Monday, December 28
A/K/A Software
by Scott Mason
The Christmas Virus is upon is. So is the anticipated New Years
Eve and New Year's Day Virus.
Seems like wherever I look, someone is making a virus to attack
my computer or celebrate a holiday.
Rather than another rash of warnings about the impending doom and
gloom faced by your computers, my editor asked me to find the
lighter side of computer viruses. I strongly objected, stating
that I found nothing amusing about them. They were a deadly and
cowardly form of terrorism that should be rewarded with behead-
ing.
However, there is one thing . . .
The geniuses who come up with the names for viral infections;
about as believable and laughable as a Batman comic.
I wonder what most of us would think if our doctor told us we had
the Ping Pong virus instead of strep throat. Or in spring time
we contracted the April Fool's Virus.
It is entirely within the realm of reason that America's comput-
ers go unprotected because of the sheer absurdity of the names we
attach to each one. Comical names create a comical situation, so
no one takes the issue seriously.
The Marijuana virus conjures up images of a stoned orgy, and why
would a computer care about that. The Fu Manchu virus conjures
up the Red Chinese Army crossing the Mississippi, which is clear-
ly not the case, so it is ignored.
Viruses know no national boundary. The Pakistani virus, the
Icelandic, the Israeli, Jerusalem A, Jerusalem B, Jerusalem C,
Lehigh, Alameda, Vienna, Czech, Rumanian - I found over 900
current and active viruses that are identified by their reputed
place of origin.
The Brain virus sounds more sinister than the Stoned Virus, and
Friday the 13th viruses are as popular as the movie sequels. The
Columbus Day Virus was actually dubbed by its authors as Data
Crime, and might have generated more concern if not for the nick-
nom-de-plume it inherited.
So to fulfill my editor's dream, I will list a few of the more
creative virus names. Some were chosen by the programmers,
others by the Virus Busters and others yet by the media. See
what you think each virus would do to your computer, or when it
will strike, merely from the name.
The Vatican Virus The Popeye Virus
The Garlic Virus The Scrooge Virus
Teenage Mutant Ninja Virus The Ides Virus
The Quaalude Virus The Amphetamine Virus
Super Virus The Tick Tock Virus
The String Virus The Black Hole Virus
The Stupid Virus Stealth
I have a few of my own suggestions for future virus builders.
The Jewish Sex Virus (Dials your mother-in-law during a romantic
interlude.)
The Ronald Reagan Virus (Puts your computer to sleep only in
important meetings.)
The Pee Wee Herman Virus (Garbage In Garbage Out)
The Donald Trump Virus (Makes all of your spread sheets go into
the red.)
Tomorrow, Viruses from Hell on Geraldo.
Namely, this is Scott Mason.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 29
Washington, D.C.
"Why the hell do I have to find out what's going on in the world
from the goddamned papers and CNN instead of from the finest
intelligence services in the world?" The President snapped
sarcastically while sipping black coffee over his daily collec-
tion of U.S. and foreign papers.
The early morning ritual of coffee, newspapers and a briefing by
Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave provided the day with a smooth
start. Usually.
"I've been asking for weeks about this computer craziness. All I
get is don't worry, Mr. President," he said mimicking the classic
excuses he was sick and tired of hearing. "We have it taken care
of, Mr. President. No concern of yours, Mr. President, we have
everything under control. We temporarily have our thumbs up our
asses, Mr. President." Phil stifled a giggle behind his napkin.
"I'm sorry, Phil," the President continued, "but it irritates the
shit out of me. The damn media knowing more about what's hap-
pening than we do. Where the hell is that report I asked for?
The one on the bank hostage I've been requesting for a week?"
The President's mood portended a rough day for the inner circle.
"Sir, as I understand, it wasn't ready for your desk yet."
"Do the goddamned missiles have to land on the White House lawn
before we verify it's not one of our own?"
Phil knew better than to attempt any dissuasion when the Presi-
dent got into these moods. He took notes, and with luck it would
blow over in a couple of days. Today was not Phil's lucky day.
"I want a briefing. Two Hours."
"Gentlemen," the President said from behind his desk in the oval
office, "I'd like to read you something I had Brian put togeth-
er." The efficiency of the White House Press Office under the
leadership of Brian Packard was well known. The President had
the best rapport with the press that any President had in a
generation.
He slipped on his aviator style glasses and pulled the lobe of
his left ear while reading from his desk. "Let's start here.
Phone Company Invaded by Hackers; Stock Exchange Halted by Gov-
ernment Bomb; Computer Crime Costs Nation $12 Billion Annually;
Viruses Stop Network; Banks Lose Millions to Computer Embez-
zlers; Trojan Horse Defeats Government Computers; NASA Spending
Millions On Free Calls for Hackers." He looked for a reaction
from his four key associates: Phil, Quinton Chambers, Martin
Royce and Henry Kennedy. "If you don't know, these are headlines
from newspapers and magazines across the country."
The President read further from his notes. "Viruses Infect
Trans-Insurance Payments; Secret Service Computers Invaded; NSA
and NIST in Security Rift; FBI Wasting Millions on Computer
Blackmail Scheme; First National Bank Held Hostage; Sperm Bank
Computer Records Erased; IRS Returns of the Super Rich." The
President removed his glasses wanting answers.
"What is going on here, gentlemen?" the President asked directly.
"I am baffled that everyone else but me seems to know there's a
problem, and that pisses me off. Answers?"
He wondered who would be the first to speak up. Surprisingly, it
was Henry, who normally waited to speak last. "Sir, we have
active programs in place to protect classified computer systems."
"Then what are these about?" He waved a couple of sheets of
paper in the air.
"Of course we haven't fully implemented security everywhere yet,
but it is an ongoing concern. According to NSA, the rash of
recent computer events are a combination of anomalies and the
press blowing it all out of proportion."
"Do you believe Henry," the President asked, "that if there's
smoke, a reasonable man will assume that there is a fire nearby?"
Henry nodded obligingly. "And what would you think if there were
a hundred plumes of smoke rising?"
Henry felt stumped. "Jacobs assured me that he had everything
under control and . . ."
"As I recall Henry," the President interrupted, "you told me that
a couple of months ago when the papers found out about the EMP-T
bombs. Do you recall, Henry?"
"Yessir," he answered meekly.
"Then what happened?"
"We have to rely on available information, and as far as we know,
as far as we're being told, these are very minor events that have
been sensationalized by the media."
"It says here," the President again donned his glasses, "Defense
Contractors Live with Hackers; Stealth Program Uncovered in
Defense Department Computers; Social Security Computers At Risk.
Are those minor events?" He pointed the question at not only
Henry.
"There was no significant loss of information," Coletree rapidly
said. "We sewed up the holes before we were severely compro-
mised."
"Wonderful," the President said sarcastically. "And what ever
happened to that bank in Atlanta? Hiring Those kids?"
"If I may, sir?" Phil Musgrave filled the silence. "That was a
private concern, and we had no place to interfere - as is true in
most of these cases. We can only react if government property is
affected."
"What is being done about it? Now I mean."
"We have activated CERT and ECCO, independent computer crime
units to study the problem further." As usual, Phil was impecca-
bly informed. "Last years the Secret Service and FBI arrested
over 70 people accused of computer crimes. The state of Pennsyl-
vania over 500, California 300. Remember, sir, computer crimes
are generally the states' problems."
"I'm wondering if it shouldn't be our problem, too," the Presi-
dent pondered.
"There are steps in that direction, as well. Next week the
Senate hearings on Privacy and Technology Containment begin, and
as I understand it, they will be focusing on exactly this issue."
"Who's running the show?" the President asked with interest.
"Ah," Phil said ripping through his notes, "Rickfield, sir."
"That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have
ended up with Homer Simpson." The easing of tension worked to
the President's advantage, for a brief moment. "I want the whole
picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me." He scanned his
private appointment book. "Two weeks. Is that long enough to
find out why I'm always the last to know?"
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 30
New York
"Scott Mason," Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full
of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.
"Scott? It's Tyrone." Tyrone's voice was quiet, just about a
whisper.
"Oh, hi." Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully
trying not to sound angry.
Other than following Scott's articles in the paper, they had had
no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since
then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during
their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of
them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally
obligated, so he thought, to cut off their association after
Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your
sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had
not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that
the gentleman's agreement of off-the-record didn't carry weight
in their venue.
"How have you been?" Tyrone said cordially. "Good bit of work
you been doing."
"Yeah, thanks, thanks," Scott said stiffly.
Tyrone had already determined that he needed Scott if his own
agency wouldn't help him. At least Scott wasn't bound by idiotic
governmental regulations that stifled rather than helped the
cause. Maybe there was hope for cooperation yet, if his little
faux pas could be forgiven.
"We need to talk. I've been meaning to call you." Though Tyrone
meant it, Scott thought it was a pile of warmed up FBI shit.
"Sure, let's talk." Scott's apparent indifference bothered
Tyrone.
"Scott, I mean it," he said sincerely. "I have an apology to
make, and I want to do it in person. Also, I think that we both
need each other . . .you'll understand when I tell you what's
been going on." Tyrone's deep baritone voice conveyed honesty
and a little bit of urgency. If nothing else, he had never known
or had any reason to suspect Tyrone of purposely misleading or
lying to him. And their friendship had been a good one. Plus,
the tease of a secret further enticed Scott into agreeing.
"Yeah, what the hell. It's Christmas." Scott's aloofness came
across as phony, but Tyrone understood the awkwardness and let it
pass.
"How 'bout we meet at The Oyster Bar, Grand Central, and get shit
faced. Merry Christmas from the Bureau."
The Oyster Bar resides on the second lower level of Grand Cen-
tral Station, located eighty feet beneath Park Avenue and 42nd.
Street. It had become a fairly chic restaurant bar in the '80's;
the seafood was fresh, and occasionally excellent. The patronage
of the bar ranged from the commuter who desperately quaffed down
two or three martinis to those who enjoyed the seafaring ambi-
ence. The weathered hardwood walls were decorated with huge
stuffed crabs, swordfish, lifesavers and a pot pourri of fishing
accouterments. The ceilings were bathed in worn fishing nets
that occasionally dragged too low for anyone taller than 6 feet.
Away from the bar patrons could dine or drink in privacy, with
dim ten watt lamps on each table to cut through the darkness.
Tyrone was sitting at such a table, drink in hand when Scott
craned his neck from the door to find his friend through the
crowd. He ambled over, and Tyrone stood to greet him. Scott was
cool, but willing to give it a try. As usual Tyrone was elegant-
ly attired, in a custom tailored dark gray pin stripe suit, a
fitted designer shirt and a stylish silk tie of the proper width.
Scott was dressed just fine as far as he was concerned. His
sneakers were clean, his jeans didn't have holes and the sweater
would have gained him admission to the most private ski parties
in Vermont. Maybe they were too different and their friendship
had been an unexplainable social aberration; an accident.
Scott's stomach tightened. His body memory recalled the time the
principal had suspended him from high school for spreading liquid
banana peel on the hall floors and then ringing the fire drill
alarm. The picture of 3000 kids and 200 teachers slipping and
sliding and crawling out of the school still made Scott smile.
"What'll you have?" Tyrone gestured at a waiter while asking
Scott for his preference.
"Corona, please."
Tyrone took charge. "Waiter, another double and a Corona." He
waved the waiter away. "That's better." Tyrone was already
slightly inebriated. "I guess you think I'm a real shit hole,
huh?"
"Sort of," Scott agreed. "I guess you could put it that way."
Scott was impressed with Ty's forthright manner. "I can think of
a bunch more words that fit the bill." At least Tyrone admitted
it. That was a step in the right direction.
Ty laughed. "Yeah, I bet you could, and you might be right."
Scott's drink came. He took a thirsty gulp from the long neck
bottle."
"Ease on down the road!" Ty held his half empty drink in the
air. It was peace offering. Scott slowly lifted his and their
drinks met briefly. They both sipped again, and an awkward
silence followed.
"Well, I guess it's up to me to explain, isn't it?" Tyrone ven-
tured.
"You don't have to explain anything. I understand," Scott said
caustically.
"I don't think you do, my friend. May I at least have my last
words before you shoot?" Tyrone's joviality was not as effective
when nervous.
Scott remembered that he used the same argument with Doug only
days before. He eased up. "Sure, ready and aimed, though."
"I'm quitting." Tyrone's face showed disappointment, resigna-
tion.
The beer bottle at Scott's lips was abruptly laid on the table.
"Quitting? The FBI?" Tyrone nodded. "Why? What happened?"
For one moment Scott completely forgot how angry he was.
The din of the Oyster Bar made for excellent cover. They could
speak freely with minimal worry of being overheard.
"It's a long story, but it began when they pulled your article.
God, I'm sorry, man," Tyrone said with empathy. The furrows on
his forehead deepened as he searched for a reaction from Scott.
Nothing.
Ty finished off his drink and started on the refill. "Unlike
what you probably believe, or want to believe, when you called me
that morning, I had no idea what you were talking about. It was
several hours before I realized what had happened. If I had any
idea . . ."
Scott stared blankly at Tyrone. You haven't convinced me of
anything, Scott thought.
"As far as I knew, you were writing an article that had no par-
ticular consequence . . ."
"Thanks a shitload," Scott quipped.
"No, I mean, I had no idea of the national security implica-
tions, and besides, it was going to be in the paper the next day
anyway." Tyrone shrugged with his hands in the air for added
emphasis. "Tempest meant nothing to me. All I said was that you
and I had been talking. I promise you, that's it. As a friend,
that was the extent of it. They took it from there." Tyrone
extended his hands in an open gesture of conciliation. "All I
knew was that what you'd said about CMR shook some people up in
D.C.. ECCO has been quite educational. Now I know why, and
that's why I have to leave."
The genuineness from Tyrone softened Scott's attitude some. "I
thought you spooks stuck together. Spy and die together."
Tyrone contorted his face to show disgust with that thought.
"That'll be the day. In fact it's the opposite. A third of our
budgets are meant to keep other agencies in the dark about what
we're doing."
"You're kidding!"
"I wish I was." Tyrone looked disheartened, betrayed.
"At any rate," Tyrone continued, "I got spooked by the stunt with
your paper and the Attorney General. I just couldn't call you,
you'll see why. The Agency is supposed to enforce the law, not
make it and they have absolutely no business screwing with the
press. Uh-uh." Tyrone took a healthy sip of his drink. "Reminds
me of times that are supposed to be gone. Dead in the past. Did
you know that I am a constitutional lawyer?"
Scott ordered another beer and shook his head, no. Just a regular
lawyer. Will wonders never cease?
"Back in the early 60's the South was not a good place for
blacks. Or Negroes as we were called back then." Tyrone said
the word Negro with disdain. He pulled his tie from the stiff
collar and opened a button. "I went on some marches in Alabama,
God, that was a hot summer. A couple of civil rights workers were
killed."
Scott remembered. More from the movie Mississippi Burning than
from memory.
Civil rights wasn't a black-white issue, Tyrone insisted. It was
about man's peaceful co-existence with government. A legal
issue. "I thought that was an important distinction and most
people were missing the point. I thought I could make a differ-
ence working from inside the system. I was wrong, and I've been
blinded by it until now . . .you know.
"When I was in college the politicians screamed integration while
the poor blacks no more wanted to be bussed to the rich white
neighborhood that the rich whites wanted the poor blacks in their
schools." Tyrone spoke from his heart, his soul, with a touch of
resentment that Scott had not seen before. But then, they had
never spoken of it before. This was one story that he had suc-
cessfully neglected to share. "Forced integration was govern-
ment's answer to a problem it has never understood.
"It's about dignity. Dignity and respect, not government inter-
vention. It's about a man's right to privacy and the right to
lead his life the way he sees fit. Civil rights is about how to
keep government from interfering with its citizens. Regardless
of color." Tyrone was adamant.
"And that's why you're gonna quit?" Scott didn't see the con-
nection.
"No, goddamnit, no," Tyrone shouted. "Don't you get it?" Scott
shook his head. "They want to take them away." He spoke with
finality and assumed Scott knew what he meant. The liquor fogged
his brain to mouth speech connection.
"Who's gonna take what away?" Scott asked, frustrated by Ty's
ramblings.
"I know it's hokey, but the Founding Fathers had a plan, and so
far it's survived two hundred years of scrutiny and division. I
would like to think it can survive the computer age." Tyrone
quieted down some. "My father used to tell me, from the time I
was old enough to understand, that law was merely a measure of
how much freedom a man was willing to sacrifice to maintain an
orderly society."
"My father was a radical liberal among liberals," Tyrone remem-
bered. "Even today he'll pick a fight at the family barbecue for
his own entertainment. And he'll hold his own."
Scott enjoyed the image of a crotchety octogenarian stirring up
the shit while his children isolated their kids from their grand
father's intellectual lunacy. What was this about?
Tyrone caught himself and realized that he wasn't getting his
point across. He took a deep breath and slouched back in the
chair that barely held him.
"From the beginning," he said. "I told you about ECCO, and what
a disaster it is. No authority, no control, no responsibility.
And the chaos is unbelievable.
"I don't pretend to understand all of the computer jargon, but I
do recognize when the NSA wants to control everything. There's a
phenomenal amount of arrogance there. The NSA reps in ECCO
believe that they are the only ones who know anything about
computers and how to protect them. I feel sorry for the guys
from NIST. They're totally underfunded, so they end up with both
the grunt work and the brunt of the jokes from the NSA.
"NSA won't cooperate on anything. If NIST says it's white, NSA
says it's black. If NIST says there's room to compromise, NSA
gets more stubborn. And the academic types. At long last I now
know what happened to the hippies: they're all government con-
sultants through universities. And all they want to do is
study, study, study. But they never come up with answers, just
more questions to study.
"The vendors try to sell their products and don't contribute a
damn thing," sighed Tyrone. "A bunch of industry guys from
computer companies and the banks, and they're as baffled as I
am."
"So why quit? Can't you make a difference?"
"Listen. The FBI views computer crimes as inter-state in nature
and therefore under their domain."
Scott nodded in understanding.
"We are enforcement, only," Tyrone asserted. "We do not, nor
should we make the laws. Separation of power; Civics 101. To
accomplish anything, I have to be a private citizen."
"What do you want to accomplish?" asked Scott with great inter-
est.
"I want to stop the NSA." Tyrone spoke bluntly and Scott sat too
stunned to speak for long seconds.
"From what?" A sudden pit formed in Scott's stomach.
"I found out why they dumped on you about the CMR," Tyrone said.
"I haven't been able to tell you before, but it doesn't matter
any more." Tyrone quickly shook off the veiling sadness. "NSA
has a built-in contradiction. On one hand they listen into the
world and spy for America. This is supposed to be very secret,
especially how they do it. It turns out that CMR is one of their
'secret' methods for spying on friends and foes alike.
"So, to keep our friends and foes from spying on us, they create
the secret Tempest program. Except, they think it needs to be
kept a military secret, and the public sector be damned. They
actually believe that opening the issue to the public will hamper
their intelligence gathering capabilities because the enemy will
protect against it, too."
Scott listened in fascination. What he was learning now more than
made up for the loss of one article. He felt bad now that he had
overreacted and taken it out on Tyrone.
"Same goes for the EMP-T bomb," Tyrone added. "Only they didn't
know that you were going to publish ahead of time like they did
when I opened up my fat trap."
Scott's eyes suddenly lit up. "How much did you tell them?"
"That I knew you and you were writing an article. That's it."
"Then how did they know what I had written? It was pretty damned
close. I assumed that you had . . ."
"No way, man," Tyrone held his hands up.
"Then how did . . .Ty? What if they're using CMR on my computers?
Could they . . ."
Tyrone's predicament was to decide whether or not to tell Scott
that he knew the NSA and others spied on Americans and gathered
intelligence through remote control means. "I assume they're
capable of anything."
"Shit!" Scott exclaimed. "Privacy goes right out the window.
Damn." Scott rapidly spun in his chair and vacantly stared off
in space. "Is that legal?"
"What? CMR? I looked into that briefly, and there's nothing on
the books yet, but I did find out that tapping cellular phone
conversations is legal."
"Phone tapping, legal?" Scott couldn't believe his ears.
"Cellular phones, yeah. The FCC treats them like TV sets, radi-
os, satellites. Anyone can listen to any station."
"That's incredible," Scott said, mouth gaping. "I wonder how
they'll handle RF LAN's."
"RF LAN's," asked Ty. "What are those?"
"A bunch of computers tied together with radios. They replace
the wires that connect computers now. Can you imagine?" Scott
saw the irony in it. "Broadcasting your private secrets like
that? Hah! Or if you have your own RF network, all you have to
do is dial up another one and all the information ends up right
in your computer! Legal robbery. Is this a great country or
what?"
"Now you know why I'm leaving. The NSA cannot be permitted to
keep the public uninformed about vulnerabilities to their person-
al freedom. And hiding under the umbrella of national security
gets old. A handful of paranoid un-elected, un-budgeted, non-ac-
countable, mid-level bureaucrats are deciding the future of
privacy and freedom in this country. They are the ones who are
saying, 'no, no problem,' when they know damn well it is a prob-
lem. What they say privately is in diametric opposition to their
public statements and positions."
Scott stifled a nervous laugh. Who wound Tyrone up? A conspira-
cy theory. Tyrone was drunk. "Don't you think that maybe you're
taking this a little far," he suggested. For the first time in
years the shoe was on the other foot. Scott was tempering some-
body elses extremes.
"Why the hell do you think there's so much confusion at ECCO and
CERT and the other computer SWAT teams? NSA interferes at every
step," Tyrone responded. "And no, I am not taking this too far.
I haven't taken it far enough. I sit with these guys and they
talk as though I'm not there. I attend meetings where the poli-
cies and goals of ECCO are established. Shit, I trust the dope-
smoking hippies from Berkeley more than anyone from the Fort."
The bitterness came through clearly, but Scott could see it
wasn't focussed on any one person or thing.
But Scott began to understand. For over 20 years Tyrone had
insulated himself from the politics of the job and had seen only
what he wanted to see; a national Police Force enforcing the
laws. Tyrone loved the chase of the crime. The bits and pieces,
the endless sifting of evidence, searching for clues and then
building a case from shreds. The forensics of modern criminology
had been so compelling for Tyrone Duncan that he had missed the
impact that the mass proliferation of technology would have on
his first love - The Constitution.
The sudden revelations and realizations of the last several weeks
set his mind into high gear. Tyrone introspectively examined his
beliefs; he tried to review them from the perspective of an
idealistic young man in his twenties. What would he have done
then? He realized the answer was easier found now that he was a
man of experience: Do Something About It.
Far from a rebel looking for a cause, the cause jumped all over
Tyrone with a vengeance and the tenacity of a barnacle.
All at once Scott knew that Tyrone was serious and that he would
be a better friend if he congratulated instead of castigated.
"You know, I kind of understand a little. Same thing with my ex-
wife."
"Hey, that's not fair, man," Tyrone vigorously objected. "Maggie
was a dingbat . . ."
"I know that and she knew that," Scott agreed, "but that was what
made her Maggie." Tyrone nodded, remembering her antics. "And
in some ways we still love each other. After ten years of fun,
great fun, she wanted to get off of the planet more than I did,
so she went to California." The softness in Scott's voice said
he still cared about Maggie, that she was a cherished part of his
life, that was and would remain in the past.
Scott shook off the melancholy and continued. "It's the same for
you. You're married to the FBI, and while you still love it, you
need to let it go to move on with your life."
"Y'know, I don't know why everyone says you're so stupid," Tyrone
said with respect. "UFO's aside, you can actually make sense."
"Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't really matter. But I'm doing exactly
what I want to do. And the day it stops being fun, I'm outta
here."
"Isn't that the arrogance of wealth speaking?" Tyrone asked.
"And you're any different? The 22 room Tudor shack you live in
is not exactly my vision of poverty. As I see it, it's one of
the benefits," Scott said unembarrassed by his financial securi-
ty. "Before I made my money, I swore that when I got rich, I
would give something back. You know, to the planet or society or
something. Do something useful and not for the money." Scott
spoke with honest enthusiasm. "But I don't believe there's a
rule that says I have to be miserable. I love what I do, and
well, I don't know. The concept of career is different for me.
I like the idea of doing a little bit of everything for the
experience. You know, I drove a cab for one night. Glad I did,
but never again."
"So?" asked Tyrone.
"So, do what you want to do and enjoy it. Period. As a friend of
a friend says, live long and prosper."
Scott let Tyrone sit in contemplative silence as the waiter
brought them two more. They were doing a good job of sticking to
the plan of getting 'shiffaced'.
"You know," Tyrone opined, "INTERNET is only the tip of the
iceberg. NASA is having ECCO and CERT look into over $12 Million
in unaccounted-for telephone calls. The Justice Department sold
old computers containing the names and other details of the
Witness Protection Program to a junk dealer in Kentucky and
they're suing him to get them back. The Secret Service is rede-
signing its protection techniques for the President since someone
got into their computers and copied the plans. The computers at
Mitre have been used by hackers for years to get at classified
information. The public hears less than 1% of the computer
problems in the government. And still, no one will do anything.
There's even talk that the missing Plutonium that the Israelis
theoretically stole in 1981 was actually a computer error."
"What do you want to do about it?" Scott was asking as a friend,
not a reporter.
"First," said a newly determined Tyrone, "I'm gonna nail me some
of these mothers, and I'll do it with your help. Then, after
that?" Tyrone's old smile was suddenly back. "I think I'm gonna
kick myself some government ass." Tyrone roared with laughter
and Scott joined the contagious behavior. "In the meantime, I
want to take a look at some blackmail. I think you may be
right."
"About what? I don't listen to what I tell you."
"Remember you said that the blackmail scheme wasn't really
blackmail." Tyrone shifted his weight in the chair and he
reached for the words through is fogged mind. "You said it might
be a way to make us too busy to see our own shadow. That it was
a cover up for another dissociated crime."
"Yeah? It might be," Scott said.
Tyrone's body heaved while he snickered. "We finally have a lead.
Demands have been made."
"What kind? Who? What do they want?" Scott's journalist mind
clicked into gear. "What about the computer virus crap?"
"I'm kind of looking into both, but this morning my interest was
renewed. A corporate type I met says not only he, but another 25
or more of his corporate brethren are getting the same treatment.
If he's right, someone is demanding over $30 Million in ransoms."
"Jesus Christ! Is that confirmed?" Scott probed.
"Yes. That's why I said you were right."
The implications were tremendous, even to Scott's clouded mind.
While the legal system might not be convinced that computer
radiation was responsible for an obviously well coordinated
criminal venture, he, as an engineer, realized how vulnerable
anyone - everyone was. The questions raced through his mind all
at once.
Over a few dozen oysters and not as many drinks, Scott and Ty
proceeded to share their findings. Scott had documents up the
ying-yang, documents he couldn't use in a journalistic sense, but
might be valuable to the recent developments in Ty's case. He
had moved the files to his home; they were simply taking too much
space around his desk at the office. They were an added attrac-
tion to the disaster he called his study. Scott agreed to show
Ty some of them. After the meeting with Franklin Dobbs, and
knowing there might be others in similar situations, Ty wanted an
informal look at Scott's cache.
"I've been holding back, Ty," Scott said during a lull in their
conversation.
"How do you mean?"
"I got a call from a guy I had spoken to a few months ago; I
assume he sent me those files, and he said that key executives
throughout the country were being blackmailed. Some were borrow-
ing money from the mob to pay them off."
"Do you have names? Who?" Tyrone's took an immediate interest.
"Let me see if I have'm here," he said as he reached for his
small notebook in the sports jacket draped over the back of his
chair. "Yeah, he only gave me three, not much to go on. A
Faulkner, some banker from L.A., a Wall Street tycoon named
Henson and another guy Dobbs, Franklin Dobbs."
"Dobbs! How the hell do you know about Dobbs?" Tyrone yelled so
loud several remaining bar patrons looked over to see what the
ruckus was.
Scott was taken aback by the outburst. "What're you hollering
about?"
"Shit, goddamned shit, I don't need this." Tyrone finished one
and ordered another drink. He was keeping his promise; well on
the way to getting severely intoxicated. "Dobbs. Dobbs is the
poor fucker that came into my office."
"You saw Dobbs? He admitted it?" Scott's heart raced at the
prospect of a connection. Finally.
"Scott," Tyrone asked quietly, "I have no right to ask you this,
but I will anyway. If you find anything, on Dobbs, can you hold
back? Just for a while?" A slight pleading on Tyrone's part.
"Why?" Was this part of the unofficial trade with Ty for earlier
information?
The waiter returned with the credit card. Tyrone signed the
slip, giving the waiter entirely too much of a tip. "I'll tell
you on the train. Let's go."
"Where?"
"To your house. You have a computer, don't you?"
"Yeah . . ."
"Well, let's see if we can find out who the other 25 are."
They took a cab from the Scarsdale station to Scott's house. No
point in ending up in the clink for a DUI, even with a Federal
Agent in tow. Scott's study was in such disarray that he liter-
ally scraped off books and papers from the couch onto the floor
to find Ty a place to sit and he piled up bigger piles of files
to make room for their beers on one of his desks.
Scott and Tyrone hadn't by any means sobered up on the train, but
their thinking was still eminently clear. During the hour ride,
they reviewed what they knew.
Several prominent businessmen were being actively blackmailed.
In addition, the blackmailer, or a confederate, was feeding
information to the media. At a minimum the Times, and probably
the Expos
. Perhaps other media as well were in receipt of simi-
lar information, but legitimate news organizations couldn't have
much to do with it in its current form.
Presumably then, like Scott, other reporters were calling names
in the files. Tyrone reasoned that such an exercise might be a
well planned maneuver on the part of the perpetrators.
"Think about it this way," he said. "Let's say you get a call
from someone who says they know something about you that you
don't want them to. That'll shake you up pretty good, won't it?"
Scott rapidly agreed. "Good. And the nature of the contact is
threatening, not directly, perhaps, but the undercurrent leaves
no doubt that the caller is not your best friend. Follow?"
"And then," Scott picked up, "a guy like me calls with the same
information. The last person in the world he wants to know about
his activities is a reporter, or to see it show up in the news,
so he really freaks."
"Exactly!" Tyrone slapped his thigh. "And, if he gets more than
one call, cardiac arrest is nearby. Imagine it. Makes for a good
case of justifiable paranoia."
Tyrone nodded vigorously. "I've been in this game long enough to
see the side effects of blackmail and extortion. The psycholog-
ical effects can be devastating. An inherent distrust of strang-
ers is common. Exaggerated delusions occur in many cases. But
think about this. If we're right, you begin to distrust every-
one, your closest friends, business associate, even your family.
Suddenly, everyone is a suspect. Distrust runs rampant and you
begin to feel a sense of isolation, aloneness. It feels like
you're fighting the entire world alone. Solitude can be the
worst punishment."
The analysis was sound. The far ranging implications had never
occurred to Scott. To him it had been a simple case of extortion
or blackmail using some high tech wizardry. Now, suddenly there
was a human element. The personal pain that made the crime even
that much more sinister.
"Well, we, I mean the FBI, have seven stake outs. It's a fairly
simple operation. Money drops in public places, wait and pick up
the guy who picks up the money." Tyrone made it sound so easy.
Scott wondered.
"I bet it isn't that simple," Scott challenged.
"No shit, it ain't," Tyrone came back.
"So whaddya do?"
"Pay and have another beer." Tyrone tempered the seriousness of
their conversation.
As Scott got up to go the kitchen he called out, "Hey, I been
thinking."
"Yeah?" Tyrone yelled.
He popped a Bud and handed it to Tyrone. "Listen, I know this
may be left field, but let's think it through." Scott sat behind
his desk and put his feet on top of some books on the desk. He
leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "We've been
talking about the front end of this thing, the front lines where
the victims are actually being blackmailed. The kind of stuff
that makes headlines." Scott smiled devilishly at Ty who made a
significant hand gesture in return. "And now you're talking
about how to catch them when they pick up the money. Have you
thought of the other side?"
"What other side?" Tyrone was still confused by Scott's logic.
"Assume for a moment that all this information is really coming
from computers. The CMR. Ok?" Ty grudgingly shrugged his shoul-
ders. "Ok, you said that there are 7 cases across the country.
Dobbs said he knew of more here. Right? Well, who gets the
information?"
Confusion showed on Tyrone's face. "Gets the information?"
"Yeah, who runs around the country listening in on computers?"
The question had been obvious to Scott. All of sudden Tyrone's
face lit up.
"You mean the van?"
"Right. How many vans would it take to generate all this?"
Scott pointed at several boxes next to the disorganized shelves.
"Damned if I know!"
"Neither do I, but I'll make a wild guess and say that there are
quite a few running around. One blew up, or more specifically,
was blown up. You guys have the pieces."
"Not any more," Ty said. "They were taken away by CI . Said it
was national security . I was told to stay away from it. Told
you about us Feds."
"Whatever," Scott waved away the sidebar. "The point is that if
a whole bunch of these vans were used, that's not cheap. They
held a lot of very expensive equipment. Why not look for the
vans? They can't be that hard to find. Maybe you'll find
your . . . "
"Holy Christ, Mother Mary and Joseph, why didn't I think of
that." Tyrone stood up and aimlessly meandered amongst Scott's
junk heaps. "We've been looking in one direction only. The van
ceased to exist in our minds since CI took it. The Government can
be a royal pain in the ass. The van, of course."
Just as Scott was going to describe how to find villains without
wasting hundreds of hours scouring data banks, his computer
beeped three times. Scott was shaken from his comfort. "What
the . . .?" He looked at the clock. It was just midnight.
Kirk! Kirk was calling and he totally had forgotten to mention
the computer ransacking to Ty.
"Great! It's Kirk. I wanted you to meet him." As Scott leaned
over the keyboard to answer the page, Tyrone looked quizzically
at him.
"Who's Kirk?"
"This hacker, some kid on the West Coast. He's taught me a lot.
Good guy. Hope to meet him someday." Scott pushed a few keys.
The screen came alive.
WTFO
"Hey," said Tyrone, "that's what we used to say in the Reserves."
Gotta Spook here.
SPOOK? YOU KNOW SPOOK?
Who's Spook?
YOU SAID HE'S WITH YOU
Not Spook, a spook. FBI guy.
FBI? YOU PROMISED.
Don't worry. Tell him yourself. Who is Spook, anyway?
SPOOK IS A HACKER, ONE OF THE BEST. BEEN ON THE SCENE FOR YEARS.
A FEW PEOPLE CLAIM TO HAVE MET HIM, BUT IT'S ALWAYS A FRIEND OF A
FRIEND OF A FRIEND. HE KEEPS A LOW PROFILE. THE WORD IS SPOOK IS
PLAYING SOME GOOD GAMES RECENTLY. THE FBI?
He's a friend. He doesn't know.
Tyrone had come over to the crowded desk to watch the exchange.
"Who is this guy? What don't I know?"
Kirk, can I tell him? No one knows who you are?
I GUESS SO.
Be back . . .
Scott proceeded to tell Tyrone about the warnings that Kirk
received and then how his computers were destroyed. That the
calling card warned Kirk to stay away from First State Bank. And
how another hacker calling himself Da Vinci on a BBS called
Freedom might be a link. Then Scott admitted that he had been in
on a bank robbery, or at least breaking and entering a bank's
computer.
Tyrone had enough. "I'm not sure I want to hear anymore. You
have been busy. So what can I do?"
"Tell Kirk what he can do," Scott said.
"He could probably go to jail. Bank computers, my God! Is that
where you get your stories? You live them and then report them in
the third person? Stories for the inquiring mind."
"Are you through! I mean, are you through?" Scott sounded per-
turbed.
"It's true. What does this guy want?"
"Advice. Talk to him. Here." Scott motioned for Tyrone to sit
at the keyboard.
"What do I do?"
"Just type," Scott said with exasperation. "You're as bad as my
mother. Type!" Scott ordered.
This is Ty
Scott pulled Ty's hands from the keyboard. "A handle, use a
handle, like on a CB!"
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Tyrone lied.
This is the FBI
Scott looked on in shock. Tyrone laughed out loud. "He already
knows who I am. So what? I've always liked saying that anyway."
KIRK HERE, FBI, WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE
So I hear. Been to any good banks lately?
REPO MAN, WHAT'S UP?
Can't take a joke?
YEAH. NO PROBLEM.
Listen, I don't know you from Adam, and you don't have to talk to
me, but I am curious. Did your computers really get bashed?
TOTALLY, DUDE.
Tyrone pointed his thumb at the computer. "Wise guy, eh?"
"Give him a chance. Generation gap." Tyrone didn't take kindly
to references to his age. Sensitive area.
Why?
CAUSE SOMEONE THINKS I KNOW SOMETHING THAT I DON'T
That's clear.
THANKS
Do you want to make a formal complaint?
WOULD IT DO ANY GOOD?
No.
THEN, NO
You think it was First State?
YES.
Don't you go around poking into other computers, too?
SURE
So why not someone else?
THEY DIDN'T GET INTO BIG TROUBLE FROM REPO MAN'S ARTICLE?
"He knows who you are?" Tyrone asked.
"Sure. He likes calling me Repo Man for some reason that still
escapes me.
Where else do you go?
THAT WOULD BE TELLING
Gotcha. Well, I guess that's about it.
PHEW!
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
"I guess you scared him off." Scott was amused.
"Sorry," Tyrone said.
"He'll call back," Scott waved off the apology. "When the coast
is clear."
"Fuck off." Their friendship was returning to the level it once
had been.
"Hey, it's getting beyond late," Scott ignored him. "What say we
get together in a few days and sort through some of this."
"I know, but one thing. Can you get into your computers, at the
paper?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Dobbs said that the other victims had had their stock go down
pretty dramatically. Can you look up stock prices and perform-
ances over the last few months?"
"Yeah, do it all the time."
"Could you? I want to see if there are any names I recognize."
"No problem." Scott dialed the Times' computer and identified
himself. After going into the bank computer with Kirk, every
time he dialed up his office, he felt an increased sense of
power, and an increased sense of responsibility. He had access
to massive amounts of information that if it got into the wrong
hands . . .
He shook the thought. The computer offered the 'Stocks and Bonds
Menu' and Scott set up a query in a modified SQL that was simple
enough for reporters to use:
ALL STOCKS LOSING 35% OR MORE OF VALUE IN LAST YEAR.
The computer flashed a message. 'Working'. Scott leaned back.
"Takes a few seconds. Oh, as I was saying, when I get back,
I'll call and we'll see what we can screw together."
"Back from where?" Tyrone sounded accusatory but jealous.
"Europe. Amsterdam." Scott checked the computer screen. It was
still busy.
"Rough life."
"No, it's only for a couple of days. There's a hackers confer-
ence. I've been invited, by Kirk as a matter of fact."
"Hackers conference, sounds like tons of fun." Tyrone was not
impressed.
"The best hackers in the world are going to be there. I hope to
get some leads on the First State mess. The Freedom BBS is not
all it seems."
"Please stay in touch," Tyrone implored.
"Sure. Here we go. It's ready. Ah, let's see, there are 267
companies who meet that criterion. I guess that narrows it down
for you."
"Smart ass. Ah, can you get those in New York only?"
"The city? Sure."
SORT BY ZIP 100XX
"That'll give us . . ."
"I know what it means." Tyrone shut Scott up in mock defense.
In reality he didn't know much about computers, but some things
were obvious even to the technically naive.
"That was fast," said Scott. "Only 17. Help any?"
"Might. Can I get that on paper?"
Scott gave him the printout of the finances on the several unfor-
tunate companies who had lost more than a third of their net
worth in the last year. Tyrone folded it into his jacket pocket.
"Hey, call me a cab. I'm too drunk to walk."
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 30
Lenox, Georgia
A faded blue Ford Econoline van sat in the Lenox Square parking
lot. The affluent Atlanta suburb had been targeted from the
beginning. Demographically ,it fit the bill to a tee.
From the outside, the van looked like a thousand other parked
cars; empty, with their owners shopping in the huge mall. On the
inside though, two men were intently operating a vast array of
electronic equipment.
"Here comes another one," said the first. "How many does that
make today?"
"A hundred and forty seven. Let's do it." The second man
watched the enhanced color video image on a small monitor. A
well dressed lady walked up to the ATM machine, card in hand.
The first man pressed a switch on another monitor and the snow
filled picture was transformed into an electronic copy of the
ATM's video display.
Please Insert Card
The screen in the van echoed the ATM screen.
"Can you tune it in a bit?" asked the first man. " It's a little
fuzzy."
"Yeah, we must have settled. Let me adjust the antenna." His
hand grabbed a joystick on one of the tightly packed racks of
equipment and gingerly moved it from left to right. "Is that
better?" A small disguised antenna on the roof of the van
aligned itself as the joystick commanded.
"Yeah . . .no . . .yeah, back again . . ."
"I see it. There."
"Thanks."
Enter Personal Identification Number:
A third monitor over the second man's cramped desk came to life
as the number 3435 appeared across his screen.
"Got it. You, too?"
"On disk and saved."
"I'll back it up."
"Better not. Here comes another one."
"Busy day."
* * * * *
It was a very busy day. Ahmed Shah saw to it that his followers
were kept busy, six days a week. As they had been for months.
When his army of a hundred plus Econoline vans were not raiding
the contents of unsuspecting computers during the day, they
became electronic ears which listened in on the conversations
between the ATM's and their bank customers.
Ahmed's vans were used most efficiently. On the road, doing his
bidding twenty four hours a day, every day but the Sabbath.
Ahmed created cells of eight loyal anti-American sympathizers,
regardless of nationality, to operate with each van. Each group
operated as an independent entity with only one person from each
able to communicate privately with Ahmed over cellular modem. No
cell knew of any other cell. If one group was apprehended, they
couldn't tell what they didn't know. Therefore, the rest of the
cells remain intact.
Absolute loyalty was an unquestioned assumption for all members
of Ahmed's electronic army. It had to be that way, for the
bigger cause.
All day and night one of Ahmed Shah's computers in his lab at
Columbia received constant calls from his cell leaders. During
the day it was the most interesting information that they had
captured from computer screens. At night, it was the passcodes
to automatic bank tellers machines and credit card information.
Once the passcodes were in hand, making fake ATM cards was a
trivial task.
****************************************************************