The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,101

what you get me into."

Janson was silent for a while, thinking long and hard before he disclosed the essential elements of his predicament. Garrulous creatures like Berman, he knew, could sometimes be the most discreet of all, depending on the structure of motivation. Grigori listened without comment or any evident reaction, and then, shrugging, typed the values of an algebraic matrix into the program he was running.

Another minute passed. He turned to Janson. "Grigori not encouraged. We let these programs run, then maybe get results in time."

"How much time?"

"Run machine twenty-four hours, coordinate with global parallel-processing network of other computers, then maybe ... " Berman looked off. "Eight months? No, I think closer nine months. Like make baby."

"You're kidding."

"You want Grigori to do what others can't do? Must supply Grigori with numbers others don't have. You have public-key sequence to account, da? We use this, we have special advantage. Otherwise, back to making baby - nine months."

Reluctantly, Janson supplied him with the public-key sequence for his bank account - the codes that the bank transmitted upon receipt of information. The public-key sequence was known to both the bank and the account holder.

Within ten seconds after he typed in the public-key sequence, Berman's screen filled with jumbled digits, scrolling down his monitor like the closing credits of a film. "Numbers meaningless," he said. "Now we must do pattern recognition. Look for butterfly."

"Find butterfly," Janson stressed.

"Pah!" Berman said. "You, moy droog, are like baked Alaska: sweet and soft outside, hard and cold inside. Brrr! Brrr!" He clasped his arms around, pantomiming an arctic chill. But for the next five minutes, Berman studied sequences of confirmation codes with an intensity that shut out everything else.

At last, he read a series of digits out loud. "Butterfly here - 5467-001-0087. That is butterfly."

"The numbers mean nothing to me."

"Same numbers mean everything to me," said Berman. "Numbers say beautiful blond women and filthy canals and brown cafe where you smoke hashish and then more women, from Eastern Europe, sitting in storefront window like mannequin wearing pasties."

Janson blinked. "Amsterdam. You're saying you're looking at a transfer code from Amsterdam."

"Da!" Herman said. "Amsterdam transfer code - it cycles through too many times to be accident. Your fairy godmother uses an Amsterdam bank."

"Can you tell which one?"

"Baked Alaska is what you are," Berman said reprovingly. "Give him inch, he take isle! Impossible to get specific account unless ... Nyet, impossible."

"Unless what?"

"Private key?" Berman cringed as if he expected to be slapped for even saying those words. "Use digits like sardine key, scroll open can. Twist, twist, twist. Very powerful." Moving funds in or out of the account required a private key, an authorizing sequence of digits known only to the account holder; the key would not appear in any transmission. This separate, ultrasecure digital pathway protected both the customer and the bank.

"You really expect me to entrust you with the private-key sequence?"

"Nyet," he said, shrugging.

"Can I trust you with it?"

A booming laugh. "Nyet! What do you take me for! Girl Scout? Private key must be kept private, from everyone. Hence name. All men mortal. Grigori more mortal than most." He looked up at Janson. "Please, keep key to self." It was an entreaty.

Janson was silent for a while. Berman liked to say he could resist everything except temptation. To provide him with the private key would present him with a tremendous temptation indeed: he could siphon off its contents with a few keystrokes. Yet at what cost? Berman loved his life here; he knew that to make an enemy of Janson would jeopardize everything he had, and was. No threats were necessary to underscore the risks. Didn't this explain the real source of his reluctance? He didn't want the key because he knew he could not allow himself to give in to temptation - and wanted to avoid the anguish of waking up the next day and knowing he had left a sizable pile of money on the table.

Now Janson recited a fifteen-digit string and watched Berman type the sequence. The Russian's face was sickly and tense; he was obviously wrestling with himself. Within moments, however, he had succeeded in establishing connections to dozens of financial institutions, burrowing from within the Bank of Mont Verde mainframe to retrieve the digital signatures that uniquely identified the counterparty to every transaction.

Several minutes elapsed, the silence disturbed only by the soft clicking of keys and the quiet drone of the fans. Then Berman stood up. "Da!" he said. "ING. Which stands for