Bungled Banking

Phoebe Hart was nervous. Commander Davison Richards, one of the founders of AGENT and general leader of the US unit, had called for a general meeting of all available agents. She had a feeling it wasn’t to promote the yearly Independence Day BBQ.

She made her way to the viewing room. With so many HQ’s across the country, Commander Richards had deigned to make the conference virtual. Hart packed into the room with over one-hundred other people, elbowing her way to the front for a better view of the large screen. Harley was at the computer monitor, brow creased in irritation. He cursed under his breath.

“Language,” she snapped at him. He looked up at her, startled, and then rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, Hart,” he said sarcastically. “Ahem: Gosh darn this blasted rust bucket. Is that better?”

She folded her arms at him, then turned pointedly to the blank screen. “You better get back to work,” she said with mock pleasantness. “People are waiting.”

After several more minutes, and several more curses, Harley managed to get the live feed going. Richards’ larger than life image appeared, set against a slate grey backdrop. He was only visible from the belly button up, wearing a militaristic green coat that buttoned up to his neck. His close cropped beard was immaculate, as always, and his dark eyes gazed out at them somberly. He was already speaking-the broadcast had started two minutes ago.

“…with deepest regret that I say that we have allowed our attention to stray for too long with these minor threats. While our backs were turned chasing the mice, someone stole the horses.”

That wasn’t how the phrase went, but Phoebe’s heart still sank. She had a guess where this was going, and it wasn’t good.

“The ROZ has struck again.”

***

“Mr. Bailey?”

George swiveled around in his chair, looking up to see who had spoken. And then he dropped his gaze almost level in order to meet the gaze of the extremely short man before him.

“Yes?” George said politely, trying not to appear surprised by the man’s height. Or rather, lack thereof.

“I am Mr. Bernard Grandon,” the man said, his voice a deep baritone. “I am pleased to meet you.”

George thought he sounded more bored than pleased, but didn’t say so. “And I,” he replied instead, extending a hand. After a brief shake, Bernard stepped back.

“I am one of the supervisors for the bank tellers,” the short man said. “If you have any questions, feel free to come to me.” His tone of voice indicated that he sincerely hoped George wouldn’t have any questions.

“I thank you kindly, Mr. Grandon.”

After the tiny man left, George went back to setting up his new work area. It wasn’t much, just a desk with a flat screen computer monitor, some pens, a keyboard, and a little pin pad with a card chip reader. Still, he felt quite important. All day long, people came to him with the very pressing matters of withdrawing or depositing their money, or sorting out mysterious cases of missing cash and overdrawn accounts. He had only been at the work for three short days, but already he could tell he would like it much better than his previous three jobs.

The day passed quickly. He easily put figures together in his head, finding cash discrepancies and calculating the best possible solutions to people struggling to pay off loans. He wasn’t technically supposed to do that-the bank had specialists to talk to customers personally about loans and such. But it was simply math, and there was no need to make the good people wait around after they had already waited in line so long.

His lunch break came, and he went to the break room to eat his package of dried ramen noodles. The grocery budget was a bit limited this week, after paying his grouchy landlady to replace the ceiling fan. It was hardly his fault that the abominable thing wouldn’t stop creaking and shaking. He couldn’t turn it off, as the remote had been lost long before he moved in. How could he have known that blocking the blades with the broom handle would break the blasted thing? He wasn’t some sort of fan expert, for heaven’s sake.

***

“We know very little about ROZ’s current targets,” Agent Manson said, addressing the room full of field agents. “What we do know is that their ultimate goal is to bring down any and all form of governmental control. In the past, their methods have been subtle: secretly discrediting the political and economic structure of a country, ruining the reputation of monarchs and rulers, or causing the failure of major functions within the country, such as shutting down transportation systems in large cities or cutting off wireless communications across large areas.”

Agent Hart listened with half an ear. She knew all of this already. The ROZ were a secret, subtle group of terrorists that represented no specific nationality, race, religion, or ethnic group. They united themselves under the banner: Return of Zion. They seemed to believe that in order to bring the world to a state of peace and perfection, they needed to tear down all existing order. They had been quiet in the US for some years. Unfortunately, that had led AGENT to lose sight of them. Now, they were back with a vengeance, striking three major cities in subtle ways that no one else would ever suspect came from an organized, multi-national terrorist organization.

“We have reason to suspect a sector of ROZ is going to strike somewhere nearby, perhaps in West Virginia or Maryland,” Manson was saying. “You are going to be assigned to surveillance teams, two agents and a techy, and given an area to scout out. Any suspicious movement is to be reported immediately.”

He began to give out assignments. Hart was already heading for the door.

“Agent Hart,” Manson called. “I haven’t given you your assignment yet.”

She gave him a baleful look. “Maryland Delaware border, sir. Harley is my techy. We have an uneven number of agents here, meaning that I’ll be alone.”

Manson almost smiled. “How do you do that?” he asked.

“I read the assignment list on your tablet while you were waving it around. You should learn to talk without using your hands.” She saluted, then left.

***

George gladly offered to work overtime. The bank was understaffed, especially during the later hours. And heaven knew he needed the money!

His regular shift, eight o’clock a.m. until four o’clock p.m., was now augmented by the ‘midnight hours’, as the veteran bankers put it. They weren’t actually midnight hours at all-six p.m. until 10 p.m.-but they were named so because it was after the bank closed to customers. However, there was still plenty to do in terms of clean up, paperwork, filing, etc.

“Bailey,” Bryant, a tall, bearded man with a severe looking face, caught his attention.

“Yes?” George asked, looking up from his computer monitor where he had been double checking transaction accuracy.

“My wife just sent me a text. The little one has come down with something, and she needs the car. Can you handle locking up?”

Technically, George should have said no. After all, Bryant was the midnight crew’s supervisor, and was not allowed to leave until all other employees had checked out. But George had been working the shift for a week now, and would have no problem with the closing procedures. Besides, he couldn’t help a brief swelling of pride that Bryant would ask him. Not that he had much of a choice; the twilight crew consisted of four people: George, Bryant, and two other men, Horace and Bill. The other two were…well, rather daft. George had once needed to remind Horace to plug his computer monitor in, bringing back memories of dismal hours spent in the call-center.

“Of course, of course!” George said enthusiastically. “Get home to your family. As I always say, the family comes first!”

Bryant nodded in a very weary and solemn fashion, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good man. Don’t forget to make sure the alarms are set before you go, and that none of the computer monitors are left on.”

***

“Dang it all,” Hart hissed, barely stopping herself from slapping a frustrated palm against the wall beside her.

“Sorry, Hart,” Harley’s voice came into her ear. “We just don’t have enough information to justify a full out operation.”

Hart ground her teeth together. The target was the bank. She knew it. It aligned perfectly with ROZ’s motives and past actions. The problem was, she didn’t have any definitive proof, and Agent Manson was not willing to divert resources for a theory.

“I’ll get him proof,” she muttered, mostly to herself. She stalked back to her car, a nondescript grey Honda Accord. It wouldn’t do to go riding around in a sleek black spy car like they did in the movies.

“Hart…” Harley’s voice had an edge of warning. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

She snorted at this. He sighed loudly.

“At least…don’t die.”

“I’ve never done that before,” she replied. “Why doubt me now?”

“Not for lack of trying,” she thought she heard him mumble. Which was unfair. If she had been trying to die, she certainly would have accomplished it by now.

“I’m heading towards the bank. Based on my information, the night shift ends in half an hour. I’ll be there in ten minutes to scout out the area. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have what I need.”

It wouldn’t matter. By the time she got there and found the proof she needed, ROZ would be in position to strike, and no other Agents would be close enough to give her backup.

Still, she made her way through the streets and parked a couple blocks away, in front of a winery that was still buzzing with light and laughter. She made her way past the glowing lights of the windows and into the shadows, avoiding stepping in the splashes of light caused by streetlamps. The night was by no means silent. People still milled about, most of them young couples or the occasional drunken figure slumped on a bench. But as she moved closer to her target, the streets grew darker and quieter. In this area, most businesses had already shut down for the night.

Moving with the silent grace drilled into her by years of hard training, she stalked through the night, searching for any hint that something was amiss.

If I were trying to sabotage the bank, where would I station myself? she wondered. The nearby buildings were all closed, leaving them an unlikely possibility. A nearby pub, perhaps? But any mass movement would attract attention. Perhaps they had spread out at multiple locations and planned to converge at the same time from various directions.

Only a few lights shone from the bank’s windows. In only ten minutes, the night shift would be over, leaving the ROZ an opportunity to attack.

She scanned the dark night once more. No sound or movement gave any indication that a crime was about to be committed by a dangerous and highly resourceful group of terrorists.

She considered. The ROZ wouldn’t primarily be after the money in the bank, although they would take it to fund further operations. Their primary purpose would be to cause economic downfall and widespread panic, perhaps even distrust in the bank itself. If they could, they would try to make it seem as if there had been no robbery at all, just bank error. Perhaps even embezzlement or corruption within the bank’s upper echelons.

But to do that, she realized, they would have to have a way to get inside without triggering any alarms. And that would be impossible after the bank is locked…

She cursed quietly, understanding dawning on her.

***

Rig, or ‘Bill’ as he was currently called, glanced at the clock, then nodded towards his comrade Niguel. It was nearly time.

Rig still felt rather proud of getting Bryant out early. The urgent message from his ‘wife’ had been fake, of course. Bill had sent it himself. After doing thorough research on Bryant’s family, of course. It turned out, the four year old daughter had a nasty allergy to eggs. So, Rig arranged for a ‘kindly neighbor’ to bring the family some cookies-purportedly egg free but actually with extra egg. By the time Bryant got home, the child would indeed need to be taken to the hospital. Hopefully, that would avoid Bryant’s suspicion from being aroused. It wasn’t airtight, but Rig was still satisfied with himself.

Now, he just needed to convince that imbecilic Bailey fellow to leave. The man was still working dutifully on some menial task, apparently unconcerned that it was already two minutes past ten.

Niguel approached Bailey and cleared his throat loudly. The man looked up, blinking several times.

“Yes?” he asked politely.

“It’s time to go, friend,” Niguel said. Rig winced a little. Niguel had never been very good at diplomacy. He was a thug through and through.

“Of course,” Bailey said, nodding. “I was just waiting on you two gentlemen. After all, Bryant asked me to lock up.”

Rig smiled, stepping forward. “I can do that for you. You’ve been here all day, Bryant says.” He gave a sympathetic shake of the head. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am rather tired,” Bailey admitted. “But I gave my word to Bryant, and I am a man of my word.”

Rig continued to smile patiently, although Niguel was starting to glower. “I am as well. And I give you my word, we will lock up properly, nice and tidy. But I just need to use to restroom first,” he gave a meaningful look, “and I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

Niguel put in helpfully, “He has stomach issues. I’ve seen him go in and not come out for half an hour!”

Bailey looked a little concerned at that. At first, Rig thought it was because he didn’t want to stay another half an hour. But then he said, “Bill, have you seen a doctor? That seems very unhealthy.”

Rig waved a dismissive hand. “Not to worry, not to worry. I’m on medication. Doctor says it will take a few weeks to settle into my system, though.” He inwardly cursed Niguel for this turn of events. Niguel, for his part, looked stone-serious.

“So, as you can see, it is best if we close up tonight,” Rig said.

Bailey didn’t seem convinced. Finally, he said, “Well, alright then. Good night.”

***

George peeked out from underneath the small desk. It was one of the areas beneath the bank teller’s station, blocked off by three walls but open in the back. Horace and Bill were still out there, but he didn’t dare look for long enough to see what they were doing.

He wasn’t about to leave the important job of closing up to those two. On the other hand, he didn’t want to offend them. They were, after all, trying to be generous and think of his needs. He would simply wait until they left, and then he would make sure everything was shut down and locked up properly.

He was beginning to get a serious cramp in his left thigh, and shifted slightly to rub it. That caused his head to bump against the back of his cubical. He winced, reaching back instinctively to touch the injured area, and bumping his elbow against the wall to his right.

“Did you hear that?” Horace asked.

“Must be the front door. Go check.”

The front door? George thought. Why on earth would someone be at the front door? Still, he was relieved that they didn’t come looking for him.

In all his movement, he had accidentally unplugged several cords. He awkwardly shifted again, trying to plug them back in. It was rather difficult in the confines. Maybe if he shifted his body around, cocking his head just so…

His head bumped something, something that felt very much like plastic, rather than wood. And in that moment, he remembered why he had been sitting in that specific position.

He had just triggered the silent alarm.

“Oh, dear,” he whispered.

***

“I’m telling you, Harley, they’re already inside!”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Harley said soothingly. “I’m simply saying that we can’t go charging in, guns blazing-”

“I can’t just sit here and watch it happen!” Hart snapped.

At that precise moment, the streets were filled with the blaring sirens and red and blue lights of police cars. They encircled the bank. Quickly, Hart faded back into the shadows, watching with confusion and wonder as the bank was soon swarmed with law enforcement officers.

“Harley,” she whispered, “did you call the cops?”

“Hart? Hart, what’s going on over there?” Harley was saying, his voice concerned. Apparently, her earpiece had picked up the sounds of sirens and shouted commands.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, watching. In moments, two men were dragged from the building in handcuffs and shoved into police cars. The moment seemed utterly surreal.

“How did they know?” she whispered, mostly to herself. “How did they know about the attack?” Even AGENT hadn’t figured it out.

Her mind flashed back to another odd event, with an anonymous code-breaker.

“I think our vigilante friend has struck again,” she whispered.

***

George waited until the police all left. Then, he shut down the monitors and locked up the building.

He knew that Horace and Bill had been arrested, but was certain they would soon be set free once the mistake was cleared up. He had remained hidden, though, not wanting to explain the awkward situation, especially not in front of his fellow employees.

The next morning, George was called into the office of Executive Branch Director Amelia Barton. She did not look pleased.

“It has been brought to my attention,” she began, and George began to feel worried. Had she somehow discovered what he had done last night? There were cameras, after all.

But her next words made him relax. “-that you have been giving unsolicited advice to customers, sometimes advice that went directly against the best interest of this institution.”

Oh, was that all? “I was just trying to help the customers, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I meant no harm to this fine institution, or to your good name.”

She glared at him. “Nevertheless, you have caused us to lose three long-time customers and several other potential investors, along with some other minor grievances. Needless to say, we cannot tolerate this.”

George sighed. It had been a good run.

***

Agent Hart took the two captives custody from the pale-faced Sergeant, who still seemed uncertain of the mess he had stumbled upon. It had taken little effort to get custody from the local police department, as well as a promise of utmost silence. The strange occurrence at the bank was to be publicized as a false alarm.

Hart had attempted to review camera footage, only to discover that the camera feed had been cut off at precisely ten o’clock, likely by other members of ROZ from the outside. At that time, a third man had been in the building, but the other two claimed he was just a simple employee. From the research she had done into George Bailey, she was inclined to agree. The fact that the man had returned to work the next morning, rather than fleeing the country, also indicated his innocence.

Now, AGENT had custody of two members of ROZ. Probably not very important members, but it was a start. And it had all been done with very little mess involved. She smiled briefly, allowing herself a moment of pleasure before reminding herself that the credit for this victory was not hers. Someone else had informed the police of the hit on the bank.

“Well, you didn’t die,” Harley said brightly as she returned with several other Agents who were guarding the captives.

“Never do,” she replied, still distracted by the thought of a mysterious figure on the loose, one who seemed to know far too much.