by Michael Bond
‘I believe it was bought in from an outside firm and modified to our requirements.’
‘There have been cases of programs being set up to go wrong on a certain date. Some software manufacturers look on it as a form of insurance against bills not being paid, or contracts not being renewed. It is not impossible for someone to have programmed the computer to sabotage Le Guide on a certain date right from the start.’
Once again the questions of dates seemed to have cropped up. There was an underlying feeling of everything having been pre-planned which bothered him.
‘What about security?’
‘Monsieur le Directeur has always been very security conscious,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, glad to be on firmer ground at long last. ‘As far as the physical side is concerned, no one other than staff is ever allowed inside the building without first signing the visitors’ book. Members of the public are allowed entry in order to visit the shop and a reference library, but while they are there they have to wear an adhesive badge. They are then required to sign the book again on leaving.’
‘How about the badge? Is it handed in?’
‘Of course. Visitors aren’t allowed out of the building otherwise.’
‘Good. That doesn’t always happen. How about the computer room itself?’
‘It is kept locked.’
‘Presumably cleaners go in from time to time. Some people need to have access for other reasons. Computers need servicing. So do things like air-conditioning and sprinkler systems. It is often a case of no one noticing the facteur when he delivers the letters. Are references always taken up when people apply for a job?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Most firms don’t. Will you be checking mine?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say ‘that is different’, but he knew that it wasn’t. He also couldn’t help reflecting on the ease with which the girl in Madame Grante’s office had offered him the key to the computer room. She had been too anxious to get back to her boyfriend to worry overmuch about security. Admittedly he had drawn a blank, but he might have found it. He wondered if her credentials had been checked. Knowing Madame Grante, he was sure they would have been.
‘A new computer is always a disruptive influence. People see it as a threat to old established ways of doing their job. Also, you mustn’t lose sight of it having been done by someone – or a group of people – with a grudge.’
‘Someone with a grudge against Le Guide?’ It was hard to imagine.
‘I agree, but it does to some extent represent the privileged. Also, such groups see any computer as a menace to society. It is their vowed intention to challenge anyone or anything connected with them. In France they go under the name of the Comité de Libération ou de Détournement des Ordinateurs. CLODO for short. They have been responsible for a number of attacks – mostly against big companies in the Toulouse area.’
‘Clodo is also the slang word for a tramp.’
She shrugged. ‘Granted. But even I have to admit they have a point. For the first time it has become possible to encapsulate a man’s whole life – both the good and the bad – on a tiny part of a single disquette. If we are not very careful, “Big Brother” could soon be watching over us, and computers are totally lacking in morals. It is not the aims of CLODO one disagrees with so much as their methods.
‘Besides, they are much more likely to plant what is called a Logic Bomb – a program which is timed to go off at some predetermined date and cause irreparable damage. They are out to destroy – not to play games. Either that, or what is known as a “virus”, a device which gradually eats away at the information. From all you have told me, neither seems likely.’
‘But if it was an outside job?’ he persisted. ‘Assuming someone entered through the “front door” as you call it, how did they get any further? How did they enter the area which contains the contents of the new edition of Le Guide? For that it is necessary to use a password. One which is changed every day and is known to only two people.’
‘What else?’
‘That is not enough?’
‘It is possible to place too much reliance on using a password. To use the “door” analogy once again, it is like having only one lock on the entrance but changing it every day. Sometimes it might be better to have two locks and only change them occasionally. If someone wishes to open a safe door and they don’t know the combination, what do they do?’
‘It depends. They can either go through all the possible combinations – which in most cases is an almost insurmountable problem because of the time factor. If they are very expert they might have listening apparatus, but that kind of thing usually only happens in films. They can blow it open – but that, too, has its problems. If it is a very small safe they might even carry it away and open it at their leisure. Or, they can try and find out the combination by other means. What is known as lateral thinking.’
‘Exactly. The one advantage in looking for the “combination lock” on a computer is that provided you program another computer correctly you can use it to do all the hard work for you, particularly if the password is short – five letters or less. You say only two people know what it is?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.
‘And are you one of the two?’
‘No.’ It hadn’t occurred to him to ask the Director for it. In many ways he would rather not know.
‘That is a plus.’ She quickly corrected herself. ‘I mean it is a plus that it wasn’t given to you automatically. Now I will give you a negative. You say the password is changed every day? Presumably it is a word and not a number?’
‘I was told it was a word.’
‘Numbers are often safer. If you take two very large prime numbers and multiply them together it can be almost unbreakable. I will give you an example: the date of the French Revolution and the date of Hitler’s rise to power – 1789 and 1933 – two prime numbers. Multiply them together and you get what is known as a “prime product” – 3,458,137 – it would take even the most powerful computer in the world years to find it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself to another tart. ‘It sounds as though I shall need a course in higher mathematics as well as electronics if I am to take part in the battle of the computer.’
Mademoiselle Borel laughed. ‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t trying to blind you with science. Anyway, I’m glad you said “of” not “with”. The computer is entirely neutral. It is neither on your side, nor against you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the point. ‘I must be grateful for small mercies. So what do you suggest?’
‘I think for the time being we must assume it is a word or a combination of words which is changed every day. To put it another way, there are 365 new words or combinations of words to learn in a year and as many to forget. That immediately narrows the field. Quite likely they will all be related in some way. Taken from a directory, perhaps. In the case of Le Guide, the chances are that it will be some word related to food or to wine. It could be the name of a cheese. Is there an official list?’
‘The bible of the cheese industry is Androuet’s Guide du Fromage.’
‘So they could start at the beginning. The first one listed would be for one day, the second for day two, and so on … Or it could be wine.’
‘There is the 1855 classification for Bordeaux wines.’
‘But that would only give sixty-three. Enough for two months.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her with renewed respect. He couldn’t have come up with the exact number himself.
She poured the rest of the wine.
‘We could always give it a try.’
‘What … now?’
‘There is no time like the present. When do the staff go home?’
‘Most of them leave around five thirty or six o’clock. There is a round-the-clock service operated by a skeleton staff, but as far as I know there will be no one operating the computer.’
Mademoiselle Borel looked at
her watch. ‘Good. It is after six. That’s when most hacking is done. Weekends are usually the peak time. It’s surprising how even big firms leave their systems to fend for themselves at weekends. We will carry out a little test.’
Handing him his glass she stood up and led the way towards a door on the far side of the room. He followed, and to his surprise suddenly found himself entering a room full of equipment. He could have been in a mini version of Mission Control Houston for all most of it meant to him. Mademoiselle Borel ran through a series of switches. Warning lights came on. There was a faint hum of electronic machinery. Warning bleeps issued from all sides. Screens began to glow.
On the balcony there were two small dish aerials. Beyond them he could see across the river towards his own office. If he’d had his Leitz glasses with him he would probably have been able to see the Director’s office. He was glad he couldn’t. He had a momentary mental vision of the Director doing exactly the same thing in reverse and their eyes meeting.
Below lay the Rue Berton, the little lane which Honoré de Balzac used when he wanted to escape from his creditors while he was living at number 47, working through the night and keeping himself awake by drinking black coffee, a combination which eventually proved lethal. A little way up the hill there was a figure in dark blue uniform clutching a machine carbine. No doubt he was guarding the Turkish Embassy.
Mademoiselle Borel glanced round as he took a closer look at the aerials. ‘They are the modern equivalent of phone tapping. The air is full of information – twenty-four hours a day – flying in all directions.’
She motioned towards a second chair as she seated herself in front of a console, inserted a disquette and began punching in a series of commands.
Almost at once he was aware of a change in the atmosphere. Gone was the laid-back Mademoiselle Borel who had received him. In her place was a highly dedicated and knowledgeable professional.
‘The first thing to do is dial up the mainframe computer. Do you have the number?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse consulted his notebook again and gave it to her.
She typed it in. There was a pause, then a welcoming BONJOUR appeared on a screen in front of them. It was followed by a request for identification.
‘Any ideas?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a momentary pang of guilt. It was almost as though he were breaking into his own house. Worse than that even. It felt like a betrayal of trust. ‘You could try one of the other guides. Michelin, perhaps, or Gault-Millau. I’m sure they subscribe. Or any of the major journaux.’
‘I will try Le Monde.’
She typed the words and they appeared on the screen.
‘Which service do you require?’ The reply was almost instantaneous.
She looked enquiringly at Monsieur Pamplemousse. He shrugged.
‘I will ask for their HELP menu. If we are very lucky it may give the kind of vital information we need – like how to enter other areas. It has been known.’
A long list flashed on the screen. At the bottom were the words LE GUIDE.
‘I don’t believe it.’ She selected the appropriate command on her keyboard. ‘It can’t be that easy.’
‘MOT DE PASSE, S’IL VOUS PLAIT’ appeared on the screen.
‘I’ll try thinking up a password at random and see what happens.’
After the third attempt the screen went blank. She made a grimace.
‘It isn’t as easy as it looks! The machine has been programmed to cut off the call after the third attempt. It is a common safeguard. The problem now is that it has quite probably automatically logged in the time and date. Once can be a genuine mistake, or simply someone who is interested. A whole series of repeated attempts will arouse suspicion.’
‘How would you get round that?’
‘If you were able to access the security section you could delete the information it has logged.’
‘And if you couldn’t?’
She shrugged. ‘There are always other ways. Speaking for myself, I would put plan “B” into operation. I might arrange for someone to pose as a telephone engineer and insert a listening device where the lines enter the building. He could then pick up any messages via a receiver outside the building and feed it into a computer. Once you are in, there is often a device known as a “Zap Utility” which exists for all sorts of purposes – maintenance, writing of new applications. If you can enter that, the world is your oyster. You can edit away to your heart’s content. Create new files …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back and closed his eyes. It was all very fascinating, but suddenly he felt himself in deep water, struggling to stay afloat. He was liable to sink at any moment under the weight of accumulated knowledge, none of which seemed to be getting him anywhere nearer his goal.
‘So, to sum up, it could be a break-in from outside. That would be difficult, but not impossible. Or, it could have been from inside the building, perhaps through lack of security on our part …’
‘I’m sorry if you feel I haven’t been of much help.’
‘Not at all. You have been very patient. You have answered a lot of my questions. I now know a little about computers, enough to hold my own in a conversation, but …’
He could have added that he now knew enough to realise that the problem was even greater than he had pictured. Mademoiselle Borel was right. To all intents and purposes he was no further on than he had been when he’d arrived – as he stood up he glanced at his watch – an hour ago.
‘Would you care to stay and have something to eat? I can tell you a little more about computers. Or, we can talk of other things. About what it is like being an expert on food and wine for example. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.’
While she was talking Mademoiselle Borel led the way back into the main room and crossed to the kitchen. As she opened the door Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of an orange Le Creuset pot simmering on the stove. On the working top of one of the units there was a baguette and alongside that a plate of saucisson. On another working top there was a selection of cheese.
As she lifted the lid of the pot a delicious smell wafted his way; the kind of smell that could only come from long and careful preparation and even longer cooking. It was a smell he remembered well from his childhood.
‘It is only a pot-au-feu, but there is enough to last me for several days. You are most welcome. I cook it the way my mama did when I was small – she always served the bouillon on toast with the leeks.’
It had been the same in his own home. The bouillon from Monday’s pot-au-feu had provided the basis for the rest of the week’s meals; broth with noodles, broth with semolina and broth with rice. Then on Fridays, potage à la fécule – the remains of the broth thickened with cornflour. He had always hurried home from school for that.
She took a bottle of wine from a nearby rack. ‘You could learn a little about Californian red at the same time. It is a Jekel Cabernet Sauvignon – Private Reserve. Or there is a Santenay if you prefer.’
Sorely tempted, Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘It is very kind of you, but I have to go. There is a great deal of work to be done. Perhaps I can take what your American friends would call a “rain check”?’
‘Of course. As you see, it is a very large pot. Who knows?’ As she led the way to the hall and removed his hat from the cupboard, it was her turn to hesitate. ‘Would you mind if I carry on trying? Looking for a way into the computer, I mean.’
‘That would be most helpful. I will keep in touch if I have any news at my end.’ On an impulse he converted a handshake into the raising of her fingers to his lips. ‘Au revoir, M’moiselle.’
‘Au revoir.’ She waited at her door for the lift to arrive.
‘Take care. I have a feeling that whoever it is you are looking for wishes to make everyone suffer for a while. If he simply wanted to hurt Le Guide he could have arranged for the entire program to be erased. I think he also wishes to turn the screw as well. I think it is t
he action of someone who is a little en colère.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Someone with a grudge who has been brooding on it for so long it has become an obsession.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘May I ask you one last question?’
‘Please do.’
‘The pot-au-feu … Do you seal the ends of the bones with potato to keep the marrow intact?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tied with string?’
‘Naturellement.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a sigh; a mixture of contentment and regret. It was echoed somewhat noisily and pointedly from inside the lift.
‘That is how my mother used to make it too.’
On their way out Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged the glance from the hall porter with a nod. The man looked at his watch, then wrote something in a book.
Outside the block he stood for a moment, wondering what to do next. He almost wished now he had taken up the invitation to stay for a meal instead of opting for a rain check. He glanced up at the sky. From the look of it he might not have long to wait.
Somewhat inconsequentially, he suddenly remembered that it was in the Rue Raynouard that Benjamin Franklin had invented the lightning conductor.
What was the phrase Mademoiselle Borel had used? ‘Assuming all external connections are correct.’ She was right. In the end most problems turned out to have simple solutions. It was really a case of breaking them down into their essential elements – as with a computer.
The changes to Le Guide hadn’t been made at random. They had been carefully thought out by someone with a good working knowledge of restaurants and what would cause the maximum amount of embarrassment. All of which would have taken time and thought.
Reaching a decision, Monsieur Pamplemousse set off in the direction of the Passy Métro station. It was time he returned to the office. If it was an ‘inside job’, then all his past experience told him to look for someone with a changed life style, and that brought him inexorably back to Madame Grante. He couldn’t begin to suspect her of any kind of disloyalty. On the other hand, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. For someone so very set in their ways, her ‘external connections’ had, by all accounts, gone very much awry.