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.”
“You won’t have any from me,” she said, locking eyes with him.
He looked down and closed the file. “You were a translator,” he said. “Making good money. In fact, I know you’d be making more today if you’d continued as a translator than now that you’ve undergone special agent training.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.
He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Greater risk, less reward. Which leads me to ask you—what does bring you to our doorstep, Ms. Frieze?”
She stared at him just long enough to convey that she didn’t need to answer his question. Then she said, “To better serve my country and the Bureau, sir.”
Chambers grinned. “Yes, I’m sure.” He picked up the pen again and sat back. His chair squeaked against his weight. “You came in on a rather unusual day,” he said. “The arrival of the Iranian president means most of our team is scattered around the city. This has been weeks in preparation. There’s not much we can use you for today. I can have you shadow one of our agents coordinating with the Diplomatic Security Service.” He stood up, and Frieze followed suit. “Let me get you acquainted with your desk.”
As she turned to walk out, the door opened and Nolan leaned into the office. “Ramadani’s switching hotels.”
“What the hell do you mean, he’s switching hotels?” demanded Chambers.
“He’s not going to the Plaza,” said Nolan. “Apparently his motorcade is on its way to the Waldorf right now.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Why the hell am I only hearing about this now?”
“They sprung this on everyone. I only just got the call from the NYPD. They’re calling it a security measure against possible planned attacks on the Plaza.”
“Damn it,” said Chambers. “Was anyone on our side privy to this?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” said Nolan. “Information’s still sketchy. We’re scrambling to get up to speed.”
“Christ,” said Chambers. “Unbelievable. Get everyone up to speed, then find out whatever you can. What a goddamn nightmare. Rookie!”
It took Frieze a moment to realize he was talking to her. “Yes, sir?”
“Get up there.”
“Up there, sir?”
“To the Waldorf. I want a full roster of hotel staff and their work schedules