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

does this stuff work?”

Duncan gave away his concern.

“According to my sources, with the proper gear, two or three

miles is not unreasonable. In New York, maybe only a half a

mile. Interference and steel buildings and all. Manhattan is a

magnetic sewer, as they say.”

“Shit, this could explain a lot.” The confident persona of the

FBI professional returned. “The marks all claim that there was

no way for the information to get out, yet it did. Scott, is it

possible that . . .how could one person get all this stuff? From

so many companies?” The pointed question was one of devil’s

advocacy.

“That’s the scary part, if I’m right. But this is where I need

your help.” Scott had given his part, now to complete the tale

he needed the cooperation of his friend. The story was improv-

ing.

“Jesus,” Duncan said quietly contemplating the implications.

“Most people believe that their computers are private. If they

knew that their inner most secrets were really being broadcast

for anyone to hear, it might change their behavior a little.”

Scott had had the time to think about the impact if this was made

public.

“No shit Sherlock. It makes me wonder who’s been listening in on

our computers all these years. Maybe that’s why our jobs seem to

get tougher every day.” Duncan snapped himself back from the

mental digression. “Where do you go from here?”

Scott was prepared. He had a final bombshell to lay on Duncan

before specifying his request. “There are a couple of things that

make me think. First, there is no way that only one guy could

put together the amount of information that I have. I’ve told

you how much there is. From all over the country. That suggests

a lot more than one person involved. I don’t know how many,

that’s your job.

“Two, these blackmail threats. Obviously whoever is reading the

computers, Van Ecking them is what I call it, has been sending

the information to someone else. Then they, in turn, call up

their targets and let them know that their secrets are no longer

so secret. Then three, they have been probably sending the

information to other people, on paper. Like me and the National

Expose. I have no idea if any others are receiving similar

packages. What I see here, is a coordinated effort to . . .”

Scott held Tyrone’s complete attention.

“You still haven’t told me what you need. Lay it on me, buddy.

There can’t be much more.”

“Doesn’t it make sense that if we had one van, and the equipment

inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are

other Van Eck vans out there? For an operation that’s this

large, there would have to be a back up, a contingency . . .”

The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.

“Shhhh . . .” Tyrone cautioned. “The trains have ears. I don’t

go for conspiracy theories, I never have. Right now all we have

is raw, uncorrelated data. No proof. Just circumstantial events

that may have nothing to do with each other . . .”

“Bullshit. Look at this.” Scott opened up his briefcase and

handed a file folder to Tyrone.

“What is it? Looks like a news story, that . . .uh . . .you

wrote and, it’s about some mergers. Big deal.” Duncan closed

the folder. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“This. Yes, I wrote the story. Two days ago. It hasn’t been

printed yet.” Scott took the folder back. “I found this copy in

the van that was wrecked two days ago. It was Van Eck’ed from my

computer the day I wrote it. They’ve been watching me and my

computer.”

“Now wait a second. There are a hundred possible answers. You

could have lost a copy or someone got it from your wastebasket.”

Duncan wasn’t convincing either to himself or to Scott. Scott

smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.

“You want to play?” Scott asked.

“I think I’d better. If this is for real, no one has any priva-

cy anymore.”

“I know I don’t.”

Chapter 14 Sunday, November 29 Columbia University, New York

The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In

contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch’s infinite wisdom, had

put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the

McDonalds’ window prominent.

Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba-

cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as

much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great

War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in

the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan,

3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to

his computer that was always on.

C:cd protalk

C:PROTALKprotalk

He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk

communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no

stop bits.

<<<<<>>>>>

The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and

redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another

number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was

accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It

was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste

of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming

to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to

life and displayed

PASSWORD:

Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.

CRYPT KEY:

He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the

privacy of his conversations.

<<<<<>>>>>

That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be

there to answer.

Good Morning. I have some news.

NEWS?

We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.

PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.

One of the readers is gone.

HOW? CAPTURED?

No, the Americans aren’t that smart. He died in a

car crash.

WILL THIS HURT US?

No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But

we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.

THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?

A martyr.

CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?

He had false identification. They will learn

nothing.

BE SURE THEY DON’T. DESTROY THE CAR.

They can learn nothing. Why?

IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US.

HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?

I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.

DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?

It would not matter if they did. They are loyal.

The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the

Americans who died eating their breakfasts.

GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.

It will be done.

<<<<<> Monday, November 30 New York City

The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and

the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a

deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard

the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the

firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost

the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three

or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc-

ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa’s vehicle was completely destroyed

as per Homosoto’s order. The explosion that had caused the fire

was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was

placed with that obscure fact.

Ben Shellhorne noticed, though. Wasn’t that the van that Scott

Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even

if on police property was not a particularly interesting story,

at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had

promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.

“Scott, remember that van?” Ben called Scott on the internal

office phones.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“It’s gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.

Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty

hot about seeing it .” Scott enjoyed Ben’s nonchalance. He

decided to play it cool.

“Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the

tubes.”

“Know whatcha mean.”

Scott called Tyrone at his office.

“4543.” Duncan answered obliquely.

“Just an anonymous call.” Scott didn’t disguise his voice. The

message would be obvious.

“So?”

“A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.

Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to

know.”

“Thanks.” The phone went dead.

Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound