The Penny Thief

by Christophe Paul

  He paused again for dramatic effect, then continued. “Now let’s look at the bank’s perspective. Those two cents would throw us off-balance, right? Unless they go to an account created for that purpose. Then there are no discrepancies and no alarms.”

  Jean-Philippe did not want it to be true—there had to be a mistake somewhere. “It’s not possible. For years, we’ve had automatic alarms in the cent transactions so this doesn’t happen.”

  “That’s right, but we also fiddle with the cents when, for example, we carry out currency exchange transactions or regularization of delay interests, and it’s usually in our favor. In these cases, we use a special procedure that stops the automatic alarms from going off. Henri Pichon uses these.”

  “But how can he inhibit the certificate of—”

  “Pichon started working on this many years before the information barriers were in place. He positions himself at the very beginning of the transaction, and when he finishes with it, it’s clean and transparent. He covers himself with our risk procedures. If everything were revealed now, the bank would be in a very bad position, and all the regularizations in its favor would have to be justified to be able to explain the ‘pirate’ ones.”

  “How can it be that nobody has realized this in all these years? We must have received some kind of complaint from someone.”

  “Henri has everything extremely well embedded and automated. He has hundreds of routines in machine language, ultrafast and very precise, that intervene in concrete cases. For example, not touching transactions less than €200, nor the cents transactions ending in tens. They’re set not to touch the same account more than once in every X period, depending on the quantity of daily or monthly transactions. If a client comes to one of our offices complaining about one cent, it’s known that the cent is returned and that the expense goes through the account of losses and gains of the office without any further formalities.”

  “We have to stop this hemorrhage immediately.”

  “It’s impossible. Everything is too intricate, and if we touch one routine, it could cause a tremendous amount of chaos. We’d have to rewrite the whole procedure and get it working immediately, removing the other one. This means years of work and an elevated risk of errors.”

  A heavy silence descended on the two men.

  “We’re fucked,” Maillard managed to say, shaken. The whole thing was beyond him.

  16

  They continued to study the documents Pierre-Gabriel had brought. There was no doubt about it: the more they saw, the more obvious it became that they were standing before the best financial fraud ever devised. There was no way to incriminate Henri.

  They had their lunch brought up from the usual café at the bottom of the tower.

  “From what I’ve just seen,” started Jean-Philippe, looking intensely at Pierre-Gabriel, “it’s obvious that you’ve underestimated the severity of the disaster. For more than ten years, worldwide interbank transactions have been completely electronic, and nowadays they represent more than four billion dollars a day. These ridiculous figures have been discussed endlessly in regard to the European Commission proposal to tax all financial transactions. If we limit ourselves to what our bank group manages, we can assume the volume of transactions likely to be of interest to Henri is one hundred million. Of those, not all are of use to him—only the ones that fit the criteria his routines require, which, according to my estimates, could represent 10 percent. That would give us around a hundred thousand a day. Fuck, Pierre-Gabriel, we’re talking about hundreds of millions—”

  Maillard stopped talking. His mind was analyzing the situation. Suddenly he realized he was missing an important piece of information, a fundamental fact he had yet to verify. “Where does the money go? If he’s been so ingenious and meticulous with the collection, he must have the money equally well organized. What does he do with it? Does he buy shares in large anonymous groups, invest in bonuses? Is it in the raw materials stock market?”

  “It doesn’t exist. It disappears when the balance goes over a thousand euros. He uses the temporary accounts generated for international transactions procedures. It’s absolutely impossible to keep track. The money could be anywhere.”

  Maillard remained pensive for a long time; there was no reason to hurry. What he had here was a thriller. This Pichon was a genius, a privileged mind. The beans had been spilled thanks to a series of circumstances that would not be produced again. The bank would not miss the money as long as it didn’t find out about its existence.

  Taking the analysis further: the diverted money did not belong to the bank, although it was the bank’s responsibility. If the scam came to light, Maillard could get into a lot of trouble that would eventually implicate him fully. It was his IT department, and it had been a tremendous oversight on his part to leave the transactions system unprotected. The scam aside, he didn’t feel guilty. He’d been working there for thirty years, and everything ran like clockwork without a single slip.

  He made a decision.

  “We’re not going to do anything for now. Are you capable of keeping the secret and continuing your investigation until we make a decision?”

  “I think that’s the best decision.”

  “We’ll have to find the money. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “I haven’t seen any trace of it in the routines of the transactions. He must have that separately, perhaps in some temporary transactions process. It could take us years to find it.”

  “We don’t have years. Any error in the transactions procedure could bring everything to light. There has to be a solution. Or we could ask Pichon directly.”

  “I’m going to La Salpêtrière to see how our patient is doing,” said Pierre-Gabriel.

  “Good initiative. And please, not a word to Tash. I don’t want to involve her in this.”

  Pierre-Gabriel left the office with all the evidence. Jean-Philippe Maillard stood at the window, looking triumphant and feeling like the future god of pennies.

  17

  Tash pushed open the door of the ICU to leave, glancing back for a last look at Henri’s silhouette resting peacefully in the dim room. She wished with all her might that he would improve as soon as possible. The talisman would protect him—she tried to convince herself of it.

  She saw Valérie sitting in one of the chairs facing the hallway, and then a doctor came in accompanied by Pierre-Gabriel. She retreated just as Valérie looked curiously at her, noticing that Tash had stepped back in fear.

  Once again in the darkness of the room, Tash hesitated, which could have been her undoing if it weren’t for Valérie, who went in after her and pushed Tash through the curtain to the bedside of a woman three beds away from Henri.

  Seconds later, Pierre-Gabriel and the doctor entered.

  “He seems all right,” said Pierre-Gabriel after a while, looking at Henri with interest.

  “Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up shortly.”

  “What do you mean by ‘shortly’?”

  “Within a few hours or days. It’s hard to tell, but he is in an optimal condition to wake up.”

  “Do you think he’ll have any permanent damage?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” the doctor repeated. “The external trauma is severe, but the various CTs show no anomaly, no tearing in the meninges or blood vessels—nothing that would lead us to believe we’re looking at a complex picture of recovery.”

  There was silence, and Tash’s anxious heartbeats were almost audible.

  The doctor continued: “However, it’s possible he may suffer partial and temporal amnesia, especially regarding the accident. It’s a defense mechanism of the subconscious. Either way, don’t expect to see him back at the office anytime soon. A TBI is no laughing matter, and he needs time to recover.”

  “I understand. But I could ask him one or two questions, right?”


  “We’ll speak about that when it’s the right time. First he has to be with us again. I’ll leave you alone with him for a while, I have to get back to work. Take a moment to tell him something—it doesn’t matter what. You never know what could help bring him back.”

  “Sure. Thank you very much for your time.”

  The doctor left the ward, and Pierre-Gabriel was alone with Henri.

  After looking at him in the half-light for a few minutes, he decided to speak.

  “All right, Pichon, I see you’re fine. Perhaps a bit fatter than ten years ago, but you’re not looking too bad after all. The bandages suit you wonderfully.”

  He paused to chuckle at his own joke.

  “Do you know you’re a programming genius? I admire your work. But the thing I admire the most is how you’ve fooled everyone. Twenty years of submissive work, twenty years of building the most compact, intricate, and wonderful set of programs in the world. When you wake up, we must talk seriously about it.”

  He paused again—having a conversation with someone who couldn’t reply was so easy. He noticed the little gold chain.

  “What a lovely chain you’re wearing, Pichon. Let me see it.”

  Someone coughed by his side, interrupting him.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Valérie, a neighbor of Henri’s.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I’m Pierre-Gabriel, a colleague. I noticed the gold chain, and I thought it was strange that they didn’t remove it.”

  “I put it on him this morning, with the doctor’s permission. It’s my baptism chain, to bring him good luck.”

  “Great idea. Well, I’ll leave him in good hands. I have to go. Nice to meet you, good-bye,” he said, flustered.

  Valérie waited for him to disappear along the corridor, then called Tash.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Thanks. If he’d seen the talisman . . .”

  18

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Jean-Philippe was not a man who believed in hunches. He hadn’t reached such a high position by using a sixth sense or other special power—he did so by being intelligent, sagacious, and prudent. Many had tried to dethrone him, some more cunning than others, but all with the same result: resounding failure.

  Jean-Philippe’s trump card was intuition: he had it big-time, thanks to all these long years of struggling in the jungle of power. He was quick to weigh in and judge anyone he happened to talk to, as well as his collaborators. Thanks to this ability, he knew how to surround himself with trustworthy people who respected or feared him, depending on the case. He’d always gotten the same result: complete obedience and submission.

  Jean-Philippe knew that Pierre-Gabriel had come to test the waters, not to reveal the truth. He wanted to know if Jean-Philippe was in on the scheme, and if he wasn’t, Pierre-Gabriel wanted to measure his reaction.

  The clue to the money was in the routines of Pichon’s programs. Maillard had read this in the eyes and face of his son-in-law and in his proposal to visit Pichon in the hospital. Although it was evident that the secret to the pennies’ whereabouts was in those routines, it was also easy to deduce that tracking them would be very, very complicated.

  Pierre-Gabriel needed time, and time could only be provided by Henri Pichon—the longer he remained in a coma, the better chance Pierre-Gabriel had of figuring out where the treasure trove was hidden.

  Maillard wasn’t going to sit watching idly as hundreds of millions slipped out of his hands; the stakes were well worth the risk. His brain was working at full speed to devise a plan that had to be foolproof, and he wouldn’t settle with just one option.

  He picked up his phone to speak to his secretary.

  “Please find Herbert Lenoir immediately, and tell him I need him right away.”

  He hung up and leaned back in his imposing presidential chair. Herbert Lenoir was one of the best private detectives he knew, and the bank had required his services on several occasions. He was discreet and, above all, infallible. Maillard wouldn’t tell Lenoir the background of the issue, only ask him to do continuous exhaustive surveillance on Pierre-Gabriel. He wanted to know where his son-in-law was at all times, and, if possible, anticipate where he was going, especially if he decided to take a trip. It was more than likely that Pichon had been diverting his pennies to offshore financial havens.

  At the same time, he would ask for a full investigation of Henri Pichon. A man who had a few hundred million in his possession must be noticeable. Luxury cars, motorcycles, houses, trips; perhaps casinos or women.

  Tomorrow he would initiate phase two: getting in touch with a programming experts firm. He knew one that was extremely discreet and equally expensive. He had used it a few years ago to hunt down one of his department bosses. The poor wretch tried to destabilize Jean-Philippe by generating problems in the office management system. He didn’t know who he was messing with. Maillard had sent the firm a copy of all the suspicious programs, and eight days later he bid his farewell—judicial order included—to the person who caused the programming blackmail. This move reinforced Jean-Philippe’s reputation, and his absolute power.

  The telephone rang, and his secretary connected him to Herbert Lenoir.

  19

  “Goddamn it!” Pierre-Gabriel swore as he waved down a taxi outside the hospital.

  The return of Henri Pichon was imminent, the doctor had made that crystal clear. Unfortunately, this was not a movie—he couldn’t go and inject the injured man with some powerful drug to prolong the coma, although he had seriously thought about it in the ICU: Pichon looked so defenseless in the half-light, surrounded by green curtains. It would have been simple if it weren’t for the goody-two-shoes team of guilty, repenting volunteers who watched over him day and night.

  Pierre-Gabriel was gripped by a contained rage. He had managed to divert his powerful father-in-law’s attention, promising him that he wasn’t in on the plot and convincing him that it wasn’t possible to find the money without Pichon’s help. This gave him some time to do it, but he would need to stay alert—Jean-Philippe was astute enough to risk it. When money was at stake, people’s principles tended to falter, especially when the sum was in the hundreds of millions.

  “Where to?”

  “La Défense. Drop me off at the top of the esplanade at the end of Pont de Neuilly, please.”

  He could do with a little walk before getting his documents from Henri’s desk, where he’d put them when he left Maillard’s office.

  He needed time. His analysis barely covered a hundredth of Pichon’s work. At the beginning, he needed only to organize the tasks to be able to mount a work team that would take care of the transactions exclusively. His team.

  But this morning, he had found a strange routine with the sole purpose of subtracting one penny from one part of a transaction. It looked like it was for regularizing imputation errors, a type of correction that’s common in programming. But the strange thing was that it remained active—once the process of regularization is complete, it should verify that everything has gone well and should be removed. It seemed odd that the meticulous Henri Pichon would make such a basic mistake. Pierre-Gabriel decided to take care of the task himself and score some extra points with his new boss.

  After an hour’s work, he managed to find the program that accessed the routine. It was an unusual program that acted as a filter for a group of processes and transactions and also called up other routines. He went on to study these other routines with intense curiosity. One of them corrected the other part of the transaction, adding one penny—what a gigantic mistake! Instead of balancing out the deed, it was setting it back even more. All of a sudden, Pichon went down a few notches in Pierre-Gabriel’s admiration. He looked at the year when the routine was initiated: 1990. He made a brief mental calculation. A beginner’s mistake, he thought—Pichon must have been on the jo
b only for a short time. He probably got into a big mess, and this made Pierre-Gabriel smile. He looked at the subsequent routine, interested in figuring out where to attack and wipe away that obsolete and dangerous process. Lo and behold, it was tallying the deed, and the errant two cents went to a temporary account for the regularization of special operations.

  Pierre-Gabriel was dumbfounded. It was obvious that the set of routines did not correct anything, that their only purpose was to outbalance each base of the transaction by one cent that was diverted to a temporary account. He wasn’t at all surprised to discover that other routines took charge of transforming and emptying the temporary accounts when their balances went past a certain amount, while still others created new ones. It was like ghosts who took, penny by penny, money that wasn’t even the property of the bank. The best twist was that they did so supported by internal banking systems, which were borderline legal. Very good coverage. Pichon occupied his pedestal once again.

  Until now, everything had been decipherable for a good programmer, but the next layer of routines called for many others with complicated algorithms of transposition, creating a true virtual labyrinth that was supposed to provide the key to the accounts or addresses where the amounts were diverted and disappeared as if by magic.

  Now Pierre-Gabriel was starting a race against the clock to discover, before the return of Henri Pichon, where the money went.

  20

  Tash came back by subway, feeling nervous and worried. She walked into the house, and when she saw that Pierre-Gabriel’s raincoat was not on the rack, nor his keys on the tray, she let out a sigh of relief. She could relax, although she didn’t know for how long.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She didn’t feel like cooking, and she didn’t have anything to occupy her mind. Tash felt restless.