“I got only one maybe. Saudi passport, Baada Bin-Hezam, thirty-two years of age. He’s an art dealer coming to New York to consult on the repatriation of a collection of early Arabian artifacts looted by the Brits when they occupied Iran. This guy gets around. London and Berlin earlier this month. Stockholm just to change planes. Fits his occupation, of course. ICE has him coming out of Sanaa to Frankfurt three months ago, soon after bin Laden went down.”

“And he’s not no-fly?” said Fisk.

“No. Nothing about him looks especially hinky, except now that we’re looking for something.”

“The genius of profiling,” he snarked. “Turning square pegs into round ones.”

Gersten stretched her neck and felt it crack. “What did you get on your list?”

Fisk rubbed his tired eyes. “Not much. Two families, very low probability. Really only one guy I want to look at a little bit. Engineering student at Linnaeus University in southern Sweden. From Tunisia originally. Lukewarm. He’s got a cohesive CV. He’s published legitimate papers on wind turbines.”

Gersten said, “I think the Saudi is worth a thorough look-see.”

“I guess I do too. Any idea where he is now?”

She pulled his sheet. “Cleared customs in Newark at twelve thirty this morning. No track after that.”

“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.”