Wednesday, January 13
New York City
No Privacy for Mere Citizens
by Scott Mason.
I learned the other day, that I can find out just about anything
I want to know about you, or her, or him, or anyone, for a few
dollars, a few phone calls and some free time.
Starting with just an automobile license plate number, the De-
partment of Motor Vehicles will be happy to supply me with a name
and address that go with the plate. Or I can start with a name,
or an address or just a phone number and use a backwards phone
book. It's all in the computer.
I can find more about you by getting a copy of the your auto
registration and title from the public records. Marriage
licenses and divorces are public as well. You can find out the
damnedest things about people from their first or second or third
marriage records. Including the financial settlements. Good way
to determine how much money or lack thereof is floating around a
healthy divorce.
Of course I can easily find all traffic offenses, their disposi-
tion, and any follow up litigation or settlements. It's all in
the computer. As there are public records of all arrests, court
cases, sentences and paroles. If you've ever been to trial, the
transcripts are public.
Your finances can be scrupulously determined by looking up the
real estate records for purchase price, terms, cash, notes and
taxes on your properties. Or, if you've ever had a bankruptcy,
the sordid details are clearly spelled out for anyone's inspec-
tion. It's all in the computer.
I can rapidly build an excellent profile of you, or whomever.
And, it's legal. All legal, using the public records available
to anyone who asks and has the $2.
That tells me, loud and clear, that I no longer have any privacy!
None!
Forget the hackers; it's bad enough they can get into our bank
accounts and our IRS records and the Census forms that have our
names tied to the data. What about Dick and Jane Doe, Everyman
USA, who can run from agency to agency and office to office put
together enough information about me or you to be dangerous.
I do not think I like that.
It's bad enough the Government can create us or destroy us as
individuals by altering the contents of our computer files deep
inside the National Data Bases. At least they have a modicum of
accountability. However, their inattentive disregard for the
privacy of the citizens of this country is criminal.
As a reporter I am constantly amazed at how easy it is to find
out just about anything about anybody, and in many ways that
openness has made my job simpler. However, at the same time, I
believe that the Government has an inherent responsibility to
protect us from invasion of privacy, and they are derelict in
fulfilling that promise.
If the DMV needs to know my address, I understand. The IRS needs
to know my income. Each computer unto itself is a necessary
repository to facilitate business transactions. However, when
someone begins to investigate me, crossing the boundaries of
multiple data bases, without question, they are invading my
privacy. Each piece of information found about me may be insig-
nificant in itself, but when combined, it becomes highly danger-
ous in the wrong hands. We all have secrets we want to remain
secrets. Under the present system, we have sacrificed our priva-
cy for the expediency of the machines.
I have a lawyer friend who believes that the fourth amendment is
at stake. Is it, Mr. President?
This is Scott Mason, feeling Peered Upon.
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 13
Atlanta, Georgia
First Federal Bank in Atlanta, Georgia enjoyed a reputation of
treating its customers like royalty. Southern Hospitality was
the bank's middle name and the staff was trained to provide
extraordinary service. This morning though, First Federal's
customers were not happy campers. The calls started coming in
before 8:00 A.M.
"My account is off $10," "It doesn't add up," "My checkbook
won't balance." A few calls of this type are normal on any given
day, but the phones were jammed with customer complaints. Hun-
dreds of calls streamed in constantly and hundreds more never got
through the busy signals. Dozens of customers came into the
local branches to complain about the errors on their statement.
An emergency meeting was held in the Peachtree Street headquar-
ters of First Federal. The president of the bank chaired the
meeting. The basic question was, What Was Going On? It was a
free for all. Any ideas, shoot 'em out.
How many calls? About 4500 and still coming in. What are the
dates of the statements? So far within a couple of days, but who
knows what we'll find. What are you asking people to do? Double
check against their actual checks instead of the register. Do
you really think that 5000 people wake up one morning and all
make the same mistakes? Do you have any other ideas? Then
what? If they don't reconcile, bring 'em in and we'll pull the
fiche.
What do the computer people say? They think there may be an
error. That's bright. If the numbers are adding up wrong, how do
we balance? Have no idea. Do they add up in our favor? Not
always. Maybe 50/50 so far. Can we fix it? Yes. When? I don't
know yet. Get some answers. Fast. Yessir.
The bank's concerns mounted when their larger customers found
discrepancies in the thousands and tens of thousands of dollars.
As the number of complaints numbered well over 10,000 by noon,
First Federal was facing a crisis. The bank's figures in no way
jived with their customer's records and the finger pointing
began.
The officers contacted the Federal Reserve Board and notified
them. The Board suggested, strongly, that the bank close for the
remainder of the day and sort it out before it got worse. First
Federal did close, under the guise of installing a new computer
system, a lie that might also cover whatever screwed up the
statements. Keep that option open. They kept answering the
phones, piling up the complaints and discovering that thus far
there was no pattern to the errors.
By mid-afternoon, they at least knew what to look for. On every
statement a few checks were listed with the incorrect amounts and
therefore the balance was wrong. For all intent and purpose, the
bank had absolutely no idea whose money was whose.
Working into the night the bank found that all ledgers balanced,
but still the amounts in the accounts were wrong. What are the
odds of a computer making thousands of errors and having them all
balance out to a net zero difference? Statistically it was
impossible, and that meant someone altered the amounts on pur-
pose. By midnight they found that the source of the error was
probably in the control code of the bank's central computing
center.
First Federal Bank did not open for business Thursday. Or Fri-
day.
First Federal Bank was not the only bank to experience profound
difficulties with it's customers. Similar complaints closed down
Farmer's Bank in Des Moines, Iowa, Lake City Bank in Chicago,
First Trade in New York City, Sopporo Bank in San Francisco,
Pilgrim's Trust in Boston and, as the Federal Reserve Bank would
discover, another hundred or so banks in almost every state.
The Department of the Treasury reacted quickly, spurred into
action by the chairman of Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C.
Being one of the oldest banks in the country, and the only one
that could claim having a personal relationship with Alexander
Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, it still carried
political weight.
The evening network and local news stations covered the situation
critically. Questions proliferated but answers were hard to come
by. The largest of the banks and the government announced that
a major computer glitch had affected the Electronic Funds Trans-
fers which had inadvertently caused the minor inconsistencies in
some customer records.
The press was extremely hard on the banks and the Fed Reserve and
the Treasury. They smelled a coverup, a lie; that they and the
public were not being told the truth, or at least all of it.
Only Scott Mason and a couple of other reporters speculated that
a computer virus or time bomb was responsible. Without any
evidence though, the government and the banks vigorously denied
any such possibilities. Rather, they developed a convoluted
story of how one money transaction affects another and then
another. The domino theory of banking was explained to the
public in graphs and charts, but an open skepticism prevailed.
Small businesses and individual banking customers were totally
shut off from access to their funds. Tens of thousands of auto-
matic tellers were turned off by their banks in the futile hope
of minimizing the damage. Estimates were that by evening, almost
5 million people had been estranged from their money.
Rumors of bank collapse and a catastrophic failure of the banking
system persisted. The Stock Market, operating at near full
capacity after November's disaster, reacted to the news with a
precipitous drop of almost 125 points before trading was suspend-
ed, cutting off thousands more from their money.
The International Monetary Fund convened an emergency meeting as
the London and Tokyo stock markets reacted negatively to the
news. Wire transfers and funds disbursements were ceased across
all state and national borders.
Panic ensued, and despite the best public relations efforts, the
Treasury imposed financial sanctions on all savings and checking
accounts. If the banks opened on Friday, severe limits would be
placed on access to available funds. Checks would be returned or
held until the emergency was past.
Nightline addressed the banking crisis in depth. The experts
debated the efficiency of the system and that possibly an unfore-
seen overload had occurred, triggering the events of the day. No
one suggested that the bank's computers had been compromised.
* * * * *
New York City Times
"Yes, it is urgent."
"What is this about?
"That is for the Senator's ears only."
"Can you hold for . . ."
"Yes, yes. I've been holding for an hour. Go on." Muzak inter-
pretations of Led Zeppelin greeted Scott Mason as he was put on
hold. Again. Good God! They have more pass interference in the
front office and on the phones than the entire NFL. He waited.
At long last, someone picked up the other end of the phone. "I am
sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Mason, it has been rather hectic
as you can imagine. How are you faring?" Senator Nancy Deere
true to form, always projected genuine sincerity.
"Fine, fine, thank you, Senator. The reason for my call is
rather, ah . . .sensitive."
"Yes?" she asked politely.
"Well, the fact is, Senator, we cannot discuss it, that is, I
don't feel that we can talk about this on the phone."
"That makes it rather difficult, doesn't it," she laughed weakly.
"Simply put, Senator . . . "
"Please call me Nancy. Both my friends and enemies do."
"All right, Nancy," Scott said awkwardly. "I need 15 minutes of
your time about a matter of national security and it directly
concerns your work on the Rickfield Committee." She winced at
the nick name that the hearing had been given. "I can assure
you, Senator, ah, Nancy, that I would not be bothering you unless
I was convinced of what I'm going to tell you. And show you. If
you think I'm nuts, then fine, you can throw me out."
"Mr. Mason, that's enough," Nancy said kindly. "Based upon your
performance at the hearing the other day, that alone is enough to
make me want to shake your hand. As for what you have to say? I
pride myself on being a good listener. When would be convenient
for you?"
"The sooner the better," Scott said with obvious relief that he
hadn't had to sell her.
"How's . . .ah, four tomorrow? My office?"
"That's fine, perfect. We'll see you tomorrow then."
"We?" Nancy picked up the plural reference.
"Yes, I am working with someone else. It helps if I'm not crazy
alone."
* * * * *
FBI, New York
"I'll be in Washington tomorrow, we can talk about it then,"
Tyrone Duncan said emphatically into his desk telephone.
"Ty, I've been on your side and defended you since I came on
board, you know that." Bob Burnson was pleading with Ty. "But
on this one, I have no control. You've been poking into areas
that don't concern you, and I'm catching heat."
"I'm working on one damn case, Bob. One. Computer crime. But it
keeps on touching this fucking blackmail fiasco and it's getting
on everyone's nerves. There's a lot more to this than ransoms
and hackers and I've been having some luck. I'll show you what I
have tomorrow. Sixish. Ebbets."
"I'll be there. Ty," Burnson said kindly. "I don't know the
specifics, but you've been shaking the tree. I hope it's worth
it."
"It is, Bob. I'd bet my ass on in."
"You are."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 14
Walter Reed Medical Center
"How is he doing?" Scott asked.
"He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Sean Kelly, one of
Walter Reed's hundreds of Marcus Welby look-alike staff physi-
cians. "In cases like this, we operate in the dark. The chest
wound is nasty, but that's not the danger; it's the head wound.
The brain is a real funny area."
Tyrone's FBI identification was required to get him and Scott in
to see Dr. Kelly. As far as anybody knew, Pierre Troubleaux had
been killed over the weekend in an explosion in his hospital
room. The explosion was faked at the suggestion of the manage-
ment of dGraph, Inc. after Pierre's most recent assailant was
murdered, despite the police assigned to guard his room. Two of
Ahmed's elite army had disguised themselves as orderlies so well
that they weren't suspected when one went in the room and the
other occupied the guard. The media was having a field day.
All would have gone as planned but for the fact that one of the
D.C. policeman on guard was of Lebanese decent. One ersatz
orderly emerged from the room and spoke to his confederate in
Arabic. "It's done. Let's get out of here."
The guard understood enough Farsi and instantly drew his gun on
the pair. One of Ahmed's men tried to pull his gun but was shot
and wounded before he could draw. The other orderly started to
run down the hallway pushing nurses and patients out of his way.
He slid as he turned left down another corridor that ended with a
huge picture window overlooking the lush hospital grounds. He
never slowed, shouting "Allah, I am yours!" as he dove through
the plate glass window plummeting five floors to the concrete
walk below.
The wounded and armed orderly refused to speak. At all. Noth-
ing. He made his one call and remained silent thereafter.
The dGraph management was acutely concerned that there might be
another attempt on Pierre's life, so the secrecy surrounding his
faked death would be maintained until he was strong enough to
deal with the situation on his own. The investigation into both
the shooting and the meant-to-convince bombing was handled by the
District Police, and officially the FBI had nothing to do with
it.
Dr. Kelly continued, trying to speak in non-Medical terms.
"Basically, we don't know enough to accurately predict the ef-
fects of trauma to the brain. We can generally say that motor
skills, or memory might be affected, but to what extent is un-
known. Then there are head injuries that we can't fully explain,
and Pierre's is one of them."
Scott and Ty looked curiously at Dr. Kelly. "Pierre had a severe
trauma to the cranium, and some of the outer layers of brain
tissue were damaged when the skull was perforated." Scott shud-
dered at the distinct memory of the gore. "Since he was in a
coma, we elected to do minimal repair work until he gained con-
sciousness and he could give us first hand reports on his memory
and other possible effects. That's how we do it in the brain
business."
"So, how is he?" Scott wanted a bottom line.
"He came out of a coma yesterday, and thus far, we can't find any
problems that stem from the head injury."
"That's amazing," said Scott. "I saw the . . ."
"It is amazing," agreed Dr. Kelly, "but not all that rare.
There are many references in the literature where severe brain
damage was sustained without corresponding symptoms. I once saw
a half inch re-bar go through this poor guy's forehead. He was
still awake! We operated, removed the bar, and when he woke up
he was hungry. He had a slight a headache. It was like nothing
ever happened. So, who knows? Maybe we'll be lucky."
"Can we see him?" Scott asked the Irish doctor assigned to
repair Pierre Troubleaux.
"He's awake, but we have been keeping him sedated, more to let
the chest wound heal than his head," Dr. Kelly replied.
Pierre was recuperating in a virtual prison, a private room deep
within the bowels of the Medical Center. There were 2 guards
outside the room and another that sat near the hospital bed.
Absolute identification was required every time someone entered
the room and it took two phone calls to verify the identities of
Scott and Tyrone despite the verbal affidavit from Kelly. The
groggy Pierre was awake when the three approached the bed. Dr.
Kelly introduced them and Pierre immediately tried to move to
thank Scott for saving his life.
Dr. Kelly laid down the rules; even though Pierre was in remarka-
bly good shape, still, no bouncing on the bed and don't drink the
IV fluid. Pierre spoke quietly, but found at least a half dozen
ways to thank Scott for his ad hoc heroics. He also retained
much of his famed humor.
"I want to thank you," Pierre said in jest, "for putting the
value of my life in proper perspective."
Scott's cheeks pushed up his glasses from the deep smile that
Pierre's words caused. He hadn't realized that Pierre had been
conscious. Tyrone looked confused.
"I begged him not to die," laughed Scott, "because it wouldn't
look good on my resume."
"And I have had the common courtesy to honor your request."
After suffering enough embarrassment by compliments, Scott asked
Pierre for a favor, to which he readily agreed. No long term
karmic debt here, thought Scott.
"I need to understand something," said Scott. Pierre nodded,
what?
"You told me, in the midst of battle, that dGraph was sick. I
took that to mean that it contained a virus of some kind, but,
well, I guess that's the question. What did you mean?"
"You're right. Yes," Pierre said softly but firmly. "That's what
I was going to say at the hearings. I was going to confess."
"Confess?" Tyrone asked. "To what?"
"To the viruses. About why I did it, or, really, why I let it
happen."
"So you did infect your own software. Why?" Scott demanded.
Pierre shook his head back and forth. "No, I didn't do it. I
had no control."
"Then who did?"
"Homosoto and his people."
"Homosoto? Chairman of OSO?" Scott shrieked. "You're out of
your mind, no offense."
"I wish I were. Homosoto took over my company and killed Max."
* * * * *
The New Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
"The Senator will see you now," said one of Senator Deere's
aides. Scott and Tyrone entered her office which was decorated
more in line with a woman's taste than the heavy furniture men
prefer. She stood to greet them.
"Gentlemen," Nancy Deere said shaking their hands. "I know that
you're with the New York City Times, Mr. Mason. I took the
liberty of reading some of your work. Interesting, controver-
sial. I like it." She offered them chairs at an informal seat-
ing area on one end of the large office.
"And you are?" she said to Ty. He told her. "I take it this is
official?"
"At this point ma'am, we just need to talk, and get your reac-
tions," Ty said.
"He's having labor management troubles." Scott thought that was
the perfect diplomatic description.
"I see," Nancy said. "So right now this meeting isn't
happening."
"Kind of like that," Ty said.
"And him?" She said cocking her head at Scott.
"It's his story, I'm just his faithful sidekick with a few of the
pieces."
"Well then," Nancy said amused with the situation. "Please, I am
all ears." She and Tyrone looked at Scott, waiting.
How the hell was he going to tell a U.S. Senator that an organ-
ized group of anarchistic hackers and fanatic Moslem Arabs were
working with a respected Japanese industrialist and building
computer viruses. He couldn't figure out any eloquent way to
say it, so he just said it, straight, realizing that the summa-
tion sounded one step beyond absurd. All things considered, Scott
thought, she took it very well.
"I assume you have more than a headline?" Senator Deere said
after a brief, polite pause.
Scott proceeded to describe everything that he had learned, the
hackers, Kirk, Spook, the CMR equipment, his articles being
pulled, the First State and Sidneys situation. He told her about
the anonymous documents he had thus far been unable to use.
Except for one which he would use today. Scott also said that
computer viruses would fully explain the banking crisis.
Tyrone outlined the blackmail cases he suspected were diversion-
ary tactics for another as yet unknown crime, and that despite
more than $40 millions in payoffs had been arranged, no one had
showed to collect.
"Ma'am," Tyrone said to Senator Deere. "I fought to get into the
Bureau, and I made it through the good and the bad. And, I
always knew where I stood. Akin, I guess to the political winds
that change every four years." She nodded. "But now, there's
something wrong." Nancy tilted her head waiting for Ty to con-
tinue.
He spoke carefully and slowly. "I have never been the paranoid
type; I'm not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I
get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to
be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It's
almost like I'm not supposed to find out what's happening. I get
no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been
predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions."
"So why come to me?" Nancy asked. "You're the police."
"Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?" Scott asked
Nancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone.
"Alive? How's that possible?" She too, had heard the news.
They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had
been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre's prognosis
brightened Nancy attitude.
"But, it's not all good news. It appears, that every single copy
of dGraph, that's a . . ."
"I know dGraph," she said quickly. "It's part of the job.
Couldn't live without it."
"Well, ma'am, it's infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of
them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki
Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has
effectively held Pierre hostage since."
The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response.
Nancy Deere's jaw fell limp. "That is the most unbelievable,
incredible . . .I don't know what to say."
"I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet,"
said Tyrone.
"There are a few friends of mine working to see if dGraph really
is infected." Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the
implications.
"What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?" She thirsted for more hard
information.
"I'm no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I'm not stupid
either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have
been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess
is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones
that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies." Nancy main-
tained rapt attention as Scott continued . "Therefore, I would
venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect-
ed."
Scott paused as Nancy's eyes widened.
"Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another
according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to
assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is
getting ready to self destruct." Scott sounded certain and
final.
"I can't comprehend this, this is too incredible." Senator Deere
shook her head in disbelief. "What will happen?"
"Pierre doesn't know what the viruses do, he's not a programmer.
He's just a figurehead," Scott explained. "Now, if I had to
guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep
those viruses from exploding."
"One man's word is an indictment, not a conviction," Nancy said
soberly.
"There's more," Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott.
"We've learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it
begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to
make sense of it all." He slid forward in his chair. "We know
that Scott's hacker's name is Miles Foster and he's tied up with
the Amsterdam group, but we don't how yet. We also know that he
is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the
Fort." Nancy understood the implication.
"When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone-
walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now
they're retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don't know why."
Tyrone shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't make any
sense."
"At any rate," Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, "I
checked into his background since he left the Agency in '87. He
went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit." Nancy
Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker
face. "We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna-
tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has
been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show
no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody's
guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a
Tokyo travel agency, but we can't determine who paid for them."
"Seventeen times?" asked the Senator.
"Yes ma'am. Curious."
"How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?"
she asked dubiously.
"We have our means. I can't get into that now." Tyrone held the
party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI
could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In
fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to
hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications
Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on
any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel,
credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power,
entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants
unconscionable.
"I have no doubt," she said caustically.
"There's more." Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which
impressed Nancy. "The case concerning Max Jones' death is being
reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county
was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in
making his predecessor look bad." Tyrone spoke without the
emotion that drove Scott.
"So what does this prove?" she asked.
"It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones
died."
Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which
only provided a view of another office building across the
street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as
she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.
"Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General
Young: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearing
on the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you and
Rickfield don't see eye to eye."
Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for
ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that
described the illicit relationship between General Young and
Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.
"Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly.
"No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two
and two and, well, it does raise some questions."
"I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious
to answer."
* * * * *
6 P.M., Washington, D.C.
"Who the hell are you pissing off and why?" Bob Burnson met
Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street from
Treasury at 6:00 PM.
Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and
reluctantly accepted that for Scott's assistance in Tyrone's
investigation he would get an exclusive.
For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew,
just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems.
"I've been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don't
forget our midnight rendezvous."
Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two
decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling
him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the
implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting
heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?
"What are you planning?" Bob asked them both.
"Scott's going after Homosoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get
a few answers."
"And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too."
"Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a
chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean.
There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think
it's about time to turn a few screws."
"Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's button you're pushing has pushed
the Director's, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink
on shit. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi-
cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back
off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the
work while our asses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A
perfect case of CYA."
"But?" Tyrone suggested.
"But," Bob said, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean
someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A
Government approved horse shit here, but I'll be fucked if know
why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage
stuff."
"They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid
crimes," Tyrone said defiantly.
"Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen.
"Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could
they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob.
"The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous
political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll
cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick
for my blood. I hope you understand."
"Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks."
* * * * *
Friday, January 15
New York City
Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making
the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until
10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours
for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear
Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode
well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough
commute.
He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed
that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one
at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to
pass on to his audience.
At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd.
Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West
Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th.
Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where
the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every
morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He
listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents
were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.
Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the
police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many
accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He
passed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home.
By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the
impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police
helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the
conversations from their police band radios.
At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told
that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets
were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were
dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the
process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city.
Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of
Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight - a massive
traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it
gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At
8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth
was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians
nervously slipped in and around the chaos.
Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects
of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic
system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown
from an airplane. The traffic computers.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the
kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What
a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New
York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an
interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched
intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus-
sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed.
The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad-
cast System so they could communicate with the half million
drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat-
tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being
forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen-
tial government services were shut down for the day.
The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the
National Guard was called to assist the local police. Sonja
compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they
deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like
any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a
party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Sonja?"
"Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?"
Sonja sipped her coffee.
"It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly.
"Something wrong?" Sonja asked.
"I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you."
Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to Scott
Mason any more. I'm getting out."
"Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion.
"I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got
hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money
anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange-
ments. You know what I mean?"
"Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I
was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew
exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at
one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between
her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it.
She had not suspected that it would be for passion, nor because
of one of her 'dates'.
"Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything.
He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with
him."
"That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her
thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four
of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in
common."
"Scott should be down tonight."
"That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we
can put this behind us."
* * * * *
New York City
The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that
the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch-
es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and
yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer
technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code
was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current
disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in
time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began
manually loading the software that controlled each region's
switches in the hope of piecing together the grid.
At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the
dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they
synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date,
the time, anticipated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust
the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes
later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every
light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew
that it was only the primary sync-control program which was
corrupted.
The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting
the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M..
The official explanation was a massive computer failure, which
was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed
the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous
software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media
congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping
with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from
the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred
were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital.
Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder
among other assorted crimes. All they had to do was find him.
* * * * *
New York City
Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we
will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called
OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next
day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that
he needed an international clock to figure out when to call Japan
during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO
switchboard, he had to pass scrutiny by three different opera-
tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to
the English language. He told Homosoto's secretary, whose Eng-
lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and
needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was
patched through almost immediately.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes."
"This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling
from New York. How are you today?"
"Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" Homosoto was obviously
the gratuitous sort when it came to the press.
"We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux
accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says
that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs.
Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as
possible under the circumstances.
No answer.
"Sir? Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes?"
"We are also interested in your relationship with Miles Foster.
Mr. Homosoto?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer
viruses?"
No answer.
"Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in the
United States?"
"I should have killed him."
"What?" Scott strained his ear.
"Mr. Troubleaux is alive?"
"I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On
anything?"
"I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead.
Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial.
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