“Ms. Frieze,” said Soroush. “Meet Mr. Navid Ramadani, President of Iran.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” she said.

“I wish it had been under less strange circumstances, Ms. Frieze,” said Ramadani.

“I’d like you to confirm to your people outside that Ramadani is alive,” said Soroush. He looked like he did in his pictures, with carefully trimmed facial hair, all sharp angles. There was a coolness about him, even in this situation.

Wasting no time Frieze made the call.

“Chambers.”

“This is Frieze,” she said. “I’m inside. Ramadani is alive and in one piece. I’m with him now.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “I would like you now to relay our demands to your people on the outside.” He picked up a clipboard from the table and tilted it toward him. “First, fifty million dollars in unmarked bills. Second, ground transportation to John F. Kennedy Airport. Third, a private jet, fully fueled, and safe passage out of United States airspace.”

She repeated the demands into the phone. “Did you get that?”

“Got it,” said Chambers. “You know what to do.”

“I’ve put through the request with my superior,” said Frieze. “Now we’d like a show of good faith from you. Release some of your civilian hostages—the wounded and the children.”

“This is not a negotiation, Ms. Frieze,” said Soroush. “These are demands.”

“My superiors—”

“I know precisely how your superiors operate,” said Soroush. “They will stall until they get a chance to strike. So we will do this. You will bring the money by four p.m. or I will start sending out the children in pieces. The transport will be arranged by five p.m. or the same will happen—ten children every ten minutes until the demands are met.”

Soroush waited until Frieze relayed this to Chambers.

“Goddamn it,” said Chambers. “Tell him we’ll work on it.”

“He says they’ll work on it.”

“The lives of the hostages are in his hands,” said Soroush, holding up his palms.

4:00 p.m.

The blast door opened once again waist high, and Lisa Frieze bent down to pass under it. She found the two black duffel bags at the entrance, as they had promised. Nolan was there, looking at her as if to ask her, Are you okay? She nodded, then turned her attention to the bags. She tried to pick them up, but some quick mental math told her that they weighed about one hundred pounds each. She settled for dragging them through the threshold one at a time. The door closed, shutting out the grayish light that filtered from the outside, leaving only the yellow illumination of the Vanderbilt passage. Two men grabbed one bag each and carried them away, back toward the control room.

4:02 p.m.

Dan Morgan opened his eyes to his daughter saying, “Dad. Dad,” in a persistent and level tone.

“I’m awake,” he said, blinking in the darkened underground hallway.

“Dad, what are we going to do?” she demanded, urgency in her voice. “They have the President.”

“We need to find out what they’re planning,” he said, bracing against the wall to stand, voice thick from sleep. “We’re unarmed. There’s no use coming at this blind, too. You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror, would you?”

“No, I—” Alex began, then remembered she did—she never returned the mirror she’d been lent earlier to fix up her ear. “Will this do?”

“Perfect,” he said, grabbing and pocketing it. He then held her arm tight. “Do I even have to tell you to stay?”

“No, Dad. I won’t budge from here, I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, hugging her. He then turned to go upstairs. He made his way to the control room, keeping to the service passages. At each turn, he held the mirror around the corner to check whether it was clear. On the hallway leading to the control room, he saw two men, lurching with the weight of the duffel bags they were carrying. They were so heavy that the men needed both hands to carry them, leaving them disarmed, MP7s dangling at their backs.

Like candy from a baby.

Morgan waited for them, flat against the wall. They passed, too concerned with the weight of the bags to spare a glance his way. Once they were ahead of him, Morgan stepped out and grabbed the nearest man’s submachine gun, still attached to the strap, releasing the safety and sending a burst of bullets into his back point-blank. The bullets erupted in a mist of blood. Morgan held on to the man’s sidearm, which he pulled from the holster as the man fell. Morgan raised the gun and shot just as the other terrorist wheeled about to face him. The bullet burrowed in his neck. He gasped and gurgled.

Morgan took this second man’s MP7 and tucked the handgun into his waist.

Then he got the hell out of there.

4:07 p.m.

Soroush was just as surprised as she was, Frieze noted, to hear the gunfire. He and two of his men set off at a run from the situation room toward the door to the service hallways, and he motioned for her to follow. They halted halfway down a corridor, and she soon saw why. The two men who had taken the money were lying dead on the ground. One of the submachine guns was gone.

One of the men, whom she heard called Zubin, turned to her with fury in his eyes.

“It wasn’t my guys who did this,” said Frieze, intuiting his thoughts.

“Liar,” he said in a hushed whisper.

“I’m the only one you let inside, remember?”

“Back to the control room,” said Soroush. “Everyone.”

They brought the bags with them, Frieze walking forward with a gun pointed at her head.

She turned first into the control room to find four more of Soroush’s men inside.

“Two more dead,” said Soroush behind her. “Vahid and Ilyas.”

“Was it Morgan?” asked one of them.

Soroush just glared.

“It no longer matters,” said the man named Masud. “The bombs have been planted along the perimeter of the main concourse.”

“Good,” said Soroush. Frieze had no time to react before the knife pierced her gut just over her right hip. Soroush pushed it deeper and upward, then pulled it out. It was an odd feeling, the knife tearing up her insides. She gasped at the pain and wondered which organ he had breached.

She braced her fall with her arms, hands hitting the carpet. A wave of nausea washed over her and she retched, but nothing came out. She flopped on her back, and the world swam before her eyes. Who would have thought, being stabbed brought no flashbacks. She even felt a strange calm, staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes drawn to a lightbulb, bright and searing.

“Zubin,” she heard Soroush say, as if far away. “It’s time to prepare our escape. Bring the drivers together at the platform. Time to tell them what their part in this will be.”

Frieze didn’t have the energy to turn to see the men file out, taking the Iranian president with them. All she could do was stare at the light as it seemed to become brighter and brighter.

4:13 p.m.

Morgan waited inside a utility closet for the procession of terrorists to pass him by. Noting the absence of the FBI woman, he made his way to where they had come from—the control room, where he found Frieze on the ground, a small puddle of blood thick and almost black on the gray carpet. “Still breathing,” he said to himself.

Morgan further ripped open the tear that the knife had made on her shirt and pressed down on the wound.

“Who are you?” she wondered.

“Dan Morgan,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re Dan Morgan?” A faint smile played on her lips. “Peter Conley speaks highly of you.”

“I need to get you out of here,” he said.

“No.” Her voice was breathy and weak. “You need to stop them. They’re taking the trains. That’s how they’re getting out. You need to stop them.”