"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 perfectCrest 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 MartinTempler.
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 . . .
<<<<<
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
Some things cannot be helped.
It was a difficult hit.
I do not work for Arafat.
Yes, fortunately.
He is in a coma.
It will be done. I promise you.
Yes, it will be done.
<<<<<
Homosoto dialed his computer again, to a number inside Germany.The encryption and privacy keys were automatically set beforeAlex Spiradon's computer answered. To Homosoto's surprise, Alexwas there.
Yes.
He has many reasons to.
We merely gave him the incentive to cooperate. I do not expect that he will maintain his position for very long.
He took a small beating from a couple of papers, but nothing damaging. It's the way Washington works.
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.
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.
We have a conduit.
<<<<<
* * * * *
Sunday, January 10New 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 Failuresby 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 10National 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."
****************************************************************
Monday, January 11Washington, 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 DataNetwork?" The President indicated to continue. "The CentralCollection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over100,000 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 11Approaching 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?"
"Yeah, Can't Remember Shit. Shut up!"
Scott leaned back in his chair sipping away. He had gotten toTy. 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 intoScott'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?" askedScott 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 Iwant 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 12Federal 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.