Terminal Compromise Part 40

"What will happen, Mr. Foster?" h.o.m.osoto was able to convey disgust with a j.a.panese accent like no other.

"We've been through this before."

"Then go through it again," h.o.m.osoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here h.o.m.o,"

Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been become techno-yuppie amus.e.m.e.nts. The game has intensified as the stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost every local area network in the country is infected with a virus of one type or another. Did you know that?"

"No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" h.o.m.osoto sounded unconvinced.

"It's my f.u.c.king job to know that. And you run an empire?"

"Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles found unsettling.

"For now, I do."

"You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.

Foster? You have much to lose."

Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim- ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."

"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

h.o.m.osoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.

He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled mother-f.u.c.ker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder things to concern him.

October 31, 1989 Falls Church, Virginia.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?"

he said with disdain.

"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every- thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're missing a quarter billion dollars."

"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation, son."

"I wish I did," Porter sighed.

"All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew that it was ultimately his a.s.s if $250 Million was really miss- ing.

"It's just as I told you."

"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

"Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

"Of course I know."

"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it belongs. We do that because . . ."

"I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay out."

"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

"I'm sorry sir."

"As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the psychological stress to his underling.

"When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty.

That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

"We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what happened."

"Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up Porter?" Templeton demanded.

"Yessir."

"How long?"

"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

"Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would- n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee.

Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.

"You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in disgust. It was not going to be a good day.

Chapter 11

Wednesday, November 4 The Stock Exchange, New York

Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance people. Tightly packed skysc.r.a.pers with their lighted windows create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and hover ominously over dimly lit streets.

Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.