Zero day code, p.36
Zero Day Code, page 36
part #1 of End of Days Series
Her voice was so empty of emotion, the words spooling out of her like tape from an old cassette player, the James knew she was repeating a line from a script. Probably a line she’d repeated hundreds of times in the previous twenty-four hours.
“I'm not after cash," he said. "I lost my wallet. I need to establish my ID so that I can access my funds."
She blinked at him.
He started to repeat himself.
“I'm not after cash," he said, but she held up both hands, shaking her head as though a talking horse had wandered up to her window to discuss the futures market for sugar cubes.
"I'll just get Ms Vandenberg,” the woman said quickly. “You're going to be her new favourite.”
She spoke the truth. Alison Vandenberg was delighted to be able to deal with a customer who wasn't jamming a shopping bag into her face and telling her to fill it up with Benjamins. She did not care that they were unwashed and dishevelled. Nor did she care that it was no simple matter to establish James O'Donnell's bona fides, not with the Internet being so flaky and everything. But Vandenberg threw herself into the challenge with a will. Possibly because it meant she didn't have to deal with the increasingly ill-tempered mob outside.
She had Michelle make a legal declaration that James was a contractor for the National Security Council and that she as an officer of the federal government would vouch for his identity. She took copies of Michelle’s ID cards and fixed them to the declaration.
“Can I get a copy of your signature, please?" she asked.
James carefully wrote out his name on a blank piece of paper.
"Excellent," Vandenberg said. “Just give me a minute.”
She left them in her office, returning five minutes later, beaming.
"You would never imagine it, but we still have a fax machine here. I faxed your signature to your home branch in Baltimore and they have confirmed that it matches the one they have on file. We are almost there Mr O’Donnell; we are almost there."
She pulled over the telephone on her desk, picked up the receiver and punched in a six-digit number. James thought he recognised it. The number for Bank of America’s phone banking service that he hadn't used in many years.
Vandenberg handed the receiver across the desk, pushing the rest of the phone after it. She actually seemed to be enjoying herself and gestured for James to put the receiver to his ear and follow the instructions.
He did, and the computerised voice asked him to enter his online pin code.
James punched in the eight-digit number, the same one he used for internet banking, and handed the phone back to Alison Vandenberg. The banker listened to the automated systems and smiled.
“That's probably the only time in human history anybody has ever smiled at a recorded voice in a phone menu," Michelle said.
Vandenberg's smile grew even wider.
"Indeed," she said. "Now, Mr O'Donnell is there anything else I can help you with? We have established your identity and I can provide access to your savings and investments although…" she held up one finger, "not for cash amounts of greater than two hundred dollars."
"I will take my two hundred," James confirmed. "But I need help with finance for a new car. If there’s a dealer in town who banks with this branch, I'd be more than happy to do business with them."
Vandenberg nodded enthusiastically.
"Off the top of my head I can think of two dealerships with accounts here,” she said. "What sort of vehicle are you after?"
"A pickup," James said. “Four-seater cab. High wheelbase, extra fuel capacity, a working vehicle."
Vandenberg knew exactly where to send him.
"You need to go talk to Dave Sag over on North Frederick. Would you like me to call ahead, tell him you're coming?"
"Yes, if you wouldn't mind," James said. "And tell him we’ll do a direct deposit from my account to his business, via you. I need this transaction to go through today. I don't want it held up by any difficulties with electronic funds transfer, payment processing or whatever fresh hell is happening in your world at the moment. You can see I have the money. We’ll go talk to Mr Sag. He will call you and tell you how much money he wants. I'll sign whatever papers are necessary, and we will drive away before lunchtime."
Vandenberg leaned back in her chair. Satisfied.
"This is the highlight of my day," she sighed. “I’ll call you a taxi, Mr O'Donnell. It's on the house. The Bank of America thanks you for your business.”
Dave Sag was one of those men who filled a room with his presence. All the way into the corners, up to the ceiling and out through the windows. He could have been a movie star, thought James. But only in Mob movies. He was a happy gangster, and never happier than when James explained what he wanted.
“That black GM Sierra AT4 over in the corner, out on the lot,” James said. “You tell me your list price. I’m gonna give you an extra ten thousand dollars for it because, Mister Sag, we both know that you are a ten-foot-tall grizzly ass bad motherfucker when you get into it with a soft-headed idiot like me.”
Sag grinned, uncertain of exactly where this was going, but pretty sure he was going to like it, or could at least learn to live with it. They sat, all three of them, in his office at Sag Premium Motors on North Frederick Avenue. The showroom was empty of customers, but all of Dave Sag’s staff had turned up because you’d have to be all the way around the S-bend of the world going down the toilet before you’d cut and run on a guy like this.
“Gotta admit, the ten-foot-tall grizzly ass motherfucker does sound like me,” he said. “So, like, you pay me ten grand more than I would screw out of you for the Sierra? Even with all the options?”
“Even with all the options,” James confirmed. “Which we won’t be taking, because I’m driving that bad boy off the lot today.”
“I believe it,” Sag nodded. “Go on, son.”
James went on, “You send whatever paper has to go to the lovely Alison Vandenberg at my bank, and yours, and you give me five thousand dollars cash back on the deal. And I’ll take a spare fuel canister too. One of the twenty-gallon units.”
Sag sucked air in through his teeth.
“Whoa whoa whoa! I’ll give you the gas, Jimmy Cricket. But you know how hard it is to magic up the green stuff at the moment? Look out the window, son. Go on. I have them cleaned every day. It’s a magnificent view out there… of complete fucking idiots losing their nuts over this China thing. People should just calm the fuck down and keep on truckin’, you ask me, but nobody does. It’s a fucking tragedy is what it is, son. A Shakespearean fucking tragedy… Until you walked in with this crazy ass scheme of yours, which, to be honest, doesn’t sound exactly fucking legit to me, buuuuut…”
Dave Sag spread his hands.
“But,” James filled in for him, “what are you gonna do when some guy walks in and says he wants to give you five thousand dollars for free.”
“Exactly!” Sag gestured, waving his arms like a cartoon symphony conductor. “Except…” he suddenly cautioned, pinching the air between the tips of his fingers, “I don’t know that I can do even two grand on short notice. Let alone five. That’s a coupla weeks’ worth of this bullshit withdrawal limit they got going on, you know.”
“Yeah. It is,” James said, smiling at the game. “If we were talking about you walking to the nearest ATM. But we’re not. You got a safe somewhere on the premises, and it’ll have way more than five grand in it. You do cash back all the time. It’s a great sales funnel to suck in the rubes. And having all that solid puddin’ hidden away means you get to take a little bite every now and then without Uncle Sam sticking his spoon in. So, I know you got five large, Dave. We both know it. You got it and I’ll bet that your competition does too. I want the cash. You’re making a hundred percent clear on the deal. You want me to sign for a bunch of optional extras you don’t actually provide? Keep it legit with the IRS? That’s cool, but you give me the green. The only one who loses out is me, paying a two to one premium for a wedge of that walking around money.”
Sag’s face was a study. James didn’t dare look across at Michelle, but he wondered if she could see herself in the man’s expression. Like her, he was doing his threat assessments.
“Maybe,” he said quietly, “Maybe I could use my own walking around money. Maybe it’s not such a good idea to be dissipating my liquid funds when we do have all this trouble? Like people say.”
“Like complete fucking idiots say, you mean,” James pushed back at him. He matched the natural rhythms of the man’s delivery, a trick he had learned when selling magazine subscriptions in college. “I’ll be honest with you, Dave. You really should take a small pile of that cash out of your safe and do it soon. I was you; I’d turn that folding stuff into things you can eat, drink or shoot out of an AR-15. That’s what I’ll be doing with my cash, whether I get it from you or from someone else. But if I get it from you, you’re making a rolled gold hundred percent profit. And none of it is going to Uncle Sugar.”
Sag narrowed his eyes, turning them like gun turrets on Michelle.
“Didn’t you say you work for the feds.”
She replied with a lopsided smile.
“Not for the IRS. Nobody likes those motherfuckers.”
After a few seconds, the corners of his mouth lifted and his eyes twinkled darkly.
“Okay. I’ll get Sammy to cut you some cheddar. Five grand, but you’re gonna pay fifteen over the ask, not ten.”
James made a pretence of being wounded by the countermove. He argued, he pleaded, he played to character. But in the end, he settled, authorising a direct transfer of funds from his working account to Sag’s company cheque account for forty-seven thousand dollars. Fifteen more than the book price of the base model Sierra he bought. He was happy with that. He’d have paid twenty over and taken quarters on the dollar for the cash back. Cash was king now. People wanted it and they couldn’t get it. The purchasing power of a dollar was going to spike in the next couple of days. Before everyone realised that, like gold, you couldn’t eat money.
Sag presented them with two sets of keys, two Dave Sag Premium Brand Thermos flasks, and a Dave Sag autographed sports bag. His grinning face was stencilled all over the merch.
“Outstanding,” said James.
One of Sag’s guys had already moved the Sierra to the edge of the lot. James and Dave shook on the deal. You could see the wheels turning inside the salesman’s head, trying to figure out the angles on the game he’d just played. Wondering if somehow he’d been played by this chump who’d paid fifteen thousand dollars for a spare can of gasoline. Wondering if he should maybe cash out himself after all. Fill the best off roader he had with hookers and blow, and get his ass outta town.
They left Dave looking preoccupied and frowning at the long line of customers outside the Safeway across the street.
The Sierra smelled better than James and Michelle when they climbed in. James said he would drive the first leg, a short trip to a Harris Teeter over in Darnestown.
“Good,” Michelle said. “I shouldn’t be driving right now anyway.”
“Why?” he asked. Suddenly worried. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head, as if in disbelief of what she had just witnessed.
“I’m fine,” she said. “But I can’t concentrate. Because I have never been more turned on by a spreadsheet nerd than I am right now.”
34
Bloodbath
It was late morning, nudging right up on lunchtime when Rick and Mel finally drove away from his cabin down by the river. She was right. He’d needed the sleep in. He was another hour and a half cleaning up storm damage around the resort. Clearing fallen branches from the golf links, mostly. Bretton Woods remained closed, but the responsibility still fell to him. Mel threw a ball for Nomi to chase while Rick tended to the grounds as quickly as he could.
They drove her pick up. His car had taken some hail damage the previous day and he was worried about a small crack in the windshield. It was the sort of thing he might otherwise ignore, but he didn’t want the weekend ruined by the screen suddenly exploding on them a hundred miles from home. Mel’s truck was only a two-seater, but there was plenty of room for Nomi to sit up front on Rick’s lap as they drove over to Darnestown to pick up a few supplies for the trip.
They had no reason to turn on the TV at his place, and they listened to music on the short drive, alternating song choices from Mel’s phone. She had more music downloaded than Rick and they couldn’t stream anything from Spotify.
“You have a lot of songs I don’t know,” Rick said, scrolling through her playlists as they approached the Harris Teeter at the junction of Seneca and Darnestown roads.
“That’s because you don’t know much about good music,” she teased. “Yet.”
“I know there isn’t much to be had on your phone,” he lobbed back.
His mood was light. He kept stealing glances at Mel, wondering how he’d ending up with someone like her. Someone way the hell out of his league. Nomi’s head lay against his stomach, and her tail thumped as he scratched under her chin. Rick Boreham, who normally moved through the world mindful of all the carefully hidden pitfalls and boobytraps laid for him by fate, was enjoying the doped, almost drifting sensation of being happy.
He’d decided to take Doctor Cairns’ advice.
He wasn’t going to pay a single damn bit of attention to the news. He was going to spend time with his woman and he was going to be happy.
”What the hell is this?” Mel said, breaking through his mellow.
The car lot of the 6 Twelve Convenience store was bedlam, with a line of vehicles stretching out onto the road. On the other side of the intersection, at Harris Teeter, it was even worse. It was like all of Maryland had swarmed the two grocery markets.
"Maybe we should just drive on," Melissa suggested.
Rick frowned.
"Fraid not," he said. "This is the only place I know I can get Nomi's kibble. It's a pain I know. But we gotta go here. It's part of the program, her diet. They ask me about it every month. Make sure I'm not feeding her burritos or anything. Not that you'd object that would you girl?" He said rubbing her head.
Nomi panted in agreement. No, she would not object to a burrito.
"Babe, I don't know that I can even get in there. Look at the cars."
Rick didn't have to. He could already see what a shambles they were heading into.
"Just pull over here," he said. "We can walk up, get the dog food for Nomi and try somewhere else for our stuff. Might not be as crowded once we get further upstate, away from the capital."
Mel pulled over by the side of the road, cut the engine and engaged the handbrake. They climbed out of the cab and the heat of the morning fell on them.
"Man, it's gonna be so good swimming in that lake," Rick said. "Come on, let's get it done."
Traffic was jammed up on both roads, and they were able to pick their way through the slow-moving vehicles. Rick was amazed at the stuff people were buying. Not just fresh fruit and vegetables. They were cleaning the place out, taking everything. And a lot of customers, he could see, was shuttling back and forth between their cars and the market. Like they had all forgotten something on their first run.
He normally avoided shopping if they were going to be crowds. They set his teeth on edge. He could never quite shake himself of the irrational fear that a car bomb was going to go off. Crazy, because the most likely threat here was an irate shopper getting loud and punchy because they couldn't source their preferred brand of breakfast cereal. But there it was.
Nomi sensed his anxiety as they threaded their way through the crowded lot. She butted her head into his thigh, demanding a pat. He paused, bent down, gave her a rub on her flanks and told her what a good girl she was. It helped.
"Babe do you want me to do this?" Mel asked. She could see he was doing it tough. That helped, too.
"I might be better inside than out here," Rick said. “It will be cooler at least.”
“True that," Mel agreed, and they pushed on.
If anything, it was even more crowded inside the store. There was no way Rick was leaving Nomi unattended outside, and he led her through the sliding doors into the heaving mass of people inside Harris Teeter.
“Bloody hell," Mel said. "This is a bit of a bloody teddy bear's picnic."
"If the teddy bears were all assholes," Rick muttered. This was like one of the worst souks in Baghdad, with people yelling at each other, gesticulating wildly, even wrestling over items pulled from the almost-bare shelves. It did not help his state of mind.
"Maybe I should go outside," he conceded.
But the shooting started outside at that very moment, and Rick Boreham dropped to the floor, dragging his girlfriend and his dog down with him.
James and Michelle parked the Sierra nearly half a mile away. It had been a hot unpleasant walk getting to the market, and he was not looking forward to hauling groceries all the way back. Not that they'd been able to buy much. Most of the long-life produce was already gone from the shelves. No beans. No rice. No tinned foods. The fruit and vegetable displays were half empty and the butchery was selling offcuts.
Very expensive offcuts.
"This is another one of those setbacks I was telling you about," Michelle said. She was carrying two bottles of olive oil and three boxes of All Bran. James had scooped up six packets of some weird pasta and a bag of potatoes. They’d paid over a hundred dollars for the order.
"Let's blow this popsicle stand,” he said. "I want to get further out and see whether we can pick up supplies from the farm gate."
"What, like buy a cow or something?" Michelle said.
"No," James grinned, amused by the idea. "But root vegetables will keep. And summer fruits. Once we get out of the traffic crush a lot of our travel is going to be through open country. We can make pretty good time. We won't need a month’s worth of food."
"That's good," said Michelle. "Because I don't think we could buy a month’s worth of food here."
