"As an authorized representative of the depositor, I have every right to demand an explanation."
"Our computers are down," Hume said quickly. "We have a call in to the service people."
"A computer malfunction does not explain why the FEMA emergency fund has dropped from twelve million dollars to twenty-five dollars, and the missing millions are said to have been transferred to a New York bank that claims to have no record of the wire transfer."
"You will have to speak with the manager about this," said Hume, pressing the security button. The phones in his office were ringing again. They were ringing all over the building. It was a difficult situation. There was no telling what would happen once the more serious depositors learned that the bank was virtually off-line.
"I have gotten no satisfaction from the manager," said Smith stubbornly. "That is why I have come to you."
"How did you get into the building? It is supposed to be locked to nonstaff."
"The guard was impressed by my identification."
"But I am not," said Hume, pressing the buzzer again. What was keeping that damn guard? What if the Cali cocaine cartel were to burst in demanding their money?
"I have some expertise in computers," Smith said. "Perhaps I could learn something through an examination of your equipment?"
Hume looked up with new interest. "You are good with these damnable machines?"
"Very good," assured Treasury Agent Smith.
The guard finally threw open the door.
Donning his most pleasant smile, Basil Hume snapped his fingers once peremptorily.
"Escort Mr. Smith to the computer room. He is going to look into our little problem."
The little problem was a panic in full cry when Harold Smith was brought to the second-floor computer room.
The sealed, air-conditioned room was cooled to a perfect computer-friendly sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Still, the officers and technicians of the Grand Cayman Trust were sweating bullets.
"The D'Ambrosia Family—I mean, Syndicate—account is down to forty-seven dollars and change," a harried clerk called over his shoulder from a terminal.
The manager was frantically going through a green- and-white striped printout with eyes that threatened to slip loose of his stretched-wide lids.
"I have no record of any withdrawal in the last month," he said, his voice pitched too high.
"According to the computer, the money was transferred to the—"
"Don't say it!"
"—Chemical Percolators Hoboken," finished the clerk.
"They swear they've not received any of these confounded transfers," the bank manager was saying in a stunned voice.
Harold Smith cleared his throat noisily. "I would like to examine your system."
"Who the devil are you?" demanded the manager, looking up from his printout stack. His face had a touch of the same greenish white as the printout.
"Smith. With the U.S. government."
The guard added, "Mr. Hume okayed it."
The manager waved to the bank of terminals. "Help yourself."
"What is the problem?"
"The bank is—" the manager swallowed "—electronically insolvent."
"What do you mean?"
"Someone somehow sucked out all the money from every one of the large accounts."
"Sucked?""We don't know how it could have happened. At close of business yesterday, all was well. This morning we began noticing that the account balances were all out of sort. To the debit side. We have records of numerous wire transfers, backup confirmations, but no one remembers executing the transfers." The manager swayed on his feet. He wiped a white handkerchief across his damp, pasty forehead.
"And the correspondent banks have no record of receiving the wire transfers?" prompted Smith.
"Exactly. How did you know?"
"The U.S. government account I am responsible for was rifled in the identical way," Smith said tightly.
"You—you are not by chance with the CIA?"
"Why do you ask?"
"They are nasty people."
"I represent the Federal Emergency Management Agency," said Smith.
"The ones who chase tornadoes?"
"Yes."
The manager breathed a sigh of sheer relief. "Just as long as you are not one of those Colombian or Jamaican depositors. They've been calling all morning. Word has leaked out."
Smith was at a terminal. He went through his own account file. It seemed to be in order from this end, except that the missing funds had been transferred out without proper authorization and were never received at the other end.
Yet according to the transaction file, the correct constructed number had been received from Chemical Percolators Hoboken, verifying receipt. Smith understood that a constructed number was a digital string that, when subjected to certain carefully guarded mathematical manipulations, produced a number that was the true identifying authorization code. They were supersecret supersecure formulas, and the fact that the power that had looted Grand Cayman Trust knew the constructed numbers emanating from Chemical Percolators meant its computer security had been breached.
It smacked of a perfect white-collar crime.
By a quirk of the computer age, even though no physical money had left the bank and none was received, the electronic credit the mainframes stored was absent. In effect, the money had vanished into limbo. The bank could not recredit Smith's account because, according to its electronic records, the money was now on deposit in New York. The absence of the money in New York made no difference to the Grand Cayman Trust computer system. It reflected a perfectly correct wire transfer out. Therefore, the money was gone.
The very checks and balances of the banking system had been exploited masterfully.
Looking up from the monitor, Smith said, "You have a very serious situation here. I would suggest you question your employees closely. This has all the earmarks of an inside job."