NOV. 5, ‘25 // The phone rang in the silent office. Sandy Boyer lifted the receiver and listened for a moment. “Sorry,” she said, for the tenth time that morning. “Mr. Weinfeld cannot be disturbed.” As she returned the phone to her desk, Sandy glanced over at Mr. Weinfeld’s closed office door. She had been his receptionist for over ten years—and in all that time, she had never seen her boss look so concerned. The office was like a morgue this morning. Hunched over his desk, David Weinfeld heard footsteps in the corridor. He knew who it was before the door opened. Sandy wouldn’t have let anyone else in today, after his strict instructions. Still, he waited a few minutes before looking up from his computer. Albert Silverstein stood in the doorway, displaying his usual engaging smile. “Ready for lunch, David?” he asked cheerfully. Then, catching sight of David’s furrowed brow and slumped posture, he inched back uncertainly. "Anything wrong?" “Wrong?” David echoed. What was wrong? Everything was wrong. David didn’t even know where to start. It was tempting to ask Albert’s advice, but David knew that this was something he had to handle himself. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he finally said. Albert looked at him dubiously. “Did you say something about lunch?” David said, in an effort to play it cool. “Sounds good. Let’s grab something to eat.” Albert glanced at his friend as the two of them made their way out of David’s office at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. The two men had started out years before at the New York Fed, and they had taken business courses together at C.U.N.Y. Eventually, David had become executive vice president of the bank's financial services department, while Albert headed the business development section under David’s supervision. Albert thought back to his first encounter with David, twenty years beforehand: “Hi. I'm Albert Silverstein." PROLOGUE A Novel of Terrorisim & Betrayal K 178
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