The Intercept (10 page)

Chapter 19

L
adies and gentlemen, the mayor of New York, the Honorable Michael Bloomberg.”

City Hall’s public relations chief, a young woman in a crimson business suit, backed away from the podium clapping her hands, but not before tilting down the microphone.

Mayor Bloomberg took her place and smiled and waited for the applause to fade. “I think it’s safe to say, this is a day New Yorkers will never forget,” he began. “It reminds me that while New York is a city that has seen the darkest moment in our nation’s history, it has also produced some of the greatest moments. Moments of triumph and uplift. Moments of pure heroism. And we will add to the ranks of those heroes the men and women who will be joining me here today.”

Gersten, having quickly changed outfits and thrown together a weekend bag, stood in the wings on the opposite end from where The Six would be making their entrance. She looked out at the press corps and the onlookers—including hotel employees and construction workers present for the building’s ongoing renovation—and she could feel the energy in the ballroom. The moment was electric. She had underestimated the public impact of The Six’s actions.

Mayor Bloomberg continued. “As all of you know by now, shortly after noon yesterday, a hijacker armed with a knife who said he had a bomb attempted to storm the cockpit of Scandinavian Airlines Flight 903, which was thirty minutes away from landing in Newark. This criminal, a Yemeni national, failed in his attempt because six people of varying backgrounds, men and women of three nationalities, who might never have come together but for this dangerous incident, refused to yield to terror. The FBI, along with officers from the New York City Police Department’s Intelligence Division, have confirmed that the hijacker intended to murder both pilots and take control of the aircraft using its autopilot. This man had no knowledge of how to land the aircraft and, indeed, had no intention of doing so. Had he succeeded in the attempt, we might be holding a very different news conference today. We would be adding up the number of casualties and property damage estimates. Instead, we are celebrating life and the indomitable spirit of freedom.”

He shuffled his papers, then set them aside.

“And so, without further ado, the heroes of Flight 903.”

Before he could even finish the sentence, the Hyatt Grand Central’s ballroom erupted. Gersten was unprepared for the force of released emotion in the reception. Hoots and hollers from the construction workers in back. Journalists rising to their feet. She had underestimated the visceral reaction—so much so that she felt exposed by not clapping, and eventually joined in, a smile coming to her face.

The six heroes of SAS 903 filed toward the front, also clearly stunned by the response. They passed NYPD commissioner Ray Kelly, who was clapping hard enough to crush coal into diamonds. Mayor Bloomberg stepped back from the podium as the full-throated cheers from the audience of journalists and citizens washed over them.

Finally, the mayor retook the podium. “It is now my distinct pleasure to introduce these heroes to you all. We have prepared brief biographies of each of them, which most of you picked up on the way in this morning. Please hold your applause until I finish the introductions.

“First, to Commissioner Kelly’s immediate left, SAS flight attendant and purser, Margaret Sullivan.”

Maggie stepped forward at the urging of the others. Gersten saw that she had done her best with her makeup, but a night with little or no sleep showed through. She had changed into a clean Scandinavian Airlines uniform, and her face looked nearly as pale as the collar of bandages on her neck—though her smile, its sincerity, was wide and bright.

“Next, Mr. Alain Nouvian, a musician with the New York Philharmonic and a native Long Islander.”

Nouvian executed a head bow, as at the end of a well-received performance. It brought a smattering of applause despite Bloomberg’s admonition.

“Next to Mr. Nouvian is Joanne Sparks, who, as the manager of an IKEA store across the river in New Jersey, has probably furnished half the apartments in this city.”

That got a generous laugh. Sparks had changed out of her travel clothes into a sharp cream suit. She even received a few catcalls from the hotel employees in back.

“Mr. Douglas Aldrich is from Albany, where he owned a NAPA auto parts store for thirty years before retiring to dote on his grandchildren, one of whom lives in Sweden.”

Aldrich acknowledged the introduction with a half salute to Bloomberg and a chuckling wave at the audience.

“Next to him, the man who was the first to confront the terrorist, ripping what was believed to be the trigger to a live bomb from the hijacker’s hand, and fracturing his own wrist in the process. Mr. Magnus Jenssen of Stockholm.”

The room broke into forceful applause. Jenssen barely acknowledged it, not rudely but rather modestly, averting his gaze from the camera lights and cradling his gel-cast-covered right arm. His face, given a rugged edge by stubble, was blank, a passive, nonplussed expression. Gersten had once read somewhere that among Swedes, facial expressions such as smiles, frowns, and glares are parceled out much more sparingly than anywhere else in the world. Jenssen was dressed in the same casual clothes he had on when they took him off the plane in Bangor, a black turtleneck with one sleeve cut off to accommodate the cast, tan slacks, gray running shoes.

“And finally,” continued the mayor after tapping the mic to silence the room, “Mr. Colin Frank is one of you. A native New Yorker, he works as a reporter.”

Frank, still in his black suit and white shirt with the collar button undone, appeared to be the only one in touch with the surrealism of the moment. He pulled off his specs and waved awkwardly to the audience with a smile that acknowledged this absurdity.

Mayor Bloomberg said, “Ladies and gentlemen, these are your six heroes.”

Gersten watched them absorb the applause. A monitor stood on a tripod near her, and she took in the camera view of the six of them. She could see how they would be presented to the world over the next forty-eight hours or so, almost like reality television contestants. Maggie the gutsy gal. Nouvian the artist. Sparks the professional woman. Jenssen the handsome foreigner. Frank the brain. And Aldrich the humble grandpa.

“Let the TV movie casting begin,” she mumbled, wishing Fisk were there to hear it.

Police Commissioner Kelly then made a few brief remarks. He bridged the gap nicely from the courage of The Six to advocating the practice of vigilance as part of a New Yorker’s daily life.

“Fear is a sickness that can cripple our lives,” he said. “Vigilance is the antidote.”

“Okay,” said Bloomberg, returning to the podium. “Questions? Andy, you first.”

Bloomberg had selected a man-in-the-street reporter for NY1, the popular local television station.

“Mr. Jenssen. It says here in your bio that you were coming to the States to go bicycle touring and then run the New York Marathon. Will this change your plans?”

“It does seem so,” Jenssen said, as a hotel employee slid over to him with a microphone. “Not much chance for long-distance biking with this.” He patted his cast. The audience reacted to his slight Swedish accent with a kind of childish awe. Accents impress Americans, and a true Swedish accent was rarely heard in the mass media.

“What will you do then?” the NY1 reporter followed up.

Jenssen did not appear to want to play the game. “I certainly would like to start with some sleep. Then walking, I guess.”

“Are you married?” yelled a female voice from the back.

Jenssen squinted out into the accompanying laughter, but did not answer.

“One more,” said the reporter, raising his voice slightly to get it in before the mayor moved on. “Why did you—all of you—risk your life and the lives of everybody on that plane by jumping from your seat and tackling a man who said he had a bomb?”

Jenssen tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the reporter with an expression of true confusion. “There is no why. It was too fast. I’ll ask you, why did you wear that shirt today?” He watched the reporter look down at his shirt. “Exactly. There was no decision to make. No thought required. Just need and do.”

The NY1 reporter waved his arm for more, but Bloomberg shook his head. Jenssen had already retreated from the microphone anyway.

“Over there. In the yellow dress. Yes, you. Go ahead.”

“This is for Ms. Sullivan. Did you think you were going to die when the hijacker had the knife to your throat?”

Sullivan gasped and brought her hand to her throat amid a surge of camera clicking. “This is going to be a long couple of days, I guess,” said Maggie, with a laugh and a nervous smile. “I . . . gosh, sure, I guess I did think I was going to die. How strange is that? I thought it was happening right then. I thought, Okay, this is how I am going to die. He cut me right away and I . . . I felt it, but I didn’t know how bad. No life passing before my eyes or anything like that. In fact, the only thing that passed in front of my eyes was Mr. Jenssen, racing in to tackle the . . . the jerk.”

The corps laughed at her self-censorship, avoiding a curse word.

“He saved your life,” said the reporter in the yellow dress.

Maggie’s lips came together tightly in an attempt to pinch back sudden tears. She just nodded. Jenssen looked a little embarrassed.

The reporter then followed up with a comment instead of a question. “Well, we’re all so glad you’re still here,” she said.

Gersten winced at the saccharine emotion, but a wave of applause rippled through the room. This was the sort of thing spoken at press conferences where the interviewees are celebrities—which is what The Six were now.

Another reporter. “Maggie, are you looking forward to going home?”

“As soon as they let us,” she said, behind a laugh. “Somebody said something about talk shows, but I need to get some serious mirror time beforehand if that’s the case.”

More generous laughter.

There were more questions, and more stammered answers from bewildered citizens literally thrust into the spotlight. It was all congratulatory and lighthearted, yet there was a palpable sense of relief—mostly that no one had said anything outrageously dumb or offensive, thereby killing the public relations buzz—when Mayor Bloomberg called for the last question. He pointed to a television reporter flanked by her camera crew and producer.

“Hi, Colin,” she said.

“Jenny,” said Frank, recognizing the reporter with a knowing smile.

“The reporter becomes the story. How strange is it to be on that side of things, and I’m wondering if you think there might be a book somewhere in all this?”

Supportive laughter from the rest of the press corps.

Frank thought of a dozen pithy things to say and declined them all. “Here’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say, Jenny: no comment.”

The room erupted with laughter, even the mayor.

Chapter 20

F
isk himself arrived at the Grand Hyatt just as some of the reporters were filing out of the lobby, while others were doing video pickups just inside the revolving doors. He stepped to the side, flapping the wings of his jacket in an attempt to cool himself down. His shirt was damp down both sides. He billowed it, getting some cool air moving. He could not remove his jacket because he was carrying. He figured he would start to dry out just about in time to head back outside.

He rode the short escalator to reception and eyed the bank of elevators. Half of the expansive lobby was curtained off for renovations. He detoured into the gift shop for an apple or a banana, and true to form came out unwrapping a bar of chocolate instead.

He pulled out his phone to text Gersten, but then saw DeRosier and Patton at the same time they saw him. “Everything all right?” asked DeRosier.

“We’ll see. Right now just cleaning up a couple of questions. What floor?”

“Twenty-six. It’s one of the ones still being renovated. How you liking the heat?”

Fisk rolled his eyes. “How you liking the air-conditioning?”

DeRosier pressed the elevator call button. “Liking it just fine.”

They stepped into one of the elevators. Fisk pressed 26 and nothing happened. Patton swiped his key card and the elevator started to rise.

Mike DeRosier was shaved bald and broadly built, a former Boston University hockey star who had played three years in the AHL and Europe before letting go of that dream in order to pursue his backup plan in law enforcement.

Alan Patton was shorter than DeRosier, and further differentiated by a thick head of black hair marked by a thin stripe of silver flaring up from his widow’s peak, a “skunk stripe” he was unusually proud of.

Patton said, “Gersten’s in a great mood, by the way.”

Fisk smiled to himself. He played his part. “It’s not such a bad assignment.”

“Not for me,” said Patton. “Anyway, from Gersten I’m willing to put up with the attitude.” Patton turned to DeRosier. “She’s wearing the tan pants with no back pockets.”

Fisk watched them in the reflective gold doors. DeRosier nodded as the floor numbers rose. “Know them well.”

“I think I would pay twenty dollars to see her in yoga pants,” said Patton. “God, I love yoga pants.”

“Yeah?” said Fisk. “How many pairs you own?”

DeRosier laughed.

Patton said, “You know how Jeter gives his one-night stands autographed baseballs? If I were him, I’d endorse a line of yoga pants. Just set up a rack inside the door of my penthouse, hand them to the hotties as they walked in.”

DeRosier said, “You downward dog, you.”

The doors opened on 26. The hallway to the right was curtained off, collapsed scaffolding and paint cans stacked against the wall—the renovation discontinued for the time being.

They turned left. Two uniformed cops posted to the hallway quickly tucked away their personal phones.

Two adjoining rooms had been opened up and converted into a hospitality suite for the floor. A small buffet table was set to the left with coffee, croissants, soda, and mini designer cupcakes from the shop downstairs. A wall television was on, pundits talking over footage of The Six’s press conference.

“My god, I look like absolute
shit
!”

Fisk recognized flight attendant Maggie’s voice from the adjoining room. Then laughter from her fellow heroes. Fisk looked in and saw that they were watching a second television, either sitting or standing, drinking Diet Cokes, stirring tea, snacking on coffee cake.

Fisk got Gersten’s attention and she cut in front of the television, joining him in the first room. DeRosier and Patton lurked within earshot. She was indeed wearing the tan pants, her badge clipped to the belt loop.

“How we doing?” he asked.

She looked back through the door. “Unwinding,” she said. “Awaiting our next move.” She looked back to Fisk. “How you want to do this?”

He looked around. “This setup is fine as is. I’ll just speak to each one at a time. Keep it casual, relaxed. In and out.”

Patton said, “Ah, the old in-and-out.”

Gersten said, “You’re lucky you’re here now. I think once the fame bomb hits them, it’s full-on diva time. This thing is exploding. That press conference?”

Fisk said, “Caught some of it.”

“If it played half as big as it did in the room, we’re in for a busy weekend.”

Fisk pulled over two chairs. “I want to work on them in terms of no specifics, keeping everything general.”

“And,” she added, “I would be careful not to raise too many questions in their minds either, if you can help it. I know the mayor’s office is setting up some things, TV things, and they’re not pros. Last thing anybody wants is one of us stepping into the middle of an interview to cut them off.”

Fisk agreed. “One question each,” he said.

Patton’s phone rang. He stepped away, and DeRosier seized the opportunity to go off in search of Danish pastry.

Alone for the moment, Fisk said quietly, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “Momentary breakdown. I’m good. Whatever.” She nodded through the door. “Their excitement is a little contagious, I have to say.”

“Good. Oh—and Starsky and Hutch really like your choice of pants today.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Ass monkeys.”

Fisk shrugged. “They’re not wrong.”

She turned then and walked away into the adjoining suite, leaving him watching. He forced the smile from his face and switched off the television in the room so there would be no distractions.

Gersten brought him Maggie first. Fisk reintroduced himself and offered her the empty chair, himself remaining standing before the drawn window shade.

“One quick follow-up question,” he said. “We’re tying up loose ends and I’m wondering if you remember a Saudi Arabian businessman on the flight. He was seated in eight-H, window seat?” He watched her thinking. “Coffee-brown suit. Large, flat mole on the left edge of his jawbone.”

Maggie closed her eyes, visualizing the airplane’s interior. “I do . . . vaguely.” Her eyes opened. “Why, what do you want to know?”

Fisk shook his head. “Anything you got.”

“I didn’t serve him. For meal service, I worked economy.” She thought hard, struggling to give him something. “He was quiet . . .”

Fisk nodded. The last thing he wanted was for her to overreach, to invent something just so that she felt she was contributing. Just the facts, ma’am. “That’s fine. Great. Thank you.”

“Really?” Surprised, she stood. “That was easy.”

Fisk said, “I think, given what you went through yesterday, everything is going to seem easy for quite some time to come.”

Maggie liked the sound of that, and with a wink at Fisk, she returned to the adjoining room.

IKEA manager Sparks, retired auto parts dealer Aldrich, and cellist Nouvian all failed to remember the slim Arab in 8H. Reporter Frank believed he had stood behind him in line at the gate entrance, but could not give Fisk anything more than that the man carried his own neck pillow.

Fisk pushed it with the journalist. “I’m wondering if you saw him with or near the hijacker at any time prior to boarding.”

Frank looked at the ceiling. Fisk had the feeling Frank wanted badly to be part of the investigation, out of professional curiosity. “No,” he said, disappointed with himself. “Sorry.”

“In fact I think I did.” Jenssen, the wounded Swede, answered that same question, while looking pensively at a long-armed floor lamp.

Fisk said, “At the gate?”

“In the business-class lounge at Arlanda Airport. To be honest, I don’t remember seeing him at all on the plane . . . but definitely in the lounge.” Jenssen swirled the tea in his nearly empty porcelain cup. “I remember I was waiting for hot water. Now that I think about it, I believe they spoke briefly at the courtesy counter.”

“They who?”

“The man in question and the hijacker.”

Fisk studied Jenssen. He liked the schoolteacher’s matter-of-factness. He could see that this man would not tolerate a hijacker taking control of his airplane any more than he would allow somebody to muscle in front of him in a line.

But this was important. Fisk wanted to give him a chance to varnish the story, just in case. He had to be sure. “Mr. Jenssen, are you positive?”

“I am, yes. I presume you are asking for a reason?”

Fisk nodded, allowing that, but did not elaborate. “Can you remember any other details? Try.”

Jenssen focused his eyes on the unlit lamp as though constructing an image and examining it. It was another thirty seconds before he spoke.

“Something about the way they stood together made me think they were related in some way. Or acquaintances at the very least. A lack of acknowledgment, I think. Like they were familiar. They had a shorthand.” He closed his eyes. “I believe the man in the brown suit showed the hijacker something in a magazine he was reading. Our flight was called right after that.” He opened his eyes and looked at Fisk with an expression that said, Anything else?

Fisk said, “How certain are you of what you just told me? Would you say fifty percent? Seventy-five percent? A hundred percent?”

“How certain I am of seeing those two men together in the departure lounge?” Jenssen said. “One hundred percent.”

Fisk nodded. “One last question. How’s the wrist?”

Jenssen smiled, looking down at his cast. “I’ll know in three to four weeks.”