Recently, however, the Intel Division had seen a backlash, particularly in the press. This, officials knew, was the downside to success. The ten-man Demographics Unit drew fire for keying in on ethnic hot spots for incubating terrorism, including mosques, coffeehouses, and pizza parlors: 262 hot spots in all. They cranked out report after report but never developed a single concrete lead as to any plot. Of course, one uncovered plot would have justified the entire operation, but the difference between zero and one was a big one. Profiling in general had become a dirty word, in no small part due to Fisk’s own capture of blond, blue-eyed, Swedish Muslim terrorist Magnus Jenssen.

Surveillance on Muslims continued to be a controversial subject, especially since the perpetrators of recent successful terror incidents—such as the Boston Marathon bombing—were not members of any identifiable cell or larger network of bad actors. Rogue criminals were the hardest to catch.

The most recent blow to Intel’s profile had come in the form of several million e-mails passed on to WikiLeaks, many of which discussed or involved secondhand allegations of civil liberties violations committed by the NYPD’s secret mini-CIA. This same batch of e-mails also pulled back the lid on continuing tensions between Intel Division and the New York JTTF.

Nothing had been ordered, but the sense among the rank-and-file Intel operatives was that the division’s previous mandate—that of locating and neutralizing pockets of domestic militancy before they became fully radicalized terror cells capable of threatening life and limb in New York City—was being drawn back into something less invasive. There was a difference of opinion inside the division, whether this was indeed the product of success and would weaken Intel’s abilities, or whether this was a necessary shift in technique, nearly fifteen years after 9/11.

Coincidentally or not, Intel had lost a few key advisors to private-sector jobs recently, as the patriotic urgency that the commissioner had used to strong-arm experts into working more hours for less pay no longer held sway. Whenever asked, Fisk always said that he was paid not to have an opinion on these matters. His job remained the same: stop terrorism.

“How are you feeling?” asked Dubin.

Fisk’s least favorite question. One he was asked at least five times each day. It was like asking a cancer survivor, “Still in remission?” Sometimes he thought that people were afraid he might suffer a breakdown in the room with them, and wanted a heads-up so they could be somewhere else when it happened.

“Feeling fine,” said Fisk.

“Glad to see you’re physically cleared for duty. No aftereffects from the radiological poisoning?”

“None,” Fisk lied.

“I’d say you’re damned lucky.”

“Well, there is the matter of the extra toes. Buying shoes is a real pain in the ass.”

Dubin smiled after a moment. “I get it,” he said. “No more questions. I’ll stop showing any hint of concern for your well-being.”

“I appreciate it,” said Fisk.

“As to the psych thing, it was a box we had to put a check mark in. Sometimes I think it’s more about choice. God knows there are guys on the force who use an after-action inquiry to malinger and call it a vacation. I say good riddance to those guys. Most everybody who wants to stay, stays. I knew you wanted to stay.”

Fisk nodded.

Dubin blew out a breath and twirled his class ring. “Still, we’re going to continue to ease you back into things.”

Fisk sighed. “I’m using my highly trained cop instincts to guess that you’re leading up to something you think I’m not going to like.”

“Not going to love,” said Dubin. “It’s an assignment. A special project.”

This was code for desk duty. Fisk’s reaction surprised him. He showed Dubin nothing, but inside his chest he felt the sensation of a tight fist easing open, just a bit. It was relief.

Dubin went on, “We’re going to turn back the clock a bit on Intel in the coming weeks. Can you guess why?”

Fisk did not follow him, at first.

“Before 9/11, Intel was primarily an EP unit. Executive protection. Escorting visiting dignitaries around the city and providing them some security, but really the air of importance. These were generally foreign politicians who liked to be handled. Back then Intel was a cushy preretirement assignment, the waiting room before the twenty-year handshake. Taxi drivers with badges.”

Fisk got it now. “UN Week.”

United Nations Week occurred around the opening of the General Assembly at the United Nations Headquarters in New York. Heads of state, ministers, and other diplomats from the member states, as well as various nongovernmental organizations, arrived in New York for the annual general debate.

“Obviously,” said Dubin, “we’re not going to be ferrying these tourists around the city. But as you know, a lot of that post-9/11 money dried up during the recession, and every department is being asked to do more with less. We are tasked with security measures and contingency planning.”

Fisk crossed his legs. “Spreadsheets,” he said, with the force of a filthy invective.

“Some of that. I’m not taking this lightly, though, and neither will you. The grand finale is the president coming to town to address the assembly and sign a narcoterrorism treaty with Mexico. Also known as ‘the worst traffic day in New York.’ Besides, the president requested you personally.”

Fisk barely even shook his head. He could not exactly tell his boss to screw himself. “Enough,” he said.

Everybody ribbed him about being President Obama’s good buddy after saving his life at the Freedom Tower dedication. Fisk used to play along with it—“we’re going to a Nationals game this weekend”—but by now it was so old and tired he couldn’t even muster the energy for a flip response.

The president had been perfectly gracious to him, but—as the saying goes—they didn’t keep in touch. Fisk had, however, received an autographed photo from President Bush, forty-three, with an inscription Fisk had never been able to make out.

“Anyway,” said Dubin, “after that, we can see about getting you back out on the street. Assuming that’s what you want, of course.”

“I do,” said Fisk.

Dubin nodded, pausing, looking as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to say what he was going to say next.

“A lot of people thought you were going to jump to the feds after the Freedom Tower save,” he said. “Lord knows you’ve got all the tools. Brainy cop with street instincts. Languages. FBI would love to get their hands on you. CIA, too.”

Fisk thought back to his recent meeting with Dave Link and briefly wondered if there was any connection here.

“You’d be a natural,” continued Dubin. “And you could command better than a detective two’s salary.”

“This sounds like a good time to ask for a raise,” said Fisk.

“Denied,” said Dubin quickly, with a smile. “Seriously. We’re glad you’re back. Weird time here, lots of things in flux. Sometimes that creates opportunities, you know?”

For advancement, he meant. Fisk wasn’t sure he wanted that either. “Sometimes it eliminates them,” said Fisk, referring to the rocky road Intel had been on recently.

Dubin put his hands on his desk and stood. “Let’s make this a quiet, incident-free UN Week and go from there.”

CHAPTER 15

Fisk’s task was mostly administrative. Drunk tanks aside, he was not spending his days standing out at the exit gate at JFK wearing a chauffeur’s hat and holding a small whiteboard with some dignitary’s name misspelled on it. Security was paramount, and that took a great deal of coordination. But now, as the General Assembly had opened and the week was under way, things were getting hairy. At its worst, his job was akin to herding cats. Cats who drove cars with diplomatic license plates. Cats with their own security service people. Cats with varying fluency in the English language.