The Millionaires

66

“See this deposit right here? The eighty-seven thousand?” I ask, pointing Charlie and Gillian to the most recent addition to Duckworth’s account. Before they can answer, I explain, “That’s from Sylvia Rosenbaum’s account. But for as long as I can remember, she’s had it set up as a trust with specific beneficiaries.”

“Which means?”

“Which means once every quarter, the computer automatically makes two internal transfers: a quarter-million-dollar transfer to her son, and a quarter-million-dollar transfer to her daughter.”

“So why is this wealthy old woman transferring money to my dad?”

“That’s just it,” I say. “Besides her family and the once-a-year payment to her advisors, Sylvia Rosenbaum doesn’t transfer money to anyone. Not your dad, not the IRS, no one. That’s the whole purpose of the trust account – it runs on its own and makes the same exact payments every quarter. But when you look here…” I scroll up through Duckworth’s records and point to one of the first deposits – another eighty-thousand-dollar transfer from Sylvia’s account. This one’s dated June. Six months ago. “See, this shouldn’t be here either,” I explain. “It doesn’t make sense. How the hell could he-?”

“Can you please slow down a second? Whattya mean, it shouldn’t be here?” Charlie asks. “How could you possibly know?”

“Because I’m the one who handles her account,” I say, struggling to keep my voice down. “I’ve been checking this woman’s statements since the first day I started at the bank. And when I checked it last month – I’m telling you – these transfers to Duckworth weren’t there.”

“You sure you didn’t just miss them?” Gillian asks.

“That’s what I was wondering when I first saw it,” I admit. “But then I saw this one…” I highlight another internal transfer that recently came into Duckworth’s account. $82,624.00 transferred from Account 23274990007.

“ 007,” Charlie blurts, reading the last three digits. He doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s the one,” I shoot back. Seeing that Gillian’s lost, I explain, “007 belongs to Tanner Drew.”

“The Tanner Drew?”

“The man himself – newest member of the Forbes 400. Anyway, last week, he threatened our lives until we transferred forty million dollars into one of his other accounts. All of that happened on Friday at exactly 3:59 P.M. Now check out the time that Tanner Drew made this transfer to Duckworth…”

Gillian and Charlie lean toward the screen. Friday – December 13 – 3:59:47 P.M.

I see a single teardrop of sweat run down from my brother’s sideburns. “I don’t get it,” Charlie says. “We were the only people accessing the account. How could he possibly be transferring his cash to Duckworth?”

“That’s what I’m saying… I don’t think he did,” I suggest. “In fact, I know he didn’t. Once we transferred the money, I checked Tanner Drew’s account half a dozen times, just to make sure it was on its way. Know what the last transfer was? Forty mil.”

“Then where did this eighty-two thousand come from?” he asks.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. But whatever hat Duckworth pulled it out of, it’s clear that he had his hand in almost everyone else’s business. I mean, half these accounts – here, and here, and here…” I point one by one to all the different account numbers that’re listed under Deposits. “Every one of them is a client of the bank – 007 is Tanner Drew. 609 is Thomas Wayne. 727 is Mark Wexler. And 209… I’m pretty sure that’s the Lawrence Lamb Foundation.”

“Wait… so dad was getting cash from all of them?” Gillian interrupts.

“That’s what it looks like,” I say, once again studying the blue glare of the monitor. “And the money never stopped flowing.”

Gillian looks around, making sure no one’s nearby. Charlie steps away from her, just to be safe. He can’t help himself. “You think dad was blackmailing them?” she asks.

“I don’t know – but when you look at what he did in the trust account – and then with Tanner Drew – it’s like the transfers shouldn’t exist. Forget what it says here. On the bank’s system, not a single dollar left any of these accounts. I mean, it’s almost like this ticking program is convincing the computer to see what’s not really-” My chest tightens and I freeze.

“What? What’s wrong?” Gillian asks.

“You okay?” Charlie adds, shoving her aside and putting a hand on the back of my neck.

“Oh, crap…” I stutter, pointing to the screen. “That’s what he invented.” My voice rattles down the runway, slowly taking off. “It’s like a funhouse mirror – it shows you a reality that’s not really there.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean, how else do you get a credit to match the corresponding debit? That’s what the Secret Service wanted to invest in… and that’s what Gallo wanted for himself. The next step in financial crime. Virtual counterfeiting. Why steal money when you can just create it?”

“What do you mean, create it?” my brother asks.

“Electronically make it. Convince the computer it exists. Build it out of thin air.”

Charlie goes back to the screen. “Sombitch…”

“Wait a minute,” Gillian says. “You think my dad created all that cash?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. That would explain why the Service is on it, instead of the FBI. It’s like Shep said – they’re the ones with jurisdiction over counterfeiting.”

“But to build money out of nothing…” Gillian begins.

“… would make a VC place like Five Points Capital wet itself. Think about how it played out: Six days ago, Martin Duckworth had three million dollars in his account. Three days ago, the computer said it was three hundred and thirteen million. But when you look at these records, it’s clear that that didn’t just happen overnight. These transactions go back six months. Hundreds of deposits. It’s like keeping two sets of books. The regular system always said he had three million, but below the surface, his little invention was quietly creating the full three hundred. Then, when the gold-plated nest egg got big enough – wham! – they went to grab it. But we nabbed it first – and as it was sent on its way, the second set of books merged with the first, and every one of his fake deposits now somehow correlated with a real transaction at the bank.”

“Maybe that’s how the program works,” Charlie jumps in. “Like the forty million we transferred to Tanner Drew – it waits for a real transaction to take place, then takes a random amount that’s under the audit criteria. By the end, you’ve got a whole new reality.”

“It’s the same thing happening now,” I agree. “The bank thinks Duckworth’s account is empty, but according to this, there’s a new five million in there. The crazy thing is, none of the people he took it from is missing any cash.”

“Maybe it just looks like they’re not missing cash. For all we know, whatever my dad put in the system could be wiping them clean.”

I shake my head no. “If that were true, Tanner Drew wouldn’t have been able to transfer forty million bucks. And if Drew was shorted a single dime, we would’ve heard it the instant it happened. Same with Sylvia and the rest. The richer they are, the more they inspect.”

“So that’s the big ultra-secret?” Gillian interrupts. “Some diddly computer virus that makes a few people rich?”

“We should be so lucky,” I say, turning back to the blue glare.

Charlie watches me carefully. He knows that tone. “What’re you saying?” he asks.

“Don’t you see what Duckworth did? Sure, on the small stage, he invented some cash, but when you pull the microscope back, it’s far bigger than just adding a few zeros to your bank account. To pull this off, he not only sidestepped all of our internal controls – he also somehow fooled the bank’s computer system into thinking it was dealing with real money. And when we transferred that money out, it was good enough to fool the London bank, and the bank in France, and every bank after that. In some of those places – including ours – we’re talking state-of-the-art, military-designed computer systems. And Duckworth’s imaginary transactions fooled them all.”

“I still don’t see what’s-”

“Take it to the next level, Charlie. Forget the private banks and the tiny foreign institutions. Grab Duckworth’s program and sell it to the highest bidder. Let a terrorist organization get ahold of it. Even worse, put it in a too-big-to-fail.”

“A what?”

“Too-big-to-fail. It’s what the Federal Reserve calls the top fifty or so banks in the country. Once Duckworth’s little worm digs in there, your three hundred million is suddenly three hundred billion – and it’s flowing everywhere – Citibank… First Union… down to the little mom-and-pops across the country. The only problem is, when all is said and done, the money’s not real. And the moment someone realizes that the Emperor’s not wearing any clothes, the pyramid scheme collapses. No bank trusts its own records, and none of us knows if our bank accounts are safe. The whole world lines up at the teller windows and the ATMs. But when we go to make our withdrawals, there’s not enough real cash to go around. Since the money’s fake, every bank runs out of funds. The too-big-to-fails implode first, then the hundred smaller banks that they lend to, then the hundreds of banks below those. They all crater at once – all of them searching for money that was never really there. Sorry, sir, we can’t cover your account – all the money in the bank is now gone. And that’s when the real panic begins. It’ll make the Depression look like a quick stock market dip.”

Even Charlie can’t make a joke about this one. “You think that’s what they want it for?”

“Whatever they want, there’s one thing I know for sure: The only proof of what actually happened is right here,” I say, once again tapping the screen.

Click.

Account Balance: $5,104,221.60.

The elevator pings behind us as ninety-one thousand new dollars stare back at us from the screen. Charlie checks the elevator, but no one steps out.

Glancing over his shoulder, I see it too. We’ve been here too long. “We should print this out…”

“… and get out of here,” he agrees.

“Wait,” Gillian says.

“Wait?” Charlie asks.

“I-I just… we should be careful with this one.”

“That’s why we’re printing it out. For proof,” he says as he stares her down. This close, his fuse is shorter than ever.

There’s an out-of-date laser printer right next to the computer. I flip a switch and it grumbles to life. Grabbing the keyboard, Charlie hits Print. On screen, a gray dialog box pops up: Error in writing to LPT1: Please insert copy-card. At the base of the printer is a handwritten card that says: All copies fifteen cents per page.

“Where do we get a copy-card?” he demands.

There’s a machine in the corner. Two people are standing in front of it, stuffing dollar bills down its throat. Charlie’s in no mood to wait. A few computers down, the porno kid has a copy-card sitting on his desk. “Hey, young sir,” Charlie calls out. “I’ll give you five bucks for your card.”

“There’s already five bucks on it,” he tells us.

“We’ll give you ten,” I add.

“How ’bout twenty?” the kid challenges.

“How ’bout I scream ‘Titty-freak’ and point your way?” Gillian threatens.

The kid slides the card; I pull out a ten.

As I get up to make the trade, Charlie jumps back in the driver’s seat. Leaning over his shoulder, I stuff the card into the small machine that’s attached to the printer and wait as it whirs into place. The screen on the card-reader lights up. Current balance: $2.20.

We turn back to the porno kid. He sniffs the ten-dollar bill with a smirk. Charlie’s about to stand up.

“Leave it be,” I say, turning his head back to the screen.

Refocused, he once again hits Print. Like before, a gray box pops up, but this one’s different. The font and type size match the ones on Duckworth’s bank statement: Warning – To print this document, please enter password.

“What the hell is this?” Charlie asks.

“What’d you do?” I blurt.

“Nothing… I just hit Print.”

“See, this is what I was talking about,” Gillian says.

The porno kid next to us once again starts to stare. The elevator doors close in the corner. Someone’s calling it from below.

Charlie tries to click back to the bank statement, but he can’t get past the password warning.

“Ask the lady at the reference desk,” Gillian says.

“I don’t think this is from the library,” I say, leaning in over his shoulder. “This may be a Duckworth precaution.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“We do the same thing on the important accounts at the bank. If you were hiding the smoking gun in the center of one of the world’s most popular websites – wouldn’t you bury a couple land mines just to buy yourself some safety?”

“Wait, so now you think it’s a trap?” Gillian asks.

“All I’m saying is we should pick the right password,” I tell her matter-of-factly. Charlie looks at me, surprised by my tone.

“Try putting in Duckworth,” I say.

He hammers the word Duckworth on the keyboard and hits Enter.

Failure to recognize password – To print this document, please reenter password.

Crap. If this is like the bank, we’ve only got two more chances. Three strikes and we’re out.

“Any other bright ideas?”

“How about Martin Duckworth?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s something stupid, like his address,” Gillian suggests.

“What about Arthur Stoughton?” Charlie adds, using the first name from the photos.

Gillian and I look at Charlie. As we nod, he quickly hunts and pecks Arthur Stoughton and smacks the Enter key.

Failure to recognize password – To print this document, please reenter password.

“I swear, I’m gonna put my foot through the screen,” he growls.

Only one more shot.

“Try the guy with the cleft chin,” I say.

“Try dad’s account number at the bank,” Gillian suggests.

“Try Gillian,” I blurt, my voice and confidence already wavering. I’m not the only one. Desperation settles across Charlie’s face. He knows what’s at stake. “Gillian,” I repeat.

Charlie rubs his knuckles against his cheek. He’s far from thrilled. Still, there’s no time to argue.

Turning to Gillian, he studies her penetrating blue eyes and searches for the lie. But like always, it never comes.

“Try it,” I say.

He looks down at the keyboard, types in the word Gillian, and goes to press Enter. But for some reason – just as his finger touches the key – he stops.

“C’mon, Charlie.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice shaking. “Maybe we should-”

“Just hit it,” I demand, reaching over and pounding the key myself.

All three of us squint at the screen, waiting for the computer’s reply.

There’s a long, vacant pause. In the distance, I hear someone flipping pages through a magazine. The air-conditioning hums… the porn-kid snickers… and to all of our surprise, the laser printer softly purrs.

“I don’t believe it,” Charlie mutters as the first page rolls off. “We’re finally getting a break.”

With a wild grin across his face, he leaps out of his seat, dives forward, and grabs the top sheet from the printer. But as he flips it over, the grin suddenly goes limp. His shoulders fall. I look at the page. It’s completely blank.

We spin back toward the screen just in time to see Duckworth’s account slowly fade to black. We just jumped on the land mines.

“Charlie…!”

“I’m on it!” he says. Clutching the mouse, he clicks every button in sight. There’s no way to stop it. It’s almost gone.

“Get the web address…!” I shout.

Our eyes lock on the address at the top of the screen. I take the first half; he takes the second.

Gillian’s lost. “What’re you doing?”

“Not now,” I snap, struggling to memorize.

The screen blinks off and a new image clicks into place. It’s the Seven Dwarfs, and a red button marked Company Directory. Back at the beginning. But at least we’re still in the internal employee site.

“Charlie, go to…”

Before I can finish, he’s already there, anxiously clicking the button for Directory. Hundreds of company photos appear on screen. Like before, he scrolls down to the Imagineering section. Like before, he finds the black man with the cleft chin. And like before, he clicks on his face. But this time, nothing happens. The photo doesn’t even move. “Ollie-”

“Maybe you have to go through all four,” Gillian suggests.

“Hit it again,” I say.

“I did. It’s not going anywhere,” he says in full panic.

“Put in the address.”

Frantically passing me the keyboard, Charlie ducks out of the way as I type in the first half of the memorized address. Then he does his. The instant he hits Return, the screen hiccups toward a brand-new page.

“It’s fine. We’re still fine…” he says as we wait for the image to load. And for a second, it looks like he’s right. But as the page finally appears, my stomach spirals. The only thing on screen is a plain white background. Nothing else. Just another blank page.

“W-What the hell is this?” I ask.

“It’s gone…”

“Gone? That’s impossible. Scroll down.”

“There’s nothing to scroll,” Charlie says. “I’m telling you, it’s not here.”

“Are you sure you didn’t type it in wrong?” Gillian asks.

He rechecks the address. “This is exactly where we were-”

“It’s not gone,” I insist. “It can’t be gone.” Crossing past my brother, I plow toward the nearest computer and yank the Out of Order sign from the keyboard.

Within seconds, I’m at the home page of Disney.com – Where the Magic Lives Online. “All we gotta do is start over,” I say in full Brooklyn accent.

“Ollie…”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, already halfway there. Gillian says something, but I’m too busy clicking my way through the executive biographies.

“Ollie, it’s gone. There’s no way you’ll find it.”

“It’s right here – just one more page.” As I find the corporate pyramid, a dozen employee photos appear onscreen. For the second time, I make a beeline for Arthur Stoughton, slide the cursor into place, and click. When nothing happens, I click again. And again. The photo doesn’t move. “It’s impossible,” I whisper. Trying to hold it together, I scroll down to the photo of the pale banker. Then I move to the redhead. Once again, nothing happens.

“C’mon… please,” I beg.

Climbing out of his seat, Charlie reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ollie…”

I gaze at the screen, hunched over in my chair. My elbows rest on my knees. “Why can’t we ever get a break?” I ask, my voice cracking.

It’s a question Charlie can’t answer. He holds on to my shoulder and checks the screen himself. Teetering, he can barely stand. I don’t blame him. Five minutes ago, we had everything that Duckworth had created. Right now – as my brother and I stare blankly at the screen – we’ve got nothing. No bank logo. No hidden account. And worst of all, no proof.