Morgan erupted out into the hallway and took aim. But something made him hold fire.

Alex.

She was in the hallway, frozen as the man ran right past her toward the main concourse.

“Alex, get down!” he said. She dropped, and he pulled the trigger. Too late—the man was rounding a corner. Morgan had no hope of catching him now.

“What—” he began, fuming. She was a deer in the headlights. “You know what, I don’t even have anything to say to you. Come. Now.”

She followed without a word back into the control room.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is the first place they’ll come looking.”

“Up,” said Morgan. He led the way up a flight of stairs into the situation room, which was furnished with expensive office chairs and an sizeable conference table, and had a broad window overlooking the entire operation of the control room. At the back was a brown wooden door. Morgan opened it to reveal a low passage under an X-shaped structural support that led to a tunnel of bare concrete.

“Is this what I—” Alex was interrupted by a muffled yell. Morgan turned his attention to a large wheeled black case, the kind used by musicians to haul equipment. Morgan’s first thought was that it was big enough to fit a man inside, and his second was that a man was exactly what was inside it.

“Help me out here,” he said to Alex. Together, they laid the box on its side and undid the latches. Morgan pulled open the lid.

“Shit!” he said. “Is that—”

“President Ramadani,” said Alex.

The Iranian president, rolled up into the fetal position in the confining box, groaned and blinked glazed-over eyes.

“Mr. President, my name is Dan Morgan. I guess I’m here to rescue you.”

12:32 p.m.

Shir Soroush surveyed the main concourse from the western balcony with satisfaction. The police presence had dwindled, with the few surviving officers stripped of their guns and sent to join the other hostages. The sun, filtering in through the enormous windows, projected rays on the captives seated within the central rectangle of the main concourse, while Soroush’s men patrolled the perimeter. It would not take long now to prepare their escape, as soon as—

Soroush’s thoughts were interrupted as Touraj huffed up the balcony stairs.

“Sir,” he said, “Mansoor is dead. There is a man with a gun. He came into the control room. It was so fast, I—”

“Where is Ramadani?” Soroush demanded, full of righteous anger.

“I—the man with the gun—”

“You left him there?”

Soroush swore under his breath as Touraj explained himself. “He came out of nowhere. I barely made it out of there alive.”

“Inshallah. Zubin. Stay. Take care of the hostages. Hossein, Paiman, with me.”

Soroush led the way, Beretta in hand, down from the balcony. The hostages recoiled in fear as he passed. He walked with purpose to the control room, and then down its length and up the stairs to the situation room. The box was on its side, open and empty.

With a cry of rage, Soroush overturned the case. “Where is he?” Hossein and Paiman gave him blank stares. “I want you to comb the place. I want Ramadani found!”

12:34 p.m.

Morgan brought up the rear behind the Iranian president, going up the ladder past exposed pipes and ducts and concrete. Alex took the lead. Ramadani, still groggy from the drugs, climbed slowly. More than once, Morgan had to hold him up so that he wouldn’t fall.

Morgan heard the deep, loud clicking of the Tiffany clock before he saw it. Still, it dazzled him when he caught sight of it. The stained-glass sun radiated from the center of the clock face, glowing bright gold against the sunlight. He helped the President onto a corrugated steel platform with a final push, and then sat down next to him. Ramadani rubbed his eyes and studied Morgan.

“I owe you my life,” he said.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Morgan, checking the cell phone he had taken from Lost and Found. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Still, you did rescue me,” he said. “I am grateful. What is your name?”

“Morgan,” he said, dialing Conley’s number. “Dan Morgan.” The phone rang. No answer.

“Who are you with?” asked Ramadani. “Secret Service? FBI?”

“I’m just a guy, Mr. President,” said Morgan.

“Just a guy. Of course.”

“What can you tell me about the men with the guns down there?” Morgan asked.

“The ones who took me captive?” said Ramadani. He bent his limbs, working out the aches from his cramped confinement. “Their leader, I believe, is Shir Soroush, my head of security.”

“Do you have any idea why your own head of security would take you hostage?”

“I have a good idea,” said Ramadani. “Though I never thought he might actually do it. If you follow the politics of my country, you know that the Supreme Leader is not happy with me. The Ayatollah is losing his influence on the nation. He will be strengthened by renewed conflict with the United States. I don’t know if he is directly involved, but he would certainly be the beneficiary if I were to die.”

Alex, Morgan noticed, was listening with keen interest. “What’s the angle here, though?” he asked. “What can he gain from this? If he wanted to kill you, why didn’t he just do it at the hotel?”

“I believe his purpose was not just to kill me,” he said, sitting down against a railing. “See, if it is believed that my assassination was connected to him, the people would take to the streets. The Ayatollah himself might fall. But if I were to disappear, and Soroush and his men were able to vanish as well, the truth could be warped and massaged. A propaganda campaign could well convince the majority of Iranians that I was abducted by the United States government, thus ensuring decades of hatred between our nations.”

“But the people would find out the truth!” Alex exclaimed. “They couldn’t pull this over the eyes of everyone in Iran like this.”

“I fear they could convince enough people easily enough,” said Ramadani. “Many are ready to believe the worst of the United States. This could very well lead to war between our nations.”

“That’s why we’re going to stop them,” Morgan said, and dialed again. This time, Conley picked up.

“Conley,” came the voice on the line.

“I’ve got Ramadani,” said Morgan. “I need you to get us out of here.”

12:38 p.m.

Lisa Frieze was jogging back from the northeast doors to the Forty-second Street entrance to give Chambers the bad news. The three-man team of workmen who were trying to cut through the steel barrier into the terminal reported that it would take at least another three hours to make a man-sized hole. She turned the corner at Forty-second and ran toward the space under the Park Avenue overpass when she heard her name called out.

“Frieze!”

It was Peter Conley. He strode over to her. “I’ve just made contact,” he said. “My guy on the inside. He says he’s got Ramadani.”

“What?”

Conley explained that the man had rescued the Iranian president and gotten him to the Tiffany clock, where they were now awaiting rescue.

“Hell!” said Frieze. “Who is this guy?”

“Just a helpful citizen,” said Conley with a grin.

Frieze shot him a withering look. “We need to tell Chambers,” she said. “Come on.”

Chambers was inside the Pershing Square Café, which had been converted into the nerve center of the operation. Blueprints were spread out among the many tables, and rows of laptops had been set up. People yelled and rushed around. Chambers himself was conferring with a young agent at a laptop when Frieze called out his name.

“Frieze,” said Chambers as he saw her approach. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Better than you might expect.” She relayed the information, with Conley, who was standing next to her, breaking in and adding details here and there.