by Stan Mason
‘Sorry, old man... nothing. I’ve stayed awake some nights thinking about it. The incident today was too much. I had to report it.’
‘What level are you colleagues in the other banks?’
‘Not top-drawer stuff but well above middle management.’
‘Do you get the feeling that there’s a very senior manager in this bank passing on the information?’
‘I can’t answer that one. It may be an industrial spy... if that’s what they call them. Who’d think it in banking? The world’s gone mad over a few items of flimsy useless information. Lucky I haven’t got long before retirement or I’d end up in the looney bin with all the undercover intrigue. What use is any of it in the long run?’
‘It could mean a lot to some people, Chesterton. Certainly to those who know how to use that knowledge once they receive it. You and I are too naïve for those sorts of political battles but the new breed of banker sees everything for a purpose. Leave it with me. I’ll try to get to the bottom of it and thanks for reporting it.’
As soon as Chesterton had hung up, Rigby pointed a finger at his secretary as if to issue a series of instructions. ‘I want you to take down these names,’ he instructed purposefully. ‘Fisher, Pullman, Hicks and Elliott. Check whether any of them have a connection with Marketing Division. You’d better check also whether any of them are connected with Central Committee. I want everyone searched as it’s never been done before. If you find a common thread, or any kind of connection, with one or more of those people, let me know immediately. And one more thing. I want you to use the greatest discretion possible. I don’t want any of those men to learn of our enquiries!’
‘It’s nearly two-thirty,’ she advised him after jotting down his orders in shorthand. ‘You have a meeting with Mr. MacDonald on computer fraud.’
‘Thanks!’ he uttered laconically, grateful for the reminder. ‘If Bristow or Carlisle ring, transfer the call to me in the Old Man’s office without delay. There are more important things in life at the moment than computer fraud in the bank.’
She drew back her lips sternly as he gathered up some paper. ‘Of course I understand,’ she riposted with an element of irritation. ‘I’m not an idiot!’
He smiled at her obvious annoyance and covered his tracks quickly. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Betty. You’re a real gem! I wouldn’t want anyone else for my secretary... not in the whole world!’
She met his gaze without showing any emotion. ‘You’ll be late for your meeting,’ she told him coyly.
He shrugged his shoulders as he left the office before his secretary broke into a smile. She was very aware of his moods and his feelings.
‘He doesn’t change, does he?’ commented Howard, noticing the rapport between the senior executive and his secretary.
‘No he doesn’t,’ she returned, ‘And, by George, I wish there were more people like him in this bank!’
Rigby arrived at the door of the Assistant Chief Executive and turned to stare at the person following him in his footsteps with a heavy tread. He turned to face Prescott who held a file under his arm. ‘Hello, Wiz,’ he greeted cordially. ‘You’re right on time!’
‘Punctuality has always been my forte,’ grunted the other man without conceding an expression on his face. ‘You should be aware of that. By the way, here are the papers on computer fraud that you asked for.’
Rigby took them gratefully and grasped the doorknob . ‘Before we enter the lion’s den, he said, pausing for a moment, ‘let me extend my appreciation for your help. I discovered recently that it’s not customary in the bank for anyone to volunteer assistance any more.’
‘I’ve noticed that as well,’ responded Prescott cynically. ‘But let’s put that behind us. Come on, let’s get this over. I’ve a mass of work piling up for me in my office.’
‘Come in, gentlemen,’ muttered MacDonald as they entered the room. He sat bolt upright in his executive chair with his hands firmly pressed together as if in prayer, staring at them sternly below his big bushy eyebrows. ‘Make yourselves comfortable!’
The visitors sat in the plush seats facing the senior executive who leaned over to the inter-office communicator.
‘Miss Williamson,’ he said into the instrument, ‘I’m in conference. No telephone calls unless they’re absolutely vital.’ He turned a knob at the edge of his desk which switched on a red light outside the office door to advise any unwelcome visitors that he was engaged.
Rigby sat uncomfortably in his seat looking around the office. The expensive azure blue Persian carpet the rich drape of the tasselled curtains, the deep brown reproduction furniture and the wealth of paintings and décor around the room did nothing to move him from the fact that the atmosphere was very much akin to a museum. Noise tended to reverberate and the expanse of the room distorted his sense of proportion. Worst of all, however, was the gloom that persisted in some of the darker areas, There was no doubt that although the room possessed an abundance of style it lacked character and this reflected the personality of its inhabitant... which said very little for the Assistant Chief Executive.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ continued the senior man. ‘The subject matter is computer fraud, is it not?’
‘You know Mr. Prescott of Information Section,’ cut in Rigby smartly.
‘We’ve spent many illuminating hours together in the past trying to unravel one mystery or another... tracking ghosts down to earth,’ he retorted.
Prescott sat quite still remaining completely passive and expressionless.
‘We’re waiting for Cornelius Strangeway of Computer Division to completed the quorum,’ explained the Head of Functional Control.
‘What’s happening at Croydon branch?’ asked MacDonald utilising the spare time its best advantage.
‘It’s in a holding position but we’ve gained valuable yardage,’ claimed Rigby uneasily.
‘An increasing risk, I presume,’ MacDonald glanced at his wristwatch and pursed his lips. ‘Strangeway is late!’
‘He’s always late!’ grumbled Prescott miserably. ‘Every time! Every meeting!’
The senior executive leaned across to the inter-office communicator. ‘Miss Williamson, we’re waiting for Mr. Strangeway of Computer Division. Would you contact him to remind him? We don’t intend to wait here all day!’ He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desk extremely irritated at having to be kept waiting. It was not the prerogative of junior managers to embarrass their seniors in this manner and the period that passed until his secretary reported back to him seemed intolerable.
‘He doesn’t appear to be available, Mr. MacDonald,’ she informed him sweetly.
‘What does that mean?’ he snapped angrily. ‘Is he attending another meeting or hasn’t he returned yet from lunch?’
‘There seems to be a communication lapse. Mr. Strangeway’s secretary has examined his diary but there’s no meeting scheduled in it for this afternoon. Do you want me to make further enquiries?’
‘Yes I do! Get his secretary to chase him!’ braked MacDonald hot under the collar as he switched off the machine. ‘Damned inconvenient!’ he muttered irately. ‘Come half past and the fellow still hasn’t arrived! Waste of time and the allocation of four salaries!’
‘The allocation of four salaries?’ questioned Rigby, biting his tongue when he realised how stupid it was to ask the question.
‘How much do you earn each minute, Rigby?’
‘Too little as far as I’m concerned, sir. To much as far as the bank’s concerned, I should imagine.’
‘None of your damned clever answers! Strangeway is multiplying that by four. The two of you, himself and me! Unpunctuality lessens productivity and becomes a burden on the payroll!’
‘Perhaps he’s been involved in an accident,’ ventured Rigby trying to find an excuse for the missing executive.
His plea fell on deaf ears for no one seemed to listen to his comment and the three men sat kicking their heels unable to proceed without the key executive. They sat in silence for nearly a minute before the telephone rang. MacDonald lifted the receiver irately ready to savage anyone who happened to be on the other end of the line. He listened for a moment, poised to pounce fiercely, then his expression softened and he passed to the receiver to the Head of Functional Control. ‘It’s for you,’ he said quietly.
Rigby took the receiver and found himself speaking with Felix Bristow. ‘Felix!’ he called out. ‘You’re very faint. Can you speak up?’
MacDonald was too curious to allow the conversation to be held in private so he switch on the conference machine.
‘I’m talking to you from the helicopter,’ shouted Bristow. His voice boomed out across the room through a great deal of static. ‘The newspapers are here with me and we’ll be landing in a few minutes. I thought I’d ring to give you a lead time on your plans.’
‘Well done, Bristow. Keep your powder dry!’
‘Okay... roger and out!’
Prescott viewed the scene with some surprise as Rigby began to exercise his control over the office by using the inter-office communicator to contact MacDonald’s secretary.
‘Miss Williamson,’ he said into the machine. ‘Would you get me Croydon branch please and patch it through here?’
‘Certainly, Mr. Rigby,’ came the sweet dulcet tones without the slightest fleck of emotion in her voice.
‘You really have a first-class secretary there,’ he told the senior executive who was stunned by the junior executive’s audacity. ‘Cool as a cucumber at all times!’
‘Well it’s very kind of you to approve my selection of a secretary,’’ returned the senior man sarcastically.
Rigby noted the tone of disapproval and bit his lower lip while waiting for the call to be place. ‘Carlisle,’ he uttered when it came through. ‘What’s happening now?’
MacDonald increased the volume on the device so that every word of the conversation emerged clearly over the appliance, then he stiffened as he realised that he was brought directly into line with a real-life drama and remained silent.
‘Nothing much,’ boomed the voice of the Assistant Manager throughout the office. ‘He’s still in there. I don’t think anything going to shift him except the money.’
‘All right, Carlisle. This is what you do! In five minutes time, you’ll be able to show the man that the keys from Head Office have been stolen by a mugger. The Stop Press in the newspaper will support you. Tell him that we’re getting someone else with a duplicate key to come along but that it’ll take time to get there. Take it very calm and casual. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ came a warbled response.
‘The Stop Press gives brief details of the mugging.’
‘What do I do if something goes wrong?’
‘Think positive, Carlisle! Nothing will go wrong. I have the Assistant Chief Executive sitting next to me here.’ There was a pause. ‘Would you like to speak with him?’
‘No, sir!’ returned the man empathically, terrified at the prospect of direct contact with such a high-ranking executive.
‘Very well. Keep closely in touch!’
The conversation ended and MacDonald shook his head slowly. ‘Do you know,’ he began, almost in despair, ‘I think that the training process of the bank must be suspect. The man would rather talk to a lunatic sitting with a bomb in the Manager’s office than speak with me. What is it about senior management that sends terror streaking through the veins of junior staff. Don’t they realise that we were once juniors ourselves?’
‘And weren’t we terrified then of the men at the top?’ cut in Rigby valiantly, trying to defend the Assistant Manager. ‘I can recall attending a dinner many years ago at which the Chief Executive at the time was the main guest. When the dinner ended, everyone coasted to the bar and I took the trouble to sidle up to him to touch the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t possible have felt it but it made me feel good to know I’d actually had physical contact with him. And that fear, or ultra respect if you like, is a very important part of one’s character. Certainly with regard to obedience, as well as ambition.’
They rambled on for awhile in a strained manner and then the senior executive quickly showed he was getting bored with the conversation. Rigby and Prescott speculated in their own minds how much longer MacDonald would tolerate Strangeway’s absence.
‘Perhaps you’d better advise me with the information you’ve gathered so far,’ he suggested at length, so that I’m familiar with the details by the time this man arrives.’
‘Basically,’ began Rigby, opening the proceedings, ‘we believe there’s a lack of control on computer operations which leaves the bank at risk. ‘It’s possible... in fact it’s more than highly likely that ... ’
‘Just give me the facts and leave out the imponderables,’ intervened MacDonald sharply and impatiently.
Rigby shrugged his shoulders and continued, using all his knowledge of the issue to fill in the time. Where was Strangeway? It was up to him to lead the discussion. He was already ten minutes late. ‘There may be one or more of the staff defrauding the bank in Computer Division. My concern is that serious frauds could remain undetected for long periods of time. We have to make certain that, if it is happening, we need to stop it before irreparable damage is done to the bank.’
The senior executive frowned deeply. ‘When we were young there were simply ledgers to fill in. The bank inspectors examined them every so often and was practically impossible to perpetrate a fraud.’
‘Banking has accelerated so quickly through the advance of technology that without computers the number of employees required today would be phenomenal,’ commented Rigby with a sigh. ‘And costs would have risen accordingly. So we have sophisticated machines full of complexities requiring absolute specialisation. It’s not the fact that frauds are being perpetrated that concerns me. It’s that they may be of such large proportions sufficient to affect the ranking status and the image of this bank as a whole.’
‘Can you define the term ‘large proportions’ more clearly?’
‘How would you feel about a shortfall of say a hundred million or half a billion pounds sterling?
The Assistant Chief Executive blanched for a moment and then his nostrils flared to indicate the import of the remark. ‘Is there any truth in that figure or is it simply a wild assumption?’
‘Who knows. It could be more. All one has to do is to transfer an amount to a secret bank account in another country by the touch of a button. Three or four large frauds could amount to that sum. They lost billions of dollars in one computer operation in the United States some time ago.’
The senior executive inhaled deeply showing his concern. ‘I think I’d rather have facts than terrify myself with repercussions of fantasy. What do you say, Prescott?’
Before the executive from Information Section could throw any light on the matter the telephone rang. The Assistant Chief Executive almost hissed at the instrument before answering the call. ‘Dash it man!’ he swore irately at Rigby, ‘it’s for you again! The next time you attend a meeting in this office, do have the courtesy to control your telephone calls at source!’
‘Mr. Rigby,’ came the voice of Betty Brewer through the amplifier which MacDonald switched on. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mr. Evans of the Evening Gazette. He wants to know when you intend to collect those newspapers he had specially printed.’
Rigby’s head shot up and he sat perfectly erect. Bristow had telephoned him on a few minutes earlier to say that the newspapers were about to be left outside the door of the branch. Now Evans was ringing him asking when they were to be collected. In terms of senior management, it was a giant administration cock-up and he felt a sense of despair as imminent disa
ster loomed up ahead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told MacDonald, moving swiftly towards the door. ‘This is an emergency. I must return to my office right away!’
The bushy eyebrows of the senior executive shot up at the comment. ‘Well if that isn’t the last straw,’ he complained bitterly. ‘Do you know, Prescott, sometimes I feel like the tea-boy in this organisation. It wasn’t like this in my young days in the bank. Not at all!’
Rigby stormed into his office, upset and very tense. The effect of the telephone call had drained all the blood from his face and had driven him to a nervous pitch. ‘Get me Evans right away!’ he order in a loud voice under the watchful eye of Ben Howard who refrained from speaking for fear of the backlash. ‘What the hell’s going on Evans?’ barked Rigby vociferously down the line.
‘I thought you were going to send someone to collect the newspapers. They’re here beside me now. Every one with that special Stop Press item. Just like you asked.’
‘But my man just contacted me to say he collected them. He’s just about to deliver them!’
‘Not the newspapers you ordered, that’s for sure,’ came the response. ‘He must have taken a batch of the earlier ones. He’s got the wrong newspapers!’
The banker was about to explode but he realised that such actions was pointless. He was far better cutting his losses and changing the plan before the going got too rough. Swiftly, he closed down the conversation and tapped out the telephone number of the Croydon branch. ‘Carlisle!’ he began anxiously. ‘Have you carried out my instructions yet?’
‘Yes, Mr. Rigby,’ came the puzzled reply, ‘but I’ve lost track somewhere. You told me there was a Stop Press item but I can’t find it. The man in the Manager’s office can’t find it either and he’s very angry at seeing his photograph on the front page.’