snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! ‘Rita Gonzales, you said?’
‘Sí.’
‘Your address?’
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.
‘Your mother’s maiden name?’
‘Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle.’
‘And your date of birth?’
‘December twentieth, 1958.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Ciudad de Mexico.’
‘Mexico City. Sign here.’
‘I will have to use my left hand,’ Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.
‘I’ll give you a temporary chequebook. Your printed cheques will be mailed to you in three or four weeks.’
‘Bueno. Muchas gracias, señor.’
‘Yeah.’
He watched her walk out of the bank. Fuckin’ spic.
There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circumvent it.
Her first step was to find a computer shop, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank’s computer. The shop, some distance from the bank, was almost empty.
An eager salesman approached Tracy. ‘May I help you, miss?’
‘Eso si que no, señor. I am just looking.’
His eye was caught by a teenager playing a computer game. ‘Excuse me.’ He hurried away.
Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.
‘We must keep changing it,’ Clarence Desmond had said, ‘so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it.’
The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day’s date.
Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
Today was the tenth.
AUTUMN 10, Tracy tapped out.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.
Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming towards her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled along the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk-model computer.
She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond’s mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably shifted the seasons around.
Tracy tried again.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
WINTER 10.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.
It’s not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I’ll give it one more try.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
SPRING 10.
The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.
So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.
Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen:
DO YOU WISH TO
A DEPOSIT MONEY
B TRANSFER MONEY
C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT
D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER
E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CURRENT ACCOUNT
PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE
Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared.
AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?
WHERE TO?
WHERE FROM?
She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought. Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief. All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.
She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales’s account number.
The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?
NO.
SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.
The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion shifted from bank to bank every day.
The store clerk was approaching Tracy again, frowning. Tracy hurriedly pressed a key, and the screen went blank.
‘Are you interested in purchasing this machine, miss?’
‘No, gracias,’ Tracy apologized. ‘I don’ understan’ these computers.’
She telephoned the bank from a corner drug store and asked to speak to the head cashier.
‘Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my current account transferred to the main branch of the First Hanover Bank of New York City, por favor.’
‘Your account number, Miss Gonzales?’
Tracy gave it to her.
An hour later Tracy had checked out of the Hilton and was on her way to New York City.
