Terminal Compromise: computer terrorism: when privacy and freedom are the victims: a novel

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Title: Terminal Compromise: computer terrorism: when privacy and freedom are the victims: a novel
Author: Schwartau, Winn
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Terminal Compromise: computer terrorism: when privacy and freedom are the victims: a novel" ***

"Terminal Compromise" by Winn Schwartau

Who thanks you for your consideration.

INTER.PACT Press
11511 Pine St.
Seminole, FL 34642

THE WORLD'S FIRST NOVEL-ON-THE-NET (tm) SHAREWARE!!!
By Inter.Pact Press

"TERMINAL COMPROMISE"
by Winn Schwartau

A high tech thriller that comes from today's headlines!

"The Tom Clancy of computer security."
Assoc. Prof. Dr. Karen Forcht, James Madison University

"Terminal Compromise" is a highly praised novel about the inva-
sion of the United States by computer terrorists.

Since it was first published in conventional print form, (ISBN:
0-962-87000-5) it has sold extremely well world-wide, but then
again, it never hit the New York Times Bestseller List either.
But that's OK, not many do.

Recently, someone we know very well came up with a real bright
idea. They suggested that INTER.PACT Press take the unprece-
dented, and maybe slightly crazy, step to put "Terminal Compro-
mise" on the Global Network thus creating a new category for book
publishers. The idea is to offer "Terminal Compromise," and
perhaps other titles at NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE(tm) rates to
millions of people who just don't spend a lot of time in book-
stores. After discussions with dozens of people - maybe even
more than a hundred - we decided to do just that. We know that
we're taking a chance, but we've been convinced by hackers and
phreakers and corporate types and government representatives that
putting "Terminal Compromise" on the net would be a fabulous step
forward into the Electronic Age, (Cyberspace if you will) and
would encourage other publishers to take advantage of electronic
distribution. (It's still in the bookstores, though.)

To the best of our knowledge, no semi-sorta-kinda-legitimate
-publisher has ever put a complete pre-published 562 page book on
the network as a form of Shareware. So, I guess we're making
news as well as providing a service to the world's electronic
community. The recommended NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE fees are
outlined later (this is how we stay in business), so please read
on.

WE KEEP THE COPYRIGHTS!

"Terminal Compromise" is NOT being entered into the public
domain. It is being distributed electronically so hundreds
of thousands more people can enjoy it and understand just where
we are heading with our omnipresent interconnectedness and the
potential dangers we face. INTER.PACT Press maintains all copy-
rights to "Terminal Compromise" and does not, either intentionally
or otherwise, explicitly or implicitly, waive any rights to
this piece of work or recourses deemed appropriate. (Damned
lawyers.)

TERMINAL COMPROMISE - THE REVIEWS

" . . . a must read . . ."
Digital News

"Schwartau knows about networks and security and creates an
interesting plot that will keep readers turning the pages."
Computer World

"Terminal Compromise is fast-paced and gripping. Schwartau
explains complex technology facilely and without condescension."
Government Computer News

"An incredibly fascinating tale of international intrigue . . .
action . . . characterization . . . deserves attention . . .
difficult to imagine a more comprehensive resource."
PC Laptop

"Schwartau . . . has a definite flair for intrigue and plot
twists. (He) makes it clear that the most important assets at
risk are America's right to privacy and our democratic ideals."
Personal Identification News

"I am all too familiar with the appalling realities in Mr.
Schwartau's book. (A) potentially catastrophic situation."
Chris Goggans, Ex-Legion of Doom Member.

" . . . chilling scenarios . . . ", "For light summer reading
with weighty implications . . . ", " . . . thought provoking,
sometimes chilling . . . "

Remember, it's only fiction. Or is it?

TERMINAL COMPROMISE: SYNOPSIS

"It's all about the information . . . the information."
From "Sneakers"

Taki Homosoto, silver haired Chairman of Japan's huge OSO Indus-
tries, survived Hiroshima; his family didn't. Homosoto promises
revenge against the United States before he dies. His passion-
ate, almost obsessive hatred of everything American finally comes
to a head when he acts upon his desires.

With unlimited resources, he comes up with the ultimate way to
strike back at the enemy. Miles Foster, a brilliant 33 year old
mathematician apparently isn't exactly fond of America either.
The National Security Agency wanted his skills, but his back-
ground and "family" connections kept him from advancing within the
intelligence community. His insatiable - borderline psychotic-
sex drive balances the intensity of waging war against his own
country to the highest bidder.

Scott Mason, made his fortune selling high tech toys to the
Pentagon. Now as a New York City Times reporter, Mason under-
stands both the good and the evil of technology and discovers
pieces of the terrible plot which is designed to destroy the
economy of the United States.

Tyrone Duncan, a physically huge 50-ish black senior FBI agent
who suffered through the Hoover Age indignities, befriends Scott
Mason. Tyrone provides the inside government track and confusion
from competing agencies to deal with the threats. His altruistic
and somewhat pure innate view of the world finally makes him do
the right thing.

As Homosoto's plan evolves, Arab zealots, German intelligence
agents and a host of technical mercenaries find the weaknesses in
our techno-economic infrastructure. Victims find themselves
under attack by unseen adversaries; Wall Street suffers debili-
tating blows; Ford and Chrysler endure massive shut downs. The
U.S. economy suffers a series of crushing blows.

From the White House to the Pentagon to the CIA to the National
Security Agency and FBI, a complex weaving of fascinating politi-
cal characters find themselves enmeshed a battle of the New World
Order. Sex, drugs, rock'n'roll: Tokyo, Vienna, Paris, Iraq,
Iran. It's all here.

Enjoy reading "Terminal Compromise."

SHAREWARE - NOVEL FEES:

We hope that you enjoy "Terminal Compromise" as much as everyone
else has, and that you will send us a few shekels according to
the following guidelines.

The NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE(tm) fees for us as a publishing
company are no different than the fees for software application
shareware publishers, and the intent is the same. So please, let
us continue this form of publishing in the future.

NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE Fees For The People:

The suggested donation for individuals is $7. If you hate Termi-
nal Compromise after reading it, then only send $6.50. If you're
really, really broke, then tell a hundred other people how great
it was, send us a rave review and post it where you think others
will enjoy reading it, too. If you're only a little broke, send
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NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE Fees For Businesses:

We hope that you put "Terminal Compromise" on your internal
networks so that your employees will have the chance to enjoy it
as well. It's a great way to increase security awareness amongst
this country's 50,000,000 rank and file computer users. Plus,
it's a hell of a good read.

One company plans on releasing a chapter every few days
throughout its E-Mail system as a combination of security aware-
ness and employee 'perc'. Try it; it works and your employees
will appreciate it. Why? Because they'll all talk about it -
bringing security awareness to the forefront of discussion.

FEES

Distribution for up to 100 people on a single network: $ 500
(Includes 1 Year subscription to "Security Insider Report.")

Distribution for up to 1000 people on a single network: $ 3000
(Includes 10 1 Year subscriptions to "Security Insider
Report.")

Distribution for up to 2500 people on a single network: $ 6250
(Includes 1 Year electronic Corporate site license to
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Distribution for up to 5000 people on a single network: $ 10000
(Includes 1 Year electronic Corporate site license to
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Distribution for up to 10000 people on a single network: $ 15000
(Includes 1 Year electronic Corporate site license to
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Distribution for up to 25000 people on a single network: $ 25000
(Includes 1 Year electronic Corporate site license to
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Distribution for more than that - Please call and we'll figure it
out. Would you like us to coordinate a special distribution
program for you? Would you like in Postscript or other visual
formats? Give us a call and we'll see what we can do.

* * * * * * * * * *
Please DO NOT UPLOAD AND DISTRIBUTE "Terminal Compromise"
into your networks unless you intend on paying the recom-
mended fees.

* * * * * * * * * *

NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE Fees for Universities: FREE!

"Terminal Compromise" has been used by many schools and universi-
ties as a teaching supplement. Recognized Educational institu-
tions are entitled to use "Terminal Compromise" at NO COST, as
long as you register with us that you are doing so. Please pro-
vide: School name, address, etc., the course, the instructor, and
the reason for using it. Also, we'd like to hear from you and
tell us how it went. Thanks.

SHAREWARE-NOVEL Fees for Local, State and Federal Governments.

You have the money. :-) Please send some back by following
the same fee guidelines as those for businesses.

Government employees: You are The People - same fees are
appreciated.

* * * * * * * * * *

Agencies: Do not upload and distribute "Terminal Compromise"
unless you plan on paying the fees.

* * * * * * * * * * *

NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE Fees for the International Community
Make payments in $US, please.

GETTING TERMINAL COMPROMISE:

You can get your copy of Terminal Compromise from a lot of
sites; if you don't see it, just ask around.

It consists of either 2 or 5 files, depending upon how you re-
ceive it. (Details at end of this file.)

Feel free to post all five files of "Terminal Compromise" any-
where on the net or on public or private BBS's as long as this
file accompanies it as well.

Please forward all NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE fees to:

INTER.PACT PRESS
11511 Pine St. N.
Seminole, FL., 34642

Communications:

Phn: 813-393-6600
Fax: 813-393-6361
E-Mail: p00506@psi.com
wschwartau@mcimail.com

We will accept checks, money orders, and cash if you must, and we
mean if you must. It's not the smartest thing in the world to
send cash through the mail. We are NOT equipped at this point
for credit cards.

Remember, "Terminal Compromise is copyrighted, and we will vigor-
ously pursue violations of that copyright. (Lawyers made us say
it again.)

If you ABSOLUTELY LOVE "Terminal Compromise," or find that after
50 pages of On-Screen reading, you may want a hard copy for your
bookshelf. It is available from bookstores nationwide for
$19.95, or from Inter.Pact directly for $19.95 + $3.50 shipping
and handling. If you first paid the $ 7 NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHARE-
WARE fee, send in proof and we'll deduct $ 7 from the price of
the hard copy edition.

ISBN: 0-962-87000-5

Enjoy "Terminal Compromise" and help us make it an easy decision
to put more books on the Global Network.

Thank you in advance for your attention and your consideration.

The Publishers,
INTER.PACT Press

****************************************************************

Note to the Readers of "Terminal Compromise:"

In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish
fact from fiction.

That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts
are unbelievable. Maybe it doesn't matter and they're the same
after all. Other than a few well known names and incidents, the
events in this book are fictional - to the best of my knowledge.

As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods,
new tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if
this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would
always be unfinished. The battle of the computers is one without
an end in sight.

This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the
possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is
clouded because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news,
of today. I expect that distinction to become hazier over the
next few years.

It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation
indistinguishable from reality.

The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was
the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative
being the last thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi-
tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.

In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since "Terminal Com-
promise" was first published. It seemed that we were able to
predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips,
non-lethal warfare . . . and you'll recognize a few other prog-
nostications we didn't expect to come to pass quite yet.

The reader will soon know why.

There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara-
tion of this document, but I'll only mention a few. If the
reader doesn't want to hear about my friends, please move on to
the next chapter.

Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.

Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He
kept me honest.

Miles Roban. That's an alias. He's the one who told me about
the real NSA. I hope he doesn't get in trouble for what he said.
I owe him a pound of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two
years, according to 'high-up' sources, the NSA has been and still
is looking for 'Miles'. They haven't found him yet, despite an
intensive internal NSA search. We need more people like 'Miles'
who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of secu-
rity on issues that affect us all.)

Dad. God rest.

Winn Schwartau, July, 1993

****************************************************************

"Terminal Compromise" is dedicated to:

Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue
of the family. Let's continue to break the rules.
I Love You

Ashley
She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and
then became a South-Paw.

Adam
Welcome, pilgrim.

****************************************************************

Prologue

Friday, January 12, The Year After
The White House, Washington D.C.

The President was furious. In all of his professional political
life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so
totally out of character. The placid Southern confidence he
normally exuded, 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.

* * * * *

Monday, August 6, 1945.
Japan

The classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders'
instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were
in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war. And
of course it was to be a Japanese victory over the American
Mongrels.

Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was
only a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected
all of them. The children of Japan were well acquainted with
suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart - literally at
the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the honor
that their sacrifices represented. They hardened, out of neces-
sity, in order to survive and make it through the next day, the
next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so many of
the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera-
tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was
only fitting. Their fathers and loved ones were fighting self-
lessly and winning the war.

Many of the children's fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and
many had not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others,
unrecognizable. And when some fathers had gone off to war, both
they and their families knew that would never return. They were
making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country, and more impor-
tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life.

The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-
ence. It was widely believed that their father's honor was
handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been received
the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.

Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father's
sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the
war, about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat
the round faced enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday
that his father would leave . . .and assuredly die as was the
goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to understand that it made
sense to him.

In the last 6 months since his father had left, Taki assumed, at
his father's request, the patriarchal role in the immediate
family. The personal anguish had been excruciating. While
friends and family and officials praised Taki's father and fami-
ly, inside Taki did not accept that a man could willingly leave
his family, his children, him . . .Taki, never to return. Didn't
his father love him? Or his sister and brother? Or his mother?

Taki's mother got a good job at one of the defense plants that
permeated Hiroshima, while Taki and his brother and sister con-
tinued their schooling. But the praise, the respect didn't make
up for not having a father to talk to, to play with and to study
with. He loved his mother, but she wasn't a father.

So Taki compensated and overcompensated and pretended that his
father's sacrifice was just, and good, and for the better of
society, and the war effort and his family. Taki spoke as a
juvenile expert on the war and the good of Japan and the bad of
the United States and the filthy Americans with their unholy
practices and perverted ways of life, and how they tortured
Japanese prisoners. Taki was an eloquent and convincing orator
to his piers and instructors alike.

At 8:15 A.M., the Hiroshima radio station, NHK, rang its old
school bell. The bell was part of a warning system that an-
nounced impending attacks from the air, but it had been so over-
used that it was mostly ignored. The tolls from the bell were
barely noticed by the students or the teachers in the Honkawa
School. Taki though, looked out the window toward the Aioi
Bridge. His ears perked and his eyes scanned the clear skies over
downtown Hiroshima. He was sure he heard something . . .but
no . . .

The first sensation of motion in the steel reinforced building
came long seconds after the blinding light. Since the rolling
earth motions in 1923 devastated much of Tokyo, schoolchildren
and households nationwide practiced earthquake preparedness and
were reasonably expectant of another major tremor at any time.

But the combination of light from 10,000 suns and the deafening
roar gave those who survived the blast reason to wish they had-
n't. Blindness was instant for those who saw the sky ignite.
The classroom was collapsing around them. In the air was the
noise of a thousand trains at once...even louder. In seconds the
schoolhouse was in rubble.

The United States of American had just dropped the Atomic Bomb
on Hiroshima, Japan. This infamous event would soon be known as
ayamachi - the Great Mistake.

* * * * *

Tuesday, August 7, 1945

Taki Homosoto opened his eyes. He knew he was laying on his
back, but all else was a clutter of confusion. He saw a dark
ceiling, to what he didn't know and he hurt He turned his head
and saw he was on a cot, maybe a bed, in a long corridor with
many others around him. The room reeked of human waste and
death.

"Ah . . .you are awake. It has been much time." The voice came
from behind him. He turned his head rapidly and realized he
shouldn't have. The pain speared him from his neck to the base
of his spine. Taki grimaced and made a feeble attempt at whim-
pering. He said nothing as he examined the figure in the white
coat who spoke again. "You are a very lucky young man, not many
made it."

What was he talking about . . .made it? Who? His brain wanted
to speak but his mouth couldn't. A slight gurgling noise ushered
from his throat but nothing else. And the pain . . .it was
everywhere at once . . .all over . . .he wanted to cry for
help . . .but was unable. The pain overtook Taki Homosoto and
the vision of the doctor blackened until there was no more.

Much later, Taki reawoke. He assumed it was a long time later,
he been awake earlier . . .or had that been a dream. The
doctor...no he was in school and the earthquake . . .yes, the
earthquake . . .why don't I remember? I was knocked out. Of
course. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw and remembered
that it wasn't a dream. He saw the other cots, so many of them,
stretching in every direction amidst the cries of pain and sighs
of death.

Taki tried to cry out to a figure walking nearby but only a low
pitched moan ushered forth. Then he noticed something
odd . . .and odd smell. One he didn't recognize. It was
foul . . .the stench of burned . . .burned what? The odor made
him sick and he tried to breathe through his mouth but the awful
odor still penetrated his glands. Taki knew that he was very
hurt and very sick and so were a lot of others. It took him some
time, and a lot of energy just to clear his thoughts. Thinking
hurt - it concentrated the aching in his head, but the effort
took away some of his other pain, or at least it successfully
distracted him focussing on it.

There were cries from all around. Many were incomprehensible
babblings, obviously in agony. Screams of "Eraiyo!", ("the pain
is unbearable!") were constant. Others begged to be put out of
their misery. Taki actually felt fortunate; he couldn't have
screamed if he had wanted to, but out of guilt he no longer felt
the need to.

Finally, the same doctor, was it the same doctor? appeared over
his bed again. "I hope you'll stay with us for a few minutes?"
The doctor smiled. Taki responded as best he could. With a
grunt and the raising and lowering his eyelids. "Let me just say
that you are in very good condition . . .much better than the
others," the doctor gestured across the room. "I don't mean to
sound cruel, but, we do need your bed, for those seriously hurt."
The doctor sounded truly distraught. What had happened?

A terrified look crossed Taki's face that ceded into a facial
plead. His look said, "I can't speak so answer my
questions . . .you must know what they are. Where am I? What
happened? Where is my class?"

"I understand your name is Taki Homosoto?" the doctor asked.
"Your school identification papers . . ."

Taki blinked an affirmative as he tried to cough out a response.

"There is no easy way to tell this. We must all be brave. Ameri-
ca has used a terrible weapon upon the people of Japan. A spe-
cial new bomb so terrible that Hiroshima is no longer even a
shadow of itself. A weapon where the sky turns to fire and build-
ings and our people melt . . .where the water sickens the living
and those who seem well drop in their steps from an invisible
enemy. Almost half of the people of Hiroshima are dead or dying.
As I said, you are a lucky one."

Taki helped over the next days at the Communications Hospital in
what was left of downtown Hiroshima. When he wasn't tending to
the dying, he moved the dead to the exits so the bodies could be
cremated, the one way to insure eternal salvation. The city got
much of its light from pyres for weeks after the blasts.

He helped distribute the kanpan and cold rice balls to the very
few doctors and to survivors who were able to eat. He walked the
streets of Hiroshima looking for food, supplies, anything that
could help. Walking through the rubble of what once was Hiroshi-
ma fueled his hate and his loathing for Americans. They had
wrought this suffering by using their pikadon, or flash-boom
weapon, on civilians, women and children. He saw death, terrible,
ugly death, everywhere; from Hijiyama Hill to the bridges a cross
the wide Motoyas River.

The Aioi bridge spontaneously became an impromptu symbol for
vengeance against the Americans. Taki crossed the remnants of
the old stone bridge, which was to be the hypocenter of the blast
if the Enola Gay hadn't missed its target by 800 feet. A tall
blond man in an American military uniform was tied to a stone
post. He was an American POW, one of 23 in Hiroshima. A few
dozen people, women in bloodstained kimonos and mompei and near
naked children were hurling rocks and insults at the lifeless
body. How appropriate thought Taki. He found himself mindlessly
joining in. He threw rocks at the head, the body, the legs. He
threw rocks and yelled. He threw rocks and yelled at the remains
of the dead serviceman until his arms and lungs ached.

Another 50,000 Japanese died from the effects of radiation within
days while Taki continued to heal physically. On August 17, 9
days after the atomic bombing of Nagasaki and 2 days after Emper-
or Hirohito's broadcast announcing Japan's surrender, a typhoon
swamped Hiroshima and killed thousands more. Taki blamed the
Americans for the typhoon, too.

Taki was alone for the first time in his life. His family dead,
even his little sister. Taki Homosoto was now a hibakusha, a
survivor of Hiroshima, an embarrassing and dishonorable fact he
would desperately try to conceal for the rest of his life.

* * * * *

Forty Years Later . . .
January, 1985, Gaithersburg, Maryland.

A pristine layer of thick soft snow covered the sprawling office
and laboratory filled campus where the National Bureau of Stand-
ards sets standards for the country. The NBS establishes exactly
what the time is, to the nearest millionth of a millionth of a
second. They make sure that we weigh things to the accuracy of
the weight of an individual atom. The NBS is a veritable techno-
logical benchmark to which everyone agrees, if for no other
reason than convenience.

It was the NBS's turn to host the National Computer Security
Conference where the Federal government was ostensibly supposed
to interface with academia and the business world. At this
exclusive symposium, only two years before, the Department of
Defense introduced a set of guidelines which detailed security
specifications to be used by the Federal agencies and recommended
for the private sector.

A very dry group of techno-wizards and techno-managers and tech-
no-bureaucrats assemble for several days, twice a year, to dis-
cuss the latest developments in biometric identifications tech-
niques, neural based cryptographic analysis, exponential factor-
ing in public key management, the subtleties of discretionary
access control and formalization of verification models.

The National Computer Security Center is a Department of Defense
working group substantially managed by the super secret National
Security Agency. The NCSC's charter in life is to establish
standards and procedures for securing the US Government's comput-
ers from compromise.

1985's high point was an award banquet with slightly ribald
speeches. Otherwise the conference was essentially a maze of
highly complex presentations, meaningless to anyone not well
versed in computers, security and government-speak. An attend-
ee's competence could be well gauged by his use of acronyms. "If
the IRS had DAC across its X.25 gateways, it could integrate
X9.17 management, DES, MAC and X9.9 could be used throughout.
Save the government a bunch!" "Yeah, but the DoD had an RFI for
an RFQ that became a RFP, specced by NSA and based upon TD-80-81.
It was isolated, environmentally speaking." Boring, thought
Miles Foster. Incredibly boring, but it was his job to sit,
listen and learn.

Miles Foster was a security and communications analyst with the
National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was part of
the regimen to attend such functions to stay on top of the latest
developments from elsewhere in the government and from university
and private research programs.

Out of the 30 or so panels that Miles Foster had to attend, pro
forma, only one held any real interest for him. It was a mathe-
matical presentation entitled, "Propagation Tendencies in Self
Replicating Software". It was the one subject title from the
conference guide about which he knew nothing. He tried to figure
out what the talk was going to be about, but the answer escaped
him until he heard what Dr. Les Brown had to say.

Miles Foster wrote an encapsulated report of Dr. Brown's presen-
tation with the 23 other synopses he was required to generate for
the NSA. Proof of Attendance.

SUBJECT:
Dr. Les Brown - Professor of Computer Science, Sheffield Univer-
sity. Dr. Brown presented an updated version of his PhD thesis.

CONTENTS:
Dr. Brown spoke about unique characteristics of certain software
that can be written to be self-replicating. He examined the
properties of software code in terms of set theory and adequately
demonstrated that software can be written with the sole purpose
of disguising its true intents, and then replicate or clone
itself throughout a computer system without the knowledge of the
computer's operators.

He further described classes of software that, if designed for
specific purposes, would have undetectable characteristics. In
the self replicating class, some would have crystalline behav-
iors, others mutating behaviors, and others random behaviors.
The set theory presentations closely paralleled biological trans-
mission characteristics and similar problems with disease detec-
tion and immunization.

It became quite clear from the Dr. Brown's talk, that surrepti-
tiously placed software with self-replicating properties could
have deleterious effects on the target computing system.

CONCLUSIONS

It appears prudent to further examine this class of software and
the ramifications of its use. Dr. Brown presented convincing
evidence that such propagative effects can bypass existing pro-
tective mechanisms in sensitive data processing environments.
There is indeed reason to believe that software of this nature
might have certain offensive military applications. Dr. Brown
used the term 'Virus' to describe such classes of software.

Signed, Miles Foster
Senior Analyst
Y-Group/SF6-143G-1

After he completed his observations of the conference as a whole,
and the seminars in particular, Miles Foster decided to eliminate
Dr. Brown's findings from the final submission to his superiors.
He wasn't sure why he left it out, it just seemed like the right
thing to do.

****************************************************************

Chapter 1
August, 4 Years Ago.
National Security Agency
Fort George S. Meade, Maryland.

Thousands of disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600 rpm. The
massive computer room, Computer Room C-12, gently whirred and
droned with a life of its own. The sublime, light blue walls and
specially fitted blue tint light bulbs added a calming influence
to the constant urgency that drove the computer operators who
pushed buttons, changed tapes and stared at the dozens of amber
screens on the computers.

Racks upon racks of foreboding electronic equipment rung the
walls of Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed. Rats
nests of wire and cable crept along the floor and in and out of
the control centers for the hundreds of millions of dollars of
the most sophisticated computers in the world. Only five years
ago, computing power of this magnitude, now fit in a room the
size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon. All of
this, all of this power, for one man.

Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a
table, 4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and micro-
phones. He had been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they
had taken his watch to distort his time perception.

Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his resigna-
tions as a communications expert with the National Security
Agency, S Group, his office was sealed and guarded by an armed
marine. His computer was disconnected, and he was escorted to a
debriefing room where he had sporadically answered questions
asked by several different Internal Affairs Security Officers.

While Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the pre-
ferred term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work. From
C-12, a group of IAS officers began to accumulate information
about Miles Foster from a vast array of computer memory banks.
They could dial up any major computer system within the United
States, and most around the world. The purpose, ostensibly, of
having such power was to centralize and make more efficient
security checks on government employees, defense contractors and
others who might have an impact on the country's national securi-
ty. But, it had other purposes, too.

Computer Room C-12 is classified above Top Secret, it's very
existence denied by the NSA, the National Security Agency, and
unknown to all but a very few of the nation's top policy makers.
Congress knows nothing of it and the President was only told
after it had been completed, black funded by a non-line item
accountable budget. Computer Room C-12 is one of only two
electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital reposi-
tory containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles of
every man, woman and child in the United States. The other
secret door that guards America's privacy is deep within the
bowels of the Pentagon.

From C-12, IAS accessed every bank record in the country in
Miles' name, social security number or in that of his immediate
family. Savings, checking, CD's. They had printouts, within
seconds, of all of their last year's credit card activity. They
pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical records from the
National Medical Data Base which connects hospitals nationwide,
travel records from American carriers, customs checks, video
rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that
any computer ever knew about Miles Foster was printed and put
into eleven 6" thick files within 2 hours of the request from the
DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency.

Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful
and highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly
resign a senior analyst position. While Miles was more than
willing to tell them his feelings, and the real reasons behind
his resignation, they wanted to make sure that there weren't a
few little details he wasn't telling them. Like, perhaps gam-
bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on the
wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.
Had he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get
it? Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when unex-
pected personnel changes occur.

The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-
lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort
Meade where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes-
sional life. He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-
tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used
2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was
nothing unusual about his file at all, unless you think that
living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to make
the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.

The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty
shade of government gray. There was an old map on the wall and
Miles noticed that the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades
lighter than the surrounding paint. Two of the four fluorescent
bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron bars
behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was
getting into those file with permission. Also prominent on each
file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock.

Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they
were hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone.
Miles paced the room during the prolonged waits. He poked here
and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind
the map and smirked.

When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer-
cising his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.

He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn't a
fitness nut, but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape -
women, lots of women. He had a lightly tanned Mediterranean
skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-
ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he wore
torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another personal asset
that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage. Miles
was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance,
he called it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None-
theless, women, of all ages went for it.

One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible.
He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples.
If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-
ing upon how he twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, "I'm
real angry, seriously", or "I'm just giving you shit", or "You
bore me, go away", or more to Miles' purpose, "You're gorgeous, I
wanna fuck your brains out". His dimples could pout with a
smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent
and augment his mood at will.

But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with
the entire process. The IAS wasn't going to find anything. He
had made sure of that. After all, he was the computer expert.

Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, 'I
doubt an ax could even get through this' door. The fourth IAS
man to question Miles entered the room as the door was relocked
from the other side.

"So, tell us again, why did you quit?" The IAS man abruptly
blurted out even before sitting in one of the old, World War II
vintage chairs by the wooden table.

"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred
times." The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. "I
really don't want to go through it again."

"Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven't told me yet." This
guy was tougher, Miles thought.

"What are you looking for? For God's sake, what do you want me
to say? You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is
and I'll give it back to you, word for word. Is that what you
want?" Miles gave away something. He showed, for the first
time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the emotion
was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of
amino acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go
back to the naive, 'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.

He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He
gently shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing.
The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening.

"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed. "And I want it
now!"

Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he
could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he
had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.

"O.K., O.K." Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another
heavy sigh. "I quit 'cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and
simple. I like my work, I don't like the bureaucracy that goes
with it. That's it. After over 10 years here, I expected some
sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase like
every other G12. I want to go private where I'll be appreciated.
Maybe even make some money."

The IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event made you
quit? Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the
next day, or next week. Why today?" The IAS man blew smoke at
Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles
was exhausted and edgy.

"Like I said, I got back another 'don't call us, we'll call you'
response on my Public-Private key scheme. They said, 'Not yet
practical' and set it up for another review in 18 months. That
was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that you've been
looking for. Is that what you want?" Miles tried desperately to
minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.

"What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work
is classified." The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.

"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I
think the military call it the revolving door." Miles' dimpled
smugness did not sit well with IAS.

"Yeah, you'll probably go to work for your wop friends in
Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.

"Hey - you already know about that!" That royally pissed off
Miles. He didn't appreciate any dispersion on his heritage.
"They're relatives, that's it. Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and
a bunch of booze. And besides," Miles paused and smiled,
"there's no such thing as the Mafia."

By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally
leave the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal
items, under guard, and then escorted to the front gate. All
identification was removed and his files were transferred into
the 'Monitor' section, where they would sit for at least one
year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had
had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic
machine that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of
the interrogation. Just like I said, he thought, just like I
said.

There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the
Agency shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than
what he claimed. Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in
the records did it show how much he hated his stupid, stupid
bosses, the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn't have the
first idea of what he and his type did. Nowhere did Miles'
frustration and resultant build up of resentment and anger show
up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance
were relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright
ambitious engineering types. It fit the profile.

Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles
Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in
cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the secu-
rity of the United States. Nowhere did it say, they were all
turned down, tabled, ignored.

At one point or another, Miles had to snap. The rejection of
proposal number thirty-four gave Miles the perfect reason to
quit.

* * * * *

Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father was
a pure Irishman. "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother would say
while slamming the palm of her hand into forehead. She was not
exactly fond of her daughter marrying outside family. But, it was
a good marriage, 3 great kids, or as good as kids get and Grand-
mama tolerated the relationship. Miles the oldest, was only 7
when his father got killed as a bystander at a supermarket rob-
bery.

Mario Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some undefined,
never mentioned capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the pater-
nal role in raising Miles. With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and
a grandmother all living under the same roof with Miles, any
male companionship, role model if you will, was acceptable.
Mario kept the Family Honor, keeping his sexual proclivities
secret until Miles turned 18. Upon hearing, Miles commented,
"Yeah, so? Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag. Big deal."

Mario was a big important guy, and he did business, grownup
business. That was all Miles was supposed to know. When Miles
was 13, Mario thought it would be a good idea for him to become
a man. Only 60 miles from Las Vegas lived the country's only
legal brothels. Very convenient. Miles wasn't going to fool
around with any of that street garbage. Convention girls. Miles
should go first class the first time.

Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the
United States. Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph, in
his Red Ferrari on Highway 10, heading West from Vegas. Mario
was drinking Glen Fetitch, neat, and he steered with only one
hand, hardly looking at the road.

The inevitable occurred. Gaining on them, was a Nevada State
Trooper. The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario to slow
down and pull over. He grinned, sipped his drink and Miles
worried. Speeding was against the law. So was drinking and
driving. The police officer walked over to the driver side of the
Ferrari. Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer lean
into the car. As the trooper bent over to look inside the
flashy low slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun from under
the seat and stuck it into the cop's face.

Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I?
I don't want nothing to go on my insurance. I gotta good driving
record, y'know?" Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges
to severely contract his sphincter muscles.

"No sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship citation, for
your contributions to the public good." The cop laughed in Uncle
Mario's face.

"Good to see you still gotta sensa'humor." Uncle Mario laughed
and put the gun back in his shoulder holster. Miles stared,
dumbfounded, still squeezing his butt cheeks tight.

"Eh, Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know the limit's
110?" They both guffawed.

"Here!" Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a ride
around the world, y'know what I mean?" Miles wasn't sure what
he meant, but he was sure it had to do with where he was going to
lose his virginity.

"Sheeeee-it! Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take 2 from
Column B, then do it once for me!" Even though they weren't, to
a 13 year male Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making fun
of him. "I remember my first time. It was in a pick up truck,
out in the desert. Went for fucking ever! Know what I mean?
The cop winked at Miles who was humiliated. To Miles' relief,
Mario finally gave the cop an envelope, while being teasingly
reprimanded. "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here, will
yah? At least on my watch, huh?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."

"Ciao."

They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of
the evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way
that brought tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle
Mario. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

* * * * *

"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not
react favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying
to protect him from the influence of her relatives. Miles was
gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and
she didn't want his life to go to waste.

His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime
culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family,
knew that they dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional
rough-up of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it. She mar-
ried a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him 6
years before. They _could not_ have her son.

Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and
also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-
ing and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the
Family. His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming
operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in the
house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.

But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother.
Hands off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He
was protected. Miles was titillated with the attention, but he
still listened to his mother. She came before all others. With
no father, she became a little of both, and despite anyone's
attempts, Miles knew about Mario.

Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and
grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same
treatment from everyone, especially women. They praised him so,
he always got top honors, the best grades, that he came to re-
quire the attention and approval.

Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect.
Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at
all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women,
largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and
treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could
convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while
baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed,
willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster
was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which
Miles took as approval.

By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics
and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts
within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female
family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to
change the world. He was the single most important person that
could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no
wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it
must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or
girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and
arrogance. Even obnoxious.

His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics.
He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All
questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you
have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer
will appear.

His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant
soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition
to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all
phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous.
Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of
mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into
much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would
be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as
the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the
government.

He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to
put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security
Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a
mathematician - the biggest, fastest and best computers in the
world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What-
ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles
accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that
they lied, of course. However, they never bothered to tell him,
that because of his family background, guilt by association if
you wish, his career would be severely limited.

Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but
he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were
senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his
particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what
they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern-
ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily
complied - then he got itchy to work on other projects. After
all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time
he came up with another. Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new
done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it
through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed
a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of
8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec-
tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I'll scratch
yours.

During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various
programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use-
ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro-
gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude
proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable
to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of
them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and
reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his employ-
er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked
his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the
job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different
person.

* * * * *

The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief.
The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal
call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize the
number.

"Investigations," The chief answered.

"This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."

"Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?

"Is he gone?"

"Yessir."

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it. Forever."

* * * * *

September, 4 Years Ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications
security consultant. He and half of those who lived within
driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a
simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to
those who make their living selling products or services to the
Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-
sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services
would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry,
Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few
clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your
knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to
companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the
days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange-
ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient
nature is probably no more evident than through the political
circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and
about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to
maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date
women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men-
strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he
thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he
would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the
odds of good blow job.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those
who could help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the
secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease
the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs,
often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists,
were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze
with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties,
the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni-
taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a
generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid
for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The
Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly
handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore
cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless
other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company
names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in
an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a
former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners
in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house
was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but
tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern,
comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the
classic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.
The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer
air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured
gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air
conditioned indoors.

It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a
hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and
unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last
of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with
her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he
had set out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game,
talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured
out how he was going to get laid tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a
woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just
arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and
he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks
like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French
doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm
Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned
toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch
taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder
length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and
statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown
eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins
were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and
dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts
stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to
Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.
His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a
houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned
how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend
together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling,
ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy
reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced
quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely
tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually
liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women,
he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really'
liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-
glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were
still closed.

"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him.
"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood
for shop talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work
for them?"

"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.
Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious.
I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone
who can pay. That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands
got the desired result.

"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that
could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know
if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless
they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on
that."

"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get
together?" She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about
this later?" Miles begged.

* * * * *

Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore
Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo
Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000
for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa-
tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him,
that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.
Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He
still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never
occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not
have liked him.

At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to
Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that
this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983
before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an
American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed
that thought to remove any traces of worry.

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the
flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed
envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large
black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER
WELCOME TO JAPAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY
ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.
ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI HOMOSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more
important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was
in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-
ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a
member in good standing.

* * * * *

Thursday, September 3
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full
circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."

"Traffic Dallas?"

"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up
pretty good."

"Sheers?"

"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You
got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a
while."

"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

"Roger 1137."

The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The
dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the
air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light
emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns,
afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the
airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over
Dallas and Fort Worth.

Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours
past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and
highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on
time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections
were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the
air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a
chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and
least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.

Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"
He asked looking at the radar screen.

"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his
finger.

"Bogies? What are those symbols?"

"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're
there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's
gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was
trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.

"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch
and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen
and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What
was the Delta pattern?"

"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke
rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.

"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might
be a bounce."

Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned
with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he
had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other
ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their
equipment was functioning properly.

"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting
update. It's getting a little tight up here."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second
here . . ."

"Dallas, what's the problem?"

"Just a check . . ."

Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify
the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa-
tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System
was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane
flying within domestic air space.

All status information, on every known flight in progress and
every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22
ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical
Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a
DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com-
puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an
updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap-
proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not
appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis-
plays. Something was drastically wrong.

"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.

His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta,
too, 1258."

"What is it?"

"37."

"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to
know what's happening." He called over to another controller.
"Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're
closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the
airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air-
port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the
tower's concern was safety at all costs.

"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have
they had a recall lately?"

The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else-
where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and
LAX have problems, too."

"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and
rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe
their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are
going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."

The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The
captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground-
ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an
oncoming, and lost, DC-9.

"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?
This is worse than the freeway . . ."

The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over,
but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was
going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours,
and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification
to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-
tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail-
able immediately.

Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing
737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of
bogies with meaningless signatures.

"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have
several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist-
ance."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"

"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."

* * * * *

By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across
the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder
failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the
FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos
reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a
day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell
angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were
going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we
can do, every airline explained to no avail.

Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since
they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports
where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough
fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen
emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the
FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a
certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock
wore off.

The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives
monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from
Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were
accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight
restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the
scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and
almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.

It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.
Damn good thing.

* * * * *

DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND
by Scott Mason

"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave
actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working
in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation
said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized
transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.

"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be
permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has
taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should
be complete within 30 days."

In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi-
tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed
dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.

Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment
on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at
once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility
of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec-
tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor-
gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has
been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by
hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-
ming error in history."

Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said
there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in
the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations
busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the
gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30%
less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the
system back together,

Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as
much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.

"I think I'll take the train."

"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at
fault?"

"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a
little wrong and they jack up the prices."

The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also
institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other
airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure
is never repeated.

Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi-
tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior
service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates
place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2
Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.

The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation
stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the
airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its
best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.

Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines
and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott
Mason, riding the train.

* * * * *

"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not
another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged
his shoulders in mock defeat.

"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special-
ist," he chided.

When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical
choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de-
veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City
Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more
times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled
to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc-
cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug

"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying
to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.

"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded.
Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on
critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on
the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a
virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"

"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I
finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff
scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."

"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."

"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and
worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's
no story . . ."

"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut-
tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead
printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he
patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."

"God, I hate this job."

Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven
years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original
idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New
York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a
media form in its own right.

Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was
when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without
any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.

Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug
had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable
Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel.
Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for
brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"

"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni-
cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to
the people at home."

"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer
column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to
be polite.

"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his
dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and
the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning,
the impact behind the technology."

"No one would be interested," objected Doug.

Doug was wrong.

Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the
news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro
Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until
competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay
family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and
contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the
Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth
or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.
Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false
accusations and impersonal objectivity.

Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that
some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in
palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how
the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.
Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove
it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for
months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco
took its place.

The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott
Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that
the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the
whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which
grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that
was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had
been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov-
ered the discrepencies.

When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated
spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,
Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a
reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood
the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times'
responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-
ter was averted.

The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the
payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the
testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He
traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany
which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the
possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-
thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.
Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him
in the act."

"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and
technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-
ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest
and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of
the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of
the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,
well disguised and easily avoided."

Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical
apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-
tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to
fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back-
bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.
The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a
competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-
est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he
didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni-
cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was
with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-
cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted
to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.

****************************************************************

Chapter 2
Friday, September 4
San Francisco, California

Mr. Henson?"

"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his
highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the
papers he was perusing.

"There's a John Fullmaster for you."

"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.

"Ah, John Fullmaster."

"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"

"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."

Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson
leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look
covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well,
tell him I'll take it in a minute."

As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful
Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of
the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive
young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets.
Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his
capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse
himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's
hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound
interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert
Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them
down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion
Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat
fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a
break anyway.

"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It
was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW
corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where
the Statue of Liberty reigned.

"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper
Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and
propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you
are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis
Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with
the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees.
Don't you agree."

Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I
asked, sir, don't you agree?"

"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the
hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the
SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I
assume you represent . . ."

"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt-
ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-
ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to
show them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.

"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over
40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be-
lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them
altered yourself?"

Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His
eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though
someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair,
leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.

"I don't know what you're taking about."

"I think you do, Mr. Henson."

"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.

"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures
were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."

"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.

Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed
the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."

"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."

* * * * *

"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken
Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up
and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken
Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid
1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's
national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the
man in the background rather the one in the public light. He
felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant
surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were
completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill
could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.

Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids
should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"

"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."

"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."

"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had
worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering
a U.S. Senator around.

"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous
campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look
he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement
gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments
later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers.
Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how
in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only
you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked
accusingly at Ken.

"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."

"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United
States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm
just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides,
I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass
and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is
going on? There were only three of us . . ."

"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal
onslaught.

"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the
plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he
knew the numbers Ken!"

"Merrill, calm down."

"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you
know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out
about . . ." Rickfield looked around and thought better of
finishing the sentence.

"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the
whole thing up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and
touched the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some
lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."

"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time
as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that
bastard Young is there. Alone. It's a threesome."

* * * * *

John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu-
sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los
Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going
into the office. As Executive Vice President of California
National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick
and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool
and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The
view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly
two hours.

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-
cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a
social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the
social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc-
curred. He craved his private time.

Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to
call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which
when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife
was the only other person with the private phone number he
changed every month to insure his solitude.

The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.
He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.
The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times
before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just
got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.

"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.

"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that
your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the
voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting
thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.

"Who is this? What secret?"

"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring
to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover
your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a
soul." The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the
profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.
Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?
I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think
you have . . ."

Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.
Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they
alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients
of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he
was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic
to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call
was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in-
structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the
contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not
leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his
ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.
If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by
secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes-
sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps
with a little prod, his call was put through.

At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster-
ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and
reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens
last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How
strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir,
and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance
Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per-
mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the
eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a
new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal
existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff
upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one
score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is
when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled
Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected
his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was
that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth -
totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now
that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise
when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking
rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct
his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it
became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of
his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma
Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande
Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he
enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move,
as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed
gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.

"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.

George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no
reason whatsoever to know who he was.

"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire,
Essex?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo-
politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been
recognized.

George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was
lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.
Please do be seated."

The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of-
fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your
valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across
from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.

"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man
nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the
white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa,
parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness,
so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George
returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe
I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.

"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well,
so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"

George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I
assist you?"

"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I
understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say,
extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The
Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma
notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was
it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger
had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard
of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on
Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical
scrutiny.

"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or
can we do for each other?"

"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each
other." Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply
put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to
represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more
if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?"

"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical
from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put
this . . ."

" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from
your valuable projects?"

"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you
understand, it's just that . . .". Alex detected a slight
stutter as Sir George spoke.

Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need
to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the
exorbitant costs associated with your studies and would not
expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."

George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a
task as yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom-
fort that one should in such a situation is that he was in
desperate need of money. And, this stranger did seem to know who
he was, and did need his particular type of expertise, whatever
that was.

"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of
representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what
he was supposed to do before naming a price.

Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really.
In exchange for that, and some travel, first class and all ex-
penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid."
Alex looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed fees. He
was pleased with what he saw in George's face.

Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch.
As George ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin-
ued.

"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular
delicacy with which you are well acquainted. Each day you will
receive a list of names. There will be instructions with each
name. Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is writ-
ten. Keep notes of each call you make and I will provide you
with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of confi-
dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if
you accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to
reach mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank
account in your name." Alex opened his jacket and handed George
an envelop. "This is an advance if you accept. It is $25,000
American. There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San
Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do not,
there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will
want this money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was
smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.

Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had
always wanted to see the States.

"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George
peered at Alex for a clue.

"Do you really care?"

"No."

"Off you go then. And good luck."

* * * * *

Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow-
ing evening. He flew first class and impressed returning Ameri-
can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed impor-
tance. What fun. After the virtually nonexistent customs check,
he called the number inside the envelop. It rang three times
before answering. Damn, it was a machine, he thought.

"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good
flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant
friendly. "Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton.
You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial
tone replaced the lovely voice. He dialed the number again.

A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called
in no longer in service. Please check the number or call the
operator for assistance. The number you have called is no longer
in service..."

George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra-
tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for
the first time in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke
was this? Fly half way around the world and be greeted with an
out of service number. But the first voice had known his name.
The Hilton. Why not?

At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.
He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying and
the span of 10 time zones. The Eggs Benedict was exquisite, but
Americans could learn something about tea. The phone rang again.
He casually picked it up.

"Good morning, Sir George. Please get a pencil and paper. You
have fifteen seconds and then I will continue." It was the same
alluring voice from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there
at the phone so he waited through 14 seconds of silence. "Very
good. Please check out of the hotel and pay cash. Proceed to the
San Francisco airport and from a pay phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at
1 P.M. Have a note book and two pens with you. Good Bye. "

The annoying dial tone returned. What a bloody waste of time.

At 1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed. He figured
that since he was to have a notebook and pens he might need to
write for a while, so he used one of the phone booths that pro-
vides a seat and large writing surface.

"Good afternoon Sir George. In ten seconds, your instructions
will begin." Again, that same voice, but it almost appeared
condescending to him now. Isn't that the way when you can't
respond. The voice continued. "Catch the next flight to New
York City. Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central Sta-
tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue. Not a suite this time, Sir
George, just a regular room." Sir George was startled at Alex's
attention to detail.

"You will stay there for fourteen days. On 56th. street and
Madison avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training Insti-
tute. You are to go to CTI and enroll in the following classes:
DOS, that's D-O-S for beginners, Intermediate DOS and Advanced
DOS. You will also take WordPerfect I and II. Lastly, and most
importantly you will take all three classes on Tele-Communica-
tions. They call it TC-I, TC-II and TC-III. These eight class-
es will take you ten days to complete. Do not forget to pay in
cash. I will now pause for ten seconds." Alex was writing furi-
ously. Computers? He was scared silly of them. Not that he had
ever had the opportunity or the need or the desire to use them,
just from lack of exposure and the corresponding ignorance. But
if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he would do it. What the
hell.

"After you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a store called
Discount Computer Shoppe. Buy the following equipment with cash.
One Pro-Start 486-80 computer with 8 Meg RAM. That's 8 M-E-G R-
A-M and ask for a high resolution color monitor. Also purchase,
and have them install a high speed modem, M-O-D-E-M. Do not, I
repeat, do not purchase a printer of any type. No printers Sir
George. You are never to use a printer. Ever. Lastly, you will
purchase a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk. If you wish any
games for your amusement, that is up to you. When you have
completed your studies you will call 212-555-6091. Do not call
that number before you have completed your studies. This is
imperative."

Sir George was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It was
all gibberish to him. Pure gibberish.

"Sir George." The female voice got serious, very serious for the
first time in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one, I
repeat, no one, of the nature of your business, the manner in
which you receive instructions, or why computers have a sudden
interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and your advance will
be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"

George responded quickly, "Yes!" before seeing the lunacy of
answering a machine.

"Good," the voice was friendly again. "Learn your lessons well
for you will need the knowledge to perform your tasks. Until we
speak again, I thank you, Sir George Sterling." The line went
dead.

George Toft took his computer classes very seriously. He had in
fact bought a few games to amuse himself and he found himself
really enjoying the work. It was new, and exciting. His only
social distractions were the sex shops on Times Square. Red
Light Amsterdam or the Hamburg they weren't, so midnight antics
with the Mario Brothers prevailed most evenings. Besides, there
was a massive amount of homework. Bloody hell, back to school.
He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great deal. In
fact most of the students in Sir George's computer classes ex-
celled. The teachers were very pleased to have a group of stu-
dents that actually progressed more rapidly than the curriculum
called for. Pleasant change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens.

The computer teachers didn't know that a vast majority of the
class members had good reason to study hard. Most of them had
received their own $25,000 scholarships.

* * * * *

Sunday, September 6
SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.

WTFO

the computer screen displayed. That was hackerese, borrowed from
the military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly greeting
that offended no one.

Back on. Summer finals are over. Everyone still there?

BOOM'S STILL AT UCLA, I JUST TALKED TO CRACKER, MAD MAX, ALPHA,
SCROLLER, MR. MAGIC . . .WE MISSED YOU. LOOKING FORWARD TO A
GOOD VACATE?

Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the key
to the NPPS NASA node?

THEY CLOSED IT AGAIN. WE'RE STILL LOOKING. WE WERE BACK INTO
AMEX, THOUGH. CLEANED UP A FEW DEBTS FOR UNSUSPECTING CARD
MEMBERS. HAPPY LABOR DAY TO THEM. GOOD FUN.

And CHAOS? Anyone?

BEST I'VE EVER HEARD. 4 NEW VIRUSES SET TO GO OFF. HIGHLY POTENT
VARIATIONS OF JERUSALEM-B. THEN SOME RUMORS ABOUT COLUMBUS DAY,
BUT NOTHING HARD.

When you get the code send me a copy, OK?

SURE. HEY, REMEMBER SPOOK? STILL ASKING TO JOIN NEMO. SEEMS HE
BEEN UP TO A LOT OF SUCCESSFUL NO GOOD. WE'RE ABOUT READY TO LET
HIM IN. HE BROUGHT A LOT TO THE PARTY.

Careful! Remember 401

YEAH, I KNOW. HE'S CLEAN. GOOD GOVT STUFF . HE BROUGHT US THE
NEWEST IRS X.25 SIGN-ONS, 2 MILNET SUPERUSER PASSWORDS AND, DIG
THIS, VETERAN'S BENEFIT AND ADMINISTRATION, OFFICE OF POLICY AT
THE VA.

What you gonna do, boy? In them thar computers?

I FIGURE I'D GIVE A FEW EXTRA BENEFITS TO SOME NEEDY GI'S WHO'VE
BEEN ON THE SHORT END.

Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.

<<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>

The screen of his communications program returned to a list of
names and phone numbers. Lori said she'd be over in an hour and
Steven Billings was tempted to dial another couple of numbers
before his date with Lori. But if he found something interesting
it might force him to be late, and Lori could not tolerate play-
ing second fiddle to a computer.

Steven Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone before",
by fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego State
University. The ritual labors were over and he looked forward to
some relax time. Serious relax time.

The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was spend-
ing time with his computer. She was jealous in some respects, in
that it received as much attention from Steve as she did. Yet,
she also understood that computers were his first love, and they
were part of his life long before she was. So, they came with the
territory. Steve attended, upon occasion, classes at SDSU, La
Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien, Connecticut, he
lived in paradise.

Steve's single largest expense in life was his phone bill, and
instead of working a regular job to earn spending money, Steve
tutored other students in their computer courses. Rather than
flaunt his skills to his teachers and risk extra assignments, he
was more technically qualified than they were, he kept his mouth
shut, sailed through classes, rarely studied and became a full
time computer hacker. He translated his every wish into a com-
mand that the computer obeyed.

Steve Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd. He
was almost dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body, and
dark blond hair that caused the girls to turn their heads. He
loved the outdoors, the hot warmth of the summer to the cooler
warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff Reef and betting on
fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana. He played soccer and OTL, a San
Diego specific version of gloveless and topless co-ed beach
softball. In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.

The spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in white tennis
shorts and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically co-existed
with the sterile surroundings of the mammoth super computer
center. The Cray Y-MP is about as big and bad a computer as
money can buy, and despite Steve's well known skills, the head of
the Super Computing Department couldn't help but cringe when
Steve leaned his surf board against the helium cooled memory
banks of the twelve million dollar computer.

He ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and effort-
lessly that over time he spent more and more of his hours there
perusing through other people's computers. Now there was a feel-
ing. Hacking through somebody else's computer without their
knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity of possibilities,
an infinity of answers.

The San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought, and the
evening paper was even worse. So he got copies of the New York
City Times when possible, either at a newsstand, borrowed from
yesterday's Times reader or from the library. Nice to get a real
perspective on the world. This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to get
his own new, uncrumpled and unread copy of his revered paper, all
thirty four pounds of it. Alone. Peace.

Reading by the condo pool an article caught his eye. Steve
remembered a story he had heard about a hacker who had invaded
and single handedly stopped INTERNET, a computer network that
connected together tens of thousands of computers around the
country.

* * * * *

Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker
by Scott Mason, New York City Times

Vaughn Chase, a 17 year old high school student Galbraith High
School in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges that
he infected the nationwide INTERNET network with a computer
virus. This latest attack upon INTERNET is reminiscent of a
similar incident launched by Robert Morris of Cornell University
in November, 1988.

According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA spon-
sored group, if Mr. Chase had not left his name in the source
code of his virus, there would have been no way to track down the
culprit.

A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put
into a computer, generally designed to cause damage. A virus
attaches itself to other computer programs secretively. At some
time after the parasite virus program is 'glued' into the comput-
er, it is reawakened on a specific date or by a particular se-
quence of events.

Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm. A Worm is
a program that copies itself, over and over and over, either
filling the computer's memory to capacity or slowing down its
operation to a snail's pace. In either case, the results are
devastating - effectively, the computer stops working.

Chase, a math wizard according to his high school officials,
released the Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation
date of September 1, which brought thousands of computers to a
grinding halt.

INTERNET ties together tens of thousands of computers from the
Government, private industry, universities and defense contrac-
tors all over the country. Chase said he learned how to access
the unclassified computer network from passwords and keys dis-
tributed on computer Bulletin Boards.

Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter-
mine the cause of the network slowdown and then to restore the
network to normal operation. It has been estimated that almost
$100 Million in damage was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm. Mr. Chase
said the Worm was experimental, and was accidentally released
into INTERNET when a piece of software he had written malfunc-
tioned. He apologized for any inconvenience he caused.

The Attorney General of the State of Michigan is examining the
legal aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase will
be tried within in a year. Mr. Chase was released on his own
recognizance.

This is Scott Mason wondering why the Pentagon doesn't shoot
worms instead of bombs at enemy computers.

* * * * *

The next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS from his
small Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin
Board Service or BBS. A BBS is like a library. There are li-
braries of software which are free, and as a user you are recip-
rocally expected to donate software into the Public Domain. Con-
ference Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS are free-for-all
discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live'
conversation. Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the world
can call up any BBS using regular phone lines. No one cared or
knew if you were skinny, fat, pimpled, blind, a double for
Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit to talk to girls in person.
Here, everyone was equal.

Billings 234

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a brief pause.

WELCOME TO THE SDSU/BBS. STEVE BILLINGS, YOU ARE USER #109

Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:

The menu changed to a list of further options. Each option would
permit the user to gain access to other networks around the
country. From one single entry point with a small computer,
anyone could 'dial up' as it's called, almost any of over
20,000,000 computers in the country tied into any of ten thousand
different networks.

SDSU/BBS WINDOW ON THE WORLD

NETWORK SERVICES MENU

Steve selected CALNET, a network at Cal Tech in Los Angeles.
Many of the Universities have permanent connections between their
computers.

LOGON: Billings014

PASSWORD: XXXXKIRKXXXX

Again, there was a pause, this time a little longer. Now, from
his room, he was talking to a computer in Los Angeles. There was
another menu of options, and a list of other widely dispersed
computer networks. He requested the SUNYNET computer, the State
University of New York Network. From there, he asked the comput-
er for a local phone line so he could dial into a very private,
very secret computer called NEMO.

It took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in New
York, all at the price of a local phone call.

NEMO was a private BBS that was restricted to an elite few.
Those who qualifications and reputations allowed them entry into
the exclusive domain of hacking. NEMO was born into this world
by Steve and a few of his friends while they were in high school
in Darien. NEMO was a private club, for a few close friends who
enjoyed their new hobby, computers.

NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker.

1. PASSWORDS
2. NEW NETS
3. DANGER ZONES
4. CRACKING TOOLS
5. WHO'S NEW?
6. PHREAKING
7. CRYPTO
8. WHO ELSE?
9. U.S. NETWORKS
10. INTERNATIONAL NETWORKS
11. FOR TRADE
12. FORTUNE 500 DOORKEYS

He selected (8), WHO ELSE? Steve wanted to see who else was 'on-
line' now. He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving
hackers a bad name. The computer responded:

CONVERSATION PIT: LA CREME, RAMBO. DO YOU WANT TO JOIN IN?

That was great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's founders were
there. La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but he
had not yet returned to San Diego for the fall term. RAMBO,
'I'll get through any door' was the same age as Kirk and Creme,
but chose to study at Columbia in New York's Harlem. Hackers
picked alter- ego monikers as CB'ers on the highways did; to
project the desired image. Steve and his cohorts picked their
aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since.

Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.

WHO ARE YOU?

NEMO was asking for an additional password.

Kirk

Steve typed. A brief pause, and the computer screen came to
life.

WELCOME TO THE CONVERSATION PIT, KIRK. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?

That was his invitation to interrupt any conversation in
progress. Steve typed in,

Dudes!

HOW'D EXAMS GO? <>

Greased'em. Ready to come back?

FAST AS THE PLANE WILL GO. PICK ME UP? 7:20 ON AMERICAN?

Sure. Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat? Some phreak blowing
it for the rest of us.

SO YOU HEARD. CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP. <>

What the hell really happened? I read the Times. Said that he
claimed it was accident.

ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE <>

HOW MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE NETWORK? ONE
THAT I KNOW OF. YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN THERE. THAT'S NO ACCIDENT.
<>

Ten-Four. Seems like he don't wanna live by the code. Must be
some spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .

BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN. HE SUPPOS-
EDLY CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A BIG VIRUS
SCARE AND THEN LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST FIX. THE VIRUS
WORKED ALL TOO WELL. THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE, SUCKED. SO
INTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR A COUPLE OF
DAYS TILL THEY CLEANED OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS. <>

SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <>

Jeez. Anyone else been hit yet?

NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE. A LOT OF DOORS HAVE BEEN
CLOSED SO IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE DIDN'T LOSE
EVERYTHING. THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU. <>

OK, I'll be supersleuth. Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom, The
Crusaders?

IT'S ONE BIG DEAL IN THE E-MAIL: NEW CHAOS VIRUSES, EVERY DICK
AND JANE IS WRITING THEIR OWN VIRUSES. COMPUTING WITH AIDS.

Funny. Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM? Or your
mouse?

GOT SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING? IF HALF OF WHAT THEY SAY
IS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE. TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC BBS'S.
QUITE A CHAT. <>

Will do. Any word on the new Central Census Data Base? Every-
thing about every American stored in one computer. All of their
personal data, ripe for the picking. Sounds like the kind of
library that would do the bad guys a lot of good.

CAN'T FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE LINK WAS
STILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED A PASSWORD,
SO THAT SHOULD BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND THE FRONT DOOR.
GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.
<>

Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind.

* * * * *

Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and passwords
from NEMO's data base into his computer 3000 miles across the
country. These were the most valuable and revered types of files
in the underground world of hackerdom. They include all of the
information needed to enter and play havoc inside of hundreds of
secret and private computers.

National Institute of Health 301-555-6761
USER: Fillstein PASSWORD: Daddy1
USER: Miller9 PASSWORD: Secret
VMS 1.01
SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY

VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla 904-555-2113
USER: Major101 PASSWORD: Secret
USER: General22 PASSWORD: Secret1
USER: Forestall PASSWORD: PDQS

IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research 914-555-0965
USER: Port1 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port2 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port3 PASSWORD: Scientist

There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to
computer systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was so
secret. Didn't want just anybody climbing the walls of their
private playground. Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.

Steve finished downloading the files from NEMO's distant data
base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He
laughed to himself. Big business and government never wizened
up. Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as kinder-
garten as you could get. And everyone wonders why folks like us
parade around their computers. He had in his hand a list of
over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational
institutions who had left the keys to the front doors of their
computers wide open. And those were just the ones that NEMO knew
about today.

There is no accurate way to determine how many groups of hackers
like NEMO existed. But, even if only 1/100 of 1% of computer
users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over 100,000
people breaking into computers. Enough reason to give Big Busi-
ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to lock
the doors.

Steve spent the next several hours walking right into computer
systems all over the country. Through the Bank of California in
San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could reach
the computers of several corresponding banks. He read through
the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted on
their loans and were in serious trouble. Rates were going to
start rising. Good enough for a warm up.

Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers. On line
launch information, results of analysis going back twenty years,
and he had had a taste of it, once. Then, one day, someone
inside of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door. He
and NEMO were ever on the search for a key back into NASA's
computers.

He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into NASA.
That only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal Tech
then into Livermore. From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for
a mere 25 cents.

Livermore researchers kept the front doors of their computers
almost completely open. Most of the workers, the graduate stu-
dents, preferred a free exchange of information between all
scientists, so their computer security was extraordinarily lax.
For a weapons research laboratory, funded by the Department of
Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.

Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered
sensitive but unclassified, whatever that meant in government-
speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker, it
was great reading. The leading thinkers from the most technical-
ly demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts for
the everyone to read. The Livermore scientists believed in
freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in.
To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore management.
And its funding agency.

Steve poked around the Livermore computers for a while and
learned that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than pub-
licly acknowledged. He discovered that the last 3 underground
nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and
no one knew why. Then he found some super-technical proposals
that sounded like pure science fiction:

Moving small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into orbit
around the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your ene-
mies. War mongers.

All of this fascinating information, available to anyone with a
computer and a little chutzbah.

* * * * *

Alexander Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other subjects
carefully, as he had been trained to do.

He had spent the better part of twenty years working for West
German Military Intelligence, Reichenbunnestrad Dunnernecht
Deutchelande, making less money than he required to live in the
style he desired. To supplement his income, he occasionally
performed extracurricular activities for special interest groups
throughout Europe. A little information to the IRA in Northern
Ireland, a warning to the Red Brigade about an impending raid.
Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists had
occasion to use Alex's Services. Nothing that would compromise
his country, he rationalized, just a little help to the various
political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec-
tive governments.

Alex suddenly resigned in 1984 when he had collected enough
freelance fees to support his habits, but he was unaware that his
own agency had had him under surveillance for years, waiting for
him to slip up. He hadn't, and with predictable German Govern-
ment efficiency, upon his departure from the RDD, his file was
promptly retired and his subsequent activities ignored.

Alex began his full time free-lance career as a 'Provider of
Information'. With fees of no less than 250,000 DM, Alex didn't
need to work much. He could pick and choose his clients as he
weighed the risks and benefits of each potential assignment.
With his network of intelligence contacts from Scotland Yard, Le
Surite, and the Mossad, he had access to the kind of information
that terrorists pay for dearly .

It was a good living. No guns, no danger, just information.

His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a flat
fee in the millions of Deutch Marks. It was the intelligence
assignment of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and pros-
perous retirement for Alex. He wasn't the perennial spy, politi-
cally or dogmatically motivated. Alex wanted the money.

After he had completed his computer classes and purchased the
equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been
given. He half expected a live person to congratulate him, but
also realized that that was a foolish wish. There was no reason
to expect anything other than the same sexy voice dictating
orders to him.

"Ah, Sir George. How good of you to call. How were your class-
es?" George nearly answered the alluring telephone personality
again, but he caught himself.

"Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please
get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15 seconds."
That damned infernal patronization. Of course I have a bleeding
pen. Not a pencil. Idiot.

"Are you ready?" she asked. George made an obscene gesture at
the phone.

"Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight. Bring all of the com-
puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14 Sutherland
Place on Knob Hill. Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find
two keys. They will let you into your new living quarters. Make
yourself at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of as
is the phone bill. Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1.
When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput-
er. You should be well acquainted with how to do that by now.
The number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5. Your password is A-G-O-R-A.
Under the mattress in the bedroom is a PRG, Password Response
Generator. It looks like a credit card, but has an eight digit
display. Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a response
to your password. Quickly enter whatever the PRG says. If you
lose the PRG, you will be terminated." The voice paused for a
few seconds to George's relief.

"You will receive full instructions at that point. Good Bye." A
dial tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and hate.
Bloody hell, he thought. I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm
going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?

Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead
view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3 directions.
Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity;
bar, jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel cable.
Some job. But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the free
ride end? Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't let
go. One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins.

George installed his computer in the second bedroom on a table
that fit his equipment like a glove.

C:\cd XTALK
C:\XTALK\xtalk

His hard disk whirred for a few seconds. He chose the Dial
option and entered the phone number from the keyboard and then
asked the computer to remember it for future use. He omitted the
area code. Why had he been given an area code if he was dialing
from the same one? George didn't pursue the question; if he had
he would have realized he wasn't alone.

The modem dialed the number for him. His screen went momentarily
blank and then suddenly came to life again.

<<<<<>>>>>
DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)

George entered a "Y"

PASSWORD:

George entered AGORA. The letters did not echo to the screen.
He hoped he had typed then correctly. Apparently he did, for the
screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE.

He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer. There
was a pause and then the screen filled.

SIR GEORGE,

WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.

OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND NUMBERS
TO CALL. THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO BE
MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL. THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION WHAT-
SOEVER. I REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER. IF THERE IS, YOUR
SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE
NECESSARY.

EACH MORNING YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE FILE CALLED
SG.DAT. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR DOWNLOAD
ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.

FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY. KEEP AN EXACT LOG
OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE ON EACH CALL.

George pushed the space bar. The screen was again filled.

ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY THE
PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.

AT THE END OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD YOUR FILE, CALLED
SG.TOD. YOUR COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE AND TIME
STAMP ON IT.

THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT DAY.
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS, JUST INDICATE
THAT IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT TRY TO CALL
THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?

The screen was awaiting a response. George typed in "Y".

GOOD. THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?

WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?

None

ARE YOU SURE?

WILL YOU BUY ONE?

GOOD. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?

Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.

AN ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF AMERICA,
REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS $25,000 IN IT. EACH
MONTH OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH ANOTHER
PAYMENT. U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. IS THAT A PROBLEM?

WILL YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE? ANYONE AT
ALL?

EVEN UNDER FORCE?

Force, what the hell does that mean? I guess the answer is No,
thought George.

I HOPE SO, FOR YOUR SAKE. GOOD LUCK SIR GEORGE. YOU START
MONDAY.

<<<<<>>>>>

Sir George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused. He was
the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he
could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the
computer was worrisome. Was he being threatened? What was the
difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't ask. Keep his mouth shut and do a good job.

Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant consequences
of failure. This is San Francisco, and I have a three days off
in a new city. Might as well find my way around the town to-
night. According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.

****************************************************************

Chapter 3

Tuesday, September 8,
New York City

But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys
pleaded into his side of the phone. "How did you find out?" At
first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated by
one of his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife. Even she,
though, coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a twisted
form of art. No, it had to be real.

"I'm sorry Mr. Sidneys. We can't give out our sources. That's
confidential. But are you saying that you confirm the story?
That it is true?"

"Yes, no. Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing. "If this
gets out, I'm ruined. Ruined. Everything, my family . . .how
could you have found out? They promised!" The noise from the
busy metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult to
hear Sidneys.

"Can I quote you, sir? Are you confirming the story?" Scott
pressed on for that last requisite piece of every journalistic
puzzle confirmation of a story that stood to wreck havoc in
portions of the financial community. And Washington. It was a
story with meat, but Scott Mason needed the confirmation to
complete it.

"I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that
would mean I was being helpful . . .maybe I should get a
lawyer . . ." The call from Scott Mason to First State Savings
and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was
just doing what he was told to do. Following orders.

"Maybe, Hugh. Maybe." Scott softened toward Sidneys, thinking
the first name approach might work. "But, is it true, Hugh? Is
the story true?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. Do what you want." Hugh Sidneys
hung up on Mason. It was as close to a confirmation as he need-
ed. He wrote the story.

* * * * *

At 39, Scott Byron Mason was already into his second career.
Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had avoided
the family destiny of becoming a longshoreman. "If it's good
enough for me, it's good enough for my kids." Scott was an only
child, but his father had wanted more despite his mother's ina-
bility to carry another baby to full term.

Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting protec-
tion of his mother. Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have
more of a future than to merely live another generation in the
lower middle class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Not
that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.

Her son showed aptitude. By the age of six Scott knew two words
his father never learned - how and why. His childhood curiosity
led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot tempered
Louis Horace Mason. Scott took apart everything in the house in
an attempt to see what made it tick. Sometimes, not often
enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its small-
est components. Despite his failings and bruised bottom Scott
wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an answer
to anything.

Behind his father's back, Marie had Scott take tests and be
accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a
half train ride from Brooklyn. To Scott it wasn't an escape from
Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.

Horace gave Marie and Scott a three day silent treatment until
his mother finally put an end to it. "Horace Stipton Mason,"
Evelyn Mason said with maternal command. "Our son has a gift,
and you will not, I repeat, you will not interfere with his
happiness."

"Yes dear."

"The boy is thirteen and he has plenty of time to decide what
he's going to do with himself. Is that clear?"

"Yes dear."

"Good." She would say as she finished setting the table. "Dinner
is ready. Wash your hands boys." And the subject was closed.

But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the
country, Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott about
how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and
work at the docks, like the three generations before him.

The issue was never settled during Scott's rebellious teenage
years. The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn, getting
gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press,
Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful
civil disobedience. Scott Mason was seeing the world in a new
way. He was rapidly growing up, as did much of the class of
1970.

Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate
to be accepted at several reasonable schools.

"I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon hearing
that Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would live
at home. "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's,
washers. He can go to work like a man."

With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out of
the house and in with three roommates who also attended City
College, where all New Yorkers can get a free education. Scott
played very hard, studied very little and let his left of center
politics guide his social life. His engineering professors
remarked that he was underutilizing his God-given talents and
that he spent more time protesting and objecting that paying
attention. It was an unpredictable piece of luck that Scott
Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer. He would
be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and building
the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond
satisfying technical creativity.

"Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire and
John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was to
answer just such questions. McQuire and Mason had been asked to
join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the paper's
position on running Mason's story. Scott was being lawyered, the
relatively impersonal cross examination by a so-called friendly
in-house attorney. It was the single biggest pain in the ass of
Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive sub-
jects, he was lawyered fairly frequently. Not that it made him
feel any less like being called to the principal's office every
time.

Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful appear-
ance allowed some to underestimate his ability. He looked much
younger than his years, measuring a slender 6 foot tall and shy
of 160 pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a timeless all
about Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his better days-
he was back in circulation at almost 40. The round wire rimmed
glasses he donned for an extreme case of myopia were a visible
stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a sophisti-
cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred shav-
ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed his
poor shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin 'just
like Dick Nixon's'.

The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With 2
walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem-
bled an elegant and subdued law library. Higgins chaired the
meeting from behind his leather trimmed desk. Scott brought a
tall stack of files and put them on the glass topped coffee
table.

"We need to go over every bit, from the beginning. OK?" Higgins
made it sound more like and order than responsible journalistic
double checking. Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the
business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon-
sibility to insure that the City Times' was kept out of the re-
ceiving end of any litigation. That meant that as long as a
story was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the con-
tents were immaterial to him. That was the Publisher's choice,
not his.

Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media-
tor between news and business. Scott might not like what he had
to say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too much.
Higgins was never purposefully adversarial. He merely wanted to
know that both the writers and the newspaper had all their ducks
in a row. Just in case. Libel suits can be such a pain, and
expensive.

"Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about the
McMillan scams." Higgins turned on a small micro-cassette re-
corder. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps
better notes than I do," he offhandedly said. Nobody objected.
There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared.
It was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good attorneys
taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect themselves
in case anything went terribly wrong. With a newspaper as your
sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.

"OK," Scott began. His reporter's notebook sat atop files full
of computer printouts. "A few days ago, on September 4, that's
a Friday, I got an anonymous call. The guy said, 'You want some
dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?' I said sure, what do you
have and who is this?"

"So then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins looked up
surprised.

"Of course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank President
from White Plains. Says he knows how to clean up the S&L mess,
gets lots of air time. Probably making a play for Washington.
Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at Treasury.
I guess they listen to him."

"In a nutshell." Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"

Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from his
pad. "My notes start here. 'Who I am don't matter but what I
gotta say does. You interested'. Heavy Brooklyn accent, docks,
Italian, who knows. I said something like, 'I'm listening' and
he says that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all. He's been
socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real
smart. So I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it and I say
'how' and he says 'read your morning mail'." Mason stopped
abruptly.

"That's it?" Higgins asked.

"He hung up. So I forgot about it till the next morning."

"And that's when you got these?" Higgins said pointing at the
stack of computer printouts in front of Mason. "How were they
delivered?"

"By messenger. No receipt, nothing. Just my name and the pa-
per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.

"Then you read them?"

"Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his editor.
"That's when I let Doug know what I had."

"And what did he say?" Higgins was keeping furious notes to back
up the tape recording.

"'Holy shit', as I remember." Everyone laughed. Ice breakers,
good for the soul, thought Mason. People are too uptight.
Higgins indicated that Scott should continue.

"Then he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then he whistled
and Holy Shat some more." Once the giggles died down, Mason got
serious. "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told him
I'd put his name in the paper if anything came of it, and I
picked his brain. Ran through the numbers on the printouts, and
ran through them again. I really worked that poor guy, but
that's the price of fame. By the next morning we knew that there
were two sets of books on First State." Mason turned a couple
pages in his files.

"It appears," Scott said remembering that he was selling the
importance of the story to legal and the publisher, "that a
substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in numbered
bank accounts all over the world." Scott said with finality.

Higgins interrupted here. "So what's wrong with that?" he chal-
lenged.

"They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac-
count with over $750 Million it. Almost 10% of stated assets.
It appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand over them,
"that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss,
in their next SEC reporting." Mason stopped and looked at Hig-
gins as though Higgins would understand everything.

Higgins snorted as he made more notes.

"That next morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I got a
call again, from what sounded like the same guy."

"Why do you say that? How did you know?" Higgins inquired.

Mason sighed. "Cause he said, 'it's me remember?' and spoke like
Archie Bunker. Good enough for you?" Mason grinned wide. Mason
had the accent down to a tee. Higgins gave in to another round
of snickers.

"He said, 'you like, eh?'" Mason spoke with an exaggerated New
York accent and used the appropriate Italian hand gesture for
'eh!'. "I said, 'I like, but so what?' I still wasn't sure
what he wanted. He said, 'they never took a loss, yet. Look for
Friday. This Friday. They're gonna lose a bunch.' I said, 'how
much' and he said, 'youse already know.'" Mason's imitation of a
Brooklyn accent was good enough for a laugh.

"He then said, 'enjoy the next installment', and that was the
last time I spoke to him. At any rate, the next package con-
tained a history of financial transactions, primarily overseas;
Luxembourg, Lietchenstein, Switzerland, Austria, Hong Kong,
Sidney, Macao, Caymans and such. They show a history of bad
loans and write downs on First State revenues.

"Well, I grabbed the Beanie from the Basement and said, help me
with these now, and I got research to come up with the 10K's on
First State since 1980 when McMillan took over. And the results
were incredible." Mason held out a couple of charts and some
graphs.

"We compared both sets of books. The bottom lines on both are
the same. First State has been doing very well. McMillan has
grown the company from $1 Billion to $12 Billion in 8 years.
Quite a job, and the envy of hundreds of every other S&L knee
deep in their own shit." Higgins cringed. He thought Ms. Man-
chester should be shielded from such language. "The problem is
that, according to one set of books, First State is losing money
on some investments merely by wishing them away. They disappear
altogether from one report to the next. Not a lot of money, but
a few million here and there."

"What have you got then?" Higgins pressed.

"Nobody notices cause the losses are all within the limits of the
loss projections and reserve accounts. Sweet and neat! Million
dollar embezzlement scam with the SEC's approval."

"How much follow up did you do?" Higgins asked as his pen fly
across the legal pad.

"Due to superior reporting ability," Scott puffed up his chest in
jest, "I found that a good many account numbers listed in the
package I received are non-existent. But, with a little prod-
ding, I did get someone to admit that one of them was recently
closed and the funds moved elsewhere.

"Then, this is the clincher, as the caller promised, today, I
looked for the First State SEC reports, and damned if the numbers
didn't jive. The books with the overseas accounts are the ones
with the real losses and where they occur. The 'real' books
don't."

"The bottom line, please."

"Someone has been embezzling from First State, and when they're
through it'll be $3 Billion worth." Scott was proud of himself.
In only a few days he had penetrated a huge scam in the works.

"You can't prove it!" Higgins declared. "Where's the proof? All
you have is some unsolicited papers where someone has been play-
ing a very unusual and admittedly questionable game of 'what if'.
You have a voice on the end of a phone with no name, no nothing,
and a so-called confirmation from some mid-level accountant at
the bank who dribbles on about 'having to do it' but never saying
what 'it' is. So what does that prove?"

"It proves that McMillan is a fraud, a rip-off," Scott retorted
confidently.

"It does not!"

"But I have the papers to prove it," Scott shuffled through the
folders.

"Let me explain something, Scott." Higgins put down his pen and
adapted a friendlier tone. "There's a little legal issue called
right to privacy. Let me ask you this. If I came to you and
said that Doug here was a crook, what would you do?"

"Ask you to prove it," Scott said.

"Exactly. It's the same here."

"But I have the papers to prove it, it's in black and white."

"No Scott, you don't. What you have is some papers with accusa-
tions. They're unsubstantiated. They could have easily been
phonied. You know what computers can do better than I do. Now
here's the key point. Everybody in this country is due privacy.
You don't know where these came from, or how they were obtained,
do you?"

"No," Scott hesitantly admitted.

"So, someone's privacy has been compromised, in this case McMil-
lan's. If, and I'm saying, if, these reports are accurate, I
would take the position that they are stolen, obtained illegally.
If we publish with what we have now, the paper could be on the
receiving end of a slander and libel suit that could put us out
of business. We even could be named as a co-conspirator in a
criminal suit. I can't let that happen. It's our obligation to
guarantee responsible journalism."

"I see." Scott didn't agree.

"Scott, you're good, real good, but you have to see it from the
paper's perspective." Higgins' tone was now conciliatory. "This
is hard stuff, and there's just not enough here, not to go with
it yet. Maybe in a few days when you can get a little more to
tie it up. Not now. I'm sorry."

Case closed.

Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.

Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At
five foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding
pate, he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image.
His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather
than walked down the hallways at First State Savings and Loan
where he had been employed since graduating from SUNY with a
degree in accounting twenty four years ago.

His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of
place on the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First
State was known throughout the financial departments; he was
almost a fixture. His accounting skills were extremely strong,
even remarkable if you will, but his personality and appearance,
and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing
up the official corporate ladder.

Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.

He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind
of predicament before . . .he thought about the
lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but could
he afford that . . .and he wasn't sure what to do . . .was he in
trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he
sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was
just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?

"Ah, Mr. Mason?" Scott heard the timid man's Road Runner voice
spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk
from Higgins' office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a
train back home to Westchester.

"This is Scott Mason."

"Do you remember me?"

Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.

"We spoke earlier about First State, and I
just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for the
way I acted."

Scott's confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding
beancounter from First State. What did he want?

"Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?" He opened
his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to
go home. But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .

"It's just that, well, I'm nervous about this . . ."

"No need to apologize, Hugh." Scott smiled into the phone to
convey sincerity. "I understand, it happens all the time. What
can I do for you tonight?"

"Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I
don't know about help, help, it's so much and I didn't really
know, no I shouldn't have called . . .I'm sorry . . ." The pitch
of Sidneys' voice rose as rambled on.

"Wait! Don't hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?"

"Yes," the whisper came over the earpiece.

"Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?" The fear, the
sound of fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over
loud and clear. This man was terrified.

"Yes, I'm OK, so far."

"Good. Now, tell me, what's wrong. Slowly and calmly." He
eased Sidneys off his panic perch.

Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to
speak.

"Isn't there some sorta rule," he stuttered, "a law, that says if
I talk to you, you're a reporter, and if I say that I don't want
you to tell anybody, then you can't?" Sidneys was scared, but
wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was the time for Scott to
back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on his
desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.
According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain
and if wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to
assume the position.

"That's called off the record, Hugh. And it's not a law." Scott
was amused at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. "It's a
gentleman's agreement, a code of ethics in journalism. You can
be off the record, on the record, or for background, not for
attribution, for confirmation, there's a whole bunch of 'em."
Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he
explained the options slowly. "Which one would you like?" Scott
wanted it to seem that Sidneys was in control and making the
rules.

"How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should
do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don't want anything in the
paper. You have one for that?" Hugh was feeling easier on the
phone with Scott.

"Sure do. We'll just call it off the record for now. Everything
you tell me, I promise not to use it without your permission.
Will that do?" Scott smiled broadly. If you speak loudly with a
big smile on your face, people on the other end of the phone
think you're honest and that you mean what you say. That's how
game show hosts do it.

"OK." Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. "Those papers you say
you have? Remember?"

"Sure do. Got them right here." Scott patted them on his clut-
tered desk.

"Well, you can't have them. Or you shouldn't have them. I mean
it's impossible." Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice
nearly squeaked.

"Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me
yesterday. A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than
you let on . . ."

"Mr. Mason . . ."

"Please, call me Scott!"

"OK . . .Scott. What I'm trying to say is that what you say you
have, you can't have cause it never existed."

"What do you mean never existed?" Scott was confused, terribly
confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. "Listen, I have
reams of paper here that say someone at First State is a big
crook. Then you say, 'sure it's real' and now you don't. What's
your game, Mister?" Playing good-cop bad-cop alone was diffi-
cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.

"Obviously you have them, that's not the point." Sidneys reacted
submissively to Scott's ersatz domineering personality. "The
only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and in
my computer. I never made a printout. They were never put on
paper." Hugh said resolutely.

Scott's mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He
has papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta-
bility is currently in question. The contents would have far
reaching effects on the S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the
iceberg. McMillan, involved in that kind of thing? Never, not
Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?

"Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of
coffee somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face.
Get to know each other."

Rosie's Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson
River docks on Manhattan's West Side. The silver interior and
exterior was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all
280 pounds of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back for over
thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate here, too.
For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats,
bacon and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie's was the
place. Once a month at Rosie's would guarantee a reading of over
300.

Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there
dressed. Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase
while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the short
pale man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome booth.
Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a light
dinner of it.

"So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the
phone." Scott tried to sound empathetic.

"It's like I said, I don't know how you got them or they found
out. It's impossible." The voice was uncannily like Pebbles
Flintstone in person.

"Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?"

"OK," Hugh sighed. "I work for First State, right? I work right
with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They
think I do market analysis and research. What I'm really doing
is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts. There
are some tax benefits, I'm not a tax accountant so I don't know
the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments."

"Did you think that was illegal?"

"Only a little. Until recently that is."

"Sorry, continue." Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.

"Well there was only one set of books to track the offshore
investments. They wanted them to be kept secret for various
reasons. McMillan and the others made the deals, not me. I just
moved the money for them." Again Hugh was feeling paranoid.

"Hugh, you moved some money around illegally, maybe. So what?
What's the big deal?" Scott gulped some hot black coffee to
chase the pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.

Sidneys continued after sipping his water and wetting his lips.
"Four days ago I got this call, from some Englishman who I'd
never spoken to before. He said he has all the same figures and
facts you said you have. He starts reading enough to me and I
know he's got what he says he got. Then he says he wants me to
cooperate or he'll go public with everything and blow it right
out of the water." Hugh was perspiring with tension. His fists
were clenched and knuckles white.

"And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?" Scott was
trying to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get some-
thing more. "Do you think you were being blackmailed? Did he,
the English guy, demand anything? Money? Bribes? Sex?" Scott
grinned. Hugh obviously did not appreciate the attempt at levi-
ty.

"No, nothing. He just said that I would hear from him shortly.
That was it. Then, nothing, until you called. Then I figured I
missed his call." Hugh was working himself into another nervous
frenzy.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. Not directly. Just said that it would be in my best inter-
est to cooperate."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong
but he said that didn't matter and I would be blamed for every-
thing and that he could prove it."

"Could he prove it?" Hugh was scribbling furiously in his note-
book.

"If he had the files in my computer I guess I would look pretty
guilty, but there's no way anyone could get in there. I'm the
only one, other than McMillan who can get at that stuff. It's
always been a big secret. We don't even make any printouts of
it. It's never on paper, just in the computer." Hugh fell back
in the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat and gulped
from his water glass.

Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been making.
This didn't make any sense at all. Here was this little nerdy
man, with a convoluted tale of embezzlement and blackmail, off
shore money and he was scared. "Hugh," Scott began slowly. "Let
me see if I've got this right. You were part of a scheme to
shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet the investments
always made a reasonable return in investment." Hugh nodded in
agreement silently.

"Then, after how many, eight years of this, creating a secret
little world that only you and McMillan know about . . ."

"A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get
the information from the computer. No one else could. I set it
up that way on purpose." Hugh interrupted.

"OK, then you receive a call from some Englishman who says he's
got the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy. And
the numbers agree with the results that First State reported. Is
that about it?" Scott asked, almost mocking the apparent absurd-
ity.

"Yeah, that's it. That's what happened." Hugh Sidneys was
such a meek man.

"That leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One, you
got yourself in over your head, finally decided to cut your
losses and make up this incredible story. Maybe make a deal
with the cops or the Feds and try to be hero. Maybe you're the
embezzler and want out before it's too late. Born again bean-
counter. It's a real possibility." Hugh's face grimaced; no,
that's not what happened, it's just as I told you.
"Or, two, McMillan is behind the disclosures and is now effec-
tively sabotaging his own plans. For what reasons I could hardly
venture a guess now. But, if what you are saying is true, it's
either you or McMillan." Scott liked the analysis. It was sound
and took into account all available information, omitting any
speculation.

"Then why would someone want to threaten me?

"Either you never got the call," the implication was obvious, "or
McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you." Scott put a
few dollars on the table next to the check.

"That's it? You won't say anything, will you? You promised!"
Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.

Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve. "Not
without speaking to you first. No, that wouldn't be cricket.
Don't worry, I'll call you in a couple of days."

His editor, Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep on it.
There might be a story there, somewhere. Go find it. But don't
forget about the viruses.

* * * * *

The headline of the National Expos, a weekly tabloid caught
Scott's attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central
Station.

EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott's entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to print was
being read by millions of mid-American supermarket shopping
housewives. In its typically sensationalistic manner, the arti-
cle claimed that the Expose was in exclusive possession of
documents that proved McMillan was stealing 10's of millions from
First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the same
papers that Scott had received. How the hell?

****************************************************************

Chapter 4

Thursday, September 10
Houston, Texas.

Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for
MIS at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang
three times before Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime
network administrator for Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal
computers were connected together so they could share information
over a Novell local area network.

"Joan, I don't bug you much, right?" Angela said hesitantly.

"Angela, how about a good morning girl?" They were good friends
outside of work but had very little business contact.

"Sorry, mornin'. Joan, I gotta problem."

"What's troubling ya hon." Joan Texas spoke with a distinct
Texas twang.

"A little bird just ate my computer."

"Well, then I guess I'd be lookin' out for Big Bird's data dump."
Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.

"No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up
all the letters and words on the screen. Seriously."

"Y'all are putting me on, right?" Maggie's voice lilted.

"No. No, I'm serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man
or something, ate up the screen. I couldn't get it to come back
so I turned my computer off and now it won't do anything. All it
says is COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the hell does that
mean."

Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. "It may mean that we
have some mighty sick computers. I'll be right there."

By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at
a standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers,
mainly IBM and Compaq's were out of commission. The virus had
successfully struck.

Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50
local area networks and gateways that connected the various
business units. They contacted the National Computer Virus
Association in San Mateo, California, NIST's National Computer
Center Laboratories and a dozen or so other watchdog groups who
monitor computer viruses.

This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they
said. If you can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out
what's going on . . .otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the
entire computer system, all 4,000 plus of them, and start from
scratch.

Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it
would be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would
be fully operational again.

Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic
representative from South Carolina was stymied.

Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss's
office and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin'
Donuts. It was the only way she knew to insure that her weight
would never ebb below 200 pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did
not match the plumpness below. At 28 she should have known that
meeting Washington's best and brightest required a more slender
physique.

This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput-
er with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4
sugars. She turned on the power switch and waited as the hour-
glass icon indicated that the computer was booting. It was going
through its self diagnostics as it did every time power was
applied.

Normally, after a few seconds, the Mac would come alive and the
screen would display a wide range of options from which she could
select. Mary would watch the procedure carefully each time - she
was an efficient secretary.

This time, however, the screen displayed a new message, one she
had not seen in the nine months she had worked as Congressman
Gompers' front line.

RAM OPTIMIZER TEST PROCEDURE....

INITIALIZING...

THIS PROGRAM IS DESIGNED TO TAKE MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE OF SYSTEM
STORAGE CAPABILITIES. THE TEST WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW SECONDS...

WAITING....

WARNING: DO NOT TURN OFF COMPUTER DURING SELF TEST!

As she was trained, she heeded her computer's instructions. She
watched and waited as the computer's hard disk whirred and
buzzed. She wasn't familiar with the message, but it sounded
quite official, and after all, the computer is always right.

And she waited. Some few seconds, she thought, as she dove into
her second donut. And she waited through the third donut and
another mug of too sweet coffee.

She waited nearly a half an hour, trying to oblige the instruc-
tions from the technocratic box on her desk. The Mac continued
to work, so she thought, but the screen didn't budge from it's
warning message.

What the hell, this has taken long enough. What harm can it
cause if . . .

She turned the power switch off and then back on. Nothing.

The computer did absolutely nothing. The power light was on, the
disk light was on, but the screen was as blank as a dead televi-
sion set.

Mary called Violet Beecham, a co worker in another office down
the hall.

"'Morning Vi. Mary."

Violet sounded agitated. "Yeah, Mare, what is it?"

"I'm being a dumb bunny and need a hand with my computer. Got a
sec?" Mary's sweetness oozed over the phone.

"You, too? You're having trouble? My computer's as dead as a
doornail. Won't do anything. I mean nothing." Violet was
frustrated as all get out and the concern communicated to Mary.

"Dead? Vi, mine is dead too. What happened to yours?"

"Damned if I know. It was doing some self check or something,
seemed to take forever and then . . .nothing. What about yours?"

"Same thing. Have you called MIS yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting ready to. I never did trust these
things. Give me a typewriter any day."

"Sure Vi. I'll call you right back."

Mary looked up the number for MIS Services, the technical magi-
cians in the basement who keep the 3100 Congressional computers
alive.

"Dave here, can I help you?" The voice spoke quickly and indif-
ferently.

"Mary Wallstone, in Gompers office. My computer seems to be
having a little problem . . ." Mary tried to treat the problem
lightly.

"You and half of Congress. Listen . . .is it Mary? This morning
is going to be a slow one. My best guess is that over 2500 com-
puters died a quick death. And you know what that mean."

"No, I don't..." Mary said hesitantly.

"It means a Big Mac Attack."

"A what?"

"Big Mac, it's a computer virus. We thought that Virus-Stop
software would stop it, but I guess there's a new strain out
there. Congress is going to be ordering a lot of typewriters and
legal pads for a while."

"You mean you can't fix it? This virus?"

"Listen, it's like getting the flu. Once you got it, you got it.
You can't pretend you aren't sick. Somebody took a good shot at
Congress and well . . .they won. We're gonna be down for a
while. Couple of weeks at least. Look, good luck, but I gotta
go." Dave hung up.

Mary ate the other three donuts intended for her boss as she sat
idle at her desk wondering if she would have a job now that there
were no more computers on Capitol Hill.

* * * * *

CONGRESS CATCHES FLU - LOSES FAT IN PROCESS
by Scott Mason, New York City Times

The Congressional Budget Office announced late yesterday that it
was requesting over $1 Million in emergency funding to counter a
devastating failure of Congress's computers.

Most of the computers used by both Senators and Representatives
are Apple Macintosh, but Apple Computer issued a quick statement
denying any connection between the massive failures and any
production problems in their machines.

The CBO said that until the problems were corrected, estimates to
take up to four weeks, that certain normal Congressional activi-
ties would be halted or severely curtailed. Electronic mail, E-
Mail that has saved taxpayers millions, will be unavailable for
communications until October at a minimum. Inter-office communi-
cations, those that address legislative issues, proposed bills,
and amendments have been destroyed and will require ". . .weeks
and weeks and weeks of data entry just to get back where we
started. This is a disaster."

The culprit is, of course, a computer virus. The question on
everyone's mind is, was this virus directed at Congress, or were
they merely an anonymous and unfortunate victim?

I have an IBM PC clone at home. Technically it's an AT with a
hard disk, so I'm not sure if that's an XT, and AXT, an XAT, an
ATX or . . .well whatever. I use it to write a lot of my stories
and then I can send the story to the computer at work for an
overdiligent editor to make it fit within my allotted space.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

I am, as we all are, used to our 'TV going on the Fritz', or
'Blowing a Fuse'. It seems like a lot of things blow: a gasket
blows, a light bulb blows, a tire blows or blows out, the wind
blows. I am sure that Thomas W. Crapper, the 19th century inven-
tor of the flush toilet would not be pleased that in 1988 man has
toasters and other cooking devices that 'crap out'. The Phone
Company 'screws up', the stock market 'goes to hell in a handbas-
ket' and VCR's 'work for s__t'.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

Computers are supposed to 'crash'. That means that either Aunt
Tillie can't find the ON switch or her cat knocked it on the
floor. Computers have 'fatal errors' which obviously means that
they died and deserve a proper burial.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

In the last few weeks there have been a lot of stories about
computers across the country getting ill. Sick, having the flu,
breathing difficulty, getting rashes, itching, scratching them-
selves . . .otherwise having a miserable time.

Let's look at the medical analogy to the dreaded computer virus
that indiscriminately attacks and destroys any computer with
which it comes in contact.

Somewhere in the depths of the countryside of the People's
Republic of China, a naturally mutated submicroscopic microbe has
the nerve to be aerodynamically transferred to the smoggy air of
Taiwan. Upon landing in Taipei, the microbe attaches itself to
an impoverished octogenarian who lives in an overpopulated 1 room
apartment over a fish store.

The microbe works its way into this guy's blood stream, unbek-
nownst to him, and in a few days, he's sicker than a dog. But
this microbe is smart, real smart. It has heard of antibiotics,
and in the spirit of true Darwinism, it replicates itself before
being killed off with a strengthened immunity. So, the microbe
copies itself and when Kimmy Chen shakes hands with his custom-
ers, some of them are lucky enough to receive an exact duplicate,
clone if you will, of his microbe. Then they too, get ill.

The microbe thus propagates its species until the entire East
Coast of the US has billions and trillions of identical microbes
costing our fragile economy untold millions of dollars in sick
pay.

However, the microbe is only so smart. After a while, the mi-
crobe mutates itself into a benign chemical compound that no
longer can copy itself and the influenza epidemic is over. Until
next year when Asian Flu B shows up and the process begins all
over again. (The same group of extremists who believe that the
Tri-Lateral commission runs the world and Queen Elizabeth and
Henry Kissinger are partners in the heroine trade think the AMA
is behind all modern flu epidemics. No comment.)

The point of all of this diatribe is that computers can get sick
too. With a virus.

Don't worry, mom. Your computer can't give you the flu anymore
than your fish can get feline leukemia.

It all started years ago, before Wozniak and Apple and the PC.

Before personal computers there were mainframes; huge room sized
computers to crunch on numbers. One day, years ago, Joe, (that's
not a real name, it's changed to protect him) decided it would be
great fun to play a prank on Bill, another programmer who worked
at a big university. Joe wrote a little program that he put into
Bill's big computer. Every time Bill typed the word 'ME' on his
keyboard, the computer would take over. His video screen would
fill up with the word 'YOU', repeating itself hundreds and thou-
sands of times. Bill's computer would become useless.

That was called a practical joke to computer programmers. Joe
and Bill both got a laugh out of it, and no harm was done. Then
Bill decided to get back at Joe. He put a small program into
Joe's big computer. Every day at precisely 3:00 P.M., a message
appeared: 'Do Not Pass GO!'.

It was all good fun and became a personal challenge to Joe and
Bill to see how they could annoy each other.

Word spread about the new game. Other graduate students at the
university got involved and soon computer folks at Cal Tech, MIT,
Carnegie Mellon, Stanford and elsewhere got onto the bandwagon.
Thus was born the world's first computer disease, the virus.

This is Scott Mason. Using a typewriter.

* * * * *

November, 3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.

When Data Graphics Inc. went public in 1987, President and found-
er Pierre Troubleaux, a nationalized American born in Paris
momentarily forgot that he had sold his soul to achieve his
success. The company, to the financial community known as DGI,
was on the road to being in as much favor as Lotus or Microsoft.
Annual sales of $300 Million with a pre-tax bottom line of over
$55 Million were cause celebre on Wall Street. The first public
issues raised over $200 Million for less than 20% of the common
stock. With a book value in excess of $1 Billion, preparation
for a second offering began immediately after the first sold out
in 2 hours.

The offering made Pierre Troubleaux, at 29, a rich man; a very
rich man. He netted almost $20 Million in cash and another $100
Million in options over 5 years. No one objected. He had earned
it. DGI was the pearl of the computer industry in a time of
shake ups and shake outs. Raging profits, unbridled growth,
phenomenal market penetration and superb management.

Perhaps the most unique feature of DGI, other than its Presi-
dent's deal with the devil, was that it was a one product compa-
ny. DGI was somewhat like Microsoft in that they both got rich
and famous on one product. While Microsoft branched out from DOS
into other product areas, DGI elected to remain a 1 product
company and merely make flavors of its products available for
other companies which then private labeled them under their own
names.

Their software product was dubbed dGraph, a marketing abbreviated
term for data-Graphics. Simply put, dGraph let users, especially
novices, run their computers with pictures and icons instead of
complex commands that must be remembered and typed. dGraph
theoretically made IBM computers as easy to use as a Macintosh.
Or, the computer could be trained to follow instructions in plain
English. It was a significant breakthrough for the industry.

DGraph was so easy to use, and so powerful in its abilities that
it was virtually an instant success. Almost every computer
manufacturer offered dGraph as part of its standard fare. Just
as a computer needed DOS to function, it was viewed that you
needed dGraph before you even loaded the first program. Operat-
ing without dGraph was considered archaic. "You don't have
dGraph?" "How can you use your computer without dGraph?" "I
couldn't live without dGraph." "I'd be lost without dGraph."

The ubiquitous non-technical secretaries especially loved dGraph.
DGraph was taught at schools such as Katherine Gibbs and Secre-
Temps who insisted that all its girls were fluent in its ad-
vanced uses. You just can't run a office without it!

As much as anything in the computer industry is, dGraph was a
standard. Pierre Troubleaux was unfortunately under the misim-
pression that the success for DGI was his and his alone and that
he too was a standard . . .a fixture. The press and computers
experts portrayed to the public that he was the company's singu-
lar genius, with remarkable technical aptitude to see "beyond the
problem to the solution . . .".

The official DGI biography of Pierre Troubleaux, upon close
examination, reads like that of an inflated resume by a person
applying for a position totally outside his field of expertise.
Completely unsuited for the job. But the media hype had rele-
gated that minor inconsistency to old news.

In reality Troubleaux was a musician. He was an accomplished
pianist who also played another twenty instruments, very, very
well. By the age of ten he was considered something of a prodigy
and his parents decided that they would move from Paris to New
York, the United States, for proper schooling. Pierre's scholar-
ships at Julliard made the decision even easier.

Over the years Pierre excelled in performances and was critically
acclaimed as having a magnificent future where he could call the
shots. As a performer or composer. But Pierre had other ideas.
He was rapt in the study of the theory of music. How notes
related to each other. How scales related to each other. What
made certain atonalities subjectively pleasing yet others com-
pletely offensive. He explored the relationships between Eastern
polyphonic scales and the Western twelve note scale. Discord,
harmony, melody, emotional responses; these were the true loves
of Pierre Troubleaux.

Upon graduation from Julliard he announced, that contrary to
his family's belief and desire, he would not seek advanced train-
ing. Rather, he would continue his study of musical relationships
which by now had become an obsession. There was little expertise
in this specific area, so he pursued it alone. He wrote and
arranged music only to provide him with enough funds to exist in
his pallid Soho loft in downtown Manhattan.

He believed that there was an inherent underlying Natural Law
that guided music and musical appreciation. If he could find
that Law, he would have the formula for making perfect music
every time. With the Law at the crux of all music, and with
control over the Law, he ruminated, one could write a musical
piece to suit the specific goals of the writer and create the
desired effect on the listener. By formula.

In 1980 Pierre struggled to organize the unwieldy amount of data
he had accumulated. His collections of interpretive musical
analysis filled file cabinets and countless shelves. He relied
on his memory to find anything in the reams of paper, and the
situation was getting out of control. He needed a solution.

Max Jones was a casual acquaintance that Pierre had met at the
Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue. The Lone
Star was a New York fixture, capped with a 60 foot iguana on the
roof. They both enjoyed the live country acts that played there.
Max played the roll of an Urban Cowboy who had temporarily given
up Acid Rock in favor of shit kickin' Southern Rock. Pierre
found the musical phenomenon of Country Crossover Music intrigu-
ing, so he rationalized that drinking and partying at the Lone
Star was a worthwhile endeavor which contributed to his work.
That may have been partially true.

Max was a computer jock who worked for one of the Big Eight
accounting firms in midtown Manhattan. A complex mixture of com-
puter junkie, rock'n'roll aficionado and recreational drug user,
Max maintained the integrity of large and small computer systems
to pay the bills.

"That means they pretend to pay me and I pretend to work. I
don't really do anything productive."

Max was an "ex-hippie who put on shoes to make a living" and a
social anarchist at heart. At 27, Max had the rugged look that
John Travolta popularized in the 70's but on a rock solid trim
six foot five 240 pound frame. He dwarfed Pierre's mere five feet
ten inches.

Pierre's classic European good looks and tailored appearance,
even in jeans and a T-shirt were a strong contrast to Max's
ruddiness. Pierre's jet black hair was side parted and covered
most of his ears as it gracefully tickled his shoulders.

Piercing black eyes stared over a prominent Roman nose and thin
cheeks which tapered in an almost feminine chin. There was never
any confusion, though; no one in their right mind would ever view
Pierre as anything but a confirmed and practiced heterosexual.
His years of romantic achievements proved it. The remnants of
his French rearing created an unidentifiable formal and educated
accent; one which held incredible sex appeal to American women.

Max and Pierre sipped at their beers while Max rambled on about
how wonderful computers were. They were going to change the
world.

"In a few years every one on the planet will have his own comput-
er and it will be connected to everyone else's computer. All
information will be free and the planet will be a better place to
live and so on . . ." Max's technical sermons bordered on reli-
gious preaching. He had bought into the beliefs of Steven Jobs,
the young charismatic founder and spiritual guiding force behind
Apple Computer.

Pierre had heard it before, especially after Max had had a few.
His view of a future world with everyone sitting in front of a
picture tube playing with numbers and more numbers . . .and then
a thought hit him.

"Max . . .Max . . ." Pierre was trying to break into another one
of Max's Apple pitches.

"Yeah . . .oh yeah, sorry Amigo. What's that you say?" Max
sipped deeply on a long neck Long Star beer.

"These computers you play with . . ."

"Not play, work with. Work with!" He pointed emphatically at
nothing in particular.

"OK, work with. Can these computers play, er, work with music?"

Max looked quizzically at Pierre. "Music, sure. You just program
it in and out it comes. In fact, the Apple II is the ideal
computer to play music. You can add a synthesizer chip
and . . ."

"What if I don't know anything about computers?"

"Well, that makes it a little harder, but why doncha let me
show you what I mean." Max smiled wide. This was what he loved,
playing with computers and talking to people about them. The
subject was still a mystery to the majority of people in 1980.

Pierre winced. He realized that if he took up Max on his offer he
would be subjected to endless hours of computer war stories and
technical esoterica he couldn't care less about. That may be the
price though, he thought. I can always stop.

Over the following months they became fast friends as Pierre
tutored under Max's guiding hand. Pierre found that the Apple
had the ability to handle large amounts of data. With the new
program called Visi-Calc, he made large charts of his music and
their numbers and examined their relationships.

As Pierre learned more about applying computers to his studies in
musical theory, his questions of Max and demands of the Apple
became increasingly complex. One night after several beers and a
couple of joints Pierre asked Max what he thought was a simple
question.

"How can we program the Apple so that it knows what each piece of
data means?" he inquired innocently.

"You can't do that, man." Max snorted. "Computers, yes even
Apples are stupid. They're just a tool. A shovel doesn't know
what kind of dirt it's digging, just that it's digging." He
laughed out loud at the thought of a smart shovel.

Pierre found the analogy worth a prolonged fit of giggles through
which he managed to ask, "but what if you told the computer what
it meant and it learned from there. On its own. Can't a com-
puter learn?"

Max was seriously stoned. "Sure I guess so. Sure. In theory it
could learn to do your job or mine. I remember a story I read by
John Garth. It was called Giles Goat Boy. Yeah, Giles Goat Boy,
what a title. Essentially it's about this Goat, musta been a
real smart goat cause he talked and thunk and acted like a kid."
They both roared at the double entendre of kid. That was worth
another joint.

"At any rate," Max tried to control his spasmodic chuckles.
"At any rate, there were these two computers who competed for
control of the world and this kid, I mean," laughing too hard to
breath, "I mean this goat named Giles went on search of these
computers to tell them they weren't doing a very good job."

"So, what has that got to do with an Apple learning," Pierre said
wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Not a damn thing!" They entered another spasm of laughter. "No
really. Most people either think, or like to think that a com-
puter can think. But they can't, at least not like you and me. "
Max had calmed down.

"So?" Pierre thought there might still be a point to this conver-
sation.

"So, in theory, yeah, but probably not for a while. 10 years or
so."

"In theory, what?" Pierre asked. He was lost.

"In theory a machine could think."

"Oh." Pierre was disappointed.

"But, you might be able to emulate thinking. H'mmmm." Max re-
treated into mental oblivion as Abbey Road played in the back-
ground. Anything from Apple records was required listening by
Max.

"Emulate. Emulate? What's that? Hey, Max. What's emulate?
Hey Max, c'mon back to Earth. Emulate what?"

Max jolted back to reality. "Oh, copy. You know, act like.
Emulate. Don't they teach you emulation during sex education in
France?" They both thought that that was the funniest thing
ever said, in any language for all of written and pre-history.

The substance of the evening's conversation went downhill from
there.

A few days later Max came by Pierre's loft. "I been thinking."

"Scary thought. About what?" Pierre didn't look up from his
Apple.

"About emulating thought. You know what we were talking about
the other night."

"I can't remember this morning much less getting shit faced with
you the other night."

"You were going on and on about machines thinking. Remember?"

"Yes," Pierre lied.

"Well, I've been thinking about it." Max had a remarkable ability
to recover from an evening of illicit recreation. He could
actually grasp the germ of a stoned idea and let a straight mind
deal with it the following day. "And, I maybe got a way to do
what you want."

"What do I want?" Pierre tried to remember.

"You want to be able to label all of your music so that to all
appearances each piece of music knows about every other piece of
music. Right?"

"Kinda, yeah, but you said that was impossible . . ." Pierre
trailed off.

"In the true sense, yes. Remember emulation though? Naw, you
were too stoned. Here's the basic idea." Max ran over to the
fridge, grabbed a beer and leapt into a bean bag chair. "We
assign a value to every piece of music. For example, in music
we might assign a value to each note. Like, what note it is, the
length of the note, the attack and decay are the raw data.
That's just a number. But the groupings of the notes are what's
important. The groupings. Get it?"

Pierre was intrigued. He nodded. Maybe Max did understand after
all. Pierre leaned forward with anticipation and listened intent-
ly, unlike in one ear out the other treatment he normally gave
Max's sermons.

"So what we do is program the Apple to recognize patterns of
notes; groupings, in any size. We do it in pictures instead of
words. Maybe a bar, maybe a scale, maybe even an entire symphony
orchestra. All 80 pieces at once!" Max's enthusiasm was conta-
gious. "As the data is put in the computer, you decide what you
want to call each grouping. You name it anything you want. Then
we could have the computer look for similar groupings and label
them. They could all be put on a curve, some graphic of some
kind, and then show how they differ and by how much. Over time,
the computer could learn to recognize rock'n'roll from Opera
from radio jingles to Elevator Music. It's all in the patterns.
Isn't that what you want?" Max beamed while speaking excitedly.
He knew he had something here.

Max and Pierre worked together and decided to switch from the
Apple II computer to the new IBM PC for technical reasons beyond
Pierre's understanding. As they labored, Max realized that if he
got his "engine" to run, then it would be useful for hundreds of
other people who needed to relate data to each other but who
didn't know much about computers.

In late 1982 Max's engine came to life on its own. Pierre was
programming in pictures and in pure English. He was getting back
some incredible results. He was finding that many of the popu-
lar rock guitarists were playing lead riffs that had a genealogy
which sprang from Indian polyphonic sitar strains.

He found curious relationships between American Indian rhythms
and Baltic sea farer's music. All the while, as Pierre searched
the reaches of the musical unknown, Max convinced himself that
everyone else in the world would want his graphical engine, too.

Through a series of contacts within his Big Eight company, Max
was put in touch with Hambrecht Quist, the famed Venture Capital
firm that assisted such high tech startups as Apple, Lotus and
other shining stars in the early days of the computer industry.
Max was looking for an investor to finance the marketing of his
engine that would change the world. His didactic and circumlocu-
tous preaching didn't get him far. While everyone was polite at
his presentations, afterwards they had little idea of what he was
talking about.

"The Smart Engine permits anyone to cross-relate individual or
matrices of data with an underlying attribute structure that is
defined by the user. It's like creating a third dimension. Data
is conventionally viewed in a two dimensional viewing field, yet
is really a one dimension stream. In either source dimensional
view, the addition of a three dimensional attribute structure
yields interrelationships that are not inherently obvious. Thus
we use graphical representations to simplify the entire process."

After several weeks of pounding the high risk financial community
of the San Francisco Bay area, Max was despondent. Damn it, he
thought. Why don't they understand. I outline the entire
theory and they don't get it. Jeez, it's so easy to use. So
easy to use. Then the light bulb lit in his mind. Call Pierre.
I need Pierre. Call Pierre in New York.

"Pierre, it's Max." Max sounded quite excited.

"How's the Coast."

"Fine, Fine. You'll find out tomorrow. You're booked on American
#435 tomorrow."

"Max, I can't go to California. I have so much work to do."

"Bullshit. You owe me. Or have I forgotten to bill you for the
engine?" He was calling in a favor.

"Hey, it was my idea. You didn't even understand what I was
talking about until . . ."

"That's the whole point, Pierre. I can't explain the engine to
these Harvard MBA asswipes. It was your idea and you got me to
understand. I just need you to get some of these investors to
understand and then we can have a company and make some money
selling engines." Max's persistence was annoying, but Pierre knew
that he had to give in. He owed it to Max.

The new presentations Max and Pierre put on went so well that
they had three offers for start up financing within a week. And,
it was all due to Pierre. His genial personality and ability to
convey the subtleties of a complex piece of software using actual
demonstrations from his music were the touchy-feely the investors
wanted. It wasn't that he was technical; he really wasn't. But
Pierre had an innate ability to recognize a problem, theoretical-
ly, and reduce it to its most basic components. And the Engine
was so easy to use. All you had to do was . . .

It worked. The brainy unintelligible technical wizard and char-
ismatic front man. And the device, whatever it was, it seemed to
work.

The investors installed their own marketing person to get sales
going and Pierre was asked to be President. At first he said he
didn't want to. He didn't know how to run a company. That
doesn't matter, the investors said. You are a salable item. A
person whom the press and future investors can relate to. We
want you to be the image of the company. Elegance, suave, upper
class. All that European crap packaged for the media. Steve Jobs
all over again.

Pierre relented, as long as he could continue his music.

Max's engine was renamed dGraph by the marketing folks and the
company was popularly known as DGI. Using Byte, Personal Comput-
ing, Popular Computing and the myriad computer magazines of the
early 1980's, dGraph was made famous and used by all serious
computer users.

DGraph could interface with the data from other programs, dBase
II, 123, Wordstar and then relate it in ways never fathomed.
Automatically. Users could assign their own language of, at that
time, several hundred words, to describe the third dimension of
data. Or, they could do it in pictures. While the data on the
screen was being manipulated, the computer, unbeknownst to the
operator, was constantly forming and updating relationships
between the data. Ready to be called upon at any time.

As the ads said, "dGraph for dData."

As success reigned, the demand upon Pierre's time increased so
that he had little time for his music. By 1986 he lived a virtu-
al fantasy. He was on the road, speaking, meeting with writers,
having press conferences every time a new use for dGraph was
announced. He was adored by the media. He swam in the glory of
the attention by the women who found his fame and image an
irresistible adjunct to his now almost legendary French accent
and captivating eyes.

Pierre and Max were the hottest young entrepreneurs in Silicon
Valley; the darlings of the VC community. And the company spar-
kled too. It was being run by professionals and Max headed up
the engineering group. As new computers appeared on the market,
like the IBM AT, additional power could be effectively put into
the Engine and Voila! a new version of dGraph would hit the
market to the resounding ring of an Instant Hit on Softsel's Top
40.

Max, too, liked his position. He was making a great deal of
money, ran his own show with the casualness of his former hippie
days, yet could get on the road with Pierre any time he needed a
break. Pierre got into the act hook, line and sinker and Max
acted the role of genius behind 'The Man'. That gave Max the
freedom to avoid the microscope of the press yet take a twirl in
the fast lane whenever he felt the urge.

The third round of funding for DGI came from an unexpected
place. Normally when a company is as successful as DGI, the
original investors go along for the ride. That's how the VC's
who worked with Lotus, Compaq, Apple and other were getting
filthy stinking rich. The first two rounds went as they had
planned, the third didn't.

"Mr. Troubleaux," Martin Fisk, Chairman of Underwood Investments
said to Pierre in DGI's opulent offices. "Pierre, there is only
one way to say this. Our organization will no longer be involved
with DGI. We have sold our interest to a Japanese firm who has
been trying to get into the American computer field."

"What will that change? Anything?" Pierre was nonplused by the
announcement.

"Not as far as you're concerned. Oh, they will bring in a few of
their own people, satisfy their egos and protect their invest-
ment, that's entirely normal. But, they especially want you to
continue on as President of DGI. No, no real changes."

"What about Max?" Pierre had true concern for his friend.

"He'll remain, in his present capacity. Essentially the finan-
cial people will be reporting to new owners that's all."

"Are we still going to go public? That's the only way I'm gonna
make any real money."

Martin was flabbergasted. Pierre wasn't in the least interested
as to why the company changed hands. He only wanted to know
about the money, how much money he would make and when. Pierre
never bothered to ask, nor was it offered, that Underwood would
profit over 400 percent on their original investment. The Japa-
nese buyer was paying more than the company was worth now. They
had come in offering an amount of money way beyond what an open-
ing offer should have been. Underwood did a search on the Japa-
nese company and its American subsidiary, Data Tech. They were
real, like $30 Billion real and did were expanding into the
information processing field through acquisitions, primarily in
the United States.

Underwood sold it's 17% stake in DGI for $350 Million, more than
twice its true value. They sold quickly and quietly. Even though
Pierre and Max should have had some say in the transfer, Under-
wood controlled the board of directors and technically didn't
need the founder's consensus. Not that it overtly appeared to
mattered to Pierre. Max gave the paper transfer a cursory exami-
nation, at least asked the questions that were meaningless to the
transformed Pierre, and gave the deal his irrelevant blessings.

After the meeting with the emissaries from DGI's new owner, OSO
Industries, Pierre and Max were confident that nothing would
change for them. They would each continue in their respective
roles. The day to day interference was expected to be minimal,
but the planned public offering would be accelerated. That
suited Pierre just fine; he would make out like a bandit.

Several days before the date of issue, Pierre received a call
from Tokyo.

"Mr. Troubleaux?" The thick Japanese accent mangled his name so
badly Pierre cringed.

"Yes, this is Pierre Troubleaux," he said exaggerating his French
accent. The Japanese spoke French as well as a hair-lipped
stutterer could recite "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers."

"I wish to inform you, sir, that the Chairman of OSO is to visit
your city tomorrow and participate in your new successes. Would
this be convenient?"

Pierre had only one possible response to the command performance
he was being 'invited' to. Since OSO had bought into DGI,
Pierre was constantly mystified by the ritualism associated with
Japanese business. They could say "Yes!" a hundred times in a
meeting, yet everyone present understood that the speakers really
meant "No Way, Jose!" There of course was the need for a quality
gift for any visitor from Japan. Johnny Walker Black was the
expected gift over which each recipient would feign total sur-
prise. Pierre had received more pearl jewelry from the Japanese
than he could use for ten wives. But the ritual was preserved.

"Of course it will. I would be most honored. If you could
provide me with details of his flight I will see to it that he
receives appropriate treatment."

"Very good Mr. Troubleaux." Pierre stifled a smirk at the mispro-
nunciation. "Your trouble will not go unrewarded."

"Mr. Homosoto, it is so good of you to visit at this time. Very
auspicious, sir." Pierre was kissing some ass.

"Troubleaux-San," Homosoto's English had a touch of Boston
snobbery in it, "you have performed admirably, and we all look to
continued successes in the future. I expect, as I am sure you
do, that the revenues raised from your public stock offering will
provide your company with the resources to grow ten fold." It
was a statement that demanded an answer. Another Japanese quirk.

"Yessir, of course. As you know, Mr. Homosoto, I am not involved
in the day to day operations and the forecasting. My function is
more to inspire the troops and carry the standard, so to speak.
I will have to rely upon the expertise of others to give you the
exact answers you seek."

"That is not necessary, I have all I need to know about your
business and its needs. Your offer is most kind."

"Why do you call DGI my business? Aren't we in this together?
Partners?" Pierre clarified the idiom for the rotund bespecta-
cled Chairman of OSO Industries.

"Hai! Of course, my friend, we are partners, and you will be
very wealthy in a few days." That statement had the air of an
accusation more than good wishes. "There is one little thing,
though. It is so small that I don't wish to mention it."

Well then don't, thought Pierre. "Nothing is so small it should-
n't be mentioned. Please, proceed Homosoto-San. How may I
help?"

"That's it exactly!" Homosoto beamed. "I do need your help. Not
today, but in the future, perhaps a small favor."

"Anytime at all, sir. Whatever I can I will." Pierre was re-
lieved. Just some more Japanese business practices that escaped
him.

Homosoto leaned in towards Pierre. His demeanor had shifted to
one of a very serious man. "Mr. Troubleaux, how can I be sure
that you won't disappoint me? How can I be sure?"

The question threw Pierre for a loop. How can he be sure? I
don't know. Maybe this was only an Oriental game of mumbley peg
or chicken. "Sir, what would I need to do to convince you of my
willingness to comply?" When in doubt, ask.

Homosoto relaxed again, leaned back in the plush office chair and
smiled. "In my country, Mr., Troubleaux, honor is everything.
You have nothing, nothing without your honor. Every child, man
and woman in Japan knows that. We are raised with the focus of
growth being honor. During the war between our countries, so
many years ago, many found honor by making the supreme sacrifice.
Kamikaze pilots are of whom I am speaking of, Mr. Troubleaux."

Pierre's face must have given away the panic that instantly
struck him. Suicide? This guy is truly nuts.

"Do not worry, Mr. Troubleaux, I can see what you are thinking.
No. I only speak of kamikaze pilots to serve as example of
honor. The kind that brought honor to Japan in the face of
defeat. That is something Americans will never understand. But
then again you're not American are you?"

"I was born a Frenchman, but I naturalized over twenty years ago,
at the same time my parents did."

"Ah yes. I remember. Then honor does mean more to you than to
most Americans. That will be quite good. Now, for the future
favor. I require nothing of you today, other than the guarantee
of you honor. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Troubleaux?" Homoso-
to was pushing with the facade of friendliness. Pierre's concern
was not alleviated. All the same, he reluctantly nodded his
assent.

"Very good. Now for the favor." Homosoto stood up and reached
inside his size 48, ill fitting suit. Pierre was amazed at how
much money the Japanese had, yet were apparently unable to ever
wear clothes that fit properly.

Homosoto handed a 5 1/4" floppy disk to Pierre. Pierre took it
carefully from Homosoto and looked at the label. The diskette
was marked only with:

FILE1.EXE to FILE93.EXE

He looked inquisitively at Homosoto, his eyes asking, Yeah, so?
What's this got to do with anything?

"I see now you are confused. It is so simple, really. Sometime
in the future, you will be instructed to add one of the files on
this disk onto the dGraph programs you sell. That's it. So sim-
ple. So I have your word Mr. Troubleaux? Honor among men."

Pierre's mind was racing. Put a file onto a program? What does
that do? What's on it? Does it help dGraph? No that can't be
it. What is it? Why so secret. What's with the honor bit?
From the Chairman of OSO, not a technician? One floppy disk?
Pierre smelled a fox in the chicken coup.

"Mr. Homosoto, sir. I mean no disrespect. But, I hardly know
what to think. I don't even know what this disk is. You are
asking me to promise something I don't understand. What if I
don't agree. At least until I know what I'm doing? I need to
know what's going on here." he said holding the disk up promi-
nently.

"I prefer to think, Mr. Troubleaux of what occurs as long as you
do agree to maintain the honor between us. It is so much more
pleasant." Homosoto edged towards the doors of Troubleaux's
office as he spoke.

"When you agree to act honorably, perform for me this small,
insignificant favor, Mr. Troubleaux, you will get to keep the $20
Million you make this Friday and you will be permitted to contin-
ue living. Good Afternoon." Homosoto closed the door behind him.

* * * * *

Alexander Spiradon was pleased. His students were doing well.
The other students from the New York computer school had already
checked in; they didn't have as far to travel as Sir George.
Everything was in place, not quite a year to the day since he and
Taki Homosoto had set their plans in action. Alex hadn't spoken
to Homosoto in a couple of months. It was now time to report to
Homosoto in Tokyo. It was 17 hours earlier there - Homosoto
would probably be at his desk. The modem dialed a local Brookline
number. The phone in Brookline subsequently dialed a number in
Dallas, Texas, which dialed another phone in Tacoma, Washington.
The Tacoma phone had the luxury of dialing the international
number for Homosoto's private computer.

Call forwarding services offered the ultimate in protection. Any
telephone tracing would take weeks, requiring the cooperation of
courts from every state where a forwarded phone was located.
Then, the State Department would have to coordinate with the
Japanese Embassy. An almost impossible task, if anyone had the
resources. It took about 45 seconds for the call to be complet-
ed.

<<<<<>>>>>
PASSWORD:

Alex entered his password, GESUNDHEIT and his forced response
from his own PRG card. His computer terminal paused. If he was
on satellite to Japan, or to Dallas or anywhere else, his signal
could travel a hundred thousand miles or more each time he sent a
character from his keyboard.

CRYPT KEY:

Alex Spiradon chose 43. Each communication he had with Homosoto
was also protected with full encryption. If someone was able to
isolate their conversations, all they would get would be sheer
garbage, a screen full of unintelligible symbols and random
characters. By choosing 43, Alex told his computer and Homosoto's
computer to use Crypt Key 43, one of over 100 secret keys that
both computers held in their memory. This cryptographic scheme,
using the U.S.'s Data Encryption Standard, DES, and ANSI standard
X9.17 was the same one that the Treasury Department and Federal
Reserve used to protect the transmission of over $1 trillion of
funds transfers daily.

<<<<<>>>>>

That was the signal for Alex to send the first words to Homosoto.

Good Morning, Homosoto-San.

AND TO YOU MY ESTEEMED PARTNER. YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO REPORT.

Yes. All is in place.

PLEASE CLARIFY . . .MY MEMORY IS NOT WHAT IT WAS.

Of course. The last of the Operators are in place. We call him
Sir George. That makes 8 altogether. San Francisco, (SF), New
York, (NY), Los Angeles, (LA), Boston, (BM), Atlanta, (AG) Chica-
go, (CI), Washington, (DC) and Dallas, (DT).

AND THEY CAN BE TRUSTED?

They are aware of the penalty. If not, we have others that will
replace them. Besides, you are rewarding them most handsomely for
their efforts.
SO I AM. I EXPECT RESULTS. AND THE OTHERS?

The Mail Men are waiting as well. Four of them in NY, DC, LA and
DT.

YOU SAY MAIL MEN. WHAT IS THAT TERM?

They will deliver our messages in writing to those who need
additional proof of our sincerity. They know nothing other than
they get paid, very well, to make sure that the addressees are in
receipt of their packages.

VERY GOOD. AND THEY TOO ARE RESPONSIBLE?

Yes. Elimination is a strong motivation. Besides, they know
nothing.

WHAT IF THEY READ THE CONTENTS?

That can only help. They do not know where the money comes from.
Most need the money more than their lives. My contacts make my
choices ideal. Death is . . .so permanent.

I AGREE. IT MAKES MEN HONORABLE, DOES IT NOT?

Most of the time, yes. There are always exceptions, and we are
prepared for that, too.

THE SEKIGUN-HA ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

Thank you. The Ground Hogs, the first are in place.

HOW MANY AND WHERE.

Over 50 so far. I will keep recruiting. We have 11 in the long
distance phone companies and at AT&T, 3 at IBM, 14 in government
positions, 12 in major banks, a couple of insurance companies, 3
Hospitals are compromised . . .and a list of others. We will
keep the channels full, I promise.

HOW WILL THEY FUNCTION?

They will gain access to the information we need, and when we
call, they will perform. I will add more as we proceed. It
amazes me, these Americans. Anything for a buck.

DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.

I will not. That is my promise. When will the information be
ready?

SOON. TOMORROW THE FIRST READER INFORMATION WILL BE SENT TO YOU.
CALLS MAY BEGIN IN DAYS. YOU ORGANIZE IT. THE GROUND HOGS ARE
NOT TO BE ACTIVATED FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. THEY ARE TO PERFORM THEIR
JOBS AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG. DO THEY UNDERSTAND?

Ground Hogs receive 2 paychecks. They understand their obliga-
tions. We pay 10 times their salary for their allegiance. The
Operators and Mail Men will start soon.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ALLEGIANCE. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YET?

Americans pay homage to the almighty dollar, and nothing else.
They will be loyal.

AS YOU ARE MOTIVATED MY FRIEND, I DO NOT FORGET THAT. BUT OTHERS
CAN OFFER MORE DOLLARS AND WE CAN BE FOUND. I CANNOT RISK THAT,
UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE RISK?

Completely. I am responsible for my people.

AND THEY ARE PREPARED FOR THEIR JOBS?

Yes. That is my responsibility, to insure the security of our
task. No one must know. I know my job.

DO IT WELL. I WILL LEAVE YOU.

<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

****************************************************************

Chapter 5

Monday, September 14
New York City

Doug! Doug!" Scott hollered across the city room. As in most
newspaper offices, the constant scurry of people bumping into
each other while reading and walking gave the impression of more
activity than there really was. Desks were not in any particular
pattern, but it wasn't totally chaotic either. Every desk had at
least one computer on it. Some two or three. Scott pushed back
into place those that he dislodged while running to McGuire's
desk.

Doug McGuire noticed the early hour, 8:39 A.M. on the one wall
clock that gave Daylight Savings Time for the East Coast. The
other dozen or so clocks spanned the time zones of the globe. It
wasn't like Scott to be his energetic youthful self before noon.

"Doug, I need you." Scott shouted from 3 desks away. "It'll just
take a minute."

Scott nearly dragged the balding, overweight, sometimes harsh 60
year old Doug McGuire across the newsroom. They abruptly halted
in front of Scott's desk. Boxes full of files everywhere; on the
floor, piled 3 or 4 high, on his desk. "Will you look at this.
Just look at this!" He stuck a single sheet of paper too close
into Doug's face. Doug pushed it away to read it out loud.

McGuire read from the page. "A Message from a Fan. Thanks." Doug
looked perplexed. He motioned at the paper hurricane on Scott's
desk. "So, what is this mess? Where did it come from?"

Scott spoke excitedly. "I got another delivery, about an hour
ago. I think it's from the same guy who sent the McMillan
stuff." He perused the boxes.

"Why do you say that?" Doug asked curiously.

"Because of what's in here. I haven't been able to go through
much of it, obviously, but I scanned through a few of the boxes.
There's dirt on almost every company in the Fortune 1000. Copies
of memoranda, false figures, confidential position statements,
the truth behind a lot of PR scandals, it goes on and on.
There's even a copy of some of the shredded Ollie North papers.
Or so they say they are. Who knows. But, God! There are notes
about behind the scene plays on mergers, who's screwing who to
get deals done . . .it's all here. A hundred years of stories
right here . . .".

"Let's see what we've got here." Doug was immediately hooked by
the treasure trove of potential in from of them coupled with
Scott's enthusiasm. The best stories come from the least likely
places. No reporter ever forgets the 3rd rate burglary at the
Watergate that brought down a President.

By late afternoon, Scott and several of the paper's researchers
had set up a preliminary filing system. They categorized the
hundred of files and documents and computer printouts by company,
alphabetically. The contents were amazing. Over 150 of the top
American corporations were represented directly, and thousands of
other by reference. In every case, there was a revelation of one
or more particularly embarrassing or illegal activities. Some
were documented accounts and histories of past events and others
that were in progress. Many of the papers were prognostications
of future events of questionable ethics or legality. It reminded
Scott of Jeanne Dixon style predictions.

From Wall Street's ivory tower deals where payoffs are called
consulting fees, and in banking circles where delaying transfers
of funds can yield millions of dollars in interest daily, from
industrial secrets stolen or purchased from such and such a
source, the laundry list was long. Plans to effect such a busi-
ness plan and how to disguise its true purposes from the ITC and
SEC. Internal, very upper level policies which never reach the
company's Employee Handbook; policies of discrimination, atti-
tude, and protective corporate culture which not only transcend
the law but in many cases, morality. The false books, the jim-
mied numbers . . .they were in the boxes too, but that was almost
accepted accounting practice as long as you didn't get caught.
But the depth of some of the figures was amazing. Like how one
computer company brought in Toshiba parts and sold them to the
government despite the ban on Toshiba components because of their
sale of precision lathes to the Soviets.

"Jesus," said Scott after a lengthy silence of intent reading.
"This nails everyone, even the Government."

There were well documented dossiers on how the EPA made unique
exclusions hundred of times over based upon the financial lobby-
ing clout of the particular offender. Or how certain elected
officials in Washington had pocketed funds from their PAC monies
or how defense contractors were advised in advance of the con-
tents of an upcoming billion dollar RFP.

The cartons of files were absolute political dynamite. And, if
released, could have massive repercussions in the world financial
community.

There was a fundamental problem, though. Scott Mason was in
possession of unsupported, but not unreasonable accusations, they
were certainly believable. All he really had was leads, a thou-
sand leads in ten thousand different directions, with no apparent
coherency or theme, received from an anonymous and dubious donor.
And there was no way of immediately gauging the veracity of their
contents. He clearly remembered what is was like to be lawyered.
That held no appeal at the moment.

The next obvious question was, who would have the ability to
gather this amount of information, most of which was obviously
meant to be kept very, very private. Papers meant not for anyone
but only for a select group of insiders.

Lastly, and just as important to the reporter; why? What would
someone gain from telling all the nasty goings on inside of
Corporate America. There have been so many stories over the
years about this company or that screwing over the little guy.
How the IRS and the government operated substantially outside of
legal channels. The kinds of things that the Secretary of the
Treasury would prefer were kept under wraps. Sometimes stories
of this type made the news, maybe a trial or two, but not exactly
noteworthy in the big picture. White collar crime wasn't as good
as the Simpsons or Roseanne, so it went largely ignored.

Scott Mason needed to figure out what to do with his powder keg.
So, as any good investigative reporter would do, he decided to
pick a few key pieces and see if the old axiom was true. Where
there's smoke, there's fire.

* * * * *

Fire. That's exactly what Franklin Dobbs didn't want that Monday
morning. He and 50 other Corporate CEO's across the country
received their own unsolicited packages by courier. Each CEO
received a dossier on his own company. A very private dossier
containing information that technically didn't, or wasn't offi-
cially supposed to exist. Each one read their personalized file
cover to cover in absolute privacy. And shock set in.

Only a few of the CEO's in the New York area had ever heard of
Scott Mason before, and little did they know that he had the
complete collection of dossiers in his possession at the New York
City Times. Regardless, boardrooms shook to their very core.
Wall Street trading was untypically low for a Monday, less than
50,000,000 shares. But CNN and other financial observers at-
tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected to the secret
panic that was spreading through Corporate America.

By 6 P.M., CEO's and key aides from 7 major corporations head-
quartered in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to meet.
Throughout the day, CEO's routinely talk to other corporate
leaders as friends, acquaintances, for brain picking and G2,
market probing in the course of business. Today, though, the
scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was beyond routine.

Through a complicated ritual dance of non-committal consent,
questions never asked and answers never given, with a good dose
of Zieglerisms, a few of the CEO's communicated to each other
during the day that they were not happy with the morning mail. A
few agreed to talk together. Unofficially of course, just for a
couple of drinks with friends, and there's nothing wrong, we
admit nothing, of course not.

These are the rules strictly obeyed for a non-encounter that
isn't happening. So they didn't meet in a very private room,
upstairs at the Executive Club, where sensitive meetings often
never took place. One's presence in that room is as good as
being on in a black hole. You just weren't there, no matter what.
Perfect.

The room that wasn't there was heavily furnished and dark. The
mustiness lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the 7
CEO's felt. Massive brown leather couches and matching oversized
chairs surrounded by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the
assortment of low wattage lamp fixtures. There was a huge round
dining table large enough for all of Camelot, surrounded by
mammoth chairs in a large ante-room. The brocade curtains
covered long windows that stretched from the floor to ornate
corner moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.

One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared
and disappeared skillfully and invisibly. He was so accustomed
to working with such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor-
tant their conversations were, that he took great pride in re-
filling a drink without being noticed. With his little game, he
made sure that drinks for everyone were always full. They spoke
openly around Lambert. Lambert had worked the room since he was
16 during World War II and he saw no reason to trade occupations;
he was treated decently, and he doubled as a bookie for some
members which added to his income. There was mutual trust.

"I don't know about you gentlemen," said Porter Henry, the ener-
getic and feisty leader of Morse Technologies, defense subcon-
tractor. "I personally call this blackmail." A few nods.

"I'm not about to admit to anything, but have you been threat-
ened?" demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First Inter-
state.

"No, I don't believe any of us have, in so many words. And no,
none of us have done anything wrong. We are merely trying to
keep sensitive corporate strategies private. That's all. But, I
do take the position that we are being intimidated. I think
Porter's right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the precursor
at a minimum."

They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities.
The why, how, and who's. Who would know so much, about so many,
supposedly sacrosanct secrets. Therefore there must have been a
lot of whos, mustn't there? They figured about 50 of their
kindred CEO's had received similar packages, so that meant a lot
of whos were behind the current crisis in privacy. Or maybe just
one big who. OK, that's narrowed down real far; either a lot of
whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.

Why? They all agreed that demands would be coming, so they
looked for synergy between their firms, any sort of connections
that spanned at first the seven of those present, to predict what
kinds of demands. But it is difficult to find hard business
connections between an insurance company, a bank, 2 defense
contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product known to
man and a fast food company. The thread wasn't there.

How? That was the hardest. They certainly hadn't come up with
any answers on the other two questions, so this was asking the
impossible. CEO's are notorious for not knowing how their compa-
nies work on a day to day basis. Thus, after 4 or 5 drinks,
spurious and arcane ideas were seriously considered. UFO's were
responsible, I once saw one . . .my secretary, I never really
trusted her at all . . .the Feds! Must be the
IRS . . .(my/his/your) competitor is doing it to all of
us . . .the Moonies, maybe the Moonies . . .

"Why don't we just go to the Feds?" asked Franklin Dobbs who did
not participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness free
for all. Silence cut through the room instantly. Lambert looked
up from his corner to make sure they were all still alive.

"I'm serious. The FBI is perfect. We all operate interstate,
and internationally. Would you prefer the NYPD?" he said dero-
gatorally waiting any voices of dissent.

"C'mon Frank. What are we going to tell them?" Ogden Roberts
the banker asked belligerently. The liquor was having an effect.
"Certainly not the truth . . ." he cut himself short, realizing
that he came dangerously close to admitting some indefinable
wrong he had committed. "You know what I mean," he quickly
added.

"We don't go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of the
truth, all true, but maybe not everything. I am sure we all
agree that we want to keep this, ah, situation, as quiet as
possible." Rapid assent came from all around.

"All we need to say is that we have been contacted, in a threat-
ening manner. That no demands have been made yet, but we are
willing to cooperate with the authorities. That would give us
all a little time, to re-organize our priorities, if you see what
I mean?" Dobbs added. The seven CEO's were thoughtful.

"Now this doesn't mean that we all have to agree on this,"
Franklin Dobbs said. "But as for me, I have gone over this, in
limited detail, with my attorney, and he agrees with it on a
strategic level. If someone's after you, and you can't see 'em,
get the guys with the White Hats on your side. Then do some
housekeeping. I am going to the FBI. Anybody care to join me?"

It was going to be a lonesome trip.

* * * * *

September, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan.

OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World
Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo. From
the executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view
reached as far as the Pacific. It was from these lofty reaches
that Taki Homosoto commanded his $30 Billion empire which spread
across 5 continents, 112 countries, and employed almost a quarter
million people.

OSO Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings as a
used tire junkstore.

The Korean conflict had been a windfall. Taki Homosoto started
a tire retreading business in 1946, during the occupation of
Japan. The Americans were so smart, he thought. Bring over all
of your men, tanks, jeeps and doctors not telling us the truth
about radiation, and you forget spare tires. Good move, Yankee.

Taki gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the Americans
didn't seem care, that the Pentagon didn't think twice about
paying $700 for toilet seats decades later. Taki did give great
service - after all his profits were so staggeringly high he
could afford it. Keep the American's happy, feed their ego, and
they'll come back for more. No sense of pride. Suckers.

When the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a command
post for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by service-
men. OSO Industries was in a perfect position to take advantage
of the US Government's tire needs throughout the conflict. OSO
was already in place, doing a good job; Taki had bought some
friends in the US military, and a few arrangements were made to
keep business coming his way.

Taki accumulated millions quickly. Now he needed to diversify.

Realizing that the war would come to an end some day, Homosoto
begin making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market before
the end of the Korean Police Action. Then, with the application
of the transistor, the portable radio market exploded. OSO
Industries made more transistor radios than all other Japanese
electronics firms combined. Then came black and white televi-
sions. The invention of the single beam color TV tube again
brought OSO billions in revenues every year.

Now, OSO was the model of a true global corporation. OSO owned
banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron-
ics products were household words. They controlled a vast network
of companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli-
ance manufacturers, and notably, acres and acres of Manhattan
Island, California and Hawaii. They owned and operated communi-
cations companies, including their own geosynchronous satellite.
OSO positioned itself as a holding company with hundreds of
subsidiaries, each with their own specialty, operating under
thousands of names. Taki Homosoto wove an incredibly complex web
of corporate influence and intrigue.

OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world. Reaga-
nomics had already assisted in making OSO and Homosoto himself
politically important to both Japan and the US. Exactly how
Homosoto wanted it. American leaders, Senators, Congressmen,
appointees, lobbyists, in fact much of Washington coddled up to
Homosoto. His empire planned years in advance. The US Govern-
ment, unofficially craved his insights, and in characteristic
Washington style, wanted to be near someone important. Homosoto
relished it. Ate it up. He was a most cordial, unassuming
humble guest. He played the game magnificently.

Almost the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was dedi-
cated to Homosoto and his immediate staff. Only a handful of the
more then 200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had access
to the pinnacle of the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.

The building was designed by Pei, and received international ac-
claim as an architectural statement. The atrium in the lobby
vaulted almost 700 feet skyward precursoring American hotel
design in the next decade. Plants, trees over 100 feet tall and
waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging skylobbies. The
first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of the
Ging Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees. The
mini forest was built to be viewed from various heights within
the atrium to simulate a flight above the earth at distances from
2 to 150 miles.

The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum. The Van Gogh
collection was not only the largest private or public assemblage
in the world, but also represented over $100 Million spent in
Sothby and Christies auctions worldwide since 1975.

To get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security check was
performed, including a complete but unobtrusive electronic scan
of the entire person and his belongings. To all appearances, the
procedure was no more than airport security. However to the
initiate or the suspect, it was evident from the accuracy with
which the guards targeted specific contraband on a person or in
his belongings that they knew more than they were telling. The
OSO guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their
sheer mass, they received little hassle. Very few deemed it
prudent to cross them.

The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700 feet,
was a fairly austere experience. But, the elevator to the 66th
floor altered that image at once. It was this glass walled
elevator, the size of a small office, with appropriately comfort-
able furnishings, that Miles Foster rode. From the comfort of
the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of
the atrium as it disappeared beneath him. He looked at the
forest and imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into
orbit. The executive elevator was much slower than the others.
Either the residents in the penthouse relished the solitude and
view or they had motion sickness. Nonetheless, it was most
impressive.

"Ah, Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO. Please to step this way."
Miles Foster was expected at the terminus of the lift which
opened into an obscenely large waiting room that contained a
variety of severe and obviously uncomfortable furniture. Aha!
Miles, thought. That's exactly what this is. Another art gal-
lery, albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and no one
else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track
lighting, recessed lights, indirect lights. Miles noticed that
the room as pure as the driven snow didn't have any windows. He
didn't recognize much of the art, but given his host, it must
have represented a sizable investment.

Miles was ushered across the vast floor to a set of handsomely
carved, too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold hardware.
His slight Japanese host barely tapped on the door, almost inau-
dibly. He paused and stood at attention as he blurted an obedient
"Hai!"

The aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference to
Mr. Foster, moved to one side to let the visitor be suitably
impressed. Homosoto's office was a total contrast to his gal-
lery. Miles first reaction was astonishment. It was slightly
dizzying. The ceiling slanted to a height of over 25 feet at the
outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The immense room
provided not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50 miles be-
yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.

Coming from the U.S. Government, such private opulence was not
common. It was to be expected in his family's places of business,
the gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce. He
had been to Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build-
ing, a place for tourists. This office, he used the word liber-
ally, was palatial.

It was decorated in spartan fashion with cherry wood walls.
Artwork, statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat wherever
there was an open surface. A few gilt shelves and marble display
tables were randomly scattered around the room. Not chaoticly;
just the opposite. The scattering was exquisitely planned.
There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish rice paper panels
for eating in suhutahksi. Eating on the floor was an
honored ritual. There was a small pit under the table for curl-
ing one's legs on the floor.

A conference table with 12 elegant wooden chairs sat at the
opposite end of the cavernous office. In the center of the room,
at the corner of the building, was Homosoto's desk, or work
surface if you prefer. It was large enough for four, yet Homoso-
to, as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to dwarf his environ-
ment and desk. Not in size, but in confidence. His personage
was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a plat-
form some 6" above the rest of the room. The intended effect was
not lost on Foster.

The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to
make room for a range of video monitors, communications facili-
ties, and computers which accessed Homosoto's empire. A vast
telephone console provided tele-conferencing to OSO offices
worldwide. Dow Jones, CNN, Nippon TV were constantly displayed,
visible only to Homosoto. This was Homosoto's Command Central as
he liked to call it.

Foster gawked at the magnificent surroundings as he stood in
front of his assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black leather
chair. It was one of several arranged in a sunken conversation
pit.

Homosoto acknowledged Foster's presence with the briefest of nods
as he stepped down off of his aerie. Homosoto wore expensive
clothes. A dark brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres-
ent solid white starched shirt. It didn't fit, like most Japa-
nese business uniforms.

He was short, no more than five foot six, Miles noticed, after
Homosoto got down to the same level as the rest of the room. On
the heavy side, he walked slowly and deliberately. Eyes forward
after the obligatory nod. His large head was sparsely covered
with little wisps of hair in nature's futile attempt to clothe
the top of his freckled skull. Even at 59 Homosoto's hair was
still pitch black. Miles wasn't sure if Grecian Formula was
available in Japan. The short crop accentuated the pronounced
ears.

A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or
maybe carcinoma. His deep set black eyes stared through the
object of his attention. Homosoto was not the friendly type,
thought Miles.

Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the
most perfunctory of bows. Miles took his hand, expecting a
strong grip. Instead he was greeted with a wet fish handshake
which wriggled quickly from his grasp. Homosoto didn't give the
slightest indication of a smile. The crow's feet around his eyes
were caused by pudginess, not happiness. When he sat opposite
Foster in a matching chair, he began without any pleasantries.

"I hear you are the best." Homosoto stared at Foster. It was a
statement that required a response.

Foster shifted his weight a little in the chair. What a way to
start. This guy must think he's hot shit. Well, maybe he is.
First class, all expense paid trip to Tokyo, plus consultation
fees. In advance. Just for one conversation, he was told, we
just want some advice. Then, last night, and the night before,
he was honored with sampling the finest Oriental women. His hot
button. All expenses paid, of course. Miles knew he was being
buttered up, for what he didn't know, but he took advantage of it
all.

"That's what's your people tell you."

Foster took the challenge and glared, albeit with a smirk dimpled
smile, politely, right back at Homosoto. Homosoto continued his
stare. He didn't relax his intensity.

"Mr. Foster," Homosoto continued, his face still emotionless.
"Are you as good as they say?" he demanded.

Miles Foster defiantly spat out the one word response. "Better."

Homosoto's eyes squinted. "Mr. Foster, if that is true, we can
do business. But first, I must be convinced. I can assure you
we know quite a bit about you already, otherwise you wouldn't be
here." Miles noticed that Homosoto spoke excellent English,
clipped in style, but Americanized. He occasionally stretched
his vowels, to the brink of a drawl.

"Yeah, so what do you know. Pulled up a few data bases? Big
Deal." Miles cocked his head at Homosoto's desk. "I would assume
that with that equipment, you can probably get whatever you
want."

Homosoto let a shimmer of a smile appear at the corners off his
mouth. "You are most perceptive, Mr. Foster." Homosoto paused
and leaned back in the well stuffed chair. "Mr. Foster, tell me
about your family."

Miles neck reddened. "Listen! You called me, I didn't call you.
All I ever knew about OSO was that you made ghetto blasters, TV's
and vibrators. So therefore, you wanted me, not my family. If
you had wanted them you would have called them." Miles said
loudly. "So, keep my family the fuck out of it."

"I do not mean to offend," Homosoto said offensively. "I just am
most curious why you didn't go to work for your family. They
have money, power. You would have been a very important man, and
a very rich one." Homosoto said matter of factly. "So, the
prudent man must wonder why you went to work for your Government?
Aren't your family and your government, how shall I say, on
opposite sides?"

"My family's got nothing to do with this or you. Clear?" Miles
was adamant. "But, out of courtesy for getting me laid last
night, I might as well tell you. I went to the feds cause they
have the best computers, the biggest equipment and the most
interesting work. Not much money, but I have a backup when I
need it. If I went to work for my family, as you put it, I would
have been a glorified beancounter. And that's not what I do. It
would have been no challenge. Boring, boring, boring!" Miles
smiled sarcastically at Homosoto. "Happy now?"

Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove of
your family's activities? How they make money?"

"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled. "How does that grab you? I
don't give a flying fuck. They were real good to me, paid a lot
of my way. I love my mother and she's not a hit man. My uncle
does I don't know what or care. They're family, that's it. How
much clearer do you want it?" Miles continued shouting.

Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster.
I mean no disrespect. I just like to know who works for me."

"Hey, I don't work for you yet."

"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."

"Right." Miles snapped sarcastically.

Homosoto ignored this last comment. The insincere smile left his
face, replaced with a more serious countenance. "Why did you
leave your post with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"

Another inquisition, thought Miles. What a crock. Make it good
for the gook.

"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who insured
their longevity by creating an invincible bureaucracy." Miles
decided that a calm beginning might be more appropriate. "They
had no real idea of what was going on. Their heads were so far
up their ass they had a tan line across their chests. Whenever
we had a good idea, it was either too novel, too expensive or
needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee that
might react in 2 years. What a pile of bullshit, a waste of
time. We could have achieved a lot more without all the inter-
ference."

"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly
asked Miles.

"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were
hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends
and nights to make our country safe from the Communists. The
managers just never got with the program."

"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are
good?"

Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess
I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good.
She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some
chicken."

"Excuse me? Chicken?"

"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look-
er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"

"Do you mean she's very pretty?"

Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real
pretty, but real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he
smiled a wicked smile.

Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr.
Foster?"

"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any-
thing?" Miles demanded.

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly
ordered.

Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you
mean? I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that,
I don't play."

"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so.
Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"

"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes
running for office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and
really screw things up." Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons.
Politics. He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on.

"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up.
Real bad. Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever
or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten-
tion. Make noise. Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look at
Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a lot
of people on for the ride. Just look at the national energy
debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then,
'ooooh!', they say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.'
Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico shoots
off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "

"That's your politics?"

"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so
bad that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your
ass trying to help you fix it."

"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto
looked mildly amused.

"Not meant to be. Just true."

"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would
that be a fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of
questioning.

"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else."
Miles sounded defensive.

"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I
am sure money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto
leaned back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror image fashion
and performed push ups on each other.

Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down
that looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his
mind. Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports as
he leaned on the table between them. He began speaking deliber-
ately and coherently.

"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the
money is nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal-
lenge. I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to
listen to me. And I was right so many times when they were
wrong. Then they would start blaming everyone else and another
committee is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch! I would
love to teach them a lesson."

"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your
abilities and let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how
unfortunate." Homosoto said somberly.

"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat,
"you seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of
answers. It is your dime, so I owe you something. But, Mr.
Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."

Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I
have been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am
making the assumption you will accept, you will become wealthier
than you ever hoped. Ever dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation
precedes you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster. "I do
believe we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles Fos-
ter.

"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again
shook Homosoto's weak hand.

"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United
States of America."

****************************************************************

Chapter 6

3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.

Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell
was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage?
Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just
agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I
said maybe.

Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just
some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat.
No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like
calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu-
rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is
OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head
of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the
same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He
called Max.

"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood,
was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'

"On my way Amigo."

The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex-
hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both
sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it,
or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation.
He prayed for the latter.

"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock-
ing.

"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's
large physique.

Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good
start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.

Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had
to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max
brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder
bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to
read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the
ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood,
but then he had no love for lawyers.

"Max! Please."

"Hey, just trying new material...."

" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.

"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They
went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.

C:\a:
A:\dir

FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704
FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013
FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567
FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981
FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280
FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395
FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912

93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\

"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of
concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.

"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What
kind of programs?"

"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have
you used them yet?"

"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier-
re's nervousness betrayed him.

"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93.
That would run the program.

A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to
its natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work.
Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything
either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup-
posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.

Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't
know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."

"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn,
nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna
take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette
from the machine.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably
some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."

At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre
was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.

"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the
plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.

Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger
to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an
obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real
soon. He meant that part. He would call back.

"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.

"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.

"Viruses. Lots of 'em."

"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.

"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."

"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."

"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit
down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.

"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had
grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to
stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max
as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded
silent agreement.

"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of
information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a
list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are
called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables
are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables
operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a
theme."

"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone
knows that. What about these?"

"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa-
bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables
and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's
about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations,
but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an
executable which is designed to copy itself onto another
program."

"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our-
selves into the application."

"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk-
ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked
at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only
one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now,
the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in
seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him
that a program could be harmful.

"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the
same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some-
thing new."

"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves
onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth-
ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few
days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be
infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if
you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was
infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be
destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War
II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot
of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3
years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak,
goes too."

"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with
antidotes?"

"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it-
self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled
not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation;
in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending
education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no
way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses.
Can't be done."

"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to
grasp the importance of what he was hearing.

"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro-
gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool-
ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a
similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi-
ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked
at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani-
gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get
them?"

Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I?
He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can
tell Max. Anything.

"Homosoto."

"What?" asked Max incredulously.

"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.

"Why? What for?"

"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."

"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would
happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell
thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half
of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3
years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph
in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs
would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected
programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be
destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the
same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to
absorb what he was saying.

"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi-
ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov-
ered power.

"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years
is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no
reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be
shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is
absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few
of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de-
stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi-
dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."

"V-Day?"

"Virus Day."

"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"

"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro-
grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On
the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in
the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once.
It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act.
And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What
exactly did Homosoto say?"

Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he
gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last
few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has
been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I
have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I
take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.

The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself
that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual
exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn-
apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre
the luxury of a respite of calm.

"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime
in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak
of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden-
ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.

"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from
Pierre.

"Well what?"

"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are
you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."

"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A
determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll
take care of it."

"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the
international politic that usually was second nature. He called
Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.

"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto
hung up.

Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre
wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso-
to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not
be coming until the following morning.

In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with
the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before.
Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.

"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con-
cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a
monotone as he sat stiffly.

"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from
his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible.
You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause
and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me,
no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph?
You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you
think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you
have another thing coming."

Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.

"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're
going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I
don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for
someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as
loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the
gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.

Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you
some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the
door in Pierre's bright red face.

Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon
the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed
to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small
investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was
looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out
for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two
types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected,
sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and
another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't
sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn
both positions, just in case.

His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's
financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and
had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like
a happy camper.

"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could
burst," Pierre pretended.

"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."

Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.

"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."

"What about Max?"

"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just
found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"

Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could
have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead?
Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.

"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is
some kind of joke, right?"

"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on
it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a
ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down
the, well . . .I . . ."

"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.

"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents.
He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel,
oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So
sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've
been through . . ."

"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling
up in his eyes.

"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put
off the offering until . . ."

"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.

"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to
go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street
will be kind on this . . ."

"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He
hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions.
He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how
to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories,
stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course.
But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You
can't do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang.
He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The
caller persisted.

"Yes," he breathed into the phone.

"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.

"What?"

"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our
sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help
you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners
oozed over the phone wire.

"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have
been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self
gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped
Royal British snobbery at their best.

"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly.
"I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot
help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you
agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's
words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light
had been extinguished.

"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as
scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French
can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business
about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."

"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I
won't do it."

"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your
decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled
threat.

"Why should I?"

"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it
would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you
murdered your partner for profit."

"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal
clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire
spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur-
dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.

"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence,
enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you
murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your-
self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself
clear?"

"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only
does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like
the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now.
There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not
ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?

"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in
abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the
impact resistant plastic cracked.

At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully
opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry.
What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a
great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her
drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked
with emotional distress.

"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the
arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out
the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.

"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"

"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me
advised . . ."

"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is
waiting. Should I get rid of him?"

"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"

"I don't know. He's from personnel."

"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"

"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next
week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of
an unnecessary burden that could wait.

"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."

"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about
30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was
applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He
looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than
a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he
grasped Pierre's hand.

"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why
don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat
opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr.
Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a
software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from
Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents
either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-
rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages
fluently . . ."

Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and
your clothes. What may I do for you."

"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"

* * * * *

The financial section of the New York City Times included two
pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents,
and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-
cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci-
dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have
earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.

The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on
the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true
loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max,
though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the
Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that
the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.

* * * * *

Wednesday, September 1
New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He
was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary
and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not
his strong point.

"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he
should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the
hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his
aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.

Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It
must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged
America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but
proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been
going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.

Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO
of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re-
porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary
easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.

"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like
to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott
sounded officious.

"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded
accommodating.

"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most
useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other
questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would
ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.

"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to
give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott
could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.

"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that
you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree
that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will
earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the
figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC.
Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory,
but it was difficult not to play the adversary.

Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at
the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that
information?"

"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his
King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.

"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with
the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else,
then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone
wires conveyed his agitation.

"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why
files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?"
Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.

"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer
figures?"

"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures
for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your
filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck
with the game plan.

"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ."
Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You
have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.

"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson
repeatedly denied any improprieties.

"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New
York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with
Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over
spending.

"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male
secretary matter of factly asked.

"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and
Credit Suisse."

"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.

"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott
commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from
the press.

"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak
on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up
the call. He was belligerent.

"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.

"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.

"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim-
idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave
away nervousness.

"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about
political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you
and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As
a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped
pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General
Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in
Geneva. Comments, Senator?"

Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal
composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan-
derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to
back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in
the Senator's voice.

"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"
Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.

"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper
right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"

"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that
would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.

Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he
continued to be amazed.

From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get
that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know
that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That
was in my private files . . ."

Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the
Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known
faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that
Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially
upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors
Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.

The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the
thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the
newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their
files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list.
Useless.

Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and
beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory
claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea-
sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked
that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.

Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in
which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received
the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.

Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was.
He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source,
with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed
that for the next time he got lawyered.

When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears
were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in
the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order.
Keep digging.

"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father
teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead-
line."

Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.

"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on
his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."

"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.

"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."

"Then say so. But say something."

****************************************************************

Chapter 7
Thursday, September 17
New York City Times

Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to America
By Scott Mason

Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the
headline. In this case the words are borrowed from a story title
in last week's National Expose, that most revered of journalistic
publications which distributes half truths and tortured conclu-
sions from publicity seeking nobodies.

The title should more appropriately be something like,

"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or

"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or

"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"

According to computer experts, this Columbus Day, October 12,
will mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous Columbus Day
Virus. As for the last several years, that is the anticipated
date for a highly viral computer virus to 'explode'. The history
behind the headline reads from an Ian Fleming novel.

In late 1988, a group of West German hackers and computer pro-
grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput-
er virus. As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is an
unsolicited and unwanted computer program whose sole purpose is
to wreak havoc in computers. Either by destroying important files
or otherwise damaging the system.

We now know that that these Germans are part of an underground
group known as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer Hackers Against
Open Systems, whatever the heck that means. They work to promote
computer systems disruption worldwide.

In March of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted an international
conference of computer programmers. Are you ready for the name?
Intergalactic Hackers Conference. Some members were aware of the
planned virus. As a result of the negative publicity hackers
have gotten over the last few years, the Conference issued a
statement disavowing the propagation and creation of computer
viruses. All very honorable by a group of people whose sole
purpose in life is to invade the privacy of others. But, that's
what they said.

Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got
released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings. In other words,
files and programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted by
this disreputable band, and the infections began spreading.

The first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred in 1989,
and caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc-
tion of data banks and system protection.

Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread
and that some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate
over a period of years. The Columbus Day Virus is called by its
creators, the "Data Crime Virus", a name befitting its purpose.
When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by
that time, it's too late. Your computer is kaput!

What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing
than the hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the
media has given it, each and every year since 1989.

The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable
reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds
of newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other
reputable media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a
great deal of attention on this anticipated technological Arma-
geddon.

Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus
issue and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by
Virus Busters. Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas
commented, "I have never seen a virus in 20 years. I've heard
about them but really think they are a figment of the media's
imagination."

Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting
alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti-
dotes. Virus Busting Sean McCullough, President of The Virus
Institute in San Jose, California thinks that most viruses are
harmless and users and companies overreact. "There have been no
more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few years.
They spread more by rumor than by infection." When asked how he
made his living, he responded, "I sell antidotes to computer
viruses." Does he make a good living? "I can't keep up with the
demand," he insists.

The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for
good reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch
is planned. Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus
makers use as the intended date of destruction. According to an
official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security experts
to make sure that their systems are " . . .clean and free from
infection. It's a purely precautionary move, we are not worried.
The launch will continue as planned."

Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and
dangerous, but that chances of infection are low. As one highly
respected computer specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus is
a low risk high consequence possibility. I don't recommend any
panic." Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses? "Abso-
lutely. I can't risk losing my computers."

Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my
computer never needs Tylenol.

* * * * *

Scarsdale, New York.

The Conrail trains were never on time.

Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride
the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York
into Grand Central Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute
ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours when the feder-
ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.

The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an
upscale version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the
Scarsdale train station. He bought a large styrofoam cup full of
decent black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind newsman
before boarding the express train. Non-stop to Harlem, and then
on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.

Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his
silver BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a
perfectly good Ford Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he
needed a car in New York. He was one of the few black commuters
from the affluent bedroom community and his size made him more
conspicuous than his color.

Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps
unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning
you see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their
way to the Big Apple. The morning commute is a personal solace
for many. Your train buddy knows if you got laid and by whom.
If you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway, your train
buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife. Train
buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes
first.

While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning
route since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends
since their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club
10 years ago. Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites;
Maggie, a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene,
the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three daugh-
ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The attachment
between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both
Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.

The physical contrast between the two was comical at times.
Duncan was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had
let his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott,
small and wiry was 10 years Ty's junior. On weekends they played
on a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age was
thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out maneuvered Ty-
rone's bulk.

During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits
he had made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans, sneakers
and T-Shirt of choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than
ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the usually
jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and
bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a hair-
cut.

Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train
pulled out of the open air station.

"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.

Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.

"That shirt," Ty smirked. "A lesson in how to make friends and
influence people."

"Oh, this?" Scott looked down at the words on his chest:

I'm O.K.
You're A Shithead.

"It only offends them that oughta be offended."

"Shitheads?"

"Shitheads."

"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."

"My mother," groused Scott. "VCR lessons." Ty didn't under-
stand.

"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd
and ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a
couple of weeks later I went over to her place and I asked how
she liked the VCR. She didn't answer, so I asked again and she
mumbled that she hadn't used it yet. I fell down," Scott laughed
out loud.

"'Why?' I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it
sitting next to her TV for a couple of months before she used
it." Tyrone caught a case of Scott's roaring laughter.

"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone. "And you an engineer?"

"Hey," Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a light-
bulb." They laughed until Scott could speak. "So last night I
went over for her weekly VCR lesson."

"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled, "trust-
ing a machine to do something right, when you're not around to
make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They
don't believe it works."

"It's a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly. "It tests my
ability to reduce things to the basics. The real basics. Trying
to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like trying
to get a square ball bearing to roll."

Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He
couldn't imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity
of either 'on' or 'off'. But he welcomed the tangent conversa-
tions that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how the
VCR could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch another
channel at the same time.

Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR,
cleared its memory and 'Twelved' the clock an hour before he
arrived to show her how to use it. And after he left, she repro-
grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his next
visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would have ruined
her little game and the ritual starting point for their private
talks.

"By the way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are you and Arlene
doing Sunday night?"

"Sunday? Nothing, why?" Tyrone asked innocently.

"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of
you . . ."

"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.

"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."

"Forget it." Tyrone said stubbornly. "Not after what happened
last time. I don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of
your mother. She scared the living shit out of her . . .and I
have my doubts."

"Relax," Scott said calmly. "It's just her way of keeping busy.
Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."

"And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband
from the dead," said Scott with exaperation. "I don't care what
you say, that's not normal. I like your mother, but, well,
Arlene has put her foot down." Tyrone shuddered at the thought
of that evening. No one could explain how the wooden shutters
blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as his
wife did, to pretend it never happened.

"Hey," Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. "I
see you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"Don't give me that innocent shit. I'm a trained professional,"
Tyrone joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to
Scott's Christopher Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces
have been raising a few eyebrows down at the office. Seems you
have better sources than we do. Our Computer Fraud division has
been going nuts recently."

"Glad you can read." Scott enjoyed the compliment. "Just a job,
but I gotta story much more interesting. I can't publish it yet,
though."

"Why?"

"Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be-
lieve it?" Scott teased Tyrone. "Besides, blackmail is so, so
personal."

Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. "What blackmail?"
The frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of
their respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a
measured professional distance. The years of dedication invested
in their friendship, even after to everyones' surprise, Maggie up
and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady unneces-
sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped
to be of concern.

"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into print,
but, it's there, I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted to
talk.

"Mums the word."

"A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a
certain company. I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for
approval.

"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.

Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what
Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of
the apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci-
nation as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he
was privy.

Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tyrone quietly asked.

"Sure. Go for it."

"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"

Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.

"How did you know?" Scott asked suspiciously.

"And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?"
Tyrone tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press
on this.

Scott could not hide his surprise. "Yeah! And a bunch of others.
How'd you know?"

Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. "Lucky
guess."

"Bullshit. What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of
the lazy commuter.

"Nothing, just a coincidence." Tyrone picked up a newspaper and
buried his face behind it.

"Hey, Ty. Talk ol' buddy."

"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.

"As a friend? I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.

Ty snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case in
progress."

"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.

"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.

"Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C'mon
what's up?"

"Shit, you media types." Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to
think. "I'll never know why you became a reporter. You used to
be a much nicer pain in the ass before you became so nosy."
Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's awkwardness.

Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he
realized that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn't read
any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi-
bility from both Scott and the paper. "Off, off, off the record.
Clear?" He was serious.

"Done."

The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat-
tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that
meant they couldn't be heard either.

"As near as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began. "There's a
well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As
of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged
blackmail. From Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta,
Chicago, LA, the works. Small towns to the metros. It's an
epidemic and the local and state cops are absolutely buried.
They can't handle it, and besides it's way out of their league.
So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There's
no way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing-
ton's going berserk."

"Who's behind it?" Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get a real
answer.

"That's the rub. Don't have a clue. Not a clue. There's no
pattern, none at all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our
informants say they're baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They
knew about it before we did. Figures." Tyrone's voice echoed a
professional frustration.

"Motives?"

"None. We're stuck."

"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."

The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand
Central. Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make
their escape to the streets of New York above them. Scott won-
dered if any of them were part of Duncan's problems.

"Scott?" Tyrone queried on the escalator.

"Yeah?"

"Not a word, ok?"

Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. "Scott's
honor!" That was good enough for Tyrone.

They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both
of their eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa-
tionalistic headline:

FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME

They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled
tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.

"Jesus," Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the
word. "They're going to make a weekly event of printing every
innuendo."

"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott. "The whole blasted
lot. And they're printing them." Scott put down the paper.
"This makes it a brand new ball game . . ."

"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.

"That's the answer," exclaimed Scott. "The motive. Who's been
affected so far?"

"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What's
the answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention.
"What's the answer?" he whispered up close.

"It's you." Scott noted.

Tyrone expressed surprise. "What do you mean, me."

"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone
else. You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay atten-
tion to other crimes."

"You're jumping to conclusions." Tyrone didn't follow Scott's
reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.

"What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the
FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators
really have other crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit
their real targets. Isn't it possible that the FBI is an unwill-
ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger scheme that isn't obvious
yet?" Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he saw that
Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.

"It's possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't have the
words to finish his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field
for his linear thinking. "No this is crazy as the time you
though that UFO's were invading Westchester in '85. Then there
was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine in
the water supply . . ."

"That wasn't my fault . . ."

" . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild
ass conspiracies you come up with."

Scott dismissed Tyrone's friendly criticism by ignoring the
derisions. "As I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim is
the FBI. None of the alleged victims have been harmed, other
than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the target
all along. Scott suggested, "it's as good a theory as any
other."

"With what goal?" Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.

"So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to
react."

* * * * *

The Federal Bureau of Investigation
Federal Square, Manhattan.

The flat white and glass square building, designed in the '60's,
built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the
level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri-
or. The building had no personality, no character, nothing
memorable about it, and that was exactly the way the tenants
wanted it.

The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested
streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure well
guarded mazes held the clues to the locations of an incredible
array of computing power, some of the world's best analytical
tools, test equipment, forensic labs, communications facilities
and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical specialties
required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.

The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by
the solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos-
sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal
privacy was another matter, though. Most of the office staff
worked out in an open office floorplan. The walls between the
guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet-
proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving at first, no
privacy.

There was a self-imposed class structure between the "bugs",
those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads"
who worked where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa-
ration between the two groups out of necessity; maintain isola-
tion between those with differing need-to-know criteria. The
most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and unintended
competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at different
bars. A line that was rarely crossed.

Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher
floors are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power
brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you worked,
the more important you were. To the "airheads", "bugs" tried to
see how low they could sink in their acquisition of power while
rising up on the Government pay scale.

On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the
edge of his large Government issue executive desk to answer his
ringing phone. It was Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington
based superior and family friend for years.

"No, really. Thanks," Ty smiled. "Bob, we've been through this
before. It's all very flattering, but no. I'm afraid not. And
you know why. We've been through this all . . ." He was being
cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.

"Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as he tried to
interrupt the other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll give it
some more thought, but don't get your hopes up. It's just not in
my cards." He listened again.

"Bob, I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I
do. We're both quite content and frankly, I don't need the
headaches." He looked around the room as he cocked the earpiece
away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.

"Bob, I said I would. I'll call you next week." He paused.
"Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I understand.
Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won't leave me
alone. Let me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the
ceiling.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat-
ing cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were
against him ever being accepted into the elite National Police
Force. The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had
created over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very selective
about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan was black.

His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow
into his father's footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston's
most prestigious law firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the
very few rich and influential black families in the North East.
His family was labeled "Liberal" when one wasn't ashamed of the
moniker.

Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the
marches in the South and it was then that he first hand saw
prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though. It was hate,
it was ignorance and fear. It was so much more than prejudice.
It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society con-
quered over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its mis-
guided myopic traditions.

Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and
humidity, decades of racial conflict, several 'Jew Boy Nigger
Lovers' were killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the
civil rights workers made front page news. The country was out-
raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned
quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed the
crime as a prank, or even congratulated the perpetrators for
their actions.

The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se;
murder is not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime
because the murderers had violated the victims' civil rights.
Tyrone thought that that approach was real slick, a nice legal
side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the case.
When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over-
worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and
Tyrone spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and per-
forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.

On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his
despite his father's urging, after law school he would join the
FBI.

Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School,
passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed
through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was
over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight. His background
check was unassailable except for his family's prominent liberal
bent. He had every basic qualification needed to become an FBI
Agent. He was turned down.

Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself,
blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to 'investi-
gate' and determine who or what was pulling the strings. He
called FBI personnel and asked why he had been rejected. They
mumbled something about 'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'.
That was when he realized that he was turned down solely because
he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a racial issue stand
in his way.

He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during
the last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that
he was applying for a position as an assistant DA in Boston.
Would they mind writing a letter . . .

Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person-
nel Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov-
er. The four letters of recommendation, which read more like
votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI
stationary. Tyrone asked the Personnel Director if they would
reconsider his application, and that if necessary, he would
whitewash his skin.

The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix-
up. We misfiled someone else's charts in your files and, well,
you understand, I'm sure. It happens all the time. We're sorry
for any inconvenience. Would you be available to come in on
Monday? Welcome to the FBI.

Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired
left wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states
for some unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected
dirt on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He
tried, fairly successfully to stay away from that last kind of
work. In Tyrone's not so humble opinion, there were a whole lot
more better things for FBI agents to be doing than worry about
George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high school
kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the
Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.

Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot-
ed to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious
position. This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau.
It was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels. The Hoover
era was gone.

After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind
his desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no
new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him
though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re-
read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that
was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.

The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100
people, many of them highly placed leaders of American industry
had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call
into the FBI is handled in a procedural manner. The agent who
takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout
on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had for years
but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if
the caller had significant information, but refused to identify
himself, the agent had a reliable method to track down the call-
er. Very few people who called the FBI realized that a phone
inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events
that was complete before the call was over.

The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone
number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to
the agent. Then the number was crosschecked against files from
the phone company. What was the exact location of the caller?
To whom was the phone registered? A calling and billing history
was made instantly available if required.

If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual,
his social security number was retrieved and within seconds of
the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information
about the caller. Criminal activities, bad credit records; the
type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of
the call. For business phones, a cross check determined any and
all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a determina-
tion.

Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers
who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation.
They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of major
corporate movers and shakers. Top American businessmen who,
while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI's view,
upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but certainly not mad men
with a record of making outlandish capricious claims. It was not
in their interest to bring attention to themselves.

What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of
such calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified
cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out
into legitimate and solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague
threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan
sat back thoughtfully.

What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or
on April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it
a joke? Not likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have
they made? Undoubtedly they haven't befriended everyone with
whom they have had contact, but what's the connection? Tyrone's
mind reeled through a maze of unlikelihoods. Until, the only
common element he could think of stared at him right in the
face. There was a single dimension of commonality between all of
the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with
the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.

The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter-
ally leapt from his chair for a split second as he caught his
breath. The government. No way. Is it possible? I must be
missing something, surely. This is crazy. Or is it? Doesn't
the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate paranoid
thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded
his forehead for missing the connection.

Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-
9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could
sell to another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss.
The G-9 says, 'I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their
share, and it won't cost Uncle Sam a dime!'. His boss says, 'I
got a congressional hearing today, I'm too busy. Do some re-
search and let me see a report.'

So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government
computers and determines that the companies on his hit list
aren't necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way
to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the
big We, Big Brother know, and they'd better shape up.

He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons
and the phone numbers are buried, and says something like, 'Big
Brother is listening and he doesn't like what he hears.' And he
says, 'we'll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in
a row' and that scares the shit out of the corporate muckity-
mucks.

Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he
admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts.
Still, is it possible? The government was certainly capable of
some pretty bizarre things. He recalled the Phoenix program in
Viet Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent civilians were
tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths in the
distorted hope of making another one talk.

Wasn't Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats
were in 1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the
President. And the Aquarius project used psychics to locate
Soviet Boomers and UFO's. Didn't we give LSD to unsuspecting
soldiers to see if they could function adequately under the
influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And they
became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true. Maybe
it was possible. The United States government had actually
instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase
tax revenues. Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.

The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his
daydream speculations.

"Yes?" He answered into space.

"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint-
ment. Saunderson is out and so you're elected." Duncan's secre-
tary was too damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to
someone else. He pushed his intercom button.

"Gimme a second, I gotta primp." That was Tyrone's code that he
needed a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and
return to Earth to deal with real life problems. As usual,
Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.

"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National
Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director." She waited for
the two men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door
behind her.

"Mr. Duncan?" Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent.
Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi-
ently.

"How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?"

"I am being blackmailed, and I need help." Dobbs looked straight
into Duncan's coal black eyes.

The IRS, thought Duncan. "By whom?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Dobbs was firm.

"Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?" Duncan wanted
to conceal his interest. Keep it low profile.

"Let me tell you what happened."

Good start, thought Duncan. If only half of us would start in
such a logical place.

"Two days ago I received a package by messenger. It contained
the most sensitive information my company has. Strategic posi-
tions, contingency plans, competitive information and so on.
There are only a half dozen people in my company that have access
to that kind of information. And they all own enough stock to
make sure that they aren't the culprits."

"So who is?" interjected Tyrone as he made notes.

"I don't know. That's the problem."

"What did they ask for?" Duncan looked directly into Dobbs'
eyes. To both force an answer and look for signs of deceit. All
he saw was honesty and real fear.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. All I got was the package and a brief
message."

"What was the message?" Tyrone asked.

"We'll be in touch. That's it."

"So where's the threat? The blackmail. This hardly seems like a
case for the FBI." Tyrone was baiting the hook. See if the fish
is real.

"None, not yet. But that's not the point. What they sent me
were copies, yet they looked more like the originals, of informa-
tion that would negatively affect my company. It's the sort of
information that we would not want made public. If you know what
I mean."

Tyrone thought, you bet I know. You're up to and you want us to
protect you. Fat chance. "I know what you mean," he agreed.

"I need to stop it. Before it's too late?"

"Too late?" asked Duncan.

"Too late. Before it gets out."

"What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?" Duncan stared right into and beyond
Dobbs' eyes.

"Secrets. Just secrets." Dobbs paused to recompose himself.
"Isn't there a law . . .?"

"Yes, there is Mr. Dobbs. And if what you say is true, you are
entitled to protection." Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more.
"Even if the information is illegal in nature." Wait for the
fish to bite.

"I grant you I'm no Mother Teresa. I'm a businessman, and I have
to make money for my investors. But in the files that I received
were exact copies of my personal files that no one, and I mean
no one has access to. They were my own notes, ideas in progress.
Nothing concrete, just work in progress. But someone, somehow
has gotten a hold of it all. And, by my thinking, there's no way
to have gotten it without first killing me, and I'm here. So how
did they get it? That's what I need to know." Dobbs paused.
"And then, I need to stop them." His soliloquy was over.

"Who else is affected?" Duncan asked. The question made Dobbs
pause too obviously. The answer was clear. Dobbs wasn't alone.

"I only speak for myself. No one else." Dobbs rose from the
chair. "It's eminently clear. There's not a damned thing you can
do. Good day." Dobbs left the room abruptly leaving Tyrone with
plenty of time to think.

****************************************************************

Chapter 8

Monday, September 21
New York

14 Dead As Hospital Computer Fails
by Scott Mason

Fourteen patients died as a result of a massive computer failure
this weekend at the Golda Meier Medical Center on 5th. Avenue.

According to hospital officials, the Meditrix Life Support Moni-
tors attached to many of the hospital's patients were accidental-
ly disconnected from the nurses stations and the hospital's main
computer. Doctors and nurses were unaware of any malfunction
because all systems appeared to operating correctly.

The LSM's are connected to a hospital wide computer network that
connects all hospital functions in a central computer. Medical
records, insurance filings and treatments as well as personnel
and operations are coordinated through the Information Systems
department.

Golda Meier Medical Center leads the medical field in the used of
technologically advanced techniques, and has been applying an
artificial intelligence based Expert System to assist in diagno-
sis and treatment. Much of the day to day treatment of patients
is done with the LSM continually measuring the condition of
patient, and automatically updating his records. The Expert
System then determines what type of treatment to recommend.
Unless there is a change in the patient's condition that warrants
the intervention of a doctor, drugs and medicines are prescribed
by the computer.

According to computer experts who were called in to investigate,
the Expert System began misprescribing medications and treatments
early Saturday morning. Doctors estimate that over 50%, about
300, of the hospital's patients received incorrect treatment.
Of those 14 died and another 28 are in critical condition.

Until this weekend, the systems were considered foolproof. The
entire computer system of Golda Meier Medical Center has been
disconnected until a more intensive investigation is completed.

In response to the news, the Jewish Defense League is calling the
incident, "an unconscionable attack against civilized behavior
and the Jewish community in particular." They have called for a
full investigation into the episode.

No group or individuals have yet taken credit for the crime. The
AMA has petitioned the Drug and Food Administration to look into
the matter.

Gerald Steinmetz, chief counsel for the Center, said in inter-
views that he had already been contacted by attorney's represent-
ing the families of the some of the victims of this tragedy. He
anticipates extended legal entanglements until such time that the
true cause can be determined and blame can accurately assigned.
The hospital denies any wrong doing on its or its staff's part.

This is Scott Mason, determined to stay healthy.

* * * * *

December, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan

Miles Foster arrived at Narita Airport as another typhoon shat-
tered the coast of Japan. It was the roughest plane ride he had
ever taken; and after 2 weeks of pure bliss. Boy, that Homosoto
sure knows how to show a guy a good time.

After their first meeting at the OSO World Bank Building, Miles
had flown to Tahiti and spent 18 delightful days at the outer
resort of Moorea, courtesy of OSO Industries, with all of the
trimmings. He was provided with a private beach house containing
every modern amenity one could want. Including two housekeepers
and a cook. Only one of the housekeepers knew how to keep house.
The other knew how to keep Miles satisfied.

Marasee was a Pacific Islander who was well schooled in advanced
sexual techniques. At barely 5 feet tall and 96 pounds, her long
silken black hair was as much as sexual tool as her hands and
mouth. Her pristine dark complexion and round face caused Miles
to think that he was potentially guilty of crimes against a
minor, but after their first night together, he relented that
Marasee knew her business very well.

"Mr. Homosoto-San," she purred in delicately accented English,
"wants you to concentrate on your work." She caressed his shoul-
ders and upper body as she spoke. "He knows that a man works
best when he has no worries. It is my job to make sure that you
are relaxed. Completely relaxed. Do you understand?"

Her eyes longed for an affirmative answer from Miles. At first
he was somewhat baffled. Homosoto had indeed sent him on this
trip, vacation, to work, undisturbed. But Miles thought that he
would have to fend for himself for his physical pleasures. He
was used to finding ways to satisfy his needs.

"Homosoto-San says that you must be relaxed to do very serious
business. Whenever you need relaxation, I am here."

The food was as exquisite as was Marasee. He luxuriated in the
eternally perfect weather, the beach, the waves and he even
ventured under water on a novice scuba dive. But, as he knew, he
was here to concentrate on his assigned task, so he tried to
limit his personal activities to sharing pleasure with Marasee.

In just a few days, a relaxed Miles felt a peace, a solace that
he had never known before. He found that his mind was at a
creative high. His mind propelled through the problems of the
war plans, and the solutions appeared. His brain seemed to
function independent of effort. As he established goals, the
roads to meet them appeared magically before him, in absolute
clarity. He was free to explore each one in its entirety, from
beginning to end, undisturbed.

If a problem confounded him, he found that merely forgetting
about it during an interlude with Marasee provided him with the
answer. The barriers were broken, the so-called 'walls of de-
fense' crumbled before as he created new methods of penetration
no one had ever thought of before.

As his plan coalesced into a singular whole, he began to experi-
ence a euphoria, a high that was neither drug nor sexually in-
duced. He could envision, all at once, the entire grand strate-
gy; how the myriad pieces effortlessly fit together and evolved
into a picture perfect puzzle. Miles became able to manipulate
the attack scenarios in his mind and make slight changes in one
that would have far reaching implications in another portion of
the puzzle. He might change only one slight aspect, yet see
synergistic ramifications down a side road. This new ability,
gained from total freedom to concentrate and his newfound worry
free life, gave Miles new sources of pleasure and inspiration.

As his plans came together, Miles yearned for something outside
of his idyllic environment. His strategies grew into a concrete
reality, one which he knew he could execute, if Homosoto wasn't
feeding him a line of shit. And, for the $100,000 Homosoto gave
him to make plans, he was generally inclined to believe that this
super rich, slightly eccentric but obviously dangerous man was
deadly serious.

As the days wore on, Miles realized that, more than anything in
his life, even more than getting laid, he wanted to put his plan
to the test. If he was right, of which he was sure, in a few
short years he would be recognized as the most brilliant computer
scientist in the world. In the whole damn world.

His inner peace, the one which fed his creativity, soon was
overtaken by the unbridled ego which was Miles Foster's inner
self. The prospect of success fostered new energies and Miles
worked even harder to complete the first phase of his task. To
the occasional disappointment of Marasee, Miles would embroil
himself in the computer Homosoto provided for the purpose.
Marasee had been with many men, she was an expert, but Miles gave
her as much pleasure as she to him. As his work further absorbed
him, she rued the day her assignment would be over.

Miles left Tahiti for Tokyo without even saying goodbye to Mara-
see.

The ritualistic scanning and security checks before Miles got
onto the living room elevator at the OSO Building in Tokyo evi-
denced that Homosoto had not told anyone else how important Miles
was. Even though he recognized the need for secrecy in their
endeavors, Miles was irked by the patronizing, almost rude treat-
ment he received when he was forced to pass the Sumo scrutiny.

The elevator again opened into the grand white gallery on the
66th floor.

"Ah . . .so good to see you again Mr. Foster. Homosoto-San is
anxious to see you." A short Japanese manservant escorted Miles
to the doors of Homosoto's office. The briefest of taps invited
the bellow of "Hai!" from its inner sanctum.

Homosoto was quick to rise from his techo-throne and greeted
Miles as if they were long lost friends.

"Mr. Foster . . .it is so good to see you. I assume everything
was satisfactory? You found the working conditions to your
liking?" Homosoto awkwardly searched for the vain compliment.
He pointed at the leather seating area in which they had first
discussed their plans. They sat in the same chairs they had the
last time they met.

Miles was taken aback by the warm reception, but since he was so
important to Homosoto, it was only fitting to be treated with
respect.

Miles returned the courtesy with the minimum required bow of the
head. It was a profitable game worth playing. "Very much so, Mr.
Homosoto. It was most relaxing . . .and I think you will be very
pleased with the results." Miles smiled warmly, expecting to be
heavily complimented on his promise. Instead, Homosoto ignored
the business issue.

"I understand that Miss Marasee was most pleased . . .was she
not?" The implication was clear. For the first time, Miles saw
a glimmer of a dirty old man looking for the sordid details.

"I guess so. I was too busy working to pay attention." Miles
tried to sluff off the comment.

"That is what she says. That you were too busy for her . . .or
to say goodbye and thank her for her attentions. Not an auspi-
cious beginning Mr. Foster." Miles caught the derision in Homo-
soto's voice and didn't appreciate it one little bit.

"Listen. My affairs are my affairs. I am grateful for the
services, but I do like to keep my personal life just that. Per-
sonal." Miles was polite, but firm. Homosoto nodded in under-
standing.

"Of course, Mr. Foster, I understand completely. It is merely
for the sake of the young woman that I mention it. There is no
offense intended. It is shall we say . . .a cultural
difference?"

Miles didn't believe in the cultural difference to which he
referred, but he didn't press the point. He merely nodded that
the subject was closed. A pregnant pause followed before Homo-
soto interrupted the silence.

"So, Mr. Foster. I really did not expect to see you for another
few weeks. I must assume that you have made some progress in
planning our future endeavors." Homosoto wore a smile that
belied little of his true thoughts.

"You bet your ass, I did." Homosoto winced at the colorful
language. It was Miles' way of maintaining some control over the
situation. His dimples recessed even further as he enjoyed
watching Homosoto's reaction. "It turned out to be simpler than
even I had thought."

"Would you be so kind as to elaborate?"

"Gotcha." Miles opened his briefcase and brought out a sheath of
papers with charts and scribbles all over them. "Basically the
technology is pretty simple. Here are the fundamental systems to
use in the attack, there are only four of them. After all,
there are no defenses, so that's not a problem."

"Problem?" Homosoto raised his eyes.

"Ok, not problem. As you can see here, putting the technical
pieces together is not the issue. The real issue is creating an
effective deployment of the tools we create." Miles was matter
of fact and for the first time Homosoto saw Miles as the itiner-
ant professional he was capable of being. The challenge. Just as
Miles promised earlier, 'give me a challenge, the new, the undone
and I will be the best.' Miles was shining in his own excel-
lence, and his ego was gone, totally gone. His expertise took
over.

"I have labeled various groups that we will need to pull this
off."

"Pull off? Excuse me . . ."

"Oh, sorry. Make it work? Have it happen?"

"Ah yes, So sorry."

"Not at all." Miles looked at Homosoto carefully. Was there a
mutual respect actually developing?

"As I said, we will have to have several groups who don't even
know about each other's existence. At NSA we call it contain-
ment, or need to know."

Homosoto cursorily examined the printouts on the table in front
of him, but preferred to address Miles' comments. "Could you
explain, please? I don't see how one can build a car if you
don't know what it's going to look like when you're done. You
suggest that each person or group functions without the knowledge
of the others? How can this be efficient?"

Miles smiled. For the first time he felt a bit of compassion for
Homosoto, as one would feel for the naive child asking why 1 plus
1 equals 2. Homosoto was used to the Japanese work ethic:
Here's a beautiful picture of a car, and all 50,000 of us are
going to build it; you 5,000 build the engines, you 5,000 build
the body and so on. After a couple of years we'll have built a
fabulous automobile that we have all shared as a common vision.

Homosoto had no idea of how to wage a war, although he apparently
afford it. Miles realized he could be in control after all, if he
only sold Homosoto on his abilities, and he was well on the way.

"You see, Mr. Homosoto, what we are trying to do requires that no
one, except a few key people like you and I, understand what is
going on. As we said in World War II, loose lips sink ships."
Homosoto immediately bristled at the mention of the war. Miles
hardly noticed as he continued. "The point is, as I have it laid
out here, only a handful of people need to know what we are
trying to achieve. All of the rest have clearly defined duties
that they are expected to perform as we ask. Each effectively
works in a vacuum. Efficient, not exactly. Secure, yes. I
imagine you would like to keep this operation as secret as possi-
ble."

Homosoto took immediate notice and bolted his response. "Hai! Of
course, secrecy is important, but how can we be sure of compli-
ance by our . . .associates?"

"Let me continue." Miles referred back to the papers in front of
him. "The first group is called the readers, the second will be
dedicated to research and development." Homosoto smiled at the
R&D reference. He could understand that. "Then there will be a
public relations group, a communications group, a software compa-
ny will be needed, another group I call the Mosquitoes and a
little manufacturing which I assume you can handle." Miles
looked for Homosoto's reaction.

"Manufacturing, very easy. I don't fully understand the others,
but I am most impressed with your outline. You mentioned prob-
lem. Can you explain?" Homosoto had become a different person.
One who showed adolescent enthusiasm. He moved to the edge of
his seat.

"As with any well designed plan," Miles boasted, "there are
certain situations that need to be addressed. In this case, I
see several." Miles was trying to hook Homosoto onto the prover-
bial deck.

"I asked for problem." Homosoto insisted.

"To properly effect this plan we will need two things that may
make it impossible."

Homosoto met the challenge. "What do you need?"

Miles liked the sound of it. You. What do _you_ need. "This
operation could cost as much as $50 million. Is that a problem?"

Homosoto looked squarely at Miles. "No problem. What is the
second thing you need?"

"We will need an army. Not an army with guns, but a lot of
people who will follow orders. That may be more important than
the money."

Homosoto took a momentary repose while he thought. "How big an
army will you need?"

"My guess? Today? I would say that for all groups we will need
a minimum of 500 people. Maybe as many as a thousand."

Homosoto suddenly laughed out loud. "You call that an army?
1000 men? An army? That is a picnic my friend." Homosoto was
enjoying his own personal joke. "When you said army, Mr. Foster
I imagined tens of thousands of people running all around the
United States shooting their guns. A thousand people? I can give
you a thousand dedicated people with a single phone call. Is
that all you need?" He continued his laughter.

Miles was taken aback and had difficulty hiding his surprise. He
had already padded his needs by a factor of three. "With a few
minor specialties and exceptions, yes. That's it. If we follow
this blue print." He pointed at the papers spread before them.

Homosoto sat back and closed his eyes in apparent meditation.
Miles watched and waited for several minutes. He looked out the
expanse of windows over Tokyo patiently as Homosoto seemed to
sleep in the chair across from him. Homosoto spoke quietly with
his eyes still closed.

"Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" Miles was ready.

"Do you love you country?" Homosoto's eyelids were still.

Miles had not expected such a question.

"Mr. Foster? Did you hear the question?"

"Yes, I did." He paused. "I'm thinking."

"If you need to think, sir, then the answer is clear. As you
have told me, you hold no allegiance. Your country means nothing
to you."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way . . ." Miles said defensively.
He couldn't let this opportunity escape.

"You hold your personal comfort as your primary concern, do you
not? You want the luxuries that the United States offers, but
you don't care where or how you get them? Is that not so? You
want your women, your wine, your freedom, but you will take it at
any expense. I do not think I exaggerate. Tell me Mr. Foster,
if I am wrong."

Miles realized he was being asked to state his personal alle-
giances in mere seconds. Not since he was in the lower floors of
the NSA being interrogated had he been asked to state his convic-
tions. He knew the right answer there, but here, he wasn't quite
sure. The wrong answer could blow it. But, then again, he was
$110,000 ahead of the game for a few weeks work.

"I need to ask you a question to answer yours." Miles did not
want to be backed into a corner. "Mr. Homosoto. Do you want me
to have allegiance to my country or to you?"

Homosoto was pleased. "You debate well, young man. It is not so
much that I care if you love America. I want, I need to know what
you do love. You see, for me, I love Japan and my family. But
much of my family was taken from me in one terrible instant, a
long time ago. They are gone, but now I have my wife, my chil-
dren and their children. I learned, that if there is nothing
else, you must have family. That must come first, Mr. Foster.
Under all conditions, family is first. All else is last. So my
allegiance shifted, away from country, to my family and my be-
liefs. I don't always agree with my government, and there are
times I will defy their will. I can assure you, that if we embark
upon this route, neither I nor you will endear ourselves to our
respective governments. Does that matter to you?"

Miles snickered. "Matter? After what they did to me? Let me
tell you something. I gave my country most of my adult life. I
could have gone to work with my family . . .my associates . . ."

"I am aware of your background Mr. Foster," Homosoto interrupted.

"I'm sure you are. But that's neither here nor there. I could
have been on easy street. Plug a few numbers and make some bucks
for the clan." The colloquialism escaped Homosoto, but he got
the gist of it. "But I said to myself, 'hey, you're good.
Fixing roulette wheels is beneath you.' I needed, I still need
the diversion, the challenge, so I figured that the Feds would
give me the edge I needed to make something of myself." Miles
was turning red around his neck.

"The NSA had the gear, the toys for me to play with, and they
promised me the world. Create, they said, lead America's tech-
nology into the 21st. century. What a pile of shit. Working at
the NSA is like running for President. You're always trying to
sell yourself, your ideas. They don't give a shit about how good
your ideas are. All they care is that you're asshole buddies
with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need a
half dozen committees with their asses greased from here to
eternity for them to say maybe. Do you know the difference
between ass kissing and having your head up your ass?"

"If I understand your crudities, I assume this is an American
joke, then, no Mr. Foster, I do not know the difference."

"Depth perception." Miles looked for a reaction to his anatomi-
cal doublette. There was none other than Homosoto's benign smile
indicating no comprehension. "OK, never mind, I'll save it. At
any rate, enough was enough. I gotta do something with my life."
Miles had said his piece.

"In other words, money is your motivation?"

"Money doesn't hurt, sure. But, I need to do what I believe.
Not that that means hurting my country, but if they don't listen
to what makes sense, maybe it's best that they meet their worst
enemy to get them off of their keesters." Miles was on a roll.

"Keesters?" Homosoto's naivete was amusing.

"Oops!" Miles exclaimed comically. "Butts, asses, fannies?" He
patted his own which finally communicated the intention.

"Ah yes." Homosoto agreed. "So you feel you could best serve
your country by attacking it?"

Miles only thought for a few seconds. "I guess you could put it
that way. Sure."

"Mr. Foster, or should I say General Foster?" Miles beamed at
the reference. "We shall march to success."

"Mr. Homosoto," Miles broke the pagential silence. "I would like
to ask you the same question. Why?"

"I was wondering when you were going to ask me that Mr. Foster,"
Homosoto said with his grin intact. "Because, Mr. Foster, I am
returning the favor."

****************************************************************

Chapter 9

September, 1982
South East Iraq

Ahmed Shah lay in a pool of his own blood along with pieces of
what was once another human being.

The pain was intolerable. His mind exploded as the nerve endings
from the remains of his arms and legs shot liquid fire into his
cerebral cortex. His mind screamed in sheer agony while he
struggled to stay conscious. He wasn't sure why, but he had to
stay awake . . .can't pass out . . .sleep, blessed
sleep . . .release me from the pain . . .Allah! Oh take me
Allah . . .I shall be a martyr fighting for your holy
cause . . .in your name . . . for the love of Islam . . .for the
Ayatollah . . .take me into your arms and let me live for eter-
nity in your shadow . . .

The battle for Abadan, a disputed piece of territory that was a
hub for Persian Gulf oil distribution had lasted days. Both Iran
and Iraq threw waves of human fodder at each other in what was
referred to in the world press as " . . .auto-genocide . . ."
Neither side reacted to the monumental casualties that they
sustained. The lines of reinforcements were steady. The dead
bodies were thick on the battlefield; there was no time to col-
lect them and provide a proper burial. New troops had as much
difficulty wading through the obstacle courses made of human
corpses as staying alive.

Public estimates were that the war had already cost over
1,000,000 lives for the adversaries. Both governments disputed
the figures. The two agreed only 250,000 had died. The extrem-
ist leaders of both countries believed that the lower casualty
numbers would mollify world opinion. It accomplished the exact
opposite. Criticism was rampant, in the world courts and the
press. Children were going to battle. Or more appropriately,
children were marching in the front lines, often without weapons
or shoes, and used as cover for the advancing armed infantrymen
behind them. The children were disposable receptacles for enemy
bullets. The supreme sacrifice would permit the dead pre-adoles-
cents the honor of martyrdom and an eternal place with Allah.

Mothers wailed and beat their breasts in the streets of Teheran
as word arrived of loved ones and friends who died in Allah's war
against the Iraqi infidels. Many were professional mourners who
were hired by others to represent families to make them look
bigger and more Holy. Expert wailing and flagellation came at a
price. The bulk of the civilized world, even Brezhnev's evil
Soviet empire denounced the use of unarmed children for cannon
fodder.

The war between Iran and Iraq was to continue, despite pleas from
humanity, for another 6 years.

Ahmed Shah was a 19 year old engineering student at the exclu-
sive Teheran University when the War started. He was reared as a
dedicated Muslim by wealthy parents. Somehow his parents had
escaped the Ayatollah's scourge after the fall of the Shah. Ahmed
was never told the real reason, but a distribution of holy rials
certainly helped. They were permitted to keep their beautiful
home in the suburbs of Teheran and Ahmed's father kept his pro-
fessorship at Teheran University. Ahmed was taught by his family
that the Shah's downfall was the only acceptable response to the
loss of faith under his regime.

"The Shah is a puppet of the Americans. Ptooh!" His father
would spit. "The Yanqis come over here, tell us to change our
culture and our beliefs so we can make them money from our oil!"
For a professor he was outspoken, but viewed as mainstream by the
extremist camps. Ahmed learned well. For the most part of his
life all Ahmed knew was the Ayatollah Khomeini as his country's
spiritual leader. News and opinion from the West was virtually
nonexistent so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated to
his country and his religion.

When the War began he thought about enlisting immediately, but
the University counselors convinced him otherwise.

"Ahmed Shah, you are bright and can offer Iran great gifts after
you complete your studies. Why not wait, the War will not be
forever, and then you can serve Allah with your mind, not your
body."

Ahmed took the advice for his first year at the a university
student, but guilt overwhelmed him when he learned about how
many other young people were dying in the cause. From his par-
ents he would hear of childhood friends who had been killed.
Teheran University students and graduates were honored daily in
the Mosque on campus. The names were copied and distributed
throughout the schools. True martyrs. Ahmed's guilt compounded
as the months passed and so many died. He had been too young to
participate in the occupation of the American Embassy. How jeal-
ous he was.

Why should I wait to serve Allah? He mused. Today I can be of
service, where he needs me, but if I stay and study, I will not
be able to bid his Will for years. And what if Iraq wins? There
would be no more studies anyway. Ahmed anguished for weeks over
how he could best serve Iran, his Ayatollah and Allah.

After his freshman finals, on which he excelled, he joined the
Irani Army. Within 60 days he was sent to the front lines as a
communications officer.

They had been in the field 3 days, and Ahmed had only gotten to
know a few of the 60 men in his company when the mortars came in
right on top of them. The open desert offers little camouflage
so the soldiers built fox holes behind the larger sand dunes.
They innaccurately thought they were hidden from view. More than
half the company died instantly. Pieces of bodies were strewn
across the sandy tented bivouac.

Another 20 were dying within 50 yards of where Ahmed writhed in
agony. Ahmed regained consciousness. Was it 5 minutes or 5 hours
later. He had no way of knowing. The left lower arm where he
wore his wristwatch was gone. A pulpy stump. As were his legs.
Mutilated . . .the highest form of insult and degradation. Oh,
Allah, I have served you, let me die and come to you now. Let me
suffer no more.

Suddenly his attention was grabbed by the sound of a jeep cough-
ing its way to a stop. He heard voices.

"This one's still alive." Then a shot rang out. "So's this
one." Another shot. A few muted voices from the dying protested
and asked for mercy. "Ha! I give Mercy to a dog before you." A
scream and 2 shots. They were Iraqi! Killing off the wounded.
Pigs! Infidels! Mother Whores!

"You, foreskin of a camel! Your mother lies with dogs!" Ahmed
screamed at the soldiers. It brought two results. One, it kept
him a little more alert and less aware of his pain, and two, it
attracted the attention of the two soldiers from the jeep.

"Ola! Who insults the memory of my mother who sits with Allah?
Who?" One soldier spun around and tried to imagine which one of
the pieces of bodies that surrounded him still had enough life to
speak. He scanned the sand nearby. Open eyes were not a sure
sign of life nor was the presence of four limbs. There needed to
be a head.

"Over here camel dung. Hussein fucks animals who give birth to
the likes of you." Ahmed's viciousness was the only facial
feature that gave away he was alive. The soldiers saw their
tormentor.

"Prepare to meet with your Allah, now," as one soldier took aim
at Ahmed's head.

"Go ahead! Shoot, pig shit. I welcome death so I won't have to
see your filth . . ." Ahmed defied the soldier and the automatic
rifle aimed at him.

The other soldier intervened. "No, don't kill him. That's too
easy and we would be honoring his last earthly request. No, this
one doesn't beg for mercy. At least he's a man. Let's just make
him suffer." The second soldier raised his gun and pointed at
the junction of Ahmed's two stumps for legs. Two point blank
range shots shattered the three components of his genitals.
Ahmed let out a scream so primal, so anguished, so penetrating
that the soldiers bolted to escape the sounds of death. The
scream continued, briefly interrupted by a pair of shots that
caught the two soldiers square in the middle of the back as they
ran. They dropped onto the hot desert sand with matched thuds.

Ahmed didn't hear the shots over the sounds coming from his
larynx. He didn't hear anything after that for a very long time.

Unfortunately for Ahmed Shah, he survived.

He woke up, or more accurately, regained semi-consciousness more
than a week after he was picked up at the site of the mortar
attack. He was wired up to tubes and machines in an obviously
well equipped hospital. He thought, I must be back in Teher-
an . . .then fog . . .a blur . . .a needle . . .feel
nothing . . .stay awake . . .move lips . . .talk . . .

"Doctor, the patient was awake." The nurse spoke to the physician
who was writing on Ahmed's medical chart.

"He'll wish he wasn't. Let him go. Let him sleep. Hell hasn't
begun for him yet." The Doctor moved onto the chart on the next
bed in ward.

Over the next few days while grasping at consciousness, and with
the caring attention of the nurses, Ahmed pieced together the
strands of a story . . .what happened to him.

The Iraqis were killing the wounded, desperate in their attempts
to survive the onslaught of Irani children. All must die, take
no prisoners were their marching orders. In the Iraqi Army you
either did exactly as you were told, with absolute obedience, or
you were shot on sight as a traitor. Some choice. We lost at
Abadan, the Iraqi's thought, but there will be more battles to
win.

Ahmed was the only survivor from his company, and there was no
earthly reason that could explain why he lived. He was more dead
than alive. His blood coagulated well in the hot desert sun,
otherwise the blood loss alone would have killed him. The medics
found many of his missing pieces and packed them up for their
trip to the hospital, but the doctors were unable to re-attach
anything of significance.

He was a eunuch. With no legs and only one good arm.

Weeks of wishing himself dead proved to be the source of rest
that contributed to his recovery. Was he man? Was he woman? Was
he, God forbid, neither? Why had he not just died along with the
others, why was he spared! Spared, ha! If I had truly been
spared I would be living with Allah! This is not being spared.
This is living hell and someone will pay. He cried to his par-
ents about his torment and his mother wailed and beat her breast.
His father listened to the anger, the hate and the growing
strength within his son's being. Hate could be the answer that
would make his son, his only son, whole again. Whole in spirit
at least.

The debates within Ahmed's mind developed into long philosophical
arguments about right, wrong, revenge, avenge, purpose, cause
and reason. He would take both sides of an issue, and see if he
could beat himself with his alter rationales. The frustration at
knowing one's opponents' thoughts when developing your own coun-
ter argument made him angry, too. He finally started arguing
with other patients. He would take any position, on any issue
and debate all night. Argumentative, contrary, but recovering
completely described the patient.

Over the months his strength returned and he appeared to come to
grips with his infirmaries. As much as anyone can come to terms
with such physical mutilations. He covered his facial wounds
with a full black beard that melded into his full short cropped
kinky hair.

Ahmed graduated from Teheran University in 1984 with a cruel
hatred for anything Anti-Islam. One major target of his hatred
was President Reagan, the cowboy president, the Teflon president,
the evil Anti-Muslim Zionist loving American president. Of
course there was plenty of room to hate others, but Reagan was so
easy to hate, so easy to blame, and rarely was there any disa-
greement.

He thought of grand strategies to strike back at the America.
After all, didn't they support the Iraqis? And the Iraqis did
this to him. It wasn't the soldiers' fault. They were just
following orders: Do or Die. Any rational person would have done
the same thing. He understood that. So he blamed Reagan, not
Hussein. And he blamed the American people for their stupidity,
their isolationism, their indifference to the rest of the world.
They are all so smug and caught up in their own little petty
lives, and there are causes, people are dying for causes, and the
American fools don't even care. And Reagan personified them
all.

How does a lousy movie actor from the 1950's get to be President
of the United States? Ahmed laughed to himself at the obvious
answer. He was the most qualified for the job.

His commentaries and orations about the Imperialists, the United
States, England, even the Soviet Union and their overwhelming
influence in the Arab world made Ahmed Shah a popular man on the
campus of Teheran University. His highly visible infirmities
assisted with his credibility.

In his sixth semester of study, Ahmed's counselor called him for
a conference. Beside his counselor was another man, Beni Farja-
ni, from the government. Beni was garbed in Arab robes and tur-
bans that always look filthy. Still, he was the officious type,
formal and somber. His long white hair snuck through the turban,
and his face shoed ample wrinkles of wisdom.

He and the Counselor sat alone, on one side of a large wooden
conference table that could easily have seated 20. Ahmed
stopped his motorized wheel chair at the table, Farjani spoke,
and curiously, the Counselor rose from his chair and slipped out
of the room. Ahmed and the Government official were alone.

"My name is Beni Farjani, Associate Director to the Undersecre-
tary of Communications and Propaganda. I trust you are well."

Ahmed long since gave up commenting on his well being or lack
thereof. "It is good to meet you, sir." He waited for more.

"Ahmed Shah, you are important to the state and the people of
Iran." Farjani said it as though his comment was already common
knowledge. "What I am here to ask you, Ahmed Shah, is, are you
willing again to serve Allah?"

"Yes, of course . . .?" He bowed his head in reverence.

"Good, because we think that you might be able to assist on a
small project we have been contemplating. My son, you have the
gift of oration, speaking, moving crowds to purpose. I only
wish I had it!" Beni Farjani smiled solemnly at Ahmed.

"I thank Allah for His gift. I am only the humble conduit for
his Will."

"I understand, but you have now, and will have much to proud of.
I believe you graduate in 6 months. Is that correct?"

"Yes, and then I go to Graduate School . . ."

"I am afraid that won't be possible Ahmed Shah." Farjani shook a
kindly wrinkled finger at him. "As soon as you graduate, your
Government, at Allah's bidding, would like you to move to the
United States."

"America?" Ahmed gaped in surprise.

"We fear that America may invade Iran, that we may go to war with
the United States." The words stunned Ahmed. Could he be
serious? Sure, relations were in pretty bad shape, but was
Farjani saying that Iran was truly preparing for War? Jihad?
Holy War against the United States?

"We need to protect ourselves," Farjani spoke calmly, with au-
thority. "America has weapons of mass destruction that can reach
our land in minutes, while we have nothing to offer in retalia-
tion. Nothing, and that is a very frightening reality that the
people of Iran must live with every day. A truly helpless feel-
ing." Ahmed was listening carefully, and so far what he heard
was making a great deal of sense.

"Both the Soviets and the Americans can destroy each other and
the rest of the world with a button. Their armies will never
meet. A few missiles and it's all over. A 30 minute grand
finale to civilization. They don't have to, nor would we expect
either the Soviets or the Americans to ask the rest of the world
if they mind. They just go ahead and pull the trigger and every-
one else be damned.

"And yes, there have been better times when our nation has had
more friends, when all Arabs thought and acted as one; especially
against the Americans. They have the most to gain and the most
to lose from invading and crossing our borders. They would love
nothing more than to steal our land, our oil and even take over
OPEC. All in the name of world stability. They'll throw around
National Security smoke screens and do what they want." Farjani
was speaking quite excitedly.

Ahmed was fascinated. A man from the Government who was nearly
as vitriolic as he was about America. The only difference was
Ahmed wanted to attack, and Farjani wanted to defend. He didn't
think it opportune to interrupt. Farjani continued.

"The Russians want us as a warm water port. They have enough
oil, gas and resources, but they crave a port that isn't con-
trolled by the Americans such as in the Black Sea and through the
Hellespont. So they too, are a potential enemy. You see don't
you, Ahmed, that Allah has so graced our country everyone else
wants to take it away from us?" Ahmed nodded automatically.

"So we need to create a defense against outside aggressors. We
do not have weapons that can reach American shores, that is so.
But we have something that the Americans will never have, because
they will never understand. Do you know what that is?"

Before Ahmed could answer, Farjani continued.

"Honor and Faith to protect our heritage, our systems, our way
of life." Ahmed agreed.

"We want you, Ahmed Shah to build a network of supporters, just
like you, all across the United States that will come to our
service when we need them. To the death. Your skills will
capture the attention of those with kindred sentiments. You will
draw them out, from the schools, from the universities.

"Ahmed Shah, there are over 100,000 Irani and Arab students in
the United States today. Many, many of them are sympathetic to
our causes. Many of them are attending American Universities,
side by side with their future enemies, learning the American
way so we may better fight it. You will become one of them and
you will find others that can be trusted, counted on, depended
upon when we call.

"Your obvious dedication and personal tragedies," Farjani pointed
at the obvious affliction, "will be the glue to provide others
with strength. You will have no problems in recruiting. That
will be the easy part."

"If recruiting is so easy, then what will be the hard task?"

"Holding them back. You will find it most difficult to restrain
your private army from striking. Right under the American's
noses, you will have to keep them from bursting at the seams
until the day comes when they are needed. If could be weeks, it
could be years. We don't know. Maybe the day will never come.
But it is your job to build this Army. Grow it, feed it and
keep our national spirit alive until such time that it becomes
necessary to defend our nation, Allah and loyal Muslims every-
where. This time, though, we will fight America from within,
inside her borders.

"There hasn't been a foreign war on American soil since 1812.
Americans don't know what is like to have their country ruined,
ravaged, blown up before their eyes. We need a defense against
America, and when it is deeded by Allah, our army will strike
back at America where is hurts most. In the streets of their
cities. In their homes, parks and schools. But first we must
have that army. In place, and willing to act.

"You will find out all the details in good time, I assure you.
You will require some training, though, and that will begin
shortly. Everything you need to serve will be given you. Go with
Allah.

Ahmed trained for several months with the infamous terrorist
group Abu Nidal. He learned the basics that every modern terror-
ist needs to know to insure success against the Infidels.

Shah moved to New York City on December 25, 1986. Christmas was
a non issue. He registered at Columbia as a graduate researcher
in the engineering department to legitimize his student visa and
would commence classes on January 2.

Recruitment was easy, just as Farjani had said.

Ahmed built a team of 12 recruiters whom he could trust with his
life. Seven professional terrorists, unknown to the American
authorities, thoroughly sanitized, came with him to the United
States under assumed visas and the other 5, already in the
country were personally recommended by Farjani.

His disciples were located in strategic locations; New York was
host to Ahmed and another Arab fanatic trained in Libya. They
both used Columbia University as their cover. Washington D.C.
was honored with a Syrian terrorist who had organized mass anti-
US demonstrations in Damascus as the request of President Assad.
Los Angeles and San Francisco were homes to 4 more engineering
type desert terrorist school graduates who were allowed to move
freely and interact with the shakers and movers in high technolo-
gy disciplines. Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, Boston, and Dallas were
also used as recruitment centers for developing Ahmed's personal
army.

If the media had been aware of the group's activities they would
have made note that Ahmed's inner circle were very highly skilled
not only in the use of C4 and Cemex, the Czechoslovakian plastic
explosive that was responsible for countless deaths of innocent
bystanders, but that were all very well educated. Each spoke
English like a native, fluent in colloquialisms and idioms unique
to America.

Much of his army had skills which enabled them to acquire posi-
tions of importance within engineering departments of companies
such as IBM, Apple, Hughes Defense Systems, Chase Manhattan,
Prudential Life, Martin Marietta, Westinghouse, Compuserve, MCI
and hundreds of similar organizations. Every one of their em-
ployers would have attested to their skills, honor and loyalty to
their adapted country. Ahmed's group was well versed in decep-
tion. After all, they answered to a greater cause.

What even a seasoned reporter might not find out though, was that
all 12 of Ahmed's elite recruiters had to pass a supreme test
often required by international political terrorist organiza-
tions. To guarantee their loyalty to the cause, whatever that
cause might be, and to weed out potential external infiltrators,
each member had to have killed at least one member of their
immediate family.

It requires extraordinary hardening, to say the least, to kill
your mother or father. Or to blow up the school bus that carried
your pre-teen sister to school. Or engage your brother in a mock
fight and then sever his head from his body. The savagery that
permitted one access into this elite circle is beyond the compre-
hension of most Western minds. Yet such acts were expected to
demonstrate one's loyalty to a supreme purpose or belief.

The events surrounding Solman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses were
a case in point. Each of those who volunteered to assassinate
him at the bequest of the Ayatollah Khomeini had in fact already
killed not only innocent women and children in order to reach
their assigned terrorist targets, but had brought the head of
their family victim to the table of their superiors. A deed for
which they were honored and revered.

These were the men, all of them men, who pledged allegiance to
Ahmed Shah and the unknown, undefined assignments they would in
the future be asked to complete. To the death if necessary, and
without fear. These men were reminiscent of the infamous moles
that Stalin's Soviet Empire had placed throughout the United
Kingdom and the United States in the 1930's to be awakened at
some future date to carry out strikes against the enemy from
within. The only difference with Ahmed's men was that they were
trained to die, not to survive. And unlike their Mole counter-
parts, they were awake the entire time, focused on their mission.
Clearly it was only a matter of time before they would be asked
to follow orders with blind obedience. Their only reward was a
place in the Muslim heaven.

Meanwhile, while awaiting sainthood, their task was to find
others with similar inclinations, or those who could be corralled
into their system of beliefs. It was unrealistic, they knew, to
expect to find an entire army of sympathizers who would fight to
the death or perform suicide missions in the name of Allah. But
they found it was very easy to find many men, never women, who
would follow orders and perform the tasks of an underground
infantryman.

The mass influx of Arabs into the United States was another great
mistake of the Reagan '80's as it opened its doors to a future
enemy. The immigration policy of the U.S. was the most open in
the entire world. So, the Government allowed the entry of some
of the world's most dangerous people into the country, and then
gave them total freedom, with its associated anonymity. Such
things could never happen at home, Ahmed thought. We love our
land too much to permit our enemies on our soil. It is so much
easier to dispose of them before they can cause damage.

So the thinking went, and Ahmed and his cadre platooned them-
selves often, in any of the thousands of American resort complex-
es, unnoticed, to gauge the progress of their assignments.

By early 1988, Ahmed's army consisted of nearly 1000 fanatic
Muslims who would swallow a live grenade if the deed guaranteed
their place in martyrdom. And another several thousand who could
be led into battle under the right conditions. And more came and
joined as the ridiculous immigration policies continued un-
checked.

They were students, businessmen, flight attendants who were now
in the United States for prolonged periods of time. All walks of
life were included in his Army. Some were technicians or book-
keepers, delivery men, engineers, doctors; most disciplines were
represented. Since Ahmed had no idea when, if ever, he and his
army would be needed, nor for what purpose, recruiting a wide
range of talents would provide Allah with the best odds if they
were ever needed. They were all men. Not one woman in this man's
army, Ahmed thought.

The biggest problem, just as Farjani had predicted, was the
growing sense of unrest among the troops. The inner 12 had been
professionally trained to be patient. Wait for the right moment
to strike. Wait for orders. Do nothing. Do not disclose your
alliances or your allegiances to anyone. No one can be trusted.
Except your recruiter. Lead a normal life. Act like any Ameri-
can immigrant who flourishes in his new home. Do not, at all
costs, give yourself away. That much was crucial.

Periodically, the inner 12 would assign mundane, meaningless
tasks to various of their respective recruits. Americans called
it busy work. But, it kept interest alive, the belief in the
eventual victory of the Arab Nation against the American mon-
grels. It kept the life in their organization flowing, not
dulled by the prolonged waiting for the ultimate call: Jihad, a
holy war against America, waged from inside its own unprotected
borders. It was their raison d'<130>tre. The underlying gestalt
for their very existence.

* * * * *

February 6, 1988
New York City

"It is time." Ahmed could not believe the words - music to his
ears. It was not a long distance call; too clear. It had to be
local. The caller spoke in Ahmed's native tongue and conveyed an
excitement that immediately consumed him. He sat in his wheel-
chair at a computer terminal in an engineering lab at Columbia
University's Broadway campus. While he had hoped this day would
come, he also knew that politicians, even Iran's, promised a
glory that often was buried in diplomacy rather than action.
Praise be Allah.

"We are ready. Always for Allah." Ahmed was nearly breathless
with anticipation. His mind wandered. Were we at war? No, of
course not. The spineless United States would never have the
strength nor will to wage war against a United Arab State.

"That is good. For Allah." The caller agreed with Ahmed. "But
it is not the war you expect."

Ahmed was taken aback. He had not known what to expect, exactly,
but, over the months he had conjured many scenarios of how his
troops would be used to perform Allah's Will. His mind reeled.
"For whom do you speak?" Ahmed asked pointedly. There was a hint
of distrust in the question.

"Farjani said you would ask. He said, 'there hasn't been a war
on U.S. soil since 1812'. He said you would understand."

Ahmed understood. Only someone that was privy to their conversa-
tions would have known that. His heart quickened with anticipa-
tion. "Yes, I understand. With whom do I speak?" Ahmed asked
reverently.

"My name is of no consequence. I am only a humble servant of
Allah with a message. You are to follow instructions exactly,
without reservation."

"Of course. I, too, am but a servant of God. What are my in-
structions?" Ahmed felt like standing at parade attention if
only he had legs.

"This will not be our war. It will be another's. But our pur-
poses are the same. You will act as his army, and are to follow
his every request. As if Allah came to you and so ordered him-
self."

Ahmed beamed. He glowed with perspiration. Finally. The chance
to act. He would and his army would perform admirably. He lis-
tened carefully as the anonymous caller gave him his instruc-
tions. He noted the details as disbelief sank in. This is
Jihad? Yes, this is Jihad. You are expected to comply. I am
clear, but are you sure? Yes, I am sure. Then I will follow
orders. As ordered. Will we speak again? No, this is your task,
your destiny. The Arab Nation calls upon you now. Do you an-
swer? Yes, I answer. I will perform. We, our army will perform.

"Insha'allah."

"Yes, God willing."

Ahmed Shah put his teaching schedule on hold by asking for and
receiving an immediate sabbatical. He then booked and took a
flight to Tokyo three days later.

"I need an army, and I am told you can provide such services for
me. Is that so?" Homosoto asked Ahmed Shah though he already
knew the answer.

Ahmed Shah and Taki Homosoto were meeting in a private palace in
the outskirts of Tokyo. Ahmed wasn't quite sure to whom it
belonged, but he was following orders and in no way felt in
danger. The grounds were impeccable, a Japanese Versailles. The
weather was cool, but not uncomfortably so. Both men sat under
an arbor that would be graced with cherry blossoms in a few
months. Each carried an air of confidence, an assurity not meant
as arrogance, but rather as an assertion of control, power over
their respective empires.

"How large is you army?" Homosoto knew the answer, but asked
anyway.

"One thousand to the death. Three thousand to extreme pain,
another ten thousand functionaries." Ahmed Shah said with pride.

Homosoto laughed a convivial Japanese laugh, and lightly slapped
his knees. "Ah, comrade. To the death, so familiar, that is why
you are here, but, I hope that will not be necessary. You see,
this war will be one without bullets." Homosoto said waiting for
the volatile Arab's reaction.

This was exactly what Ahmed feared. A spineless war. How could
one afford to wage a war against America and not expect, indeed,
plan for, the death of some troops. There was no Arab transla-
tion for pussy-wimp, but the thought was there.

"How may I be of service?"

"The task is simple. I have need of information, much informa-
tion that will be of extreme embarrassment to the United States.
Their Government operates illegally, their companies control the
country with virtual impunity from law. It is time that they are
tried for their crimes." Homosoto tailored his words so that his
guest would acquire an enthusiasm similar to his.

"Yes," Ahmed agreed. "They need to learn a lesson. But, Mr.
Homosoto, how can that be done without weapons? I assume you
want to attack their planes, their businesses, Washington per-
haps?" Ahmed was hopeful for the opportunity to give his loyal
troops the action they desired.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, my friend. We shall strike where
they least expect it, and in a way in which they are totally
unprepared." Homosoto softened his speech to further his pitch
to gain Ahmed Shah's trust and unity. "I am well aware of the
types of training that you and your people have gone through.
However, you must be aware, that Japan is the most technically
advanced country in the world, and that we can accomplish things
is a less violent manner, yet still achieve the same goals. We
shall be much more subtle. I assume you have been informed of
that by your superiors." Homosoto waited for Ahmed's response.

"As you say, we have been trained to expect, even welcome death
in the struggle against our adversaries. Yet I recognize that a
joint effort may be more fruitful for all of us. It may be a
disappointment to some of my people that they will not be permit-
ted the honor of martyrdom, but they are expected to follow
orders. If they do not comply, they will die without the honor
they crave. They will perform as ordered."

"Excellent. That is as I hoped." Homosoto beamed at the de-
veloping understanding. "Let me explain. My people will provide
you with the weapons of this new war, a type of war never before
fought. These are technological weapons that do not kill the
enemy. Better, they expose him for what he is. It will be up to
your army to use these weapons and allow us to launch later
attacks against the Americans.

"There are to be no independent actions or activities. None
without my and your direction and approval. Can you abide by
these conditions?"

"At the request of my Government and Allah, I will be happy to
serve you in your war. Both our goals will be met." Ahmed
glowed at the opportunity to finally let his people do something
after so much waiting.

Homosoto arose and stood over Ahmed. "We will make a valuable
alliance. To the destruction of America." He held his water
glass to Ahmed.

Ahmed responded by raising his glass. "To Allah, and the cause!"

They both drank deeply from the Perrier. Homosoto had one more
question.

"If one or more off your men get caught, will they talk?"

"They will not talk."

"How can you be so sure?" Homosoto inquired naively.

"Because, if they are caught, they will be dead."

"An excellent solution."

****************************************************************

Chapter 10

Tuesday, October 13
New York

COMPUTER ASSAULT CLAIMS VICTIMS
by Scott Mason

For the last few weeks the general press and computer media have
been foretelling the destruction to be caused by this year's
version of the dreaded Columbus Day Virus. AKA Data Crime, the
virus began exploding yesterday and will continue today, depend-
ing upon which version strikes your computer.

With all of the folderall by the TV networks and news channels,
and the reports of anticipated doom for many computers, I expect-
ed to wake up this morning and learn that this paper didn't get
printed, my train from the suburbs was rerouted to Calcutta and
Manhattan's traffic lights were out of order. No such luck.
America is up and running.

That doesn't mean that no one got struck by computer influenza,
though. There are hundreds of reports of widespread damage to
microcomputers everywhere.

The Bala Cynwyd, PA medical center lost several weeks of records.
Credit Card International was struck in Madrid, Spain and can't
figure out which customers bought what from whom. A few schools
in England don't know who their students are, and a University in
upstate New York won't be holding computer classes for a while.

William Murray of the Institute for Public Computing Confidence
in Washington, D.C., downplayed the incident. "We have had re-
ports of several small outbreaks, but we have not heard of any
particularly devastating incidents. It seems that only a few
isolated sites were affected."

On the other hand, Bethan Fenster from Virus Stoppers in McLean,
Virginia, maintains that the virus damage was much more wide-
spread. She says the outbreaks are worse than reported in the
press. "I personally know of several Fortune 100 companies that
will be spending the next several weeks putting their systems
back in order. Some financial institutions have been nearly shut
down because their computers are inoperable. It's the worst
(computer) virus outbreak I've ever seen."

Very few companies would confirm that they had been affected by
the Columbus Day Virus. "They won't talk to you," Ms. Fenster
said. "If a major company announced publicly that their comput-
ers were down due to criminal activity, there would be a certain
loss of confidence in that company. I understand that they feel
a fiduciary responsibility to their stockholders to minimize the
effects of this."

Despite Ms. Fenster's position, Forsythe Insurance, NorthEast
Airlines, Brocker Financial and the Internal Revenue Service all
admitted that they have had a 'major' disruption in their comput-
er services and expect to take two to six weeks to repair the
damage. Nonetheless, several of those companies hit, feel lucky.

"We only lost about a thousand machines," said Ashley Marie,
senior network manager at Edison Power. "Considering that we
have no means of protecting our computers at all, we could have
been totally put out of business." She said that despite the
cost to repair the systems, her management feels no need to add
security or protective measures in the future. "They believe
that this was a quirk, a one time deal. They're wrong," Ms.
Marie said.

Many small companies that said they have almost been put out of
business because they were struck by the Columbus Day Virus.
"Simply not true," commented Christopher Angel of the Anti-Virus
Brigade, a vigilante group who professes to have access to pri-
vate information on computer viruses. "Of all of the reports of
downed computers yesterday, less than 10% are from the Data
Crime. Anyone who had any sort of trouble is blaming it on the
virus rather than more common causes like hardware malfunction
and operator error. It is a lot more glamorous to admit being
hit by the virus that has created near hysteria over the last
month."

Whatever the truth, it seems to be well hidden under the guise of
politics. There is mounting evidence and concern that computer
viruses and computer hackers are endangering the contents of our
computers. While the effects of the Columbus Day Virus may have
been mitigated by advance warnings and precautionary measures,
and the actual number of infection sites very limited, computer
professionals are paying increasing attention to the problem.

This is Scott Mason, safe, sound and uninfected.

* * * * *

Wednesday, October 14
J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.

The sweltering October heat wave of the late Indian summer pene-
trated the World War II government buildings that surrounded the
Mall and the tourist attractions. Window air conditioners didn't
provide the kind of relief that modern workers were used to. So,
shirtsleeves were rolled up, the nylons came off, and ties were
loose if present at all.

The streets were worse. The climatic changes that graced much of
North America were exaggerated in Washington. The heat was hot-
ter, the humidity wetter. Sweat was no longer a five letter
word, it was a way of life.

Union Station, the grand old train station near the Capitol
Building provided little relief. The immense volume of air to be
cooled was too much for the central air conditioners. They were
no match for mother nature's revenge on the planet for unforgiv-
ing hydrocarbon emissions. As soon as Tyrone Duncan detrained
from the elegant Metroliner he had ridden this morning from New
York's Penn Station, he was drenched in perspiration. He discov-
ered, to his chagrin, that the cab he had hailed for his ride to
headquarters had no air conditioning. The stench of the city,
and the garbage and the traffic fumes reminded him of home. New
York.

Tyrone showed his identification at the J. Edgar Hoover Building
wishing he had the constitution to wear a seersucker suit. There
is no way on God's earth a seersucker could show a few hours wear
as desperately as his $1200 Louis Boston did, he thought. Then,
there was the accompanying exhaustion from his exposure to the
dense Washington air. Duncan had not been pleased with the panic
call that forced him to Washington anyway. His reactions to the
effects of the temperature humidity index did not portend a good
meeting with Bob Burnson.

Bob had called Tyrone night before, at home. He said, we have a
situation here, and it requires some immediate attention. Would
you mind being here in the morning? Instead of a question, it
was an unissued order. Rather than fool around with hours of
delays at La Guardia and National Airport, Tyrone elected to take
the train and arrive in the nation's capitol just after noon. It
took, altogether just about the same amount of time, yet he could
travel in relative luxury and peace. Burnson was waiting for
him.

Bob Burnson held the title of National Coordinator for Tactical
Response for the FBI. He was a little younger that Duncan, just
over 40, and appeared cool in his dark blue suit and tightly
collared shirt. Burnson had an unlikely pair of qualities. He
was both an extraordinarily well polished politician and a astute
investigator. Several years prior, though, he decided that the
bureaucratic life would suit him just fine, and at the expense of
his investigative skills, he attacked the political ladder with a
vengeance.

Despite the differences between them, Burnson a willing compatri-
ot of the Washington machine and Duncan preferring the rigors of
investigation, they had developed a long distance friendship that
survived over the years. Tyrone was most pleased that he had a
boss who would at least give his arguments a fair listen before
being told that for this or that political reason, the Bureau had
chosen a different line of reasoning. So be it, thought Duncan.
I'm not a policy maker, just a cop. Tyrone sank into one of the
government issue chairs in Burnson's modern, yet modest office
ringed with large windows that can't open.

"How 'bout that Arctic Chill?" Burnson's short lithe 150 pound
frame showed no wear from the heat. "Glad you could make it."

"Shee . . .it man," Tyrone exhaled as he wiped his shiny wet
black face and neck. He was wringing wet. "Like I had a choice.
If it weren't for the company, I'd be at the beach getting a
tan." He continued to wipe his neck and head with a monogrammed
handkerchief.

"Lose a few pounds, and it won't hurt so bad. You know, I could
make an issue of it," Bob poked fun.

"And I'm outta here so fast, Hoover'll cheer from his grave," he
sweated. The reference to the FBI founder's legendary bigotry
was a common source of jokes in the modern bureau.

"No doubt. No doubt." Burnson passed by the innuendo. "Maybe
we'd balance the scales, too." He dug the knife deeper in refer-
ence to Tyrone's weight.

"That's two," said Duncan.

"Ok, ok," said Burnson feigning surrender. "How's Arlene and the
rest of the sorority?" He referred to the house full of women
with whom Tyrone had spent a good deal of his life.

"Twenty degrees cooler." He was half serious.

"Listen, since you're hear, up for a bite?" Bob tried.

"Listen, how 'bout we do business then grab a couple of cold
ones. Iced beer. At Camelot? That's my idea of a quality
afternoon." Camelot was the famous downtown strip joint on 18th
and M street that former Mayor Marion Berry had haunted and been
86'd from for unpublished reasons. It was dark and frequented by
government employees for lunch, noticeably the ones from Treas-
ury.

"Deal. If you accept." Bob's demeanor shifted to the officious.

"Accept what?" Tyrone asked suspiciously.

"My proposition."

"Is this another one of your lame attempts to promote me to an
office job in Capitol City?"

"Well, yes and no. You're being re-assigned." No easy way to
say it.

"To what?" exclaimed Tyrone angrily.

"To ECCO."

"What the hell is ECCO?"

"All in good time. To the point," Bob said calmly. "How much do
you know about this blackmail thing?"

"Plenty. I read the reports, and I have my own local problems.
Not to mention that the papers have picked it up. If it weren't
for the National Expos printing irresponsibly, the mainstream
press would have kept it quiet until there was some con-
firmation."

"Agreed," said Burnson. "They are being spoken to right now,
about that very subject, and as I hear it, they will have more
lawsuits on their doorstep than they can afford to defend. They
really blew it this time."

"What else?" Bob was listening intently.

"Not much. Loose, unfounded innuendo, with nothing to follow up.
Reminds me of high school antics or mass hysteria. Just like UFO
flaps." Tyrone Duncan dismissed the coincidences and the thought
of Scott's conspiracy theory. "But it does make for a busy day
at the office."

"Agreed, however, you only saw the reports that went on the wire.
Not the ones that didn't go through channels."

"What do you mean by that?" Duncan voiced concern at being out
of the loop.

"What's on the wire is only the tip of the iceberg. There's a
lot more."

"What else?"

"Senators calling the Director personally, asking for favors.
Trying to keep their secrets secret. A junior Midwest senator
has some quirky sexual habits. A Southern anti-pornography ball-
breaker happens to like little boys. It goes on and one. They've
all received calls saying that their secrets will be in the news-
papers' hands within days."

"Unless?" Duncan awaited the resolved threat.

"No unless, which scares them all senseless. It's the same story
everywhere. Highly influential people who manage many of our
countries' strategic assets have called their senators, and asked
them to insure that their cases are solved in a quiet and expedi-
ent political manner. Sound familiar?" Burnson asked Duncan.

"More than vaguely," Tyrone had to admit. "How many?"

"As of this morning we have 17 Senators asking the FBI to make
discreet investigations into a number of situations. 17! Not to
mention a couple hundred executive types with connections.
Within days of each other. They each, so far, believe that
theirs is an isolated incident and that they are the sole target
of such . . .threats is as good a word as any. Getting the
picture?"

Tyrone whistled to himself. "They're all the same?"

"Yes, and there's something else. To a man, each claimed that
there was no way the blackmailer could know what he knew. Impos-
sible." Burnson scratched his head. "Strange. Same story
everywhere. That's what got the Director and his cronies in on
this. And then me . . .and that's why you're here," Burnson
said with finality.

"Why?" Tyrone was getting frustrated with the roundabout dia-
tribe.

"We're pulling the blackmail thing to the national office and a
special task force will take over. A lot of folks upstairs want
to pull you in and stick you in charge of the whole operation,
but I told them that you weren't interested, that you like it the
way it is. So, I struck a deal." Burnson sounded proud.

Duncan wasn't convinced. "Deal? What deal? Since when do you
talk for me?" Tyrone didn't think to thank Bob for the front
line pass interference. Keep the politicos out of his hair.

"Have you been following any of the computer madness recently?"
Burnson spoke as though he expected Tyrone to know nothing of it.

"Can't miss it. From what I hear, a lot of people are getting
pretty spooked that they may be next."

"It gets more interesting than what the papers say," Bob said
while opening a desk drawer. He pulled out a large folder and
lay it across his desk. "We have experienced a few more computer
incidents than is generally known, and in the last several weeks
there has been a sudden increase in the number of attacks against
Government computers."

"You mean the INTERNET stuff and Congress losing it's mind?"
Tyrone laughed at the thought that Congress would now use their
downed computers as an excuse for not doing anything.

"Those are only the ones that have made it to the press. It's
lot worse." Bob scanned a few pages of the folder and para-
phrased while reading. "Ah, yes, the NPRP, National Pretrial
Reporting Program over at Justice . . .was hit with a series of
computer viruses apparently intentionally placed in VMS comput-
ers, whatever the hell those are." Bob Burnson was not computer
fluent, but he knew what the Bureau's computer could do.

"The Army Supply Center at Fort Stewart, Georgia had all of its
requisitions for the last year erased from the computer." Bob
chuckled as he continued. "Says here that they have had to pool
the guys' money to go to Winn Dixie to buy toilet paper and
McDonald's has offered a special GI discount until the system
gets back up."

"Ty," Bob said. " Some people on the hill have raised a stink
since their machines went down. Damn crybabies. So ECCO is being
activated."

"What the hell is ECCO?" Tyrone asked again.

"ECCO stands for Emergency Computer Crisis Organization. It's a
computer crisis team that responds to . . .well I guess, comput-
er crises." Bob opened the folder again. "It was formed during
the, and I quote, ' . . .the panic that followed the first INTER-
NET Worm in November of 1988.'"

Tyrone's mouth hung open. "What panic?"

"The one that was kept under absolute wraps," Bob said, slightly
lowering his voice. "At first no one knew what the INTERNET
event was about. Who was behind it. Why and how it was happen-
ing. Imagine 10's of thousands of computers stopping all at
once. It scared the shit out of the National Security Council,
remember we and the Russians weren't quite friends then, and we
thought that military secrets were being funneled straight to the
Kremlin. You can't believe some of the contingency plans I heard
about."

"I had no idea . . ."

"You weren't supposed to," Bob added. "Very few did. At any
rate, right afterward DARPA established CERT, the Computer Emer-
gency Response Team at Carnegie Mellon, and DCA set up a Security
Coordination Center at SRI International to investigate problems
in the Defense Data Network. Livermore and the DOE got into the
act with Computer Incident Advisory Capability. Then someone
decided that the bureaucracy was still too light and it deserved
at least a fourth redundant, overlapping and rival group to
investigate on behalf of Law Enforcement Agencies. So, there we
have ECCO."

"So what's the deal?" asked Tyrone. "What do I have to do?"

"The Director has asked ECCO to investigate the latest round of
viruses and the infiltration of a dozen or so sensitive and
classified computers." Bob watched for Ty's reaction, but saw
none yet. He wondered how he would take the news. "This time, we
would like to be involved in the entire operation from start to
finish. Make sure the investigation is done right. We'd like to
start nailing some of the bastards on the Federal level. Besides
you have the legal background and we are treading on some very
new and untested waters."

"I can imagine. So what's our role?"

"Your role," Bob emphasized 'your', "will be to liaison with the
other interested agencies."

"Who else is playing?" asked Tyrone with trepidation.

"Uh, that is the one negative," stammered Bob. "You've got NSA,
CIA, NIST, the NSC, the JCS and a bunch of others that don't
matter. The only rough spot is the NSA/NIST connection. Every-
one else is there just to make sure they don't miss anything."

"What's their problem?"

"Haven't heard, huh?" laughed Bob. "The press hasn't been kind.
They've been in such a pissing match for so long that computer
security work came to a virtual halt and I don't want to spoil
the surprise, ah, you'll see," he added chuckling.

Tyrone sat back in the chair as he was cool enough now not to
stick to it, closed his eyes and rotated his head to work out the
kinks. Bob never had gotten used to Tyrone's peculiar method of
deep thought; he found it most unnerving.

Bob's intents were crystal clear, not that Tyrone minded. He
had no desire to move to D.C.; indeed he would have quit instead.
He wanted to stay with the Bureau and the action but in his
comfortable New York existence. Otherwise, no. But, if he could
get Bob off his back by this one favor. Sure it might not be
real action, watching computer jockies play with
themselves . . .but it might be an interesting change in pace.

"Yes, under a couple of condition." Tyrone was suddenly a little
too agreeable and smug after his earlier hesitancy.

"Conditions? What conditions?" Bob's suspicion was clear.

"One. I do it my way, with no, and I mean, absolutely no inter-
ference." Duncan awaited a reply to his first demand.

"What else?"

"I get to use who I want to use, inside or outside the Bureau."

"Outside? Outside? We can't let this outside. The last thing
in the world we want is publicity."

"You're gonna get it anyway. Let's do it right this time."

"What do you mean by that?" Bob asked somewhat defensively.

"What I mean is," Tyrone spoke up, sounding confident, "that the
press are already on this computer virus thing and hackers and
all. So, let's not advertise it, but when it comes up, let's
deal with it honest."

"No way," blurted out Bob. "They'll make it worse than it is."

"I have that covered. A friend of my works for a paper, and he
is a potential asset."

"What's the trade?"

"Not much. Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair."

"Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty.

"One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter. "After this
one, you promise to let me alone and work my golden years, the
way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement."

"I don't know if I can . . ."

"Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone. "I'll just quit." It was
the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance.

"Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ."

"Isn't that what you're doing to me?" Touch<130>!

Bob sat back in thought. To an event, Duncan had been right on.
He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of a
crime where all others had failed. And, he always put the Bureau
in the best possible light. If he didn't go with him now, lose
him for sure.

"And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a
mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of
information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a
bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their
ground.

"Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion.
Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know."

"You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?"

I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet.
Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in
the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob
had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what
you do," Bob resigned.

"One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.

"What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.

"It happens out of New York, not here."

"But . . ."

"No buts. Period."

"Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?"

"Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?"

"Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.

* * * * *

From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his
home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after
several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter
belts at Camelot.

"RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone.

"Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors."

"Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom-
ber . . ."

"C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."

Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner
rerun. This better be good."

"We need to talk."

* * * * *

Thursday, October 15
Washington, D.C.

The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front
that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change
from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of
lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles
reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony
after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water-
bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum
pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a
periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of
Miles' sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl
friend, but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that she re-
ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested
in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there
were any digressions in Miles mission.

They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The
afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from
it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her
firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her
legs. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She
enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but
the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici-
tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further
their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even
let her spend the night upon occasion.

At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac,
Miles' phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky's
annoyance.

"Aren't you going to answer?" Her unspoken thoughts said, do
whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.

"Expecting a call?" Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey-
ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.

"Miles, at least get a machine." The phone rang a seventh time.

"Fuck." He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him
as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through
the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the
8th ring.

"It's late," he answered. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude
was evident.

"Mr. Foster, I am most displeased." It was Homosoto. Miles
curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony
vantage.

Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?" Miles
was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

"Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?" Homosoto was
controlled but forthright.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Miles sipped loudly from
the brandy glass.

"I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole
world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought
we had an understanding."

"Hey!" Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get
off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head up
your ass."

"Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a
motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement."
Homosoto was insistent.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Miles was adamant.

"Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with
great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe
you have made a great error in judgment."

Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something
to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.

"Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was
not to occur until next year?"

"Yeah," Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and
look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and
made an obscene motion near his crotch.

"Then, what is this premature event?" Homosoto persisted.

"Not mine." Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly
licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

"Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-
ble."

"Tough shit."

"Excuse me?" Homosoto was taken aback.

"Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only
person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer
programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its
logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This
one's not mine nor yours. It's someone elses."

The phone was silent for a few seconds. "You are saying there
are others?" The childlike naivete was coming through over
12,000 miles of phone wire.

"Of course there are. This will probably help us."

"How do you mean?"

"There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the
ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their
egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all
have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.
So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have
nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call
every time you hear of one. You know our dates. "

"Is there no chance for error?"

"Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs.
Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and
probably won't until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not
ready." Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding
session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

"I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with."

"Our plans," Miles corrected. "my ass is on the line, too. I
don't need you freaking every time the press reports a computer
going on the fritz. It's gonna happen a lot."

"What will happen, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto was able to convey
disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

"We've been through this before."

"Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where
he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here Homo,"
Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been
become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the
stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're
not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost
every local area network in the country is infected with a virus
of one type or another. Did you know that?"

"No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" Homosoto
sounded unconvinced.

"It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"

"Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for
me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles
found unsettling.

"For now, I do."

"You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.
Foster? You have much to lose."

Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim-
ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."

"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.
He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled
mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder
things to concern him.

* * * * *

October 31, 1989
Falls Church, Virginia.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank
did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer
Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?"
he said with disdain.

"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running
a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they
balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every-
thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're
missing a quarter billion dollars."

"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,
son."

"I wish I did," Porter sighed.

"All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew
that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss-
ing.

"It's just as I told you."

"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

"Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

"Of course I know."

"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account
and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it
belongs. We do that because . . ."

"I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold
for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay
out."

"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

"I'm sorry sir."

"As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the
psychological stress to his underling.

"When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty.
That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

"We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to
hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what
happened."

"Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up
Porter?" Templeton demanded.

"Yessir."

"How long?"

"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

"Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would-
n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he
wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee.
Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.

"You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them
yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in
disgust. It was not going to be a good day.

****************************************************************

Chapter 11

Wednesday, November 4
The Stock Exchange, New York

Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night
population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance
people. Tightly packed skyscrapers with their lighted windows
create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and
hover ominously over dimly lit streets.

Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four
to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in
lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the
ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever
happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.

They were responsible for the 17th. and 18th. floors which had a
sole entrance and exit; controlled access. This was where the
central computers for the Stock Exchange tried to maintain sanity
in the market. The abuses of computer trading resulting in the
minicrash of 1987 forced a re-examination of the practice and the
subsequent installation of computer brakes to dampen severe
market fluctuations.

Hundreds of millions of shares exchanged every day are recorded
in the computers as are the international, futures and commodi-
ties trades. The dossiers on thousands upon thousands of compa-
nies stored in the memory banks and extensive libraries were used
to track investors, ownership, offerings, filings and provide
required information to the government.

Tony sat at the front guard desk while Joe made the next hourly
check through the offices and computer rooms. Joe strolled down
the halls, brilliantly lit from recessed ceiling fixtures. The
corridor walls were all solid glass, giving the impression of
more openness than was really provided by the windowless, climate
controlled, 40% sterile environment. There was no privacy
working in the computer rooms.

The temperature and humidity were optimized; the electricity
content of air was neutralized both electrostatically and by
nuclear ionization, and the air cycled and purified once an hour.
In the event of a catastrophic power failure, which is not un-
known in New York, almost 10,000 square feet was dedicated to
power redundancy and battery backup. In case of fire, heat
sensors trigger the release of halon gas and suck all of the
oxygen from the room in seconds. The Stock Exchange computers
received the best care.

Joe tested the handle on the door of each darkened room through
the myriad glass hallways. Without the computers behind the
glass walls, it might as well have been a House of Mirrors. He
noticed that the computer operators who work through the night
were crowded together at the end of a hall next to the only
computer rooms with activity. He heard them muttering about the
cleaning staff.

"Hey guys, problem?" Joe asked.

"Nah, we escaped," a young bearded man in a white lab coat said
pointing into the room. "His vacuum cleaner made one God awful
noise, so we came out here til' he was done."

"New cleaning service," Joe said offhandedly.

The dark complexioned cleaning man wore a starchy white uniform
with Mohammed's Cleaning Service emblazoned across the back in
bold red letters. They watched him, rather than clean the room,
fiddle with the large barrel sized vacuum cleaner.

"What's he doing?"

"Fixing that noise, I hope."

"What's he doing now?"

"He's looking at us and, saying something . . ."

"It looks like he's praying . . ."

"Why the hell would he . . ."

The entire 46 story building instantly went dark and the force of
the explosion rocked Tony from his seat fifty yards away. He
reached for the flashlight on his belt and pressed a series of
alarms on the control panel even though the video monitors were
black and the emergency power had not come on. Nothing. He ran
towards the sound of the blast and yelled.

"Hello? Hey?" he yelled nervously into the darkness.

"Over here, hurry," a distant pained voice begged.

Tony slid into a wall and stopped. He pointed his flashlight down
one hall. Nothing.

"Over here."

He jumped sideways and pointed the beam onto a twisted maze of
bodies, some with blood geysering into the air from their necks
and arms and legs. Tony saw that the explosion had shattered the
glass walls into thousands of high velocity razor sharp projec-
tiles. The corpses had been pierced, stabbed, severed and muti-
lated by the deadly shards. Tony felt nauseous; he was going to
be sick right then.

"Tony." A shrapnelled Joe squeaked from the mass of torn flesh
ahead of him.

"Holy shit . . ." Tony's legs to turned to jelly as he bent over
and gagged.

"Help me!"

The force of the blast had destroyed the glass partitions as far
as his light beam would travel. He pointed the light into the
room that exploded. The computer equipment was in shambles, and
then he saw what was left of the cleaning man. His severed head
had no recognizable features and pieces of his body were strewn
about. Tony suddenly vomited onto the river of blood that was
flowing his way down the hallway.

"I gotta go get help," Tony said choking. He pushed against the
wall to give him the momentum to overcome the paralysis his body
felt and ran.

"No, help me . . ."

He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele-
vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console.
Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button.
Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun-
ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all.
Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.

Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.

* * * * *

"I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the
cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo-
tion at the Stock Exchange building.

"Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for
the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to
Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure,
I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until
Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer
isn't just for breakfast."

He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left
and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.

"Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going
in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course
after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused
again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."

Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that
sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print
maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all
well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted
news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to
readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.

That's why one of his police contacts called him to say that a
bunch of computer nerds were sliced to death. The Cheers rerun
was bringing him no pleasure, so sure, what the hell; it was a
nice night for a mutilation.

"It's getting mighty interesting, buddy boy," Ben said meeting
Scott as he stepped out of his filthy Red 911 in front of the
Stock Exchange an hour later. His press credentials performed
wonders at times. Like getting behind police lines and not
having to park ten blocks away.

The police had brought in generators to power huge banks of
lights to eerily light up the Stock Exchange building, all 500
feet of it. Emergency vehicles filled the wide street, every-
thing from ambulances, fire engines, riot vehicles and New York
Power. Then there were the DA's office, lawyers for the Ex-
change, insurance representatives and a ton of computer people.

"What the hell happened here?" Scott asked looking at the pande-
monium on the cordoned off Cortland Street. "Where are all the
lights?" He turned and gazed at the darkened streets and tall
buildings. "Did you know a bunch of the street lights are out,
too?" Scott meandered in seeming awe of the chaos.

"This is one strange one," Ben said as they approached the build-
ing entrance. "Let me ask you a question, you're the techno-
freak."

Scott scowled at him for the reference but didn't comment.

"What kind of bomb stops electricity?"

"Electricity? You mean power?" Scott pointed at the blackened
buildings and streets and Ben nodded. "Did they blow the block
transformers?"

"No, just a small Cemex, plastic, bomb in one computer room. Did
some damage, but left an awful lot standing. But the death toll
was high. Eleven dead and two probably not going to make it.
Plus the perp."

Scott gazed around the scene. The dark sky was pierced by the
top floors of the World Trade Center, and there were lights in
the next blocks. So it's not a blackout. And it wasn't the
power grid that was hit. A growing grin preceded Scott shaking
his head side to side.

"What is it?" Ben asked.

"A nuke."

"A nuke?"

"Yeah, that's it, a nuke," Scott said excitedly. "A nuke knocks
out power. Of course."

"Right," Ben said mockingly. "I can hear it now: Portion of
17th. Floor of Exchange Devastated by Nuclear Bomb. News at
Eleven."

"Never mind," Scott brushed it off. "Can we get up there?" He
pointed at the ceiling. "See the place?"

Ben pulled a few strings and spent a couple of hundred of Scott's
dollars but succeeded in getting to the corpse-less site of the
explosion. Scott visually poked around the debris and noticed a
curved porcelain remnant near his feet. He wasn't supposed to
touch, but, what was it? And the ruby colored chunks of glass?
In the few seconds they were left alone, they snapped a quick
roll of film and made a polite but hasty departure. At $200 a
minute Scott hoped he would find what he was looking for.

"Ben, I need these photos blown up, to say, 11 X 17? ASAP."

The press conference at 4:15 in the morning was necessary. The
Stock Exchange was not going to open Thursday. The lobby of the
Stock Exchange was aflood with TV camera lights, police and the
media hoards. Voices echoed loudly, between the marble walls and
floor and made hearing difficult.

"We don't want to predict what will happen over the next 24
hours," the exhausted stocky spokesman for the Stock Exchange
said loudly, to make himself heard over the din. "We have every
reason to expect that we can make a quick transition to another
system."

"How is that done?"

"We have extensive tape vaults where we store everything from the
Exchange computers daily. We will either use one of our backup
computers, or move the center to a temporary location. We don't
anticipate any delays."

"What about the power problem?" A female reporter from a local
TV news station asked.

"Con Ed is on the job," the spokesman said, pleased they were
picking on someone else. "I have every confidence they will have
things up and flying soon."

"What caused the power outage?"

"We don't have the answer to that now."

Scott edged to the front of the crowd to ask a question. "What
if," Scott asked the spokesman. "if the tapes were destroyed?"

"Thank God they weren't . . ." he said haltingly.

"Isn't it true," Scott ventured accusingly, "that in fact you
already know that every computer in this building is dead, all of
the emergency power backup systems and batteries failed and that
every computer tape or disk has been completely erased?" The
other reporters stood open mouthed at the unexpected question.

Scott spoke confidently, knowing that he was being filmed by the
networks. The spokesman nervously fumbled with some papers in
his hand. The press pool waited for the answer that had silenced
the spokesman. He stammered, "We have no . . .until power is
restored a full determination of the damage cannot be made . . ."

Scott pressed the point. "What would happen if the tapes were
all erased?"

"Uh, I, well . . ." he glanced from side to side. On his left
were two men dressed in matching dark blue suits, white shirts
and sunglasses. "It is best not to speculate until we have more
information."

"Computer experts have said that if the tapes are erased it would
take at least thirty days to recreate them and get the Exchange
open again. Is that correct?" Scott exaggerated. He was the
computer expert to whom he referred. Journalistic license.

"Under the conditions," the spokesman said trying to maintain a
credible visage to front for his lies, "I also have heard some
wildly exaggerated estimates. Let me assure you," the politician
in him came out here. "that the Exchange will in no way renege
on its fiduciary responsibilities to the world financial communi-
ty." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid that's all the time I
have now. We will meet here again at 9:00 A.M. for a further
briefing. Thank you." He quickly exited under the protection of
New York's finest as the reporters all shouted their last
questions. Scott didn't bother. It never works.

One of the men in the blue suits leaned over to the other and
spoke quietly in his ear. "Who is that guy asking all those ques-
tions?"

"Isn't that the reporter the Director was talking about?"

"Yeah. He said we should keep an eye on him."

* * * * *

Thursday, November 5
Tokyo, Japan

<<<<<>>>>>

MR. SHAH

Ahmed heard his computer announce that Homosoto was calling. He
pushed the joystick on the arm of his electric wheelchair and
proceeded over to the portable computer that was outfitted with
an untraceable cellular modem. Even if the number was traced
through four interstate call forwards and the original overseas
link, finding him was an entirely different matter. Ahmed entered
the time base PRG code from the ID card he kept strapped to his
wheelchair.

yes.

CONGRATULATIONS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

yes. we were well served by martyrs. they are to
be honored.

CAN YOU HAVE MORE READY?

8 more.

WHEN?

1 month.

GOOD. PUT THEM HERE. SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION, IMMIGRA-
TION AND NATURALIZATION, AMERICAN EXPRESS, NEW YORK FEDERAL
RESERVE, STATE FARM INSURANCE, FANNY MAE, CITIBANK AND FEDERAL
EXPRESS.

done.

DO IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. THEN MAKE MORE.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Friday, November 6
New York City

The Stock Exchange didn't open Friday either.

Scott Mason had made enough of a stink about the erased tapes
that they could no longer hide under the cover of computer mal-
functions. It was finally admitted that yes, the tapes were
needed to verify all transactions, especially the computer trans-
actions, and they had been destroyed along with the entire con-
tents of the computer's memory and hard disks. Wiped out.
Totally.

The Exchange didn't tell the press that the National Security
Agency had been quietly called in to assist. The NSA specializes
in information gathering, and over the years with tens of bil-
lions of dollars in secret appropriations, they have developed
extraordinary methods to extract usable information where there
is apparently none.

The Exchange couriered a carton of computer tapes to NSA's Fort
Meade where the most sophisticated listening and analysis tools
in the world live in acres upon acres of underground laboratories
and data processing centers. What they found did not make the
NSA happy. The tapes had in fact been totally erased. A total
unidirectional magnetic pattern.

Many 'erased' tapes and disks can be recovered. One of the
preferred recovery methods is to use NMR Nuclear Magnetic Reso-
nance, to detect the faintest of organized magnetic orientations.
Even tapes or disks with secret information that have been erased
many times can be 'read' after an MNR scan.

The electromagnetic signature left remnant on the tapes, the
molecular alignment of the ferrous and chromium oxide particles
in this case were peculiarly characteristic. There was little
doubt. The NSA immediately called the Exchange and asked them,
almost ordered them, to leave the remaining tapes where they
were.

In less than two hours an army of NSA technicians showed up with
crates and vehicles full of equipment. The Department of Energy
was right behind with equipment suitable for radiation measure-
ments and emergency responses.

DOE quickly reached no conclusion. Not enough information.
Initially they had expected to find that someone had stumbled
upon a way to make highly miniaturized nuclear weapons. The men
from the NSA knew they were wrong.

* * * * *

It took almost six weeks for the Stock Exchange to function at
its previous levels. Trading was reduced to paper and less than
10,000,000 shares daily for almost two weeks until the temporary
system was expanded with staff and runners. Daily trading never
was able to exceed 27,000,000 shares until the computers came
back on line.

The SEC and the Government Accounting Office released preliminary
figures indicating the shut down of the Exchange would cost the
American economy almost $50 Billion this year. Congress is
preparing legislation to provide emergency funding to those firms
that were adversely affected by the massive computer failure.

The Stock Exchange has said that it will institute additional
physical and computer security to insure that there is no repeat
of the unfortunate suicide assault.

* * * * *

Sunday, November 8
Scarsdale, New York

"You never cease to amaze me," Tyrone said as he entered Scott's
ultra modern house. "You and this freaking palace. Just from
looking at you, I'd expect black lights, Woodstock posters and
sleeping bags." He couldn't recall if he had ever seen Scott
wear anything but jeans, t-shirts or sweat shirts and spotlessly
clean Reeboks.

Scott's sprawling 8000 square foot free form geometric white on
white home sat on 2 acres at the end of a long driveway heavily
treed with evergreens so that seclusion was maintained all year
long. Featured in Architectural Digest, the designers made
generous use of glass brick inside and out. The indoor pool
boasted sliding glass walls and a retractable skylight ceiling
which gave the impression of outdoor living, even in the midst of
a harsh winter.

"They're in the music room." Scott proceeded to open a set of
heavy oak double doors. "Soundproof, almost," he said cheerily.
A 72 inch video screen dominated one wall and next to it sat a
large control center with VCR's, switchers and satellite tuner.
Scott's audio equipment was as complex as Ty had ever seen and an
array of speaker systems flanked the huge television.

"Toys, you got the toys, don't you?" joked Tyrone.

"The only difference is that they cost more," agreed Scott. "You
wanna see a toy and a half? I invented it myself."

"Not another one?" groaned Tyrone. "That idiot golf machine of
yours was . . ."

"Capable of driving 350 yards, straight as an arrow."

"And as I remember, carving up the greens pretty good." Scott
and his rolling Golf Gopher had been thrown off of several
courses already.

"A few modifications, that's all," laughed Scott.

Scott led Tyrone through the immense family-entertainment room
into a deep navy blue, white accented Euro-streamlined automated
kitchen. It was like no other kitchen he had ever seen. In
fact, other than the sinks and the extensive counters, there was
no indication that this room was intended for preparing food.
Scott flipped a switch and suddenly the deep blue cabinet doors
faded into a transparent tint baring the contents of the shelves.
The fronts of the stoves, refrigerator and freezer and other
appliances exposed their function and controls.

"Holy Jeez . . ." Ty said in amazement. Last month this had been
a regular high tech kitchen of the 80's. Now it was the Jetsons.
"That's incredible . . .you invented that?"

"No," dismissed Scott. "That's just a neat trick of LCD panels
built into the cabinets. This was my idea." He pressed an
invisible switch and 4 ten inch openings appeared on the counter
top near the sink. "Combination trash compacter re-cycler.
Glass, plastic, aluminum, metal and paper. Comes out by the
garbage, ready to go to the center."

"Lazy son of a bitch aren't you?" Tyrone laughed loudly.

"Sure, I admit my idea of gardening is watching someone mow the
lawn." Scott feigned offense. "But this is in the name of
Green. I bet if you had one, you'd use it and Arlene would get
off your ass."

"No way," Tyrone objected. "My marriage is too good to screw up.
It's the only thing left we still fight about, and we both like
it just the way it is. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm old fashioned."

Scott showed Tyrone how to use the kitchen and he found that no
matter what he wanted, there was button for it, a hidden drawer
or a disguised appliance. "I still buy dishwashers at Sears.
How the hell do you know how to use this stuff," Ty said fumbling
with the automatic bottle opener which automatically dropped the
removed caps into the hole for the metal compactor.

Tyrone had come over to Scott's house for a quiet afternoon of
Sunday football. An ideal time because Arlene had gone to Boston
for the weekend with his daughters. Freedom!

They made it to the Music Room with their beers as the kickoff
was midfield. "So how's the promotion going?" Scott asked
Tyrone in half jest. Over the last few weeks, Ty had spent most
of his time in Washington and what little time was left with his
family.

"Promotion my ass. It's the only way I can not get a promotion."
Tyrone added somberly, "and it may be my last case."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"It's gotten outta hand, totally out of hand. We have to spend
more time protecting the rights of the goddamned criminals than
solving crimes. That's not what it should be about. At least
not for me."

"You're serious about this," Scott said rhetorically.

"Hey, sooner or later I gotta call it quits," Ty replied soberly.
"But this computer thing's gonna make my decision easier."

"That's what I asked. How's the promotion?"

"Let's just say, more of the same but different. Except the
interagency crap is amazing. No one commits to anything, and
everything needs study and nothing gets done." Tyrone sighed.

He had been in Washington working with NIST, NSA, DoD and every
other agency that thought it had a vested interest in computers
and their protection. Their coordination with CERT and ECCO was
a joke, even by government standards.

At the end of the first quarter, the 49'ers were holding a solid
10 point lead. Scott grabbed a couple more beers and began tell-
ing Tyrone about the incident at the Exchange. The New York
Police had taken over the case, declaring sovereignty over Wall
Street and its enclaves.

"They don't know what they have, however," Scott said immodestly.

"The talk was a small scale nuke . . ."

"The DOE smashed that but fast," Scott interrupted. "What if I
told you that it was only the computers that were attacked? That
the deaths were merely incidental?"

Tyrone groaned as the 49'ers fumbled the ball. "I'd listen," he
said noncommittally.

"It was a classified magnetic bomb. NSA calls them EMP-T."

"Empty? The empty bomb?" Tyrone said skeptically. "Since when
does NSA design bombs?"

"Listen," said Scott trying to get Ty's attention away from the
TV. "Have you ever heard of C-Cubed, or C3?"

"No." He stared at the San Francisco defense being crushed.

"Command, Control and Communications It's a special government
program to deal with nuclear warfare."

"Pleasant thought," said Tyrone.

"Yeah, well, one result of a nuclear blast is a terrific release
of electromagnetic energy. Enough to blow out communications and
power lines for miles. That's one reason that silos are hardened
- to keep the communications lines open to permit the President
or whoever's still alive to shoot back."

"Like I said," Tyrone shuddered, "pleasant thought." He stopped
suddenly at turned to Scott. "So it was a baby nuke?"

"No, it was EMP-T," Scott said in such a way to annoy Ty.
"Electro Magnetic Pulse Transformer." The confusion on Tyrone's
face was clear. "Ok, it's actually pretty simple. You know what
interference sounds like on the radio or looks like on a TV?"

"Sure. My cell phone snaps, crackles and pops all of the time."

"Exactly. Noise is simply electromagnetic energy that interferes
with the signal. Right?" Scott waited for Tyrone to respond that
he understood so far.

"Good. Imagine a magnetic pulse so strong that it not only
interferes with the signal, but overloads the electronics them-
selves. Remember that electricity and magnetism are the same
force taking different forms."

Tyrone shook his head and curled his mouth. "Right. I knew that
all the time." Scott ignored him.

"The EMP-T bomb is an electromagnetic explosion, very very short,
only a few milliseconds, but incredibly intense." Scott gestured
to indicate the magnitude of the invisible explosion. "That was
the bomb that went off at the Stock Exchange."

"How can you possibly know that?" Tyrone asked with a hint of
professional derision. "That requires a big leap of faith . . ."

Scott leaned over to the side of the couch and picked up the two
items he had retrieved from the Exchange.

"This," Scott said handing a piece of ceramic material to Ty, "is
superconducting material. Real new. It can superconduct at room
temperature. And this," he handed Tyrone a piece of red glass,
"is a piece of a high energy ruby laser."

Tyrone turned the curios over and over in his hands. "So?" he
asked.

"By driving the output of the laser into a High Energy Static
Capacitive Tank, the energy can be discharged into the super
coil. The instantaneous release of energy creates a magnetic
field of millions of gauss." Scott snapped his fingers. "And
that's more than enough to blow out computer and phone circuits
as well as erase anything magnetic within a thousand yards."

Tyrone was now ignoring the football action. He stared alternate-
ly at Scott and the curious glass and ceramic remnants. "You're
bullshitting me, right? Sounds like science fiction."

"But the fact is that the Stock Exchange still isn't open. Their
entire tape library is gone. Poof! Empty, thus the name EMP-T.
It empties computers. Whoever did this has a real bad temper.
Pure revenge. They wanted to destroy the information, and not
the hardware itself. Otherwise the conventional blast would have
been stronger. The Cemex was used to destroy the evidence of the
EMP-T device."

"Where the hell do these bombs come from."

"EMP-T technology was originally developed as part of a Top
Secret DARPA project for the DoD with NSA guidance a few years
back."

"Then how do you know about it?"

"I did the documentation for the first manuals on EMP-T. Nothing
we got from the manufacturer was marked classified and we didn't
know or care."

"What was the Army going to do with them?" asked Tyrone, now with
great interest.

"You know, I had forgotten all about this stuff until the other
night, and then it all came back to me," Scott said mentally
reminiscing. "At the time we thought it was a paranoid joke.
Another government folly. The EMP-T was supposed to be shot at
the enemy to screw up his battlefield computers and radar and
electronics before the ground troops or helo's went it. As I
understand it, EMP-T bombs are made for planes, and can also be
launched from Howitzers and tanks. According to the manufactur-
er, they can't be detected and leave a similar signature to that
of a conventional nuclear blast. If there is such a thing as a
conventional nuke."

"Who else knows about this," Tyrone asked. "The police?"

"You think the NYPD would know what to look for?" Scott said
snidely. "Their bomb squad went home after the plastic explosive
was found."

"Right. Forget where I was."

"Think about it," Scott mused out loud. "A bomb that destroys
all of the computers and memory but leaves the walls standing."

"Didn't that asshole Carter want to build a nuke that would only
kill people but leave the city intact for the marauding invaders?
Neutron bombs, weren't they?"

"There's obviously nothing immoral about nuking computers," Scott
pontificated. "It was all part of Star Wars. Reagan's Strategic
Defense included attacking enemy satellites with EMP-T bombs.
Get all of the benefits and none of the fallout from a nuke.
There's no accompanying radiation."

"How easy is it to put one of the empty-things together?" Tyrone
missed another 49'er touchdown.

"Today?" Scott whistled. "The ones I saw were big, clumsy
affairs from the 70's. With new ceramics, and such, I would
assume they're a lot smaller as the Stock Exchange proves. A
wild guess? I bet that EMP-T is a garage project for a couple of
whiz kids, or if the government orders them, a couple hundred
thou each." Scott laughed at the absurdity of competitive bid-
ding for government projects. Everyone knew the government paid
more for everything. They would do a lot better with a VISA card
at K-Mart.

"I think I better take a look," Tyrone hinted.

"I thought you would, buddy. Thought you would." Scott replied.

They returned to the game 12 seconds before half time. The gun
went off. Perfect timing. Scott hated football. The only
reason in his mind for the existence of the Super Bowl was to
drink beer with friends and watch the commercials.

"Shit," declared Tyrone. "I missed the whole damned second quar-
ter." He grabbed another beer to comfort his disappointment.

"Hey," Scott called to Tyrone. "During the next half, I want to
ask you something."

Tyrone came back into the Music Room snickering. "What the hell
is that in your bathroom?"

"Isn't that great?" asked the enthused Scott. "It's an automatic
toilet seat."

"Now just what the devil is an automatic toilet seat? It pulls it
out and dries it off for you?" He believed that Scott was kid-
ding with some of his half baked inventions. That Scott subject-
ed any of his guests to their intermittent functioning was cruel
and inhuman punishment according to Tyrone.

"You're married with girls. Aren't they always on your case
about the toilet seat?"

"I've been married 26 years," Tyrone said with pride. "I con-
quered toilet seats on our honeymoon. She let me know right then
that she was boss and what the price of noncompliance was."

"Ouch, that's not fair," Scott said in sympathy. "I sleep-piss."
He held his hands out in front. "That's the only side effect
from too much acid. Sleep pissing."

Tyrone scrunched his face in disgust.

Scott spoke rapidly and loudly. "So for those of us who forget to
lower the seat after use, for those who forget to raise the seat;
for those who forget to raise the lid, Auto-Shit." Ty had tried
to ignore him, but Scott's imitation of a hyperactive cable
shopping network host demanded that one at least hear him out.
Ty's eyes teared.

"Make that woman in your life happy today. No more mess, fuss or
or morning arguments. No more complaints from the neighbors or
the health department. Auto-Shit. The toilet that knows your
needs. The seat for the rest of us. Available in 6 designer
colors. Only $49.95, Mastercard, VISA, No COD. Operators are
standing by."

Tyrone fell over on his side laughing. "You are crazy, man.
Sleep pissing. And, if you don't know it, no one, I mean no one
in his right mind has five trash compactors." Tyrone waved his
hand at Scott. "Ask me what you were gonna ask me."

"Off the record, Ty," Scott started, "how're the feds viewing
this mess?"

Tyrone hated the position he was in, but Scott had given him a
ltoe recently. It was time to reciprocate.

"Off?"

"So far off, so far off that if you turned the light "On" it
would still be off."

"It's a fucking mess," Tyrone said quickly. He was relieved to
be able to talk about it. "You can't believe it. I'm down there
to watch a crisis management team in action, but what do I find?"
He shook his head. "They're still trying to decide on the size
of the conference table." The reference caught Scott's ear.
"No, it's not that bad, but it might as well be."

"How is this ECCO thing put together? Who's responsible?"

"Responsible? Ha! No one," Tyrone chuckled as he recounted the
constant battles among the represented agencies. "This is the
perfect bureaucratic solution. No one is responsible for shit,
no one is accountable, but they all want to run the show. And,
no one agency clearly has authority. It's a fucking disaster."

"No one runs security? In the whole government, no one runs
security?"

"That's pushing it a little, but not too far off base."

"Oh, I gotta hear this," Scott said reclining in the deep plush
cloth covered couch.

"Once upon a time, a super secret agency, no one ever spoke the
initials, but it begins with the National Security Agency, got
elected by the Department of Defense to work out communications
security during the Cold War. They took their job very seriously.

"Then along came NIST and IBM who developed DES. The DOD formed
the Computer Security Initiative and then the Computer Security
Evaluation Center. The DOD CSEC became the DOD Computer Security
and then after NSA realized that everybody knew who they were, it
became the NCSC. Following this?"

Scott nodded only not to disrupt the flow.

"Ok, in 1977, Carter signed a bill that said to NSA, you take
over the classified national security stuff, but he gave the
dregs, the unclassified stuff to the NTIA, a piece of Commerce.
But that bill made a lot of people unhappy. So, along comes
Reagan who says, no that's wrong, before we get anything con-
structive done, let me issue a Directive, number 145, and give
everything back to NSA.

"That pissed off even more people and Congress then passed the
Computer Security Act of 1987, stripped NSA of what it had and
gave NIST the unclassified stuff. As a result, NSA closed the
NCSC, NIST is underbudgeted by a factor of 100 and in short, they
all want a piece of a very small pie. That took over 4 years.
And that's whose fault it is.

"Whose?"

"Congress of course. Congress passes the damn laws and then
won't fund them. Result? I get stuck in the middle of third tier
rival agency technocrats fighting over their turf or shirking
responsibility, and well , you get the idea. So I've got ECCO to
talk to CERT to talk to NIST to talk to . . .and it goes on ad
nauseum."

"Sorry I asked," joked Scott.

"In other words," Ty admitted, "I don't have the first foggy idea
what we'll do. They all seem hell bent on power instead of
fixing the problem. And the scary part?"

"What's that?"

"It looks like it can only get worse."

* * * * *

Tuesday, November 11
White House Press Room

"Mr. President," asked the White House correspondent for Time
magazine. "A recent article in the City Times said that the
military has been hiding a super weapon for years that is capable
of disabling enemy computers and electronics from a great dis-
tance without any physical destruction. Is that true, sir, and
has the use of those weapons contributed to the military's suc-
cesses over the last few years?"

"Ah, well," the President hesitated briefly. "The Stealth pro-
gram was certainly a boon to our air superiority. There is no
question about that, and it was kept secret for a decade." He
stared to his left, and the press pool saw him take a visual cue
from his National Security Director. "Isn't that right Henry?"
Henry Kennedy nodded aggressively. "We have the best armed
forces in the world, with all the advantages we can bring to
bear, and I will not compromise them in any way. But, if there
is such a classified program that I was aware of, I couldn't
speak of it even if I didn't know it existed." The President
picked another newsman. "Next, yes, Jim?"

During the next question Henry Kennedy slipped off to the ante-
room and called the Director of the National Security Agency.
"Marv, how far have you gotten on this EMP-T thing?" He waited
for a response. "The President is feeling embarrassed." Another
pause. "So the Exchange is cooperating?" Pause. Wait. "How
many pieces are missing?" Pause. "That's not what Mason's
article said." Longer pause. "Deal with it."

Immediately after the press conference, the President, Phil
Musgrave, his Chief of Staff, Henry Kennedy and Quinton Chambers
his old time ally and Secretary of State had an impromptu meeting
in the Oval Office.

They sat in the formal Queen Anne furniture as an elegant silver
coffee and tea service was brought in for the five men. Minus
Treasury Secreatry Martin Royce, this was the President' inner
circle, his personal advisory clique who assisted in making grand
national policy. Anything goes in one of these sessions, the
President had made clear in the first days of his Administration.
Anything.

We do not take things personally here, he would say. We have to
explore all options. All options. Even if they are distasteful.
And in these meeting, treat me like one of the guys. "Yes, sir,
Mr. President." The only formality of their caucuses was the
President's fundamental need to mediate the sometimes heated
dialogues between his most trusted aids. They were real
free-for-alls.

"Henry," the President said. "Before we start, who was that
reporter? Where the hell did that question come up about the
weapon stuff?"

"Forget him. The story started at the City Times. Scott Mason,
sir." Musgrave replied quickly. His huge football center sized
body overwhelmed the couch on which he sat. "He's been giving
extensive coverage to computer crime."

"Well, do we have such a bomb?" he asked with real curiosity.

"Ah, yessir," Henry Kennedy responded. "It's highly classified.
But the object is simple. Lob in a few of the EMP-T bombs as
they're called, shut down their communications and control, and
move in during the confusion. Very effective, sir."

"Well, let's see what we can do about keeping secrets a little
better. O.K., boys?" The President's charismatic hold over even
his dear friends and long time associates made him one of the
most effective leaders in years. If he was given the right
information.

The President scanned a few notes he had made on a legal pad.

"Can I forget about it?" the President closely scrutinized Henry
for any body language.

"Yessir."

The President gave Henry one more glance and made an obvious
point of highlighting the item. The subject would come up again.

****************************************************************

Chapter 12

Thursday, November 14
NASA Control Center, Johnson Space Center

The voice of Mission Control spoke over the loudspeakers and into
hundreds of headsets.

THE GROUND LAUNCH SEQUENCER HAS BEEN INITIATED. WE'RE AT T-MINUS
120 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

The Space Shuttle Columbia was on Launch Pad 3, in its final
preparation for another secret mission. As was expected, the
Department of Defense issued a terse non-statement on its pur-
pose: "The Columbia is carrying a classified payload will be used
for a series of experiments. The flight is scheduled to last
three days."

In reality, and most everyone knew it, the Columbia was going to
release another KH-5 spy satellite. The KH-5 series was able,
from an altitude of 110 miles, to discern and transmit to Earth
photos so crisp, it could resolve the numbers on an automobile
license plate. The photographic resolution of KH-5's was the
envy of every government on the planet, and was one of the most
closely guarded secrets that everyone knew about.

T-MINUS 110 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

Mission control specialists at the Cape and in Houston monitored
every conceivable instrument on the Shuttle itself and on the
ground equipment that made space flight possible.

A cavernous room full of technicians checked and double checked
and triple checked fuel, temperature, guidance, computers sys-
tems, backup systems, relays, switches, communications links,
telemetry, gyros, the astronauts' physiology, life support
systems, power supplies . . .everything had a remote control
monitor.

"The liquid hydrogen replenish has been terminated, LSU pressuri-
zation to flight level now under way. Vehicle is now isolated
from ground loading equipment."

@COMPUTER T-MINUS 100 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"SRB and external tank safety devices have been armed. Inhibit
remains in place until T-Minus 10 seconds when the range safety
destruct system is activated."

The Mission Control Room had an immense map of the world spread
across its 140 feet breadth. It showed the actual and projected
trajectories of the Shuttle. Along both sides of the map were
several large rear projection video screens. They displayed the
various camera angles of the launch pad, the interior of the
Shuttle's cargo hold, the cockpit itself and an assortment of
other shots that the scientists deemed important to the success
of each flight.

T-MINUS 90 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"At the T-Minus one minute mark, the ground launch sequencer will
verify that the main shuttle engines are ready to start."

T-MINUS 80 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"Liquid hydrogen tanks now reported at flight pressure."

The data monitors scrolled charts and numbers. The computers
spewed out their data, updating it every few seconds as the
screens flickered with the changing information.

T-MINUS 70 SECONDS AND COUNTING

The Voice of Mission Control continued its monotone countdown.
Every airline passenger is familiar with the neo-Texas twang that
conveys sublime confidence, even in the tensest of situations.

The Count-down monitor above the global map decremented its
numbers by the hundredths of seconds, impossible for a human to
read but terribly inaccurate by computer standards.

"Coming up on T-Minus one minute and counting."

T-MINUS 60 SECONDS.

"Pressure systems now armed, lift off order will be released at
T-Minus 16 seconds."

The voice traffic became chaotic. Hundreds of voices give their
consent that their particular areas of responsibility are ship-
shape. The word nominal sounds to laymen watching the world over
as a classic understatement. If things are great, then say 'Fuel
is Great!' NASA prefers the word Nominal to indicate that sys-
tems are performing as the design engineers predicted in their
simulation models.

T-MINUS 50 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

The hoses that connect the Shuttle to the Launch Pad began to
fall away. Whirls of steam and smoke appeared around portions of
the boosters. The tension was high. 45 seconds to go.

"SRB flight instrumentation recorders now going to record."

Eyes riveted to computer screens. It takes hundreds of computers
to make a successful launch. Only the mission generalists watch
over the big picture; the screens across the front of the behe-
moth 80 foot high room.

T-MINUS 40 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"External tank heaters now turned off in preparation for launch."

Screens danced while minds focused on their jobs. It wasn't until
there were only 34 seconds left on the count down clock that anyone
noticed.
The main systems display monitor, the one that contained the sum of
all other systems information displayed a message never seen before
by anyone at NASA.

@COMPMEMO "CHRISTA MCAULIFFE AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE CREW
OF THE SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA."

"We have a go for auto sequence start. Columbia's forward comput-
ers now taking over primary control of critical vehicle functions
through lift-off."

T-MINUS 30 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"What the hell is that?" Mission Specialist Hawkins said to the
technician who was monitoring the auto-correlation noise reduc-
tion systems needed to communicate with the astronauts once in
space.

TWENTY NINE

"What?" Sam Broadbent took off his earpiece.

TWENTY EIGHT

"Look at that." Hawkins pointed at the central monitor.

TWENTY SEVEN

"What does that mean, it's not in the book?"

TWENTY SIX

"I dunno. No chances though." Hawkins switched his intercom
selector to 'ALL', meaning that everyone on line, including the
Mission Control Director would hear.

TWENTY FIVE

"We have an anomaly here . . ." Hawkins said into his mouthpiece.

TWENTY FOUR

"Specify anomaly, comm," The dry voice returned. Hawkins wasn't
quite sure how to respond. The practice runs had not covered
this eventuality.

TWENTY THREE

"Look up at Video 6. Switching over." Hawkins tried to remain
unflustered.

TWENTY TWO

"Copy comm. Do you contain?"

TWENTY ONE

"Negative Mission Control. It's an override." Hawkins answered.

TWENTY - FIRING SEQUENCE NOMINAL

The voice of Mission Control annoyed Hawkins for the first time
in his 8 years at NASA.

"Confirm and update."

NINETEEN

Hawkins blew his cool. "Look at the goddamned monitor for Chris-
sakes. Just look!" He yelled into the intercom.

EIGHTEEN

"Holy . . .who's . . .please confirm, local analysis," the sober
voice sounded concerned for the first time.

SEVENTEEN

"Confirmed anomaly." "Confirmed." "Confirmed." "Confirmed."
The votes streamed in.

SIXTEEN

"We have a confirm . . ."

T-MINUS 15 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

TEN

"We have a go for main engine start."

SEVEN

SIX

FIVE

"We have a main engine start . . .we have a cut off."

"Columbia, we have a monitor anomaly, holding at T-minus 5."

"That's a Roger, Houston," the commander of Space Shuttle Colum-
bia responded calmly.

"We have a manual abort override. Columbia's on board computers
confirm the cut-off. Can you verify, Columbia?"

"That's a Roger."

The huge block letter message continued to blaze across the
monitors. Craig Volker spoke rapidly into his master intercom
system. "Cut network feed. Cut direct feed. Cut now! Now!" All
TV networks suddenly lost their signal that was routed through
NASA's huge video switches. NASA's own satellite feed was simul-
taneously cut as well. If NASA didn't want it going to the public
it didn't get sent.

CNN got the first interview with NASA officials.

"What caused today's flight to be aborted?"

"We detected a slight leak in the fuel tanks. We believe that
the sensors were faulty, that there was no leak, but we felt in
the interest of safety it would be best to abort the mission.
Orbital alignment is not critical and we can attempt a relaunch
within 2 weeks. When we know more we will make further informa-
tion available." The NASA spokesman left abruptly.

The CNN newsman continued. "According to NASA, a malfunctioning
fuel monitor was the cause of today's aborted shuttle launch.
However, several seconds before the announced abort, our video
signal was cut by NASA. Here is a replay of that countdown
again."

CNN technicians replayed one of their video tapes. The video
monitors within Mission Control were not clear on the replay. But
the audio was. "Look at the goddamned monitor for Chrissakes.
Just look." Then the video went dead.

* * * * *

Steve Billings received an urgent message on his computer's E-
Mail when he got home from classes. All it said was

PHONE HOME

He dialed NEMO directly this time.

<<<<<>>>>>

He chose CONVERSATION PIT from the menu. La Creme was there,
alone and probably waiting.

What's the panic?

YOU DON'T KNOW? <>

Just finished exams . . .been locked up in student hell . . .

NASA ABORT . . .SHUTTLE WENT TO SHIT. <>

So? More Beckel fuel problems I s'pose.

UH . . .UH. NOT THIS TIME. NASA GOT AN INVITATION. <>

From aliens? SETI finally came through?

NOPE. FROM CHRISTA MCAULIFFE. <>

Right.

SERIOUS. SHE WELCOMED THE CREW OF COLUMBIA. <>

Get real . . .

I AM. CHECK OUT CNN. THEY RECONSTRUCTED THE VIDEO SIGNAL BEFORE
NASA SHUT THE FEED DOWN. THE MONITORS HAD A GREETING FROM CHRIS-
TA. ABORTED THE DAMN MISSION. <>

I don't get it.

NEITHER DO I. BUT, DON'T YOU PLAY AROUND IN NASA COMPUTERS?
<>

Sure I do. Poke and Play. I'm not alone.

AND REPROGRAM THE LAUNCH COMPUTERS? <>

Never. It's against the Code.

I KNOW THAT, BUT DO YOU? <>

What are getting at?

OK GOOD BUDDY . . .STRAIGHT SHOOTING. DID YOU GO IN AND PUT SOME
MESSAGES ON MISSION CONTROL COMPUTERS? <>

Fuck, no. You know better than that.

I HOPED YOU'D SAY THAT. <>

Hey . . .thanks for the vote of confidence.

NO OFFENSE DUDE. HADDA ASK. THEN IF YOU DIDN'T WHO DID?
<>

I don't know. That's sick.

NO SHIT SHERLOCK. NASA'S ONE PISSED OFF PUPPY. THEY HAVEN'T
GONE PUBLIC YET, BUT THE MEDIA'S GOT IT PEGGED THAT HACKERS ARE
RESPONSIBLE. WE MAY HAVE TO LOCK IT UP.

Damn. Better get clean.

YOU LEAVE TRACKS?

Nah. They're security is for shit. No nothing. Besides, I get
in as SYSOP. I can erase my own tracks.

BETTER BE SURE.

I'm not going back, not for a while.

THERE'S GONNA BE SOME SERIOUS HEAT ON THIS.

Can't blame 'em. What d'you suggest? I'm clean, really.

BELIEVE YOU GUY. I DO. BUT WILL THEY?

I hope so . . .

* * * * *

Friday, November 15
New York City Times

NASA SCRUBS MISSION: HACKERS AT PLAY?
by Scott Mason

NASA canceled the liftoff of the space shuttle Columbia yester-
day, only 15 seconds prior to liftoff. Delays in the troubled
shuttle program are nothing new. It seems that just about every-
thing that can go wrong has gone wrong in the last few years.
We watch fuel tanks leak, backup computers go bad, life support
systems malfunction and suffer through a complete range of incom-
prehensible defects in the multi-billion dollar space program.

We got to the moon in one piece, but the politics of the Shuttle
Program is overwhelming.

Remember what Senator John Glenn said during his historic 3 orbit
mission in the early days of the Mercury Program. "It worries me
some. To think that I'm flying around up here in a machine built
by the lowest bidder."

At the time, when the space program had the support of the coun-
try from the guidance of the young Kennedy and from the fear of
the Soviet lead, Glenn's comment was meant to alleviate the
tension. Successfully, at that. But since the Apollo fire and
the Challenger disaster, and an all too wide array of constant
technical problems, political will is waning. The entire space
program suffers as a result.

Yesterday's aborted launch echoes of further bungling. While the
management of NASA is undergoing critical review, and executive
replacements seem imminent, the new breed will have to live with
past mistakes for some time. Unfortunately, most Americans no
longer watch space launches, and those that do tune out once the
astronauts are out of camera range. The Space Program suffers
from external malaise as well as internal confusion.

That is, until yesterday.

In an unprecedented move, seconds after the countdown was halted,
NASA cut its feeds to the networks and all 4 channels were left
with the omnipresent long lens view of the space shuttle sitting
idle on its launch pad. In a prepared statement, NASA blamed the
aborted flight on yet another leak from the massive and explo-
sive 355,000 gallon fuel tanks. In what will clearly become
another public relations fiasco, NASA lied to us again. It
appears that NASA's computers were invaded.

CNN cooped the other three networks by applying advanced digital
reconstruction to a few frames of video. Before NASA cut the
feed, CNN was receiving pictures of the monitor walls from Mis-
sion Control in Houston, Texas. Normally those banks of video
monitors contain critical flight information, telemetry, orbital
paths and other data to insure the safety of the crew and machin-
ery.

Yesterday, though, the video monitors carried a message to the
nation:

CHRISTA MCAULIFFE AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE CREW OF THE
SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA.

This was the message that NASA tried to hide from America.
Despite the hallucinations of fringe groups who are prophesizing
imminent contact with an alien civilization, this message was not
from a large black monolith on the Moon or from the Red Spot on
Jupiter. A Star Baby will not be born.

The threatening words came from a deranged group of computer
hackers who thought it would be great sport to endanger the lives
of our astronauts, waste millions of taxpayer dollars, retard
military space missions and make a mockery of NASA. After con-
fronted with the undisputed evidence that CNN presented to NASA
officials within hours of the attempted launch, the following
statement was issued:

"The Space Shuttle Columbia flight performing a military mission,
was aborted 5 seconds prior to lift-off. First reports indicated
that the reason was a minor leak in a fuel line. Subsequent
analysis showed, though, that the Side Band Communications Moni-
toring System displayed remote entry anomalies inconsistent with
program launch sequence. Automatic system response mechanisms
put the count-down on hold until it was determined that intermit-
tent malfunctions could not be repaired without a launch delay.
The launch date has been put back until November 29."

Permit me to translate this piece of NASA-speak with the straight
skinny.

The anomaly they speak of euphemistically was simple: A computer
hacker, or hackers, got into the NASA computers and caused those
nauseating words to appear on the screen. The implication was
obvious. Their sickening message was a distinct threat to the
safety of the mission and its crew. So, rather than an automat-
ic systems shut-down, as the CNN tape so aptly demonstrates, a
vigilant technician shouted, "Look at the g_______ed monitor for
Chrissakes! Just look!"

While the NASA computers failed to notice that they had been
invaded from an outside source, their able staff prevented what
could have been another national tragedy. Congratulations!

If computer hackers, those insidious little moles who secretively
poke through computer systems uninvited and unchecked, are the
real culprits as well placed NASA sources suggest, they need to
be identified quickly, and be prosecuted to the fullest extent
possible. There are laws that have been broken. Not only the
laws regarding computer privacy, but legal experts say that cases
can be made for Conspiracy, Sedition, Blackmail, Terrorism and
Extortion.

But, according to computer experts, the likelihood of ever find-
ing the interlopers is " . . .somewhere between never and none.
Unless they left a trail, which good hackers don't, they'll get
away with this Scott free."

Hackers have caused constant trouble to computer systems over the
years, and incidents have been increasing in both number and
severity. This computer assault needs to be addressed immediate-
ly. America insists on it. Not only must the hacker responsible
for this travesty be caught, but NASA must also explain how their
computers can be compromised so easily. If a bunch of kids can
enter one NASA communications computer, then what stops them from
altering flight computers, life support systems and other comput-
er controlled activities that demand perfect operation?

NASA, we expect an answer.

This is Scott Mason, waiting for NASA to lift-off from its duff
and get down to business.

* * * * *

Friday, November 15
New York City.

Scott Mason picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Scott Mason," he said without thinking.

"Mr. Mason? This is Captain Kirk." The voice was serious, but
did not resonate as did the distinctive voice that belonged to
William Shatner. Scott laughed into the phone.

"Live long and prosper." Mason replied in an emotionless voice.

"I need to talk to you," the voice came right back.

"So talk." Scott was used to anonymous callers so he kept the
rhythm of the conversation going.

"You have it all wrong. Hackers aren't the ones." The voice was
earnest.

"What are you talking about?" Scott asked innocuously.

"Your articles keep saying that hackers cause all the trouble on
computers. You're wrong."

"Says who?" Scott decided to play along.

"Says me. You obviously don't know about the Code."

"What code?" This was getting nowhere fast.

"Listen, I know your phone is tapped, so I only have another few
seconds. Do you want to talk?"

"Tapped? What is this all about?" The annoyance was clear in
Scott's voice.

"You keep blaming everything on hackers. You're wrong."

"Prove it." Scott gave this phone call another 10 seconds.

"I've been inside the NASA computers."

That got Scott to wake up from the droll papers on his desk.
"Are you telling me you wrote the message . . .?" Scott could
not contain his incredulity.

"God, no." Captain Kirk was firm. "Do you have a modem? At
home?"

"Yeah, so what." Scott gave the caller only another 5 seconds.

"What's the number?"

"Is this love or hate?" Time's up thought Scott.

"News."

"What?"

"News. Do I talk to you or the National Expos<130>? I figured
you might be a safer bet." The voice who called himself Captain
Kirk gave away nothing but the competitive threat was effective.

"No contest. If it's real. What have you got?" Scott paid atten-
tion.

"What's the number?" the voice demanded. "Your modem."

"Ok! 914-555-2190." Scott gave his home modem number.

"Be on at midnight." The line went dead.

Scott briefly mentioned the matter to his editor, Doug, who in
turn gave him a very hard time about it. "I thought you said
virus hacker connection was a big ho-hum. As I recall, you said
they weren't sexy enough? What happened?"

"Eating crow can be considered a delicacy if the main course is
phenomonal."

"I see," laughed Doug. Creative way out, he thought.

"He said he'd been plowing around NASA computers," Scott argued.

"Listen, ask your buddy Ben how many crackpots admit to crimes
just for the attention. It's crap." Doug was too jaded, thought
Scott.

"No, no, it's legit," Scott said defensively. "Sounds like a
hacker conspiracy to me."

"Legit? Legit?" Doug laughed out loud. "Your last column just
about called for all computer junkies to be castrated and drawn
and quartered before they are hung at the stake. And now you
think an anonymous caller who claims to be a hacker, is for
real? C'mon, Scott. You can't have it both ways. Sometimes
your conspiracies are bit far fetched . . ."

"And when we hit, it sells papers." Scott reminded his boss that
it was still a business.

Nonetheless, Doug made a point that hit home with Scott. Could
he both malign computer nerds as sub-human and then expect to
derive a decent story from one of them? There was an inconsist-
ency there. Even so, some pretty despicable characters have
turned state's evidence and made decent witnesses against their
former cohorts. Had Captain Kirk really been where no man had
been before?

"You don't care if I dig a little?" Scott backed off and played
the humble reporter.

"It's your life." That was Doug's way of saying, "I told you
there was a story here. Run!"

"No problem, chief." Scott snapped to mock attention and left
his editor's desk before Doug changed his mind.

* * * * *

Midnight
Scarsdale, New York

Scott went into his study to watch Nightline after grabbing a
cold beer and turned on the light over his computer. His study
could by all standards be declared a disaster area, which his ex-
wife Maggie often did. In addition to the formal desk, 3 folding
tables were piled high with newspapers, loose clippings, books,
scattered notes, folders, magazines, and crumpled up paper balls
on the floor. The maid had refused to clean the room for 6
months since he blamed her for disposing of important notes that
he had filed on the floor. They were back on good terms, he had
apologized, but his study was a no-man's, or no maid's land.

Scott battled to clear a place for his beer as his computer
booted up. Since he primarily used his computer for writing, it
wasn't terribly powerful by today's standards. A mere 386SX
running at 20 megahertz and comparatively low resolution VGA
color graphics. It was all he needed. He had a modem in it to
connect to the paper's computer. This way he could leave the
office early, write his articles or columns at home and still
have them in by deadline. He also owned a GRiD 386 laptop com-
puter for when he traveled, but it was buried beneath a mound of
discarded magazines on one of the built-in floor to ceiling
shelves that ringed the room.

Scott wondered if Kirk would really call. He had seemed paranoid
when he called this afternoon. Phones tapped? Where did he ever
get that idea? Preposterous. Why wouldn't his phone at home be
tapped if the ones at work were? We'll see.

Scott turned the old 9" color television on the corner of the
desk to Nightline. Enough to occupy him even if Kirk didn't call.

He set the ComPro communications program to Auto-Answer. If
Kirk, or anyone else did call him, the program would automatical-
ly answer the phone and his computer would alert him that someone
else's computer had called his computer.

He noticed the clock chime midnight as Nightline went overtime to
further discuss the new Soviet Union. Fascinating, he thought.
I grow up in the 60's and 70's when we give serious concern to
blowing up the world and today our allies of a half century ago,
turned Cold War enemy, are talking about joining NATO.

At 12:02, Scott Mason's computer beeped at him. The beeping
startled him.

He looked at the computer screen as a first message appeared.

WTFO

Scott didn't know what to make of it, so he entered a simple
response.

Hello.

The computer screen paused briefly then came alive again.

ARE YOU SCOTT MASON?

Scott entered 'Yes'.

THIS IS KIRK

Scott wondered what the proper answer was to a non-question by a
computer. So he retyped in his earlier greeting.

Hello. Again.

IS THIS YOUR FIRST TIME?

What a question! Scott answered quickly.

Please be gentle.

NO . . .AT CHATTING ON COMPUTER . . .

I call the computer at work. First time with a stranger. Is it
safe?

Scott had a gestalt realization. This was fun. He didn't talk
to the paper's computer. He treated it as an electronic mailbox.
But this, there was an attractiveness to the anonymity behind the
game. Even if this Kirk was a flaming asshole, he might have
discovered a new form of entertainment.

VERY GOOD. YOU'RE QUICK.

Not too quick, sweetheart.

IS THIS REALLY SCOTT MASON?

Yes.

PROVE IT.

Kirk, or whoever this was, was comfortable with anonymity, obvi-
ously. And paranoid. Sure, play the game.

You screwed up the NASA launch.

I DID NOT!!!!!!!!!! OK, IT'S YOU.

Glad to know it.

YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG.

What do I have wrong?

ABOUT HACKERS. WE'RE NOT BAD. ONLY A FEW BAD APPLES, JUST LIKE
COPS AND REPORTERS. I HOPE YOU'RE A GOOD GUY.

You called me, remember?

STILL, IT'S NOT LIKE YOU THINK.

Sure, I think.

NO NO NO . . .HACKERS. WE'RE BASICALLY A GOOD LOT WHO ENJOY
COMPUTERS FOR COMPUTERS SAKE.

That's what I've been saying

REALLY. HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHAT A HACKER REALLY IS?

A guy who pokes his nose around where it's not wanted. Like in
NASA computers.

YEAH, THAT'S WHAT THE PRESS SAYS AND SO THAT'S WHAT THE COUNTRY
THINKS. BUT IT'S NOT NECESSARILY SO.

So, change my mind.

LET ME GIVE YOU THE NAMES OF A FEW HACKERS. BILL GATES. HE
FOUNDED MICROSOFT. WORTH A COUPLE OF BILLION. MITCH KAPOR.
FOUNDED LOTUS. STEVE WOZNIAK FOUNDED APPLE. GET THE POINT?

You still haven't told me what you think a hacker is.

A HACKER IS SOMEONE WHO HACKS WITH COMPUTERS. SOMEONE WHO ENJOYS
USING THEM, PROGRAMMING THEM, FIGURING OUT HOW THEY WORK, WHAT
MAKES THEM TICK. PUSHING THEM TO THE LIMIT. EXTRACTING EVERY
LAST INCH OF POWER FROM THEM. LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION. WHAT
DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO PLAYS WITH AMATEUR RADIOS?

A Ham.

AND WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO HAS A CALCULATOR IN HIS SHORT
POCKET WITH A DOZEN BALLPOINT PENS?

In my day it was a sliderule, and we called them propeller heads.

THAT TRANSLATES. GOOD. AND WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO FLIES
AIRPLANES FOR FUN?

A fly boy, space jockey.

A CAR TINKERER?

A grease monkey

AND SOMEONE WHO JUMPS OUT OF PLANES?

Fucking crazy!!!!

FAIR ENOUGH. BUT HERE'S THE POINT. DIFFERENT STROKES FOR DIF-
FERENT FOLKS. AND IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO
PLAY WITH COMPUTERS ARE CALLED HACKERS. IT'S AN OLD TERM FROM
THE 60'S FROM THE COLLEGES, AND AT THAT TIME IT WASN'T DEROGATO-
RY. IT DIDN'T HAVE THE SAME NEGATIVE CONNOTATIONS THAT IT DOES
TODAY THANKS TO YOU. HACKERS ARE JUST A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WHO PLAY
WITH COMPUTERS INSTEAD OF CARS, BOATS, AIRPLANES, SPORTS OR
WHATEVER. THAT'S IT, PURE AND SIMPLE.

Ok, let's accept that for now. What about those stories of
hackers running around inside of everybody else's computers and
making computer viruses and all. Morris and Chase were hackers
who caused a bunch of damage.

WHOA! TWO SEPARATE ISSUES. THERE ARE A NUMBER OF HACKERS WHO DO
GO PROBING AND LOOKING AROUND OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPUTERS. AND I
AM PROUD TO ADMIT THAT I AM ONE OF THEM.

Wait a minute. You first say that hackers are the guys in the
white hats and then you admit that you are one of those criminal
types who invades the privacy of others.

THERE IS A BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOOKING AROUND A COMPUTER
READING ITS FILES AND DESTROYING THEM. I REMEMBER READING ABOUT
THIS GUY WHO BROKE INTO PEOPLE'S HOUSES WHEN THEY WERE OUT OF
TOWN. HE LIVED IN THEIR HOUSE UNTIL THEY CAME BACK AND THEN
LEFT. HE USED THEIR FOOD, THEIR TV, THEIR SHOWER AND ALL, BUT
NEVER STOLE ANYTHING OR DID ANY DAMAGE. THAT'S KINDA WHAT HACK-
ERS DO.

Why? For the thrill?

OH, I GUESS THAT MAY BE PART OF IT, BUT IT'S REALLY MORE THAN
THAT. IT'S A THIRST, AT LEAST FOR ME, FOR KNOWLEDGE.

That's a line of crap.

REALLY. LET'S COMPARE. LET'S SAY I WAS WORKING IN A GARAGE AND
I WAS CAR ENTHUSIAST BUT I DIDN'T OWN AND COULDN'T AFFORD A
FERRARI. SO, DURING THE DAY WHEN MY CUSTOMERS ARE AT WORK, I
TAKE THEIR CARS OUT FOR A RIDE . . .AND I EVEN REPLACE THE GAS.
I DO IT FOR THE THRILL OF THE RIDE, NOT FOR THE THRILL OF THE
CRIME.

So you admit hacking is a crime?

NO NO NO NO. AGREED, ENTERING SOME COMPUTERS IS CONSIDERED A
CRIME IN SOME STATES, BUT IN THE STATE OF TEXAS, IF YOU LEAVE
YOUR COMPUTER PASSWORD TAPED TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUR DESK DRAWER
YOU CAN GO TO JAIL. I BET YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT.

You made that up.

CHECK IT OUT. I DON'T KNOW THE LEGAL JARGON, BUT IT'S TRUE.
THE ISSUE IS, FOR THE GUY WHO DRIVES PEOPLE'S CARS WITHOUT THEIR
PERMISSION, THAT IS REALLY A CRIME. I GUESS A GRAND FELONY.
RIGHT? EVEN IF HE DOES NOTHING BUT DRIVE IT AROUND THE BLOCK.
BUT WITH COMPUTERS IT'S DIFFERENT.

How is it different?

FIRST THERE'S NO THEFT.

What about theft of service?

ARGUABLE.

Breaking and entering.

NOT ACCORDING TO MY FRIEND. HIS FATHER IS A LAWYER.

But, you have to admit, you are doing it without permission.

NO, NOT REALLY.

Aw, come on.

LISTEN. LET'S SAY THAT YOU LIVE IN A HOUSE.

Nice place to make a home.

AND LET'S SAY THAT YOU AND YOUR NEIGHBORS DECIDE TO LEAVE THE
KEYS TO YOUR HOUSES ON THE CURB OF YOUR STREET EVERY DAY. EVEN
WHEN YOU'RE HOME. SO THAT ANYONE WHO COMES ALONG CAN PICK UP THE
KEYS AND WALK INTO YOUR HOUSE ANYTIME THEY WANT TO.

That's crazy.

OF COURSE IT IS. BUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU DID THAT AND THEN
YOUR HOUSE GOT BROKEN INTO AND YOU WERE ROBBED?

I guess the police would figure me for a blithering idiot, a
candidate for the funny farm, and my insurance company might have
reason not to pay me after they canceled me. So what?

THAT'S WHAT I DO. AND THAT'S WHAT MY FRIENDS DO. WE LOOK AROUND
FOR PEOPLE WHO LEAVE THE KEYS TO THEIR COMPUTERS LYING AROUND FOR
ANYONE TO PICK UP. WHEN WE FIND A SET OF KEYS, WE USE THEM.

It can't be that simple. No one would leave keys lying around
for hackers.

WRONGO MEDIA BREATH. IT'S ABSURDLY SIMPLE. I DON'T KNOW OF VERY
MANY COMPUTERS THAT I CAN'T GET INTO. SOME PEOPLE CALL IT BREAK-
ING AND ENTERING. I CALL IT A WELCOME MAT. IF YOU DON'T WANT ME
IN YOUR COMPUTER, THEN DON'T LEAVE THE FRONT DOOR OPEN.

If what you're saying is true . . .

IT IS. COMPLETELY. I HAVE THE KEYS TO HUNDREDS OF COMPUTERS
AROUND THE COUNTRY AND THE WORLD. AND ONE WAY OR ANOTHER THE
KEYS WERE ALL LEFT LYING IN THE STREET. SO I USED THEM TO HAVE A
LOOK AROUND.

I don't know if I buy this. But, for now, I'll put that aside.
So, where do these hacker horrors come from?

AGAIN LET'S COMPARE. IF YOU LEFT YOUR KEYS IN FRONT OF YOUR
HOUSE AND HALF OF YOUR TOWN KNEW IT AND 100 PEOPLE WENT INTO YOUR
HOUSE TO LOOK AROUND, HOW MANY WOULD STAY HONEST AND JUST LOOK?

Not many I guess.

BUT WITH HACKERS, THERE'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US LIVE
BY. BUT AS IN ANY GROUP OR SOCIETY THERE ARE A FEW BAD APPLES
AND THEY GIVE THE REST OF US A BAD NAME. THEY GET A KICK OUT OF
HURTING OTHER PEOPLE, OR STEALING, OR WHATEVER. HERE'S ANOTHER
SOMETHING FOR YOUR FILE. EVERY COMPUTER SYSTEM IN THE COUNTRY
HAS BEEN ENTERED BY HACKERS. EVERY SINGLE ONE.

That's impossible.

TRY ME. I'VE BEEN INTO OVER A THOUSAND MYSELF AND THERE ARE
THOUSANDS OF GUYS LIKE ME. AT LEAST I'M HONEST.

Why should I believe that?

WE'RE TALKING AREN'T WE.

Throw me off the track.

I COULD HAVE IGNORED YOU. I'M UNTRACEABLE.

By the way, what's your name.

CAPTAIN KIRK.

No, really.

REALLY. ON BBS THAT'S MY ONLY NAME.

How can I call you?

YOU CAN'T. WHAT'S YOUR HANDLE?

Handle? Like CB? Never had one.

YOU NEED ONE DUDE. WITHOUT IT YOU'RE A JUST A REPORTER NERD.

Been called worse. How about Spook? That's what I'm doing.

CAN'T. WE ALREADY GOT A SPOOK. CAN'T HAVE TWO. TRY AGAIN.

What do you mean we?

WE. MY GROUP. YOU'VE ALREADY HEARD OF 401 AND CHAOS AND THE
LEGION OF DOOM. WELL, I AM PART OF ANOTHER GROUP. BUT I CAN'T
TELL YOU WHAT IT'S CALLED. YOU'RE NOT PART OF THE INNER CIRCLE.
I KNOW WHAT I'LL CALL YOU. REPO MAN.

repo man

REPORTER MAN. SUSPICIOUS TOO.

I suspect that hackers are up to no good.

OK, SOME ARE, BUT THEY'RE THE EXCEPTION. HOW MANY MASS GOOD
SAMARITANS OTHER THAN MOTHER TERESA DO YOU WRITE ABOUT? NONE.
ONLY IF THEY'RE KILLED IN ACTION. BUT, MASS MURDERERS ARE NEWS.
SO ALL YOU NEWS FIENDS MAKE HEADLINES ON DEATH AND DESTRUCTION.
THE MEDIA SELLS THE HYPE AND YOU CAN'T DENY IT.

Got me. You're right, that's what the public buys. But not all
news is bad.

EXACTLY. SEE THE POINT?

At least we don't do the crime, just report it. What about these
viruses. I suppose hackers are innocent of that too.

BY AND LARGE YES. PEOPLE THAT WRITE VIRUSES AND INFECT COMPUTERS
ARE THE COMPUTER EQUIVALENT TO SERIAL KILLERS. OR HOW ABOUT THE
GUY WITH AIDS, WHO KNOWS HE'S GOT IT AND SCREWS AS MANY PEOPLE
AS HE CAN TO SPREAD IT AROUND. VIRUSES ARE DANGEROUS AND DEMENT-
ED. NO HACKER OF THE CODE WOULD DO THAT.

You keep mentioning this code. What is the code?

IT'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US LIVE BY. AND IT'S CRUCIAL
TO A STABLE UNDERGROUND CULTURE THAT SURVIVES BY ITS WITS. IT
GOES LIKE THIS: NEVER INTENTIONALLY DAMAGE ANOTHER COMPUTER.

That's it?

PRETTY SIMPLE HUH?

So, you said earlier that you poke around NASA computers. And
NASA just had a pretty good glitch that rings of hackers. Some-
one broke the code.

EXACTLY. BUT NO ONE'S TAKING CREDIT.

Why would they? Isn't that a sure giveaway and a trip up the
river?

YES AND NO. MORRIS FOR EXAMPLE ADMITTED HIS MISTAKE. HE SAID HE
WAS WRITING A VIRUS FOR THE EXERCISE AND IT GOT OUT OF CONTROL.
OOPS, HE SAID, AND I'M INCLINED TO BELIEVE HIM BECAUSE HE DIDN'T
COVER HIS TRACKS. IF HE WAS SERIOUS ABOUT SHUTTING DOWN INTERNET
HE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN FOUND AND HE WOULDN'T HAVE ADMITTED IT IF
THEY EVER CAUGHT HIM. PROVING HE DID IT IS NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE.

So?

SO, HACKERS HAVE STRONG EGOS. THEY LIKE TO GET CREDIT FOR FIND-
ING THE KEYS TO COMPUTERS. IT BUILDS THEM A REPUTATION THAT THEY
FEED ON. VIRUS BUILDERS ARE THE SAME. IF SOMEONE BUILDS A VIRUS
AND THEN FEEDS IT INTO THE SYSTEM, HE WANTS TO GET CREDIT FOR IT.
SO HE TAKES CREDIT.

And then gets caught, right?

WRONGO AGAIN, LET'S SAY I TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS ME THAT DID THAT
STUFF AT NASA.

So it was you?

NO NO. I SAID, IF IT WAS ME, WHAT WOULD YOU DO ABOUT IT?

Uh . . .

WHAT?

I'm thinking.

WHO WOULD YOU TELL?

The police, NASA,

WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THEM?

That you did it.

WHO AM I?

Good point. Who are you?

I DIDN'T DO IT AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHO I AM. YOU SEE,
MOST OF US DON'T KNOW EACH OTHER THAN OVER THE COMPUTER. IT JUST
DON'T MATTER WHO I AM.

I don't know if I buy everything you say, but it is something to
think about. So what about the NASA thing.

I DON'T KNOW. NOBODY DOES.

You mean, I gather, nobody has owned up to it.

EXACTLY

How can I describe you? If I wanted to use you in an article.

STUDENT AT A MAJOR UNIVERSITY.

Sounds like a Letter to Penthouse Forum.

TRY THE SEX BBS.

If you've done nothing wrong, why not come forward?

NOT EVERYONE BELIEVES WHAT WE DO IS HARMLESS. NEITHER DO YOU.
YET. MIGHT BE BAD FOR MY HEALTH.

What time is it?

WON'T WORK GUY. TIME ZONES I UNDERSTAND. ONE THING. IF YOU'RE
INTERESTED, I CAN ARRANGE A TRIP THOUGH THE FIRST TRUST BANK
COMPUTERS,

Arrange a trip? Travel agent on the side.

IN A WAY WE ARE ALL TRAVEL AGENTS. JUST THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE
INTERESTED.

Let's say I am.

JUST CALL 212-555-9796. USE THE PASSWORD MONEYMAN AND THE ID IS
9796. LOOK AROUND ALL YOU WANT. USE F1 FOR HELP. I'LL CALL YOU
IN A COUPLE OF DAYS. LEAVE YOUR COMPUTER ON.

<<<<<>>>>>

****************************************************************

Chapter 13

Wednesday, November 25

HACKERS HAMPER HOLIDAY HELLO'S
By Scott Mason

As most of my readers know by now, I have an inherent suspicion
of lame excuses for bureaucratic bungling. If any of you were
unable to make a long distance phone call yesterday, you weren't
alone.

AT&T, the long distance carrier that provides the best telephone
service in the world, handles in excess of 100,000,000 calls
daily. Yesterday, less than 25% got through. Why? There are
two possible answers: AT&T's official response and another,
equally plausible and certainly more sinister reason that many
experts claim to be the real culprit.

According to an AT&T spokesperson from its Basking Ridge, New
Jersey office, "In my 20 years with AT&T, I have not seen a
crisis so dramatic that it nearly shut down operations nation-
wide." According to insiders, AT&T came close to declaring a
national emergency and asking for Federal assistance.

Airlines and hotel reservation services reported that phone
traffic was down between 65-90%! Telemarketing organizations said
that sales were off by over 80%.

Perhaps an understanding of what goes on behind the scenes of a
phone call is in order.

When you pick up your phone, you hear a dial tone that is provid-
ed by the Local Exchange Company, or as more commonly called, a
Baby Bell. The LEC handles all local calls within certain dial-
ing ranges. A long distance call is switched by the LEC to the
4ESS, a miracle of modern communications. There are 114 Number 4
and 5 Electronic Switching Systems used in all major AT&T switch-
ing offices across the country. (A few rural areas still use
relays and mechanical switches over 40 years old. When it rains,
the relays get sticky and so does the call.)

Now here's the invisible beauty. There are 14 direct connects
between each of the 114 4ESS's and every other 4ESS, each capable
of handling thousands of call at once. So, rarely do we ever get
a long distance busy signal. The systems automatically reroute
themselves.

The 4ESS then calls its own STP, Signal Transfer Point within an
SS7 network. The SS7 network determines from which phone number
the call originated and its destination. (More about that later!)
It sends out an IAM, Initial Address Message, to the destination
4ESS switch and determines if a line is available to complete the
call. The SS7 is so powerful it can actually create up to 7
additional virtual paths for the heaviest traffic. 800 numbers,
Dial a Porn 900 numbers and other specially coded phone numbers
are translated through the NCP( Network Control Point) and routed
separately. Whew! Had enough? So have I.

The point is, massive computer switches all across our nations
automatically select the routing for each call. A call from
Miami to New York could be sent through 4ESS's in Dallas, Los
Angeles and Chicago before reaching its ultimate destination.
But what happened yesterday?

It seems that the switches got real stupid and slowed down. For
those readers who recall the Internet Worm in November of 1988
and the phone system slowdown in early 1990 and then again in
1991, computers can be infected with errors, either accidentally
or otherwise, and forced to misbehave.

AT&T's explanation is not satisfying for those who remember that
AT&T had said, "it can never happen again."

Today's official explanation is; "A minor hardware problem in one
of our New York City 4ESS switches caused a cascading of similar
hardware failures throughout the network. From all appearances,
a faulty piece of software in the SS7 networks was the culprit.
Our engineers are studying the problem and expect a solution
shortly. We are sorry for any inconvenience to our valued cus-
tomers."

I agree with AT&T on one aspect: it was a software problem.

According to well placed sources who asked to remain anonymous,
the software problems were intentionally introduced into AT&T's
long distance computers, by person or persons yet to be identi-
fied. They went on to say that internal investigation teams have
been assigned to find out who and how the "bug" was introduced.
Regardless of the outcome of the investigation, AT&T is expected,
they say, to maintain the cover of a hardware failure at the
request of the public relations Vice President.

AT&T did, to their credit, get long distance services up and
running at 11:30 P.M. last night, only 9 hours after the problem
first showed up. They re-installed an older SS7 software ver-
sion that is widely known to contain some "operational anomalies"
according to the company; but they still feel that it is more
reliable than what is currently in use.

If, in fact the biggest busy signal in history was caused by
intruders into the world's largest communications systems, then
we need to ask ourselves a few questions. Was yesterday a sym-
bolic choice of dates for disaster or mere coincidence? Would
the damage have been greater on a busier business day? Could it
affect our defense systems and the government's ability to commu-
nicate in case of emergency? How did someone, or some group,
get into AT&T's computers and effect an entire nation's ability
to do business? And then, was there a political motivation
sufficient to justify am attack om AT&T and not on Sprint or MCI?

Perhaps the most salient question we all are asking ourselves,
is, When will it happen again?

This is Scott Mason, busy, busy, busy. Tomorrow; is Big Brother
listening?

* * * * *

Friday, November 27
Times Square, New York

The pre-winter overnight snow-storm in New York City turned to
sleet and ice as the temperature dropped. That didn't stop the
traffic though. Hundreds of thousands of cars still crawled into
Manhattan to insure downtown gridlock. If the streets were
drivable, the city wouldn't stop. Not for a mere ice storm.

Steam poured from subway grates and manhole covers as rush hour
pedestrians huddled from the cold winds, tromping through the
grimy snow on the streets and sidewalks.

The traffic on 42nd street was at a near standstill and the
intersection at Broadway and 7th Avenues where the Dow Chemical
Building stood was unusually bad. Taxis and busses and trucks
and cars all fought for space to move.

As the southbound light on 7th turned green, a dark blue Ford
Econoline van screeched forward and cut off two taxis to make a
highly illegal left turn. It curved too quickly and too sharply
for the dangerously icy conditions and began to slide sideways.
The driver turned the wheel hard to the left, against the slide,
compensating in the wrong direction and then he slammed on the
brakes. The van continued to slide to the right as it careened
toward the sidewalk. The van rotated and headed backwards at the
throngs of pedestrians. They didn't notice until it was too
late.

The van spun around again and crashed through a McDonald's window
into the dense breakfast crowds. As it crushed several patrons
into the counter, the van stopped, suddenly propelling the driver
through the windshield into the side of the yogurt machine. His
neck was broken instantly.

Getting emergency vehicles to Times Square during the A.M. rush
hour is in itself a lesson in futility. Given that 17 were
pronounced dead on the scene and another 50 or more were injured,
the task this Monday morning was damned near impossible.

City-ites come together in a crisis, and until enough paramedics
arrived, people from all walks of life tended to the wounded and
respectfully covered those beyond help. Executives in 3 piece
suits worked with 7th avenue delivery boys in harmony. Secre-
taries lay their expensive furs on the slushy street as pallets
for the victims.

It was over two hours before all the wounded were transferred to
local hospitals and the morgue was close to finishing its clean
up efforts. Lt. Mel Kavitz, 53rd. Precinct, Midtown South NYPD
made it to the scene as the more grisly pieces were put away. He
spoke to a couple of officers who had interviewed witnesses and
survivors. The media were already there adding to the frigid
chaos. Two of the local New York TV stations were broadcasting
live, searching out sound-bytes for the evening news and all 3
dailies had reporters looking for quotable quotes. Out of the
necessity created by such disasters, the police had developed
immunity to the media circus.

"That's it lieutenant. Seems the van made a screwball turn and
lost control." The young clean-shaven patrolman shrugged his
shoulders. Only 27, he had still been on the streets long enough
not to let much bother him.

"Who's the driver?" Lt. Kavitz scanned the scene.

"It's a foreign national, one . . .ah . . .Jesef Mumballa. Second
year engineering student at Columbia." The young cop looked down
and spoke quietly. "He didn't make it."

"I'm not surprised. Look at this mess." The Lieutenant took it
in stride. "Just what McDonalds needs. Another massacre. Any-
thing on him?" Kavitz asked half suspecting, half hoping.

"Clean. As clean as rag head can be."

"Ok, that's enough. What about the van?"

"The van?"

"The van!" Kavitz said pointedly at the patrolman. "The van!
What's in it? Has anybody looked?"

"Uh . . .no sir. We've been working with the injured . . .I'm
sure you . . ."

"Of course. I'm sorry." Kavitz waved off the explanation. "Must
have been pretty rough." He looked around and shook his head.
"Anything else officer?"

"No sir, that's about it. We still don't have an exact count
though."

"It'll come soon enough. Soon enough." Kavitz left the young
patrolman and walked into the bloodbath, pausing only briefly
before opening the driver's side door. "Let's see what's in this
thing."

* * * * *

"D'y'hear about the mess over at Times Square?" Ben Shellhorne
walked up to Scott Mason's desk at the City Times.

"Yeah, pretty gruesome. The Exchange . . .McDonald's. You
really scrape the bottom, don't you?" Scott grinned devilishly
at Ben.

"Maybe some guys do, not me." Ben sat down next to Scott's desk.
"But that's not the point. There's something else."

"What's that?" Scott turned to Ben.

"The van."

"The van?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, the van. The van that busted up the McBreakfast crowd."

"What about it?"

Ben hurried. "Well, it was some sort of high tech lab on wheels.
Computers and radios and stuff. Pretty wild."

"Why's that so unusual? Phone company, computer repair place,
EPA monitors, could be anything." Scott seemed disinterested.

"If that were true, you're right. But this was a private van,
and there's no indication of what company it worked for. And the
driver's dead. Personal ID only. No company, no numbers, no
nothing, except this."

He handed a sheaf of computer printouts to Scott. "Look
familiar?"

Scott took the papers and perused them. They were the same kind
that Scott had received from Vito, his unknown donor. These were
new documents as far as Scott could tell - he didn't recognize
them as part of his library. They only contained some stock tips
and insider trading information from a leading Wall Street bro-
kerage house. Pretty tame stuff.

"These," Scott pointed at the papers, "these were in the van?"

"That's what I said," Ben said triumphantly.

"How did you get them?" Scott pushed.

"I have a few friends on the force and, well, this is my beat you
know. Crime, disaster, murder, violence, crisis, death and de-
struction on the streets. Good promo stuff for the Big Apple."

"Are there any more?" Scott ignored Ben's self pity.

"My guy said there were so many that a few wouldn't make any
difference."

"Holy Christ!" Scott said aloud as he sat back in thought.

"What is it? Scott? Does this mean something?"

"Can I have these, Ben? Do you need them?"

"Nah! There's no blood on 'em? Not my kinda story. I just
remembered that secret papers and computers are your thing, so
they're yours." Ben stood up. "Just remember, next time you hear
about a serial killer, it's mine."

"Deal. And, hey, thanks a lot. Drinks on me." Scott caught Ben
before he left. "Ben, one more thing."

"Yeah?" Ben stopped.

"Can you get me into that van. Just to look around? Not to
touch, just to look?" Scott would have given himself a vasectomy
with a weed eater to have a look. This was his first solid lead
on the source of the mysterious and valuable documents that he
had stymied him for so long. He had been unable to publish
anything significant due to lack of confirming evidence. Any
lead was good lead, he thought.

"It may cost another favor, but sure what the fuck. I'll set it
up. Call you." Ben waved as he walked off leaving Scott to
ponder the latest developments.

* * * * *

The interior of the dark blue Ford Econoline van was not in bad
shape since the equipment was bolted into place. The exterior
though was thoroughly trashed, with too many blood stains for
Scott to stomach. It was a bad wreak, even for the Police Im-
pound.

While Ben kept his cooperative keeper of the peace occupied, he
signaled to Scott that he would only have a minute, so please,
make it quick.

Scott entered the van with all his senses peaked. He wanted to
take mental pictures and get as much detail as he could. Both
sides of the van contained steel shelving, with an array of
equipment bolted firmly in place. It was an odd assortment of
electronics, noticed Scott. There were 2 IBM personal computers
with large WYSIWYG monitors. What You See Is What You Get moni-
tors were generally used for intensive word processing or desktop
publishing. In a van? Odd.

A digital oscilloscope and waveform monitor were stacked over one
of the computers. Test equipment and no hand tools? No answer.
Over the other computer sat a small black and white television
and a larger color television monitor. Two cellular phones were
mounted behind the drivers seat. Strange combination. Then he
noticed what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, only 8 or
so inches across. He recognized it as a parabolic microphone.
Aha! That's it. Some sort of spy type surveillance vehicle.
Tracking drug dealers and assorted low lifes. But, a privately
registered vehicle, no sign of any official affiliations to known
enforcement agencies?

Scott felt his minute was gone in a only few seconds.

"Well, you find what you're looking for?" Ben asked Scott after
they had left the police garage grounds overlooking the Hudson
River.

Scott looked puzzled. "It's more like by not finding anything I
eliminated what it's not."

Ben scowled. "Hey riddle man, back to earth. Was it a waste or
what?"

"Far from it." Scott's far away glaze disappeared as his personal
Eureka! set in. "I think I may have stumbled, sorry, you, stum-
bled onto to something that will begin to put several pieces in
place for me. And if I'm right, even a little bit right, holy
shit. I mean, hoooolly shit."

"Clue me in, man. What's the skinny. You got Pulitzer eyes."
Ben tried to keep up with Scott as their pace quickened.

"I gotta make one phone call, for a confirmation. And, if it's a
yes, then I got, I mean we got one fuckuva story."

"No, it's yours man, yours. Just let me keep the blood and guts.
Besides, I don't even know what you're talking about, you ain't
said shit. Keep it. Just keep your promise on the drinks. Ok?"

Scott arrived at Grand Central as the huge clock oppose the giant
Kodak photograph struck four o'clock. He proceeded to track
twenty two where the four-thirteen to Scarsdale and White Plains
was waiting. He walked down to the third car and took a seat
that would only hold two. He was saving it for Ty.

Tyrone Duncan hopped on the crowded train seconds before it left
the station. He dashed down the aisle of the crowded car. There
was only one empty seat. Next to Scott Mason. Scott's rushed
call gave Ty an excuse to leave work early. It had been one of
those days. Ty collapsed in a sweat on the seat next to Scott.

"Didn't your mother tell you it's not polite to keep people
waiting?" Scott made fun of Tyrone.

"Didn't your mama tell you not to irritate crazy overworked black
dudes who carry a gun?"

Scott took the hint. It was safest to ignore Ty's diatribe
completely. "I think I got it figured out. Thought you might be
interested." Scott teased Duncan.

Tyrone turned his head away from Scott. "If you do, I'll kiss
your bare ass on Broadway. We don't have shit." He sounded
disgusted with the performance of his bureau.

Scott puffed up a bit before answering. The pride did not go
unnoticed by Duncan. "I figured out how these guys, these black-
mailers, whoever they are, get their information." Scott paused
for effect which was not lost on Duncan.

"I don't care anymore. I've been pulled from the case," Tyrone
said sounding exhausted.

"Well," Scott smirked. "I think you just might care, anyway."

Tyrone felt himself Scott putting him into a trap. "What have
you got?"

Scott relished the moment. The answer was so simple. He saw the
anticipation in Tyrone's face, but they had become friends and
didn't feel right about prolonging the tension. "Van Eck."

Duncan was expecting more than a two word answer that was abso-
lutely meaningless to him. "What? What is Van Eck? The ex-
pressway?" He said referring to the New York Expressway that had
been a 14 mile line traffic jam since it opened some 40 years
ago.

"Not Van Wyck, Van Eck. Van Eck Radiation. That's how they get
the information."

Duncan was no engineer, and he knew that Scott was proficient in
the discipline. He was sure he had an education coming. "For us
feeble minded simpletons, would you mind explaining? I know
about Van Allen radiation belts, nuclear radiation . . .but ok, I
give. What's this Van Eck?"

Scott had not meant to humble Tyrone that much. "Sorry. It's a
pretty arcane branch of engineering, even for techy types. How
much do you know about computers? Electronics?"

"Enough to get into trouble. I can wire a stereo and I know how
to use the computers at the Bureau, but that's about it. Never
bothered to get inside those monsters. Consider me an idiot."

"Never, just a novice. It's lecture time. Computers, I mean
PC's, the kind on your desk and at home are electronic devices,
that's no great revelation. As you may know, radio waves are
caused by the motion of electrons, current, down a wire. Ever
heard or seen interference on your TV?"

"Sure. We've been down this road before, with your EMP-T bombs."
Tyrone cringed at the lecture he had received on secret defense
projects.

"Exactly. Interference is caused by other electrical devices
that are running near the radio or TV. Essentially, everything
that runs on electricity emanates a field of energy, an electro-
magnetic field. Well, in TV and radio, an antenna is stuck up in
the air to pick up or 'hear' the radio waves. You simply tune it
in to the frequency you want to listen to."

"I know, like on my car radio. Those are preset, though."

"Doesn't matter. They still pick the frequency you want to
listen to. Can you just hold that thought and accept it at face
value?" Scott followed his old teaching techniques. He wanted
to make sure that each and every step of his explanation was
clearly understood before going on to the next. Tyrone acknowl-
edged that while he wasn't an electronic engineer, he wasn't
stupid either.

"Good. Well computers are the same. They radiate an electromag-
netic field when they're in use. If the power is off then
there's no radiation. Inside the computer there are so many
radiated fields that it looks like garbage, pure noise to an
antenna. Filtering out the information is a bitch. But, you can
easily tune into a monitor."

"Monitors. You mean computer screens?" Tyrone wanted to clarify
his understanding.

"Monitors, CRT's, screens, cathode ray tubes, whatever you want
to call them. The inside of most monitors is just like televi-
sion sets. There is an electron beam that writes to the surface
of the screen, the phosphor coated one. That's what makes the
picture."

"That's how a TV works? I always wondered." Duncan was only half
kidding.

"So, the phosphor coating gets hit with a strong electron beam,
full of high voltage energy, and the phosphor glows, just for a
few milliseconds. Then, the beam comes around again and either
turns it on or leaves it off, depending upon what the picture is
supposed to show. Make sense?"

"That's why you can go frame to frame on a VCR, isn't it? Every
second there are actually lots of still pictures that change so
quickly that the eye is fooled into thinking it's watching mo-
tion. Really, it's a whole set of photographed being flipped
through quickly." Duncan picked up the essentials on the first
pass. Scott was visibly impressed.

"Bingo! So this beam is directed around the surface of the screen
about 60 times every second."

"What moves the beam?" Duncan was following closely.

"You are one perceptive pain in the butt, aren't you? You nailed
it right on the head." Scott enjoyed working with bright stu-
dents. Duncan's smile made his pudgy face appear larger than it
was. "Inside the monitor are what is called deflection coils.
Deflection coils are magnets that tell the beam where to strike
the screen's surface. One magnet moves the beam horizontally
across the screen from left to right, and the other magnet, the
vertical one, moves the beam from the top to the bottom. Same
way as in a TV." Scott paused for a moment. He had given simi-
lar descriptions before, and he found it useful to let is audi-
ence have time to create a mental image.

"Sure, that makes sense. So what about this radiation?" Duncan
impatiently asked. He wanted to understand the full picture.

"Well, magnets concentrate lots of electrical energy in a small
place, so they create more intense, or stronger magnetic fields.
Electromagnetic radiation if you will. In this case, the radia-
tion from a computer monitor is called Van Eck radiation, named
after the Dutch electrical engineer who described the phenomena."
Scott sounded pleased with his Radiation 101 course brief.

Tyrone wasn't satisfied though. "So how does that explain the
blackmail and the infamous papers you have? And why do I care? I
don't get it." The confused look on Tyrone's face told Scott he
hadn't successfully tutored his FBI friend.

"It's just like a radio station. A computer monitor puts out a
distinctive pattern of radio waves from the coils and pixel
radiations from the screen itself, at a comparatively high power.
So, with a little radio tuner, you can pick up the signals on the
computer screen and read them for yourself. It's the equivalent
of eavesdropping on a computer."

The stunned grimace on Duncan's face was all Scott needed to see
to realize that he now had communicated the gist of the technolo-
gy to him.

"Are you telling me," Tyrone searched for the words and spoke
slowly, "that a computer broadcasts what's going on inside it?
That anyone can read anyone else's computer?"

"In a sense yes."

Tyrone looked out the window as they passed through Yonkers, New
York. He whistled quietly to himself.

"How did you find out? Where did you . . .?" The questions
spewed forth.

"There was a wreak, midtown, and there was a bunch of equipment
in it. Then I checked it out with a couple of . . .engineer
friends who are more up on this than I am. They confirmed it."

"This stuff was in a van? How far away does this stuff work?"
Duncan gave away his concern.

"According to my sources, with the proper gear, two or three
miles is not unreasonable. In New York, maybe only a half a
mile. Interference and steel buildings and all. Manhattan is a
magnetic sewer, as they say."

"Shit, this could explain a lot." The confident persona of the
FBI professional returned. "The marks all claim that there was
no way for the information to get out, yet it did. Scott, is it
possible that . . .how could one person get all this stuff? From
so many companies?" The pointed question was one of devil's
advocacy.

"That's the scary part, if I'm right. But this is where I need
your help." Scott had given his part, now to complete the tale
he needed the cooperation of his friend. The story was improv-
ing.

"Jesus," Duncan said quietly contemplating the implications.

"Most people believe that their computers are private. If they
knew that their inner most secrets were really being broadcast
for anyone to hear, it might change their behavior a little."
Scott had had the time to think about the impact if this was made
public.

"No shit Sherlock. It makes me wonder who's been listening in on
our computers all these years. Maybe that's why our jobs seem to
get tougher every day." Duncan snapped himself back from the
mental digression. "Where do you go from here?"

Scott was prepared. He had a final bombshell to lay on Duncan
before specifying his request. "There are a couple of things that
make me think. First, there is no way that only one guy could
put together the amount of information that I have. I've told
you how much there is. From all over the country. That suggests
a lot more than one person involved. I don't know how many,
that's your job.

"Two, these blackmail threats. Obviously whoever is reading the
computers, Van Ecking them is what I call it, has been sending
the information to someone else. Then they, in turn, call up
their targets and let them know that their secrets are no longer
so secret. Then three, they have been probably sending the
information to other people, on paper. Like me and the National
Expose. I have no idea if any others are receiving similar
packages. What I see here, is a coordinated effort to . . ."
Scott held Tyrone's complete attention.

"You still haven't told me what you need. Lay it on me, buddy.
There can't be much more."

"Doesn't it make sense that if we had one van, and the equipment
inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are
other Van Eck vans out there? For an operation that's this
large, there would have to be a back up, a contingency . . ."
The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.

"Shhhh . . ." Tyrone cautioned. "The trains have ears. I don't
go for conspiracy theories, I never have. Right now all we have
is raw, uncorrelated data. No proof. Just circumstantial events
that may have nothing to do with each other . . ."

"Bullshit. Look at this." Scott opened up his briefcase and
handed a file folder to Tyrone.

"What is it? Looks like a news story, that . . .uh . . .you
wrote and, it's about some mergers. Big deal." Duncan closed
the folder. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"This. Yes, I wrote the story. Two days ago. It hasn't been
printed yet." Scott took the folder back. "I found this copy in
the van that was wrecked two days ago. It was Van Eck'ed from my
computer the day I wrote it. They've been watching me and my
computer."

"Now wait a second. There are a hundred possible answers. You
could have lost a copy or someone got it from your wastebasket."
Duncan wasn't convincing either to himself or to Scott. Scott
smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.

"You want to play?" Scott asked.

"I think I'd better. If this is for real, no one has any priva-
cy anymore."

"I know I don't."

****************************************************************

Chapter 14

Sunday, November 29
Columbia University, New York

The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In
contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite wisdom, had
put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the
McDonalds' window prominent.

Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba-
cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as
much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great
War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in
the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan,
3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to
his computer that was always on.

C:\cd protalk
C:\PROTALK\protalk

He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk
communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no
stop bits.

<<<<<>>>>>

The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and
redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another
number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was
accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It
was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste
of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming
to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to
life and displayed

PASSWORD:

Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.

CRYPT KEY:

He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the
privacy of his conversations.

<<<<<>>>>>

That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be
there to answer.

Good Morning. I have some news.

NEWS?

We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.

PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.

One of the readers is gone.

HOW? CAPTURED?

No, the Americans aren't that smart. He died in a
car crash.

WILL THIS HURT US?

No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But
we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.

THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?

A martyr.

CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?

He had false identification. They will learn
nothing.

BE SURE THEY DON'T. DESTROY THE CAR.

They can learn nothing. Why?

IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US.
HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?

I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.

DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?

It would not matter if they did. They are loyal.
The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the
Americans who died eating their breakfasts.

GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.

It will be done.

<<<<<>

* * * * *

Monday, November 30
New York City

The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and
the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a
deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard
the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the
firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost
the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three
or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc-
ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed
as per Homosoto's order. The explosion that had caused the fire
was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was
placed with that obscure fact.

Ben Shellhorne noticed, though. Wasn't that the van that Scott
Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even
if on police property was not a particularly interesting story,
at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had
promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.

"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal
office phones.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.
Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty
hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He
decided to play it cool.

"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the
tubes."

"Know whatcha mean."

Scott called Tyrone at his office.

"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.

"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The
message would be obvious.

"So?"

"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.
Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to
know."

"Thanks." The phone went dead.

Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound
station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about,
many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.

With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate
forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what
was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid
of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine,
take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers
ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging
Feds.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's
National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express
by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo-
mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They
wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and
found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan
was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read
'Burnson'.

He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on
"P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse
looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent
Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not
only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he
worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far
from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.

An older, matronly lady answered the door.

"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few
accidental tourists who rang the bell.

"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri-
weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this
location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room,
where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double-
checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The
marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but
nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He
looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,
formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain
portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone
pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.

An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a
dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge
provided by the opened bookcase.

The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he
entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over-
sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The
room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a
Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz
cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was
simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript
modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black
trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit-
ted.

His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.
The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near
as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue
suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their
hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded
Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only
afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a
decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck
to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the
men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New
Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli-
tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to
secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.

"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous-
ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others
present.

"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He
had been ordered to this command performance.

"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our
CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson,
assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc-
torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on
Government time."

Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than
Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the
rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P
Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose
and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed
the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement
in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost
on time. Enough of the niceties.

"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you
were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat-
ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched
Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was
called down here, pronto. Since I'm here, my ass.

"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.

"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report."
Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you
fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact
with Duncan.

"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion
was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi-
bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced
computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.
A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my
report."

"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be
additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I
wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked
at the NSA man in deference.

"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned
spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically,
we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the
alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of
him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi-
viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to
the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.
Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received,
it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-
tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to
compromise computer privacy . . ."

"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt-
ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we
want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR
radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the
inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious
beginning of this evening.

"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.

"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"

"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago."
Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to
take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment
that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."

"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the
NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.

"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now
I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the
INTERNET problems."

The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA
shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.

"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-
al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.

Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I
would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then
there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure
you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan
tried to sound confident of his position.

"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I
will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited
for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a
sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the
common sense to censor himself effectively.

"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our
computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was
being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.

"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe
from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly.
Other than Bob, he was not with friends.

"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has
been classified for several years. We don't even admit that it
exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are
concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an
inventive imagination. Do you follow?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a
secret to too many people?"

"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest
Program?"

"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.

"Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of
Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has
been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate
information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated
equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're
doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a
radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed
what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their
signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could
listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer
was doing. Read classified information. I'm sure you see the
problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the
geniality test.

Duncan nodded in understanding.

"We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and
more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."

"What for?"

"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence
community. We listen to other people for a living."

"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn't
that illegal?" Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses
had totally gotten out of hand.

"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular
phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the
same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-
ly.

Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was
feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He
hated the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA. All in
the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I
would have thought this was pure science fiction."

"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to
protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is;
what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.

Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the
conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was
almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact
with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was
contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty
bureaucratic stuff.

"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll
submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.

"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke
up again. "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."

"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been
for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and
task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys
do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg
work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"

"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi-
nent. "The protection of classified information is their respon-
sibility. A group was created to report on computer security
problems that might have an effect on national security. On that
committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have
control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."

Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the
politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could
keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that
poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling
me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases
they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.

"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression
here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.
"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially
the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly
within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The
NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan
had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.

Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement
with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.

"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."

"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more
than the van.

Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him
that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found
out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an
order."

How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to
his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize
their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not
matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had
done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con-
versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It
really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.

"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it
worked."

The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed
astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For
a defense contractor?"

"No, he's also a reporter."

"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless-
ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut
told him otherwise.

"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott
could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if
all else failed.

"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his
chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."

* * * * *

Tuesday., December 1
New York City

The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott
Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to
the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was
interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk,
and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him
coming and was ready.

"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to
deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.

"What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story,
you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece
and then . . .this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's
face. "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this
'we didn't have the room' shit. You yourself thought we were
onto something bigger . . ."

Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the
9th floor, Scott was still in his face.

"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's
why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."

Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to
Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the
book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no
tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty
remark.

"Hey, you look like shit."

"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.

"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed
concern as well.

"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when
necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to
use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat - on
the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dishing out what he
thought about having a story pulled this way.

Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy
return before he started.

"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you
feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had
outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."

Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"

"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first
time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office
telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story.
I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired,
but real.

Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove
the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend-
ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.

"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very
tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print
Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining
order that we not print a story you had written. What should
they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told
him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester
and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court
orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal-
ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg-
edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of
some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.

"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can
assure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the
story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days
once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to
know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.

Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What
did the court order say?"

"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing
anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article.
Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti-
cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save
ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he
quickly added.

"How the hell did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately
blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He
knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. Tyrone must have gone
upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story
and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor-
ney General's office.

"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to
know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail.
And the tiger is in Washington. Seems like you've pissed off
some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are
you onto?"

"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before
9:00 AM. "Whatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed,
Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as
accurate as is expected in such cases.

"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash-
ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons.
Is any of this classified, Scott?"

"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up
against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple
of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security
stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth
Bomber."

"So why do they care?"

"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.

"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver-
sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .

"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret
weapons program," Scott began.

"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash,"
Higgins said dismissing the idea.

"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with
an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe
not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you
were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and Shithead
to build home versions of cruise missiles?"

"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched
his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"

Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that
Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this
is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."

"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know
what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see
if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck.
It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government
wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."

Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which
aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful
that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're
on, I guess.

"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from
Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's
private number.

"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.

"Fuck you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as
hard as he could.

Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be
sooner, so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to
wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He
was going to rob a bank.

* * * * *

Washington, D.C.

"I will call you in 5 minutes."

Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was
Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better
to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person. He didn't
have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on
and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the
ProTalk software package.

Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.

He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com-
puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched
the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly Homosoto.
Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was
really him and he waited for the first message.

WE NEED TO TALK.

That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.

I am listening.

ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD. HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.

By whom?

THE NEW YORK POLICE. THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT. THEN THE FBI GOT
THE READER. THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER. THEY EVEN
HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS. SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE
READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.

How? We don't do that sort of stuff.

OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER. I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.

They don't screw with the press, though. That's frowned upon.

MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE. WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK.
HE IS WHAT WE NEED.

Why him?

SIMPLE. WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL NEWSPAPERS.
THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE. THAT PAPER,
I BELIEVE IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN WHO WATCH
SOAP OPERAS. MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE NEED
HIM BACK. HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN. IN YOUR COUNTRY PEOPLE
LISTEN TO THE PRESS. BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM. WE CANNOT
LET HIM FAIL.

How much does he know?

AS MUCH AS WE WANT HIM TO. NO MORE. WE WANT TO FEED HIM A
LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE DISCOUR-
AGED AND ABANDON THE HUNT. YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS IS.
THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.

Yes, I agree. I wish I knew how you find out these things.

MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS. WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL HARBOR,
BUT WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS. THE WAR IS NOT
OVER.

What do you want me to do?

MAKE SURE THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED. HE IS BRIGHT. HE
UNDERSTANDS. HIS VOICE WILL BE HEARD. HE MUST NOT BE STOPPED.
I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL. PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.

I know how to do that. That will not be a problem. Do we still
have readers?

YES, WE LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING. WE HAVE MANY
MORE.

How many?

MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?

No, I know. Curiosity.

KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.

It is my plan.

WHICH I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED. SEE THAT WE
GET IT.

Sure.

MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.

Yes.

I DO NOT HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY PRIMARY MEANS OF
PROPULSION.

Just an expression.

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Midnight, Wednesday, December 2
Scarsdale, New York

Since he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection for
his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer. Now, it was
time to take advantage of his new asset. Maybe the Government
carries weight with their spook shit, but a bank can't push hard
enough to pull a story, if it's true. And Kirk, whoever that
was, offered Scott the ideal way to prove it. Do it yourself.

So he prepared himself for a long night, and he would definitely
sleep in tomorrow; no matter what! Scott so cherished his sleep
time. He wormed his way through the mess of the downstairs
"study in disaster," and made space by redistributing the mess
into other corners.

He felt a commitment, an excitement that was beyond that of de-
veloping a great story. Scott was gripped with an intensity that
was a result of the apprehension of invading a computer, and the
irony of it all. He was an engineer, turned writer, using com-
puters as an active journalistic instrument other than for word
processing. To Scott, the computer, being the news itself, was
being used as a tool to perform self examination as a sentient
being, as a separate entity. Techno-psychoanalysis?

Is it narcissistic for man's tools to use themselves as both
images of the mirror of reflective analysis? They say man's brain
can never fully understand itself. Is the same true with comput-
ers? And since they grow in power so quickly compared to man's
snail-like millennia by millennia evolution, can they catch up
with themselves?

Back to reality, Scott. The Great American Techno-Philosophy and
Pulitzer could wait. He had a bank to rob. Scott left his
computer on all the time since Kirk had first called. If the
Intergalactic Traveler called back, the computer would answer,
and Kirk could leave a message. Scott checked the Mail Box in
the ProCom communications program. No calls. Not that his modem
was a popular number. Only he, his office computer and Kirk knew
it. And the phone company, but everyone knows about them . . .

Just as the clock struck midnight, Kirk jumped in his seat. Not
only was the bell chiming an annoying 12 mini-gongs, but his
computer was beeping. It took a couple of beeps from the small
speaker in his computer for him to realize he was receiving a
call. What do I do know? The 14" color screen came alive and it
entered terminal mode from the auto-answer screen that Scott had
left yesterday.

WTFO

The screen rang out. Scott knew the answer.

naft

VERY GOOD! COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.

Welcome pilgrim, what has brought thee to these shores?

I GUESS WRITERS HAVE AN ADVANTAGE ON COMM. MAKE YOURSELF VERY
COLORFUL. CREATE ANY PICTURE YOU WANT.

Seems a bit more sporting that hiding behind techy-talk.

YEAH, WELL, I'LL WORK ON IT.

So, as Maynard G. Crebbs asked, "You Rang?"

AH! DOBIE GILLIS. NICK AT NIGHT!

No, the originals.

WHEN WAS THAT?

You've just dated yourself. Thanks.

TO-FUCKING-SHAY! NOT AS OLD AS YOU. READY FOR A TRIP TO THE
BANK?

You read my mind :-)

I FIGURED YOU'D WIMP OUT ON A SOLO TRIP, FIRST TIME AND ALL.
THOUGHT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP. I MAKE A HELL OF A CHAUFFEUR.

What do you mean?

I MEAN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE.

You're kidding. Just like Superman carries Lois Lane?

JUST ABOUT. FIRST I'M GOING TO SEND YOU A COPY OF 'MIRAGE'
SOFTWARE.

When?

RIGHT NOW. THEN, YOU'LL USE MIRAGE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS
EXECUTE FROM THE COMMAND LINE AFTER I DOWN LOAD.

English kimosabe.

OK, ITS SIMPLE. WHEN I SAY SO, YOU ENTER ALT-F9. THAT SETS YOU
UP TO RECEIVE. NAME THE FILE MIRAGE.EXE. THERE'S ONLY ONE.
THEN WHEN IT SAYS ITS DONE, PRESS CTRL-ALT-R. YOU WILL HAVE A
DOS LINE APPEAR. ENTER MIRAGE.EXE AND RETURN.

Stop! I'm writing . . .

USE PRTSCR

What's that?

IS YOUR PRINTER ON LINE?

Yes.

WHENEVER YOU WANT TO PRINT WHAT'S ON THE SCREEN ENTER 'SHIFT-
PrtScr'. LOOK FOR IT. HIT IT NOW.

Thanks! Got it.

OR SAVE THE WHOLE THING TO A FILE. USE CTRL-ALT-S. THEN PICK A
NEW FILE NAME. MEANS MONGO EDITING THOUGH.

Done! I like Ctrl-Alt-S. Suits me fine. No memory needed.

HIT ALT-F9. MIRAGE IS COMING.

Scott did as instructed. The entire procedure made sense intel-
lectually, but inside, there was an inherent disbelief that any
of these simple procedures would produce anything meaningful. It
is inherently difficult to feel progress, a sense of achievement
without instantaneous feedback that all was well.

Less than a minute later, the screen told Scott it was finished.
Did he want to Save the file? Yes. Please name it. Mirage.Exe.
Would you like to receive another? No. Do you want to exit to
Command line? Yes. He entered Mirage.Exe as Kirk had instruct-
ed, hoping that he was still waiting at the other end. The
screen displayed various copyrights and Federal warnings about
illegal copying of software, the very crime Scott had just com-
mitted.

The video suddenly split into two windows. The bottom window
looked just like the screen he used to talk to Kirk, except much
smaller. Only 10 out of a possible 25 lines. The upper half of
the screen was new. MIRAGE-Remote View (C)1988.

Kirk announced himself.

WTFO

Yup! I got something. Two screens.

GOOD. THAT MEANS EVERYTHING PROBABLY WORKED. LET'S TEST IT.
YOU AND I TALK JUST AS USUAL, ON THE SMALL WINDOW, LIKE WE'RE
DOING NOW. ON THE TOP WINDOW, YOU WILL SEE WHAT I'M DOING.
EXCEPT IN MINIATURE. BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE 15 LINES TO SEE, AND
A NORMAL SCREEN IS 25 LINES, THE PROGRAM COMPRESSES THE SIGNAL TO
DISPLAY IT IN FULL. DO YOU HAVE A DECENT MONITOR?

vga 14 inch

GOOD. YOU WON'T HAVE ANY PROBLEMS. REMEMBER, WHENEVER YOU WANT
A COPY OF THE SCREEN, HIT SHIFT-PRTSCR.

Can't I save everything?

CTRL-ALT-S, YEAH.

Done. Anything else?

YOU CAN'T INTERFERE. JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.

A Sunday drive in the country . . .

WITH ME DRIVING. HA! FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS.

Scott watched with his fingers sitting on the keyboard with
anticipation. A phone number was displayed on top line in the
Upper Window: 18005555500.

In a few seconds the screen announced,

WELCOME TO USA-NET, THE COMPLETE DATA BASE.

The graphics got fancy but in black and white.

ARE YOU A FIRST TIME USER? NO

ID? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
PASSWORD? XXXXXXXX

The video monitor did not let Scott see the access codes.

Welcome to USA-NET, Kirk.
Time synchronizing: 0:04:57 December 18, 1990

DO YOU WANT THE MAIN MENU? Y

Scott's large window began to scroll and fill with lines after
line of options:

(A) Instructions
(B) Charges
(C) Updating
(D) OAG
(E) Shopping Menus
(F) Trading Menus
(G) Conversation Pits

In all there were 54 choices displayed. The lower window came
alive.

SEE HOW IT WORKS?

Fascinating.

THAT WAS JUST A TEST. NOW FOR THE REAL THING. SURE YOU WANNA
GO?

Scott had gone this far. He would worry about the legalities in
the morning. Higgins would have his work cut out for him.

Aye, aye, Captain.

ENGAGE WARP ENGINES.

The upper window changed again.

QUIT? Y
ARE YOU SURE? Y

<<<<<>>>>>

Another number flashed in the upper window. 12125559796.

After less than 2 rings the screen announced that they had ar-
rived at the front doors to the computer system at First State
Bank, in New York. Another clue. Kirk was not from New York.
He used an area code.

Scott felt like looking back over his shoulders to see who was
watching him. His automatic flight-or-fight response made the
experience more exhilarating. He tried to force his intellect to
convince himself that he was far from view, unobservable, unde-
tectable. Only partially successful, he remained tense realizing
that he was borderline legal.

<<<<<>>>>>

PORT CONTROL SECURITY, CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING CENTER, FIRST
STATE BANK. O/S VMS R31

SECURITY: SE-PROTECT, 4.0 REV. 3.12.1 10, OCT, 1989
TIME: 00:12:43.1
DATE: 04 December
PORT: 214

ARE YOU SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR? YES
ENTER SYS-ADMIN ID CODE SEQUENCE: 8854

PRIMARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN SECOND-
ARY IDENTIFICATION.

PASSWORD: 4Q-BAN/HKR

SECONDARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN FINAL
IDENTIFICATION.

ID: 374552100/1

WELCOME TO CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING, FIRST STATE BANK, NEW YORK
CITY. YOU ARE THE SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR.

*****************
WARNING!!!

PLEASE ONLY INITIATE CHANGES WHICH HAVE BEEN TESTED ON BACKUP
PROCESSORS. SEVERE DAMAGE MAY RESULT FROM IMPROPER ADMINISTRA-
TION.

*****************

Scott watched in fascination. Here he was, riding shotgun on a
trip through one of New York's largest bank computers, and there
was no resistance. He could not believe that he had more securi-
ty in his house than a bank with assets of over $10 Billion. The
bottom window showed Kirk's next message.

WHAD'YA THINK?

Pretty stupid

WHAT?

That the bank doesn't have better control

VIVE LE HACKER!!!

* * * * *

Wednesday, December 2
New York City

"Doug," Scott came into the office breathlessly, "we have to see
Higgins. I gotta great . . ."

"Hey, I thought you were gonna come in late today? Wire in the
copy?" He looked at the New York clock on the wall. It was
9:15. Scott broke the promise he made to himself to come in
late.

"Yeah, well, I underslept." He brandished a thick file of
computer printouts. "Before I write this one, I want Higgins and
every other lawyer God put on this green Earth to go over it."

"Since when did you get so concerned with pre-scrutiny. As I
remember, it was only yesterday that you threatened to nuke
Higgins' house and everyone he ever met." Doug pretended to be
condescending. Actually, the request was a great leap forward
for Scott and every other reporter. Get pre-lawyered, on the
approach, learn the guidelines, and maybe new rules before plow-
ing ahead totally blind.

"Since I broke into a bank last night!" Scott threw the folder
down on Doug's desk. "Here. I'm going to Rosie's for a choles-
terol fix. Need a picker upper."

When Scott came back from a breakfast of deep fried fat and pan
grilled grease he grabbed his messages at the front desk. Only
one mattered:

Higgins. 11:00. Be there. Doug.

Still the boss, thought Scott.

Higgins' job was to approve controversial material, but it gener-
ally didn't surround only one reporter, on so many different
stories within such a short time span.

"Good to see you, Mason," snorted Higgins.

"Right. Me too," he came back just as sarcastically. "Doug."
He acknowledged his editor with only slightly more civility.

"John, the boy's been up all night," Doug conciliated to Higgins.
He called all his reporters boys. "And Scott, lighten up." He
was serious.

"Sure, Doug," he nodded.

Higgins began. "O.K., Scott, what is it this time? Doug said you
broke into a bank, and I haven't had time to go over these." He
held up the thick file of printouts. "In 25 words or less."
The legal succinctness annoyed Scott.

"Simple. I tied in with a hacker last night, 'round midnight.
He had the passwords to get into the First State computers, and
well, he showed me around. Showed me how much damage can actual-
ly be done by someone at a keyboard. The tour lasted almost 2
hours."

"That's it?" Asked Higgins.

"That's it? Are you kidding? Let me tell you a few things in 25
words or more!" Scott was tired and the lack of sleep made him
irritable.

"I did a little checking before I went on this excursion. You
bank at First, don't you, John?"

It was a setup question. "Yes," Higgins said carefully.

"I thought so. Here let me have that file. Gimme a minute," he
said flipping pages. "Here it is, and yes, correct me if I say
anything that you don't agree with." His curtness and accusato-
ry sound put both Higgins and Doug off. Where was he going?

"John W. Higgins, social security number, 134-66-9241. Born Rock-
ville, Maryland, June 1, 1947. You currently have $12,435.16 in
your checking account, $23,908.03 in savings . . ."

Higgins' jaw and pen dropped simultaneously. Doug saw the shock
on his face while Scott continued.

"Your mortgage at 115 Central Park West is $2,754.21. Your
portfolio is split between, let's see, CD's, T-Bills, the bank
acts as your broker, and you have three safety deposit boxes,
only one to which your wife, Helen Beverly Simons, has access.
You make a deposit every two weeks . . ."

"Stop! How the hell do you know . . ."

"Jeez you make that much? Can I be a lawyer too, huh? Please Mr.
Higgins?"

Higgins threw his chair back and stormed around his desk to grab
the papers from Scott. Scott held them away.

"Let me see those!" Higgins demanded.

"Say please. Say pretty please."

"Scott!" Doug decided enough was enough. Scott had made his
point. "Cool it. Let him have them."

"Sure, boss!" He grinned widely at Doug who could not, for
reasons of professional conduct, openly condone Scott's perform-
ance, no matter how effective it was.

Higgins looked at the top pages from where Scott was reading. He
read them intently, looking from one to the other. Slowly, he
walked back to his desk, and sat down, nearly missing the chair
because he was so engrossed.

Without looking up he spoke softly. "This is unbelievable.
Unbelievable. I can't believe that you have this." Suddenly he
spoke right to Scott. "You know this is privileged information,
you can't go telling anyone about my personal finances. You do
know that, right?" The concern was acute.

"Hey, I don't really give a damn what you make, but I needed to
shake the tree. This is serious shit."

"Scott, you've got my total, undivided attention now. The
floor's yours. You have up to 100 words." Humor wasn't Higgins'
strong point, or his weak point, or any point, but Scott appreci-
ated the gesture. Doug could relax, too. A peace treaty, for
now.

"Thanks, John." Scott was sincere. "As you know I've been run-
ning a few stories on hackers, computer crimes, what have you."
Higgins rolled his eyes. He remembered. "A few weeks ago I got
a call from Captain Kirk. He's a hacker."

"What do you know about him?" Higgins was again taking notes.
The tape recorder was nowhere to be seen.

"Not much, yet, but I have a few ideas. I would hazard to guess
that he is younger. Maybe in his late '20's, not from New York,
maybe the Coast, and has a sense of responsibility."

"How do know this?"

"Well, I don't know, I guessed from our conversations."

"Why didn't you just ask?"

"I did. But, he wants his anonymity. It's the things he says,
the way he says them. The only reason I know he's a he is be-
cause he called me on the phone first."

"When did you speak to him?" Higgins inquired.

"Only once. After that it's been over computer."

"So it could be anyone really?"

"Sure, but that doesn't matter. It's what he did. First, we
entered the computer . . ."

"What do you mean we?" Higgins shot Scott a disapproving stare.

"We. Like him and me. He tied my computer to his so I could
watch what he was doing. So, he gets into the computer . . ."

"How?"

"With the passwords. There were three."

"How did he get them?"

"From another hacker I assume. That's another story." The con-
stant interruptions exasperated Scott. "Let me finish, then grill
me. O.K.?"

Higgins nodded. Sure.

"So, once we were in, he could do anything he wanted. The com-
puter thought he was the Systems Administrator, the head honcho
for all the bank's computer operations. So we had free reign.
The first place we went was to Account Operations. That's where
the general account information on the bank's customers is kept.
I asked him for information on you. Within seconds I knew a lot
about you." Higgins frowned deeply. "From there, he asked for
detailed information on your files; credit cards, payment histo-
ry, delinquencies, loans on cars, IRA's, the whole shooting
match."

"I have to interrupt here, Scott," Higgins said edgily. "Could
he, or you have made changes, to, ah . . .my account?"

"We did!"

"You made changes? What changes?" Higgins was aghast.

"We took all your savings and invested them in a new startup fast
food franchise called Press Rat and Wharthog Sandwiches, Inc."

"You have got be kidding." Scott saw the sweat drops at Higgins'
hairline.

"Yeah, I am. But he did show me how easy it is to make adjust-
ments in account files. Like pay off loans and have them disap-
pear, invoke foreclosures, increase or decrease balances, whatev-
er we wanted to do."

"Jesus Christ!"

"That's not the half of it. Not even a millionth of it. See, we
went through lots of accounts. The bank computer must hold
hundreds of thousands of account records, and we had access to
them all. If we had wanted to, we could have erased them all, or
zeroed them out, or made everyone rich overnight."

"Are you telling me," Higgins spoke carefully, "that you and
this . . .hacker, illegally entered a bank computer and changed
records and . . ."

"Whoah!" Scott held up his hands to slow Higgins down. "We left
everything the way it was, no changes as far as I could tell."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not. I wasn't in the driver's seat. I went along for
the ride."

"What else did you do last night, Scott?" Higgins sounded re-
signed to more bad news. The legal implications must have been
too much for him to handle.

"We poked around transfer accounts, where they wire money from
one bank to another and through the Fed Reserve. Transaction
accounts, reserves, statements, credit cards. Use your imagina-
tion. If a bank does it, we saw it. The point is, John, I need
to know two things."

John Higgins sat back, apparently exhausted. He knew what was
coming, at least half of it. His expression told Scott to ask
away. He could take it.

"First, did I do anything illegal, prosecutable? You know what I
mean. And, can I run with it? That's it."

Higgins' head leaned back on the leather head rest as he began to
speak deliberately. This was going to be a lawyer's non-answer.
Scott was prepared for it.

"Did you commit a crime?" Higgins speculated. "My gut reaction
says no, but I'm not up on the latest computer legislation. Did
you, at any time, do anything to the bank's computers?"

"No. He had control. I only had a window."

"Good, that helps." The air thickened with anticipation as Doug
and Scott both waited for words of wisdom. "I could make a good
argument that you were a reporter, with appropriate credentials,
interviewing an individual, who was, coincidentally, at the same
time, committing a crime. That is, if what he did was a crime.
I don't know the answer to that yet.

"There have been countless cases where a reporter has witnessed
crimes and reported on them with total immunity. Yes, the more I
think about it, consider this." Higgins seemed to have renewed
energy. The law was his bible and Scott was listening in the
congregation. "Reporters have often gone into hostage situations
where there is no doubt that a crime is in progress, to report on
the condition of the hostages. That's O.K.. They have followed
drug dealers into crack houses and filmed their activities."

Higgins thought a little more. "Sure, that's it. The arena
doesn't change the rules. You said you couldn't affect the
computers, right?" He wanted a confirmation.

"Right. I just watched. And . . .asked him to do certain
things."

"No you didn't! Got that? You watched, nothing else!" Higgins
cracked sharply at Scott. "If anyone asks, you only watched."

"Gotcha." Scott recognized the subtle difference. He did not
want to be an aider or abettor of a crime.

"So, that makes it easy. If you were in the hackers home, watch-
ing him over his shoulder, that would be no different from watch-
ing him over a computer screen." He sounded confident. "I
guess." He sounded less confident. "There is very little case
history on this stuff, so, if it came to it, we'd be in an inter-
esting position to say the least. But, to answer your question,
no, I don't think that you did anything illegal."

"Great. So I can write the story and . . ." Scott made a
forgone conclusion without his lawyers advice. There was no way
Higgins would let him get away with that.

"Hold your horses. You say write a story, and based upon what I
know so far, I think you can, but with some rules."

"What kind of rules?" Skepticism permeated Scott's slow re-
sponses.

"Simple ones. Are you planning on printing the passwords to
their computers?"

"No, not at all. Why?"

"Because, that is illegal. No doubt about it. So, good, rule
one is easy. Two, I want to read over this entire file and have
a review of everything before it goes to bed. Agreed?" Higgins
looked at Doug who had not contributed much. He merely nodded,
of course that would be fine.

"Three, no specifics. No names of people you saw, nothing exact.
We do not want to be accused of violation of privacy in any way,
shape or form."

"That's it?" Scott was pleasantly surprised. What seemed like
common sense to him was a legal spider web that Higgins was re-
quired to think through.

"Almost. Lastly, was this interview on the record?"

Damn good question, Scott thought. "I dunno. I never asked, it
didn't seem like a regular interview, and since I don't know
Kirk's real name, he's not the story. It was what he did that is
the story. Does it matter?"

"If the shit hits the fan it might, but I think we can get around
it. Just be careful what you say, so I don't have to redline 90%
of it. Fair enough?"

Scott was pleased beyond control. He stood to thank Higgins.
"Deal. Thanks." Scott began to turn.

"Scott?" Higgins called out. "One more thing."

Oh no, he thought, the hammer was dropping. He turned back to
Higgins. "Yeah?"

"Good work. You're onto something. Keep it up and keep it
clean."

"No problem." Scott floated on air. "No, problem at all."

Back at his desk, Scott called Hugh Sidneys. He still worked at
State First, as far as he knew, and it was time to bring him out
of the closet, if possible.

"Hugh?" Scott said affably. "This is Scott Mason, over at the
Times?"

"Yeah? Oh, hello," Sidneys said suspiciously. "What do you
want?"

"Hugh, we need to talk."

"About what?"

"I think you know. Would you like to talk here on the phone, or
privately?" Sometimes leaving the mark only two options, neither
particularly attractive, would keep him within those bounds.
Sidneys was an ideal person for this tact.

The pregnant pause conveyed Sidney's consternation. The first
person to speak would lose, thought Scott. Hugh spoke.

"Ah, I think it would be . . .ah better . . .if we
spoke . . .at . . ."

"How about the same place?" Scott offered.

"OK," Hugh was hesitant. "I guess so . . .when?"

"Whenever you want. No pressure." Scott released the tension.

"I get off at 5, how about . . .?"

"I'll be there."

"Yes ma'am. This is Scott Mason. I'm a reporter for the Times.
I will only take a few seconds of his time. Is he in?" Scott
used his kiss-the-secretary's-ass voice. Better then being
aggressive unless it was warranted.

"I'll check, Mr. Mason," she said. The phone went on hold.
After a very few seconds, the Muzak was replaced with a gruff
male voice.

"Mr. Mason? I'm Francis MacMillan. How may I help you?" He
conveyed self assuredness, vitality and defensiveness.

"I won't take a moment, sir." Scott actually took several sec-
onds to make sure his question would be formed accurately. He
probably only had one chance. "We have been researching an
article on fraudulent investment practices on the part of various
banks; some fall out from the S&L mess." He paused for effect.
"At any rate, we have received information that accuses First
State of defrauding it's investors. In particular, we have
records that show a complicated set of financial maneuvers that
are designed to drain hundreds of millions of dollars from the
assets of First State. Do you have any comment?"

Total silence. The quality of fiber phone lines made the silence
all the more deafening.

"If you would like some specifics, sir, I can provide them to
you," Scott said adding salt to the wound. "In many cases, sir,
you are named as the person responsible for these activities. We
have the documents and witnesses. Again, we would like a comment
before we go to print."

Again Scott was met with silence. Last try.

"Lastly, Mr. MacMillan, we have evidence that your bank's comput-
ers have been invaded by hackers who can alter the financial
posture of First State. If I may say so, the evidence is quite
damning." Scott decided not to ask for a comment directly. The
question was no longer rhetorical, it was implicit.

If feelings could be transmitted over phone wires, Scott heard
MacMillan's nerve endings commence a primal scream. The phone
explosively hung up on Scott.

* * * * *

Thursday, December 3
First State Bank, New York

Francis MacMillan, President of First State Savings and Loan,
bellowed at the top of his lungs. Three Vice Presidents were in
his office before 7:00 A.M.

"Who the fuck's in charge of making sure the damned computers are
safe?"

The V.P. of Data processing replied. "It's Jeanne Fineman,
sir."

"Fire him."

"Jeanne is a woman . . ."

"Fire them both. I want them out of here in 10 minutes." McMil-
lan's virulent intensity gave his aides no room for dissent.

"Sir, why, it's almost Christmas, and it wasn't her fault . . ."

"And no bonus. Make sure they never work near banks, or comput-
ers ever again! Got that?" Everyone nodded in shock.

"Al?" McMillan shouted. "Buy back our stock, quietly. When
the market hears this we're in for a dump. No one will believe
us when we respond, and it will take us a day to get out an
answer."

"How much?" Al Shapiro asked.

"You figure it out. Just keep it calm." Shapiro noted it agree-
ably.

"Where the hell are the lawyers? I want that pinko-faggot news-
paper stopped by tonight." McMillan's rage presaged a very, very
bad day at First State.

"And someone, someone, find me that shit hole worm Sidneys. I
want him in my office in 30 seconds. Now," he violently thrust
his arms in the air, "get the hell out of here until you have
some good news."

* * * * *

Friday, December 4

RUN ON FIRST STATE AS IT STALLS ON OWN BAILOUT
by Scott Mason

Since yesterday afternoon, First State Savings and Loan has been
in asset-salvation mode. Upon reports that computer hackers have
had access to First State's computers and records for some time,
and can change their contents at will, the stock market reacted
negatively by a sell-off. In the first 15 minutes of trading,
First State's stock plummeted from 48 1/2 to 26 1/4, a reduction
of one half its value. Subsequently, the stock moved up with
block buying. At the noon bell, the stock had risen modestly to
31. It is assumed that First State itself is repurchasing their
own stock in an attempt to bolster market confidence.

However, at 2:00PM, First State contacted banking officials in
New York and Washington, as well as the SEC, to announce that a
rush of worried depositors had drained the bank of it's available
hard currency reserves, and would close until the following
morning when cash transfers would permit the bank to continue
payments.

Last quarter cash holding were reported in excess of $3 Billion,
and First State has acknowledged that any and all monies would
be available to those who desired it. In a press release issued
by First State at 1:00 PM they said, "A minor compromise of our
computers has caused no discernible damage to the computers, our
customers or the bank. A thorough investigation has determined
that the hacker was either a figment of the imagination of a
local paper or was based upon unfounded hearsay. The bank's
attorneys are reviewing their options."

The combination of the two announcements only further depressed
First State stock. It stood at 18 7/8 when the SEC blocked
further trading.

This is Scott Mason, who reported the news as he saw it. Accu-
rately.

****************************************************************

Chapter 15

Sunday, December 6
Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster was busy at one of the several computers in his
Washington, D.C. condo. It was necessary, on a daily basis, to
stay in contact with a vast group of people who were executing
portions of his master plan. He thought it was going quite well,
exceedingly so in fact. Spread over 3 continents he remote
controlled engineers and programmers who designed methods to
compromise computers. With his guidance, though. He broke them
into several groups, and none of them knew they were part of a
much larger organization, nor did they have any idea of their
ultimate objective.

Each of his computer criminals was recruited by Alex; that's the
only name that Miles knew. Alex. Miles had drawn up a list of
minimum qualifications for his 'staff'. He forwarded them to
Homosoto, who, Miles guessed, passed them on to the ubiquitous
yet invisible Alex. That obviously wasn't his real name, but
suitable for conversation.

Miles had developed a profile of the various talents he required.
One group needed to have excellent programming skills, with a
broad range of expertise in operating systems. An operating
system is much like English or any other language. It is the O/S
that allows the computer to execute its commands. Unless the
computer understands the O/S, the computer is deaf dumb and
blind. As a child learns to communicate, a computer is imbued
with the basic knowledge to permit it to function. It is still
essentially stupid, that is, it can't do anything on its own
without instructions, but it can understand them when they are
given.

In order to violate a computer, a thorough understanding of the
O/S, or language of the computer is a must. Good programmers
learn the most efficient way to get a computer to perform the
desired task. There are, as in any field, tricks of the trade.
Through experience, a programmer will learn how to fool the
computer into doing things it might not be designed to do. By
taking advantage of the features of the Operating System, many of
them unknown and therefore undocumented by the original designers
of the O/S, a computer programmer is able to extract additional
performance from the equipment.

Similarly, though, such knowledge allows the motivated programmer
to bypass critical portions of the Operating System to perform
specific jobs and to circumvent any security measures that may be
present. For example, in most of the 85,000,000 or so DOS com-
puters in the world, it is common knowledge that when you ERASE a
file, you really don't erase it. You merely erase the NAME of
the file. If a secretary was told to dispose of document from a
file cabinet, and she only removed the name of each file, but
left the contents remaining in the file drawers, she would cer-
tainly have reason to worry for her job. Such is an example of
one of the countless security holes that permeate computer land.

To take advantage of such glaring omissions, several software
companies were formed that allowed users to retrieve 'erased'
files.

These were among the skills that Miles wanted his people to have.
He needed them to be fluent in not only DOS, but Unix, Xenix,
VMS, Mac and a host of other Operating Systems. He needed a
group that knew the strengths and weaknesses of every major O/S
to fulfill his mission. They needed to be able to identify and
exploit the trap doors and holes in all operating and security
systems. From an engineering standpoint, Miles found it terrifi-
cally exciting. Over the three years he had been working for
Homosoto, Miles and his crew designed software techniques and
hardware tools that he didn't believe were even contemplated by
his former employer, the NSA.

The qualifications he sent to Homosoto were extensive, detailed
and demanding. Miles wasn't convinced that anyone but he could
find the proper people. The interview process alone was crucial
to determining an applicant's true abilities, and a mediocre
programmer could easily fool a non-technical person. While Miles
and Homosoto agreed that all programmers should be isolated from
each other, Miles felt he should know them more than by a coded
name over modem lines. Miles lost that battle with one swift
word from Homosoto. No.

To Miles' surprise, within a few days of providing Homosoto with
is recruitment lists, his 'staff' began calling him on his com-
puter. To call Miles, a computer needed his number, and the
proper security codes. To a man, or woman, they all did. And,
as he spoke to them over the public phone lines, in encrypted
form of course, he was amazed at their quality and level of
technical sophistication. Whoever Alex was, he knew how to do
his job.

Over a period of a few months, Miles commanded the resources of
over 100 programmers. But, Miles thought, there was something
strange about most of those with whom he spoke. They seemed
ready to blindly follow instructions without questioning the
assigned tasks. When a programmer takes a job or an assignment,
he usually knows that he will be designing a data base, or word
processor or other application program. However, Miles' staff
was to design programs intended to damage computers.

He had assembed the single largest virus software team in the
world, and none of them questioned the nature or ethics of the
work. Miles would have thought that while there is considerable
technical talent around the world, finding people who would be
willing to work on projects to facilitate the interruption of
communications and proper computer operations would have been the
most difficult part of recruitment. He realized he was wrong,
although he did not know why. Technical mercenaries perhaps? He
had never seen an ad with that as a job title, but, what the
hell. Money can buy anything. Weapons designers since Oppen-
heiner have had to face similar moral dilemmas, and with wide-
spread hatred of things American, recruitment couldn't have been
all that difficult.

As he sat in his apartment, he was receiving the latest virus
designs from one of his programmers who lived in the suburbs of
Paris, France. While there was somewhat of a language barrier
when they spoke, the computer language was a common denominator,
and they all spoke that fluently. It broke down communications
errors. Either it was in the code, or it wasn't.

Miles knew this designer only as Claude. Claude's virus was
small, less than 2K, or 2000 characters, but quite deadly. Miles
went over it and saw what it was designed to do. Ooh, clever,
thought Miles. As many viruses do, this one attached itself to
the Command.Com file of the DOS Operating System. Rather than
wait for a specific future date, the next time the computer was
booted, or turned on, Claude's virus in the O/S would play havoc
with the chips that permit a printer to be connected to the
computer. In a matter of seconds, with no pre-warning, the user
would hear a small fizzle, and smell the recognizable odor of
electronic burn. During the time the user poked his nose around
the computer, to see if the smell was real or imaginary, the
virus would destroy the contents of the hard disk.

According to Claude, whose English was better than most French-
men, there was a psychological advantage to this type of double-
duty virus. The victim would realize that his computer needed
repair and take it be fixed at his local computer shop. But,
alas! Upon its return, the owner would find his hard disk trashed
and attempt to blame the repairman. Deviously clever. Of course
this type of virus would be discovered before too long. After a
few thousand computers had their printer port blown up, word
would get around and the virus would be identified. But, mean-
while, oh what fun.

As Miles prepared to send Claude's latest and greatest to another
of his staff for analysis and debugging, the computer dedicated
to speaking to Homosoto beeped at him. He glanced over at Nip-
Com. He labeled all his computers with abbreviations. In this
case, Nippon Communications seemed appropriate.

<<<<<>>>>>

MR. FOSTER

Miles scooted his chair over to NipCom and entered his PRG re-
sponse..

Here Boss-san. What's up

YOU TELL ME.

Huh?

I READ THE PAPERS. AGAIN YOU MOVE PRECIPITOUSLY.

What are you talking about?

FIRST STATE BANK. YOUR INFECTORS ARE WITHOUT DISCIPLINE

I still don't know what you mean

THE PAPERS HAVE SAID THAT FIRST STATE BANK WAS INVADED BY HACKERS
AND THEIR STOCK DROPPED VERY MUCH. IT IS STILL NOT TIME.

Oh, that. Good bit of work.

NO SO MR FOSTER. I AM NOT PLEASED WITH YOU

Me, why? I didn't have anything to do with it

EXPLAIN

Nothing to explain. My group doesn't do that, and even if they
did, so what.

WHAT ABOUT THE VIRUSES? I READ EVERY DAY OF NEW COMPUTER VIRUS.
THEY MUST BE STOPPED.

Why? It's all in good fun. Let 'em release them all they want.

THEY WILL HURT OUR PLANS

Bull. If anything, they help us.

HOW IS THAT?

Getting folks good and nervous. They're beginning to wonder who
they can trust. It sure as hell won't be the government.

BUT IT IS IN THE PAPERS.

So?

THE BANKS WILL PROTECT THEMSELVES. THEY WILL SEEN WHAT THE
HACKERS DO AND MAKE OUR JOB MORE DIFFICULT.

Not a chance. Listen, there are hundreds, maybe thousands or
more of small time hackers who poke around computers all the
time. Sometimes they do some damage, but most of the time they
are in it for the thrill. The challenge. They are loosely
organized at best. Maybe a few students at a university, or high
school who fancy themselves computer criminals. Most of them
wouldn't know what to do with the information if they took it.

The only reason this one hit the papers is because First is under
investigation anyway, some fraud stuff. Literally thousands of
computers are attacked every day, yet those don't appear in the
paper or TV. It's kind of like rape. Companies don't want to
admit they've been violated. And since damage has been limited,
at least as far as the scale upon which we function, it's a non-
issue. I DO NOT SEE IT THAT WAY.

Well, that's the way it is. There are maybe a half dozen well
coordinated hacking groups who care to cause damage. The rest of
them, ignore them. They're harmless.

I WISH I BELIEVED THAT

There's not much we can do about it.

WHY NOT STOP THEM

We can't. Look at our plans. We have hundreds of people who
have a single purpose. We operate as a single entity. The hack-
ers are only a small thorn. Industry can't do much about them,
so they ignore them. It is better that we ignore them, too.

FIND THEM

Who?

THE FIRST BANK ATTACKERS

Why?

I WANT THEM STOPPED

I told you, you can't do that. It's impossible. Call the Arab.

LOOK AT US, MR FOSTER. NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE.

What do you want me to do with them?

TELL ME WHO THEY ARE. I WILL TAKE CARE OF IT.

I'll see what I can do.

DO IT.

<<<<<>>>>>

Fuck, thought Miles. Sometimes Homosoto can be such an asshole.
He doesn't really understand this business. I wonder how he got
into it in the first place.

He remembered that he had to get Claude's virus properly analyzed
and tested, so he sent it off to an American programmer who would
perform a sanity-check on it. If all went well he would then
send it out for distribution into America's computers through his
BBS system set up just for that purpose.

With Diet Coke and Benson and Hedges Ultra Lights in hand he
figured he might as well have someone look into Homosoto's para-
noia. With some luck they could get a lead on this anonymous
hacker and maybe Homosoto would leave him alone for a few hours.
The constant interruptions and micro-management was a perpetual
pain in the ass.

Miles moved over to his BBS computer and told ProCom to dial 1-
602-555-3490. That was the phone number of the Freedom BBS,
established by Miles and several recruits that Alex had so ably
located. It was mid morning Arizona time. Revere should be
there.

<<<<<>>>>>

Welcome to the Freedom BBS
Owned and Operated by the
Information Freedom League
(Non-profit)

Are You a Member of the IFL? Y
ID: XXXXXXXXX
PASSWORD: XXXXXXXX

Pause . . .

WELCOME TO THE FREEDOM BBS, MF. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

FREEDOM FLASH!!!!!!!!!

Another hacker has been convicted of a computer crime and
has been sentenced to 1 Year in jail, a fine of $25,000 and
2000 hours of community service!

His crime? Larry Johnson, a respected hacker from Milwau-
kee, WI, was a founding member of the 401 Group over 10
years ago. Since then he has been hacking systems success-
fully and was caught after he added $10,000 to his bank
account.

GOOD FOR THE SECRET SERVICE! Congratulations Guys!

The IFL believes in a free exchange of information for all
those who wish to be willing participants. We whole-heart-
edly condemn all computer activities that violate the law
and code of computer ethics. All members of IFL are expect-
ed to heed all current computer legislation and use comput-
ers exclusively for the betterment of mankind.

Any IFL member found to be using computers in any illegal
fashion or for any illegal purpose will be reported to the
Computer Crime Division of the Secret Service in Washington,
D.C.

Remember, hacking is a crime!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A little thick, thought Miles, but effective. And a stroke of
genius. He patted himself ion the back every time he saw how
effective Freedom, his computer warfare distribution system was.

DO YOU WANT THE MAIN MENU? No

DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO REVERE? Y

LET ME SEE IF HE IS HERE, OR IF YOU NEED TO LEAVE A MESSAGE.

ONE MOMENT PLEASE. . .

THE SYSOP IS WAITING. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PIN: XXXX-XXXX

Pause . . .

MF? IS THAT YOU?

Betch'ure ass. Revere? How's trix?

SAME OL' SAME OL'. YOU?

Trying to make a profit. Hey, we gotta talk.

OUT LOUD?

No whisper.

OK. LET ME SET IT.

Pause . . .
<>
Pause . . .
<>

MF?

Still here.

GOOD. SURPRISES THE SHIT OUT OF ME EVERY TIME THIS WORKS.

Me too.

WHAT CAN I DO? GOT ANOTHER PRESENT?

Couple of days, sure. Some doosies.

WHAT'YA GOT?

A graphics program that kicks the living shit out of VGA Master
and Paint Man. Deadly too.

HOW?

Copies portions of itself into Video RAM and treats it as a TSR.
Next program you load gets infected from Video RAM and spreads
from there. Undetectable unless you're running debug at the same
time and looking for it. Then it stealths itself into all V-RAM
applications and spreads outside the O/S.

TRIGGERS?

I forget the exact trigger mechanism, but it gives constant
parity errors. Nothing'll run.

OK! LOOKIN' GOOD.

Also have a few Lotus utilities, a couple of games.

THE GAMES ARE GOING GREAT GUNS. WE SHOULD BE SELLING THEM IN THE
STORES.

How many?

AS OF A WEEK AGO, MORE THAN 240,000 PACK-LADIES HAVE BEEN DOWN
LOADED. THAT'S OUR BEST SELLER.

Anyone sending money?

SURPRISINGLY, YES. WE'RE TURNING A PROFIT.

Shit. That's not what we wanted.

CAN'T KEEP A GOOD PROGRAM DOWN.

Yeah Yeah Yeah. Need some info.

THAT'S OUR MIDDLE NAME. WHAT DO YOU NEED?

You hear about the First Bank hacker?

SURE! I GOT A DOZEN PEOPLE TAKING CREDIT FOR IT.

You're kidding

NO! IT'S A GOOD ONE. BRING A BANK TO IT'S KNEES. STOP STOCK
TRADING. SEC INVESTIGATION. A LOT OF OUR FOLKS WOULD HAVE BEEN
PROUD.

Was it us?

NO WAY.

Then who, really?

DAMNED IF I KNOW OR CARE.

Care

WHAT? SINCE WHEN DO WE CARE ABOUT THE AMATEURS?

Since now. Things are heating up too soon. I need to know who
pulled the job.

I CAN GET A LOT OF PEOPLE TO ADMIT IT, BUT I CAN'T VERIFY IT.

Whoever did it is not likely to advertise it openly. We may need
to pull him into the open.

GOTCHA

Here's my thinking. Assume the hack is just a kid. He's getting
no credit and receives a shitty allowance. So, we offer a re-
ward. Whoever can prove that they are the one's who broke into
First Bank, we'll send them a new 386. Whatever, use your imagi-
nation.

THINK HE'LL BITE?

If it's a pro, no. But this doesn't ring of a pro. The news-
papers know too much.

AND IF WE FIND HIM?

Just get me his number and shipping address. Make sure he gets
the computer too.

OK BOSS. ANYTHING ELSE?

Keep up the good work. Oh, yeah. I need the estimates.

NO PROBLEM. THEY LOOK GREAT. IN JUST OVER 2 YEARS, WE HAVE
GIVEN AWAY OVER 1,300,000 INFECTED PROGRAMS AND NONE HAVE GONE
OFF YET. ACCORDING TO PLAN.

Love it. Peace.

BYE, YOU MF.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Monday, December 7
New York City

The phone on Scott Mason's desk had been unusually, but grateful-
ly quiet. Higgins had been able to keep the First State lawyers
at bay with the mounds of information the paper had accumulated
on MacMillan's doings. The bank's stock was trading again, but
at a dilution of over 75%. Most individual customers had cashed
out their accounts, including Higgins, and only those long term
portfolios remained. Scott's stories on First Bank had won him
recognition by his peers. No awards, but an accolade at the New
York Journalists Club dinner. Not bad, he thought.

Now the hard work continued for him. The full background analy-
ses, additional proof, more witnesses now that Sidneys was under
Federal indictment and out of work. MacMillan was in trouble,
but it was clear to Scott, that if the heat got turned up too
much, there was a cache of millions offshore for the person with
the right access codes.

His phone rang.

"Scott Mason."

"Hey, Scott this is Kirk. We gotta talk, I'm in trouble." Kirk
sounded panicked.

"Damn Klingons," Scott cracked.

"Seriously, I'm in trouble. You gotta help me out."

Scott realized this was no prank. "Sure, sure, calm down. What
happened?"

"They found me, and they got into my computer and now it's
gone . . .shit, I'm in trouble. You gotta help me."

"Kirk!" Scott shouted. "Kirk, relax, ground yourself. You're
not making sense. Take it from the beginning."

Kirk exhaled heavily in Scott's ear, taking several deep breaths.
"O.K., I'm O.K., but should we be talking on the phone?"

"Hey, you called me . . .," Scott said with irritation.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not thinking so good. You're right, I'll
call you tonight."

Click.

* * * * *

Nightline was running its closing credits when Scott's home
computer beeped at him. Though Kirk had not told him when to
expect a call, all other communications had begun precisely at
midnight, so Scott made a reasonable deduction.

The dormant video screen came to life as the first message
appeared.

MASON

That was unlike Kirk to start a conversation that way.

wtfo

ITS ME. KIRK.

Now it was Scott's turn to be suspicious.

Prove it.

AW CMON

Prove it.

I CALLED YOU TODAY

So did half of the crack pots in New York

I'M IN TROUBLE

So were the others.

OK. WE WENT THROUGH THE BANK AND HAD SOME FUN WITH PRESSED RAT
AND WHARTHOG, INC.

Good enough. You sound as scared here as you did on the phone.
I thought computers didn't have emotion.

I DO.

OK, what's up.

THEY FOUND ME

Who?

THE PEOPLE FROM FIRST STATE BANK.

How? What?

I RECEIVED A MESSAGE ON MY COMPUTER, E-MAIL. IT SAID, STAY AWAY
FROM FIRST STATE BANK. YOUR HACKING CAREER IS OVER. OR ELSE.

What did you do?

CALLED A FEW FRIENDS WHO THINK THEY'RE FUNNY.

And?

HONOR AMONG THIEVES. IT WASN'T THEM. SO I FIGURED IT WAS FOR
REAL.

You sure?

AS SURE AS I CAN BE. MY ACTIVITIES ARE SUPPOSED TO BE SECRET.
NO ONE KNOWS. EXCEPT YOU.

And you think I did something.

THE THOUGHT CROSSED MY MIND MORE THAN ONCE, I'LL TELL YOU. BUT, I
THINK I HAVE ELIMINATED YOU

Thanks, Why?

NO MOTIVATION. I'M MORE USE TO YOU ALIVE THAN DEAD.

Excuse me?

AS LONG AS MY IDENTITY AND ACTIVITIES REMAIN SECRET, I'M ALIVE AS
A HACKER AND CAN CONTINUE TO DO WHAT I DO. AS SOON AS I'M FOUND
OUT, IT'S OVER. BUT THAT'S NOT THE PROBLEM.

What is?

I CAME HOME THIS MORNING AND FOUND THAT SOMEONE BROKE IN AND
TRASHED EVERYTHING. COMPUTERS, PRINTERS, MONITORS, THE WHOLE
BALL OF WAX. AND THERE WAS A NOTE.

What did it say?

WE KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE. STAY OUT OF OUR COMPUTERS OR YOU WILL
BE SORRY. IT WAS SIGNED FIRST STATE BANK.

That doesn't make sense.

WHAT DOESN'T

Nobody except terrorists leave their calling card, and then only
when they're sure they can't be caught. I would bet dollars to
donuts that First State had nothing to do with it.

ARE YOU SURE?

No, I'm not sure, not 100%, but it doesn't add up. You've
stepped on somebody's toes, and it may or may not have anything
to do with First State. They're just trying to scare you.

AND DOING A DAMNED GOOD JOB OF IT

Have you called the police.

NO. NOT YET. I'M NOT IN THE LINE OF WORK THEY PROBABLY APPROVE
OF.

So I see. Who else knew about your trips through the bank, other
than me. I will assume I'm not the guilty party.

A COUPLE OF HACKER FRIENDS, MY GIRLFRIEND, THAT'S ABOUT IT.

No one else?

NOT THAT I CAN THINK OF.

Let me ask you. If you wanted to find out who was hacking where,
how would you find out? Let's say you wanted to know what your
friends were doing. Is there a way?

NOT WITHOUT A LOT OF EXPENSIVE EQUIPMENT. NO. YOU WOULD HAVE TO
TELL SOMEONE.

And you told no one? No one?

WELL, THERE WAS FREEDOM.

What's Freedom?

FREEDOM IS A NATIONAL BBS SYSTEM. IT'S FAIRLY NEW.

What do they do?

LIKE MOST BBS'S, IT'S AN OPEN FORUM FOR EXCHANGE OF INFORMATION,
PROGRAMS, ETC. IT IS ONE OF THE LARGEST IN THE COUNTRY. THEY
HAVE BBS AFFILIATES IN 50 OR 60 CITIES. THEY ALSO RUN A SHARE-
WARE SERVICE.

Is that significant?

MOST SHAREWARE COMPANIES SELL THEIR SOFTWARE ON OTHER PEOPLE'S
BBS'S. THE CONCEPT IS SIMPLE. THEY GIVE AWAY THEIR SOFTWARE FOR
FREE. IF YOU LIKE IT, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO SEND IN A FEW DOLLARS
AS A REGISTRATION, AND THAT'S HOW THEY MAKE MONEY. IT'S PART OF
THE CULTURE, DON'T BECOME RICH ON SOFTWARE. FREEDOM WRITES A
TREMENDOUS AMOUNT OF SOFTWARE AND THEY PUT IT ON THEIR OWN AS
WELL AS OTHER BBS'S. IT'S REAL SMART. THEY BASICALLY HAVE THEIR
OWN METHOD TO DISTRIBUTE THEIR SOFTWARE.

Do they make money?

WHO KNOWS. IT LOOKS LIKE A BIG OPERATION. VERY FEW SHAREWARE
PEOPLE MAKE MONEY, AND FREEDOM SAYS ITS NON-PROFIT.

Non-Profit did you say? Are you sure?

THAT'S WHAT THEY SAY.

What's their number?

I ONLY HAVE THE LA NUMBER.

So you are from the Coast.

SHIT. YEAH. I'M FROM THE COAST.

That was an accident. I really don't care.

I KNOW. IT MAY NOT MATTER. I MAY GIVE IT UP. I DON'T NEED MY
COMPUTERS BEING BLOWN TO SMITHERINES TO TELL ME I'M BARKING UP
THE WRONG TREE.

Maybe it is the right tree.

WHAT?

Never mind. So, you said you told them?

WELL, KIND OF. YOU SEE, THEY ARE VERY MUCH AGAINST HACKING.
THEY ALWAYS TALK ABOUT PROSECUTING HACKERS, HOW BAD WE ARE.
AFTER THE FIRST STATE ARTICLES YOU WROTE, A LOT OF PEOPLE ON THE
CHAT LINE CLAIMED TO HAVE DONE THE JOB. NOT THAT WE REALLY DID
ANYTHING. WE JUST LOOKED AROUND. ALL THESE GUYS ADMITTED TO
HAVE DONE IT, SO I ADDED MY TWO CENTS AND SAID I DID IT. I
THOUGHT IT MIGHT ADD TO THE CONFUSION.

Apparently it did.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Let's say I had something to hide, and let's even say I was First
State.

So, a bunch of people claim to have wrecked havoc on a computer.
What easier way to cover all the possible bases than to threaten
them all.

YOU MEAN EVERYONE WHO ADMITTED IT? OR CLAIMED IT?

Right. Get to them all.

BUT HOW WOULD FIRST STATE KNOW ABOUT IT?

I'm not saying they did. Do you know any of the others who
claimed responsibility?

NOT PERSONALLY. ONLY ONE GUY NAMED DA VINCI I'VE TALKED TO.

Can you call him?

SURE, HE'S ON FREEDOM ALL THE TIME.

Don't use Freedom. Is there any other way to contact him? On
another BBS?

IT WOULDN'T BE HARD TO FIND OUT, BUT WHY NOT FREEDOM?

Look. This BBS may be the only link between the First State hack
you and I were in on, by the way, did you use my name?

DIDN'T NEED TO. YOU WROTE THE ARTICLE. YOU'RE GETTING VERY WELL
KNOWN.

Thanks for the warning. HA! At any rate, you check it out with
this Da Vinci character and once you know, just call me at the
office, and say something like, the Mona Lisa frowned. That
means he got a message similar to yours. If the Mona Lisa
smiles, then we can figure out something else. OK?

SURE. HEY, QUESTION.

Answer.

SERIOUSLY.

I'm serious.

WHAT DO YOU THINK'S GOING ON? YOU BELIEVE IT'S HACKERS, DON'T
YOU?

bLet me ask you a question. How many surrealistic painters does
it take to screw in a lightbulb?

I GIVE. HOW MANY

A fish.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND

That's the point. Neither do I. Yet. But you can help. Accord-
ing to what you're saying, there may be some weirdness with
Freedom. What do you recommend so I can dig a little deeper?
Into the whole cult of hacking. And don't worry. I don't hang
sources. Besides, I think we may need each other.

HOW DO YOU MEAN?

I think you should talk to the authorities.

NO WAY

Wait. I have a friend, ex-friend, who knows about this kind of
thing, at least a little, and he might be of some help to you. I
just don't think it should go unreported. Would you talk to him?

LIVE OR MEMOREX?

He probably would want a face to face, but I can't say for sure.

FORGET IT. BUT I CAN HELP YOU WITH MORE SOURCES. AT LEAST I CAN
TELL YOU WHERE TO GO.

So can a lot of people.

REALLY. NEXT WEEK, THERE'S A CONVENTION OF SORTS FOR HACKERS.

A convention?

WELL, IT'S MORE LIKE AN UNDERGROUND MEETING, A LARGE ONE. WHERE
HACKERS FROM ALL OVER GET TOGETHER AND COMPARE NOTES. IT'S A
GREAT DEAL OF FUN, AND FOR YOU, MIGHT BE A SOURCE OF LEADS.
GENERALLY SPEAKING OF COURSE. YOU CAN'T BE A BULL IN A CHINA
SHOP.

In other words, reporters are taboo.

KIND OF. YOU'LL NEED AN INVITATION, I CAN PROBABLY SWING THAT.
BEYOND THAT, YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN. IT'S A VERY PRIVATE CLUB.

Where is this meeting?

IN AMSTERDAM.

Holland?

YUP.

Why there?

SIN CITY IS AS GOOD FOR HACKERS AS IT IS FOR DRUGS AND SEX. SO
I'M TOLD. HA HA. THE POLICE DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU DO.

What goes on?

BESIDES THE USUAL AMSTERDAM ANTICS? A COUPLE OF HUNDRED OF THE
BEST HACKERS IN THE WORLD SHOW UP TO OSTENSIBLY SET CODES OF
ETHICS FOR THEMSELVES, JUST LIKE FREEDOM DOES. IN REALITY,
THOUGH, WE STROKE OUR EGOS AND PARADE AROUND WITH OUR LATEST
CLAIMS TO FAME AND INVASIONS OF COMPUTERS. WAR STORIES OF THE
PREVIOUS YEAR. NEW CRACKING AND HACKING TECHNIQUES ARE SHARED,
PEOPLE LIE TO EACH OTHER ABOUT THEIR ACHIEVEMENTS AND TALK ABOUT
WHAT THEY WILL ACCOMPLISH IN THE NEXT YEAR. PROGRAMASTERBATION.

Some name. Is that really what they call it?

NAH, JUST A TERM WE USE. I WENT LAST YEAR AND HAD A BALL, LITER-
ALLY. IN FACT, THAT'S WHERE I LEARNED HOW TO GET INTO FIRST
STATE. IT WAS SECOND RATE INFORMATION, FIRST STATE IS NOT EXACT-
LY YOUR HIGH PROFILE BANK TO CRACK.

Understood. How do I get in, what's it called?

IT'S CALLED THE INTERGALACTIC HACKERS CONFERENCE, I-HACK FOR
SHORT. ONLY THE BEST GET TO GO.

You're kidding. So what do you do to get me in?

I CALL YOU AGAIN. LEAVE YOUR BOX ON. I'LL GET YOU AN INVITE.

That's great, I really appreciate that. Will you be there?

NOT THIS YEAR. CAN'T SPARE THE TIME. DON'T ACT LIKE A REPORTER.
PARANOIA RUNS RAMPANT.

Will anyone talk to me, as a reporter?

THAT'S UP TO YOU. ASK THE RIGHT QUESTIONS AND SHOW SYMPATHY FOR
THEIR ACTIVITIES. IF YOU'RE LUCKY YOU'LL MEET THE RIGHT PERSON
WHO CAN GIVE YOU A HANDS ON CRACKING LESSON. FAIR ENOUGH?

Again, thanks. I'll expect your call. And, I'll let you know
what my Fed-Friend says about your problem.

TA.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Tuesday, December 8
Vienna, Austria

Vienna is not only the geographic center of Europe - for 45 years
it has been the geopolitical center as well. A neutral country,
as is Switzerland, it contains the highest concentration of KGB
and CIA operatives in the world. Perhaps that is why Martin
Templer chose to meet Alex Spiradon there a week after his meet-
ing with Tyrone Duncan at P Street.

Situated by the Danube of Strauss fame, Vienna, Austria is an odd
mixture of the old, the very old and nouveau European high tech.
Downtown Vienna is small, a semi-circle of cobblestone streets
and brash illuminated billboards at every juncture.

Templer contacted Alex through intermediaries stationed in Zu-
rich. The agreed upon location was the third bench from St.
Stephen's Cathedral on the Stephansplatz, where Vienna's main
street, Karntnerstrasse-Rotenturmstrasse changes names. No
traffic is allowed on the square, on Kartnerstrasse or on Graben-
strasse, so it is always packed with shoppers, tourists and
street musicians. Ideal for a discreet meeting.

"Have you ever seen Vienna from Old Steffel?" A deep voice came
from behind where Martin was seated. He looked around and saw
it was Alex.

"Many years ago. But I prefer the Prater." He spoke of the
fairgrounds 2 kilometers from town where the world's oldest
Ferris Wheel offered an unparalleled view of the Viennese sur-
rounds. Templer smiled at his old ally from the German Bunde-
poste. Today though, Alex was an asset to the Agency, as he had
been since he had gone freelance some years ago. An expensive
asset, but always with quality information.

"Did you know that St. Stephen's," Alex gestured at the pollu-
tion stained church, "is one of the finest examples of Gothic
architecture in Europe? And Vienna's paradox?"

Templer had never been a history buff. He shook his head.

"Most of Vienna is Baroque, in fine fashion, but there are iso-
lated examples of Gothic. Yet, they seem to coexist. In peace."
Alex's poetic words rolled off of his well educated tongue. The
allegory was not lost on Templer. Western and Eastern intelli-
gence services used Vienna as a no-man's land, where information
and people were regularly exchanged.

"It is a new world," commented Templer. "The threats are differ-
ent."

Alex took the hint. "Let us walk," he urged.

They slowly strolled up the Kartnerstrasse as the Austrian night-
life took on its own distinct flavor.

"How long has it been, my friend?" Alex casually asked. He
disliked rushing into business, the way the Americans favored.

"Damned if I know. 4, 5, 6 years? Too long. We've had some
good times."

"'85, '86 was it? So much travel blurs the senses." Alex wrin-
kled his forehead in thought. "Wasn't it the Pelton affair?
Yes, that would be summer of '85." He referred to Ron Pelton,
the ex-NSA analyst who sold American cryptographic secrets to
the Soviets.

"Yeah," Templer laughed. "That poor jerk. I'd forgotten all
about that. Never would have caught on to the scam if it weren't
for Slovnov. The KGB should tell their own to stay out of the
Moulin Rouge. Not good for business. Ivan had to trade Slovnov
for Pelton. We didn't find out for a year that they wanted
Pelton out anyway. He was too fucked up for them."

"And now? Who do you spy on since Sam and Ivan are brothers
again?" Alex openly enjoyed speaking obliquely.

"Spy? Ha!" Templer shook his head. "I got pushed upstairs.
Interagency cooperation, political bullshit. I do miss the
streets though, and the friends . . .on both sides."

"Don't you mean on all sides?" Cocktail semantics made Alex
occasionally annoying.

"No, I mean both. At least we had class; we knew the rules and
how to play. Now every third rate country tries to stick their
nose in and they screw it up. One big mess." Templer had been a
staunch anti-Communist when there were Communists, but he re-
spected their agents' highly professional attitude, and yes,
ethics.

"Touch! I have missed our talks and our disagreements. I never
could talk you into something you did not believe in, could I?"
Alex slapped Templer lightly on his back. Templer didn't answer.
"Ah, you look so serious. You came for business, not old memo-
ries?"

"No, Alex, I'd love to chat, and we will, but I do need to get a
couple of questions answered, and then, I can relax. Perhaps a
trip to Club 24?" Templer pointed at the bright yellow kiosk
with the silhouettes of naked women emblazoned on it. For a mere
$300, you can buy a bottle of Chevas Regal and share it with one
or two or more of the lovely skimpily clad ladies who adorned
the bar seats. All else was negotiable in private.

"Done. Let us speak, now. What can I do for you?" Alex ap-
proved of the plan.

"I need some information," Templer said seriously.

"That is my business, of course."

"We have a problem in the States . . ."

"As usual," Alex interrupted.

"Yes," Templer grinned, "as usual. But this one is not usual.
Someone, someone with connections, is apparently using computers
as a blackmail tool. The FBI is investigating domestically, and,
well, it's our job, to look outside. So, I figure, call Alex.
That's why I'm here."

Alex disguised his surprise. How had they found him? He now
needed to find out what, if anything, they knew.

"Blackmail? Computers? That's not a lot to go on." Alex main-
tained absolute composure.

"Here's what we know. And it's not much. There appears to be a
wholesale blackmail operation in place. With the number of com-
plaints we have gotten over the last few months, we could guess
that maybe 10, or 20 people, maybe more are involved. They're
after the big boys; the banks, some senators, folks with real
money and power. And it's one professional job. They seem to
get their information from computers, from the radiation they
emanate. It's something we really want to keep quiet."

Alex listened quietly. If Templer was being straight, they
didn't know much, certainly not the scope of the operation nor
Alex's own involvement. It was possible, though, that Templer
was playing dumb, and trying to elicit clues from Alex. If he
was a suspect.

"What sort of demands are being made?" Alex was going to play
the game to the hilt.

"None. Yet."

"After 2 months? You say? And no demands? What kind of black-
mail is that?" Alex ineffectively stifled a laugh. "This
sounds like some Washington paranoia. "You really don't know
what to do without an adversary, so you create one," Alex chuck-
led.

"Alex, c'mon. No shit, we got some muckity mucks with their
heads in a tail spin and our asses in a sling. I don't know
what's happening, but, whatever it is, it's causing a pile of
shit bigger than Congress and smellier."

"And you thought I might know something about it?" Alex ven-
tured.

"Well, no, or yes, or maybe," Templer said coyly. "Who's got a
grudge? Against so many people? And then, who's also got the
technology to do it. There must be a lot of smart people and
money in on it. You have the best ears in Europe." The compli-
ment might help.

"Thank you for the over-statement, but I have only a small group
on whom I can rely. Certainly your own agency can find out
before I can." Deniability and humility could raise the ante.

"We have our good days, but too many bad days." Templer was being
sincere concluded Alex. "Listen, I need the streets. If there's
nothing, then there's nothing. It could be domestic, but it
smells of outside influence. Can you help?"

Alex stopped to light up a non-filtr Gaulloise. He inhaled
deeply as his eyes scanned the clear sky. He wanted to have
Templer think there might be something.

"How much is this information worth?" Alex was the perfect
mercenary, absolutely no allegiance to anyone other than himself.

"We have about fifty grand for good info. But for that price, it
had better be good."

Alex had to laugh to himself at the American's naivete. Homosoto
was paying him a hundred times that for one job. Being a free-
lancer means treating all customers as equals, and there was no
way he would jeopardize his planned retirement for a cause or for
a friend. This would be easy.

"Phew!" Alex whistled. "Hot off the griddle, huh? I'll see who
knows what. It may take a while, a week, ten days, but I'll get
back to you with anything I find. No promises, though."

"I know it's a long shot, but we have to look at all angles. I
really appreciate it." Templer sounded relieved. He had just
recruited, for no money down, the best source of information in
Europe. "Let's go have a bottle of Chevas. On me." The Ameri-
can taxpayer was about to pay for the sexual relief of a merce-
nary enemy.

Alex made it home at 4:00 A.M. after the romp in Club 24. Or was
it Club 1? He no longer knew, no cared. Despite his intense
intoxication, he had to talk to his employer. Somehow he managed
to get his computer alive. He dialed the number in Tokyo, not
knowing whether Homosoto would be in the office.

ENTER PASSWORD
ENTER CRYPT KEY

He responded to both, nearly blinded from the Chevas, yet his
professionalism demanded that he make immediate contact if possi-
ble.

<<<<<>>>>>

Alex missed the message for several seconds before forcing him-
self alert. He quickly entered his opening words before the
connection would shut down.

I have been contacted.

Homosoto apparently never went home. He got an immediate re-
sponse.

BY WHOM

The CIA

The screen paused for several seconds. Alex was too drunk to
notice.

HOW?

An old frrrriend. He called for a meeeeeeting.

WHAT DID HE WANT?

He asked about the US operations.

HOW MUCH DOES HE KNOW?

They kkknnow about the blackmail. But, they're
fishing

FISH

Looking for answers. They know nothing.

TELL ME MORE. I AM NOT HAPPY.

The FBI is looking for an answer, who is behind the propaganda.
They think it is very important, take it seriously. They brought
in the CIA and, probably, the NSA. The effect is beginning. We
should be pleased.

AND THE PRESS? IS IT IN THE PAPERS?

No, it was suppressed. The Government still controls the press.

AND YOU. WHY CONTACT YOU?

The same reason you did. It is pure coincidence.

I AM NOT CONVINCED.

An old friend, a colleague, called for a meeting. He asked for
my help. He tried to hire me to find out if it was foreign.

WHAT DID YOU SAY?

I told him the streets, the rumors, know nothing. That is true.
He never suspected me. I was surprised. He offered me money to
give him information.

HOW MUCH MONEY?

$50,000 US

I PAY YOU A THOUSAND TIMES THAT

No, only 100 times.

DOES IT MATTER?

Only if they equal your money.

MAKE SURE THEY DO NOT. IT IS NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE.

The CIA does not have that kind of money. That is why the Rus-
sians learned so much for so little. The US does not think they
should pay to keep their secrets.

THEY ARE WRONG. WE CALL IT INSURANCE.

They call it blackmail. They do not have the funds.

WHAT WILL YOU TELL THEM?

I will tell them that it is not from here. No, it must be from
the US. They will believe me. I will charge them for that
information.

AND THEY WILL BELIEVE YOU?

If I make them pay, yes. If I give it for free, no. That's the
American way. They will believe what is easiest to believe.
They do not know that this is my last job. They cannot know. If
they think that, they will suspect me. And then, you.

WHY ME?

They will use drugs I cannot resist. So, I must make sure I help
them.

AND IF THEY OFFER MONEY. AS MUCH AS I DO?

Then we negotiate.

THEN YOU WILL DIE.

<<<<<>>>>>

****************************************************************

Chapter 16

Wednesday, December 9
New York

The late afternoon pace of the City Room at the Times tended to
be chaotic. As deadlines approached and the paper was laid out
for the printers, the flurry of activity was associated with an
increase in the loudness of the room. Scott Mason listened with
one hand over his right ear and the phone so awkwardly pressed
between his left ear and shoulder that his glasses sat askew on
his face. Suddenly hanging up the phone, Scott sprung up shout-
ing, "I got it." Several people stopped and stared in his
direction, but seeing nothing of concern or interest to them,
they returned to their own world.

Scott ripped a page from a notebook and ran into and around his
co-workers. "Doug, I got it. Confirmed by the President."

"You're kidding me?" Doug stopped his red pencil mid-stroke.
"Give it to me from the top." He turned in his swivel chair to
face Scott more directly.

"It goes like this. A few weeks ago Sovereign Bank in Atlanta
found that someone had entered their central computers without
permission." Scott perused his notes. "It didn't take long for
them to find the intruder. He left a calling card. It said that
the hackers had found a hole to crawl through undetected into
their computers. Was the bank interested in knowing how it was
done? They left a Compuserve Mail Box.

"As you can imagine the bank freaked out and told their computer
people to fix whatever it was. They called in the FBI, that's
from my contact, and went on an internal rampage. Those good ol'
boys don't trust nobody," Scott added sounding like a poor imita-
tion of Andy from Mayberry.

"Anybody that could spell computer was suspect and they turned
the place upside down. Found grass, cocaine, ludes, a couple of
weapons and a lot of people got fired. But no state secrets.
You talk about a dictatorship," commented Scott on the side.
"There's no privacy at all. They scanned everyone's electronic
mail boxes looking for clues and instead found them staring at
invasion of privacy suits from employees and ex-employees who
were fired because of the contents of their private mail.

"The computer jocks unplugged the computers, turned them inside
out and screwed them back together. Nothing. They found nada.
So they tighten the reins and give away less passwords, to less
people. That's all they figured they could do."

"This is where the fun starts." Scott actively gestured with his
hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. "A few days later
they discover another message in their computer. Says something
like, 'sorry Charlie' or something to that effect. The hackers
were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to
the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we'll show
you how to sew up the holes."

"Well, what does that sound like to you?" Scott asked Doug.

"Extortion."

"Exactly, and ape-shit doesn't begin to describe what the bank
did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We'll pay you a million
bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the
machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the
deal."

"What happened?" Doug said with rapt attention.

"Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a
hundred grand a year," Scott said choking with laughter on his
words.

"You're kidding," exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.

"No shit. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have
a way to pay for a good college, they're bright little snots, and
they get off. The bank figures it's making an investment in the
future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up
to the problems they could face if their computers did go down
for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone
really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic
attack in any bank exec. They'd rather deal with the kids.

"In fact, they're turning it into a public relations coup. Dig
this," Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. "The bank
realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple
of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you're guarding
billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The
Safest Your Money Can Be."

"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun,
human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral.
Confirmed?"

"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow
and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."

"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"

"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer
capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair
coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."

"How fast do you type?"

"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"

"You got 40 minutes to deadline."

* * * * *

Friday, December 11
Washington, D.C.

Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu-
rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did
he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he
had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating
and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki-
ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work-
ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his
social responsibilities to the women.

The master plan Miles had designed years ago for Homosoto was now
calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all,
thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been
put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro-
grammers, the Freedom League BBS's and the infectors. Too much
had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no
pulling back.

Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed.
The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at
hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface
if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going
to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps
deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the
technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human
element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help-
lessness - a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going
to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just
the way Homosoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.

Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that Homosoto felt
toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial-
ly when he and Homosoto were at odds over any particular subject,
Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.

"You're just pissed off 'cause we nuked your family." It was
meant to sting and Homosoto's reactions were unpredictable.
Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his
office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture
ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare.
Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.

But at the bottom of it, Homosoto kept a level head and showed he
knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming
together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The
Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew
they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn't really care as long
as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed
them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another,
just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even
at the highest level.

Only Homosoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique
luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles
designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect
the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen
around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid
a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more
important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps
in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and
the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it
was right now, the job would be done.

Miles' ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter-
minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In
the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while
with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make
recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over.
Next.

Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant
long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in
control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed
with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled
Miles despite the fact that Homosoto called him almost every day
to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.

This time is was Sovereign Bank. Homosoto had heard rumors that
they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that
some of Miles' techies had gone out on their own.

Homosoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others
that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla-
nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn-
ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.

The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than
Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few
years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than the
state or federal legislatures could deal with them. But, as
Miles continually reassured Homosoto, they were small timers with
no heinous motivation. They were mostly kids who played chicken
with computers instead of chasing cars or smoking crack. A far
better alternative, Miles offered.

Just kids having a little fun with the country's most important
computer systems. No big deal. Right? How anyone can leave the
front door to their computer open, or with the keys lying around,
was beyond him. Fucking stupid.

His stream of consciousness was broken when his NipCom computer
announced that Homosoto was calling. Again. Shit. I bet some high
school kids changed their school grades and Homosoto thinks the
Rosenburgs are behind it. Paranoid gook.

<<<<<>>>>>

MR FOSTER

That's me. What's wrong.

NOTHING. ALL IS WELL.

That's a change. Nobody fucking with your Ninten-
do, huh?

YOUR HUMOR ESCAPES ME, AT TIMES

S'pozed 2

WHAT?

Never Mind. What do you need?

WE ARE CLOSE

I know.

OF COURSE YOU DO. A BRIEF REPORT PLEASE.

Sure. Freedom is doing better than expected. Over a million now,
maybe a million and a half. The majors are sick, real sick.
Alex has kept my staff full, and we're putting out dozens of
viruses a week. On schedule.

GOOD

I'm gonna be out for a few days. I'll call when I
get back.

SHOULDN'T YOU STAY WHERE YOU CAN BE REACHED?

I carry a portable. I will check my computer, as I always do.
You have never had trouble reaching me.

THAT IS TRUE. WHERE DO YOU GO?

Amsterdam.

HOLLAND? WHY?

A hackers conference. I need a break anyway, so I thought I
might as well make it a working vacation. The top hackers get
together and stroke themselves, but I could pick something up.
Useful to us.

DO BE CAREFUL, YOU ARE VALUABLE. NO ONE CAN KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

No one does. No one. I use my BBS alias. Spook.

* * * * *

San Francisco, California

Sir George Sterling checked his E-Mail for messages. There were
only 2, both from Alex. The one week holiday had been good for
Sir George. Well earned, he thought. In less than 3 months, he
had called over 1,700 people on the phone and let them in on his
little secrets, as he came to call them.

Every month Alex had forwarded money, regular like clockwork, and
Sir George had diligently followed instructions. To the letter.
Not so much in deference to the implicit threats issued him by
Alex, over computer and untraceable of course, but by the pros-
pect of continued income. He came to enjoy the work. Since he
was in America and his calls were to Americans, he had the oppor-
tunity to dazzle them with his proper and refined accent before
he let the hammer down with whatever tidbit of private informa-
tion he was told to share with them.

In the beginning Sir George had little idea of what the motiva-
tion behind his job was, and still, he wasn't completely sure.
He realized each call he made contained the undercurrent of a
threat. But he never threatened anyone, his instructions were
explicit; never threaten. So therefore, he reasoned, he must
actually be making threats, no matter how veiled.

He rather enjoyed it all. Not hurting people, that wasn't his
nature, but he savored impressing people with his knowledge and
noting their reactions for his daily reports back to Alex. In the
evenings Sir George searched out small American recreational
centers inaccurately referred to as pubs. In fact they were
disguised bars with darts and warm beer, but it gave Sir George
the chance to mingle and flash his assumed pedigree. When asked
what he did for a living, he truthfully said, "I talk to people."
About what? "Whatever interests them."

He became somewhat of a celebrated fixture at several 'pubs' in
Marin County where he found the atmosphere more to his liking; a
perfectly civilized provincial suburb of San Francisco where his
purchased affectations wore well on the locals who endlessly
commuted to their high tech jobs in Silicon Valley 40 miles to
the south.

Hawaii had been, as he said, "Quite the experience." Alex had
informed him one day that he was to take a holiday and return
ready for a new assignment, one to which now he was ideally
suited. Sir George smiled to himself. A job well done, and
additional rewards. That was a first for George Toft of dreary
Manchester, England.

Since he did not have a printer, there was no way he would jeop-
ardize his livelihood for a comfort so small, he read his E-Mail
by copying the messages into Word Perfect, and then reading them
at his leisure. All E-Mail was encrypted with the Public Private
RSA algorithm, so he had to manually decrypt the messages with
his private key and save them unencrypted. When he was done, he
erased the file completely, to keep anyone else from discovering
the nature of his work. Alex's first message was dated two days
before he returned from Hawaii. It was actually cordial, as far
as Alex could be considered cordial. After their first meeting
in Athens, Alex had taken on a succinct if not terse tone in all
communications.

Sir George:

Welcome back. I hope you had a most enjoyable holiday. It was
well deserved.

We now enter phase two of our operations. We place much faith in
your ability and loyalty. Please do not disrupt that confidence.

As in the past, you will be given daily lists of
people to call. They are some of the people whom you have called
before. As before, identify yourself and the nature of your
call. I am sure your last call was so disturbing to them, they
will take your call this time as well.

Then, once you have confirmed their identity,
give them the new information provided, and ask them to follow
the instructions given, to the letter. Please be your usual
polite self.

Alex

The second message was more Alex-like:

Sir George:

If you have any problems with your new assignment, please
call me to arrange your termination.

Alex.

* * * * *

"Hello? Are you there?" Sir George Sterling spoke with as much
elegance he could muster. "This is John Fullmaster calling again
for Robert Henson." Sir George remembered the name but not the
specifics.

"One moment please," Maggie said. "Mr. Henson?" She said after
dialing his intercom extension. "It's John Fullmaster for you.
Line three"

"Who?"

"Mr. Fullmaster. He called once several months ago. Don't you
remember?" He thought. Fullmaster. Fullmaster. Oh, shit. I
thought he was a bad dream. Goddamn blackmailer. Never did
figure how he knew about the Winston Ellis scam. Good thing
that's been put to bed and over.

"All right, I'll take it." He punched up the third line.
"Yeah?" He said defiantly.

"Mr. Henson? This is John Fullmaster. I believe we spoke a
while back about some of your dealings? Do you recall?"

"Yes, I recall you bastard, but you're too late. The deal closed
last month. So you can forget your threats. Fuck off and die."
Henson used his best boardroom belligerence.

"Oh, I am sorry that you thought I was threatening you, I can
assure you I wasn't." Sir George oozed politeness.

"Bullshit. I don't know how the blazes you learned anything
about my business, and I don't really care . . ."

"I think you might care, sir, if you will allow me to speak for a
moment." Sir George interjected. The sudden interruption caught
Henson off guard. He stood his ground in silence.

"Thank you." Sir George waited for an acknowledgement which
never arrived, so he continued. "Winston Ellis is old news, Mr.
Henson, very old news. I read today, though, that Miller Pharma-
ceuticals is about to have its Anti-AIDS drug turned down by the
FDA. Apparently it still has too many side effects and may be
too dangerous for humans. I'm sure you've read the reports
yourself. Don't you think it would be wise to tell your investors
before they sink another $300 Million into a black hole from
which there is no escape?" The aristocratic British accent
softened the harshness of the words, but not the auger of the
meaning.

Henson seethed. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I
will not listen to this kind of crap. I won't take it
from . . ."

"Sorry," Sir George again interrupted, "but I'm afraid you will
listen. The instructions are as follows. I want $5 Million in
small bills in a silver Samsonite case to be placed into locker
number 235 at Grand Central Station, first level. You have 48
hours to comply. If you do not have the money there, we will
release these findings to the media and the SEC which will no
doubt prompt an investigation into this and other of your deal-
ings. Don't you think?"

Blackmail was anathema to Robert Henson, although he should have
felt quite comfortable in its milieu. It was effectively the
same stunt he performed on many of his investors. Nobody treats
Robert Henson this way, nobody. He needed time to think. The
last time Fullmaster called it was a bluff, obviously, but then
there were no demands. This time, he wanted something. But, how
did he know? The FDA reports were still confidential, and he
hoped to have completed raising the funds before the reports
became public, another few weeks at most. He counted on ineffi-
cient government bureaucracy and indifference to delay any an-
nouncement. Meanwhile though, he would pocket several millions
in banking fees.

"You got me. I'll do it. 235. Right?"

"Very good, Mr. Henson. I'm glad you see it my way. It has been
a pleasure doing business with you." Sir George sounded like a
used car salesman. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Please, Mr. Hen-
son, no police. In that case, our deal is off."

"Of course, no police. No problem. Thanks for the call."
Henson hung up. Fuck him. No money, no way.

* * * * *

"Mr. Faulkner, this is John Fullmaster." Sir George was sicken-
ingly sweet. "Do you recall our last conversation?"

How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his
private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had
the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a
matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real
name, reached him with apparent ease.

"Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?"

"Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of
money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame,
don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost
another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively
thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own
actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work-
ing for the side of good after all.

"You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?"
Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.

"I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one
million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."

"One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his
pool side lounge chair.

"Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for
effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas,
and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then,
place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station.
Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its
best.

"Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.

"Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the
$2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is
excellent."

"There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to
him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they
wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore
winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was
only one way out.

"All right, all right. What locker number?"

"Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it,
but no police."

"Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare
would be over.

"Thank you so very much. Have a nice day."

* * * * *

"Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?"
Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold
of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!"

"Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?"
Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last lustful
gaze.

"Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the
Credite Suisse arrangements . . ."

"Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know
that!" Rickfield admonished Ken.

"I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light
on the Senator's desk phone.

"I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"

"No, nothing, after we got General Young onto it," Boyers ex-
plained. "I thought he took care of it, in his own way. The
problem just disappeared like it was supposed to."

"Well," Rickfield said scornfully, "obviously it didn't. Give me
the goddamned phone." He picked it up and pressed the lighted
button. His senatorial dignity was absent as he spoke.

"This is Rickfield. Who is this?"

"Ah, thank you for taking my call. Yes, thank you." Sir George
spoke slowly, more slowly than necessary. This call was marked
critical. That meant, don't screw it up. "My name is John
Fullmaster and I believe we spoke about some arrangements you
made with General Young and Credite Suisse."

"I remember. So what? That has nothing to do with me," Rick-
field retorted. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, John
Fullmaster. Ken looked at the scribbled writing and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Ah, but I'm afraid it does. I see here that Allied Dynamics
recently made a significant contribution to a certain account in
Credite Suisse. There are only two signators on the passbook.
It also says here that they will be building two new factories in
your state. Quite an accomplishment. I am sure your constitu-
ents would be proud."

The color drained from Rickfield's face. He put his hand over
the mouthpiece to speak privately to Ken. "Who else knows?
Don't bullshit me, boy. Who else have you told?"

"No one!" Boyers said in genuine shock. "I want to enjoy the
money, not pay attorney's fees."

Rickfield waved Boyers away. He appeared satisfied with the
response. "This is speculation. You can't prove a thing."
Rickfield took a shot to gauge his opponent.

"Believe that if you wish, Senator, but I don't think it is in
either of our best interests to play the other for the fool."
Sir George saw that Rickfield did not attain his position as
Chairman of the Senate Committee on Space, Transportation and
Technology by caving in to idle demands or threats. In fact, in
34 years of Senate service, Senator Merrill Rickfield had sur-
vived 8 presidents, counseling most of them to varying degrees
depending upon the partisan attitude of the White House.

At 65, much of the private sector would have forced him into
retirement, but elected Government service permitted him the
tenure to continue as long as his constituents allowed. Claude
Pepper held the record and Merrill Rickfield's ego wanted to
establish new definitions of tenure.

His involvement with General Chester Oliver Young was recent, in
political terms; less than a decade. During the Reagan military
buildup, nearly 3 trillion dollars worth, defense contractors
expanded with the economy, to unprecedented levels and profits.
Congress was convinced that $300 Billion per year was about right
to defend against a Cold War enemy that couldn't feed its own
people. The overestimates of the CIA, with selective and often
speculative information provided by the country's intelligence
gatherer, the NSA, helped define a decade of political and tech-
nological achievements: Star Wars, Stealth, MX, B1, B2 and other
assorted toys that had no practical use save all out war.

With that kind of spending occurring freely, and the Senate Over-
sight Committee in a perpetual state of the doldrums, there was
money to be made for anyone part of Washington's good ol' boy
network. General Young was one such an opportunistic militarist.
Promoted to one star general in 1978, after two lackluster but
politically well connected tours in Vietnam, it was deemed pru-
dent by the power brokers of that war to bring Young into the
inner rings of the Pentagon with the corresponding perks such a
position brought. But Young had bigger and better ideas.

He saw countless ways to spend taxpayers money protecting them
from the Communist threat of the Evil Empire, but had difficulty
getting support from his two and three star superiors. It didn't
take him long to realize that he had been token promoted to keep
his mouth shut about certain prominent people's roles in the
Vietnam era. Events that were better left to a few trusted
memories than to the history books.

So Young decided to go out on his own and find support from the
legislative branch; find an influential proponent for a few
specific defense programs by which he could profit. Over the
course of a few years, he and Senator Rickfield became fast
friends, holding many of the same global views and fears, if not
paranoias. When Allied Dynamics began losing Congressional
support for an advanced jet helicopter project, Young went to
Rickfield for help. After all, Allied was headquartered in
Rickfield's home state, and wouldn't it be a great boon to the
economy? The recession was coming to an end and that meant jobs.

Rickfield was unaware, initially, that Allied had an arrangement
with General Young to donate certain moneys to certain charities,
in certain Swiss bank accounts if certain spending programs were
approved. Only when Rickfield offered some later resistance to
the Allied projects did Young feel the need to share the wealth.
After 25 years in Congress, and very little money put away to
show for it, Rickfield was an easy target.

Rickfield's recruitment by Young, on Allied's behalf, had yielded
the Senator more than enough to retire comfortably on the island
paradise of his choice. Yet, Rickfield found an uncontrolled
desire for more; considerations was his word for it, just as he
had grown used to wielding power and influence in the nation's
capital. Rickfield was hooked, and Credite Suisse was the cer-
tain Swiss bank in question. Ken Boyers was involved as well,
almost from the start. They both had a lot to lose.

"No, I must assume that you are not a fool, and I know for a fact
I am not one, so on that one point we do agree." Political
pausing often allowed your opponent to hang himself with addi-
tional oration. Rickfield found the technique useful, especial-
ly on novices. "Please continue."

"Thank you." Sir George said with a hint of patronization. "To
be brief, Senator, I want you to keep your money, I think that
dedicated civil servants like yourself are grossly underpaid and
underappreciated. No sir, I do not wish to deny you the chance
to make your golden years pleasant after such a distinguished
career."

"Then what is it. What do you want from me?" The Senator was
doodling nervously while Ken paced the room trying to figure out
what was being said at the other end of the phone.

"I'm glad you asked," said Sir George. "Beginning next month you
are chairing a sub-committee that will be investigating the
weaknesses and potential threats to government computer systems.
As I remember it is called the Senate Select Sub-Committee on
Privacy and Technology Containment. Is that right?"

"Yes, the dates aren't firm yet, and I haven't decided if I will
chair the hearings or assign it to another committee member. So
what?"

"Well, we want you to drag down the hearings. Nothing more."
Sire George stated his intention as a matter of fact rather than
a request.

Rickfield's face contorted in confusion. "Drag down? Exactly
what does that mean, to you, that is?"

"We want you to downplay the importance of security for govern-
ment computers. That there really is no threat to them, and
that government has already met all of its obligations in balance
with the new world order, if you will. The threats are mere
scare tactics by various special interest groups and government
agencies who are striving for long term self preservation." Sir
George had practiced his soliloquy before calling Senator Rick-
field.

"What the hell for?" Rickfield raised his voice. "Security?
Big deal! What's it to you?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss our reasons. Suffice it to say,
that we would be most pleased if you see to it that the hearings
have minimal substance and that no direct action items are deliv-
ered. I believe that term you Americans so eloquently use is
stonewall, or perhaps filibuster?"

"They're not the same things."

"Fine, but you do understand nonetheless. We want these hearings
to epitomize the rest of American politics with procrastination,
obfuscation and procedural gerrymandering." Sir George had
learned quite a bit about the political system since he had moved
to the States.

"And to what aim?" Rickfield's political sense was waving red
flags.

"That's it. Nothing more."

"And in return?" The Senator had learned to be direct in mat-
ters of additional compensation since he had hooked up with the
earthy General.

"I will assure you that the details of your arrangements with
Allied Dynamics will remain safe with me."

"Until the next time, right? This is blackmail?"

"No. Yes." Sir George answered. "Yes, it is blackmail, but
without the usual messiness. And no, there will be no next time.
For, as soon as the hearings are over, it would be most advisable
for you to take leave of your position and enjoy the money you
have earned outside of your paycheck."

"And, if I don't agree to this?" Rickfield was looking at his
options which seemed to be somewhere between few and none. Maybe
he only had one.

"That would be so unfortunate." Sir George smiled as he spoke.
"The media will receive a two page letter, it is already pre-
pared I can assure you, detailing your illegal involvements with
Allied, General Young and Mr. Boyers."

"What's in it for you? You don't want any money?" The confusion
in Rickfield's mind was terribly obvious, and he was sliding on a
logical Mobius loop.

"No Senator, no money. Merely a favor."

"I will let you know what I decide. May I have your number?"

"I do not need to contact you again. Your answer will be evident
when the hearings begin. Whatever course you pursue, we will
make an appropriate response."

* * * * *

"Scott!" A woman called across the noisy floor. "Is your phone
off the hook?"

"Yeah, why?" He looked up and couldn't match the voice with a
person.

"You gotta call."

"Who is it? I'm busy."

"Some guy from Brooklyn sounds like. Says he got a package for
you?"

Holy shit. It's Vito! Scott's anonymous caller. The one who
had caused him so much work, so much research without being able
to print one damn thing.

Not yet.

"Yeah, OK. It's back on." The phone rang instantly and Scott
rushed to pick it up on the first ring.

"Yeah, Scott Mason here." He sounded hurried.

"Yo! Scott. It's me, your friend, rememba?" No one could
forget the accent that sounded more fake than real. He had been
nicknamed Vito for reference purposes by Scott.

"Sure do, fella," Scott said cheerily. "That bunch of shit you
sent me was worthless. Garbage."

"Yeah, well, we may have fucked up a little on that. Didn't
count on youse guys having much in the ethics department if youse
know what I mean." Vito laughed at what he thought was a pretty
good joke. "So, we all screw up, right? Now and again? Never
mind that, I got something real good, something youse really
gonna like."

"Sure you do."

"No, really, dig this. I gotta list of names that . . . "

"Great another list. Just what I need. Another list."

"Whad'ar'ya, a wise guy? Youse wanna talk or listen?" Scott
didn't answer. "That's better, cause youse gonna like this.
Some guy named Faulkner, big shit banker from La La Land is
borrowing money from the mob to pay off a blackmailer. Another
guy, right here in New York Shitty, a Wall Street big shot called
Henson, him too. Another one named Dobbs, same thing. All being
blackballed by the same guys. Youse want more?"

"I'm writing, quiet. Faulkner, Henson and Dobbs, right?"

"That's whad'I said, yeah."

"So how come you know so much?"

"That's my job. I deal in information. Pretty good, huh?"

"Maybe. I gotta check it out. That last stuff was . . ."

"Hey!" Vito interrupted, "I told youse 'bout that. Eh, paysan,
what's a slip up among friends, right?"

"I'll ignore that. Gimme a couple of days, I'll call you."

"Like hell you will. I'll call you. You'll see, this is good
stuff. No shit. All right? Two days."

Click.

* * * * *

Monday, December 14
Washington, D.C.

The FBI runs a little known counter intelligence operation from
the middle of a run down Washington, D.C. neighborhood on Half
Street. Getting in and out is an exercise in evasive not to
mention defensive driving. The South East quadrant of Washing-
ton, D.C. is vying for the drug capital of the nation, and per-
haps has the dubious distinction of having the highest murder
rate per capita in the United States. Since the CI division of
the FBI is a well kept secret, its location was strategically
chosen to keep the casual passerby from stopping in for a chat.
Besides, there was no identification on the front of the build-
ing.

Most Americans think that the CIA takes care of foreign spies,
but their agents are limited to functioning on foreign land. On
the domestic front the FBI Counter Intelligence Group is assigned
to locate and monitor alien intelligence activities. For exam-
ple, CI-3 is assigned to focus on Soviet and East Bloc activi-
ties, and other groups focus on their specific target countries.
Thus, there is a certain amount of competition, not all of it
healthy, between the two agencies chartered to protect our na-
tional interests. The CIA is under the impression that it con-
trols all foreign investigations, even if they tread upon United
States territory. This line of thinking has been a constant
source of irritation and inefficiency since the OSS became the
CIA during the Truman administration. Only during the Hoover
reign at the FBI days was there any sense of peaceful coexist-
ence. Hoover did what he damn well pleased, and if anyone stood
in his way, he simply called up the White House and had the
roadblock removed. Kennedy era notwithstanding, Hoover held his
own for a 50 year reign.

Tyrone Duncan received an additional lesson on inter-agency
rivalry when he was called down to Half Street. His orders were
similar to those he had received from the safe house in George-
town months before. Stick to your hackers and viruses, period,
he was told. If it smells of foreign influence, let the CI fight
it out with Langley. Keep your butt clean.

In 25 years of service, Tyrone had never been so severely admon-
ished for investigating a case that he perceived as being domes-
tic in nature. The thought of foreign influences at work had not
occurred to him, until CI brought it up.

As far as he was concerned the quick trip from New York to Half
Street was a bureaucratic waste of time and money. However,
during the fifteen minute discussion he was told by his CI compa-
triots that both the blackmail and the ECCO investigations situa-
tions had international repercussions and he should keep his nose
out of it. CI was doing just fine without Tyrone's help.The
meeting, or warning as Tyrone Duncan took it, served to raise an
internal flag.

There was a bigger picture, something beyond a classical black-
mail operation and some hackers screwing with government comput-
ers, and he was being excluded. That only meant one thing. He
was pushing someone's button and he didn't know how, where or
why. The Trump Shuttle flight back to La Guardia gave Tyrone
time to think about it, and that only incensed him further.
Aren't we all on the same team? If I stumbled onto something,
and you want me to back off, O.K., but at least let me know what
I'm missing.

Twenty five years and a return to Hoover paranoia. He under-
stood, and advocated, the need for secrecy, privacy and the
trappings of confidentiality. But, compartmentalization of
information this extreme was beyond the normal course to which he
was accustomed. The whole thing stunk.

He arrived back at New York's Federal Square during lunch hour.
Normally there was a minimal staff at that hour, or hour and half
or two hours depending upon your rank. When the elevator doors
opened on Level 5, seventy feet under lower Manhattan, he walked
into a bustle of activity normally present only when visiting
heads of state need extraordinary security. He was immediately
accosted by eager subordinates. The onslaught of questions
overwhelmed him, so he ignored them and walked through the maze
directly to his office.

His head ringing, he plopped himself down behind his desk. He
stared at the two agents who followed him all the way, plus his
secretary stood in the open door, watching with amusement.
Duncan was not appreciative of panic situations. His silence was
contagious.

"Who's first?" He asked quietly.

The two agents looked at each other and one spoke. "Uh, sir, I
think we have a lead in the blackmail operation." Duncan looked
at the other, offering him a chance to speak.

"Yessir, it seems to have broken all over at once." Duncan
opened his eyes wide in anticipation. Well, he, thought, go on.

The first agent picked up the ball. "Demands. The blackmailers
are making demands. So far we have six individuals who said they
were recontacted by the same person who had first called them a
year ago."

Duncan sat upright. "I want a complete report, here, in 1 hour.
We'll talk then. Thank you gentlemen." They took their cue to
exit and brushed by, Tyrone's secretary on their way out the
door.

"Yes, Gloria?" Duncan treated her kindly, not with the adminis-
trative brusqueness he often found necessary to motivate some of
his agents.

"Good morning, or afternoon, sir. Pleasant trip?" She knew he
hated sudden trips to D.C. It was her way of teasing her boss.

"Wonderful!" Tyrone beamed with artificial enthusiasm. "Book me
on the same flights every day for a month. Definite E-ticket
ride."

"Do you remember a Franklin Dobbs? He was here some time ago,
about, I believe the same matter you were just discussing?" Her
demureness pampered Duncan.

"Dobbs? Yes, why?"

"He's been waiting all morning. Had to see you, no on else.
Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, by all means, thank you."

"Mr. Dobbs, how good to see you again. Please," Duncan pointed
at a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down. How may I help
you?"

Dobbs shuffled over to the chair and practically fell into it.
He sighed heavily and looked down at his feet. "I guess it's all
over. All over."

"What do you mean? My secretary, said you were being blackmailed
again. I think you should know I'm not working on that case
anymore."

"This time it's different," Dobbs said, his eyes darting about.
"They want money, a lot of money, more than we have. Last time I
received a call I was told some very private and specific knowl-
edge about our company that we preferred to remain private.
That information contained all our pricing, quotation methods,
profit figures, overhead . . .everything our competitors could
use."

"So you think your competition is blackmailing you," Duncan
offered.

"I don't know. If they wanted the information, why call me and
tell me? We haven't been able to figure it out."

"What about the others," Duncan thought out loud. "The others
with access to the information?"

"Everyone is suspecting everyone else. It's not healthy. Now,
after this, I'm thinking of packing it in."

"Why now? What's different?"

"The demands. I can't believe it's my competitors. Sure, it's a
cut throat business, but, no, it's hard to believe."

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Dobbs." Duncan tried to be
soothing. "The demands, what were they?"

"They want three million dollars, cash. If we don't pay they
said they'd give away our company secrets to our competitors.
We don't have the cash."

Duncan felt for the man. Dobbs had been right. There was noth-
ing the FBI could have done to help. No demands, no recontacts,
and no leads, just a lot of suspicion. But, now, the Bureau was
in a position to help.

"Mr. Dobbs, rest assured, we will pursue this case aggressively.
We will assign you two of our top agents, and, in cases like
this, we are quite successful." Duncan's upbeat tone was meant
to lift Dobbs' spirits. "Was there anything else demanded?"

"No, nothing, they just told me not to go to the police."

"You haven't told anyone, have you?" Duncan asked.

"No, not even my wife."

"Mr. Dobbs, let me ask you a couple more things, then I will
introduce you to some fine men who will help you. Do you know
anyone else who is in your position? Other people who are being
blackmailed in similar ways?"

Dobbs shuffled his feet under the chair, and picked at the edge
of the chair. Duncan hit a raw nerve.

"Mr. Dobbs, I don't want names, no specifics. It's a general
question. Do you know others?"

"Yes," Dobbs said almost silently.

"Do you know how many?" Duncan needed details if his current
line of thinking would pan out into a viable theory.

"No, not exactly."

"Is it five? Ten? More than Ten? Twenty-five? More than twenty-
five?" Dobbs nodded suddenly.

"Do you mean that you know of 25 other companies that are going
through what you're going through? Twenty five?" Tyrone was
incredulous at the prospects. The manpower alone to investigate
that many cases would totally overwhelm his staff. There was no
way. The ramifications staggered him. Twenty five, all at once.

"Yeah. At least."

"I know you can't tell me who they are . . ." Duncan hoped that
Dobbs might offer a few.

"No. But, look at their stocks. They're not doing well. Our
competitors seem to be getting the best of the deal."

Twenty five cases in New York alone, and he knows of at least 6
others, so far. The rekindled blackmail operation, after months
of dead ends. Duncan wondered how big the monster behind the
head could get. And how could the FBI handle it all. Poor
bastard. Poor us.

* * * * *

Tuesday, December 15
New York

It was before 8:00 A.M. and Scott cursed himself for arriving at
his office at this ungodly hour. He had found the last piece of
the puzzle, didn't sleep very much, and was in high gear before
6:00. Scott couldn't remember the last time he had been awake
this early, unless it was coming round the long way. He scurried
past security, shaking his ID card as he flew through the closing
doors on the express elevator. The office hadn't yet come to life
so Doug McGuire was available without a wait or interruption.

"I need some expense money," Scott blurted out at Doug.

"Yeah, so?" Doug sounded exasperated with Scott's constant
requests for money. He didn't even look up from his impossibly
disorganized desk.

"I'm serious . . .," Scott came back.

"So am I." Doug firmly laid down his pen on his desk and looked
at Scott. "What the hell kind of expenses do you need now?"
Scott spent more money than several reporters combined, and he
never felt bad about it. While a great deal of his work was
performed at the office or at home, his phone bills were extraor-
dinary as were his expenses.

Scott had developed a reputation as willing to go to almost any
lengths to get a story. Like the time he hired and the paper paid
for a call girl to entertain Congressman Daley from Wisconsin.
She was supposed to confirm, in any way necessary, that LeMal
Chemical was buying votes to help bypass certain approval cycles
for their new line of drugs. She accidentally confirmed that he
was a homosexual, but not before he slipped and the lady of the
evening became the much needed confirmation.

As Scott put it, Daley's embarrassed resignation was unavoidable
collateral damage in stopping the approval of a drug as poten-
tially dangerous as thalidomide.

Or then there was the time that Scott received an anonymous tip
that the Oil Companies had suppressed critical temperature-emis-
sion ratio calculations, and therefore the extent of the green-
house effect was being sorely underestimated. As a result of his
research and detective work, and the ability to verify and under-
stand the physics involved, Scott's articles forced a re-examina-
tion of the dangers. He received a New York Writer's Award for
that series.

When Doug had hired Scott, as a thirty-something cub reporter,
they both thought that Scott would fit in, nice and neat, and
write cute, introspective technical pieces. Neither expected
Scott to quickly evolve into a innovative journalist on the
offensive who had the embryo of a cult following.

But Scott Mason also performed a lot of the more mundane work
that most writer's suffer with until the better stories can
justify their full time efforts. New products, whiz bang elec-
tronic toys for the kitchen, whiz bangs for the bathroom. New
computer this, new software that.

Now, though, he was on the track, due in part he admitted, to
Doug coercing him into writing the computer virus bits. Yes, he
was wrong and Doug was right. The pieces were falling in place.
So, no matter what happened, it was Doug's fault.

"I'm going to Europe."

"No you're not!" thundered Doug.

"Yes I am. I gotta go . . ." Scott tried to plead his case.

"You aren't going anywhere, and that's final." Doug retorted
without a pause. He stared challengingly through Scott.

"Doug," Scott visibly calmed himself, "will you at least hear me
out, before telling me no? At least listen to me, and if I'm
wrong, tell me why. O.K.?" Same routine, different day, thought
Scott. The calmer, sincere request elicited empathy from Doug.
Maybe he'd been too harsh.

"Sorry, it's automatic to say 'no'. You know that they," he
pointed down with his thumb, "have us counting paper clips.
Sure, explain to me why I'm going to say 'no'," he joked. Doug's
overtly stern yet fatherlike geniality returned.

"O.K." Scott mentally organized his thoughts. He touched his
fingers to his forehead and turned to sit on the edge of Doug's
desk. A traditional no-no. "Without my notes . . ."

"Screw the notes, what have you got? If you don't know the mate-
rial, the notes won't help. They're the details, not the story."
Scott had heard this before.

"Sure, sorry." He gained confidence and went straight from the
hip. "Fact one. The FBI is investigating a massive blackmail
campaign that nobody wants us to talk about, and probably for
good reason from what I can see. As of now, there is no clue at
all to whom is behind the operation.

"Fact two. My story got pulled by CIA, NSA or someone that pushed
the AG's buttons. And this Tempest thing gets heads turning too
fast for my taste." Doug nodded briefly. Scott made sense so
far, both things were true.

"Three," Scott continued, "First State has been the target of
hackers, plus, we have Sidneys . . ."

"Sort of. McMillan hasn't caved in on that yet."

"Agreed, but it's still good. You and I both know it." Doug
grudgingly nodded in agreement.

"Then we have all those papers that came from a van, or more than
one van I would guess, and not a damned thing we can do with them
according to Higgins." Again, Doug nodded, but he wondered where
all of this was going. "Then the EMP-T bombs, NASA, the Phone
Company, and all of these viruses. What we have is a number of
apparently dissimilar events that have one common denominator:
computers."

Scott waited for a reaction from Doug that didn't come so he
continued. "Don't you see, the van with the computer data, the
endless files, the Sidneys problems, pulling my stories, the
hackers? Even the viruses. They're starting to get a little out
of hand. It's all the same thing!"

Doug rolled his head from side to side on his shoulder. Rather
than boredom, Scott knew that Doug was carefully thinking through
the logic of it. "Aren't you acting the engineer instead of the
reporter here? Miss the old line of work 'eh?"

"Give me a break! You and your viruses are the ones who got me
into this mess in the first place." Scott knew it would come up,
so he had been ready and grabbed the opportunity Doug had just
given him. "That's exactly the point!" Scott leaped off the
desk to his feet. "All we have are technical threads, pieces of
a puzzle. It's a classic engineering problem." Although Scott
had never been a brilliant engineer, he could argue the issues
fluently.

"Let me give you an example. When I was in defense electronics,
whenever someone built something we had to document, without
failure, it didn't work. Radar, navigation, communications, it
didn't matter. The engineers forever were releasing products that
failed on the first pass." Doug stopped rolling his head and
looked at Scott with a blank stare.

"We had these terrifically advanced products meant to defend our
country and they didn't work. So, we had to tell the engineers
what was wrong so they could figure it out. Our own engineers
and I got involved more times than we liked because the response
time from the contractors was for shit. They didn't care any
more. Since we hadn't designed it, we only saw the pieces that
were on the fritz, we had symptoms and had to figure out what
they meant in order to diagnose the failure so we could get the
designers to come up with a fix. The point is, we only had
shreds of evidence, little bits of technical information from
which to try to understand the complete system. That's exactly
what's going on here."

"So?" Doug said dead panned.

"So," Scott avoided getting incensed. "You're damn lucky you have
me around. I see a pattern, a trail, that leads I don't know
where, but I have to follow the trail. That's my job."

"What has Europe got to do with it?" Doug was softening.

"Oops, thanks! I almost forgot." Scott felt stupid for a second,
but he was without notes, he rationalized. "Kirk is my hacker
contact who I've been talking to over my computer. Gives me real
good stuff. He says there's a conference of hackers in Amsterdam
next week. It's a real private affair, and he got me an invite.
I think, no I know, there's something bigger going down; somehow
all of these pieces tie together and I need to find out how."

"That's it?" Scott looked disappointed at Doug's reaction.

"No, that's not it! You know that the Expos has been publishing
bits and pieces of the same stuff we haven't been publishing?"

Scott didn't know which of his arguments made the case, but Doug
certainly reacted to the competitive threat. "How much?"

"How much what?" Scott wasn't ready for the question.

"For Europe? How much play money will you need. You know I have
to sell this upstairs and they . . ."

"Airfare and a couple of nights plus food. That's it. If you
want," Scott readied the trump card he had never used at the
Times. "I'll pay for it myself, and submit it all when I come
back. Then, you make the call. I'll trust you."

"You really think it's that important?" Doug said.

"Absolutely. No question. Something's going on that smells
rotten, bad, and it includes the Government, but I have no idea
how." Scott spoke as if he was on a soapbox. He had shot his
wad. That was it. Anything more was a rehash of the same stuff
and it would have been worthless to say more. He shut up and
waited for Doug who enjoyed making his better reporters anxious
with anticipation.

"Have a good trip," Doug said nonchalantly. He leaned forward
to hunch over his desk, and ignoring Scott, he went back to
redlining another writer's story.

* * * * *

Tuesday, December 15
Scarsdale, New York

Kirk delivered on his word. In his E-Mail repository at the
Times, Scott found a message from Kirk. It was short, but all
Scott needed to hear. Never mind how Kirk broke into the comput-
ers.

Tues. 12/15 00:02:14.1
<< FREEDOM BBS >>

Repo Man,

When you arrive, call 602-356. It's an Amsterdam number. Jon
Gruptmann is your contact. I told him you were a reporter, but a
good one. I said you're working to preserve freedom of electronic
information and you were sick and tired of the police and media
beating up on hackers. He thinks you want to give the other side
of the story to the public.

Jon is one of the best in Holland and anywhere.
He agreed to meet and talk with you himself. He will show you
around. Have a good trip. Call me, oops, no can do.

Oh, Yes. Mona Lisa frowned. I will call you.

Kirk

<< TRANSMITTED BY THE FREEDOM BBS SERVICE >>

When Scott got home from work he checked his E-mail and found the
same message from Kirk, telling him to be on the line tonight.
The Mona Lisa frowned. That meant to Scott that someone was
interested enough in Kirk's activities, or alleged activities at
First State to break in and ruin his computers. And Da Vinci's.
Who was so scared of hackers, or of what they knew to go to these
lengths? How many have had their computers ravaged?

As anticipated, midnight brought Kirk calling.

WE'RE GOING AFTER THEM

After who?

FREEDOM. NEMO AND SOME PHREAKS PHRIENDS ARE GOING TO FIND OUT
WHAT'S GOING ON.

What's wrong?

DID YOU EVER TALK TO ANYONE AND FEEL THAT THINGS WEREN'T QUITE
RIGHT?

Sure.

WELL SO DO I. DA VINCI IS A STRAIGHT WHITE HAT HACKER. I HAD
HIM CHECKED OUT BY PHRIENDS. THEN I CALLED FREEDOM AND JOINED
UP. I GAVE THEM A BUNCH OF SOFTWARE AND I TOOK SOME. I ASKED TO
CHAT WITH THE SYSOP AND WE'VE BEEN TALKING DAILY. STRANGE GUY.

Strange? Over a computer?

YOU CAN TELL. HE SPOKE WITH AN ACCENT.

You're putting me on.

REALLY. EVER READ A VCR MANUAL TRANSLATED FROM THE JAPANESE?
THEY LEAVE OUT THE the's FROM EVERYTHING. IT HAS AN ACCENT. AND
THE WORD DUDE ESPECIALLY UPSET HIM.

Dude? Good reason to be suspicious.

THEN I HACKED HIS SYSTEM WHEN I KNEW HE WASN'T ON LINE. JUST TO
LOOK AROUND MIND YOU.

How can you do that?

BBS'S ONLY COME IN SO MANY FLAVORS. THEY'RE PRETTY EASY TO
CRACK, ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE A COPY TO WORK ON.

Ah hah!

I FOUND HUGE AREAS OF HIS COMPUTER NOT ASSIGNED TO THE BBS.

So?

A BBS COMPUTER IS DEDICATED TO ONE FUNCTION, BBS'ING. SO I POKED
AROUND AND FOUND ANOTHER COMPLETE BBS SYSTEM, NOT PART OF FREE-
DOM. TOO MUCH WAS ENCRYPTED, THOUGH, TO LEARN MUCH. BUT WE
WILL.

Don't get yourself into hot water again . . .

NOT TO WORRY. I'LL BECOME ONE OF THEM. PLAY THEIR GAMES. IT'S
EASY TO BE ANYONE YOU WANT. I WANT TO SEE WHAT'S GOING ON BEHIND
THE SCENES. SHOULDN'T TAKE LONG.

* * * * *

Friday, December 18
New York

U.S. Army on Virus Vigil!
by Scott Mason

In July of 1990, the United States Army joined the inner sanctum
of the Computer Hacker.

The Pentagon had finally realized that the computer is as essen-
tial to battlefield operations and communications as is the gun
and the radio.

Therefore, as the logic goes, why shouldn't the computers be
directly attacked as are other military targets. In keeping with
that line of thinking, the Army said, use computer viruses.
Viruses are those little gremlins which roam throughout a comput-
er system, hiding themselves in silicon gulches, waiting to
ambush mountains of megabytes and erase deserts of data. Perfect
for modern warfare.

The Army issued an RFP, (Request For Proposal) asking the private
sector to study and design computer viruses and other methods to
be used offensively against enemy computers. The half million
dollar contract was awarded to a Beltway Bandit, a small govern-
ment sub-contractor so named for their proximity to Interstate
495, which loops around Washington, D.C.

So, the Army is going into the hacking business, but this brings
up quite a few questions.

Question I. How long has the Government known that computer
viruses and other maladies could be used in a strategic militari-
ly offensive fashion? RFP's are always preceded by much internal
research and consultation with private industry. The Government
typically will have issued RFI's, (Requests For Information) and
RFQ's (Request For Quotes) and already have a darn good idea of
what's available and from whom.

Question II. Has the Government already sponsored such research?
The existence of the EMP-T Bomb has created quite a furor.

Question III. What if the Army created experimental computer
viruses and they get loose? Who is responsible for silicon based
biological warfare on desktop computers?

Question IV. Have any computer viral outbreaks actually been
Government projects gone out of control?

Question V. If the Government knew that civilian and military
computers could be systematically attacked and destroyed, why
haven't we done anything to defend ourselves against a similar
assault?

Last month's attack on the Stock Exchange by secret EMP-T bombs
prompted an investigation into such military capabilities, and
some surprising answers were uncovered.

In an attempt to get specific answers from various Government
agencies, I located a secretive group called OCTAG/0N. (Offensive
Computer Technology Applications Group/Zero-November). OCTAG/0N
is a highly classified interagency project whose sole function is
to develop methods to destroy or disable computers from great
distances.

According to a highly placed source at the Pentagon, OCTAG/0N
allegedly developed computer viruses that will destroy the ene-
my's hard disks. Successful deployment, to use Pentagon-ese, is
the hard part. "If we can get at their computers," an engineer
with OCTAG/0N said requesting anonymity, "we can stop them in-
stantly. Getting them there has been the problem. But now we
know how to get at their computers from great distances."

In the battlefield, for example, advanced tactical communications
groups explode small Magnetic Bombs (EMP-T) which emit very
strong electromagnetic pulses at certain frequencies. The EM
pulses destroy nearby computers, (RAM, ROM, EPROM, Magnetic
storage). Some computer systems are 'hardened' with extra
shielding as in the Tempest program. Other computers, such as
those in Air Force One, inside missile silos, or in the Pentagon
War Room are additionally protected by the secret C3I programs
which 'super-hardens' the computers against the intense magnetic
pulses associated with above ground nuclear explosions.

Intensely focussed energy beams of low power can totally disrupt
an unshielded computer as far away as three miles. Synchronized
Interference Techniques provide double duty to both listen in on
and jam air borne computer traffic. One of OCTAG/0N's pet tricks
is to broadcast a computer virus from a small antenna so that it
is caught by a computers communicating on the same frequency. So
simple, yet so devious.

In conversations with computer experts and the underground hacker
community, the existence of such high tech weaponry has been
confirmed, although the Department of Defense is still issuing a
predictable 'no comment'.

So, I have to ask again. Why hasn't our Government been helping
us protect ourselves against an apparently formidable computer
weapons complement? I hope "The Other Guys" aren't so well
armed.

This is Scott Mason, adding a chastity belt to my modem.

****************************************************************

Chapter 17

Monday, December 28

A/K/A Software
by Scott Mason

The Christmas Virus is upon is. So is the anticipated New Years
Eve and New Year's Day Virus.

Seems like wherever I look, someone is making a virus to attack
my computer or celebrate a holiday.

Rather than another rash of warnings about the impending doom and
gloom faced by your computers, my editor asked me to find the
lighter side of computer viruses. I strongly objected, stating
that I found nothing amusing about them. They were a deadly and
cowardly form of terrorism that should be rewarded with behead-
ing.

However, there is one thing . . .

The geniuses who come up with the names for viral infections;
about as believable and laughable as a Batman comic.

I wonder what most of us would think if our doctor told us we had
the Ping Pong virus instead of strep throat. Or in spring time
we contracted the April Fool's Virus.

It is entirely within the realm of reason that America's comput-
ers go unprotected because of the sheer absurdity of the names we
attach to each one. Comical names create a comical situation, so
no one takes the issue seriously.

The Marijuana virus conjures up images of a stoned orgy, and why
would a computer care about that. The Fu Manchu virus conjures
up the Red Chinese Army crossing the Mississippi, which is clear-
ly not the case, so it is ignored.

Viruses know no national boundary. The Pakistani virus, the
Icelandic, the Israeli, Jerusalem A, Jerusalem B, Jerusalem C,
Lehigh, Alameda, Vienna, Czech, Rumanian - I found over 900
current and active viruses that are identified by their reputed
place of origin.

The Brain virus sounds more sinister than the Stoned Virus, and
Friday the 13th viruses are as popular as the movie sequels. The
Columbus Day Virus was actually dubbed by its authors as Data
Crime, and might have generated more concern if not for the nick-
nom-de-plume it inherited.

So to fulfill my editor's dream, I will list a few of the more
creative virus names. Some were chosen by the programmers,
others by the Virus Busters and others yet by the media. See
what you think each virus would do to your computer, or when it
will strike, merely from the name.

The Vatican Virus The Popeye Virus
The Garlic Virus The Scrooge Virus
Teenage Mutant Ninja Virus The Ides Virus
The Quaalude Virus The Amphetamine Virus
Super Virus The Tick Tock Virus
The String Virus The Black Hole Virus
The Stupid Virus Stealth

I have a few of my own suggestions for future virus builders.

The Jewish Sex Virus (Dials your mother-in-law during a romantic
interlude.)

The Ronald Reagan Virus (Puts your computer to sleep only in
important meetings.)

The Pee Wee Herman Virus (Garbage In Garbage Out)

The Donald Trump Virus (Makes all of your spread sheets go into
the red.)

Tomorrow, Viruses from Hell on Geraldo.

Namely, this is Scott Mason.

* * * * *

Tuesday, December 29
Washington, D.C.

"Why the hell do I have to find out what's going on in the world
from the goddamned papers and CNN instead of from the finest
intelligence services in the world?" The President snapped
sarcastically while sipping black coffee over his daily collec-
tion of U.S. and foreign papers.

The early morning ritual of coffee, newspapers and a briefing by
Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave provided the day with a smooth
start. Usually.

"I've been asking for weeks about this computer craziness. All I
get is don't worry, Mr. President," he said mimicking the classic
excuses he was sick and tired of hearing. "We have it taken care
of, Mr. President. No concern of yours, Mr. President, we have
everything under control. We temporarily have our thumbs up our
asses, Mr. President." Phil stifled a giggle behind his napkin.

"I'm sorry, Phil," the President continued, "but it irritates the
shit out of me. The damn media knowing more about what's hap-
pening than we do. Where the hell is that report I asked for?
The one on the bank hostage I've been requesting for a week?"
The President's mood portended a rough day for the inner circle.

"Sir, as I understand, it wasn't ready for your desk yet."

"Do the goddamned missiles have to land on the White House lawn
before we verify it's not one of our own?"

Phil knew better than to attempt any dissuasion when the Presi-
dent got into these moods. He took notes, and with luck it would
blow over in a couple of days. Today was not Phil's lucky day.

"I want a briefing. Two Hours."

"Gentlemen," the President said from behind his desk in the oval
office, "I'd like to read you something I had Brian put togeth-
er." The efficiency of the White House Press Office under the
leadership of Brian Packard was well known. The President had
the best rapport with the press that any President had in a
generation.

He slipped on his aviator style glasses and pulled the lobe of
his left ear while reading from his desk. "Let's start here.
Phone Company Invaded by Hackers; Stock Exchange Halted by Gov-
ernment Bomb; Computer Crime Costs Nation $12 Billion Annually;
Viruses Stop Network; Banks Lose Millions to Computer Embez-
zlers; Trojan Horse Defeats Government Computers; NASA Spending
Millions On Free Calls for Hackers." He looked for a reaction
from his four key associates: Phil, Quinton Chambers, Martin
Royce and Henry Kennedy. "If you don't know, these are headlines
from newspapers and magazines across the country."

The President read further from his notes. "Viruses Infect
Trans-Insurance Payments; Secret Service Computers Invaded; NSA
and NIST in Security Rift; FBI Wasting Millions on Computer
Blackmail Scheme; First National Bank Held Hostage; Sperm Bank
Computer Records Erased; IRS Returns of the Super Rich." The
President removed his glasses wanting answers.

"What is going on here, gentlemen?" the President asked directly.
"I am baffled that everyone else but me seems to know there's a
problem, and that pisses me off. Answers?"

He wondered who would be the first to speak up. Surprisingly, it
was Henry, who normally waited to speak last. "Sir, we have
active programs in place to protect classified computer systems."

"Then what are these about?" He waved a couple of sheets of
paper in the air.

"Of course we haven't fully implemented security everywhere yet,
but it is an ongoing concern. According to NSA, the rash of
recent computer events are a combination of anomalies and the
press blowing it all out of proportion."

"Do you believe Henry," the President asked, "that if there's
smoke, a reasonable man will assume that there is a fire nearby?"
Henry nodded obligingly. "And what would you think if there were
a hundred plumes of smoke rising?"

Henry felt stumped. "Jacobs assured me that he had everything
under control and . . ."

"As I recall Henry," the President interrupted, "you told me that
a couple of months ago when the papers found out about the EMP-T
bombs. Do you recall, Henry?"

"Yessir," he answered meekly.

"Then what happened?"

"We have to rely on available information, and as far as we know,
as far as we're being told, these are very minor events that have
been sensationalized by the media."

"It says here," the President again donned his glasses, "Defense
Contractors Live with Hackers; Stealth Program Uncovered in
Defense Department Computers; Social Security Computers At Risk.
Are those minor events?" He pointed the question at not only
Henry.

"There was no significant loss of information," Coletree rapidly
said. "We sewed up the holes before we were severely compro-
mised."

"Wonderful," the President said sarcastically. "And what ever
happened to that bank in Atlanta? Hiring Those kids?"

"If I may, sir?" Phil Musgrave filled the silence. "That was a
private concern, and we had no place to interfere - as is true in
most of these cases. We can only react if government property is
affected."

"What is being done about it? Now I mean."

"We have activated CERT and ECCO, independent computer crime
units to study the problem further." As usual, Phil was impecca-
bly informed. "Last years the Secret Service and FBI arrested
over 70 people accused of computer crimes. The state of Pennsyl-
vania over 500, California 300. Remember, sir, computer crimes
are generally the states' problems."

"I'm wondering if it shouldn't be our problem, too," the Presi-
dent pondered.

"There are steps in that direction, as well. Next week the
Senate hearings on Privacy and Technology Containment begin, and
as I understand it, they will be focusing on exactly this issue."

"Who's running the show?" the President asked with interest.

"Ah," Phil said ripping through his notes, "Rickfield, sir."

"That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have
ended up with Homer Simpson." The easing of tension worked to
the President's advantage, for a brief moment. "I want the whole
picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me." He scanned his
private appointment book. "Two weeks. Is that long enough to
find out why I'm always the last to know?"

* * * * *

Wednesday, December 30
New York

"Scott Mason," Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full
of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.

"Scott? It's Tyrone." Tyrone's voice was quiet, just about a
whisper.

"Oh, hi." Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully
trying not to sound angry.

Other than following Scott's articles in the paper, they had had
no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since
then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during
their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of
them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally
obligated, so he thought, to cut off their association after
Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your
sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had
not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that
the gentleman's agreement of off-the-record didn't carry weight
in their venue.

"How have you been?" Tyrone said cordially. "Good bit of work
you been doing."

"Yeah, thanks, thanks," Scott said stiffly.

Tyrone had already determined that he needed Scott if his own
agency wouldn't help him. At least Scott wasn't bound by idiotic
governmental regulations that stifled rather than helped the
cause. Maybe there was hope for cooperation yet, if his little
faux pas could be forgiven.

"We need to talk. I've been meaning to call you." Though Tyrone
meant it, Scott thought it was a pile of warmed up FBI shit.

"Sure, let's talk." Scott's apparent indifference bothered
Tyrone.

"Scott, I mean it," he said sincerely. "I have an apology to
make, and I want to do it in person. Also, I think that we both
need each other . . .you'll understand when I tell you what's
been going on." Tyrone's deep baritone voice conveyed honesty
and a little bit of urgency. If nothing else, he had never known
or had any reason to suspect Tyrone of purposely misleading or
lying to him. And their friendship had been a good one. Plus,
the tease of a secret further enticed Scott into agreeing.

"Yeah, what the hell. It's Christmas." Scott's aloofness came
across as phony, but Tyrone understood the awkwardness and let it
pass.

"How 'bout we meet at The Oyster Bar, Grand Central, and get shit
faced. Merry Christmas from the Bureau."

The Oyster Bar resides on the second lower level of Grand Cen-
tral Station, located eighty feet beneath Park Avenue and 42nd.
Street. It had become a fairly chic restaurant bar in the '80's;
the seafood was fresh, and occasionally excellent. The patronage
of the bar ranged from the commuter who desperately quaffed down
two or three martinis to those who enjoyed the seafaring ambi-
ence. The weathered hardwood walls were decorated with huge
stuffed crabs, swordfish, lifesavers and a pot pourri of fishing
accouterments. The ceilings were bathed in worn fishing nets
that occasionally dragged too low for anyone taller than 6 feet.

Away from the bar patrons could dine or drink in privacy, with
dim ten watt lamps on each table to cut through the darkness.
Tyrone was sitting at such a table, drink in hand when Scott
craned his neck from the door to find his friend through the
crowd. He ambled over, and Tyrone stood to greet him. Scott was
cool, but willing to give it a try. As usual Tyrone was elegant-
ly attired, in a custom tailored dark gray pin stripe suit, a
fitted designer shirt and a stylish silk tie of the proper width.

Scott was dressed just fine as far as he was concerned. His
sneakers were clean, his jeans didn't have holes and the sweater
would have gained him admission to the most private ski parties
in Vermont. Maybe they were too different and their friendship
had been an unexplainable social aberration; an accident.

Scott's stomach tightened. His body memory recalled the time the
principal had suspended him from high school for spreading liquid
banana peel on the hall floors and then ringing the fire drill
alarm. The picture of 3000 kids and 200 teachers slipping and
sliding and crawling out of the school still made Scott smile.

"What'll you have?" Tyrone gestured at a waiter while asking
Scott for his preference.

"Corona, please."

Tyrone took charge. "Waiter, another double and a Corona." He
waved the waiter away. "That's better." Tyrone was already
slightly inebriated. "I guess you think I'm a real shit hole,
huh?"

"Sort of," Scott agreed. "I guess you could put it that way."
Scott was impressed with Ty's forthright manner. "I can think of
a bunch more words that fit the bill." At least Tyrone admitted
it. That was a step in the right direction.

Ty laughed. "Yeah, I bet you could, and you might be right."
Scott's drink came. He took a thirsty gulp from the long neck
bottle."

"Ease on down the road!" Ty held his half empty drink in the
air. It was peace offering. Scott slowly lifted his and their
drinks met briefly. They both sipped again, and an awkward
silence followed.

"Well, I guess it's up to me to explain, isn't it?" Tyrone ven-
tured.

"You don't have to explain anything. I understand," Scott said
caustically.

"I don't think you do, my friend. May I at least have my last
words before you shoot?" Tyrone's joviality was not as effective
when nervous.

Scott remembered that he used the same argument with Doug only
days before. He eased up. "Sure, ready and aimed, though."

"I'm quitting." Tyrone's face showed disappointment, resigna-
tion.

The beer bottle at Scott's lips was abruptly laid on the table.
"Quitting? The FBI?" Tyrone nodded. "Why? What happened?"
For one moment Scott completely forgot how angry he was.

The din of the Oyster Bar made for excellent cover. They could
speak freely with minimal worry of being overheard.

"It's a long story, but it began when they pulled your article.
God, I'm sorry, man," Tyrone said with empathy. The furrows on
his forehead deepened as he searched for a reaction from Scott.
Nothing.

Ty finished off his drink and started on the refill. "Unlike
what you probably believe, or want to believe, when you called me
that morning, I had no idea what you were talking about. It was
several hours before I realized what had happened. If I had any
idea . . ."

Scott stared blankly at Tyrone. You haven't convinced me of
anything, Scott thought.

"As far as I knew, you were writing an article that had no par-
ticular consequence . . ."

"Thanks a shitload," Scott quipped.

"No, I mean, I had no idea of the national security implica-
tions, and besides, it was going to be in the paper the next day
anyway." Tyrone shrugged with his hands in the air for added
emphasis. "Tempest meant nothing to me. All I said was that you
and I had been talking. I promise you, that's it. As a friend,
that was the extent of it. They took it from there." Tyrone
extended his hands in an open gesture of conciliation. "All I
knew was that what you'd said about CMR shook some people up in
D.C.. ECCO has been quite educational. Now I know why, and
that's why I have to leave."

The genuineness from Tyrone softened Scott's attitude some. "I
thought you spooks stuck together. Spy and die together."

Tyrone contorted his face to show disgust with that thought.
"That'll be the day. In fact it's the opposite. A third of our
budgets are meant to keep other agencies in the dark about what
we're doing."

"You're kidding!"

"I wish I was." Tyrone looked disheartened, betrayed.

"At any rate," Tyrone continued, "I got spooked by the stunt with
your paper and the Attorney General. I just couldn't call you,
you'll see why. The Agency is supposed to enforce the law, not
make it and they have absolutely no business screwing with the
press. Uh-uh." Tyrone took a healthy sip of his drink. "Reminds
me of times that are supposed to be gone. Dead in the past. Did
you know that I am a constitutional lawyer?"

Scott ordered another beer and shook his head, no. Just a regular
lawyer. Will wonders never cease?

"Back in the early 60's the South was not a good place for
blacks. Or Negroes as we were called back then." Tyrone said
the word Negro with disdain. He pulled his tie from the stiff
collar and opened a button. "I went on some marches in Alabama,
God, that was a hot summer. A couple of civil rights workers were
killed."

Scott remembered. More from the movie Mississippi Burning than
from memory.

Civil rights wasn't a black-white issue, Tyrone insisted. It was
about man's peaceful co-existence with government. A legal
issue. "I thought that was an important distinction and most
people were missing the point. I thought I could make a differ-
ence working from inside the system. I was wrong, and I've been
blinded by it until now . . .you know.

"When I was in college the politicians screamed integration while
the poor blacks no more wanted to be bussed to the rich white
neighborhood that the rich whites wanted the poor blacks in their
schools." Tyrone spoke from his heart, his soul, with a touch of
resentment that Scott had not seen before. But then, they had
never spoken of it before. This was one story that he had suc-
cessfully neglected to share. "Forced integration was govern-
ment's answer to a problem it has never understood.

"It's about dignity. Dignity and respect, not government inter-
vention. It's about a man's right to privacy and the right to
lead his life the way he sees fit. Civil rights is about how to
keep government from interfering with its citizens. Regardless
of color." Tyrone was adamant.

"And that's why you're gonna quit?" Scott didn't see the con-
nection.

"No, goddamnit, no," Tyrone shouted. "Don't you get it?" Scott
shook his head. "They want to take them away." He spoke with
finality and assumed Scott knew what he meant. The liquor fogged
his brain to mouth speech connection.

"Who's gonna take what away?" Scott asked, frustrated by Ty's
ramblings.

"I know it's hokey, but the Founding Fathers had a plan, and so
far it's survived two hundred years of scrutiny and division. I
would like to think it can survive the computer age." Tyrone
quieted down some. "My father used to tell me, from the time I
was old enough to understand, that law was merely a measure of
how much freedom a man was willing to sacrifice to maintain an
orderly society."

"My father was a radical liberal among liberals," Tyrone remem-
bered. "Even today he'll pick a fight at the family barbecue for
his own entertainment. And he'll hold his own."

Scott enjoyed the image of a crotchety octogenarian stirring up
the shit while his children isolated their kids from their grand
father's intellectual lunacy. What was this about?

Tyrone caught himself and realized that he wasn't getting his
point across. He took a deep breath and slouched back in the
chair that barely held him.

"From the beginning," he said. "I told you about ECCO, and what
a disaster it is. No authority, no control, no responsibility.
And the chaos is unbelievable.

"I don't pretend to understand all of the computer jargon, but I
do recognize when the NSA wants to control everything. There's a
phenomenal amount of arrogance there. The NSA reps in ECCO
believe that they are the only ones who know anything about
computers and how to protect them. I feel sorry for the guys
from NIST. They're totally underfunded, so they end up with both
the grunt work and the brunt of the jokes from the NSA.

"NSA won't cooperate on anything. If NIST says it's white, NSA
says it's black. If NIST says there's room to compromise, NSA
gets more stubborn. And the academic types. At long last I now
know what happened to the hippies: they're all government con-
sultants through universities. And all they want to do is
study, study, study. But they never come up with answers, just
more questions to study.

"The vendors try to sell their products and don't contribute a
damn thing," sighed Tyrone. "A bunch of industry guys from
computer companies and the banks, and they're as baffled as I
am."

"So why quit? Can't you make a difference?"

"Listen. The FBI views computer crimes as inter-state in nature
and therefore under their domain."

Scott nodded in understanding.

"We are enforcement, only," Tyrone asserted. "We do not, nor
should we make the laws. Separation of power; Civics 101. To
accomplish anything, I have to be a private citizen."

"What do you want to accomplish?" asked Scott with great inter-
est.

"I want to stop the NSA." Tyrone spoke bluntly and Scott sat too
stunned to speak for long seconds.

"From what?" A sudden pit formed in Scott's stomach.

"I found out why they dumped on you about the CMR," Tyrone said.
"I haven't been able to tell you before, but it doesn't matter
any more." Tyrone quickly shook off the veiling sadness. "NSA
has a built-in contradiction. On one hand they listen into the
world and spy for America. This is supposed to be very secret,
especially how they do it. It turns out that CMR is one of their
'secret' methods for spying on friends and foes alike.

"So, to keep our friends and foes from spying on us, they create
the secret Tempest program. Except, they think it needs to be
kept a military secret, and the public sector be damned. They
actually believe that opening the issue to the public will hamper
their intelligence gathering capabilities because the enemy will
protect against it, too."

Scott listened in fascination. What he was learning now more than
made up for the loss of one article. He felt bad now that he had
overreacted and taken it out on Tyrone.

"Same goes for the EMP-T bomb," Tyrone added. "Only they didn't
know that you were going to publish ahead of time like they did
when I opened up my fat trap."

Scott's eyes suddenly lit up. "How much did you tell them?"

"That I knew you and you were writing an article. That's it."

"Then how did they know what I had written? It was pretty damned
close. I assumed that you had . . ."

"No way, man," Tyrone held his hands up.

"Then how did . . .Ty? What if they're using CMR on my computers?
Could they . . ."

Tyrone's predicament was to decide whether or not to tell Scott
that he knew the NSA and others spied on Americans and gathered
intelligence through remote control means. "I assume they're
capable of anything."

"Shit!" Scott exclaimed. "Privacy goes right out the window.
Damn." Scott rapidly spun in his chair and vacantly stared off
in space. "Is that legal?"

"What? CMR? I looked into that briefly, and there's nothing on
the books yet, but I did find out that tapping cellular phone
conversations is legal."

"Phone tapping, legal?" Scott couldn't believe his ears.

"Cellular phones, yeah. The FCC treats them like TV sets, radi-
os, satellites. Anyone can listen to any station."

"That's incredible," Scott said, mouth gaping. "I wonder how
they'll handle RF LAN's."

"RF LAN's," asked Ty. "What are those?"

"A bunch of computers tied together with radios. They replace
the wires that connect computers now. Can you imagine?" Scott
saw the irony in it. "Broadcasting your private secrets like
that? Hah! Or if you have your own RF network, all you have to
do is dial up another one and all the information ends up right
in your computer! Legal robbery. Is this a great country or
what?"

"Now you know why I'm leaving. The NSA cannot be permitted to
keep the public uninformed about vulnerabilities to their person-
al freedom. And hiding under the umbrella of national security
gets old. A handful of paranoid un-elected, un-budgeted, non-ac-
countable, mid-level bureaucrats are deciding the future of
privacy and freedom in this country. They are the ones who are
saying, 'no, no problem,' when they know damn well it is a prob-
lem. What they say privately is in diametric opposition to their
public statements and positions."

Scott stifled a nervous laugh. Who wound Tyrone up? A conspira-
cy theory. Tyrone was drunk. "Don't you think that maybe you're
taking this a little far," he suggested. For the first time in
years the shoe was on the other foot. Scott was tempering some-
body elses extremes.

"Why the hell do you think there's so much confusion at ECCO and
CERT and the other computer SWAT teams? NSA interferes at every
step," Tyrone responded. "And no, I am not taking this too far.
I haven't taken it far enough. I sit with these guys and they
talk as though I'm not there. I attend meetings where the poli-
cies and goals of ECCO are established. Shit, I trust the dope-
smoking hippies from Berkeley more than anyone from the Fort."
The bitterness came through clearly, but Scott could see it
wasn't focussed on any one person or thing.

But Scott began to understand. For over 20 years Tyrone had
insulated himself from the politics of the job and had seen only
what he wanted to see; a national Police Force enforcing the
laws. Tyrone loved the chase of the crime. The bits and pieces,
the endless sifting of evidence, searching for clues and then
building a case from shreds. The forensics of modern criminology
had been so compelling for Tyrone Duncan that he had missed the
impact that the mass proliferation of technology would have on
his first love - The Constitution.

The sudden revelations and realizations of the last several weeks
set his mind into high gear. Tyrone introspectively examined his
beliefs; he tried to review them from the perspective of an
idealistic young man in his twenties. What would he have done
then? He realized the answer was easier found now that he was a
man of experience: Do Something About It.

Far from a rebel looking for a cause, the cause jumped all over
Tyrone with a vengeance and the tenacity of a barnacle.

All at once Scott knew that Tyrone was serious and that he would
be a better friend if he congratulated instead of castigated.

"You know, I kind of understand a little. Same thing with my ex-
wife."

"Hey, that's not fair, man," Tyrone vigorously objected. "Maggie
was a dingbat . . ."

"I know that and she knew that," Scott agreed, "but that was what
made her Maggie." Tyrone nodded, remembering her antics. "And
in some ways we still love each other. After ten years of fun,
great fun, she wanted to get off of the planet more than I did,
so she went to California." The softness in Scott's voice said
he still cared about Maggie, that she was a cherished part of his
life, that was and would remain in the past.

Scott shook off the melancholy and continued. "It's the same for
you. You're married to the FBI, and while you still love it, you
need to let it go to move on with your life."

"Y'know, I don't know why everyone says you're so stupid," Tyrone
said with respect. "UFO's aside, you can actually make sense."

"Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't really matter. But I'm doing exactly
what I want to do. And the day it stops being fun, I'm outta
here."

"Isn't that the arrogance of wealth speaking?" Tyrone asked.

"And you're any different? The 22 room Tudor shack you live in
is not exactly my vision of poverty. As I see it, it's one of
the benefits," Scott said unembarrassed by his financial securi-
ty. "Before I made my money, I swore that when I got rich, I
would give something back. You know, to the planet or society or
something. Do something useful and not for the money." Scott
spoke with honest enthusiasm. "But I don't believe there's a
rule that says I have to be miserable. I love what I do, and
well, I don't know. The concept of career is different for me.
I like the idea of doing a little bit of everything for the
experience. You know, I drove a cab for one night. Glad I did,
but never again."

"So?" asked Tyrone.

"So, do what you want to do and enjoy it. Period. As a friend of
a friend says, live long and prosper."

Scott let Tyrone sit in contemplative silence as the waiter
brought them two more. They were doing a good job of sticking to
the plan of getting 'shiffaced'.

"You know," Tyrone opined, "INTERNET is only the tip of the
iceberg. NASA is having ECCO and CERT look into over $12 Million
in unaccounted-for telephone calls. The Justice Department sold
old computers containing the names and other details of the
Witness Protection Program to a junk dealer in Kentucky and
they're suing him to get them back. The Secret Service is rede-
signing its protection techniques for the President since someone
got into their computers and copied the plans. The computers at
Mitre have been used by hackers for years to get at classified
information. The public hears less than 1% of the computer
problems in the government. And still, no one will do anything.
There's even talk that the missing Plutonium that the Israelis
theoretically stole in 1981 was actually a computer error."

"What do you want to do about it?" Scott was asking as a friend,
not a reporter.

"First," said a newly determined Tyrone, "I'm gonna nail me some
of these mothers, and I'll do it with your help. Then, after
that?" Tyrone's old smile was suddenly back. "I think I'm gonna
kick myself some government ass." Tyrone roared with laughter
and Scott joined the contagious behavior. "In the meantime, I
want to take a look at some blackmail. I think you may be
right."

"About what? I don't listen to what I tell you."

"Remember you said that the blackmail scheme wasn't really
blackmail." Tyrone shifted his weight in the chair and he
reached for the words through is fogged mind. "You said it might
be a way to make us too busy to see our own shadow. That it was
a cover up for another dissociated crime."

"Yeah? It might be," Scott said.

Tyrone's body heaved while he snickered. "We finally have a lead.
Demands have been made."

"What kind? Who? What do they want?" Scott's journalist mind
clicked into gear. "What about the computer virus crap?"

"I'm kind of looking into both, but this morning my interest was
renewed. A corporate type I met says not only he, but another 25
or more of his corporate brethren are getting the same treatment.
If he's right, someone is demanding over $30 Million in ransoms."

"Jesus Christ! Is that confirmed?" Scott probed.

"Yes. That's why I said you were right."

The implications were tremendous, even to Scott's clouded mind.
While the legal system might not be convinced that computer
radiation was responsible for an obviously well coordinated
criminal venture, he, as an engineer, realized how vulnerable
anyone - everyone was. The questions raced through his mind all
at once.

Over a few dozen oysters and not as many drinks, Scott and Ty
proceeded to share their findings. Scott had documents up the
ying-yang, documents he couldn't use in a journalistic sense, but
might be valuable to the recent developments in Ty's case. He
had moved the files to his home; they were simply taking too much
space around his desk at the office. They were an added attrac-
tion to the disaster he called his study. Scott agreed to show
Ty some of them. After the meeting with Franklin Dobbs, and
knowing there might be others in similar situations, Ty wanted an
informal look at Scott's cache.

"I've been holding back, Ty," Scott said during a lull in their
conversation.

"How do you mean?"

"I got a call from a guy I had spoken to a few months ago; I
assume he sent me those files, and he said that key executives
throughout the country were being blackmailed. Some were borrow-
ing money from the mob to pay them off."

"Do you have names? Who?" Tyrone's took an immediate interest.

"Let me see if I have'm here," he said as he reached for his
small notebook in the sports jacket draped over the back of his
chair. "Yeah, he only gave me three, not much to go on. A
Faulkner, some banker from L.A., a Wall Street tycoon named
Henson and another guy Dobbs, Franklin Dobbs."

"Dobbs! How the hell do you know about Dobbs?" Tyrone yelled so
loud several remaining bar patrons looked over to see what the
ruckus was.

Scott was taken aback by the outburst. "What're you hollering
about?"

"Shit, goddamned shit, I don't need this." Tyrone finished one
and ordered another drink. He was keeping his promise; well on
the way to getting severely intoxicated. "Dobbs. Dobbs is the
poor fucker that came into my office."

"You saw Dobbs? He admitted it?" Scott's heart raced at the
prospect of a connection. Finally.

"Scott," Tyrone asked quietly, "I have no right to ask you this,
but I will anyway. If you find anything, on Dobbs, can you hold
back? Just for a while?" A slight pleading on Tyrone's part.

"Why?" Was this part of the unofficial trade with Ty for earlier
information?

The waiter returned with the credit card. Tyrone signed the
slip, giving the waiter entirely too much of a tip. "I'll tell
you on the train. Let's go."

"Where?"

"To your house. You have a computer, don't you?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Well, let's see if we can find out who the other 25 are."

They took a cab from the Scarsdale station to Scott's house. No
point in ending up in the clink for a DUI, even with a Federal
Agent in tow. Scott's study was in such disarray that he liter-
ally scraped off books and papers from the couch onto the floor
to find Ty a place to sit and he piled up bigger piles of files
to make room for their beers on one of his desks.

Scott and Tyrone hadn't by any means sobered up on the train, but
their thinking was still eminently clear. During the hour ride,
they reviewed what they knew.

Several prominent businessmen were being actively blackmailed.
In addition, the blackmailer, or a confederate, was feeding
information to the media. At a minimum the Times, and probably
the Expos. Perhaps other media as well were in receipt of simi-
lar information, but legitimate news organizations couldn't have
much to do with it in its current form.

Presumably then, like Scott, other reporters were calling names
in the files. Tyrone reasoned that such an exercise might be a
well planned maneuver on the part of the perpetrators.

"Think about it this way," he said. "Let's say you get a call
from someone who says they know something about you that you
don't want them to. That'll shake you up pretty good, won't it?"
Scott rapidly agreed. "Good. And the nature of the contact is
threatening, not directly, perhaps, but the undercurrent leaves
no doubt that the caller is not your best friend. Follow?"

"And then," Scott picked up, "a guy like me calls with the same
information. The last person in the world he wants to know about
his activities is a reporter, or to see it show up in the news,
so he really freaks."

"Exactly!" Tyrone slapped his thigh. "And, if he gets more than
one call, cardiac arrest is nearby. Imagine it. Makes for a good
case of justifiable paranoia."

Tyrone nodded vigorously. "I've been in this game long enough to
see the side effects of blackmail and extortion. The psycholog-
ical effects can be devastating. An inherent distrust of strang-
ers is common. Exaggerated delusions occur in many cases. But
think about this. If we're right, you begin to distrust every-
one, your closest friends, business associate, even your family.
Suddenly, everyone is a suspect. Distrust runs rampant and you
begin to feel a sense of isolation, aloneness. It feels like
you're fighting the entire world alone. Solitude can be the
worst punishment."

The analysis was sound. The far ranging implications had never
occurred to Scott. To him it had been a simple case of extortion
or blackmail using some high tech wizardry. Now, suddenly there
was a human element. The personal pain that made the crime even
that much more sinister.

"Well, we, I mean the FBI, have seven stake outs. It's a fairly
simple operation. Money drops in public places, wait and pick up
the guy who picks up the money." Tyrone made it sound so easy.
Scott wondered.

"I bet it isn't that simple," Scott challenged.

"No shit, it ain't," Tyrone came back.

"So whaddya do?"

"Pay and have another beer." Tyrone tempered the seriousness of
their conversation.

As Scott got up to go the kitchen he called out, "Hey, I been
thinking."

"Yeah?" Tyrone yelled.

He popped a Bud and handed it to Tyrone. "Listen, I know this
may be left field, but let's think it through." Scott sat behind
his desk and put his feet on top of some books on the desk. He
leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "We've been
talking about the front end of this thing, the front lines where
the victims are actually being blackmailed. The kind of stuff
that makes headlines." Scott smiled devilishly at Ty who made a
significant hand gesture in return. "And now you're talking
about how to catch them when they pick up the money. Have you
thought of the other side?"

"What other side?" Tyrone was still confused by Scott's logic.

"Assume for a moment that all this information is really coming
from computers. The CMR. Ok?" Ty grudgingly shrugged his shoul-
ders. "Ok, you said that there are 7 cases across the country.
Dobbs said he knew of more here. Right? Well, who gets the
information?"

Confusion showed on Tyrone's face. "Gets the information?"

"Yeah, who runs around the country listening in on computers?"
The question had been obvious to Scott. All of sudden Tyrone's
face lit up.

"You mean the van?"

"Right. How many vans would it take to generate all this?"
Scott pointed at several boxes next to the disorganized shelves.

"Damned if I know!"

"Neither do I, but I'll make a wild guess and say that there are
quite a few running around. One blew up, or more specifically,
was blown up. You guys have the pieces."

"Not any more," Ty said. "They were taken away by CI . Said it
was national security . I was told to stay away from it. Told
you about us Feds."

"Whatever," Scott waved away the sidebar. "The point is that if
a whole bunch of these vans were used, that's not cheap. They
held a lot of very expensive equipment. Why not look for the
vans? They can't be that hard to find. Maybe you'll find
your . . . "

"Holy Christ, Mother Mary and Joseph, why didn't I think of
that." Tyrone stood up and aimlessly meandered amongst Scott's
junk heaps. "We've been looking in one direction only. The van
ceased to exist in our minds since CI took it. The Government can
be a royal pain in the ass. The van, of course."

Just as Scott was going to describe how to find villains without
wasting hundreds of hours scouring data banks, his computer
beeped three times. Scott was shaken from his comfort. "What
the . . .?" He looked at the clock. It was just midnight.
Kirk! Kirk was calling and he totally had forgotten to mention
the computer ransacking to Ty.

"Great! It's Kirk. I wanted you to meet him." As Scott leaned
over the keyboard to answer the page, Tyrone looked quizzically
at him.

"Who's Kirk?"

"This hacker, some kid on the West Coast. He's taught me a lot.
Good guy. Hope to meet him someday." Scott pushed a few keys.
The screen came alive.

WTFO

"Hey," said Tyrone, "that's what we used to say in the Reserves."

Gotta Spook here.

SPOOK? YOU KNOW SPOOK?

Who's Spook?

YOU SAID HE'S WITH YOU

Not Spook, a spook. FBI guy.

FBI? YOU PROMISED.

Don't worry. Tell him yourself. Who is Spook, anyway?

SPOOK IS A HACKER, ONE OF THE BEST. BEEN ON THE SCENE FOR YEARS.
A FEW PEOPLE CLAIM TO HAVE MET HIM, BUT IT'S ALWAYS A FRIEND OF A
FRIEND OF A FRIEND. HE KEEPS A LOW PROFILE. THE WORD IS SPOOK IS
PLAYING SOME GOOD GAMES RECENTLY. THE FBI?

He's a friend. He doesn't know.

Tyrone had come over to the crowded desk to watch the exchange.
"Who is this guy? What don't I know?"

Kirk, can I tell him? No one knows who you are?

I GUESS SO.

Be back . . .

Scott proceeded to tell Tyrone about the warnings that Kirk
received and then how his computers were destroyed. That the
calling card warned Kirk to stay away from First State Bank. And
how another hacker calling himself Da Vinci on a BBS called
Freedom might be a link. Then Scott admitted that he had been in
on a bank robbery, or at least breaking and entering a bank's
computer.

Tyrone had enough. "I'm not sure I want to hear anymore. You
have been busy. So what can I do?"

"Tell Kirk what he can do," Scott said.

"He could probably go to jail. Bank computers, my God! Is that
where you get your stories? You live them and then report them in
the third person? Stories for the inquiring mind."

"Are you through! I mean, are you through?" Scott sounded per-
turbed.

"It's true. What does this guy want?"

"Advice. Talk to him. Here." Scott motioned for Tyrone to sit
at the keyboard.

"What do I do?"

"Just type," Scott said with exasperation. "You're as bad as my
mother. Type!" Scott ordered.

This is Ty

Scott pulled Ty's hands from the keyboard. "A handle, use a
handle, like on a CB!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Tyrone lied.

This is the FBI

Scott looked on in shock. Tyrone laughed out loud. "He already
knows who I am. So what? I've always liked saying that anyway."

KIRK HERE, FBI, WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE

So I hear. Been to any good banks lately?

REPO MAN, WHAT'S UP?

Can't take a joke?

YEAH. NO PROBLEM.

Listen, I don't know you from Adam, and you don't have to talk to
me, but I am curious. Did your computers really get bashed?

TOTALLY, DUDE.

Tyrone pointed his thumb at the computer. "Wise guy, eh?"

"Give him a chance. Generation gap." Tyrone didn't take kindly
to references to his age. Sensitive area.

Why?

CAUSE SOMEONE THINKS I KNOW SOMETHING THAT I DON'T

That's clear.

THANKS

Do you want to make a formal complaint?

WOULD IT DO ANY GOOD?

No.

THEN, NO

You think it was First State?

YES.

Don't you go around poking into other computers, too?

SURE

So why not someone else?

THEY DIDN'T GET INTO BIG TROUBLE FROM REPO MAN'S ARTICLE?

"He knows who you are?" Tyrone asked.

"Sure. He likes calling me Repo Man for some reason that still
escapes me.

Where else do you go?

THAT WOULD BE TELLING

Gotcha. Well, I guess that's about it.

PHEW!

<<<<<>>>>>

"I guess you scared him off." Scott was amused.

"Sorry," Tyrone said.

"He'll call back," Scott waved off the apology. "When the coast
is clear."

"Fuck off." Their friendship was returning to the level it once
had been.

"Hey, it's getting beyond late," Scott ignored him. "What say we
get together in a few days and sort through some of this."

"I know, but one thing. Can you get into your computers, at the
paper?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Dobbs said that the other victims had had their stock go down
pretty dramatically. Can you look up stock prices and perform-
ances over the last few months?"

"Yeah, do it all the time."

"Could you? I want to see if there are any names I recognize."

"No problem." Scott dialed the Times' computer and identified
himself. After going into the bank computer with Kirk, every
time he dialed up his office, he felt an increased sense of
power, and an increased sense of responsibility. He had access
to massive amounts of information that if it got into the wrong
hands . . .

He shook the thought. The computer offered the 'Stocks and Bonds
Menu' and Scott set up a query in a modified SQL that was simple
enough for reporters to use:

ALL STOCKS LOSING 35% OR MORE OF VALUE IN LAST YEAR.

The computer flashed a message. 'Working'. Scott leaned back.
"Takes a few seconds. Oh, as I was saying, when I get back,
I'll call and we'll see what we can screw together."

"Back from where?" Tyrone sounded accusatory but jealous.

"Europe. Amsterdam." Scott checked the computer screen. It was
still busy.

"Rough life."

"No, it's only for a couple of days. There's a hackers confer-
ence. I've been invited, by Kirk as a matter of fact."

"Hackers conference, sounds like tons of fun." Tyrone was not
impressed.

"The best hackers in the world are going to be there. I hope to
get some leads on the First State mess. The Freedom BBS is not
all it seems."

"Please stay in touch," Tyrone implored.

"Sure. Here we go. It's ready. Ah, let's see, there are 267
companies who meet that criterion. I guess that narrows it down
for you."

"Smart ass. Ah, can you get those in New York only?"

"The city? Sure."

SORT BY ZIP 100XX

"That'll give us . . ."

"I know what it means." Tyrone shut Scott up in mock defense.
In reality he didn't know much about computers, but some things
were obvious even to the technically naive.

"That was fast," said Scott. "Only 17. Help any?"

"Might. Can I get that on paper?"

Scott gave him the printout of the finances on the several unfor-
tunate companies who had lost more than a third of their net
worth in the last year. Tyrone folded it into his jacket pocket.
"Hey, call me a cab. I'm too drunk to walk."

* * * * *

Wednesday, December 30
Lenox, Georgia

A faded blue Ford Econoline van sat in the Lenox Square parking
lot. The affluent Atlanta suburb had been targeted from the
beginning. Demographically ,it fit the bill to a tee.

From the outside, the van looked like a thousand other parked
cars; empty, with their owners shopping in the huge mall. On the
inside though, two men were intently operating a vast array of
electronic equipment.

"Here comes another one," said the first. "How many does that
make today?"

"A hundred and forty seven. Let's do it." The second man
watched the enhanced color video image on a small monitor. A
well dressed lady walked up to the ATM machine, card in hand.
The first man pressed a switch on another monitor and the snow
filled picture was transformed into an electronic copy of the
ATM's video display.

Please Insert Card

The screen in the van echoed the ATM screen.

"Can you tune it in a bit?" asked the first man. " It's a little
fuzzy."

"Yeah, we must have settled. Let me adjust the antenna." His
hand grabbed a joystick on one of the tightly packed racks of
equipment and gingerly moved it from left to right. "Is that
better?" A small disguised antenna on the roof of the van
aligned itself as the joystick commanded.

"Yeah . . .no . . .yeah, back again . . ."

"I see it. There."

"Thanks."

Enter Personal Identification Number:

A third monitor over the second man's cramped desk came to life
as the number 3435 appeared across his screen.

"Got it. You, too?"

"On disk and saved."

"I'll back it up."

"Better not. Here comes another one."

"Busy day."

* * * * *

It was a very busy day. Ahmed Shah saw to it that his followers
were kept busy, six days a week. As they had been for months.

When his army of a hundred plus Econoline vans were not raiding
the contents of unsuspecting computers during the day, they
became electronic ears which listened in on the conversations
between the ATM's and their bank customers.

Ahmed's vans were used most efficiently. On the road, doing his
bidding twenty four hours a day, every day but the Sabbath.
Ahmed created cells of eight loyal anti-American sympathizers,
regardless of nationality, to operate with each van. Each group
operated as an independent entity with only one person from each
able to communicate privately with Ahmed over cellular modem. No
cell knew of any other cell. If one group was apprehended, they
couldn't tell what they didn't know. Therefore, the rest of the
cells remain intact.

Absolute loyalty was an unquestioned assumption for all members
of Ahmed's electronic army. It had to be that way, for the
bigger cause.

All day and night one of Ahmed Shah's computers in his lab at
Columbia received constant calls from his cell leaders. During
the day it was the most interesting information that they had
captured from computer screens. At night, it was the passcodes
to automatic bank tellers machines and credit card information.

Once the passcodes were in hand, making fake ATM cards was a
trivial task.

****************************************************************

Chapter 18

Wednesday, January 6
Amsterdam, Holland

Scott Mason had a theory. It didn't matter than no one else
believed it, or that they thought him daffy. It worked for him.

He believed that jet lag was caused by the human body traveling
across mystical magnetic force fields called Ley lines. The
physics of his theory made common sense to anyone but a scien-
tist. It went like this: the body is electric and therefore
magnetic fields can influence it. Wherever we live we are sub-
ject to the local influence of magnetic, electrical and Ley
lines. If we move too quickly, as by plane, through Ley lines,
the balance of our system is disturbed. The more Ley lines you
traverse, the more upsetting it is to the system. Thus, jet lag.

But, Scott had a solution. Or more accurately, his mother had one
which she had convinced him of years earlier. Scott carried with
him a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, that had a
switch and a blinking light. It was called an Earth Resonance
Generator, or ERG. The literature said the ERG established a
negative gravity field through a magnetic Mobius loop. Inside
the box was a battery, a loop of wire, a light emitting diode and
the back side of the switch. In short, nothing of electronic
consequence or obvious function. There was no way in hell that
this collection of passive components could do anything other
than wear out batteries. All for $79.95 plus $4 shipping.

Scott first heard his mother proselytize about the magic of the
ERG when he was ten or twelve. His father, the role model for
Archie Bunker ignored her completely and said her rantings in-
creased with certain lunar phases. Since his father wouldn't
listen to her any longer, she endlessly lectured Scott about the
virtues of the ERG whenever she returned from a trip. His father
refused to travel, and had never even been on a plane.

His mother so persisted in her belief that she even tried experi-
ments. On one of her trips to Rome, she somehow talked the
stewardesses into handing out the 400 questionnaires she'd
brought with her onto the plane. It asked the passengers how
they felt after the flight, and if they do anything special to
avoid jet lag. She claims more than 200 were returned and that
they overwhelmingly indicated that no one felt jet lag on that
trip.

She attributed this immense success to the ERG effects which
purportedly spread over one acre. In other words, the ERG takes
care of an entire 747 or L-1011 or DC-10.

For years Scott successfully used the ERG to avoid jet lag. Some
people put brown paper bags in their shoes, others eat yogurt and
bean sprouts before a long flight. Maybe his solution was psy-
chosomatic, Scott admitted to anyone who asked, but, so what? It
still works, doesn't it? Scott was forever impressed that air-
port security had never, once, asked him what this little blink-
ing black box was. Scary thought.

He arrived completely refreshed via KLM at the Amsterdam Interna-
tional Airport at 9:15 A.M. While he had been to Europe many
times, he had thus far missed the Amsterdam experience. He had
heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than
legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the
local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling
the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it
immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to
miss out on the opportunity.

In New York no one harassed pot smokers, but technically, it
still wasn't legal, while Amsterdam represented the ultimate
counterculture. This was the first time since Maggie had left
for the Coast three years ago that Scott felt an independence, a
freedom reminiscent of his rebellious teen years.

He gave the taxi driver the address of the Eureka! hotel, on the
Amstel. During the half hour fifty guilder ride into downtown,
the driver continuously chattered. "Amsterdam has more canals
than Venice. Many more. Holland is mostly land reclaimed from
the sea. We have the biggest system of dikes in Europe. Don't
forget to see our diamond centers." He spoke endlessly with deep
pride about his native land.

The Eureka! is a small four story townhouse with only 16 rooms
that overlooked the Amstel, the largest canal in Amsterdam,
similar to the Grand Canal in Venice. The Times had booked it
because it was cheap, but Scott felt instantly at home. After
settling in, Scott called the local number that Kirk had given
him.

"Hallo?" A thick Dutch accent answered the phone.

"Hello? I'm looking for Jon Gruptmann? This is Scott Mason."

"Ya, this is Jon."

"A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you."

"Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?" The voice got friendly.

"That's what Kirk calls me."

"Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that
so?" Jon sounded enthusiastic.

"That's why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I
would love to!" Jon didn't sound like Scott expected a computer
hacker to sound, whatever that was.

"Huh?" Jon asked. "Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where
we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope
you do not mind." Jon sounded concerned about Scott's comfort.

"Oh, no. I'm used to inconvenience. I'm sure it will be fine."

"Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don't really begin until
tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?"

"Yes, just fine, what's the address?" Scott asked as he readied
paper and pen.

"Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg
Wal and Lange Niezel. It's around from the Oude Kerksplein.
Number 44."

"Hold it, I'm writing." Scott scribbled the address phonetically.
A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel-
ligibly. "And then what?"

"Just say you're Repo Man. There's a list. And please remember,
we don't use our given names."

"No problem. Fine. Thank you."

"Ya. What do you plan for tonight?" Jon asked happily.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Scott lied.

"Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique
pleasures Amsterdam has to offer."

"I might take a walk . . . or something."

"Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow.
Ya?" Jon said laughing.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Do one favor?" Jon asked. "Watch your wallet. We have many
pickpockets."

"Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow." Click. I grew up in
New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

* * * * *

Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour
trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport,
a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour
getting into town.

He dressed casually in the American's travel uniform: jeans, jean
jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that
Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity
unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single
lane streets straddle the miles of canals throughout the inner
city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down-
town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean,
almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several
hundred years. That's the word for Amsterdam; charming. From
late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly
packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the
young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something
for everyone. Anne Frank's house to the Rembrandt Museum to a
glass roofed boat trip down the canals through the diamond dis-
trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac-
tions for the more prurient.

He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the
concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration
desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

"Not to find us selling that here," the Pakistani concierge said
in broken English.

"I know. But where . . ." It was an odd feeling to ask which
store sold drugs.

"You want Coffee Shop," he helpfully said.

"Coffee Shop?" Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

"Across bridge, make right, make left." The concierge liberally
used his hands to describe the route. "Coffee shop. Very good."

Scott thanked him profusely and made a quick exit thinking that
in parts of the U.S., Texas came to mind, such a conversation
could be construed as conspiracy. He headed out into the cool
damp late morning weather. The air was crisp, clean, a pleasure
to breathe deeply. The Amstel canal, not a ripple present,
echoed the tranquility that one feels when walking throughout the
city. There are only a half dozen or so 'main' streets or boule-
vards in Amsterdam and they provide the familiar intense interna-
tional commercialism found in any major European city. It is
when one begins to explore the back streets, the countless alleys
and small passageways; the darkened corridors that provide a
short cut to the bridge to the next islet; it is then that one
feels the essence of Amsterdam.

Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con-
scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about
the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the
street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French,
Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just
an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL
Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker-
straat, and it was unassuming, some might call it derelict, in
appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared
deserted.

Through the large dirty plate glass window Scott saw a handful of
patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round
tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom.
Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter.
No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned
on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain.
A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him-
self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he
be of service?

"Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here," Scott said.

"Ya, of course. What do you want?" Chris asked.

"Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can't take it back
with me you know," Scott laughed nervously.

"Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he-
roin." Chris gave the sales pitches verbally - there was no
printed menu in this Coffee Shop.

"No!" Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all
drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn't want to offend.
"Thanks anyway. Just some grass will do."

"How many grams do you want?"

Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans
thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K.,
28 grams to an ounce . . .

"Two grams," Scott said. "By the way, how late are you open?"
Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose.

"Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late," Chris said while
bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He
opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of
aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. "You want hashish?" Chris
offered.

Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in-
stead of the candy bar.

"You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott
looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got
up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja
here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake."

"Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only
get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he
held up another, "will get you stoned."

"Bullshit," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is
catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we
smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."

"You sold me," Scott said holding his hands up in surrender.
"Just a little high is fine by me. Two grams, please," he said
to Chris pointing at the less potent bag. "Thanks for the warn-
ing," he said to the American. "Where you from?" Scott asked.

"Oh, around. I guess you could call Washington my home."

"D.C.?"

"Yeah," the American nodded. "And you?" He leaned over the back
of his chair to face Scott.

"Big Apple. The 'burbs."

"What brings you here?"

"To Europe?" Scott asked.

"Amsterdam. Sin City. Diamonds?"

"No, I wish," Scott laughed. "News. A story brought me here for
a couple of days."

Chris finished weighing Scott's purchase on a sensitive digital
scale that measured the goods down to the nearest hundredth of a
gram. Scott handed Chris $10 in Guilders and pocketed the pot.
"Um, where can I get some papers?" Scott asked. Chris pointed
to a glass on the bar with a complete selection of assorted
paraphernalia.

"Hey, why don't you join me," the American asked. "I've been to
Amsterdam before."

"Is it all right to smoke in here?" Scott asked looking around.

"Sure, that's what coffee shops are. The only other thing you
can buy in here is sodas. No booze." The American spoke confi-
dently as he lit up a joint and passed it to Scott.

"Thanks," Scott coughed as he handed it back. "Oh, I don't think
I caught your name.

"Oh, just call me Spook."

THE Spook? thought Scott. What incredible synchronicity.

Scott's body instantly tensed up and he felt the adrenaline rush
with an associated rise in pulse rate. Was this really the leg-
endary Spook?

Is it possible that he fell into a chance meeting with the hacker
that Kirk and his friends refer to as the king of hackers?
Spook? Gotta stay cool. Could he be that lucky? Was there more
than one spook? Scott momentarily daydreamed, remembering how
fifteen years before, in Athens, Greece he had opened a taxi door
right into the face a lady who turned out to be an ex-high-school
girl friend. It is a small world, Scott thought tritely.

"Spook? Are you a spy?" Scott comically asked, careful to dis-
guise his real interest.

"If I answer that I'll have to kill you," the Spook laughed out
loud in the quiet establishment. "Spy? Hardly. It's just a
handle." Spook said guardedly. "What's yours?"

"Mine? Oh, my handle. They call me Repo Man, but it's really
Scott Mason. Glad to meet you. Spook," he added handing back the
intoxicating cigarette.

BINGO! Scott Mason in hand without even a search. Landing right
in his lap. Keep your cool. Dead pan poker face. What unbe-
lievable luck. Don't blow it, let's play this for all that it's
worth. Your life just got very simple. Give both Homosoto and
Mason exactly what they want with no output of energy.

"You said you're a reporter," Spook said inhaling deeply again.
"What's the story?" At least he gets high, Spook thought. Mason
could have been a real dip-shit nerd. Thank God for small fa-
vors.

"There's a hacker conference that I was invited to," Scott said
unabashedly. "I'm trying to show the hacker's side of the story.
Why they do what they do. How they legitimize it to themselves."
Scott's mouth was rapidly drying out so he ordered a Pepsi. "I
assume you're a hacker, too," Scott broached the issue carefully.

Spook smiled widely. "Yup. And proud of it."

"You don't care who knows?" Scott asked looking around to see if
anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Instead the
other patrons were engrossed in chess or huddled conversation.
Only Chris, the proprietor listened from behind the bar.

"The Spook is all anyone knows. I like to keep it that way,"
Spook said as he laid the roach end of the joint in the ashtray.
"Not bad, huh?" He asked Scott.

"Christ, no. Kinda hits you between the eyes." Scott rubbed them
to clear off the invading fog.

"After a couple of days it won't get you so bad," Spook said.
"You said you wanted to do a fair story on hackers, right?"

"Fair? A fair story? I can only try. If hackers act and talk
like assholes then they'll come across like assholes, no matter
what I do. However, if they make a decent case, hold a rational,
albeit arguable position, then maybe someone may listen."

"You sound like you don't approve of our activities." The Spook
grinned devilishly.

"Honestly, and I shouldn't say this cause this is your grass,"
Scott said lighting the joint again. "No, I don't approve, but I
figure there's at least 10 sides to a story, and I'm here to find
that story and present all sides. Hopefully I can even line up a
debate or two. Convincing me is not the point; my readers make
up their own minds."

The word 'readers' momentarily jolted the Spook until he realized
Scott meant newspaper readers, not his team of Van-Ecking eaves-
droppers. Spook took the joint from Scott. "You sound like you
don't want to approve."

"Having a hard time with all the crap going down with computers
these days," Scott agreed. "I guess my attitude comes through in
my articles."

"I've never read your stuff," Spook lied.

"Mainly in New York."

"That explains it. Ever been to Amsterdam?"

"No, I was going to get a map and truck around . . ."

"How about I show you around, and try to convince you about the
honor of our profession?" Spook asked.

"Great!" Scott agreed. "But what about . . ." He made a motion
to his lips as if he was holding a cigarette.

"Legal on the streets."

"You sure?"

"C'mon," Spook said rising from his chair. "Chris, see you
later," he promised. Chris reciprocated and invited his two new
friends to return any time.

Scott followed Spook up the alley named Bakkerstraat and into the
Rembrandt Plein, a huge open square with cafes and street people
and hotels. "At night," Spook said, "Rembrandt and another 4 or
5 pleins are the social hub of activity for the younger genera-
tion. Wished I had had this when I was a kid. How are your
legs?" The Spook amorously ogled the throngs of young women
twenty years his junior.

"Fine, why?"

"I'm going to show you Amsterdam."

Scott and the Spook began walking. The Spook knew his way around
and described much of the history and heritage of the city, the
country and its culture. This kind of educated hacker was not
what Scott had expected. He had thought that today's hackers
were nerds, the propeller heads of his day, but he was discover-
ing through the Spook, that he may have been wrong. Scott remem-
bered Clifford Stoll's Hanover Hacker was a well positioned and
seemingly upstanding individual who was selling stolen computer
information to the KGB. How many nerds would have the gumption
to play in that league?

They walked to the outer edge of Old Amsterdam, on the Singel-
gracht at the Leidseplein. Without a map or the Spook, Scott
would have been totally lost. The streets and canals were all so
similar that, as the old phrase goes, you can't tell the players
without a scorecard. Scott followed the Spook onto an electric
street car. It headed down the Leidsestraat, one of the few
heavily commercial streets and across the Amstel again.

The street car proceeded up the Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal, a wide
boulevard with masses of activities on both sides. This was
tourist madness, thought Scott.

"This is freedom," said the Spook.

"Freedom?" The word instantly conjured his memory of the Freedom
League, the BBS he suspected was up to no-good. The Spook and
Freedom?

"At the end of this street is the Train Station. Thousands of
people come through this plaza every day to experience Amsterdam.
Get whatever it is out of their system. The drugs, the women,
the anarchy of a country that relies upon the integrity of its
population to work. Can't you feel it?" The Spook positively
glowed as he basked in the aura of the city.

Scott had indeed felt it during their several hours together. An
intense sense of independence that came from a generation of
democratic socialism. Government regulated drugs, a welfare
system that permitted the idle to live nearly as well as the
working. Class structures blurred by taxes so extraordinarily
high that most everyone lived in similarly comfortable condi-
tions. Poverty is almost non-existent.

Yet, as the Spook explained to Scott, "This is not the world for
an entrepreneur. That distinction still belongs to the ol' Red,
White and Blue. It's almost impossible to make any real money
here."

The sun was setting behind the western part of the city, over the
church steeples and endless rows of townhouses.

"Hungry yet?" Spook grinned at Scott.

"Hungry? I got a case of the munchies that won't quit. Let's
eat." Scott's taste buds were entering panic mode.

"Good," the Spook said as he lit up another joint on the street
car. "Let's eat." He hastily leapt off the slow moving vehicle.
Scott followed him across the boulevard and dodged cars, busses
and bicycles. They stopped in front of a small Indonesian res-
taurant, Sarang Mas, ably disguised with a red and white striped
awning and darkened windows.

"Ever had Indonesian food?"

"No, well maybe, in New York I guess . . ."

Miles dragged Scott into the unassuming restaurant and the calm-
ing strains of Eastern music replaced the city noises on the
street outside. The red and white plastic checkered tablecloths
severely clashed with the gilt of the pagoda shaped decorations
throughout. But only by American tastes. Sarang Mas was a much
touted and reputable restaurant with very fine native Indonesian
chefs doing the preparations.

"Let me tell you something," the Spook said. "This food is the
absolute finest food available, anywhere in the world, bar no
idyllic island location, better than a trip to Hershey, Pennsyl-
vania to cure a case of the munchies. It's delicate, it's sweet,
it's taste bud heaven, it's a thousand points of flavor you've
never tried before." The Spook sounded like a hawker on the Home
Shopping Network.

"Shut up," Scott joked. "You're just making it worse."

"Think of the oral orgasm that's coming. Anticipation." The
waiter had appeared and waited patiently. It was still early and
the first seating crowd was two hours away. "Do you mind if I
order?"

"No, be my guest. Just make it fast food. Super fast food,"
Scott begged.

"Ah, let's have a couple of Sate Kambings to start, ah, and we'll
share some Daguig Goreng, and some Kodok Goreng and ah, the Guila
Kambing. And," Spook looked at Scott, "a couple of Heinekens?"
Scott nodded. "And, if there's any way you could put that order
into warp drive, my friend here," he pointed at Scott, "would
appreciate it muchly."

"Very good," the dark skinned Indonesian waiter replied as he
scurried back to the kitchen.

It still took half an hour for the appetizers to arrive. Scott
chewed up three straws and tore two napkins into shreds while
waiting.

"What is this," asked Scott as he voraciously dove into the food.

"Does it matter?"

"No," Scott bit into it. "Mmmmmmm . . .Holy shit, that's good,
what is it?"

"Goat parts," the Spook said with a straight face.

Scott stopped chewing. "Which goat parts?" he mumbled staring
over the top of his round glasses.

"The good parts," said the Spook taking two big bites. "Only the
good parts."

"It's nothing like, eyeballs, or lips or . . ." Scott was gross-
ing himself out.

"No, no, paysan, eat up. It's safe." The Spook made the Italian
gesture for eating. "Most of the time." The Spook chuckled as
he ravaged the unidentifiable goat parts on his plate.

Scott looked suspiciously at the Spook, who seemed to be surviv-
ing. How bad could it be? It tasted great, phenomenal, but what
is it? Fuck it. Scott wolfed down his goat parts in total ecsta-
sy. The Spook was right. This was the best tasting food he had
had, ever.

The rest of the meal was as sensorally exquisite as the appetiz-
er. Scott felt relieved once the waiter had promised that the
goat parts were from a goat roast, just like a rib roast or a
pork roast. Nothing disgusting like ear lobes. Ecch!

"So you want to know why we do it," said the Spook in between
nibbles of Indonesian frog legs. Scott had to think hard to
realize that the Spook had shifted the conversation to hacking.

"It had occurred to me," responded Scott. "Why do you do it?"

"I've always liked biology, so hacking became the obvious
choice," Spook said laughing. Scott looked perplexed but that
didn't interrupt his voracious attack on the indescribably deli-
cious foods on his plate.

"How old are you?" Asked the Spook.

"The Big four-oh is in range."

"Good, me too. Remember Marshall McCluhan?"

"The medium is the message guru." Scott had admired him and made
considerable effort to attend a few of his highly motivating
lectures.

"Exactly. He predicted it 20 years early. The Networked Socie-
ty." The Spook paused to toss more food into his mouth. "How
much do you know about computers?"

"I'm learning," Scott said modestly. Whenever asked that ques-
tion he assumed that he was truly ignorant on the subject despite
his engineering degree. It was just that computers had never
held the fascination for him that they did for others.

"O.K., let me give you the low down." The Spook sucked down the
last of the Heineken and motioned to the waiter for two more. He
wiped his lips and placed his napkin beside the well cleaned
plate. "At what point does something become alive?"

"Alive?" Scott mused. "When some carbon based molecules get the
right combination of gases in the proper proportions of tempera-
ture and pressure . . ."

"C'mon, guy. Use your imagination," the Spook scoffed with his
eyes twinkling. "Biologically, you're right, but philosophically
that's pretty fucking lame. Bart Simpson could come up with
better than that." The Spook could be most insulting without
even trying. "Let me ask you, is the traffic light system in New
York alive?"

"No way!" Retorted Scott. "It's dead as a doornail, programmed
for grid lock." They both laughed at the ironic choice for
analogy.

"Seriously, in many ways it can be considered alive," the Spook
said. "It uses electricity as its source of power or food.
Therefore it eats, has a digestive system and has waste product;
heat. Agreed?"

Scott nodded. That was a familiar personification for engineer-
ing students.

"And, if you turn off the power, it stops functioning. A tempo-
rary starvation if you will. It interacts with its environment;
in this case with sensors and switches that react to the condi-
tions at any particular moment. And lastly, and most important-
ly, it has purpose." Scott raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"The program, the rules, those are its purpose. It is coinciden-
tally the same purpose that its designers had, but nonetheless it
has purpose."

"That doesn't make it alive. It can't think, as we do, and there
is no ego or personality," Scott said smugly.

"So what? Since when does plankton or slime mold join Mensa?
That's sentience." Spook walked right over Scott's comment.

"O.K.," Scott acquiesced. "I'm here to play Devil's Advocate,
not make a continent of enemies."

"Listen, you better learn something early on," Spook leaned in
over the table. His seriousness caught Scott's attention. "You
can disagree with us all you want, that's not a problem, most
everyone does. But, we do expect fairness, personal and profes-
sional."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," the dimples in Spook's smiling cheeks radiated cama-
raderie. "Don't give up on an argument so early if you believe
in it. That's a chicken shit way out of taking a position. Real
kindergarten." The Spook finished off his Heineken in two gulps.

Scott's tension eased realizing the Spook wanted the debate, the
confrontation. This week could be a lot more fun than he had
thought.

"At any rate, can you buy into that, that the traffic systems are
alive?" The Spook asked again.

"I'll hold my final judgment in abeyance, but for sake of discus-
sion, let's continue," acquiesced Scott.

"Fair enough. In 1947, I think that was the year, some guy said
that he doubted there would be world wide market for more than
three computers."

Scott choked on his beer. "Three? Ha! What mental moron came up
with that?"

"Watson. Thomas Watson, founder of IBM," the Spook said dead
pan.

"You're kidding."

"And what about Phil Estridge?"

"Who's that?"

"Another IBM'er," said the Spook. "He was kind of a renegade,
worked outside of the mainstream corporate IBM mold. His bosses
told him, 'hey, we need a small cheap computer to tie to our
bigger computers. This little company Apple is selling too many
for us not to get involved. By the way, Corporate Headquarters
thinks this project is a total waste of money; they've been
against it from the outset. So, you have 8 months.' They gave
him 8 months to build a computer that would set standards for
generations of machines. And, he pulled it off. Damned shame he
died.

"So, here we have IBM miss-call two of the greatest events in
their history yet they still found ways to earn tens of billions
of dollars. Today we have, oh, around a hundred million comput-
ers in the world. That's a shitload of computers. And we're
cranking out twelve million more each year.

"Then we tied over fifty million of these computers together. We
used local area networks, wide area networks, dedicated phone
lines, gate ways, transmission backbones all in an effort to
allow more and more computers to talk to each other. With the
phone company as the fabric of the interconnection of our comput-
ers we have truly become a networked society. Satellites further
tighten the weave on the fabric of the Network. With a modem
and telephone you have the world at your fingertips." The Spook
raised his voice during his passionate monologue.

"Now we can use computers in our cars or boats and use cellular
phone links to create absolute networkability. In essence we
have a new life form to deal with, the world wide information
Network."

"Here's where we definitely diverge," objected Scott, hands in
the air. "Arriving at the conclusion that a computer network is
a life form, requires a giant leap of faith that I have trouble
with."

"Not faith, just understanding," the Spook said with sustained
vigor. "We can compare networks to the veins and blood vessels
in our bodies. The heart pumps the blood, the lungs replenish
it, the other organs feed off of it. The veins serve as the
thoroughfares for blood just as networks serve as highways for
information. However, the Network is not static, where a fixed
road map describes its operation. The Network is in a constant
state of flux, in all likelihood never to repeat the same pattern
of connections again.

"So you admit," accused Scott, "that a network is just a conduit,
one made of copper and silicon just as the vein in a conduit?"

"Yes, a smart conduit," the Spook insisted. "Some conduits are
much smarter than others. The Network itself is a set of rules
by which information is transmitted over a conductive material.
You can't touch a network. Sure, you can touch the computer, the
network wire, you can touch the bits and pieces that make up the
Network, but you cannot touch the Network. The Network exists as
a synergistic byproduct of many dissimilar and physically isolat-
ed devices."

"I must admit Spook . . ."

"That's Mister Spook to you earth man," joked the Spook. "Sorry,
continue."

"I could probably nickel and dime you into death by boredom on
several points, but I will concede that they are arguable and
better relegated for a long evening of total disagreement. For
the sake of world peace I will not press the issue now."

"How very kind," mocked the Spook. "Let's get out of here, take
a walk, and I'll continue your education."

If anyone else spoke to Scott so derogatorily, there would be
instant conflict. The Spook, though, didn't raise the defense
mechanism in Scott. Spook was actually a likable fellow, if
somewhat arrogant.

They walked back down Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal and Beursplein very
slowly. The Spook lit up another joint.

"What's this," said Scott appreciatively, "an endless supply?"

"When in Rome!" replied Spook. The brightly lit grand boulevard
was a sample of the energy that permeates the Amsterdam night
life. The train station was still a hub of activity in the
winter darkness of early evening.

"So look at the Network. You can cut off its tentacles, that's
better than legs and feet in this case, and they will reappear,
reconnect somewhere else. Alternate routing bypasses trouble
spots, self diagnostics help the Network doctors, priority and
preferences are handled according to a clear set of rules."
Spook waved his hands to reinforce his case.

"That's, ah, quite, ah, a theory. What do the experts say about
this?" Scott was teetering on the edge of partial acceptance.

"Experts? We're the experts. That's why we hack, don't you
see?" The answer was so obvious it didn't deserve a question.
"Now, I can only speak for myself, but I find that the Network
organism itself is what's interesting. The network, the sponta-
neously grown information organism that covers most of the planet
Earth. I believe that is why all hackers start hacking. Innate
curiosity about the way things work. Then, before our eyes, and
behind the back of the world, the planet gets connected, totally
connected to each other, and we haven't examined the ramifica-
tions of that closeness, computer-wise that is. That's what we
do." The Spook sounded satisfied with his explanation.

Scott thought about it as they crossed Kerksplein and over canals
to the Oude Zijds Voorbugwal. Was the Spook spouting off a lot
of rationalized bullshit or were he and the likes of him actually
performing valuable services, acting as technological sociolo-
gists to five billion clients? If a network was alive, thought
Scott, it was alive in the sense that a town or village is alive,
as the sum of its parts. As a society is alive. If the computer
terminal and its operator are members of a global village, as are
thousands of other computer users, might that not be considered a
society? Communications are indeed different, but Scott remem-
bered that Flatland was considered a valid society with a unique
perspective on the universe. Is it any different than the tele-
phone, which connects everyone on the planet? Shit, Spook made
some sense.

They paused on a bridge by the Voorsbugwal, and a few blocks down
the canal Scott saw a concentration of bright lights. "What's
that?" He asked.

"Poontang," the Spook said lasciviously.

"Say wha?" Scott asked

"This is Horny Heaven, Ode to Orgasm, Pick a Perversion." The
Spook proudly held his arms out.

"Aha, the Red Light District," Scott added dryly.

"Don't take the romance out of it, this is sleaze at it's best.
Believe me I know." Somehow Scott had no doubts. With the way
Spook was passionately describing the specific acts and services
available within the 10 square block hotbed of sex, Scott knew
that the Spook was no novice. They grabbed a couple of Heinekens
from a bar and slowly strolled down one side of the carnal canal.

"I was going to go to the Yab Yub tonight, but since you've never
been here before, I figured I owed you a tour."

"Yab Yub? Am I supposed to know . . ."

"The biggest bestest baddest whorehouse in Amsterdam," said Spook
exuberantly.

"O.K., fine, and this is . . ."

"The slums."

"Thanks a lot," Scott said sarcastically.

"No, this is for middle class tourist sex. Yab Yub is first
class but this'll do me just fine. How about you? Ready for some
serious debauching?" The Spook queried.

"Huh?" Scott laughed anxiously. "Oh, I don't know, I've never
been terribly fond of hookers."

"First time when I was 13. My uncle took me to a whorehouse for
my birthday. Shit," the Spook fondly grinned at the memory.
"I'll never forget the look on my mom's face when he told her.
She lectured him for a week. Christ," he paused. "It's so funny,
you know. My uncle's gay."

Scott was enjoying the conversation and the company of the Spook.
Americans meeting up with kindred Americans in a foreign land is
a breath of fresh air and the Spook provided that.

Scott window shopped as they walked, sidestepping the very few
venturesome cars which attempted to penetrate the horny humanity
on the crowded cobblestone streets. The variety of sexual mate-
rials was beyond comprehension. Spook seemed to be avidly fluent
in their description and application. In one window, a spiked
dildo of emmense girth and length dominated the display. Scott
grimaced at the weapon while the Spook commented on it's possible
uses at an adult sit'n'spin party.

"Here's the live sex show," the Spook said invitingly. "Pretty
wild. Look at the pictures." Scott leaned over to view a set of
graphic photographs that would have caused the Meese Commission
on Pornography to double dose on its Geritol.

"Damn, they show this stuff on the street, huh?" Asked the sur-
prised Scott. He wasn't naive, it was just quite a shock to see
such graphic sexuality in such a concentration and in such an
open manner. On Sundays when the Red Light District is closed
until 6 P.M., many Dutch families use the window dressings as the
textbook for their children's' sex education. "No, let's keep
going," Scott said unconvinced he would partake of the pleasures.

"Isn't this great?" The Spook blurted out as Scott was looking
in the window of one of the hundred plus sex shops. "I just love
it. Remember I was telling you about freedom in Amsterdam? It's
kind of like the hacker's ethic."

Spook was going to equate sex and hacking? "Is that 'cause all
hacker's are hard up?" Scott laughed.

"No, dig it." The Spook suddenly stopped to face Scott. "Free-
dom, total freedom implies and requires responsibility. Without
that, the system would collapse into chaotic anarchy. Hacking is
a manifestation of freedom. Once we have cracked a system, and
are in it, we have the freedom to do anything we want. But that
freedom brings responsibility too, and, just like with sex so
freely available, legally, it must be handled with care." Spook
was sermonizing again, but was making more sense. His parallels
were concise and poignant.

They walked further into the heart of the District and the Spook
was constantly distracted by the quantity of red lights over the
basement and first floor windows. He wanted to closely examine
the contents of every one. In each window was a girl, sometimes
two, clad in either a dental floss bathing suit or a see through
penoire. Scott enjoyed the views, but thought that the Spook was
acting somewhat obsessively. The calm, professional, knowledge-
able hacker had reverted into a base creature, driven by hormonal
compulsion. Or then again, maybe they were just stoned.

"I gotta pick the right one, just the right one," the Spook said.
"Let's see what else is available. Got to find you a good one,
too."

Scott shook his head. "I don't know . . ."

"What, you don't wanna get laid? What's the matter with you?"
The Spook couldn't believe his ears.

The sheer intensity of the omnipresent sexual stimulation gave
Scott the urge to pause and ask himself why. The desire was
physically manifest, but the psychology of hookers; it wasn't his
style. In the three years since he and Maggie had split, Scott
occassioned to spend time with many ladies. He had kept himself
in reasonable shape without doing becoming fanatic about it, and
his high metabolism helped keep the body from degenerating ahead
of schedule. So he had had his share of companionship and oppor-
tunity, but right now he was enjoying the freedom of his work and
the pleasures that that offered. If a woman was in the cards, so
be it, but it was not essential at the moment.

"Nothing, it's just that, well, I prefer to know the lady, if you
know what I mean."

"Oh, no problem!" The Spook had an answer. "That's an all night-
er and will cost you 1000 guilders."

"No, no," Scott said quickly. "That's not it. I just don't get
a charge from hookers. Now, if some friends set it up to like a
real pick-up, at the beach, a bar, whatever, as long as I didn't
know. That could prove interesting. Hmmmm." He smiled to
himself. "But honestly? I been a couple of times, just for
giggles. And boy was it giggles."

Scott laughed out loud at the memory. "The first time it was a
friend's birthday and a bunch of us put up enough to get him laid
at the Chicken Ranch." That was the evening Scott had lost
almost two hours of his life on the drive back to Vegas. He
speculated to himself, in private, that he may been abducted by
alien creatures from a UFO. Right.

"I know the place," added the Spook.

"I was designated drunk driver so I drove him over to the high
desert in the company van, about an hour's drive. Before we went
in I insisted on a couple of beers. He was getting laid and I
was nervous. Go figure. At any rate, the security cameras let
us in and two very attractive ladies in slinky gowns lead us over
to the couch. They immediately assumed that we were both there
for, well, the services. I was too embarrassed to say no, that I
wasn't interested, but then out came a line of 20 of the most
gorgeous girls you could imagine. The madam, I forget her name,
stepped in and begged our indulgence for the interruption. It
seems, she said, that the BBC was filming a documentary on broth-
els, and they had a camera crew in the next room, and would we
mind too terribly much if they filmed us?" Scott feigned extreme
shock.

"Filmed you? For TV? Even I won't go that far," the Spook said
impressed with Scott's story. "My movies are all first run
private. Alphabetical from Adelle to Zelda."

"Not film that, pervert!" He had pegged the Spook. "They only
filmed the selection process, the initial meetings and then the
walk down the hallways to the bedrooms."

"So what'd you do?" The Spook asked with interest.

"We did the camera bit, Jim got laid and I take the fifth."

"You chicken shit asshole," hollered the laughing Spook.

Scott took that as a compliment from the male slut to whom he was
speaking. "Listen, that was a long time ago, before I was mar-
ried, and I don't want it to screw up our divorce. Three years of
bliss."

The Spook kept laughing. "You really are a home boy, huh?" He
gasped for air. They continued down a side street and back up
the Oude Zijds Achterburgwal, the other main canal in the Dis-
trict, so Spook could check out more windows. Those with the
curtain drawn indicated that either services were being rendered
or that it was lunch hour. Hard to tell.

As they passed the Guys and Gals Sex Shop, the Spook abruptly
stopped and stepped back toward the canal. He whistled to him-
self in appreciation of the sex goddesses that had captured his
attention. In the basement window was a stunning buxom brunette,
wearing an invisible g-string and bra. She oozed sexuality with
her beckoning lips and fingers when she spotted the Spook's
interest. In the first floor window above the brunette were two
perfectly voluptuous poster blondes, in matching transparent
peignoirs. They too, saw the Spook, and attempted to seduce him
to their doorway. Scott was impressed that the ladies were so
attractive.

"Some sweet meat, huh?" Said the Spook ogling his choices. "Well
are you or aren't you?" He asked with finality. "I'm all systems
go. You get first choice: 2 from window A or 1 from window B.
What'll it be?"

Scott responded immediately. "I got a safer way. There are five
billion people on the planet, and at any given time at least a
million have to be having sex. So all I have to do is tune into
the Planetary Consciousness, the ultimate archetype, and have an
orgasm anytime I want."

"You're a sick mother," laughed the Spook. "Transcendental group
sex. At least I can tell the difference between pussy and pray-
ing." He asked Scott again to pick a girl.

"I have to pass. It's just not my thing." Spook glared at him
askance. "No really, go ahead. I'm a bit tired, I just arrived
this morning." He had forgotten to take his 3 hour afternoon nap
and it was close to 6 in the morning body time. "I'll see you at
the conference tomorrow. All right?"

"Fuckin' A!" The Spook beamed. "I get 'em all." He motioned to
the girls that he would like to hire all three of them, at once.
They indicated that that would be a fine idea. "Listen, I don't
mean to be rude, but . . ." the Spook said to Scott as he pro-
ceeded up the stairs to meet the female triumvirate. He turned
briefly in the open doorway with two of the girls tugging at his
clothes. "Scott! What happens if the medium or the message gets
sick? Think about it." The door closed behind the Spook as the
girls shed their clothes.

"Medium? Jeez you are really fucked," laughed Scott. "Pervert!"
He called out as the window curtains closed.

Scott got directions to the Eureka! from a live sex show sales-
man. For all the walking he and the Spook had done, miles and
miles, it was odd that they had ended up only a few blocks away
from the hotel. Ah, but that would figure, thought Scott. The
Sex Starved Spook was staying at the Europa around the corner
from Sin Street. Scott rolled a joint of his own to enjoy for
the pleasant evening promenade home along the canals. Spook,
what a character. In one breath, perfectly rational, but then
the Jekyll and Hyde hormone hurricane. Wow.

What Scott Mason could never have imagined, indeed quite the
opposite, was that the Spook was unable to respond to the three
very attentive ladies he had hired for that very purpose. Noth-
ing. No matter what stimuli they effected, the Spook's brain
could not command his body to respond. His confusion alternated
with embarrassment which made the problem only worse. Never
before had the Spook had such a problem. Never. One of the
ladies spoke to him kindly. "Hey, it happens to everyone once in
a while." At hearing that he jumped up, removed the loose condom
and zipped his pants while screaming, "Not to me. It doesn't
happen to me!"

Scott did not know that the Spook bolted into the street and
started running, in panic, away from the scene of his most pri-
vate of failures. He ran all the way, in fact beating Scott to
his hotel. He was driven by the terror of the first sexual
failure in his life. The Spook felt emasculated as he sought a
rationalization that would allow him to retain a shred of digni-
ty.

He was used to commanding women, not being humiliated by them.
What was wrong? Women fell all over him, but why this? This of
all things? The Spook fell asleep on the top of his bed with his
clothes on.

Scott did not know that he would not be seeing the Spook tomor-
row.

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 6
Washington, D.C.

"Eight more!" exclaimed Charlie Sorenson into Martin Templer's
face. "What the hell is going on?" The private office on twenti-
eth and "L" Street was well guarded by an efficient receptionist
who believed she worked for an international import export firm.
Consulting offices were often easier for senior intelligence
officials to use for clandestine, unrecorded meetings than one's
own office. In the interest of privacy, naturally.

The two NSA and CIA agents from "P" Street held their clandestine
meeting in a plain, windowless office meagerly furnished with a
desk, a couple of chairs and a file cabinet.

Charlie turned his back on Templer and sighed. "I'm sorry,
Marty. It's not you." He paced to the other side of the small
confining room. "I'm getting pressure from all sides. That
damned FBI guy is making a nuisance of himself. Asking too many
questions. The media smells a conspiracy and the Director is
telling me to ignore it." Sorenson stood in front of Templer.
"And, now, no, it's not bad enough, but 8 more of the mothers go
off. Shit!" He slammed his fist onto the desk.

"We can explain one to the Pentagon, but nine?" Martin asked
skeptically.

"See what I mean?" Sorenson pointed.

Sorenson and Templer attended the ECCO and CERT roundups twice a
week since they began after the first EMP-T explosion.

"These are the Sats?" Templer leaned over to the desk. Corners
of several high resolution satellite photographs sneaked out from
a partially open folder. Sorenson opened the folder and spread
the photos across the surface. They weren't optical photographs,
but the familiar map shapes of the central United States were
visible behind swirls and patterns of a spectrum of colors. The
cameras and computer had been instructed to look at selected
bandwidths, just as infrared vision lets one see at night. In
this case, though, the filters excluded everything but frequen-
cies of the electromagentic spectrum of interest.

"Yeah," Sorenson said, pointing at one of the photos. "This is
where we found the first one." On one of the photos, where an
outline of the United States was visible, a dot of fuzzy light
was visible in the Memphis, Tennessee area.

"That's an EMP-T bomb?" asked Templer.

"The electromagnetic signature, in certain bandwidths is the same
as from a nuclear detonation." Sorenson pulled another photo
out. It was a computer enhanced blowup of the first satellite
photo. The bridges across the Mississippi were clearly visible.
The small fuzzy dot from the other photograph became a larger
fuzzy cloud of white light.

"I didn't know we had geosyncs over us, too," Templer said light-
ly.

"Officially we don't," Sorenson said seriously. Then he showed
his teeth and said, "unofficially we have them everywhere."

"So who was hit?"

"Here?" He pointed at Memphis. "Federal Express. A few hours
ago. They're down. Can't say when they'll be back in business.
Thank God no one was killed. They weren't so lucky in Texas."

Sorenson pulled a couple more photographs and a fuzzy dot and
it's fuzzy cloud mate were clearly visible in the Houston area.
"EDS Computers," said Sorenson. "Six dead, 15 injured. They do
central processing for hundreds of companies. Every one, gone.
And then here." He scattered more photos with the now recogniz-
able fuzzy white dots.

"Mid-State Farm Insurance, Immigration and Naturalization, Na-
tional Bank, General Inter-Dynamics, CitiBank, and the Sears mail
order computers." Sorenson spoke excitedly as he listed the
latest victims of the magnetic cardiac arrest that their computer
systems, and indeed, their entire organization suffered.

"Press?"

"Like stink on shit."

"What do they know?"

"Too much."

"What can we do?"

"Get to the bottom of this before Mason does."

****************************************************************

Chapter 19

Thursday, January 7
Amsterdam, Holland

The following morning Scott awoke without telephone intervention
by the front desk. He felt a little on the slow side, an observa-
tion he attributed to either the time difference, not the jet
lag, or the minor after effect of copius cannabis consumption.
The concierge called a cab and Scott told the driver where he
thought he was going. Ya, no problem, it's a short ride.

To Scott's surprise he found himself passing by the same sex
emporium where he had left the Spook last evening. Scott reminded
himself to ask Spook how it went. The taxi stopped in front of
an old building that had no signs of use. It was number 44, but
just in case, Scott asked the driver to wait a moment. He walked
up the door and finding no bell, rapped on the heavy wooden door.

"Ya?" A muffled voice asked through the door.

"Is Jon there? This is Scott Mason." Scott knowingly looked at
the cab driver.

"Who?"

Scott looked at the number again and then remembered what Jon had
told him. "Sorry. This is Repo Man. Kirk said you'd expect
me."

"Ah, ya! Repo Man." The door opened and Scott happily waved off
the cab. "Welcome, please, come in." Scott entered a dark
chamber as the door closed behind him. "I am Clay, that's French
for key."

Wonderful, thought Scott. "Thanks for the invite. Is Jon here?"

"Everyone is here."

"I thought it didn't begin until eleven," Scott said looking at
his watch.

"Ah, ya, well," the Dutch accented Clay said. "It is difficult
to stop sometimes. We have been here all night."

Scott followed Clay up a darkened flight of steps. At mid land-
ing Clay opened a door and suddenly the dungeon-like atmosphere
vanished. Inside the cavernous room were perhaps 200 people,
mostly men, excitedly conversing and huddling over computers of
every imaginable model. The high ceiling was liberally dressed
with fluorescent tubing which accentuated the green hues from
many of the computer monitors. The walls were raw brick and the
sparse decorations were all computer related. Windows at the two
ends of the building added enough daylight to take some of the
edge off of the pallid green aura.

"What should I do?" Asked Scott looking around the large room
which was probably overcrowded by modern safety counts.

"The Flying Dutchman said he will see you a little later," Clay
said. "Many of our members know Repo Man is a reporter, and you
are free to look and ask anything. Please enjoy yourself." Clay
quickly disappeared into the congregation.

Scott suddenly felt abandoned and wished he could disappear.
Like those dreams where you find yourself stark naked in a public
place. He felt that his computer naivete was written all over
his face and he would be judged thus, so instead he tried to
ignore it by perusing the walls. He became amused at the selec-
tion of art, poster art, Scotch taped to the brick.

The first poster had Daffy Duck, or reasonable facsimile thereof,
prepared to bring a high speed sledgehammer in contact with a
keyboard. "Hit any key to continue," was the simple poster's
message. Another portrayed a cobweb covered skeleton sitting
behind a computer terminal with a repairman standing over him
asking a pertinent question. "System been down long?"

One of the ruder posters consisted of Ronald Reagan with a super-
imposed hand making a most obscene manual gesture. The poster was
entitled, "Compute This!"

Scott viewed the walls as if in an art gallery, not a hackers
convention. He openly laughed when he saw a poster from the
National Computer Security Center, a working division of the
National Security Agency. A red, white and blue Uncle Sam,
finger pointing, beckoned, "We want YOU! to secure your
computer." In an open white space on the poster someone wrote
in, "Please list name and date if you have already cracked into
an NSA computer." Beneath were a long list of Hacker Handles
with the dates they had entered the super secret agency's comput-
ers. Were things really that bad, Scott asked himself.

"Repo Man?"

Scott turned quickly to see a large, barrel chested, red haired
man with an untamed beard in his early forties approach him
rapidly. The man was determined in his gait. Scott answered,
"Yes . . .?

"Ya, I'm the Flying Dutchman," he said hurriedly in a large boom-
ing voice. "Welcome." He vigorously shook Scott's hand with a
wide smile hidden behind the bushy red face. "You enjoyed Am-
sterdam last night, ya?" He expected a positive answer. Sex was
no crime here.

"Well," Scott blushed. "I must say it was a unique experience,"
he said carefully so as not to offend Holland's proud hosts.
"But I think the Spook had more fun than I did."

The Flying Dutchman's hand went limp. "Spook? Did you say
Spook?" His astonishment was clear.

"Yeah, why?" Scott asked.

"The Spook? Here? No one has seen him in years."

"Yeah, well he's alive and well and screwing his brains out with
three of Amsterdam's finest," Scott said with amusement. "What's
the big deal?"

"The Spook, ya this is goot," the Flying Dutchman said clapping
his hands together with approval. "He was the greatest phreak
of his day. He retired years ago, and has only been seen once or
two times maybe. He is a legend."

"A phreak?"

"Oh, ya, ya. A phreak," he said speaking rapidly. "Before home
computers, in the 1960's and 1970's, hacking meant fighting the
phone company. In America you call it Ma Bell, I believe. Cap-
tain Crunch was the epitome of phone phreaks."

These names were a bit much, thought Scott, but might add a
sense of levity to his columns. "Captain Crunch?" Scott asked
with skepticism.

"Ya, Captain Crunch. He blew the plastic whistle from a Captain
Crunch cereal box into the phone," the Flying Dutchman held an
invisible whistle to his lips. "And it opened up an inside line
to make long distance calls. Then he built and sold Blue Boxes
which recreated the tones to make free calls."

"Phreaking and computer hacking, they're the same?"

"Ya, ya, especially for the older hackers." The Flying Dutchman
patted himself on the stomach. "You see hacking, some call it
cracking, is taking a system to its limit. Exploring it, master-
ing the machine. The phones, computers, viruses, it's all hack-
ing. You understand?"

"Spook called hacking a technique for investigating new spontane-
ously generated lifeforms. He said a network was a living being.
We got into quite an argument about it." Scott sounded mildly
derisive of the theory.

The Dutchman crossed his arms, grinned wide and rocked back and
forth on his heels. "Ya, ya. That sounds like the Spook.
Cutting to the heart of the issue. Ya, you see, we all have our
reasons why we hack, but ya, Spook is right. We forget sometimes
that the world is one giant computer, with thousands and millions
of arms, just like the brain. The neurons," he pointed at his
head, "are connected to each other with synapses. Just like a
computer network."

The Flying Dutchman's explanation was a little less ethereal than
the Spook's and Scott found himself anticipating further enlight-
enment.

"The neuron is a computer. It can function independently, but
because it's capacity is tiny, a neuron is really quite limited
in what it can achieve alone. The synapse is like the network
wire, or phone company wiring. It connects the neurons or com-
puters together." The Dutchman spoke almost religiously as he
animatedly drew wires and computers in the air to reinforce the
concept. "Have you heard of neural networks?"

"Absolutely," Scott said. "The smart chips that can learn."

"Ya, exactly. A neural network is modeled after the brain, too.
It is a very large number of cells, just like the brain's cells,
that are only connected to each other in the most rudimentary
way."

"Like a baby's brain?" Scott offered.

"Ya, ya, just like a baby. Very good. So like the baby, the
neural net grows connections as it learns. The more connections
it makes, the smarter it gets."

"Both the baby and the network?"

"Ya," Dutchman laughed. "So as the millions of neural connec-
tions are made, some people learn skills that others don't and
some computers are better suited to certain tasks than others.
And now there's a global neural network growing. Millions more
computers are added and we connect them together, until any
computer can talk to any other computer. Ya, the Spook is very
much right. The Network is alive, and it is still learning."

Scott was entering a world where the machines, the computers,
were personified, indeed imbued with a life of their own by their
creators and their programmers. A highly complex world where
inter-relatedness is infinitely more important than the specific
function. Connections are issue. Didn't Spook remind him that
the medium is the message?

But where, questioned Scott, is the line between man and machine?
If computers are stupid, and man must program them to give them
the appearance of intelligence, then the same must be true of the
Network, the global information network. Therefore, when a piece
of the Network is programmed to learn how to plan for future
Network expansion and that piece of the Network calls another
computer on the Network to inquire as to how it is answering the
same problem for different conditions, don't man and machine
merge? Isn't the Network acting as an extension of man? But
then, a hammer is a tool as well, and no one calls a hammer a
living being.

Unto itself it is not alive, Scott reasoned. The Network merely
emulates the growth patterns and behavior of the cranial highway
system. He was ready to concede that a network was more alive
than a hammer, but he could not bring himself to carry the analo-
gy any further yet.

"That gives me a lot to think about," Scott assured the Dutchman.

"Ya, ya, it does. Do you understand quantum physics?"

What the hell would make him ask that question, thought Scott.
"I barely passed Quantum 101, the math was too far out for me,
but, yes," he laughed kindly, "I do remember the basics. Very
basic."

"Goot. In the global Network there is no way to predict where
the next information packet will be sent. Will it start here,"
the Dutchman motioned to his far left, "or here? There's no way
to know. All we can say, just as in physics, is that there is a
probability of data being transferred between any two points.
Chance. And we can also view the Network in operation as both a
wave and a particle."

"Wait," stopped Scott. "You've just gone over my head, but I get
the point, I think. You and your associates really believe that
this global Network is an entity unto itself and that it is
growing and evolving on its own as we speak?"

"Ya, exactly. You see, no one person is responsible for the
Network, its growth or its care. Like the brain, many different
regions control their own piece of the Network. And, the Network
can still function normally even if pieces of it are disconnect-
ed. The split brain studies."

"And you're the caretakers for the Network?" doubted Scott.

"No. As I said we all have our reasons. The common denominator
is that we treat the Network as an incredibly powerful organism
about which we know very, very little. That is our function - to
learn."

"What is it that you do? For a living?"

"Ah, ya. I am Professor of Technological Sociology at the Uni-
versity of Amsterdam. The original proposal for my research came
from personal beliefs and concerns; about the way the human race
has to learn to cope in the face of great technology leaps. NATO
is funding the research."

"NATO," exclaimed Scott. "They fund hacking?"

"No," laughed the Dutchman. "They know that hacking is necessary
to gather the raw data my research requires, so they pretend not
to notice or care. What we are trying to do is predict what the
Baby, the global Network will look and act like when it grows
up."

"Isn't crystal ball gazing easier?"

"Ya, it may be," the Dutchman agreed. "But now, why don't you
look around? I am sure you will find it most educational."

The Dutchman asked again about the Spook. "Is he really here in
Amsterdam?" Yup! "And he said he'd be here today?" Yup! "The
Spook, at the conference? He hasn't made an appearance in years."
Well, that's what he told me, he'd be here.

Scott profusely thanked his host and assured him that yes, he
would ask for anything he needed. Thank you. Kirk had been
vindicated, thought Scott who had expected a group of pimply
faced adolescents with nerd shirts to be bouncing around like
Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale.

Scott slowly explored the tables loaded with various types of
computer gear. IBM clones were the most common, but an assort-
ment of older machines, a CP/M or two, even a Commodore PET
proved that expensive new equipment was not needed to become a
respected hacker. Scott reminded himself that this group was the
elite of hackerdom. These were the Hacker's Hackers.

In his discussions with Kirk, Scott figured he would see some of
the tools of the trade. But he had no idea of the level of
sophistication that was openly, and perhaps, illegally, being
demonstrated. Then again, maybe that's why they hold their
Hacker Ho Downs in Amsterdam.

Scott learned something very critical early on.

"Once you let one of us inside your computer, it's all over. The
system is ours." The universal claim by hackers.

Scott no longer had any trouble accepting that. "So the securi-
ty guy's job," one short balding middle aged American hacker
said, "is to keep us out. I'm a cracker." What's that? "The
cracker is kind of like a safecracker, or lock picker. It's my
job to figure out how to get into the computers." Scott had to
stifle a giggle when he found out that this slight man's handle
was appropriately Waldo.

Waldo went on to explain that he was a henpecked CPA who needed a
hobby that would bore his wife to tears. So he locked himself in
the basement, far away from her, and got hooked on computers. He
found that rummaging through other computers was an amusing
alternative to watching Honeymooner reruns while his wife
kvetched. After a while, he said he discovered that he had a
talent for cracking through the front doors of computers. On the
professional hacker circuit that made Waldo a valuable commodity.
The way it works, he explained, was that he would trade access
codes for outlines of the contents of the computers. If he
wanted to look further, he maintained a complete indexing system
on the contents of thousands of computers world wide. He admit-
ted it was the only exciting part of his life. "The most fun a
CPA has," he said calmly, "is cutting up client's credit cards.
But me," he added proudly, "I've been in and out of the IRS
computers more times than Debbie did it in Dallas."

"The IRS computers? You've been in there?"

"Where else does a CPA go, but to the scene of the crime." Waldo
laughed at his joke. "At first it was a game, but once I got
into the IRS backplane, which connects the various IRS districts
together, the things I found scared me. No one is in control
over there. No one. They abuse taxpayers, basically honest
taxpayers who are genuinely in trouble and need some understand-
ing by their government. Instead they are on the receiving end of
a vicious attack by a low level government paper slave who gets
his thrills by seizing property. The IRS is immune from due
process." Scott immediately thought of Tyrone and his constitu-
tional ravings the other night.

"The IRS's motto is, 'guilty until we cash the check'. And IRS
management ignores it. Auditors are on a quota basis, and if
they don't recover their allotted amounts of back taxes, they can
kiss their jobs goodbye." The innocent looking Waldo, too, had
found a cause, a raison d'tre, for hacking away at government
computers.

"You know that for a fact?" Asked Scott. This alone was a major
story. Such a policy was against everything the Constitution
stood for. Waldo nodded and claimed to have seen the internal
policy memoranda. Who was in charge? Essentially, said Waldo,
no one. It was anarchy.

"They have the worst security of any agency that should by all
rights have the best. It's a crime against American citizens.
Our rights and our privacy have shriveled to nothing." Waldo,
the small CPA, extolled the virtues of fighting the system from
within. From within he could battle the computers that had
become the system.

"Have you ever, shall I say, fixed files in the IRS computers?"

"Many times," Waldo said proudly. "For my clients who were being
screwed, sometimes I am asked to help. It's all part of the
job," he said of his beloved avocation.

"How many systems have you cracked?" Asked Scott, visibly im-
pressed.

"I am," Waldo said modestly, "the best. I have cracked 1187
systems in 3 years. 1040 was my personal goal for a while, then
1099, but it's kind of open ended now."

"That's almost one a day?"

"You could look at it like that, but sometimes you can get into
10 or twenty in one day. You gotta remember," Waldo said with
pride, "a lot of homework goes into this. You just don't decide
one day to crack a system. You have to plan it."

"So how do you do it?"

"O.K., it's really pretty simple. D'you speak software?"

"Listen, you make it real simple, and I won't interrupt. OK?"

"Interrupt. Hah! That's a good one. Here, let me show you on the
computer," Waldo said as he leaned over to peck at the keyboard.
"The first step to getting into computers is to find where they
are located, electronically speaking, O.K.?" Scott agreed that
you needed the address of the bank before you could rob it.

"So what we do is search for computers by running a program, like
an exchange autodialer. Here, look here," Waldo said pointing at
the computer screen. "We select the area code here, let's say
203, that's Connecticut. Then we pick the prefix, the first
three numbers, that's the local exchange. So let's choose 968,"
he entered the numbers carefully. "That's Stamford. By the way,
I wrote this software myself." Waldo spoke of his software as a
proud father would of his first born son. Scott patted him on
the back, urging him to continue.

"So we ask the computer to call every number in the 203-968 area
sequentially. When the number is answered, my computer records
whether a voice, a live person answered, or a computer answered
or if it was a fax machine." Scott never had imagined that
hacking was so systematic.

"Then, the computer records its findings and we have a complete
list of every computer in that area," Waldo concluded.

"That's 10,000 phone calls," Scott realized. "It must cost a
fortune and take forever?"

"Nah, not a dime. The phone company has a hole. It takes my
program less than a second to record the response and we're off
to the next call. It's all free, courtesy of TPC," Waldo
bragged.

"TPC?" Questioned Scott.

"The Phone Company," Waldo chuckled.

"I don't see how you can do the entire country that way, 10,000
calls at a shot. In New York there must be ten million phones."

"Yes," agreed Waldo, "it is a never ending job. Phone numbers
change, computers come and go, security gets better. But you
have to remember, there are a lot of other people out there doing
the same thing, and we all pool our information. You could ask
for the number to almost any computer in the world, and someone
in our group, somewhere, will have the number and likely the
passwords."

"Jesus . . ."

"I run my program at night, every night, when I sleep. On a good
night, if the calls are connected quickly enough, I can go
through about a thousand phone numbers. I figure roughly a month
per prefix."

"I am amazed, simply amazed. Truly impressed," said Scott. "You
know, you always kind of imagine these things are possible, but
until it stares you in the face it's black magic."

"You wanna know the best part?" Waldo said teasingly. "I get
paid for it, too." Waldo crouched over and spoke to Scott secre-
tively. "Not everyone here approves, but, I sell lists to junk
fax mail-order houses. They want the fax lists. On a good night
I can clear a couple hundred while my modem does the dialing."

The underground culture of Scott's day, demonstrating against the
war, getting gassed while marching by George Washington Universi-
ty, getting thrown out of a Nixon rally at Madison Square Garden
seemed so innocent in comparison. He continued to be in awe of
the possible applications for a technology not as benign as its
creators had intended.

Scott met other hackers; they were proud of the term even with
the current negative connotations it carried. He saw how system-
ic attacks against the front door to computers were the single
biggest challenge to hackers; the proverbial chase before the
catch, the romance to many.

At another tabletop laden with computers Scott learned that there
are programs designed to try passwords according to certain
rules. Some try every possible combination of letters and num-
bers, although that is considered an antique method of brute
force. More sophisticated hackers use advanced algorithms which
try to open the computer with 'likely' passwords. It was all
very scientific, the approach to the problem, thought Scott.

He met communications gurus who knew more about the switching
networks inside the phone company than AT&T engineers. They had
complete diagrams and function calls and source code for even the
latest software revisions on the 4ESS and the new 5ESS switches.
"Once you're into the phone computers," one phone phreak ex-
tolled, "you have an immense amount of power at your fingertips.
Incredible. Let me give you an example."

The speaker was another American, one that Scott would have
classified as an ex-Berkeley-hippie still living in the past.
His dirty shoulder length hair capped a skinny frame which held
his jeans up so poorly that there was no question where the sun
didn't shine.

"You know that the phone company is part of the Tri-Lateral
Commission, working with Kissinger and the Queen of England to
control the world. Right?" His frazzled speech was matched by
an annoying habit of sweeping his stringy hair off his face every
few words. "It's up to us to stop them."

Scott listened politely as Janis, (who adopted the moniker from
his favorite singer) rewrote history with tortured explanations
of how the phone company is the hidden seat of the American
government, and how they have been lying to the public for dec-
ades. And the Rockefellers are involved too, he assured Scott.

"They could declare martial law, today, and take over the coun-
try. Those who control the communications control the power," he
oracled. "Did you know," he took Scott into his confidence,
"that phones are always on and they have computers recording
everything you say and do in your own home. That's illegal!"
Janis bellowed. Not to mention crazy, thought Scott.

One of Janis' associates came over to rescue Scott. "Sorry, he's
a little enthusiastic and has some trouble communicating on the
Earthly plane." Alva, as he called himself, explained coherent-
ly that with some of the newer security systems in place, it is
necessary to manipulate the phone company switches to learn
system passwords.

"For example, when we broke into a Bell computer that used CI-
CIMS, it was tough to crack. But now they've added new security
that, in itself, is flawless, albeit crackable," Alva explained.
"Once you get past the passwords, which is trivial, the system
asks you three unique questions about yourself for final identi-
fication. Pretty smart, huh?" Scott agreed with Alva, a voice
of apparent moderation. "However, we were already in the phone
switch computer, so we programmed in forwarding instructions for
all calls that dialed that particular computer. We then inter-
cepted the call and connected it to our computer, where we emu-
late the security system, and watched the questions and answers
go back and forth. After a few hours, you have a hundred differ-
ent passwords to use. There are a dozen other ways to do it, of
course."

"Of course," Scott said sarcastically. Is nothing sacred? Not
in this world it's not. All's fair in love, war and hacking.

The time flew as Scott learned what a tightly knitted clique the
hackers were. The ethos 'honor among thieves' held true here as
it did in many adolescent societies, most recently the American
Old West. As a group, perhaps even a subculture, they were
arduously taming new territory, each with their own vision of a
private digital homestead. Each one taking on the system in
their own way, they still needed each other, thus they looked
aside if another's techno-social behavior was personally dis-
tasteful. The Network was big enough for everyone. A working
anarchy that heralded the standard of John Paul Jones as their
sole commandment: Don't Tread On Me.

He saw tapping devices that allowed the interception of computer
data which traveled over phone lines. Line Monitors and Sniffers
were commercially available, and legal; equipment that was nomi-
nally designed to troubleshoot networks. In the hands of a hack-
er, though, it graduated from being a tool of repair to an
offensive weapon.

Small hand held radios were capable of listening in to the in-
creasingly popular remote RF networks which do not require wires.
Cellular phone eavesdropping devices permitted the owner to scan
and focus on the conversation of his choice. Scott examined the
electronic gear to find a manufacturer's identification.

"Don't bother, my friend," said a long haired German youth of
about twenty.

"Excuse me?"

"I see you are looking for marks, yes?"

"Well, yes. I wanted to see who made these . . ."

"I make them, he makes them, we all make them," he said almost
giddily. "This is not available from Radio Shack," he giggled.
"Who needs them from the establishment when they are so easy to
build."

Scott knew that electronics was indeed a garage operation and
that many high tech initiatives had begun in entrepreneur's
basements. The thought of home hobbyists building equipment
which the military defends against was anathema to Scott. He
merely shook his head and moved on, thanking the makers of the
eavesdropping machines for their demonstrations.

Over in a dimly lit corner, dimmer than elsewhere, Scott saw a
number of people fiddling with an array of computers and equip-
ment that looked surprisingly familiar. As he approached he
experienced an immediate rush of dja vu. This was the same
type of equipment that he had seen on the van before it was blown
up a couple of months ago. Tempest busting, he thought.

The group was speaking in German, but they were more than glad to
switch to English for Scott's benefit. They sensed his interest
as he poked around the assorted monitors and antennas and test
equipment.

"Ah, you are interested in Van Eck?" asked one of the German
hackers. They maintained a clean cut appearance, and through
discussion Scott learned that they were funded as part of a
university research project in Frankfurt.

Scott watched and listened as they set up a compelling demonstra-
tion. First, one computer screen displayed a complex graphic
picture. Several yards away another computer displayed a foggy
image that cleared as one of the students adjusted the antenna
attached to the computer.

"Aha! Lock!" one of them said, announcing that the second comput-
er would now display everything that the first computer did. The
group played with color and black and white graphics, word proc-
essing screens and spreadsheets. Each time, in a matter of
seconds, they 'locked' into the other computer successfully.

Scott was duly impressed and asked them why they were putting
effort into such research. "Very simple," the apparent leader of
the Frankfurt group said. "This work is classified in both your
country and mine, so we do not have access to the answers we
need. So, we build our own and now it's no more classified. You
see?"

"Why do you need it?"

"To protect against it," they said in near unison. "The next
step is to build efficient methods to fight the Van Eck."

"Doesn't Tempest do that?"

"Tempest?" the senior student said. "Ha! It makes the computer
weigh a thousand pounds and the monitor hard to read. There are
better ways to defend. To defend we must first know how to
attack. That's basic."

"Let me ask you something," Scott said to the group after their
lengthy demonstration. "Do you know anything about electromag-
netic pulses? Strong ones?"

"Ya. You mean like from a nuclear bomb?"

"Yes, but smaller and designed to only hurt computers."

"Oh, ya. We have wanted to build one, but it is beyond our
means."

"Well," Scott said smugly, "someone is building them and setting
them off."

"Your stock exchange. We thought that the American government
did it to prove they could."

An hour of ensuing discussion taught Scott that the technology
that the DoD and the NSA so desperately spent billions to keep
secret and proprietary was in common use. To most engineers, and
Scott could easily relate, every problem has an answer. The
challenge is to accomplish the so-called impossible. The engi-
neer's pride.

Jon, the Flying Dutchman finally rescued Scott's stomach from
implosion. "How about lunch? A few of the guys want to meet
you. Give you a heavy dose of propaganda," he threatened.

"Thank God! I'm famished and haven't touched the stuff all day.
Love to, it's on me," Scott offered. He could see Doug having a
cow. How could he explain a thousand dollar dinner for a hundred
hungry hackers?

"Say that too loud," cautioned the bearded Dutchman, "and you'll
have to buy the restaurant. Hacking isn't very high on the pay
scale."

"Be easy on me, I gotta justify lunch for an army to my boss, or
worse yet, the beancounters." Dutchman didn't catch the idiom.
"Never mind, let's keep it to a small regiment, all right?"

He never figured out how it landed on his shoulders, but Scott
ended up with the responsibility of picking a restaurant and
successfully guiding the group there. And Dutchman had skipped
out without notifying anyone. Damned awkward, thought Scott. He
assumed control, limited though it was, and led them to the only
restaurant he knew, the Sarang Mas. The group blindly and happi-
ly followed. They even let him order the food, so he did his
very best to impress them by ordering without looking at the
menu. He succeeded, with his savant phonetic memory, to order
exactly what he had the night prior, but this time he asked for
vastly greater portions.

As they were sating their pallets, and commenting on what a
wonderful choice this restaurant was, Scott popped the same
question to which he had previously been unable to receive a
concise answer. Now that he had met this bunch, he would ask
again, and if lucky, someone might respond and actually be com-
prehensible.

"I've been asking the same question since I got into this whole
hacking business," Scott said savoring goat parts and sounding
quite nonchalant. "And I've never gotten a straight answer. Why
do you hack?" He asked. "Other than the philosophical credo of
Network is Life, why do you hack?" Scott looked into their eyes.
"Or are you just plain nosy?"

"I bloody well am!" said the one called Pinball who spoke with a
thick Liverpudlian accent. His jeans were in tatters, in no
better shape than his sneakers. The short pudgy man was mid-
twenty-ish and his tall crewcut was in immediate need of reshap-
ing.

"Nosy? That's why you hack?" Asked Scott in disbelief.

"Yeah, that's it, mate. It's great fun. A game the size of
life." Pinball looked at Scott as if to say, that's it. No
hidden meaning, it's just fun. He swallowed more of the exqui-
site food.

"Sounds like whoever dies with the most hacks wins," Scott said
facetiously.

"Right. You got it, mate." Pinball never looked up from his food
while talking.

Scott scanned his luncheon companions for reaction. A couple of
grunts, no objection. What an odd assortment, Scott thought. At
least the Flying Dutchman had been kind enough to assemble an
English speaking group for Scott's benefit.

"We each have our reasons to hack," said the one who called
himself Che2. By all appearance Che2 seemed more suited to a BMW
than a revolutionary cabal. He was a well bred American, dressed
casually but expensively. "We may not agree with each other, or
anyone, but we have an underlying understanding that permits us
to cooperate."

"I can tell you why I hack," said the sole German representative
at the table who spoke impeccable English with a thick accent "I
am a professional ethicist. It is people like me who help gov-
ernments formulate rules that decide who lives and who dies in
emergency situations. The right or wrong of weapons of mass
destruction. Ethics is a social moving target that must con-
stantly be re-examined as we as a civilized people grow and
strive to maintain our innate humanity."

"So you equate hacking and ethics, in the same breath?" Scott
asked.

"I certainly do," said the middle aged German hacker known as
Solon. "I am part of a group that promotes the Hacker Ethic. It
is really quite simple, if you would be interested." Scott urged
him to continue. "We have before us, as a world, a marvelous
opportunity, to create a set of rules, behavior and attitudes
towards this magnificent technology that blossoms before our
eyes. That law is the Ethic, some call it the Code." Kirk had
called it the Code, too.

"The Code is quite a crock," interrupted a tall slender man with
disheveled white hair who spoke with an upper crust, ever so
proper British accent. "Unless everybody follows it, from A to
Zed, it simply won't work. There can be no exceptions. Other-
wise my friends, we will find ourselves in a technological Lord
of the Flies."

"Ah, but that is already happening," said a gentleman in his mid-
fifties, who also sported a full beard, bushy mustache and long
well kept salt and pepper hair to his shoulders. "We are already
well on the road to a date with Silicon Armageddon. We didn't do
it with the Bomb, but it looks like we're sure as hell gonna do
it with technology for the masses. In this case computers."
Going only by 'Dave', he was a Philosophy Professor at Stanford.
In many ways he spoke like the early Timothy Leary, using tech-
nology instead of drugs as a mental catalyst. Scott though of
Dave as the futurist in the group.

"He's right. It is happening, right now. Long Live the Revolu-
tion," shouted Che2. "Hacking keeps our personal freedoms alive.
I know I'd much prefer everyone knowing my most intimate secrets
than have the government and TRW and the FBI and the CIA control
it and use only pieces of it for their greed-sucking reasons. No
way. I want everyone to have the tools to get into the Govern-
ment's Big Brother computer system and make the changes they see
fit."

Scott listened as his one comment spawned a heated and animated
discussion. He wouldn't break in unless they went too far
afield, wherever that was, or he simply wanted to join in on the
conversation.

"How can you support freedom without responsibility? You contra-
dict yourself by ignoring the Code." Solon made his comment with
Teutonic matter of factness in between mouthfuls.

"It is the most responsible thing we can do," retorted Che2. "It
is our moral duty, our responsibility to the world to protect our
privacy, our rights, before they are stripped away as they have
been since the Republicans bounced in, but not out, over a decade
ago." He turned in his chair and glared at Scott. Maybe thirty
years old, Che2 was mostly bald with great bushes of curly dark
brown hair encircling his head. The lack of hair emphasized his
large forehead which stood over his deeply inset eyes. Che2
called the Boston area his home but his cosmopolitan accent
belied his background.

The proper British man known as Doctor Doctor, DRDR on the BBS's,
was over six foot five with an unruly frock of thick white hair
which framed his ruddy pale face. "I do beg your pardon, but
this so violates the tenets of civilized behavior. What this
gentleman proposes is the philosophical antithesis of common
sense and rationality. I suggest we consider the position that
each of us in actual fact is working for the establishment, if I
may use such a politically pass descriptor." DRDR's comment
hushed the table. He continued. "Is it not true that security
is being installed as a result of many of our activities?"

Several nods of agreement preceded a small voice coming from the
far end of the table. "If you want to call it security." A
small pre-adolescent spoke in a high pitched whine.

"What do you mean . . .I'm sorry, I don't know what to call you,"
asked Scott.

"GWhiz. The security is a toy."

GWhiz spoke unpretentiously about how incredibly simple it is to
crack any security system. He maintained that there are theoret-
ical methods to crack into any, and he emphasized any, computer.
"It's impossible to protect a computer 100%. Can't be done. So
that means that every computer is crackable." He offered to
explain the math to Scott who politely feigned ignorance of
decimal points. "In short, I, or anyone, can get into any
computer they want. There is always a way."

"Isn't that a scary thought?" Scott asked to no one in particu-
lar.

Scott learned from the others that GWhiz was a 16 year old high
school junior from Phoenix, Arizona. He measured on the high-end
of the genius scale, joined Mensa at 4 and already had in hand
scholarships from Westinghouse, Mellon, CalTech, MIT, Stanford
to name a few. At the tender age of 7 he started programming and
was now fluent in eleven computer languages. GWhiz was regarded
with an intellectual awe from hackers for his theoretical analy-
ses that he had turned into hacking tools. He was a walking
encyclopedia of methods and techniques to both protect and attack
computers. To GWhiz, straddling the political fence by arming
both sides with the same weapons was a logical choice. Scott
viewed it as a high tech MAD - Mutual Assured Destruction, com-
puter wise.

"Don't you see," said the British DRDR, continuing as if there
had been no interruption. "The media portrays us as security
breaking phreaks, and that's exactly what we are. And that works
for the establishment as well. We keep the designers and securi-
ty people honest by testing their systems for free. What a great
deal, don't you think? We, the hackers of the world, are the
Good Housekeeping Seal of security systems by virtue of the fact
that either we can or we cannot penetrate them. If that's not
working for the system, I don't know what is."

"DRDR's heading down the right path," Dave the futurist spoke
up. "Even though he does work for GCHQ."

"GCHQ?" Scott asked quickly.

"The English version of your NSA," said Pinball, still engrossed
in his food.

"I do not!" protested DRDR. "Besides, what difference would it
make if I did?" He asked more defensively.

"None, none at all," agreed Dave. "The effect is the same.
However, if you are an MI-5 or MI-6 or whatever, that would show
a great deal of unanticipated foresight on the part of your
government. I wish ours would think farther ahead than today's
headlines. I have found that people everywhere in the world see
the problem as one of hackers, rather than the fundamental issues
that are at stake. We hackers are manifestations of the problems
that technology has bequeathed us. If any of our governments
were actually responsive enough to listen, they would have a
great deal of concern for the emerging infrastructure that
doesn't have a leader. Now, I'm not taking a side on this one,
but I am saying that if I were the government, I would sure as
all hell want to know what was going on in the trenches. The U.S.
especially."

Everyone seemed to agree with that.

"But they're too caught up in their own meaningless self-sustain-
ing parasitic lives to realize that a new world is shaping around
them." When Che2 spoke, he spoke his mind, leaving no doubt as
to how he felt. "They don't have the smarts to get involved and
see it first hand. Which is fine by me, because, as you said,"
he said pointing at DRDR, "it doesn't matter. They wouldn't
listen to him anyway. It gives us more time to build in de-
fenses."

"Defenses against what?" asked Scott.

"Against them, of course," responded Che2. "The fascist military
industrial establishment keeps us under a microscope. They're
scared of us. They have spent tens of billions of dollars to
construct huge computers, built into the insides of mountains,
protected from nuclear attack. In them are data bases about you,
and me, and him and hundreds of millions of others. There are a
lot of these systems, IRS, the Census Department has one, the
FBI, the DIA, the CIA, the NSA, the OBM, I can go on." Che2's
voice crescendo'd and he got more demonstrative as the importance
he attributed to each subject increased. "These computers con-
tain the most private information about us all. I for one, want
to prevent them from ever using that information against me or
letting others get at it either. Unlike those who feel that the
Bill of Rights should be re-interpreted and re-shaped and re-
packaged to feed their power frenzy, I say it's worked for 200
years and I don't want to fix something if it ain't broke."

"One needs to weigh the consequences of breaking and entering a
computer, assay the purpose, evaluate the goal against the possi-
ble negatives before wildly embarking through a foreign computer.
That is what we mean by the Code." Solon spoke English with
Teutonic precision and a mild lilt that gave his accented words
additional credibility. He sounded like an expert. "I believe,
quite strongly, that it is not so complicated to have a major
portion of the hacker community live by the Code. Unless you are
intent on damage, no one should have any trouble with the simple
Credo, 'leave things as you found them'. You see, there is
nothing wrong with breaking security as long as you're accom-
plishing something useful."

"Hold on," interrupted Scott. "Am I hearing this right? You're
saying that it's all right to break into a computer as long as
you don't do any damage, and put everything right before you
leave?"

"That's about it. It is so simple, yet so blanketing in its
ramifications. The beauty of the Code, if everyone lived by it,
would be a maximization of computer resources. Now, that is
good for everyone."

"Wait, I can't stand this, wait," said Scott holding his hands
over his head in surrender. He elicited a laugh from everyone
but Che2. "That's like saying, it's O.K. for you to come into my
house when I'm not there, use the house, wash the dishes, do the
laundry, sweep up and split. I have a real problem with that.
That's an invasion of my privacy and I would personally resent
the shit out of it." Scott tried this line of reasoning again as
he had with Kirk.

"Just the point," said DRDR. "When someone breaks into a house
it's a civil case. But this new bloody Computer Misuse Act makes
it a felony to enter a computer. Parliament isn't 100% perfect,"
he added comically. DRDR referred to the recent British attempts
at legislative guidelines to criminalize certain computer activi-
ties.

"As you should resent it." Dave jumped in speaking to Scott.
"But there's a higher purpose here. You resent your house being
used by an uninvited guest in your absence. Right?" Scott a-
greed. "Well, let's say that you are going to Hawaii for a
couple of weeks, and someone discovers that your house is going
to be robbed while you're gone. So instead of bothering you, he
house sits. Your house doesn't get robbed, you return, find
nothing amiss, totally unaware of your visitor. Would you rather
get robbed instead?"

"Well, I certainly don't want to get robbed, but . . . I know
what it is. I'm out of control and my privacy is still being
violated. I don't know if I have a quick answer." Scott looked
and sounded perplexed.

"Goot! You should not have a quick answer, for that answer is
the core, the essence of the ultimate problem that we all inves-
tigate every day." Solon gestured to their table of seven. "That
question is security versus freedom. Within the world of acade-
mia there is a strong tendency to share everything. Your ideas,
your thoughts, your successes and failures, the germs of an idea
thrown away and the migration of a brainstorm into the tangible.
They therefore desire complete freedom of information exchange,
they do not wish any restrictions on their freedom to interact.
However, the Governments of the world want to isolate and re-
strict access to information; right or wrong, we acknowledge
their concern. That is the other side, security with minimal
freedom. The banks also prefer security to freedom, although
they do it very poorly and give it a lot, how do you say, a lot
of lip service?"

Everyone agreed that describing a bank's security as lip service
was entirely too complimentary, but for the sake of brevity they
let it go uncontested.

"Then again, business hasn't made up its mind as to whether they
should bother protecting information assets or not. So, there
are now four groups with different needs and desires which vary
the ratio of freedom to security. In reality, of course, there
will be hundreds of opinions," Solon added for accuracy's sake.
"Mathematically, if there is no security, dividing by 0 results
in infinite freedom. Any security at all and some freedom is
curtailed. So, therein the problem to be solved. At what cost
freedom? It is an age old question that every generation must
ask, weigh and decide for itself. This generation will do the
same for information and freedom. They are inseparable."

Scott soaked in the words and wanted to think about them later,
at his leisure. The erudite positions taken by hackers was
astonishing compared to what he had expected. Yes, some of the
goals and convictions were radical to say the least, but the
arguments were persuasive.

"Let me ask you," Scott said to the group. "What happens when
computers are secure? What will you do then?"

"They won't get secure," GWhiz said. "As soon as they come up
with a defense, we will find a way around it."

"Won't that cycle ever end?"

"Technology is in the hands of the people," commented Che2.
"This is the first time in history when the power is not concen-
trated with a select few. The ancients kept the secrets of
writing with their religious leaders; traveling by ship in the
open sea was a hard learned and noble skill. Today, weapons of
mass destruction are controlled by a few mad men who are no
better than you or I. But now, computers, access to information,
that power will never be taken away. Never!"

"It doesn't matter." Dave was viewing the future in his own
mind. "I doubt that computers will ever be secure, but instead,
the barrier, the wall, the time and energy it takes to crack into
them will become prohibitive for all but the most determined.
Anyway, there'll be new technology to explore."

"Like what?" Asked Scott.

"Satellites are pretty interesting. They are a natural extension
of the computer network, and cracking them will be lots easier in
a couple of years." DRDR saw understanding any new technology as
apersonal challenge.

"How do you crack a satellite? What's there to crack?"

"How about beaming your own broadcasts to millions of people
using someone else's satellite?" DRDR speculated. "It's been
done before, and as the equipment gets cheaper, I can assure you
that we'll be seeing many more political statements illegally
being made over the public airwaves. The BBC and NBC will have
their hands full. In the near future, I see virtual realities
as an ideal milieu for next generation hackers."

"I agree," said Solon. "And with virtual realities, the ethical
issues are even more profound than with the Global Network."

Scott held up his hands. "I know what _I_ think it is, but
before you go on, I need to know how you define a virtual reali-
ty." The hackers looked at each until Dave took the ball.

"A virtual reality is fooling the mind and body into believing
something is real that isn't real." Scott's face was blank.
"Ever been to Disneyland?" Dave asked. Scott nodded. "And
you've ridden Star Tours?" Scott nodded again. "Well, that's a
simple virtual reality. Star Tours fools your body into thinking
that you are in a space ship careening through an asteroid belt,
but in reality, you are suspended on a few guy wires. The
projected image reinforces the sensory hallucination."

"Now imagine a visual field, currently it's done with goggles,
that creates real life pictures, in real time and interacts with
your movements."

Scott's light bulb went off. "That's like the Holo-Deck on Star
Trek!"

"That is the ultimate in virtual reality, yes. But before we can
achieve that, imagine sitting in a virtual cockpit of a virtual
car, and seeing exactly what you would see from a race car at the
Indy 500. The crowds, the noises, and just as importantly, the
feel of the car you are driving. As you drive, you shift and the
car reacts, you feel the car react. You actually follow the
track in the path that you steer. The combination of sight,
sound and hearing, even smell, creates a total illusion. In
short, there is no way to distinguish between reality and delu-
sion."

"Flight simulators for the people," chimed in Che2.

"I see the day when every Mall in America will have Virtual
Reality Parlors where you can live out your fantasies. No more
than 5 years," Dave confidently prognosticated.

Scott imagined the Spook's interpretation of virtual realities.
He immediately conjured up the memory of Woody Allen's Orgasma-
tron in the movie Sleeper. The hackers claimed that computer
generated sex was less than ten years away.

"And that will be an ideal terrain for hackers. That kind of
power over the mind can be used for terrible things, and it will
be up to us to make sure it's not abused." Che2 maintained his
position of guardian of world freedom.

As they finished their lunch and Scott paid the check, they
thanked him vigorously for the treat. They might be nuts, but
they were polite, and genuine.

"I'm confused about one thing," Scott said as they left the
restaurant and walked the wide boulevard. "You all advocate an
independence, an anarchy where the individual is paramount, and
the Government is worse than a necessary evil. Yet I detect
disorganization, no plan; more like a leaf in a lake, not knowing
where it will go next." There were no disagreements with his
summary assessment.

"Don't any of you work together? As a group, a kind of a gang?
It seems to me that if there was an agenda, a program, that you
might achieve your aims more quickly." Scott was trying to avoid
being critical by his inquisitiveness.

"Then we would be a government, too, and that's not what we want.
This is about individual power, responsibility. At any rate, I
don't think you could find two of us in enough agreement on
anything to build a platform." As usual, Solon maintained a
pragmatic approach.

"Well," Scott mused out loud. "What would happen if a group, like
you, got together and followed a game plan. Built a hacker's
guide book and stuck to it, all for a common cause, which I
realize is impossible. But for argument's sake, what would
happen?"

"That would be immense power," said Che2. "If there were enough,
they could do pretty much what they wanted. Very political."

"I would see it as dangerous, potentially very dangerous," com-
mented DRDR. He pondered the question. "The effects of synergy
in any endeavor are unpredictable. If they worked as group, a
unit, it is possible that they would be a force to be reckoned
with."

"There would be only one word for it," Dave said with finality.
"They could easily become a strong and deadly opponent if their
aims are not benevolent. Personally, I would have to call such a
group, terrorists."

"Sounds like the Freedom League," Pinball said off handedly.

Scott's head jerked toward Pinball. "What about the Freedom
League?" he asked pointedly.

"All I said is that this political hacking sounds like the Free-
dom League," Pinball said innocently. "They bloody well go on
for a fortnight and a day about how software should be free to
anyone that needs it, and that only those that can afford it
should pay. Like big corporations."

"I've heard of Freedom before," piped Scott.

"The Freedom League is a huge BBS, mate. They have hundreds of
local BBS's around the States, and even a few across the pond in
God's country. Quite an operation, if I say."

Pinball had Scott's full attention. "They run the BBS's, and
have an incredible shareware library. Thousands of programs, and
they give them all away."

"It's very impressive," Dave said giving credit where credit was
due. "They prove that software can be socially responsible.
We've been saying that for years."

"What does anybody know about this Freedom League?" Scott asked
suspiciously.

"What's to know? They've been around for years, have a great
service, fabulous BBS's, and reliable software."

"It just sounds too good to be true," Scott mused as they made
it back to the warehouse for more hours of education.

* * * * *

Until late that night, Scott continued to elicit viewpoints and
opinions and political positions from the radical underground
elements of the 1990's he had traveled 3000 miles to meet. Each
encounter, each discussion, each conversation yielded yet another
perspective on the social rational for hacking and the invasion
of privacy. Most everyone at the InterGalactic Hackers Confer-
ence had heard about Scott, the Repo Man, and knew why he was
there. He was accepted as a fair and impartial observer, thus
many of them made a concerted effort to preach their particular
case to him. By midnight, overload had consumed Scott and he made
a polite exit, promising to return the following day.

Still, no one had heard from or seen the Spook.

Scott walked back to his hotel through the Red Light District and
stopped to purchase a souvenir or two. The sexually explicit T-
Shirts would have both made Larry Flynt blush and be banned on
Florida beaches, but the counterfeit $1 bills, with George Wash-
ington and the pyramid replaced by closeups of impossible oral
sexual acts was a compelling gift. They were so well made, that
without a close inspection, the pornographic money could easily
find itself in the till at a church bake sale.

There was a message waiting for Scott when he arrived at the
Eureka! It was from Tyrone and marked urgent. New York was 6
hours behind, so hopefully Ty was at home. Scott dialed USA
Connect, the service that allows travelers to get to an AT&T
operator rather than fight the local phone system.

"Make it good." Tyrone answered his home phone.

"Hey, guy. You rang?" Scott said cheerily.

"Shit, it's about time. Where the hell have you been?" Tyrone
whispered as loud as he could. It was obvious he didn't want
anyone on his end hearing. "You can thank your secretary for
telling me where you were staying." Tyrone spoke quickly.

"I'll give her a raise," lied Scott. He didn't have a secretary.
The paper used a pool for all the reporters. "What's the panic?"

"Then you don't know." Tyrone caught himself. "Of course you
didn't hear, how could you?"

"How could I hear what?"

"The shit has done hit the fan," Tyrone said drawling his words.
"Two more EMP-T bombs. The Atlanta regional IRS office and a
payroll service in New Jersey. A quarter million folks aren't
getting paid tomorrow. And I'll tell you, these folks is mighty
pissed off."

"Christ," Scott said, mentally chastising himself for not having
been where the action was.

What lousy timing.

"So dig this. Did you know that the Senate was having open
subcommittee hearings on Privacy and Technology Protection?"

"No."

"Neither do a lot of people. It's been a completely underplayed
and underpromoted effort. Until yesterday that is. Now the eyes
of millions are watching. Starting tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Scott yelled across the Atlantic. "That's the eighth.
Congress doesn't usually convene until late January . . ."

"Used to," Ty said. "The Constitution says that Congress shall
meet on January third, after the holidays. Since the Gulf War
Congress has returned in the first week. 'Bout time they did
something for their paychecks."

"Damn," Scott thought out loud.

"I knew that would excite you," Tyrone said sarcastically. "And
there's more. Congressman Rickfield, you know who he is?" asked
Tyrone.

"Yeah, sure. Long timer on the Hill. Got as many enemies as he
does friends. Wields an immense amount of power," Scott re-
called.

"Right, exactly. And that little weasel is the chair."

"I guess you're not on his Christmas list," Scott observed.

"I really doubt it," Tyrone said. "But that's off the record.
He's been a Southern racist from day one, a real Hoover man.
During the riots, in the early '60's, he was not exactly a propo-
nent of civil rights. In fact that slime ball made Wallace look
like Martin Luther King." Tyrone sounded bitter and derisive in
his description of Rickfield. "He has no concept what civil
rights are. He makes it a black white issue instead of one of
constitutional law. Stupid bigots are the worst kind." The
derision in Ty's voice was unmistakable.

"Sounds like you're a big fan."

"I'll be a fan when he hangs high. Besides my personal and
racial beliefs about Rickfield, he really is a low life. He, and
a few of his cronies are one on the biggest threats to personal
freedom the country faces. He thinks that the Bill of Rights
should be edited from time to time and now's the time. He scares
me. Especially since there's more like him."

It was eminently clear that Tyrone Duncan had no place in this
life for Merrill Rickfield.

"I know enough about him to dislike him, but on a crowded subway
he'd just be another ugly face. Excuse my ignorance . . ." Then
it hit him. Rickfield. His name had been in those papers he had
received so long ago. What had he done, or what was he accused
of doing? Damn, damn, what is it? There were so many. Yes, it
was Rickfield, but what was the tie-in?

"I think you should be there, at the hearings," Tyrone suggested.

"Tomorrow? Are you out of your mind? No way," Scott loudly
protested. "I'm 3000 miles and 8 hours away and it's the middle
of the night here," Scott bitched and moaned. "Besides, I only
have to work one more day and then I get the weekend to
myself . . . aw, shit."

Tyrone ignored Scott's infantile objections. He attributed them
to jet lag and an understandable urge to stay in Sin City for a
couple more days. "Hollister and Adams will be there, and a
whole bunch of white shirts in black hats, and Troubleaux . . ."

"Troubleaux did you say?"

"Yeah, that's what it says here . . ."

"If he's there, then it becomes my concern, too."

"Good, glad you thought of it," joked Tyrone. "If you catch an
early flight, you could be in D.C. by noon." He was right,
thought Scott. The time difference works in your favor in that
direction.

"You know," said Scott, "with what I've found out here, today
alone, maybe. "Jeeeeeesus," Scott said cringing in indecision.

"Hey! Get your ass back here, boy. Pronto." Tyrone's friendly
authority was persuasive. "You know you don't have any choice."
The guilt trip.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Scott called his office and asked for Doug. He got the voice
mail instead, and debated about calling him at home. Nah, He
thought, I'll just leave a message. This way I'll just get
yelled at once.

"Hi, Doug? Scott here. Change in plans. Heard about EMP-T. I'm
headed to Washington tomorrow. The story here is better than I
thought and dovetails right into why I'm coming back early. I
expect to be in D.C. until next Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. I'll
call when I have a place. Oh, yeah, I learned a limerick here you
might like. The Spook says the kids around here say it all the
time. 'Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. It
followed her to school one day and a big black dog fucked it.'
That's Amsterdam. Bye."

****************************************************************

Chapter 20

Friday, January 8
Washington, D.C.

The New Senate Office Building is a moderately impressive struc-
ture on the edge of one of the worst sections of Washington.
Visitors find it a perpetual paradox that the power seat of the
Western World is located within a virtual shooting gallery of
drugs and weapons. Scott arrived at the NSOB near the capitol,
just before lunchtime. His press identification got him instant
access to the hearing room and into the privileged locations
where the media congregated. The hearings were in progress and
as solemn as he remembered other hearings broadcast on late night
C-SPAN.

He caught the last words of wisdom from a government employee who
worked for NIST, the National Institute of Standards and Technol-
ogy. The agency was formerly known as NBS, National Bureau of
Standards, and no one could adequately explain the change.

The NIST employee droned on about how seriously the government,
and more specifically, his agency cared about privacy and infor-
mation security, and that ". . .the government was doing all it
could to provide the requisite amount of security commensurate
with the perceived risk of disclosure and sensitivity of the
information in question." Scott ran into a couple of fellow
reporters who told him he was lucky to show up late. All morn-
ing, the government paraded witnesses to read prepared statements
about how they were protecting the interests of the Government.

It was an intensive lobbying effort, they told Scott, to shore up
whatever attacks might be made on the government's inefficient
bungling in distinction to its efficient bungling. To a man, the
witnesses assured the Senate committee that they were committed
to guaranteeing privacy of information and unconvincingly assur-
ing them that only appropriate authorized people have access to
sensitive and classified data.

Seven sequential propagandized statements went unchallenged by
the three senior committee members throughout the morning, and
Senator Rickfield went out of his way to thank the speakers for
their time, adding that he was personally convinced the Govern-
ment was indeed doing more than necessary to obviate such con-
cerns.

The underadvertised Senate Select Sub Committee on Privacy and
Technology Protection convened in Hearing Room 3 on the second
floor of the NSOB. About 400 could be accommodated in the huge
light wood paneled room on both the main floor and in the balcony
that wrapped around half of the room. The starkness of the room
was emphasized by the glare of arc and fluorescent lighting.

Scott found an empty seat on a wooden bench directly behind the
tables from which the witnesses would speak to the raised wooden
dais. He noticed that the attendance was extraordinarily low; by
both the public and the press. Probably due to the total lack of
exposure.

As the session broke for lunch, Scott asked why the TV cameras?
He thought this hearing was a deep dark secret. A couple of
fellow journalists agreed, and the only reason they had found out
about the Rickfield hearings was because the CNN producer called
them asking if they knew anything about them. Apparently, Scott
was told, CNN received an anonymous call, urging them to be part
of a blockbuster announcement. When CNN called Rickfield's
office, his staffers told CNN that there was no big deal, and
that they shouldn't waste their time. In the news business, that
kind of statement from a Congressional power broker is a sure
sign that it is worth being there. Just in case. So CNN assigned
a novice producer and a small crew to the first day of the hear-
ings. As promised, the morning session was an exercise in termi-
nal boredom.

The afternoon session was to begin at 1:30, but Senator Rickfield
was nowhere to be found, so the Assistant Chairperson of the
committee, Junior Senator Nancy Deere assumed control. She was a
44 year old grandmother of two from New England who had never
considered entering politics. Nancy Deere was the consummate
wife, supporter and stalwart of her husband Morgan Deere, an up
and coming national politician who had the unique mixture of
honesty, appeal and potential. She had spent full time on the
campaign trail with Morgan as he attempted to make the transition
from state politics to Washington. Morgan Deere was heavily
favored to win after the three term incumbent was named a co-
conspirator in the rigging of a Defense contract. Despite the
pending indictments, the race continued with constant pleadings
by the incumbent that the trumped up charges would shortly be
dismissed. In the first week after the Grand Jury was convened,
the voter polls indicated that Deere led with a 70% support
factor.

Then came the accident. On his way home from a fund raising
dinner, Morgan Deere's limousine was run off an icy winter road
by a drunk driver. Deere's resulting injuries made it impossible
for him to continue the campaign or even be sure that he would
ever be able to regain enough strength to withstand the brutality
of Washington politics.

Within days of the accident, Deere's campaign manager announced
that Nancy Deere would replace her husband. Due to Morgan's
local popularity, and the fact that the state was so small that
everyone knew everyone else's business, and that the incumbent
was going to jail, and that the elections were less than two
weeks away, there was barely a spike in the projections. No one
seemed to care that Nancy Deere had no experience in politics;
they just liked her.

What remained of the campaign was run on her part with impeccable
style. Unlike her opponent who spent vast sums to besmirch her
on television, Nancy's campaign was largely waged on news and
national talk shows. Her husband was popular, as was she, and
the general interest in her as a woman outweighed the interest in
her politics. The state's constituency overwhelmingly endorsed
her with their votes and Senator Nancy Deere, one of the few
woman ever to reach that level as an elected official, was on her
way to Washington.

Nancy Deere found that many of the professional politicians
preferred to ignore her; they were convinced she was bound to be
a one termer once the GOP got someone to run against her. Others
found her to be a genuine pain in the butt. Not due to her
naivete, far from that, she adeptly acclimated to the culture and
the system. Rather, she was a woman and she broke the rules. She
said what she felt; she echoed the sentiments of her constituency
which were largely unpopular politically. Nancy Deere didn't
care what official Washington thought; her state was behind her
with an almost unanimous approval and it was her sworn duty to
represent them honestly and without compromise. She had nothing
to lose by being herself. After more than a year in Washington,
she learned how the massive Washington machinery functioned and
why it crawled with a hurry up and wait engine.

In Rickfield's absence, at 1:40 P.M., Senator Nancy Deere called
the session to order. Her administrative demeanor gave no one
pause to question her authority. Even the other sole Congres-
sional representative on the sub-committee fell into step.
While Senator Stanley Paglusi technically had seniority, he sat
on the committee at Rickfield's request and held no specific
interest in the subject matter they were investigating. He
accepted the seat to mollify Rickfield and to add to his own
political resume.

"Come to order, please," she announced over the ample sound
system. The voluminous hearing room reacted promptly to the
authoritative command that issued forth from the petite auburn
haired Nancy Deere who would have been just as comfortable auc-
tioning donated goods at her church. She noticed that unlike the
morning session, the afternoon session was packed. The press pool
was nearly full and several people were forced to stand. What
had changed, she asked herself.

After the procedural formalities were completed, she again
thanked those who had spoken to the committee in the morning, and
then promised an equally informative afternoon. Nancy, as she
liked to be called on all but the most formal of occasions intro-
duced the committee's first afternoon witness.

"Our next speaker is Ted Hammacher, a recognized expert on the
subject of computer and information security. During 17 years
with the Government, Mr. Hammacher worked with the Defense Inves-
tigatory Agency and the National Security Agency as a DoD liai-
son. He is currently a security consultant to industry and the
government and is the author of hundreds of articles on the
subject." As was required, Nancy Deere outlined Hammacher's
qualifications as an expert, and then invited him to give his
opening statement.

The television in Rickfield's office was tuned to C-SPAN which
was broadcasting the hearings as he spoke into the phone.

"Only a couple more and then I'm off to spend my days in the
company of luscious maidens on the island of my choice," he
bragged into the phone. The Senator listened intently to the
response. "Yes, I am aware of that, but it doesn't change the
fact that I'm calling it quits. I cannot, I will not, continue
this charade." He listened quietly for several minutes before
interjecting.

"Listen, General, we've both made enough money to keep us in
style for the rest of our lives, and I will not jeopardize that
for anything. Got it?" Again he listened. "I don't know about
you, but I do not relish the idea of doing ten to twenty regard-
less of how much of a country club the prison is. It is still a
prison." He listened further.

"That's it, I've had it! Don't make me use that file to impli-
cate you, the guys over at State and our Import . . .hey!" Rick-
field turned to Ken Boyers. "Who started the afternoon session?"
He pointed at the TV.

"It looks like Senator Deere," Ken said.

"Deere? Where does that goddamned bitch get off . . ?" He remem-
bered the phone. "General? I have to go, I've got a suffragette
usurping a little power, and I have to put her back in her place.
You understand. But, on that other matter, I'm out. Done. Fini-
to. Do what you want, but keep me the fuck out of it." Rick-
field hung up abruptly and stared at the broadcast. "Some house-
broken homemaker is not going to make me look bad. Goddamn it,
Ken," Rickfield said as he stood up quickly. "Let's get back out
there."

"Thank you, Senator Deere, and committee members. I am honored
to have a chance to speak to you here today. As a preface to my
remarks, I think that a brief history of security and privacy
from a government perspective may be in order. One of the reasons
we are here today is due to a succession of events that since the
introduction of the computer have shaped an ad hoc anarchism, a
laissez-faire attitude toward privacy and security. Rather than
a comprehensive national policy, despite the valiant efforts of a
few able Congressmen, the United States of America has allowed
itself to be lulled into technical complacency and indifference.
Therefore, I will, if the committee agrees, provide a brief
chronological record."

"I for one would be most interested," said Senator Deere. "It
appeared that this morning our speakers assumed we were more
knowledgeable that we are. Any clarifications will be most
welcome." The crowd agreed silently. Much of the history was
cloaked in secrecy.

The distinguished Ted Hammacher was an accomplished orator,
utilizing the best that Washington diplomatic-speak could muster.
At 50 years old, his short cropped white hair capped a proper
military bearing even though he had maintained a civilian status
throughout his Pentagon associations. "Thank you madam
chairman." He glanced down at the well organized folder and
turned a page.

"Concerns of privacy can be traced back thousands of years with
perhaps the Egyptian pyramids as the first classic example of a
brute force approach towards privacy. The first recorded at-
tempts at disguising the contents of a written message were in
Roman times when Julius Caesar encoded messages to his generals
in the field. The Romans used a simple substitution cipher where
one letter in the alphabet is used in place of another. The
cryptograms found in the Sunday paper use the same techniques.
Any method by which a the contents of a message is scrambled is
known as encryption."

The CNN producer maintained the sole camera shot and his atten-
tion on Ted Hammacher. He missed Senator Rickfield and his aid
reappear on the dais. Rickfield's eyes penetrated Nancy Deere
who imperceptibly acknowledged his return. "You should not over-
step your bounds," Rickfield leaned over and said to her. "You
have five years to go. Stunts like this will not make your time
any easier."

"Senator," she said to Rickfield as Hammacher spoke. "You are
obviously not familiar with the procedures of Senate panel proto-
col. I was merely trying to assist the progress of the hearings
in your absence, I assure you." Her coolness infuriated Rick-
field.

"Well, then, thank you," he sneered. "But, now, I am back. I
will appreciate no further procedural interference." He sat up
brusquely indicating that his was the last word on the subject.
Unaware of the political sidebar in progress, Hammacher contin-
ued.

"Ciphers were evolved over the centuries until they reached a
temporary plateau during World War II. The Germans used the most
sophisticated message encoding or encryption device ever devised.
Suitably called the Enigma, their encryption scheme was nearly
uncrackable until the Allies captured one of the devices, and
then under the leadership of Alan Turing, a method was found to
regularly decipher intercepted German High Command orders. Many
historians consider this effort as being instrumental in bringing
about an end to the war.

"In the years immediately following World War II, the only per-
ceived need for secrecy was by the military and the emerging
intelligence services, namely the OSS as it became the modern
CIA, the British MI-5 and MI-6 and of course our opponents on the
other side. In an effort to maintain a technological leadership
position, the National Security Agency funded various projects to
develop encryption schemes that would adequately protect govern-
ment information and communications for the foreseeable future.

"The first such requests were issued in 1972 but it wasn't until
1974 that the National Bureau of Standards accepted an IBM pro-
posal for an encryption process known as Lucifer. With the
assistance of the NSA who is responsible for cryptography, the
Data Encryption Standard was approved in November of 1976. There
was an accompanying furor over the DES, some saying that the NSA
intentionally weakened it to insure that they could still decrypt
any messages using the approved algorithm.

"In 1982 a financial group, FIMAS endorsed a DES based method to
authenticate Electronic Funds Transfer, or EFT. Banks move
upwards of a trillion dollars daily, and in an effort to insure
that all monies are moved accurately and to their intended desti-
nations, the technique of Message Authentication Coding was
introduced. For still unknown reasons it was decided that en-
crypting the contents of the messages, or transfers, was unneces-
sary. Thus, financial transactions are still carried out with
no protection from eavesdropping."

"Excuse me, Mr. Hammacher, I want to understand this," interrupt-
ed Senator Deere. "Are you saying that, since 1976, we have had
the ability to camouflage the nation's financial networks, yet as
of today, they are still unprotected?" Rickfield looked over at
Nancy in disgust but the single camera missed it.

"Yes, ma'am, that's exactly the case," replied Hammacher.

"What does that mean to us? The Government? Or the average citi-
zen?"

"In my opinion it borders on insanity. It means that for the
price of a bit of electronic equipment, anyone can tap into the
details of the financial dealings of banks, the government and
every citizen in this country."

Senator Deere visibly gulped. "Thank you, please continue."

"In 1984, President Reagan signed National Security Decision
Directive 145. NSDD-145 established that defense contractors and
other organizations that handle sensitive or classified informa-
tion must adhere to certain security and privacy guidelines. A
number of advisory groups were established, and to a minimal
extent, the recommendations have been implemented, but I must
emphasize, to a minimal extent."

"Can you be a little more specific, Mr. Hammacher?" Asked Senator
Deere.

"No ma'am, I can't. A great deal of these efforts are classified
and by divulging who is not currently in compliance would be a
security violation in itself. It would be fair to say, though,
that the majority of those organizations targeted for additional
security measures fall far short of the government's intentions
and desires. I am sorry I cannot be more specific."

"I understand completely. Once again," Nancy said to Hammacher,
"I am sorry to interrupt."

"Not at all, Senator." Hammacher sipped from his water glass.
"As you can see, the interest in security was primarily from the
government, and more specifically the defense community. In
1981, the Department of Defense chartered the DoD Computer Secu-
rity Center which has since become the National Computer Security
Center operating under the auspices of the National Security
Agency. In 1983 they published a series of guidelines to be used
in the creation or evaluation of computer security. Officially
titled the Trusted Computer Security Evaluation Criteria, it is
popularly known as the Orange Book. It has had some minor
updates since then, but by and large it is an outdated document
designed for older computer architectures.

"The point to be made here is that while the government had an
ostensible interest and concern about the security of computers,
especially those under their control, there was virtually no
overt significance placed upon the security of private industry's
computers. Worse yet, it was not until 1987 that any proposed
criteria were developed for networked computers. So, as the
world tied itself together with millions of computers and net-
works, the Government was not concerned enough to address the
issue. Even today, there are no secure network criteria that are
universally accepted."

"Mr. Hammacher." Senator Rickfield spoke up for the first time.
"You appear to have a most demeaning tone with respect to the
United States Government's ability to manage itself. I for one
remain unconvinced that we are as derelict as you suggest.
Therefore, I would ask that you stick to the subject at hand, the
facts, and leave your personal opinions at home."

Nancy Deere as well as much of the audience listened in awe as
Rickfield slashed out at Hammacher who was in the process of
building an argument. Common courtesy demanded that he be per-
mitted to finish his statement, even if his conclusions were
unpopular or erroneous.

Hammacher did not seem fazed. "Sir, I am recounting the facts,
and only the facts. My personal opinions would only be further
damning, so I agree, that I will refrain." He turned a page in
his notebook and continued.

"Several laws were passed, most notably Public Law 100-235, the
Computer Security Act of 1987. This weak law called for enhanced
cooperation between the NSA and NIST in the administration of
security for the sensitive but unclassified world of the Govern-
ment and the private sector. Interestingly enough, in mid 1990
it was announced, that after a protracted battle between the two
security agencies, the NCSC would shut down and merge its efforts
with its giant super secret parent, the NSA. President Bush
signed the Directive effectively replacing Reagan's NSDD-145.
Because the budgeting and appropriations for both NSA and the
former NCSC are classified, there is no way to accurately gauge
the effectiveness of this move. It may still be some time before
we understand the ramifications of the new Executive Order.

"To date every state has some kind of statute designed to punish
computer crime, but prosecutions that involve the crossing of
state lines in the commission of a crime are far and few between.
Only 1% of all computer criminals are prosecuted and less than 5%
of those result in convictions. In short, the United States has
done little or nothing to forge an appropriate defense against
computer crime, despite the political gerrymandering and agency
shuffling over the last decade. That concludes my opening re-
marks." Hammacher sat back in his chair and finished the water.
He turned to his lawyer and whispered something Scott couldn't
hear.

"Ah, Mr. Hammacher, before you continue, I would like ask a few
questions. Do you mind?" Senator Nancy Deere was being her
usual gracious self.

"Not at all, Senator."

"You said earlier that the NSA endorsed a cryptographic system
that they themselves could crack. Could you elaborate?" Senator
Nancy Deere's ability to grasp an issue at the roots was uncanny.

"I'd be pleased to. First of all, it is only one opinion that
the NSA can crack DES; it has never been proven or disproven.
When DES was first introduced some theoreticians felt that NSA
had compromised the original integrity of IBM's Lucifer encryp-
tion project. I am not qualified to comment either way, but the
reduction of the key length, and the functional feedback mecha-
nisms were less stringent than the original. If this is true,
then we have to ask ourselves, why? Why would the NSA want a
weaker system?"

A number of heads in the hearing room nodded in agreement with
the question; others merely acknowledged that it was NSA bashing
time again.

Hammacher continued. "There is one theory that suggests that the
NSA, as the largest eavesdropping operation in the world wanted
to make sure that they could still listen in on messages once
they have been encrypted. The NSA has neither confirmed or
denied these reports. If that is true, then we must ask our-
selves, if DES is so weak, why does the NSA have the ultimate say
on export control. The export of DES is restricted by the Muni-
tions Control, Department of State, and they rely upon DoD and
the NSA for approval.

"The export controls suggest that maybe NSA cannot decrypt DES,
and there is some evidence to support that. For example, in
1985, the Department of Treasury wanted to extend the validation
of DES for use throughout the Treasury, the Federal Reserve
System and member banks. The NSA put a lot of political muscle
behind an effort to have DES deaffirmed and replaced with newer
encryption algorithms. Treasury argued that they had already
adapted DES, their constituents had spent millions on DES equip-
ment for EFT and it would be entirely too cumbersome and expen-
sive to make a change now. Besides, they asked, what's wrong
with DES? They never got an answer to that question, and thus
they won the battle and DES is still the approved encryption
methodology for banks. It was never established whether DES was
too strong or too weak for NSA's taste.

"Later, in 1987, the NSA received an application for export of a
DES based device that employed a technique called infinite en-
cryption. In response to the frenzy over the strength or weakness
of DES, one company took DES and folded it over and over on
itself using multiple keys. The NSA had an internal hemorrhage.
They forbade this product from being exported from the United
States in any form whatsoever. Period. It was an extraordinary
move on their part, and one that had built-in contradictions. If
DES is weak, then why not export it? If it's too strong, why
argue with Treasury? In any case, the multiple DES issue died
down until recently, when NSA, beaten at their own game by too
much secrecy, developed a secret internal program to create a
Multiple-DES encryption standard with a minimum of three sequen-
tial iterations.

"Further embarrassment was caused when an Israeli mathematician
found the 'trap door' built into DES by the NSA and how to decode
messages in seconds. This quite clearly suggests that the gov-
ernment has been listening in on supposedly secret and private
communications.

"Then we have to look at another event that strongly suggests
that NSA has something to hide."

"Mr. Hammacher!" Shouted Senator Rickfield. "I warned you about
that."

"I see nothing wrong with his comments, Senator," Deere said,
careful to make sure that she was heard over the sound system.

"I am the chairman of this committee, Ms. Deere, and I find Mr.
Hammacher's characterization of the NSA as unfitting this forum.
I wish he would find other words or eliminate the thought alto-
gether. Mr. Hammacher, do you think you are capable of that?"

Hammacher seethed. "Senator, I mean no disrespect to you or this
committee. However, I was asked to testify, and at my own ex-
pense I am providing as accurate information as possible. If you
happen to find anything I say not to your liking, I do apologize,
but my only alternative is not to testify at all."

"We accept your withdrawal, Mr. Hammacher, thank you for your
time." A hushed silence covered the hearing room. This was not
the time to get into it with Rickfield, Nancy thought. He has
sufficiently embarrassed himself and the media will take care of
the rest. Why the hell is he acting this way? He is known as a
hard ass, a real case, but his public image was unblemished. Had
the job passed him by?

A stunned and incensed Hammacher gathered his belongings as his
lawyer placated him. Scott overheard bits and pieces as they
both agreed that Rickfield was a flaming asshole. A couple of
reporters hurriedly followed them out of the hearing room for a
one on one interview.

"Is Dr. Sternman ready?" Rickfield asked.

A bustle of activity and a man spoke to the dais without the
assistance of a microphone. "Yessir, I am."

Sternman was definitely the academic type, Scott noted. A crum-
pled ill fitting brown suit covering a small hunched body that
was no more than 45 years old. He held an old scratched brief-
case and an armful of folders and envelopes. Scott was reminded
of the studious high school student that jocks enjoy tripping
with their feet. Dr. Sternman busied himself to straighten the
papers that fell onto the desk and his performance received a
brief titter from the crowd.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Chairman," Sternman said. "I'm ready now." Rick-
field looked as bored as ever.

"Thank you, Dr. Sternman. You are, I understand, a computer
virus expert? Is that correct?"

"Yessir. My doctoral thesis was on the subject and I have spent
several years researching computer viruses, their proliferation
and propagation." Rickfield groaned to himself. Unintelligible
mumbo jumbo.

"I also understand that your comments will be brief as we have
someone else yet to hear from today." It was as much a command
as a question.

"Yessir, it will be brief."

"Then, please, enlighten us, what is a virus expert and what do
you do?" Rickfield grinned menacingly at Dr. Les Sternman, Pro-
fessor of Applied Theoretical Mathematics, Massachusetts Insti-
tute of Technology.

"I believe the committee has received an advance copy of some
notes I made on the nature of computer viruses and the danger
they represent?" Rickfield hadn't read anything, so he looked at
Boyers who also shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, Dr. Sternman," Nancy Deere said, "and we thank you for
your consideration." Rickfield glared at her as she politely
upstaged him yet again. "May I ask, though, that you provide a
brief description of a computer virus for the benefit of those
who have not read your presentation?" She stuck it to Rickfield
again.

"I'd be happy to, madam Chairwoman," he said nonchalantly. Rick-
field's neck turned red at the inadvertent sudden rise in Senator
Deere's stature. For the next several minutes Sternman solemnly
described what a virus was, how it worked and a history of their
attacks. He told the committee about Worms, Trojan Horses, Time
Bombs, Logic Bombs, Stealth Viruses, Crystal Viruses and an
assorted family of similar surreptitious computer programs.
Despite Sternman's sermonly manner, his audience found the sub-
ject matter fascinating.

"The reason you are here, Dr. Sternman, is to bring us up to
speed on computer viruses, which you have done with alacrity, and
we appreciate that." Rickfield held seniority, but Nancy Deere
took charge due to her preparation. "Now that we have an under-
standing of the virus, can you give us an idea of the type of
problems that they cause?"

"Ah, yes, but I need to say something here," Sternman said.

"Please, proceed," Rickfield said politely.

"When I first heard about replicating software, viruses, and this
was over 15 years ago, I, as many of my graduate students did,
thought of them as a curious anomaly. A benign subset of comput-
er software that had no anticipated applications. We spent
months working with viruses, self cloning software and built
mathematical models of their behavior which fit quite neatly in
the domain of conventional set theory. Then an amazing discovery
befell us. We proved mathematically that there is absolutely no
effective way to protect against computer viruses in software."

Enough of the spectators had heard about viruses over the past
few years to comprehend the purport of that one compelling state-
ment. Even Senator Rickfield joined Nancy and the others in
their awe. No way to combat viruses? Dr. Sternman had dropped
a bombshell on them.

"Dr. Sternman," said Senator Deere, "could you repeat that?

"Yes, yes," Sternman replied, knowing the impact of his state-
ment. "That is correct. A virus is a piece of software and
software is designed to do specific tasks in a hardware environ-
ment. All software uses basically the same techniques to do its
job. Without all of the technicalities, if one piece of software
can do something, another piece of software can un-do it. It's
kind of a computer arms race.

"I build a virus, and you build a program to protect against that
one virus. It works. But then I make a small change in the
virus to attack or bypass your software, and Poof! I blow you
away. Then you build a new piece of software to defend against
both my first virus and my mutated virus and that works until I
build yet another. This process can go on forever, and frankly,
it's just not worth the effort."

"What is not worth the effort, Doctor?" Asked Nancy Deere. "You
paint a most bleak picture."

"I don't mean to at all, Senator." Dr. Sternman smiled soothing-
ly up at the committee and took off his round horn rim glasses.
"I wasn't attempting to be melodramatic, however these are not
opinions or guesses. They are facts. It is not worth the effort
to fight computer viruses with software. The virus builders will
win because the Virus Busters are the ones playing catch-up."

"Virus Busters?" Senator Rickfield mockingly said conspicuously
raising his eyebrows. His reaction elicited a wave of laughter
from the hall.

"Yessir," said Dr. Sternman to Rickfield. "Virus Busters.
That's a term to describe programmers who fight viruses. They
mistakenly believe they can fight viruses with defensive software
and some of them sell some incredibly poor programs. In many
cases you're better off not using anything at all.

"You see, there is no way to write a program that can predict the
potential behavior of other software in such a way that it will
not interfere with normal computer operations. So, the only way
to find a virus is to already know what it looks like, and go out
looking for it. There are several major problems with this
approach. First of all, the virus has already struck and done
some damage. Two it has already infected other software and will
continue to spread. Three, a program must be written to defeat
the specific virus usually using a unique signature for each
virus, and the vaccine for the virus must be distributed to the
computer users.

"This process can take from three to twelve months, and by the
time the virus vaccine has been deployed, the very same virus has
been changed, mutated, and the vaccine is useless against it. So
you see, the Virus Busters are really wasting their time, and
worst of all they are deceiving the public." Dr. Sternman com-
pleted what he had to say with surprising force.

"Doctor Sternman," Senator Rickfield said with disdain, "all of
your theories are well and good, and perhaps they work in the
laboratory. But isn't it true, sir, that computer viruses are an
overblown issue that the media has sensationalized and that they
are nothing more than a minor inconvenience?"

"Not really, Senator. The statistics don't support that conclu-
sion," Dr. Sternman said with conviction. "That is one of the
worst myths." Nancy Deere smiled to herself as the dorky college
professor handed it right to a United States Senator. "The
incidence of computer viruses has been on a logarithmic increase
for the past several years. If a human disease infected at the
same rate, we would declare a medical state of emergency."

"Doctor," implored Rickfield. "Aren't you exaggerating . . .?"

"No Senator, here are the facts. There are currently over 5000
known computer viruses and strains that have been positively
identified. Almost five thousand, Senator." The good Doctor
was a skilled debater, and Rickfield was being sucked in by his
attack on the witness. The figure three thousand impressed
everyone. A few low whistles echoed through the large chamber.
Stupid move Merrill, though Nancy.

"It is estimated, sir, that at the current rate, there will be
over 100,000 active viruses in five years," Dr. Sternman dryly
spoke to Rickfield, "that every single network in the United
States, Canada and the United Kingdom is infected with at least
one computer virus. That is the equivalent of having one member
of every family in the country being sick at all times. That is
an epidemic, and one that will not go away. No sir, it will not."
Sternman's voice rose. "It will not go away. It will only get
worse."

"That is a most apoplectic prophesy, Doctor. I think that many
of us would have trouble believing the doom and gloom you por-
tend." Rickfield was sloughing off the Doctor, but Sternman was
here to tell a story, and he would finish.

"There is more, Senator. Recent reports show that over 75% of
the computers in the People's Republic of China are infected with
deadly and destructive software. Why? The look on your face
asks the question. Because, almost every piece of software in
that country is bootleg, illegal copies of popular programs.
That invites viruses. Since vast quantities of computers come
from the Pacific Rim, many with prepackaged software, new comput-
er equipment is a source of computer viruses that was once con-
sidered safe. Modem manufacturers have accidentally had viruses
on their communications software; several major domestic software
manufacturers have had their shrink-wrapped software infected.

"If you recall in 1989, NASA brought Virus Busters to Cape Kenne-
dy and Houston to thwart a particular virus that threatened a
space launch. A year later as everyone remembers, NASA computers
were invaded forcing officials to abort a flight. The attacks go
on, and they inflict greater damage than is generally thought.

"Again, these are our best estimates, that over 90% of all viral
infections go unreported."

"Doctor, 90%? Isn't that awfully high?" Nancy asked.

"Definitely, yes, but imagine the price of speaking out. I have
talked to hundreds of companies, major corporations, that are
absolutely terrified of anyone knowing that their computers have
been infected. Or they have been the target of any computer
crime for that matter. They feel that the public, their custom-
ers, maybe even their stockholders, might lose faith in the
company's ability to protect itself. So? Most viral attacks go
unreported.

"It's akin to computer rape." Dr. Sternman had a way with words
to keep his audience attentive. Years of lecturing to sleeping
freshman had taught him a few tricks. "A computer virus is
uninvited, it invades the system, and then has its way with it.
If that's not rape, I don't know what is."

"Your parallels are most vivid," said a grimacing Nancy Deere.
"Let's leave that thought for now, and maybe you can explain the
type of damage that a virus can do. It sounds to me like there
are thousands of new diseases out there, and every one needs to
be isolated, diagnosed and then cured. That appears to me to a
formidable challenge."

"I could not have put it better, Senator. You grasp things
quickly." Sternman was genuinely complimenting Nancy. "The
similarities to the medical field cannot go unnoticed if we are
to deal with the problem rationally and effectively. And like a
disease, we need to predict the effects of the infection. What
we have found in that area is as frightening.

"The first generation of viruses were simple in their approach.
The designers correctly assumed that no one was looking for them,
and they could enter systems without any deterrence. They erase
files, scramble data, re-format hard drives . . .make the comput-
er data useless.

"Then the second generation of viruses came along with the
nom-de-guerre stealth. These viruses hid themselves more elabo-
rately to avoid detection and had a built in self-preservation
instinct. If the virus thinks it's being probed, it self de-
structs or hides itself even further.

"In addition, second generation viruses learned how to become
targeted. Some viruses have been designed to only attack a
competitor's product and nothing else."

"Is that possible?" Asked Nancy Deere.

"It's been done many times. Some software bugs in popular soft-
ware are the result of viral infections, others may be genuine
bugs. Imagine a virus who sole purpose is to attack Lotus 123
spreadsheets. The virus is designed to create computational
errors in the program's spreadsheets. The user then thinks that
Lotus is to blame and so he buys another product. Yes, ma'am, it
is possible, and occurs every day of the week. Keeping up with
it is the trick.

"Other viruses attack on Friday the 13th. only, some attack only
at a specified time . . .the damage to be done is only limited by
imagination of the programmers. Third generation viruses were
even more sophisticated. They were designed to do damage not
only to the data, but to the computer hardware itself. Some were
designed to overload communications ports with tight logical
loops. Others were designed to destroy the hard disk by directly
overdriving the disk or would cause amonitor to self-destruct.
There is no limit to the possibilities.

"You sound as though you hold their skills in high regard, Doc-
tor." Rickfield continued to make snide remarks whenever possi-
ble.

"Yessir, I do. Many of them have extraordinary skills, that are
unfortunately misguided. They are a new breed of bored
criminal."

"You mentioned earlier Doctor, that there were over 5000 known
viruses. How fast is the epidemic, as you put it, spreading?"
Senator Nancy Deere asked while making prolific notes throughout.

"For all intents and purposes Senator, they spread unchecked.
There is a certain amount of awareness of the problem, but it is
only superficial. The current viral defenses include signature
identification, cyclic redundancy checks and intercept verifica-
tion, but the new viruses can combat those as a matter of rule.
If the current rate of viral infection continues, it will be a
safe bet that nearly every computer in the country will be in-
fected ten times over within three years."

Dr. Arnold Sternman spent the next half hour answering insightful
questions from Nancy Deere, and even Puglasi became concerned
enough to ask a few. Rickfield continued with his visceral
comments to the constant amazement of the gallery and spectators.
Scott could only imagine the raking Rickfield would receive in
the press, but being Friday, the effects will be lessened.
Besides, it seemed as if Rickfield just didn't give a damn.

Rickfield dismissed and perfunctorily thanked Dr. Sternman. He
prepared for the next speaker, but Senator Deere leaned over and
asked him for a five minute conclave. He was openly reluctant,
but as she raised her voice, he conceded. In a private office
off to the side, Nancy Deere came unglued.

"What kind of stunt are you pulling out there, Senator?" She
demanded as she paced the room. "I thought this was a hearing,
not a lynching."

Rickfield slouched in a plush leather chair and appeared uncon-
cerned. "I am indeed sorry," he said with the pronounced drawl
of a Southern country gentleman, "that the young Senatoress finds
cross examination unpleasant. Perhaps if we treated this like a
neighborhood gossip session, it might be easier."

"Now one damned minute," she yelled while pointing a finger right
at Rickfield. "That was not cross-examination; it was harassment
and I for one am embarrassed for you. And two, do not, I repeat,
do not, ever patronize me. I am not one of your cheap call
girls." She could not have knocked Rickfield over any harder
with a sledgehammer.

"You bitch!" Rickfield rose to confront her standing nine inches
taller. "You stupid bitch. You have no idea what's at stake.
None. It's bigger than you. At this rate I can assure you, you
will never have an ear in Washington. Never. You will be deaf,
dumb and blind in this town. I have been on this Hill for thirty
years and paid my dues and I will not have a middle aged June
Cleaver undermine a lifetime of work just because she smells her
first cause."

Undaunted, Nancy stood her ground. "I don't know what you're up
to Senator, but I do know that you're sand bagging these hear-
ings. I've raised four kids and half a neighborhood, plus my
husband talked in his sleep. I learned a lot about politicians,
and I know sand bagging when I see it. Now, if you got stuck
with these hearings and think they're a crock, that's fine. I
hear it happens to everyone. But, I see them as important and I
don't want you to interfere."

"You are in no position to ask for anything."

"I'm not asking. I'm telling." Where did she get the gumption,
she asked herself. Then it occurred to her; I'm not a
politician, I want to see things get fixed. "I will take
issue with you, take you on publicly, if necessary. I was Presi-
dent of the PTA for 8 years. I am fluent in dealing with bitches
of every size and shape. You're just a bastard."

****************************************************************

Chapter 21

Friday, January 8
Washington, D.C.

As the hour is late, I am tempted to call a recess until tomorrow
morning," Senator Merrill Rickfield said congenially from the
center seat of the hearing room dais. His blow up with Nancy
left him in a rage, but he ably disguised the anger by replacing
it with overcompensated manners.

"However," he continued, "I understand that we scheduled someone
to speak to us who has to catch a plane back to California?"
Rickfield quickly glanced about the formal dais to espy someone
who could help him fill in the details. Ken Boyers was engrossed
in conversation and had to be prodded to respond. "Ken," Rick-
field whispered while covering the microphone with his hand. He
leaned over and behind his seat. "Is that right, this True Blue
guy flew in for the day and he's out tonight?"

Ken nodded. "Yes, it was the only way we could get him."

"What makes him so bloody important?" Rickfield acted edgy.

"He's one of the software industry's leading spokesman. He owns
dGraph," Ken said, making it sound like he was in on a private
joke.

"So fucking what? What's he doing here?" Rickfield demanded.
Keeping it to a whisper was hard.

"Industry perspective. We need to hear from all possible view-
points in order to . . ." Ken explained.

"Oh, all right. Whatever. If this goes past five, have someone
call my wife and tell her I'll see her tomorrow." Rickfield sat
back and smiled a politician-hiding-something smile.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, a little scheduling confusion.
I guess there's a first time for anything." Rickfield's chuckle
told those-in-the-know that it was time to laugh now. If Rick-
field saw someone not laughing at one of his arthritic jokes, he
would remember. Might cost a future favor, so it was simpler to
laugh. The mild titter throughout the hall that followed gave
Rickfield the few seconds he needed to organize himself.

"Yes, yes. Page 239. Everyone there?" Rickfield scanned the
other committee members and aides flipping pages frantically to
find the proper place.

"We now have the pleasure of hearing from Pierre, now correct me
if I say this wrong, Trewww-Blow?" Rickfield looked up over his
glasses to see Pierre seated at the hearing table. "Is that
right?" Scott had been able to keep his privileged location for
the busier afternoon session by occupying several seats with his
bags and coat. He figured correctly that he would be able to
keep at least one as the room filled with more people than had
been there for the morning session.

"Troubleaux, yes Senator. Very good." Pierre had turned on 110%
charm. Cameras from the now busy press pool in front of the
hearing tables strobe-lit the room until every photographer had
his first quota of shots. Troubleaux was still the computer
industry's Golden Boy; he could do no wrong. Watching the reac-
tion to Pierre's mere presence, Senator Rickfield instantly
realized that True Blue here was a public relations pro, and
could be hard to control. What was he gonna say anyway? Indus-
try perspective my ass. This hearing was as good as over before
it started until the television people showed up, Rickfield
thought to himself with disgust.

"Mr. Trew-Blow flew in extra special for this today," Rickfield
orated. "And I'm sure we are all anxious to hear what he has to
say." His Southern twang rang of boredom. Scott, who was sit-
ting not 6 feet from where Pierre and the others testified,
overheard Troubleaux's attorney whisper, "sarcastic bastard."

Rickfield continued. "He is here to give us an overview of the
problems that software manufacturers face. So, unless anyone has
any comments before Mr. Trew-Blow, I will ask him to read his
opening statement."

"I do, Mr. Chairman," Senator Nancy Deere said. She said it
with enough oomph to come across more dynamic on the sound system
than did Rickfield. Political upstaging. Rickfield looked
annoyed. He had had enough of her today. One thing after anoth-
er, and all he wanted was to get through the hearings as fast as
possible, make a "Take No Action" recommendation to the Committee
and retire after election day. Mrs. Deere was making that goal
increasingly difficult to reach.

"I recognize the Junior Senator." He said the word 'Junior' as
if it was scrawled on a men's room wall. His point was lost on
nobody, and privately, most would agree that it was a tasteless
tactic.

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," Senator Nancy Deere said poising
herself. "I, too, feel indeed grateful, and honored, to have
Mr. Troubleaux here today. His accomplishments over the last few
years, legendary in some circles I understand, have been in no
way inconsequential to the way that America does business. By no
means do I wish to embarrass Mr. Troubleaux, and I do hope he
will forgive me." Pierre gave Nancy a forgiving smile when she
glanced at him. "However, I do feel it incumbent upon this
committee to enter into the record the significant contributions
he has made to the computer industry. If there are no objec-
tions, I have prepared a short biography." No one objected.

"Mr. Troubleaux, a native Frenchman, came to the United States
at age 12 to attend Julliard School of Music on scholarship.
Since founding dGraph, Inc. with the late Max Jones, dGraph and
Mr. Troubleaux have received constant accolades from the business
community, the software industry and Wall Street." It sounded
more to Scott that she was reading past achievements before she
handed out a Grammy.

"Entrepreneur of the Year, 1984, 1985, 1986, 1988, Cupertino
Chamber of Commerce. Entrepreneur Year of the Year, California
State Trade Association, 1987. Technical Achievement of the
Year, IEEE, 1988 . . ."

Senator Deere read on about Pierre the Magnificent and the house
that dGraph built. If this was an election for sainthood, Pierre
would be a shoo-in. But considering the beating that Rickfield
had inflicted on a couple of earlier speakers, it looked like
Nancy was trying to bolster Pierre for the upcoming onslaught.

". . .and he has just been appointed to the President's Council
on Competitive Excellence." She closed her folder. "With that
number of awards and credentials, I dare say I expect to be
inundated with insights. Thank you Mr. Chairman."

"And, we thank you," Rickfield barbed, "for that introduction.
Now, if there are no further interruptions," he glared at Nancy,
"Mr. Trew-Blow, would you care to read your prepared statement.

"No, Senator," Pierre came back. A hush descended over the
entire room. He paused long enough to increase the tension in
the room to the breaking point. "I never use prepared notes. I
prefer to speak casually and honestly. Do you mind?" Pierre
exaggerated his French accent for effect. After years of public
appearances, he knew how to work and win a crowd. The cameras
again flashed as Pierre had just won the first round of verbal
gymnastics.

"It is a bit unusual, not to have an advanced copy of your state-
ments, and then . . ." Rickfield stopped himself in mid sentence.
"Never mind, I'm sorry. Please, Mr. Trew-Blow, proceed."

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman." Pierre scanned the room to see how
much of it he commanded. How many people were actually listening
to what he was going to say, or were they there for the experi-
ence and another line item on a resume? This was his milieu. A
live audience, and a TV audience as an extra added bonus. But he
had planned it that way.

He never told anyone that he was the one who called the TV sta-
tions to tell them that there would be a significant news devel-
opment at the Rickfield hearings. If he concentrated, Pierre
could speak like a native American with a Midwest twang. He gave
CNN, NBC, CBS and ABC down home pitches on some of the dirt that
might come out. Only CNN showed up. They sent a junior producer.
So what, everyone has to start somewhere. And this might be his
big break.

"Mr. Chairman, committee members," his eyes scanned the dais as
he spoke. "Honored guests," he looked around the hall to insure
as many people present felt as important as possible, "and inter-
ested observers, I thank you for the opportunity to address you
here today." In seconds he owned the room. Pierre was a capti-
vating orator. "I must plead guilty to the overly kind remarks
by Senator Deere, thank you very much. But, I am not feigning
humility when I must lavish similar praises upon the many dedi-
cated friends at dGraph, whom have made our successes possible."

Mutual admiration society, thought Scott. What a pile of D.C.
horseshit, but this Pierre was playing the game better than the
congressional denizens. As Pierre spoke, the corners of his
mouth twitched, ever so slightly, but just enough for the observ-
er to note that he took little of these formalities seriously.
The lone TV camera rolled.

"My statement will be brief, Mr. Chairman, and I am sure, that
after it is complete you will have many questions," Pierre said.
His tone was kind, the words ominous.

"I am not a technical person, instead, I am a dreamer. I leave
the bits and bytes to the wizards who can translate dreams into
a reality. Software designers are the alchemists who can in fact
turn silicon into gold. They skillfully navigate the development
of thoughts from the amorphous to the tangible. Veritable art-
ists, who like the painter, work from tabula rasa, a clean slate,
and have a picture in mind. It is the efforts of tens of thou-
sands of dedicated software pioneers who have pushed the fron-
tiers of technology to such a degree that an entire generation
has grown up in a society where software and digital interaction
are assimilated from birth.

"We have come to think, perhaps incorrectly, in a discreet quan-
tized, digital if you will, framework. To a certain extent we
have lost the ability to make a good guess." Pierre paused.
"Think about a watch, with a second hand. The analog type. When
asked for the time, a response might be 'about three-thirty', or
'it's a quarter after ', or 'it's almost ten.' We approximate
the time.

"With a digital watch, one's response will be more accurate;
'one- twenty-three," or '4 minutes before twelve,' or 'it's nine
thirty-three.' We don't have to guess anymore. And that's a
shame. When we lose the ability to make an educated guess, take
a stab at, shoot from the hip, we cease using a valuable creative
tool. Imagination!

"By depending upon them so completely, we fall hostage to the
machines of our creation; we maintain a constant reliance upon
their accuracy and infallibility. I am aware of the admitted
parallel to many science fiction stories where the scientists'
machines take over the world. Those tales are, thankfully, the
products of vivid imaginations. The technology does not yet
exist to worry about a renegade computer. HAL-9000 series com-
puters are still far in the future. As long as we, as humans,
tell the computer to open the pod bay doors, the pod bay doors
will open." Pierre elicited a respectful giggle from the stand-
ing room only crowd, many of whom came solely to hear him speak.
Rickfield doodled.

"Yet, there is another viewpoint. It is few people, indeed, who
can honestly claim to doubt the answer displayed on their calcu-
lator. They have been with us for over 20 years and we instinc-
tively trust in their reliability. We assume the computing
machine to be flawless. In many ways, theoretically it is per-
fect. But when man gets involved he fouls it up. Our fingers are
too big for the digital key pad on our wristwatch-calculator-
timer-TV. Since we can't approximate the answer, we have lost
that skill, we can't guess, it becomes nearly impossible to know
if we're getting the right answer.

"We trust our computers. We believe it when our spreadsheet
tells us that we will experience 50% annual growth for five
years. We believe the automatic bank teller that tells us we are
overdrawn. We don't question it. We trust the computer at the
supermarket. As far as I know, only my mother adds up her gro-
ceries by hand while still at the check-out counter."

While the image sank in for his audience, Pierre picked up the
glass of ice water in front of him and sipped enough to wet his
whistle. The crowd ate him up. He was weaving a web, drawing a
picture, and only the artist knew what the climax would be.

"Excuse me." Pierre cleared his throat. "We as a people believe
a computer printout is the closest thing to God on earth. Di-
vinely accurate, piously error-free. Computerized bank state-
ments, credit card reports, phone bills, our life is stored away
in computer memories, and we trust that the information residing
there is accurate. We want, we need to believe, that the ma-
chines that switch the street lights, the ones that run the
elevator, the one that tells us we have to go to traffic court,
we want to believe that they are right.

"Then on yet another hand, we all experience the frustration of
the omnipresent complaint, 'I'm sorry the computer is down. Can
you call back?'" Again the audience emotionally related to what
Pierre was saying. They nodded at each other and in Pierre's
direction to indicate concurrence.

"I, as many of us have I am sure, arrived at a hotel, or an
airport, or a car rental agency and been told that we don't have
a reservation. For me there is an initial embarrassment of
having my hand slapped by the computer terminal via the clerk.
Then, I react strongly. I will raise my voice and say that I
made a reservation, two days ago. I did it myself. Then the
clerk will say something like, 'It's not in the computer'. How
do you react to that statement?

"Suddenly your integrity is being questioned by an agglomeration
of wire and silicon. Your veracity comes into immediate doubt.
The clerk might think that you never even made a reservation.
You become a liar because the computer disagrees with you. And
to argue about it is an exercise in futility. The computer
cannot reason. The computer has no ability to make a judgment
about you, or me. It is a case of being totally black or white.
And for the human of the species, that value system is unfathoma-
ble, paradoxical. Nothing is black and white. Yes, the computer
is black and white. Herein again, the mind prefers the analog,
the continuous, rather than the digitally discreet.

"In these cases, the role is reversed, we blame the computer for
making errors. We tend to be verbally graphic in the comments we
make about computers when they don't appear to work the way we
expect them to. We distrust them." Pierre gestured with his
arms to emphasize his point. The crescendo had begun.

"The sociological implications are incredible. As a people we
have an inherent distrust of computers; they become an easy
scapegoat for modern irritations. However, the balancing side of
the scale is an implicit trust in their abilities. The inherent
trust we maintain in computers is a deeply emotional one, much as
a helpless infant trusts the warmth of contact with his parents.
Such is the trust that we have in our computers, because, like
the baby, without that trust, we could not survive."

He let the words sink in. A low rumbling began throughout the
gallery and hall. Pierre couldn't hear any of the comments, but
he was sure he was starting a stink.

"It is our faith in computers that lets us continue. The reli-
gious parallels are obvious. The evangelical computer is also the
subject of fiction, but trust and faith are inextricably meshed
into flavors and degrees. A brief sampling of common everyday
items and events that are dependent on computers might prove
enlightening.

"Without computers, many of lifes' simple pleasures and conven-
iences would disappear. Cable television. Movies like Star
Wars. Special effects by computer. Magic Money Cards. Imagine
life without them." A nervous giggle met Pierre's social slam.
"Call holding. Remember dial phones? No computers needed.
CD's? The staple diet of teenage America is the bread and
butter of the music industry. Mail. Let's not forget the Post
Office and other shippers. Without computers Federal Express
would be no better than the Honest-We'll-Be-Here-Tomorrow Cargo
Company."

"Oh, and yes," Pierre said dramatically. "Let's get rid of the
microwave ovens, the VCR's and video cameras. I think I've made
my point."

"I wish you would, Mr. Trew-Blow," Senator Rickfield caustically
interjected. "What is the point?" Rickfield was making no
points taking on Pierre Troubleaux. He was too popular.

"Thank you, Senator, I am glad you asked. I was just getting
there." Pierre's sugary treatment was an appropriate slap in
Rickfield's face.

"Please continue." The Senator had difficulty saying the word
'please'.

"Yes sir. So, the prognostications made over a decade ago by the
likes of Steve Jobs, that computers would alter the way we play,
work and think have been completely fulfilled. Now, if we look
at those years, we see a multi-billion dollar industry that has
made extraordinary promises to the world of business. Computer-
ize they say! Modernize! Get with the times! Make your opera-
tion efficient! Stay ahead of the competition! And we listened
and we bought.

"With a projected life cycle of between only three and five
years, technology progresses that fast, once computerized, forev-
er computerized. To keep up with the competitive Jones', main-
taining technical advantages requires upgrading to subsequent
generations of computers. The computer salespeople told us to
run our businesses on computers, send out Social Security checks
by computer, replace typewriters with word processors and bank at
home. Yet, somewhere in the heady days of phenomenal growth
during the early 1980's, someone forgot. Someone, or more than
likely most of Silicon Valley forgot, that people were putting
their trust in these machines and we gave them no reason to. I
include myself and my firm among the guilty.

"Very simply, we have built a culture, an economic base, the
largest GNP in the world on a system of inter-connected comput-
ers. We have placed the wealths of our nations, the backbone of
the fabric of our way of life, we have placed our trust in com-
puters that do not warrant that trust. It is incredible to me
that major financial institutions do not protect their computer
assets as well as they protect their cash on hand.

"I find it unbelievable that the computers responsible in part
for the defense of this country appear to have more open doors
than a thousand churches on Sunday. It is incomprehensible to me
that privacy, one of the founding principles of this nation, has
been ignored during the information revolution. The massive data
bases that contain vast amounts of personal data on us all have
been amply shown to be not worthy of trust. All it takes is a
home computer and elbow grease and you, or I, or he," Pierre
pointed at various people seated around the room, "can have a
field day and change anybody's life history. What happens if the
computer disagrees with you then?

"It staggers the imagination that we have not attempted any
coherent strategy to protect the lifeblood of our society. That,
ladies and gentlemen is a crime. We spend $3 trillion on weapons
in one decade, yet we do not have the foresight to protect our
computers? It is a crime of indifference by business leaders. A
crime against common sense by Congress who passes laws and then
refuses to fund their enactment. Staggeringly idiotic. Pardon
me." Pierre drained the water from his glass as the tension in
the hearing room thickened.

"We live the paradox of simultaneously distrusting computers and
being required to trust them and live with them. We are all
criminals in this disgrace. Maybe dGraph more than most. Permit
me to explain my involvement." The electricity in the room
crackled and the novice CNN producer instructed the cameraman to
get it right.

"Troubleaux!" A man's gruff accented voice elongated the sylla-
bles as he shouted from the balcony in the rear. A thousands
eyes jerked to the source of the sound up above. Troubleaux
himself turned in his seat to see a middle aged dark man, wearing
a turban, pointing a handgun in his direction. Scott saw the
weapon and wondered which politician was the target. Who was too
pro-Israel this week? He immediately thought of Rickfield. No,
he didn't have a commitment either way. He only rode the wave of
popular sentiment.

Pierre too, wondered who was the target of a madman's suicide
attack. It had to be suicide, there was no escape.

Scott's mind raced through a thousand thoughts during that first
tenth of a second, not the endless minutes he later remembered.
In the next split second, Scott realized, more accurately he
knew, that Pierre was the target. The would-be victim.

As the first report from the handgun echoed through the cavernous
chamber Scott was mid-leap at Pierre. Hell of a way to grab an
exclusive, he thought. He fell into Pierre as the second shot
exploded. Scott painfully caught the edge of the chair with his
shoulder while pushing Pierre over sideways. They crumpled into
a heap on the floor when the third shot fired.

Scott glanced up at the turbanned man vehemently mouthing words
to an invisible entity skyward. The din from the panic in the
room made it impossible to hear. Still brandishing the pistol,
the assailant began to take aim again, at Scott and Pierre.
Scott attempted to wiggle free from the tangle of Pierre's limbs
and the chairs around them. He struggled to extricate himself
but found it impossible.

A fourth shot discharged. Scott cringed, awaiting the worst but
instead heard the bullet ricochet off a metal object above him.
Scott's adrenal relief was punctuated by a loud and heavy sigh.
He noticed that the assailant's shooting arm had been knocked
upwards by a quick moving Capital policeman who violently threw
himself at the turbanned man so hard that they both careened
forward to the edge of the balcony. The policeman grabbed onto a
bench which kept him from plummeting twenty feet below. His
target was hurtled over the edge and landed prone on two wooden
chairs which collapsed under the force. The shooting stopped.

Scott groaned from discomfort and pain as he slowly began to pull
away from Pierre. Then he noticed the blood. A lot of blood.
He looked down at himself to see that his white pullover shirt,
the one with Mickey Mouse instead of an alligator over the breast
pocket, was wet with red. As was his jacket. His left hand had
been on the floor, in a pool of blood that was oozing out of the
back of Pierre's head. Scott tried to consciously control his
physical revulsion to the body beneath him and the overwhelming
urge to regurgitate.

Then Pierre's body moved. His chest heaved heavily and Scott
pulled himself away completely. Pierre had been hit with at
least two bullets, one exiting from the front of his chest and
one stripping away a piece of skull exposing the brain. Grue-
some.

"He's alive! Get a doctor!" Scott shouted. He lifted himself up
to see over the tables. The mad shuffle to the exits continued.
No one seemed to pay attention.

"Hey! Is there a doctor in the house?"

Scott looked down at Pierre and touched the veins in his neck.
They were pulsing, but not with all of life's vigor. "Hey,"
Scott said quietly, "you're gonna be all right. We got a doctor
coming. Don't worry. Just hang in there." Scott lied, but 40
years of movies and television had preprogrammed the sentiments.

"Drtppheeough . . ." Scott heard Pierre gurgle.

"What? What did you say?" Scott leaned his ear down closer to
Pierre's mouth.

"DGOEROUGH."

"Take it easy," Scott said to comfort the badly injured Pierre
Troubleaux.

"Nooo . . ." Pierre's limp body made a futile attempt at move-
ment. Scott held him back.

"Hey, Pierre . . .you don't mind if I call you Pierre?" Scott
adapted a mock French accent.

"Noo, DNGRAAAAPHJG . . ."

"Good. Why don't you just lay back and wait. The doctor'll be
here in a second . . ."

"Sick . . ." Pierre managed to get out one word.

"Sick? Sick? Yeah, yeah, you're sick," Scott agreed sympathet-
ically.

"DGRAF, sick." The effort caused Pierre to pant quickly.

"Dgraf, sick? What does that mean?" Scott asked.

"Sick. DGraph sick." Pierre's voice began to fade. "Sick. Don't
use it. Don't use . . ."

"What do you mean don't use it? DGraph? Hey!" Scott lightly
shook Pierre. "You still with us? C'mon, what'd you say? Tell
me again? Sick?"

Pierre's body was still.

* * * * *

The bullshit put out by the Government was beyond belief, thought
Miles. How could they sit there and claim that all was well? It
was common knowledge that computer security was dismal at best
throughout both the civilian and military agencies. With the
years he spent at NSA he knew that security was a political
compromise and not a fiscal or technical reality. And these guys
lied through their teeth. Oh, well, he thought, that would all
change soon.

The report issued by the National Research Council in November of
1990 concurred with Miles' assessment. Security in the govern-
ment was a disaster, a laughable travesty if it weren't for the
danger to national security. The report castigated the results
of decades of political in-fighting between agencies competing
for survival and power.

He and Perky spent the day watching the hearings at Miles' high
rise apartment. They had become an item in certain circles that
Miles traveled and now they spent a great deal of time together.
After several on-again off-again attempts at a relationship
consisting of more than just sex, they decided not to see each
other for over a year. That was fine by Miles; he had missed the
freedom of no commitments.

At an embassy Christmas party months later, they ran into each
other and the old animal attraction between them was re-released.
They spent the weekend in bed letting their hormones loose to run
rampant on each other. The two had been inseparable since. She
was the first girl, woman, who was able to tolerate Miles' in-
flated egoand his constant need for emotional gratification.

Perky had little idea, by design, of the work that Miles was
doing for Homosoto. She knew he was a computer and communica-
tions wizard, but that was all. Prying was not her concern.
During his angry outbursts venting frustration with Homosoto's
pettiness, Perky supported him fully, unaware of his ultimate
goal.

Perky found the testimony by Dr. Sternman to be educational; she
actually began to understand some of the complicated issues
surrounding security and privacy. In many ways it was scary, she
told Miles. He agreed, saying if were up to him, things would
get a lot worse before they get any better. She responded to his
ominous comment with silence until Pierre Troubleaux began his
testimony.

As well known as Bill Gates, as charismatic as Steve Jobs,
Pierre Troubleaux was regarded as a sexy, rich and eligible
bachelor ready for the taking. Stephanie Perkins was more
stirred by his appearance and bearing than his words, so she
joined Miles in rapt attention to watch his orations on live
television.

When the first shot rang out their stunned confusion echoed the
camera's erratic framing. As the second shot came across the TV,
Perky sprang up and shouted, "No!" Tears dripped from the cor-
ners of her eyes.

"Miles! What's happening? They're shooting him . . ."

"I don't know ." A third shot and then the image of Scott and
Pierre crumbling. "Holy shit, it's an assassination!"

"Miles, what's going on here?" Stephanie cried.

"This is fucking nuts . . .he's killing him . . ." Miles stared
at the screen and spoke in a dull monotone. "I can't believe
this is happening, it's not part of the plan . . ."

"Miles, Miles!" She screamed, desperately trying to get his
attention. "Who? Miles! Who's killing him? What plan?"

"Fucking Homosoto, that yellow skinned prick . . ."

"Homosoto?" She stopped upon hearing the name.

Miles leapt up from the couch and raced over to the corner of the
room with his computers. He pounced on the keyboard of the
NipCom computer and told it to dial Homosoto's number in Japan.
That son of a bitch better be there. Answer, damn it.

<<<<<>>>>>

Homosoto!!!!!

The delay seemed interminable as Miles waited for him to get on
line. Perky followed him over to the computer and watched as he
made contact. She knew that Miles and Homosoto spoke often over
the computer, too often for Miles' taste. Homosoto whined to
Miles almost every day, about one thing or another, and Miles
complained to her about how irritating his childish interference
was. But throughout it all, Perky had never been privy to their
conversations. She had stayed her distance, until this time.

Miles had been in rages before; she had become unwillingly accus-
tomed to his furious outbursts. Generally they were unfocused
eruptions; a sophomoric way of releasing pent up energy and frus-
tration. But this time, Miles' face clearly showed fear. Steph-
anie saw the dread. "Miles! What does Homosoto have to do with
this? Miles, please!" She pleaded with him to include her. The
screen finally responded.

MR. FOSTER. AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

You imperial mother fucker.

EXPLAINATION, PLEASE.

You're a fucking murderer.

I TAKE EXCEPTION TO THAT.

Take exception to this, Jack! What the hell did you kill him
for?

I ASSUME YOU HAVE BEEN WATCHING TELEVISION.

Aren't we the Einstein of Sushi land.

YOUR MANNERS.

You killed him! Why?

Stephanie read the monitor and wept quietly as the conversation
scrolled before her. She placed her hands on Miles' shoulders in
an effort to feel less alone.

IT WAS A NECESSARY EVIL. HE COULD NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK.
NOT YET.

So you killed him?

ONE OF MY PEOPLE GOT A LITTLE OVER ZEALOUS. IT IS REGRETTABLE,
BUT NECESSARY.

It is not necessary to kill anyone. Nowhere in the plan does it
call for murder! That was part of our deal.

THE WINDS BLOW. CONDITIONS CHANGE.

The wind blows up your ass!

THAT DOES NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT HE WAS GOING TO TELL WHAT HE
KNEW.

What the hell does he know?

DGRAPH. THAT'S THE PROGRAM WE INFECTED.

DGraph? That's impossible. That's the most popular program in
the world. How did you infect it?

I BOUGHT IT.

You own dGraph? I thought that Data Tech owned them.

OSO OWNS DATA TECH. YOU DID NOT LISTEN TO YOUR OWN ADVICE. I
BOUGHT IT AFTER YOU VISITED ME FOR THE SECOND TIME. IT SEEMED
PRUDENT. WE ALSO BOUGHT A HALF DOZEN OTHER SMALL, PROMISING
SOFTWARE COMPANIES, JUST AS YOU SUGGESTED. VERY GOOD PLAN.

And Troubleaux knows?

OF COURSE. HE HAD INCENTIVE.

So you try to kill him?

HE LOST HIS INCENTIVE. IT WAS NECESSARY. HE WAS GOING TO TELL
AND, AS YOU SAID, SECRECY IS PARAMOUNT. YOUR WORDS.

Yes, secrecy, but not murder. I can't be part of that.

BUT YOU ARE MR. FOSTER. I HOPE THAT THIS IS AN ISOLATED INCIDENT
THAT WILL NOT BE REPEATED.

It had damn well better be.

DO NOT FORGET MR. FOSTER THAT YOU HAVE A SIZABLE PAYMENT COMING.
I WOULD HATE TO SEE YOU LOSE THAT WHEN THINGS ARE SO CLOSE.

<<<<<>>>>>

"Son of a bitch," Miles said out loud. "Son of a bitch."

"What's going on? Miles?" Perky followed him back to the couch
in front of the TV and sat close with her arm around him. She
was still crying softly.

"It's gonna start. That's amazing." He blankly stared forward.

"What's gonna start? Miles, did you kill someone?"

"Oh, no!" He turned to her in sincerity. "That bastard Homosoto
did. Jesus, I can't believe it."

"What are you involved in? I thought you were a consultant."

"I was. Tomorrow I will be a very rich retired consultant." He
pulled her hands into his and spoke warmly. "Listen, it's better
that your don't know what's going on, much better. But I promise
you, I promise you, that Homosoto is behind it, not me. I
couldn't ever kill anyone. You need to believe that."

"Miles, I do, but you seem to know more than . . ."

"I do, and I can't say anything. Trust me," he said as he
brought her close to him. "This will all work out for the best.
I promise you. Look at me," he said and pulled up her chin so she
gazed directly into his eyes. "I have a lot invested in you,
and this project. More than you could ever know, and now that it
is nearly over, I can put more time into you. After all, you
bear some of the responsibility." Miles' loving attitude was a
contradiction from his usual self centered pre-occupation.

"Me?" She asked.

"Who got me involved with Homosoto in the first place?" he said
glaring at her.

"I guess I did, but . . ."

"I know, I'm kidding," he said squeezing her closer. "I'm not
blaming you for anything. I didn't know he could resort to
murder, and if I did, I never would have gotten involved in the
first place."

"Miles, I love you." That was the first time in their years of
on-again off-again contact that she told him how she felt. Now
she had to decide if she would tell him that he was just another
assignment, and that in all likelihood she had just lost her job,
too. "I really do love you."

* * * * *

"The last goddamned time this happened was in the 1950's when
Puerto Rican revolutionaries started a shoot-em-up in the old
gallery," the President shouted.

Phil Musgrave and Quinton Chambers listened to the angry Presi-
dent. His tirade began minutes after he summoned them both to
his office. They were as frustrated and upset as he was, but it
was their job to listen until the President had blown off enough
steam.

"I am well aware a democracy, a true democracy is subject to
extremist activists, but," the President sighed, "this is getting
entirely out of hand. What is it about this computer stuff that
stirs up so much emotion?" He waited for an answer.

"I'm not sure that computers are to blame, sir," said Phil.
"First of all, the assailant used a ceramic pistol. No way for
our security to detect it without a physical search and that
wouldn't go over well with anyone." The brilliant Musgrave was
making a case for calm rationality in the light of the live
assassination attempt. "Second, at this point there is no con-
nection between Troubleaux and his attacker. We're not even 100%
sure that Troubleaux was the target."

"That's a crock Phil," asserted the President. "It doesn't take
a genius to figure out that there is an obvious connection be-
tween this computer crap and the Rickfield incident. I want to
know what it is, and I want to know fast."

"Sir," Chambers said quietly. "We have the FBI and the CIA
investigating, but until the perpetrator regains consciousness,
which may be doubtful because his spine was snapped in the fall,
we won't know too much."

The President frowned. "Does it seem odd to you that Mason, the
Times reporter was there with Troubleaux at the exact time he got
shot?"

"No sir, just a coincidence. It seems that computer crime has
been his hot button for a while," Musgrave said. "I don't think
he's involved at all."

"I'm not suggesting that," the President interrupted. "But he
does seem to be where the action is. I think it would be prudent
if we knew a bit more of his activities. Do I need to say more?"

"No sir. Consider it done."

****************************************************************

Chapter 22

Friday, January 8
Washington, D.C.

It seemed that everyone in the world wanted to speak to Scott at
once. The FBI spent an hour asking him inane questions. "Why did
you help him?" "Do you know Troubleaux?" "Why were you at the
hearings?" "Why didn't you sit with the rest of the press?"
"Where's your camera?" "Can we read your notes?"

Scott was cooperative, but he had his limits. "You're the one
who's been writing those computer stories, aren't you?" "What's
in this for you?"

Scott excused himself, not so politely. If you want me for any-
thing else, please contact the paper, he told the FBI agents who
had learned nothing from anyone else either.

He escaped from other reporters who wanted his reporter's in-
sight, thus learning what it was like to be hounded relentlessly
by the press. Damned pain in the ass, he thought, and damn
stupid questions. "How did you feel . . .?" "Were you
scared . . .?" "Why did you . . .?"

The exhausted Scott found the only available solace in a third
floor men's room stall where he wrote a piece for the paper on
his GRiD laptop computer. Nearly falling asleep on the toilet
seat, he temporarily refreshed himself with ice cold water from
the tap and changed from his bloodsoaked clothes into fresh jeans
and a pullover from his hanging bag that still burdoned him. One
reporter from the Washington Post thought himself lucky to have
found Scott in the men's room, but when Scott finished bombasting
him with his own verbal assault, the shell shocked reporter left
well enough alone.

After the Capital police were through questioning Scott, he
wanted to make a swift exit to the airport and get home. They
didn't detain him very long, realizing Scott would always be
available. Especially since this was news. His pocket shuttle
schedule showed there was a 6:30 flight to Westchester Airport;
he could then grab a limo home and be in bed by ten, that is if
the exhaustion didn't take over somewhere along the way.

Three days in Europe on next to no sleep. Rush back to public
Senate hearings that no one has ever heard about. Television
cameras appear, no one admits to calling the press, and then,
Pierre. He needed time to think, alone. Away from the conflict-
ing influences that were tearing at him.

On one hand his paper expected him to report and investigate the
news. On another, Tyrone wanted help on his investigation be-
cause official Washington had turned their backs on him. And
Spook. Spook. Why is that so familiar? Then he had to be honest
with his own feelings. What about this story had so captivated
him that he had let many of his other assignments go by the
wayside?

Doug was pleased with Scott's progress, and after today, well,
what editor wouldn't be pleased to have a potential star writer
on the National news. But Scott was drowning in the story.
There were too many pieces, from every conceivable direction,
with none too many of them fitting neatly together. He thought
of the ever determined Hurcule Poirot, Agatha Christie's detec-
tive, recalling that the answers to a puzzle came infinitely
easier to the fictional sleuth than to him.

Scott called into Doug.

"Are you all right?" Doug asked with concern but didn't wait for
an answer. "I got your message. Next time call me at home. I
thought you were going to be in Europe till Wednesday."

"Hold your horses," Scott said with agitation. Doug shut up and
listened to the distraught Scott. "I have the story all written
for you. Both of them are going into surgery and the Arab is in
pretty bad shape. The committee made itself scarce real fast and
there's no one else to talk to. I've had to make a career out of
avoiding reporters. Seems like I'm the only one left with noth-
ing to say." Doug heard the exhaustion in Scott's voice.

"Listen," Doug said with a supportive tone. "You've been doing a
bang up job, but I'm sending Ben down there to cover the assassi-
nation attempt. I want you to go to bed for 24 hours and that's
an order. I don't want to hear from you till Monday."

Scott gratefully acknowledged Doug's edict, and might have sug-
gested it himself if it weren't for his dedication to the story
he had spent months on already. "O.K.," Scott agreed. "I guess
not much will happen . . ."

"That's right. I want you fresh anyway," Doug said with vigor.
"If anything major comes up, I'll see that we call you. Fair
enough?"

Scott checked his watch as his cab got caught up in the slow late
afternoon rush hour traffic on the George Washington Parkway. If
he missed this flight, he thought, there was another one in an
hour. The pandemonium of Friday afternoon National Airport had
become legendary. Despite extensive new construction, express
services and modernized terminals, the airport designers in their
infinite wisdom had neglected in any way to improve the flow of
automobile traffic in and out of the airport.

As they approached, Scott could see the American terminal several
hundred yards away from his cab. They were stuck behind an
interminable line of other taxis, limousines, cars and mini-
busses that had been stacking for ten minutes. Scott decided to
hike the last few yards and he paid the driver who tried to talk
him into remaining till the ride was over. Scott weaved through
the standstill traffic jam until he saw the problem. So typical.
A stretch Mercedes 560, was blocking the only two lanes that were
passable. Worse yet, there was no one in the car. No driver, no
passengers. Several airport police were discussing their options
when a tall, slender black man, dressed in an impeccably tailored
brown suit came rushing from the terminal doors.

"Diplomatic immunity!" He called out with a thick, overbearing
Cambridge accent.

The startled policemen saw the man push several people to the
side, almost knocking one elderly woman to the ground. Scott
reached the Mercedes and stayed to watch the upcoming encounter

"I said, Diplomatic immunity," he said authoritatively. "Put
your tickets away."

"Sir, are you aware that your car has been blocking other cars
from . . ."

"Take it up with the Embassy," the man said as he roughly opened
the driver's door. "This car belongs to the Ambassador and he is
immune from your laws." He shut the door, revved the engine and
pulled out squealing his tires. Several pedestrians had to be
fleet of foot to miss being sideswiped.

"Fucking camel jockeys," said one younger policeman.

"He's from equatorial Africa, Einstein," said another.

"It's all the same to me. Foreigners telling us how to live our
lives," the third policeman said angrily.

"You know, I can get 10 days for spitting on the ground, but
these assholes can commit murder and be sent home a hero. It's a
fucking crime," the younger one agreed.

"O.K., guys, leave the politics to the thieves on Capital Hill.
Let's get this traffic moving," the senior policeman said as they
started the process of untangling airport gridlock.

Another day in the nation's capital, Scott thought. A melting
pot that echoed the days of Ellis Island. Scott carried his
briefcase, laptop computer and garment bag through the crowded
terminal and made a left to the men's room next to the new blue
neon bar. Drinks were poured especially fast in the National
Airport Bar. Fliers were traveling on such tight schedules that
they had to run to the bar, grab two quick ones and dash to the
gate. The new security regulations placed additional premiums on
drinking time. The bar accommodated their hurried needs well.
Scott put down his baggage next to the luggage pile and stole a
bar seat from a patron rushing off to catch his flight. One
helluva chaotic day. He ordered a beer, and sucked down half of
it at once. The thirst quenching was a superior experience.
Brain dulling would take a little longer.

The clamorous rumble of the crowd and the television blaring from
behind the bar further anesthetized Scott's racing mind. He
finally found himself engrossed in the television, blissfully
ignorant of all going on around him. Scott became so absorbed in
the local news that he didn't notice the striking blonde sit next
to him. She ordered a white wine and made herself comfortable
on the oversized stool.

Scott turned to the bartender and asked for another beer during
the commercial. It was then he noticed the gorgeous woman next
to him and her golden shoulder length hair. Lightly tanned skin
with delicate crow's feet at the edges of her penetrating blue
eyes gave no indication of her age. An old twenty to a remarka-
ble forty five. Stunning, he thought. Absolutely stunning. He
shook the thought off and returned his attention to the televi-
sion.

He heard the announcer from Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate.
"Topping tonight's stories, Shooting at Senate Hearing." The
picture changed from the anchorman to a live feed from outside
the New Senate Office Building, where Scott had just been.
"Bringing it to us live is Shauna Miller. Shauna?"

"Thank you Bill," she said looking straight into the camera
holding the microphone close to her chin. Behind her was a bevy
of police and emergency vehicles and their personnel in a flurry
of activity.

"As we first reported an hour ago, Pierre Troubleaux, President
of dGraph, one of the nation's leading software companies, was
critically injured while giving testimony to the Privacy and
Technology Containment subcommittee. At 3:15 Eastern Time, an
unidentified assailant, using a 9mm Barretta, shot Mr. Troubleaux
four times, from the visitor's balcony which overlooks the hear-
ing room. Mr. Troubleaux was answering questions about . . . "

Scott's mind wandered back to the events of a few hours ago. He
still had no idea why he did it. The television replayed the
portion of the video tape where Pierre was testifying. While he
spoke, the shots rang out and the camera image suddenly blurred
in search of the source of the sound. Briefly the gunman is seen
and then the picture swings back to Pierre being pushed out of
his chair by a man in a blue sports jacket and white shirt. As
two more gun shots ring out the figure covers Pierre. Two more
shots and the camera finally settles on Pierre Troubleaux bleed-
ing profusely from the head, his eyes open and glazed.

Scott shuddered at the broadcast. It captured the essence of the
moment, and the terror that he and the hundreds of others at the
hearing had experienced. Shauna Miller reappeared.

"And we have here the man who dove to Mr. Troubleaux's rescue
when the shooting began." The camera angle pulled back and showed
Scott standing next to the newswoman.

"This is Scott Mason, a reporter from the New York City Times who
is attending the hearings on behalf of his paper. Scott," she
turned away from the camera to speak directly to Scott. "How does
it feel being the news instead of reporting it?" She stuck the
microphone into his face.

"Uh," Scott stammered. What an assinine question, he thought.
"It does give me a different perspective," he said, his voice
hollow.

"Yes, I would think so," Shauna added. "Can you tell us what
happened?"

More brilliance in broadcast journalism. "Sure, be happy to."
Scott smiled at the camera. "One of the country's finest soft-
ware executives just had part of his head blown off so his brains
could leak on my coat and the scumbag that shot him took a sayo-
nara swan dive that broke every bone in his body. How's that?"
He said devilishly.

"Uh," Shauna hesitated. "Very graphic." This isn't Geraldo she
thought, just the local news. "Do you have anything to add?"

"Yeah? I got to get some sleep."

The camera zoomed into a closeup of Shauna Miller. "Thank you,
Mr. Mason." She brightened up. "Mr. Troubleaux and the alleged
gunman have been taken to Walter Reed Medical Center where they
are undergoing surgery. Both are listed in critical condition
and Mr. Troubleaux is still in a coma." Shauna droned on for
another 30 seconds with filler nonsense. How did she ever get on
the air, Scott thought. And, why does she remain?

"That was you."

Scott started at the female voice. He turned to the left and
only saw salesmen and male lobbyists drinking heartily. He
pivoted in the other direction and came face to face with Sonja
Lindstrom. "Sorry?"

"That was you," she said widening her smile to expose a perfect
Crest ad.

An electric tingle ran up Scott's legs and through his torso.
The pit of his stomach felt suddenly empty. He gulped silently
and his face reddened. "What was me?"

She pointed at the television. "That was you at the hearing
today, where Troubleaux got shot."

"Yeah, 'fraid so," he said.

"The camera treats you well. I was at the hearing, too, but I
just figured out who you were." Her earnest compliment came as a
surprise to Scott. He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.

"Who I am?" He questioned.

"Oh, sorry," she extended her hand to Scott. "I'm Sonja Lind-
strom. I gather you're Scott Mason." He gently took her hand
and a rush of electricity rippled up his arm till the hairs on
the back of his neck stood on end.

"Guilty as charged," he responded. He pointed his thumb at the
television. "Great interview, huh?"

"She epitomizes the stereotype of the dumb blond." Sonja turned
her head slightly. "I hope you're not prejudiced?"

"Prejudiced?

She picked up her wine glass and sipped gingerly. "Against
blondes."

"No, no. I was married to one," he admitted. "But, I won't hold
that against you." Scott wasn't aggressive with women and his
remark surprised even him. Sonja laughed appreciatively.

"It must have been rough," Sonja said empathetically. "I mean
the blood and all."

"Not exactly my cup of tea. I don't do the morgue shift." Scott
shuddered. "I'll stick to computers, not nearly so adventurous."

"And hacker bashing." she said firmly. She took another sip of
wine.

"How would you know that?" Scott asked.

She turned and smiled at Scott. "You're famous. You're known as
the Hacker Smacker by quite a few in the computer field. Not
everyone appreciates what you have to say." Sonja, ever so
politely, challenged Scott.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," he smirked.

"That's the spirit," she encouraged. "Not that I agree with
everything you have to say."

"I assume you have read my drivel upon occasion."

"Upon occasion, yes," she said with a coy sweetness.

"So, since you know so much about me, I stand at a clear disad-
vantage. I only know you as Sonja."

"You're right. That's not fair at all." She straightened her-
self on the bar stool. "Sonja Lindstrom, dual citizenship U.S.
and Denmark. Born May 11, 1964, Copenhagen. Moved here when I
was two. Studied political science at George Washington, minored
in sociology. Currently a public relations consultant to comput-
er jocks. I live in D.C. but I'm rarely here."

"Lucky for me," Scott ventured.

Sonja didn't answer him as she slowly drained the bottom of her
wine glass. She glanced slyly at him, or was that his imagina-
tion?

"Can a girl buy a guy a drink?"

The clock said there was fifteen minutes before Scott's flight
took off. No contest.

"I'd be honored," Scott said as he nodded his head in gratitude.

Sonja Lindstrom bought the next two rounds and they talked. No
serious talk, just carefree, sometimes meaningless banter that
made them laugh and relish the moment. Scott didn't know he had
missed his second flight until it was time for the 8:15 plane to
LaGuardia. It had been entirely too long. Longer than he cared
to remember since he had relaxed, disarmed himself near a woman.
There was an inherent distrust, fear of betrayal, that Scott had
not released, until now.

"So, about your wife," she asked after a lull in their conversa-
tion.

"My wife?" Scott shrank back.

"Humor me," she said.

"Nothing against her, it just didn't work out."

"What happened?" Sonja pursued.

"She was an artist, a sculptor. And if I say so myself, an awful
one. A three year old could do as well with stale Play-Dough."

"You're a critic, too?" Sonja bemused.

"Only of her art. She got into the social scene in New York,
gallery openings, the she-she sect. You know what I mean?"
Sonja nodded. "So, when I decided to make a career shift, well,
she wasn't in complete agreement with me. Even though in 8 years
she had never sold one single piece of art, she was convinced, by
her socialite pals, that her work was extraordinarily original
and would become, without any doubt, the next Pet Rock of the
elite."

"So?"

"So, she gets the bug to go to the Coast and make her mark. I
think some of her Park Avenue pals went to Beverly Hills and
wanted her to come out to be their entertainment. She expected me
to follow her hallucinations, but I just couldn't play that part.
She's a little left of the Milky Way for me."

"How long has it been?" Sonja asked with warmth.

"Three years now."

"So, what have these years been like?"

"Oh, fine," he said. Sonja gave him a disbelieving dirty look.
"O.K., kinda lonely. I'm not complaining, mind you, but when she
was there, no matter how inane our conversations were, not matter
how far out in the stratosphere her mind was, at least she was
someone to talk to, someone to come home to. She's a sweet girl,
I loved her, but she had needs that . . .well. It wasn't all
bad, we had a great few years. I just couldn't let her madness,
harmless though it was, run my life. We're still friends, we
talk fairly often. I hope she becomes the next Dali."

"That's very gracious of you," Sonja said sincerely.

"Not really. I really feel that way. It's her life, and, she
never wanted or tried to hurt me. She was just following her
star."

"Has she sold any of her art?" Sonja asked.

"It's on perpetual display, she says," Scott said.

"Why don't you buy one? To make her feel good?"

"Ha! She feels fine. Beverly Hills is not the worst place in
the world to be accepted." He lost himself in thought for a
moment. "I think it has worked out for both of us."

"Except, you're lonely," she came back.

"I got into my work. A career shift at my age, you know, I had a
lot to learn. So, I've really put myself into the job, and I've
been getting a lot out of it." He stared at the gorgeous woman
to whom he had been telling his personal feelings. "But, yes, I
do miss the companionship," he hinted.

The clock over the bar announced it was quarter to ten. "Hey."
Scott turned to face Sonja squarely. "I gotta go, you don't know
how much I don't want to, but I gotta." He spoke with a pained
sincerity.

"No you don't," she said exuberantly.

"Huh?"

Sonja's entire face glowed . "Have you ever done anything
crazy?"

"Sure, of course," Scott nonchalantly said.

"No, I mean really crazy. Totally off the wall. Spontaneous."
She grabbed Scott's shoulders. "Haven't you ever wanted to go
off the deep end and not care what anybody thinks?" Scott felt
himself getting captured by her exuberance. This absolutely
stunning blonde bombshell exuded enough sexual enthusiasm for the
entire NFL, and yet, he was playing it cool. He wondered why.

"I was a real hell raiser as a kid . . ."

"Listen, Scott." Her demeanor turned serious. "Are you willing to
do something outrageous right now? And go through with it?"

Here was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen asking
him to make a borderline insane promise. Her painted lips broke
into a lush smile. Ten minutes to the last flight.

"I'm game. What is it?" Scott played along. He could always say
no. Right?

"Wait here a minute." Sonja grabbed her purse and dashed out of
the bar. Scott's eyes followed her in stunned amazement.

Scott finished his beer and the clock indicated that the last
flight to New York had left. He wondered what was keeping Sonja
so long, and then she suddenly whisked back into the bar.

"C'mon, we have to hurry." Sonja shuffled papers in and out of
her purse. She threw enough money on the bar to cover their
drinks.

Scott scooted off of his bar stool laughing. "Hurry? Where're we
going?"

"Shhhh, get your bags," Sonja said urgently. "You do have a
passport don't you?" She asked with concern.

"I just came from Europe, yeah." His bewilderment was clear
while he retrieved his luggage.

"Good. Follow me."

Sonja dashed through the terminal to the security check with
Scott struggling to keep up. The view of her exquisite figure
was noticed by more than just Scott, but she left him little time
to relish the view. She tossed her purse on the conveyor belt as
a dazed Scott struggled with his own two bags. She darted from
the security station leaving Mason to reorganize himself. His
ability to run was encumbered by his luggage so he watched care-
fully to see into which gate she was headed.

Gate, gate? Where am I going? And why? He would have laughed if
he wasn't out of breath from wind sprinting through the airport.
He followed Sonja into Gate 3.

She handed a couple of tickets to the attendant. "We're the last
ones, hurry up, Mason," Sonja giggled.

"Where are we going . . .where did the tickets . . .how are you?"
Scott stumbled through his thoughts.

"Just get on the plane. We'll talk." She held out her hand,
beckoning him seductively.

The attractive flight attendant stared at Scott. His hesitancy
was holding up the flight. He looked at Sonja. "This is insane,"
he said quietly.

"So it is."

"Where? I mean where is this plane headed?"

"Jamaica," she beamed.

"Oh, Sonja, come on, this isn't real." Why the hell was he
trying to talk himself out of a fantasy in the making.

"I'm getting on. I need a weekend to cool out, and I know you
do. After what happened." Sonja took the separated boarding
pass and looked back once before she left. Scott stood still. He
stared as Sonja disappeared down the tunnel to the plane.

The flight attendant appeared quite annoyed. "Well, are you or
aren't you?"

Scott reasoned that if he reasoned out the pros and the cons the
plane would be gone regardless of his decision. "Fuck it," he
said and he walked briskly down the ramp.

He entered the Airbus behind the cockpit and turned right to find
Sonja. It didn't take long. She was the only person sitting in
first class. "Fancy running into you here," she said waving
from the plush leather seat.

"Quite," he said in his well practiced West London accent. "Dare
I guess how long it's been?" He placed his bags in the empty
first class storage compartment.

"Too long. Much too long. You had me worried," Sonja said melo-
dramatically.

"I still have me worried."

"I thought you might chicken out," she said.

"I still might."

The three hour flight was replete with champagne, brie and simi-
lar delicacies. They munched and sipped to their heart's con-
tent. One flight attendant, two passengers. Light talk, innocu-
ous flirtations, not so innocuous flirtations, more chatting -
time passed, hours disguised as seconds.

Half Moon Bay is a one hour cab ride from the airport and, true
to Jamaican hospitality, the hotel staff expected them. They
were led to two adjoining rooms after being served the obligatory
white rum punch with a yellow umbrella. It was nearly 3 AM.
Scott was working on 60 hours with little or no sleep.

"Scott?" Sonja asked as they prepared to go into their respective
rooms.

"Yes," he said.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For tomorrow night."

After four hours sleep, Sonja knocked on Scott's door. "Rise and
shine! Beach time!"

Scott swore to himself, looked at the clock on the night stand,
and then swore again. Ugh! Scott forced himself out of bed and
opened the door. The vision of Sonja Lindstrom in a bathing suit
that used no more than 4 square inches of material was instantly
arousing. Despite 39 plus years of morning aversions, Scott
readied himself at breakneck speed, thinking that reality and
fantasy were often inseparable. The question was, what was this?
Was he really in the Caribbean? No!, he thought. This is real!
Holy shit, this is real. I wasn't as drunk as I thought. Intoxi-
cation takes many forms, and this appears to be a delicious wine.
During breakfast she managed to talk him into going to the nude
beach, about a half mile down Half Moon Bay.

"God, you're uptight," she said as she shed her g-string on the
isolated pristine coastline. She was a natural blond with a
dancer's body where the legs and buttocks merge into one.

"I am not!" He defended.

"I bet you can't take them off. For personal reasons," she
laughed out loud pointing at the baggy swim suit he borrowed from
the resort. She lay down on her back, perfectly formed breasts
pointing at the sky. Scott noticed only the faintest of tan
lines several inches below her belly button. She patted the huge
towel, inviting Scott to join her. There was room enough for
three,

"Well," he agreed. "It might prove embarrassing. I thought my
intentions were honorable."

"Bull. Neither are mine." She arched her back and patted the
towel again.

"Fuck it," he said laughingly as he dropped his bathing suit and
dropped quickly, facedown next to Sonja. "Ouch!" He yelled
louder than the hurt was worth. "I hate it when that happens,"
he said checking to make sure that the pieces were still intact.

They spent the next two days exploring Half Moon Bay, the lush
green hills behind the resort and each other. Scott forgot about
work, forgot about the hackers, forgot about Tyrone. He never
thought about Kirk, Spook, or any of the blackmail schemes he was
so caught up in investigating. And, he forgot, at least tempo-
rarily about the incident with Pierre. The world consisted of
only two people, mutually radiating a glow flush with passion;
retreating into each other so totally that no imaginable distrac-
tion could disturb their urgings.

They slept no more than an hour all Saturday night, "I told you I
wanted to thank you for tomorrow night!" she said. They made it
to the water's edge early Sunday morning. Scott's body was
redder in some places than it had ever been, and Sonja's tan line
all but disappeared. They both knew that the fantasy was going to
be over in the morning, a 7:00 AM flight back to reality, but
neither spoke of it. The Here and Now was the only reality that
they wanted to face.

"I'm impressed," Sonja said turning to face Scott on the beach
towel. No matter in which direction she turned, her body stood
tall and firm.

"Impressed, with what?" Scott giggled.

"I had two days to loosen you up before you went back to that big
bad city. I'm ahead of schedule."

"What schedule?"

"Scott, we need to talk." Sonja reached over and touched Scott's
shoulder. He couldn't take his eyes off of her magnificent nude
figure. "Did you ever work on something, for a very long time;
really get yourself involved, dedicated, and then find out in was
all for the wrong reasons? That's how I feel now."

* * * * *

Saturday, January 10

It is not uncommon for the day employees at the CIA in Langley to
arrive at their desks before 6:00 AM. Even on a Saturday. Today,
Martin Templer arrived early to prepare for an update meeting
with the director. Nothing special, just the weekly report. He
found that he could get more done early in the morning. He
enjoyed the time alone in his quiet office so he could complete
the report without constant interruption. Not fifteen minutes
into his report, his phone rang. Damn, he thought, it's starting
already.

"Yeah?" Templer said gruffly into the mouthpiece.

"Martin?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Alex."

Templer had almost forgotten about their meeting. "Will small
wonders never cease. Where have you been?"

"Still in Europe. I've been looking for some answers as we dis-
cussed."

"Great! What have you got?" Templer grabbed a legal pad.

"Nothing," Alex said with finality. "Nothing. Nobody knows of
any such operation, not even a hint." Alex had mastered the art
of lying twenty years ago. "But I'll tell you," he added, "I
think that you may be on to something."

"If there's nothing, how can there be something?" asked Martin
Templer.

This was Alex's opportunity to throw the CIA further off the
track. Since he and Martin were friends, as much as is possible
in this line of work, Alex counted on being believed, at least
for a while. "Everybody denies any activity and that in itself
is unusual. Even if nothing is happening, enough of the snitches
on the street will claim to be involved to bolster their own
credibility. However, my friend, I doubt a handful even know
about your radiation, but it has gotten a lot of people thinking.
I get the feeling that if they didn't know about your problems,
they will soon enough. I wish I could be of further help, but it
was all dead ends."

"I understand. It happens; besides it was a long shot," Martin
sighed. "Do me a favor, and keep your eyes and ears open."

"I will, and this one is on the house," said Alex.

After he hung up something struck Martin as terribly wrong. In
twenty years Alex had never, ever, done anything for free. Being
a true mercenary, it wasn't in his character to offer assistance
to anyone without sufficient motivation, and that meant money.
Martin noted the event, and reminded himself to include that in
his report to the Director.

* * * * *

The television coverage of the Senate hearings left Taki Homosoto
with radically different emotions. He had to deal with them both
immediately.

DIALING . . .
<<<<<>>>>>

I AM NOT PLEASED.

Ahmed Shah heard his communications computer beep at him. He
pushed the joystick control on his wheelchair and steered over to
read Homosoto's message.

Greetings

THAT WAS A MOST SLOPPY JOB.

Some things cannot be helped.

WHY IS HE NOT DEAD?

It was a difficult hit.

IS THAT WHAT YOU TELL ARAFAT WHEN YOU MISS?

I do not work for Arafat.

YOUR MAN IS ALIVE TOO.

Yes, fortunately.

NO, THAT IS UNFORTUNATE. ELIMINATE HIM. AND MAKE SURE THAT
TROUBLEAUX IS TAKEN CARE OF. HE MUST NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE.

He is in a coma.

PEOPLE WAKE UP. I DO NOT WANT HIM TO WAKE UP.

It will be done. I promise you.

I DO NOT WANT PROMISES. I WANT THEM BOTH DEAD. TROUBLEAUX MUST
NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK TO ANYONE. IS THAT CLEAR?

Yes, it will be done.

FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE SO. I DO NOT TOLERATE SLOPPINESS.

<<<<<>>>>>

Homosoto dialed his computer again, to a number inside Germany.
The encryption and privacy keys were automatically set before
Alex Spiradon's computer answered. To Homosoto's surprise, Alex
was there.

MR ALEX.

Yes.

CONGRATULATIONS. RICKFIELD IS BEING MOST COOPERATIVE.

He has many reasons to.

MILLIONS OF REASONS.

We merely gave him the incentive to cooperate. I do not expect
that he will maintain his position for very long.

YOUR HANDLING OF HIM HAS BEEN EXCELLENT. I HAVE NOT SEEN A U.S.
NEWSPAPER. HOW DO THEY REACT TO HIS COMMITTEE?

He took a small beating from a couple of papers, but nothing
damaging. It's the way Washington works.

WHO IS SENATOR DEERE? SHE COULD PRESENT A PROBLEM.

I don't think so. Between her and Rickfield, the sum total will
be a big zero. There will be confusion and dissension. I think
it works in our favor.

I WILL FOLLOW THE PROGRESS WITH INTEREST. WHEN ARE THE HEARINGS
TO CONTINUE?

Next week. One other thing. You asked that I get to Scott.
Consider it done. You found a most attractive weakness and he
succumbed instantly. But, I should say, I don't think it was
necessary. He is doing fine on his own.

I THINK IT IS NECESSARY. IT IS DONE?

We have a conduit.

KEEP THE PIPELINE FULL.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

Sunday, January 10
New York City Times

What's wrong with Ford?
by Scott Mason

Ford is facing the worst public relations disaster for an automo-
bile manufacturer since the Audi acceleration problem made inter-
national news.

Last month in Los Angeles alone, over 1200 Ford Taurus and Mer-
cury Sable cars experienced a total breakdown of the electrical
system. Radios as well as anti-skid braking controls and all
other computer controlled functions in the automobiles ceased
working.

To date, no deaths have been attributed to the car's epidemic
failures.

Due to the notoriety and questions regarding the safety of the
cars, sales of Taurus's have plummeted by almost 80%. Unlike the
similar Audi situation where the alleged problem was found in
only a few isolated cases, the Taurus failures have been wide-
spread and catastrophically sudden.

According to Ford, "There has never been a problem with the
Taurus electronics' system. We are examining all possibilities
in determining the real cause of the apparant failures."

What else can Ford say?

* * * * *

Chrysler Struck by Ford Failures
by Scott Mason

Chrysler cars and mini-vans have been experiencing sudden elec-
trical malfunctions . . .

* * * * *

Mercedes Electrical Systems Follow Ford
by Scott Mason

Mercedes owners have already organized a legal entity to force
the manufacturer to find answers as to why so many Mercedes are
having sudden electrical failures. Following in the footsteps of
Ford and Chrysler, this is the first time that Mercedes has not
issued an immediate 'Fix' to its dealer. Three deaths were
reported when . . .

* * * * *

Sunday January 10
National Security Agency

"What do you make of this Mason piece?"

"I'd like to know where the hell he gets his information," said
the aide. "That's what I make of it."

"Someone's obviously leaking it to him," Marvin Jacobs, Director
of the National Security Agency, said to his senior aid. "Some-
one with access to a great deal of sensitive data." The disdain
in his voice was unmistakable.

Even though it was Sunday, it was not unusual for him to be at
his office. His more private endeavors could be more discreetly
pursued. A three decade career at the Agency had culminated in
his appointment to the Directorship, a position he had eyed for
years.

"We have specialists who use HERF technology," the aide said.
"It's more or less a highly focused computer-gun. An RF field on
the order of 200 volts per meter is sufficient to destroy most
electrical circuits. Literally blow them up from the inside
out."

"Spare me the details."

"Sir, we can stop a car from a thousand yards by pointing elec-
tricity at it."

"I don't really care about the details."

"You should, sir. There's a point to this . . ."

"Well, get on with it." Jacobs was clearly annoyed.

"Unlike the EMP-T technology which is very expensive and on the
absolute edge of our capabilities . . ."

"And someone elses . . ."

"Granted," the aide said, sounding irritated with the constant
interruptions. "But HERF can be generated cheaply by anyone with
an elementary knowledge of electronics. The government even
sells surplus radio equipment that will do the job quite nicely."

Jacobs smiled briefly.

"You look pleased," the aide said with surprise.

Jacobs hid his pleasure behind a more serious countenance. "Oh,
no, it's just the irony of it all. We've been warning them for
years and now it's happening."

"Who, sir?"

"Never mind," Jacobs said, dismissing the thought momentarily.
"Go on."

Jacobs arrogantly leaned back in his executive chair, closed his
eyes and folded his hands over his barrel chest. This was his
way of telling subordinates to talk, spill their guts.

"The real worry about cheap HERF is what it can do in the wrong
hands." The aide obliged the ritual. "One transmitter and
antenna in a small truck can wipe out every computer on main
street during a leisurely drive. Cash registers, electric type-
writers, alarms, phones, traffic lights . . .anything electronic
a HERF is pointed at, Poof! Good as dead. What if someone used a
HERF gun at an airport, pointing up? Or at the tower? From up to
a distance of over a kilometer, too. Ten kilometers with better
equipment."

"So it works," muttered Jacobs so softly under his breath his
aide didn't hear.

"It's reminiscent of drive-by shootings by organized crime. In
this case, though, the target is slightly different."

"I see." Jacobs kept his eyes closed as the aide patiently
waited for his boss to say something or allow him to return to
his family. "I gather we use similar tools ourselves?"

"Yessir. Very popular technique. Better kept quiet."

"Not any more. Not any more."

****************************************************************

Chapter 23

Monday, January 11
Washington, D.C.

I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at
their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day
began.

"What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should
I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit
often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had
been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre-
coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from
the silver service. "What is it?"

"Computers."

The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days
when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a
hundred beads on rods?"

Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir,
we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered
non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously.

"In English, Phil," insisted the President.

"MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon
has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command
and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET."

The President sighed. "Damage report?"

"About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but
that's not the embarrassing part."

"If that's not, then what is?"

"The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data
Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central
Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over
100,000 records erased. Gone."

"And?" The President said wearily.

"The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports
of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The
President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to.
"It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion
in revenues."

"Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough.
The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with
his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this
happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically.

"Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press.
We need plausible deniability . . ."

"Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No
leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is
for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers
and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I
will personally behead the offender," the President said with
intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade
meant what he said.

"Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows
about this?"

"Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this
completely out of the public eye."

"Isolate them."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them
it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you
want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge."

"Yessir."

"Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on."

* * * * *

Monday, January 11
Approaching New York City

Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings
were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after
dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart
from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they
had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were
rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash.
While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man
could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going
on next to no rest.

While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had
fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak-
ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years
how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The
mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture
- where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly
concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional
revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced.
Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of
them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not
out and out weird.

In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the
activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason
restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc-
esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ
of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring
itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind
stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant
jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden
disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat
back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly
valued these spontaneous meditations.

Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex
patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to
gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no
obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one
does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili-
ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili-
ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster-
dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live
and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just
end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re-
lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what
was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en-
tered an extraordinary bliss.

The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap
Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he
remembered it.

Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the
way to Scarsdale, but lacking the good sense God gave him, he
checked the messages on his phone machine. Doug called to find
out if Scott still worked for the paper and Ty called requesting,
almost pleading, that Scott call as soon as he got back. He had
to see him, post haste.

The call to Doug was simple. Yes, I'm back. The hackers are
real. They are a threat. Pierre is still alive, I have more
material than we can use. I did take notes, and my butt is sun-
burned. If there's nothing else, I'm dead on my feet and I will
see you in the morning. Click.

Now he wanted to talk to Tyrone as much as it sounded like Ty
wanted to speak to him. Where was he? Probably at the office.
He dialed quickly. Tyrone answered with equal speed.

"Are you back?" Ty asked excitedly.

"Yeah, just got in. I need to talk to you . . ."

"Not as much as we do, buddy. Where are you now?"

"Home. Why?"

"I'll see you in an hour. Wait there." The FBI man was in
control. Where the hell else am I going to go, Scott thought.

Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and
puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed
cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided
to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he
collapsed.

Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's
doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged
into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of
beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by
Scott's wide fireplace.

"Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott.

"I think you may be right," said Tyrone.

"Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused
look on his face.

"No I mean about what you said."

"I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy."
Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane
of many a reporter.

"I said I think you were right. And are right."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused
then ever.

"Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking."

"Of course we were talking." Scott recognized the humor in the
conversation.

"No! I mean we were . . .shit. Shut up and listen or I'll arrest
you!"

"On what charge?"

"CRS."

"CRS?"

"Yeah, Can't Remember Shit. Shut up!"

Scott leaned back in his chair sipping away. He had gotten to
Ty. Hooked him, reeled him in and watched him flop on the deck.
It pissed Ty off to no end to allow himself to be suckered into
Scott's occasional inanity.

"When this whole blackmail thing started up there was no apparent
motivation," Tyrone began. "One day you said that the motivation
might be a disruption of normal police and FBI operations. I
think you might be right. It's looking more and more that the
blackmail stuff was a diversion."

"What makes you think so now?" Scott asked.

"We had a ton of cases in the last few weeks, same victims as
before, who were being called again, but this time with demands.
They were being asked to cough up a lot of cash in a short time,
and stash it in a very public place. We had dozens of stakeouts,
watching the drop points for a pick up. It read like the little
bastards were finally getting greedy. You know what I mean?"
Scott nodded in agreement, thinking, where is this going?

"So we had a couple hundred agents tied up waiting for the bad
guys to show up. And you know what? No one showed. No one,
damn it. There must have been fifty million in cash sitting in
bus terminals, train stations, health clubs, you name it, and no
one comes to get any of it? There's something wrong with that
picture."

"And you think it's a cover? Right?" Scott grinned wide. "For
what?"

Ty shrank back in mild sublimation. "Well," he began, "that is
one small piece of the puzzle I haven't filled in yet. But, I
thought you might be able to help with that." Tyrone Duncan's
eyes met Scott's and said, I am asking as a friend as well as an
agent. Come on, we both win on this one.

"Stop begging, Ty. It doesn't befit a member of the President's
police force," Scott teased. "Of course I was going to tell you.
You're gonna read about it soon enough, and I know," he said
half-seriously, "you won't screw me again."

Ouch, thought Tyrone. Why not pour in the salt while you're at
it. "I wouldn't worry. No one thinks there's a problem. I keep
shouting and being ignored. It's infinitely more prudent in the
government to fuck-up by non-action than by taking a position and
acting upon it. I'm on a solo."

"Good enough," Scott assured Ty. "'Nother beer?" It felt good.
They were back - friends again.

"Yeah, It's six o'clock somewhere," Tyrone sighed. "So what's
your news?"

"You know I went over to this Hacker's Conference . . ."

"In Amsterdam." added Tyrone.

"Right, and I saw some toys that you can't believe," Scott said
intently. "The term Hacker should be replaced with Dr. Hacker.
These guys are incredible. To them there is no such thing as a
locked door. They can get into and screw around with any comput-
er they want."

"Nothing new there," said Ty.

"Bullshit. They're organized. These characters make up an entire
underground society, that admittedly has few rules, but it's the
most coherent bunch of anarchists I ever saw."

"What of it?"

"Remember that van, the one that blew up and."

"How can I forget."

"And then my Tempest article."

"Yeah. I know, I'm sorry," Tyrone said sincerely.

"Fuck it. It's over. Wasn't your fault. Anyway, I saw the
equipment in actual use. I saw them read computers with anten-
nas. It was absolutely incredible. It's not bullshit. It
really works." Scott spoke excitedly.

"You say it's Tempest?"

"No, anti-Tempest. These guys have got it down. Regardless,
the stuff works."

"So what? It works."

"So, let's say, if the hackers use these computer monitors to
find out all sorts of dirt on companies," Scott slowly explained
as he organized his thoughts. "Then they issue demands and cause
all sorts of havoc and paranoia. They ask for money. Then they
don't come to collect it. So what have they achieved?" Scott
asked rhetorically.

"They tied up one shit load of a lot of police time, I'll tell
you that."

"Exactly. Why?"

"Diversion. That's where we started," Ty said.

"But who is the diversion for?"

The light bulb went off in Tyrone's head. "The hackers!"

"Right," agreed Scott. "They're the ones who are going to do
whatever it is that the diversion is covering. Did that make
sense?"

"No," laughed Ty, "but I got it. Why would the hackers have to
be covering for themselves. Couldn't they be working for someone
else?"

"I doubt it. This is one independent bunch of characters," Scott
affirmed. "Besides, there's more. What happened in D.C. . . ."

"Troubleaux," interrupted Ty.

"Bingo. And there's something else, too."

"What?"

"I've been hearing about a computer system called the Freedom
League. Nothing specific, just that everything about it sounds
too good to be true."

"It usually is."

"And one other thing. If there is some sort of hacker plot, I
think I know someone who's involved."

"Did he admit anything?"

"No, nothing. But, well, we'll see." Scott hesitated and stut-
tered. "Troubleaux, he said something to me."

"Excuse me?" Ty said with disbelief. "I thought his brains were
leaking out."

"Thanks for reminding me; I had to buy a new wardrobe."

"And a tan? Where've you been?"

"With, well," Scott blushed, "that's another story."

"O.K., Romeo, how did he talk? What did he say?" Ty asked
doubtfully.

"He told me that dGraph was sick."

"Who's dGraph?"

"dGraph," laughed Scott, "is how your secretary keeps your life
organized. It's the most popular piece of software in the world.
Troubleaux founded the company. And I think I know what he
meant."

"He's a nerdy whiz kid, huh?" joked Tyrone

"Just the opposite. Mongo sex appeal to the ladies. No, his
partner was the . " Scott stopped mid sentence. "Hey, I just
remembered something. Troubleaux had a partner, he founded the
company with him. A couple of days before they went public, his
partner died. Shook up the industry. Shortly thereafter Data
Tech bought them."

"And you think there's a connection?"

"Maybe, ah...I can't remember exactly," Scott said. "Hey, you
can find out."

"How?"

"Your computers."

"They're at the office."

Scott pointed to his computer and Tyrone shook his head violent-
ly. "I don't know how to. "

"Ty," Scott said calmly. "Call your secretary. Ask her for the
number and your passwords." Scott persuaded Ty to be humble and
dial his office. He was actually able to guide Ty through the
process of accessing one of the largest collections of informa-
tion in the world.

"How did you know we could do that?" Ty asked after they logged
into the FBI computer from Scott's study.

"Good guess. I figured you guys couldn't function without remote
access. Lucky."

Tyrone scowled kiddingly at Scott. "You going over to the other
side boy? You seem to know an awful lot."

"That's how easy this stuff is. Anyone can do it. In fact I
heard a story about octogenarian hackers who work from their
nursing homes. I guess it replaces sex."

"Bullshit," Tyrone said pointing at his chest. "This is one dude
who's knows the real thing. No placebos for me!"

They both laughed. "You know how to take it from here?" asked
Scott once a main menu appeared.

"Yeah, let me at it. What the hell did you want to know anyway?"

"I imagine you have a file on dGraph, somewhere inside the over
400,000,000 active files maintained at the FBI."

"I'm beginning to worry about you. That's classified . . ."

"It's all in the company you keep," Scott chided. "Just ask it
for dGraph." Tyrone selected an Inquiry Data Base and asked the
computer for what it knew about dGraph. In a few seconds, a sub-
menu appeared entitled "dGraph, Inc.". Under the heading ap-
peared several options:

1. Company History
2. Financial Records
3. Products and Services
4. Management
5. Stock Holders
6. Activities
7. Legal
8. Comments

"Not bad!" chided Scott. "Got that on everyone?"

Tyrone glared at Scott. "You shouldn't even know this exists.
Hey, do me a favor, will ya? When I have to lie later, at least I
want to be able to say you weren't staring over my shoulders.
Dig?"

"No problem," Scott said as he pounced on the couch in front of
the desk. He knocked a few days of mail onto the floor to make
room. "O.K., who founded the company?"

"Founded 1984, Pierre Troubleaux and Max Jones . . ."

"That's it!" exclaimed Scott. "Max Jones. Where?"

"Cupertino, California."

"What date did they go public?" Scott asked quickly.

"Ah, August 6, 1987. Anything else massah?" Tyrone gibed.

"Can you tie into the California Highway Patrol computers?"

"What if I could?"

"Well, if you could, I thought it would be interesting to take a
look at the police reports. Because, as I remember, there was
something funny about Max Jones," Scott said, and then added
mockingly, "but that's only if you have access to the same infor-
mation that anyone can get for $2. It's all public information
anyway."

"You know I'm not supposed to be doing this," Tyrone said as he
pecked at the keyboard.

"Bullshit. You do it all the time."

"Not as a public service." The screen darkened and then an-
nounced that Tyrone had been given access to the CHiP computers.
"So suppose I could do that, I suppose you'd want a copy of it."

"Only if the switch on the right side of the printer is turned ON
and if the paper is straight. Otherwise, I just wouldn't
bother." Scott stared at the ceiling while the dot matrix print-
er sang a high pitched song as the head traveled back and forth.

Tyrone scanned the print out coming from the computers in Cali-
fornia. "You have one fuckuva memory. Sheee-it." Scott sat up
quickly.

"What, what does it say?" Scott pressured.

"It appears that your friend Max Jones was killed in an automo-
bile accident on Highway 275 at 12:30 AM." Ty stopped for a
moment to read more. "He was found, dead, at the bottom of a
ravine where his car landed after crashing through the barriers.
Pretty high speed. And, the brake lines were cut."

"Holy shit," Scott said rising from his chair. "Does two a pat-
tern make?"

"You mean Troubleaux and Max?" asked Tyrone.

"Yeah, they'll do."

"In my mind it would warrant further investigation." He made a
mental note.

"Anything else there?" Scott asked.

"This is the kicker," Ty added. "The investigation lasted two
days. Upstairs told the department to make it a quick and clean,
open and shut case of accident."

"I assume no one from dGraph had any reason to doubt what the
police told them. It sounds perfectly rational."

"Why should they if nobody kicked up a stink?" Ty said to him-
self. "Hey," he said to Scott. "You think he was murdered,
don't you?"

"You bet your ass I do," Scott affirmed. "Think about it. The
two founders of a company the size of dGraph, they're huge, one
dead from a suspicious accident, and the other the target of an
assassination and in deep shit in the hospital."

"And it was the hackers, right?" laughed Tyrone.

"Maybe," Scott said seriously. "Why not? It's all tying togeth-
er."

"There's no proof," Tyrone said.

"No, and I don't need it yet. But I sense the connection.
That's why I said there's a conspiracy." He used that word
again.

"And who is behind it and why? Pray tell?" Tyrone needled Scott.
"Nothing's even happened, and you're already spouting
conspiracy."

"I need to do something. Two things." Scott spoke firmly but
vacantly. "I need to talk to Kirk. I think there's something
wrong with dGraph, and he can help."

"And two?"

"I'd like to know who I saw in Amsterdam."

"Why?" Ty asked.

"Because . . .because, he's got something to do with . . .what-
ever it is. He as much as admitted it."

"I think I can help with that one," offered Ty.

"Huh?" Scott looked surprised.

"How about we go into my office and see who this guy is?" Tyrone
enjoyed the moment. One upping Scott. "Tomorrow."

Scott decided that the fastest way to reach Kirk, he really
needed Kirk, was to write a clue in an article. Scott dialed the
paper's computer from his house and opened a file. He hadn't
planned on writing today - God, how long have I been awake? This
was the easiest way to contact Kirk now, but that was going to
change. Tyrone left early enough for Scott to write a quick
piece that would be sure to make an inside page, page 12 or 14.

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 12

The Computer As Weapon?
by Scott Mason

Since the dawn of civilization, Man has had the perverse ability
to turn Good into Bad, White into Black, Hot into Cold, Life into
Death. History bears out that technology is falling into the
same trap. The bow and arrow, the gun; they were created to help
man survive the elements and feed himself. Today millions of
guns are bought with no purpose other than to hurt another human
being. The space program was going to send man to the stars;
instead we have Star Wars. The great advantages that technology
has brought modern man have been continuously subverted for
malevolent uses.

What if the same is true for computers?

Only yesterday, in order to spy on my neighbor, or my opponent, I
would hire a private eye to perform the surveillance. And there
was a constant danger of his being caught. Today? I'd hire me
the best computer hacker I could get my hands on and sic him on
the targets of my interest. Through their computers.

For argument's sake, let's say I want advance information on
companies so I can play the stock market. I have my hacker get
inside the SEC computers, (he can get in from literally thousands
of locations nationwide) and read up on the latest figures before
they're reported to the public. Think of betting the whole wad
on a race with only one horse.

I would imagine, and I am no lawyer, that if I broke into the SEC
offices and read through their file cabinets, I would be in a
mighty poke of trouble. But catching me in their computer is an
extraordinary exercise in resource frustration, and usually
futile. For unlike the burglar, the computer criminal is never
at the scene of the crime. He is ten or a hundred or a thousand
miles away. Besides, the better computer criminals know the
systems they attack so well, that they can cover their tracks
completely; no one will ever know they were an uninvited guest.

Isn't then the computer a tool, a weapon, of the computer crimi-
nal? I can use my computer as a tool to pry open your computer,
and then once inside I use it to perhaps destroy pieces of your
computer or your information.

I wonder then about other computer crimes, and I will include
viruses in that category. Is the computer or the virus the
weapon? Is the virus a special kind of computer bullet? The
intent and the result is the same.

I recall hearing an articulate man recently make the case that
computers should be licensed, and that not everyone should be
able to own one. He maintained that the use of a computer car-
ried with it an inherent social responsibility. What if the
technology that gives us the world's highest standard of living,
convenience and luxury was used instead as a means of disruption;
a technological civil disobedience if you will? What if politi-
cal strength came from the corruption of an opponent's computer
systems? Are we not dealing with a weapon as much as a gun is a
weapon? my friend pleaded.

Clearly the computer is Friend. And the computer, by itself is
not bad, but recent events have clearly demonstrated that it can
be used for sinister and illegal purposes. It is the use to
which one puts the tool that determines its effectiveness for
either good or bad. Any licensing of computers, information sys-
tems, would be morally abhorrent - a veritable decimation of the
Bill of Rights. But I must recognize that the history of indus-
trialized society does not support my case.

Automobiles were once not licensed. Do we want it any other way?
I am sure many of you wish that drivers licenses were harder to
come by. Radio transmitters have been licensed for most of this
century and many a civil libertarian will make the case that
because they are licensed, it is a restriction on my freedom of
speech to require approval by the Government before broadcast.
On the practical side, does it make sense for ten radio stations
all trying to use the same frequency?

Cellular phones are officially licensed as are CB's. Guns re-
quire licenses in an increasing number of states. So it might
appear logical to say that computers be licensed, to prevent
whatever overcrowding calamity may unsuspectingly befall us. The
company phone effectively licenses lines to you, with the added
distinction of being able to record everything you do.

Computers represent an obvious boon and a potential bane. When
computers are turned against themselves, under the control of
humans of course, or against the contents of the computer under
attack, the results can ripple far and wide. I believe we are
indeed fortunate that computers have not yet been turned against
their creators by faction groups vying for power and attention.
Thus far isolated events, caused by ego or accident have been the
rule and large scale coordinated, well executed computer assaults
non-existent.

That, though, is certainly no guarantee that we will not have to
face the Computer Terrorists tomorrow.

This is Scott Mason searching the Galaxy at Warp 9.

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 12
Federal Square, New York

Tyrone was required to come to the lobby of the FBI headquarters,
sign Scott in and escort him through the building. Scott didn't
arrive until almost eleven; he let himself sleep in, in the hopes
of making up for lost sleep. He knew it didn't work that way,
but twelve hours of dead rest had to do something.

Tyrone explained as they took an elevator two levels beneath the
street that they were going to work with a reconstructionist. A
man with a very powerful computer will build up the face that
Scott saw, piece by piece. They opened a door that was identi-
fied by only a number and entered an almost sterile work place.
A pair of Sun workstations with large high resolution monitors
sat on large white tables by one wall, with a row of racks of
floor to ceiling disk drives and tape units opposite.

"Remember," Tyrone cautioned, "no names."

"Right," said Scott. "No names."

Tyrone introduced Scott to Vinnie who would be running the com-
puter. Vinnie's first job was to familiarize Scott with the
procedure. Tyrone told Vinnie to call him in his office when
they had something;he had other matters to attend to in the
meantime. Of obvious Italian descent, with a thick Brooklyn
accent, Vinnie Misselli epitomized the local boy making good.
His lantern jaw and classic Roman good looks were out of place
among the blue suits and white shirts that typified the FBI.

"All I need," Vinnie said, "is a brief description to get things
started. Then, we'll fix it piece by piece."

Scott loosely described the Spook. Dark hair, good looking, no
noticeable marks and of course, the dimples. The face that
Vinnie built was generic. No unique features, just a nose and the
other parts that anatomically make up a face. Scott shook his
head, no that's not even close. Vinnie seemed undaunted.

"O.K., now, I am going to stretch the head, the overall shape and
you tell me where to stop. All right?" Vinnie asked, beginning
his manipulation before Scott answered.

"Sure," said Scott. Vinnie rolled a large track ball built into
the keyboard and the head on the screen slowly stretched in
height and width. The changes didn't help Scott much he but
asked Vinnie to stop at one point anyway.

"Don't worry, we can change it later again. How about the eyes?"

"Two," said Scott seriously.

Vinnie gave Scott an ersatz dirty look. "Everyone does it," said
Vinnie. "Once." He grinned at Scott.

"The eye brows, they were bushier," said Scott.

"Good. Tell me when." The eyebrows on the face twisted and
turned as Vinnie moved the trackball with his right hand and
clicked at the keyboard with his left.

"That's close," Scott said. "Yeah, hold it." Vinnie froze the
image where Scott indicated and they went on to the hair.
"Longer, wavier, less of a part . . ."

They worked for an hour, Vinnie at the computer controls and
Scott changing every imaginable feature on the face as it evolved
into one with character. Vinnie sat back in his chair and
stretched. "How's that," he asked Scott.

Scott hesitated. He felt that he was making too many changes.
Maybe this was as close as it got. "It's good," he said without
conviction. There was a slight resemblance.

"That's what they all say," Vinnie said. "It's not even close
yet." He laughed as Scott looked shocked. "All we've done so
far is get the general outline. Now, we work on the details."

For another two hours Scott commented on the subtle changes
Vinnie made to the face. Nuances that one never thinks of; the
curve of the cheek, the half dozen angles of the chin, the hun-
dreds of ear lobes, eyes of a thousand shapes - they went through
them all and the face took form. Scott saw the face take on the
appearance of the Spook; more and more it became the familiar
face he had spent hours with a few days ago.

As he got caught up in the building and discovery process, Scott
issued commands to Vinnie; thicken the upper lip, just a little.
Higher forehead. He blurted out change after change and Vinnie
executed every one. Actually, Vinnie preferred it this way,
being given the orders. After all, he hadn't seen the face.

"There! That's the Spook!" exclaimed Scott suddenly.

"You sure?" asked Vinnie sitting back in the plush computer
chair.

"Yup," Scott said with assurance. "That's him."

"O.K., let's see what we can do . . ." Vinnie rapidly typed at
the keyboard and the picture of the face disappeared. The screen
went blank for a few seconds until it was replaced with a 3
dimensional color model of a head. The back of the head turned
and the visage of the Spook stared at them both. It was an eerie
feeling and Scott shuddered as the disembodied head stopped
spinning.

"Take a look at this," Vinnie said as he continued typing. Scott
watched the head, Spook's head, come alive. The lips were mov-
ing, as though it, he, was trying to speak. "I can give it a
voice if you'd like."

"Will that help?" Scott asked.

"Nah, not in this case," Vinnie said,"but it is fun. Let's make
sure that we got the right guy here. We'll take a look at him
from every angle." The head moved to the side for a left pro-
file. "I'll make a couple of gross adjustments, and you tell me
if it gets any better."

They went through another hour of fine tuning the 3-D head,
modifying skin tones, texture, hair style and a score of other
subtleties. When they were done Scott remarked that the image
looked more like the Spook than the Spook himself. Incredible.
Scott was truly impressed. This is where taxpayer's money went.
Vinnie called Tyrone and by the time he arrived, the color photo-
graphs and digital maps of the images were ready.

Scott followed Tyrone down one corridor, then another, through a
common area, and down a couple more hallways. They entered Room
322B. The innocuous appearance of the door did not prepare Scott
for what he saw; a huge computer room, at least a football field
in length. Blue and tan and beige and a few black metal cabi-
nets that housed hundreds of disparate yet co-existing computers.
Consoles with great arrays of switches, row upon row of video and
graphic displays as far as the eye could see. Thousands of
white two by two foot square panel floors hid miles of wires and
cables that interconnected the maze of computers in the under-
ground control center. There appeared to be a number of discreet
areas, where large computer consoles were centered amidst racks
of tape or disk drives which served as the only separation be-
tween workers.

"This is Big Floyd," Tyrone said proudly. "Or at least one part
of him."

"Who or what is Big Floyd?"

"Big Floyd is a huge national computer system, tied together over
the Secure Automated Message Network. This is the most powerful
computer facility outside of the NSA."

Quiet conversations punctuated the hum of the disk drives and the
clicks of solenoids switching and the printers pushing reams of
paper. The muted voices could not be understood but they rang
with purpose. The room had an almost reverent character to it;
where speaking too loud would surely be considered blasphemous.
Scott and Tyrone walked through banks and banks of equipment,
more computer equipment than Scott had ever seen in one location.
In fact the Federal Square computer center is on the pioneering
edge of forensic technology. The NSA computers might have more
oomph!, but the FBI computers have more purpose.

Tyrone stopped at one control console and asked if they could do
a match, stat. Of course, anything for Mr. Duncan. "RHIP,"
Tyrone said. Scott recognized the acronym, Rank Has Its Privi-
lege. Tyrone gave the computer operator the pictures and asked
him to explain the process to Scott.

"I take these pictures and put them in the computer with a scan-
ner. The digitized images are stored here," he said pointing at
a a rack of equipment. "Then, we enter the subject's general
description. Height, physique and so on." He copied the infor-
mation into the computer.

"Now we ask the computer to find possible matches."

"You mean the computer has photos of everyone in there?" Scott
asked incredulously.

"No, Scott. Just the bad guys, and people with security clear-
ances, and public officials? Your Aunt Tillie is safe from Big
Brother's prying eyes." The reason for Ty's sarcasm was clear to
Scott. Tyrone was not exactly acting in an official capacity on
this part of the investigation.

"How many do you have? Pictures that is?" Scott asked more diplo-
matically.

"That's classified," Tyrone said quickly.

"The hackers say you have files on over a hundred million people.
Is that true?" Scott asked. Tyrone glared at him, as if to say,
shut the fuck up. Scott took the non-verbal hint and they
watched in silence as the computer whirred searching for similar
photo files in its massive memory. Within a couple of minutes
the computer said that there were 4 possible matches. At the end
of the 10 minute search, it was up to 16 candidates.

"We'll do a visual instead of a second search," said the man
behind the keyboard. "We'll start with the 90% matches. There
are two of them." A large monitor flashed with a picture of a
man, that while not unlike the Spook in features, was definitely
not him. The picture was a high quality color photograph.

"No, not him," Scott said without pause. The computer operator
hit a couple of keys, a second picture flashed on the monitor and
Scott's face lit up. "That's him! That's the Spook!"

Tyrone had wondered if they would find any matches. While the
FBI data base was probably the largest in the world, it was
unlikely that there was a comprehensive library of teen age
hackers. "Are you sure?" Tyrone emphasized the word, 'sure'.

"Positive, yes. That's him."

"Let's have a quick look at the others before we do a full re-
trieve," said the computer operator. Tyrone agreed and fourteen
other pictures of men with similar facial characteristics to the
Spook appeared on the screen, all receiving a quick 'no' from
Scott. Spook's picture as brought up again and again Scott said,
"that's him."

"All right, Mike," Tyrone said to the man running the computer,
"do a retrieve on OBR-III." Mike nodded and stretched over to a
large printer on the side of the console. He pushed a key and in
a few seconds, the printer spewed out page after page of informa-
tion. OBR-III is a super-secret computer system designed to
fight terrorism in the United States. OBR-III and Big Floyd
regularly spoke to similar, but smaller, systems in England,
France and Germany. With only small bits of data it can extrapo-
late potential terrorist targets, and who is the likely person
behind the attacks. OBR-III is an expert system that learns
continuously, as the human mind does. Within seconds it can
provide information on anyone within its memory.

Tyrone pulled the first page from the printer before it was
finished and read to himself. He scanned it quickly until one
item grabbed his attention. His eyes widened. "Boy, when you
pick 'em, you pick 'em." Tyrone whistled.

"What, what?" Scott strained to see the printout, but Tyrone held
it away.

"It's no wonder he calls himself Spook," Tyrone said to no one in
particular. "He's ex-NSA." He ripped off the final page of the
printout and called Scott to follow him, cursorily thanking the
computer operators for their assistance.

Scott followed Tyrone to an elevator and they descended to the
fifth and bottom level, where Tyrone headed straight to his
office with Scott in tow. He shut the door behind him and showed
Scott a chair.

"There's no way I should be telling you this, but I owe you, I
guess, and, anyway, maybe you can help." Tyrone rationalized
showing the information to Scott - both a civilian and a report-
er. He may have questioned the wisdom, but not the intent.
Besides, as had been true for several weeks, everything Scott
learned from Tyrone Duncan was off the record. Way off. For
now.

The Spook's real name was Miles Foster. Scott scanned the file.
A lot of it was government speak and security clearance inter-
views for his job at NSA. An entire life was condensed into a a
few files, covering the time from when he was born to the time he
resigned from the NSA. Scott found much of his life boring and
he really didn't care that Miles' third grade teacher remembered
him as being a "good boy". Or that his high school counselor
though he could go a long way.

"This doesn't sound like the Spook I know," Scott said after
glancing at the clean regimented life and times of Miles Foster.

"Did you expect it to?" asked Ty.

"I guess I never thought about it. I just figured it would be a
regular guy, not a real spook for the government."

"Shit happens."

"So I see. Where do we go from here?" Scott asked in awe of the
technical capabilities of the FBI.

"How 'bout a sanity check?" Tyrone asked. "When were you in
Amsterdam?"

"Last week, why?"

Tyrone sat behind his computer and Scott noticed that his fingers
seemed almost too fat to be of much good. "If I can get this
thing to work, let's see where's the Control Key?" Scott gazed
on as Tyrone talked to himself while working the keyboard and
reading the screen. "Foster, Airline, Foreign, ah, the dates,"
he looked up at a large wall calendar. "All
right . . .shit . . .Delete . . . OK, that's it."

"What are you doing?" asked Scott.

"Just want to see if your boy really was in Europe with you."

"You don't believe me!" shouted Scott.

"No, I believe you. But I need some proof, dig?" Tyrone said.
"If he's up to something we need to find out what, step by step.
You should know that."

"Yeah, I do," Scott resigned. "It's just that I'm not normally
the one being questioned. Know what I mean?"

"Our training is more . . .well, it's a moot point now. Your
Mr. Foster flew to Amsterdam and then back to Washington the next
day. I believe I have some legwork ahead of me. I would like to
learn a little more about Mr. Miles Foster."

Scott talked Tyrone into giving him a copy of one of the images
of Miles aka Spook. He was hoping that Kirk would call him
tonight. In any case, Scott needed to buy an image scanner if
Kirk was going to be of help. When he got home, he made room on
his personal nightmare, his desk, for the flatbed scanner, then
played with it for several hours, learning how to scan an image
at the right sensitivity, the correct brightness and reflectivity
for the proper resolution. He learnd to bring a picture into the
computer and edit or redraw the picture. Scott scanned the
picture of the Spook into the computer and enjoyed adding mous-
taches, subtracting teeth and stretching the ears.

At midnight, on the button, Scott's computer beeped. It was
Kirk.

WTFO

You got my message.

SUBTLETY IS NOT YOUR STRONG POINT

I didn't want to miss.

GOTCHA. YOU RANG.

First of all, I want a better way to contact you, since I assume
you won't tell me who you are.

RIGHT! AND I'VE TAKEN CARE OF THAT. CALL 212-555-3908. WHEN YOU
HEAR THE BEEP, ENTER YOUR NUMBER. I'LL CALL YOU AS SOON AS I
CAN.

So you're in New York?

MAYBE. MAYBE NOT.

Ah, call forwarding. I could get the address of the phone and
trace you down.

I DON'T THINK YOU WOULD DO THAT.

And why not may I ask?

CAUSE WE HAVE A DEAL.

Right. You're absolutely right.

NOW THAT I'M RIGHT, WHAT'S UP?

I met with the Spook.

YOU DID????????

The conference was great, but I need to know more. I've just
been sniffing around the edges and I can't smell what's in the
oven.

WHAT ABOUT THE SPOOK? TELL ME ABOUT IT.

I have picture of him for you. I scanned it.

VERY GOOD, CLAP, CLAP.

I'll send you SPOOK.PIX. Let me know what you think.

OK. SEND AWAY.

Scott chose the file and issued the command to send it to Kirk.
While it was being sent they couldn't speak, and Scott learned
how long it really takes to transmit a digital picture at 2400
baud. He got absorbed in a magazine and almost missed the mes-
sage on the computer.

THAT'S NOT THE SPOOK!!!!

Yes it is. I met him.

NO, IT'S NOT THE REAL SPOOK. I'VE MET HIM. HE'S PARTIALLY BALD
AND HAS A LONG NOSE AND GLASSES. THIS GUY'S A GQ MODEL

C'mon, you've got to be putting me on. I travel 3000 miles for
an impostor?

I GUESS SO. THIS IS NOT THE SPOOK I KNOW.

Then who is it?

HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?

Just thought I'd ask . . .

WHAT'S GOING ON REPO?

Deep shit, and I need your help.

GOT THE MAN LOOKING OVER YOUR DONKEY?

No, he's not here, honest. I have an idea, and you're gonna
think it's nuts, I know. But I have to ask you for a couple of
favors.

WHAT MAY THEY BE?

The Freedom League. I need to know as much about it as I can,
without anyone knowing that I want the information. Is that
possible?

OF COURSE. THEY'RE BBS'ERS. I CAN GET IN EASY. WHY?

Well that brings up the second favor. dGraph. Do you own it?

SURE, EVERYONE DOES. LEGAL OR NOT.

Can't you guys take apart a program to see what makes it tick?

REVERSE ENGINEERING, YEAH

Then I would like to ask if you would look at the dGraph program
and see if it has a virus in it?

****************************************************************

Chapter 24

Wednesday, January 13
New York City

No Privacy for Mere Citizens
by Scott Mason.

I learned the other day, that I can find out just about anything
I want to know about you, or her, or him, or anyone, for a few
dollars, a few phone calls and some free time.

Starting with just an automobile license plate number, the De-
partment of Motor Vehicles will be happy to supply me with a name
and address that go with the plate. Or I can start with a name,
or an address or just a phone number and use a backwards phone
book. It's all in the computer.

I can find more about you by getting a copy of the your auto
registration and title from the public records. Marriage
licenses and divorces are public as well. You can find out the
damnedest things about people from their first or second or third
marriage records. Including the financial settlements. Good way
to determine how much money or lack thereof is floating around a
healthy divorce.

Of course I can easily find all traffic offenses, their disposi-
tion, and any follow up litigation or settlements. It's all in
the computer. As there are public records of all arrests, court
cases, sentences and paroles. If you've ever been to trial, the
transcripts are public.

Your finances can be scrupulously determined by looking up the
real estate records for purchase price, terms, cash, notes and
taxes on your properties. Or, if you've ever had a bankruptcy,
the sordid details are clearly spelled out for anyone's inspec-
tion. It's all in the computer.

I can rapidly build an excellent profile of you, or whomever.
And, it's legal. All legal, using the public records available
to anyone who asks and has the $2.

That tells me, loud and clear, that I no longer have any privacy!
None!

Forget the hackers; it's bad enough they can get into our bank
accounts and our IRS records and the Census forms that have our
names tied to the data. What about Dick and Jane Doe, Everyman
USA, who can run from agency to agency and office to office put
together enough information about me or you to be dangerous.

I do not think I like that.

It's bad enough the Government can create us or destroy us as
individuals by altering the contents of our computer files deep
inside the National Data Bases. At least they have a modicum of
accountability. However, their inattentive disregard for the
privacy of the citizens of this country is criminal.

As a reporter I am constantly amazed at how easy it is to find
out just about anything about anybody, and in many ways that
openness has made my job simpler. However, at the same time, I
believe that the Government has an inherent responsibility to
protect us from invasion of privacy, and they are derelict in
fulfilling that promise.

If the DMV needs to know my address, I understand. The IRS needs
to know my income. Each computer unto itself is a necessary
repository to facilitate business transactions. However, when
someone begins to investigate me, crossing the boundaries of
multiple data bases, without question, they are invading my
privacy. Each piece of information found about me may be insig-
nificant in itself, but when combined, it becomes highly danger-
ous in the wrong hands. We all have secrets we want to remain
secrets. Under the present system, we have sacrificed our priva-
cy for the expediency of the machines.

I have a lawyer friend who believes that the fourth amendment is
at stake. Is it, Mr. President?

This is Scott Mason, feeling Peered Upon.

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 13
Atlanta, Georgia

First Federal Bank in Atlanta, Georgia enjoyed a reputation of
treating its customers like royalty. Southern Hospitality was
the bank's middle name and the staff was trained to provide
extraordinary service. This morning though, First Federal's
customers were not happy campers. The calls started coming in
before 8:00 A.M.

"My account is off $10," "It doesn't add up," "My checkbook
won't balance." A few calls of this type are normal on any given
day, but the phones were jammed with customer complaints. Hun-
dreds of calls streamed in constantly and hundreds more never got
through the busy signals. Dozens of customers came into the
local branches to complain about the errors on their statement.

An emergency meeting was held in the Peachtree Street headquar-
ters of First Federal. The president of the bank chaired the
meeting. The basic question was, What Was Going On? It was a
free for all. Any ideas, shoot 'em out.

How many calls? About 4500 and still coming in. What are the
dates of the statements? So far within a couple of days, but who
knows what we'll find. What are you asking people to do? Double
check against their actual checks instead of the register. Do
you really think that 5000 people wake up one morning and all
make the same mistakes? Do you have any other ideas? Then
what? If they don't reconcile, bring 'em in and we'll pull the
fiche.

What do the computer people say? They think there may be an
error. That's bright. If the numbers are adding up wrong, how do
we balance? Have no idea. Do they add up in our favor? Not
always. Maybe 50/50 so far. Can we fix it? Yes. When? I don't
know yet. Get some answers. Fast. Yessir.

The bank's concerns mounted when their larger customers found
discrepancies in the thousands and tens of thousands of dollars.
As the number of complaints numbered well over 10,000 by noon,
First Federal was facing a crisis. The bank's figures in no way
jived with their customer's records and the finger pointing
began.

The officers contacted the Federal Reserve Board and notified
them. The Board suggested, strongly, that the bank close for the
remainder of the day and sort it out before it got worse. First
Federal did close, under the guise of installing a new computer
system, a lie that might also cover whatever screwed up the
statements. Keep that option open. They kept answering the
phones, piling up the complaints and discovering that thus far
there was no pattern to the errors.

By mid-afternoon, they at least knew what to look for. On every
statement a few checks were listed with the incorrect amounts and
therefore the balance was wrong. For all intent and purpose, the
bank had absolutely no idea whose money was whose.

Working into the night the bank found that all ledgers balanced,
but still the amounts in the accounts were wrong. What are the
odds of a computer making thousands of errors and having them all
balance out to a net zero difference? Statistically it was
impossible, and that meant someone altered the amounts on pur-
pose. By midnight they found that the source of the error was
probably in the control code of the bank's central computing
center.

First Federal Bank did not open for business Thursday. Or Fri-
day.

First Federal Bank was not the only bank to experience profound
difficulties with it's customers. Similar complaints closed down
Farmer's Bank in Des Moines, Iowa, Lake City Bank in Chicago,
First Trade in New York City, Sopporo Bank in San Francisco,
Pilgrim's Trust in Boston and, as the Federal Reserve Bank would
discover, another hundred or so banks in almost every state.

The Department of the Treasury reacted quickly, spurred into
action by the chairman of Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C.
Being one of the oldest banks in the country, and the only one
that could claim having a personal relationship with Alexander
Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, it still carried
political weight.

The evening network and local news stations covered the situation
critically. Questions proliferated but answers were hard to come
by. The largest of the banks and the government announced that
a major computer glitch had affected the Electronic Funds Trans-
fers which had inadvertently caused the minor inconsistencies in
some customer records.

The press was extremely hard on the banks and the Fed Reserve and
the Treasury. They smelled a coverup, a lie; that they and the
public were not being told the truth, or at least all of it.
Only Scott Mason and a couple of other reporters speculated that
a computer virus or time bomb was responsible. Without any
evidence though, the government and the banks vigorously denied
any such possibilities. Rather, they developed a convoluted
story of how one money transaction affects another and then
another. The domino theory of banking was explained to the
public in graphs and charts, but an open skepticism prevailed.

Small businesses and individual banking customers were totally
shut off from access to their funds. Tens of thousands of auto-
matic tellers were turned off by their banks in the futile hope
of minimizing the damage. Estimates were that by evening, almost
5 million people had been estranged from their money.

Rumors of bank collapse and a catastrophic failure of the banking
system persisted. The Stock Market, operating at near full
capacity after November's disaster, reacted to the news with a
precipitous drop of almost 125 points before trading was suspend-
ed, cutting off thousands more from their money.

The International Monetary Fund convened an emergency meeting as
the London and Tokyo stock markets reacted negatively to the
news. Wire transfers and funds disbursements were ceased across
all state and national borders.

Panic ensued, and despite the best public relations efforts, the
Treasury imposed financial sanctions on all savings and checking
accounts. If the banks opened on Friday, severe limits would be
placed on access to available funds. Checks would be returned or
held until the emergency was past.

Nightline addressed the banking crisis in depth. The experts
debated the efficiency of the system and that possibly an unfore-
seen overload had occurred, triggering the events of the day. No
one suggested that the bank's computers had been compromised.

* * * * *

New York City Times

"Yes, it is urgent."

"What is this about?

"That is for the Senator's ears only."

"Can you hold for . . ."

"Yes, yes. I've been holding for an hour. Go on." Muzak inter-
pretations of Led Zeppelin greeted Scott Mason as he was put on
hold. Again. Good God! They have more pass interference in the
front office and on the phones than the entire NFL. He waited.

At long last, someone picked up the other end of the phone. "I am
sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Mason, it has been rather hectic
as you can imagine. How are you faring?" Senator Nancy Deere
true to form, always projected genuine sincerity.

"Fine, fine, thank you, Senator. The reason for my call is
rather, ah . . .sensitive."

"Yes?" she asked politely.

"Well, the fact is, Senator, we cannot discuss it, that is, I
don't feel that we can talk about this on the phone."

"That makes it rather difficult, doesn't it," she laughed weakly.

"Simply put, Senator . . . "

"Please call me Nancy. Both my friends and enemies do."

"All right, Nancy," Scott said awkwardly. "I need 15 minutes of
your time about a matter of national security and it directly
concerns your work on the Rickfield Committee." She winced at
the nick name that the hearing had been given. "I can assure
you, Senator, ah, Nancy, that I would not be bothering you unless
I was convinced of what I'm going to tell you. And show you. If
you think I'm nuts, then fine, you can throw me out."

"Mr. Mason, that's enough," Nancy said kindly. "Based upon your
performance at the hearing the other day, that alone is enough to
make me want to shake your hand. As for what you have to say? I
pride myself on being a good listener. When would be convenient
for you?"

"The sooner the better," Scott said with obvious relief that he
hadn't had to sell her.

"How's . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?"

"That's fine, perfect. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"We?" Nancy picked up the plural reference.

"Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I'm not crazy
alone."

* * * * *

FBI, New York

"I'll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then,"
Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone.

"Ty, I've been on your side and defended you since I came on
board, you know that." Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. "But
on this one, I have no control. You've been poking into areas
that don't concern you, and I'm catching heat."

"I'm working on one damn case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it
keeps on touching this fucking blackmail fiasco and it's getting
on everyone's nerves. There's a lot more to this than ransoms
and hackers and I've been having some luck. I'll show you what I
have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets."

"I'll be there. Ty," Burnson said kindly. "I don't know the
specifics, but you've been shaking the tree. I hope it's worth
it."

"It is, Bob. I'd bet my ass on in."

"You are."

* * * * *

Thursday, January 14
Walter Reed Medical Center

"How is he doing?" Scott asked.

"He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of
Walter Reed's hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi-
cians. "In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest
wound is nasty, but that's not the danger; it's the head wound.
The brain is a real funny area."

Tyrone's FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in
to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had
been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital
room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage-
ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre's most recent assailant was
murdered, despite the police assigned to guard his room. Two of
Ahmed's elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well
that they weren't suspected when one went in the room and the
other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day.

All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of the
D.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatz
orderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate in
Arabic. "It's done. Let's get out of here."

The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on
the pair. One of Ahmed's men tried to pull his gun but was shot
and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to
run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way.
He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a
huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He
never slowed, shouting "Allah, I am yours!" as he dove through
the plate glass window plummeting five floors to the concrete
walk below.

The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth-
ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter.

The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be
another attempt on Pierre's life, so the secrecy surrounding his
faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to
deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both
the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the
District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with
it.

Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms.
"Basically, we don't know enough to accurately predict the ef-
fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor
skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un-
known. Then there are head injuries that we can't fully explain,
and Pierre's is one of them."

Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. "Pierre had a severe
trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain
tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated." Scott shud-
dered at the distinct memory of the gore. "Since he was in a
coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con-
sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory
and other possible effects. That's how we do it in the brain
business."

"So, how is he?" Scott wanted a bottom line.

"He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can't find any
problems that stem from the head injury."

"That's amazing," said Scott. "I saw the . . ."

"It is amazing," agreed Dr. Kelly, "but not all that rare.
There are many references in the literature where severe brain
damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw
a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy's forehead. He was
still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up
he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing
ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we'll be lucky."

"Can we see him?" Scott asked the Irish doctor assigned to
repair Pierre Troubleaux.

"He's awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let
the chest wound heal than his head," Dr. Kelly replied.

Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep
within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards
outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed.
Absolute identification was required every time someone entered
the room and it took two phone calls to verify the identities of
Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The
groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr.
Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to
thank Scott for saving his life.

Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka-
bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don't drink the
IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen
ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained
much of his famed humor.

"I want to thank you," Pierre said in jest, "for putting the
value of my life in proper perspective."

Scott's cheeks pushed up his glasses from the deep smile that
Pierre's words caused. He hadn't realized that Pierre had been
conscious. Tyrone looked confused.

"I begged him not to die," laughed Scott, "because it wouldn't
look good on my resume."

"And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request."

After suffering enough embarrassment by compliments, Scott asked
Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term
karmic debt here, thought Scott.

"I need to understand something," said Scott. Pierre nodded,
what?

"You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I
took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but,
well, I guess that's the question. What did you mean?"

"You're right. Yes," Pierre said softly but firmly. "That's what
I was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess."

"Confess?" Tyrone asked. "To what?"

"To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it
happen."

"So you did infect your own software. Why?" Scott demanded.

Pierre shook his head back and forth. "No, I didn't do it. I
had no control."

"Then who did?"

"Homosoto and his people."

"Homosoto? Chairman of OSO?" Scott shrieked. "You're out of
your mind, no offense."

"I wish I were. Homosoto took over my company and killed Max."

* * * * *

The New Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.

"The Senator will see you now," said one of Senator Deere's
aides. Scott and Tyrone entered her office which was decorated
more in line with a woman's taste than the heavy furniture men
prefer. She stood to greet them.

"Gentlemen," Nancy Deere said shaking their hands. "I know that
you're with the New York City Times, Mr. Mason. I took the
liberty of reading some of your work. Interesting, controver-
sial. I like it." She offered them chairs at an informal seat-
ing area on one end of the large office.

"And you are?" she said to Ty. He told her. "I take it this is
official?"

"At this point ma'am, we just need to talk, and get your reac-
tions," Ty said.

"He's having labor management troubles." Scott thought that was
the perfect diplomatic description.

"I see," Nancy said. "So right now this meeting isn't
happening."

"Kind of like that," Ty said.

"And him?" She said cocking her head at Scott.

"It's his story, I'm just his faithful sidekick with a few of the
pieces."

"Well then," Nancy said amused with the situation. "Please, I am
all ears." She and Tyrone looked at Scott, waiting.

How the hell was he going to tell a U.S. Senator that an organ-
ized group of anarchistic hackers and fanatic Moslem Arabs were
working with a respected Japanese industrialist and building
computer viruses. He couldn't figure out any eloquent way to
say it, so he just said it, straight, realizing that the summa-
tion sounded one step beyond absurd. All things considered, Scott
thought, she took it very well.

"I assume you have more than a headline?" Senator Deere said
after a brief, polite pause.

Scott proceeded to describe everything that he had learned, the
hackers, Kirk, Spook, the CMR equipment, his articles being
pulled, the First State and Sidneys situation. He told her about
the anonymous documents he had thus far been unable to use.
Except for one which he would use today. Scott also said that
computer viruses would fully explain the banking crisis.

Tyrone outlined the blackmail cases he suspected were diversion-
ary tactics for another as yet unknown crime, and that despite
more than $40 millions in payoffs had been arranged, no one had
showed to collect.

"Ma'am," Tyrone said to Senator Deere. "I fought to get into the
Bureau, and I made it through the good and the bad. And, I
always knew where I stood. Akin, I guess to the political winds
that change every four years." She nodded. "But now, there's
something wrong." Nancy tilted her head waiting for Ty to con-
tinue.

He spoke carefully and slowly. "I have never been the paranoid
type; I'm not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I
get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to
be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It's
almost like I'm not supposed to find out what's happening. I get
no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been
predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions."

"So why come to me?" Nancy asked. "You're the police."

"Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?" Scott asked
Nancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone.

"Alive? How's that possible?" She too, had heard the news.
They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had
been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre's prognosis
brightened Nancy attitude.

"But, it's not all good news. It appears, that every single copy
of dGraph, that's a . . ."

"I know dGraph," she said quickly. "It's part of the job.
Couldn't live without it."

"Well, ma'am, it's infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of
them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki
Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has
effectively held Pierre hostage since."

The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response.
Nancy Deere's jaw fell limp. "That is the most unbelievable,
incredible . . .I don't know what to say."

"I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet,"
said Tyrone.

"There are a few friends of mine working to see if dGraph really
is infected." Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the
implications.

"What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?" She thirsted for more hard
information.

"I'm no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I'm not stupid
either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have
been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess
is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones
that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies." Nancy main-
tained rapt attention as Scott continued . "Therefore, I would
venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect-
ed."

Scott paused as Nancy's eyes widened.

"Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another
according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to
assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is
getting ready to self destruct." Scott sounded certain and
final.

"I can't comprehend this, this is too incredible." Senator Deere
shook her head in disbelief. "What will happen?"

"Pierre doesn't know what the viruses do, he's not a programmer.
He's just a figurehead," Scott explained. "Now, if I had to
guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep
those viruses from exploding."

"One man's word is an indictment, not a conviction," Nancy said
soberly.

"There's more," Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott.
"We've learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it
begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to
make sense of it all." He slid forward in his chair. "We know
that Scott's hacker's name is Miles Foster and he's tied up with
the Amsterdam group, but we don't how yet. We also know that he
is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the
Fort." Nancy understood the implication.

"When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone-
walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now
they're retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don't know why."
Tyrone shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't make any
sense."

"At any rate," Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, "I
checked into his background since he left the Agency in '87. He
went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit." Nancy
Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker
face. "We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna-
tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has
been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show
no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody's
guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a
Tokyo travel agency, but we can't determine who paid for them."

"Seventeen times?" asked the Senator.

"Yes ma'am. Curious."

"How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?"
she asked dubiously.

"We have our means. I can't get into that now." Tyrone held the
party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI
could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In
fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to
hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications
Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on
any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel,
credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power,
entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants
unconscionable.

"I have no doubt," she said caustically.

"There's more." Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which
impressed Nancy. "The case concerning Max Jones' death is being
reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county
was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in
making his predecessor look bad." Tyrone spoke without the
emotion that drove Scott.

"So what does this prove?" she asked.

"It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones
died."

Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which
only provided a view of another office building across the
street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as
she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.

"Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General
Young: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearing
on the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you and
Rickfield don't see eye to eye."

Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for
ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that
described the illicit relationship between General Young and
Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.

"Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly.

"No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two
and two and, well, it does raise some questions."

"I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious
to answer."

* * * * *

6 P.M., Washington, D.C.

"Who the hell are you pissing off and why?" Bob Burnson met
Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street from
Treasury at 6:00 PM.

Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and
reluctantly accepted that for Scott's assistance in Tyrone's
investigation he would get an exclusive.

For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew,
just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems.
"I've been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don't
forget our midnight rendezvous."

Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two
decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling
him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the
implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting
heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?

"What are you planning?" Bob asked them both.

"Scott's going after Homosoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get
a few answers."

"And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too."

"Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a
chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean.
There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think
it's about time to turn a few screws."

"Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's button you're pushing has pushed
the Director's, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink
on shit. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi-
cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back
off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the
work while our asses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A
perfect case of CYA."

"But?" Tyrone suggested.

"But," Bob said, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean
someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A
Government approved horse shit here, but I'll be fucked if know
why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage
stuff."

"They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid
crimes," Tyrone said defiantly.

"Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen.
"Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could
they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob.

"The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous
political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll
cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick
for my blood. I hope you understand."

"Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks."

* * * * *

Friday, January 15
New York City

Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making
the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until
10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours
for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear
Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode
well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough
commute.

He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed
that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one
at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to
pass on to his audience.

At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd.
Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West
Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th.
Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where
the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every
morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He
listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents
were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.

Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the
police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many
accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He
passed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home.

By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the
impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police
helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the
conversations from their police band radios.

At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told
that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets
were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were
dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the
process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city.

Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of
Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight - a massive
traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it
gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At
8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth
was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians
nervously slipped in and around the chaos.

Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects
of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic
system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown
from an airplane. The traffic computers.

* * * * *

Washington, D.C.

Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the
kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What
a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New
York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an
interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched
intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus-
sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed.

The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad-
cast System so they could communicate with the half million
drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat-
tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being
forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen-
tial government services were shut down for the day.

The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the
National Guard was called to assist the local police. Sonja
compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they
deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like
any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a
party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Sonja?"

"Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?"
Sonja sipped her coffee.

"It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly.

"Something wrong?" Sonja asked.

"I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you."
Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to Scott
Mason any more. I'm getting out."

"Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion.

"I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got
hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money
anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange-
ments. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I
was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew
exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at
one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between
her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it.
She had not suspected that it would be for passion, nor because
of one of her 'dates'.

"Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything.
He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with
him."

"That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her
thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four
of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in
common."

"Scott should be down tonight."

"That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we
can put this behind us."

* * * * *

New York City

The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that
the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch-
es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and
yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer
technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code
was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current
disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in
time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began
manually loading the software that controlled each region's
switches in the hope of piecing together the grid.

At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the
dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they
synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date,
the time, anticipated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust
the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes
later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every
light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew
that it was only the primary sync-control program which was
corrupted.

The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting
the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M..
The official explanation was a massive computer failure, which
was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed
the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous
software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media
congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping
with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from
the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred
were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital.
Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder
among other assorted crimes. All they had to do was find him.

* * * * *

New York City

Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we
will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called
OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next
day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that
he needed an international clock to figure out when to call Japan
during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO
switchboard, he had to pass scrutiny by three different opera-
tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to
the English language. He told Homosoto's secretary, whose Eng-
lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and
needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was
patched through almost immediately.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Homosoto?"

"Yes."

"This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling
from New York. How are you today?"

"Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" Homosoto was obviously
the gratuitous sort when it came to the press.

"We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux
accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says
that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs.
Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as
possible under the circumstances.

No answer.

"Sir? Mr. Homosoto?"

"Yes?"

"We are also interested in your relationship with Miles Foster.
Mr. Homosoto?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer
viruses?"

No answer.

"Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in the
United States?"

"I should have killed him."

"What?" Scott strained his ear.

"Mr. Troubleaux is alive?"

"I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On
anything?"

"I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead.

Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial.

****************************************************************

Chapter 25

Saturday, January 16
Tokyo, Japan

Dressed as business-like on the weekend as during the week, Taki
Homosoto sat at his regal techno-throne overlooking the Tokyo
skyline from his 66th floor vista. It was time. Years of prepa-
ration and millions of dollars later, it was time. Perhaps a
little earlier than he would have liked, but the result would be
the same anyway.

The first call Homosoto made was to Ahmed Shah in his Columbia
University office. Ahmed responded with his PRG code as the
computer requested.

<<<<<>>>>>

GOOD YOU ARE THERE.

I can't get too far without my man-servant.

I WANT TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INVALUABLE ASSISTANCE. HE IS DEAD?

Yes. It took two martyrs, one is being tortured by the FBI, but
he has Allah to guide him.

GOOD. CAN YOU DO MORE?

I am at your disposal. This is not the war I expected, but I
serve Allah's will, and he is using you as his instrument of
revenge.

THE BANK CARDS. THEY ARE FOR YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE TO FUND YOUR
EFFORTS.

You speak strangely. Is something wrong?

NO, EVERYTHING IS ACCORDING TO PLAN. I EXPECT YOU WILL FULFILL
MY WISHES.

Of course, that is the arrangement. But what has changed?

NOTHING. I AM FULFILLING MY DESTINY.

As am I.

THEN YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.

* * * * *

Alexander Spiradon relaxed in his Alpine aerie home overlooking
the hilly suburbs of Zurich while watching a satellite feed of
the Simpson's on his TV. He found that he learned American
colloquialisms best from American television. They brutalized
the language under the guise of entertainment. During a commer-
cial for 'The Quicker Picker Upper', his computer announced a
call.

He put the VCR on Quick-Record and sat at his Compaq Deskpro com-
puter watching the screen display the incoming identification.

<<<<<>>>>>

Alex entered the code displayed on his personal identification
card.

G4-YU7-%T64-666.009

Alex figured it was Homosoto since this was a very private com-
puter. His other computer, an AST 386SX with 330 MB of storage
was the one his recruits called with reports. The 25 Sir
George's of his army called twice a day. Once to get their
assignments and once to send him the results of their efforts.

They didn't have to call long distance, though, and never knew
that Alex ran his part of Homosoto's operation from Europe. Sir
George and his hidden compatriots used their untraceable cellular
phones and merely called a local phone number within their area
code. Alex's communications group had set up a widely diverse
network of call forwarding telephones to make tracing the calls
impossible. They exploited all of the common services that
helped make his and Homosoto's armies invisible.

MR ALEX.

Yes, sir.

THE TIME HAS COME.

So soon?

YES. MONDAY IS GROUNDHOG DAY.

Monday? Are you sure? With no warning?

HAVE I EVER BEEN WRONG?

THEN DO AS I SAY. PLEASE.

Alex started at the word 'please'. He had never seen Homosoto
ever use it before.

Of course. As you wish.

WHAT ARE THE FIRST TARGETS OF THE GROUNDHOGS?

It is complex.

TELL ME!

The reservations systems of American, Delta, Pan Am and TWA. It
will shut down air travel for weeks.

GOOD. AND?

The NBC, CBS and ABC communications computers. We
have people working in each network. Plus, we have land based
transmitters to garble and override network satellite transmis-
sions. Quite a neat trick actually. I'm impressed with the
technology.

I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR TECHNOLOGY. I WANT TO KNOW THAT THEY
WILL WORK. WHO ELSE?

The list is long. Groundhogs are at the Home Shopping Network,
American Express and other credit card companies. The Center for
Disease Control, Hospitals, the IRS, Insurance Companies. Within
a week, their computers will be empty and useless.

THAT IS WHAT I WANT TO HEAR. THIS ENDEAVOR HAS BEEN MOST PROFITA-
BLE FOR YOU, HAS IT NOT?

Very much so. It is appreciated.

THEN YOU WILL NOT MIND IF I INCREASE YOUR PAYMENT.

No. Why?

YOU MUST MAINTAIN THE SANCTITY OF OUR ARRANGEMENTS. NO MATTER
WHAT HAPPENS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Yes. I assume I ask no questions?

YOU KNOW MORE THAN YOU SHOULD, BUT YOU ARE A MAN OF HONOR AS LONG
AS I PAY THE MOST. THAT IS TRUE.

At least you know where I stand.

WILL YOU CONTINUE?

Consider it done. How much more?

ENOUGH. MORE THAN ENOUGH.

<<<<<>>>>>

* * * * *

He couldn't believe it. Scott had just watched Nightline, and
who was the guest? Madonna. How ridiculous. She badly needed
English lessons not to mention a brain. He was relieved when the
call came.

WTFO?

I'm here, Kirk. You're two minutes late.

PICKY PICKY.

I had to sit through a half hour of Madonna explaining why she
masterbates on MTV.

LIFE'S A CESSPOOL. THEN YOU DIE.

You sound happy tonight.

I'M NOT EXACTLY PLEASED, IF THAT'S WHAT YOU MEAN.

What have you got?

WE'VE LEARNED A LOT. FIRST OF ALL, DGRAPH IS INFECTED.

No shit.

PROFANITY. BIG BROTHER AND FREEDOM ARE LISTENING. REALLY. WE
FOUND DOZENS OF DIFFERENT VIRUSES IN LOTS OF DIFFERENT VERSIONS
OF DGRAPH. SOMEONE PUT A LOT OF WORK INTO THIS. I HAVE NEMO AND
EVERY PHREAK I KNOW WORKING ON IT TO SEE WHAT OTHER VERSIONS
THERE ARE. AND I'M SURE THAT HALF THE HACKERS IN THE COUNTRY ARE
DOING THE SAME THING NOW. WORD GETS AROUND. BUT THAT'S NOT THE
HALF OF IT.

Continue, oh messenger of doom.

THERE'S MORE ABOUT THE FREEDOM BOARDS. I THOUGHT
YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN WHAT WE FOUND.

I'm hanging on your every byte.

GOOD. FIRST OF ALL, I HAD NO IDEA HOW BIG THE FREEDOM LEAGUE
WAS. OVER 1600 MEMBER BBS'S HERE AND IN CANADA.

Is that large?

THAT MAKES THEM A FULL FLEDGED NATIONAL NETWORK. ALMOST A MIL-
LION PEOPLE BELONG. BUT THE BEST PART? THE FREEDOM LEAGUE
SOFTWARE IS FILLED WITH VIRUSES TOO.

You've got to be kidding. A million people in on it?

NO, NOT AT ALL. COULD BE JUST A FEW.

A few? How many are a few?

QUIET! THE FREEDOM LEAGUE RUNS A SORT OF FRANCHISE SERVICE FOR
BBS'S. THEY GIVE YOU ALL OF THE TOOLS AND TOYS AND SOFTWARE TO
HAVE YOUR OWN FREEDOM LEAGUE BBS. SO ANYONE WHO WANTS TO, CAN
SET THEMSELVES UP FOR FREE. FREEDOM GIVES THEM EVERYTHING BUT A
COMPUTER AND A MODEM.

And in exchange, they have to sell Freedom Software.

NOT EXACTLY SELL, SHAREWARE IS FREE TO DISTRIBUTE, IN THEORY
ONLY A FEW PEOPLE MAY EVEN KNOW ABOUT THE INFECTIONS. WHOEVER IS
DESIGNING THE PROGRAMS HAS TO BE IN ON IT.

And the franchisers, of course! They set up their own distribu-
tion of viruses.

I WOULD GUESS THAT ABOUT 100 OF THE FREEDOM BBS'S KNOW ABOUT THE
INFECTIONS.

Why, how do you know that?

GOOD GUESS. WHEN FREEDOM STARTED UP BACK IN '88, IT HAD 100
LOCATIONS.

So it was staged, set up?

MUSTA BEEN. NOT CHEAP. A GOOD BBS TAKES ABOUT $10,000 TO GET
GOING.

A million bucks. Chump change.

FOR WHO?

Just a friend. What else?

THEY'VE DISTRIBUTED MILLIONS OF PROGRAMS. MILLIONS.

Is every one infected?

I GUESS SO. EVERY ONE WE'VE LOOKED AT IS.

Who else knows.

NEMO, PHREAK PHRIENDS. IN A COUPLE OF DAYS YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO
GIVE FREEDOM AWAY. IF IT'S INFECTED, WHICH IT IS, IT'S ALL OVER
FOR THEM. THEIR REP IS SHOT.

Aren't you worried about a repeat performance on your computers?

NO. I MOVED WHAT WAS LEFT OF MY EQUIPMENT AND WE SWITCHED TO
CELLULAR CALL FORWARDING. CAN'T BE TRACED FOR MONTHS. BUT I
APPRECIATE THE CONCERN.

I'll call you. My main man is going to want to talk to you.

* * * * *

Monday, January 18
New York City Times

dGRAPH INFECTED WITH VIRUS: DGI OFFERS FREE UPGRADES.
by Scott Mason

In an unprecedented computer software announcement, DGI President
and industry magnate Pierre Troubleaux admitted that every copy
of dGraph sold since late 1987 contains and is infected with
highly dangerous and contagious computer viruses.

He blamed Taki Homosoto, chairman of OSO Industries, and the
parent company of DGI for the viruses that Troubleaux said were
implanted on purpose.

Mr. Homosoto had no comment on the allegations.

Since there are so many different viruses present in the dozens
of dGraph versions, (Mr. Troubleaux estimates there may be as
many as 500) it is impossible to determine the exact detonation
dates or anticipated damage. Therefore DGI is offering free
uninfected copies of dGraph to every registered user.

Industry reaction was strong, but surprisingly non-critical of
DGI's dilemma. In general the reaction was one of shock and
disbelief. "If this is true," said one source, "the amount of
damage done will be incalculable." He went on to say that since
the virus problem has been largely ignored, very few businesses
have any sort of defensive measures in place. Estimates are that
large companies have the most to lose when the dGraph Virus
explodes.

The major software manufacturers came to DGI's support saying,
". . .it was bound to happen sooner or later. We're just glad it
didn't happen to us." Leading software firms including Micro-
soft, Lotus, Computer Associates and Borland have offered their
disk duplication and shipping facilities to assist DGI in dis-
tributing over four million copies of the program.

Even with such support policies by DGI and the assistance of the
software industry, there is a great fear that the infected dGraph
programs have communicated viruses to other programs and comput-
ers. According to Ralph Potter of the International Virus Asso-
ciation, "This is a disaster of unfathomable proportions. It
could not be much worse than if DOS had been carrying a virus for
years. The designers knew what they were doing, waiting so long
before the viruses were triggered to go off. The ultimate Trojan
Horse."

The National Computer Systems Laboratory at the National Insti-
tute of Standards and Technology issued a terse statement saying
that they would soon publish recommended procedures to minimize
the effects of the current virus crisis. They predicted at least
2 millions personal computers would be stricken with the dGraph
Viruses.

One dGraph User Group in Milwaukee, Wisconsin has begun a class
action suit against DGI and OSO on behalf of all users who have
damage done to their computers and or data. They claim at least
10,000 co-plaintiffs on the initial filing with District Court in
Milwaukee and are asking for $10 Billion in damages.

End.

Scott's story went on to describe that the FBI and Secret Service
were taking the threat as a national security risk and would make
a public statement in a day or so. Leading software industry
prophets were quoted, all taking credit for warning the computer
industry that such massive assaults were predictable and prevent-
able. They blamed the government and computer manufacturers for
laxidazical handling of a serious problem that could have been
prevented. Scott had to make a large chart to keep track of the
competitive finger pointing from the experts.

DGI's stock fell 75% after the announcement until the SEC sus-
pended its trading.

* * * * *

The Associated Press wire announcement was followed in seconds by
the one from UPI. Doug tore it off the printer and raced it over
to Scott.

"I believe this will be of interest to you . . ." Doug chuckled
as Scott read the wire.

Tokyo, Japan: Taki Homosoto, the billionaire founder and
chairman of OSO Industries, was found dead this afternoon in
his opulent Tokyo office. According to police and company
spokespersons, Mr. Homosoto died by his own hands in tradi-
tional Japanese warrior fashion; hari-kari. His body was
found curled up in a pool of blood with the ritualistic
sword penetrating his abdomen protruding from his lower
back.

Police say they discovered a note on his person that ex-
plained the apparent suicide. The letter is believed to have
been hand written by Mr. Homosoto. The contents of that
letter, as released by the Tokyo police follow:

Honorable Friends,

I now resign as Chairman of OSO Industries. My time is
over.

For almost 50 years I have waited to see the United States
and its people suffer as my people did during those terrible
days in August. The United States gave our people no warn-
ing, and tens of thousands of innocent women and children
died without purpose. This criminal sin is one which the
United States and its people will have to live with for all
eternity.

Yet, out of compassion for the millions of innocent bystand-
ers who are helplessly trapped by their government's indif-
ference to human life, I will give the American people a
warning: Without your computers your future is dim, and your
present becomes the past.

When I was told about the attack plans on the United States,
I admit that I was a willing but skeptical buyer. I found
it hard to believe, indeed incredible, that the greatest
military power on Earth was so foolish. I learned that
there were no defenses for the computers that run your
country. How unfortunate for you.

It was shown me how to execute the plans which invade the
very bastions of Western Imperialism; and I have succeeded
admirably. You will not recover for years, as we did not
after your hideous attack upon our land.

By the time you read this, I will be dead and happy. My
creations will have taken hold, and unshakeable from their
roots, will spread chaos and distrust. This is the world's
first computer war and I have waged it and I will win it.

Retaliate! Retaliate, if you wish, if you can; but you will
not, you cannot. Who do you attack? My country? They had
nothing to do with it. My company? I will be dead and
there is no double jeopardy in death.

You have nothing to say, and nothing to do in response. As
we did not after your fire-bombs landed. We could say
nothing.

Helplessness is a terrible feeling. It is one of loneli-
ness, solitude in a personal hell which your people shall
suffer as they learn to live without the luxuries of tech-
nology. You will pay for your ancestor's mistakes.

To the memory and honor of my family.

Taki Homosoto

* * * * *

Scott Mason called Tyrone Duncan immediately.

"I know," said Tyrone, sounding out of breath. "We're on it.
Pierre's getting additional protection. It turns out that Mr.
Homosoto isn't as pure as the driven snow like he pretends to
be."

"How do you mean?" Scott asked.

"Off the record."

"Background." The negotiation on press terms was complete.

"All right, but be careful. It seems that since the 1940's Mr.
Homosoto has been performing some very lucrative services for our
friends at the Pentagon. He has some influential friends in
Congress and uses an assortment of lobbying firms to promote his
interests."

"What's so unusual about that?" Asked Scott.

"Nothing, until you see that certain Congressmen got very wealthy
when OSO Industries built plants in their districts. Heavy PAC
contributions, blind distribution of small contributing funds. It
also appears that he regularly entertained high Pentagon offi-
cials in the finest fashion. Paris, Tokyo, Rio, Macao. Influ-
ence pedaling and bribery. We have traced a path from Tokyo to
the Pentagon that has resulted in OSO subsidiaries receiving
large non-classified government contracts. Take dGraph for
example. That's a de facto standard for all agencies."

"I never thought about that. Everyone in the government uses
it."

"Just like the private sector. I'm on my way to have a little
talk with your Mr. Foster. I don't believe in coincidences."

"Good, where?" Asked Scott excitedly.

"Whoah! Wait a minute. This is official now, and I can't have a
civilian . . ."

"Bullshit!" Scott yelled into the phone. "Don't you get GI on
me. I gave him to you. Remember? Besides, I know him. And I
might have something else."

"What's that?"

"What if I told you that the Freedom League is part of it? And
that it's being run by foreign nationals."

"So what?" asked Tyrone.

"How far did you check into the van driver's background? Wasn't
he Arab?" Scott offered tidbits that he thought relevant.

"Yeah . . ."

"When are you meeting Foster?"

Tyrone thought carefully about Scott's words. "Listen, I have to
get a warrant anyway. It'll probably take till tomorrow."
Tyrone paused for the subtle offer to sink in to Scott. "He's
listed. Gotta go."

One hell of a guy, thought Scott. If it ever got out that Tyrone
worked with the media like this, he would be immediately retired,
if not possibly prosecuted. But nobody else was doing anything,
and Scott had given them Foster on a silver platter. He would
save the Freedom League story for the moment.

* * * * *

The Motorola STU-III secure phone rang on the credenza behind
Marvin Jacobs desk. He had been Director of the National Securi-
ty Agency, DIRNSA, since 1984, installed in that position because
he gave the distinct impression that he didn't care about any-
thing except satisfying his mentor; in this case Vice President
Bush.

The STU-III phone added funny electronic effects to the voices
that spoke over it; all in the interest of national security.

"Hello?" Jacobs asked.

"Homosoto is dead."

"I heard," Jacobs said. "It sounded clean."

"Very pro. Won't be a problem."

* * * * *

Scott saw the galley for the afternoon paper. The headline, in 3
inch letters shocked him:

RICKFIELD RESIGNS

He immediately called Senator Nancy Deere.

"I was going to call you," she said. "I guess you've heard."

"Yes, what happened?" He shouted excitedly over the rumble of the
high speed train.

"I guess I should take the blame," Nancy said. "When I confront-
ed the Senator this morning, he just stared at me. Never said a
word. I begged him for an explanation, but he sat there, expres-
sionless. He finally got up and left."

"That's it? What happens now?"

"I see the President," she said.

"May I ask why?"

"Off the record," she insisted.

"Sure." Scott agreed. What's one more source I can't name.

"I heard about the resignation from the White House. Phil Mus-
grave. He said the President was very concerned and wanted a
briefing from my perspective. He's beginning to feel some heat
on the computer crimes and doesn't have a clue. I figure they
need to get up to speed real fast."

"It's about time," Scott said out loud. "They've been ignoring
this forever."

"And," Senator Deere added, "they want you there, too. Tomorrow,
9A.M."

The hair on Scott's neck stood on end. A command performance
from the White House?

"Why, why me?

"You seem to know more than they do. They think you're wired
into the hackers and Homosoto."

"I'll be there," Scott managed to get out. "What do I do . . .?"

"Call Musgrave's office at the White House."

"I bet the paper's going nuts. I didn't tell them I had left or
where I was going," Scott laughed.

Scott called Doug who had half of the paper looking high and low
for him. "You made the big time, huh kid?" Doug said feigning
snobbery. "What world shattering events precipitated this mag-
nanimous call?" In fact he was proud. Very proud of Scott.

Scott explained to Doug that he would call after the White House
meeting, and he wasn't quite sure why he was going, and that
Nancy was taking over the hearings and he would stay in DC for a
few days. And no, he wouldn't tell more than was in print, not
without calling Doug or Higgins - at any hour.

Doug sounded relieved when Scott volunteered that there would be
no hotel bills. Phew. Forever the cheap skate. The story of the
year and he's counting pennies. God, Doug was a good editor.

Scott's stories on computer crime and specifically the dGraph
situation aroused national attention. Time, Newsweek and dozens
of periodicals began following the story, but Scott, at Doug's
suggestion, had wisely held back enough information that would
guarantee the privacy and quality of his sources.

He was right in the middle of it, perhaps making news as much as
reporting it, but with Doug's and the Times' guidance, Scott and
the paper were receiving accolades on their fair yet direct
treatment of the issues.

Doug thought that Scott was perhaps working on the story of the
year, or maybe the decade, but he never told him so. However,
Scott was warned that as the story became major national news,
the exclusivity that he and the Times had enjoyed would be in
jeopardy. Get it while the getting is hot.

No problem.

It just so happened Scott knew Miles Foster personally.

* * * * *

"Sonja? I'm coming down. Tonight. Can you recommend a good
hotel?" He jibed at her while packing away his laptop computer
for the trip to Washington. He called her and was going to leave
a message, but instead he was rewarded with her answering the
phone.

"Chez Lindstrom is nice, but the rates are kind of high."

"King or twin beds? Room with a view? Room service?"

"E, all of the above," she laughed. "Want me to pick you up at
National?"

"Naw, I'll take the train from work. I may need to buy a few
things when I get there, like a suitcase and a wardrobe. It's
kind of last minute."

"I gather I wasn't the prime reason for your sudden trip," Sonja
said in fun.

"No, it was, I wanted to come, but I had to do some . . .and then
I found out about . . .well I have to be there tomorrow, but I am
leaving a day early." He pleaded for understanding, not realiz-
ing she was kidding him. He couldn't tell her why he was being
so circumspect. Nothing about the meeting.

"Well," she said dejectedly, "I guess it's O.K. If."

"If what?" Scott brightened.

"If we can have a couple of friends over for dinner. There's
someone I'd like you to meet."

* * * * *

"Holy shit," Scott said as Sonja opened her apartment door and
admitted Miles and the stunning Stephanie.

Miles stopped in his tracks and stared at Scott. Then at Stepha-
nie. "What's the deal?" he said accusingly.

"This is Sonja Lindstrom and her friend Scott Mason," Stephanie
said. "What's wrong, hon?" She still had her arm wrapped around
Miles' arm.

"It's just that, well, we've met, and I was just kind of sur-
prised, that's all." He extended a hand at Scott. "Good to see
you again." Scott warmly reciprocated. This was going to be an
interesting evening.

"Yeah, ditto," Scott said, confused. "What happened to you? I
thought you were coming back?" He was speaking of Amsterdam.

"Well, I was a little occupied, if you recall," Miles said refer-
ring to the triplets in Amsterdam. "And business forced me to
depart earlier than I had anticipated."

"Where? To Japan?" Scott awaited a reaction by Miles, but was
disappointed when there was none.

Stephanie and Sonja wondered how the two had already met; it was
their job to report such things to Alex, but it really didn't
matter any more. They were quitting.

The first round of drinks was downed quickly and the tension in
the room abated slightly. The four spoke casually, albeit some-
what guardedly. The harmless small talk was only a prelude to
Scott's question when the girls stepped into the kitchen. Per-
haps they left the room on purpose.

"Listen," Scott whispered urgently to Miles. "I know who you
are, and that you're tied up with Homosoto and the computer
nutsiness that's going on everywhere. You have a lot of people
looking for you and we only have a few seconds," Scott said
glancing up at the kitchen door. "I see the situation as fol-
lows. You get to tell your side of the story to the authorities
in private, or you can tell me first and I put it in tomorrow's
paper. This may be your only chance to get your side of the
story out. All of sudden, you're big news. What'll it be?"
Scott spoke confidently and waited for Miles' answer.

Miles intently scanned every inch of Scott's face in minute
detail. "That fucking gook. You're damn right I'll talk. First
of all, it's a lie," Miles hissed. "If they're coming after
me, I have to protect myself. Can't trust a fucking slant eye,
can you?"

The girls returned with fresh drinks and sat down on the white
leather couch. Miles and Scott continued their discussion.

"What happened?" Scott asked. Miles looked over at the stunning
Sonja, stripping her naked with his stare and then at Stephanie
who had caught his stare.

"It's very simple," Miles said after a while. His dimples deep-
ened while he forced a smile. "Homosoto's fucked us all." He
nodded his head as he looked at his three companions. "Me.
Royally. How the hell can I defend myself against accusations
from the grave." He shrugged his shoulders. "And you," he point-
ed at Scott. "You've kept the fear going. Haven't you. You
picked up the scent and you've been writing about it for months.
Setting his stage for him. Like a puppet. And then? After you
sensitize the public, he commits suicide. He used you."

"And then, you two," Miles said to Stephanie and Sonja. "You
could be out in the cold in days. Bet you didn't know you were
in on it. Am I right?"

"In on what?" Scott asked Miles and Sonja.

"Tell him," Miles said to Sonja. "I've never met you, but I can
guess what you do for a living."

"She's a PR person," interjected Scott.

"Go on, tell him, or I will," Miles said again.

Sonja's eyes pleaded with Miles to stop it. Please, stop. I'll
do it in my own way, in time. Please, stop. Scott glowered at
Miles' words and awaited a response from Sonja. How could he
distrust her? But what did Miles mean?

The front door bell rang and broke the intense silence. It rang
again as Sonja went to answer.

"Yes, he's here," she whispered.

The door opened and Tyrone Duncan came into the room while anoth-
er man stood at the door. Tyrone walked up to Miles. Scott was
in absolute awe. How the hell? Ty had said tomorrow.

"Mr. Foster? Miles Foster?" Tyrone asked without pleasantries.

"Yeah," Miles said haughtily.

"FBI," Ty said flashing his badge. "You're under arrest for
trafficking in stolen computer access cards and theft of serv-
ice." Tyrone took a breath and waved a piece of paper in the
air. "We searched your apartment and found telephone company
access codes that . . . "

"I want to call my lawyer," Miles interrupted calmly. "Now," he
commanded.

" . . . have been used to bypass billing procedures."

"I said I want to call my lawyer," Miles again said emphatical-
ly.

"I'll be out in an hour," he said aside to Stephanie and kissed
her on the cheek. His arrogance was unnerving; this wasn't the
same Miles that Scott had known in Amsterdam. There, he was just
another misguided but well-intentioned techno-anarchist who was
more danger to himself than anyone else. But now, as Tyrone read
a list of charges against him, mostly arcane FBI domain inter-
state offenses, Miles took on a new character. A worldly crimi-
nal whom the FBI was arresting for potential terrorist activi-
ties.

"And those are for starters, Mister," Tyrone said after reading
off a list of penal violations by code number. As if following a
script, Tyrone added, "you have the right to remain silent . . ."
He wanted to make sure that this was a clean arrest, and with
this many witnesses, he was going to follow procedure to the
letter. Mirandizing was one of the steps.

Scott Mason's adrenaline flowed with intensity. Did he ever have
a story to tell now! An absolute scoop. He was present, coinci-
dentally, during the arrest of Miles Foster.

Front page.

"I want to call my lawyer," Miles repeated.

"Make it quick," said Tyrone. Miles rapidly dialed a number from
memory.

Miles turned his back on Tyrone and the others and spoke calmly
into the phone.

"It's me."

Pause.

"It's me. I need assistance."

Arrogance. Pause.

"A laundry list of charges."

Disinterest. Pause.

"Had to happen, sooner or later, yeah," Miles said happily.
Pause.

"I gotta dinner party. I don't want to miss it." He smiled at
Stephanie and blew a kiss. "Great. Make it quick." Miles hung
up.

Miles turned to Tyrone and held his wrists out together in front
of him. "Let's go," Miles said still smiling cooly.

Tyrone gently snapped the cuffs on Miles and ushered him toward
the door.

"Back in an hour or so," Miles defiantly said to Scott, Sonja and
Stephanie over his shoulder as the front door closed behind Miles
and his escorts.

Scott watched in disbelief. Miles, the Spook, ever so calm, cool
and collected. Not a fluster. Not a blush.

Who had he called? That was the question that bothered Scott
throughout the rest of the evening.

* * * * *

The White House, Washington, D.C.

The President looked grim. The normally affable Republican had
won his second term by a landslide and had maintained unprece-
dented popularity. The Democrats had again been unable to con-
jure up a viable candidate after another string of scandals
rocked the primaries and the very foundation of the party itself
Their entire platform focused on increasing the Peace Dividend
beyond the aggressively reduced $180 Billion Defense budget. It
was not much of an attack on a President whose popularity never
fell below an astounding 65% approval, and the only ebb was due
to a minor White House incident involving a junior aide, the
junior aide's boyfriend and the Lincoln Bedroom.

The recession that was started by the Iraqi situation in Kuwait
during the summer of 1990 was not as bad as it could have been.
The world wide militaristic fever, proper Fed Reserve response
and the Japanese all took credit for easing the problem through
their specific efforts. In fact, the recession was eased due in
part to all of their efforts as well the new Europe. The Presi-
dent was rewarded, ultimately, with the credit for renewing the
economy almost glitch-free.

But the President was still grim. America was again at war, and
only a handful of people in the upper echelons of the Government
even knew about it. It would be in the paper in the morning.

****************************************************************

Chapter 26

Midnight, Tuesday, January 19
Scarsdale, New York

Scott Mason awaited Kirk's midnight call.

Now that they had a deal, a win-win situation, Kirk and his
phriends had become gung-ho. Kirk agreed to help Scott in the
dGraph and Freedom situations if Scott would make sure that his
articles clearly spelled out the difference between the white-hat
and black-hat hackers.

Journalistic responsibility demanded fair treatment of all sides
and their respective opinions, and Scott attempted to bring
objectivity to his analyses. He did this well, quite well, and
still was able to include his own views and biases, as long as
they were properly qualified and disclaimed.

Additionally, Kirk wanted assurances of total anonymity and that
Scott would not attempt to identify his location or name. Scott
also had to agree to keep his Federal friends at a distance and
announce if they were privy to the conversations.

In exchange for fair portrayals in the press, privacy and no
government intervention, Kirk promised Scott that the resources
of Nemo would be focussed on finding defenses to the virus at-
tacks in dGraph and Freedom software. If Kirk and Homosoto were
right, millions of computers would experience the electronic
equivalent of sudden cardiac arrest in less than two weeks.

The Times, Higgins and Doug agreed to the relationship but added
their own working caveats. In order to treat Kirk as a protected
source, they pretended he was a personal contact. Instead of
reporter's notes, Scott maintained an open file which recorded
the entirety of their computer conversations. There were no
precedents for real-time electronic note taking, but Higgins felt
confident that the records would protect the paper in any event.
Besides, Supreme Court rulings now permit the recording of con-
versations by hidden devices, as long as the person taping is
actually present. Again, Higgins felt he had solid position, but
he did ask Scott to ask Kirk's permission to save the conversa-
tions on disk. Kirk always agreed.

At midnight, Scott's computer beeped the anticipated beep.

WTFO

I heard a good one.

JOKE?

Yeah, do they work over computer?

TRY ME.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs were in Europe and
got to meet the Pope. Dopey really wanted to asked the Pope a
few questions. "Mr. Pope, Mr. Pope. Do you have pretty nuns?"
"Of course we do, Dopey." "Mr. Pope, do you have fat ugly nuns?"
"Why, yes, Dopey, we do." "And I bet, Mr. Pope, that you have
some tall skinny nuns, too." "Yes, Dopey we do." "Mr. Pope? Do
you have nuns in Chicago?" "Yes, Dopey, we have nuns in
Chicago?" "And in San Francisco and New York?" "Yes, Dopey."
"And do you have nuns in Africa and Australia and in France?"
"Yes, Dopey. We have nuns everywhere." Dopey took a second to
think and finally asked, "Mr. Pope? Do you have nuns in Antarc-
tica?" "No, Dopey, I'm sorry, we don't have any nuns in Antarc-
tica." The other six dwarfs immediately broke out into a laugh-
ing song: "Dopey fucked a penguin. Dopey fucked a penguin."

HA HA HA HA HA!!! LOVE IT. REAL ICE BREAKER. HA HA.

Facetious?

NO, THAT'S GREAT. IS YOUR RECORDER ON?

You bet. No plagiarism. What have you got?

MORE THAN I WISH I DID. DGRAPH FIRST. WE HAVE IDENTIFIED 54
SEPARATE DGRAPH VIRUSES. I HAVE A FILE FOR YOU. IT LISTS THE
VIRUS BY DETONATION DATE AND TYPE, SYMPTOMS AND THE SIGNATURES
NEEDED FOR REMOVAL. ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO PRINT IT ALL?

Daily. Our science section has been expanded to every day from
just Tuesday. I have all the room I need.

YOU MIGHT MAKE ME RECONSIDER MY OPINION OF THE MEDIA.

Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.

HA HA. WE'VE JUST TOUCHED THE SURFACE ON FREEDOM, BUT THE WORD'S
OUT. FREEDOM WILL BE AS GOOD AS DEAD IN DAYS. THE NUMBER OF
VIRUSES MUST NUMBER IN THE HUNDREDS. IT'S INCREDIBLE. I'VE SEEN
A LOT OF VIRUSES, BUT NONE LIKE THIS. IT'S ALMOST AS THOUGH THEY
WERE BUILT ON AN ASSEMBLY LINE. SOME ARE REAL CLOSE TO EACH
OTHER, EVEN DO THE SAME THINGS, BUT THEIR SIGNATURES ARE DIFFER-
ENT MAKING IT EXTRA HARD TO DETECT THEM. EACH ONE WILL HAVE TO
BE DONE INDIVIDUALLY.

I suggest we start with the dGraph viruses. You said 54, right?

SO FAR.

Send me the file and I still may have time to get it into tomor-
row's paper. They usually leave a little room.

I'LL SEND DGVIRUS.RPT. IT'S IN ASCII FORMAT, EASY TO READ INTO
ANY FILE YOU'RE WORKING WITH.

I think I can handle it.

* * * * *

DGRAPH VIRUS LIST
by Scott Mason

The dGraph Virus Crisis has set the computer industry into a
virtual tailspin with far reaching effects including stock
prices, delayed purchasing, contract cancellation and a bevy of
reported lawsuits in the making.

All the same, the effects of the Crisis must be mitigated, and
the New York City Times will be providing daily information to
assist our readers in fighting the viruses. DGraph is now known
to contain at least 54 different viruses, each designed to exe-
cute different forms of damage to your computer.

According to computer security experts there are two ways to deal
with the present virus crisis. The best way to make sure that an
active security system is in place in your computer. Recommenda-
tions vary, but it is generally agreed by most experts that
security, especially in the highly susceptible desktop and laptop
personal computers, should be hardware based. Security in soft-
ware is viewed to be ineffective against well designed viruses or
other offensive software mechanisms.

The second way to combat the effects of the dGraph Virus, but
certainly not as effective, is to build a library of virus signa-
tures and search all of your computers for matches that would
indicate a viral infection. This technique is minimally effec-
tive for many reasons: Mutating viruses cause the signature to
change every time it infects another program, rendering the virus
unidentifiable. There is no way to be sure that all strains have
been identified. Plus, there is no defense against subsequent
viral attacks, requiring defensive measures to be reinstituted
every time.

Preliminary predictions by computer software experts are that
between 1 and 5 million IBM compatible computers will be severely
effected by the dGraph Viruses. Computers tied to local area and
wide area networks are likely to be hit hardest.

Beginning today, we will publish the known dGraph Virus charac-
teristics daily to help disseminate the defensive information as
rapidly as possible.

dGraph Version 3.0

Virus #1
Detonation Date: 2/2/XX
Symptoms: Monitor blinks on an off, dims and gets bright.
Size: 2413
Signature: 0F 34 E4 DD 81 A1 C3 34 34 34

Virus #2, #3, #4, #5
Same as above but different dates.
2/3/XX, 2/4/XX, 2/5/XX, 2/6/XX

Virus #6
Detonation Date: 2/2/XX
Symptoms: Erases hard disk.
Size: 1908
Signature: E4 EE 56 01 01 C1 C1 00 01 02

Virus #7
Detonation Date: 1/22/XX
Symptoms: Reformats hard drive.
Size: 2324
Signature: 00 F1 8E E3 AA 01 F5 6B 0B 0D

Virus #8
Detonation Date: 1/23/XX
Symptoms: Over exercises hard disk heads causing failure.
Requires hard disk to be replaced.
Size: 2876
Signature: FF 45 7A 20 96 E6 22 1F 07 0F 2E

Scott's article detailed all 54 dGraph Viruses. Every wire
service and news service in the country picked up the story and
reprinted it in their papers and magazines. Within 24 hours,
everyone who owned or used a computer had some weapons with which
available to him. If they chose to believe in the danger.

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 20
The White House

"So what about this Mason character?" Secretary of State Quinton
Chambers asked challengingly. The President's inner circle was
again meeting to discuss the government's reaction to the impend-
ing chaos that Mr. Homosoto posthumously promised. The pre-dawn
hours were viewed as an ideal time to have upper level meetings
without the front door scrutiny of the press.

Phil Musgrave pulled a folder from the stack in his lap and
opened it. "Born 1953, he had an Archie Bunker for a father but
he came out a brain - IQ of 170. Against Nam, who wasn't; he
protested some, but not a leader. No real trouble with the law;
couple of demonstration arrests. City College, fared all right,
and then set up his own company, worked in the defense industry
writing manuals until he hit it big and sold out. Divorced, no
kids. Wife is kinda wacky. The news business is new to him, but
he's getting noticed fast."

"Is he a risk?"

"The FBI hasn't completed their investigation," said Phil. "If
he is a risk, it's buried deep. Surface wise, he's clean. Only
one problem."

"What's that?"

"He's an independent thinker."

"How's he done so far?"

"So far so good."

"So we let him continue?"

"Yesterday he said he was willing to help, but I have a sneaky
suspicion he'll do better on his own without our interference.
Besides, he prints every damn thing he does."

"What about their identity?"

"No way. He will maintain source protection, and I don't think
it matters right now. Maybe later."

"What about the FBI friend?"

"The FBI is aware of it, and views it favorably. Duncan's rela-
tionship has been exclusively personal until recently. It seems
to serve both sides well."

"So you're saying he's working for us and not knowing it?"

"He probably knows it, and probably, like most of the media,
doesn't care. His job is to report the news. It just so happens
that we read the same newspapers. Let's leave him alone."

The President held up his hand to signal an end to the debate
between State policy and the White House Chief of Staff. "Unless
anyone can give me a good goddammed reason to fix something that
seems to be working," he said, "let Mason do his job and let us
do ours." He looked around the Oval Office for comments or
dissent. It was a minor point and nobody thought it significant
enough to pursue. Yet. "Next?" The President commanded.

Refills of coffee were distributed and the pile of Danishes was
shrinking as the men casually dined during their 6:00 A.M. meet-
ing.

"OSO Industries appears, by all first impressions, to have noth-
ing to do with the threats." Henry Kennedy was expected to know
more than anyone else at this point. "Investigations are contin-
uing, but we have no reason to suspect a smoking gun."

"One man did all of this?" asked the President skeptically.

"We have no doubt that he accomplished at least the dGraph vi-
ruses with accomplices and a great deal of money." Henry knew
his material. With the combined help of the NSA, CIA, FBI and
international contacts, the National Security Advisor was privy
to an incredible range of information. He was never told direct-
ly that U.S. agents regularly penetrated target computers as part
of any investigation, or that they listened in on computers and
communications to gather information. But Henry Kennedy preferred
it this way; not to officially know where he got his data.
Professional deniability.

"We also have every reason to believe that he used technical
talent outside of OSO," Kennedy continued. "Perhaps as many as
thirty or forty people involved."

The inner circle whistled. "Thirty or forty? That's a conspira-
cy," commented Quinton.

"I agree with Quinton. What I think we need to do here," said
Phil Musgrave to the others in the room and the President, "is
expand our previous definition of terrorism. Doesn't a threat to
international stability and the economic well being of this
country constitute terrorism?" He gazed into each of the listen-
er's eyes then said, "In my mind it clearly does." He referred
to the work at the Department of State which, since the Iraqi
War, had clearly expanded the operational definition of terror-
ism.

"There's more," Henry said soberly. "Four months ago the FBI was
inundated with reports of blackmail. None materialized but still
take up a great deal of manpower and resources. Classified
defense technology is used to shut down the Stock Exchange and
other major businesses. Two months ago an Irani foreign national
was killed in New York. He was driving a vehicle which contained
sophisticated computer monitoring equipment."

"Has anything developed on that front?" the President asked. "I
remember reading about that. It was a tragedy."

"It was," agreed Phil Musgrave.

"We had the FBI, the CI division take apart what was left of the
van and we began a cross trace," Henry pulled out yet another
file from his stack. "It seems that during a two month period in
1988, a disproportionate number of identical Ford Econoline vans
were paid for in cash. As far as the dealer is concerned, the
customer disappeared. Unless they're using stolen plates, they-
're part of the DMV system. The New York van was registered to a
non-existent address. Roadblocked."

"And don't forget the First State incident, INTERNET, the FAA
radar systems," Quinton Chambers said to the President. He
listed a long series of computer malfunctions over the prior 60
days. "It appears at this point that we have been experiencing a
prelude, the foreplay if you will, of something worse. The
Homosoto letter makes him as good a candidate as anyone right
now."

Even Andrew Coletree felt in concert with the others on this
point. "If what has happened to computers, the traffic systems,
airplanes, to the IRS, the Stock Exchange, Fed Ex, and God knows
what else is all from one man, Homosoto, then yes, it's a army,
an attack."

"What if we declare war?" Secretary of State Quinton Chambers
said, fully expecting immediate agreement with his idea.

"On who? The Computers?" jibed Defense Secretary Coletree. "The
damned Computer Liberation Organization will be the next endan-
gered minority."

"Declaring war is a joke, excuse me Mr. President," said Phil
Musgrave. "It's a joke and the American people won't buy it.
They're getting hit where it hurts them the most. In their pock-
ets. We have major business shut downs, and they want an answer.
A fix, not a bunch of hype. We've had the war on crime, the war
on drugs, the war on poverty and they've all been disasters.
Things are worse now than before. They've had it with bullshit
and they're scared right now."

The President bowed and rotated his head to work out a kink.
"The position of think," Musgrave would say. Then the refreshing
snap in the President's neck would bring a smile of relief to the
corners of Chief Executive's mouth.

"What if we did it and meant it?" asked the President with a
devilish grin. No one responded. "What if we declared war, with
the approval of Congress, and actually did something about it."

"A unique concept," quipped Musgrave. "Government accomplishing
something." Penetrating glares from Coletree and Kennedy only
furthered the President's amusement. He enjoyed the banter.

"No, let me run this by you, and see what you think," the Presi-
dent thought out loud. "We are facing a crisis of epic propor-
tions, we all agree on that. Potential economic chaos. Why
don't we deal with it that way. Why don't we really go out and
fix it?" Still no reactions. "What is wrong with you guys?
Don't you get it? Mediocrity is pass. It can't be sold to the
this country again. For the first time in almost two centuries,
the American people may have to defend themselves, in their homes
and businesses on their home land. If that's the case, then I
think that leadership should come from the White House."

The President rose and leaned on the back of his chair. There
was quiet muttering among his top aides. "Aren't you stretching
the point a little, sir?" asked the Chambers, the silver haired
statesman. "After all, it was just one man . . ."

"That's the point!" shouted the President. "That's the whole
damned point." He strode around to the old white fireplace with
a photo of George Washington above it. If permitted, this spot
would be labeled 'Photo Opportunity' by the White House tours.

"Look what one man can do. I never claimed to know anything
about computers, but what if this was a warning?"

"Don't get maudlin on us . . ."

"I am not getting anything except angry," the President said
raising his voice. "I remember what they said about Bush. They
said if he was Moses, he would have brought down the ten sugges-
tions. That will not happen to me."

The inner circle stole questioning glances from each other.

"This country has not had a common cause since Kennedy pointed us
at the moon. We had the chance in the '70's to build a national
energy policy, and we screwed it up royally when oil prices were
stable. So what do we do?" His rhetorical question was best
left unanswered. "We now import more than 50% of our oil.
That's so stupid . . .don't let me get started." There was an
obvious sigh of relief from Chambers and Musgrave and the others.
When the President got like this, real pissed off, he needed a
sounding board, and it was generally one or more of them. Such
was the price of admission to the inner circle.

The President abruptly shifted his manner from the political
altruist still inside him to the management realist that had made
him a popular leader. He spoke with determination.

"Gentlemen, exactly what is the current policy and game plan?"
The President's gaze was not returned. "Henry? Andrew?" Mus-
grave and Chambers and Secretary of the Treasury Martin Royce
wished they could disappear into the wallpaper. They had seen it
before, and they were seeing it again. Senior aides eaten alive
by the President.

"Henry? What's the procedure?" The President's voice showed
increasing irritation.

"Sir, CERT, the Computer Emergency Response Team was activated a
few months ago to investigate Network Penetrations," Henry
Kennedy said. "ECCO, another computer team is working with the
FBI on related events. Until yesterday we didn't even know what
we were up against, and we still barely understand it."

"That doesn't change the question, Henry. What are the channel
contingencies? Do I have to spell it out?" The President mel-
lowed some. "I was hoping to spare myself the embarrassment of
bringing attention to the fact that the President of the United
States is unaware of the protocol for going to war with a comput-
er." The lilt in his voice cut the edge in the room, momentari-
ly. "Now that that is out in the open, please enlighten us all."
The jaws were preparing to close tightly.

Henry Kennedy glanced nervously over at Andrew Coletree who
replied by rubbing the back of his neck. "Sir," Henry said,
"basically there is no defined, coordinated, that is established
procedures for something like this." The President's neck red-
dened around the collar as Henry stuttered. "If you will permit
me to explain . . ."

The President was furious. In over thirty years of professional
politics, not even his closest aides had ever seen him so totally
out of character. The placid Texan confidence he normally exud-
ed, part well designed media image, part real, was completely
shattered.

"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."

"Marv?" For the first time the President acknowledged the
presence of Marvin Jacobs, Director of the National Security
Agency. Jacobs had thus far been a silent observer. He respond-
ed to the President.

"Yessir?"

"I will be signing a National Security Decision Directorate and a
Presidential Order later today, authorizing the National Security
Agency to lead the investigation of computer crimes, and related
events that may have an effect on the national security." The
President's words stunned Jacobs and Coletree and the others
except for Musgrave.

"Sir?"

"Do you or do you not have the largest computers in the world?"
Jacobs nodded in agreement. "And do you not listen in to every-
thing going on in the world in the name of National Security?"

Jacobs winced and noticed that besides the President, others were
interested in his answer. He meekly acknowledged the assumption
by a slight tilt of his head.

"I recall, Marv," the President said, "that in 1990 you yourself
asked for the National Computer Security Center to be disbanded
and be folded into the main operations of the Agency. Bush
issued a Presidential Order rescinding Reagan's NSDD-145. Do you
recall?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Marvin defensively. "It made sense
then, and given it's charter, it still makes sense. But you must
understand that the Agency is only responsible for military
security. NIST handles civilian."

"Do you think that the civilian agencies and the commercial
computers face any less danger than the military computers?" The
President quickly qualified his statement. "Based upon what we
know now?"

"No, not at all." Jacobs felt himself being boxed into a corner.
"But we're not tooled up for . . ."

"You will receive all the help you need," the President said with
assurance. "I guarantee it." His words dared anyone to defy
his command.

"Yessir," Jacobs said humbly. "What about NIST?"

"Do you need them?"

"No question."

"Consider it done. I expect you all here at the same time tomor-
row with preliminary game plans." He knew that would get their
attention. Heads snapped up in disbelief.

"One day?" complained Andrew Coletree. "There's no way that we
can begin to mobilize and organize the research . . ."

"That's the kind of talk I do not want to hear, gentlemen," the
President said. Coletree turned red.

"Mr. President," said Chambers. "If we were going to war . . ."

"Sir," the President said standing straight, "we are already at
war. You're just not acting like it. According to you, the
vital interests of this country have been attacked. It is our
job to defend the country. I call that war. If we are going to
sell a Computer War to America, we better start acting like we
take it seriously. Tomorrow, gentlemen. Pull out the stops."

* * * * *

1:15 P.M., New York City

Upon returning from lunch, Scott checked his E-Mail at the Times.
Most of the messages he received were from co-workers or news
associates in other cities. He also heard from Kirk on the
paper's supposedly secure network. Neither he nor the technical
network gurus ever figured out how he got in the system.

The network administrators installed extra safeguards after Scott
tipped them that he had been receiving messages from outside the
paper. They added what they called 'audit trails'. Audit trails
are supposed to record and remember every activity on the net-
work. The hope was that they could observe Kirk remotely enter-
ing the computer and then identify the security breach. Despite
their attempts, Kirk continued to enter the Times' computers at
will, but without any apparent disruption of the system.

It took Scott some time to convince the network managers that
Kirk posed no threat, but they felt that any breach was poten-
tially a serious threat to journalistic privilege.

Reporters kept their notes on the computer. Sources, addresses,
phone numbers, high level anonymous contacts and identities, all
stored within a computer that is presumably protected and secure.
In reality, the New York City Times computer, like most comput-
ers. is as open as a sieve.

Scott could live with it. He merely didn't keep any notes on the
computer. He stuck with the old tried and true method of hand
written notes.

His E-Mail this time contained a surprise.

IF YOU WANT TO FIND OUT HOW I DID IT, CALL ME TONIGHT. 9PM.
416-555-3165. THE SPOOK.

A pit suddenly developed in Scott's stomach. The last time he
remembered having that feeling was when he watched Bernard Shaw
broadcast the bombing of Baghdad. The sense of sudden helpless-
ness, the foreboding of the unknown. Or perhaps the shock of
metamorphosis when one's thoughts enter the realm of the unreal.

Then came the doubt.

"Ty," Scott asked after calling him at his office. "What hap-
pened to Foster?" He spoke seriously.

"True to his word," Tyrone laughed with frustration, "he was out
in an hour. He said he was coming back to your party . . ."

"Never showed up." Scott paused to think. "How did he get out
so fast?"

"He called the right guy. Charges have been reduced to a couple
of misdemeanors; local stuff."

"So, isn't he your guy?"

"We're off, right?" Tyrone though to double check.

"Completely. I just need to know for myself."

"Bullshit," Tyrone retorted. "But for argument's sake, I know he
had something to do with it, and so do a lot of other people."

"So what's the problem?"

"A technicality called proof," sighed Tyrone. "We have enough on
him for a circumstantial case. We know his every move since he
left the NSA. How much he spent and on whom. We know he was
with Homosoto, but that's all we know. And yes, he is a comput-
er genius."

"And he goes free?"

"For now. We'll get him."

"Who pulled the strings?"

"The Prosecutor's office put up a brick wall. Told us we had to
get better evidence. I though we were all on the same side."
Tyrone's discouragement was evident, even across the phone wires.

"Still planning on making a move?"

"I'll talk to you later." The phone went dead on Scott's ears.
He had clearly said a no-no on the phone.

* * * * *

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Lotus Development Corporation headquarters has been the stage for
demonstrations by free-software advocates. Lotus' lawsuits
against Mosaic Software, Paperback Software and Borland created a
sub-culture backlash against the giant software company. Lotus
sued its competitors on the basis of a look-and-feel copyright of
the hit program 1-2-3. That is, Lotus sued to keep similar
products from emulating their screens and key sequences.

Like Hewlett Packard, Apple and Microsoft who were also in the
midst of legal battles regarding intellectual-property copy-
rights, Lotus received a great deal of media attention. By and
large their position was highly unpopular, and the dense univer-
sity culture which represented free exchange of programs and
information provided ample opportunity to demonstrate against the
policies of Lotus.

Eileen Isselbacher had worked at Lotus as a Spreadsheet Customer
Service Manager for almost two years. She was well respected and
ran a tight ship. Her first concern, one that her management
didn't necessarily always share, was to the customer. If someone
shelled out $500 for a program, they were entitled to impeccable
service and assistance. Despite her best efforts, though, Lotus
had come to earn a reputation of arrogance and indifference to
customer complaints. It was a constant public relations battle;
for the salespeople, for customer service, and for the financial
people who attempted to insure a good Wall Street image.

The service lines are shut down at 6 P.M. EST and then Eileen
enters the Service Data Base. The SDB is a record of all service
calls. The service reps logged the call, the serial #, the type
of problem and the resolution. Eileen's last task of the day was
to compile the data accumulated during the day and issue a daily
summation report.

She commanded the data base to "Merge All Records". Her computer
terminal, on the Service Department's Novell Pentium-server net-
work began crunching.

12,346 Calls between 7:31 AM and 5:26 PM.

That was a normal number of calls.

Serial Numbers Verified.
The Data Base had to double check that the serial number was
a real one, issued to a legitimate owner.

712 Bad Disks

Her department sent out replacement disks to verified owners who
had a damaged disk. A little higher than the average of 509, but
not significant enough unless the trend continues.

FLAG!!
4,576 Computational Errors

Eileen's attention immediately focussed in on the FLAG!! message.
The Computational Error figures were normally '0' or '1' a week.
Now, 5,000 in one day?

She had the computer sort the 4,576 CE's into the serial number
distribution. The Service Department was able to act as a quali-
ty control monitor for engineering and production. If something
was wrong - once a few hundred thousand copies hit the field -
the error would show up by the number of calls. But CE's were
normally operator error. Not the computer's.

There was no correlation to serial numbers. Old Version 1.0's
through Version 3.0 and 3.1 were affected as were the current
versions. By all reports, Lotus 1-2-3 could no longer add,
subtract, divide, multiply or compute accurately. Mass computa-
tional errors. The bell curve across serial numbers was flat
enough to obviate the need for a statistical analysis. This was
clearly not an engineering design error. Nor was it a production
error, or a run of bad disks. Something had changed.

* * * * *

Scarsdale, New York

On the 6:12 to Scarsdale, Tyrone and Scott joined for a beer.
The conversation was not to be repeated.

"ECCO, CERT, the whole shooting match," Tyrone whispered loud
enough to be heard over the rumble of the train, "are moving to
NSA control. NIST is out. They all work for the Fort now.
Department of Defense."

"Are you shitting me?" Scott tried to maintain control.

"It'll be official tomorrow," Tyrone said. "Write your story
tonight. The NSA has won again."

"What do you mean, again?"

"Ah," Tyrone said trying to dismiss his frustrated insight into
agency rivalry. "It seems that whatever they want, they get.
Their budget is secret, their purpose is secret, and now they
have every computer security concern at their beck and call.
Orders of the President."

"Aren't they the best suited for the job, though . . ."

"Technically, maybe. Politically, no way!" Tyrone said adamant-
ly. "I think the Bureau could match their power, but they have
another unfair advantage."

Scott looked curiously at Tyrone.

"They wrote the rules."

* * * * *

Scarsdale, New York

Speedo's Pizza was late, so Scott got the two $9 medium pepperoni
pizzas for free, tipping the embarrassed delivery boy $10 for his
efforts. Not his fault that his company makes absurd promises
and contributes to the accident rate.

As 9:00 P.M. approached, Scott's stomach knotted up. He wasn't
quite sure what he would find when he dialed the Canadian number.
It was a cellular phone exchange meaning that while he dialed the
Toronto 416 area code, the call was probably rerouted by call
forwarding to another location, also connected by cellular phone.
Untraceable. Damn sneaky. And legal. Technology For The Peo-
ple.

<<<<<>>>>>

Scott listened to the small speaker on his internal modem card as
it dialed the tones in rapid sequence. A click, a buzz and then
in the background, Scott heard the faintest of tones. Was that
crosstalk from another line or was another secret number being
dialed?

<<<<<< CONNECTION 4800 BAUD>>>>>>

The screen hesitated for few seconds then prompted . . .

IDENTIFY YOURSELF:

Scott wondered what to enter. His real name? Or the handle
Kirk's hackers gave him.

Scott Mason aka Repo Man

Again the computer display paused, seemingly pondering Scott's
response.

I SUPPOSE ASKING FOR FURTHER IDENTIFICATION WOULD OFFEND YOU.

I'm getting used to it. Paranoia runs rampant in your line of
work.

LET'S SAVE THE EDITORIALIZING FOR NOW. GIVE ME THE WARM AND
FUZZIES. PROVE YOU'RE SCOTT MASON.

You can't keep your eyes off of Sonja's chest as I recall.

GOOD START. NICE TITS.

So you're Miles Foster.

THERE ARE GROUNDRULES. FIRST. MY NAME IS THE SPOOK. MR. SPOOK.
DR. SPOOK. PROFESSOR SPOOK. KING SPOOK. I DON'T CARE WHAT, BUT
I AM THE SPOOK AND ONLY THE SPOOK. MY IDENTITY, IF I HAVE ONE,
IS TO REMAIN MY LITTLE SECRET. UNLESS YOU ACCEPT THAT, WE WILL
GET NOWHERE FAST.

Like I said, you're Miles Foster.

NO. AND IF I WAS, IT WOULDN'T MATTER. I AM THE SPOOK. I AM YOUR
PERSONAL DEEP THROAT. YOUR BEST FRIEND.

Let me see if I understand this right. You will tell all, the
whole story on the record, as long as you stay the Spook? Use
your name, Spook, in everything?

THAT'S IT.

The paper has given me procedures. I have to record everything.
Save it to disk, and give a copy to the lawyers.

ARE YOU SAVING THIS YET?

No. Not until we agree. Then we outline the terms and go.

I'M IMPRESSED. YOU ARE THE FIRST REPORTER I'VE HEARD OF TO USE
COMPUTERS AS A SOURCE. WHO DEVELOPED THE RULES?

The lawyers, who else?

FIGURES.

So. Do we have a deal?

LET ME SEE THE CONTRACT.

Scott and the Spook exchanged notes over their modems and comput-
ers until they arrived at terms they both could live with. After
Kirk, the rules Higgins had established were clear, easy to
follow and fair. Scott set his computer to Save the conversa-
tion.

This is Scott Mason, speaking to a person who identifies himself
only as the Spook. I do not know the sex of this person, nor his
appearance as all conversations are occurring over computer modem
and telephone lines. The Spook contacted me today, through my
office computer. This is his amazing story.

Spook. Why did you call me?

I DESIGNED THE COMPUTER INVASION OF THE UNITED STATES FOR TAKI
HOMOSOTO. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW I DID IT?

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 20
National Security Agency

Marvin Jacobs had a busy day and evening. And night, preparing
for his meeting with the President. He would have a chance to
make his point, and win it, with an audience in attendance. The
high level bureaucrat craved to aspire within the echelons of the
government hierarchy, but his inate competence prevented his
goals from being realized.

During Korea Lt. Marvin Jacobs served his country as 90 day
wonder straight out of ROTC. A business major with a minor in
civic administration did not prepare him for the tasks the Army
had in store for him. Army Intelligence was in desperate need of
quality analysts, people with minds more than marshmallows for
brain. The Army Intelligence Division G-2 personnel staff poured
through new recruit files in hopes of recruiting them into the
voluntary program. But the catch phrase, 'Military-
Intelligence,' a contradiction in terms' made their job doubly
difficult. So they resorted to other tactics to recruit quali-
fied people for an unpopular and often despised branch of the
military: they made deals, and they made Lt. Marvin Jacobs a
deal he couldn't refuse.

Young Captain Jacobs returned to the United States at the end of
the conflict as a highly skilled and experienced communications
manager for the evolving communications technology; as antiquated
as it appears today. His abilities were widely needed by emerg-
ing factions of the government as McCarthyism and the fear of the
Red Menace were substituted for Hot War.

The super secret NSA, whose existence was unknown to a vast
majority of Congress at that time, made him the best offer from
all the Federal Agencies. The payscales were the same, but the
working conditions promised were far superior at the Agency.
Marvin Jacobs had studied to serve as a civil servant, but he
imagined himself in Tecumseh, Michigan politics, not confronting
the Communist Threat.

He was rewarded for his efforts, handsomely. In the sports
world, they call it a signing bonus. In the deep dark untrace-
able world of the National Security Agency they call it All Paid
Reconnaissance. APR, for short. Travel when and where you like,
ostensibly on behalf of your government. If worse comes to
worst, attend a half day seminar and make yourself seen.

By the time he was thirty-five, Marvin Jacobs, now a well re-
spected management fixture at the NSA, had seen the world twice
over. Occasionally he traveled on business. For the first ten
years with the Agency he traveled with his wife, college sweet-
heart Sarah Bell, and then less so as their three children ma-
tured. Still, although he now travels alone more often than not,
he was on a plane going somewhere at least twice a month, if only
for a weekend.

The Directorship of the NSA landed in his lap unexpectedly in
1985, when the schism between the Pentagon and the Fort became an
unsurvivable political nightmare for his predecessor. Marvin
Jacobs, on the other hand, found the job the deserved cherry on a
career dedicated to his country. It was largely a political job,
and managing the competing factions of his huge secret empire
occupied most of his time.

The prestige, the power, the control and the responsibility alone
wasn't enough for Marvin Jacobs. He wanted more. He wanted to
make a difference. A very dangerous combination.

* * * * *

"It is so good to hear your voice, Ahmed Shah," Beni Rafjani
said in Farsi over an open clear overseas line.

"And you. I am but Allah's servant," replied Ahmed, bowing his
head slightly as he spoke.

"As we all are. But today I call to say you can come home."

"Home? Iran?" The excitement in Ahmed's voice was more due to
the call than the news. "Why?"

"I thought you would be pleased, now that the Red Sun has set."
The cryptic reference to the death of Homosoto wouldn't fool
anybody listening, but inuendo was non-admissible.

"Yes, my work is going well, and I have learned much, as have
hundreds of students that attend my classes. However, with all
due respect, I think we may accomplish more by continuing the
work that our esteemed leader began. Why should we stop now? It
goes very well - in our favor."

"I understand," Rafjani said with respect. "You are honored for
your sacrifice, living among the infidels."

"It must be done. I mean no disrespect."

"You do not speak disrepectfully, Ahmed Shah. Your work is
important to your people. If that is your wish, continue, for
you do it well."

"Thank you, thank you. Even though one grain of sand has blown
away, the rest of the desert retains great power."

"Ahmed Shah, may Allah be with you."

****************************************************************

Chapter 27

Thursday, January 21
The White House, Washington, D.C.

He wanted to make them wait.

The President decided to walk into the breakfast room for their
early morning meeting a few minutes late. Even with intimates,
the awe of the Presidency was still intact. His tardiness added
to the tension that they all felt as a result of the recent
revelations. Perhaps the tension would further hone their atten-
tion and dialogue.

He had not slept well the night before; he was prepared for
anything he understood, but computers were not on his roster of
acquired fluencies. A President has to make decisions, tough
decisions, life and death decisions, but decisions of the type
that have a history to study and a lesson to learn. And like
most of those before him, he was well equipped to make tough
decisions, right or wrong. Presidents have to have the self
confidence and internal resolve to commit themselves, and their
nation, to a course of action. This President's political life
trained him well; lawyer, local politics, state politics and then
Washington.

But not computers. He was not trained in computers. He had
learned to type, a little, and found that sending E-Mail messages
was great fun. To him it was a game. Since the first days when
microcomputers had invaded the offices of governmental Washing-
ton, he had been able to insulate himself from their day to day
use. All the same, every desk he had occupied was adjoined by a
powerful microcomputer fitted with the finest graphics, the best
printer and an elite assortment of software. He used the memory
resident calculator and sent and received electronic mail. That
was it.

The President, as most men of his generation, accepted the fact
that computers now ran the show. The whole shooting match.
Especially the military. The communications and computer sophis-
tication used by the Allies enthralled the world during the Iraqi
War: bombs smart enough to pick which window they would enter
before detonating, missiles smart enough to fly at 2000 mph and
destroy an incoming missile moving at 3000 mph. It turned out
that hitting a bullet with a bullet was possible after all.
Intuitively, the President knew that the crisis developing before
his eyes meant massive computer damage, and the repercussions
would be felt through the economy and the country.

However, the President did not have enough computer basics to
begin to understand the problem, much less the answers. This was
the first time during his administration that major tactical and
policy decisions would be made primarily by others. His was a
duty of rubber stamping. That worry frustrated his attempts at
sleeping and nagged at him before the meeting. And then, of
course, there was the press.

"Gentlemen," the President said sauntering towards his chair at
the head of the large formal breakfast table. He opened the door
with enough vigor to startle his guests. He maintained his usual
heads-up smile and spry gait as he noticed that there were new
faces present.

In addition to the inner circle, Marvin Jacobs asked two key NSA
security analysts to be observers at the meeting. Only if the
President asked a question was it then all right to speak.
Accompanying Phil Musgrave, under admitted duress to repay a
previous favor, was Paul Trump, Director of NIST, the eternal
rival of the NSA in matters of computers. The President was
introduced to the guests and smiled to himself. He recognized
that the political maneuvering was beginning already. Maybe the
competition would help, he thought.

"Marv," the President said leaning away from the waiter pouring
his coffee. This was the same waiter who had spilled near boil-
ing liquid in his lap last month. "I guess it's your show, so
I'll just sit back and keep my mouth shut." He leaned even
further away as the waiter's clumsiness did not inspire confi-
dence.

Group chuckle notwithstanding, everyone in the inner circle knew
what the President really meant. The President was hungry and
Marv Jacobs would not be eating breakfast. He would be answering
questions.

"Thank you, sir," Marv said as he courteously acknowledged the
presence of the others. He handed out a file folder to everyone
in the room. Each was held together with a red strap labeled TOP
SECRET that sealed the package. Not until the President began to
open his package did the others follow suit.

"We've only had a day to prepare . . ." Marvin Jacobs began.

"I know," the President said wiping the corner of his mouth with
a white linen napkin. "That should have been plenty of time."
Marvin, wisely avoided responding to the President's barb. He
took the caustic hit as the other breakfast guests quietly
thanked the powers on high that it was someone elses turn to be
in the hot seat. All in all, though, the President was a much
calmer person this morning than during his verbal tirade the day
before. But, if needed, the acerbity of his biting words would
silence the boldest of his advisors or enemies. The President
was still royally pissed off.

"We have developed a number of scenarios that will be refined
over the next weeks as we learn more about the nature of the
assault by Homosoto." He turned into his report and indicated
that everyone should turn to page 4. "This is sketchy, but based
upon what we have seen already, we can estimate the nature of
what we're up against."

Page 4 contained three Phrases.

1. Malevolent Self Propagating Software Programs (Viruses)
2. Unauthorized Electromagnetic Pulses and Explosions
3. Anti-TEMPEST Coherent Monitor and Pixel Radiation.

Marvin Jacobs described the observed behavior of each category,
but nonetheless the President was unhappy. A rehash from the
newspapers.

"That's it?" the President asked in disbelief. "You call that
an estimate? I can find out more than that from CNN."

"At this point, that's about it."

"I still can't believe this," the President said, shaking his
head. "What the hell am I going to say when I have to face the
press? 'Sorry folks, our computers and the country are going
down the toilet, and we really don't know what to do about it.
Seems as if no one took the problem seriously'" The President
gazed at Marvin and Henry Kennedy, half expecting them to break
into tears. "Bullshit!"

"Sir, may I be blunt?" Marvin asked.

"Of course, please. That's what we're here for," the President
said, wondering how blunt was blunt.

"Sir, this is certainly no time to place blame on anyone, but I
do think that at a minimum some understanding is in order." All
eyes turned to Jacobs as he spoke. "Sir, the NSA has been in the
business of safeguarding military computer systems for years."

"That's arguable," said the President critically.

Marvin continued unaffected. "Cryptography and listening and
deciphering are our obvious strong points. But neither Defense
nor Treasury," he said alluding to each representative from their
respective agencies, "can spend money without Congress's approv-
al. Frankly sir, that is one of the major stumbling blocks we
have encountered in establishing a coherent security policy."

"That's a pile of bull, Marv," said NIST's feisty Paul Trump.
Paul and Marv had known each other for years, became friends and
then as the NIST-NSA rift escalated in '89 and '90, they saw less
of each other on a social basis. "Sir," Paul spoke to the Presi-
dent, "I'm sorry for interrupting . . ."

"Say what you have to say."

"Yessir." Trump had no trouble being direct either. Nearing
mandatory retirement age had made Trump more daring. Willing to
take more risks in the best interest of NIST and therefore the
nation. Spry and agile, Paul Trump looked twenty years younger
with no signs of slowing down.

"Sir, the reason that we don't have any security in the govern-
ment is due to Congress. We, Marv and I, agree on that one
point. Martin, do you concur?"

Treasury Secretary Martin Royce vigorously nodded in agreement.
"We've been mandated to have security for years, but no one says
where the money's coming from. The hill made the laws but didn't
finish the job."

The President enjoyed the banter among his elite troops. He
thrived on open dissent and debate, making it easier for him to
weigh information and opinions. That freedom reminded him of how
difficult it must have been for the Soviets to openly disagree
and consider unpopular positions.

It seems that after Khrushchev took over, in one Politburo meet-
ing, he received a handwritten note which said: 'If you're so
liberal, how come you never stood up to Stalin.' Khrushchev
scoured the room for a clue as to who made the insulting comment.
After a tense few seconds he said, 'would the comrade who wrote
this stand up so I may answer him face to face?' No one stood.
'Now, you know the answer.'

The President's point was, around here anything goes, but I'm the
boss. The difference is the democratic process, he would say,
the voters elect me by a majority to institute a benevolent
oligarchy. And I, he pointed at himself, am the oligarch.

Paul Trump continued. "In reality sir, NIST has tried to cooper-
ate with NSA in a number of programs to raise the security of
many sectors of the government, but, in all fairness, NSA has put
up constant roadblocks in the name of national security. The CMR
problem for the commercial sector has been completely ignored
under the cloak of classified specifications."

"TEMPEST is a classified program . . ." Marvin objected strenu-
ously.

"Because you want it to be," Trump retorted instantly. "It
doesn't have to be, and you know it. Sir," he turned to the
President. "TEMPEST is . . ." The President nodded that he
knew. "The specification for TEMPEST may have been considered a
legitimate secret when the program started in the '70's. But
now, the private sector is publishing their own results of stud-
ies duplicating what we did 20 years ago. The Germans, the
Dutch, the French, just about everybody but the English and us
has admitted that CMR is a problem for everyone, not just the
military. Jesus, you can buy anti-Tempest plans in Popular
Science. Because of NSA's protectiveness of a secret that is no
longer a secret, the entire private sector is vulnerable to CMR
and anti-TEMPEST assaults. As a country, we have no electronic
privacy."

Marvin nodded in agreement. "You're damn right we keep it a
secret. Why the hell should we tell the world how to protect
against it? By doing that, we not only define the exact degree
of our own exposure, but teach our enemies how to protect them-
selves. It should be classified."

"And everyone else be damned?" Trump challenged Jacobs.

"I wouldn't put it that way, but NSA is a DoD oriented agency
after all. Ask Congress," Marvin said resolutely.

"That's the most alienating, arrogant isolationist attitude I've
ever heard," Paul Trump said. "Regardless of what you may think,
the NSA is not the end-all be-all, and as you so conveniently
dismiss, the NSA is not trusted by many outside the U.S.. We do
not have a technology monopoly on TEMPEST any more than we do on
the air we breathe." Trump threw up his hands in disgust.
"Patently absurd paranoia . . ."

"Paul, you don't have all the facts . . ." objected Marv to no
avail. Trump was a master at debate.

"Sir," Trump again turned from the argumentative Jacobs to the
President. "I don't think this is proper forum for rehashing
history, but it should be noted that NIST is responsible for non-
defense computer security, and we have a staff and budget less
than 1% of theirs. The job just isn't getting done. Personally,
I consider the state of security within the government to be in
total chaos. The private sector is in even worse shape, and it's
our own fault."

"Phil?" the President said. "Emergency funding. Congress." Phil
nodded as the debate continued. "None of this is saying a damn
thing about what we should do. How do we best defend?" He bit
off the end of crispy slice of bacon waiting for the answer he
knew would be unsatisfactory.

"We improvise."

"Improvise! That's the best you can do?" The President threw
down his napkin and it slipped off the table to the floor as he
shoved his chair back.

"This country is run by goddamned computers," the President
muttered loudly as he paced the breakfast room. Those who had
been eating ceased long ago. "Goddamned computers and morons."

* * * * *

Thursday, January 21

SPREADSHEETS STOP CRUNCHING
LOTUS AND MICROSOFT STRUCK
by Scott Mason

Last weekend's threats made by the late OSO Industries Chairman,
Taki Homosoto appear to be a trustworthy mirror of the future.

Lotus Development Corporation and Microsoft, two of the software
industry's shining stars are the latest victims of Homosoto's
vengeful attack upon the computer systems of the United States.

With cases of 20-20 hindsight proliferating, security experts
claim that we should have seen it coming.

The last several months has been filled with a long series of
colossal computer failures, massive virus attacks and the magnet-
ic bombing of major computer installations. These apparently
unrelated computer crimes, occurring with unprecedented frequency
have the distinct flavor of a prelude to the promises Homosoto
made in the self penned note that accompanied his seeming sui-
cide.

The latest virus debacle comes immediately on the heels of the
announcement of the dGraph infections.

Yesterday, Lotus and Microsoft and their dealers were inundated
with technical support calls. According to reports, the industry
standard 1-2-3 and the popular Excel spreadsheets have been
experiencing cataclysmic failures in the field. Typical com-
plaints claim the powerful spreadsheet programs are performing
basic mathematical functions incorrectly; a veritable disaster
for anyone who relies upon the accuracy of their numbers.

The leading theory held by both companies as well as software and
security experts, is that a highly targeted computer virus was
designed to only affect Lotus and Microsoft spreadsheet files.
While some viruses are designed to erase files, or entire hard
disks, the Lotus Virus as it has been informally named, is a
highly sophisticated virus designed only to make subtle changes
in the results of mathematical calculations.

Viruses of this type are known as Slight Viruses. They only
infect small portions of the computer or program, and then only
in ways that will hopefully not be detected for some time - thus
compounding the damage.

Fortune 100 companies that use either 1-2-3 or Excel nearly
unanimously announced that they will put a moratorium on the use
of both programs until further notice. Gibraltar Insurance
issued a terse statement: "Due to the potential damage caused by
the offending software, we will immediately begin installation of
compatible spreadsheet programs and verify the accuracy of all
data. Our attorneys are studying the matter at this time."

Lotus and Microsoft stock plummeted 36% and 27% respectively.

* * * * *

GOOD ARTICLE. DO YOU WANT TO GET IT RIGHT NOW?

I see humility reigns right up there with responsibility.

THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUSES WERE WRITTEN IN LATE 1988. CUTE, HUH?
THE LONGEST VIRUS INCUBATION PERIOD EVER!

Not many people share your sense of achievement.

I DON'T EXPECT SO.

We should get something straight right off.

ARE YOU SAVING?

I am now. I do not approve, in fact I despise what you say
you've done.

I AM NOT LOOKING FOR APPROVAL. MAYBE UNDERSTANDING.

Not from me.

YOU'RE BETTER THAN THAT. IF WE DO THIS, YOU NEED TO PRESENT BOTH
SIDES. IT'S TO YOUR BENEFIT. YOU'RE GOING FOR A PULITZER.

Don't tell me how to do my job.

LET'S GET TO IT.

Fine. Where did I go wrong in the article?

NOT WRONG, INCOMPLETE. THERE ARE REALLY 6 VERSIONS OF THE LOTUS
VIRUS. ONLY THE FIRST ONE HAS BEEN DETECTED. THE OTHERS AREN'T
SET TO GO OFF UNTIL LOTUS HAS TIME TO CLEAN UP THE FIRST MESS.

You mean you built several viruses all aimed at Lotus programs?

AND MICROSOFT, ASHTON TATE, BORLAND, CA, NOVELL, LAN MANAGER,
WORDPERFECT, AND A WHOLE BUNCH MORE. THE LIST WAS OVER 100 TO
BEGIN WITH.

100? How many viruses? When?

SLIGHT VIRUSES! I LOVE IT. WHAT A NAME. LIKE I SAID, YOU'RE
GOOD. I GUESS 500. MAYBE MORE. THEY'RE SET TO GO OFF FOR THE
NEXT TWO YEARS. TIME RELEASED. TIME RELEASE SLIGHT VIRUSES.
WHEW!

Why? Why tell me now?

SLOW DOWN. NOT ALL AT ONCE. FIRST OF ALL, WE HAVE TO BUILD YOU
A LITTLE CREDIBILITY. CONVINCE YOUR PUBLIC THAT I AM WHO I SAY I
AM AND THAT I CANNOT BE TOUCHED. SO HERE'S THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUS
SIGNATURE - THE CURRENT ONE: 05 55 EF E0 F4 D8 6C 41 44 40 4D.
IN COMPUTERS THAT ARE INFECTED, BUT HAVEN'T YET STRUCK YET, THE
VIRUS IS TWO HIDDEN FILES: ONE SHORT ONE NAMED 7610012.EXE.
IT'S ONLY 312 BYTES LONG AND HIDES ITSELF IN THE ROOT DIRECTORY
BY LOOKING LIKE A BAD CLUSTER TO THE SYSTEM. IT'S NEVER EVEN
NOTICED. WHEN THE TIME COMES, IT AWAKENS THE SECOND PART OF THE
VIRUS, 7610013.EXE WHICH IS SAVED IN A HIDDEN DIRECTORY AND LOOKS
LIKE BAD SECTORS. ONLY A FEW K. THAT'S THE FILE THAT SCREWS
AROUND WITH 123 MATH FUNCTIONS. AFTER 123 IS INFECTED, THE FILE
LENGTH STILL SAYS IT HASN'T BEEN CHANGED AND THE VIRUS ERASES
ITSELF AND RETURNS THE SECTORS TO THE DISK. IN THE MEANTIME,
LOTUS IS SHOT AND IT IS INFECTING OTHER PROGRAMS. BRILLIANT IF I
SAY SO MYSELF.

And you want me to print this? Why?

IT WILL GIVE YOU AND ME CREDIBILITY. YOU'LL BE BELIEVED AND THAT
IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. WE HAVE TO STOP IT FROM HAPPENING.

What from happening?

THE FULL ATTACK. IT CAN'T BE TOTALLY STOPPED, BUT I CAN HELP.

How much of an attack?

YOU HAVE NO IDEA. NO IDEA AT ALL. THERE WERE THOUSANDS OF
PEOPLE INVOLVED AND NOW IT'S ON AUTOPILOT. THERE'S NO WAY TO
TURN IT OFF.

That's incredible . . .more than incredible. Why? For what
purpose?

MAYBE LATER. THAT DOESN'T MATTER NOW. I WILL SAY, THOUGH, THAT
I NEVER THOUGHT HOMOSOTO COULD PULL IT OFF.

So you worked for him?

I WAS HIRED BY OSO INDUSTRIES TO WORK ON A SECRET CONTRACT TO
DESIGN METHODS TO COMBAT COMPUTER VIRUSES AND STUDY MILITARY
APPLICATIONS. AS THE PROJECT CONTINUED, IT TOOK ON A NEW SCOPE
AND WE WERE ASKED TO INCLUDE ADDITIONAL ELEMENTS AND CONSIDERA-
TIONS IN OUR EQUATIONS.

Equations?

COMPUTER DESIGN IS MATHEMATICAL MODELING, SO THERE'S A LOT OF
PENCIL AND PAPER BEFORE ANYTHING IS EVER BUILT. WE FIGURED THE
EFFECTS OF MULTIPLE SEQUENCED VIRUSES ON LIMITED TARGET DEFINI-
TIONS, COMPUTER SOFTWARE DISTRIBUTION DYNAMICS, DATA PROPAGATION
PROBABILITIES. OUR CALCULATIONS INCLUDED MULTI-DIMENSIONAL
INTERACTIONS OF INFECTION SIMULTANEITY. EVERY POSSIBILITY AND
HOW TO CAUSE THE MOST DAMAGE.

It's a good thing I kind of understand the technical gobbledy-
gook.

OH, IN ENGLISH? WE STUDIED WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU ENDLESSLY THROW
THOUSANDS OF COMPUTER VIRUSES AT THE UNITED STATES.

I got that. So what does happen?

YOU'RE FUCKED FOR LIFE. ONE VIRUS IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. 1000 IS
FATAL.

You have a way with words.

GOD GIVEN GIFT. I GUESS YOU COULD CALL US A THINK TANK FOR
COMPUTER WARFARE.

So what happens next Mr. Spook?

PATRONIZING, NOW, NOW, NOW. LET'S SEE HERE (FLIP, FLIP) SATUR-
DAY, JANUARY 23, NO, THAT WAS THE STOCK EXCHANGE, NO DECEMBER
11, THE PHONE COMPANY AND FEDERAL EXPRESS . . .

Cocky son of a bitch aren't you?

AH YES! HERE IT IS. MONDAY, JANUARY 25. SCOTT, YOU'RE MY
FRIEND, SO LET ME GIVE YOU A TIP. DON'T TRY TAKING AN AIRPLANE
FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS.

Why not?

THE NATIONAL RESERVATION SERVICE COMPUTERS ARE GOING TO BE VERY,
VERY SICK.

* * * * *

"Yeah," the deep sleepy voice growled in Scott's ear.

"Ty, wake up."

"Wha?"

"Tyrone, get up!" Scott's excited voice caught Tryone's notice.

"Scott," he yawned. "What's the matter?"

"Are you awake?"

"Don't worry, I had to get up to answer the phone." Then in a
more muffled voice Scott heard Tyrone say, "no, it's all right
dear. Go back to sleep, I'll take it in the den." Tyrone got
back on the phone and barked, "hold on."

Scott paced across his junked up home office, sidestepping some
items, stepping on others, until Tyrone came back on the line.

"Shit, man," were Tyrone's first words. "You have any idea what
time it is?"

"Hey, I'm sorry," Scott said mocking Tyrone's complaint. "I'll
write you a letter tomorrow and lick a stamp and let the Post
Office take it from there . . ."

"You made your point. What is it?"

"The airlines are going to be hit next. Homosoto's next target."

"How the hell would you know that?"

"I've been talking to Foster. He told me."

"Foster told you what?"

"It's a huge attack, an incredibly large computer attack. He
worked for Homosoto. But the point is, the airlines. They're
next. Worse than the radar computer problems."

"Can I get right back to you?"

Waiting for Ty's call, Scott wrote an article for the following
morning's paper and submitted it from home to the office comput-
er.

* * * * *

COMPUTER TERRORISM
An Exclusive Interview With The Man Who Invaded America
By Scott Mason

The man who claims to be the technical genius behind the recent
wave of Computer Crimes has agreed to tell his story exclusively
to the New York City Times.

Only known as the Spook, a hacker's handle which represents both
an alter-ego and anonymity, he says that he was hired by Taki
Homosoto, late chairman of OSO Industries to design and prepare a
massive assault against the computer systems of the United
States.

The incredible claims made by the Spook appear to be grounded in
fact and his first statements alone were astounding. Please
note, these are exact quotes from a computer conversation with
the Spook.

"There will be thousands of viruses. Thousands of them. I have
to imagine by now that every program in America is infected with
ten different viruses. There is only one way to stop them all.
Never turn on your computers.

"You see, most virus programmers are searching for immediate
gratification. They write one and want it to spread real quick
and then see it blow up. So most amateur virus builders are
disappointed in the results because they don't have patience.
But we, I had patience.

"To maximize the effects of viruses, you have to give them time.
Time to spread, to infect. Many of the viruses that you will
experience are years old. The older viruses are much cruder than
those made recently. We learned over time to build better vi-
ruses. Our old ones have been dormant for so long, their conta-
gion is complete and they will be just as effective.

"We have built and installed the greatest viruses of all time.
Every PC will probably be dead in months if not weeks, unless you
take my advice. There are also VAX viruses, VMS viruses, SUN
viruses, we even built some for Cray supercomputers, but we don't
expect much damage from them."

The Spook's next comments were just as startling.

"The blackmail operation was a sham, but a terrific success. It
wasn't for the money. No one ever collected any money, did they?
It was pure psychological warfare. Making people distrust their
computers, distrust one another because the computer makes them
look like liars. That was the goal. The money was a diversion-
ary tactic.

"Part of any attack is the need to soften the enemy and terrorism
is the best way to get quick results. By the time the first
viruses came along, whoa! I bet half the MIS directors in the
country don't know whether they're coming or going."

According to the Spook, he designed the attack with several
armies to be used for different purposes.

One for Propaganda, one for Infiltration and Infection, one for
Engineering, one for Communications, and another for Distribution
and another for Manufacturing. At the pinnacle was Homosoto
acting as Command and Control.

"I didn't actually infect any computers myself. We had teams of
Groundhogs all too happy to do that for us."

According to security experts, Homosoto apparently employed a
complex set of military stratagem in the execution of his attack.

It has yet to be determined if the Spook will be of any help in
minimizing the effects of the First Computer War.

Scott finally went to bed. Tyrone never called him back.

* * * * *

Thursday, January 21
New York City

The cavernous streets of New York on a cloud covered moonless
night harbor an eerie aura, reminiscent of the fog laden alleys
near the London docks on the Thames in the days of Jack the
Ripper. A constant misty rain gave the city an even more de-
pressing pallor than winter normally brought to the Big Apple.
In other words, the weather was perfect.

On the corner of 52nd. and 3rd., in the shadow of the Citibank
tower, Dennis Melbourne stuck a magnetic strip ID card into a
Cirrus 24 Hour Bank Teller Machine. As the machine sucked in the
card, the small screen asked for the personal identification
number, the PIN, associated with that particular card. Dennis
entered the requested four digit PIN, 1501. The teller whirred
and asked Dennis which transaction he would like.

He selected:

Checking Balance.

A few seconds later $4,356.20 appeared. Good, Dennis thought.

He then selected:

Withdrawal - Checking

Dennis entered, $2,000.00 and the machine display told him that
his request exceeded the daily withdrawal limit. Normal, he
thought, as he entered an 8 digit sequence: 00330101. The super-
visor control override.

The teller hummed and thought for a moment, and then $20 bills
began tumbling out of the "Take Cash" drawer. One hundred of
them.

The teller asked, "Another Transaction?" and Dennis chose 'No'.
He retrieved the magnetic card from the machine and the receipt
of this transaction before grabbing a cab to a subway entrance on
59th. and Lexington Ave. The ID card he used was only designed
to be used once, so Dennis saw to it that the card was cut and
disposed of in a subterranean men's room toilet.

Dennis Melbourne traveled throughout New York all night long,
emptying Cirrus cash machines of their available funds. And the
next night, and the next. He netted $246,300 in three days. All
told, Cirrus customers in thirty-six states were robbed by Dennis
Melbourne and his scores of accomplices of nearly $10 Million
before the banks discovered how it was being done.

The Cirrus network and it's thousands of Automatic Tellers were
immediately closed. For the first time in years, America had no
access to instant cash.

Bank lines grew to obscene lengths and the waiting for simple
transactions was interminable. Almost one half of personal
banking had been done by ATM computer, and now human tellers had
to deal with throngs of customers who had little idea of how to
bank with a live person.

Retail sales figures for the week after the ATM machines were
closed showed a significant decline of 3.2%. The Commerce De-
partment was demanding action by Treasury who pressured the FBI
and everybody looked to the White House for leadership. The
economic impact of immediate cash restriction had been virtually
instantaneous; after all the U.S. is a culture of spontaneity
demanding instant gratification. Cash machines addressed that
cultural personality perfectly. Now it was gone.

Dennis Melbourne knew that it was time to begin on the MOST
network. Then the American Express network. And he would get
rich in the process. Ahmed Shah paid him very well. 25% of the
take.

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
New York City

"We had to take out the part about the airlines," Higgins said in
response to Scott's question about the heavy editing. To Hig-
gins' and Doug's surprise, Scott understood; he didn't put up a
stink.

"I wondered about that," Scott said reflecting back on the last
evening. "Telling too much can be worse than not telling enough.
Whatever you say, John."

"We decided to let the airlines and the FAA and the NTSB make the
call." Higgins and Scott had come to know and respect each other
quite well in the last few weeks. They didn't agree on every-
thing, but as the incredible story evolved, Higgins felt more
comfortable with less conservative rulings and Scott relinquished
his non-negotiable pristine attitude. At least they disagreed
less often and less loudly. Although neither one would admit it,
each made an excellent sounding board for the other - a valuable
asset on a story this important.

Higgins continued. "The airlines are treating it as a bomb
scare. Seriously, but quietly. They have people going through
the systems, looking for whatever it is you people look for."
Higgins' knowledge of computers was still dismal.

"Scott, let me ask you something." Doug broke into the conversa-
tion that like all the others, took place in Higgins' lawyer-like
office. They occurred so often that Scott had half seriously
convinced Higgins' secretary that he wouldn't attend unless there
were fresh donuts and juice on the coffee table. When Higgins
found out, he was mildly annoyed, but nonetheless, in the spirit
of camaraderie, he let the tradition continue. "Children will be
children," he said.

"How much damage could be done if the Spook's telling the truth?"
Doug asked.

"Oh, he's telling the truth," Scott said somberly. "Don't for-
get, I know this guy. He said that the effects would take weeks
and maybe months to straighten out. And the airline assault
would start Monday."

"Why is he being so helpful?" Higgins asked.

"He wants to establish credibility. He says he wants to help
now, but first he wants to be taken seriously."

"Seriously? Seriously? He's a terrorist!" shouted Higgins. "No
damn different than someone who throws a bomb into a crowded
subway. You don't negotiate with terrorists!" He calmed him-
self, not liking to show that degree of emotion. "But we want
the story . . ." he sighed in resignation. Doug and Scott agreed
in unison.

"Personally, it sounds like a macho ego thing," commented Doug.

"So what?" asked Higgins. "Motivation is independent of premedi-
tation."

"Legally speaking . . ." Doug added. He wanted to make sure
than John was aware that there were other than purely legal
issues on the table.

"As I was saying," Scott continued. "The reservation computers
are the single most important item in running the nation's air-
lines. They all interact and talk to each other, and create
billing, and schedule planes; they interface on line to the
OAG . . .they're the brains. They all use Fault Tolerant equip-
ment, that's spares of everything, off site backup of all records
- I've checked into it. Whatever he's planned, it'll be a doo-
sey."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," Higgins added with indifference.
"Legally it's unsubstantiated hearsay. But with the computer
transcripts of all your conversations, if anything happens, I'd
say you'd have quite a scoop."

"That's what he wants! And we can't warn anybody?"

"That's up to the airlines, the FAA, not us." The phone on Hig-
gins disk emitted two short warbles. He spoke into the phone.
"Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled
his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over
at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows.

Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch;
the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "Hello?"
he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in
Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The
President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd
be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He
waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record?
Fine. Thank you."

"Well?" asked Higgins.

"The President himself wants to have a little chat with me."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
The White House

Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet
Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his
cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation-
al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap-
pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En-
trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a
"Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular
pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi-
nitely not from Washington.

Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his
work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach
he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January
was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket
filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving
political and social attitudes. He was going to have to bring a
change of clothes to the office from now on.

Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least
he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the
President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too
much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks
to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier
on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela-
tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very
convenient was more like it, they thought.

The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented
him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that
Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem,
and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in
front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and
Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of
their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot.
This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the
President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a
journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order.

"Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half
hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with
Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much
that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott,
that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow."
He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring:

Computer Terrorism - Exclusive.

Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I
consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and
all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing
humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece."

"All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for
you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes
shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave
added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster
is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too
many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own
electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a
court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of
the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as
fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy
of it. That's all."

Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time
an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it
finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take
what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to
get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi-
ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon-
esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He
could hear it now, the 'you'll be helping your country,'
speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the
least.

So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter-
view with the President when this thing is over."

"Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated
himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true
Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.
But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a
dramatized account.

"And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ."
Scott added another minor demand.

"Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,"
joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every
hour will help."

Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone
would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old
PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail
into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a
White House souvenir pen.

"It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure
office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs
up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.

"Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy
like an apple. A juicy one.

"What do you mean, it didn't matter?"

"We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines
anyway," Marvin said with neutrality.

"I don't know if I want to know about this . . ."

"It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh.
He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic button. For a National
Security Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel-
ligence is gathered. "Just in case."

"Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop-
erating fully."

"I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling the
President about this."

"Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked.

Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.
"I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep
him honest."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
Reston, Virginia

"No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into
the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you
what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott
mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing
the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes,
I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother
interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR.
I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few
seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.
Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed
to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was
always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I
won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He
struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept
talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he
was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner
guests. Miles Foster.

Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far
as the world was concerned, they were two different people with
different goals, different motivations and different lives. The
unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles
Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles
or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of
Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like
Miles?

In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet
him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles
was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her
professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that
Sonja was between jobs.

She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but
that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott,
on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however,
and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage-
ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.

The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston
rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered
for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath,
ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.

"Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.
"Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them,
Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "Maybe
Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us
tonight," she said teasing Miles.

Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without
comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable
excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott
to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers
which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.

Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker
and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen
either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha-
nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the
boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass
doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.

"I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared
from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear
too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister
touch.

"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.

"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I
swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."

Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative
phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac-
ter was the same.

"You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in
hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand
you."

"What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the
moonlit water.

"I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening."

"No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me
confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan.

"You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and
all that . . ."

"Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed
the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin-
ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the
fuck off. Got it?"

Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in
panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real
Spook? Had he blown it?

Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and
Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind.
Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an
obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with
no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles
was magically transformed into Miles the lover.

He had had no chance to respond to Miles' outburst, so Scott was
caught with his jaw hung open.

"You boys finish shop yet?" Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles'
ear.

"We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the
annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann's early years," Miles
said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking
dimple filled smile. "We disagree on the exact date of his
second bris."

Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.

Gullibility was one of Stephanie's long suits, so Sonja helped
out. "That's right up there with the bathing habits of the
Jamaican bobsled team."

"C'mon," Stephanie said tugging at Miles. "It's chilly out
here."

Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren't
looking. Whatever you want. It's your game. Miles mouthed back
at Scott, 'you're fucking right it is.'

The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything.
Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk
that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined
elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar-
tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.

****************************************************************

Chapter 28

Sunday, January 24
New York City Times

HARDWARE VIRUSES: A NEW TWIST
By Scott Mason

In conversations with the Spook, the man who claims to be the
technical genius behind the Homosoto Invasion, I have learned
that there are even more menacing types of computer viruses than
those commonly associated with infected software programs. They
are hardware viruses; viruses built right into the electronics.
The underground computer culture calls the elite designers of
hardware viruses Chippers. It should come as no surprise then
that Chipping was a practice exploited by Homosoto and his band
under the wizardry of the Spook.

Chippers are a very specialized group of what I would have once
called hackers, but whom now many refer to as terrorists. They
design and build integrated circuits, chips, the brains of toys
and computers, to purposefully malfunction. The chips are de-
signed to either simply stop working, cause intentional random or
persistent errors and even cause physical damage to other elec-
tronic circuits.

You ask, is all of this really possible? Yes, it is possible, it
is occurring right now, and there is good reason to suspect that
huge numbers of electronic VCR's, cameras, microwaves, clock
radios and military systems are a disaster waiting to happen.

It takes a great many resources to build a chip - millions of
dollars in sophisticated test equipment, lasers, clean rooms,
electron beam microscopes and dozens of PhD's in dozens of disci-
plines to run it all.

According to the Spook, OSO Industries built millions upon
millions of integrated circuits that are programmed to fail. He
said, "I personally headed up that portion of the engineering
design team. The techniques for building and disguising a
Trojan Chip were all mine. I originally suggested the idea in
jest, saying that if someone really wanted to cause damage,
that's what they would do. Homosoto didn't even blink at the
cost. Twelve million dollars."

When asked if he knew when the chips would start failing he
responded, "I don't know the exact dates because anyone could
easily add or change a date or event trigger. But I would guess
that based upon timing of the other parts of the plan, seemingly
isolated electronic systems will begin to fail in the next few
months. But, that's only a guess."

The most damaging types of Trojan Chips are those that already
have a lot of room for memory. The Spook described how mostly
static RAM, (Random Access Memory) chips and various ROM chips,
(Read Only Memory) such as UV-EPROM and EEPROM were used to house
the destructive instructions for later release in computer sys-
tems.

"It's really simple. There are always thousands of unused gates
in every IC. Banks and banks of memory for the taking. Homosoto
was no slouch, and he recognized that hardware viruses are the
ultimate in underground computer warfare. Even better than the
original Trojan Horse. No messy software to worry about, and
extensive collateral damage to nearby electronic components.
Makes repairs terrifically expensive."

Which chips are to be considered suspect? The Spook was clear.

"Any RAM or ROM chips with the OSO logo and a date code after
1/89 are potentially dangerous. They should be swapped out
immediately for new, uninfected components. Also, OSO sold their
chips, in die form, to other manufacturers to put their own names
on them. I wish I knew to whom, but Homosoto's firm handled all
of that."

The Spook also said to beware of any electronic device using OSO
labeled or OSO made LS logic chips. Hundreds of millions of the
LS logic chips, the so called Glue of electronics, are sold every
year. In the electronics world they are considered 'dime-store'
parts, selling for a few pennies each. However, in most elec-
tronic systems, an inexpensive component failure is just as bad
as an expensive component failure. In either case, it stops
working.

The Spook continues: "The idea was to build a small timebomb
into VCR's, televisions and radios. Not only computers, but
alarm systems, cash registers, video games, blowing up all at
once. At times it got very funny. Imagine dishwashers spitting up
gallons of suds in kitchens everywhere. The ovens will be cook-
ing pork tartar and toast a la burnt. What happens when Betty-
Jean doesn't trust her appliances any more? The return line at
Sears will be a week long."

I asked the Spook how this was possible? How could he inflict
such damage without anyone noticing? His answer is as indicting
as is his guilt. "No one checks. If the chip passes a few
simple tests, it's put into a calculator or a clock or a tele-
phone or an airplane. No one expects the chip to be hiding
something destructive, so no one looks for it. Not even the
military check. They just expect their chips to work in the
frozen depths of space and survive a nuclear blast. They don't
expect a virus to be lurking."

No matter what one thinks of the nameless, faceless person who
hides behind the anonymity of these computerized confessions, one
has to agree that the man known as the Spook has awakened this
world to many of the dangers that unbridled technical proficiency
brings. Have we taken too much liberty without the concomitant
responsibility? I know that I find I wish I could run parts of
my life in fast forward. Sitting in a movie theater, I feel
myself tense as I realize I cannot speed up the slow parts. Has
the infinite flexibility we have given ourselves outpaced social
conscience?

Ironically, conversations with the Spook tended to be impersonal;
not machine-like, but devoid of concern for people. I asked him
if he cared.

"That was not the idea, as far as I know. In a way this was
electronic warfare, in the true sense of the word. Collateral
damage is unavoidable."

Hardware viruses in addition to software viruses. Is nothing
sacred?

* * * * *

Sunday, January 24
Washington, D.C.

"Does he know what he's saying?" Henry Kennedy said doubtfully.

"I think so, and I also think it's a brilliant way to put a huge
dent in the Japanese monopoly on integrated circuits." Marvin
Jacobs had an office installed not two doors from Kennedy's in
the subterranean mazes beneath the White House lawn.

"He can't blame the Japanese for everything."

"Don't you see? He's not? All he's saying is that OSO did it,
and he's letting the Japanese national guilt by association take
its course." Jacobs seemed pleased. "Mason's chippers will
cast a shadow of doubt on everything electronic made in Japan.
If it has OSO's name on it, it'll be taboo. Toshiba, Mitsubishi,
Matsushita . . .all the big Nippon names will be tarnished for
years."

"And you actually want this to happen?" asked Henry.

"I didn't say that," Marvin said slithering away from a policy
opinion. "Hey, what are you complaining about? Mason gave us
the article like you wanted, didn't he?"

"I told you there were other ways," Kennedy shot back.

"Well, for your information, there's a little more that he didn't
tell us about," said Jacobs haughtily.

"And how did you find out? Pray tell?"

Marvin grinned devilishly before answering. "CMR. Van Eck.
Whatever. We have Mason covered."

"You're using the same . . ."

"Which is exactly how we're going to fight these bastards."

"At the expense of privacy?"

"There is no clear cut legal status of electromagnetic emanations
from computers," Marv said defensively. "Are they private? Are
they free to anyone with a receiver, like a radio or TV? No one
has tested the theory yet. And that's not to say we've tried to
publicize it. The FCC ruled in 1990 that eavesdropping on cellu-
lar telephone calls was legal. By anyone, even the government."
Marvin was giving a most questionable technical practice an aura
of respectability hidden behind the legal guise of freedom.
Kennedy was uncomfortable with the situation, but in this case,
Marv had the President's ear.

"And screw privacy, right? All in the name of national security."
Henry did not approve of Marvin's tactics.

"It's been done before and it'll be done again," Marvin said
fairly unconcerned with Kennedy's opinions and whining. "Citing
National Security is a great antidote to political
inconvenience."

"I don't agree with you, not one iota!" blasted Kennedy. "This
is a democracy, and with that comes the good and the bad, and one
premise of a democracy is the right to privacy. That's what
shredded Nixon. Phone taps, all the time, phone taps."

"Henry, Henry," begged Marv to his old time, but more liberal
minded friend. "This is legal." Marvin's almost wicked smile
was not contagious. "It's not illegal either."

Kennedy frown deeply. "I think you take the NSA's charter as
national listening post to an extreme," he said somberly.

"Henry, Are you going to fight me on this?" Marv asked finally.

"No," sighed Henry Kennedy. "The President gave you the task, I
heard him, and I'm here to support his efforts. I don't have to
agree . . .but it would help."

* * * * *

"Don't worry. The speech will make him sound like an expert,
like he actually knows what he talking about. Not a man who
thinks Nintendo is Japanese slang for nincompoop." Phil Musgrave
called Henry Kennedy's office in the basement.

Phil joked with Henry about the President's legendary technical
ineptness. One time while giving a speech to the VFW, the sound
went out. Trying to be helpful, the President succeeded in
plugging an 'in' into an 'out' which resulted in a minor amount
of smoke, an embarrassing false security alert, and the subse-
quent loss of any sound reinforcement at all.

"You know how I feel about him, Phil," said Henry with concern.
"I support him 110%. But this is a new area for all of us. We
don't have the contingency plans. Defense hasn't spent years
studying the problem and working out the options or the various
scenarios. Phil, until recently viruses and hackers were consid-
ered a non-problem in the big picture."

"I know, Henry, I know, but the politicians had to rely on the
experts, and they argued and argued and procrastinated . . ."

"And Congress, as usual, didn't do shit." Kennedy completed the
statement. "That doesn't change the fact that he's winging it.
Christ, we don't even know the questions much less the answers
and, well, we know he calls 911 to change a lightbulb." His
affection for the President was clear through the barb. "And
you know what really pisses me off?"

"What's that?"

"Jacobs. He seems pleased with the turn of events."

"He should," agreed Phil nonchalantly. "He just won a major
battle. He's got security back under his thumb. A nice politi-
cal coup."

"No, not that," Henry said cautiously. "It's just that I think
he's acting too much the part of the renegade. Do you know what
I mean?"

"No, not at all," laughed Phil. "He's just playing it his way,
not anyone elses. C'mon, now, you know that."

"I guess . . ."

"Besides, Henry," he said glancing at his watch. "It's getting
to be that time." They agreed to watch the speech from the
sidelines, so they could see how the President's comments were
greeted by the press.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States." An
assistant White House press agent made the announcement to the
attendant Washington press pool. The video was picked up by the
CNN cameras as it was their turn to provide a feed to the other
networks. Sunday evening was an odd time to call a press confer-
ence, but everyone had a pretty good idea that the subject was
going to be computers. Thus far, government comments on the
crisis had come from everywhere but the White House.

The President rapidly ambled up to the podium and placed his
notes before him. He put on his glasses and stared at the camera
somberly. It was speeches that began this way, without a prean-
nounced subject matter, that caused most Americans who grew up
during the Cold War to experience a sinking feeling in their
stomachs. They still thought about the unthinkable. As usual
the press corps was rapt with attention.

"Good evening," the President of the United States began slowly.
"I am speaking to you tonight on a matter of great concern to us
all. A subject of the utmost urgency to which we must address
ourselves immediately.

"That subject is, information. The value of information.

"As I am sure most of you are aware, one man, Taki Homosoto,
threatened the United States this last week. It is about that
very subject that I wish to speak to the country, and the world."
The President paused. He had just told the country what he was
going to say. Now he had to say it.

"For all practical purposes, the United States is undergoing an
electronic Pearl Harbor, and the target is one of the most cru-
cial segments of our way of life: Information.

"Information. What is information? Information is news. Infor-
mation is a book, or a movie or a television show. Information
is a picture, it's a word and it's a gesture. Information is
also a thought. A pure idea.

"Information is the single commodity, a common denominator upon
which all industrial societies must rely. Data, facts, opinions,
pictures, histories, records, charts, numbers. Whether that data
is raw in nature, such as names, addresses and phone numbers, or
it consists of secret governmental strategies and policies or
proprietary business details, information is the key building
block upon which modern society functions.

"Information is the lifeblood of the United States and the world.

"As first steam, and then coal and then gas and oil, now informa-
tion has become an integral driving force of the economy.
Without information, our systems begin to collapse. How can
modern society function without information and the computers
that make America what it is? Effectively there are no longer
any nationalistic boundaries that governments create. Information
has become a global commodity. What would our respective cul-
tures look like if information was no longer available?

"We would not be able to predict the weather. Credit cards would
be worthless pieces of plastic. We would save less lives without
enough information and the means to analyze it. We need massive
amounts of information to make informed decisions in government
policies and actions.

"What if banks could no longer transfer money because the comput-
ers were empty? How could the airlines fly if there were no pas-
senger records? What good is an insurance company if its clients
names are nowhere on file? If there was no phone book, who could
you call? If hospitals had no files on your medical history,
what treatment is required? With a little effort, one can imag-
ine how difficult it would be to run this planet without informa-
tion.

"Information, in short, is both a global and a national strate-
gic asset that is currently under attack.

"Information and the information processing industry has come to
represent a highly significant piece of our gross national
product; indeed, the way we live as Americans, enjoying the
highest standard of living in the world, is due in large part to
the extraordinary ability of having information at our fingertips
in a second's notice. Anything we want in the form of informa-
tion can literally be brought into our homes; cable television,
direct satellite connections from the back yard. The Library of
Congress, and a thousand and one other sources of information are
at our fingertips from our living room chair.

"Without information, without the machinery that allows the
information to remain available, a veritable national electronic
library, the United States steps back thirty years.

"Information is as much a strategic weapon in today's world as is
the gun or other conventional armaments. Corporate successes are
often based upon well organized data banks and analytic tech-
niques. Government functions, and assuredly the Cold War was
fought, on the premise that one side has more accurate informa-
tion than its adversary. Certainly academia requires the avail-
ability of information across all disciplines. Too, the public
in general relies upon widespread dissemination of information
for even the simplest day to day activities.

"It is almost inconceivable that society could function as we
know it without the data processing systems upon which we rely.

"It is with these thoughts that those more expert than I can
speak at length, but we must realize and accept the responsibili-
ty for protecting that information. Unfortunately, we as trust-
ing Americans, have allowed a complacency to overshadow prudent
pragmatism.

"Over the last weeks we have begun to see the results of our
complacency. The veins of the nation, the free flow of informa-
tion, is being poisoned.

"Both the government and the private sector are to blame for our
state of disarray and lack of preparedness in dealing with the
current crisis. We must be willing, individually and collective-
ly, to admit that we are all at fault, then we must fix the
problem, make the sacrifice and then put it behind us.

"It is impossible for the Government to deny that we have failed
miserably in our information security and privacy implementation.
Likewise, the value of the accumulation of information by the
private sector was overlooked by everybody. Fifteen years ago,
who could have possibly imagined that the number of businesses
relying on computers would have jumped more than a hundred thou-
sand fold.

"Today, the backbone of America, the small businessman,
20,000,000 strong, the one man shop, provides more jobs than the
Fortune 1000. And, the small businessman has come to rely on
his computer as Big Business has for decades. His survival, his
success is as critical to the stability of the United States'
economy as is a General Motors or an IBM. We must defend the
small business as surely as we must defend our international
competitiveness of industrial leaders.

"The wealth of this country was once in steel mills, in auto
plants, in manufacturing. The products built by the United
States were second to none. Made in the U.S.A. was a proud
label, one that carried a premium worldwide. Our technological
leadership has never been in question and has been the envy of
the world for over 200 years. Franklin, Fulton and Edison. The
Wright Brothers, Westinghouse, Ford. As a nation the Manhattan
Project reaffirmed our leadership. Then Yaeger and the speed of
sound. The transistor. DNA decoded. The microchip. The Moon.
The computer.

"Yet there was a subtle shift occurring that escaped all but the
most vigilant. We were making less things, our concentration on
manufacturing was slowly shifting to an emphasis on technology.
Communications, computers. Information processing. No longer
are cities built around smokestacks spewing forth the byproducts
of the manufacturing process. Instead, industrial parks sprout
in garden-like settings that encourage mental creativity.
Fifteen percent of the American workforce no longer drive to the
office. They commute via their computers at home.

"The excitement of the breakneck pace of technology masked the
danger in which we were placing ourselves. Without realizing it,
a bulk of this nation's tangible wealth was being moved to the
contents of a computer's memory. We took those first steps
toward computerization hesitantly; we didn't trust the computer.
It was unfamiliar, foreign, alien. But when we embraced the
computer, we unquestioningly entrusted it with out most precious
secrets.

"Unlike the factory though, with the fence, the gates, the dogs,
the alarms and the night guards, we left our computers unprotect-
ed. Growing bigger and faster computers took precedence over
protecting their contents.

"We were warned, many times. But, as I said earlier, neither
your government nor its constituency heeded the warnings with
enough diligence. Protection of government information became a
back-burner issue, a political hot cake, that in budget crunches,
was easy to overlook. Overclassification of information became
the case of the 'The Spy Who Cried Wolf.' The classification
system has been abused and clearly does not serve us well. At my
direction it will receive a thorough overhaul.

"Personal privacy has been ignored. Your government is in pos-
session of huge amounts of data and yet there is no effort at
protecting the non-classified privacy of individuals in our
computers.

"The private sector faces another dilemma. The unresponsiveness
of the Federal Government to the protection of its own informa-
tion did not set a good example for industry, and their comput-
ers, too, remained vulnerable.

The President paused from reading his speech to pour a glass of
ice water.

"Nothing can stop the fact that the United States is under at-
tack. Nothing can change the fact that the attack cannot be
turned away. And nothing can change the fact that America will
suffer significant disruptions and inconvenience for some time.
But we can minimize the damage. We can prepare for the inevita-
ble obstacles we will face.

"The poison that Mr. Homosoto put into the American information
society is the equivalent of electronic biological warfare. He
has senselessly and vengefully struck out against the United
States in a manner that I describe as an act of war.

"In order to deal with this real threat to the security of the
United States of America, I have taken several steps that are
designed to assist in weathering the storm.

"First, I am assigning the Director of the National Security
Agency to coordinate all efforts at defending against and mini-
mizing the effects of the current crisis. The NSA has the expe-
rience and resources, and the support of this President to manage
an operation of this complexity and importance. In addition,
representatives from GCHQ in the United Kingdom and other ITSEC
members from Germany, France and Holland will coordinate European
defensive strategies.

"Second, I am activating the following four groups to assist the
NSA in their efforts. ECCO, the Emergency Computer Crisis Organ-
ization, has acted as an advisor to law enforcement agencies
across the country and has been instrumental in providing the
technical support to the FBI and the Secret Service in their
computer crime investigations.

"CERT, the Computer Emergency Response Team was created by the
Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency as an outgrowth of the
1988 INTERNET Worm incident. Carnegie Mellon University where
CERT is headquartered has donated the facilities and staff of
their Software Engineering Institute to deal with the invasion of
our computers.

"The Defense Data Network Security Coordination Center was based
at the Stanford Research Institute by the Defense Communications
Agency to coordinate attacks against non-classified computer
systems.

"Lastly, CIAC, the Computer Incident Advisory Capability manages
computer crises for the Department of Energy at Lawrence Liver-
more Laboratories.

"These are the organizations and the people who will guide us
through the coming adversities. It is they who are responsible
to insure that America never again finds itself so vulnerable.
So open to attack. So helpless in our technological Achilles
Heel.

"The organizations I mentioned, and the government itself have
not yet been tested in a crisis of significant magnitude. This
is their maiden voyage, so to speak, and it is incumbent on us,
the American people, to make their job as easy as we can by
offering our complete cooperation.

"And, tonight, that is what I am asking of you. Your assistance.
Your government cannot do it alone. Nor can small localized
individual efforts expect to be successful against an army of
invaders so large. We must team together, act as one, for the
good of the entire country. From the big business with 100,000
computers to the millions of men, women and children with a home
computer; from the small businessman to the schools, we need to
come together against the common enemy: the invasion of our
privacy and way of life.

"Americans come together in a crisis, and my fellow Americans, we
face a crisis. Let me tell you what my advisors tell me. They
tell me without taking immediate drastic steps to prevent further
destruction of America's information infrastructure, we face a
depression as great as the one of the 1930's.

"They tell me that every computer in the country, most in Canada,
a significant number in England and other countries, can expect
to be attacked in some manner within two years. That represents
over 70 million casualties!

"The international financial and monetary system will come to a
halt and collapse. Financial trading as we know it will cease
and wild speculative fluctuations will dominate the world curren-
cy markets. America is already feeling the change since the ATM
networks were removed from service.

"As we have seen, the transportation facilities of this country,
and indeed the world, are totally dependent on computers and
therefore vulnerable. That is why today we take so seriously the
threats against the airlines. There is no choice but success.
Together, the American people must stand up to this threat and
not succumb to its effects.

"While your government has the resources to develop solutions to
the problems, it has not been within our power to mandate their
use in the private sector.

"We will need unity as never before, for the battleground is in
our homes, our schools, our streets and our businesses. The
children of this great country will have as much opportunity to
contribute as their parents will, and as the leaders of business
will. As we all will and all must.

"In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the very structure of our
country is in imminent danger of collapse, and it is up to us,
indeed it is within our power, to survive. The sacrifices we
will be called upon to make may be great, but the alternative is
unacceptable.

"Indeed, this is a time where the American spirit is called upon
to shine, and shine brightly. Thank you, and God Bless the
United States of America."

* * * * *

Sunday, January 24
Scarsdale, New York

"One fuckuva speech," Tyrone Duncan said to Scott Mason who was
downing the last of a Coors Light. "You should be proud of
yourself." They had watched the President's speech on Scott's
large screen TV.

"Ahhhh," grunted Scott. "It's almost anti-climatic."

"How the hell can you say that?" Tyrone objected. "Isn't this
what you've been trying to do? Get people to focus on the prob-
lem? Christ, you can't do much more than a Presidential speech."

"Oh, yeah," agreed Scott cynically. "Everyone knows, but not a
damn thing's gonna be done about it. Nothing. I don't care what
the President says, nothing's going to change."

"You have become one cynical bastard. Even Congress is behind
the President on this one. His post-speech popularity is over
70% according to CNN's Rapid Sample Poll."

"CNN. Bah, Humbug. Sensationalist news. And you think the
proposed computer crime bills will pass?" Scott asked doubtfully.

Tyrone hesitated. "Sure, I think so. And you don't?"

"No, I don't. At least not in any meaningful way. C'mon, you're
the constitutionalist not me. Sure, the original authors of the
bill will write something with punch, maybe even effective. But
by the time it gets committee'd to death, it'll be another piece
of meaningless watered down piece of shit legislation. And
that's before the states decide that computer crime is a state
problem and not an inter-state issue. They'll say Uncle Sam is
treading on their turf and put up one helluva stink." Scott
shook his head discouragingly. "I see nothing but headaches."

"I think you just feel left out, like your job's done and you
have nothing to do anymore. Post partum depression." Ty rose
from the comfortable leather reading chair to get a couple more
beers. "I kind of know how you feel."

Scott looked up at Tyrone in bewilderment. "You do? How?"

"I'm definitely leaving. We've made up my mind." Tyrone craned
his neck from the kitchen. "Arlene and I, that is." Tyrone came
back and threw a silver bullet at Scott. "This part of my life
is over and it's time I move on to something else."

"Computers and the Law I suppose?" Scott said drearily.

"Don't make it sound like the plague," Tyrone laughed. "I'm
doing it because I want to, and it's needed. In fact I would
expect a good amount of the work to be pioneering. Pro bono.
There's no case history; it'll be precedent setting law. I
figure someone's got to be there to keep it honest. And who
better than . . ." Tyrone spread his arms around the back of the
chair.

"You, I know. The great byte hope." Scott laughed at his own
joke which triggered a similar response from Tyrone. "Hey, man.
I wish you all the best, if that's what you really want."

A sudden beeping began. "What's that?" asked Tyrone.

"A computer begging for attention. Let me see who it is."
Tyrone followed Scott into his office, still astonished that
anyone could work in such a pig pen. And the rest of the house
was so neat.

<<<<<>>>>>

The computer screen held the image of the single word while
whoever was calling caused Scott's computer to beep incessantly.

"What the hell?" Scott said out loud as he pecked at the keyboard
standing rather than sitting at his desk.

wtfo

YOU'RE THERE. GOOD.

kirk?

YUP. WANNA GO TO A DEBATE?

Excuse me?

YOU WATCH THE PRESIDENT?

Of course. I have a mild interest in the subject.

SO DID I AND EVERY OTHER PHREAK IN THE COUNTRY, AND THEY'RE NOT
HAPPY.

Why?

SEE FOR YOURSELF. THE CONVERSATION PIT AT NEMO IS BRIMMING. I
GOT YOU AN INVITE.

I have a guest.

FRIEND OR FOE

friend. definitely.

REMEMBER HOW TO USE MIRAGE?

I can fake it.

To Tyrone's amazement, Scott seemed to know what he was doing at
the computer. Scott sat down, put his electronic conversation
with Kirk on hold, and called up another program as the colorful
screen split into two.

I got you on the bottom window.

YOU'LL SEE THE PIT ON THE TOP. JOIN IN WHEN YOU WANT.

Maybe I'll just listen.

WHATEVER. I'M LOGGING ON.

The top window on Scott's computer screen blinked off momentarily
and then was filled with a the words from the dissident phreaks.

CONVERSATION PIT: KIRK, RAMBO, PHASER, FON MAN, POLTERGEIST,

AND WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? <>

B THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT IS JUST TRYING TO TAKE OVER. THE BILL
OF RIGHTS IS GOING RIGHT DOWN THE SHITTER <>

I AGREE. THEY LOOK FOR ANY EXCUSE TO TAKE AWAY ANY FREEDOM WE
MAY HAVE LEFT AND THEY TOOK THIS HOMOSOTO THING AND BLEW IT RIGHT
OUT OF PROPORTION. JUST LIKE VIETNAM. <>

YOU DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DO YOU? <>

YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I DO. SINCE WHEN HAS THE GOVERNMENT GIVEN
A SHIT ABOUT US? ONLY SINCE THEY REALIZED WE HAVE POWER WITHOUT
THEM. THEY'RE NO LONGER IN CONTROL AND THEY'LL DO ANYTHING THEY
HAVE TO TO GET IT BACK. <>

I DON'T THINK THAT IT'LL BE THAT BAD <>

YOU BEEN HANGING OUT WITH THAT MASON GUY TOO MUCH <>

CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. HE'S LISTENING <>

ALL THE BETTER. HE'S AS BAD AS THE FEDS. <>

May I say something?

WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?

I must beg to differ with Phaser with a question.

IT'S YOUR DIME. <>

Believe me, I understand that you guys have a point, about hack-
ing and the free flow of information. But who's in control now?
From my viewpoint, it's not you and it's not the government. It's
Homosoto.

SO? <>

So, if freedom is the issue as you say, I assume that you want to
keep your electronic freedom at all costs.

RIGHT! <>

THAT'S THE POINT <>

Therefore, regardless of your opinions, you must realize that the
government will do everything it thinks it needs to do to protect
the country.

MAKE YOUR POINT. <>

It seems to me that the best way for you to keep the electronic
freedom you crave, might be to help fight Homosoto and the vi-
ruses and all. Minimize the damage, help defend the Global
Network.

HE MAKES A POINT. I'VE HELPED. <>

THEN WE FALL INTO THEIR TRAP. SAVE IT ALL AND THEN THEY CLOSE
DOWN THE NETWORK. I CAN'T PLAY INTO THEIR DECEIT AND TREACHERY.
<>

DO YOU THINK THE FREEDOM LEAGUE IS DOING GOOD? <>

OF COURSE NOT. <>

That's Homosoto. Thousands of viruses. NEMO already helped.

ONLY THOSE THAT AGREE. WE ARE NOT A DEMOCRACY. <>

SO YOU DON'T WANT TO FIGHT THE VIRUSES? <>

NOT YOU, TOO? <>

IT'S A MATTER OF RIGHT AND WRONG. ELECTRONIC FREEDOM, ANARCHY IS
ONE THING. BUT WE DO NOT ABUSE. WE LIVE BY THE CODE AND WANT TO
KEEP THE NETWORK OPEN. HOMOSOTO WANTS TO CLOSE THE NETWORK DOWN.
BY SCARE TACTICS. <>

THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT WILL
TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY. <>

Only if they have to. Wouldn't you rather help and keep that
from happening?

IF I TRUSTED THE GOVERNMENT. <>

Can I introduce you to someone? His handle is FBI.

KIRK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GIVING US AWAY? <>

THEY'RE TIED IN ON MIRAGE. THEY CAN PLAY BUT THERE'S NO REDIAL.
<>

Gentlemen, this is the FBI. Let me tell you something. I don't
agree with hacking, theft of service and the like. But I also am
pragmatic. I recognize the difference between the lesser of two
evils. And as of today, based upon what I know, you guys are a
pain the ass, but not a threat to national security. That is why
Washington has taken little interest in your activities. But at
the same time, you are part of an underground that has access to
the electronic jungle in which we find ourselves. We would like
your help.

OFFICIALLY? <>

No, unofficially. I am law enforcement, associated with ECCO, if
you've ever heard of them.

ECCO. YOU GUYS FIGHT THE REAL COMPUTER JERKS, DON'T YOU? LIKE
ROBERT MORRIS AND PUNJAB. DID YOU EVER CATCH THE GUY WHO STOPPED
THE SHUTTLE FLIGHT? <>

Sadly, no. I am talking to you as a friend of Scott's. And I
will tell you, that anything I learn I will use to fight Homoso-
to's attack. But frankly, you are little fish. I don't know who
you are, nor do I really care. In all honesty, neither does
Washington, the NSA or anyone else. You're merely an underground
protest group. If anything, you help keep us honest. But even
protestors should have their limits.

MINE HAS BEEN REACHED. <>

AND MINE. <>

There is a big difference between freedom of speech and insurrec-
tion and invasion.

WHAT ABOUT PRIVACY? <>

THERE IS NONE, AND YOU KNOW IT. <>

THAT'S THE POINT. WE HAVE TO STOP THE MILITARISTIC WAR MONGERS
FROM PRYING INTO OUR LIVES. THEY KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT US, AND
MORE. I WANT TO SEE THAT STOPPED. NOW. <>

This is Mason. At the expense of true freedom? Freedom of
choice? By your logic, you may end up with no Compuserve. No
electronic mail boxes. No networks. Or, they'll be so restricted
that you'll never get on them.

IT'LL HAPPEN ANYWAY. <>

And you'll just speed up the process. What do you have to lose
by helping out?

I WANT TO CONTINUE HELPING. MY FREEDOM TO HACK RESPONSIBLY IS IN
DANGER BY ONE MAN, AND I AIM ON KEEPING MY FREEDOM. <>

It may be the only way to keep the digital highways open, I'm
sorry to say.

IS THAT A THREAT? <>

Merely an observation.

I NEED TO THINK. <>

WHAT DO YOU NEED TO KNOW? <>

A lot. We need a complete list of phone numbers for every Free-
dom BBS. They provide wide distribution of infected software.

WE KNOW. BFD. <>

This is FBI. We want to shut them down.

HOW? <>

We have our means.

SEE WHAT I MEAN! THEY'RE ALL PIGS. THEY TAKE, TAKE, TAKE. BUT
IF YOU ASK SOMETHING THEY CLAM UP. <>

All right. If it works you'll find out anyway. There are a
number of underused laws, and we want to keep this on a Federal
level. USC 1029, 1030, 2134 - they're a bunch of them including
racketeering. Then there are a number of Federal laws against
doing anything injurious to the United States.

WHICH GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO PROSECUTE ANYONE YOU DAMN WELL
PLEASE WHENEVER YOU DAMN WELL WANT. <>

As a lawyer, I could make that case.

I AM A LAWYER, TOO. I PHREAK FOR PHREEDOM. <>

Then you also know, that you have to really be on someone's shit
list to get the FBI after you. Right now, Homosoto and his gang
are on our shit list big time.

THEN WHEN YOU'RE THROUGH WITH THEM, IT'S US NEXT. THEN WHO'S
LEFT? <>

RIGHT. <>

We can argue forever. All I'm saying is we could use whatever
help you can give us. And I honestly don't care who you are.
Unless of course you're on my shit list.

FBI HUMOR. <>

WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED? <>

As many signatures as possible. We figure that there are thou-
sands of you out there, and you can probably do a better job than
any government security group punching in at nine and out at
five. You have more people, no bureaucracy and a bigger sample
of the software population.

SIGNATURES? NO QUESTIONS ASKED? <>

None. Also, rumors.

WHAT KIND OF RUMORS? <>

Like who might want to disrupt the Air Reservations System.

YOU'RE KIDDING? <>

I wish I was. You see, we are up against the wall.

THAT COULD REALLY FUCK THINGS UP. <>

REALLY! <>

IS IT REALLY THAT BAD? <>

Worse.

MAYBE I'LL THINK ABOUT IT. <>

ME TOO. <>

MASON. I'M GOING TO CUT YOU OFF. <>

It won't be the first time.

<<<<<>>>>>

Tyrone stretched his limbs searching for a bare place to sit
down. Leaning over Scott's shoulders for the slow paced computer
conversation stiffened his muscles. Scott motioned to slide
whatever was in the way, out of the way, to which Tyrone com-
plied.

"Dedicated mother fuckers. Misguided, but dedicated." Ty sat
back in thought. "What do you think they'll do?"

"I don't think, I know," said Scott confidently. "Most of them
will help, but they won't admit it. They openly distrust you,
Washington and me. But they value their freedom, and instinc-
tively they will protect that. Kirk will be the conduit. I'm not
worried."

"And what will they do?"

"Once they get around to it, they'll commandeer every hacker in
the country and at least stop the viruses. Or some of them. I
think that we need to elicit their trust, and I can do that by
giving them more than they give me."

"Can you do that?"

"Just watch. If they play their cards right, they can be
heroes."

****************************************************************

Chapter 29
Monday, January 25
The White House

We had a pretty good handle on parts of it," said Marvin Jacobs
glibly.

Phil Musgrave, Martin Royce, Henry Kennedy and Quinton Chambers
joined Marvin in one of the private White House conference rooms
at 5 A.M. Jacobs had called all members of the inner circle,
personally, early that morning. He had received word that last
evening's computer conversations between Scott Mason and the
Spook had been intercepted and the preliminary analysis was
ready.

Scott Mason's computer screens had been read by the NSA's remote
electromagnetic receivers while he prepared his article for the
following day. The actual article had also been transmitted to
the White House, prior to publication, as agreed.

"And Mason seems to be living up to his part of the bargain,"
Jacobs continued. "He only edits out the bullshit, pardon my
French. Gives the public their money's worth."

"You said we were close. How close?" Musgrave tended to run
these meetings; it was one of the perks of being the President's
Number One.

"His organization was a lot more comprehensive than we thought,"
Henry Kennedy said. "We underestimated his capabilities, but we
caught the essence of his weapons by good guessing."

"If we could get our hands on this Spook character," sighed
Martin Royce. He was thinking of the perennial problems associ-
ated with identifying the exact location of someone who doesn't
want to be found.

"That's not the problem," said Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave. "We
know who the Spook is, but we can't prove it. It's only hearsay,
even with Mason's testimony, and it's a pretty damn safe bet he
won't be inclined to testify. But Marv has given us a ton on
him. After all, he is Marv's fault."

"You guys sort that out on your own time," yawned Phil. "For
now, though we need to know what we're up against."

"If the President hadn't gone on television last night, we might
have been able to keep this quiet and give the press some answers
in a few days." Marv said.

"Dream on," Phil said emphatically. "Mason broke the story and
we were caught with our pants down. The President did not, and I
repeat, did not, want to be associated with any cover up . . ."

"I didn't say cover up . . ."

"He wants to take his lumps and fix it. He will not lie to the
American people."

"If we shut Mason up." Marv suggested.

"We need him right where he is," Henry Kennedy said about Scott
to stem the escalating argument.

"The subject is closed." Phil's comment silenced the room.
After all was said and done, Musgrave was the closet thing to the
President in the room. As with the President, the discussion was
over, the policy set, now let's get on with it. "So, Marv? What
are we up against."

The seasoned professional in Marvin Jacobs took over, conflicting
opinions in the past, and he handed out a series of TOP SECRET
briefing folders.

"You've got to be kidding," laughed Martin Royce holding up his
file. "This stuff will be in today's morning paper and you
classify it?"

"There are guidelines for classification," Marvin insisted. "We
follow them to the letter."

"And every letter gets classified." muttered Royce under his
breath. The pragmatist in him saw the lunacy of the classifica-
tion process, but the civil servant in him recognized the impos-
sibility of changing it. Marv ignored the comment and opened his
folder.

"Thanks, Phil," began Marv. "Well, I'll give it to him, Foster
that is. If what he says is accurate, we have our work cut out
for us, and in many cases all we can do is board up our windows
before the hurricane hits."

"For purposes of this discussion, assume, as we will, that the
Spook, Foster, is telling the truth. Do we have any reason to
disbelieve him?"

"Other than attacking his own country? No, no reason at all."
Marvin showed total disdain for Foster. His vehemence quieted
the room, so he picked up where he left off.

"The first thing he did was establish a communications network,
courtesy of AT&T. If Foster is right, then his boys have more
doors and windows in and out of the phone company computers than
AT&T knows exist. For all intents and purposes, they can do
anything with the phone system that they want.

"They assign their own numbers, tap into digital transmissions,
reprogram the main switches, create drop-dead billings, keep
unlimited access lines and Operator Control. If we do locate a
conversation, they're using a very sophisticated encryption
scheme to disguise their communications. They're using the same
bag of tricks we tried to classify over 20 years ago, and if
anyone had listened . . ."

"We get the point, Marv," Phil said just before Henry was about
to say the same thing.

"We can triangulate the cell phone location, but it takes time.
Perhaps the smartest thing Foster did was recognize the need for
an efficient distribution system. In order for his plan to work,
he had to insure that every computer in the country was
infected."

"Thus the dGraph situation?" Quinton Chambers finally began to
look awake.

"And the Lotus Viruses, and the Freedom software," Henry said.
"What about FTS-2000?" He was asking about the new multi-billion
dollar voice and data communications network. FTS stands for
Federal Telecommunications System.

"I have no doubt that it's in the same boat," suggested Marv.
"But we have no sure data yet. We should ask Scott to ask Fos-
ter."

"What could happen?"

"Worst case? The government shuts down for lack of interest and
no dial tone."

"And these viruses?"

"According to Foster, they designed over 8,000 viruses and he
assumes that all or most of them have been released over the last
several years," Marv said to a room full of raised eyebrows.

"How bad is that?" asked Chambers.

"Let's put it this way," said Marv. "In the last 14 years, of
the viruses that have been confirmed, the longest gestation
period, from release to detonation . . .was eight months. And
that one was discovered a couple of weeks after they were re-
leased. What Foster counted on was the fact that if software
behaved normally, it wouldn't be suspect. And if it became
popular, it was automatically above suspicion. He was right."

"I've heard that every computer is infected?"

"At the minimum, yes." Jacobs turned the pages of his dossier.
"To continue, one of Foster's most important tools was the con-
struction of road maps."

"Road maps?" questioned Phil.

"Connections, how it all ties together. How MILNET ties to
INTERNET to DARPANET to DockMaster, then to the Universities."
Marv wove a complex picture of how millions of computers are all
interconnected. "Foster knew what he was doing. He called this
group Mappers. The maps included the private nets, CompuServe,
The Source, Gemini, Prodigy . . .BBS's to Tymenet . . .the lists
go on forever. The road maps, according to Foster, were very
detailed. The kind of computer, the operating system, what kind
of security if any. They apparently raked through the hacker
bulletin boards and complied massive lists of passwords for
computers . . ."

"Including ours?" asked Quinton Chambers.

"Quite definitely. They kept files on the back doors, the trap
doors and the system holes so they could enter computers unde-
tected, or infect the files or erase them . . .take a look at
Social Security and the IRS. Martin?"

Treasury Secretary Royce nodded in strong agreement. "We got hit
but good. We still have no idea how many hundreds of thousands
of tax records are gone forever, if they were ever there. So far
it's been kept under wraps, but I don't know how long that can
continue. The CDN has been nothing but trouble. We're actually
worse off with it than without it."

"How can one person do all of that?" Chambers had little knowl-
edge of computers, but he was getting a pretty good feel for the
potential political fallout.

"One person! Ha!" exclaimed Jacobs. "Look at Page 16." He
pointed at his copy of the Secret documents. "According to
Foster he told Homosoto he needed hundreds of full time mappers
to draw an accurate and worthwhile picture of the communications
and networks in the U.S.."

"That's a lot of money right there," added Royce.

"It's obvious that money wasn't a consideration." Phil spouted
the current political party line as well as it was understood.
"Retaliation against the United States was the motivation, and to
hell with the cost."

"Homosoto obviously took Foster's advice when it came to Propa-
ganda," Marv continued. "The FBI, I believe, saw the results of
a concentrated effort at creating distrust in computers. We've
got a team working on just finding the blackmailers. Their
version of a disinformation campaign was to spread the truth, the
secret undeniable truths of those who most want to keep their
secrets a secret."

"That's also where the banks got hit so hard," offered Henry
Kennedy. "Tens of thousands of credit card numbers were spirited
away from bank computers everywhere. You can imagine the shock
when tens of millions of dollars of purchases were contested by
the legitimate credit card holders."

"It's bad," agreed Royce.

"And we haven't even seen the beginning yet, if we believe Fos-
ter. There were other groups. Some specialized in Tempest-Bust-
ing . . ."

"Excuse me?" asked Quinton Chambers.

"Reading the signals broadcast by computers," Marv said with some
derision. The Secretary of State should know better, he thought.
"It's a classified Defense program." He paused while Chambers
made a note. "Others used stolen EMP-T bomb technology to blow
up the Stock Exchange and they even had antennas to focus
HERF . . ."

"HERF?" laughed Phil.

"HERF," said Marv defensively. "High Energy Radiated Fields.
Pick a frequency, add an antenna, point and shoot. Poof! Your
computer's history."

"You're kidding me . . ."

"No joke. We and the Soviets did it for years; Cold War Games,"
said Kennedy. "Pretty hush-hush stuff. We have hand held
electric guns that will stop a car cold at a thousand yards."

"Phasers?" asked Chambers.

"Sort of, Quinton," chimed in Phil.

"Foster's plan also called for moles to be placed within strate-
gic organizations, civilian and government." Marv continued.
"They were to design and release malicious software from inside
the company. Powerful technique if you can find enough bodies
for the dirty work."

"Again, according to Foster, Homosoto said that there was never a
manpower problem," Marv said. "He's confident that an Arab group
is involved somewhere. The MacDonald's accident was caused by
Arabs who . . ."

"And we still can't get shit out of the one who we're holding.
The only one that's left. Troubleaux was shot by an
Arab . . .the FBI is working hard on that angle. They've given
themselves extraordinary covers." Phil was always on top of those
things that might have a political cause and/or effect. "How
extensive an operation was this?"

Marvin Jacobs ruffled through some notes in his files. "It's hard
to be sure. If Homosoto followed all of Foster's plan, I would
guess 3 - 5,000 people, with a cost of between $100 - $300 Mil-
lion. But mind you, that's an uneducated guesstimate."

Quinton Chambers dropped his pen on the table. "Are you telling
us that one man is bringing the United States virtually to its
knees for a couple of hundred million?" Marv reluctantly nodded.
"Gentlemen, this is incredible, more than incredible . . .does
the President know?"

Even Phil Musgrave was antsy with the answer to that question.
"Not in any detail, but he is very concerned. As for the cost,
terrorism has never been considered expensive."

"Well thank you Ron Ziegler, for that piece of information,"
scowled Chambers. "So if we know all of this, why don't we pick
'em all up and get this over with and everything working again?"

"Foster claims he doesn't know who anyone other than Homosoto is.
He was kept in the dark. That is certainly not inconsistent with
the way Homosoto is known to do business - very compartmental-
ized. He didn't do the recruitment, he said, and all communica-
tions were done over the computer . . .no faces, no names. If it
wasn't for Mason, we wouldn't even know that Foster is the Spook.
I consider us very lucky on that point alone."

"What are we going to do? What can we do?" Royce and Chambers
both sounded and looked more concerned than the others. Their
agencies were on the front line and the most visible to the
public.

"For the government we can take some mandatory precautions. For
the private sector, probably nothing . . ."

"Unless." Phil said quietly.

"Unless what?" All heads turned to Phil Musgrave.

"Unless the President invokes martial law to protect the country
and takes control of the computers until we can respond." Phil
often thought out loud, even with his extremist possibilities.

"Good idea!" said Jacobs quickly.

"You think that public will buy that?" asked Chambers.

"No, but they may have no choice."

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 26

PRESIDENT DECLARES WAR ON COMPUTERS
By Scott Mason

Support for the President's Sunday night call to arms has been
virtually unanimous by industry leaders.

According to James Worthington, Director of Computing Services at
First National Life, "We take the threat to our computers very
seriously. Without the reliable operation of our MIS systems,
our customers cannot be serviced and the company will suffer
tremendous losses. Rates will undoubtedly rise unless we protect
ourselves."

Similar sentiments were echoed by most industry leaders. IBM
announced it would be closing all of its computer centers for
between two and four weeks to effect a complete cleansing of all
systems and products. A spokesperson for IBM said, "If our
computers are threatened, we will take all necessary steps to
protect our investment and the confidence of our customers. IBM
prefers a short term disruption in normal services to a long term
failure."

Well placed persons within the government concur that the NSA,
who is responsible for guiding the country through the current
computer crisis, is ideally suited for managing the situation.
Even agencies who have in the past been critical of the super-
secret NSA are praising their preliminary efforts and recommenda-
tions to deal with the emergency.

In a several page document issued by the NSA, a series of safe-
guards is outlined to protect computers against many of the
threats they now face. In addition, the NSA has asked all long
distance carriers to, effective immediately, deny service to any
digital communications until further notice. Despite high marks
for the NSA in other areas, many of their defensive recommenda-
tions have not been so well received.

"We are actually receiving more help from the public BBS's and
local hacker groups in finding and eradicating the viruses than
from the NSA or ECCO," said the Arnold Fullerman, Vice President
of Computer Services at Prudential.

AT&T is also critical of the government's efforts. "The Presi-
dential Order gives the NSA virtual control over the use of our
long distance services. Without the ability to transmit digital
data packets, we can expect a severely negative impact on our
first quarter earnings . . ." While neither AT&T nor the other
long distance carriers indicated they would defy the executive
decree, they did say that their attorneys were investigating the
legality of the mandate.

The NSA, though, was quick to respond to criticism. "All the NSA
and its policies are trying to achieve is a massive reduction in
the rate of propagation of the Homosoto Viruses, eliminate fur-
ther infection, so we can isolate and immunize as many computers
as possible. This will be a short term situation only." De-
tractors vocally dispute that argument.

AT&T, Northern TelCom and most telephone manufacturers are taking
additional steps in protecting one of Homosoto's key targets:
Public and Private Branch Exchanges, PBX's, or phone switches.
They have all developed additional security recommendations for
customers to keep Phone Phreaks from utilizing the circuits
without authorization. Telephone fraud alone reached an estimat-
ed $14 Billion last year, with the courts upholding that custom-
ers whose phones were misused are still liable for all bills.
Large companies have responded by not paying the bills and with
lawsuits.

The NSA is further recommending federal legislation to mitigate
the effects of future computer attacks. They propose that com-
puter security be required by law.

"We feel that it would be prudent to ask the private sector to
comply with minimum security levels. The C2 level is easy to
reach, and will deter all but the most dedicated assaults. It is
our belief that as all cars are manufactured with safety items
such as seat belts, all computer should be manufactured with
security and information integrity mechanisms in place. C2 level
will meet 99% of the public's needs." A spokesman for ECCO, one
of the emergency computer organizations working with the NSA
explained that such security levels available outside of the
highest government levels range from D Level, the weakest, to A
Level, the strongest.

It is estimated that compliance with such recommendations will
add no more than $50 to the cost of each computer.

The types of organizations that the NSA recommend secure its
computers by law is extensive, and is meeting with some vocal
opposition:

Companies with more than 6 computers connected in a network or
that use remote communications.

Companies which store information about other people or organiza-
tions.

All Credit Card merchants.

Companies that do business with local, state or federal agencies.

The entire Federal Government, regardless of data classification.

All publicly funded organizations including schools, universi-
ties, museums, libraries, research, trade bureaus etc.

Public Access Data Bases and Bulletin Boards.

"It is crazy to believe that 45 million computers could comply
with a law like that in under 2 years," said Harry Everett, a
Washington D.C. based security consultant. "In 1987 Congress
passed a law saying that the government had to protect 'sensitive
but unclassified data' to a minimum C2 level by 1992. Look where
we are now! Not even close, and now they expect to secure 100
times that many in one tenth the time? No way."

Another critic said, "C2? What a joke. Europe is going by ITSEC
and they laugh at the Orange Book. If you're going to make
security a law, at least do it right."

NSA also had words for those computers which do not fall under
the umbrella of the proposed legislation. Everyone is strongly
urged to practice safe computing.

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 26
St. Louis, Missouri

"I'm sorry sir, we can't find you in the computer," the harried
young woman said from behind the counter.

"Here's my boarding pass," he said shoving the small cardboard
pass into her face. "And here's a paid for ticket. I want to get
on my flight."

"Sir, there seems to be a complication," she nervously said as
she saw at least another hundred angry people behind the irate
customer.

"What kind of complication?" he demanded.

"It seems that you're not the only one with a ticket for Seat 11-
D on this flight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sir, it seems that the flight has been accidentally overbooked,
by about 300 people."

"Well, I have a ticket and a boarding pass . . ."

"So do they, sir."

Delta and American and Northwest and USAir were all experiencing
problems at every gate their airlines serviced. So was every
other airline that used the National Reservation Service or
Saber. Some flights though, were not so busy.

"What kind of load we have tonight, Sally?" asked Captain David
Clark. The American red-eye from LAX to Kennedy was often a
party flight, with music and entertainment people swapping cities
and visiting ex-wives and children on the opposite coast.

"Light," she replied over the galley intercom from the middle of
the 400 seat DC-10.

"How light?"

"Crew of eleven. Two passengers."

By midnight, the entire air traffic system was in total chaos.
Empty airplanes sat idly in major hubs awaiting passengers that
never came. Pilots and flight crews waiting for instructions as
take-offs from airports all but ceased. Overbooking was so
rampant that police were called into dozens of airports to re-
store order. Fist fights broke out and despite pleas for calm
from the police and the airlines, over 200 were arrested on
charges of disorderly conduct, assault and resisting arrest.
Tens of thousands of passengers had confirming tickets for
flights that didn't exist or had left hours before.

Arriving passengers at the international airports, LAX, Kennedy,
San Francisco, Miami were stranded with no flights, no hotels and
luggage often destined for parts unknown. Welcome to the United
States.

The FAA had no choice but to shut down the entire air transporta-
tion system at 2:22 A.M.

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 27
National Security Agency
Fort Meade, Maryland

"Did you get the President to sign it?"

"No problem. Public opinion swung our way after yesterday."

"And now?"

"Essentially, every long and short distance phone company works
for the Federal Government.."

"Tell me how it works."

"We have lines installed from the 114 Signal Transfer Points in
every phone district to a pair of Cray-YMP's at the Fort. Every
single AT&T long distance phone call goes through these switches
and is labeled by an IAM with where the call came from and where
it's going. What we're looking for is the high usage digital
lines. Including fax lines. So the phone company is kind
enough to send us a list of every call. We get about seven
million an hour."

"We can handle that?"

"We have enough to handle ten times that."

"I forget about the international monitors. That's millions more
calls a day we listen to."

"Yessir. The computers go through every call and make a list of
digital calls. Then we get a list of all billing records and
start crunching. We compare the high usage digital lines with
the phone numbers from the bills and look for patterns. We look
to see if it's a private or business line, part of a private PBX,
hours and days of usage, then who owns the line. Obviously we
eliminate a great many from legitimate businesses. After inten-
sive analysis and profile comparison, we got a a few thousand
candidates. What we decided to look for was two things.

"First, we listen to the lines to make sure it's a computer. If
it is, we get a look at the transmissions. If they are encrypt-
ed, they get a red flag and onto the Hit List."

"The President bought this?"

"We told him we'd only need the records for a short time, and
then we would dispose of them. He agreed."

"What a sucker. Good work."

* * * * *

Friday, February 12
New York City Times

Computer License Law Possible?
by Scott Mason

Senator Mark Bowman's proposed legislation is causing one of the
most stirring debates on Capital Hill since the divisive decision
to free Kuwait militarily.

The so-called "Computer License Law" is expected to create as
much division in the streets and homes of America as it is polit-
ically.

The bill calls for every computer in the country to be registered
with the Data Registration Agency, a working component of the
Commerce Dept. The proposed 'nominal fees' are intended to
insure that the technology to protect computer systems keeps up
with other computer technology.

Critics, though, are extremely vocal in their opposition to a
bill that they say sends a strong message to the American people:
We don't trust you. The FYI, Freeflow of Your Information says
that passage of the Computer License Law will give the federal
government the unrestricted ability and right to invade our
privacy. Dr. Sean Kirschner, the chief ACLU counsel, is consid-
ering a lawsuit against the United States if the bill passes.
Kirschner maintains that " . . .if the License Law goes into
effect, the streets will be full of Computers Cops handing out
tickets if your computer doesn't have a license. The enforcement
clauses of the bill essentially give the police the right to
listen to your computer. That is a simple invasion of privacy,
and we will not permit a precedent to be set. We lost too much
freedom under Reagan."

Proponents of the bill insist that the low fee, perhaps only $10
per year per computer, is intended to finance efforts at keeping
security technology apace with computer technology. "We have
learned our lesson the hard way, and we now need to address the
problem head on before it bites us again." They cite the example
of England, where televisions have been licensed for years, with
the fees dedicated to supporting the arts and maintaining broad-
casting facilities.

"Does not apply," says Dr. Kirschner. "With a television, there
isn't an issue of privacy. A computer is like an electronic
diary, and that privacy must be respected at all costs."

"And," he adds, "that's England, not the U.S.. They don't have
freedom of the press, either."

Kirschner vowed a highly visible fight if Congress " . . .dares
to pass that vulgar law . . ."

* * * * *

Monday, February 15
Scarsdale, New York

"ECCO reports are coming in."

"At this hour?" Scott said sleepily.

"You want or no?" Tyrone Duncan answered with irritation.

"Yeah, yeah, I want," Scott grumbled. "What time is it?"

"Four A.M. Why?"

"I won't make the morning . . ."

"I'm giving you six hours lead. Quit bitching."

"O.K., O.K., what is it?"

"Don't sound so grateful."

"Where the hell are you?" Scott asked sounding slightly more
awake.

"At the office."

"At four?"

"You're pushing your luck . . ."

"I'm ready."

"It looks like your NEMO friends were right. There are bunches
of viruses. You can use this. ECCO received reports of a quar-
ter million computers going haywire yesterday. There's gotta be
ten times that number that haven't been reported."

"Whose?"

"Everybody for Christ's sake. American Gen, Compton Industries,
First Life, Banks, and, this is almost funny, the entire town of
Fallsworth, Idaho."

"Excuse me?"

* * * * *

Thursday, February 25

TOWN DISAPPEARS
By Scott Mason

The town of Fallsworth, Idaho is facing a unique problem. It is
out of business.

Fallsworth, Idaho, population 433, has a computer population of
611.

But no one in the entire incorporation of Fallsworth has ever
bought or paid for a single piece of software or hardware.

Three years ago, the town counsel approved a plan to make this
small potato farming community the most computerized township in
the United States, and it seems that they succeeded. Apparently
the city hall of Fallsworth was contacted by representatives of
Apple Computer. Would they like to be part of an experiment?

Apple Computer provided every home and business in the Fallsworth
area with a computer and the necessary equipment to tie all of
the computers together into one town-wide network. The city was
a pilot program for the Electronic City of the future. The
residents of Fallsworth were trained to use the computers and
Apple and associated companies provided the township beta copies
of software to try out, play with and comment on.

Fallsworth, Idaho was truly the networked city.

Lily Williams and members of the other 172 households in Falls-
worth typed out their grocery lists on their computer, matching
them to known inventories and pricing from Malcolm Druckers'
General Store. When the orders arrived at the Drucker computer,
the goods just had to be loaded in the pick up truck. Druckers'
business increased 124% after the network was installed.

Doctors Stephenson, Viola and Freemont, the three town doctors
modem'ed prescriptions to Baker Pharmacy so the pills were ready
by the time their patients arrived.

Mack's Messengers had cellular modems and portable computers
installed in their delivery trucks. They were so efficient, they
expanded their business into nearby Darbywell, Idaho, population,
5,010.

Today, Fallsworth, Idaho doesn't use its computers. They lie
dormant. A town without life. They forgot how to live and work
and play and function without their computers. Who are the
slaves?

The viruses of Lotus, of dGraph. The viruses of Freedom struck,
and no one in the entire town had registration cards. The soft-
ware crisis has left Fallsworth and a hundred other small test
sites for big software firms out in the digital void.

Apple Computer promised to look into the matter but said that
customers who have paid for their products come first . . .

* * * * *

Friday, March 5
FBI Building, Federal Square

Tyrone Duncan was as busy as he had ever been, attempting to
coordinate the FBI's efforts in tracking down any of the increas-
ing number of computer criminals. And there were a lot of them at
the moment. The first Copy-Cat computer assaults were coming to
light, making it all that much more difficult to isolate the
Foster Plan activities from those other non-coordinated inci-
dents.

Tyrone, as did his counterparts in regional FBI offices nation-
wide, created teams of agents who concentrated on specific areas
of Homosoto's assault as described by the Spook. Some special-
ized in tracing missing electronic funds, some in working with
the phone company through the NSA. More than any other goal, the
FBI wanted desperately to locate as many of the invisible agents
that the Spook, Miles Foster, had told Homosoto to use. Tyrone
doubted they would catch anywhere near the 3000 or more he was
told that were out there, but at this point any success was
welcome.

FBI agents toiled and interviewed and researched sixteen and
eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. There hadn't been such
a blanket approval of overtime since the Kennedy assassination.
The FBI followed up the leads generated by the computers at the
NSA. Who and where were the likely associates of Homosoto and
Foster?

His phone rang - the private line that bypasses his secretary-
startling Tyrone from the deep thought in which he was immersed.
On a Saturday. As the voice on the other end of the phone ut-
tered its first sound, Tyrone knew that it was Bob Burnson.
Apparently he was in his office today as well.

"Afternoon, Bob," Tyrone said vacantly.

"Gotcha at a bad time?" Burnson asked.

"No, no. Just going over something that may prove interesting."

"Go ahead, make my day," joked Burnson.

"I know you don't want to know . . ."

"Then don't tell me . . ."

"But Mason's hackers are coming through for us."

"Jeez, Ty," whined Bob. "Do you have to . . ."

"Do you know anybody else that is capable of moving freely in
those circles? It's not exactly our specialty," reprimanded
Tyrone.

"In theory it's great," Bob reluctantly agreed, "but there are so
damn many exposures. They can mislead us, they're not profes-
sionals, and worst of all, we don't even know who they are, to
perform a background check."

"Bob, you go over to the other side . . . playing desk man on
me?"

"Ty, I told you a while ago, I could only hang so far out before
the branches started shaking."

"Then you don't know anything." Tyrone said in negotiation.
Keep Bob officially uninformed and unofficially informed. "You
don't know that NEMO has helped to identify four of the black-
mailers and a handful of the Freedom Freaks. You don't know that
we have gotten more reliable information from Mason's kids than
from ECCO, CERT, NIST and NSA combined. They're up in the clouds
with theory and conjecture and what-iffing themselves silly.
NEMO is in the streets. A remote control informer if you like."

"What else don't I know?"

"You don't know that NEMO has been giving us security holes in
some of our systems. You don't know that Mason's and other
hackers have been working on the Freedom viruses."

"Some systems? Why not all?"

"They still want to keep a few trapdoors for themselves."

"See what I mean!" exclaimed Burnson. "They can't be trusted."

"They are not on our payroll. Besides, it's them or no one,"
Tyrone calmly said. "They really would like to keep the real-bad
guys off of the playing field, as they put it."

"And keep the spoils for their own use."

"It's a trade-off I thought was worthwhile."

"I don't happen to agree, and neither does the Director's
office."

"I thought you didn't know . . ."

"Word gets around. We have to cap this one, Ty. It's too hot.
This is so far from policy I think we could be shot."

"You know nothing. Nothing."

But Burnson and the FBI and the White House all knew they wanted
Foster. Tyrone instinctively knew as did Scott, that Miles
Foster was the Spook. Other than meager unsubstantiated circum-
stantial evidence, though, there was still no convincing legal
connection between Miles Foster and the Spook. Not enough of
one, anyway.

Miles Foster had done an extraordinary job of insulating himself
and his identity from his army.

There had to be another way.

* * * * *

Monday, March 8
New York City Times

Lawsuit Cites Virus
by Scott Mason

Will stockholders of corporations soon require that all Corporate
assets be appropriately protected? Including those contained in
the computers? Many people see a strong possibility of a swell
of Wall Street investor demands to secure the computers of pub-
licly held companies. The SEC is planning on issuing a set of
preliminary regulations for firms under its aegis.

Last week, a group of 10,000 Alytech, Inc. stockholders filed the
first class action suit along this vein. They are suing the
current board of directors for " . . .willful dereliction of
fiduciary responsibility in the adequate security and protection
of corporate information, data, communications and data process-
ing and communications equipment." The suit continues to say
that the company, under the Directors' leadership and guidance
knew and understood the threat to their computers, yet did noth-
ing to correct the situation.

Attorneys for the plaintiffs have said that they are in posses-
sion of a number of internal Alytech documents and memos which
spelled out security recommendations to their board of directors
upon which no action was taken.

Alytech was one of the many companies hit particularly hard by
the Computer War. The dGraph virus, the Lotus viruses and the
Novell viruses were among those that infected over 34,000 of the
company's computers around the world; bringing the company to a
virtual halt for over two weeks. Immediately after getting their
computers back up and running, they were struck by several Free-
dom viruses which were designed to destroy the hard disks on the
computers.

As of this date, Alytech still has over 10,000 computers sitting
idly waiting for the much delayed shipments of hard disks re-
quired to repair the machines.

A spokesman for Alytech, Inc. says that the lawsuit is frivolous
and without merit.

A date of June 14 has been set for the courts to hear the first
of many rounds of motions.

* * * * *

Sunday, March 21
Paris, France

Spring in Paris is more glorious than any reviewer can adequately
portray.

The clear air bristles with fresh anticipation like lovers on a
cool afternoon. Bicycles, free from a winter of hiding in ga-
rages, fill the streets and parks. All of Paris enjoys the first
stroll of the year.

Coats and jackets are prematurely shed in favor of t-shirts and
skimpy tank-tops and the cafes teem with alfresco activity. The
lucky low-season American tourist experiences firsthand the
French foreplay to summer.

Looking down to the streets from the 'deuziemme tage' of the
Eiffel Tower, only a hundred feet up, the sheer number of stroll-
ers, of pedestrian cruisers, of tourists and of the idly lazy
occupies the whole of one's vista.

Martin Templer leaned heavily on the wrought iron railing of the
restaurant level, soaking up the tranquility of the perfect
Sunday afternoon. He gazed across the budding tree-lined Seine
toward the Champs Elyse 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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