by Jim CaJacob
“A friend has told me about an authentic Corfican place in Astoria. Honest Adriatic cuisine. They serve retsina from real ceramic ewers.
Hansi groaned, but only inwardly. Why did these poseurs insist on these cultural wars of attrition? They wouldn’t be seen in a restaurant that had been open for more than six months, and that served cuisine from any country where most of the inhabitants were shod most of the time.
He smiled and lit Estelle’s cigarette.
By 4:30 in the morning Whit had been asleep for an hour and a half on Estelle’s couch. Hansi had removed his camel’s hair blazer and loosened his Hermes tie. Estelle had taken off her high heels. She was carefully organizing two more lines of cocaine on a mirror on the kitchen table.
“You’re trying to tell me that Switzerland is not in the U.N.?" she said. “You must think all American girls are gullible.”
“I assure you I’m not putting you up,” Hansi said.
Estelle giggled. “Our first date and you’re already talking about putting me up. I think you mean putting me on, Hansi. She pinched his cheek. You’re cute. I thought you were a gnome of Zurich.”
Hansi felt a stirring. This thin one had that insouciance that only an overreaching American could achieve. Hansi felt irresponsibly charmed.
“Have you been to Zurich?" he asked.
“Not really. My dad used to take us to Niagara Falls every other year. The Canadian side was a lot cleaner,” she said.
Niagara Falls indeed. “You really must see Switzerland some day. I’ll be pleased to show you around. My wife and I that is,” he said.
“I suppose Mrs. Renggli does a lot of coke too, right?" she said.
Hansi felt a flush in his cheeks. He had begun using cocaine recreationally five years earlier. He never partook in Zurich, and rarely anywhere but in America. The bank did not have a tolerant policy regarding substance abuse. He remained silent.
“Hansi, how long will you be in New York this trip?” she said.
“I return Thursday evening. Day after tomorrow. Oh, it’s already tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Would you like to see me again?" she said.
So direct. So artless. So irresistible.
“I wouldn’t mind so much, perhaps,” he said. Hansi’s normally impeccable English became more sing-songy Swiss after a few drinks. “But I have an engagement tomorrow evening with some Kuwaitis.”
“I’ll wait,” she said. “But there’s a catch. I want you to meet a friend of mine. He wants to pick your smart Swiss brain.”
“Who would be picking my brains?" he said. He suddenly felt very sleepy.
“An old friend. You’ll like him. I promise.” She put her hand on his knee and squeezed gently. “Say yes. I mean, say Ja.”
“Well, perhaps.”
“Perhaps? She massaged his thigh gently.”
“All right, then. Yes. Ja.” Hansi realized he had never once felt this delicious sense of being slightly out of control in Zurich. “But now, I must go back to the hotel. We have a meeting in the morning after all.”
“My God, look what time it is!,” she said. She released his knee after a final squeeze, picked up her cordless phone, padded over to the couch and began shaking Whit while she slowly and loudly gave her address into the telephone.
Hansi wondered if women like Estelle were born with this feline competence or if she had been forced to learn. Riding down the lift, he tightened his tie a little for the ride back to the hotel.
Chapter 8
The driver of the green BMW gave Malcolm the finger without putting down his cell phone. Impressed with the other guy’s coordination, if not his manners, Malcolm maintained a steady 65 in the center lane. Traffic was heavy as usual. I definitely may have to move departure time ahead fifteen minutes, Malcolm thought.
He had started with the Bureau of Labor Statistics - BLS - immediately after his discharge from the Navy, back in 74. They had bought a house on two acres way out in the country, near Chantilly. Now it was the suburbs. It turned out they never had kids and the place was too big for just the two of them, but neither of them could really think about leaving.
As usual, he thought about work on the drive in. Albert Simmons was completely preoccupied with the Y2K business. Usually the department had a few contractors to help with the normal maintenance and development work, but all the budget for this year was tied up hiring consultants for the Y2K work. This meant that Malcolm the other regulars would have to hold the fort, even more so than usual.
The consultants seemed like decent sorts. As usual, they arrived with more answers than questions, but that was to be expected in people this young. Malcolm had been helping Scott Crane get oriented to the labyrinth that was the Statistics module.
Scott was an interesting fellow. He was very polite and he seemed genuinely interested in the background on how the programs had been developed. Malcolm chuckled to himself.
Every year or two the Bureau would hire a technology consultant who would change their technical tools. PL/1. FORTRAN. COBOL. Assembler, when you wanted the program to actually run. APL. Even ADA. Then, later, came the CASE tools. CASE, Computer Aided Systems Engineering, became trendy during the 80s. You were supposed to design the entire system before actually writing any code – sort of like making a set of more and more detailed blueprints before constructing a building. The concept was fine, but in practice it just meant more work for the developers, since management never allocated the resources necessary to complete the design work.
Then there were the statisticians. Each statistician-in-chief felt compelled to make significant contributions to the field, many of which were fundamental departures from the work of his immediate predecessor. The public assumed that statistics was a finite science. If they only knew how much of the work was based on conjecture.
We can’t forget Congress either. The General Accounting Office had its own staff of statisticians. Most of their interaction with the Bureau consisted of blackboard briefings by the Bureau’s statisticians, but every so often they required a new set of reports to be developed.
People talked about the Y2K problem as a “bug,” an unintentional mistake. This was a misconception, Malcolm thought. In the late 60s and early 70s when these mainframe systems were developed, computer memory was more valuable than gold. The computer in the Apollo lunar module had 64K of memory, less than a high schooler’s calculator. The efficiency of the computer was everything. People would spend days and weeks squeezing every byte of storage from a program. The date was an obvious place to look – every record had one or more date fields.
No one thought these programs would still be running in 25 or 30 years. 1974 was the future. In 2000 there would be floating cities. Airliners to the moon. Space Odyssey. HAL.
Malcolm had learned programming in the Navy. He had met his wife while stationed in Idaho Falls, Idaho, training to work on nuclear submarines. People like Malcolm who quietly did their jobs and kept mostly to themselves did well on subs. This probably hurt Malcolm’s career, because he had never been interested in management. He became invaluable because of what he knew and how he did his job, not by blowing his own horn. One of his colleagues joked that he should put one of those “take a number” machines in his cube for all the people who stopped by.
Malcolm drove on autopilot to his parking lot. It was a five block walk to the office, but it saved them fifty dollars per month. Malcolm had to be careful after work, especially with the hours he kept. He had only been accosted once., by a thin young black man with a stocking cap and a runny nose. Someone had walked up behind the man and he turned and ran off before Malcolm could take out his wallet.
Malcolm arrived at 7:50, well within normal range. He put his lunch in the department fridge, hung his jacket on a hanger in his cube, got a cup of coffee, sat down, and logged on to his system. He still used a 3270 green-screened mainframe terminal
rather than a PC.
“Mr. Eberle?” Malcolm turned around in his swivel chair. Scott Crane was standing there. “I was wondering if you have a few minutes.”
Chapter 9
Hansi wore what he pictured as a wise half smile through his business day. He bowed politely and shook hands with the prince. Kuwait had princes like Appenzell had cowherds.
“Your Highness, I’ve managed to slip a small example of the Swiss art past the authorities,” he said.
“Let me guess. Sprüngli!,” the prince said. “You Swiss always know one’s weakness.”
In your case we know quite a few, Hansi thought. That the prince could fly a minion first class to Zurich every day expressly to purchase these Luxemburgli did not seem to diminish his appreciation.
The prince was dressed as usual in a bespoke suit (made, in truth, by a Bengali in Bahrain, not on Saville Row). His goatee was freshly-coiffed. He wore slightly too much of an expensive cologne. Like most Arabs Hansi knew his handshake was weak and moist.
“My good friend, I trust the vagaries of the new global economy have treated us well?" the prince said. Of course, the bank’s computers informed the prince’s computers several times per second of how well the vagaries were treating them, but there was really no substitute for this personal contact. Hansi managed a foreign exchange account of several hundred million dollars for the prince. The bank’s commission for this work was substantial. Hansi’s job was essentially to make his clients feel well cared for. He rarely if ever involved in the minute-to-minute decisions involving buying and selling currencies.
In the information age any large bank could execute the trades efficiently. But the Swiss bank, a Swiss banker, still had advantages. After all, the relative value of the various currencies depended on natural resources, infrastructure and so on; factors that don’t change overnight. But the day-to-day fluctuations that drive so much of the trading depend on day-to-day decisions, political and business. The perception of Swiss neutrality extends to the business world. No shift in the political or economic currents was too subtle to escape the refined sensitivities of a Swiss banker on the ground. And Hansi hadn’t been assigned to the ground of Manhattan instead of Lagos by not knowing how to play this game.
The prince had recently returned from an Islamic conference. The bank was very interested in Indonesia’s current economic climate. It was more than likely that the prince had met with people highly placed in Jakarta. Taking the trouble to deliver a half-kilo of sweets was an investment. The prince would never let slip something that he didn’t want known. The bank’s hope was that Hansi would become one of the prince’s chosen confidants. The hints from men like Hansi settled like powder snow on the balustrades of the bank. Each day the quiet men in Zurich used this information to subtly refine the bank’s position.
“Your Highness, I trust your trip to Islamabad was comfortable.”
“I’m glad you asked, Hansi. I have an amusing anecdote to relate.”
Later, Hansi was in a fine mood. He had a massage and a steam at the hotel, then dressed for dinner. From time to time during the day he had thought about Estelle, her hand gently squeezing his leg. He had to admit she was intriguing, this long-limbed dark-haired one with the latest coiffeur, not least because of the hint of amorality she projected.
She was waiting in the lobby, with a fleshy young man with curly black hair. Hansi remembered that Estelle had asked him to meet her friend. He was certain his sense of disappointment did not show through his wise half smile. He decided this Estelle was worth a long-term investment.
They had reservations at Chanterelle. Thank God, no Ethiopian or Peruvian or Tongan tonight. Typical for an American, the young man, Josh, wasted no time.
“Mr. Renggli, I want you know how much I appreciate you taking time to meet with me. With us, I mean,” Josh said.
“Not at all, Josh. My new friend Estelle says you’re in the software side of things.”
“That’s correct, sir. I’m leading a team that’s working on the Y2K problem. I’m sure you know all about it.”
Indeed, Hansi thought. Several hundred billion dollars of the worldwide economy had been siphoned off to feed these technocrats so they could deal with a problem of their own making.
“Only a little. I’m just a banker.”
“Oh Hansi, don’t be so modest, not at Chanterelle for these prices,” Estelle said, putting her hand on his. Hansi again felt the stirring.
The cuisine was surprisingly acceptable. It was certainly possible to get a decent piece of fish in New York, and this chef didn’t seem set on disguising it as a chili pepper.
“As you may know sir. . .”
“Please, just Hansi.”
“Right. As you may know, Hansi, I’ve been leading a team working on some government systems. We’ve become very, shall we say, familiar with some of the statistical programs. Very familiar. Before I continue I should tell you that all of the information I’m discussing is in the public domain. Perfectly legit.”
“Of course,” Hansi said.
“In our analysis we think we may have gained some insight into how the economy works, at a deep level.”
“Insight?”
“Yes sir. I mean, yes Hansi. Insight. We have had the opportunity to take a fresh look, using modern computing tools, at the interplay of several economic factors.” Josh said.
“These guys are really smart, Hansi,” Estelle said.
“Mmm.”
“We believe we can forecast future econometric trends much more accurately than has been possible in the past. The reason I asked Estelle to arrange this meeting is to help us with what we don’t know.”
“What would that be?" Hansi said.
“ We don’t know how to turn our ability to forecast into prudent investments. Short-term investments,” Josh said. “I asked Estelle who knows ForEx inside out.” ForEx was the industry’s abbreviation for foreign currency exchange.
“I don’t do personal investment counseling. Besides, I assume your own bank has many foreign exchange experts,” Hansi said.
“There you go again, Hansi, selling yourself short,” Estelle said. “What Josh really asked me was -- who was the best.”
“But you hardly know me.”
“I hear our guys talking, Hansi. You have quite a reputation.”
While Hansi recognized the blatant flattery, he didn’t necessarily believe it was undeserved. “Well, we all do our best, I suppose.”
“We also find the uh, the discretion of a Swiss banker to be appealing in this matter,” Josh said.
I’m sure you do, Hansi thought. One thing one learned as a Swiss banker was to recognize greed. What could these people be up to? “What do you propose?”
“An experiment,” Josh said. “I thought we might discuss it at Estelle’s place.”
Hansi supposed that getting to Estelle’s place was half the battle. Finding a way to rid themselves of Josh could be dealt with later.
To Hansi's delight, Josh made a graceful enough exit after describing his ‘experiment’. Hansi wondered whether Josh’s departure was also orchestrated. He didn’t really care. He watched Estelle as she leaned over the table, elegant legs, panty-hosed feet, carefully laying out lines of cocaine.
Chapter 10
Scott sat at his terminal, earphones on, listening to Murray Perahia playing Chopin Mazurkas. Scott thought of Chopin as the first great jazz composer.
For the past several days Scott had been reverse engineering the code in the seasonal adjustment module. He had had enough math to understand what they were trying to do. The trick was to get inside the mind of the guy who wrote the original program back in the sixties. As usual, the technical documentation ranged from deficient to useless.
Josh slid into the chair next to Scott’s desk. He was his customary dapper self with no apparent ill effects from his quick trip to New York.
Josh nodded toward Scott’s terminal. “Still looking good?" he said.
“What?”
Josh’s brow furrowed. “The work on the stat module. Take your headphones off, will you?”
“Oh, that. Fine, I guess. I’m plowing through it. Thank God I can pick Malcolm’s brain every ten minutes. That guy has been here since the beginning of time.”
“Malcolm. Oh yeah, Malcolm. Well, anyway, let’s talk at lunch, OK?" Josh said.
“Great.”
They always ate lunch out, making a rotation among several ethnic restaurants in the neighborhood. Today was Indian.
Scott was a lax vegetarian, often making exceptions. He dipped a piece of kalcha bread into his dal. “How was New York?”
“Fine, Scott. I’m surprised you remember I went there,” Josh said.
“What do you mean,” Scott said.
“When I asked you how things were going this morning you acted like you had no idea what I was talking about,” Josh said.
“The stat stuff. It’s going OK. It’s slow going,” Scott said.
“Have you explored what we talked about?" Josh said.
“You mean tweaking the code?" Scott said.
“Yes Scott. I mean tweaking the code. Is it just me or are we not communicating well?”
“I don’t know, Josh. Fooling with those programs makes me nervous.”
“We discussed this, Scott. We agreed that we had a once in a lifetime opportunity to educate people.” Scott noticed that Josh was getting into the whiny, insistent mode he used when he didn’t get his way immediately. This behavior was reinforced, since Josh always got his way eventually.
“Relax, Josh. It’s under control.” Scott said.
“You asshole. You just like to see me get upset. Pass the spinach stuff. Tell.”
“Saag paneer, remember? I did what we talked about. I put a hook in the seasonal adjustment module. We can use the PARM file to move the adjustment whichever way we want,” Scott said.
“This is already done? This works?" Josh said.
“It works.”
“How stealth is it?" Josh said. Thanks to the genius of the Air Force PR machine, ‘stealth’ had become an adjective.
“Completely stealth. Malcolm looked right at the revised source code and didn’t have a clue,” Scott said.
