The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “What do you think?”

  “Shut up. Let me think. I told you that keeping those small deposits was a bad idea.”

  “And who says we’ve kept them? It’s been less than a month. They were put there without our knowing; we were going to report them, right? That wouldn’t warrant this,” Borst said.

  “You’re right. And you ran a full query, right? There’s no trace of where it went?”

  “None. I’m telling you, someone took it!”

  Bentley sat down, hard. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Menus popped to life and disappeared, replaced by others.

  “You won’t find anything. I’ve already looked,” Borst said.

  “Yeah, well now I’m looking,” Bentley snapped back, undeterred.

  “Sure. But I’m telling you, there’s something wrong here. And you know we can’t just report it. If there’s an investigation, they’ll find the other money. It won’t look right, Price.”

  “I told you not to call me Price.”

  “Come on! We’re each a few hundred thousand dollars upside down here, and you’re bickering over what I call you?”

  Bentley had finished his queries. “You’re right. It’s gone.” He slammed his big fist on the desk. “That’s impossible! How’s that possible, huh? You tell me, Mr. Computer Wizard. How does someone just walk into an account and wipe it out?”

  A buzz erupted at the base of Borst’s skull. “You would need a pretty powerful program.” He stiffened in his chair. “AFPS could do it, maybe.”

  “AFPS? AFPS would leave a trail as wide as I-70.”

  “Not necessarily. Not if you know the raw code.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not even sure how it could be done. But if there were a way, it would be through the alteration of the code itself.”

  “Yeah, well that’s not good news, Borst. And do you know why that’s not good news? I’ll tell you why. Because you, my dear friend, are in charge of that code! You’re the brilliant one who pieced this thing together, right? Now either you stole from yourself, and from me, or someone else is using your program to rob you blind.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Those monkeys in there wouldn’t have the stomach much less the experience to do anything like this. And I certainly did not mess with my own account.”

  “Well, somebody did. And you’d better find that somebody, or it won’t go nicely for you. Do you understand me?”

  Borst looked up at the president, stunned by the suggestion. “Well, if it doesn’t go nicely for me, you can bet it won’t go nicely for you.”

  “And that, my dear, fine-feathered friend, is where you are wrong.” Bentley jabbed his desk with his finger, making a small thumping sound each time it landed. “If this goes down, you’ll take the fall, the whole fall, and nothing but the fall. And don’t think for a minute I can’t do it.”

  “We will deny it,” Borst said, dismissing Bentley’s threats.

  “Deny what?”

  “We deny that we know anything about our accounts at all. We ignore all of this and come unglued when the first sign of trouble crops up.”

  “And like you said, if they run an investigation we could have a hard time answering their questions.”

  “Yes, but at least it’s only an if. You have a better suggestion?”

  “Yes. I suggest you find this imbecile and put a bullet in his brain.”

  They stared at each other for a full thirty seconds, and slowly, very slowly, the magnitude of what they might be facing settled on both of them. The macho stuff vacated their minds, replaced by a dawning desperation. This was not a problem that would necessarily go away at the push of a button.

  When Borst emerged from the room thirty minutes later, his head was bald and his face was white. But these issues were of little concern to him now. It was the pressure on his brain that had him swallowing repeatedly as he walked back to his office. And nothing, absolutely nothing, he could think of seemed to loosen the vise that now held his mind in its grip.

  KENT AWOKE midmorning and slogged out to the deck, nursing a bit of a headache. He squinted against the bright blue sky and rubbed his temples. The ocean’s distant crashing carried on the wind, but otherwise silence hung heavily in the air. Not a voice, not a bird, not a motor, not a single sound of life. Then he heard the muted thud of a hammer landing on some new home’s wood frame down the way. And with that thud the hole in Kent’s chest opened once again. A sobering reminder that he was alone in the world.

  He glanced at his watch, suddenly alert. Ten o’clock Friday morning. His lips twitched to a faint grin. By now Borst and Bentley would have discovered the little disappearing trick. Now you see it; now you don’t. He imagined they’d be sweating all over their desks about now. What they didn’t know was that the trick was just beginning. Act one. Strap yourselves in, ladies and gentlemen. This one will rock your socks. Or perhaps steal them right off your feet without your knowing the better.

  He swallowed and thought about mixing himself a drink. Meanwhile, he was wealthy, of course. Must not forget that. How many people would give their children to have what he now had? An image of Spencer, riding his red skateboard, popped into his mind. Yes, a drink would be good.

  Kent mixed himself a drink and meandered out to the deck. The soft sound of waves rushing the shore carried on the breeze. He had ten hours to burn before placing the phone call. He couldn’t sit around drinking himself into a stupor this time. Not with that conversation coming on tonight. He would have to stay clear headed. Then perhaps he should clear his head out there on the waves.

  An hour later Kent stood by the pier, gazing down the long row of boats, wondering how much they would bring. A small chill of excitement rippled through his gut.

  “Whoa there, mate!” The voice spoke with an Australian accent.

  Kent whirled to face an older seaman pushing a dolly stacked with provisions down the plank. “If you’ll step aside, son, I’ll be by quicker than a swordfish on a line.” He grinned, splitting the bristly white hair that masked his face. Years of sun had turned the man’s skin to leather, but if the shorts and tank top were any indicator, he wasn’t too concerned.

  “Sorry.” Kent stepped aside to let the man pass and then followed him up the pier. “Excuse me.”

  “Hold your head, son,” the man croaked without looking back. “I’ve got a bit of a load, as you can see. I’ll be with you in a jiffy. Have yourself a beer.”

  Kent smiled and trailed the man to a large white boat near the end of the pier. Marlin Mate. She was a Roughwater, the little silver plaque on her bow said. Maybe fifty feet in length.

  “This your boat?” Kent asked.

  “You don’t hear too well, do you? Hold your head, mate.” The seaman hauled the dolly over the gangplank and into the cabin, grumbling under his breath. This time Kent lost his grin and wondered if the old man’s head was out to sea. He could certainly use a little fine-tuning in the social-graces department.

  “Now there,” the man said, coming from the cabin. “That wasn’t such a long wait, was it? Yes, this is my boat. What can I do for you?” The sailor’s blue eyes sparkled with the sea.

  “What does something like this go for?” Kent asked, looking her up and down.

  “Much more than you would think. And I don’t rent her out. If you want a day trip, Paulie has—”

  “I’m not sure you’re answering my question. It was quite simple, really. How much would a boat like this one cost me?”

  The man hesitated, obviously distracted by the strong comeback. “What’s it to you? You plan on buying her? Even if you could afford her, she’s not for sale.”

  “And what makes you think I can’t afford her?”

  “She’s pricey, mate. I’ve worked her for half my life, and I still hold a decent note on her.” Leather Face smiled. He’d misplaced two of his front teeth. “You got five hundred thousand dollars hanging loose in your pocket there?”
r />   “Five hundred, huh?” Kent studied the boat again. It looked almost new to him—if the Australian had owned it for as long as he let on, he’d cared for her well.

  “She’s not for sale.”

  Kent looked back to the old man, who had flattened his lips. “How much do you want for her? I pay cash.”

  The man looked at him steadily for a moment without answering, probably running through those little note balances in his mind.

  “Five-fifty, then?” Kent pushed.

  Leather Face’s baby blues widened. For a long minute he did not speak. Then a smile spread his cracked face. “Seven hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and she’s all yours, mate. If you’re crazy enough to pay that kind of dough in cash, well, I guess I’ll have to be crazy enough to sell her.”

  “I’ll pay you seven hundred on one condition,” Kent returned. “You agree to keep her for a year. Teach me the ropes and take care of her when I’m not around.”

  “I’m no steward, mate.”

  “And I’m not looking for a steward. You just let me tag along, learn a few things, and when I’m gone you run her all you like.”

  The old man studied him with piercing eyes now, judging the plausibility of the offer, Kent guessed. “You show me the cash, I’ll show you the boat. If I like what I see and you like what you see, we got us a deal.”

  Kent was back an hour later, briefcase in hand. Leather Face—or Doug Oatridge as he called himself—liked what he saw. Kent just wanted to get out to sea, feel the breeze through his hair, drink a few beers, distract himself for a few hours. Kick back on the deck of his yacht while Borst and Bentley chewed their fingernails to the knuckles.

  By midday they were trolling at twenty knots, precisely. A permanent smile had fixed itself on Doug’s face as he feathered the murmuring engine through the seawater. Thinking about the cash, no doubt. They sat on cushioned chairs, eating sandwiches and drinking ice-cold beer. The sun had dipped halfway when the first fish hit. Ten minutes later they hauled a four-foot tuna over the side and shoved it into the holding tank. What they would do with such a creature, Kent had no clue—maybe carve it up and fry it on the grill, although he’d never liked tuna. Give him swordfish or salmon, disguised with chicken broth, but keep the smelly stuff. Three more of the fish’s cousins joined him in the tank over the next half-hour, then they stopped taking the bait. Doug was talking about how tuna ran in schools, but Kent was thinking the fish had just grown tired of the senseless self-sacrifice.

  The perfect day’s only damper came on the trip home, when Kent made the mistake of asking Doug how he’d come to own the boat in the first place. The old man had evidently both grown accustomed to Kent and loosened under the influence of a six-pack, and his story ran long. He’d been married twice, he said, first to Martha, who had left him for some basketball player on a beach court in Sydney. Then to Sally, who had borne them three sons and tired of them all after ten years. It was an inheritance of a hundred thousand dollars that had brought Doug to the islands with his sons, in search of a boat with which to begin life anew. He’d purchased Marlin Mate then. Two of his sons had left the island within the first year—off to America to find their own lives. The youngest, his little Bobby, had been swept overboard in a storm one year later.

  The old man turned away and stared misty eyed to the sea, having dropped his tale like a lead weight into Kent’s mind. The beer in Kent’s hand suddenly felt heavy. The afternoon grew quiet beyond the splashing wake. Kent imagined a small boy cartwheeling off the deck, screaming for Daddy. A knot rose into his throat.

  They docked the boat an hour later, and Kent showed as much interest as he could muster in the procedure. He shook the old man’s hand. Did he want to go out tomorrow? No, not tomorrow. Could he take the boat out tomorrow then? Yes, of course. Do what you like, Doug. He thumped the man on the back and smiled. In fact, keep the stupid boat, he thought, but immediately reined in the absurd notion.

  “Hey, me and the mates are going to do some drinking tonight. You want to come? There’ll be dames.”

  “Dames?”

  Doug flashed a toothless smile. “Girls, mate. Beach bunnies in their bikinis.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Dames. And where are we having this party?”

  “Here on the boat. But not to worry, mate. The first man to puke gets thrown overboard.”

  Kent smiled. “Well, that’s comforting. Maybe. We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DESPITE HIS need for a clear mind, Kent downed two stiff drinks before his eight o’clock phone call. It wouldn’t do to have his teeth clattering against the receiver, either, and his nerves had tightened as the hour approached.

  Darkness had settled over the island. From the villa’s deck the sea looked black below, split by a long shaft of white cast by the bright moon. A spattering of lights twinkled along the hillside on either side. It was hard to imagine that across that sea the sun had already risen over a bustling city called Tokyo. He’d seen pictures of the tall, chrome building that housed Niponbank’s headquarters, smack-dab in the middle of the busiest part of town, but he could hardly picture the crowded scene now. The serene one before him had lulled him into a foggy state. Or perhaps the drinks had done that.

  A small bell chimed behind him, and Kent started. It was time.

  He grabbed the cordless phone from the table and stared at its buttons. His heart pounded like a tom-tom in his ears. For the first time in over a month he was about to expose himself. And for what?

  Kent cleared his throat and spoke with a gruff voice, the voice he had decided would be his to complete his disguise. “Hello, this is Bob.” Too high. He’d done this a thousand times. “Hello, this is Bob.”

  Get on with it, man.

  He punched the numbers in quickly.

  An electronic voice answered his call. “Thank you for calling Niponbank. Please press one if you wish to be served in Japanese. Please press two if you wish to be served in English.” Please press three if you are calling to turn yourself in for grand larceny.

  Kent swallowed and pressed two.

  It took all of ten minutes to find the right individual. A Mr. Hiroshito—the one banking executive Kent knew who could quickly get him to the real power mongers at the top. He knew Hiroshito because the high-level man had visited Denver once, and the bank had spent a day dancing around him like crows around fresh road kill.

  “Hiroshito.” The man said his name like it was an order to attack.

  Chill, my friend. “Mr. Hiroshito, you don’t know me, but you should. I’m—”

  “I am sorry. You must have the wrong connection. I will put you through to the operator.”

  Kent spoke quickly before the man could pass him off. “Your bank is missing one million dollars, is it not?”

  The phone filled with the soft hiss of distant static. Kent was not sure if the man had transferred him. “Hello.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I am the person who can help you recover the million dollars that was missing from your ledgers yesterday. And please don’t bother trying to trace this phone call—you will find it impossible. Do I have your attention?”

  Hiroshito was whispering orders in Japanese behind a muted receiver. “Yes,” he said. “Who is this? How do you know of this matter?”

  “It is my business to know of such matters, sir. Now, I will lay this out for you as quickly and as plainly as possible. It would be best if you could record what I say. Do you have a recorder?”

  “Yes. But I must know who you are. Surely you cannot expect—”

  “If you choose to accept my terms, you will know me soon enough, Mr. Hiroshito. That I can promise you. Are you recording?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  Here goes nothing. Kent took a deep breath.

  “Yesterday a million dollars was stolen from Niponbank’s main ledger, but then, you know this already. What you don’t know is how I know this. I know this because a certain party within your
own bank, who shall remain nameless, tipped me off. This is relatively unimportant. What is important, however, is the fact that I managed to break into your system and verify the missing balance. I was also able to track the first leg of the outbound transaction. And I believe I will be able to uncover the theft in its entirety.

  “Now, before you ask, let me tell you what you are going to ask. Who in the world am I to think I can track what the engineers in your own bank cannot track? I am a number: 24356758. Please write it down. It is where you will wire my fee if I successfully expose the thief and return your money. As I’m sure you can appreciate, I must protect my actual identity, but for the sake of convenience you may use a fictitious name. Say, Bob. You may call me Bob. From now on, I am Bob. I can assure you that Bob is quite proficient at electronic data manipulation. Without question one of the world’s finest. You have not heard of him only because he has always insisted on working in complete anonymity. In fact, as you will see, he depends on it. But there is no man better suited to track down your money; that much I can assure you with absolute confidence. Do you understand thus far?”

  Hiroshito did not expect the sudden question. “Y . . . yes.”

  “Good. Then here are Bob’s terms. You will grant him unlimited access to any bank he deems necessary for his investigation. He will both return your money and uncover the means with which the perpetrator took your money. You obviously have a hole in your system, my fine friends. He will not only return your money; he will close that hole. If and only if he is successful, you will transfer a 25 percent recovery fee into the Cayman account I recited earlier: 24356758. You will wire the money within one hour of your own recovery. In addition, if he is successful, you will grant him immunity in connection with any charge related to this case. These are his terms. If you accept them, I can assure you he will recover your money. You have exactly twelve hours to make your decision. I will call you then for your decision. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. And how is this possible? How can we be sure you are sincere, Mr. . . . uh . . . Bob?”