The old man’s hawk-like eyes had fastened to Daniel Prentice. “As I was saying,” he said, his deep-timbred voice rumbling through the room, “Mr. Prentice believes that no matter what we try to do, some misfortunes cannot be avoided.”
Prentice met the old man’s gaze without flinching, then nodded soberly. “That’s right. It’s Murphy’s Law—what can go wrong will go wrong. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing what will go wrong. Some of the things we fear—a total failure of the oil pumps in the North Sea, for instance—will not happen. But others will.”
A flurry of panic rippled around the room. “What about our weapons systems?” Dr. Carolyn Wilt pinned General Archer with an icy stare. “Can you promise that your satellite-controlled weapons won’t suddenly fire on our cities?”
Mild confusion reigned as the secretaries tossed questions and accusations back and forth, then the president held up his hand. “Perhaps,” he said, turning again to Daniel Prentice, “we’ve just discovered the third problem you mentioned.”
“Yes,” Prentice answered, his eyes narrowing. “Panic. No matter what we do, we can never be 100 percent sure of the chips we cannot replace. And if you think the media has enjoyed whipping up disaster scenarios thus far, wait until this time next year. Not only will you have people building bomb shelters in their back yards and stocking up on dehydrated survival foods, but you’ll have bank runs like nothing this country has ever seen.” He looked across the table toward the secretary of commerce. “You’re going to have quite a problem, Mr. Leber.”
Silence reigned in the room, and Lauren looked toward the window, suddenly realizing that the gray day outside had turned to rain. The whispering water on the window seemed to mock the baffled silence.
After a long moment, the president spoke. “Panic,” he said, his gaze swinging to meet General Archer’s. “Short of martial law, what can we do to prevent it?”
“If you’ll allow me, sir.” Prentice lifted his hand like a wiseacre in school. The president nodded, and Prentice continued. “While we were flying to Washington, I offered my friend Brad this riddle: A king had two sons, and could only leave his kingdom to one.” Prentice swept his audience with a piercing glance. “You, ladies and gentlemen, have many systems on many mainframes. The Treasury Department has its own system; the IRS has another. Europe has its own system; so do the Asian banks. We only need one.”
Prentice’s dark eyes darkened as he studied the assembled group. “The king in my riddle arranged a horse race between his sons but decreed that the kingdom would go to the slower rider. That left his two sons in a quandary—how could they race and yet be certain that the other brother was not restraining his horse?”
He paused, and Lauren noticed that the room had gone as silent as the grave. Not a person stirred; not a page fluttered.
Brad Hunter lifted his head. “I’ve been pondering the question since last night,” he told the group, “and I still don’t get it.”
Daniel laughed softly. “There was one sure way to guarantee that neither brother would cheat—they would have to switch horses.”
Lauren tilted her head, considering his answer, then nearly laughed aloud. It was a clever puzzle, but none of the dignitaries around the table seemed to appreciate it. They were all staring at Daniel Prentice as if he’d suddenly begun to speak Chinese.
“Your answer, ladies and gentlemen,” Daniel said, returning his gaze to the president, “is just as simple. Switch systems. Merge all your computer systems into one.”
“Combine systems?” The president voiced the thought uppermost in every mind.
“Impossible!” General Archer slammed his hand on the table. “Why, it’s taken years for us to compile the information in our databases! We’re not giving up our classified files!”
Confusion erupted as several others echoed the general’s opinion, but Daniel Prentice merely smiled. Finally the president called for order.
“You’ve heard the arguments,” the president said simply, looking at Prentice with an inscrutable expression. “Convince me that these folks are wrong.”
“It’s only natural that they’d feel possessive of their own networks,” Prentice said. “But just as these United States came together to share resources, it only makes sense that we share information as well. I am proposing that we create a national network to control the exchange of currency, monitor health, and regulate the economy.”
“A national network?” Dr. Wilt clicked her long nails on the polished tabletop. “Why do we need one?”
“To streamline information.” Prentice shifted his weight in his chair. “Do you realize that our law enforcement agencies have begun to fully share resources only in the last two decades? Ted Bundy wreaked a path of murder across the United States because law enforcement officials in one state did not have access to records of his crimes in other states. Think of deadbeat fathers—how often do divorced dads skip out and move to another state, evading responsibilities even as they manage to hide from their ex-wives?”
“We’re working on that.” Dr. Wilt’s voice had a sharp edge. “The federal government is involved now, and we’re making progress—”
“I’m not judging your intention, Dr. Wilt. But, if your computers were connected to Dr. Wilkerson’s computers—” Prentice pointed toward the secretary of labor—“you would know the instant John Doe, deadbeat dad, applied for a job. If you programmed his Social Security number or I.D. code into a scanner, you’d know if he so much as walked into the local grocery store. And if your computers, Dr. Leber,” he shifted his gaze to the secretary of commerce, “were connected to the other two, you’d know what brand of soap John Doe used, what kind of produce he buys, and how much he spends every month on groceries. You, Dr. Hall,” he said, smiling at the secretary of energy, “would know if he signed on for electricity or natural gas at his new condo. And you, Mr. Whitlow—” he nodded at the secretary of state—“would know if he took an unexplained side trip into Mexico before settling in Los Angeles.”
The vice president rapped on the table with his knuckles. “How would we know these things? We don’t keep track of groceries and soap.”
“Yes, we do.” Dr. Wilkerson’s voice was hoarse. “Somebody keeps track of all those things. But there’s no central repository of information.”
“There could be.” A secretive smile softened Daniel Prentice’s mouth. “And I know just how to do it.”
In a dramatic, almost theatrical gesture, he rested his elbow on the table, then lifted his hand, slowly rotating it back and forth. “Raw data,” his voice filled with quiet emphasis, “will be stored here, on the back of each individual’s hand. Several years ago my company began to manufacture identification chips for pets—the Personal Identification Device, or PID, is implanted beneath the animal’s fur. If the animal becomes lost or injured, with the simple swipe of a scanner we are able to read a number that will lead us to a pet owner’s name, address, and phone number.”
He lowered his hand and looked toward Dr. Dana Barnett, the secretary of agriculture. “After we perfected the pet PID, we began to work on bovine PIDs. Now we manufacture chips that tell a dairy farmer when a cow is lactating, when she is in heat, when she is pregnant. And he knows it in the instant that a dairy cow walks past a scanner in the barn.”
Dr. Barnett nodded, her eyes wide.
Daniel looked next at General Archer. “The military has been talking about ID chips for years. DNA identification was first implemented in Desert Storm, and part of President Clinton’s proposed health care legislation involved a ‘safe, ingenious, inexpensive, foolproof, and permanent method of identification using radio waves.’ Since 1992 health care professionals have been talking about a compact microchip, the size of a grain of rice, which would be placed under the skin in a procedure as simple as a vaccination.”
Daniel looked around the circle. “Your complete medical history, employment history, a record of your DNA, even your voice- and thumbprints can
be recorded upon a PID and embedded beneath the flesh on the back of your hand.” With a smooth, polished gesture, he pulled a mechanical pencil from inside his coat pocket, then clicked the tip several times. “This pencil lead is so thin most of you would not even feel it if I dropped it into your palm,” he said, concentrating on the pencil. With a deft motion, he broke off the lead, then pressed it to the tip of his index finger. From where she sat across the room, Lauren could barely see it.
“A PID no bigger than this could contain all your personal records,” Daniel went on. “The PIDs could be updated as needed—after marriage, for instance, or an employment change, or every decade. Theoretically, by scanning the PID, a bank could credit an individual with a certain amount of spendable credits, enabling a consumer to shop without cash, credit, or debit cards. Best of all, every time an individual’s PID is scanned, every iota of information about his transaction or movement is relayed to the central network.”
A general hubbub broke out in the room.
“It’s an invasion of privacy,” Hank Leber protested.
“Why? We’re not recording any information that isn’t already being recorded,” Dr. Wilkerson answered. “We’re just improving the collection and dissemination of that information.”
“It’s just too bizarre.” The vice president threw up his hands. “And bound to cost more than it’s worth! The taxpayers would never stand for it.”
Tom Ormond, the White House press secretary, leaned over and whispered to Lauren. “Why not? They tolerated $640 airplane toilet seats, didn’t they?”
“Wait, think about it.” Steve Aldridge, secretary of transportation, spoke up. “We could put scanners at all airports, train stations, and ports of entry. We could monitor who goes where—we’d find wanted criminals and illegal aliens in a flash. That capability alone would save us millions every year.”
The secretary of commerce looked at the president with excitement shining in his eyes. “Why not do this now? We’ve talked about it for years, but we’ve never had a sufficiently powerful reason. But this will be simple— we tell the American people the truth about the Year 2000 Crisis and ask them to come forward for their PIDs. We could even offer some sort of tax deduction or incentive for those who are willing to be microchipped in the first six months or so.”
“Negative consequences would drive the laggards.” The secretary of the treasury picked up the thought. “If we do nothing, the media frenzy over possible Y2K crises could conceivably ignite a run on the banks—people would rush to withdraw their funds before all records of those funds disappear into cyberspace. But there simply isn’t enough money to distribute. Only three percent of our national currency is actually available in paper bills and coins. The rest is represented on paper, in stocks, bonds, and investments, but mostly as electronic digits in our computer systems. If even a small minority of our citizens become nervous and withdraw their cash, our entire Federal Reserve banking system will collapse.”
The president pressed his finger to his lips, a sure sign that he was about to begin a story. Lauren knew the sign and apparently the others did, too, for they all quieted and settled back in their chairs.
“Reminds me of a marvelous scene in It’s a Wonderful Life, that Christmas movie with Jimmy Stewart.” The president glanced up at Lauren. “You remember it, don’t you, Miss Mitchell? The scene where the entire town comes storming into the old Bailey Building Savings and Loan, determined to take their money out.”
“I remember it,” Lauren answered, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Every eye in the room, including Daniel Prentice’s, had turned to her.
“Anyway,” the president went on, “poor George Bailey is trying to explain that he doesn’t have their money in the vault, that it’s all loaned out. It’s in the taxi driver’s house, and the policeman’s, and in that little housing development he started.”
President Stedman looked around in the pregnant pause, then nodded at the secretary of the treasury. “George Bailey solved the problem by talking the people out of running the bank. I may not be as charming as Jimmy Stewart, but I think I could give a televised address and convince people that we need to move to a cashless economic system. Probably 90 percent of the country already uses credit or debit cards. We’ll just tell the American people that it’s time to take a giant leap forward . . . and that everyone has a duty to become involved in the Millennium Project.”
“Exactly.” The treasury secretary thumped the table with his fist. “That’s a great title, sir.”
“Wonderful idea, Mr. President.”
As others called out their support, Daniel Prentice leaned on the arm of his chair and smiled at President Stedman. “The technology is already in place, Mr. President. Just as you can buy a prepaid telephone card and spend the allotted minutes, you can buy a cash-stored value card, swipe it at registered merchants, and spend money without ever touching a paper dollar. The benefit of having the card used in tandem with a PID is obvious: Persons who try to use the card registered to one individual won’t be able to validate the transaction if the number on the PID doesn’t match the card.”
“The danger of technology,” General Archer pushed his way into the conversation, “is that criminals will always try to subvert it. Suppose we implement this PID—how do we prevent criminals from duplicating it and creating false identities?”
“Biometrics,” Daniel said, shifting to face the general. “Your thumbprint is unlike any other in the world. And, just in case some terrorist manages to slice off your thumb in order to steal your identity, your unique voiceprint will serve as a failsafe. Together, voice- and fingerprints provide a remarkable degree of security.”
“I have a rather obvious question.” The vice president, noticeably annoyed that Daniel Prentice had stolen the show, waved his hand.
“Yes, John?” The president asked.
John Miller’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “What do we do with a man who has no right hand? Or even a left hand? We might have people purposely chopping off limbs in order to get around this thing.”
“Alternatively,we could implant the PID under the skin of the forehead.” Daniel Prentice set his chin in a stubborn line. “If a man is walking around, he certainly has a head. And unlike an arm or leg, the forehead is visible, and could easily be scanned with remote sensing technology, even at a distance.”
“How do we keep people from cutting them out?” The vice president folded his arms. “That little chip isn’t going to stop someone who doesn’t want us to track his movements.”
Prentice did not flinch before Miller’s steely gaze. “I suppose we’d have to bury it between the tendons in the wrist. Yes, people could cut them out, but it’s not the sort of thing they’d want to do. If they accidentally cut a nerve, they could lose the use of their hand.”
The secretary of commerce met Prentice’s gaze. “I suppose, Mr. Prentice, that you will want your company to manufacture these PIDs.”
Daniel smiled. “We would be happy to serve as the senior contractor in charge of design, setting specifications, and ensuring quality. But there’s no way my company can produce the number of chips we’ll need for the president’s Millennium Project. We’ll certainly enlist Intel, Motorola, and other companies with the capability to work with us as subcontractors.”
General Archer narrowed his eyes as he looked at Prentice. “Sounds like a very profitable venture for you.”
“A very challenging venture, General.” Prentice grinned. “It will certainly keep us busy. And though I like to provide for my associates, I’m not especially interested in money. I end up sending most of it to you guys in Washington, anyway.”
Lauren lifted a brow as the room broke into laughter. Not especially interested in money? Every successful businessman she’d met was more interested in money than anything else. If Daniel Prentice was telling the truth, he certainly didn’t fit the typical millionaire mold.
The president cleared his throat and
brought the room to order. “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I appreciate your time, and I’m certain we all have much to think about. Let’s go back to our offices and consider the implications, then reconvene on Friday morning.” His blue eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “Of course, this is all strictly classified. Do your research, discuss this in confidence with your highest-ranking officials, but say nothing to the press or anyone outside your departments.” His gaze moved toward the foreign visitor. “General Herrick, I’m certain you understand the need for sensitivity in these matters.”
As the general nodded, President Stedman shifted in his chair and extended his hand to Daniel Prentice. “Thank you, young man, for coming. You’ve given us much to consider.”
Prentice took President Stedman’s hand and gripped it tightly. “My pleasure, sir.” He smiled at the president, then his gaze shifted to the corner where Lauren sat. She saw the snap of his eyes as he added, “I trust I shall enjoy my time in Washington.”
The president stood, officially ending the meeting. Along with the others, Lauren rose from her chair and respectfully waited for President Stedman to exit the room, then she hurried after him, afraid that the blush that burned her cheek said far more than she wanted Daniel Prentice to know . . . just yet.
ELEVEN
5:45 P.M., Wednesday, November 11, 1998
“PINCH ME.” DANIEL STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MASSIVE EAGLE EMBLAZONED ON the deep blue carpeting of the Oval Office. He turned to Brad and grinned. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming, pal.” Brad thrust his hands in his pockets, then walked over to the fireplace. “Nice looking couple, aren’t they?” he said, studying the series of family photographs along the mantel. “He’s the most photogenic president since Ronald Reagan.”
Daniel came to stand beside Brad. “The first lady’s not bad looking, either.” He nodded toward one picture of the Stedmans waving from a bunting-draped platform. “Isn’t that Lauren Mitchell with them? Good grief, how long has she worked for this guy?”
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