THE FINANCING
Under no economic system earlier than the advent of the machine industry does profit on investment seem to have been accounted a normal or unquestionably legitimate source of gain.
—Thorstein Veblen,
THE MACHINE AGE
Sunday, December 20, was nearly one month after my night at the opera. This day, for the matinee, the German gods had vacated in favor of that famous French fortune hunter Manon. It seemed a fitting tribute to that earlier, inspired evening.
I love the scene where Manon throws over her life as queen of Paris and—dripping in diamonds—rushes to Saint Sulpice, to seduce her former lover on the eve of his entry into the priesthood.
Manon is a girl who’s torn between love of men and love of money. But as usual in opera, money wins out in the end. As she’s dying, in poverty and exile, even the stars above her head remind her of those diamonds she used to wear when she was rolling in cash.
I went home somewhat cheered not only by the charm of the music; but by the fact that it was Manon who had taken the fall, not I.
The fog enveloped my apartment like a white sock. I went out to the terrace and clipped a few of my winter orchids to bring inside. From out there, the fog was so dense I couldn’t even make out that phallic tower Lillie Coit had erected atop Telegraph Hill, as a tribute to those firemen she used to chase around town.
I was inside making myself some tea when the phone rang.
“Good evening, my dear,” said the soft, familiar voice. “I phoned because I thought you might want to wish me a happy birthday.”
“Is today your birthday?” I asked. “I knew it was Beethoven’s.”
“Great minds are guided by the same planets,” Tor agreed. “And it seems I’ve got plenty to celebrate today: we’re right on schedule.”
Damn. Did that mean he’d gotten all the bonds he needed in order to start phase two—the investment? And I wasn’t even off first base. Since Tavish and the crew hadn’t yet cracked a single code, I couldn’t get my hands on a nickel. The entire idea of this bet suddenly began to depress me.
“So what have you three been doing to celebrate?” I asked him, to change the subject.
“Georgian and I are still working, of course,” he told me. “We should be finished with the printing later this week. But Lelia’s gone off to Europe to help us get a jump on the gun.”
So there was good news and bad news. The good, of course, was that they weren’t yet through—I still had a week to catch up. But the bad news … I thought I’d better find out.
“You sent Lelia to Europe all alone?” I asked. “I hope you understand what you’re doing.”
“She can’t get into much trouble,” he assured me. “She’s taken those bonds—the genuine ones we replaced with our forgeries—and she’s establishing lines of credit at various banks on the continent. No one would question a woman of her standing, in any country, with opening accounts of that size. But she’s not actually taking out cash—just setting things up so the money’s available when we’re ready to draw on it.”
“I hope this gun you’re ‘getting a jump on’ won’t backfire and blow your head off,” I warned. “I’ve known Lelia longer than you have. She likes to handle things her own way.”
“Let me worry about that,” he said blithely. “Besides, someone had to start the ball rolling. By the time we’ve finished printing and substituting the bonds—by the end of the week—it will be too late to set up any accounts over there. It’s nearly Christmas—and the banks in Europe will be closed for the holiday. We would have had to wait until after the first of the year.”
Good Lord, he was right! That was something I hadn’t considered myself—four days from now, on Christmas Eve, all of our test systems at the bank would shut down for year-end maintenance. If, by then, I hadn’t put programs in place to grab off those wire transfers, I, too, would have to wait until after the first of the year. We’d be weeks behind Tor—and lose all that huge volume of year-end money to boot! How could I have been such a fool?
“And how is your own little theft coming along, my dear?” asked Tor, as if he’d read my mind.
“Just great,” I lied, cursing myself for this dreadful oversight, and trying to figure out what the hell I could do.
The teapot began to whistle. I picked it up absently, and nearly splashed boiling water on my foot. When I jumped away, the phone crashed to the floor. I picked it up, and heard Tor laughing at the other end.
“Sounds as if you’re doing splendidly.” He chuckled. “So things are as bad as all that? I do think your attitude is wrong. You’re going to quite enjoy living in New York again after all these years—and working with me as a technocrat, a destiny you were born for. Why don’t you give in, and admit you’ve lost this bet?”
“Premature chicken counting,” I told him, wiping the floor with the sock I’d pulled off my foot. “Don’t you have to beat me, for me to lose?”
“I’ve always admired this determination of yours, in the face of complete disaster,” he assured me. “You haven’t cracked a single system yet, and you know it.”
“I’d like to get the record straight,” I told him, dragging the phone with me to the fog-encircled glass-walled living room. “Even if I did lose—and had to pay up by working for you—that’s not my destiny; it’s just a debt. You can’t put me in a cage.”
Tor was silent for several moments. Then he said quietly, “You’ve built so many walls around yourself, I’d never dream of replacing them with a cage. I only want to tear them down and set you free—please do me the service of believing that.”
“That’s why you lured me into this little wager, I suppose—to free me of the silly burden of my chosen career?”
“Whether or not you wish to admit it now,” he said gently, “that’s precisely the case. But in the unlikely chance you win, I intend to keep my part of the bet. As I expect you to keep yours.” Then he said, with a bit more cheer, “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go uncork my birthday champagne.”
When we hung up, I sat in the stark white room until darkness fell. Then, without bothering about dinner, I went off to bed. I knew now, no matter what happened, I had to win this bet. Though for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why it seemed so bloody critical to do so.
First thing the next morning, Tavish entered my new glass-walled office on the thirtieth floor. He was scratching his shaggy blond head, and sat across from me, teacup in hand.
“I’ve thought of something; let’s see what you think,” he told me. “If I were trying to get onto the production system—but the computer didn’t recognize my password—after three attempts on my part to enter the system, I’d be locked out and my terminal shut down.” He looked at me and waited.
“Right,” I agreed. “That’s the way security works, to keep unauthorized people from tampering with live systems—what’s your point?”
“Well, if I were an authorized person, but I just happened to forget my password, what would they do?”
“They’d give you a new password,” I told him. “But I don’t see how that would solve our current problem. Any new password they gave you would only admit you to the parts of the system you have clearance to access. It certainly wouldn’t get you into the security systems—and that’s what we need to crack.”
“You’re right,” said Tavish with a grin. “But the password would let me in—if I were the person in charge of security systems!”
I stared at him.
“His name is Len Maise,” said Tavish. “His terminal number is three-one-seven. It’s located on the eleventh floor. And he left last Friday for Tahoe—he won’t be back until after the holidays.”
“How do you plan to get them to give you his new password?” I asked, though my heart was now fluttering.
“I try three times to log on to his terminal, the system shuts me down, I phone up—as Len Maise—and ask for a new password of my choosing so I can remember it thi
s time. To put this new password on the system, they’ll need a signed note—authorization from a vice-president. Since Len’s boss, unfortunately, is away as well, I guess you’ll have to be the one to write the note.”
“Why don’t you bring me a cup of whatever that is you’re drinking?” I suggested. “And while you’re out—pick up an authorization slip as well. It seems Len Maise, over in security, is going to need a new password.”
The end of the year is a hot time in the banking business. The Bank of the World had a private motto: We never shut our doors while the money’s pouring in. At least, that captures the general sentiment.
We extended our hours over Christmas, not only for the folks buying turkeys and gifts, but for wire transfers and all other services as well. It was year-end closing all over the world, which meant tax shelters and investments of all sorts couldn’t be put off any longer. This crazed banking frenzy posed a double quandary for me.
The production systems, now up and running around the clock, were clearing more cash than at any other time of year—money I’d be losing if I couldn’t get inside the system to grab it. But on Christmas Eve the test system would be shut down. It was through the test system that all brand-new programs like mine got put into the production environment—where the cash was handled. I had to get in that door before it closed.
But on Wednesday, the day before Christmas Eve—though Tavish had broken into the security system by now—he still hadn’t cracked the test key code, the little program that decoded all the wires flooding in, that unlocked the bank’s cash clearings so we could deposit them in accounts.
Furthermore, I could hardly open up thirty thousand brand-new bank accounts, all with zero balances. It would look more than suspicious.
So I chewed my nails and went crazy, watching the dozen clocks beyond my glass wall, which showed the time ticking away for countries all over the world, as it was for me.
By Thursday morning—the day before Christmas—Tavish still had not cracked the codes. Pavel was already off, “avoiding the madness of the city,” so when the phone rang, I answered it myself.
“Darlink,” said Lelia’s muffled voice, “this is the subject of grave urgence! Such unhappiness I am having—you must come now, today.”
“Slow down, Lelia. Come where? I thought you were in Europe.”
“Da. I am in Europe—but now I am here, in my bedchamber.”
I’d forgot that in times of crisis, Lelia could only conjugate one verb tense.
“We’ll take this step-by-step,” I told her. “You were in Europe, but now you’ve come home. Where are Georgian and Tor? Is there someone there who can translate for me?”
“No, bozemoi, I am so fatiguée! Zhorzhione, she has gone to Europe instead—but Zoltan, he will not do the speaking with me. They are both very fâchés avec moi.”
“Why are they both angry with you?” I said, alarmed. “Why has Georgian gone to Europe in your place? Why didn’t Tor phone me himself, if there’s a problem?”
“There is no phone where he is being,” Lelia assured me. Even in prison, they had telephones—where could he be?
“He’s not where you are?” I asked.
“Là? Mais non! Je suis dans ma chambre!”
“I don’t mean in your bedroom—I meant in New York.”
“He is near, but it is not possible for him to be speaking with you. He want that you come here to New York—tout de suite—today. I send you a ticket at l’aéroport—tu vas venir? Je m’explique when you are arriving.”
“When will you explique, Lelia?” I demanded. “I’m busy here—I can’t go flying to New York during year-end closing! You tell Tor, if he wants to talk, he can phone me himself—I’ve had it with these little intrigues of his, and frankly I’m amazed he’d put you up to this.”
“Tu me crèves le coeur!” cried Leila. “You are not having the trustingness in me! You come here—I make all the little explains when you arrive.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said with more than a little irritation, “I’ll leave a message on Tor’s answering service. If it’s that important, he can call me back and explain it in English.”
“You do not understand my anglais,” Lelia moaned.
I’d had about enough of these games. I kissed her over the phone and hung up.
But my other line was flashing, and when I picked it up, I forgot about Lelia for the moment. The last thing I’d expected was a call from Peter-Paul Karp—Tavish’s old boss and Pearl’s current one. He was inviting me to lunch.
The prospect of spending an hour or more with Karp was like a penance. I decided to accept—if only to learn what he had on what I loosely referred to as his mind.
We met at the restaurant of his choice: the Coût que Coût—which means “cost what it may” in French. I knew it well—it was the sort of place where the waiters, in timeless French tradition, saunter past your table at least once every two or three hours, to see if you’re interested in eating yet. Karp arrived, fifteen minutes late, and made a point of schmoozing with the entire staff—including the chef, who came out from the back—before arriving at the table where I was waiting.
He refused to get right to the subject of our meeting. First he dawdled over the menu and wine list until I nearly screamed; when at last we’d ordered, he gave me a greasy smile.
“I’ve just returned from a visit to my homeland—Germany,” he informed me. “I heard you were being considered for an assignment there, yourself.”
“I know—thanks for the recommendation,” I told him. He brushed it aside.
“It’s a wonderful place, Banks. You shouldn’t have been so hasty to throw away that opportunity. Of course, it’s different for me—I speak the language fluently—and my family, of course, goes back for over a thousand years.…”
“Really? What a coincidence,” I told him. “So does mine! We just can’t remember who they are.”
I got the glare I expected, but at least it dragged him back to the subject.
“I asked you here to warn you, Banks,” he informed me, leaning on his elbow. “Just a friendly word from one colleague to another. The trouble you’ve made is hard to express—waves through the whole banking system. Last week I get a call from Willingly—he says it’s very urgent. I go to see him. He says: ‘Banks is not playing the game.’ You know what game I mean? It is the game of men in business. Being that I’m German, I understand how women are different from us. You understand?”
“What’s your point?” I asked, feeling I could skip this little course in biology.
“You know, he’s very close to Lawrence—your boss, Willingly. Lawrence has even proposed him for membership in the Vagabond Club! Perhaps he’ll be installed this very month.”
“What should I do—burst into tears? It’s certainly not my cup of tea. But Kiwi’s happy, Lawrence is happy—everybody’s happy.”
“Everybody but me,” he told me glumly. “I’ve told you all this, because now you owe me something.”
“Let’s get something straight, Karp. I owe you nothing but a free lunch sometime—that is, if you pay for this one. I already know about all this. Kiwi told me himself.”
“Did you know, too, that Willingly’s going to be promoted? To Lawrence’s job. It shouldn’t be long now. As soon as Lawrence is bumped to the top.”
“Bumped to the top?” I repeated mindlessly.
I tried to be nonchalant, but I felt my jaw slackening. The top of what? Surely even the board members—limited though their imaginations might be—wouldn’t be naive enough to make an unscrupulous SOB like Lawrence president of the bank! That was electing the fox to preside over the chicken coop.
“Now you do owe me a favor,” he was saying smugly. “You can see that your days are numbered. You’ll be back in Willingly’s court again—and he will be offering the ball.”
“Serving the ball,” I corrected him, though he sure had his full court presses straight.
I was dead meat—fi
nished—if Kiwi got his hands on me again. There was no use pretending with Karp; he probably knew more about my fate than I did at this point. With Kiwi in charge, I could kiss my theft, my bet, my job, and my ass good-bye.
“So just what is it you want?” I asked him. “You’d better ask now; it seems soon I won’t be in a position to do many favors.”
He leaned farther forward, and whispered in confidence, “You must get rid of her! She’s trying to ruin me! She wants my job, and everyone knows it. I’ll die of stomach ulcers if I have to wait until Willingly’s there to get rid of her for me. But I know she’ll listen to you. You can make her go.”
“You mean Pearl?” I asked, trying to suppress a laugh.
“Yes—the schwartze,” he hissed. “This is hardly a topic of amusement. She’s really gone mad—makes me fill out forms all day long, all the red tape—she follows me to the latrine! You know as well as I that nobody follows all those rules, we’d have time for nothing else! But if I fail to do even one thing, she’ll report me for it—she’s told me as much. I think she’s a spy!”
The veins on his nose were standing out now in excitement, and I recalled what Tavish had told me about the cocaine habit. But I remembered something else, too—his illicit traffic in computer systems.
“What could you possibly be doing that’s interesting enough to spy on?” I asked him sweetly.
“Don’t you think I know how you found out about Frankfurt in time to save yourself? How you ended up going to work directly for Lawrence? Don’t you think Willingly and I both know what you’re up to with that quality circle of yours? Trying to break into the passwords and test keys, too. You want to get at his wire transfer system—to prove his security’s the worst at the bank!”
Luckily, Karp was giving away more than he was getting! But this was awful news. It meant Kiwi was right on my heels and knew everything we were up to, though hopefully not why. Karp couldn’t have sniffed this out all by himself, not with all the coke he’d put up that nose of his.
A Calculated Risk Page 19
