Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

  Scott could live with it. He merely didn't keep any notes on the computer. He stuck with the old tried and true method of hand written notes.

  His E-Mail this time contained a surprise.

  IF YOU WANT TO FIND OUT HOW I DID IT, CALL ME TONIGHT. 9PM.

  416-555-3165. THE SPOOK.

  A pit suddenly developed in Scott's stomach. The last time he remembered having that feeling was when he watched Bernard Shaw broadcast the bombing of Baghdad. The sense of sudden helpless- ness, the foreboding of the unknown. Or perhaps the shock of metamorphosis when one's thoughts enter the realm of the unreal.

  Then came the doubt.

  "Ty," Scott asked after calling him at his office. "What hap- pened to Foster?" He spoke seriously.

  "True to his word," Tyrone laughed with frustration, "he was out in an hour. He said he was coming back to your party . . ."

  "Never showed up." Scott paused to think. "How did he get out so fast?"

  "He called the right guy. Charges have been reduced to a couple of misdemeanors; local stuff."

  "So, isn't he your guy?"

  "We're off, right?" Tyrone though to double check.

  "Completely. I just need to know for myself."

  "Bullshit," Tyrone retorted. "But for argument's sake, I know he had something to do with it, and so do a lot of other people."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "A technicality called proof," sighed Tyrone. "We have enough on him for a circumstantial case. We know his every move since he left the NSA. How much he spent and on whom. We know he was with Homosoto, but that's all we know. And yes, he is a comput- er genius."

  "And he goes free?"

  "For now. We'll get him."

  "Who pulled the strings?"

  "The Prosecutor's office put up a brick wall. Told us we had to get better evidence. I though we were all on the same side." Tyrone's discouragement was evident, even across the phone wires.

  "Still planning on making a move?"

  "I'll talk to you later." The phone went dead on Scott's ears. He had clearly said a no-no on the phone.

  * * * * *

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Lotus Development Corporation headquarters has been the stage for demonstrations by free-software advocates. Lotus' lawsuits against Mosaic Software, Paperback Software and Borland created a sub-culture backlash against the giant software company. Lotus sued its competitors on the basis of a look-and-feel copyright of the hit program 1-2-3. That is, Lotus sued to keep similar products from emulating their screens and key sequences.

  Like Hewlett Packard, Apple and Microsoft who were also in the midst of legal battles regarding intellectual-property copy- rights, Lotus received a great deal of media attention. By and large their position was highly unpopular, and the dense univer- sity culture which represented free exchange of programs and information provided ample opportunity to demonstrate against the policies of Lotus.

  Eileen Isselbacher had worked at Lotus as a Spreadsheet Customer Service Manager for almost two years. She was well respected and ran a tight ship. Her first concern, one that her management didn't necessarily always share, was to the customer. If someone shelled out $500 for a program, they were entitled to impeccable service and assistance. Despite her best efforts, though, Lotus had come to earn a reputation of arrogance and indifference to customer complaints. It was a constant public relations battle; for the salespeople, for customer service, and for the financial people who attempted to insure a good Wall Street image.

  The service lines are shut down at 6 P.M. EST and then Eileen enters the Service Data Base. The SDB is a record of all service calls. The service reps logged the call, the serial #, the type of problem and the resolution. Eileen's last task of the day was to compile the data accumulated during the day and issue a daily summation report.

  She commanded the data base to "Merge All Records". Her computer terminal, on the Service Department's Novell Pentium-server net- work began crunching.

  12,346 Calls between 7:31 AM and 5:26 PM.

  That was a normal number of calls.

  Serial Numbers Verified.

  The Data Base had to double check that the serial number was

  a real one, issued to a legitimate owner.

  712 Bad Disks

  Her department sent out replacement disks to verified owners who had a damaged disk. A little higher than the average of 509, but not significant enough unless the trend continues.

  FLAG!!

  4,576 Computational Errors

  Eileen's attention immediately focussed in on the FLAG!! message. The Computational Error figures were normally '0' or '1' a week. Now, 5,000 in one day?

  She had the computer sort the 4,576 CE's into the serial number distribution. The Service Department was able to act as a quali- ty control monitor for engineering and production. If something was wrong once a few hundred thousand copies hit the field the error would show up by the number of calls. But CE's were normally operator error. Not the computer's.

  There was no correlation to serial numbers. Old Version 1.0's through Version 3.0 and 3.1 were affected as were the current versions. By all reports, Lotus 1-2-3 could no longer add, subtract, divide, multiply or compute accurately. Mass computa- tional errors. The bell curve across serial numbers was flat enough to obviate the need for a statistical analysis. This was clearly not an engineering design error. Nor was it a production error, or a run of bad disks. Something had changed.

  * * * * *

  Scarsdale, New York

  On the 6:12 to Scarsdale, Tyrone and Scott joined for a beer. The conversation was not to be repeated.

  "ECCO, CERT, the whole shooting match," Tyrone whispered loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the train, "are moving to NSA control. NIST is out. They all work for the Fort now. Department of Defense."

  "Are you shitting me?" Scott tried to maintain control.

  "It'll be official tomorrow," Tyrone said. "Write your story tonight. The NSA has won again."

  "What do you mean, again?"

  "Ah," Tyrone said trying to dismiss his frustrated insight into agency rivalry. "It seems that whatever they want, they get. Their budget is secret, their purpose is secret, and now they have every computer security concern at their beck and call. Orders of the President."

  "Aren't they the best suited for the job, though . . ."

  "Technically, maybe. Politically, no way!" Tyrone said adamant- ly. "I think the Bureau could match their power, but they have another unfair advantage."

  Scott looked curiously at Tyrone.

  "They wrote the rules."

  * * * * *

  Scarsdale, New York

  Speedo's Pizza was late, so Scott got the two $9 medium pepperoni pizzas for free, tipping the embarrassed delivery boy $10 for his efforts. Not his fault that his company makes absurd promises and contributes to the accident rate.

  As 9:00 P.M. approached, Scott's stomach knotted up. He wasn't quite sure what he would find when he dialed the Canadian number. It was a cellular phone exchange meaning that while he dialed the Toronto 416 area code, the call was probably rerouted by call forwarding to another location, also connected by cellular phone. Untraceable. Damn sneaky. And legal. Technology For The Peo- ple.

  [[[DIALING 4165553165 . . . . . .]]]

  Scott listened to the small speaker on his internal modem card as it dialed the tones in rapid sequence. A click, a buzz and then in the background, Scott heard the faintest of tones. Was that crosstalk from another line or was another secret number being dialed?

  [[[ CONNECTION 4800 BAUD]]]

  The screen hesitated for few seconds then prompted . . .

  IDENTIFY YOURSELF:

  Scott wondered what to enter. His real name? Or the handle Kirk's hackers gave him.

  Scott Mason aka Repo Man

  Again the computer display paused, seemingly pondering Scott's response.

  I SUPPOSE ASKING FOR FURTHER IDENTIFICATION WOULD OFFEND YOU.

&
nbsp; I'm getting used to it. Paranoia runs rampant in your line of work.

  LET'S SAVE THE EDITORIALIZING FOR NOW. GIVE ME THE WARM AND FUZZIES. PROVE YOU'RE SCOTT MASON.

  You can't keep your eyes off of Sonja's chest as I recall.

  GOOD START. NICE TITS.

  So you're Miles Foster.

  THERE ARE GROUNDRULES. FIRST. MY NAME IS THE SPOOK. MR. SPOOK. DR. SPOOK. PROFESSOR SPOOK. KING SPOOK. I DON'T CARE WHAT, BUT I AM THE SPOOK AND ONLY THE SPOOK. MY IDENTITY, IF I HAVE ONE, IS TO REMAIN MY LITTLE SECRET. UNLESS YOU ACCEPT THAT, WE WILL GET NOWHERE FAST.

  Like I said, you're Miles Foster.

  NO. AND IF I WAS, IT WOULDN'T MATTER. I AM THE SPOOK. I AM YOUR PERSONAL DEEP THROAT. YOUR BEST FRIEND.

  Let me see if I understand this right. You will tell all, the whole story on the record, as long as you stay the Spook? Use your name, Spook, in everything?

  THAT'S IT.

  The paper has given me procedures. I have to record everything. Save it to disk, and give a copy to the lawyers.

  ARE YOU SAVING THIS YET?

  No. Not until we agree. Then we outline the terms and go.

  I'M IMPRESSED. YOU ARE THE FIRST REPORTER I'VE HEARD OF TO USE COMPUTERS AS A SOURCE. WHO DEVELOPED THE RULES?

  The lawyers, who else?

  FIGURES.

  So. Do we have a deal?

  LET ME SEE THE CONTRACT.

  Scott and the Spook exchanged notes over their modems and comput- ers until they arrived at terms they both could live with. After Kirk, the rules Higgins had established were clear, easy to follow and fair. Scott set his computer to Save the conversa- tion.

  This is Scott Mason, speaking to a person who identifies himself only as the Spook. I do not know the sex of this person, nor his appearance as all conversations are occurring over computer modem and telephone lines. The Spook contacted me today, through my office computer. This is his amazing story.

  Spook. Why did you call me?

  I DESIGNED THE COMPUTER INVASION OF THE UNITED STATES FOR TAKI HOMOSOTO. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW I DID IT?

  * * * * *

  Wednesday, January 20

  National Security Agency

  Marvin Jacobs had a busy day and evening. And night, preparing for his meeting with the President. He would have a chance to make his point, and win it, with an audience in attendance. The high level bureaucrat craved to aspire within the echelons of the government hierarchy, but his inate competence prevented his goals from being realized.

  During Korea Lt. Marvin Jacobs served his country as 90 day wonder straight out of ROTC. A business major with a minor in civic administration did not prepare him for the tasks the Army had in store for him. Army Intelligence was in desperate need of quality analysts, people with minds more than marshmallows for brain. The Army Intelligence Division G-2 personnel staff poured through new recruit files in hopes of recruiting them into the voluntary program. But the catch phrase, 'Military- Intelligence,' a contradiction in terms' made their job doubly difficult. So they resorted to other tactics to recruit quali- fied people for an unpopular and often despised branch of the military: they made deals, and they made Lt. Marvin Jacobs a deal he couldn't refuse.

  Young Captain Jacobs returned to the United States at the end of the conflict as a highly skilled and experienced communications manager for the evolving communications technology; as antiquated as it appears today. His abilities were widely needed by emerg- ing factions of the government as McCarthyism and the fear of the Red Menace were substituted for Hot War.

  The super secret NSA, whose existence was unknown to a vast majority of Congress at that time, made him the best offer from all the Federal Agencies. The payscales were the same, but the working conditions promised were far superior at the Agency. Marvin Jacobs had studied to serve as a civil servant, but he imagined himself in Tecumseh, Michigan politics, not confronting the Communist Threat.

  He was rewarded for his efforts, handsomely. In the sports world, they call it a signing bonus. In the deep dark untrace- able world of the National Security Agency they call it All Paid Reconnaissance. APR, for short. Travel when and where you like, ostensibly on behalf of your government. If worse comes to worst, attend a half day seminar and make yourself seen.

  By the time he was thirty-five, Marvin Jacobs, now a well re- spected management fixture at the NSA, had seen the world twice over. Occasionally he traveled on business. For the first ten years with the Agency he traveled with his wife, college sweet- heart Sarah Bell, and then less so as their three children ma- tured. Still, although he now travels alone more often than not, he was on a plane going somewhere at least twice a month, if only for a weekend.

  The Directorship of the NSA landed in his lap unexpectedly in 1985, when the schism between the Pentagon and the Fort became an unsurvivable political nightmare for his predecessor. Marvin Jacobs, on the other hand, found the job the deserved cherry on a career dedicated to his country. It was largely a political job, and managing the competing factions of his huge secret empire occupied most of his time.

  The prestige, the power, the control and the responsibility alone wasn't enough for Marvin Jacobs. He wanted more. He wanted to make a difference. A very dangerous combination.

  * * * * *

  "It is so good to hear your voice, Ahmed Shah," Beni Rafjani said in Farsi over an open clear overseas line.

  "And you. I am but Allah's servant," replied Ahmed, bowing his head slightly as he spoke.

  "As we all are. But today I call to say you can come home."

  "Home? Iran?" The excitement in Ahmed's voice was more due to the call than the news. "Why?"

  "I thought you would be pleased, now that the Red Sun has set." The cryptic reference to the death of Homosoto wouldn't fool anybody listening, but inuendo was non-admissible.

  "Yes, my work is going well, and I have learned much, as have hundreds of students that attend my classes. However, with all due respect, I think we may accomplish more by continuing the work that our esteemed leader began. Why should we stop now? It goes very well in our favor."

  "I understand," Rafjani said with respect. "You are honored for your sacrifice, living among the infidels."

  "It must be done. I mean no disrespect."

  "You do not speak disrepectfully, Ahmed Shah. Your work is important to your people. If that is your wish, continue, for you do it well."

  "Thank you, thank you. Even though one grain of sand has blown away, the rest of the desert retains great power."

  "Ahmed Shah, may Allah be with you."

  Chapter 27 Thursday, January 21

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  He wanted to make them wait.

  The President decided to walk into the breakfast room for their early morning meeting a few minutes late. Even with intimates, the awe of the Presidency was still intact. His tardiness added to the tension that they all felt as a result of the recent revelations. Perhaps the tension would further hone their atten- tion and dialogue.

  He had not slept well the night before; he was prepared for anything he understood, but computers were not on his roster of acquired fluencies. A President has to make decisions, tough decisions, life and death decisions, but decisions of the type that have a history to study and a lesson to learn. And like most of those before him, he was well equipped to make tough decisions, right or wrong. Presidents have to have the self confidence and internal resolve to commit themselves, and their nation, to a course of action. This President's political life trained him well; lawyer, local politics, state politics and then Washington.

  But not computers. He was not trained in computers. He had learned to type, a little, and found that sending E-Mail messages was great fun. To him it was a game. Since the first days when microcomputers had invaded the offices of governmental Washing- ton, he had been able to insulate himself from their day to day use. All the same, every desk he had occupied was adjoined by a powerful microcomputer fitted with the finest graphics, the best p
rinter and an elite assortment of software. He used the memory resident calculator and sent and received electronic mail. That was it.

  The President, as most men of his generation, accepted the fact that computers now ran the show. The whole shooting match. Especially the military. The communications and computer sophis- tication used by the Allies enthralled the world during the Iraqi War: bombs smart enough to pick which window they would enter before detonating, missiles smart enough to fly at 2000 mph and destroy an incoming missile moving at 3000 mph. It turned out that hitting a bullet with a bullet was possible after all. Intuitively, the President knew that the crisis developing before his eyes meant massive computer damage, and the repercussions would be felt through the economy and the country.

  However, the President did not have enough computer basics to begin to understand the problem, much less the answers. This was the first time during his administration that major tactical and policy decisions would be made primarily by others. His was a duty of rubber stamping. That worry frustrated his attempts at sleeping and nagged at him before the meeting. And then, of course, there was the press.

  "Gentlemen," the President said sauntering towards his chair at the head of the large formal breakfast table. He opened the door with enough vigor to startle his guests. He maintained his usual heads-up smile and spry gait as he noticed that there were new faces present.

  In addition to the inner circle, Marvin Jacobs asked two key NSA security analysts to be observers at the meeting. Only if the President asked a question was it then all right to speak. Accompanying Phil Musgrave, under admitted duress to repay a previous favor, was Paul Trump, Director of NIST, the eternal rival of the NSA in matters of computers. The President was introduced to the guests and smiled to himself. He recognized that the political maneuvering was beginning already. Maybe the competition would help, he thought.

  "Marv," the President said leaning away from the waiter pouring his coffee. This was the same waiter who had spilled near boil- ing liquid in his lap last month. "I guess it's your show, so I'll just sit back and keep my mouth shut." He leaned even further away as the waiter's clumsiness did not inspire confi- dence.