Melbourne's damp spring weather hung on for quite a while, drizzling, and the roads constantly wet and treacherous. At last over a period of almost three months of constantly slimy roads and freeways, drivers gradually got the hang of driving on a slippery surface. You can develop that "feel" for limited tyre adhesion in ten minutes on a skidpan at one of those advanced driving courses there were around. Most drivers, however, got the "feel" again annually, the hard way, through hard knocks and near misses behind the wheel.
Perhaps it was the wintry weather that made weekend day-tripping a gluey disappointment; maybe the strangely non-cyclic workload at the Centre which had crept up a month ago, and stayed there; whatever the reason, Lester felt a genuine shock that late November afternoon in the Cafeteria.
"Done your Christmas shopping?" one of the female operators had asked him idly. He stopped in his game of imaginary chess with pepper and salt shakers on the checkered paper tablecloth: stopped breathing, or so it seemed.
"Did I say something wrong?" the girl was impressed at the effect of her words. "It's only twenty-five or something shopping days to go, but please don't disgrace yourself in the Caf."
"Bloody amazing," Lester mused for her benefit. "Where'd the last six months go? Look out the window at winter, and the newspaper," picking one up from the vacated chair beside him, "says practically December. No, Sylvie, I haven't started getting ready to start shopping yet. Better bloody get into gear, though, because some of the plans this year need a bit of thought!"
Back at his desk, cluttered with computer program listings, user manuals open at various sections, and an overflowing ashtray, he reviewed the situation quickly. He had a nasty problem on this software package he was working on - maybe it just would never work for their users. Well, his subconscious mind often made progress on those kinds of problems. For an hour or so, he'd leave every bit of mess exactly where it was, he'd stare fixedly into space, and he'd think about what had to be done for the Christmas takeoff.
First things first! This week, he told himself, we are going to get us a plan decided, set up, checked and ready to go. That plan is for how to tickle Consolidated's till for a million or two. No excuses; it was Monday today; and by Friday that had to be all settled. Then his subconscious called for attention. It had a likely solution to the software problem for him.
The top book on the desk, the last to be consulted had the makings of a solution: so he put that safely away. Pushing the chair back, he edged his both feet gently in between the listings and manuals on the ample desk... No, his shoe was crumpling that listing: kicking off both shoes, he tried to get comfortable in his socks.
A surprise shaft of sunlight found its way through the glass West wall, and Lester settled down to enjoy the sudden warmth on the back of his neck. First, there had been Plan A, the set of programs that re-addressed a cheque to him from the Accounts Payable run. It meant you'd have to set the choice of "victim" up at the last minute, but he had tried it out, and it had worked. The problem, he recalled, was that it didn't give you much time. A big creditor might really be counting every day till he got his money, and might trigger the hue-and-cry early. That was mainly why he had looked for a safer and more reliable scheme.
He had the notes and programs for Plan A on loose sheets in the back of his work diary, still there if ever he needed them. If he used them again, though, he would address them to his new name and address. That raised another point; he could use somebody else's password, now, he thought, because the payee's name wouldn't automatically point suspicion at Lester Bayliss. It might give him another couple of days.
Then there was a fall-back plan, the best he could think of at the time. He'd modified the spare backup tape for the fortnightly wages and salaries reconciliation program. Now it was set up so his bank account would get the cheque for salary deductions to the Taxation Commissioner. When he'd first looked at the prospect, it seemed like about $3 million was likely. He did the sums again, things like a monthly not fortnightly, submission; things like how much Christmas Holiday pay would be involved in December's Salary and Wages payments. This time the sum came out differently.
Seven Million Dollars!
He did that calculation again. Taking all the assumptions on the high-ish side, there might be a lot more than that. Then, using conservative assumptions for average wages, average tax, average holidays taken, he got a low-side figure: $5.4 Million. He couldn't see how it could be any lower than that.
Bit of a problem, that. He wasn't sure he was ready to handle eight (or eighteen) million in a hurry.... but no! That was a distraction: The problems of laundering and disposal were entirely separate. Next week, perhaps, he'd work on that.
The weakness with the Tax lurk was to get the backup program actually used. Security on the main tape was just too tight to allow him to change it. When he had changed the backup tape's Tax Account number to read his own, he had felt confident the rest would be easy. He didn't have to change the master tape, but he did have to damage or destroy it – or cast serious doubt on it. That seemed easy, but in practice it wasn't.
It was the trouble with seeing the plan through to happening that had stopped him at about this point before. Finally, he gritted his teeth. This lack of progress could not continue. He'd been sitting here now for two hours again, looking for a safe way to damage a closely-controlled reel of tape. Right now, it looked pretty difficult, maybe too hard to depend on. It was time to develop a Plan C!
Before he did that, there was one other thing he had to do. The Tax plan wasn't hopeless, it was just stalled at the starting gate. There was a detail in the middle that was wrong, now that he had that new name and the account at the other bank.
The data librarian, faced with a constant influx and egress of tape reels and magnetic disk packs for Production staff, was content to have him complete the log himself as usual. She was in among the long rows of shelves, replacing several disk packs, and would be there a couple of minutes: a good chance, Lester knew, to install some protection for himself in the register.
Quickly, he made a last entry in the Loan Register, under his name, for an imaginary tape reel number. Then, slipping back a couple of pages, he found one a month ago that had an unused line at the bottom.
Another look out among the steel filing shelves. "You OK there, Mrs. Hanley?" he called conversationally. "There are lots of bugs in that stuff, you know. Wouldn't want to find your bleached skeleton tomorrow."
"I'm fine," she called back. "Want to do this last fifteen minutes of re-shelving, then I'll go home."
That was what he wanted to know. "G'night, then," as a last farewell, and he hurried back to her deserted desk near the door.
He only had one shot at it, but Henry Chu's signature looked pretty good to him. McAllister was left-handed, so Lester scrapped that option. Now, if eventually that payroll backup reel came under scrutiny later, Henry had it out for two days a month or so ago, for no apparent reason, and he, Lester, hadn't touched it. All he had to do now was get the tape back in half-an-hour or so.
Quietly he flapped the Register back to today's entries, eased open the door, slid out and away down the corridor with his precious burden. By the time he had changed the account number again, with the help of the bank card in his wallet, it was almost six-thirty, and he decided to give it away for today.
Monday had been quite productive, all things considered. He had a solution, on ice, for his file-handling problem. He could talk confidently about that at Fred's review meeting tomorrow. He could collect a couple more jobs tomorrow afternoon after he'd wrapped this one up and finished the write-up on it.
Meanwhile, there was the Christmas activity. He had two plans in place, neither perfect but both possible, and he had set himself four days more to select and develop a better, third plan for the subtraction of Australian Consolidated Merchandising's funds. All systems were go!
Annette had stayed late at work too, and only beat him home by about five minutes. She had her feet up, working through a large glass of Gin on ice.
Let's go somewhere for dinner," he suggested, still riding high on the day's accomplishments.
"Mmm," she responded dispiritedly, "what about Pizza Hut. I can't be bothered with decisions tonight. Been a long day, even for a Monday."
"Bloody Pizza Hut," he snorted disgustedly, "might as well bring home some fish and chips for all the experience that would be. Get yourself a skinful of Gin, and come somewhere nice. Must be nearly two weeks since we pampered ourselves."
"Good idea," she snapped. "You go, and bring me back some fish and chips when you're finished. Maybe I'll still be awake to eat it."
He compromised. Pizza Hut, then: it didn't seem worth a scene to decide how they would enjoy the evening.
While they waited for the two pizzas to arrive at the table, he brought up today's big discovery. "Done your Christmas shopping yet? Only twenty-four shopping days to go, you know."
"Damn! Is it?" the girl queried, shocked. "We better get a hustle on those tickets to New Zealand, or we'll have three weeks stuck here. When do you finish work?"
He hadn't kept track of those details, either. Since they last discussed the subject, there were other things to be considered, too. He was tentatively counting on the days between Christmas and New Year to launder his money, in some way as yet undecided. Christmas was a Sunday; Wednesday morning might be his earliest Banking opportunity after that.
"They do a stack of half-year reconciliations straight after Christmas. We're heavily loaded with work now, too. I reckon it would be safe to fly out on the Wednesday. That's the 28th."
"But that's after Christmas!" she spat out venomously.
"So what's that got to do with anything?"
“Jesus, you're dense, Less. It's Christmas. Christmas is on the 25th. I wrote my parents you'd come over with me for Christmas. They'll want to give us a Christmas party. You know - on the 25th. Beginning to get the message?"
"Calm down, now," as the waitress brought their pizzas. "Something will go wrong. It always does at our place. I'm just suggesting a plan we can be pretty sure we'll live with."
"It's a rotten plan," she responded. "How does this alternative sound? Let's go visit my parents for Christmas: like we agreed."
That wouldn't do for him. Work broke up on Friday. It would be too risky to take straight off overseas with everything up in the air.
There's a better way," he started, "a compromise. You go have a family reunion at Christmas. They know you're not married, and you've said they're still fervent Methodists, so I'd be in the way. I'll come along later. How's that?"
The disagreement was still controlled, perhaps. They were sharing pizzas, and the two platters were emptying slowly. He thought he'd got it solved.
"Still stinks," she responded, dashing his hopes. "They're putting aside their moral reservations on account of me. They're asking you for Christmas despite their religion. Well, at least they're ready to have you in their family Christmas. Less, you can't back out on it. I'd be so embarrassed.”
It didn't seem to interfere with her appetite, he noted, as she gave him the wide-eyed pleading treatment over her empty plate.
A sudden thought struck him. If things went right, he could afford to fly back to Melbourne to get the banking done. Then again, if the worst came to the worst, he could renege on the booking if that mattered enough. He felt sure the kind of money he was playing with could solve all those problems. Oh, what the hell! He could afford to cave in. If the whole plan collapsed, he might need to be out of the country anyway.
So they agreed tentatively on a Saturday morning departure. With the time zones the way they were, planning to leave on Friday afternoon was altogether too risky. They'd use the general itinerary of one of the routine Fly-Drive packages, but just play hell with the normal timetable: stretch a week's plan out to two weeks or so, return three weeks later. They’d be away a total of three weeks from Australia, and Lester felt his Personnel monitors would just love that. No, damn it, he realised he'd already made that concession to them a couple of months ago.
He'd better put in a leave request next week, and at the last minute he'd revisit the overseas travel timetable.
The review meeting that Monday was pretty torrid. Lester had good news, the rest of the group were thoroughly bogged on current projects. McAllister had two tough ones going at once, and seemed as though he would welcome help. When Fred finally adjourned the meeting, Lester collared his charge.
"We're pretty much self-sufficient, both of us, he told Rod, "but I've got a bit of spare time for the next few days while I get into something new. Could you use any help?"
McAllister had the good sense not to knock that back. For Lester, it was an opportunity straight from Heaven. He would watch as Rod entered his password at the terminal, memorising it for later use, and then set out to absorb the background on the youngster's problem. Horrified, he saw that it was the same password, "SYSAID", that EDP audit had given him for a week or so, about six months back. Fine, he recovered: that stupid password can work for me too!
This "New Project Evaluation" package had had a patchy history. Most of the things they had tried to use it for this last six months had collapsed in the Computer, and nobody knew why. It was an ideal opportunity for Lester to investigate dormant accounts. He convinced himself he could "accidentally" transfer some very interesting financial items during the next few days.
First, he got to understand the problem. There was a basic program fault. As soon as you asked for a result on the simplest of tasks, it immediately went into an error condition.
These "New Project" accounts were all empty, and weren't taken up in the monthly account balance process yet. As soon as a legal operator used them, they were automatically included in the monthly reconciliation. He could dodge that process, and so he developed an approach over several days.
The planned new Adelaide regional shopping centre development was a good opportunity. The Capital Account had an expected maximum balance of $5 million, so the computer wouldn't question lower amounts, especially through the unofficial access he had set up.
Then he had to draw a cheque on the false balance. The accounts staff always kept the cheques - in a safe, he was sure. We've been along this road before, he realised. The company - any company - was well aware of what could be done with loose cheques.
By that time the question became crystal-clear, and he had Thursday and Friday to ponder over it: How to produce an extra cheque, without any big fuss over it?
Extra cheques were most unwelcome in any payment system. Cheque or payment requirements were bundled up in a batch, before they came to Computer Operations at all. Then they travelled everywhere with their batch total, and were constantly checked against it. Extra or missing cheques, higher or lower dollar totals would be picked up as a discrepancy in a flash, and processing halted until you resolved the mismatch.
Before his late and skimpy lunch on Friday, he finally reached the logical conclusion. The system had been carefully designed to be impregnable for batch operations, so he had to bypass it another way. Like any good Systems Programmer, he could make up a set of batch totals for the bundle that suddenly included his own "Request for Cheque Issue" form. Most of those authorisations were done in Accounting, so he didn't believe they'd be on the lookout here in the Centre for forged signatures. Entry into the machine was routine, after all the checking had been done.
Over lunch, Bill Nicholson accosted him cheerfully, still trying to paper over the flaming row on supervision of the "new boys" a month or more ago.
Was there was anyone sitting in the vacant chair beside him? Lester lifted his head slowly, coolly looked through Bill, emptied his mouth methodically and grunted "yep," before returning to his newspaper.
Nonplussed, Nicholson looked around, but there was nobody, so he walked. OK, let the bastard eat alone.
So, unfettered by the need for the social niceties, Lester polished off his lunch in double-quick time, and strode briskly back to his desk. He felt sure he could finish Rod's problem this afternoon, if that was desirable. For him, though, it was highly undesirable. It was his excuse to keep working on Plan C. So he'd get the research part of the solution done, and leave it to finish off on Monday. For the remaining couple of hours of the week, he's chase up the other crosschecks he had to dodge when the computer had never heard of a Payee before.
There were just too many. Some of them might not matter for a week or two, but some might trigger alarms immediately, and he didn't have the time to trace through all the details of the half-dozen references that he'd found were used before the computer issued a cheque.
He remembered a bypass he'd noticed a few times this last couple of days. If the cheque was a correction of an earlier transaction, most of those validation steps were bypassed. You were supposed to get corrections dead right, he presumed: that seemed reasonable. So it was easy: his cheque drawn on the Adelaide Regional Centre account would have to be entered as a correction.
It was getting late in the day – and in the week - now, and he didn't really have much reason to prolong the study: after all, it was nominally Rod's problem, and Rod was - so he himself had started to claim - pretty well independent. So he packed up for the week.
Too late to call in at the Pub. Only the hard drinkers would be left there, jousting with each other over the Centre's convoluted office politics, or the nation's complex economic mysteries. He drove straight home, planning to make Monday another workload victory: another impossible problem falling to his brilliance.