Twenty miles west across two boroughs and the East River, Leo Harris was in a taxi heading toward an office building on Lower Broadway. As the driver pulled to the curb, Harris swiped his credit card—contactless skimming being a personal taboo given his knowledge of its vulnerabilities—then added a tip to the fare and pushed out onto the street.

The address at which he’d arrived was an old-style limestone edifice mostly occupied by long established legal and financial firms. The glazed entrance was set back from the street and had a lot of polished brass around its frame. So did the neat rows of windows climbing the twenty-five-story facade.

Harris stood on the pavement a full three minutes, motionless. Pedestrians bumped past. Some of them glanced back at him and swore. He ignored them and didn’t budge. When he’d last been in this neighborhood it was a dark zone, the power grid down, the air thick with blast soot, people flooding the street in a mass panic. He didn’t recall being scared that day. Horrified and angry, yes. Wanting to find whoever was responsible and take them apart with his bare hands. But not scared.

Today, he was scared as hell.

He took a deep breath and held it as long as he could before he slowly exhaled, a habit he’d picked up while rehabilitating his damaged lungs. He took a second deep breath and held it and released it. Then he smoothed his tuxedo and forced himself across the sidewalk and through the glazed front door.

A uniformed security guard sat at a small marble reception desk a few steps in and to the left. On the wall to Harris’s immediate right was an old-fashioned lobby directory. The company names and offices were listed alphabetically in white on a glassed-in black letter board. He paused and found the name of the attorney he’d come to see. The office was on the seventeenth floor.

Harris turned to the reception desk, presented his identification and told the guard where he was going. The guard called up to confirm his appointment and tapped a touch screen on his desk. Along with a small printer, it was the only visible concession to modernity in the lobby. The printer spat out a guest badge and the guard handed it to Harris with a clear plastic clip-on holder. Then he pointed him to the elevator.

Harris did not wear the badge and instead put it in his right inside breast pocket. He hated adding it to the bulk of his wallet, but his phone was even bulkier and already in the tux’s left inner pocket. He thought the alternative better than clipping it to the satin lapel.