You will do. We will need access to your security station—exclusive access—for the duration of Mr. Maloof’s stay.”

“Yes, that had been discussed,” said Acosta. This was completely against protocol, and exposed them to significant liability. But Maloof was paying them a not-so-small fortune to rent the Presidential Suite, and their general manager, Jerry Floyd, would brook no argument on this guest doing exactly as he pleased.

“Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all, sir,” Acosta reassured him. “You’ll have full access to our security capabilities. Mr. Rosso here will make sure that you have everything you need.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We require three members of the cleaning staff on call at all times, but no one is to come into Mr. Maloof’s suite without being sent for. I cannot emphasize this point enough. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir, we—”

“We will also need access to a secure and exclusive Internet connection, and you are to have a personal halal chef and laundry service on short order. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir. All that has already been arranged, as per your advance instructions.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We have more men who will arrive with Mr. Maloof’s luggage shortly.”

“I’ll have the porters waiting for them.”

“Nobody is to handle Mr. Maloof’s luggage but us,” said Safar with unexpected sharpness. “Just have the keys to the suite prepared and we will take care of the rest.”

“Certainly, sir. Now, while your key cards are prepared, I can personally take you on a guided tour of our amenities. We boast a twenty-four-hour fitness center conveniently adjacent to our—”

“We have read the website,” said Safar. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Very well,” said Acosta, masking his chagrin as he gestured toward the chairs in the lobby. “If you gentlemen would like to take a seat as we get your key cards squared away.”

Rosso followed as Acosta made his way to the reception desk.

“I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Rosso grumbled. “Babysitting a bunch of...” his voice trailed off into a mumble.

“Screw this up and neither of us is going to be paid at all,” said Acosta. “Because we’re going to be out on our asses.”

“You know they’re going to wreck that room, don’t you?” said Rosso. “It’s always the same with these guys.”

“They are paying us enough to do whatever they want,” said Acosta. Then he turned to the girl at reception. “You, uh . . .”

“Debra,” she offered.

“Debra,” he said, “is the suite ready for our special guests?”

“Housekeeping is just about done, Mr. Acosta.” He looked down at his watch and considered that he might just get off work on time. Things seemed to be running smoothly, and suddenly Thanksgiving at home seemed like a real possibility. All he had to do was to get organized and keep everything humming.

Acosta took the express elevator upstairs and did a quick check of the multiroom suite—he had gone through it much more thoroughly earlier—and then returned to the lobby, where Safar and the others sat in stiff silence.

“Gentlemen, please follow me.”

It was a silent ride up. Upon arriving at the floor, Acosta opened the door marked THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He gestured at the sprawling three-bedroom, 2,245-square-foot apartment appointed with Georgian furniture. “Would you like me to give you a tour? We have some exclusive items donated by past US presidents, which are themselves—”

“We will manage from here,” Safar cut him off. “My men will be coming down to confer with Mr. Rosso on security. Please tell your staff to stay clear from this floor unless summoned. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” said Acosta. He stood, expecting further directions. Instead, Safar just said, “Go.”

Acosta bowed and took his leave. Just three days, he told himself as he got into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. And just another ninety minutes before he could leave, if all went well.

Acosta emerged into the lobby, walking as if he had purpose, but his step lost its spring when he reached the front desk. He was not actually needed anywhere at the moment, but he was still running on the nervous energy of attending to their exacting guest. He thought of calling the chef to confirm once more, but he had already done that not two hours before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Bahrainis emerge from the elevator and started toward them before he noticed that they were moving toward Rosso, who escorted them into the back rooms. Acosta sighed and threw up his hands, then walked back to the front desk and called over a guest who was in line for checkout.

Before long, a town car arrived with the remaining two members of Mr. Maloof’s security team and the luggage. As instructed, Acosta directed them to the elevator and left them there to go up on their own to the correct floor. He glanced at his watch. Quarter of an hour to the end of his shift. Bob would be arriving to relieve him within minutes if he wasn’t late, and Bob was never late. He shifted his weight on his aching feet.

There was a lull in checkout, and it looked as though Acosta might actually be getting out of there when a man in a cheap black suit, clearly a livery driver, walked into the lobby. He looked around and identified Acosta as the one in charge, going straight for him.

“Hey, you know where those Arab dudes went?”

“Do you mean the Bahraini gentlemen?” asked Acosta.

“Arab, Bahraini, I don’t care,” said the driver, agitated. “I brought them all the way in from the airport, and I still haven’t been paid.”

“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” said Acosta. He picked up the hotel intercom and dialed their room. “We’ll get this sorted out in a minute.” The phone returned a busy signal. He pressed down the hook and redialed. Busy again. “I’m sorry,” he told the driver. “I can’t get through.”

The driver leaned on the counter. “Listen, man, I gotta get going. If I don’t make it home in the next hour, the wife’s gonna have my head. Can’t you take care of it? Charge it to their room or something?”

“It’s against policy,” said Acosta. “I really can’t.”

“Hey, man, I gotta get out of here,” said the driver. “But I ain’t leaving until I get paid.”

Acosta cast a sidelong glance at the clock. If he didn’t make it out within the next ten minutes, he’d hit horrendous traffic.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. He walked to the elevator with slight trepidation, reassuring himself with each step. Maloof wasn’t there yet. What harm could there be? They would appreciate the service he was providing in letting them know personally.

Acosta got into the elevator and hit the button for their floor. He planned out what he was going to say. The right level of deference and solicitousness would disarm their complaints, he was sure. It was just a matter of taking it far enough.

The elevator doors parted open and he walked to the Presidential Suite. The door was ajar and he heard talking inside. He approached the threshold.

“Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting,” he said, knocking lightly and pushing the door open. “I’m afraid there is a situation—”

Acosta caught sight out of the corner of his eye of something black and heavy on the dining room table, which he could just see from the door. A second look told him it was several heavy black objects, and a third confirmed the suspicion that hovered at the edge of his consciousness.

Guns. Not just handguns, but those—what were those called? Submachine guns. Like Uzis, but not quite. Certainly something way beyond what this kind of security team would need—and wouldn’t they need permits for this kind of thing? What could be their—

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw that Safar was standing across the entry foyer, looking right at him. Acosta backed away as Safar moved forward.

“I truly, deeply apologize, sir,” began Acosta.

“Not at all,” said Safar with a vicious grin and a solicitude built on the most menacing undertones. “Please, Mr. Acosta, come in.”

He drew closer. Acosta could not hope to evade him without turning around. But he clung to the hope that, if he made no explicit sign of what he had seen, Safar would not stop him. “There really is no need,” he said. How far was the elevator? He didn’t dare look back. He took tiny backward steps, the logic of cornered prey taking over his mind. “I’ll come back at a more opportune time.”

In three more strides, Safar reached him. Acosta froze. “Please,” he said, his face inches from Acosta’s, his breath hot like a lion’s. “Stay.”

Acosta turned to run away, but as his finger pressed the elevator button, he saw a flash of black cross in front of his eyes and felt a tug at his neck, so tight. He couldn’t breathe. He was pulled back and his legs gave out. He fell on the carpeted floor, the wire tight around his neck—surely it would be cutting into his skin by now—as his lungs burned for air. He heard a ding, and the last thing he saw before the world faded to black were the art deco doors sliding open to reveal an empty elevator paneled with rich mahogany.

Black Friday, 6:13 A.M.

The tablet shook in Alex Morgan’s hand as the train rocked side to side. She set it down on her lap in frustration. Reading was going to be impossible. She shut her eyes and tried to lean her head back but soon realized that the noise in the car was going to make sleep impossible, too. She opened her eyes and saw that Clark had his phone raised up to take a picture.

“Smile,” he said.

Clark Duffy, tall and gangly in a hoodie with red earbuds popped into his ear. Clark Duffy, who smoked clove cigarettes and played a badly tuned guitar on which he knew four chords. Clark Duffy, who’d been her friend for years, but had lately been making awkward passes at her, and had not taken her polite ignoring of those passes as the rejection that it was. This was building toward an unpleasant confrontation that she didn’t like to think about. It had gotten to the point that she was actually a little put off at making the trip down to New York with him.

“Wanna see?” he said, turning the phone’s screen toward her. She leaned forward. Normally she wouldn’t care how she turned out in other people’s pictures, but she was still getting used to her new pixie haircut, and the unfamiliarity of her own visage got the better of her. She was pleased to see that the short brown hair framed her face quite nicely, bringing out her brown eyes.

“Cool,” she said, leaning back and turning on her tablet again.

“You should have smiled,” he said. “You’ve got a really captivating smile. Your teeth are, like, super white and straight. Too bad you’re so short.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m five seven.”

“Oh, I get it, you’re a giant,” he said. “What’re you reading?”

“Just the news,” she said, hoping to avoid conversation.

“What’s so interesting in there anyway?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds and fiddling with his phone. “I don’t really follow that stuff.” He put the phone and earphones into the pouch in his hoodie.

“Something about Ramadani’s visit,” she said.

“I’ve heard that name before.” He frowned.

“The president of Iran,” she said. “Navid Ramadani? Ring a bell?”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I remember seeing that on the news. I mostly read Pitchfork.” He laughed. “How about giving me the highlights?”

“Well, he’s here for a state visit,” she said. “To discuss nuclear power, nuclear weapons, and conflict in the Middle East. Hold on,” she said, and searched for a picture on her tablet. She picked the first hit on the search, a portrait that showed his serious and vaguely handsome face head-on, with its well-defined jawline, thick eyebrows, and neatly trimmed beard. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

Clark took it in his hands. “Looks young,” he said.

“He is, for a President,” said Alex.

“He’s one of the bad guys, right?” He handed her back the tablet.

Alex grimaced. “He’s actually hoping to put all that stuff behind us,” she said. “Everyone knows that he’s coming to the US to make a kind of peace offering.”

“Everyone knows?” He grinned.

“Well, everyone who reads about this kind of thing. He’s all about bringing the US and Iran closer together, putting the bad blood behind us. ”

“So he’s pretty different from the last one, right?”

“Yes. But not everyone in Iran is happy about it,” she said. “Especially the Ayatollah.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Now, I know I’ve heard that word before. I’m getting some vague association with the seventies.”

“The Supreme Leader of Iran,” she explained helpfully. “The first one came to power after the Iranian Revolution of 1979. This new guy, Nasr, who rose to power after the death of the old Ayatollah just last year. He’s—let’s say, critical of the US and the West in general, and would sooner see us as opponents.”

“Kind of an asshole, then?” he said with a puckish smile.

“Kind of an asshole,” Alex conceded. “And he really doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Ramadani.”

“That’s the current President, right?”

“Right,” said Alex.

“And he’s a good guy?”

“It’s not about good and bad guys, Clark. Everything in foreign policy is a mix of interests and agendas. Just like every other politician, he has complex ideas and interests and is under various pressures that often conflict with each other, and he’s doing his best to negotiate between them. At the moment, it looks like his stance and policies align well enough with our own interests as a country that we might come to call him an ally.”

Clark frowned, trying to sort this out. “But is this Ramadani guy a good guy or not?”

It was hopeless. “Let’s say he’s a pretty good guy.”

“All right. See? That’s all you needed to say. Nice and simple.”

Alex slumped in frustration. “So you’re meeting up with your dad in New York?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” he said. “Mom didn’t invite him to Thanksgiving, so he really wanted me to spend the day with him today.”

“Well, that should be fun,” she said, not knowing quite what to say.

“You’re meeting your dad, too, right?” he asked. “But your parents aren’t divorced, are they?”

“Oh, no, my parents are super in love,” she said, and cringed at her own words. Clark’s parents’ divorce was always an awkward subject, and Alex never quite knew how to talk about it. He never seemed bothered by it, but she couldn’t imagine not having both her mother and father under the same roof. “Anyway,” she added, trying to forget her comment, “he had an early Thanksgiving dinner with us, and then went to the city. Business.”

“I wish we didn’t have all this dad stuff to deal with,” he said. “Maybe then we could’ve spent the day together instead.”

Alex pretended to be watching the scenery. “I guess.”

“Hey, isn’t your dad a classic car dealer?” Clark asked.

“Yeah, he is,” she said, affecting innocence. She was getting practiced at keeping up the lie about her father’s double life. “Why do you ask?”

“What kind of business does a classic car broker have on Thanksgiving anyway?”

Alex grinned in her mind at the secret she shared with her father. “Beats me.”

6:55 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked on a patterned carpet past ornate furniture and knocked on the door to room 2722 of the Waldorf. He saw the pinpoint of light in the peephole disappear, then the deadbolt being undone. The door opened and was left ajar. Morgan took the cue to push it open and saw the back of a black silk nightgown and a long shock of blond hair. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils as the figure turned around and leaned against a heavy carved wooden table, posing seductively and taking a long drag from her cigarette with full, ruby-red lips.

“I don’t think they allow smoking in here,” he said as he let himself into the foyer of the suite and scanned the room for potential threats. His trained eyes could assess a situation in seconds. Over the years, he, like many other covert operatives, had developed a sixth sense for danger. Nothing struck him as a potential threat, except the cream-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

Adele Sauvage, she called herself.

“But it’s so early,” she said, pouting, in a light French accent. “Can’t I have just one? Please?”

Her bathrobe was just loose enough to show a hint of a white lacy bra underneath. Her makeup was gently smudged, but Morgan could tell it had been freshly applied. Her feet arched up in black stiletto heels. Her hair was messy—not like the hair a woman who had really just woken up, but lightly tousled, as women do to give the faintest hint that they have just been having sex. The whole setup was too casual not to have been meticulously arranged. Most men wouldn’t notice, but for a woman like Adele, sex was a deadly weapon. In Morgan’s line of work, it paid to know all about deadly weapons.

“Smoke, or don’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I don’t care. We have business to do here.”

“Oh, but business is so boring.”

“Do you need time to make yourself decent?”

“Oh, I’m never decent,” she said with a girlish giggle, sitting down on an overstuffed loveseat. “Why don’t we do something fun? Let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. And it’s seven in the morning.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “I think I like your friend Peter better.”

“Peter Conley is an idiot for a skirt,” said Morgan. “But I have trouble believing even he would fall for this whole routine.” He wondered if anyone did as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. With short-cropped dark brown hair and strong, masculine features, he was tall and had a powerful body. And yet, he didn’t flatter himself to think that Adele’s behavior had anything to do with his looks.

“Routine?”

“This whole... Adele Sauvage persona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She lifted a well-toned leg onto the sofa. “I am Adele Sauvage.”

“You are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

“People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

“I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

“It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

“Please tell me he’s not bringing cash,” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

“No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

“Ooh, is it shiny?”

“Very shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

“My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no, monsieur Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

“I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

“Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

“Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

“I really don’t,” she said.

Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

“Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

“What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

“To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

“What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

“It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

“He was supposed to—”

“Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

“All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”

“Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

“Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway. I beat the crowds by staying in.”

“Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”

7:18 a.m.

Shir Soroush stood at the window overlooking Park Avenue, arms crossed, the entire city at his feet. In his mind, the various strands of the plan were converging. Months of planning led up to this moment. Righteous energy surged through his body. Soon, he thought. So soon.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden heels padding on the carpeted floor. It was a man with a large hooked nose and a thick beard despite his relative youth. Zubin.

“I have made contact with Razi, Salm, and Sharzeh,” he said. “They are in position.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “What of the Secret Service?”

“They have two men here already, but they are scrambling. They were caught completely off guard.”

“And Ramadani?”

“The President is on his way up with Asadi and Taleb.”

“I’ll be ready to welcome him,” said Soroush. He walked to the foyer and waited, hands clasped at the small of his back, until the elevator arrived at the floor and Ramadani emerged accompanied by his secretary and chief of staff.

“Sir,” Soroush said, offering his hand for a shake. “Welcome to your accommodations in New York City.”

“Shir, it is good to see you,” said Ramadani. “You’ve done a good job here.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Beautiful. Classic.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Soroush, hiding his contempt. Ramadani’s fine features, a straight nose and strong chin, more suitable for a movie star than a statesman, concealed a weakling and a traitor to his people.

“Professional as always,” said Ramadani, making his way from the foyer to the living room. Soroush followed. Its light-colored walls, floor, and upholstery gave it an airy and light feeling. “Have you had a chance to see the city?” Ramadani asked, admiring the furniture. “You should find time to relax. Enjoy yourself. Take time to do a little shopping tomorrow.”

“It is profane,” said Soroush. “And it would take me away from my duties.”

Ramadani chuckled. “You are too grave, Soroush. You will have your time off here. I suggest you take it.”

“I am here to serve the Islamic Republic and no less,” he retorted.

“As you will,” said Ramadani. “I need to go over some things with Taleb before the meeting with the American president. We’d like something to eat as we do.” He motioned toward the dining room.

“I will ring the chef,” said Soroush.

Ramadani’s nose crinkled as they passed a closed door. “There is a strange smell coming from in there,” he said.

“It is a bathroom,” said Soroush. “I recommend that you stay clear of it, sir. The smell is due to a plumbing issue that the hotel has already assured me they will fix posthaste.”

“Make sure that they do,” said Ramadani.

Soroush’s mind went to the body of the hotel manager, so fat he hardly fit into the bathtub. The ice was not preventing his decomposition well enough. But it did not matter. They were so close now. By the time he was found, his death would hardly register as significant next to the events of the hours to come.

7:42 a.m.

Lisa Frieze adjusted a loose lock into the tight bun that held her auburn hair as the steel double doors of the elevator opened onto the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza. She checked her makeup in the metal’s reflective surface, rubbing out a smudge underneath her hazel eyes. Then she stepped out in strides that were bolder than she actually felt. She’d driven down IED-riddled streets and been under fire more times than she could count, but walking into the New York City FBI field office for the first time was giving her the jitters.

She walked past a deserted reception area and let herself in through the door to a wide-open office. A single row of fluorescent lights illuminated the long computer-lined desks that populated the room. The sky outside, through the window, was the grayish blue that always awaited the sunrise. In one corner was a figure hunched over the desk, his short brown hair and brown face lit by his computer monitor. He had a breakfast sandwich in one hand, from which he took a full-mouthed bite.

“Excuse me, I—” she began, but stopped when she noticed her voice had come out too softly. “Excuse me,” she said, more boldly. “My name is Lisa Frieze—Special Agent Lisa Frieze. I’m here to see Clement Chambers.”

The man swiveled his chair to look at her and held up his hand as he chewed. “Down that hall, first door on your right,” he said, with his mouth half-full. He swallowed hard and added, “You the rookie?”

“That’s me,” she said, coming closer. He wiped his free hand on his pants and extended it to her. “Nolan,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said, gripping his greasy hand with practiced firmness. Little things like a handshake mattered—it was too easy not to be taken seriously. The last thing she wanted in the new job was to be pegged as a girl. “Anything I should know before going in there?”

“Oh, you haven’t met the boss yet?” said Nolan, teeth flashing white in the twilight. “Let’s see... you get used to him?”

“Encouraging,” she said with a light chuckle.

“But seriously,” said Nolan. “He’ll be sizing you up. Be straight and don’t be spooked. You’ll do fine.”

She made her way down the darkened hallway, then knocked on the door marked CLEMENT CHAMBERS—AGENT-IN-CHARGE, COUNTERTERRORISM with three measured raps.

“Come in!”

She opened the door to a well-lit office cluttered with boxes of files. Behind the desk, framed by alternating bands of gray venetian blinds and the lightening sky, was Chambers, a ruddy man of medium build with blond hair and a blond moustache, familiar to her from pictures alone.

“Ms. Frieze, I presume,” he said, shuffling papers before standing and extending his hand in greeting. He appraised her as they shook.

“Mr. Chambers,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s good to have you in the ranks,” he said, without sounding convinced. He sat down and laid an open file in front of him, on which Frieze saw her head shot. “Take a seat.” He clicked a pen in his right hand as he leafed through the file.

“I’ve got my letters of recommendation from Agent Training and Linguistics,” she said, reaching into her briefcase.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he looked through the file. “I have everything I need here.” He leaned back in his chair, holding the file up like a book. “BA in Middle Eastern Studies, graduating with honors from the University of Chicago. Fluent in Arabic.”

“And Farsi, sir.”

He looked up at her, and continued. “Two years in Afghanistan and eighteen months in Iraq as a contractor for the US Army, working as a translator. I understand your service there was... not without incident.”

She squirmed in her chair. “I’ve been—”

“Declared fit for duty by a psychiatrist, I know.” He clicked the pen again. “I don’t take issue with that. But I know what PTSD can do to an agent. And I don’t like trouble, Ms. Frieze.”

“You won’t have any from me,” she said, locking eyes with him.

He looked down and closed the file. “You were a translator,” he said. “Making good money. In fact, I know you’d be making more today if you’d continued as a translator than now that you’ve undergone special agent training.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.

He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Greater risk, less reward. Which leads me to ask you—what does bring you to our doorstep, Ms. Frieze?”

She stared at him just long enough to convey that she didn’t need to answer his question. Then she said, “To better serve my country and the Bureau, sir.”

Chambers grinned. “Yes, I’m sure.” He picked up the pen again and sat back. His chair squeaked against his weight. “You came in on a rather unusual day,” he said. “The arrival of the Iranian president means most of our team is scattered around the city. This has been weeks in preparation. There’s not much we can use you for today. I can have you shadow one of our agents coordinating with the Diplomatic Security Service.” He stood up, and Frieze followed suit. “Let me get you acquainted with your desk.”

As she turned to walk out, the door opened and Nolan leaned into the office. “Ramadani’s switching hotels.”

“What the hell do you mean, he’s switching hotels?” demanded Chambers.

“He’s not going to the Plaza,” said Nolan. “Apparently his motorcade is on its way to the Waldorf right now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Why the hell am I only hearing about this now?”

“They sprung this on everyone. I only just got the call from the NYPD. They’re calling it a security measure against possible planned attacks on the Plaza.”

“Damn it,” said Chambers. “Was anyone on our side privy to this?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Nolan. “Information’s still sketchy. We’re scrambling to get up to speed.”

“Christ,” said Chambers. “Unbelievable. Get everyone up to speed, then find out whatever you can. What a goddamn nightmare. Rookie!”

It took Frieze a moment to realize he was talking to her. “Yes, sir?”

“Get up there.”

“Up there, sir?”

“To the Waldorf. I want a full roster of hotel staff and their work schedules within the hour. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“I meant now,” he said. “Go! Get moving!”

She walked down the short hallway ahead of Nolan.

“Getting pushed out of the nest already, huh?”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Asking a couple of questions of a hotel clerk. How hard could it be?”

8:26 a.m.

Tracie Flowers, ten years old, sat next to her mother as the train clattered along the Long Island Rail Road. The train had pulled out from Pinelawn at 7:39 A.M., a full three minutes late, she had noted with some dissatisfaction. But she had been pleased that the train had reached the other stations with no additional delays, and they were on schedule to pull into Penn Station at precisely 8:37, with a journey lasting exactly the projected fifty-eight minutes. Tracie found this pleasing.

Being content at having fit the train’s progress into a neat pattern in her mind, Tracie counted the seats, the windows, and the slats on the luggage racks. She counted the passengers all along the way, keeping track of those who entered, those who left, and the luggage that each had stowed up on the racks. She counted the number of people wearing hats, those using headphones, and the number of people with each hair color. (She was distressed that she couldn’t quite classify one man’s hair as either red or blond. Her mother cast the deciding vote for blond, and all was well again.) She took each of the numbers and factored it, then figured out if it could be expressed as a sum of primes, and then found complex mathematical relationships among them, as well as between each one and the current day, month, and year.

This occupied her mind for most of the forty-five minutes of the ride so far. At 8:32, right on schedule, the train’s brakes began to whine as it pulled into Woodside. She heard the familiar hiss and opening of doors, and Tracie mouthed the announcement of the station along with the recording. Things became disordered as people got up and others came in, and it took a moment for everything to settle down and Tracie not to become overwhelmed. The train started moving again, and she got busy with the task of mentally recording those who had gotten off the train and those who had gotten on. The person wearing a patterned knitted cap was gone, as was the one with short-cropped black curly hair and the one with the red-and-white striped beanie. Among the newcomers were a bald man and a younger guy whose hair was long and greasy.

Tracie counted them up and tried to work out what, from her previous counts and calculations, had changed. Except that when she tried, not everything added up. Something was off about the new numbers, about the scene in that train car. Sometimes she just had the feeling that something was wrong, and it took a lot of thinking to figure out what it was. Anxiety welled up in her. They were nearing Penn Station. She only had six minutes, by her calculations, to figure out the puzzle, or else, in her mind, something very bad would happen. Her mom would say that it was only her OCD, that nothing really was going to happen. But to Tracie, it was real. If she didn’t find out what was wrong, she had the inescapable feeling that someone was going to die.

She closed her eyes and went through the numbers in her head, number of passengers and hats and hair color, until she noticed that it was something about the baggage. She looked at each luggage item stowed on the rack above the seats, straining to see each piece, making a mental connection between each piece of luggage and its owner.

There was one piece of luggage that didn’t belong to anyone on the train. It was a blue backpack that had belonged to the man with curly hair—the one who had gotten off at Pinelawn. He had forgotten it! The thought was distressing to Tracie, but she knew how to fix it. She pictured a line, like the ones she imagined connecting each piece of luggage to each passenger, stretching from the backpack, through a tiny crack in the doors, and all the way back to Pinelawn, to a faceless, curly-haired figure standing on the platform. The backpack now was connected to its rightful owner in her mind, and everything seemed fine again. Nobody was going to die because of her carelessness.

She could feel the pull of the train’s deceleration, and then she heard the announcement over the PA—which she again mouthed as the conductor spoke—that they were pulling into Penn Station. The train came to a stop, and people gathered their things. A few of the more hurried ones lined up at the train door. Her mother tugged at her sleeve and stood up. The doors opened and they moved forward with tiny steps, Tracie counting each one. They walked a few feet, and Tracie looked up to see that they were right next to the blue backpack on its rack. She once more imagined it to be connected to its distant owner.

Tracie Flowers never made it out of the train. Her mind cut to black before she could even feel the blast that killed her.

8:48 a.m.

Alex put her tablet into her black Targus backpack to the familiar whine of the brakes as the train rolled into Grand Central Terminal. Passengers around her shuffled, at least three quarters of them getting to their feet before the train came to a complete halt. This wasn’t the normal commuter crowd, but rather the Black Friday shoppers whose moods ranged from antsy to bloodthirsty.

The doors slid open and cool air streamed in. Alex waited while people elbowed each other to get off. Clark hung back, waiting for her to make the first move. Once the aisle had cleared, they followed the slow-moving crowd onto the platform, walking a few paces behind the crowd to avoid the tumult. It also gave her room to look around as she emerged into the elegant marble concourse. No matter how many times she walked into it, Alex always had to stop and wonder at its beauty. The sun’s rays filtered in from the stories-high east windows, casting pools of light that reached the information booth with its four-faced brass clock.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” she said, turning to Clark to see that his attention was immersed in his cell phone. She scoffed under her breath and surveyed the crowd, opting to take the main exit and leading her distracted friend across the concourse.

Alex’s instincts told her that something was wrong before she was aware of it. At first, it was an unconscious uptick in the number of ringing cell phones, and then in the buzzing of several people in the crowd. Something about it was disconcerting, even if she couldn’t put her finger on what. And then, as they were passing the clock in the center of the concourse, Clark spoke, playing out a conversation that was happening in minor variations throughout Grand Central terminal.

“Alex,” he said. “There’s been an attack.”

“Where?” she asked. Clark had his eyes glued to his smartphone.

“It’s all over Twitter,” he said, holding up his phone so she could see the screen. The same message appeared in the familiar telegraphic style, shared by several people, celebrities alongside Clark’s personal friends. Bombs in Penn Station. She pulled out her own phone and checked the news, but only one of the news outlets had reported on it, and all it did was refer to the now-viral tweet.

“We need to find my dad,” she said. Policemen, she now saw, were fanning out, and she saw two K9 units walking out onto the concourse.

“Was he staying near there?” Clark asked.

“No, he—”

She was cut off by a man’s voice on the PA. “This is an emergency. We are beginning immediate evacuation. Please remain calm and make your way to the exits in an orderly fashion.”

Jesus, Alex thought as people began swarming to the exits. A terrorist looking for maximum damage couldn’t hope for a better situation than this funneling of the crowds. Alex pulled Clark by the arm. “Come on!”

People were streaming out of the heavy wooden doors, so many that the sidewalks couldn’t hold them all and they were spilling into Forty-second Street under the Park Avenue overpass. Alex was knocked side to side by the crowd and lost touch with Clark. The heat and crush of the mass of people knocked the wind out of her.

“Clark!” she called out, but there was no hope he’d hear in all the commotion.

Then, the first bullet hit.

8:53 a.m.

Adele picked through what was left of the silver platter of fresh fruit and plates of patés, smoked salmon, and caviar delivered by room service. Morgan rolled his eyes as she popped a grape into her mouth, grinning at him as she chewed. Looking out the window, Morgan saw that the motorcade had come in through the garage, leaving only curious onlookers and the police cordon outside.

He heard a beep in his earpiece. Conley.

“Did you get the news?” Conley asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?” asked Conley. “Bombs in Penn Station.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago,” said Conley. “It’s all over Twitter. No way I’m getting inside the hotel now. They’re taking extra precautions because of the Iranian president. Doors are locked and security’s turning everyone away.”

Morgan shot a glance at Adele, who was looking at him as she bit into a pear. “What do you know about the attack?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve made contact with Bloch at headquarters, but it’s going to be bedlam for at least a couple of hours.”

“Bomb in New York City, on the day of the Iranian President’s visit.”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence,” said Conley.

“I don’t like coincidences,” said Morgan. “I’m going downstairs to see what I can find out.”

8:54 a.m.

Alex didn’t hear the shot, just the screaming some ten feet ahead of her, its source and cause concealed by the throng of people. A movement like a riptide dragged her backward toward the station doors.

The next bullet came seconds later, a stream of bloody mist erupting from the back of a freckled-faced woman right in front of her. The woman slumped back, and Alex nearly fell onto the asphalt of East Forty-second Street in an attempt to hold her up. The woman tumbled onto the pavement, blood gushing out right at the bottom of her ribcage, near her spinal column.

The crowd opened up around the fallen woman, giving Alex a refreshing breath of cool air. She saw the entry wound at the woman’s chest and made an instinctive calculation that the bullets were approaching from a high angle.

Sniper.

She looked up at the buildings that surrounded them, but there were too many windows to even count, let alone find a single shooter. She cast her gaze down at the woman, who stared up at the sky in wide-eyed, uncomprehending terror. Alex moved toward her to administer first aid or at least offer her a measure of solace. But the crowd closed in again as people scrambled for cover, and Alex was swept along with it. It was no use trying to get back to her.

Cover, she thought. I need cover. But it was useless—she was now moving with the mass of people around her, whether she wanted to or not, toward the doors to Grand Central Terminal. She was tossed and squeezed and her mind grew foggy with panic. Focus, she told herself. But the crowd heaved, and her knees couldn’t keep up. She stumbled and fell.

She curled up into a ball as feet hit her back, her shins, her head. She heard another surge of screaming, she didn’t know where from. A shoe scraped her ear, and it seared with pain, feeling like it was half torn off. I’m going to get trampled. I’m going to die. She screamed.

“Alex! Alex!” Her name was reaching her as if from a distance. “Alex, get up!” A hand on her shoulder. “Come on!”

Clark Duffy pulled her to her feet, with the help of a beefy man with a scraggly black beard who was holding back the crowd as much as he could to give her space. She staggered to her feet and moved, led by Clark, toward the door. The rest of the way was a blur of movement and shoves until she was panting inside the main concourse, surrounded by marble and under the green-painted ceiling. Around her, families and friends drew close to each other, looking around in alarm. She turned to Clark.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a hug. “And thank you,” she told the bearded man who had followed them inside. She wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s, uh, no problem,” he said, flustered. “Bud,” he said, awkwardly extending a hand. “Bud Hooper.”

“Alex.”

“Are you okay?” asked Clark.

She touched her ear, half-expecting to find it dangling from a thin strip of skin. It was wet with blood, but otherwise seemed intact. “Yeah, I’m fine.” So far, she said. But now, they were trapped inside Grand Central Terminal. Whatever was going on, she had a feeling it was just beginning.

9:01 a.m.

Lisa Frieze pounded the pavement in her uncomfortable dress flats. She hit redial on her phone for the fourth time as she wove around a yellow cab on Park Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill and angry drivers leaned on their horns. She heard the plastic click of the receiver being picked up off its cradle.

“Chambers.”

“This is Frieze.” She stayed on the street, avoiding the hordes that were plugging up the sidewalks.

“Frieze who?” came the brusque response, then, before she had time to respond, “The rookie. Right. Take it you’ve heard the news.”

“I just caught wind of it on the radio, sir,” she said, reaching the small crowd that had gathered around the Waldorf, drawn by the arrival of the motorcade. She tried to plunge in through the outer layer and failed. “I need to know if there’s something I should be doing. I’ve studied the emergency response procedures, I can—”

“Are you at the hotel yet?”

“I’m right outside.” A woman in a green jogging suit elbowed her, nearly knocking the phone from her hand. Frieze elbowed her back but couldn’t budge the mass of people blocking her way.

“Get me the report I asked for,” he said. “And stay out of everyone’s way. I can’t spare anyone to hold your hand today.”

“Sir, I’ve got experience with forensic—” He hung up before she could finish. Adding to her frustration was the solid wall of bystanders that stood before her.

“FBI!” She yelled out. “Out of my way!”

The crowd parted, finally, and she pushed through to the police cordon. A young man in aviators wearing the black uniform of the NYPD and holding a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee stepped forward to meet her.

“Special Agent Lisa Frieze,” she said, flashing her badge. “I need to get inside.”

“I can let you through, but the hotel’s locked down,” he said, lifting and pulling the steel barrier one-handed with a grunt, opening a crack just wide enough so she could pass. “No one’s going in or out. There was a bomb, you know. At Penn Station.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Emergency procedures,” he said and sipped his coffee. “To protect the president of Iran. Although if you ask me, I don’t know why we’re trying to protect the bastard, anyway.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“Didn’t what?”

“Ask you. I just need to get inside.”

“You can try,” he said, shrugging.

She walked up to one of the glass double doors to the Waldorf lobby and knocked on the glass, holding up her badge. A man in a suit who was standing guard, blond and bony-faced, either Secret Service or Diplomatic Security, mouthed locked down. She raised her badge higher and raised her eyebrows, but he just shook his head.

She turned back and looked up and down Park, running her fingers through her drawn-back hair. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. No signal.

Great.

“Looks like you and I are late to the party.”

She wheeled about to find the man who’d spoken. He was tall and wiry with a strong chin and nose, in khakis and a blue button-down with rolled up sleeves despite the cold. Handsome, in a sort of professorial way. But he was no professor. The faint scars on the back of his hand pegged him as a man of action. And if he was on this side of the police barriers, he was no mere civilian.

“Peter Conley,” he said, holding up his ID. “State Department.”

“FBI. Agent Frieze. Lisa.” She held out her hand and they shook. “Can you get me inside?”

“No can do,” he said, “Secret Service is running point, and they get territorial.”

She looked back at the hotel and the stolid agent at the door. “Are you the one in charge here at the scene?”

“I’m way down in the totem pole, sugar,” said Conley. “Plus, no one’s in charge at the moment, as far as I can tell. But one of the cops had radio contact with someone on the inside. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

9:05 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked out into the colonnaded lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. He was glad to see plenty of guests had come down to complain of the lockdown, tripping over each other to scream at a couple of harried hotel employees at the front desk. He counted seven Secret Service agents posted at the doors and corners, solemn and more tense than usual—no guests dared approach any of them. Four others Morgan recognized by their beards as belonging to President Ramadani’s security team. One eyed him with suspicion, and Morgan made for the disgruntled swarm until he spotted what he was looking for—a bald man in a cheap suit whose bearing told Morgan he was not a Fed or used to dealing with guests. He was walking across the lobby, keeping his distance from the crowd.

Morgan approached him. “Excuse me.”

“Get back to your room, sir,” he rasped without making eye contact. “The lockdown will be over when it’s over.”

“You don’t understand.” Morgan flashed his Homeland Security badge—one of many fakes issued him by Zeta Division, whose friends in high places guaranteed the credentials checked out against official records. “Dan Morgan,” he said. “You work security here at the hotel?”

“Head of,” he said without slowing down. “Shane Rosso.”

“Spare a word?”

“You wanna talk to me, you gotta walk with me.” Morgan liked this guy already. “Now, I’ve spoken to your people already.”

“They’re not my people,” said Morgan. “I’m here as a guest. Just making myself useful.”

“If you say so.” Rosso pushed open the door into the service hall and held it for Morgan. “Come on.” The hallway was a little small for the two of them to walk abreast, so Morgan let Rosso take the lead. “So what’s your question?” He asked without turning back.

“Did anything strange happen between yesterday and today?”

“What, you mean besides a bunch of Bahrainis coming in to take over my hotel? Or the fact that it turns out they were Iranians, and I had their goddamn President arriving right under my nose, making them that much more of a pain in my ass?” Heat wafted out as they passed the door to the kitchen. “Maybe you mean the bomb at Penn Station, and the fact that the Secret Service is shutting up my hotel because of it. Or maybe you mean the fact that the good-for-nothing manager decided not to show up.”

“Who’s your manager?” asked Morgan. They walked together into a small office with Rosso’s name on the door. In it were steel files and a scratched and bent cheap office desk. Rosso hunched over at a computer station without sitting down and pecked at the keys with his two index fingers, navigating some sort of database.

“Angelo Acosta,” said Rosso. “He was supposed to come in and help with this crap, but no one can reach him. Fat bastard probably couldn’t drag his ass out of bed in the morning.”

“Has he missed work like this before?”

“Nah,” said Rosso. “Now that I think about it. Not without calling in. Probably going to get fired over this, especially today of all days.” The printer on the desk next to the monitor whirred, and then stopped. “Of course, our general manager didn’t manage to come in this morning with all the ruckus.” Rosso slapped the printer twice with an open palm. “These goddamn things, am I right?”

“Any chance I could take a look at the security tapes between yesterday and today?”

“I got no problem with it,” said Rosso, fumbling with the mouse. He double clicked, and the printer started going again. This time, it spat out printed sheets, tables with short words and numbers—guest data, Morgan figured. “But between the Iranians and the Secret Service, I don’t even have access to my own hotel’s cameras.”

“What if I ask them?”

“I gather the Iranians won’t take too kindly to it,” said Rosso. “Better chance with the Secret Service, if you wave that fancy badge in their faces.”

“I know how to deal with them. Meanwhile, can you show me the guest and employee manifests? I need to get them out to my people ASAP.”

Rosso grunted. “It’s the second time in an hour someone’s asked me to do that. You government types really need to learn to share.”

9:22 a.m.

Shir Soroush checked his watch one last time, then marched across the Presidential Suite’s living room to the office. Navid Ramadani was conferring with his chief of staff and his secretary, huddled over the desk and away from the windows, as they had been instructed after finding out about the shootings at Grand Central. Masud and Ebrahim, who were standing guard in the room, acknowledged Soroush as he walked in.

“Come with me, Mr. President,” said Soroush.

“What is happening?” demanded Ramadani, standing up in alarm. Perspiration showed on his brow.

“We are under attack,” Soroush said.

“What? By whom?”

Soroush exchanged a glance with Masud, then unholstered his suppressed Beretta .45 and fired. The bullet burrowed through Ebrahim’s right eye and burst out the back, showering the desk and the white curtains of the suite in blood. With his silenced pistol, Masud plugged two bullets in the back of the heads of Asadi and Taleb, who collapsed on the carpeted floor.

“Me,” said Soroush.

“What are you doing?” demanded Ramadani, standing from the table, eyes ablaze with fury.

Not as weak as I thought.

“Taking back the Republic,” said Soroush. “Sit.”

“I will not—”

Masud made his move, kicking the President’s leg to make him sit on the heavy oak chair. “Sit,” Soroush repeated. Then, “Masud.”

Masud drew the thin syringe from his suit jacket. In one swift motion he thrust the needle into Ramadani’s neck and pressed the plunger.

“What—” the President yelped in surprise. His eyes rolled upward and his spine went slack. Masud grabbed him before his head hit the table in front of him.

“Phase one is complete,” Soroush said into his radio communicator. “Phase two begins now.”

9:41 a.m.

Lisa Frieze tried to suppress a shiver as she leaned against the cool stone of the outside of the Waldorf Astoria. She was looking around at the various law enforcement personnel who were milling about within the cordoned zone. The crowd had thinned significantly as news of the attack spread and people hurried to their loved ones or fled the area. She tried her parents again, but it was impossible to get a call through, so she checked the news for updates. Nothing. She looked up again and was startled by Peter Conley, who stood facing her.

“Couldn’t find him,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s just as well,” she said, biting her lip and looking at a policeman waving the crowd back. “It’s just busywork. With everything that’s going on, this is not really on anyone else’s list of priorities.”

“You really wish you were somewhere else, don’t you?” He leaned against the wall next to her.

“Yes. I should be doing something,” she said, exasperated. “The city’s under attack, and I’m here twiddling my goddamn thumbs.”

“Maybe you should,” he said. “Do something, I mean.”

She pushed herself off the wall and stood up straight. “I’m not looking to get reprimanded for insubordination on my first day.” She stared down Park Avenue toward the Met Life building and wondered nervously whether being under fire would throw her into a flashback. It’d been over a year since she’d had one, but the thought of testing it gave her a sense of foreboding.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” said Conley. She looked at him. He had light brown eyes brimming with openness and sincerity. Something about him was disarming, some quality that inspired instant trust.

“No,” she said. “You can’t. Listen, I can’t stay out of this fight. I’m going—”

She was interrupted by a muffled pop pop coming from inside the hotel.

Her eyes widened. “Is that—”

“Gunfire.”

9:47 a.m.

Morgan hung up the phone in Rosso’s office after his third busy signal and tried his radio communicator again. “Conley? Conley?” No response. The signal was probably being jammed by the Secret Service. Gunshots still echoed down the hallway. “I can’t raise my guy on the outside,” he said to Rosso. “Do you have any weapons?”

“The feds locked away everyone’s guns,” he said. “Only they and the President’s security had them.”

Goddamn it. So the hotel security team would be helpless. “We have to do something,” said Morgan, turning to go. “I’m going to the lobby to see what’s going on.”

“Wait!” said Rosso. “You don’t have to. The surveillance room’s next door. We can see what’s happening anywhere in the hotel.”

Morgan let Rosso lead the way a few yards down the service hall. Rosso pulled out an oversized key ring from under his jacket and unlocked a plain gray door. He turned the knob and pushed it open to reveal two dead Secret Service agents and an Iranian guard, already raising his silenced SIG Sauer semiautomatic to shoot.

Morgan pushed Rosso out of the way of the threshold as the bullet ripped, hearing it pierce flesh, using the impulse to impel himself in the opposite direction. Rosso fell forward on the far side of the door, rolling on his back and exposing a flower of blood blooming on his shirt. Morgan checked himself, but apart from a little splatter from Rosso, he was clean. Adrenaline pumped, and a heightened awareness kicked in. He caught a flash of red in his peripheral vision to his left. He turned to catch sight of a fire extinguisher and axe. The plan formed in his mind faster than he could even think. He lifted the extinguisher off its hinge and, holding it by its base, swung it hard against the wall. The blow broke off the entire discharge mechanism, and white powder gushed out in a constant stream. Morgan then tossed the device into the surveillance room, where the powder spouted into the room, flooding its cramped confines.

Morgan grabbed the axe off the wall as the Iranian inside coughed and loosed a hail of bullets that embedded themselves into the wall opposite the door. Morgan counted six shots, plus, probably, two in each Secret Service agent. The SIG Sauer could hold up to twenty rounds.

Two more bullets sailed out of the room. This told Morgan that the man was desperate and blind, but had enough rounds of ammo to hold them off for minutes that Morgan couldn’t spare.

9:48 a.m.

Soroush smiled as he looked out the window at the officers below, running around like cockroaches. Hearing heavy footsteps coming toward the door to the Presidential Suite, he raised his Beretta and saw Zubin appear at the threshold.

“Status,” said Soroush.

“The American agents have been taken care of,” said Zubin, in a voice breathy from climbing the stairs. “As well as those not loyal to our cause. The doors to the guest rooms have been electronically locked, and all keycards de-authorized.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “I have word from Aram. Grand Central has been shut down. Thousands of people are still inside. The devices are in place for phase three. We proceed as planned.”

“Just one thing,” said Zubin. “We lost Shahin. He took a bullet from the Secret Service.”

“Have Hossein take his role in the plan.” He laid his hand on Zubin’s shoulder. “This is our day,” he said. “We cannot fail.”

“For Allah,” said Zubin, breathless, with the wide eyes of the true believer.

“For the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

9:49 a.m.

Out in the hallway, standing flush against the wall next to the door to the surveillance office, Morgan clutched the axe and considered his options. The best plan would be goading the man inside to spend his remaining bullets. But that would take time. He glanced at Rosso, propped against the wall across the door from him, blood pooling on the floor. Time was something he did not have. The moment settled into an eerie quiet except for the hiss of the extinguisher still gushing white inside the room. The white powder wafted out into the hallway. Morgan rearranged the weapon in his hands, clammy palms against polished wood. This was going to be a gamble.

He stood by until he heard coughing once more. At that, he pivoted into the room and, engulfed in the white powder of the fire extinguisher, swung the axe in a wide upward diagonal arc. It hit home at Morgan’s one o’clock, and he heard the man drop onto the table and then the floor.

Morgan picked up the extinguisher, still spurting gas, and rolled it down the hall. He then crouched next to Rosso. Large beads of sweat peppered his forehead and he wheezed on inhaling. Blood oozed down from his shoulder where the Iranian’s bullet had hit.

“You all right?” asked Morgan.

“Can’t say much for my left arm,” he said, pressing a handkerchief against the wound. The fabric quickly became saturated with red. Morgan helped him to his feet. “Good thing I shoot with my right. Let’s take a look at those cameras.”

They went back inside the surveillance room and wiped the suspended powder out of the way until they could just make out what was happening in the array of monitors that covered nearly half of one wall, each broken up into a grid of video feeds. It was worse than Morgan had imagined.

He looked at the lobby camera feeds first. People—by the way they were dressed, mostly hotel staff—were being herded by men with guns into the middle and made to kneel. He counted the seven Secret Service agents, fallen where they had stood minutes before—none of those had even managed to draw their guns, which betrayed the deadly coordination of this attack. Another two lay dying behind a couch in the lobby, where they had taken cover. He counted five more dead from the hallway feeds.

“Jesus Christ,” said Rosso.

“I’ve got nine hostiles in the lobby,” said Morgan. He tried his radio again, but the signal wasn’t going through.

“Two more in the hallways,” said Rosso. “And one coming down the stairs here.”

“Do you have a visual on Ramadani?”

“Negative,” said Rosso. He motioned to a row of feeds that were completely dark. “Those are for the floor of his suite. His people disabled the cameras. You think Ramadani’s men turned?”

“Yeah, they did,” said Morgan. “The question is, turned on whom?”

9:50 a.m.

Soroush emerged from the stairwell into the lobby, where about one hundred people—staff and the guests who had been downstairs when they struck—were seated on the floor, hands on their heads. Three of Soroush’s men were moving among them, unspooling the wire and securing it to each with a zip tie. Soroush reveled in the hostages’ terrified incomprehension, in the tears of the women.

Zubin rushed forward to meet him. “The doors are secured. The bombs will be armed within five minutes.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “We need precision. The blasts must be timed exactly to our departure. Masud is getting the President ready to be transported. Ten minutes.”

9:52 a.m.

Alex Morgan examined her left ear in a compact mirror borrowed from a Latina girl about two years younger than her who was sitting nearby. The ear was cut up and looked like it might leave scars. Wincing, Alex dabbed at it with a wet wipe provided by the same girl, cleaning out the dirt and congealed blood. Fresh blood welled out bright red. She wiped that away too, and held the sleeve of her sweater against it like a compress until the bleeding stopped. She’d have preferred to do this in the bathroom rather than sitting on the cold marble floor, but the line to the bathrooms went halfway around the downstairs waiting area.

“How are you doing?” she asked Clark, who lay back against the marble floor, staring at the ceiling, phones in his ears. He shrugged, hoodie rustling against the stone beneath.

She reached to her pocket to check if her cell phone was there, but it wasn’t. She’d left it in her backpack, which she lost when she was knocked down by the crowd.

“Hey,” she said, prodding him. He removed his earphones. “Can I borrow your phone?”

He pulled the earphones out by the wire and propped himself up on his elbows. “Here,” he said, pulling out the headphone jack and holding it out for her. “I tried to call the ’rents already, though. Couldn’t get through. Maybe you’ll get lucky, though.”

She dialed her father, then her mother. No luck.

“I’m going to take a look around,” she told him, handing him back the phone. She stood up with aching muscles. She couldn’t sit still. She was antsy, with a bad feeling something else might happen, something worse. More than anything, she wanted to make herself useful.

The main concourse of Grand Central Terminal echoed with loud voices. People were standing and sitting around the expansive floor, and more were downstairs. She estimated that they numbered at least five hundred. MTA Police had spread out, mostly keeping to the exits and the walls, although she spotted two K9 teams doing rounds, inspecting people’s bags. She passed a prayer circle as she made her way around the concourse, people old and young, of all races, holding hands as a middle-aged black man spoke a solemn supplication. “Lord, deliver all your children from harm . . .”

Near the passage to the Lexington Avenue and Forty-seventh Street entrance, she heard the disconsolate sobs of people who had lost someone outside, or who had simply broken down from fear and shock. “My son is out there,” one young mother pleaded with a policeman holding people back from the door. She sank to her knees. “Please. My Lawrence, my baby . . .”

From there, Alex made her way to Vanderbilt Hall, which opened into the main entrance. It had been cleared and set aside to form a sort of makeshift hospital. Here, people in everyday clothes were attending to the injured. Only two of the people there had bullet wounds. The rest had been injured in the tumult, trampled, pushed, or had fallen against the pavement.

“Hi, excuse me, dear,” said a tiny lady who looked to be in her forties sporting spiky orange-red hair in comfortable pants and a casual sweater. She spoke with surprising authority. “Come over here, we’ll have someone look at your ear.”

Alex said, “No, my ear’s okay. I want to help. I have some first-aid training.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said the woman. “We actually have enough doctors and nurses here. But we could use some more water, if you’d be a dear and get it for us at the market.”

It wasn’t the help she wanted to give, but, of course, help shouldn’t be about what the helper wants. Alex made her way to the Grand Central Market. The shops all seemed to be closed, but a group of girl scouts and other children were lined up to receive bottles of water and fresh fruit at the door to the market itself, where four vendors were distributing them to the kids for free. Alex approached one of them, a young, brown-skinned Hispanic man in a black cap.

“I need water,” she said. “For the wounded.”

He set off into the market and came back with a plastic-sealed case of six twenty-ounce water bottles.

“You want me to carry that for you, miss?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, grunting under the weight as he handed the case to her. “You look like you have your hands full.”

9:58 a.m.

Morgan and Rosso watched through security video as two of the Iranians attached the wire, which had been zip-tied to about one in four people in the crowd, to the ten or so black suitcases that were laid along the perimeter of the hostages.

“What are they doing?” asked Rosso. He sat in the chair, clutching his wound, his breathing heavy. His eyes were beginning to glaze over.

“It’s a trip wire,” said Morgan. “Attached to the bomb in the suitcase. If the wire is cut or detached, they blow.”

“They’re going to have to cut the zip ties loose one by one,” said Rosso. “Evacuation’s going to be impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “For the hostages and the terrorists.” Morgan reached for the phone on the desk. “I need to talk to my man on the outside.” He lifted the receiver, but it was dead.

Rosso pointed toward the dead Secret Service agents. “Whatever they had to communicate with the outside, they’re definitely not using it anymore,” said Rosso.

Morgan bent down over one of them. He had short, curly brown hair, and he was young, so goddamned young. He had the slightest bit of stubble, and Morgan could tell his beard was still patchy and irregular. “Sorry about this,” Morgan said, and popped the earbud out of his ear and followed the line to the transmitter in his breast pocket. Morgan pulled it out and fiddled with it to patch into the frequency he was using to communicate with Conley.

“Conley, Conley, come in,” he said.

“Conley here. Morgan, is that you? It’s mayhem in there. What—”

“The Iranians,” he said. “They took out all the Secret Service agents.”

“Shit,” said Conley. “There’s been shooting at Grand Central, too. Reports say more than one sniper fired at the crowd.”

Morgan banged his hand on the table in a mixture of rage and worry. Alex. “Conley, I need you to try to call my daughter. She’s supposed to be coming into Grand Central this morning. I need to know that she’s okay.” He gave Conley the number.

“I’ll try,” said Conley. “But the cell system’s overloaded. Not sure I’ll get through.”

“Any idea what the endgame is here?” Morgan asked. He looked at Rosso, who was stooped on the desk, examining the feeds. “They’ve got no chance of making it out of this building alive.”

“They might try to use the hostages for leverage,” said Conley.

“I have no idea what that could achieve. Why here? Why now?”

“I don’t know,” said Conley. “Listen, an NYPD Hercules team is already on its way.”

“Son of a bitch! They’re wiring this place up with explosives. You need to hold them back. We need to find out what they want, and how it’s connected to the shootings at Grand Central—”

“Did you say,” Rosso cut in, “that what happened here might have something to do with Grand Central?”

“Yeah. Do you know something?”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” said Rosso. “But there’s an old train line called Track Sixty-one. It was built for FDR in the thirties. It runs underground between here and Grand Central Terminal.”

“Could the Iranians access it from here?” asked Morgan.

“If they know where it is. There’s an elevator that leads down there from the hotel.”

“Did you get that, Conley?”

“Got it,” said Conley. “That’s their way out, then. Which means they have no reason not to blow up the lobby of the Waldorf.”

“Conley,” said Morgan. “Keep the Herc team outside. If they come in here, they’re going to get themselves and everyone else killed.”

10:04 a.m.

“Do you have contact with any of your people on the inside?” Lisa Frieze asked the Secret Service man, one of two left on the outside. The scene was chaos, as agents of various law enforcement branches moved about frantically outside the Park Avenue entrance to the Waldorf, trying to coordinate with each other. The policemen, instead of trying to keep onlookers away, now surrounded the doors, ready for whatever might come out. She shivered, pulling her blazer tighter around her torso and wishing she’d worn something warmer.

He shook his head. “No response on any of the communicators.”

“Do you have any word from the field office?”

“They’re mounting a response. That’s all I know.”

She swore under her breath and dialed the number for the hotel, which returned a busy signal.

“Agent Frieze!”

She looked up from her phone to see Peter Conley making his way toward her. “Have you got anything?” he asked.

“First responders are thin on the ground,” she said as he approached, “scrambling to deal with the three-pronged attack. From what I gather, though, the Waldorf attack has priority one. This place is going to be swarming with people from at least half a dozen agencies within fifteen minutes.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” he said. “I’ve got a man on the inside, and he just made contact. We’ve got a hostage situation. The people inside are wired with explosives. There’s no way to get them out safely.”

“You’ve got a man on the inside? We need to establish reliable contact with him and coordinate with—”

“He’s not going to wait,” said Conley. “And neither is this situation. We need to buy him time to deal with the situation.”

“NYPD is getting a negotiator here,” she said. “Plus tactical response teams and snipers. Protocol for defusing this sort of situation.”

“That’s not going to work here,” said Conley. “The hostage situation is just a diversion. The terrorists are leaving through an old train tunnel that goes from the Waldorf to Grand Central.”

“How do you know this?” asked Frieze. “Who’s this man on the inside? Is he State Department?”

“He’s a trained black operative,” said Conley. Frieze eyed him, but left it at that. There was no time to quibble about these things.

“How does he know their plan?”

“I’d call it a professional hunch,” said Conley. “It’s the only plan that fits.”

“What if they’re suicide bombers?”

“Then everybody would already be dead.”

Frieze kicked the ground. “Goddamn it,” she said. “What the hell do we do, then?”

“We keep the tactical teams out of the hotel,” said Conley.

“If this doesn’t pan out, my career at the New York bureau is over on my first day.”

“Do you think there’s any other plausible explanation?”

The tire squeal of a halting car cut off Frieze before she could respond. A thickset man with side-parted salt-and-pepper hair and the expression of a charging bull sprang out and pushed through the barrier.

“Get these people out of here!” he yelled to the policemen at the scene. “I want a perimeter set up on a one-block radius. You.” He pointed at the young cop who had let Frieze through earlier. “Push the crowd back, have the barriers set up on Fiftieth, half a block down that way.” The cop stood still like a deer in the headlights. “Now would be good.”

He charged the few additional yards to the front door of the Waldorf. “I’m taking charge of this scene,” he yelled out to all present. “All decisions and new information now go through me. Do we have eyes on the inside?”

Frieze spoke up. “Agent Frieze, FBI.”

“Sergeant Pearson.” His cheeks were splotchy red, nostrils flaring at the base of his bulbous nose. “Are you in charge of the scene?”

“No,” she said. “But I need to talk to you.”

10:15 a.m.

“Another camera’s gone black,” said Rosso, hunched over the monitors in the surveillance room. “The elevator to the Presidential Suite.”

Morgan poked his head out the door and looked both ways down the hall. Wisps of extinguisher powder still hung in the air, but it was otherwise empty. “Does that give them access to Track Sixty-one?”

“Yeah,” said Rosso. “That’s the one.”

“Then it won’t be long before they blow this place,” said Morgan. He sat down next to Rosso. “We need to act. There,” he said, pointing at a monitor showing the lobby. Only one Iranian was left there, all the others having disappeared. “In that man’s hand, see?” It was something small and black, barely visible in the hotel feed. “That’s our detonator. We need to get to him before he blows this lobby sky-high.”

“All right,” said Rosso. “What’s the plan?” He winced in pain.

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“I’m not doing this out of heroism,” he said, refolding his bloody handkerchief and pressing it again to the wound. He stood up, bracing against the desk. He let go to stand only on his feet and swayed. Morgan was ready to catch him, but he didn’t fall. “I’m not getting out of here unless that guy is dead. Saving those people is the only way I make it out alive. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I have an idea,” said Morgan. “Let me tell you how we’re going to do this.”

10:18 a.m.

“That’s quite a story,” Sergeant Pearson said to Frieze, half turned away from her. He towered above her, heavyset and broad shouldered. Working his bushy gray eyebrows into a scowl, he addressed two newcomers bearing tactical sniper rifles, gesturing to them with a hand like a ham. “I want you on the roof of the building across the street, and you at the Intercontinental on Forty-ninth.”

“You need to trust us,” said Conley, at her side. “Keep the Hercules teams out.”

“The Iranians will blow the explosives on the first sign of invaders,” added Frieze.

“What the hell do you want me to do?” said Pearson, still looking past them at the wider scene, the lines of cop cars and two fire trucks, and dozens of first responders, moving with purpose in all directions. Some pushed people back farther and several scanned the windows of the hotel with binoculars.

Pearson gestured to someone behind Frieze. “If what you’re saying is true, we need to get the Herc teams in there as soon as possible.”

“That would be a mistake,” insisted Conley.

“So instead I’m supposed to trust that this guy on the inside is going to take care of the situation?” Then he shouted, “Get those civilians back! I want Park clear of civilians!”

“It’s our best shot,” said Frieze.

“Get me in contact with this guy. We’ll see where to go from there, all right?”

Frieze saw two black shapes approaching from Forty-ninth Street—large vans, which halted just around the corner. Men clad in black tactical gear with helmets carrying Colt Tactical Carbines and shotguns spilled out. The NYPD Hercules teams—New York City’s elite police special forces. They were running out of time.

“All right,” said Conley. “I’ll patch you through.”

10:21 a.m.

Morgan was checking the magazine of the dead Secret Service agent’s gun when he was hailed on the radio communicator.

“Sergeant Pearson here,” he said. “NYPD. Is this Morgan?”

“Can I help you?” said Morgan, keeping his voice down and his steps light as he made his way down the hall. It was deserted, and any sound seemed to echo in either direction. A hiss emanated from one of the pipes that ran its length. He glanced backward and saw Rosso disappearing around a corner at the far end.

“I’m told you’re on the inside of the Waldorf. I need eyes and ears to coordinate the tactical insertion for the rescue operation.”

“Don’t attempt anything yet,” said Morgan, looking around a corner.

“Excuse me?” Pearson huffed.

“Stay out until I give the all-clear. These guys are not looking to negotiate. All they want is to keep you busy as long as possible. Come inside and they have no reason not to blow.” Morgan made a mental map of the lobby in his head, picturing the enemy’s location as shown by the security cameras. Only one had stayed behind. They only had to get the one.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’d better do what I’m telling you to before I make sure you’re held personally responsible for the deaths of any—”

Morgan clicked the communicator off as he reached the door leading form the service hallway into the lobby and waited, looking at his watch.

This had to be perfectly synchronized. He and Rosso were going to get one chance. It had to be a one-shot kill—anything less and the terrorist might squeeze the detonator switch.

Morgan checked his watch again. Five seconds.

He heard gunfire right on cue, and afterward, the screams of the people on the floor. Rosso’s diversion having been achieved, Morgan pushed the swinging door out into the lobby, which led him behind the front desk. He found the trigger man hiding behind a column, taking cover from the hail of bullets loosed by Rosso on the far end of the lobby.

Morgan had a clear line of sight, but he was too far away. He couldn’t be sure of his shot. He had to get closer.

He pushed off the ground, one hand resting on the reception counter as he swung his legs over. His feet hit the floor as he landed catlike on the other side. The trigger man heard and turned to look.

His eyes went wide under thick black eyebrows. Morgan saw the calculation in those eyes—his chance of not being shot if he surrendered, the life that awaited him if he did survive that day—life imprisonment in Guantanamo Bay, enhanced interrogation. In slow motion, Morgan saw him make his decision—the man’s eyes cast on the detonator in his left hand.

But the split-second hesitation was enough to give Morgan the advantage. He put two slugs in the man’s chest and one between the eyes. The Iranian slumped against the pillar, leaving a red smear as he slid down onto the ground.

“We’re clear!” Morgan yelled out.

“Everyone stay put!” Rosso yelled to the crowd. “We’re going to get you all out of here in just a moment.”

Morgan turned on the communicator. “That was me,” he said. “The terrorist has been taken out. You can bring in your guys to defuse the bomb.” He jogged around the hostages, still kneeling with their hands on their heads, until he was near enough to Rosso so that nobody else would hear. “I need to go after the others. Tell me how to get to the elevator.”

10:32 a.m.

Soroush was last to exit the elevator onto the dark, dusty Track 61, under the Waldorf Astoria. Floodlights by the elevator illuminated the immediate vicinity, but his men already had flashlights at the ready to traverse the tunnel. The air was cool and stale, with a rich smell of dirt along with a whiff of rotting trash. A few yards into the tunnel, Masud wheeled the oversize black roadie case that contained an unconscious Navid Ramadani. Hossein, Paiman, and the others had already gone ahead to make sure the path forward was clear. They had heard the gunfire on the way down, and there was only one thing to do.

“Disable the elevator,” he told Sanjar.

“What about Sadegh?” Sanjar asked as he screwed open the elevator-button panel.

“He won’t make it,” said Soroush, setting down a briefcase on the floor of the elevator. “He will give his life for the cause.”

10:33 a.m.

Pandemonium broke out as police drew their weapons and took cover behind the line of cars in response to the shooting. Frieze pressed her back flat against a dark SUV and found that Pearson was right next to her. Her adrenaline pounded and she felt the creeping numbness that preceded a panic attack. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

“Herc teams, move out!” Pearson yelled beside her. “Park and Forty-ninth Street entrances! Clear the lobby! Bomb teams, follow!”

Her panic receded. She opened her eyes with a renewed sense of confidence and security. Frieze ran as the Herc team breached the door. Glass cracked and shattered and they filed in, fanning out onto the open lobby.

A chorus of “Clear!” “Clear!” echoed from inside. Pearson took the lead through the door, and Frieze went in after him.

The elegance of the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria was transformed into a scene of terror and chaos. What seemed to be the entire staff of the hotel plus a number of guests were kneeling on the carpet. Most were crying, and a few had dropped to the fetal position. One woman wailed and a middle-aged, balding businessman rambled incoherently. A couple of the Herc team members were asking them to keep calm, reassuring them that help had arrived.

“The trigger’s over here,” yelled out a man wearing a white button-down half-red with blood, leaning against a pillar and panting. Frieze heard Pearson calling in an ambulance on his radio. “There are no hostiles in the building, but these bombs are live,” said the man. “In the briefcases.” He staggered, and Conley rushed forward to help ease him onto a couch.

“Who are you?” asked Pearson as the man lay back.

“Rosso,” he said. “Head of security.”

“I’m looking for Morgan,” said Conley. “On the short side, dark hair. Bit of a Boston accent. You know who I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” said Rosso, “You just missed him.”

10:36 a.m.

Morgan reached the art deco elevator door that Rosso had said led to Track 61. In his right hand was the Secret Service agent’s handgun, which he stuffed in the waist of his pants after activating the safety. In his left was the fire axe.

He pressed the button for the elevator, and was not surprised by the lack of movement. He would have to do this the hard way.

Morgan took two steps back and swung the axe, wedging its cutting edge between the steel elevator doors. He grunted as he pulled the handle, working it as a lever. The doors groaned open a crack, then a few inches. He then dropped the axe and pulled one door open with all his might until he had opened it just enough to get through.

He looked into the ominous blackness of the elevator shaft. He always hated this part.

10:39 a.m.

Frieze looked at the wire running from the briefcases affixed with zip ties to the hostages’ arms. Those who weren’t tied down were escorted outside.

“I want to stay,” said a woman, pointing at a child of about ten whose wrist held a zip tie. “My son.”

“We’ll get him out,” Conley told her in his deep reassuring voice. “Please, come with me.”

One woman who was also outfitted with the morbid bracelet, a sixty-something blonde in housekeeping uniform, was convulsing with sobs. Something welled up inside Frieze—the old familiar anxiety, rising up toward panic. She had contained it, but this particular woman’s fear, her distorted, plaintive face, touched something deep in Frieze.

She closed her eyes, ignoring all noise, and walked over to the crying woman. Crouching down so that they were at eye level, she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Frieze said. “It’s going to be okay.”

The woman, whose small eyes were almost lost in wrinkles, drew a ragged breath.

Frieze stood up and turned to the emergency responders who were now flooding into the lobby. “We need wire cutters to get these people free,” she called out. “If you’re not engaged in bomb defusal, help me here!”

“Get alligator clips to redirect this wire,” she heard Pearson telling one of the bomb squad.

Someone put a wire cutter in her hand and she began to snip. “Conley!”

“I’ll start escorting them out,” he said, intuiting what she was going to say. She cut loose the woman she’d comforted first, directing her in Conley’s direction. Frieze then went on to release others one by one, from the mostly young men in kitchen uniforms to attractive men and women in dress shirts who worked reception to the guests, in business and leisure attire alike, who’d been caught in the lobby when the terrorists hit. She continued to send them toward the officers who Conley had enlisted to direct people to the outside. Conley had now turned his attention to the explosives.