Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

W >> Winn Schwartau >> Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in
abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the
impact resistant plastic cracked.

At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully
opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry.
What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a
great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her
drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked
with emotional distress.

"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the
arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out
the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.

"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"

"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me
advised . . ."

"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is
waiting. Should I get rid of him?"

"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"

"I don't know. He's from personnel."

"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"

"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next
week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of
an unnecessary burden that could wait.

"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."

"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about
30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was
applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He
looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than
a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he
grasped Pierre's hand.

"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why
don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat
opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr.
Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a
software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from
Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents
either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-
rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages
fluently . . ."

Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and
your clothes. What may I do for you."

"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"

* * * * *

The financial section of the New York City Times included two
pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents,
and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-
cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci-
dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have
earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.

The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on
the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true
loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max,
though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the
Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that
the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.

* * * * *

Wednesday, September 1
New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He
was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary
and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not
his strong point.

"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he
should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the
hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his
aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.

Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It
must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged
America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but
proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been
going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.

Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO
of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re-
porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary
easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.

"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like
to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott
sounded officious.

"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded
accommodating.

"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most
useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other
questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would
ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.

"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to
give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott
could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.

"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that
you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree
that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will
earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the
figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC.
Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory,
but it was difficult not to play the adversary.

Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at
the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that
information?"

"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his
King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.

"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with
the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else,
then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone
wires conveyed his agitation.

"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why
files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?"
Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.

"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer
figures?"

"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures
for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your
filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck
with the game plan.

"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ."
Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You
have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.

"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson
repeatedly denied any improprieties.

"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New
York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with
Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over
spending.

"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male
secretary matter of factly asked.

"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and
Credit Suisse."

"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.

"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott
commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from
the press.

"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak
on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up
the call. He was belligerent.

"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.

"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.

"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim-
idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave
away nervousness.

"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about
political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you
and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As
a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped
pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General
Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in
Geneva. Comments, Senator?"

Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal
composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan-
derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to
back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in
the Senator's voice.

"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"
Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.

"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper
right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"

"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that
would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.

Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he
continued to be amazed.

From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get
that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know
that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That
was in my private files . . ."

Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the
Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known
faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that
Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially
upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors
Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.

The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the
thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the
newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their
files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list.
Useless.

Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and
beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory
claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea-
sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked
that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.

Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in
which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received
the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.

Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was.
He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source,
with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed
that for the next time he got lawyered.

When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears
were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in
the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order.
Keep digging.

"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father
teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead-
line."

Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.

"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on
his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."

"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.

"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."

"Then say so. But say something."

****************************************************************

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.