ludicrous. Well, yes, bankers did need to be held responsible for their actions, but in 2008, the Federal Reserve had been the only thing left between a crapped-out world economy and financial Armageddon. The Fed had been heroic in keeping the credit markets working, and in propping up one sickened brokerage house after another. If any more banks had collapsed, there would have been riots in the streets. To Steinkampâs mind, âLet âEm Failâ Franklin was a menace. A menace to the United Statesâhell, to the world. And he, Steinkamp, was the last man standing between Franklin and future financial chaos.
âHey, speak of the devil.â Sal pointed across the street. âThere she is.â
Steinkamp dropped a $5 bill on the counter, put a lid on his coffee, andturned to see who wanted to meet him. He didnât mind. A little bit of celebrity made up for all those hours in committee meetings. He worked his lips into a wide smile.
But one glimpse of her face, and Steinkamp suddenly thought that maybe it hadnât been such a good idea to get off the train a stop early. She was young, but looked old, with pale skin and black hair. She wore a green trench coat, which was odd, as it was June and warm and would only get warmer through the day. Yet that wasnât what sent a shiver down Steinkampâs spine. There was something about the look on her face: not exactly aggrieved, like some of the people who accosted him, but not happy. Determined. That was what she was. Determined to do something.
Something bad.
âPhillip Steinkamp?â she asked as she crossed Nassau Street and stepped onto the sidewalk. She had a trace of an accent, from some place Steinkamp couldnât quite pin down. Spanish? Portuguese? No, that wasnât right. . . .
âThatâs him.â Sal grinned and pointed at Steinkamp. âThe big boss.â
âIâm afraid Iâm late for work.â Steinkampâs words came quickly. âIf you need to contact me, you should call my office. You can look it up online. Weâll be happy to schedule an appointment.â He was suddenly afraid, very afraid, and annoyed at Sal for confirming his identity. He took one long stride south, down Nassau, when the woman stepped in his path and pulled something from the pocket of her trench coat.
Steinkamp knew immediately that it was a gun.
âMother of Jesus,â Sal said behind him, from the counter window. âSheâs got a gun!â
Steinkamp froze. His eyes locked on the weapon, a nasty, streamlined piece of gray metal. He could not look away. The woman raised the gun with one hand and aimed it at Steinkampâs chest.
âNo, lady, donât. I donât know you. This is a mistake.â
Someone screamed from across the street. A taxi horn blew. The woman in the trench coat pulled the trigger three times in quick succession.
The first bullet winged Steinkamp in the shoulder. The next, coming a fraction of a second later, hit him in the right arm. But the third bullet ripped open his blue Brooks Brothers shirt and plunged into Steinkampâs heart, stopping it instantly. The president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York let out a weakgasp, then crumpled to the ground as pedestrians up and down the street dove for cover, screaming in terror. Only Sal, at the open service-counter window of his diner, didnât duck or flinch. He stared at the woman, stunned, as she prodded the lifeless body on the pavement with her scuffed high-heeled shoe.
âIs he dead?â Her voice was flat, emotionless.
âIâI think so,â Sal said, not really knowing why he said it. âYou killed him.â
She turned to face Sal. She spoke calmly and clearly, as if to make sure that anyone listening would understand every word. âGarrett Reilly made me do this.â
Then the woman in the green trench coat stuck the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger one