Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

Just as Scott was going to describe how to find villains without wasting hundreds of hours scouring data banks, his computer beeped three times. Scott was shaken from his comfort. "What the . . .?" He looked at the clock. It was just midnight. Kirk! Kirk was calling and he totally had forgotten to mention the computer ransacking to Ty.

  "Great! It's Kirk. I wanted you to meet him." As Scott leaned over the keyboard to answer the page, Tyrone looked quizzically at him.

  "Who's Kirk?"

  "This hacker, some kid on the West Coast. He's taught me a lot. Good guy. Hope to meet him someday." Scott pushed a few keys. The screen came alive.

  WTFO

  "Hey," said Tyrone, "that's what we used to say in the Reserves."

  Gotta Spook here.

  SPOOK? YOU KNOW SPOOK?

  Who's Spook?

  YOU SAID HE'S WITH YOU

  Not Spook, a spook. FBI guy.

  FBI? YOU PROMISED.

  Don't worry. Tell him yourself. Who is Spook, anyway?

  SPOOK IS A HACKER, ONE OF THE BEST. BEEN ON THE SCENE FOR YEARS. A FEW PEOPLE CLAIM TO HAVE MET HIM, BUT IT'S ALWAYS A FRIEND OF A FRIEND OF A FRIEND. HE KEEPS A LOW PROFILE. THE WORD IS SPOOK IS PLAYING SOME GOOD GAMES RECENTLY. THE FBI?

  He's a friend. He doesn't know.

  Tyrone had come over to the crowded desk to watch the exchange. "Who is this guy? What don't I know?"

  Kirk, can I tell him? No one knows who you are?

  I GUESS SO.

  Be back . . .

  Scott proceeded to tell Tyrone about the warnings that Kirk received and then how his computers were destroyed. That the calling card warned Kirk to stay away from First State Bank. And how another hacker calling himself Da Vinci on a BBS called Freedom might be a link. Then Scott admitted that he had been in on a bank robbery, or at least breaking and entering a bank's computer.

  Tyrone had enough. "I'm not sure I want to hear anymore. You have been busy. So what can I do?"

  "Tell Kirk what he can do," Scott said.

  "He could probably go to jail. Bank computers, my God! Is that where you get your stories? You live them and then report them in the third person? Stories for the inquiring mind."

  "Are you through! I mean, are you through?" Scott sounded per- turbed.

  "It's true. What does this guy want?"

  "Advice. Talk to him. Here." Scott motioned for Tyrone to sit at the keyboard.

  "What do I do?"

  "Just type," Scott said with exasperation. "You're as bad as my mother. Type!" Scott ordered.

  This is Ty

  Scott pulled Ty's hands from the keyboard. "A handle, use a handle, like on a CB!"

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot," Tyrone lied.

  This is the FBI

  Scott looked on in shock. Tyrone laughed out loud. "He already knows who I am. So what? I've always liked saying that anyway."

  KIRK HERE, FBI, WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE

  So I hear. Been to any good banks lately?

  REPO MAN, WHAT'S UP?

  Can't take a joke?

  YEAH. NO PROBLEM.

  Listen, I don't know you from Adam, and you don't have to talk to me, but I am curious. Did your computers really get bashed?

  TOTALLY, DUDE.

  Tyrone pointed his thumb at the computer. "Wise guy, eh?"

  "Give him a chance. Generation gap." Tyrone didn't take kindly to references to his age. Sensitive area.

  Why?

  CAUSE SOMEONE THINKS I KNOW SOMETHING THAT I DON'T

  That's clear.

  THANKS

  Do you want to make a formal complaint?

  WOULD IT DO ANY GOOD?

  No.

  THEN, NO

  You think it was First State?

  YES.

  Don't you go around poking into other computers, too?

  SURE

  So why not someone else?

  THEY DIDN'T GET INTO BIG TROUBLE FROM REPO MAN'S ARTICLE?

  "He knows who you are?" Tyrone asked.

  "Sure. He likes calling me Repo Man for some reason that still escapes me.

  Where else do you go?

  THAT WOULD BE TELLING

  Gotcha. Well, I guess that's about it.

  PHEW!

  [[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]

  "I guess you scared him off." Scott was amused.

  "Sorry," Tyrone said.

  "He'll call back," Scott waved off the apology. "When the coast is clear."

  "Fuck off." Their friendship was returning to the level it once had been.

  "Hey, it's getting beyond late," Scott ignored him. "What say we get together in a few days and sort through some of this."

  "I know, but one thing. Can you get into your computers, at the paper?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Dobbs said that the other victims had had their stock go down pretty dramatically. Can you look up stock prices and perform- ances over the last few months?"

  "Yeah, do it all the time."

  "Could you? I want to see if there are any names I recognize."

  "No problem." Scott dialed the Times' computer and identified himself. After going into the bank computer with Kirk, every time he dialed up his office, he felt an increased sense of power, and an increased sense of responsibility. He had access to massive amounts of information that if it got into the wrong hands . . .

  He shook the thought. The computer offered the 'Stocks and Bonds Menu' and Scott set up a query in a modified SQL that was simple enough for reporters to use:

  ALL STOCKS LOSING 35% OR MORE OF VALUE IN LAST YEAR.

  The computer flashed a message. 'Working'. Scott leaned back. "Takes a few seconds. Oh, as I was saying, when I get back, I'll call and we'll see what we can screw together."

  "Back from where?" Tyrone sounded accusatory but jealous.

  "Europe. Amsterdam." Scott checked the computer screen. It was still busy.

  "Rough life."

  "No, it's only for a couple of days. There's a hackers confer- ence. I've been invited, by Kirk as a matter of fact."

  "Hackers conference, sounds like tons of fun." Tyrone was not impressed.

  "The best hackers in the world are going to be there. I hope to get some leads on the First State mess. The Freedom BBS is not all it seems."

  "Please stay in touch," Tyrone implored.

  "Sure. Here we go. It's ready. Ah, let's see, there are 267 companies who meet that criterion. I guess that narrows it down for you."

  "Smart ass. Ah, can you get those in New York only?"

  "The city? Sure."

  SORT BY ZIP 100XX

  "That'll give us . . ."

  "I know what it means." Tyrone shut Scott up in mock defense. In reality he didn't know much about computers, but some things were obvious even to the technically naive.

  "That was fast," said Scott. "Only 17. Help any?"

  "Might. Can I get that on paper?"

  Scott gave him the printout of the finances on the several unfor- tunate companies who had lost more than a third of their net worth in the last year. Tyrone folded it into his jacket pocket. "Hey, call me a cab. I'm too drunk to walk."

  * * * * *

  Wednesday, December 30

  Lenox, Georgia

  A faded blue Ford Econoline van sat in the Lenox Square parking lot. The affluent Atlanta suburb had been targeted from the beginning. Demographically ,it fit the bill to a tee.

  From the outside, the van looked like a thousand other parked cars; empty, with their owners shopping in the huge mall. On the inside though, two men were intently operating a vast array of electronic equipment.

  "Here comes another one," said the first. "How many does that make today?"

  "A hundred and forty seven. Let's do it." The second man watched the enhanced color video image on a small monitor. A well dressed lady walked up to the ATM machine, card in hand. The first man pressed a switch on another monitor and the snow filled picture was transformed into an electronic copy of the ATM's video display.

  Please
Insert Card

  The screen in the van echoed the ATM screen.

  "Can you tune it in a bit?" asked the first man. " It's a little fuzzy."

  "Yeah, we must have settled. Let me adjust the antenna." His hand grabbed a joystick on one of the tightly packed racks of equipment and gingerly moved it from left to right. "Is that better?" A small disguised antenna on the roof of the van aligned itself as the joystick commanded.

  "Yeah . . .no . . .yeah, back again . . ."

  "I see it. There."

  "Thanks."

  Enter Personal Identification Number:

  A third monitor over the second man's cramped desk came to life as the number 3435 appeared across his screen.

  "Got it. You, too?"

  "On disk and saved."

  "I'll back it up."

  "Better not. Here comes another one."

  "Busy day."

  * * * * *

  It was a very busy day. Ahmed Shah saw to it that his followers were kept busy, six days a week. As they had been for months.

  When his army of a hundred plus Econoline vans were not raiding the contents of unsuspecting computers during the day, they became electronic ears which listened in on the conversations between the ATM's and their bank customers.

  Ahmed's vans were used most efficiently. On the road, doing his bidding twenty four hours a day, every day but the Sabbath. Ahmed created cells of eight loyal anti-American sympathizers, regardless of nationality, to operate with each van. Each group operated as an independent entity with only one person from each able to communicate privately with Ahmed over cellular modem. No cell knew of any other cell. If one group was apprehended, they couldn't tell what they didn't know. Therefore, the rest of the cells remain intact.

  Absolute loyalty was an unquestioned assumption for all members of Ahmed's electronic army. It had to be that way, for the bigger cause.

  All day and night one of Ahmed Shah's computers in his lab at Columbia received constant calls from his cell leaders. During the day it was the most interesting information that they had captured from computer screens. At night, it was the passcodes to automatic bank tellers machines and credit card information.

  Once the passcodes were in hand, making fake ATM cards was a trivial task.

  Chapter 18 Wednesday, January 6

  Amsterdam, Holland

  Scott Mason had a theory. It didn't matter than no one else believed it, or that they thought him daffy. It worked for him.

  He believed that jet lag was caused by the human body traveling across mystical magnetic force fields called Ley lines. The physics of his theory made common sense to anyone but a scien- tist. It went like this: the body is electric and therefore magnetic fields can influence it. Wherever we live we are sub- ject to the local influence of magnetic, electrical and Ley lines. If we move too quickly, as by plane, through Ley lines, the balance of our system is disturbed. The more Ley lines you traverse, the more upsetting it is to the system. Thus, jet lag.

  But, Scott had a solution. Or more accurately, his mother had one which she had convinced him of years earlier. Scott carried with him a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, that had a switch and a blinking light. It was called an Earth Resonance Generator, or ERG. The literature said the ERG established a negative gravity field through a magnetic Mobius loop. Inside the box was a battery, a loop of wire, a light emitting diode and the back side of the switch. In short, nothing of electronic consequence or obvious function. There was no way in hell that this collection of passive components could do anything other than wear out batteries. All for $79.95 plus $4 shipping.

  Scott first heard his mother proselytize about the magic of the ERG when he was ten or twelve. His father, the role model for Archie Bunker ignored her completely and said her rantings in- creased with certain lunar phases. Since his father wouldn't listen to her any longer, she endlessly lectured Scott about the virtues of the ERG whenever she returned from a trip. His father refused to travel, and had never even been on a plane.

  His mother so persisted in her belief that she even tried experi- ments. On one of her trips to Rome, she somehow talked the stewardesses into handing out the 400 questionnaires she'd brought with her onto the plane. It asked the passengers how they felt after the flight, and if they do anything special to avoid jet lag. She claims more than 200 were returned and that they overwhelmingly indicated that no one felt jet lag on that trip.

  She attributed this immense success to the ERG effects which purportedly spread over one acre. In other words, the ERG takes care of an entire 747 or L-1011 or DC-10.

  For years Scott successfully used the ERG to avoid jet lag. Some people put brown paper bags in their shoes, others eat yogurt and bean sprouts before a long flight. Maybe his solution was psy- chosomatic, Scott admitted to anyone who asked, but, so what? It still works, doesn't it? Scott was forever impressed that air- port security had never, once, asked him what this little blink- ing black box was. Scary thought.

  He arrived completely refreshed via KLM at the Amsterdam Interna- tional Airport at 9:15 A.M. While he had been to Europe many times, he had thus far missed the Amsterdam experience. He had heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to miss out on the opportunity.

  In New York no one harassed pot smokers, but technically, it still wasn't legal, while Amsterdam represented the ultimate counterculture. This was the first time since Maggie had left for the Coast three years ago that Scott felt an independence, a freedom reminiscent of his rebellious teen years.

  He gave the taxi driver the address of the Eureka! hotel, on the Amstel. During the half hour fifty guilder ride into downtown, the driver continuously chattered. "Amsterdam has more canals than Venice. Many more. Holland is mostly land reclaimed from the sea. We have the biggest system of dikes in Europe. Don't forget to see our diamond centers." He spoke endlessly with deep pride about his native land.

  The Eureka! is a small four story townhouse with only 16 rooms that overlooked the Amstel, the largest canal in Amsterdam, similar to the Grand Canal in Venice. The Times had booked it because it was cheap, but Scott felt instantly at home. After settling in, Scott called the local number that Kirk had given him.

  "Hallo?" A thick Dutch accent answered the phone.

  "Hello? I'm looking for Jon Gruptmann? This is Scott Mason."

  "Ya, this is Jon."

  "A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you."

  "Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?" The voice got friendly.

  "That's what Kirk calls me."

  "Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that so?" Jon sounded enthusiastic.

  "That's why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I would love to!" Jon didn't sound like Scott expected a computer hacker to sound, whatever that was.

  "Huh?" Jon asked. "Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope you do not mind." Jon sounded concerned about Scott's comfort.

  "Oh, no. I'm used to inconvenience. I'm sure it will be fine."

  "Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don't really begin until tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?"

  "Yes, just fine, what's the address?" Scott asked as he readied paper and pen.

  "Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg Wal and Lange Niezel. It's around from the Oude Kerksplein. Number 44."

  "Hold it, I'm writing." Scott scribbled the address phonetically. A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel- ligibly. "And then what?"

  "Just say you're Repo Man. There's a list. And please remember, we don't use our given names."

  "No problem. Fine. Thank you."

  "Ya. What do you plan for tonight?" Jon asked happily.

&nb
sp; "I hadn't really thought about it," Scott lied.

  "Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique pleasures Amsterdam has to offer."

  "I might take a walk . . . or something."

  "Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow. Ya?" Jon said laughing.

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Do one favor?" Jon asked. "Watch your wallet. We have many pickpockets."

  "Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow." Click. I grew up in New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

  * * * * *

  Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport, a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour getting into town.

  He dressed casually in the American's travel uniform: jeans, jean jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single lane streets straddle the miles of canals throughout the inner city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down- town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean, almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several hundred years. That's the word for Amsterdam; charming. From late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something for everyone. Anne Frank's house to the Rembrandt Museum to a glass roofed boat trip down the canals through the diamond dis- trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac- tions for the more prurient.

  He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

  "Not to find us selling that here," the Pakistani concierge said in broken English.

  "I know. But where . . ." It was an odd feeling to ask which store sold drugs.

  "You want Coffee Shop," he helpfully said.

  "Coffee Shop?" Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

  "Across bridge, make right, make left." The concierge liberally used his hands to describe the route. "Coffee shop. Very good."