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Over A Barrel



The tiny changes in various computer systems in companies around the world went unnoticed, mostly occurring in the middle of the night, when none of the technological experts were at their computer stations to notice. Everything appeared to be working properly again when the usual checks were done.

Jarod’s return to the Centre – the circumstances, for once, are irrelevant – heralded the first sign of trouble; however a connection wasn’t immediately noticeable. In fact, Jarod had been in his cell for forty-eight hours before the first reports came through from one of the Centre’s accounting teams, and then the link to the runaway Pretender was in no way obvious. Indeed those who first knew about the problems had never even heard his name, much less been informed of his technical abilities.

“What do you mean, Synergex hasn’t paid for their latest round of results?” an accounting supervisor blared at the poor wretch who had literally picked the shortest straw and, as a result, had to pass on this concerning piece of news.

The underling’s mouth worked for a few seconds without sound before he dropped the report onto the desk and fled.

It was with an inward shudder that the supervisor picked up the page showing that the Centre account into which Synergex regularly paid large sums of money, which were then syphoned off to pay Centre employees, was low. The cause of this was obvious: the last three payments had not been forthcoming.

One phone-call later and the bank records from Synergex were in the supervisor’s hands, but as these showed that the usual monthly orders had been drawn up for money to be transferred to the Centre, they helped little. The money had never arrived. Bewildered and anxious, the supervisor called his immediate boss. In less than two hours, the problem had worked its way up the chain of command and an audit of the Centre’s entire financial system was underway.

The results caused numerous accountants and auditors to prudently go home with migraines, frequently never to be seen again. Eventually some poor schmuck had to report that, over the past five years, small amounts of money had failed to be forthcoming from a growing number of the Centre’s clients, ‘small’ being, in most cases, millions of dollars: chicken-feed as far as the Centre’s annual income was concerned.

The furious Triumvirate studied the pattern of missing funds and quickly pinned the blame on the man lying on his hard bed on SL-19.

When his door opened, Jarod was unsure exactly what to expect. He had been all but ignored since his return, perhaps because it was so unexpected. Miss Parker’s report stated that Jarod had apparently been surprised while setting up his lair for the pursuit team: his bags were already gone. At the time, nobody thought that in any way strange.

The Pretender was lying with one arm flung over his face. He lifted his elbow and glanced at the door.

“Sydney.” There was no emotion in his voice. “I’m afraid they weren’t good enough to provide you with a seat.”

The psychiatrist walked over and sat down on the end of the narrow bed.

“Where is it, Jarod?”

A tiny smile played around the Pretender’s lips, the dimple appearing in his right cheek as he replaced his arm over his eyes.

“You already know where the money is. You just can’t get it.”

The Centre did, indeed, know where the funds were located; however, attempts to access the money had failed. Even Broots had not succeeded in getting past Jarod’s firewalls and other security measures.

“Why?”

Jarod grinned. “Why not?”

“Revenge? Financial gain?

Jarod chuckled softly. “What use do I have for money? I barely stay in one place long enough to need more than a few dollars. No rent. No gas. No electricity. Just a couple of packets of PEZ every now and then.”

“Then why, Jarod?” Sydney persisted, although he already knew the answer to that question. The psychiatrist had to admire the simplistic beauty of the plan. Jarod had the Centre over a barrel and he knew it. Soon enough, they would know it, too. “What do you want from them?”

“What are they offering?” came the prompt reply. Then, with a sigh, Jarod jerked up into a sitting position, meeting Sydney’s gaze steadily. “It’s very simple. The only way for the money to be accessed is for me to walk into a certain bank in a certain town, say certain words, give a certain sign and then take out a certain amount of money – ten thousand dollars per month, maximum.”

Sydney barely suppressed a smile, and a well-known twinkle in Jarod’s eye showed that they were thinking along the same lines, for they both knew that, even if the maximum sum were taken out of Jarod’s account every month, there was more than enough there to see him through the rest of his life, however long that might be.

“And if – heaven forbid – something should happen to you in the meantime?” Sydney ventured to ask, when at last he regained his self-control.

Jarod reclined back against the hard bunk and once more flung his arm over his eyes.

“The ASPCA would find itself much better off.”

Knowing that Jarod had said all he was going to say, Sydney rose from his seat and moved towards the door. Only an instant before he opened it did Jarod speak again.

“Oh, and Sydney?”

The older man turned. “Yes?”

“Sim 96352.”

Sydney choked audibly at this reminder of a sim, performed shortly before his initial escape, showing that none of the drugs used by the Centre to force people to act against their will or better judgement had any effect on Jarod. The only thing the Triumvirate could do take was to bow to the Pretender’s demands, and Sydney already knew what they would be. The pursuit was at an end.

Sydney suddenly wondered about retirement.



The End









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