 
The Y2 Kaper

By Jim CaJacob

Copyright © 2006 Jim CaJacob

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Emily Aslin

*****

For Slim and Rita, always there

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

## Chapter 1

Josh was nervous, but he didn't think it showed. He sat in a Formica booth in a LaGuardia coffee shop by the gate, trying to touch as little as possible. The coffee, if you could call it coffee, was lukewarm when he bought it.

It was so typical of Anderson to arrange a meeting in a public place and not give a clue how to recognize the person he was meeting. Josh watched the airport crowds bolus by. He wondered why "how was your flight?" was the only thing thousands of people could think of to say to each other in an airport.

"Is anybody sitting here?" Josh looked up. A bland looking man in a suit was holding a briefcase, a plastic bag from the airport bookstore, and a tray with a bagel and a cup of coffee. He didn't have an accent.

"Yes. I mean no. It's OK. Please sit down." Maybe it did show. The man sat, unwrapped the cellophane from his bagel, separated the two halves, methodically spread it with cream cheese, which he squeezed out of the little pouch, and took a bite. Josh looked into his coffee. Next time he'd buy a magazine.

"Flying out today?" the man asked.

"Yes. I mean no, I just flew in," Josh answered. "From BWI. How about you?"

"Omaha. I'm just here for one night, then I fly back tomorrow. I like to wait a few minutes for the baggage claim crowd to thin out a little."

Josh nodded while wondering what kind of loser checks bags. The man munched earnestly.

"Well, it's about that time. You have a good day now." Josh wondered what the small talk threshold must be in Omaha. He hoped he'd never find out first hand. The man dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, stood up, brushed some crumbs off his brown suit, and left.

Josh decided to wait three minutes. He brought the paper coffee cup to his lips and pretended to sip. He couldn't bring himself to actually put any in his mouth. He looked at his watch, picked up his carry-on suitcase, his briefcase, and the plastic bag from the Omaha airport bookstore that the man had left on the floor. Josh stood up and left. It never occurred to him to bus the table.

He walked out and got in the taxi line. There were fewer line jumpers than usual, and the crack crew of trained professional trunk slammers was on the ball. In a couple of minutes, Josh was in the cab. The driver looked at Josh in the mirror with eyebrows raised.

"56th and Lex. Take the Triboro," Josh said. The cab lurched into the flow of traffic, eliciting only two honks. On the cab radio the dispatcher was jabbering in some tongue, apparently employing circular breathing. "What language is that?" Josh asked.

"Punjabi, sir."

The cab made good time. Josh involuntarily jammed on the phantom back seat brake pedal only twice. Traffic in the city was heavy but moving. He got out before his corner. As usual, he rounded the fare up to the next five dollar multiple. He figured the drivers' karma evened out, one guy's lucky day was another guy's screwing, and it was easier for Josh to figure.

Hippolito, the one who tried to look surly, was the doorman on duty. Nice name, Josh thought. Hippolito said "Hello Mr. Calder" and held the door open. Josh made a point of being patient. He emptied his mailbox, and got on the elevator with one of the interchangeable little old ladies with tiny, nervous dogs. Josh wondered who would intentionally breed an animal to look like that. The elevator had that indelible New York slow cooked cabbage smell.

Josh got off on 15 – they still build brand new buildings without a 13th floor! - went to his door, unlocked the three locks, and went in. He sat his suitcase and briefcase by the door, walked over to the small table by the window, sat down, and dumped out the contents of the bookstore bag. He pulled the shrink-wrap off the hardback novel with his fingers. Inside the cover the pages had been hollowed out. There were four shrink-wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills, each about a half inch thick. Josh did the math in his head for the thousandth time.

## Chapter 2

Just before dawn, standing outside in the light rain, Wilton Chen reminded himself that he could quit smoking whenever he wanted to. He was in the Tavron Industries headquarters courtyard, with one foot on the bench of one of the uninviting concrete picnic tables.

Wilton had not been back to his hotel for thirty-one hours. The fresh air felt good. This part of a project was always like this. Wilton and his team had five days to complete the assessment. That gave Wilton about two and a half days to dig through the data.

Wilton thought of himself as a data detective. On each project he would quickly get his hands on whatever data was available, in whatever format, and try to make sense of it. The in-house people always spent a while trying to be helpful, which was more of a waste of time than anything, but he tried to be polite. He mainly needed a place to work and a connection to the network. He always tried to remember to get password security, although, to be honest, he didn't really need it.

Wilton carried a "lunch pail" computer to each job – bigger than a laptop but still portable. It was a portable version of a high-end UNIX workstation. On it was Wilton's toolkit of programs he used to look at data.

Wilton took the security card out of his shirt pocket and went back inside. The building had sensors that turned lights on and off as people entered and left rooms, which was kind of spooky at this hour. He heard a vacuum somewhere.

In the small conference room where he had been set up there was a stack of four pizza boxes and eleven empty two liter Diet Coke bottles. Wilton could remember when he had had his first slice of pizza in Berkeley in his freshman year. The only pizza places in Taiwan growing up were amid the rows of GI bars his mother made sure he avoided. Wilton made up for lost time, and figured that by now his aggregate lifetime consumption was average for a 25-year-old American. He sat back down and stared at the screen.

Before his last smoke, Wilton had kicked off a data-mining program. This tool looked for unusual patterns in data. For example, if 2% of a company's customers were in Iowa and 3% of the complaints came from there, the data mining tool would flag that occurrence. It was then up to a human to figure out if something was going on or if the pattern was a coincidence. Like most double-E types, Wilton didn't believe in coincidences.

When he worked, Wilton usually talked to himself (in English, not in Chinese), or whistled disco songs from the seventies. This was one big reason why his team liked to get him a room to work in by himself. Now Wilton said, "What do you know? Somebody forgot to take out the cat." He typed for a few seconds, poked the RETURN key with his index finger, and sat back in his chair with his chin in his hand, staring at the screen. He was whistling _YMCA_ , one of his standbys.

"Well, well, well. Congratulations. You've got the best kind of business. People send you checks and you don't have to do any work."

It was 3:47 AM. The meeting was at 11. Wilton figured he had to leave no later than six to get back to the hotel, shower, and brief the team at the breakfast meeting.

\- - -

Val walked into the hotel lobby, patting down his cowlick. He took it as a sign of maturity that he was now allowing himself 45 minutes from wake-up call to breakfast, instead of 30. He looked over the fern planters into the breakfast area, and saw Wilton and Jenny Lu. Wilton had that look that he always got.

"Hi guys. Wilton, how do you feel?" Val asked.

"Wilton's fine," Jenny answered. For some reason it never bothered Wilton when Jenny answered for him.

The waitress recommended the $11.50 breakfast buffet four times before agreeing to accept an order for something she would have to carry to the table. Val thought of breakfast as an exercise in empty calories. Whatever the diet gurus said, it seemed like he was hungrier by noon when he did eat breakfast.

"I'm guessing you have something to show me?" Val said.

"Wilton has found some anomalies that could be significant," Jenny said. "We should corroborate further, but we're confident that we're on the right track." Jenny had been raised in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Val thought of her accent as faintly Chinese-American and faintly Okie. She denied she had any accent at all.

"Should I even ask how we found this?" Val said.

"Val, we've been through this," Jenny said. "They gave us the go-ahead to dig. If we try to explain how we found this out they'll just get more paranoid."

"I know. Just be glad Wilton's on our side, right?" Val said.

Jenny ignored the question. "It appears our problem begins with the in-house staff," she said.

"How so?" Val said.

This time Wilton answered. "One of the techies, or I should say at least one, has been dipping his pen to write checks with company ink." Jenny rolled her eyes semi-audibly.

"Surely you're not suggesting that Tavron is not always applying generally accepted accounting principles?" Val said.

Again Jenny ignored him. She had learned to tolerate, if not exactly appreciate, Val's repertoire of snide clichés. "The good news is we've found the leak. The bad news is it's going to be hard to catch them. Half the programmers at Tavron drive Beemers already. California!"

"I have to pick up Leavitt at the airport," Val said. Max Leavitt was the senior partner from Marx, Barnes & Adams, the big accounting company. Val's team usually worked as sub-contractors for MB&A.

They were specialists in what Max called data digging. When it came to changing the hearts and minds of business people, there was no substitute for numbers. Val had established a reputation for being able to get at the heart of a business problem through analysis.

He had worked as a sub for Max several times. This was the first time when Max suspected out-and-out fraud. He depended on Val and his team to be fast, accurate and discreet.

"We're on at eleven. It's eight-forty now. We have a presentation to make, and handouts to print. Let's go upstairs and get started. Wilton, did you get any sleep?" Val said.

"Wilton's fine," Jenny replied.

\- - -

The meeting went pretty well until they got to the part about the embezzling.

"You're suggesting that some hacker was able to jimmy our programs to authorize checks to vendors that don't exist?" The question came from Brady, the CEO.

"Actually, it's not even that sophisticated," Val answered. Val and his team had been working at Tavron Industries for about two weeks. "Anyone with the right security access can manipulate the information directly in the Purchasing system database. Our culprit simply entered the bogus invoice, then removed it after the check was cut. Nobody was the wiser. You'd be surprised how common this kind of thing is. A programmer at one of our clients, a long-distance company, added himself to the tax table and collected a tiny amount of tax on thirteen years of calls. He was still working there when we caught him!"

"What's the damage?" asked Wilson, the auditor from corporate.

"We think between six and seven hundred thousand dollars so far this year." Jenny answered. "Harder to tell about previous years without digging into the archived files."

Smart embezzlers limited their greed to numbers that were just smaller than the company's definition of rounding error. Tavron had sales of about 2.5 billion per year. Six hundred thousand was about three-hundredths of a percent -- way into the rounding error.

Val never got used to how naïve top management was about technology. Guys who would lose an eye for a share point meekly accept whatever gobbledygook the computer gurus feed them.

"With all due respect, I think your analysis is overly simplistic," said Bannion, the IT guy. "We have rigorously implemented the full AS/400 security model."

"Security is only as good as the people who implement it," Val said. "This was an inside job. Whoever made these changes had the security access they needed. Like most corporate finance programs, this one had no protection against this kind of data manipulation. All the double entry accounting functionality was in the application layer, not in the database. This couldn't have happened when the accountants had green eye shades and when the boss signed every check personally."

"By our count there are thirty-three people in IT with the necessary access," Jenny said. "I'm sure our culprit knows we're poking around and won't do this again."

"Do we know where the money went?" Brady asked.

"Yes, to a company called Carson Contracting in Omaha," Jenny answered. Tavron had just finished building a large distribution center across the river in Iowa. The construction budget was over twenty-five million, spread over dozens of contractors, all of which were unfamiliar to the people in Accounts Payable.

"I have a feeling nobody at Carson Contracting would pick up the telephone if we were to give them a ring," Wilson said.

"I'm afraid not," Val said. "Your checks have been cashed. Carson Contracting has driven its last imaginary nail."

Max had said little during the meeting. After it broke up he asked Val if they could ride together to the airport.

## Chapter 3

The building was a dingy yellow brick 30s era WPA job. The fourth floor was overcrowded with cubes and had bad fluorescent lighting. Josh wondered if the medicinal green paint had been developed in a secret World War II lab.

"You people will work here, at least for the time being," Simmons said. Albert Simmons wore a short sleeve white shirt, double knit slacks, and what Josh would bet was a clip-on tie.

Simmons, in his mid-40s, was the programming supervisor. That would make him a GS-not high enough, Josh thought.

"Miss Anderson says you people are familiar with CICS (he pronounced it "kicks"), PL1, _et cetera_?" Simmons said.

"Yes, sir. We don't foresee any problems" Josh answered. He and Scott Crane stood in Simmons' cubicle.

"Good. As we told Miss Anderson, BLS is a little late getting on the Y2K bandwagon. Your job is to help us get 'compliant', whatever that means exactly."

The Bureau of Labor Statistics was the part of the Department of Commerce responsible for accumulating and publishing a large volume of statistics about the American economy each month.

"We have between three and four thousand processes, no one is exactly sure, written in COBOL, PL1, Fortran, ADA, and God knows what else," Simmons said. "So I would say we need a medium-sized miracle just to have somebody look at each program once."

"Will someone brief us on change control procedures, version control, and so on?" Josh asked.

"Yes, however our large change management staff is at a luncheon at the moment," Simmons said dryly. "Mr. Calder, have you worked on federal jobs before?"

"Not really," Josh said.

"I thought so," Simmons said. "Let me educate you. We are standing in a deep gully at the bottom of a very large hill, made up of budget cuts, changing priorities, and technical fads. We are neck deep in the middle of a pile of thirty-eight years worth of shit that have rolled down that hill into our little gully. The Secretary saw Social Security's "Y2K OK!" briefing and has suddenly taken a keen interest. That's how the money to hire you guys got shaken loose. No, Mr. Calder, no one will be briefing you. I expect you to conduct yourselves professionally," Simmons said.

"Here's how we're going to keep track," Simmons said. "First your team is going to do an inventory of the programs, by language, including lines of code. Then we're going to create a wall chart which shows the total lines of code divided into the lines of code that have been checked for Y2K."

"How do we check?" Scott asked.

"I thought you were the geniuses. You realize that your firm bills me more per day for each of you than I get paid, gross, in a week?" Simmons said.

This was a familiar complaint. The consultants remained silent.

"Here's our 'methodology'," proud of himself for using the buzzword. "You're going to open the program. You're going to look at it, line by line. You're going to fix any problems you note. You're going to enter your modifications in a logbook, which Mrs. Salazar over there will type into her word processor. You are expected to test your code."

"Each week we will update our wall chart, like a thermometer for a United Way drive, so my boss can have a warm and fuzzy feeling when he glances at it on his way to another important conference. Then, when the day of reckoning arrives, after you hotshots are long gone, we will wait to see which programs break and fix them, just like we do today. Any questions?"

"I have one," Josh said. "How close is the nearest latté bar?"

Simmons stared at him for a second; pretty sure the little punk was making fun of him. He shook his head, slammed his notebook shut, and walked out. Over his shoulder he said, "Just ask Mrs. Salazar for whatever you need."

## Chapter 4

"You are not going to believe this." Scott was excited. Scott was often excited.

"Let me guess. You have a date for this weekend," Josh said.

"Funny." Scott's social life, or lack thereof, was a source of constant amusement to Josh. He soldiered on. "No, I was speaking about something I discovered here in my professional capacity."

"What's up?" Josh said.

"You've heard of the Consumer Price Index, right? Do you know how it's calculated?" Scott said.

"Some kind of market basket in Peoria or something, right?"

"That's right. They have these expert shoppers that go forth and pillage the Kmarts and Targets of America, buying Kool-Aid, Windex, and Regular Unleaded. You can actually look up the list of stuff they buy on the net," Scott said. "But there's more. You know how they always say 'seasonally adjusted'? You know what that means?"

"Sure. Like when they figure more people should be unemployed just after Christmas than just before Christmas because of all the temporary retail jobs, right?" Josh said.

"Right again. Well guess how that adjustment is made," Scott said.

"Some kind of exponential smoothing or whatever, right?"

"You wish. There's a module called, get this, the X-11 Seasonal Adjustment Algorithm. It was written, his name's right in the code, by a Dr. Julius Shiskin, Chief Statistician of the Bureau of Labor Statistics. This damn thing is written in 370 assembler!," Scott said.

The IBM 370 computer had been introduced about 1970. While many programs in those days were written in COBOL, Fortran or PL/1, sometimes programmers resorted to using the computer's "assembly" language to improve speed. For most languages like COBOL or C, the same programming code can more or less run on different kinds of computers. On the other hand, assembly language is specific to each computer. An assembly language programmer has to be a specific expert for each kind of computer.

BLS had purchased 11 IBM 370s from IBM's Federal Systems Division in 1969. The bid had been $39 million, which would have bought two F4 Phantoms, delivered in Thailand, at going rates. Like sailors endlessly repainting every square inch of a ship, the computer operators lovingly kept the ancient systems running. The machines even still used some card readers.

"This is some of the most arcane shit you've ever seen!," Scott continued to enthuse. "I know some math, but this guy is turning these arrays inside and out. And here's the real kicker. This code has barely been touched since 1968!"

Josh grunted one of those "you don't say" sounds. "How long do you think it will take to Y2K-ify, Scott?" he asked.

"Two weeks, minimum, on this one module. Maybe three. This old guy Malcolm was showing me how the module is integrated into the overall system," Scott said. "Why, do you need to change our time line?"

"No, that's about what we figured. I was just thinking of something," Josh said.

## Chapter 5

Scott had never met the drummer, which wasn't unusual. He was a young guy from Atlanta who played OK but who was too loud. This was also not unusual. C. J., the bass player, had contracted the gig and hired the drummer. There was a limited supply of guys who could play at all, and by the time C.J. had booked this gig all the regulars were unavailable.

Two young couples, about eighteen, Scott guessed, came up to the little stage and stood waiting for the quartet to finish the tune. "Let me guess. You want us to play something more modern," Scott thought to himself. The band played its customary fade ending. Scott looked down from the stage and raised his eyebrows.

As usual the girls had been designated as spokespersons. "You guys are really good. Could you, like, play some more modern songs?" the brunette said. "Like, stuff we can dance to?" the blonde illuminated.

C.J. had been playing casuals since the sixties. His repertoire included three basic genres. The mainstay was Tin Pan Alley standards played in a straight "businessman's bounce." _I Left My Heart In San Francisco_ was a fine example. The standards were supplemented by a group of songs designated as "Latin." These include several bossa novas composed by Jobim, the ever-treasured _More_ , and _Tea for Two_ , played as a cha-cha.

The final genre was rock - _Tequila_ , that sort of thing. Scott thought it was amusing that all these "modern" rock songs had been recorded at least thirty years earlier. Scott had been gigging since high school. Even in that short time he had seen the wedding music power base make a tectonic shift. In his early years, the parents of young couple were of the World War II generation. They (except for a few self-consciously hip moms, usually a bit tipsy – "I _love_ Snoop") despised anything later than Patti Page. Elvis was a game changer, then the Beatles. All of this music through, say 1970, could be played in a recognizable form by a wedding combo (piano, bass, drums, sax) forging an uncomfortable _détente_ between the warring factions.

Then there was what he called "the big four." These were slam-dunk favorites guaranteed to tame the most savage Maryland wedding reception: _Bad Bad Leroy Brown_ , _Proud Mary_ , _Tie a Yellow Ribbon_ and the failsafe slow dance, last hope of geek wallflowers the world over praying for Lady's Choice, _Feelings_.

"Sure," C.J. said. He started playing the shuffle bass line to Kansas City. The kids danced off.

At quarter to two Scott was at the bar at Rusty's, listening to Ernest. "My man, I'm just saying that Coltrane put that shit away forever. We have a responsibility as creative artists to create, not to recreate. You dig?" Scott had heard this all before.

"I agree, Ernest. But I still don't think that means we have to dismiss the entire harmonic and rhythmic structure on which our culture's music is based."

"Man, I don't believe you're going to remain prisoner to some changes that the _Kapellmeister_ in Leipzig wrote down umpty-umpt years ago." This part of Ernest's speech was rehearsed.

Scott and Ernest were collaborating on a recording project, if collaborating meant having a vague plan but not getting around to actually doing anything. Ernest taught Junior High music in the inner city and, like Scott, played a lot of casuals. Most of their creative work on the project consisted of arguments like this one.

Scott felt a tap on his shoulder. Josh was standing there with his girlfriend Mona. She was one of those girls that Scott thought of as undeniably beautiful but not attractive.

"What brings you two down here? Slumming? Mona, did you fly down from New York?" Scott said. Josh commuted to DC every week for the BLS contract.

"Hey, man, we like jazz," Josh said. "You know, Kenny G, John Tesh." This last dig was guaranteed to irk any self-respecting jazz musician alive in the 1990s. Scott ignored it.

"So Scott, how did you and Estelle get along?" Mona asked. Against his better judgment Scott had allowed Mona to fix him up with a friend of hers. Scott knew that Mona knew exactly how they had gotten along.

"Well, I know a lot more international banking and about the new wave of Milano designers than I did before," Scott said.

Mona ignored the comment, put her hand on the back of his neck and whispered in his ear "She thinks you're hot, in a geeky way. I do too."

Scott felt a pulse of excitement in spite of himself.

Josh said, "Hey man, I've been thinking about that Y2K stuff. I want to run an idea by you. Mona won't mind, will you babe?"

"Why no, I'll just sit here and listen to the old African-American gentlemen," she said. At least it wasn't a major pout.

Josh said "You know how you're always saying if the people only knew what was going on we could really change things?"

"Yeah," Scott said.

"Well, what if we could blow the whole hypocrisy of the economy sky-high, from the inside?, Josh said. "What if we did the Pentagon Papers of the economy?"

Scott turned to ask Mona to translate but she was talking to a guy at the next table. "Help me here, Josh."

"What if we rigged the numbers somehow to show how phony the system is?"

"Rigged?"

"As in decided in advance."

"Are you saying change the calculation?"

"Yes, Scott, change the calculation. You're always giving me this neo-anarchist jive about how ideas are more powerful than bombs. Wouldn't this throw a monkey wrench in the old capitalist machinery? And with no one getting hurt."

"Josh, so far I haven't heard the part where you get rich."

"Scott, Scott, always the cynic. Look, I care too. Besides, I was thinking of a book deal. Look at Ellsberg. He made out all right while keeping his conscience of the government credentials intact."

"And because we're locked up in Club Fed we could save all of our royalties," Scott said.

"Ever hear of 'by Anonymous'?" Josh said. "Come on, man, you're always giving me lectures about how the people don't understand how the system is set up against them, and if they only knew then there could be real change."

"Let me think about it," Scott said. He noticed that Mona had moved over to another table where four frat boy types were shouting so they could be heard over the music.

"Keep thinking, Butch. That's what you're good at," Josh said.

## Chapter 6

Estelle was running late, as usual. Her heels staccatoed her way through the crowds on Lex, jaywalking like a native whenever possible, apparently (but not truly) oblivious to the double takes from the men - and some of the women. The Bank definitely didn't believe in casual Fridays, especially for women. She told herself that dressing well was important to her career and was one of the good things about living here. She budgeted heavily for it and exceeded her budget.

She used the car she kept in a garage down the street from her condo (monthly fee - $400!) about once a month, mostly to go antiquing in Connecticut. Estelle figured that the volume of antiques sold each year in Connecticut was several times greater than the actual volume of furniture produced in those years. Someone told her if you added all the supposed relics of the Holy Cross you could fill the forests of Europe.

She was meeting Josh Calder at this little bistro on Third where she went sometimes. She figured it would be easy to get to from Penn Station when he got off the Metroliner. God knows what language the cabby would understand. The one time Estelle had used her college French was to give a Haitian cabby directions from the lower Village to LaGuardia.

The maître-de had his French thing together, although Estelle guessed he was actually Brazilian. He was just rude enough to be authentic without totally alienating his clientele. Because of the competition in the theater district, small places like this depended on locals. He only made a small fuss about her being tardy and for arriving alone, then led her to a small table. She waited for Josh, hoping that there hadn't been another derailment in Delaware or something.

"Estelle, you look, well, you look the way you pay all that money to look," Josh said. "Mona said to give you a kiss." He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, trying not to commit makeup mayhem. According to Mona he never seemed to employ the appropriate level of kissing intensity.

"I'm sure that's exactly the kind of kiss she had in mind," Estelle said. "I can't believe she's letting her little lamb chop off his leash in the wicked city. Where is she?"

"I told her it was both important and boring," Josh said. "Then, and only then, did I beg. Seriously, I need to pick your brain about something. It's kind of urgent."

"Can we order?" she asked. The captain was eyeing their table with a worried frown, as though there was a line around the block.

With the help temporarily assuaged, Josh got down to business. "Your bank is big in currency trading, right?."

"Unbelievable. Something like twenty billion a day."

"How does it work?" he asked.

"It's all done by computer," she said. "The currency people set parameters for the relative values of the currencies. The nanny whatever you call it second that the ratio hits one of those parameters the computer automatically buys or sells a predetermined large amount."

"And how do the people forecast the ratios?" he asked.

"That's where the real mumbo-jumbo happens," she said. The bank pays these gurus some unbelievable retainer to analyze the economies. "Like we say, 'every Ph.D. has an equal and opposite Ph.D.'."

"Analyze the economies?"

"You know, decide how many goods and services you can buy in America for a buck versus buying the same stuff in Spain, or wherever. I'm not an economist. Do you know the definition of an economist, by the way?" she said.

"Tell me."

"Someone who is good with numbers, but who doesn't have the interpersonal skills to be an accountant." She looked pleased with herself.

"I can't believe it. A banker joke." Josh said. "So, tell me how these gurus decide how the relative value of an economy changes."

"It's apparently pretty simple. They start with the premise that a country has a certain amount of stuff, assuming they don't suddenly strike oil or have a coup or something. Remember, we're talking about big numbers here. Then they monitor key economic indicators like unemployment, gross national product, investments, inflation. Then they apply their formulas."

"Inflation, huh?" Josh asked. "How do they figure that?"

"They don't have to. At the exact time of day of the exact day of the every month the government releases all these statistics. Different ones on different days of course," she said.

"Like the unemployment figures and so on," he said.

"Right. You mentioned inflation. The main inflation measurement is the Consumer Price Index," she said.

Estelle had let Josh pick the wine, although she was pretty sure she knew more about French whites than he did. A girl who didn't learn how to avoid bruising male egos would not do well in this city in her line of work. She was feeling a pleasant flush. Josh's cell phone rang.

"Calder," he said. "Hey. Good. Right on time. Sure, she's right here." He handed over the phone and said "it's Mona."

"Oh really?" she said, rolling her eyes. She took the phone. Apparently Mona made some small talk about letting Josh take Estelle to dinner without her. Estelle and Mona had the kind of relationship where they trusted each other because they both understood that they couldn't, when it came to men. Estelle said "don't wait up", hung up and gave Josh the phone. "I love her to death, but I swear," he said.

"Take it as a compliment, sweetie," Estelle said. "Where were we?."

"So the way these guys make or lose money is based on how well they guess how these factors are going to change, right?" he said.

"Right. They're pretty good in the long run, or they don't last for the long run," she said.

"If a person knew how one of these factors was going to change in advance would they know which way the currency would move?" he said.

"Not exactly, maybe, but certainly at least the direction. Are you and the brilliant Mr. Crane working on a cyber-ouija board? And why is 'O U I J A' pronounced "wee-jee", now that you mention it?" She was definitely feeling the wine.

"Nah. Scott's trying too hard to be the next, the next, you know, I don't even know the names of any of the people Scott wants to be the next of," he said. "Who are these people that do this trading?" he continued.

"It's a pretty small group of hot shots in the big central and international banks. The big players know each other," she said.

"Do you know any of the overseas people personally?" he said.

"Sure. I probably get three dinners a month schmoozing various international people. Full service banking, I call it," she said. "Well, not exactly full service. They wish."

"Estelle, you know me. I'm going to ask you something that I don't want you take in the wrong way, OK?" he said.

"Why Josh, I know how your devious little mind works. That's one of the reasons why I, I mean why everybody loves you," she said.

"Thanks, I guess. You're right, I've got something up my sleeve. We have a shot at making some real money, totally on the up and up, of course."

"Of course," she said.

"Seriously, Scott has one of his ideas. But we need to talk to one of these traders who is, shall we say, a creative thinker," he said.

"You mean greedy," she said. "I know just the guy. Hansi. Hansi from Zurich. The one the girls call 'Handsy'."

"Sounds like just the guy," he said.

Josh paid the check. Estelle furtively glanced at the tip and decided it was within the acceptable range, if not exorbitant. The maître-de gave the customary disappointed eyebrow-raise in any case.

It was a clear night so they got a cab right away. Estelle pulled Josh in by the hand, holding on a second longer than necessary. "Downtown," she said.

## Chapter 7

Hansi Renggli took the S-Bahn from his home to the airport because he was Swiss. He flew first class to New York because he was allowed to. He stopped at Sprüngli and picked up a half kilo of sweets, then spent the rest of the 90 minutes until boarding time in the first class lounge. The same faces were sneering at the same buffet of canapés.

Several of his fellow first class passengers wore jogging suits and shoes, as though they might get in a game of tennis in mid-ocean. Hansi wore slacks, a blazer and his brown Bally loafers.

The westbound flight was much more civilized than the red-eye back: breakfast at home, a passable lunch on the flight, dinner in New York, and a good night's sleep. Or, if he was lucky, a better night of not enough sleep.

Once again first class was mostly full of American tourists cashing in frequent flyer miles. He ignored any attempts at conversation and took a series of short naps.

The very thought of taking the bus and subway from Kennedy to Manhattan was an entirely different matter. He got in a cab driven by the customarily unpleasant little man from somewhere on the subcontinent. The drive to the Plaza took 35 minutes. In spite of everything he had heard for the past few years, New York always looked to him like an Italian dustbin.

After a shower and a change of clothes he felt fine. He went to the lobby bar, where Whit and the girl were waiting.

"Hans! _Wellkommen_ ," Whit said. He pronounced the 'w' as a 'w', not a 'v'. J. Whitmarsh Lodge was a senior trader at the age of 31. With him was a tall, good-looking brunette in a suit. Hansi was pleased to note that the trend in hemlines continued upward this month.

Hans did his best not to wince at the boy's frightful German.

"Hans, I'm sure you remember Estelle," Whit said.

To be honest, he didn't. Hansi saw no reason at all to be honest.

"Of course. How nice to see you again, my dear," Hansi said.

"I hope you don't mind if Estelle joins us this evening," Whit said.

"Quite the contrary." Hansi said, staring at Estelle's smirk.

"A friend has told me about an authentic Corfican place in Astoria. Honest Adriatic cuisine. They serve retsina from real ceramic ewers.

Hansi groaned, but only inwardly. Why did these poseurs insist on these cultural wars of attrition? They wouldn't be seen in a restaurant that had been open for more than six months, and that served cuisine from any country where most of the inhabitants were shod most of the time.

He smiled and lit Estelle's cigarette.

By 4:30 in the morning Whit had been asleep for an hour and a half on Estelle's couch. Hansi had removed his camel's hair blazer and loosened his Hermes tie. Estelle had taken off her high heels. She was carefully organizing two more lines of cocaine on a mirror on the kitchen table.

"You're trying to tell me that Switzerland is not in the U.N.?" she said. "You must think all American girls are gullible."

"I assure you I'm not putting you up," Hansi said.

Estelle giggled. "Our first date and you're already talking about putting me up. I think you mean putting me _on_ , Hansi. She pinched his cheek. You're cute. I thought you were a gnome of Zurich."

Hansi felt a stirring. This thin one had that insouciance that only an overreaching American could achieve. Hansi felt irresponsibly charmed.

"Have you been to Zurich?" he asked.

"Not really. My dad used to take us to Niagara Falls every other year. The Canadian side was a lot cleaner," she said.

Niagara Falls indeed. "You really must see Switzerland some day. I'll be pleased to show you around. My wife and I that is," he said.

"I suppose Mrs. Renggli does a lot of coke too, right?" she said.

Hansi felt a flush in his cheeks. He had begun using cocaine recreationally five years earlier. He never partook in Zurich, and rarely anywhere but in America. The bank did not have a tolerant policy regarding substance abuse. He remained silent.

"Hansi, how long will you be in New York this trip?" she said.

"I return Thursday evening. Day after tomorrow. Oh, it's _already_ tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Would you like to see me again?" she said.

So direct. So artless. So irresistible.

"I wouldn't mind so much, perhaps," he said. Hansi's normally impeccable English became more sing-songy Swiss after a few drinks. "But I have an engagement tomorrow evening with some Kuwaitis."

"I'll wait," she said. "But there's a catch. I want you to meet a friend of mine. He wants to pick your smart Swiss brain."

"Who would be picking my brains?" he said. He suddenly felt very sleepy.

"An old friend. You'll like him. I promise." She put her hand on his knee and squeezed gently. "Say yes. I mean, say _Ja_."

"Well, perhaps."

"Perhaps? She massaged his thigh gently."

"All right, then. Yes. _Ja_." Hansi realized he had never once felt this delicious sense of being slightly out of control in Zurich. "But now, I must go back to the hotel. We have a meeting in the morning after all."

"My God, look what time it is!," she said. She released his knee after a final squeeze, picked up her cordless phone, padded over to the couch and began shaking Whit while she slowly and loudly gave her address into the telephone.

Hansi wondered if women like Estelle were born with this feline competence or if she had been forced to learn. Riding down the lift, he tightened his tie a little for the ride back to the hotel.

## Chapter 8

The driver of the green BMW gave Malcolm the finger without putting down his cell phone. Impressed with the other guy's coordination, if not his manners, Malcolm maintained a steady 65 in the center lane. Traffic was heavy as usual. I definitely may have to move departure time ahead fifteen minutes, Malcolm thought.

He had started with the Bureau of Labor Statistics - BLS - immediately after his discharge from the Navy, back in 74. They had bought a house on two acres way out in the country, near Chantilly. Now it was the suburbs. It turned out they never had kids and the place was too big for just the two of them, but neither of them could really think about leaving.

As usual, he thought about work on the drive in. Albert Simmons was completely preoccupied with the Y2K business. Usually the department had a few contractors to help with the normal maintenance and development work, but all the budget for this year was tied up hiring consultants for the Y2K work. This meant that Malcolm the other regulars would have to hold the fort, even more so than usual.

The consultants seemed like decent sorts. As usual, they arrived with more answers than questions, but that was to be expected in people this young. Malcolm had been helping Scott Crane get oriented to the labyrinth that was the Statistics module.

Scott was an interesting fellow. He was very polite and he seemed genuinely interested in the background on how the programs had been developed. Malcolm chuckled to himself.

Every year or two the Bureau would hire a technology consultant who would change their technical tools. PL/1. FORTRAN. COBOL. Assembler, when you wanted the program to actually run. APL. Even ADA. Then, later, came the CASE tools. CASE, Computer Aided Systems Engineering, became trendy during the 80s. You were supposed to design the entire system before actually writing any code – sort of like making a set of more and more detailed blueprints before constructing a building. The concept was fine, but in practice it just meant more work for the developers, since management never allocated the resources necessary to complete the design work.

Then there were the statisticians. Each statistician-in-chief felt compelled to make significant contributions to the field, many of which were fundamental departures from the work of his immediate predecessor. The public assumed that statistics was a finite science. If they only knew how much of the work was based on conjecture.

We can't forget Congress either. The General Accounting Office had its own staff of statisticians. Most of their interaction with the Bureau consisted of blackboard briefings by the Bureau's statisticians, but every so often they required a new set of reports to be developed.

People talked about the Y2K problem as a "bug," an unintentional mistake. This was a misconception, Malcolm thought. In the late 60s and early 70s when these mainframe systems were developed, computer memory was more valuable than gold. The computer in the Apollo lunar module had 64K of memory, less than a high schooler's calculator. The efficiency of the computer was everything. People would spend days and weeks squeezing every byte of storage from a program. The date was an obvious place to look – every record had one or more date fields.

No one thought these programs would still be running in 25 or 30 years. 1974 was the future. In 2000 there would be floating cities. Airliners to the moon. Space Odyssey. HAL.

Malcolm had learned programming in the Navy. He had met his wife while stationed in Idaho Falls, Idaho, training to work on nuclear submarines. People like Malcolm who quietly did their jobs and kept mostly to themselves did well on subs. This probably hurt Malcolm's career, because he had never been interested in management. He became invaluable because of what he knew and how he did his job, not by blowing his own horn. One of his colleagues joked that he should put one of those "take a number" machines in his cube for all the people who stopped by.

Malcolm drove on autopilot to his parking lot. It was a five block walk to the office, but it saved them fifty dollars per month. Malcolm had to be careful after work, especially with the hours he kept. He had only been accosted once., by a thin young black man with a stocking cap and a runny nose. Someone had walked up behind the man and he turned and ran off before Malcolm could take out his wallet.

Malcolm arrived at 7:50, well within normal range. He put his lunch in the department fridge, hung his jacket on a hanger in his cube, got a cup of coffee, sat down, and logged on to his system. He still used a 3270 green-screened mainframe terminal rather than a PC.

"Mr. Eberle?" Malcolm turned around in his swivel chair. Scott Crane was standing there. "I was wondering if you have a few minutes."

## Chapter 9

Hansi wore what he pictured as a wise half smile through his business day. He bowed politely and shook hands with the prince. Kuwait had princes like Appenzell had cowherds.

"Your Highness, I've managed to slip a small example of the Swiss art past the authorities," he said.

"Let me guess. Sprüngli!," the prince said. "You Swiss always know one's weakness."

In your case we know quite a few, Hansi thought. That the prince could fly a minion first class to Zurich every day expressly to purchase these Luxemburgli did not seem to diminish his appreciation.

The prince was dressed as usual in a bespoke suit (made, in truth, by a Bengali in Bahrain, not on Saville Row). His goatee was freshly-coiffed. He wore slightly too much of an expensive cologne. Like most Arabs Hansi knew his handshake was weak and moist.

"My good friend, I trust the vagaries of the new global economy have treated us well?" the prince said. Of course, the bank's computers informed the prince's computers several times per second of how well the vagaries were treating them, but there was really no substitute for this personal contact. Hansi managed a foreign exchange account of several hundred million dollars for the prince. The bank's commission for this work was substantial. Hansi's job was essentially to make his clients feel well cared for. He rarely if ever involved in the minute-to-minute decisions involving buying and selling currencies.

In the information age any large bank could execute the trades efficiently. But the Swiss bank, a Swiss banker, still had advantages. After all, the relative value of the various currencies depended on natural resources, infrastructure and so on; factors that don't change overnight. But the day-to-day fluctuations that drive so much of the trading depend on day-to-day decisions, political and business. The perception of Swiss neutrality extends to the business world. No shift in the political or economic currents was too subtle to escape the refined sensitivities of a Swiss banker on the ground. And Hansi hadn't been assigned to the ground of Manhattan instead of Lagos by not knowing how to play this game.

The prince had recently returned from an Islamic conference. The bank was very interested in Indonesia's current economic climate. It was more than likely that the prince had met with people highly placed in Jakarta. Taking the trouble to deliver a half-kilo of sweets was an investment. The prince would never let slip something that he didn't want known. The bank's hope was that Hansi would become one of the prince's chosen confidants. The hints from men like Hansi settled like powder snow on the balustrades of the bank. Each day the quiet men in Zurich used this information to subtly refine the bank's position.

"Your Highness, I trust your trip to Islamabad was comfortable."

"I'm glad you asked, Hansi. I have an amusing anecdote to relate."

Later, Hansi was in a fine mood. He had a massage and a steam at the hotel, then dressed for dinner. From time to time during the day he had thought about Estelle, her hand gently squeezing his leg. He had to admit she was intriguing, this long-limbed dark-haired one with the latest coiffeur, not least because of the hint of amorality she projected.

She was waiting in the lobby, with a fleshy young man with curly black hair. Hansi remembered that Estelle had asked him to meet her friend. He was certain his sense of disappointment did not show through his wise half smile. He decided this Estelle was worth a long-term investment.

They had reservations at Chanterelle. Thank God, no Ethiopian or Peruvian or Tongan tonight. Typical for an American, the young man, Josh, wasted no time.

"Mr. Renggli, I want you know how much I appreciate you taking time to meet with me. With us, I mean," Josh said.

"Not at all, Josh. My new friend Estelle says you're in the software side of things."

"That's correct, sir. I'm leading a team that's working on the Y2K problem. I'm sure you know all about it."

Indeed, Hansi thought. Several hundred billion dollars of the worldwide economy had been siphoned off to feed these technocrats so they could deal with a problem of their own making.

"Only a little. I'm just a banker."

"Oh Hansi, don't be so modest, not at Chanterelle for these prices," Estelle said, putting her hand on his. Hansi again felt the stirring.

The cuisine was surprisingly acceptable. It was certainly possible to get a decent piece of fish in New York, and this chef didn't seem set on disguising it as a chili pepper.

"As you may know sir. . ."

"Please, just Hansi."

"Right. As you may know, Hansi, I've been leading a team working on some government systems. We've become very, shall we say, familiar with some of the statistical programs. Very familiar. Before I continue I should tell you that all of the information I'm discussing is in the public domain. Perfectly legit."

"Of course," Hansi said.

"In our analysis we think we may have gained some insight into how the economy works, at a deep level."

"Insight?"

"Yes sir. I mean, yes Hansi. Insight. We have had the opportunity to take a fresh look, using modern computing tools, at the interplay of several economic factors." Josh said.

"These guys are really smart, Hansi," Estelle said.

"Mmm."

"We believe we can forecast future econometric trends much more accurately than has been possible in the past. The reason I asked Estelle to arrange this meeting is to help us with what we don't know."

"What would that be?" Hansi said.

" We don't know how to turn our ability to forecast into prudent investments. Short-term investments," Josh said. "I asked Estelle who knows ForEx inside out." ForEx was the industry's abbreviation for foreign currency exchange.

"I don't do personal investment counseling. Besides, I assume your own bank has many foreign exchange experts," Hansi said.

"There you go again, Hansi, selling yourself short," Estelle said. "What Josh really asked me was -- who was the best."

"But you hardly know me."

"I hear our guys talking, Hansi. You have quite a reputation."

While Hansi recognized the blatant flattery, he didn't necessarily believe it was undeserved. "Well, we all do our best, I suppose."

"We also find the uh, the discretion of a Swiss banker to be appealing in this matter," Josh said.

I'm sure you do, Hansi thought. One thing one learned as a Swiss banker was to recognize greed. What could these people be up to? "What do you propose?"

"An experiment," Josh said. "I thought we might discuss it at Estelle's place."

Hansi supposed that getting to Estelle's place was half the battle. Finding a way to rid themselves of Josh could be dealt with later.

To Hansi's delight, Josh made a graceful enough exit after describing his 'experiment'. Hansi wondered whether Josh's departure was also orchestrated. He didn't really care. He watched Estelle as she leaned over the table, elegant legs, panty-hosed feet, carefully laying out lines of cocaine.

## Chapter 10

Scott sat at his terminal, earphones on, listening to Murray Perahia playing Chopin Mazurkas. Scott thought of Chopin as the first great jazz composer.

For the past several days Scott had been reverse engineering the code in the seasonal adjustment module. He had had enough math to understand what they were trying to do. The trick was to get inside the mind of the guy who wrote the original program back in the sixties. As usual, the technical documentation ranged from deficient to useless.

Josh slid into the chair next to Scott's desk. He was his customary dapper self with no apparent ill effects from his quick trip to New York.

Josh nodded toward Scott's terminal. "Still looking good?" he said.

"What?"

Josh's brow furrowed. "The work on the stat module. Take your headphones off, will you?"

"Oh, that. Fine, I guess. I'm plowing through it. Thank God I can pick Malcolm's brain every ten minutes. That guy has been here since the beginning of time."

"Malcolm. Oh yeah, Malcolm. Well, anyway, let's talk at lunch, OK?" Josh said.

"Great."

They always ate lunch out, making a rotation among several ethnic restaurants in the neighborhood. Today was Indian.

Scott was a lax vegetarian, often making exceptions. He dipped a piece of _kalcha_ bread into his _dal_. "How was New York?"

"Fine, Scott. I'm surprised you remember I went there," Josh said.

"What do you mean," Scott said.

"When I asked you how things were going this morning you acted like you had no idea what I was talking about," Josh said.

"The stat stuff. It's going OK. It's slow going," Scott said.

"Have you explored what we talked about?" Josh said.

"You mean tweaking the code?" Scott said.

"Yes Scott. I mean tweaking the code. Is it just me or are we not communicating well?"

"I don't know, Josh. Fooling with those programs makes me nervous."

"We discussed this, Scott. We agreed that we had a once in a lifetime opportunity to educate people." Scott noticed that Josh was getting into the whiny, insistent mode he used when he didn't get his way immediately. This behavior was reinforced, since Josh always got his way eventually.

"Relax, Josh. It's under control." Scott said.

"You asshole. You just like to see me get upset. Pass the spinach stuff. Tell."

_"Saag paneer_ , remember? I did what we talked about. I put a hook in the seasonal adjustment module. We can use the PARM file to move the adjustment whichever way we want," Scott said.

"This is already done? This works?" Josh said.

"It works."

"How stealth is it?" Josh said. Thanks to the genius of the Air Force PR machine, 'stealth' had become an adjective.

"Completely stealth. Malcolm looked right at the revised source code and didn't have a clue," Scott said.

"Scott, you're gonna keep quiet about this, right?"

"Mum's the word."

## Chapter 11

Val smiled and waved his way past the bored kid in the guard shack, found the clubhouse, and parked. Max was waiting in the lobby, dressed in golf clothes, including those tasseled loafers that Val thought looked silly.

"Thanks for taking time on a Sunday, Val," Max said. I'm out at six in the morning, and I thought it was important to talk face-to-face," Max said. The grill was busy with good-humored golfers eating lunch and watching football. Max guided Val to the formal lunchroom. They were alone except for an elderly couple in a corner.

Max's company was headquartered in New York, but he lived in Denver, where Val and his team were based.

"Val, I was very impressed with your team's work at Tavron. I mean both the results and how you handled yourselves. We managed to keep them as a client."

Val listened.

"We have another opportunity." He sipped his tomato juice. "As I'm sure you can guess, we're doing quite a lot of Y2K work. As a matter of fact, we have over 15,000 billable people in place today."

Val did some quick math in his head. These people have to average twelve hundred a day. Between fifteen and twenty million billable per day, just Marx, Barnes and Adams, just on Y2K.

Max continued. "This Y2K work is unique. I'm certain there has never been as much work done, worldwide, on a certain task. And this project, unlike all others in my long experience, has an absolute deadline. The due date is cast in stone."

"I never thought of it that way," Val said.

"So, as the fated day approaches, the sense of, shall we say urgency, increases. More and more work is being completed with less and less supervision. This is of concern to the partners, since after the new year our clients will have ample time to consider the quality of our work."

Max went on. "Naturally, it is our responsibility to assure the quality of the work completed by our people. This becomes even more challenging since we can place as many people as we can find doing billable work."

Max took a bite out of his cheeseburger. Someone in the noisy Grill Room cried out "Yes!" then the room exploded in a cheer. Val liked sports well enough, but he couldn't think what could make him that excited about a pre-season NFL game. Probably they were mostly excited that they didn't have to go home and cut the grass or interact with their children in a way that didn't involve watching TV sports with daddy.

"We're looking for a way to leverage technology to address this problem," Max said.

"But your people have Y2K scrubbers already," Val said. Scrubbers were programs, which automatically look for and resolve possible Y2K problems. "It's a little late to be developing new ones, isn't it?"

"Of course it is. No, we have something else in mind," Max said. "We thought you and your team might apply your expertise to some particularly sensitive situations. Especially in the federal systems arena. The partners feel that we should take pains to avoid another public relations fiasco regarding government systems," Max said.

The company, along with the other major accounting firms, had been sharply criticized for its role in the Savings and Loan scandal. Val thought at the time that a little sharp criticism was a small price to pay for the billions that the big accounting companies had charged for auditing the S&Ls and their dubious investments all those years.

"Any federal systems in particular?" Val asked.

"Well, yes, actually," Max said. We have a team of bright young people working in the Department of Commerce. Specifically in the Bureau of Labor Statistics."

"I'm surprised. I would have thought the big exposure would be in the high profile systems like Social Security or the IRS. If the checks don't go out at the end of January 2000 there's going to be hell to pay," Val said.

"You're right about that. But let's just say I have an intuition about the team at BLS," Max said.

Max did not seem like an intuitive person to Val.

"Val, what I'm about to tell you must be kept absolutely confidential.

Val shrugged and nodded.

"After you and your team discovered the scam at Tavron, I had a careful look at our history in that account. It turns out we had an IS team at work there for several months, up until the beginning of this year.

"Do you have any reason to suspect them more than any of the in-house people?" Val said. "As I remember, we had decided that it would be impossible to determine who had made the database changes."

"Nothing firm. But this job doesn't build your faith in the good side of human nature. Actually, there is one thing that's been bothering me. The team leader specifically requested to be assigned to a Y2K federal project. We usually have to scrape the bottom of our very expensive barrel to staff those jobs. The young people think federal jobs involve too much paperwork, too little glamour, and very bad coffee," Max said.

Val thought that Max must be more than a little suspicious, given the cost of Val's team. Val's company had just five full-time employees including himself. They almost always worked as sub-contractors to larger consulting firms like Max's.

"So the challenge is to vette the work of this team without raising their suspicion, and without getting the client overly concerned about the possibility," Max said.

"So, we'd have to hack the system from outside, then find out what our whiz kids have been working on, then find out if their work is on the up and up?" Val said.

"I wouldn't presume to tell you how to do your job," Max said.

"What happens if we get busted? Wilton could lose his green card," Val said.

"I have a special relationship with an appropriately-placed Under-Secretary. If absolutely necessary, I will convince him to say that he commissioned the audit. I realize this assignment is, shall we say, unconventional. I am prepared to compensate you and your team quite well for your efforts. I was thinking of a flat fee," Max said. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Val. A large dollar figure was written on the paper.

Val put his chin in his hand and looked away. When he was thinking his lower lip would curl over his upper lip. "I'll need 24 hours to get you an answer. I need to tell Jenny and Wilton the whole story. Who else knows about this? How much time do we have?" he said.

"Only me. No other partners and certainly none of our clients. As to time, our crew has been there two months and is scheduled to finish in two to three more." Max said. "I'll page you tomorrow evening with a number where you can call me. Sure you don't care for a glass of wine or something?"

"Thanks anyway, Max. I'd better start rounding up my team. Talk to you tomorrow. And thanks for lunch."

## Chapter 12

Josh fired up his laptop and began composing the email for Hansi. Hansi was neither stupid nor naïve, Josh thought. He was, however, greedy, and, according to Estelle, willing to live a little dangerously if there was something in it for him. Josh needed him, or someone just like him. The idea was to make a currency exchange trade that, while large, would be lost in the quantity of money changing hands each day.

You didn't have to spell things out for someone like Hansi. Instead, you made oblique references, and then listened for equally oblique replies, which tell you whether or not the other person got the point. After a series of such exchanges Josh and Hans had agreed on this experiment. What came next depended on how things went.

After Scott had first mentioned the statistical programs, Josh had been reading up on currency exchange. Normally not a reader, more a channel surfer, he had done his best to dig in. Estelle had helped a lot.

Bureau of Labor Statistics, the shop where Josh and Scott were working, published dozens of economic statistics. These had exciting names like Private Non-farm Business-Output per Unit of Capital. Some of these were published monthly, others annually. The monthly statistics came out at 8:30 a.m. Eastern time on a specific day of the month, which itself was published a year in advance. These statistics were always referred to as "eagerly awaited" because of their direct and indirect impacts on the economy.

The direct impact came in the form of various adjustments that contracts contained. For example, some unions and insurance plans had cost of living allowances built into their contracts. If inflation went up, so did payroll.

The indirect impact was much larger. Investors made their decisions based on their reading of the U.S. economy's tea leaves. They decided how to balance their portfolios between stocks and bonds. Many of these decisions were made by computer, based on instantaneous changes.

Every day, a trillion and a half dollars changed hands in the world. This added up to something like 300 bucks a day for every person on the planet, including Josh's Aunt Rose, all those squalling newborns in third world countries, the entire roster of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders - everybody. Everybody in the world buys and sells, on average, 100 grand per year. Amazing!

Of course, most of us, including Josh, his aunt, and presumably most of the underprivileged babies of color, saw very little of this. Instead, it flowed back and forth between big institutions like banks. What's more, something like three fourths of the flow of money had nothing to do with goods or services – in other words, nobody was paying for an actual measurable anything. Three fourths was money changing hands for its own sake: interest, currency conversion, and so on.

Josh opened up Excel. Let's see, a thousandth of one percent of a trillion dollars would be. . . $10 million. He ought to be smart enough to figure out how to get his thousandth of one percent some single night.

The phone rang. "Calder," he said.

It was Mona. She had been drinking. Josh didn't think of Mona as spoiled. Spoiled implied some kind of upbringing in which an otherwise normal person has their personality altered through overly permissive parenting. Mona's personality was proscribed in her DNA – Josh had met her parents. It was impossible to imagine the pre-teen Mona riding a bike to a Brownie meeting or doing the dishes before she could watch TV.

"Mone, I told you I had work to do."

Josh's brief replies punctuated Mona-logues of up two minutes each. Mona's voice didn't get louder when she was upset, but the words did come faster. And, Josh might have said she swore like a sailor, but the only sailor he had ever met was his cousin Barry, who raced his dad's Lightning on weekends in the Sound and pretended he wasn't gay.

"OK. Alberobello. I'll be there in forty-five."

He held the phone away from his ear.

"I won't wear my Dockers. Remind me which is last year's shirt."

Longer silence.

"I _do_ listen. . ."

Josh sat with his mouth open, paralyzed in mid-word.

"I'm on my way as soon as I send this email."

In the cab crossing town Josh ran through the plan for the thousandth time. First, Scott had to make the mod to the program at the right time. Josh was sure Scott would do what he wanted. You just had to talk to him right.

Getting Hansi to do what Josh wanted was trickier. Basically, Josh was looking to make a commission on the profit Hansi made on a ForEx trade. He could care less how Hansi got the money.

Josh hadn't decided how much to make on the deal. He knew the number had two commas in it. He would have to split it with Scott and Estelle. On the other hand, it wouldn't exactly be taxable income.

Then there was the question of whether to do this once or several times. He and Scott would not be working at BLS forever, but Josh figured they were good for another few months at least.

The maître-de at Alberobello acted like Josh was making up his story about meeting friends who were already seated. Mona was at a table with three light-skinned Latino-looking guys, laughing. Josh could have sworn she looked disappointed just for a second when he walked up to their table.

## Chapter 13

"Josh, check this out," Scott said. "They started keeping track of this stuff in World War I. Guess how much a quart of milk cost in 1920."

Josh had little or no idea how much a quart of milk cost today. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember ever buying milk.

"That's great Scott. Ready for lunch?" Josh said.

"Almost. Can we invite Malcolm?" Scott said.

"Let me guess. You want the inside scoop on which cardigan colors will be hot for the fall season," Josh said.

"He's a good guy, Josh. You'll like him," Scott said.

"Scott, we have stuff to discuss. Ask him to lunch tomorrow. Come on, we won't get a table anywhere if we don't get a move on."

Scott put his jacket on as he walked over to Malcolm's cube. He stood in the door for a minute, then walked by Josh into the elevator lobby. "Josh, sometimes you're such an asshole," he said.

They rode in Scott's Jeep. Josh had decided that the Irish place was most likely to have a quiet table in a corner. Scott ordered an iced tea. Josh ordered vodka on the rocks. Scott noticed that Josh's vodka brand of choice changed about every two months. This time it came from Belarus. It was unusual but not unheard of for Josh to have hard liquor at lunch.

"Scott, it's time," Josh said.

"Time for what?"

"Time to demonstrate our proof of concept," Josh said.

"Help me," Scott said.

"Scott, its time that we demonstrate our ability to manipulate these statistics."

"This month?" Scott said.

"This month," Josh said. "You tell me the code is ready. We need a test. You're the one who's always insisting on testing."

"I don't know, man. Malcolm says these people really freak if anything weird happens to these numbers. Like one time they released the data by accident the day before the official release date and it really hit the fan," Scott said.

Josh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Did he intentionally surround himself with people who required nurse-maiding, were they attracted to him, or what? He couldn't be too pushy with Scott.

"It's up to you, man. You're the one that brought it up. As I recall, you said something about how bogus the whole system was and how we should expose it for the fraud it is," Josh said. "I was the one with cold feet. You convinced me. So what's up? All of a sudden you're afraid?"

Scott liked to pretend that he operated on some higher plane, but he was as macho as the next guy, Josh thought.

"I'm not afraid of getting caught, if that's what you mean. I told you that the code was stealth, Josh. I meant it."

"I believe you. Hey, man, you're the one with the agenda here. To tell you the truth I don't lay awake at night worrying about the hypocrisy of government statistics. Like I care."

"You should care. The lives of millions of people are being affected every month to make some politicians look good," Scott said.

Josh noticed with satisfaction that Scott was taking the bit again.

"And the best way to make the point is to show how easy it is to manipulate the system," Josh said.

"Exactly."

Josh waited. Scott sat, his eyes focused somewhere over Josh's right shoulder, chewing his lower lip. "OK, let's go for it," Scott said.

"Scott, once we start there's no turning back. I need your word," Josh said.

"Have you decided who to leak to?" Scott said.

"I've narrowed it down to one of three people. Don't worry, I'll run it by you before I talk to anybody. What are our next steps?"

"The data has to be in by Friday the 5th. It's released on the 19th. I set the trigger in the program sometime between those dates. The program does the rest. What's the number?"

"It doesn't matter, as long we know in advance," Josh said.

"It can be whatever we want it to be. Just remember, the bigger the jump from previous months the more suspicious people will become," Scott said.

"Are we together on this?" Josh said.

"I'm in." Scott nodded his head as if convincing himself. "Yep, I'm in."

Josh's fries were cold. He drained his vodka, grabbed the check and got up. Things were looking up.

## Chapter 14

When Wilton went shopping for his first car, the macho _yin_ wanted a vintage GTO, while the practical _yang_ suggested a four cylinder Camry. He settled on a ten year old Land Rover. It was loaded with gadgets, including a special differential that would come in handy in case he had to drive up any glaciers in the course of his computer consulting work.

The office was in a small office park surrounded by trees. Wilton was pretty sure no _feng shui_ consultant had signed off on the layout, but it seemed pleasing enough to him. It was a standard one-story suite with plenty of parking. There was a fairly unobtrusive antenna on the roof that provided a wireless link to the Internet.

Val's bookkeeper came in once a week. They relied on voicemail instead of a receptionist, so today only Val, Jenny and Wilton were in the office. Val's company was part of a loose confederation of small consulting companies that coalesced into virtual corporations depending on the size of the job and who the lead contractor was.

Jenny was already in her office. She had on her headphones but noticed Wilton and waved. Wilton found her fascinating. She was 100% Chinese biologically. With her clear, strong features she looked like a classic pigtailed poster girl from the fifties. But her personality had been filtered through American culture her whole life and she came across like a power shopper with a Math Ph.D.

He had almost never discussed their common heritage with Jenny. Her standards for her colleagues and most of all herself were very high. She treated Wilton like anyone else, which was all the more motivating.

Strictly speaking he and Jenny both worked for Val. In practice Jenny naturally assumed the lead technical role. The three of them always worked together sometimes supplemented by other consultants. Val insisted that his team be given considerable autonomy on all projects, to the point of turning down some work. It wasn't a matter of being snobby. While their tools and methods were unconventional, the results they got were compelling enough to make the policy stick.

Wilton checked email. He had a Mac at home, a Unix workstation here, plus the lunch box Unix box that he took on the road. Jenny had started the coffee, so he had his first of several cups of the day.

Val bustled in. "Morning everybody. Ten minutes in my office, OK?" The team worked enough irregular hours and Val wasn't a stickler about starting time. Wilton could feel there was some big new assignment and was anxious to hear about it.

He sat down in a comfortable swivel chair at Val's small round table. There was a white board, and a monitor with a small videoconferencing camera aimed at the table. Videoconferencing always sounded like a good idea but they seldom used it.

Val's office was sunny but cluttered. It contained the three states of business matter: unpiled documents strewn on every flat surface, loosely piled documents collected on the same surfaces, and neatly filed books and binders which were almost never touched. Val managed the entropic process in fits. Every few weeks he couldn't stand the ratio of strewn to piled papers, so he adjusted it, in the process throwing out the 40 percent or so of both which had become worthless through the natural process of aging.

Jenny came in, carrying her customary yellow legal pad, and sat down. Val finished typing an email, jabbed the Enter key with his little finger ten times harder than necessary, and deftly rolled his chair over to the table.

"Hi guys. This one should be interesting. You remember the Tavron job?"

Wilton and Jenny nodded.

"Well, Max Leavitt, the partner from MB&A, has some what you might call follow-up work for us."

They remained silent.

"The MB&A technical team that had been at Tavron before us are now working on a government gig. Y2K in fact. Max is, shall we say, a little nervous about it. He's not convinced they weren't involved in the Tavron scam, and this government work is very sensitive."

"DOD?" Jenny said.

"No, not Defense. I thought so too at first. This is in the Bureau of Labor Statistics."

Wilton wondered off-hand what a labor statistic would be. How many shovels-full of dirt per man per day?

"The BLS publishes all kinds of statistics about the economy; some monthly, some quarterly, some annually. You've probably heard about some of them – even you, Wilton."

Wilton had gotten a late start, but since he had moved here his TV viewing hours per day was way above the statistical mean. CNN was a staple.

"Does Mr. Leavitt suspect anything specific?" Jenny asked.

"No. And the team hasn't been there long. Let's just say his firm is willing to invest in the best" – he winked – "to cover their bases. Let's go over the approach. First, unfortunately, we have to work in DC. The good news is we get to stay at the Ritz-Carlton. The assignment should only a couple months, but will mean long hours and weekends. Probably only one or two trips home during that time."

They were used to this. Wilton, in fact, didn't mind it. His apartment was more or less a staging area to exchange a suitcase full of clean laundry with the product of the last trip. His state-of-the-art stereo and big screen TV were sadly underutilized. He liked to cook for friends, but relied heavily on takeout pizza and Chinese food. The take-out Chinese was barely recognizable as his native cuisine. For one thing, every dish had about eight times as much meat as he was used to. Still, he enjoyed it.

"I'll make sure your credit cards are working." Mrs. Braga, Val's long-suffering bookkeeper, waged a continuous war of attrition with various Accounts Payable departments to try to keep the cash flow moving.

"Now, the work. The Bureau has thousands of old, mostly mainframe-based programs. Obviously we don't have time to check our boys' work line-by-line. We need a better approach."

"I assume they'll be using some methodology tool. Will we have access to it?"

"Yes and no. Our cover story is that we're doing a QA audit for the firm. I'll spend most of my time looking at the paper trail, and interviewing Bureau people. Wilton, I'll get you physical access to the network but then you'll have to hack the overall security before you and Jenny can get to the real goodies."

"Sounds straightforward so far." In Wilton's lexicon, 'straightforward' could mean anything from 'routine' to 'barely possible'.

"Jenny, how's your statistics theory these days?"

"I think I remember Mean, Median and Mode. The rest is a little fuzzy."

"Funny. Seriously, you have to get right inside the math of these programs. Then you and Wilton the Wiz have to deconstruct the code to see if it does what it's supposed to. Did I mention that the programs are written in a tantalizing combination of mainframe assembler, Fortran, PL/1, RPG, ADA and COBOL?"

"Real mainframe RPG? Cool."

Val and Jenny looked at each other and rolled their eyes. When Wilton encountered an esoteric curiosity like the RPG language running on an IBM mainframe he acted like an eccentric British naturalist staring at an undiscovered species of beetle.

"What do you guys think?"

Wilton deferred to Jenny.

She began. "Well, I'll be very surprised if the technical doc is very useful. I'm afraid we're going to have to reverse engineer the programs using the math, then compare what they're doing with what we think they should be doing. There's no way we can do that for all the programs they're checking. Wilton, any ideas?"

"Well, if we know where these people are supposed to be working, we should be able to compare where they're working versus where they say they're working. Can we get a backup to look at?" Wilton said.

"I'll try to make that happen. What else?"

"This doesn't seem as obvious an opportunity to steal as Tavron. Do we have a hunch what they might be up to?" Jenny said.

"No. But I'll work on that too," Val said. "Anything else?"

Jenny shook her head no. Wilton said "This is why we make the big bucks, right?" Wilton had a hard time getting a handle on Val. Val obviously knew his way around the corporate world. And while he didn't pretend to be technical, he always seemed to understand when Wilton or Jenny explained something. Once Val told Wilton that Val's job was to be Wilton's and Jenny's number one helper. Val meant he had to first make sure that they knew what was expected. Then, according to Val, his job became doing whatever it took to allow Wilton and Jenny to do their job. This could entail administrative tasks, running interference with the client or with the other consultants, or digging for information on the business side. Or ordering pizza for that matter.

Val said. "We leave day after tomorrow. E-tickets. One good thing Wilton, there's good jazz in DC."

Wilton glanced at his watch. He had a softball game in twenty-five minutes. "Business casual, boss?"

"Wilton, the way I see it you're hardly going to see the light of day for three weeks. You can wear a Nehru jacket for all I care."

"A what?"

"Never mind, Wilton. Just try not to give me a nervous breakdown at the airport this time, OK?"

## Chapter 15

Josh squirmed in the chair, the chair Mona called 'important'. He just knew it was uncomfortable, like most of their furniture. He had just come in from Penn Station. As usual, the cab got stuck in the Friday night theatre district jam. He had given up trying to give the cabby cross-town directions. Still, he wasn't about to take the subway. After you, Mr. Mayor.

One of the Headline News regulars was on. Ted Turner had long ago made the journalistic judgment that if you were going to pay someone a lot of money to read on the television, they might as well be really good looking. This one was a total babe with a blonde bob, a slightly cleft chin and pouty lips, and a rack her business suit tastefully flaunted.

"In economic news, the Consumer Price Index remained steady at 2.3%, surprising some analysts. Reversing a trend of recent months, the Index was helped by falling fuel prices."

Josh had seen the number on the net at 8:30 that morning, the scheduled release time. He wanted to see how it was reported.

Mona was at an opening. She hadn't really insisted that Josh go, which wasn't unusual. She was a little embarrassed to bring him when the crowd was what she considered ultra-hip. In that circle, having an actual job was considered a little – what was the word they used? – "sensible". He was fine with not going. They served warmish jug Chardonnay and held their chins and said things like "how sly!"

Josh intentionally didn't call Scott. He had arranged to meet with Hansi the next time the banker was in the city, probably in a week or two. He would definitely seem too eager if he called or emailed him. He wanted to talk to somebody. He called Estelle.

She answered on her cell phone. There was the unmistakable sound of the yuppie bar scene in the background. She couldn't talk right then but she would call him back.

He was restless. He got on the web and looked at some travel sites. Mona loved to travel, to exotic locales that did what she considered to be a good job of recreating the Upper East Side. Her version of foreign language study was to evaluate how cute one waiter's accent was compared to another.

What about Bali? Bali was cool, right? Josh knew next to nothing about Bali, other than it was an island. What else did you need to know? He clicked on a site. There were women dancing with funny hats and guys, with a different kind of funny hat, playing what looked like preschool xylophones mounted on dragon carvings.

He clicked on a BMW site. The new convertible looked cool. The price was in the 60s. He surfed a little and found a Ferrari site. He had read somewhere about companies that took stock Ferraris and souped them up. How much could that cost? "Souped up" doesn't come with the $300K list price model?

The phone rang. "Calder," he said.

It was Estelle. A bunch of them were in a cab heading downtown to dance at the new place. She was in her flirty mode.

"She's at an opening. She said about eleven," Josh said. He wanted to talk about the Index.

"I can't. I said I'd wait up for her."

Someone screamed in Estelle's cab – the New York party scream.

"She does not. It's my choice. Listen, call us in the morning, Estelle. No, don't. I won't be able to hear the horn up here. Later."

He called Scott after all and got his machine. Scott's voice said 'leave your message after the be-bop'.

The magazines on the weird-shaped coffee table were all Mona's. The only sports on TV was hockey. He sat in the middle of the couch, foot tapping like crazy, and flipped the channels.

## Chapter 16

Val chose an old fashioned steak house.

"I don't think I have time for Bauer's. I only get an hour," Malcolm said.

"Relax. I spoke to Mr. Simmons. Lunch is on me, we can take as long as we like, and if you want a cocktail I'll consider that my government duty," Val said.

They hung their blazers on the back of their chairs, but Malcolm left on his yellow cardigan.

The waiters still wore garter belts on their sleeves, for that old tyme look that became popular in the mid-70s, just as bell-bottoms were phasing out. Many sported Wyatt Earp mustaches.

Malcolm ordered a single malt scotch that Val had never heard of. Val would have guessed him as a 7 and 7 man. Val had a Chardonnay. He was convinced that lunch Chardonnay was shipped by the container load in 55-gallon drums from some third world country. Other than France, of course.

"First, let me thank you for your help to my team," Val said. "You can't imagine how difficult some people make it for us. Not that I expect you to start feeling sorry for consultants."

"We can use all the help we can get, believe me," Malcolm said. "How's the work going?"

"We're making headway, in spite of the typical roadblocks. Things look pretty clean compared to most Fed shops."

"That's nice to hear," Malcolm said. Val noticed that Malcolm drank his scotch neat, with a couple drops of water.

No entrée cost less than ten bucks. Val ordered Dover sole, Malcolm the gravlax. Another surprise – this guy was obviously not all meat and potatoes.

"You must have tales to tell, with all the flitting about you get to do," Malcolm said.

"A lot of the work is repetitive. Only the faces change. But yes, once in a while we come across something really funny, or strange, or both."

"Tell me a good story."

"Let's see. Once I was working in Clinton, Illinois, home of Revere Ware. At lunchtime someone asked "Do you guys want to eat in the bowling alley or would you rather go somewhere quick?"

"Oh my," Malcolm said.

Malcolm shook his head as he spread horseradish over the grilled salmon.

"Malcolm, I confess this is a working lunch. I wanted to pick your brain about something. I guarantee I have Mr. Simmons' go-ahead to ask, but feel free to call him if you're uncomfortable with the conversation."

"I'm sure you wouldn't mislead me about something like that, Val."

"Thanks. That makes things easier. What I wanted to ask was this. I know you've been working with the Y2K consulting team that was brought in."

"Well, I've been trying to help them where I can. I've been around a long time and I know where some of the skeletons are, programmatically speaking that is."

"How long, exactly?"

"Let's see. Oh my goodness. Twenty-nine years. Nixon was president. I'm not sure he took a direct role in hiring me, however." Malcolm smiled.

"Too bad for him. Things might have turned out different if he had a few more Malcolm Eberles and a few less Chuck Colsons."

When the waiter checked Val asked if they could get a side order of the garlic mashed potatoes. He figured that averaging the sole and the potatoes, he would come in well under the double cheeseburger, fries and a Coke standard for calorie load.

"But back to our boys. Part of our job is to sort of check out their work. I'm sure your shop has sound QA practices, but management feels that they can't be too careful," Val said.

"If by 'sound QA practices' you mean trying to cover every square foot of wall space with quality posters, you're right. If you mean peer review of design and code and things like that, you must be kidding. We're lucky to meet the deadlines as it is."

"That bad."

"Getting worse all the time. This Y2K hubbub is just the latest excuse. You should have been here when the Director decided we were going to switch to ADA before any other Department."

Someone had described the once-trendy programming language ADA as the Defense Department's attempt to sign a computer language non-proliferation treaty with itself. It had apparently made some headway in other government shops.

"So it's possible that some of these people's code could go unchecked?" Val said.

"Of course, they came in touting their 'methodology'. That's still a pretty popular consulting term. It includes thorough QA. But you have to wonder about the built-in bias."

"The same team creating the code checks the code?"

"Exactly. But don't get me wrong. They seem like very capable young people. Scott Crane is a nice young man – very conscientious."

"He's the tall blonde guy, right?"

"Right. He wears suspenders, but not the – what's the term? – yuppie style. He seems to favor more of a 40s look."

The waiter checked back. Malcolm suggested that they each have an Armagnac. He asked the waiter for a particular brand. The waiter said he would have to check, then came back with a tray. On it were two enormous brandy snifters balanced over tumblers half full with steaming water.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said, "that will ruin the bouquet of the Armagnac. In fact it already has. The snifter, at least a normally sized one, is designed to let the warmth of your hand warm the liquor gently, releasing the flavor. You might as well boil these in a saucepan on the stove. Do you mind bringing us two the old fashioned way? We'll pay for them if necessary."

"I'll see what I can do," the waiter said. "We probably move about a half bottle of this stuff a year."

Val had to admit he was impressed with this shy, colorless bureaucrat. "Who's the curly, dark-haired one? Jeremy, is it?" Val said.

"Josh. Josh Calder. He seems a little too busy with whatever his agenda is to hobnob with the peons like me. Unless I miss my guess Scott does the lion's share of the work and Josh takes most of the credit. Funny though, it doesn't seem to bother Scott."

"Yeah, Calder. Actually we've come across his work on previous assignments. He's a smart guy, but apparently a little abrasive."

"Even for a consultant."

"Ouch. Got me Malcolm. Anything else in particular catch your eye?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I did notice one thing."

"What's that?"

"It seemed to me that they spent quite a while in the X-11 modules."

"What are those? X-11?"

"Sorry. As you know, many of the indexes we publish are adjusted for seasonality. The X-11 modules are used to make those adjustments."

"Seasonality?"

"Sorry again. We do live in a world of jargon. Seasonality is the effect of the time of the year, or sometimes even the day, on economic performance. For example, many retailers do half of their annual business between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We try to adjust for that to give people a clearer picture of what's really going on."

"Sounds important. Why would it be unusual for the Y2K team to spend a lot of time working there?"

"Well, think about it. The seasonal adjustment modules are specifically designed to deal with dated information. They're probably the only programs in the whole Federal Government that were Y2K – what's the word? – compliant before all this ruckus started. They had to be or they wouldn't work."

"So. . ."

Malcolm finished Val's sentence. "So why would our fearless heroes spend days and days working on the one set of programs that didn't need their help?"

## Chapter 17

The Village Vanguard was shaped like a megaphone, with the bandstand at the narrow end. It was basically a pit, but had the best jazz night-after-night in the city. The cover was eighteen bucks tonight.

Scott and Ernest shared a table with four Japanese tourists. The Vanguard crowd was usually at least a third Japanese.

Johnny Griffin was on break. One of the last of the masters who invented modern jazz. Jazz people didn't exactly take care of their bodies. He and Ernest had made the trip just to hear him. Ernest drove and they stayed in a pretty cheap place downtown.

Ernest continued. "So, my man, the way I figure we can do the whole side for under five grand. It is time for the young lions to make their statement."

"Five grand, huh? What size group did you decide on?" Scott said.

"The basic quartet, augmented by guest artists," Ernest said. "Percussion on a couple tracks, cello on a couple, and I have a surprise."

Scott listened.

"What if I were to say to you that a Mr. Cletus Witherspoon would be willing to join us for a couple of cuts?" Witherspoon was a kind of underground legend whose reputation for ferocious tenor playing was rivaled by his reputation for being hard to work with.

"You know 'Spoon?" Scott said.

"Man, I keep explaining, within our community the artists have always sought each other out for support and sustenance," Ernest said.

By 'our community' Ernest meant 'African-Americans'. Unless there was a newer, more politically correct term in place.

Scott thought about Cletus Witherspoon. He had been prominent on the jazz scene since the late fifties. Scott doubted whether he had ever made fifty grand a year. Scott knew that MB&A was billing something like two hundred an hour for his time. New York was full of jazz legends that would be delighted to get one two hundred dollar gig per week.

Ernest persisted. "I mean, it is time to get this music out into the world. Are you down?"

Scott did not feel manipulated. He knew that Ernest knew what Scott made from his day gig. There was no question who was in the best position to pay for the recording. There was also no question that Ernest would do the same thing if the situation were reversed.

"Chill, Ernest. I'm down. And remember, I want to record the political piece we talked about."

"Solid." While black street slang tended to evolve just ahead of its adaptation by MTV-trained suburbanites of all ages, the jazz hipster jive he and Ernest used had remained largely frozen in its mid-fifties form.

Scott had noted with satisfaction if not surprise that the Consumer Price Index came in on the money, no pun intended. His idea was to record a kind of rap manifesto and post it anonymously on the web, pointing out the CPI bug.

White jazz musicians had always tried to sound black, both musically and with the spoken word. The voice would be digitally disguised in the final mix, but Scott had an idea of the quality he wanted.

Scott had been playing this idea of making a political statement musically over and over in his mind for some years. He had never really come up with the right issue before this. He had run the idea by Ernest who, predictably, made it his own. Ernest immediately and simultaneously began planning the musical production, the script, and the distribution strategy. Scott enjoyed Ernest being Ernest, and thought about Josh.

Josh obviously was in this to make money some way, but the idea appealed to Scott just the same. He couldn't see how any individuals would get severely hurt in the short run, and the system needed to be changed. Like most casual radicals, Scott vaguely defined "the system" as those aspects of modern life with which he disagreed but felt powerless to influence.

Yes, he would play out Josh's game. He didn't mistrust Josh, exactly, but he also had no illusions about his priorities. Johnny Griffin's band was milling around after a longish break. Scott glanced at his watched, signaled for another eight dollar Heineken and turned his chair toward the stand.

## Chapter 18

Malcolm computed that he had seen 345 Consumer Price Indexes issued in his time. There was nothing special about this one. Still, something bothered him a little bit.

The analysts were surprised quite often. The truth was the economy, even the small portion sampled by the Bureau, was far too complex to forecast accurately month by month. This surprise was that the index hadn't changed – also very possible. But there was something he couldn't put his finger on.

Malcolm had no inclination to tell Albert Simmons. Albert was a decent guy, but he hadn't gotten to his level without knowing how to cover his ass. Albert's method of checking out Malcolm's concern would be to assign Malcolm to check them out himself. He'd check them out all right, but on his own schedule.

\- - -

Malcolm wasn't the only one who was a little uneasy. Eunice Gladstone, of Elkton, South Dakota, had been charting the CPI by hand on grade school graph paper for years. She made a point of adding each month's new data point the morning it was released. This time she had a strange feeling. While it was well within normal range there was something funny about it. She called her broker.

Leonid Dashvilli, a civil servant in Tblisi wasn't just suspicious. He knew. But you could forgive him, with everything he had seen, for being a bit of a cynic.

In Cali, Columbia, the cartel maintained a serious econometric research effort. Omar Julio Rozas, trained at Stanford, stared at his print out and shook his head. His team had been developing neural network forecasting tools. This datum just made no sense. He wasn't looking forward to making his monthly presentation.

Others, hundreds of others, noticed something, or thought they did. Of course, other hundreds of others had noticed something last month, and the month before that.

## Chapter 19

Hansi was finally coming back to New York, Estelle said, and he didn't want to meet on his first night. They arranged dinner for that Wednesday. Hansi insisted on the endless small talk through dinner. Josh had a hard time keeping a civil tongue.

"So, Mr. Calder, it would appear that your forecast was quite accurate in the event." Finally, Josh thought.

"As I told you, I think we've made a real breakthrough. I'm glad to hear you agree."

"Well, I'm afraid I shall subject you to still more of our famous Swiss caution. But, yes, I was most impressed," Hansi said.

This time they were at LesPinasse, in the St. Regis. Another four bills, Josh thought, if Hansi picks the wine. I thought the Swiss were frugal. Of course, what could be more frugal than never picking up a check?

"So, Hansi," Josh could not get used to calling a grown, boring man 'Hansi', "may I inquire what your advice would be at this point?"

Hansi sat, holding his chin, with that smug half-smile of his. He wasn't looking at either Josh or Estelle. Josh sat on his hands, his knee bobbing rapidly under the table. Estelle sat with her mouth open as though she were hanging on Hansi's every word. That's not all of Hansi's she's been hanging on, Josh thought.

"Well, as I explained on our last visit, I'm not really in the investment side of things. So you would do well to take any investment advice I would volunteer with a piece of salt, as you say," Hansi said.

"Grain," Estelle and Josh said the word together.

"Pardon?" Hansi said.

"It's 'grain of salt'. You said 'piece of salt'" Josh said. He felt a little silly correcting Hansi's nearly perfect English, but he was still miffed.

"Thank you. One does one's best," Hansi said.

Josh decided the best strategy was to just shut up and let him get to his point, at least until the little guys with the vacuum cleaners replaced the captain who had been glancing at their table with increasing frequency.

"Perhaps it would be helpful if I gave you my thoughts regarding some investment ideas you already have been considering," Hansi said.

Josh was sort of ready for this. "I've been thinking about foreign currency futures."

"Indeed." Josh knew Hansi was going to say 'indeed'.

"As I understand it, the performance of the U.S. economy is a major predictor of the exchange rate of the dollar."

"The analysts do watch carefully. The American consumer remains the engine of the world economy," Hansi said.

"And a lot of dollars are bought and sold every day, right?" Estelle said. She touched Hansi's hand.

"My dear, the amount is almost incomprehensible. Literally hundreds of billions of dollars," Hansi said.

"With a 'b'," Josh said.

"Of course, we Swiss take a conservative view of currency values. Our Franc is the only major currency fully backed by precious metal reserves. Most Americans still believe in the myth of Fort Knox. But, yes, the rest of the world economy is based on less, shall we say, substantial principles."

Josh leaned forward. "So, in principle, a person who was highly confident in advance of how an economic indicator would change would be in a position to, to leverage that information."

"My good fellow, in a free market the return on a given investment is dictated by the risk of the investment. If one can ameliorate that risk, it stands to reason that the return should be more favorable," Hansi said.

'Ameliorate?' Give me a fucking break, Josh thought. "Well, I think the demonstration of our forecasting ability went well, don't you?" Josh said.

"Went well? It was right on, wasn't it?" Estelle said. "Come on Hansi, you know you were impressed. I thought you told me you weren't going to be such a frump."

To Josh's surprise Hansi blushed a little. For once he had nothing to say.

Josh waited.

Finally Hansi said "Well, yes, among friends, it was a notable accomplishment. Of course, one would be unwise to draw too strong a conclusion from a single data point. . ." Estelle cocked her head with a shame-on-you look on her face.

"All right. Yes. Very good. I look forward to future examples," Hansi said.

Now we're getting somewhere, Josh thought. It must be fun to be a woman like Estelle.

"Hansi" - Josh winced – "my colleagues and I want to leverage this ability. We're very confident. But we have a problem. To do so, we would have to borrow substantial assets in order to invest in the scale we believe the opportunity deserves. And we were hoping you might get us in touch with, with resources that would be sensitive to our special needs." Man, I'm starting to talk like this guy, Josh thought.

"I see," Hansi said. "Resources. Yes."

"Hansi, you must know a lot of people who would be interested in backing a deal like this," Estelle said. Don't blow it, Josh thought.

"It's true that I am at ease in the world of money," Hansi said. Oh no, Josh thought, he's going to get on another roll. Just be cool.

"Let me think about this for a few days. I assure you I shall give it serious consideration. Yes."

The captain's impatience had just about overcome his politeness. Josh glanced at him. How'd you like to be that guy's old lady, he thought. Josh waited another moment, then pantomimed 'check please'. The guy burned rubber as he swooped toward them.

\- - -

Later, Mona said "How'd it go, babe?"

Josh said "Mone, you have no idea how hard I work for a living."

## Chapter 20

Jenny kicked her shoes off as soon as she crossed the threshold of her hotel room. She grimaced at the striking brown heels. She tried to remember the last time that a new pair had hurt her so much. Cole Haan or not, she wasn't prepared to take that shit from any conservative shoe. She dropped her briefcase on the desk and headed straight for the mini bar to get a San Pellegrino. She noted that there was a message light on her phone. As she worked the latch to the bar, she smiled to herself, remembering the lecture that the front desk clerk gave her when he handed over the silly, nowhere near unique key.

The water tasted great. She actually missed this water when she was at home. She grabbed the TV remote and arranged the plump chair so that she could put her feet up on her bed while making her phone calls. Making sure she could see the TV, she plopped down into the chair and put her feet up. Ah! Her feet immediately started to feel cooler and hurt less. She clicked on the TV and surfed until she found CNN Headline news. She muted it and dialed the hotel's voicemail. It was irritating to have to listen to all of the information about how to set her "private" greeting before being given the hotel specific codes to retrieve, save and delete her messages. The last thing that she wanted to do was to admit that she was basically living here and actually record a personal message to greet her callers.

She only had two messages and they were both from Lewis Charles. He just said that he was thinking about her and would try her again later. She made the long distance call to her office voicemail and was happy to find that there weren't any urgent messages. Everything could wait until tomorrow. She then called her home answering machine and found that her neighbors were frantically trying to get in touch because they wanted to borrow her grill for a Thursday night barbecue, and that her sister wanted to know if she would fly to Orlando for a family reunion – a year and a half from now. She took advantage of the time difference and called her neighbors and gave them her blessing in time. She decided that the Orlando trip didn't need to be confirmed for a while.

The top stories were on again, so she listened to the headline news. Nothing earth shattering. She turned the volume down a little and started to setup her laptop. She hadn't had a chance to check her email all day.

This had been a productive day. The team had met this morning at the Dulles airport and had arrived at the BLS a little before 11:00. Val hit the ground running and had managed to get the team system access and a workspace by 1:00. The environment wasn't ideal but at least they had been assigned an empty cube and one telephone so far. While she and Val went to lunch with a couple of the managers, Wilton was able to set up and start his data mining. The rest of the day was one meeting after another with various middle managers. Tomorrow would be more of the same. She was glad that Val had scheduled himself in on these initial meetings. The two of them could analyze a situation faster working as a team, but mostly she enjoyed being around Val. They had gotten quite good at working in this way. They approached problems from different yet complementary angles and seemed to be able to amass a good understanding of a business and its internal operating quirks very quickly. It seemed like every time one would ask a question that would turn on the lights for the other.

Sooner or later, she would be the sole participant in these meetings. This was a sign that Val had decided that the team needed to continue the meetings mainly for goodwill purposes. Useful information continued to turn up but from that point forward a non-linear, unscheduled approach was more productive. This was when the meetings began to feel like one chorus after another of some lame old song. In any case, Jenny knew that she was going to have to put in extra hours on this job – some for writing the summaries of her daily findings, some for doing her own research.

Right now, she knew that Josh Calder and Scott Crane were up to something even if she wasn't sure what. She knew they'd find out pretty soon. Hacker types were actually fairly easy to bust. It seemed like the best ones were always brilliant and fatally immature at the same time. At least Wilton had a sense of humor about himself.

She was well aware of the stakes involved on this scam. The money was substantial and the political exposure much more so. Even though Val was her boss, she felt naturally protective of him. He was somewhere between idealistic and downright naïve. He said he was aware of the sensitivity of this assignment, but she would make a point of reminding him.

The phone rang. It was Lewis Charles, the closest approximation to a boyfriend she could claim at the moment. calling back. He had a Masters in English Lit from Rice, but currently made his living as a bull rider. She was attracted to that kind of contradiction, although she never could get used to the two name Billy Bob thing. Plus he was a stone babe, in a polite, Clint Black sort of a way.

He was at a rodeo in some town in Canada that she had heard of but couldn't place on a mental map. He had broken his pinky again. She shivered. Physical damage assessments aside, his conversations had a certain courtly quality that she found appealing. Plus he didn't drag his calls out. A really nice guy. She wasn't sure whether he was, or even whether she wanted him to be, more than that to her.

She rarely dozed off. She sort of had to make a conscious decision to sleep, and had to plan to invest fifteen or twenty minutes of lying still in the dark to do so. A TV was playing, too loud, down the hall.

Staring into the darkness, Jenny had the kind of uneasy feeling that bothered her the most. Something was seriously wrong, but she wasn't sure what. Her mind, a potent weapon, could also be a liability. Like now, when it kept telling her to be careful, but couldn't figure out what to be careful of.

## Chapter 21

Hansi didn't usually go into the Trading Room. It was a noisy, crowded, unpleasant place. He had done his turn there early in his career. He made an exception today, at least as far as standing in the glassed-in observation area, which overlooked the floor.

Most of the people in the Trading Room were young men, in their twenties. They all wore dress shirts and ties. Their spoke urgently into headphones, emphasizing their points with timeless hand gestures, invisible to their distant clients. The young men here in looked much the same as their counterparts in New York and London and Tokyo, except the Swiss never loosened their ties.

Almost all the trades were actually made by computer. The technicians set a bewildering array of hedges and triggers, based on the respective movement of the leading currencies against each other.

The amount of money that was changing hands was so large that it was meaningless to the young men. It was simply numbers changing every second on old-fashioned green screen terminals.

The publication of the U.S. Consumer Price Index was just one of the many events around which the torrent of money flowed. Once in a while something happened in the real world – a hurricane, a devaluation – that was dramatic enough that the media would mention its effect on foreign trade. Usually the trillions just sloshed around, computer-to-computer, balance sheet to-balance sheet, noticed only by the traders.

The flow of tangible money from place to place was a tiny fraction of the trading that took place, and lagged the trades by weeks or months. It was maintained more or less to maintain appearances.

The system allowed Indonesian women to sew shoes together that teenagers in Los Angeles would purchase for what would be a week's pay for the women. Through it a pump, made in Germany, extracted chemicals from a hole drilled in the Kuwaiti desert that were turned, half a world away, into energy to nudge a Pepsi truck over a Guatemalan ridge. But most of the money that changed hands each day – more than a trillion dollars, about $200 for every human on the planet – had nothing to do with goods and services. It was money in the form of interest and foreign exchange conversion and commissions.

A trillion and a half dollars each night. Say there were 5,000 people, worldwide, who managed this. That meant that each trader managed the flow of $300 million a day. Nine thousand dollars a second. The computers made it possible, but it took a very large, very unusual trade to get anyone's attention – trader or computer.

Riegle, the supervisor, said "you find something here amusing, Renggli?"

"I was just thinking of something funny I heard the last time I was in New York."

## Chapter 22

Mona and Estelle decided on two p.m. for lunch. It was basically impossible to get a decent table around noon. Mona changed favorite spots about every seven weeks. This one was a dainty looking tearoom done in restful earth tones. The menu looked unsatisfying to Estelle.

"So, how did it go?" Mona said.

"How did what go?".

"The meeting silly. Don't be cute with me, girl."

"What meeting?'

"Estelle. The meeting with you and my Josh and your little Swiss cheesecake."

"I didn't know you knew we had a meeting. What has Josh told you?"

"Sweetie, I keep my little muffin on a very short leash. You think I'd let him go out with trouble like you without my permission?"

"I've told you a million times. Josh and I are just friends."

"And I've told you a million times that 'just friends' is bullshit, at least between heterosexuals between fourteen and ninety. One or the other always wants the other one to some degree."

"So who wants who? Me or Josh?"

"Josh wants you. Of course. Every straight guy wants you, Estelle, and probably some of the gay ones. Of course, he wants me more. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you want Josh too?"

"Don't take this wrong, but not really."

"Whatever. So, how was the meeting?"

"It was weird. Hansi is like this egotistical jerk who thinks he's God's gift to women. Plus he spends all night trying to show off how sophisticated he is. And then Josh is sitting there practically wetting his pants about the plan while Hansi goes on and on about subtle this and delicate that."

"Where did you guys eat?"

"That's another thing. Gallagher's. Hansi orders this steak that was the size of your legendary handbag. The waiters are grouchy old winos and the place smells like burnt fat."

"Could you even talk in there?"

"It was hard until it thinned out in the dining room. Then it got better."

"So, did Hansi tell you the plan?"

"The plan?"

"Estelle, I repeat, don't get cute with me. You know what plan I mean."

"Has Josh told you about the plan?"

"He came home wiped out. Did you three share any recreational substances?"

"Christ, Mona."

"Did you?"

"A couple lines. Then Hansi and I had a couple more later after Josh left."

"You bad girl. Corrupting a married man."

"Yeah, it's pretty tough to get old Hansi off the old straight and narrow. Did you ever notice how European businessmen always wear those sleeveless undershirts and long socks with garters?"

It was Mona's turn to be taken aback for once. "The plan, Estelle. Tell me the plan."

"Are you sure Josh wants me to tell you. I mean like I thought he might want to protect you?"

"Josh protect me? Please. Give."

Estelle thought to herself: Mona would never give up until she got what she wanted. Josh hadn't specifically told her not to tell Mona what was going on. What the hell.

"Well, I don't exactly understand all of it. Hansi knows some guy who's going to make an investment before the next set of inflation statistics come out. We get sort of a commission on the investment if it turns out."

"How much?"

"That was the funny part. Hansi kept saying stuff like 'a very equitable arrangement'". Estelle said this with a mock Hansi voice. "Josh and I are like 'Hansi, get to the point'. Hansi finally said that the commission on the first experiment would be between one and two million dollars. It would go up in the future."

"And what's your share of that?"

"I get twenty-five percent for setting up the deal between Hansi and Josh."

"And you get the sex on the side as a little bonus?"

"Mona, I don't exactly have a lot of trouble finding men who want to sleep with me. Maybe you go for the pompous jerk type but I don't. That part's work."

"Well, I must say you're just the girl for the job. That's why I love you. What next?"

"The deal is set to happen this coming month, in like a week and a half. Then we have another meeting to set up the next forecast, as Josh calls it."

"Hmmm. Little Josh. Maybe he's trainable after all. Do me a favor, sweetie. Keep our little chat a secret. I want to hear Josh's version. I'm sure you understand. You're buying lunch, right?"

## Chapter 23

Josh though, for such a nice guy, Scott could be a major pain in the ass. Scott had insisted that they have lunch. They chose a joint with rude waiters – Josh thought they must go through training to get it just right - and great burgers.

Scott was one of those people who were either oblivious or too focused. Right now it was the latter. The best plan was to rope-a-dope, let Scott vent, and get on with things. I'm really getting sick of doing all the rope-a-doping, Josh thought.

"Josh, I don't understand. I'm not even sure I want to understand."

"What can I say? Do you want me to explain it again? Things got a little complicated. We have to do this a couple more times before we can release."

"What things got complicated? I thought I had the hard thing to do – putting the hooks in the CPI code. How many more times?"

"I'm not exactly sure. A couple more."

"We're recording next week and mixing right after. I was planning to be ready by the next release date."

"So, wait a little while."

"I guess it's OK. But what other things got complicated? What aren't you telling me, Josh?"

The waiter showed up, saving Josh by the bell for the moment. Scott said, "Could I trouble you for some Tabasco?" The waiter stuck a perfect full stop with his best I-don't-believe-what-I'm-hearing face, then stalked off, shaking his head. Scott looked at Josh and shrugged, the tension across the table palpably lessened.

"Scott, you have an agenda. I've been straight with you about it. We'll get it out there. But I have an agenda too."

Scott waited.

"I want to, to. . . leverage this concept too" Josh said.

"Leverage."

"Look, like it or not we're playing with fire here. If there's a chance of getting burned I also want a chance of getting something worthwhile out of it. If for you that means educating the masses about the inequities of capitalism, go for it. My needs are simpler."

"So you are going to make money with this."

"Is that so bad? Guilty. Guilty as charged. Sometimes you're so fucking naïve."

"'Naïve' as in 'don't see things my way?"

"No, 'naïve' as in 'I wouldn't make a buck if it kicked me in the ass'."

"Josh, we've had this conversation. Making money is fine. Screwing people is not fine. I refuse to accept that you can't make money without screwing people."

"Who am I screwing? The poor, unsuspecting central banks of the industrialized world?"

"You know as well as I do that the money in those banks belongs, ultimately, to real people."

"Several times removed."

"Granted."

"Scott, look, let's not make this so hard. I have set up a trade, based on the CPI. Nobody really knows how the exchange rate will fluctuate based on the report. I'm just taking my best shot. And, by the way, you know I would cut you in if we do hit it."

"Just because I don't act interested in your schemes doesn't mean I'm naïve. Maybe I just don't want to get involved."

"We've always looked at things different. That's probably why you're my best friend."

"I am?"

"Jesus Christ, what do you think? You're the best person I know. The smartest. The most honest. You keep me sane."

"So this is what you call sane?"

They laughed. The waiter, who had remained fashionably distant from his customers, looked over his shoulder and gave them a dirty look.

Josh thought: well, he's back on track, at least for now.

## Chapter 24

"Yo, listen up. The thing is, we got to sustain the groove throughout. We're getting off all right, but somehow the pulse is, like, evaporating." Ernest sat with one foot up on the bar stool, with earphones jammed down over his pork pie hat.

They had decided on a live take, even the vocals. They wanted a loose street feel, kind of like Marvin Gaye on _What's Goin' On?_ , with Lem Barney and Mel Farr of the Lions chanting the backup. It had gone pretty well so far, but pulling off twelve or thirteen minutes in one take was clearly a challenge.

Scott was playing a vintage B3. He hadn't done that much Hammond work, but a guy in Columbus had shown him how to set the drawbars to get a dark yet clicky jazz sound.

Mikal Soares, the vocalist, was a third year medical student at Howard. He looked like a preppie. He had collaborated with Ernest and Scott on the script. It wasn't really a lyric, since it was to be delivered over, around and through the groove in hip-hop fashion.

They say there's no inflation

In truth, manipulation

They tell us life is better

Who's the lender, who's the debtor?

A system of oppression

That talks about progression

The fox that guards the hen

It's time that we ask "when?"

The rich, they just get richer.

You understand the picture?

They're giving us the evil CPI

The working man can only sit and cry

The rich know that it's easier to lie

Than to be fair – why should they even try?

They're giving us the evil CPI

The struggling single mother

Ground down by her Big Brother

School treats kids of color

Like they are somehow duller

Industry spreads cancer

It's time we got an answer

They pay us pauper's wages

Their projects are our cages

They're giving us the evil CPI

The working man can only sit and cry

The rich know that it's easier to lie

Than to be fair – why should they even try?

They're giving us the evil CPI

Each month the government publishes the Consumer Price Index. This is supposed to tell us our buying power. Many of our union contracts and cost-of-living allowances are based on it. Yet no one knows how it is calculated. We will prove that this Index is just another government lie, designed to keep us in the dark and in the gutter.

We, Artists Against Oppression, proclaim in advance that the Consumer Price Index for October will increase by one half of one percent. We predict this because we have learned how the government manipulates the information it generates.

Artists against Oppression will periodically release additional information to cast light on the systematic exploitation of working men and women that goes on every day in this country.

The spread was emblematic: Big Mary's barbecue and Sushi by Saito. The musicians, trained by years of having just one shot at the dregs of the wedding buffet, showed admirable restraint.

Ernest and Cletus both played tenor, setting up ad hoc riffs like Benny Moten's K.C. band, then swooped apart into separate but equal modal runs. The conga player and drummer were clicking. Ernest and Scott had struggled for a while about whether to use a fretless or a standup bass, and settled on both. Maury Rosen, on fretless, wore a yarmulke and a perpetual smirk. Chester Odoms was a classical player, switching from time to time to bow to lay down a low pad. It was like Miles' Bitch's Brew session, where he filled the studio with every bad cat he could find – imagine Herbie and Chick and Keith and Larry Young and Zawinul all on keyboard on the same cut!

Scott had worked an algorithm to digitally disguise Mikal's voice, which incidentally gave it a nice edge. They figured no Fed geeks would be hip enough to recognize Cletus's legendary tone, and even if they did he and the rest of the cats could just say he knew nothing about the vocal tracks which must have been recorded later.

Scott couldn't stop grinning. They really were creating something new, a synthesis. Mikal took another drink out of his plastic water bottle, held one earpiece over his ear, and dug in. Scott glanced over at Ernest, who winked and nodded.

## Chapter 25

Val's mother had left a message on the hotel voice mail. About once a week Val reminded Mrs. Coleman, the office manager, that his mother didn't need to know his day-to-day whereabouts. Then Val's mother would somehow dupe the otherwise supremely efficient Mrs. Coleman into giving up just that. Val chose to ignore the likelihood that the two women were in collusion, jointly decided what was best for him. To give her credit, Val's mother only paged him when she thought it was important or when she was sitting with a group of her friends and wanted to show off how dutiful her only child remained.

This message was typical. Larry King had on some guy who was talking about the Java programming language and did Val's customers expect him to be "up to speed" on it? He was glad she took an interest and thought it helped keep her young. He figured they talked on the phone at least once a week.

There was one bad part. She insisted on calling him by his given name, which he called the "V' word. This was less of a problem now that so many places had voice mail, but he still got called "Valentine," in the same, annoying, sing-song way about once a week.

Once he asked his _dziaj_ – his grandpa – why his parents had named him Valentine. The old man just said "Good name. Polish name" – practically a speech for him. Val never really thought of himself as Polish growing up. Just about every other kid at St. Hedwig's grade school was Polish too. Certainly all his buddies were. He remembered the Zychowicz cousins, eternally relegated to last place in the alphabetically ordered world of Catholic education. His parents talked about their Polish friends as Silesian hicks or Krakow snobs.

Like many rust belt cities that had so far escaped the tender mercies of gentrification, Toledo retained a strongly ethnic flavor. The Polish neighborhood was a self-contained world, with its own butchers, funeral homes, shot-and-a-beer bars and VFW lodges. Despite Val's best attempts to raise her political consciousness, his mother still referred to African-Americans as "the colored," and provided him with block-by-block updates on their incursions into the neighborhood.

Before his divorce, Val had tried to convince his mom to move in with him and Lisa. For all her complaining, she stayed put in the old house, watching Larry King and keep her son informed.

Val sat on the bed and took off his shoes. He decided to put off going down to the exercise room until later, maybe about 9:30, when it would be less crowded. He opened the room service menu and spent a moment deciphering which cute name this place had chosen for the club sandwich. Here it was: Our Famous Flag-Wavin' Red, White and Bleu Cheese Extraordinaire. He ordered one with Tabasco on the side, and two Amstel Lights.

Wilton and Jenny were off to a good start. Val looked at his job as clearing the way for these people to do the real work. This involved the mundane, like finding an analog line in an office, and the subtler, like getting an administrator password to a key system. The idea was to turn Wilton loose on the programs and Jenny on the content, and wait for them to meet in the middle while he worked the human angle.

Wilton looked at every assignment as a puzzle. He had the ability to get inside the mind of the person who wrote the original program. Even a short computer program could usually be written in any number of ways, and it took intuition (a word that Jenny hated) to go down the right path. Val's big problem with managing Wilton was keeping him from being bored.

On the other hand, the hard part about managing Jenny was that she was the one doing the managing. He had to admit that he liked it that way. She was the most intelligent person he had ever met. That, however, was not why he thought about her so often.

She was physically attractive in all the right ways. He could end up staring at her mouth in an otherwise boring meeting if he wasn't careful. But it was more than that. His current hunch was that it was the combination of her constant proximity and the air of disinterest she conveyed. He didn't think he was jealous of her cowboys. He had met a couple and they both were kind of neat guys, not at all hicks. They did both sport the largest belt buckles per inch of waistband that Val had ever seen, however. They must play havoc with airport metal detectors.

He was wise enough to know that logic didn't really apply, but that didn't stop him from trying to figure it out.

Val had dated a few times since his divorce, when friends set him up in spite of his requests to the contrary. He was not into the bar scene, if there even was a bar scene any more. The bar scene Val knew about was the one downstairs in the hotel lobby, the one where business travelers complained about the travails of the road to virtual clones of themselves.

Val owed Max a report on Friday. He would talk to Wilton and Jenny first thing and decide what to say. He turned on a movie, promised himself he would exercise tomorrow morning before breakfast, and dozed off on the floral bedspread.

## Chapter 26

Val set his alarm early to try to reach Professor Crawford before his daily schedule became unmanageable. Horace Mann Crawford had retired from the active faculty at Ohio State in 1991. Even so, he kept his normal 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. schedule in the office the University had given his as Professor Emeritus of Macroeconomics, Financial Markets; Econometrics.

Val had had Crawford as a graduate student at Ohio State in the late seventies. Crawford was by then already a legend in the business school. The son of an Alabama sharecropper, he was born on the farm where his great-grandfather had worked as a slave. His family moved to Detroit when he was eight. He had served as a truck driver in a segregated unit in Europe, then used the GI bill to begin an unlikely academic career culminating in his Ph.D. from Wharton.

He was in demand as a corporate board member, early on because of disequilibrium of supply and demand that placed a premium on board members who were not aging white men, later because of his competence and stature.

Val had kept in touch over the years. For all his patrician demeanor Crawford was genuinely interested in the lives of many current and former students.

Mrs. Luettke, Crawford's indispensable aide-de-camp, had, thankfully, also taken a liking to Val when he was a grad student. She politely put him on hold. A few seconds later Val heard Crawford's changeless baritone:

"Horace Crawford."

"Professor Crawford, hello, it's Val Kovalczyk calling."

"Mr. Kovalczyk, how is your mother? When did you last speak with her?"

Val had forgotten that Crawford had met his mother at some reception over twenty years ago. "Fine, Professor, just fine. As a matter of fact we spoke just yesterday. Plus, she has discovered email."

A deep chuckle. "A rising tide of technology floats all boats, does it? Has she reached the point where she automatically forwards all jokes, no matter how hackneyed, to all electronic pen pals?"

"You've got it. Growing up, I assumed she had never heard any of those bad words."

"To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

Val had long since learned to take Crawford's lead when it came to the transition from small talk to content. "Professor, we've just come across a situation in our work that, I hope, you could help us understand. I know this is presumptuous but I wondered if it would be possible to have dinner with you tonight to discuss it."

"Tonight? Give me a moment." Val heard the phone go on hold. Crawford would be checking with Mrs. Luettke. In less than a minute he was back on the phone. "Done. I shall make a note to attend one additional supercilious faculty dinner next month as penance. May I suggest Schmidt's? Will 7:30 do?"

"Excellent, sir. I'll be with a colleague if that's all right."

"See you then," Crawford said, and hung up.

Val had the hotel operator ring Jenny's room.

"Hello."

"Good morning, Jenny. Did I wake you?"

This was a ritual. It appeared to Val that Jenny was both a morning and an evening person. He actually had no concrete evidence that she ever slept at all.

Like Crawford, Jenny wasn't much for chat. She waited silently.

Jenny, I want you to go with me to Columbus today. I have a dinner meeting with an old professor who, I hope, can shed some light on what our boys might be up to."

"Who's the professor?"

"Crawford."

"You studied with Horace Crawford? Don't tell me how you did in his course."

Val wasn't surprised that Jenny knew about Crawford. He ignored the second comment.

"Our flight is at 2:30. We need to leave the Bureau by 1:15 latest."

\- - -

Val's policy was to upgrade on every possible flight, even short ones like the one from National to Columbus. He was at the highest frequent flyer level on several airlines. Even so, his batting average was sub-500, and with the late booking he found himself in a middle seat in coach, nowhere near Jenny.

There was a certain code of acceptable behavior that a surprising number of travelers observed. One principal tenet was that it was never all right to recline a coach seat. If the person in front of him did so, Val's tactic was to dig his knee into the back of the seat while feigning innocence. This was easy to sell since the alternative was to wedge each knee on either side of the intruding seat. His fellow-passengers were well-behaved today.

Walking through the concourse in Columbus, Val noticed a subtle difference in the reaction of the people he passed going the other way. He realized that most of them were men and he was walking beside a good-looking woman. Each passing male face did a slight but observable double take. Val made Jenny divert to the store where they sold, he claimed, the best airport popcorn in America. There was an experiment on price elasticity of airport popcorn underway at O'Hare in Chicago. Every time Val went through there it seemed like the price had been bumped by another quarter. There was apparently no upper limit. They'd be taking credit cards soon.

In thirty minutes Val and Jenny were driving down Broad Street toward downtown. Val pointed out the affluent, largely Jewish community of Bexley, surrounded on all sides by deteriorating neighborhoods of Columbus proper. Val was very uncomfortable with racial divisiveness as it applied to real estate. He couldn't blame the people in Bexley, or for that matter in his neighborhood back home in Toledo, for wanting to keep their property values high. But that didn't give them the right to apply _de facto_ segregation. A friend Val knew when he was in school told him about putting his house on the market. A black man, a disabled war veteran, had looked at the home. That evening three different neighbors had knocked on Val's friend's door and urged him not to sell. One of these neighbors had a Nazi death camp tattoo on her forearm.

Val used his usual technique for navigating to Schmidt's: go to German Village and drive around until you happen to see it. As a native Midwesterner Val was slightly uneasy if the street system was not rectilinear. They found it all right, parked a block away, and were inside the steamy restaurant fifteen minutes early.

Professor was right on time, as usual. He somehow made wearing a Homburg, dark overcoat, carrying a rolled up umbrella, look classy rather than phony. The maître-de recognized him at once and led them, past a jovial crowd, to a small private room. They took Crawford's lead and ordered a house draft and a sauerkraut platter.

"Ms. Chen, our mutual acquaintance here has told me nothing about you."

"Well, Professor, this trip was somewhat last minute. I've been a colleague of Val's for several years. My background is in mathematics, especially statistics. My parents are both professors at the other OSU."

"Aha, Stillwater."

"Yes sir."

"Levin has put together a good program there. Not the easiest task given the, ahem, enticements of the surrounding countryside."

"Oklahoma is an acquired taste that even many Oklahomans have some difficulty acquiring," Jenny said.

Dinner, copious and comforting, arrived. Val noticed that Jenny tucked in with apparent relish.

"So, Mr. Kovalczyk, how can I try to help?"

Val explained the background of the assignment, their recent findings and their suspicions. He did not need to stress the need for confidentiality.

"So, sir, I guess we're asking what might be a low risk, high reward approach to making money from rigging these numbers? By 'risk' I mean both of being caught and of losing money," Val said.

Crawford put one finger over his lips and thought for what seemed like a couple minutes. "Well, as you know, or should I say as I hope you remember, there are few independent markets. Certainly an indicator as prominent as the American CPI would reverberate through the world's centers. Someone with unbalanced information would be able to make money in any of them. I mean, it's the equivalent of knowing what number would come up next on the roulette wheel."

"Sir, we have of course considered this. But if you had to venture a guess which market might our subjects choose?" Jenny said.

"Well, let's think. What is the ultimate goal of these people?" Crawford said.

"To make money. A lot of money we would guess. Millions," Val said.

"Then I would start with where the money itself is bought and sold, on the Foreign Exchange market. The world's eight biggest currencies are bought and sold with each other. The CPI would have a direct and immediate effect on the rates between the dollar and each of the others."

"Would it require a large move in the index to make big money?" Val said.

"Goodness no. The index hardly moves at all these days, a tenth of a point or so per month if that. Back in the days of the OPEC oil shock and double-digit inflation we might have seen a big move – several points. What's important is not the size of the move, it's the direction compared to what the so-called experts have predicted in advance."

Val and Jenny waited.

"Recall, every trader, institution or person that makes money does so directly at the expense of another trader. People have placed bets, in the form of foreign exchange futures, on all possible scenarios of how two currencies relate to one another. Every time a major index like the CPI is published the market evaluates the relative value of the currencies. No move at all may be as meaningful as a two point jump, depending on how the market has been betting."

"No move at all?" Jenny said.

"Right. It's all about expectations and realities."

Dinner went on for two hours, until Crawford's driver came to take him home.

"I hope I've been of some service."

"More than we could have hoped, sir. It's been an honor," Jenny said.

"The honor has been mine. I hope we have the opportunity to discuss your parents' trip from the same Hakka village to the prairie."

"I hope so too, sir. Perhaps you and they could meet someday."

"I'd enjoy that. Mr. Kovalczyk, I assume you will remain in touch and fill me in on the denouement of this assignment."

"I will, Professor."

Later, in the car, Jenny stretched out with her hands behind her head.

"Kovalczyk, just when I think the only people you know are shallow mercantilists you introduce me to someone like the Professor. I hope you appreciate his quality."

This was uncomfortably close to a compliment. Val thought his best move was to remain silent.

"This is a man who has a made a material contribution to society, and has retained his humanity."

Val drove by the Ohio State campus. Even at night it looked like an aging industrial park. The challenge of finding some place for fifty thousand or so students to sit down at the same time overcame the aesthetic appeal of ivy-covered gothic halls.

"So, Kovalczyk, where to next?"

"Where to?"

"Yes. Isn't this your former stomping grounds? Aren't you going to show me some hot spots?"

Val felt himself blush. "Sure. I mean, are you serious?"

"Just because I matched the good professor stein for stein, while you, and I do appreciate it, did your civic duty by abstaining, does not mean that I have lost my ability to reason! I repeat: where to?"

"Well, let's see. If we eliminate for the sake of argument the 90% of campus joints that feature either burgers, pizza or some combination, we're still left with a number of places that have an intellectual bent."

"Can't we just go dancing? And what's wrong with burgers and pizza, not that I'm hungry? I tell you what. We're near the hotel, right? Why don't we go there, check in, and take a cab back here to High Street?"

Val ran a yellow, smiling to himself and shaking his head.

## Chapter 27

Val had made the three-hour drive home to Toledo from Columbus dozens of times in college. As usual he hadn't really planned to visit his mother but for some reason felt like taking advantage of being in Ohio. He decided he could spare the time, so he dropped Jenny at the airport and headed north.

He had only a small headache, appropriate for the more than one but less than I forget how many beers he had drunk. On any given afternoon between three and four he was at significant risk of falling asleep at the wheel – or in the conference room – but he figured he'd be OK after three coffees. He could nap on his mom's couch. She had converted his room into a combination office and sewing room.

Then and now he found the countryside somewhere on the boring side of serene. He wondered how, in the age of agribusiness, these farmers working a couple hundred acres could make it. Probably most of them worked at a plant somewhere too. Val spent his summer breaks from college working for a package delivery company. Each town on his route was dotted with interchangeable small cinder block factories with names like Dieco and Stirnweiss Grinding, built to feed Detroit. These places were uniformly dark, with weird yellowish light filtering in through high windows. They smelled like sweat and oil. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to go every day to Stirnweiss Grinding, put in eight hours with guys you grew up with in Leipzig or Ottawa Lake or New Baltimore, toss back a couple boilermakers in the same bar where your dad shattered his capillaries, and go home for the meatloaf and succotash. On the other hand, he couldn't say that his high-tech, frequent flyer-miled life was that richly gratifying either.

As he took the Toledo exit, he remembered his dad saying that someday he'd like to take the expressway all the way around the city. He was denied even this small gratification when he died at his desk in the Purchasing office of the Overland. People of Val's generation and older still called the massive old jeep plant the Overland even though Willys had sold the company in the fifties.

He got off the expressway early so he could drive along the river. He liked the big houses near Toledo Country Club. He often thought that if, against long odds, he ever moved back he would buy one. The valley was pretty enough but the view was marred by the big glass plant across the river in Rossford. Toledo called itself the Glass Capital. Owens-Illinois, Owens-Corning and Libbey-Owens-Ford were all headquartered there. Apparently Mr. Owens was a smart engineer who made some smarter businessmen very wealthy. Now OI had been KKRed into submission, LOF has a manufactured name that sounds like a word but isn't, and Owens-Corning had gutted itself to keep from a hostile takeover. While the famous Toledo Mud Hens had the favorite team name of sports fans across the country, Val preferred the 1950s triple-A edition: the Glass Sox.

Lagrange Street hadn't really changed much. He wondered if the Syrian and Lebanese neighborhoods had survived. He remembered eating raw lamb _kibbeh_ at the Beirut at two in the morning while the owner's weightlifter sons flexed for each other. That's probably what put Val off any serious attempt at physical conditioning.

His mom didn't know he was coming. He wondered sometimes whether she enjoyed his little surprise visits as much as he did. His favorite was the time that he flew into Detroit on a Friday afternoon and drove around Ypsilanti until he spotted a boat store. He bought a paddleboat and duct-taped it to the roof of his Hertz Crown Victoria. He then drove to the small lake where his parents, fulfilling a life-long dream, had just leased a small cottage. He schlepped the boat to the water, paddled across the lake in his business suit, and performed an Inchon-worthy amphibious landing. Just as he expected his folks were sitting on the porch reading their foreordained sections of the Toledo Blade. His dad swore that when his mom spotted Val approaching she simply said, matter-of-factly, "Oh, here comes Val."

The light changed. Just like he remembered, the pedestrians changed from black to white within a few blocks. Blood had been and would again be shed in that DMZ. Val had once read that Chicago had the least racial diversity, block-by-block, of any city in America, but Toledo had to be up there. Or maybe they didn't analyze Toledo when they compared cities. Growing up you read the annual population rankings, checking whether Detroit was catching up with Philadelphia. Toledo was mired in the low to mid thirties, bigger than Dayton, smaller than Des Moines. He remembered being shocked when San Antonio crashed the top ten from out of nowhere.

Mom's LeSabre was in the driveway. One of its predecessors in the long line of Buicks had surrendered its rightful spot in the garage ten or more years ago to an impressive collection of garden tools, painting paraphernalia and birdbath parts. He decided not to let himself in the back door so he wouldn't scare his mom. Only the screen door was closed in the front. He could hear the TV in the kitchen. He yelled "Mom?".

He saw his mom walk into the living room with a quizzical look on her face, which became a smile of recognition. "You. You love to surprise your mother. Is something wrong?"

They were not a very physically demonstrative family – a kiss on the cheek was appropriate. She started to signal him to sit in the little-used living room, but he went directly to the kitchen table. It seemed like most of his mental images of his childhood were from the point of view of the chair right by the wall phone, across from the TV.

His mom had never been a coffee drinker, but the old fashioned pot stood at the ready, as did a cache of Yuban, probably purchased in the late sixties.

People always said that the thing about old friends was that you could start conversing after years like you'd never left. This wasn't really true with his mom. Maybe because of their frequent phone calls and emails, there was always an uncomfortable period of a few minutes when he first got home. On the other hand, he thought, maybe they had never had that much to say to each other that didn't involve school logistics. Val had always been squarely in the middle of the cohort of "good kids". His worst transgressions had been frequent failure to complete homework and a single high school sophomore year self-introduction to substance abuse in the form of Buckeye Beer.

"So, mom, the neighborhood looks the same."

"You think? Did you see Pawlak's closed?" Pawlak's was a family-owned grocery store that had been there as long as he could remember. Originally an all purpose single stop, it had been forced to adopt a bi-polar marketing strategy, selling convenience store items and Polish specialties, especially meats. "The old man died and none of his sons wanted to take over."

"How's Mrs. Grogan?"

"Fine. She asks about you every week at Confession." Mrs. Grogan, Val's mom's best friend, was all Polish but had married an Irishman from Chicago after the war. "A drinker", his mom invariably added. He had had the grace to die early and Mrs. Grogan was accepted back into the community, albeit with a faint whiff of scandal.

"So where have you been?"

"We're working a project in Washington right now. I had a meeting in Columbus yesterday and decided to drive up."

"Washington now. Goodness."

"Mom, thousands of consultants work in Washington all the time. You wouldn't believe it."

"Well, they must think you know what you're doing."

"Don't let on that I actually don't, OK mom?"

Toledo boasted of exactly two prominent cultural icons: its Zoo and its Art Museum. In each case young Toledoans were trained to recite the mantra "One of the best in the country" at the least provocation. His mom wasn't really interested in either, but kept Val up to date with the press releases from each. Along the lines of "I heard they have a new pygmy hippo" or "I see that Pissaro show will be here". Val had visited both in the past few years and had been pleasantly surprised at how well they still stood up to others he'd seen.

When Val was in grade school the Toledo Police had a safety campaign for kids that featured Amber the Safety Elephant. Along the lines of "Amber the Safety Elephant says don't run between parked cars." Amber, an adult female at the zoo, lost her gig when she trampled a little girl. Unless that was an urban myth. Val was afraid to look into this just in case the grief-stricken parents would somehow be reminded. On one visit he actually went to the Zoo office and looked through the genealogical records of the elephants – there was a book! The record was clean. He wondered if there had been some covert redaction going on.

Inevitably the afternoon obeyed the First Law of Thermodynamics and settled into watching TV. The choices of his childhood, available only on rare sick days or half-holidays like Columbus Day where school was out but life otherwise went on as usual, had been soap operas and game shows. These were now supplanted, at least on the channels his mom would watch, by a galaxy of talk shows, hosted by people famous for being famous. He didn't think it was fair to ask his mom to check out ESPN, where they were probably showing semifinal lumberjack competitions. They settled on Oprah. At least she wasn't doing her monthly fawning adulation of Maya Angelou today. Val's mind wandered.

Josh and his crew were definitely up to something. It seemed entirely plausible that they could and would take it all the way unless they were stopped. Jenny and Wilton would, he was sure, get the goods. Val believed Max when he said he would take care of business, but this was definitely more than embezzling. They would have to watch their backs on this one.

Val had booked the last flight to DC out of Detroit, an hour's drive north. He gracefully, he thought, declined his mom's half-hearted invitation to stay for dinner, gave a quick hug and peck on the cheek, and drove off.

He didn't exactly wonder why he had come. It was probably something like the salmon and the Monarch butterflies. Home was home, mom was mom, and they were both parts of whatever the hell he was. He found a decent station out of Ann Arbor, glanced in the rearview mirror, gave himself a half smile and a shake of the head, and drove up 75. Michigan drivers were still maniacs.

## Chapter 28

Wilton was asleep at ten-thirty in the morning when Jenny called. She and Val were back from Ohio and they had to talk. Wilton asked her to give him twenty minutes and to meet him in the breakfast area. He decided he could shower later and hurried down.

Jenny was sitting at a table with her briefcase open. Wilton knew she could tell she had woken him up, but she and Val were both used to his irregular hours.

"Good trip?"

"The trip was fine. The meeting was very productive."

"This professor person knows his stuff?"

"Cold."

"Cold? It was cold in Columbus?"

"No. He knows his stuff cold. It's an idiom."

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing definite, of course, but he gave us some good suggestions for how our investigation might proceed. Do you remember the Consumer Price Index calculation in the statistics module?"

"Of course."

"Professor Crawford thinks that the simplest plan is the most likely plan, especially if our assignments don't suspect that they're being followed. There are plenty of other indices, which might be manipulated, but the CPI is an obvious target. I want you to concentrate on it for a while, OK?"

"Sounds like the best logical course."

"Any problem with security?"

"Oh the usual. Pockets of fairly rigorous security in an ocean of sloppy short cuts. Once in a while I encounter something I have to hack around, but it's pretty straightforward."

"Good. Focus, Wilton. I have every confidence in you."

Wilton had to admit these rare compliments from Jenny meant a lot to him. Val was more the pat on the back type, but he too made it clear that he appreciated Wilton's talent.

By eleven-thirty he was back at work. He ordered a room service cheeseburger for breakfast. His first order of business was to tune his software tools to concentrate on the target Jenny had given him. This took about an hour and a half before he was satisfied. Next he plunged into the code. He made occasional notes in a school-style theme book. These, a combination of mathematical notation, ideograms and doodling, would have been unintelligible to anyone else. He turned on ESPN. A Seniors Tour golf tournament was on. Wilton loved the stately pace of TV golf, and the respect the announcers gave all the competitors.

By dinnertime Wilton had a working hypothesis. He spent another hour and a half writing some provisional code to test it. He created what he called a "state machine". This was a kind of simulated black box with all kinds of virtual dials and meters on the outside. He could input variables and see how the state changed. It was difficult, conceptually abstract work, but it was what needed to be done to really get at the bottom of a piece of code, especially something written in a low language like C or, God forbid, assembler.

Programming any computer involved layers within layers of logic. Many of the programs existed in the hardware itself, beginning with the ones and zeros switched on and off by electricity flowing through the millions of transistors in the chip. A transistor is nothing more than a very small, very fast switch.

Assembler language was the closest a programmer could get to manipulating the actual function of the computer. For example, an Assembler programmer could add one number to another and decide exactly where in the computer's billions of storage locations to store the answer. Assembler looked like this:

EEL: MOV AH,01

INT 21h

CMP AL,0Dh

JNZ EEL

MOV AH,2h

MOV DL,AL

INT 21h

People didn't program in assembler much anymore. The higher-level languages like COBOL and SQL looked more like English. But, theoretically, a well-written piece of assembler code should be the most efficient way to execute a given job. And in the days when these programs were written getting every bit of productivity out of the hardware was the name of the game.

By the time prime time TV came on he was on a roll. The basic shell of the program was working. Then he got stuck. The guy was doing something with some local variables that didn't make sense. If nothing else, computers were consistent, yet he was getting unpredictable results. He stood up, stretched his arms straight behind him, breathed deeply, and sat back down.

The next time he noticed the time it was 1:15 in the morning. An infomercial about car wax was on now. Wilton made a mental note of what to buy if he suspected that his Land Rover was likely to be subjected to either flamethrower or ball bearing attack. He was still stuck.

A half hour later Wilton was pushing open the door to a bowling alley. Even he knew he really shouldn't be walking alone in DC at this hour but it was only a couple blocks and there was still a lot of foot traffic.

While he was much too young to remember old-fashioned bowling alleys, with pin boys and grease pencils and the smell of cigarettes and beer, the modern version had a magic all its own. Pure Western unapologetic pop glitz culture. Wilton loved it.

It was now quarter to two in the morning – Saturday morning. The lanes were about two thirds full, mostly with slightly inebriated couples on the down slope of dates. By this hour people were having a good time with one another. Wilton found the good spirits infectious.

He wasn't in the slightest sleepy. The more coding he did the more wired he got. While this mode was super productive if he was just churning out lines of code, it wasn't the best for analysis.

Wilton did not know how to sit back, relax and think. His way to relax was to engage in something that was more diverting and distracting than work. He let his subconscious handle the disengaging of mental gears. Bowling was a good choice. It required a fair degree of low intensity concentration. It was hard for a person to worry about a mental problem when the brain was managing the complicated mechanics involved in propelling a heavy ball in a predetermined direction.

He rented shoes. There was a large selection of balls. He was not embarrassed to select a woman's ball. Most of the men's were much too large for his hands.

He went to the bar. A cute blonde was cleaning glasses. She saw Wilton in the mirror and turned around with a friendly smile.

"What'll it be, amigo?"

"Coors Light, please. No glass. Why 'amigo'?

"I call everybody amigo, 'least until they give me some reason not to." She tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes in mock appraisal. "You don't look like a troublemaker, mister."

Wilton laughed. "What do I look like?"

"One of those smart types who bowl to take their mind off nuclear physics or recombinant DNA or object-oriented programming or something. Am I close?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"Wilton, not Watson."

"What?"

"Never mind. Did you guess that because I'm Asian?"

"You are?" Wilton's turn to narrow his eyes and check if she was trying to be funny.

She said "Partly. Also because you're young, don't have a big beer gut, didn't bring your own ball and shoes in a custom case, aren't here for league, don't have a date, should I go on?"

"No. Got me pegged."

"That's natural. I've got everybody pegged. Peg's my name."

"Peg, let's see, that's a nickname for. . ."

"Margaret. Mary Margaret. Catholic. Chicago suburbs. Moved out West to find myself. Moved back East to finish school. The pay's OK and the hours are perfect here, if you don't mind not having a life."

"What are you studying?"

"Guess. Don't guess Art History."

"OK, I'll guess. You probably assume I'll guess something in Liberal Arts because you're a woman. So, what's the least Liberal Arts-like major I can think of? Economics? No, nobody can hide their true nature that well. How about Double-E?"

"Amazing. Dead on. So how about you?"

"Don't you want to guess now?"

"Well, at the risk of jeopardizing my reputation as a sleuth, I'd have to say Double-E as well."

"Bingo. Although I'm moonlighting as a coder."

"An Asian Double-E coder who bowls in the middle of the night?"

"An Irish-Catholic female Double-E who works in a bowling alley bar?"

"Double-E wannabe. And who said anything about Irish?"

"Mary Margaret?"

"My mother liked Princess Margaret."

"Who?"

"The Queen of England's sister. For some reason she was all the rage around Chicago when I was born. Are you named after anyone?"

"Well, I have an English name that I picked out myself. Our Chinese first names usually mean something like 'luck'. Not very imaginative."

Peg went to the other end of the bar to serve a bowler who had walked up. Wilton glanced at his watch. Peggy walked back.

"So, how wide awake are you?" Peggy said.

"Very. Why?"

"Because I was hoping you would have a cup of coffee with me after I close up here."

The American women Wilton had met were, as he expected, much more forward than the women back home. Even so, he was still not quite used to it.

"You were hoping?"

"Yes. Don't worry. The thought of a little intelligent conversation just sounds appealing right now, that's all."

"It sure does."

"Oh, damn," she said. "You paid for your bowling already, didn't you?"

"That's OK. This way you'll have to guess whether I'm really a Double-E hacker or the bowling champion of China."

At that moment the structure of the seasonal adjustment module flashed in Wilton's brain in a new way. He stared vacantly straight ahead for maybe three seconds and grunted approvingly. "Now I understand, you tricky man."

"Did you mention earlier that you hear voices?" Peg said.

"I usually tune them out. This one was dying to be heard. Sorry. I'm back. Almost ready?"

"Why 'Wilton'?"

"What?"

"Why did you pick the name Wilton?"

"It's a long story."

"Bore me. Over coffee, OK?"

He smiled and nodded. I love bowling, he thought.

## Chapter 29

Val noticed that they had changed robot messages in the Atlanta airport train. For a while a synthesized six-shooter went off and the robot barked a stern Robocop scolding if someone kept the doors from closing. He realized that some consultant had come up with that bright idea and charged a small fortune for it. A small boy with a baseball cap and wide eyes stared at a speaker as they rumbled through the tunnel.

Val thought there should be a special place in hell for airport architects. Why was it that O'Hare, Atlanta's rival as busiest airport in the world, got people from their car to their gate, or between gates, more simply and efficiently than any of the modern, high-tech airports? You could ride a train at O'Hare if you absolutely insisted, but it certainly wasn't a requirement.

At Dulles you got off a plane, lined up, boarded a large bus known as a "mobile lounge" that raised and lowered itself for no reason (they were designed to dock with the planes – a non-starter), then rode five more minutes, got in line again, walked to your actual gate, got back in line, and boarded. Apparently Saarinen didn't want to clutter up his beautiful airport with ugly airplanes.

Forty-three minutes later he was in his rental car, exiting the airport. Max had asked Val to make the trip to Atlanta to meet in person. Val had been in consulting for fourteen years. He was familiar with the layouts of most American cities. He tried not to think about the number of nights he had spent in garden spots like Clinton, Illinois, Lakeland, Florida and Painted Post, New York. The Painted Post Holiday Inn was the home of biker karaoke night. Once in a restaurant in Libertyville, Illinois he and a friend were having dinner when a fellow at a nearby table stood up and started speaking to the room at large about how Wisniewski Mortuary had started the year slow but once they hit their stride there was no stopping them. After a moment Val and his buddy realized that the motel had booked a bowling banquet in the main dining room, but felt no reason to chase away any other paying customers who showed up by telling them that they would be attending the banquet (no extra charge) while eating their cube steak.

Val found the Buckhead Ritz with no trouble. There was a human being playing the piano in the lobby rather than a computer. The trend for lissome harpists in long dresses seemed to have crested. The ready smile and helpful attitude of the front desk clerk impressed Val, like it always did.

Max had left a message: could they meet in the lobby at seven? Val took off his shoes, hooked up his laptop and checked email. He carried a multiple-purpose tool, complete with pliers and several kinds of screwdriver, but he rarely had to disassemble a hotel phone to get connected any more. He had 23 messages, including three from his mother. She wondered if he had gotten caught in the thunderstorms in Tulsa. (Why would she think he was in Tulsa?) She wondered if he saw the feature on 60 Minutes about the Y2K bug. She asked if he knew how she could download audio clips from a site specializing in polka music.

Val debated about going down to the exercise room. He didn't make up his mind, but thought it probably it made more sense to get up really early and have a workout in the morning, before his flight. After all, he reasoned, he was on East Coast time and it would feel like sleeping in anyway. He had a rich repertoire of such rationalizations that he employed with considerable expertise.

He woke up at quarter to seven. He decided he just barely had time to duck in the shower to rinse off the road grime. He carried an all-purpose blue blazer for just this kind of occasion – no telling what kind of evening Max had planned. The blazer went OK (at least in Val's opinion) with his cotton slacks and plaid shirt.

He ordered a soda and bitters at the lobby bar. Max would probably want to drink, but Val thought it was respectful to wait. After about a half hour he saw Max hurrying across the lobby, shaking his head, his hands in palms-up, what-can-you-do posture.

"Val. I'm sorry. I thought the meeting would never end. Thanks for coming."

"It's no problem, Max. I absolutely understand. Sit down and have a drink."

"At least one. So, you have news for me."

"Yes."

"I noticed in your voice mail you didn't specify 'good news'."

"Right. I didn't."

"I see. I wish I could say I was surprised. Do you mind if we go somewhere where we can get a steak and a drink?"

"Sounds good to me."

Max knew a place. They got a table in the bar. Max got right to the point. "What are we looking at?"

"We're not absolutely sure about this yet, but it looks like your boys have tweaked some of the Bureau's statistical programs."

"Tweaked?"

"Sorry. The programs have been modified so someone can predetermine the answer."

"Predetermine?'

"Say, for example, you want the result of index such-and-such to be 5% next April. With these changes you can do that."

"Oh God. What indexes are we talking about here?"

"Just one. But the wrong one."

"Don't tell me." Val waited. "OK, tell me."

"The Consumer Price Index."

"Holy Mother of God. Who do these fucking maniacs think they are?"

"I'm afraid I have one more bomb to drop, Max."

Max stared vacantly ahead, slowly shaking his head no. "Go ahead."

"They've rigged the CPI once already."

"Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm not kidding."

"Can anything be done?"

"We think so. We hope so. It looks like our boy Josh Calder has convinced Scott Crane to do this more or less for fun. Scott is a typical hacker type, but not a bad guy. We think we can get Scott to reverse the process. In fact, we think we can do it without telling Josh."

"Who else knows?"

"Just Wilton, Jenny and myself."

The onion rings were cold by now, but Max munched one absent-mindedly. "OK, here's what we have to do. I clearly have to talk to my friend in the Department. We're going to have to take our lead from him. In the meantime, nobody, I mean absolutely no-fucking-body, must know about this."

Val nodded.

"How sure are you about getting this other asshole to see the light and do the right thing?"

"Pretty sure."

"Val, listen carefully. I understand this matter goes far beyond our consulting company. I'm going to ask you to take my word that we'll come clean with the Department on this, and we'll take their lead. I'm not at all sure how they're going to want to handle this. Do you have any idea how much money changes hand every month based on that particular fucking number?"

"A lot. A whole lot. I bet I know somebody who could tell you."

"Who?"

"Josh Calder."

## Chapter 30

They parked down the street, in a parking structure. They couldn't find the attendant for a minute. He was hunched down in the front seat of an old Buick, barely peeking through the driver side window.

Val walked over to him. The guy was probably pointing a shotgun at him. "Where do we pay?" Val said.

"Just put the money in the slot. Five dollars."

Val, Jennie and Wilton walked quickly down the ramp and on to the street. The club was a block and half away. How do people live here all the time? Val thought.

The club was surprisingly full. It had a smoky, old-timey, hard liquor feel. Val liked it. Scott's group was in the middle of a set.

"Definite Phineas Newborn influence," Wilton said.

Val had no idea what he was talking about.

"Most of the piano players in the late 40s and early 50s tried to sound like Bud Powell. Newborn had a more individualistic approach."

Val couldn't tell if this was Wilton's own opinion, or word-for-word plagiarizing of something in a jazz magazine he had read somewhere. Wilton had plunged himself into the study of American culture with a vengeance. He was always asking Val about Edward Hopper and Grant Wood and Aaron Copland and Mark Rothko. Val had at least heard of most of these people, but usually knew little more about them than their name.

"Do you like jazz?" Val asked Jenny.

"I don't mind it," she said. "Like most things, a little goes a long way with me. It was all over the place at Berkeley."

"Probably not too much of it in Stillwater," Val said.

Jenny usually ignored him when he teased her about her hometown. But tonight she was apparently more sensitive. "Heard from mommy dearest lately, Valentine?"

Val shook his head.

They lucked out and got a good booth that was far enough from the bandstand for them to talk. They reviewed their plan and waited for the band to take a break.

Scott walked through the place, shaking hands and chatting for a minute at a few tables. He came to their booth. He stopped and looked with a half smile frozen on his face.

Val said "Hi Scott. I bet I look familiar, right? I've been doing some work at the Bureau. I think we've run into each other. These are my friends Jenny and Wilton."

"Hi. Thanks for coming. How'd you hear about the gig?"

"I don't know. Somebody at work mentioned that you play jazz. We're always looking for something to do on the road. This seemed more interesting than bingo night at the VFW. Hey, sit down for a second, will you? Buy you a beer?"

Wilton slid over to make room. Scott said "OK, for a second. But no, I don't drink on the gig. This stuff's hard enough to play."

"Scott, I can tell you have listened to a lot of Herbie. But I hear some Phineas Newborn in there too," Wilton said.

"You do?" Scott looked at Wilton again. "Phineas Newborn, huh? I do kind of dig him." He put his hand on his forehead, smiled and shook his head.

Jenny leaned forward. "Scott, we have to admit we have another agenda. We'd like to buy you breakfast so we can ask you a few questions about work."

"On a Friday night? Saturday morning, that is."

"It's a special favor, we know," Val said. "But I can promise you it won't be a waste of your time."

"Yeah sure, I guess. I gotta get back up there now, though. Any requests?"

The three others looked at Wilton. "You know _Ruby My Dear_?" Wilton said. "Thelonious Monk?"

Later they followed Scott's directions to the diner. It was the kind of place that hits its stride at three thirty in the morning. There was foot-thick pile of sliced potatoes and onions on the grill, being fragrantly sizzled into home fries.

Scott showed up. His tie was loosened but he looked otherwise wide-awake and excited.

On the way over Jenny had counseled Wilton that this was a business meeting. He'd have the chance to chat about jazz later.

"What's up, guys? Val, Jenny and Wilton, right?"

"Right. Scott, we won't waste your time. We've been brought in by the company to QA your team's work."

"The "company" as in the CIA?"

They laughed. "No, Scott, the company as in Marx, Barnes & Adams. Our mutual employer."

"You guys work for MBA too?"

"We do," Val said.

"QA, huh? Are you guys technical?"

"To varying degrees," Jenny said. Val thought he caught her glancing at him. "In general we're pretty competent."

"Competent enough to have noticed some possible anomalies," Wilton said. Val wondered whether Wilton picked phrases like 'possible anomalies' because they were difficult to pronounce, or if it just seemed that way.

"Anomalies? Like bugs?"

"No, in fact your team's code seemed exceptionally clean of bugs," Jenny said. "Our compliments."

"Thanks. I guess. What anomalies?"

Val leaned forward. "We think you know, Scott."

"It's obvious who knows how to code on your team," Wilton said. "I think your friend Josh spends a little too much time on the phone to get much else done.

"Scott, it's not our style to confront. But we have a job to do. We can't prove anything yet, but we think something is going on with your code," Jenny said.

Scott didn't play the incredulous part too heavily, Val noted. He just sat and listened.

"Scott, believe it or not we're here to help you. Help you avoid making a big mistake. While there's still time."

Scott sat silently, looking down at the Formica table. The waitress walked up, took a look and retreated.

"Scott, we could discuss the X-11 modules in some detail if you would like," Jenny said.

Scott was shaking his head slowly.

"I promise you we're not cops. The company really hates to be embarrassed. Especially in public. It's best for everybody if we can clean these things up quietly. But we need your help to do that."

"It was that obvious?" Scott said.

"Not at all," Jenny said. "Quite the contrary. We had to dig hard. And as Val said, even now we can't prove anything."

"What now?" Scott said.

"We'd like to get together for a more detailed review," Wilton said. "I think you can really teach me something."

"Do I have an alternative?"

"Honestly, yes. You can deny everything. You can force us to spend time and the company's money digging. It may take a long time. But, we're not the kind of people who quit." Jenny paused, eyebrows raised, lips apart. Val thought she was the most determined person he had ever met, and it came across.

"I can see that. Can you give me until Monday to think this over?" Scott said.

"Sunday afternoon, maybe," Val said. "Remember, we're looking for low profile. And Scott, please don't get clever and skip out on us."

"Not my style. Besides, I have another gig in two weeks. Hey, two gigs in one month. Maybe I'll be able to fall back on my music career after all. What time Sunday?"

## Chapter 31

The security guys were used to programmers coming and going at all hours. This one, a thin young black man with a nametag that said Raymont, had a small TV under the sign-in counter. He established no direct eye contact.

It took Scott a few minutes to log on. Wilton and Malcolm borrowed chairs and squeezed on either side of Scott.

Scott opened up his editor program, which he used to change source code. He blurred down through the program using the Page Down key.

"The first thing I did was identify some variables that had been set that were no longer being used," Scott said. "There were several."

"That was smart. No reason to call attention by setting up new ones," Wilton said.

"Right. Here's the one I used. It was in the original code but had never been used."

"This is embarrassing," Malcolm said. "I have a feeling it's going to get worse."

"Hey man, not really," Scott said. "Believe me, everybody throws theory out the window when it comes to getting the code out. Besides, I'm not sure there was much theory when this original stuff was written. No offense."

"None taken, Scott," Malcolm said. "I was just thinking. John Van Neumann first proposed a digital computer with stored programs during the World War II. I've been here twenty-seven years. That's half the history of computing."

"Twenty-seven years ago my father was carrying human fertilizer in buckets out to the farm fields from the village every day. That was his job. He was a double Ph.D. before that." Wilton said.

"The Cultural Revolution, right?" Scott said.

"The Great Leap Forward," Malcolm said.

"My parents told me during that time everybody thought there was a big famine going on in the U.S., too," Wilton said. "I was here two years before I believed everybody when they told me different. I'm so lucky they got out and moved to Taiwan before I was born. What's going on here now, Scott?"

"OK, here's where it gets a little cute. The poor guy who wrote this code, and it's a pretty good bet it _was_ a guy" Scott glanced over his shoulder at Malcolm, "had to try to decipher the professors' statistics formulas and make sense of them in Assembler calling FORTRAN subroutines. He did what I would do. He took every formula and broke it down to its lowest level components, then stored each of these as a variable. Then he built the formulas up layer by layer. Not that efficient, but a lot easier to debug. I 'borrowed' some of the variables to do the work we wanted done. To tell you the truth I was surprised, actually I was shocked, that Wilton here and his crew noticed anything."

"Just lucky," Wilton said.

"I don't think so," Scott said. "This is good for me. I guess I was getting cocky."

"Funny, I've never had that feeling," Malcolm said, smiling.

"So where do you plug the number?" Wilton said.

"You don't already know?" Scott said.

"Well, I had a guess."

"I didn't," Malcolm said. "All the code in this area is a swamp for us. We just leave it alone and hope to not screw anything up. You guys are amazing."

Wilton and Scott stared straight ahead, a little embarrassed.

Scott continued, "So anyway, like most of these old programs this one is looking for a deck of parameters. Some of these fields are also no longer used. I break the month and rate apart, invert the segments, and put them in those pad fields."

"A person would have to be very suspicious to find any of this," Malcolm said.

"Then you reassemble the input variables when you run the formulas, right?" Wilton said.

"Right. Here where you take the reciprocal. I move the value into this local variable."

"Sweet," Wilton said. "Oh, sorry Malcolm."

"Don't apologize Wilton. I understand. Our friend here is gifted. I also think he's seen the error of his ways, right Scott?"

Scott said, "I don't know about you guys, but coding has always been kind of a game for me. I should have known better when Josh suggested this, but it seemed like an interesting challenge. Plus I thought this was a good way to get my message out. Bad idea."

"So we don't have to tweak the program?" Wilton said.

"Not really. If you just omit those input parameters, the program runs normally," Scott said.

"Wait. Wouldn't the problem still be there? Couldn't someone fool with the code later?" Malcolm said.

"I thought about that," Wilton said. "Why don't we put a few lines of code that will ABEND if any of those parameters are populated?."

An ABEND – abnormal end – was a standard mainframe error message. Scott typed for a few minutes. He looked over his shoulder at Malcolm. "How do we test this?"

"Did you test before?"

"Not really."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that your documentation is incomplete."

The three programmers laughed.

"I think we're done here," Malcolm said. "I think the CPI is its boring old self again."

## Chapter 32

For a change, Mona was home before Josh. She made sweats and stocking feet look totally New York, sitting at the table with one leg curled under her. "Hi hon," she said.

Josh walked over to the glass table. Mona had a stack of catalogs. She was looking at one about the Seychelles.

"What's up? Are we going on vacation?" he said.

"No, my silly boy. We're looking for residences."

"Residences?"

"Josh, dear, people like us don't live in one place anymore. We're citizens of the world."

Mona was definitely watching too much TV.

"Oh really? Where, pray tell, will we be setting up housekeeping next?" he said.

"Josh, dear, don't be sarcastic. It ages you. Of course we'll want a little _pied_ à _terre_ in Paris."

Josh had no idea what the thing was that they wanted in Paris, but kept his mouth shut.

She saw through this weak attempt. "A small, but choice, place to spend a couple nights when we're passing through. The best places are on the Île St. Louis." She pronounced it 'aisle saint lewis'. Josh was pretty sure that wasn't right. At least he admitted he didn't speak French.

"Of course," he said. Where else?

"Well, we should have an island getaway, right?"

They had gone to Sybarite, a singles resort in Jamaica a couple winters before. Mostly they had gotten drunk and gotten high. Mona wasn't into water sports and it was too hot and sweaty to be outside during the day. Josh remembered the sex being disappointing and missing email.

"Manhattan's an island," he said. "So's Long."

"Really, Josh, your humor is escaping me tonight. As usual. Finally, I was thinking about Portillo." This rhymed with 'pillow'.

"Where's that. Let me guess. In the Catskills?"

She ignored this. "No, dear, it's in Chile" (pronounced as in 'con carne'). "It's a ski resort. I thought it would be more practical than Aspen or Gstaad ("Guh-stad") since it's south of the equator. We could get down there to ski to escape the heat of summer."

"Very practical."

She got up, walked to him, put her arms around his neck and looked up at him. She seemed shorter than usual because she was in her socks. "Josh, dear, you know I'm high maintenance. You know it and you love it. We're not ordinary people, you and me. You're going to make a lot of money and I'm just the girl to spend it for you. Just enjoy the ride."

This was a more honest appraisal of their relationship than Josh had been able to summon up lately.

"I'm looking at a place tomorrow," she said.

"In Chile?"

"No Mr. Sarcastic. Right across town. I heard about it from Estelle. It's a steal."

"Mona, we have to talk."

She sat down on the couch, put her chin in her hand, and looked at him.

"I told you that I hoped to be coming into some money from some investments soon. It's not a sure thing. But even if it happens we have to be sort of careful about where we spend it. At least for a while."

"Careful?"

"You know, we don't want to go around bringing attention to ourselves. Because we don't want to get audited or whatever. Don't worry, if this works out we'll be set. But we just have to be low profile for a while. Relatively."

She patted the couch next to her. Josh sat down. She put her arms around his neck and gently licked his ear. "Are you mad at me, Sweetie? I just want the best for us."

"How could I be mad at you when I'm mad about you?" Not bad! he thought. Of course Mona had no fucking idea where the money came from. He intended to keep her in the dark. She knew nothing about Tavron, nothing about the CPI, and for sure nothing about his little nest egg in Mexico. As far as she knew he just traveled to L.A. once a month or so. No need to worry her little head about his side trips to Mexico City, via San Diego, the stupid tourist bus over the border, and Scare Mexico flight cuatro whatever to Mexico City. She'd probably tell him not to drink the water.

"Good. Now let me up. We have to get ready. We have reservations in 45 minutes. Wear the white slacks, loafers and the powder blue blazer, will you?"

## Chapter 33

It was surprisingly easy to find a bar that had Headline News on the TV all the time. Josh ordered a Ketel One Gibson at 9:15 a.m. Well, that's my PR for stiffest drink earliest in the day, he thought. At that hour he had had no trouble commandeering a bar stool by an empty round bar table.

The same cute blonde as before was doing the news. Sasha something. The lead story was something about a runaway barge. The President was speaking somewhere about something boring. Just before the sports, the weather, the Hollywood minute, the I don't know what all, the blonde said "The market is responding favorably today to encouraging economic news. The Consumer Price Index, which had been edging upward in recent months, took an unexpected turn for the better. Inflation in September was just two tenths of a percent, down a tenth from the previous month and lower than most forecasts. Analysts said lower oil prices were responsible. After the break: Headline Sports."

Josh stared toward the commercial for an antacid, but didn't see it. His eyes focused on a point in mid-air, about three feet past his nose. He said things along the line of "Oh shit. Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Oh fuck me. Oh fucking no." His knees were watery. He had to pee.

After a while he looked around. No one noticed. The bartender was chatting with the single on-duty cocktail waitress as he dried glassware. How could they not notice? He wondered if this is what it felt like to walk out of the doctor's office into the world having just heard that you only had a month to live.

He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, but didn't know who to call. Mona? Right, she'd be a big help. Scott? What the hell had happened? But Scott couldn't talk about it now. Josh had no idea how to call Hansi directly.

What the fuck had happened? He chewed the ice from the Gibson, still focusing on the same vanishing point. He felt a hand on his elbow. The waitress was standing there. "Would you like another?" she said.

Josh looked at her like she was speaking Estonian. "What?" he said.

"Can I get you another drink or something? Is everything OK?"

I guess she, at least, had noticed. Noticed that everything was, in fact, not fucking OK. Not at all. He'd have to think fast this time. Later, though. At the moment he was busy panicking.

"Cuervo Gold. Up. Double. Please."

She stared at him for another moment, then walked back to the bar.

Josh was suddenly aware of the busy street, light pouring into the bar with its brand new dark aged wood. People streamed by. Sooner or later one would glance in and see Josh sitting there. His face would give it all away.

## Chapter 34

Schneider did not know how to kill a man with just a credit card. He was master of no ancient martial arts. He did not speak accentless Arabic. He was not irresistible to women.

Schneider did not smuggle any firearms through customs. He did not carry a special radio disguised as an electric shaver. He did not use one-time pads, or disappearing ink, to encrypt messages.

Schneider was not a sleuth. He did not try to get inside the mind of his quarry. In fact, he didn't think of his assignments as 'quarry'.

Schneider was a policeman. At the moment, he was an employee of the Bank, but that didn't change his profession. He thought that probably policemen all over the world were pretty much the same. The word 'policewoman' was more or less a curiosity for him, something like 'white tiger'.

Schneider was not a philosopher. Still, he thought sometimes about what he and other policemen did for a living. What people want as individuals does not agree with what they want as a society. They hire policemen to deal with that disagreement. Every person is greedy. But everyone cannot be too greedy, because there isn't enough to go around. So the police make sure nobody is too greedy. Everybody, not just Italians, want to drive as fast as they can on the _autobahn_. But not everybody can. So the police make sure that everybody is a little bit unhappy all the time.

When he was a new policeman in St. Gallen, Schneider had often been shocked. Once, neighbors heard a young baby screaming and screaming, enough to convince even the Swiss to not mind their own business. When Schneider and his partner went into the home, the home of a printer, they found a baby scalded all over his little body. His partner could tell from the pattern of the burns that the baby had been dipped into a pot of boiling water. His partner could tell this because he had seen it several times before, on the bodies of other Swiss babies.

Very soon, Schneider's ability to be shocked was replaced by a kind of acceptance. Schneider did not feel superior to the printer, or to the kids in Needle Park, or the Turkish smash-and-grab people, or to the small men with the thick glasses that embezzled.

Schneider was not an imposing physical specimen. He couldn't hold his breath for minutes at a time – in fact he hadn't been swimming since he was a schoolboy. He had never jumped over a fence, or out of third story window, or from the top of one high building to another in pursuit of a criminal.

He had never even been in a Porsche, much less driven one at breakneck speed while evading a carload of thugs.

He was of average height, with sandy hair. He had grown up the son of a farmer and was still solid through the thighs and shoulders. He still enjoyed his summer weeks in the Army. He was a sergeant in a reconnaissance platoon. They spent their time hiking through high meadows, reporting to headquarters on imaginary enemy parachute landings near vital installations.

Schneider did not think of himself as tenacious, or relentless, or implacable. But then, he didn't think of himself that much anyway. He had heard other people use these words. Sometimes his employers. Sometimes his assignments.

The Bank employed many people to maintain security. Every boy who sees the Matterhorn wants to climb it, even though not all try and not all that try succeed. Some even die in the attempt. Schneider thought of The Bank this way. Every person, not just every criminal, looked at the bank and thought of what was inside and how it could make his life better.

Schneider did not work in a department. He worked directly for Mr. Reuss. He was one of Mr. Reuss's personal assistants. He had a small office – at least it had a door – in the middle of the Auditing department.

Mr. Reuss gave him his assignments face-to-face. Usually Mr. Reuss gave him a manila envelope, with a photo and a few pages of information. Even though Schneider was not an imaginative man, he had no trouble understanding what Mr. Reuss expected from his assignments.

This morning Mr. Reuss had asked Schneider to have a talk with Hansi Renggli, a medium-high manager at the bank, who was on a trip to New York. Schneider had never met Renggli before. The talk couldn't wait. Mr. Reuss had suggested that they discuss certain currency trades that Mr. Renggli had approved.

Schneider was not an expert in international finance. To tell the truth, Schneider was an expert in just one area: getting people to tell the truth. Not the part of the truth that they were comfortable telling, or that they had prepared in advance to tell, or had learned to live with. The whole truth, as Mr. Reuss would want to hear it.

Schneider used a very simple, three-step technique to convince people to tell him the whole truth. First, he made sure that he had their undivided attention. Next, he made sure they understood what he wanted to know. Lastly, he looked at them in a certain way, until they had told them the whole, complete truth. He really didn't have to know anything about the subject at hand, other than to be able to ask the question. The way that he looked at his assignments convinced them, every time, that telling him the whole truth was preferable to whatever alternatives Schneider had in his mind.

Once he had traveled to Morocco, to interview a deposed dictator from a country in Central Africa. The dictator was a Muslim, at least in name, so he had been granted asylum in Morocco.

The former dictator was not accustomed to being interviewed. He kept looking at the door of the small room in the government building that the Moroccan government had been kind enough to arrange. Once he left in a huff. Schneider heard raised voices outside the office, speaking English. The former dictator returned a few minutes later, in a more talkative mood. He told Schneider many, many things about the finances of his country and of his family.

Part of Schneider's technique was to choose the place for the interview with care. In a foreign city was tricky – you needed privacy, you needed a setting where you could get the assignment's complete attention, and you needed time. On the other hand Schneider had worked in New York

## Chapter 35

Malcolm and Al Simmons went way back. Actually, Malcolm had been in the Bureau for several years already when Al came on board. In the beginning Al was a keep your nose clean type and a fairly hard worker. He and Malcolm had become office friends, who see each other socially with the wives maybe once a year. Malcolm didn't happen to golf, which was Al's big passion.

There was never a real career rivalry between them. Al was more politically adept than Malcolm, but that wasn't really saying much. Al had mainly gotten to his current position through time-in-grade. Typically for this level of middle management, Simmons had lost the gratification that comes from doing the work, and had not gained enough power to influence events to compensate. As a result he was pretty much always in a bitchy mood. Malcolm's inclination to listen to this waxed and waned.

Today the subject was the consultants, a familiar theme. The building was old enough that Albert had an actual office with a door, which was customarily closed for these sessions.

"So this son of a bitch gives me the nice guy routine. We're all in this together. Right?"

"Which one? Val?"

"Right. Val. You know the definition of a consultant, Malcom? Somebody from out of town who makes more money than I do."

"He seems OK. Albert, you know there's going to be consultants on your neck, in your shorts, in your dreams and so on from now 'til doomsday. Lay back, as they say, and enjoy it."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. individual contributor. I got key performance indicators. I got personnel reviews in the middle of all this other shit. Christ."

You also got the pay raise, Malcolm thought. "What's the specific problem?"

"The specific problem is this, specifically. These wise asses are concerned about the QA of the Y2K work their own crew is doing. Calder and Crane. My little whiz kids."

"Why are they concerned?"

"They did not deign to share that reasoning with this lowly civil servant. Something about a random audit of sensitive project components or some shit."

"Maybe that's built into their government contract or something."

"Whatever. I just know it's more grief for yours truly, just when I don't need it."

"Have they said anything specific or are they just sniffing around?"

"Nothing specific. But I have the idea they're not just sniffing either," Albert said.

"How's that?"

"Kowalski or whatever his name is – Val – requested access to some particular modules. He has clearance from the big boss to get whatever he needs. The security guys just about puked. You ever know a guy named Val before?"

"What kind of clearance?"

"I got a phone call. Nothing would be in writing, but give them whatever they need. What I think they need is a swift kick in the ass and a one-way ticket back to Hilton Head or wherever they go thanks to the taxpayers. Goddamned boondoggle."

"Albert, I don't think you have anything to worry about. You need hip boots and a magnifying glass to find your way through most of that old stuff. I doubt that our young friends are up to any mischief, and I doubt even more that Val and his crew would find anything even if they are."

"I hope you're right, Malcolm. What I don't need right now is some Internal Audit assholes climbing all over."

"I'd relax, Albert. But I'll tell you what. I'll keep my ear to the ground and see what I can find out. Both Scott's and Val's teams need me to get to square one on this stuff. Maybe I'll be a little less cooperative and see what crawls out from a rock."

"Just keep me in the loop, Malcolm."

Malcolm stood up, gave Simmons a thumbs-up, opened the door and walked back to his cube.

## Chapter 36

Mr. Schneider rented a Ford Taurus when he landed at Kennedy. He drove straight to the Swiss Consulate and picked up a package. It included various identification papers, a fair amount of cash, a cellular phone, and a sidearm with rounds and holster.

Hansi Renggli's secretary in Zurich (over here they were now called "assistants") gave him the name of the hotel. The Bank had given him a counterfeit version of Renggli's Swiss driver's license, with Mr. Schneider's picture on it. He went to the front desk and told the clerk that he had both locked his key in his room and forgotten his room number. People always said he had an honest face. He could have probably gotten the key with just a shrug and a sheepish smile, dressed as he was. Immigrants were a part of the everyday texture of a city like New York. Mr. Schneider had very little trouble doing his work here. Operating elsewhere in America was more difficult, since his accent made people curious if not downright suspicious.

He sat in the dark in Hansi's very posh room. It was almost four in the morning when Hansi let himself in. Mr. Schneider had positioned himself so he couldn't be seen from the door. He waited until Hansi had gone into the bathroom and peed before speaking, in Swiss German:

"Mr. Renggli, Mr. Reuss has sent me to ask you some questions."

Renggli, suspenders halfway off his shoulders, stood frozen.

"Who are you?, he said, trying to sound indignant.

"Schneider. From the home office. Security."

"Security? Is this normal procedure, to break into someone's room?"

Mr. Schneider remained silent. Renggli's reaction was entirely predictable.

"And at this hour. Is this entirely necessary?"

"Mr. Renggli, as I said, Mr. Reuss has asked me to ask you some questions. I think you know the matter they are regarding."

Renggli was a typical blowhard. He was equally concerned about the crease in his pants, his reputation, his career and his kneecaps. Mr. Schneider, without ever directly threatening, managed to play off all those fears. He placed a small tape recorder on a small round table. Renggli talked and talked after each of Mr. Schneider's questions. Only twice did Mr. Schneider have to ask a question twice, a little more firmly.

By the end of the interview at six fifteen Renggli was weeping like a woman – an emotional non-Swiss woman with too much makeup. Mr. Schneider made no attempt to comfort him, nor did he abuse him. He simply made it clear what would happen next.

He had gotten some sleep after Renggli had left for the New York office. Renggli had suggested the restaurant in the SoHo neighborhood. Mr. Schneider made a telephone call to the New York Police Department and spoke with a captain in a branch in Queens. In the early afternoon he drove to the address he had been given, after stopping in a small store on Lexington that sold all manner of electronics.

Mr. Schneider had never killed a person. He didn't even like to hunt. But his assignments didn't know that he hadn't, and he had no trouble convincing them that he would kill them, with neither relish nor regret, if they failed to live up to the agreements they made. Mr. Schneider just naturally looked like the last person in the world you wanted angry with you.

The Bank was not interested in retribution. This was about money. Whatever they were, the managers in Zurich held no illusions about the relationship between money and human nature. They treated problems like this for what they were: just business. It was bad business for The Bank to receive publicity about foreign exchange trades involving manipulating U.S. government statistics.

Mr. Schneider was, in the first and last analysis, just a policeman. If his assignments had nightmares about him later, that was their own fault.

## Chapter 37

Scott's speakers were each each the size of a washing machine. His place was cluttered with books, CDs, vinyl records and sheet music. A synthesizer was set up at right angles to a typing table with a computer on it. Both were in front of the large screen TV.

Wilton walked over to one of the bookcases and began reading the titles. Scott cleared some music off the couch and gestured for Val and Jenny to sit down. They declined Scott's offer for drinks or snacks.

The CD was in the player already. Scott clicked it on. The tune began with a low bass note, played with a bow, and congas. The groove was a kind of funk reggae, not strictly within the form, but insistent.

"Is that a B3 or a synth?" Wilton said.

"It's the real thing, complete with cocktail glass rings and cigarette burns," Scott said.

"I thought so. You can't really synthesize the sound of a Hammond tone wheel," Wilton said.

The groove had gotten busier. Two tenor saxes were improvising together. A male vocalist had begun. They listened to the words. For a "message" piece it was surprisingly down-to-earth and understandable. The music got more and more intense, but didn't overwhelm the vocals.

When it was over they sat silently for a minute. Jenny, surprisingly, spoke first. "Scott, that was an original experience for me. Before I heard it I would have told you that I didn't like jazz, didn't like rap, and didn't like political art. But that communicated to me."

Val and Wilton glanced at each other.

"I don't know what to say," Scott said.

"Scott, you realize this is as far as this goes," Val said. "It stops here."

"I'm cool with that."

"No, Scott, that's not good enough. I know about digital technology. I know how easy it is to dupe this session. I know how important it has been for you to communicate your message. I don't necessarily even disagree with your message that much. But you need to be crystal clear about this. This has to be the last performance of this piece."

"I understand."

"I'm still not sure you do. If this piece emerges anywhere, if the bass player kept a dub, if somebody emailed a copy from the studio. You. Will. Go. To. Federal. Prison."

"Look. I screwed up. Big time. I know that. I didn't think this through, and what was mostly a joke for me was serious for a lot of people. I realize that people lost a lot of money because of my actions. I know that I'm getting off the hook because the government doesn't want to be embarrassed. I'm not stupid enough to tempt fate twice. It stops here."

"There's a lot you can do, Scott. You have a real gift," Jenny said. This time Val and Wilton exchanged 'what's going on?' looks.

She continued "Just because I come from a different tradition, Oklahoma, not Chinese-American, doesn't mean I'm incapable of knowing good art when I see it or hear it. Keep it up, Scott, but play fair."

"What will happen to Josh?" Scott asked.

"It depends on whether he is willing to play ball," Val said. "The last I heard he was playing innocent. I hope he wises up. Any suggestions?"

"Not really. You know what our real problem is? I mean all of us, everybody who does what we do. Probably you guys too."

"What's that?" Val said.

"We all think we're so goddamned smart. Josh thinks he's smart enough to get away with this, even now, I guarantee. I hope it's not too late for him."

"We all hope that," Jenny said.

## Chapter 38

Estelle almost never took the subway, but at this hour she'd never get downtown in time any other way. It was always pretty safe during busy hours, but she couldn't handle that stale pee smell.

Hansi had left a message on her home voicemail. He was in town, which was a surprise. She called her girlfriend to tell her that she wouldn't be at the gym for their regular session, and headed straight to the restaurant in SoHo that Hansi mentioned. She hadn't heard of it.

The place, Raoul's, was only about three blocks from the subway station. She was squinting through the window when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Hansi was standing there, with a funny look on his face. "Miss Costello. Hello. There's been a slight change in plans. Can you please get in?"

A gray Mercedes (an S-Type, Estelle knew her Benz) was at the curb, engine running. Hansi opened the rear passenger's side door. Some man she had never seen before was driving.

She got in the back and slid over. Hansi sat down and said "Estelle, this is Mr. Schneider." The driver, a stocky, sandy-haired guy, looked over his right shoulder and nodded. "Mr. Schneider is from the main office in Zurich."

Estelle didn't have much time to wonder what was going on. Mr. Schneider pulled the Mercedes out into traffic, and turned uptown. He seemed to know what he was doing in the lurching rush-hour snarl.

She thought the smart thing to do would be to shut up. For once. Hansi looked straight ahead. He was biting his lower lip. Not a good sign. Finally he said "Estelle, Mr. Schneider is with The Bank's security group. Internal security."

She waited.

"Mr. Schneider wants to ask us – to ask you actually, some questions."

Estelle could see Mr. Schneider looking at her in the rear-view mirror. They were headed up Sixth. The traffic, dotted with yellow cabs, snaked on ignoring the lane markers.

"We're going to a quiet place where it will be easy to talk," Hansi continued.

Estelle was thinking: how much trouble am I in? Hansi's is obviously nervous as hell. And who is Mr. Schneider? Usually these guys from Zurich wouldn't shut up as they tried to impress you with how worldly they were. She kept quiet. They drove silently. Estelle noticed that the Benz did a great job of keeping out the noise. They turned into the on-ramp for the 59th Street Bridge. Every time she saw the bridge, including now, that silly Simon and Garfunkel song played in her head. Estelle wondered if Mr. Schneider would tell her that she had the right to remain silent, or something. Or shouldn't there be an HR person there, wherever 'there' was? She had only had one run-in with The Bank. Her first boss, that numbnuts Lankershim, had counseled her about tardiness. She was supposed to be at work from 8:30 to 5 with an hour for lunch, but they all worked crazy hours. She had been a little late – well, actually, fairly late – on quite a few days. One morning when she came in Lankershim walked up to her cube as she was hanging up her coat and motioned for her to follow him. They went to a small conference room where a woman from HR was sitting. She didn't say a word other than 'nice to meet you' and 'goodbye'. Lankershim did all the talking.

But this was different.

She stared at the rear view mirror. Mr. Schneider glanced back at her about once a minute. It took ten minutes to cross the bridge. Hansi stared forward. He jiggled his knees back and forth nervously.

Mr. Schneider took the first off ramp. He ran a yellow, made two quick turns, and headed into a warehousy district along the river. The neighborhood was dumpy but not scary.

They drove into a warehouse parking lot, past an abandoned guard shack, then around the back of a large building. On this side were twenty or thirty of those truck-loading docks. The lot was completely empty. The walls on this side covered up to a story and a half with graffiti. The graffiti seemed duller to her than it used to.

Mr. Schneider stopped the car halfway out in the middle of the lot. He methodically undid his seat belt, put his arm on the back of the front seat, and turned toward here.

"Miss Burns, what's going on?", Mr. Schneider said. He had a pretty thick, sing-song Swiss accent. He said 'Miss', not 'Ms'. Estelle still didn't say anything. Hansi had turned to face her. He was still biting his lower lip.

"Estelle, Mr. Schneider has already interviewed me," he said. 'Interviewed?', she thought. "He knows everything, from my point of view. Now he wants to find out the rest of the story."

She finally spoke. "What story? What are you guys talking about? I'm the one who wants to know what's going on?"

"Please, Miss Burns. Let's not waste time. I need to know everything about your friend Josh and his little plan," Mr. Schneider said.

"Josh Calder?" she said, stalling.

"Miss Burns, I might look to you like a patient man. Or maybe you think because I speak English with a funny accent that you can trick me or something." He pronounced it 'somesing'. "The Bank is spending a lot of money sending me here to New York just so I can understand everything about this plan you and Mr. Calder and Mr. Renggli here have made up. Now Mr. Renggli is going to take this nice automobile and go for a ride. You and I are going to go in that building there and have a chat. When the chat is over I will call Mr. Renggli's little phone with my little phone and he will come back. How long our chat lasts is entirely up to you."

Estelle realized her heart was pounding. She decided it would be stupid to act innocent. Mr. Schneider said something to Hansi in German, then got out of the car and opened Estelle's door. He was holding a leather briefcase. Estelle got out.

Mr. Schneider walked with Estelle toward the warehouse. He did not touch her or look at her. Instead he walked a half a step ahead of her, with his head down. Estelle's heels echoed off the walls of the warehouse.

## Chapter 39

Scott figured Josh would get in touch sooner or later. Josh called Scott at home at 8:30 in the evening.

"Man, I'm scared shitless," Josh said.

"Calm down. What's wrong? I mean, what specifically is scaring you?"

"I can't find Estelle," Josh said.

"Estelle? You mean Mona's friend? Why are you looking for her?"

"Scott, Estelle's been working with me on this deal. She's the one that set up the meeting with the Swiss banker. And now she's been missing from work for two days. Her assistant, who I know, has no idea where she is. I've called her apartment like five hundred times and gotten the same fucking perky message. This is bad, man."

"Did you say Swiss banker?"

"Jesus, Scott, did you think this was all put together by magic? This is a very complicated deal."

"Where are you now, Josh?"

"I'm not going to say on the telephone, you asshole. I'm still in New York but I'm going to drive down tonight. We need to get together."

"OK, sure. Why don't you come here?"

"Your place."

"Yeah. I'm unlisted, and hardly anybody except you knows where I live. Estelle sure doesn't."

"Do you think I can hang out there for a couple days? Until I get this figured out?"

"Sure, Josh, but where's Mone?"

"Fucking bitch. I get home last night and find this note. 'A Mr. Renggli called – urgent." – he's the Swiss guy – "Hope you're happy, Scott. Don't wait up.' She didn't come home last night. She's probably in the Caribbean with some lawyer."

"Not with a wimp, with a banker."

"What?"

"That's what Paul Desmond supposedly said when he saw an ex-girlfriend walking down the street. Never mind. So, are you going back to the Bureau?"

"Scott, you're not getting it. We are in trouble, man. As in witness fucking protection program."

"What time will you be here?"

"It might actually be safer during rush hour. More people around."

"Safer?"

"Yes, Scott, safer. I think Estelle isn't coming back to work ever. Do you get it? Someone is very very pissed about our little prank."

"Who? Do you know who?"

"I have an idea, but I'm not sure. We'll talk about it. Look, I have a plan. I'll park somewhere close by, a few blocks away. I'll call you from my cell phone when I'm around the corner. It should be about 8:30 tomorrow morning. You look out your window. I'll walk by on your side of the street, from left to right as you look out. Watch after I pass and see if anybody is following me. Call me on my cell either way. If it's clear I'll walk around the block and buzz twice. Buzz me right in. Did you get all that?"

"Jeez, Josh. Yeah, I got it."

"Scott, I'm serious. I think there's some kind of fucking hit man looking for me."

"Try to get some sleep, Josh."

"Maybe later. Are you holding?"

"I'm not telling you that over the telephone, Josh."

"Mr. Comic. 8:30. Be awake."

"I'll be awake."

Josh hung up. Scott went to his terminal and clicked on the keyboard, holding his cordless phone between his chin and his shoulder. He bent over, squinted, and dialed a number.

## Chapter 40

It wasn't easy, but Jenny tried hard to take care of herself on these extended road trips. That involved eating right, not succumbing to the nightly temptation to get drunk, and getting at least some cardiovascular exercise.

Her options to accomplish the latter were limited. She felt too silly to do the in room aerobics with any of the twenty or so daily shows. She preferred bicycling, but that was impractical not to mention dangerous in DC. The hotel exercise room was the best alternative. There was a fairly decent array of stationary bicycles and what she still thought of as Nautilus machines.

She considered herself fairly competent technically but she had never really learned what buttons to press to take advantage of any but the most basic features on one of the bikes. She managed to set it for twenty minutes. The overly loud TV was repeating the hour's top stories over and over.

Jenny thought about Val. He was a good person. He tried to do the right thing, personally and professionally. He handled the stress pretty well, without taking it out on her or Wilton. He still had trouble communicating without making analogies based on sports, warfare, or both. Examples including "going for the bomb", "choosing bullets or beans", "swinging for the fences" and "DEFCON 5". In his circle it apparently also helped to memorize the dialog of _Caddyshack_ and _Top Gun_.

They had had fun in Columbus. She admitted that having a few beers made it easier to loosen up a little. Val wasn't exactly a good dancer, but he managed a fairly decent rendition of the Frug, which he told her he first saw as a junior high schooler hurrying home to watch _American Bandstand_. He said something about before it moved from Philly to L.A., which made no sense to her.

It was obvious Val was attracted by her – and not just in the way that most men were. She wasn't sure exactly how she felt, but she remained open to possibilities.

The last thing they had done at the office was discuss Wilton's latest finding. After the discovery of Scott's code, Val had suggested that Jenny and Wilton complete at least a cursory examination of the rest of the programs.

This morning Wilton had reported to her that he was a little suspicious about a couple of other modules. The thing was, Josh or Scott had not yet touched these modules. In fact, they had not been modified at all for over three years.

Val had been more skeptical than usual when presented with these findings. Wilton hadn't had time to find out exactly what was going on. Val told them to research the issue and decide one way or another as soon as possible. They couldn't afford more loose ends.

## Chapter 41

The club was surprisingly crowded for a Thursday night. It had retained its fernless fifties Formica feel. The cigarette machine was stationed proudly between the Men's and Women's. There was a "no blended drinks during the set" policy.

Josh sat in a corner, trying to act inconspicuous. The crowd was about fifty-fifty black and white. He counted on the fact that weirdoes liked jazz, because he sure wasn't dressed for success. He had on a black stocking cap, dark wrap around shades, a black North Face ski jacket, jeans and a sweater.

The band took a break. The jukebox immediately resumed a Nat Cole song – not that Josh knew that. The waitress, a no-nonsense black woman, asked if he wanted another. He did.

Ernest was walking around the club, schmoozing and shaking hands with people he knew. Josh figured he'd wander close enough for Josh to get his attention sooner or later. He did.

"Hey, Ernest."

Ernest looked over his granny glasses at Josh.

"Hello. Do I know you?"

"It's me. Josh. Josh Calder. I'm a friend of Scott's."

Ernest squinted. "Oh yeah. Josh. Computers, right? Y2K shit."

"Right. I work with Scott. Hey, you guys sound great."

"Thanks. Glad you're enjoying it. Where's Scott?"

"He can't be here. But, Ernest, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"What's up, Josh Calder?"

"I mean, can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

"Why outside?"

"This is very private."

There was no one in the parking lot, although two people were seated in a large seventies vintage sedan with its lights off.

"Don't worry about them, man. That's just my drummer and my bass player adjusting their respective attitudes. Part of the great tradition of jazz. We call it 'checking the lights'. What can I do for you?"

"I feel weird asking you this. But. . . I need a gun."

"A gun? You going duck hunting in the morning?"

"A handgun, Ernest. I need a handgun."

"Well, all I carry in my sax case is one of those Al Capone machine guns with the round thing in front. I only pack hand guns when I play bar mitzvahs."

"Ernest, I know this is weird. I have a big problem. I need protection, right away. I don't have the slightest idea how to get a gun. Don't bust my balls, OK?"

"I don't want to know. Scott in on this? Is he in trouble too?"

"He is, but he doesn't know he is. I've been trying to reach him to tell him."

"Listen, Josh Calder. I am choosing to ignore the fact that you are engaging in a blatant racial stereotype at the moment. You need a gun, talk to a black man. I don't own one, and I try to avoid people who do."

Josh stood with his head down, biting his lip.

"You got cash on you? Several hundred, like maybe six hundred?"

"Yes. Almost two large. That's two thousand, right?"

"My man. OK, listen, just because I don't carry doesn't mean that the shit isn't everywhere on the street. I don't know what your problem is and I don't want to know. But if you go to Cool Papa's, on Adams, they'll be able to help."

"On Adams? By that bowling alley, right?"

"Right. Good luck getting a cab to take you there. Been there during daylight, if I were to venture a guess. Now listen. The clientele at Papas is not that accustomed to visits by honky yuppies, even those who are slumming. You do what you're told. You walk in the front. In the far right corner there will be a table with three or four men sitting there. Walk up about three paces from the table and stand politely. One of the men will, eventually, get up and ask you what you want. And for God's sake, lose the shades first."

"What do I tell him that I want."

"Now listen really carefully. It is illegal for the police to entrap. Say exactly this: 'I am neither a police officer nor am I working in any way with or for any law enforcement agency.' Got that?"

"Yes. Then what?"

"Keep waiting. Do not cop an attitude. The man will return to the table. You go find somewhere else to sit, maybe at the bar. There will be plenty of places. After a while another man, not the one you spoke to, will get up and leave. Wait a couple minutes and follow him out the door. He'll be in a car with the motor started. Get in and shut the fuck up."

"Get in his car?"

"And shut the fuck up. He'll drive for a few minutes, stop, go inside a place, come out, drive some more, and stop again. Continue shutting the fuck up. At this point he will turn to you without talking. Hold out an envelope with $600 in it, in twenties. He'll take it and count it. He'll reach under the seat and give you a brown manila envelope. Do not look inside. He will give you a ride back to the front of the club, will drop you off, and will continue down the street. I reiterate, shut the fuck up. No witty asides. No soul handshakes from reruns of the Mod Squad. Don't go back in the club. Just get another cab and get out of everybody's life".

"Will it be loaded?"

"Will what be loaded?"

Josh looked at him. Ernest looked back, over his granny glasses. Two thirds of the rhythm section got out of the car. The guy on the driver's side ground out a cigarette – not exactly! – on the pavement. Josh decided to start shutting the fuck up immediately. He nodded and left. The last thing he heard was somebody singing – it was Billie Holliday but he didn't know that - through the door of the club as it closed behind Ernest.

## Chapter 42

Schneider hated to admit it, but he was in his element. He had a thermos of bad coffee, a box of Ritz crackers and a jar of crunchy peanut butter – a weakness of his. Every few hours he drove to an all night diner, used the Men's and refilled his thermos. He knew that he ran the risk of missing Josh, but he was a patient man.

He had been lucky to find a parking place with a view of Scott Crane's flat. On the other hand, he had begun cruising the block around 3:30 the previous afternoon. Even then it took forty-five minutes to find a suitable spot.

Estelle, in her way, had been much stronger than Renggli. Probably this came from merely surviving as an attractive woman in a city like this. Mr. Schneider had no difficulty noticing that she was attractive. And Estelle had no trouble realizing that her sexual power held no sway over a man like Mr. Schneider. Not while he was working.

In the end she told him everything as well. They always did. But even after interviewing Estelle he wasn't entirely sure what Mr. Crane's role was in this affair. He didn't really care. It was clear that Scott Crane was involved in some way. He hoped this affair didn't take too much longer to clean up. He preferred sleeping in his own bed to dozing in the front seat of a car – and eating his wife's cooking.

All cities woke up the same way. Graying sky, gradually thickening crowds, the crescendoing growl of traffic, pedestrians mostly grim and businesslike as they set out to face another day. He heard the first impatient car horn at quarter to seven.

He wasn't sure whether Crane would be on the move, or Calder would come here. If Crane went to the Bureau office, Schneider would leave him there and pursue some other leads and get some sleep during the day, then resume surveillance. If Crane didn't go to work today, Schneider had another plan in mind.

It had been Schneider's experience that subjects of surveillance had very little imagination. It was easy to get lost in a large city. Just ask the parents of any three-year-old. But most of these people relied on a few so-called tricks that they had picked up reading James Bond novels. Wearing a hat. Stopping to window shop in front of every second store.

Schneider had a good photo of Josh Calder. He had stopped by the Embassy to pick it up as soon as he had arrived in Washington. He was accustomed to imagining how a person might try to change his appearance.

Schneider was not interested in Eastern religions. But his surveillance technique for looking for a person whom he had never seen in person was Zen-like. After immersing himself in information about his assignment – appearance, habits, associates – he positioned himself where the person was most likely to appear, sooner or later. Then he consciously emptied his brain and simply observed the world pass by. When the person did come into his field of vision he somehow simply knew. The hundreds or thousands of false alarms – try doing this in Denmark! – registered a small adrenaline jolt. The real thing settled into his awareness with a comforting fullness. A very Swiss sensation.

His task was made easier by the fact that at least half of the pedestrians were black. It was also a big help that Scott's co-op didn't have indoor parking.

Schneider never took stock of his strengths and weaknesses. But an objective observer would note that Schneider was a hard man to bore or distract.

If Josh Calder paid a visit on his friend Scott Crane, Schneider would know and would soon pay a visit on the two of them together.

## Chapter 43

Val met Jenny in the elevator. There was no need to get Wilton involved in this. He felt funny about bringing Jenny, but he needed her in case Josh tried to bluff. They rode in a cab. At quarter past six the street were empty.

Scott let them in. He was nervous.

"He should be here in a couple hours he said."

"Right. Are we ready?" Val said.

"Everything is set up like you said."

"Can I look it over?" Jenny said.

"Sure."

She got up and walked over to Scott's computer, on a desk in the oversized living room, sat down and began typing. Val went through how he wanted to play things in his head. They watched the Today Show.

About 8:20 Scott's phone rang. He answered. "Hi. Yep. Yep. I'll watch. See you in a sec." Scott went over to the living room window and peeked through the blinds.

Val and Jenny went into the one bedroom. They talked with lowered voices.

"Kovalczyk, I think we should discuss my forthcoming performance review," Jenny said.

"Very funny."

"Isn't today it for this assignment?"

"Give or take a couple days of debrief. Going to take some time off?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

Val thought he hadn't heard right. We've got to concentrate, he thought. "Can we discuss this later?"

She was smiling looking ahead. She just wanted to break the tension, he thought.

In a couple minutes they heard the doorbell ring twice. Scott unlocked the double latch. They heard what had to be Josh's voice.

"Did you see anybody?"

"Just you. I think the coast was clear," Scott said.

"This is, I repeat, not funny. I'm scared shitless."

"I can tell. Sit down. You're safe here. Coffee?"

"The one thing I don't need is more of a jag right now."

"Josh, relax. I've got a plan. I think things are going to be OK."

"You've got a plan? Since when do you have a plan?"

Val took his cue. He stepped into the living room. "Actually, Scott's right, Josh. Sit down. Relax. Let's talk." Val walked over to the kitchenette, pulled out a chair, turned it backwards so it faced them, and sat down. Jenny followed him and sat, correctly, at another kitchen chair. Josh, seated on a low couch, stared. He was built a little heavier than Val expected.

"Who the fuck are these people, Scott? What's going on here?"

"Relax Josh, they're on our side," Scott said.

"What the fuck side are you on, Scott?" Josh was very agitated.

Val spoke in what he hoped was a calm but firm voice. "Josh, we're with the company. Your company. We know exactly what's going on. We proved to Scott that we do. Scott?"

Josh turned toward him. Scott said, "He's right. They know. The whole shot."

"I thought you said it was stealth," Josh said.

"I thought it was. These guys are really good or really lucky."

Jenny spoke. "Maybe both. It doesn't matter, Mr. Calder. You left some traces on the Tavron job that weren't so, as you say, stealth. It made people suspicious. It gave us a place to start. So we know. The question is what are you going to do next."

"Do?"

"You've been very bad boys, but, maybe, also very lucky. The company and the Bureau are not interested in a lot of publicity about this. They have authorized us to help you glue the cookie jar back together before dad gets home."

"You don't understand," Josh said.

"Understand what?" Jenny said.

"Understand that the fucking cookie jar is in a million pieces and people are already mad as hell."

"Who's mad?"

"The people who lost all the money because my so-called friend here screwed me."

"Scott told us you're concerned about your friend Estelle," Val said.

"Yes. I'm concerned that she's fucking dead and I'm concerned that before she fucking died she told whoever killed her all about me and I'm concerned that I'm going to be fucking dead next. Still think everything's going to be all right?"

"Sounds like we're the only friends you have right now. Not because we like you or condone what you did. But because we need you just like you need us," Jenny said.

She was good at this, Val thought. "Let me guess. She's the bad cop?" Josh said.

"We're not cops," Val said. "But with a little more attitude on your part we'd be happy to call some. We're here to see if there is a way out of this. But you've got to play ball."

"Listen, Mr. Calder. We know about Tavron. We know you're using the CPI to make money on futures trades somehow. Our guess would be foreign currency."

Val continued, "But we need to know the whole deal. It will stop here, but only if you come clean."

Josh stared at Scott. "You bastard. I trusted you."

Scott sat still.

"What'll it be, Josh?" Val asked.

Josh looked like he was going to cry. He stood up and pulled a handgun out of his jacket pocket. "I don't think so. Not like this."

Val and Jenny looked at each other, wide-eyed. Scott spoke first: "Put that away, Josh. Jesus Christ. You could hurt somebody."

"You should have thought about that when you arranged this little intervention, Scott. Let's see. 'Three slain as home invasion goes awry'. How's that sound?"

"Home invasion? You think everybody's not going to know what this about?" Val said.

"No. Not for sure. I've been thinking about making a career change anyway. This Y2K shit is getting boring." Josh laughed. It sounded hysterical to Val.

"Mr. Calder, you need to know one thing. We anticipated your reaction. We took precautions." Jenny's voice was calm.

"Let me guess. You left an envelope marked 'Open in the Case of My Death' with the New York Times?"

"No. Look on top of Scott's monitor."

Josh glanced over.

"See the little white, round thing?"

"What about it?"

Val said "Can you say 'See You See Me'?"

Josh said, "I don't fucking believe you people".

Jenny said, "Start believing. A video of this entire conversation is being sent to a server over the 'net. You're a star." The little round thing was a digital video camera. Jenny and Scott had set it up and tested it when she and Val had first arrived.

Josh stared vacantly ahead, still holding the gun. At last he said "Guess we'll all get what we deserve, Scott, one way or another. Adios, assholes."

He spun through the door and slammed it behind him.

\- - -

Mr. Schneider knew it was Josh. The young man had stormed out of Scott's building, looked up and down the street, then began trying too hard to act natural. He walked down the street, stopping too often to window shop in front of little stores that would obviously have no interest for him.

Schneider noticed one more thing. Calder obviously had a handgun. He had planned for this possibility, but he noticed his pulse increase just the same.

Calder was on the move. From now on, Schneider thought, things would play out more or less to form. He had a very good idea where Calder would eventually go. Now it was time for a little nudge.

Schneider got out of the car. He needed a shave, which was probably good for the desired effect. He had binoculars around his neck and a camera with a long lens. He was not kind of man who would be amused by the fact that the camera had no film. He began following Josh, about hundred meters behind. Every half block or so he would either peer through the binoculars or aim the camera. He did his best to look competent.

He could tell the moment Josh spotted him. Calder was obviously torn between the urge to run for his life and maintaining his casual demeanor.

Schneider kept up a steady, insistent pressure. The worst scenario was if Calder panicked and began firing his gun on this crowded street. Schneider didn't think this was very likely.

There was no way Calder would use the underground. His fertile imagination would provide too many images of him, cornered, being thrown from the platform. Likewise, taking a cab in this rush hour traffic would only make him less mobile and more vulnerable. He would most likely stay on foot.

After about 15 minutes of this Schneider broke contact. He walked back to the car, stopping to buy a pretzel. In the car he dialed a number on his cell phone. He spoke in Swiss German, but anyone who spoke a little _hochdeutsch_ would have understood "day after tomorrow" and "Mexico".

## Chapter 44

Josh had decided on a safety deposit box when he was on the Tavron job. Mexico seemed like the best bet. They couldn't care less what anybody brought in from the U.S. All they wanted at the border was his driver's license.

Josh locked his passport and most of his cash in the little safe in the hotel room. The bank was walking distance. He jaywalked across with a bunch of locals, dodging a herd of yellow VW bug cabs, and walked around the corner onto Reformas.

He always forgot the guards - two uniformed men, each about five feet tall, holding what looked like burp guns at the ready. Today, as usual, they scared the shit out of him.

In Mexico everything seemed like it was a palace or a slum. The bank lobby was marble, maybe fifty feet high. He knew where to go. The assistant manager or whatever he was and the guard let Josh into the little room and left him alone.

He got the idea for uncut diamonds from a bad movie. They were small, wouldn't set off a metal detector, untraceable and universally negotiable. He had kept about 150 grand in cash of the Tavron money in his apartment, feeding into his lifestyle a few twenties at a time. Mona didn't even notice. The rest, over 500 thousand, he used to buy diamonds. The old Jews in the diamond district certainly knew how to do business without asking questions. You could fit 500 thousand dollars worth of diamonds into a couple cigarette packs. He decided on two deliveries to the bank to spread the risk.

He had another chunk, several hundred thousand, in IRAs, but these assets weren't liquid, as they say. He didn't really have a plan, but he figured he could go a long way in Mexico on 500 thousand if he was a little careful. He would sell some diamonds immediately – can't be that hard – _como se dice_ pawnshop? -- to get some cash and begin to make contacts. Later he could relocate somewhere else, or back to the US. He just needed breathing space. So far he hadn't seen any real reason to learn Spanish. There were plenty of Americans around and any of the Mexicans he wanted to talk to anyway spoke English.

That asshole Scott. What a backstabber. After he left the apartment Josh drove to Philly, right to the airport. He left his car in a hotel parking lot and took the shuttle to the airport, took a non-stop to L.A., rented a car, and drove to the border. He paid cash for his ticket and put down a cash deposit for the hotel room. Nobody seemed to think this was unusual.

He opened the box. There should have been two bulging little manila envelopes. There weren't any. Instead there was a folded up piece of paper.

Josh sat down, holding the paper. His heart was pounding. He realized he was biting his lower lip so hard it hurt. He waited at least a minute, then unfolded the paper. The note was neatly typed.

Mr. Calder,

By now you realize that we know all about you and your childish attempt to take advantage of us. There is no one to complain to. There is no one to go to for help. Your diamonds are gone. The safe in room 1432 at the Nikko is empty. Your credit cards have been cancelled. We have decided to allow you to keep your wallet and the cash in your pocket – just under $1,500. Spend it wisely. You will need it to last a long time. Our advice is to not return to the hotel and be embarrassed.

You cannot hide from us. Do not test our patience further.

Unlike most of the people who had ever lived, it was possible for an American born in the second half of the 20th century to live a life that was substantially free of danger, free of hunger, free of fear. That life ended forever for Josh Calder in this stuffy room on this average afternoon. He stared for a long time at the soundproofed wall, but could conjure no image of what his new life, the one that had just begun, would be.

## Chapter 45

Malcolm had made his wife rehearse this day dozens of times. They had suitcases packed in the hall closet. Carry-on only. They replaced some of the contents over the years as diets came and went.

He had gotten extra license plates from a junkyard. He kept the tags current. The car was chosen for its invisibility. His basic premise was that the law enforcement system around the capital was not set up to screen for middle-aged white people. It was possible to put people at a few obvious choke points like the airports. It was not possible to check the several hundred thousand cars that flowed out of the city every afternoon.

He had called home from a pay phone near the parking structure. He had asked if his wife wanted him to pick up anything at the store. The name of the store he mentioned was a code word. He waited for his wife to ask him to pick up a brand of toilet cleanser that she never used. This meant that she understood that she had one hour to be prepared to leave her life forever.

He was calm as he drove out of the city. He went over the plan. Training was essential. This was just like all of the rehearsals. Kind of like the SAC bomber crews who only learned after take-off whether the mission was a drill. Except, he thought, if you drill too much then you, in the bottom of your heart, know that it's a drill every time. Even if it turned out that it wasn't. Anyway, this was the real thing.

They would drive to Pittsburgh, and check into an airport motel. They had reservations made in a different name to Atlanta. It had been simpler before the airports required photo ID, but he had meticulously made up fake driver's licenses for himself and his wife.

In Atlanta they would change planes and travel to Los Angeles on a different airline, again using different names. At LAX they would catch their last flight. He had researched their final destination for over two years. Latin America was attractive, mostly because of the amenability of the local police. But he decided in the end that bribing a cop, however generously, was probably the best single way to call attention to one's self. He had decided on Vancouver. It was large enough that they could be invisible, altogether civilized, had an international airport, and his wife could watch American TV through the rest of her wealthy days.

Malcolm had first realized the potential of his work during the OPEC oil crisis. In those days the CPI was front-page news. He soon realized that very few if any of his colleagues had any appetite for working with the statistical modules.

He waited a full three years before concluding an arrangement with an investor. He had begun his screening during a vacation he and his wife took to the Cayman Islands. One day when his wife was on a glass-bottomed boat tour Malcolm had sat on a bench at the waterfront and chatted with a man. This man managed the investment portfolios of several people who, he said, were in the import/export business in Florida. Except all they ever exported was money, he said. Malcolm had gotten his name from a book about the drug trade. It had been surprisingly easy to arrange.

This man represented people who took a long-term view. They were not interested in dramatic shifts. Instead, they wanted to know how things were likely to turn out in the long run. Malcolm was just their man.

Once the arrangement was in place he spoke to the man twice a year, and never in person. This was often enough to react to the underlying economic trends that changed the index. Malcolm's money came first to a bank in the Caymans. This bank was fully capable of moving portions of this to various investments in the states, and, as it turned out, in Canada.

Malcolm wasn't greedy. He didn't pursue money for its own sake. On the other hand, on this rainy Thursday, he figured his investments were worth between eleven and twelve million dollars.

He had no real reason to suspect that Val's team knew anything about his prank, as he called it to himself. On the other hand, there was no real reason to wait. He had asked Simmons to take Friday off as a personal day. After listening to the obligatory five minutes of bitching and moaning, Simmons agreed. Malcolm wondered how long it would be before poor Albert got the idea.

Before all this Y2K nonsense Malcolm had planned on taking early retirement. This was earlier than he planned, but better in any case. Life was to be enjoyed. Why not do it as a rich man sooner rather than later?

## Chapter 46

Val had been on corporate jets a few times but it was still a thrill. When they got to the general aviation terminal the co-pilot had greeted them, taken their luggage, and showed them right on board. The plane, a Lear, was somewhat cramped in the totally cool way, Val imagined, that a Maserati four-door was somewhat cramped. Jenny and Wilton did their best to act blasé.

The flight to Hilton Head was just over an hour. When they landed a limo pulled right under the wing. As they walked down the ladder Val asked Jenny to remind him to check how the poor people were doing. As usual she ignored him.

Max had a place on an island about a half an hour from Hilton Head, in what he called the Low Country. You crossed a causeway with what was obviously a retired Marine lifer in a guard shack. On one side of Max's place was a manicured fairway. On the other was a view of a tidal marsh leading to the ocean. A Boston Whaler and a J-boat were tied up to Max's private dock. His house had a separate garage for his and her golf carts.

Max's wife was shopping. Not at the Beaufort Wal-Mart, to be sure, in San Francisco. Max had asked their housekeeper to make a dinner that they could serve themselves, then to leave them alone.

Val appreciated that Max had invited Jenny and Wilton. Of course, Max hadn't asked them down here just to tell them what a nice job they had done.

"First, let me bring you up to speed on our friend Mr. Calder. He has been missing for almost two weeks. We suspect that he has left the country. He can expect a chilly reception when he resurfaces."

"We?", Jenny said.

"Yes. My firm, the Bureau, the FBI, the SEC and a very prominent Swiss bank. This case has required very delicate handling." Max sipped his Barolo.

"Your work was, to say the least, remarkable. Apparently Mr. Crane, the other bad actor, was flabbergasted that you discovered his dirty work. According to him, the fact that you were on to him did much more to convince him to cooperate than any threats. Wilton, he spoke very highly of your abilities."

"Thank you, sir. Val and Jenny did the real work. I just took their lead."

"Wilton appreciates your comments, sir", Jenny said.

The bank was conducting its own investigation into this matter. One of their people placed very substantial trades based on Calder's information. The bank takes a dim view of, shall we say, unconventional practices such as this. The bank's investigator was apparently closing in on Calder and Crane just as you flushed them. But enough said about them. Jenny, if you don't take more shrimp I won't be able to."

Jenny smiled and handed Max her plate. Val loved her smile.

\- - -

If he had ever seen it Val would have thought Mr. Reuss's office was a diorama. It was inconceivable that anyone could work in so neat an environment. Estelle, sitting in what she hoped was a demure fashion, had the same reaction. Mr. Reuss ignored her, alternatively scanning and initialing documents, which he took from one leather folder and placed in another. She noticed that he wasn't using a Mont Blanc.

Finally he closed both folders, put his pen back in its holder, and spoke to her.

"Miss Burns why do you think you're here?"

She didn't know what to say. "Mr. Schneider said it was important that we talk."

"And why, do you think, is it so important?"

"So I – because I - I guess so I understand that what I did was a bad thing."

"Miss Burns, the morality of your behavior could not interest me less. Let me be blunt in the interest of time. My time. You have committed a felony, according to both Swiss and American law. This means you could, if I see fit, go to prison. You might think a Swiss prison wouldn't be so bad. Maybe catch a glimpse of an Alp through the bars. Let me assure you, the opposite is true. Part of our Swiss nature is a strong Calvinist view toward right and wrong."

Her mind, inappropriately, flashed on a black-and-white image of a Calvin Klein underwear commercial.

"What is important is that you understand three things. First, I have the power to make the rest of your life very unpleasant. Believe me, the afternoon you spent with Mr. Schneider was, as you say, a tea party.

Second, you will escape this unpleasant fate if, and only if, you obey my every instruction. To the letter. From now on.

Third, my first instruction is that no word about this affair, no insinuation, no aside, will ever pass your lips. Do you understand that instruction?"

"Yes sir."

"I believe you. Now, just so we're clear about point number two. When I said 'every instruction', I didn't mean having to do with this sordid affair. I meant what I said literally. In three years, say, I might instruct you to open a locked drawer in your supervisor's office and fax the documents you find to me."

Estelle felt sick to her stomach.

"Or, I might ask you to entertain a certain business associate. Thoroughly entertain. Do you begin to understand what I mean by 'every instruction'?"

Her mouth was dry. For some reason she said " _Ja_ ".

"Good! Beginning to think Swiss. Believe me, Miss Burns, this will be what's best for you in the long run. You could ask Mr. Renggli, except that my second instruction is that you will never speak, or write, or email, or wave, to him again. Clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can go. I'll be in touch."

## Chapter 47

Albert Simmons was in a bad mood. "A", it was Monday, and "B", he had to pick up the pieces after the fucking Whiz-Kids had bailed. He wasn't even sure what Calder and Crane had finished and what they hadn't, the fucking wall-chart was no help of course.

He'd get Malcolm on this first thing.

Albert glanced at his watch. It was eleven past eight. He leaned over and looked out his door. Malcolm's cube was empty. That's funny, Albert thought, Malcolm's never late.

I was born in Toledo, Ohio and live in Bend, Oregon. I'm the father of three daughters. I'm an information technology professional and an avid amateur musician.

Thank you for reading my first book.

Facebook: jcajacob

Blog: cajacob.pbwiki.com

_Email:_ jcajacob@gmail.com

_Emily Aslin (cover design):_ honeybonesdesign.com

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