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

statement from us. Lawrence says he’s off on a business trip tonight, and he wants our project wrapped up, our report submitted, our hands off, and an impeccably restored system by the time he gets back. If we need to increase any activity on that system, we’ve got less than two weeks in which to do so. What should we do?”

I sighed and folded my hands on the desk. Then I gave Tavish a resigned smile.

“Looks like we’re going to have to knock over the Fed,” I said.

The Federal Reserve sits at the bottom of Market Street, a forest of pink granite pillars supporting the trellised granite arches that conceal its blocklong facade. The Fed hasn’t changed its architectural preferences, its operations, or its concept of technology in the more than seventy-five years since its inception. It still seems ossified in the traditions of the Parthenon.

All federally chartered banks must be members of the Fed, and are required to maintain insurance deposits there. Each type of business the Bank of the World conducted required a different type of account with the Fed, with different reserve requirements. Each Wednesday, those reserve amounts were tallied for the week before, to be sure our deposits stayed within the variance permitted by law. Banks that ran negative for two weeks in a row had their wrists slapped rather sharply by the Fed. But neither did bankers like to leave excess funds lying in there, since the deposits earn no interest or income. So the activity required to stay within the letter of the law was both continuous and frenetic—and generated tons of paper.

All the better for moi, I thought.

When a bank like ours increased or reduced the balance in our Fed accounts, we could move the money back and forth from the Fed itself—or we could buy or sell our reserves to another bank, in the appropriately named Fed Funds Market. All these types of transactions were handled through Fedwire, which meant cash rolling in and out the door like hotcakes—and to many, many locations. When I was through with this caper, I’d be an expert in federal banking security, par excellence.

“It seems to be a question of degree,” Tavish commented as we sat locked in my glass-walled office that afternoon, studying the Fedwire interfaces—those systems I’d formerly managed along with the rest. “I mean, this business of stealing,” he clarified. “A slip and you’re in the quagmire up to your nose. But it’s clear that if we can knock over the Fed, their security’s just as poor as ours.”

“One small step for the criminal—one large step for crime,” I agreed. “But of course, we’re criminals only if we get caught. If we make it through to the end of the theft, we’ll yank all our code from the system, erasing our trail. They’ll never be able to prove we did anything, but no one will be able to argue with the results—hundreds of millions sitting in accounts where it doesn’t belong!”

I was so deeply embedded myself, I could no longer remember the time when I felt I could bail out. But Tor would be proud of me—and Bibi too, I thought—for taking the leap this time without a shove. I now knew beyond doubt that what we were doing was right.

I showed Tavish my plan, designed for maximum complexity to slow the auditors down as long as possible. He looked up, scratching his shaggy blond head.

“You want to grab a billion or more in under two weeks?” he said. “Don’t you think the Fed might notice if that much of their money’s missing all at once?”

“It’s not their money—it’s our money—the bank’s,” I explained. “And there’s more than eight billion dollars of it sitting out there right now. We’re required to keep an average percent of our assets there, by law. That doesn’t mean the Fed knows where it came from or what it’s for. Even if they notice a discrepancy, it will take them months, the way I’ve set this up, to trace more than a few of these myriad transactions.”

“You’ve improved on our former technique,” Tavish agreed. “This is now like the salami from outer space—let’s give her a whirl.”

“Well, Banks,” said Lawrence as he entered my office late that day, coat and carryall in hand, “isn’t it a bit late for calling impromptu meetings? I have a flight to catch.”

“I got your memo,” I told him. “I understand I’m to shut down my project before your return. I think that might be jumping the gun a bit. I’d planned to prepare another proposal, about how to fix some of the problems we’ve—”

“I believe we’ve had enough proposals, Banks,” he cut in abruptly. “Just write up what you’ve found and I’ll see that it gets into the right hands. You won’t be needed for the follow-up work, so far as I can see. I’m sending you back to Willingly’s department in two weeks. Good man, Willingly—too bad you didn’t see eye to eye, but you both have strong personalities. You’re a protagonist, and he’s—”

“An antagonist?” I suggested sweetly. This bastard was signing my death warrant. I had to play for time.

“In that case,” I informed him, “before you leave, I’d like you to approve these transfer papers for me. I’m sending Bobby Tavish back to his old boss, Karp’s department. It seems there’s some debate about whom he must work for—but I agreed to this with Karp some time ago.”

“You must learn to handle these teckies, Banks,” Lawrence said as he scribbled his name across the forms. “You won’t get far by coddling them and listening to their complaints, believe me. If you clean up this project—get rid of your group—these efforts won’t go unrewarded. You have my word on that.”

“Yes, sir,” I said politely. “And you know how much I value your word.”

Lawrence glanced at me briefly, then wished me good evening, and left.

I picked up the phone and booked the flight to New York. Then I