Welcome to the conclusion of "Terminal Compromise." We guess if you're reading this, you've really got the bug, and you'd be really PO'd if somewhere in the middle of this file the data got trashed. Now that would be annoying. As far as we know, everything's just fine. Again, thank you for supporting NOVEL-ON-THE-NET Shareware and pass on how much you loved "Terminal Compromise." INTER.PACT Press 11511 Pine St. Seminole, FL 34642 All contents are (C) 1991, 1992, 1993 Inter.Pact **************************************************************** Chapter 22 Friday, January 8 Washington, D.C. It seemed that everyone in the world wanted to speak to Scott at once. The FBI spent an hour asking him inane questions. "Why did you help him?" "Do you know Troubleaux?" "Why were you at the hearings?" "Why didn't you sit with the rest of the press?" "Where's your camera?" "Can we read your notes?" Scott was cooperative, but he had his limits. "You're the one who's been writing those computer stories, aren't you?" "What's in this for you?" Scott excused himself, not so politely. If you want me for any- thing else, please contact the paper, he told the FBI agents who had learned nothing from anyone else either. He escaped from other reporters who wanted his reporter's in- sight, thus learning what it was like to be hounded relentlessly by the press. Damned pain in the ass, he thought, and damn stupid questions. "How did you feel . . .?" "Were you scared . . .?" "Why did you . . .?" The exhausted Scott found the only available solace in a third floor men's room stall where he wrote a piece for the paper on his GRiD laptop computer. Nearly falling asleep on the toilet seat, he temporarily refreshed himself with ice cold water from the tap and changed from his bloodsoaked clothes into fresh jeans and a pullover from his hanging bag that still burdoned him. One reporter from the Washington Post thought himself lucky to have found Scott in the men's room, but when Scott finished bombasting him with his own verbal assault, the shell shocked reporter left well enough alone. After the Capital police were through questioning Scott, he wanted to make a swift exit to the airport and get home. They didn't detain him very long, realizing Scott would always be available. Especially since this was news. His pocket shuttle schedule showed there was a 6:30 flight to Westchester Airport; he could then grab a limo home and be in bed by ten, that is if the exhaustion didn't take over somewhere along the way. Three days in Europe on next to no sleep. Rush back to public Senate hearings that no one has ever heard about. Television cameras appear, no one admits to calling the press, and then, Pierre. He needed time to think, alone. Away from the conflict- ing influences that were tearing at him. On one hand his paper expected him to report and investigate the news. On another, Tyrone wanted help on his investigation be- cause official Washington had turned their backs on him. And Spook. Spook. Why is that so familiar? Then he had to be honest with his own feelings. What about this story had so captivated him that he had let many of his other assignments go by the wayside? Doug was pleased with Scott's progress, and after today, well, what editor wouldn't be pleased to have a potential star writer on the National news. But Scott was drowning in the story. There were too many pieces, from every conceivable direction, with none too many of them fitting neatly together. He thought of the ever determined Hurcule Poirot, Agatha Christie's detec- tive, recalling that the answers to a puzzle came infinitely easier to the fictional sleuth than to him. Scott called into Doug. "Are you all right?" Doug asked with concern but didn't wait for an answer. "I got your message. Next time call me at home. I thought you were going to be in Europe till Wednesday." "Hold your horses," Scott said with agitation. Doug shut up and listened to the distraught Scott. "I have the story all written for you. Both of them are going into surgery and the Arab is in pretty bad shape. The committee made itself scarce real fast and there's no one else to talk to. I've had to make a career out of avoiding reporters. Seems like I'm the only one left with noth- ing to say." Doug heard the exhaustion in Scott's voice. "Listen," Doug said with a supportive tone. "You've been doing a bang up job, but I'm sending Ben down there to cover the assassi- nation attempt. I want you to go to bed for 24 hours and that's an order. I don't want to hear from you till Monday." Scott gratefully acknowledged Doug's edict, and might have sug- gested it himself if it weren't for his dedication to the story he had spent months on already. "O.K.," Scott agreed. "I guess not much will happen . . ." "That's right. I want you fresh anyway," Doug said with vigor. "If anything major comes up, I'll see that we call you. Fair enough?" Scott checked his watch as his cab got caught up in the slow late afternoon rush hour traffic on the George Washington Parkway. If he missed this flight, he thought, there was another one in an hour. The pandemonium of Friday afternoon National Airport had become legendary. Despite extensive new construction, express services and modernized terminals, the airport designers in their infinite wisdom had neglected in any way to improve the flow of automobile traffic in and out of the airport. As they approached, Scott could see the American terminal several hundred yards away from his cab. They were stuck behind an interminable line of other taxis, limousines, cars and mini- busses that had been stacking for ten minutes. Scott decided to hike the last few yards and he paid the driver who tried to talk him into remaining till the ride was over. Scott weaved through the standstill traffic jam until he saw the problem. So typical. A stretch Mercedes 560, was blocking the only two lanes that were passable. Worse yet, there was no one in the car. No driver, no passengers. Several airport police were discussing their options when a tall, slender black man, dressed in an impeccably tailored brown suit came rushing from the terminal doors. "Diplomatic immunity!" He called out with a thick, overbearing Cambridge accent. The startled policemen saw the man push several people to the side, almost knocking one elderly woman to the ground. Scott reached the Mercedes and stayed to watch the upcoming encounter "I said, Diplomatic immunity," he said authoritatively. "Put your tickets away." "Sir, are you aware that your car has been blocking other cars from . . ." "Take it up with the Embassy," the man said as he roughly opened the driver's door. "This car belongs to the Ambassador and he is immune from your laws." He shut the door, revved the engine and pulled out squealing his tires. Several pedestrians had to be fleet of foot to miss being sideswiped. "Fucking camel jockeys," said one younger policeman. "He's from equatorial Africa, Einstein," said another. "It's all the same to me. Foreigners telling us how to live our lives," the third policeman said angrily. "You know, I can get 10 days for spitting on the ground, but these assholes can commit murder and be sent home a hero. It's a fucking crime," the younger one agreed. "O.K., guys, leave the politics to the thieves on Capital Hill. Let's get this traffic moving," the senior policeman said as they started the process of untangling airport gridlock. Another day in the nation's capital, Scott thought. A melting pot that echoed the days of Ellis Island. Scott carried his briefcase, laptop computer and garment bag through the crowded terminal and made a left to the men's room next to the new blue neon bar. Drinks were poured especially fast in the National Airport Bar. Fliers were traveling on such tight schedules that they had to run to the bar, grab two quick ones and dash to the gate. The new security regulations placed additional premiums on drinking time. The bar accommodated their hurried needs well. Scott put down his baggage next to the luggage pile and stole a bar seat from a patron rushing off to catch his flight. One helluva chaotic day. He ordered a beer, and sucked down half of it at once. The thirst quenching was a superior experience. Brain dulling would take a little longer. The clamorous rumble of the crowd and the television blaring from behind the bar further anesthetized Scott's racing mind. He finally found himself engrossed in the television, blissfully ignorant of all going on around him. Scott became so absorbed in the local news that he didn't notice the striking blonde sit next to him. She ordered a white wine and made herself comfortable on the oversized stool. Scott turned to the bartender and asked for another beer during the commercial. It was then he noticed the gorgeous woman next to him and her golden shoulder length hair. Lightly tanned skin with delicate crow's feet at the edges of her penetrating blue eyes gave no indication of her age. An old twenty to a remarka- ble forty five. Stunning, he thought. Absolutely stunning. He shook the thought off and returned his attention to the televi- sion. He heard the announcer from Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate. "Topping tonight's stories, Shooting at Senate Hearing." The picture changed from the anchorman to a live feed from outside the New Senate Office Building, where Scott had just been. "Bringing it to us live is Shauna Miller. Shauna?" "Thank you Bill," she said looking straight into the camera holding the microphone close to her chin. Behind her was a bevy of police and emergency vehicles and their personnel in a flurry of activity. "As we first reported an hour ago, Pierre Troubleaux, President of dGraph, one of the nation's leading software companies, was critically injured while giving testimony to the Privacy and Technology Containment subcommittee. At 3:15 Eastern Time, an unidentified assailant, using a 9mm Barretta, shot Mr. Troubleaux four times, from the visitor's balcony which overlooks the hear- ing room. Mr. Troubleaux was answering questions about . . . " Scott's mind wandered back to the events of a few hours ago. He still had no idea why he did it. The television replayed the portion of the video tape where Pierre was testifying. While he spoke, the shots rang out and the camera image suddenly blurred in search of the source of the sound. Briefly the gunman is seen and then the picture swings back to Pierre being pushed out of his chair by a man in a blue sports jacket and white shirt. As two more gun shots ring out the figure covers Pierre. Two more shots and the camera finally settles on Pierre Troubleaux bleed- ing profusely from the head, his eyes open and glazed. Scott shuddered at the broadcast. It captured the essence of the moment, and the terror that he and the hundreds of others at the hearing had experienced. Shauna Miller reappeared. "And we have here the man who dove to Mr. Troubleaux's rescue when the shooting began." The camera angle pulled back and showed Scott standing next to the newswoman. "This is Scott Mason, a reporter from the New York City Times who is attending the hearings on behalf of his paper. Scott," she turned away from the camera to speak directly to Scott. "How does it feel being the news instead of reporting it?" She stuck the microphone into his face. "Uh," Scott stammered. What an assinine question, he thought. "It does give me a different perspective," he said, his voice hollow. "Yes, I would think so," Shauna added. "Can you tell us what happened?" More brilliance in broadcast journalism. "Sure, be happy to." Scott smiled at the camera. "One of the country's finest soft- ware executives just had part of his head blown off so his brains could leak on my coat and the scumbag that shot him took a sayo- nara swan dive that broke every bone in his body. How's that?" He said devilishly. "Uh," Shauna hesitated. "Very graphic." This isn't Geraldo she thought, just the local news. "Do you have anything to add?" "Yeah? I got to get some sleep." The camera zoomed into a closeup of Shauna Miller. "Thank you, Mr. Mason." She brightened up. "Mr. Troubleaux and the alleged gunman have been taken to Walter Reed Medical Center where they are undergoing surgery. Both are listed in critical condition and Mr. Troubleaux is still in a coma." Shauna droned on for another 30 seconds with filler nonsense. How did she ever get on the air, Scott thought. And, why does she remain? "That was you." Scott started at the female voice. He turned to the left and only saw salesmen and male lobbyists drinking heartily. He pivoted in the other direction and came face to face with Sonja Lindstrom. "Sorry?" "That was you," she said widening her smile to expose a perfect Crest ad. An electric tingle ran up Scott's legs and through his torso. The pit of his stomach felt suddenly empty. He gulped silently and his face reddened. "What was me?" She pointed at the television. "That was you at the hearing today, where Troubleaux got shot." "Yeah, 'fraid so," he said. "The camera treats you well. I was at the hearing, too, but I just figured out who you were." Her earnest compliment came as a surprise to Scott. He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. "Who I am?" He questioned. "Oh, sorry," she extended her hand to Scott. "I'm Sonja Lind- strom. I gather you're Scott Mason." He gently took her hand and a rush of electricity rippled up his arm till the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "Guilty as charged," he responded. He pointed his thumb at the television. "Great interview, huh?" "She epitomizes the stereotype of the dumb blond." Sonja turned her head slightly. "I hope you're not prejudiced?" "Prejudiced? She picked up her wine glass and sipped gingerly. "Against blondes." "No, no. I was married to one," he admitted. "But, I won't hold that against you." Scott wasn't aggressive with women and his remark surprised even him. Sonja laughed appreciatively. "It must have been rough," Sonja said empathetically. "I mean the blood and all." "Not exactly my cup of tea. I don't do the morgue shift." Scott shuddered. "I'll stick to computers, not nearly so adventurous." "And hacker bashing." she said firmly. She took another sip of wine. "How would you know that?" Scott asked. She turned and smiled at Scott. "You're famous. You're known as the Hacker Smacker by quite a few in the computer field. Not everyone appreciates what you have to say." Sonja, ever so politely, challenged Scott. "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," he smirked. "That's the spirit," she encouraged. "Not that I agree with everything you have to say." "I assume you have read my drivel upon occasion." "Upon occasion, yes," she said with a coy sweetness. "So, since you know so much about me, I stand at a clear disad- vantage. I only know you as Sonja." "You're right. That's not fair at all." She straightened her- self on the bar stool. "Sonja Lindstrom, dual citizenship U.S. and Denmark. Born May 11, 1964, Copenhagen. Moved here when I was two. Studied political science at George Washington, minored in sociology. Currently a public relations consultant to comput- er jocks. I live in D.C. but I'm rarely here." "Lucky for me," Scott ventured. Sonja didn't answer him as she slowly drained the bottom of her wine glass. She glanced slyly at him, or was that his imagina- tion? "Can a girl buy a guy a drink?" The clock said there was fifteen minutes before Scott's flight took off. No contest. "I'd be honored," Scott said as he nodded his head in gratitude. Sonja Lindstrom bought the next two rounds and they talked. No serious talk, just carefree, sometimes meaningless banter that made them laugh and relish the moment. Scott didn't know he had missed his second flight until it was time for the 8:15 plane to LaGuardia. It had been entirely too long. Longer than he cared to remember since he had relaxed, disarmed himself near a woman. There was an inherent distrust, fear of betrayal, that Scott had not released, until now. "So, about your wife," she asked after a lull in their conversa- tion. "My wife?" Scott shrank back. "Humor me," she said. "Nothing against her, it just didn't work out." "What happened?" Sonja pursued. "She was an artist, a sculptor. And if I say so myself, an awful one. A three year old could do as well with stale Play-Dough." "You're a critic, too?" Sonja bemused. "Only of her art. She got into the social scene in New York, gallery openings, the she-she sect. You know what I mean?" Sonja nodded. "So, when I decided to make a career shift, well, she wasn't in complete agreement with me. Even though in 8 years she had never sold one single piece of art, she was convinced, by her socialite pals, that her work was extraordinarily original and would become, without any doubt, the next Pet Rock of the elite." "So?" "So, she gets the bug to go to the Coast and make her mark. I think some of her Park Avenue pals went to Beverly Hills and wanted her to come out to be their entertainment. She expected me to follow her hallucinations, but I just couldn't play that part. She's a little left of the Milky Way for me." "How long has it been?" Sonja asked with warmth. "Three years now." "So, what have these years been like?" "Oh, fine," he said. Sonja gave him a disbelieving dirty look. "O.K., kinda lonely. I'm not complaining, mind you, but when she was there, no matter how inane our conversations were, not matter how far out in the stratosphere her mind was, at least she was someone to talk to, someone to come home to. She's a sweet girl, I loved her, but she had needs that . . .well. It wasn't all bad, we had a great few years. I just couldn't let her madness, harmless though it was, run my life. We're still friends, we talk fairly often. I hope she becomes the next Dali." "That's very gracious of you," Sonja said sincerely. "Not really. I really feel that way. It's her life, and, she never wanted or tried to hurt me. She was just following her star." "Has she sold any of her art?" Sonja asked. "It's on perpetual display, she says," Scott said. "Why don't you buy one? To make her feel good?" "Ha! She feels fine. Beverly Hills is not the worst place in the world to be accepted." He lost himself in thought for a moment. "I think it has worked out for both of us." "Except, you're lonely," she came back. "I got into my work. A career shift at my age, you know, I had a lot to learn. So, I've really put myself into the job, and I've been getting a lot out of it." He stared at the gorgeous woman to whom he had been telling his personal feelings. "But, yes, I do miss the companionship," he hinted. The clock over the bar announced it was quarter to ten. "Hey." Scott turned to face Sonja squarely. "I gotta go, you don't know how much I don't want to, but I gotta." He spoke with a pained sincerity. "No you don't," she said exuberantly. "Huh?" Sonja's entire face glowed . "Have you ever done anything crazy?" "Sure, of course," Scott nonchalantly said. "No, I mean really crazy. Totally off the wall. Spontaneous." She grabbed Scott's shoulders. "Haven't you ever wanted to go off the deep end and not care what anybody thinks?" Scott felt himself getting captured by her exuberance. This absolutely stunning blonde bombshell exuded enough sexual enthusiasm for the entire NFL, and yet, he was playing it cool. He wondered why. "I was a real hell raiser as a kid . . ." "Listen, Scott." Her demeanor turned serious. "Are you willing to do something outrageous right now? And go through with it?" Here was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen asking him to make a borderline insane promise. Her painted lips broke into a lush smile. Ten minutes to the last flight. "I'm game. What is it?" Scott played along. He could always say no. Right? "Wait here a minute." Sonja grabbed her purse and dashed out of the bar. Scott's eyes followed her in stunned amazement. Scott finished his beer and the clock indicated that the last flight to New York had left. He wondered what was keeping Sonja so long, and then she suddenly whisked back into the bar. "C'mon, we have to hurry." Sonja shuffled papers in and out of her purse. She threw enough money on the bar to cover their drinks. Scott scooted off of his bar stool laughing. "Hurry? Where're we going?" "Shhhh, get your bags," Sonja said urgently. "You do have a passport don't you?" She asked with concern. "I just came from Europe, yeah." His bewilderment was clear while he retrieved his luggage. "Good. Follow me." Sonja dashed through the terminal to the security check with Scott struggling to keep up. The view of her exquisite figure was noticed by more than just Scott, but she left him little time to relish the view. She tossed her purse on the conveyor belt as a dazed Scott struggled with his own two bags. She darted from the security station leaving Mason to reorganize himself. His ability to run was encumbered by his luggage so he watched care- fully to see into which gate she was headed. Gate, gate? Where am I going? And why? He would have laughed if he wasn't out of breath from wind sprinting through the airport. He followed Sonja into Gate 3. She handed a couple of tickets to the attendant. "We're the last ones, hurry up, Mason," Sonja giggled. "Where are we going . . .where did the tickets . . .how are you?" Scott stumbled through his thoughts. "Just get on the plane. We'll talk." She held out her hand, beckoning him seductively. The attractive flight attendant stared at Scott. His hesitancy was holding up the flight. He looked at Sonja. "This is insane," he said quietly. "So it is." "Where? I mean where is this plane headed?" "Jamaica," she beamed. "Oh, Sonja, come on, this isn't real." Why the hell was he trying to talk himself out of a fantasy in the making. "I'm getting on. I need a weekend to cool out, and I know you do. After what happened." Sonja took the separated boarding pass and looked back once before she left. Scott stood still. He stared as Sonja disappeared down the tunnel to the plane. The flight attendant appeared quite annoyed. "Well, are you or aren't you?" Scott reasoned that if he reasoned out the pros and the cons the plane would be gone regardless of his decision. "Fuck it," he said and he walked briskly down the ramp. He entered the Airbus behind the cockpit and turned right to find Sonja. It didn't take long. She was the only person sitting in first class. "Fancy running into you here," she said waving from the plush leather seat. "Quite," he said in his well practiced West London accent. "Dare I guess how long it's been?" He placed his bags in the empty first class storage compartment. "Too long. Much too long. You had me worried," Sonja said melo- dramatically. "I still have me worried." "I thought you might chicken out," she said. "I still might." The three hour flight was replete with champagne, brie and simi- lar delicacies. They munched and sipped to their heart's con- tent. One flight attendant, two passengers. Light talk, innocu- ous flirtations, not so innocuous flirtations, more chatting - time passed, hours disguised as seconds. Half Moon Bay is a one hour cab ride from the airport and, true to Jamaican hospitality, the hotel staff expected them. They were led to two adjoining rooms after being served the obligatory white rum punch with a yellow umbrella. It was nearly 3 AM. Scott was working on 60 hours with little or no sleep. "Scott?" Sonja asked as they prepared to go into their respective rooms. "Yes," he said. "Thank you." "For what?" "For tomorrow night." After four hours sleep, Sonja knocked on Scott's door. "Rise and shine! Beach time!" Scott swore to himself, looked at the clock on the night stand, and then swore again. Ugh! Scott forced himself out of bed and opened the door. The vision of Sonja Lindstrom in a bathing suit that used no more than 4 square inches of material was instantly arousing. Despite 39 plus years of morning aversions, Scott readied himself at breakneck speed, thinking that reality and fantasy were often inseparable. The question was, what was this? Was he really in the Caribbean? No!, he thought. This is real! Holy shit, this is real. I wasn't as drunk as I thought. Intoxi- cation takes many forms, and this appears to be a delicious wine. During breakfast she managed to talk him into going to the nude beach, about a half mile down Half Moon Bay. "God, you're uptight," she said as she shed her g-string on the isolated pristine coastline. She was a natural blond with a dancer's body where the legs and buttocks merge into one. "I am not!" He defended. "I bet you can't take them off. For personal reasons," she laughed out loud pointing at the baggy swim suit he borrowed from the resort. She lay down on her back, perfectly formed breasts pointing at the sky. Scott noticed only the faintest of tan lines several inches below her belly button. She patted the huge towel, inviting Scott to join her. There was room enough for three, "Well," he agreed. "It might prove embarrassing. I thought my intentions were honorable." "Bull. Neither are mine." She arched her back and patted the towel again. "Fuck it," he said laughingly as he dropped his bathing suit and dropped quickly, facedown next to Sonja. "Ouch!" He yelled louder than the hurt was worth. "I hate it when that happens," he said checking to make sure that the pieces were still intact. They spent the next two days exploring Half Moon Bay, the lush green hills behind the resort and each other. Scott forgot about work, forgot about the hackers, forgot about Tyrone. He never thought about Kirk, Spook, or any of the blackmail schemes he was so caught up in investigating. And, he forgot, at least tempo- rarily about the incident with Pierre. The world consisted of only two people, mutually radiating a glow flush with passion; retreating into each other so totally that no imaginable distrac- tion could disturb their urgings. They slept no more than an hour all Saturday night, "I told you I wanted to thank you for tomorrow night!" she said. They made it to the water's edge early Sunday morning. Scott's body was redder in some places than it had ever been, and Sonja's tan line all but disappeared. They both knew that the fantasy was going to be over in the morning, a 7:00 AM flight back to reality, but neither spoke of it. The Here and Now was the only reality that they wanted to face. "I'm impressed," Sonja said turning to face Scott on the beach towel. No matter in which direction she turned, her body stood tall and firm. "Impressed, with what?" Scott giggled. "I had two days to loosen you up before you went back to that big bad city. I'm ahead of schedule." "What schedule?" "Scott, we need to talk." Sonja reached over and touched Scott's shoulder. He couldn't take his eyes off of her magnificent nude figure. "Did you ever work on something, for a very long time; really get yourself involved, dedicated, and then find out in was all for the wrong reasons? That's how I feel now." * * * * * Saturday, January 10 It is not uncommon for the day employees at the CIA in Langley to arrive at their desks before 6:00 AM. Even on a Saturday. Today, Martin Templer arrived early to prepare for an update meeting with the director. Nothing special, just the weekly report. He found that he could get more done early in the morning. He enjoyed the time alone in his quiet office so he could complete the report without constant interruption. Not fifteen minutes into his report, his phone rang. Damn, he thought, it's starting already. "Yeah?" Templer said gruffly into the mouthpiece. "Martin?" "Yeah, who's this?" "Alex." Templer had almost forgotten about their meeting. "Will small wonders never cease. Where have you been?" "Still in Europe. I've been looking for some answers as we dis- cussed." "Great! What have you got?" Templer grabbed a legal pad. "Nothing," Alex said with finality. "Nothing. Nobody knows of any such operation, not even a hint." Alex had mastered the art of lying twenty years ago. "But I'll tell you," he added, "I think that you may be on to something." "If there's nothing, how can there be something?" asked Martin Templer. This was Alex's opportunity to throw the CIA further off the track. Since he and Martin were friends, as much as is possible in this line of work, Alex counted on being believed, at least for a while. "Everybody denies any activity and that in itself is unusual. Even if nothing is happening, enough of the snitches on the street will claim to be involved to bolster their own credibility. However, my friend, I doubt a handful even know about your radiation, but it has gotten a lot of people thinking. I get the feeling that if they didn't know about your problems, they will soon enough. I wish I could be of further help, but it was all dead ends." "I understand. It happens; besides it was a long shot," Martin sighed. "Do me a favor, and keep your eyes and ears open." "I will, and this one is on the house," said Alex. After he hung up something struck Martin as terribly wrong. In twenty years Alex had never, ever, done anything for free. Being a true mercenary, it wasn't in his character to offer assistance to anyone without sufficient motivation, and that meant money. Martin noted the event, and reminded himself to include that in his report to the Director. * * * * * The television coverage of the Senate hearings left Taki Homosoto with radically different emotions. He had to deal with them both immediately. DIALING . . . <<<<<>>>>> I AM NOT PLEASED. Ahmed Shah heard his communications computer beep at him. He pushed the joystick control on his wheelchair and steered over to read Homosoto's message. Greetings THAT WAS A MOST SLOPPY JOB. Some things cannot be helped. WHY IS HE NOT DEAD? It was a difficult hit. IS THAT WHAT YOU TELL ARAFAT WHEN YOU MISS? I do not work for Arafat. YOUR MAN IS ALIVE TOO. Yes, fortunately. NO, THAT IS UNFORTUNATE. ELIMINATE HIM. AND MAKE SURE THAT TROUBLEAUX IS TAKEN CARE OF. HE MUST NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE. He is in a coma. PEOPLE WAKE UP. I DO NOT WANT HIM TO WAKE UP. It will be done. I promise you. I DO NOT WANT PROMISES. I WANT THEM BOTH DEAD. TROUBLEAUX MUST NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK TO ANYONE. IS THAT CLEAR? Yes, it will be done. FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE SO. I DO NOT TOLERATE SLOPPINESS. <<<<<>>>>> Homosoto dialed his computer again, to a number inside Germany. The encryption and privacy keys were automatically set before Alex Spiradon's computer answered. To Homosoto's surprise, Alex was there. MR ALEX. Yes. CONGRATULATIONS. RICKFIELD IS BEING MOST COOPERATIVE. He has many reasons to. MILLIONS OF REASONS. We merely gave him the incentive to cooperate. I do not expect that he will maintain his position for very long. YOUR HANDLING OF HIM HAS BEEN EXCELLENT. I HAVE NOT SEEN A U.S. NEWSPAPER. HOW DO THEY REACT TO HIS COMMITTEE? He took a small beating from a couple of papers, but nothing damaging. It's the way Washington works. WHO IS SENATOR DEERE? SHE COULD PRESENT A PROBLEM. I don't think so. Between her and Rickfield, the sum total will be a big zero. There will be confusion and dissension. I think it works in our favor. I WILL FOLLOW THE PROGRESS WITH INTEREST. WHEN ARE THE HEARINGS TO CONTINUE? Next week. One other thing. You asked that I get to Scott. Consider it done. You found a most attractive weakness and he succumbed instantly. But, I should say, I don't think it was necessary. He is doing fine on his own. I THINK IT IS NECESSARY. IT IS DONE? We have a conduit. KEEP THE PIPELINE FULL. <<<<<>>>>> * * * * * Sunday, January 10 New York City Times What's wrong with Ford? by Scott Mason Ford is facing the worst public relations disaster for an automo- bile manufacturer since the Audi acceleration problem made inter- national news. Last month in Los Angeles alone, over 1200 Ford Taurus and Mer- cury Sable cars experienced a total breakdown of the electrical system. Radios as well as anti-skid braking controls and all other computer controlled functions in the automobiles ceased working. To date, no deaths have been attributed to the car's epidemic failures. Due to the notoriety and questions regarding the safety of the cars, sales of Taurus's have plummeted by almost 80%. Unlike the similar Audi situation where the alleged problem was found in only a few isolated cases, the Taurus failures have been wide- spread and catastrophically sudden. According to Ford, "There has never been a problem with the Taurus electronics' system. We are examining all possibilities in determining the real cause of the apparant failures." What else can Ford say? * * * * * Chrysler Struck by Ford Failures by Scott Mason Chrysler cars and mini-vans have been experiencing sudden elec- trical malfunctions . . . * * * * * Mercedes Electrical Systems Follow Ford by Scott Mason Mercedes owners have already organized a legal entity to force the manufacturer to find answers as to why so many Mercedes are having sudden electrical failures. Following in the footsteps of Ford and Chrysler, this is the first time that Mercedes has not issued an immediate 'Fix' to its dealer. Three deaths were reported when . . . * * * * * Sunday January 10 National Security Agency "What do you make of this Mason piece?" "I'd like to know where the hell he gets his information," said the aide. "That's what I make of it." "Someone's obviously leaking it to him," Marvin Jacobs, Director of the National Security Agency, said to his senior aid. "Some- one with access to a great deal of sensitive data." The disdain in his voice was unmistakable. Even though it was Sunday, it was not unusual for him to be at his office. His more private endeavors could be more discreetly pursued. A three decade career at the Agency had culminated in his appointment to the Directorship, a position he had eyed for years. "We have specialists who use HERF technology," the aide said. "It's more or less a highly focused computer-gun. An RF field on the order of 200 volts per meter is sufficient to destroy most electrical circuits. Literally blow them up from the inside out." "Spare me the details." "Sir, we can stop a car from a thousand yards by pointing elec- tricity at it." "I don't really care about the details." "You should, sir. There's a point to this . . ." "Well, get on with it." Jacobs was clearly annoyed. "Unlike the EMP-T technology which is very expensive and on the absolute edge of our capabilities . . ." "And someone elses . . ." "Granted," the aide said, sounding irritated with the constant interruptions. "But HERF can be generated cheaply by anyone with an elementary knowledge of electronics. The government even sells surplus radio equipment that will do the job quite nicely." Jacobs smiled briefly. "You look pleased," the aide said with surprise. Jacobs hid his pleasure behind a more serious countenance. "Oh, no, it's just the irony of it all. We've been warning them for years and now it's happening." "Who, sir?" "Never mind," Jacobs said, dismissing the thought momentarily. "Go on." Jacobs arrogantly leaned back in his executive chair, closed his eyes and folded his hands over his barrel chest. This was his way of telling subordinates to talk, spill their guts. "The real worry about cheap HERF is what it can do in the wrong hands." The aide obliged the ritual. "One transmitter and antenna in a small truck can wipe out every computer on main street during a leisurely drive. Cash registers, electric type- writers, alarms, phones, traffic lights . . .anything electronic a HERF is pointed at, Poof! Good as dead. What if someone used a HERF gun at an airport, pointing up? Or at the tower? From up to a distance of over a kilometer, too. Ten kilometers with better equipment." "So it works," muttered Jacobs so softly under his breath his aide didn't hear. "It's reminiscent of drive-by shootings by organized crime. In this case, though, the target is slightly different." "I see." Jacobs kept his eyes closed as the aide patiently waited for his boss to say something or allow him to return to his family. "I gather we use similar tools ourselves?" "Yessir. Very popular technique. Better kept quiet." "Not any more. Not any more." **************************************************************** Chapter 23 Monday, January 11 Washington, D.C. I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day began. "What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre- coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from the silver service. "What is it?" "Computers." The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a hundred beads on rods?" Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir, we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously. "In English, Phil," insisted the President. "MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET." The President sighed. "Damage report?" "About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but that's not the embarrassing part." "If that's not, then what is?" "The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over 100,000 records erased. Gone." "And?" The President said wearily. "The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to. "It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion in revenues." "Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough. The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically. "Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press. We need plausible deniability . . ." "Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I will personally behead the offender," the President said with intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade meant what he said. "Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows about this?" "Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this completely out of the public eye." "Isolate them." "Sir?" "You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge." "Yessir." "Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on." * * * * * Monday, January 11 Approaching New York City Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash. While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going on next to no rest. While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak- ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture - where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced. Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not out and out weird. In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc- esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly valued these spontaneous meditations. Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili- ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili- ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster- dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re- lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en- tered an extraordinary bliss. The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he remembered it. Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the way to Scarsdale, but lacking the good sense God gave him, he checked the messages on his phone machine. Doug called to find out if Scott still worked for the paper and Ty called requesting, almost pleading, that Scott call as soon as he got back. He had to see him, post haste. The call to Doug was simple. Yes, I'm back. The hackers are real. They are a threat. Pierre is still alive, I have more material than we can use. I did take notes, and my butt is sun- burned. If there's nothing else, I'm dead on my feet and I will see you in the morning. Click. Now he wanted to talk to Tyrone as much as it sounded like Ty wanted to speak to him. Where was he? Probably at the office. He dialed quickly. Tyrone answered with equal speed. "Are you back?" Ty asked excitedly. "Yeah, just got in. I need to talk to you . . ." "Not as much as we do, buddy. Where are you now?" "Home. Why?" "I'll see you in an hour. Wait there." The FBI man was in control. Where the hell else am I going to go, Scott thought. Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he collapsed. Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by Scott's wide fireplace. "Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott. "I think you may be right," said Tyrone. "Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused look on his face. "No I mean about what you said." "I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy." Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane of many a reporter. "I said I think you were right. And are right." "What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused then ever. "Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking." "Of course we were talking." Scott recognized the humor in the conversation. "No! I mean we were . . .shit. Shut up and listen or I'll arrest you!" "On what charge?" "CRS." "CRS?" "Yeah, Can't Remember Shit. Shut up!" Scott leaned back in his chair sipping away. He had gotten to Ty. Hooked him, reeled him in and watched him flop on the deck. It pissed Ty off to no end to allow himself to be suckered into Scott's occasional inanity. "When this whole blackmail thing started up there was no apparent motivation," Tyrone began. "One day you said that the motivation might be a disruption of normal police and FBI operations. I think you might be right. It's looking more and more that the blackmail stuff was a diversion." "What makes you think so now?" Scott asked. "We had a ton of cases in the last few weeks, same victims as before, who were being called again, but this time with demands. They were being asked to cough up a lot of cash in a short time, and stash it in a very public place. We had dozens of stakeouts, watching the drop points for a pick up. It read like the little bastards were finally getting greedy. You know what I mean?" Scott nodded in agreement, thinking, where is this going? "So we had a couple hundred agents tied up waiting for the bad guys to show up. And you know what? No one showed. No one, damn it. There must have been fifty million in cash sitting in bus terminals, train stations, health clubs, you name it, and no one comes to get any of it? There's something wrong with that picture." "And you think it's a cover? Right?" Scott grinned wide. "For what?" Ty shrank back in mild sublimation. "Well," he began, "that is one small piece of the puzzle I haven't filled in yet. But, I thought you might be able to help with that." Tyrone Duncan's eyes met Scott's and said, I am asking as a friend as well as an agent. Come on, we both win on this one. "Stop begging, Ty. It doesn't befit a member of the President's police force," Scott teased. "Of course I was going to tell you. You're gonna read about it soon enough, and I know," he said half-seriously, "you won't screw me again." Ouch, thought Tyrone. Why not pour in the salt while you're at it. "I wouldn't worry. No one thinks there's a problem. I keep shouting and being ignored. It's infinitely more prudent in the government to fuck-up by non-action than by taking a position and acting upon it. I'm on a solo." "Good enough," Scott assured Ty. "'Nother beer?" It felt good. They were back - friends again. "Yeah, It's six o'clock somewhere," Tyrone sighed. "So what's your news?" "You know I went over to this Hacker's Conference . . ." "In Amsterdam." added Tyrone. "Right, and I saw some toys that you can't believe," Scott said intently. "The term Hacker should be replaced with Dr. Hacker. These guys are incredible. To them there is no such thing as a locked door. They can get into and screw around with any comput- er they want." "Nothing new there," said Ty. "Bullshit. They're organized. These characters make up an entire underground society, that admittedly has few rules, but it's the most coherent bunch of anarchists I ever saw." "What of it?" "Remember that van, the one that blew up and." "How can I forget." "And then my Tempest article." "Yeah. I know, I'm sorry," Tyrone said sincerely. "Fuck it. It's over. Wasn't your fault. Anyway, I saw the equipment in actual use. I saw them read computers with anten- nas. It was absolutely incredible. It's not bullshit. It really works." Scott spoke excitedly. "You say it's Tempest?" "No, anti-Tempest. These guys have got it down. Regardless, the stuff works." "So what? It works." "So, let's say, if the hackers use these computer monitors to find out all sorts of dirt on companies," Scott slowly explained as he organized his thoughts. "Then they issue demands and cause all sorts of havoc and paranoia. They ask for money. Then they don't come to collect it. So what have they achieved?" Scott asked rhetorically. "They tied up one shit load of a lot of police time, I'll tell you that." "Exactly. Why?" "Diversion. That's where we started," Ty said. "But who is the diversion for?" The light bulb went off in Tyrone's head. "The hackers!" "Right," agreed Scott. "They're the ones who are going to do whatever it is that the diversion is covering. Did that make sense?" "No," laughed Ty, "but I got it. Why would the hackers have to be covering for themselves. Couldn't they be working for someone else?" "I doubt it. This is one independent bunch of characters," Scott affirmed. "Besides, there's more. What happened in D.C. . . ." "Troubleaux," interrupted Ty. "Bingo. And there's something else, too." "What?" "I've been hearing about a computer system called the Freedom League. Nothing specific, just that everything about it sounds too good to be true." "It usually is." "And one other thing. If there is some sort of hacker plot, I think I know someone who's involved." "Did he admit anything?" "No, nothing. But, well, we'll see." Scott hesitated and stut- tered. "Troubleaux, he said something to me." "Excuse me?" Ty said with disbelief. "I thought his brains were leaking out." "Thanks for reminding me; I had to buy a new wardrobe." "And a tan? Where've you been?" "With, well," Scott blushed, "that's another story." "O.K., Romeo, how did he talk? What did he say?" Ty asked doubtfully. "He told me that dGraph was sick." "Who's dGraph?" "dGraph," laughed Scott, "is how your secretary keeps your life organized. It's the most popular piece of software in the world. Troubleaux founded the company. And I think I know what he meant." "He's a nerdy whiz kid, huh?" joked Tyrone "Just the opposite. Mongo sex appeal to the ladies. No, his partner was the . " Scott stopped mid sentence. "Hey, I just remembered something. Troubleaux had a partner, he founded the company with him. A couple of days before they went public, his partner died. Shook up the industry. Shortly thereafter Data Tech bought them." "And you think there's a connection?" "Maybe, ah...I can't remember exactly," Scott said. "Hey, you can find out." "How?" "Your computers." "They're at the office." Scott pointed to his computer and Tyrone shook his head violent- ly. "I don't know how to. " "Ty," Scott said calmly. "Call your secretary. Ask her for the number and your passwords." Scott persuaded Ty to be humble and dial his office. He was actually able to guide Ty through the process of accessing one of the largest collections of informa- tion in the world. "How did you know we could do that?" Ty asked after they logged into the FBI computer from Scott's study. "Good guess. I figured you guys couldn't function without remote access. Lucky." Tyrone scowled kiddingly at Scott. "You going over to the other side boy? You seem to know an awful lot." "That's how easy this stuff is. Anyone can do it. In fact I heard a story about octogenarian hackers who work from their nursing homes. I guess it replaces sex." "Bullshit," Tyrone said pointing at his chest. "This is one dude who's knows the real thing. No placebos for me!" They both laughed. "You know how to take it from here?" asked Scott once a main menu appeared. "Yeah, let me at it. What the hell did you want to know anyway?" "I imagine you have a file on dGraph, somewhere inside the over 400,000,000 active files maintained at the FBI." "I'm beginning to worry about you. That's classified . . ." "It's all in the company you keep," Scott chided. "Just ask it for dGraph." Tyrone selected an Inquiry Data Base and asked the computer for what it knew about dGraph. In a few seconds, a sub- menu appeared entitled "dGraph, Inc.". Under the heading ap- peared several options: 1. Company History 2. Financial Records 3. Products and Services 4. Management 5. Stock Holders 6. Activities 7. Legal 8. Comments "Not bad!" chided Scott. "Got that on everyone?" Tyrone glared at Scott. "You shouldn't even know this exists. Hey, do me a favor, will ya? When I have to lie later, at least I want to be able to say you weren't staring over my shoulders. Dig?" "No problem," Scott said as he pounced on the couch in front of the desk. He knocked a few days of mail onto the floor to make room. "O.K., who founded the company?" "Founded 1984, Pierre Troubleaux and Max Jones . . ." "That's it!" exclaimed Scott. "Max Jones. Where?" "Cupertino, California." "What date did they go public?" Scott asked quickly. "Ah, August 6, 1987. Anything else massah?" Tyrone gibed. "Can you tie into the California Highway Patrol computers?" "What if I could?" "Well, if you could, I thought it would be interesting to take a look at the police reports. Because, as I remember, there was something funny about Max Jones," Scott said, and then added mockingly, "but that's only if you have access to the same infor- mation that anyone can get for $2. It's all public information anyway." "You know I'm not supposed to be doing this," Tyrone said as he pecked at the keyboard. "Bullshit. You do it all the time." "Not as a public service." The screen darkened and then an- nounced that Tyrone had been given access to the CHiP computers. "So suppose I could do that, I suppose you'd want a copy of it." "Only if the switch on the right side of the printer is turned ON and if the paper is straight. Otherwise, I just wouldn't bother." Scott stared at the ceiling while the dot matrix print- er sang a high pitched song as the head traveled back and forth. Tyrone scanned the print out coming from the computers in Cali- fornia. "You have one fuckuva memory. Sheee-it." Scott sat up quickly. "What, what does it say?" Scott pressured. "It appears that your friend Max Jones was killed in an automo- bile accident on Highway 275 at 12:30 AM." Ty stopped for a moment to read more. "He was found, dead, at the bottom of a ravine where his car landed after crashing through the barriers. Pretty high speed. And, the brake lines were cut." "Holy shit," Scott said rising from his chair. "Does two a pat- tern make?" "You mean Troubleaux and Max?" asked Tyrone. "Yeah, they'll do." "In my mind it would warrant further investigation." He made a mental note. "Anything else there?" Scott asked. "This is the kicker," Ty added. "The investigation lasted two days. Upstairs told the department to make it a quick and clean, open and shut case of accident." "I assume no one from dGraph had any reason to doubt what the police told them. It sounds perfectly rational." "Why should they if nobody kicked up a stink?" Ty said to him- self. "Hey," he said to Scott. "You think he was murdered, don't you?" "You bet your ass I do," Scott affirmed. "Think about it. The two founders of a company the size of dGraph, they're huge, one dead from a suspicious accident, and the other the target of an assassination and in deep shit in the hospital." "And it was the hackers, right?" laughed Tyrone. "Maybe," Scott said seriously. "Why not? It's all tying togeth- er." "There's no proof," Tyrone said. "No, and I don't need it yet. But I sense the connection. That's why I said there's a conspiracy." He used that word again. "And who is behind it and why? Pray tell?" Tyrone needled Scott. "Nothing's even happened, and you're already spouting conspiracy." "I need to do something. Two things." Scott spoke firmly but vacantly. "I need to talk to Kirk. I think there's something wrong with dGraph, and he can help." "And two?" "I'd like to know who I saw in Amsterdam." "Why?" Ty asked. "Because . . .because, he's got something to do with . . .what- ever it is. He as much as admitted it." "I think I can help with that one," offered Ty. "Huh?" Scott looked surprised. "How about we go into my office and see who this guy is?" Tyrone enjoyed the moment. One upping Scott. "Tomorrow." Scott decided that the fastest way to reach Kirk, he really needed Kirk, was to write a clue in an article. Scott dialed the paper's computer from his house and opened a file. He hadn't planned on writing today - God, how long have I been awake? This was the easiest way to contact Kirk now, but that was going to change. Tyrone left early enough for Scott to write a quick piece that would be sure to make an inside page, page 12 or 14. * * * * * Tuesday, January 12 The Computer As Weapon? by Scott Mason Since the dawn of civilization, Man has had the perverse ability to turn Good into Bad, White into Black, Hot into Cold, Life into Death. History bears out that technology is falling into the same trap. The bow and arrow, the gun; they were created to help man survive the elements and feed himself. Today millions of guns are bought with no purpose other than to hurt another human being. The space program was going to send man to the stars; instead we have Star Wars. The great advantages that technology has brought modern man have been continuously subverted for malevolent uses. What if the same is true for computers? Only yesterday, in order to spy on my neighbor, or my opponent, I would hire a private eye to perform the surveillance. And there was a constant danger of his being caught. Today? I'd hire me the best computer hacker I could get my hands on and sic him on the targets of my interest. Through their computers. For argument's sake, let's say I want advance information on companies so I can play the stock market. I have my hacker get inside the SEC computers, (he can get in from literally thousands of locations nationwide) and read up on the latest figures before they're reported to the public. Think of betting the whole wad on a race with only one horse. I would imagine, and I am no lawyer, that if I broke into the SEC offices and read through their file cabinets, I would be in a mighty poke of trouble. But catching me in their computer is an extraordinary exercise in resource frustration, and usually futile. For unlike the burglar, the computer criminal is never at the scene of the crime. He is ten or a hundred or a thousand miles away. Besides, the better computer criminals know the systems they attack so well, that they can cover their tracks completely; no one will ever know they were an uninvited guest. Isn't then the computer a tool, a weapon, of the computer crimi- nal? I can use my computer as a tool to pry open your computer, and then once inside I use it to perhaps destroy pieces of your computer or your information. I wonder then about other computer crimes, and I will include viruses in that category. Is the computer or the virus the weapon? Is the virus a special kind of computer bullet? The intent and the result is the same. I recall hearing an articulate man recently make the case that computers should be licensed, and that not everyone should be able to own one. He maintained that the use of a computer car- ried with it an inherent social responsibility. What if the technology that gives us the world's highest standard of living, convenience and luxury was used instead as a means of disruption; a technological civil disobedience if you will? What if politi- cal strength came from the corruption of an opponent's computer systems? Are we not dealing with a weapon as much as a gun is a weapon? my friend pleaded. Clearly the computer is Friend. And the computer, by itself is not bad, but recent events have clearly demonstrated that it can be used for sinister and illegal purposes. It is the use to which one puts the tool that determines its effectiveness for either good or bad. Any licensing of computers, information sys- tems, would be morally abhorrent - a veritable decimation of the Bill of Rights. But I must recognize that the history of indus- trialized society does not support my case. Automobiles were once not licensed. Do we want it any other way? I am sure many of you wish that drivers licenses were harder to come by. Radio transmitters have been licensed for most of this century and many a civil libertarian will make the case that because they are licensed, it is a restriction on my freedom of speech to require approval by the Government before broadcast. On the practical side, does it make sense for ten radio stations all trying to use the same frequency? Cellular phones are officially licensed as are CB's. Guns re- quire licenses in an increasing number of states. So it might appear logical to say that computers be licensed, to prevent whatever overcrowding calamity may unsuspectingly befall us. The company phone effectively licenses lines to you, with the added distinction of being able to record everything you do. Computers represent an obvious boon and a potential bane. When computers are turned against themselves, under the control of humans of course, or against the contents of the computer under attack, the results can ripple far and wide. I believe we are indeed fortunate that computers have not yet been turned against their creators by faction groups vying for power and attention. Thus far isolated events, caused by ego or accident have been the rule and large scale coordinated, well executed computer assaults non-existent. That, though, is certainly no guarantee that we will not have to face the Computer Terrorists tomorrow. This is Scott Mason searching the Galaxy at Warp 9. * * * * * Tuesday, January 12 Federal Square, New York Tyrone was required to come to the lobby of the FBI headquarters, sign Scott in and escort him through the building. Scott didn't arrive until almost eleven; he let himself sleep in, in the hopes of making up for lost sleep. He knew it didn't work that way, but twelve hours of dead rest had to do something. Tyrone explained as they took an elevator two levels beneath the street that they were going to work with a reconstructionist. A man with a very powerful computer will build up the face that Scott saw, piece by piece. They opened a door that was identi- fied by only a number and entered an almost sterile work place. A pair of Sun workstations with large high resolution monitors sat on large white tables by one wall, with a row of racks of floor to ceiling disk drives and tape units opposite. "Remember," Tyrone cautioned, "no names." "Right," said Scott. "No names." Tyrone introduced Scott to Vinnie who would be running the com- puter. Vinnie's first job was to familiarize Scott with the procedure. Tyrone told Vinnie to call him in his office when they had something;he had other matters to attend to in the meantime. Of obvious Italian descent, with a thick Brooklyn accent, Vinnie Misselli epitomized the local boy making good. His lantern jaw and classic Roman good looks were out of place among the blue suits and white shirts that typified the FBI. "All I need," Vinnie said, "is a brief description to get things started. Then, we'll fix it piece by piece." Scott loosely described the Spook. Dark hair, good looking, no noticeable marks and of course, the dimples. The face that Vinnie built was generic. No unique features, just a nose and the other parts that anatomically make up a face. Scott shook his head, no that's not even close. Vinnie seemed undaunted. "O.K., now, I am going to stretch the head, the overall shape and you tell me where to stop. All right?" Vinnie asked, beginning his manipulation before Scott answered. "Sure," said Scott. Vinnie rolled a large track ball built into the keyboard and the head on the screen slowly stretched in height and width. The changes didn't help Scott much he but asked Vinnie to stop at one point anyway. "Don't worry, we can change it later again. How about the eyes?" "Two," said Scott seriously. Vinnie gave Scott an ersatz dirty look. "Everyone does it," said Vinnie. "Once." He grinned at Scott. "The eye brows, they were bushier," said Scott. "Good. Tell me when." The eyebrows on the face twisted and turned as Vinnie moved the trackball with his right hand and clicked at the keyboard with his left. "That's close," Scott said. "Yeah, hold it." Vinnie froze the image where Scott indicated and they went on to the hair. "Longer, wavier, less of a part . . ." They worked for an hour, Vinnie at the computer controls and Scott changing every imaginable feature on the face as it evolved into one with character. Vinnie sat back in his chair and stretched. "How's that," he asked Scott. Scott hesitated. He felt that he was making too many changes. Maybe this was as close as it got. "It's good," he said without conviction. There was a slight resemblance. "That's what they all say," Vinnie said. "It's not even close yet." He laughed as Scott looked shocked. "All we've done so far is get the general outline. Now, we work on the details." For another two hours Scott commented on the subtle changes Vinnie made to the face. Nuances that one never thinks of; the curve of the cheek, the half dozen angles of the chin, the hun- dreds of ear lobes, eyes of a thousand shapes - they went through them all and the face took form. Scott saw the face take on the appearance of the Spook; more and more it became the familiar face he had spent hours with a few days ago. As he got caught up in the building and discovery process, Scott issued commands to Vinnie; thicken the upper lip, just a little. Higher forehead. He blurted out change after change and Vinnie executed every one. Actually, Vinnie preferred it this way, being given the orders. After all, he hadn't seen the face. "There! That's the Spook!" exclaimed Scott suddenly. "You sure?" asked Vinnie sitting back in the plush computer chair. "Yup," Scott said with assurance. "That's him." "O.K., let's see what we can do . . ." Vinnie rapidly typed at the keyboard and the picture of the face disappeared. The screen went blank for a few seconds until it was replaced with a 3 dimensional color model of a head. The back of the head turned and the visage of the Spook stared at them both. It was an eerie feeling and Scott shuddered as the disembodied head stopped spinning. "Take a look at this," Vinnie said as he continued typing. Scott watched the head, Spook's head, come alive. The lips were mov- ing, as though it, he, was trying to speak. "I can give it a voice if you'd like." "Will that help?" Scott asked. "Nah, not in this case," Vinnie said,"but it is fun. Let's make sure that we got the right guy here. We'll take a look at him from every angle." The head moved to the side for a left pro- file. "I'll make a couple of gross adjustments, and you tell me if it gets any better." They went through another hour of fine tuning the 3-D head, modifying skin tones, texture, hair style and a score of other subtleties. When they were done Scott remarked that the image looked more like the Spook than the Spook himself. Incredible. Scott was truly impressed. This is where taxpayer's money went. Vinnie called Tyrone and by the time he arrived, the color photo- graphs and digital maps of the images were ready. Scott followed Tyrone down one corridor, then another, through a common area, and down a couple more hallways. They entered Room 322B. The innocuous appearance of the door did not prepare Scott for what he saw; a huge computer room, at least a football field in length. Blue and tan and beige and a few black metal cabi- nets that housed hundreds of disparate yet co-existing computers. Consoles with great arrays of switches, row upon row of video and graphic displays as far as the eye could see. Thousands of white two by two foot square panel floors hid miles of wires and cables that interconnected the maze of computers in the under- ground control center. There appeared to be a number of discreet areas, where large computer consoles were centered amidst racks of tape or disk drives which served as the only separation be- tween workers. "This is Big Floyd," Tyrone said proudly. "Or at least one part of him." "Who or what is Big Floyd?" "Big Floyd is a huge national computer system, tied together over the Secure Automated Message Network. This is the most powerful computer facility outside of the NSA." Quiet conversations punctuated the hum of the disk drives and the clicks of solenoids switching and the printers pushing reams of paper. The muted voices could not be understood but they rang with purpose. The room had an almost reverent character to it; where speaking too loud would surely be considered blasphemous. Scott and Tyrone walked through banks and banks of equipment, more computer equipment than Scott had ever seen in one location. In fact the Federal Square computer center is on the pioneering edge of forensic technology. The NSA computers might have more oomph!, but the FBI computers have more purpose. Tyrone stopped at one control console and asked if they could do a match, stat. Of course, anything for Mr. Duncan. "RHIP," Tyrone said. Scott recognized the acronym, Rank Has Its Privi- lege. Tyrone gave the computer operator the pictures and asked him to explain the process to Scott. "I take these pictures and put them in the computer with a scan- ner. The digitized images are stored here," he said pointing at a a rack of equipment. "Then, we enter the subject's general description. Height, physique and so on." He copied the infor- mation into the computer. "Now we ask the computer to find possible matches." "You mean the computer has photos of everyone in there?" Scott asked incredulously. "No, Scott. Just the bad guys, and people with security clear- ances, and public officials? Your Aunt Tillie is safe from Big Brother's prying eyes." The reason for Ty's sarcasm was clear to Scott. Tyrone was not exactly acting in an official capacity on this part of the investigation. "How many do you have? Pictures that is?" Scott asked more diplo- matically. "That's classified," Tyrone said quickly. "The hackers say you have files on over a hundred million people. Is that true?" Scott asked. Tyrone glared at him, as if to say, shut the fuck up. Scott took the non-verbal hint and they watched in silence as the computer whirred searching for similar photo files in its massive memory. Within a couple of minutes the computer said that there were 4 possible matches. At the end of the 10 minute search, it was up to 16 candidates. "We'll do a visual instead of a second search," said the man behind the keyboard. "We'll start with the 90% matches. There are two of them." A large monitor flashed with a picture of a man, that while not unlike the Spook in features, was definitely not him. The picture was a high quality color photograph. "No, not him," Scott said without pause. The computer operator hit a couple of keys, a second picture flashed on the monitor and Scott's face lit up. "That's him! That's the Spook!" Tyrone had wondered if they would find any matches. While the FBI data base was probably the largest in the world, it was unlikely that there was a comprehensive library of teen age hackers. "Are you sure?" Tyrone emphasized the word, 'sure'. "Positive, yes. That's him." "Let's have a quick look at the others before we do a full re- trieve," said the computer operator. Tyrone agreed and fourteen other pictures of men with similar facial characteristics to the Spook appeared on the screen, all receiving a quick 'no' from Scott. Spook's picture as brought up again and again Scott said, "that's him." "All right, Mike," Tyrone said to the man running the computer, "do a retrieve on OBR-III." Mike nodded and stretched over to a large printer on the side of the console. He pushed a key and in a few seconds, the printer spewed out page after page of informa- tion. OBR-III is a super-secret computer system designed to fight terrorism in the United States. OBR-III and Big Floyd regularly spoke to similar, but smaller, systems in England, France and Germany. With only small bits of data it can extrapo- late potential terrorist targets, and who is the likely person behind the attacks. OBR-III is an expert system that learns continuously, as the human mind does. Within seconds it can provide information on anyone within its memory. Tyrone pulled the first page from the printer before it was finished and read to himself. He scanned it quickly until one item grabbed his attention. His eyes widened. "Boy, when you pick 'em, you pick 'em." Tyrone whistled. "What, what?" Scott strained to see the printout, but Tyrone held it away. "It's no wonder he calls himself Spook," Tyrone said to no one in particular. "He's ex-NSA." He ripped off the final page of the printout and called Scott to follow him, cursorily thanking the computer operators for their assistance. Scott followed Tyrone to an elevator and they descended to the fifth and bottom level, where Tyrone headed straight to his office with Scott in tow. He shut the door behind him and showed Scott a chair. "There's no way I should be telling you this, but I owe you, I guess, and, anyway, maybe you can help." Tyrone rationalized showing the information to Scott - both a civilian and a report- er. He may have questioned the wisdom, but not the intent. Besides, as had been true for several weeks, everything Scott learned from Tyrone Duncan was off the record. Way off. For now. The Spook's real name was Miles Foster. Scott scanned the file. A lot of it was government speak and security clearance inter- views for his job at NSA. An entire life was condensed into a a few files, covering the time from when he was born to the time he resigned from the NSA. Scott found much of his life boring and he really didn't care that Miles' third grade teacher remembered him as being a "good boy". Or that his high school counselor though he could go a long way. "This doesn't sound like the Spook I know," Scott said after glancing at the clean regimented life and times of Miles Foster. "Did you expect it to?" asked Ty. "I guess I never thought about it. I just figured it would be a regular guy, not a real spook for the government." "Shit happens." "So I see. Where do we go from here?" Scott asked in awe of the technical capabilities of the FBI. "How 'bout a sanity check?" Tyrone asked. "When were you in Amsterdam?" "Last week, why?" Tyrone sat behind his computer and Scott noticed that his fingers seemed almost too fat to be of much good. "If I can get this thing to work, let's see where's the Control Key?" Scott gazed on as Tyrone talked to himself while working the keyboard and reading the screen. "Foster, Airline, Foreign, ah, the dates," he looked up at a large wall calendar. "All right . . .shit . . .Delete . . . OK, that's it." "What are you doing?" asked Scott. "Just want to see if your boy really was in Europe with you." "You don't believe me!" shouted Scott. "No, I believe you. But I need some proof, dig?" Tyrone said. "If he's up to something we need to find out what, step by step. You should know that." "Yeah, I do," Scott resigned. "It's just that I'm not normally the one being questioned. Know what I mean?" "Our training is more . . .well, it's a moot point now. Your Mr. Foster flew to Amsterdam and then back to Washington the next day. I believe I have some legwork ahead of me. I would like to learn a little more about Mr. Miles Foster." Scott talked Tyrone into giving him a copy of one of the images of Miles aka Spook. He was hoping that Kirk would call him tonight. In any case, Scott needed to buy an image scanner if Kirk was going to be of help. When he got home, he made room on his personal nightmare, his desk, for the flatbed scanner, then played with it for several hours, learning how to scan an image at the right sensitivity, the correct brightness and reflectivity for the proper resolution. He learnd to bring a picture into the computer and edit or redraw the picture. Scott scanned the picture of the Spook into the computer and enjoyed adding mous- taches, subtracting teeth and stretching the ears. At midnight, on the button, Scott's computer beeped. It was Kirk. WTFO You got my message. SUBTLETY IS NOT YOUR STRONG POINT I didn't want to miss. GOTCHA. YOU RANG. First of all, I want a better way to contact you, since I assume you won't tell me who you are. RIGHT! AND I'VE TAKEN CARE OF THAT. CALL 212-555-3908. WHEN YOU HEAR THE BEEP, ENTER YOUR NUMBER. I'LL CALL YOU AS SOON AS I CAN. So you're in New York? MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. Ah, call forwarding. I could get the address of the phone and trace you down. I DON'T THINK YOU WOULD DO THAT. And why not may I ask? CAUSE WE HAVE A DEAL. Right. You're absolutely right. NOW THAT I'M RIGHT, WHAT'S UP? I met with the Spook. YOU DID???????? The conference was great, but I need to know more. I've just been sniffing around the edges and I can't smell what's in the oven. WHAT ABOUT THE SPOOK? TELL ME ABOUT IT. I have picture of him for you. I scanned it. VERY GOOD, CLAP, CLAP. I'll send you SPOOK.PIX. Let me know what you think. OK. SEND AWAY. Scott chose the file and issued the command to send it to Kirk. While it was being sent they couldn't speak, and Scott learned how long it really takes to transmit a digital picture at 2400 baud. He got absorbed in a magazine and almost missed the mes- sage on the computer. THAT'S NOT THE SPOOK!!!! Yes it is. I met him. NO, IT'S NOT THE REAL SPOOK. I'VE MET HIM. HE'S PARTIALLY BALD AND HAS A LONG NOSE AND GLASSES. THIS GUY'S A GQ MODEL C'mon, you've got to be putting me on. I travel 3000 miles for an impostor? I GUESS SO. THIS IS NOT THE SPOOK I KNOW. Then who is it? HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW? Just thought I'd ask . . . WHAT'S GOING ON REPO? Deep shit, and I need your help. GOT THE MAN LOOKING OVER YOUR DONKEY? No, he's not here, honest. I have an idea, and you're gonna think it's nuts, I know. But I have to ask you for a couple of favors. WHAT MAY THEY BE? The Freedom League. I need to know as much about it as I can, without anyone knowing that I want the information. Is that possible? OF COURSE. THEY'RE BBS'ERS. I CAN GET IN EASY. WHY? Well that brings up the second favor. dGraph. Do you own it? SURE, EVERYONE DOES. LEGAL OR NOT. Can't you guys take apart a program to see what makes it tick? REVERSE ENGINEERING, YEAH Then I would like to ask if you would look at the dGraph program and see if it has a virus in it? **************************************************************** Chapter 24 Wednesday, January 13 New York City No Privacy for Mere Citizens by Scott Mason. I learned the other day, that I can find out just about anything I want to know about you, or her, or him, or anyone, for a few dollars, a few phone calls and some free time. Starting with just an automobile license plate number, the De- partment of Motor Vehicles will be happy to supply me with a name and address that go with the plate. Or I can start with a name, or an address or just a phone number and use a backwards phone book. It's all in the computer. I can find more about you by getting a copy of the your auto registration and title from the public records. Marriage licenses and divorces are public as well. You can find out the damnedest things about people from their first or second or third marriage records. Including the financial settlements. Good way to determine how much money or lack thereof is floating around a healthy divorce. Of course I can easily find all traffic offenses, their disposi- tion, and any follow up litigation or settlements. It's all in the computer. As there are public records of all arrests, court cases, sentences and paroles. If you've ever been to trial, the transcripts are public. Your finances can be scrupulously determined by looking up the real estate records for purchase price, terms, cash, notes and taxes on your properties. Or, if you've ever had a bankruptcy, the sordid details are clearly spelled out for anyone's inspec- tion. It's all in the computer. I can rapidly build an excellent profile of you, or whomever. And, it's legal. All legal, using the public records available to anyone who asks and has the $2. That tells me, loud and clear, that I no longer have any privacy! None! Forget the hackers; it's bad enough they can get into our bank accounts and our IRS records and the Census forms that have our names tied to the data. What about Dick and Jane Doe, Everyman USA, who can run from agency to agency and office to office put together enough information about me or you to be dangerous. I do not think I like that. It's bad enough the Government can create us or destroy us as individuals by altering the contents of our computer files deep inside the National Data Bases. At least they have a modicum of accountability. However, their inattentive disregard for the privacy of the citizens of this country is criminal. As a reporter I am constantly amazed at how easy it is to find out just about anything about anybody, and in many ways that openness has made my job simpler. However, at the same time, I believe that the Government has an inherent responsibility to protect us from invasion of privacy, and they are derelict in fulfilling that promise. If the DMV needs to know my address, I understand. The IRS needs to know my income. Each computer unto itself is a necessary repository to facilitate business transactions. However, when someone begins to investigate me, crossing the boundaries of multiple data bases, without question, they are invading my privacy. Each piece of information found about me may be insig- nificant in itself, but when combined, it becomes highly danger- ous in the wrong hands. We all have secrets we want to remain secrets. Under the present system, we have sacrificed our priva- cy for the expediency of the machines. I have a lawyer friend who believes that the fourth amendment is at stake. Is it, Mr. President? This is Scott Mason, feeling Peered Upon. * * * * * Wednesday, January 13 Atlanta, Georgia First Federal Bank in Atlanta, Georgia enjoyed a reputation of treating its customers like royalty. Southern Hospitality was the bank's middle name and the staff was trained to provide extraordinary service. This morning though, First Federal's customers were not happy campers. The calls started coming in before 8:00 A.M. "My account is off $10," "It doesn't add up," "My checkbook won't balance." A few calls of this type are normal on any given day, but the phones were jammed with customer complaints. Hun- dreds of calls streamed in constantly and hundreds more never got through the busy signals. Dozens of customers came into the local branches to complain about the errors on their statement. An emergency meeting was held in the Peachtree Street headquar- ters of First Federal. The president of the bank chaired the meeting. The basic question was, What Was Going On? It was a free for all. Any ideas, shoot 'em out. How many calls? About 4500 and still coming in. What are the dates of the statements? So far within a couple of days, but who knows what we'll find. What are you asking people to do? Double check against their actual checks instead of the register. Do you really think that 5000 people wake up one morning and all make the same mistakes? Do you have any other ideas? Then what? If they don't reconcile, bring 'em in and we'll pull the fiche. What do the computer people say? They think there may be an error. That's bright. If the numbers are adding up wrong, how do we balance? Have no idea. Do they add up in our favor? Not always. Maybe 50/50 so far. Can we fix it? Yes. When? I don't know yet. Get some answers. Fast. Yessir. The bank's concerns mounted when their larger customers found discrepancies in the thousands and tens of thousands of dollars. As the number of complaints numbered well over 10,000 by noon, First Federal was facing a crisis. The bank's figures in no way jived with their customer's records and the finger pointing began. The officers contacted the Federal Reserve Board and notified them. The Board suggested, strongly, that the bank close for the remainder of the day and sort it out before it got worse. First Federal did close, under the guise of installing a new computer system, a lie that might also cover whatever screwed up the statements. Keep that option open. They kept answering the phones, piling up the complaints and discovering that thus far there was no pattern to the errors. By mid-afternoon, they at least knew what to look for. On every statement a few checks were listed with the incorrect amounts and therefore the balance was wrong. For all intent and purpose, the bank had absolutely no idea whose money was whose. Working into the night the bank found that all ledgers balanced, but still the amounts in the accounts were wrong. What are the odds of a computer making thousands of errors and having them all balance out to a net zero difference? Statistically it was impossible, and that meant someone altered the amounts on pur- pose. By midnight they found that the source of the error was probably in the control code of the bank's central computing center. First Federal Bank did not open for business Thursday. Or Fri- day. First Federal Bank was not the only bank to experience profound difficulties with it's customers. Similar complaints closed down Farmer's Bank in Des Moines, Iowa, Lake City Bank in Chicago, First Trade in New York City, Sopporo Bank in San Francisco, Pilgrim's Trust in Boston and, as the Federal Reserve Bank would discover, another hundred or so banks in almost every state. The Department of the Treasury reacted quickly, spurred into action by the chairman of Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C. Being one of the oldest banks in the country, and the only one that could claim having a personal relationship with Alexander Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, it still carried political weight. The evening network and local news stations covered the situation critically. Questions proliferated but answers were hard to come by. The largest of the banks and the government announced that a major computer glitch had affected the Electronic Funds Trans- fers which had inadvertently caused the minor inconsistencies in some customer records. The press was extremely hard on the banks and the Fed Reserve and the Treasury. They smelled a coverup, a lie; that they and the public were not being told the truth, or at least all of it. Only Scott Mason and a couple of other reporters speculated that a computer virus or time bomb was responsible. Without any evidence though, the government and the banks vigorously denied any such possibilities. Rather, they developed a convoluted story of how one money transaction affects another and then another. The domino theory of banking was explained to the public in graphs and charts, but an open skepticism prevailed. Small businesses and individual banking customers were totally shut off from access to their funds. Tens of thousands of auto- matic tellers were turned off by their banks in the futile hope of minimizing the damage. Estimates were that by evening, almost 5 million people had been estranged from their money. Rumors of bank collapse and a catastrophic failure of the banking system persisted. The Stock Market, operating at near full capacity after November's disaster, reacted to the news with a precipitous drop of almost 125 points before trading was suspend- ed, cutting off thousands more from their money. The International Monetary Fund convened an emergency meeting as the London and Tokyo stock markets reacted negatively to the news. Wire transfers and funds disbursements were ceased across all state and national borders. Panic ensued, and despite the best public relations efforts, the Treasury imposed financial sanctions on all savings and checking accounts. If the banks opened on Friday, severe limits would be placed on access to available funds. Checks would be returned or held until the emergency was past. Nightline addressed the banking crisis in depth. The experts debated the efficiency of the system and that possibly an unfore- seen overload had occurred, triggering the events of the day. No one suggested that the bank's computers had been compromised. * * * * * New York City Times "Yes, it is urgent." "What is this about? "That is for the Senator's ears only." "Can you hold for . . ." "Yes, yes. I've been holding for an hour. Go on." Muzak inter- pretations of Led Zeppelin greeted Scott Mason as he was put on hold. Again. Good God! They have more pass interference in the front office and on the phones than the entire NFL. He waited. At long last, someone picked up the other end of the phone. "I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Mason, it has been rather hectic as you can imagine. How are you faring?" Senator Nancy Deere true to form, always projected genuine sincerity. "Fine, fine, thank you, Senator. The reason for my call is rather, ah . . .sensitive." "Yes?" she asked politely. "Well, the fact is, Senator, we cannot discuss it, that is, I don't feel that we can talk about this on the phone." "That makes it rather difficult, doesn't it," she laughed weakly. "Simply put, Senator . . . " "Please call me Nancy. Both my friends and enemies do." "All right, Nancy," Scott said awkwardly. "I need 15 minutes of your time about a matter of national security and it directly concerns your work on the Rickfield Committee." She winced at the nick name that the hearing had been given. "I can assure you, Senator, ah, Nancy, that I would not be bothering you unless I was convinced of what I'm going to tell you. And show you. If you think I'm nuts, then fine, you can throw me out." "Mr. Mason, that's enough," Nancy said kindly. "Based upon your performance at the hearing the other day, that alone is enough to make me want to shake your hand. As for what you have to say? I pride myself on being a good listener. When would be convenient for you?" "The sooner the better," Scott said with obvious relief that he hadn't had to sell her. "How's . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?" "That's fine, perfect. We'll see you tomorrow then." "We?" Nancy picked up the plural reference. "Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I'm not crazy alone." * * * * * FBI, New York "I'll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then," Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone. "Ty, I've been on your side and defended you since I came on board, you know that." Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. "But on this one, I have no control. You've been poking into areas that don't concern you, and I'm catching heat." "I'm working on one damn case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it keeps on touching this fucking blackmail fiasco and it's getting on everyone's nerves. There's a lot more to this than ransoms and hackers and I've been having some luck. I'll show you what I have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets." "I'll be there. Ty," Burnson said kindly. "I don't know the specifics, but you've been shaking the tree. I hope it's worth it." "It is, Bob. I'd bet my ass on in." "You are." * * * * * Thursday, January 14 Walter Reed Medical Center "How is he doing?" Scott asked. "He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of Walter Reed's hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi- cians. "In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest wound is nasty, but that's not the danger; it's the head wound. The brain is a real funny area." Tyrone's FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage- ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre's most recent assailant was murdered, despite the police assigned to guard his room. Two of Ahmed's elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well that they weren't suspected when one went in the room and the other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day. All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of the D.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatz orderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate in Arabic. "It's done. Let's get out of here." The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on the pair. One of Ahmed's men tried to pull his gun but was shot and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way. He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He never slowed, shouting "Allah, I am yours!" as he dove through the plate glass window plummeting five floors to the concrete walk below. The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth- ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter. The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be another attempt on Pierre's life, so the secrecy surrounding his faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with it. Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms. "Basically, we don't know enough to accurately predict the ef- fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un- known. Then there are head injuries that we can't fully explain, and Pierre's is one of them." Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. "Pierre had a severe trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated." Scott shud- dered at the distinct memory of the gore. "Since he was in a coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con- sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory and other possible effects. That's how we do it in the brain business." "So, how is he?" Scott wanted a bottom line. "He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can't find any problems that stem from the head injury." "That's amazing," said Scott. "I saw the . . ." "It is amazing," agreed Dr. Kelly, "but not all that rare. There are many references in the literature where severe brain damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy's forehead. He was still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we'll be lucky." "Can we see him?" Scott asked the Irish doctor assigned to repair Pierre Troubleaux. "He's awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let the chest wound heal than his head," Dr. Kelly replied. Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed. Absolute identification was required every time someone entered the room and it took two phone calls to verify the identities of Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr. Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to thank Scott for saving his life. Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka- bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don't drink the IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained much of his famed humor. "I want to thank you," Pierre said in jest, "for putting the value of my life in proper perspective." Scott's cheeks pushed up his glasses from the deep smile that Pierre's words caused. He hadn't realized that Pierre had been conscious. Tyrone looked confused. "I begged him not to die," laughed Scott, "because it wouldn't look good on my resume." "And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request." After suffering enough embarrassment by compliments, Scott asked Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term karmic debt here, thought Scott. "I need to understand something," said Scott. Pierre nodded, what? "You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but, well, I guess that's the question. What did you mean?" "You're right. Yes," Pierre said softly but firmly. "That's what I was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess." "Confess?" Tyrone asked. "To what?" "To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it happen." "So you did infect your own software. Why?" Scott demanded. Pierre shook his head back and forth. "No, I didn't do it. I had no control." "Then who did?" "Homosoto and his people." "Homosoto? Chairman of OSO?" Scott shrieked. "You're out of your mind, no offense." "I wish I were. Homosoto took over my company and killed Max." * * * * * The New Senate Office Building Washington, D.C. "The Senator will see you now," said one of Senator Deere's aides. Scott and Tyrone entered her office which was decorated more in line with a woman's taste than the heavy furniture men prefer. She stood to greet them. "Gentlemen," Nancy Deere said shaking their hands. "I know that you're with the New York City Times, Mr. Mason. I took the liberty of reading some of your work. Interesting, controver- sial. I like it." She offered them chairs at an informal seat- ing area on one end of the large office. "And you are?" she said to Ty. He told her. "I take it this is official?" "At this point ma'am, we just need to talk, and get your reac- tions," Ty said. "He's having labor management troubles." Scott thought that was the perfect diplomatic description. "I see," Nancy said. "So right now this meeting isn't happening." "Kind of like that," Ty said. "And him?" She said cocking her head at Scott. "It's his story, I'm just his faithful sidekick with a few of the pieces." "Well then," Nancy said amused with the situation. "Please, I am all ears." She and Tyrone looked at Scott, waiting. How the hell was he going to tell a U.S. Senator that an organ- ized group of anarchistic hackers and fanatic Moslem Arabs were working with a respected Japanese industrialist and building computer viruses. He couldn't figure out any eloquent way to say it, so he just said it, straight, realizing that the summa- tion sounded one step beyond absurd. All things considered, Scott thought, she took it very well. "I assume you have more than a headline?" Senator Deere said after a brief, polite pause. Scott proceeded to describe everything that he had learned, the hackers, Kirk, Spook, the CMR equipment, his articles being pulled, the First State and Sidneys situation. He told her about the anonymous documents he had thus far been unable to use. Except for one which he would use today. Scott also said that computer viruses would fully explain the banking crisis. Tyrone outlined the blackmail cases he suspected were diversion- ary tactics for another as yet unknown crime, and that despite more than $40 millions in payoffs had been arranged, no one had showed to collect. "Ma'am," Tyrone said to Senator Deere. "I fought to get into the Bureau, and I made it through the good and the bad. And, I always knew where I stood. Akin, I guess to the political winds that change every four years." She nodded. "But now, there's something wrong." Nancy tilted her head waiting for Ty to con- tinue. He spoke carefully and slowly. "I have never been the paranoid type; I'm not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It's almost like I'm not supposed to find out what's happening. I get no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions." "So why come to me?" Nancy asked. "You're the police." "Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?" Scott asked Nancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone. "Alive? How's that possible?" She too, had heard the news. They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre's prognosis brightened Nancy attitude. "But, it's not all good news. It appears, that every single copy of dGraph, that's a . . ." "I know dGraph," she said quickly. "It's part of the job. Couldn't live without it." "Well, ma'am, it's infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has effectively held Pierre hostage since." The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response. Nancy Deere's jaw fell limp. "That is the most unbelievable, incredible . . .I don't know what to say." "I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet," said Tyrone. "There are a few friends of mine working to see if dGraph really is infected." Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the implications. "What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?" She thirsted for more hard information. "I'm no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I'm not stupid either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies." Nancy main- tained rapt attention as Scott continued . "Therefore, I would venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect- ed." Scott paused as Nancy's eyes widened. "Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is getting ready to self destruct." Scott sounded certain and final. "I can't comprehend this, this is too incredible." Senator Deere shook her head in disbelief. "What will happen?" "Pierre doesn't know what the viruses do, he's not a programmer. He's just a figurehead," Scott explained. "Now, if I had to guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep those viruses from exploding." "One man's word is an indictment, not a conviction," Nancy said soberly. "There's more," Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott. "We've learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to make sense of it all." He slid forward in his chair. "We know that Scott's hacker's name is Miles Foster and he's tied up with the Amsterdam group, but we don't how yet. We also know that he is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the Fort." Nancy understood the implication. "When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone- walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now they're retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don't know why." Tyrone shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense." "At any rate," Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, "I checked into his background since he left the Agency in '87. He went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit." Nancy Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker face. "We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna- tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody's guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a Tokyo travel agency, but we can't determine who paid for them." "Seventeen times?" asked the Senator. "Yes ma'am. Curious." "How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?" she asked dubiously. "We have our means. I can't get into that now." Tyrone held the party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel, credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power, entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants unconscionable. "I have no doubt," she said caustically. "There's more." Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which impressed Nancy. "The case concerning Max Jones' death is being reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in making his predecessor look bad." Tyrone spoke without the emotion that drove Scott. "So what does this prove?" she asked. "It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones died." Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which only provided a view of another office building across the street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations. "Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General Young: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearing on the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you and Rickfield don't see eye to eye." Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that described the illicit relationship between General Young and Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read. "Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly. "No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two and two and, well, it does raise some questions." "I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious to answer." * * * * * 6 P.M., Washington, D.C. "Who the hell are you pissing off and why?" Bob Burnson met Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street from Treasury at 6:00 PM. Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and reluctantly accepted that for Scott's assistance in Tyrone's investigation he would get an exclusive. For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew, just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems. "I've been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don't forget our midnight rendezvous." Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs? "What are you planning?" Bob asked them both. "Scott's going after Homosoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get a few answers." "And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too." "Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean. There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think it's about time to turn a few screws." "Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's button you're pushing has pushed the Director's, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink on shit. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi- cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the work while our asses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A perfect case of CYA." "But?" Tyrone suggested. "But," Bob said, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A Government approved horse shit here, but I'll be fucked if know why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage stuff." "They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid crimes," Tyrone said defiantly. "Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen. "Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob. "The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick for my blood. I hope you understand." "Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks." * * * * * Friday, January 15 New York City Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until 10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough commute. He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to pass on to his audience. At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd. Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th. Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents were caused because all of the traffic lights were green. Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He passed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home. By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the conversations from their police band radios. At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city. Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight - a massive traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At 8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians nervously slipped in and around the chaos. Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown from an airplane. The traffic computers. * * * * * Washington, D.C. Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus- sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed. The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad- cast System so they could communicate with the half million drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat- tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen- tial government services were shut down for the day. The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the National Guard was called to assist the local police. Sonja compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang. "Hello?" "Good morning, Sonja?" "Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?" Sonja sipped her coffee. "It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly. "Something wrong?" Sonja asked. "I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you." Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to Scott Mason any more. I'm getting out." "Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion. "I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange- ments. You know what I mean?" "Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it. She had not suspected that it would be for passion, nor because of one of her 'dates'. "Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything. He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with him." "That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in common." "Scott should be down tonight." "That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we can put this behind us." * * * * * New York City The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch- es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began manually loading the software that controlled each region's switches in the hope of piecing together the grid. At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date, the time, anticipated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew that it was only the primary sync-control program which was corrupted. The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M.. The official explanation was a massive computer failure, which was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital. Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder among other assorted crimes. All they had to do was find him. * * * * * New York City Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that he needed an international clock to figure out when to call Japan during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO switchboard, he had to pass scrutiny by three different opera- tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to the English language. He told Homosoto's secretary, whose Eng- lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was patched through almost immediately. "Yes?" "Mr. Homosoto?" "Yes." "This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling from New York. How are you today?" "Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" Homosoto was obviously the gratuitous sort when it came to the press. "We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs. Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as possible under the circumstances. No answer. "Sir? Mr. Homosoto?" "Yes?" "We are also interested in your relationship with Miles Foster. Mr. Homosoto?" "I have nothing to say." "Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer viruses?" No answer. "Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in the United States?" "I should have killed him." "What?" Scott strained his ear. "Mr. Troubleaux is alive?" "I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On anything?" "I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead. Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial. **************************************************************** Chapter 25 Saturday, January 16 Tokyo, Japan Dressed as business-like on the weekend as during the week, Taki Homosoto sat at his regal techno-throne overlooking the Tokyo skyline from his 66th floor vista. It was time. Years of prepa- ration and millions of dollars later, it was time. Perhaps a little earlier than he would have liked, but the result would be the same anyway. The first call Homosoto made was to Ahmed Shah in his Columbia University office. Ahmed responded with his PRG code as the computer requested. <<<<<>>>>> GOOD YOU ARE THERE. I can't get too far without my man-servant. I WANT TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INVALUABLE ASSISTANCE. HE IS DEAD? Yes. It took two martyrs, one is being tortured by the FBI, but he has Allah to guide him. GOOD. CAN YOU DO MORE? I am at your disposal. This is not the war I expected, but I serve Allah's will, and he is using you as his instrument of revenge. THE BANK CARDS. THEY ARE FOR YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE TO FUND YOUR EFFORTS. You speak strangely. Is something wrong? NO, EVERYTHING IS ACCORDING TO PLAN. I EXPECT YOU WILL FULFILL MY WISHES. Of course, that is the arrangement. But what has changed? NOTHING. I AM FULFILLING MY DESTINY. As am I. THEN YOU WILL UNDERSTAND. * * * * * Alexander Spiradon relaxed in his Alpine aerie home overlooking the hilly suburbs of Zurich while watching a satellite feed of the Simpson's on his TV. He found that he learned American colloquialisms best from American television. They brutalized the language under the guise of entertainment. During a commer- cial for 'The Quicker Picker Upper', his computer announced a call. He put the VCR on Quick-Record and sat at his Compaq Deskpro com- puter watching the screen display the incoming identification. <<<<<>>>>> <> Alex entered the code displayed on his personal identification card. G4-YU7-%T64-666.009 <> Alex figured it was Homosoto since this was a very private com- puter. His other computer, an AST 386SX with 330 MB of storage was the one his recruits called with reports. The 25 Sir George's of his army called twice a day. Once to get their assignments and once to send him the results of their efforts. They didn't have to call long distance, though, and never knew that Alex ran his part of Homosoto's operation from Europe. Sir George and his hidden compatriots used their untraceable cellular phones and merely called a local phone number within their area code. Alex's communications group had set up a widely diverse network of call forwarding telephones to make tracing the calls impossible. They exploited all of the common services that helped make his and Homosoto's armies invisible. MR ALEX. Yes, sir. THE TIME HAS COME. So soon? YES. MONDAY IS GROUNDHOG DAY. Monday? Are you sure? With no warning? HAVE I EVER BEEN WRONG? No THEN DO AS I SAY. PLEASE. Alex started at the word 'please'. He had never seen Homosoto ever use it before. Of course. As you wish. WHAT ARE THE FIRST TARGETS OF THE GROUNDHOGS? It is complex. TELL ME! The reservations systems of American, Delta, Pan Am and TWA. It will shut down air travel for weeks. GOOD. AND? The NBC, CBS and ABC communications computers. We have people working in each network. Plus, we have land based transmitters to garble and override network satellite transmis- sions. Quite a neat trick actually. I'm impressed with the technology. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR TECHNOLOGY. I WANT TO KNOW THAT THEY WILL WORK. WHO ELSE? The list is long. Groundhogs are at the Home Shopping Network, American Express and other credit card companies. The Center for Disease Control, Hospitals, the IRS, Insurance Companies. Within a week, their computers will be empty and useless. THAT IS WHAT I WANT TO HEAR. THIS ENDEAVOR HAS BEEN MOST PROFITA- BLE FOR YOU, HAS IT NOT? Very much so. It is appreciated. THEN YOU WILL NOT MIND IF I INCREASE YOUR PAYMENT. No. Why? YOU MUST MAINTAIN THE SANCTITY OF OUR ARRANGEMENTS. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? Yes. I assume I ask no questions? YOU KNOW MORE THAN YOU SHOULD, BUT YOU ARE A MAN OF HONOR AS LONG AS I PAY THE MOST. THAT IS TRUE. At least you know where I stand. WILL YOU CONTINUE? Consider it done. How much more? ENOUGH. MORE THAN ENOUGH. <<<<<>>>>> * * * * * He couldn't believe it. Scott had just watched Nightline, and who was the guest? Madonna. How ridiculous. She badly needed English lessons not to mention a brain. He was relieved when the call came. WTFO? I'm here, Kirk. You're two minutes late. PICKY PICKY. I had to sit through a half hour of Madonna explaining why she masterbates on MTV. LIFE'S A CESSPOOL. THEN YOU DIE. You sound happy tonight. I'M NOT EXACTLY PLEASED, IF THAT'S WHAT YOU MEAN. What have you got? WE'VE LEARNED A LOT. FIRST OF ALL, DGRAPH IS INFECTED. No shit. PROFANITY. BIG BROTHER AND FREEDOM ARE LISTENING. REALLY. WE FOUND DOZENS OF DIFFERENT VIRUSES IN LOTS OF DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF DGRAPH. SOMEONE PUT A LOT OF WORK INTO THIS. I HAVE NEMO AND EVERY PHREAK I KNOW WORKING ON IT TO SEE WHAT OTHER VERSIONS THERE ARE. AND I'M SURE THAT HALF THE HACKERS IN THE COUNTRY ARE DOING THE SAME THING NOW. WORD GETS AROUND. BUT THAT'S NOT THE HALF OF IT. Continue, oh messenger of doom. THERE'S MORE ABOUT THE FREEDOM BOARDS. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN WHAT WE FOUND. I'm hanging on your every byte. GOOD. FIRST OF ALL, I HAD NO IDEA HOW BIG THE FREEDOM LEAGUE WAS. OVER 1600 MEMBER BBS'S HERE AND IN CANADA. Is that large? THAT MAKES THEM A FULL FLEDGED NATIONAL NETWORK. ALMOST A MIL- LION PEOPLE BELONG. BUT THE BEST PART? THE FREEDOM LEAGUE SOFTWARE IS FILLED WITH VIRUSES TOO. You've got to be kidding. A million people in on it? NO, NOT AT ALL. COULD BE JUST A FEW. A few? How many are a few? QUIET! THE FREEDOM LEAGUE RUNS A SORT OF FRANCHISE SERVICE FOR BBS'S. THEY GIVE YOU ALL OF THE TOOLS AND TOYS AND SOFTWARE TO HAVE YOUR OWN FREEDOM LEAGUE BBS. SO ANYONE WHO WANTS TO, CAN SET THEMSELVES UP FOR FREE. FREEDOM GIVES THEM EVERYTHING BUT A COMPUTER AND A MODEM. And in exchange, they have to sell Freedom Software. NOT EXACTLY SELL, SHAREWARE IS FREE TO DISTRIBUTE, IN THEORY ONLY A FEW PEOPLE MAY EVEN KNOW ABOUT THE INFECTIONS. WHOEVER IS DESIGNING THE PROGRAMS HAS TO BE IN ON IT. And the franchisers, of course! They set up their own distribu- tion of viruses. I WOULD GUESS THAT ABOUT 100 OF THE FREEDOM BBS'S KNOW ABOUT THE INFECTIONS. Why, how do you know that? GOOD GUESS. WHEN FREEDOM STARTED UP BACK IN '88, IT HAD 100 LOCATIONS. So it was staged, set up? MUSTA BEEN. NOT CHEAP. A GOOD BBS TAKES ABOUT $10,000 TO GET GOING. A million bucks. Chump change. FOR WHO? Just a friend. What else? THEY'VE DISTRIBUTED MILLIONS OF PROGRAMS. MILLIONS. Is every one infected? I GUESS SO. EVERY ONE WE'VE LOOKED AT IS. Who else knows. NEMO, PHREAK PHRIENDS. IN A COUPLE OF DAYS YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO GIVE FREEDOM AWAY. IF IT'S INFECTED, WHICH IT IS, IT'S ALL OVER FOR THEM. THEIR REP IS SHOT. Aren't you worried about a repeat performance on your computers? NO. I MOVED WHAT WAS LEFT OF MY EQUIPMENT AND WE SWITCHED TO CELLULAR CALL FORWARDING. CAN'T BE TRACED FOR MONTHS. BUT I APPRECIATE THE CONCERN. I'll call you. My main man is going to want to talk to you. * * * * * Monday, January 18 New York City Times dGRAPH INFECTED WITH VIRUS: DGI OFFERS FREE UPGRADES. by Scott Mason In an unprecedented computer software announcement, DGI President and industry magnate Pierre Troubleaux admitted that every copy of dGraph sold since late 1987 contains and is infected with highly dangerous and contagious computer viruses. He blamed Taki Homosoto, chairman of OSO Industries, and the parent company of DGI for the viruses that Troubleaux said were implanted on purpose. Mr. Homosoto had no comment on the allegations. Since there are so many different viruses present in the dozens of dGraph versions, (Mr. Troubleaux estimates there may be as many as 500) it is impossible to determine the exact detonation dates or anticipated damage. Therefore DGI is offering free uninfected copies of dGraph to every registered user. Industry reaction was strong, but surprisingly non-critical of DGI's dilemma. In general the reaction was one of shock and disbelief. "If this is true," said one source, "the amount of damage done will be incalculable." He went on to say that since the virus problem has been largely ignored, very few businesses have any sort of defensive measures in place. Estimates are that large companies have the most to lose when the dGraph Virus explodes. The major software manufacturers came to DGI's support saying, ". . .it was bound to happen sooner or later. We're just glad it didn't happen to us." Leading software firms including Micro- soft, Lotus, Computer Associates and Borland have offered their disk duplication and shipping facilities to assist DGI in dis- tributing over four million copies of the program. Even with such support policies by DGI and the assistance of the software industry, there is a great fear that the infected dGraph programs have communicated viruses to other programs and comput- ers. According to Ralph Potter of the International Virus Asso- ciation, "This is a disaster of unfathomable proportions. It could not be much worse than if DOS had been carrying a virus for years. The designers knew what they were doing, waiting so long before the viruses were triggered to go off. The ultimate Trojan Horse." The National Computer Systems Laboratory at the National Insti- tute of Standards and Technology issued a terse statement saying that they would soon publish recommended procedures to minimize the effects of the current virus crisis. They predicted at least 2 millions personal computers would be stricken with the dGraph Viruses. One dGraph User Group in Milwaukee, Wisconsin has begun a class action suit against DGI and OSO on behalf of all users who have damage done to their computers and or data. They claim at least 10,000 co-plaintiffs on the initial filing with District Court in Milwaukee and are asking for $10 Billion in damages. End. Scott's story went on to describe that the FBI and Secret Service were taking the threat as a national security risk and would make a public statement in a day or so. Leading software industry prophets were quoted, all taking credit for warning the computer industry that such massive assaults were predictable and prevent- able. They blamed the government and computer manufacturers for laxidazical handling of a serious problem that could have been prevented. Scott had to make a large chart to keep track of the competitive finger pointing from the experts. DGI's stock fell 75% after the announcement until the SEC sus- pended its trading. * * * * * The Associated Press wire announcement was followed in seconds by the one from UPI. Doug tore it off the printer and raced it over to Scott. "I believe this will be of interest to you . . ." Doug chuckled as Scott read the wire. Tokyo, Japan: Taki Homosoto, the billionaire founder and chairman of OSO Industries, was found dead this afternoon in his opulent Tokyo office. According to police and company spokespersons, Mr. Homosoto died by his own hands in tradi- tional Japanese warrior fashion; hari-kari. His body was found curled up in a pool of blood with the ritualistic sword penetrating his abdomen protruding from his lower back. Police say they discovered a note on his person that ex- plained the apparent suicide. The letter is believed to have been hand written by Mr. Homosoto. The contents of that letter, as released by the Tokyo police follow: Honorable Friends, I now resign as Chairman of OSO Industries. My time is over. For almost 50 years I have waited to see the United States and its people suffer as my people did during those terrible days in August. The United States gave our people no warn- ing, and tens of thousands of innocent women and children died without purpose. This criminal sin is one which the United States and its people will have to live with for all eternity. Yet, out of compassion for the millions of innocent bystand- ers who are helplessly trapped by their government's indif- ference to human life, I will give the American people a warning: Without your computers your future is dim, and your present becomes the past. When I was told about the attack plans on the United States, I admit that I was a willing but skeptical buyer. I found it hard to believe, indeed incredible, that the greatest military power on Earth was so foolish. I learned that there were no defenses for the computers that run your country. How unfortunate for you. It was shown me how to execute the plans which invade the very bastions of Western Imperialism; and I have succeeded admirably. You will not recover for years, as we did not after your hideous attack upon our land. By the time you read this, I will be dead and happy. My creations will have taken hold, and unshakeable from their roots, will spread chaos and distrust. This is the world's first computer war and I have waged it and I will win it. Retaliate! Retaliate, if you wish, if you can; but you will not, you cannot. Who do you attack? My country? They had nothing to do with it. My company? I will be dead and there is no double jeopardy in death. You have nothing to say, and nothing to do in response. As we did not after your fire-bombs landed. We could say nothing. Helplessness is a terrible feeling. It is one of loneli- ness, solitude in a personal hell which your people shall suffer as they learn to live without the luxuries of tech- nology. You will pay for your ancestor's mistakes. To the memory and honor of my family. Taki Homosoto * * * * * Scott Mason called Tyrone Duncan immediately. "I know," said Tyrone, sounding out of breath. "We're on it. Pierre's getting additional protection. It turns out that Mr. Homosoto isn't as pure as the driven snow like he pretends to be." "How do you mean?" Scott asked. "Off the record." "Background." The negotiation on press terms was complete. "All right, but be careful. It seems that since the 1940's Mr. Homosoto has been performing some very lucrative services for our friends at the Pentagon. He has some influential friends in Congress and uses an assortment of lobbying firms to promote his interests." "What's so unusual about that?" Asked Scott. "Nothing, until you see that certain Congressmen got very wealthy when OSO Industries built plants in their districts. Heavy PAC contributions, blind distribution of small contributing funds. It also appears that he regularly entertained high Pentagon offi- cials in the finest fashion. Paris, Tokyo, Rio, Macao. Influ- ence pedaling and bribery. We have traced a path from Tokyo to the Pentagon that has resulted in OSO subsidiaries receiving large non-classified government contracts. Take dGraph for example. That's a de facto standard for all agencies." "I never thought about that. Everyone in the government uses it." "Just like the private sector. I'm on my way to have a little talk with your Mr. Foster. I don't believe in coincidences." "Good, where?" Asked Scott excitedly. "Whoah! Wait a minute. This is official now, and I can't have a civilian . . ." "Bullshit!" Scott yelled into the phone. "Don't you get GI on me. I gave him to you. Remember? Besides, I know him. And I might have something else." "What's that?" "What if I told you that the Freedom League is part of it? And that it's being run by foreign nationals." "So what?" asked Tyrone. "How far did you check into the van driver's background? Wasn't he Arab?" Scott offered tidbits that he thought relevant. "Yeah . . ." "When are you meeting Foster?" Tyrone thought carefully about Scott's words. "Listen, I have to get a warrant anyway. It'll probably take till tomorrow." Tyrone paused for the subtle offer to sink in to Scott. "He's listed. Gotta go." One hell of a guy, thought Scott. If it ever got out that Tyrone worked with the media like this, he would be immediately retired, if not possibly prosecuted. But nobody else was doing anything, and Scott had given them Foster on a silver platter. He would save the Freedom League story for the moment. * * * * * The Motorola STU-III secure phone rang on the credenza behind Marvin Jacobs desk. He had been Director of the National Securi- ty Agency, DIRNSA, since 1984, installed in that position because he gave the distinct impression that he didn't care about any- thing except satisfying his mentor; in this case Vice President Bush. The STU-III phone added funny electronic effects to the voices that spoke over it; all in the interest of national security. "Hello?" Jacobs asked. "Homosoto is dead." "I heard," Jacobs said. "It sounded clean." "Very pro. Won't be a problem." * * * * * Scott saw the galley for the afternoon paper. The headline, in 3 inch letters shocked him: RICKFIELD RESIGNS He immediately called Senator Nancy Deere. "I was going to call you," she said. "I guess you've heard." "Yes, what happened?" He shouted excitedly over the rumble of the high speed train. "I guess I should take the blame," Nancy said. "When I confront- ed the Senator this morning, he just stared at me. Never said a word. I begged him for an explanation, but he sat there, expres- sionless. He finally got up and left." "That's it? What happens now?" "I see the President," she said. "May I ask why?" "Off the record," she insisted. "Sure." Scott agreed. What's one more source I can't name. "I heard about the resignation from the White House. Phil Mus- grave. He said the President was very concerned and wanted a briefing from my perspective. He's beginning to feel some heat on the computer crimes and doesn't have a clue. I figure they need to get up to speed real fast." "It's about time," Scott said out loud. "They've been ignoring this forever." "And," Senator Deere added, "they want you there, too. Tomorrow, 9A.M." The hair on Scott's neck stood on end. A command performance from the White House? "Why, why me? "You seem to know more than they do. They think you're wired into the hackers and Homosoto." "I'll be there," Scott managed to get out. "What do I do . . .?" "Call Musgrave's office at the White House." "I bet the paper's going nuts. I didn't tell them I had left or where I was going," Scott laughed. Scott called Doug who had half of the paper looking high and low for him. "You made the big time, huh kid?" Doug said feigning snobbery. "What world shattering events precipitated this mag- nanimous call?" In fact he was proud. Very proud of Scott. Scott explained to Doug that he would call after the White House meeting, and he wasn't quite sure why he was going, and that Nancy was taking over the hearings and he would stay in DC for a few days. And no, he wouldn't tell more than was in print, not without calling Doug or Higgins - at any hour. Doug sounded relieved when Scott volunteered that there would be no hotel bills. Phew. Forever the cheap skate. The story of the year and he's counting pennies. God, Doug was a good editor. Scott's stories on computer crime and specifically the dGraph situation aroused national attention. Time, Newsweek and dozens of periodicals began following the story, but Scott, at Doug's suggestion, had wisely held back enough information that would guarantee the privacy and quality of his sources. He was right in the middle of it, perhaps making news as much as reporting it, but with Doug's and the Times' guidance, Scott and the paper were receiving accolades on their fair yet direct treatment of the issues. Doug thought that Scott was perhaps working on the story of the year, or maybe the decade, but he never told him so. However, Scott was warned that as the story became major national news, the exclusivity that he and the Times had enjoyed would be in jeopardy. Get it while the getting is hot. No problem. It just so happened Scott knew Miles Foster personally. * * * * * "Sonja? I'm coming down. Tonight. Can you recommend a good hotel?" He jibed at her while packing away his laptop computer for the trip to Washington. He called her and was going to leave a message, but instead he was rewarded with her answering the phone. "Chez Lindstrom is nice, but the rates are kind of high." "King or twin beds? Room with a view? Room service?" "E, all of the above," she laughed. "Want me to pick you up at National?" "Naw, I'll take the train from work. I may need to buy a few things when I get there, like a suitcase and a wardrobe. It's kind of last minute." "I gather I wasn't the prime reason for your sudden trip," Sonja said in fun. "No, it was, I wanted to come, but I had to do some . . .and then I found out about . . .well I have to be there tomorrow, but I am leaving a day early." He pleaded for understanding, not realiz- ing she was kidding him. He couldn't tell her why he was being so circumspect. Nothing about the meeting. "Well," she said dejectedly, "I guess it's O.K. If." "If what?" Scott brightened. "If we can have a couple of friends over for dinner. There's someone I'd like you to meet." * * * * * "Holy shit," Scott said as Sonja opened her apartment door and admitted Miles and the stunning Stephanie. Miles stopped in his tracks and stared at Scott. Then at Stepha- nie. "What's the deal?" he said accusingly. "This is Sonja Lindstrom and her friend Scott Mason," Stephanie said. "What's wrong, hon?" She still had her arm wrapped around Miles' arm. "It's just that, well, we've met, and I was just kind of sur- prised, that's all." He extended a hand at Scott. "Good to see you again." Scott warmly reciprocated. This was going to be an interesting evening. "Yeah, ditto," Scott said, confused. "What happened to you? I thought you were coming back?" He was speaking of Amsterdam. "Well, I was a little occupied, if you recall," Miles said refer- ring to the triplets in Amsterdam. "And business forced me to depart earlier than I had anticipated." "Where? To Japan?" Scott awaited a reaction by Miles, but was disappointed when there was none. Stephanie and Sonja wondered how the two had already met; it was their job to report such things to Alex, but it really didn't matter any more. They were quitting. The first round of drinks was downed quickly and the tension in the room abated slightly. The four spoke casually, albeit some- what guardedly. The harmless small talk was only a prelude to Scott's question when the girls stepped into the kitchen. Per- haps they left the room on purpose. "Listen," Scott whispered urgently to Miles. "I know who you are, and that you're tied up with Homosoto and the computer nutsiness that's going on everywhere. You have a lot of people looking for you and we only have a few seconds," Scott said glancing up at the kitchen door. "I see the situation as fol- lows. You get to tell your side of the story to the authorities in private, or you can tell me first and I put it in tomorrow's paper. This may be your only chance to get your side of the story out. All of sudden, you're big news. What'll it be?" Scott spoke confidently and waited for Miles' answer. Miles intently scanned every inch of Scott's face in minute detail. "That fucking gook. You're damn right I'll talk. First of all, it's a lie," Miles hissed. "If they're coming after me, I have to protect myself. Can't trust a fucking slant eye, can you?" The girls returned with fresh drinks and sat down on the white leather couch. Miles and Scott continued their discussion. "What happened?" Scott asked. Miles looked over at the stunning Sonja, stripping her naked with his stare and then at Stephanie who had caught his stare. "It's very simple," Miles said after a while. His dimples deep- ened while he forced a smile. "Homosoto's fucked us all." He nodded his head as he looked at his three companions. "Me. Royally. How the hell can I defend myself against accusations from the grave." He shrugged his shoulders. "And you," he point- ed at Scott. "You've kept the fear going. Haven't you. You picked up the scent and you've been writing about it for months. Setting his stage for him. Like a puppet. And then? After you sensitize the public, he commits suicide. He used you." "And then, you two," Miles said to Stephanie and Sonja. "You could be out in the cold in days. Bet you didn't know you were in on it. Am I right?" "In on what?" Scott asked Miles and Sonja. "Tell him," Miles said to Sonja. "I've never met you, but I can guess what you do for a living." "She's a PR person," interjected Scott. "Go on, tell him, or I will," Miles said again. Sonja's eyes pleaded with Miles to stop it. Please, stop. I'll do it in my own way, in time. Please, stop. Scott glowered at Miles' words and awaited a response from Sonja. How could he distrust her? But what did Miles mean? The front door bell rang and broke the intense silence. It rang again as Sonja went to answer. "Yes, he's here," she whispered. The door opened and Tyrone Duncan came into the room while anoth- er man stood at the door. Tyrone walked up to Miles. Scott was in absolute awe. How the hell? Ty had said tomorrow. "Mr. Foster? Miles Foster?" Tyrone asked without pleasantries. "Yeah," Miles said haughtily. "FBI," Ty said flashing his badge. "You're under arrest for trafficking in stolen computer access cards and theft of serv- ice." Tyrone took a breath and waved a piece of paper in the air. "We searched your apartment and found telephone company access codes that . . . " "I want to call my lawyer," Miles interrupted calmly. "Now," he commanded. " . . . have been used to bypass billing procedures." "I said I want to call my lawyer," Miles again said emphatical- ly. "I'll be out in an hour," he said aside to Stephanie and kissed her on the cheek. His arrogance was unnerving; this wasn't the same Miles that Scott had known in Amsterdam. There, he was just another misguided but well-intentioned techno-anarchist who was more danger to himself than anyone else. But now, as Tyrone read a list of charges against him, mostly arcane FBI domain inter- state offenses, Miles took on a new character. A worldly crimi- nal whom the FBI was arresting for potential terrorist activi- ties. "And those are for starters, Mister," Tyrone said after reading off a list of penal violations by code number. As if following a script, Tyrone added, "you have the right to remain silent . . ." He wanted to make sure that this was a clean arrest, and with this many witnesses, he was going to follow procedure to the letter. Mirandizing was one of the steps. Scott Mason's adrenaline flowed with intensity. Did he ever have a story to tell now! An absolute scoop. He was present, coinci- dentally, during the arrest of Miles Foster. Front page. "I want to call my lawyer," Miles repeated. "Make it quick," said Tyrone. Miles rapidly dialed a number from memory. Miles turned his back on Tyrone and the others and spoke calmly into the phone. "It's me." Pause. "It's me. I need assistance." Arrogance. Pause. "A laundry list of charges." Disinterest. Pause. "Had to happen, sooner or later, yeah," Miles said happily. Pause. "I gotta dinner party. I don't want to miss it." He smiled at Stephanie and blew a kiss. "Great. Make it quick." Miles hung up. Miles turned to Tyrone and held his wrists out together in front of him. "Let's go," Miles said still smiling cooly. Tyrone gently snapped the cuffs on Miles and ushered him toward the door. "Back in an hour or so," Miles defiantly said to Scott, Sonja and Stephanie over his shoulder as the front door closed behind Miles and his escorts. Scott watched in disbelief. Miles, the Spook, ever so calm, cool and collected. Not a fluster. Not a blush. Who had he called? That was the question that bothered Scott throughout the rest of the evening. * * * * * The White House, Washington, D.C. The President looked grim. The normally affable Republican had won his second term by a landslide and had maintained unprece- dented popularity. The Democrats had again been unable to con- jure up a viable candidate after another string of scandals rocked the primaries and the very foundation of the party itself Their entire platform focused on increasing the Peace Dividend beyond the aggressively reduced $180 Billion Defense budget. It was not much of an attack on a President whose popularity never fell below an astounding 65% approval, and the only ebb was due to a minor White House incident involving a junior aide, the junior aide's boyfriend and the Lincoln Bedroom. The recession that was started by the Iraqi situation in Kuwait during the summer of 1990 was not as bad as it could have been. The world wide militaristic fever, proper Fed Reserve response and the Japanese all took credit for easing the problem through their specific efforts. In fact, the recession was eased due in part to all of their efforts as well the new Europe. The Presi- dent was rewarded, ultimately, with the credit for renewing the economy almost glitch-free. But the President was still grim. America was again at war, and only a handful of people in the upper echelons of the Government even knew about it. It would be in the paper in the morning. **************************************************************** Chapter 26 Midnight, Tuesday, January 19 Scarsdale, New York Scott Mason awaited Kirk's midnight call. Now that they had a deal, a win-win situation, Kirk and his phriends had become gung-ho. Kirk agreed to help Scott in the dGraph and Freedom situations if Scott would make sure that his articles clearly spelled out the difference between the white-hat and black-hat hackers. Journalistic responsibility demanded fair treatment of all sides and their respective opinions, and Scott attempted to bring objectivity to his analyses. He did this well, quite well, and still was able to include his own views and biases, as long as they were properly qualified and disclaimed. Additionally, Kirk wanted assurances of total anonymity and that Scott would not attempt to identify his location or name. Scott also had to agree to keep his Federal friends at a distance and announce if they were privy to the conversations. In exchange for fair portrayals in the press, privacy and no government intervention, Kirk promised Scott that the resources of Nemo would be focussed on finding defenses to the virus at- tacks in dGraph and Freedom software. If Kirk and Homosoto were right, millions of computers would experience the electronic equivalent of sudden cardiac arrest in less than two weeks. The Times, Higgins and Doug agreed to the relationship but added their own working caveats. In order to treat Kirk as a protected source, they pretended he was a personal contact. Instead of reporter's notes, Scott maintained an open file which recorded the entirety of their computer conversations. There were no precedents for real-time electronic note taking, but Higgins felt confident that the records would protect the paper in any event. Besides, Supreme Court rulings now permit the recording of con- versations by hidden devices, as long as the person taping is actually present. Again, Higgins felt he had solid position, but he did ask Scott to ask Kirk's permission to save the conversa- tions on disk. Kirk always agreed. At midnight, Scott's computer beeped the anticipated beep. WTFO I heard a good one. JOKE? Yeah, do they work over computer? TRY ME. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs were in Europe and got to meet the Pope. Dopey really wanted to asked the Pope a few questions. "Mr. Pope, Mr. Pope. Do you have pretty nuns?" "Of course we do, Dopey." "Mr. Pope, do you have fat ugly nuns?" "Why, yes, Dopey, we do." "And I bet, Mr. Pope, that you have some tall skinny nuns, too." "Yes, Dopey we do." "Mr. Pope? Do you have nuns in Chicago?" "Yes, Dopey, we have nuns in Chicago?" "And in San Francisco and New York?" "Yes, Dopey." "And do you have nuns in Africa and Australia and in France?" "Yes, Dopey. We have nuns everywhere." Dopey took a second to think and finally asked, "Mr. Pope? Do you have nuns in Antarc- tica?" "No, Dopey, I'm sorry, we don't have any nuns in Antarc- tica." The other six dwarfs immediately broke out into a laugh- ing song: "Dopey fucked a penguin. Dopey fucked a penguin." HA HA HA HA HA!!! LOVE IT. REAL ICE BREAKER. HA HA. Facetious? NO, THAT'S GREAT. IS YOUR RECORDER ON? You bet. No plagiarism. What have you got? MORE THAN I WISH I DID. DGRAPH FIRST. WE HAVE IDENTIFIED 54 SEPARATE DGRAPH VIRUSES. I HAVE A FILE FOR YOU. IT LISTS THE VIRUS BY DETONATION DATE AND TYPE, SYMPTOMS AND THE SIGNATURES NEEDED FOR REMOVAL. ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO PRINT IT ALL? Daily. Our science section has been expanded to every day from just Tuesday. I have all the room I need. YOU MIGHT MAKE ME RECONSIDER MY OPINION OF THE MEDIA. Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts. HA HA. WE'VE JUST TOUCHED THE SURFACE ON FREEDOM, BUT THE WORD'S OUT. FREEDOM WILL BE AS GOOD AS DEAD IN DAYS. THE NUMBER OF VIRUSES MUST NUMBER IN THE HUNDREDS. IT'S INCREDIBLE. I'VE SEEN A LOT OF VIRUSES, BUT NONE LIKE THIS. IT'S ALMOST AS THOUGH THEY WERE BUILT ON AN ASSEMBLY LINE. SOME ARE REAL CLOSE TO EACH OTHER, EVEN DO THE SAME THINGS, BUT THEIR SIGNATURES ARE DIFFER- ENT MAKING IT EXTRA HARD TO DETECT THEM. EACH ONE WILL HAVE TO BE DONE INDIVIDUALLY. I suggest we start with the dGraph viruses. You said 54, right? SO FAR. Send me the file and I still may have time to get it into tomor- row's paper. They usually leave a little room. I'LL SEND DGVIRUS.RPT. IT'S IN ASCII FORMAT, EASY TO READ INTO ANY FILE YOU'RE WORKING WITH. I think I can handle it. * * * * * DGRAPH VIRUS LIST by Scott Mason The dGraph Virus Crisis has set the computer industry into a virtual tailspin with far reaching effects including stock prices, delayed purchasing, contract cancellation and a bevy of reported lawsuits in the making. All the same, the effects of the Crisis must be mitigated, and the New York City Times will be providing daily information to assist our readers in fighting the viruses. DGraph is now known to contain at least 54 different viruses, each designed to exe- cute different forms of damage to your computer. According to computer security experts there are two ways to deal with the present virus crisis. The best way to make sure that an active security system is in place in your computer. Recommenda- tions vary, but it is generally agreed by most experts that security, especially in the highly susceptible desktop and laptop personal computers, should be hardware based. Security in soft- ware is viewed to be ineffective against well designed viruses or other offensive software mechanisms. The second way to combat the effects of the dGraph Virus, but certainly not as effective, is to build a library of virus signa- tures and search all of your computers for matches that would indicate a viral infection. This technique is minimally effec- tive for many reasons: Mutating viruses cause the signature to change every time it infects another program, rendering the virus unidentifiable. There is no way to be sure that all strains have been identified. Plus, there is no defense against subsequent viral attacks, requiring defensive measures to be reinstituted every time. Preliminary predictions by computer software experts are that between 1 and 5 million IBM compatible computers will be severely effected by the dGraph Viruses. Computers tied to local area and wide area networks are likely to be hit hardest. Beginning today, we will publish the known dGraph Virus charac- teristics daily to help disseminate the defensive information as rapidly as possible. dGraph Version 3.0 Virus #1 Detonation Date: 2/2/XX Symptoms: Monitor blinks on an off, dims and gets bright. Size: 2413 Signature: 0F 34 E4 DD 81 A1 C3 34 34 34 Virus #2, #3, #4, #5 Same as above but different dates. 2/3/XX, 2/4/XX, 2/5/XX, 2/6/XX Virus #6 Detonation Date: 2/2/XX Symptoms: Erases hard disk. Size: 1908 Signature: E4 EE 56 01 01 C1 C1 00 01 02 Virus #7 Detonation Date: 1/22/XX Symptoms: Reformats hard drive. Size: 2324 Signature: 00 F1 8E E3 AA 01 F5 6B 0B 0D Virus #8 Detonation Date: 1/23/XX Symptoms: Over exercises hard disk heads causing failure. Requires hard disk to be replaced. Size: 2876 Signature: FF 45 7A 20 96 E6 22 1F 07 0F 2E Scott's article detailed all 54 dGraph Viruses. Every wire service and news service in the country picked up the story and reprinted it in their papers and magazines. Within 24 hours, everyone who owned or used a computer had some weapons with which available to him. If they chose to believe in the danger. * * * * * Wednesday, January 20 The White House "So what about this Mason character?" Secretary of State Quinton Chambers asked challengingly. The President's inner circle was again meeting to discuss the government's reaction to the impend- ing chaos that Mr. Homosoto posthumously promised. The pre-dawn hours were viewed as an ideal time to have upper level meetings without the front door scrutiny of the press. Phil Musgrave pulled a folder from the stack in his lap and opened it. "Born 1953, he had an Archie Bunker for a father but he came out a brain - IQ of 170. Against Nam, who wasn't; he protested some, but not a leader. No real trouble with the law; couple of demonstration arrests. City College, fared all right, and then set up his own company, worked in the defense industry writing manuals until he hit it big and sold out. Divorced, no kids. Wife is kinda wacky. The news business is new to him, but he's getting noticed fast." "Is he a risk?" "The FBI hasn't completed their investigation," said Phil. "If he is a risk, it's buried deep. Surface wise, he's clean. Only one problem." "What's that?" "He's an independent thinker." "How's he done so far?" "So far so good." "So we let him continue?" "Yesterday he said he was willing to help, but I have a sneaky suspicion he'll do better on his own without our interference. Besides, he prints every damn thing he does." "What about their identity?" "No way. He will maintain source protection, and I don't think it matters right now. Maybe later." "What about the FBI friend?" "The FBI is aware of it, and views it favorably. Duncan's rela- tionship has been exclusively personal until recently. It seems to serve both sides well." "So you're saying he's working for us and not knowing it?" "He probably knows it, and probably, like most of the media, doesn't care. His job is to report the news. It just so happens that we read the same newspapers. Let's leave him alone." The President held up his hand to signal an end to the debate between State policy and the White House Chief of Staff. "Unless anyone can give me a good goddammed reason to fix something that seems to be working," he said, "let Mason do his job and let us do ours." He looked around the Oval Office for comments or dissent. It was a minor point and nobody thought it significant enough to pursue. Yet. "Next?" The President commanded. Refills of coffee were distributed and the pile of Danishes was shrinking as the men casually dined during their 6:00 A.M. meet- ing. "OSO Industries appears, by all first impressions, to have noth- ing to do with the threats." Henry Kennedy was expected to know more than anyone else at this point. "Investigations are contin- uing, but we have no reason to suspect a smoking gun." "One man did all of this?" asked the President skeptically. "We have no doubt that he accomplished at least the dGraph vi- ruses with accomplices and a great deal of money." Henry knew his material. With the combined help of the NSA, CIA, FBI and international contacts, the National Security Advisor was privy to an incredible range of information. He was never told direct- ly that U.S. agents regularly penetrated target computers as part of any investigation, or that they listened in on computers and communications to gather information. But Henry Kennedy preferred it this way; not to officially know where he got his data. Professional deniability. "We also have every reason to believe that he used technical talent outside of OSO," Kennedy continued. "Perhaps as many as thirty or forty people involved." The inner circle whistled. "Thirty or forty? That's a conspira- cy," commented Quinton. "I agree with Quinton. What I think we need to do here," said Phil Musgrave to the others in the room and the President, "is expand our previous definition of terrorism. Doesn't a threat to international stability and the economic well being of this country constitute terrorism?" He gazed into each of the listen- er's eyes then said, "In my mind it clearly does." He referred to the work at the Department of State which, since the Iraqi War, had clearly expanded the operational definition of terror- ism. "There's more," Henry said soberly. "Four months ago the FBI was inundated with reports of blackmail. None materialized but still take up a great deal of manpower and resources. Classified defense technology is used to shut down the Stock Exchange and other major businesses. Two months ago an Irani foreign national was killed in New York. He was driving a vehicle which contained sophisticated computer monitoring equipment." "Has anything developed on that front?" the President asked. "I remember reading about that. It was a tragedy." "It was," agreed Phil Musgrave. "We had the FBI, the CI division take apart what was left of the van and we began a cross trace," Henry pulled out yet another file from his stack. "It seems that during a two month period in 1988, a disproportionate number of identical Ford Econoline vans were paid for in cash. As far as the dealer is concerned, the customer disappeared. Unless they're using stolen plates, they- 're part of the DMV system. The New York van was registered to a non-existent address. Roadblocked." "And don't forget the First State incident, INTERNET, the FAA radar systems," Quinton Chambers said to the President. He listed a long series of computer malfunctions over the prior 60 days. "It appears at this point that we have been experiencing a prelude, the foreplay if you will, of something worse. The Homosoto letter makes him as good a candidate as anyone right now." Even Andrew Coletree felt in concert with the others on this point. "If what has happened to computers, the traffic systems, airplanes, to the IRS, the Stock Exchange, Fed Ex, and God knows what else is all from one man, Homosoto, then yes, it's a army, an attack." "What if we declare war?" Secretary of State Quinton Chambers said, fully expecting immediate agreement with his idea. "On who? The Computers?" jibed Defense Secretary Coletree. "The damned Computer Liberation Organization will be the next endan- gered minority." "Declaring war is a joke, excuse me Mr. President," said Phil Musgrave. "It's a joke and the American people won't buy it. They're getting hit where it hurts them the most. In their pock- ets. We have major business shut downs, and they want an answer. A fix, not a bunch of hype. We've had the war on crime, the war on drugs, the war on poverty and they've all been disasters. Things are worse now than before. They've had it with bullshit and they're scared right now." The President bowed and rotated his head to work out a kink. "The position of think," Musgrave would say. Then the refreshing snap in the President's neck would bring a smile of relief to the corners of Chief Executive's mouth. "What if we did it and meant it?" asked the President with a devilish grin. No one responded. "What if we declared war, with the approval of Congress, and actually did something about it." "A unique concept," quipped Musgrave. "Government accomplishing something." Penetrating glares from Coletree and Kennedy only furthered the President's amusement. He enjoyed the banter. "No, let me run this by you, and see what you think," the Presi- dent thought out loud. "We are facing a crisis of epic propor- tions, we all agree on that. Potential economic chaos. Why don't we deal with it that way. Why don't we really go out and fix it?" Still no reactions. "What is wrong with you guys? Don't you get it? Mediocrity is pass‚. It can't be sold to the this country again. For the first time in almost two centuries, the American people may have to defend themselves, in their homes and businesses on their home land. If that's the case, then I think that leadership should come from the White House." The President rose and leaned on the back of his chair. There was quiet muttering among his top aides. "Aren't you stretching the point a little, sir?" asked the Chambers, the silver haired statesman. "After all, it was just one man . . ." "That's the point!" shouted the President. "That's the whole damned point." He strode around to the old white fireplace with a photo of George Washington above it. If permitted, this spot would be labeled 'Photo Opportunity' by the White House tours. "Look what one man can do. I never claimed to know anything about computers, but what if this was a warning?" "Don't get maudlin on us . . ." "I am not getting anything except angry," the President said raising his voice. "I remember what they said about Bush. They said if he was Moses, he would have brought down the ten sugges- tions. That will not happen to me." The inner circle stole questioning glances from each other. "This country has not had a common cause since Kennedy pointed us at the moon. We had the chance in the '70's to build a national energy policy, and we screwed it up royally when oil prices were stable. So what do we do?" His rhetorical question was best left unanswered. "We now import more than 50% of our oil. That's so stupid . . .don't let me get started." There was an obvious sigh of relief from Chambers and Musgrave and the others. When the President got like this, real pissed off, he needed a sounding board, and it was generally one or more of them. Such was the price of admission to the inner circle. The President abruptly shifted his manner from the political altruist still inside him to the management realist that had made him a popular leader. He spoke with determination. "Gentlemen, exactly what is the current policy and game plan?" The President's gaze was not returned. "Henry? Andrew?" Mus- grave and Chambers and Secretary of the Treasury Martin Royce wished they could disappear into the wallpaper. They had seen it before, and they were seeing it again. Senior aides eaten alive by the President. "Henry? What's the procedure?" The President's voice showed increasing irritation. "Sir, CERT, the Computer Emergency Response Team was activated a few months ago to investigate Network Penetrations," Henry Kennedy said. "ECCO, another computer team is working with the FBI on related events. Until yesterday we didn't even know what we were up against, and we still barely understand it." "That doesn't change the question, Henry. What are the channel contingencies? Do I have to spell it out?" The President mel- lowed some. "I was hoping to spare myself the embarrassment of bringing attention to the fact that the President of the United States is unaware of the protocol for going to war with a comput- er." The lilt in his voice cut the edge in the room, momentari- ly. "Now that that is out in the open, please enlighten us all." The jaws were preparing to close tightly. Henry Kennedy glanced nervously over at Andrew Coletree who replied by rubbing the back of his neck. "Sir," Henry said, "basically there is no defined, coordinated, that is established procedures for something like this." The President's neck red- dened around the collar as Henry stuttered. "If you will permit me to explain . . ." The President was furious. In over thirty years of professional politics, not even his closest aides had ever seen him so totally out of character. The placid Texan confidence he normally exud- ed, part well designed media image, part real, was completely shattered. "Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars, four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we're not prepared to defend our computers? You don't have a game plan? What the hell have we been doing for the last 12 years?" The President bellowed as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the room answered. The President glared right through each of his senior aides. "Damage Assessment Potential?" The President said abruptly as he forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth. "The Federal Reserve and most banking transactions come to a virtual standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera- tions. Telephone communications running at 30% or less of capacity. No Federal payments for weeks. Do you want me to continue?" "No, I get the picture." The President wished to God he wouldn't be remembered as the President who allowed the United States of America to slip back- ward 50 years. He waited for the steam in his collar to subside before saying anything he might regret. "Marv?" For the first time the President acknowledged the presence of Marvin Jacobs, Director of the National Security Agency. Jacobs had thus far been a silent observer. He respond- ed to the President. "Yessir?" "I will be signing a National Security Decision Directorate and a Presidential Order later today, authorizing the National Security Agency to lead the investigation of computer crimes, and related events that may have an effect on the national security." The President's words stunned Jacobs and Coletree and the others except for Musgrave. "Sir?" "Do you or do you not have the largest computers in the world?" Jacobs nodded in agreement. "And do you not listen in to every- thing going on in the world in the name of National Security?" Jacobs winced and noticed that besides the President, others were interested in his answer. He meekly acknowledged the assumption by a slight tilt of his head. "I recall, Marv," the President said, "that in 1990 you yourself asked for the National Computer Security Center to be disbanded and be folded into the main operations of the Agency. Bush issued a Presidential Order rescinding Reagan's NSDD-145. Do you recall?" "Yes, of course I do," said Marvin defensively. "It made sense then, and given it's charter, it still makes sense. But you must understand that the Agency is only responsible for military security. NIST handles civilian." "Do you think that the civilian agencies and the commercial computers face any less danger than the military computers?" The President quickly qualified his statement. "Based upon what we know now?" "No, not at all." Jacobs felt himself being boxed into a corner. "But we're not tooled up for . . ." "You will receive all the help you need," the President said with assurance. "I guarantee it." His words dared anyone to defy his command. "Yessir," Jacobs said humbly. "What about NIST?" "Do you need them?" "No question." "Consider it done. I expect you all here at the same time tomor- row with preliminary game plans." He knew that would get their attention. Heads snapped up in disbelief. "One day?" complained Andrew Coletree. "There's no way that we can begin to mobilize and organize the research . . ." "That's the kind of talk I do not want to hear, gentlemen," the President said. Coletree turned red. "Mr. President," said Chambers. "If we were going to war . . ." "Sir," the President said standing straight, "we are already at war. You're just not acting like it. According to you, the vital interests of this country have been attacked. It is our job to defend the country. I call that war. If we are going to sell a Computer War to America, we better start acting like we take it seriously. Tomorrow, gentlemen. Pull out the stops." * * * * * 1:15 P.M., New York City Upon returning from lunch, Scott checked his E-Mail at the Times. Most of the messages he received were from co-workers or news associates in other cities. He also heard from Kirk on the paper's supposedly secure network. Neither he nor the technical network gurus ever figured out how he got in the system. The network administrators installed extra safeguards after Scott tipped them that he had been receiving messages from outside the paper. They added what they called 'audit trails'. Audit trails are supposed to record and remember every activity on the net- work. The hope was that they could observe Kirk remotely enter- ing the computer and then identify the security breach. Despite their attempts, Kirk continued to enter the Times' computers at will, but without any apparent disruption of the system. It took Scott some time to convince the network managers that Kirk posed no threat, but they felt that any breach was poten- tially a serious threat to journalistic privilege. Reporters kept their notes on the computer. Sources, addresses, phone numbers, high level anonymous contacts and identities, all stored within a computer that is presumably protected and secure. In reality, the New York City Times computer, like most comput- ers. is as open as a sieve. Scott could live with it. He merely didn't keep any notes on the computer. He stuck with the old tried and true method of hand written notes. His E-Mail this time contained a surprise. IF YOU WANT TO FIND OUT HOW I DID IT, CALL ME TONIGHT. 9PM. 416-555-3165. THE SPOOK. A pit suddenly developed in Scott's stomach. The last time he remembered having that feeling was when he watched Bernard Shaw broadcast the bombing of Baghdad. The sense of sudden helpless- ness, the foreboding of the unknown. Or perhaps the shock of metamorphosis when one's thoughts enter the realm of the unreal. Then came the doubt. "Ty," Scott asked after calling him at his office. "What hap- pened to Foster?" He spoke seriously. "True to his word," Tyrone laughed with frustration, "he was out in an hour. He said he was coming back to your party . . ." "Never showed up." Scott paused to think. "How did he get out so fast?" "He called the right guy. Charges have been reduced to a couple of misdemeanors; local stuff." "So, isn't he your guy?" "We're off, right?" Tyrone though to double check. "Completely. I just need to know for myself." "Bullshit," Tyrone retorted. "But for argument's sake, I know he had something to do with it, and so do a lot of other people." "So what's the problem?" "A technicality called proof," sighed Tyrone. "We have enough on him for a circumstantial case. We know his every move since he left the NSA. How much he spent and on whom. We know he was with Homosoto, but that's all we know. And yes, he is a comput- er genius." "And he goes free?" "For now. We'll get him." "Who pulled the strings?" "The Prosecutor's office put up a brick wall. Told us we had to get better evidence. I though we were all on the same side." Tyrone's discouragement was evident, even across the phone wires. "Still planning on making a move?" "I'll talk to you later." The phone went dead on Scott's ears. He had clearly said a no-no on the phone. * * * * * Cambridge, Massachusetts Lotus Development Corporation headquarters has been the stage for demonstrations by free-software advocates. Lotus' lawsuits against Mosaic Software, Paperback Software and Borland created a sub-culture backlash against the giant software company. Lotus sued its competitors on the basis of a look-and-feel copyright of the hit program 1-2-3. That is, Lotus sued to keep similar products from emulating their screens and key sequences. Like Hewlett Packard, Apple and Microsoft who were also in the midst of legal battles regarding intellectual-property copy- rights, Lotus received a great deal of media attention. By and large their position was highly unpopular, and the dense univer- sity culture which represented free exchange of programs and information provided ample opportunity to demonstrate against the policies of Lotus. Eileen Isselbacher had worked at Lotus as a Spreadsheet Customer Service Manager for almost two years. She was well respected and ran a tight ship. Her first concern, one that her management didn't necessarily always share, was to the customer. If someone shelled out $500 for a program, they were entitled to impeccable service and assistance. Despite her best efforts, though, Lotus had come to earn a reputation of arrogance and indifference to customer complaints. It was a constant public relations battle; for the salespeople, for customer service, and for the financial people who attempted to insure a good Wall Street image. The service lines are shut down at 6 P.M. EST and then Eileen enters the Service Data Base. The SDB is a record of all service calls. The service reps logged the call, the serial #, the type of problem and the resolution. Eileen's last task of the day was to compile the data accumulated during the day and issue a daily summation report. She commanded the data base to "Merge All Records". Her computer terminal, on the Service Department's Novell Pentium-server net- work began crunching. 12,346 Calls between 7:31 AM and 5:26 PM. That was a normal number of calls. Serial Numbers Verified. The Data Base had to double check that the serial number was a real one, issued to a legitimate owner. 712 Bad Disks Her department sent out replacement disks to verified owners who had a damaged disk. A little higher than the average of 509, but not significant enough unless the trend continues. FLAG!! 4,576 Computational Errors Eileen's attention immediately focussed in on the FLAG!! message. The Computational Error figures were normally '0' or '1' a week. Now, 5,000 in one day? She had the computer sort the 4,576 CE's into the serial number distribution. The Service Department was able to act as a quali- ty control monitor for engineering and production. If something was wrong - once a few hundred thousand copies hit the field - the error would show up by the number of calls. But CE's were normally operator error. Not the computer's. There was no correlation to serial numbers. Old Version 1.0's through Version 3.0 and 3.1 were affected as were the current versions. By all reports, Lotus 1-2-3 could no longer add, subtract, divide, multiply or compute accurately. Mass computa- tional errors. The bell curve across serial numbers was flat enough to obviate the need for a statistical analysis. This was clearly not an engineering design error. Nor was it a production error, or a run of bad disks. Something had changed. * * * * * Scarsdale, New York On the 6:12 to Scarsdale, Tyrone and Scott joined for a beer. The conversation was not to be repeated. "ECCO, CERT, the whole shooting match," Tyrone whispered loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the train, "are moving to NSA control. NIST is out. They all work for the Fort now. Department of Defense." "Are you shitting me?" Scott tried to maintain control. "It'll be official tomorrow," Tyrone said. "Write your story tonight. The NSA has won again." "What do you mean, again?" "Ah," Tyrone said trying to dismiss his frustrated insight into agency rivalry. "It seems that whatever they want, they get. Their budget is secret, their purpose is secret, and now they have every computer security concern at their beck and call. Orders of the President." "Aren't they the best suited for the job, though . . ." "Technically, maybe. Politically, no way!" Tyrone said adamant- ly. "I think the Bureau could match their power, but they have another unfair advantage." Scott looked curiously at Tyrone. "They wrote the rules." * * * * * Scarsdale, New York Speedo's Pizza was late, so Scott got the two $9 medium pepperoni pizzas for free, tipping the embarrassed delivery boy $10 for his efforts. Not his fault that his company makes absurd promises and contributes to the accident rate. As 9:00 P.M. approached, Scott's stomach knotted up. He wasn't quite sure what he would find when he dialed the Canadian number. It was a cellular phone exchange meaning that while he dialed the Toronto 416 area code, the call was probably rerouted by call forwarding to another location, also connected by cellular phone. Untraceable. Damn sneaky. And legal. Technology For The Peo- ple. <<<<<>>>>> Scott listened to the small speaker on his internal modem card as it dialed the tones in rapid sequence. A click, a buzz and then in the background, Scott heard the faintest of tones. Was that crosstalk from another line or was another secret number being dialed? <<<<<< CONNECTION 4800 BAUD>>>>>> The screen hesitated for few seconds then prompted . . . IDENTIFY YOURSELF: Scott wondered what to enter. His real name? Or the handle Kirk's hackers gave him. Scott Mason aka Repo Man Again the computer display paused, seemingly pondering Scott's response. I SUPPOSE ASKING FOR FURTHER IDENTIFICATION WOULD OFFEND YOU. I'm getting used to it. Paranoia runs rampant in your line of work. LET'S SAVE THE EDITORIALIZING FOR NOW. GIVE ME THE WARM AND FUZZIES. PROVE YOU'RE SCOTT MASON. You can't keep your eyes off of Sonja's chest as I recall. GOOD START. NICE TITS. So you're Miles Foster. THERE ARE GROUNDRULES. FIRST. MY NAME IS THE SPOOK. MR. SPOOK. DR. SPOOK. PROFESSOR SPOOK. KING SPOOK. I DON'T CARE WHAT, BUT I AM THE SPOOK AND ONLY THE SPOOK. MY IDENTITY, IF I HAVE ONE, IS TO REMAIN MY LITTLE SECRET. UNLESS YOU ACCEPT THAT, WE WILL GET NOWHERE FAST. Like I said, you're Miles Foster. NO. AND IF I WAS, IT WOULDN'T MATTER. I AM THE SPOOK. I AM YOUR PERSONAL DEEP THROAT. YOUR BEST FRIEND. Let me see if I understand this right. You will tell all, the whole story on the record, as long as you stay the Spook? Use your name, Spook, in everything? THAT'S IT. The paper has given me procedures. I have to record everything. Save it to disk, and give a copy to the lawyers. ARE YOU SAVING THIS YET? No. Not until we agree. Then we outline the terms and go. I'M IMPRESSED. YOU ARE THE FIRST REPORTER I'VE HEARD OF TO USE COMPUTERS AS A SOURCE. WHO DEVELOPED THE RULES? The lawyers, who else? FIGURES. So. Do we have a deal? LET ME SEE THE CONTRACT. Scott and the Spook exchanged notes over their modems and comput- ers until they arrived at terms they both could live with. After Kirk, the rules Higgins had established were clear, easy to follow and fair. Scott set his computer to Save the conversa- tion. This is Scott Mason, speaking to a person who identifies himself only as the Spook. I do not know the sex of this person, nor his appearance as all conversations are occurring over computer modem and telephone lines. The Spook contacted me today, through my office computer. This is his amazing story. Spook. Why did you call me? I DESIGNED THE COMPUTER INVASION OF THE UNITED STATES FOR TAKI HOMOSOTO. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW I DID IT? * * * * * Wednesday, January 20 National Security Agency Marvin Jacobs had a busy day and evening. And night, preparing for his meeting with the President. He would have a chance to make his point, and win it, with an audience in attendance. The high level bureaucrat craved to aspire within the echelons of the government hierarchy, but his inate competence prevented his goals from being realized. During Korea Lt. Marvin Jacobs served his country as 90 day wonder straight out of ROTC. A business major with a minor in civic administration did not prepare him for the tasks the Army had in store for him. Army Intelligence was in desperate need of quality analysts, people with minds more than marshmallows for brain. The Army Intelligence Division G-2 personnel staff poured through new recruit files in hopes of recruiting them into the voluntary program. But the catch phrase, 'Military- Intelligence,' a contradiction in terms' made their job doubly difficult. So they resorted to other tactics to recruit quali- fied people for an unpopular and often despised branch of the military: they made deals, and they made Lt. Marvin Jacobs a deal he couldn't refuse. Young Captain Jacobs returned to the United States at the end of the conflict as a highly skilled and experienced communications manager for the evolving communications technology; as antiquated as it appears today. His abilities were widely needed by emerg- ing factions of the government as McCarthyism and the fear of the Red Menace were substituted for Hot War. The super secret NSA, whose existence was unknown to a vast majority of Congress at that time, made him the best offer from all the Federal Agencies. The payscales were the same, but the working conditions promised were far superior at the Agency. Marvin Jacobs had studied to serve as a civil servant, but he imagined himself in Tecumseh, Michigan politics, not confronting the Communist Threat. He was rewarded for his efforts, handsomely. In the sports world, they call it a signing bonus. In the deep dark untrace- able world of the National Security Agency they call it All Paid Reconnaissance. APR, for short. Travel when and where you like, ostensibly on behalf of your government. If worse comes to worst, attend a half day seminar and make yourself seen. By the time he was thirty-five, Marvin Jacobs, now a well re- spected management fixture at the NSA, had seen the world twice over. Occasionally he traveled on business. For the first ten years with the Agency he traveled with his wife, college sweet- heart Sarah Bell, and then less so as their three children ma- tured. Still, although he now travels alone more often than not, he was on a plane going somewhere at least twice a month, if only for a weekend. The Directorship of the NSA landed in his lap unexpectedly in 1985, when the schism between the Pentagon and the Fort became an unsurvivable political nightmare for his predecessor. Marvin Jacobs, on the other hand, found the job the deserved cherry on a career dedicated to his country. It was largely a political job, and managing the competing factions of his huge secret empire occupied most of his time. The prestige, the power, the control and the responsibility alone wasn't enough for Marvin Jacobs. He wanted more. He wanted to make a difference. A very dangerous combination. * * * * * "It is so good to hear your voice, Ahmed Shah," Beni Rafjani said in Farsi over an open clear overseas line. "And you. I am but Allah's servant," replied Ahmed, bowing his head slightly as he spoke. "As we all are. But today I call to say you can come home." "Home? Iran?" The excitement in Ahmed's voice was more due to the call than the news. "Why?" "I thought you would be pleased, now that the Red Sun has set." The cryptic reference to the death of Homosoto wouldn't fool anybody listening, but inuendo was non-admissible. "Yes, my work is going well, and I have learned much, as have hundreds of students that attend my classes. However, with all due respect, I think we may accomplish more by continuing the work that our esteemed leader began. Why should we stop now? It goes very well - in our favor." "I understand," Rafjani said with respect. "You are honored for your sacrifice, living among the infidels." "It must be done. I mean no disrespect." "You do not speak disrepectfully, Ahmed Shah. Your work is important to your people. If that is your wish, continue, for you do it well." "Thank you, thank you. Even though one grain of sand has blown away, the rest of the desert retains great power." "Ahmed Shah, may Allah be with you." **************************************************************** Chapter 27 Thursday, January 21 The White House, Washington, D.C. He wanted to make them wait. The President decided to walk into the breakfast room for their early morning meeting a few minutes late. Even with intimates, the awe of the Presidency was still intact. His tardiness added to the tension that they all felt as a result of the recent revelations. Perhaps the tension would further hone their atten- tion and dialogue. He had not slept well the night before; he was prepared for anything he understood, but computers were not on his roster of acquired fluencies. A President has to make decisions, tough decisions, life and death decisions, but decisions of the type that have a history to study and a lesson to learn. And like most of those before him, he was well equipped to make tough decisions, right or wrong. Presidents have to have the self confidence and internal resolve to commit themselves, and their nation, to a course of action. This President's political life trained him well; lawyer, local politics, state politics and then Washington. But not computers. He was not trained in computers. He had learned to type, a little, and found that sending E-Mail messages was great fun. To him it was a game. Since the first days when microcomputers had invaded the offices of governmental Washing- ton, he had been able to insulate himself from their day to day use. All the same, every desk he had occupied was adjoined by a powerful microcomputer fitted with the finest graphics, the best printer and an elite assortment of software. He used the memory resident calculator and sent and received electronic mail. That was it. The President, as most men of his generation, accepted the fact that computers now ran the show. The whole shooting match. Especially the military. The communications and computer sophis- tication used by the Allies enthralled the world during the Iraqi War: bombs smart enough to pick which window they would enter before detonating, missiles smart enough to fly at 2000 mph and destroy an incoming missile moving at 3000 mph. It turned out that hitting a bullet with a bullet was possible after all. Intuitively, the President knew that the crisis developing before his eyes meant massive computer damage, and the repercussions would be felt through the economy and the country. However, the President did not have enough computer basics to begin to understand the problem, much less the answers. This was the first time during his administration that major tactical and policy decisions would be made primarily by others. His was a duty of rubber stamping. That worry frustrated his attempts at sleeping and nagged at him before the meeting. And then, of course, there was the press. "Gentlemen," the President said sauntering towards his chair at the head of the large formal breakfast table. He opened the door with enough vigor to startle his guests. He maintained his usual heads-up smile and spry gait as he noticed that there were new faces present. In addition to the inner circle, Marvin Jacobs asked two key NSA security analysts to be observers at the meeting. Only if the President asked a question was it then all right to speak. Accompanying Phil Musgrave, under admitted duress to repay a previous favor, was Paul Trump, Director of NIST, the eternal rival of the NSA in matters of computers. The President was introduced to the guests and smiled to himself. He recognized that the political maneuvering was beginning already. Maybe the competition would help, he thought. "Marv," the President said leaning away from the waiter pouring his coffee. This was the same waiter who had spilled near boil- ing liquid in his lap last month. "I guess it's your show, so I'll just sit back and keep my mouth shut." He leaned even further away as the waiter's clumsiness did not inspire confi- dence. Group chuckle notwithstanding, everyone in the inner circle knew what the President really meant. The President was hungry and Marv Jacobs would not be eating breakfast. He would be answering questions. "Thank you, sir," Marv said as he courteously acknowledged the presence of the others. He handed out a file folder to everyone in the room. Each was held together with a red strap labeled TOP SECRET that sealed the package. Not until the President began to open his package did the others follow suit. "We've only had a day to prepare . . ." Marvin Jacobs began. "I know," the President said wiping the corner of his mouth with a white linen napkin. "That should have been plenty of time." Marvin, wisely avoided responding to the President's barb. He took the caustic hit as the other breakfast guests quietly thanked the powers on high that it was someone elses turn to be in the hot seat. All in all, though, the President was a much calmer person this morning than during his verbal tirade the day before. But, if needed, the acerbity of his biting words would silence the boldest of his advisors or enemies. The President was still royally pissed off. "We have developed a number of scenarios that will be refined over the next weeks as we learn more about the nature of the assault by Homosoto." He turned into his report and indicated that everyone should turn to page 4. "This is sketchy, but based upon what we have seen already, we can estimate the nature of what we're up against." Page 4 contained three Phrases. 1. Malevolent Self Propagating Software Programs (Viruses) 2. Unauthorized Electromagnetic Pulses and Explosions 3. Anti-TEMPEST Coherent Monitor and Pixel Radiation. Marvin Jacobs described the observed behavior of each category, but nonetheless the President was unhappy. A rehash from the newspapers. "That's it?" the President asked in disbelief. "You call that an estimate? I can find out more than that from CNN." "At this point, that's about it." "I still can't believe this," the President said, shaking his head. "What the hell am I going to say when I have to face the press? 'Sorry folks, our computers and the country are going down the toilet, and we really don't know what to do about it. Seems as if no one took the problem seriously'" The President gazed at Marvin and Henry Kennedy, half expecting them to break into tears. "Bullshit!" "Sir, may I be blunt?" Marvin asked. "Of course, please. That's what we're here for," the President said, wondering how blunt was blunt. "Sir, this is certainly no time to place blame on anyone, but I do think that at a minimum some understanding is in order." All eyes turned to Jacobs as he spoke. "Sir, the NSA has been in the business of safeguarding military computer systems for years." "That's arguable," said the President critically. Marvin continued unaffected. "Cryptography and listening and deciphering are our obvious strong points. But neither Defense nor Treasury," he said alluding to each representative from their respective agencies, "can spend money without Congress's approv- al. Frankly sir, that is one of the major stumbling blocks we have encountered in establishing a coherent security policy." "That's a pile of bull, Marv," said NIST's feisty Paul Trump. Paul and Marv had known each other for years, became friends and then as the NIST-NSA rift escalated in '89 and '90, they saw less of each other on a social basis. "Sir," Paul spoke to the Presi- dent, "I'm sorry for interrupting . . ." "Say what you have to say." "Yessir." Trump had no trouble being direct either. Nearing mandatory retirement age had made Trump more daring. Willing to take more risks in the best interest of NIST and therefore the nation. Spry and agile, Paul Trump looked twenty years younger with no signs of slowing down. "Sir, the reason that we don't have any security in the govern- ment is due to Congress. We, Marv and I, agree on that one point. Martin, do you concur?" Treasury Secretary Martin Royce vigorously nodded in agreement. "We've been mandated to have security for years, but no one says where the money's coming from. The hill made the laws but didn't finish the job." The President enjoyed the banter among his elite troops. He thrived on open dissent and debate, making it easier for him to weigh information and opinions. That freedom reminded him of how difficult it must have been for the Soviets to openly disagree and consider unpopular positions. It seems that after Khrushchev took over, in one Politburo meet- ing, he received a handwritten note which said: 'If you're so liberal, how come you never stood up to Stalin.' Khrushchev scoured the room for a clue as to who made the insulting comment. After a tense few seconds he said, 'would the comrade who wrote this stand up so I may answer him face to face?' No one stood. 'Now, you know the answer.' The President's point was, around here anything goes, but I'm the boss. The difference is the democratic process, he would say, the voters elect me by a majority to institute a benevolent oligarchy. And I, he pointed at himself, am the oligarch. Paul Trump continued. "In reality sir, NIST has tried to cooper- ate with NSA in a number of programs to raise the security of many sectors of the government, but, in all fairness, NSA has put up constant roadblocks in the name of national security. The CMR problem for the commercial sector has been completely ignored under the cloak of classified specifications." "TEMPEST is a classified program . . ." Marvin objected strenu- ously. "Because you want it to be," Trump retorted instantly. "It doesn't have to be, and you know it. Sir," he turned to the President. "TEMPEST is . . ." The President nodded that he knew. "The specification for TEMPEST may have been considered a legitimate secret when the program started in the '70's. But now, the private sector is publishing their own results of stud- ies duplicating what we did 20 years ago. The Germans, the Dutch, the French, just about everybody but the English and us has admitted that CMR is a problem for everyone, not just the military. Jesus, you can buy anti-Tempest plans in Popular Science. Because of NSA's protectiveness of a secret that is no longer a secret, the entire private sector is vulnerable to CMR and anti-TEMPEST assaults. As a country, we have no electronic privacy." Marvin nodded in agreement. "You're damn right we keep it a secret. Why the hell should we tell the world how to protect against it? By doing that, we not only define the exact degree of our own exposure, but teach our enemies how to protect them- selves. It should be classified." "And everyone else be damned?" Trump challenged Jacobs. "I wouldn't put it that way, but NSA is a DoD oriented agency after all. Ask Congress," Marvin said resolutely. "That's the most alienating, arrogant isolationist attitude I've ever heard," Paul Trump said. "Regardless of what you may think, the NSA is not the end-all be-all, and as you so conveniently dismiss, the NSA is not trusted by many outside the U.S.. We do not have a technology monopoly on TEMPEST any more than we do on the air we breathe." Trump threw up his hands in disgust. "Patently absurd paranoia . . ." "Paul, you don't have all the facts . . ." objected Marv to no avail. Trump was a master at debate. "Sir," Trump again turned from the argumentative Jacobs to the President. "I don't think this is proper forum for rehashing history, but it should be noted that NIST is responsible for non- defense computer security, and we have a staff and budget less than 1% of theirs. The job just isn't getting done. Personally, I consider the state of security within the government to be in total chaos. The private sector is in even worse shape, and it's our own fault." "Phil?" the President said. "Emergency funding. Congress." Phil nodded as the debate continued. "None of this is saying a damn thing about what we should do. How do we best defend?" He bit off the end of crispy slice of bacon waiting for the answer he knew would be unsatisfactory. "We improvise." "Improvise! That's the best you can do?" The President threw down his napkin and it slipped off the table to the floor as he shoved his chair back. "This country is run by goddamned computers," the President muttered loudly as he paced the breakfast room. Those who had been eating ceased long ago. "Goddamned computers and morons." * * * * * Thursday, January 21 SPREADSHEETS STOP CRUNCHING LOTUS AND MICROSOFT STRUCK by Scott Mason Last weekend's threats made by the late OSO Industries Chairman, Taki Homosoto appear to be a trustworthy mirror of the future. Lotus Development Corporation and Microsoft, two of the software industry's shining stars are the latest victims of Homosoto's vengeful attack upon the computer systems of the United States. With cases of 20-20 hindsight proliferating, security experts claim that we should have seen it coming. The last several months has been filled with a long series of colossal computer failures, massive virus attacks and the magnet- ic bombing of major computer installations. These apparently unrelated computer crimes, occurring with unprecedented frequency have the distinct flavor of a prelude to the promises Homosoto made in the self penned note that accompanied his seeming sui- cide. The latest virus debacle comes immediately on the heels of the announcement of the dGraph infections. Yesterday, Lotus and Microsoft and their dealers were inundated with technical support calls. According to reports, the industry standard 1-2-3 and the popular Excel spreadsheets have been experiencing cataclysmic failures in the field. Typical com- plaints claim the powerful spreadsheet programs are performing basic mathematical functions incorrectly; a veritable disaster for anyone who relies upon the accuracy of their numbers. The leading theory held by both companies as well as software and security experts, is that a highly targeted computer virus was designed to only affect Lotus and Microsoft spreadsheet files. While some viruses are designed to erase files, or entire hard disks, the Lotus Virus as it has been informally named, is a highly sophisticated virus designed only to make subtle changes in the results of mathematical calculations. Viruses of this type are known as Slight Viruses. They only infect small portions of the computer or program, and then only in ways that will hopefully not be detected for some time - thus compounding the damage. Fortune 100 companies that use either 1-2-3 or Excel nearly unanimously announced that they will put a moratorium on the use of both programs until further notice. Gibraltar Insurance issued a terse statement: "Due to the potential damage caused by the offending software, we will immediately begin installation of compatible spreadsheet programs and verify the accuracy of all data. Our attorneys are studying the matter at this time." Lotus and Microsoft stock plummeted 36% and 27% respectively. * * * * * GOOD ARTICLE. DO YOU WANT TO GET IT RIGHT NOW? I see humility reigns right up there with responsibility. THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUSES WERE WRITTEN IN LATE 1988. CUTE, HUH? THE LONGEST VIRUS INCUBATION PERIOD EVER! Not many people share your sense of achievement. I DON'T EXPECT SO. We should get something straight right off. ARE YOU SAVING? I am now. I do not approve, in fact I despise what you say you've done. I AM NOT LOOKING FOR APPROVAL. MAYBE UNDERSTANDING. Not from me. YOU'RE BETTER THAN THAT. IF WE DO THIS, YOU NEED TO PRESENT BOTH SIDES. IT'S TO YOUR BENEFIT. YOU'RE GOING FOR A PULITZER. Don't tell me how to do my job. LET'S GET TO IT. Fine. Where did I go wrong in the article? NOT WRONG, INCOMPLETE. THERE ARE REALLY 6 VERSIONS OF THE LOTUS VIRUS. ONLY THE FIRST ONE HAS BEEN DETECTED. THE OTHERS AREN'T SET TO GO OFF UNTIL LOTUS HAS TIME TO CLEAN UP THE FIRST MESS. You mean you built several viruses all aimed at Lotus programs? AND MICROSOFT, ASHTON TATE, BORLAND, CA, NOVELL, LAN MANAGER, WORDPERFECT, AND A WHOLE BUNCH MORE. THE LIST WAS OVER 100 TO BEGIN WITH. 100? How many viruses? When? SLIGHT VIRUSES! I LOVE IT. WHAT A NAME. LIKE I SAID, YOU'RE GOOD. I GUESS 500. MAYBE MORE. THEY'RE SET TO GO OFF FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS. TIME RELEASED. TIME RELEASE SLIGHT VIRUSES. WHEW! Why? Why tell me now? SLOW DOWN. NOT ALL AT ONCE. FIRST OF ALL, WE HAVE TO BUILD YOU A LITTLE CREDIBILITY. CONVINCE YOUR PUBLIC THAT I AM WHO I SAY I AM AND THAT I CANNOT BE TOUCHED. SO HERE'S THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUS SIGNATURE - THE CURRENT ONE: 05 55 EF E0 F4 D8 6C 41 44 40 4D. IN COMPUTERS THAT ARE INFECTED, BUT HAVEN'T YET STRUCK YET, THE VIRUS IS TWO HIDDEN FILES: ONE SHORT ONE NAMED 7610012.EXE. IT'S ONLY 312 BYTES LONG AND HIDES ITSELF IN THE ROOT DIRECTORY BY LOOKING LIKE A BAD CLUSTER TO THE SYSTEM. IT'S NEVER EVEN NOTICED. WHEN THE TIME COMES, IT AWAKENS THE SECOND PART OF THE VIRUS, 7610013.EXE WHICH IS SAVED IN A HIDDEN DIRECTORY AND LOOKS LIKE BAD SECTORS. ONLY A FEW K. THAT'S THE FILE THAT SCREWS AROUND WITH 123 MATH FUNCTIONS. AFTER 123 IS INFECTED, THE FILE LENGTH STILL SAYS IT HASN'T BEEN CHANGED AND THE VIRUS ERASES ITSELF AND RETURNS THE SECTORS TO THE DISK. IN THE MEANTIME, LOTUS IS SHOT AND IT IS INFECTING OTHER PROGRAMS. BRILLIANT IF I SAY SO MYSELF. And you want me to print this? Why? IT WILL GIVE YOU AND ME CREDIBILITY. YOU'LL BE BELIEVED AND THAT IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. WE HAVE TO STOP IT FROM HAPPENING. What from happening? THE FULL ATTACK. IT CAN'T BE TOTALLY STOPPED, BUT I CAN HELP. How much of an attack? YOU HAVE NO IDEA. NO IDEA AT ALL. THERE WERE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE INVOLVED AND NOW IT'S ON AUTOPILOT. THERE'S NO WAY TO TURN IT OFF. That's incredible . . .more than incredible. Why? For what purpose? MAYBE LATER. THAT DOESN'T MATTER NOW. I WILL SAY, THOUGH, THAT I NEVER THOUGHT HOMOSOTO COULD PULL IT OFF. So you worked for him? I WAS HIRED BY OSO INDUSTRIES TO WORK ON A SECRET CONTRACT TO DESIGN METHODS TO COMBAT COMPUTER VIRUSES AND STUDY MILITARY APPLICATIONS. AS THE PROJECT CONTINUED, IT TOOK ON A NEW SCOPE AND WE WERE ASKED TO INCLUDE ADDITIONAL ELEMENTS AND CONSIDERA- TIONS IN OUR EQUATIONS. Equations? COMPUTER DESIGN IS MATHEMATICAL MODELING, SO THERE'S A LOT OF PENCIL AND PAPER BEFORE ANYTHING IS EVER BUILT. WE FIGURED THE EFFECTS OF MULTIPLE SEQUENCED VIRUSES ON LIMITED TARGET DEFINI- TIONS, COMPUTER SOFTWARE DISTRIBUTION DYNAMICS, DATA PROPAGATION PROBABILITIES. OUR CALCULATIONS INCLUDED MULTI-DIMENSIONAL INTERACTIONS OF INFECTION SIMULTANEITY. EVERY POSSIBILITY AND HOW TO CAUSE THE MOST DAMAGE. It's a good thing I kind of understand the technical gobbledy- gook. OH, IN ENGLISH? WE STUDIED WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU ENDLESSLY THROW THOUSANDS OF COMPUTER VIRUSES AT THE UNITED STATES. I got that. So what does happen? YOU'RE FUCKED FOR LIFE. ONE VIRUS IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. 1000 IS FATAL. You have a way with words. GOD GIVEN GIFT. I GUESS YOU COULD CALL US A THINK TANK FOR COMPUTER WARFARE. So what happens next Mr. Spook? PATRONIZING, NOW, NOW, NOW. LET'S SEE HERE (FLIP, FLIP) SATUR- DAY, JANUARY 23, NO, THAT WAS THE STOCK EXCHANGE, NO DECEMBER 11, THE PHONE COMPANY AND FEDERAL EXPRESS . . . Cocky son of a bitch aren't you? AH YES! HERE IT IS. MONDAY, JANUARY 25. SCOTT, YOU'RE MY FRIEND, SO LET ME GIVE YOU A TIP. DON'T TRY TAKING AN AIRPLANE FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS. Why not? THE NATIONAL RESERVATION SERVICE COMPUTERS ARE GOING TO BE VERY, VERY SICK. * * * * * "Yeah," the deep sleepy voice growled in Scott's ear. "Ty, wake up." "Wha?" "Tyrone, get up!" Scott's excited voice caught Tryone's notice. "Scott," he yawned. "What's the matter?" "Are you awake?" "Don't worry, I had to get up to answer the phone." Then in a more muffled voice Scott heard Tyrone say, "no, it's all right dear. Go back to sleep, I'll take it in the den." Tyrone got back on the phone and barked, "hold on." Scott paced across his junked up home office, sidestepping some items, stepping on others, until Tyrone came back on the line. "Shit, man," were Tyrone's first words. "You have any idea what time it is?" "Hey, I'm sorry," Scott said mocking Tyrone's complaint. "I'll write you a letter tomorrow and lick a stamp and let the Post Office take it from there . . ." "You made your point. What is it?" "The airlines are going to be hit next. Homosoto's next target." "How the hell would you know that?" "I've been talking to Foster. He told me." "Foster told you what?" "It's a huge attack, an incredibly large computer attack. He worked for Homosoto. But the point is, the airlines. They're next. Worse than the radar computer problems." "Can I get right back to you?" Waiting for Ty's call, Scott wrote an article for the following morning's paper and submitted it from home to the office comput- er. * * * * * COMPUTER TERRORISM An Exclusive Interview With The Man Who Invaded America By Scott Mason The man who claims to be the technical genius behind the recent wave of Computer Crimes has agreed to tell his story exclusively to the New York City Times. Only known as the Spook, a hacker's handle which represents both an alter-ego and anonymity, he says that he was hired by Taki Homosoto, late chairman of OSO Industries to design and prepare a massive assault against the computer systems of the United States. The incredible claims made by the Spook appear to be grounded in fact and his first statements alone were astounding. Please note, these are exact quotes from a computer conversation with the Spook. "There will be thousands of viruses. Thousands of them. I have to imagine by now that every program in America is infected with ten different viruses. There is only one way to stop them all. Never turn on your computers. "You see, most virus programmers are searching for immediate gratification. They write one and want it to spread real quick and then see it blow up. So most amateur virus builders are disappointed in the results because they don't have patience. But we, I had patience. "To maximize the effects of viruses, you have to give them time. Time to spread, to infect. Many of the viruses that you will experience are years old. The older viruses are much cruder than those made recently. We learned over time to build better vi- ruses. Our old ones have been dormant for so long, their conta- gion is complete and they will be just as effective. "We have built and installed the greatest viruses of all time. Every PC will probably be dead in months if not weeks, unless you take my advice. There are also VAX viruses, VMS viruses, SUN viruses, we even built some for Cray supercomputers, but we don't expect much damage from them." The Spook's next comments were just as startling. "The blackmail operation was a sham, but a terrific success. It wasn't for the money. No one ever collected any money, did they? It was pure psychological warfare. Making people distrust their computers, distrust one another because the computer makes them look like liars. That was the goal. The money was a diversion- ary tactic. "Part of any attack is the need to soften the enemy and terrorism is the best way to get quick results. By the time the first viruses came along, whoa! I bet half the MIS directors in the country don't know whether they're coming or going." According to the Spook, he designed the attack with several armies to be used for different purposes. One for Propaganda, one for Infiltration and Infection, one for Engineering, one for Communications, and another for Distribution and another for Manufacturing. At the pinnacle was Homosoto acting as Command and Control. "I didn't actually infect any computers myself. We had teams of Groundhogs all too happy to do that for us." According to security experts, Homosoto apparently employed a complex set of military stratagem in the execution of his attack. It has yet to be determined if the Spook will be of any help in minimizing the effects of the First Computer War. Scott finally went to bed. Tyrone never called him back. * * * * * Thursday, January 21 New York City The cavernous streets of New York on a cloud covered moonless night harbor an eerie aura, reminiscent of the fog laden alleys near the London docks on the Thames in the days of Jack the Ripper. A constant misty rain gave the city an even more de- pressing pallor than winter normally brought to the Big Apple. In other words, the weather was perfect. On the corner of 52nd. and 3rd., in the shadow of the Citibank tower, Dennis Melbourne stuck a magnetic strip ID card into a Cirrus 24 Hour Bank Teller Machine. As the machine sucked in the card, the small screen asked for the personal identification number, the PIN, associated with that particular card. Dennis entered the requested four digit PIN, 1501. The teller whirred and asked Dennis which transaction he would like. He selected: Checking Balance. A few seconds later $4,356.20 appeared. Good, Dennis thought. He then selected: Withdrawal - Checking Dennis entered, $2,000.00 and the machine display told him that his request exceeded the daily withdrawal limit. Normal, he thought, as he entered an 8 digit sequence: 00330101. The super- visor control override. The teller hummed and thought for a moment, and then $20 bills began tumbling out of the "Take Cash" drawer. One hundred of them. The teller asked, "Another Transaction?" and Dennis chose 'No'. He retrieved the magnetic card from the machine and the receipt of this transaction before grabbing a cab to a subway entrance on 59th. and Lexington Ave. The ID card he used was only designed to be used once, so Dennis saw to it that the card was cut and disposed of in a subterranean men's room toilet. Dennis Melbourne traveled throughout New York all night long, emptying Cirrus cash machines of their available funds. And the next night, and the next. He netted $246,300 in three days. All told, Cirrus customers in thirty-six states were robbed by Dennis Melbourne and his scores of accomplices of nearly $10 Million before the banks discovered how it was being done. The Cirrus network and it's thousands of Automatic Tellers were immediately closed. For the first time in years, America had no access to instant cash. Bank lines grew to obscene lengths and the waiting for simple transactions was interminable. Almost one half of personal banking had been done by ATM computer, and now human tellers had to deal with throngs of customers who had little idea of how to bank with a live person. Retail sales figures for the week after the ATM machines were closed showed a significant decline of 3.2%. The Commerce De- partment was demanding action by Treasury who pressured the FBI and everybody looked to the White House for leadership. The economic impact of immediate cash restriction had been virtually instantaneous; after all the U.S. is a culture of spontaneity demanding instant gratification. Cash machines addressed that cultural personality perfectly. Now it was gone. Dennis Melbourne knew that it was time to begin on the MOST network. Then the American Express network. And he would get rich in the process. Ahmed Shah paid him very well. 25% of the take. * * * * * Friday, January 22 New York City "We had to take out the part about the airlines," Higgins said in response to Scott's question about the heavy editing. To Hig- gins' and Doug's surprise, Scott understood; he didn't put up a stink. "I wondered about that," Scott said reflecting back on the last evening. "Telling too much can be worse than not telling enough. Whatever you say, John." "We decided to let the airlines and the FAA and the NTSB make the call." Higgins and Scott had come to know and respect each other quite well in the last few weeks. They didn't agree on every- thing, but as the incredible story evolved, Higgins felt more comfortable with less conservative rulings and Scott relinquished his non-negotiable pristine attitude. At least they disagreed less often and less loudly. Although neither one would admit it, each made an excellent sounding board for the other - a valuable asset on a story this important. Higgins continued. "The airlines are treating it as a bomb scare. Seriously, but quietly. They have people going through the systems, looking for whatever it is you people look for." Higgins' knowledge of computers was still dismal. "Scott, let me ask you something." Doug broke into the conversa- tion that like all the others, took place in Higgins' lawyer-like office. They occurred so often that Scott had half seriously convinced Higgins' secretary that he wouldn't attend unless there were fresh donuts and juice on the coffee table. When Higgins found out, he was mildly annoyed, but nonetheless, in the spirit of camaraderie, he let the tradition continue. "Children will be children," he said. "How much damage could be done if the Spook's telling the truth?" Doug asked. "Oh, he's telling the truth," Scott said somberly. "Don't for- get, I know this guy. He said that the effects would take weeks and maybe months to straighten out. And the airline assault would start Monday." "Why is he being so helpful?" Higgins asked. "He wants to establish credibility. He says he wants to help now, but first he wants to be taken seriously." "Seriously? Seriously? He's a terrorist!" shouted Higgins. "No damn different than someone who throws a bomb into a crowded subway. You don't negotiate with terrorists!" He calmed him- self, not liking to show that degree of emotion. "But we want the story . . ." he sighed in resignation. Doug and Scott agreed in unison. "Personally, it sounds like a macho ego thing," commented Doug. "So what?" asked Higgins. "Motivation is independent of premedi- tation." "Legally speaking . . ." Doug added. He wanted to make sure than John was aware that there were other than purely legal issues on the table. "As I was saying," Scott continued. "The reservation computers are the single most important item in running the nation's air- lines. They all interact and talk to each other, and create billing, and schedule planes; they interface on line to the OAG . . .they're the brains. They all use Fault Tolerant equip- ment, that's spares of everything, off site backup of all records - I've checked into it. Whatever he's planned, it'll be a doo- sey." "Well, it doesn't matter now," Higgins added with indifference. "Legally it's unsubstantiated hearsay. But with the computer transcripts of all your conversations, if anything happens, I'd say you'd have quite a scoop." "That's what he wants! And we can't warn anybody?" "That's up to the airlines, the FAA, not us." The phone on Hig- gins disk emitted two short warbles. He spoke into the phone. "Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows. Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch; the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "Hello?" he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record? Fine. Thank you." "Well?" asked Higgins. "The President himself wants to have a little chat with me." * * * * * Friday, January 22 The White House Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation- al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap- pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En- trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a "Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi- nitely not from Washington. Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving political and social attitudes. He was going to have to bring a change of clothes to the office from now on. Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela- tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very convenient was more like it, they thought. The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem, and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot. This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order. "Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott, that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow." He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring: Computer Terrorism - Exclusive. Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece." "All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy of it. That's all." Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi- ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon- esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He could hear it now, the 'you'll be helping your country,' speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the least. So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter- view with the President when this thing is over." "Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet. But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a dramatized account. "And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ." Scott added another minor demand. "Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk," joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every hour will help." Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a White House souvenir pen. "It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones. "Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy like an apple. A juicy one. "What do you mean, it didn't matter?" "We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines anyway," Marvin said with neutrality. "I don't know if I want to know about this . . ." "It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh. He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic button. For a National Security Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel- ligence is gathered. "Just in case." "Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop- erating fully." "I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling the President about this." "Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked. Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin. "I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep him honest." * * * * * Friday, January 22 Reston, Virginia "No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes, I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR. I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror. Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner guests. Miles Foster. Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far as the world was concerned, they were two different people with different goals, different motivations and different lives. The unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like Miles? In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that Sonja was between jobs. She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott, on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however, and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage- ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet. The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath, ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door. "Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck. "Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them, Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "Maybe Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us tonight," she said teasing Miles. Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source. Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha- nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake. "I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor. "Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister touch. "We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered. "I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I swear the crack of dawn is in trouble." Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac- ter was the same. "You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand you." "What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the moonlit water. "I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening." "No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan. "You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and all that . . ." "Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin- ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the fuck off. Got it?" Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real Spook? Had he blown it? Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind. Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles was magically transformed into Miles the lover. He had had no chance to respond to Miles' outburst, so Scott was caught with his jaw hung open. "You boys finish shop yet?" Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles' ear. "We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann's early years," Miles said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking dimple filled smile. "We disagree on the exact date of his second bris." Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon. Gullibility was one of Stephanie's long suits, so Sonja helped out. "That's right up there with the bathing habits of the Jamaican bobsled team." "C'mon," Stephanie said tugging at Miles. "It's chilly out here." Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren't looking. Whatever you want. It's your game. Miles mouthed back at Scott, 'you're fucking right it is.' The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything. Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar- tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends. **************************************************************** Chapter 28 Sunday, January 24 New York City Times HARDWARE VIRUSES: A NEW TWIST By Scott Mason In conversations with the Spook, the man who claims to be the technical genius behind the Homosoto Invasion, I have learned that there are even more menacing types of computer viruses than those commonly associated with infected software programs. They are hardware viruses; viruses built right into the electronics. The underground computer culture calls the elite designers of hardware viruses Chippers. It should come as no surprise then that Chipping was a practice exploited by Homosoto and his band under the wizardry of the Spook. Chippers are a very specialized group of what I would have once called hackers, but whom now many refer to as terrorists. They design and build integrated circuits, chips, the brains of toys and computers, to purposefully malfunction. The chips are de- signed to either simply stop working, cause intentional random or persistent errors and even cause physical damage to other elec- tronic circuits. You ask, is all of this really possible? Yes, it is possible, it is occurring right now, and there is good reason to suspect that huge numbers of electronic VCR's, cameras, microwaves, clock radios and military systems are a disaster waiting to happen. It takes a great many resources to build a chip - millions of dollars in sophisticated test equipment, lasers, clean rooms, electron beam microscopes and dozens of PhD's in dozens of disci- plines to run it all. According to the Spook, OSO Industries built millions upon millions of integrated circuits that are programmed to fail. He said, "I personally headed up that portion of the engineering design team. The techniques for building and disguising a Trojan Chip were all mine. I originally suggested the idea in jest, saying that if someone really wanted to cause damage, that's what they would do. Homosoto didn't even blink at the cost. Twelve million dollars." When asked if he knew when the chips would start failing he responded, "I don't know the exact dates because anyone could easily add or change a date or event trigger. But I would guess that based upon timing of the other parts of the plan, seemingly isolated electronic systems will begin to fail in the next few months. But, that's only a guess." The most damaging types of Trojan Chips are those that already have a lot of room for memory. The Spook described how mostly static RAM, (Random Access Memory) chips and various ROM chips, (Read Only Memory) such as UV-EPROM and EEPROM were used to house the destructive instructions for later release in computer sys- tems. "It's really simple. There are always thousands of unused gates in every IC. Banks and banks of memory for the taking. Homosoto was no slouch, and he recognized that hardware viruses are the ultimate in underground computer warfare. Even better than the original Trojan Horse. No messy software to worry about, and extensive collateral damage to nearby electronic components. Makes repairs terrifically expensive." Which chips are to be considered suspect? The Spook was clear. "Any RAM or ROM chips with the OSO logo and a date code after 1/89 are potentially dangerous. They should be swapped out immediately for new, uninfected components. Also, OSO sold their chips, in die form, to other manufacturers to put their own names on them. I wish I knew to whom, but Homosoto's firm handled all of that." The Spook also said to beware of any electronic device using OSO labeled or OSO made LS logic chips. Hundreds of millions of the LS logic chips, the so called Glue of electronics, are sold every year. In the electronics world they are considered 'dime-store' parts, selling for a few pennies each. However, in most elec- tronic systems, an inexpensive component failure is just as bad as an expensive component failure. In either case, it stops working. The Spook continues: "The idea was to build a small timebomb into VCR's, televisions and radios. Not only computers, but alarm systems, cash registers, video games, blowing up all at once. At times it got very funny. Imagine dishwashers spitting up gallons of suds in kitchens everywhere. The ovens will be cook- ing pork tartar and toast a la burnt. What happens when Betty- Jean doesn't trust her appliances any more? The return line at Sears will be a week long." I asked the Spook how this was possible? How could he inflict such damage without anyone noticing? His answer is as indicting as is his guilt. "No one checks. If the chip passes a few simple tests, it's put into a calculator or a clock or a tele- phone or an airplane. No one expects the chip to be hiding something destructive, so no one looks for it. Not even the military check. They just expect their chips to work in the frozen depths of space and survive a nuclear blast. They don't expect a virus to be lurking." No matter what one thinks of the nameless, faceless person who hides behind the anonymity of these computerized confessions, one has to agree that the man known as the Spook has awakened this world to many of the dangers that unbridled technical proficiency brings. Have we taken too much liberty without the concomitant responsibility? I know that I find I wish I could run parts of my life in fast forward. Sitting in a movie theater, I feel myself tense as I realize I cannot speed up the slow parts. Has the infinite flexibility we have given ourselves outpaced social conscience? Ironically, conversations with the Spook tended to be impersonal; not machine-like, but devoid of concern for people. I asked him if he cared. "That was not the idea, as far as I know. In a way this was electronic warfare, in the true sense of the word. Collateral damage is unavoidable." Hardware viruses in addition to software viruses. Is nothing sacred? * * * * * Sunday, January 24 Washington, D.C. "Does he know what he's saying?" Henry Kennedy said doubtfully. "I think so, and I also think it's a brilliant way to put a huge dent in the Japanese monopoly on integrated circuits." Marvin Jacobs had an office installed not two doors from Kennedy's in the subterranean mazes beneath the White House lawn. "He can't blame the Japanese for everything." "Don't you see? He's not? All he's saying is that OSO did it, and he's letting the Japanese national guilt by association take its course." Jacobs seemed pleased. "Mason's chippers will cast a shadow of doubt on everything electronic made in Japan. If it has OSO's name on it, it'll be taboo. Toshiba, Mitsubishi, Matsushita . . .all the big Nippon names will be tarnished for years." "And you actually want this to happen?" asked Henry. "I didn't say that," Marvin said slithering away from a policy opinion. "Hey, what are you complaining about? Mason gave us the article like you wanted, didn't he?" "I told you there were other ways," Kennedy shot back. "Well, for your information, there's a little more that he didn't tell us about," said Jacobs haughtily. "And how did you find out? Pray tell?" Marvin grinned devilishly before answering. "CMR. Van Eck. Whatever. We have Mason covered." "You're using the same . . ." "Which is exactly how we're going to fight these bastards." "At the expense of privacy?" "There is no clear cut legal status of electromagnetic emanations from computers," Marv said defensively. "Are they private? Are they free to anyone with a receiver, like a radio or TV? No one has tested the theory yet. And that's not to say we've tried to publicize it. The FCC ruled in 1990 that eavesdropping on cellu- lar telephone calls was legal. By anyone, even the government." Marvin was giving a most questionable technical practice an aura of respectability hidden behind the legal guise of freedom. Kennedy was uncomfortable with the situation, but in this case, Marv had the President's ear. "And screw privacy, right? All in the name of national security." Henry did not approve of Marvin's tactics. "It's been done before and it'll be done again," Marvin said fairly unconcerned with Kennedy's opinions and whining. "Citing National Security is a great antidote to political inconvenience." "I don't agree with you, not one iota!" blasted Kennedy. "This is a democracy, and with that comes the good and the bad, and one premise of a democracy is the right to privacy. That's what shredded Nixon. Phone taps, all the time, phone taps." "Henry, Henry," begged Marv to his old time, but more liberal minded friend. "This is legal." Marvin's almost wicked smile was not contagious. "It's not illegal either." Kennedy frown deeply. "I think you take the NSA's charter as national listening post to an extreme," he said somberly. "Henry, Are you going to fight me on this?" Marv asked finally. "No," sighed Henry Kennedy. "The President gave you the task, I heard him, and I'm here to support his efforts. I don't have to agree . . .but it would help." * * * * * "Don't worry. The speech will make him sound like an expert, like he actually knows what he talking about. Not a man who thinks Nintendo is Japanese slang for nincompoop." Phil Musgrave called Henry Kennedy's office in the basement. Phil joked with Henry about the President's legendary technical ineptness. One time while giving a speech to the VFW, the sound went out. Trying to be helpful, the President succeeded in plugging an 'in' into an 'out' which resulted in a minor amount of smoke, an embarrassing false security alert, and the subse- quent loss of any sound reinforcement at all. "You know how I feel about him, Phil," said Henry with concern. "I support him 110%. But this is a new area for all of us. We don't have the contingency plans. Defense hasn't spent years studying the problem and working out the options or the various scenarios. Phil, until recently viruses and hackers were consid- ered a non-problem in the big picture." "I know, Henry, I know, but the politicians had to rely on the experts, and they argued and argued and procrastinated . . ." "And Congress, as usual, didn't do shit." Kennedy completed the statement. "That doesn't change the fact that he's winging it. Christ, we don't even know the questions much less the answers and, well, we know he calls 911 to change a lightbulb." His affection for the President was clear through the barb. "And you know what really pisses me off?" "What's that?" "Jacobs. He seems pleased with the turn of events." "He should," agreed Phil nonchalantly. "He just won a major battle. He's got security back under his thumb. A nice politi- cal coup." "No, not that," Henry said cautiously. "It's just that I think he's acting too much the part of the renegade. Do you know what I mean?" "No, not at all," laughed Phil. "He's just playing it his way, not anyone elses. C'mon, now, you know that." "I guess . . ." "Besides, Henry," he said glancing at his watch. "It's getting to be that time." They agreed to watch the speech from the sidelines, so they could see how the President's comments were greeted by the press. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States." An assistant White House press agent made the announcement to the attendant Washington press pool. The video was picked up by the CNN cameras as it was their turn to provide a feed to the other networks. Sunday evening was an odd time to call a press confer- ence, but everyone had a pretty good idea that the subject was going to be computers. Thus far, government comments on the crisis had come from everywhere but the White House. The President rapidly ambled up to the podium and placed his notes before him. He put on his glasses and stared at the camera somberly. It was speeches that began this way, without a prean- nounced subject matter, that caused most Americans who grew up during the Cold War to experience a sinking feeling in their stomachs. They still thought about the unthinkable. As usual the press corps was rapt with attention. "Good evening," the President of the United States began slowly. "I am speaking to you tonight on a matter of great concern to us all. A subject of the utmost urgency to which we must address ourselves immediately. "That subject is, information. The value of information. "As I am sure most of you are aware, one man, Taki Homosoto, threatened the United States this last week. It is about that very subject that I wish to speak to the country, and the world." The President paused. He had just told the country what he was going to say. Now he had to say it. "For all practical purposes, the United States is undergoing an electronic Pearl Harbor, and the target is one of the most cru- cial segments of our way of life: Information. "Information. What is information? Information is news. Infor- mation is a book, or a movie or a television show. Information is a picture, it's a word and it's a gesture. Information is also a thought. A pure idea. "Information is the single commodity, a common denominator upon which all industrial societies must rely. Data, facts, opinions, pictures, histories, records, charts, numbers. Whether that data is raw in nature, such as names, addresses and phone numbers, or it consists of secret governmental strategies and policies or proprietary business details, information is the key building block upon which modern society functions. "Information is the lifeblood of the United States and the world. "As first steam, and then coal and then gas and oil, now informa- tion has become an integral driving force of the economy. Without information, our systems begin to collapse. How can modern society function without information and the computers that make America what it is? Effectively there are no longer any nationalistic boundaries that governments create. Information has become a global commodity. What would our respective cul- tures look like if information was no longer available? "We would not be able to predict the weather. Credit cards would be worthless pieces of plastic. We would save less lives without enough information and the means to analyze it. We need massive amounts of information to make informed decisions in government policies and actions. "What if banks could no longer transfer money because the comput- ers were empty? How could the airlines fly if there were no pas- senger records? What good is an insurance company if its clients names are nowhere on file? If there was no phone book, who could you call? If hospitals had no files on your medical history, what treatment is required? With a little effort, one can imag- ine how difficult it would be to run this planet without informa- tion. "Information, in short, is both a global and a national strate- gic asset that is currently under attack. "Information and the information processing industry has come to represent a highly significant piece of our gross national product; indeed, the way we live as Americans, enjoying the highest standard of living in the world, is due in large part to the extraordinary ability of having information at our fingertips in a second's notice. Anything we want in the form of informa- tion can literally be brought into our homes; cable television, direct satellite connections from the back yard. The Library of Congress, and a thousand and one other sources of information are at our fingertips from our living room chair. "Without information, without the machinery that allows the information to remain available, a veritable national electronic library, the United States steps back thirty years. "Information is as much a strategic weapon in today's world as is the gun or other conventional armaments. Corporate successes are often based upon well organized data banks and analytic tech- niques. Government functions, and assuredly the Cold War was fought, on the premise that one side has more accurate informa- tion than its adversary. Certainly academia requires the avail- ability of information across all disciplines. Too, the public in general relies upon widespread dissemination of information for even the simplest day to day activities. "It is almost inconceivable that society could function as we know it without the data processing systems upon which we rely. "It is with these thoughts that those more expert than I can speak at length, but we must realize and accept the responsibili- ty for protecting that information. Unfortunately, we as trust- ing Americans, have allowed a complacency to overshadow prudent pragmatism. "Over the last weeks we have begun to see the results of our complacency. The veins of the nation, the free flow of informa- tion, is being poisoned. "Both the government and the private sector are to blame for our state of disarray and lack of preparedness in dealing with the current crisis. We must be willing, individually and collective- ly, to admit that we are all at fault, then we must fix the problem, make the sacrifice and then put it behind us. "It is impossible for the Government to deny that we have failed miserably in our information security and privacy implementation. Likewise, the value of the accumulation of information by the private sector was overlooked by everybody. Fifteen years ago, who could have possibly imagined that the number of businesses relying on computers would have jumped more than a hundred thou- sand fold. "Today, the backbone of America, the small businessman, 20,000,000 strong, the one man shop, provides more jobs than the Fortune 1000. And, the small businessman has come to rely on his computer as Big Business has for decades. His survival, his success is as critical to the stability of the United States' economy as is a General Motors or an IBM. We must defend the small business as surely as we must defend our international competitiveness of industrial leaders. "The wealth of this country was once in steel mills, in auto plants, in manufacturing. The products built by the United States were second to none. Made in the U.S.A. was a proud label, one that carried a premium worldwide. Our technological leadership has never been in question and has been the envy of the world for over 200 years. Franklin, Fulton and Edison. The Wright Brothers, Westinghouse, Ford. As a nation the Manhattan Project reaffirmed our leadership. Then Yaeger and the speed of sound. The transistor. DNA decoded. The microchip. The Moon. The computer. "Yet there was a subtle shift occurring that escaped all but the most vigilant. We were making less things, our concentration on manufacturing was slowly shifting to an emphasis on technology. Communications, computers. Information processing. No longer are cities built around smokestacks spewing forth the byproducts of the manufacturing process. Instead, industrial parks sprout in garden-like settings that encourage mental creativity. Fifteen percent of the American workforce no longer drive to the office. They commute via their computers at home. "The excitement of the breakneck pace of technology masked the danger in which we were placing ourselves. Without realizing it, a bulk of this nation's tangible wealth was being moved to the contents of a computer's memory. We took those first steps toward computerization hesitantly; we didn't trust the computer. It was unfamiliar, foreign, alien. But when we embraced the computer, we unquestioningly entrusted it with out most precious secrets. "Unlike the factory though, with the fence, the gates, the dogs, the alarms and the night guards, we left our computers unprotect- ed. Growing bigger and faster computers took precedence over protecting their contents. "We were warned, many times. But, as I said earlier, neither your government nor its constituency heeded the warnings with enough diligence. Protection of government information became a back-burner issue, a political hot cake, that in budget crunches, was easy to overlook. Overclassification of information became the case of the 'The Spy Who Cried Wolf.' The classification system has been abused and clearly does not serve us well. At my direction it will receive a thorough overhaul. "Personal privacy has been ignored. Your government is in pos- session of huge amounts of data and yet there is no effort at protecting the non-classified privacy of individuals in our computers. "The private sector faces another dilemma. The unresponsiveness of the Federal Government to the protection of its own informa- tion did not set a good example for industry, and their comput- ers, too, remained vulnerable. The President paused from reading his speech to pour a glass of ice water. "Nothing can stop the fact that the United States is under at- tack. Nothing can change the fact that the attack cannot be turned away. And nothing can change the fact that America will suffer significant disruptions and inconvenience for some time. But we can minimize the damage. We can prepare for the inevita- ble obstacles we will face. "The poison that Mr. Homosoto put into the American information society is the equivalent of electronic biological warfare. He has senselessly and vengefully struck out against the United States in a manner that I describe as an act of war. "In order to deal with this real threat to the security of the United States of America, I have taken several steps that are designed to assist in weathering the storm. "First, I am assigning the Director of the National Security Agency to coordinate all efforts at defending against and mini- mizing the effects of the current crisis. The NSA has the expe- rience and resources, and the support of this President to manage an operation of this complexity and importance. In addition, representatives from GCHQ in the United Kingdom and other ITSEC members from Germany, France and Holland will coordinate European defensive strategies. "Second, I am activating the following four groups to assist the NSA in their efforts. ECCO, the Emergency Computer Crisis Organ- ization, has acted as an advisor to law enforcement agencies across the country and has been instrumental in providing the technical support to the FBI and the Secret Service in their computer crime investigations. "CERT, the Computer Emergency Response Team was created by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency as an outgrowth of the 1988 INTERNET Worm incident. Carnegie Mellon University where CERT is headquartered has donated the facilities and staff of their Software Engineering Institute to deal with the invasion of our computers. "The Defense Data Network Security Coordination Center was based at the Stanford Research Institute by the Defense Communications Agency to coordinate attacks against non-classified computer systems. "Lastly, CIAC, the Computer Incident Advisory Capability manages computer crises for the Department of Energy at Lawrence Liver- more Laboratories. "These are the organizations and the people who will guide us through the coming adversities. It is they who are responsible to insure that America never again finds itself so vulnerable. So open to attack. So helpless in our technological Achilles Heel. "The organizations I mentioned, and the government itself have not yet been tested in a crisis of significant magnitude. This is their maiden voyage, so to speak, and it is incumbent on us, the American people, to make their job as easy as we can by offering our complete cooperation. "And, tonight, that is what I am asking of you. Your assistance. Your government cannot do it alone. Nor can small localized individual efforts expect to be successful against an army of invaders so large. We must team together, act as one, for the good of the entire country. From the big business with 100,000 computers to the millions of men, women and children with a home computer; from the small businessman to the schools, we need to come together against the common enemy: the invasion of our privacy and way of life. "Americans come together in a crisis, and my fellow Americans, we face a crisis. Let me tell you what my advisors tell me. They tell me without taking immediate drastic steps to prevent further destruction of America's information infrastructure, we face a depression as great as the one of the 1930's. "They tell me that every computer in the country, most in Canada, a significant number in England and other countries, can expect to be attacked in some manner within two years. That represents over 70 million casualties! "The international financial and monetary system will come to a halt and collapse. Financial trading as we know it will cease and wild speculative fluctuations will dominate the world curren- cy markets. America is already feeling the change since the ATM networks were removed from service. "As we have seen, the transportation facilities of this country, and indeed the world, are totally dependent on computers and therefore vulnerable. That is why today we take so seriously the threats against the airlines. There is no choice but success. Together, the American people must stand up to this threat and not succumb to its effects. "While your government has the resources to develop solutions to the problems, it has not been within our power to mandate their use in the private sector. "We will need unity as never before, for the battleground is in our homes, our schools, our streets and our businesses. The children of this great country will have as much opportunity to contribute as their parents will, and as the leaders of business will. As we all will and all must. "In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the very structure of our country is in imminent danger of collapse, and it is up to us, indeed it is within our power, to survive. The sacrifices we will be called upon to make may be great, but the alternative is unacceptable. "Indeed, this is a time where the American spirit is called upon to shine, and shine brightly. Thank you, and God Bless the United States of America." * * * * * Sunday, January 24 Scarsdale, New York "One fuckuva speech," Tyrone Duncan said to Scott Mason who was downing the last of a Coors Light. "You should be proud of yourself." They had watched the President's speech on Scott's large screen TV. "Ahhhh," grunted Scott. "It's almost anti-climatic." "How the hell can you say that?" Tyrone objected. "Isn't this what you've been trying to do? Get people to focus on the prob- lem? Christ, you can't do much more than a Presidential speech." "Oh, yeah," agreed Scott cynically. "Everyone knows, but not a damn thing's gonna be done about it. Nothing. I don't care what the President says, nothing's going to change." "You have become one cynical bastard. Even Congress is behind the President on this one. His post-speech popularity is over 70% according to CNN's Rapid Sample Poll." "CNN. Bah, Humbug. Sensationalist news. And you think the proposed computer crime bills will pass?" Scott asked doubtfully. Tyrone hesitated. "Sure, I think so. And you don't?" "No, I don't. At least not in any meaningful way. C'mon, you're the constitutionalist not me. Sure, the original authors of the bill will write something with punch, maybe even effective. But by the time it gets committee'd to death, it'll be another piece of meaningless watered down piece of shit legislation. And that's before the states decide that computer crime is a state problem and not an inter-state issue. They'll say Uncle Sam is treading on their turf and put up one helluva stink." Scott shook his head discouragingly. "I see nothing but headaches." "I think you just feel left out, like your job's done and you have nothing to do anymore. Post partum depression." Ty rose from the comfortable leather reading chair to get a couple more beers. "I kind of know how you feel." Scott looked up at Tyrone in bewilderment. "You do? How?" "I'm definitely leaving. We've made up my mind." Tyrone craned his neck from the kitchen. "Arlene and I, that is." Tyrone came back and threw a silver bullet at Scott. "This part of my life is over and it's time I move on to something else." "Computers and the Law I suppose?" Scott said drearily. "Don't make it sound like the plague," Tyrone laughed. "I'm doing it because I want to, and it's needed. In fact I would expect a good amount of the work to be pioneering. Pro bono. There's no case history; it'll be precedent setting law. I figure someone's got to be there to keep it honest. And who better than . . ." Tyrone spread his arms around the back of the chair. "You, I know. The great byte hope." Scott laughed at his own joke which triggered a similar response from Tyrone. "Hey, man. I wish you all the best, if that's what you really want." A sudden beeping began. "What's that?" asked Tyrone. "A computer begging for attention. Let me see who it is." Tyrone followed Scott into his office, still astonished that anyone could work in such a pig pen. And the rest of the house was so neat. <<<<<>>>>> The computer screen held the image of the single word while whoever was calling caused Scott's computer to beep incessantly. "What the hell?" Scott said out loud as he pecked at the keyboard standing rather than sitting at his desk. wtfo YOU'RE THERE. GOOD. kirk? YUP. WANNA GO TO A DEBATE? Excuse me? YOU WATCH THE PRESIDENT? Of course. I have a mild interest in the subject. SO DID I AND EVERY OTHER PHREAK IN THE COUNTRY, AND THEY'RE NOT HAPPY. Why? SEE FOR YOURSELF. THE CONVERSATION PIT AT NEMO IS BRIMMING. I GOT YOU AN INVITE. I have a guest. FRIEND OR FOE friend. definitely. REMEMBER HOW TO USE MIRAGE? I can fake it. To Tyrone's amazement, Scott seemed to know what he was doing at the computer. Scott sat down, put his electronic conversation with Kirk on hold, and called up another program as the colorful screen split into two. I got you on the bottom window. YOU'LL SEE THE PIT ON THE TOP. JOIN IN WHEN YOU WANT. Maybe I'll just listen. WHATEVER. I'M LOGGING ON. The top window on Scott's computer screen blinked off momentarily and then was filled with a the words from the dissident phreaks. CONVERSATION PIT: KIRK, RAMBO, PHASER, FON MAN, POLTERGEIST, AND WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? <> B THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT IS JUST TRYING TO TAKE OVER. THE BILL OF RIGHTS IS GOING RIGHT DOWN THE SHITTER <> I AGREE. THEY LOOK FOR ANY EXCUSE TO TAKE AWAY ANY FREEDOM WE MAY HAVE LEFT AND THEY TOOK THIS HOMOSOTO THING AND BLEW IT RIGHT OUT OF PROPORTION. JUST LIKE VIETNAM. <> YOU DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DO YOU? <> YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I DO. SINCE WHEN HAS THE GOVERNMENT GIVEN A SHIT ABOUT US? ONLY SINCE THEY REALIZED WE HAVE POWER WITHOUT THEM. THEY'RE NO LONGER IN CONTROL AND THEY'LL DO ANYTHING THEY HAVE TO TO GET IT BACK. <> I DON'T THINK THAT IT'LL BE THAT BAD <> YOU BEEN HANGING OUT WITH THAT MASON GUY TOO MUCH <> CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. HE'S LISTENING <> ALL THE BETTER. HE'S AS BAD AS THE FEDS. <> May I say something? WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG? I must beg to differ with Phaser with a question. IT'S YOUR DIME. <> Believe me, I understand that you guys have a point, about hack- ing and the free flow of information. But who's in control now? From my viewpoint, it's not you and it's not the government. It's Homosoto. SO? <> So, if freedom is the issue as you say, I assume that you want to keep your electronic freedom at all costs. RIGHT! <> THAT'S THE POINT <> Therefore, regardless of your opinions, you must realize that the government will do everything it thinks it needs to do to protect the country. MAKE YOUR POINT. <> It seems to me that the best way for you to keep the electronic freedom you crave, might be to help fight Homosoto and the vi- ruses and all. Minimize the damage, help defend the Global Network. HE MAKES A POINT. I'VE HELPED. <> THEN WE FALL INTO THEIR TRAP. SAVE IT ALL AND THEN THEY CLOSE DOWN THE NETWORK. I CAN'T PLAY INTO THEIR DECEIT AND TREACHERY. <> DO YOU THINK THE FREEDOM LEAGUE IS DOING GOOD? <> OF COURSE NOT. <> That's Homosoto. Thousands of viruses. NEMO already helped. ONLY THOSE THAT AGREE. WE ARE NOT A DEMOCRACY. <> SO YOU DON'T WANT TO FIGHT THE VIRUSES? <> NOT YOU, TOO? <> IT'S A MATTER OF RIGHT AND WRONG. ELECTRONIC FREEDOM, ANARCHY IS ONE THING. BUT WE DO NOT ABUSE. WE LIVE BY THE CODE AND WANT TO KEEP THE NETWORK OPEN. HOMOSOTO WANTS TO CLOSE THE NETWORK DOWN. BY SCARE TACTICS. <> THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT WILL TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY. <> Only if they have to. Wouldn't you rather help and keep that from happening? IF I TRUSTED THE GOVERNMENT. <> Can I introduce you to someone? His handle is FBI. KIRK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GIVING US AWAY? <> THEY'RE TIED IN ON MIRAGE. THEY CAN PLAY BUT THERE'S NO REDIAL. <> Gentlemen, this is the FBI. Let me tell you something. I don't agree with hacking, theft of service and the like. But I also am pragmatic. I recognize the difference between the lesser of two evils. And as of today, based upon what I know, you guys are a pain the ass, but not a threat to national security. That is why Washington has taken little interest in your activities. But at the same time, you are part of an underground that has access to the electronic jungle in which we find ourselves. We would like your help. OFFICIALLY? <> No, unofficially. I am law enforcement, associated with ECCO, if you've ever heard of them. ECCO. YOU GUYS FIGHT THE REAL COMPUTER JERKS, DON'T YOU? LIKE ROBERT MORRIS AND PUNJAB. DID YOU EVER CATCH THE GUY WHO STOPPED THE SHUTTLE FLIGHT? <> Sadly, no. I am talking to you as a friend of Scott's. And I will tell you, that anything I learn I will use to fight Homoso- to's attack. But frankly, you are little fish. I don't know who you are, nor do I really care. In all honesty, neither does Washington, the NSA or anyone else. You're merely an underground protest group. If anything, you help keep us honest. But even protestors should have their limits. MINE HAS BEEN REACHED. <> AND MINE. <> There is a big difference between freedom of speech and insurrec- tion and invasion. WHAT ABOUT PRIVACY? <> THERE IS NONE, AND YOU KNOW IT. <> THAT'S THE POINT. WE HAVE TO STOP THE MILITARISTIC WAR MONGERS FROM PRYING INTO OUR LIVES. THEY KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT US, AND MORE. I WANT TO SEE THAT STOPPED. NOW. <> This is Mason. At the expense of true freedom? Freedom of choice? By your logic, you may end up with no Compuserve. No electronic mail boxes. No networks. Or, they'll be so restricted that you'll never get on them. IT'LL HAPPEN ANYWAY. <> And you'll just speed up the process. What do you have to lose by helping out? I WANT TO CONTINUE HELPING. MY FREEDOM TO HACK RESPONSIBLY IS IN DANGER BY ONE MAN, AND I AIM ON KEEPING MY FREEDOM. <> It may be the only way to keep the digital highways open, I'm sorry to say. IS THAT A THREAT? <> Merely an observation. I NEED TO THINK. <> WHAT DO YOU NEED TO KNOW? <> A lot. We need a complete list of phone numbers for every Free- dom BBS. They provide wide distribution of infected software. WE KNOW. BFD. <> This is FBI. We want to shut them down. HOW? <> We have our means. SEE WHAT I MEAN! THEY'RE ALL PIGS. THEY TAKE, TAKE, TAKE. BUT IF YOU ASK SOMETHING THEY CLAM UP. <> All right. If it works you'll find out anyway. There are a number of underused laws, and we want to keep this on a Federal level. USC 1029, 1030, 2134 - they're a bunch of them including racketeering. Then there are a number of Federal laws against doing anything injurious to the United States. WHICH GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO PROSECUTE ANYONE YOU DAMN WELL PLEASE WHENEVER YOU DAMN WELL WANT. <> As a lawyer, I could make that case. I AM A LAWYER, TOO. I PHREAK FOR PHREEDOM. <> Then you also know, that you have to really be on someone's shit list to get the FBI after you. Right now, Homosoto and his gang are on our shit list big time. THEN WHEN YOU'RE THROUGH WITH THEM, IT'S US NEXT. THEN WHO'S LEFT? <> RIGHT. <> We can argue forever. All I'm saying is we could use whatever help you can give us. And I honestly don't care who you are. Unless of course you're on my shit list. FBI HUMOR. <> WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED? <> As many signatures as possible. We figure that there are thou- sands of you out there, and you can probably do a better job than any government security group punching in at nine and out at five. You have more people, no bureaucracy and a bigger sample of the software population. SIGNATURES? NO QUESTIONS ASKED? <> None. Also, rumors. WHAT KIND OF RUMORS? <> Like who might want to disrupt the Air Reservations System. YOU'RE KIDDING? <> I wish I was. You see, we are up against the wall. THAT COULD REALLY FUCK THINGS UP. <> REALLY! <> IS IT REALLY THAT BAD? <> Worse. MAYBE I'LL THINK ABOUT IT. <> ME TOO. <> MASON. I'M GOING TO CUT YOU OFF. <> It won't be the first time. <<<<<>>>>> Tyrone stretched his limbs searching for a bare place to sit down. Leaning over Scott's shoulders for the slow paced computer conversation stiffened his muscles. Scott motioned to slide whatever was in the way, out of the way, to which Tyrone com- plied. "Dedicated mother fuckers. Misguided, but dedicated." Ty sat back in thought. "What do you think they'll do?" "I don't think, I know," said Scott confidently. "Most of them will help, but they won't admit it. They openly distrust you, Washington and me. But they value their freedom, and instinc- tively they will protect that. Kirk will be the conduit. I'm not worried." "And what will they do?" "Once they get around to it, they'll commandeer every hacker in the country and at least stop the viruses. Or some of them. I think that we need to elicit their trust, and I can do that by giving them more than they give me." "Can you do that?" "Just watch. If they play their cards right, they can be heroes." **************************************************************** Chapter 29 Monday, January 25 The White House We had a pretty good handle on parts of it," said Marvin Jacobs glibly. Phil Musgrave, Martin Royce, Henry Kennedy and Quinton Chambers joined Marvin in one of the private White House conference rooms at 5 A.M. Jacobs had called all members of the inner circle, personally, early that morning. He had received word that last evening's computer conversations between Scott Mason and the Spook had been intercepted and the preliminary analysis was ready. Scott Mason's computer screens had been read by the NSA's remote electromagnetic receivers while he prepared his article for the following day. The actual article had also been transmitted to the White House, prior to publication, as agreed. "And Mason seems to be living up to his part of the bargain," Jacobs continued. "He only edits out the bullshit, pardon my French. Gives the public their money's worth." "You said we were close. How close?" Musgrave tended to run these meetings; it was one of the perks of being the President's Number One. "His organization was a lot more comprehensive than we thought," Henry Kennedy said. "We underestimated his capabilities, but we caught the essence of his weapons by good guessing." "If we could get our hands on this Spook character," sighed Martin Royce. He was thinking of the perennial problems associ- ated with identifying the exact location of someone who doesn't want to be found. "That's not the problem," said Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave. "We know who the Spook is, but we can't prove it. It's only hearsay, even with Mason's testimony, and it's a pretty damn safe bet he won't be inclined to testify. But Marv has given us a ton on him. After all, he is Marv's fault." "You guys sort that out on your own time," yawned Phil. "For now, though we need to know what we're up against." "If the President hadn't gone on television last night, we might have been able to keep this quiet and give the press some answers in a few days." Marv said. "Dream on," Phil said emphatically. "Mason broke the story and we were caught with our pants down. The President did not, and I repeat, did not, want to be associated with any cover up . . ." "I didn't say cover up . . ." "He wants to take his lumps and fix it. He will not lie to the American people." "If we shut Mason up." Marv suggested. "We need him right where he is," Henry Kennedy said about Scott to stem the escalating argument. "The subject is closed." Phil's comment silenced the room. After all was said and done, Musgrave was the closet thing to the President in the room. As with the President, the discussion was over, the policy set, now let's get on with it. "So, Marv? What are we up against." The seasoned professional in Marvin Jacobs took over, conflicting opinions in the past, and he handed out a series of TOP SECRET briefing folders. "You've got to be kidding," laughed Martin Royce holding up his file. "This stuff will be in today's morning paper and you classify it?" "There are guidelines for classification," Marvin insisted. "We follow them to the letter." "And every letter gets classified." muttered Royce under his breath. The pragmatist in him saw the lunacy of the classifica- tion process, but the civil servant in him recognized the impos- sibility of changing it. Marv ignored the comment and opened his folder. "Thanks, Phil," began Marv. "Well, I'll give it to him, Foster that is. If what he says is accurate, we have our work cut out for us, and in many cases all we can do is board up our windows before the hurricane hits." "For purposes of this discussion, assume, as we will, that the Spook, Foster, is telling the truth. Do we have any reason to disbelieve him?" "Other than attacking his own country? No, no reason at all." Marvin showed total disdain for Foster. His vehemence quieted the room, so he picked up where he left off. "The first thing he did was establish a communications network, courtesy of AT&T. If Foster is right, then his boys have more doors and windows in and out of the phone company computers than AT&T knows exist. For all intents and purposes, they can do anything with the phone system that they want. "They assign their own numbers, tap into digital transmissions, reprogram the main switches, create drop-dead billings, keep unlimited access lines and Operator Control. If we do locate a conversation, they're using a very sophisticated encryption scheme to disguise their communications. They're using the same bag of tricks we tried to classify over 20 years ago, and if anyone had listened . . ." "We get the point, Marv," Phil said just before Henry was about to say the same thing. "We can triangulate the cell phone location, but it takes time. Perhaps the smartest thing Foster did was recognize the need for an efficient distribution system. In order for his plan to work, he had to insure that every computer in the country was infected." "Thus the dGraph situation?" Quinton Chambers finally began to look awake. "And the Lotus Viruses, and the Freedom software," Henry said. "What about FTS-2000?" He was asking about the new multi-billion dollar voice and data communications network. FTS stands for Federal Telecommunications System. "I have no doubt that it's in the same boat," suggested Marv. "But we have no sure data yet. We should ask Scott to ask Fos- ter." "What could happen?" "Worst case? The government shuts down for lack of interest and no dial tone." "And these viruses?" "According to Foster, they designed over 8,000 viruses and he assumes that all or most of them have been released over the last several years," Marv said to a room full of raised eyebrows. "How bad is that?" asked Chambers. "Let's put it this way," said Marv. "In the last 14 years, of the viruses that have been confirmed, the longest gestation period, from release to detonation . . .was eight months. And that one was discovered a couple of weeks after they were re- leased. What Foster counted on was the fact that if software behaved normally, it wouldn't be suspect. And if it became popular, it was automatically above suspicion. He was right." "I've heard that every computer is infected?" "At the minimum, yes." Jacobs turned the pages of his dossier. "To continue, one of Foster's most important tools was the con- struction of road maps." "Road maps?" questioned Phil. "Connections, how it all ties together. How MILNET ties to INTERNET to DARPANET to DockMaster, then to the Universities." Marv wove a complex picture of how millions of computers are all interconnected. "Foster knew what he was doing. He called this group Mappers. The maps included the private nets, CompuServe, The Source, Gemini, Prodigy . . .BBS's to Tymenet . . .the lists go on forever. The road maps, according to Foster, were very detailed. The kind of computer, the operating system, what kind of security if any. They apparently raked through the hacker bulletin boards and complied massive lists of passwords for computers . . ." "Including ours?" asked Quinton Chambers. "Quite definitely. They kept files on the back doors, the trap doors and the system holes so they could enter computers unde- tected, or infect the files or erase them . . .take a look at Social Security and the IRS. Martin?" Treasury Secretary Royce nodded in strong agreement. "We got hit but good. We still have no idea how many hundreds of thousands of tax records are gone forever, if they were ever there. So far it's been kept under wraps, but I don't know how long that can continue. The CDN has been nothing but trouble. We're actually worse off with it than without it." "How can one person do all of that?" Chambers had little knowl- edge of computers, but he was getting a pretty good feel for the potential political fallout. "One person! Ha!" exclaimed Jacobs. "Look at Page 16." He pointed at his copy of the Secret documents. "According to Foster he told Homosoto he needed hundreds of full time mappers to draw an accurate and worthwhile picture of the communications and networks in the U.S.." "That's a lot of money right there," added Royce. "It's obvious that money wasn't a consideration." Phil spouted the current political party line as well as it was understood. "Retaliation against the United States was the motivation, and to hell with the cost." "Homosoto obviously took Foster's advice when it came to Propa- ganda," Marv continued. "The FBI, I believe, saw the results of a concentrated effort at creating distrust in computers. We've got a team working on just finding the blackmailers. Their version of a disinformation campaign was to spread the truth, the secret undeniable truths of those who most want to keep their secrets a secret." "That's also where the banks got hit so hard," offered Henry Kennedy. "Tens of thousands of credit card numbers were spirited away from bank computers everywhere. You can imagine the shock when tens of millions of dollars of purchases were contested by the legitimate credit card holders." "It's bad," agreed Royce. "And we haven't even seen the beginning yet, if we believe Fos- ter. There were other groups. Some specialized in Tempest-Bust- ing . . ." "Excuse me?" asked Quinton Chambers. "Reading the signals broadcast by computers," Marv said with some derision. The Secretary of State should know better, he thought. "It's a classified Defense program." He paused while Chambers made a note. "Others used stolen EMP-T bomb technology to blow up the Stock Exchange and they even had antennas to focus HERF . . ." "HERF?" laughed Phil. "HERF," said Marv defensively. "High Energy Radiated Fields. Pick a frequency, add an antenna, point and shoot. Poof! Your computer's history." "You're kidding me . . ." "No joke. We and the Soviets did it for years; Cold War Games," said Kennedy. "Pretty hush-hush stuff. We have hand held electric guns that will stop a car cold at a thousand yards." "Phasers?" asked Chambers. "Sort of, Quinton," chimed in Phil. "Foster's plan also called for moles to be placed within strate- gic organizations, civilian and government." Marv continued. "They were to design and release malicious software from inside the company. Powerful technique if you can find enough bodies for the dirty work." "Again, according to Foster, Homosoto said that there was never a manpower problem," Marv said. "He's confident that an Arab group is involved somewhere. The MacDonald's accident was caused by Arabs who . . ." "And we still can't get shit out of the one who we're holding. The only one that's left. Troubleaux was shot by an Arab . . .the FBI is working hard on that angle. They've given themselves extraordinary covers." Phil was always on top of those things that might have a political cause and/or effect. "How extensive an operation was this?" Marvin Jacobs ruffled through some notes in his files. "It's hard to be sure. If Homosoto followed all of Foster's plan, I would guess 3 - 5,000 people, with a cost of between $100 - $300 Mil- lion. But mind you, that's an uneducated guesstimate." Quinton Chambers dropped his pen on the table. "Are you telling us that one man is bringing the United States virtually to its knees for a couple of hundred million?" Marv reluctantly nodded. "Gentlemen, this is incredible, more than incredible . . .does the President know?" Even Phil Musgrave was antsy with the answer to that question. "Not in any detail, but he is very concerned. As for the cost, terrorism has never been considered expensive." "Well thank you Ron Ziegler, for that piece of information," scowled Chambers. "So if we know all of this, why don't we pick 'em all up and get this over with and everything working again?" "Foster claims he doesn't know who anyone other than Homosoto is. He was kept in the dark. That is certainly not inconsistent with the way Homosoto is known to do business - very compartmental- ized. He didn't do the recruitment, he said, and all communica- tions were done over the computer . . .no faces, no names. If it wasn't for Mason, we wouldn't even know that Foster is the Spook. I consider us very lucky on that point alone." "What are we going to do? What can we do?" Royce and Chambers both sounded and looked more concerned than the others. Their agencies were on the front line and the most visible to the public. "For the government we can take some mandatory precautions. For the private sector, probably nothing . . ." "Unless." Phil said quietly. "Unless what?" All heads turned to Phil Musgrave. "Unless the President invokes martial law to protect the country and takes control of the computers until we can respond." Phil often thought out loud, even with his extremist possibilities. "Good idea!" said Jacobs quickly. "You think that public will buy that?" asked Chambers. "No, but they may have no choice." * * * * * Tuesday, January 26 PRESIDENT DECLARES WAR ON COMPUTERS By Scott Mason Support for the President's Sunday night call to arms has been virtually unanimous by industry leaders. According to James Worthington, Director of Computing Services at First National Life, "We take the threat to our computers very seriously. Without the reliable operation of our MIS systems, our customers cannot be serviced and the company will suffer tremendous losses. Rates will undoubtedly rise unless we protect ourselves." Similar sentiments were echoed by most industry leaders. IBM announced it would be closing all of its computer centers for between two and four weeks to effect a complete cleansing of all systems and products. A spokesperson for IBM said, "If our computers are threatened, we will take all necessary steps to protect our investment and the confidence of our customers. IBM prefers a short term disruption in normal services to a long term failure." Well placed persons within the government concur that the NSA, who is responsible for guiding the country through the current computer crisis, is ideally suited for managing the situation. Even agencies who have in the past been critical of the super- secret NSA are praising their preliminary efforts and recommenda- tions to deal with the emergency. In a several page document issued by the NSA, a series of safe- guards is outlined to protect computers against many of the threats they now face. In addition, the NSA has asked all long distance carriers to, effective immediately, deny service to any digital communications until further notice. Despite high marks for the NSA in other areas, many of their defensive recommenda- tions have not been so well received. "We are actually receiving more help from the public BBS's and local hacker groups in finding and eradicating the viruses than from the NSA or ECCO," said the Arnold Fullerman, Vice President of Computer Services at Prudential. AT&T is also critical of the government's efforts. "The Presi- dential Order gives the NSA virtual control over the use of our long distance services. Without the ability to transmit digital data packets, we can expect a severely negative impact on our first quarter earnings . . ." While neither AT&T nor the other long distance carriers indicated they would defy the executive decree, they did say that their attorneys were investigating the legality of the mandate. The NSA, though, was quick to respond to criticism. "All the NSA and its policies are trying to achieve is a massive reduction in the rate of propagation of the Homosoto Viruses, eliminate fur- ther infection, so we can isolate and immunize as many computers as possible. This will be a short term situation only." De- tractors vocally dispute that argument. AT&T, Northern TelCom and most telephone manufacturers are taking additional steps in protecting one of Homosoto's key targets: Public and Private Branch Exchanges, PBX's, or phone switches. They have all developed additional security recommendations for customers to keep Phone Phreaks from utilizing the circuits without authorization. Telephone fraud alone reached an estimat- ed $14 Billion last year, with the courts upholding that custom- ers whose phones were misused are still liable for all bills. Large companies have responded by not paying the bills and with lawsuits. The NSA is further recommending federal legislation to mitigate the effects of future computer attacks. They propose that com- puter security be required by law. "We feel that it would be prudent to ask the private sector to comply with minimum security levels. The C2 level is easy to reach, and will deter all but the most dedicated assaults. It is our belief that as all cars are manufactured with safety items such as seat belts, all computer should be manufactured with security and information integrity mechanisms in place. C2 level will meet 99% of the public's needs." A spokesman for ECCO, one of the emergency computer organizations working with the NSA explained that such security levels available outside of the highest government levels range from D Level, the weakest, to A Level, the strongest. It is estimated that compliance with such recommendations will add no more than $50 to the cost of each computer. The types of organizations that the NSA recommend secure its computers by law is extensive, and is meeting with some vocal opposition: Companies with more than 6 computers connected in a network or that use remote communications. Companies which store information about other people or organiza- tions. All Credit Card merchants. Companies that do business with local, state or federal agencies. The entire Federal Government, regardless of data classification. All publicly funded organizations including schools, universi- ties, museums, libraries, research, trade bureaus etc. Public Access Data Bases and Bulletin Boards. "It is crazy to believe that 45 million computers could comply with a law like that in under 2 years," said Harry Everett, a Washington D.C. based security consultant. "In 1987 Congress passed a law saying that the government had to protect 'sensitive but unclassified data' to a minimum C2 level by 1992. Look where we are now! Not even close, and now they expect to secure 100 times that many in one tenth the time? No way." Another critic said, "C2? What a joke. Europe is going by ITSEC and they laugh at the Orange Book. If you're going to make security a law, at least do it right." NSA also had words for those computers which do not fall under the umbrella of the proposed legislation. Everyone is strongly urged to practice safe computing. * * * * * Tuesday, January 26 St. Louis, Missouri "I'm sorry sir, we can't find you in the computer," the harried young woman said from behind the counter. "Here's my boarding pass," he said shoving the small cardboard pass into her face. "And here's a paid for ticket. I want to get on my flight." "Sir, there seems to be a complication," she nervously said as she saw at least another hundred angry people behind the irate customer. "What kind of complication?" he demanded. "It seems that you're not the only one with a ticket for Seat 11- D on this flight." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Sir, it seems that the flight has been accidentally overbooked, by about 300 people." "Well, I have a ticket and a boarding pass . . ." "So do they, sir." Delta and American and Northwest and USAir were all experiencing problems at every gate their airlines serviced. So was every other airline that used the National Reservation Service or Saber. Some flights though, were not so busy. "What kind of load we have tonight, Sally?" asked Captain David Clark. The American red-eye from LAX to Kennedy was often a party flight, with music and entertainment people swapping cities and visiting ex-wives and children on the opposite coast. "Light," she replied over the galley intercom from the middle of the 400 seat DC-10. "How light?" "Crew of eleven. Two passengers." By midnight, the entire air traffic system was in total chaos. Empty airplanes sat idly in major hubs awaiting passengers that never came. Pilots and flight crews waiting for instructions as take-offs from airports all but ceased. Overbooking was so rampant that police were called into dozens of airports to re- store order. Fist fights broke out and despite pleas for calm from the police and the airlines, over 200 were arrested on charges of disorderly conduct, assault and resisting arrest. Tens of thousands of passengers had confirming tickets for flights that didn't exist or had left hours before. Arriving passengers at the international airports, LAX, Kennedy, San Francisco, Miami were stranded with no flights, no hotels and luggage often destined for parts unknown. Welcome to the United States. The FAA had no choice but to shut down the entire air transporta- tion system at 2:22 A.M. * * * * * Wednesday, January 27 National Security Agency Fort Meade, Maryland "Did you get the President to sign it?" "No problem. Public opinion swung our way after yesterday." "And now?" "Essentially, every long and short distance phone company works for the Federal Government.." "Tell me how it works." "We have lines installed from the 114 Signal Transfer Points in every phone district to a pair of Cray-YMP's at the Fort. Every single AT&T long distance phone call goes through these switches and is labeled by an IAM with where the call came from and where it's going. What we're looking for is the high usage digital lines. Including fax lines. So the phone company is kind enough to send us a list of every call. We get about seven million an hour." "We can handle that?" "We have enough to handle ten times that." "I forget about the international monitors. That's millions more calls a day we listen to." "Yessir. The computers go through every call and make a list of digital calls. Then we get a list of all billing records and start crunching. We compare the high usage digital lines with the phone numbers from the bills and look for patterns. We look to see if it's a private or business line, part of a private PBX, hours and days of usage, then who owns the line. Obviously we eliminate a great many from legitimate businesses. After inten- sive analysis and profile comparison, we got a a few thousand candidates. What we decided to look for was two things. "First, we listen to the lines to make sure it's a computer. If it is, we get a look at the transmissions. If they are encrypt- ed, they get a red flag and onto the Hit List." "The President bought this?" "We told him we'd only need the records for a short time, and then we would dispose of them. He agreed." "What a sucker. Good work." * * * * * Friday, February 12 New York City Times Computer License Law Possible? by Scott Mason Senator Mark Bowman's proposed legislation is causing one of the most stirring debates on Capital Hill since the divisive decision to free Kuwait militarily. The so-called "Computer License Law" is expected to create as much division in the streets and homes of America as it is polit- ically. The bill calls for every computer in the country to be registered with the Data Registration Agency, a working component of the Commerce Dept. The proposed 'nominal fees' are intended to insure that the technology to protect computer systems keeps up with other computer technology. Critics, though, are extremely vocal in their opposition to a bill that they say sends a strong message to the American people: We don't trust you. The FYI, Freeflow of Your Information says that passage of the Computer License Law will give the federal government the unrestricted ability and right to invade our privacy. Dr. Sean Kirschner, the chief ACLU counsel, is consid- ering a lawsuit against the United States if the bill passes. Kirschner maintains that " . . .if the License Law goes into effect, the streets will be full of Computers Cops handing out tickets if your computer doesn't have a license. The enforcement clauses of the bill essentially give the police the right to listen to your computer. That is a simple invasion of privacy, and we will not permit a precedent to be set. We lost too much freedom under Reagan." Proponents of the bill insist that the low fee, perhaps only $10 per year per computer, is intended to finance efforts at keeping security technology apace with computer technology. "We have learned our lesson the hard way, and we now need to address the problem head on before it bites us again." They cite the example of England, where televisions have been licensed for years, with the fees dedicated to supporting the arts and maintaining broad- casting facilities. "Does not apply," says Dr. Kirschner. "With a television, there isn't an issue of privacy. A computer is like an electronic diary, and that privacy must be respected at all costs." "And," he adds, "that's England, not the U.S.. They don't have freedom of the press, either." Kirschner vowed a highly visible fight if Congress " . . .dares to pass that vulgar law . . ." * * * * * Monday, February 15 Scarsdale, New York "ECCO reports are coming in." "At this hour?" Scott said sleepily. "You want or no?" Tyrone Duncan answered with irritation. "Yeah, yeah, I want," Scott grumbled. "What time is it?" "Four A.M. Why?" "I won't make the morning . . ." "I'm giving you six hours lead. Quit bitching." "O.K., O.K., what is it?" "Don't sound so grateful." "Where the hell are you?" Scott asked sounding slightly more awake. "At the office." "At four?" "You're pushing your luck . . ." "I'm ready." "It looks like your NEMO friends were right. There are bunches of viruses. You can use this. ECCO received reports of a quar- ter million computers going haywire yesterday. There's gotta be ten times that number that haven't been reported." "Whose?" "Everybody for Christ's sake. American Gen, Compton Industries, First Life, Banks, and, this is almost funny, the entire town of Fallsworth, Idaho." "Excuse me?" * * * * * Thursday, February 25 TOWN DISAPPEARS By Scott Mason The town of Fallsworth, Idaho is facing a unique problem. It is out of business. Fallsworth, Idaho, population 433, has a computer population of 611. But no one in the entire incorporation of Fallsworth has ever bought or paid for a single piece of software or hardware. Three years ago, the town counsel approved a plan to make this small potato farming community the most computerized township in the United States, and it seems that they succeeded. Apparently the city hall of Fallsworth was contacted by representatives of Apple Computer. Would they like to be part of an experiment? Apple Computer provided every home and business in the Fallsworth area with a computer and the necessary equipment to tie all of the computers together into one town-wide network. The city was a pilot program for the Electronic City of the future. The residents of Fallsworth were trained to use the computers and Apple and associated companies provided the township beta copies of software to try out, play with and comment on. Fallsworth, Idaho was truly the networked city. Lily Williams and members of the other 172 households in Falls- worth typed out their grocery lists on their computer, matching them to known inventories and pricing from Malcolm Druckers' General Store. When the orders arrived at the Drucker computer, the goods just had to be loaded in the pick up truck. Druckers' business increased 124% after the network was installed. Doctors Stephenson, Viola and Freemont, the three town doctors modem'ed prescriptions to Baker Pharmacy so the pills were ready by the time their patients arrived. Mack's Messengers had cellular modems and portable computers installed in their delivery trucks. They were so efficient, they expanded their business into nearby Darbywell, Idaho, population, 5,010. Today, Fallsworth, Idaho doesn't use its computers. They lie dormant. A town without life. They forgot how to live and work and play and function without their computers. Who are the slaves? The viruses of Lotus, of dGraph. The viruses of Freedom struck, and no one in the entire town had registration cards. The soft- ware crisis has left Fallsworth and a hundred other small test sites for big software firms out in the digital void. Apple Computer promised to look into the matter but said that customers who have paid for their products come first . . . * * * * * Friday, March 5 FBI Building, Federal Square Tyrone Duncan was as busy as he had ever been, attempting to coordinate the FBI's efforts in tracking down any of the increas- ing number of computer criminals. And there were a lot of them at the moment. The first Copy-Cat computer assaults were coming to light, making it all that much more difficult to isolate the Foster Plan activities from those other non-coordinated inci- dents. Tyrone, as did his counterparts in regional FBI offices nation- wide, created teams of agents who concentrated on specific areas of Homosoto's assault as described by the Spook. Some special- ized in tracing missing electronic funds, some in working with the phone company through the NSA. More than any other goal, the FBI wanted desperately to locate as many of the invisible agents that the Spook, Miles Foster, had told Homosoto to use. Tyrone doubted they would catch anywhere near the 3000 or more he was told that were out there, but at this point any success was welcome. FBI agents toiled and interviewed and researched sixteen and eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. There hadn't been such a blanket approval of overtime since the Kennedy assassination. The FBI followed up the leads generated by the computers at the NSA. Who and where were the likely associates of Homosoto and Foster? His phone rang - the private line that bypasses his secretary- startling Tyrone from the deep thought in which he was immersed. On a Saturday. As the voice on the other end of the phone ut- tered its first sound, Tyrone knew that it was Bob Burnson. Apparently he was in his office today as well. "Afternoon, Bob," Tyrone said vacantly. "Gotcha at a bad time?" Burnson asked. "No, no. Just going over something that may prove interesting." "Go ahead, make my day," joked Burnson. "I know you don't want to know . . ." "Then don't tell me . . ." "But Mason's hackers are coming through for us." "Jeez, Ty," whined Bob. "Do you have to . . ." "Do you know anybody else that is capable of moving freely in those circles? It's not exactly our specialty," reprimanded Tyrone. "In theory it's great," Bob reluctantly agreed, "but there are so damn many exposures. They can mislead us, they're not profes- sionals, and worst of all, we don't even know who they are, to perform a background check." "Bob, you go over to the other side . . . playing desk man on me?" "Ty, I told you a while ago, I could only hang so far out before the branches started shaking." "Then you don't know anything." Tyrone said in negotiation. Keep Bob officially uninformed and unofficially informed. "You don't know that NEMO has helped to identify four of the black- mailers and a handful of the Freedom Freaks. You don't know that we have gotten more reliable information from Mason's kids than from ECCO, CERT, NIST and NSA combined. They're up in the clouds with theory and conjecture and what-iffing themselves silly. NEMO is in the streets. A remote control informer if you like." "What else don't I know?" "You don't know that NEMO has been giving us security holes in some of our systems. You don't know that Mason's and other hackers have been working on the Freedom viruses." "Some systems? Why not all?" "They still want to keep a few trapdoors for themselves." "See what I mean!" exclaimed Burnson. "They can't be trusted." "They are not on our payroll. Besides, it's them or no one," Tyrone calmly said. "They really would like to keep the real-bad guys off of the playing field, as they put it." "And keep the spoils for their own use." "It's a trade-off I thought was worthwhile." "I don't happen to agree, and neither does the Director's office." "I thought you didn't know . . ." "Word gets around. We have to cap this one, Ty. It's too hot. This is so far from policy I think we could be shot." "You know nothing. Nothing." But Burnson and the FBI and the White House all knew they wanted Foster. Tyrone instinctively knew as did Scott, that Miles Foster was the Spook. Other than meager unsubstantiated circum- stantial evidence, though, there was still no convincing legal connection between Miles Foster and the Spook. Not enough of one, anyway. Miles Foster had done an extraordinary job of insulating himself and his identity from his army. There had to be another way. * * * * * Monday, March 8 New York City Times Lawsuit Cites Virus by Scott Mason Will stockholders of corporations soon require that all Corporate assets be appropriately protected? Including those contained in the computers? Many people see a strong possibility of a swell of Wall Street investor demands to secure the computers of pub- licly held companies. The SEC is planning on issuing a set of preliminary regulations for firms under its aegis. Last week, a group of 10,000 Alytech, Inc. stockholders filed the first class action suit along this vein. They are suing the current board of directors for " . . .willful dereliction of fiduciary responsibility in the adequate security and protection of corporate information, data, communications and data process- ing and communications equipment." The suit continues to say that the company, under the Directors' leadership and guidance knew and understood the threat to their computers, yet did noth- ing to correct the situation. Attorneys for the plaintiffs have said that they are in posses- sion of a number of internal Alytech documents and memos which spelled out security recommendations to their board of directors upon which no action was taken. Alytech was one of the many companies hit particularly hard by the Computer War. The dGraph virus, the Lotus viruses and the Novell viruses were among those that infected over 34,000 of the company's computers around the world; bringing the company to a virtual halt for over two weeks. Immediately after getting their computers back up and running, they were struck by several Free- dom viruses which were designed to destroy the hard disks on the computers. As of this date, Alytech still has over 10,000 computers sitting idly waiting for the much delayed shipments of hard disks re- quired to repair the machines. A spokesman for Alytech, Inc. says that the lawsuit is frivolous and without merit. A date of June 14 has been set for the courts to hear the first of many rounds of motions. * * * * * Sunday, March 21 Paris, France Spring in Paris is more glorious than any reviewer can adequately portray. The clear air bristles with fresh anticipation like lovers on a cool afternoon. Bicycles, free from a winter of hiding in ga- rages, fill the streets and parks. All of Paris enjoys the first stroll of the year. Coats and jackets are prematurely shed in favor of t-shirts and skimpy tank-tops and the cafes teem with alfresco activity. The lucky low-season American tourist experiences firsthand the French foreplay to summer. Looking down to the streets from the 'deuziemme ‚tage' of the Eiffel Tower, only a hundred feet up, the sheer number of stroll- ers, of pedestrian cruisers, of tourists and of the idly lazy occupies the whole of one's vista. Martin Templer leaned heavily on the wrought iron railing of the restaurant level, soaking up the tranquility of the perfect Sunday afternoon. He gazed across the budding tree-lined Seine toward the Champs Elys‚e and the Arc de Triumph; from Notre Dame to the skyscrapered Ile de la Cit‚. He mentally noted the incon- gruity between the aura of peace that Paris radiated with its often violent history. He hoped nothing today would break that spell. A sudden slap on the back aroused Templer from his sun warmed daydream. He turned his head in seeming boredom. "You'd make a lousy pickpocket." "That's why I avoided a life of crime." Alexander Spiradon was immaculately dressed, down to the properly folded silk handker- chief in his suit jacket. "How are you today my friend? Did I interrupt your reverie?" Templer swung his London Fog over his shoulder. His casual slacks and stylish light weight sweater contrasted severely with Alex's comfortable air of formality. "I don't get here often. Paris is a very special place," Templer mused, turning from his view of the city to face his old comrade. "It is indeed," agreed Alex. "Then why do you look so melan- choly? Does Paris bring you memories of sadness?" "I hope not," Templer said, eyes down. "You didn't give me much notice," Alex said good naturedly. "I left the most beautiful woman in the world in a jacuzzi at St. Moritz." "No, I'm sorry. I know I didn't, but it was urgent. Couldn't wait." A slight breeze caused Templer to shiver. He slowly put on his tan rain coat and looked right into Alex's eyes. "I'm going to ask you straight." Alex confidently grinned. "Ask what?" "Was Taki Homosoto a client of yours?" The biting words seemed to have little impact on Alex. "My clients trust me to keep their identities confidential." The expression on Alex's face didn't change. "The guy's dead. What the hell can it hurt?" Templer laughed. "What's he gonna do? Sue you for breach of contract?" Alex didn't say a word. He saw Templer laugh the confident laugh of a chess player one move from checkmate and he realized how un- comfortable a position this was for him. How do you behave when you're on the losing end of the stick? Alex was thinking like he cared what Templer knew or thought. In reality, though, he didn't care any more about what anyone thought of him. He had enough money, more than enough money, to lead a lavish lifestyle without worry. So what did it matter. As friends nothing would change between him and Martin. But professionally, that was a different matter. "I'd love to tell you, but, it's a matter of ethics," Alex said happily. "You understand." "It really doesn't matter," laughed Templer. "Let's walk. The wind's picking up." They unconsciously joined in the spontane- ous promenade of walkers who shuffle around the mid level of the Tower to share in the ambience that only Paris offers. "You know, I'm officially retired," Alex said breathing in deep- ly. "I'm not surprised. Must have been a very profitable endeavor." "I saved a little and made prudent investments," Alex lied and Templer knew it. No need to push the point. "How well did Sir George do? He wouldn't tell us." Alex stopped in his tracks and glared at Martin with a blank emotionless expression for several seconds until his deep set brown eyes began to twinkle. A knowing smile and nod of recog- nition of accomplishment followed, telling Martin he had hit a home run. "You're good. Very good." They both began walking again, as if on cue. "For future edification, how did you find him?" "Them. Sir George was the most helpful, though." "I remember him. Real character, kind of helpless but with the gift of gab." Alex seemed unconcerned that any of his network had been discovered. "He talked?" "Second rate criminal. Definitely deportable." "And you made him an offer he couldn't refuse." "Something like that," Templer said coyly. "Let's just say he prefers the vineyards of California to the prisons in England." Alex nodded in understanding. "How'd you find him?" "Telephone records." "That's impossible," Alex said, shrugging off Martin's answer. "Never underestimate the power of silicon," Martin said crypti- cally. "Computers? No way," Alex said defiantly. "Every year there are almost 40 billion calls made within the United States alone. There's no way to trace that many calls." "Who needs to trace?" Templer enjoyed the joust. Thus far. "The phone company is kind enough to keep records of every call made. Both local and long distance. They're all rather com- plete. From what number, to what number, if it's forwarded, to what number and at what time and for how long. They also tell us if the calls were voice, fax, or other types of communications. It even identifies telephone connections that use encryption. Believe me, those are flagged right off." "You monitor every conversation? I thought it was just the overseas calls. That's incredible. Incredibly illegal." "But necessary. The threat of terrorism inside the United States has reached unacceptable levels, and we had the capability. It was just a matter of flipping the switch." "Since when can you do that?" Alex asked, stunned that he had overlooked, or underestimated a piece of the equation. "Since the phone company computers were connected to the Fort. And, I guarantee you, it's not something they want advertised," Martin said in a low voice. "Did you fuck up?" They had circled the Tower twice and stopped back where they started, overlooking the Seine. Alex's professional composure returned as they leaned over the Tower's railing. "I guess I wasn't as right as I usually am," he snickered. Templer followed suit. "How many did you get?" "How many are there?" "That would be telling," Alex said coyly. "I assume, then, that you would be averse to helping us out of our current dilemma." Being friends with potential adversaries made this part of the job all the more difficult. "Well," Alex said turning his head toward Martin. "I guess I could be talked into one more job, just one, if the price was right." Templer shook his head. "That's not the right answer." Alex was taken off guard by the sullenness in Martin's voice. "Right answer? There are no right and wrongs in our business. Only shades of gray. You know that. We ride a fence, and the winds blow back and forth. It's not personal." Martin straightened up and put both hands deep into the pockets of his London Fog. "Among the professionals, yes. But Sir George and his cronies, and you by default, broke the rules. Civilians are off limits. We were hoping that you would want to help." Alex ignored the second request. "I won't do it again. I prom- ise," he said haughtily. "Is there anything I can say that will make you reconsider? Anything at all?" Martin implored. "No," Alex said. "Unless we can discuss an equitable arrange- ment." Martin took his hands out of his pockets and said, "I don't think that will work. I'm sorry." "Sorry?" Martin quickly moved his right hand up to Alex's neck and touched it briefly. Alex reached up and slapped his neck as terror overtook his face. He grabbed Martin's arm and twisted it with his free hand to expose a small needle tipped dart projecting from a ring on one finger. Templer wrested his arm free from Alex's weakening clutch and tore off the ring, tossing it away from the Tower. Alex weakened further as he leaned both hands on the railing to steady himself. His mouth gaped wide, intense fear and utter disbelief competing for control of his facial muscles. Martin ignored his collapsing adversary and walked deliberately to the open elevator which provided escape down to street level. Before the doors had closed, Templer saw a crowd converge over the crumpled body of Alexander Spiradon. Martin Templer crossed the Seine and performed evasive maneuvers to make sure he was not being followed. The cleansing process took about three hours. He flagged down a taxi and the most uncooperative driver refused to acknowledge he understood that the destination was the American Embassy on Gabriel. Only when Templer flashed a 100 Franc note did the driver's English im- prove. Templer showed his CIA credentials to the Marine Sergeant at the security desk, and told him he needed access to a secure communi- cations channel to Washington. After his identity was verified, Templer was permitted to send his message. It was electronically addressed to his superiors at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. PLATO COULDN'T COME OUT AND PLAY. UNFORTUNATE STROKE INTERRUPTED THE INTERVIEW. **************************************************************** Chapter 30 Monday, March 22 National Security Agency He had two separate offices, each with a unique character. One ultra modern and sleek, the other befitting a country gentleman. The two were connected by a large anteroom that also provided immediate access and departure by a private elevator and escape stairs. He could hold two meetings at once as was occasionally required in his position as DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency. Each office had its own secretary and private entrance, selected for use depending upon whom was expected. The meeting in the nouveau office was winding down to a close and the conversation had been reduced to friendly banter. Marvin Jacobs had brought in three of his senior advisors who were coordinating the massive analytical computing power of the NSA with the extraordinary volume of raw data that all of the 5ESS switches downloaded daily. Since they had been assigned to assist the FBI, the NSA had been hunting down the locations of the potential conspirators with the assistance of the seven Baby Bells and Bell Laboratories in Princeton, New Jersey. The gargantuan task was delicately bal- ancing a fine line between chaos and stagnancy; legality and amorality. As they spoke, Jacobs heard a tone emit from his computer and he noticed that Office-2 had a Priority Visitor. "Gentlemen," Marvin Jacobs said as he stood. "It seems that my presence is required for a small matter. Would you mind enter- taining yourselves for a few minutes?" His solicitous nature and political clout demanded that his visitors agree without hesita- tion. He walked over to a door by the floor to ceiling bookshelf and let himself in, through the gracious ante-room by the commode and into his heavy wood and leather office. He immediately saw the reason for the urgency. "Miles, Miles Foster, my boy! How are you?" Marvin Jacobs walked straight to Miles, vigorously shook his hand and gave him a big friendly bear hug. Miles smiled from ear to ear. "It's been cold out there. Glad to be home." He looked around the room and nodded appreciative- ly. "You've been decorating again." "Twice. You haven't been in this office for, what is it, five years?" Jacobs held Miles by the shoulders. "My God it's good to see you. You don't look any the worse for wear." "I had a great boss, treated me real nice," Miles said. "Come here, sit down," Marvin said ushering Miles over to a thickly padded couch. "If you don't already know it, this coun- try owes you a debt of thanks." "I know," Miles said, even though he had been paid over three million dollars by Homosoto. "A drink, son?" At fifty-five, the red faced paunch bellied Jacobs looked old enough to be Miles' father, even though they were only fifteen years apart. "Glenfiddich on the rocks." Miles felt comfortable. Totally comfortable and in control of the situation. "Done." DIRNSA Jacobs pressed a button which caused a hidden bar to be exposed from a mirror paneled wall. The James Bondish tricks amused Miles. "Excuse me," he said to Miles. "Let me get rid of my other appointments." Jacobs handed Miles the drink and leaned over his desk speaking into telephone. "Uh, Miss Gree- ley, cancel my dates for the rest of the day, would you please?" "Of course, sir." The thin female voice came across the speaker phone clearly. "And my regrets to the gentlemen in One." "Yessir." The intercom audibly clicked off. "So," Marvin asked, "how does it feel to be both the goat and the hero?" "Hey, I fixed it, just like we planned, didn't I?" Miles said arrogantly, but his deep dimples said he was joking. "I remember everything you taught me," he bragged. "Lesson One: If you really want to fix something, first you gotta fuck it up so bad everyone takes notice. Well, how'd I do?" Miles still grinned, his dimples radiating a star pattern across his cheeks. Jacobs approved whole heartedly. "You were a natural. From day one." "Homosoto thought that fuck-it to fix-it was entirely too weird at first, so I quit calling it that." Miles fondly remembered those early conversations. "As you said, it takes a disaster to motivate Americans, and we gave them one." "I'm glad you see it that way," Marvin said obligingly. "It occurred to me that you might have gotten soft on me." "Not a chance." Miles countered. "How many men get to lead armies, first of all. And I may be the first, ever, to lead an invasion of my own country with my government's approval. This was a sanctioned global video game. I should thank you for the opportunity." "That's a hell of a way to look at it, my boy. You show a lot of courage." Marvin drank to Miles' health. "It takes men of courage to run a country, and that's what we do; run the country." Miles had heard many of Marvin's considerable and conservative speeches before, but this one was new. After over five years, that was to be expected. "It doesn't make a damn bit of difference who the President is. The Government stays the same regardless of who's elected every 4 years." Marvin continued as Miles listened reverently. "The American public thinks that politicians run the country; they think that they vote for the people who make the policies, who set the tone of the government, but they are so wrong. So wrong." Marvin shook his head side to side. "And it's probably just as well that they never find out for sure." He held Miles' attention. Marv walked around the room drink in hand, gesturing with his hands and arms. "The hundreds of thousands of Government employees, the ones that are here year after year after year, we are the ones who make policy. It's the mid-grade manager, the staff writer, the polit- ical analysts who create the images, the pictures that the White House and Capital Hill see. "This town, the United States is run by lifers; people who have dedicated their lives to the American way of life. The military controls more than any American wants to know. State Department, Justice, HUD; each is its own monolithic bureaucracy that does not change direction overnight because of some election in Bum- fuck, Iowa. It takes four years to find your way through the corridors, and by then, odds are you'll be packing back to Maine, or Georgia or California or wherever you came from." Marvin Jacob's vitriolic oration was grinding on Miles, but he had to listen to his boss. "So when this country gets into trouble, someone has to do some- thing about it. God knows the politicians won't. This country was in real trouble and someone had to fix it. In this case it was me. It's been a decade since the first warnings about how vulnerable our computers, our economy, shit, our National Securi- ty were. The reports came out, and Congress decided to ignore them. Sure, they built up the greatest armaments in the history of civilization, sold the future for a few trillion, but they ne- glected to protect their investment." Jacobs angrily poured himself another drink. "I couldn't let that happen, so I decided that I needed to expose the weaknesses in our systems before somebody else did." Marvin spoke proudly. "And what better way than to fuck it up beyond all recognition. FUBAR. At least this way we were in charge, and we were able to pick the damage. Thanks to you. Lessons tend to be painful, and I guess we're paying for some of our past sins." He drank thirstily. "Did those sins mean that I would have to be arrested by the FBI? I couldn't say a thing; not the truth. They'd never have be- lieved me." Miles shuddered at the thought. "For a moment, I thought you might leave me to rot in jail." "Hey," Marvin said happily. "Didn't our people get you out, just like I promised? Less than an hour." He sounded proud of his efforts. "Besides, most of them were bullshit charges. Not worth the effort to prosecute." "I never underestimate the power of the acronym," Miles said about the NSA, CIA and assorted lettered agencies. "There was a lot of not so quiet whispering when it was released that the charges were dropped by the Federal Prosecutor. Think that was smart, so soon? Maybe we should have waited a couple of months." Jacobs looked up sharply at Miles' criticism of his actions but spoke with understanding. "We needed to get the cameras off of you and onto the real problem; it was the right thing to do. Your part is over. You started the war. Now it's up to me to stop it. It could not have gone any smoother. Yes," he re- flected. "It's time for us to take over. You have performed magnificently. We couldn't ask for any more." Miles sipped at his drink accepting the reasoning and asked, "I've wondered about a few things, since the beginning." "Now's as good a time as any," Marv said edging himself behind his desk. "I'd imagine you have a lot of holes to fill in." "How did you get Homosoto to cooperate? He seemed to fall right into place." "It was almost too easy," Jacobs commented casually. "We had a number of candidates. You'd be surprised how many people with money and power hold grudges against Uncle Sam," he snickered. "It's hard to believe, but true." "Meaning, if it wasn't him, it would have been someone else?" "Exactly. There's no shortage of help in the revenge business. There are still many hibakusha, survivors of Hiroshima and Naga- saki, who still want revenge on us for ending the war and saving so may lives. Ironic, isn't it? That someone like Homosoto is twisted enough to help us, just to fuel his own hatred," Marvin Jacobs asked rhetorically. "But he didn't know he was helping, did he?" Miles asked. "Of course not. Then he would have been running the show, and this was my production. No, it worked out just fine." Jacobs paused for more liquor and continued. "Then we have a few European industrialists, ex-Nazis who are available . . .the KGB, GRU, Colombian cartel members. The list of assets is long. Where's there's money, there's help, and most of them prefer the Yankee dollar to any other form of payment. They forget that by hurting us they also hurt the world's largest economy, as well as everybody else's and then the fiscal dominoes start falling uncontrollably." "You mean you bought him?" Miles asked. "Oh, no! You can't buy a billionaire, but you can influence his actions, if he thinks that it's his idea. It just so happens that he was the first one to bite. Health problems and all." "What problems?" "In all likelihood it's from the radiation, the Bomb; his doctors gave him a couple of years to live. Inoperable form of leukemia." "I didn't know . . ." "No one did. He insisted on complete secrecy. He had not picked a successor to run OSO, and in some ways he denied the reality." "Excuse my tired old brain, but you're talking Spook-Speak. How did you know . . .?" "Old habits . . ." Marvin agreed. "As you well know, from your employ here, we have assets in every major company in the world. Especially those companies that buy and sell elected officials in Washington. OSO and Homosoto are quite guilty of bribing their way into billions of dollars of contracts. Our assets, you see, can work in two directions. They let us know what's going on from the inside and give us a leg up on the G2. Then, we can plant real or false information when needed. The Cold Economic War." "So you told Homosoto what to do?" Miles followed closely. "Not in so many words." Marvin wasn't telling all, and Miles knew it. "We knew that through our assets we gave Homosoto and several others the idea that U.S. computers were extremely frag- ile. Back in 1983 the DoD and CIA prepared classified reports saying that computer terrorism was going to be the international crime of choice in the last decade of the century. Then the NRC, NSC and DIA issued follow-up reports that agreed with the origi- nal findings. We saw to it that enough detail reached Tokyo to show just how weak we were." Jacobs continued to tell Miles how the NSA effected the unwitting recruitment of Homosoto. "That, a well timed resignation on your part, and advertising your dissatisfaction with the government made you the ideal person to launch the attack." Marvin smiled widely holding his drink in the air, toasting Miles. Miles responded by raising his glass. "And then a suicide, how perfect." Jacobs did not return the salute, and Miles felt sudden iciness. "Right? Homosoto's suicide." Jacobs still said nothing. "Marv? It was a suicide, wasn't it?" "Miss Perkins was of great help, too," Marvin said ignoring Miles questions. "Perky? What's she got to do with this?" Miles demanded. "Oh? You really don't know?" Marvin was genuinely shocked. "I guess she was better than we thought. I thought you knew." He looked down to avoid Miles's eyes. "Didn't you think it odd . . .?" "That she introduced me to Homosoto?" Miles asked acrimoniously. "She didn't." "Of course she did," Miles contradicted. "We have a tape of the conversation," Marv disagreed. "All she did was ask you if you would work for a foreigner and under what circumstances. Perkins' job was to prep you for Homosoto or whoever else we expected to contact you. An admirable job, huh Miles?" Marvin Jacobs seemed proud of her accomplishments, and given the stunned gaping expression on Miles' face, he beamed even more. Miles didn't say a word, but his glazed eyes said loud and clear that he felt defiled. "I'm sorry Miles," Marvin said compassionately. "I really as- sumed you knew that she was a toy. You certainly treated her that way." No reaction. "If it helps any, she was on Homosoto's payroll. She was a double." Miles jerked his head back and then let out a long laugh. "Well, fuck me dead. Goddamn, she was good! Had me going. Not a fuck- ing clue." Miles stood from his chair and laughed and smiled at Marvin. "What a deal. I get blow jobs courtesy of the American taxpayer and you get paid to watch." "Miles, we know how you felt for her . . ." "Bullshit," Miles said quickly. "That's fucking bullshit." He pounded on the desk. "She's already on another assignment," Marvin said calmly. Miles couldn't completely hide the dejection, the feeling of loss, no matter how loudly he denied it. "Fuck her!" Miles exclaimed. He walked over to the high tech bar and made himself another strong drink. Perfect drink to get dumped by. "Another?" he asked Marvin who handed Miles his glass for a refill. "As I was saying," Marvin said, "this country owes you a thanks, beyond any medals or awards, and unfortunately, there is no way we can publicly express our appreciation." Marvin sat down with his drink and addressed Miles. "Hey," Miles said holding his hands in front of him. "I knew that going into the deal. I did my job, for my country, and maybe I lose some face, but I didn't do this for fame. Retiring in style, maybe the Alps is a nice consolation prize." The pain, so evident seconds ago about Stephanie, was gone. Miles gloated in his achievement. A low warble came from the phone on Marvin's desk. He read a message that appeared on the small message screen attached to the phone and struck a few keys in response. At that moment, the double doors from the Office-2 reception opened and in came Tyrone Duncan and two other FBI agents. Miles turned to see who was interrupting their meeting. It was the same man who had arrested him a few weeks before. Miles gulped deeply and felt his heart skip a beat. 'What the hell is going on', he thought. He quickly glanced at Jacobs. His pulse and respiration increased to the point of skin sweat and near hyper-ventilation. Tyrone spoke to the Director. "Mr. Jacobs, we are here to see Mr. Foster." Jacobs gestured to Miles in the deep chair across from the marble desk. Miles' mind raced. What was Marv doing? And Duncan again? "Mr. Foster," Tyrone Duncan said. Miles looked up. "You are under arrest for violation of the espionage and sedition laws of the United States of America. In addition, you are charged with violating the Official Secrets Act and . . ." Tyrone read off 94 federal crimes including racketeering and 61 assorted counts of conspiracy. As Tyrone read the extended list of charges, Miles shook to his core, turned to Marvin in abject terror. His face cried out, 'please, help me.' Jacobs watched with indifference as Tyrone continued with the new charges. "You have the right to remain silent . . ." Tyrone read Miles his Miranda rights as he lifted him from the chair to put on the cuffs. "Marv!" Miles shouted in panic. "This is a joke, and it's not funny . . .Marv . . .Jesus Fucking Christ!" Miles struggled like an animal. He thought he was free. "I'm the fucking fish food. Aren't I? Marv," he shouted even louder. "Aren't I?" "It seems to me that you've dug your own grave, son. I can't tell you how disappointed I am in your actions." Jacobs played the role perfectly. "You fucking liar! The President doesn't even know about what I did for you? Does he?" Miles was screaming as Tyrone and another agent restrained him by the arms. "Why not? You told me that this project had approval from the highest level." "Are you mad?" Marvin sounded like a caring parent admonishing a misbehaving lad who knew no better. "Do you think that he would have approved of such a plan? Ruin his own country? Is that why you went to Homosoto? Because we said you were crazy?" "You told me he approved it!" Miles screamed at Marvin. "You lied! About that, about Stephanie, what else have you lied to me about?" Jacobs sat silently as Tyrone turned the handcuffed Miles toward the door. "Why don't you just admit it? I'm the fucking fall guy for your scheme, aren't I?" Miles shouted. "Admit it goddamnit, admit it!" Jacobs looked down at his desk and shook his head from side to side as if he were terribly disappointed. "I'll get you, I will get you for this," Miles shrieked. "I trusted you, like a father and then you fuck me. Fucked me like every other dumb shit that works here." His vicousness intensi- fied. "Suck my dick!" he shouted with finality. Tyrone tugged at Miles to keep him from the Director's desk. "Is there anything else Director Jacobs?" "Yes, Agent Duncan, here." Jacobs opened a drawer and pulled out a large envelope, marked with Miles' name. Miles stared at it, eyes bulging with fear. Tyrone looked questioningly at Marvin. "I believe you will find enough in there to put Mr. Foster in Tokyo with Mr. Homosoto at the time he died." Tyrone took the package. "I think the Tokyo Police would be most interested in making a possible case for murder." Miles screamed, "scum bucket! You're fucking nuts." His vicious verbal assaults were aimed directly at Marvin who ignored them. "You know I had nothing to do . . .goddamn you! I spend five years of my life helping my country and you . . ." "I think very few would agree that what you've done can be con- sidered helpful." "I will get even! Even, do you hear!" Miles' voice was getting hoarse from the outrageous tirade. DIRNSA Marvin Jacobs raised his right hand to Tyrone indicating that Miles was dismissed. Miles continued bellowing at Marvin and Tyrone and the two other agents tried to keep him in tow. When they had left, and the door closed behind them, Jacobs pushed a button on his phone and spoke casually. "Miss Greeley? Could you please get me a 2:00 P.M. tee off time?" **************************************************************** Epilogue The Year After The newspaper headlines during the first year of the attack revealed as much about the effects of the attacks on American society, its politics and economy as could any biased editorial. They ironically and to the dismay of many of those in the govern- ment, echoed the pulse of the country, regardless of the politi- cal leaning of the Op-Ed pages. Foster Indicted By Federal Grand Jury Faces 1800 Years If Convicted Washington Post Economy Loses $300 Billion in First 6 Months $1 Trillion Loss Possible Tampa Tribune Senator Urges Sanctions Against Japanese Washington Post NSA Admits Its Own Computers Sick New York City Times NASA Launch Stopped By Faulty Computers Orlando Sentinal McMillan Indicted - Skips Country Employee's Testimony Crucial New York Post Credit Card Usage Down 84% Retailers In Slump Chicago Sun-Times OSO Denied Access to Government Contracts Investigation Expected to Take Years Los Angeles Times Most Companies Go Unprotected Do Nothing In Spite of Warnings USA Today Commercial Tempest Program Kicks Off Safe Computers Begin Shipping Houston Mirror Secret Service Stops Freedom BBS Software Company Built Viruses Tampa Tribune New York Welfare Recipients Suffer No Payments For 3 Months: 3rd Night of Riots Village Voice Allied Corporation Loses 10,000 Computers Viruses Smell of Homosoto Dallas Herald ACLU Sues Washington Class Action Privacy Suit First of a Kind Time Magazine 3rd. Quarter Leading Indicators Dismal Deep Recession Predicted If 4th. Qtr. Is Worse Wall Street Journal Supreme Court Rules on Privacy 4th Amendment Protects E-Mail San Diego Union Waves of VCR Failures Plague Manufacturers OSO Integrated Circuits Blamed San Jose Register Mail Order Ouch! Thousands of Dead Computers Kill Sales Kansas City Address Chicago Traffic SNAFU New York Tie Up Remembered Chicago Sun Times Homosoto Worked For Extraterrestrials Full Scale Alien Invasion Imminent National Enquirer * * * * * Power to the People by Scott Mason The last few months have taught me, and this country, a great deal about the technology that has been allowed to control our lives. Computers, mainframes, mini computers, or millions of personal computers - they do in fact control and monitor our every activity, for better or for worse. A marriage of conven- ience? Now, though, it appears to be for worse. I am reminded of the readings of Edgar Cayce and the stories that surround the myth of Atlantis. According to Cayce and legend, Atlantis was an ancient ante-deluvian civilization that developed a fabulous technology which achieved air flight, levitation, advanced medical techniques and harnessed the sun's energy. However, the power to control the technology which had exclusive- ly been controlled by the high priests of Atlantis was lost and access to the technology was handed to the many peoples of that ancient culture. Through a series of unintentional yet reckless events, the Atlanteans lost control of the technology, and de- spite the efforts of the Priests, their cities and cultures were destroyed, eventually causing Atlantis to sink to the bottom of the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. Believing in the myth of Atlantis is not necessary to understand that the distribution of incredible computing power to 'everyman' augers a similar fate to our computerized society. We witnessed our traffic systems come a halt, bringing grid lock to small rural communities. Our banks had to reconstruct millions upon millions of transactions in the best possible attempt at recon- ciliation. The defensive readiness of our military was in ques- tion for some time before the Pentagon was satisfied that they had cleansed their computers. The questions that arise are clearly ones to which there are no satisfying responses. Should 'everyman' have unrestrained access to tools that can obviously be used for offensive and threatening purposes? Is there a level of responsibility associated with computer usage? If so, how is it gauged? Should the businessman be subject to additional regulations to insure security and privacy? Are additional laws needed to protect the privacy of the average citizen? What guarantees do people have that infor- mation about them is only used for its authorized purpose? Should 'everyman' have the ability to pry into anyone's personal life, stored on hundreds of computers? One prominent group calling themselves FYI, Freeflow of Your Information, represented by the ACLU, represents one distinct viewpoint that we are likely to hear much of in the coming months. They maintain that no matter what, if any, restrictive mandates are placed on computer users, both are an invasion of privacy and violation of free speech have occurred. "You can't regulate a pencil," has become their informal motto emblazoned across t-shirts on campuses everywhere. While neither group has taken any overt legal action, FYI is formidably equipped to launch a prolonged court battle. Accord- ing to spokesmen for FYI, "the courts are going to have to decide whether electronic free speech is covered by the First Amendment of the Constitution. If they find that it is not, there will be a popular uprising that will shake the foundation of this coun- try. A constitutional crisis of the first order." With threats of that sort, it is no wonder that most advocates of protective and security measures for computers are careful to avoid a direct confrontation with the FYI. * * * * * Foster Treason Trials Begin Jury Selection to Take 3 Months Associated Press Unemployment Soars to 9.2% Worst Increase Since 1930 Wall Street Journal SONY's Threat Soon Own New York New York Post Homosoto Hackers Prove Elusive FBI says, "I doubt we'll catch many of them." ISPN Hard Disk Manufacturers Claim 1 Year Backlog Extraordinary Demand To Replace Dead Disks San Jose Citizen Register Security Companies Reap Rewards Fixing Problems Can Be Profitable Entrepreneur Auto Sales Down 34% Automotive Week 92% Distrust Computers Neilson Ratings Service Compaq Introduces 'Tamper Free' Computers Info World IBM Announces 'Trusted' Computers PC Week Dow Jones Slides 1120 Points Wall Street Journal Senator Nancy Investigates Gov't Security Apathy Washington Times Hollywood Freeway Halts Computer Causes 14 Hour Traffic Jam Los Angeles Times * * * * * A Day In The Life: Without Computers by Scott Mason. As bad as a reformed smoker, but without the well earned battle scars, I have been, upon occasion, known to lightly ridicule those who profess the necessity of computers to enjoy modern life. I have been known as well to spout statistics; statistics that show the average homemaker today spends more time homemaking than her ancestor 100 or 200 years ago. I have questioned the logic of laziness that causes us to pull out a calculator rather than figure 10% of any given number. I have been proven wrong. Last Saturday I really noticed the effects of the Foster Plan more than any time since it began. I must confess that even though I have written about hackers and computer crime, it is axiomatically true that you don't notice it till it's gone. Allow me to make my point. Have you recently tried to send a fax? The digital phone lines have been scrupulously pruned, and therefore busy most of the time. The check out lines at the supermarket have cob webs growing over the bar code price scanner. The system that I used when I was a kid, as a delivery boy for Murray and Mary Meyers Meat Market, seems to be back in vogue; enter the cost of the item in the cash register and check for mistakes when the receipt is produced. I haven't found one store in my neighborhood that still takes credit cards. Have you noticed the near disdain you receive when you try to pay with a credit card? Its real and perceived value has been flushed right down the toilet. Not that they don't trust my well known face and name, but my credit cards are as suspect as are everybody's. Even check cashing is scarce. Seems like the best currency is that old time stand-by, cash. If you can make it to the bank. The ATM at my corner has been rented out to a flower peddler. All of this is happening in reasonably affluent Westchester County. And in impoverished East Los Angeles and in Detroit and Miami and Boston and Atlanta and Dallas as well as a thousand Oshkosh's. America is painfully learning what life is like without automation. * * * * * OSO Puts Up Foster Defense Costs Effort At Saving Face Miami Herald Hackers Hacked Off Accuse Government of Complicity Atlanta Constitution Microwaves Go Haywire Timers Tick Too Long Newsday 1 Million School Computers Sit Idle Software Companies Slow to Respond Newsweek Federal Computer Tax Bill Up For Vote John and Jane Doe Scream 'No'! San Diego Union Cable Shopping Network Off Air 6 Months Clearwater Sun Bankruptcies Soar 600% Money Magazine Banking At Home Programs On Hold Unreliable Communications Blamed Computers In Banking Slow Vacation Travel Closes Resorts But Disneyland Still Happiest Place on Earth San Diego Tribune * * * * * Hacker Heroes By Scott Mason I have occasionally wreaked verbal havoc upon the hacker communi- ty as a whole, lumping together the good and the bad. The per- formance of hackers in recent months has contributed as much to the defense of the computers of this country as has the govern- ment itself. An estimated one million computer users categorize themselves or are categorized as hackers. After the Homosoto bomb was dropped on America, a spontaneous underground ad hoc hacker effort began to help protect the very systems that many of them has been violating only the day before. The thousands of bulletin boards that normally display new methods of attacking computers, invad- ing government networks, stealing telephone service, phreaking computers and causing electronic disruptions, are now competing for recognition. Newspapers interested in providing the most up to date informa- tion on fighting Homosoto's estimated 8000 viruses, and methods of making existing computers more secure have been using hacker BBS's as sources. * * * * * Foster Defense Coming to An End Foster won't take stand New York City Times AIDS Patients Sue CDC For Releasing Names Actors, Politicians and Leaders on Lists Time Magazine FBI Arrests 15 Fosterites Largest Single Net Yet Miami Herald Congress Passes Strongest Computer Bill Yet Washington Post American Express Declares Bankruptcy United Press International No New Passports For Travelers 3 Month Department Hiatus Till System Repaired Boston Globe 138 Foreign Nationals Deported Homosoto Complicity Cited San Francisco Chronicle National Identification Cards Debated George Washington Law Review * * * * * Ex Foster Girl Friend Key Prosecution Witness by Scott Mason A long time girl friend of Homosoto associate Miles Foster testi- fied against her former lover in the Federal Prosecutor's treason case against him today. Stephanie Perkins, an admitted high class call girl, testified that she had been hired to provide services to Mr. Foster on an 'as-needed' basis. Over a period of four years, Ms. Perkins says she was paid over $1 Million by a '. . .man named Alex . . .' and that she was paid in cash at a drop in Chevy Chase, Maryland. She stated that her arranged ralationship with Mr. Foster 'was not entirely unpleasant,' but she would have picked someone 'less egotistical and less consumed with himself.' "I was supposed to report his activities to Alex, and I saw a lot of the conversations on the computer." "Did Foster work for Homosoto?" "Yes." "What did he do?" "Built viruses, tried to hurt computers." "Did you get paid to have sex with Mr. Foster?" "Yes." "How many times?" "A few hundred, I guess." "So you liked him?" "He was all right, I guess. He thought I liked him." "Why is that?" "It was my job to make him think so." "Why?" "So I could watch him." "What do you do for a living now?" "I'm retired." * * * * * Prosecution Witnesses Nail Foster Defense Listens to Plea Bargain Offer Newsday 50% Of Americans Blame Japan - Want Revenge Rocky Mountain News La Rouche Calls For War On Japan Extremist Views Speak Loud Los Angeles Time 12% GNP Reduction Estimated Rich and Poor Both Suffer USA Today Soviets Ask For Help Want To Avoid Similar Fate London Telegraph International Monetary Fund Ponders Next Move Christian Science Monitor * * * * * Security: The New Marketing Tool by Scott Mason American business always seems to turn a problem into a profit, and the current computer confidence crisis is no different. In spontaneous cases of simultaneous marketing genius, banks are attempting to garner new customers as well as retain their exist- ing customers. As many banks continue to have unending difficul- ties in protecting their computers, the Madison Avenue set has found a theme that may set the tone of banking for years to come. Bank With Us: Your Money Is Safer. Third Federal Savings and Loan Your Money Is Protected - Completely, Mid South Alliance Bank Banks have taken to advertising the sanctity of their vaults and the protective measures many organizations have hastily installed since the Foster Plan was made public. In an attempt to win customers, banks have installed extra security measures to insure that the electronic repositories that store billions of dollars are adequately protected; something that banks and the ABA openly admit has been overlooked until recently. The new marketing techniques of promoting security are not the exclusive domain of the financial community. Insurance compa- nies, private lending institutions, police departments, hospitals and most major corporations are announcing their intentions to secure their computers against future assaults. * * * * * Foster GUILTY! Plea Deal Falls Apart Sentencing Hearing Date Set New York Post University Protests "Closed Computing" Insist Freedom on Information Critical For Progress US News and World Report Fifty New Viruses Appear Daily Complacency Still Biggest Threats Tampa Tribune NSA/ITSEC Agreement Near International Security Standards Readied Federal Computer Week Justice Department Leads Fight Against Organized Computer Crime Baltimore Sun Novell Networks Now Secure Government Computer News OSO Offers Reparations: Directors Resign Wall Street Journal American and Delta Propose Merger Nashville Tennessean Citizen Groups Promote Safe Computing St. Paul Register April 15 IRS Deadline Extended 90 Days Washington Post 49 States Propose Interstate Computer Laws Harvard Law Review Courts Work Overtime on Computer Cases Christian Science Monitor AT&T Plans New Encryption For Voice Communications Microsoft Announces Secure DOS Admits Earlier Versions "Wide Open" PC Week 3500 Foster Viruses Identified: 5000 To Go Info World National Computer Security Plan Cost: $500 Billion Wall Street Journal An End Is In Sight Says NSA Public Skeptical New York City Times Foster Receives Harsh Penalty: 145 Years Appeal Process Begins, Foster Remains in Custody Washington Post * * * * * The press is often criticized for 'grand standing' and 'sensa- tionalizing' otherwise insignificant events into front page news, but in this case the government said little about the media's handling of the situation. In fact, privately, the White House was pleased that the media, albeit loudly and crassly, was a key element in getting the message to the American public: Secure Your Computers Or Else. Everyone agreed with that. * * * * * December 17 Overlooking Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands "You must feel pretty good. Pulitzer Prize. Half of the writing awards for last year, nomination for Man of the Year." "The steaks are burning." The hype had been too much. Scott alone had to carry forward the standard. He had become expected to lead a movement of protest and dissent. Despite his pleas, his neutrality as a reporter was in constant danger of compro- mise. "It's kind of strange talking to a living legend." Scott's deeply tanned body and lighter hair was quite a contrast to the sickly paleness of New Yorkers in winter. "Get the sprit- zer, water the coals and then fuck yourself." "Isn't this what you wanted?" Tyrone scanned the exquisite view from the estate sized homestead overlooking Charlotte Amalie Harbor on St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. The safe enclosed harbor housed three cruise ships, but the hundreds of sailboats in the clear Caribbean dominated the seascape. After the last year, Scott had decided to finally take time off for a proper honeymoon. He and Sonja elected to spend an extend- ed holiday on St. Thomas, in a rented house with a cook and a maid and a diving pool and a satellite dish and all of the lux- uries of stateside living without the residual headaches. Their head over heels romance surprised no one but themselves and they both preferred to let the past stay a part of the past. Scott decided quickly to take Sonja at her word. Her past was her past, and he had to not let it bother him or they would have no future. Even if he was one of her jobs for a short while. Scott's name was in constant demand as a result of his expos‚ of Homosoto and the hackers. Fame was something Scott had not wanted specifically. He had imagined himself the great transla- tor, making the cacophony of incomprehensible technical polysyl- labics intelligible to 'everyman'. He had not planned for fame; merely another demand on his time, his freedom and his creativi- ty. "What I wanted was a break." Scott poked at the steaks. In the pool Arlene Duncan and Sonja kicked their feet and chattered aimlessly. The perfect respite. The Times made Scott the most generous tenure offers in a generation of writers, and Scott recognized the fairness of the offers. It was not now, nor had it ever been a question of money, though. "What's next?" "The book, I suppose. The Trial of Miles Foster." "And then back to the Times?" "Maybe, maybe. I haven't given it much thought," Scott said watering down the coals to reduce the intensity of the barbecue inferno he had created. "I promised to help out once in a while. Officially they call it a sabbatical." "How long do you think you can hold out on this rock before going nuts?" "We've managed pretty well, so far." Scott said admiring his bride whose phenomenal physical beauty was tightly wrapped in the high French cut one piece bathing suit that Scott insisted she wear in honor of their more conservative guests. Tyrone, he was sure, would not have minded Sonja's nudity, but Arlene would have been on the next flight to Boston and her parents. "Three months so far, and nine months to go. I think I can take it," he said staring at Sonja and motioning to the view. Tyrone silently conveyed understanding for Scott's choice of an island retreat to get away from it all. But Tyrone's choices demanded his presence within driving distance of civilization. "So the bureau wasn't too upset about your leaving?" Scott changed the subject. "I guess not," Tyrone said laughing. "I was approaching mandato- ry anyway and I'd become too big a pain in their asses. Using your hackers didn't endear me to too many of the Director's staff." "What about your friend?" "You mean Bob Burnson?" "Yeah, the guy we met at Ebbett's . . ." "He got his promotion right after I left. I guess I was holding him back," Tyrone said with tongue in cheek. "On the other hand, I could have stayed and really made his life miserable. We're both at peace. Best of all? Still friends." "I have to say, though, I never thought you'd go through with it," said Scott turning the steaks. "You and the Bureau, a thirty year affair." "Not quite thirty . . ." "Whatever. You've certainly built up a practice and a half in six months." "Yeah," chuckled Tyrone. "Like you, I never planned on becoming a big player . . .Christ. Who ever thought that Computer Law would be the next Cabbage Patch Doll of the courts?" Tyrone saw the smirk in Scott's face. "O.K., you did. Yes, you predicted a mess in the courts. Yes, you did Mr. Wisenheimer. I just saw it as a neat little extension of constitutional law and then whammo! All of sudden, computer litigation is the hip place to be. Every type of lawsuit you predicted is somewhere in the legal system - SEC suits, copyright suits, privacy suits, theft of data, theft of service." "Sounds like everyone who was scared to admit they had a problem in the past is going balls to the wall." "The Japanese lawyers are living their worst nightmare: OSO Industries is up to top of its colon with lawsuits, including one asking for OSO to be denied any access to the American market for 100 years." Scott whistled long and loud, then laughed. "And that's fun?" "You're goddamned right, it's fun," Ty asserted, popping another beer from the poolside cooler. "It's a shit load more interest- ing that rotting here," he spread his arms to embrace the lush beauty from their 1500 foot high aerie. "How much sun and peace and quiet and sex and water and beach can one man take?" He spoke loudly, like a Southern Spiritual Minister. "Too much scuba diving and swimming and sailing and sunsets and black starry nights can be bad for your health. This is a goddamned Hedonist's Heaven." He brought his hands to his side and gave a resigned sigh. "I guess if you can stomach this kind of life." "Jealous?" Scott asked gently. He knew about Arlene's reticence to try anything new, out of the ordinary. She was very pleased with her life in Westchester. She felt that knowing someone who lived in Paradise whom she could visit once a year was new-ness enough. "No, man," Tyrone said genuinely, speaking as himself again. "I got exactly what I wanted." He cocked his head at the pool, where Arlene seemed more relaxed than she had in years. "Can't you see? She's miserable, but she's mine. Scott, you've lived your fantasy, made a difference. Now, it's my turn." Scott looked over at Arlene. "Hey, shit for brains," he said to Tyrone. "She's no slouch. It's what the hell she's doing with you I never understood." Scott lunged at Tyrone's attention- getting sized abdomen with the steak fork. "Nice and juicy," retorted Tyrone, patting his prominent stomach. "You're not my type. I like mine lean. I cut off the fat," Scott barbed. Before Tyrone could get in his jibe Scott called out, "Steaks' on. Outside black, inside mooing." The girls smacked their lips in anticipation and sat in the elegant all weather PVC furniture. A red sailor's delight sun was mere inches above the horizon, setting to the west over Hassel and Water Islands which provide umbrage to Blue Beard's harbor of choice. The men were providing all services this evening and the ladies were luxuriating in this rare opportunity. Little did they know, or little did they let on, that they knew the men enjoyed the opportunity to demonstrate their culinary skills without female interference. Beside, thought Scott, it was the maid's day off. "Seriously, though," Tyrone said quietly as Scott piled the plates with steaks and potatoes. "I know you better than that. I don't see how you can do nothing. You don't know how to sit your ass still for ten minutes. It's not your personality. Don't you agree Arlene?" "Yes dear," she said, still talking to Sonja. "And that room you call your office, Jesus. You have more equip- ment in there than . . ." "It looks like more than it is . . ." Scott downplayed the point. "Mainly communications. The local phone company is a joke, so I installed an uplink. No big deal." "C'mon, man, I just can't see you sitting on the sidelines." Tyrone stressed the word 'you'. "Not with what's happening now? There must be a thousand stories out there . . ." "And a thousand and one reporters. Too much noise, too busy for my liking. After the Homosoto story, if there's one luxury I've learned to live with, it's that I can pick and choose what I do." Scott spoke much too reserved for the Scott Mason Tyrone knew. "Aha! So you are up to something. I knew it. I gave you one, maybe two months, but I never figured you'd last three." They carried the four plates laden with steaks and potatoes over to the table where their spouses waited. Fresh beers awaited their much appreciated efforts. "I do get a little itchy and I read a lot." Tyrone glared at Scott with disbelief. "No really, just a little research," laughed Scott in mock defense. "O.K., I received a call, and it sounded kind of interesting, so I've been looking into it." "Poking around, here and there and everywhere?" "Kinda, just following up a few leads." "Just a few?" "Well, maybe more than a few," Scott admitted. "When did this little project begin?" Tyrone asked accusingly. He suspected Scott was hiding a detail or two. "It's not really a project . . ." "Don't skirt the issue. When?" Scott lowered his head. "Two weeks after we got here." Tyrone stifled what might otherwise have become a volcanic roar of laughter. "Two weeks? Ha!" Tyrone needled. "You only lasted two weeks? How did Sonja feel about that?" He looked over Scott's at better half listen in. "Ah, well, she sort of insisted . . ." "You drove her nuts? In two weeks?" Sonja shook her head vigor- ously in agreement but kept speaking to Arlene Duncan. "Kind of; semi-sorta-kinda-maybe." Scott grinned impishly. "But, yeah, I have been working on something." He couldn't keep it to himself. "Dare I ask?" "Off the record?" Scott sounded insistent. "This is a twist. How about attorney-client privilege?" Tyrone asked. Scott didn't disagree. "Good," said Tyrone. "Give me a dollar. That's my yearly fee." Scott complied, finding a soaking wet dollar bill in his swim- ming trunks. He laid it next to Tyrone's plate. "Well?" Tyrone asked with great interest. "Well, I discovered we never developed the A-Bomb to end World War II." "Excuse me?" 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