“Is she in?”

The dark eyes of the secretary came up immediately and gazed evenly into Jerry O’Brien’s face. “Is she expecting you?”

O’Brien shook his head. “No, but I have some information for her that I think she’d be interested in…”

The secretary held up a slender and well-manicured finger. “Let me check, then. Your name?”

“O’Brien,” he responded. “Gerald O’Brien.”

The secretary lifted the handset and pressed a single button. “There’s a Mr. O’Brien out here, asking to see you…” she relayed after a moment’s pause, and her eyes flickered as she listened to the response from the other end of the line. Finally, nodding, she replaced the receiver in the cradle.

“Miss Parker is scheduled to meet with members of her security team in ten minutes,” the secretary announced evenly. “She can only give you a few moments…”

“I should only need a few moments,” O’Brien sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

The moment he had pushed the door open enough to step through, Miss Parker’s voice came at him. “I really don’t have time for a consultation, Mr. O’Brien…”

“I’m just keeping you up to date on my investigation, Miss Parker,” he replied, moving across the office and sitting down in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “After speaking to both you and Mr. Lyle, and seeing your dismay at the official expense report for your project, I did a little digging from home over the weekend.”

Miss Parker’s eyebrow soared up her forehead. “You did, did you?” she asked with a slightly caustic hint to her voice.

O’Brien chose to ignore the tone. “Yes, ma’am – and what I discovered was most unsettling. It turns out you’re right – and there seems to be nothing in common between the report you would have submitted from your spreadsheet and the expense report that Mr. Raines has been working from. Absolutely none of your receipts are even listed on the official report – and none of the receipt numbers from the official report are listed on your private report.”

Miss Parker folded her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. “You’re not telling me anything that I don’t already know,” she snapped at him.

“I was wondering if you had the hard-copy receipts available…” he asked hopefully, “of the ones you filed originally OR the ones listed in the official report?”

She unfolded her arms and leaned forward to lift the phone receiver and push a button. “Darla, bring the file containing receipts for the last three months, will you?” she demanded after a slight pause. “And bring the file with the report I got last Friday – the one with the receipts.”

Less than a minute later, the dark-haired secretary was walking smartly through the office doors carrying two manila folder, which she quietly handed to her boss and then retreated from the room again. Miss Parker opened the folders in turn as if to check the contents, and then closed them both again and handed them across the desk.

“Here you are. You’ll see that my originals are all properly numbered according to scan numbers, and the yellow copy of the reimbursement application is affixed…” She scowled. “You’ll also notice that there’s a serious discrepancy between the signatures on the receipts I’m claiming and those in the official report.

O’Brien opened the folder and saw that at least he wouldn’t have to be re-arranging things so that they’d make more sense. Miss Parker knew how to keep her expenses properly. “Thank you, Miss Parker – these will be quite helpful…”

“Why not work from the scans in the mainframe?” she asked, her curiosity finally being piqued slightly.

“Because,” O’Brien closed the folder and inserted it in his thin, leather document case, “from what I can tell so far, the receipts you logged in the expense report you gave me have all been submitted and marked reimbursed – but I’m not sure who received the money. However, I’m beginning to suspect that there has been an on-going fraud, using your and Mr. Lyle’s offices as fronts to launder in-house money.”

Miss Parker’s brows once more soared – and this time she leaned across her desk, all sarcasm and taunting set aside. “Proof?”

“I’m going to see if I can speak to Mr. Lyle – get his hard-copy receipts as well – and then present my findings to Mr. Raines. After that, I’m going to talk to my former supervisor and see if there can’t be some way to track the reimbursements…”

O’Brien found himself caught in a very intelligent and very interested blue-grey gaze that seemed to measure him all the way down to his soul. “Is there any way that my staff can help expedite your investigation?”

O’Brien’s eyes began to twinkle. “You’re the head of SIS, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly.

Miss Parker was almost taken aback at the brashness of the question. “You know I am,” she replied archly.

“And you have high-level security clearance to access files in the mainframe, do you not?”

The blue-grey eyes narrowed slightly even as a knowing look floated across her features. “I do – and so does my computer consultant.”

O’Brien leaned forward in ill-disguised excitement. “It would be so much better if I could present clear and unassailable proof of file tampering, Miss Parker – with your private expense reports alongside to prove that your claims aren’t half as outrageous as the ones made in your names…”

Miss Parker put up a hand to halt his narrative and picked up her desk telephone again, this time dialing a three-digit extension. She waited until the other end of the line had been picked up and then announced without any preamble at all, “Get your ass up here, Shaggy. I have…” She listened to what obviously was a loud complaint. “I KNOW we had an appointment to meet in just five minutes. I want you up here NOW, though. I have an errand I want you to run for me…” The blue-grey touched O’Brien’s face. “…actually, for me and for our new bean-counter here.”

She listened, her face drawing into an expression of mild exasperation from whatever she was hearing. “I don’t care – actually, what I want you to do may end up having a direct bearing on that mainframe sweep you need to do…” She nodded. “Just get up here. I’ll let him explain what he wants to you – and I expect you to give him exactly what he asks for.”

She nodded brusquely and then hung up. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. O’Brien?”

“No, ma’am!” Actually, she’d done more for him than he’d expected – or even thought possible.

There was a knock on her office door, and then a balding man stuck his head around the corner. “You sent for me, Miss Parker?”

“Yes, Broots.” She motioned him in. “This is Mr. O’Brien – and he’s looking into the mess that is our project finances. He has a few suspicions – I want you to help him look into the darker corners of the mainframe for answers…” Her face grew intense. “…if you get my drift… Just like you’re doing for Sam.”

“Sam?” The computer expert swallowed when a glance at the silent sweeper sitting off to the side got a glower from that quarter that told him to just play along, IF he knew what was good for him. Not willing to contradict his boss AND worry about getting her sweeper in his face too, he merely nodded quickly. “Yes, Miss Parker.” Watery blue eyes danced nervously over to O’Brien. “What about the security team meeting in five minutes?”

Miss Parker waved her hand imperiously. “It’s just been postponed until this afternoon. Move it!”

Broots sighed and then gestured to the accountant. “We can… we can work in my office… This way…”

“Thank you, Miss Parker,” O’Brien smiled at her in relief. It seemed that she responded much more positively to someone openly looking for the truth of the matter.

“Good day to you, Mr. O’Brien,” she nodded more graciously than she had at first. “And let me know what you find.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Parker,” he assured her, “you’ll be one of the first three people I tell.”

Miss Parker waited until Broots and O’Brien had left before turning to Sam, who had kept his habitual silence all through the interview. “Well?”

Sam shrugged. “He still didn’t tell you much of anything you didn’t already know, Miss Parker.”

“I know – but he did confirm what I’d told him earlier, and is going to look into it…”

The thought was disquieting, and Sam hoped his unease with the idea didn’t show. The copy of the official report, and the troublesome receipt signatures, was still in his briefcase. His friend in accounting had shown him how easy it would be to falsify such things and get them entered – IF there were a dual set of books being kept, that is. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Broots yet – to see if there was a very quiet, secret way to get into the inner workings of the mainframe to see how and where such an entry might have been made – and now, it seemed, the investigation would be considerably less quiet, less subtle, that he’d wanted.

“Maybe I should coordinate my investigation into this one?” Sam looked up suddenly. If he could control the search, he might just keep this development from turning into the key that could get someone hurt.

“Perhaps.” Miss Parker nodded slowly. “I figured you’d have been talking to Broots sooner or later – might as well make it sooner then…” She frowned as the big man rose almost immediately. “Did you find anything Friday?”

Sam tried not to flinch. “No, ma’am, nothing of any real note other than the official processes that kick in when a receipt is submitted.” It was the truth – although not the whole truth. He’d discuss the rest of the truth with Broots – when he had a moment alone with the little geek. If nothing else, it was a security hole that could be plugged with hopefully just a few lines of coding – or something else just as innocuous and easily accomplished to someone with a knack for computers.

“I’ll expect a progress report this afternoon,” Miss Parker told him, her eyes narrowing slightly. It was hard to believe, but she could have sworn Sam had blanched slightly at her question. Something wasn’t right.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam whirled and made a quick exit.

Miss Parker leaned back in her chair and sighed as she fingered her pendant thoughtfully. No, something definitely wasn’t right – with Sam. When he normally took charge of something, it was handled in an extremely efficient and prompt manner. So why was he hedging now?

~~~~~~~~*

“Here you are.” Jim McKenna opened an office door and waved his new employee in. “You have a fine view of center green from here,” he announced, moving to open the Venetian blinds and allow the late autumn sun entrance.

“This is more than I’d expected sir,” Jarod gaped. “I thought I was only hired to be a financial consultant.”

“Nonsense!” McKenna grinned at him. “Someone with your talent and resume deserves to have more authority and responsibility than just being one of the penny-pinchers that keep this place floating. I need someone to oversee expenditures – watching for project cost over-runs, that sort of thing. The Foundation is looking into expanding into new fields – and I won’t have the stability we enjoy now threatened by any of these new ventures at all.”

Jarod walked around to where his new chair was tucked neatly into the desk and pulled the chair out. On the desk were the tools of his “trade” – an adding machine as well as a flat panel monitor and keyboard/mouse arrangement behind what was obviously a dumb terminal for the Foundation mainframe.

“In here,” McKenne pulled out the top right-hand drawer and pointed at the thick, three-ring notebook bound in royal blue carrying the Foundation’s logo, “you’ll find the employee handbook, as well as an insert giving you your security level and password to the computer system here. Any questions?”

“Yes.” Jarod put his briefcase in the chair and turned to his new employer. “Just how and where do you want me to start?”

McKenna chuckled. “Good man. I like you, Simmons…”

“Thank you, sir…”

“There are three projects that I want you to scrutinize closely for the time being – and those project names are on another insert in your binder there. There have been some questionable expenses from all three of these projects in the last three months – and I’d like you to chase down the legitimacy of those claims.”

“Yes, sir.” Jarod nodded. That was, after all, the job for which he had applied – the job that would get him the closest to finding out just what Bob Rogers had uncovered, and who stood to benefit most from Rogers’ demise.

“Spend the morning familiarizing yourself with the computer system and the handbook – and then come to see me after your lunch. I’ll introduce you to the project heads whose work you’re going to be overseeing in the near future.”

“Yes, sir.”

McKenna put out his hand for Jarod to shake – a handshake that was firm and steady. “I’ll be talking to you later.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

Jarod watched McKenna walk from his office and pull the door shut behind him – and then slid his briefcase from the chair so that he could sit down. He touched the button on the dumb terminal that connected to the mainframe and dug out the royal blue folder, his fingers quickly finding the loose insert that had his computer terminal number and security password printed on it. Then he smiled as the opening menu came up – the Foundation’s mainframe was built on the very same platform that the Centre’s had been. It was a platform that HE himself had designed so many years earlier as part of a SIM for the government – or at least, so he’d been told at the time; and it was a platform he was more than capable of circumventing without much trouble at all.

Had the Foundation stolen the coding, he wondered idly, or had they actually paid good money to buy the thing legally? Not that it mattered much…

A quick set of undocumented keystrokes activated the administrative consultant window – something he’d imbedded in the system from the very beginning to allow him to tweak and submit bug-fixes form anywhere while still at the Centre. It had also allowed him to hack his way easily into the very heart of the system ever since then. Even Mr. Broots, with all of his very considerable skill at the computer that the Centre so under-appreciated, didn’t know about this particular back door.

Jarod quickly scanned the coding of the opening screen, finding and noting the position of the keystroke logger for that particular terminal ID. Designed to keep track of an employee’s activities while working on the computer, it had not recorded the quick and secret keystrokes that functioned completely outside menu options and additional software – and Jarod smiled. That freedom from observation served his purpose quite nicely, since most of his in-depth investigation of files and information pertaining to Robert Rogers – his work as engineer and so on – could be just as easily managed on the administrative consultant screen.

Two quick keystrokes closed the admin window, leaving him staring at the opening menu again. Best do as Mr. McKenna suggested and familiarize himself with company policies, he decided, and pushed the keyboard back to make room for the binder.

After all, this Pretend promised to be a fairly long-lived one.

~~~~~~~~*

“You need to see this,” Willy announced without even asking permission to come into Mr. Raines’ office.

“Excuse me?” The wheeze at the end of the question did nothing to hide the near outrage at the interruption. Raines hadn’t even managed to get half-way through his first cup of coffee yet, much less read the activities report from the previous evening’s security teams.

“You need to see this,” Willy merely repeated and dropped yet another series of photographs on his superior’s desk.

Raines stared long and hard at his sweeper, and then glanced down at the pictures – only to start sputtering. “Not again!”

The photographs were graphic – and obviously taken with a night “scope” with a camera attached. The photos documented, from beginning to gruesome end, Lyle’s activities with a young Asian woman – from picking her up as if she’d been a prostitute selling her wares on the street, to escorting her into a hotel room, to carrying out a large garbage bag that he HADN’T carried in with him, to dumping the bag over an escarpment on a narrow and little-used road outside of Baltimore, to a nauseating peek at the contents of the bag, to a peek into the hotel room and the mess that the butchery had caused that had evidently yet to be either discovered or cleaned up.

“The same woman?” Raines asked, his face stony.

“Nope.” Willy shook his head. “Some bimbo he picked up in the Baltimore red-light district.”

“I take it the police are now involved?”

“Yes, sir. The sweepers watching the dump site said that the body was found early this morning.” Willy watched his boss’ face for an indication of his thinking – with only limited success. As expected, this had infuriated the old man.

Raines let his fingers push the photographs around with distaste. “And where is my so-called “son” now?”

“In his office, sir,” Willy replied with the neutral tone that hid his glee. “I don’t know that he slept very much last night – getting home around three in the morning – but he made it in to work on time.”

The skeletal Chairman sighed heavily. “It seems Mr. Lyle is becoming the kind of liability that the Centre simply cannot afford,” he wheezed softly, as much to himself as to Willy. Cold blue eyes snapped up to the dark face of the sweeper. “That will be all.”

“Do you want me to handle this?” Willy pressed very carefully, remembering his boss’ reticence at discussion Lyle only the day before.

“Not yet,” Raines gasped as he drew in more life-giving oxygen. “Your help will be needed – but later. Get in touch with the Baltimore office – see how much of this investigation can be sidetracked for a while.”

“Sir?”

The blue eyes snapped. “Until we’ve handled things from this end to the point that nothing will lead back to the Centre. That Will Be All!”

The frustration mounted a notch, but Willy didn’t show a bit of it as he simply nodded his compliance and headed toward the etched glass doors. Mr. Raines must be planning something big to keep him so completely out of the loop – and that wasn’t like him, Willy mused as he headed toward the elevator and the sweeper’s lounge two floors down.

Ah well. He’d find out soon enough – that was certain. He’d been told his help would be required eventually – and he had enough to keep him busy with trying to direct the Baltimore team in dealing with the police there. As much as his curiosity was beginning to get the best of him – and as much as he’d dearly love to be a part of “handling” Lyle in one of the only ways that perverted weasel understood – he could wait.

For a while, anyway…

~~~~~~~~~*

There was a knock on the office door, and then a greying head peered around the corner. “You sent for me?”

“Yes, come in Joshua,” Evanston waved in the psychiatrist, “and close the door.”

Joshua Kelly manipulated his crutches and pushed the door closed behind him, then moved in his awkward gait to the chair in front of the desk. Hugh Evanston’s office was the best in the entire Montana facility, with a picture window that overlooked a spectacular mountain scene beyond. “What’s this about? Cancer is just about ready…”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Evanston interrupted his researcher with quiet firmness. “There has been a change in plans.”

The grey brows climbed the older man’s forehead toward the bushy crop of hair that dangled limply, never staying under control or out of the way. “A change in plans?”

“Yes.” Evanston pushed a copy of the documentation he’d received by fax just that morning across the desk at the disabled man. “New directives from the Tower. You’re to prepare Cancer for a full-scale test of his abilities – and be prepared to begin work on a real SIM starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Kelly gaped.

“The time has come, it seems, for our little establishment to begin to earn its keep,” Evanston related, translating the terseness of the message that had accompanied the formal orders into more digestible terms. “A representative of a group that has been underwriting our endeavor will be on-site tomorrow with the details of a full-scale SIM to be handled by Cancer. You have a day to prepare your subject.”

Kelly was a good man, though, Evanston thought, very capable. He handled stress better than almost any other of the psychiatric staff at the facility. If pressure was to be applied, Joshua Kelly was the man who would be most likely to perform best. Even now, the project director could see the psychiatrist handling the news and assigning it the priority it needed to be dealt with efficiently and capably. “Are any of the others being given a similar test?”

“No,” Evanston shook his head. “Cancer is the only one deemed fully ready to begin to implement. I’m sure, as time passes, the rest of them will each begin to run SIMs for the Tower – but your interest should be with and stay with Cancer. Do whatever you feel necessary to prepare him.”

Kelly nodded thoughtfully. “Is there anything else?”

Evanston decided that the pressure he’d put on this facet of Duplicity was adequate – and not to share the veiled threats that would take greater shape if success was not quick and decisive. “No. I just thought you should hear this straight from me, rather than get it through an inter-office memo.”

Kelly’s hazel eyes narrowed slightly. He’d been employed by the Centre long enough to know that when a superior started to dissemble, things were not quite as rosy as they might otherwise appear. “Then I should get back to work,” he stated, working himself out of the chair until his frame was supported by the crutches attached to his forearms. He was just about to turn, but then faced Evanston again. “Any idea of the nature of the SIM we’ll be running?”

Evanston shook his head. “Not a clue. Whoever it is that’s coming will be providing all that information when he or she arrives.”

“Just who are they sending?”

Evanston just kept shaking his head. “Again, I’ve no clue, Joshua. But I understand they’re arriving in Helena this afternoon and then motoring in early in the morning.”

“You don’t suppose it would be the Chairman himself, do you?” Kelly’s eyes darkened. “Maybe he wants to see his pet project succeed personally?”

“Don’t worry about who’s coming. Go on back to your lab – get your subject ready for what he’s facing tomorrow.”

“What should I do about the engineering SIM he’s been running, though? I thought it was going to be important…”

Evanston sighed. Yes, Kelly was a good man – but there had evidently been a very good reason to ship him out of the Delaware facility to this relatively isolated locale. The man simply didn’t know when to put a cork in it. “Joshua! That will be all! Do whatever you need to in order to draw the current concern to a close – and maybe give Cancer some down time…”

“Down time?” The psychiatrist was agape again. “He’s NEVER been allowed…”

“Look, just do what you need to.” Evanston was starting to get seriously peeved. “I have work to do too, to prepare for our visitors. You do your work, I’ll do mine – and neither of us can do a thing with you in my office.”

Kelly sighed too. Getting Mr. Raines out here to observe the job he’d done training Cancer to be far more compliant and resourceful than even the infamous Jarod would be a major coup – one that might see him rescued from this virtual exile and returned to the bosom of the Centre Psychogenics Department. It appeared, however, that such a rescue would have to wait, for a little while more, at least.

Evanston watched the psychiatrist wend his way back out of his office, shutting the door with deliberate calmness and precision. And so it begins, he mused as he picked up the type-written letter that had accompanied the new directive:

I expect the Triumvirate representative to be treated with the same level of respect as you would accord to me. S/he will be given full clearance to observe any or all other operating aspects of the facility, up to and including the work of any of the other subjects. You and your staff will be given two weeks to set up, run, and complete this simulation; and you will see to it personally that the project delivers on its promised schedule – or know that your future with the Centre will be under review, as will that of any staff involved in the failure. Failure is not an option, Dr. Evanston.

So much of what was expected was out of his hands – and yet, everything that had been offered to any of the boys had resulted in answers well within the working parameters of the project. This would be just a more official simulation – but would JUST be another simulation. As Mr. Raines said, failure wasn’t an option – success was the only result this project had seen to date, and there was no reason to believe that the Triumvirate SIM would end any differently. He had known this day would come – and he was confident that there would be no problem delivering to this representative whatever results were desired within the two weeks given.

The thoughts were comforting, but Evanston still felt the need to adjust the tightness of his shirt collar in contemplation of just what MIGHT be in store if his confidence was misplaced. That wasn’t a comforting thought at ALL.

~~~~~~~~~*

Broots stared and then stared again. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

“What?” O’Brien scooted closer so as to see what was spread across the monitor screen, only to find the blue background filled with line after line of what seemed like gibberish. “What did you find?”

The expression on the balding man’s face was a curious mixture of disgust and admiration. “So THAT’S how it happened.”

“What?” O’Brien repeated, this time a little more forcefully, “how what happened?”

Broots’ finger stabbed at the bottom of the screen. “See that there? It’s just one line of coding – but it’s one damned insidious little device.” He glanced over at the accountant and then seemed to realize that deciphering computer code was HIS forte, not that of his companion for the morning. “It’s a redirect command, with an interesting little twist that it redirects every other terminal in the entire Centre BUT the one in Miss Parker’s office.”

“Redirects? You mean, tells the computer…”

“To look somewhere other than where the on-screen option would make a person THINK they were being sent.” Broots frowned. “And see? The filename being accessed during redirection is only one character off from the original – making the deception very hard to notice during access.”

“So you’re saying there are two files – not that Miss Parker’s has been hacked…”

“Oh, Miss Parker’s been hacked all right,” Broots snorted, his sense of outrage finally kicking in. “She’d continue to add to her own personal file, thinking that the rest of the mainframe would access it too when it came time to issue expense reports. What she didn’t’ know was that everybody else would be accessing a file that has nothing whatsoever to do with her or her real expenses.”

“Can we tell who created the file in the first place?” O’Brien asked curiously.

Broots did something arcane that made a smaller black window appear in the middle of his screen and then typed a command into it. Immediately a line of information blinked back at him. “Nope. All we can do is see the last time it was accessed.”

“Just time – not who?”

Broots blinked, thought for a moment and then typed again. “Maybe not necessarily who – but we can see WHERE it was accessed from.” He pointed. “Each terminal that accesses the mainframe has a distinct ID. And while the log won’t say whose password was used to unlock a terminal, it will tell us which ID was in use at any particular time of the day or night…”

O’Brien was quiet for a moment. “But…” he began finally, “…don’t each of us with a password have a terminal that we would ordinarily access the mainframe from? How many of us would change terminals over the course of a day?”

“Under normal conditions, you’d be onto something,” Broots nodded in agreement. “But you’re forgetting one thing…”

“What’s that?”

“This is the Centre,” Broots replied, as if those three words could explain the secrets of the universe itself. At O’Brien’s continued blank look, he added, “There is no such thing as “normal” here.”

The accountant blinked in surprise. “That’s a very jaded thing to say,” he commented with a slight frown of disapproval.

“How long have you been working here?” Broots asked in response.

Again O’Brien blinked. “Five years, why?”

Broots sniffed. The man was a virtual infant, innocent to almost everything that could and had gone on within these walls. “Just wait until you’ve been here a while longer. It takes time to figure things out – to get past the surface to something closer to the truth. Not that the truth lives here very often,” he added under his breath as he brought up the log for the day the second, “official” file had been last accessed. “OK. There’s the ID of the terminal used,” he pointed and then grabbed a pencil and scribbled the ID onto the first piece of paper he could lay his hand on. He put the pencil between his teeth and opened yet another black window in the middle of the last one. “Now we’ll fee where fiss ‘erminal is,” he somehow managed and waited for the mainframe to once more answer his command.

“Well?” O'Brien demanded, leaning in until Broots could barely read his monitor screen.

“Jiff a fec,” the technician said and gave his monitor a little tug to get it closer to where HE was, and then blinked, dropping the pencil from his mouth to the desk and then into his lap without noticing. “Accounting department – one of the pool machines,” he announced with a scowl. “Damn.”

“Why damn?”

“Pool machines are accessed normally by any number of individuals – they just kind of sit out where anybody can get to them. Someone could just wander into the accounting pool and sit down. You’ve been there,” Broots turned to his companion. “You know how easy it is to just sit down in an empty cubby and…”

“Yeah…” O'Brien rubbed under his nose in frustration and then sighed. “When was the last time it was accessed?”

“Last night,” Broots replied, flipping back a window to check the log. “Late last night – ten o’clock.”

O'Brien stared at him. “Last night? Sunday night?”

Broots stared back at him. “Now why would someone have been in the Accounting pool at ten-thirty on a Sunday night?”

“A better question would be WHO would be sitting in an Accounting pool cubby at ten-thirty on a Sunday night,” O'Brien returned crisply.

“This is something I can get Sam to look into,” Broots muttered to himself, and reached for the phone to dial an extension.

“Thanks, Mr. Broots,” O'Brien clapped the technician on the shoulder. “I’ll let you continue this end of the investigation – I have another avenue or two that I need to follow before I can present my findings to Miss Parker or Mr. Raines.”

“Don’t forget the security meeting this afternoon,” Broots reminded him, a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver while waiting for Sam to answer his cell phone.

O'Brien pushed his chair away from the technician’s desk and moved quickly through the door and towards his own office. He clicked on the light and seated himself quickly at his own terminal. His password needed no thinking anymore, and then he was slipping through the mainframe – and the re-direct command Mr. Broots had pointed out – until he had that “official” expense file on his screen. Then, like Mr. Broots, he grabbed at a pencil and, pulling a white page from his printer, began noting down the transaction numbers for the latest reimbursements. It was interesting to note which amounts had been issued actual paper checks as compared to those where the money had just been funneled electronically from one virtual pocket at the Centre to another – finding that the larger the amount, the more likely a paper check had been issued.

Armed with what he knew was a solid lead, O'Brien bounded from his chair and made a mad dash for the elevator. He tapped his toe impatiently as he waited for the silver door to slide aside, and then pounded on the button for the sublevel he’d worked on for the past five years. He crossed his arms and again tapped his toe while waiting for the little metal box to take him up to SL-3, and squeezed past the sliding door when it didn’t open fast enough for him once it arrived.

“Is he in?” he demanded breathlessly of the young blonde who had just recently been given the job of Vickering’s secretary/assistant.

“Yeah, but…”

O'Brien didn’t wait to hear more – he strode to the door, knocked and pulled it open.

Vickering looked up at the interruption, his face in a scowl. “I’ll get back to you,” he stated into the telephone hurriedly and then hung up. “I thought you were working for Mr. Raines now,” he stated with a frown.

“I am, but…”

“What gives you the right to come barging in here…”

“Look!” O'Brien brought the paper and put it down in front of his former boss. “We’ve discovered that there is a second set of books being kept in the mainframe – and that this set of reimbursements has been issued against claims made in the fraudulent file. I need to see the scans of the cashed checks, and any electronic transaction numbers for simple ledger transfers.”

Les Vickering let his brows climb his forehead. “Two sets of books?”

“It sure looks as if someone is trying to defraud the Centre – and blame Miss Parker and Mr. Lyle for it…” O'Brien told him triumphantly.

“Have you told Mr. Raines about any of this?” Vickering asked, even as he began to type into his terminal.

“Not yet,” O'Brien answered, his eyes once more glued to a computer monitor. “I will when I have something more solid to work with other than terminal IDs and…”

“Here,” Vickering shook his head. “It’s going to take me a while to dig up all the particulars you want – and print out the scans of the canceled checks. Why don’t you go back down to your new office – I’ll bring you what I find in an hour or so.”

“Great!” O'Brien clapped his former supervisor on the back. “I knew I could count on you for an assist on this.” His steps out of Vickering’s office had a spring that bespoke of a man confident of his immediate future.

Vickering pushed the paper with the half-illegible scribbles back and picked up the telephone again, dialing a three-digit extension. “We’ve REALLY got problems now,” he announced grimly.

~~~~~~~~*

“Mr. Raines? Your call to Tommy Tanaka has come through…”

Raines didn’t even acknowledge his secretary’s efforts, but pushed the button for the other active line. “Mr. Tanaka. William Raines here…”

“Mr. Raines.” The voice on the other end of the line didn’t sound friendly in the least. “My name is Toshiro Aoki, and I will be translating for you and Tanaka-sama…” There was a spate of Japanese that sounded almost angry, and then Aoki took a deep breath. “Tanaka-sama says that you have… a great deal of… um… courage… to call us after the last time Yakuza had dealings with Centre.”

Raines flinched, although this was not an unexpected reaction. Lyle was the one that had botched the transfer of the woman who had seen “Sonny” Tanaka murder a man – a woman who had then given testimony that had resulted in Tanaka being convicted of first-degree murder with special circumstances. “Sonny” Tanaka had sat on death row until his execution on year ago – the American branch of the Tanaka Yakuza decimated by investigative work carried out by the FBI and the Treasury Department not long thereafter. The money that the Yakuza had paid the Centre for the woman’s delivery had been stolen by Jarod – leaving the Centre itself to have to pay back the millions out of emergency funding. Neither organization had profited – and both had lost greatly.

“I would remind Mr. Tanaka that the Centre was also made a victim,” Raines wheezed nervously. “And while we made good on our financial obligation, I’ve decided that the time has come to give a more… complete… reimbursement for the pain and suffering.”

There was an exchange of quiet Japanese, some urgent, some calm and authoritative. “Tanaka-sama wants to know exactly what kind of reimbursement you’re speaking of,” Aoki stated finally in English.

“The Centre finds that it would be financially expedient to sell to the Yakuza the man responsible for all of the trouble in regards to Mr. Tanaka’s father’s situation,” Raines said as clearly as he could and then worked hard to not gasp in more oxygen noisily. “We are proposing a simple trade – Mr. Lyle for one million US.”

Again the exchange of Japanese commenced – and again there was a raised voice agitating for or against something behind them all. The discussion took longer than the last, but finally Aoki’s voice came back on the line. “One million US is a lot of money, Raines-san. How do we know that you will be able to deliver as promised this time, when last time…”

“This time, I will be handling the exchange personally,” Raines replied with a soft wheeze at the end of his statement. “There will be no computers, no electronics involved where a third party can infiltrate and disrupt our arrangements. The million will be in cash – and Mr. Lyle will be exchanged physically for the money. Any problems, and both of us can withdraw…” This time, the wheeze couldn’t be suppressed. “…no harm, no foul, nobody coming up short.”

The Japanese discussion that resulted that time was short. “Tanaka-sama will consider your offer, Raines-san. You will receive an answer within twenty-four hours.” With that, the line went dead in Raines’ hand.

The Chairman of the Centre put the receiver down with a snort of frustration. Still, they hadn’t turned him down flat – and a million US would go a long way to tiding the Centre over as far as payroll for key personnel until Duplicity began to prove itself. He leaned back in his chair and twisted as far as the rubber tubing from his oxygen tank would allow.

Just a few days longer – he just had to hang on a few days longer, so that the Triumvirate could see the potential in Duplicity and come through with some desperately needed emergency loans.

~~~~~~~~*

“Duplicate files, you say?” Sam frowned at the computer tech. Here he’d been thinking that a second set of books had been kept – and Broots had found them all on his own…

“Well, not EXACTLY duplicate files. It’s more a case of a shell game within the mainframe – with the bulk of the information access being given to the wrong file.” Broots used yet another envelope back to write two filenames. “See? One is PretPkrEx, the other is PrelPkrEx. Unless a person were being VERY careful, and knew what to look for…”

“They’d not think to check the exact filename.” Sam finished for him. “Very clever.” VERY clever. Whoever had done this was doing a damned good job of hiding their tracks.

“That’s for damned sure – especially considering the only terminals where the real file could be accessed are right in Miss Parker’s office.” Broots shook his head. “This is an impressive bit of hacking.”

“So we’re looking for someone with computer knowledge?” Sam frowned again. “That makes no sense. Why would a computer geek want to mess with Miss Parker’s expense reports?”

Broots shrugged. “All I know is that the last time this duplicate file was accessed, it was late on this past Sunday night – and it was accessed from one of the terminals in the Accounting pool.” He turned his blue eyes on the sweeper’s countenance. “I was thinking that maybe you would want to check into the DSA of that night’s surveillance camera in the Accounting pool – and find out just who it was that was looking into Miss Parker’s fake expenses after everybody else was in bed on a Sunday night…”

Sam nodded. “That sounds like a good place for me to start.” The DSA archival staff was comprised of highly specialized sweepers – making that part of the investigation ideal for him to pursue. “I’ll get right going…”

“I think Miss Parker wants us all to meet…” Broots dug through the loose papers that littered his desk and pulled out one. “Yeah. Miss Parker has set a meeting for four-thirty this afternoon. O'Brien will be there – you might as well let her know how your end of things is looking too.” He tossed down the paper and turned back to his monitor. “And in the meanwhile, I’m going to see if I can find any other suspicious coding…”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Sam frowned again. “Why don’t you let me see what comes of this lead – maybe this is just a bean-counter gone nutso with power or something…”

Broots looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Remember the bit about Miss Parker supposedly in charge of doing a complete overhaul of the security systems in the mainframe? File re-direction would be one of those problems that she’d be expected to deal with in regards to that.”

Sam shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right…”

“Besides, O'Brien seemed to think what we found was pretty serious – especially considering the size of some of the checks that ended up written. I think he was going to be seeing about tracking transactions – or something like that. If I find more redirections like this one…”

Sam felt that same chill wrap around his heart. “You’re right – I need to check the DSA archive. I’ll see you at four-thirty,” he said and hurried from the technician’s computer lab.

Broots frowned. Sam was acting very peculiarly, especially considering the serious nature of the problems that had already been uncovered so far. Then there was the statement Miss Parker had made about Sam supposedly bringing something to him already – something that evidently hadn’t happened yet.

Something wasn’t right. Sam wasn’t normally this slow on the uptake.

He shrugged and turned back to his computer screen. Now that he had some idea of the technique used, by golly he was going to see whether there were any other redirect commands nestled into the heart of the operating system – and note down whose information was being shanghaied and to what ends. His concerns about Sam could wait for another time.

~~~~~~~~*

O'Brien sighed and looked at his wristwatch again. It was three thirty – an hour before he’d have to gather his evidence so far and be ready to make some kind of presentation to Miss Parker and the rest of her team – and he still didn’t have that one last piece of information that would make his presentation powerful.

Where was that man!

A quick stop in Behavioral Science had netted him a quick consultation with the resident handwriting expert. The man had quickly confirmed that the signatures on the receipts Miss Parker had received from Mr. Raines were NOT made by the same person who had signed the receipts she’d had her secretary pull from her own files. In fact, he’d pulled up a recent security report from the archives – a scanned copy that held a digital rendering of Miss Parker’s signature – and had that compared to the apparently fraudulent receipt signatures as well; and the expert had confirmed what the naked eye could easily see.

So now the only real lead from the mess he’d uncovered that stood a chance of leading the team toward the person or persons responsible for all of this lay in the endorsing signature on the hardcopy checks that had been issued as reimbursements. Hopefully that would confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the money had been diverted in much the way the electronic information had been sidetracked. The shell game that was the mess surrounding the Pretender Project balance sheet was incredibly complex – far more than he’d originally considered.

He’d spent the better part of the last hour doing a forensic examination on both Miss Parker’s and Mr. Lyle’s personal finances – and neither of their accounts of record had seen any sizeable activity in the amounts in question. Miss Parker’s accounts showed only the semi-monthly influx as the Centre deposited her paycheck electronically. And while there had been considerable amounts deposited to Mr. Lyle’s personal accounts of late, none of the amounts tallied with any combination of the reimbursement checks issued to his office either.

He was about to reach for his telephone to contact Vickering again when a knock sounded on his doorway. “It’s open,” he called and glanced up to welcome Vickering with the report he needed. His face folded into confusion at the sight of a face he didn’t know. “Yes?”

“Mr. O'Brien?” the man asked in a soft, accented voice as he quietly closed the door behind himself.

“Yes?”

A moment later the door opened again, and the man walked from the now-darkened office, heading confidently for the elevator.

~~~~~~~~*

Langer waited until the car door had slammed and Delgado was safely inside, with his package stored in the back of the SUV, before turning the key in the ignition of the rental vehicle. “Did you get everything?” Fishbain asked his team leader impatiently.

“Amazing what having enough cash to pay the going rate can get you,” Delgado grinned at his team. “I’ve got enough C-4 in the trunk to level most of this town.”

“As long as it’s enough to level that structure,” Langer shrugged as he put the car into gear.

“If the blueprints tell the story, it’s more than enough, Dave. Don’t worry.”

“But I do worry,” Langer frowned. “We still haven’t figured out exactly how we’re going to get to those kids before we blow the place…”

“YOU may not, but I’ve had an idea or two,” Fishbain told them triumphantly. “I did a little web-surfing while you two were sleeping on the plane – courtesy of a password our “friend” left for us in all those papers we were given. Seems there are a number of the lesser staff at this place who haven’t been paid – or, rather, whose paychecks have been light for the last few periods.”

“Don’t tell me…” Delgado was already smiling.

“I have names – and addresses in Whitefish, where most of the staff are housed. I’m thinking a few thousand dollars, placed in the proper and needy hands, might give us an in that we wouldn’t be able to get otherwise…” Fishbain’s face was a study in satisfaction. “A couple of these folks are orderlies – really low level folks who could be convinced to let one of US wear the uniform and slip through the security check…”

“You, my friend, are a genius!” Langer pounded the steering wheel in appreciation. “Using the Centre’s own people against them – it’s classic!”

Delgado resisted the urge to join in the celebration just yet. “Hang on, guys. We still have to get to Whitefish, contact these folks, and figure out exactly what kind of schedule we can make as far as executing the job is concerned. Still…” He clapped the computer expert on the shoulder from the back seat. “…not bad planning. I knew we kept you around for a reason…”

Langer ducked his head slightly as he perused the bunched highway signs, then turned the car north onto highway 15. “Think we can get there tonight?” he asked, an eye to the west and the sun hanging low on the horizon.

“Just drive,” Delgado told him. “You and I both evidently have had more sleep than our friend here – we can make it. We’ll start the actual arrangements in the morning – Dave can see about getting phone numbers and making meeting arrangements for us with the folks on Jerry’s list while Jerry and I scope out the place. I need to see if the blueprints do the actual construction justice – or whether I need to head back to Helena for more C-4.”

“We need to figure out what the hell we’re gonna do with three kids – teenagers – until we can turn them over to our friend too,” Langer added, nodding as his face sobered quickly. “We gonna keep ‘em drugged, or what?”

“We’re going to neutralize the employees we bribe after we’re done with them – right?” Fishbain asked, glancing over his shoulder at Delgado.

Delgado’s dark eyes met and held the hazel gaze of his comrade. “Since when do we ever leave witnesses behind, Jerry?” was the soft reply.

Fishbain nodded and turned back to watching the road, while Delgado leaned back against the seat and folded his arms across his chest. This job was going to be tricky – and not leaving witnesses behind to point fingers was only one of the messier aspects of the kind of work they did. Still, there were five suitcases stacked carefully in the back of this car filled with nothing but cash that made those messy aspects feasible risks – with the promise of many more similar suitcases once the job was done.

Hell, they wouldn’t have to worry about doing any more jobs for a good long time, when this was over. And THAT made it all worthwhile.

~~~~~~~~~*

Mr. Raines picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Mr. Raines, you have a call on Line 3 from Japan – a Mr. Aoki?” Kristen’s voice announced gently.

“Thank you,” he managed to remember this time just before he pressed the button on the telephone set. “This is William Raines.”

“Raines-san. This is Aoki Toshiro, with a reply to your offer from this morning…”

“Yes?” Raines wheezed only slightly.

“We accept your offer. Exchange will take place tomorrow evening at nine o’clock your time, at Pier 18 in New York Harbor. You may come with one aide – and, of course, our package. Do not be late.”

“Nine o’clock, Pier 18 at New York Harbor,” Raines repeated softly as he wrote down the details, the need not to project his voice making his breathing far less noticeable. “Me and one aide.”

“Tanaka-sama is uninterested in the condition of our package – except that the delivery be made while he is still alive.” Aoki sounded utterly unaffected by the message he was passing along. “Conscious and aware would be optimal – but unnecessary.”

“I will see you tomorrow evening then,” Raines nodded at his phone.

“You will see us, Raines-san,” Aoki corrected coldly. “Do not be late, and do not fail to come. Yakuza will not tolerate any further betrayals from your organization.”

“Trust me,” Raines purred into the phone as best he could, “this delivery will go very smoothly.”

“Good evening, Mr. Raines.” The line went dead in his hands.

He quickly pressed the button that summoned Kristen back to her phone. “Send Willy in now. Tell him I have information he needs to have.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and hung up immediately.

Raines stretched back to enjoy the comfort of the expensive leather chair. One more day would see a serious problem removed – and with any luck, the restoration of some part of the profitable relationship with the Yakuza that Lyle’s unfortunate failure years ago had nearly destroyed. It would be hard to see how the Triumvirate wouldn’t feel the relief too, once they were informed.

Willy knocked on the glass doors and then entered and moved smoothly to a chair. “Yes, sir?”

Raines smiled at him. “We need to make plans. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

~~~~~~~~*

Broots fidgeted, Sydney’s gaze bounced from face to face round the table in what was for him boredom, and Sam glanced at his wristwatch for what had to be the fifth time. Miss Parker’s fingers drummed on her forearms as she sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed and pinned unmovingly on the doorway. “He’s late,” she hissed finally.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answered in a neutral tone that would deflect any of the potential anger forthcoming away from himself. “Five minutes late.”

“Damn it!” She slapped her hands on the table and rose to pace along the back of the room directly at the back end of the Sim Lab, next to Sydney’s office. “He did know about the meeting?”

“I…I reminded him just as he left my office,” Broots looked up with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. “He said that he had something else to check on…”

“Sam.” Miss Parker’s eyes landed on the face of her sweeper like the hand of doom. “Go fetch our tardy auditor from wherever it is that he’s ensconced himself – and be sure to let him know that further tardiness like this will NOT be tolerated.”

“Parker, please…” Sydney chided gently.

“Sam.” Miss Parker’s voice broached no contradiction.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam headed through the door almost immediately and strode purposefully across the Sim Lab to head down the corridor to where O'Brien had been given his space. Already the foot traffic on Sl-17 was beginning to thin as quitting time drew nigh – researchers and subjects alike were heading back to offices or out of the facility entirely. It was an ideal time to hold a meeting – most of the day’s work was already completed. Sam frowned at the sight of the open door to the office that had been assigned to O'Brien – if the door was open, he was probably there, and had just forgotten the meeting.

Miss Parker would make sure it was the LAST time Gerald O'Brien ever forgot what time a team meeting started, if Sam knew her at all – and the process of teaching that lesson was never a pretty one.

“Hey there! Miss Parker wants you in the Sim Lab meeting room…” Sam started, then hesitated. The figure in the chair didn’t move – and for some reason, the office light was out. “Hey O'Brien,” he called again as he reached for the light switch and threw the room into full illumination.

Sam’s face folded into a look of horror, however, as he finally got a good look at the face of the man seated at the desk. Jerry O'Brien’s expression was one of shock – and the back of his chair, away from which he seemed to sag slightly, was splattered with red and sickening blobs of grey. O'Brien’s face had very little blood on it – only just a very slight amount that had trickled from the neat little hole between the man’s eyes in the few moments before death had settled in.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Chapter Index: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33

Previous <<>> Fan Fiction <<>> Next <<>> Feedback