That Will Do Nicely (6 page)

He set to the task with 12 point Letraset. Obviously, to create the artwork repeating the whole name of his fictitious bank would have involved too much work so he settled on a shortened version of the fictitious bank's name using the motif, ‘DALLASBANK’. Carefully, he made up a block of the name with Letraset

- DALLASBANKDALLASBANKDALLASBANK - several lines deep and when he was satisfied with the artwork, he photographed it with the process camera, then made a line negative and a subsequent contact positive from it.

A lengthy retouching session followed the camera work as he painted in all the pinholes on the master positive using an 'O' size sable haired paint brush and Johnson's Liquid Opaque solution. Gradually and painstakingly, he 'removed' all the pinholes. It was a slow, laborious, but necessary method. Finally, when he was quite satisfied that the master positive was as blemish-free as he could make it, he made a new master negative from it by contact printing it and when that was completely dry and retouched, he used it to expose several prints of the newly created motif onto single weight glossy paper. When these in turn had been washed and dried, flattened and retouched, he made a montage of the motif DALLASBANK mounting the photographic images of the motif onto stiff art-board with cow-gum contact adhesive. He had created a piece of artwork some eight times the size of the actual che
ques, but to the same scale as the cheques would be printed. Next, he mounted it onto a sheet of art-board, which he covered with a graded sheet of Letraset mezzotint in a pale straw color. He photographed the resulting montage with the technical camera, straight on, then from the side, where, by utilizing the swing 'movements' of the camera’s back and front he was able to create a distorted image, with the letters tapering in scale from one side to the other. Everything was held in sharp focus by careful use of the camera's aperture control.

The resulting printing plate for the web-offset press, produced a very similar effect to the background of the che
ques he had studied. The plate was large enough to cover more than three times the size of the actual cheques. If everything worked as he intended he would be able to print three-up on a sheet of A4 sized paper, thus reducing the necessary running time of the press.

By now, he was working 12 hours a day, alternating between the lay-out desk, darkroom and print-shop. Each morning while his eyes were sharp, he devoted himself to the artwork and photography, leaving the afternoons free to run the press. Working this way meant that the printing could be left to dry overnight, which saved time. Even so, the days gradually merged into weeks.

With Sam's semi-reluctant approval, he had stopped shaving at the outset of the printing work and by Christmas he had grown a full beard to form the basis of his later disguise. He completed the marathon of the printing work in mid-February, leaving only the cheque-numbering still to be done.

The following Sunday was his 39th birthday and they celebrated it in their favorite way. After making love, breakfasting in bed and hunting down the inevitable wayward crumbs of toast which always turned up in places where they were least welcome, they returned to discussing their grand scheme.

"We've come a long way," commented Pascoe, having given up the hunt for the crumbs momentarily. "Everything's ready except for the numbering sequences. How do we stand with the numbering problem?" Sam appeared not to have heard him. She ignored his question and threw in one of her own instead.

"Did I tell you I'd found an office in the City? In a place called Change Alley, just off Threadneedle Street and it's quite reasonably priced."

"You are joking," he said.  "It's not really called Change Alley, is it?"

"You'll see for yourself as soon as you visit it. I thought the name was rather apt."

"O.K. I believe you. Now, what about the numbering system?"  He turned on to his side, facing her and started to lightly tickle her ribs to encourage an answer to his question. Sam merely giggled.

"I've taken a three month lease from next quarter day. I do hope that's all right." She continued, wriggling across the bed in an effort to escape his touch.

"That's great... darling, but what about your friend at the University... the one with the working knowledge of the MIRA system?" He tickled her again, moving his hand from her ribs to the inside of her thigh. The sound of her breathing changed slightly, increasing its rhythm.

"Oh him?" s
he replied ingenuously, trying her best to ignore Pascoe's roving fingers, "I didn't... need... him, in the end... and his equipment didn't live up to expectation... and if you're going to keep moving your hand where it is now, I hope... you're prepared for the consequences... " Pascoe stilled his hand, letting it nestle snugly between her thighs. "You see, it was all in the ink", she went on, a little calmer now that all movement had ceased, "The combination of standard size characters and the use of a magnetic ink gives the banks' reading machines all the information they need to decode the cheques. Whichever company issues them... uses the standardized characters, so the results are the same... "

“So you didn't have to
... compromise yourself... "

"Not compromise exactly, my lord and would be master
... let's just say a little give and take," she added provocatively.

"And just when did you find all this out?" His hand stirred in response to her teasing.

"The week we... met." She moaned softly.

"And your oppos
ite number at the university?" he asked, increasing the motion of his hand.

"Never existed
... except in your imagination... "

"You little vixen, you knew all along."

"Of course I did... ouch! Otherwise you wouldn't have needed me at all." Her breathing became faster and deeper as Pascoe settle into a steady rhythm with his hand.

"Now are you going to finish what you've started?" She squirmed to his touch and soon all thoughts of their scheme were long forgotten.

Later, exhausted after an hour's intensive lovemaking, Sam was the first to get back to the other business in hand.

What's in a number?

"What's so special about the che
que-numbering. I understand the magnetic side of it but not the other?" Sam asked, examining the latest sample of the printing. Pascoe took his wallet from the bedside table and withdrew a sterling travelers' cheque from it.

"Take a look at this, darling. How many groups of numbers can you see on the face of the che
ques?"

"Four, not counting the values."

"O.K. Now look at the main number. It's got a prefix - in this case the figure '3' before the rest of the number. Now look at the first series of figures in magnetic code at the bottom of the cheque - '333333'. The prefix has to match. See the top left hand corner - another '3' and at the top right '60-00-43'. The '3' in each case signifies a £10 cheque and all the banks are familiar with that code. Similarly the '4' series denotes a £20 cheque and the '5', a £50 cheque. The second magnetic series of numbers is the same as the ordinary figures in the top right hand corner. The '60-00' part gives the sort code and the '43' the value. The last group gives the actual number of the cheques."

"It sounds terribly complicated", said Sam, giving him her undivided attention.

"It's fairly simple really. You can see that first we will have to print all our cheques with the correct prefix and sort code and then we will run them through the press again, this time with the numbering machine. Once that is finished, we will still have to reprint all the cheques with the computer style numbers using the magnetic ink. Don't forget the numbering sequence must match exactly the figures already on the cheque."

"How many che
ques?" she asked.

"How much money do you want? It works out at 10,000 che
ques per million dollars. Don't forget, I, for one, don't intend to do this more than once."

"How fast does the press print?"

"About 6,000 copies per hour - but before you get carried away with the idea, remember each cheque has to be printed several times - so practically speaking, we'll be limited to about 1,000 cheques per hour."

"But that's $100,000 per hour."

"I know darling, but the problem's not how many we can print, but how many we can pass. Now let's change the subject - time is getting short and I want to get some lunch and some golf in today. You realize I'll have to go to Dallas soon."

"Dallas as in Texas?" Pascoe nodded. "What the hell for?"

"To post the circulars to the clearing banks here, giving the details and samples of the cheques. If our bank is supposed to be in Dallas they'll need to have Dallas postmarks on the envelopes for authenticity."

"Do I get to come?"

  “You haven't had much difficulty up to now."

"Bastard!"

"O.K. Darling, Of course you can, but it'll be a straight round-trip and we won't even be able to fly direct if we don't want them to trace us eventually. Why don't you make all the arrangements? See if you can book us a long weekend to New York."

They eventually got up shortly before noon and enjoyed a brief but pleasant pub lunch, then went straight on to the local
golf club for a leisurely round... one of the pleasures Pascoe had foregone while immersed in his printing. Sam played in an infuriating manner... she was not the longest of hitters, but usually managed to hit the ball straight, gaining in accuracy over Pascoe's greater but wayward power. As hard as he tried to concentrate on his game, Sam continually put him off his stroke with an incessant stream of trivial questions about shopping and the theatres in New York and the Ewing Ranch in Dallas.

"I thought we were here to play golf." Pascoe said, grumpily.

"There are other things in life, darling." Sam retorted, mischievously.

"I know, and you had several of them this morning. R
emember, I'm here to relax. Alright?”

"You seemed pretty relaxed this morning as I remember." Sam, like a dog with a bone, refused to give up on her subject. Eventually, for the sake of peace and quiet, Pascoe answered her questions but his golf never recovered. At the end of the round, when he totted up the final score, he came to the conclusion that Sam's prattling constituted a far bigger hazard than anything the course had to offer.

The last days of February were spent numbering the cheques - it was a long-winded job which couldn't be rushed, as every batch had to be checked before the next batch could be numbered. By the time they had finished, neither of them ever wanted to see a traveler's cheque again.

The following week-end, Sam took Pascoe to the offices she had found in the City. They were ideally suited to their purpose and easily decorated to standard in the next couple of week-ends. Pascoe photographically engraved a plate for the outside wall of the building, using anodized
aluminum –

  SECOND NATIONAL CITY BANK OF DALLAS

  London Office 

  2nd., Floor

  257, Change Alley. EC 1

The plaque wouldn't be mounted until the day before the operation started - there was no sense in taking extra risks.

The only practical problem they encountered in the time before Easter concerned getting the brochures to Dallas in order to post them back to England. Pascoe had explained to Sam that there would be a definite risk taking them in their luggage, because if U.S. Customs discovered them during a baggage search, there would be no way to satisfactorily explain the presence of the brochures. Instead, they posted them to Sam, care of the Wyndham Hotel in Dallas where she had booked a room for three nights. The package was addressed to Sam under her maiden name which was still the one on her passport. It wasn't exactly a foolproof method, but the occasional risk had to be taken.

The following week, Sam and Pascoe flew to New York and stayed overnight in the city before flying on to Dallas the following day, where they checked in to the Wyndham Hotel. Sam retrieved the package from
Reception and they spent an entire afternoon putting flyers in envelopes and affixing pre-printed address labels to the British Banks that Pascoe had included. After spending the following day playing tourists, inspecting Memorial Plaza where Kennedy had been assassinated and making a quick trip out to the ‘Ewing’ television ranch, they returned to the Big Apple for their flight home. The only thing left to do was to take out advertising in the Daily Express and the USA Today to publicize their forthcoming conference at London’s Grosvenor Hotel where Pascoe planned to meet his unknowing accomplices.

On the morning of March 26th., the day of the conference, Pascoe woke with a start just after six, unsure of what had di
sturbed him. He got up straight-away, knowing that to drift off back to sleep would be fatal. While he performed his shaving ritual, taking more care now he had his beard than he had ever done before, his thoughts turned to the day ahead. D-day had finally arrived, the day he had worked so hard for. He only hoped that he would live up to the part he had written for himself.

He dressed and drank a cup of black sugarless coffee to shock his body into gear before trying to wake Sam. Being a practical man, he had brought everything they would need in London from the print-shop the night before and packed the brief-cases. It was strange that the fru
its of his many months' of labor could be packed into three small leather brief-cases... somehow he'd expected more. He picked up one of the bundles of pristine cheques and riffled through it. They felt clean, crisp and good. They even smelled right. A Yank had once told him he could smell the 'green' on dollar bills but he hadn't believed him at the time. Now he understood exactly what the man had meant.

Returning to the bedroom and finding Sam still not up, he opened the window wide and stripped the covers off the bed, leaving her curled up in her skimpy nightdress trying to hide from the draught. He was half-way through his breakfast by the time she joined him.

"Bastard.., waking me up like that!"

"Well after today, I’ll be a rich bastard!"

After breakfast, they donned their City clothes... both wearing three-piece pin-striped suits, striped shirts with plain white collars, the image of the city gent. While Sam put the finishing touches to her appearance, Pascoe loaded the car.

They were well onto the motorway before either of them spoke, Pascoe only breaking the silence to go over the details of the day's plans.

"You did arrange for the photo-copier at the hotel... and the Security guards," he asked.

"I've told you a dozen times I did!" She snapped in reply.  "It’s
just nerves.., that’s all. Sorry."

The traffic increased steadily and by the time they came to the end of the triple carriage section of the A2, it was bumper to bumper traffic all the way. He wondered when the government would ever learn to build the motorways large enough. Just before Blackheath he took the A102 Blackwall Tunnel route straight into the City to save time, but it still took 40 minutes driving through heavy traffic before they reached the Change Alley office and they couldn't relax until the car was safely parked in a nearby National Car Park.

The security guards arrived promptly at 9.30 and took charge of the brief-cases for the journey to the hotel, leaving them to make their own way there.

"How do you feel?" He asked, knowing that if Sam felt any of the tension he was experiencing, her stomach would be churning.

"I want to pee, if you must know." Sam glared at him as though it were his fault.

"It's nerves
.., that's all." He observed, as if to reassure her.

"According to you, everything's bloody nerves!"

"That's for luck." He said, kissing her briefly before paying off the cab. "Just remember... if we keep our cool we're going to become very rich in the next few days and I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend the time or the money with." Sam smiled wanly, then checked her make up before getting out. Pascoe led the way into Reception.

"Good morning," he announced," Guyton, Reginald Guyton
... the Dallasbank Conference... " The receptionist smiled while she checked her diary.

"I'll get someone to take you through,
Sir. Is there anything else you will need this morning, Sir?" Her accent was pure Roedean.

"I thought perhaps we would take coffee at 11.00."

"It's already supplied in the conference room, Sir."

"In that case, there's just one other thing, Miss Davidson
... " said Pascoe, reading the name from her lapel badge, "I am expecting a delivery from a security company soon... could you have them shown through to me when they arrive."

"Certainly,
Mr. Guyton. May I introduce you to our conference manager, Mr. Simmonds...? "Neither Pascoe or Sam had noticed the man join them and after brief introductions, they followed him through to the conference room.

"Here we are then, Mr. Guyton
... everything you will need." commented Simmonds, showing them into the conference room." I have had 200 seats arranged for you as requested, but if you should need some more, please ask. There is your desk with the P.A. system and microphones if you should need them..," he pointed to a raised podium at the far end of the spacious room. "The telephones are also there; the white one for an outside line and the black one for reception."

And
the photo-copier I requested?" asked Pascoe.

"In the far corner,
Sir, although I can easily have it moved if you wish." Simmonds replied.

"No, that's fine
... Mr. Simmonds... just one other thing... the notice board in Reception?"

"On display
... The Guyton Conference, just as you requested."

"What's with calling yourself Guyton?" Sam questioned him as soon as Simmonds had disappeared from view.

"I had to call myself something."

"But why Guyton? It sounds so priggish
..."

"A name from the past
.., head boy at school.., a right stuck-up little snob." Pascoe explained.

"And what about me
.., have you chosen a name for me?"

"I thought Fiona Fairbrother sounded suitably stuck-up." Sam choked at the thought of it.

"Why do the names have to be stuck-up as you put it?"

“Just speak with an English accent over there and they mark you down as a poo
fter... these names will just reinforce that illusion... make them feel superior." Sam seemed unconvinced and left for the powder room.

Pascoe checked his watch
... it was already 10.45 and the first guests were due any time. Seconds later, Sam reappeared with the guards, who handed over the brief-cases.

"No problems I hope?" Pascoe enquired.

"None at all, Sir." One of them replied, casting a practiced eye around the opulence of the Grosvenor's Conference Room. Pascoe could almost read his thoughts.

"Fiona
... ," Pascoe addressed Sam for the first time using her alias, "Could you accompany these gentlemen and these two brief-cases through to Reception... put them in the hotel safe," he motioned to the cases containing the cheques." Then they can take a break until our guests arrive." The way Pascoe gave the instruction left no room for doubt. It was an order and one which Sam had to obey, like it or not.