Rio
The junior clerk sat at his desk in front of his computer, sullenly sipping his coffee. Nobody, he thought resentfully to himself, appreciated how difficult his job was. The past 6 months had been spent centralizing the organization's payroll; each of the divisions had fought tooth and nail, resisting all requests for handing over their personnel lists. It had finally taken orders from the boss's right hand man to make them comply. And the payment instructions? The clerk rolled his eyes. The Cayman Islands. Switzerland. The Bahamas.
Tomorrow, September 24, was the first payday with the new system. And was anyone there to congratulate him for all his hard work? Of course not. He continued to scan through the register, his final check before he sent the file on its way to the bank. He turned slightly, then jumped up and cursed, his hot coffee spilling over the desk and dripping down onto his pants. Screw it, he was done. He pushed the "send" key. He failed to notice the destination for the file. A server in Los Angeles.
**
"Sir?" Kendall looked up in annoyance. "Sir, I think you'd better take a look at this. We just received a transmission from an unknown source in Brazil. On our secure server."
Kendall's brows came together irritably. "Don't you think you should have figured out the source before interrupting me, Agent?"
"I'm not sure it matters, sir. I think this is the personnel listing for Sloane's entire organization."
**
Jakarta
The security guard yawned. His eyes lazily scanned the bank of cameras in front of him. What a surprise. Nothing had changed. To his certain knowledge, only one man went in and out of the vault, and he only once every few months. Except, of course, for the occasional service man. Electrician, to change the bulbs, every 6 months. Mechanic, to oil the vault doors, every two months. Sprinkler repair, to pressure check the system, once a year. Too bad about the sprinkler system, he snorted to himself. Those manuscripts down there would make someone a great campfire.
He glanced at his log. September 23. It would be a *busy* day. Sprinkler maintenance was already in the building for their annual check. And a new display case was being added to the vault tonight. The work had been ordered several months ago. He looked up to see the welder wheeling his equipment in through the door. He frowned.
"Who are you?" he asked the impossibly young welder.
"Mohammed, sir. Uncle Zafir was delayed, but sent me ahead to get everything set up."
The guard nodded curtly, and gestured towards the vault entrance. "Just don't hurt yourself with that thing," he said gruffly. He watched on the cameras as the teenager made his way down the hallway and into the vault. He had a son that age, too. Promising young boy, good with his hands. Loved to experiment. He stood up, scratched himself, and ambled down the hall for a snack.
Everything was all set up. Mohammed was a little unnerved being in the vault by himself. All around him he saw the same odd symbol – it looked like an eye. Eyes watching him. He shifted uneasily. He had watched his uncle do this kind of work before, was sure he could do it on his own. The faster he started, the faster he could get out of here. He opened the valve to the acetylene tank and rummaged around for the igniter. It took longer to find than he expected. When he finally lit the flame, he was alarmed by the size of the fireball he released and dropped the torch in fright. And watched with horror as a nearby manuscript exploded in flame. Panicked, he sprinted out of the vault, down the hall, past the security station, and out the door, away from the eyes staring at him reproachfully.
The security guard, returning to his station, settled back wearily into his chair. Then sprang out of it, cursing, as he saw the growing inferno on his cameras. The sprinklers. Where the hell were the sprinklers?
**
London
It was, thought the financial whiz as he watched the numbers move across his screen, better than sex. He had had to explain the scheme to Sloane's staff three separate times before they understood what he was proposing. Finally he'd had to take it to the level of their checkbooks.
"If you start with $100 in your bank account, and write 10 separate checks for $100 to 10 different people, how much money do you have?"
"$0?" answered one dubiously "$100?" answered another.
"No," the whiz had answered patiently. "For 2 days, until the funds are collected, you have $1000. On paper, anyway."
"And what good is that?" asked Sloane skeptically.
"Suppose you use the same strategy on, say, $100 million." The whiz looked around. Now he had everyone's attention. "Multiply it, and you could end up with several billion on paper. What could you do with several billion in disposable assets?" he asked eyes glittering. "One. Run up and crash any one of the global stock markets, triggering a financial crisis. That's if you were feeling mischievous. Two. Manipulate a country's currency to the point that you destabilize its banking system. That's if you were feeling destructive. Three. Manipulate a large corporation's stock price and make a killing on the spread. That's if you're feeling greedy."
"I'm feeling all three," said Sloane smiling thinly.
"But what happens when the funds are collected?" asked one of his staff. "Don't you lose it all? And go to jail?"
The whiz shrugged. "You cancel the payments right before collection. You get your original stake back, plus whatever profits you've made. It's a little more complicated than that, but it will work."
Sloane had been so impressed that he had assigned Jack to work with him personally.
The whiz had chafed as he had been forced to perform several small trial runs. The joy, the thrill, was in the large sums of money, moving markets, controlling markets. Finally, he had been given the green light for a date several months in advance, timed to coincide with the EEC's financial conference on September 23.
He sat at his computer screen in his home office, humming happily to himself in the early afternoon as he monitored the money transfers and global share prices. As long as he cancelled the transfers by the market close at 4pm, he would be fine. Another 20 minutes to go. Abruptly, and without warning, the lights went out and his screen went blank.
He stared dumbly at the screen for a moment, his heart in his throat. This was *impossible*. Not now. Frantically he grabbed the phone and dialed the power company.
"Good morning, and welcome to Midlands Power, where every day is a bright day. If you are calling about the power disruption in the Hemel Hempstead area, we are sorry to inform you that a fallen tree has interrupted service. We anticipate power being restored by tomorrow morning. We apologize for any inconvenience this might cause."
Inconvenience? Oh, God, Sloane would rip his balls off, he thought fearfully. It was all on this computer. The accounts, the purchases, the transfers. He considered his options for several seconds, then sprinted out of the room, never looking back.
Twenty minutes later, Sloane's funds were collected by a smattering of banks, currency traders, stock brokers, and offshore accounts. Because the commitments vastly exceeded the available funds, Sloane's accounts were sucked dry in a matter of minutes, first come, first served.
And one of the first to the party had been a small Swiss bank, collecting on behalf of one of its clients. Donahue Trust. Payment for services rendered.
**
A small African republic
September 23. Independence Day. A day that had once been celebrated for his country's liberation from colonial rule. And by the end of today, would be celebrated again, thought the rebel leader to himself. His country had suffered brutal repression since the coup 2 years ago. But with the mysterious infusion of money and arms 6 months ago, he had been able to rebuild his army. Tonight, under cover of darkness, they would storm the capital and reclaim the country, and its diamond resources, for the people.
**
Ring. Sloane's security head flicked open his cell phone with a snap. "Yes?" He listened intently. This informant was well placed. "You're sure? They're attacking tonight?" He listened again. "Sh*t." He hung up abruptly. Sloane would have his head. This location for the Sloane's headquarters had seemed so logical after they had been chased out of the last 3 locations. They owned the country, for chrissake. They had to evacuate, and evacuate *now*.
**
Sloane sat at his desk, phone in his hand, face ashen. How was it possible? How could all this be happening at one time? All of these events, evolving over months, all coming to a head simultaneously? He slammed down the phone as appalled realization swept him. Jack. Il Dire.
Sloane lurched to his feet. There was still time. He could use Il Dire to recover, to escape the forces that were closing in on him. He raced out of his office, only to come face to face with his Security head.
"Mr. Sloane, I've sent a team to dismantle Il Dire. We need to extract you now."
"No, you fool! Have them stop what they're doing. I need more time. Defend the building."
"But Mr. Sloane … ," the Security head gaped as Sloane rushed away down the corridor. Defend the building? Against an army?
Sloane raced into the room holding Il Dire, and saw to his disgust that the technician had fled. Rapidly Sloane attached the leads himself and, moving to the control panel, adjusted the settings. He had seen them do it hundreds of times with Jack.
He lay down on the table and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He'd pick the best future available, the one that left him in the most advantageous position, and go with it.
But he could see nothing. He snarled in anger. Those fools hadn't fixed the calibration. He stalked over to the control panel, turned up the strength, and waited. Still nothing. Rapidly he scanned the gauges; everything appeared to be operational. He turned up the strength even further and staggered back, dizzy and slightly disoriented. Finally, he thought. But still he saw nothing. Only darkness.
Sloane began to panic. Without Il Dire, his position was hopeless. He *must* be able to see his future. Desperate, he turned the dial to the maximum strength. And collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony, as his brain struggled to cope with the overdose of stimulation flooding it from Il Dire.
And in that moment he knew. Knew why he could see nothing when he tried to visualize his future. There was – no future to see. But as the assault from Il Dire continued, he was bombarded with other images. Futures that weren't going to occur that might have – with Emily, with friends. Futures that were going to occur without him, in which there was virtually no trace left that he or his organization had existed, or of the new world order he had tried to create. In which Rambaldi became an odd footnote of history.
It had all been for nothing? It would end here? Sloane screamed in fury and ripped the wires off of his head, but the visions wouldn't stop. Now it was pasts he had never had, joys he had forgone in his headlong pursuit of power. He clawed desperately at his head, but he could not escape. Il Dire. They must still be coming from Il Dire. Frantically he moved his hands over the control panel, shutting down the device. Still no change. He pulled his gun and fired repeatedly into the control panel.
He staggered backwards, disoriented, wiping his hand against his face. Blood. Blood from where he had fallen. Emily, covered in blood. He was still hallucinating. Why didn't it stop? Make it stop! With difficulty he staggered back to his office, mumbling to himself. He could make it stop. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The failsafe. What was the code? Hands trembling, he entered the code and waited. 10…9…….2…1….A loud roar filled the building as the failsafe charges around Il Dire were ignited.
He leant back in his chair in relief, only to bolt straight upright. She was there in front of him, so real he could almost touch her. Emily, begging him to stop. "Arvin, I... I'm here to say goodbye."
He couldn't escape. Sobbing, he reached for his gun.
One more roar filled the building.
**
Jack opened his eyes and smiled with grim satisfaction. It was over.