A cool breeze greeted Dayne when he stepped from the train at the Clifton Hill stop. It made for a refreshing respite for his walk home after a long day suffering through an extended 10-hour shift at the Harvey Norman store on Bridge Road. And as the station clock ticked over to 7:30 he wearily made his way through the station gates and along Hoddle Street.
Dayne hitched his backpack up on his shoulder then scratched the back of his neck. He was having a tough time getting used to the shorter hairstyle, long hair being an integral part of his persona for as long as he could remember. Then hung his head in shame recalling the reason for having it cut, and wondered why men do stupid things trying to impress women.
He’d met Megan after his solo gig at the Yarra; they’d talked over a few drinks after the show and seemed to hit it off. However, she’d commented his hair reminded her of an old boyfriend. He scheduled an appointment with his hairdresser the next day. However, their date the following week proved to be an absolute disaster. Apparently, the long hair, like a long forgotten song heard for the first time in years, brought back fond memories. And the old boyfriend, it soon became obvious, was destined to be dusted off and put back into heavy rotation. Over gnocchi and a bottle of Shiraz, Megan told Dayne all about “Sam”. And what a great guy “Sam” was, perhaps just a little misunderstood.
Dayne smiled meekly and contemplated how he could bill fucking “Sam” the $60 he’d wasted on Megan for dinner.
Although, a few weeks removed, Dayne was slowly coming around on the new style. He liked to think he’d transformed himself, just like a young Brad Pitt in Troy to the more mature one in Ocean’s Eleven, but as yet no one else was buying it. At the intersection of Hoddle and Ramsden Street, he waited for the little red man on the light pole to be replaced by the green one. The wind blew cold against his neck. ‘Bloody women’, he muttered, as he hunched his shoulders up near his ears.
Five minutes later, he stepped over his inoperable front gate and made his way along the path to his front veranda. The weeds in the front yard having finally overrun the flower beds, were preparing for a two-pronged assault on the small concrete divide separating their two empires. His thoughts concentrated on an assault of a different nature.
Dayne closed the front door with a nifty back-heel while simultaneously tossing his backpack onto the worn armchair in the front room. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, levered off the cap with his favourite Lakes Entrance souvenir bottle opener and made his way to the back of the house and his office which doubled as a bedroom.
Taking a long pull on the bottle, he stared at the monitor on the left of the two arrayed on the table top. The login screen for the Williams & Teacher law firm stared back.
The ringing of his mobile interrupted his taking a seat.
Craiggo, what’s up?
Just checking to see how the master plan is coming alone.
Everything is on track. I’ve got eyes on Garth’s work computer as we speak.
Already? Want me to come over?
Hold your horses, mate. I’m not totally in yet. I’ve still got to implant another program which utilises stylesheets, iFrames and opaque screen overlays so’s I can capture keystroke data.
Was that English you just spoke?
Dayne suppressed a laugh.
The technique known as clickjacking was designed to capture user identification and password keystrokes through the use of transparent virtual screens overlaying the originals. But he didn’t expect Craig to understand.
All you need to know is after I load this program the next time he logs on I’ll have all his I.D. and password information. I’ll then have the keys to the kingdom, mate.
What do you need me to do?
Absolutely nothing. Just try and relax. I’ll call you when I learn something.
You’re the expert. Talk to you later. And Dayne, be careful.
Yeah, mate. You know me. Later.
With the program implanted he’d soon be able to understand exactly what game Garth O’Neal was playing. Thinking of Craig’s warning, he assumed doing so posed a very low amount of risk. He doubted the level of security employed at a small law firm like Williams & Teacher would cause too many headaches. Certainly nothing to compare with the IT firms he’d breeched over the past few years. Speaking of security, he’d meant to ask Craig what he knew of the bank’s systems. He scratched out a note to ask next time they talked.
***
Moonlight filtered through the second-floor windows of the Southern Cross Bank & Trust building bathing the interior in a soft bluish hue. A sliver of white light and the soft hum of music leaked from under an office door but scarcely disturbed the tranquil scene.
Past 9:30 on a Friday evening, not a soul remained in the building other than one man. For Lenny Mansfield, it was this quiet time he relished the most. It brought back happy memories of years spent as a security guard protecting, for the most part, empty office buildings on his preferred graveyard shift. How he came to be a security guard, well, those memories were not always so pleasant.
Excessive use of force being the official reason for being drummed out of the Victoria Police. As a young constable, he one day took exception to the spray of abuse he received from a young punk arrested for drug possession. Now, 20 years later, he considered himself fortunate the kid lived. Though sometimes, when in a not so calm introspective mood, he wished he’d finished the job.
However, Lenny wasn’t one to brood and waste time dwelling on past mistakes. Through a sprinkling of computer and business classes taken at night school under his belt, he managed to parlay his security and law enforcement background into a security consultant position. From there, he landed his current role with Southern Cross. The transformation from uniformed thug to corporate professional was 15 years in the making but time and money well spent.
On the middle shelf of his office’s bookcase sat a small stereo. From it, the muted sounds of a Dire Straits CD broke the silence. After plucking a computer printout from his in-tray, Lenny leant back and propped his feet up on the edge of his desk. The five-page document constituted the past week’s Restricted Access report.
Each time a banker, or one of their assistants, accessed the accounts of a client, the paperwork in Lenny’s hands captured the information. Employees were strictly prohibited from accessing their individual accounts or those of any family member. Filters within the report captured these illicit activities thus giving Lenny his greatest thrill in this otherwise humdrum position; the ignominious employee walk-of-shame from the premises.
The report also highlighted anomalies in account retrieval. The primary purpose to protect client privacy from wide-eyed assistants. Taking a peek at the account balance of a famous athlete may make for a great conversation starter with your mates at the pub, but if the access was unauthorised, your days with Southern Cross B&T were over.
The opening organ arrangement to Tunnel of Love floated throughout the office as Lenny dropped his feet to the floor, straightened in his chair, and took a closer look at the report.
A flurry of activity by one of the assistants on the 11th, last Friday, jumped off the page. Thirty-six client accounts accessed in less than thirty minutes.
He first checked the assistant’s work from earlier in the day and found nothing out of the ordinary. He knew Craig’s banker, Eric Mullane, performed “know your customer” updates last week, but nobody could update notes that quickly.
Lenny logged into the bank’s client account system and typed in the names of interest to Walters.
Dire Straits moved on from a carnival ride to Expresso Love, Mark Knopfler’s dulcet tones pondering the difference between lust and love. Lenny stared pensively across the room to the framed picture of him and a former captain of the Melbourne football club, searching within for inspiration.
The digital display of the small clock on his desk ticked over to 10:05 and Lenny was no closer to an answer. With a touch of a button he silenced the stereo and powered down his computer.
The incandescent glow of a three-quarter moon shone through the vertical blinds helping to guide him along the corridor and to the back staircase leading to the parking garage. He hoped a cold beer or two would provide some inspiration in solving this dilemma, for he was certain something was not right. And if inspiration didn’t strike, he’d lay it at the feet of Mr Lewis on Monday morning and get the boss’ thoughts.