The Millionaires (47 page)

“Maybe that’s how the program works,” Charlie jumps in. “Like the forty million we transferred to Tanner Drew—it waits for
a real transaction to take place, then takes a random amount that’s under the audit criteria. By the end, you’ve got a whole
new reality.”

“It’s the same thing happening now,” I agree. “The bank thinks Duckworth’s account is empty, but according to this, there’s
a new five million in there. The crazy thing is, none of the people he took it from is missing any cash.”

“Maybe it just
looks
like they’re not missing cash. For all we know, whatever my dad put in the system could be wiping them clean.”

I shake my head no. “If that were true, Tanner Drew wouldn’t have been able to transfer forty million bucks. And if Drew was
shorted a single dime, we would’ve heard it the instant it happened. Same with Sylvia and the rest. The richer they are, the
more they inspect.”

“So that’s the big ultra-secret?” Gillian interrupts. “Some diddly computer virus that makes a few people rich?”

“We should be so lucky,” I say, turning back to the blue glare.

Charlie watches me carefully. He knows that tone. “What’re you saying?” he asks.

“Don’t you see what Duckworth did? Sure, on the small stage, he invented some cash, but when you pull the microscope back,
it’s far bigger than just adding a few zeros to your bank account. To pull this off, he not only sidestepped all of our internal
controls—he also somehow fooled the bank’s computer system into thinking it was dealing with real money. And when we transferred
that money out, it was good enough to fool the London bank, and the bank in France, and every bank after that. In some of
those places—including ours—we’re talking state-of-the-art, military-designed computer systems. And Duckworth’s imaginary
transactions fooled them all.”

“I still don’t see what’s—”

“Take it to the next level, Charlie. Forget the private banks and the tiny foreign institutions. Grab Duckworth’s program
and sell it to the highest bidder. Let a terrorist organization get ahold of it. Even worse, put it in a too-big-to-fail.”

“A what?”

“
Too-big-to-fail.
It’s what the Federal Reserve calls the top fifty or so banks in the country. Once Duckworth’s little worm digs in there,
your three hundred million is suddenly three hundred
billion
—and it’s flowing everywhere—Citibank… First Union… down to the little mom-and-pops across the country. The only problem is,
when all is said and done, the money’s not real. And the moment someone realizes that the Emperor’s not wearing any clothes,
the pyramid scheme collapses. No bank trusts its own records, and none of us knows if our bank accounts are safe. The whole
world lines up at the teller windows and the ATMs. But when we go to make our withdrawals, there’s not enough
real
cash to go around. Since the money’s fake, every bank runs out of funds. The too-big-to-fails implode first, then the hundred
smaller banks that they lend to, then the hundreds of banks below those. They all crater at once—all of them searching for
money that was never really there.
Sorry, sir, we can’t cover your account—all the money in the bank is now gone.
And that’s when the real panic begins. It’ll make the Depression look like a quick stock market dip.”

Even Charlie can’t make a joke about this one. “You think that’s what they want it for?”

“Whatever they want, there’s one thing I know for sure: The only proof of what actually happened is right here,” I say, once
again tapping the screen.

Click.

Account Balance: $5,104,221.60.

The elevator pings behind us as ninety-one thousand new dollars stare back at us from the screen. Charlie checks the elevator,
but no one steps out.

Glancing over his shoulder, I see it too. We’ve been here too long. “We should print this out…”

“… and get out of here,” he agrees.

“Wait,” Gillian says.

“
Wait?
” Charlie asks.

“I-I just… we should be careful with this one.”

“That’s why we’re printing it out. For proof,” he says as he stares her down. This close, his fuse is shorter than ever.

There’s an out-of-date laser printer right next to the computer. I flip a switch and it grumbles to life. Grabbing the keyboard,
Charlie hits
Print.
On screen, a gray dialog box pops up:
Error in writing to LPT1: Please insert copy-card.
At the base of the printer is a handwritten card that says:
All copies fifteen cents per page.

“Where do we get a copy-card?” he demands.

There’s a machine in the corner. Two people are standing in front of it, stuffing dollar bills down its throat. Charlie’s
in no mood to wait. A few computers down, the porno kid has a copy-card sitting on his desk. “Hey, young sir,” Charlie calls
out. “I’ll give you five bucks for your card.”

“There’s already five bucks on it,” he tells us.

“We’ll give you ten,” I add.

“How ’bout twenty?” the kid challenges.

“How ’bout I scream ‘Titty-freak’ and point your way?” Gillian threatens.

The kid slides the card; I pull out a ten.

As I get up to make the trade, Charlie jumps back in the driver’s seat. Leaning over his shoulder, I stuff the card into the
small machine that’s attached to the printer and wait as it whirs into place. The screen on the card-reader lights up.
Current balance: $2.20.

We turn back to the porno kid. He sniffs the ten-dollar bill with a smirk. Charlie’s about to stand up.

“Leave it be,” I say, turning his head back to the screen.

Refocused, he once again hits
Print.
Like before, a gray box pops up, but this one’s different. The font and type size match the ones on Duckworth’s bank statement:
Warning—To print this document, please enter password.

“What the hell is this?” Charlie asks.

“What’d you do?” I blurt.

“Nothing… I just hit Print.”

“See, this is what I was talking about,” Gillian says.

The porno kid next to us once again starts to stare. The elevator doors close in the corner. Someone’s calling it from below.

Charlie tries to click back to the bank statement, but he can’t get past the password warning.

“Ask the lady at the reference desk,” Gillian says.

“I don’t think this is from the library,” I say, leaning in over his shoulder. “This may be a Duckworth precaution.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“We do the same thing on the important accounts at the bank. If you were hiding the smoking gun in the center of one of the
world’s most popular websites—wouldn’t you bury a couple land mines just to buy yourself some safety?”

“Wait, so now you think it’s a trap?” Gillian asks.

“All I’m saying is we should pick the right password,” I tell her matter-of-factly. Charlie looks at me, surprised by my tone.

“Try putting in
Duckworth,
” I say.

He hammers the word
Duckworth
on the keyboard and hits
Enter.

Failure to recognize password—To print this document, please reenter password.

Crap. If this is like the bank, we’ve only got two more chances. Three strikes and we’re out.

“Any other bright ideas?”

“How about
Martin Duckworth?
”I ask.

“Maybe it’s something stupid, like his address,” Gillian suggests.

“What about
Arthur Stoughton?
”Charlie adds, using the first name from the photos.

Gillian and I look at Charlie. As we nod, he quickly hunts and pecks
Arthur Stoughton
and smacks the
Enter
key.

Failure to recognize password—To print this document, please reenter password.

“I swear, I’m gonna put my foot through the screen,” he growls.

Only one more shot.

“Try the guy with the cleft chin,” I say.

“Try dad’s account number at the bank,” Gillian suggests.

“Try
Gillian,
”I blurt, my voice and confidence already wavering. I’m not the only one. Desperation settles across Charlie’s face. He knows
what’s at stake. “
Gillian,
”I repeat.

Charlie rubs his knuckles against his cheek. He’s far from thrilled. Still, there’s no time to argue.

Turning to Gillian, he studies her penetrating blue eyes and searches for the lie. But like always, it never comes.

“Try it,” I say.

He looks down at the keyboard, types in the word
Gillian,
and goes to press
Enter.
But for some reason—just as his finger touches the key—he stops.

“C’mon, Charlie.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice shaking. “Maybe we should—”

“Just hit it,” I demand, reaching over and pounding the key myself.

All three of us squint at the screen, waiting for the computer’s reply.

There’s a long, vacant pause. In the distance, I hear someone flipping pages through a magazine. The air-conditioning hums…
the porn-kid snickers… and to all of our surprise, the laser printer softly purrs.

“I don’t believe it,” Charlie mutters as the first page rolls off. “We’re finally getting a break.”

With a wild grin across his face, he leaps out of his seat, dives forward, and grabs the top sheet from the printer. But as
he flips it over, the grin suddenly goes limp. His shoulders fall. I look at the page. It’s completely blank.

We spin back toward the screen just in time to see Duckworth’s account slowly fade to black. We just jumped on the land mines.

“Charlie…!”

“I’m on it!” he says. Clutching the mouse, he clicks every button in sight. There’s no way to stop it. It’s almost gone.

“Get the web address…!” I shout.

Our eyes lock on the address at the top of the screen. I take the first half; he takes the second.

Gillian’s lost. “What’re you doing?”

“
Not now,
” I snap, struggling to memorize.

The screen blinks off and a new image clicks into place. It’s the Seven Dwarfs, and a red button marked
Company Directory.
Back at the beginning. But at least we’re still in the internal employee site.

“Charlie, go to…”

Before I can finish, he’s already there, anxiously clicking the button for
Directory.
Hundreds of company photos appear on screen. Like before, he scrolls down to the
Imagineering
section. Like before, he finds the black man with the cleft chin. And like before, he clicks on his face. But this time,
nothing happens. The photo doesn’t even move. “Ollie—”

“Maybe you have to go through all four,” Gillian suggests.

“Hit it again,” I say.

“I did. It’s not going anywhere,” he says in full panic.

“Put in the address.”

Frantically passing me the keyboard, Charlie ducks out of the way as I type in the first half of the memorized address. Then
he does his. The instant he hits
Return,
the screen hiccups toward a brand-new page.

“It’s fine. We’re still fine…” he says as we wait for the image to load. And for a second, it looks like he’s right. But as
the page finally appears, my stomach spirals. The only thing on screen is a plain white background. Nothing else. Just another
blank page.

“W-What the hell is this?” I ask.

“It’s gone…”

“Gone? That’s impossible. Scroll down.”

“There’s nothing to scroll,” Charlie says. “I’m telling you, it’s not here.”

“Are you sure you didn’t type it in wrong?” Gillian asks.

He rechecks the address. “This is exactly where we were—”

“It’s not gone,” I insist. “It can’t be gone.” Crossing past my brother, I plow toward the nearest computer and yank the
Out of Order
sign from the keyboard.

Within seconds, I’m at the home page of Disney.com—
Where the Magic Lives Online.
“All we gotta do is start over,” I say in full Brooklyn accent.

“Ollie…”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, already halfway there. Gillian says something, but I’m too busy clicking my way through the executive
biographies.

“Ollie, it’s gone. There’s no way you’ll find it.”

“It’s right here—just one more page.” As I find the corporate pyramid, a dozen employee photos appear onscreen. For the second
time, I make a beeline for Arthur Stoughton, slide the cursor into place, and click. When nothing happens, I click again.
And again. The photo doesn’t move. “It’s impossible,” I whisper. Trying to hold it together, I scroll down to the photo of
the pale banker. Then I move to the redhead. Once again, nothing happens.

“C’mon…
please,
”I beg.

Climbing out of his seat, Charlie reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ollie…”

I gaze at the screen, hunched over in my chair. My elbows rest on my knees. “Why can’t we ever get a break?” I ask, my voice
cracking.

It’s a question Charlie can’t answer. He holds on to my shoulder and checks the screen himself. Teetering, he can barely stand.
I don’t blame him. Five minutes ago, we had everything that Duckworth had created. Right now—as my brother and I stare blankly
at the screen—we’ve got nothing. No bank logo. No hidden account. And worst of all, no proof.