The aircraft settled gently into the white circle with the letter H at its center, two hundred feet from the crowd, the wash from its rotors bringing a moment of relief to the overheated spectators.

Two marines in dress blues stood at attention at the edges of a red carpet leading precisely to the helicopter’s door just behind the cockpit. The crowd cheered, waiting for the president and First Lady to emerge.

But instead, confusingly, the giant chopper’s engines howled to takeoff power, as though the pilot had changed his mind. The helicopter lifted off and rose abruptly to an altitude of about one hundred feet, spun sharply on its axis, and flew back the way it had come toward the George Washington Bridge in the far distance.

The fading sound of its engines was replaced with a buzz from the crowd, their puzzled conversations expressing concern, fearing an unfolding emergency. Then fingers pointed into the sky.

A second, identical chopper appeared over the river from New Jersey, heading toward the carrier. This, everyone realized, was the real Marine One, the helicopter carrying the president.

The first helicopter had been a decoy. With the Saudi still at large in New York, the Secret Service was taking no chances.

The second copter landed, and the crowd erupted with relief and excitement as Barack and Michelle Obama emerged. The reception line included two admirals, a general, Mayor Bloomberg, Ambassadors Hafström and Doer, and The Six—all of whom stood on the raised dais from which Obama would address the audience.

The president and his wife shook hands with each attendee. President Obama stopped and chatted with each of The Six in turn. He had been thoroughly briefed, as he knew each of their names and apparently a little bit of biography as well. Gersten could not hear the conversations from where she stood, but the president seemed intent on making a personal contact with each of them, himself benefiting by association with the heroes of the moment.

Each of the group was perfectly courteous if not gracious. Aldrich, Gersten noted, shook Obama’s hand firmly and nodded but said nothing. Still, his chest swelled to the bursting point. Jenssen smiled when it was his turn, answering a question succinctly. Maggie wiped away tears and laughed at herself for doing so, the president smiling and patting her shoulder before pulling her into a hug. Sparks shared a laugh with Michelle Obama. Nouvian exchanged some pleasantries with her, apparently about the cello. And Frank smiled heartily throughout, as though posing for his book jacket photo.

From Gersten’s perspective, while Obama appeared trim and fit, just as he did on television, even from twenty feet away she could see the gray in his hair. The job had aged him as it did every other president.

He spent approximately five minutes of his twenty-five-minute speech honoring the heroes.

“We are gathered here today to honor the members of our armed forces who have given their lives in defense of this country in the decade since the attacks of September 11, 2001. It is worth reminding ourselves, however, that in the war against international terrorism, any one of us can become a combatant in an instant. Just forty-eight hours ago, these six men and women, passengers and crew aboard an airliner heading for this great city, banded together to foil a hijacker who intended to seize control of the plane and crash it into midtown Manhattan. Their actions speak of courage, resolve, and a fierce unwillingness to surrender to fear. They acted for all of us. And this is our opportunity to thank them. I want to invite them to join Michelle and me tomorrow morning, as we welcome to this historic skyline a new landmark, a symbol of resilience and regeneration.”

The president had just finished his speech when Gersten’s phone vibrated. She slipped away to take the call, grateful to get under a sliver of shade, but having trouble hearing Fisk’s voice over the whipping river wind.

“How’s it looking there?” he asked.

“We’re five by five. Did you hear the speech?”

“Nope. Got it on mute.”

“I don’t know if it’s confirmed, but they just got a personal invitation to the big ceremony tomorrow morning. Not a surprise, really, but there it is. They are the president’s plus-six.”

“Means you should have a pretty good seat too.”

“I’m The Six’s plus-one. Anything on the Hyatt pay phones?”

Fisk said, “One call, right around the time you estimated Nouvian was there. He’s the musician, right?”

“That’s him.”

“Local number, just came up. We didn’t get it on a subpoena, of course. Came as a favor. It’s a New York cell, and we’re running it down now. I’m guessing you’d like to see this thing all the way through yourself . . .”

She was nodding excitedly, even though Fisk could not see her. “Absolutely.”

“How’s Nouvian now?”

“He’s like the others,” she said. “Could be he’s just a flake. I don’t know what he was doing. But seemed like he was up to something.”

“Who do you think he could be calling?”

“He has his own phone. That’s the weirdest part. His own cell. So why sneak away to use a public phone?”

Fisk said, “That’s not kosher. Strange enough to follow up on. I’ll get you the info once we develop it. And I’ll mention to Dubin how you picked up on this. Back at you soon.”

Gersten hung up and reemerged into the hot sun, returning to her post just as the dais was being cleared. She paid special attention to Nouvian coming down the stairs, looking flushed and excited like the rest.

It could be that it wasn’t even him using the pay phone after all. But no matter: it was enough to get her off this shit assignment for a little while, at least. Even a wild-goose chase was a welcome diversion.

Gersten noticed Ambassador Hafström taking Jenssen aside yet again before the group headed down to the flight deck for the ride back to the Hyatt. They seemed to be having some trouble connecting, but it was in Swedish so she couldn’t be certain. They ended in English before the ambassador pumped his hand, sending him on his way.

“It will be a wonderful ceremony, Magnus, and then as soon as you return home we will enjoy many other celebrations.”

Hafström held direct eye contact with the schoolteacher, as though compelling him to behave graciously. His wavy blond-silver hair and carefully etched facial lines were patrician, and this was likely a look that had worked for him many times in the past. Jenssen signed off pleasantly, and the ambassador wished everyone well and said he looked forward to seeing them in the morning before stepping away.

“Politikar,” said Jenssen, once inside the lift.

“What is that, a curse word?” said Maggie, smiling.

“It is . . .” said Jenssen, with what seemed to be a struggle to remain polite, staring at the closed doors, his eyes low. “It means ‘politician.’ ”

Chapter 38

Aminah bint Mohammed did not know what to expect, what to say, what to think. Normally she faced stressful situations by rehearsing her emotions ahead of time, in order to keep them under control, but here she had no idea what she was walking into.

Everything would have been easier for her had she been able to visualize the midafternoon cab ride, crawling slowly across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, the lurching, horn-blaring rush uptown on Sixth Avenue, and finally the loop around the block onto Twenty-eighth Street heading east. As it was, the ride seemed like a haphazard meander, leaving her anxious and confused.

She paid the driver cash. She nodded awkwardly at the bellhop who opened the glass door for her. She hesitated a moment while passing the Hotel Indigo desk clerk, wondering if she needed to say anything or if they would let her walk right onto the elevators. The clerk looked up, smiled, and turned away. Aminah continued through the open elevator doors, turning, avoided the bellhop’s gaze as she waited—for what seemed like an eternity—for the doors to close. Once they did, she exhaled and prayed.