Terminal Compromise Part 74

Chapter 16

Wednesday, December 9 New York

The late afternoon pace of the City Room at the Times tended to be chaotic. As deadlines approached and the paper was laid out for the printers, the flurry of activity was a.s.sociated with an increase in the loudness of the room. Scott Mason listened with one hand over his right ear and the phone so awkwardly pressed between his left ear and shoulder that his gla.s.ses sat askew on his face. Suddenly hanging up the phone, Scott sprung up shout- ing, "I got it." Several people stopped and stared in his direction, but seeing nothing of concern or interest to them, they returned to their own world.

Scott ripped a page from a notebook and ran into and around his co-workers. "Doug, I got it. Confirmed by the President."

"You're kidding me?" Doug stopped his red pencil mid-stroke.

"Give it to me from the top." He turned in his swivel chair to face Scott more directly.

"It goes like this. A few weeks ago Sovereign Bank in Atlanta found that someone had entered their central computers without permission." Scott perused his notes. "It didn't take long for them to find the intruder. He left a calling card. It said that the hackers had found a hole to crawl through undetected into their computers. Was the bank interested in knowing how it was done? They left a Compuserve Mail Box.

"As you can imagine the bank freaked out and told their computer people to fix whatever it was. They called in the FBI, that's from my contact, and went on an internal rampage. Those good ol'

boys don't trust n.o.body," Scott added sounding like a poor imita- tion of Andy from Mayberry.

"Anybody that could spell computer was suspect and they turned the place upside down. Found gra.s.s, cocaine, ludes, a couple of weapons and a lot of people got fired. But no state secrets.

You talk about a dictatorship," commented Scott on the side.

"There's no privacy at all. They scanned everyone's electronic mail boxes looking for clues and instead found them staring at invasion of privacy suits from employees and ex-employees who were fired because of the contents of their private mail.

"The computer jocks unplugged the computers, turned them inside out and screwed them back together. Nothing. They found nada.

So they tighten the reins and give away less pa.s.swords, to less people. That's all they figured they could do."

"This is where the fun starts." Scott actively gestured with his hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. "A few days later they discover another message in their computer. Says something like, 'sorry Charlie' or something to that effect. The hackers were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we'll show you how to sew up the holes."

"Well, what does that sound like to you?" Scott asked Doug.

"Extortion."

"Exactly, and ape-s.h.i.t doesn't begin to describe what the bank did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We'll pay you a million bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the deal."

"What happened?" Doug said with rapt attention.

"Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a hundred grand a year," Scott said choking with laughter on his words.

"You're kidding," exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.

"No s.h.i.t. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have a way to pay for a good college, they're bright little snots, and they get off. The bank figures it's making an investment in the future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up to the problems they could face if their computers did go down for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic attack in any bank exec. They'd rather deal with the kids.

"In fact, they're turning it into a public relations coup. Dig this," Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. "The bank realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you're guarding billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The Safest Your Money Can Be."

"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun, human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral.

Confirmed?"

"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."

"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"

"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."

"How fast do you type?"

"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"

"You got 40 minutes to deadline."

Friday, December 11 Washington, D.C.

Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu- rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he had to work during his a.s.sociation with h.o.m.osoto were irritating and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki- ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work- ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his social responsibilities to the women.

The master plan Miles had designed years ago for h.o.m.osoto was now calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all, thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro- grammers, the Freedom League BBS's and the infectors. Too much had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no pulling back.

Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed.

The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help- lessness - a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just the way h.o.m.osoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.

Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that h.o.m.osoto felt toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial- ly when he and h.o.m.osoto were at odds over any particular subject, Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.

"You're just p.i.s.sed off 'cause we nuked your family." It was meant to sting and h.o.m.osoto's reactions were unpredictable.

Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare.

Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.

But at the bottom of it, h.o.m.osoto kept a level head and showed he knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn't really care as long as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another, just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even at the highest level.

Only h.o.m.osoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it was right now, the job would be done.

Miles' ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter- minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over.

Next.

Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled Miles despite the fact that h.o.m.osoto called him almost every day to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.

This time is was Sovereign Bank. h.o.m.osoto had heard rumors that they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that some of Miles' techies had gone out on their own.

h.o.m.osoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla- nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn- ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.

The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than the state or federal legislatures could deal with them. But, as Miles continually rea.s.sured h.o.m.osoto, they were small timers with no heinous motivation. They were mostly kids who played chicken with computers instead of chasing cars or smoking crack. A far better alternative, Miles offered.

Just kids having a little fun with the country's most important computer systems. No big deal. Right? How anyone can leave the front door to their computer open, or with the keys lying around, was beyond him. f.u.c.king stupid.

His stream of consciousness was broken when his NipCom computer announced that h.o.m.osoto was calling. Again. s.h.i.t. I bet some high school kids changed their school grades and h.o.m.osoto thinks the Rosenburgs are behind it. Paranoid gook.

>>>>>

MR FOSTER

That's me. What's wrong.

NOTHING. ALL IS WELL.