Stolen Prey

“Get cleaned up, a little bit anyway. Okay? Get downtown in time for Don to see you tonight. He’ll be there until eight. Give him the whole depression bit, tell him you’ll work your regular shift tomorrow.”

Jacob pulled the briefs off, scratched himself again. Sanderson and Kline had done a couple of overnights, and, in any case, she had slept with a large enough number of men that she was no longer impressed by the sight of a dangling penis; nor was Jacob trying to impress her. He was just the kind of a guy who didn’t much care if he was naked or not. “Ah, Christ,” he said. “The idea of going in there…”

“Three more weeks, and you can quit,” she said. “We worked it all out. You tell them you’ve got to get treatment, and you check into a facility. Nobody will argue with you. Sit there for a month. Talk to a shrink, and get better. When you get out, you tell Don that you’re going to quit to travel through Europe. Then, quit and travel through Europe. You always talk about it.”

“Yeah, but when I actually get to planning it, it seems like such a drag.”

“So go somewhere else. Like not Mexico. And get dressed. You need to talk to Don tonight. He has to see you. We can cover for you, if he sees you.” Don was their mutual supervisor.

Kline had helped steal the money because the theft was an intellectual challenge. He didn’t really care much about getting rich. He was too depressed to care-what would he do, go shopping? He didn’t even drive.

To the others, he was beginning to look like a threat, a loose cannon. What can you do with a crook who, if caught, wouldn’t even try to run?

Sanderson, on the other hand, was a woman with a plan. Her mother had early Alzheimer’s and lived in a crappy nursing home paid for by the state. If Sanderson had the money, she’d like to spend a few hundred dollars a month for an upgrade in her care.

Then there were the animals. She had her eye on a 160-acre semi-wooded acreage in southeast Minnesota. The owners wanted a half-million dollars for it, which she didn’t have. She actually didn’t have half of a thousand dollars, not at the moment. If she could get the half-million dollars, or even qualify for a mortgage on it, she would start a farm for rescue horses and rescue dogs. Maybe rescue chickens-she had a soft spot for good-looking chickens.

She lay awake at night, thinking of herself as a kind of saint, surrounded by the animals, and the souls of the animals, she’d saved. With her various instabilities, her schizophrenia, her OCD, she could actually experience the farm, the animals, and her impending sainthood.

Like, the karma cash-out was enormous.

So she didn’t want the money for herself … it wasn’t like she was greedy.

The movement toward the theft began casually, when Kline noticed the odd ebb and flow of cash in the Bois Brule account while he was working at Polaris National. Money would flow in from Bois Brule, but always in individual amounts of less than ten thousand dollars, which made him suspicious. Amounts of less than ten thousand were not reportable to the government.

Then the money would leave again, in much larger amounts, on its way to a variety of obscure investment funds. Where it went from there, he didn’t know-but he did know that as much as twenty-five million dollars a month flowed into and out of the account. He also noticed other oddities: the money was dead for each calendar month, earning minimal interest. The large amounts moving out always moved on the last business day of the month.

Almost, he thought, as if everything were on autopilot.

He did an experiment, which would have gotten him fired if he’d been caught. He deliberately entered an error on the account, sending money to a fake account he set up inside the bank. He heard nothing-and a week before the usual transfer, he put the money back.

The next month, he moved more money, a lot of it, into the fake account. He waited even deeper into the month before replacing it. Again he heard nothing. He carefully erased his tracks and thought it over.

Interesting. The account was on some kind of autopilot. He could think of only one reason that might be: it was being run with an eye to minimal involvement.

He filed the information in the back of his head. The idea of stealing some of the money occurred to him right away, but planning a theft, working out all the contingencies, all the details, was a total drag. So he didn’t do it.

A few weeks later, he realized he was about to be fired for absenteeism and general neglect of duties. Before they could do it, he set up a back door into the bank accounts that would allow him to come in from the outside. He had no specific plan in mind, he just did it.

During the exit interview, the firing supervisor was kind but firm. Kline was the one who showed a streak of nastiness. “I will not be fired,” he said. “I will resign. I want decent recommendations when I go for a new job. If you don’t agree, I’ll sue you for firing me, claiming you did it because of my well-documented disability. I will get my disabled friends to march naked outside the bank. I will shit in the revolving door. I am not joking.”

After considering their options, they gave him a decent severance and a good-enough, if not hearty, letter of recommendation. After he spent the severance, he got a job at Hennepin National, where he met Turicek, who’d had a previous life as a minor Lithuanian criminal while studying computer programming at Kaunas University of Technology, and Sanderson.

Turicek had mostly done credit-card scams around Western Europe, and thought it was criminal not to steal what you could. Turicek didn’t think that working out a huge theft was a drag. Not at all. He came from a country with a glorious history in chess-playing.

Turicek and Kline worked out the details, lounging about the office, and after work, in bars. Turicek would propose a method, Kline would shoot it down; if he couldn’t shoot it down, it was listed as a possibility. Sanderson had to be brought in because there was no way she wouldn’t know what was happening, and the two men were pleased to learn of her animal-rescue dreams.

The problem was moving the stolen money into a form they could use, and could get at. Turicek knew a man who knew a man who’d once led a raid on an American prepaid credit-card company, stealing some thirty-two million dollars over a weekend. They’d hacked into the company and changed the withdrawal limit on the cards to the highest level allowed, which was nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars, and when the limit was reached, simply did an automatic refill.

They then used hundreds of zombie cards, and after business hours on a Friday, began the withdrawals.

“A cool deal,” Turicek said, “but the problem is, you need a major gang to pull it off. To get that money over the weekend, they had to make thirty-two thousand withdrawals. How would the four of us do that? They used hundreds of people. We’ve got four.”

He brought in Albitis, whom he’d met at a job in Ukraine. She had some experience in moving money around the Middle East, from accounts in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan through Israeli banks, which was not commonly done. She also had an acquisitive streak. When Turicek called her and mentioned an amount, she started a list, headed by names like Malibu and Le Marais, like Porsche and Mercedes and Harry Winston and Cartier.

Albitis was their professional, the one who knew how to do it.

She told them, “Stealing this money is like kidnapping. The big problem is, collecting the take-where the money goes from legal to illegal. Somebody has to be there, with his hand out, and that’s where you will get caught. If you try to take this money in cash, people will notice. Bank tellers notice you if you take twenty-five hundred in cash. If we steal twenty million, as you say we can, and we put it in a bank, or lots of banks, and then if we withdraw twenty-five hundred each time, we’d have to go to a bank eight thousand times to get the money out. And we’d be on camera. And even if you got it, what would you do with it? If you want to buy a million-dollar house, you can’t show up with a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills. They’d call the FBI.”

“So what do we do?” Sanderson asked.

“We funnel the money into a few big accounts that look like businesses, and we use those accounts to buy gold.”

“Gold?”

Minnesotans don’t know gold, Albitis thought.

Albitis was a little impatient, explaining the fundamentals. “Look. We take the money out of this bank