Fisk said, “She was with me in Bangor. She’s leading the Intel detail covering the flight attendant and five passengers. We’re protecting them, and we’re also watching what they say to the media or anybody else.”
“Good, leave her there,” said the commissioner. “We need someone sharp inside the tent. Let her know what to look out for, and tell her to keep it under her hat. She has to know enough of what we know in case one of the so-called Six—and God, how I hate that name already—figures out what we’re doing and starts blabbing.”
Not since Chesley Sullenberger’s “Miracle on the Hudson” had America anointed heroes so quickly. The Six, as they were becoming known, were for the most part in the throes of newfound celebrity. The twenty-four-hour news channels starved for breaking news had taken to the Internet, searching for any minutiae about the lives of the six formerly private citizens they could use to fill their airtime, biographical or otherwise.
TMZ went with a revealing bikini photograph from Maggie’s Facebook page, taken about ten years before. Upon seeing it, she turned red and covered her face when the others reacted—Frank, Nouvian, and two of the cops hooted good-naturedly—but she couldn’t stop laughing.
“Aruba,” she said. “I was teaching aerobics back then.” She discreetly set aside the cream cheese–smeared bagel she had been nibbling on.
Mayor Bloomberg had hired four temps from his own public relations firm, setting them up in one of the rooms on the floor to field media requests. The lead publicist, a tall, cheery woman with a practiced manner, took the floor.
“First of all, let me say what an honor it is just to be here with you. What you did was absolutely amazing, and the whole country is fascinated and basically in love with all of you.”
She brimmed with genuine excitement, reflected back to her by most of them. Jenssen and Nouvian stood out as being not entirely enamored of the situation.
“We have been inundated with interview and appearance requests—just swamped. Exciting and appropriate. But so much so that we couldn’t honor them all in a month if we wanted to. The mayor has asked me to coordinate things for you this weekend, to guide you through these extraordinary circumstances you find yourselves in.”
“Oprah,” whispered Maggie to the others, followed by an amazed giggle.
“Haven’t heard from Oprah yet”—the publicist smiled—“though I’ll be shocked if we don’t. Now as I said, there are a lot of opportunities and things are starting to come together, but I wanted to meet with you first and talk about your desires and expectations.”
“Such as?” asked Frank, the journalist.
“Well, often in a group situation such as this, people will nominate one to do the bulk of the speaking for them. It just makes it easier to have one voice, rather than six. So let me start like this. Does anyone want to volunteer?”
They looked at one another for a moment. Then Jenssen’s good hand went up.
The publicist looked surprised. “You’d like to be the spokesman?”
“No,” he said. “I’d prefer not to participate at all.”
“Not at all?” she said.
“That’s correct,” he answered.
Nouvian’s hand went halfway up. “I . . . I don’t mind doing my part. But I’ve got a concert coming up in six days at Lincoln Center. That means a minimum of six hours of practice per day. Minimum.”
“Okay.” The publicist was confused now. She looked to Gersten for guidance.
Gersten stepped forward. “I’m sure it’s hard for all of you to comprehend, cooped up here in hotel rooms in midtown Manhattan. But you are famous and probably on your way to becoming household names. Whether you believe it or not, you have become symbols of the best that Americans can be, of courage, of resilience. To put it another way, you are no longer private citizens, not anymore.”
She saw them trying to comprehend this, each in his or her own way.
“Now, you can turn your back on that, you can close your shades when you get home, you can unplug the phone and close your Facebook pages. Or you can, I don’t know, go around to the openings of restaurants and nightclubs for the next twenty years. The world is your oyster right now. The public wants to see you and hear from you and be inspired by you. So why not give them that? At least for this weekend.”
“Look,” said Colin Frank, not to Gersten but turning toward his fellow heroes. “I haven’t said much about this yet, except for a conversation I had with Joanne.” He nodded to the IKEA store manager. “But not only are we famous, we are going to be rich. Very, very rich, each of us, if we play our cards right. Now—I’m not saying we have to play anything up. On the contrary, the truth will out. But people will want to hear our stories. They’ll want to read our books. They may want to . . .” He pointed at Maggie. “Wear the bikinis we wear.” They laughed. “Eat the cereal we eat. Shop at the stores we shop at. Sounds crazy, but . . . do you see what I’m saying?”
“How much money?” asked Aldrich, the retiree.
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. We should talk further about how we want to go about this, both together and separately. I’m not saying we’re going to become Kardashians. Though I’m not saying we’re not. Maybe you have a charity you want to get behind and support, driving its fund-raising. I don’t know. Am I going to write a book about this? You bet your ass I am. We are going to have people coming at us, vultures and opportunists, and we need counsel, we need advice. We need lawyers and managers—and I know this sounds crazy. But I’ve been thinking about this, now that things have settled down. We have something so few others have. We are not only witnesses to but participants in history.”
The publicist interrupted him. “And that is a conversation I certainly encourage you all to have. And if I can be of any service to you going ahead, we can talk about that too, at the appropriate time. But Mr. . . .”
“Jenssen,” he answered, sitting in the back of the room, sideways on a chair, his legs crossed, his cast in his lap.
“What do you think now? You expressed reluctance.”
Jenssen scowled. “I don’t share this excitement. Money is honey, as some say. A trap. Now, I like money. Everybody likes money. But money . . . if it becomes too much, you can give it away. Now, fame—you can’t control it. Once you step onto that fame elevator, and those doors close—it takes you up or it takes you down, but it never goes sideways.”
“Good,” said Sparks. “I could use a little excitement.” She threw another of her smiles at Jenssen. “I feel like getting on and pressing all the buttons at once.”
Jenssen said, “People also apparently enjoy heroin. At first.”
Gersten spoke up. “I think you need to think about this and talk together and try to figure it out. But for tonight . . .”
She looked to the publicist, who took her cue like a pro.
“For tonight, we would very much like to schedule one major interview with the six of you. Every broadcast network has expressed major interest, but only one has a highly rated news show on in late night, and that is Nightline. We would like for you to make your network television debut tonight.”
Nouvian raised his hand like a child who had to go to the bathroom. “What if I just want to go home?”
The others turned toward him, surprised. Except for Jenssen, who crossed his arms and awaited the answer.
The publicist looked at Gersten.
Gersten said, “Going home at this point would be impossible.”
“Impossible?” asked Nouvian. “Why? I am a free man.”
“You are material witnesses to an attempted terrorist act, one that is still under active investigation.”
“First of all,” said Maggie, “we’re not witnesses, we are participants. We have a say in this. Second—how is it still active? The hijacking is over.”
Gersten said, “I have no say in this matter. I am following orders.”