Текст книги "Twelve Hours"

Автор книги: Leo J. Maloney

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

“What—” he began, fuming. She was a deer in the headlights. “You know what, I don’t even have anything to say to you. Come. Now.”

She followed without a word back into the control room.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is the first place they’ll come looking.”

“Up,” said Morgan. He led the way up a flight of stairs into the situation room, which was furnished with expensive office chairs and an sizeable conference table, and had a broad window overlooking the entire operation of the control room. At the back was a brown wooden door. Morgan opened it to reveal a low passage under an X-shaped structural support that led to a tunnel of bare concrete.

“Is this what I—” Alex was interrupted by a muffled yell. Morgan turned his attention to a large wheeled black case, the kind used by musicians to haul equipment. Morgan’s first thought was that it was big enough to fit a man inside, and his second was that a man was exactly what was inside it.

“Help me out here,” he said to Alex. Together, they laid the box on its side and undid the latches. Morgan pulled open the lid.

“Shit!” he said. “Is that—”

“President Ramadani,” said Alex.

The Iranian president, rolled up into the fetal position in the confining box, groaned and blinked glazed-over eyes.

“Mr. President, my name is Dan Morgan. I guess I’m here to rescue you.”

12:32 p.m.

Shir Soroush surveyed the main concourse from the western balcony with satisfaction. The police presence had dwindled, with the few surviving officers stripped of their guns and sent to join the other hostages. The sun, filtering in through the enormous windows, projected rays on the captives seated within the central rectangle of the main concourse, while Soroush’s men patrolled the perimeter. It would not take long now to prepare their escape, as soon as—

Soroush’s thoughts were interrupted as Touraj huffed up the balcony stairs.

“Sir,” he said, “Mansoor is dead. There is a man with a gun. He came into the control room. It was so fast, I—”

“Where is Ramadani?” Soroush demanded, full of righteous anger.

“I—the man with the gun—”

“You left him there?”

Soroush swore under his breath as Touraj explained himself. “He came out of nowhere. I barely made it out of there alive.”

“Inshallah. Zubin. Stay. Take care of the hostages. Hossein, Paiman, with me.”

Soroush led the way, Beretta in hand, down from the balcony. The hostages recoiled in fear as he passed. He walked with purpose to the control room, and then down its length and up the stairs to the situation room. The box was on its side, open and empty.

With a cry of rage, Soroush overturned the case. “Where is he?” Hossein and Paiman gave him blank stares. “I want you to comb the place. I want Ramadani found!”

12:34 p.m.

Morgan brought up the rear behind the Iranian president, going up the ladder past exposed pipes and ducts and concrete. Alex took the lead. Ramadani, still groggy from the drugs, climbed slowly. More than once, Morgan had to hold him up so that he wouldn’t fall.

Morgan heard the deep, loud clicking of the Tiffany clock before he saw it. Still, it dazzled him when he caught sight of it. The stained-glass sun radiated from the center of the clock face, glowing bright gold against the sunlight. He helped the President onto a corrugated steel platform with a final push, and then sat down next to him. Ramadani rubbed his eyes and studied Morgan.

“I owe you my life,” he said.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Morgan, checking the cell phone he had taken from Lost and Found. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Still, you did rescue me,” he said. “I am grateful. What is your name?”

“Morgan,” he said, dialing Conley’s number. “Dan Morgan.” The phone rang. No answer.

“Who are you with?” asked Ramadani. “Secret Service? FBI?”

“I’m just a guy, Mr. President,” said Morgan.

“Just a guy. Of course.”

“What can you tell me about the men with the guns down there?” Morgan asked.

“The ones who took me captive?” said Ramadani. He bent his limbs, working out the aches from his cramped confinement. “Their leader, I believe, is Shir Soroush, my head of security.”

“Do you have any idea why your own head of security would take you hostage?”

“I have a good idea,” said Ramadani. “Though I never thought he might actually do it. If you follow the politics of my country, you know that the Supreme Leader is not happy with me. The Ayatollah is losing his influence on the nation. He will be strengthened by renewed conflict with the United States. I don’t know if he is directly involved, but he would certainly be the beneficiary if I were to die.”

Alex, Morgan noticed, was listening with keen interest. “What’s the angle here, though?” he asked. “What can he gain from this? If he wanted to kill you, why didn’t he just do it at the hotel?”

“I believe his purpose was not just to kill me,” he said, sitting down against a railing. “See, if it is believed that my assassination was connected to him, the people would take to the streets. The Ayatollah himself might fall. But if I were to disappear, and Soroush and his men were able to vanish as well, the truth could be warped and massaged. A propaganda campaign could well convince the majority of Iranians that I was abducted by the United States government, thus ensuring decades of hatred between our nations.”

“But the people would find out the truth!” Alex exclaimed. “They couldn’t pull this over the eyes of everyone in Iran like this.”

“I fear they could convince enough people easily enough,” said Ramadani. “Many are ready to believe the worst of the United States. This could very well lead to war between our nations.”

“That’s why we’re going to stop them,” Morgan said, and dialed again. This time, Conley picked up.

“Conley,” came the voice on the line.

“I’ve got Ramadani,” said Morgan. “I need you to get us out of here.”

12:38 p.m.

Lisa Frieze was jogging back from the northeast doors to the Forty-second Street entrance to give Chambers the bad news. The three-man team of workmen who were trying to cut through the steel barrier into the terminal reported that it would take at least another three hours to make a man-sized hole. She turned the corner at Forty-second and ran toward the space under the Park Avenue overpass when she heard her name called out.

“Frieze!”

It was Peter Conley. He strode over to her. “I’ve just made contact,” he said. “My guy on the inside. He says he’s got Ramadani.”

“What?”

Conley explained that the man had rescued the Iranian president and gotten him to the Tiffany clock, where they were now awaiting rescue.

“Hell!” said Frieze. “Who is this guy?”

“Just a helpful citizen,” said Conley with a grin.

Frieze shot him a withering look. “We need to tell Chambers,” she said. “Come on.”

Chambers was inside the Pershing Square Café, which had been converted into the nerve center of the operation. Blueprints were spread out among the many tables, and rows of laptops had been set up. People yelled and rushed around. Chambers himself was conferring with a young agent at a laptop when Frieze called out his name.

“Frieze,” said Chambers as he saw her approach. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Better than you might expect.” She relayed the information, with Conley, who was standing next to her, breaking in and adding details here and there.

“Do you have him on the phone now?” asked Chambers. Frieze looked at Conley, who shook his head.

“Then get him. I want to speak to this Morgan.”

12:46 a.m.

Morgan undid the latch and pulled open the window that held the number 6 on the clock face, a white Roman numeral in a red circle against a blue background. Bracing cold fresh air rushed in and he breathed deep. Up above him, the clock’s mechanism ticked away, second by second. As he noticed the time, he was glad that the tower had no bell.

“This is our exit,” he told Alex and Ramadani.

“How?” asked Alex.

Before Morgan could answer, the phone rang, and Morgan picked up.

“Is this Morgan?”

“Who is this?”

“Chambers, FBI. I understand you have the president of Iran with you.”

“You understand right,” Morgan answered.

“I’d like to speak to him to confirm.”

“It’s for you,” said Morgan, holding out the phone for Ramadani. They exchanged a few words, then Ramadani handed the phone back to Morgan.

“We have rescue on the way,” said Chambers. “We’ll have a helicopter drop down a ladder for you at the clock window. Meanwhile, we’re going to need you to tell us whatever you know.”

“The terrorists belong to Ramadani’s security team,” said Morgan. “Although I think there might be others helping them. The leader is a man called Shir Soroush.” Morgan looked at Ramadani to confirm he’d gotten it right. On the line, he heard Chambers relay the name to someone else.

“Morgan, I need more from you. Tell me what’s going on inside.”

“I’m not in a good vantage point to see what’s happening in the main concourse,” said Morgan.

“We are planning an operation to take out the terrorists,” said Chambers. “We need to know roughly how many there are and their positions.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Morgan. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up, then said to Alex and Ramadani, “I need to scope out the place. I’ll be back soon.”

“Dad,” said Alex. “Let me go.”

“Alex, there is no way—”

“I’m smaller and quicker than you,” she said. “And they won’t shoot me if they catch me. Probably.”

“No,” said Morgan. He checked the CZ pistol and tucked it into his pants waist, against the small of his back. He handed the MP7 to Ramadani. “You know how to use this?”

“Well enough,” said Ramadani, holding it to get a feel for the weapon.

“Dad,” said Alex. “The catwalk. From there you can get a clear view of the main concourse. That’s where you should go.”

12:59 a.m.

Morgan crept down the ladder from the clock, taking each rung slowly so as to make the least noise possible. It was all too likely there would be men in the control room, and he didn’t want to give them advance warning of his coming.

He touched on the concrete floor and crouched, listening against the door to the conference room. He heard no sound of voices or footsteps. He waited for a few minutes to be sure. Then he swung the door open.

The conference room was deserted. Crouching, Morgan made his way forward so that he could just see through the window overlooking the control room. A stroke of luck, for once—no one was there. He stood up straight, clutching the sidearm two-handed as he moved down the stairs and out onto the control room. He walked toward the door, gun raised, then listened for noise out in the hall. Silence. Good.

Morgan had only a vague memory of the backstage layout of Grand Central, but his sense of direction took him up stairs and down deserted hallways to the catwalk above the main concourse. He had to crouch to see through the semicircular window. He counted seven men, standing guard on the far balcony, and four more on the floor of the main concourse guarding the east passages. He knew more men would be directly below him. He had to find a better vantage point.

He went farther down the catwalk, where a door opened onto the main concourse, to a narrow passage along the edge of the curved ceiling. Morgan emerged, crouching, stretching his neck to see what was hidden from him on the catwalk. A cluster of men stood against the leader—Soroush, Ramadani had called him—on the near balcony. Morgan whipped out his phone and redialed, counting the hostiles in his head. At least sixteen were out in the concourse—certainly more than had been at the hotel. The others would have been at Grand Central from the beginning.

“Chambers.”

“I’ve got the count,” Morgan said into the phone. “There are—”

Morgan heard the shouting first, and then gunshots. It took looking down for him to notice that they were firing at him.

Shit.

He bolted back into the catwalk, running past the window as bullets cracked the glass and sailed by.

He thought of Alex. The clock was the one place he couldn’t go. Whatever he did, he had to draw the men away from her. He had to give her and Ramadani enough time to get rescued.

He ran down hallways and stairs, gun drawn, down, down, down toward the Iranians.

1:14 p.m.

“Morgan? Morgan?” Chambers swore and hung up the phone. The Pershing Square Café was silent, hanging on his reactions.

“What is it?” asked Frieze, who was standing beside him.

“We’ve got gunfire inside!” yelled a freckled, redheaded man wearing a headset.

“I lost contact,” said Chambers.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Frieze asked. Conley seemed to be disturbed by this possibility—a look of concern and vulnerability came over his face. Whoever this Morgan guy was, this was personal for Conley.

“I don’t know,” said Chambers. “Where the hell is that chopper?”

“Delayed, sir,” said a short curly-haired woman in a black button-down. “Ignition issue. We’ve got a second one preparing for takeoff as we speak.”

“Not fast enough,” said Chambers. “It’s time to use explosives to breach. Frieze, set it up. I want this ready within the hour. Let’s get those hostages out of there.”

1:16 p.m.

The clock ticked on. The passage of each second held unbearable meaning to Alex Morgan, who with clenched fists tried to do what her father had asked of her and stay put. But when she heard the gunfire, she knew it could only have been aimed at him. Her father needed help, and she was the only one who could offer it. She stood up on the catwalk.

“Mr. President,” she said to Ramadani, who had been lost in thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need the gun.”

“You’re going to go help your father.” He exuded a deep serenity.

“The rescue helicopter should be here any minute,” she said. “You don’t need me, or the weapon, anymore.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I am not about to let a young girl go up against armed men.” He stood up with a quiet groan. “I will go. You stay.”

Alex laughed. “Save it,” she said. “Chivalry’s one thing, but you’re President of an entire country. It’s more important for you to live than me, any day.”

“That is very noble,” he said. “But I would be no kind of man if I did not go instead of you.”

“I’m not saying this just to seem noble,” she said. “It’s true, and you can’t deny it. No, I won’t let you go. And you can’t stop me unless you shoot me. And if you don’t give me that gun, I’m going without one.”

He chuckled. “There is no way—”

“I will wrestle you for it,” she said. “With all due respect.”

Ramadani unslung the MP7 and handed it to her. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. “And persistent. Do you know how this works?”

“My father taught me,” she lied, checking the safety and feeling its weight in her hand.

“He’s a good man, your father.”

“The best,” she said. “So you know why I need to do this. Wish me luck, Mr. Ramadani.”

1:19 p.m.

Morgan dashed through Vanderbilt Hall, six of Soroush’s men in hot pursuit. He took the ramp down looking to lose them on the lower concourse, but he heard shouting from below—some of them had gone around to intercept him. Only one place to go now.

Morgan pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Oyster Bar. He made a running jump over the counter, knocking over a pile of glasses to shatter on the floor. He checked the magazine in his gun. Five rounds.

Morgan figured he was worth more alive than dead—they needed him to tell them where the President was. He just had to keep them at bay long enough for Alex and Ramadani to be rescued.

For his own sake, he intended to be captured. It was his best chance at survival. But he was damned if he wouldn’t take at least one of them with him.

He heard the squeak of the door opening. Morgan stood, gun raised, and emptied the magazine, sending four of the bullets into the man in front, with the fifth missing its target. Morgan continued to pull the trigger and feigned surprise when the bullets ran out and the gun clicked again and again. Sure that he was no longer a threat, the two remaining Iranians just trained their weapons on him, stalking in his direction. Morgan dropped his empty piece and raised his hands.

1:24 p.m.

Zubin brought up the stairs to the balcony the man who was causing so much trouble—a short, muscled, dark-haired man in a soiled and torn white undershirt whose eyes bore a look of wild defiance. One less man was returning than had gone.

“What about Hossein?” asked Soroush. Zubin just shook his head.

“And who are you?” asked Soroush once the American was brought to face him.

“This is the man, I think, who took the President,” broke in Masud. “He killed Behdad in the Lost and Found, I believe—he had his gun.”

“That is him,” said Touraj. “He killed Davar as well. That is the man.”

Soroush walked a few paces forward to face him head-on.

“Is that true?” Soroush asked, looking the prisoner square in the eye.

“I didn’t really bother to learn their names.”

“And what is yours?” asked Soroush.

“Morgan,” he said.

“Mr. Morgan,” said Soroush. “You need to tell me where you took Mr. Ramadani.”

“The only people who tell me what to do are my wife and my doctor,” said Morgan. “And even then—” Soroush backhanded him across the face. Morgan ran his tongue over his split lip.

“Insolent,” said Soroush. “But we have ways of dealing with insolence. Get him to the control room.”

1:43 p.m.

Under the Park Avenue viaduct, Frieze tried Morgan’s phone for the twelfth time. Again it rang with no response.

“Frieze,” came Chambers’s pissy voice. “I need you to tell me something good.”

“No answer from Morgan,” she said. “He’s not going to pick up.”

“Goddamn it,” he said, kicking a plastic Gatorade bottle down the street. “And where is the goddamn rescue helicopter?”

“On their way,” said Nolan. “ETA ten minutes.”

“It should have been here twenty minutes ago. Nolan! Do we have the information on Soroush?”

“The Iranian embassy is not forthcoming,” said Nolan. “State Department is pushing on that front. Meanwhile, we have CIA reports. I’m sending them your way now.”

“What about the explosives teams?” asked Chambers.

“We’re a few minutes from being able to breach,” said Frieze.

“Have them ready to go on our signal. We’re timing this to the rescue of the President. I don’t want those hostages in there one minute longer than is necessary.”

1:48 p.m.

Alex Morgan clutched the MP7 in clammy hands as she stood flat against the wall of the flight of stairs that led up to the catwalk. She had gone all the way up there looking for her father, only to find that he was downstairs in the concourse. She made her way down slowly, so that she wouldn’t be heard or bump into the attackers.

The MP7 felt awkward in her hands. She had gone with her father to the shooting range before, but this was heavier than a handgun, and she had no idea what the accuracy or recoil would be like. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fire.

She was out of her depth.

She heard the movement ahead of her, right outside the control room. She listened as they passed, counting three, from the sound of the footsteps.

She waited until they had gone through the threshold to creep around the corner and stand at the door. In the control room, mere feet from the door, were two armed men and her father, with their backs to her.

“Freeze,” she said. “And drop ’em.” She punctuated this by cocking the handle. The men tensed up but didn’t turn around. “I said drop them.”

The men unslung their submachine guns. A victorious grin was forming on her lips when rough hands grabbed her from behind. The MP7 was wrenched from her hand and she was pushed aside, stumbling into a desk.

“Now, who is this?” said the man behind her in a cool British accent. “And what is she doing here?”

Alex turned to look at him, the tall, steel-gazed leader of the terrorists. The man who Ramadani had called Soroush.

She stood in defiant silence against his cold authority. He ran his hands over her pockets, and she pushed them away, which led him to punch her in the stomach. Pain rang in her head and bile surged up her throat, leaving her doubled over and retching. He reached into her back pants pocket and pulled out her student ID.

“Alexandra Morgan,” he said, looking at her father. “Do I detect a family resemblance?”

Through tearing eyes, Alex saw the fury on her father’s face. Soroush grabbed her by the hair and bent her over against the table, cheek against the cool smooth surface. An I love New York snow globe sat inches from her face, obscuring most of her view. She struggled but couldn’t get free. Soroush then gripped her left arm and pinned her hand. He released her hair, and she looked back at him to see that he had drawn a black serrated folding knife from his pocket.

“I was going to torture you,” Soroush said to her father. “But I like this better.” He grabbed her index finger, pulling it back so hard it felt like he’d broken it, and she screamed in pain. He set the knife against the base of her finger. “Where is Navid Ramadani?”

“Don’t tell him shit, Dad,” said Alex, through sobs of pain and fear.

“Quiet, love, the adults are talking,” said Soroush. “Morgan. Where? And if you send me up a blind alley, I will cut off her finger. Next, it might be her pretty little nose.”

She could hear her father’s heavy breathing.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tell him.”

“Suit yourself,” said Soroush. Alex took a deep breath and braced for the pain.

“No!” Morgan roared. “Don’t. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. Just let her go.”

“No, Dad,” she said. “You can’t do this. Not because of me.”

“Quiet,” her father said. “You’re not the one who decides. He’s up in the clock. You get up there through the door in the conference room up those stairs.”

Soroush relaxed his hold on her and drew the knife away. “If you are lying, it will be more than a finger.”

“What did you do?” Alex said. “Dad, what did you do?”

Soroush spoke in Fasrsi to one of his men, who ran toward the situation room. Soroush and the other guard backed off, giving them some space. Her father bent over her and ran his hand through her hair. “I would cause World War Three if it meant saving you,” he whispered to her.

“Dad, no . . .”

“Now I’m going to get you out of here,” he said. “Get ready to run.”

He took the snow globe from the desk and threw it at the man with the submachine gun. That was her cue. To the sound of shattering glass, Alex Morgan ran out the door with her father close behind.

2:09 p.m.

“The chopper’s making its approach,” said Nolan. They all moved outside, everyone who was not engaged at their workstation, all looking up with nervous anticipation. Frieze could hear whispered prayers around her. She turned and saw that Peter Conley was standing next to her. He caught her eye and took her hand in his. They were large and calloused. The gesture carried more comfort than she’d like to admit.

Squinting against the blue sky, she spotted the chopper once it cleared the surrounding buildings, an AS365 Dauphin painted red and white. It began its slow descent until it came to a stop, hovering in place a few yards above the ornate Tiffany clock. The window on the clock face was already open, but no one came out.

They waited interminable minutes for the figure of the President to appear. It was Conley who said it first.

“There’s no one there.”

The undeniable fact sank in. Chambers threw a clipboard against the pavement.

“What the hell do we do now?” asked Frieze.

“Now we hit them hard,” said Chambers. “Nolan, are the teams ready to breach the entrances?”

“Yes, sir. The explosives are in place.”

“Have them be in position and hold for my order. Let’s smoke out those sons of bitches.”

2:18 p.m.

The desk squealed as Paiman pushed it against the outer door of the control room. Soroush watched from the window of the situation room. He had decided not to have him go after Morgan and his daughter, but to wait for Masud to bring down Ramadani. That was the prime target. Morgan was nothing more than a distraction, a rock in his shoe. From behind him, Soroush heard the clamor of the two men descending a steel ladder. Ramadani emerged first from the door, visible through the floor-to-ceiling window of the raised situation room. Masud came next.

“Give me the cell phone you took from Morgan,” said Soroush as Masud escorted Ramadani down the stairs. Soroush took the Nokia brick phone from Paiman and hit redial. It rang twice, and then a man picked up.

“This is Chambers. Morgan, where is Ramadani?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Soroush. “Morgan is gone, and we have custody of Navid Ramadani now.”

“Who is this?”

“I will now offer you proof,” said Soroush. He held the phone near Ramadani’s mouth. “Speak.”

“This is President Navid Ramadani. I am a hostage to—”

Soroush pulled away the phone before he could say the name and backhanded the President. “You come in now,” he said, “and he dies. Along with as many other innocent bystanders we can take with us.”

2:34 p.m.

Morgan led Alex to the safest place he could think of inside Grand Central—underground. He tramped down the steel staircase toward the basement from which he’d come, above Track 61. He felt tired. His legs were weak. Now that they were away from danger, his pace slowed and he felt the deep weariness of the day.

“Dad,” Alex whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I swear, I—”

“Don’t,” he said. “You risked everything to save me. I can’t blame you for that. I did the same. I did worse.”

“Dad . . .”

They reached the short service hallway where Morgan had hidden from the MTA police earlier that day, with its twisting pipes. It seemed so long ago now.

“It’s okay,” said Morgan. “I just need to sit down for a while.”

He rested against the cool concrete wall, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dim light. The only sound came from Alex, sitting opposite him and sobbing.

2:49 p.m.

Soroush sat at the conference table and reclined in the mesh office chair. Morgan’s cell phone continued to ring, as it had for the past half hour. He regarded Ramadani, sitting across from him, and his lips broke into a victorious grin. Ramadani sat, impassive, no emotion etched onto his face. But Soroush saw that he was tired, shoulders low, bags under his eyes.

“You haven’t won,” said Ramadani.

“Haven’t I?”

“You are stuck in a train station with the entire United States security apparatus parked outside,” said Ramadani. “How do you think you will fare?”

Soroush grinned.

“Give up, Shir. Turn yourself in. I will fight for extradition and give you a pardon in Iran. The madness can stop here.”

“You are weak,” said Soroush. “And a traitor. It is no wonder you cannot discern real devotion.”

“You can’t possibly survive this.”

“Even if I don’t,” said Soroush, “the Islamic Republic will prevail.” He took up the ringing cell phone and picked up. “Your persistence is touching,” he said.

“We just want to start a conversation,” said Chambers, the FBI man. “Find out if you need anything in there. Maybe get some of the injured hostages out.”

“I am not an amateur bank robber,” said Soroush. “I don’t make conversation. I don’t make compromises. I make demands.”

“And we’d like to know what those are so we can start working on getting you what you want.”

“I want you to send in a representative,” he said. “With a cell phone, nothing more. No guns, no wires. We will open the Lexington Avenue passage for this representative to pass, and we can begin our ‘conversation.’ ”

“Okay, we can work with that,” Chambers said.

“Good. Let me remind you that we have access to all CCTV feeds. If you attempt to come in, we will begin killing hostages, starting with Ramadani. Is that clear?”

2:55 p.m.

The Pershing Square Café was in an uproar, people trying to shout over each other to get the information out to every one of the agencies represented there.

“Give me a list of hostage negotiators!” Chambers yelled out to an NYPD liaison. Lisa Frieze tapped Chambers’s arm

“Let me go, sir,” said Frieze.

“What?” he turned to her in surprise, his blond mustache twitching.

She adjusted her poise toward greater confidence, shoulders back and chin up. “I want to go in. With your permission, sir.”

He shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. “I’ve trained for this. I’m close to the situation. I’ve been here at the heart of it from the beginning. I’m the right one for the job.”

He turned to Nolan. “Am I insane for considering this?”

“She makes a strong argument,” said Nolan. “She knows everything that’s going on. It’ll be hard to get an outside negotiator up to speed on all these details.”

Chambers frowned and rubbed his temples. Staring her in the eyes, he said, “I need to know that you’re ready for this.”

“I’m ready, sir,” she said.

“If you break down in there, it’s my ass.”

“Send me in,” she said.

3:11 p.m.

Frieze took timorous steps through the Lexington Avenue doorway to face the thick steel door. She gave an “OK” signal to Nolan, who stood at a distance outside, flanked by dozens of NYPD officers and more than a few sharpshooters. She stood there a few seconds before the door rumbled open, only about waist high. She crouched and passed underneath it into the granite interior of the terminal, and the door rumbled closed behind her.

She hurried past the deserted shops, so eerie in their emptiness. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. A man appeared at the end of the passage, by the looks of him Iranian, holding an HK MP7.

“Arms out,” he said. She complied, cell phone in her right hand. He pawed at her shirt, her breasts and between her legs, looking for a wire. There was no lewdness in the act, just callous disregard. “Turn around. All the way, like a ballerina.” He finished his inspection. “Good. Follow me.”

He took her to the south side, into a service hallway and up to the control room, and into some kind of conference room, all of which she recognized from poring over photographs and floor plans outside. At the conference room table, seated in fancy office chairs, she saw Soroush and a face she recognized.

“Ms. Frieze,” said Soroush. “Meet Mr. Navid Ramadani, President of Iran.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” she said.

“I wish it had been under less strange circumstances, Ms. Frieze,” said Ramadani.