Willard had canceled the soon-to-expire tickets and purchased new ones, charging them to any one of a revolving number of bogus Visa or MasterCard accounts. He shuffled through the tickets and picked out a Pan Am Boston-to-Orlando ticket registered under Kent Llewellynâs name, then opened his attaché case and thrust the rest of the tickets into a pocket, to be destroyed later.
The chosen ticket went into the inside pocket of the black leather jacket which he picked off the back of his desk chair, along with the packet of Amex travelerâs checks he had purchased a couple of days earlier: two thousand dollars in fifties and hundreds. He pulled on the jacket, closed the desk drawer-he had already cleaned out his desk, disposing of everything that was either incriminating or which could link Peter Jurgenson to Willard DeWittâthen picked up the folded Toshiba PC and headed for the foyer closet. At the bottom of the closet was his getaway bag, perpetually packed and ready to go. He had learned to keep a suitcase packed for such emergencies from his days at Yale. Who says you donât learn anything in college?
Attaché case and Toshiba in his right hand, suitcase in his left, Willard DeWitt walked out of his condo, letting the door close and lock behind him. He barely looked back at the expensive furniture, clothes, toys and appliances he was abandoning; all that stuff belonged to Peter Jurgenson, and Jurgenson was now a ghost, an electronic specter haunting the mainframe at Geller Piperidge & Associates. Soon even that evil spirit would be exorcised. At this moment, a virus program contained in DeWittâs secret file, activated by the intrusion of the SEC inspectors, would be running through the system like a cybernetic shaman casting a cleansing spell, eradicating all mention of Peter Jurgenson and the many other aliases and dummy corporations DeWitt had utilized. The virus would even clean out the SECâs Cray-9, if it had already broken through his redundant defenses, before the virus destroyed all traces of itself. When it was done, all that would remain of Peter Jurgenson would be an empty desk at Geller Piperidge, some unpaid utility bills, and an unlisted telephone number.
Goodbye, Pete , Willard thought as he walked down the hall and took the stairs down to the front door. It was fun while it lasted, pal .â¦
He caught a cab on Newbury Street, just outside his building. The driver, a middle-aged Hispanic punkster wearing a studded leather vest which looked as if a cat had used it for claw-sharpening, was in the mood for conversation. He tried to initiate some small talkââSheeit, what do you think of this storm, man?ââbut Willard answered his comments about the weather with monosyllables and grunts until the driver got the hint and left him alone to contemplate the streets through the cabâs chicken-wired back windows.
The rainstorm had diminished to a thin drizzle; out on the sidewalks, people were emerging from alleys and expensive hangouts to resume their nocturnal prowling: Here, a group of college kids slumming tonight outside the safe, walled confines of the BU or Harvard or MIT campuses, loitering outside a rock club as they waited for girls, dope, or whatever other extracurricular activity might pass their way. There, two representatives of Bostonâs ubiquitous homeless population, squatting under the neon sign of an art gallery showing a collection of Dillon prints, hugging their damp sleeping bags to their chests and watchful for the next police cruiser. A trio of wealthy young businesswomen emerged from an Italian café, chatting gaily amongst themselves, escorted by a well-dressed gorilla from a bodyguard service. A black Cadillac nosed-dived into a rare vacant parking place, cutting off a beat-up Ford Slipstream which had been angling for the same precious spot.
The cab turned right onto Essex, then swung left through a red light onto Boylston.
The chosen ticket went into the inside pocket of the black leather jacket which he picked off the back of his desk chair, along with the packet of Amex travelerâs checks he had purchased a couple of days earlier: two thousand dollars in fifties and hundreds. He pulled on the jacket, closed the desk drawer-he had already cleaned out his desk, disposing of everything that was either incriminating or which could link Peter Jurgenson to Willard DeWittâthen picked up the folded Toshiba PC and headed for the foyer closet. At the bottom of the closet was his getaway bag, perpetually packed and ready to go. He had learned to keep a suitcase packed for such emergencies from his days at Yale. Who says you donât learn anything in college?
Attaché case and Toshiba in his right hand, suitcase in his left, Willard DeWitt walked out of his condo, letting the door close and lock behind him. He barely looked back at the expensive furniture, clothes, toys and appliances he was abandoning; all that stuff belonged to Peter Jurgenson, and Jurgenson was now a ghost, an electronic specter haunting the mainframe at Geller Piperidge & Associates. Soon even that evil spirit would be exorcised. At this moment, a virus program contained in DeWittâs secret file, activated by the intrusion of the SEC inspectors, would be running through the system like a cybernetic shaman casting a cleansing spell, eradicating all mention of Peter Jurgenson and the many other aliases and dummy corporations DeWitt had utilized. The virus would even clean out the SECâs Cray-9, if it had already broken through his redundant defenses, before the virus destroyed all traces of itself. When it was done, all that would remain of Peter Jurgenson would be an empty desk at Geller Piperidge, some unpaid utility bills, and an unlisted telephone number.
Goodbye, Pete , Willard thought as he walked down the hall and took the stairs down to the front door. It was fun while it lasted, pal .â¦
He caught a cab on Newbury Street, just outside his building. The driver, a middle-aged Hispanic punkster wearing a studded leather vest which looked as if a cat had used it for claw-sharpening, was in the mood for conversation. He tried to initiate some small talkââSheeit, what do you think of this storm, man?ââbut Willard answered his comments about the weather with monosyllables and grunts until the driver got the hint and left him alone to contemplate the streets through the cabâs chicken-wired back windows.
The rainstorm had diminished to a thin drizzle; out on the sidewalks, people were emerging from alleys and expensive hangouts to resume their nocturnal prowling: Here, a group of college kids slumming tonight outside the safe, walled confines of the BU or Harvard or MIT campuses, loitering outside a rock club as they waited for girls, dope, or whatever other extracurricular activity might pass their way. There, two representatives of Bostonâs ubiquitous homeless population, squatting under the neon sign of an art gallery showing a collection of Dillon prints, hugging their damp sleeping bags to their chests and watchful for the next police cruiser. A trio of wealthy young businesswomen emerged from an Italian café, chatting gaily amongst themselves, escorted by a well-dressed gorilla from a bodyguard service. A black Cadillac nosed-dived into a rare vacant parking place, cutting off a beat-up Ford Slipstream which had been angling for the same precious spot.
The cab turned right onto Essex, then swung left through a red light onto Boylston.
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