“We need to get this guy,” said Fisk. “And you left someone off that list.”

“Who’s that?” said Dubin.

“You forgot The Six. The ones who foiled the hijacking that was meant to distract us from Bin-Hezam in the first place.”

Dubin said, “What about them?”

Fisk saw himself in the smaller monitor window. He checked his logic first, wanting to make sure he didn’t come off as crazy. But no—it was just occurring to him now, and it made sense. “What if it’s about them?” he said. “What if . . . think about this for a moment. Look at where we are. They are, what—this symbol of hope. Of resilience, of heroism. It’s a long shot, but—bin Laden wanted symbolic targets. He was looking to do something big and new. So what if the hijacking was not only a distraction . . . but a ploy?”

Dubin grew impatient. “Not following.”

“The hijacker had a weapon, he had wires and a trigger but no bomb. Because he’s a nut, right? And he is. But all that gave the passengers time and opportunity to jump the guy. To overpower him. To save the plane.”

“You’re not casting aspersion on them?”

“No. I’m saying this botched hijacking allowed these heroes to be created. What if that was the plan? Maybe they—I’m talking about Al-Qaeda here—assumed it would be one or two or at most three passengers who acted. Probably not six. But no matter—all they needed was one. One brave citizen to be lauded, celebrated, made famous on this celebratory weekend of fireworks and rebirth. Guaranteed maximum publicity.”

Dubin was getting it now. “They wanted to create a situation where a hero would rise . . .”

“. . . specifically so they can bring him or her—or them—down. What better way to undermine confidence? By providing a symbol of triumph . . . and then to snatch it away.”

Fisk felt like this held water. Dubin was less convinced, but giving it thought.

“We have a lot of odd angles on this,” said Dubin. “Rockets and heroes and hijackers. A weekend full of potential targets. What’s next for those six?”

Fisk said, “Not sure. I don’t have their minute-by-minute schedule. Gersten’s on it.”

Fisk, after answering, realized that Dubin had actually been speaking to someone else in the room with him. That voice answered, “They’re doing the Intrepid thing this afternoon.”

“Holy shit,” said Dubin.

Fisk said, “What’s that?”

“They are special guests of POTUS aboard the USS Intrepid this afternoon. A military salute.”

Dubin said, “If it’s military, it’s going to be tight already. Gangway metal detectors, canine sweeps, random pat downs.”

“We’ll have Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier there. We’ve got to get Bin-Hezam’s new photo out to the Secret Service. The pictures from this morning.” Fisk checked the clock on the wall. “I can get over to the Hyatt now and brief Gersten’s team in person.”

“Do that, Fisk. Look, there’s no way around it. We have to get this guy. We need to get very lucky very soon.”

Fisk nodded, grabbing his sandwich for the ride. “He’s shown himself once. He’ll do it again.”

Chapter 35

Fisk badged his way up to the twenty-sixth floor of the Grand Hyatt only to learn that The Six were down in one of the second-floor function rooms doing a lunchtime presser.

He headed back down, finding Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier drinking coffee inside the high-ceilinged room, the heroes seated along one side of a long table, answering questions from a half dozen reporters scribbling notes and aiming their recording devices back and forth among speakers. The ballroom curtains were drawn and servers stood at either end of the table, attending to the diners’ needs.

Fisk said, speaking quietly, “Still complaining about this assignment?”

The Intel detectives turned. Patton and DeRosier smiled and shrugged, Gersten holding her reaction in check.

DeRosier said, “The superheroes are eating Smith and Wollensky. Filet mignon and creamed spinach. And special Scandinavian dishes sent over from Restaurant Aquavit. Jenssen requested lingonberries and meatballs and herring.”

Patton said, “And the New York Times is eating hotel scampi and pasta.”

Gersten held out her cup. “We get coffee.”

Fisk shared a quick smile with Gersten before he got serious. “It looks like you guys might actually start earning your paychecks now.”

“What’s up?” asked Gersten, all three of them ready for action.

Fisk ran down the Bin-Hezam news from that morning. Some of it had come across in action reports, but he wanted them to have the full account. He gave them hard copies of the new photos, and told them to keep them private.

“Twenty dollars says it’s anthrax,” said DeRosier, in regard to the rocket purchase.

Patton said, “Remember that scenario we drilled on, maybe two years ago? The guy who contracts genetically engineered smallpox and hops over here on an airplane, then just starts walking the streets and eating in restaurants. Not washing his hands. That could be this guy.”

Fisk said, “I have a side theory—and it’s just a theory now.” He talked about the hijacking, and the generally accepted fact that Abdulraheem’s chance of success had been practically nonexistent. “Not only was it a distraction, maybe it had a second function.”

“What second function?” asked Gersten.

“You don’t have to take out the president to shock the country. You don’t have to blow up a landmark. You only need to hit people on a gut level. That’s what bin Laden was about.” Fisk pointed to The Six. “Everyday people. Citizens, like anyone else. These people are the feel-good story of the year. You create heroes? You can wipe them out too. The ultimate sucker punch.”

Gersten’s mouth hung open. “That’s a real high-wire act.”

“Here’s the thing. They didn’t need the hijacking to get this guy in country. Bin-Hezam was not on the no-fly. He was good to go. Now—maybe they didn’t know that. Maybe they wanted extra insurance. Or . . . maybe the hijacking was just the magician’s puff of smoke, while the real trick was going on in his other hand.”

DeRosier was nodding. “I can see that.”

Fisk said, “We have zero evidence of this, but I bring it up so you guys will stay on your guard. Don’t get comfortable here. This USS Intrepid thing, with the president? Play it smart. I know it’s only recently scheduled for them. I know it’s a highly controlled setting. I’m saying, don’t rely on that.”

Gersten said, “Obviously, you don’t want us to tell them.”

“Certainly not. I heard what that guy Jenssen said on the Today show.”

“About the Patriot Act,” she said, nodding. “Yeah. Now there’s pressure to let them spread their wings a little. From the mayor’s office. He can’t be seen as the bad guy. They want to avoid the impression that we’re holding them under lock and key.”

Fisk said, “Find a way to keep them out of trouble. Come up with some other kind of activity for them.”

“Most of them are down with anything,” said Patton. “But not all.”

Fisk crossed his arms. “Here’s the thing. We need to see them through the ceremony tomorrow morning, like six fragile eggs. We get through that, we’re good. If this Bin-Hezam starts knocking off the group next Thursday, one at a time like an Agatha Christie villain, it loses impact. He needs to get them this weekend, if ever. Bottom line—we’ve added them to the target list. The target list of a man we cannot find.”

Gersten said to the others, “How about we collapse our shifts. Two of us on at all times. One down in the lobby watching for Bin-Hezam.”

Fisk said, “That works.”

The reporters had pushed back their chairs, standing, collecting their notebooks and voice recorders, as the presser broke up. They were all shaking hands.

DeRosier and Patton checked their wristwatches. “We leave soon for the aircraft carrier.”