THE MAN UPSTAIRS

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

PART 1 — THE MAN IN THE GREEN COAT

At 6:17 on a cold Thursday evening in Manhattan, an old man in a worn green coat walked into one of the most exclusive private banks in New York City.

Nobody opened the door for him.

Nobody greeted him by name.

Nobody expected that, before the night was over, the people on the highest floor of the building would be waiting for him.

Walter Reed stepped inside without hesitation.

He was seventy-four, thin, slightly stooped, with silver-white hair that looked as though he had combed it with his fingers in the wind. A layer of white stubble covered his angular face. His faded forest-green coat was frayed at the cuffs. Beneath it, he wore a rust-brown shirt, charcoal trousers and old dark-brown shoes polished long ago and forgotten since.

His clothes made him look poor.

His eyes did not.

They were pale gray-blue, tired but observant, moving quietly across the room.

The bank lobby was nearly empty.

Warm amber lights reflected from brass fixtures and dark marble floors. Tall glass windows looked out toward a blue-gray Manhattan evening where rain blurred headlights into long streaks of color. Walnut counters stood behind immaculate glass partitions. A restricted elevator bank waited at the far end of the room.

Walter looked toward it.