Storm Front

“People really like good manners.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” Storm said, then ended the call.

When Storm returned to Click’s office, the economist handed him a bound copy of the article that had been the basis for the Click Theory. Storm read it fast, skipping over the equations. Still, he felt like he was starting to understand it. Having seen the model in action helped.

“So there’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Storm said, as much to Xi Bang as to Click. “Say you’re the person killing these bankers. Why? What are you getting out of that? Dr. Click’s model would say you need these bankers alive, acting in concert, not in a morgue somewhere.”

“Well, we’ve already had some time to think about that and we have a theory,” Xi Bang said. “You have to recall, they were not just killed. They were tortured first.”

“Yeah? So?”

“We believe they were tortured for their MonEx passwords,” Xi Bang said.

“Translate, please.”

“The MonEx Four Thousand is the brand of terminal used by most major international currency traders,” Click said. “Part of what makes it pop u lar is the speed with which it completes trades, and that it allows you to access all your accounts through one interface.”

“So if you were looking to pull the so-called Korean trade, that’s what you’d use,” Storm said.

“Exactly,” Xi Bang said. “So, basically, Volkov is collecting these passwords for someone else, someone who would know how to use them to pull off this doomsday scenario.”

“Well, then isn’t this an easy problem to solve?” Storm said. “We just call the people who make the MonEx, tell them those accounts have been compromised, and ask for them to be shut down.”

Click had started shaking his head midway through Storm’s so-called solution.

“MonEx makes the terminals and licenses the operating system that runs them,” Click said. “But for liability reasons, it disavows any control over the accounts created on them or what happens with the accounts. Essentially, MonEx is insulating itself legally from this very sort of thing. It’s saying, ‘Hey, we just make the tool. What people do with the tool is up to them.’ The only person who can terminate an account is the pass code holder. And traders treat their pass codes like something more than gold. They are instructed to share them with absolutely no one. Not their spouses. Not their employers. Not anyone. The idea is that if they should happen to die, the accounts die with them.”

“Instead, even though these traders are dead, their accounts live on.”

“As far as the MonEx is concerned, they’re still alive, yes,” Click said.

“But, okay, let’s just say Volkov is able to get two more pass codes and is able to feed them to someone who can make the Click Theory a reality? Why would that person want to do that? Who would actually benefit from the dollar plunging in that matter?”

“Anyone could,” Click said. “Anyone who has advance knowledge that a market is about to make a dramatic move in one direction can use that knowledge to make an extraordinary profit.”

Storm leaned back in his chair, the copy of Click’s article resting on his chest as he stared up at the ceiling for a moment.

“And how many people read the Journal of Global Economics?” he asked.

“There are maybe a few thousand subscribers spread out across the world,” Click said. “Most of those are going to be large university libraries, so there’s no telling how many people are actually reading it. There are probably some large, institutional investors that subscribe, maybe a few of the shops on Wall Street. But when you get right down to it, it might be no more than fifteen hundred people, worldwide. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Storm said, “at this point, that’s our suspect pool.”

CHAPTER 14

NEW YORK, New York

Time was running short. The ghosts were blinking. There were three of them left, flashing pink-white, pink-white, pink-white. They would soon be deadly again. The window of opportunity was closing fast.

Whitely Cracker waited until the last possible second, until he had all three of the ghosts lined up perfectly. Then he slammed the joystick hard to the right, making Ms. Pac-Man plow through them in quick succession. A jubilant sound escaped the machine. A 400, 600, and 800, packed tightly together, floated toward the air. Victory. Victory. Victory.

Ordinarily, Whitely loved that move. Line ’em up, mow ’em down. The ghosts never knew what hit ’em. Nothing was more satisfying.

Except today, it gave him no satisfaction. And so, even though there were just a few pellets left to gobble before he reached the next screen, he committed video suicide, leaving Ms. Pac-Man to be consumed by the soon-to-be-regenerated ghosts.

Then he left the arcade room. He was still wearing his driving cap and driving gloves, having just made the trip in from Chappaqua. Finally, he took them off and got to work. He had his own ghosts to avoid.