Rogue Code (19 page)

Then there’d been this long, unsettling silence. Jeff realized that for months he’d been looking for an e-mail or text message from her. Maybe, he thought, she’d been doing the same thing.

*   *   *

Richard Iyers stood concealed in the heavy brush as he watched the runners on the pathway. Jeff had been bunched with three others his first lap, but he pulled away during the second, and when Iyers last saw him, he’d been alone, no one in front of him or behind.

The day he’d made his decision, Iyers considered how to go about this. A mugging on the streets had immediately come to mind. They were common enough in Manhattan but the more he’d considered the risks associated with it, the less appeal it held.

The answer had come to him when he recalled Jeff casually mentioning his run in Central Park on Monday. Iyers recalled that he’d said he was going to run. He’d even mentioned his preference for the Bridle Path because of its forgiving surface.

Iyers had come to the park and scouted the Bridle Path carefully, initially selecting three locations he thought suitable. This was ideal, not far from where it ran beside East Drive. He’d come upon a stout branch, stripped it of its lesser limbs, then secreted it at the location, smiling as he did, recalling how things had gone in Chicago earlier that week.

After that, Iyers had done his best to follow Jeff. He’d waited outside the man’s hotel in the morning, followed him after work in the evening. Iyers was reconsidering his decision not to mug him when he’d seen him emerge from his hotel dressed for a run. Iyers had taken a taxi to the park, then gone to his position.

Watching Jeff approach from the distance, he felt a tingle at the thought of what he was about to do. There’d been no word on the other guy. Every day he’d gone to the Chicago news sites, but so far there was no report of a body found at Waterfall Glen. That had come as no surprise. He’d sunk the body deep and weighted it well.

Iyers moved his gloved hand along the length of the branch he held beside him. He’d considered a gun but just as quickly dismissed the idea. He didn’t own one and getting a gun, legally or illegally, was too risky. It meant witnesses. He’d not used a firearm in Illinois, because he’d not wanted to attract any notice, and it was no different here.

He’d thought about a knife, a big one, but he’d never stabbed anyone before and had no idea how to go about it. Could he do it silently? He didn’t think so. He also knew it would be bloody as well, leaving telltale marks on him. A knife was out of the question.

No, this was best. A victim with a shattered skull in Central Park was not an anomaly. Jaded New Yorkers wouldn’t give it a second thought, and the park police would focus on the vagrants who spent their days in the park.

Iyers finished his cigarette, extinguished it on the ground, then slipped it into his pocket before pulling the ski mask over his face.

*   *   *

Jeff decided his fourth lap would be his last. He needed to focus on work. If he couldn’t see Stenton the next day, and he wasn’t in on Saturday, he and Frank would wrap up their work over the weekend and finalize their report for Monday. He hoped that was the way it worked out. He really wanted to solve the mystery of the rogue code himself and make it the crowning discovery of their report.

He wondered what the reaction would be. He and Frank had done more than successfully penetrate the trading platform; they’d discovered what was almost certainly an ongoing criminal operation set up to loot money. That conclusion was a bit of a stretch based on the evidence they had today, but Jeff had no doubt that by Monday, he’d have it nailed down. If the stock market fell over a harmless bot, what would the consequence be if what they’d discovered ever got out?

With an open stretch in front of him and recalling how stable the footing was along this part of the path, Jeff accelerated into his final kick. His side began to ache, and his lungs started to burn, reminding him again that he wasn’t running often enough.

Just as he passed a thick cluster of shrubbery his peripheral vision caught sight of a tall figure with a covered face stepping toward him, brandishing something long in his hand. Jeff partially turned, then instinctively veered away and broke into a sprint. There was a sharp brush along his body. He reached East Drive and spotted a police car parked on the other side of the street. Jeff leaped over the low wooden railing to run toward it.

East Drive was closed to traffic most of the time but was open for four hours on weekdays, ending in just a few minutes. The speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour, though speeding cars were not uncommon. The road was clear as Jeff ran in front of a slow-moving vehicle, but he didn’t see the speedster racing up beside it. He felt the impact, dull, vague but powerful. His footing slipped away as he lost control of his physical self; then his vision was a series of still frames flashing one after another as he flew through the air.

DAY FIVE

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14

NYSE AFTER THE KNIGHT CAPITAL DISASTER

By Alice Payton

September 14, 10:10
A.M.
EST, Updated 11:50
P.M.
EST

Toronto
—IPO disasters are becoming too common, according to Ryan Brodie, publisher of the popular cybertrading newsletter,
Lightning
. “There is no reason for so many IPOs turning out badly. No reason except greed.” Focusing on the 2012 Knight Capital disaster Brodie suggested that the source of the problem is the cozy relationship between high-frequency traders and the NYSE.

The introduction of computers into trading once promised an end to traditional abuses. Instead, the Exchange suffers from continuing issues surrounding the true nature of trades as well as the use of computers and software in accomplishing them. The persistent problems are not all that different from those that traditionally plagued securities trading. For all its sophistication and technical marvel the NYSE remains primarily an exchange of stock for money, the price responding to the universal law of supply and demand. Computers have modified the system but only in kind, not in purpose. But, according to Brodie, too many of the current problems are being caused by computers.

Taking Knight Capital Group as an example, Brodie pointed out that the global financial services firm went nearly bankrupt within the space of a few short hours when its own new code ran amok on the Exchange. The company served as a dealer in securities where investors could trade, at a guaranteed price. Responding to Exchange changes in several kinds of transactions Knight Capital created a special code it then unleashed in secret for a weeklong test trial. What happened next was unintended as legacy software was inadvertently reactivated. The new program proceeded to adversely affect the routing of shares of more than 140 stocks. The consequence was that the company sent repeated erroneous orders. Stock prices swung wildly in a very short time period. What was occurring was that the bad code bought high and sold low, a reversal of what was intended. And it did so in blasts of high-frequency trading lasting less than a few seconds. Worse, it just kept doing it, compressing what was meant to be a long-term test into frenzied action taking place within a few short hours. Knight Capital immediately lost $440 million while its own stock plummeted, losing three quarters of its value in just 48 hours.

This chaos occurred just two years after the infamous Flash Crash and followed a number of high-profile technical glitches. One of these had been the botched Facebook IPO while another had been the failed public offering of BATS.

“It raises serious concerns as to the future of trading,” Brodie said. “I really question whether or not any private investor should even be in the stock market at this volatile time.” Alternative markets are being regularly created and Brodie said investors should give serious thought to moving their money into these. “Provided they continue excluding high-frequency traders.”

Global Computer News Service

26

TRADING PLATFORMS IT SECURITY

WALL STREET

NEW YORK CITY

9:13
A.M.

Richard Iyers went into the restroom and splashed cold water on his face repeatedly. He’d awakened later than usual that morning. He felt awful and wondered if he’d caught a bug. He’d considered not coming into work but reasoned there were potential circumstances where that would seem suspicious. Plus he wanted to know the outcome of his attack. Before leaving his apartment he’d checked the news. All he found was the bare mention that a Central Park jogger had been struck by a speeding car when he strayed onto East Drive. There were no details as to the extent of the injuries.

Iyers wondered if Aiken had been killed. Probably not. The news said nothing about the jogger having died.

On his office floor, something seemed odd this morning. Coworkers were talking in hushed voices in the common areas as he’d entered. There was a slight buzz in the air. He considered going to the break room but decided it was better to show no interest. He’d know soon enough what was up; no need to draw attention to himself by asking.

Iyers had found he was unable to concentrate on work and went to the restroom. He dried his face with paper towels, ran his hands through his hair, then stepped out into the hallway. On the way back to his office, he wandered down the hallway to the office Jeff and Frank used. It was empty. He wondered again if asking about them would be risky, and decided it would be.

Looking back on the previous night, he was filled with recrimination. He’d exposed himself too much. And he hadn’t killed the man. He wondered if anyone had noticed the reason the runner bolted into traffic. If so, there’d be a description, though that didn’t especially concern him. It would match many men, considering how he’d dressed.

After he left the park, he’d ditched the mask first, then the coat. He’d disciplined himself to walk carefully and blend in. At the first well-lit location, he’d stopped and casually examined his clothing. There were leaves and small twigs attached to his pants. He’d carefully brushed them away.

When he killed the Italian, he’d experienced nothing but elation. In fact, he’d left the park in such an exalted mood, he knew he’d been careless. On the trip back he’d relived the experience in his thoughts, again and again, relishing every memory. He’d not come to earth until he’d reached Manhattan.

But last night as he fled, he’d felt nothing but fear. The fear was still there, masked only in part by the widespread discomfort he experienced.

At his desk Iyers accessed the logs for the jump servers, the deployment servers, and those of his own system as he did routinely. It occurred to him when he’d first agreed to help Campos that if they could do this, so could someone else. More important, if anyone was investigating what was going on in the system, Iyers would find their tracks here, so several times a day, like someone looking behind him to see if he was being followed, he checked the servers. Nothing.

He wondered what Campos would say when he found out about Aiken. The news report hadn’t given a name or mentioned an attack in the park. Would Campos assume it was a coincidence, this happening so soon after they’d discussed it? Not likely but Iyers doubted the man would react at all. He was positive there was an unspoken agreement, an acknowledgment that this act was necessary. No, Campos understood it was necessary, now with Carnaval and Vacation Homes moving into high gear.

Iyers’s primary concern was the money. He’d already earned a couple of million but had, as originally agreed, only received small payments. Campos held the balance. It wasn’t due yet but now everything was different. With Carnaval he would earn, what? Millions more, for certain. Many millions.

How long would he have to stay on the job after that? If he just vanished, he’d be a suspect as the investigation would definitely come to his department. Anyway, he would want to be here, keep an eye on it, ready to bolt if it turned toward him. Sit, watch, and wait, that was the ticket.

The primary problem was the money. Campos had been long on talk and promises, slow to give him his due, especially now that Carnaval had been vastly expanded. The earnings were going to skyrocket. Iyers didn’t like getting so little to date. In fact, he didn’t like Campos all that much. He was a weak man, too risk averse. He wasn’t willing to do what had to be done. Weak men were dangerous when someone turned up the heat. But Campos was his means of payment; there was nothing to be done about that.

Iyers wondered if he shouldn’t already have another identity. In movies, that was easily done while in reality a false identity that passed muster was not so simple. It would be better if he could keep his own, but he wondered now if that would be possible. He’d heard you could get one in Canada without too much trouble. He was from Upstate New York and could talk like a Canadian if need be. Maybe he’d just go there if things got hot, work on another identity then.

But it always came back to the money. He didn’t have it except in his dreams. And did Campos ever intend to pay him? He’d often wondered about that. Once he’d determined that his colleague was really just the front man for a much bigger operation he’d been concerned that someone higher up in the food chain might decide it was easier just to take him out. After all, Iyers knew everything. They’d worry he’d flip if caught, and they’d save a bundle by not having to pay him.

No, he’d have to insist he be paid as soon as Carnaval was finished. Insist. He had his personal bank accounts set up, and his tracks were well covered. He was confident about that. He’d seen to it right away in anticipation of unfulfilled paydays.

There was always blackmail, of course, but what could he do if Campos just vanished? Iyers gritted his teeth in exasperation. He had to get more money while he was still needed. He couldn’t afford to wait until the end. There had to be a way.

27

GEORGETOWN