That someone would have to be tracked down. Smith still had the matter at hand to resolve.
He would have to replenish the CURE operating fund.
OVER THE DECADES CURE operations had grown exponentially. Just as Smith had been forced to upgrade his computer system to its present state, so had his operating budget mushroomed. In the first decade of CURE, it had been possible to draw millions of dollars out of various off-the-books CIA, DIA, NSA and other Intelligence-community operating funds undetected because there was little or no congressional oversight on such black-budget expenditures once appropriated.
But CURE had one day outgrown the ability to do that undetected by its sheer voracious financial need. A blind had to be created, a federal agency whose mandated purpose was too important to ever be closed or suffer budget cutbacks, one with an annual operating budget vast enough that CURE could siphon off funds at will without arousing suspicion.
Smith normally moved funds from this agency by computer to the Grand Cayman Trust-a notorious haven for money laundering-to ensure absolute security. There was no avoiding it. He reached for the concealed stud that would bring his terminal humming up from his desk well.
Smith pressed the stud. Almost at once the intercom buzzed, and his secretary said, "Dr. Smith. There's someone to see you."
"I have no appointments this morning," said Smith as the desktop panel dropped slightly before it was to slide to one side.
"It's Mr. Ballard."
"Ballard? I know no-"
"He's from the IRS, Dr. Smith," the secretary said. Smith hit the stud again. The scarred oak panel reversed its mechanical course to return flush to the top of the desk and vanish from casual inspection.
"The IRS?" Smith said dully.
"Shall I send him in?"
Smith hesitated. Lips thinning, he said, "Yes." He did not sound enthusiastic.
The door opened and a balding pear of a man wearing bifocals entered, carrying an imitation-leather briefcase.
"Dr. Smith. My name is Bryce Ballard." He put out a pudgy hand.
"Is that your real name?" Smith said without warmth.
"No, actually it isn't."
"But you do claim to be with the IRS?"
"Here's my identification."
Ballard showed an IRS revenue agent's card that appeared genuine.
"I have reason to believe you are not who you say you are," Smith said flatly.
"You can check with my office," said Ballard. He waved toward the couch. "May I sit down?"
"Yes," said Smith, dialling the number the man gave him.
"Internal Revenue Service," a voice, announced. "Ask to speak with Mr. Vonneau," Ballard called over.
"I would like to speak with Mr. Vonneau."
"One moment, sir," a switchboard operator said crisply. Smith regarded the man Ballard. He looked harmless enough.
He might easily pass for an IRS revenue agent, but Smith had excellent reason for thinking him an impostor.
"Vonneau speaking," an unemotional voice said. "This is Dr. Harold W Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York," said Smith. "I have a man in my office who claims to be here to audit me. He gave his name as Bryce Ballard, although he admits that is not his true name."
"Describe him, please."
Smith described Ballard in flat but accurate terms. "That's Ballard. As you know, Dr. Smith, IRS agents for their own personal protection are allowed to assume authorized pseudonyms."
"Then I am being audited?" Smith said in a disbelieving voice.
"You are."
"Impossible."
"Actually, we're auditing quite a number of medical facilities. Don't worry, you're in good hands. Ballard is thorough and, of course, fair."
"What I meant to say," Smith said, "is that I received no official notice of an audit."
"Give me your business-taxpayer identification number."
Smith rattled off the number from memory. There was silence on the line. Then Vonneau came back to say, "According to my files, the notice was sent out a week ago, and an appointment was arranged for today by telephone."
"I did no such thing," Smith said tartly.
"According to our computerized logs, you did. Perhaps one of your staff handled it."
"I do not delegate such matters," Smith said stiffly. "There must be a mistake."
"IRS computers," Vonneau said just as stiffly, "do not make mistakes of this scope."
"Thank you," Smith said without emotion, and hung up.
Ballard stood up and said, "I will need to see all your in-house financial records to start."
"Why is Folcroft being audited?" Smith demanded suddenly.
"Routine. Your return popped up on the random-audit list."
"I happen to know that random auditing has been suspended for the next two years while the new IRS computer system is being installed."
"True," said Ballard, offering a weak smile. "I might as well tell you, word has come down from the top. The President's health-care program has to be paid for somehow. Waste and fraud in the medical profession are rampant, as you know if you watch any of the Pews-magazine shows. The IRS has been asked to look into this very thorny area. We've already collected substantial sums in back underreported taxes, FICA payments and fines, all of which will be earmarked to pay for the health-care program. Of course, I'm sure that won't be the case here."
Harold Smith heard all this with his ears ringing. He was being audited by the IRS. It was a virtual impossibility. Smith had continual access to Folcroft's IRS records by computer. He knew the mathematical formulas the service used to target institutions for auditing and every year carefully made out his returns, underreporting legitimate deductions and not taking others so that no red flags triggered the random-audit process.
And just in case, his computers were programmed to monitor the IRS master file in Martinsburg, Virginia, for this very eventuality. Smith should have been warned Folcroft had been targeted for an audit. He could have headed it off by remote manipulation of the IRS's own computerized files.
The Folcroft Four had failed him again. And he was forced to sit numbly in his chair as IRS Agent Bryce Ballard droned on about his needs. Harold Smith stared at the scarred corner of his desk that hid the system he could not access and now no longer, trusted if he could.
"First," Ballard was saying, "I will need to see your computer system."
Smith looked up, startled. "System?"
"You do have financial records?"
"Yes. On a standard three-book ledger."
Ballard's round face slackened into stunned lines. "Do you mean to say, Dr. Smith, that a facility of this size has never been computerized?"
"I have never seen the need for it," retorted Smith.
Chapter 11
If Jane Kotzwinkle didn't have three children to raise and an ex-husband who believed child-support payments were due only when he won the daily number, there was no way she'd put herself through the many indignities of wearing a Con Ed hard hat and snug uniform in broad daylight. The night shift was fine by her, and usually it was enough. But she needed the overtime, her babies needed new clothes, and with so many of her colleagues on vacation, Manhattan needed her services.
What Jane Kotzwinkle didn't need was the stares. Not from the passersby who did a double and sometimes triple take when they happened upon her digging up a section of New York City pavement in her Con Ed blue-and-gray coveralls, nor from her fellow workers who stopped what they were doing to appraise her rear end whenever she bent over to look down a manhole or pick up a tool.
And especially she did not need the wide cow eyes she got whenever a NYNEX rep came out to check on the dig.
This one looked fresh out of CUNY or some damn place. He pulled up in a NYNEX company car that was no more than three months old and, spotting her hard hat with its Con Ed symbol, walked right up to her and asked, "Where can I find Kotzwinkle?" The brainless mutt.