The Intercept

by Dick Wolf

  A second, identical chopper appeared over the river from New Jersey, heading toward the carrier. This, everyone realized, was the real Marine One, the helicopter carrying the president.

  The first helicopter had been a decoy. With the Saudi still at large in New York, the Secret Service was taking no chances.

  The second copter landed, and the crowd erupted with relief and excitement as Barack and Michelle Obama emerged. The reception line included two admirals, a general, Mayor Bloomberg, Ambassadors Hafström and Doer, and The Six—all of whom stood on the raised dais from which Obama would address the audience.

  The president and his wife shook hands with each attendee. President Obama stopped and chatted with each of The Six in turn. He had been thoroughly briefed, as he knew each of their names and apparently a little bit of biography as well. Gersten could not hear the conversations from where she stood, but the president seemed intent on making a personal contact with each of them, himself benefiting by association with the heroes of the moment.

  Each of the group was perfectly courteous if not gracious. Aldrich, Gersten noted, shook Obama’s hand firmly and nodded but said nothing. Still, his chest swelled to the bursting point. Jenssen smiled when it was his turn, answering a question succinctly. Maggie wiped away tears and laughed at herself for doing so, the president smiling and patting her shoulder before pulling her into a hug. Sparks shared a laugh with Michelle Obama. Nouvian exchanged some pleasantries with her, apparently about the cello. And Frank smiled heartily throughout, as though posing for his book jacket photo.

  From Gersten’s perspective, while Obama appeared trim and fit, just as he did on television, even from twenty feet away she could see the gray in his hair. The job had aged him as it did every other president.

  He spent approximately five minutes of his twenty-five-minute speech honoring the heroes.

  “We are gathered here today to honor the members of our armed forces who have given their lives in defense of this country in the decade since the attacks of September 11, 2001. It is worth reminding ourselves, however, that in the war against international terrorism, any one of us can become a combatant in an instant. Just forty-eight hours ago, these six men and women, passengers and crew aboard an airliner heading for this great city, banded together to foil a hijacker who intended to seize control of the plane and crash it into midtown Manhattan. Their actions speak of courage, resolve, and a fierce unwillingness to surrender to fear. They acted for all of us. And this is our opportunity to thank them. I want to invite them to join Michelle and me tomorrow morning, as we welcome to this historic skyline a new landmark, a symbol of resilience and regeneration.”

  The president had just finished his speech when Gersten’s phone vibrated. She slipped away to take the call, grateful to get under a sliver of shade, but having trouble hearing Fisk’s voice over the whipping river wind.

  “How’s it looking there?” he asked.

  “We’re five by five. Did you hear the speech?”

  “Nope. Got it on mute.”

  “I don’t know if it’s confirmed, but they just got a personal invitation to the big ceremony tomorrow morning. Not a surprise, really, but there it is. They are the president’s plus-six.”

  “Means you should have a pretty good seat too.”

  “I’m The Six’s plus-one. Anything on the Hyatt pay phones?”

  Fisk said, “One call, right around the time you estimated Nouvian was there. He’s the musician, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Local number, just came up. We didn’t get it on a subpoena, of course. Came as a favor. It’s a New York cell, and we’re running it down now. I’m guessing you’d like to see this thing all the way through yourself . . .”

  She was nodding excitedly, even though Fisk could not see her. “Absolutely.”

  “How’s Nouvian now?”

  “He’s like the others,” she said. “Could be he’s just a flake. I don’t know what he was doing. But seemed like he was up to something.”

  “Who do you think he could be calling?”

  “He has his own phone. That’s the weirdest part. His own cell. So why sneak away to use a public phone?”

  Fisk said, “That’s not kosher. Strange enough to follow up on. I’ll get you the info once we develop it. And I’ll mention to Dubin how you picked up on this. Back at you soon.”

  Gersten hung up and reemerged into the hot sun, returning to her post just as the dais was being cleared. She paid special attention to Nouvian coming down the stairs, looking flushed and excited like the rest.

  It could be that it wasn’t even him using the pay phone after all. But no matter: it was enough to get her off this shit assignment for a little while, at least. Even a wild-goose chase was a welcome diversion.

  Gersten noticed Ambassador Hafström taking Jenssen aside yet again before the group headed down to the flight deck for the ride back to the Hyatt. They seemed to be having some trouble connecting, but it was in Swedish so she couldn’t be certain. They ended in English before the ambassador pumped his hand, sending him on his way.

  “It will be a wonderful ceremony, Magnus, and then as soon as you return home we will enjoy many other celebrations.”

  Hafström held direct eye contact with the schoolteacher, as though compelling him to behave graciously. His wavy blond-silver hair and carefully etched facial lines were patrician, and this was likely a look that had worked for him many times in the past. Jenssen signed off pleasantly, and the ambassador wished everyone well and said he looked forward to seeing them in the morning before stepping away.

  “Politikar,” said Jenssen, once inside the lift.

  “What is that, a curse word?” said Maggie, smiling.

  “It is . . .” said Jenssen, with what seemed to be a struggle to remain polite, staring at the closed doors, his eyes low. “It means ‘politician.’ ”

  Chapter 38

  Aminah bint Mohammed did not know what to expect, what to say, what to think. Normally she faced stressful situations by rehearsing her emotions ahead of time, in order to keep them under control, but here she had no idea what she was walking into.

  Everything would have been easier for her had she been able to visualize the midafternoon cab ride, crawling slowly across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, the lurching, horn-blaring rush uptown on Sixth Avenue, and finally the loop around the block onto Twenty-eighth Street heading east. As it was, the ride seemed like a haphazard meander, leaving her anxious and confused.

  She paid the driver cash. She nodded awkwardly at the bellhop who opened the glass door for her. She hesitated a moment while passing the Hotel Indigo desk clerk, wondering if she needed to say anything or if they would let her walk right onto the elevators. The clerk looked up, smiled, and turned away. Aminah continued through the open elevator doors, turning, avoided the bellhop’s gaze as she waited—for what seemed like an eternity—for the doors to close. Once they did, she exhaled and prayed.

  She was carrying a pound of high explosives in her Macy’s shopping bag.

  The hallway on the penthouse floor was surprisingly short. Aminah pressed the buzzer next to the door labeled A—and the door opened immediately.

  She was met by a Saudi Arabian with handsome features offset by a nickel-size mole on the left edge of his jaw. His black eyes judged her.

  For his part, Baada Bin-Hezam, when he first saw the red-faced, stocky woman, thought for an instant that she was the hotel maid. Then he saw the shopping bag in her hand. She was not what he imagined when he was informed that he would be contacting a sleeper agent in the United States. This American woman held very little intrigue.

  There were no passwords for this meeting. Bin-Hezam stepped aside so that she could enter, then closed the door, locking it behind her.

  Aminah walked a few paces forward, then stopped. She had not been a
lone in a room with a man for a long time. She felt even more uncomfortable because of the way she was dressed. Compared to her usual attire, even the most modest of Western clothes drew attention to the feminine figure.

  She glanced at his face again and saw that his thick-lidded eyes were downcast, avoiding her face and her body out of respect. This was a source of relief to her.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” he said.

  She did not know whether to continue into the main room or await instructions. “Walaikum assalam,” she said.

  “Please,” Bin-Hezam said, stepping into the room. He reached out his hand to take the shopping bag from her. Then he introduced himself formally. “I am Baada Bin-Hezam.”

  “I am Aminah bint Mohammed. Please forgive my presence, and . . .” She did not know how else to say it. She knew he had been expecting a man. She had heard it in his voice on the telephone. She wanted somehow to apologize, not for her gender, but for the awkwardness posed by her presence.

  He moved around her into the sitting room. The room assaulted Aminah’s eyes with its insistent decor even in the dimness of the light from a single floor lamp and the overhead globe in the entry hall. The drapes were closed, a bright sliver of afternoon sun slashing into the room through the narrow gap where they did not quite meet.

  It was indeed a setting for illicit behavior, though not of the kind normally associated with hotel rooms.

  On a small, round dining table, she saw two black messenger bags, a large plastic bag of folded white gauze, a small blue box, a curled sheet of plastic, and some things that looked electronic. Through the open door into another room, she saw a bed on which the jacket and trousers of a coffee-brown suit and a folded white shirt were neatly laid out as though in a vestry.

  “Sit,” said Bin-Hezam, motioning Aminah to one of two purple horseshoe chairs. He removed the sweater from the shopping bag and set it aside, carefully taking out the twin plastic-wrapped loaves of explosives and placing them on the tabletop.

  With the tenderness of a man unwrapping a swaddled newborn, he opened one of them. He touched it to test its consistency. It held the impression of his finger when he pushed down. The fresh explosive was as malleable as plumber’s putty.

  “Yes, you have done well,” Bin-Hezam said to Aminah.

  Her spirit lifted. “I followed instructions. It is good?”

  “Very good.”

  She wanted only to be useful. God had seen fit that she should be adequate to the challenge today. This feeling would raise her up and carry her through the rest of the day.

  He studied the fingerprint impression he had left in the explosive. Each half-pound loaf was powerful enough to turn a three-bedroom suburban house into a pile of splinters. The blast would kill anyone within a radius of fifty yards and maim out to a hundred yards. Ignited in an open field, it would yield a crater thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep.

  Bin-Hezam gingerly rewrapped the loaf with his fingerprint on it, sliding it into one of the black messenger bags, which he then set apart from the rest of the items on the table.

  He put the other slab carefully into the second messenger bag, followed by the gallon-size bag of white gauze, a box of cotton, the plastic sheeting, the model rocket fuel pellets, and the electronic ignition components. Bin-Hezam hefted the bag gently to let everything settle, then checked the interior again to confirm that he had packed it well enough to prevent accidental explosion. Unlikely, but possible. All told, the messenger bag with its contents weighed about five pounds.

  “This is for you,” he told her.

  She was surprised to carry only one. But she did not question his command.

  “These things I give you are very important. You have provided the most critical element of all.”

  Bin-Hezam took a breath. His most crucial task was the instructions he was about to give her. Everything hinged on this American woman now.

  “You will take this bag by taxicab to the East Eighty-fifth Street entrance of the Central Park. From there, you will walk into the park to the south end of the reservoir. There you will find a granite pump house. You will wait outside until you are greeted. Is that clear? Until you are greeted.”

  “Will it be a man?” she asked.

  Bin-Hezam hesitated before answering. “It is best that you do not know.”

  “How will I know it is . . . the person?”

  “They will find you there and summon you. You will know them the way you would know Allah. And then you will follow their instructions. You may have to wait some time for the meeting. Maybe hours. You will be patient?”

  Aminah nodded sincerely.

  “Perhaps you should bring a book—a Western book—in order to appear leisurely and occupied. Your contact will have very little time, so it is critical that you are available.”

  Aminah felt certain it was to be a man. She believed that Bin-Hezam would have told her if it was a woman, knowing that it would have a calming effect on her.

  “First a hotel room, then a rendezvous in the park,” she said. “After years of strict observance, I am disobedient at the end.”

  She was making a joke, but also telling the truth. For the first time since the door opened she looked directly into Bin-Hezam’s eyes.

  He nodded paternally. He accepted her. That much was enough.

  He said, “You have never been more observant than you are today.”

  “Please forgive me, but . . . can you tell me what it is we will achieve?” she asked.

  “This is a perfect plan because none of us except for the last person knows what is to come.”

  Aminah nodded, then lowered her head. “Insha’Allah,” she said.

  Bin-Hezam said, “There is no reason for you to delay.”

  “I have one request,” she said, her heart starting to race.

  Bin-Hezam looked at her doubtfully. “What is it?”

  “May we pray together before I go? Is it allowed in the same room?”

  Bin-Hezam appeared warmed by this display of devotion. “It is allowed.” He stretched out his arm, pointing to indicate the east. “You must kneel behind me, that is all.”

  He left the room, returning a moment later with his prayer rug and a bath mat for Aminah. Together, they moved two chairs aside to give them room.

  “Do you know the passage?” Aminah said.

  “I memorized it as a boy,” Bin-Hezam answered. “As a child, when this great day was only a dream.”

  “I am grateful to you, Baada Bin-Hezam,” she said. Aminah closed her eyes and waited for God to flow into her as Bin-Hezam prayed aloud.

  “Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead,” he intoned in a soft, lilting Arabic that was almost a song, his hands open to heaven, his eyes closed. “Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord. They rejoice in the bounty provided by Allah. By Him in whose hands my life is! I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause and then get resurrected and then get martyred, and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again and then get martyred.”

  When Bin-Hezam stopped speaking, both of them pressed their heads to the floor. Aminah’s cheeks were wet with tears. It was beautiful.

  Separately, and yet together, they said their private prayers, pleading for strength and courage.

  Chapter 39

  Bin-Hezam stood for many moments after she left, listening for the elevator ding and the doors to open and close, then sat deeply in one of the purple chairs. He remained still for several minutes, praying silently now. He was grateful for having reached this point in the mission.

  The woman Aminah bint Mohammed appeared capable. He reviewed his steps many times, making certain that he had fulfilled each one and in doing so had left nothing lacking, or to chance.

  Bin-Hezam stood and walked to the closet. He e
ntered the month and year of the prophet Mohammed’s birth into the keypad of the room safe. He removed the nickel-plated pistol and the shoulder holster, and unloaded and reloaded the handgun.

  In the bedroom of the suite, Bin-Hezam laid the holster and pistol upon the bed. He stripped to his white briefs and T-shirt, unfolding the freshly laundered white shirt and slipping into it, enjoying the sensation of clean, crisp cotton against his skin.

  Next the trousers. He recalled packing them in Stockholm, and the anticipation of boarding the plane three days ago. He clasped the belt at his waist and smiled to himself. Everything becoming totems now.

  He began to recite the prayer aloud, his own voice a soothing accompaniment to the schripp of Velcro as he arranged the straps of the holster to fit his back and shoulder.

  “Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead.”

  The holster fit perfectly with the butt of the gun on his left flank just below his rib cage. To draw it, he had only to reach across his body, slide his hand under the suit coat, and tug it free.

  Free.

  “I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause and then get resurrected and then get martyred . . .”

  Bin-Hezam lifted the dark brown suit coat from its place on the bedcover, feeling the back straps of the holster tight against him as he slipped it on. He turned to face the mirror over the vanity across from the bed.

  Perfect, he thought.

  He retrieved his cell phone. He was dismayed at first when he opened the desk drawers and found them all empty—but then discovered the New York phone directories stacked on the top shelf of the closet.

  He opened to the middle of the book and flipped pages until he found a listing for Saudi Arabian Airlines. He placed a call to their office on Kew Gardens Road in Kew Gardens, Queens, and inquired about the next available flight departing for Saudi Arabia.

  He conversed with them in Arabic. He mentioned that he would be paying cash.

  The man on the other end of the line read him the flight number and details, but Bin-Hezam did not bother to write them down. He hung up once the call was completed, and then set his cell phone down on the ledge by the high window.