Jenssen scowled again at the old man’s toast to Bin-Hezam’s murder.

A few moments later Detective Gersten returned, walking the length of the bar—slowing a bit when she saw they were the last ones there. It looked like she was still distracted by her phone call.

“Late, huh?” she said.

“You look troubled.”

“Do I?” She was disappointed that her expression had given her away. “Just tired. Got to get up early. So do you.”

“Indeed,” he said, putting forth his best smile. “Still, I hate to see a Saturday night in the city come to an end. I am thinking I will make an exception on this fine night.”

Her eyebrows rose over a grin. “An exception to what?”

“I think I might order a nightcap after all. If you will join me.”

Her grin spread into a smile. She looked away, only inches, out the window behind him. Then back to him. “Magnus?” she said.

“Yes, Detective?”

“I’d like to. I really would. I’m flattered. But—I just can’t.”

“Can’t we both make an exception tonight?” he said, smiling, pushing. He laid his good hand gently on top of hers.

She smiled at the gesture, and he saw that she was teetering on the edge of yes. But just at that moment, the clocks over the entrance to Grand Central began to chime. The twelve notes of midnight. These tones decided the matter for her, and she slid her hand out from underneath his.

“Good night, Magnus,” she said.

She turned to go away, but Jenssen could not read her thoughts. What had her look said to him? That she knew? Was she toying with him? Keeping him close to her—and yet at arm’s length?

He decided he could not let her go without knowing.

When he offered himself for recruitment in Malmö, they had promised him that the honor of martyrdom would be his. Jenssen, having had time to think deeply about the afterworld, wasn’t convinced about the details. But dying in an act of vengeance against the Western powers that had corrupted and destroyed the lives of his family was the best way to end his own life. A desire for blood revenge ran deep in Jenssen. He embraced the dawning of the day of his own death, as he believed he’d soon be reunited with his mother and father.

When he accepted the mission, they made him memorize the martyr’s prayer, which he repeated in his head as he rose from his bar chair.

Think not of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead . . . I would love to be martyred in Allah’s cause and then get resurrected and then get martyred, and then get resurrected again and then get martyred and then get resurrected again and then get martyred . . .

Chapter 63

Upstairs Gersten laid her Beretta 84FS Cheetah on her bedside table. She slipped her cell phone from its pouch inside her suit jacket and checked it for messages. Nothing more from Fisk.

She opened the scramble alert for the woman known as Aminah bint Mohammed, just to look at the convert’s face. Not the face of evil. The woman’s eyes said nothing. That was the scary thing, the thing that kept people like her up at night: the limitations of profiling. Not every terrorist fit the bill.

She darkened the screen to show just the clock and the date. Just a few minutes into Sunday, July 4. After Christmas, this was probably her favorite holiday. Cookouts and parades and Popsicles. It took her right back to childhood. She had a sudden craving for orange soda.

Later that day, there would be a ceremony marking the opening of One World Trade Center, the new tallest landmark in New York City. Taking the place of the ones that fell on that day that changed everything. That gave her the job she had now.

She turned and caught a look in the mirror. She pushed away a rogue strand of hair and wondered what exactly had so entranced the tall, blond, and blue-eyed schoolteacher from Sweden. Tempting, that one. Something about his face and the inflection of his translation of his own words from Swedish to English, giving them a formal politeness that contrasted with the diffidence of his personality. Perhaps, she realized, she ought to play hard to get more often.

Then she heard a knock at her door. She frowned, assuming it was either DeRosier or Patton—and if so, it meant something else was up, and bedtime was that much further away.

Or was it Fisk? A long shot, but . . .

She looked through the eyehole. None of the above.

It was Jenssen. So tall, the top of his head was not quite visible.

Christ. Apparently she hadn’t been firm enough downstairs. He had crossed the line from flattery to boorishness. Time to drop the hammer on this frisky pup, and send him back to his room.

Chapter 64

The bolt was thrown, and the door opened. Jenssen saw her stern expression and, below it, her uncovered neck.

He was on her immediately, before she had a chance to speak or cry out. He used the element of surprise to take her down fast. Even one-handed, his six-foot-four-inch, 210-pound frame was too much for her. He threw all his weight on her as the door closed behind him.

The momentary shock passed and Detective Gersten realized what was happening. She fought him, though Jenssen already had the advantage. He had her on the floor and forced his good forearm against her windpipe, up hard into her jaw. She gripped his arm with one hand, but was not strong enough to pull it away.

With her other, she balled her fist and aimed for his groin first. Then his throat.

Jenssen pushed back mightily against the top of her throat, feeling her thrashing beneath him. She kicked his legs but not with much force. He only worried about an impact to his cast, which could ignite the explosive prematurely.

She tried to call out, but her voice was caught beneath his forearm. Her eyes bulged, moving within her incapacitated head as she searched for a weapon, anything.

Jenssen put all his weight into her throat, grinding the top of her skull into the carpet.

She struck him against his ear. The pain was sharp, and knocked him off balance. She squirmed out from beneath him, one hand to her throat. She was trying to scream, but only a whisper came out.

He reached for her neck again. She kicked him in the side, and he struck her temple, knocking her head into a low cabinet.

She was crawling, dragging herself around her bed toward her nightstand. And her handgun.

Jenssen gripped her leg and yanked hard, pulling her away. He climbed up her back, forcing her against the carpet. She kicked at the floor—eager to make any noise, raise any alarm. With his explosive cast held out at his side, he jammed his good arm beneath her neck, feeling the architecture of her throat as he squeezed, whispering the martyr’s prayer into her ear.

Part 8

Moment of Silence

Sunday, July 4

Chapter 65

Fisk received a call around 6:00 A.M. from an overnight captain who had a call from one of his detectives. He had just come off a homicide in the park, near the Met. “He came in and got a look at your alert. The decedent resembles this bint Mohammed lady. Said the resemblance was strong enough that I should call.”

“Dead in the park?” said Fisk, jotting it down. “Who found the body?”

“Didn’t get that part. That time of night in Central Park, you probably don’t wanna know.”

Fisk hung up. Before he could call the Office of Chief Medical Examiner, the overnight coroner rang through to him.

“I just heard,” said Fisk. “You have pictures?”

“Not for a while now. Backed up. Three suicides, a motorcycle accident, and an overdose.”

Fisk knew he’d have to appear in person to make the positive ID anyway. “On my way right now,” he said.

Fisk called Dubin from the cold basement on First Avenue near Thirty-second Street, beneath the pavement of the East Side.