Unauthorized Access (9 page)

Rob looked down at the ground. Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

“Fine,” Lesley said. “Let’s just go.”

Rob stayed where he was. He bit his lower lip. Finally he said, “You’re asking the right questions, okay?”

Lesley stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“But I didn’t hear it from you,” she said with a grin, “right?”

“Hear what?”

“Exactly.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

LARRY’S HAND TREMBLED as he pushed his bank card into the ATM. He didn’t know if he was more afraid of the two goons waiting outside for the money, or of Anne when she found out most of his paycheck was gone.

Why had he gone into the back room? He had only stopped at the bar for a quick beer after work, but he never could resist a game. And of course when someone deals you a straight there’s no choice but to push all in. He still couldn’t believe it. He had been so confident that he’d pushed more chips into the pot than he had cash to cover.

Of all the people, he had to lose to Garcia. Anyone else might give him a break, trust him for the money until later. But nobody messes with Garcia, which was why two of his men had trailed Larry through the chilly Boston evening to the nearest bank with an ATM. They said nothing to Larry while they walked—just shuffled along behind him like ominous shadows, sucking on their cigarettes the whole way.

Larry shook his head in disgust as he punched the buttons. Withdraw. From checking. Four hundred dollars.

He stared at the screen in disbelief.

Insufficient funds. Amount available: $7.34.

The fear started to pool more deeply in the bottom of his belly.

Maybe his pay had gone into the savings account by mistake. He tried, but found only eighty-four cents in there. Larry and Anne rarely had any use for their savings account.

In desperation he tried to withdraw a cash advance from his credit card. The card was maxed out, as usual.

Larry’s mouth was completely dry. He risked a look outside at his two escorts. They stared at him through the window, no longer smoking. Like predators the world over they seemed able to sense when their prey was in trouble.

Larry realized he wasn’t afraid of Anne anymore.

* * *

Stan Dysart leaned forward in the soft leather chair and tried to concentrate on the report lying on the inlaid desk. The only sound in his home office was the ticking of the antique clock on one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls. Everything from contemporary fiction to classic works on world history filled the shelves.

He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t focus on the numbers showing quarterly loan and mortgage volumes in the branches, not with what he had on his mind. He wanted desperately for Kelleher to phone and tell him the account records were unscrambled and the crisis was over.

A soft knock sounded on the closed office door.

“Come,” Dysart said.

The door opened and Lesley poked her head in.

“Aunt Sheila said you were in here,” she said. “Got a few minutes for me?”

Dysart turned the document face down and motioned her in.

“Might as well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not getting anywhere with this report anyway.”

Lesley closed the door behind her and sat in the reading chair in front of the desk. She clutched her purse with both hands, perching it on her knees.

“Any progress on getting your computer fixed?” she asked.

“We’re still working on it.”

“Okay. So … you’re making progress, then?”

Dysart raised one eyebrow. “Is this an official visit?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

“Ever hear of the Financial Patriots of America?”

Dysart’s blood pressure skyrocketed. The tiniest of flinches crossed his face, but he did his best to not show any reaction.

“Who are they?” he said.

Lesley gave a half nod as if she expected this answer. “According to the information our station received, they’re the ones who sabotaged your computers.”

This time Dysart allowed his annoyance to show on his face. “You mean some crackpots saw the interview we did and now they want their fifteen minutes of fame.”

Lesley studied him for a few seconds. He met her gaze levelly and waited for her to make the next move.

“So there’s no truth in it?” she said.

Dysart pressed his lips together in exasperation. “Do you have any idea how much damage this sort of thing could do to the bank? If our customers thought our systems weren’t secure against hackers, they certainly wouldn’t want to keep their money with us. Tell me your station isn’t going to mention this malarkey on the air.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, “to verify the facts before we decide how to handle it.”

“Well you can tell your people there’s no truth to it whatsoever,” Dysart said, giving her a stern look, “and if they breathe one word of this on the air they’ll be risking a hefty law suit.”

He expected that to end the conversation. Instead, Lesley remained in her chair and gave him a contemplative look.

“Just to clarify, then,” she said, “you didn’t receive an email from this patriot group at six o’clock last night?”

How much does she know? Dysart thought. Did Rob open his big mouth again?

“Haven’t you been listening?” he said.

“So that’s a no?”

“Of course.”

“Because that would be the better part of a whole day before people’s money went missing.”

Dysart bristled. “Are you trying to say we endangered our customer’s money?”

“You tell me.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would we do that?”

“I have no idea. According to the copy of the email we received, these patriot people seem intent on delivering a message that banks don’t care.”

“What did I tell you? This bunch obviously wants to sling mud at the bank for some reason I can’t possibly fathom. Surely you’ll help me out and keep this quiet, won’t you?”

“Of course I’ll help you.”

Something loosened in Dysart’s chest. He seemed to breathe a little easier.

“I’m just not sure how to do that,” Lesley said.

“What do you mean?”

“A cover-up could backfire on you.”

Dysart’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lying?”

“You don’t want customers thinking you neglected to inform them when their money was at risk.”

“No one’s money is at risk.”

“The people I interviewed today didn’t seem so sure of that.”

“And I don’t need you telling me how to run my bank.”

“A cover-up could backfire on me, too—make me look like a real fool if I can’t even get the truth out of my own uncle.”

“Oh, grow up. You make it sound like finding you a story is what’s really important here.”

Lesley turned her head to one side and blinked rapidly.

The phone on Dysart’s desk rang. Thank God, he thought. Please let this be Kelleher with some good news.

He picked up the receiver and said, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Dysart?”

The voice was unfamiliar. “Yes.”

“I need to confirm that you are Stanley Dysart, President of First Malden Bank.”

Dysart felt a flash of annoyance. “That’s right. Who is this?”

“My name is Special Agent Steeves. I’m with the FBI. Sorry to bother you at home, sir, but several of our field offices have received phone calls in the last hour from various news agencies wondering if your bank has been attacked by cyberterrorists.”

Dysart closed his eyes and started massaging one throbbing temple as the inevitable truth became clear. The real reasons behind this thing were going public whether he liked it or not.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Wednesday

FBI SPECIAL AGENT Malcolm Steeves sat on one end of the love seat in Dysart’s office, while Special Agent Kurt Hanley occupied the other. Early morning sunlight streamed in the plate-glass window behind Dysart, throwing bright stripes on the floor through the vertical blinds. Both agents wore dark suits, but the similarities ended there. Steeves was a tall, gangly man with a face full of peaks and crevices. His partner was a small, mousy sort whose unassuming manner seemed at odds with Dysart’s expectations of an FBI agent.

“So you want us to find out who scrambled your computer records,” Steeves said, “and lock these people up for a suitably long time. That about sum it up?”

“I don’t care about locking anyone up,” Dysart said. “I just want the whole mess to go away quickly.”

Steeves looked at Hanley. “Ever heard of this FPA bunch?”

Hanley shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Me neither,” Steeves said, turning his attention back to Dysart. “You mentioned it might be an inside job. How certain are you of that?”

“We’re not sure of anything,” Dysart said, “but my computer guys think it would be difficult for anyone else to do this.”

Steeves consulted his notebook. “John Kelleher is the guy to talk to about that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have anybody specific in mind?” Steeves asked. “Anyone you think might have a particular ax to grind with your bank?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then we’ll want to look at everyone who has access to the system that was attacked. I’ll need contact information for those people.”

“My secretary can prepare a list for you.”

“Good,” Steeves said. “Another thing—you ever thought of sending the people who work on this system home until we get this sorted out?” Steeves said. “Why give them more chances to do something nasty?”

“Kelleher and I talked about that,” Dysart responded, “but we needed the AMS team to fix the system.”

Steeves cocked one eyebrow. “That’s like asking the fox to fix the hole in the hen house, isn’t it?”

“Worse than that,” Dysart said. “I have to rely on the foxes to point out the holes.”

“But they’re all plugged now?” Steeves said.

“Seem to be.”

“Then I’d consider sending as many of your systems people home as you can,” Steeves said. “We can talk to them there as well as here. Just ask them to stay where they can be reached.”

Dysart nodded. “Makes sense.”

“The other obvious leads are those two emails you received,” Steeves said. “We can try to trace those back to the source.”

“Don’t remind me about the emails,” Dysart said. “I still can’t believe someone here at the bank leaked them to the press.”

“Any idea who that might have been?” Steeves asked.

Dysart shook his head. “The fax was sent from an open office, so it could have been anyone. And I have to tell you, it’s turning into a public relations nightmare. The media is already screaming cover-up.”

“We can’t worry about your PR problems,” Steeves said. “We just look for the bad guys.”

“Then look as quickly as you can. We’re going to have plenty of furious customers until this thing is sorted out.”

“We’ll do our best.”

Dysart was unsure whether their best was going to be good enough. These two seemed competent, but of course they could offer no guarantees. He wondered whether he should make one more phone call, to a number he had not dialed in five years—a number he had hoped never to have to call again. He had wrestled with this question several times in the last day and a half.

Dysart decided once again not to call, at least not yet. He still had nowhere to point that particular weapon.

* * *

Lesley glared at her producer, Arthur Pearce. “What do you mean Shayna and I can’t keep going?” she said. “It’s our story. We broke it.”

Pearce was a harried-looking man with a balding head. His dress shirts always appeared rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I have to give it to someone else,” Pearce said. “You’re too close to it.”

“But I can get the goods. I proved that last night. We were the first station to confirm that email was real.”

“After your uncle fed you watered-down information earlier in the day.”

“Come on, Arthur. I had no way of knowing about the sabotage at the time.”

“That’s not the point.”