Unauthorized Access

by Andrew McAllister

  “I’m going to have to think seriously about your role here at the bank.”

  Rob could feel the fury and frustration building. How could this night just keep getting worse?

  “This is crazy! I haven’t told anyone about the attacks.”

  Dysart glared back at him.

  “From now on you better keep your mouth shut.”

  Dysart pulled open the office door and walked out.

  Rob stood there for a few moments with his chest heaving and his head buzzing from the combination of exhaustion and adrenaline. He slammed his open hand against the solid wooden door and sent it crashing back against the doorstop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROB LET THE front door close behind him as he mounted the few stairs that took him from sidewalk level up into Champions Sports Bar. The place was packed with a dinnertime crowd. He stood for a few moments to let his tired, scratchy eyes adjust to the relative gloom, then he looked around for Lesley and Shayna. He wanted desperately to head home to bed, but Lesley’s news story was important to her and he wanted to help her celebrate.

  Tall stools fronted the bar to his left. Framed photographs of sports notables covered the walls. A profusion of TVs hung near the ceiling, providing patrons with several channels worth of distractions at once.

  Rob found Lesley and Shayna sitting at a square table in the middle section of the bar, next to a wall of Red Sox memorabilia.

  “You made it,” Lesley said with a big smile on her face. “Our story should be on soon.”

  Rob sat down and looked up at the TV that hung in a nearby corner. “How’d you get them to turn it to your station?” he said. “I’ve never seen anything but sports on the TVs here.”

  Shayna pointed toward the bar. “I worked my magic on that studly bartender over there.”

  Rob shot a look of astonishment at Lesley. “How could you do that?” he said. “Turn her loose on a poor, unsuspecting guy like that.”

  “By the way,” Shayna said to Rob, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Lesley looked down at the rock on her finger.

  Rob smiled and said, “Thanks.”

  “Does this mean I should give up waiting for you?” Shayna said.

  “Hey, if Lesley ever dumps me, you’re absolutely the first in line.”

  “Shh.” Lesley pointed up at the TV. “This is it.”

  The three of them watched as news anchor Steve Hewitt kicked off the six o’clock news.

  “We begin tonight with local news,” Hewitt said. “Customers of the First Malden Bank received a rude shock today when they found money apparently missing from their accounts. Bank officials are calling the incident a temporary computer problem. For exclusive coverage, we go downtown to Lesley McGrath.”

  Lesley appeared on the screen, WNWB-TV microphone in hand. This was the intro footage they had shot outside the bank after interviewing Dysart. The timing had been tight, but they had managed to rush back to the station, get the editing underway and make the case for the story with their producer, Arthur Pearce.

  “I’m standing outside the Tremont Street branch of the First Malden Bank,” Lesley’s TV image said, “where bank customers have quite a story to tell.”

  Three different customers filled the screen in succession, each spilling out their tale of financial confusion. The last to appear was the young man with the earring.

  “Are you thinking of switching banks?” Lesley’s voice said from the TV.

  “It’s possible,” Hennebury said. “I’ll wait and see how things pan out.”

  “For an explanation of what is behind these problems,” Lesley said, alone on the screen now, “I spoke with Stan Dysart, President of the First Malden Bank.”

  Dysart’s confident face appeared with the First Malden logo in the background. Rob listened with confusion and then dismay as his boss talked about malfunctions and minor adjustments. Was this the same Stan Dysart who had been so stressed out all day?

  “… everything will be back to normal soon,” Dysart finished.

  Lesley appeared for the wrap-up.

  “At this hour there is no definitive timeframe for when all of the problems will be resolved but, as we heard, the bank hopes this will be accomplished very soon. In downtown Boston, this is Lesley McGrath.”

  “Yeah, baby,” Shayna crowed. “We’re talking the lead-off story.”

  She gave Lesley a high-five.

  “Arthur said he would probably lead with it,” Lesley said with a huge smile.

  “Even better than that,” Shayna said, “I had a good look around at the other tables while our story was on.”

  “And?”

  “Not one person left to go to the bathroom,” Shayna said.

  Lesley laughed. “Meaning someone actually watched for a change.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Lesley turned excitedly to Rob. “What did you think?”

  “It was … great.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “Of course I did. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “We got an exclusive on this. You know how many brownie points that means in our business?”

  It means you’re the only reporter Stan lied to, Rob thought.

  “That’s great,” he said.

  “So how about your day?” Lesley asked. “Is your computer fixed?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not really supposed to say anything.”

  “Oh, come on. If Uncle Stan can talk to me about it, there’s no reason you can’t.”

  Rob considered telling her the truth, but quickly changed his mind. He didn’t want to throw cold water on her excitement. Besides, telling her the problems were more than technical would put her in a difficult position—if she kept her mouth shut, then she would knowingly let her station report false news. On the other hand, if she told her boss the truth, then she would look bad, and so would Stan and the bank. And Rob didn’t even want to think about what Stan would do if he found out Rob had told her.

  “No, really,” he said, “I can’t.”

  * * *

  Tim sat on one end of the couch in his girlfriend’s apartment. He took a pull from his Budweiser and thumbed the remote, switching the channel back to Lesley’s station. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for the six o’clock news.

  Kirsten came in from the kitchen with a beer for herself and plopped down on the couch next to him.

  “So what’s with all the excitement at your bank today?” she asked.

  “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

  Kirsten shrugged. “I know it has something to do with your computers, so I probably wouldn’t understand the details anyway. I just heard you have plenty of pissed off customers.”

  He looked at his watch. It was time.

  “Shh,” he said without taking his eyes from the screen. He shifted forward, not wanting to miss a single word of the broadcast.

  “We begin tonight with local news,” the anchor said. “Customers of the First Malden Bank received a rude shock today when they found money apparently missing from their accounts.”

  Tim barely breathed as first the bank customers and then Dysart recounted their version of events. After the wrap-up Tim slumped back into the couch and fought the urge to scream with exultation. It had worked. Everything was unfolding just as he had predicted, right down to Dysart’s public denials and Lesley’s news scoop. His insides felt like someone was stirring them with a jittery stick.

  “Why did you want to hear that so bad?” Kirsten asked. “I thought you knew all about it.”

  Tim tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I just wanted to see what other people were saying, that’s all.”

  “Are you afraid the bank will go under or something and you’ll lose your job?”

  Tim pointed the remote and clicked off the wide-screen TV.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Or is it because Lesley was on?”

  Tim looked around to se
e Kirsten glaring at him.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Do you think I’m stupid or something?”

  Tim blinked. Where did that come from?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Are you kidding me? Whenever we’re out somewhere and she shows up, you can’t keep your eyes off her.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  Did he really do that? He thought he’d been so subtle. Women never ceased to amaze him. They routinely picked up on things no man in history ever noticed. Tim closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead with his fingertips. The adrenaline buzz in his brain made it hard to concentrate, not to mention the lack of sleep.

  “I bet that’s why you wanted to watch the news,” she said. “Your precious Lesley was on.”

  Tim felt a stab of guilt. He really liked Kirsten, but he had to admit she had a point. For years keeping a girlfriend on his arm had been the price he paid for being a part of Lesley’s social life without seeming like a third wheel.

  He looked up at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was kind of rude, wasn’t I?”

  “You mean tonight, or all those other times?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  Kirsten’s face softened a bit. She bit her lower lip and looked away.

  “So it is true?” she said after a moment. “Would you rather be with her?”

  Tim sighed. “This has been bothering you for a while, hasn’t it?”

  Kirsten nodded.

  Tim shook his head and looked down. His hands were absent-mindedly turning the beer bottle around and around. He had always known that breaking up with Kirsten was inevitable, and after today it had to be done sooner rather than later. Still, he never found this sort of thing easy.

  “Do you remember the first night we went out?” he said, offering her a wry smile.

  This got her looking at him again.

  “Sure,” she said. “You invited me to a party.”

  “And Rob looked so surprised when I showed up with his ex-girlfriend.”

  Kirsten raised one skeptical eyebrow.

  “He seemed to get over it quickly enough.”

  Tim chuckled. “I suppose.”

  They lapsed into silence again. Tim picked at the label on the bottle. Finally he asked, “Did you see me doing it that night?”

  “You mean staring at Lesley?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Kirsten nodded.

  “Yeah,” she said, “right from the start.”

  The guilty feeling washed over Tim again. Kirsten was caring and fun, and with her perky little body she was cute as hell. In the end, though, his relationship with Kirsten had always been doomed for the same reason as all his other girlfriends.

  She wasn’t Lesley.

  * * *

  The wall clock said nine minutes after five when Paul Dees pushed out through the security door of the computer operations center. He was trying to figure out which emotion was winning the war inside him. Paul figured he was fifty percent exhausted, fifty percent satisfied … and ninety-eight percent pissed off.

  The satisfaction came from working with the team to re-install the AMS executable in record time. The software seemed to be working perfectly. As for the fury that had been building in him all day, Paul could count the reasons for that on one finger; he wanted to get his hands on the prick who caused this whole mess. Paul wanted to wring his neck. It galled him that some jerk would be selfish and stupid enough to pull a stunt like this. Whatever satisfaction they were getting from it, how could that possibly justify all the problems it was causing for so many people? And then there was the financial hit the bank was sure to take.

  Paul had to admit, though, that the real reason he was taking this so personally was because AMS was his responsibility. It was driving him crazy that someone had managed to sneak this kind of surprise past him. Paul felt like he had failed and now the only way out was to identify that someone and get the keyword so they could fix the remaining accounts.

  Kelleher was talking about the two of them getting a few hours sleep and then coming back in to search the desks and hard drives of all AMS team members. This was a crazy long shot in Paul’s opinion. Who would be stupid enough to leave evidence lying around where untrained investigators could find it? No way should the bank’s reputation depend on a search like that. Paul figured the surest way out of this mess was to trace those emails, and that would take someone with more clout than he had. That would mean leaking the truth to the public, which would then clear the way to bring in the FBI.

  So that was exactly what Paul intended to do.

  It would mean his job if Dysart found out he was the source of the leak, but Paul figured his job was hanging by a thread anyway. His best chance of staying employed was to get the keyword as quickly as possible. That meant bringing in some folks who knew what they were doing. He checked that he still had a copy of the email from the Financial Patriots and then went looking for a quiet office with a fax machine.

  * * *

  Lesley and Shayna paused outside Champions for a quick hug.

  “Later, kiddos,” Shayna said, then walked off toward the parking garage under the Marriott next door.

  Lesley put her arm through Rob’s and they started along the sidewalk.

  “Want to come back to my place?” she asked.

  “Love to,” he said, “but I’d only fall asleep on you.”

  She squeezed his arm tighter and said, “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, man,” Rob said. “Any other night that would work. How about tomorrow after work you come over to my place. I’ll get us a pizza and we can talk about how we’re going to spring the ring on everyone back home.”

  “Double cheese?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Lesley’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse.

  “Hi Lesley, it’s Arthur.”

  “Why if it isn’t my favorite producer,” she said. “You must be calling to offer congratulations on the First Malden piece.”

  “I wish I was,” Pearce said. “We just received a fax that throws some doubt on your story. It’s a copy of an email message to the First Malden Bank from some group calling themselves the Financial Patriots of America. It says they’ve sabotaged the bank’s computers, removed money from customer accounts. The gist of the message is that greedy American banks have caused the recession and now this group is striking back.”

  “But my uncle said it was just some minor computer glitch.”

  “Which means either this message is a hoax or he lied to you.”

  Lesley looked at Rob. Her mind raced as she tried to work out what this could mean.

  “It’s probably some whacko group who had nothing to do with it trying to take credit,” she said into the phone. “Happens all the time after we break a story, right?”

  “That was my first thought,” Pearce said, “but the fax came from a machine inside the bank.”

  Lesley’s head was swimming as she tried to reconcile this information with everything she had heard from Rob and her uncle.

  “But this message just arrived now, right?” she said. “So earlier when I was talking with my uncle it would have been natural for the people at the bank to assume it was some sort of technical problem.”

  “Not according to this email,” Pearce said. “The group informed the bank at six o’clock last night that an attack was imminent.”

  Six o’clock. That was just before Rob was called in to the bank for an emergency. Lesley sighed and said into the phone, “All right. How do you want to handle it?”

  “We need to find out if this email is for real,” Pearce said. “If cyberterrorists really have succeeded in attacking an American bank, we have a huge story on our hands.”

  And Uncle Stan has a bigger problem than he let on, Lesley thought.

  “I already had Jim Brugger call the bank,”
Pearce went on, “but of course there’s no one there this time of day except lowly customer service reps. I need you to get back to your uncle and see what he has to say.”

  “I should be able to dig something up,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”

  Lesley closed the cell phone and looked at Rob, who seemed intent on studying the pavement at his feet.

  “Ever hear of the Financial Patriots of America?” she asked.

  Rob lifted his head sharply, his brows furrowed.

  “How did you get that name?” he said.

  “That was my producer. He thinks Uncle Stan lied during my interview, and that your computer problems didn’t happen by accident.”

  Rob just looked at her.

  “I know you’re not supposed to say anything,” she said, “but I’m in a jam here. I’m going to look really bad if I can’t come up with the truth.”

  “And if I say the wrong thing I could lose my job and help put the bank out of business.”

  “So this is more than a technical glitch.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it,” she said.

  “I’m saying if you want confirmation, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

  “Okay, but you could at least tell me how to approach Uncle Stan.”

  Rob looked down at the ground. Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

  “Fine,” Lesley said. “Let’s just go.”

  Rob stayed where he was. He bit his lower lip. Finally he said, “You’re asking the right questions, okay?”

  Lesley stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “But I didn’t hear it from you,” she said with a grin, “right?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LARRY’S HAND TREMBLED as he pushed his bank card into the ATM. He didn’t know if he was more afraid of the two goons waiting outside for the money, or of Anne when she found out most of his paycheck was gone.

  Why had he gone into the back room? He had only stopped at the bar for a quick beer after work, but he never could resist a game. And of course when someone deals you a straight there’s no choice but to push all in. He still couldn’t believe it. He had been so confident that he’d pushed more chips into the pot than he had cash to cover.