The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [139]
“I still don’t see what’s—”
“Take it to the next level, Charlie. Forget the private banks and the tiny foreign institutions. Grab Duckworth’s program and sell it to the highest bidder. Let a terrorist organization get ahold of it. Even worse, put it in a too-big-to-fail.”
“A what?”
“Too-big-to-fail. It’s what the Federal Reserve calls the top fifty or so banks in the country. Once Duckworth’s little worm digs in there, your three hundred million is suddenly three hundred billion—and it’s flowing everywhere—Citibank… First Union… down to the little mom-and-pops across the country. The only problem is, when all is said and done, the money’s not real. And the moment someone realizes that the Emperor’s not wearing any clothes, the pyramid scheme collapses. No bank trusts its own records, and none of us knows if our bank accounts are safe. The whole world lines up at the teller windows and the ATMs. But when we go to make our withdrawals, there’s not enough real cash to go around. Since the money’s fake, every bank runs out of funds. The too-big-to-fails implode first, then the hundred smaller banks that they lend to, then the hundreds of banks below those. They all crater at once—all of them searching for money that was never really there. Sorry, sir, we can’t cover your account—all the money in the bank is now gone. And that’s when the real panic begins. It’ll make the Depression look like a quick stock market dip.”
Even Charlie can’t make a joke about this one. “You think that’s what they want it for?”
“Whatever they want, there’s one thing I know for sure: The only proof of what actually happened is right here,” I say, once again tapping the screen.
Click.
Account Balance: $5,104,221.60.
The elevator pings behind us as ninety-one thousand new dollars stare back at us from the screen. Charlie checks the elevator, but no one steps out.
Glancing over his shoulder, I see it too. We’ve been here too long. “We should print this out…”
“… and get out of here,” he agrees.
“Wait,” Gillian says.
“Wait?” Charlie asks.
“I-I just… we should be careful with this one.”
“That’s why we’re printing it out. For proof,” he says as he stares her down. This close, his fuse is shorter than ever.
There’s an out-of-date laser printer right next to the computer. I flip a switch and it grumbles to life. Grabbing the keyboard, Charlie hits Print. On screen, a gray dialog box pops up: Error in writing to LPT1: Please insert copy-card. At the base of the printer is a handwritten card that says: All copies fifteen cents per page.
“Where do we get a copy-card?” he demands.
There’s a machine in the corner. Two people are standing in front of it, stuffing dollar bills down its throat. Charlie’s in no mood to wait. A few computers down, the porno kid has a copy-card sitting on his desk. “Hey, young sir,” Charlie calls out. “I’ll give you five bucks for your card.”
“There’s already five bucks on it,” he tells us.
“We’ll give you ten,” I add.
“How ’bout twenty?” the kid challenges.
“How ’bout I scream ‘Titty-freak’ and point your way?” Gillian threatens.
The kid slides the card; I pull out a ten.
As I get up to make the trade, Charlie jumps back in the driver’s seat. Leaning over his shoulder, I stuff the card into the small machine that’s attached to the printer and wait as it whirs into place. The screen on the card-reader lights up. Current balance: $2.20.
We turn back to the porno kid. He sniffs the ten-dollar bill with a smirk. Charlie’s about to stand up.
“Leave it be,” I say, turning his head back to the screen.
Refocused, he once again hits Print. Like before, a gray box pops up, but this one’s different. The font and type size match the ones on Duckworth’s bank statement: Warning—To print this document, please enter password.
“What the hell is this?” Charlie