
EXECUTIVE

COMPENSATION

7 PART ST JAMES  
THRILLER SERIES

BOOKS 1 & 2

DON PLENTER

Myrtle & Bert LLC
Compilation Cover  
Book 1 - A DEADLY LINE OF CODE  
Book 2 - THREE HUNDRED MILLION REASONS

EXECUTIVE

COMPENSATION

A DEADLY LINE OF CODE

BOOK 1

DON PLENTER

Myrtle & Bert LLC
Cover  
**Series Prologue - BLACK HEARTED BEAUTY**  
Begin Reading Series Book 1  
Table of Contents  
Copyright

* * *

Copyright (C) 2014 Donat Plenter. All rights reserved.   
Cover copyright (C) 2014 by Tracy J. Thomas.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author appreciates the time you spent to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about Executive Compensation, to help spread the word. Thank you for supporting this work.   
This e'book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

* * *

_For my children, Aveline, Noah and Oriana, with love. Even as an author,  
I can't adequately express how deep it runs.

P.S. I listed you alphabetically because it was my only solution to demonstrate my equal love for all of you._  
... _Daddy_

_This book would not have been possible without the unbridled and enduring support of my wife Tracy J. Thomas and her parents Elizabeth and Tom Thomas._  
- DP

* * *

## Prologue to Series

_New York People 's Bank was sold to a private investor. Good news for Dexter St. James until he discovers that he would be getting screwed out of his rightful compensation. He discovers that the accounting was tampered with to rip off the bank for $300 million by funneling the money to Venezuela through the Cayman Islands. It's an opportunity he can't resist, but there's competition, and it's worth killing for. A beautiful but evil Dominatrix holds the key. Deals with the underworld must be made, tracks must be covered and lives cannot be spared as the plan spirals out of control. St. James is not a killer, but a move to the dark side comes at a price he was not prepared to, but must pay._

## BLACK HEARTED BEAUTY

## One

Sunday, June 1st

THE BLACK WALLS and ceiling absorbed most of the light from the single red bulb protruding from a fixture-less black socket. The center of the room was proudly occupied by a large vertical steel frame. The frame's chains and black leather sling creaked and squeaked under Slick's - Ben Eriksson's - weight. Ankle restraints held his legs firmly together, while wrist restraints kept his arms stretched to each side. His full body weight was supported by a leather harness. Straps encircled his upper thighs connecting to a waist band that was, in turn, suspended via a chain from the upper crossbar of the shiny chrome framework. His round buttocks swelled through the leather circlets created by the harness. His only other garb was a leather cod piece embellished with steel studs, and a full rubber face mask. Slick's near naked body was fully suspended and restrained, in a position of crucifixion. His chest was heaving with each lash of the seven foot long bullwhip, as the tapered strip of heavy latigo leather snapped repeatedly, just inches from his bare chest - a crack of the whip could split his skin like a surgeon's knife. The worm-like raised welts on his back were a testament to what he'd already endured, but there was more to come. His muscular, sweat drenched body was awash with red light, casting sinister and muted shadows on the black walls, where a large assortment of whips, paddles, wrist and ankle restraints, headgear, medical instruments, electric prongs, and a formidable assortment of paraphernalia, hung.  
   Every time Slick began to speak, the immediate response was a crack of the whip. Angry red marks around his wrists and ankles were a testament to his continued struggle.  
   Slick was intently watching Lady Pandora circle him in silence, gently swinging the bull-whip before each sudden crack. His eyes followed her every move - in anticipation of a strike. She wore an almost full black leather cat suit having a boustier style, laced bodice which pushed her breasts upwards, threatening to spill into the key hole opening that tapered to a wide collar encircling her neck. A large brass ring was pulled tight into the small of her exposed back and buttocks by an adjustable thong. Her arms were covered with laced corset sheaths and her face was completely obscured by a molded feline mask. The eye holes exposed the blood red mascara framing her light hazel eyes. Her thigh high leather boots were adorned with sharpened steel studs up the length of her calves, on the heels and toes - additional tools for commanding respect and obedience. Lady Pandora was a master at controlling and graduating the degree of pain she inflicted, in the tiniest of increments. She was in control - she was _always_ in control.

* * *

## Two

THE SOUND-PROOFED room - the torture dungeon - was secreted away in the second bedroom of an unassuming apartment, in an unassuming Harlem neighborhood, by its current occupant - Lady Pandora. The room went silent, only Slick's broken breathing signaling any sign of life. Lady Pandora padded across the silent rubber flooring to hang the whip in its place and peruse the assortment of available instruments. Her next choice would be highly strategic. She reached for a large brass band, about two inches wide but large enough to encompass a large melon - or head. It had a single screw on the outside, which served to tighten the inner band ever so slightly, with each twist. With one swift motion she slid the brass band over the tight rubber hood covering Slick's head, resulting in a guttural moan emanating from deep within him. He was not permitted to speak unless spoken to, and had suffered the consequences of disobeying this rule, months ago.  
   Standing close behind him, Lady Pandora draped an arm around his shoulders, and placed a gentle hand on the screw, giving it a slight turn. Another moan. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck. She whispered.  
   "I have a question Slick... Are you ready to answer?"  
   "Yes my Domina." He responded immediately, desperate to ward off another skull-squeezing turn of the screw. There was no turn, and his breathing eased, ever so slightly.  
   Lady Pandora drew her hand down his bare chest, over his tight stomach, down to his leather jock - to the removable pouch. She unsnapped a couple of the fasteners and inserted her hand into the pouch to coax him. As Slick's breathing changed to announce his arousal, she once again turned the screw ever so slightly. His body shuddered - his nerves were short circuiting in a desperate attempt to deal with the confluence of pleasure and pain. One by one she clicked off the rest of the snaps and let the pouch fall to the floor. Slick's genitals were now fully exposed.

* * *

## Three

   "Who do you belong to?"  
   "To you and only to you Domina."  
   "Are you ready to submit your body and soul to me?"  
   "Yes Domina ... Only to you."  
   "We are ready then... Answer my questions!"  
   "You have access to all of the bank's data systems, is that correct?" Silence, then, "Yes Domina." Slick was too desperate to try to understand where this interrogation was heading. She stood behind him, one hand maintaining his arousal, the other kept dangerously close to his head. She continued.  
   "You have an associate that works at the bank in the Caymans... Is this correct?  
   "Yes Domina."  
   "What's his name?"  
   "Roland. His name is Roland, Domina."  
   "Do you trust him?"  
   "Yes, Domina. I trust him."  
   "Is it true that you and Roland had been planning to set up a software company together?" She spoke slowly, in a near whisper, her breath caressing his neck with each syllable.  
   "Yes Domina." There was no turn of the screw.  
   "What is stopping you from moving forward?"  
   Slick wasn't sure he could piece together another logical sentence. His physical body was completely overwhelmed with pleasure and pain. He was in a state of mental desperation trying to tackle these unexpected questions without setting her off further.  
   "Ten million..." His lip was trembling. "We don't have the funding." Slick breathed the barely audible words.  
   "You're a smart computer geek, aren't you _Slick_?" No answer. Ben almost blacked out as he felt her hand move closer to the screw.  
   "Yes, Domina... Yes, I'm smart."  
   "Then why don't you rig the data system? Set up a dummy account in a way that doesn't show up anywhere. Hide it somehow... then put a fake deposit in it."  
   "It's been done... a million times... Domina. They always get caught." He felt the minutest turn of the screw, with the inner ring now seemingly drawing pain from the center of his skull. All the while Lady Pandora was relentless at keeping him aroused. How much more of this could he take? He was at his limit - beyond what he expected to be possible.  
   "How did they get caught?"  
   "When they accessed the account, Domina - mostly with checks."  
   "Well that's just plain foolish - isn't it?" Lady Pandora said, "You're much too smart to do the same thing over and over again... then expect different results, aren't you Slick?"  
   "Yes, Domina. But..." As the screw twisted ever so slightly, tears began involuntarily streaming from his eyes, his breathing sped up and his muscles contracted in a desperate physiological reflex as his whole body tried to absorb and diffuse the pain, his heart beating erratically. Lady Pandora backed the screw off, completely releasing the pressure, then circled around to stand facing him. She needed him lucid now. She lifted his face upward and looked directly into his eyes.  
   " _So find another way. "_  
   "But there are only three ways to access an account - cash, check or debit." She could see he was regaining mental clarity.  
   "So... Make sure the money is somewhere safe to access it."  
   "It doesn't matter which state you're in, or which bank it is... It's all the same." Ben's breathing was calmer, and he was no longer fighting the restraints. The cycle of pain and pleasure was over, and their conversation began to normalize.  
   "Right... Then all you need is a step in the middle."  
   "What do you mean?"  
   "My boss, Dexter, does all kinds of deals for the bank through off-shore accounts - complicated stuff - all through the bank in the Caymans."  
   "So?"  
   "Well, instead of writing yourself a check, just wire the money to an account in another country."  
   "Even if I can pull that off at the data center, someone has to open an account in the foreign country. I have no experience in that kind of thing."  
   "What about Roland...? He can do it."  
   "God, Roland will think I'm nuts..."  
   "How badly do the two of you want to be jet-setting software executives? If you tell him you've figured out a way to do it without getting caught... Don't you think he'd listen?"  
   "Maybe."  
   "Let's take it one step at a time. First, figure out a way to work your magic at the data center. Then... talk to Roland.  
   "What about Fitch?"  
   "What about him?"  
   "Well, he's my boss, and there's a good chance he'd notice anything out of the ordinary. If he found me tinkering with the accounts, I'd be in some deep shit."  
   "You're smart Slick. Find a way to do it without leaving a trail. Anyway, Fitch reports to Dexter... So if he does find something, I'll know about it."  
   "This is extremely risky." Slick was enticed, but still hesitant. Lady Pandora put it into context for him.  
   " _Do you want to rot in a data center for the rest of your life, Slick_? Are you happy with just scraping by?"

* * *

## Four

SLICK WAS QUIET. She let go of his face and gestured for greater effect.  
   "Look Slick, can you imagine what you'd do as a multi-millionaire? What you'd own? Where you'd go? The company you'd keep? Can you even _see yourself_ as a famous software developer?  
   "Yes, Domina. I picture all of these things - all the time. I can't get these thoughts out of my head."  
   "Well, Slick, all you need to get started is ten million... Right?"  
   "Yes ..."  
   "Okay, that's just a number on a computer screen. As a test, lets start off by making it fifteen million - one third each - you, me and Roland. You guys get what you want, and I can move out of this shit-hole neighborhood for good. If it works the first time, then we've just discovered a way to print money."  
   Lady Pandora reached over to whisper in his ear, "You can do this Slick... I know you can." Slick was looking up and to the left. She knew he was already thinking about it. The wheels were turning behind his eyes. She had him.  
   In complete silence, Lady Pandora released Slick's shackles and wrist restraints. Slick stood on his own now, rubbing his wrists vigorously first, then he removed the rubber hood, freeing an attractive Nordic face and curly blond hair. He released the buckles of the suspension jock, and the leather rings fell to the floor. Lady Pandora removed her mask and the leather thong holding her long hair back. With a single motion she released the metal ring in the small of her back that held the cat suit together against her lithe body - collapsing the folds of soft leather. She unclipped the collar and the cat suit dropped to the floor beside Slick's jock.  
   Off to one side of the room, almost imperceptible in the muted red light, lay what appeared to be a very low, bed-like structure with a black velvet mat, resting on four steel anodized legs. It was time for the final act - Lady Pandora led Slick over to the structure. _She was ready to demand - and receive - the pleasure of Slick's extreme arousal._

* * *

## Five

AN HOUR LATER, Diaz and Slick were showered and dressed in their normal clothes, sitting at her small dining room table sipping coffee. Over the several months they'd been seeing each other, Diaz had slowly, but progressively introduced Slick to the world of S & M. To his own great surprise, he liked it - in fact, he craved it. He thought about how boring his life had been without it.  
   Within the first month, Diaz knew.  
   Slick was the perfect target for her plan. He had agreed to keep their relationship strictly confidential, as a condition of being dominated, by Lady Pandora. He was already addicted to her tactics, and he was smart enough to pull off her plan with the right motivation, she thought to herself and smiled. He was certainly much better looking than his boss, Fitch, her second option. She couldn't imagine having much fun with Fitch's stringy little body, and likely, pathetic little male member.  
   Yes ... today was a very good day. She had successfully _set the plan in motion._

* * *

## Book One

## A DEADLY LINE OF CODE

* * *

## Chapter 1

_" It's easier to steal three hundred million dollars than it is to steal a thousand - because it's unexpected and therefore unprotected. The Achilles Heel of the financial industry is... Trust."

Dexter St. James,

Senior Vice President and COO of the New York People's Bank_

-----------------------

Tuesday, June 3rd

TWO DAYS LATER, Diaz was sitting in her cubicle outside her boss, Dexter St. James's office when she received a text message on her cell phone:

------------------------  
    _All systems go. Putting plan in play tonight..._

------------------------  
   Diaz had access to St. James's computer and files, as part of her job, as his Executive Assistant. She also had a key to his office. She helped him manage his schedule, documents, and generally, managed his life. What she didn't have access to were his phone and closed door conversations. This was a problem that needed to be rectified immediately .  
   Thank God for Google. To her great and pleasant surprise, for less than a hundred bucks, she could buy a phone recording device to capture not just telephone conversations, but any conversation in the room where the telephone was located - like St. James's office.  
   The website touted 'installation guaranteed in under thirty seconds'. The setup consisted of a receiver the size of a cigarette lighter, capable of eighty-two hours of continuous recording, and a tiny 'bug' the size of a small button. The bug had to be, either attached to the phone with a peel-off sticker or, placed into the ear-piece.  
   Within minutes of having received the text message from Slick, Serena made the online purchase. She ordered three sets, just to make sure she had a couple spares in case she needed them in the future. Included was a link to download the software, and each came with a computer connection wire. She would be able to download the recordings to her personal laptop - perfect! Serena paid for overnight delivery. _The clock was ticking._

* * *

## Chapter 2

Tuesday, June 4th

AT HER DESK the following morning, her phone rang - Slick's number came up on the call display.  
   "It's done, but I have to test it. I'm off for a few days. When I'm back in next week, I'll confirm a final go.  
   "How about Roland?" _She had to know if the ducks were lining up._  
   "He's in. He's waiting for my confirmation next week, then he'll fly to Venezuela to open an account. With some luck, when we pull the trigger, the bank won't even know the money's gone."  
   "Why Venezuela?"  
   "Roland has connections there."  
   "Fantastic, Slick! _I knew you could do it._ "  
   "Thanks Serena, but let's wait to pop the champagne. Keep your ears open over the next few days."  
   "My ears are wide open. I'll keep you posted." Diaz didn't tell Slick about the phone taps - that was her little secret. That evening she stayed late, until everyone had left the office, and easily installed the recording device in St. James's office phone. She had covered for Janet, the CEO's secretary the previous month, while she was on vacation, and had access to the key for Robertson's office. She didn't know when or where she would use it - but had the foresight to get a copy made, while they were in her possession, returning the original when Janet came back. In under thirty seconds she had the bug installed on Robertson's phone too - and was out the door. Good, she thought. With Robertson, the CEO's, office bugged too, _nothing will escape her._

* * *

## Chapter 3

Tuesday, June 6th

AFTER A TIRESOME day at work, Diaz was eager to get home and listen to the phone recordings. It was mostly boring business mumbo jumbo, spiced up with the odd sexy talk, between St. James and his married mistress of the month. Diaz had to hand it to him. He certainly had his way with gorgeous, wealthy women. If he only knew what _she did_ for her private entertainment. She'd rock his world ... and then some.  
   Relaxing on her sofa, she was about to pour a second glass of merlot when she heard Fitch's voice on the recording ... and froze in midstream.  
   "Dex, I trust your day's going well?"  
   "Great Fitch. What's up?"  
   "I'm calling to find out if you've been testing the integrity of our data system security?"  
   "No, why? What do you mean?"  
   "You know... Like what you used to do, to test the system and protocols... You'd go in and mess around to see if anyone catches the breach."  
   "No, not me. And not lately... I have far too much on my plate these days."  
   "Well then... We have a problem."  
   "What kind of a problem, Fitch?"  
   "I was installing the final set of program upgrades, for the institutional account range, and found something very interesting. Somebody rigged the programming code. They set up a ghost, or mirror account... smart bugger too... That's why I thought it was you messing with us."  
   "No, Fitch, it certainly wasn't me. So what exactly are we talking about here?"  
   "Well... A second account was created, which was used to transfer fifteen million from an original, existing account. The total of these two accounts still equals the same amount for financial reporting purposes. But yet, a third account was added. This third account perpetually reflects the balance from the second account."  
   "You're kidding me?"  
   "Seriously. This third ghost account is setup so that no matter how much money you take out of it, the balance always matches the balance of the second account. It's like a bottomless ATM."  
   "Holy shit."  
   "There's more. Since the accounts were added to the institutional range of accounts, it means they could wire money out of the country - in a snap. Wouldn't even hit the balance sheet, so it's unlikely the theft would ever be discovered. If I weren't doing the upgrades, I wouldn't have found it myself."  
   "Jesus Christ, Fitch... Who the hell do you think did this?"  
   "It could've been any one of the dozen people here, who have direct access to the mainframe. So what do you want me to do?"  
   "God damn it! The timing of this couldn't be worse."  
   "Why, what's going on?" asked Fitch.  
   "I've been meeting with Robertson and others off-site for over a month - and this is very confidential - the bank is being bought out by a private equity firm. We're in the final stretch of negotiations with the winning bidders. We'll be going public with the announcement soon.  
   Diaz hit pause on her computer. "Holy shit!" She tilted the bottle too fast and had to lick the wine that spilled down the side of her glass. Her eyes were wide open. She took two large gulps before pressing play again.  
   "The numbers are good so we expect the shareholders will go for it. It'll be our recommendation that they accept the price per share. These guys want a very fast close. We're talking two weeks max. They have the cash to do the deal. If word of this security breach gets out it might spook them. They'll think we have serious data security issues... Not to mention the perceived risk of losing investor and depositor confidence. At minimum, they'll use it as an excuse to drive the price down. If we report this now, it'll become public information as part of our disclosure requirements. If we deal with it after the buyout, the bank will be privately owned - then we can take care of it ourselves."  
   "You want me to keep it quiet, Dex... I'll keep it quiet."  
   "Yeah Fitch, I'd appreciate that... Look, why don't you send me a copy of the altered codes and write up a report, but courier it to my home address. I'll make a note of it officially, as a follow-up to our next round of regular security protocol reviews, and treat is as a no-big-deal issue. We can plug the hole, and it'll buy us some time to figure out who did it."  
   "Do you want me to reverse the changes?"  
   "Yes please. There's going to be a hell of a lot more than fifteen million going through the Cayman accounts with this buyout, and I don't want it to up and disappear into a bottomless account. It'll make it harder to catch the bastard, but I can't risk this getting out of hand."  
   "Consider it done."  
   "Thanks Fitch. I owe you big time."  
   "Talking about owing me..."  
   "Yes - let's hear it..."  
   "You promised I could get away after the upgrades were implemented. I've been working non-stop and haven't had a holiday since Christmas."  
   "Say no more. Reverse the account changes, write up the report so I can wrap my head around it, and take off for a couple of weeks."  
   "Thanks Dex, much appreciated."  
   "Hey, you just saved the bank fifteen million bucks... possibly a lot more. You've certainly earned a nice long holiday. Just keep your phone handy in case of an emergency."  
   "Will do. See you in a couple of weeks."  
   Once St. James hung up the phone, he wondered about who could have changed the codes. Was it a techie joke? Or a real rip-off attempt? Off the cuff he couldn't think of anyone he knew at the bank or at the DC who would try something like this for real. He decided not to dwell on it. _His first big mistake._

* * *

## Chapter 4

DIAZ CLICKED THE stop button on the computer, took another gulp of wine, leaned back and crossed her arms. Then she stood up to pace in front of the sofa - her mind racing a mile a minute going over the key points affecting her plan.  
   First, Dexter knows. Second, Fitch discovered it - thankfully he'll be out on vacation. Third, Slick had set up the ghost account so that it was like a bottomless ATM - smart bastard! Fourth, someone was buying the bank in two weeks and a lot of money would be flowing through the Caymans. Fifth, since Fitch is reversing the account changes, Slick would find out that the plan was foiled - but not until he returns to the data center next week. Sixth - and most importantly - Fitch himself said that if he wasn't installing the program upgrades, _which he had just completed, probably no one would have figured out that someone tampered with the programming._  
   Diaz knew the plan couldn't proceed as it stood - but Fitch proved that it would work. She smelled a lot of opportunity here, and wasn't about to pass it up. _She had four days to get everything on track._

* * *

## Chapter 5

DEXTER ST. JAMES had hired Diaz about six years ago. She was a young, former pharmacist's assistant with good organizational skills, packaged into a sexy athletic body. With shoulder length straight brown hair and hazel green eyes, she was a very attractive woman - but it was the two sexy dimples that appeared when she smiled that turned him on the most. The ultimate job clincher, however, was her perfume at the interview. He knew it was a shallow basis for a hiring decision - but she was qualified. And he was shallow. She must have known about the perfume thing, since she never changed it - and he always included a big bottle with her year end bonus, which turned into a long-standing unwritten contract between them. He loved the smell of his office when she walked in and out. Sometimes he asked her to come in just for that - usually after lunch when she had freshened up.

Diaz always dressed professionally - but still in a sexy way. She was a woman who flaunted her feminine attributes, with a confident attitude that wouldn't take any bullshit. St. James often thought about making a move on her. He could fit her in on one of those lust-filled weekends he sometimes scheduled - or Diaz scheduled for him - with a series of willing, and usually married women who fit the parameters of his no-strings-attached relationships of convenience. But, the cardinal rule - don't dip your pen in company ink - always prevented him from acting on it. The consolation prize was that she was easy on the eyes, wonderful on the nose, and with a soft sultry voice, his senses were pacified each and every working day. She never talked about her private life, never received personal phone calls and never asked to leave early - she was a corporate executive's dream assistant. But the _dream was about to turn into a nightmare of the scariest kind._

* * *

## Chapter 6

DIAZ SAT CONTEMPLATING a new strategy in her modest two bedroom Harlem flat. It was tastefully decorated, though not in a feminine way. On entry, it wasn't obvious that a woman lived there. It was the home, or more precisely, the residence of someone who didn't think long term, who didn't have a past worth remembering. No pictures, no memorabilia, nothing sentimental. Diaz had given up emotional ties with anyone and everyone from her past. After growing up in a poor home, from a broken, abusive family, she couldn't care less to ever see any of them again - they were either perpetually drunk or in prison.   
   Diaz beat the odds, probably because she developed exceptional street smarts and survival skills. She put herself through school doing whatever it took - even hooking occasionally - and the odd time selling street drugs. She was never caught - it was only a means to an end, strictly business. _Life to Serena Diaz was all business._  
   The final nail in the coffin of any 'normal' life she might have had, was her self-defense murder of a masked intruder who broke in, attempting to rape her. She managed to knee him in the groin, and fight herself free, long enough to run down the hall to the kitchen. He chased after her with some effort, and by the time he caught up, Diaz had already reached into a drawer and pulled out a large carving knife - and lunged at him as he turned the corner. With the momentum of her full body weight, she buried the ten inch blade between his ribs right to the handle, driving it straight into his lungs. The masked rapist staggered toward her. With both hands on the handle, she pulled the knife out and thrust it into his chest two more times. On the final strike, she let him fall forward, full weight to the ground, landing directly onto the blade. The handle snapped. There was a growing pool of blood and splatter everywhere, which she tracked back to her bedroom, where she sat on her bed to dial 911. _But her pulse remained normal - no panic, no adrenalin, no anxiety and no emotion. She knew she was different._  
   The police arrived within minutes, and escorted her to the hospital - she was uninjured. When the intruder's mask was removed, it was discovered that her attacker was a former classmate, from a local community college where she took courses to become a pharmacist's assistant. They had even dated a couple times.   
   The police didn't believe that Diaz wasn't aware of the identity of her attacker. Despite the mask, the darkness, and the absence of an exchange of no more than a few words, Diaz was accused of deliberately killing him. It was alleged that she knew it was him and that she had baited him to come after her. She was charged with second degree murder. The prosecutor at trial further alleged that at most, the first stab should have been enough in a self defense situation... Maybe even a second, but definitely not a third. All three knife thrusts had been delivered with equal and determined force. She spent eight months in jail before and during her trial until the jury, after just one hour of deliberations, unanimously acquitted her, ruling the killing as justifiable homicide in self defense.  
   Diaz, having been betrayed by both her family and the law, sank into a state void of emotion - controlled by her neurological autopilot, which was now set to 'self preservation'. In practical terms, she didn't lose the ability to think, evaluate, and act rationally - she became a robot. Her autopilot was set to advance her life by systematically exploiting opportunities as they became available. Serena was forever stripped of the ability to feel compassion and remorse, irrespective of consequence. _After the trial, a new pathological masterpiece was released into society - one Serena Consuela Diaz, of Harlem, New York._

* * *

## Chapter 7

DIAZ FINALLY MADE it in her own small but significant way. Being an Executive Assistant or _secretary_ - as she thought of herself, was just a stepping stone toward an even brighter future. More money, more power, more control. She routinely paid cell phone, fine dining, travel and hotel bills for St. James, sometimes exceeding tens of thousands of dollars per month. That's what she wanted, and with Slick and Roland in play, she was finally going have it. There wasn't much she wasn't willing to do or capable of doing. To Diaz, men, women and people in general, were all merely pawns to be manipulated, a means to an end. Sex and violence were tools she handled comfortably and dispassionately. _Serena was in the business of Serena._ Period.  
   At first, she wasn't sure who would be the prime target in order to carry out her plan - would it be Fitch or Slick? To win, she had to hedge her bets. She had worked with Fitch on a couple of bank projects over the past year. The last one had a pain-in-the-ass Monday morning, 9 a.m. deadline, thanks to Mitch Robertson, CEO of the bank. So Diaz suggested they work at Fitch's house over the weekend - he was more than happy to oblige. She made a point of getting him out of the house to fetch her a special double latte, while she kept focused on the project at hand. She watched him walk down the street from the window, then quickly snooped around the house, before he returned. She found two things - an extensive porn collection, and some rather descriptive email print outs, stuffed in the table drawer in his den, from women he knew from an internet dating service. _Hmmm, might be useful._  
   A few days later, she went online, created a profile on the dating service announcing "no-strings-attached sexual encounters" and found him. She used an alias and uploaded highly seductive pictures - of another woman - to round out her profile. She chatted with him weekly to find out what kind of sexual appetite he had, and built up a degree of trust between them. She hinted of a three-way rendezvous when her red-headed friend 'Jezebel' came to town. She provided more pictures to whet his appetite.  
   He was interested of course - he had already confessed his number one unfulfilled sexual fantasy was a threesome with two women. Combined with the sizzling hot pictures, Fitch was just a big fish waiting to be reeled in.  
   When he'd inquired about Jezebel on a couple of occasions, Diaz was able to put it off, citing various circumstances, a last minute change in travel plans or whatever. She knew Jezebel could be used as insurance in some way when the time was right, so she was determined to keep Fitch's dream alive. _Now it was time to collect._

* * *

## Chapter 8

Saturday June 7th.

DIAZ WAS ONLINE at the dating service waiting for Fitch to login. She had emailed him earlier to make sure he knew she wanted to chat.  
   "You up for some girly fun tonight? Jezebel's in town and we both want to finally meet you. It has to be tonight though, she has a flight out in the morning."  
   "Of course ... Where?"  
   "At your place, ten o'clock. Pick up a bottle of red and one of white wine - I can't remember which Jez likes... Maybe you could light some romantic candles too."  
   "Sounds good... I can hardly wait."  
   "You should probably turn out the front lights too - we wouldn't want to startle your neighbors - we'll both be showing up in leather."  
   "Oh God."  
   He gave her his address - which she knew anyway, and the countdown began.  
   Fitch ran out to pick up two bottles of wine. One white and one red - on sale and with a screw cap - then raced home and jumped in the shower. Paying particular attention to scrubbing the stiffie he was already sporting - he hoped it wouldn't let him down with premature fireworks. That's it, he thought, I'll just focus on work, maybe that'll buy me a few more strokes... He had to satisfy _two_ women after all. He was determined not to let them down, by letting his imagination carry him away... Maybe this will turn into a regular thing, as he continued to fantasize about the experience he was about to have. He hadn't felt this alive in a long time. Dressed now, he just had to wait. A few hours, he thought, _in a few hours I 'm gonna get laid by two hot women!_

* * *

## Chapter 9

IT WAS EARLY evening when Diaz entered 'the dungeon' - her second bedroom - and donned her black leather cat suit. Into a large canvas shopping bag she placed the braided corset sheaths for her arms, the leather cat mask, the blood red mascara, her thigh high studded boots and her purse. On top of the cat suit, she donned a long dress, completely covering her leather uniform of pain, ecstasy and control. She was ready for some pre-date shopping.  
   The first stop was a local supermarket where she bought a jug of bleach, a jug of concentrated ammonia, rubber gloves, a pack of scented candles - 'For a Romantic Setting' - the label read, and a tight fitting bathing cap.   
   The next stop was a local costume shop frequented by stage actors and people looking for costumes for parties and Halloween. The young kid behind the counter, with spiked hair and a full body tattoo, directed her to the third aisle in the cramped store to find a wig. She picked out a short, straight and sleek hairstyle with bangs - black. Diaz waited until the kid was busy with another customer before walking up to the register to be cashed out by another clerk. This freak was wearing over-sized headphones, listening to music and paying little attention to what he was doing, barely looking up. His head bobbing up and down to the music while working the cash register - even his over-sized nose ring was bouncing. Nice nose gear, Diaz thought, indulging in her own fantasy of leading him like a slave by a rope threaded through that ring - while, as his dominatrix, beating him with her Spanish calf suede flogger... Maybe one day, she smiled to herself.  
   Out the door, Diaz headed for the nearest bagel shop - which was perpetually packed. Pushing her way through the lineup, she went straight into the bathroom at the back of the small joint, and into a stall, pulled on the tight bathing cap, carefully tucking in her hair, and putting on the wig. She walked out of the bathroom transformed into a completely different person, and of course no one took any notice. Nobody cared how you looked in New York city.  
   She had one more stop to round out her shopping spree. Diaz was a volunteer at a local non-profit second-hand clothing store for the poor. It was all show for the corporate world, and it was an unwritten rule that everyone did some sort of community support work - to make the bank look like they actually gave a shit about the community. In fact, every employee was pressured to pretend like they gave a rat's ass, by making donations and doing volunteer work. She didn't give a damn, and hated every minute of it. Not much longer though, she thought. No one recognized her, and within five minutes she selected a long dress. To complete the transformation, she needed another place to change, and walked by a dozen restaurants and coffee shops until she found one that was full. Diaz once again went into the bathroom and changed from her own - possibly recognizable - dress into the new one. She was pleased at the ease with which this dress could be slipped over her head - no buttons, no ties. It was reminiscent of a sixties free flowing ankle-length hippie getup. No one would recognize her, and right now, there was nothing more important than _anonymity._

* * *

## Chapter 10

IT WAS 9:45 P.M., and now under the cover of darkness, Diaz was ready. She drove to Fitch's place, parked four blocks away on a side street, slipped her feet into the thigh high boots and zipped them up - most of which would be covered by the dress, and using the rear-view mirror she applied her signature blood red mascara. She did a final accessories check, grabbed the canvas shopping bag and exited the car. There were few people around, and every time Diaz passed a street-lamp she lowered her head to hide the mascara. Nothing unusual about that - few people made eye contact.  
   Fitch lived in a quiet neighborhood in a 2 story townhouse complex - his unit was on the ground floor. Diaz walked around the back, removed the mask and the corset sheaths from the bag, did a quick survey up and down the back of the complex to confirm there was no-one about. With one swift motion she pulled the dress over her head and placed it into the bag, then hid the bag behind an old rusted barbecue on his tiny, aging deck. In under a minute she slipped on the corsets and the mask. The only thing she needed to remember was to slightly alter her voice - Fitch couldn't know it was her. She knocked on the patio door. When Fitch pulled the blinds back and saw her - this thing - on his porch, Diaz was sure he almost shit his pants. He slid the door open a crack, and Diaz said,  
   "Black Kitty calling on Hungryfortwo." Fitch was dumbfounded, and if Diaz hadn't pulled the door open to enter, who knows how long it would have taken for him to recover from the shock.  
   "Hi...," is all he could squeeze out, then added, "where's your friend?"  
   "She'll be here in about a half an hour... Thought we might warm up a bit."  
   "That outfit... that's... that's for..." he couldn't finish the sentence, so Diaz finished it for him, "S & M?" she offered.  
   "I've never... Well, I've never done anything like that before. I hear a guy can get his balls electrocuted doing shit like that..."  
   "Only if they like it." Diaz answered in a matter of fact tone.  
   "Hell no! Uh uh. Not for me... _No thank you._ "  
   "Okay then, we won't electrocute your balls." If there wasn't business at hand to take care of, _Diaz would 've enjoyed a little ball zapping, and allowed herself the momentary luxury of distraction._

* * *

## Chapter 11

FITCH LIVED IN a tastefully decorated home, and she was impressed the first time she had been there.  
   "Did you decorate this place?" she asked.  
   "No, I'm renting it furnished."  
   Figures, Diaz thought, now getting anxious to get this over with. Although she wasn't particularly looking forward to it, it just had to be done, and she needed to step up the pace. No time to waste - she just wanted to get out of there.  
   "I have something that I think'll be wonderful... and very sexy... Something that'll make you feel just fantastic."  
   His mind was reeling with excitement, and in anticipation of having the best sex he's ever had - with two girls dressed in leather. Could it get any better? None of the guys will freakin' believe this, he thought, and could barely squeeze out the words.  
   "Yeah... uh... sounds great... uh... better than great... Let's do it!"  
   "Hang on a minute, Tarzan." Diaz said as she walked out to the deck, but not before quickly glancing left and right to make certain no one else was out that could see her. She grabbed the bag from behind the barbeque, brushed past him, walked straight into the bathroom and closed the door.  
   She called out from the bathroom. "Wait out there a minute... Keep your pants on... for a while. I'm just getting things ready before my friend arrives." He was pacing, completely overtaken by his desire for Black Kitty.  
   Diaz plugged the bathtub and ran some hot water - very hot water. She laid out the six scented candles on the counter and lit them - as a social smoker she always carried a lighter - then poured the jug of bleach into the hot flowing water. While the water was running, Diaz slipped five sleeping pill caplets from her purse. With a pharmacist assistant's efficiency, Diaz emptied the capsules onto a piece of toilet paper, tossed the casings back into her purse, and folded it into an envelope shape, then slipped it into her arm sheath. When she judged the water level to be just right - about five inches from the bottom, she shut off the water. Then she reached into her bag for the concentrated ammonia and emptied that jug into the tub. She placed the two empty containers back into the bag and quickly exited the bathroom. Although she was sure the scented candles would mask the strong smell of ammonia, she needed to stall until the two chemicals were fully emulsified in the rising steam.   
   Diaz found Fitch pacing as she exited the bathroom and saw a stunned expression on his face - as if he had expected her to be naked, or at least wearing less leather, so she went with it.  
   "Did you think I was going to give the prize away so fast?"  
   "Well, I thought you were..." his voice trailed off.  
   "Don't worry lover-boy, soon, very soon." She changed the subject. "Can we have a drink until my friend arrives?"  
   "Of course. Sorry, I forgot my manners. Wine? I got both the red and white."  
   "Red please." He unscrewed the cap from the bottle and poured two glasses. The cheap bastard, she thought - he couldn't even splurge for a decent bottle on the night of his dreams. A couple of minutes later he returned to the living room standing there with two glasses of wine looking like a horny stag. Diaz's challenge now was getting the sleeping powder into his drink.  
   "Have you ever had Rose wine?" He looked puzzled at the question and said, "Well, yeah, but I don't have any..." His voice trailed off in noticeable disappointment. Diaz placated him by saying, "Well, let's make some! Go grab the other bottle of white and a spoon." Fitch sprang out of his seat and rushed back into the kitchen. In the meantime - it took merely seconds - she slipped the tissue out and poured the contents into Fitch's glass. He returned moments later with the opened bottle of white wine, which Diaz took, and topped up their glasses - turning their wine into a Rose. She stirred both glasses well; making sure all the powder from the caplets was completely dissolved in Fitch's glass.  
   "Okay, let's make a toast to... a night of erotica!"  
   They both raised their glasses, and Fitch watched, with eyes open wide while Diaz downed the entire glass in a couple of gulps, then said, "What are ya' waiting for? You gotta keep up!" He emptied his glass in a single gulp. Diaz then mixed another glass of Rose for them and said, "The second glass, we sip a bit slower... to set the mood." She moved a little closer to him, but didn't let her clothes touch his, and could feel him suddenly tense up with excitement. Sleeping pills required a few minutes to take effect, but at this dose - with the alcohol - she knew it would hit him like a ton of bricks, so it was imperative that she got the timing right. She had to get him into the bathroom while he could still walk.  
   Remembering to keep her voice altered she said, "So, any plans for your holiday?" He had mentioned he was on holidays when they had chatted online earlier.  
   "Um, no... well yeah actually, I'm gonna look at fishing boats tomorrow with a buddy of mine. I always wanted one, and now that...I... have a bit of time, I'm gonna...look around." Diaz noticed that his eyes drooped for a split second, and his speech started to hesitate, but he recovered, becoming aware that focusing required an increasing amount of effort. Gotta keep him talking, she thought.  
   "What kind of boat?" She asked.  
   "Just what you call a bass boat, you know, the kind you see on trailers... open on top, and with a motor on the back." His slurring suddenly became noticeably worse, "kind of like a really big row boat... I don't feel so good... I mean, not sick, just like tired... weird tired, like I've been awake for a month and can't keep my eyes open..." His speech was now borderline incoherent, and his head was getting too heavy to hold upright. It was time.  
   "Okay, let me show you my surprise! I lit some romantic candles in the bathroom and... ran a bath. But, you have to play along."  
   "Okay..." He looked like he was about to pass out.  
   "Just go in there, close the door and wait for me... But keep your clothes on till I get there... that's my part. It'll feel funny for a minute or two, but you'll get used to it, then very soon I'll join you and it'll be warm, wet and exciting - okay?"   
   With a heavy head he nodded and levered himself upright, but it was getting hard to stand, let alone walk. Diaz jumped up and went over to the bathroom and coaxed him toward her. Staggering like a drunken sailor, he barely made it. She opened the door at the last second, held her breath, and as soon as he was in, slammed the door shut behind him. There was muffled noise, and she assumed that he must have either slumped over or sat on the toilet - standing was no longer an option as the pills began to take effect fully. Diaz then ran to the kitchen and grabbed several dish towels and stuffed them under the door to contain the fumes.  
   Fitch moaned in a slur of barely coherent words from the bathroom, "Are you sure about this? It doesn't feel so good... my lungs... my throat... my nose...!"  
"I'll be in, in a few minutes. Don't worry... There are no long term effects.." She called out, standing close to the door - _just one permanent one, she thought._ The coughing grew very intense. One more minute, she needed just one more minute. She could hear a struggle, as if he was trying to get up, but couldn't fight the effect of the pills - and now the gas. Chlorine gas. She called out again, "I'll be there in a minute... Just getting ready." No response. It was all quiet now, glancing at her watch she decided to give it another full minute - _it was deathly silent in the bathroom now._

* * *

## Chapter 12

DIAZ PUT ON the rubber gloves from the bag, held her breath and opened the door. She found Fitch sprawled on the floor, wedged between the tub and the toilet, his eyes rolled up in their sockets with his head twisted to one side by the base of the toilet bowl. Reaching over, being careful not to touch him, she pulled out the bath plug, turned on the exhaust fan, ran out onto the deck leaving the door wide open. She then took another deep breath, and went back in, to open all the windows in the living room and kitchen. Then she ran to the two bedrooms, and did the same.   
   She waited for a full half hour until she was sure all the fumes had dissipated. It was time to clean up. Diaz closed all the windows, wiped her prints off the door handles and anything else she may have touched before she put the gloves on, rinsed the tub, replaced the candles in the shopping bag, threw the dish towels she used to seal the crack at the bottom of the door into her bag, poured out the glasses of wine, washed and dried them, then replaced them in the cupboard. Then, she made sure her outfit was intact - having slipped off the mask and pulled on the dress, she cleaned off the mascara. Diaz exited through the patio door, closed it, took off her gloves and corset sheaths and placed them in the bag too then walked back to her car. _Score one for the plan,_ she thought.

* * *

## Chapter 13

AS A PHARMASIST'S assistant, Diaz knew a bit about chemistry. Two of the most deadly household chemicals are bleach and ammonia. Mix them together and you have chlorine gas. The same stuff used as a chemical weapon in World War I, then by Nazi Germany in World War II. The gas tears into your nasal passages, trachea, and lungs by causing massive cellular damage, resulting in a very painful death. Household bleach has a chemical formula of NaOCl - that is, one atom each of sodium, oxygen, and chlorine. Its chemical name is sodium hypochlorite. Ammonia has a chemical formula of NH3: one atom of nitrogen and three atoms of hydrogen. Mix these two, and the following happens:

   2(parts)NaOCl + 2NH3 --> 2NaONH3 + Cl2 = death!

   It couldn't be helped. The choice of chemicals was a matter of convenience. The coroner will pick it up - melted lungs and burned nasal passages are hard to miss. Toxicology tests would probably show exactly what killed him, but that takes time. Anyway, no-one knew she was there. All she needed was a couple of weeks. In fact, it may take a week just to discover his body anyway. _Crap!_ She said almost out loud. Serena suddenly remembered that Fitch had a date with a buddy to buy a boat the next day. Too late to worry about that now, she concluded. _What 's done is done._

* * *

## Chapter 14

BACK IN THE car, Diaz removed the wig, the bathing cap and the leather boots. Enroute to her apartment, she tossed the dress she bought into a public garbage bin by the road.  
   It was 11:15 p.m. by the time she walked in the door, poured a glass of wine, red - and not a screw cap, and reflected on the absence of any guilt or even fear she probably should have been feeling. After all, she just murdered a man, and this time it wasn't self defense... just business. Why didn't she feel anything? Nothing, there was nothing. _Was she a psychopath?_ She wondered. No. This was not for remorseless pleasure. This was for a specific purpose. _That_ was the difference. It was simply part of the plan. It was business. It didn't feel satisfying, there was no pleasure taken, but nor did it feel horrible. It merely represented a check-mark on the to-do list. She ordered a pizza, watched a movie - _Walk All Over Me_ - and went to bed.

* * *

## Chapter 15

Monday, June 9th

DEXTER ST. JAMES, Senior Vice President and COO of the bank, just returned to his office from an afternoon meeting with Brian Felling and Mitch Robertson. Felling was managing partner of Emery Investments - the private equity firm poised to buy New York People's Bank (NYPB) and take it private. Mitch Robertson was the CEO of NYPB.  
   The deal was scheduled to close in under two weeks, and they were in the final stages of the due diligence process. Just tying up loose ends. When NYPB announced the impending deal publicly, the market - the shareholders - reacted favorably at the per share price offered. To close the deal - in cash, wire transfers totaling $5.2 Billion would be received, then all shareholders would be paid out - and ownership would revert to Emery Investments. NYPB would then become one of the largest privately held banks in the US, operating outside the direct scrutiny of the market.  
   Brian Felling was a six foot, brawny, middle aged Brit - with the good looks of an American surfer boy - though from old money. He had a triple-A personality who didn't want to waste any time, taking full advantage of higher risk - and much higher return - investment opportunities. Felling instructed that on the closing date, $300 million was to be directed toward high return off-shore investments, flying under the tax and regulatory radars - which he asked St. James to oversee.  
   Felling's strategy was to inject $300 million of new capital over and above the purchase price of the bank. He would then use the much higher profits he expected to earn, to inflate the value of the bank's balance sheet - over time, making it appear much more profitable than it actually was. A few years down the road, he would unwind the high risk investment and sell the bank at an artificially inflated value - all perfectly legal on the books.  
   St. James knew this was a dangerous strategy. On the heels of a recent financial meltdown, frozen credit markets and impending changes to regulations, the odds of pulling this off - like in the old days, was slim. He told Felling in the meeting that eventually someone would figure out that the bank's profits rely too much on high risk, complicated investments - risking depositors' money. Not to mention that if the target country of the investments were to be nationalized - like in Venezuela, which is where Felling wanted to invest - they might never see the money again. Felling however arrogantly shrugged it all off. He told St. James that simply being a private bank, already created loopholes. But more importantly, his view was that the regulators, playing perpetual catch-up, would plug only the old holes, and wouldn't invest the bureaucratic energy or money looking for new ones. He said - in fact he insisted - that profit motivated financial engineers would always stay several steps ahead of regulators. In the end St. James conceded that it might work. Either way, he didn't really care, since he was expecting a decent payout after the takeover.  
   They were in the 11th hour negotiations, on what he and Mitch Robertson, the current CEO would receive. It was determined by Robertson, and agreed to by Felling, that NYPB could easily absorb and budget for a ten million dollar executive payout. Six million would go to Robertson, three to St. James, and one million would be divided between two other executives, at five hundred a piece. Not bad, Dex thought. Part of the deal was that Felling would replace Robertson as CEO, but he'd keep him on for the first year as an advisor. Robertson would retain management control on a day-to-day basis. _St. James and a handful of other execs would have to go_ - standard operating procedure for the changing of the guard in an acquisition.

* * *

## Chapter 16

DEXTER ST. JAMES, A trim, forty-six year old ex-Marine technology officer who'd had a stint in black ops and a Harvard MBA, was a fifteen year veteran of the bank. He had rebuilt the data and security infrastructure from the ground up, tightened up the risk management and treasury operations to a level where loan losses were far below industry averages, and the bank consequently got rave reviews from the regulators and the investing public. This in turn grew the loan and deposit book to a level that made the bank very attractive to a potential buyer, like Emery Investments.  
   St. James was sitting in his office, leaning back in his custom leather chair, ankles resting and crossed on his desk. He had been contemplating the next phase of his life while waiting for his compensation package to be sent as a secure-signed email from Robertson and Felling. Within minutes of his computer chiming it's arrival, he signed it back for filing and reporting to the SEC, copying both men, Diaz and Halten - he and Robertson's assistants.  
   Given his position, St. James had the mandatory corner office overlooking Manhattan and Central Park, decorated to his taste. His desk was what, from the front, looked like a massive walnut wooden box with a leather upholstered surface which, even given its size, looked unassuming in the over-sized office. Unadorned, walnut cabinets lined the walls, housing the customary mini bar at one end, beside a small informal meeting table - matching his office desk, with four comfortable wine colored, leather club chairs by the window - his preferred spot for meetings.

* * *

## Chapter 17

WITH HANDS CLASPED behind his head, he was in good spirits. Life was good. The phone on his desk rang, jolting him back to the reality of the moment.  
   "Dex, long time no chat!"  
   "Tigo, it has been a long time. So how's my favorite client?" He heard a chuckle on the other end.  
   "I bet you say that to all your clients."  
   "Well, no, but since you're one of our biggest ones, the banker in me automatically puts you at the top of my favorites list."  
   Tigo Montoya, a Venezuelan business tycoon, and St. James had known each other for over a decade, since NYPB handled Montoya's substantial holdings and investments. He was a charismatic, quick to laugh - but quicker to anger - player in the south American shipping, hospitality and gaming industries, referred to as the 'Venezuelan Godfather' by the press. It was well known that NYPB was the financial front end of his vast empire. The two men always liked each other, and Montoya regularly teased St. James with 'opportunities' in his vast financial kingdom. Dex was always flattered, and admittedly nearly enticed a few times, particularly when he saw the women Tigo entertained at his parties. His mind drifted to the possibility of lounging with a bevy of sensual Spanish senoritas around Montoya's pool for weeks on end, now that he was up $3 million, and didn't have any plans to work again for quite some time.  
   Montoya continued, "You made out pretty good on the deal eh?"  
   "Well, not bad I guess, we're still tying up loose ends."  
   "Don't be shy about it Dex, you've earned it. If Mitch is buying his dream plane, you must've done pretty well too." St. James now sat bolt upright, feeling his jaw muscles tense.  
   "What plane? What're you talking about?"  
   "Uh... My guy, Chuck Guildwood at Eagle jets just told me he's got a test flight scheduled for Mitch in one of the newest models... Runs about $12 mil. Guildwood's the guy who sold me my last three planes, and I happen to own a piece of the company." St. James was speechless. Was this for real?  
   "You're not shitting me are you? How the hell can Mitch afford a $12 million freakin' plane on a $6 million payout?" demanded St. James.  
   "You know me, I don't joke about money. I'm no banker, but it looks to me like you might be getting shafted. We both know he's a prick." St. James was shaking his head and trying not to believe it.  
   "Thanks Tigo, you've just made my day."  
   "Listen Dex, in my business, _not_ knowing can be bad for your health, even terminal. So when you do know about something... you do something about it. Let me know if I can do anything for you." Montoya just let the words hang.  
   "Thanks Tigo, I just might." He lowered the phone slowly and tried to recall his conversation with Felling about the payout offer. Felling is a business man, and wouldn't care one way or the other who gets what, as long as it fit into his plans - but Mitch? It was hard enough to stomach that Mitch as the CEO was going to get twice as much as he, knowing how many times he had saved his fat ass over the years. No - $6 million was not enough to buy and maintain a freakin' top-of-the-line jet! _St. James now knew he was getting screwed - but was there anything he could he do about it?_  
   Now standing by the window, the reflection of his blank stare mirrored an image of numbness and defeat. The futility of all the hard work and long hours he'd put into the two biggest pieces of his life - his marriage and the bank. His ex-wife had already raked him over the coals, and now he was getting screwed over again, the same way, by his second wife... the bank. _He was thinking of nothing and everything at the same time._

* * *

## Chapter 18

DIAZ, ACTING EITHER as a model of employee dedication - or in the interest of self preservation - always made a point of listening in on any critical office conversations, even before the wiretaps - either to stay one step ahead of the job's demands or to get an early warning signal, and pull the ejection handle to find another job. But this time, it was different - _she smelled the opportunity - to the tune of $300 million dollars._  
   She had just listened in on the conversation between St. James and Montoya from her desk. Earlier, during her lunch hour, she replayed a conversation between Robertson and Felling from late last week. Robertson and Felling had been discussing a payout budget of twenty million dollars - not ten. She learned that Robertson had negotiated a $20 million payout with Felling to begin with. Felling thought it was steep, but Robertson had agreed to stay on as an adviser for another year as part of the deal - to ensure continuity for the clients. In the end, Felling saw it as added insurance that Robertson would prevent anyone from threatening to torpedo the deal, by holding back shareholder recommendations, to accept Felling's per share price offering.   
   In order to hoodwink the rest of the executive team, Robertson's plan was to draw up another executive compensation document - dated the day _after_ the deal closed - which meant no public disclosure since the bank was now private - and approvals would not be required from the rest of the executive team who would be sacked by then anyway. Felling agreed with Robertson's plan citing, "I don't give a damn how you screw your own people, just make the deal happen." They had agreed to sign the second post-dated executive compensation document, by close-of-business, the day before.  
   Diaz needed to get her hands on that document - then it occurred to her that Janet Halten would most certainly be getting a copy, if she didn't already have it. Diaz smiled to herself realizing that she really had no idea how fortuitous filling in for a vacationing Janet, would turn out to be - she wondered if she still had Janet's system logins. Diaz flipped back a month in her day journal and found the correct user-name and passwords. As she keyed in the information, she held her breath and silently prayed that Janet hadn't recently updated them. "Success!" she breathed a sigh of relief to find that she had gained access. _It took seconds to find the document and email herself a copy._

* * *

## Chapter 19

ST. JAMES'S MOROSE thoughts were interrupted by Diaz, who, after the single customary knock at the door, breezed straight in. She was his secretary - officially called an 'Executive Assistant' - the term 'Secretary' was politically incorrect for secretaries making over fifty grand, and the distinction always amused his old-boy mentality. He even looked the old-boy part. Tall, fit, handsome, and tanned. He had naturally highlighted, sandy brown hair - his almost military hair cut was a remnant habit from his days of service. His light eyes were blue when he was happy and well rested, more of a hazel green when not so happy or well rested. Today, they were hazel green. When he smiled, his thirty thousand dollar smile, stole the show.  
   Following the public announcement, Diaz, as St. James' assistant, became privy to the deal details. It was her job to make sure nothing fell through the cracks, when it came to scheduling, deadlines and reporting.  
   "Dex, the finance guys working on the deal are waiting for your overview of the bank's data center operations protocols, guidelines and security infrastructure."  
   Diaz jarred St. James back to the reality of the moment.  
   "Right, thanks Serena, can you tell 'em I need a few days to put it all together? I have to go down to the DC to review all that stuff."  
   "Sure. Why don't I send you the PDF file of the material you presented to the Board at the last meeting? Maybe it'll save some time."  
   "Good idea, it just might. Thanks."  
   "Also," Diaz continued, "The deal will close with the last wire transfer for three hundred million from London, England, as instructed by Mr. Felling. I'm making sure all the ducks are lined up, and I already have the transfer instructions - ABS number etc., just so we can keep an eye on things."  
   "Excellent work Serena, Thanks." St. James was about to return to his brooding, when Diaz continued again.  
   "There's a bit more... Skip Harper at the Federal Merger Oversight Agency was the guy assigned as watchdog on the deal. He'll be getting copies of all the docs." St. James nodded, preoccupied with his own self pity.  
   Diaz turned to walk back to the open office door, closed it behind her and returned to her position in front of his desk, with a concerned look on her face. St. James cocked his head at that, never having seen Serena be quite so covert.  
   "Uh, Dexter, I wanted to let you know that I was comparing two versions of the executive compensation reports - just to make sure we're all working with the final and authorized document. You know... Well... anyway, I think there's a problem." Dexter was white as a ghost.  
   "What do you mean... a _problem_?"  
   "Well... they're different... different dates, different amounts... and one of them didn't require your signature."  
   St. James clenched his teeth to restrain the anger that threatened to burst through the surface.  
   "Would you like me to show you both copies so you can see for yourself?" Serena was armed with the documentation. She had already highlighted the dates, amounts and signature areas for St. James, and placed them in front of him as he sat as his desk. Then Serena paused and closely examined Dexter's reaction as his eyes scanned the pages. After a few moments, St. James was able to summon his voice.  
   "Good work Serena." he croaked. Diaz looked directly into his eyes and gave a twisted smile, then spun on her heels to leave.  
   "And Serena?"  
   "Yes?" She glanced back and they locked eyes again.  
   "Please keep this to yourself until I've had a chance to think it through."  
   "Of course. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."  
   As the door closed behind Diaz, St. James started to hyper-ventilate. All he could say, just loud enough to hear his own voice, "I'm getting fucked... Again! Tigo was right, God damn it!" With a clenched jaw he crumpled up the evidence and whipped it across the room as hard as he could.  
   As he sat there, blood boiling, he wondered how Diaz had 'happened' to come across the document. He'd have to ask her later. What he did know was that he had the best Executive Assistant on Wall Street - he owed her big time. What he didn't know was that _she already had her own plans for compensation._

* * *

## Chapter 20

IT WAS JUST after five when Diaz left St. James's office. After their last conversation she promptly packed up and left for the day. Through his open office door St. James watched the entire office empty out, as the nine-to-fivers evacuated the premises, as if the fire alarm had gone off. This was not how the day was supposed to end.  
   St. James spent another hour in his office, brooding over the rationale behind Felling's decision to shaft him - and why. He realized that it was only a business decision for Felling, and since they never had any business or personal relations prior to negotiations - which went well - Felling had no personal or business motive to deliberately skew the payout in Robertson's favor. He was missing something and it was gnawing at him... He couldn't put his finger on it. Did they think he wasn't going to find out? They know he's privy to and responsible for the financial reporting and regulatory disclosure of the bank... then he realized... Of course! They were planning to terminate him right after the deal closed, which meant he wouldn't have time to review the statements - or be privy to them. He knew he was out, and would've only been around for a couple of months for the handover anyway - that was part of the deal - but if they shortened his tenure, then _he 'd never get the chance to find out about how he got screwed._

* * *

## Chapter 21

HE GLANCED AT his watch - now approaching six, and he needed to get out of there. The office tower was almost deserted, only a couple of security guards roaming the main lobby in a display of monotonous boredom. Probably counting floor tiles, St. James thought.  
   Instead of driving directly home, St. James decided to walk off the stress of the day. It was a clear evening, and he had always enjoyed the infusion of instant energy, like from an energy drink, every time he stepped onto the vibrant, twenty four hour streets of New York. No wonder it's the greatest city in the world, he thought. It never sleeps.  
   Six blocks from the office, maybe it was passing vendor after vendor offering hot dogs, sausages and chestnuts - that his stomach finally spoke up and he realized he was hungry. He stopped to get his bearings and to create a mental map of the local dinner haunts he frequented, trying do decide what his stomach wanted, when a cab pulled up not twenty feet away - and Brian Felling got out.   
   St. James's body, on instinct of recognition started to move toward him - but his mind stopped him. What would he say? During those few seconds of indecision, he saw Felling return a wave to someone and start walking in a direction away from him - toward a woman, who was also waving, but from St. James's vantage point mostly obscured by the crowd. Out of curiosity, he started to move closer to see who it was.   
   Then he saw her... and the blood froze in his veins. _What the fuck...!?_ It was his ex, Maggie. He stood stock still, oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells of his beloved city, watching Felling and his 'Mags' get close and share a kiss - which had the distinct look of having been well honed in the bedroom. They locked arms - and in moments disappeared in the crowd. For St. James it was like watching a thirty second clip of his past, his present - and _now_ , his future. Maggie took him to the cleaners during their divorce, and was doing it again by colluding with his second wife - the bank. She _would_ have balls to show up, asking for more money from his payout - and when he refused, would probably threaten to sue for most of it. Was he just a pawn for her amusement? And now she'd witness and cheer on another round of humiliation - because she'd _know_ he's getting screwed over by Robertson and Felling.  
   St. James just stood on the spot transfixed, shaking his head in disbelief, when he realized that he was standing beside a hot dog vendor. The vendor was trying to get his attention to get his order - robotically, he reached into his pocket, pulled out some change and without exchanging a word took his hot dog and wandered aimlessly. His mind swirling with thoughts and his heart awash with emotions. He could feel his anger building and ebbing then building once again. His stride became more determined and his jaw clenched tighter. The hot dog wasn't fairing well either - being the subject of his unconsciously clenching fingers - forming a fist. He passed a trash bin and slammed the hotdog in with a force that would leave, even the hardiest of New York hot dogs, worse for wear.  
   Maggie, a greedy bitch, Felling the arrogant prick and Robertson the 'I don't give a rat's ass' bastard were all going to enjoy hours of mirth while sending him down rip-off-river. He felt his resolve kick in from deep inside - it wasn't rage - this was simply 'Go ahead and try it, Fuck Head.' _Absolutely no damned way! He couldn't and he wouldn't let that happen,_ that much he knew. St. James recalled Tigo's words of wisdom - 'If you know about it - take action'. The money grubbing back-stabbers! He had to hit them where it hurt - but how?  
   Feeling disoriented by the events of the day - which left the meaning of his life and the purpose of years of hard work in question, St. James walked back toward the office to retrieve his car from the parking garage - he was no longer hungry, just nauseated. _He was in for a rough sleepless night._

* * *

## Chapter 22

Tuesday June 10th

ST. JAMES WAS showered and dressed by seven and on the way to the office, after a long night - having downed half a bottle of scotch to get to sleep.  
   By eight he was at his desk, looking at the Eagle Jets website. The aircraft _started_ at $12 million. The Q26 was the 'cheapest' model - state of the art, mostly made of composite materials - plastic. Who would have thought? A plastic plane. Eagle also touted the 'option' of purchasing Avicon's award winning, technological achievement called Remote Emergency Aircraft Control (REAC). It would allow anyone with a satellite connected computer, to take control of the aircraft - in case of pilot incapacitation or terrorist takeover, preventing the aircraft from being flown into populated areas. A test drive of the REAC system, could also be scheduled for the test flight.  
   St. James called Tigo to confirm the cost of the aircraft and that Robertson was booked for a test flight on Friday, June 20th, the following week, 9 a.m. - on the day of the buyout closing. Tigo told him, with a chuckle, that Robertson cheaped out and opted not to buy the REAC system. Tigo, holding one third equity of Eagle Jets, was of course motivated to stay on top of all sales information.  
   St. James's stomach was churning, his neck muscles were stiff, and his blood was boiling. He was in absolutely no mood for games. Robertson was behind the _Royal Screwover,_ with a complicit Felling, and cheered on by his ex wife, Mags. It was clear that Robertson, the greedy bastard, wasn't the least bit remorseful in orchestrating this screw over and scooping a ton more cash, by artificially _deflating_ the executive compensation budget - so he could re-set it for _himself_ later. He also knew that torpedoing the deal wasn't a good idea - then he wouldn't get a dime. Robertson was stealing money rightfully owed to him.  
    _' Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Robertson!'_ he thought to himself. It was the best he could do at the moment to feel better.

* * *

## Chapter 23

ST. JAMES WAS standing in his office, staring out the window - the dark clouds in the sky over Manhattan were broken intermittently by blinding streams of sunlight. The extremes of darkness, rain and bright light co-mingled with sporadic sun showers visible across Manhattan - like curtains floating over the city - as if God was showing him a picture book of the human condition. Things change, and yet stay the same, cycling and re-emerging in shape and form, delivering a different mix of essentially the same elements... Light, dark, wind and rain. This cycling is critical to our survival. Too much light and heat can dry out the human soul, and constant darkness and rain can flood us... carrying us away in despair.  
   St. James, suppressing a wry smile, pondered this symbolism. _It 's all about the mix. He needed a plan to change the mix..._ He knew the players, now he needed to identify the key elements at play in _his_ mix. Like Tigo said, _' If you know something - do something about it'_. This time he wasn't going to get screwed over quite so easily - no bloody way, he thought.  
   Sex, money, power and control - that's what it's all about. His whole life has been governed, shaped and controlled by these elements - and he was on the losing side at the moment. Every routine and every action was always reduced to the shallow pursuit of more money, more power and more sex. St. James concluded that as human beings, we are simple and predictable animals. Accepting that reality should make life easier - _if you get the mix right._

* * *

## Chapter 24

DIAZ'S PDF, OF the last Board meeting presentation on data security, arrived in his inbox for review.  
   Data security is a double edged sword. The more complex a system is, the smaller the pool of people who can understand it, maintain it, and protect it - or sabotage it. As a general contingency, all banks run parallel data storage in real time at different locations. This ensures that nothing is ever lost in case of catastrophic fire, flood, loss of power, terrorism or whatever may strike at, and disable, a part of the bank's systems. Even all ATM transactions are recorded in real time - in parallel. This solves even the simple and frequent problem of a power outage during a withdrawal or deposit: The client's money and records stay safe.  
   He was reviewing Fitch's faxed report on the security breach and the altered programming code - including a ghost account with a fifteen million dollar balance. He smiled at what he envisioned Felling's reaction would be if someone walked off with his three hundred million dollars... and only he and Fitch... and the original thief... whoever it was, knew about it... That thought made St. James smile.  
   His phone rang, the number on the call display served to wipe that smile off his face in a hurry; it was Robertson. St. James pictured his rotund figure, with its shiny bowling ball head perched on top of a mass of flesh, stuffed into an Armani suit while overflowing his custom made leather chair... settling comfortably into an 'I don't give a shit any more' attitude. St. James never warmed to Robertson - how could he? He was the epitome of the Wall Street Rat - probably the worst of the species - Nutria - the biggest and most destructive of rodents. Given his girth, St. James thought, as a rat, Robertson would be a forty pounder - though he didn't want to soil the name of the species, by comparing it to Robertson. St. James's long standing moniker for the CEO was Chief Executive Asshole - CEA.  
   "Mitch, what can I do for you?" was St. James's curt opener.  
   "I just got off the phone with Louise Rogers at the data center and she told me Fitch is on holidays."  
   "Yup, they finished the upgrades, he asked me, and I said OK."  
   "Dexter, he heads up the data staff, and we're less than two weeks away from closing the buyout. I don't want the most senior guy away now. Get him back, and make sure he's in tomorrow." It was clear that Robertson wasn't going to take any push-back on this. He was worried about Skip Harper, at the FMOC, making noises that data security could become an issue during this sensitive period of transition. Dexter just shook his head and said, "Fine." and hung up.   
   He called Fitch, but his voice-mail was full, so he couldn't leave a message. He checked his calendar and had fifteen minutes to get to a departmental meeting, and he sure as hell wasn't going to listen to Robertson whining in the morning if Fitch wasn't back. So he called Diaz.  
   "Could you zip over to Fitch's place and see if he's there? I couldn't leave him a message. We gotta get him back in - Robertson's got his knickers in a twist about the timing of his holiday."  
   Diaz froze.  
   "You mean... go there...? _To his house_?"  
   "Yup. If he's not in, tape a note on his door - a big one." Diaz knew she had no choice. She had to go.  
   "When?"  
   "Now."  
   "How about his cell phone?" It was a weak attempt to buy time.  
   "There's no answer... and his voice-mail is full. Just go, _now._ "

* * *

## Chapter 25

WHAT WAS SHE supposed to do? Go over, discover the body and call the police? She had to go, that was clear, and figure something out on the way. If he didn't answer the door, which he obviously wouldn't, what else could she do? Nothing. Tape a note to the door, call Dexter and tell him Fitch probably went away, and that'll be that.  
   Traffic was heavy and it took almost an hour to make her way across the city.  
   As Diaz was pulling up to Fitch's place she saw two police cars and an ambulance out front. Shit. She pulled over. Fitch was supposed to meet a buddy to buy that fishing boat, he must have found him. Nothing she could do now, so in a split second she collected herself and got into her role as a concerned colleague. Serena got out and asked one of the cops as casually as she could,  
   "What happened?"  
   "An accident." replied the cop without paying her much attention.  
   "I know the guy." Diaz replied, being careful to use the 'living' reference, as opposed to the I 'knew' the dead guy version. She continued. "I was just coming to see him."  
   The cop's interest was now piqued.  
   "Really? Then come with me." Diaz followed the uniformed officer, ducking under the 'Do Not Cross' police tape to an unmarked car. She assumed this guy was in charge. The man got out, spoke to the officer a few feet away from her first, then turned to her. He was a black cop, wearing black sunglasses, in a black car, with black tinted windows, wearing a black overcoat. Diaz wondered for a second why she made all these associations, then realized she was comparing her own visit and garb earlier, to his natural and official cover. He was a hulk of a man, someone who didn't need to pretend to be in charge. A typical NYPD detective, gruff, but smart. He didn't bother to introduce himself.  
   "Why were you coming to see him?" he asked in a baritone Diaz found sexy and powerful. She was talking to a strong man.  
   "Him? Fitch... Uh... George Misener and I work at the same company. My boss hasn't been able to reach him and asked me to come and see what's up. He's on holidays."  
   "What's your name m'am?"  
   "Serena Diaz." She feigned a look of concern. "Is he alright?"  
   "No, I'm afraid he's not. He's dead. Apparently he was supposed to meet a buddy to look at fishing boats. He was a no-show, his buddy left a ton of messages, then came around and... found him. I'm very sorry."  
   "What happened?" Diaz gasped. She was now very curious, but stayed in her role as a shocked colleague.  
   "Don't know yet. He was found in the bathroom... could've been a heart attack. The coroner will probably find out more. By the time we got here, he'd been dead for more than forty-eight hours. Do you know of any next of kin?  
   "Ah... no... No, I don't, but... Well, I didn't know him all that well."  
   "Please call me with any information you can think of. And before you go, please give this officer a statement." He pointed to the same cop who escorted her to the detective. The detective handed Diaz his card, turned away, then made some notes in his little black book.

* * *

## Chapter 26

IN TEN MINUTES she was done and walked back to her car with a peculiar sense of being in the twilight zone. She was as shocked by the images of police, ambulance and the discovery of death as any person would be in her position, doing what she came to do... yet, _she was the killer._ She took these conflicting emotions not as a sign that she was devoid of being able to feel _something,_ but simply as being strong enough to do what needed to be done. She responded naturally to the police and was happy with that. If Fitch's death would've been pleasurable, then her responses would have been suspicious. Here, she simply came to see a co-worker who was found dead. Diaz had no trouble separating the act of 'murder with purpose', from the horror of the 'discovery' of murder.  
   But now, what did this mean to the plan...? First things first. She had to call St. James.  
   "Yes. Is he there?" was the curt and agitated voice of St. James on the line.  
   "Dex. Fitch is dead." Diaz's voice was flat, and she didn't even have to fake it.  
   "He's _what_?"  
   "Dead." Diaz repeated.  
   "When, how...? _What happened?"_  
   "They don't know yet. He was found by a friend and the police are there now."  
   "Okay, thanks Serena, really, thanks... I'm sorry to have put you through this. See you when you get back." He hung up. _That was a much shorter conversation then she would have expected._

* * *

## Chapter 27

FITCH'S BODY WAS discovered a couple of days too early for Diaz's liking, but no matter, she thought. He'd already reversed the changes to Slick's programming and St. James wasn't planning to look at the data again until after Fitch came back from holidays - which was now looking somewhat unlikely. After Fitch's death became public and 'official' later that day, she was planning to call Slick to tell him that Fitch had found the data tampering - and reversed it. He reported it to St. James, who in turn, told him to keep quiet about it because it might delay the deal... Now that Fitch was dead, Slick could do it again - and wouldn't have to worry about St. James finding it.  
   Slick was due back for his next six day shift rotation, starting at midnight - he had the graveyard shift. Pun definitely intended, she thought. Diaz decided to call Slick before his shift to update him on the latest developments - that the bank was being sold and that Fitch was dead. She wanted to give him some time to absorb the news, then to re-focus on their goal - to _re -do the programming that Fitch so dutifully stripped out..._

* * *

## Table of Contents

**Prologue to Series**  
**Book 1 - Begin A DEADLY LINE OF CODE**  
Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27  
Copyright

EXECUTIVE

COMPENSATION

THREE HUNDRED MILLION REASONS

BOOK 2

DON PLENTER

Myrtle & Bert LLC
Cover  
Begin Reading Series Book 2  
Table of Contents  
Copyright

* * *

Copyright (C) 2014 Donat Plenter. All rights reserved.   
Cover copyright (C) 2014 by Tracy J. Thomas.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author appreciates the time you spent to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about Executive Compensation, to help spread the word. Thank you for supporting this work.   
This e'book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

* * *

_For my children, Aveline, Noah and Oriana, with love. Even as an author,  
I can't adequately express how deep it runs.

P.S. I listed you alphabetically because it was my only solution to demonstrate my equal love for all of you._  
... _Daddy_

_This book would not have been possible without the unbridled and enduring support of my wife Tracy J. Thomas and her parents Elizabeth and Tom Thomas._  
- DP

* * *

## Book Two

## THREE HUNDRED MILLION REASONS

* * *

## Chapter 1

ST. JAMES LEANED back in his chair, rubbed his face and ruffled his hair in frustration and disbelief. The poor bastard, he thought, and hoped Fitch didn't feel anything - of course, St. James didn't know how he died, nor that chlorine gas is really a very nasty way to go.  
   He sat there staring at the report Fitch had sent to his house, thinking it was the last thing he'd ever get from him. Fitch wouldn't be around to see who changed the programming trying to rip off the bank. St. James was now faced with catching the thief himself. That'd be tough, since the changes were wiped out, so the perpetrator would probably lie low to avoid getting caught. In fact, he assumed that the thief would have already seen that the code was re-set. He knew they wouldn't touch the code again. Not there anyway. With Fitch dead... _only he and the mystery thief knew about this - and he'd be running scared. That leaves only me._

* * *

## Chapter 2

ST. JAMES MOUTHED THE words to himself... _right now; I 'm the only one... I'm the only one..._ do something about it... get'em where it hurts... A wild storm of thoughts and emotions raged in his head. Tigo's advice... Robertson's jet... getting screwed by Robertson and Felling... _and Maggie laughing at him - again._ St. James stood up, faced the window, and to his own reflection, with a balled fist, he said, "No! No! No! _Not this time! - This time, I win! - three hundred million times over_..."  
   He sat back down and poured over Fitch's report in minute detail, examining the code changes and the location - easy if you know what you're doing, and where to do it he thought... like brain surgery. It takes ten years of schooling to get ten minutes of work right, and just like here, if you mess up, the consequences could be dire. _St. James knew he needed to re -instate the changes to the programming - and open an offshore account._   
   With Fitch's death, too much would be going on at the data center, so changing the programming in the next couple of days was out. In the meantime, he would open the off shore account. On a roll now, St. James _also had a plan for Robertson - which he was sure would invariably leave an unforgettable impression._

* * *

## Chapter 3

THE PLAN WAS now rolling like a fireball in St. James's head. It was perfect - hit them where it _hurts._ Unfortunately, Fitch's dead - sucks for him, but okay for me, St. James thought. Diaz was back in the office now, from her trip out to Fitch's. Even though her cubicle was just outside his door, and in clear earshot, he didn't like calling out to her. This was not a construction office. He reached for the phone.  
   "Serena, could you get me on a flight to the Caymans, and pronto?"  
   "No problem. You want to go tonight or first thing in the morning? Is everything alright? This wasn't planned."  
   "It's fine Serena, just some last minute loose ends to tie up... Next flight out, and a room as well please. The usual hotel. I like the pillows and the view. Oh, and could you email me all the wire transfer details for the closing date? Including the three hundred million flowing through the Caymans?"  
   "Give me ten minutes," she replied.  
   Within a half an hour, he had the wire transfer details and Fitch's faxed report safely tucked into his briefcase, and was confirmed on the next flight out to the Caymans connecting through Miami. He called Diaz into his office.  
   "Serena, once I get back, I'll be down at the DC ... Uh... now that I think about it... Sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive. You must be traumatized by discovering Fitch's death... Why don't you take a couple of weeks off?"  
   "Now, so close to the deal closing?"  
   "Sure, there's not much you can do here anyway. Take some time out."  
   "Okay, thanks Dex, but if you need me, call me."  
   "I will. Have a good rest."

* * *

## Chapter 4

ST. JAMES GRABBED the standby suitcase he always kept at the office, for unexpected trips, and walked out the door without noticing that Serena didn't object to taking a holiday. She almost always complained, even if just for show or to pay the corporate piper, feigning dedication.  
   Once St. James left, Diaz called Slick - he was going on shift at the data center in less than eight hours. She told him about Fitch - that he'd discovered the security breach, and of his death. Slick was stunned and speechless. The only way this operation was going to work is if they don't lose momentum and she keeps Slick focused, so she told him about the bank being sold. The changes to the programming would need to be re-instated, they'd be going after the big fish now - the three hundred million being wired from London, directly into Roland's lap at the Caymans.   
   To Diaz 's surprise, Slick was more agreeable to upping the ante than she expected. He told Diaz he'd send a text message confirming the reinstatement of the programming and testing of the code, expecting it to take a couple of days. That would still give Roland more than enough time to open an account in Venezuela before the wire transfers came through on closing day, the following Friday.

* * *

## Chapter 5

ST. JAMES ARRIVED at Newark International Airport at one o'clock - the requisite two hours before departure. With a dark brew coffee in hand, now comfortably installed in the executive lounge, St. James went to work on his laptop - with less than two hours to boarding. Not much time, but better than nothing, he thought.  
   He went over Fitch's report again, focusing on the programming error he had to recreate. He needed to open two alias accounts in the Caymans and replicate the error on the bank's system exactly. He had to show three hundred million of a new deposit in the primary account, and concurrently reflect the same transaction activity and balance, in another account. The objective was to make the money accessible for withdrawal - _twice._ Once to himself, and once to make the investments Brian Felling wanted. The only person at the Data Center who had full knowledge of the entire system architecture was Fitch, and he was, well, dead.   
   Three hundred million was coming in by wire, and St. James knew exactly from where and when, so that was good. He needed to show that deposit on the books - _and in the second 'ghost' account,_ then transfer the funds out into a third account - from the 'ghost' account to a different bank altogether - off-shore, but not in the Caymans. From there, further transfers into four other off-shore accounts would take place. Then what? Cash on deposit? Gold bullion? Diamonds?  
   Three hundred million in gold would weigh twenty-four thousand pounds at $1250 per ounce. Diamonds would weigh in at not much more than 22 lbs in one carat stones at about $6,500 per carat. Diamonds seemed to be the way to go - a bagful, not a truckload. The problem however was the diamond market. Purchases totaling that magnitude would move the market significantly and get immediate attention - not a desired scenario. Incremental purchases would take time, and that was risky in itself. Either way, it was a choice between an immediate risk through a single purchase, or incremental risk through _periodic_ purchases and money transfers. After all, it's not easy to steal _and spend_ three hundred million, without someone noticing at some point.   
   He tentatively settled on four accounts and incremental purchases, keeping the diamonds in safety deposit boxes across Europe and south America. Extradition was also an issue, if he was nailed. _That had to be addressed._

* * *

## Chapter 6

ST. JAMES DECIDED TO set up the first account in Caracas, Venezuela, with the rest to be opened later. The current president Hugo Chavez was on a nationalization rampage, and currently out of favor with the US. Banking and credit however were booming, mostly because of rising oil prices, and wasn't likely to be nationalized any time soon. No doubt there would be some expensive strings attached, but at least he wouldn't be sent packing, in stainless steel bracelets back to the US. Also, his friendly Venezuelan tycoon, Tigo Montoya, had regular dealings with a bank in Caracas and as a 'gift', once gave St. James a contact number. It was now time to use it.  
   St. James finished recording his calculations and making notes on his laptop just as he heard the boarding call for his flight. On board, with a scotch in hand, he settled in for phase one of his plan, opening new and profitable accounts. He made a mental note to erase the files from his laptop, and to log on to the office server, to do the same. St. James was connected to the internet through a wireless card, and all files were continuously synchronized with the office server every three minutes. A precaution in case his laptop was ever damaged or stolen, and files needed to be recovered; and a convenience, since he could access his files from any computer in the world.

* * *

## Chapter 7

HAVING PICKED UP his connecting flight in Miami, St. James landed right on schedule at Owen Roberts International Airport in Georgetown, the Cayman Islands at seven o'clock. He quickly cleared customs, left the airport and flagged down a taxi, but there were a couple of stops to make before checking in at the Westin - which was minutes from The Grand Pavilion Commercial Center on west Bay Road - the banking hub of Georgetown.  
   He directed the driver to the nearest computer retailer and asked him to wait. Paying in cash, he purchased a high end laptop with built-in global internet connectivity through satellite. At $2.50 per minute, the connection was pricey, but clean, fast and reliable. He declined the extended warranty - always a rip-off he thought, left the packaging at the retailer and returned to the taxi.  
   He then asked the driver to stop at a shop catering to tourist's travel and holiday needs. St. James was pleasantly surprised to discover that the store also carried pre-paid credit cards, disposable and loaded with pre-set amounts, just like phone cards. He paid $1,000 US in cash for one. No ID, no questions. Holiday travelers and people with no credit often use these for purchases where credit cards are generally required, like car rentals and hotel reservations. In two minutes he had his activated card and was out the door.  
   By 8:30 that night, St. James was checked in at the Westin enjoying his usual ocean view. He'd stayed there many times over the years. Sometimes with a beautiful, bored housewife whose husband was more concerned about making money than worrying about what his wife was doing, and with whom. They were weekends of exotic food, vintage wine, and fantastic sex.   
   Unfortunately, this one particular beauty started to develop ideas about _the future._ He was not into 'afterburners,' a phrase coined by an old school buddy, whose second wife had dumped him and burned a second, big hole through his wallet. From that point forward, all second ex's were dubbed the 'afterburners'. Besides, if she could lie to her husband, she could and would, lie to him too. He was surprised that she cried when he ended it. After all, it was just mutual convenience to fill a need - _different needs perhaps, but needs nevertheless._

* * *

## Chapter 8

HE LOVED THE geography of the Caymans, the weather, the people... He most certainly appreciated the discretion of the financial machinery, that kept this place humming at one of the highest standards of living in the world. It was a picturesque financial home for _thousands_ of banks, companies, trusts, and 'fat walletted' individuals, all seeking personal and financial discretion, while taking advantage of the absence of direct taxation.  
   St. James was sitting in an easy chair, his feet up on the window ledge, gazing at the gently rolling ocean, lapping at the shore. In the setting sun, through the tinted and glazed hotel windows, it appeared a deep turquoise in color. The island had a low-lying limestone base surrounded by coral reefs, altering the color of the ocean as the weather, intensity of the sunlight and its angle changed throughout the day.   
   This vista of God's natural Earth reminded him that the elements that govern our worldly existence remain the same - it was just a question of mix. When it's balanced, and it is a delicate balance, it provides life. When it's out of whack, even slightly, it could be deadly. In the oceans, the increase of a single degree in surface temperature could mean a deluge of deadly hurricanes.  
   His plan had to capture all the elements at play in his life, and he needed to get the mix just right. Although he knew that it would inevitably change beyond his control, resulting in untold consequences, accepting this made it easier to plan for a specific mix within a specific period of time. After that, it didn't matter - hopefully.  
   He picked up the phone and ordered a lobster dinner and a bottle of chardonnay from room service. He still had work to do. While waiting for dinner to arrive, with his ever present scotch in hand, St. James reflected on the sheer audacity of the plan and his resolve to follow through, as if there were a gun to his head. He didn't have a gun to his head, but it sure as hell felt like it. He wasn't willing to accept getting screwed over again, this time by Robertson.   
   How could he, after a lifetime of honest and dedicated work, turn to the dark side? It was the mix of elements that governed his life to date, which had changed beyond his control, upsetting what was an acceptable balance, he concluded. Besides, it wasn't really a move to the absolute dark side since no one was going to get hurt, it was only to the _grey_ side.  
   The elements of the mix - sex, money, power and control. The sex was there. Although devoid of any emotional bonding. He never thought about any woman he slept with the next day or of longing to be with her. That didn't change. His sad reality perhaps, but that's the way it was, and it worked for now.   
   Money was also there, and although he was well compensated and respected, he wouldn't be compensated for all of his additional work that made the buyout _possible._ They were turfing him out while screwing him over. Basically, they thought that they're smarter, turning him into corporate compost.   
   It wasn't about absolute dollar amounts, it was about the audacity of what Robertson planned and Felling agreed to, and Maggie probably applauded. Robertson was just a greedy asshole, most bankers are, and he could accept that. But not the way Robertson went about it. St. James conveniently convinced himself, and concluded, that the only definitive yardstick to measure one's sense of self worth - is money.   
   If you're rich and virile, everything else is overlooked as a minor flaw. He was certainly virile, but his wallet and ego were about to get crucifying nails hammered through them, and he was simply determined not to let that happen. St. James recalled countless elite members of society, in business and politics, who succumbed to the lure of the glitter at the tip of the devil's pitchfork - usually money, or sex, or both. The public and the press always seemed to ask 'why? He had it all, why would he do that?'. Now, St. James understood; the mix had changed, and when that happened, a new person, a new soul emerged for better or worse, but in definitive form.   
   Good people can do bad things. It's not an excuse; _it 's the law of the mix_ as he now thought of it conceptually. A sudden, even seemingly minor, imbalance can dramatically alter a person's reality, and you never know what you'll end up with. For better or worse. So, if you mess with someone's mix, prepare for the unpredictable. St. James of course, understood the corollary to his theory, and knew that a bad person can do good things too, consequently emerging from the dark side. It's not that people can't change - it's that they only change if their realities - their mix - changes.   
   Either way, the manipulation of these forces could be used to his advantage. Manipulate someone's mix of sex or money or both, and you could get them to do virtually anything, for a while. In the end, he was sure that most human beings would _succumb to the lure of sex, fortune or power... coercion._

* * *

## Chapter 9

THERE WAS A polite knock at the door. His dinner had arrived. A young man, dressed in the hotel's smart burgundy uniform, wheeled in a cart and attempted some obviously well rehearsed chitchat while stalling for a tip. St. James gave him ten US dollars, and as if his stop button was suddenly pressed, the young fellow turned on his heels and left. 'Money, Money, Money' - like Abba's hit song, he thought, and suppressed a smile.  
   His financial and technical mind ticked along - like a fine Swiss chronometer - during his meal, formalizing the plan by establishing a list of mission critical steps. As an ex-Marine, even in finance, he took a strategic military approach.  
   With dinner out of the way, he set up the laptop computer - his bank issued unit - and logged on to the internet using the hotel's complimentary wireless connection. He typed in-

   http://www.aviconsystems.com/global/sales.htm

   The home page touted the company's new system of remote aircraft control software, and a list of private and commercial aircraft manufacturers, who had configured their aircraft to support the platform. He confirmed that all that was needed, was a laptop, with some basic system requirements. Any new, higher-end unit would do, along with the software, for your aircraft type.   
   Like all software vendors, they offered a 'fully functional' demo, which could be installed on a client's computer, who was contemplating the purchase of an aircraft. It was like a video game, but with a real aircraft on the line. Avicon promised the opportunity for the purchaser to bring their own laptop on a test flight. With the appropriate log-in code for that particular plane and a password, he or she could control the plane from the passenger cabin, or anywhere in the world, using a satellite send-receive internet connection.  
   Robertson didn't want to spring the extra twenty grand and wouldn't be asking for the software demo, Tigo had already confirmed that - _but St. James would_. The Avicon Systems website promised 24/7 customer service, which usually meant an answering service, where after ten options you still had to leave a message. Nevertheless, he planned to give them a call, and jotted down the number. St. James also visited the website for Eagle Jets again - the manufacturer of Robertson's dream plane, and wrote down their phone number. He shut down his bank issued laptop and powered up his new one.

* * *

## Chapter 10

PROGRAMMING AND TECHNICAL work-arounds, just like finance, were second nature to St. James. His first task was to ensure that his satellite internet connection was untraceable, so he typed in a series of codes, then another, then a final string. He gained access to a system of underground computer servers used by the mob, money launderers, drug traffickers and purveyors of fine porno, selling still and motion images of sex listed under no less than thirty categories. He found it astonishing what you could do with people, objects and animals, under the guise of sexual gratification.   
   These underground networks access thousands of computers at homes and offices connected to the internet, at any given moment, and pretend to be that unique address, pretending to be _that_ computer. This software doesn't allow the hacker to sit around too long, constantly switching its home address, often around the world in minutes, while maintaining an uninterrupted connection. Gaining access to this network is technically not very difficult, just highly illegal. This computer was now setup to always connect directly to one of these networks when turned on.  
   St. James logged on to the satellite internet service provider's site, using the hotel's internet service, and having purchased the hardware with the computer, within five minutes, was a registered subscriber to satellite internet service under an alias and a roaming, fictitious IP address - complete with an untraceable phone number. Even though a number would appear on the call recipient's call display - it could never be traced. Effectively, the number didn't exist either. He was now electronically invisible, and unidentifiable, either by location or by personal identity. He found it amusing that the service provider was more concerned with their $300 security deposit than with the identity of the subscriber. Money talks, bullshit walks. Good progress, he thought.  
   It was after ten p.m. now, but he still had two more calls to make. Before placing the calls, St. James downloaded voice altering software to disguise the tone and wave pattern of his voice, and picked a format that would make it difficult to distinguish whether the caller was male or female. Using his new internet phone number and the microphone built into his computer, he dialed Eagle Jets and got a machine efficiently directing him to a sales person's after hours voice-mail, where he left a message under the name of Robin, which it is not a gender specific name. Although it was well after hours, sales people, especially those in the big ticket products market, are available 24/7. In fact, he got a call back in fifteen minutes, and posing as Robertson's assistant, he confirmed the date and time of the test flight.  
   The second call was to Avicon. To St. James's great surprise, a real voice answered - at this time of night! True 24/7 service, he thought. After expressing some surprise at the absence of an automated answering system, he was told Avicon serves clients in all time zones, so it made sense. Within a half an hour, the test program reservation for 9 a.m., aircraft type and model number were confirmed, the software was downloaded and it even performed a self check. All while he was on the phone. Technology is amazing, he thought. The Avicon technical rep told him however, that the software's operating time was restricted to exactly one hour from the _scheduled_ start of the flight - providing ample time for a demonstration while on board. After that, it automatically disengages. Then, if the client so chooses, he coughs up the twenty grand and the monthly monitoring fees, although the rep didn't put it quite like that.  
   With that done, he packed up the computers, jotted down all the passwords and log in ID's, and placed the note on the keyboard of his satellite unit for quick reference, then closed the laptop.

* * *

## Chapter 11

ST. JAMES WAS looking forward to a good night's sleep before another busy day. He had a private pilot's license to fly single engine planes without having instrumentation guidance, using Visual Flight Rules or VFR. It's the first level of licensing where a pilot can fly in good weather, day and night, as long as the ground is visible and he or she doesn't need to rely exclusively on the instruments to fly.  
   As a basic license holder, he had the skills to accomplish his plan; payback to the Chief Executive Asshole by taking over the aircraft with his computer, and giving him a ride he'd never forget! He couldn't stomach the thought of Robertson flying around in a new private jet, while rubbing St. James's nose in it. After this flight, he'd never want to get into another airplane again! Not a private jet anyway. St. James was not generally vindictive, but couldn't help _smiling at the thought of the terror Robertson would feel_ for about ten minutes. With that, he was done for the day.  
   He thought it a shame not to be able to open the hotel windows for some fresh ocean air, and set the alarm for six a.m.

* * *

## Chapter 12

NEW YORK PEOPLES Bank - NYPB - used Cayman Financial Group Bank - CFGB - as their investment, deposit and reserve bank to park monies off-shore and for managing large transactions, in a tax friendly environment. There hadn't been a visit, when one of the CFGB bankers didn't rib him about being from the NYPD - New York city's Police Department. He wondered who'd crack the joke this time. CFGB opened at eight, and he hadn't called in advance, which wasn't usually a problem, since NYPB was a big enough client, appointments were not required.  
   At eight a.m. sharp, he walked in to the lobby of CFGB, which had a large three story atrium, and polished rust colored marble floors. Sleek stainless steel walls, in various textures and forms with hidden lighting reflecting off the surfaces, adorned the foyer. St. James didn't know what the motif was supposed to be, but it looked cool. The front desk was staffed by two friendly, but quite large, armed 'receptionists', probably ex-military, he thought, recognizing both men from numerous previous visits. Obviously they took security seriously, as all traffic was funneled through a large stainless steel double door, which could be closed automatically, at the push of a button.  
   "Good morning Mr. St. James, it's nice to see you again. How're things at the NYPD?"  
   "Good morning, good, and yup, bad guys are in check." he said with a smile. It had to be a 'first line of defense' joker, didn't it?  
   "Is Roland Asumta in by any chance?"  
   "Let me check for you sir."  
   "He dialed a number, and after a few inaudible words, hung up.  
   "Mr. Asumta's in and would be delighted to see you. Please go through." There was no need to direct him, he knew the way.  
   Asumta greeted him at the elevator on the main floor. He was an early thirties, short, attractive and slender man with dark skin, Caucasian features, and eyes which were not exactly black, but more of a dark gray - true to his Ethiopian ancestry. Everything else about him though, was cookie cutter, international banker. From the dark suit to his gold watch and quick smile, void of emotion or expression, merely a display of teeth.  
   "Ah, Dexter. It's good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?" The two men were on a first name basis.  
   "Roland. Good to see you too. It's about the buyout, we've just got to tidy up some odds and ends."  
   "I read the press release on the news wire. I hope you're not closing up shop here."  
   "No, no, nothing like that. Our relationship won't change. What do they say 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.'" Roland smiled, and couldn't disguise his relief. If had he lost NYPB as a client, _he would have kissed goodbye to a sizable annual bonus._

* * *

## Chapter 13

THE TWO MEN rode the elevator up to the sixth floor and entered Asumta's office where he immediately ordered coffee. The office was large and modern with a translucent oval, glass-topped desk, a few token sheets of paper, a crystal pen holder, an empty leather in-out tray, polished modern cabinets and plain cherry wood trim around the door and windows. It was sort of a 'modern eclectic' that seemed to work. As the bank's Senior Vice President of Investment Banking, he naturally had an ocean view. Conical stainless steel pendant lights hung from the ceiling over his desk, cabinets, and over the low glass table at which they now sat - a more informal setting for valued clients.  
   The coffee arrived from the bank's service kitchen, delivered by a woman wearing what looked like a standard black and white catering uniform. She entered without knocking, placed the silver tray on the table in front of them, and left - all without saying a word. With both men settled into comfortable dark leather high-back armchairs, and having dispensed with the usual pre-meeting chitchat, it was time to talk business.  
   St. James opened up the discussion. "Roland, the deal closes in under two weeks, and we'll have to manage the cash flow across time zones and jurisdictions, very carefully. The shareholders will be paid out on the same day, so I'll arrange for a local New York trustee to take the deposit for disbursement, to shareholders of record."  
   "This is all very routine for us as you know, just a few more zeros." replied Roland.  
   St. James thought it was now time to affect phase one of the plan. "Well, there's a bit more. They, the new owners, are looking at making some strategic investments in Venezuelan financial institutions right away." This was true. That's exactly what Brian Felling, at Emery Investments, instructed St. James to do, with the three hundred million capital injection. St. James was just accelerating the process.  
   "Really? But isn't there a risk of your investment disappearing into the government coffers if your acquisition targets are nationalized?" Roland couldn't disguise his view that this might be ill advised, and St. James knew he had to be convincing.  
   "Not any time soon. Based on our sources, banking is 'in' at the moment."  
   "True, here at CFGB, we've also seen a lot of credit activity, and actually have had dealings with some of the large Caracas banks - mostly driven by rising oil prices, I suspect."  
   "That's what they think too. Even Chavez wouldn't bite the hand that feeds... not for a while anyway." That was a view shared by most international investors.  
   "Probably right. So what's our role here?" Roland queried.  
   "Simple. The new owners, now that the bank will be privatized and won't have to deal with shareholder reservations about Venezuela, will invest $300 million immediately in a highly profitable, leveraged environment, to recover their investment value in double time. Given the projections, one hundred percent cost recovery could be realized in as little as three to four years. Not a bad strategy, I would say. Your role at this stage is simply to facilitate the transaction's money transfer requirements."  
   Roland replied, unable to hide his continued skepticism, "Understood, but it still sounds like a dicey plan, given the amount involved. Venezuela may look like an opportunity but it's a much higher risk."  
   St. James knew he needed more to convince him, otherwise he ran the risk of Asumta probing even further.  
   "True, but with an average return on investment of 25%, the risk is reflected. Besides, look at the US financial sector. It's in shambles. Meltdown after meltdown. First the mortgage crisis, then the investment banks, then insurance, followed by the autos; over a _trillion_ dollars in losses, all followed by taxpayer funded bailouts."  
   "Perhaps you're right. At least Venezuela is predictably unstable. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't."  
   "Exactly."  
   "Okay Dexter, I just need the banking information from your receiving institution in Caracas."  
   "I should have it for you sometime tomorrow." St. James said.  
   "In order to keep the transactions clean, we'll need two temporary but separate accounts set up. One for the buyout funds and one for the acquisitions."  
   "Consider it done," Roland said.  
   "Excellent. Could you have the details for me by noon? Just email them to me; I'm flying out early."  
   "Of course. But Dexter, you didn't have to fly in just for this... unless you're on one of your short 'accompanied' holidays, in which case I don't mean to be indiscreet."  
   "You know me too well Roland." Hell, _I_ don't know me anymore, St. James thought. But that's okay, even I don't want to know me right about now. Too much effort would have been required for such psychobabble rationalizing and navel gazing about his move to the dark side - or _gray_ side - as he preferred to think of it. He'd probably suffer a brain aneurysm thinking about it too hard. Instead, he decided to enjoy his new villain self. It was't bad being bad. After all, no one's going to get hurt.  
   After two more minutes of post-meeting chitchat, the two men shook hands and St. James left. He returned to the hotel for his computer and ordered a taxi through the duty concierge, to take him to the airport. Fifteen minutes later he was at the counter buying a ticket for the next flight to Caracas, using his prepaid MasterCard. Four flights a day between the cities. Good, so far so good.

* * *

## Chapter 14

AS SOON AS St. James left, Roland practically sprinted back to his office and picked up the phone.  
   "Slick, Dex was just here. He's opening an account in Caracas. This might be a convenient development for us. He said Felling wants to invest in high yield Venezuelan instruments... probably to skew the balance sheet."  
   "Okay, so if the money's going to Venezuela anyway, then all we have to do is piggyback off the transfer. We'll just redirect the funds ... how should I put it... to a more convenient location." Slick said.   
   "Right. I just have to go there and add another account number after Dex sets the whole thing up, and use the same bank - couldn't be easier. It's for the same deal, and we're on the same team, so I'll just tell them we need a redirect into a new account, then move it out later," Roland added.  
   "Yeah. Looks like he'll be doing all the work for us." Both men chuckled at that.  
   "Keep me posted. As soon as you finish testing your programming, let me know, so we can add the new account to your coding," said Roland.  
   "Sounds like a plan. I'll be in touch." Slick hung up the phone.

* * *

## Chapter 15

ALTHOUGH NYPB DIDN'T get involved in any shady financing deals, some of their clients did. NYPB was the respectable front end of their client's legitimate activities. One such client, his friend Tigo Montoya, with numerous businesses funded by clean - laundered - money, dealt with a mid-sized Venezuelan bank in Caracas. Reflecting on this, St. James knew Tigo was offering to change the mix by enticing him over to the dark side, the _fun_ side.  
   The boarding call for his flight sounded, and it was time to board the plane. For the duration of this relatively short flight, with his scotch in hand, St. James just enjoyed the peaceful ocean view in pristine weather.  
   By two p.m. he was in a taxi on his way from Caracas Maiquetia Simon Bolivar International Airport, to the banking district. Customs was never an issue. The Venezuelans didn't seem concerned about the arrival of a guy without luggage wearing an expensive suit. They knew that the only luggage this passenger needed was his wallet, carry on of course - no weight restrictions.

* * *

## Chapter 16

CARACAS WAS A Spanish colony founded in 1567, close to the south coast of the Caribbean Sea, resting in a high valley at almost 3,000 feet above sea level. It's a large, modern city with a population of 3.5 million, looking more and more like any other large city.   
   If this is what globalization and socio-cultural integration meant, then it should also be called global sterilization, St. James thought. He was looking forward to seeing a bit of history, a different world from his own, and was disappointed at the modernity that defined Caracas. Like Fitch always said, 'Things have to change sometime'. He got a twinge of sadness, thinking about Fitch's death, that he pushed aside. No matter what, change is a pain in the ass, as most people can attest.  
   Within the hour, he entered the lobby of Banco Simon Bolivar - aka BSB. It's a large, established bank catering to both domestic and international clients, including those of prominent but questionable, global repute.  
   The bank's corporate offices were located in a tall glass skyscraper - virtually indistinguishable from any other similar structure found around the world. Inside, the two storey high atrium was not unlike the entrance to NYPB. The floor was marble of course - de rigueur in banks - with a magnificent aquamarine blue tinge. The general decor and walls were typically spartan, modern, and open - nowhere to hide from security. It exuded a sterile feel, projecting a bottom-line, down to business image, of wealth and power. It felt to St. James, as it always did, that when you enter such a monument of higher social order, you must straighten your tie, walk with a sense of purpose, smile politely, and _never_ raise your voice.   
   He had already been dreaming of wearing nothing but khaki shorts, a loose fitting cotton shirt, while sitting at a bar on a beach and thinking of his newly acquired diamond collection, his arm around a beautiful Venezuelan. Far from such establishments. Soon, he thought, soon.  
   He approached the receptionist at the oval station, centered in the large open space, providing her, and security with a 360 degree view, at all times. This time, the receptionist was a woman, not a commando.   
   He asked to speak to a senior account representative. She pressed him about the nature of his business, in perfect English. But St. James sidestepped all inquiries. Instead, he told her to make it a _very_ senior bank officer, and decided to give her the contact name he was given, which he thought to be a code. On seeing the name, she quickly got the message. He gave her his own name, and two minutes later a very dapper looking banker appeared. Distinctly regal, he had a fluid walk that clearly projected elevation above common society. His gait was neither masculine nor feminine. The ageless banker was either thirty, or fifty with a couple of tucks. Light olive skin, obsessively neat jet black hair, and coal black eyes completed the caricature of a Spanish power broker. He looked almost androgynous, St. James thought, even pretty, like the genetically over refined, upper crust of any well inbred aristocratic set. Maybe he can walk on water, or at least thinks he can, St. James mused.   
   In practice, he always looked at a person's shoes, hands, and the way they walked. Expensive yet conservative, shoes and suit, manicured hands, a confident stride and a curious but guarded gaze, meant you're all business, and that you _know_ you're superior. On appearance, this guy was, by definition, the embodiment of a banker prince, cultured in the petrie dish of superior society. Who said there was no such thing as genetic engineering? _Inbreeding is, by definition, genetic engineering._

* * *

## Chapter 17

THE MAN WALKED right up to him. He must have been given a description, since there were others waiting. Interesting, he thought. Obviously they kept a close eye on things around here too.  
   "Good afternoon Mr. St. James. Welcome to Banco Simon Bolivar. I understand that you're inquiring about our services. My name is Darwin Lenin Eufemio," he said, in perfect English as he extended his hand for a brief, but rather lame, handshake.  
   St. James froze for a split second, and decided in a moment not to laugh out loud if this was the guy's real name, and to resist a snarky remark if this was just a way of blowing him off. Eufemio picked up on the hesitation immediately and covered it off.  
   "Mr. St. James, we Venezuelans love our foreign sounding names - names that include people or things - and we wear them with pride. It's not political, it's just a way of bringing the outside world closer to us. Particularly in higher positions within business and government."  
   St. James composed himself and quickly cottoned on that this was obviously a form of elitism, of class structure. Wow, people and _things,_ he thought; these people are suffering a serious identity crisis. He politely responded, "Of course Mr. Eufemio, I do apologize. No disrespect intended. It's just a convention to which I have never been exposed."  
   Eufemio smiled his banker's smile, nice and wide, but it stopped below the eyes, then continued, "None taken. Please call me Darwin. If I may recommend the comforts of my office."  
   Call him _Darwin!_ The evolutionist in a Catholic stronghold, is akin to calling Donald Trump, _Lenin_ Trump. At least the guy seemed bright enough, St. James concluded. He was probably Oxford or Cambridge educated, given his level in the bank, sense of formality and English accent... although with a definite Spanish inflection.  
   The two men took the elevator up to the second floor. Inside, it was ornate with wood paneling, brass fittings and stained glass lighting, complete with the strong smell of wood polish. This is nuts, St. James thought, this traditional elevator in a modern glass building. How do these guys come up with this stuff? Without any chitchat they rode the elevator in silence, standing side by side, facing the doors. It was clear to him that Darwin was not going to engage in any small talk. Different place, different rules.   
   He took this as an indicator. He'd better learn their rules fast if he was to keep his plan afloat. He needed these people. His new philosophy of altering the 'the mix' would work here too. Funny names, a confused sense of architecture, but the driving elements in the end, must be the same, St. James concluded.

* * *

## Chapter 18

THEY ENTERED EUFEMIO'S office. St. James had already been wondering what it would look like. Ikea maybe? Just to round out the decor to a trilogy of styles. To his relief, it looked like any senior banker's office - high end modern furniture - comfortable yet professional.   
   Without asking, Eufemio dialed his secretary and ordered coffee and a plate of sweets. "My secretary will return shortly, with some refreshments ."  
   St. James noted the use of the word 'secretary'. I guess the term 'Executive Assistant' will take a little longer to land on these shores, he thought. Eufemio sat at his large, completely bare wooden desk, and St. James in the customary client's chair, across from him. He glanced at the comfortable and less formal seating by the window and wondered if he'd ever make it there.  
   "Mr. St. James...," he started, but was interrupted.  
   "Please call me Dexter."  
   "Certainly. Dexter, I am most interested in learning how we could be of service to you." Right to the point. St. James wasn't sure if pre-meeting chit-chats are done here, so he decided to go with the flow, having to settle for sensing the tone of the meeting as it progressed. He wondered why Eufemio didn't ask him where he got his name from, and concluded that it must be a matter of discretion. Clearly, he must have known Tigo was the reference.  
   "I represent the New York People's Bank, and we're in the process of being bought out. More importantly however, there's a desire to invest in Venezuela, and we're looking to park some monies - US dollars - here, where I understand there is discretion."  
   "How much of an investment are you considering?"  
   "$300 million." replied St. James. He could see the effect of that number on Eufemio, but being the polished banker that Eufemio was, he composed himself immediately. Only a reflexive blink betrayed the impression of this sum.   
   Eufemio pressed on, "What would be the duration of the investment?"  
   "Many years possibly... Indefinite perhaps."  
   "Are you planning to keep some of the deposits here with us?"  
   "Of course, about a third, in cash." St. James knew that he had to modify his plan a bit. If it was going to work, he needed a carrot to change the mix for the banker and not let on that he was planning a global shuffle with the booty, not to mention a diamond shopping spree.  
   "I see. Who would be conducting transactions as the authorized officers?"  
   "Me. Perhaps one other person... Yet to be determined." Knowing that the exposure would be too great, he had to add that - too much temptation to eliminate him and keep the money. The banker began to understand the nature of the service requirements of this particular client, and probed further.  
   "It is unusual to have only one or two signatories for such a large sum from a US bank."  
   Now, the carrot, to really change the mix, St. James thought; the BIG carrot. "We're a tightly run bank, and are generally open to paying significant fees for absolute discretion."  
   Eufemio clearly understood. The real chess game was about to begin, when the door suddenly opened, and his secretary wheeled in a cart loaded with fresh - wonderfully aromatic coffee and a mountain of sweets, presented on fine bone china. English, of course. Moments later however, his secretary came rushing back, to remove a McDonald's meal bag from the cart. She apologized profusely for forgetting her meal. It was no big deal to St. James but Eufemio was not pleased. In a flat, unemotional tone, he informed her that he'll dock a day's wages. Funny culture, Dexter thought.  
   "Why don't we enjoy this at the table by the window?" Eufemio said as he slipped back into character, settling into one of the lounge chairs.  
   I'm in, St. James thought. If I'm at the table, I'm in.  
   They settled into comfortable, yet firm, oxblood leather chairs and Eufemio continued - he needed more information before he could determine his 'fees.'  
   "Would you be enjoying our beautiful country for a period while you... ah, administer to the account?"  
   "Yes, that would be the plan. In fact, I may stay indefinitely, marry a nice girl and become loyal citizen." St. James delivered that line with a broad smile, in a light tone, but with unmistakable clarity of purpose.  
   Eufemio read that as intended. He quickly concluded that St. James may not be able to go back and needs to know they won't extradite him. His reply was bang-on.  
   "We do have fast-track laws in place to secure citizenship, with all the formalities and benefits for people who intend to contribute to the Venezuelan economy." His intonation stressed the words 'formalities' and 'benefits,' sending a clear message to St. James of a 'yo lo comprendo'.  
   "That sounds exciting, I am most interested. Time is of the essence though, as our deal is scheduled to close soon."  
   By now Eufemio had a complete understanding of the circumstances. St. James was planning to rip off his employer and needed a place to park his soon-to-be-wanted ass, as well as his money. The deal had to be finalized, but not in direct terms - bad form. So, he continued.  
   "Given the expediency of this transition, the required discretion, and the peripheral services of 'relocation aid,' the fee is customarily set at 10% of the initial transaction, and an annual administrative fee of 2.5% on the highest deposit balance in any given year, will be charged. No interest will be paid of course."  
   That's 30 _million_ up front plus an annual take. The thieving bastard St. James thought, but without a hint of reaction. He had to accept, he'd better be nice about it.  
   "That seems to be a reasonable arrangement." He had to bite his lip while Eufemio continued.  
   "Unfortunately, to effectively manage our balance sheet to reduce volatility, we would require that no more than 20% of the funds are withdrawn per annum."  
   The bastards, Dexter thought. _They 're_ going to steal my money, even if I did steal it from someone else. Eufemio kept his friendly below-the-eyes smile and maintained his princely demeanor while delivering the terms of the deal.  
   "In principle it sounds good, but I do have some concerns." St. James said, then leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice just a hair to emphasize his next point.  
   "I don't want the rules or the fees to change mid-stream. No surprises."  
   Eufemio understood that St. James was worried about getting screwed over, and addressed the issue in an almost rehearsed way. Kind of like the kid at the Cayman's hotel delivering his dinner, except this guy wouldn't settle for a ten buck tip.  
   "Rest assured Dexter, a deal is a deal. A number of our clients are in need of discretion... and our help in facilitating purchases outside our bank."  
   Money laundering, that's what Eufemio was talking about. He thought about his need to buy diamonds - apparently that wouldn't be as necessary now. These guys are good at keeping money both safe _and_ accessible.  
   "There are a few additional fees for such services of course - these are applied on a per transaction basis." Darwin added casually.  
   "Of course." St. James replied, almost just as casually.  
   Eufemio still sensed some reservations in St.James, and so decided to provide more comfort - now he was on the other end - eager to please, probably already thinking about how to spend his share of the 'fees'.  
   "In this division of the bank, we are in the business of very discreet private banking. Our clients trust us. It would not be to our advantage to change the rules, for _any_ client, once agreed upon. It's our reputation, you see... I would not like to think that a prominent and highly resourceful but disgruntled client may seek to launch some form of... action against us."  
   Ostensibly, he meant legal action. What he really meant was that they're not in the business of pissing off drug lords and mafia, at the risk coming to a sticky end. It just didn't pay. Screwing over people, who kill for a living, is not a recipe for longevity.  
   "Okay Darwin, I think we have a deal." The men shook hands, and it was done. St. James definitely got the sense that rules governing the underworld were just as strict and clear as those imposed by any government run bureaucracy - probably more so.  
   "Pleased to hear it. Given the time sensitivity of your transaction, and the requisite discretion, we will need to make some expedited arrangements for direct and secure communication, as well as for welcoming you to our country - as a new, beloved and most valuable citizen." This time, knowing that he had a deal, Eufemio's smile was real and _projected a pleasure that only money... and sex could evoke._

* * *

## Chapter 19

EUFEMIO STOOD UP and buzzed his secretary. He turned to St. James and said, "If you have a few minutes, we can complete most of the formalities now."  
   "Of course." St. James replied, although he couldn't image what this guy had in mind. He soon discovered that Eufemio had an efficient, impressive and sophisticated process in place to open such an account. Bada-bing-bada-boom. Done.  
   Within five minutes his secretary entered with a small box. In it was a cell phone - charged and ready to go. Eufemio took it out and handed it to St. James as he explained.  
   "This is a pre-programmed satellite phone. The phone's number is on this note." He was pointing at a square, yellow sticky note stuck to the phone. "Please memorize it and destroy it. My number, the second one listed, is also on that note. The same rule applies. The phone has a long battery life, and during this critical 'investment' phase, it must always be on - as is mine. The phone will not record or save any call information in or out. If it is lost, stolen, or 'borrowed' by inquisitive persons in your government or bank, it will be of no use. The number of the phone cannot be traced, and its sending signal or GPS location is set to randomly bounce around the globe - so the phone's location cannot be determined."  
   St. James was very impressed. The 'grey' side was proving to be much more fun than he dared imagine.   
   Eufemio continued, "If I may obtain a copy of your passport, in the interim we could negotiate on your behalf, with the Department of Immigration, and represent you under the appropriate laws that qualify you for citizenship as an investor. When your investment, and yourself arrive, we can welcome you to our country appropriately."  
   Damn, this guy's a real pro, St. James thought. He handed over his passport and felt a wave of child-like excitement. The plan that his mommy-government - the Fed, and daddy-bank NYPB, were not supposed to know - was about to be put into play.  
   "Just two more things Dexter and we're done." Eufemio walked over to a large wall cabinet, opened it, and St. James saw two square, stainless steel nondescript machines - each about the size of a microwave. Eufemio asked him to step over to them. One was a voice imprint recorder, and speaking into a microphone on the side of the unit he was asked to repeat several sentences in succession. The other machine took a retinal scan - the subject simply pressing his or her eyes against a soft rubber eye rest. In a total of ten minutes the identification process was complete.  
   "Your access to the accounts will be, primarily, through a combination of pass codes, voice identification and retinal scans. Your passport and signature is only for back-up. If you choose to grant access to anyone else, they will need to be documented and recorded in the same way. We will also provide you with scanning software for your eyes and a voice decoder, so you may access and manage your account from any computer you choose, having internet connectivity."   
   "The software is a banking standard, used by thousands of our clients daily around the globe - it's completely legal. No data is ever stored on your computer, and following each access, the hard drive is scrubbed by the software, which is automatically downloaded as soon as you access the website - before you log on. If you do not log on, or are interrupted in mid transaction, the software will still perform a complete scrub. This feature has proven to be useful for a number of our clients who were... ah.. under some time constraints when they were accessing their accounts. Generally, this highly secure method of mobile access is quite useful for clients who are continuously... well, 'on the road' as you would say in America."   
   "The only requirement is that the computer has a built in camera, or that you have a web cam for live feeds to facilitate retinal identification. Voice and retinal data must match concurrently, and in real time. For certain, minor transactions, we also have private banking officers available to you 24/7. Once identified, they will follow your instructions with no further inquiries. If, due to circumstances, you are required to undertake a significant transaction by phone, and not via a computer, then it will be done through me directly, and I will be able to verify your identity."  
   "How?" Dexter was curious.  
   "That's my secret and your protection." Eufemio replied, with a small mysterious smile.  
   "Fair enough." St. James said. He was not about to pry.  
   They were done. Eufemio's façade began to crack, as villain began to feel comfortable with villain. His smile now fully extended to his eyes. I'd be beaming too, St. James thought, if I just got a $30 million dollar bonus...from someone else's stolen money.   
   It was however a win-win and could be worse. As expected, the meeting concluded without any chitchat. The men shook hands and Eufemio promised him a welcoming party aboard his little yacht upon his return. _Little_ yacht, Dexter thought. Probably the Queen Mary III. A replica of the QE 2.  
   With his new phone snugly installed in his suit breast pocket, he climbed into the taxi ordered for him by the bank, for a complimentary ride to the airport.

* * *

## Chapter 20

ST. JAMES TOOK OFF from Caracas Maiquetia Simon Bolivar International Airport at seven thirty p.m., and landed at the Caymans at twenty-five minutes past ten. He was beat, and looking forward to a good night's rest, as bright and early the next morning he was scheduled to fly back to New York.  
   By seven the next morning, St. James was cleared out of the Westin using the express checkout. He left his room card with the duty desk clerk and headed back to the airport for his return flight, connecting through Miami to Newark, New Jersey. As a corporate client, the hotel would automatically process the payment through his corporate credit card on file, emailing a copy of the invoice to Diaz . He couldn't deviate from this. His trip was routine and paying cash would have raised red flags if anyone was to check. Inevitably, he'll be discovered, so it was simply a matter of controlling events for a limited amount of time, staying within predictable norms and patterns of behavior as long as possible. The fewer anomalous actions he took, the better. He had to stay within established, expected, and perhaps most importantly, predictable and justifiable patterns of activity.  
   His trip to Caracas however, was paid for in cash and off the radar. The Venezuelan authorities knew enough not to stamp the passports of Americans carrying only greenbacks as luggage. Next, St. James had to get back to his office to delete all backup files on the bank's server - _he didn 't know that it was already too late._

* * *

## Chapter 21

Wednesday June 11th

FOR THE LAST two days, tracking St. James's activities, Serena Diaz had been logging on to her computer every few hours. Taking a holiday now didn't make sense. She knew St. James didn't need to fly to the Cayman Islands for wire transfer and bank account related matters - there were no loose ends to tie up. _Something was wrong, very wrong,_ and she needed to know what it was. Partly because she didn't want to find herself out of a job, partly because something just didn't feel right, but mostly because she needed to keep the plan on track.  
   There were only seven business days left, before the deal closed, and she was scheduled to be back in the office _only the day before._ She couldn't imagine Dexter not needing her... Unless he thought he didn't need her at all any more. Being an astute practitioner of the principles of self preservation, Diaz always made it a priority to stay one step ahead of the players in her small world. And it was her world - now more than ever. _She had a third of three hundred million - a hundred million riding on it._

* * *

## Chapter 22

IT WAS 10 A.M. when she logged in at the office again, alternating between her own and St. James's computer - and discovered the email of the detailed invoice from the Westin in Georgetown. She routinely logged in to St. James's computer at the office anyway - she had access to his computer to track his schedule and help him with documents. Today however, it was for a different purpose.  
   Diaz always smiled to herself as she booked one of St. James's pleasurable and discreet getaways. She secretly hoped it would be her once or twice. She didn't trust him as a man, but the sex would've probably been decent, and she wouldn't have wanted more anyway. She was her own woman, and no one was going to take her out of the driver's seat.  
   She printed out all of the emails, attachments, documents and notes made at the airport from St. James's computer, and laid them out in chronological order. With a legal pad, she followed through, making notes of all the conversations she had overheard between St. James, Montoya, Robertson and Felling, about herself and Fitch being sent on holidays. She copied all of the notes St. James had made at the airport too. Looks like he opened _two_ accounts at CFGB, and one in Caracas. She also noted that he had made reference to the Avicon Systems website, and Eagle Jets. Since she booked the flights to the Caymans, she knew St. James was on a commuter plane now on his way to Miami to pick up his connection to Newark and probably, hopefully, wouldn't have an internet connection - and so wouldn't know she was logged on. Diaz scrolled through his internet browsing history as fast as she could and discovered that he visited the page for downloading Avicon's software, but couldn't find any record of a download; then, she quickly logged off. She didn't want to push her luck.  
   'What was he up to?' she wondered. There also was an email in his inbox from 'Your Latin Lover'. What the hell - who was that? It read simply _' Thank you for the flowers. Had a nice time. Tried to call but your phone was off.'_ Diaz knew all of his mistresses - he didn't have a Spanish lover, and he'd never been to Caracas... unless he was there over the last two days to open the account he had in his notes. _She needed to know for sure._

* * *

## Chapter 23

DIAZ PICKED UP the phone and dialed the Westin in Georgetown and asked to speak to the concierge. It was a long shot.  
   "Good morning, I'm Mr. St. James's assistant at NYPB, and I'm just reviewing your invoice. Could you tell me please, by chance did you miss a taxi fare charged to the hotel for Mr. St. James, when he took a flight to Caracas yesterday?"  
   "No, Mr. St. James asked us to order the taxi but didn't want it charged to the hotel, indicating that it was a personal trip and it would not be appropriate."  
   "Do you know when he got back? I've been trying to reach him."  
   "I saw him late yesterday evening, so I assume it was just a short day trip. I understand he's on his way back to New York as we speak."  
   "Thank you, you've been most helpful." She hung up. Day trip? He _must_ have gone to Caracas. She spent the next several hours pouring over all the pieces of the puzzle.  
   She looked at her watch - St. James was scheduled to land at Newark in two hours. Within fifteen minutes, she was dressed in jeans, a loose sweater wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses and carrying an empty duffel bag - her instinctual street smarts had kicked in. She was out the door.

   Diaz arrived well ahead of St. James's flight, parked her car and found a strategic spot at the arrivals gate, just behind a support pillar, with a clear line of sight to the exit doors from the baggage area. She still had an agonizing hour to wait - listening to screaming kids, crying relatives, incomprehensible PA announcements and watching people pushing and shoving each other _and_ mountains of luggage.  
   This vision served to remind her why she didn't want anyone in her life. People are a pain in the ass. Invariably, they sucked the life out of you and left you feeling like a wet rag. Right from early childhood, _her life was like being wrapped in a cold, wet rag._

* * *

## Chapter 24

ST JAMES'S FLIGHT was finally now on the board as 'arrived.' With only carry-on luggage, he'd be one of the first out of the gate, ahead of the hoard of holiday makers. He exited the luggage area through the automatic double glass doors, wearing the same suit he had on when he left. He was carrying two computer bags and was alone.   
   Okay, now one more thing before we're done. She pulled out her cell phone, about to call St. James when he reached into his jacket. He pulled out what looked like an oversized phone with a distinct black antenna protruding from the unit. He turned it on, and waited for over a minute before he started to dial. Odd, Diaz thought, her phone fires up and picks up a signal very quickly. She observed that he relaxed within seconds of starting the conversation. It was a very short call, less than a minute - definitely not a woman pining for him on the other end, she concluded. He hung up, replaced the phone in his pocket and pulled out his regular cell phone, turning it on and slipping it back into his suit jacket without making a call. He had both phones off during the flight, as required by FAA regulations. He grabbed his computer bags, and walked out of the terminal, toward the car park.  
    _Another piece of the puzzle, but still a puzzle,_ Diaz thought. She headed back to her car, and within the hour was home, back on the internet shopping for cell phones.

* * *

## Chapter 25

IT TOOK FIFTEEN minutes before she accidentally came across _satellite_ phones. That's it! She thought, as she stared at an exact model of the one Dexter had. Her next electronic stop, was Avicon Systems, where she discovered in the product write-up that in order to use the system, a dedicated laptop with satellite send/receive internet connection, was required. Diaz 's frustration was building by the minute. St. James had a plan, and it was related to the money transfers, and to the data errors Fitch discovered. She had all the pieces, including the notes he made on his computer, but they were all jumbled up. It was time to look at this like a _real_ puzzle - how do I fit these pieces together?  
   Robertson is buying the plane, not Dexter, so why does he need the software? Why ask for detailed information from Fitch about something that was already fixed? Why two accounts in the Caymans, why was Dexter in Caracas, and who sent the email? Why does he have two computers? What's the satellite phone for...? Who's on the other end? Finally, why was she told to take a holiday?  
   She froze at the thought of the only possible explanation... _Dexter was planning to rip off the bank when the deal went through, and would funnel the money - some of it, or all of it - to Caracas._ Just like _she_ was planning. It all fit. It explained the two accounts being set up, which is what Fitch had discovered... St. James was much more daring than she expected. St. James wouldn't let himself get screwed over... _but this was much bigger._  
   It all fit now... except her, Fitch - though he was dead now - and Robertson. Now the second and more intense wave of chills ran through her body. _He needed them out of the way..._ but how far out of the way? she wondered.   
   The only possible explanation for the Avicon software was to eliminate Robertson on his joy ride. But why? Because he had access to everything in the company! Diaz , now feeling the deadly weight of her discoveries, was beginning to feel anxious. And Fitch? The Data God knew of the manipulation of the programming - and was already out of the equation. And herself? She had access to all of his files... and of knowledge of Robertson screwing him over... and all of the possibilities. _Oh my God! To steal the entire $300 million... he had to kill all the links. Literally._  
   Serena Diaz now realized that _her_ life was in danger too, and she probably had less than a week to live if St. James had his way. However, forewarned is forearmed, she thought, making a weak attempt at self consolation.  
   She slowly stood up from the table, flopped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling trying to digest the latest newsflash about her life-and-times at NYPB. What should she do? How does anybody deal with knowing that someone is actually planning to kill you? And you can't prove it, her psychotic mind reeled.   
   She couldn't go to the police - he'd explain it all away, then nix the plan and come after her. No, there had to be another way. She needed to revise her plan. Her world had changed again, irreversibly and permanently. Like when that asshole Tony Pernod tried to rape her - and she killed him. Once again, it was up to her to take control.  
   Her plan with Slick and Roland, had direct and immediate competition, Diaz realized. If she backs the two guys, she gets one third - if she lives. If she gets behind St. James - she gets one half - that's fifty million more - _her delusional mind was on a rampage of destruction and greed._

* * *

## Chapter 26

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, and she had to use this newly acquired knowledge to her advantage - and hedge her bets. She had to make herself invaluable to St. James _and_ Slick and Roland, but most importantly - to protect the plan.   
   St. James was probably back at the office erasing emails and deleting files saved on the network. Then, he'd head down to the data center in Hoboken, probably to manipulate the accounting and data files - to replicate what Fitch had discovered. St. James would probably reverse the corrections to the data coding that Fitch had made and re-create what he called 'ghost' accounts - using the two accounts opened at CFGB in the Caymans... and the one in Caracas - which would be the final destination of his self-determined 'Executive Compensation'.  
   The only exposure she could think of, was if St. James tried to manipulate the data _after_ Slick did it. In which case she'll figure out some way to convince St. James that Fitch just didn't get around to fixing it on his way out the door - weak but plausible. Convincing Slick using the same argument was easier - if Slick should happen to discover the data tampering after St. James had done it. It was a small risk either way, but she knew there was no way to control the timing. One of them would discover the other's handiwork - no matter what.  
   Diaz 's fear was now replaced by sheer villainous excitement. Her plan _had_ changed... favorably. She wanted in with St. James at any price - but how? Serena glanced around her apartment - if she walked out the door and never came back - she wouldn't miss a thing, and nothing or no one, not even a cat would miss her.   
   Her delusional mind suddenly realized, there _was_ a way that would irreversibly tie St. James to her... forcing him to share the three hundred million dollar pie. Can't beat 'em, join 'em, she snickered to herself. It's just business after all, and I've got nothing to lose. With a mediocre present and a meaningless past, at least I might have an unbridled and very comfortable, future.  
   Like on the streets, and in corporate politics, she'd learned enough to understand the old adage ' _get them before they get you_ '. Diaz decided to let the plan play out with Slick and Roland for now. She forwarded all the wire transfer and account information to Roland and Slick - she had done her part. It was now time to focus on St. James.

* * *

## Chapter 27

Thursday June 12th

DIAZ SET HER alarm for six, though she wasn't a morning person. The next day however was designated to be moving day. She got up as soon as the alarm went off - didn't even hit the snooze button. She showered, had a New York power breakfast - coffee and bagel with low fat cream cheese. While munching, she glanced around her apartment. She definitely wouldn't miss a thing if she never came back, and probably wouldn't.   
   After checking her bills to make sure all utilities were up to date and the rent was paid, Diaz knew there was at least a month of reprieve, and probably more. In fact, all she needed was a couple of weeks. She pulled out her travel bag, and packed what she normally would if she were going away for a few days of work with St. James - three work outfits, two casuals, the usual toiletries and her computer. The rest didn't matter.  
   By eight, she locked the front door and was gone, and she didn't look back. At nine fifteen, she pulled up at the Royalton Hotel, in Manhattan at 44 west 44th Street - just a few blocks from the office. It was pricey, but she decided to treat herself. After all, it was the beginning of a new life, and she booked in for a week, just in case. The valet took her car, which Diaz hoped never to see again. In fact, she counted on it. Once in the room, she unpacked her few things and prepared for the next phase of the plan.  
   Diaz then called the bank and told them she'll need $9,000 in cash - she was buying a car and wanted the bargaining power of having cash in hand. She was told it would be ready, when she came in. When withdrawing large sums, she found it was always better to call in advance. Federal regulations required banks to file reports with the FDIC for cash movements over $10,000, and for anything they considered suspicious or unusual. By calling, she diffused any concerns. It was an unusual transaction for her, so caution was the watchword. On her way to the bank she withdrew another $1,000 - from two ATMS from other accounts. She had planned to do that over the next few days. Cash in pocket was good for emergencies. Diaz picked up the money from the bank, and by eleven thirty, was back at the hotel. The rest of the day was free but the next day, she was planning to surprise St. James at the office, to see his reaction, and so she could gage the next step.

* * *

## Chapter 28

ST. JAMES WAS sitting in his office, slumped in his chair. He was still exhausted from the whirlwind travel schedule of the last couple of days, and from the mental strain of events, as they unfolded. Doing the devil's work was more tiring and exhilarating than he had ever imagined. He'd already deleted and erased all evidence connecting him to the account - the Venezuelan personal account. Then, he logged on to his computer and deleted all his notes and internet browsing history, as well as the backup files on the server. It was all about buying a bit of time.   
   He still couldn't get his head around Fitch's timely death though. Sad, but very convenient, and saved him the trouble of figuring out how to deal with him. Diaz, was also a risk, but it was unlikely she would discover anything in the next few weeks, if ever. He concluded, that any decision on how to handle her, would have to wait until after the deal closed and he had the money - if he had to deal with her at all. Fitch's death was opportune and wouldn't raise questions. However, when Robertson comes back from his Eagle Jet adventure, there may be some, since Robertson is a wily coyote and doesn't believe in coincidence. One death is unfortunate, but when followed by a near death, would be curious. A third unusual event would just be careless. Let's hope there are no more unusual events, he thought.  
   Still, he was set on scaring the hell out of Robertson - that had to be done. St. James was very much aware that at some point, things would spiral out of his control. All he needed was to manage the situation - the mix - for another... now just under, six business days. He was deep in thought when Robertson walked in, without knocking - 'the arrogant prick', St. James thought.  
   "Dexter, is Fitch back at the center yet?" He got right to it. St. James knew Skip Harper, from the FMOC, had wound Robertson up about Fitch's ill-timed holiday.   
   St. James just looked up and said, "No, and he never will be. He's dead."  
   "Dead? Are you shitting me?" St. James's statement didn't seem to register.  
   "No, the cops found him at home. No idea what happened."  
   "Goddamn it! He could've waited a week. Then you'll have to get down to the DC yourself and keep watch. I don't want questions about data security from either Brian Felling, or that bulldog, Skip Harper. Harper was already concerned about off shore accounts and how we use them - I don't want anyone getting nervous - especially Felling. Get down there, so I can call around and let everyone know it's under control." Fitch's death didn't seem to obstruct his focus on his payout, St. James thought.  
   "Makes sense Mitch. I'll head down now." St. James had to keep Robertson away from accounting and data issues, leading to his possible discovery of the gaping hole in the wire transfer accounts. He continued to ratchet up Robertson's workload by off loading some of his buyout responsibilities.  
   "Mitch, I'm going to have my hands full now with data and finance. I don't have time for any regulatory stuff. Could you deal with Harper?" Robertson didn't answer right away, trying to think of a way to get out of it, but knew he couldn't. In the end, with a sour expression he agreed.  
   "Sure, no problem. By the way, where's Serena?"   
   The fat bastard didn't miss a thing. Diaz's desk was always left tidy at the end of the workday - and especially before holidays - being the model corporate soldier.  
   "On holidays." Dexter replied in the most matter of fact way he could. It would've been hard to miss Robertson's change of color, from a fake salon tan to more of a crimson red. His whole head, including his shiny bald pate, was now ablaze - could've fried an egg on it. Must be a lot of blood in that body, Dexter thought. What was about to come out of that head was not going to be pleasant.  
   " _Is your entire fucking staff on holidays?"_ he bellowed.  
   "No, just Fitch... well a permanent one now I guess, and Serena."  
   "Get her back... _Now!"_ He stormed out; even more animated than his usual feigned hysteria, when something went wrong.   
   The office staff's long standing nickname for Robertson was the 'fat bastard'. He might be fat but St. James knew his mind was razor sharp. Robertson was a cunning corporate player, a master of negotiation and manipulation. He often behaved in a way that led you to think he was not in control. This instilled a sense of boldness among his staff, particularly among the outside parties he dealt with. The assumption being, that he could be taken advantage of, in moments of perceived emotional instability. Then whack! He got 'em. The truth was - and St. James knew it - that Robertson was _always_ under control. Anger, frequently bordering on hysteria, confusion, and any and all emotions he projected, were always fully under his control. He used them as weapons to conduct his affairs - effective too - since he always got _his_ way.  
   St. James discovered this when on one occasion, immediately following a heated meeting with a shareholder - where he was sure Robertson was about to have a coronary, following an apoplectic meltdown - they walked back to Robertson's office. His demeanor had changed in a nanosecond - like it never happened. He used broad smiles just as effectively. A corporate skill St. James had to work on himself.

* * *

## Chapter 29

SHAKING THOUGHTS OF Robertson out of his head, he picked up the phone and called Diaz on her cell.  
   "Serena, Dexter here, got a minute?"  
   "Sure... I still can't believe Fitch's dead..." Her voice trailed off.  
   "I know, I know, but I've got another problem now, and I need a favor." He sounded impatient and stressed - which he was.  
   "Mitch took a large chunk out of my ass... for you being on holidays too. Could you come in tomorrow? I'll make it up to you.... say an extra week after the deal closes?"  
   An extra week...? More like an eternity if he has his way. She shuddered at the thought of her demise at the hands of St. James. It was good news though. She needed to be there anyway to keep a finger on the pulse of the plan, so she came across as reluctant but agreeable. "Okay, but only as a favor though, I was just getting used to having time off."  
   "Thanks Serena. I'll probably be at the Data Center tomorrow since I still have to put that package together for Felling's finance geeks, and also, Mitch wants me down there to cover off Fitch's job."  
   After she got off the phone, Diaz sent a text message to Slick-  
   " _He 'll be at the DC tomorrow."_  
   St. James needed to cover off one more detail. He picked up the phone and called Robertson.  
   "Yes?" Robertson answered in a neutral tone. His usual opening approach, giving him the chance to adjust his tone one way or another, depending on how the conversation unfolded.  
   "Serena's back tomorrow and I'll be at the DC. Before the closing date though, I'll be down in the Caymans at CFGB."  
   "Why?" still in a neutral tone.  
   "We opened new accounts for the transfers supporting the deal, and since the FMOC is worried about offshore accounts, it may look good if I'm there - not to mention that Felling has plans for offshore investments. I know it's just optics, but it'll make them feel all warm and fuzzy."  
   "I suppose that might make some sense."  
   "One more thing."  
   "Yes?" Robertson was sounding distinctly more guarded now. "I know holidays are not a popular topic at the moment, but I'm thinking of staying down there a week or so post close. I could use a break. Besides, transition work won't start for a couple of months. And, well... I'll probably have company for some fun in the sun - stress relief. You know what I mean."  
   Robertson felt a fleeting pang of jealousy. St. James had a veritable Rolodex of married, willing and discreet women at his _service ;_ but _he_ had to pay for it. Oh well, so did St. James - except it was in dinners, hotels and airfare - and he probably paid more. That thought made Robertson smile.  
   "Sure Dexter, relax. With the money in the bank I'll relax too." He hung up. His voice was curiously jovial in approving the request. Robertson didn't give a shit one way or the other - since they were planning to turf Dex out after the close anyway, so he didn't see the new 'updated' executive compensation numbers. No matter, right now St. James had work to do.  
   He glanced at his watch - it was 4 p.m. Harper had called him earlier to tell him he'd be sending someone from his office to the DC around five. Because of Fitch's death, Harper felt the DC needed a bit more scrutiny. St. James told him he'll call down and authorize a visitor's access card, and when he gets on premises he'll authorize an upgrade to whatever level may be required. As soon as they got off the phone he called Louise Rogers, the DC administrator and told her to expect the arrival of a Ms. Karlie Effingham, from the FMOC.  
   The DC was open 24/7, so closing time wasn't an issue. Besides, there were fewer staff after 5 p.m., and even less overnight. After he took care of whatever this FMOC bureaucrat wanted, he could make the changes to the coding he needed for the plan. He transferred his new satellite laptop and phone into his regular office bag, but left both computer cases at the office - with a plan to dump the new computer in a bin somewhere the next chance he got.

* * *

## Chapter 30

ST. JAMES WAS SITTING in his car - a new bank leased BMW. Powerful, quiet, comfortable and expensive - he loved the car, _and_ the image.   
   Traffic was at a crawl as he pulled up beside a rusted 1989 Honda Civic with the windows down - if it even had windows. Kids were screaming in the back seat, and the driver, an overweight man wearing a white sleeveless under shirt, sporting a large tattoo, looked to be about as hairy as any resident ape at the New York Zoo - and only a half strand of DNA away. Between the loud music, screaming at the kids in a mix of something foreign and English, a female version of the driver in the passenger seat spewing cigarette smoke in and out of the car; it conjured up an extreme vision of the aimless chaos of how most people's lives unfolded. 'What makes this guy get out of bed in the morning?' he wondered. I bet he buys lots of lottery tickets, he smiled to himself - these kind of guys always do - hoping for free money, watching porn, drinking beer and dreaming of sex. Sex and money - even if only in hope, keep them going like automatons.  
   Stopped at another light, St. James's aimless gaze rested on a well dressed woman, examining baskets of peaches stacked outside a small corner grocer's shop. The sign read $4.99 a basket. She quickly glanced left and right, then took a peach from another basket and placed it into hers. With confident strides, she took the basket - with one additional peach - into the shop to pay for it. St. James shook his head and smiled to himself, musing that this would probably be the same woman who comes back vigorously complaining about having found one rotten one in the bottom.   
   Just a little theft, followed by just a little lie. The traffic began moving again and he pulled away, but his thoughts lingered on 'the peach woman' - there was nothing else to do anyway. Being the banker type, as a money guy, he assumed that the grocer probably _expected_ that most people did that - like St. James himself would, and indeed has done - and the grocer would price the peach baskets accordingly. Invariably, he displays an extra basket for every ten, expecting to ring only ten through the register, having one empty basket left, cheating the thief! Brilliant, he thought.

* * *

## Chapter 31

ST. JAMES GLANCED at his watch as he approached the Holland Tunnel. At this time of day, in traffic, the drive to the data center always took fifty-five minutes - in various combinations of stop and go - but always fifty-five minutes.  
   He was in a pontificating mood, and continued to ponder the oddity of this predictability. Predictable outcome of chaos... How...? Yes, he thought, it's actually quite obvious. If you considered _traffic..._ as, only traffic, one contiguous entity, not thousands of cars, but as _the traffic_... you can predict the outcome with reasonable certainty. Just like the 'peach thief,' or anything else for that matter. There's a _predictability._ The basis of all planning and expectations in advertising, law, psychology, computer programs, and certainly everything else that deals with humans... even security...  
    _YES!_ He almost yelled out loud. _That 's it!_ It's definitely easier to steal three hundred million than it is to steal a thousand dollars. Why? Because one is _expected._ Safeguards are provided for that eventuality. The other is _not expected_ - no safeguards. To secure a $10,000 loan, you have to fill out a pile of forms on employment and credit information requiring a ream of authorizing signatures, following rules, regulations and 'corporate policy' - to prevent a possible - and _expected_ - theft or fraud.   
   The _three hundred million dollars_ worth of money transfers on the other hand, would be executed on the basis of a phone call, a couple of faxes or e-verified electronic signatures... but _mostly_ based on simple _trust._ There are no specific rules and safeguards in place to prevent someone from _stealing three hundred million dollars - because it's not expected!_   
   St. James practically had a full conversation with himself in the car - with no rebuttals. He considered the 'hairy man', the 'peach lady' and 'the traffic' together. What were the lessons and observations? Simple, he concluded. _Every person lies, cheats and steals every day, in some small way._   
   The smallest of offenses are _expected_ and _accepted._ Like stealing one peach, or when one lies about not having had a full-fat muffin for breakfast when everyone thinks you're on a diet, and if you're caught, no biggie. If you get out of 'the zone' however, the behavior is shunned. One peach is OK, two is pushing it, three would stand out and it's... _stealing!_   
   On the other hand, if you were to walk up to the grocer with a push trolley, and load up _all_ of the peach baskets, _with the grocer watching,_ he would happily assume that you're buying the whole load - especially if you wave to him through the window. He doesn't _expect_ anyone to steal _all_ the peaches at once... just _one_ at a time! _Okay, next consideration._

* * *

## Chapter 32

ST. JAMES NOW felt compelled to make this a really productive exercise by applying this new philosophy to his plan. First, there's the 'mix' that needed to be altered - money, sex, power and coercion - in order to be powerful enough to entice in a _plausible and expected_ compliment of quantity and quality. Then, there were the required tools - lying, cheating, and stealing - natural, innate and also learned. Starting with the first _calculated_ lie that we cut our teeth on. At the kindergarten playground, we suddenly found ourselves astonished, and pleased at how easy it was to screw the other kid out of his chocolate chip cookie. After that, it was just a matter of practice.   
   However, one needed to understand how to control and use these _social tools_ effectively and in measured ways. The skill 'lies' - he chuckled at the play on words - in effective delivery and plausibility. In the absence of what is expected, in 'action' and 'inaction' - but _not_ done and or _not_ said - with silence, a response in itself.   
   With respect to his plan, he knew that no one, but absolutely no one would expect anyone to even _think_ of stealing three hundred million dollars, so the actual mechanics of the transaction were the easy part. St. James concluded that all he had to do was be brazen, natural and open about his activities.   
   At some point however, at least one person would discover the unexpected reality... _Invariably, shit floats,_ he thought. At that point, the charade is over. The plan would start to unravel when the _first person_ identified a tiny, anomalous and _unexpected_ behavior or action in the string of events - or coincidence - consequently exposing the reality of the theft - once you had the dots - and connected them, it would be easy. The conclusions drawn from identifying all, or most of the anomalies would likely be 99% correct, even if they couldn't be proven.  
   He thought of his ex-wife, musing to himself. She left him, essentially, for not earning enough to support _her_ spending habit, which could _never_ be satisfied. Then she pounced - or _bounced_ - on another rich prick, who in the end also gave up - poor sucker probably went broke. Just like St. James himself, he didn't know either, what hit him when she walked out. Looking back, all the signs were there - a long string of unusual behavioral identifiers - and _now she 's got Felling wrapped around her finger._ He's a good catch though, it would take her at least a decade to work through his money, St. James thought.  
   Come to think of it, he smirked, _all of his current mistresses are doing this every day... and so is he._ He saw, with absolute retrospective clarity, that it was all about when Maggie _didn 't do, or didn't say what he expected her to do or say._ Therefore, when executing a plan to manipulate, one must always act as, and say what would be expected. Venture out and you're hung. A simple enough rule to observe and comprehend, yet impossible to execute consistently, over the long haul. St. James only had a small window of opportunity, where he could reasonably _maintain credibility and control,_ by gaging the _expected._ The three hundred million dollar question was when will the string become a rope around his neck? Hopefully not before the deal closes.

Lesson learned...

_Do not violate the laws of expected behavior. A long string of tiny, anomalous behavioral identifiers will eventually, and invariably, braid itself into a short noose._

It was, after all, how most criminals were caught - without clear physical evidence, investigators consider motive, as well as _expected_ and _unexpected_ patterns of activity. In reviewing evidence, they would contemplate- _Why did he run out at two a.m. to get a sandwich? Around the time of the murder... Is this what he normally does?_  
   St. James clearly understood that given the complexities in assessing and controlling his responses and actions, in a fluid environment with almost a limitless combination of variables at play - in the extremely subtle world of _expectations_ - he _will_ get caught. In all likelihood, it'll be the human factor - always the unpredictable human - in deed and discovery. It'll be the _discovery of anomalies that lead to the discovery of the theft._ The totally chaotic, imperfect - but predictable world of lying, cheating and thieving humans, constantly searching for anomalous behavior in others while concurrently engaging in these activities, would result in at least one person - _the first person_ - in the string, to discover _his_ lies through his anomalous and unexpected behavior identifiers. But who will it be... and how long does he have? A couple of weeks at least, he hoped.  
   Of course, St. James didn't know that his theory was not only correct, but that he was _already_ discovered - and for the very reasons he contemplated. Still immersed in thought, he found himself through the Holland tunnel. Although it didn't appear as if he'd be at the data center within the window of the usual fifty-five minutes, he _expected_ to be there... and knew with relative certainty that he would be.

* * *

## Chapter 33

THE DATA CENTER was housed in a nondescript industrial area, in the heart of Hoboken. It was just across from Manhattan, close to the ferry terminal shuttling commuters between New Jersey and New York city - a ten minute ride. St. James pulled into the parking lot just before five, smiling to himself as he looked at his watch - _exactly_ fifty-five minutes earlier he had left the office.  
   There was no sign-age anywhere around or on the building identifying the tenants or the type of business being operated inside. The only, but definitive, indicator that the tenant was very security conscious, was the ten foot high steel fence encircling the entire building. Cement barriers were placed around the inner perimeter, preventing a car - or even a truck - from crashing through the fence and reaching the building. The level of security was, what could be best described as, 'soft military'. The purpose of the fence was to prevent any vehicular traffic from approaching the building itself in a radius of no less than two hundred feet. For employees and the occasional visitor, that meant having to park in a lot hundreds of feet away from the door, walk to the building, check in at a security post and then again at the entrance. _911 certainly left its mark on the sensibility of national, corporate and personal security._   
   The other side of the 'security coin' of course, is that the more precise and complex security measures are, the more predictable they become. In practical terms, that meant you could ensure 99% security, but the 1% then becomes very elusive, and those dastardly deeds are more often than not - successful. Usually of course, it turns out to be an inside job when it comes to crimes that circumvent or manipulate technology - but often too late. Complexity leads to specialization and to _trust._ For NYPB, the handful of employees at the DC had unencumbered access to all systems - there was no choice if the data infrastructure was to be properly maintained and 'protected.' Yes, there were protocols and procedures, but they're always written by the foxes guarding the coop, to keep other foxes out.  
   St. James often reflected on the enormity of exposure the public bore every day, when it comes to national, corporate, financial and personal security. In the wake of catastrophic financial and industry system meltdowns, Ponzi schemes and terrorist acts - the individual - not able to comprehend the complexity of issues _and_ the machinery - must simply _keep trusting._ There's no choice. They must trust their physician, their lawyer, their banker, the police, the food growers and distributors, their phone and internet provider, their airline pilot... and the list is endless. Complexity necessitates trust - which leads to a reduced level of minor disruption and violation - but opens the door to catastrophic impact on society when the few 'in the know' violate the trust bestowed on them.  
   Which is precisely why he concluded:

_It 's easier to steal three hundred million dollars than it is to steal one thousand dollars - because it's unexpected and therefore unprotected. The Achilles Heel of the financial industry is... trust._

* * *

## Chapter 34

AN ASTUTE OBSERVER might notice the abundance of video surveillance cameras scattered around the data center's perimeter, and the security control boxes beside every door. The astute observer might also notice the absence of windows or loading docks, raising the question - how does one fill such a large building through a few man doors? Electronically, would be the answer.   
   A bank is like any other business, that carries product and inventory. The difference is that a bank buys, stores, and sells money - that's the product. Therefore, a bank's warehouse is full of computers - not shelves filled with inventory or machinery. For banks, consequently, information warehouse facilities are absolutely critical to their existence. Two or more facilities are usually maintained - geographically distant - with all customer and transaction data recorded at all facilities simultaneously. NYPB also had another data warehouse in west south Carolina, providing the backup.   
   In the event of a catastrophe, big or small, man made or Act of God, the bank can keep operating. Destroy all the data centers, and the bank is instantly wiped out of existence. Needless to say, location and security are critical.  
   The only unusual exterior feature of the NYPB data center - the DC - was the mini power station attached to it. Three enormous diesel generators, were always on standby, in case city power was lost. In fact, at any given moment, one of the generators was always running. They took turns 'exercising' St. James was told once, to ensure they're always in good operating health - use it or lose it, was the mechanic's simplistic but accurate explanation.  
   St. James parked in the open lot - some distance away from the building - in a spot labeled 'reserved.' In fact, he had no choice. _All_ the spots were reserved. No visitor's spaces. It was a clear and obvious signal, to anyone who accidentally pulled in, that they were not welcome. The main entrance, although only a single windowless door, was on the opposite side of the building from the parking lot - along a narrow path which snaked through nicely maintained but simple landscaping - once you had been cleared at the main gate.  
   At the door, St. James buzzed in, alerting the front desk of his entry, then he entered the building using his security card and a palm reader. Previously authorized and scheduled visitors were always escorted by the guard at the gate. He waited for the red light on the key pad to turn green. It did, and once he heard a faint click, opened the door, then entered the reception area.   
   All areas of the building were very well lit, including the large and comfortably decorated entrance lobby. On his first visit here, all those years ago, he wondered why the bank wasted so much money outfitting this place with such nice decor, comfortable seating, and attractive art - giving it a beautiful hotel-like feeling. It was a waste of money, and he initially made a mental note to change things. That was, until he spent a few weeks there, in 14 hour daily increments. If you expected people to be cooped up in a windowless, almost air-tight box for extended periods of time, you'd better make sure that, at least, the inside was as comfortable as it could get. As before, all requisitions for 'frivolous' expenses such as a new TV in one of the many 'chat' rooms, continued to be approved.   
   The full roster of technical staff was only twenty-five, one administrator and the eggheads, who never seemed to be in their offices, or even working for that matter. This however, St. James understood too. He was also a computer geek. Although, as an ex Marine technology officer, he was not a typical geek - he was a multi-skilled geek. He knew that most of the productive work was done while wandering the halls, watching TV or even on the toilet taking a dump - they were thinking, and that's what they got paid for. Six lazy laps of the hallway, followed by five minutes at the keyboard, and a month's salary has been earned - it was almost as bad as sales people, St. James often thought - working one day a week, with an extra day of work at quarter's end, when the numbers were due - but somehow, they always got the job done.

### Want to know what happens next?

Is St James really going to steal three hundred million dollars himself? How will Serena take control? Will St James take out Robertson, as Serena believes, or just give him the flight of his life? Get ready to turn pages while munching on a bowl of Orvel Read-better's popcorn and watch the ensuing tangle of twisted minds unravel ' in the next book of the St James Financial Thrillers: > > Or click here to get the _complete_ Executive Compensation series.

* * *

## Table of Contents

**Book 2 - THREE HUNDRED MILLION REASONS**  
Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27  
Chapter 28  
Chapter 29  
Chapter 30  
Chapter 31  
Chapter 32  
Chapter 33  
Chapter 34  
Copyright

