Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53

"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal
office phones.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.
Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty
hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He
decided to play it cool.

"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the
tubes."

"Know whatcha mean."

Scott called Tyrone at his office.

"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.

"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The
message would be obvious.

"So?"

"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.
Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to
know."

"Thanks." The phone went dead.

Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound
station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about,
many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.

With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate
forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what
was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid
of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine,
take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers
ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging
Feds.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's
National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express
by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo-
mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They
wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and
found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan
was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read
'Burnson'.

He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on
"P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse
looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent
Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not
only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he
worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far
from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.

An older, matronly lady answered the door.

"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few
accidental tourists who rang the bell.

"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri-
weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this
location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room,
where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double-
checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The
marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but
nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He
looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,
formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain
portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone
pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.

An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a
dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge
provided by the opened bookcase.

The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he
entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over-
sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The
room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a
Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz
cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was
simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript
modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black
trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit-
ted.

His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.
The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near
as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue
suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their
hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded
Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only
afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a
decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck
to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the
men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New
Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli-
tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to
secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.

"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous-
ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others
present.

"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He
had been ordered to this command performance.

"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our
CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson,
assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc-
torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on
Government time."

Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than
Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the
rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P
Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose
and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed
the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement
in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost
on time. Enough of the niceties.

"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you
were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat-
ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched
Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was
called down here, pronto. Since I'm here, my ass.

"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.

"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report."
Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you
fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact
with Duncan.

"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion
was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi-
bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced
computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.
A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my
report."

"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be
additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I
wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked
at the NSA man in deference.

"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned
spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically,
we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the
alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of
him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi-
viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to
the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.
Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received,
it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-
tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to
compromise computer privacy . . ."

"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt-
ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we
want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR
radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the
inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious
beginning of this evening.

"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.

"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"

"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago."
Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to
take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment
that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."

"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the
NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.

"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now
I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the
INTERNET problems."

The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA
shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.

"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-
al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.

Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I
would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then
there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure
you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan
tried to sound confident of his position.

"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I
will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited
for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a
sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the
common sense to censor himself effectively.

"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our
computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was
being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.

"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe
from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly.
Other than Bob, he was not with friends.

"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has
been classified for several years. We don't even admit that it
exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are
concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an
inventive imagination. Do you follow?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a
secret to too many people?"

"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest
Program?"

"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.

"Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of
Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has
been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate
information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated
equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're
doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a
radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed
what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their
signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could
listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer
was doing. Read classified information. I'm sure you see the
problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the
geniality test.

Duncan nodded in understanding.

"We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and
more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."

"What for?"

"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence
community. We listen to other people for a living."

"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn't
that illegal?" Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses
had totally gotten out of hand.

"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular
phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the
same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-
ly.

Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was
feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He
hated the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA. All in
the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I
would have thought this was pure science fiction."

"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to
protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is;
what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.

Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the
conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was
almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact
with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was
contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty
bureaucratic stuff.

"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll
submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.

"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke
up again. "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."

"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been
for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and
task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys
do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg
work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"

"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi-
nent. "The protection of classified information is their respon-
sibility. A group was created to report on computer security
problems that might have an effect on national security. On that
committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have
control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."

Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the
politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could
keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that
poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling
me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases
they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.

"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression
here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.
"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially
the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly
within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The
NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan
had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.

Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement
with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.

"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."

"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more
than the van.

Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him
that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found
out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an
order."

How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to
his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize
their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not
matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had
done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con-
versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It
really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.

"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it
worked."

The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed
astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For
a defense contractor?"

"No, he's also a reporter."

"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless-
ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut
told him otherwise.

"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott
could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if
all else failed.

"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his
chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."

* * * * *

Tuesday., December 1
New York City

The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott
Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to
the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was
interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk,
and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him
coming and was ready.

"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to
deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.

"What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story,
you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece
and then . . .this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's
face. "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this
'we didn't have the room' shit. You yourself thought we were
onto something bigger . . ."

Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the
9th floor, Scott was still in his face.

"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's
why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."

Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to
Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the
book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no
tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty
remark.

"Hey, you look like shit."

"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.

"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed
concern as well.

"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when
necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to
use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat - on
the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dishing out what he
thought about having a story pulled this way.

Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy
return before he started.

"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you
feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had
outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."

Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"

"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first
time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office
telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story.
I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired,
but real.

Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove
the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend-
ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.

"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very
tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print
Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining
order that we not print a story you had written. What should
they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told
him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester
and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court
orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal-
ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg-
edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of
some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.

"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can
assure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the
story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days
once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to
know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.

Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What
did the court order say?"

"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing
anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article.
Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti-
cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save
ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he
quickly added.

"How the hell did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately
blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He
knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. Tyrone must have gone
upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story
and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor-
ney General's office.

"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to
know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail.
And the tiger is in Washington. Seems like you've pissed off
some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are
you onto?"

"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before
9:00 AM. "Whatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed,
Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as
accurate as is expected in such cases.

"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash-
ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons.
Is any of this classified, Scott?"

"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up
against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple
of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security
stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth
Bomber."

"So why do they care?"

"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.

"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver-
sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .

"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret
weapons program," Scott began.

"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash,"
Higgins said dismissing the idea.

"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with
an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe
not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you
were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and Shithead
to build home versions of cruise missiles?"

"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched
his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"

Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that
Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this
is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."

"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know
what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see
if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck.
It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government
wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."

Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which
aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful
that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're
on, I guess.

"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from
Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's
private number.

"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.

"Fuck you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as
hard as he could.

Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be
sooner, so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to
wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He
was going to rob a bank.

* * * * *

Washington, D.C.

"I will call you in 5 minutes."

Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was
Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better
to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person. He didn't
have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on
and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the
ProTalk software package.

Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.

He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com-
puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched
the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly Homosoto.
Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was
really him and he waited for the first message.

WE NEED TO TALK.

That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.