Chapter 7

Thursday, September 17

New York City Times

Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to America

By Scott Mason

Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the

headline. In this case the words are borrowed from a story title

in last week's National Expose, that most revered of journalistic

publications which distributes half truths and tortured conclu-

sions from publicity seeking nobodies.

The title should more appropriately be something like,

"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or

"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or

"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"

According to computer experts, this Columbus Day, October 12,

will mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous Columbus Day

Virus. As for the last several years, that is the anticipated

date for a highly viral computer virus to 'explode'. The history

behind the headline reads from an Ian Fleming novel.

In late 1988, a group of West German hackers and computer pro-

grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput-

er virus. As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is an

unsolicited and unwanted computer program whose sole purpose is

to wreak havoc in computers. Either by destroying important files

or otherwise damaging the system.

We now know that that these Germans are part of an underground

group known as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer Hackers Against

Open Systems, whatever the heck that means. They work to promote

computer systems disruption worldwide.

In March of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted an international

conference of computer programmers. Are you ready for the name?

Intergalactic Hackers Conference. Some members were aware of the

planned virus. As a result of the negative publicity hackers

have gotten over the last few years, the Conference issued a

statement disavowing the propagation and creation of computer

viruses. All very honorable by a group of people whose sole

purpose in life is to invade the privacy of others. But, that's

what they said.

Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got

released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings. In other words,

files and programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted by

this disreputable band, and the infections began spreading.

The first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred in 1989,

and caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc-

tion of data banks and system protection.

Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread

and that some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate

over a period of years. The Columbus Day Virus is called by its

creators, the "Data Crime Virus", a name befitting its purpose.

When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by

that time, it's too late. Your computer is kaput!

What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing

than the hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the

media has given it, each and every year since 1989.

The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable

reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds

of newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other

reputable media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a

great deal of attention on this anticipated technological Arma-

geddon.

Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus

issue and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by

Virus Busters. Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas

commented, "I have never seen a virus in 20 years. I've heard

about them but really think they are a figment of the media's

imagination."

Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting

alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti-

dotes. Virus Busting Sean McCullough, President of The Virus

Institute in San Jose, California thinks that most viruses are

harmless and users and companies overreact. "There have been no

more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few years.

They spread more by rumor than by infection." When asked how he

made his living, he responded, "I sell antidotes to computer

viruses." Does he make a good living? "I can't keep up with the

demand," he insists.

The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for

good reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch

is planned. Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus

makers use as the intended date of destruction. According to an

official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security experts

to make sure that their systems are " . . .clean and free from

infection. It's a purely precautionary move, we are not worried.

The launch will continue as planned."

Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and

dangerous, but that chances of infection are low. As one highly

respected computer specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus is

a low risk high consequence possibility. I don't recommend any

panic." Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses? "Abso-

lutely. I can't risk losing my computers."

Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my

computer never needs Tylenol.

* * * * *

Scarsdale, New York.

The Conrail trains were never on time.

Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride

the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York

into Grand Central Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute

ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours when the feder-

ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.

The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an

upscale version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the

Scarsdale train station. He bought a large styrofoam cup full of

decent black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind newsman

before boarding the express train. Non-stop to Harlem, and then

on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.

Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his

silver BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a

perfectly good Ford Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he

needed a car in New York. He was one of the few black commuters

from the affluent bedroom community and his size made him more

conspicuous than his color.

Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps

unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning

you see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their

way to the Big Apple. The morning commute is a personal solace

for many. Your train buddy knows if you got laid and by whom.

If you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway, your train

buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife. Train

buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes

first.

While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning

route since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends

since their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club

10 years ago. Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites;

Maggie, a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene,

the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three daugh-

ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The attachment

between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both

Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.

The physical contrast between the two was comical at times.

Duncan was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had

let his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott,

small and wiry was 10 years Ty's junior. On weekends they played

on a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age was

thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out maneuvered Ty-

rone's bulk.

During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits

he had made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans, sneakers

and T-Shirt of choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than

ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the usually

jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and

bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a hair-

cut.

Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train

pulled out of the open air station.

"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.

Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.

"That shirt," Ty smirked. "A lesson in how to make friends and

influence people."

"Oh, this?" Scott looked down at the words on his chest:

I'm O.K.

You're A Shithead.

"It only offends them that oughta be offended."

"Shitheads?"

"Shitheads."

"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."

"My mother," groused Scott. "VCR lessons." Ty didn't under-

stand.

"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd

and ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a

couple of weeks later I went over to her place and I asked how

she liked the VCR. She didn't answer, so I asked again and she

mumbled that she hadn't used it yet. I fell down," Scott laughed

out loud.

"'Why?' I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it

sitting next to her TV for a couple of months before she used

it." Tyrone caught a case of Scott's roaring laughter.

"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone. "And you an engineer?"

"Hey," Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a light-

bulb." They laughed until Scott could speak. "So last night I

went over for her weekly VCR lesson."

"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled, "trust-

ing a machine to do something right, when you're not around to

make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They

don't believe it works."

"It's a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly. "It tests my

ability to reduce things to the basics. The real basics. Trying

to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like trying

to get a square ball bearing to roll."

Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He

couldn't imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity

of either 'on' or 'off'. But he welcomed the tangent conversa-

tions that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how the

VCR could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch another

channel at the same time.

Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR,

cleared its memory and 'Twelved' the clock an hour before he

arrived to show her how to use it. And after he left, she repro-

grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his next

visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would have ruined

her little game and the ritual starting point for their private

talks.

"By the way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are you and Arlene

doing Sunday night?"

"Sunday? Nothing, why?" Tyrone asked innocently.

"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of

you . . ."

"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.

"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."

"Forget it." Tyrone said stubbornly. "Not after what happened

last time. I don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of

your mother. She scared the living shit out of her . . .and I

have my doubts."

"Relax," Scott said calmly. "It's just her way of keeping busy.

Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."

"And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband

from the dead," said Scott with exaperation. "I don't care what

you say, that's not normal. I like your mother, but, well,

Arlene has put her foot down." Tyrone shuddered at the thought

of that evening. No one could explain how the wooden shutters

blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as his

wife did, to pretend it never happened.

"Hey," Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. "I

see you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"Don't give me that innocent shit. I'm a trained professional,"

Tyrone joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to

Scott's Christopher Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces

have been raising a few eyebrows down at the office. Seems you

have better sources than we do. Our Computer Fraud division has

been going nuts recently."

"Glad you can read." Scott enjoyed the compliment. "Just a job,

but I gotta story much more interesting. I can't publish it yet,

though."

"Why?"

"Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be-

lieve it?" Scott teased Tyrone. "Besides, blackmail is so, so

personal."

Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. "What blackmail?"

The frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of

their respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a

measured professional distance. The years of dedication invested

in their friendship, even after to everyones' surprise, Maggie up

and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady unneces-

sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped

to be of concern.

"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into print,

but, it's there, I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted to

talk.

"Mums the word."

"A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a

certain company. I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for

approval.

"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.

Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what

Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of

the apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci-

nation as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he

was privy.

Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tyrone quietly asked.

"Sure. Go for it."

"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"

Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.

"How did you know?" Scott asked suspiciously.

"And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?"

Tyrone tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press

on this.

Scott could not hide his surprise. "Yeah! And a bunch of others.

How'd you know?"

Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. "Lucky

guess."

"Bullshit. What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of

the lazy commuter.

"Nothing, just a coincidence." Tyrone picked up a newspaper and

buried his face behind it.

"Hey, Ty. Talk ol' buddy."

"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.

"As a friend? I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.

Ty snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case in

progress."

"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.

"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.

"Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C'mon

what's up?"

"Shit, you media types." Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to

think. "I'll never know why you became a reporter. You used to

be a much nicer pain in the ass before you became so nosy."

Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's awkwardness.

Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he

realized that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn't read

any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi-

bility from both Scott and the paper. "Off, off, off the record.

Clear?" He was serious.

"Done."

The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat-

tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that

meant they couldn't be heard either.

"As near as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began. "There's a

well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As

of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged

blackmail. From Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta,

Chicago, LA, the works. Small towns to the metros. It's an

epidemic and the local and state cops are absolutely buried.

They can't handle it, and besides it's way out of their league.

So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There's

no way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing-

ton's going berserk."

"Who's behind it?" Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get a real

answer.

"That's the rub. Don't have a clue. Not a clue. There's no

pattern, none at all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our

informants say they're baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They

knew about it before we did. Figures." Tyrone's voice echoed a

professional frustration.

"Motives?"

"None. We're stuck."

"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."

The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand

Central. Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make

their escape to the streets of New York above them. Scott won-

dered if any of them were part of Duncan's problems.

"Scott?" Tyrone queried on the escalator.

"Yeah?"

"Not a word, ok?"

Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. "Scott's

honor!" That was good enough for Tyrone.

They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both

of their eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa-

tionalistic headline:

FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME

They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled

tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.

"Jesus," Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the

word. "They're going to make a weekly event of printing every

innuendo."

"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott. "The whole blasted

lot. And they're printing them." Scott put down the paper.

"This makes it a brand new ball game . . ."

"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.

"That's the answer," exclaimed Scott. "The motive. Who's been

affected so far?"

"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What's

the answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention.

"What's the answer?" he whispered up close.

"It's you." Scott noted.

Tyrone expressed surprise. "What do you mean, me."

"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone

else. You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay atten-

tion to other crimes."

"You're jumping to conclusions." Tyrone didn't follow Scott's

reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.

"What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the

FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators

really have other crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit

their real targets. Isn't it possible that the FBI is an unwill-

ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger scheme that isn't obvious

yet?" Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he saw that

Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.

"It's possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't have the

words to finish his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field

for his linear thinking. "No this is crazy as the time you

though that UFO's were invading Westchester in '85. Then there

was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine in

the water supply . . ."

"That wasn't my fault . . ."

" . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild

ass conspiracies you come up with."

Scott dismissed Tyrone's friendly criticism by ignoring the

derisions. "As I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim is

the FBI. None of the alleged victims have been harmed, other

than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the target

all along. Scott suggested, "it's as good a theory as any

other."

"With what goal?" Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.

"So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to

react."

* * * * *

The Federal Bureau of Investigation

Federal Square, Manhattan.

The flat white and glass square building, designed in the '60's,

built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the

level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri-

or. The building had no personality, no character, nothing

memorable about it, and that was exactly the way the tenants

wanted it.

The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested

streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure well

guarded mazes held the clues to the locations of an incredible

array of computing power, some of the world's best analytical

tools, test equipment, forensic labs, communications facilities

and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical specialties

required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.

The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by

the solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos-

sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal

privacy was another matter, though. Most of the office staff

worked out in an open office floorplan. The walls between the

guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet-

proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving at first, no

privacy.

There was a self-imposed class structure between the "bugs",

those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads"

who worked where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa-

ration between the two groups out of necessity; maintain isola-

tion between those with differing need-to-know criteria. The

most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and unintended

competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at different

bars. A line that was rarely crossed.

Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher

floors are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power

brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you worked,

the more important you were. To the "airheads", "bugs" tried to

see how low they could sink in their acquisition of power while

rising up on the Government pay scale.

On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the

edge of his large Government issue executive desk to answer his

ringing phone. It was Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington

based superior and family friend for years.

"No, really. Thanks," Ty smiled. "Bob, we've been through this

before. It's all very flattering, but no. I'm afraid not. And

you know why. We've been through this all . . ." He was being

cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.

"Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as he tried to

interrupt the other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll give it

some more thought, but don't get your hopes up. It's just not in

my cards." He listened again.

"Bob, I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I

do. We're both quite content and frankly, I don't need the

headaches." He looked around the room as he cocked the earpiece

away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.

"Bob, I said I would. I'll call you next week." He paused.

"Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I understand.

Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won't leave me

alone. Let me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the

ceiling.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat-

ing cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were

against him ever being accepted into the elite National Police

Force. The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had

created over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very selective

about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan was black.

His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow

into his father's footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston's

most prestigious law firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the

very few rich and influential black families in the North East.

His family was labeled "Liberal" when one wasn't ashamed of the

moniker.

Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the

marches in the South and it was then that he first hand saw

prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though. It was hate,

it was ignorance and fear. It was so much more than prejudice.

It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society con-

quered over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its mis-

guided myopic traditions.

Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and

humidity, decades of racial conflict, several 'Jew Boy Nigger

Lovers' were killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the

civil rights workers made front page news. The country was out-

raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned

quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed the

crime as a prank, or even congratulated the perpetrators for

their actions.

The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se;

murder is not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime

because the murderers had violated the victims' civil rights.

Tyrone thought that that approach was real slick, a nice legal

side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the case.

When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over-

worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and

Tyrone spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and per-

forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.

On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his

despite his father's urging, after law school he would join the

FBI.

Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School,

passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed

through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was

over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight. His background

check was unassailable except for his family's prominent liberal

bent. He had every basic qualification needed to become an FBI

Agent. He was turned down.

Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself,

blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to 'investi-

gate' and determine who or what was pulling the strings. He

called FBI personnel and asked why he had been rejected. They

mumbled something about 'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'.

That was when he realized that he was turned down solely because

he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a racial issue stand

in his way.

He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during

the last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that

he was applying for a position as an assistant DA in Boston.

Would they mind writing a letter . . .

Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person-

nel Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov-

er. The four letters of recommendation, which read more like

votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI

stationary. Tyrone asked the Personnel Director if they would

reconsider his application, and that if necessary, he would

whitewash his skin.

The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix-

up. We misfiled someone else's charts in your files and, well,

you understand, I'm sure. It happens all the time. We're sorry

for any inconvenience. Would you be available to come in on

Monday? Welcome to the FBI.

Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired

left wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states

for some unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected

dirt on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He

tried, fairly successfully to stay away from that last kind of

work. In Tyrone's not so humble opinion, there were a whole lot

more better things for FBI agents to be doing than worry about

George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high school

kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the

Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.

Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot-

ed to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious

position. This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau.

It was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels. The Hoover

era was gone.

After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind

his desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no

new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him

though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re-

read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that

was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.

The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100

people, many of them highly placed leaders of American industry

had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call

into the FBI is handled in a procedural manner. The agent who

takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout

on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had for years

but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if

the caller had significant information, but refused to identify

himself, the agent had a reliable method to track down the call-

er. Very few people who called the FBI realized that a phone

inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events

that was complete before the call was over.

The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone

number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to

the agent. Then the number was crosschecked against files from

the phone company. What was the exact location of the caller?

To whom was the phone registered? A calling and billing history

was made instantly available if required.

If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual,

his social security number was retrieved and within seconds of

the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information

about the caller. Criminal activities, bad credit records; the

type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of

the call. For business phones, a cross check determined any and

all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a determina-

tion.

Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers

who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation.

They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of major

corporate movers and shakers. Top American businessmen who,

while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI's view,

upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but certainly not mad men

with a record of making outlandish capricious claims. It was not

in their interest to bring attention to themselves.

What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of

such calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified

cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out

into legitimate and solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague

threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan

sat back thoughtfully.

What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or

on April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it

a joke? Not likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have

they made? Undoubtedly they haven't befriended everyone with

whom they have had contact, but what's the connection? Tyrone's

mind reeled through a maze of unlikelihoods. Until, the only

common element he could think of stared at him right in the

face. There was a single dimension of commonality between all of

the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with

the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.

The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter-

ally leapt from his chair for a split second as he caught his

breath. The government. No way. Is it possible? I must be

missing something, surely. This is crazy. Or is it? Doesn't

the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate paranoid

thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded

his forehead for missing the connection.

Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-

9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could

sell to another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss.

The G-9 says, 'I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their

share, and it won't cost Uncle Sam a dime!'. His boss says, 'I

got a congressional hearing today, I'm too busy. Do some re-

search and let me see a report.'

So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government

computers and determines that the companies on his hit list

aren't necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way

to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the

big We, Big Brother know, and they'd better shape up.

He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons

and the phone numbers are buried, and says something like, 'Big

Brother is listening and he doesn't like what he hears.' And he

says, 'we'll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in

a row' and that scares the shit out of the corporate muckity-

mucks.

Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he

admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts.

Still, is it possible? The government was certainly capable of

some pretty bizarre things. He recalled the Phoenix program in

Viet Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent civilians were

tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths in the

distorted hope of making another one talk.

Wasn't Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats

were in 1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the

President. And the Aquarius project used psychics to locate

Soviet Boomers and UFO's. Didn't we give LSD to unsuspecting

soldiers to see if they could function adequately under the

influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And they

became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true. Maybe

it was possible. The United States government had actually

instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase

tax revenues. Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.

The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his

daydream speculations.

"Yes?" He answered into space.

"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint-

ment. Saunderson is out and so you're elected." Duncan's secre-

tary was too damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to

someone else. He pushed his intercom button.

"Gimme a second, I gotta primp." That was Tyrone's code that he

needed a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and

return to Earth to deal with real life problems. As usual,

Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.

"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National

Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director." She waited for

the two men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door

behind her.

"Mr. Duncan?" Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent.

Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi-

ently.

"How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?"

"I am being blackmailed, and I need help." Dobbs looked straight

into Duncan's coal black eyes.

The IRS, thought Duncan. "By whom?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Dobbs was firm.

"Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?" Duncan wanted

to conceal his interest. Keep it low profile.

"Let me tell you what happened."

Good start, thought Duncan. If only half of us would start in

such a logical place.

"Two days ago I received a package by messenger. It contained

the most sensitive information my company has. Strategic posi-

tions, contingency plans, competitive information and so on.

There are only a half dozen people in my company that have access

to that kind of information. And they all own enough stock to

make sure that they aren't the culprits."

"So who is?" interjected Tyrone as he made notes.

"I don't know. That's the problem."

"What did they ask for?" Duncan looked directly into Dobbs'

eyes. To both force an answer and look for signs of deceit. All

he saw was honesty and real fear.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. All I got was the package and a brief

message."

"What was the message?" Tyrone asked.

"We'll be in touch. That's it."

"So where's the threat? The blackmail. This hardly seems like a

case for the FBI." Tyrone was baiting the hook. See if the fish

is real.

"None, not yet. But that's not the point. What they sent me

were copies, yet they looked more like the originals, of informa-

tion that would negatively affect my company. It's the sort of

information that we would not want made public. If you know what

I mean."

Tyrone thought, you bet I know. You're up to and you want us to

protect you. Fat chance. "I know what you mean," he agreed.

"I need to stop it. Before it's too late?"

"Too late?" asked Duncan.

"Too late. Before it gets out."

"What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?" Duncan stared right into and beyond

Dobbs' eyes.

"Secrets. Just secrets." Dobbs paused to recompose himself.

"Isn't there a law . . .?"

"Yes, there is Mr. Dobbs. And if what you say is true, you are

entitled to protection." Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more.

"Even if the information is illegal in nature." Wait for the

fish to bite.

"I grant you I'm no Mother Teresa. I'm a businessman, and I have

to make money for my investors. But in the files that I received

were exact copies of my personal files that no one, and I mean

no one has access to. They were my own notes, ideas in progress.

Nothing concrete, just work in progress. But someone, somehow

has gotten a hold of it all. And, by my thinking, there's no way

to have gotten it without first killing me, and I'm here. So how

did they get it? That's what I need to know." Dobbs paused.

"And then, I need to stop them." His soliloquy was over.

"Who else is affected?" Duncan asked. The question made Dobbs

pause too obviously. The answer was clear. Dobbs wasn't alone.

"I only speak for myself. No one else." Dobbs rose from the

chair. "It's eminently clear. There's not a damned thing you can

do. Good day." Dobbs left the room abruptly leaving Tyrone with

plenty of time to think.

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