Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

working to see if dGraph really

is infected.” Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the

implications.

“What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?” She thirsted for more hard

information.

“I’m no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I’m not stupid

either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have

been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess

is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones

that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies.” Nancy main-

tained rapt attention as Scott continued . “Therefore, I would

venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect-

ed.”

Scott paused as Nancy’s eyes widened.

“Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another

according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to

assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is

getting ready to self destruct.” Scott sounded certain and

final.

“I can’t comprehend this, this is too incredible.” Senator Deere

shook her head in disbelief. “What will happen?”

“Pierre doesn’t know what the viruses do, he’s not a programmer.

He’s just a figurehead,” Scott explained. “Now, if I had to

guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep

those viruses from exploding.”

“One man’s word is an indictment, not a conviction,” Nancy said

soberly.

“There’s more,” Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott.

“We’ve learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it

begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to

make sense of it all.” He slid forward in his chair. “We know

that Scott’s hacker’s name is Miles Foster and he’s tied up with

the Amsterdam group, but we don’t how yet. We also know that he

is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the

Fort.” Nancy understood the implication.

“When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone-

walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now

they’re retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

Tyrone shook his head in frustration. “It doesn’t make any

sense.”

“At any rate,” Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, “I

checked into his background since he left the Agency in ‘87. He

went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit.” Nancy

Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker

face. “We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna-

tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has

been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show

no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody’s

guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a

Tokyo travel agency, but we can’t determine who paid for them.”

“Seventeen times?” asked the Senator.

“Yes ma’am. Curious.”

“How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?”

she asked dubiously.

“We have our means. I can’t get into that now.” Tyrone held the

party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI

could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In

fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to

hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications

Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on

any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel,

credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power,

entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants

unconscionable.

“I have no doubt,” she said caustically.

“There’s more.” Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which

impressed Nancy. “The case concerning Max Jones’ death is being

reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county

was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in

making his predecessor look bad.” Tyrone spoke without the

emotion that drove Scott.

“So what does this prove?” she asked.

“It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones

died.”

Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which

only provided a view of another office building across the

street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as

she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.

“Senator,” Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General

Young: GOVT-108. “I was wondering if this might have any bearing

on the tone of the hearings? It’s pretty obvious that you and

Rickfield don’t see eye to eye.”

Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott’s eyes, looking for

ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that

described the illicit relationship between General Young and

Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.

“Is this confirmed?” she asked quietly.

“No ma’am,” Scott said. “I read it this weekend and added up two

and two and, well, it does raise some questions.”

“I should say it does. Ones that I’m sure he will not be anxious

to answer.”

* 6 P.M., Washington, D.C.

“Who the hell are you pissing off and why?” Bob Burnson met

Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett’s Grill across the street from

Treasury at 6:00 PM.

Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and

reluctantly accepted that for Scott’s assistance in Tyrone’s

investigation he would get an exclusive.

For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew,

just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems.

“I’ve been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don’t

forget our midnight rendezvous.”

Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two

decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling

him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the

implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting

heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?

“What are you planning?” Bob asked them both.

“Scott’s going after Homosoto,” said Tyrone. “See if he can get

a few answers.”

“And,” Scott added, “the Max Jones angle. I’ll be on that, too.”

“Right. As for me?” Tyrone asked. “I sure would like to have a

chat with Mr. Foster. I can’t imagine that he’s squeaky clean.

There’s no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think

it’s about time to turn a few screws.”

“Ty,” Bob consoled, “whoever’s button you’re pushing has pushed

the Director’s, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink

on shit. And that’s exactly what this smells of. From a politi-

cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back

off.” Burnson gestured at Scott. “Then we’d have him doing the

work while our asses stay clean.” He referred to Scott. “A

perfect case of CYA.”

“But?” Tyrone suggested.

“But,” Bob said, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean

someone’s not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A

Government approved horse shit here, but I’ll be fucked if know

why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage

stuff.”

“They think it’s a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid

crimes,” Tyrone said defiantly.

“Unless,” Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen.

“Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could

they exert that kind of pressure?” He asked Bob.

“The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous

political strength. It’s possible,” Bob resigned. “Listen, I’ll

cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick

for my blood. I hope you understand.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks.”

Friday, January 15 New York City

Skyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making

the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until

10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours

for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters’s Dear

Abby for driver’s psychosis. His first live-report did not bode

well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough

commute.

He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed

that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one

at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to

pass on to his audience.

At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd.

Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West

Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th.

Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where

the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every

morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He

listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents

were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.