Templer contacted Alex through intermediaries stationed in Zu- rich. The agreed upon location was the third bench from St. Stephen's Cathedral on the Stephansplatz, where Vienna's main street, Karntnerstrasse-Rotenturmstrasse changes names. No traffic is allowed on the square, on Kartnerstrasse or on Graben- strasse, so it is always packed with shoppers, tourists and street musicians. Ideal for a discreet meeting.
"Have you ever seen Vienna from Old Steffel?" A deep voice came from behind where Martin was seated. He looked around and saw it was Alex.
"Many years ago. But I prefer the Prater." He spoke of the fairgrounds 2 kilometers from town where the world's oldest Ferris Wheel offered an unparalleled view of the Viennese sur- rounds. Templer smiled at his old ally from the German Bunde- poste. Today though, Alex was an asset to the Agency, as he had been since he had gone freelance some years ago. An expensive asset, but always with quality information.
"Did you know that St. Stephen's," Alex gestured at the pollu- tion stained church, "is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in Europe? And Vienna's paradox?"
Templer had never been a history buff. He shook his head.
"Most of Vienna is Baroque, in fine fashion, but there are iso- lated examples of Gothic. Yet, they seem to coexist. In peace." Alex's poetic words rolled off of his well educated tongue. The allegory was not lost on Templer. Western and Eastern intelli- gence services used Vienna as a no-man's land, where information and people were regularly exchanged.
"It is a new world," commented Templer. "The threats are differ- ent."
Alex took the hint. "Let us walk," he urged.
They slowly strolled up the Kartnerstrasse as the Austrian night- life took on its own distinct flavor.
"How long has it been, my friend?" Alex casually asked. He disliked rushing into business, the way the Americans favored.
"Damned if I know. 4, 5, 6 years? Too long. We've had some good times."
"'85, '86 was it? So much travel blurs the senses." Alex wrin- kled his forehead in thought. "Wasn't it the Pelton affair? Yes, that would be summer of '85." He referred to Ron Pelton, the ex-NSA analyst who sold American cryptographic secrets to the Soviets.
"Yeah," Templer laughed. "That poor jerk. I'd forgotten all about that. Never would have caught on to the scam if it weren't for Slovnov. The KGB should tell their own to stay out of the Moulin Rouge. Not good for business. Ivan had to trade Slovnov for Pelton. We didn't find out for a year that they wanted Pelton out anyway. He was too fucked up for them."
"And now? Who do you spy on since Sam and Ivan are brothers again?" Alex openly enjoyed speaking obliquely.
"Spy? Ha!" Templer shook his head. "I got pushed upstairs. Interagency cooperation, political bullshit. I do miss the streets though, and the friends . . .on both sides."
"Don't you mean on all sides?" Cocktail semantics made Alex occasionally annoying.
"No, I mean both. At least we had class; we knew the rules and how to play. Now every third rate country tries to stick their nose in and they screw it up. One big mess." Templer had been a staunch anti-Communist when there were Communists, but he re- spected their agents' highly professional attitude, and yes, ethics.
"Touch! I have missed our talks and our disagreements. I never could talk you into something you did not believe in, could I?" Alex slapped Templer lightly on his back. Templer didn't answer. "Ah, you look so serious. You came for business, not old memo- ries?"
"No, Alex, I'd love to chat, and we will, but I do need to get a couple of questions answered, and then, I can relax. Perhaps a trip to Club 24?" Templer pointed at the bright yellow kiosk with the silhouettes of naked women emblazoned on it. For a mere $300, you can buy a bottle of Chevas Regal and share it with one or two or more of the lovely skimpily clad ladies who adorned the bar seats. All else was negotiable in private.
"Done. Let us speak, now. What can I do for you?" Alex ap- proved of the plan.
"I need some information," Templer said seriously.
"That is my business, of course."
"We have a problem in the States . . ."
"As usual," Alex interrupted.
"Yes," Templer grinned, "as usual. But this one is not usual. Someone, someone with connections, is apparently using computers as a blackmail tool. The FBI is investigating domestically, and, well, it's our job, to look outside. So, I figure, call Alex. That's why I'm here."
Alex disguised his surprise. How had they found him? He now needed to find out what, if anything, they knew.
"Blackmail? Computers? That's not a lot to go on." Alex main- tained absolute composure.
"Here's what we know. And it's not much. There appears to be a wholesale blackmail operation in place. With the number of com- plaints we have gotten over the last few months, we could guess that maybe 10, or 20 people, maybe more are involved. They're after the big boys; the banks, some senators, folks with real money and power. And it's one professional job. They seem to get their information from computers, from the radiation they emanate. It's something we really want to keep quiet."
Alex listened quietly. If Templer was being straight, they didn't know much, certainly not the scope of the operation nor Alex's own involvement. It was possible, though, that Templer was playing dumb, and trying to elicit clues from Alex. If he was a suspect.
"What sort of demands are being made?" Alex was going to play the game to the hilt.
"None. Yet."
"After 2 months? You say? And no demands? What kind of black- mail is that?" Alex ineffectively stifled a laugh. "This sounds like some Washington paranoia. "You really don't know what to do without an adversary, so you create one," Alex chuck- led.
"Alex, c'mon. No shit, we got some muckity mucks with their heads in a tail spin and our asses in a sling. I don't know what's happening, but, whatever it is, it's causing a pile of shit bigger than Congress and smellier."
"And you thought I might know something about it?" Alex ven- tured.
"Well, no, or yes, or maybe," Templer said coyly. "Who's got a grudge? Against so many people? And then, who's also got the technology to do it. There must be a lot of smart people and money in on it. You have the best ears in Europe." The compli- ment might help.
"Thank you for the over-statement, but I have only a small group on whom I can rely. Certainly your own agency can find out before I can." Deniability and humility could raise the ante.
"We have our good days, but too many bad days." Templer was being sincere concluded Alex. "Listen, I need the streets. If there's nothing, then there's nothing. It could be domestic, but it smells of outside influence. Can you help?"
Alex stopped to light up a non-filtr Gaulloise. He inhaled deeply as his eyes scanned the clear sky. He wanted to have Templer think there might be something.
"How much is this information worth?" Alex was the perfect mercenary, absolutely no allegiance to anyone other than himself.
"We have about fifty grand for good info. But for that price, it had better be good."
Alex had to laugh to himself at the American's naivete. Homosoto was paying him a hundred times that for one job. Being a free- lancer means treating all customers as equals, and there was no way he would jeopardize his planned retirement for a cause or for a friend. This would be easy.
"Phew!" Alex whistled. "Hot off the griddle, huh? I'll see who knows what. It may take a while, a week, ten days, but I'll get back to you with anything I find. No promises, though."
"I know it's a long shot, but we have to look at all angles. I really appreciate it." Templer sounded relieved. He had just recruited, for no money down, the best source of information in Europe. "Let's go have a bottle of Chevas. On me." The Ameri- can taxpayer was about to pay for the sexual relief of a merce- nary enemy.
Alex made it home at 4:00 A.M. after the romp in Club 24. Or was it Club 1? He no longer knew, no cared. Despite his intense intoxication, he had to talk to his employer. Somehow he managed to get his computer alive. He dialed the number in T
okyo, not knowing whether Homosoto would be in the office.
ENTER PASSWORD
ENTER CRYPT KEY
He responded to both, nearly blinded from the Chevas, yet his professionalism demanded that he make immediate contact if possi- ble.
[[[CONNECTION]]]
Alex missed the message for several seconds before forcing him- self alert. He quickly entered his opening words before the connection would shut down.
I have been contacted.
Homosoto apparently never went home. He got an immediate re- sponse.
BY WHOM
The CIA
The screen paused for several seconds. Alex was too drunk to notice.
HOW?
An old frrrriend. He called for a meeeeeeting.
WHAT DID HE WANT?
He asked about the US operations.
HOW MUCH DOES HE KNOW?
They kkknnow about the blackmail. But, they're fishing
FISH
Looking for answers. They know nothing.
TELL ME MORE. I AM NOT HAPPY.
The FBI is looking for an answer, who is behind the propaganda. They think it is very important, take it seriously. They brought in the CIA and, probably, the NSA. The effect is beginning. We should be pleased.
AND THE PRESS? IS IT IN THE PAPERS?
No, it was suppressed. The Government still controls the press.
AND YOU. WHY CONTACT YOU?
The same reason you did. It is pure coincidence.
I AM NOT CONVINCED.
An old friend, a colleague, called for a meeting. He asked for my help. He tried to hire me to find out if it was foreign.
WHAT DID YOU SAY?
I told him the streets, the rumors, know nothing. That is true. He never suspected me. I was surprised. He offered me money to give him information.
HOW MUCH MONEY?
$50,000 US
I PAY YOU A THOUSAND TIMES THAT
No, only 100 times.
DOES IT MATTER?
Only if they equal your money.
MAKE SURE THEY DO NOT. IT IS NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE.
The CIA does not have that kind of money. That is why the Rus- sians learned so much for so little. The US does not think they should pay to keep their secrets.
THEY ARE WRONG. WE CALL IT INSURANCE.
They call it blackmail. They do not have the funds.
WHAT WILL YOU TELL THEM?
I will tell them that it is not from here. No, it must be from the US. They will believe me. I will charge them for that information.
AND THEY WILL BELIEVE YOU?
If I make them pay, yes. If I give it for free, no. That's the American way. They will believe what is easiest to believe. They do not know that this is my last job. They cannot know. If they think that, they will suspect me. And then, you.
WHY ME?
They will use drugs I cannot resist. So, I must make sure I help them.
AND IF THEY OFFER MONEY. AS MUCH AS I DO?
Then we negotiate.
THEN YOU WILL DIE.
[[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]
Chapter 16 Wednesday, December 9
New York
The late afternoon pace of the City Room at the Times tended to be chaotic. As deadlines approached and the paper was laid out for the printers, the flurry of activity was associated with an increase in the loudness of the room. Scott Mason listened with one hand over his right ear and the phone so awkwardly pressed between his left ear and shoulder that his glasses sat askew on his face. Suddenly hanging up the phone, Scott sprung up shout- ing, "I got it." Several people stopped and stared in his direction, but seeing nothing of concern or interest to them, they returned to their own world.
Scott ripped a page from a notebook and ran into and around his co-workers. "Doug, I got it. Confirmed by the President."
"You're kidding me?" Doug stopped his red pencil mid-stroke. "Give it to me from the top." He turned in his swivel chair to face Scott more directly.
"It goes like this. A few weeks ago Sovereign Bank in Atlanta found that someone had entered their central computers without permission." Scott perused his notes. "It didn't take long for them to find the intruder. He left a calling card. It said that the hackers had found a hole to crawl through undetected into their computers. Was the bank interested in knowing how it was done? They left a Compuserve Mail Box.
"As you can imagine the bank freaked out and told their computer people to fix whatever it was. They called in the FBI, that's from my contact, and went on an internal rampage. Those good ol' boys don't trust nobody," Scott added sounding like a poor imita- tion of Andy from Mayberry.
"Anybody that could spell computer was suspect and they turned the place upside down. Found grass, cocaine, ludes, a couple of weapons and a lot of people got fired. But no state secrets. You talk about a dictatorship," commented Scott on the side. "There's no privacy at all. They scanned everyone's electronic mail boxes looking for clues and instead found them staring at invasion of privacy suits from employees and ex-employees who were fired because of the contents of their private mail.
"The computer jocks unplugged the computers, turned them inside out and screwed them back together. Nothing. They found nada. So they tighten the reins and give away less passwords, to less people. That's all they figured they could do."
"This is where the fun starts." Scott actively gestured with his hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. "A few days later they discover another message in their computer. Says something like, 'sorry Charlie' or something to that effect. The hackers were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we'll show you how to sew up the holes."
"Well, what does that sound like to you?" Scott asked Doug.
"Extortion."
"Exactly, and ape-shit doesn't begin to describe what the bank did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We'll pay you a million bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the deal."
"What happened?" Doug said with rapt attention.
"Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a hundred grand a year," Scott said choking with laughter on his words.
"You're kidding," exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.
"No shit. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have a way to pay for a good college, they're bright little snots, and they get off. The bank figures it's making an investment in the future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up to the problems they could face if their computers did go down for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic attack in any bank exec. They'd rather deal with the kids.
"In fact, they're turning it into a public relations coup. Dig this," Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. "The bank realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you're guarding billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The Safest Your Money Can Be."
"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun, human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral. Confirmed?"
"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."
"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"
"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."
"How fast do you type?"
"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"
"You got 40 minutes to deadline."
* * * * *
Friday, December 11
Washington, D.C.
Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu- rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours
he had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki- ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work- ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his social responsibilities to the women.
The master plan Miles had designed years ago for Homosoto was now calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all, thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro- grammers, the Freedom League BBS's and the infectors. Too much had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no pulling back.
Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed. The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help- lessness a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just the way Homosoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.
Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that Homosoto felt toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial- ly when he and Homosoto were at odds over any particular subject, Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.
"You're just pissed off 'cause we nuked your family." It was meant to sting and Homosoto's reactions were unpredictable. Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare. Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.
But at the bottom of it, Homosoto kept a level head and showed he knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn't really care as long as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another, just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even at the highest level.
Terminal Compromise Page 32