“Yeah, you do. That’s what you say when you do.”
“Believe me or not, David,” Roschin replied, seemingly disinterested. “We got work to do here.”
David nodded. He nonchalantly placed his hand in his pocket. Without the brothers noticing, he pulled out the Froggie Finder. He glanced down and tapped the Froggie’s nose. The device activated. He stuffed it back into his pocket.
■
Roger O’Neill rushed down a hallway in the basement level of Montgomery, popping open a can of Sunkist as he did. Roger loved Sunkist. He’d recently noticed that he was one of a dying breed. His daughter had moved to Ojai, California, a few years ago. Like all O’Neills, she had no fear. But the last time he was there, he hadn’t seen a single Sunkist can in any of the soda machines. It made him a little upset, but then again, it also made him a little bit more thankful for New York. She was perfect for California. She was a vegan who disapproved of carbonated beverages—very brave indeed. But he was meant to live and die in New York, and Sunkist would remain his private little vice. Roger nodded as he passed by the familiar sight of Hank pushing the sandwich cart towards the small bank of snack machines, where the soda machine was located.
Hank reached the soda machine that Roger had just utilized. He inserted a dollar and selected a drink. The can fell. Hank leaned down to grab it, but as he did, he surreptitiously affixed a small sticker to the bottom corner of the machine. Hank looked around. Roger had turned the corner and disappeared. There was no one around, and even if there was, they probably wouldn’t have noticed Hank fiddling with a snack machine. He didn’t mess with the trader’s spreadsheets, and they didn’t touch his soda machine. This was his domain. Hank threw the first soda into a trash can. He walked around to the other side of the machine. He quickly reached down and unplugged it. He attached the outlet extender that David had handed him a few minutes before, and then he nonchalantly plugged the machine back in. The refrigerated box began to hum again as it started up.
“What’s wrong with it?” Hank heard someone ask. He stood up to greet a young Montgomery Noyes intern, hands on hips, wondering earnestly.
“Havin’ a little trouble with my soda. But I think she’ll run now,” Hank said.
“I have a better way,” the intern said as he violently slammed the front of the machine with both of his fists. Noticing Hank’s reaction, the intern added, “It works in the dorm.” Then the intern wrapped both arms around the machine and tried to pick the whole thing up, as if he was carrying on some sort of football drill. Hank stifled a chuckle. The method was not effective, and not just because the kid was such a shrimp. Hank watched the barely twenty-year-old child and realized that the effort expended wasn’t about the machine at all. It didn’t take a mind reader to realize that this intern was blowing off steam from the pressure cooker upstairs. Luckily for both of them, the machine turned back on within a moment, just as Hank knew it would—except that no soda came out.
“Ah, darn. I don’t need it anyways,” Hank said as he shrugged sheepishly.
“I got an extra dollar if you want one,” the intern offered.
“Nah, it’s cool. But thanks.” Hank pushed his cart away from the machine and continued on his way.
■
Inside the rental truck, David glanced at the brothers as he tapped away on his laptop. They were both waiting for his word. He noticed a red dialogue box turn green.
“We’re connected. What’s your least favorite soda?” David asked them.
“I only drink Sprite reg. That’s regular—not Diet. I don’t want to die,” Petrov replied.
“And dip. He also drinks dip,” Roschin added.
“Diet Sprite it is,” David said. He continued to type rapidly on his computer screen. The application he was running contained a schematic that looked roughly like a soda machine. David fiddled with a few of the settings, and then hit enter.
“But why not reg?” Petrov pondered out loud.
■
As the intern walked away from the soda dispenser in Montgomery Noyes’ hallway with his Coke in hand, he had no clue that what was happening inside the refrigerated device was the first in a long set of dominos.
The unit began to grumble. Gears turned inside its chassis, slowly at first. Then the machine’s velocity grew, until its insides were rotating with vigorous speed. The receptacle-release mechanism underneath a column of Diet Sprites opened. But due to David’s programming prowess, the mechanism didn’t close. The lever lifted a can of Diet Sprite, then dropped it into the discharge section. The soda rolled down a small ramp, sticking inside the open machine slot. Since the receptacle release was permanently stuck open, another Diet Sprite dropped—then another—and another.
In the basement hallway, the machine finally expelled the first Diet Sprite due to the pressure of all those behind it. After the third can fell, the first can rolled over the lip and onto the floor. A secretary nearby finally noticed a handful of sodas rolling past her office door, each separated by about five seconds. She stood up, curious. She gazed down the hallway and noticed the soda machine, apparently unattended, spitting sodas out. She picked one up from the ground by her feet and opened it—big mistake. It exploded and coated her with carbonated beverage. She screamed.
■
Vlad sat in the front seat of the large blue van with the retrofitted floor. He heard David announce the status of the soda machine over the radio.
“Malfunction complete,” David said.
“Thank you, my peach,” Vlad dipped his face towards the radio and said, “Buckle up, boys. This ain’t no test run. It’s the master class.”
Vlad turned off the radio. He made sure the van was locked from the inside. He turned and climbed through the two front seats of the vehicle towards the back, pulling down a black curtain to block any pedestrian viewpoints into the van. The floor had been rotated up by its newly soldered hinges and secured in the open position. The street was visible underneath the van. A large portable generator situated in the back of the van ran cables through the hole in the bottom and into an open sewer hole on the city street beneath. The waterproof cables flowed into the hole and out of sight. Vlad grabbed a large backpack hanging in the van and slowly climbed down through the hole in the bottom of the floor and into the sewer. He carefully held onto the edge of the sewer with both hands, and then finally lowered himself and disappeared into the dark depths beneath the city.
THIRTY
MARINA APPROACHED THE ZHADANOVS’ house. Her face was stiff with purpose but also buffered by a distinct sadness. A few moments after Marina rang the doorbell, Cat answered. She noticed Marina’s dour expression immediately.
“Hey, babe! What’s wrong?” Cat asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want it to be like this—but it is,” Marina said solemnly.
Cat glanced behind Marina to see Jake Rivett climbing the hill up to the house. A large pile of police officers followed him. Jake pushed past Marina and Cat and stepped into the Zhadanovs’ house.
“Where’s Vladimir?” Jake asked. Cat noticed that Jake was holding his trusty crowbar in his hands.
“Who are you?” Cat retorted.
“The fuckin’ cops. Where is he?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Cat finally stuttered.
“You don’t know where your husband is?”
“No. Why should I?” Cat said and then turned to Marina, “You brought them here?”
“This has nothing to do with her,” Jake said. “It’s a damn shame that you don’t know where Vlad is, because he’s wanted for murder. Maybe he’s actually here, and he’s hiding?” Jake asked as he eyed a tall closet in Cat’s kitchen. Jake leaned back and placed two hands on the crowbar. With a fluid leap, he used all his might to swing the crowbar and crush the cabinet’s wooden surface. He ripped the door open and stood back as the remnants flew everywhere. But there was nothing inside. “I guess we’ll have to look everywhere for him,” Jake said.
“You asshole! You can’t do that!” Cat flailed towards Jake.
“I was afraid for my life,” Jake replied.
Cat tensed. She was about to explode, but Villalon jumped in and pulled her away. Tony handed Cat over to another police officer, who escorted her out onto the porch.
■
Cat huddled on a chair. Marina placed her purse on a small side table and sat down next to Cat, attempting to comfort her.
“Do you know where they are?” Marina asked Cat. “This isn’t right, honey. Whatever they’re doing . . . It has to end.”
Cat accepted Marina’s embrace but didn’t answer her question. Instead she buried her face into Marina’s arm and cried. Marina sighed.
Due to the loud torrent of tears emoting from Cat, Marina couldn’t hear her phone buzzing in her purse. It was on vibrate. But deep inside the bag, a notification popped up on her device. Froggie Finder was sending her a message: “Mikey” had checked in—in Manhattan—just a few blocks away from Montgomery Noyes.
■
A Montgomery Noyes maintenance man levered a wrench into the guts of the soda machine in an attempt to fix the unit, to no avail. Not sure what to do next, he noticed a small silver sticker on the bottom corner of the machine: “SERVICED BY AAA+ VENDING: 212-444-2 . . .” The maintenance man pulled his phone and dialed the number for service.
■
Inside the soda supply truck, Roschin watched as his phone started to vibrate. He grinned and picked up.
“Soda,” Roschin said. He listened before replying, “Yes, yes. No problem. Thirty minutes or less. That’s our guarantee.”
■
Using his flashlight to navigate, Vlad carefully splashed through the two feet of fast-running water inside a large main located underneath Montgomery Noyes. Below the depths of New York City existed a world unto itself, consisting of ancient aqueducts, catacombs, and a bird’s nest of municipal and private plumbing systems. With David’s help, Vlad had spent the last week studying these systems, to the point where he knew them like the back of his hand. He followed the electrical cables around a corner to reveal a “base camp” set up for his operation. A platform had been built over the running water. Baranowski stood guard over a collection of boxes and equipment they’d hauled down earlier in the day. Konstantin was kneeling over a bulging pile of folded synthetic cloth, carefully unspooling the various ends while referring to printed directions. They both heard Vlad’s footsteps and turned.
“Is it ready?” Vlad asked.
“I think so,” Baranowski replied. “Did they get the call for the soda machine?”
“Ya. We’re at twenty-six minutes. Do it,” Vlad said.
Konstantin pressed a button and activated an air pump charged by the power cables strung down the tunnel. The motor in the pump revved up. It was connected to the mass of fabric sitting on the platform. Soon the material began to inflate. Its sides slipped out of their folded patterns and the fabric began to expand like a wobbly bubble. As the bubble became larger, the men pushed the contraption off the platform and into the running water. They secured it with a rope so it wouldn’t float down the tunnel. It soon became clear what the item itself was: a high-pressure tunnel plug. Consisting of three interwoven layers of Vectran, a manufactured fiber spun from liquid-crystal polymers, the tunnel plug continued to grow in size.
After ten minutes, the plug became large enough to completely block the sewer pipe the three men were standing in. After a few more minutes, the power of friction would make the plug completely unyielding. As the plug closed off the pipe, the running water had nowhere to go. It began to rise. Similar to jamming a stopper into a tub’s drain, Vlad had plugged the sewer system underneath Montgomery. The water molecules’ path of least resistance became vertical. Baranowski quickly set up a ladder inside the pipe. Wielding an acetylene torch, he climbed up and began to cut a hole into the top of the water main. Behind him, Vlad and Konstantin opened the boxes of supplies they’d prepared and began changing into wetsuits and pulling out air tanks.
■
Wearing “AAA+ Vending” uniforms, Petrov and Roschin guided a new soda machine down a ramp into the shipping-and-receiving bay of Montgomery’s headquarters. The guard at the gate looked up to see the huge soda machine in front of him. Roschin handed the guard a purchase order, but the guard didn’t want to read it.
“I thought you were just coming to fix it?”
“It’s broken,” Petrov said succinctly.
“I know, but . . . Never mind. Here, I’ll show you where it goes.”
■
Following the guard on the way to the small kitchenette with the soda machines, Petrov and Roschin couldn’t help but glance down the various hallways of the bank’s back office like a pair of salivating dogs being led down a hallway lined with red meat. They eventually reached the malfunctioning unit. It was completely out of stock. All of the offending sodas had been helpfully piled up against the wall. After Petrov and Roschin unplugged the broken machine and moved it out of the way, they rolled the new one into its place next to the other snack units. They plugged it in. In seemingly perfect working order, the new machine’s light illuminated the Coke logo on front. Roschin pressed a series of buttons and selected a soda. After a light rumble, a Sunkist fell out of the slot at the bottom.
“Test complete,” Petrov said.
“You gonna put those Sprites back in?” the guard asked.
“No,” Roschin answered. “Is already full.”
“So what’re we supposed to do with them?”
“It’s your soda. Drink it,” Roschin said.
“Excellent point,” the guard replied.
■
Jake Rivett stepped out onto the Zhadanovs’ porch and addressed Cat. “How long have you lived in the house?” he asked.
“Twelve years.”
“Do you love it?”
“It’s where my children grew up. It’s full of love,” she answered.
“What does that mean?” Jake asked. Although she perceived his comment as facetious, he was seriously wondering. But before she could open her mouth to reply, he proceeded. “I’m going to go back in there and treat this place like the mosh pit at a headbanger’s ball.”
“But I told you everything.” Cat began to tear up.
“Too bad that everything provided nothing. Guess I’ll have to look even harder.”
■
Jake entered the house, dragging his crowbar on the floor with him. The steel scraped along the wood floor with horrible premonition, like a rabid predator waiting to strike. Marina and Cat watched in horror through the porch windows as Jake moved through the house and proceeded to methodically destroy everything in his sight.
He was a leviathan of destruction. He was doom incarnate. He was his rat-bastard father. He shattered a row of glass cabinets in the kitchen. He saw an antique buffet table in a hallway and gave it three harsh hits. The table cracked down the middle. Broken china fragmented everywhere. Jake moved into the living room. After yanking the pillow off, he flipped each couch and chair over. He dissected the furniture with his crowbar, and then went for the pillows. Feathers and foam erupted. Jake caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a grandfather clock, sitting in a corner of the living room. He stepped towards it, but instead of swinging the crowbar, he stopped. He stared at the clock, and his expression grew darker and denser.
“I fucking hate you,” he said to no one in particular. His shoulders heaved backwards, about to punish the grandfather clock with a heavy-laden swing of the crowbar. Just as he was about to destroy it, he heard Cat screaming bloody murder from the porch.
“Stop! Stop! Stop it!”
■
Marina was screaming too, but at Cat. “Just tell them!”
Jake emerged back onto the porch. “Did you want to say something? This is your last chance,” he said.
“It’s . . . He’s . . . They’re . . .” Cat tried to say the words between tea
rs, “They’re at the bank—David’s bank.”
The revelation washed over Jake’s face as if he were waking from a long night of terrible dreams.
THIRTY-ONE
IN THE VAULT’S CONTROL room, Roger O’Neill sipped his Sunkist and gazed through the massive window that framed the commodity vault. Even for a man such as Roger, who overlooked the vault five days a week, it was impossible to not be occasionally dazzled by the sheer buying power of the commodities stored within—the gold, the platinum, the silver, the bullion, the currency. In addition to O’Neill, a handful of technicians sat inside the control room and kept track of the various mechanical, electrical, and computer systems running the vault.
“Gotta hit the head,” Roger said as he finished his pop. With a nod to one of the operators, he headed back outside the control room.
■
Howard Bergensen sat in silence while Dubbiono drove him into the city. Although he’d kept Steve on at the police’s request, he would be lying if he said it hadn’t been a bit awkward during the morning pickup. Dubbiono wasn’t talking much this morning either, and neither was Howard. He was staring at the urban jungle whipping past the window and thinking about the nature of meritocracy.
A woman in Montgomery’s human resources department, with whom Howard had managed to conduct a two-year affair and emerge unscathed, had just sent him a cartoon about standardized testing. An elephant, a dolphin, a bird, a monkey, and a giraffe stood in a line. A docent was informing the collection of animals that he would be conducting a standardized test.
“The task is: tree climbing. Go climb a tree. And to make sure this is fair, everyone will climb the same tree,” the docent said.
The competition was fair and square, except that it simultaneously wasn’t. Sometimes it’s nice to be a bird or a monkey. The irony rang true in Howard’s mind because he knew full well that merit was a sham. He hadn’t succeeded by obeying the rules of the system. He’d made it in life by figuring out where they could be bent or broken without blowback hitting him in the face. But maybe he wasn’t as good at dodging debris as he used to be. In the middle of this thought, Howard’s cell phone rang. He picked up and listened. His face drained white.
Flash Crash Page 21
