Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty bureaucratic stuff.
"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.
"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke up again. "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."
"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"
"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi- nent. "The protection of classified information is their respon- sibility. A group was created to report on computer security problems that might have an effect on national security. On that committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."
Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.
"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair. "We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.
Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.
"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."
"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more than the van.
Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an order."
How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con- versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.
"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it worked."
The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For a defense contractor?"
"No, he's also a reporter."
"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless- ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut told him otherwise.
"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if all else failed.
"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."
* * * * *
Tuesday., December 1
New York City
The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk, and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him coming and was ready.
"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.
"What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story, you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece and then . . .this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's face. "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this 'we didn't have the room' shit. You yourself thought we were onto something bigger . . ."
Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the 9th floor, Scott was still in his face.
"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."
Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty remark.
"Hey, you look like shit."
"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.
"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed concern as well.
"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat on the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dishing out what he thought about having a story pulled this way.
Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy return before he started.
"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."
Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"
"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story. I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired, but real.
Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend- ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.
"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining order that we not print a story you had written. What should they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal- ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg- edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.
"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can assure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.
Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What did the court order say?"
"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article. Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti- cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he quickly added.
"How the hell did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. Tyrone must have gone upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor- ney General's office.
"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail. And the tiger is in Washington. Seems like you've pissed off some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are you onto?"
"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before 9:00 AM. "W
hatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed, Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as accurate as is expected in such cases.
"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash- ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons. Is any of this classified, Scott?"
"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth Bomber."
"So why do they care?"
"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.
"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver- sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .
"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret weapons program," Scott began.
"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash," Higgins said dismissing the idea.
"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and Shithead to build home versions of cruise missiles?"
"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"
Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."
"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck. It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."
Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're on, I guess.
"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's private number.
"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.
"Fuck you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as hard as he could.
Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be sooner, so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He was going to rob a bank.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
"I will call you in 5 minutes."
Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person. He didn't have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the ProTalk software package.
Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.
He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com- puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly Homosoto. Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was really him and he waited for the first message.
WE NEED TO TALK.
That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.
I am listening.
ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD. HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.
By whom?
THE NEW YORK POLICE. THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT. THEN THE FBI GOT THE READER. THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER. THEY EVEN HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS. SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.
How? We don't do that sort of stuff.
OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER. I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.
They don't screw with the press, though. That's frowned upon.
MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE. WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK. HE IS WHAT WE NEED.
Why him?
SIMPLE. WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL NEWSPAPERS. THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE. THAT PAPER, I BELIEVE IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN WHO WATCH SOAP OPERAS. MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE NEED HIM BACK. HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN. IN YOUR COUNTRY PEOPLE LISTEN TO THE PRESS. BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM. WE CANNOT LET HIM FAIL.
How much does he know?
AS MUCH AS WE WANT HIM TO. NO MORE. WE WANT TO FEED HIM A LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE DISCOUR- AGED AND ABANDON THE HUNT. YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS IS. THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.
Yes, I agree. I wish I knew how you find out these things.
MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS. WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL HARBOR, BUT WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS. THE WAR IS NOT OVER.
What do you want me to do?
MAKE SURE THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED. HE IS BRIGHT. HE UNDERSTANDS. HIS VOICE WILL BE HEARD. HE MUST NOT BE STOPPED. I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL. PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.
I know how to do that. That will not be a problem. Do we still have readers?
YES, WE LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING. WE HAVE MANY MORE.
How many?
MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?
No, I know. Curiosity.
KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.
It is my plan.
WHICH I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED. SEE THAT WE GET IT.
Sure.
MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.
Yes.
I DO NOT HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY PRIMARY MEANS OF PROPULSION.
Just an expression.
KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.
[[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]
* * * * *
Midnight, Wednesday, December 2
Scarsdale, New York
Since he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection for his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer. Now, it was time to take advantage of his new asset. Maybe the Government carries weight with their spook shit, but a bank can't push hard enough to pull a story, if it's true. And Kirk, whoever that was, offered Scott the ideal way to prove it. Do it yourself.
So he prepared himself for a long night, and he would definitely sleep in tomorrow; no matter what! Scott so cherished his sleep time. He wormed his way through the mess of the downstairs "study in disaster," and made space by redistributing the mess into other corners.
He felt a commitment, an excitement that was beyond that of de- veloping a great story. Scott was gripped with an intensity that was a result of the apprehension of invading a computer, and the irony of it all. He was an engineer, turned writer, using com- puters as an active journalistic instrument other than for word processing. To Scott, the computer, being the news itself, was being used as a tool to perform self examination as a sentient being, as a separate entity. Techno-psychoanalysis?
Is it narcissistic for man's tools to use themselves as both images of the mirror of reflective analysis? They say man's brain can never fully understand itself. Is the same true with comput- ers? And since they grow in power so quickly compared to man's snail-like millennia by millennia evolution, can they catch up with themselves?
Back to reality, Scott. The Great American Techno-Philosophy and Pulitzer could wait. He had a bank to rob. Scott left his computer on all the time since Kirk had first called. If the Intergalactic Traveler called back, the computer would answer, and Kirk could leave a message. Scott checked the Mail Box in the ProCom communications program. No calls. Not that his modem was a popular number. Only he, his office computer and Kirk knew it. And the phone company, but everyone knows about them . . .
Just as the clock struck midnight, Kirk jumped in his seat. Not only was the bell chiming an annoying 12 mini-gongs, but his computer was beeping. It took a couple of beeps from the small speaker in his computer for him to realize he was receiving a
call. What do I do know? The 14" color screen came alive and it entered terminal mode from the auto-answer screen that Scott had left yesterday.
WTFO
The screen rang out. Scott knew the answer.
naft
VERY GOOD! COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.
Welcome pilgrim, what has brought thee to these shores?
I GUESS WRITERS HAVE AN ADVANTAGE ON COMM. MAKE YOURSELF VERY COLORFUL. CREATE ANY PICTURE YOU WANT.
Seems a bit more sporting that hiding behind techy-talk.
YEAH, WELL, I'LL WORK ON IT.
So, as Maynard G. Crebbs asked, "You Rang?"
AH! DOBIE GILLIS. NICK AT NIGHT!
No, the originals.
WHEN WAS THAT?
You've just dated yourself. Thanks.
TO-FUCKING-SHAY! NOT AS OLD AS YOU. READY FOR A TRIP TO THE BANK?
You read my mind :-)
I FIGURED YOU'D WIMP OUT ON A SOLO TRIP, FIRST TIME AND ALL. THOUGHT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP. I MAKE A HELL OF A CHAUFFEUR.
What do you mean?
I MEAN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE.
You're kidding. Just like Superman carries Lois Lane?
JUST ABOUT. FIRST I'M GOING TO SEND YOU A COPY OF 'MIRAGE' SOFTWARE.
When?
RIGHT NOW. THEN, YOU'LL USE MIRAGE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS EXECUTE FROM THE COMMAND LINE AFTER I DOWN LOAD.
English kimosabe.
OK, ITS SIMPLE. WHEN I SAY SO, YOU ENTER ALT-F9. THAT SETS YOU UP TO RECEIVE. NAME THE FILE MIRAGE.EXE. THERE'S ONLY ONE. THEN WHEN IT SAYS ITS DONE, PRESS CTRL-ALT-R. YOU WILL HAVE A DOS LINE APPEAR. ENTER MIRAGE.EXE AND RETURN.
Stop! I'm writing . . .
USE PRTSCR
What's that?
IS YOUR PRINTER ON LINE?
Yes.
WHENEVER YOU WANT TO PRINT WHAT'S ON THE SCREEN ENTER 'SHIFT PrtScr'. LOOK FOR IT. HIT IT NOW.
Thanks! Got it.
OR SAVE THE WHOLE THING TO A FILE. USE CTRL-ALT-S. THEN PICK A NEW FILE NAME. MEANS MONGO EDITING THOUGH.
Done! I like Ctrl-Alt-S. Suits me fine. No memory needed.
HIT ALT-F9. MIRAGE IS COMING.
Scott did as instructed. The entire procedure made sense intel- lectually, but inside, there was an inherent disbelief that any of these simple procedures would produce anything meaningful. It is inherently difficult to feel progress, a sense of achievement without instantaneous feedback that all was well.
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