Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

"You don't know that NEMO has been giving us security holes in some of our systems. You don't know that Mason's and other hackers have been working on the Freedom viruses."

  "Some systems? Why not all?"

  "They still want to keep a few trapdoors for themselves."

  "See what I mean!" exclaimed Burnson. "They can't be trusted."

  "They are not on our payroll. Besides, it's them or no one," Tyrone calmly said. "They really would like to keep the real-bad guys off of the playing field, as they put it."

  "And keep the spoils for their own use."

  "It's a trade-off I thought was worthwhile."

  "I don't happen to agree, and neither does the Director's office."

  "I thought you didn't know . . ."

  "Word gets around. We have to cap this one, Ty. It's too hot. This is so far from policy I think we could be shot."

  "You know nothing. Nothing."

  But Burnson and the FBI and the White House all knew they wanted Foster. Tyrone instinctively knew as did Scott, that Miles Foster was the Spook. Other than meager unsubstantiated circum- stantial evidence, though, there was still no convincing legal connection between Miles Foster and the Spook. Not enough of one, anyway.

  Miles Foster had done an extraordinary job of insulating himself and his identity from his army.

  There had to be another way.

  * * * * *

  Monday, March 8

  New York City Times

  Lawsuit Cites Virus

  by Scott Mason

  Will stockholders of corporations soon require that all Corporate assets be appropriately protected? Including those contained in the computers? Many people see a strong possibility of a swell of Wall Street investor demands to secure the computers of pub- licly held companies. The SEC is planning on issuing a set of preliminary regulations for firms under its aegis.

  Last week, a group of 10,000 Alytech, Inc. stockholders filed the first class action suit along this vein. They are suing the current board of directors for " . . .willful dereliction of fiduciary responsibility in the adequate security and protection of corporate information, data, communications and data process- ing and communications equipment." The suit continues to say that the company, under the Directors' leadership and guidance knew and understood the threat to their computers, yet did noth- ing to correct the situation.

  Attorneys for the plaintiffs have said that they are in posses- sion of a number of internal Alytech documents and memos which spelled out security recommendations to their board of directors upon which no action was taken.

  Alytech was one of the many companies hit particularly hard by the Computer War. The dGraph virus, the Lotus viruses and the Novell viruses were among those that infected over 34,000 of the company's computers around the world; bringing the company to a virtual halt for over two weeks. Immediately after getting their computers back up and running, they were struck by several Free- dom viruses which were designed to destroy the hard disks on the computers.

  As of this date, Alytech still has over 10,000 computers sitting idly waiting for the much delayed shipments of hard disks re- quired to repair the machines.

  A spokesman for Alytech, Inc. says that the lawsuit is frivolous and without merit.

  A date of June 14 has been set for the courts to hear the first of many rounds of motions.

  * * * * *

  Sunday, March 21

  Paris, France

  Spring in Paris is more glorious than any reviewer can adequately portray.

  The clear air bristles with fresh anticipation like lovers on a cool afternoon. Bicycles, free from a winter of hiding in ga- rages, fill the streets and parks. All of Paris enjoys the first stroll of the year.

  Coats and jackets are prematurely shed in favor of t-shirts and skimpy tank-tops and the cafes teem with alfresco activity. The lucky low-season American tourist experiences firsthand the French foreplay to summer.

  Looking down to the streets from the 'deuziemme tage' of the Eiffel Tower, only a hundred feet up, the sheer number of stroll- ers, of pedestrian cruisers, of tourists and of the idly lazy occupies the whole of one's vista.

  Martin Templer leaned heavily on the wrought iron railing of the restaurant level, soaking up the tranquility of the perfect Sunday afternoon. He gazed across the budding tree-lined Seine toward the Champs Elyse and the Arc de Triumph; from Notre Dame to the skyscrapered Ile de la Cit. He mentally noted the incon- gruity between the aura of peace that Paris radiated with its often violent history. He hoped nothing today would break that spell.

  A sudden slap on the back aroused Templer from his sun warmed daydream. He turned his head in seeming boredom. "You'd make a lousy pickpocket."

  "That's why I avoided a life of crime." Alexander Spiradon was immaculately dressed, down to the properly folded silk handker- chief in his suit jacket. "How are you today my friend? Did I interrupt your reverie?"

  Templer swung his London Fog over his shoulder. His casual slacks and stylish light weight sweater contrasted severely with Alex's comfortable air of formality. "I don't get here often. Paris is a very special place," Templer mused, turning from his view of the city to face his old comrade.

  "It is indeed," agreed Alex. "Then why do you look so melan- choly? Does Paris bring you memories of sadness?"

  "I hope not," Templer said, eyes down.

  "You didn't give me much notice," Alex said good naturedly. "I left the most beautiful woman in the world in a jacuzzi at St. Moritz."

  "No, I'm sorry. I know I didn't, but it was urgent. Couldn't wait." A slight breeze caused Templer to shiver. He slowly put on his tan rain coat and looked right into Alex's eyes. "I'm going to ask you straight."

  Alex confidently grinned. "Ask what?"

  "Was Taki Homosoto a client of yours?" The biting words seemed to have little impact on Alex.

  "My clients trust me to keep their identities confidential." The expression on Alex's face didn't change.

  "The guy's dead. What the hell can it hurt?" Templer laughed. "What's he gonna do? Sue you for breach of contract?"

  Alex didn't say a word. He saw Templer laugh the confident laugh of a chess player one move from checkmate and he realized how un- comfortable a position this was for him. How do you behave when you're on the losing end of the stick? Alex was thinking like he cared what Templer knew or thought. In reality, though, he didn't care any more about what anyone thought of him. He had enough money, more than enough money, to lead a lavish lifestyle without worry. So what did it matter. As friends nothing would change between him and Martin. But professionally, that was a different matter.

  "I'd love to tell you, but, it's a matter of ethics," Alex said happily. "You understand."

  "It really doesn't matter," laughed Templer. "Let's walk. The wind's picking up." They unconsciously joined in the spontane- ous promenade of walkers who shuffle around the mid level of the Tower to share in the ambience that only Paris offers.

  "You know, I'm officially retired," Alex said breathing in deep- ly.

  "I'm not surprised. Must have been a very profitable endeavor."

  "I saved a little and made prudent investments," Alex lied and Templer knew it. No need to push the point.

  "How well did Sir George do? He wouldn't tell us."

  Alex stopped in his tracks and glared at Martin with a blank emotionless expression for several seconds until his deep set brown eyes began to twinkle. A knowing smile and nod of recog- nition of accomplishment followed, telling Martin he had hit a home run. "You're good. Very good." They both began walking again, as if on cue. "For future edification, how did you find him?"

  "Them. Sir George was the most helpful, though."

  "I remember him. Real character, kind of helpless but with the gift of gab." Alex seemed unconcerned that any of his network had been discovered. "He talked?"

  "Second rate criminal. Definitely deportable."

  "And you made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

  "Something like that
," Templer said coyly. "Let's just say he prefers the vineyards of California to the prisons in England."

  Alex nodded in understanding. "How'd you find him?"

  "Telephone records."

  "That's impossible," Alex said, shrugging off Martin's answer.

  "Never underestimate the power of silicon," Martin said crypti- cally.

  "Computers? No way," Alex said defiantly. "Every year there are almost 40 billion calls made within the United States alone. There's no way to trace that many calls."

  "Who needs to trace?" Templer enjoyed the joust. Thus far. "The phone company is kind enough to keep records of every call made. Both local and long distance. They're all rather com- plete. From what number, to what number, if it's forwarded, to what number and at what time and for how long. They also tell us if the calls were voice, fax, or other types of communications. It even identifies telephone connections that use encryption. Believe me, those are flagged right off."

  "You monitor every conversation? I thought it was just the overseas calls. That's incredible. Incredibly illegal."

  "But necessary. The threat of terrorism inside the United States has reached unacceptable levels, and we had the capability. It was just a matter of flipping the switch."

  "Since when can you do that?" Alex asked, stunned that he had overlooked, or underestimated a piece of the equation.

  "Since the phone company computers were connected to the Fort. And, I guarantee you, it's not something they want advertised," Martin said in a low voice. "Did you fuck up?" They had circled the Tower twice and stopped back where they started, overlooking the Seine.

  Alex's professional composure returned as they leaned over the Tower's railing.

  "I guess I wasn't as right as I usually am," he snickered. Templer followed suit. "How many did you get?"

  "How many are there?"

  "That would be telling," Alex said coyly.

  "I assume, then, that you would be averse to helping us out of our current dilemma." Being friends with potential adversaries made this part of the job all the more difficult.

  "Well," Alex said turning his head toward Martin. "I guess I could be talked into one more job, just one, if the price was right."

  Templer shook his head. "That's not the right answer."

  Alex was taken off guard by the sullenness in Martin's voice. "Right answer? There are no right and wrongs in our business. Only shades of gray. You know that. We ride a fence, and the winds blow back and forth. It's not personal."

  Martin straightened up and put both hands deep into the pockets of his London Fog. "Among the professionals, yes. But Sir George and his cronies, and you by default, broke the rules. Civilians are off limits. We were hoping that you would want to help."

  Alex ignored the second request. "I won't do it again. I prom- ise," he said haughtily.

  "Is there anything I can say that will make you reconsider? Anything at all?" Martin implored.

  "No," Alex said. "Unless we can discuss an equitable arrange- ment."

  Martin took his hands out of his pockets and said, "I don't think that will work. I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  Martin quickly moved his right hand up to Alex's neck and touched it briefly. Alex reached up and slapped his neck as terror overtook his face. He grabbed Martin's arm and twisted it with his free hand to expose a small needle tipped dart projecting from a ring on one finger. Templer wrested his arm free from Alex's weakening clutch and tore off the ring, tossing it away from the Tower.

  Alex weakened further as he leaned both hands on the railing to steady himself. His mouth gaped wide, intense fear and utter disbelief competing for control of his facial muscles. Martin ignored his collapsing adversary and walked deliberately to the open elevator which provided escape down to street level. Before the doors had closed, Templer saw a crowd converge over the crumpled body of Alexander Spiradon.

  Martin Templer crossed the Seine and performed evasive maneuvers to make sure he was not being followed. The cleansing process took about three hours. He flagged down a taxi and the most uncooperative driver refused to acknowledge he understood that the destination was the American Embassy on Gabriel. Only when Templer flashed a 100 Franc note did the driver's English im- prove.

  Templer showed his CIA credentials to the Marine Sergeant at the security desk, and told him he needed access to a secure communi- cations channel to Washington.

  After his identity was verified, Templer was permitted to send his message. It was electronically addressed to his superiors at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  PLATO COULDN'T COME OUT AND PLAY. UNFORTUNATE STROKE INTERRUPTED THE INTERVIEW.

  Chapter 30 Monday, March 22

  National Security Agency

  He had two separate offices, each with a unique character. One ultra modern and sleek, the other befitting a country gentleman. The two were connected by a large anteroom that also provided immediate access and departure by a private elevator and escape stairs. He could hold two meetings at once as was occasionally required in his position as DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency. Each office had its own secretary and private entrance, selected for use depending upon whom was expected.

  The meeting in the nouveau office was winding down to a close and the conversation had been reduced to friendly banter. Marvin Jacobs had brought in three of his senior advisors who were coordinating the massive analytical computing power of the NSA with the extraordinary volume of raw data that all of the 5ESS switches downloaded daily.

  Since they had been assigned to assist the FBI, the NSA had been hunting down the locations of the potential conspirators with the assistance of the seven Baby Bells and Bell Laboratories in Princeton, New Jersey. The gargantuan task was delicately bal- ancing a fine line between chaos and stagnancy; legality and amorality.

  As they spoke, Jacobs heard a tone emit from his computer and he noticed that Office-2 had a Priority Visitor.

  "Gentlemen," Marvin Jacobs said as he stood. "It seems that my presence is required for a small matter. Would you mind enter- taining yourselves for a few minutes?" His solicitous nature and political clout demanded that his visitors agree without hesita- tion.

  He walked over to a door by the floor to ceiling bookshelf and let himself in, through the gracious ante-room by the commode and into his heavy wood and leather office. He immediately saw the reason for the urgency.

  "Miles, Miles Foster, my boy! How are you?" Marvin Jacobs walked straight to Miles, vigorously shook his hand and gave him a big friendly bear hug.

  Miles smiled from ear to ear. "It's been cold out there. Glad to be home." He looked around the room and nodded appreciative- ly. "You've been decorating again."

  "Twice. You haven't been in this office for, what is it, five years?" Jacobs held Miles by the shoulders. "My God it's good to see you. You don't look any the worse for wear."

  "I had a great boss, treated me real nice," Miles said.

  "Come here, sit down," Marvin said ushering Miles over to a thickly padded couch. "If you don't already know it, this coun- try owes you a debt of thanks."

  "I know," Miles said, even though he had been paid over three million dollars by Homosoto.

  "A drink, son?" At fifty-five, the red faced paunch bellied Jacobs looked old enough to be Miles' father, even though they were only fifteen years apart.

  "Glenfiddich on the rocks." Miles felt comfortable. Totally comfortable and in control of the situation.

  "Done." DIRNSA Jacobs pressed a button which caused a hidden bar to be exposed from a mirror paneled wall. The James Bondish tricks amused Miles. "Excuse me," he said to Miles. "Let me get rid of my other appointments." Jacobs handed Miles the drink and leaned over his desk speaking into telephone. "Uh, Miss Gree- ley, cancel my dates for the rest of the day, would you please?"

  "Of course, sir." The thin female voice came across the speaker phone clearly.

  "And my regrets to the gentlemen in One."

  "Yessir." The interc
om audibly clicked off.

  "So," Marvin asked, "how does it feel to be both the goat and the hero?"

  "Hey, I fixed it, just like we planned, didn't I?" Miles said arrogantly, but his deep dimples said he was joking. "I remember everything you taught me," he bragged. "Lesson One: If you really want to fix something, first you gotta fuck it up so bad everyone takes notice. Well, how'd I do?" Miles still grinned, his dimples radiating a star pattern across his cheeks. Jacobs approved whole heartedly.

  "You were a natural. From day one."

  "Homosoto thought that fuck-it to fix-it was entirely too weird at first, so I quit calling it that." Miles fondly remembered those early conversations. "As you said, it takes a disaster to motivate Americans, and we gave them one."

  "I'm glad you see it that way," Marvin said obligingly. "It occurred to me that you might have gotten soft on me."

  "Not a chance." Miles countered. "How many men get to lead armies, first of all. And I may be the first, ever, to lead an invasion of my own country with my government's approval. This was a sanctioned global video game. I should thank you for the opportunity."

  "That's a hell of a way to look at it, my boy. You show a lot of courage." Marvin drank to Miles' health. "It takes men of courage to run a country, and that's what we do; run the country." Miles had heard many of Marvin's considerable and conservative speeches before, but this one was new. After over five years, that was to be expected.

  "It doesn't make a damn bit of difference who the President is. The Government stays the same regardless of who's elected every 4 years." Marvin continued as Miles listened reverently.

  "The American public thinks that politicians run the country; they think that they vote for the people who make the policies, who set the tone of the government, but they are so wrong. So wrong." Marvin shook his head side to side. "And it's probably just as well that they never find out for sure." He held Miles' attention. Marv walked around the room drink in hand, gesturing with his hands and arms.

  "The hundreds of thousands of Government employees, the ones that are here year after year after year, we are the ones who make policy. It's the mid-grade manager, the staff writer, the polit- ical analysts who create the images, the pictures that the White House and Capital Hill see.