Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

“You better get this thing working again,” Levy snarled at the young man. “That’s what you’re getting paid for, after all.”

Lance Godfrey just grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“I expect the error to be fixed in an hour,” Levy said as he turned around and marched out of the room. The young man returned to the computer again with a sigh.

It was easy enough for Henry Monaghan to get the names of the people who’d worked on testing the security of IBM’s BankManager 5.3 six years ago. There were three men: one of them was now in Silicon Valley, California; the second lived somewhere in Southeast Asia; the third man was still there. His name was Justin Savier, and he’d worked as a programmer at MIT’s world-renowned Media Lab after graduating with honors with a degree in computer science. Monaghan’s instinct told him that he had found the right guy.

Savier didn’t show up to work on Tuesday morning. Monaghan had been sitting in his small glass office for almost two days and nights. Unfortunately, Savier’s boss didn’t allow Monaghan to look around his office, so he left the MIT premises. He found Savier’s address in the phone book and drove to his apartment with his two assistants. They rang the doorbell three times, but Savier didn’t come to the door. Monaghan got them into the apartment without a problem.

“What the hell is this?” LMI’s head of security shook his head in disgust as he saw the disorder surrounding them. The three rooms stuffed floor to ceiling with computers, parts, books, and computer magazines. Hidden beneath were fitness machines, a bicycle, a vacuum cleaner, and pieces of furniture that didn’t belong together. Piles of clothes, shoes, jackets, and even a few motorcycle helmets were strewn everywhere. These computer geeks were all the same! As brilliant as they might be at their jobs, their personal lives were chaotic and messy.

Monaghan sat down at the desk, opened all of the drawers, and rummaged around in the trash cans. He didn’t even try to start up one of the computers. This Savier character had certainly installed countless access restrictions on them. Then he checked the bathroom and the bedroom. It was the same everywhere: overflowing ashtrays on every surface, empty beer and soda cans, CDs, and a cardboard box with the remnants of a Quattro Staggioni pizza.

“Hey, Henry,” one of his men said. “Take a look at this.”

He pointed to a yellowed newspaper clipping hanging between other notes on a pinboard in the kitchen.

“Teenage Computer Whiz Fools Generals”, read the almost twenty-year-old headline. The newspaper article was about Justin Savier, who had hacked the central computer of the US Space & Missile Defense Command at the age of sixteen, and almost triggered World War III as a result. The military commanders had made fools of themselves because they hadn’t realized a teenager was pranking them. They had seriously believed that the Soviets were preparing for a nuclear strike.

“I heard about that,” Monaghan nodded. “This fits the picture exactly.”

Hacking into other people’s computer systems was apparently one of Justin Savier’s specialties. Monaghan’s gaze wandered over the books on a wobbly shelf. In contrast to what Savier usually read, this wasn’t computer literature but primarily mindless science-fiction novels. Among other things, there were photo albums and yearbooks. Monaghan pulled out one after the other, browsed through them, and then carelessly dropped them on the floor.

“Well, well, look at this,” he said to himself after a while. “If that isn’t the fat bastard who’s sitting in my basement.”

Three young men grinned into the camera, and they also appeared on the following pages. Harvard students. What an arrogant bunch. He was dead sure that the one with the piglet face was Mark Ashton. Monaghan grinned with satisfaction.

“Hey, boss.” The other man appeared in the door. “The woman was here, no doubt about it. I found empty packages from dark-brown hair dye and disposable contact lenses in the bathroom wastebasket.”

Monaghan nodded grimly. Alex Sontheim had been here. They were hot on her heels! He walked back into the living room to have a closer look at the telephone and the answering machine. The answering machine’s tape didn’t hold any important messages, but then Monaghan had the idea of pressing the telephone’s redial button. He eagerly waited to hear who would answer the phone at the other end of the line.

“ Bankhaus Gérard Frères, guten morgen ,” a friendly female voice answered in German.

A triumphant smile spread across Henry Monaghan’s reddened face. He excused himself politely and then hung up. Alex Sontheim was in Europe. In Switzerland. She didn’t have the slightest clue that he was right behind her. He pulled out his cell phone and called Sergio Vitali. A small army would be heading to Zurich in no less than an hour.

The intercom on the glass desk in Lance Godfrey’s spacious office buzzed. The director of Levy & Villiers frowned. He’d gone to bed very late last night because he had treated himself to a few drinks after spending a horrible day with Vincent Levy. Levy had taken the last flight to New York before they could fix the computer system. Godfrey didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. Sometimes these machines refused to work, which wasn’t a big deal. LMI’s president had picked out stacks of files from the bank’s archives and personally fed them to the shredder. He was in a murderously bad mood when Godfrey drove him to the airport that evening.

“What is it, Sheila?” Godfrey asked.

“There are five gentlemen here who would like to talk to you, sir.”

“Do they have an appointment?” Godfrey threw a glance at the calendar on his desk.

“No. But…”

“I’m busy at the moment. Schedule an appointment.”

He leaned back again as the door opened and the five men entered. Godfrey immediately realized that they weren’t bank clients.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Godfrey,” the secretary said, waving her hands in desperation.

“Mr. Lance Godfrey?” A black-haired man with a thin moustache revealed his badge. “I’m Agent Samuel Ramirez from the FBI. This is Agent Quinn, Mr. Dennis Rosenthal from the SEC’s investigation unit, Mr. Green from the US embassy, and another member of our team, Mr. Savier.”

“Good day, everyone,” Lance Godfrey said smoothly, standing up. “How can I help you?”

“We have a warrant to search your premises,” Agent Ramirez said and handed an official-looking document to him.

Godfrey was trembling inside, but he remained calm and polite.

“And what’s the reason for your search?”

“We have reasonable suspicion that you have money originating from illegal insider trades in various secret accounts,” Dennis Rosenthal announced.

“We suspect that it is part of a large-scale corruption scandal,” Agent Ramirez continued. “If you give us access to your server, we’ll be gone in less than an hour.”

“Our server is out of order,” Godfrey muttered.

“Yes, we know that.” Ramirez nodded. “That’s why we brought a specialist with us.”

Godfrey stared at the men for a moment without saying a word.

“And if you’re smart enough not to report this incident to New York,” Agent Quinn added with a friendly smile, “then the fact that you’re involved in a criminal conspiracy won’t have any punitive consequences for you.”

Now even Lance Godfrey turned pale despite his suntanned skin.

“I’m not… involved in any conspiracy,” he stuttered.

“Really? That should be easy enough for us to prove,” Agent Ramirez said. “I suggest that you leave town for a few days and forget about our short visit. You won’t hear from us again in that case. Otherwise…”