Palm Sunday

by William R. Vitanyi Jr.

Stanley alternated between watching the road and looking at his son. “Bobby, none of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Bobby said nothing further, and seemed content to look out the window in silence. A short time later they pulled up outside Slocum’s apartment.

  Stanley turned to his son before they got out of the car. “I only expect we’ll be here a few days, so let’s make the best of it, okay?”

  Bobby nodded, and they got out of the car and walked up the steep set of stairs leading to the front door of the apartment house. They knocked twice before Slocum opened the door. He was wearing an apron and carried a wooden spoon in his left hand.

  “Come in. I’ve got dinner on.” The house smelled of spaghetti sauce.

  “Smells good. You cook?” asked Stanley.

  “Enough to get by. I figured you’d be hungry, and I don’t want to be out any more than we have to. You guys get washed up and I’ll put some plates out.”

  Stanley and his son looked at each other and shrugged. This wasn’t the Slocum they were used to.

  “Sounds good,” said Stanley, and led the way to the bathroom. Ten minutes later they sat around the small kitchen table, eating. Bobby was doing his share.

  “You like it?” Slocum gestured with his head in the boy’s direction.

  “Mmm.” He took a gulp of milk.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Stanley.

  Slocum swallowed before answering. “Keep a low profile, leave no fresh clues for the agency to use to find us, and figure out that thing.” He pointed at the palmtop, which sat next to Stanley’s computer.

  “After we eat I want to take a hot shower,” said Stanley. “Then I’ll work on the palm unit.”

  “Good. I’ll wash the dishes,” said Slocum.

  “Bobby, you help Mr. Slocum.”

  “Okay, Dad.” He looked at the former implementer. “I’ll dry.”

  ***

  Norbert didn’t like George Pampas. He reminded him too much of the bullies he’d had to deal with for so much of his life. Mason had said to work together, though, so Norbert put together a schedule for teaching the field agents how to implement the hardware modifications required for phase two. Pampas now stood next to Norbert’s desk, obviously dissatisfied with the result.

  “Norbert, you have got to be kidding me. We have several hundred installations to do if we’re going to make this work, and you’re telling me each of my people will need a week’s training? There’s no time.”

  “It can’t be helped,” said Norbert. “If a transceiver is incorrectly installed, it can make more noise than a submarine with a broken propeller. We have to get it right the first time.”

  “Then the timetable has to be pushed back. My men won’t be able to visit that many sites in what little time remains.”

  “Take it up with Mason,” said Norbert.

  At that moment Mason walked into the computer center. “Take what up with me?”

  Both men looked at him. Pampas spoke first. “This training thing. Norbert says each man will require a full week. I told him there won’t be enough time to install all the devices with that kind of delay.”

  Norbert quickly added his side of the story. “And I told Mr. Pampas that without the training, there’s liable to be a very serious incident.”

  Mason looked from one to the other. “Norbert, lengthen the training days, double the class size, and cut the total to three days each. George, have each team double their practice runs prior to field ops. Anyone who fails repeats the training. I don’t expect anyone to fail. Questions?”

  “No,” said Norbert.

  “No, sir,” echoed Pampas.

  “I came down here to see how things were going,” said Mason. “I hope this isn’t an indication that the situation is out of control.”

  “Not at all,” said Pampas. “In fact, other than the tight deadlines, and the missing palm unit, oh yeah, and Robert Slocum, things are just dandy.”

  Norbert’s eyes widened. No one spoke to Mason like that.

  “Good. Then get back to work.” Mason gave each of them a final appraising glance, and left the room.

  Pampas took a deep breath and turned to Norbert. “When exactly will the profiling system be shut down? It has to be deactivated when we bring the new equipment for phase two online, right?”

  “Yeah, right. We’ll have to switch the SP system off during the transition. Once all of the new installs are complete, we’ll activate them in batches.”

  “Geographically?” asked Pampas.

  “For the most part, yes, but that’s only because the infrastructure generally lines up that way. Technically they’ll go according to which major backbone they reside on,” said Norbert.

  “So what exactly do you need from me?”

  Norbert shuffled through some papers. “For now just a list of your implementers and their area of specialization. The training will be tailored based on what equipment they typically work with.”

  “I’ll get started on the list,” said Pampas. “Should be ready by tomorrow.”

  “Good. Once I have that I’ll complete the training schedule.”

  Pampas left, and Norbert went back to his work on the technical aspects of phase two. With the distraction of dealing with Pampas behind him, he was free to immerse himself in the more comforting world of bit manipulation and logic flow. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he created a digital work of art–a master and his canvas. Soon the nation would experience his genius.

  ***

  The palmtop was more stubborn than ever. It switched on, and seemed to have plenty of power, but there was no getting beyond the initial menu.

  “They must have found a way to lock us out,” said Slocum, as he stood behind Stanley, looking over his shoulder.

  “No, I don’t think so. I can’t even establish a link with the external interface. It’s as if something is broken on the inside.”

  “Maybe it’s the cable,” said Slocum.

  Stanley looked up at him. “You have the original, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it.”

  In moments they had switched cables. A link between the palm unit and the PC was immediately established.

  “I guess a pin must have broken on mine. Let’s see what’s out there.” Stanley activated the secondary menu and initiated a download. It went smoothly, running even faster than it had at his house. He said so.

  “It was probably the cable,” said Slocum. “They always told us to treat them carefully.” He nodded towards the palmtop. “What have you got on the download?”

  Stanley punched a few keys. “Looks like some more garbage, and one encoded file.”

  “Work on the file. That other stuff is probably just what you said–garbage.”

  “It will take some time to decipher it,” said Stanley.

  “We’re not going anywhere, right?”

  Stanley nodded and gestured to Bobby. “How are you doing, son?”

  “Good,” said Bobby. “Can I watch?”

  “Sure,” said Stanley, indicating for the boy to come stand next to him. “See this file? The one with all the words that don’t make any sense?”

  Bobby squinted and leaned forward. “Sure.”

  “Well, we want to try to make sense out of the words.”

  “How?”

  “The letters mean something, but they’re in the wrong order. For example, see this ‘k’?”

  “Yeah,” said Bobby.

  “Maybe it’s not really a ‘k’ at all. Maybe it’s a seven, or even a ‘b’ just pretending to be a ‘k’. Maybe it’s two or three letters pretending to be a ‘k’.”

  “How can you tell which it is?”

  “I can’t. It would take me a hundred years just to find some simple combinations. My hair would be white and I’d need a cane by then.”

  “Dad–in a hundred years you’d be dead.”

  “So I would,” said Stanley. “Then I guess I need
a quicker way to solve the puzzle. That’s where my computer comes in. I have a program that can check every possible combination of characters until it finds words that fit the letters and numbers on the screen, and it does it very, very fast.”

  “How fast?”

  “Snap your fingers.” Bobby clicked his thumb against his middle finger. “As quick as you did that, it could check over ten thousand combinations.”

  “Wow! So how come you told Mr. Slocum it would take a long time to figure it out?”

  Stanley smiled. “Because there are millions of combinations to check, and that’s only the first step.”

  “What happens next?” asked Bobby.

  “I have to run the first program. You can watch, but you have to let me concentrate now.”

  “Okay.”

  Slocum had been watching as Stanley explained. “You want some coffee?”

  “Please.” Stanley didn’t look up from the monitor as his bony fingers gracefully played across the keyboard, slowly at first, then more quickly. He flipped through several directories, calling programs and storing some result sets, while deleting others. After twenty minutes of constant activity, he stopped.

  Slocum walked over with the coffee, setting a mug down on the table. “Finished already?”

  “No. Just getting started. The first set of data is being processed right now. When that’s done I’ll start looking for any obvious patterns.”

  “Would anything show up that soon?” asked Slocum, sipping his coffee.

  “Probably not much, but remember, even though the file is heavily encoded, it still ultimately has to be read by humans. I don’t expect to get a complete translation, but even human language has definite identifiable patterns. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  “Okay. You’re the expert.”

  “I wish I was,” said Stanley. “What we really need is a linguistic encryption specialist. That’s not me.”

  “But you figured out those other files.” Slocum gestured towards the palmtop with his cup.

  “Parts of them.” Stanley hesitated. Something was bothering him.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Slocum.

  “It shouldn’t be this easy.”

  “Easy?” said Slocum. “Are you kidding? If it’s so easy why can’t we read the file yet?”

  Stanley picked up his cup and blew on the steaming liquid, then explained. “You have to understand that we’re dealing with two distinctly different processes here. The file that we downloaded isn’t directly readable, that’s true. But it’s in a format that I can manipulate with a computer program. The question is: how did it get into that state?”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “I think the palm unit is helping us.”

  “You mean like a decoder?” Slocum offered.

  “Sort of. Actually, I suspect that it contains the hash value needed for the decryption algorithm being used.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Slocum.

  Stanley set his cup down, gesturing with his hands as he explained. “To communicate securely over the Internet you need a security scheme of some sort, which usually includes the use of data values known only to the communicating devices. I think that information is somehow hardwired into the palmtop, which is why we’re able to see anything at all.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it.

  “But you still can’t tell what it says.”

  “That’s right,” continued Stanley. “The palmtop is providing a fairly low level translation. The file is still scrambled, probably as a secondary precaution against prying eyes. That part I can deal with. If the palm unit hadn’t performed the initial decryption, we’d be dead in the water. It’s really quite a remarkable device.”

  Slocum considered this. “Why are they still sending files?”

  Stanley shrugged. “Maybe they don’t know that we can receive them. It’s your agency, what do you think?”

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” said Slocum. “As long as the line is open, let’s keep listening.”

  ***

  It took some time, and several hours of watching different trunk lines, but Agent Sharon’s approach finally paid off. As Justin watched his monitor, the event occurred. It happened exactly as on the previous occasions, with the brief flat line on the graph the only evidence that something was amiss. The only difference was that now they knew it was happening on trunk three. That still left a very wide area to cover, but it narrowed the possibilities to a workable geographical area.

  “Now what?” asked Justin.

  “Now we get some maps up of what makes up trunk three, break it down into manageable segments, and place taps on each of those segments.” Sharon had it all worked out.

  Justin knew there was one roadblock. “How are you going to get permission for the taps?”

  “Someone is messing with the lines,” said Sharon. “And now we have a somewhat better idea of where it’s happening. Roberts will have to get us permission to tap into the fiber. After all, we’re not going to listen to any specific messages, just watch for the event.”

  Justin knew that without an actual crime, or at least the threat of a crime, there was no way Sharon was getting tap authority. But he wasn’t going to rain on his boss’s parade. “When are you going to talk to Roberts?”

  “Right now,” said Sharon. “In the meantime, let’s see if we can localize the event a bit more.”

  “How am I going to do that without the taps?” asked Justin.

  This, thought Sharon, was the crux of the matter. They were using a jury rig to perform a very complex function, a job that could be done with far greater effectiveness if they were simply allowed to use the tools that were readily available. It was the ugly frontier where technical possibility converged with public policy, and it was frustrating.

  “Just keep watching. Look for patterns in timing, duration, signal strength–anything that stands out.”

  “You got it, boss.” Justin went back to signal watching, while Sharon went to see Dave Roberts, whose secretary waved him into his office.

  Roberts greeted him cordially. “Agent Sharon, what can I do for you?” Roberts was trim, just a shade less than six feet, and wore a goatee. His coat hung on a nearby rack, and his stylish red suspenders stood out against his light blue shirt.

  “We have a problem that we need your help with,” said Sharon.

  “As I said, what can I do for you?” He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head.

  “We’ve been monitoring the fiber outside of Philly, and some peculiar readings have popped up. We’ve isolated it to one main trunk line, but to nail it down further we’ll need to install some fiber taps.”

  “Isn’t that what those bandwidth analyzers are for?”

  “They tell us there’s a problem somewhere in the miles of fiber running in and out of Philadelphia, but not exactly where,” explained Sharon.

  “And you think a tap will help narrow it down?”

  “Actually, more like ten.”

  “Ten taps?” Roberts leaned forward, concern clouding his face. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the policy regarding Internet taps. If you can’t show me evidence of criminal activity, I don’t see that they would be authorized.”

  “These aren’t phone taps. We only want to determine where the signals are originating.”

  “What are they, exactly? The signals.”

  “Two or three-second bursts of some kind. During that time, it seems that the fiber is being disturbed, maybe monitored. We’re not quite sure yet.”

  “Have there been complaints?” asked Roberts. “Maybe the telecomm companies should be checking this out.”

  “No, none of the lines are going down. At this point all we know is that the flow of data across the fiber is being interfered with.”

  “But not disrupted?”

  Sharon was beginning to get irritated. “No, as I said…”

  “Do you ev
en know for sure that it’s artificial?” asked Roberts. “I mean, are there other possible explanations?”

  “We don’t know; that’s why we have to investigate.” Sharon could see where this was headed.

  “I’ll tell you, Jim, I don’t see Legal clearing ten taps. I know these aren’t voice lines, and you’re not looking to listen to anyone’s conversation, but policy concerning the information grid is still evolving. We have some latitude, but there’s still pressure to justify these things.” Roberts waited for Sharon to say something. He did not. “I’ll go to bat for you, but only for two taps.”

  Sharon was appalled. “Two? That’s almost pointless. It would take us a month to narrow down this thing with just two.”

  Roberts shrugged. “I’m sorry, but unless you can show me evidence of criminal activity, even the two are iffy.”

  “We need the taps to locate the activity.” Sharon was clenching his teeth. The Bureau was becoming just that–a bureau. Full of bureaucrats, more concerned with covering their butts than with solving crimes.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back from Legal,” said Roberts.

  “Great. Let me know when their policy has ‘evolved’.” Sharon stormed out of the office, determined to find another way to trace the mysterious signals.

  ***

  It took her the better part of a day, but when all was said and done, Kayoko knew the numbers didn’t add up to what Tom Snelling had reported. Once she knew what to look for the pattern had been obvious, but Tom was a clever man; he had concealed his lie in a factual sea of truth.

  The irony was that even if he hadn’t fudged the data concerning the profile, the results might have supported his theory. That was the difference between them; he would rather be right–now–and let the science catch up later. She demanded that the integrity of the process be strictly honored.

  “Petty man.” She said the words out loud as she looked at her spreadsheet one last time and shook her head. Of course, she would rerun the figures, just to be certain, but the implication of what she had learned wasn’t simply startling. It frightened her. The entire premise of societal profiling depended on the numbers being right, on her department getting them right. And they had gotten them right, but Snelling had altered the equation, just slightly, enough to skew the data from a negative result to a positive one. The first part of her job, the easy part, was complete. Now came the hard part–what to do with the information.