“The other obvious leads are those two emails you received,” Steeves said. “We can try to trace those back to the source.”
“Don’t remind me about the emails,” Dysart said. “I still can’t believe someone here at the bank leaked them to the press.”
“Any idea who that might have been?” Steeves asked.
Dysart shook his head. “The fax was sent from an open office, so it could have been anyone. And I have to tell you, it’s turning into a public relations nightmare. The media is already screaming cover-up.”
“We can’t worry about your PR problems,” Steeves said. “We just look for the bad guys.”
“Then look as quickly as you can. We’re going to have plenty of furious customers until this thing is sorted out.”
“We’ll do our best.”
Dysart was unsure whether their best was going to be good enough. These two seemed competent, but of course they could offer no guarantees. He wondered whether he should make one more phone call, to a number he had not dialed in five years — a number he had hoped never to have to call again. He had wrestled with this question several times in the last day and a half.
Dysart decided once again not to call, at least not yet. He still had nowhere to point that particular weapon.
Lesley glared at her producer, Arthur Pearce. “What do you mean Shayna and I can’t keep going?” she said. “It’s our story. We broke it.”
Pearce was a harried-looking man with a balding head. His dress shirts always appeared rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I have to give it to someone else,” Pearce said. “You’re too close to it.”
“But I can get the goods. I proved that last night. We were the first station to confirm that email was real.”
“After your uncle fed you watered-down information earlier in the day.”
“Come on, Arthur. I had no way of knowing about the sabotage at the time.”
“That’s not the point.”
“And I can’t help it if Uncle Stan held out on me. He was only doing what he thought was best for the bank.”
Pearce jabbed a finger. “You see? That’s what I’m talking about. He used you and you’re still protecting him. Any other reporter would be mad as hell and anxious to bury him with his own words.”
“No other reporter can get as many words out of him as I can.”
Pearce shook his head the whole time she was talking. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m taking you off the story.”
Lesley crossed her arms and fumed. Pearce had been the producer of WNWB News for many years and she usually valued his sharp instincts, but this was a huge loss.
“I want to run your uncle’s comments from yesterday again,” Pearce said, “as a counterpoint to the new information.”
Pearce’s abrupt change in approach took Lesley aback.
“What’s the sense in that?” she said. “It’ll just make him look like a liar.”
Pearce looked her straight in the eye. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
Lesley blinked.
When she didn’t answer, Pearce continued. “This has turned into an adversarial situation. The public wants to know how a bunch of cyber-saboteurs managed to penetrate security at an American bank. I need someone who’ll push to find out how the bank messed up and left themselves exposed. This is certainly not information First Malden will give out willingly. Can the bank guarantee this sort of thing won’t happen again? And why weren’t the bank’s customers informed when it happened? Your uncle used you to save his own butt. I need a reporter who wants to nail him, and that’s not you.”
He paused and softened his tone.
“Look, I’ve seen enough of these stories to know how ugly things can get. Believe me, you don’t want this coming between you and a family member. Take my advice and leave it alone.”
Lesley’s mouth was set in a thin line as she tried to control her frustration.
“Fine,” she said.
“Once you think about this, you’ll see I’m right.”
Lesley left Pearce’s office, paused and took a few deep breaths, then headed down the hallway. She heard her cell phone ring so she stopped and dug in her purse.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, it’s me.”
She closed her eyes.
“Hi, Uncle Stan.”
“We have a problem,” he said.
“You’re right and it’s all because you lied to me yesterday afternoon.”
“I had to keep our customers calm, buy us some time to fix the problem.”
“Yeah, well, you can see how well that worked.”
“Can we do another interview?” Dysart said. “I’ll say I didn’t know it was an attack until last night. Before that we thought it was just something broken.”
“You knew about the attack on Monday.”
“Come on, it’s worth a try.”
“I have nothing to do with it anymore,” Lesley said. “The producer pulled me off the story, assigned it to someone else.”
Dysart paused, then said, “But you can still influence the direction they’re taking, can’t you?”
“You don’t understand the position you’ve put me in. I had plenty of control until you made me look like a fool. I’m off it, okay? Gone. Out of the loop. I can’t help.”
“Don’t snap at me, young lady. You’re not the only one with problems. I just finished talking with Homeland Security about terrorists attacking the American financial industry. We had a lovely chat. Really made my day. Before that it was the FDIC trying to figure out if we’re going to go kaput and cost them bunches of money. We have messages piled up from dozens of corporate clients who want to know what’s going on. It’s too bad you got caught in the middle but I gave you the only information I could at the time.”
“Fine,” she said, making no attempt to keep the frustration out of her voice, “but there’s still nothing I can do to help.”
Dysart sighed. “Okay. Gotta go.”
Lesley snapped the phone shut, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the elevator. She saw no reason to hang around where she wasn’t wanted.
Tim removed the key from the lock and pushed open his apartment door. The staleness engulfed him as he carried the grocery bag inside and set it on the kitchen counter.
“I’m home, Dad,” he called out in a cheery voice.
There was no response, but that was no surprise. He rarely received one.
Tim opened the tiny kitchen window, walked into the living room past the armchair that held his father, raised the blind and opened that window as well. On the TV, a CNN anchor looked stern as he dished out the day’s outlook for the Dow Jones.
Tim saw a small plate covered with crumbs sitting on the table beside his father.
“Did you eat?” Tim asked. “I thought you were going to wait and have some brunch with me. I got some bacon and eggs … and those chocolate croissants you like.”
Eldon Whitlock shrugged as he took a drag on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke and said, “I had some toast like I usually do. I guess I’m not used to having you home at this time on a weekday.”
“No worries,” Tim said. “I’ll just whip up some eggs for myself.”
Tim picked up the overflowing ashtray and whistled softly as he headed for the kitchen. Nothing was going to dampen his spirits on this morning. He had spent the last several months feeling like a loser while he hesitated to put his plan into action. But now things were underway and flowing according to plan. Tim was on top of the world.
He expected the clues he planted in Rob’s desk at the bank to be discovered today, which would be followed by a rapid series of events. He played out the scenario in his mind yet again. Rob is hauled into Dysart’s office where he gets chewed out, pressured to provide the keyword, and then fired with as little public fuss as the bank can manage. Tim sends the keyword to the bank with an anonymous text message so the furor can begin to die down. Dysart assumes Rob has supplied the keyword, and tells Lesley about the felony committed by her boyfriend.