He spoke carefully and slowly. "I have never been the paranoid type; I'm not conspiracy minded. But I do find it strange that I get so much invisible pressure to lay off a case that appears to be both global in its reach and dangerous in its effects. It's almost like I'm not supposed to find out what's happening. I get no cooperation from my upstairs, CI, the CIA. NSA has been predictably obnoxious when I started asking questions."
"So why come to me?" Nancy asked. "You're the police."
"Are you aware that Pierre Troubleaux is alive?" Scott asked Nancy, accidentally cutting off Tyrone.
"Alive? How's that possible?" She too, had heard the news. They told her they had spoken to Pierre and that his death had been a ruse to protect him. The reports on Pierre's prognosis brightened Nancy attitude.
"But, it's not all good news. It appears, that every single copy of dGraph, that's a . . ."
"I know dGraph," she said quickly. "It's part of the job. Couldn't live without it."
"Well, ma'am, it's infected with computer viruses. Hundreds of them. According to Pierre, the head of OSO Industries, Taki Homosoto, had Max Jones, co-founder of dGraph killed and has effectively held Pierre hostage since."
The impact of such an overwhelming accusation defied response. Nancy Deere's jaw fell limp. "That is the most unbelievable, incredible . . .I don't know what to say."
"I have no reason not to believe what Pierre is saying. Not yet," said Tyrone.
"There are a few friends of mine working to see if dGraph really is infected." Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the implications.
"What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?" She thirsted for more hard information.
"I'm no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I'm not stupid either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies." Nancy main- tained rapt attention as Scott continued . "Therefore, I would venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect- ed."
Scott paused as Nancy's eyes widened.
"Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is getting ready to self destruct." Scott sounded certain and final.
"I can't comprehend this, this is too incredible." Senator Deere shook her head in disbelief. "What will happen?"
"Pierre doesn't know what the viruses do, he's not a programmer. He's just a figurehead," Scott explained. "Now, if I had to guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep those viruses from exploding."
"One man's word is an indictment, not a conviction," Nancy said soberly.
"There's more," Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott. "We've learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to make sense of it all." He slid forward in his chair. "We know that Scott's hacker's name is Miles Foster and he's tied up with the Amsterdam group, but we don't how yet. We also know that he is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the Fort." Nancy understood the implication.
"When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone- walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now they're retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don't know why." Tyrone shook his head in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense."
"At any rate," Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, "I checked into his background since he left the Agency in '87. He went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit." Nancy Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker face. "We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna- tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody's guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a Tokyo travel agency, but we can't determine who paid for them."
"Seventeen times?" asked the Senator.
"Yes ma'am. Curious."
"How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?" she asked dubiously.
"We have our means. I can't get into that now." Tyrone held the party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel, credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power, entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants unconscionable.
"I have no doubt," she said caustically.
"There's more." Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which impressed Nancy. "The case concerning Max Jones' death is being reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in making his predecessor look bad." Tyrone spoke without the emotion that drove Scott.
"So what does this prove?" she asked.
"It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones died."
Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which only provided a view of another office building across the street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.
"Senator," Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General Young: GOVT-108. "I was wondering if this might have any bearing on the tone of the hearings? It's pretty obvious that you and Rickfield don't see eye to eye."
Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott's eyes, looking for ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that described the illicit relationship between General Young and Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.
"Is this confirmed?" she asked quietly.
"No ma'am," Scott said. "I read it this weekend and added up two and two and, well, it does raise some questions."
"I should say it does. Ones that I'm sure he will not be anxious to answer."
* * * * *
6 P.M., Washington, D.C.
"Who the hell are you pissing off and why?" Bob Burnson met Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett's Grill across the street from Treasury at 6:00 PM.
Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and reluctantly accepted that for Scott's assistance in Tyrone's investigation he would get an exclusive.
For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew, just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems. "I've been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don't forget our midnight rendezvous."
Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?
"What are you planning?" Bob asked them both.
"Scott's going after Homosoto," said Tyrone. "See if he can get a few answers."
"And," Scott added, "the Max Jones angle. I'll be on that, too."
"Right. As for me?" Tyrone asked. "I sure would like to have a chat with Mr. Foster. I can't imagine that he's squeaky clean. There's no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think it's about time to turn a few screws."
"Ty," Bob consoled, "whoever's button you're pushing has pushed the Director's, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink on shit. And that's exactly what this smells of. From a politi- cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back off." Burnson gestured at Scott. "Then we'd have him doing the work while our asses stay clean." He referred to Scott. "A perfect case of CYA."
"But?" Tyrone suggested.
"But," Bob said, "
just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A Government approved horse shit here, but I'll be fucked if know why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage stuff."
"They think it's a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid crimes," Tyrone said defiantly.
"Unless," Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen. "Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could they exert that kind of pressure?" He asked Bob.
"The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous political strength. It's possible," Bob resigned. "Listen, I'll cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick for my blood. I hope you understand."
"Yeah, I know. I'll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks."
* * * * *
Friday, January 15
New York City
Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until 10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters's Dear Abby for driver's psychosis. His first live-report did not bode well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough commute.
He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to pass on to his audience.
At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd. Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th. Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.
Every traffic light in Manhattan was green according to the police. Jim reported the apparent problem on the air and as many accidents as he could; there were too many accidents to name. He passed on the recommendations of the police: Best Stay Home.
By 6:30 two additional helicopters were ordered to monitor the impending crisis as the city approached real gridlock. Police helicopters darted about while the media listened in on the conversations from their police band radios.
At 7:00 the Traffic Commissioner was called at home, and told that he shouldn't bother trying to come to work. The streets were at a standstill. Thousands of extra police units were dispersed throughout the city in a dubious attempt to begin the process of managing the snarl that engulfed the city.
Scott Mason exited from the 43rd. Street and Vanderbilt side of Grand Central Station and was met with a common sight a massive traffic jam. He walked the one block to Fifth Avenue and it gradually dawned on him that traffic wasn't moving at all. At 8:15 A.M. it shouldn't be that bad. The intersection at Fifth was crowded with cars aiming in every direction and pedestrians nervously slipped in and around the chaos.
Scott walked the three blocks to the Times digesting the effects of the city's worst nightmare; the paralysis of the traffic system. At that thought his stomach felt like he had been thrown from an airplane. The traffic computers.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
Sonja Lindstrom watched the New York based Today show from the kitchen counter in her upscale Reston, Virginia townhouse. What a mess, she thought. She knew how bad traffic could be in New York even when the lights worked. A news flash pre-empted an interview with Joan Embry from the San Diego Zoo. Sonja watched intently. New York was entering panic mode, and the repercus- sions would be world wide. Especially with the banks closed.
The New York radio stations linked up with the Emergency Broad- cast System so they could communicate with the half million drivers who had nowhere to go. Bridges and tunnels into Manhat- tan were closed and cars and busses on major arteries were being forced to exit onto side streets. Schools, shops and non-essen- tial government services were shut down for the day.
The Governor of New York declared a state of emergency and the National Guard was called to assist the local police. Sonja compared New Yorkers' reactions to this crisis to the way they deal with a heavy snowfall when the city stops. Pretty much like any other day. No big deal, go to a bar, good excuse for a party. She giggled to herself as the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Sonja?"
"Oh, hi, Stephanie. Yeah. Kind of early for you, isn't it?" Sonja sipped her coffee.
"It is, I know, but I had to call you," Stephanie said quickly.
"Something wrong?" Sonja asked.
"I think so, maybe. Wrong enough that I had to tell you." Stephanie sighed audibly. "You don't have to play up to Scott Mason any more. I'm getting out."
"Out of what?" Sonja said with confusion.
"I've learned a few things that I don't like, and I've kinda got hung up on Miles, and, well, I feel funny about taking the money anymore. Especially since Miles doesn't know about the arrange- ments. You know what I mean?"
"Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it. She had not suspected that it would be for passion, nor because of one of her 'dates'.
"Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything. He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with him."
"That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in common."
"Scott should be down tonight."
"That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we can put this behind us."
* * * * *
New York City
The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch- es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began manually loading the software that controlled each region's switches in the hope of piecing together the grid.
At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date, the time, anticipated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew that it was only the primary sync-control program which was corrupted.
The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M.. The official explanation was a massive computer failure, which was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital. Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder among other assorted crimes. All they had to do was find him.
* * * * *
New York City
Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that he n
eeded an international clock to figure out when to call Japan during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO switchboard, he had to pass scrutiny by three different opera- tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to the English language. He told Homosoto's secretary, whose Eng- lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was patched through almost immediately.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes."
"This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling from New York. How are you today?"
"Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" Homosoto was obviously the gratuitous sort when it came to the press.
"We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs. Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as possible under the circumstances.
No answer.
"Sir? Mr. Homosoto?"
"Yes?"
"We are also interested in your relationship with Miles Foster. Mr. Homosoto?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer viruses?"
No answer.
"Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in the United States?"
"I should have killed him."
"What?" Scott strained his ear.
"Mr. Troubleaux is alive?"
"I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On anything?"
"I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead.
Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial.
Chapter 25 Saturday, January 16
Tokyo, Japan
Dressed as business-like on the weekend as during the week, Taki Homosoto sat at his regal techno-throne overlooking the Tokyo skyline from his 66th floor vista. It was time. Years of prepa- ration and millions of dollars later, it was time. Perhaps a little earlier than he would have liked, but the result would be the same anyway.
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