Chapter 6
3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.
Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell
was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage?
Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just
agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I
said maybe.
Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just
some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat.
No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like
calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu-
rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is
OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head
of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the
same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He
called Max.
"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood,
was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'
"On my way Amigo."
The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex-
hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both
sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it,
or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation.
He prayed for the latter.
"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock-
ing.
"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's
large physique.
Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good
start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.
Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had
to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max
brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder
bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to
read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the
ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood,
but then he had no love for lawyers.
"Max! Please."
"Hey, just trying new material...."
" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.
"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They
went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.
C:\a:
A:\dir
FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704
FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013
FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567
FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981
FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280
FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395
FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912
93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\
"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of
concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.
"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What
kind of programs?"
"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have
you used them yet?"
"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier-
re's nervousness betrayed him.
"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93.
That would run the program.
A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to
its natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work.
Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything
either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup-
posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.
Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't
know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."
"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn,
nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna
take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette
from the machine.
"Where are you going with that?"
"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably
some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."
At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre
was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.
"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the
plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.
Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger
to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an
obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real
soon. He meant that part. He would call back.
"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.
"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.
"Viruses. Lots of 'em."
"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.
"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."
"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."
"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit
down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.
"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had
grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to
stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max
as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded
silent agreement.
"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of
information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a
list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are
called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables
are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables
operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a
theme."
"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone
knows that. What about these?"
"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa-
bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables
and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's
about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations,
but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an
executable which is designed to copy itself onto another
program."
"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our-
selves into the application."
"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk-
ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked
at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only
one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now,
the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in
seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him
that a program could be harmful.
"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the
same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some-
thing new."
"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves
onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth-
ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few
days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be
infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if
you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was
infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be
destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War
II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot
of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3
years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak,
goes too."
"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with
antidotes?"
"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it-
self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled
not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation;
in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending
education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no
way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses.
Can't be done."
"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to
grasp the importance of what he was hearing.
"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro-
gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool-
ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a
similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi-
ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked
at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani-
gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get
them?"
Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I?
He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can
tell Max. Anything.
"Homosoto."
"What?" asked Max incredulously.
"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.
"Why? What for?"
"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."
"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would
happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell
thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half
of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3
years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph
in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs
would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected
programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be
destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the
same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to
absorb what he was saying.
"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi-
ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov-
ered power.
"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years
is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no
reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be
shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is
absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few
of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de-
stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi-
dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."
"V-Day?"
"Virus Day."
"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"
"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro-
grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On
the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in
the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once.
It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act.
And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What
exactly did Homosoto say?"
Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he
gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last
few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has
been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I
have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I
take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.
The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself
that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual
exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn-
apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre
the luxury of a respite of calm.
"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime
in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak
of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden-
ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.
"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from
Pierre.
"Well what?"
"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are
you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."
"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A
determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll
take care of it."
"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the
international politic that usually was second nature. He called
Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.
"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto
hung up.
Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre
wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso-
to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not
be coming until the following morning.
In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with
the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before.
Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.
"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con-
cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a
monotone as he sat stiffly.
"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from
his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible.
You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause
and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me,
no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph?
You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you
think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you
have another thing coming."
Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.
"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're
going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I
don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for
someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as
loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the
gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.
Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you
some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the
door in Pierre's bright red face.
Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon
the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed
to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small
investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was
looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out
for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two
types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected,
sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and
another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't
sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn
both positions, just in case.
His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's
financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and
had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like
a happy camper.
"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could
burst," Pierre pretended.
"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."
Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.
"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."
"What about Max?"
"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just
found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"
Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could
have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead?
Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.
"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is
some kind of joke, right?"
"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on
it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a
ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down
the, well . . .I . . ."
"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.
"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents.
He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel,
oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So
sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've
been through . . ."
"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling
up in his eyes.
"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put
off the offering until . . ."
"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.
"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to
go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street
will be kind on this . . ."
"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He
hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions.
He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how
to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories,
stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course.
But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You
can't do this to me.
His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang.
He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The
caller persisted.
"Yes," he breathed into the phone.
"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.
"What?"
"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our
sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help
you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners
oozed over the phone wire.
"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have
been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self
gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped
Royal British snobbery at their best.
"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly.
"I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot
help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you
agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's
words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light
had been extinguished.
"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as
scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French
can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.
"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business
about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."
"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I
won't do it."
"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your
decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled
threat.
"Why should I?"
"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it
would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you
murdered your partner for profit."
"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal
clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire
spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur-
dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.
"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence,
enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you
murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your-
self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself
clear?"
"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only
does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like
the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now.
There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not
ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?
"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in
abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the
impact resistant plastic cracked.
At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully
opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry.
What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a
great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her
drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked
with emotional distress.
"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the
arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out
the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.
"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"
"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me
advised . . ."
"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is
waiting. Should I get rid of him?"
"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"
"I don't know. He's from personnel."
"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"
"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next
week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of
an unnecessary burden that could wait.
"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."
"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."
An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about
30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was
applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He
looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than
a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he
grasped Pierre's hand.
"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why
don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat
opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr.
Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a
software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from
Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents
either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-
rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages
fluently . . ."
Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and
your clothes. What may I do for you."
"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"
* * * * *
The financial section of the New York City Times included two
pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents,
and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-
cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci-
dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have
earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.
The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on
the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true
loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max,
though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the
Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that
the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.
* * * * *
Wednesday, September 1
New York City
Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He
was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary
and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not
his strong point.
"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he
should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the
hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his
aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.
Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It
must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged
America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but
proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been
going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.
Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO
of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re-
porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary
easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.
"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like
to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott
sounded officious.
"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded
accommodating.
"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most
useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other
questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would
ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.
"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to
give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott
could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.
"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that
you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree
that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will
earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the
figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC.
Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory,
but it was difficult not to play the adversary.
Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at
the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that
information?"
"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his
King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.
"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with
the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else,
then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone
wires conveyed his agitation.
"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why
files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?"
Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.
"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer
figures?"
"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures
for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your
filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck
with the game plan.
"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ."
Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You
have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.
"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson
repeatedly denied any improprieties.
"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New
York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with
Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over
spending.
"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male
secretary matter of factly asked.
"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and
Credit Suisse."
"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.
"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott
commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from
the press.
"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak
on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up
the call. He was belligerent.
"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.
"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.
"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim-
idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave
away nervousness.
"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about
political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you
and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As
a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped
pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General
Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in
Geneva. Comments, Senator?"
Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal
composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan-
derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to
back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in
the Senator's voice.
"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"
Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.
"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper
right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"
"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that
would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.
Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he
continued to be amazed.
From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get
that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know
that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That
was in my private files . . ."
Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the
Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known
faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that
Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially
upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors
Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.
The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the
thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the
newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their
files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list.
Useless.
Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and
beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory
claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea-
sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked
that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.
Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in
which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received
the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.
Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was.
He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source,
with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed
that for the next time he got lawyered.
When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears
were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in
the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order.
Keep digging.
"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father
teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead-
line."
Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.
"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on
his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."
"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.
"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."
"Then say so. But say something."
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