Rogue Code (34 page)

“Of course you do,” Sam said, then left the room.

51

PACIFIC EASTERN BANK

BELL STREET BRANCH

STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT

11:39
A.M.

Dressed in a navy blue business suit and carrying an oversize matching purse, Daryl stepped from the train platform and walked the short distance to the bank branch. She paused, reached into her purse, removed a mirror, and checked her appearance. She slipped on a pair of glasses that didn’t distort too much, which she’d picked up at a secondhand store and gazed at her image. With her hair pulled back, she decided she looked like a porn star pretending to be a schoolteacher. She closed her eyes. The things I do, she thought.

Daryl had intended to tell Jeff and Frank about this when they met, but after they’d said they were leaving for Brazil, she decided not to. She knew they’d have just tried to talk her out of it. The reality was that she’d never develop the information they needed working from her hotel room. She was fairly confident this would work. Every woman, certainly every reasonably attractive one, had used her femininity to her advantage at one time or another in life, though she’d always disdained such tactics.

This bank was one of the landing spots for the money streaming out of the country from the rogue code and was within easy reach of Manhattan. She placed a smile on her face, walked through the doors, and went directly to the sign-in sheet.

“Welcome to Pacific Eastern Bank. May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“You may. I just need a few minutes.”

“Mr. Scofield is with a customer right now, but can be with you in a few minutes. Just have a seat. Can I get you coffee?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Daryl took a seat from where she could watch the cubicles. There was only one man working with a couple. A few minutes later, he finished with them and escorted them out the door. He went back to the receptionist counter, glanced at the name, then looked to Daryl and came over. “Naomi Townsend. I’m Pat Scofield. How can I help you?”

Scofield was young, like every bank employee seemed to be these days, not yet thirty. He was a handsome young man with widely set pale eyes and a prematurely receding hairline. He wore a bright gold wedding band.

“I’d like to make a deposit into a trust you hold.”

“Why, certainly. Come on back to my desk.”

As they sat down, she presented him with one of the business cards she’d had printed that morning. She had made several with various identities and positions. He looked it over.
NAOMI SWENSON
-
TOWNSEND
, it read.
ASSISTANT CFO FOR APPRECIATION TRUST
, with an address in Hartford.

“I’ve got the account number if you need it. I’m afraid I don’t have a deposit slip with me.”

“Let me see what I have first,” he said. “You could have made this deposit in Hartford.” She didn’t know if he was testing her or making conversation.

“I forgot. I’m on my way into the city and realized at the last second I promised to do this Friday. What a mess.”

“I understand. Here it is. I’ve got the account. Let me fill out a deposit slip for you. How much?”

“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. You can see why I didn’t want to forget.”

“Yes, that would take some explaining. I see you usually do wire transfers.”

“That’s right.”

Scofield took out a blank deposit slip and then, comparing the information on the screen, looking back and forth, filled it out. Daryl opened her purse to find the check and fumbled around a bit. “Oh dear.”

“Problem?”

“I’m not sure it’s here. Can you imagine?” She dug in the purse again, then sighed. “Could I call my office, please? I want to ask my assistant if I left it on my desk.” He looked at her as if wanting to say something. “I left my cell phone too.” She smiled brightly. “I’m afraid it’s been one of those days.”

“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to his phone. “Dial nine and that will get you an outside number.”

When he made no move to give her privacy, she stared at him without touching the phone. “I’ve got to check in with the cashiers,” he said after a moment, “so take your time.”

Without punching nine, Daryl dialed a number in Los Angeles she’d memorized. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hi,” she said, “this is Pat Scofield in Connecticut.” She was calling on their internal phone system so the call was taken as authentic. She’d been ready to leave and to find another branch if the manager was male, but as luck had it the manager had an androgynous name. She was gambling that a bank employee in California had no idea that Pat Scofield in Connecticut was a man. “Our system is down and I need information on an account: Appreciation Trust. Here’s the number. Thanks.”

*   *   *

Daryl stepped into a Starbucks, ordered a latte, then sat at a small table, opening her laptop. Scofield had been very understanding when she told him she had in fact forgotten the check and apologized for taking up his time. He said he’d be happy to help her anytime and walked her to the door.

Now she went online with the application information she’d obtained with the two telephone calls she’d managed to make from the bank’s phone system. The Appreciation Trust accounts with Pacific Eastern Bank had been opened in the name of Dick Iver. The business address, it turned out, was a UPS store in Hartford. She did a search for the company and found absolutely nothing, which didn’t surprise her. Next she accessed Data Retriever Solutions using the CyberSys account and ran the number. It was for a man who died in 2005. Again, no surprise.

A dead end—for now. But with this information she could follow the money to the next stage. Still, her heart sank at the prospect. How many stages would there be? Too many she feared.

She drank her coffee and considered the odds. She had tonight and tomorrow for computer time. Maybe she could turn up something, but didn’t think it likely. What she needed was to link what was taking place to the rogue code’s real authors. The ease with which she’d fooled the bank manager had set her mind to considering another option. But first, there was something else she could do now. She picked up her cell phone to call her boss, Clive Lifton, in San Francisco. He answered at once.

“Daryl, when are you coming back? I need you.”

“I’m not sure, Clive. Things are complicated. Listen, I need your help.” For the next ten minutes, she filled him in on what was taking place. His company, CyberSys, Inc., was small but highly regarded in the cybersecurity community. His annual CyberCon was one of the most respected of its kind and was attended by both private contractors and government agents. His contacts throughout the cybersecurity world were extensive.

“That’s quite a story,” he said when she’d finished. “So the SEC is convinced that Jeff and Frank are thieves. But from what you tell me the setup isn’t all that clever.”

“Robert Alshon is the senior investigator. I’m hoping you know him.”

“Alshon. Alshon. I have a vague memory of a large man with a shaven head and mustache. If that’s him, we met once, briefly, but I should know people who know him. It’s the same everywhere. What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. At the least slow him down, get him to dig deeper before he lands on Jeff and Frank with both feet.”

“You say that warrants have already been issued?”

“That’s what Frank said. Alshon was able to get the NYPD involved. That’s why they left the city.”

“Where are they?”

“The less you know, the better, Clive. Will you do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it. I just don’t know if it will do any good.”

52

POUSADA VERDE NOVA

RUA MANUEL DE PAIVA

SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL

2:34
P.M.

The hotel’s Web site had been true to the nature of the Pousada Verde Nova. Frank had selected it during their layover in Miami primarily because of its location. Tropical in design with a cobblestone parking area, the small hotel had a restaurant and featured both inside and outside dining. Quiet, with Wi-Fi throughout, it was situated three blocks from the nearest busy street. It was the kind of hotel that appealed to out of country travelers. It made you want to lounge about, drink too much beer, and do absolutely nothing. It was ideal for their purposes as it was easy to blend in.

Jeff had found the long flight south both physically and mentally exhausting. The passports cleared Newark and Miami without difficulty and there’d been no trouble at the Guarulhos International Airport. Frank had assured them that traveling as two Canadian businessmen would be easy.

Once they’d left Miami, Frank had offered him an Ambien, but Jeff had refused. He’d taken the drug once before, and it had left him dazed for the next twenty-four hours. He couldn’t afford such a luxury right now.

When Frank first announced his intention of flying south to collect information at the likely source or to find someone in the know, Jeff had objected, arguing that it was too dangerous. If anything went wrong, they’d end up in a Brazilian jail.

And just how reliable was the information on São Paulo anyway? They found nothing when they’d first cracked the code, and they’d looked hard for such a connection. Now, out of the blue, came this picture. Daryl was right. They’d been lured here.

He didn’t share Frank’s optimism, if that’s what it was. There seemed to Jeff virtually no chance they could run this thing down here or find someone who could confirm their suspicions and be made to talk. They had no idea if São Paulo was even the end of the trail. For all they knew it was just another stopping point for the money. And as for the hackers, the operation could very easily have been outsourced to them from most anywhere in the world. In Jeff’s view this was the longest of shots. He’d told Frank this as forcefully as he could before they’d left New York.

“If we stay here in New York, we’ll be arrested, with all that means,” Frank had argued. “We’ve already discussed it at length. Even with Daryl’s help we can’t do this working only with computers. You need to come with me.”

“To Brazil?”

“Absolutely. We can’t stay here. If we do, it’s just a question of time. A moving target is a lot harder to find. We’ve got cash and in Brazil cash is king. If this lead comes to nothing, we’ll hole up there and work this for the long run. There are few better places in the world in which to be a fugitive. The Brazilian authorities won’t cooperate with the SEC or FBI. They don’t view so-called white-collar crime the same way as the U.S. And we don’t have to show identity cards to function there so we can assume whatever name we want. There’s also a larger expat community in Brazil than you realize and in the south there’s a large number of Brazilians who originated largely from Germany. We’ll be invisible or close to.”

“I don’t know.”

“I speak the language.”

“You speak Spanish, Frank. The language in Brazil is Portuguese.”

“Close enough. Jeff,” Frank said with a winning smile, “trust me.”

*   *   *

After checking in to the Pousada Verde Nova, they showered and changed, then had a light snack with bottles of Brahma, a local beer. Frank had unspecified business and left, saying he’d be back in a bit.

Jeff lay on his bed and tried to sleep, but his restless mind refused to shut down. Running into Agnes had been upsetting. His mind had been filled with fear, fear that she knew there was a warrant out for his arrest, that she’d been playing him and had run off to tell the police where to find him. It was ridiculous he knew, but he’d had to fight to suppress the surge of terror that threatened to engulf him.

When Frank returned, Jeff said, “Frank, I appreciate your commitment to secrecy, I really do, and understand the culture. But in this case, I think it’s misplaced. You want me to trust you and I do, but put yourself in my place. I need to know more. Tell me about this.” He held up the passport.

Frank sat in a chair, a fresh bottle of beer clutched in his hand. “You’ve got a point. Old habits. I’ll just give you the highlights, since there are necks on the line here.” He took a pull, then continued, “The Company does a lot of its business off the books.”

“You mean it outsources.”

“Yes, but not just that. A contract operator has less of a trail back to the Company if anything goes wrong. Deniability. For one, he’s got a life insurance policy on him so the U.S. government isn’t paying his widow death benefits. It’s a ‘no questions asked’ situation, and they’ve used it a lot, especially since the start of the war on terror, as it’s known. The problem is that outsourced agents can’t get what they need directly from the Company. This is not a new issue. When the CIA was created, it set up companies in the U.S., Europe, and around the world, run by agents at first, later by patriots. With Company resources and good business management you’d be surprised at how successful some of them have become. You’d even know a name or two. So when an operator needs cash, a job title, things like that, these companies step up.

“So … passports. Not every such operation is legal. That’s how independent operators get weapons, communications gear, and the such. At least one of them specializes in identities. They have a stash of perfectly legitimate blank passports from a number of countries, including Canada. They prepare them just the way the Canadian government does. Now, here’s the tricky part; they’ve got a source inside Passport Canada. That’s a quasi-independent government agency that reports to the Citizenship and Immigration office there. It’s been a disaster from the first. Passport Canada hires people without proper clearance, issues felons passports; it’s a mess. So this guy working there inserts all the information directly into the official government database. I’m telling you, Jeff, these passports are in effect the real deal. Now, I need you to trust me. I’m as exposed as you are.”

“All right, then. Thank you.”

Frank removed a cell phone from his pocket and slid it over. “Here’s a throwaway. Keep it charged and with you. There’s a strip of masking tape across the back with your number and mine.”