The Boy Scout and the Hacker

The Daenzers - Chris

The Daenzers - Chris

Sam dug in and soon had some workable data. She found receipts for restaurants across Europe and exclusive boutiques in Paris proper. Sèvres, about ten kilometers southwest of Paris, looked like a worthwhile town to explore. The couple frequented several restaurants in or near the town as well as twomarchésthey visited at least weekly. No other place fit the bill as well, so we prepared to head there to do some interviewing.

Sam was jazzed. She felt like an important part of a crime busting team and demanded to be in on everything. Unless we ran into Hoss during our poking, this wasn't likely to be dangerous, so I carried only a concealed pistol, just in case.

The first step was to definitively identify both suspects. The next part of our operation could become dicey. We had brain-stormed several possible plans in the past few days. Our primary goal was to get Bosworth's money back. He was paying the bills, and the more we returned to him, the more profit we would see.

Second goal: Having met or talked to many victims, we wanted most of them to get as much of their money back as possible. Of course, we would have no say in that reconciliation, but since Bosworth was invisible to everyone but us, we had to spirit his two million off without the knowledge of vics or police.

Third goal: Get Cleave and Hoss under long-term lock and key.

Fourth goal: Get our butts out in one piece and avoid any backlash. Happy ever after.

Fifth goal: Go home and find a way to work together on a regular basis, set up housekeeping, get married, have kids, have grandkids... you know the routine. I didn't say number five out loud. If I were to be entirely honest, I'd have said that four was top priority for me.

We arrived in Sèvres and began showing our pics around. It had less than 25,000 inhabitants, and a fair number of people recognized them immediately. People knew them as Victoria (Vickie) and Matteo (Matt?) Daenzer. We could stop calling them Cleave and Hoss though we still didn't know if those were their given names. People agreed Matteo spoke with a Germanic accent and his right ring finger sported a wedding band. As I saw it, it wasn't human nature to be in disguise one hundred percent of the time, so when they were on home territory they would kick back and relax.

They were cautious enough to use a P.O. box for their mail, so the Visa bills were no help in pinpointing their address. I had no desire to hang around outside the mail facility for days just to see who visited the box. None of the people we talked to were their friends, so none had any idea where they lived.

We agreed they most likely lived in the same town, so Sam broke out her laptop and delved into real estate records. She found an address for the Daenzers. Now we were cooking with gas!

She also did some Google searching. Both Daenzers had held decent jobs until they hadn't. Vickie was a lawyer and Matteo a banker, so they had a perfect background for breaking the law and hiding money. As French citizens, they qualified for a mortgage with next to nothing down. The tax documents resulting from said employment then allowed them to give evidence of a clean money stream, a requirement for opening that numbered account in Switzerland.

Of course, once they opened the account, there was nothing stopping them from filling it with dirty money. Authorities couldn't legally get at those accounts. Hackers, who by definition did not abide by laws, could. Sam essentially made us co-owners of the Basel account.

The timeline we pieced together from everything Sam found looked like this: About three years ago, both had quit their jobs and retired to Sèvres, a suburb populated by lots of ex-pats. While they both had accumulated reasonable retirement funds, they could not live in their accustomed manner without supplemental income. From the outside, including taxing authorities, they looked like wealthy retirees.

When our GPS voiced its robotic, "You have reached your destination," we gaped at a modern retirement mansion with glass, grass, gardens, and trees galore located at the end of a cul-de-sac. There was a nice greenspace with picnic benches close enough to offer a premium view of the house but far enough away to not garner interest. We sat and chatted. This was France so we threw in a little PDA just to convince everyone we belonged. We talked about our future while watching the house with our peripheral vision.

At 2:43, Vickie exited the front door and went to her Peugeot 508. She wore sweats and sneakers and looked ordinary albeit with an impressive rack. Her hair was a mousy brown worn in a ponytail. She completed the ensemble with sunglasses and a ball cap. Soccer mom personified. She drove away purposefully, neither dawdling nor speeding. We saw no reason to follow her, but we moved to a different location to be less conspicuous.

After a late lunch, each of us went to the restroom to don our "disguises," which comprised different clothing, sunglasses, and hats. I suggested false noses, but Sam didn't think that was particularly funny. She was not the seasoned surveillance expert I was and was nervous that we were going to be caught. Our new location was further from Vickie's house in a copse of trees. We broke out the binoculars, expecting her imminent return. We passed the glasses back and forth so we could be equally bored.

Instead of the Peugeot, a black Mercedes pulled into the drive, parking in front of the right-hand garage door. An immense man dressed in tasteless plaid pants, a bright polo, and a denim bucket hat exited the car. My God! The crook was a golfer! I wondered how far a gorilla like that could drive a ball. With the binoculars, we spotted the scars and the incomplete ear, so we were now absolutely sure we had run our prey to ground.

Just to be sure, we took pictures with a high-quality camera and a long lens. We sent the pictures to several victims for confirmation. All were certain we had found the right people.

We drove back to Paris and went to our "office" in Claude's apartment. Sam and I sat down and listed things we knew: where the couple that swindled twenty-one people in Europe lived; how much their home cost when they purchased it and what its current estimated selling price was; what each of those victims had lost; exactly how much money the Daenzers currently had in their numbered account and public accounts; and finally, that the total money we could access was significantly less than the victims' losses.

What we didn't know: Were any others involved in the schemes? Who might they go after next, as we doubted they were done? How were we going to get Bosworth his money, get the Daenzers convicted, and get away clean ourselves?

As we talked, we realized the victims we talked with ranged from clean to sleazy. In our opinion, Bassett sat at the sleazy end of the scale. Since we agreed in principle that Bosworth's two million came off the top, there wasn't enough money left to fully compensate every victim, so some or all of them would have to settle for a percentage of the remaining Basel money, which we began referring to as "the pot." We reasoned that some were more deserving than others, so a strict formula based on the individual's loss divided by the total loss multiplied by the pot did not make us happy. We were unsure of how the legal system would handle the victims, but we felt we could do a more equitable job.

Grading the victims and divvying the pot was a math problem. I opened Excel on my laptop, figuring I had the chops to put together a spreadsheet that would do the job. Sam just laughed, and channeling her inner Crocodile Dundee, said, "That's not a spreadsheet;thisis a spreadsheet." She showed a beautiful graphic screen with twenty-one slider bars that she'd thrown together while I was opening Excel and thinking about what my first cell should look like. She assigned a victim's name to each bar. The bar went from zero to one hundred percent and had a red line denoting that victim's percentage of the total losses. The individual's projected compensation displayed in a window at the right end while each slider was positioned at the red line, representing their percentage of the total losses. The grand total of those twenty-one windows equaled the pot.

By Sam's calculations, in the past three years, the Daenzers had stolen around $7.7 million. They had $6.2 million in the Basel account, so the rest had probably been spent. After Bosworth's nut, this left us with only $4.2 million to cover losses totaling $5.7 million.

I felt powerful moving the sliders around and determining the fate of each victim. If I moved one to the left, every other slider would move to the right, all dollar amounts changing but still adding up to $4.2 million. 'Twas a thing of beauty, as was Sam.

Sam researched each victim, and we set up what we referred to as the "sleaze ranking." In the end, we moved sliders around until the biggest sleazes got less than sixty cents on the dollar and the innocents got close to one hundred. Note, we did not factor any cut for us. We would complete our contract and take our agreed fees from Bosworth.

Next problem on the agenda: How to get the Daenzers arrested and sidestep the glaring fact of the missing $6.2 mil from their account? That was going to require some fancy footwork, which we would put our minds to tomorrow. Tonight, we were going for a late dinner with the Bissets.

After dinner, it would be a shower and bedtime for us. Bathing hadn't been this much fun before I met Sam, even as a child when I had a rubber duckie. Now, it was the high point of my day with bed running neck-and-neck. We put in a lot of effort to refine our foreplay, using all the tools at our command. Figuring out which zones were erogenous and which were erroneous was key. Interestingly, they sometimes switched places, so every day was an adventure.

I wanted to investigate that delicious liquid I had discovered between Sam's legs. As we were messing around, I kissed my way down her body. I spent time on her boobs because I absolutely loved them. Then I played around her belly button, causing some squirming and giggling. I jumped down to her toes to keep her on her toes, then moved up her legs. I started getting close to the V at the top and Sam started tensing up. She wasn't sure what was happening. I was afraid she might block me if she had time to think, so I just dove into the briar patch and ran my tongue down between her labia.

She was really a responsive lover and went off like a firecracker before she could voice any objections. More liquid flowed forth and I began lapping it all up, bringing her multiple orgasms in the process. Her final one came when I latched onto her clit, sucking and licking. Her body became an iron bar; her breath locked in her lungs; her face turned red; and finally she collapsed like a balloon losing all its air. That was fun! What did she say right before we went to sleep? "Interesting."

The next morning, we went back to business mode and confronted our most difficult problem. If the only thing we did was to drain the numbered account, the Daenzers would come for our scalps. We had talked to so many people in their hometown that they could find us pretty easily. The simplest solution was to kill both of them. But I was the good guy!

Getting them arrested and put in prison sounded easier than it was. I supposed if we fed the police everything we had found out, they might put together a strong case. But none of the victims were likely to see much of their money for the foreseeable future. There was no way Bosworth would get anything since he was invisible to the authorities by design.

The Daenzers had committed an identical scam twenty-two times, and nobody in law enforcement had a clue who they were, so we would need to spoon feed them the fruit of the poisoned tree--or something like that. On top of that, judicial proceedings often took years. We had no desire to be tied up with this job forever. We had a wedding to plan and children to conceive. By cleaning out the Basel account, we would destroy the evidence, cause the Daenzers to go to ground, and make us a target of both the crooks and the police.

What if we put together a sting with the police and Interpol? We could set up a dummy victim, record the entire operation, from opening the bank account to receiving the money, transferring it to multiple accounts, and ultimately funneling everything to the numbered account. Perhaps they would welcome such a plan as an opportunity to cover up their inability to find the perps over the course of several years.

Sam suggested I run it up the flagpole for Jean-Pierre's advice. I knew I loved her for excellent reasons. I pulled his contact info up on my cell phone and hit the call button. He hadn't been too happy last time I called, and that was a Saturday. This time it was Sunday--even worse. Oops.

He answered before I could hang up. "Christopher, do you purposely wait until the weekend to ask for favors?"

Apologizing profusely, I said, "I really forgot what day it was. I started to hang up when I realized, but you answered too fast. In a nutshell, I have a big problem that I'd like to discuss with you. So, I will only disturb you long enough to make an appointment with you for tomorrow, preferably outside the office, to discuss the situation. I want us to find a solution that benefits you as much or even more than it benefits me. If you say you are willing, give me a time, and Sam and I will leave Paris right now. That gets us to Zürich mid-afternoon, and we can have a nice evening of rest and relaxation prior to our meeting."

Jean-Pierre was silent for a moment. He then said, "I assume this has to do with the scams you were investigating. Also, that you have gotten yourself into a tight extralegal spot, so you need someone like me to pull you to safety. Have I got that about right?"

I hemmed and hawed a bit. "We have made lots of progress and have done hardly anything illegal yet. Allow me to show you what we have and what we propose doing next. I value your opinions and your integrity. I want these culprits in prison and would love for you to get the credit. There are some sticky obstacles to our plan. Will you at least listen to us?"

"I'll see you tomorrow morning at 0800," he said. "How about the Botanical Garden? It's close to my office, and if the fragrance of your story is too stinky, perhaps the blooming flowers will cover it. I'm looking forward to spending some time with your Samantha. I'm worried about her taste in men and will do my best to help her see reason."

I flinched since the phone was on speaker. "I'm not sure she will appreciate being called 'mine' as that implies possession, and she is nobody's property. We are a couple, and she's the better half."

J-P chuckled. "Well played, Christopher! I must get back to my family and give them my attention on this day of rest. I shall see you both tomorrow."

Once again, we were left to our own devices at night. We didn't have any actual devices, but we made do. Sam had really loved my oral attentions the previous night. At my insistence, she explained the Aha and the rope trick. She had noted my hardon between her buns right before she exploded. She suddenly understood how the penis, always shown in the textbook in its flaccid state, could enter the tight vagina. The Indian rope trick joke was beyond my comprehension. In any case, she wanted to explore my very erect cock. I suspect she was wishing for a magnifying glass, but lacking that she moved in as close as possible. Her tongue extended and touched me. Bzzzzz! Electrical shock. She then noticed a clear fluid appearing at the tip, then running down the head. Out came the tongue again as she took a taste. I informed her that most people called this stuff pre-cum, secreted as a lubricant for intercouse. I expected her to say, "Interesting," but instead she said "Delicious." She stored that in her memory. She licked again, which caused my member--a commonly used euphemism in old timey erotic literature--to bounce around and release another drop. She was fascinated and I was really turned on, but she decided not to waste time licking one drop at a time. Sam popped the head of my cock into her mouth and sucked, pulling out more of the pre-cum, then started pumping me with her hand while doing something inside her mouth with her tongue. It wasn't long before the entire contents of my reproductive system shot out the tip and into her mouth. We were both surprised, but she managed to keep from spilling any. I could see her tongue moving inside her mouth, then noticed her throat constrict. When she released me, she smiled, showed me her empty mouth, and licked her lips.

We now had things we could do until intercourse got approved by higher authorities. That took the pressure off and eliminated those vexatious blue balls I had been having.

In the light of day, we would continue our hot pursuit of the Daenzers. At that moment, it was time for well-deserved sleep.

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Handing over the reins - Sam

Handing over the reins - Sam

After Chris hung up, we went to say our goodbyes to the Bissets. "I am so glad I got to meet your family. The meals we have shared have been wonderful, and the space you have given to us has been so helpful. Nell, I think you're a special girl, and I'll be keeping you in my thoughts during your high school and college years and beyond."

Nell beamed. I had made a new friend.

I wasn't quite done. "However, bear in mind, no matter how old you get, he's mine. Would your family be open to an invitation to our wedding? No pressure and no, we don't actually have any firm plans yet. But Chris told me early on that he was going to marry me, and he actually got down on one knee, so I don't think he has any alternative but to carry on." Everyone laughed, and Nell hugged me even more tightly than she did Chris.

Once we loaded the car, there wasn't a cubic centimeter of unused space, but we got everything in. We then headed back to Zürich for our meeting with Jean-Pierre the next morning. I was confident he would come up with some ideas. Our own were half-baked and potentially dangerous. Not that I was afraid of danger, but I'd have hated to see Chris hurt or put in jail. My parents might not have thought much of a wedding through bars.

I got behind the wheel, and off we went. We batted around additional bad ideas regarding Vickie and Matteo, but for the most part, we talked about our lives like any two people discovering new love. I admitted I had made a few discoveries about myself in the past two weeks. Who knew I would like intimacy so much? I was not referring only to sex since we had gone no further than many high schoolers--except we had overnight privileges. I was more talking about the absolute comfort of being in Chris's presence. We could be talking, joking, or silent, and I felt the connection. Shay and I had always been close and told each other lots of secrets, but it was very different when your new BFF was also your lover.

I told Chris about the business concept Shay had pulled me into. "Chris, I'm not known as an idea person. I transform other people's ideas into computer programs. Shay recognized this and is my idea person. She finds clients and understands what they do better than they do themselves. With her insight, she helps them break out of their limited visions and see what their company could become with our help. She creates multiple scenarios and shows them projected financials for each then lets them choose what they're most comfortable with. Optimal performance relies on magic I supply by custom programming to meet their needs and their skills."

Chris said, "I wish I understood programming better so I could fully appreciate your skills. I know any profession has only a few stars with most others rating good to poor. Obviously, Shay recognizes your skills and has complete confidence in you."