Frankie finished his smoke with one last deep drag. He was field stripping the cigarette butt when he saw a blue-and-white squad car pull across the intersection of West Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue and stop there, sealing off one end of the block.

Frankie’s eyebrows went up. He looked the other way, to Seventh Avenue, just in time to see another NYPD squad car pull across.

No flashing lights. No sirens.

Aw, shit, thought Frankie. There goes date night.

The uniforms were out of their cars in seconds, trunks popping open, cops assembling sawhorse barriers and using them to further block off the street and the sidewalks. A New Yorker’s sense of self-preservation prompted Frankie to back into the big, tiled double doorway of International Garden, though he kept watching.

From both ends of the block, men and women in khaki trousers and black Windbreakers fanned out along the sidewalks outside the shops. Definitely cops. And maybe FBI.

Frankie quickly ducked inside his shop. “Pack it up!” he called. “Lock the tills. Some kind of roust going down.” He went and used his belt key to lock the cash registers himself, pulling out the big bills first, stuffing them deep into his pockets. “Cops all over the street.”

Half the men and women working in the flower district, aside from the owners, were illegals of one sort or another. Clerks, cutters, gofers. Their biggest fear was an ICE raid. Immigration cops.

Ernie went out first, pulling his cap from his back pocket and popping it onto his head, low over his eyes. Then Flacco, Marie and her daughter Jean, then the Asians from the tables in the back where they put together the bouquets and wreaths.

Frankie hustled everybody out, including the store’s only customer, then tugged down on the rolling iron gates, snapping the locks into place. He pulled down the rear door of the loading truck, working the lock.

Maybe she’d stay up late for him tonight, Frankie thought. In the meantime, he was worried about the flowers, hoping they stayed cool enough in the truck. This was his livelihood on the line.

Frankie joined the exodus toward Seventh. There, the late afternoon traffic was further tied up by curiosity seekers.

Something big was going on. He rounded the corner by the old fur factory building and spotted a blue-and-white police helicopter hovering high above the intersection. Not good, Frankie thought, weaving between the stuck taxicabs. Not good.

Chapter 42

Fisk saw the helicopter he had not requested. He punched in a phone number that patched him into the tactical radio channel. Strict communications discipline was in force. Nobody said anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He was waiting for a go from the police sniper team trying to get roof-ready across the street from the glass-front Hotel Indigo.

The tactical arrest team consisted of three officers in full armor, armed with M16s and a bullhorn. The uniformed policemen on the bottlenecks listened in but did not speak. Their job was simple: shepherd as many civilians off the street as possible in case this thing went live.

Fisk said, “Sky, this is Detective Jeremy Fisk with Intel. I need you back. Way back.” He squinted up at the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter as he spoke.

“Uh, roger that,” came back the air cowboy’s voice. “Snipe team is installed and prepping.”

“All units,” said Fisk. “Hold fast. We don’t know if we have an official snatch op or not. You are not hot. I repeat,” he said, raising his voice for emphasis, “you are not hot. If we are go, we want this guy in a chair, talking to us.”

“Roger,” said the sniper pair and the arrest team. They repeated their orders. “We are not hot.”

Fisk entered the lobby alone through the front glass door. A young hipster in a plaid shirt and Converse sneakers sat on a bench to the right, facing the small reception desk, thumbing the touch screen of his smartphone. There was no bellman. A runway led to a neighboring restaurant, which was empty.

Fisk had not called ahead first to check on Bin-Hezam’s reservation. He could not take a chance at warning anybody at the hotel, on the off chance they might be sympathetic to Bin-Hezam. That was the problem with the helicopter: it ruined any potential element of surprise.

He crossed to the clerk, who was taking a phone reservation. Fisk waved to get his attention. The clerk failed to pick up on Fisk’s insistence, showing him one finger before returning to his keyboard.

Fisk pulled out his shield and held it out for the clerk to see. The man looked at the badge with acute interest, not alarm, as though this were the first police badge he had ever seen close up. Only then did he look up at Fisk’s face.

He said into the phone, “May I put you on hold for a moment?”

He pressed the hold button on the phone and turned his full attention to Fisk.

Fisk said, “I need to check your reservations.”

“Okay. Yes, sir. What is the name?”

Instead of giving him a name, Fisk pulled a scan of Baada Bin-Hezam’s passport photograph and ID page from his pocket and unfolded it in front of the clerk. “Recognize this face?” asked Fisk.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “But I came on at two o’clock.”

“Okay, check the register for his name. Bin-Hezam could be under B or H. If the name isn’t there, then I want you to check cash customers. And if that doesn’t work, we’re going to have to close up your hotel and go room by room. There’s a chance he could be staying with another guest.”

The clerk looked pained, as though he were the one in trouble. “Let me check here.”

While he was doing so, his head lowered to within inches of his beneath-the-counter display screen, the lobby elevator dinged.

Chapter 43

Baada Bin-Hezam watched the numbers descend on the elevator digital display like a countdown while he prayed.

Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

“. . . and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again . . .”

Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .

“. . . and then get martyred and then get resurrected again . . .”

He prayed to shut out all the other thoughts in his head.

Into the jaws of the lion. Head high.

He adjusted the strap of the messenger bag across his chest, jostling the butt of the pistol in his holster. This reminded him of the fat man, the Senegalese who tried to cheat him and whom he had had to release into eternity.

Would he meet that man in the afterlife? Bin-Hezam did not think so.

Three . . . two . . .

Upstairs, in his penthouse suite, the helicopter had drawn his attention sooner than he was ready. He had hoped for a little more time to sort his thoughts. To prepare.

But when he looked out and glimpsed men on the roof across the street, one of them carrying a long suitcase, he knew the time had come.

They were there for him. It had all been foretold.

His service was nearly complete. This was the last of his directives. The exit. The way out.

The elevator stopped.

One.

The doors slid open. He immediately saw a young man sitting with a handheld device, scrolling through its contents. This man was no threat.

Then he saw the man at the counter, who turned his head and looked at Bin-Hezam . . . and knew him. He knew him. The man’s eyes reacted though his face did not.

This was Bin-Hezam’s confirmation that a policeman was already in the lobby.

The policeman turned back to the desk clerk. Bin-Hezam started walking. His legs carried him out of the elevator toward the door, constant prayers running through his head. He passed within ten feet of the policeman, who faced away from him but, Bin-Hezam could tell, was hyperaware of his presence.