"Where are you going with that?"
"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."
At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.
"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.
Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real soon. He meant that part. He would call back.
"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.
"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.
"Viruses. Lots of 'em."
"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.
"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."
"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."
"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.
"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded silent agreement.
"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a theme."
"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone knows that. What about these?"
"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa- bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations, but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an executable which is designed to copy itself onto another program."
"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our- selves into the application."
"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk- ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now, the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him that a program could be harmful.
"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some- thing new."
"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth- ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3 years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak, goes too."
"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with antidotes?"
"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it- self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation; in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses. Can't be done."
"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to grasp the importance of what he was hearing.
"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro- gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool- ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi- ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani- gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get them?"
Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I? He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can tell Max. Anything.
"Homosoto."
"What?" asked Max incredulously.
"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.
"Why? What for?"
"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."
"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3 years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to absorb what he was saying.
"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi- ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov- ered power.
"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de- stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi- dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."
"V-Day?"
"Virus Day."
"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"
"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro- grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once. It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act. And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What exactly did Homosoto say?"
Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't mind. He really doesn't.
The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn- apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre the luxury of a respite of calm.
"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden- ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.
"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response fromPierre.
"Well what?"
"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."
"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."
"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the international politic that usually was second nature. He called Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.
"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto hung up.
Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso- to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not be coming until the following morning.
In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before. Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.
"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con- cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a monotone as he sat stiffly.
"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible. You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me, no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph? You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you have another thing coming."
Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.
"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.
Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the door in Pierre's bright red face.
Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected, sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn both positions, just in case.
His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like a happy camper.
"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could burst," Pierre pretended.
"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."
Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.
"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."
"What about Max?"
"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"
Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead? Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.
"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is some kind of joke, right?"
"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down the, well . . .I . . ."
"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.
"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents. He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel, oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've been through . . ."
"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling up in his eyes.
"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put off the offering until . . ."
"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.
"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street will be kind on this . . ."
"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions. He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories, stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course. But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You can't do this to me.
His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang. He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The caller persisted.
"Yes," he breathed into the phone.
"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.
"What?"
"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners oozed over the phone wire.
"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped Royal British snobbery at their best.
"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly. "I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light had been extinguished.
"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.
"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."
"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I won't do it."
"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled threat.
"Why should I?"
"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you murdered your partner for profit."
"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur- dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.
"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence, enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your- self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?"
"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now. There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?
"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the impact resistant plastic cracked.
At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry. What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked with emotional distress.
"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.
"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"
"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me advised . . ."
"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is waiting. Should I get rid of him?"
"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"
"I don't know. He's from personnel."
"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"
"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of an unnecessary burden that could wait.
"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."
"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,Pierre, I'll send him in."
An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about 30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he grasped Pierre's hand.
"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr. Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy- rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages fluently . . ."
Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and your clothes. What may I do for you."
"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"
* * * * *
The financial section of the New York City Times included two pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents, and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper- cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci- dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.
The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max, though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.
* * * * *
Wednesday, September 1New York City
Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not his strong point.
"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.
Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.
Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re- porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.
"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott sounded officious.
"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded accommodating.
"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.
"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.
"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC. Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory, but it was difficult not to play the adversary.
Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that information?"
"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.
"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else, then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone wires conveyed his agitation.
"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?" Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.
"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer figures?"
"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck with the game plan.
"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ." Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.
"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson repeatedly denied any improprieties.
"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the NewYork City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation withWashington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's overspending.
"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male secretary matter of factly asked.
"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young andCredit Suisse."
"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.
"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from the press.
"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up the call. He was belligerent.
"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.
"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.
"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim- idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave away nervousness.
"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in Geneva. Comments, Senator?"
Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan- derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in the Senator's voice.
"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person whospoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle untilRickfield spoke.
"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"
"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.
Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he continued to be amazed.
From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That was in my private files . . ."
Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.
The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list. Useless.
Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea- sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.
Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.
Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was. He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source, with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed that for the next time he got lawyered.
When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order. Keep digging.
"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead- line."
Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.
"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."
"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.
"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."
"Then say so. But say something."
****************************************************************
Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to AmericaBy Scott Mason
Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the headline. In this case the words are borrowed from a story title in last week's National Expose, that most revered of journalistic publications which distributes half truths and tortured conclu- sions from publicity seeking nobodies.
The title should more appropriately be something like,
"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or
"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or
"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"
According to computer experts, this Columbus Day, October 12, will mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous Columbus Day Virus. As for the last several years, that is the anticipated date for a highly viral computer virus to 'explode'. The history behind the headline reads from an Ian Fleming novel.
In late 1988, a group of West German hackers and computer pro- grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput- er virus. As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is an unsolicited and unwanted computer program whose sole purpose is to wreak havoc in computers. Either by destroying important files or otherwise damaging the system.
We now know that that these Germans are part of an underground group known as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer Hackers Against Open Systems, whatever the heck that means. They work to promote computer systems disruption worldwide.
In March of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted an international conference of computer programmers. Are you ready for the name? Intergalactic Hackers Conference. Some members were aware of the planned virus. As a result of the negative publicity hackers have gotten over the last few years, the Conference issued a statement disavowing the propagation and creation of computer viruses. All very honorable by a group of people whose sole purpose in life is to invade the privacy of others. But, that's what they said.
Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings. In other words, files and programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted by this disreputable band, and the infections began spreading.
The first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred in 1989, and caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc- tion of data banks and system protection.
Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread and that some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate over a period of years. The Columbus Day Virus is called by its creators, the "Data Crime Virus", a name befitting its purpose. When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by that time, it's too late. Your computer is kaput!
What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing than the hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the media has given it, each and every year since 1989.
The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds of newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other reputable media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a great deal of attention on this anticipated technological Arma- geddon.
Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus issue and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by Virus Busters. Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas commented, "I have never seen a virus in 20 years. I've heard about them but really think they are a figment of the media's imagination."
Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti- dotes. Virus Busting Sean McCullough, President of The Virus Institute in San Jose, California thinks that most viruses are harmless and users and companies overreact. "There have been no more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few years. They spread more by rumor than by infection." When asked how he made his living, he responded, "I sell antidotes to computer viruses." Does he make a good living? "I can't keep up with the demand," he insists.
The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for good reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch is planned. Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus makers use as the intended date of destruction. According to an official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security experts to make sure that their systems are " . . .clean and free from infection. It's a purely precautionary move, we are not worried. The launch will continue as planned."
Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and dangerous, but that chances of infection are low. As one highly respected computer specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus is a low risk high consequence possibility. I don't recommend any panic." Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses? "Abso- lutely. I can't risk losing my computers."
Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my computer never needs Tylenol.
* * * * *
Scarsdale, New York.
The Conrail trains were never on time.
Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York into Grand Central Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours when the feder- ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.
The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an upscale version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the Scarsdale train station. He bought a large styrofoam cup full of decent black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind newsman before boarding the express train. Non-stop to Harlem, and then on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.
Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his silver BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a perfectly good Ford Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he needed a car in New York. He was one of the few black commuters from the affluent bedroom community and his size made him more conspicuous than his color.
Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning you see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their way to the Big Apple. The morning commute is a personal solace for many. Your train buddy knows if you got laid and by whom. If you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway, your train buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife. Train buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes first.
While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning route since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends since their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club 10 years ago. Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites; Maggie, a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene, the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three daugh- ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The attachment between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.
The physical contrast between the two was comical at times. Duncan was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had let his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott, small and wiry was 10 years Ty's junior. On weekends they played on a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age was thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out maneuvered Ty- rone's bulk.
During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits he had made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans, sneakers and T-Shirt of choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the usually jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a hair- cut.
Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train pulled out of the open air station.
"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.
Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.
"That shirt," Ty smirked. "A lesson in how to make friends and influence people."
"Oh, this?" Scott looked down at the words on his chest:
I'm O.K.You're A Shithead.
"It only offends them that oughta be offended."
"Shitheads?"
"Shitheads."
"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."
"My mother," groused Scott. "VCR lessons." Ty didn't under- stand.
"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd and ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a couple of weeks later I went over to her place and I asked how she liked the VCR. She didn't answer, so I asked again and she mumbled that she hadn't used it yet. I fell down," Scott laughed out loud.
"'Why?' I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it sitting next to her TV for a couple of months before she used it." Tyrone caught a case of Scott's roaring laughter.
"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone. "And you an engineer?"
"Hey," Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a light- bulb." They laughed until Scott could speak. "So last night I went over for her weekly VCR lesson."
"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled, "trust- ing a machine to do something right, when you're not around to make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They don't believe it works."
"It's a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly. "It tests my ability to reduce things to the basics. The real basics. Trying to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like trying to get a square ball bearing to roll."
Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He couldn't imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity of either 'on' or 'off'. But he welcomed the tangent conversa- tions that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how the VCR could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch another channel at the same time.
Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR, cleared its memory and 'Twelved' the clock an hour before he arrived to show her how to use it. And after he left, she repro- grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his next visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would have ruined her little game and the ritual starting point for their private talks.
"By the way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are you and Arlene doing Sunday night?"
"Sunday? Nothing, why?" Tyrone asked innocently.
"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of you . . ."
"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.
"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."
"Forget it." Tyrone said stubbornly. "Not after what happened last time. I don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of your mother. She scared the living shit out of her . . .and I have my doubts."
"Relax," Scott said calmly. "It's just her way of keeping busy.Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."
"And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband from the dead," said Scott with exaperation. "I don't care what you say, that's not normal. I like your mother, but, well, Arlene has put her foot down." Tyrone shuddered at the thought of that evening. No one could explain how the wooden shutters blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as his wife did, to pretend it never happened.
"Hey," Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. "I see you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"Don't give me that innocent shit. I'm a trained professional," Tyrone joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to Scott's Christopher Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces have been raising a few eyebrows down at the office. Seems you have better sources than we do. Our Computer Fraud division has been going nuts recently."
"Glad you can read." Scott enjoyed the compliment. "Just a job, but I gotta story much more interesting. I can't publish it yet, though."
"Why?"
"Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be- lieve it?" Scott teased Tyrone. "Besides, blackmail is so, so personal."
Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. "What blackmail?" The frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of their respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a measured professional distance. The years of dedication invested in their friendship, even after to everyones' surprise, Maggie up and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady unneces- sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped to be of concern.
"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into print, but, it's there, I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted to talk.
"Mums the word."
"A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a certain company. I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for approval.
"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.
Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of the apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci- nation as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he was privy.
Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.
"Can I ask you a question?" Tyrone quietly asked.
"Sure. Go for it."
"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"
Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.
"How did you know?" Scott asked suspiciously.
"And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?" Tyrone tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press on this.
Scott could not hide his surprise. "Yeah! And a bunch of others.How'd you know?"
Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. "Lucky guess."
"Bullshit. What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of the lazy commuter.
"Nothing, just a coincidence." Tyrone picked up a newspaper and buried his face behind it.
"Hey, Ty. Talk ol' buddy."
"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.
"As a friend? I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.
Ty snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case in progress."
"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.
"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.
"Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C'mon what's up?"
"Shit, you media types." Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to think. "I'll never know why you became a reporter. You used to be a much nicer pain in the ass before you became so nosy." Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's awkwardness.
Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he realized that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn't read any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi- bility from both Scott and the paper. "Off, off, off the record. Clear?" He was serious.
"Done."
The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat- tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that meant they couldn't be heard either.
"As near as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began. "There's a well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged blackmail. From Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, LA, the works. Small towns to the metros. It's an epidemic and the local and state cops are absolutely buried. They can't handle it, and besides it's way out of their league. So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There's no way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing- ton's going berserk."
"Who's behind it?" Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get a real answer.
"That's the rub. Don't have a clue. Not a clue. There's no pattern, none at all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our informants say they're baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They knew about it before we did. Figures." Tyrone's voice echoed a professional frustration.
"Motives?"
"None. We're stuck."
"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."
The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand Central. Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make their escape to the streets of New York above them. Scott won- dered if any of them were part of Duncan's problems.
"Scott?" Tyrone queried on the escalator.
"Yeah?"
"Not a word, ok?"
Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. "Scott's honor!" That was good enough for Tyrone.
They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both of their eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa- tionalistic headline:
They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.
"Jesus," Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the word. "They're going to make a weekly event of printing every innuendo."
"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott. "The whole blasted lot. And they're printing them." Scott put down the paper. "This makes it a brand new ball game . . ."
"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.
"That's the answer," exclaimed Scott. "The motive. Who's been affected so far?"
"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What's the answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention. "What's the answer?" he whispered up close.
"It's you." Scott noted.
Tyrone expressed surprise. "What do you mean, me."
"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone else. You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay atten- tion to other crimes."
"You're jumping to conclusions." Tyrone didn't follow Scott's reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.
"What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators really have other crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit their real targets. Isn't it possible that the FBI is an unwill- ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger scheme that isn't obvious yet?" Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he saw that Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.
"It's possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't have the words to finish his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field for his linear thinking. "No this is crazy as the time you though that UFO's were invading Westchester in '85. Then there was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine in the water supply . . ."
"That wasn't my fault . . ."
" . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild ass conspiracies you come up with."
Scott dismissed Tyrone's friendly criticism by ignoring the derisions. "As I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim is the FBI. None of the alleged victims have been harmed, other than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the target all along. Scott suggested, "it's as good a theory as any other."
"With what goal?" Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.
"So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to react."
* * * * *
The Federal Bureau of InvestigationFederal Square, Manhattan.
The flat white and glass square building, designed in the '60's, built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri- or. The building had no personality, no character, nothing memorable about it, and that was exactly the way the tenants wanted it.
The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure well guarded mazes held the clues to the locations of an incredible array of computing power, some of the world's best analytical tools, test equipment, forensic labs, communications facilities and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical specialties required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.
The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by the solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos- sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal privacy was another matter, though. Most of the office staff worked out in an open office floorplan. The walls between the guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet- proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving at first, no privacy.
There was a self-imposed class structure between the "bugs", those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads" who worked where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa- ration between the two groups out of necessity; maintain isola- tion between those with differing need-to-know criteria. The most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and unintended competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at different bars. A line that was rarely crossed.
Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher floors are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you worked, the more important you were. To the "airheads", "bugs" tried to see how low they could sink in their acquisition of power while rising up on the Government pay scale.
On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the edge of his large Government issue executive desk to answer his ringing phone. It was Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington based superior and family friend for years.
"No, really. Thanks," Ty smiled. "Bob, we've been through this before. It's all very flattering, but no. I'm afraid not. And you know why. We've been through this all . . ." He was being cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.
"Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as he tried to interrupt the other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll give it some more thought, but don't get your hopes up. It's just not in my cards." He listened again.
"Bob, I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I do. We're both quite content and frankly, I don't need the headaches." He looked around the room as he cocked the earpiece away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.
"Bob, I said I would. I'll call you next week." He paused."Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I understand.Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."
He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won't leave me alone. Let me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the ceiling.
* * * * *
Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat- ing cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were against him ever being accepted into the elite National Police Force. The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had created over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very selective about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan was black.
His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow into his father's footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston's most prestigious law firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the very few rich and influential black families in the North East. His family was labeled "Liberal" when one wasn't ashamed of the moniker.
Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the marches in the South and it was then that he first hand saw prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though. It was hate, it was ignorance and fear. It was so much more than prejudice. It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society con- quered over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its mis- guided myopic traditions.
Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and humidity, decades of racial conflict, several 'Jew Boy Nigger Lovers' were killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the civil rights workers made front page news. The country was out- raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed the crime as a prank, or even congratulated the perpetrators for their actions.
The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se; murder is not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime because the murderers had violated the victims' civil rights. Tyrone thought that that approach was real slick, a nice legal side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the case. When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over- worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and Tyrone spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and per- forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.
On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his despite his father's urging, after law school he would join the FBI.
Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School, passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight. His background check was unassailable except for his family's prominent liberal bent. He had every basic qualification needed to become an FBI Agent. He was turned down.
Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself, blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to 'investi- gate' and determine who or what was pulling the strings. He called FBI personnel and asked why he had been rejected. They mumbled something about 'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'. That was when he realized that he was turned down solely because he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a racial issue stand in his way.
He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during the last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that he was applying for a position as an assistant DA in Boston. Would they mind writing a letter . . .
Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person- nel Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov- er. The four letters of recommendation, which read more like votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI stationary. Tyrone asked the Personnel Director if they would reconsider his application, and that if necessary, he would whitewash his skin.
The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix- up. We misfiled someone else's charts in your files and, well, you understand, I'm sure. It happens all the time. We're sorry for any inconvenience. Would you be available to come in on Monday? Welcome to the FBI.
Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired left wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states for some unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected dirt on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He tried, fairly successfully to stay away from that last kind of work. In Tyrone's not so humble opinion, there were a whole lot more better things for FBI agents to be doing than worry about George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high school kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.
Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot- ed to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious position. This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau. It was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels. The Hoover era was gone.
After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind his desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re- read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.
The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100 people, many of them highly placed leaders of American industry had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call into the FBI is handled in a procedural manner. The agent who takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had for years but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if the caller had significant information, but refused to identify himself, the agent had a reliable method to track down the call- er. Very few people who called the FBI realized that a phone inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events that was complete before the call was over.
The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to the agent. Then the number was crosschecked against files from the phone company. What was the exact location of the caller? To whom was the phone registered? A calling and billing history was made instantly available if required.
If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual, his social security number was retrieved and within seconds of the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information about the caller. Criminal activities, bad credit records; the type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of the call. For business phones, a cross check determined any and all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a determina- tion.
Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation. They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of major corporate movers and shakers. Top American businessmen who, while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI's view, upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but certainly not mad men with a record of making outlandish capricious claims. It was not in their interest to bring attention to themselves.
What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of such calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out into legitimate and solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan sat back thoughtfully.
What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or on April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it a joke? Not likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have they made? Undoubtedly they haven't befriended everyone with whom they have had contact, but what's the connection? Tyrone's mind reeled through a maze of unlikelihoods. Until, the only common element he could think of stared at him right in the face. There was a single dimension of commonality between all of the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.
The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter- ally leapt from his chair for a split second as he caught his breath. The government. No way. Is it possible? I must be missing something, surely. This is crazy. Or is it? Doesn't the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate paranoid thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded his forehead for missing the connection.
Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G- 9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could sell to another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss. The G-9 says, 'I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their share, and it won't cost Uncle Sam a dime!'. His boss says, 'I got a congressional hearing today, I'm too busy. Do some re- search and let me see a report.'
So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government computers and determines that the companies on his hit list aren't necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the big We, Big Brother know, and they'd better shape up.
He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons and the phone numbers are buried, and says something like, 'Big Brother is listening and he doesn't like what he hears.' And he says, 'we'll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in a row' and that scares the shit out of the corporate muckity- mucks.
Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts. Still, is it possible? The government was certainly capable of some pretty bizarre things. He recalled the Phoenix program in Viet Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent civilians were tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths in the distorted hope of making another one talk.
Wasn't Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats were in 1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the President. And the Aquarius project used psychics to locate Soviet Boomers and UFO's. Didn't we give LSD to unsuspecting soldiers to see if they could function adequately under the influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And they became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true. Maybe it was possible. The United States government had actually instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase tax revenues. Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.
The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his daydream speculations.
"Yes?" He answered into space.
"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint- ment. Saunderson is out and so you're elected." Duncan's secre- tary was too damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to someone else. He pushed his intercom button.
"Gimme a second, I gotta primp." That was Tyrone's code that he needed a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and return to Earth to deal with real life problems. As usual, Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.
"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director." She waited for the two men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door behind her.
"Mr. Duncan?" Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent. Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi- ently.