Using the syringe and measuring cup, she mixed hydrogen peroxide and acetone in a 3:1 ratio in the large glass jar, then put the mixture in the freezer. She mixed the powdered muriatic acid with water in a jar to make 120 ml of a 30 percent solution, and put that in the freezer as well. A half hour later, she mixed the hydrogen peroxide, acetone, and acid in one of the jars, and set it in her refrigerator overnight.

In the morning, she saw exactly what the instructions said she would: fine white crystals in the bottom of the jar. She had derived approximately one-third of the amount required. She strained the liquid through a coffee filter into the empty jar, leaving a residue of white paste. That was the explosive, known chemically as triacetone triperoxide. Finally, she poured the ammonia over the white paste until it stopped bubbling and frothing, further purifying it. She repeated this process until all the liquid was out of the jar, then set aside the coffee filters with the TATP to dry on a newspaper.

The following day, and the next, Aminah repeated this careful process until she had derived exactly one pound. She disposed of the empty bottles and cans nightly in a gas station waste barrel, running fans in her apartment with the windows open to expel the scent. She carefully cleaned the jars, measuring cup, and syringe, but did not dispose of them, just in case she would have to repeat the process of mixing the explosives sometime in the future. She stored the cleaned equipment inside her refrigerator, on the same shelf with the twin loaves of explosive.

The woman Aminah now faced in her bedroom bureau mirror startled her. She wore a long skirt, a blue cotton wraparound that concealed her legs to the ankles, and another of her outdated sweaters, a mock-turtleneck beige pullover. Brown flats completed the disguise.

How odd it was to meet her old self on this fateful day.

She did not feel as brave or as holy as she had hoped. She knew nothing about the larger plan. Indeed, she believed that there were many links in this magnificent chain such as herself, none of whom knew anything other than their own blessed duty. And for some reason this reassured her.

Down on the street, shopping bag in hand, Aminah completed another of her tasks. She returned to the same gas station two blocks away and discreetly ejected the battery from her cell phone and disposed of both in the trash. Jettisoning that device was yet another profound moment for her, a no-turning-back display of conviction.

Two blocks on, she hailed a livery cab. She gave the driver the address of the Hotel Indigo in Manhattan, and as he pulled away from the curb, Aminah sat back against the firm leather upholstery and resumed her prayers. When the driver accelerated onto the Brooklyn Bridge, crossing into lower Manhattan, she closed her eyes, not wanting to view the city of infidels that rose like a fortress against the one true God.

Chapter 37

The Six dressed in formal attire for the aircraft carrier event. Four NYPD motorcycle policemen escorted their convoy of Suburbans across Manhattan to Pier 86 on the Hudson River, at the end of West Forty-sixth Street.

Gersten, like DeRosier and Patton, had never before been aboard an aircraft carrier. From the street, USS Intrepid looked enormous, rising above them to the height of a twenty-story building. The stern was a quarter mile from its bow. The floating city-weapon inspired pure awe.

Security was reassuringly tight. Unbroken lines of people shuffled up two gangways that led to the middle of the ship in the sweltering midafternoon heat. At the foot of each, zigzagging airport-style queues held more people awaiting metal detector screening.

The Six got to avoid the exterior scrutiny, receiving VIP treatment. Past the gangways, their motorcycle escorts peeled off, forming a perimeter between the three Suburbans and the crowd. They idled for five minutes, cool in their cars, waiting as one of the huge aircraft elevators on the outside of the carrier descended to within twenty feet of the dock. From it, a broad ramp extended to bridge the remaining distance.

The Suburbans drove right into the belly of the ship, unloading inside the cavernous hangar deck, which ran the full length and breadth of the carrier.

Uniformed navy officers saluted as they exited the cars. The group returned the salutes awkwardly, except for old man Aldrich, who snapped off his salute with precision.

They waited in a comfortable officers’ wardroom on the hangar deck for almost an hour. Secret Service agent Harrelson apologized for the delay, yet explained that it was routine. “We have to stabilize the area for at least a half hour before POTUS arrives,” Harrelson explained. “You may be the heroes, but he is the commander in chief. Military protocol dictates that the senior officer arrives last.”

They sat silently, excitement building, threatening to overwhelm them. Meeting Barack and Michelle Obama had been an abstraction until now. They were actually going to shake the president’s hand, look into his eyes, receive his thanks. Gersten saw the realization coming over them.

Aldrich said, “I’ll shake his hand, but I’m still glad that I didn’t vote for him.”

Maggie rubbed his arm, gently teasing him. “Who are you kidding, Doug? You’re melting like a polar ice cap. When I come up to visit you in Albany, you’re going to have a big old ‘Yes We Can’ sign on your lawn.”

The others laughed—except for Joanne Sparks, who had been noticeably cool to her fellow female hero since the morning. Gersten wondered if Sparks suspected what had happened between Maggie and Jenssen last night, or if she was beginning to. Sparks was not as flirty and attentive with Jenssen either, not at all like she had been yesterday.

Nouvian looked away when he saw Gersten watching her. She noticed that he kept clasping and unclasping his hands.

Two men in suits were escorted into the room, introduced as the Canadian ambassador to the United States, Gary Doer, and the Swedish ambassador to the United States, Jonas Hafström. Ambassador Doer embraced a flattered Maggie Sullivan, a Canadian citizen. Ambassador Hafström shook Jenssen’s hand, huddling with him in the corner. Gersten smiled to herself, having the feeling that, following Jenssen’s words on the Today show that morning, the Swedish ambassador had been dispatched with special instructions to bring him into line. Jenssen was a phenomenal PR opportunity for Sweden as well, as his handsome face could sell quite a few tourist packages to female international travelers.

Jenssen looked wary at first, but after a few exchanges, Gersten watched him activate his native charm. They conversed in Swedish, cordially, mostly question and answer.

When the time came, The Six and Ambassadors Doer and Hafström and their handlers were led from the wardroom, emerging from the towering command island onto the vast flight deck in the baking heat. The broad blue-brown Hudson flowed to their left, the hump of midtown Manhattan buildings rising to their right, windows flashing in the reflected light of the sun. A heat mirage hovered over the city like rising steam.

Once The Six were recognized as they made their way to a riser against the island from which they had just emerged, two thousand people aboard the four-acre flight deck erupted into cheers. Television cameras tracked them as they walked and waved, the ceremony being covered by every cable news network.

The group took its place among the dignitaries, while Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier were relegated to an off-camera area to the side, not twenty feet away.

The whapping approach of a helicopter drew everyone’s face skyward. A big green-and-white Sikorsky approached from the north, nose high, its twin turbines loud enough to drown out all other local sound.