Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,45
he’d suffered a heart attack. More like been pushed. Again, she’d been too late.
Her gaze darted among the shoppers threading the stalls. Whoever had pushed Luebet could be watching her. Whoever had killed Yuri was clearly willing to kill again, and she’d retraced too many of his steps. Head down, she dove into the crowd.
Tuesday Early Morning, Silicon Valley
DAWN BLUSHED ROSE-ORANGE over the mountains fringing the bay and over the Buick logo still visible under the Tradelert sign. Five A.M. René, goosebumps running up his arms, had logged into Susie’s terminal using his sysadmin access. Nervous, he scanned yesterday’s protocols. He was drinking instant General Foods International café mocha cappuccino. Even though he’d doubled the packets, it still tasted like brown piss.
With that bad taste in his mouth, he dug deeper into the admin program to find who held the tokens for remote access. Susie had added him last night at 11:45 P.M.
He took one more sip. Clenched his teeth and started with her drawers. Manuals, zip drives. Finally he found the envelope marked René with his token.
He inserted the token, verified his log-in—she’d written in red marker with a heart—and accessed the whole program.
He’d entered Ali Baba’s cave. The workings, up-to-the-minute reports and scans—everything. With mounting anxiety he wondered why this access hadn’t been provided to him yesterday. It would have streamlined his work, saved him a lot of time. Had Susie forgotten or deliberately left him out? But those overheard words came back to him—the dwarf’s got no idea.
There had to be more tokens. After some searching in her drawer, he found one. Now he’d clone it and.…
“Early, eh? Didn’t see you.” A tall figure shadowed the breaking dawn. “Signed in yet?”
René smiled up at the blue-uniformed rent-a-guard. “They haven’t even printed my business card. I’m René Friant, chief technology officer.”
“Don’t see your name here, sir.”
He had to buy time. “You’re sure?”
René reached down to tie his shoe.
“Sorry, sir.” The guard came closer. “We’re obliged to check.”
“Then check the bronze CTO office plate with my name, René Friant.”
After scanning the empty offices and corridors, René finally found two programmers at workstations. Doughnut crumbs trailed from the youngest one’s sparse goatee. “Like one, my man?” he asked René, offering him a cardboard box assortment.
René hesitated, eyeing the icing-laden circles of fried dough. “Thought that was flic … I mean, police food.”
“Cop food—good one, my man. Nice you appreciate fine distinctions in American cuisine,” he grinned. “I’m Brad. Night shift.” He yawned and glanced at the time. “I’m outta here in ten minutes.” Brad swiveled his chair back to the terminal screen and clicked a few keys. “I love French movies. Those shots of the Eiffel Tower and girls in berets. Accordian music.”
“Mais oui, Parisian girls, striped shirts, berets and baguettes.” We live to be stereotypes, he almost said. Then he thought again. “Brad, before you go, mind doing me a small favor?”
BEFORE THE INVESTOR meeting, René found Andy at his laptop in the bright fluorescent-lit boardroom of the converted Buick leasing office.
“All systems go, dude. Brilliant work.”
Andy’s smile blazed. Charisma, wasn’t that what they called it? He lit up a room, made you feel like the most important person in the universe. Megawatts of charm in a two-piece suit over a Hawaiian shirt and sandals.
“Afraid there’s an issue you need to know about, Andy,” René said. He gathered his courage. Tried to figure out the right words.
Andy’s brow rose. “Issue? I checked the system minutes ago, it’s all good.” He shook his sun-bleached surfer curls. “Nerves? That’s it, isn’t it? Your first presentation as CTO. Dude, I get it.”
René hated disappointing him.
“My baby … our baby’s hatching into the world,” Andy said. “Be proud, René.”
He needed to know before the investors arrived.
“Not proud of this.” René hit keys on Andy’s laptop, opening the program. A few more strokes and René pointed to algorithms popping up on the screen. “This back door allows pre-trading advantage. Like front running. Illegal, Andy. It violates every stock exchange standard.”
Andy shrugged. “It’s business, René.”
Shocked, René stumbled against the boardroom table. He didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand.
“You knew, Andy?”
“Forget about it, René. I’ve got the term sheet.”
“Term sheet?”
“Everyone in the company wants this term sheet,” Andy said. “It’s our offer from three venture capitalists to invest thirty million. We’ll go public within two months and be worth two hundred million.” Andy squeezed René’s arm. Smiled. “Your two-dollar stock will go to eighty dollars, then twenty million.”