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

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

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

“Full face? Mustache and eyeglasses?”

“Negative for mustache and glasses.”

“Where and when?” asked Fisk.

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

Fisk was already running back toward his car.

Chapter 31

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maggie Sullivan couldn’t stop smiling, liking what they were doing to her unruly hair, asking for pro tips. Every once in a while she checked Jenssen in the mirror, probably looking to see if he was looking at her.

When it was Nouvian’s turn in the chair, he picked up a sponge and did the area around his eyes himself. The professional stage musician was used to wearing a light coat of makeup.

Jenssen closed his eyes serenely while two of the makeup artists silently fought over who would do his base. Sparks watched from her chair, trapped beneath a black apron, shooting daggers.

The male stylist stepped in, separating the two women with a gentle elbow. He plucked at Jenssen’s chopped haircut. “Great TV hair,” he said.

Jenssen, his eyes still closed, said, “Must be from watching it all these years.”

The stylist and the makeup team laughed like it was the most hilarious thing they had ever heard anyone say in that room. Jenssen opened his eyes and looked around as though he were being put on.

Gersten smiled to herself. For a while at least, everything The Six said and did was going to be amazing or hilarious or deeply wise.

Once they were miked, the group was led outside into the barricaded lane of Rockefeller Center for an outdoor segment. Except for Jenssen, who had never lived in the States, everyone was familiar with the out-of-town tourists waving hello to their friends and relatives back at home. This morning, many of the onlookers had brought handmade signs honoring their arrival, in anticipation of their well-hyped appearance.

GOD BLESS YOU! GOD BLESS AMERICA!

NEVER FORGET!

USA USA USA!

UNITED WE STAND!!

The plaza was shaded by surrounding buildings, but the heat was still an issue. In spite of it, some people had been camped out since before dawn. They went crazy when The Six emerged behind the assistant producer into the heat of the day. Flashbulbs and shouting. For a moment, Gersten expected someone to try to push through the plastic, police-style barricades.

That moment passed, but not the applause. The crowd was still into it even after Matt Lauer emerged and the red camera light went on. Seven director’s chairs were set up, though none sat in them. The excitement of the crowd disrupted the flow of the introductions, and the interview started with everyone on their feet. Lauer took them through the aborted hijacking once again, prodding them with questions to keep the narrative flowing, before following up with a softball for each of the heroes.

“Were you afraid?”

“Did you think before you acted?”

“Would you do it again?”

Then, in a surprise reunion brilliantly staged by the show’s producers, Scandinavian Air Flight 903’s pilot, Captain Elof Granberg, and copilot, Anders Bendiksen, were brought out to Maggie’s delighted squeal. They received tearful hugs and firm handshakes from The Six, moving right down the line. The pilots’ stories were briefly recounted, augmented with the flight recording of Granberg’s distress call. Then they too were prompted to add their own words to the chorus of praise.

The appearance fused the group yet again. Gersten detected a pattern of high and low, and briefly sympathized with the emotional roller coaster they were trapped on. The moments of genuine adulation were transfixing to watch, not only for Gersten but for the entire nation—and Gersten, close as she was to them, could only imagine what it was like to be its focus. In those few moments, the group set aside their individual characters and became the band of everyday citizen-heroes the viewing audience wanted them to be.

The sole note of discord came when Matt Lauer pointed out the fact that a member of the Secret Service was part of their entourage. “Are you ready to announce your candidacies for the U.S. Senate?” he joked.

Surprisingly, it was Jenssen who answered. “We are meeting President Obama later today,” said the Swede.

Matt Lauer said, “Is that the ceremony on the USS Intrepid?”

“Exactly.”

Gersten saw Harrelson bristle at this public release of information.

Matt Lauer said, “What is that like, to go from private citizens last week to meeting with the president today?”

The others were at a loss for words. Jenssen said, “It is quite an honor, though of course, it would have been nice to have a say in the matter.”

Matt Lauer picked up on this immediately. “Are you saying that you would prefer not to meet the president?”

“Not at all, not at all. But some of us relish our private lives and look forward to resuming them as soon as possible. We are being kept under watch at our hotel, believe it or not, except for appearances such as these. I am not an American citizen, but most of us are, and apparently even dutiful citizens—even ‘heroes’—are subject to detention.”

Matt Lauer crossed his arms, leaning forward for the kill. “You all are being held against your will?”

Colin Frank jumped in as though Jenssen were on fire and Frank held the only bucket of water. “No, no. It’s a unique circumstance, Matt. I think what my friend Magnus here is saying is that there are certain compulsory aspects to our current situation, which, I want to stress, we are willing and happy to comply with.” He then pulled it back with a smile. “It’s all so new to us. It’s been a wild ride, Matt.”