TAKEDOWN Read online

  Dan forced a laugh. "Did I see you chasing the cows off Old Main Square as I drove in? A visit to Iowa sets my feet back on the ground," Dan Decker beamed his trademark grin and pumped Crenshaw's hand.

  Kevin Crenshaw, CEO of a local auto parts manufacturing company, grimaced and slid his fist onto his hip. To his credit, he'd saved the college with an emergency loan of $3 million dollars to fund day-to-day operations. That was five years ago, and during the crisis he'd also taken over the chairmanship of the school's board. Reluctantly, he made the call to their most famous and wealthiest alum, while holding the creditor wolves at bay.

  Kevin Crenshaw didn't harbor any love for Dan Decker. Thirty years earlier they'd been classmates and frat brothers at Chelton. Kevin had studied hard, graduated Phi Beta Kappa. He built relationships with his professors, and he found work in the town, eventually buying out a small company and building a successful manufacturing operation.

  Dan, a handsome devil, had gotten by on his good looks and charm. When he wasn't in the campus bar downing Leinies with a young coed on his arm, he could be found rifling through the frat files for papers to rework for his Econ classes. He had enough respect for Chelton. After all, it was a line on his resume, and he met his wife there during his senior year.

  Kevin lobbed the Hail Mary to save Chelton, but Decker got the credit for saving the school. After all, Decker had opened an artery for the small liberal arts college, to the tune of $65 million and growing. They'd renamed a building for him, and one for his wife. Now he was in line for an honorary doctorate, to be awarded next May at Chelton's graduation ceremonies.

  While Decker had executed for the college, he'd also hit the wealth trifecta for himself. Grateful Chelton alums invested in his fund. Other nonprofits paid attention, and seeing Chelton thrive with spectacular returns, they wanted in on the Decker action. Hollywood celebs, business tycoons, and old money -- they all piled on.

  And how was Danny paying great dividends to all the investors? With the money from new investors, of course, but it was becoming increasingly difficult for the doctor to find new organ donors. Short a miracle, Decker knew his funds were terminal.

  "Mr. Decker!" It was Blanche Hollman, the elderly registrar. Her eyes were misty. "We can never thank you enough!"

  Dan took her hand. He bowed his head and cleared his throat. "We all do what we can. I'm blessed to be able to help." It was true. He'd started with the best intentions. Save the college. Worry about recouping the money later. The sun continued to rise each day, and it kept edging him toward his worst nightmare. Pension funds were invested. Nurses and bus drivers and police and firefighters now depended on Decker fund growth for their retirements.

  He'd had a couple of close calls. There was the guy working on his Math PhD. He interviewed Dan several times about his investing methods and success, but Dan had always been able to put him off. The worst one was the Colombian nut in Alabama. He was a gifted analyst, who'd been asked to look at a friend's fund statements, and it didn't take him long to figure out Dan's scheme. The leech had called Dan directly. Then he'd mailed his findings off to the SEC.

  Fortunately, Dan had plenty of friends at SEC. Even more fortunate was SEC's slew of lawyers in the enforcement division, but nary a forensic accountant to investigate anything. Some SEC lawyers were even invested in Dan's funds. If you scam it's best to scam big. Big makes it the SEC's problem too, he thought. They didn't want the public exposure on it. Not during this administration. They'd do what they did best -- kick the can down the road. But for how long?

  Bill Stone, Chelton College president, escorted Dan to a chair on the dais. The presentation was scheduled to begin in five minutes. A new scholarship program was being named for Dan, and the first ten recipients were to be introduced -- eager and innocent and ambitious young men and women who knew nothing of the complexities of real life.

  Dan Decker looked at his assigned seat and frowned. It was bonded leather, the stuff made from scraps! He was bloody donating enough for top grade analine leather. Damn it, all he had built was at risk, and it had all started with the call to "save the college." Now they expected him to sit in bonded leather?

  It was an insult, but he had no choice, so he sat and smiled tightly out at the room.

  Bill Stone stepped to the podium to introduce him. While Bill droned about "Danny", their Iowa farm boy who was now a New York hot shot, Dan mused about how none of them would ever know how a small college in Iowa had started a chain of events to ultimately impact the entire US equity market.

  He was at the point of no return. The college had consumed his $65 million. He'd won the battle at too great a cost. He couldn't claw back the hundreds of millions he'd paid to his investors in dividends. Now he closed his eyes and decided to shoot one big wad, throw one roll of the dice, double down, and sell his soul to the mob.

  The "Double D" knew he could no longer count on duping the next investor, and just this week Alan Greenspan had given a speech in which he brashly suggested that "irrational exuberance" had "unduly escalated asset values." Even Greenspan knew the emperor had no clothes. Hell, thought Dan, the Dow was up over 100% in four years. How much longer could the party continue? He was sure of the imminent collapse, and when it came to pass his investors would cash out, and his jig would be up. Danny Decker felt a burning in his stomach and his palms itched. He had to act soon . . .

  Chapter 4

  It was a dishwater-dull December day. Low temps had gone negative, and four inches of snow had accumulated. As always, hardy Minnesotans boot-shuffled through the black and white early morning rush. Jane carefully drove through snow flurries and five synced green lights on Valley Creek Road to arrive at the strip mall where Valley View Web Designers leased office space.

  Ten minutes later her boss ordered her to go fishing.

  She recoiled.

  "Mille Lacs isn't frozen over yet," she argued across his wide oak desk. "Did you hear about the guy who went through White Bear Lake on his ATV?"

  Rob Lawter's thirty-some eyes glared. He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands, locking them behind his head. "It's been stunned-mullet cold since then. We're two weeks into December. Anyway, you'll stay near shore, in a sheltered bay. The ice is thick enough," he explained.

  "You find this highly amusing," noted Jane.

  "Every man here would kill for this assignment, and that's why I had to give it to a woman. Besides, it's good business. All-Pro Tackle has the hottest-selling jigs in the upper-midwest market. The CEO, Al Longren, is taking you out for a research trip, and they're ready to pay big money to us to design and implement their online store. The project includes loading up their entire catalog of fishing and outdoor gear."

  "OK, OK. So . . . do you slip a big walleye into my briefcase in dry ice, so when Al's not looking I hook it on my line and pull? I mean, how do I impress the guy? I haven't been fishing since I was fourteen." Jane frowned.

  Rob flashed a wide grin and laughed. "Al doesn't know that. You put a line down a hole in the ice and appear to be fascinated with the process. You know, like sex," he winked. "Look, you're the best fit we have for this account. You've set up the shopping carts, and you work well with new clients. Besides, Al will like you. He's divorced."

  This comment raised Jane's hackles. "What does his marital status have to do with anything?"

  "I'm saying he'll appreciate the company of a young woman. The divorce wasn't his fault. The wife wasn't a keeper. It happens." Rob looked at his watch to signal the end of the meeting.

  Jane rolled her eyes. "That's what they all say, but this guy was probably spending too much time fishing. On frozen lakes. In freezing weather," she added for emphasis.

  "That might be the case," Rob argued, "but you'll be well-paid for your time shacking up with Al in the deluxe heated and furnished ice shanty with nearby toilet facilities." Rob picked up a Mille Lacs Tourism Council brochure from the briefing pile he'd placed in front of her, and he waved it to show her the
beautiful summer lake view splashed across the front. "I've done my research."

  "Well, you hooked me with 'nearby toilet facilities'," Jane shot back. "When do I go?" She thought about the books and magazines she'd take along to read while she sat waiting for the big one -- the one with slimy fins and scales -- to bite.

  "Thursday. Spend a few hours on researching this new account today and tomorrow. Bill it to 60100."

  She nodded. "Right. Fishing tackle. Hey, I'll need a fishing license. Can I bill it to 60100 too?"

  "You betcha."

  "Thanks. I think." Jane rose and quickly exited before her boss came up with another task to assign to her.

  Well, this beats the hair products account, Jane thought as she strolled back to her cubicle. If she slam-dunked this one she should get the promotion to Advanced Senior Associate. Then she'd need to order new business cards, and she'd finally get the ones with the updated company logo.

  Jane settled in and spent the next ten minutes reading through the materials Rob had given her. Sandy popped her head over the wall.

  "You got the handy web-safe color chart?"

  "Sure." Jane grabbed the cheat sheet from between manuals piled on the corner of her desk. She handed it up to Sandy. "Keep those images small so they load fast."

  "You bet. Thanks. What have you got there?" Sandy pointed to the slick brochures Jane was holding.

  "New client," explained Jane, "sporting goods." Jane held up the glossy marketing pieces. "All-Pro Tackle. They've racked up impressive sales since their introduction of colorful new bass jigs made from space-age materials two years ago. They need an online store."

  "Dang. I don't get anything exciting. Rob likes you," Sandy blurted. "I've got five mortgage companies. Everybody's starting one. Must be easy and profitable."

  "Yeah, they hang out a shingle and they're legit." Jane picked up a bifold piece. "This fishing account isn't exactly every woman's wet dream. I have to go up to Mille Lacs and freeze my privates in a cold ice shack on Thursday. You know, to experience the 'All-Pro Difference' firsthand."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously. Hey, looky here." She waved a trifold lit piece. "This says All-Pro has leapt ahead of their rival, Tacklemart." She laughed. "Is this pee-your-pants exciting or what? It's gonna keep me up at night."

  She looked at photos of the CEO, Al Longren, sprinkled throughout the marketing pieces -- Al holding a string of large fish, Al casting, Al setting the hook, and Al reeling 'em in with a big smile. Ruggedly handsome, Al was clearly the face of All-Pro Tackle. Jane held up the brochure to show Sandy.

  Sandy's mouth fell open so wide her back fillings were visible. "Owweee. He'd keep me up at night. Hot, AND he can haul in the fish. Will he be up at the lake?"

  "He's the CEO. His name is Al. Yes, he'll be there."

  "Lucky you, Jane! You'll be cloistered with Robert Redford in a parka! Need any tips on proper baiting technique? Hey, call me when you're up there and tell me all about it!"

  "I don't think Mille Lacs has cell phone service, Sandy. Dem' dere walleyes don't use no stinkin' cell phones," she quipped.

  "Then call me as soon as you get off the lake! I want a complete report. Promise?"

  "Okay." Jane grabbed a lock of hair at the back of her head and twisted it between her thumb and index finger.

  Sandy's phone rang at that moment, and she disappeared below the wall.

  Jane sighed and turned to her monitor. She was writing a PERL hack for another client. The fix applied a special discount to purchases made on Tuesdays. She read through the checkout subroutine and found the place to hook in the new code.

  A few minutes later she finished the hack and ran a few tests. It worked. Ready to go live. Next, Jane began tapping away at search engines with query terms: Bass fishing. Tackle. Bait shops. She read pages about lures, reels, and rods, and then stumbled onto sites touting Canadian fly-in fishing, how to hire a guide, and lodges and camps in Ontario. Then she checked out the competition, Tacklemart. Their site boasted a chat room for anglers.

  Jane was familiar with the Java chat software they were using on the Tacklemart site, and, in fact, she'd installed a chat room using this same package, PopChatLive, last month for an insurance company client. She wondered what competitive fishermen talked about. Maybe she'd pick up some tips to use on Thursday.

  Without giving it another thought, Jane tried using the administrator logon and password she'd been given by the PopChatLive software vendor.

  Voila. It worked. Jane laughed and silently congratulated herself. Incredible. They never change these backdoor logins. So much for security, she thought.

  Jane wasn't surprised to find the chatroom empty, but within seconds of arriving there were two joiners. They started chatting, seemingly oblivious of her presence. She decided to lurk. At first it was the usual idle chatter. These guys knew each other. Then three more joined in, and at precisely 3:30 pm the conversation took an odd and abrupt turn.

  BadBass: Are we all here and using encrypt?

  DoubleD: Here

  Crash: Here

  FiveStar: Here

  Caver: Here

  Odd, Jane thought. Why did anyone need encryption to post to a fishing board?Fishing tips weren't THAT secret, were they?

  BadBass: Good news, DoubleD.

  DoubleD: Yeah?

  BadBass: We've co-opted 3 quants at major brokerages. Meet Crash, FiveStar, and Caver. Crash is the Great One.

  DoubleD: Excellent. Welcome!

  Crash: We need this as much as you do. Our hedges are about to blow up.

  DoubleD: How does it work?

  Caver: Sleeper code. It goes out with the weekly security patch to their servers, next week. It's even going to the berg. We pull the trigger with a very specific outlier trade when we are ready to activate the code. It will look like a fat finger. A mistake. The algos will be triggered to sell, sell, sell. The G boys will be happy to accept the fat finger explanation.

  FiveStar: Hell, they'll kill anyone who says otherwise. We've got three inside SEC who'll go to the mat for us. Not to mention high FBI.

  DoubleD: Good. When?

  BadBass: Early January. After the Santa rally.

  DoubleD: How long from event start to finish?

  BadBass: 15, maybe 20 minutes. One quick yo-yo at warp speed.

  FiveStar: Nobody gets hurt.

  Crash: Only the day trading pigs but they don't count.

  Caver: And a few stupid retails with limits.

  DoubleD: How much of a haircut?

  BadBass: 20% enough?

  DoubleD: Heck yes. How can you be sure that's all it will be?

  BadBass: Because we'll all be covering shorts and buying at that point for the ride back up. The programmed value boys algos will kick in.

  DoubleD: Right.

  BadBass: We'll notify you a week ahead on the other public board. You know the handshake. Remember to spread your shorts around.

  Jane couldn't believe what she was reading. She frantically hit the screen print key combination.

  BadBass: Signing off now. Have a good weekend everyone.

  Crash: There's someone else in the room with us! Look at the crawl beneath the window.

  Jane looked down and saw "6 guests" where it should have stated only five. Damn software bug. Why was the admin included in the count?

  BadBass: I'll take care of it. Everybody off.

  Everybody off? Jane quickly exited the chat room. Suddenly she felt dizzy. This was nuts. She felt safe behind Valley View's company firewall . . . still, these guys were pros. If they wanted to know her location they'd likely find it. Who were they? Was this a hoax? Why would anyone plan to crash US stock markets in a fishing chat room?

  Because nobody expected a scheme to be hatched there?

  Chapter 5

  Jane woke at 5 AM, and from her second-story apartment bedroom window she saw a half-inch of frost covering her windshield. Ugh. Five layers of clothing and a lean-into-it scraping later
she was on her way, serenaded by the defrost fan running at full tilt.

  Jane felt uneasy as she steered her red Chevy Cavalier through the darkness, and up I-694 past the Oakdale exit on her way to meet Al Longren, king of All-Pro Tackle, for the drive up to Mille Lacs. She'd called the Minneapolis FBI office the day before, and the lady on the other end had taken her name and cell phone number. She promised Jane an agent call back, but she was still waiting for the call.

  The good news: At 5:30 AM traffic was light. Serious fishermen like Al insisted on starting early, even if the two hour drive up to the lake meant they wouldn't actually put a line in the water until around 8 AM, that is if Al had a power ice auger.

  Jane met her man at the Northtown Mall parking lot in Blaine. It was easy to spot him, as his black SUV was the only other car on the east side of the lot. He was wearing a large tan parka and red ski cap. Longren put out a camo-covered paw to shake her gloved hand.

  "A pleasure to meet you," he nodded.

  "Likewise," she bit off. It was too cold to waste words.

  Longren looked like he could easily operate a manual ice auger one-handed. His shoulders were two axe handles wide, and although he lacked Babe the Blue Ox sidekick, Mr. All-Pro Tackle seemed friendly enough, and eager to get going.

  Jane left her car to wait out the day in a far corner of the mall parking area. She grabbed her purse, book bag, and bag lunch to transfer to Al's Ford Bronco. Al, acting the gentleman, opened the passenger side door. Jane kicked dirty snow off her boots before stepping in.

  Al's car smelled like fish, not rotting fish, but a fresh fish, lake-y smell. It wasn't bad, and when she sat down Jane decided the heated leather seats made up for any slightly off-color odors. She wondered if the seats were original equipment or an after-market install. Al seemed like a customize-it, gadget guy.

  They made small talk as they headed toward US-169.

  "We'll hike onto the lake at Cove Bay," Al muttered. "My fish house is close in right now," he explained.