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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"What the hell is ECCO?" Tyrone asked again.

"ECCO stands for Emergency Computer Crisis Organization. It's a
computer crisis team that responds to . . .well I guess, comput-
er crises." Bob opened the folder again. "It was formed during
the, and I quote, ' . . .the panic that followed the first INTER-
NET Worm in November of 1988.'"

Tyrone's mouth hung open. "What panic?"

"The one that was kept under absolute wraps," Bob said, slightly
lowering his voice. "At first no one knew what the INTERNET
event was about. Who was behind it. Why and how it was happen-
ing. Imagine 10's of thousands of computers stopping all at
once. It scared the shit out of the National Security Council,
remember we and the Russians weren't quite friends then, and we
thought that military secrets were being funneled straight to the
Kremlin. You can't believe some of the contingency plans I heard
about."

"I had no idea . . ."

"You weren't supposed to," Bob added. "Very few did. At any
rate, right afterward DARPA established CERT, the Computer Emer-
gency Response Team at Carnegie Mellon, and DCA set up a Security
Coordination Center at SRI International to investigate problems
in the Defense Data Network. Livermore and the DOE got into the
act with Computer Incident Advisory Capability. Then someone
decided that the bureaucracy was still too light and it deserved
at least a fourth redundant, overlapping and rival group to
investigate on behalf of Law Enforcement Agencies. So, there we
have ECCO."

"So what's the deal?" asked Tyrone. "What do I have to do?"

"The Director has asked ECCO to investigate the latest round of
viruses and the infiltration of a dozen or so sensitive and
classified computers." Bob watched for Ty's reaction, but saw
none yet. He wondered how he would take the news. "This time, we
would like to be involved in the entire operation from start to
finish. Make sure the investigation is done right. We'd like to
start nailing some of the bastards on the Federal level. Besides
you have the legal background and we are treading on some very
new and untested waters."

"I can imagine. So what's our role?"

"Your role," Bob emphasized 'your', "will be to liaison with the
other interested agencies."

"Who else is playing?" asked Tyrone with trepidation.

"Uh, that is the one negative," stammered Bob. "You've got NSA,
CIA, NIST, the NSC, the JCS and a bunch of others that don't
matter. The only rough spot is the NSA/NIST connection. Every-
one else is there just to make sure they don't miss anything."

"What's their problem?"

"Haven't heard, huh?" laughed Bob. "The press hasn't been kind.
They've been in such a pissing match for so long that computer
security work came to a virtual halt and I don't want to spoil
the surprise, ah, you'll see," he added chuckling.

Tyrone sat back in the chair as he was cool enough now not to
stick to it, closed his eyes and rotated his head to work out the
kinks. Bob never had gotten used to Tyrone's peculiar method of
deep thought; he found it most unnerving.

Bob's intents were crystal clear, not that Tyrone minded. He
had no desire to move to D.C.; indeed he would have quit instead.
He wanted to stay with the Bureau and the action but in his
comfortable New York existence. Otherwise, no. But, if he could
get Bob off his back by this one favor. Sure it might not be
real action, watching computer jockies play with
themselves . . .but it might be an interesting change in pace.

"Yes, under a couple of condition." Tyrone was suddenly a little
too agreeable and smug after his earlier hesitancy.

"Conditions? What conditions?" Bob's suspicion was clear.

"One. I do it my way, with no, and I mean, absolutely no inter-
ference." Duncan awaited a reply to his first demand.

"What else?"

"I get to use who I want to use, inside or outside the Bureau."

"Outside? Outside? We can't let this outside. The last thing
in the world we want is publicity."

"You're gonna get it anyway. Let's do it right this time."

"What do you mean by that?" Bob asked somewhat defensively.

"What I mean is," Tyrone spoke up, sounding confident, "that the
press are already on this computer virus thing and hackers and
all. So, let's not advertise it, but when it comes up, let's
deal with it honest."

"No way," blurted out Bob. "They'll make it worse than it is."

"I have that covered. A friend of my works for a paper, and he
is a potential asset."

"What's the trade?"

"Not much. Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair."

"Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty.

"One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter. "After this
one, you promise to let me alone and work my golden years, the
way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement."

"I don't know if I can . . ."

"Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone. "I'll just quit." It was
the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance.

"Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ."

"Isn't that what you're doing to me?" Touch<130>!

Bob sat back in thought. To an event, Duncan had been right on.
He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of a
crime where all others had failed. And, he always put the Bureau
in the best possible light. If he didn't go with him now, lose
him for sure.

"And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a
mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of
information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a
bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their
ground.

"Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion.
Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know."

"You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?"

I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet.
Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in
the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob
had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what
you do," Bob resigned.

"One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.

"What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.

"It happens out of New York, not here."

"But . . ."

"No buts. Period."

"Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?"

"Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?"

"Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.

* * * * *

From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his
home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after
several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter
belts at Camelot.

"RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone.

"Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors."

"Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom-
ber . . ."

"C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."

Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner
rerun. This better be good."

"We need to talk."

* * * * *

Thursday, October 15
Washington, D.C.

The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front
that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change
from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of
lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles
reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony
after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water-
bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum
pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a
periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of
Miles' sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl
friend, but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that she re-
ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested
in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there
were any digressions in Miles mission.

They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The
afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from
it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her
firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her
legs. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She
enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but
the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici-
tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further
their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even
let her spend the night upon occasion.

At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac,
Miles' phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky's
annoyance.

"Aren't you going to answer?" Her unspoken thoughts said, do
whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.

"Expecting a call?" Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey-
ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.

"Miles, at least get a machine." The phone rang a seventh time.

"Fuck." He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him
as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through
the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the
8th ring.

"It's late," he answered. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude
was evident.

"Mr. Foster, I am most displeased." It was Homosoto. Miles
curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony
vantage.

Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?" Miles
was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

"Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?" Homosoto was
controlled but forthright.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Miles sipped loudly from
the brandy glass.

"I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole
world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought
we had an understanding."

"Hey!" Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get
off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head up
your ass."

"Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a
motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement."
Homosoto was insistent.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Miles was adamant.

"Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with
great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe
you have made a great error in judgment."

Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something
to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.

"Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was
not to occur until next year?"

"Yeah," Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and
look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and
made an obscene motion near his crotch.

"Then, what is this premature event?" Homosoto persisted.

"Not mine." Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly
licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

"Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-
ble."

"Tough shit."

"Excuse me?" Homosoto was taken aback.

"Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only
person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer
programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its
logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This
one's not mine nor yours. It's someone elses."

The phone was silent for a few seconds. "You are saying there
are others?" The childlike naivete was coming through over
12,000 miles of phone wire.

"Of course there are. This will probably help us."

"How do you mean?"

"There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the
ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their
egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all
have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.
So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have
nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call
every time you hear of one. You know our dates. "

"Is there no chance for error?"

"Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs.
Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and
probably won't until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not
ready." Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding
session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

"I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with."

"Our plans," Miles corrected. "my ass is on the line, too. I
don't need you freaking every time the press reports a computer
going on the fritz. It's gonna happen a lot."

"What will happen, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto was able to convey
disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

"We've been through this before."

"Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where
he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here Homo,"
Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been
become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the
stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're
not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost
every local area network in the country is infected with a virus
of one type or another. Did you know that?"

"No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" Homosoto
sounded unconvinced.

"It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"

"Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for
me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles
found unsettling.

"For now, I do."

"You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.
Foster? You have much to lose."

Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim-
ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."

"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.
He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled
mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder
things to concern him.

* * * * *

October 31, 1989
Falls Church, Virginia.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank
did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer
Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?"
he said with disdain.

"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running
a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they
balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every-
thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're
missing a quarter billion dollars."

"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,
son."

"I wish I did," Porter sighed.

"All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew
that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss-
ing.

"It's just as I told you."

"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

"Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

"Of course I know."

"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account
and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it
belongs. We do that because . . ."

"I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold
for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay
out."

"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

"I'm sorry sir."

"As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the
psychological stress to his underling.

"When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty.
That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

"We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to
hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what
happened."

"Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up
Porter?" Templeton demanded.

"Yessir."

"How long?"

"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

"Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would-
n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he
wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee.
Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.

"You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them
yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in
disgust. It was not going to be a good day.

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

Chapter 11

Wednesday, November 4
The Stock Exchange, New York

Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night
population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance
people. Tightly packed skyscrapers with their lighted windows
create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and
hover ominously over dimly lit streets.

Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four
to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in
lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the
ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever
happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.

They were responsible for the 17th. and 18th. floors which had a
sole entrance and exit; controlled access. This was where the
central computers for the Stock Exchange tried to maintain sanity
in the market. The abuses of computer trading resulting in the
minicrash of 1987 forced a re-examination of the practice and the
subsequent installation of computer brakes to dampen severe
market fluctuations.

Hundreds of millions of shares exchanged every day are recorded
in the computers as are the international, futures and commodi-
ties trades. The dossiers on thousands upon thousands of compa-
nies stored in the memory banks and extensive libraries were used
to track investors, ownership, offerings, filings and provide
required information to the government.

Tony sat at the front guard desk while Joe made the next hourly
check through the offices and computer rooms. Joe strolled down
the halls, brilliantly lit from recessed ceiling fixtures. The
corridor walls were all solid glass, giving the impression of
more openness than was really provided by the windowless, climate
controlled, 40% sterile environment. There was no privacy
working in the computer rooms.

The temperature and humidity were optimized; the electricity
content of air was neutralized both electrostatically and by
nuclear ionization, and the air cycled and purified once an hour.
In the event of a catastrophic power failure, which is not un-
known in New York, almost 10,000 square feet was dedicated to
power redundancy and battery backup. In case of fire, heat
sensors trigger the release of halon gas and suck all of the
oxygen from the room in seconds. The Stock Exchange computers
received the best care.

Joe tested the handle on the door of each darkened room through
the myriad glass hallways. Without the computers behind the
glass walls, it might as well have been a House of Mirrors. He
noticed that the computer operators who work through the night
were crowded together at the end of a hall next to the only
computer rooms with activity. He heard them muttering about the
cleaning staff.

"Hey guys, problem?" Joe asked.

"Nah, we escaped," a young bearded man in a white lab coat said
pointing into the room. "His vacuum cleaner made one God awful
noise, so we came out here til' he was done."

"New cleaning service," Joe said offhandedly.

The dark complexioned cleaning man wore a starchy white uniform
with Mohammed's Cleaning Service emblazoned across the back in
bold red letters. They watched him, rather than clean the room,
fiddle with the large barrel sized vacuum cleaner.

"What's he doing?"

"Fixing that noise, I hope."

"What's he doing now?"

"He's looking at us and, saying something . . ."

"It looks like he's praying . . ."

"Why the hell would he . . ."

The entire 46 story building instantly went dark and the force of
the explosion rocked Tony from his seat fifty yards away. He
reached for the flashlight on his belt and pressed a series of
alarms on the control panel even though the video monitors were
black and the emergency power had not come on. Nothing. He ran
towards the sound of the blast and yelled.

"Hello? Hey?" he yelled nervously into the darkness.

"Over here, hurry," a distant pained voice begged.

Tony slid into a wall and stopped. He pointed his flashlight down
one hall. Nothing.

"Over here."

He jumped sideways and pointed the beam onto a twisted maze of
bodies, some with blood geysering into the air from their necks
and arms and legs. Tony saw that the explosion had shattered the
glass walls into thousands of high velocity razor sharp projec-
tiles. The corpses had been pierced, stabbed, severed and muti-
lated by the deadly shards. Tony felt nauseous; he was going to
be sick right then.

"Tony." A shrapnelled Joe squeaked from the mass of torn flesh
ahead of him.

"Holy shit . . ." Tony's legs to turned to jelly as he bent over
and gagged.

"Help me!"

The force of the blast had destroyed the glass partitions as far
as his light beam would travel. He pointed the light into the
room that exploded. The computer equipment was in shambles, and
then he saw what was left of the cleaning man. His severed head
had no recognizable features and pieces of his body were strewn
about. Tony suddenly vomited onto the river of blood that was
flowing his way down the hallway.

"I gotta go get help," Tony said choking. He pushed against the
wall to give him the momentum to overcome the paralysis his body
felt and ran.

"No, help me . . ."

He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele-
vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console.
Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button.
Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun-
ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all.
Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.

Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.

* * * * *

"I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the
cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo-
tion at the Stock Exchange building.

"Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for
the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to
Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure,
I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until
Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer
isn't just for breakfast."

He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left
and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.

"Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going
in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course
after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused
again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."

Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that
sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print
maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all
well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted
news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to
readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.

That's why one of his police contacts called him to say that a
bunch of computer nerds were sliced to death. The Cheers rerun
was bringing him no pleasure, so sure, what the hell; it was a
nice night for a mutilation.

"It's getting mighty interesting, buddy boy," Ben said meeting
Scott as he stepped out of his filthy Red 911 in front of the
Stock Exchange an hour later. His press credentials performed
wonders at times. Like getting behind police lines and not
having to park ten blocks away.