Of all the people, he had to lose to Garcia. Anyone else might give him a break, trust him for the money until later. But nobody messes with Garcia, which was why two of his men had trailed Larry through the chilly Boston evening to the nearest bank with an ATM. They said nothing to Larry while they walked—just shuffled along behind him like ominous shadows, sucking on their cigarettes the whole way.
Larry shook his head in disgust as he punched the buttons. Withdraw. From checking. Four hundred dollars.
He stared at the screen in disbelief.
Insufficient funds. Amount available: $7.34.
The fear started to pool more deeply in the bottom of his belly.
Maybe his pay had gone into the savings account by mistake. He tried, but found only eighty-four cents in there. Larry and Anne rarely had any use for their savings account.
In desperation he tried to withdraw a cash advance from his credit card. The card was maxed out, as usual.
Larry’s mouth was completely dry. He risked a look outside at his two escorts. They stared at him through the window, no longer smoking. Like predators the world over they seemed able to sense when their prey was in trouble.
Larry realized he wasn’t afraid of Anne anymore.
* * *
Stan Dysart leaned forward in the soft leather chair and tried to concentrate on the report lying on the inlaid desk. The only sound in his home office was the ticking of the antique clock on one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls. Everything from contemporary fiction to classic works on world history filled the shelves.
He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t focus on the numbers showing quarterly loan and mortgage volumes in the branches, not with what he had on his mind. He wanted desperately for Kelleher to phone and tell him the account records were unscrambled and the crisis was over.
A soft knock sounded on the closed office door.
“Come,” Dysart said.
The door opened and Lesley poked her head in.
“Aunt Sheila said you were in here,” she said. “Got a few minutes for me?”
Dysart turned the document face down and motioned her in.
“Might as well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not getting anywhere with this report anyway.”
Lesley closed the door behind her and sat in the reading chair in front of the desk. She clutched her purse with both hands, perching it on her knees.
“Any progress on getting your computer fixed?” she asked.
“We’re still working on it.”
“Okay. So … you’re making progress, then?”
Dysart raised one eyebrow. “Is this an official visit?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“Ever hear of the Financial Patriots of America?”
Dysart’s blood pressure skyrocketed. The tiniest of flinches crossed his face, but he did his best to not show any reaction.
“Who are they?” he said.
Lesley gave a half nod as if she expected this answer. “According to the information our station received, they’re the ones who sabotaged your computers.”
This time Dysart allowed his annoyance to show on his face. “You mean some crackpots saw the interview we did and now they want their fifteen minutes of fame.”
Lesley studied him for a few seconds. He met her gaze levelly and waited for her to make the next move.
“So there’s no truth in it?” she said.
Dysart pressed his lips together in exasperation. “Do you have any idea how much damage this sort of thing could do to the bank? If our customers thought our systems weren’t secure against hackers, they certainly wouldn’t want to keep their money with us. Tell me your station isn’t going to mention this malarkey on the air.”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said, “to verify the facts before we decide how to handle it.”
“Well you can tell your people there’s no truth to it whatsoever,” Dysart said, giving her a stern look, “and if they breathe one word of this on the air they’ll be risking a hefty law suit.”
He expected that to end the conversation. Instead, Lesley remained in her chair and gave him a contemplative look.
“Just to clarify, then,” she said, “you didn’t receive an email from this patriot group at six o’clock last night?”
How much does she know? Dysart thought. Did Rob open his big mouth again?
“Haven’t you been listening?” he said.
“So that’s a no?”
“Of course.”
“Because that would be the better part of a whole day before people’s money went missing.”
Dysart bristled. “Are you trying to say we endangered our customer’s money?”
“You tell me.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would we do that?”
“I have no idea. According to the copy of the email we received, these patriot people seem intent on delivering a message that banks don’t care.”
“What did I tell you? This bunch obviously wants to sling mud at the bank for some reason I can’t possibly fathom. Surely you’ll help me out and keep this quiet, won’t you?”
“Of course I’ll help you.”
Something loosened in Dysart’s chest. He seemed to breathe a little easier.
“I’m just not sure how to do that,” Lesley said.
“What do you mean?”
“A cover-up could backfire on you.”
Dysart’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lying?”
“You don’t want customers thinking you neglected to inform them when their money was at risk.”
“No one’s money is at risk.”
“The people I interviewed today didn’t seem so sure of that.”
“And I don’t need you telling me how to run my bank.”
“A cover-up could backfire on me, too—make me look like a real fool if I can’t even get the truth out of my own uncle.”
“Oh, grow up. You make it sound like finding you a story is what’s really important here.”
Lesley turned her head to one side and blinked rapidly.
The phone on Dysart’s desk rang. Thank God, he thought. Please let this be Kelleher with some good news.
He picked up the receiver and said, “Yeah?”
“Mr. Dysart?”
The voice was unfamiliar. “Yes.”
“I need to confirm that you are Stanley Dysart, President of First Malden Bank.”
Dysart felt a flash of annoyance. “That’s right. Who is this?”
“My name is Special Agent Steeves. I’m with the FBI. Sorry to bother you at home, sir, but several of our field offices have received phone calls in the last hour from various news agencies wondering if your bank has been attacked by cyberterrorists.”
Dysart closed his eyes and started massaging one throbbing temple as the inevitable truth became clear. The real reasons behind this thing were going public whether he liked it or not.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday
FBI SPECIAL AGENT Malcolm Steeves sat on one end of the love seat in Dysart’s office, while Special Agent Kurt Hanley occupied the other. Early morning sunlight streamed in the plate-glass window behind Dysart, throwing bright stripes on the floor through the vertical blinds. Both agents wore dark suits, but the similarities ended there. Steeves was a tall, gangly man with a face full of peaks and crevices. His partner was a small, mousy sort whose unassuming manner seemed at odds with Dysart’s expectations of an FBI agent.
“So you want us to find out who scrambled your computer records,” Steeves said, “and lock these people up for a suitably long time. That about sum it up?”
“I don’t care about locking anyone up,” Dysart said. “I just want the whole mess to go away quickly.”
Steeves looked at Hanley. “Ever heard of this FPA bunch?”
Hanley shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Me neither,” Steeves said, turning his attention back to Dysart. “You mentioned it might be an inside job. How certain are you of that?”
“We’re not sure of anything,” Dysart said, “but my computer guys think it would be difficult for anyone else to do this.”
Steeves consulted his notebook. “John Kelleher is the guy to talk to about that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have anybody specific in mind?” Steeves asked. “Anyone you think might have a particular ax to grind with your bank?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then we’ll want to look at everyone who has access to the system that was attacked. I’ll need contact information for those people.”
“My secretary can prepare a list for you.”
“Good,” Steeves said. “Another thing—you ever thought of sending the people who work on this system home until we get this sorted out?” Steeves said. “Why give them more chances to do something nasty?”
“Kelleher and I talked about that,” Dysart responded, “but we needed the AMS team to fix the system.”
Steeves cocked one eyebrow. “That’s like asking the fox to fix the hole in the hen house, isn’t it?”
“Worse than that,” Dysart said. “I have to rely on the foxes to point out the holes.”
“But they’re all plugged now?” Steeves said.
“Seem to be.”
“Then I’d consider sending as many of your systems people home as you can,” Steeves said. “We can talk to them there as well as here. Just ask them to stay where they can be reached.”
Dysart nodded. “Makes sense.”
“The other obvious leads are those two emails you received,” Steeves said. “We can try to trace those back to the source.”
“Don’t remind me about the emails,” Dysart said. “I still can’t believe someone here at the bank leaked them to the press.”
“Any idea who that might have been?” Steeves asked.
Dysart shook his head. “The fax was sent from an open office, so it could have been anyone. And I have to tell you, it’s turning into a public relations nightmare. The media is already screaming cover-up.”
“We can’t worry about your PR problems,” Steeves said. “We just look for the bad guys.”
“Then look as quickly as you can. We’re going to have plenty of furious customers until this thing is sorted out.”
“We’ll do our best.”
Dysart was unsure whether their best was going to be good enough. These two seemed competent, but of course they could offer no guarantees. He wondered whether he should make one more phone call, to a number he had not dialed in five years—a number he had hoped never to have to call again. He had wrestled with this question several times in the last day and a half.
Dysart decided once again not to call, at least not yet. He still had nowhere to point that particular weapon.
* * *
Lesley glared at her producer, Arthur Pearce. “What do you mean Shayna and I can’t keep going?” she said. “It’s our story. We broke it.”
Pearce was a harried-looking man with a balding head. His dress shirts always appeared rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I have to give it to someone else,” Pearce said. “You’re too close to it.”
“But I can get the goods. I proved that last night. We were the first station to confirm that email was real.”
“After your uncle fed you watered-down information earlier in the day.”
“Come on, Arthur. I had no way of knowing about the sabotage at the time.”
“That’s not the point.”
“And I can’t help it if Uncle Stan held out on me. He was only doing what he thought was best for the bank.”
Pearce jabbed a finger. “You see? That’s what I’m talking about. He used you and you’re still protecting him. Any other reporter would be mad as hell and anxious to bury him with his own words.”
“No other reporter can get as many words out of him as I can.”
Pearce shook his head the whole time she was talking. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m taking you off the story.”
Lesley crossed her arms and fumed. Pearce had been the producer of WNWB News for many years and she usually valued his sharp instincts, but this was a huge loss.
“I want to run your uncle’s comments from yesterday again,” Pearce said, “as a counterpoint to the new information.”
Pearce’s abrupt change in approach took Lesley aback.
“What’s the sense in that?” she said. “It’ll just make him look like a liar.”
Pearce looked her straight in the eye. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
Lesley blinked.
When she didn’t answer, Pearce continued. “This has turned into an adversarial situation. The public wants to know how a bunch of cyber-saboteurs managed to penetrate security at an American bank. I need someone who’ll push to find out how the bank messed up and left themselves exposed. This is certainly not information First Malden will give out willingly. Can the bank guarantee this sort of thing won’t happen again? And why weren’t the bank’s customers informed when it happened? Your uncle used you to save his own butt. I need a reporter who wants to nail him, and that’s not you.”
He paused and softened his tone.
“Look, I’ve seen enough of these stories to know how ugly things can get. Believe me, you don’t want this coming between you and a family member. Take my advice and leave it alone.”
Lesley’s mouth was set in a thin line as she tried to control her frustration.
“Fine,” she said.
“Once you think about this, you’ll see I’m right.”
Lesley left Pearce’s office, paused and took a few deep breaths, then headed down the hallway. She heard her cell phone ring so she stopped and dug in her purse.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, it’s me.”
She closed her eyes.
“Hi, Uncle Stan.”
“We have a problem,” he said.
“You’re right and it’s all because you lied to me yesterday afternoon.”
“I had to keep our customers calm, buy us some time to fix the problem.”
“Yeah, well, you can see how well that worked.”
“Can we do another interview?” Dysart said. “I’ll say I didn’t know it was an attack until last night. Before that we thought it was just something broken.”
“You knew about the attack on Monday.”
“Come on, it’s worth a try.”
“I have nothing to do with it anymore,” Lesley said. “The producer pulled me off the story, assigned it to someone else.”
Dysart paused, then said, “But you can still influence the direction they’re taking, can’t you?”
“You don’t understand the position you’ve put me in. I had plenty of control until you made me look like a fool. I’m off it, okay? Gone. Out of the loop. I can’t help.”
“Don’t snap at me, young lady. You’re not the only one with problems. I just finished talking with Homeland Security about terrorists attacking the American financial industry. We had a lovely chat. Really made my day. Before that it was the FDIC trying to figure out if we’re going to go kaput and cost them bunches of money. We have messages piled up from dozens of corporate clients who want to know what’s going on. It’s too bad you got caught in the middle but I gave you the only information I could at the time.”
“Fine,” she said, making no attempt to keep the frustration out of her voice, “but there’s still nothing I can do to help.”
Dysart sighed. “Okay. Gotta go.”
Lesley snapped the phone shut, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the elevator. She saw no reason to hang around where she wasn’t wanted.
* * *
Tim removed the key from the lock and pushed open his apartment door. The staleness engulfed him as he carried the grocery bag inside an
d set it on the kitchen counter.
“I’m home, Dad,” he called out in a cheery voice.
There was no response, but that was no surprise. He rarely received one.
Tim opened the tiny kitchen window, walked into the living room past the armchair that held his father, raised the blind and opened that window as well. On the TV, a CNN anchor looked stern as he dished out the day’s outlook for the Dow Jones.
Tim saw a small plate covered with crumbs sitting on the table beside his father.
“Did you eat?” Tim asked. “I thought you were going to wait and have some brunch with me. I got some bacon and eggs … and those chocolate croissants you like.”
Eldon Whitlock shrugged as he took a drag on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke and said, “I had some toast like I usually do. I guess I’m not used to having you home at this time on a weekday.”
“No worries,” Tim said. “I’ll just whip up some eggs for myself.”
Tim picked up the overflowing ashtray and whistled softly as he headed for the kitchen. Nothing was going to dampen his spirits on this morning. He had spent the last several months feeling like a loser while he hesitated to put his plan into action. But now things were underway and flowing according to plan. Tim was on top of the world.
He expected the clues he planted in Rob’s desk at the bank to be discovered today, which would be followed by a rapid series of events. He played out the scenario in his mind yet again. Rob is hauled into Dysart’s office where he gets chewed out, pressured to provide the keyword, and then fired with as little public fuss as the bank can manage. Tim sends the keyword to the bank with an anonymous text message so the furor can begin to die down. Dysart assumes Rob has supplied the keyword, and tells Lesley about the felony committed by her boyfriend.
That’s where Tim’s crystal ball grew somewhat foggier. He wasn’t sure how Lesley was going to react when she heard her boyfriend was a criminal and had caused such tremendous hardship for a member of her family. Tim grinned as he dropped a fresh ashtray next to his father. He had every reason to expect this revelation to drive an unfixable wedge between Lesley and Rob, which would open the door quite nicely for Tim.
Unauthorized Access Page 7
