TRASHED
It was a perfect plan. Undeniable. The bank was secure, clearly, but our girl Friday could get us everything we need: the account numbers, access codes, even the account PIN numbers. It was quite brilliant really.
There are obviously systems in place to ensure that something like thus could not happen, but for every solid plan, there is a loophole. Ours was the girl on the inside, and something as simple as garbage day.
Most secure documents go through the shredders. It makes sense, but a few hand written notes on paper? There's no risk there. Notes written in a specially devised shorthand makes it that much more innocent.
To an unknowing eye, it's just a series of ticks, tallies and random words; the toilings of a board teller. Into the trash and out the door.
We've tested it and it works. The scraps are swept onto the wheeled trash can, the bag inside is tied and knotted, and the whole bundle is dumped into the bins.
That's where we will collect it, retrieve the relevant sheets of paper, and break the bank.
Today is the day of; the scene of the crime. We have worked for months and this is our moment.
Except even the best of plans should have a Plan B and we were so confident in the solidity of our Plan A, we didn't waste our time. And that was our loophole.
All it rook was one trainee, one careless moment of uncertainty, and everything fell apart.
He was maybe sixteen, working at the buffet next to the bank. He was told to do the fryer oil. Instead of clarifying where, and learning that the barrels were specifically for that, he wheeled the tub out and dumped it into the trash bin.
One simple, stupid move and our whole plan turned to mush - a seeping greasy bundle of melted plastic and translucent paper.
Six months of meticulous, careful planning - trashed.
Now we need a Plan B, that safety net bail out. A Plan B really is the best plan, because even the best plan can be trashed through one minor misstep from an outside source.
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