by Gordon Ryan
“Are his grandparents still alive?”
“No, they both passed on about a year before we met.”
“Have you ever met his mother?”
“No, Bill lost touch with her after his daddy’s death. Why is this important?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sorenson. We just have to ask all sorts of questions to try to find out what happened to your husband. One final question. Do you have a copy of his birth certificate?”
“Sure do,” said LuEllen as she went to a small end table next to the couch and started looking through it. “Here it is.”
“Thank you,” responded Adams.
The birth certificate was issued for William Edward Sorenson, born January 12, 1967, in Rosston, Illinois.
“Mrs. Sorenson, do you mind if I borrowed this for a while?” Adams said calmly, hiding his obvious surprise to see Rosston appearing once again.
“If it will help. Can you make sure I get it back?”
“Absolutely, I’ll make sure of that myself.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Sorenson. I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Do you think you’ll get the guy who killed my Bill?”
“We’ll do our best.”
With that LuEllen sat down on the couch clutching a photograph of Bill Sorenson and started sobbing quietly. Her brother sat down next to her and held his sister close. He looked up hostilely at Adams.
“Are you through now?”
“Yes, I’ll let myself out the front door.”
0900 Hours: Saturday, June 19, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.
Adams ran his fingers through his hair. “Boy, this case is getting crazier and crazier. The body count is piling up.”
Adams was in the antiseptic conference room of the CSAC in Washington along with Mike, Mildred, Martha, and Smith.
“What happened in Minneapolis, Herb?” asked Mike.
“You know that crazy report from Minneapolis? The one in which a bicycle shop owner confessed to killing Winslow? Well, he’s dead, blown to pieces just like Winslow and that Clark fellow in Des Moines.”
“I’ll bet it was Tim Walsh,” said Mildred.
“Well, he did say to some detective that he knew a Tim,” said Adams.
“Sorenson was another false ID,” Martha said.
Adams sighed. “Thought he might be.”
“Have you gotten any more on the communications angle, Martha?” said Mike.
“Yes, it seems that all DOD telelink communications and computer operations get screened on a random basis by a telecommunications group at the Pentagon. This group is responsible for maintaining high quality communications, so it has the ability to randomly scan messages for quality checks.”
Mike looked up abruptly.
“That sounds scary. Are these guys cleared for such work?”
Martha nodded. “The group is cleared to top secret. Each member of the group goes through a security check once a year. Anyway, I’ve made an appointment to visit the office Monday to find out exactly how they perform their monitoring duties. They’re supposed to be my kind of people, all hackers, so it should be fun.”
Changing the subject, Mike looked to Mildred. “Shouldn’t we plan a visit to Mr. Walsh?”
“Sounds good, but how do we pull it off? He’s already seen me.”
“I don’t think he’s seen me yet,” said Mike.
“Come on, Mike. A Chinese in Minneapolis? You’ll stand out like a sore thumb,” said Smith. Minnesota, of course, was widely known for its fair skinned, blond Scandinavian population.
“Actually not,” said Adams. “The Asian population in the Twin Cities has dramatically risen in the past ten years what with the Hmong immigration and increased Asian graduate student population at the University.”
“Let’s get back to business,” said Smith. “When is your meeting with the communications group, Martha?”
“Tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.,” said Martha.
“Mike, the old man doesn’t want you or Mildred to go solo. I’m teaming you with Adams. Mildred, you’re teamed with Martha,” commanded Smith.
“Sexist!” spit out Mildred.
Smith shrugged. “That’s my call. Besides, Mike and Adams have been working together already and I want Martha to have backup.”
1993: Dimitri
0630 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota
“Dimitri.” The softly spoken words were chilling and mysterious. Even the cold, calculating mind of Tim Walsh, conditioned to remain calm no matter what, was moved by that voice.
“Yes, Leader.”
“The events of the last few days have changed our mission. You must prepare to leave for Amsterdam, where you will receive your next assignment. Your skills are needed elsewhere. Go with dispatch, my son.”
1000 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Mike and Adams stopped the Avis rental car in front of Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street. Both Adams and Mike had carefully rehearsed the scene earlier that morning. They would speak to Tim Walsh and when he was off guard, Adams would pounce on him and take him prisoner. Mike was to stand watch to assure against Walsh having assistants.
The small garage appeared open for business despite it being Sunday and they could see a sole mechanic working on a Ford Granada in one of the repair bays. The blue-coveralled mechanic was completely immersed in solving some problem with the automobile. The lighting in the garage was dim and the mechanic had a lamp hanging on the hood of the Granada. He did not hear Mike and Adams enter.
The smell of gasoline, used rubber tires, and dirty crankcase oil in the typically humid, hot June Minnesota day was oppressive. Mike could just feel the airborne oil seeping into his freshly dry-cleaned summer suit.
Mike quietly reached for his Walther and took the weapon out of its holster. Adams had already done so. His Glock 22 pistol which he held behind his back was drawn and cocked. Slowly, the two agents slipped silently up to the man in the blue coveralls.
Mike was to provide cover as Adams, the FBI agent, made the actual arrest. Mike stopped short of approaching the automobile mechanic and assumed a shooter’s stance with both hands on his Walther, which was now aimed at the mechanic. He purposefully positioned himself to allow a view of the entrance as well.
Adams quietly slipped up to the mechanic. Putting his Glock 22 in the small of the mechanic’s back, Adams said, “FBI, put your hands where I can see them, now!”
“What the hell?” said the startled mechanic.
“Just do as I say. Put your hands where I can see them.”
“Okay, okay, just don’t shoot!” The mechanic’s hands stretched out in front of him over the engine of the Ford Granada.
Adams holstered his pistol, forced the mechanic to assume a search position and frisked the man for weapons. He then handcuffed the mechanic’s oil caked hands behind his back. After that, Adams roughly yanked the mechanic by his collar and forced him to stand up against the wall of the garage.
Mike then holstered his Walther and assumed a position near the mechanic, all the while maintaining a view of the open doorway.
“Tim Walsh, you’re under arrest for the murder of Richard Winslow,” said Adams, as he grabbed the mechanic’s right arm. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an …”
“Hey, you guys got the wrong person,” he said. “I’m Tim Tjorgeson not Tim Walsh.”
Adams and Mike exchanged pained expressions.
The handcuffed man certainly did not look like the description that Mildred had given. Instead of a craggy-faced blond man with pale blue eyes, Adams and Mike had arrested a dark-haired, brown-eyed, overweight man. The blue coveralls stretched over a body too big to comfortably fit into them.
“Where’s Walsh?”
“I don’t know. I work in the bakery down the street. I came in this morning to see if Tim could check out a knocking sound in my car. He said that he had to
go visit his grandmother in Canada, threw his garage keys at me, and told me to do it myself. Tim and I worked together at the GM plant in Michigan.”
“We’re going to have to hold you, until we can check out your story,” said a disappointed Adams.
1900 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis St. Paul Airport
“Can I help you?” the gate agent said to the blond-haired, craggy-faced man in a business suit who stood before her at the counter to Gate 11 on the Gold Concourse.
“Yes, I’m on Flight 60 to Amsterdam,” said Walsh as his pale blue eyes looked deeply into the agent’s hazel eyes. Feeling uncomfortable with the unrelenting stare of the pale blue eyes, the agent looked down to the counter as if she were looking for something.
“Can I see your ticket?”
“Sure,” he said as he set his brief case on the ticket counter. Out of one of the pockets of the briefcase stuck a small fuzzy white stuffed bear.
“Nice bear you got there,” said the agent, trying to be friendly.
“It was a gift from a friend. Please, can I get a seat?”
“You bet. Window or aisle, Mr. Tjorgeson?” said the agent without looking up.
“Window.”
“May I see your passport?”
Walsh handed the agent the Canadian passport made out to Timothy Lars Tjorgeson of Windsor, Canada.
“Here you go!” said the agent as she handed him the boarding pass and passport, looking up with a brave smile. “We’ll be boarding in a few minutes at Gate 10 on the Gold Concourse. Have a real nice trip.”
“I’m sure I will.”
1993: The Uncloaking
0800 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: The Pentagon
“Mr. Johnson, I’m Special Agent Martha Thomas with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I spoke to you about this meeting. This is Agent Mildred Lutsen with the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“Glad to meet you, Agent Thomas and Agent Lutsen,” said a surprised Richard Johnson, manager of communications quality assurance, Defense Electronics Command. “You’ll have to excuse my surprise, Agent Lutsen, but you sure don’t look like an intelligence agent.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson. I know that my appearance surprises some, but I assure you that I’ve been an intelligence specialist for more than twenty years,” said Mildred using her alias once again. “Why don’t we get down to business?”
“Sure. Now why are you two interested in my little group?”
“This is a newly instituted periodic security check,” said Martha. “New policy established by the Joint Select Committee on Intelligence and agreed to by the President. The FBI and the DIA are supposed to conduct these checks on various components of intelligence activities.”
“Okay, where do we start?” said Johnson.
“I’d like to interview your section managers, particularly the ones actively engaged in quality monitoring or control activities.”
“Sure, let’s go over to the Computer Support Group.”
Johnson led the way over to an office overlooking the gardens between the D-Ring and the E-Ring of the Pentagon.
The small office had three IBM PS/2 computers and color monitors on two standard issue, gray metal desks. A Compaq desktop computer sat on a third desk. An HP Laserjet II printer sat on its own movable stand in the middle of the room. Against one wall, an open metal storage case with three shelves strained under the weight of computer parts, monitors, printers, wires, and other artifacts of the computer age. The floor of the office was littered with computer cards, cables, and brightly colored loose-leaf folders claiming all manner of software.
As Mildred and Martha approached the open door, the first indication that the office was filled with computers was the strong smell of new plastic, a vinyl smell, not unlike the smell of new cars on a summer day. This scent was accented by a sharp electric smell, the smell of printers on computer paper.
On the three desks, dozens of floppy diskettes were haphazardly strewn about, along with empty Diet Pepsi aluminum cans. A cardboard box on one desk demanded that the office occupants RECYCLE NOW! Pads of legal foolscap and yellow Number 2 pencils completed the scene.
The sole occupant in the office, a young man of about twenty-five, sat hunched in front of the Compaq computer. He was quickly typing computer language ASCII symbols into the unit. During pauses in the young man’s input, the video monitor would fill the screen with ASCII symbols, which were foreign to anyone looking at them except for the computer operator and Martha.
Martha recognized immediately that the operator had accessed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia, and was challenging the computer in its own tongue to run certain simulations and conduct certain defenses. Martha enjoyed watching this chess match being waged between human and machine. She appreciated the push and shove, the give and take. A parry here, a thrust there; it was like a fencing match, a karate contest.
Johnson knocked on the door frame leading into the office. He cleared his throat and said, “Ted, I’ve got some people who would like to talk to you. Could you break free for a minute?”
The operator turned around briefly, grunted and turned back to the Compaq. A few quick keystrokes and the screen returned to — C:>.
The computer operator turned around. With some effort he got out of his chair and shuffled over to the door. He took out a yellowed handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped his brow in one swipe. He then took off his small rimless eyeglasses and cleaned them with the same handkerchief, then put the glasses back on his face. The glasses looked pitifully small on his large, round face, which was out of accord with his otherwise medium build.
The man was dressed in a wrinkled long-sleeved white shirt, no necktie, no undershirt, a pair of black trousers, and black loafers with white socks. In his shirt pocket, inside a vinyl pocket protector, were several ball point pens and a small screwdriver. His brown hair was on the long side and he breathed in a heavy, raspy manner.
Johnson introduced everyone. “Ted, this is Martha Thomas from the FBI and Mildred Lutsen from the DIA. Ladies, this is Ted Grayson, my best hacker. Ted is responsible for quality control. Ted, Agents Thomas and Lutsen are conducting a security check and would like to speak to you.”
In a high pitched, almost effeminate voice, Grayson said, “I’m p-pleased t-to m-meet y-you. Are y-you f-familiar w-with computers?”
Martha smiled. “Just a little, I’m a real novice. Can you explain what you have here and what you do?”
“I’ll leave you ladies in good hands,” said Johnson as he headed back to his office.
“c-come in, c-come in,” said Grayson.
Grayson grabbed two chrome seats, removing a pile of computer chips and boards from one. “P-Please s-sit down,” he stammered, but his stutter ceased as he started into the technical aspects of his job.
“My j-job is to test various Department of Defense computer systems for quality and for error generation.”
“How do you do that?” said Martha, noting to herself that Grayson seemed unable to maintain eye contact. Martha was aware of the typical, often unconscious, movement of male eyes toward her nicely shaped, full bosom. This type of eye movement sometimes secretly pleased her, when she was in the mood.
What Grayson did was more troubling. His eyes wandered and flitted about between Mildred and Martha. Occasionally, he would sneak a peek at Martha’s legs. His nervous eyes suggested he had something to hide.
“We conduct raids, mess around in the software and challenge the systems to defend against us.”
“Which agencies of the DOD do you conduct these raids on?”
“All of them, from budget to contracts to operations. The only ones we don’t touch are classified computer systems such as the DIA or special commands like Cheyenne Mountain.”
Martha took special note of Grayson’s comment about Cheyenne Mountain, the location of the North American Air Defense Command, NORAD.
“Do you ever raid substantive fi
les?” said Martha.
“N-No. W-We w-would n-never d-do that.” He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
Martha and Mildred exchanged a quick glance.
“Can you show us how you conduct the raids?” said Martha.
“Sure. We first call up the appropriate local area network using this external modem,” said Grayson as he dialed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia.
Martha made a mental note of the extension number displayed on the modem case.
In a matter of seconds, Grayson had gained access to the Army computer. He typed in DIR to the C:> prompt and the computer responded with a listing of the various files contained on the master hard disk. Grayson then typed in EDLIN COMMAND.EXE and the screen filled with ASCII symbols: the heart shapes, the squiggles, the smiling faces, the spades, and the diamonds.
Using the function keys, Grayson was able to modify the file with compatible ASCII symbols.
Martha silently marveled at the ease with which Grayson was able to alter the command function, thereby creating an operating file that responded to his requests.
“What do you do then?”
“Once we’re in the program, we could conceivably alter the function of the computers. However, each LAN operating file is supposed to contain defense mechanisms to defeat alterations. Our raids are conducted to test those defenses.”
Sure enough, when Grayson tried to get the Army Material Command system to respond to his altered COMMAND.EXE the system hesitated and the message SYSTEM UNABLE TO RESPOND appeared on the screen.
“This means that the operating system for the Army Material Command LAN recognized that the modified COMMAND.EXE file was defective and crashed the system. I’d give it a B+,” said Grayson. “I wouldn’t give it an A unless it stopped me from modifying the COMMAND.EXE file in the first place.”
“That’s fascinating,” Martha said as she and Mildred stood up as if to leave. “Both Agent Lutsen and I thank you for showing us how this is done. Can I call you if I have further questions?”