Rogue Code

by Mark Russinovich

  He’d wanted her to leave, but she passed out almost as soon as he was finished, and he’d been kept awake by her snoring. The only real fun had been Sunday morning, when he’d made her pay the price. He’d taken her without preamble, hard and fast, not given her any time to warm up to the experience. That had pissed her off, and she’d slammed the door on the way out.

  Iyers smiled at the memory.

  He peered idly out the opening of his cubicle. So what to do about Marc? The guy had him working like a maniac. The trading platform had been updated, and Marc alerted him that the Carnaval program was itself both updated and expanded at the same time. The changes had proved problematic and Iyers labored to fix the mess. He still wasn’t sure it was functioning properly. And he understood Rio was still laboring over yet more changes.

  Iyers was irritated with Marc for leaning on him so hard. He’d done little but give Iyers hell about his use of the rootkit, describing it as sloppy. What Campos refused to admit was that he’d placed Iyers under undue pressure, had imposed an arbitrary deadline that had left Iyers with little choice except to take a shortcut. He’d intended to fix it later but it worked so well and was so unlikely to be detected that, in the end, he’d left it alone. The code was clever and would give them an extra layer of protection from snooping eyes. Now Marc had seen to an upgrade that was worse than anything Iyers had ever done.

  And Marc still claimed he was getting no outside help. What a joke.

  Iyers was glad the end for Vacation Homes was in sight even if his future plans weren’t yet set. The sooner he was rid of Marc, the better, in his view. The guy was a wimp. Iyers was seriously considering demanding he be paid what he was owed before doing anything more. Marc needed him right now, and there’d never be a better time. But with so much more money on the table he cautioned himself not to risk it.

  The only thing he really felt good about now was how effectively Marc had run Red Zoya out of the building. That had been sweet. At first, he was worried when he’d not killed Aiken, but in the end, it didn’t matter. That ham-handed frame job Marc planted had done the trick. The SEC had stormed the place like the Gestapo. They’d all but stripped the office the pair used and spread suspicion around the office.

  It was perfect. Rumors were flying everywhere about the looting of accounts, and not just by Aiken and Renkin. The story was they were all going to be served with subpoenas. People were talking about hiring lawyers. Now he heard that Aiken had left the hospital without permission and that the two men were on the run. It couldn’t have worked out any better.

  Then there was the media hype about that bot they’d had weeks earlier. Newspapers were questioning the ability of the Exchange to maintain the security of their trading system. Stenton was more than his usual nervous wreck. Iyers’s only concern was the stumbling stock market. He couldn’t anticipate how that would influence the Toptical IPO. Traders might stay away, reducing the volume, which would give Carnaval a greater possibility of exposure, or they might jump in with both feet, looking to make up losses incurred these last few days. There was just no way to know.

  Iyers turned to what he’d been doing. With its acceleration and the dominance of Carnaval, the end time for Vacation Homes was in sight. He checked his watch. It was important to his future that Carnaval go off like clockwork. There were less than forty-eight hours to go. And the code still looked like crap.

  50

  TOPTICAL

  JACKSON STREET

  SAN FRANCISCO, CA

  11:11 A.M.

  Samantha Mason watched the blanket of heavy fog from her office window, feeling as depressed as she ever had in her life. In the distance came the moan of the warning foghorn. She wondered why she’d ever thought she liked San Francisco.

  It was an utterly artificial city, smug in its conceit and political correctness. Families were being systematically driven out and the upwardly mobile singles who remained were consumed with themselves. And it was cold, and wet. She longed for the sunny Valley. Even the burning heat of a Valley summer was preferable to this.

  She glanced at the final prospectus. She’d consulted with her attorney the previous Friday to hear her options again and learned there were no new ones. Her attorney was a pro at this, having specialized in dot-coms from the first. He’d been down this road with other clients. “Take the money,” he’d said, “bide your time under the terms of the IPO, then sell as much stock as you like and leave. You have your whole life ahead of you. You can do whatever you like, including starting another company if that’s what you want.”

  Sound advice, Sam knew. Her own preference, to facilitate a takeover by an established company that would have given them the terms they wanted, had been rejected. Everyone, except for Molly Riskin, had their eye set on maximizing the money. Nothing was getting done, not a bit of work. All the talk was about Wednesday’s IPO and how much they’d all soon be worth. Gordon Chan was wandering the hallways with that smirk on his face, as if he were the master magician who’d pulled this off. Even Adam Stallings had lapsed into uncharacteristic cynicism.

  Poor Molly. She looked as if she was having a breakdown. She’d developed an uncontrollable facial tic and was now wearing so much makeup, her face looked painted on. She was like a wound-up toy as she wandered the hallways. Sam had told her to go home, as much because she couldn’t stand to see her in this state, as for concern about her.

  For three days Sam had studied the prospectus, and she found it no more reassuring than she had when she’d first read it. There were red flags woven throughout it. The IPO was oversubscribed. Worse, much worse, she’d asked Adam to call his contact at the Exchange’s IT department for an update on their new IPO software. “It stinks,” he’d told her Sunday, when he’d agreed to meet at a Starbucks. “My contact says it’s so buggy, managers are starting to distance themselves from it. A senior executive even argued it not be implemented as the potential for disaster is so great.”

  “Then why are they going forward? They don’t need another black eye. Just look at all the heat they’re taking about security because of some bot that crept into their system.”

  “You know bureaucracy. They publicly committed. They aren’t going to back away from it. It’s up to the software engineers to make it happen. And if it fails, they’ll be forced to take the blame.”

  “It won’t be that easy.”

  “No, it won’t.” Adam had grimaced. “You’re right about this, Sam. I just wish Brian had listened.”

  Brian. Mr. Cool.

  She knew better. How many nights when they’d still been lovers did he confide to her how out of his depth he felt, how overwhelming the sudden growth of Toptical was? Since they’d come to an end, the situation had only become more intense, the company even larger. He had a new girlfriend now, some model he’d met a few months earlier. Sam saw her just once, but it had been obvious she was a gold digger. She hoped Brian knew how to write a prenup because he was going to need it.

  The foghorn moaned again. Enough, Sam thought. Enough.

  She stood up and went to Brian’s office, walking right past his secretary. Inside, she found him talking on his cell phone, the look on his face making it clear to her it was a personal call, and she had no doubt who was on the other end, sharpening her fangs.

  “We need to talk,” Sam said, then sat down.

  “I’ll get back to you,” Brian said, looking up at Sam. Pause. “Same too huh.” She knew the phrase. It was the one he’d used with her. “What’s up?”

  “Brian, you know I’m very unhappy with how our IPO has been handled. I understand the decision to not seek a takeover was made by the group and don’t blame you alone. That’s not why I’m talking to you.”

  “So why are you talking to me? This is a very busy time.”

  Sam smiled unpleasantly. “Yes, ‘same too huh.’ Must be busy indeed.” She couldn’t help herself.

  Brian glared at her. “Why don’t you get to the point?”

  �
�The point is that I’m out of here. I’m taking everything I’m legally able to, selling as quickly as the terms of the IPO allow, then I’m exiting. No comment to the media, nice going away party, then I’m outta here. Okay?”

  Sam had expected that Brian would have been relieved to see her gone. New management was coming on board shortly. He’d have his hands full with them. Not having to deal with her would only make his life simpler.

  Instead, squirming in his seat, he said, “Samantha, please, don’t do this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Brian cleared his throat, then continued, “We started this. It was the two of us.” He paused. “We’re a team.”

  “Team? Brian, we haven’t been a team ever since the IPO date was set. There isn’t a single idea I’ve proposed you adopted. You’ve shot them all down.”

  “I don’t think it’s been that drastic.”

  “It has. I can give it to you point by point if need be.”

  “If that’s true, then I’m sorry you think it’s been personal. I’ve been making decisions for the good of the company. I’ve turned away ideas from everyone.” He smiled wanly. “You’re not the only one who’s mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad, Brian. I’m just tired and more than a bit disgusted.”

  “Disgusted?” He gestured expansively. “Toptical is what we set out to make it. If anything, it’s more than we imagined. And neither of us dreamed it would become a reality so fast, mean so much to so many.”

  “You sound like Molly.”

  “I guess I do. But it’s true.”

  “I’m disgusted by the greed. Have you walked the hallways lately? Seen the groups standing around speculating about how much money they’re going to make in two days?”

  “I’ve seen it. I’ve even tried to get people back on track but for everyone here this is the biggest event of their life.”

  “I guess. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the biggest in my life. That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “Samantha.” He hadn’t called her that in two years. “Sam, don’t make this final. Stick with me … us. We need you. It’ll get better once we have this thing behind us. All the distraction, the money guys, that’ll be over.”

  Sam shook her head slowly. Brian sounded sincere, but she knew he was fooling himself. “No, it won’t. Starting Thursday, every day before you come to the office, you’ll have checked our stock price. Every day. And when you sit in this office, every single decision you make will be driven to some degree or another by the need to keep that price up. What you’ve been through this last year? It’s the new norm for Toptical. And I want no part of it. I can see that now. When I do something like this again, I won’t repeat the mistake of going public. I’ll keep it small, closely held and private. It’ll be my thing, not some public monstrosity.”

  “I had no idea that’s what you think of Toptical. A monstrosity.”

  Sam hesitated. “It just came out, Brian, but now that I think about it, yes, ‘monstrosity’ is the right word for it. And what’s this about needing me? You haven’t needed me, personally or professionally, in nearly two years.”

  “That’s not true. That’s not true at all. Is that what this is about? You’re the one who ended us, not me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I begged you, Samantha. I begged you not to leave me.”

  Sam didn’t know how to respond. She said nothing for a long moment. “You left me, Brian. You shut me out. It was over but you couldn’t see it. You were too full of—” She looked around the room, taking in the entire building. “—all this to even know it.” There was a very long pause. Her throat ached. She said, “You broke my heart.”

  Brian rose, turned to the window behind him, and stared into the fog. Neither spoke for a long time. “You know I’ll do whatever I can to make this easy for you, Samantha. I hope … I sincerely hope you’ll change your mind.” Just then, his cell phone rang. He picked it up. “I have to take this.”

  “Of course you do,” Sam said, then left the room.

  51

  PACIFIC EASTERN BANK

  BELL STREET BRANCH

  STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT

  11:39 A.M.

  Dressed in a navy blue business suit and carrying an oversize matching purse, Daryl stepped from the train platform and walked the short distance to the bank branch. She paused, reached into her purse, removed a mirror, and checked her appearance. She slipped on a pair of glasses that didn’t distort too much, which she’d picked up at a secondhand store and gazed at her image. With her hair pulled back, she decided she looked like a porn star pretending to be a schoolteacher. She closed her eyes. The things I do, she thought.

  Daryl had intended to tell Jeff and Frank about this when they met, but after they’d said they were leaving for Brazil, she decided not to. She knew they’d have just tried to talk her out of it. The reality was that she’d never develop the information they needed working from her hotel room. She was fairly confident this would work. Every woman, certainly every reasonably attractive one, had used her femininity to her advantage at one time or another in life, though she’d always disdained such tactics.

  This bank was one of the landing spots for the money streaming out of the country from the rogue code and was within easy reach of Manhattan. She placed a smile on her face, walked through the doors, and went directly to the sign-in sheet.

  “Welcome to Pacific Eastern Bank. May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “You may. I just need a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Scofield is with a customer right now, but can be with you in a few minutes. Just have a seat. Can I get you coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Daryl took a seat from where she could watch the cubicles. There was only one man working with a couple. A few minutes later, he finished with them and escorted them out the door. He went back to the receptionist counter, glanced at the name, then looked to Daryl and came over. “Naomi Townsend. I’m Pat Scofield. How can I help you?”

  Scofield was young, like every bank employee seemed to be these days, not yet thirty. He was a handsome young man with widely set pale eyes and a prematurely receding hairline. He wore a bright gold wedding band.

  “I’d like to make a deposit into a trust you hold.”

  “Why, certainly. Come on back to my desk.”

  As they sat down, she presented him with one of the business cards she’d had printed that morning. She had made several with various identities and positions. He looked it over. NAOMI SWENSON-TOWNSEND, it read. ASSISTANT CFO FOR APPRECIATION TRUST, with an address in Hartford.

  “I’ve got the account number if you need it. I’m afraid I don’t have a deposit slip with me.”

  “Let me see what I have first,” he said. “You could have made this deposit in Hartford.” She didn’t know if he was testing her or making conversation.

  “I forgot. I’m on my way into the city and realized at the last second I promised to do this Friday. What a mess.”

  “I understand. Here it is. I’ve got the account. Let me fill out a deposit slip for you. How much?”

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. You can see why I didn’t want to forget.”

  “Yes, that would take some explaining. I see you usually do wire transfers.”

  “That’s right.”

  Scofield took out a blank deposit slip and then, comparing the information on the screen, looking back and forth, filled it out. Daryl opened her purse to find the check and fumbled around a bit. “Oh dear.”

  “Problem?”

  “I’m not sure it’s here. Can you imagine?” She dug in the purse again, then sighed. “Could I call my office, please? I want to ask my assistant if I left it on my desk.” He looked at her as if wanting to say something. “I left my cell phone too.” She smiled brightly. “I’m afraid it’s been one of those days.”

  “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to his phone. “Dial nine and that will get you an outside number.”

  When he
made no move to give her privacy, she stared at him without touching the phone. “I’ve got to check in with the cashiers,” he said after a moment, “so take your time.”

  Without punching nine, Daryl dialed a number in Los Angeles she’d memorized. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hi,” she said, “this is Pat Scofield in Connecticut.” She was calling on their internal phone system so the call was taken as authentic. She’d been ready to leave and to find another branch if the manager was male, but as luck had it the manager had an androgynous name. She was gambling that a bank employee in California had no idea that Pat Scofield in Connecticut was a man. “Our system is down and I need information on an account: Appreciation Trust. Here’s the number. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Daryl stepped into a Starbucks, ordered a latte, then sat at a small table, opening her laptop. Scofield had been very understanding when she told him she had in fact forgotten the check and apologized for taking up his time. He said he’d be happy to help her anytime and walked her to the door.

  Now she went online with the application information she’d obtained with the two telephone calls she’d managed to make from the bank’s phone system. The Appreciation Trust accounts with Pacific Eastern Bank had been opened in the name of Dick Iver. The business address, it turned out, was a UPS store in Hartford. She did a search for the company and found absolutely nothing, which didn’t surprise her. Next she accessed Data Retriever Solutions using the CyberSys account and ran the number. It was for a man who died in 2005. Again, no surprise.

  A dead end—for now. But with this information she could follow the money to the next stage. Still, her heart sank at the prospect. How many stages would there be? Too many she feared.