Sunday, November 29
Columbia University, New York
The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In
contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite wisdom, had
put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the
McDonalds' window prominent.
Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba-
cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as
much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great
War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in
the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan,
3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to
his computer that was always on.
C:\cd protalk
C:\PROTALK\protalk
He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk
communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no
stop bits.
<<<<<<DIALING>>>>>>
The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and
redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another
number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was
accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It
was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste
of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming
to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to
life and displayed
PASSWORD:
Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.
CRYPT KEY:
He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the
privacy of his conversations.
<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>
That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be
there to answer.
Good Morning. I have some news.
NEWS?
We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.
PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.
One of the readers is gone.
HOW? CAPTURED?
No, the Americans aren't that smart. He died in a
car crash.
WILL THIS HURT US?
No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But
we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.
THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?
A martyr.
CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?
He had false identification. They will learn
nothing.
BE SURE THEY DON'T. DESTROY THE CAR.
They can learn nothing. Why?
IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US.
HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?
I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.
DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?
It would not matter if they did. They are loyal.
The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the
Americans who died eating their breakfasts.
GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.
It will be done.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>
* * * * *
Monday, November 30
New York City
The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and
the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a
deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard
the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the
firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost
the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three
or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc-
ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed
as per Homosoto's order. The explosion that had caused the fire
was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was
placed with that obscure fact.
Ben Shellhorne noticed, though. Wasn't that the van that Scott
Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even
if on police property was not a particularly interesting story,
at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had
promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.
"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal
office phones.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It's gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.
Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty
hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He
decided to play it cool.
"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the
tubes."
"Know whatcha mean."
Scott called Tyrone at his office.
"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.
"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The
message would be obvious.
"So?"
"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.
Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to
know."
"Thanks." The phone went dead.
Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound
station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about,
many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.
With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate
forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what
was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid
of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine,
take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers
ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging
Feds.
* * * * *
Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's
National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express
by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo-
mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They
wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and
found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan
was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read
'Burnson'.
He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on
"P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse
looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent
Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not
only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he
worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far
from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.
An older, matronly lady answered the door.
"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few
accidental tourists who rang the bell.
"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri-
weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this
location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room,
where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double-
checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The
marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but
nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He
looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,
formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain
portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone
pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.
An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a
dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge
provided by the opened bookcase.
The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he
entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over-
sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The
room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a
Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz
cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was
simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript
modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black
trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit-
ted.
His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.
The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near
as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue
suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their
hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded
Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only
afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a
decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck
to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the
men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New
Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli-
tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to
secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.
"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous-
ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others
present.
"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He
had been ordered to this command performance.
"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our
CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson,
assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc-
torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on
Government time."
Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than
Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the
rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P
Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose
and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed
the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement
in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost
on time. Enough of the niceties.
"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you
were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat-
ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched
Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was
called down here, pronto. Since I'm here, my ass.
"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.
"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report."
Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you
fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact
with Duncan.
"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion
was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi-
bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced
computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.
A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my
report."
"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be
additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I
wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked
at the NSA man in deference.
"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned
spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically,
we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the
alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of
him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi-
viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to
the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.
Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"
"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received,
it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-
tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to
compromise computer privacy . . ."
"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt-
ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we
want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR
radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the
inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious
beginning of this evening.
"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.
"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"
"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago."
Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to
take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment
that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."
"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the
NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.
"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now
I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the
INTERNET problems."
The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA
shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.
"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-
al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.
Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I
would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then
there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure
you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan
tried to sound confident of his position.
"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I
will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited
for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a
sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the
common sense to censor himself effectively.
"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our
computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was
being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.
"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe
from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly.
Other than Bob, he was not with friends.
"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has
been classified for several years. We don't even admit that it
exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are
concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an
inventive imagination. Do you follow?"
"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a
secret to too many people?"
"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest
Program?"
"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.
"Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of
Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has
been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate
information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated
equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're
doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a
radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed
what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their
signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could
listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer
was doing. Read classified information. I'm sure you see the
problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the
geniality test.
Duncan nodded in understanding.
"We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and
more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."
"What for?"
"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence
community. We listen to other people for a living."
"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn't
that illegal?" Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses
had totally gotten out of hand.
"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular
phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the
same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-
ly.
Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was
feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He
hated the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA. All in
the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I
would have thought this was pure science fiction."
"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to
protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is;
what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.
Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the
conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was
almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact
with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was
contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty
bureaucratic stuff.
"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll
submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.
"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke
up again. "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."
"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been
for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and
task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys
do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg
work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"
"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi-
nent. "The protection of classified information is their respon-
sibility. A group was created to report on computer security
problems that might have an effect on national security. On that
committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have
control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."
Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the
politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could
keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that
poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling
me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases
they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.
"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression
here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.
"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially
the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly
within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The
NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan
had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.
Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement
with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.
"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."
"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more
than the van.
Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him
that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found
out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an
order."
How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to
his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize
their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not
matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had
done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con-
versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It
really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.
"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it
worked."
The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed
astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For
a defense contractor?"
"No, he's also a reporter."
"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless-
ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut
told him otherwise.
"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott
could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if
all else failed.
"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his
chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."
* * * * *
Tuesday., December 1
New York City
The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott
Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to
the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was
interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk,
and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him
coming and was ready.
"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to
deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.
"What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story,
you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece
and then . . .this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's
face. "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this
'we didn't have the room' shit. You yourself thought we were
onto something bigger . . ."
Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the
9th floor, Scott was still in his face.
"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's
why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."
Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to
Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the
book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no
tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty
remark.
"Hey, you look like shit."
"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.
"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed
concern as well.
"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when
necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to
use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat - on
the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dishing out what he
thought about having a story pulled this way.
Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy
return before he started.
"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you
feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had
outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."
Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"
"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first
time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office
telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story.
I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired,
but real.
Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove
the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend-
ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.
"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very
tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print
Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining
order that we not print a story you had written. What should
they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told
him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester
and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court
orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal-
ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg-
edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of
some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.
"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can
assure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the
story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days
once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to
know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.
Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What
did the court order say?"
"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing
anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article.
Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti-
cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save
ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he
quickly added.
"How the hell did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately
blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He
knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. Tyrone must have gone
upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story
and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor-
ney General's office.
"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to
know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail.
And the tiger is in Washington. Seems like you've pissed off
some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are
you onto?"
"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before
9:00 AM. "Whatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed,
Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as
accurate as is expected in such cases.
"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash-
ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons.
Is any of this classified, Scott?"
"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up
against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple
of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security
stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth
Bomber."
"So why do they care?"
"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.
"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver-
sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .
"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret
weapons program," Scott began.
"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash,"
Higgins said dismissing the idea.
"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with
an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe
not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you
were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and Shithead
to build home versions of cruise missiles?"
"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched
his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"
Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that
Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this
is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."
"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know
what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see
if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck.
It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government
wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."
Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which
aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful
that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're
on, I guess.
"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from
Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's
private number.
"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.
"Fuck you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as
hard as he could.
Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be
sooner, so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to
wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He
was going to rob a bank.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
"I will call you in 5 minutes."
Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was
Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better
to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person. He didn't
have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on
and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the
ProTalk software package.
Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.
He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com-
puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched
the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly Homosoto.
Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was
really him and he waited for the first message.
WE NEED TO TALK.
That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.
I am listening.
ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD. HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.
By whom?
THE NEW YORK POLICE. THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT. THEN THE FBI GOT
THE READER. THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER. THEY EVEN
HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS. SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE
READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.
How? We don't do that sort of stuff.
OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER. I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.
They don't screw with the press, though. That's frowned upon.
MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE. WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK.
HE IS WHAT WE NEED.
Why him?
SIMPLE. WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL NEWSPAPERS.
THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE. THAT PAPER,
I BELIEVE IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN WHO WATCH
SOAP OPERAS. MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE NEED
HIM BACK. HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN. IN YOUR COUNTRY PEOPLE
LISTEN TO THE PRESS. BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM. WE CANNOT
LET HIM FAIL.
How much does he know?
AS MUCH AS WE WANT HIM TO. NO MORE. WE WANT TO FEED HIM A
LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE DISCOUR-
AGED AND ABANDON THE HUNT. YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS IS.
THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.
Yes, I agree. I wish I knew how you find out these things.
MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS. WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL HARBOR,
BUT WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS. THE WAR IS NOT
OVER.
What do you want me to do?
MAKE SURE THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED. HE IS BRIGHT. HE
UNDERSTANDS. HIS VOICE WILL BE HEARD. HE MUST NOT BE STOPPED.
I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL. PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.
I know how to do that. That will not be a problem. Do we still
have readers?
YES, WE LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING. WE HAVE MANY
MORE.
How many?
MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?
No, I know. Curiosity.
KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.
It is my plan.
WHICH I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED. SEE THAT WE
GET IT.
Sure.
MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.
Yes.
I DO NOT HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY PRIMARY MEANS OF
PROPULSION.
Just an expression.
KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
Midnight, Wednesday, December 2
Scarsdale, New York
Since he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection for
his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer. Now, it was
time to take advantage of his new asset. Maybe the Government
carries weight with their spook shit, but a bank can't push hard
enough to pull a story, if it's true. And Kirk, whoever that
was, offered Scott the ideal way to prove it. Do it yourself.
So he prepared himself for a long night, and he would definitely
sleep in tomorrow; no matter what! Scott so cherished his sleep
time. He wormed his way through the mess of the downstairs
"study in disaster," and made space by redistributing the mess
into other corners.
He felt a commitment, an excitement that was beyond that of de-
veloping a great story. Scott was gripped with an intensity that
was a result of the apprehension of invading a computer, and the
irony of it all. He was an engineer, turned writer, using com-
puters as an active journalistic instrument other than for word
processing. To Scott, the computer, being the news itself, was
being used as a tool to perform self examination as a sentient
being, as a separate entity. Techno-psychoanalysis?
Is it narcissistic for man's tools to use themselves as both
images of the mirror of reflective analysis? They say man's brain
can never fully understand itself. Is the same true with comput-
ers? And since they grow in power so quickly compared to man's
snail-like millennia by millennia evolution, can they catch up
with themselves?
Back to reality, Scott. The Great American Techno-Philosophy and
Pulitzer could wait. He had a bank to rob. Scott left his
computer on all the time since Kirk had first called. If the
Intergalactic Traveler called back, the computer would answer,
and Kirk could leave a message. Scott checked the Mail Box in
the ProCom communications program. No calls. Not that his modem
was a popular number. Only he, his office computer and Kirk knew
it. And the phone company, but everyone knows about them . . .
Just as the clock struck midnight, Kirk jumped in his seat. Not
only was the bell chiming an annoying 12 mini-gongs, but his
computer was beeping. It took a couple of beeps from the small
speaker in his computer for him to realize he was receiving a
call. What do I do know? The 14" color screen came alive and it
entered terminal mode from the auto-answer screen that Scott had
left yesterday.
WTFO
The screen rang out. Scott knew the answer.
naft
VERY GOOD! COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.
Welcome pilgrim, what has brought thee to these shores?
I GUESS WRITERS HAVE AN ADVANTAGE ON COMM. MAKE YOURSELF VERY
COLORFUL. CREATE ANY PICTURE YOU WANT.
Seems a bit more sporting that hiding behind techy-talk.
YEAH, WELL, I'LL WORK ON IT.
So, as Maynard G. Crebbs asked, "You Rang?"
AH! DOBIE GILLIS. NICK AT NIGHT!
No, the originals.
WHEN WAS THAT?
You've just dated yourself. Thanks.
TO-FUCKING-SHAY! NOT AS OLD AS YOU. READY FOR A TRIP TO THE
BANK?
You read my mind :-)
I FIGURED YOU'D WIMP OUT ON A SOLO TRIP, FIRST TIME AND ALL.
THOUGHT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP. I MAKE A HELL OF A CHAUFFEUR.
What do you mean?
I MEAN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE.
You're kidding. Just like Superman carries Lois Lane?
JUST ABOUT. FIRST I'M GOING TO SEND YOU A COPY OF 'MIRAGE'
SOFTWARE.
When?
RIGHT NOW. THEN, YOU'LL USE MIRAGE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS
EXECUTE FROM THE COMMAND LINE AFTER I DOWN LOAD.
English kimosabe.
OK, ITS SIMPLE. WHEN I SAY SO, YOU ENTER ALT-F9. THAT SETS YOU
UP TO RECEIVE. NAME THE FILE MIRAGE.EXE. THERE'S ONLY ONE.
THEN WHEN IT SAYS ITS DONE, PRESS CTRL-ALT-R. YOU WILL HAVE A
DOS LINE APPEAR. ENTER MIRAGE.EXE AND RETURN.
Stop! I'm writing . . .
USE PRTSCR
What's that?
IS YOUR PRINTER ON LINE?
Yes.
WHENEVER YOU WANT TO PRINT WHAT'S ON THE SCREEN ENTER 'SHIFT-
PrtScr'. LOOK FOR IT. HIT IT NOW.
Thanks! Got it.
OR SAVE THE WHOLE THING TO A FILE. USE CTRL-ALT-S. THEN PICK A
NEW FILE NAME. MEANS MONGO EDITING THOUGH.
Done! I like Ctrl-Alt-S. Suits me fine. No memory needed.
HIT ALT-F9. MIRAGE IS COMING.
Scott did as instructed. The entire procedure made sense intel-
lectually, but inside, there was an inherent disbelief that any
of these simple procedures would produce anything meaningful. It
is inherently difficult to feel progress, a sense of achievement
without instantaneous feedback that all was well.
Less than a minute later, the screen told Scott it was finished.
Did he want to Save the file? Yes. Please name it. Mirage.Exe.
Would you like to receive another? No. Do you want to exit to
Command line? Yes. He entered Mirage.Exe as Kirk had instruct-
ed, hoping that he was still waiting at the other end. The
screen displayed various copyrights and Federal warnings about
illegal copying of software, the very crime Scott had just com-
mitted.
The video suddenly split into two windows. The bottom window
looked just like the screen he used to talk to Kirk, except much
smaller. Only 10 out of a possible 25 lines. The upper half of
the screen was new. MIRAGE-Remote View (C)1988.
Kirk announced himself.
WTFO
Yup! I got something. Two screens.
GOOD. THAT MEANS EVERYTHING PROBABLY WORKED. LET'S TEST IT.
YOU AND I TALK JUST AS USUAL, ON THE SMALL WINDOW, LIKE WE'RE
DOING NOW. ON THE TOP WINDOW, YOU WILL SEE WHAT I'M DOING.
EXCEPT IN MINIATURE. BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE 15 LINES TO SEE, AND
A NORMAL SCREEN IS 25 LINES, THE PROGRAM COMPRESSES THE SIGNAL TO
DISPLAY IT IN FULL. DO YOU HAVE A DECENT MONITOR?
vga 14 inch
GOOD. YOU WON'T HAVE ANY PROBLEMS. REMEMBER, WHENEVER YOU WANT
A COPY OF THE SCREEN, HIT SHIFT-PRTSCR.
Can't I save everything?
CTRL-ALT-S, YEAH.
Done. Anything else?
YOU CAN'T INTERFERE. JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.
A Sunday drive in the country . . .
WITH ME DRIVING. HA! FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS.
Scott watched with his fingers sitting on the keyboard with
anticipation. A phone number was displayed on top line in the
Upper Window: 18005555500.
<<DIALING>>
In a few seconds the screen announced,
WELCOME TO USA-NET, THE COMPLETE DATA BASE.
The graphics got fancy but in black and white.
ARE YOU A FIRST TIME USER? NO
ID? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
PASSWORD? XXXXXXXX
The video monitor did not let Scott see the access codes.
Welcome to USA-NET, Kirk.
Time synchronizing: 0:04:57 December 18, 1990
DO YOU WANT THE MAIN MENU? Y
Scott's large window began to scroll and fill with lines after
line of options:
(A) Instructions
(B) Charges
(C) Updating
(D) OAG
(E) Shopping Menus
(F) Trading Menus
(G) Conversation Pits
In all there were 54 choices displayed. The lower window came
alive.
SEE HOW IT WORKS?
Fascinating.
THAT WAS JUST A TEST. NOW FOR THE REAL THING. SURE YOU WANNA
GO?
Scott had gone this far. He would worry about the legalities in
the morning. Higgins would have his work cut out for him.
Aye, aye, Captain.
ENGAGE WARP ENGINES.
The upper window changed again.
QUIT? Y
ARE YOU SURE? Y
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
Another number flashed in the upper window. 12125559796.
<<DIALING>>
After less than 2 rings the screen announced that they had ar-
rived at the front doors to the computer system at First State
Bank, in New York. Another clue. Kirk was not from New York.
He used an area code.
Scott felt like looking back over his shoulders to see who was
watching him. His automatic flight-or-fight response made the
experience more exhilarating. He tried to force his intellect to
convince himself that he was far from view, unobservable, unde-
tectable. Only partially successful, he remained tense realizing
that he was borderline legal.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
PORT CONTROL SECURITY, CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING CENTER, FIRST
STATE BANK. O/S VMS R31
SECURITY: SE-PROTECT, 4.0 REV. 3.12.1 10, OCT, 1989
TIME: 00:12:43.1
DATE: 04 December
PORT: 214
ARE YOU SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR? YES
ENTER SYS-ADMIN ID CODE SEQUENCE: 8854
<<WAITING . . .>>
PRIMARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN SECOND-
ARY IDENTIFICATION.
PASSWORD: 4Q-BAN/HKR
<<WAITING . . .>>
SECONDARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN FINAL
IDENTIFICATION.
ID: 374552100/1
<<WAITING . . .>>
WELCOME TO CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING, FIRST STATE BANK, NEW YORK
CITY. YOU ARE THE SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR.
*****************
WARNING!!!
PLEASE ONLY INITIATE CHANGES WHICH HAVE BEEN TESTED ON BACKUP
PROCESSORS. SEVERE DAMAGE MAY RESULT FROM IMPROPER ADMINISTRA-
TION.
*****************
Scott watched in fascination. Here he was, riding shotgun on a
trip through one of New York's largest bank computers, and there
was no resistance. He could not believe that he had more securi-
ty in his house than a bank with assets of over $10 Billion. The
bottom window showed Kirk's next message.
WHAD'YA THINK?
Pretty stupid
WHAT?
That the bank doesn't have better control
VIVE LE HACKER!!!
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 2
New York City
"Doug," Scott came into the office breathlessly, "we have to see
Higgins. I gotta great . . ."
"Hey, I thought you were gonna come in late today? Wire in the
copy?" He looked at the New York clock on the wall. It was
9:15. Scott broke the promise he made to himself to come in
late.
"Yeah, well, I underslept." He brandished a thick file of
computer printouts. "Before I write this one, I want Higgins and
every other lawyer God put on this green Earth to go over it."
"Since when did you get so concerned with pre-scrutiny. As I
remember, it was only yesterday that you threatened to nuke
Higgins' house and everyone he ever met." Doug pretended to be
condescending. Actually, the request was a great leap forward
for Scott and every other reporter. Get pre-lawyered, on the
approach, learn the guidelines, and maybe new rules before plow-
ing ahead totally blind.
"Since I broke into a bank last night!" Scott threw the folder
down on Doug's desk. "Here. I'm going to Rosie's for a choles-
terol fix. Need a picker upper."
When Scott came back from a breakfast of deep fried fat and pan
grilled grease he grabbed his messages at the front desk. Only
one mattered:
Higgins. 11:00. Be there. Doug.
Still the boss, thought Scott.
Higgins' job was to approve controversial material, but it gener-
ally didn't surround only one reporter, on so many different
stories within such a short time span.
"Good to see you, Mason," snorted Higgins.
"Right. Me too," he came back just as sarcastically. "Doug."
He acknowledged his editor with only slightly more civility.
"John, the boy's been up all night," Doug conciliated to Higgins.
He called all his reporters boys. "And Scott, lighten up." He
was serious.
"Sure, Doug," he nodded.
Higgins began. "O.K., Scott, what is it this time? Doug said you
broke into a bank, and I haven't had time to go over these." He
held up the thick file of printouts. "In 25 words or less."
The legal succinctness annoyed Scott.
"Simple. I tied in with a hacker last night, 'round midnight.
He had the passwords to get into the First State computers, and
well, he showed me around. Showed me how much damage can actual-
ly be done by someone at a keyboard. The tour lasted almost 2
hours."
"That's it?" Asked Higgins.
"That's it? Are you kidding? Let me tell you a few things in 25
words or more!" Scott was tired and the lack of sleep made him
irritable.
"I did a little checking before I went on this excursion. You
bank at First, don't you, John?"
It was a setup question. "Yes," Higgins said carefully.
"I thought so. Here let me have that file. Gimme a minute," he
said flipping pages. "Here it is, and yes, correct me if I say
anything that you don't agree with." His curtness and accusato-
ry sound put both Higgins and Doug off. Where was he going?
"John W. Higgins, social security number, 134-66-9241. Born Rock-
ville, Maryland, June 1, 1947. You currently have $12,435.16 in
your checking account, $23,908.03 in savings . . ."
Higgins' jaw and pen dropped simultaneously. Doug saw the shock
on his face while Scott continued.
"Your mortgage at 115 Central Park West is $2,754.21. Your
portfolio is split between, let's see, CD's, T-Bills, the bank
acts as your broker, and you have three safety deposit boxes,
only one to which your wife, Helen Beverly Simons, has access.
You make a deposit every two weeks . . ."
"Stop! How the hell do you know . . ."
"Jeez you make that much? Can I be a lawyer too, huh? Please Mr.
Higgins?"
Higgins threw his chair back and stormed around his desk to grab
the papers from Scott. Scott held them away.
"Let me see those!" Higgins demanded.
"Say please. Say pretty please."
"Scott!" Doug decided enough was enough. Scott had made his
point. "Cool it. Let him have them."
"Sure, boss!" He grinned widely at Doug who could not, for
reasons of professional conduct, openly condone Scott's perform-
ance, no matter how effective it was.
Higgins looked at the top pages from where Scott was reading. He
read them intently, looking from one to the other. Slowly, he
walked back to his desk, and sat down, nearly missing the chair
because he was so engrossed.
Without looking up he spoke softly. "This is unbelievable.
Unbelievable. I can't believe that you have this." Suddenly he
spoke right to Scott. "You know this is privileged information,
you can't go telling anyone about my personal finances. You do
know that, right?" The concern was acute.
"Hey, I don't really give a damn what you make, but I needed to
shake the tree. This is serious shit."
"Scott, you've got my total, undivided attention now. The
floor's yours. You have up to 100 words." Humor wasn't Higgins'
strong point, or his weak point, or any point, but Scott appreci-
ated the gesture. Doug could relax, too. A peace treaty, for
now.
"Thanks, John." Scott was sincere. "As you know I've been run-
ning a few stories on hackers, computer crimes, what have you."
Higgins rolled his eyes. He remembered. "A few weeks ago I got
a call from Captain Kirk. He's a hacker."
"What do you know about him?" Higgins was again taking notes.
The tape recorder was nowhere to be seen.
"Not much, yet, but I have a few ideas. I would hazard to guess
that he is younger. Maybe in his late '20's, not from New York,
maybe the Coast, and has a sense of responsibility."
"How do know this?"
"Well, I don't know, I guessed from our conversations."
"Why didn't you just ask?"
"I did. But, he wants his anonymity. It's the things he says,
the way he says them. The only reason I know he's a he is be-
cause he called me on the phone first."
"When did you speak to him?" Higgins inquired.
"Only once. After that it's been over computer."
"So it could be anyone really?"
"Sure, but that doesn't matter. It's what he did. First, we
entered the computer . . ."
"What do you mean we?" Higgins shot Scott a disapproving stare.
"We. Like him and me. He tied my computer to his so I could
watch what he was doing. So, he gets into the computer . . ."
"How?"
"With the passwords. There were three."
"How did he get them?"
"From another hacker I assume. That's another story." The con-
stant interruptions exasperated Scott. "Let me finish, then grill
me. O.K.?"
Higgins nodded. Sure.
"So, once we were in, he could do anything he wanted. The com-
puter thought he was the Systems Administrator, the head honcho
for all the bank's computer operations. So we had free reign.
The first place we went was to Account Operations. That's where
the general account information on the bank's customers is kept.
I asked him for information on you. Within seconds I knew a lot
about you." Higgins frowned deeply. "From there, he asked for
detailed information on your files; credit cards, payment histo-
ry, delinquencies, loans on cars, IRA's, the whole shooting
match."
"I have to interrupt here, Scott," Higgins said edgily. "Could
he, or you have made changes, to, ah . . .my account?"
"We did!"
"You made changes? What changes?" Higgins was aghast.
"We took all your savings and invested them in a new startup fast
food franchise called Press Rat and Wharthog Sandwiches, Inc."
"You have got be kidding." Scott saw the sweat drops at Higgins'
hairline.
"Yeah, I am. But he did show me how easy it is to make adjust-
ments in account files. Like pay off loans and have them disap-
pear, invoke foreclosures, increase or decrease balances, whatev-
er we wanted to do."
"Jesus Christ!"
"That's not the half of it. Not even a millionth of it. See, we
went through lots of accounts. The bank computer must hold
hundreds of thousands of account records, and we had access to
them all. If we had wanted to, we could have erased them all, or
zeroed them out, or made everyone rich overnight."
"Are you telling me," Higgins spoke carefully, "that you and
this . . .hacker, illegally entered a bank computer and changed
records and . . ."
"Whoah!" Scott held up his hands to slow Higgins down. "We left
everything the way it was, no changes as far as I could tell."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not. I wasn't in the driver's seat. I went along for
the ride."
"What else did you do last night, Scott?" Higgins sounded re-
signed to more bad news. The legal implications must have been
too much for him to handle.
"We poked around transfer accounts, where they wire money from
one bank to another and through the Fed Reserve. Transaction
accounts, reserves, statements, credit cards. Use your imagina-
tion. If a bank does it, we saw it. The point is, John, I need
to know two things."
John Higgins sat back, apparently exhausted. He knew what was
coming, at least half of it. His expression told Scott to ask
away. He could take it.
"First, did I do anything illegal, prosecutable? You know what I
mean. And, can I run with it? That's it."
Higgins' head leaned back on the leather head rest as he began to
speak deliberately. This was going to be a lawyer's non-answer.
Scott was prepared for it.
"Did you commit a crime?" Higgins speculated. "My gut reaction
says no, but I'm not up on the latest computer legislation. Did
you, at any time, do anything to the bank's computers?"
"No. He had control. I only had a window."
"Good, that helps." The air thickened with anticipation as Doug
and Scott both waited for words of wisdom. "I could make a good
argument that you were a reporter, with appropriate credentials,
interviewing an individual, who was, coincidentally, at the same
time, committing a crime. That is, if what he did was a crime.
I don't know the answer to that yet.
"There have been countless cases where a reporter has witnessed
crimes and reported on them with total immunity. Yes, the more I
think about it, consider this." Higgins seemed to have renewed
energy. The law was his bible and Scott was listening in the
congregation. "Reporters have often gone into hostage situations
where there is no doubt that a crime is in progress, to report on
the condition of the hostages. That's O.K.. They have followed
drug dealers into crack houses and filmed their activities."
Higgins thought a little more. "Sure, that's it. The arena
doesn't change the rules. You said you couldn't affect the
computers, right?" He wanted a confirmation.
"Right. I just watched. And . . .asked him to do certain
things."
"No you didn't! Got that? You watched, nothing else!" Higgins
cracked sharply at Scott. "If anyone asks, you only watched."
"Gotcha." Scott recognized the subtle difference. He did not
want to be an aider or abettor of a crime.
"So, that makes it easy. If you were in the hackers home, watch-
ing him over his shoulder, that would be no different from watch-
ing him over a computer screen." He sounded confident. "I
guess." He sounded less confident. "There is very little case
history on this stuff, so, if it came to it, we'd be in an inter-
esting position to say the least. But, to answer your question,
no, I don't think that you did anything illegal."
"Great. So I can write the story and . . ." Scott made a
forgone conclusion without his lawyers advice. There was no way
Higgins would let him get away with that.
"Hold your horses. You say write a story, and based upon what I
know so far, I think you can, but with some rules."
"What kind of rules?" Skepticism permeated Scott's slow re-
sponses.
"Simple ones. Are you planning on printing the passwords to
their computers?"
"No, not at all. Why?"
"Because, that is illegal. No doubt about it. So, good, rule
one is easy. Two, I want to read over this entire file and have
a review of everything before it goes to bed. Agreed?" Higgins
looked at Doug who had not contributed much. He merely nodded,
of course that would be fine.
"Three, no specifics. No names of people you saw, nothing exact.
We do not want to be accused of violation of privacy in any way,
shape or form."
"That's it?" Scott was pleasantly surprised. What seemed like
common sense to him was a legal spider web that Higgins was re-
quired to think through.
"Almost. Lastly, was this interview on the record?"
Damn good question, Scott thought. "I dunno. I never asked, it
didn't seem like a regular interview, and since I don't know
Kirk's real name, he's not the story. It was what he did that is
the story. Does it matter?"
"If the shit hits the fan it might, but I think we can get around
it. Just be careful what you say, so I don't have to redline 90%
of it. Fair enough?"
Scott was pleased beyond control. He stood to thank Higgins.
"Deal. Thanks." Scott began to turn.
"Scott?" Higgins called out. "One more thing."
Oh no, he thought, the hammer was dropping. He turned back to
Higgins. "Yeah?"
"Good work. You're onto something. Keep it up and keep it
clean."
"No problem." Scott floated on air. "No, problem at all."
Back at his desk, Scott called Hugh Sidneys. He still worked at
State First, as far as he knew, and it was time to bring him out
of the closet, if possible.
"Hugh?" Scott said affably. "This is Scott Mason, over at the
Times?"
"Yeah? Oh, hello," Sidneys said suspiciously. "What do you
want?"
"Hugh, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"I think you know. Would you like to talk here on the phone, or
privately?" Sometimes leaving the mark only two options, neither
particularly attractive, would keep him within those bounds.
Sidneys was an ideal person for this tact.
The pregnant pause conveyed Sidney's consternation. The first
person to speak would lose, thought Scott. Hugh spoke.
"Ah, I think it would be . . .ah better . . .if we
spoke . . .at . . ."
"How about the same place?" Scott offered.
"OK," Hugh was hesitant. "I guess so . . .when?"
"Whenever you want. No pressure." Scott released the tension.
"I get off at 5, how about . . .?"
"I'll be there."
"Yes ma'am. This is Scott Mason. I'm a reporter for the Times.
I will only take a few seconds of his time. Is he in?" Scott
used his kiss-the-secretary's-ass voice. Better then being
aggressive unless it was warranted.
"I'll check, Mr. Mason," she said. The phone went on hold.
After a very few seconds, the Muzak was replaced with a gruff
male voice.
"Mr. Mason? I'm Francis MacMillan. How may I help you?" He
conveyed self assuredness, vitality and defensiveness.
"I won't take a moment, sir." Scott actually took several sec-
onds to make sure his question would be formed accurately. He
probably only had one chance. "We have been researching an
article on fraudulent investment practices on the part of various
banks; some fall out from the S&L mess." He paused for effect.
"At any rate, we have received information that accuses First
State of defrauding it's investors. In particular, we have
records that show a complicated set of financial maneuvers that
are designed to drain hundreds of millions of dollars from the
assets of First State. Do you have any comment?"
Total silence. The quality of fiber phone lines made the silence
all the more deafening.
"If you would like some specifics, sir, I can provide them to
you," Scott said adding salt to the wound. "In many cases, sir,
you are named as the person responsible for these activities. We
have the documents and witnesses. Again, we would like a comment
before we go to print."
Again Scott was met with silence. Last try.
"Lastly, Mr. MacMillan, we have evidence that your bank's comput-
ers have been invaded by hackers who can alter the financial
posture of First State. If I may say so, the evidence is quite
damning." Scott decided not to ask for a comment directly. The
question was no longer rhetorical, it was implicit.
If feelings could be transmitted over phone wires, Scott heard
MacMillan's nerve endings commence a primal scream. The phone
explosively hung up on Scott.
* * * * *
Thursday, December 3
First State Bank, New York
Francis MacMillan, President of First State Savings and Loan,
bellowed at the top of his lungs. Three Vice Presidents were in
his office before 7:00 A.M.
"Who the fuck's in charge of making sure the damned computers are
safe?"
The V.P. of Data processing replied. "It's Jeanne Fineman,
sir."
"Fire him."
"Jeanne is a woman . . ."
"Fire them both. I want them out of here in 10 minutes." McMil-
lan's virulent intensity gave his aides no room for dissent.
"Sir, why, it's almost Christmas, and it wasn't her fault . . ."
"And no bonus. Make sure they never work near banks, or comput-
ers ever again! Got that?" Everyone nodded in shock.
"Al?" McMillan shouted. "Buy back our stock, quietly. When
the market hears this we're in for a dump. No one will believe
us when we respond, and it will take us a day to get out an
answer."
"How much?" Al Shapiro asked.
"You figure it out. Just keep it calm." Shapiro noted it agree-
ably.
"Where the hell are the lawyers? I want that pinko-faggot news-
paper stopped by tonight." McMillan's rage presaged a very, very
bad day at First State.
"And someone, someone, find me that shit hole worm Sidneys. I
want him in my office in 30 seconds. Now," he violently thrust
his arms in the air, "get the hell out of here until you have
some good news."
* * * * *
Friday, December 4
RUN ON FIRST STATE AS IT STALLS ON OWN BAILOUT
by Scott Mason
Since yesterday afternoon, First State Savings and Loan has been
in asset-salvation mode. Upon reports that computer hackers have
had access to First State's computers and records for some time,
and can change their contents at will, the stock market reacted
negatively by a sell-off. In the first 15 minutes of trading,
First State's stock plummeted from 48 1/2 to 26 1/4, a reduction
of one half its value. Subsequently, the stock moved up with
block buying. At the noon bell, the stock had risen modestly to
31. It is assumed that First State itself is repurchasing their
own stock in an attempt to bolster market confidence.
However, at 2:00PM, First State contacted banking officials in
New York and Washington, as well as the SEC, to announce that a
rush of worried depositors had drained the bank of it's available
hard currency reserves, and would close until the following
morning when cash transfers would permit the bank to continue
payments.
Last quarter cash holding were reported in excess of $3 Billion,
and First State has acknowledged that any and all monies would
be available to those who desired it. In a press release issued
by First State at 1:00 PM they said, "A minor compromise of our
computers has caused no discernible damage to the computers, our
customers or the bank. A thorough investigation has determined
that the hacker was either a figment of the imagination of a
local paper or was based upon unfounded hearsay. The bank's
attorneys are reviewing their options."
The combination of the two announcements only further depressed
First State stock. It stood at 18 7/8 when the SEC blocked
further trading.
This is Scott Mason, who reported the news as he saw it. Accu-
rately.
****************************************************************