The Intercept

by Dick Wolf

  “He use a credit card for his flight?”

  She checked. “He did.”

  “Let’s Patriot Act that account, shall we?”

  The Intel chief, Barry Dubin, arrived early, as he did most days. He was bald, an egghead with a trim, mostly gray goatee. A former spook, he was steady and competent but humorless. He draped his jacket over the back of his office chair as always. Fisk noticed that his flag pin was upside down.

  “I was at the Mets game last night. Left after five innings to get some shut-eye, but they showed the news report about the foiled hijacking between innings and Citifield nearly collapsed from the cheering.”

  Fisk said, “The thing is, they’re not used to hearing fan applause there.”

  Dubin smiled and nodded, though it was clear to Fisk that he did not understand the joke. “It was goddamn hot too. What’s on your minds?”

  Gersten stood next to Fisk. Fisk could not get a read on whether Dubin knew about them or not. They had taken great pains to hide their relationship, mainly for reasons of convenience—but this was an intelligence agency, after all.

  Fisk said, “Well, the FBI is doing backflips. Their end zone dance. But I—we—have a bad feeling about this.”

  “I assume it is more than just a hunch.”

  “It is now.”

  Dubin listened without comment while Fisk took him through the interrogation, his impressions about the Yemeni hijacker’s limited intelligence, and the speed with which he broke under questioning.

  “It was too easy,” Fisk said. “This guy is so malleable. To me, that’s the scariest thing about it. We’re thinking there could—stress ‘could’—be more to it.”

  “More suspects?” Dubin puzzled this out. “Maybe he had terror cell buddies on the plane? They scrubbed the op when it went bad in front of the cockpit? Decided to wait for a better day?”

  “We thought of that, but this Abdulraheem isn’t the clam-up type. Now—maybe he’s an evil genius and a great actor. But I don’t think so. I heard somebody who was scared and proud at the same time. He thinks he’s a success story, and he’s going to spend the next phase of his life at Guantanamo.”

  “Okay. So who are you looking at?”

  “We’ve got one potential associate, a Saudi who—”

  “What flavor?” interrupted Dubin.

  Gersten said, “Don’t know yet. The name on his passport is Baada Bin-Hezam.”

  Dubin said, “Assuming that’s his real name, he sounds ethnic Yemeni Kindite.”

  Fisk nodded. “Same as bin Laden.”

  Dubin said, “It’s a bit of a leap, but I’m still with you. Walk me through it.”

  Fisk nodded, putting the pieces together as he talked. “We know that before he was taken out, bin Laden was definitely down on what he thought of as thug bombers, like this Abdulraheem. We got great stuff from NSA after they worked over the loot from his house. OBL didn’t care about high body counts. He wanted high-viz targets with symbolic value. That, he declared, was the holy route toward his ultimate goal—uniting the world under the extremist Muslim version of God’s law and the Koran.”

  Dubin shrugged. “Al-Qaeda is in a shambles now, post-OBL. Who’s to say this guy isn’t a lone gunman, a rogue jihadist?”

  “It seems definite he is a for-real camp-trained mujahideen. So sure, maybe he’s just a comet shooting through the jihad universe. A rogue vector. Or is he a true pawn? Part of an operation—one he maybe has no knowledge of—that is still in play?”

  Dubin said, “You’re saying the tip of the spear who doesn’t know he’s part of a spear?”

  Gersten said, “Where did a mango farmer from Yemen get business-class airfare?”

  Dubin shrugged. “You tell me. What did he say?”

  “He said something along the lines of ‘God provides.’ ”

  “But what’s it get him? A failed or aborted hijacking?”

  Fisk said, “He made a lot of noise. Pulled a lot of attention to himself. Maybe someone put him up to it as a diversion to get the real actor safely in country.”

  “An unwitting diversion. A little far-fetched, but fair enough. Fisk, I hope you didn’t have any beach plans this Fourth of July weekend. You head up the search for this Saudi. I don’t like unanswered questions, this weekend of all weekends.”

  Fisk and Gersten each nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. The Freedom Tower.

  “We’ve got the new One Trade Center building dedication, and before that, the fireworks show, which is always a logistical game of Twister. I don’t want any drama. I don’t want any unnecessary distractions. I want you to get on him fast. If he’s easy to find, then it’s nothing and you’ll have saved yourself some weekend. If he’s hard to find . . .”

  “We’re on it,” said Fisk, as they turned to leave.

  “Actually, Gersten, I want you to stay behind a minute.”

  Gersten stopped, surprised. “Sure,” she said, with nary a glance at Fisk, who, after a moment’s pause, walked out and closed the door behind him.

  Gersten was in his office doorway three minutes later. She looked deflated, as though a disappointment had allowed all the exhaustion to catch up with her.

  “Oh, shit,” said Fisk. “What is it?”

  “Adventures in babysitting. That’s me. The passengers and the flight attendant.”

  “You’ve got to stay with them? Dubin’s order?”

  She moved in from the doorway so as not to be overheard. “Girls are good at babysitting, right?”

  Fisk shared her disappointment. Still, he tried to make it right. “It is necessary,” he said. “I mean, they are the only witnesses to this thing. And the media take on this is, from the standpoint of public cooperation, almost as important as the actual investigation.”

  “Then have Public Affairs do it.” She swatted at the air, as though sexism were a fly. “I’m telling you . . .” She put her hands on her hips. “Am I a cop, or aren’t I?”

  “You’re a good cop. What’s the assignment? Specifically?”

  “Three watches, twenty-four seven. Patton and DeRosier are with me. They’re at the Hyatt next to Grand Central, and we are going to be holding their hands starting at ten A.M. today. Their first press conference. The mayor and the commissioner.”

  “Okay, look—” he started to say.

  She shook her head, stopping him. “Don’t tell me that just because two other men drew the assignment I’m overreacting.”

  Fisk set his hands on his hips. “What I was going to say is that two other men drew the assignment and maybe you’re overreacting.”

  She shook her head, staring off to the side, tapping her foot.

  Fisk said, “You want to be on the Saudi with me. Believe me, I want you to be on the Saudi with me.”

  He moved forward to console her and she put her arms up, stepping back. “I’m not oversensitive, Jeremy. I’m fucking pissed, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t want to be consoled right now.”

  Fisk nodded once. “Okay.”

  “I’m sick of being treated like an intern around here.” She turned toward the door, walked to it, then pivoted back. “But an assignment is an order, and you know what? Fuck Dubin. I’m going to get me a long, hot bath at some point this weekend and live out of the Hyatt’s minibar, and smile and walk these heroes around like a preschool teacher on a fucking TV station field trip.”

  She turned and walked out. Fisk knew it was best to just let her go. She didn’t like a lot of the assignments she drew, but obeying them and excelling at them was never an issue.

  Chapter 19

  Ladies and gentlemen, the mayor of New York, the Honorable Michael Bloomberg.”

  City Hall’s public relations chief, a young woman in a crimson business suit, backed away from the podium clapping her hands, but not before tilting down the
microphone.

  Mayor Bloomberg took her place and smiled and waited for the applause to fade. “I think it’s safe to say, this is a day New Yorkers will never forget,” he began. “It reminds me that while New York is a city that has seen the darkest moment in our nation’s history, it has also produced some of the greatest moments. Moments of triumph and uplift. Moments of pure heroism. And we will add to the ranks of those heroes the men and women who will be joining me here today.”

  Gersten, having quickly changed outfits and thrown together a weekend bag, stood in the wings on the opposite end from where The Six would be making their entrance. She looked out at the press corps and the onlookers—including hotel employees and construction workers present for the building’s ongoing renovation—and she could feel the energy in the ballroom. The moment was electric. She had underestimated the public impact of The Six’s actions.

  Mayor Bloomberg continued. “As all of you know by now, shortly after noon yesterday, a hijacker armed with a knife who said he had a bomb attempted to storm the cockpit of Scandinavian Airlines Flight 903, which was thirty minutes away from landing in Newark. This criminal, a Yemeni national, failed in his attempt because six people of varying backgrounds, men and women of three nationalities, who might never have come together but for this dangerous incident, refused to yield to terror. The FBI, along with officers from the New York City Police Department’s Intelligence Division, have confirmed that the hijacker intended to murder both pilots and take control of the aircraft using its autopilot. This man had no knowledge of how to land the aircraft and, indeed, had no intention of doing so. Had he succeeded in the attempt, we might be holding a very different news conference today. We would be adding up the number of casualties and property damage estimates. Instead, we are celebrating life and the indomitable spirit of freedom.”

  He shuffled his papers, then set them aside.

  “And so, without further ado, the heroes of Flight 903.”

  Before he could even finish the sentence, the Hyatt Grand Central’s ballroom erupted. Gersten was unprepared for the force of released emotion in the reception. Hoots and hollers from the construction workers in back. Journalists rising to their feet. She had underestimated the visceral reaction—so much so that she felt exposed by not clapping, and eventually joined in, a smile coming to her face.

  The six heroes of SAS 903 filed toward the front, also clearly stunned by the response. They passed NYPD commissioner Ray Kelly, who was clapping hard enough to crush coal into diamonds. Mayor Bloomberg stepped back from the podium as the full-throated cheers from the audience of journalists and citizens washed over them.

  Finally, the mayor retook the podium. “It is now my distinct pleasure to introduce these heroes to you all. We have prepared brief biographies of each of them, which most of you picked up on the way in this morning. Please hold your applause until I finish the introductions.

  “First, to Commissioner Kelly’s immediate left, SAS flight attendant and purser, Margaret Sullivan.”

  Maggie stepped forward at the urging of the others. Gersten saw that she had done her best with her makeup, but a night with little or no sleep showed through. She had changed into a clean Scandinavian Airlines uniform, and her face looked nearly as pale as the collar of bandages on her neck—though her smile, its sincerity, was wide and bright.

  “Next, Mr. Alain Nouvian, a musician with the New York Philharmonic and a native Long Islander.”

  Nouvian executed a head bow, as at the end of a well-received performance. It brought a smattering of applause despite Bloomberg’s admonition.

  “Next to Mr. Nouvian is Joanne Sparks, who, as the manager of an IKEA store across the river in New Jersey, has probably furnished half the apartments in this city.”

  That got a generous laugh. Sparks had changed out of her travel clothes into a sharp cream suit. She even received a few catcalls from the hotel employees in back.

  “Mr. Douglas Aldrich is from Albany, where he owned a NAPA auto parts store for thirty years before retiring to dote on his grandchildren, one of whom lives in Sweden.”

  Aldrich acknowledged the introduction with a half salute to Bloomberg and a chuckling wave at the audience.

  “Next to him, the man who was the first to confront the terrorist, ripping what was believed to be the trigger to a live bomb from the hijacker’s hand, and fracturing his own wrist in the process. Mr. Magnus Jenssen of Stockholm.”

  The room broke into forceful applause. Jenssen barely acknowledged it, not rudely but rather modestly, averting his gaze from the camera lights and cradling his gel-cast-covered right arm. His face, given a rugged edge by stubble, was blank, a passive, nonplussed expression. Gersten had once read somewhere that among Swedes, facial expressions such as smiles, frowns, and glares are parceled out much more sparingly than anywhere else in the world. Jenssen was dressed in the same casual clothes he had on when they took him off the plane in Bangor, a black turtleneck with one sleeve cut off to accommodate the cast, tan slacks, gray running shoes.

  “And finally,” continued the mayor after tapping the mic to silence the room, “Mr. Colin Frank is one of you. A native New Yorker, he works as a reporter.”

  Frank, still in his black suit and white shirt with the collar button undone, appeared to be the only one in touch with the surrealism of the moment. He pulled off his specs and waved awkwardly to the audience with a smile that acknowledged this absurdity.

  Mayor Bloomberg said, “Ladies and gentlemen, these are your six heroes.”

  Gersten watched them absorb the applause. A monitor stood on a tripod near her, and she took in the camera view of the six of them. She could see how they would be presented to the world over the next forty-eight hours or so, almost like reality television contestants. Maggie the gutsy gal. Nouvian the artist. Sparks the professional woman. Jenssen the handsome foreigner. Frank the brain. And Aldrich the humble grandpa.

  “Let the TV movie casting begin,” she mumbled, wishing Fisk were there to hear it.

  Police Commissioner Kelly then made a few brief remarks. He bridged the gap nicely from the courage of The Six to advocating the practice of vigilance as part of a New Yorker’s daily life.

  “Fear is a sickness that can cripple our lives,” he said. “Vigilance is the antidote.”

  “Okay,” said Bloomberg, returning to the podium. “Questions? Andy, you first.”

  Bloomberg had selected a man-in-the-street reporter for NY1, the popular local television station.

  “Mr. Jenssen. It says here in your bio that you were coming to the States to go bicycle touring and then run the New York Marathon. Will this change your plans?”

  “It does seem so,” Jenssen said, as a hotel employee slid over to him with a microphone. “Not much chance for long-distance biking with this.” He patted his cast. The audience reacted to his slight Swedish accent with a kind of childish awe. Accents impress Americans, and a true Swedish accent was rarely heard in the mass media.

  “What will you do then?” the NY1 reporter followed up.

  Jenssen did not appear to want to play the game. “I certainly would like to start with some sleep. Then walking, I guess.”

  “Are you married?” yelled a female voice from the back.

  Jenssen squinted out into the accompanying laughter, but did not answer.

  “One more,” said the reporter, raising his voice slightly to get it in before the mayor moved on. “Why did you—all of you—risk your life and the lives of everybody on that plane by jumping from your seat and tackling a man who said he had a bomb?”

  Jenssen tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the reporter with an expression of true confusion. “There is no why. It was too fast. I’ll ask you, why did you wear that shirt today?” He watched the reporter look down at his shirt. “Exactly. There was no decision to make. No thought required. Just need and do.”

&nbs
p; The NY1 reporter waved his arm for more, but Bloomberg shook his head. Jenssen had already retreated from the microphone anyway.

  “Over there. In the yellow dress. Yes, you. Go ahead.”

  “This is for Ms. Sullivan. Did you think you were going to die when the hijacker had the knife to your throat?”

  Sullivan gasped and brought her hand to her throat amid a surge of camera clicking. “This is going to be a long couple of days, I guess,” said Maggie, with a laugh and a nervous smile. “I . . . gosh, sure, I guess I did think I was going to die. How strange is that? I thought it was happening right then. I thought, Okay, this is how I am going to die. He cut me right away and I . . . I felt it, but I didn’t know how bad. No life passing before my eyes or anything like that. In fact, the only thing that passed in front of my eyes was Mr. Jenssen, racing in to tackle the . . . the jerk.”

  The corps laughed at her self-censorship, avoiding a curse word.

  “He saved your life,” said the reporter in the yellow dress.

  Maggie’s lips came together tightly in an attempt to pinch back sudden tears. She just nodded. Jenssen looked a little embarrassed.

  The reporter then followed up with a comment instead of a question. “Well, we’re all so glad you’re still here,” she said.

  Gersten winced at the saccharine emotion, but a wave of applause rippled through the room. This was the sort of thing spoken at press conferences where the interviewees are celebrities—which is what The Six were now.

  Another reporter. “Maggie, are you looking forward to going home?”

  “As soon as they let us,” she said, behind a laugh. “Somebody said something about talk shows, but I need to get some serious mirror time beforehand if that’s the case.”

  More generous laughter.

  There were more questions, and more stammered answers from bewildered citizens literally thrust into the spotlight. It was all congratulatory and lighthearted, yet there was a palpable sense of relief—mostly that no one had said anything outrageously dumb or offensive, thereby killing the public relations buzz—when Mayor Bloomberg called for the last question. He pointed to a television reporter flanked by her camera crew and producer.