Fisk nodded once. “Okay.”

“I’m sick of being treated like an intern around here.” She turned toward the door, walked to it, then pivoted back. “But an assignment is an order, and you know what? Fuck Dubin. I’m going to get me a long, hot bath at some point this weekend and live out of the Hyatt’s minibar, and smile and walk these heroes around like a preschool teacher on a fucking TV station field trip.”

She turned and walked out. Fisk knew it was best to just let her go. She didn’t like a lot of the assignments she drew, but obeying them and excelling at them was never an issue.

Chapter 19

Ladies and gentlemen, the mayor of New York, the Honorable Michael Bloomberg.”

City Hall’s public relations chief, a young woman in a crimson business suit, backed away from the podium clapping her hands, but not before tilting down the microphone.

Mayor Bloomberg took her place and smiled and waited for the applause to fade. “I think it’s safe to say, this is a day New Yorkers will never forget,” he began. “It reminds me that while New York is a city that has seen the darkest moment in our nation’s history, it has also produced some of the greatest moments. Moments of triumph and uplift. Moments of pure heroism. And we will add to the ranks of those heroes the men and women who will be joining me here today.”

Gersten, having quickly changed outfits and thrown together a weekend bag, stood in the wings on the opposite end from where The Six would be making their entrance. She looked out at the press corps and the onlookers—including hotel employees and construction workers present for the building’s ongoing renovation—and she could feel the energy in the ballroom. The moment was electric. She had underestimated the public impact of The Six’s actions.

Mayor Bloomberg continued. “As all of you know by now, shortly after noon yesterday, a hijacker armed with a knife who said he had a bomb attempted to storm the cockpit of Scandinavian Airlines Flight 903, which was thirty minutes away from landing in Newark. This criminal, a Yemeni national, failed in his attempt because six people of varying backgrounds, men and women of three nationalities, who might never have come together but for this dangerous incident, refused to yield to terror. The FBI, along with officers from the New York City Police Department’s Intelligence Division, have confirmed that the hijacker intended to murder both pilots and take control of the aircraft using its autopilot. This man had no knowledge of how to land the aircraft and, indeed, had no intention of doing so. Had he succeeded in the attempt, we might be holding a very different news conference today. We would be adding up the number of casualties and property damage estimates. Instead, we are celebrating life and the indomitable spirit of freedom.”

He shuffled his papers, then set them aside.

“And so, without further ado, the heroes of Flight 903.”

Before he could even finish the sentence, the Hyatt Grand Central’s ballroom erupted. Gersten was unprepared for the force of released emotion in the reception. Hoots and hollers from the construction workers in back. Journalists rising to their feet. She had underestimated the visceral reaction—so much so that she felt exposed by not clapping, and eventually joined in, a smile coming to her face.

The six heroes of SAS 903 filed toward the front, also clearly stunned by the response. They passed NYPD commissioner Ray Kelly, who was clapping hard enough to crush coal into diamonds. Mayor Bloomberg stepped back from the podium as the full-throated cheers from the audience of journalists and citizens washed over them.

Finally, the mayor retook the podium. “It is now my distinct pleasure to introduce these heroes to you all. We have prepared brief biographies of each of them, which most of you picked up on the way in this morning. Please hold your applause until I finish the introductions.

“First, to Commissioner Kelly’s immediate left, SAS flight attendant and purser, Margaret Sullivan.”

Maggie stepped forward at the urging of the others. Gersten saw that she had done her best with her makeup, but a night with little or no sleep showed through. She had changed into a clean Scandinavian Airlines uniform, and her face looked nearly as pale as the collar of bandages on her neck—though her smile, its sincerity, was wide and bright.

“Next, Mr. Alain Nouvian, a musician with the New York Philharmonic and a native Long Islander.”

Nouvian executed a head bow, as at the end of a well-received performance. It brought a smattering of applause despite Bloomberg’s admonition.

“Next to Mr. Nouvian is Joanne Sparks, who, as the manager of an IKEA store across the river in New Jersey, has probably furnished half the apartments in this city.”

That got a generous laugh. Sparks had changed out of her travel clothes into a sharp cream suit. She even received a few catcalls from the hotel employees in back.

“Mr. Douglas Aldrich is from Albany, where he owned a NAPA auto parts store for thirty years before retiring to dote on his grandchildren, one of whom lives in Sweden.”

Aldrich acknowledged the introduction with a half salute to Bloomberg and a chuckling wave at the audience.

“Next to him, the man who was the first to confront the terrorist, ripping what was believed to be the trigger to a live bomb from the hijacker’s hand, and fracturing his own wrist in the process. Mr. Magnus Jenssen of Stockholm.”

The room broke into forceful applause. Jenssen barely acknowledged it, not rudely but rather modestly, averting his gaze from the camera lights and cradling his gel-cast-covered right arm. His face, given a rugged edge by stubble, was blank, a passive, nonplussed expression. Gersten had once read somewhere that among Swedes, facial expressions such as smiles, frowns, and glares are parceled out much more sparingly than anywhere else in the world. Jenssen was dressed in the same casual clothes he had on when they took him off the plane in Bangor, a black turtleneck with one sleeve cut off to accommodate the cast, tan slacks, gray running shoes.

“And finally,” continued the mayor after tapping the mic to silence the room, “Mr. Colin Frank is one of you. A native New Yorker, he works as a reporter.”

Frank, still in his black suit and white shirt with the collar button undone, appeared to be the only one in touch with the surrealism of the moment. He pulled off his specs and waved awkwardly to the audience with a smile that acknowledged this absurdity.

Mayor Bloomberg said, “Ladies and gentlemen, these are your six heroes.”

Gersten watched them absorb the applause. A monitor stood on a tripod near her, and she took in the camera view of the six of them. She could see how they would be presented to the world over the next forty-eight hours or so, almost like reality television contestants. Maggie the gutsy gal. Nouvian the artist. Sparks the professional woman. Jenssen the handsome foreigner. Frank the brain. And Aldrich the humble grandpa.

“Let the TV movie casting begin,” she mumbled, wishing Fisk were there to hear it.

Police Commissioner Kelly then made a few brief remarks. He bridged the gap nicely from the courage of The Six to advocating the practice of vigilance as part of a New Yorker’s daily life.

“Fear is a sickness that can cripple our lives,” he said. “Vigilance is the antidote.”

“Okay,” said Bloomberg, returning to the podium. “Questions? Andy, you first.”

Bloomberg had selected a man-in-the-street reporter for NY1, the popular local television station.

“Mr. Jenssen. It says here in your bio that you were coming to the States to go bicycle touring and then run the New York Marathon. Will this change your plans?”

“It does seem so,” Jenssen said, as a hotel employee slid over to him with a microphone. “Not much chance for long-distance biking with this.” He patted his cast. The audience reacted to his slight Swedish accent with a kind of childish awe. Accents impress Americans, and a true Swedish accent was rarely heard in the mass media.