interesting friends all over the country, all over the world for that matter.”
The silence around the table was complete as they digested the data. Major Pauley was the first to speak. He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to the others.
“7th Cavalry, LZ X-Ray, Albany, two tours. Shit!” His comment was heartfelt.
Kinsai broke in roughly. “It’s simple, eliminate, Lee. The investigation ends.”
Harrison exploded. “You zipper-head, slope cocksucker, you haven’t got brains enough to pour piss out of a boot.”
“Stop it! Now!” Elleston ordered. “You keep your dirty mouth shut, Harrison. Mr. Kinsai, I apologize for Harrison’s stupidity. He has a problem letting his dirty mouth get in the way of his brains. However, he’s right. There’ll be no talk of eliminating anyone. We’ll take whatever action is necessary, without drawing attention to ourselves.”
Kinsai stared at Harrison and there was no doubt where he wanted to start eliminating. After a moment he dragged his attention back to Elleston.
“My Oyabun wishes to send you another fifty million right away. How soon can you move it through your system.”
Elleston spoke with barely suppressed anger. “You weren’t listening, Mr. Kinsai. We have a problem here. Until it is resolved there won’t be any movement of funds through our so-called pipeline. You were told that this was a one-time operation. Any further activity would require other methods and it’s much too soon to even think about that.
“Let me remind you, I control the spigot and it will not be turned on until I am sure it is completely safe. If your boss wants to do business he is to contact me directly, not through you.”
“I am his agent in this matter. I have the authority to deal with you directly,” Kinsai said.
“I’ll tell you again. Listen carefully. I will only deal with your boss. I dislike repeating myself.”
“As you wish,” Kinsai said maliciously. “But, you had better handle this situation quickly. Business is business. If you can’t clean this up perhaps we will take care of it for you.”
“Mr. Kinsai, you are becoming a problem. If you interfere in any way, I can promise you, your organization will never have access to the system ever again.”
Kinsai got up. “And I can promise you, my Oyabun does not have endless patience.” He left without further comment or good bye.
“I am beginning to loose patience with that man,” Elleston said.
There was no one at the table who didn’t think Elleston would do a little eliminating of his own if it was necessary.
Chapter 7
Irwin Allen Rommel sat in his chauffeured Bentley and stared up at the expanse of black, anti-glare, safety glass. In the San Francisco banking district, the Intercoastal Bank was known as the Black Behemoth. It was world class ugly and blocked some of the finest views of the bay.
It had been built by his predecessor, William ‘Bill’ Merriman. Bill was a nice guy. Everyone said so. In his five years as CEO, the bank lost one hundred and thirty million dollars and most of its prestige.
CEO Rommel wasn’t a nice guy. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of international computer banking, but he did know how to run a large organization. In two years he got back the one hundred and thirty million, and the banks prestige.
In the trade he was frequently referred to as, ‘that asshole over at Intercoastal’. He figured, correctly, he was getting in someone’s shorts at B of A and Wells Fargo.
He hated the building. At a board meeting he referred to it as twenty-first century KGB, and would happily have destroyed it and started over.
Inside, he took a private elevator to the third floor. Top management did not inhabit the top floor. CEO Rommel and his panzer corps of bright young yuppy accountants occupied the third floor. He sent the computer wienies to the twenty first floor, directly under the computers. For cause, as he put it.
When a Senior Vice President in foreign operations asked why, he answered in a way that endeared him to all those who mistrust high tech.
Rommel said, “When the great quake comes I want to be sure those pimple-dick, digit-dropping, dope smoking pea brains are killed by their own hand, so-to-speak. I don’t mind cashing in myself, but not if any of those simpering swishes outlive me. They spend more money and make more trouble than a regiment of bank robbers.” Rommel wasn’t long on political correctness.
But that was then. For Rommel, life hadn’t been good since the great May Day looting, a year earlier. When you loose ninety million of the customer’s money, and only recover two, the board usually looks for abandoned tin mines and large male nurses to ‘care for’ the CEO in his ‘retirement’.
He was still the Boss. He was lucky.
It is also a fact, he thought, that none of those patricidal pansies want to test the power of my thirty five percent, or popularity with the rank and file.
What with insurance and other built in protections, they hadn’t been hurt too bad dollar wise, but their credibility, their face had taken a beating. And that, in the banking business can be more important than money.
Like religion, banks operate on faith—faith that the cash is safe from all marauders. If one tampers with that faith, the bank could end the day with no depositors at all. It had happened before.
After the raid, Rommel got a list of depositors, every man, woman and child who did business with the bank. Then he called or personally visited everyone of them. He told them what happened without pulling punches, and what he was doing to protect them. He was confident and persuasive, so much so, the bank showed a ten percent increase in deposits the month after his personal reassurance campaign ended.
But Rommel found it hard to go on with the same zest. He felt guilty. He didn’t have to, but he did. His favorite employee was in prison, and he was ninety percent sure she didn’t do a thing except be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He worked hard all morning then had lunch brought in. He ate alone and was miserable. Miss J. K. Heely, Vice President in charge of computer security, who used to have lunch with him and beat him unmercifully at gin rummy every Tuesday and Thursday, was in Mojave State Women’s Prison for seven years.
A bachelor, whose wife and children were long gone, he had few contemporaries, people he genuinely liked. When she was there, she called him Al, and explained the new technology in terms he understood. He couldn’t bully her, and she made him laugh. She really liked him and that made him feel...important.
When they found two million stashed in a secret account in Belgium, and traced it back to her, he didn’t believe it. His first thought was that she had been set up, but he did nothing. His lawyers and the bank’s legal branch suggested he distance himself as far as possible from her. And he did. It was unforgivable. One doesn’t desert ones friends.
He sat in his office as he had done for months, going over the theft a piece at a time, and each time he got the same answer. It had to be an inside job. He also realized he didn’t know enough to figure it out, and the one person
