MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  ‘Soon see. Oscar has rebuilt them with even tougher and more advanced guardian code. The bank’s systems have a tough shell all round them.’ She giggled. ‘Oscar described it as the mother of all condoms.’

  ‘An illuminating image. So what’s to worry about?’

  ‘We can’t shift all their systems into a darknet. GA’s upping the transaction volumes. They’re creating and replicating dummy transactions and firing them down separate pipes aimed at People’s Bank servers. Like multiple rocket launchers. Behind the dummies will be viruses. If the firewalls go down, the bugs get through and kill the bank’s systems. And there’s no reason why GA can’t keep up bombardment for days, or weeks until the bank goes out of business. The code Oscar and his crew have put together is super-fast, super-effective and can take the punishment – for a while anyway – and still let clean transactions through from real clients. They have to keep working, providing a service or GA wins anyway.’

  ‘You said there were two things.’

  ‘Right. Number two is killing the customer.’

  ‘You mean instead of going after the bank, they go for the clients?!’

  ‘It’s easy to get hold of customer accounts. We can safely assume that GA is sitting with a directory of all the email addresses of 250 million People’s Bank customers.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘They’ll forge emails which purport to be from People’s Bank. The customer opens it. The virus gets in and promptly destroys his computer or a client’s entire corporate network.’

  ‘Can Oscar stop that?’

  ‘This was one of my ideas. I suggested it to the Delhi team. A few days ago the bank should have sent out an email to all its customers warning them of possible sabotage. Attached to the email would have been self-loading anti-virus code. Oscar got hold of the best software shield around from one of his gang. Worm I think. They’d trapped a slew of bugs from GA, analysed them and rebuilt their software to sift out and kill them off. Even variants should be handled as the software is trained to recognise the ‘style’ of the bugs and it goes on learning and adding new virus checkers all the time.’

  ‘There are times when I miss a drink more than others.’

  She noticed he wasn’t doing anything about it.

  ‘Well maybe you’ll deserve one when this over. And maybe I’ll buy it.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’ The screen was quieter. Only the occasional message flicked across it.

  ‘Now, I would guess, they’re getting ready to go on the offensive.’

  It was 4am in New York and the line was holding - just.

  here’s a new one. Anyone want it? It looks like a leacher - LR-

  that’s up my street. Goes with the other blood-suckers.- Slick –

  box em up and send them over. Same for all you guys. tracer’s almost done and then we can turn it round. - LR-

  ‘Is this the offensive line coming in?’ Ted pointed at the last few messages.

  Erin turned back from her own machine and squinted over her glasses.

  ‘Uh huh. Let me just finish this. There she goes! Right, the web site’s got all the new stuff loaded. I’ll tell Oscar and he can do the necessary replication. Then we have to work out who we tell. Don’t we?’

  She emailed Oscar then stood and stretched. Erin realised she was enjoying this. She felt good. Her stomach was miraculously quiet. Anila had given her a small jam-jar of ground leaves and bark of the neem tree. She added a spoonful to a mug of boiling water, let it stew and magic. It helped that for the first time in years she felt she was doing something worthwhile. That it was a giant act of vandalism aimed at bringing down her own corporation was a little bizarre. But this felt right. She had no doubts. She looked over Ted’s shoulder at the unfolding cyber drama.

  ‘They’re stripping all the viruses out of the GA blitz and rounding them into a pen. Oscar has been cutting code that will pick up every GA attacker and unpick its source address.’

  ‘So they know where it’s come from originally?’

  ‘Right. And he’s going to build that in to the firewall so that every new virus message that comes in, automatically gets bounced back where it came from. And on the way back, Oscar adds copies of every virus they’ve thrown at us. Plus a few of his own specials and some variations from his very wicked gang!’

  ‘So the firewall becomes a mirror?’

  ‘Or a missile defence system. Eat your heart out, George Bush!’

  Ted’s screen dissolved and a new picture started forming.

  ‘What’s happening? Have we lost? Is this Stanstead’s bugs?’

  ‘I don’t think so… Wait. What the hell…!

  There was a blare of trumpets, the screen came into focus, filled with figures. A band of muscled men in loin cloths and capes marched forward brandishing swords and shields. The camera angled back leaving the small band of warriors bunched together on the left of the screen. Facing them was an endless horde of raging men on foot or mounted on horses and elephants. Tigers and leopards wrenched at their chains in their frenzy to attack.

  The dull roars from both sides were abruptly overridden by one powerful voice. The leader of the small band of semi-naked musclemen stood forward, and raised his spear. His chubby face came into close-up. Oscar. With a big black beard. Just behind him was a grinning Albert. Their borrowed bodies rippled and glowed. The camera panned to the enemy battalions and fixed on the leader riding a great chariot and surrounded by screaming henchmen with axes and spears. The leader’s face showed the jutting nose and high brow of Warwick Stanstead.

  King Oscar saw his nemesis and drew his arm back. He launched his great spear at Xerxes/Stanstead with a mighty shout,

  ‘I - AM - SPARTA!’

  Three hundred voices swelled behind him in chorus. The vastly outnumbered, doomed warriors broke into a sprint towards the enemy legions. A great clash of arms unfolded, with screams of pain and terror and exultation. Swords rose and fell, blood spurted, limbs flew off and severed heads rolled.

  Ted burst out laughing. ‘It’s 300! The Spartans’ battle for Thermopylae. Oscar’s hijacked the movie!’

  Erin was laughing with him. ‘It’s the computer game. He’s hacked it. I bet he’s hooked it up directly to the server battle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘GA’s virus attacks are represented by the enemy battalions. Oscar and his men are the Spartans. Look, you can see some of the gang we met in CJ’s back office. There’s Vikram and Shivani!’ she pointed at the flushed faces of the young man and woman fighting alongside Oscar. ‘And he’s raided GA’s computer files for mug shots of Warwick and his exec team for the faces of his enemy!

  ‘But it’s not for real?’ Ted asked doubtfully.

  ‘Real enough. Representational for sure. Oscar will have written code to translate what’s actually happening in the cyber war and hacked it into the 300 video game. I bet he’s linked the volumes of virus attacks to the numbers of bad guys. If the baddies are winning, the Spartans will be forced back.’ Her voice lost its humour. ‘If Oscar goes down, it means Ramesh’s bank has been overrun. For real.’

  They sat glued to the images of the bloody fighting for what seemed hours. For a long time, the Spartans were on the defensive. They were pushed back by sheer weight of numbers into the narrow defile of the pass of Thermopylae. Bodies piled up. Exhaustion lined the faces of the defenders. There came a pause, a long pause as the enemy regrouped and prepared for one final push. The sound of battle dropped. From behind the Spartans came a long trumpet blast. Tired bodies righted themselves and muscles flexed anew. King Oscar turned to his troops and beat his shield with his bloody sword.

  ‘TO ME! TO ME! FOR SPARTA!’ his voice boomed out, echoing round the walls of the rocky pass.

  The Spartans hammered their shields, formed into battle order and as one, charged the enemy. Instead of the few hundred that had first lined up with Oscar, a torrent of new troops poured down the gorge and into the enemy ranks. At first it
was simply a chaos of shouting and crashing of weaponry. Then slowly, inch by inch, the enemy hordes gave way. Still more Spartan muscle-men filled the scene. The rout started quickly. Soon the enemy were running from the field, only to be cut down by the avenging hordes. Like a brown sea the Spartans overwhelmed the dark forces until with a snap, the screen blinked out.

  Ted and Erin sat in stunned silence gazing at the pc.

  ‘Does that mean…?’ he asked.

  Erin sat still, looking suddenly tired. There was no elation on her face. She looked up at him and gave him a faint smile.

  ‘We’ve just killed my bank, Ted.’

  FIFTY FOUR

  It was 9.15 Sunday morning in Dayton, Ohio. Dave Gruby was doing his weekly admin chores. For some people paperwork was a pain, something to be put off till the red bills came in or the tax penalty loomed. Dave kind of liked it. It gave him a sense of calm. It made things feel solid and ordered. He had a good filing system and diary on his home computer. It prompted and structured his life. He kept hard copies of all his correspondence in a neat file in his left hand desk drawer.

  He was on-line, paying bills, checking emails and planning the following month’s banking transactions. He had to add a new monthly payment; his daughter Sue was off to college and he’d taken on the rental payments on a small apartment she was sharing with two other girls. Dave was thinking about what his little girl would get up to away from home. The thought was making him mildly panicky as he methodically approached setting up the arrangements with his GA Internet bank service. His screen lost contact. He tried again. It was pretty unusual these days for a banking service to go down, but not unheard of. They did a lot of maintenance at weekends. Nothing. He gave up and determined to try later. He was irritated though. He didn’t like stuff left undone when he was half way through.

  At 2.38 in the afternoon, in an over-priced store in Covent Garden, London, England, Diana Siciliano offered her GA credit card to pay for a ‘must have’ sweater she’d just tried on. This was the big trip to England that she and her mother had talked of for years. Ever since her dad had gone off with Sandi Thompson, her mother’s one-time best friend. The planning of it had almost been therapy enough. The reality was better. There were just the cutest stores. The shop assistant swiped the card three times and tried to key in the details by hand before noticing the GA service itself was disconnected. Diana dug out her Amex instead. It worked and she went off into the light drizzle, puzzling over her useless GA card.

  It was post-breakfast and pre-brunch just off Times Square, New York. A small crowd of tourists was gathered in lines round a set of five ATMs. Each line was disappointed. No-one had been able to get any cash since 9.30 that morning. Someone said that this was the third set they’d tried. Others painted similar stories and began digging out alternative cards to try at other banks. One of the people in the queue was Mira Lindsay, a reporter for CNN on her way in to start her shift. She tried it herself then went off with a frown on her forehead.

  She got to the studios and began to make some calls. Not that she had to make too many; viewers were already calling the studio to complain and ask if CNN knew anything about GA technology problems. There was a pattern emerging. Mira had a word with her boss. There was a news round-up due shortly, and things were quiet. Maybe there was a filler here. Her boss put a call in to the emergency line that GA provided. There was nothing. Zero. No way of contact. This was starting to smell like a story.

  In a vast tiled hall on a hill overlooking the San Bernardo hills in Southern California, Rick Juventus was sweating. Partly because he was the supervisor on the overnight watch in which every single bank computer had died at 6.15 am, and partly because the temperature was rising ten degrees every half hour. Whatever had knocked the computer out had taken out the computer-controlled air conditioning as well. He’d noted a whole lot of activity overnight – like there had been on three occasions over the past few months – when 50% of their servers had been pressed into action by a head office tech team. No-one would tell him what was going on. Just shut up and keep the machines running was his instruction.

  Well last night had been a lulu. At peak times 98% of their server capacity had been in use. Until two hours ago. Then, literally, the lights had gone out. First the monitoring screens had disintegrated in front of his eyes, then all the hard drives had gone into action at once like they were going to take off. Then nothing. Lights out.

  Rick had followed the laid-down Disaster Contingency Procedures and tried to call his boss, as well as get the back-up computers warmed up for recovery to yesterday night’s position. But first the internal phones were out, so he had to use his cell. Then the standby boxes had gone crazy when they’d rebooted. He’d run out of options and was starting to shout at people, which he never did. His boss, Eduardo Castina, was none too pleased at being summoned in the middle of the night from his eight-bedroomed villa above the third fairway of the San Bernardo Country Club. Eduardo had a family christening down at La Jola beach and whatever screw-up had taken place in his absence had better be fixed by 10 am, or there would be trouble. He didn’t know how much trouble.

  Warwick Stanstead was alone in his office. It was 11 am Sunday. None of the computers worked. None of the landlines worked. His cell phone was permanently ringing with news of crashed systems from around the GA empire. The only thing that worked was an old fax machine and once people knew about it, there was a steady stream of confirmations that GA was no longer operational. His bank couldn’t dispense money through its ATM network, no-one could administer an account over phone or Internet, and around $200 billion of the bank’s money, representing its overnight position in the money markets, was inaccessible. All it would take was to be out of the market for a day and the rates to shift by a mere 50 basis points - and the bank would haemorrhage $1 billion. The money markets had been like a yo-yo recently. A bank that couldn’t lend, couldn’t borrow, couldn’t manage its money, was no longer a bank. It was a mausoleum.

  Warwick had foresworn pick-me-ups or downers this morning apart from coffee. He needed to be as clear headed as possible. But all he felt was crushing depression from the catastrophic mix of events and going cold turkey. He was doing the one thing he was good at: rallying his troops. He was shouting into his mobile phone demanding the immediate presence of every goddamn executive officer of the bank. He wanted them here, now, and manning the pumps. Hackers weren’t going to stop GA!

  Within minutes they were on their way. Aaron Schmidt was on a private chopper on his way from his ten-room ‘cabin’ in Martha’s Vineyard. Marcus Nightingale was sweating behind the wheel of his new 911, careless of speed traps on the I90 on his way in from Westchester County. Abraham Kubala, just off the plane from Frankfurt, was having a cell-phone fight with his wife. She’d have to holiday on Long Island without him for the moment. Charlie Easterhouse was in a yellow cab bouncing down Madison. Charlie’d left his third wife calling her lawyer and threatening to join the ranks of his ex-wives after yet another ruined Sunday.

  By mid afternoon, in a variety of off-duty clothes, most of the US based executives pitched up. As they stumbled in, one by one, Stanstead told them they’d been attacked by hackers and that they had to get their asses in gear and fight! It quickly became clear to each of them that they had nothing to fight with. This bank – like every other bank in the world – was completely and utterly dependent on its technology. GA no longer had technology, ergo it no longer was a bank. No-one could quite bring themselves to say this to Warwick. Each sat manfully in front of his dead screen and his dead phone and used his cell phone and the three tired fax machines to send useless instructions out and receive bewildered responses.

  ‘What the fuck is happening!? What is going on?!’

  Warwick had called Nick Trevino, his tech director seven times in the last three hours.

  ‘Warwick, I told you. It’s a counter-attack. Wiped us out.’ He was in shock. ‘They turned our stuff round and fired it back
at us. And they used new viruses. We didn’t have the shields for them. Some of the stuff is just unbelievable. I mean our circuits aren’t just wiped clean or anything. They’re melted.’ There was awe in his voice.

  ‘What do you mean they’re melted?! What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘They did something to the operating system that manages the hard drives. They’ve got lasers inside – you know, for reading the data and stuff? – well they jammed the lasers and the lasers burned holes.’

  ‘Get new ones for Christ sakes! We have to get back up. If this bank’s still out by tomorrow, then we’re bust. Don’t you fucking understand?!’

  ‘Warwick, of course I damn well understand! You don’t! We’re dead! I’m sorry, this is going to take time, I keep telling you, there’s nothing we can do. It’ll take weeks.’ The restraint was vanishing from Nick Trevino’s voice. He’d been up all night, he’d never expected a counter-attack, and even if there had been one, they had systems that should have held out, right? He was living in a nightmare. He didn’t know what had happened other than their own salvoes had looped back at them – with interest! – and took out every single item on GA’s fixed asset register that had a chip in it.

  ‘Then you’re fucking fired! I’ll get someone who can do something! That’s what you’re fucking paid for!’

  ‘Fuck you, Stanstead!’

  Trevino’s line went dead. Warwick gazed at his phone. He’d been hung up on!

  Pat Duschene came in, minus his buttoned-up suit. Pat was wearing Sunday clothes. Black leather skin-tight jeans, black leather tank top and three earrings. The tattoos on his bare arms were on display for the first time. Pat was past caring. He had dropped everything and come as he was, leaving a special and decidedly peeved friend to finish the intimate brunch alone. Warwick had stopped gazing at him in wonder. Pat asked, hands on hips.