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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.
    “Me,” said Soroush.
    “What are you doing?” demanded Ramadani, standing from the table, eyes ablaze with fury.
    Not as weak as I thought.
    “Taking back the Republic,” said Soroush. “Sit.”
    “I will not—”
    Masud made his move, kicking the President’s leg to make him sit on the heavy oak chair. “ Sit, ” Soroush repeated. Then, “Masud.”
    Masud drew the thin syringe from his suit jacket. In one swift motion he thrust the needle into Ramadani’s neck and pressed the plunger.
    “What—” the President yelped in surprise. His eyes rolled upward and his spine went slack. Masud grabbed him before his head hit the table in front of him.
    “Phase one is complete,” Soroush said into his radio communicator. “Phase two begins now.”

9:41 a.m.
    Lisa Frieze tried to suppress a shiver as she leaned against the cool stone of the outside of the Waldorf Astoria. She was looking around at the various law enforcement personnel who were milling about within the cordoned zone. The crowd had thinned significantly as news of the attack spread and people hurried to their loved ones or fled the area. She tried her parents again, but it was impossible to get a call through, so she checked the news for updates. Nothing. She looked up again and was startled by Peter Conley, who stood facing her.
    “Couldn’t find him,” he said. “Sorry.”
    “It’s just as well,” she said, biting her lip and looking at a policeman waving the crowd back. “It’s just busywork. With everything that’s going on, this is not really on anyone else’s list of priorities.”
    “You really wish you were somewhere else, don’t you?” He leaned against the wall next to her.
    “Yes. I should be doing something,” she said, exasperated. “The city’s under attack, and I’m here twiddling my goddamn thumbs.”
    “Maybe you should,” he said. “Do something, I mean.”
    She pushed herself off the wall and stood up straight. “I’m not looking to get reprimanded for insubordination on my first day.” She stared down Park Avenue toward the Met Life building and wondered nervously whether being under fire would throw her into a flashback. It’d been over a year since she’d