Terminal Compromise Part 82

Tuesday, December 29 Washington, D.C.

"Why the h.e.l.l do I have to find out what's going on in the world from the G.o.dd.a.m.ned papers and CNN instead of from the finest intelligence services in the world?" The President snapped sarcastically while sipping black coffee over his daily collec- tion of U.S. and foreign papers.

The early morning ritual of coffee, newspapers and a briefing by Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave provided the day with a smooth start. Usually.

"I've been asking for weeks about this computer craziness. All I get is don't worry, Mr. President," he said mimicking the cla.s.sic excuses he was sick and tired of hearing. "We have it taken care of, Mr. President. No concern of yours, Mr. President, we have everything under control. We temporarily have our thumbs up our a.s.ses, Mr. President." Phil stifled a giggle behind his napkin.

"I'm sorry, Phil," the President continued, "but it irritates the s.h.i.t out of me. The d.a.m.n media knowing more about what's hap- pening than we do. Where the h.e.l.l is that report I asked for?

The one on the bank hostage I've been requesting for a week?"

The President's mood portended a rough day for the inner circle.

"Sir, as I understand, it wasn't ready for your desk yet."

"Do the G.o.dd.a.m.ned missiles have to land on the White House lawn before we verify it's not one of our own?"

Phil knew better than to attempt any dissuasion when the Presi- dent got into these moods. He took notes, and with luck it would blow over in a couple of days. Today was not Phil's lucky day.

"I want a briefing. Two Hours."

"Gentlemen," the President said from behind his desk in the oval office, "I'd like to read you something I had Brian put togeth- er." The efficiency of the White House Press Office under the leadership of Brian Packard was well known. The President had the best rapport with the press that any President had in a generation.

He slipped on his aviator style gla.s.ses and pulled the lobe of his left ear while reading from his desk. "Let's start here.

Phone Company Invaded by Hackers; Stock Exchange Halted by Gov- ernment Bomb; Computer Crime Costs Nation $12 Billion Annually; Viruses Stop Network; Banks Lose Millions to Computer Embez- zlers; Trojan Horse Defeats Government Computers; NASA Spending Millions On Free Calls for Hackers." He looked for a reaction from his four key a.s.sociates: Phil, Quinton Chambers, Martin Royce and Henry Kennedy. "If you don't know, these are headlines from newspapers and magazines across the country."

The President read further from his notes. "Viruses Infect Trans-Insurance Payments; Secret Service Computers Invaded; NSA and NIST in Security Rift; FBI Wasting Millions on Computer Blackmail Scheme; First National Bank Held Hostage; Sperm Bank Computer Records Erased; IRS Returns of the Super Rich." The President removed his gla.s.ses wanting answers.

"What is going on here, gentlemen?" the President asked directly.

"I am baffled that everyone else but me seems to know there's a problem, and that p.i.s.ses me off. Answers?"

He wondered who would be the first to speak up. Surprisingly, it was Henry, who normally waited to speak last. "Sir, we have active programs in place to protect cla.s.sified computer systems."

"Then what are these about?" He waved a couple of sheets of paper in the air.

"Of course we haven't fully implemented security everywhere yet, but it is an ongoing concern. According to NSA, the rash of recent computer events are a combination of anomalies and the press blowing it all out of proportion."

"Do you believe Henry," the President asked, "that if there's smoke, a reasonable man will a.s.sume that there is a fire nearby?"

Henry nodded obligingly. "And what would you think if there were a hundred plumes of smoke rising?"

Henry felt stumped. "Jacobs a.s.sured me that he had everything under control and . . ."

"As I recall Henry," the President interrupted, "you told me that a couple of months ago when the papers found out about the EMP-T bombs. Do you recall, Henry?"

"Yessir," he answered meekly.

"Then what happened?"

"We have to rely on available information, and as far as we know, as far as we're being told, these are very minor events that have been sensationalized by the media."

"It says here," the President again donned his gla.s.ses, "Defense Contractors Live with Hackers; Stealth Program Uncovered in Defense Department Computers; Social Security Computers At Risk.

Are those minor events?" He pointed the question at not only Henry.

"There was no significant loss of information," Coletree rapidly said. "We sewed up the holes before we were severely compro- mised."

"Wonderful," the President said sarcastically. "And what ever happened to that bank in Atlanta? Hiring Those kids?"

"If I may, sir?" Phil Musgrave filled the silence. "That was a private concern, and we had no place to interfere - as is true in most of these cases. We can only react if government property is affected."

"What is being done about it? Now I mean."

"We have activated CERT and ECCO, independent computer crime units to study the problem further." As usual, Phil was impecca- bly informed. "Last years the Secret Service and FBI arrested over 70 people accused of computer crimes. The state of Pennsyl- vania over 500, California 300. Remember, sir, computer crimes are generally the states' problems."

"I'm wondering if it shouldn't be our problem, too," the Presi- dent pondered.

"There are steps in that direction, as well. Next week the Senate hearings on Privacy and Technology Containment begin, and as I understand it, they will be focusing on exactly this issue."

"Who's running the show?" the President asked with interest.

"Ah," Phil said ripping through his notes, "Rickfield, sir."

"That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have ended up with Homer Simpson." The easing of tension worked to the President's advantage, for a brief moment. "I want the whole picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me." He scanned his private appointment book. "Two weeks. Is that long enough to find out why I'm always the last to know?"

Wednesday, December 30 New York

"Scott Mason," Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.

"Scott? It's Tyrone." Tyrone's voice was quiet, just about a whisper.

"Oh, hi." Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully trying not to sound angry.

Other than following Scott's articles in the paper, they had had no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally obligated, so he thought, to cut off their a.s.sociation after Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that the gentleman's agreement of off-the-record didn't carry weight in their venue.

"How have you been?" Tyrone said cordially. "Good bit of work you been doing."

"Yeah, thanks, thanks," Scott said stiffly.

Tyrone had already determined that he needed Scott if his own agency wouldn't help him. At least Scott wasn't bound by idiotic governmental regulations that stifled rather than helped the cause. Maybe there was hope for cooperation yet, if his little faux pas could be forgiven.

"We need to talk. I've been meaning to call you." Though Tyrone meant it, Scott thought it was a pile of warmed up FBI s.h.i.t.

"Sure, let's talk." Scott's apparent indifference bothered Tyrone.

"Scott, I mean it," he said sincerely. "I have an apology to make, and I want to do it in person. Also, I think that we both need each other . . .you'll understand when I tell you what's been going on." Tyrone's deep baritone voice conveyed honesty and a little bit of urgency. If nothing else, he had never known or had any reason to suspect Tyrone of purposely misleading or lying to him. And their friendship had been a good one. Plus, the tease of a secret further enticed Scott into agreeing.

"Yeah, what the h.e.l.l. It's Christmas." Scott's aloofness came across as phony, but Tyrone understood the awkwardness and let it pa.s.s.

"How 'bout we meet at The Oyster Bar, Grand Central, and get s.h.i.t faced. Merry Christmas from the Bureau."