“Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

“Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway. I beat the crowds by staying in.”

“Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”

7:18 a.m.

Shir Soroush stood at the window overlooking Park Avenue, arms crossed, the entire city at his feet. In his mind, the various strands of the plan were converging. Months of planning led up to this moment. Righteous energy surged through his body. Soon, he thought. So soon.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden heels padding on the carpeted floor. It was a man with a large hooked nose and a thick beard despite his relative youth. Zubin.

“I have made contact with Razi, Salm, and Sharzeh,” he said. “They are in position.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “What of the Secret Service?”

“They have two men here already, but they are scrambling. They were caught completely off guard.”

“And Ramadani?”

“The President is on his way up with Asadi and Taleb.”

“I’ll be ready to welcome him,” said Soroush. He walked to the foyer and waited, hands clasped at the small of his back, until the elevator arrived at the floor and Ramadani emerged accompanied by his secretary and chief of staff.

“Sir,” Soroush said, offering his hand for a shake. “Welcome to your accommodations in New York City.”

“Shir, it is good to see you,” said Ramadani. “You’ve done a good job here.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Beautiful. Classic.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Soroush, hiding his contempt. Ramadani’s fine features, a straight nose and strong chin, more suitable for a movie star than a statesman, concealed a weakling and a traitor to his people.

“Professional as always,” said Ramadani, making his way from the foyer to the living room. Soroush followed. Its light-colored walls, floor, and upholstery gave it an airy and light feeling. “Have you had a chance to see the city?” Ramadani asked, admiring the furniture. “You should find time to relax. Enjoy yourself. Take time to do a little shopping tomorrow.”

“It is profane,” said Soroush. “And it would take me away from my duties.”

Ramadani chuckled. “You are too grave, Soroush. You will have your time off here. I suggest you take it.”

“I am here to serve the Islamic Republic and no less,” he retorted.

“As you will,” said Ramadani. “I need to go over some things with Taleb before the meeting with the American president. We’d like something to eat as we do.” He motioned toward the dining room.

“I will ring the chef,” said Soroush.

Ramadani’s nose crinkled as they passed a closed door. “There is a strange smell coming from in there,” he said.

“It is a bathroom,” said Soroush. “I recommend that you stay clear of it, sir. The smell is due to a plumbing issue that the hotel has already assured me they will fix posthaste.”

“Make sure that they do,” said Ramadani.

Soroush’s mind went to the body of the hotel manager, so fat he hardly fit into the bathtub. The ice was not preventing his decomposition well enough. But it did not matter. They were so close now. By the time he was found, his death would hardly register as significant next to the events of the hours to come.

7:42 a.m.

Lisa Frieze adjusted a loose lock into the tight bun that held her auburn hair as the steel double doors of the elevator opened onto the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza. She checked her makeup in the metal’s reflective surface, rubbing out a smudge underneath her hazel eyes. Then she stepped out in strides that were bolder than she actually felt. She’d driven down IED-riddled streets and been under fire more times than she could count, but walking into the New York City FBI field office for the first time was giving her the jitters.

She walked past a deserted reception area and let herself in through the door to a wide-open office. A single row of fluorescent lights illuminated the long computer-lined desks that populated the room. The sky outside, through the window, was the grayish blue that always awaited the sunrise. In one corner was a figure hunched over the desk, his short brown hair and brown face lit by his computer monitor. He had a breakfast sandwich in one hand, from which he took a full-mouthed bite.

“Excuse me, I—” she began, but stopped when she noticed her voice had come out too softly. “Excuse me,” she said, more boldly. “My name is Lisa Frieze—Special Agent Lisa Frieze. I’m here to see Clement Chambers.”

The man swiveled his chair to look at her and held up his hand as he chewed. “Down that hall, first door on your right,” he said, with his mouth half-full. He swallowed hard and added, “You the rookie?”

“That’s me,” she said, coming closer. He wiped his free hand on his pants and extended it to her. “Nolan,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said, gripping his greasy hand with practiced firmness. Little things like a handshake mattered—it was too easy not to be taken seriously. The last thing she wanted in the new job was to be pegged as a girl. “Anything I should know before going in there?”

“Oh, you haven’t met the boss yet?” said Nolan, teeth flashing white in the twilight. “Let’s see . . . you get used to him?”

“Encouraging,” she said with a light chuckle.

“But seriously,” said Nolan. “He’ll be sizing you up. Be straight and don’t be spooked. You’ll do fine.”

She made her way down the darkened hallway, then knocked on the door marked CLEMENT CHAMBERS—AGENT-IN-CHARGE, COUNTERTERRORISM with three measured raps.

“Come in!”

She opened the door to a well-lit office cluttered with boxes of files. Behind the desk, framed by alternating bands of gray venetian blinds and the lightening sky, was Chambers, a ruddy man of medium build with blond hair and a blond moustache, familiar to her from pictures alone.

“Ms. Frieze, I presume,” he said, shuffling papers before standing and extending his hand in greeting. He appraised her as they shook.

“Mr. Chambers,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s good to have you in the ranks,” he said, without sounding convinced. He sat down and laid an open file in front of him, on which Frieze saw her head shot. “Take a seat.” He clicked a pen in his right hand as he leafed through the file.

“I’ve got my letters of recommendation from Agent Training and Linguistics,” she said, reaching into her briefcase.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he looked through the file. “I have everything I need here.” He leaned back in his chair, holding the file up like a book. “BA in Middle Eastern Studies, graduating with honors from the University of Chicago. Fluent in Arabic.”

“And Farsi, sir.”

He looked up at her, and continued. “Two years in Afghanistan and eighteen months in Iraq as a contractor for the US Army, working as a translator. I understand your service there was . . . not without incident.”

She squirmed in her chair. “I’ve been—”

“Declared fit for duty by a psychiatrist, I know.” He clicked the pen again. “I don’t take issue with that. But I know what PTSD can do to an agent. And I don’t like trouble, Ms. Frieze.”