Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

  Only Homosoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it was right now, the job would be done.

  Miles' ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter- minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over. Next.

  Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled Miles despite the fact that Homosoto called him almost every day to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.

  This time is was Sovereign Bank. Homosoto had heard rumors that they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that some of Miles' techies had gone out on their own.

  Homosoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla- nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn- ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.

  The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than the state or federal legislatures could deal with them. But, as Miles continually reassured Homosoto, they were small timers with no heinous motivation. They were mostly kids who played chicken with computers instead of chasing cars or smoking crack. A far better alternative, Miles offered.

  Just kids having a little fun with the country's most important computer systems. No big deal. Right? How anyone can leave the front door to their computer open, or with the keys lying around, was beyond him. Fucking stupid.

  His stream of consciousness was broken when his NipCom computer announced that Homosoto was calling. Again. Shit. I bet some high school kids changed their school grades and Homosoto thinks the Rosenburgs are behind it. Paranoid gook.

  [[[TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTED]]]

  MR FOSTER

  That's me. What's wrong.

  NOTHING. ALL IS WELL.

  That's a change. Nobody fucking with your Ninten- do, huh?

  YOUR HUMOR ESCAPES ME, AT TIMES

  S'pozed 2

  WHAT?

  Never Mind. What do you need?

  WE ARE CLOSE

  I know.

  OF COURSE YOU DO. A BRIEF REPORT PLEASE.

  Sure. Freedom is doing better than expected. Over a million now, maybe a million and a half. The majors are sick, real sick. Alex has kept my staff full, and we're putting out dozens of viruses a week. On schedule.

  GOOD

  I'm gonna be out for a few days. I'll call when I get back.

  SHOULDN'T YOU STAY WHERE YOU CAN BE REACHED?

  I carry a portable. I will check my computer, as I always do. You have never had trouble reaching me.

  THAT IS TRUE. WHERE DO YOU GO?

  Amsterdam.

  HOLLAND? WHY?

  A hackers conference. I need a break anyway, so I thought I might as well make it a working vacation. The top hackers get together and stroke themselves, but I could pick something up. Useful to us.

  DO BE CAREFUL, YOU ARE VALUABLE. NO ONE CAN KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

  No one does. No one. I use my BBS alias. Spook.

  * * * * *

  San Francisco, California

  Sir George Sterling checked his E-Mail for messages. There were only 2, both from Alex. The one week holiday had been good for Sir George. Well earned, he thought. In less than 3 months, he had called over 1,700 people on the phone and let them in on his little secrets, as he came to call them.

  Every month Alex had forwarded money, regular like clockwork, and Sir George had diligently followed instructions. To the letter. Not so much in deference to the implicit threats issued him by Alex, over computer and untraceable of course, but by the pros- pect of continued income. He came to enjoy the work. Since he was in America and his calls were to Americans, he had the oppor- tunity to dazzle them with his proper and refined accent before he let the hammer down with whatever tidbit of private informa- tion he was told to share with them.

  In the beginning Sir George had little idea of what the motiva- tion behind his job was, and still, he wasn't completely sure. He realized each call he made contained the undercurrent of a threat. But he never threatened anyone, his instructions were explicit; never threaten. So therefore, he reasoned, he must actually be making threats, no matter how veiled.

  He rather enjoyed it all. Not hurting people, that wasn't his nature, but he savored impressing people with his knowledge and noting their reactions for his daily reports back to Alex. In the evenings Sir George searched out small American recreational centers inaccurately referred to as pubs. In fact they were disguised bars with darts and warm beer, but it gave Sir George the chance to mingle and flash his assumed pedigree. When asked what he did for a living, he truthfully said, "I talk to people." About what? "Whatever interests them."

  He became somewhat of a celebrated fixture at several 'pubs' in Marin County where he found the atmosphere more to his liking; a perfectly civilized provincial suburb of San Francisco where his purchased affectations wore well on the locals who endlessly commuted to their high tech jobs in Silicon Valley 40 miles to the south.

  Hawaii had been, as he said, "Quite the experience." Alex had informed him one day that he was to take a holiday and return ready for a new assignment, one to which now he was ideally suited. Sir George smiled to himself. A job well done, and additional rewards. That was a first for George Toft of dreary Manchester, England.

  Since he did not have a printer, there was no way he would jeop- ardize his livelihood for a comfort so small, he read his E-Mail by copying the messages into Word Perfect, and then reading them at his leisure. All E-Mail was encrypted with the Public Private RSA algorithm, so he had to manually decrypt the messages with his private key and save them unencrypted. When he was done, he erased the file completely, to keep anyone else from discovering the nature of his work. Alex's first message was dated two days before he returned from Hawaii. It was actually cordial, as far as Alex could be considered cordial. After their first meeting in Athens, Alex had taken on a succinct if not terse tone in all communications.

  Sir George:

  Welcome back. I hope you had a most enjoyable holiday. It was well deserved.

  We now enter phase two of our operations. We place much faith in your ability and loyalty. Please do not disrupt that confidence.

  As in the past, you will be given daily lists of people to call. They are some of the people whom you have called before. As before, identify yourself and the nature of your call. I am sure your last call was so disturbing to them, they will take your call this time as well.

  Then, once you have confirmed their identity, give them the new information provided, and ask them to follow the instructions given, to the letter. Please be your usual polite self.

  Alex

  The second message was more Alex-like:

  Sir George:

  If you have any problems with your new assignment, please

  call me to arrange your termination.

  Alex.

  * * * * *

  "Hello? Are you there?" Sir George Sterling spoke with as much elegance he could muster. "This is John Fullmaster calling again for Robert Henson." Sir George remembered the name but not the specifics.

  "One moment please
," Maggie said. "Mr. Henson?" She said after dialing his intercom extension. "It's John Fullmaster for you. Line three"

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Fullmaster. He called once several months ago. Don't you remember?" He thought. Fullmaster. Fullmaster. Oh, shit. I thought he was a bad dream. Goddamn blackmailer. Never did figure how he knew about the Winston Ellis scam. Good thing that's been put to bed and over.

  "All right, I'll take it." He punched up the third line. "Yeah?" He said defiantly.

  "Mr. Henson? This is John Fullmaster. I believe we spoke a while back about some of your dealings? Do you recall?"

  "Yes, I recall you bastard, but you're too late. The deal closed last month. So you can forget your threats. Fuck off and die." Henson used his best boardroom belligerence.

  "Oh, I am sorry that you thought I was threatening you, I can assure you I wasn't." Sir George oozed politeness.

  "Bullshit. I don't know how the blazes you learned anything about my business, and I don't really care . . ."

  "I think you might care, sir, if you will allow me to speak for a moment." Sir George interjected. The sudden interruption caught Henson off guard. He stood his ground in silence.

  "Thank you." Sir George waited for an acknowledgement which never arrived, so he continued. "Winston Ellis is old news, Mr. Henson, very old news. I read today, though, that Miller Pharma- ceuticals is about to have its Anti-AIDS drug turned down by the FDA. Apparently it still has too many side effects and may be too dangerous for humans. I'm sure you've read the reports yourself. Don't you think it would be wise to tell your investors before they sink another $300 Million into a black hole from which there is no escape?" The aristocratic British accent softened the harshness of the words, but not the auger of the meaning.

  Henson seethed. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I will not listen to this kind of crap. I won't take it from . . ."

  "Sorry," Sir George again interrupted, "but I'm afraid you will listen. The instructions are as follows. I want $5 Million in small bills in a silver Samsonite case to be placed into locker number 235 at Grand Central Station, first level. You have 48 hours to comply. If you do not have the money there, we will release these findings to the media and the SEC which will no doubt prompt an investigation into this and other of your deal- ings. Don't you think?"

  Blackmail was anathema to Robert Henson, although he should have felt quite comfortable in its milieu. It was effectively the same stunt he performed on many of his investors. Nobody treats Robert Henson this way, nobody. He needed time to think. The last time Fullmaster called it was a bluff, obviously, but then there were no demands. This time, he wanted something. But, how did he know? The FDA reports were still confidential, and he hoped to have completed raising the funds before the reports became public, another few weeks at most. He counted on ineffi- cient government bureaucracy and indifference to delay any an- nouncement. Meanwhile though, he would pocket several millions in banking fees.

  "You got me. I'll do it. 235. Right?"

  "Very good, Mr. Henson. I'm glad you see it my way. It has been a pleasure doing business with you." Sir George sounded like a used car salesman. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Please, Mr. Hen- son, no police. In that case, our deal is off."

  "Of course, no police. No problem. Thanks for the call." Henson hung up. Fuck him. No money, no way.

  * * * * *

  "Mr. Faulkner, this is John Fullmaster." Sir George was sicken- ingly sweet. "Do you recall our last conversation?"

  How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real name, reached him with apparent ease.

  "Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?"

  "Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame, don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work- ing for the side of good after all.

  "You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?" Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.

  "I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."

  "One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his pool side lounge chair.

  "Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas, and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then, place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station. Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its best.

  "Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.

  "Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the $2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is excellent."

  "There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was only one way out.

  "All right, all right. What locker number?"

  "Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it, but no police."

  "Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare would be over.

  "Thank you so very much. Have a nice day."

  * * * * *

  "Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?" Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!"

  "Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?" Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last lustful gaze.

  "Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the Credite Suisse arrangements . . ."

  "Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know that!" Rickfield admonished Ken.

  "I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light on the Senator's desk phone.

  "I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"

  "No, nothing, after we got General Young onto it," Boyers ex- plained. "I thought he took care of it, in his own way. The problem just disappeared like it was supposed to."

  "Well," Rickfield said scornfully, "obviously it didn't. Give me the goddamned phone." He picked it up and pressed the lighted button. His senatorial dignity was absent as he spoke.

  "This is Rickfield. Who is this?"

  "Ah, thank you for taking my call. Yes, thank you." Sir George spoke slowly, more slowly than necessary. This call was marked critical. That meant, don't screw it up. "My name is John Fullmaster and I believe we spoke about some arrangements you made with General Young and Credite Suisse."

  "I remember. So what? That has nothing to do with me," Rick- field retorted. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, John Fullmaster. Ken looked at the scribbled writing and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Ah, but I'm afraid it does. I see here that Allied Dynamics recently made a significant contribution to a certain account in Credite Suisse. There are only two signators on the passbook. It also says here that they will be building two new factories in your state. Quite an accomplishment. I am sure your constitu- ents would be proud."

  The color drained from Rickfield's face. He put his hand over the mouthpiece to speak privately to Ken. "Who else knows? Don't bullshit me, boy. Who else have you told?"

  "No one!" Boyers said in genuine shock. "I want to enjoy the money, not pay attorney's fees."

  Rickfield waved Boyers away. He appeared satisfied with the response. "This is speculation. You can't prove a thing." Rickfield took a shot to gauge his opponent.


  "Believe that if you wish, Senator, but I don't think it is in either of our best interests to play the other for the fool." Sir George saw that Rickfield did not attain his position as Chairman of the Senate Committee on Space, Transportation and Technology by caving in to idle demands or threats. In fact, in 34 years of Senate service, Senator Merrill Rickfield had sur- vived 8 presidents, counseling most of them to varying degrees depending upon the partisan attitude of the White House.

  At 65, much of the private sector would have forced him into retirement, but elected Government service permitted him the tenure to continue as long as his constituents allowed. Claude Pepper held the record and Merrill Rickfield's ego wanted to establish new definitions of tenure.

  His involvement with General Chester Oliver Young was recent, in political terms; less than a decade. During the Reagan military buildup, nearly 3 trillion dollars worth, defense contractors expanded with the economy, to unprecedented levels and profits. Congress was convinced that $300 Billion per year was about right to defend against a Cold War enemy that couldn't feed its own people. The overestimates of the CIA, with selective and often speculative information provided by the country's intelligence gatherer, the NSA, helped define a decade of political and tech- nological achievements: Star Wars, Stealth, MX, B1, B2 and other assorted toys that had no practical use save all out war.

  With that kind of spending occurring freely, and the Senate Over- sight Committee in a perpetual state of the doldrums, there was money to be made for anyone part of Washington's good ol' boy network. General Young was one such an opportunistic militarist. Promoted to one star general in 1978, after two lackluster but politically well connected tours in Vietnam, it was deemed pru- dent by the power brokers of that war to bring Young into the inner rings of the Pentagon with the corresponding perks such a position brought. But Young had bigger and better ideas.