Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

  "Yeah?" Templer said gruffly into the mouthpiece.

  "Martin?"

  "Yeah, who's this?"

  "Alex."

  Templer had almost forgotten about their meeting. "Will small wonders never cease. Where have you been?"

  "Still in Europe. I've been looking for some answers as we dis- cussed."

  "Great! What have you got?" Templer grabbed a legal pad.

  "Nothing," Alex said with finality. "Nothing. Nobody knows of any such operation, not even a hint." Alex had mastered the art of lying twenty years ago. "But I'll tell you," he added, "I think that you may be on to something."

  "If there's nothing, how can there be something?" asked Martin Templer.

  This was Alex's opportunity to throw the CIA further off the track. Since he and Martin were friends, as much as is possible in this line of work, Alex counted on being believed, at least for a while. "Everybody denies any activity and that in itself is unusual. Even if nothing is happening, enough of the snitches on the street will claim to be involved to bolster their own credibility. However, my friend, I doubt a handful even know about your radiation, but it has gotten a lot of people thinking. I get the feeling that if they didn't know about your problems, they will soon enough. I wish I could be of further help, but it was all dead ends."

  "I understand. It happens; besides it was a long shot," Martin sighed. "Do me a favor, and keep your eyes and ears open."

  "I will, and this one is on the house," said Alex.

  After he hung up something struck Martin as terribly wrong. In twenty years Alex had never, ever, done anything for free. Being a true mercenary, it wasn't in his character to offer assistance to anyone without sufficient motivation, and that meant money. Martin noted the event, and reminded himself to include that in his report to the Director.

  * * * * *

  The television coverage of the Senate hearings left Taki Homosoto with radically different emotions. He had to deal with them both immediately.

  DIALING . . .

  [[[AUTOCRYPT CONVERSATION]]]

  I AM NOT PLEASED.

  Ahmed Shah heard his communications computer beep at him. He pushed the joystick control on his wheelchair and steered over to read Homosoto's message.

  Greetings

  THAT WAS A MOST SLOPPY JOB.

  Some things cannot be helped.

  WHY IS HE NOT DEAD?

  It was a difficult hit.

  IS THAT WHAT YOU TELL ARAFAT WHEN YOU MISS?

  I do not work for Arafat.

  YOUR MAN IS ALIVE TOO.

  Yes, fortunately.

  NO, THAT IS UNFORTUNATE. ELIMINATE HIM. AND MAKE SURE THAT TROUBLEAUX IS TAKEN CARE OF. HE MUST NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE.

  He is in a coma.

  PEOPLE WAKE UP. I DO NOT WANT HIM TO WAKE UP.

  It will be done. I promise you.

  I DO NOT WANT PROMISES. I WANT THEM BOTH DEAD. TROUBLEAUX MUST NOT BE PERMITTED TO SPEAK TO ANYONE. IS THAT CLEAR?

  Yes, it will be done.

  FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE SO. I DO NOT TOLERATE SLOPPINESS.

  [[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]

  Homosoto dialed his computer again, to a number inside Germany. The encryption and privacy keys were automatically set before Alex Spiradon's computer answered. To Homosoto's surprise, Alex was there.

  MR ALEX.

  Yes.

  CONGRATULATIONS. RICKFIELD IS BEING MOST COOPERATIVE.

  He has many reasons to.

  MILLIONS OF REASONS.

  We merely gave him the incentive to cooperate. I do not expect that he will maintain his position for very long.

  YOUR HANDLING OF HIM HAS BEEN EXCELLENT. I HAVE NOT SEEN A U.S. NEWSPAPER. HOW DO THEY REACT TO HIS COMMITTEE?

  He took a small beating from a couple of papers, but nothing damaging. It's the way Washington works.

  WHO IS SENATOR DEERE? SHE COULD PRESENT A PROBLEM.

  I don't think so. Between her and Rickfield, the sum total will be a big zero. There will be confusion and dissension. I think it works in our favor.

  I WILL FOLLOW THE PROGRESS WITH INTEREST. WHEN ARE THE HEARINGS TO CONTINUE?

  Next week. One other thing. You asked that I get to Scott. Consider it done. You found a most attractive weakness and he succumbed instantly. But, I should say, I don't think it was necessary. He is doing fine on his own.

  I THINK IT IS NECESSARY. IT IS DONE?

  We have a conduit.

  KEEP THE PIPELINE FULL.

  [[[CONNECTION TERMINATED]]]

  * * * * *

  Sunday, January 10

  New York City Times

  What's wrong with Ford?

  by Scott Mason

  Ford is facing the worst public relations disaster for an automo- bile manufacturer since the Audi acceleration problem made inter- national news.

  Last month in Los Angeles alone, over 1200 Ford Taurus and Mer- cury Sable cars experienced a total breakdown of the electrical system. Radios as well as anti-skid braking controls and all other computer controlled functions in the automobiles ceased working.

  To date, no deaths have been attributed to the car's epidemic failures.

  Due to the notoriety and questions regarding the safety of the cars, sales of Taurus's have plummeted by almost 80%. Unlike the similar Audi situation where the alleged problem was found in only a few isolated cases, the Taurus failures have been wide- spread and catastrophically sudden.

  According to Ford, "There has never been a problem with the Taurus electronics' system. We are examining all possibilities in determining the real cause of the apparant failures."

  What else can Ford say?

  * * * * *

  Chrysler Struck by Ford Failures

  by Scott Mason

  Chrysler cars and mini-vans have been experiencing sudden elec- trical malfunctions . . .

  * * * * *

  Mercedes Electrical Systems Follow Ford

  by Scott Mason

  Mercedes owners have already organized a legal entity to force the manufacturer to find answers as to why so many Mercedes are having sudden electrical failures. Following in the footsteps of Ford and Chrysler, this is the first time that Mercedes has not issued an immediate 'Fix' to its dealer. Three deaths were reported when . . .

  * * * * *

  Sunday January 10

  National Security Agency

  "What do you make of this Mason piece?"

  "I'd like to know where the hell he gets his information," said the aide. "That's what I make of it."

  "Someone's obviously leaking it to him," Marvin Jacobs, Director of the National Security Agency, said to his senior aid. "Some- one with access to a great deal of sensitive data." The disdain in his voice was unmistakable.

  Even though it was Sunday, it was not unusual for him to be at his office. His more private endeavors could be more discreetly pursued. A three decade career at the Agency had culminated in his appointment to the Directorship, a position he had eyed for years.

  "We have specialists who use HERF technology," the aide said. "It's more or less a highly focused computer-gun. An RF field on the order of 200 volts per meter is sufficient to destroy most electrical circuits. Literally blow them up from the inside out."

  "Spare me the details."

  "Sir, we can stop a car from a thousand yards by pointing elec- tricity at it."

  "I don't really care about the details."

  "You should, sir. There's a point to this . . ."

  "Well, get on with it." Jacobs was clearly annoyed.

  "Unlike the EMP-T technology which is very expensive and on the absolute edge of our capabilities . . ."

  "And someone elses . . ."

  "Granted," the aide said, sounding irritated with the constant interruptions. "But HERF can be generated cheaply by anyone with an elementary knowledge of electronics. The government even sells surplus radio equipment that will do the job quite nicely."

  Jacobs smiled briefly.

  "You look pleased," the a
ide said with surprise.

  Jacobs hid his pleasure behind a more serious countenance. "Oh, no, it's just the irony of it all. We've been warning them for years and now it's happening."

  "Who, sir?"

  "Never mind," Jacobs said, dismissing the thought momentarily. "Go on."

  Jacobs arrogantly leaned back in his executive chair, closed his eyes and folded his hands over his barrel chest. This was his way of telling subordinates to talk, spill their guts.

  "The real worry about cheap HERF is what it can do in the wrong hands." The aide obliged the ritual. "One transmitter and antenna in a small truck can wipe out every computer on main street during a leisurely drive. Cash registers, electric type- writers, alarms, phones, traffic lights . . .anything electronic a HERF is pointed at, Poof! Good as dead. What if someone used a HERF gun at an airport, pointing up? Or at the tower? From up to a distance of over a kilometer, too. Ten kilometers with better equipment."

  "So it works," muttered Jacobs so softly under his breath his aide didn't hear.

  "It's reminiscent of drive-by shootings by organized crime. In this case, though, the target is slightly different."

  "I see." Jacobs kept his eyes closed as the aide patiently waited for his boss to say something or allow him to return to his family. "I gather we use similar tools ourselves?"

  "Yessir. Very popular technique. Better kept quiet."

  "Not any more. Not any more."

  Chapter 23 Monday, January 11

  Washington, D.C.

  I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day began.

  "What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre- coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from the silver service. "What is it?"

  "Computers."

  The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a hundred beads on rods?"

  Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir, we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously.

  "In English, Phil," insisted the President.

  "MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET."

  The President sighed. "Damage report?"

  "About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but that's not the embarrassing part."

  "If that's not, then what is?"

  "The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over 100,000 records erased. Gone."

  "And?" The President said wearily.

  "The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to. "It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion in revenues."

  "Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough. The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically.

  "Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press. We need plausible deniability . . ."

  "Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I will personally behead the offender," the President said with intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade meant what he said.

  "Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows about this?"

  "Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this completely out of the public eye."

  "Isolate them."

  "Sir?"

  "You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge."

  "Yessir."

  "Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on."

  * * * * *

  Monday, January 11

  Approaching New York City

  Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash. While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going on next to no rest.

  While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak- ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced. Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not out and out weird.

  In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc- esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly valued these spontaneous meditations.

  Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili- ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili- ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster- dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re- lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en- tered an extraordinary bliss.

  The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he remembered it.

  Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the way to Scarsdale, but lacking the good sense God gave him, he checked the messages on his phone machine. Doug called to find out if Scott still worked for the paper and Ty called requesting, almost pleading, that Scott call as soon as he got back. He had to see him, post haste.

  The call to Doug was simple. Yes, I'm back. The hackers are real. They are a threat. Pierre is still alive, I have more material than we can use. I did take notes, and my butt is sun- burned. If there's nothing else, I'm dead on my feet and I will see you in the morning. Click.

  Now he wanted to talk to Tyrone as much as it sounded like Ty wanted to speak to him. Where was he? Probably at the office. He dialed quickly. Tyrone answered with equal speed.

  "Are you back?" Ty asked excitedly.

  "Yeah, just got in. I need to talk to you . . ."

  "N
ot as much as we do, buddy. Where are you now?"

  "Home. Why?"

  "I'll see you in an hour. Wait there." The FBI man was in control. Where the hell else am I going to go, Scott thought.

  Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he collapsed.

  Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by Scott's wide fireplace.

  "Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott.

  "I think you may be right," said Tyrone.

  "Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused look on his face.

  "No I mean about what you said."

  "I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy." Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane of many a reporter.

  "I said I think you were right. And are right."

  "What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused then ever.

  "Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking."

  "Of course we were talking." Scott recognized the humor in the conversation.

  "No! I mean we were . . .shit. Shut up and listen or I'll arrest you!"

  "On what charge?"

  "CRS."

  "CRS?"

  "Yeah, Can't Remember Shit. Shut up!"

  Scott leaned back in his chair sipping away. He had gotten to Ty. Hooked him, reeled him in and watched him flop on the deck. It pissed Ty off to no end to allow himself to be suckered into Scott's occasional inanity.

  "When this whole blackmail thing started up there was no apparent motivation," Tyrone began. "One day you said that the motivation might be a disruption of normal police and FBI operations. I think you might be right. It's looking more and more that the blackmail stuff was a diversion."

  "What makes you think so now?" Scott asked.

  "We had a ton of cases in the last few weeks, same victims as before, who were being called again, but this time with demands. They were being asked to cough up a lot of cash in a short time, and stash it in a very public place. We had dozens of stakeouts, watching the drop points for a pick up. It read like the little bastards were finally getting greedy. You know what I mean?" Scott nodded in agreement, thinking, where is this going?