The Intercept (22 page)

Chapter 49

D
ubin had his feet up on his desk, tilted back in his big leather judge’s chair. He was the picture of relief. Stopping the Saudi took heat off him from about eight different directions.

“So what do you want, Fisk? A bigger office?”

Fisk smiled, playing along. “This one is nice.”

Dubin shook his finger no-no-no. “Maybe if you had caught the bastard alive.”

“I know it,” Fisk said.

“He fired on officers. This kamikaze shit is the toughest nut of all. Now I’ve got to put a tac team cop on leave, pending the shooting inquest. No way to keep this quiet, Fisk. This is going out over the news as a big win.”

Fisk nodded, though it didn’t feel that way to him.

Dubin continued. “Won’t know for sure until they test it, but looks like a half pound of TATP in the shoulder bag. The stuff they call ‘Mother of Satan.’ Remember that Shah attempt in Times Square? Same thing. They love that shit. Mixing it makes them feel like fucking mad scientists.”

“But where’d he get it? Traces in his hotel room, but he didn’t make it there. Hasn’t been in town long enough to mix and cool it.”

“The penthouse suite, hmm? Not very Muslim of him.” Dubin pulled his feet off his desk, sitting forward. “It was given to him, I’d say.”

Fisk said, “A half pound of homemade boom is not much either. Where was he headed with it? And a loaded weapon?”

“All compelling questions.”

“And with no detonator.”

“Yeah. I don’t like that part either. Maybe that was his next stop, where he was headed. Or—you can detonate with a gun, can’t you? Even impact. Looked at that way, he did have a detonator tucked inside his shoulder holster. We got the rocket body from beneath his bed. I think he was zeroed in on the fireworks. Forty thousand fireworks for America, one exploding rocket from Al-Qaeda.”

“All they need for impact.”

“It only takes one. Presumably he was going to do some damage—we don’t yet know where—then try to make a late flight back to Saudi Arabia.”

“We didn’t find the igniter,” Fisk reminded him. “For forty-eight hours now we’ve been straight out, trying to find this guy without any hard evidence he was up to no good. Now we have that evidence—and we still don’t really know what’s going on.”

“The picture will become clearer over the next twenty-four hours, once we unravel this thing. Point is, we got him. We did our job. This is a huge boost to Intel, and ought to silence the naysayers—at least for a couple of news cycles.”

F
isk left Dubin with his victory. He flopped into his office chair and awakened his laptop, closing his eyes for a few moments to ruminate on what had happened.

A Yemeni had tried to take over an airliner bound for New York. A flight attendant and some passengers stopped him. Under interrogation, the Yemeni confessed that he intended to crash the plane into midtown Manhattan at rush hour ahead of the July Fourth holiday weekend. Then he clammed up.

Before departure from Stockholm, at least one passenger witnessed the Yemeni talking to a well-dressed Saudi Arabian businessman booked into the business-class cabin. When the Saudi arrived in New York, he avoided the city’s Muslim neighborhoods, hiding out instead in Chelsea. He murdered a contact in Harlem on Friday night, shopped for a rocket and a messenger bag on Saturday morning. The rocket body was discovered beneath the hotel bed. The Saudi had explosives on him when he was killed, though not enough for a major attack.

But they still had no idea how or where he procured them. Or where the rocket igniter was.

Fisk opened his eyes and reached for his phone. He needed to update Gersten, but more than that, he needed someone to help him untangle this mess.

Chapter 50

G
ersten ignored her buzzing phone, standing with The Six watching the news update on the hospitality suite television.

The anchorwoman spoke over footage shot from the corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, showing investigators and members of the coroner’s office—all in white Tyvek suits—going over the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Indigo. Gersten thought she recognized Fisk to the left, talking with someone from the hotel.

“New York City police commissioner Raymond W. Kelly’s office has confirmed that a terrorist plot has been thwarted. A Saudi Arabian male carrying a loaded handgun and a bag of explosives was shot and killed by police snipers outside a Chelsea hotel a short while ago. Police say the shooting came after an intensive search for the man by New York police. One unconfirmed report states that the dead man was a passenger on Scandinavian Airlines Flight 903, the plane aboard which on Thursday an attempted hijacking was thwarted by hero passengers. We will continue to bring you breaking developments as they come in.”

DeRosier muted the television with the remote control.

The group was shocked.

Flight attendant Maggie said, “What the hell does that mean?”

Colin Frank’s eyes sparked with excitement. “Means there was an even bigger plot at play here.”

Gersten held up a hand to settle them down. “We still don’t know for sure, but one theory is that this man was a backup plan in case the hijacking was foiled. I will say that, for a while today, there was some concern that this man’s target might be you six.”

“Us?” said Maggie, looking at the others.

“Speculation,” said Gersten, “but it made sense. Terrorists don’t need to demolish office buildings anymore. They want to strike at symbols. This is psychological warfare as much as anything else. And you people are the human equivalents of the tower being dedicated tomorrow. Icons of the new post-nine-eleven America.”

Aldrich, the retired auto parts dealer, said, “Jumping Jesus Christ. These animals.”

Nouvian also looked shocked. Jenssen, on the other hand, seemed doubtful about the whole thing.

Sparks said, “So what does this mean for us?”

Gersten said, “For you it means very little. Tonight we have the fireworks at nine
P.M
. Some of you have expressed interest in attending. We have the One World Trade Center building dedication tomorrow morning at eight—but otherwise, and this is direct from the mayor’s office, the night is yours. If you want to get a bite to eat, if you want to meet with your family if they are local—great. We request—and by request I mean that we
strongly
urge—that you allow one of us to accompany you if you do decide to head out tonight. Only because it is our job to deliver you to the Ground Zero ceremony safe and sound—and you wouldn’t want us to lose our jobs, would you?”

“And then?” asked Jenssen.

“After the ceremony tomorrow morning? Then you’re on your own. Cut loose. Released into the wild.”

That drew a few smiles.

Frank spoke up. “We definitely need to huddle at some point before we go our separate ways so we have a general game plan. I just want to point out that our bargaining position is much stronger if we stay together, as a team, as opposed to six smaller books on the same topic racing to be the first one out. Some of us have already made plans to get together later for drinks down in the lobby after the fireworks—that seems like a great time to toast the future and get on the same page. If not, then tomorrow morning before the big show.”

Gersten nodded. “Those of you who are planning to head over to the West Side to see the fireworks need to be ready to go in a little while. We have a surprise viewing spot we think you’ll like.”

G
ersten stopped outside Nouvian’s room in the middle of the twenty-sixth-floor hallway. She was surprised to hear nothing, no cello practicing. She rapped a knuckle against the door.

Nouvian opened. He was wearing a white Hyatt robe, his hair wet.

“No practicing?” she said.

“Soon. I’ve been asked to perform at the ceremony tomorrow. Maggie’s suggestion. On top of everything else. But how could I say no?”

Gersten nodded amiably. “Mind if I come in for just a minute?”

“Certainly,” he said, surprised, stepping back. She moved into the room. The sheers were drawn but not the heavier curtains, allowing a gauzy view of the skyline at sundown. The entranceway was humid from Nouvian’s recent shower, the bathroom smelling of aftershave. She moved farther inside.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she suggested.

He did, plopping down on the corner of his bed. His cello case stood against the wall near him. He looked a little puzzled.

Gersten said, “Here’s the thing. You probably know you’ve been acting in a suspicious manner.”

His interested expression immediately flattened out.

“You went missing earlier today, and when I found you, you didn’t seem like yourself,” she continued. “This raised red flags, and I checked into what you might have been doing and discovered some pay phones down behind the elevator bank.”

He did not know how to react, and so kept quiet.

“I followed up on it, because that is my job. I visited Mr. Pierrepont less than an hour ago at his apartment, and interviewed him.”

Nouvian did not know which way to go with this. “I don’t know what you’re . . .” he started to say, which then gave way to “This is an outrage.”

She tipped her head to one side, trying to defuse the situation. “He told me everything.”

Nouvian looked down, coming to grips with this. Then he searched her face, perhaps for signs of disapproval, of which there were none. “If he did, then what do you want me to say?”

“You have your own phone.” She pointed to it, charging on the nightstand. “Why not call him from here?”

Nouvian shrugged, his eyes misty. “I assumed you had bugged them or tapped them or whatever you do.”

Gersten smiled understandingly, shaking her head. “We are truly here to keep an eye on you. But when you start acting—”

“He was panicking that someone would find out.”

“He was? Funny. He said you were the one panicking.”

Nouvian sighed, looked away. “Well, I am the one with a wife and family. I am the one under a microscope now.” He rubbed his hands together. “The Secret Service check. All the questions up in Bangor. I thought, if I can just hang in there . . . if we can just ride this out . . .”

“Those background checks were just looking for red flags. This is a situation where you always want to be scrupulously honest. Trust me. Otherwise—as happened here—the machine turns around on you.”

He shook his head. “Easy for you to say.”

She moved closer to reassure him. “I don’t have any need to go any further with this. I thought you would like to hear this from me. And it is none of anybody’s business, about you and Mr. Pierrepont. Except your wife and children.”

Nouvian sighed, nodding. “I am at a crossroads, Officer Gersten.”

“Detective Gersten,” she said. “But you can call me Krina.”

“Krina. I know what you are thinking, and believe me, it is what I have been thinking about for . . . it’s been almost a year now. I was very unprepared for what happened with . . . him. This affair. That’s what it is. I know I don’t need to explain anything to you, but I love my children, nothing has changed there. And nothing will ever change.”

He looked away, across the room. As difficult as this was for him—and for Gersten—he seemed to want to air it with somebody impartial.

“What has changed . . . is my mind-set. This incident . . . my so-called heroic action . . . in many ways it has decided things for me. I need to act, and I know that now. And now I know that I
can,
you understand? But—in such a way that I can make the best future for my family as possible.”

Gersten raised her hands. “Again—your private, personal business. I think you’ll do the right thing. But will you do one favor for me? Not a favor—I’m going to insist upon it.”

He waited to hear what it was.

“No more scares like that. Okay? Let me and my fellow detectives finish our job here, and then you can go on to face whatever you have to.”

Nouvian nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

Gersten smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

She turned and went to the door. Nouvian did not stand up from the corner of the bed.

“Krina,” he said, before she could get the door open.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to write a book and I don’t want to make any money from this. I just want to play my music and raise my children. And that’s about it.”

Gersten nodded, feeling for him. “Well then, my advice, if you’re asking for it, is to just wait until after tomorrow to tell Colin Frank. Because it’s going to break his greedy little heart.”

Chapter 51

B
ack inside her own room, Gersten kicked off her shoes, watching NY1 on mute, her phone to her ear.

“Bin-Hezam was just a few blocks from Penn Station, Krina,” said Fisk. “He was right here. Can you believe it?”

“You saw his face,” she said, envious. “What did it say?”

“Great question.” She smiled, waiting while he thought it through. “You know what it said? It said that he knew he was going to die. He knew he was walking to his death. He wasn’t just resigned to his fate, he was dictating the terms.”

“Wait. After he got outside?”

“No. I never saw his face outside, his back was to me out on the sidewalk. This was in the lobby. The elevator door opened, and I looked at him—and it was like he had arrived at the pearly gates already. He was reporting for death. You just helped me confirm that.”

“What does it mean to you?”

“Dubin thinks he was going somewhere on another errand, but I don’t. I think he was headed to death. That’s the reason he came downstairs.”

“With a half pound of homemade acetone peroxide explosives in a bag?”

“Boom in bag, gun in hand. I think he heard that helicopter . . . I don’t know, maybe even before that. I mean, he called Saudi Air directly and spoke in Arabic. The first time all weekend he used his native language over the phone. He knew we’d be able to screen for that. He had to.”

Gersten chewed on that. “Maybe the helicopter over the hotel told him the game was up. That’s what it would tell me. If he knew he wasn’t going to get out of that building a free man, then what’s left for him? Instead of biting down on a cyanide pill, he went out the hard way.”

More silence from Fisk, then, “Another fair point. Maybe I’m overthinking this. Hey, you know what I miss? Cops and robbers. Jesus. Why can’t these shitheads just rob a bank?”

“The bad guy is gone. Focus on that. You found him—doesn’t matter how now. Bin-Hezam sleeps with the virgins. Call it a win.”

“I want to,” said Fisk. “But what can I do? I don’t feel good about feeling good about this. That’s the bottom line. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it for a while. What about you? Catch me up on Nouvian.”

She did. Fisk listened.

“I think he’s making a big mistake,” said Fisk. “Given what you just told me, I bet his book would outsell all the others.”

“It was kind of fascinating, though. He sees the foiled hijacking, and his role in it, as giving him permission to change. Like a near-death experience.”

“Hmm.” Fisk waited for more. “What does that say to you?”

She smiled. She was going to say this. “I’m thinking about maybe transferring out of Intel.”

“You . . . what?”

“Like you just said. I miss cops and robbers. Look at me here. I could get shit assignments like this out of a regular precinct. But at least I’d be doing something.”

Fisk said, “You’re serious.”

“I’m getting there,” Gersten said. “Maybe it would be better for us.”

“For us?” He thought about that. “Maybe it wouldn’t, though.”

“Not living this twenty-four seven?”

“Look,” he said, realizing she wasn’t just bitching about this, but that she was serious. “It’s been a rough weekend. We need to go somewhere so I can talk you out of this.”

“You’re welcome to try. Supposedly we’re meeting with the group later for a nightcap in the hotel lounge, after the fireworks.”

“Sounds totally unprofessional,” he said. “I’ll be there. Assuming nothing else breaks in the next few hours. Where you headed now?”

“Nowhere. Paperwork is calling to me. I’ve got to write up everything from the past two days. I’m going to play some music and get into it.”

“No fireworks?” he said.

“Depends on you. I’ve got a nice hotel room all to myself here.”

“Ah, you’re killing me. I have so much to clean up with this Bin-Hezam thing.”

“I know, I know. Try for the drink.”

“Sunday night,” he said. “That’s my goal.”

“What are you thinking? Cafe Luxembourg?”

“Like two regular people.”

“Sounds marvelous. Only problem is, we’ll probably both fall asleep before getting out the door.”

He said, “Takeout’s okay too.”

She smiled. It was good to talk to him. It helped. “Hey—I think maybe his mission was to get blown up and take out a bunch of cops in the process. Including you. So be more careful, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later.”

She hung up, dwelled on the conversation for a few minutes, then set it aside.

Focus on paperwork. Get through this. Table everything else until Sunday.