“Is that money legal?” Janis asked.
“It is if you have a crack team of lawyers. What about the lobbying firms, Scott?”
“The money is split up among several of them,” he replied, bringing up a table. “They must specialize in weapons and defense because the same names pop up on the balance sheets of all the big companies.”
Kilmer read the names of the lobbying firms under his breath, names he recognized.
“While we were waiting for you,” Scott said, “I went ahead and ran some regression analysis on the other budget items across the defense companies to see if anything popped.”
“And?”
“From a statistical standpoint? Nothing.”
Damn.
Kilmer sat back, a thumb sinking into the fleshy basin behind his chin. He had been certain something would pop, especially with the way he and Agent Steel had been received at Viper that morning.
“All of the companies profit from a perpetual Cold War,” he thought out loud, “which means they have an interest in acting collusively.” He thought some more. His original idea was that the biggest player would coordinate that collusion—Viper Industries. But what if it was another entity entirely, one outside of the defense orbit? He sat forward again. “Do me a favor. See if you can bring up the lobbying outlays for each defense company as a percentage of profit.”
Scott queried the massive database he’d created. A moment later, a fresh table appeared. Kilmer looked it over, crunching the numbers in his head. He made a reflexive noise of interest.
“What?” Scott and Janis asked at once.
“It’s a profit-sharing arrangement. Each defense company pays a fixed buy-in to these lobbying firms, then what looks like a percentage based on the company’s performance for the fiscal quarter.”
“Is that unusual?” Scott asked.
“It could be.”
“But there are a dozen lobbying firms here,” Janis said. “If they’re all getting the same deal, who’s the kingpin?”
Kilmer smiled. “I think you just answered your own question.”
The fold of skin between Janis’s eyebrows smoothed in revelation. Kilmer was already nodding as she spoke, but it wasn’t until she finished that Scott seemed to catch on, too.
“They’re the same entity,” she said.
“Yahtzee. Hidden in plain site”—which, as Champions director, Kilmer knew a thing or two about—“but broken into a dozen apparently different firms so as not to raise any red flags. I recognize the firms because they’ve been in existence since the late fifties, at least.”
“Do you think the defense companies know?” Scott asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Kilmer answered. “Either way, we’re not going to convince them to sever those ties, not with the results they’re seeing. And with the sizes of these political donations, I have a feeling we’re not going to get much help from the president or congress, either.”
“Even with the risk of nuclear war?” Janis asked, incredulous.
“The risk has existed for decades, everyone convinced the answer is more bombs,” Kilmer replied. “It’s going to be up to us to go after that funding. First task, halting the lobbying disbursements. That will tourniquet the kingpin’s funding for the time being, frustrate whatever efforts he’s undertaking to bail out the Soviets. It’s not a final solution, but it buys us time. According to the financial reports, the next disbursement is due this week.”
“On it,” Scott said, pulling his helmet over his head.
Kilmer watched as Scott used his unique talents to navigate the connection between their super computer and the accounting databases for the large defense companies. Scott’s head dipped as numbers scrolled down the screen. A minute later, the screen was wiped clean. A disk drive buzzed and clicked.
Scott straightened and removed his helmet. “Done,” he said, swapping his helmet for his prescription glasses. “I changed the codes. We now have exclusive access to those disbursements.”
“Why not just wipe the codes?” Janis asked.
“Do you remember that opening sequence in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” Scott asked. “Where Indiana Jones replaces the golden idol with a bag of sand? The defense accounts have a similar setup. Snatch the codes without putting something in their place, and the alarms go off.”
“You mean the rolling boulder scene?” Janis asked. “That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“Trust me,” he said. “It will look like an administrative snafu. The engineers will take weeks to figure out what happened.” He popped the floppy disk from the drive and held it up. “And presto—no trail back to our computer. The disbursement codes are all on here.”
“Should buy us the time we need,” Kilmer agreed. “Well done. The next task is figuring out where those disbursements go. If we can follow the trail to its terminus, we’ve found our kingpin.”
“I already peeked.”
“And?” Kilmer asked, not liking the dubious look on Scott’s face.
“The recipient banks are legit, but from there the trail disappears into a warren of global accounts.” Scott glanced over at Janis. “Even with out combined abilities it’s going to be a project.”
Kilmer stood and clapped Scott’s shoulder. “Then you better get started.”
He lingered a moment, looking down at the two kids who, at sixteen, had already sacrificed more than most would in a lifetime. The enormity of what he was asking of them wasn’t fair, he knew that, but there was simply no one else.
The Champions Program in a nutshell, he thought.
“We’ll do the best we can,” Janis said, smiling in a way that shared his regret.
Janis, with whom he had so often been at odds, had become the Champion who seemed to understand him the best. Which made situations like these all the more painful. With the last generation of Champions, he had been able to stand behind Director Halstead and maintain a professional distance. Now there was no one to stand behind. The kids were his.
“Thanks,” Kilmer said to both of them.
An idea seemed to strike Scott and he spun in his chair. “Hey, uh, can I bring in some outside help? It could cut the legwork in half, help us untangle those money trails much faster.”
An outsider? Kilmer felt his face frown.
“Who did you have in mind?”
11
The next day
12:50 p.m.
Wayne screwed up his small, smudged-in eyes and spread his threadbare mustache with a finger and thumb. A clicking groan sounded from the back of his throat—his thinking noise. At last, he pushed their trays of empty Whopper boxes to the wall side of the restaurant booth and leaned forward.
“What are we talking, dollar-wise?”
“Five hundred,” Scott replied. “Half up front.”
“Ha!” Wayne exclaimed, throwing himself backwards. “Computer crimes? Industrial espionage? Hacking into financial—”
“All right, all right,” Scott said, patting his hands toward the table for Wayne to pipe down. Already the heads of several other diners had started to turn. “Seven fifty,” he whispered.
“One thousand,” Wayne countered.
Scott had been willing to go double that, but had he started with two thousand, Wayne would have insisted on four.
He feigned indecision, studying Wayne’s upper lip, which had eaten his right fist back in January. Of course, Wayne had been Techie then, and Techie had been in the process of transferring a few hundred billion to the Soviet Union.
Bygones.
Scott drew out his wallet. He counted out two hundreds, four fifties, and five twenties and set the stack in front of Wayne. Wayne’s eyes sparkled for a moment, but by the time the money was zipped inside his fanny pack he’d recovered his former indifference. Scott was sure the Scale had paid Wayne far more, but that memory—along with anything related to the Scale or Champions—had been scraped from his friend’s head. Following a short hospitalization for inexpl
icable amnesia, Wayne was his old self, as wired and condescending as ever.
“So what’s the story?” Wayne asked, letting out a chopping laugh. “Couldn’t handle the heat yourself?”
“Guess not.”
“What a pusillanimous putz!”
Scott’s face prickled, but he refused to take the bait.
Wayne’s laughter puttered away. “What do you need this intel for anyway?”
“It’s a favor for Janis’s friend Star,” Scott lied. “She’s involved in the nuclear non-proliferation movement and wants to know where the lobbying money for the big defense companies go.”
“Pfft. Stroll in the park.”
“I don’t know … I gave it a go, but the accounting looks pretty convoluted.”
Wayne’s eyes squinted slightly as though his mind was trying to grasp something just beyond its reach. As Techie, Wayne had set up a similar set of convoluted transactions to funnel money from the Scale’s account to the Soviet coffers. Precisely the reason Scott had reached out to him: in the hopes that where the memories no longer existed, the logic remained. But for a moment, Scott feared he might have prodded those memories back to life.
“Something wrong?” Scott asked.
Wayne blinked. “Just wondering how it is that your skills degenerated to those of a hapless lepton’s.”
Scott relaxed. “Guess I reached my limit.”
“Burnout,” Wayne agreed. “A cautionary tale for anyone aspiring to attain my status.”
Scott decided the meeting had gone on long enough. “Do you think you can handle it?”
Wayne lowered his head to sip from his giant-sized cup of Pepsi, his eyes never leaving Scott’s. After several seconds, he sat back, wiped a forearm across his mouth, and smacked his lips.
“As good as done.”
“When can I expect delivery?”
Wayne stood and took his time adjusting his fanny pack on his narrow hips. He lived for moments as these. “When I’m finished, and not a second sooner,” he replied at last. “Just have the other half of my payment ready, maggot.”
Scott was awakened by the tinny peal of a ringing phone. He fumbled his glasses onto his face, squinted at the bedside clock—3:29 a.m.—and then felt for the cordless phone, which had fallen behind his bedside table.
Champions alert? he wondered. But before his heart could start slamming, he realized that the Program would have signaled him through his watch or console, not by calling his house. He encountered the phone at last, turned it right side up, and mashed the Talk button.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Small problem.”
The voice was so quiet Scott almost didn’t recognize it.
“Wayne?” he asked, sitting up against his headboard. “What’s going on?”
“Those codes you gave me?”
“They didn’t work?” Crap. It meant someone was already onto what he had done.
“Would you listen a second, you quark.” Quark was pretty soft in the pantheon of Wayne insults, which told Scott something was definitely wrong. “The codes give me access to the disbursements, but after going through a dozen or so different banks, I keep ending up back where I fricking started.”
“Back to the defense companies?”
Keys clacked, as though Wayne were double-checking. “Affirmative,” he said. “It’s a loop.”
Under different circumstances, Scott might have welcomed this version of Wayne, tail tucked firmly between his hindquarters. But not now. Not with the Soviet Union on the verge of being able to purchase a technology that could wipe out the Western Hemisphere. He needed the old Wayne. The one who would kick down your most diligently constructed firewall and pump saliva-flecked laughter into your face while he was doing it.
“What does it mean?” Scott asked, wracking his sleep-fogged brain.
“I think those disbursements are running off an encryption algorithm,” Wayne replied.
“Encryption algorithm?”
“When I hack into the accounting servers, the algorithm checks me out. I’m cloaked, of course, but even with the codes, it won’t admit the number I’m calling from. Instead of shutting me out, though, it generates a false routing path. To trick outside intruders, I’m guessing.”
“Can’t it be hacked?”
“Yeah, like I didn’t try,” Wayne said, recovering his arrogance.
“And?”
“And it’s sealed off, lepton. It requires someone physically authorizing the outside access.”
“Someone on site?”
“No, someone on Uranus,” Wayne cried impatiently. “Of course someone on site! They must be using a crypto-modem, so unless you have an insider at Viper Industries…” He let out a vicious chuckle. “…you can kiss your little project, as well as your thousand smackaroos, adieu.”
Little did Wayne know, the Champions did have an insider. Two, in fact.
Scott scratched his chin. He would go into the system the following morning, figure out what Wayne was talking about, and then consult with his trainer to see if the authorization could be triggered remotely. If not, it would be a matter of instructing Reginald and Margaret on what to do.
“All right,” Scott said. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”
There was a silence on the other end where Scott could almost hear the static of Wayne’s mustache being stroked. “I’ll be waiting,” he replied in a villainous voice. “Hee-eeh, eeh, eeh.”
“At least you’re not the real thing anymore,” Scott muttered.
“What?” Wayne shot back.
“Yeah, good night.”
12
Washington, D.C.
Friday, June 13
7:22 p.m.
Margaret peeked around the fine Italian restaurant as she worked on calming her breaths. The room was filled with well-heeled diners, crammed in pairs and small groups over miniature tables. But thanks to the room’s acoustics, the din of conversation formed a wall of white noise around her own corner table. She would be able to talk with the CFO without being overheard.
“And a bottle of your ’68 Barbaresco,” Ned Schwartz was telling the waiter. “Two glasses.” He tipped Margaret a wink.
Margaret opened her mouth. She was about to tell Viper’s chief financial officer—her new boss—“thanks but no thanks” before remembering two things. One, according to her employee file she was twenty-four, not nineteen. Thus, old enough to drink. And two, the first rule of social engineering was to accept offers of food and drink from your subjects. It would put them at ease.
“Thank you,” she said.
Schwartz leaned back in his chair and appraised her as though he were eyeing a new car in a show lot. There was a car-salesman air about him, Margaret thought, his slick black hair and powerful navy-blue suit hiding well-worn anxieties. She had dressed conservatively in comparison—khaki slacks, white blouse, lavender suit jacket—and was glad for it. By the time Schwartz’s gaze returned to her face, his eyes had turned dark and predatory.
“So,” he said, flashing a Hollywood-white smile. “How are you settling into your new position?”
“Very well, thank you. Everyone’s been extraordinarily helpful.”
“Contrary to what our name might suggest, we’re not venomous. Though our competition may beg to differ.” Schwartz chuckled.
Margaret knew a well-rutted line when she heard one. She forced a titter in response.
“Joking aside,” he went on, “Fred Friedman and I consider Viper Industries a family. The competition remains outside our fortress walls. Inside, we look out for one another. It’s why I like to take recent hires out like this. You know, to chat, get to know one another, answer any questions you might be hesitant to ask in the more formal office setting.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Margaret said.
And very nice that her suggestion from their brief run-in on the elevator that afternoon—that he take her out so they could chat, get to know one anothe
r, answer her questions—had taken root in his mind to the extent that he now believed the idea to have been his own.
“Remind me where you’re from?” he said, tilting his head in poorly-feigned interest.
Before Margaret could answer, their diminutive waiter returned with a bottle of wine, one hand under the base, neck resting against the forearm of his white tuxedo shirt. “I am sorry, sir, but our cellar is out of the ’68. I have brought you a ’64, instead. A fine year, sir.”
Schwartz’s smile turned vicious as he read the label. “These have a tendency to go sour,” he said.
The waiter removed the cork and poured a shaking shot into Schwartz’s glass, clearly rattled by the man’s contemptuous stare. Schwartz took a sip, swishing it in his mouth before swallowing.
“It’s passable,” he allowed, “but next time you’ll have the ’68.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter filled both of their glasses, set the bottle on the table, and bowed a polite arrivederci.
Margaret observed Schwartz throughout—his eyes, face, body language. He was a man used to getting what he wanted. A man who liked to control others, perhaps to a pathological degree. She nodded to herself. His need for authority would be the weakness she would exploit.
When Schwartz turned his head from the departing waiter, a shark-like membrane seemed to slip from his eyes, rendering them human again. He grinned and lifted his glass between them.
“To the Viper family,” he toasted.
“The Viper family,” Margaret agreed, tinking his glass and pretending to take a sip. She didn’t want the alcohol dulling her powers.
He sighed contentedly. “So, where were we?”
Margaret focused into his eyes. “You were asking if I had any questions.”
The lines over Schwartz’s oily brow creased momentarily. That wasn’t what he had asked, of course. But as Margaret held his gaze, she watched his suspicion turn to a wobbling uncertainty and eventually to a concession that, yes, he probably had asked if she had any questions.
XGeneration 7: Dead Hand (XGeneration Series) Page 7
