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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The van spun around again and crashed through a McDonald's window
into the dense breakfast crowds. As it crushed several patrons
into the counter, the van stopped, suddenly propelling the driver
through the windshield into the side of the yogurt machine. His
neck was broken instantly.

Getting emergency vehicles to Times Square during the A.M. rush
hour is in itself a lesson in futility. Given that 17 were
pronounced dead on the scene and another 50 or more were injured,
the task this Monday morning was damned near impossible.

City-ites come together in a crisis, and until enough paramedics
arrived, people from all walks of life tended to the wounded and
respectfully covered those beyond help. Executives in 3 piece
suits worked with 7th avenue delivery boys in harmony. Secre-
taries lay their expensive furs on the slushy street as pallets
for the victims.

It was over two hours before all the wounded were transferred to
local hospitals and the morgue was close to finishing its clean
up efforts. Lt. Mel Kavitz, 53rd. Precinct, Midtown South NYPD
made it to the scene as the more grisly pieces were put away. He
spoke to a couple of officers who had interviewed witnesses and
survivors. The media were already there adding to the frigid
chaos. Two of the local New York TV stations were broadcasting
live, searching out sound-bytes for the evening news and all 3
dailies had reporters looking for quotable quotes. Out of the
necessity created by such disasters, the police had developed
immunity to the media circus.

"That's it lieutenant. Seems the van made a screwball turn and
lost control." The young clean-shaven patrolman shrugged his
shoulders. Only 27, he had still been on the streets long enough
not to let much bother him.

"Who's the driver?" Lt. Kavitz scanned the scene.

"It's a foreign national, one . . .ah . . .Jesef Mumballa. Second
year engineering student at Columbia." The young cop looked down
and spoke quietly. "He didn't make it."

"I'm not surprised. Look at this mess." The Lieutenant took it
in stride. "Just what McDonalds needs. Another massacre. Any-
thing on him?" Kavitz asked half suspecting, half hoping.

"Clean. As clean as rag head can be."

"Ok, that's enough. What about the van?"

"The van?"

"The van!" Kavitz said pointedly at the patrolman. "The van!
What's in it? Has anybody looked?"

"Uh . . .no sir. We've been working with the injured . . .I'm
sure you . . ."

"Of course. I'm sorry." Kavitz waved off the explanation. "Must
have been pretty rough." He looked around and shook his head.
"Anything else officer?"

"No sir, that's about it. We still don't have an exact count
though."

"It'll come soon enough. Soon enough." Kavitz left the young
patrolman and walked into the bloodbath, pausing only briefly
before opening the driver's side door. "Let's see what's in this
thing."

* * * * *

"D'y'hear about the mess over at Times Square?" Ben Shellhorne
walked up to Scott Mason's desk at the City Times.

"Yeah, pretty gruesome. The Exchange . . .McDonald's. You
really scrape the bottom, don't you?" Scott grinned devilishly
at Ben.

"Maybe some guys do, not me." Ben sat down next to Scott's desk.
"But that's not the point. There's something else."

"What's that?" Scott turned to Ben.

"The van."

"The van?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, the van. The van that busted up the McBreakfast crowd."

"What about it?"

Ben hurried. "Well, it was some sort of high tech lab on wheels.
Computers and radios and stuff. Pretty wild."

"Why's that so unusual? Phone company, computer repair place,
EPA monitors, could be anything." Scott seemed disinterested.

"If that were true, you're right. But this was a private van,
and there's no indication of what company it worked for. And the
driver's dead. Personal ID only. No company, no numbers, no
nothing, except this."

He handed a sheaf of computer printouts to Scott. "Look
familiar?"

Scott took the papers and perused them. They were the same kind
that Scott had received from Vito, his unknown donor. These were
new documents as far as Scott could tell - he didn't recognize
them as part of his library. They only contained some stock tips
and insider trading information from a leading Wall Street bro-
kerage house. Pretty tame stuff.

"These," Scott pointed at the papers, "these were in the van?"

"That's what I said," Ben said triumphantly.

"How did you get them?" Scott pushed.

"I have a few friends on the force and, well, this is my beat you
know. Crime, disaster, murder, violence, crisis, death and de-
struction on the streets. Good promo stuff for the Big Apple."

"Are there any more?" Scott ignored Ben's self pity.

"My guy said there were so many that a few wouldn't make any
difference."

"Holy Christ!" Scott said aloud as he sat back in thought.

"What is it? Scott? Does this mean something?"

"Can I have these, Ben? Do you need them?"

"Nah! There's no blood on 'em? Not my kinda story. I just
remembered that secret papers and computers are your thing, so
they're yours." Ben stood up. "Just remember, next time you hear
about a serial killer, it's mine."

"Deal. And, hey, thanks a lot. Drinks on me." Scott caught Ben
before he left. "Ben, one more thing."

"Yeah?" Ben stopped.

"Can you get me into that van. Just to look around? Not to
touch, just to look?" Scott would have given himself a vasectomy
with a weed eater to have a look. This was his first solid lead
on the source of the mysterious and valuable documents that he
had stymied him for so long. He had been unable to publish
anything significant due to lack of confirming evidence. Any
lead was good lead, he thought.

"It may cost another favor, but sure what the fuck. I'll set it
up. Call you." Ben waved as he walked off leaving Scott to
ponder the latest developments.

* * * * *

The interior of the dark blue Ford Econoline van was not in bad
shape since the equipment was bolted into place. The exterior
though was thoroughly trashed, with too many blood stains for
Scott to stomach. It was a bad wreak, even for the Police Im-
pound.

While Ben kept his cooperative keeper of the peace occupied, he
signaled to Scott that he would only have a minute, so please,
make it quick.

Scott entered the van with all his senses peaked. He wanted to
take mental pictures and get as much detail as he could. Both
sides of the van contained steel shelving, with an array of
equipment bolted firmly in place. It was an odd assortment of
electronics, noticed Scott. There were 2 IBM personal computers
with large WYSIWYG monitors. What You See Is What You Get moni-
tors were generally used for intensive word processing or desktop
publishing. In a van? Odd.

A digital oscilloscope and waveform monitor were stacked over one
of the computers. Test equipment and no hand tools? No answer.
Over the other computer sat a small black and white television
and a larger color television monitor. Two cellular phones were
mounted behind the drivers seat. Strange combination. Then he
noticed what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, only 8 or
so inches across. He recognized it as a parabolic microphone.
Aha! That's it. Some sort of spy type surveillance vehicle.
Tracking drug dealers and assorted low lifes. But, a privately
registered vehicle, no sign of any official affiliations to known
enforcement agencies?

Scott felt his minute was gone in a only few seconds.

"Well, you find what you're looking for?" Ben asked Scott after
they had left the police garage grounds overlooking the Hudson
River.

Scott looked puzzled. "It's more like by not finding anything I
eliminated what it's not."

Ben scowled. "Hey riddle man, back to earth. Was it a waste or
what?"

"Far from it." Scott's far away glaze disappeared as his personal
Eureka! set in. "I think I may have stumbled, sorry, you, stum-
bled onto to something that will begin to put several pieces in
place for me. And if I'm right, even a little bit right, holy
shit. I mean, hoooolly shit."

"Clue me in, man. What's the skinny. You got Pulitzer eyes."
Ben tried to keep up with Scott as their pace quickened.

"I gotta make one phone call, for a confirmation. And, if it's a
yes, then I got, I mean we got one fuckuva story."

"No, it's yours man, yours. Just let me keep the blood and guts.
Besides, I don't even know what you're talking about, you ain't
said shit. Keep it. Just keep your promise on the drinks. Ok?"

Scott arrived at Grand Central as the huge clock oppose the giant
Kodak photograph struck four o'clock. He proceeded to track
twenty two where the four-thirteen to Scarsdale and White Plains
was waiting. He walked down to the third car and took a seat
that would only hold two. He was saving it for Ty.

Tyrone Duncan hopped on the crowded train seconds before it left
the station. He dashed down the aisle of the crowded car. There
was only one empty seat. Next to Scott Mason. Scott's rushed
call gave Ty an excuse to leave work early. It had been one of
those days. Ty collapsed in a sweat on the seat next to Scott.

"Didn't your mother tell you it's not polite to keep people
waiting?" Scott made fun of Tyrone.

"Didn't your mama tell you not to irritate crazy overworked black
dudes who carry a gun?"

Scott took the hint. It was safest to ignore Ty's diatribe
completely. "I think I got it figured out. Thought you might be
interested." Scott teased Duncan.

Tyrone turned his head away from Scott. "If you do, I'll kiss
your bare ass on Broadway. We don't have shit." He sounded
disgusted with the performance of his bureau.

Scott puffed up a bit before answering. The pride did not go
unnoticed by Duncan. "I figured out how these guys, these black-
mailers, whoever they are, get their information." Scott paused
for effect which was not lost on Duncan.

"I don't care anymore. I've been pulled from the case," Tyrone
said sounding exhausted.

"Well," Scott smirked. "I think you just might care, anyway."

Tyrone felt himself Scott putting him into a trap. "What have
you got?"

Scott relished the moment. The answer was so simple. He saw the
anticipation in Tyrone's face, but they had become friends and
didn't feel right about prolonging the tension. "Van Eck."

Duncan was expecting more than a two word answer that was abso-
lutely meaningless to him. "What? What is Van Eck? The ex-
pressway?" He said referring to the New York Expressway that had
been a 14 mile line traffic jam since it opened some 40 years
ago.

"Not Van Wyck, Van Eck. Van Eck Radiation. That's how they get
the information."

Duncan was no engineer, and he knew that Scott was proficient in
the discipline. He was sure he had an education coming. "For us
feeble minded simpletons, would you mind explaining? I know
about Van Allen radiation belts, nuclear radiation . . .but ok, I
give. What's this Van Eck?"

Scott had not meant to humble Tyrone that much. "Sorry. It's a
pretty arcane branch of engineering, even for techy types. How
much do you know about computers? Electronics?"

"Enough to get into trouble. I can wire a stereo and I know how
to use the computers at the Bureau, but that's about it. Never
bothered to get inside those monsters. Consider me an idiot."

"Never, just a novice. It's lecture time. Computers, I mean
PC's, the kind on your desk and at home are electronic devices,
that's no great revelation. As you may know, radio waves are
caused by the motion of electrons, current, down a wire. Ever
heard or seen interference on your TV?"

"Sure. We've been down this road before, with your EMP-T bombs."
Tyrone cringed at the lecture he had received on secret defense
projects.

"Exactly. Interference is caused by other electrical devices
that are running near the radio or TV. Essentially, everything
that runs on electricity emanates a field of energy, an electro-
magnetic field. Well, in TV and radio, an antenna is stuck up in
the air to pick up or 'hear' the radio waves. You simply tune it
in to the frequency you want to listen to."

"I know, like on my car radio. Those are preset, though."

"Doesn't matter. They still pick the frequency you want to
listen to. Can you just hold that thought and accept it at face
value?" Scott followed his old teaching techniques. He wanted
to make sure that each and every step of his explanation was
clearly understood before going on to the next. Tyrone acknowl-
edged that while he wasn't an electronic engineer, he wasn't
stupid either.

"Good. Well computers are the same. They radiate an electromag-
netic field when they're in use. If the power is off then
there's no radiation. Inside the computer there are so many
radiated fields that it looks like garbage, pure noise to an
antenna. Filtering out the information is a bitch. But, you can
easily tune into a monitor."

"Monitors. You mean computer screens?" Tyrone wanted to clarify
his understanding.

"Monitors, CRT's, screens, cathode ray tubes, whatever you want
to call them. The inside of most monitors is just like televi-
sion sets. There is an electron beam that writes to the surface
of the screen, the phosphor coated one. That's what makes the
picture."

"That's how a TV works? I always wondered." Duncan was only half
kidding.

"So, the phosphor coating gets hit with a strong electron beam,
full of high voltage energy, and the phosphor glows, just for a
few milliseconds. Then, the beam comes around again and either
turns it on or leaves it off, depending upon what the picture is
supposed to show. Make sense?"

"That's why you can go frame to frame on a VCR, isn't it? Every
second there are actually lots of still pictures that change so
quickly that the eye is fooled into thinking it's watching mo-
tion. Really, it's a whole set of photographed being flipped
through quickly." Duncan picked up the essentials on the first
pass. Scott was visibly impressed.

"Bingo! So this beam is directed around the surface of the screen
about 60 times every second."

"What moves the beam?" Duncan was following closely.

"You are one perceptive pain in the butt, aren't you? You nailed
it right on the head." Scott enjoyed working with bright stu-
dents. Duncan's smile made his pudgy face appear larger than it
was. "Inside the monitor are what is called deflection coils.
Deflection coils are magnets that tell the beam where to strike
the screen's surface. One magnet moves the beam horizontally
across the screen from left to right, and the other magnet, the
vertical one, moves the beam from the top to the bottom. Same
way as in a TV." Scott paused for a moment. He had given simi-
lar descriptions before, and he found it useful to let is audi-
ence have time to create a mental image.

"Sure, that makes sense. So what about this radiation?" Duncan
impatiently asked. He wanted to understand the full picture.

"Well, magnets concentrate lots of electrical energy in a small
place, so they create more intense, or stronger magnetic fields.
Electromagnetic radiation if you will. In this case, the radia-
tion from a computer monitor is called Van Eck radiation, named
after the Dutch electrical engineer who described the phenomena."
Scott sounded pleased with his Radiation 101 course brief.

Tyrone wasn't satisfied though. "So how does that explain the
blackmail and the infamous papers you have? And why do I care? I
don't get it." The confused look on Tyrone's face told Scott he
hadn't successfully tutored his FBI friend.

"It's just like a radio station. A computer monitor puts out a
distinctive pattern of radio waves from the coils and pixel
radiations from the screen itself, at a comparatively high power.
So, with a little radio tuner, you can pick up the signals on the
computer screen and read them for yourself. It's the equivalent
of eavesdropping on a computer."

The stunned grimace on Duncan's face was all Scott needed to see
to realize that he now had communicated the gist of the technolo-
gy to him.

"Are you telling me," Tyrone searched for the words and spoke
slowly, "that a computer broadcasts what's going on inside it?
That anyone can read anyone else's computer?"

"In a sense yes."

Tyrone looked out the window as they passed through Yonkers, New
York. He whistled quietly to himself.

"How did you find out? Where did you . . .?" The questions
spewed forth.

"There was a wreak, midtown, and there was a bunch of equipment
in it. Then I checked it out with a couple of . . .engineer
friends who are more up on this than I am. They confirmed it."

"This stuff was in a van? How far away 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:\PROTALK\protalk

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.