He saw countless ways to spend taxpayers money protecting them from the Communist threat of the Evil Empire, but had difficulty getting support from his two and three star superiors. It didn't take him long to realize that he had been token promoted to keep his mouth shut about certain prominent people's roles in the Vietnam era. Events that were better left to a few trusted memories than to the history books.
So Young decided to go out on his own and find support from the legislative branch; find an influential proponent for a few specific defense programs by which he could profit. Over the course of a few years, he and Senator Rickfield became fast friends, holding many of the same global views and fears, if not paranoias. When Allied Dynamics began losing Congressional support for an advanced jet helicopter project, Young went to Rickfield for help. After all, Allied was headquartered in Rickfield's home state, and wouldn't it be a great boon to the economy? The recession was coming to an end and that meant jobs.
Rickfield was unaware, initially, that Allied had an arrangement with General Young to donate certain moneys to certain charities, in certain Swiss bank accounts if certain spending programs were approved. Only when Rickfield offered some later resistance to the Allied projects did Young feel the need to share the wealth. After 25 years in Congress, and very little money put away to show for it, Rickfield was an easy target.
Rickfield's recruitment by Young, on Allied's behalf, had yielded the Senator more than enough to retire comfortably on the island paradise of his choice. Yet, Rickfield found an uncontrolled desire for more; considerations was his word for it, just as he had grown used to wielding power and influence in the nation's capital. Rickfield was hooked, and Credite Suisse was the cer- tain Swiss bank in question. Ken Boyers was involved as well, almost from the start. They both had a lot to lose.
"No, I must assume that you are not a fool, and I know for a fact I am not one, so on that one point we do agree." Political pausing often allowed your opponent to hang himself with addi- tional oration. Rickfield found the technique useful, especial- ly on novices. "Please continue."
"Thank you." Sir George said with a hint of patronization. "To be brief, Senator, I want you to keep your money, I think that dedicated civil servants like yourself are grossly underpaid and underappreciated. No sir, I do not wish to deny you the chance to make your golden years pleasant after such a distinguished career."
"Then what is it. What do you want from me?" The Senator was doodling nervously while Ken paced the room trying to figure out what was being said at the other end of the phone.
"I'm glad you asked," said Sir George. "Beginning next month you are chairing a sub-committee that will be investigating the weaknesses and potential threats to government computer systems. As I remember it is called the Senate Select Sub-Committee on Privacy and Technology Containment. Is that right?"
"Yes, the dates aren't firm yet, and I haven't decided if I will chair the hearings or assign it to another committee member. So what?"
"Well, we want you to drag down the hearings. Nothing more." Sire George stated his intention as a matter of fact rather than a request.
Rickfield's face contorted in confusion. "Drag down? Exactly what does that mean, to you, that is?"
"We want you to downplay the importance of security for govern- ment computers. That there really is no threat to them, and that government has already met all of its obligations in balance with the new world order, if you will. The threats are mere scare tactics by various special interest groups and government agencies who are striving for long term self preservation." Sir George had practiced his soliloquy before calling Senator Rick- field.
"What the hell for?" Rickfield raised his voice. "Security? Big deal! What's it to you?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss our reasons. Suffice it to say, that we would be most pleased if you see to it that the hearings have minimal substance and that no direct action items are deliv- ered. I believe that term you Americans so eloquently use is stonewall, or perhaps filibuster?"
"They're not the same things."
"Fine, but you do understand nonetheless. We want these hearings to epitomize the rest of American politics with procrastination, obfuscation and procedural gerrymandering." Sir George had learned quite a bit about the political system since he had moved to the States.
"And to what aim?" Rickfield's political sense was waving red flags.
"That's it. Nothing more."
"And in return?" The Senator had learned to be direct in mat- ters of additional compensation since he had hooked up with the earthy General.
"I will assure you that the details of your arrangements with Allied Dynamics will remain safe with me."
"Until the next time, right? This is blackmail?"
"No. Yes." Sir George answered. "Yes, it is blackmail, but without the usual messiness. And no, there will be no next time. For, as soon as the hearings are over, it would be most advisable for you to take leave of your position and enjoy the money you have earned outside of your paycheck."
"And, if I don't agree to this?" Rickfield was looking at his options which seemed to be somewhere between few and none. Maybe he only had one.
"That would be so unfortunate." Sir George smiled as he spoke. "The media will receive a two page letter, it is already pre- pared I can assure you, detailing your illegal involvements with Allied, General Young and Mr. Boyers."
"What's in it for you? You don't want any money?" The confusion in Rickfield's mind was terribly obvious, and he was sliding on a logical Mobius loop.
"No Senator, no money. Merely a favor."
"I will let you know what I decide. May I have your number?"
"I do not need to contact you again. Your answer will be evident when the hearings begin. Whatever course you pursue, we will make an appropriate response."
* * * * *
"Scott!" A woman called across the noisy floor. "Is your phone off the hook?"
"Yeah, why?" He looked up and couldn't match the voice with a person.
"You gotta call."
"Who is it? I'm busy."
"Some guy from Brooklyn sounds like. Says he got a package for you?"
Holy shit. It's Vito! Scott's anonymous caller. The one who had caused him so much work, so much research without being able to print one damn thing.
Not yet.
"Yeah, OK. It's back on." The phone rang instantly and Scott rushed to pick it up on the first ring.
"Yeah, Scott Mason here." He sounded hurried.
"Yo! Scott. It's me, your friend, rememba?" No one could forget the accent that sounded more fake than real. He had been nicknamed Vito for reference purposes by Scott.
"Sure do, fella," Scott said cheerily. "That bunch of shit you sent me was worthless. Garbage."
"Yeah, well, we may have fucked up a little on that. Didn't count on youse guys having much in the ethics department if youse know what I mean." Vito laughed at what he thought was a pretty good joke. "So, we all screw up, right? Now and again? Never mind that, I got something real good, something youse really gonna like."
"Sure you do."
"No, really, dig this. I gotta list of names that . . . "
"Great another list. Just what I need. Another list."
"Whad'ar'ya, a wise guy? Youse wanna talk or listen?" Scott didn't answer. "That's better, cause youse gonna like this. Some guy named Faulkner, big shit banker from La La Land is borrowing money from the mob to pay off a blackmailer. Another guy, right here in New York Shitty, a Wall Street big shot called Henson, him too. Another one named Dobbs, same thing. All being blackballed by the same guys. Youse want more?"
"I'm writing, quiet. Faulkner, Henson and Dobbs, right?"
"That's whad'I said, yeah."
"So how come you know so much?"
"That's my job. I deal in information. Pretty good, huh?"
"Maybe. I gotta check it out. That last stuff was . . ."
"Hey!" Vito interrupted, "I told youse 'bout that. Eh, paysan, what'
s a slip up among friends, right?"
"I'll ignore that. Gimme a couple of days, I'll call you."
"Like hell you will. I'll call you. You'll see, this is good stuff. No shit. All right? Two days."
Click.
* * * * *
Monday, December 14
Washington, D.C.
The FBI runs a little known counter intelligence operation from the middle of a run down Washington, D.C. neighborhood on Half Street. Getting in and out is an exercise in evasive not to mention defensive driving. The South East quadrant of Washing- ton, D.C. is vying for the drug capital of the nation, and per- haps has the dubious distinction of having the highest murder rate per capita in the United States. Since the CI division of the FBI is a well kept secret, its location was strategically chosen to keep the casual passerby from stopping in for a chat. Besides, there was no identification on the front of the build- ing.
Most Americans think that the CIA takes care of foreign spies, but their agents are limited to functioning on foreign land. On the domestic front the FBI Counter Intelligence Group is assigned to locate and monitor alien intelligence activities. For exam- ple, CI-3 is assigned to focus on Soviet and East Bloc activi- ties, and other groups focus on their specific target countries. Thus, there is a certain amount of competition, not all of it healthy, between the two agencies chartered to protect our na- tional interests. The CIA is under the impression that it con- trols all foreign investigations, even if they tread upon United States territory. This line of thinking has been a constant source of irritation and inefficiency since the OSS became the CIA during the Truman administration. Only during the Hoover reign at the FBI days was there any sense of peaceful coexist- ence. Hoover did what he damn well pleased, and if anyone stood in his way, he simply called up the White House and had the roadblock removed. Kennedy era notwithstanding, Hoover held his own for a 50 year reign.
Tyrone Duncan received an additional lesson on inter-agency rivalry when he was called down to Half Street. His orders were similar to those he had received from the safe house in George- town months before. Stick to your hackers and viruses, period, he was told. If it smells of foreign influence, let the CI fight it out with Langley. Keep your butt clean.
In 25 years of service, Tyrone had never been so severely admon- ished for investigating a case that he perceived as being domes- tic in nature. The thought of foreign influences at work had not occurred to him, until CI brought it up.
As far as he was concerned the quick trip from New York to Half Street was a bureaucratic waste of time and money. However, during the fifteen minute discussion he was told by his CI compa- triots that both the blackmail and the ECCO investigations situa- tions had international repercussions and he should keep his nose out of it. CI was doing just fine without Tyrone's help.The meeting, or warning as Tyrone Duncan took it, served to raise an internal flag.
There was a bigger picture, something beyond a classical black- mail operation and some hackers screwing with government comput- ers, and he was being excluded. That only meant one thing. He was pushing someone's button and he didn't know how, where or why. The Trump Shuttle flight back to La Guardia gave Tyrone time to think about it, and that only incensed him further. Aren't we all on the same team? If I stumbled onto something, and you want me to back off, O.K., but at least let me know what I'm missing.
Twenty five years and a return to Hoover paranoia. He under- stood, and advocated, the need for secrecy, privacy and the trappings of confidentiality. But, compartmentalization of information this extreme was beyond the normal course to which he was accustomed. The whole thing stunk.
He arrived back at New York's Federal Square during lunch hour. Normally there was a minimal staff at that hour, or hour and half or two hours depending upon your rank. When the elevator doors opened on Level 5, seventy feet under lower Manhattan, he walked into a bustle of activity normally present only when visiting heads of state need extraordinary security. He was immediately accosted by eager subordinates. The onslaught of questions overwhelmed him, so he ignored them and walked through the maze directly to his office.
His head ringing, he plopped himself down behind his desk. He stared at the two agents who followed him all the way, plus his secretary stood in the open door, watching with amusement. Duncan was not appreciative of panic situations. His silence was contagious.
"Who's first?" He asked quietly.
The two agents looked at each other and one spoke. "Uh, sir, I think we have a lead in the blackmail operation." Duncan looked at the other, offering him a chance to speak.
"Yessir, it seems to have broken all over at once." Duncan opened his eyes wide in anticipation. Well, he, thought, go on.
The first agent picked up the ball. "Demands. The blackmailers are making demands. So far we have six individuals who said they were recontacted by the same person who had first called them a year ago."
Duncan sat upright. "I want a complete report, here, in 1 hour. We'll talk then. Thank you gentlemen." They took their cue to exit and brushed by, Tyrone's secretary on their way out the door.
"Yes, Gloria?" Duncan treated her kindly, not with the adminis- trative brusqueness he often found necessary to motivate some of his agents.
"Good morning, or afternoon, sir. Pleasant trip?" She knew he hated sudden trips to D.C. It was her way of teasing her boss.
"Wonderful!" Tyrone beamed with artificial enthusiasm. "Book me on the same flights every day for a month. Definite E-ticket ride."
"Do you remember a Franklin Dobbs? He was here some time ago, about, I believe the same matter you were just discussing?" Her demureness pampered Duncan.
"Dobbs? Yes, why?"
"He's been waiting all morning. Had to see you, no on else. Shall I show him in?"
"Yes, by all means, thank you."
"Mr. Dobbs, how good to see you again. Please," Duncan pointed at a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down. How may I help you?"
Dobbs shuffled over to the chair and practically fell into it. He sighed heavily and looked down at his feet. "I guess it's all over. All over."
"What do you mean? My secretary, said you were being blackmailed again. I think you should know I'm not working on that case anymore."
"This time it's different," Dobbs said, his eyes darting about. "They want money, a lot of money, more than we have. Last time I received a call I was told some very private and specific knowl- edge about our company that we preferred to remain private. That information contained all our pricing, quotation methods, profit figures, overhead . . .everything our competitors could use."
"So you think your competition is blackmailing you," Duncan offered.
"I don't know. If they wanted the information, why call me and tell me? We haven't been able to figure it out."
"What about the others," Duncan thought out loud. "The others with access to the information?"
"Everyone is suspecting everyone else. It's not healthy. Now, after this, I'm thinking of packing it in."
"Why now? What's different?"
"The demands. I can't believe it's my competitors. Sure, it's a cut throat business, but, no, it's hard to believe."
"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Dobbs." Duncan tried to be soothing. "The demands, what were they?"
"They want three million dollars, cash. If we don't pay they said they'd give away our company secrets to our competitors. We don't have the cash."
Duncan felt for the man. Dobbs had been right. There was noth- ing the FBI could have done to help. No demands, no recontacts, and no leads, just a lot of suspicion. But, now, the Bureau was in a position to help.
"Mr. Dobbs, rest assured, we will pursue this case aggressively. We will assign you two of our top agents, and, in cases like this, we are quite successful." Duncan's upbeat tone was meant to lift Dobbs' spirits. "Was there anything else demanded?"
"No, nothing, they just told me not to go to the police."
"You haven't told anyone, have you?" Duncan asked.
"No, not even my wife."
"Mr. Dobbs, let me ask you a couple more things, then I will introduce you to some fine men who will help you. Do you know anyone else who is in your position? Other people who are being blackmailed in similar ways?"
Dobbs shuffled his feet under the chair, and picked at the edge of the chair. Duncan hit a raw nerve.
"Mr. Dobbs, I don't want names, no specifics. It's a general question. Do you know others?"
"Yes," Dobbs said almost silently.
"Do you know how many?" Duncan needed details if his current line of thinking would pan out into a viable theory.
"No, not exactly."
"Is it five? Ten? More than Ten? Twenty-five? More than twenty- five?" Dobbs nodded suddenly.
"Do you mean that you know of 25 other companies that are going through what you're going through? Twenty five?" Tyrone was incredulous at the prospects. The manpower alone to investigate that many cases would totally overwhelm his staff. There was no way. The ramifications staggered him. Twenty five, all at once.
"Yeah. At least."
"I know you can't tell me who they are . . ." Duncan hoped that Dobbs might offer a few.
"No. But, look at their stocks. They're not doing well. Our competitors seem to be getting the best of the deal."
Twenty five cases in New York alone, and he knows of at least 6 others, so far. The rekindled blackmail operation, after months of dead ends. Duncan wondered how big the monster behind the head could get. And how could the FBI handle it all. Poor bastard. Poor us.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 15
New York
It was before 8:00 A.M. and Scott cursed himself for arriving at his office at this ungodly hour. He had found the last piece of the puzzle, didn't sleep very much, and was in high gear before 6:00. Scott couldn't remember the last time he had been awake this early, unless it was coming round the long way. He scurried past security, shaking his ID card as he flew through the closing doors on the express elevator. The office hadn't yet come to life so Doug McGuire was available without a wait or interruption.
"I need some expense money," Scott blurted out at Doug.
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