A Fateful Farewell Page 2
David (he was called John at that time) demonstrated that four work stations were programmed to credit a bank account that didn’t belong to the company. It wasn’t that dramatic considering the enormous turnover but about four million was being diverted every year.
Edgar Rostock told his secretary to take no further calls and cancel scheduled appointments. Then he turned to Matthew.
‘How could this happen? What should I do now?’
John sat back; Matthew took over.
‘This could only be put in place by your software providers or someone working for them. They’re a big international corporation. Have all your other branches got the same system?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we need to find out if they’re being milked too?’
‘That would take years.’
He turned to John. ‘What do you think?’
‘If I find it in three other branches selected at random it would be safe to assume it’s in all of them.’
Edgar frowned. ‘I would have to tell them what we’re looking for.’
Walter shook his head. ‘No, this has to remain between the three of us for the present. Just tell your superiors that you are looking at a new sophisticated system and would like to see if it would suit other branches.’
Edgar turned to John. ‘Can you take the affected stations out of use in the meantime?’
It was Walter replied. ‘No; if they learn we’re on to them they’ll cover their tracks.’
‘Can we sort this out without going public?’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘How long will it take,’ Edgar asked.
‘Now that I know what I’m looking for – a few weeks.’
When they met again a month later he confirmed that the branches tested were being milked.
‘What do we do now?’ Edgar asked Walter.
We’ve got to get the CEO in here. If he refuses to come tell him you’ll call in the fraud squad.’
***
Ten days later the ebullient CEO, Vascy Borlyks, a big man used to talking down to people, stalked into Rostock’s office. He was in an aggressive mood.
‘Now what the hell is this all about that I have to make a special trip from Bermuda?’
He spoke with a guttural accent, probably Slavic.
‘Sit down sir.’ Edgar ordered tersely.
He did.
‘You have been robbing this company for years with your clever software.’
‘Rubbish, what the hell are you talking about?’
He looked at John.
‘Tell him.’
He glared at him while he did so.
‘Rubbish.’ He roared. ‘What the hell does a squirt of a kid know about these things?’
Walter came to his defence. ‘He knows enough to uncover your scam.’
He sat back. ‘I don’t know anything about these ridiculous slanders.’
Walter smiled. ‘I’m delighted to hear that. You won’t mind then if we call in the fraud squad and go public?’
The colour drained from his face. ‘Now wait a minute. You’re talking about taking on a multi-Billion international corporation. I’ll sue you for your last dollar.’
Edgar Rostock let fly. ‘You won’t be suing us; we’ll be suing you for thirty million siphoned off this branch and that’s only for a start.’ He paused. ‘You’ll be going to jail.’
The big man sat forward defiantly. ‘I’ll crash your entire programme; where is your proof now?’
‘Do you think we’re that stupid? We’ve got six copies where you can’t touch them.’
He caved in. ‘All right, let’s talk cash. We can settle this among ourselves.’
Walter smiled. ‘You want us to be party to a felony?’
‘Look, I’ll repay the thirty million. Let’s call it a day at that.’
Edgar glared at him. ‘It’s not that simple; this is a PLC; we’ve got thousands of shareholders being defrauded by your corporation and a rubbish software system that cost a hundred million.’
Walter now took charge.
‘What about your other customers?’
‘They’re not affected.’
‘You won’t mind then if we check with them; they’re listed on your website.’
‘No, no don’t do that.’
‘You’re running out of options.’
He was really shattered now. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Walter now showed his hand. ‘This PLC needs a new software system. My son will write it with the help of two hundred of your software engineers who will work, at your expense here in London. You will pay this company a hundred million pounds from which it will pay my son’s company for the new system.’
He objected. ‘Where would I get that kind of money?’
‘Try your personal bank account.’
He leapt up. ‘This is robbery; I’m not having this.’
Walter responded crisply. ‘Bernie Madoff only got 150 years; what do you think your chances are?’
He sat down.
Edgar intervened. ‘What am I going to do while the new software is being written?’
John replied. ‘I’ll instruct the engineers to identify and take polluted terminals off the system.’
He stood up again.
‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes and don’t get any fancy ideas; this meeting has been recorded on camera.’ He paused. ‘One final item; you will sell your shares in the company and retire.’
He hadn’t realised his father was such a shrewd businessman; Walter set up the new company called Waltagg Ltd with he and mother as directors, but insisted the shares be in John’s name; he was too young to be a director. He was now a multi-millionaire. His joy was overshadowed a month later by the sudden death of his beloved granny.
The train eased its way into Lime Street station in Liverpool where coaches were waiting to take passengers to the Dublin ferry. Suddenly realising he was hungry he bought a couple of sandwiches from a vendor’s stall and hurried to the coach.
***
As the ferry eased its way out of the harbour he bought a coffee and sat in a quiet corner of the lounge.
Walter showed his Accountants’ computer package to his partners who were very impressed with it. He contacted their existing software providers who, after much negotiation, bought it for fifty million. They asked him to look at some of their other programmes. Within a year he had six hundred software engineers employed. Walter took care of all the business aspects.
***
His parents were anxious that he should follow in his father’s footsteps and go up to Oxford. He enrolled for a degree in Accountancy and Economics; he would come down to London in his spare time to consult his engineers. He had a number of affairs during those years but invariably his work got in the way.
The apartment he grew up in was one of twelve in a six storied purpose built complex. He wanted to move the family to a big house in north London; he could well afford it. His mother wouldn’t hear of it.
It was then he learned his father had the same idea many years earlier. Agnes loved the apartment she was brought up in; she had many friends in the neighbourhood as well as knowing the local traders and, now that her dear mother was gone she would feel she was betraying her if she went to live elsewhere.
So, having discussed it with his father, he bought the entire block, put in a modern lift and entirely refurbished the premises. When the adjoining apartment became vacant they ran the two into one. They had to move out all the tenants for a year.
He didn’t like most of his fellow students in Oxford; toffee nosed upper class bunch who frowned on lesser mortals like him. He kept to himself and got on with it; his visits to London were a welcome diversion. His father gave him only one piece of advice before he went to Oxford; don’t tell anyone your business.
He got on particularly well with Jacob Stein, his Accountancy tutor; elderly and over-weight he was brilliant and not impressed by the
upper class snobs. One day he rang to defer a tutorial explaining that he was having problems with his laptop; John said he would come and look at it right away. His tutor was quite nervous about letting what he thought was a novice near his revered computer. John explained his background; checked out the laptop and told him he needed a new one.
He went to a local store, purchased an up to date model, brought it back to the college and transferred the data from the old one. His tutor was astonished and most grateful; John refused to accept any money from him.
As the finals approached Jacob took him aside one morning after tutorial.
‘John, you are a young man with a great future ahead of you; may I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do sir.’
‘In this crazy world your name is a disadvantage.’
He was surprised. ‘In what way sir?’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so it’s too common; the superficial people in business won’t be impressed by it.’
‘But my name is my name; I can’t do anything about it.’’
‘You can change it.’
‘By deed-poll?’
‘No. I would suggest you take a new name, perhaps a Jewish one; the brethren would like that and the gentiles would respect it because they are so afraid of being called anti-Semitic.’
‘I’d have to have a passport?’
‘I have an ex student who is first secretary in an Embassy; he would fix that for you. It would cost you and you could keep your present name.’
‘But I don’t know how to behave as a Jew?’
‘Nor do I.’
‘But you’re a Jew sir?’
He grinned. ‘No I’m not.’
‘I’ll have to get my parents’ consent.’
‘Do that and come back to me.’
So it was that David Levin came into being; he had now left the scene and would soon be followed by John Smith.
When his revered tutor died two years later he was the only ex-pupil to attend his funeral; much appreciated by his widow who was a Jewess.
***
While Walter looked after the business he built his computer software company into an international success. They travelled the world together, occasionally with mother who was something of a home bird; the business continued to thrive.
He and mother were devastated when Walter suffered a series of strokes and passed on. It was the end of a wonderful friendship; he moved back home until he found her a suitable companion.
Out of the blue he received a takeover offer from one of the biggest international software developers in the world; he didn’t have to sell and if Walter was alive he would probably have stopped him. Such is greed. Ziegler Felde was introduced to him and promised to convert his 15 Billion into Trillions if he used his bank and invested in property.
***
He hadn’t slept for the past seventy two hours. Slumped in a corner of the lounge the monotonous rhythm of the engines lulled him into a deep sleep. He was wakened by a ship’s steward standing over him. Everything was very quiet.
‘This is as far as we go sir.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Dublin North Wall sir, when you go ashore just turn left and you’ll find O’Connell Street four hundred yards away.’
***
Clutching his holdall he ambled through the cold morning air to the capital’s principal street where he found a café heaving with early morning workers, mostly ships’ crews. He’d been to Dublin a few times and knew his way around the centre. After a full breakfast he wandered over the bridge and headed towards the railway station in Westland Row. The shops hadn’t opened yet and it was too early for his train.
He entered a Catholic Church beside the station and sat on a back seat; an early morning service was in progress although the church was nearly empty. He had never been one for religion and was convinced it all ended here.
Granny described herself as a Christian although she had no time for organised religion, particularly anything to do with nuns. She always said the orphanage nuns were tough frustrated old bitches; she was well able for them.
Mother was brought up as a Catholic but it was never a big issue with her. She lost interest when she saw how her church treated unmarried mothers and subsequently married Walter in a Registry Office; he was Church of England but rarely attended.
He left the church and wandered around until he found a down market clothes shop. He bought a long second hand great coat, a pair of black jeans and tee shirt and an even more decrepit hat. His shoes were so comfortable he decided to keep them. Dressed in his new clothes he put his good wear in a bag provided by the shop assistant who watched in disbelief as he walked out of the shop.
The train was due to leave at ten and be in Westport by one o’clock. Walking up Pearse Street he stopped in front of a real tramp sitting on the path, handed him a few pounds and thrust the clothes bag into the his hands. The poor man’s eyes opened wide in disbelief!
He sat in a window seat in a long open carriage and, as the train eased its way out of the city, turned his thoughts once again to his past life.
***
The David Levin Company continued to grow internationally; he bought an executive jet and spent most of his time travelling around the world. He never heard from Cynthia. When he visited China, Japan and other eastern countries he was provided with beautiful young highly educated female assistants to help him with language, customs and all other comforts.
To them it was all part of their work for which they were well paid. In the US he was invariably taken to night clubs that doubled as brothels; his hosts were big into this practice and afterwards went home to their wives. He didn’t like this scene and usually returned early to his hotel.
***
The train finally trundled into Westport at ten minutes past one; he picked up his hold-all and walked down the hill into the town. It was a bright sunny day. Finding a small restaurant he took a seat and ordered a salmon sandwich and coffee.
While he waited he checked his notes; he was due to call to a local solicitor and property owner at two thirty to settle up and get the key to a small property near the town. He had to rent for a month; a week would have been more than enough.
Getting directions to the Crescent, he presented himself at the office of R.G. Blakeny who was known locally as RG. The young secretary held her nose as she showed him into her master’s presence.
RG, a dark haired, rotund little man with sharp blue eyes and sallow complexion, was more perceptive; he noted the expensive shoes and leather hold-all; his eye brows rose when he was handed £100 for the rent – in cash. A very unusual client!
He rose. ‘I’ll get you a receipt Mr Smith.’
‘No need sir and it’s John Smith.’
He put the cash in his pocket. John noted he was well dressed but the blue striped suit looked a bit baggy. RG stood up and smiled.
‘Right John. I’ll drive you out to the cottage; it’s about five miles out the road.’
***
He drove his old Mercedes down by the quay and headed west by the bay; the sun was high in the sky. He extolled the beauty of the area with its holy mountain overlooking the magnificent Clew Bay. John tried to appear to be interested. About four miles out RG turned left off the main road and proceeded up a narrow winding road up into the hills. They passed a bungalow on the way.
‘Cedric Pollard lives there,’ RG pointed out. ‘He’s a psychiatrist – a head doctor I suppose you’d call it. Counsels people – seems to make a fair living out of it. Decent little man and well liked hereabouts. Drives a Merc that’s nearly as old as this one. He’s not from around here; it’s thought he’s from the north or maybe Scotland. Funny thing is: he lives alone but is a regular visitor to an attractive young lady in town.’
The road narrowed again; RG pulled up in front of a well-kept cottage. This was the end of the road; the mountainside rose gradually behind the house. RG handed him the key. ‘It’s f
ully equipped; even has a telephone. You can fix up for your calls when you’re leaving.’
John looked around him. ‘I’ll need a car up here.’
‘Hop in. I’ll introduce you to Ned Wallace, he’ll fix you up. Grumpy Ned hits the bottle now and again; if you had a wife like his you would too.’
As they descended towards the main road John asked. ‘Are there any shops around here?’
‘There’s Maggie Andy’s in the road a bit and plenty of supermarkets in town.’
Turning right at the main road RG pointed.
‘There’s Maggie Andy’s; she’s reckoned to be the biggest gossip in the west.’
‘I’ll have to be careful then.’
***
An hour later, driving the only automatic Ford Ned had for hire John drove out by the bay but not to the cottage. Two miles further on he found what he was looking for: a high cliff overlooking the bay.
Returning, he parked outside the local shop; he needed some eggs, butter, bread, coffee and milk; sufficient to get him through the day. But Maggie, a well-built mature lady was in no hurry.
‘Are you the new man up in the cottage?’ she asked kindly.
He nodded.
‘I thought I saw you passing by with RG; are you staying long?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘The last pair spent three years there; he was a writer and she painted; they weren’t married of course, arty types seldom are. She wanted to go to Australia; they went into Mick’s pub in the Quay every Saturday evening, got pissed and ended up screaming at one another. In the end they left and went to Australia; mind you she was a good looking Jane.’
While she drew her breath he listed his needs and, thankful that another customer was standing behind him, beat a hasty retreat.
***
Back in the cottage he boiled the eggs and made coffee. Then he proceeded to his final arrangements. Having no further use for the car he rang Ned, told him he was going away for a few days and asked him to have it collected in the morning. He would leave the keys in the glove compartment with the house keys; would he give them to RG?
He rooted around until he found a spade in the store room. He debated with himself whether to leave his passport or take it with him. In the end he decided to take it with him; in the unlikely event that his body was found there would be no difficulty with his identity and the unknown John Smith would be quickly forgotten.