Over A
Barrel
The tiny changes in various computer systems in companies around the world went unnoticed, mostly occurring in the middle of the night, when none of the technological experts were at their computer stations to notice. Everything appeared to be working properly again when the usual checks were done.
Jarod’s
return to the Centre – the circumstances, for once, are irrelevant – heralded
the first sign of trouble; however a connection wasn’t immediately noticeable.
In fact, Jarod had been in his cell for forty-eight hours before the first
reports came through from one of the Centre’s accounting teams, and then the
link to the runaway Pretender was in no way obvious. Indeed those who first
knew about the problems had never even heard his name, much less been informed
of his technical abilities.
“What
do you mean, Synergex hasn’t paid for their latest round of results?” an
accounting supervisor blared at the poor wretch who had literally picked the
shortest straw and, as a result, had to pass on this concerning piece of news.
The
underling’s mouth worked for a few seconds without sound before he dropped the
report onto the desk and fled.
It
was with an inward shudder that the supervisor picked up the page showing that
the Centre account into which Synergex regularly paid large sums of money,
which were then syphoned off to pay Centre employees, was low. The cause of
this was obvious: the last three payments had not been forthcoming.
One
phone-call later and the bank records from Synergex were in the supervisor’s
hands, but as these showed that the usual monthly orders had been drawn up for
money to be transferred to the Centre, they helped little. The money had never
arrived. Bewildered and anxious, the supervisor called his immediate boss. In
less than two hours, the problem had worked its way up the chain of command and
an audit of the Centre’s entire financial system was underway.
The
results caused numerous accountants and auditors to prudently go home with
migraines, frequently never to be seen again. Eventually some poor schmuck had
to report that, over the past five years, small amounts of money had failed to
be forthcoming from a growing number of the Centre’s clients, ‘small’ being, in
most cases, millions of dollars: chicken-feed as far as the Centre’s annual
income was concerned.
The
furious Triumvirate studied the pattern of missing funds and quickly pinned the
blame on the man lying on his hard bed on SL-19.
When
his door opened, Jarod was unsure exactly what to expect. He had been all but
ignored since his return, perhaps because it was so unexpected. Miss Parker’s
report stated that Jarod had apparently been surprised while setting up his
lair for the pursuit team: his bags were already gone. At the time, nobody
thought that in any way strange.
The
Pretender was lying with one arm flung over his face. He lifted his elbow and
glanced at the door.
“Sydney.”
There was no emotion in his voice. “I’m afraid they weren’t good enough to
provide you with a seat.”
The
psychiatrist walked over and sat down on the end of the narrow bed.
“Where
is it, Jarod?”
A
tiny smile played around the Pretender’s lips, the dimple appearing in his right
cheek as he replaced his arm over his eyes.
“You
already know where the money is. You just can’t get it.”
The
Centre did, indeed, know where the funds were located; however, attempts to
access the money had failed. Even Broots had not succeeded in getting past
Jarod’s firewalls and other security measures.
“Why?”
Jarod
grinned. “Why not?”
“Revenge?
Financial gain?
Jarod
chuckled softly. “What use do I have for money? I barely stay in one place long
enough to need more than a few dollars. No rent. No gas. No electricity. Just a
couple of packets of PEZ every now and then.”
“Then
why, Jarod?” Sydney persisted, although he already knew the answer to that
question. The psychiatrist had to admire the simplistic beauty of the plan.
Jarod had the Centre over a barrel and he knew it. Soon enough, they would know
it, too. “What do you want from them?”
“What
are they offering?” came the prompt reply. Then, with a sigh, Jarod jerked up
into a sitting position, meeting Sydney’s gaze steadily. “It’s very simple. The
only way for the money to be accessed is for me to walk into a certain bank in
a certain town, say certain words, give a certain sign and then take out a
certain amount of money – ten thousand dollars per month, maximum.”
Sydney
barely suppressed a smile, and a well-known twinkle in Jarod’s eye showed that
they were thinking along the same lines, for they both knew that, even if the
maximum sum were taken out of Jarod’s account every month, there was more than
enough there to see him through the rest of his life, however long that might
be.
“And
if – heaven forbid – something should happen to you in the meantime?” Sydney
ventured to ask, when at last he regained his self-control.
Jarod
reclined back against the hard bunk and once more flung his arm over his eyes.
“The
ASPCA would find itself much better off.”
Knowing
that Jarod had said all he was going to say, Sydney rose from his seat and
moved towards the door. Only an instant before he opened it did Jarod speak
again.
“Oh, and
Sydney?”
The
older man turned. “Yes?”
“Sim
96352.”
Sydney
choked audibly at this reminder of a sim, performed shortly before his initial
escape, showing that none of the drugs used by the Centre to force people to
act against their will or better judgement had any effect on Jarod. The only
thing the Triumvirate could do take was to bow to the Pretender’s demands, and
Sydney already knew what they would be. The pursuit was at an end.
Sydney
suddenly wondered about retirement.