Slicing the Salami

"On your left." The fancy racing bike whizzed past me as the well-muscled rider pedaled furiously.

"On your right." The jogger in her blue and black color coordinated lycra gear, including ponytail scrunchie, ran past me.

I hate exercising. Especially running and biking only to end up in the same place I started. I am merely using my bike as transportation from point A to point B. The exercise it provides is a sneaky, hidden byproduct.

I am a careful rider, always aware of traffic and pedestrians and traffic signals around me. I also keep a close eye on the path ahead lest I run over broken glass. Or a kitten. I spotted a black object in the road from a block away. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a binder. "Hey, I that might make a great new scrapbook,"' I ruminated. I placed it under my purse it in the wire basket attached to my handlebars

My early arrival on campus allows me time to wash up and change my clothes, read today's news, and mentally prepare for my day. That day it also allowed me time to peruse the binder more closely. It turned out to not be a binder at all but a business-sized checkbook! Hmmm, someone would surely want this back. I distractedly looked through it only to discover a smaller black notebook tucked into an almost-hidden pocket in the back cover. That was more interesting. The first page contained a small logo of a stylized grid of nine spaces, the first one containing the monogram M and the remaining eight containing a rounded square. I recognized the Moleskine logo from the display at the stationery store. I thumbed through it. It contained long combinations of numbers and letters. Other pages contained dates and what appeared to be monetary amounts varying from a penny to a few cents.

I was so deep in thought I did not hear Professor Bjorn enter my office. "What's with all the Swiss bank accounts? Have you secretly won the lottery and only to continue typing my manuscripts to learn the secrets of the LHC?" looking over my shoulder, he sniffed in his usual haughty way.

My head snapped up, questions sprung to my tongue. But Professor Bjorn was already slinking away back to his office. Swiss bank accounts? I slid the checkbook and Moleskine into my tote bag under my desk just as my coworkers began to arrive.

The thick stack of documents my team of four professors brought for my transcription and proofreading kept me busy throughout the morning. Full of numbers and complicated calculations, these scribbled sheets required careful attention for accurate transcription. I fought to concentrate. At lunchtime, I passed Professor Bjorn in the hall. As nonchalantly as I could muster, I asked, "When you go to Switzerland to visit the Large Hadon Collider, where do you exchange your American dollars?"

"Hrumph, at UBS, of course. It's present in all the major financial centers in the world!"

At quitting time, I pedaled my bicycle faster than ever around the lake to my apartment.

Checking the hallway was still empty, I unlocked my apartment door and slid inside. I closed the curtains and sat on the floor, all the lights off.

Extracting the black binder and its hidden Moleskine, I started scrutinizing the scribbles and doodles. An ink drawn teddy bear wearing a crown of leaves topped a separate page in the Moleskine. Another page featured a doodled USB flash drive. Professor Bjorn's huffy answer earlier in the day replayed in my head. UBS/USB? I searched cyberspace for banks in Switzerland. Julius Baer Group topped the list. UBS/USB? Baer/bear? Coincidence? The first number might be a date, and cross referencing the checkbook, the dates began to all match. For each date recorded as was a deposit into the checking account, a corresponding date with a smaller number was noted in the Moleskine. Going back to cyberspace, the strings of numbers and letters used in Swiss bank accounts were similar combinations and sequences as those in the little black notebook. I began to suspect these pages contained routing and account numbers. The inside back cover had a complicated series of numbers, letters, and characters that I suspected was a password. As I played with these series, I started to unravel patterns. Shifting each digit by two keys on a standard QWERTY keyboard, seemingly meaningless chain of characters became English words.

I was convinced I had discovered something major. An old boyfriend sweet talked me into renting the movie Superman III. I had sat next to him on the couch rolling my eyes at the ridiculous plot of Superman saving Metropolis from an embezzling computer. I flipped through a magazine instead. Coincidentally, the magazine reviewed the movie, explaining the theory of skimming fractions of pennies to amass secret wealth. Now, staring into middle space, I remembered the article. Slicing the salami. It was widely believed to be urban legend, but what if it weren't? What if it's possible?

I began to hatch a plan.

The next day, I sidled up to Professor Bjorn and convinced him to take me with him as his assistant and general go-fer on his next trip to Geneva. On my lunch break, I perused the high-end boutiques that cater to ladies who lunch. I bought a pair of ankle boots with geometric patchwork of mocha brown, stylish taupe, and whimsical bronze with clear Lucite heels. The accessory departments yielded a taupe pashmina, a big floppy black hat, and large Sofia Vergara Foster Grants. Back at my desk, I ordered a saddle brown, belted trench coat and a long, jersey knit cardigan. The website boasted the garments' 20 cleverly-hidden pockets for security.

A month later, Professor Bjorn and I arrived in Geneva. Claiming jet lag, I gave him the slip at the hotel. I placed the Moleskine notebook in the room safe and donned my carefully-acquired outfit. I walked down the inn's hallway displaying much more confidence than I felt. It took all my willpower to feign indifference at the heads turning my direction as I hailed a cab. Alighting from the cab in front of the nearest UBS branch, my fingers brushed the index card in my pocket. The card bore the account numbers and passwords from the page with the hand-drawn USB drive.

Reentering my hotel room barely two hours later, I carefully placed the coat on the bed. The Moleskine notebook went in the inside pocket. The 200 $100 bills were divided among the remaining pockets. When I completed the task, I rocked back onto my heels, expelling a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Too bad I can't give a five-star review to the Pocket Science company if indeed these pockets keep this money hidden," I said to only the four walls of my room. "In for a penny, in for a pound." The irony and absurdity, not to mention truth, of that old chestnut left me in spasms of laughter.

As jumpy as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, as my granny used to say, I took notes alongside Professor Bjorn at CERN. I was sure at any moment Switzerland's fedpol would storm the room, waving my purloined money. As the professor was preparing to retire for the day, I was trying to affect the epitome of casual. "I am very much enjoying Switzerland. I would like to stay another week. A vacation tacked on to this trip would be okay with the university, don't you think?" I knew he didn't know the first thing about university personnel matters, but I planned to throw him under the bus if anyone questioned my delayed return.

I accompanied Professor Bjorn to the airport under the pretense of changing my return flight. After he was safely past the security checkpoint, I found my way to the nearest coffee shop.

The barista smiled as I approached. Returning her smile, I inquired, "Where might I be able to charter a flight?"

"Jet Aviation is a large Fixed Base Operator on this airport. You could ask there."

I counted to five to slow my breathing as I pushed open the exit door, heading toward the nearest taxi. With a wide, toothy smile, the driver accepted my generous tip before alighting from the cab at the portico to the FBO. Pausing in front of the sleek, two-story building I took a deep breath before pushing through the doors under the blue and red lettered Jet Aviation A General Dynamics Company sign. In for a penny; in for a pound.

Casually glancing around at the sleek service counter, pilots in tidy uniforms looking at computer screens or checking their cell phones, I tried to make sense of the graphs and reports showing on the computers.

"I don't care about all y'all's rules!" I spun toward the heavy Texas accent shattering the serenity of the FBO. "Y'all have had my plane in this here repair shop for three days, and now it's time to get this show on the road!"

"I understand, sir. But our maintenance facility has high standards, and safety is our top concern! Your Falcon must have a test flight before we can endorse it for flight!"

"You can test flight to Grand Cayman! Bring your toolbox and come with me, but I want to leave now!"

I could see the maintenance supervisor wringing his hands behind his back, but they were invisible from the tall Texan's position. "Monsieur, I assure you, we are providing the best service possible."

"Don't you mon-sewer me! Saddle up and let's go!"

With a heavy sigh of resignation, he nodded his head. "Let me brief your pilots and arrange a service crew to accompany you."

My breathing slowed as I recognized this window of opportunity. "Excuse me, sir. This is my first trip to Switzerland, and I'm not sure who to talk to about chartering a flight to the Cayman Islands. Are you familiar with the process?"

"Ain't no need to charter a flight, little lady. I'ma headin' that way myself. This here Falcon seats eight. Ain't no need for any of those seats to go empty!"

Stunned, I envisioned an expected night of passion in return. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Or flight to Grand Cayman! "How nice of you! What would I owe you?"

"Nah, I'ma going anaway, you might as well tag along. Howzabout you buy me lunch when we get there? The name's Howard and ranchin's my game."

"Suzanne. Nice to meet you."

An hour later, a mismatched team crossed the tarmac to a sleek three-engine jet. Howard's voice boomed instructions to the maintenance crew following him, as I brought up the rear. Howard leaned through the door to the flight deck, still booming, "This here is Suzanne. Y'all be nice to her. Did you order enough catering for all of us?"

Seeing Howard buried in paperwork throughout the flight only slightly eased the stress headache I was nursing. After a quick refueling stop along the coast of Canada, the sun splayed golden spikes above the horizon as we touched down in Grand Cayman.

"C'mon little lady. Let's get you to that there hotel."

I pretended to search for my belongings to cover my dismay.

Chuckling, "Now I don't mean nuttin' by that. I own the hotel, and I'll make sure you're set up in a nice room. We'll meet in the lobby for that there lunch you owe me!"

Even chartered flights must clear customs. The Pocket Science trench coat performed as advertised and more. Smuggling 20,000 stolen dollars was a breeze. First stop, Cayman National Bank to open a numbered account. A bank balance of $20,000 in a numbered account in the Caymans--what a surprise! And there's more where that came from! (I can even transfer funds remotely!)

I always said riding my bike to work would save money!