large-screen computer workstations, constantly running, that occupied a narrow counter space; two copiers; a color laser printer, and a pair of color scanners. On the left wall hung a shelving system that housed a dozen in-boxes, all labeled. The wall to her right held more shelving and two large green plastic garbage cans labeled B + W Recycle and Color Recycle . Below the computers were several drawers containing optical disks in plastic jewel boxes. They resembled small CDs and were numbered 1 through 131, with plenty of empty slots yet to be filled.
The room was windowless. Daphne switched on the overhead lights, pushed the door partly shut, and sat down at the right-hand terminal. The two computer terminals appeared to be identical. Both the keyboards and monitors bore the boldly printed name EDIFIS —Electronic Digital Filing System. Adler had cautioned that many of the more confidential categories were security protected, and had provided her with a credit card-size plastic pass bearing a magnetic strip that, once read, gained her the highest level of access. She pushed the proper function key for security clearance and ran the card through a slot on the right of the keyboard.
She was inside.
She quickly navigated through a series of menus to an alphabetized index that was organized into four separate databases: (C)ategory, (S)ubject, (D)ate, and (A)uthor. The indexing system felt familiar, like one used by the public library downtown. She moved deeper into the increasingly specific indexes. EDIFIS was a paperless filing system that called up the images of the scanned documents. The index, whether by general category or specific title, referenced one of the numbered optical disks; an (a), in parentheses indicated that an archived hard copy existed off-site.
“Insurance” listed seventeen subheadings. She scrolled through them slowly. Several listings caught her eye, among them Executive Protection Package and another, Catastrophic , with additional subcategories branched beneath it.
Catastrophic
Act of God
Criminal
Environmental Disaster
Health
The word Criminal caught her eye. She selected this, was prompted to insert the proper optical disk, and having done so was faced with yet another menu. Several case histories were listed, including one called Policy & Coverage with an (a) indicating an archived copy. She selected this option and was subsequently presented with a scanned image of the actual policy: “Page 1 of 17,” it read in the bottom corner. She selected a computer icon that resembled a magnifying glass, and the document enlarged, becoming more readable. The opening pages dedicated great verbiage to defining criminal activity both within and without Adler Foods—what legally constituted it and what did not. She was no attorney, and this was an attorney’s world to be sure, but extortion and blackmail, if certified by law enforcement (whatever “certified” meant) appeared to be fully covered—up to and including a ransom sum of five million dollars.
The number swam around lazily in her head: five million dollars .
Third paragraph, page 4: Consumer Product Tampering . She swallowed dryly and glanced around the room to make sure she was still alone. Gooseflesh ran up her left side and across her chest and down into her stomach, which fluttered nervously.
A long definition, followed by more legalese. It seemed to say that all costs of advertising, development, distribution, promotion, production, and publicity to reintroduce any discontinued product line that was pulled as a direct result of internal or external criminal activity—“see above”—were to be paid in full up to and including the sum of eighty million dollars.
She gasped aloud and reread this number: eighty million dollars . Under Criminal Attack , Adler Foods was to be compensated in order to return its goods to the marketplace. It occurred to her how it might be possible to misuse this reimbursement in order to redesign,
The room was windowless. Daphne switched on the overhead lights, pushed the door partly shut, and sat down at the right-hand terminal. The two computer terminals appeared to be identical. Both the keyboards and monitors bore the boldly printed name EDIFIS —Electronic Digital Filing System. Adler had cautioned that many of the more confidential categories were security protected, and had provided her with a credit card-size plastic pass bearing a magnetic strip that, once read, gained her the highest level of access. She pushed the proper function key for security clearance and ran the card through a slot on the right of the keyboard.
She was inside.
She quickly navigated through a series of menus to an alphabetized index that was organized into four separate databases: (C)ategory, (S)ubject, (D)ate, and (A)uthor. The indexing system felt familiar, like one used by the public library downtown. She moved deeper into the increasingly specific indexes. EDIFIS was a paperless filing system that called up the images of the scanned documents. The index, whether by general category or specific title, referenced one of the numbered optical disks; an (a), in parentheses indicated that an archived hard copy existed off-site.
“Insurance” listed seventeen subheadings. She scrolled through them slowly. Several listings caught her eye, among them Executive Protection Package and another, Catastrophic , with additional subcategories branched beneath it.
Catastrophic
Act of God
Criminal
Environmental Disaster
Health
The word Criminal caught her eye. She selected this, was prompted to insert the proper optical disk, and having done so was faced with yet another menu. Several case histories were listed, including one called Policy & Coverage with an (a) indicating an archived copy. She selected this option and was subsequently presented with a scanned image of the actual policy: “Page 1 of 17,” it read in the bottom corner. She selected a computer icon that resembled a magnifying glass, and the document enlarged, becoming more readable. The opening pages dedicated great verbiage to defining criminal activity both within and without Adler Foods—what legally constituted it and what did not. She was no attorney, and this was an attorney’s world to be sure, but extortion and blackmail, if certified by law enforcement (whatever “certified” meant) appeared to be fully covered—up to and including a ransom sum of five million dollars.
The number swam around lazily in her head: five million dollars .
Third paragraph, page 4: Consumer Product Tampering . She swallowed dryly and glanced around the room to make sure she was still alone. Gooseflesh ran up her left side and across her chest and down into her stomach, which fluttered nervously.
A long definition, followed by more legalese. It seemed to say that all costs of advertising, development, distribution, promotion, production, and publicity to reintroduce any discontinued product line that was pulled as a direct result of internal or external criminal activity—“see above”—were to be paid in full up to and including the sum of eighty million dollars.
She gasped aloud and reread this number: eighty million dollars . Under Criminal Attack , Adler Foods was to be compensated in order to return its goods to the marketplace. It occurred to her how it might be possible to misuse this reimbursement in order to redesign,
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