A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (most difficult books to read txt) 📕

reborn, thanks to me, into a life of crime, so it wasn’t surprising that now he was helping me to plot another.

But as valuable as his data might be, speed was scarcely Charles’s middle name. It was well past his bedtime by the time he’d finished chunking out the one-page bits of graphs I’d requested, and I still had to paste them together by hand to see what they said:

Of $25 million in known computer thefts that had taken place over the last five years, only $5 million had been recovered. Across the top of my chart I’d printed a schedule in weeks—fifty-two—for one year. Down the side of the chart were bank accounts, by thousands, from one to fifty. The numbers Charles had printed across the page showed how much money (per week) I could deposit in each block of one thousand accounts. Over the top of all this—in little red X’s—Charles had printed the graph that showed risk, by weeks and by dollar volume. The graph went off the page when I hit $10 million—not bad for a few months’ work.

I poured myself a cognac and sat in darkness, watching the lights of a small boat as it sailed back from Tiburon to the San Francisco harbor. The fog had thinned, but I couldn’t see the stars. It was altogether a lovely night to be alive, and in San Francisco. At such a moment, it was impossible even to imagine the brink of the decision upon which my life was now suspended. I chose not to think of it at all.

Suddenly, the phone rang, jiggling a few blossoms off the cymbidium on the glass table. I spilled a drop of brandy and wiped it away with my finger—then picked up the phone.

“Hello,” said the old familiar voice. “You called?”

It was a soft, gentle voice, with the edge of a knife in it—the kind that makes chills in your spine, even if you think you’re impervious.

“Why, Mr. Turing!” I said. “Just imagine hearing from you after all these years; I thought you’d passed away in 1953!”

“Old technocrats never die,” said Tor, “nor do we fade away. Not when we have little protégées like thou, to keep us on our toes!”

“Protégée,” I pointed out, “means someone who’s sheltered—protected. That’s hardly been the case with you and me.”

“Protecting you from yourself is more like it,” he admitted cheerfully.

“Isn’t it a bit late to be calling for a chat?” I said. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

“The birds are chirping in the trees here, my dear, I’ve been trying to reach you all night. It seems your phone was tied up.”

“What exactly is it that’s so important it can’t wait?”

“Don’t try to deny anything. I get my information from a firsthand source: Charles Babbage, I believe he calls himself. You know quite well that I’m on a first-name basis with every computer in the country.”

I knew quite well that this was the image Tor liked to project—but it didn’t explain how he’d learned about Charles. I felt the throbbing behind my eyes and took another slug of brandy.

“How could you possibly know about Charles?” I asked. “He doesn’t even exist on paper.”

“That’s certainly true, my dear,” he agreed. “You pulled his dossier years ago, didn’t you? And you’ve been using him ever since—”

“Have you any proof of these accusations?” I said, knowing the answer already.

“My dearest girl, does the pope ski in Gstaad?” he said charmingly. “If you were in my place, could you think of any reason that someone would—in the course of a few short hours—wish to review the Federal Reserve security standards, the American national standards for money transfer, all the historical archives on all the international wire transfer services—and the FBI criminal records archives on interstate wiretap convictions …?”

“I’m a banker—it’s my job to be interested in the security of financial systems,” I said, rallying with the sort of indignation that can be mustered only by the genuinely guilty. “It might look suspicious, I admit—”

“Suspicious! Premeditated, is what it looks like! You falsified the records of that computer over ten years ago! Breaking into confidential files with a stolen computer—”

“No one makes them dump their silly files there, do they?”

“Does he,” Tor corrected. “My dear young woman—I’m afraid I know you far too well to write off your actions to idle curiosity. You could carry out that foolish job you have with both hands tied, and blindfolded. These attempts at girlish naïveté, I’m afraid, have left me quite unmoved. Now, I’d like to ask you a simple question—and receive a sincere answer—after which you may go to bed.”

“Shoot,” I said.

“Are you planning to knock over the Federal Reserve Bank?”

I had no idea how to reply. Though he’d picked the wrong bank, what I’d planned to do now seemed—in the cold, harsh light of reality—no more than the petulant whim of a child. What in God’s name was I thinking of? There was silence on the phone; I couldn’t hear even the sound of breathing.

“I wasn’t planning on stealing any of their money,” I muttered at last.

“No?”

“No.” I paused. “I was only going to borrow some of it for a while.”

“The Federal Reserve Bank does not lend money—except to other banks,” he said. “Are you a bank?”

“I wasn’t planning to take out a loan,” I admitted. My lips were against the mouthpiece of the phone, my head pressed against the windowpane. I closed my eyes and took another big swig of brandy.

“I see,” said Tor at last. “Well, perhaps we should discuss this further in the morning—when we’re all a little fresher.”

“Are you upset? Are you morally indignant?” I asked.

“No. I am not upset—nor morally indignant,” he assured me.

“Well, what are you, then?”

After a pause, he said in a strange, detached voice, “I am curious.”

“Curious? About what? I’ve told you what I’m doing,” I said.

“Yes, you certainly have,” he agreed. “But I want to see your plan.”

“My plan? What on earth for?” I was truly alarmed.

“I’m