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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 . . .
<<<<<<AUTOCRYPT CONVERSATION>>>>>>
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.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
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.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
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.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
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.
<<<<<<AUTOCRYPT CONVERSATION>>>>>>
<<PRG RESPONSE?>>
Alex entered the code displayed on his personal identification
card.
G4-YU7-%T64-666.009
<<ACCEPTED>>
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.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
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.
<<<<<<DIALING 4165553165 . . . . . .>>>>>>
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 '<MI>you'll be helping your country,<D>'
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.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
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? <<FON MAN>>
B THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT IS JUST TRYING TO TAKE OVER. THE BILL
OF RIGHTS IS GOING RIGHT DOWN THE SHITTER <<POLTERGEIST>>
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. <<PHASER>>
YOU DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DO YOU? <<RAMBO>>
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. <<POLTERGEIST>>
I DON'T THINK THAT IT'LL BE THAT BAD <<KIRK>>
YOU BEEN HANGING OUT WITH THAT MASON GUY TOO MUCH <<PHASER>>
CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. HE'S LISTENING <<KIRK>>
ALL THE BETTER. HE'S AS BAD AS THE FEDS. <<PHASER>>
May I say something?
WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?
I must beg to differ with Phaser with a question.
IT'S YOUR DIME. <<PHASER>>
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? <<PHASER>>
So, if freedom is the issue as you say, I assume that you want to
keep your electronic freedom at all costs.
RIGHT! <<PHASER>>
THAT'S THE POINT <<POLTERGEIST>>
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. <<PHASER>>
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. <<KIRK>>
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.
<<POLTERGEIST>>
DO YOU THINK THE FREEDOM LEAGUE IS DOING GOOD? <<KIRK>>
OF COURSE NOT. <<PHASER>>
That's Homosoto. Thousands of viruses. NEMO already helped.
ONLY THOSE THAT AGREE. WE ARE NOT A DEMOCRACY. <<POLTERGEIST>>
SO YOU DON'T WANT TO FIGHT THE VIRUSES? <<RAMBO>>
NOT YOU, TOO? <<PHASER>>
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. <<RAMBO>>
THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT WILL
TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY. <<PHASER>>
Only if they have to. Wouldn't you rather help and keep that
from happening?
IF I TRUSTED THE GOVERNMENT. <<PHASER>>
Can I introduce you to someone? His handle is FBI.
KIRK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GIVING US AWAY? <<POLTERGEIST>>
THEY'RE TIED IN ON MIRAGE. THEY CAN PLAY BUT THERE'S NO REDIAL.
<<KIRK>>
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? <<PHASER>>
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? <<POLTERGEIST>>
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. <<KIRK>>
AND MINE. <<RAMBO>>
There is a big difference between freedom of speech and insurrec-
tion and invasion.
WHAT ABOUT PRIVACY? <<PHASER>>
THERE IS NONE, AND YOU KNOW IT. <<KIRK>>
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. <<PHASER>>
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. <<PHASER>>
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. <<KIRK>>
It may be the only way to keep the digital highways open, I'm
sorry to say.
IS THAT A THREAT? <<PHASER>>
Merely an observation.
I NEED TO THINK. <<PHASER>>
WHAT DO YOU NEED TO KNOW? <<RAMBO>>
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. <<PHASER>>
This is FBI. We want to shut them down.
HOW? <<KIRK>>
We have our means.
SEE WHAT I MEAN! THEY'RE ALL PIGS. THEY TAKE, TAKE, TAKE. BUT
IF YOU ASK SOMETHING THEY CLAM UP. <<PHASER>>
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. <<POLTERGEIST>>
As a lawyer, I could make that case.
I AM A LAWYER, TOO. I PHREAK FOR PHREEDOM. <<POLTERGEIST>>
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? <<PHASER>>
RIGHT. <<POLTERGEIST>>
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. <<KIRK>>
WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED? <<RAMBO>>
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? <<PHASER>>
None. Also, rumors.
WHAT KIND OF RUMORS? <<KIRK>>
Like who might want to disrupt the Air Reservations System.
YOU'RE KIDDING? <<POLTERGEIST>>
I wish I was. You see, we are up against the wall.
THAT COULD REALLY FUCK THINGS UP. <<POLTERGEIST>>
REALLY! <<KIRK>>
IS IT REALLY THAT BAD? <<POLTERGEIST>>
Worse.
MAYBE I'LL THINK ABOUT IT. <<POLTERGEIST>>
ME TOO. <<PHASER>>
MASON. I'M GOING TO CUT YOU OFF. <<KIRK>>
It won't be the first time.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
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?"
"Someone gave it to us."
****************************************************************
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