The Intercept

by Dick Wolf

  Dubin told Fisk what he already knew. “No leads. Lots of garbage. I’ve asked them to slow it down, go back through records from the morning hours before and after we have him on camera. In case we missed something. Which is entirely possible, even for the best computer systems in the world. I wish we’d gotten a picture of him talking on a phone, so we could zero in on a time. I should tell you, Fisk, there’s been some talk about imposing federal priority, but I think you agree, we are best equipped to handle this.”

  Again, playing to the room. Fisk’s role was to be the straight man. And so he nodded yet again.

  Dubin was a master at this. When it came to deflecting pressure or criticism, even in the hottest of circumstances, the man was 100 percent Teflon.

  Fisk said, “In many ways, this is a statistical exercise. If we keep at it long enough, chances are good we’ll get a hit.”

  “But long enough doesn’t get us through tonight, Fisk. Nor through tomorrow morning. Now, what’s with this rocket talk?”

  “He dropped three hundred fifty cash on a kit. And he was carrying an imitation leather bag or satchel.”

  “Is this a kid’s toy or are we talking air attack?”

  Fisk answered, “Yes and I don’t know. It can get height. Launch it from the top of a building, you’ve got true elevation, though not enough power for aim.”

  Dubin winced. “Air delivery says biowarfare agent to me.”

  Fisk said, “A small bomb is going to go bang, and that’s it. So I agree.”

  “We’re going to have millions of people lined up along a two-mile stretch of the West Side tonight, from nine o’clock until about nine twenty-five. Sitting ducks. It’s a massive task just securing the ground on a normal July Fourth, now we have to think air? He launches it from a window or a roof, one of those parachute floaters riding the breeze off the Hudson?”

  “It’s tough to defend.”

  “Or is he looking at Sunday morning down at Battery Park? Ground Zero? Dropping a toy rocket full of who-knows-what over the ceremony?” Dubin was getting angry now.

  Fisk said, “As an attack tool, it is not precise. It can’t travel far, though it doesn’t have to. It does seem to indicate some high-altitude interest. If it indicates anything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means what we know is that we still don’t know much. We don’t have any bioagent yet.”

  “Here’s what we do know,” said Dubin, sitting forward. “We’ve got a ceremony this afternoon on the USS Intrepid with the president. We’ve got the fireworks tonight, setting potential victims out along Eleventh Avenue like a human buffet. Then tomorrow morning, the dedication of One World Trade Center, with not one but two U.S. presidents in attendance, the sitting president and his predecessor, also the vice president, the governor of New York and his predecessor, the mayor and his predecessor, foreign dignitaries, nine-eleven families, an audience of millions. At oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. That’s about twenty hours from now.

  “We’ve spent the last ninety minutes debating how to call these things off gracefully if we don’t get this Saudi before then. That is—how to call it off without appearing to call it off, because as you know, neither the president of the United States nor his staff would ever go for it. It’s not his job to make our job easier, it’s the other way around. So we’re trying to come up with ways to tighten up security today, tonight, and tomorrow, whether we get this guy or not. But guess what? Security is already as tight as can be going in. So we need ideas.”

  “We need to get this guy,” said Fisk. “And you left someone off that list.”

  “Who’s that?” said Dubin.

  “You forgot The Six. The ones who foiled the hijacking that was meant to distract us from Bin-Hezam in the first place.”

  Dubin said, “What about them?”

  Fisk saw himself in the smaller monitor window. He checked his logic first, wanting to make sure he didn’t come off as crazy. But no—it was just occurring to him now, and it made sense. “What if it’s about them?” he said. “What if . . . think about this for a moment. Look at where we are. They are, what—this symbol of hope. Of resilience, of heroism. It’s a long shot, but—bin Laden wanted symbolic targets. He was looking to do something big and new. So what if the hijacking was not only a distraction . . . but a ploy?”

  Dubin grew impatient. “Not following.”

  “The hijacker had a weapon, he had wires and a trigger but no bomb. Because he’s a nut, right? And he is. But all that gave the passengers time and opportunity to jump the guy. To overpower him. To save the plane.”

  “You’re not casting aspersion on them?”

  “No. I’m saying this botched hijacking allowed these heroes to be created. What if that was the plan? Maybe they—I’m talking about Al-Qaeda here—assumed it would be one or two or at most three passengers who acted. Probably not six. But no matter—all they needed was one. One brave citizen to be lauded, celebrated, made famous on this celebratory weekend of fireworks and rebirth. Guaranteed maximum publicity.”

  Dubin was getting it now. “They wanted to create a situation where a hero would rise . . .”

  “. . . specifically so they can bring him or her—or them—down. What better way to undermine confidence? By providing a symbol of triumph . . . and then to snatch it away.”

  Fisk felt like this held water. Dubin was less convinced, but giving it thought.

  “We have a lot of odd angles on this,” said Dubin. “Rockets and heroes and hijackers. A weekend full of potential targets. What’s next for those six?”

  Fisk said, “Not sure. I don’t have their minute-by-minute schedule. Gersten’s on it.”

  Fisk, after answering, realized that Dubin had actually been speaking to someone else in the room with him. That voice answered, “They’re doing the Intrepid thing this afternoon.”

  “Holy shit,” said Dubin.

  Fisk said, “What’s that?”

  “They are special guests of POTUS aboard the USS Intrepid this afternoon. A military salute.”

  Dubin said, “If it’s military, it’s going to be tight already. Gangway metal detectors, canine sweeps, random pat downs.”

  “We’ll have Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier there. We’ve got to get Bin-Hezam’s new photo out to the Secret Service. The pictures from this morning.” Fisk checked the clock on the wall. “I can get over to the Hyatt now and brief Gersten’s team in person.”

  “Do that, Fisk. Look, there’s no way around it. We have to get this guy. We need to get very lucky very soon.”

  Fisk nodded, grabbing his sandwich for the ride. “He’s shown himself once. He’ll do it again.”

  Chapter 35

  Fisk badged his way up to the twenty-sixth floor of the Grand Hyatt only to learn that The Six were down in one of the second-floor function rooms doing a lunchtime presser.

  He headed back down, finding Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier drinking coffee inside the high-ceilinged room, the heroes seated along one side of a long table, answering questions from a half dozen reporters scribbling notes and aiming their recording devices back and forth among speakers. The ballroom curtains were drawn and servers stood at either end of the table, attending to the diners’ needs.

  Fisk said, speaking quietly, “Still complaining about this assignment?”

  The Intel detectives turned. Patton and DeRosier smiled and shrugged, Gersten holding her reaction in check.

  DeRosier said, “The superheroes are eating Smith and Wollensky. Filet mignon and creamed spinach. And special Scandinavian dishes sent over from Restaurant Aquavit. Jenssen requested lingonberries and meatballs and herring.”

  Patton said, “And the New York Times is eating hotel scampi and pasta.”

  Gersten held out her cup. “We get coffee.”

  Fisk shared a quick smile with Gersten b
efore he got serious. “It looks like you guys might actually start earning your paychecks now.”

  “What’s up?” asked Gersten, all three of them ready for action.

  Fisk ran down the Bin-Hezam news from that morning. Some of it had come across in action reports, but he wanted them to have the full account. He gave them hard copies of the new photos, and told them to keep them private.

  “Twenty dollars says it’s anthrax,” said DeRosier, in regard to the rocket purchase.

  Patton said, “Remember that scenario we drilled on, maybe two years ago? The guy who contracts genetically engineered smallpox and hops over here on an airplane, then just starts walking the streets and eating in restaurants. Not washing his hands. That could be this guy.”

  Fisk said, “I have a side theory—and it’s just a theory now.” He talked about the hijacking, and the generally accepted fact that Abdulraheem’s chance of success had been practically nonexistent. “Not only was it a distraction, maybe it had a second function.”

  “What second function?” asked Gersten.

  “You don’t have to take out the president to shock the country. You don’t have to blow up a landmark. You only need to hit people on a gut level. That’s what bin Laden was about.” Fisk pointed to The Six. “Everyday people. Citizens, like anyone else. These people are the feel-good story of the year. You create heroes? You can wipe them out too. The ultimate sucker punch.”

  Gersten’s mouth hung open. “That’s a real high-wire act.”

  “Here’s the thing. They didn’t need the hijacking to get this guy in country. Bin-Hezam was not on the no-fly. He was good to go. Now—maybe they didn’t know that. Maybe they wanted extra insurance. Or . . . maybe the hijacking was just the magician’s puff of smoke, while the real trick was going on in his other hand.”

  DeRosier was nodding. “I can see that.”

  Fisk said, “We have zero evidence of this, but I bring it up so you guys will stay on your guard. Don’t get comfortable here. This USS Intrepid thing, with the president? Play it smart. I know it’s only recently scheduled for them. I know it’s a highly controlled setting. I’m saying, don’t rely on that.”

  Gersten said, “Obviously, you don’t want us to tell them.”

  “Certainly not. I heard what that guy Jenssen said on the Today show.”

  “About the Patriot Act,” she said, nodding. “Yeah. Now there’s pressure to let them spread their wings a little. From the mayor’s office. He can’t be seen as the bad guy. They want to avoid the impression that we’re holding them under lock and key.”

  Fisk said, “Find a way to keep them out of trouble. Come up with some other kind of activity for them.”

  “Most of them are down with anything,” said Patton. “But not all.”

  Fisk crossed his arms. “Here’s the thing. We need to see them through the ceremony tomorrow morning, like six fragile eggs. We get through that, we’re good. If this Bin-Hezam starts knocking off the group next Thursday, one at a time like an Agatha Christie villain, it loses impact. He needs to get them this weekend, if ever. Bottom line—we’ve added them to the target list. The target list of a man we cannot find.”

  Gersten said to the others, “How about we collapse our shifts. Two of us on at all times. One down in the lobby watching for Bin-Hezam.”

  Fisk said, “That works.”

  The reporters had pushed back their chairs, standing, collecting their notebooks and voice recorders, as the presser broke up. They were all shaking hands.

  DeRosier and Patton checked their wristwatches. “We leave soon for the aircraft carrier.”

  “Okay,” said Fisk. “Keep them together, keep them moving.”

  DeRosier and Patton tossed their coffee cups into the trash and went to escort The Six back upstairs. With a quick tip of his head, Fisk stepped out into the hallway, Gersten just two steps behind him. He walked to the far end, turning a corner and ducking in at a little alcove that once held pay phones, near the restrooms.

  They hugged there, nothing too physical. It never felt right while they were on the job.

  “Honest appraisal,” he said.

  “Far-fetched,” she said, looking at his hand holding hers. “But—so was flying airplanes into buildings ten years ago.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “Just don’t lose sight of the fact that the hijacker got into the galley with a knife. He slashed at the throat of a flight attendant. That was real. He wasn’t faking anything. Not so far as he was aware. Abdulraheem believed he was taking that plane down. And these people risked their own lives to stop him.”

  Fisk nodded. “You’re right. Good point going forward. I’m not trying to rewrite that. I’m just trying to understand this whole thing. It’s something bigger, right? I mean, tell me I’m not just off on a wild-goose chase, overthinking this.”

  “You’re not. What does Dubin say?”

  “Hard to tell. He’s throwing everything at this. I guess that says it all.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m better now. This morning, before we’d heard anything and still had no trace of Bin-Hezam, I was not too pleasant to be around.”

  “Is that why you never got in touch with me overnight?”

  He winced. “Yeah. That and . . . you know how it gets.”

  “I know exactly how it gets,” she said quickly, hoping to neutralize the shrill, one-word text she had sent him that morning. “Just feeling stranded here.”

  “I get it. Wish I had you out there, believe me.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which . . .”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Anything looks hinky here, do not hesitate,” said Fisk. “I mean anything. Everything’s still up for grabs.”

  “I’m on it,” she told him, as he pulled away from her.

  “Sunday night. When all this is behind us, God willing. A bottle of red, right?”

  “A big bottle,” she said. “But let’s get there first.”

  He blew her a kiss before hurrying out into the main hallway, turning the corner, disappearing. Gersten remained behind a few moments longer, partly so they wouldn’t be seen together, partly because she wanted to be alone.

  Maybe The Six were the target. Security at the Hyatt was meant to keep away the press and fame seekers, not terrorists. The twenty-sixth floor was basically secure, in that everybody on or off the elevator was eyeballed. The hotel location was an open secret, however. They had been outside at the Today show that morning, vulnerable to the enthusiastic crowd surrounding them. The group was easy to spot.

  She felt better knowing that she could do something proactive now. She felt like maybe something was finally coming her way.

  Gersten rode up to 26 with a bickering family of German tourists staying on one of the higher floors. She walked into hospitality and immediately Patton gave her a strange look, as though surprised she was alone. She assumed he was expecting Fisk.

  “Where’s Nouvian?” asked Patton.

  Gersten said, “How would I know?”

  “He didn’t get on my elevator. I thought he was with DeRosier, but no.”

  DeRosier came over. “Nouvian isn’t with you?”

  “Where’d you go?” asked Patton.

  Gersten stepped back toward the door. “You’re sure he’s not up here?”

  Patton gave her a look that showed her his concern was not misplaced.

  “Shit,” she said, angry with these guys as well as herself. And just after Fisk’s warning. “I’ll hit the lobby. Try his cell phone.”

  “Already did,” said DeRosier, his voice following her out to the elevator. She pressed the call button and waited an unusually long period of time. The door opened on the same German family, who had apparently returned to their room for a forgotten item. They rode down in a glum silence, Gersten’s foot
tapping.

  She jumped out on 2, the floor the ballrooms were on, and strode quickly back and forth along the ornate hallway, just shy of jogging. She returned to the side hall where she and Fisk had spoken, near the restrooms. She knocked on the men’s room door and checked inside, then the women’s room, leaving nothing to chance. No Alain Nouvian.

  She cut back out to the stairs, running down one flight to the lobby. From the top of the escalators, near the construction, she saw down to the street entrance and its revolving doors. No Nouvian there either.

  She hustled up into the bar area, which jutted out from the façade, one floor over the sidewalk. The walls, the ceiling, and even the floor were made of glass, affording her a decent view of Forty-second Street, half a block each way. No sign of a fifty-one-year-old cellist with a dyed black comb-over.

  Then back down to the reception area, searching the lines of arriving guests waiting to register. The small shop that sold coffee and candy was not busy at that hour, and he was not there. She turned behind the elevator bank, past a few other small hotel retail shops, trying to figure out what her next move was. Call Fisk? Not first. Not if she could help it. But he was her superior, and the point man for this case.

  They had talked about things like this, once upon a time. How he might have to ask her to risk her life in the line of duty someday. She told him then and she felt it now: she wouldn’t hesitate to make the difficult decision, and neither should he.

  And now she supposed that went for fuck-ups too.

  Just as she was giving up, and about to head back up to 26 to eat shit, she saw Nouvian walking toward her. He recognized her and there was a moment of surprise in his face—nearly panic—but a split second later it was gone. She wasn’t sure what it meant. It could have been pure embarrassment at getting lost.

  “What happened?” she said, trying not to sound too angry or relieved.

  He was flustered and immediately defensive. “I guess I got on the wrong elevator or pressed the wrong button or something.”