Vikram and his team were working round the clock – he meant it literally – to rebuild firewalls and create new security codes that would counter the attacks. There would be a few days’ grace then another onslaught would begin, using different techniques and volumes. The story was similar from Shivani Jaffrey, a young woman who ran the Internet team. There was no hint of surrender about her. A clear light of battle was in her big dark eyes.
‘We have over 250 million Internet accounts now. More than most banks have customers. Over 70% are from outside India. We give them the same range of account facilities as our branch customers. But because we can manage so many people over the Internet, we can keep the costs very low and give very good deposit rates and interest on current accounts.’ Erin looked impressed and Shivani looked proud to bursting.
‘Like Vikram’s branches, we are being hit by waves of dummy transactions. The first couple of times it happened we lost our servers for two days! The next time, we were better prepared but they still went down for a few hours. We have added lots more servers and rebuilt our own firewall software to sift and kill the ones that are wrecking us. Only the good ones can get through from our real customers.’
Shivani went on, ‘But they have got hold of some of our customer identities and also set up dummy accounts with us. They use those as Trojan horses to get in through the firewalls and release some nasty viruses that attack our customer account files. Fortunately our virus detector software is very strong. We have so far managed to kill every one! But we are worried,’ she became solemn, ‘the next one may get through. So we are having to build redundancy into all our records. We keep complete back-up files for months in separate systems. Separate buildings even.’
Erin was nodding all the while. ‘We have a very clever friend who’s one of the best -’ she groped for a polite way of describing Oscar ‘- software specialists in the business. And we would like to get him to look at what’s happening here. He may have some ideas. He’s very experienced in dealing with hacking and counter hacking.’
‘What is he called?’ asked Vikram with a little hint of knowing something about the opaque world Oscar operated in. ‘Is he a hacker?’
‘His real name is Oscar, but he uses a different handle. He’s called ‘The Lone Ranger’ . . . on the dark net’. Erin tried not to sound silly.
There was a flurry of smiles and chatter among the kids round the table. Then Vikram turned to Erin.
‘We know this man. He is one of the best. Or the worst. Are you sure he is on your side? How do we contact him?’
‘Give me your email address now and I’ll text him. I’ll call him this evening to make sure he’s opened up secure channels with you.’
They left them to their battle. Ted wondered what these young people and one gay hacker could really do against a western bank with thousands of top technologists and the best computer systems dollars could buy. He still hadn’t entirely squared away the notion that they were making money out of the neediest, but none of the bank employees seemed in the slightest doubt about the morality of their work. That was convincing enough for his next column, but apparently not for Erin. He listened with a sense of stunned outrage and impending doom as she set him up for a further test of stamina.
‘CJ, all Ted needs now is to meet some of your clients and maybe spend some time at one of your branches.’ She turned to Ted. ‘You can pop out and visit a village while I sort out the links with Oscar.’
Ted’s mouth opened like a fish and closed without sound. CJ beamed at him.
‘I think I have the perfect example for you, Ted. It will involve some travel, but you will see first hand how we start up an operation in the villages. Do you mind taking a longish trip? It might not be very comfortable.’
Ted wanted to say that of course he minded, especially if a local was suggesting that accommodation on the trip might fall some way short of five stars. Ted’s imagination filled with large bugs, rivers of sweat, zero sanitation and rare bowel disorders. It was likely to be as close to purgatory as made no difference. He was glad he’d secreted a couple of bottles of Old Tennessee in his bag for just such an emergency. One bit of luck was that Erin wouldn’t be joining him; it meant he could suffer out loud and have a drink without the air frosting around him.
‘No problem, CJ.’
‘Good. Good! Then I will make the preparations. Tomorrow I will send one of my new district managers with you. She is opening up a new district for us. She is specifically following up a small loan we made just a few weeks ago. The loan was to three women who made their way here to Delhi from their village in Madya Pradesh. A five day round trip to open a bank account. Remarkable really. It shows they are the right sort of customer, don’t you think? And now we need to give them local support. So early tomorrow we will send you off to Chandapur.’
TWENTY EIGHT
Anila found herself shouting at Mr Chowdury in front of a large crowd. They were standing next to Mr Roy’s truck. The money lender was dressed in his usual humble garb like the toilers in the field: a simple tunic top, a loin cloth, bare feet and a turban. He clung to a tall pole with both hands, one leg curled round it. From time to time he unwrapped himself and brandished the pole to underline his gestures or to threaten this upstart woman who was holding forth.
‘This is your own fault Mr Chowdury! You have brought this on your own head! All I wanted was to buy my wood direct from Mr Roy and you would not let me. You wanted to hold onto the market did you not? That is why I have had to make a cooperative with my friends. That is why we have bought all the wood.’
‘You are killing my business! You are killing me! My family will starve and it will be because of you and your fancy ways. This is no work for a woman. A cooperative! What is that, I wonder?! I will tell you what it is. It is a silly notion by silly women who know nothing about business and you will all rue this day!’
The money lender was stamping on the ground and shaking his fist at Anila. His face was contorted with anger and frustration. How dare these women! Mr Roy was standing well clear. He had the 600 Rupees from Anila and wished the whole messy business would go away. Life was fine until yesterday. He didn’t care who won as long as he kept getting a good price for his wood. He was keen to off-load his present bundle and be on his way, but a couple of Mr Chowdury’s men were standing looking menacingly at him from a position in front of his truck. He didn’t have a reverse gear.
The crowd was enjoying this, and in its way its sympathies lay with Anila. Most of the women she’d co-opted yesterday were there but not saying much, waiting for Anila to win or lose. A few called out support, including Sandip, who’d tipped the balance of the argument yesterday.
‘She is right Mr Chowdury. This is all your own fault. Now we are all right behind Mrs Jhabvala here. Leave her alone and let us all get on with our business!’
Leena could not contain herself either. ‘You have robbed us with your high interest for years Mr Chowdury. Now is your comeuppance!’
This stunned the crowd and the two protagonists at the centre. Leena wished her tongue back in her mouth and felt her face go hot.
Mr Chowdury drew himself erect on his pole.
‘So that is the way of it, is it?’ He filled with righteous wrath. ‘For years I have helped you all. I have beggared myself and my family to lend you money. When your crops failed, Mrs Arundati, whom did you turn to? And when your husband died and you needed a loan to pay for the funeral, Mrs Lal, where did you come to? What will you do now? Where will you go if you drive me out of business? I ask you this? Because if this - this cooperative - starts up, then I am finished with you.’
He stood looking round the circle seeing the doubts in faces, feeling the mood changing his way. Anila sensed it too, felt her arguments fading, saw her little business idea evaporating like a puddle in the dust. The demon stirred in her again.
‘If that is how it must be, then it must be Mr Chowdury. We will just have to go to the bank instead.’
He whipped round to her. ‘What bank?! What nonsense are you talking? There is no bank here.’ He was dismissive, derisive. ‘What bank would lend to people like you?’
‘The People’s Bank. That is who. You will see. They will come here and offer us loans at good rates. They will not make our lives impossible.’
As she said this, Anila kept her mind on CJ Kapoor. She trusted the man who’d let her and her friends into the head office of the bank in New Delhi and arranged the loan. He would not, must not let her down.
‘Hah, the People’s Bank! I have heard of them. They are snaring gullible people like you with cheap loans and then waiting to catch you. When you cannot go anywhere else then they put their rates up and up. And they make people sell their homes and their animals and their children to pay off the debts!’ He pointed tellingly at the children hanging from their mothers in the front row. They pulled back behind their mothers’ saris, terrified at this prophecy. ‘They are grabbing land and taking over the country, that is your People’s Bank!’
He strutted up and down now using his pole like a marching stick. His chest was puffed out and his gnarled legs stamped the ground like mistimed pistons. ‘And where are they? Where are these bank managers who work in the fields? When will we see them?’
‘Soon. You will see them soon. And then we will all see, won’t we?’ Anila challenged him.
He stopped and turned to her. A look of calculation seized his face. ‘If this is how it is to go, I want my money now. I am owed three days’ money from the members of your wonderful cooperative. If you are breaking your deal, then I want it paid back now. With all due interest. I am within my rights.’
Anila felt her legs shake. ‘How much are you owed?’
He worked his fingers. ‘Six hundred Rupees,’ he announced triumphantly, sure that this would kill the wretched business.
Anila was making also calculations in her head. If she paid him 600 now, she would have just enough to keep the payments going to the wood gatherer until the agent arrived. But if he didn’t come? Sometimes he was a day late. Or if he came and refused to buy the goods from the women. . .?
She reached into her sari and pulled out her purse. She looked over at her friends Leena and Divya. They looked at each other and nodded to her. She pulled out the diminishing pile of money – 600 had already been paid to Mr Roy – and counted out a further 600 Rupees. She held it out to the money lender.
‘This is from the cooperative. Now we have no more debts.’
The money lender grabbed the wad like it was a snake. He looked round. He had lost his hold, temporarily. There were no other ways he could think of scoring against his enemy, which she now was. It was time to leave with dignity. He flicked his head and his two men broke their stance and walked over. The three men turned and marched away together, the money lender hobbling in the middle.
Anila felt her shoulders sag. Around her, women were coming over and touching her and saying how strong she was and how they would back her. Others were already picking at the piles of wood coming off the back of the truck. The rusty body swung and creaked on its hinges as Mr Roy stood on its back and began unloading.
Anila selected her own materials and bundled them together within a long rag. She pulled the ends of the rag together and made a pack. With help from her friends she hefted the ungainly bundle onto her head and set off home to make her stools. She had a lot of hard work to do before the agent came. And she badly needed something physical to do to take her raging mind off the all-or-nothing situation she’d contrived for herself.
TWENTY NINE
Ted was tight-lipped as he and Erin stepped out of the bank and back into bedlam. It was a shock after the serenity of the inner courtyard and the ordered bustle of the bank’s operations room. It was eight pm and still broad daylight, yet the narrowness of the street and the three storey buildings in drab cement conveyed twilight.
They were accosted instantly - like flies round a tasty turd – by salesmen asking them to buy their hunger and gain absolution for their Western sin of plenty. A tiny hand touched Ted’s arm like a warm feather. A girl-child stood with a thin quiet baby in her other scrawny arm. She wanted money, simply and clearly. Probably love too, but that was too nebulous.
He spared her neither from his tourist fortress; straight-jacketed by the warnings about giving to one, drawing the rest like magnets. The guilt would go with him, and always would, so much so that within five paces he was considering seriously going back to find her and press his guilt away with an Olympian donation. Instead he diverted his annoyance to Erin. He stopped in the road and grabbed her shoulder to halt her and turn her to face him.
‘Listen lady, I’m fed up with you fixing my life for me. I told you before. I’m the reporter around here and I decide what I need to support my story. Am I making myself clear?!’
He had to shout above the din. They glared at each other. He dropped his arm at her withering look. She was unabashed and shouted back at him.
‘But you have to go see a village bank, Ted. How else are you going to find the truth?’
‘Look, just butt out, will you? I’ve got enough material to file my report without acquiring a dose of malaria. I managed to avoid it in Baghdad. I don’t need to put my body on the line for a goddamn bit of local colour.’
‘If you didn’t have someone push you now and then, Ted Saddler, you wouldn’t even get up in the morning.’
‘I was right! You’re a control freak. You can’t help acting the big executive, can you? I’m not one of your boys, you know. And the one reason I didn’t object to a little trip to the back of beyond is that I’ll get some peace for a couple of days. By comparison, mosquito bites are going to feel like love pecks.’
‘Only if you have the skin of a rhino!’
‘What would you know about sensitivity?!’
Both their faces were red, and they realised they were gathering a small crowd. His exasperation subsided.
‘This is stupid. C’mon. Let’s move,’ he said. ‘CJ said we’d get a taxi at the end of the road. Are you up for this?’
‘I can take anything you can. Come on, tough guy, lead the way. I’m hanging on.’
She took a grip of his upper arm with both hands, and he was forced to laugh and shake his head. He wished he’d kept up the press-ups. He would join the gym when he got back. Give up the doughnuts. Maybe even the beer. Stick to whiskey. Gingerly they began to pick their way down the narrow street. They passed a deal being struck over a gutted electric motor, its copper innards being drawn out, weighed and exchanged for limp Rupees, pulled - soiled and damp like salad leaves - from some secret hiding place on the dealer’s body.
Ted made the connection. This was New York’s Lower East Side, a hundred years ago, awash with 40 degrees heat, and 100% humidity. Endless noise, perpetual bustle, honing the new factories and salesmen who could beat the West, given the freedom from the choking embrace of corruption and poverty. He wondered if he could use the image in the book? His lofty thoughts crashed to earth.
‘Shit! ‘Scuse my French.’
Ted gazed at his foot and wiped off what he could of the sacred cow dung on the broken kerb. Erin kept the smirk off her face. The dark faces round him grinned broadly.
They twisted past street traders and stepped over beggars. They declined offers of help and cries for rupees. They took to the road to get past the odd cow chewing at a lump of spicy cardboard. The intimacy of the shared and outlandish obstacles forced them to swap their sullen faces for wry glances and even the odd grin. Ahead was daylight and the main Chandni Road. They were almost there when a man stepped in front of them.
‘Taxi, Sir, Lady?’ he bowed and swept a hand towards a two-tone cab sitting by the roadside with a driver behind the wheel.
There were no others in sight. Ted felt like showing who was boss.
‘Great. Let’s grab it.’
He helped her into the back of the hot cab. They settled on the spring
y seat with its off-white cotton cover and Ted told the driver to take them back to their hotel.
They drove for a while, neither ready to make the first peace overture. They edged through the crammed streets, jolting and swaying. Ted was conscious of the smell from his shoe, and thrust it as far under the seat in front as possible. Abruptly their driver found a way through. They took off down a side street and began to make zigzags, sometimes running foul of jams in narrow streets but more often seeming to make real progress.
Ted had begun by thinking that they’d got lucky and found a driver who really knew the best way through the city. But as they travelled he began to worry that they were being ripped off. It was an odd faculty of his. At any time, anywhere, Ted knew where he was facing, and where his start point was in relation to his present position. It worked in forests and in deserts and in cities. He’d established a reputation for it in his army days. It had been a sense that really came into its own on liberty nights in a strange city. Ted was unerringly able to get his cronies back to their unit no matter how blitzed. He was increasingly convinced they were heading in the wrong direction. They were heading north and away from their hotel.
‘Driver. Say, driver! We’re going the wrong way. We want the Hyatt Regency. It’s on the Ring Road.’
The driver’s dark eyes flicked back at him from the mirror. ‘Yes, sir. I know, sir. This is quicker way. First we have to go round.’
Ted sat back reluctantly. ‘I’m not sure about this.’
‘How can you tell Ted? I’m totally lost.’
‘Just something I’m good at.’
They went on for a minute or so until Ted’s patience began to run out. He saw the driver’s face in the mirror. It was looking back at him with increasing nervousness. The roads grew quieter, and if anything, narrower. They seemed to be edging further away from the great hulking buildings of the Raj. The houses were getting more run down. Ted leaned forward and put his big hand on the shoulder of the driver.
MONEY TREE Page 15
