“Get me the report I asked for,” he said. “And stay out of everyone’s way. I can’t spare anyone to hold your hand today.”

“Sir, I’ve got experience with forensic—” He hung up before she could finish. Adding to her frustration was the solid wall of bystanders that stood before her.

“FBI!” She yelled out. “Out of my way!”

The crowd parted, finally, and she pushed through to the police cordon. A young man in aviators wearing the black uniform of the NYPD and holding a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee stepped forward to meet her.

“Special Agent Lisa Frieze,” she said, flashing her badge. “I need to get inside.”

“I can let you through, but the hotel’s locked down,” he said, lifting and pulling the steel barrier one-handed with a grunt, opening a crack just wide enough so she could pass. “No one’s going in or out. There was a bomb, you know. At Penn Station.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Emergency procedures,” he said and sipped his coffee. “To protect the president of Iran. Although if you ask me, I don’t know why we’re trying to protect the bastard, anyway.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“Didn’t what?”

“Ask you. I just need to get inside.”

“You can try,” he said, shrugging.

She walked up to one of the glass double doors to the Waldorf lobby and knocked on the glass, holding up her badge. A man in a suit who was standing guard, blond and bony-faced, either Secret Service or Diplomatic Security, mouthed locked down. She raised her badge higher and raised her eyebrows, but he just shook his head.

She turned back and looked up and down Park, running her fingers through her drawn-back hair. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. No signal.

Great.

“Looks like you and I are late to the party.”

She wheeled about to find the man who’d spoken. He was tall and wiry with a strong chin and nose, in khakis and a blue button-down with rolled up sleeves despite the cold. Handsome, in a sort of professorial way. But he was no professor. The faint scars on the back of his hand pegged him as a man of action. And if he was on this side of the police barriers, he was no mere civilian.

“Peter Conley,” he said, holding up his ID. “State Department.”

“FBI. Agent Frieze. Lisa.” She held out her hand and they shook. “Can you get me inside?”

“No can do,” he said, “Secret Service is running point, and they get territorial.”

She looked back at the hotel and the stolid agent at the door. “Are you the one in charge here at the scene?”

“I’m way down in the totem pole, sugar,” said Conley. “Plus, no one’s in charge at the moment, as far as I can tell. But one of the cops had radio contact with someone on the inside. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

9:05 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked out into the colonnaded lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. He was glad to see plenty of guests had come down to complain of the lockdown, tripping over each other to scream at a couple of harried hotel employees at the front desk. He counted seven Secret Service agents posted at the doors and corners, solemn and more tense than usual—no guests dared approach any of them. Four others Morgan recognized by their beards as belonging to President Ramadani’s security team. One eyed him with suspicion, and Morgan made for the disgruntled swarm until he spotted what he was looking for—a bald man in a cheap suit whose bearing told Morgan he was not a Fed or used to dealing with guests. He was walking across the lobby, keeping his distance from the crowd.

Morgan approached him. “Excuse me.”

“Get back to your room, sir,” he rasped without making eye contact. “The lockdown will be over when it’s over.”

“You don’t understand.” Morgan flashed his Homeland Security badge—one of many fakes issued him by Zeta Division, whose friends in high places guaranteed the credentials checked out against official records. “Dan Morgan,” he said. “You work security here at the hotel?”

“Head of,” he said without slowing down. “Shane Rosso.”

“Spare a word?”

“You wanna talk to me, you gotta walk with me.” Morgan liked this guy already. “Now, I’ve spoken to your people already.”

“They’re not my people,” said Morgan. “I’m here as a guest. Just making myself useful.”

“If you say so.” Rosso pushed open the door into the service hall and held it for Morgan. “Come on.” The hallway was a little small for the two of them to walk abreast, so Morgan let Rosso take the lead. “So what’s your question?” He asked without turning back.

“Did anything strange happen between yesterday and today?”

“What, you mean besides a bunch of Bahrainis coming in to take over my hotel? Or the fact that it turns out they were Iranians, and I had their goddamn President arriving right under my nose, making them that much more of a pain in my ass?” Heat wafted out as they passed the door to the kitchen. “Maybe you mean the bomb at Penn Station, and the fact that the Secret Service is shutting up my hotel because of it. Or maybe you mean the fact that the good-for-nothing manager decided not to show up.”

“Who’s your manager?” asked Morgan. They walked together into a small office with Rosso’s name on the door. In it were steel files and a scratched and bent cheap office desk. Rosso hunched over at a computer station without sitting down and pecked at the keys with his two index fingers, navigating some sort of database.

“Angelo Acosta,” said Rosso. “He was supposed to come in and help with this crap, but no one can reach him. Fat bastard probably couldn’t drag his ass out of bed in the morning.”

“Has he missed work like this before?”

“Nah,” said Rosso. “Now that I think about it. Not without calling in. Probably going to get fired over this, especially today of all days.” The printer on the desk next to the monitor whirred, and then stopped. “Of course, our general manager didn’t manage to come in this morning with all the ruckus.” Rosso slapped the printer twice with an open palm. “These goddamn things, am I right?”

“Any chance I could take a look at the security tapes between yesterday and today?”

“I got no problem with it,” said Rosso, fumbling with the mouse. He double clicked, and the printer started going again. This time, it spat out printed sheets, tables with short words and numbers—guest data, Morgan figured. “But between the Iranians and the Secret Service, I don’t even have access to my own hotel’s cameras.”

“What if I ask them?”

“I gather the Iranians won’t take too kindly to it,” said Rosso. “Better chance with the Secret Service, if you wave that fancy badge in their faces.”

“I know how to deal with them. Meanwhile, can you show me the guest and employee manifests? I need to get them out to my people ASAP.”

Rosso grunted. “It’s the second time in an hour someone’s asked me to do that. You government types really need to learn to share.”

9:22 a.m.

Shir Soroush checked his watch one last time, then marched across the Presidential Suite’s living room to the office. Navid Ramadani was conferring with his chief of staff and his secretary, huddled over the desk and away from the windows, as they had been instructed after finding out about the shootings at Grand Central. Masud and Ebrahim, who were standing guard in the room, acknowledged Soroush as he walked in.

“Come with me, Mr. President,” said Soroush.

“What is happening?” demanded Ramadani, standing up in alarm. Perspiration showed on his brow.

“We are under attack,” Soroush said.

“What? By whom?”

Soroush exchanged a glance with Masud, then unholstered his suppressed Beretta .45 and fired. The bullet burrowed through Ebrahim’s right eye and burst out the back, showering the desk and the white curtains of the suite in blood. With his silenced pistol, Masud plugged two bullets in the back of the heads of Asadi and Taleb, who collapsed on the carpeted floor.