Tyrone explained as they took an elevator two levels beneath the street that they were going to work with a reconstructionist. A man with a very powerful computer will build up the face that Scott saw, piece by piece. They opened a door that was identi- fied by only a number and entered an almost sterile work place. A pair of Sun workstations with large high resolution monitors sat on large white tables by one wall, with a row of racks of floor to ceiling disk drives and tape units opposite.
"Remember," Tyrone cautioned, "no names."
"Right," said Scott. "No names."
Tyrone introduced Scott to Vinnie who would be running the com- puter. Vinnie's first job was to familiarize Scott with the procedure. Tyrone told Vinnie to call him in his office when they had something;he had other matters to attend to in the meantime. Of obvious Italian descent, with a thick Brooklyn accent, Vinnie Misselli epitomized the local boy making good. His lantern jaw and classic Roman good looks were out of place among the blue suits and white shirts that typified the FBI.
"All I need," Vinnie said, "is a brief description to get things started. Then, we'll fix it piece by piece."
Scott loosely described the Spook. Dark hair, good looking, no noticeable marks and of course, the dimples. The face that Vinnie built was generic. No unique features, just a nose and the other parts that anatomically make up a face. Scott shook his head, no that's not even close. Vinnie seemed undaunted.
"O.K., now, I am going to stretch the head, the overall shape and you tell me where to stop. All right?" Vinnie asked, beginning his manipulation before Scott answered.
"Sure," said Scott. Vinnie rolled a large track ball built into the keyboard and the head on the screen slowly stretched in height and width. The changes didn't help Scott much he but asked Vinnie to stop at one point anyway.
"Don't worry, we can change it later again. How about the eyes?"
"Two," said Scott seriously.
Vinnie gave Scott an ersatz dirty look. "Everyone does it," saidVinnie. "Once." He grinned at Scott.
"The eye brows, they were bushier," said Scott.
"Good. Tell me when." The eyebrows on the face twisted and turned as Vinnie moved the trackball with his right hand and clicked at the keyboard with his left.
"That's close," Scott said. "Yeah, hold it." Vinnie froze the image where Scott indicated and they went on to the hair. "Longer, wavier, less of a part . . ."
They worked for an hour, Vinnie at the computer controls and Scott changing every imaginable feature on the face as it evolved into one with character. Vinnie sat back in his chair and stretched. "How's that," he asked Scott.
Scott hesitated. He felt that he was making too many changes. Maybe this was as close as it got. "It's good," he said without conviction. There was a slight resemblance.
"That's what they all say," Vinnie said. "It's not even close yet." He laughed as Scott looked shocked. "All we've done so far is get the general outline. Now, we work on the details."
For another two hours Scott commented on the subtle changes Vinnie made to the face. Nuances that one never thinks of; the curve of the cheek, the half dozen angles of the chin, the hun- dreds of ear lobes, eyes of a thousand shapes - they went through them all and the face took form. Scott saw the face take on the appearance of the Spook; more and more it became the familiar face he had spent hours with a few days ago.
As he got caught up in the building and discovery process, Scott issued commands to Vinnie; thicken the upper lip, just a little. Higher forehead. He blurted out change after change and Vinnie executed every one. Actually, Vinnie preferred it this way, being given the orders. After all, he hadn't seen the face.
"There! That's the Spook!" exclaimed Scott suddenly.
"You sure?" asked Vinnie sitting back in the plush computer chair.
"Yup," Scott said with assurance. "That's him."
"O.K., let's see what we can do . . ." Vinnie rapidly typed at the keyboard and the picture of the face disappeared. The screen went blank for a few seconds until it was replaced with a 3 dimensional color model of a head. The back of the head turned and the visage of the Spook stared at them both. It was an eerie feeling and Scott shuddered as the disembodied head stopped spinning.
"Take a look at this," Vinnie said as he continued typing. Scott watched the head, Spook's head, come alive. The lips were mov- ing, as though it, he, was trying to speak. "I can give it a voice if you'd like."
"Will that help?" Scott asked.
"Nah, not in this case," Vinnie said,"but it is fun. Let's make sure that we got the right guy here. We'll take a look at him from every angle." The head moved to the side for a left pro- file. "I'll make a couple of gross adjustments, and you tell me if it gets any better."
They went through another hour of fine tuning the 3-D head, modifying skin tones, texture, hair style and a score of other subtleties. When they were done Scott remarked that the image looked more like the Spook than the Spook himself. Incredible. Scott was truly impressed. This is where taxpayer's money went. Vinnie called Tyrone and by the time he arrived, the color photo- graphs and digital maps of the images were ready.
Scott followed Tyrone down one corridor, then another, through a common area, and down a couple more hallways. They entered Room 322B. The innocuous appearance of the door did not prepare Scott for what he saw; a huge computer room, at least a football field in length. Blue and tan and beige and a few black metal cabi- nets that housed hundreds of disparate yet co-existing computers. Consoles with great arrays of switches, row upon row of video and graphic displays as far as the eye could see. Thousands of white two by two foot square panel floors hid miles of wires and cables that interconnected the maze of computers in the under- ground control center. There appeared to be a number of discreet areas, where large computer consoles were centered amidst racks of tape or disk drives which served as the only separation be- tween workers.
"This is Big Floyd," Tyrone said proudly. "Or at least one part of him."
"Who or what is Big Floyd?"
"Big Floyd is a huge national computer system, tied together over the Secure Automated Message Network. This is the most powerful computer facility outside of the NSA."
Quiet conversations punctuated the hum of the disk drives and the clicks of solenoids switching and the printers pushing reams of paper. The muted voices could not be understood but they rang with purpose. The room had an almost reverent character to it; where speaking too loud would surely be considered blasphemous. Scott and Tyrone walked through banks and banks of equipment, more computer equipment than Scott had ever seen in one location. In fact the Federal Square computer center is on the pioneering edge of forensic technology. The NSA computers might have more oomph!, but the FBI computers have more purpose.
Tyrone stopped at one control console and asked if they could do a match, stat. Of course, anything for Mr. Duncan. "RHIP," Tyrone said. Scott recognized the acronym, Rank Has Its Privi- lege. Tyrone gave the computer operator the pictures and asked him to explain the process to Scott.
"I take these pictures and put them in the computer with a scan- ner. The digitized images are stored here," he said pointing at a a rack of equipment. "Then, we enter the subject's general description. Height, physique and so on." He copied the infor- mation into the computer.
"Now we ask the computer to find possible matches."
"You mean the computer has photos of everyone in there?" Scott asked incredulously.
"No, Scott. Just the bad guys, and people with security clear- ances, and public officials? Your Aunt Tillie is safe from Big Brother's prying eyes." The reason for Ty's sarcasm was clear to Scott. Tyrone was not exactly acting in an official capacity on this part of the investigation.
"How many do you have? Pictures that is?" Scott asked more diplo- matically.
"That's classified," Tyrone said quickly.
"The hackers say you have files on over a hundred million people. Is that true?" Scott asked. Tyrone glared at him, as if to say, shut the fuck up. Scott took the non-verbal hint and they watched in silence as the computer whirred searching for similar photo files in its massive memory. Within a couple of minutes the computer said that there were 4 possible matches. At the end of the 10 minute search, it was up to 16 candidates.
"We'll do a visual instead of a second search," said the man behind the keyboard. "We'll start with the 90% matches. There are two of them." A large monitor flashed with a picture of a man, that while not unlike the Spook in features, was definitely not him. The picture was a high quality color photograph.
"No, not him," Scott said without pause. The computer operator hit a couple of keys, a second picture flashed on the monitor and Scott's face lit up. "That's him! That's the Spook!"
Tyrone had wondered if they would find any matches. While the FBI data base was probably the largest in the world, it was unlikely that there was a comprehensive library of teen age hackers. "Are you sure?" Tyrone emphasized the word, 'sure'.
"Positive, yes. That's him."
"Let's have a quick look at the others before we do a full re- trieve," said the computer operator. Tyrone agreed and fourteen other pictures of men with similar facial characteristics to the Spook appeared on the screen, all receiving a quick 'no' from Scott. Spook's picture as brought up again and again Scott said, "that's him."
"All right, Mike," Tyrone said to the man running the computer, "do a retrieve on OBR-III." Mike nodded and stretched over to a large printer on the side of the console. He pushed a key and in a few seconds, the printer spewed out page after page of informa- tion. OBR-III is a super-secret computer system designed to fight terrorism in the United States. OBR-III and Big Floyd regularly spoke to similar, but smaller, systems in England, France and Germany. With only small bits of data it can extrapo- late potential terrorist targets, and who is the likely person behind the attacks. OBR-III is an expert system that learns continuously, as the human mind does. Within seconds it can provide information on anyone within its memory.
Tyrone pulled the first page from the printer before it was finished and read to himself. He scanned it quickly until one item grabbed his attention. His eyes widened. "Boy, when you pick 'em, you pick 'em." Tyrone whistled.
"What, what?" Scott strained to see the printout, but Tyrone held it away.
"It's no wonder he calls himself Spook," Tyrone said to no one in particular. "He's ex-NSA." He ripped off the final page of the printout and called Scott to follow him, cursorily thanking the computer operators for their assistance.
Scott followed Tyrone to an elevator and they descended to the fifth and bottom level, where Tyrone headed straight to his office with Scott in tow. He shut the door behind him and showed Scott a chair.
"There's no way I should be telling you this, but I owe you, I guess, and, anyway, maybe you can help." Tyrone rationalized showing the information to Scott - both a civilian and a report- er. He may have questioned the wisdom, but not the intent. Besides, as had been true for several weeks, everything Scott learned from Tyrone Duncan was off the record. Way off. For now.
The Spook's real name was Miles Foster. Scott scanned the file. A lot of it was government speak and security clearance inter- views for his job at NSA. An entire life was condensed into a a few files, covering the time from when he was born to the time he resigned from the NSA. Scott found much of his life boring and he really didn't care that Miles' third grade teacher remembered him as being a "good boy". Or that his high school counselor though he could go a long way.
"This doesn't sound like the Spook I know," Scott said after glancing at the clean regimented life and times of Miles Foster.
"Did you expect it to?" asked Ty.
"I guess I never thought about it. I just figured it would be a regular guy, not a real spook for the government."
"Shit happens."
"So I see. Where do we go from here?" Scott asked in awe of the technical capabilities of the FBI.
"How 'bout a sanity check?" Tyrone asked. "When were you inAmsterdam?"
"Last week, why?"
Tyrone sat behind his computer and Scott noticed that his fingers seemed almost too fat to be of much good. "If I can get this thing to work, let's see where's the Control Key?" Scott gazed on as Tyrone talked to himself while working the keyboard and reading the screen. "Foster, Airline, Foreign, ah, the dates," he looked up at a large wall calendar. "All right . . .shit . . .Delete . . . OK, that's it."
"What are you doing?" asked Scott.
"Just want to see if your boy really was in Europe with you."
"You don't believe me!" shouted Scott.
"No, I believe you. But I need some proof, dig?" Tyrone said."If he's up to something we need to find out what, step by step.You should know that."
"Yeah, I do," Scott resigned. "It's just that I'm not normally the one being questioned. Know what I mean?"
"Our training is more . . .well, it's a moot point now. Your Mr. Foster flew to Amsterdam and then back to Washington the next day. I believe I have some legwork ahead of me. I would like to learn a little more about Mr. Miles Foster."
Scott talked Tyrone into giving him a copy of one of the images of Miles aka Spook. He was hoping that Kirk would call him tonight. In any case, Scott needed to buy an image scanner if Kirk was going to be of help. When he got home, he made room on his personal nightmare, his desk, for the flatbed scanner, then played with it for several hours, learning how to scan an image at the right sensitivity, the correct brightness and reflectivity for the proper resolution. He learnd to bring a picture into the computer and edit or redraw the picture. Scott scanned the picture of the Spook into the computer and enjoyed adding mous- taches, subtracting teeth and stretching the ears.
At midnight, on the button, Scott's computer beeped. It wasKirk.
You got my message.
I didn't want to miss.
First of all, I want a better way to contact you, since I assume you won't tell me who you are.
So you're in New York?
Ah, call forwarding. I could get the address of the phone and trace you down.
And why not may I ask?
Right. You're absolutely right.
I met with the Spook.
The conference was great, but I need to know more. I've just been sniffing around the edges and I can't smell what's in the oven.
I have picture of him for you. I scanned it.
I'll send you SPOOK.PIX. Let me know what you think.
Scott chose the file and issued the command to send it to Kirk. While it was being sent they couldn't speak, and Scott learned how long it really takes to transmit a digital picture at 2400 baud. He got absorbed in a magazine and almost missed the mes- sage on the computer.
Yes it is. I met him.
C'mon, you've got to be putting me on. I travel 3000 miles for an impostor?
Then who is it?
Just thought I'd ask . . .
Deep shit, and I need your help.
No, he's not here, honest. I have an idea, and you're gonna think it's nuts, I know. But I have to ask you for a couple of favors.
The Freedom League. I need to know as much about it as I can, without anyone knowing that I want the information. Is that possible?
Well that brings up the second favor. dGraph. Do you own it?
Can't you guys take apart a program to see what makes it tick?
Then I would like to ask if you would look at the dGraph program and see if it has a virus in it?
****************************************************************
Wednesday, January 13New York City
No Privacy for Mere Citizensby Scott Mason.
I learned the other day, that I can find out just about anything I want to know about you, or her, or him, or anyone, for a few dollars, a few phone calls and some free time.
Starting with just an automobile license plate number, the De- partment of Motor Vehicles will be happy to supply me with a name and address that go with the plate. Or I can start with a name, or an address or just a phone number and use a backwards phone book. It's all in the computer.
I can find more about you by getting a copy of the your auto registration and title from the public records. Marriage licenses and divorces are public as well. You can find out the damnedest things about people from their first or second or third marriage records. Including the financial settlements. Good way to determine how much money or lack thereof is floating around a healthy divorce.
Of course I can easily find all traffic offenses, their disposi- tion, and any follow up litigation or settlements. It's all in the computer. As there are public records of all arrests, court cases, sentences and paroles. If you've ever been to trial, the transcripts are public.
Your finances can be scrupulously determined by looking up the real estate records for purchase price, terms, cash, notes and taxes on your properties. Or, if you've ever had a bankruptcy, the sordid details are clearly spelled out for anyone's inspec- tion. It's all in the computer.
I can rapidly build an excellent profile of you, or whomever. And, it's legal. All legal, using the public records available to anyone who asks and has the $2.
That tells me, loud and clear, that I no longer have any privacy!None!
Forget the hackers; it's bad enough they can get into our bank accounts and our IRS records and the Census forms that have our names tied to the data. What about Dick and Jane Doe, Everyman USA, who can run from agency to agency and office to office put together enough information about me or you to be dangerous.
I do not think I like that.
It's bad enough the Government can create us or destroy us as individuals by altering the contents of our computer files deep inside the National Data Bases. At least they have a modicum of accountability. However, their inattentive disregard for the privacy of the citizens of this country is criminal.
As a reporter I am constantly amazed at how easy it is to find out just about anything about anybody, and in many ways that openness has made my job simpler. However, at the same time, I believe that the Government has an inherent responsibility to protect us from invasion of privacy, and they are derelict in fulfilling that promise.
If the DMV needs to know my address, I understand. The IRS needs to know my income. Each computer unto itself is a necessary repository to facilitate business transactions. However, when someone begins to investigate me, crossing the boundaries of multiple data bases, without question, they are invading my privacy. Each piece of information found about me may be insig- nificant in itself, but when combined, it becomes highly danger- ous in the wrong hands. We all have secrets we want to remain secrets. Under the present system, we have sacrificed our priva- cy for the expediency of the machines.
I have a lawyer friend who believes that the fourth amendment is at stake. Is it, Mr. President?
This is Scott Mason, feeling Peered Upon.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 13Atlanta, Georgia
First Federal Bank in Atlanta, Georgia enjoyed a reputation of treating its customers like royalty. Southern Hospitality was the bank's middle name and the staff was trained to provide extraordinary service. This morning though, First Federal's customers were not happy campers. The calls started coming in before 8:00 A.M.
"My account is off $10," "It doesn't add up," "My checkbook won't balance." A few calls of this type are normal on any given day, but the phones were jammed with customer complaints. Hun- dreds of calls streamed in constantly and hundreds more never got through the busy signals. Dozens of customers came into the local branches to complain about the errors on their statement.
An emergency meeting was held in the Peachtree Street headquar- ters of First Federal. The president of the bank chaired the meeting. The basic question was, What Was Going On? It was a free for all. Any ideas, shoot 'em out.
How many calls? About 4500 and still coming in. What are the dates of the statements? So far within a couple of days, but who knows what we'll find. What are you asking people to do? Double check against their actual checks instead of the register. Do you really think that 5000 people wake up one morning and all make the same mistakes? Do you have any other ideas? Then what? If they don't reconcile, bring 'em in and we'll pull the fiche.
What do the computer people say? They think there may be an error. That's bright. If the numbers are adding up wrong, how do we balance? Have no idea. Do they add up in our favor? Not always. Maybe 50/50 so far. Can we fix it? Yes. When? I don't know yet. Get some answers. Fast. Yessir.
The bank's concerns mounted when their larger customers found discrepancies in the thousands and tens of thousands of dollars. As the number of complaints numbered well over 10,000 by noon, First Federal was facing a crisis. The bank's figures in no way jived with their customer's records and the finger pointing began.
The officers contacted the Federal Reserve Board and notified them. The Board suggested, strongly, that the bank close for the remainder of the day and sort it out before it got worse. First Federal did close, under the guise of installing a new computer system, a lie that might also cover whatever screwed up the statements. Keep that option open. They kept answering the phones, piling up the complaints and discovering that thus far there was no pattern to the errors.
By mid-afternoon, they at least knew what to look for. On every statement a few checks were listed with the incorrect amounts and therefore the balance was wrong. For all intent and purpose, the bank had absolutely no idea whose money was whose.
Working into the night the bank found that all ledgers balanced, but still the amounts in the accounts were wrong. What are the odds of a computer making thousands of errors and having them all balance out to a net zero difference? Statistically it was impossible, and that meant someone altered the amounts on pur- pose. By midnight they found that the source of the error was probably in the control code of the bank's central computing center.
First Federal Bank did not open for business Thursday. Or Fri- day.
First Federal Bank was not the only bank to experience profound difficulties with it's customers. Similar complaints closed down Farmer's Bank in Des Moines, Iowa, Lake City Bank in Chicago, First Trade in New York City, Sopporo Bank in San Francisco, Pilgrim's Trust in Boston and, as the Federal Reserve Bank would discover, another hundred or so banks in almost every state.
The Department of the Treasury reacted quickly, spurred into action by the chairman of Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C. Being one of the oldest banks in the country, and the only one that could claim having a personal relationship with Alexander Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, it still carried political weight.
The evening network and local news stations covered the situation critically. Questions proliferated but answers were hard to come by. The largest of the banks and the government announced that a major computer glitch had affected the Electronic Funds Trans- fers which had inadvertently caused the minor inconsistencies in some customer records.
The press was extremely hard on the banks and the Fed Reserve and the Treasury. They smelled a coverup, a lie; that they and the public were not being told the truth, or at least all of it. Only Scott Mason and a couple of other reporters speculated that a computer virus or time bomb was responsible. Without any evidence though, the government and the banks vigorously denied any such possibilities. Rather, they developed a convoluted story of how one money transaction affects another and then another. The domino theory of banking was explained to the public in graphs and charts, but an open skepticism prevailed.
Small businesses and individual banking customers were totally shut off from access to their funds. Tens of thousands of auto- matic tellers were turned off by their banks in the futile hope of minimizing the damage. Estimates were that by evening, almost 5 million people had been estranged from their money.
Rumors of bank collapse and a catastrophic failure of the banking system persisted. The Stock Market, operating at near full capacity after November's disaster, reacted to the news with a precipitous drop of almost 125 points before trading was suspend- ed, cutting off thousands more from their money.
The International Monetary Fund convened an emergency meeting as the London and Tokyo stock markets reacted negatively to the news. Wire transfers and funds disbursements were ceased across all state and national borders.
Panic ensued, and despite the best public relations efforts, the Treasury imposed financial sanctions on all savings and checking accounts. If the banks opened on Friday, severe limits would be placed on access to available funds. Checks would be returned or held until the emergency was past.
Nightline addressed the banking crisis in depth. The experts debated the efficiency of the system and that possibly an unfore- seen overload had occurred, triggering the events of the day. No one suggested that the bank's computers had been compromised.
* * * * *
New York City Times
"Yes, it is urgent."
"What is this about?
"That is for the Senator's ears only."
"Can you hold for . . ."
"Yes, yes. I've been holding for an hour. Go on." Muzak inter- pretations of Led Zeppelin greeted Scott Mason as he was put on hold. Again. Good God! They have more pass interference in the front office and on the phones than the entire NFL. He waited.
At long last, someone picked up the other end of the phone. "I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Mason, it has been rather hectic as you can imagine. How are you faring?" Senator Nancy Deere true to form, always projected genuine sincerity.
"Fine, fine, thank you, Senator. The reason for my call is rather, ah . . .sensitive."
"Yes?" she asked politely.
"Well, the fact is, Senator, we cannot discuss it, that is, I don't feel that we can talk about this on the phone."
"That makes it rather difficult, doesn't it," she laughed weakly.
"Simply put, Senator . . . "
"Please call me Nancy. Both my friends and enemies do."
"All right, Nancy," Scott said awkwardly. "I need 15 minutes of your time about a matter of national security and it directly concerns your work on the Rickfield Committee." She winced at the nick name that the hearing had been given. "I can assure you, Senator, ah, Nancy, that I would not be bothering you unless I was convinced of what I'm going to tell you. And show you. If you think I'm nuts, then fine, you can throw me out."
"Mr. Mason, that's enough," Nancy said kindly. "Based upon your performance at the hearing the other day, that alone is enough to make me want to shake your hand. As for what you have to say? I pride myself on being a good listener. When would be convenient for you?"
"The sooner the better," Scott said with obvious relief that he hadn't had to sell her.
"How's . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?"
"That's fine, perfect. We'll see you tomorrow then."
"We?" Nancy picked up the plural reference.
"Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I'm not crazy alone."
* * * * *
FBI, New York
"I'll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then,"Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone.
"Ty, I've been on your side and defended you since I came on board, you know that." Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. "But on this one, I have no control. You've been poking into areas that don't concern you, and I'm catching heat."
"I'm working on one damn case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it keeps on touching this fucking blackmail fiasco and it's getting on everyone's nerves. There's a lot more to this than ransoms and hackers and I've been having some luck. I'll show you what I have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets."
"I'll be there. Ty," Burnson said kindly. "I don't know the specifics, but you've been shaking the tree. I hope it's worth it."
"It is, Bob. I'd bet my ass on in."
"You are."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 14Walter Reed Medical Center
"How is he doing?" Scott asked.
"He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of Walter Reed's hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi- cians. "In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest wound is nasty, but that's not the danger; it's the head wound. The brain is a real funny area."
Tyrone's FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage- ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre's most recent assailant was murdered, despite the police assigned to guard his room. Two of Ahmed's elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well that they weren't suspected when one went in the room and the other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day.
All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of theD.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatzorderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate inArabic. "It's done. Let's get out of here."
The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on the pair. One of Ahmed's men tried to pull his gun but was shot and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way. He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He never slowed, shouting "Allah, I am yours!" as he dove through the plate glass window plummeting five floors to the concrete walk below.
The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth- ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter.
The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be another attempt on Pierre's life, so the secrecy surrounding his faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with it.
Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms. "Basically, we don't know enough to accurately predict the ef- fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un- known. Then there are head injuries that we can't fully explain, and Pierre's is one of them."
Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. "Pierre had a severe trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated." Scott shud- dered at the distinct memory of the gore. "Since he was in a coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con- sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory and other possible effects. That's how we do it in the brain business."
"So, how is he?" Scott wanted a bottom line.
"He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can't find any problems that stem from the head injury."
"That's amazing," said Scott. "I saw the . . ."
"It is amazing," agreed Dr. Kelly, "but not all that rare. There are many references in the literature where severe brain damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy's forehead. He was still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we'll be lucky."
"Can we see him?" Scott asked the Irish doctor assigned to repair Pierre Troubleaux.
"He's awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let the chest wound heal than his head," Dr. Kelly replied.
Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed. Absolute identification was required every time someone entered the room and it took two phone calls to verify the identities of Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr. Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to thank Scott for saving his life.
Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka- bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don't drink the IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained much of his famed humor.
"I want to thank you," Pierre said in jest, "for putting the value of my life in proper perspective."
Scott's cheeks pushed up his glasses from the deep smile that Pierre's words caused. He hadn't realized that Pierre had been conscious. Tyrone looked confused.
"I begged him not to die," laughed Scott, "because it wouldn't look good on my resume."
"And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request."
After suffering enough embarrassment by compliments, Scott asked Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term karmic debt here, thought Scott.
"I need to understand something," said Scott. Pierre nodded, what?
"You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but, well, I guess that's the question. What did you mean?"
"You're right. Yes," Pierre said softly but firmly. "That's whatI was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess."
"Confess?" Tyrone asked. "To what?"
"To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it happen."
"So you did infect your own software. Why?" Scott demanded.
Pierre shook his head back and forth. "No, I didn't do it. I had no control."
"Then who did?"
"Homosoto and his people."
"Homosoto? Chairman of OSO?" Scott shrieked. "You're out of your mind, no offense."
"I wish I were. Homosoto took over my company and killed Max."
* * * * *
The New Senate Office BuildingWashington, D.C.
"The Senator will see you now," said one of Senator Deere's aides. Scott and Tyrone entered her office which was decorated more in line with a woman's taste than the heavy furniture men prefer. She stood to greet them.
"Gentlemen," Nancy Deere said shaking their hands. "I know that you're with the New York City Times, Mr. Mason. I took the liberty of reading some of your work. Interesting, controver- sial. I like it." She offered them chairs at an informal seat- ing area on one end of the large office.
"And you are?" she said to Ty. He told her. "I take it this is official?"
"At this point ma'am, we just need to talk, and get your reac- tions," Ty said.
"He's having labor management troubles." Scott thought that was the perfect diplomatic description.
"I see," Nancy said. "So right now this meeting isn't happening."
"Kind of like that," Ty said.
"And him?" She said cocking her head at Scott.
"It's his story, I'm just his faithful sidekick with a few of the pieces."
"Well then," Nancy said amused with the situation. "Please, I am all ears." She and Tyrone looked at Scott, waiting.
How the hell was he going to tell a U.S. Senator that an organ- ized group of anarchistic hackers and fanatic Moslem Arabs were working with a respected Japanese industrialist and building computer viruses. He couldn't figure out any eloquent way to say it, so he just said it, straight, realizing that the summa- tion sounded one step beyond absurd. All things considered, Scott thought, she took it very well.
"I assume you have more than a headline?" Senator Deere said after a brief, polite pause.
Scott proceeded to describe everything that he had learned, the hackers, Kirk, Spook, the CMR equipment, his articles being pulled, the First State and Sidneys situation. He told her about the anonymous documents he had thus far been unable to use. Except for one which he would use today. Scott also said that computer viruses would fully explain the banking crisis.
Tyrone outlined the blackmail cases he suspected were diversion- ary tactics for another as yet unknown crime, and that despite more than $40 millions in payoffs had been arranged, no one had showed to collect.
"Ma'am," Tyrone said to Senator Deere. "I fought to get into the Bureau, and I made it through the good and the bad. And, I always knew where I stood. Akin, I guess to the political winds that change every four years." She nodded. "But now, there's something wrong." Nancy tilted her head waiting for Ty to con- tinue.
He spoke carefully and slowly. "I have never been the paranoid type; I'm not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It's almost like I'm not supposed to find out what's happening. I get no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions."
"So why come to me?" Nancy asked. "You're the police."
"Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?" Scott askedNancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone.
"Alive? How's that possible?" She too, had heard the news. They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre's prognosis brightened Nancy attitude.
"But, it's not all good news. It appears, that every single copy of dGraph, that's a . . ."
"I know dGraph," she said quickly. "It's part of the job.Couldn't live without it."
"Well, ma'am, it's infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has effectively held Pierre hostage since."
The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response. Nancy Deere's jaw fell limp. "That is the most unbelievable, incredible . . .I don't know what to say."
"I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet," said Tyrone.
"There are a few friends of mine working to see if dGraph really is infected." Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the implications.
"What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?" She thirsted for more hard information.
"I'm no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I'm not stupid either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies." Nancy main- tained rapt attention as Scott continued . "Therefore, I would venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect- ed."
Scott paused as Nancy's eyes widened.
"Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is getting ready to self destruct." Scott sounded certain and final.
"I can't comprehend this, this is too incredible." Senator Deere shook her head in disbelief. "What will happen?"
"Pierre doesn't know what the viruses do, he's not a programmer. He's just a figurehead," Scott explained. "Now, if I had to guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep those viruses from exploding."
"One man's word is an indictment, not a conviction," Nancy said soberly.
"There's more," Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott. "We've learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to make sense of it all." He slid forward in his chair. "We know that Scott's hacker's name is Miles Foster and he's tied up with the Amsterdam group, but we don't how yet. We also know that he is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the Fort." Nancy understood the implication.
"When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone- walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now they're retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don't know why." Tyrone shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense."
"At any rate," Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, "I checked into his background since he left the Agency in '87. He went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit." Nancy Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker face. "We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna- tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody's guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a Tokyo travel agency, but we can't determine who paid for them."
"Seventeen times?" asked the Senator.
"Yes ma'am. Curious."
"How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?" she asked dubiously.
"We have our means. I can't get into that now." Tyrone held the party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel, credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power, entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants unconscionable.
"I have no doubt," she said caustically.
"There's more." Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which impressed Nancy. "The case concerning Max Jones' death is being reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in making his predecessor look bad." Tyrone spoke without the emotion that drove Scott.
"So what does this prove?" she asked.
"It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones died."
Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which only provided a view of another office building across the street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.
"Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled GeneralYoung: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearingon the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you andRickfield don't see eye to eye."
Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that described the illicit relationship between General Young and Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.
"Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly.
"No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two and two and, well, it does raise some questions."
"I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious to answer."
* * * * *
6 P.M., Washington, D.C.
"Who the hell are you pissing off and why?" Bob Burnson metTyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street fromTreasury at 6:00 PM.
Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and reluctantly accepted that for Scott's assistance in Tyrone's investigation he would get an exclusive.
For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew, just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems. "I've been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don't forget our midnight rendezvous."
Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?
"What are you planning?" Bob asked them both.
"Scott's going after Homosoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get a few answers."
"And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too."
"Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean. There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think it's about time to turn a few screws."
"Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's button you're pushing has pushed the Director's, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink on shit. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi- cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the work while our asses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A perfect case of CYA."
"But?" Tyrone suggested.
"But," Bob said, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A Government approved horse shit here, but I'll be fucked if know why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage stuff."
"They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid crimes," Tyrone said defiantly.
"Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen. "Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob.
"The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick for my blood. I hope you understand."
"Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks."
* * * * *
Friday, January 15New York City
Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until 10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough commute.
He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to pass on to his audience.
At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd. Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th. Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.
Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He passed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home.
By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the conversations from their police band radios.
At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city.
Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight - a massive traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At 8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians nervously slipped in and around the chaos.
Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown from an airplane. The traffic computers.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus- sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed.
The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad- cast System so they could communicate with the half million drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat- tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen- tial government services were shut down for the day.
The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the National Guard was called to assist the local police. Sonja compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Sonja?"
"Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?"Sonja sipped her coffee.
"It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly.
"Something wrong?" Sonja asked.
"I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you."Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to ScottMason any more. I'm getting out."
"Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion.
"I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange- ments. You know what I mean?"
"Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it. She had not suspected that it would be for passion, nor because of one of her 'dates'.
"Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything. He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with him."
"That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in common."
"Scott should be down tonight."
"That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we can put this behind us."
* * * * *
New York City
The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch- es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began manually loading the software that controlled each region's switches in the hope of piecing together the grid.
At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date, the time, anticipated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew that it was only the primary sync-control program which was corrupted.
The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M.. The official explanation was a massive computer failure, which was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital. Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder among other assorted crimes. All they had to do was find him.
* * * * *
New York City
Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that he needed an international clock to figure out when to call Japan during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO switchboard, he had to pass scrutiny by three different opera- tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to the English language. He told Homosoto's secretary, whose Eng- lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was patched through almost immediately.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes."
"This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling from New York. How are you today?"
"Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" Homosoto was obviously the gratuitous sort when it came to the press.
"We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs. Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as possible under the circumstances.
No answer.
"Sir? Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes?"
"We are also interested in your relationship with Miles Foster.Mr. Homosoto?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer viruses?"
No answer.
"Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in theUnited States?"
"I should have killed him."
"What?" Scott strained his ear.
"Mr. Troubleaux is alive?"
"I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On anything?"
"I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead.
Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial.
****************************************************************
Saturday, January 16Tokyo, Japan
Dressed as business-like on the weekend as during the week, Taki Homosoto sat at his regal techno-throne overlooking the Tokyo skyline from his 66th floor vista. It was time. Years of prepa- ration and millions of dollars later, it was time. Perhaps a little earlier than he would have liked, but the result would be the same anyway.
The first call Homosoto made was to Ahmed Shah in his Columbia University office. Ahmed responded with his PRG code as the computer requested.
<<<<<
I can't get too far without my man-servant.
Yes. It took two martyrs, one is being tortured by the FBI, but he has Allah to guide him.
I am at your disposal. This is not the war I expected, but I serve Allah's will, and he is using you as his instrument of revenge.
You speak strangely. Is something wrong?
Of course, that is the arrangement. But what has changed?
As am I.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon relaxed in his Alpine aerie home overlooking the hilly suburbs of Zurich while watching a satellite feed of the Simpson's on his TV. He found that he learned American colloquialisms best from American television. They brutalized the language under the guise of entertainment. During a commer- cial for 'The Quicker Picker Upper', his computer announced a call.
He put the VCR on Quick-Record and sat at his Compaq Deskpro com- puter watching the screen display the incoming identification.
<<<<<
<
Alex entered the code displayed on his personal identification card.