"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 toHiggins. "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 theTimes?"
"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 3First 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.
****************************************************************
Sunday, December 6Washington, 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.
<<<<<
Miles scooted his chair over to NipCom and entered his PRG re- sponse..
Here Boss-san. What's up
Huh?
What are you talking about?
I still don't know what you mean
Oh, that. Good bit of work.
Me, why? I didn't have anything to do with it
Nothing to explain. My group doesn't do that, and even if they did, so what.
Why? It's all in good fun. Let 'em release them all they want.
Bull. If anything, they help us.
Getting folks good and nervous. They're beginning to wonder who they can trust. It sure as hell won't be the government.
So?
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.
There's not much we can do about it.
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.
Who?
Why?
I told you, you can't do that. It's impossible. Call the Arab.
What do you want me to do with them?
I'll see what I can do.
<<<<<
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 BBSOwned and Operated by theInformation Freedom League(Non-profit)
Are You a Member of the IFL? YID: XXXXXXXXXPASSWORD: XXXXXXXX
Pause . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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 illegalfashion or for any illegal purpose will be reported to theComputer 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
Pause . . .
Betch'ure ass. Revere? How's trix?
Trying to make a profit. Hey, we gotta talk.
No whisper.
<
Pause . . .
<
Still here.
Me too.
Couple of days, sure. Some doosies.
A graphics program that kicks the living shit out of VGA Master and Paint Man. Deadly too.
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.
I forget the exact trigger mechanism, but it gives constant parity errors. Nothing'll run.
Also have a few Lotus utilities, a couple of games.
How many?
Anyone sending money?
Shit. That's not what we wanted.
Yeah Yeah Yeah. Need some info.
You hear about the First Bank hacker?
You're kidding
Was it us?
Then who, really?
Care
Since now. Things are heating up too soon. I need to know who pulled the job.
Whoever did it is not likely to advertise it openly. We may need to pull him into the open.
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.
If it's a pro, no. But this doesn't ring of a pro. The news- papers know too much.
Just get me his number and shipping address. Make sure he gets the computer too.
Keep up the good work. Oh, yeah. I need the estimates.
Love it. Peace.
<<<<<
* * * * *
Monday, December 7New 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.
That was unlike Kirk to start a conversation that way.
wtfo
Now it was Scott's turn to be suspicious.
Prove it.
Prove it.
So did half of the crack pots in New York
So were the others.
Good enough. You sound as scared here as you did on the phone.I thought computers didn't have emotion.
OK, what's up.
Who?
How? What?
What did you do?
And?
You sure?
And you think I did something.
Thanks, Why?
Excuse me?
What is?
What did it say?
That doesn't make sense.
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.
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.
Have you called the police.
So I see. Who else knew about your trips through the bank, other than me. I will assume I'm not the guilty party.
No one else?
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?
And you told no one? No one?
What's Freedom?
What do they do?
Is that significant?
Do they make money?
Non-Profit did you say? Are you sure?
What's their number?
So you are from the Coast.
That was an accident. I really don't care.
Maybe it is the right tree.
Never mind. So, you said you told them?
Apparently it did.
Let's say I had something to hide, and let's even say I was FirstState.
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.
Right. Get to them all.
I'm not saying they did. Do you know any of the others who claimed responsibility?
Can you call him?
Don't use Freedom. Is there any other way to contact him? On another BBS?
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?
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?
Answer.
I'm serious.
bLet me ask you a question. How many surrealistic painters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A fish.
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.
I think you should talk to the authorities.
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?
He probably would want a face to face, but I can't say for sure.
So can a lot of people.
A convention?
In other words, reporters are taboo.
Where is this meeting?
Holland?
Why there?
What goes on?
Some name. Is that really what they call it?
Understood. How do I get in, what's it called?
You're kidding. So what do you do to get me in?
That's great, I really appreciate that. Will you be there?
Will anyone talk to me, as a reporter?
Again, thanks. I'll expect your call. And, I'll let you know what my Fed-Friend says about your problem.
<<<<<
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 8Vienna, 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."