Boston—that same day
Louis Massina was not used to giving up, much less being told to give up. There was simply no way that he was not going to pursue the ATM thieves.
On the contrary, it was now his number-one priority. But Massina being Massina, the issue was not simply one of revenge, let alone getting his money back. It had provoked a wide range of thoughts about computer security, national security, and even politics. Petty thievery was one thing; being able to infiltrate and manipulate the banking system, quite another. The FBI’s sudden decision to drop the case suggested many things to Massina, not least of which was the possibility that the government could secretly manipulate the banking system for its own purposes. Even if that wasn’t what was going on here—more evidence would be needed on that score—the potential surely existed.
Massina had always taken Internet security very seriously; that was a necessity at a firm where IT was critical to its operations. Chinese and Russian hackers, almost surely state-sponsored, constantly tried to break into Smart Metal’s systems. And they were only the more notorious—just in the past week, hackers from several Western European countries had tried to breach the company’s e-mail systems. Most of Smart Metal’s work was done on internal systems that would not allow any outside access, from trusted sources or not, but even that system had to be constantly monitored for potential breaches.
Still, Massina had never viewed computer security as a potential business area; he’d been under the impression that there were already plenty of other businesses in that field. But maybe that wasn’t true: if the banking system could be so easily compromised, then surely there was room for innovation.
And innovation was what they did. For a profit, of course.
So he had both altruistic and business reasons for pursuing the matter as he walked into Number 2 conference room to meet with Chelsea and his head of security to discuss it.
“The FBI has dropped out. We’re pursuing this on our own,” he told them as he walked into the room. It was 10:40, five minutes before the time he had specified for the meeting, but both Chelsea and Bozzone had worked at Smart Metal long enough to know they were expected early. “What do we know?”
“We know that sticking our nose into police matters is in general a very bad idea,” said Bozzone.
Massina smiled. It was exactly because of remarks like that—speaking his mind even though it was not what Massina wanted to hear—that he valued Bozzone.
Not that he was necessarily swayed by his advice. But the reality check was useful.
“What else do we know?” Massina asked.
“That most likely we’re looking at a gang with connections to Eastern Europe,” said Bozzone. “Most likely suspects. And that the CIA is involved.”
Massina followed Bozzone’s gaze over to Chelsea. Number 2 conference room was small, arranged somewhat like a living room with a sofa facing a ring of three chairs and a love seat; there were side tables next to the chairs and at the ends of the couches. It was the only room in the entire building, aside from the restrooms, that did not have hardwired computers. It was something of an oasis.
Chelsea and Bozzone were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, looking slightly uncomfortable; Massina sat in the leather chair at the center of the circle, as was his wont.
“That’s what one of the task force members told me,” said Chelsea. “The FBI backed off because of that.”
All the more reason for us to pursue it, thought Massina.
“I’ve been thinking about the situation a lot,” continued Chelsea. “If it’s not on the card, then the command string must come from the accessed account somehow. It nests in the ATM machine for a limited amount of time, then self-erases.”
“Not at the processing points?” asked Massina.
“Well, the FBI looked there, so presumably no. Anyway, if I could examine the account that was accessed when that string was sent, it might tell me a great deal.”
“Do it,” said Massina.
“With the bank’s permission or without?”
Massina waved his hand. “However you need to.”
Bozzone cleared his throat. “You know, breaking into accounts, whatever the purpose, it’s pretty much an illegal act.”
“Is it?” asked Massina. He was not speaking theoretically; as he understood the law, stealing something from a bank account was definitely illegal; manipulating something in the account was almost surely illegal; but looking at something in an account—that wasn’t covered.
“You bet it’s illegal,” said Bozzone.
“We’re not doing anything to the account,” said Massina. “I can get a legal opinion if you want.”
Bozzone shook his head.
“It’s possible the FBI already has the data,” said Chelsea.
“Talk to them,” said Massina.
“But they don’t want our help,” said Chelsea.
“Maybe national security is involved,” said Bozzone. “We don’t know.”
“How would that be?” asked Massina.
“I don’t know. But if the CIA is involved, there may be a lot of things we just don’t know.”
“So let’s find them out,” said Massina.
A long moment passed. “The idea of attacking the account seems pretty sophisticated, but on the other hand, they don’t take much money,” said Chelsea, interrupting the silence. “I would think if a gang was involved, they’d go for a big kill.”
“I agree with that,” said Bozzone.
“Maybe that’s what they’re planning.” Massina slid forward on the chair.
“Maybe the FBI has actually already solved this, and they’re just waiting for that hit,” said Bozzone. “Then they strike. It’s possible the CIA is actually helping them.”
“I didn’t get that impression,” said Chelsea.
“Let’s stop dealing in the dark,” said Massina, springing to his feet. “By the end of the day, I want to know what resources we need, what people, whatever it takes to pursue this. Chelsea, come up with a plan.”
Massina was already out the door before either Chelsea or Bozzone got up.
“OK,” said Chelsea.
“Listen, I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the security chief. “Bad, bad, bad.”
“I kinda got that.”
“If you are doing anything even borderline illegal, I don’t want to know about it. And for the record, I don’t think you should do it either.”
Chelsea nodded.
“I don’t think you should do anything illegal,” repeated Bozzone. “Nothing.”
“I heard you.”
“Is the FBI really out? Or is that a smoke screen to get us to stop being interested?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ask your boyfriend,” said Bozzone.
“My boyfriend?” Chelsea felt her face warm.
“Don’t you have some sort of connection there?”
Was he just being a bit of a wiseass, or had he somehow seen her? Or had someone else seen her and told him?
“If you hear anything of use from your police friends,” Chelsea told him, “let me know.”