Chapter 27

Thursday, January 21

The White House, Washington, D.C.

He wanted to make them wait.

The President decided to walk into the breakfast room for their

early morning meeting a few minutes late. Even with intimates,

the awe of the Presidency was still intact. His tardiness added

to the tension that they all felt as a result of the recent

revelations. Perhaps the tension would further hone their atten-

tion and dialogue.

He had not slept well the night before; he was prepared for

anything he understood, but computers were not on his roster of

acquired fluencies. A President has to make decisions, tough

decisions, life and death decisions, but decisions of the type

that have a history to study and a lesson to learn. And like

most of those before him, he was well equipped to make tough

decisions, right or wrong. Presidents have to have the self

confidence and internal resolve to commit themselves, and their

nation, to a course of action. This President's political life

trained him well; lawyer, local politics, state politics and then

Washington.

But not computers. He was not trained in computers. He had

learned to type, a little, and found that sending E-Mail messages

was great fun. To him it was a game. Since the first days when

microcomputers had invaded the offices of governmental Washing-

ton, he had been able to insulate himself from their day to day

use. All the same, every desk he had occupied was adjoined by a

powerful microcomputer fitted with the finest graphics, the best

printer and an elite assortment of software. He used the memory

resident calculator and sent and received electronic mail. That

was it.

The President, as most men of his generation, accepted the fact

that computers now ran the show. The whole shooting match.

Especially the military. The communications and computer sophis-

tication used by the Allies enthralled the world during the Iraqi

War: bombs smart enough to pick which window they would enter

before detonating, missiles smart enough to fly at 2000 mph and

destroy an incoming missile moving at 3000 mph. It turned out

that hitting a bullet with a bullet was possible after all.

Intuitively, the President knew that the crisis developing before

his eyes meant massive computer damage, and the repercussions

would be felt through the economy and the country.

However, the President did not have enough computer basics to

begin to understand the problem, much less the answers. This was

the first time during his administration that major tactical and

policy decisions would be made primarily by others. His was a

duty of rubber stamping. That worry frustrated his attempts at

sleeping and nagged at him before the meeting. And then, of

course, there was the press.

"Gentlemen," the President said sauntering towards his chair at

the head of the large formal breakfast table. He opened the door

with enough vigor to startle his guests. He maintained his usual

heads-up smile and spry gait as he noticed that there were new

faces present.

In addition to the inner circle, Marvin Jacobs asked two key NSA

security analysts to be observers at the meeting. Only if the

President asked a question was it then all right to speak.

Accompanying Phil Musgrave, under admitted duress to repay a

previous favor, was Paul Trump, Director of NIST, the eternal

rival of the NSA in matters of computers. The President was

introduced to the guests and smiled to himself. He recognized

that the political maneuvering was beginning already. Maybe the

competition would help, he thought.

"Marv," the President said leaning away from the waiter pouring

his coffee. This was the same waiter who had spilled near boil-

ing liquid in his lap last month. "I guess it's your show, so

I'll just sit back and keep my mouth shut." He leaned even

further away as the waiter's clumsiness did not inspire confi-

dence.

Group chuckle notwithstanding, everyone in the inner circle knew

what the President really meant. The President was hungry and

Marv Jacobs would not be eating breakfast. He would be answering

questions.

"Thank you, sir," Marv said as he courteously acknowledged the

presence of the others. He handed out a file folder to everyone

in the room. Each was held together with a red strap labeled TOP

SECRET that sealed the package. Not until the President began to

open his package did the others follow suit.

"We've only had a day to prepare . . ." Marvin Jacobs began.

"I know," the President said wiping the corner of his mouth with

a white linen napkin. "That should have been plenty of time."

Marvin, wisely avoided responding to the President's barb. He

took the caustic hit as the other breakfast guests quietly

thanked the powers on high that it was someone elses turn to be

in the hot seat. All in all, though, the President was a much

calmer person this morning than during his verbal tirade the day

before. But, if needed, the acerbity of his biting words would

silence the boldest of his advisors or enemies. The President

was still royally pissed off.

"We have developed a number of scenarios that will be refined

over the next weeks as we learn more about the nature of the

assault by Homosoto." He turned into his report and indicated

that everyone should turn to page 4. "This is sketchy, but based

upon what we have seen already, we can estimate the nature of

what we're up against."

Page 4 contained three Phrases.

1. Malevolent Self Propagating Software Programs (Viruses)

2. Unauthorized Electromagnetic Pulses and Explosions

3. Anti-TEMPEST Coherent Monitor and Pixel Radiation.

Marvin Jacobs described the observed behavior of each category,

but nonetheless the President was unhappy. A rehash from the

newspapers.

"That's it?" the President asked in disbelief. "You call that

an estimate? I can find out more than that from CNN."

"At this point, that's about it."

"I still can't believe this," the President said, shaking his

head. "What the hell am I going to say when I have to face the

press? 'Sorry folks, our computers and the country are going

down the toilet, and we really don't know what to do about it.

Seems as if no one took the problem seriously'" The President

gazed at Marvin and Henry Kennedy, half expecting them to break

into tears. "Bullshit!"

"Sir, may I be blunt?" Marvin asked.

"Of course, please. That's what we're here for," the President

said, wondering how blunt was blunt.

"Sir, this is certainly no time to place blame on anyone, but I

do think that at a minimum some understanding is in order." All

eyes turned to Jacobs as he spoke. "Sir, the NSA has been in the

business of safeguarding military computer systems for years."

"That's arguable," said the President critically.

Marvin continued unaffected. "Cryptography and listening and

deciphering are our obvious strong points. But neither Defense

nor Treasury," he said alluding to each representative from their

respective agencies, "can spend money without Congress's approv-

al. Frankly sir, that is one of the major stumbling blocks we

have encountered in establishing a coherent security policy."

"That's a pile of bull, Marv," said NIST's feisty Paul Trump.

Paul and Marv had known each other for years, became friends and

then as the NIST-NSA rift escalated in '89 and '90, they saw less

of each other on a social basis. "Sir," Paul spoke to the Presi-

dent, "I'm sorry for interrupting . . ."

"Say what you have to say."

"Yessir." Trump had no trouble being direct either. Nearing

mandatory retirement age had made Trump more daring. Willing to

take more risks in the best interest of NIST and therefore the

nation. Spry and agile, Paul Trump looked twenty years younger

with no signs of slowing down.

"Sir, the reason that we don't have any security in the govern-

ment is due to Congress. We, Marv and I, agree on that one

point. Martin, do you concur?"

Treasury Secretary Martin Royce vigorously nodded in agreement.

"We've been mandated to have security for years, but no one says

where the money's coming from. The hill made the laws but didn't

finish the job."

The President enjoyed the banter among his elite troops. He

thrived on open dissent and debate, making it easier for him to

weigh information and opinions. That freedom reminded him of how

difficult it must have been for the Soviets to openly disagree

and consider unpopular positions.

It seems that after Khrushchev took over, in one Politburo meet-

ing, he received a handwritten note which said: 'If you're so

liberal, how come you never stood up to Stalin.' Khrushchev

scoured the room for a clue as to who made the insulting comment.

After a tense few seconds he said, 'would the comrade who wrote

this stand up so I may answer him face to face?' No one stood.

'Now, you know the answer.'

The President's point was, around here anything goes, but I'm the

boss. The difference is the democratic process, he would say,

the voters elect me by a majority to institute a benevolent

oligarchy. And I, he pointed at himself, am the oligarch.

Paul Trump continued. "In reality sir, NIST has tried to cooper-

ate with NSA in a number of programs to raise the security of

many sectors of the government, but, in all fairness, NSA has put

up constant roadblocks in the name of national security. The CMR

problem for the commercial sector has been completely ignored

under the cloak of classified specifications."

"TEMPEST is a classified program . . ." Marvin objected strenu-

ously.

"Because you want it to be," Trump retorted instantly. "It

doesn't have to be, and you know it. Sir," he turned to the

President. "TEMPEST is . . ." The President nodded that he

knew. "The specification for TEMPEST may have been considered a

legitimate secret when the program started in the '70's. But

now, the private sector is publishing their own results of stud-

ies duplicating what we did 20 years ago. The Germans, the

Dutch, the French, just about everybody but the English and us

has admitted that CMR is a problem for everyone, not just the

military. Jesus, you can buy anti-Tempest plans in Popular

Science. Because of NSA's protectiveness of a secret that is no

longer a secret, the entire private sector is vulnerable to CMR

and anti-TEMPEST assaults. As a country, we have no electronic

privacy."

Marvin nodded in agreement. "You're damn right we keep it a

secret. Why the hell should we tell the world how to protect

against it? By doing that, we not only define the exact degree

of our own exposure, but teach our enemies how to protect them-

selves. It should be classified."

"And everyone else be damned?" Trump challenged Jacobs.

"I wouldn't put it that way, but NSA is a DoD oriented agency

after all. Ask Congress," Marvin said resolutely.

"That's the most alienating, arrogant isolationist attitude I've

ever heard," Paul Trump said. "Regardless of what you may think,

the NSA is not the end-all be-all, and as you so conveniently

dismiss, the NSA is not trusted by many outside the U.S.. We do

not have a technology monopoly on TEMPEST any more than we do on

the air we breathe." Trump threw up his hands in disgust.

"Patently absurd paranoia . . ."

"Paul, you don't have all the facts . . ." objected Marv to no

avail. Trump was a master at debate.

"Sir," Trump again turned from the argumentative Jacobs to the

President. "I don't think this is proper forum for rehashing

history, but it should be noted that NIST is responsible for non-

defense computer security, and we have a staff and budget less

than 1% of theirs. The job just isn't getting done. Personally,

I consider the state of security within the government to be in

total chaos. The private sector is in even worse shape, and it's

our own fault."

"Phil?" the President said. "Emergency funding. Congress." Phil

nodded as the debate continued. "None of this is saying a damn

thing about what we should do. How do we best defend?" He bit

off the end of crispy slice of bacon waiting for the answer he

knew would be unsatisfactory.

"We improvise."

"Improvise! That's the best you can do?" The President threw

down his napkin and it slipped off the table to the floor as he

shoved his chair back.

"This country is run by goddamned computers," the President

muttered loudly as he paced the breakfast room. Those who had

been eating ceased long ago. "Goddamned computers and morons."

* * * * *

Thursday, January 21

SPREADSHEETS STOP CRUNCHING

LOTUS AND MICROSOFT STRUCK

by Scott Mason

Last weekend's threats made by the late OSO Industries Chairman,

Taki Homosoto appear to be a trustworthy mirror of the future.

Lotus Development Corporation and Microsoft, two of the software

industry's shining stars are the latest victims of Homosoto's

vengeful attack upon the computer systems of the United States.

With cases of 20-20 hindsight proliferating, security experts

claim that we should have seen it coming.

The last several months has been filled with a long series of

colossal computer failures, massive virus attacks and the magnet-

ic bombing of major computer installations. These apparently

unrelated computer crimes, occurring with unprecedented frequency

have the distinct flavor of a prelude to the promises Homosoto

made in the self penned note that accompanied his seeming sui-

cide.

The latest virus debacle comes immediately on the heels of the

announcement of the dGraph infections.

Yesterday, Lotus and Microsoft and their dealers were inundated

with technical support calls. According to reports, the industry

standard 1-2-3 and the popular Excel spreadsheets have been

experiencing cataclysmic failures in the field. Typical com-

plaints claim the powerful spreadsheet programs are performing

basic mathematical functions incorrectly; a veritable disaster

for anyone who relies upon the accuracy of their numbers.

The leading theory held by both companies as well as software and

security experts, is that a highly targeted computer virus was

designed to only affect Lotus and Microsoft spreadsheet files.

While some viruses are designed to erase files, or entire hard

disks, the Lotus Virus as it has been informally named, is a

highly sophisticated virus designed only to make subtle changes

in the results of mathematical calculations.

Viruses of this type are known as Slight Viruses. They only

infect small portions of the computer or program, and then only

in ways that will hopefully not be detected for some time - thus

compounding the damage.

Fortune 100 companies that use either 1-2-3 or Excel nearly

unanimously announced that they will put a moratorium on the use

of both programs until further notice. Gibraltar Insurance

issued a terse statement: "Due to the potential damage caused by

the offending software, we will immediately begin installation of

compatible spreadsheet programs and verify the accuracy of all

data. Our attorneys are studying the matter at this time."

Lotus and Microsoft stock plummeted 36% and 27% respectively.

* * * * *

GOOD ARTICLE. DO YOU WANT TO GET IT RIGHT NOW?

I see humility reigns right up there with responsibility.

THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUSES WERE WRITTEN IN LATE 1988. CUTE, HUH?

THE LONGEST VIRUS INCUBATION PERIOD EVER!

Not many people share your sense of achievement.

I DON'T EXPECT SO.

We should get something straight right off.

ARE YOU SAVING?

I am now. I do not approve, in fact I despise what you say

you've done.

I AM NOT LOOKING FOR APPROVAL. MAYBE UNDERSTANDING.

Not from me.

YOU'RE BETTER THAN THAT. IF WE DO THIS, YOU NEED TO PRESENT BOTH

SIDES. IT'S TO YOUR BENEFIT. YOU'RE GOING FOR A PULITZER.

Don't tell me how to do my job.

LET'S GET TO IT.

Fine. Where did I go wrong in the article?

NOT WRONG, INCOMPLETE. THERE ARE REALLY 6 VERSIONS OF THE LOTUS

VIRUS. ONLY THE FIRST ONE HAS BEEN DETECTED. THE OTHERS AREN'T

SET TO GO OFF UNTIL LOTUS HAS TIME TO CLEAN UP THE FIRST MESS.

You mean you built several viruses all aimed at Lotus programs?

AND MICROSOFT, ASHTON TATE, BORLAND, CA, NOVELL, LAN MANAGER,

WORDPERFECT, AND A WHOLE BUNCH MORE. THE LIST WAS OVER 100 TO

BEGIN WITH.

100? How many viruses? When?

SLIGHT VIRUSES! I LOVE IT. WHAT A NAME. LIKE I SAID, YOU'RE

GOOD. I GUESS 500. MAYBE MORE. THEY'RE SET TO GO OFF FOR THE

NEXT TWO YEARS. TIME RELEASED. TIME RELEASE SLIGHT VIRUSES.

WHEW!

Why? Why tell me now?

SLOW DOWN. NOT ALL AT ONCE. FIRST OF ALL, WE HAVE TO BUILD YOU

A LITTLE CREDIBILITY. CONVINCE YOUR PUBLIC THAT I AM WHO I SAY I

AM AND THAT I CANNOT BE TOUCHED. SO HERE'S THE FIRST LOTUS VIRUS

SIGNATURE - THE CURRENT ONE: 05 55 EF E0 F4 D8 6C 41 44 40 4D.

IN COMPUTERS THAT ARE INFECTED, BUT HAVEN'T YET STRUCK YET, THE

VIRUS IS TWO HIDDEN FILES: ONE SHORT ONE NAMED 7610012.EXE.

IT'S ONLY 312 BYTES LONG AND HIDES ITSELF IN THE ROOT DIRECTORY

BY LOOKING LIKE A BAD CLUSTER TO THE SYSTEM. IT'S NEVER EVEN

NOTICED. WHEN THE TIME COMES, IT AWAKENS THE SECOND PART OF THE

VIRUS, 7610013.EXE WHICH IS SAVED IN A HIDDEN DIRECTORY AND LOOKS

LIKE BAD SECTORS. ONLY A FEW K. THAT'S THE FILE THAT SCREWS

AROUND WITH 123 MATH FUNCTIONS. AFTER 123 IS INFECTED, THE FILE

LENGTH STILL SAYS IT HASN'T BEEN CHANGED AND THE VIRUS ERASES

ITSELF AND RETURNS THE SECTORS TO THE DISK. IN THE MEANTIME,

LOTUS IS SHOT AND IT IS INFECTING OTHER PROGRAMS. BRILLIANT IF I

SAY SO MYSELF.

And you want me to print this? Why?

IT WILL GIVE YOU AND ME CREDIBILITY. YOU'LL BE BELIEVED AND THAT

IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. WE HAVE TO STOP IT FROM HAPPENING.

What from happening?

THE FULL ATTACK. IT CAN'T BE TOTALLY STOPPED, BUT I CAN HELP.

How much of an attack?

YOU HAVE NO IDEA. NO IDEA AT ALL. THERE WERE THOUSANDS OF

PEOPLE INVOLVED AND NOW IT'S ON AUTOPILOT. THERE'S NO WAY TO

TURN IT OFF.

That's incredible . . .more than incredible. Why? For what

purpose?

MAYBE LATER. THAT DOESN'T MATTER NOW. I WILL SAY, THOUGH, THAT

I NEVER THOUGHT HOMOSOTO COULD PULL IT OFF.

So you worked for him?

I WAS HIRED BY OSO INDUSTRIES TO WORK ON A SECRET CONTRACT TO

DESIGN METHODS TO COMBAT COMPUTER VIRUSES AND STUDY MILITARY

APPLICATIONS. AS THE PROJECT CONTINUED, IT TOOK ON A NEW SCOPE

AND WE WERE ASKED TO INCLUDE ADDITIONAL ELEMENTS AND CONSIDERA-

TIONS IN OUR EQUATIONS.

Equations?

COMPUTER DESIGN IS MATHEMATICAL MODELING, SO THERE'S A LOT OF

PENCIL AND PAPER BEFORE ANYTHING IS EVER BUILT. WE FIGURED THE

EFFECTS OF MULTIPLE SEQUENCED VIRUSES ON LIMITED TARGET DEFINI-

TIONS, COMPUTER SOFTWARE DISTRIBUTION DYNAMICS, DATA PROPAGATION

PROBABILITIES. OUR CALCULATIONS INCLUDED MULTI-DIMENSIONAL

INTERACTIONS OF INFECTION SIMULTANEITY. EVERY POSSIBILITY AND

HOW TO CAUSE THE MOST DAMAGE.

It's a good thing I kind of understand the technical gobbledy-

gook.

OH, IN ENGLISH? WE STUDIED WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU ENDLESSLY THROW

THOUSANDS OF COMPUTER VIRUSES AT THE UNITED STATES.

I got that. So what does happen?

YOU'RE FUCKED FOR LIFE. ONE VIRUS IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. 1000 IS

FATAL.

You have a way with words.

GOD GIVEN GIFT. I GUESS YOU COULD CALL US A THINK TANK FOR

COMPUTER WARFARE.

So what happens next Mr. Spook?

PATRONIZING, NOW, NOW, NOW. LET'S SEE HERE (FLIP, FLIP) SATUR-

DAY, JANUARY 23, NO, THAT WAS THE STOCK EXCHANGE, NO DECEMBER

11, THE PHONE COMPANY AND FEDERAL EXPRESS . . .

Cocky son of a bitch aren't you?

AH YES! HERE IT IS. MONDAY, JANUARY 25. SCOTT, YOU'RE MY

FRIEND, SO LET ME GIVE YOU A TIP. DON'T TRY TAKING AN AIRPLANE

FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS.

Why not?

THE NATIONAL RESERVATION SERVICE COMPUTERS ARE GOING TO BE VERY,

VERY SICK.

* * * * *

"Yeah," the deep sleepy voice growled in Scott's ear.

"Ty, wake up."

"Wha?"

"Tyrone, get up!" Scott's excited voice caught Tryone's notice.

"Scott," he yawned. "What's the matter?"

"Are you awake?"

"Don't worry, I had to get up to answer the phone." Then in a

more muffled voice Scott heard Tyrone say, "no, it's all right

dear. Go back to sleep, I'll take it in the den." Tyrone got

back on the phone and barked, "hold on."

Scott paced across his junked up home office, sidestepping some

items, stepping on others, until Tyrone came back on the line.

"Shit, man," were Tyrone's first words. "You have any idea what

time it is?"

"Hey, I'm sorry," Scott said mocking Tyrone's complaint. "I'll

write you a letter tomorrow and lick a stamp and let the Post

Office take it from there . . ."

"You made your point. What is it?"

"The airlines are going to be hit next. Homosoto's next target."

"How the hell would you know that?"

"I've been talking to Foster. He told me."

"Foster told you what?"

"It's a huge attack, an incredibly large computer attack. He

worked for Homosoto. But the point is, the airlines. They're

next. Worse than the radar computer problems."

"Can I get right back to you?"

Waiting for Ty's call, Scott wrote an article for the following

morning's paper and submitted it from home to the office comput-

er.

* * * * *

COMPUTER TERRORISM

An Exclusive Interview With The Man Who Invaded America

By Scott Mason

The man who claims to be the technical genius behind the recent

wave of Computer Crimes has agreed to tell his story exclusively

to the New York City Times.

Only known as the Spook, a hacker's handle which represents both

an alter-ego and anonymity, he says that he was hired by Taki

Homosoto, late chairman of OSO Industries to design and prepare a

massive assault against the computer systems of the United

States.

The incredible claims made by the Spook appear to be grounded in

fact and his first statements alone were astounding. Please

note, these are exact quotes from a computer conversation with

the Spook.

"There will be thousands of viruses. Thousands of them. I have

to imagine by now that every program in America is infected with

ten different viruses. There is only one way to stop them all.

Never turn on your computers.

"You see, most virus programmers are searching for immediate

gratification. They write one and want it to spread real quick

and then see it blow up. So most amateur virus builders are

disappointed in the results because they don't have patience.

But we, I had patience.

"To maximize the effects of viruses, you have to give them time.

Time to spread, to infect. Many of the viruses that you will

experience are years old. The older viruses are much cruder than

those made recently. We learned over time to build better vi-

ruses. Our old ones have been dormant for so long, their conta-

gion is complete and they will be just as effective.

"We have built and installed the greatest viruses of all time.

Every PC will probably be dead in months if not weeks, unless you

take my advice. There are also VAX viruses, VMS viruses, SUN

viruses, we even built some for Cray supercomputers, but we don't

expect much damage from them."

The Spook's next comments were just as startling.

"The blackmail operation was a sham, but a terrific success. It

wasn't for the money. No one ever collected any money, did they?

It was pure psychological warfare. Making people distrust their

computers, distrust one another because the computer makes them

look like liars. That was the goal. The money was a diversion-

ary tactic.

"Part of any attack is the need to soften the enemy and terrorism

is the best way to get quick results. By the time the first

viruses came along, whoa! I bet half the MIS directors in the

country don't know whether they're coming or going."

According to the Spook, he designed the attack with several

armies to be used for different purposes.

One for Propaganda, one for Infiltration and Infection, one for

Engineering, one for Communications, and another for Distribution

and another for Manufacturing. At the pinnacle was Homosoto

acting as Command and Control.

"I didn't actually infect any computers myself. We had teams of

Groundhogs all too happy to do that for us."

According to security experts, Homosoto apparently employed a

complex set of military stratagem in the execution of his attack.

It has yet to be determined if the Spook will be of any help in

minimizing the effects of the First Computer War.

Scott finally went to bed. Tyrone never called him back.

* * * * *

Thursday, January 21

New York City

The cavernous streets of New York on a cloud covered moonless

night harbor an eerie aura, reminiscent of the fog laden alleys

near the London docks on the Thames in the days of Jack the

Ripper. A constant misty rain gave the city an even more de-

pressing pallor than winter normally brought to the Big Apple.

In other words, the weather was perfect.

On the corner of 52nd. and 3rd., in the shadow of the Citibank

tower, Dennis Melbourne stuck a magnetic strip ID card into a

Cirrus 24 Hour Bank Teller Machine. As the machine sucked in the

card, the small screen asked for the personal identification

number, the PIN, associated with that particular card. Dennis

entered the requested four digit PIN, 1501. The teller whirred

and asked Dennis which transaction he would like.

He selected:

Checking Balance.

A few seconds later $4,356.20 appeared. Good, Dennis thought.

He then selected:

Withdrawal - Checking

Dennis entered, $2,000.00 and the machine display told him that

his request exceeded the daily withdrawal limit. Normal, he

thought, as he entered an 8 digit sequence: 00330101. The super-

visor control override.

The teller hummed and thought for a moment, and then $20 bills

began tumbling out of the "Take Cash" drawer. One hundred of

them.

The teller asked, "Another Transaction?" and Dennis chose 'No'.

He retrieved the magnetic card from the machine and the receipt

of this transaction before grabbing a cab to a subway entrance on

59th. and Lexington Ave. The ID card he used was only designed

to be used once, so Dennis saw to it that the card was cut and

disposed of in a subterranean men's room toilet.

Dennis Melbourne traveled throughout New York all night long,

emptying Cirrus cash machines of their available funds. And the

next night, and the next. He netted $246,300 in three days. All

told, Cirrus customers in thirty-six states were robbed by Dennis

Melbourne and his scores of accomplices of nearly $10 Million

before the banks discovered how it was being done.

The Cirrus network and it's thousands of Automatic Tellers were

immediately closed. For the first time in years, America had no

access to instant cash.

Bank lines grew to obscene lengths and the waiting for simple

transactions was interminable. Almost one half of personal

banking had been done by ATM computer, and now human tellers had

to deal with throngs of customers who had little idea of how to

bank with a live person.

Retail sales figures for the week after the ATM machines were

closed showed a significant decline of 3.2%. The Commerce De-

partment was demanding action by Treasury who pressured the FBI

and everybody looked to the White House for leadership. The

economic impact of immediate cash restriction had been virtually

instantaneous; after all the U.S. is a culture of spontaneity

demanding instant gratification. Cash machines addressed that

cultural personality perfectly. Now it was gone.

Dennis Melbourne knew that it was time to begin on the MOST

network. Then the American Express network. And he would get

rich in the process. Ahmed Shah paid him very well. 25% of the

take.

* * * * *

Friday, January 22

New York City

"We had to take out the part about the airlines," Higgins said in

response to Scott's question about the heavy editing. To Hig-

gins' and Doug's surprise, Scott understood; he didn't put up a

stink.

"I wondered about that," Scott said reflecting back on the last

evening. "Telling too much can be worse than not telling enough.

Whatever you say, John."

"We decided to let the airlines and the FAA and the NTSB make the

call." Higgins and Scott had come to know and respect each other

quite well in the last few weeks. They didn't agree on every-

thing, but as the incredible story evolved, Higgins felt more

comfortable with less conservative rulings and Scott relinquished

his non-negotiable pristine attitude. At least they disagreed

less often and less loudly. Although neither one would admit it,

each made an excellent sounding board for the other - a valuable

asset on a story this important.

Higgins continued. "The airlines are treating it as a bomb

scare. Seriously, but quietly. They have people going through

the systems, looking for whatever it is you people look for."

Higgins' knowledge of computers was still dismal.

"Scott, let me ask you something." Doug broke into the conversa-

tion that like all the others, took place in Higgins' lawyer-like

office. They occurred so often that Scott had half seriously

convinced Higgins' secretary that he wouldn't attend unless there

were fresh donuts and juice on the coffee table. When Higgins

found out, he was mildly annoyed, but nonetheless, in the spirit

of camaraderie, he let the tradition continue. "Children will be

children," he said.

"How much damage could be done if the Spook's telling the truth?"

Doug asked.

"Oh, he's telling the truth," Scott said somberly. "Don't for-

get, I know this guy. He said that the effects would take weeks

and maybe months to straighten out. And the airline assault

would start Monday."

"Why is he being so helpful?" Higgins asked.

"He wants to establish credibility. He says he wants to help

now, but first he wants to be taken seriously."

"Seriously? Seriously? He's a terrorist!" shouted Higgins. "No

damn different than someone who throws a bomb into a crowded

subway. You don't negotiate with terrorists!" He calmed him-

self, not liking to show that degree of emotion. "But we want

the story . . ." he sighed in resignation. Doug and Scott agreed

in unison.

"Personally, it sounds like a macho ego thing," commented Doug.

"So what?" asked Higgins. "Motivation is independent of premedi-

tation."

"Legally speaking . . ." Doug added. He wanted to make sure

than John was aware that there were other than purely legal

issues on the table.

"As I was saying," Scott continued. "The reservation computers

are the single most important item in running the nation's air-

lines. They all interact and talk to each other, and create

billing, and schedule planes; they interface on line to the

OAG . . .they're the brains. They all use Fault Tolerant equip-

ment, that's spares of everything, off site backup of all records

- I've checked into it. Whatever he's planned, it'll be a doo-

sey."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," Higgins added with indifference.

"Legally it's unsubstantiated hearsay. But with the computer

transcripts of all your conversations, if anything happens, I'd

say you'd have quite a scoop."

"That's what he wants! And we can't warn anybody?"

"That's up to the airlines, the FAA, not us." The phone on Hig-

gins disk emitted two short warbles. He spoke into the phone.

"Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled

his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over

at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows.

Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch;

the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "Hello?"

he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in

Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The

President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd

be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He

waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record?

Fine. Thank you."

"Well?" asked Higgins.

"The President himself wants to have a little chat with me."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22

The White House

Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet

Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his

cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation-

al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap-

pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En-

trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a

"Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular

pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi-

nitely not from Washington.

Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his

work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach

he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January

was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket

filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving

political and social attitudes. He was going to have to bring a

change of clothes to the office from now on.

Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least

he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the

President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too

much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks

to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier

on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela-

tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very

convenient was more like it, they thought.

The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented

him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that

Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem,

and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in

front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and

Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of

their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot.

This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the

President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a

journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order.

"Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half

hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with

Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much

that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott,

that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow."

He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring:

Computer Terrorism - Exclusive.

Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I

consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and

all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing

humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece."

"All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for

you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes

shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave

added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster

is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too

many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own

electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a

court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of

the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as

fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy

of it. That's all."

Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time

an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it

finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take

what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to

get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi-

ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon-

esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He

could hear it now, the '<MI>you'll be helping your country,<D>'

speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the

least.

So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter-

view with the President when this thing is over."

"Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated

himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true

Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.

But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a

dramatized account.

"And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ."

Scott added another minor demand.

"Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,"

joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every

hour will help."

Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone

would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old

PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail

into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a

White House souvenir pen.

"It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure

office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs

up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.

"Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy

like an apple. A juicy one.

"What do you mean, it didn't matter?"

"We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines

anyway," Marvin said with neutrality.

"I don't know if I want to know about this . . ."

"It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh.

He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic button. For a National

Security Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel-

ligence is gathered. "Just in case."

"Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop-

erating fully."

"I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling the

President about this."

"Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked.

Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.

"I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep

him honest."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22

Reston, Virginia

"No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into

the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you

what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott

mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing

the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes,

I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother

interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR.

I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few

seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.

Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed

to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was

always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I

won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He

struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept

talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he

was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner

guests. Miles Foster.

Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far

as the world was concerned, they were two different people with

different goals, different motivations and different lives. The

unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles

Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles

or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of

Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like

Miles?

In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet

him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles

was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her

professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that

Sonja was between jobs.

She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but

that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott,

on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however,

and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage-

ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.

The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston

rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered

for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath,

ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.

"Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.

"Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them,

Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "Maybe

Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us

tonight," she said teasing Miles.

Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without

comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable

excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott

to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers

which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.

Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker

and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen

either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha-

nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the

boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass

doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.

"I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared

from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear

too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister

touch.

"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.

"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I

swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."

Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative

phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac-

ter was the same.

"You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in

hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand

you."

"What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the

moonlit water.

"I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening."

"No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me

confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan.

"You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and

all that . . ."

"Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed

the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin-

ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the

fuck off. Got it?"

Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in

panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real

Spook? Had he blown it?

Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and

Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind.

Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an

obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with

no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles

was magically transformed into Miles the lover.

He had had no chance to respond to Miles' outburst, so Scott was

caught with his jaw hung open.

"You boys finish shop yet?" Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles'

ear.

"We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the

annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann's early years," Miles

said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking

dimple filled smile. "We disagree on the exact date of his

second bris."

Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.

Gullibility was one of Stephanie's long suits, so Sonja helped

out. "That's right up there with the bathing habits of the

Jamaican bobsled team."

"C'mon," Stephanie said tugging at Miles. "It's chilly out

here."

Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren't

looking. Whatever you want. It's your game. Miles mouthed back

at Scott, 'you're fucking right it is.'

The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything.

Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk

that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined

elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar-

tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.

****************************************************************