Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

sort it out before it got worse. First

Federal did close, under the guise of installing a new computer

system, a lie that might also cover whatever screwed up the

statements. Keep that option open. They kept answering the

phones, piling up the complaints and discovering that thus far

there was no pattern to the errors.

By mid-afternoon, they at least knew what to look for. On every

statement a few checks were listed with the incorrect amounts and

therefore the balance was wrong. For all intent and purpose, the

bank had absolutely no idea whose money was whose.

Working into the night the bank found that all ledgers balanced,

but still the amounts in the accounts were wrong. What are the

odds of a computer making thousands of errors and having them all

balance out to a net zero difference? Statistically it was

impossible, and that meant someone altered the amounts on pur-

pose. By midnight they found that the source of the error was

probably in the control code of the bank’s central computing

center.

First Federal Bank did not open for business Thursday. Or Fri-

day.

First Federal Bank was not the only bank to experience profound

difficulties with it’s customers. Similar complaints closed down

Farmer’s Bank in Des Moines, Iowa, Lake City Bank in Chicago,

First Trade in New York City, Sopporo Bank in San Francisco,

Pilgrim’s Trust in Boston and, as the Federal Reserve Bank would

discover, another hundred or so banks in almost every state.

The Department of the Treasury reacted quickly, spurred into

action by the chairman of Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C.

Being one of the oldest banks in the country, and the only one

that could claim having a personal relationship with Alexander

Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, it still carried

political weight.

The evening network and local news stations covered the situation

critically. Questions proliferated but answers were hard to come

by. The largest of the banks and the government announced that

a major computer glitch had affected the Electronic Funds Trans-

fers which had inadvertently caused the minor inconsistencies in

some customer records.

The press was extremely hard on the banks and the Fed Reserve and

the Treasury. They smelled a coverup, a lie; that they and the

public were not being told the truth, or at least all of it.

Only Scott Mason and a couple of other reporters speculated that

a computer virus or time bomb was responsible. Without any

evidence though, the government and the banks vigorously denied

any such possibilities. Rather, they developed a convoluted

story of how one money transaction affects another and then

another. The domino theory of banking was explained to the

public in graphs and charts, but an open skepticism prevailed.

Small businesses and individual banking customers were totally

shut off from access to their funds. Tens of thousands of auto-

matic tellers were turned off by their banks in the futile hope

of minimizing the damage. Estimates were that by evening, almost

5 million people had been estranged from their money.

Rumors of bank collapse and a catastrophic failure of the banking

system persisted. The Stock Market, operating at near full

capacity after November’s disaster, reacted to the news with a

precipitous drop of almost 125 points before trading was suspend-

ed, cutting off thousands more from their money.

The International Monetary Fund convened an emergency meeting as

the London and Tokyo stock markets reacted negatively to the

news. Wire transfers and funds disbursements were ceased across

all state and national borders.

Panic ensued, and despite the best public relations efforts, the

Treasury imposed financial sanctions on all savings and checking

accounts. If the banks opened on Friday, severe limits would be

placed on access to available funds. Checks would be returned or

held until the emergency was past.

Nightline addressed the banking crisis in depth. The experts

debated the efficiency of the system and that possibly an unfore-

seen overload had occurred, triggering the events of the day. No

one suggested that the bank’s computers had been compromised.

* New York City Times

“Yes, it is urgent.”

“What is this about?

“That is for the Senator’s ears only.”

“Can you hold for . . .”

“Yes, yes. I’ve been holding for an hour. Go on.” Muzak inter-

pretations of Led Zeppelin greeted Scott Mason as he was put on

hold. Again. Good God! They have more pass interference in the

front office and on the phones than the entire NFL. He waited.

At long last, someone picked up the other end of the phone. “I am

sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Mason, it has been rather hectic

as you can imagine. How are you faring?” Senator Nancy Deere

true to form, always projected genuine sincerity.

“Fine, fine, thank you, Senator. The reason for my call is

rather, ah . . .sensitive.”

“Yes?” she asked politely.

“Well, the fact is, Senator, we cannot discuss it, that is, I

don’t feel that we can talk about this on the phone.”

“That makes it rather difficult, doesn’t it,” she laughed weakly.

“Simply put, Senator . . . ”

“Please call me Nancy. Both my friends and enemies do.”

“All right, Nancy,” Scott said awkwardly. “I need 15 minutes of

your time about a matter of national security and it directly

concerns your work on the Rickfield Committee.” She winced at

the nick name that the hearing had been given. “I can assure

you, Senator, ah, Nancy, that I would not be bothering you unless

I was convinced of what I’m going to tell you. And show you. If

you think I’m nuts, then fine, you can throw me out.”

“Mr. Mason, that’s enough,” Nancy said kindly. “Based upon your

performance at the hearing the other day, that alone is enough to

make me want to shake your hand. As for what you have to say? I

pride myself on being a good listener. When would be convenient

for you?”

“The sooner the better,” Scott said with obvious relief that he

hadn’t had to sell her.

“How’s . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?”

“That’s fine, perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“We?” Nancy picked up the plural reference.

“Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I’m not crazy

alone.”

FBI, New York

“I’ll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then,”

Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone.

“Ty, I’ve been on your side and defended you since I came on

board, you know that.” Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. “But

on this one, I have no control. You’ve been poking into areas

that don’t concern you, and I’m catching heat.”

“I’m working on one damn case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it

keeps on touching this fucking blackmail fiasco and it’s getting

on everyone’s nerves. There’s a lot more to this than ransoms

and hackers and I’ve been having some luck. I’ll show you what I

have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets.”

“I’ll be there. Ty,” Burnson said kindly. “I don’t know the

specifics, but you’ve been shaking the tree. I hope it’s worth

it.”

“It is, Bob. I’d bet my ass on in.”

“You are.”

Thursday, January 14 Walter Reed Medical Center

“How is he doing?” Scott asked.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of

Walter Reed’s hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi-

cians. “In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest

wound is nasty, but that’s not the danger; it’s the head wound.

The brain is a real funny area.”

Tyrone’s FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in

to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had

been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital

room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage-

ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre’s most recent assailant was

murdered, despite the police assigned to guard his room. Two of

Ahmed’s elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well

that they weren’t suspected when one went in the room and the

other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day.

All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of the

D.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatz

orderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate in

Arabic. “It’s done. Let’s get out of here.”

The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on

the pair. One of Ahmed’s men tried to pull his gun but was shot

and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to

run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way.

He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a

huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He

never slowed, shouting “Allah, I am yours!” as he dove through

the plate glass window plummeting five floors to