than he had when he began eating it. Fisk’s manner put him off.
Fisk said, “I thought so.”
Jenssen rallied. “You are weak, Detective Fisk. America is weak! Your government, your people . . . You will never prevail. We will consume you.”
Fisk waited until he had been quiet for a while. “You’ve got some frosting right there,” he said, touching his own chin.
Jenssen glared at Fisk until uncertainty crept into his gaze. Eventually he reached up and brushed the frosting away roughly.
Fisk reached across the table suddenly—as though to grab Jenssen by the throat.
The terrorist jerked back in his chair.
Fisk’s reach stopped at the empty baker’s foil cup on the table, crumpling it in his hand, swiping the crumbs into the carton.
“You flinched,” said Fisk.
Jenssen trembled, as if about to explode with anger. Fisk’s eyes remained unwaveringly on Jenssen’s face as he retrieved the cloth hood and pulled it down over Jenssen’s head.
He paused a moment, lowering his head to Jenssen’s ear.
“Have fun dying in prison,” said Fisk.
CHAPTER 13
Mid-September
New York City
F isk spent most of his morning in the Midtown North precinct, because one of the diplomats from Ghana had spent most of his night there.
United Nations Week wasn’t supposed to be like the navy’s Fleet Week, but for some a short week in the capital of the world was like a Las Vegas convention. The man from Ghana had hired a prostitute who visited him at his room in the Millennium Broadway Hotel. The police only became involved when the escort called them, after Mr. Ghana neglected to come up with the entire agreed-upon fee. There was a currency problem as well as a language problem and a bit of a vodka problem, and then apparently a cultural misunderstanding, and Mr. Ghana wound up in a pair of dirty bracelets, necessitating a six-hour sojourn in Midtown North.
The working girl was let go with a warning, but never recompensed the remaining two hundred dollars she was owed.
Fisk caught the guy’s ticket after a flurry of phone calls and drove over to pick up Mr. Ghana. Only problem was, Mr. Ghana’s shoes had gone missing. They had his belt, his wallet, and his passport, but no loafers. Chasing those down ate up another forty minutes of Fisk’s time. The only upside was that, once he got his shoes back, Mr. Ghana was all smiles and very happy to be chauffeured directly to his consulate on East Forty-seventh Street.
Fisk finally returned to Intel headquarters in Brooklyn—a shabby-looking, unmarked, one-story brick building on a block of auto junkyards and warehouses—just in time for a call about a suspicious car parked outside the Chinese consulate over on the West Side. This dustup was solved with two phone calls: as Fisk suspected, it was the host nation’s own federal police force, the FBI, clumsily keeping tabs on the Chinese envoy in a gray Dodge Avenger.
“Your guys might want to move farther down the street,” said Fisk, on the phone with the FBI field office at Federal Plaza, rubbing it in a little.
CHAPTER 14
I n late August, the same week Jenssen’s verdict was read, Fisk’s boss, Barry Dubin, had called him into his office.
The Intel chief was a bald egghead with an impeccably groomed goatee that hung on his face like a soft silver pennant. Ever since his divorce, Dubin wore his chunky Fordham class ring on his ring finger, which Fisk never understood. Maybe he hadn’t been able to give up his habit of twirling something on the fourth finger of his left hand.
The NYPD’s Intelligence Division was formed following the New York City terror attack of September 11, 2001. The police commissioner at the time, tired of seeing his hometown serve as the favorite target for terrorists, determined that nobody could take better care of New York City than the men and women of New York’s Finest themselves.
Many police forces across the country had bolstered their budgets and departments in the wake of
Fisk said, “I thought so.”
Jenssen rallied. “You are weak, Detective Fisk. America is weak! Your government, your people . . . You will never prevail. We will consume you.”
Fisk waited until he had been quiet for a while. “You’ve got some frosting right there,” he said, touching his own chin.
Jenssen glared at Fisk until uncertainty crept into his gaze. Eventually he reached up and brushed the frosting away roughly.
Fisk reached across the table suddenly—as though to grab Jenssen by the throat.
The terrorist jerked back in his chair.
Fisk’s reach stopped at the empty baker’s foil cup on the table, crumpling it in his hand, swiping the crumbs into the carton.
“You flinched,” said Fisk.
Jenssen trembled, as if about to explode with anger. Fisk’s eyes remained unwaveringly on Jenssen’s face as he retrieved the cloth hood and pulled it down over Jenssen’s head.
He paused a moment, lowering his head to Jenssen’s ear.
“Have fun dying in prison,” said Fisk.
CHAPTER 13
Mid-September
New York City
F isk spent most of his morning in the Midtown North precinct, because one of the diplomats from Ghana had spent most of his night there.
United Nations Week wasn’t supposed to be like the navy’s Fleet Week, but for some a short week in the capital of the world was like a Las Vegas convention. The man from Ghana had hired a prostitute who visited him at his room in the Millennium Broadway Hotel. The police only became involved when the escort called them, after Mr. Ghana neglected to come up with the entire agreed-upon fee. There was a currency problem as well as a language problem and a bit of a vodka problem, and then apparently a cultural misunderstanding, and Mr. Ghana wound up in a pair of dirty bracelets, necessitating a six-hour sojourn in Midtown North.
The working girl was let go with a warning, but never recompensed the remaining two hundred dollars she was owed.
Fisk caught the guy’s ticket after a flurry of phone calls and drove over to pick up Mr. Ghana. Only problem was, Mr. Ghana’s shoes had gone missing. They had his belt, his wallet, and his passport, but no loafers. Chasing those down ate up another forty minutes of Fisk’s time. The only upside was that, once he got his shoes back, Mr. Ghana was all smiles and very happy to be chauffeured directly to his consulate on East Forty-seventh Street.
Fisk finally returned to Intel headquarters in Brooklyn—a shabby-looking, unmarked, one-story brick building on a block of auto junkyards and warehouses—just in time for a call about a suspicious car parked outside the Chinese consulate over on the West Side. This dustup was solved with two phone calls: as Fisk suspected, it was the host nation’s own federal police force, the FBI, clumsily keeping tabs on the Chinese envoy in a gray Dodge Avenger.
“Your guys might want to move farther down the street,” said Fisk, on the phone with the FBI field office at Federal Plaza, rubbing it in a little.
CHAPTER 14
I n late August, the same week Jenssen’s verdict was read, Fisk’s boss, Barry Dubin, had called him into his office.
The Intel chief was a bald egghead with an impeccably groomed goatee that hung on his face like a soft silver pennant. Ever since his divorce, Dubin wore his chunky Fordham class ring on his ring finger, which Fisk never understood. Maybe he hadn’t been able to give up his habit of twirling something on the fourth finger of his left hand.
The NYPD’s Intelligence Division was formed following the New York City terror attack of September 11, 2001. The police commissioner at the time, tired of seeing his hometown serve as the favorite target for terrorists, determined that nobody could take better care of New York City than the men and women of New York’s Finest themselves.
Many police forces across the country had bolstered their budgets and departments in the wake of
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