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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"This is where the fun starts." Scott actively gestured with his
hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. "A few days later
they discover another message in their computer. Says something
like, 'sorry Charlie' or something to that effect. The hackers
were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to
the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we'll show
you how to sew up the holes."

"Well, what does that sound like to you?" Scott asked Doug.

"Extortion."

"Exactly, and ape-shit doesn't begin to describe what the bank
did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We'll pay you a million
bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the
machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the
deal."

"What happened?" Doug said with rapt attention.

"Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a
hundred grand a year," Scott said choking with laughter on his
words.

"You're kidding," exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.

"No shit. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have
a way to pay for a good college, they're bright little snots, and
they get off. The bank figures it's making an investment in the
future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up
to the problems they could face if their computers did go down
for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone
really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic
attack in any bank exec. They'd rather deal with the kids.

"In fact, they're turning it into a public relations coup. Dig
this," Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. "The bank
realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple
of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you're guarding
billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The
Safest Your Money Can Be."

"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun,
human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral.
Confirmed?"

"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow
and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."

"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"

"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer
capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair
coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."

"How fast do you type?"

"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"

"You got 40 minutes to deadline."

* * * * *

Friday, December 11
Washington, D.C.

Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu-
rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did
he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he
had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating
and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki-
ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work-
ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his
social responsibilities to the women.

The master plan Miles had designed years ago for Homosoto was now
calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all,
thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been
put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro-
grammers, the Freedom League BBS's and the infectors. Too much
had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no
pulling back.

Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed.
The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at
hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface
if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going
to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps
deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the
technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human
element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help-
lessness - a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going
to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just
the way Homosoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.

Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that Homosoto felt
toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial-
ly when he and Homosoto were at odds over any particular subject,
Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.

"You're just pissed off 'cause we nuked your family." It was
meant to sting and Homosoto's reactions were unpredictable.
Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his
office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture
ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare.
Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.

But at the bottom of it, Homosoto kept a level head and showed he
knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming
together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The
Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew
they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn't really care as long
as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed
them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another,
just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even
at the highest level.

Only Homosoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique
luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles
designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect
the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen
around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid
a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more
important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps
in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and
the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it
was right now, the job would be done.

Miles' ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter-
minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In
the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while
with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make
recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over.
Next.

Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant
long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in
control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed
with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled
Miles despite the fact that Homosoto called him almost every day
to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.

This time is was Sovereign Bank. Homosoto had heard rumors that
they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that
some of Miles' techies had gone out on their own.

Homosoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others
that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla-
nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn-
ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.

The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than
Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few
years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than the
state or federal legislatures could deal with them. But, as
Miles continually reassured Homosoto, they were small timers with
no heinous motivation. They were mostly kids who played chicken
with computers instead of chasing cars or smoking crack. A far
better alternative, Miles offered.

Just kids having a little fun with the country's most important
computer systems. No big deal. Right? How anyone can leave the
front door to their computer open, or with the keys lying around,
was beyond him. Fucking stupid.

His stream of consciousness was broken when his NipCom computer
announced that Homosoto was calling. Again. Shit. I bet some high
school kids changed their school grades and Homosoto thinks the
Rosenburgs are behind it. Paranoid gook.

<<<<<>>>>>

MR FOSTER

That's me. What's wrong.

NOTHING. ALL IS WELL.

That's a change. Nobody fucking with your Ninten-
do, huh?

YOUR HUMOR ESCAPES ME, AT TIMES

S'pozed 2

WHAT?

Never Mind. What do you need?

WE ARE CLOSE

I know.

OF COURSE YOU DO. A BRIEF REPORT PLEASE.

Sure. Freedom is doing better than expected. Over a million now,
maybe a million and a half. The majors are sick, real sick.
Alex has kept my staff full, and we're putting out dozens of
viruses a week. On schedule.

GOOD

I'm gonna be out for a few days. I'll call when I
get back.

SHOULDN'T YOU STAY WHERE YOU CAN BE REACHED?

I carry a portable. I will check my computer, as I always do.
You have never had trouble reaching me.

THAT IS TRUE. WHERE DO YOU GO?

Amsterdam.

HOLLAND? WHY?

A hackers conference. I need a break anyway, so I thought I
might as well make it a working vacation. The top hackers get
together and stroke themselves, but I could pick something up.
Useful to us.

DO BE CAREFUL, YOU ARE VALUABLE. NO ONE CAN KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

No one does. No one. I use my BBS alias. Spook.

* * * * *

San Francisco, California

Sir George Sterling checked his E-Mail for messages. There were
only 2, both from Alex. The one week holiday had been good for
Sir George. Well earned, he thought. In less than 3 months, he
had called over 1,700 people on the phone and let them in on his
little secrets, as he came to call them.

Every month Alex had forwarded money, regular like clockwork, and
Sir George had diligently followed instructions. To the letter.
Not so much in deference to the implicit threats issued him by
Alex, over computer and untraceable of course, but by the pros-
pect of continued income. He came to enjoy the work. Since he
was in America and his calls were to Americans, he had the oppor-
tunity to dazzle them with his proper and refined accent before
he let the hammer down with whatever tidbit of private informa-
tion he was told to share with them.

In the beginning Sir George had little idea of what the motiva-
tion behind his job was, and still, he wasn't completely sure.
He realized each call he made contained the undercurrent of a
threat. But he never threatened anyone, his instructions were
explicit; never threaten. So therefore, he reasoned, he must
actually be making threats, no matter how veiled.

He rather enjoyed it all. Not hurting people, that wasn't his
nature, but he savored impressing people with his knowledge and
noting their reactions for his daily reports back to Alex. In the
evenings Sir George searched out small American recreational
centers inaccurately referred to as pubs. In fact they were
disguised bars with darts and warm beer, but it gave Sir George
the chance to mingle and flash his assumed pedigree. When asked
what he did for a living, he truthfully said, "I talk to people."
About what? "Whatever interests them."

He became somewhat of a celebrated fixture at several 'pubs' in
Marin County where he found the atmosphere more to his liking; a
perfectly civilized provincial suburb of San Francisco where his
purchased affectations wore well on the locals who endlessly
commuted to their high tech jobs in Silicon Valley 40 miles to
the south.

Hawaii had been, as he said, "Quite the experience." Alex had
informed him one day that he was to take a holiday and return
ready for a new assignment, one to which now he was ideally
suited. Sir George smiled to himself. A job well done, and
additional rewards. That was a first for George Toft of dreary
Manchester, England.

Since he did not have a printer, there was no way he would jeop-
ardize his livelihood for a comfort so small, he read his E-Mail
by copying the messages into Word Perfect, and then reading them
at his leisure. All E-Mail was encrypted with the Public Private
RSA algorithm, so he had to manually decrypt the messages with
his private key and save them unencrypted. When he was done, he
erased the file completely, to keep anyone else from discovering
the nature of his work. Alex's first message was dated two days
before he returned from Hawaii. It was actually cordial, as far
as Alex could be considered cordial. After their first meeting
in Athens, Alex had taken on a succinct if not terse tone in all
communications.

Sir George:

Welcome back. I hope you had a most enjoyable holiday. It was
well deserved.

We now enter phase two of our operations. We place much faith in
your ability and loyalty. Please do not disrupt that confidence.

As in the past, you will be given daily lists of
people to call. They are some of the people whom you have called
before. As before, identify yourself and the nature of your
call. I am sure your last call was so disturbing to them, they
will take your call this time as well.

Then, once you have confirmed their identity,
give them the new information provided, and ask them to follow
the instructions given, to the letter. Please be your usual
polite self.

Alex

The second message was more Alex-like:

Sir George:

If you have any problems with your new assignment, please
call me to arrange your termination.

Alex.

* * * * *

"Hello? Are you there?" Sir George Sterling spoke with as much
elegance he could muster. "This is John Fullmaster calling again
for Robert Henson." Sir George remembered the name but not the
specifics.

"One moment please," Maggie said. "Mr. Henson?" She said after
dialing his intercom extension. "It's John Fullmaster for you.
Line three"

"Who?"

"Mr. Fullmaster. He called once several months ago. Don't you
remember?" He thought. Fullmaster. Fullmaster. Oh, shit. I
thought he was a bad dream. Goddamn blackmailer. Never did
figure how he knew about the Winston Ellis scam. Good thing
that's been put to bed and over.

"All right, I'll take it." He punched up the third line.
"Yeah?" He said defiantly.

"Mr. Henson? This is John Fullmaster. I believe we spoke a
while back about some of your dealings? Do you recall?"

"Yes, I recall you bastard, but you're too late. The deal closed
last month. So you can forget your threats. Fuck off and die."
Henson used his best boardroom belligerence.

"Oh, I am sorry that you thought I was threatening you, I can
assure you I wasn't." Sir George oozed politeness.

"Bullshit. I don't know how the blazes you learned anything
about my business, and I don't really care . . ."

"I think you might care, sir, if you will allow me to speak for a
moment." Sir George interjected. The sudden interruption caught
Henson off guard. He stood his ground in silence.

"Thank you." Sir George waited for an acknowledgement which
never arrived, so he continued. "Winston Ellis is old news, Mr.
Henson, very old news. I read today, though, that Miller Pharma-
ceuticals is about to have its Anti-AIDS drug turned down by the
FDA. Apparently it still has too many side effects and may be
too dangerous for humans. I'm sure you've read the reports
yourself. Don't you think it would be wise to tell your investors
before they sink another $300 Million into a black hole from
which there is no escape?" The aristocratic British accent
softened the harshness of the words, but not the auger of the
meaning.

Henson seethed. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I
will not listen to this kind of crap. I won't take it
from . . ."

"Sorry," Sir George again interrupted, "but I'm afraid you will
listen. The instructions are as follows. I want $5 Million in
small bills in a silver Samsonite case to be placed into locker
number 235 at Grand Central Station, first level. You have 48
hours to comply. If you do not have the money there, we will
release these findings to the media and the SEC which will no
doubt prompt an investigation into this and other of your deal-
ings. Don't you think?"

Blackmail was anathema to Robert Henson, although he should have
felt quite comfortable in its milieu. It was effectively the
same stunt he performed on many of his investors. Nobody treats
Robert Henson this way, nobody. He needed time to think. The
last time Fullmaster called it was a bluff, obviously, but then
there were no demands. This time, he wanted something. But, how
did he know? The FDA reports were still confidential, and he
hoped to have completed raising the funds before the reports
became public, another few weeks at most. He counted on ineffi-
cient government bureaucracy and indifference to delay any an-
nouncement. Meanwhile though, he would pocket several millions
in banking fees.

"You got me. I'll do it. 235. Right?"

"Very good, Mr. Henson. I'm glad you see it my way. It has been
a pleasure doing business with you." Sir George sounded like a
used car salesman. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Please, Mr. Hen-
son, no police. In that case, our deal is off."

"Of course, no police. No problem. Thanks for the call."
Henson hung up. Fuck him. No money, no way.

* * * * *

"Mr. Faulkner, this is John Fullmaster." Sir George was sicken-
ingly sweet. "Do you recall our last conversation?"

How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his
private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had
the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a
matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real
name, reached him with apparent ease.

"Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?"

"Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of
money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame,
don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost
another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively
thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own
actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work-
ing for the side of good after all.

"You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?"
Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.

"I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one
million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."

"One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his
pool side lounge chair.

"Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for
effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas,
and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then,
place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station.
Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its
best.

"Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.

"Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the
$2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is
excellent."

"There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to
him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they
wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore
winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was
only one way out.

"All right, all right. What locker number?"

"Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it,
but no police."

"Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare
would be over.

"Thank you so very much. Have a nice day."

* * * * *

"Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?"
Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold
of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!"

"Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?"
Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last lustful
gaze.

"Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the
Credite Suisse arrangements . . ."

"Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know
that!" Rickfield admonished Ken.

"I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light
on the Senator's desk phone.

"I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"

"No, nothing, after we got General Young onto it," Boyers ex-
plained. "I thought he took care of it, in his own way. The
problem just disappeared like it was supposed to."

"Well," Rickfield said scornfully, "obviously it didn't. Give me
the goddamned phone." He picked it up and pressed the lighted
button. His senatorial dignity was absent as he spoke.

"This is Rickfield. Who is this?"

"Ah, thank you for taking my call. Yes, thank you." Sir George
spoke slowly, more slowly than necessary. This call was marked
critical. That meant, don't screw it up. "My name is John
Fullmaster and I believe we spoke about some arrangements you
made with General Young and Credite Suisse."

"I remember. So what? That has nothing to do with me," Rick-
field retorted. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, John
Fullmaster. Ken looked at the scribbled writing and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Ah, but I'm afraid it does. I see here that Allied Dynamics
recently made a significant contribution to a certain account in
Credite Suisse. There are only two signators on the passbook.
It also says here that they will be building two new factories in
your state. Quite an accomplishment. I am sure your constitu-
ents would be proud."

The color drained from Rickfield's face. He put his hand over
the mouthpiece to speak privately to Ken. "Who else knows?
Don't bullshit me, boy. Who else have you told?"

"No one!" Boyers said in genuine shock. "I want to enjoy the
money, not pay attorney's fees."

Rickfield waved Boyers away. He appeared satisfied with the
response. "This is speculation. You can't prove a thing."
Rickfield took a shot to gauge his opponent.

"Believe that if you wish, Senator, but I don't think it is in
either of our best interests to play the other for the fool."
Sir George saw that Rickfield did not attain his position as
Chairman of the Senate Committee on Space, Transportation and
Technology by caving in to idle demands or threats. In fact, in
34 years of Senate service, Senator Merrill Rickfield had sur-
vived 8 presidents, counseling most of them to varying degrees
depending upon the partisan attitude of the White House.

At 65, much of the private sector would have forced him into
retirement, but elected Government service permitted him the
tenure to continue as long as his constituents allowed. Claude
Pepper held the record and Merrill Rickfield's ego wanted to
establish new definitions of tenure.

His involvement with General Chester Oliver Young was recent, in
political terms; less than a decade. During the Reagan military
buildup, nearly 3 trillion dollars worth, defense contractors
expanded with the economy, to unprecedented levels and profits.
Congress was convinced that $300 Billion per year was about right
to defend against a Cold War enemy that couldn't feed its own
people. The overestimates of the CIA, with selective and often
speculative information provided by the country's intelligence
gatherer, the NSA, helped define a decade of political and tech-
nological achievements: Star Wars, Stealth, MX, B1, B2 and other
assorted toys that had no practical use save all out war.

With that kind of spending occurring freely, and the Senate Over-
sight Committee in a perpetual state of the doldrums, there was
money to be made for anyone part of Washington's good ol' boy
network. General Young was one such an opportunistic militarist.
Promoted to one star general in 1978, after two lackluster but
politically well connected tours in Vietnam, it was deemed pru-
dent by the power brokers of that war to bring Young into the
inner rings of the Pentagon with the corresponding perks such a
position brought. But Young had bigger and better ideas.

He saw countless ways to spend taxpayers money protecting them
from the Communist threat of the Evil Empire, but had difficulty
getting support from his two and three star superiors. It didn't
take him long to realize that he had been token promoted to keep
his mouth shut about certain prominent people's roles in the
Vietnam era. Events that were better left to a few trusted
memories than to the history books.