Chapter 10

Tuesday, October 13

New York

COMPUTER ASSAULT CLAIMS VICTIMS

by Scott Mason

For the last few weeks the general press and computer media have

been foretelling the destruction to be caused by this year's

version of the dreaded Columbus Day Virus. AKA Data Crime, the

virus began exploding yesterday and will continue today, depend-

ing upon which version strikes your computer.

With all of the folderall by the TV networks and news channels,

and the reports of anticipated doom for many computers, I expect-

ed to wake up this morning and learn that this paper didn't get

printed, my train from the suburbs was rerouted to Calcutta and

Manhattan's traffic lights were out of order. No such luck.

America is up and running.

That doesn't mean that no one got struck by computer influenza,

though. There are hundreds of reports of widespread damage to

microcomputers everywhere.

The Bala Cynwyd, PA medical center lost several weeks of records.

Credit Card International was struck in Madrid, Spain and can't

figure out which customers bought what from whom. A few schools

in England don't know who their students are, and a University in

upstate New York won't be holding computer classes for a while.

William Murray of the Institute for Public Computing Confidence

in Washington, D.C., downplayed the incident. "We have had re-

ports of several small outbreaks, but we have not heard of any

particularly devastating incidents. It seems that only a few

isolated sites were affected."

On the other hand, Bethan Fenster from Virus Stoppers in McLean,

Virginia, maintains that the virus damage was much more wide-

spread. She says the outbreaks are worse than reported in the

press. "I personally know of several Fortune 100 companies that

will be spending the next several weeks putting their systems

back in order. Some financial institutions have been nearly shut

down because their computers are inoperable. It's the worst

(computer) virus outbreak I've ever seen."

Very few companies would confirm that they had been affected by

the Columbus Day Virus. "They won't talk to you," Ms. Fenster

said. "If a major company announced publicly that their comput-

ers were down due to criminal activity, there would be a certain

loss of confidence in that company. I understand that they feel

a fiduciary responsibility to their stockholders to minimize the

effects of this."

Despite Ms. Fenster's position, Forsythe Insurance, NorthEast

Airlines, Brocker Financial and the Internal Revenue Service all

admitted that they have had a 'major' disruption in their comput-

er services and expect to take two to six weeks to repair the

damage. Nonetheless, several of those companies hit, feel lucky.

"We only lost about a thousand machines," said Ashley Marie,

senior network manager at Edison Power. "Considering that we

have no means of protecting our computers at all, we could have

been totally put out of business." She said that despite the

cost to repair the systems, her management feels no need to add

security or protective measures in the future. "They believe

that this was a quirk, a one time deal. They're wrong," Ms.

Marie said.

Many small companies that said they have almost been put out of

business because they were struck by the Columbus Day Virus.

"Simply not true," commented Christopher Angel of the Anti-Virus

Brigade, a vigilante group who professes to have access to pri-

vate information on computer viruses. "Of all of the reports of

downed computers yesterday, less than 10% are from the Data

Crime. Anyone who had any sort of trouble is blaming it on the

virus rather than more common causes like hardware malfunction

and operator error. It is a lot more glamorous to admit being

hit by the virus that has created near hysteria over the last

month."

Whatever the truth, it seems to be well hidden under the guise of

politics. There is mounting evidence and concern that computer

viruses and computer hackers are endangering the contents of our

computers. While the effects of the Columbus Day Virus may have

been mitigated by advance warnings and precautionary measures,

and the actual number of infection sites very limited, computer

professionals are paying increasing attention to the problem.

This is Scott Mason, safe, sound and uninfected.

* * * * *

Wednesday, October 14

J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

The sweltering October heat wave of the late Indian summer pene-

trated the World War II government buildings that surrounded the

Mall and the tourist attractions. Window air conditioners didn't

provide the kind of relief that modern workers were used to. So,

shirtsleeves were rolled up, the nylons came off, and ties were

loose if present at all.

The streets were worse. The climatic changes that graced much of

North America were exaggerated in Washington. The heat was hot-

ter, the humidity wetter. Sweat was no longer a five letter

word, it was a way of life.

Union Station, the grand old train station near the Capitol

Building provided little relief. The immense volume of air to be

cooled was too much for the central air conditioners. They were

no match for mother nature's revenge on the planet for unforgiv-

ing hydrocarbon emissions. As soon as Tyrone Duncan detrained

from the elegant Metroliner he had ridden this morning from New

York's Penn Station, he was drenched in perspiration. He discov-

ered, to his chagrin, that the cab he had hailed for his ride to

headquarters had no air conditioning. The stench of the city,

and the garbage and the traffic fumes reminded him of home. New

York.

Tyrone showed his identification at the J. Edgar Hoover Building

wishing he had the constitution to wear a seersucker suit. There

is no way on God's earth a seersucker could show a few hours wear

as desperately as his $1200 Louis Boston did, he thought. Then,

there was the accompanying exhaustion from his exposure to the

dense Washington air. Duncan had not been pleased with the panic

call that forced him to Washington anyway. His reactions to the

effects of the temperature humidity index did not portend a good

meeting with Bob Burnson.

Bob had called Tyrone night before, at home. He said, we have a

situation here, and it requires some immediate attention. Would

you mind being here in the morning? Instead of a question, it

was an unissued order. Rather than fool around with hours of

delays at La Guardia and National Airport, Tyrone elected to take

the train and arrive in the nation's capitol just after noon. It

took, altogether just about the same amount of time, yet he could

travel in relative luxury and peace. Burnson was waiting for

him.

Bob Burnson held the title of National Coordinator for Tactical

Response for the FBI. He was a little younger that Duncan, just

over 40, and appeared cool in his dark blue suit and tightly

collared shirt. Burnson had an unlikely pair of qualities. He

was both an extraordinarily well polished politician and a astute

investigator. Several years prior, though, he decided that the

bureaucratic life would suit him just fine, and at the expense of

his investigative skills, he attacked the political ladder with a

vengeance.

Despite the differences between them, Burnson a willing compatri-

ot of the Washington machine and Duncan preferring the rigors of

investigation, they had developed a long distance friendship that

survived over the years. Tyrone was most pleased that he had a

boss who would at least give his arguments a fair listen before

being told that for this or that political reason, the Bureau had

chosen a different line of reasoning. So be it, thought Duncan.

I'm not a policy maker, just a cop. Tyrone sank into one of the

government issue chairs in Burnson's modern, yet modest office

ringed with large windows that can't open.

"How 'bout that Arctic Chill?" Burnson's short lithe 150 pound

frame showed no wear from the heat. "Glad you could make it."

"Shee . . .it man," Tyrone exhaled as he wiped his shiny wet

black face and neck. He was wringing wet. "Like I had a choice.

If it weren't for the company, I'd be at the beach getting a

tan." He continued to wipe his neck and head with a monogrammed

handkerchief.

"Lose a few pounds, and it won't hurt so bad. You know, I could

make an issue of it," Bob poked fun.

"And I'm outta here so fast, Hoover'll cheer from his grave," he

sweated. The reference to the FBI founder's legendary bigotry

was a common source of jokes in the modern bureau.

"No doubt. No doubt." Burnson passed by the innuendo. "Maybe

we'd balance the scales, too." He dug the knife deeper in refer-

ence to Tyrone's weight.

"That's two," said Duncan.

"Ok, ok," said Burnson feigning surrender. "How's Arlene and the

rest of the sorority?" He referred to the house full of women

with whom Tyrone had spent a good deal of his life.

"Twenty degrees cooler." He was half serious.

"Listen, since you're hear, up for a bite?" Bob tried.

"Listen, how 'bout we do business then grab a couple of cold

ones. Iced beer. At Camelot? That's my idea of a quality

afternoon." Camelot was the famous downtown strip joint on 18th

and M street that former Mayor Marion Berry had haunted and been

86'd from for unpublished reasons. It was dark and frequented by

government employees for lunch, noticeably the ones from Treas-

ury.

"Deal. If you accept." Bob's demeanor shifted to the officious.

"Accept what?" Tyrone asked suspiciously.

"My proposition."

"Is this another one of your lame attempts to promote me to an

office job in Capitol City?"

"Well, yes and no. You're being re-assigned." No easy way to

say it.

"To what?" exclaimed Tyrone angrily.

"To ECCO."

"What the hell is ECCO?"

"All in good time. To the point," Bob said calmly. "How much do

you know about this blackmail thing?"

"Plenty. I read the reports, and I have my own local problems.

Not to mention that the papers have picked it up. If it weren't

for the National Expos printing irresponsibly, the mainstream

press would have kept it quiet until there was some con-

firmation."

"Agreed," said Burnson. "They are being spoken to right now,

about that very subject, and as I hear it, they will have more

lawsuits on their doorstep than they can afford to defend. They

really blew it this time."

"What else?" Bob was listening intently.

"Not much. Loose, unfounded innuendo, with nothing to follow up.

Reminds me of high school antics or mass hysteria. Just like UFO

flaps." Tyrone Duncan dismissed the coincidences and the thought

of Scott's conspiracy theory. "But it does make for a busy day

at the office."

"Agreed, however, you only saw the reports that went on the wire.

Not the ones that didn't go through channels."

"What do you mean by that?" Duncan voiced concern at being out

of the loop.

"What's on the wire is only the tip of the iceberg. There's a

lot more."

"What else?"

"Senators calling the Director personally, asking for favors.

Trying to keep their secrets secret. A junior Midwest senator

has some quirky sexual habits. A Southern anti-pornography ball-

breaker happens to like little boys. It goes on and one. They've

all received calls saying that their secrets will be in the news-

papers' hands within days."

"Unless?" Duncan awaited the resolved threat.

"No unless, which scares them all senseless. It's the same story

everywhere. Highly influential people who manage many of our

countries' strategic assets have called their senators, and asked

them to insure that their cases are solved in a quiet and expedi-

ent political manner. Sound familiar?" Burnson asked Duncan.

"More than vaguely," Tyrone had to admit. "How many?"

"As of this morning we have 17 Senators asking the FBI to make

discreet investigations into a number of situations. 17! Not to

mention a couple hundred executive types with connections.

Within days of each other. They each, so far, believe that

theirs is an isolated incident and that they are the sole target

of such . . .threats is as good a word as any. Getting the

picture?"

Tyrone whistled to himself. "They're all the same?"

"Yes, and there's something else. To a man, each claimed that

there was no way the blackmailer could know what he knew. Impos-

sible." Burnson scratched his head. "Strange. Same story

everywhere. That's what got the Director and his cronies in on

this. And then me . . .and that's why you're here," Burnson

said with finality.

"Why?" Tyrone was getting frustrated with the roundabout dia-

tribe.

"We're pulling the blackmail thing to the national office and a

special task force will take over. A lot of folks upstairs want

to pull you in and stick you in charge of the whole operation,

but I told them that you weren't interested, that you like it the

way it is. So, I struck a deal." Burnson sounded proud.

Duncan wasn't convinced. "Deal? What deal? Since when do you

talk for me?" Tyrone didn't think to thank Bob for the front

line pass interference. Keep the politicos out of his hair.

"Have you been following any of the computer madness recently?"

Burnson spoke as though he expected Tyrone to know nothing of it.

"Can't miss it. From what I hear, a lot of people are getting

pretty spooked that they may be next."

"It gets more interesting than what the papers say," Bob said

while opening a desk drawer. He pulled out a large folder and

lay it across his desk. "We have experienced a few more computer

incidents than is generally known, and in the last several weeks

there has been a sudden increase in the number of attacks against

Government computers."

"You mean the INTERNET stuff and Congress losing it's mind?"

Tyrone laughed at the thought that Congress would now use their

downed computers as an excuse for not doing anything.

"Those are only the ones that have made it to the press. It's

lot worse." Bob scanned a few pages of the folder and para-

phrased while reading. "Ah, yes, the NPRP, National Pretrial

Reporting Program over at Justice . . .was hit with a series of

computer viruses apparently intentionally placed in VMS comput-

ers, whatever the hell those are." Bob Burnson was not computer

fluent, but he knew what the Bureau's computer could do.

"The Army Supply Center at Fort Stewart, Georgia had all of its

requisitions for the last year erased from the computer." Bob

chuckled as he continued. "Says here that they have had to pool

the guys' money to go to Winn Dixie to buy toilet paper and

McDonald's has offered a special GI discount until the system

gets back up."

"Ty," Bob said. " Some people on the hill have raised a stink

since their machines went down. Damn crybabies. So ECCO is being

activated."

"What the hell is ECCO?" Tyrone asked again.

"ECCO stands for Emergency Computer Crisis Organization. It's a

computer crisis team that responds to . . .well I guess, comput-

er crises." Bob opened the folder again. "It was formed during

the, and I quote, ' . . .the panic that followed the first INTER-

NET Worm in November of 1988.'"

Tyrone's mouth hung open. "What panic?"

"The one that was kept under absolute wraps," Bob said, slightly

lowering his voice. "At first no one knew what the INTERNET

event was about. Who was behind it. Why and how it was happen-

ing. Imagine 10's of thousands of computers stopping all at

once. It scared the shit out of the National Security Council,

remember we and the Russians weren't quite friends then, and we

thought that military secrets were being funneled straight to the

Kremlin. You can't believe some of the contingency plans I heard

about."

"I had no idea . . ."

"You weren't supposed to," Bob added. "Very few did. At any

rate, right afterward DARPA established CERT, the Computer Emer-

gency Response Team at Carnegie Mellon, and DCA set up a Security

Coordination Center at SRI International to investigate problems

in the Defense Data Network. Livermore and the DOE got into the

act with Computer Incident Advisory Capability. Then someone

decided that the bureaucracy was still too light and it deserved

at least a fourth redundant, overlapping and rival group to

investigate on behalf of Law Enforcement Agencies. So, there we

have ECCO."

"So what's the deal?" asked Tyrone. "What do I have to do?"

"The Director has asked ECCO to investigate the latest round of

viruses and the infiltration of a dozen or so sensitive and

classified computers." Bob watched for Ty's reaction, but saw

none yet. He wondered how he would take the news. "This time, we

would like to be involved in the entire operation from start to

finish. Make sure the investigation is done right. We'd like to

start nailing some of the bastards on the Federal level. Besides

you have the legal background and we are treading on some very

new and untested waters."

"I can imagine. So what's our role?"

"Your role," Bob emphasized 'your', "will be to liaison with the

other interested agencies."

"Who else is playing?" asked Tyrone with trepidation.

"Uh, that is the one negative," stammered Bob. "You've got NSA,

CIA, NIST, the NSC, the JCS and a bunch of others that don't

matter. The only rough spot is the NSA/NIST connection. Every-

one else is there just to make sure they don't miss anything."

"What's their problem?"

"Haven't heard, huh?" laughed Bob. "The press hasn't been kind.

They've been in such a pissing match for so long that computer

security work came to a virtual halt and I don't want to spoil

the surprise, ah, you'll see," he added chuckling.

Tyrone sat back in the chair as he was cool enough now not to

stick to it, closed his eyes and rotated his head to work out the

kinks. Bob never had gotten used to Tyrone's peculiar method of

deep thought; he found it most unnerving.

Bob's intents were crystal clear, not that Tyrone minded. He

had no desire to move to D.C.; indeed he would have quit instead.

He wanted to stay with the Bureau and the action but in his

comfortable New York existence. Otherwise, no. But, if he could

get Bob off his back by this one favor. Sure it might not be

real action, watching computer jockies play with

themselves . . .but it might be an interesting change in pace.

"Yes, under a couple of condition." Tyrone was suddenly a little

too agreeable and smug after his earlier hesitancy.

"Conditions? What conditions?" Bob's suspicion was clear.

"One. I do it my way, with no, and I mean, absolutely no inter-

ference." Duncan awaited a reply to his first demand.

"What else?"

"I get to use who I want to use, inside or outside the Bureau."

"Outside? Outside? We can't let this outside. The last thing

in the world we want is publicity."

"You're gonna get it anyway. Let's do it right this time."

"What do you mean by that?" Bob asked somewhat defensively.

"What I mean is," Tyrone spoke up, sounding confident, "that the

press are already on this computer virus thing and hackers and

all. So, let's not advertise it, but when it comes up, let's

deal with it honest."

"No way," blurted out Bob. "They'll make it worse than it is."

"I have that covered. A friend of my works for a paper, and he

is a potential asset."

"What's the trade?"

"Not much. Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair."

"Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty.

"One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter. "After this

one, you promise to let me alone and work my golden years, the

way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement."

"I don't know if I can . . ."

"Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone. "I'll just quit." It was

the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance.

"Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ."

"Isn't that what you're doing to me?" Touch<130>!

Bob sat back in thought. To an event, Duncan had been right on.

He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of a

crime where all others had failed. And, he always put the Bureau

in the best possible light. If he didn't go with him now, lose

him for sure.

"And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a

mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of

information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a

bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their

ground.

"Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion.

Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know."

"You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?"

I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet.

Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in

the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob

had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what

you do," Bob resigned.

"One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.

"What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.

"It happens out of New York, not here."

"But . . ."

"No buts. Period."

"Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?"

"Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?"

"Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.

* * * * *

From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his

home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after

several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter

belts at Camelot.

"RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone.

"Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors."

"Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom-

ber . . ."

"C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."

Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner

rerun. This better be good."

"We need to talk."

* * * * *

Thursday, October 15

Washington, D.C.

The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front

that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change

from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of

lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles

reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony

after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every

action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water-

bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum

pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a

periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of

Miles' sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl

friend, but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that she re-

ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested

in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there

were any digressions in Miles mission.

They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The

afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from

it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her

firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her

legs. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She

enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but

the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici-

tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further

their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even

let her spend the night upon occasion.

At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac,

Miles' phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky's

annoyance.

"Aren't you going to answer?" Her unspoken thoughts said,<MI> do

whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.<D>

"Expecting a call?" Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey-

ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.

"Miles, at least get a machine." The phone rang a seventh time.

"Fuck." He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him

as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through

the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the

8th ring.

"It's late," he answered. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude

was evident.

"Mr. Foster, I am most displeased." It was Homosoto. Miles

curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony

vantage.

Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?" Miles

was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

"Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?" Homosoto was

controlled but forthright.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Miles sipped loudly from

the brandy glass.

"I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole

world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought

we had an understanding."

"Hey!" Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get

off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head up

your ass."

"Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a

motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement."

Homosoto was insistent.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Miles was adamant.

"Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with

great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe

you have made a great error in judgment."

Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something

to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.

"Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was

not to occur until next year?"

"Yeah," Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and

look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and

made an obscene motion near his crotch.

"Then, what is this premature event?" Homosoto persisted.

"Not mine." Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly

licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

"Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-

ble."

"Tough shit."

"Excuse me?" Homosoto was taken aback.

"Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only

person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer

programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its

logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This

one's not mine nor yours. It's someone elses."

The phone was silent for a few seconds. "You are saying there

are others?" The childlike naivete was coming through over

12,000 miles of phone wire.

"Of course there are. This will probably help us."

"How do you mean?"

"There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the

ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their

egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all

have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.

So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have

nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call

every time you hear of one. You know our dates. "

"Is there no chance for error?"

"Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs.

Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and

probably won't until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not

ready." Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding

session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

"I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with."

"Our plans," Miles corrected. "my ass is on the line, too. I

don't need you freaking every time the press reports a computer

going on the fritz. It's gonna happen a lot."

"What will happen, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto was able to convey

disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

"We've been through this before."

"Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where

he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here Homo,"

Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been

become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the

stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're

not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost

every local area network in the country is infected with a virus

of one type or another. Did you know that?"

"No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" Homosoto

sounded unconvinced.

"It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"

"Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for

me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles

found unsettling.

"For now, I do."

"You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.

Foster? You have much to lose."

Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim-

ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."

"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.

He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled

mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder

things to concern him.

* * * * *

October 31, 1989

Falls Church, Virginia.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank

did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer

Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?"

he said with disdain.

"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running

a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they

balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every-

thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're

missing a quarter billion dollars."

"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,

son."

"I wish I did," Porter sighed.

"All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew

that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss-

ing.

"It's just as I told you."

"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

"Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

"Of course I know."

"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account

and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it

belongs. We do that because . . ."

"I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold

for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay

out."

"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

"I'm sorry sir."

"As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the

psychological stress to his underling.

"When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty.

That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

"We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to

hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what

happened."

"Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up

Porter?" Templeton demanded.

"Yessir."

"How long?"

"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

"Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would-

n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he

wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee.

Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.

"You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them

yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in

disgust. It was not going to be a good day.

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