The Winner's Curse

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Mark flew to Frankfurt later the same week.

He'd spent the next day with Helen and Bette and part of Wednesday with Summers. She had convinced him to be realistic and to screw the lot of them for the most advantageous deal he could get. Definitely sound legal advice. He'd left the Personnel department with the conviction that he'd come out on top. Financially, at least.

The responsibilities in Frankfurt, though, were still only vaguely defined.

Sitting comfortably in the business class, relaxed in body but not mind, he somehow felt glad to be back in the GI fold. Well, maybe things would turn out for the best. Not everyone at GI was an arrogant and self-seeking bastard like Greenspan. As in a well-stocked zoo, not all animals were predators.

As the plane touched down at Rhine-Main airport, Mark found himself looking forward to his new job. All considered, Germany hadn't been all bad, he supposed.

During the taxi ride into town, he took in familiar sights and places as they flashed by. He was full of cheerful expectations when the driver set him down at GI's head office in the city's financial district. A modern six-storey building like the others thereabouts, it had GLOBAL INVESTMENTS INCORPORATED stretched across the façade in two-metre high letters. Impressive, he said to himself.

GI kept up its image with a prodigious show of wealth, solidity and prosperity. Unspoken company policy encouraged the art of making influential political friends and helping them to get rich.

Full of enthusiasm to get stuck in, Mark took the lift to the top floor – his new home. He was now a vice president, not something to be sniffed at. So relax and enjoy.

A matronly secretary showed him into the general manager's office punctually at eleven. She treated him as though he were just another nobody from London on a jaunt.

Well, he was used to it. International travel was second nature to GI executives.

GEROLD SUTTER, PRESIDENT, as the oversized nameplate on his door pointed out, was in his late forties and had the nervous eyes of someone used to the GI brand of paranoia. His handshake was firm but the palm slightly clammy.

"I can't say I'm pleased to see you," Sutter began, speaking German.

Mark half smiled as he looked for the joke.

“I've already complained about it to that lot in London," he went on. "Why retire a man like Ingo Mundt, your predecessor here. From one day to the next, mind you. We weren't even consulted. Were you?"

"Er no”.

"Ah, I see. I've been with GI for more than ten years. I've experienced some queer things in my time, but this tops it all."

"Oh, really?"

"Well, we minions from the fringes of the GI empire can't change anything anyway, I suppose."

"No."

"Head Office cracks the whip, and we jump."

"Er yes.."

He stood up. "I'm supposed to show you around, so let's get it over with, shall we?"

The staff reception was as cool as Mark now expected. Sutter introduced him to people whose names he tried to remember but instantly forgot. Most reacted politely dismissive, some curious. A number of the old hands had stayed away.

By noon, introductions to the key people had been taken care of. Mark was glad to be sitting alone in his new office. He decided straight off to review the financial reports and get down to righting the ship. A press on the buzzer summoned his secretary. She had longevity written all over her.

She didn't waste time. "Herr Shearer, you should know that as soon as I got the news this morning about Herr Mundt I went straight to our Personnel officer. I'm applying for a move to another department."

Others appeared and expressed their wish to apply for a transfer. Mark nodded and wished them well. He’d been involved in palace revolutions before. He knew the routine.

In between the comings and goings, he had spent some time examining the regional accounts and monthly reports. They confirmed what he, by now, expected. Even the profits forecast prepared by Mundt for the year was all good news. Marvellous, bloody marvellous!

His good mood of earlier had disappeared and he shuddered to think how much loyalty really counted and how close those bastards at the London office had come to re-buying his. Thank you, Herr Mundt, for the timely insight. I owe you one.

At his hotel that evening, Mark called Fred Mayer. He and Fred were old friends and had both worked for the old NatWest. Now, he earned his living programming computer systems, or something like that, for firms in the world of finance and banking. He had a place out in Clapham.

His girlfriend, Ruth, answered and he flirted for a minute or two with her. She was a nice kid, about ten years younger than Fred. She put him through to Fred who was still in the workshop below their flat.

"Hello." His voice sounded weary.

"Hi, Fred."

"Oh, it's you, you bastard," he said with a forced laugh.

"Who did you expect: the chairman of Barclays?"

"Ruth said – Nah, it doesn't matter ...''

“She pulling your leg again, eh?”

A grunt.

''Business is good?''

''Working all hours ...''

"Don't neglect Ruth ... You won't get another like her so fast."

"Yeah, yeah, and you never fail to take your own advice."

"Eh?"

"You and Helen."

"That was different, old buddy."

"With you, it always is ... Now, what are you ringing for?”

"I need some advice, Freddie."

He heard a lighter click and Fred draw in deeply. "What's it this time?"

"Too involved for the phone. It's urgent though."

"What isn't? For a week now, I've been up to my bollocks solving the insoluble. I've got a lousy virus epidemic to sort out, and the bastard thing's driving me bloody barmy."

"How about Saturday?" Mark edged in through the artillery fire.

"Yeah, why not? Twelve o'clock, OK? A bite to eat and then the Chelsea match afterwards?"

Mark laughed, pleased. "Yes, and yes. And don't get too worked up in your workshop, all right?"

"Bugger off."

At noon on Saturday, Fred let Mark in through the workshop’s street door. He was a bit shorter than Mark’s six foot two, his long hair showing signs of greying. With blue eyes, a reddish-brown moustache and dark beard, he presented a colourful combination. Wiry and as thin as a broom handle, he never seemed to have weight problems. Even though he ate like a horse – and only the best when Mark was paying. In contrast, he had a simple taste in clothes. T-shirt and jeans in summer and a heavy, woollen sweater over the T-shirt in winter.

The workshop hadn't changed much since Mark’s last visit. Two large rooms were fitted out with work benches and littered with computers, processors, motherboards and mysterious looking stuff that reminded him of outer-space movies. Some computers were stripped down, others connected up and working. Unopened boxes of hardware were stacked in the corners. The workstations were empty but untidy, looking as if his staff had deserted in a hurry.

Fred had a flask of coffee on the desk and now poured two mugs full. He lit up and listened to Mark’s tale of woe. When he'd finished, Fred fell into silent contemplation.

"So you suspect something unkosher is going on, right?"

“Yeah. Like I said, first, they demote me while I'm on holiday and promote my deputy, a bent-over-backwards company nerd to my job, and cancel my systems access passwords, then they send me to an outpost of the empire. Doesn't that sound as if something funny is going on?"

"Maybe they're being nice to you and not firing you outright?"

Mark smiled. "They have no reason for that?"

"I've been around corporate management, my friend. The buggers don't need a reason … OK, so what do you want me to do?"

"Since I left, my passwords have been changed. I need system access."

That didn't surprise Fred, naturally. "OK, so what hardware are you using at GI – IBM?"

"Yeah, as far as I know."

"Excellent."

Fred ground out the stub of his cigarette and, jumping up, went into the main workroom. He returned carrying a small gadget. "This should do the trick," he grinned broadly.

The device looked like a miniature USB stick. "What is it exactly?"

"A micro data-recorder. Patent pending. It goes into the keyboard interface slot at the back of the computer. The keyboard is then plugged into this gadget. All data input into the system via that keyboard is recorded. We use such things to localise interface problems."

"So how will it help me?"

"The password has to be entered to log on, right?"

"Hey, you mean filching somebody else's identity?"

"That's the gist."

Oh God. At GI with their penchant for security close to the obsessed, he could see problems galore.

"Ideally the guy at the top of the data processing department," Fred added.

“Are you off your rocker, man? Getting a password illicitly would be tougher than breaking into the gold vaults in Threadneedle Street. Getting one belonging to an executive is … is crazy.”

"Then a key man in Hardware Systems or User Services. If we want to do this quick and clean, Mark old sport, we'll need viewing access to the relevant parts of the system."

The house extension rang. It was Ruth. Mark didn't eavesdrop. He was concentrating, running faces past his mind's eye. If this were the only way, he'd need somebody trustworthy at head office. There wouldn't be many of them left, and their meagre number would be diminishing daily.

Pulling himself to his feet, Mark picked up the micro recorder, marvelling at its minute size. "How do you work this gadget?"

Fred replaced the receiver and demonstrated the connecting procedure. “After attaching just flip this little switch here – and Bob's your uncle.”

Hmm. Looked dead easy. "Can it be detected – by a virus programme, for example?" Mark asked, looking for some snag.

“No.”

''What about a firewall?''

''No problem. The gadget records the data input at source – before arrival in the computer systems. That's where any protection software first kicks in.''

"So how long does it have to stay connected?"

"Just until the password holder has logged on. But make it a couple of days to be absolutely sure. Let's get a few readings, okay?"

Fred disconnected the gadget and handed it to Mark in a little cellophane bag.

He took the plastic envelope absent-mindedly, his mind now miles away, wondering who he could still trust at GI.