Dual Control


From the shadows of my room at the Fairfield, I watched the lights in the office tower across the street disappear one by one like the eyes of a somnolent giant. Right on time, every office, every officer, followed their end-of-day procedures like clockwork.

When Johnny McKenzie finally dimmed the overheads in his corner office, I started the timer on my wristwatch and heard it beep. I didn't need to repeat this task. I knew it would take him exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds to cross the lobby, enable the alarm, and step in the elevator that would take him to the garage beneath the building. Even through the glass of my window, I could hear the roar of the Porsche as he emerged from under the bank. Perfect timing. Perfect balance. Perfect control. Johnny, my customer, was the bank president. I glanced down at the soft glow of my wristwatch. In exactly twenty-four hours, I was going to rob Johnny's bank.

I had no plans to don a ski mask and hop the teller line with a sawed-off twelve gauge like some junkie desperado. In fact, I'd helped the FBI track down dozens of Jesse James wannabes. Guys like that rarely left a bank with more than a few thousand in cash, and they usually got caught, stained by blue dye and passing marked bills. No, in my plan, there were no guns, and there was certainly no jumping or running. And, my score? Well, my score was ten million U.S. dollars, wired offshore to a Bahamian bank. Clean, if not simple.

You see, I designed security and controls systems for banks like Johnny's. And, before my life became a complete train wreck, I was happy. Or, at least content. At least I thought so at the time.  But life has a funny way of unraveling. One minute you're happily married to your college sweetheart. The next minute she's calling you from St. Croix where she ran off to live with her tennis instructor.

What is it about tennis pros anyway? Does a high school guidance counselor call them in and say something like, "Well, Mr. Johnson, I see you have some athletic ability and you're reasonably attractive. It also says here that your achievement test revealed an unusually high aptitude for seducing thirty-something soccer moms. Mr. Johnson, have you ever considered a career as a tennis pro?"

But, I digress. After what's-her-name left, at least I had my job, my status as a respected technologist, and my stock options in a surging dot com. I'd bounce back. Right?

Then the great Internet bubble burst.  Suddenly my options weren't worth the cost of the broker fees to sell them. We were laying off consultants left and right, and I knew once I finished Johnny's project, I was next. There wasn't any cash left for a severance package but we had a really cool jet the CEO could fly around in while he was passing out pink slips. Bitter? Who me?

At some point, while wallowing in the depths of my self-pity, I decided to create my own severance package and give myself a fresh start. A new name. A new home where it was warm year-round; where there was no extradition agreement with the U.S. 

Johnny was a reasonable guy, and I felt sort of bad ripping him off. But, he was also on the board of my dot bomb, and he had gleefully agreed to purchase the stinking jet. Also, his bank was in the correspondent business which meant their customers were other banks, which also meant they processed billions (that's billions with a B) of dollars in transactions every day, nearly all of it electronic.

I'd spent six weeks working on my plan. At the office the next day, the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, it finally came together.

I glanced to the left as I passed the wire transfers room on my way back from lunch. Brandi was a wire operator who had taken a liking to me because I always helped her with computer problems.  I did a double-take when she noticed me and began waving her hand like she was trying to flag down a cab. I skidded to a halt in the hallway as she marched over from her desk and yanked the door open.

"Frank, can you please help me?"

Even if Brandi wasn't part of my plan, I would have helped her because she stood there tucking the curl of her blond bob behind her ear, biting her bottom lip with her chin down and her green eyes shining. Had it not been for my soon-to-be status as an international fugitive, there might have been a future with a girl that sweet. As I understood it, she didn't even own a tennis racket.

"Sure Brandi. What's up," I said, innocent as could be.

She pulled her shoulders up to her neck, clenched her eyes, and exhaled. "It's the stupid pop-up VBX control thingy. I can't get anything done today." 

I set my laptop sleeve down next to her PC and slid into her chair. "Weird. Didn't this just start a couple of weeks ago?"

She nodded. "Yes, and always on Friday afternoon, especially when I'm trying to get done early. You know?"

Oh, I knew; much more than she suspected. I rattled off a few keys on her keyboard then opened my laptop case. "I can straighten it out for you if you'll give me a couple of minutes."

Standing behind me, massaging my shoulders, she leaned in close enough for me to get a whiff of the lavender-scented perfume she wore. "You're awesome Frank. Awesome. I'll be back in a minute."

When I heard the door close, I removed Brandi's authorization card from the wire terminal and slid it into a small card reader attached to the side of my laptop. I opened the laptop and typed a few commands, then snapped it shut and removed the card, placing it back in the terminal. Now I had Brandi's card data to program the second authorization card I would need to complete my transaction. The first had come from Shelia, one of the other operators. Shelia (surprise, surprise) was experiencing the same strange problem with her computer as Brandi. I opened a console on Brandi's terminal and typed one command to disable the virus, another to remove it, and a third to completely wipe the machine of the program's existence.  As I slipped back to my cubicle, I checked my watch. Five hours 'til show time.

At exactly 6 p.m., I wedged myself between two racks of servers in the computer room and watched Johnny descend the staircase. Slowly, I pulled out the console of the nearest server and entered several keystrokes. Then, because I couldn't hear the elevator over the roar of the server fans, I crept over to the glass and peered downstairs until the steel doors squeezed Johnny's image from my view. Back at the server console, I logged into the security system and disabled the cameras and motion sensors. Then I made my way down the hall to the wire room.

Using Shelia's card, I opened the door and sat at the nearest terminal. I switched the terminal into Administrator mode and disabled a piece of software I wrote which set off an alarm at the police station if anyone tried to use the wire program after 6 p.m. I glanced at my watch again and smiled, knowing my Bahamian banker waited patiently for the $10 million promised by his newest customer, William J. Baddley. After double-checking for Baddley's passport, driver's license, and boarding pass in my breast pocket, I began keying the wire. Although my hands shook and my breathing came in gasps, I finished in two minutes.

Then the screen flashed: AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED!

I slid the duplicate of Shelia's card into the reader which responded with a beep and green light.

DUAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED!

I kissed Brand's card and repeated the step. Green light.

TRANSACTION CONFIRMED

My knees wobbled as I stood and started for the door. Suddenly I froze and smacked my forehead with my palm. Stupid! In my rush, I'd almost forgotten. I darted back to the console, re-enabled the wire alarm program, and logged out of the terminal. Now, the wire software alarm was enabled, I just had to enable the motion sensors before leaving. Out the door and heading back to the computer room, I heard noises that made by heart stop. Voices. Shouting voices from the lobby below.

"Stop! I'm telling you, the alarm is already disabled!"

"Why? What did you do?"

"I swear, I didn't do anything! Nothing! Maybe I didn't enable it. I thought I did when I left. I swear!"

My heart started beating again, thundering actually, as the adrenaline surged through my body. Holding my breath, back against the wall, I eased down the hallway to the computer room hoping to sneak back in and re-enable the alarm system. I was reaching for the door when I felt the cold metal of a gun barrel touch the base of my skull.

The gunman's hand snatched my hair from behind and held my head like a vice. "Where you think you're goin'?" He shoved me face-first against the wall and shouted downstairs. "I found out why the alarm is off! Coming down!"

Johnny was on his hands and knees, staring at the marble tile in the lobby. When he looked up at me, I noticed the bright red streak running down over his mouth onto his white dress shirt. His eyes bulged with fear and a touch of surprise when he saw me being led down the stairway. My captor shoved me to the ground beside Johnny then leaned over to shout in my ear.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

I sputtered an answer. "Frank Wilson. I'm a consultant. I..."

Before I could finish, he whipped the back of my head with the pistol. "What were you doing up there?"

I felt a warm ooze emanating from the numb spot on the back of my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Johnny angle his head toward me as I answered. "I, I was working on one of the servers and lost track of time. I... I disabled the alarm because I didn't want to set it off."

The other gunman spoke. "Face down on the floor."

I complied while both men grabbed Johnny and jerked him to his feet. "Back to you. One more time. Where's the safe?"

Johnny's voice garbled as he spoke. "I told you, we don't even have one, we're a correspondent..."

I heard a dull thump that sounded like a ripe melon hitting the pavement and saw Johnny double-over, clutching his stomach.

"He's not lying," I said.

For my trouble, I received a steel-toed boot smash to the ribs.

"Shut up!"

The gunman turned back to Johnny. "Alright then old man.  You still wanna play dumb?"

I heard the metal ratchet of the gun as a bullet slid in the chamber and felt the barrel pressed against my temple.

"You got three seconds. Then I'm waxing the lobby floor with consultant boy's brains. One."

Johnny started gasping. "No! Please don't!"

The gun man pulled back the hammer until it clicked. "Two."

"Don't shoot him. I'll give you whatever you want!"

"The safe! I want the safe!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Johnny hang his head. "We don't..."

"Three. Adios, Frank."

"Wait," I screamed. "There's another way! I can get you your money!"

For what seemed like an hour, I waited for the explosion to come and the darkness to follow. Then a rough hand grabbed my shoulder and rolled me to my back.

"What you talkin' about Frank?" He wore a blue ski mask, so I couldn't see his face when I looked up. But his eyes were as black as coal and full of malice. "Don't look at me boy. Just talk. Quick!" He put the gun barrel against my forehead.

"We, we could wire the money for you. Wire it, I don't know, someplace safe." My voice quivered but I knew it was my only chance. I noticed the other gunman, the one who found me, inch closer. He wore a red ski mask of the same design as his partner's blue one.

"You mean like send the money to another bank?"

I nodded quickly. "Yes, exactly."

Blue Ski Mask, who seemed to be in charge, used the gun barrel to move my head back toward him. "Then we go to pick it up and the FBI's waiting on us right? Think we're that stupid, do you?"

"No. No. I'm talking about an international wire. Send it to, I don't know, the Caymans, or Switzerland, or something. Somewhere they can't trace it. Then just hop a plane and do what you want from there."

Blue eyed me warily for several moments. Then he took the gun away. "Get him up."

Ten minutes later, after opening an account online with a Caymanian bank, I sat, once again, at the wire operator's console. My hands shook even worse than before as I keyed a wire transfer of $10 million, the amount I suggested. I prayed with each breath that my plan would work, and I purposely delayed each keystroke as long as possible, taking much longer than I did with my own wire.

Finally, the authorization screen appeared. Johnny fumbled with his authorization card, dropped it, stooped to get it, and knocked it under the desk. Red kicked him behind the knees and Johnny went to the floor. While Red dug around for the card, Johnny looked up and I caught a gleam in his eye. He knew what I was up to, and he was playing along.

At the exact moment Red jammed Johnny's authorization card into the reader, we heard the sirens. Blue ran outside the wire room to look downstairs. "Cops!"

Red was a mere step behind him, but he kept a foot in the door. In a move that I can only describe as heroic, Johnny stomped on Red's foot and slammed the door to the wire room shut.

Red cursed profanely as he tried to force his way back inside but the door was locked tight. Then he pointed his gun at me through the glass and screamed. "Finish it! Finish it now!"

I could see the reflections of the blue lights from the parking lot flashing in the lobby below. I didn't hesitate. I dove behind Brandi's desk.

Then the room exploded.

I'm not sure what type of handgun Red fired but he managed to pump at least ten rounds into the wire room before he darted off after Blue. I can still remember the thundering in my ears as I floated toward the floor. Glass shattered. Computers erupted and spun in the air.  I didn't even feel the bullet hit me.

I was on the carpet, and I heard more gun shots from the lobby. I heard screaming. I saw smoke billowing from the wire terminals. Johnny crawled over to me.

"Frank? Frank? Be still. You're shot."

I raised my left hand and saw that a chunk of my palm was missing. Blood spurted from my torn flesh in perfect rhythm with the throbbing of my skull. Then I passed out.

The lights drew me from sleep. The lights and the acrid smell of antiseptics. I heard voices. My name was mentioned. I nodded off again for a while, I don't know how long.

As I finally woke, everything that happened came back to me and I half expected to find myself handcuffed when I opened my eyes. But, I wasn't.

Johnny towered over me. He still wore his bloody shirt and his left eye was purple and swollen. The gauze bandage on his nose reminded me of a clown. I couldn't help smiling.

Johnny smiled too. "You're a hero, Frank," he said. I realized I was lying in a bed, a hospital bed. Johnny stepped away for a moment then returned with a nurse who politely checked my vitals before leaving the room.

When the nurse returned, she brought the surgical resident who operated on my hand. The resident was an attractive brunette with a no-nonsense manner and a slight accent she tried carefully to hide, French possibly. I listened to her voice as she spoke and tried to place the accent. Maybe it was the drugs but I had trouble focusing on what she was telling me. I caught only phrases like "nerve damage" and "limited mobility" and "physical therapy." When she was finished, she waited for me to speak.

"South Louisiana?"

She arched a well-plucked eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"That's where you're from," I said. "Your accent. Cajun, right?"

Her cheeks flushed briefly. She never smiled. "Baton Rouge. But, I need you to understand that your hand, Mr. Wilson..."

"Frank," I said as I tried to raise my arm. Pain raced up my forearm, through my elbow, and into my shoulder. I groaned and began seeing purple spots.

The doctor eased forward. "Let's keep it very still for a while." She settled my arm on a pillow and regarded me carefully. "Why don't we try this again in the morning," she said, flipping through my chart as she turned for the door. "Get some rest tonight Mr. Wilson."

I looked at Johnny, and he could see the questions in my eyes. "The police got them," he finally said. "The guy in the blue mask was shot dead trying to get out the back exit of the bank. The other, the one who shot you, threw down his gun in the lobby, and they arrested him."

I was silent. There were other questions I was afraid to ask. Johnny lowered himself to sit on the bed and shook his head. "Son, that was heads up thinking, triggering that wire alarm. If you hadn't done that..." He was still for a few moments. "Well, it was brave thing." He got up off the bed and started for the door.

"Not as brave as stepping on that guy's foot," I said weakly, and Johnny chuckled.

"Get some rest and heal, Frank. Take as long as you need. Your job will still be here. Maybe when you get back, we'll have a handle on the mess they left us. Because that fool shot up the wire computers before our backups started, I expect we'll have some trouble balancing accounts for a while." Johnny looked down at his loafers for a moment.

"Johnny?"

He moved closer. "Yeah?"

"Where's my jacket?"

Johnny looked around then retrieved my jacket from the couch. "Here you go," he said. "Now, there are some policemen who want to talk to me."

When he left the room, I reached inside the breast pocket of my jacket with my right hand. Everything was still there. The passport. The license. The boarding pass. I slid the boarding pass out along with my cell phone.

For a long minute, I trembled in my bed, alone with my thoughts. Looking back, I'd like to pretend that the pain meds caused me to shake. But who am I kidding?  Finally the shaking stopped, and I lifted the boarding pass so I could read the 1-800 number on the back.
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T.J. Cruz
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T.J. Cruz is a freelance writer, musician, and software developer based in Birmingham, Alabama. He is currently writing short mystery stories on his MacBook, composing rock music on his Gibson Les Paul Custom, and slinging Ruby code for a software start-up.