Fisk himself and the Intel Division in general had little or no actual authority in any of these individual security matters. His brief was to oversee general security within New York City and to safeguard against any outstanding terrorist threat to the proceedings as a whole. This was what Intel did on a day-to-day basis throughout the five boroughs, except that United Nations Week provided a potentially tempting buffet of hard targets over the course of six days in September. With every other law enforcement agency and guest nation focused on their own areas of concern, Intel’s self-appointed assignment was to take in the view from the air and zero in on potential threats.

FISK REALIZED HE WAS long overdue for lunch and did something he routinely promised himself he would never do: he ate a chicken salad sandwich out of the break room vending machine. He ate it standing up, looking at the CNN coverage of the “Rockaway Massacre.” He ate it quickly, lest anyone snap his picture and caption it SMART PEOPLE MAKING DUMB FOOD CHOICES.

He saw himself on television, a brief glimpse of him talking to Detective Kiser near the plastic sheeting rippling on the beach, part of a looping video package. As Fisk had suspected, the camera shot was from hundreds of yards away, the zoom shaky. It was followed by footage of officers stringing off the path back to the parking lot, and then a glimpse of Kiser near the dunes, bent over at the waist, hands on hips, getting sick. Fisk laid his hand on his own stomach, suffering from instant eater’s remorse.

Nicole Heming came around the corner. “There you are,” she said. “People here to see you. From the Mexican president’s protection detail.” She looked at the triangular plastic sandwich carton in his hand. “You’re the one who eats those things?”

“Thank you, Nicole,” said Fisk, tossing it into the trash and walking out to the waiting area instead of returning to his desk. Intel headquarters wasn’t built to host visitors or guests; out through the pass-card door was a bench, a fake ficus tree, and a black rubber mat for snow boots during the messy winter months.

The woman wore a black jacket over a white blouse and gray pants. She had the sleek, raven-black hair common to many Mexicans, but her complexion was so unusually pale that she could have passed for black Irish. The contrast was striking. Fisk might have looked at her a moment too long.

One man with her wore a thin tweed suit but had a military bearing. He was a hard-faced man of sixty or more with a thin silver mustache. He introduced himself as General de Aguilar, Jefatura del Estada Mayor Presidencial. He was the chief of the Presidential Guard, the EMP, a unit of the Mexican army. Fisk remembered his profile from one of many briefings. He was a two-star general who had been handpicked by the recently elected Mexican president to head his security detail.

The man with him looked like a soldier, big shouldered with an athletic bearing. He wore a dark suit with a pin of the Mexican state shield on his lapel, along with the symbol of the Estado Mayor Presidencial, a maroon square featuring five gold stars over the initials EMP. The suit was double-vented, suitable for carrying various types of concealed weapons. Despite the formal attire, a pair of wraparound Oakleys sat atop his head. He was introduced to Fisk as Virgilio, no first name, no rank.

“Cecilia Garza,” said the woman, offering her hand. Fisk’s first impression was that she wore an icy, supercilious expression, like that of a Latin American aristocrat.

Aguilar said, “Comandante Garza is with the Policía Federal, our federal police force. She is assigned to President Vargas’s security for this trip.”

“Garza,” said Fisk. He had heard of her. “Mexican intelligence, aren’t you?”

“Civilian intelligence,” she corrected him. “I am attached to the federales.”

Fisk believed he was looking at his Mexican counterpart. “I know you by your reputation.”

“And I you,” she said, with no hint of a smile.

“Detective,” said Aguilar, “we are here to ask a favor.”

Garza said, “There was a mass murder reported earlier. We would like any information the New York Police Department has, and to offer our assistance.”

Fisk nodded. He had assumed that their showing up today was no coincidence. “I don’t know what to tell you. Thirteen men beheaded, dumped on a beach in Rockaway. I can give you the name of the detective leading the investigation in that precinct. His name is Kiser.”

“Can you take us to him?”

“Can I take you . . . ?” Fisk looked out the window at the auto junkyard across the street. The windows were one-way. The sun was getting low in the western sky. “No, I cannot. I can give you an address to put in your GPS, however.”

Garza said, “This Kiser will brief us?”

“Well, I didn’t say that. That’s his call. Though not really. His captain, more like it.”

“How far?” asked Aguilar.

“This time of day, Rockaway is a hike.”

“A hike,” said Garza, puzzling through the idiom. “A long walk. We do not have time. The president—our president—lands in three hours. Can all information be sent to us electronically?”

“Again, that’s not my call. Not my decision. You’d have to go through Rockaway for that. Or straight over my head. I assume someone could arrange a briefing for you. Is there a connection to your president’s visit?”

“What condition were the bodies in?” she asked, blowing right past his question. “Were they all beheaded?”

“They were all beheaded, some missing hands—”

“Were they all Mexican?”

“I don’t know that. It’s still early days yet.” He recalled the Sinaloa tattoo, but kept that to himself for the moment. Garza’s obvious and intense interest intrigued him, but he had other things to do. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a meeting with the head of the UN’s security service in about forty-five minutes.”

“Do you have any identification on them yet?” Garza continued, as though not having heard Fisk’s answer. “What about tattoos?”

Fisk looked to the other two men. Clearly Garza had insisted on this visit. They appeared to be supportive of her questioning, but just along for the ride. Fisk attributed any anxiety on their parts to the impending arrival of their boss. “Look. It’s an ongoing investigation, and it’s not my place to get into it. Sorry. You know how it is.”

Garza looked away . . . and when she looked back at Fisk, it was as though a different Cecilia Garza had taken her place. This one was softer in expression, more solicitous. It was chiefly her eyes. “We would like very much to help. I believe we could be of service.”

She was smart. She was wily. She was impressive. Fisk said, “How does this relate to President Vargas’s visit?”

Garza offered a generous shrug. “I don’t know that it does. I consider this more a point of national pride.”

“Shame is more like it,” said Fisk. “I get it now. It’s an embarrassment on the first day of the UN General Assembly. But I’m sorry, I can’t help you. If this involves a threat to the Mexican president, then I can at least point you in the right direction or offer additional assistance.”

Garza’s gray eyes turned cold again. “I assure you, Detective, we need no assistance.”

Fisk smiled and nodded, including the two men in his remarks. “Then I’m not sure what we’re all here talking about.”

Garza turned to Aguilar and spoke in Spanish. “This is the man who stopped the presidential assassination at the Freedom Tower. Somehow, he has been relegated to desk duty here. I don’t know what he did to receive such punishment.”

“It’s not punishment,” said Fisk, in English. His father had been posted to Panama for four years when he was young, and he understood Spanish with the fluency of a native. He could even discern between accents: Panamanian, Castilian, Colombian.