Deadline Y2K (12 page)

“Come in, come in,” he said, shaking their hands and calling them by their first names. “Sorry about the press,” he added, seating them in comfortable leather chairs, “but what can one do? I understand it's a little strange outside, but I guess that's why we spent one hundred sixty million dollars, to avoid the problems others are having. What's happening is just terrible.”

“You'll be glad you did, David,” Copeland said.

“Oh, I already am, Donald. I suppose you know, but your people already have earned their keep.”

“I'm not sure just what you're referring to,” Copeland said carefully.

“Why, the lost and misplaced funds, of course. Your man Downs sent my people a final accounting just yesterday. His programs located seventy-two million dollars we never would have found without him. As they say, that's a nice piece of change, and more than enough to pay for the new package we were going to announce today. Since it already made the papers, all we're missing are the bright lights and cameras. Sorry, Jody. You were going to be the star.”

“I don't mind,” she said with heartfelt honesty. “I think people will have other things on their minds today. Perhaps we can reschedule for Tuesday.”

“Well, Donald,” said the CFO, “you should be proud of yourself and your company. The bank will be eternally grateful for all you've done.”

He laid a single sheet of paper in front of Copeland who scarcely looked at it except to notice Doc's signature at the bottom. He put it in his pocket.

“Seventy-two million. Really.” Copeland was suddenly short of breath and struggling to keep his composure. “I had no idea it was that much. I've been so busy, I haven't had a chance to talk to Dr. Downs.”

“He's a real hero,” Edwards said. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to let him go. I'd hand over the Tech Center to him if he wanted it.”

“I certainly couldn't stop you or him, if that's what you want to do. Go ahead and ask him.”

“That's extremely gracious, Donald, but I'm sure you wouldn't let him go without a fight. In any case, he doesn't strike me as someone who'd like to work for the bank.”

“He's his own man,” Copeland said, standing up. “Very much his own man.”

“I'm sure we'll be hearing from him for a long time, no matter what he decides. Now, you'll have to excuse me, but I may be the only person in this building who expects to put in a full day's work today. I have a teleconference with the Fed this afternoon.”

“Are they still contemplating shutting down all transfers?” Copeland asked.

“I think we can talk them out of it. After all, this isn't Russia, is it? We've got this problem licked, and I'm sure the Fed will see it that way.”

The receptionist came in to usher them out. In the elevator Jody watched Copeland's upper lip develop a sudden twitch while his face went bright red, then milky white. He said nothing, and in the lobby crowded with people covered with confetti he seemed hesitant, unsure of where to go or what to do. Jody sensed that something she didn't understand had happened in the meeting.

“Donald?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I'm beginning to think things may be worse than I thought, that's all.”

“A problem with the software? You've got to be kidding. The bank has been testing it for a year.”

“Well, you never know until crunch time, do you?”

They reached the street where the lines of people withdrawing their deposits now extended outside and around the monumental sculpture in the plaza. Panhandlers working the lines quickly learned to hit on people coming out of the bank with their pockets stuffed with cash. A few feet away, a squad of uniformed cops shoved screaming Koreans into paddy wagons to the delight of a crowd of bicycle messengers, secretaries and financial district clones. Jody thought she'd gone to sleep and awakened inside a macabre circus.

Preoccupied, Copeland ignored the strange sights and began walking rapidly toward Nassau Street. Jody noticed long lines at every bank and ATM machine, and every few feet a stock ticker or newsstand radio was broadcasting an endless stream of news.

Transportation stocks had taken a nose-dive on the European exchanges before they closed. In Birmingham, England, a water department employee accidentally shut off the city's water supply during a Y2K test. The riots that had started in Vladivostok were spreading west across Mother Russia as people acted out a decade of frustration with the post-Soviet government. Reacting to the news, people on the street looked numbed, assaulted by body blows one after another. Copeland brushed past a man standing in the middle of the sidewalk talking on a cellular phone who abruptly slammed the phone into the concrete and crushed it.

“Donald…” Jody said, but he forged ahead. She gave up and slumped against a granite wall to light a cigarette. The crowd swirled around her, delirious and confused. She smoked her cigarette and walked on slowly, as befuddled as the rest.

*   *   *

Copeland was struggling with the growing certainty that he'd been screwed. On the day he was supposed to steal a fortune, instead of brimming with anticipation he felt like shit. The heist was his edge against the millennium bug and having it suddenly threatened gave him a bellyache. His lip twitched. It occurred to him that engaging in computer theft with an anarchistic hacker was out of his league. Christ, he'd made the guy a millionaire, although Doc would see it the other way around. They were a team. They needed each other … what the hell. That wasn't true. Doc didn't need him, not when he had offers like the one from the bank. At Copeland Investments, Doc had always set his own working conditions, making sure his eccentricities were pampered and appetites indulged, but he could get all that and more elsewhere. So the question remained: Why did Doc give all the found money back to the bank?

Doc's office smelled like dope when Copeland entered without knocking. The engineer grinned. “Have a pleasant meeting with the bank?” he asked.

Copeland slammed the paper onto the desk. “What the fuck does this mean?” he hissed.

Doc bent over the sheet and studied it. “Didn't I tell you about this? Must have been an oversight.”

“Oversight my ass.”

“Oh, come on, Donald. This was just a little surprise for you. Yeah, I gave them 72 mil because I found a lot more than that. Do you think I'm crazy?”

“Yes. How much more?”

“Enough.”

“Don't play these stupid games with me, Doc. I think you got scared and backed out.”

“Why would I do that? It's foolproof.”

“You're afraid of going to prison, that's why. You got cold feet.”

“Relax, Donnie boy. It's going to be a long day. Have a drink and be a human being. The world is going to put on a hell of a show and we have a ringside seat. Look—” he pointed at the TV. “They're closing La Guardia.”

The talking head of the airport commissioner was reading from a hastily prepared text. “In the interest of public safety, La Guardia Airport is stopping all outbound flights immediately, and will be closed to inbound flights as of five
P.M
. this afternoon. All airlines are being notified. Flights already en route will be landed on schedule. We urge everyone, airport and airline employees and the public, to remain calm.”

The notion of calm instantly vanished in a barrage of shouted questions from the press.

“Are flights being diverted to Kennedy?”

“Is Newark going to close, too?”

“Are you telling us that airplanes are not safe?”

“Were you ordered to close the airport by the FAA?”

“Will passengers get refunds? Where are you going to put stranded people? Every hotel in town is booked solid.”

The airport commissioner, a deputy mayor and the chief of the airport police abruptly stood up and walked out of the conference room without answering any questions.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the New York 1 reporter on the scene. “All we can tell you is that La Guardia is closing, and if you were planning on flying out of here today, you can forget it. Just a moment … I'm getting word that Kennedy and Newark airports are closing as well.”

Doc shook his head and grimaced. “These people are lying through their teeth. They knew six months ago the air traffic control systems were going down, but they never said so. There's nothing wrong with the planes; it's the government's radar that's bad.”

“I don't give a shit about the fucking airports, Doc,” Copeland said. “What about the bank?”

“What about it?”

“How much?”

“Enough, Donald. More than you'll ever need.”

On TV, the anchorman continued, “And now, from La Guardia we're going to take you to Japan. Eight thousand miles from New York, the millennium bug is approaching the islands of Japan, and the world's stock exchanges are quivering in their virtual boots.…”

“You should be watching this,” Doc said. “The Japanese should have known better, but they've been too concerned with saving face over nonstop scandals and bad investments to take care of business. They're going to go belly-up and the repercussions will be phenomenal. I've been working out some projections in my head. Most of Asia is going down with Japan. It's the new Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.”

“To hell with Japan. Tell me about the money.”

“Donald, you sold a hundred and eighty-five million dollars worth of software to Japanese banks in the last three years. How do you expect to collect what they owe?”

“Doc, please.”

“Do you really want to know, Donald? Really, really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“So bad you can't stand it?”

“Jesus, we're supposed to be partners.”

Doc leaned back in his chair and contemplated the stained ceiling. “Okay,” he said. “I gave the money to the bank because they made me a better deal than you. They gave me a quarter of all the money I found—eighteen million dollars—and a new job. By the way, I quit.”

It was a lie, but Copeland didn't know that. He didn't react at once, but his hands started to tremble. Finally, he said, “You're joking.”

“Why would I joke about a thing like that? It's true. Why steal money from someone who wants to give it to me?”

“Because you like to play games and fuck with my head, that's why.”

“Call Edwards and ask him. Didn't he ask you if he could offer me a job? I know he did, because I already took the job. I'm going to run the Tech Center. I start Tuesday.”

They glared at each other, and then Doc cracked a grin. “Gotcha, you asshole. You believed me.”

“You prick.”

“I thought about it, though.”

“I'm sure you did, but I still don't know why you gave the bank 72 million they didn't know they had.”

“You're just too fucking greedy, Donald. I was in there every day writing new code for their lost accounts, not you. I made the decisions, and I wasn't about to discuss every single one with you. I'm telling you there is so much money left over, you'll have a hard time hiding it. People should have such problems, right?”

“You're lying to me.”

“Of course. I'm pathological, I lie to everyone all the time, but I'm so smart nobody knows the difference.”

Petulant, reduced to infantile frustration, Copeland muttered, “You hate me.”

Doc shook his big, shaggy head and sucked a joint. It wasn't true. He despised Copeland but didn't hate him. Copeland's big brain was always full of creative ways to make money, but that was all he had. He was a cash machine with no recognizable human emotions, and Doc couldn't hate a man who was an empty shell. All he wanted was to see Copeland stew in his own juice.

“It's no wonder your wife left you, Donald,” he said. “You're a child. Of course I hate you. I hate all you yuppie bastards. I hate capitalists, especially venture capitalists. Have I told you this before? Only a thousand times. You're the scum of the earth, Donald Copeland, but you're my scum. You're a known quantity, and you have just the right amount of larceny in your pathetic excuse for a soul to be interesting. Otherwise, you're a heartless prick, but that don't bother me none. I'm a heartless prick, too, worse than you.”

“You know exactly how much money there is, to the penny, don't you? You keep a running account. An accurate account.”

“Shut up, Donald. You're spoiling my high. I want to watch TV. Go rattle around your own office, or go play with your customer support people. They're the ones making all this money for you. You should take a few calls.”

“Did the bank…?”

Copeland stopped in midsentence, gave up and went downstairs to his office. He could scream and throw a tantrum, but Doc wouldn't say anything he didn't want to say. The man would play mind games on his death bed.

He turned on the red button again, but he couldn't stand sitting in his office any longer. He grabbed his coat and decided to take a walk. In moments of stress, he always visited the massage parlors in Chinatown, not far away. He glanced once more at the button that stared back like a bloodshot Cyclops. He turned it off. Shoulders slumped, the jounce gone from his step, he slinked out the door and headed toward Madam Wo's perfumed fleshpot on Mott Street.

*   *   *

On TV, a reporter announced a press conference with the director of the Federal Reserve tentatively scheduled for two o'clock. Doc switched channels, rocking on his heels as he stood in front of the screen. On PBS two impassioned academics were debating whether the 21st Century would begin in 2000 or 2001.

“We have no birth certificate for Jesus of Nazareth,” declared a bearded pundit, “but the blessed event probably took place in the 23rd year of the reign of Augustus, and near the end of the reign of King Herod who died in 4
B.C
. The crucifixion occurred in the 16th year of the reign of Tiberius, but Roman records are inconclusive and whatever Jewish records that may have existed were destroyed in 70
A.D
. In any case, by the Sixth Century, Imperial Rome had fallen and the Christians wanted a new way to count years. In 525 Pope John I asked the papal archivist Dionysius Exigiuus, known to history as Denis the Little, to recalculate the calendar from the date of the Nativity, and Denis got it wrong. Alas, for fifteen centuries the world has lived with Denis' bad math. The third millennium actually commenced no later than Christmas day, 1996.”