Online Banking

Online banking?

Fredrick ran through the backstreets in a vain effort to put distance between himself and his pursuers. He had been completely unaware that his online activities had come to the attention of his. Working as an accountant for a law firm that handles accounts of some quite shady individuals meant transferring large sums of cash to different parts of the world, so frequently that it was hard to pin down the location of the funds before they had been whisked away somewhere else - to be returned a later date into the original account holders bank account, clean and untraceable. With such vast sums of money being laundered he thought it would be relatively easy to steal a couple of hundred thousand dollars once in a while. And they didn’t, but then he got greedy.

This time they did notice.

He ducked down an alley only to run directly into the thugs he’d been trying to dodge. He had a gun aimed at Fredrick’s head.

‘Listen I can ex…’

The thug fired before he even got a chance to reply.

‘Jesus Christ’, Michael exclaimed loudly tearing the VR goggles off his head. Sweat protruded from his brow and his hands were shaking.

‘This new game is fucking amazing,’ he exclaimed to no-one in particular.

The thump, thump, thump noise meant his mother had heard the noise and was coming upstairs to investigate.

Oh Shit.

She entered his bedroom without knocking holding a sandwich on a plate which she had prepared earlier at his request and had never come downstairs to claim.

‘Are you playing those bloody silly games again?’

Michael had tried explaining to his mother that he was a beta-tester for a large software company in his spare time. And he was quite well paid for the feedback and observations he forwarded to the software companies prior to the release of a new title. He neglected to mention that, as a gaming addict, it was the most enjoyable employment he could imagine. It was just a shame that it didn’t pay well enough for him to do it full time.

‘Why can’t you go out drinking on a Friday and Saturday night like your friends do; as normal people do?’

I’ll bet if I did that she’d say ‘Why can’t you stay in like a good boy instead of going out on the piss all the time.’

Good boy, that was a laugh, he was 32 years old and still living at home with his mother. This was something of a joke where Michael worked at the bank. The same bank he had worked at for nearly 8 years. Most of the time he was just a bank teller, he never got to do anything interesting.

It was getting a little late. He ate his sandwich and went to bed, dreaming about swindling clients and getting away with it.

Michael climbed out of bed feeling strangely reborn. He skipped breakfast, much to the chagrin of his mother got dressed, and headed straight for work.

‘Good morning Michael,’ the manager said to him as he sat at his usual position in the teller’s chair. Michael filled with dread; the manager never spoke to the underlings unless they were in trouble.

‘Can I have a word?’ he said leading Michael to his office.

‘How long have you worked here now Michael?’ the manager asked rhetorically.

‘Just under 11 years sir,’ Michael replied.

He then did something uncharacteristic, he smiled.

Perhaps it’s trapped wind.

‘Well, good news, you’re being promoted. You’ll be working in the transfer department starting tomorrow, isn’t that good news?’ the manager said.

It was actually a demotion. He had begun in that department after graduating from university, when there had been a different manager. It also meant earlier starts and longer hours. If you sat at one of the teller windows you only had to be there when the customers were.

‘Will I be on a higher salary bracket?’ Michael asked.

The manager frowned ‘Not initially, we want to see if you can do the job first. International bank transfers are very important Michael and thank you might be in order.’

‘Thank sir,’ he muttered and then left the office.

Brilliant, that’s just what I need.

The next day

‘Yes it’s all computerized now. Not like when you first did it. This is a paper-free office,’ Jenkins, his superior informed him.

‘I, take it your up to speed on all the protocols for international transfers?’

‘Yes, Mr. Jenkins. I read the file the manager sent me on swift codes and account numbers.’

‘Good, you can make a start then,’ Jenkins said.

As luck would have it, his first transfer of the day. A suspiciously large amount $10 million was being transferred to an account in Bolivia. The account number flashed up red on his system.

Michael was just about to ask Mr. Jenkins what the problem was, and for some reason, he changed his mind. It was strange. He had drunk so much coffee yesterday that he should have stayed awake all night, and now here he was at work. He had had no breakfast and he was full of energy. He couldn’t explain it.

A short time later another person entered the office. The office piece of crumpet, Tricia was, as far as Michael concerned, the only thing worth looking at in this depressing place. Fresh out of University with a lower 2nd in Mathematics with statistics, and she landed a job at the bank after her first interview. Michael felt that it had nothing to do with her stunning good looks. In fact, she was so thick there was a rumour floating around that she screwed most of the lecturers just to graduate.

‘Trish, could you help me with this, please?’ Michael asked smiling as sweetly as he could.

‘What?’

‘The account number has come up red and the transfer hasn’t gone through, why is that?’

‘It’s usually because either the account has been closed prior to sending or that someone copied out the wrong number and attached it to the transfer.’

‘So what happens to the money?’ Michael asked.

‘It depends; if the sender realizes the mistake he will contact the sending branch and either correct the information or request that it be returned.’ Trish explained.

‘So it’ll probably be gone in a day or two then,’ Michael speculated.

‘Only if it’s person to person, if it’s corporate it’ll probably be sitting there in escrow for three months, after which time it is automatically returned to the sender.

Tricia smiled back at Michael. She’d always thought he was a bit of a mother’s boy, but this was the first time anyone had asked her anything technical without trying it on. Something she was rather unaccustomed to.

She leaned forward seductively over Michael and said ‘Let’s see if I can’t reveal something for you.’

‘What?’

‘Account information,’ she clarified, a little disappointed.

It read: Sent from Berkeley Offshore Holdings, The Cayman Islands to Victor Gonzales whose account is with the 1st National Bank of Bolivia.

‘That sounds dodgy to me,’ Tricia remarked.

‘Very dodgy,’ Michael agreed.

Tricia smiled warmly again and seemed to be waiting for something, but Michael was lost in thought. In the end, she snorted and returned to her desk.

Michael was already looking a last minute.com booking a flight to La Paz.

He called in sick the next day informing Mr. Jenkins that he had gastric flu and in all likelihood wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week. He told his mother that he was going on a works outing and would be back in a few days.

The flight from Heathrow to La Paz was thoroughly unpleasant. The cheapest ticket he could find meant making four connections one of which he almost missed and would have done hadn’t the flight not been delayed. He arrived in La Paz on Friday morning local time and booked into a cheap hotel ominously called Hotel Los Lobos (which meant the wolves in Spanish), located in a seedier part of town. But Michael wanted seedy. Because he had 2 days to come up with false documentation before the ban opened on Monday, which identified him as one Victor Gonzales.

He had done his research carefully. He discovered that the individual in question didn’t exist. The money was sent via a reputable bank from a shell company to a fictitious account in some tinpot country that didn’t have computerized bank records. The money was sent dirty and came back three months later as a clean cashier’s check from a legitimate banking institution. It was a standard money laundering practice.

What was strange was that Michael would never in his life have had the courage to do such a thing. And yet, here he was, he couldn’t understand it.

The passport had proved tricky and had cost him nearly $1000 dollars. They had stolen the passport, replaced the photo and erased and reprogrammed the magnetic strip. The driver’s license had been easier to forge.

That evening he checked his emails in a local internet café. He had three. One was from the software company informing him that his feedback had been below standard and they weren’t going to pay him.

‘Bastards,’ Michael muttered to himself.

He had another from his mother informing him that someone from the bank had called asking if he was likely to be back at work next week and if he was feeling any better. She went on to ask what the hell he was playing it.

The other was rather cryptic and a little disturbing, it simply read: ‘We know what you’re trying to do… don’t do it.’

He went to the bank the next day. The id was fine and they were just about to issue him with his bank paraphernalia when he said.

‘I require this account number which is 013129628,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon the teller asked.’

Michael knew how to talk to tellers, he’d been one for long enough. Rather than speak to her he requested an audience with the bank manager.

There must be some kind of mold where they make these guys because this one looked just like the manager in his branch except he had a Zapata moustache.

‘I’m sorry senior but I cannot let you select your own account number,’ he informed Michael.

Michael was hoping he wouldn’t have to do this but could see no other alternative.

‘I’ll be honest with you sir, the reason I’m opening this account is that I was forced to close a similar account in a different bank because of, shall we say legal reasons,’ Michael explained.

The manager nodded. He knew all about the legalities of money laundering.

‘If you were to enable me to open this account with the number I requested then I would be so grateful that I would be willing to make a donation to a charity of your choosing,’ Michael added.

‘But senior…’

‘For $100,000.’

The account was opened that afternoon.

Michael was down to his last $200 when he arrived at the internet café. He quickly logged into the bank,s system. Thank God they hadn’t fired him yet. He clicked the link to transfers and checked the escrow balance. The money was still there. He clicked resend and sat there for several tense seconds.

Money sent

He staggered back to the hotel drunk with success. He had instructed the bank to call the hotel the minute the transfer came through. This could sometimes take several hours. He headed for the hotel bar and had several tequilas. The call came through that afternoon. The money was in place. He headed straight to the bank. As promised he transferred 1% to the bank manager,s account, took all the US dollars they had, and had the rest changed into cashier’s checks which he hid in his money belt. He then closed the account.

Taking no chances he hopped in a taxi to go back to the hotel. There was something odd; the taxi driver wasn’t taking the usual route back to the hotel. Then the taxi stopped abruptly and two men got in, one sitting either side of Michael on the back seat. Both men were armed with pistols they were pointing at Michael. One of the men gave new instructions to the taxi driver in Spanish which were presumably another address.

They drove into the hills outside the city and pulled into a lavish complex complete with armed guards. He was led into a large sumptuous mansion. Michael was actually waiting for an opportune moment. He was lead to a door leading, presumably to the drug dealer whose mansion this was. As soon as the guards back was turned he threw himself through a nearby open window. A lot of shouting was going on behind him. It is clear that they were close. He ran as fast as he could.

He took a quick inventory: He had his passport, his cashier checks, and all his money, nearly $3 million in unmarked bills in his backpack.

He climbed onto a small shed next to the perimeter walled and leapt over the wall into the brush. He started to run through the cocaine fields. He was right this guy was a drug baron. He had made it across the field with no sign of pursuit. He reached a narrow road on one side was the coke fields on the other jungle. He heard a vehicle approaching so he hid. It was a taxi. He didn’t think it was the same one. Someone was indeed smiling down on him.

He flagged down the taxi and three large men got out. All were armed with shotguns.

‘I can expl…’ he began as they opened fire.

Gerald tore the VR headphones off his head.

‘Fucking hell this game is amazing.’

He heard the footsteps of his mother coming up the stairs.

The end