“Okay,” said Fisk. “Keep them together, keep them moving.”

DeRosier and Patton tossed their coffee cups into the trash and went to escort The Six back upstairs. With a quick tip of his head, Fisk stepped out into the hallway, Gersten just two steps behind him. He walked to the far end, turning a corner and ducking in at a little alcove that once held pay phones, near the restrooms.

They hugged there, nothing too physical. It never felt right while they were on the job.

“Honest appraisal,” he said.

“Far-fetched,” she said, looking at his hand holding hers. “But—so was flying airplanes into buildings ten years ago.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Just don’t lose sight of the fact that the hijacker got into the galley with a knife. He slashed at the throat of a flight attendant. That was real. He wasn’t faking anything. Not so far as he was aware. Abdulraheem believed he was taking that plane down. And these people risked their own lives to stop him.”

Fisk nodded. “You’re right. Good point going forward. I’m not trying to rewrite that. I’m just trying to understand this whole thing. It’s something bigger, right? I mean, tell me I’m not just off on a wild-goose chase, overthinking this.”

“You’re not. What does Dubin say?”

“Hard to tell. He’s throwing everything at this. I guess that says it all.”

“You okay?”

“I’m better now. This morning, before we’d heard anything and still had no trace of Bin-Hezam, I was not too pleasant to be around.”

“Is that why you never got in touch with me overnight?”

He winced. “Yeah. That and . . . you know how it gets.”

“I know exactly how it gets,” she said quickly, hoping to neutralize the shrill, one-word text she had sent him that morning. “Just feeling stranded here.”

“I get it. Wish I had you out there, believe me.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which . . .”

“I know,” she said.

“Anything looks hinky here, do not hesitate,” said Fisk. “I mean anything. Everything’s still up for grabs.”

“I’m on it,” she told him, as he pulled away from her.

“Sunday night. When all this is behind us, God willing. A bottle of red, right?”

“A big bottle,” she said. “But let’s get there first.”

He blew her a kiss before hurrying out into the main hallway, turning the corner, disappearing. Gersten remained behind a few moments longer, partly so they wouldn’t be seen together, partly because she wanted to be alone.

Maybe The Six were the target. Security at the Hyatt was meant to keep away the press and fame seekers, not terrorists. The twenty-sixth floor was basically secure, in that everybody on or off the elevator was eyeballed. The hotel location was an open secret, however. They had been outside at the Today show that morning, vulnerable to the enthusiastic crowd surrounding them. The group was easy to spot.

She felt better knowing that she could do something proactive now. She felt like maybe something was finally coming her way.

Gersten rode up to 26 with a bickering family of German tourists staying on one of the higher floors. She walked into hospitality and immediately Patton gave her a strange look, as though surprised she was alone. She assumed he was expecting Fisk.

“Where’s Nouvian?” asked Patton.

Gersten said, “How would I know?”

“He didn’t get on my elevator. I thought he was with DeRosier, but no.”

DeRosier came over. “Nouvian isn’t with you?”

“Where’d you go?” asked Patton.

Gersten stepped back toward the door. “You’re sure he’s not up here?”

Patton gave her a look that showed her his concern was not misplaced.

“Shit,” she said, angry with these guys as well as herself. And just after Fisk’s warning. “I’ll hit the lobby. Try his cell phone.”

“Already did,” said DeRosier, his voice following her out to the elevator. She pressed the call button and waited an unusually long period of time. The door opened on the same German family, who had apparently returned to their room for a forgotten item. They rode down in a glum silence, Gersten’s foot tapping.

She jumped out on 2, the floor the ballrooms were on, and strode quickly back and forth along the ornate hallway, just shy of jogging. She returned to the side hall where she and Fisk had spoken, near the restrooms. She knocked on the men’s room door and checked inside, then the women’s room, leaving nothing to chance. No Alain Nouvian.

She cut back out to the stairs, running down one flight to the lobby. From the top of the escalators, near the construction, she saw down to the street entrance and its revolving doors. No Nouvian there either.

She hustled up into the bar area, which jutted out from the façade, one floor over the sidewalk. The walls, the ceiling, and even the floor were made of glass, affording her a decent view of Forty-second Street, half a block each way. No sign of a fifty-one-year-old cellist with a dyed black comb-over.

Then back down to the reception area, searching the lines of arriving guests waiting to register. The small shop that sold coffee and candy was not busy at that hour, and he was not there. She turned behind the elevator bank, past a few other small hotel retail shops, trying to figure out what her next move was. Call Fisk? Not first. Not if she could help it. But he was her superior, and the point man for this case.

They had talked about things like this, once upon a time. How he might have to ask her to risk her life in the line of duty someday. She told him then and she felt it now: she wouldn’t hesitate to make the difficult decision, and neither should he.

And now she supposed that went for fuck-ups too.

Just as she was giving up, and about to head back up to 26 to eat shit, she saw Nouvian walking toward her. He recognized her and there was a moment of surprise in his face—nearly panic—but a split second later it was gone. She wasn’t sure what it meant. It could have been pure embarrassment at getting lost.

“What happened?” she said, trying not to sound too angry or relieved.

He was flustered and immediately defensive. “I guess I got on the wrong elevator or pressed the wrong button or something.”

“Well . . . you know how hotels work, right? You go back up.”

“Of course. I just . . . the door opened on the lobby, and I didn’t know where everybody else went . . . and so I thought I’d stretch my legs a bit.”

They were directly behind the elevator bank now. A small concourse of shops. “Shopping?”

“No, no. Clearing my head, mostly.”

“Stretching your legs, clearing your head.” She took his arm and started back around to the elevators. “We tried calling you.”

“My phone is still upstairs. Didn’t need it for the interview.”

Gersten pressed the up button. She quickly called DeRosier’s cell, hoping they hadn’t called in this mishap. When he answered she said, “Found him, coming back,” then hung up. She went quiet then, waiting to see what Nouvian would say next.

“I didn’t mean to . . . I hope I didn’t alarm anyone.”

“Little bit,” she said, as an empty car arrived.

They entered and stood on opposite sides as the elevator rose. She glanced at him in the reflective golden doors, sweating him a little. Trying to figure out whether he was just odd or if there was any more to it.

He kept his eyes on the floor as though they were strangers—indeed, they weren’t much more than that—and when the doors opened he waited for her to exit the car first, in the most automatically cordial way. She did the same for him at the turn into the corridor, passing the two NYPD cops. She saw him into the suite, watching him enter past Patton and DeRosier, neither of whom addressed him, letting him pass without a word into the adjoining room. Gersten gave them each a tiny shrug that said, “I don’t know,” then turned and went back to the elevator.