A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

the bonds—by the end of the week—it will be too late to set up any accounts over there. It’s nearly Christmas—and the banks in Europe will be closed for the holiday. We would have had to wait until after the first of the year.”

Good Lord, he was right! That was something I hadn’t considered myself—four days from now, on Christmas Eve, all of our test systems at the bank would shut down for year-end maintenance. If, by then, I hadn’t put programs in place to grab off those wire transfers, I, too, would have to wait until after the first of the year. We’d be weeks behind Tor—and lose all that huge volume of year-end money to boot! How could I have been such a fool?

“And how is your own little theft coming along, my dear?” asked Tor, as if he’d read my mind.

“Just great,” I lied, cursing myself for this dreadful oversight, and trying to figure out what the hell I could do.

The teapot began to whistle. I picked it up absently, and nearly splashed boiling water on my foot. When I jumped away, the phone crashed to the floor. I picked it up, and heard Tor laughing at the other end.

“Sounds as if you’re doing splendidly.” He chuckled. “So things are as bad as all that? I do think your attitude is wrong. You’re going to quite enjoy living in New York again after all these years—and working with me as a technocrat, a destiny you were born for. Why don’t you give in, and admit you’ve lost this bet?”

“Premature chicken counting,” I told him, wiping the floor with the sock I’d pulled off my foot. “Don’t you have to beat me, for me to lose?”

“I’ve always admired this determination of yours, in the face of complete disaster,” he assured me. “You haven’t cracked a single system yet, and you know it.”

“I’d like to get the record straight,” I told him, dragging the phone with me to the fog-encircled glass-walled living room. “Even if I did lose—and had to pay up by working for you—that’s not my destiny; it’s just a debt. You can’t put me in a cage.”

Tor was silent for several moments. Then he said quietly, “You’ve built so many walls around yourself, I’d never dream of replacing them with a cage. I only want to tear them down and set you free—please do me the service of believing that.”

“That’s why you lured me into this little wager, I suppose—to free me of the silly burden of my chosen career?”

“Whether or not you wish to admit it now,” he said gently, “that’s precisely the case. But in the unlikely chance you win, I intend to keep my part of the bet. As I expect you to keep yours.” Then he said, with a bit more cheer, “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go uncork my birthday champagne.”

When we hung up, I sat in the stark white room until darkness fell. Then, without bothering about dinner, I went off to bed. I knew now, no matter what happened, I had to win this bet. Though for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why it seemed so bloody critical to do so.

First thing the next morning, Tavish entered my new glass-walled office on the thirtieth floor. He was scratching his shaggy blond head, and sat across from me, teacup in hand.

“I’ve thought of something; let’s see what you think,” he told me. “If I were trying to get onto the production system—but the computer didn’t recognize my password—after three attempts on my part to enter the system, I’d be locked out and my terminal shut down.” He looked at me and waited.

“Right,” I agreed. “That’s the way security works, to keep unauthorized people from tampering with live systems—what’s your point?”

“Well, if I were an authorized person, but I just happened to forget my password, what would they do?”

“They’d give you a new password,” I told him. “But I don’t see how that would solve our current problem. Any new password they gave you would only admit you to the parts of the system you have clearance to access. It certainly wouldn’t get you into the security systems—and that’s what we need to crack.”

“You’re right,” said Tavish with a grin. “But the password would let me in—if I were the person in charge of security systems!”

I stared at him.

“His name is Len Maise,” said Tavish. “His terminal number is three-one-seven. It’s located on the eleventh floor. And he left last Friday for Tahoe—he won’t be back until after the holidays.”

“How do you plan to get them to give you his new password?” I asked, though my heart was now fluttering.

“I try three times to log on to his terminal, the system shuts me down, I phone up—as Len Maise—and ask for a new password of my choosing so I can remember it this time. To put this new password on the system, they’ll need a signed note—authorization from a vice-president. Since Len’s boss, unfortunately, is away as well, I guess you’ll have to be the one to write the note.”

“Why don’t you bring me a cup of whatever that is you’re drinking?” I suggested. “And while you’re out—pick up an authorization slip as well. It seems Len Maise, over in security, is going to need a new password.”

The end of the year is a hot time in the banking business. The Bank of the World had a private motto: We never shut our doors while the money’s pouring in. At least, that captures the general sentiment.

We extended our hours over Christmas, not only for the folks buying turkeys and gifts, but for wire transfers and all other services as well. It was year-end closing all over the world, which meant tax shelters and investments of all sorts couldn’t be put off any longer. This crazed banking frenzy posed a double quandary for me.

The production systems, now up and running around the clock, were clearing