"No shit Sherlock. It makes me wonder who's been listening in on our computers all these years. Maybe that's why our jobs seem to get tougher every day." Duncan snapped himself back from the mental digression. "Where do you go from here?"
Scott was prepared. He had a final bombshell to lay on Duncan before specifying his request. "There are a couple of things that make me think. First, there is no way that only one guy could put together the amount of information that I have. I've told you how much there is. From all over the country. That suggests a lot more than one person involved. I don't know how many, that's your job.
"Two, these blackmail threats. Obviously whoever is reading the computers, Van Ecking them is what I call it, has been sending the information to someone else. Then they, in turn, call up their targets and let them know that their secrets are no longer so secret. Then three, they have been probably sending the information to other people, on paper. Like me and the National Expose. I have no idea if any others are receiving similar packages. What I see here, is a coordinated effort to . . ." Scott held Tyrone's complete attention.
"You still haven't told me what you need. Lay it on me, buddy. There can't be much more."
"Doesn't it make sense that if we had one van, and the equipment inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are other Van Eck vans out there? For an operation that's this large, there would have to be a back up, a contingency . . ." The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.
"Shhhh . . ." Tyrone cautioned. "The trains have ears. I don't go for conspiracy theories, I never have. Right now all we have is raw, uncorrelated data. No proof. Just circumstantial events that may have nothing to do with each other . . ."
"Bullshit. Look at this." Scott opened up his briefcase and handed a file folder to Tyrone.
"What is it? Looks like a news story, that . . .uh . . .you wrote and, it's about some mergers. Big deal." Duncan closed the folder. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"This. Yes, I wrote the story. Two days ago. It hasn't been printed yet." Scott took the folder back. "I found this copy in the van that was wrecked two days ago. It was Van Eck'ed from my computer the day I wrote it. They've been watching me and my computer."
"Now wait a second. There are a hundred possible answers. You could have lost a copy or someone got it from your wastebasket." Duncan wasn't convincing either to himself or to Scott. Scott smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.
"You want to play?" Scott asked.
"I think I'd better. If this is for real, no one has any priva- cy anymore."
"I know I don't."
Chapter 14 Sunday, November 29
Columbia University, New York
The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite wisdom, had put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the McDonalds' window prominent.
Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba- cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan, 3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to his computer that was always on.
C:cd protalk C:PROTALKprotalk
He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no stop bits.
[[[DIALING]]]
The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to life and displayed
PASSWORD:
Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.
CRYPT KEY:
He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the privacy of his conversations.
[[[TRANSMISSION ENCODED]]]
That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be there to answer.
Good Morning. I have some news.
NEWS?
We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.
PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.
One of the readers is gone.
HOW? CAPTURED?
No, the Americans aren't that smart. He died in a car crash.
WILL THIS HURT US?
No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.
THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?
A martyr.
CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?
He had false identification. They will learn nothing.
BE SURE THEY DON'T. DESTROY THE CAR.
They can learn nothing. Why?
IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US. HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?
I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.
DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?
It would not matter if they did. They are loyal. The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the Americans who died eating their breakfasts.
GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.
It will be done.
[[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]
* * * * *
Monday, November 30
New York City
The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc- ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed as per Homosoto's order. The explosion that had caused the fire was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was placed with that obscure fact.
Ben Shellhorne noticed, though. Wasn't that the van that Scott Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even if on police property was not a particularly interesting story, at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.
"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal office phones.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It's gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it. Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He decided to play it cool.
"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the tubes."
"Know whatcha mean."
Scott called Tyrone at his office.
"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.
"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The message would be obvious.
"So?"
"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up. Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to know."
"Thanks." The phone went dead.
Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about, many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.
With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine, take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging Feds.
* * * * *
Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's National Airport. The
7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo- mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read 'Burnson'.
He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on "P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.
An older, matronly lady answered the door.
"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few accidental tourists who rang the bell.
"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri- weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room, where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double- checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber, formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.
An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge provided by the opened bookcase.
The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over- sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit- ted.
His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle. The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli- tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.
"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous- ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others present.
"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He had been ordered to this command performance.
"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson, assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc- torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on Government time."
Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost on time. Enough of the niceties.
"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat- ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was called down here, pronto. Since I'm here, my ass.
"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.
"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report." Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact with Duncan.
"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi- bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools. A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my report."
"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked at the NSA man in deference.
"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically, we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi- viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation. Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"
"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received, it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia- tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to compromise computer privacy . . ."
"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt- ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious beginning of this evening.
"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.
"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"
"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago." Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."
"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.
"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the INTERNET problems."
The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.
"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation- al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.
Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan tried to sound confident of his position.
"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the common sense to censor himself effectively.
"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.
"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly. Other than Bob, he was not with friends.
"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has been classified for several years. We don't even admit that it exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an inventive imagination. Do you follow?
"
"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a secret to too many people?"
"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest Program?"
"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.
"Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer was doing. Read classified information. I'm sure you see the problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the geniality test.
Duncan nodded in understanding.
"We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."
"What for?"
"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence community. We listen to other people for a living."
"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn't that illegal?" Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses had totally gotten out of hand.
"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick- ly.
Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He hated the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA. All in the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I would have thought this was pure science fiction."
"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is; what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.
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