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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So Young decided to go out on his own and find support from the
legislative branch; find an influential proponent for a few
specific defense programs by which he could profit. Over the
course of a few years, he and Senator Rickfield became fast
friends, holding many of the same global views and fears, if not
paranoias. When Allied Dynamics began losing Congressional
support for an advanced jet helicopter project, Young went to
Rickfield for help. After all, Allied was headquartered in
Rickfield's home state, and wouldn't it be a great boon to the
economy? The recession was coming to an end and that meant jobs.

Rickfield was unaware, initially, that Allied had an arrangement
with General Young to donate certain moneys to certain charities,
in certain Swiss bank accounts if certain spending programs were
approved. Only when Rickfield offered some later resistance to
the Allied projects did Young feel the need to share the wealth.
After 25 years in Congress, and very little money put away to
show for it, Rickfield was an easy target.

Rickfield's recruitment by Young, on Allied's behalf, had yielded
the Senator more than enough to retire comfortably on the island
paradise of his choice. Yet, Rickfield found an uncontrolled
desire for more; considerations was his word for it, just as he
had grown used to wielding power and influence in the nation's
capital. Rickfield was hooked, and Credite Suisse was the cer-
tain Swiss bank in question. Ken Boyers was involved as well,
almost from the start. They both had a lot to lose.

"No, I must assume that you are not a fool, and I know for a fact
I am not one, so on that one point we do agree." Political
pausing often allowed your opponent to hang himself with addi-
tional oration. Rickfield found the technique useful, especial-
ly on novices. "Please continue."

"Thank you." Sir George said with a hint of patronization. "To
be brief, Senator, I want you to keep your money, I think that
dedicated civil servants like yourself are grossly underpaid and
underappreciated. No sir, I do not wish to deny you the chance
to make your golden years pleasant after such a distinguished
career."

"Then what is it. What do you want from me?" The Senator was
doodling nervously while Ken paced the room trying to figure out
what was being said at the other end of the phone.

"I'm glad you asked," said Sir George. "Beginning next month you
are chairing a sub-committee that will be investigating the
weaknesses and potential threats to government computer systems.
As I remember it is called the Senate Select Sub-Committee on
Privacy and Technology Containment. Is that right?"

"Yes, the dates aren't firm yet, and I haven't decided if I will
chair the hearings or assign it to another committee member. So
what?"

"Well, we want you to drag down the hearings. Nothing more."
Sire George stated his intention as a matter of fact rather than
a request.

Rickfield's face contorted in confusion. "Drag down? Exactly
what does that mean, to you, that is?"

"We want you to downplay the importance of security for govern-
ment computers. That there really is no threat to them, and
that government has already met all of its obligations in balance
with the new world order, if you will. The threats are mere
scare tactics by various special interest groups and government
agencies who are striving for long term self preservation." Sir
George had practiced his soliloquy before calling Senator Rick-
field.

"What the hell for?" Rickfield raised his voice. "Security?
Big deal! What's it to you?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss our reasons. Suffice it to say,
that we would be most pleased if you see to it that the hearings
have minimal substance and that no direct action items are deliv-
ered. I believe that term you Americans so eloquently use is
stonewall, or perhaps filibuster?"

"They're not the same things."

"Fine, but you do understand nonetheless. We want these hearings
to epitomize the rest of American politics with procrastination,
obfuscation and procedural gerrymandering." Sir George had
learned quite a bit about the political system since he had moved
to the States.

"And to what aim?" Rickfield's political sense was waving red
flags.

"That's it. Nothing more."

"And in return?" The Senator had learned to be direct in mat-
ters of additional compensation since he had hooked up with the
earthy General.

"I will assure you that the details of your arrangements with
Allied Dynamics will remain safe with me."

"Until the next time, right? This is blackmail?"

"No. Yes." Sir George answered. "Yes, it is blackmail, but
without the usual messiness. And no, there will be no next time.
For, as soon as the hearings are over, it would be most advisable
for you to take leave of your position and enjoy the money you
have earned outside of your paycheck."

"And, if I don't agree to this?" Rickfield was looking at his
options which seemed to be somewhere between few and none. Maybe
he only had one.

"That would be so unfortunate." Sir George smiled as he spoke.
"The media will receive a two page letter, it is already pre-
pared I can assure you, detailing your illegal involvements with
Allied, General Young and Mr. Boyers."

"What's in it for you? You don't want any money?" The confusion
in Rickfield's mind was terribly obvious, and he was sliding on a
logical Mobius loop.

"No Senator, no money. Merely a favor."

"I will let you know what I decide. May I have your number?"

"I do not need to contact you again. Your answer will be evident
when the hearings begin. Whatever course you pursue, we will
make an appropriate response."

* * * * *

"Scott!" A woman called across the noisy floor. "Is your phone
off the hook?"

"Yeah, why?" He looked up and couldn't match the voice with a
person.

"You gotta call."

"Who is it? I'm busy."

"Some guy from Brooklyn sounds like. Says he got a package for
you?"

Holy shit. It's Vito! Scott's anonymous caller. The one who
had caused him so much work, so much research without being able
to print one damn thing.

Not yet.

"Yeah, OK. It's back on." The phone rang instantly and Scott
rushed to pick it up on the first ring.

"Yeah, Scott Mason here." He sounded hurried.

"Yo! Scott. It's me, your friend, rememba?" No one could
forget the accent that sounded more fake than real. He had been
nicknamed Vito for reference purposes by Scott.

"Sure do, fella," Scott said cheerily. "That bunch of shit you
sent me was worthless. Garbage."

"Yeah, well, we may have fucked up a little on that. Didn't
count on youse guys having much in the ethics department if youse
know what I mean." Vito laughed at what he thought was a pretty
good joke. "So, we all screw up, right? Now and again? Never
mind that, I got something real good, something youse really
gonna like."

"Sure you do."

"No, really, dig this. I gotta list of names that . . . "

"Great another list. Just what I need. Another list."

"Whad'ar'ya, a wise guy? Youse wanna talk or listen?" Scott
didn't answer. "That's better, cause youse gonna like this.
Some guy named Faulkner, big shit banker from La La Land is
borrowing money from the mob to pay off a blackmailer. Another
guy, right here in New York Shitty, a Wall Street big shot called
Henson, him too. Another one named Dobbs, same thing. All being
blackballed by the same guys. Youse want more?"

"I'm writing, quiet. Faulkner, Henson and Dobbs, right?"

"That's whad'I said, yeah."

"So how come you know so much?"

"That's my job. I deal in information. Pretty good, huh?"

"Maybe. I gotta check it out. That last stuff was . . ."

"Hey!" Vito interrupted, "I told youse 'bout that. Eh, paysan,
what's a slip up among friends, right?"

"I'll ignore that. Gimme a couple of days, I'll call you."

"Like hell you will. I'll call you. You'll see, this is good
stuff. No shit. All right? Two days."

Click.

* * * * *

Monday, December 14
Washington, D.C.

The FBI runs a little known counter intelligence operation from
the middle of a run down Washington, D.C. neighborhood on Half
Street. Getting in and out is an exercise in evasive not to
mention defensive driving. The South East quadrant of Washing-
ton, D.C. is vying for the drug capital of the nation, and per-
haps has the dubious distinction of having the highest murder
rate per capita in the United States. Since the CI division of
the FBI is a well kept secret, its location was strategically
chosen to keep the casual passerby from stopping in for a chat.
Besides, there was no identification on the front of the build-
ing.

Most Americans think that the CIA takes care of foreign spies,
but their agents are limited to functioning on foreign land. On
the domestic front the FBI Counter Intelligence Group is assigned
to locate and monitor alien intelligence activities. For exam-
ple, CI-3 is assigned to focus on Soviet and East Bloc activi-
ties, and other groups focus on their specific target countries.
Thus, there is a certain amount of competition, not all of it
healthy, between the two agencies chartered to protect our na-
tional interests. The CIA is under the impression that it con-
trols all foreign investigations, even if they tread upon United
States territory. This line of thinking has been a constant
source of irritation and inefficiency since the OSS became the
CIA during the Truman administration. Only during the Hoover
reign at the FBI days was there any sense of peaceful coexist-
ence. Hoover did what he damn well pleased, and if anyone stood
in his way, he simply called up the White House and had the
roadblock removed. Kennedy era notwithstanding, Hoover held his
own for a 50 year reign.

Tyrone Duncan received an additional lesson on inter-agency
rivalry when he was called down to Half Street. His orders were
similar to those he had received from the safe house in George-
town months before. Stick to your hackers and viruses, period,
he was told. If it smells of foreign influence, let the CI fight
it out with Langley. Keep your butt clean.

In 25 years of service, Tyrone had never been so severely admon-
ished for investigating a case that he perceived as being domes-
tic in nature. The thought of foreign influences at work had not
occurred to him, until CI brought it up.

As far as he was concerned the quick trip from New York to Half
Street was a bureaucratic waste of time and money. However,
during the fifteen minute discussion he was told by his CI compa-
triots that both the blackmail and the ECCO investigations situa-
tions had international repercussions and he should keep his nose
out of it. CI was doing just fine without Tyrone's help.The
meeting, or warning as Tyrone Duncan took it, served to raise an
internal flag.

There was a bigger picture, something beyond a classical black-
mail operation and some hackers screwing with government comput-
ers, and he was being excluded. That only meant one thing. He
was pushing someone's button and he didn't know how, where or
why. The Trump Shuttle flight back to La Guardia gave Tyrone
time to think about it, and that only incensed him further.
Aren't we all on the same team? If I stumbled onto something,
and you want me to back off, O.K., but at least let me know what
I'm missing.

Twenty five years and a return to Hoover paranoia. He under-
stood, and advocated, the need for secrecy, privacy and the
trappings of confidentiality. But, compartmentalization of
information this extreme was beyond the normal course to which he
was accustomed. The whole thing stunk.

He arrived back at New York's Federal Square during lunch hour.
Normally there was a minimal staff at that hour, or hour and half
or two hours depending upon your rank. When the elevator doors
opened on Level 5, seventy feet under lower Manhattan, he walked
into a bustle of activity normally present only when visiting
heads of state need extraordinary security. He was immediately
accosted by eager subordinates. The onslaught of questions
overwhelmed him, so he ignored them and walked through the maze
directly to his office.

His head ringing, he plopped himself down behind his desk. He
stared at the two agents who followed him all the way, plus his
secretary stood in the open door, watching with amusement.
Duncan was not appreciative of panic situations. His silence was
contagious.

"Who's first?" He asked quietly.

The two agents looked at each other and one spoke. "Uh, sir, I
think we have a lead in the blackmail operation." Duncan looked
at the other, offering him a chance to speak.

"Yessir, it seems to have broken all over at once." Duncan
opened his eyes wide in anticipation. Well, he, thought, go on.

The first agent picked up the ball. "Demands. The blackmailers
are making demands. So far we have six individuals who said they
were recontacted by the same person who had first called them a
year ago."

Duncan sat upright. "I want a complete report, here, in 1 hour.
We'll talk then. Thank you gentlemen." They took their cue to
exit and brushed by, Tyrone's secretary on their way out the
door.

"Yes, Gloria?" Duncan treated her kindly, not with the adminis-
trative brusqueness he often found necessary to motivate some of
his agents.

"Good morning, or afternoon, sir. Pleasant trip?" She knew he
hated sudden trips to D.C. It was her way of teasing her boss.

"Wonderful!" Tyrone beamed with artificial enthusiasm. "Book me
on the same flights every day for a month. Definite E-ticket
ride."

"Do you remember a Franklin Dobbs? He was here some time ago,
about, I believe the same matter you were just discussing?" Her
demureness pampered Duncan.

"Dobbs? Yes, why?"

"He's been waiting all morning. Had to see you, no on else.
Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, by all means, thank you."

"Mr. Dobbs, how good to see you again. Please," Duncan pointed
at a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down. How may I help
you?"

Dobbs shuffled over to the chair and practically fell into it.
He sighed heavily and looked down at his feet. "I guess it's all
over. All over."

"What do you mean? My secretary, said you were being blackmailed
again. I think you should know I'm not working on that case
anymore."

"This time it's different," Dobbs said, his eyes darting about.
"They want money, a lot of money, more than we have. Last time I
received a call I was told some very private and specific knowl-
edge about our company that we preferred to remain private.
That information contained all our pricing, quotation methods,
profit figures, overhead . . .everything our competitors could
use."

"So you think your competition is blackmailing you," Duncan
offered.

"I don't know. If they wanted the information, why call me and
tell me? We haven't been able to figure it out."

"What about the others," Duncan thought out loud. "The others
with access to the information?"

"Everyone is suspecting everyone else. It's not healthy. Now,
after this, I'm thinking of packing it in."

"Why now? What's different?"

"The demands. I can't believe it's my competitors. Sure, it's a
cut throat business, but, no, it's hard to believe."

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Dobbs." Duncan tried to be
soothing. "The demands, what were they?"

"They want three million dollars, cash. If we don't pay they
said they'd give away our company secrets to our competitors.
We don't have the cash."

Duncan felt for the man. Dobbs had been right. There was noth-
ing the FBI could have done to help. No demands, no recontacts,
and no leads, just a lot of suspicion. But, now, the Bureau was
in a position to help.

"Mr. Dobbs, rest assured, we will pursue this case aggressively.
We will assign you two of our top agents, and, in cases like
this, we are quite successful." Duncan's upbeat tone was meant
to lift Dobbs' spirits. "Was there anything else demanded?"

"No, nothing, they just told me not to go to the police."

"You haven't told anyone, have you?" Duncan asked.

"No, not even my wife."

"Mr. Dobbs, let me ask you a couple more things, then I will
introduce you to some fine men who will help you. Do you know
anyone else who is in your position? Other people who are being
blackmailed in similar ways?"

Dobbs shuffled his feet under the chair, and picked at the edge
of the chair. Duncan hit a raw nerve.

"Mr. Dobbs, I don't want names, no specifics. It's a general
question. Do you know others?"

"Yes," Dobbs said almost silently.

"Do you know how many?" Duncan needed details if his current
line of thinking would pan out into a viable theory.

"No, not exactly."

"Is it five? Ten? More than Ten? Twenty-five? More than twenty-
five?" Dobbs nodded suddenly.

"Do you mean that you know of 25 other companies that are going
through what you're going through? Twenty five?" Tyrone was
incredulous at the prospects. The manpower alone to investigate
that many cases would totally overwhelm his staff. There was no
way. The ramifications staggered him. Twenty five, all at once.

"Yeah. At least."

"I know you can't tell me who they are . . ." Duncan hoped that
Dobbs might offer a few.

"No. But, look at their stocks. They're not doing well. Our
competitors seem to be getting the best of the deal."

Twenty five cases in New York alone, and he knows of at least 6
others, so far. The rekindled blackmail operation, after months
of dead ends. Duncan wondered how big the monster behind the
head could get. And how could the FBI handle it all. Poor
bastard. Poor us.

* * * * *

Tuesday, December 15
New York

It was before 8:00 A.M. and Scott cursed himself for arriving at
his office at this ungodly hour. He had found the last piece of
the puzzle, didn't sleep very much, and was in high gear before
6:00. Scott couldn't remember the last time he had been awake
this early, unless it was coming round the long way. He scurried
past security, shaking his ID card as he flew through the closing
doors on the express elevator. The office hadn't yet come to life
so Doug McGuire was available without a wait or interruption.

"I need some expense money," Scott blurted out at Doug.

"Yeah, so?" Doug sounded exasperated with Scott's constant
requests for money. He didn't even look up from his impossibly
disorganized desk.

"I'm serious . . .," Scott came back.

"So am I." Doug firmly laid down his pen on his desk and looked
at Scott. "What the hell kind of expenses do you need now?"
Scott spent more money than several reporters combined, and he
never felt bad about it. While a great deal of his work was
performed at the office or at home, his phone bills were extraor-
dinary as were his expenses.

Scott had developed a reputation as willing to go to almost any
lengths to get a story. Like the time he hired and the paper paid
for a call girl to entertain Congressman Daley from Wisconsin.
She was supposed to confirm, in any way necessary, that LeMal
Chemical was buying votes to help bypass certain approval cycles
for their new line of drugs. She accidentally confirmed that he
was a homosexual, but not before he slipped and the lady of the
evening became the much needed confirmation.

As Scott put it, Daley's embarrassed resignation was unavoidable
collateral damage in stopping the approval of a drug as poten-
tially dangerous as thalidomide.

Or then there was the time that Scott received an anonymous tip
that the Oil Companies had suppressed critical temperature-emis-
sion ratio calculations, and therefore the extent of the green-
house effect was being sorely underestimated. As a result of his
research and detective work, and the ability to verify and under-
stand the physics involved, Scott's articles forced a re-examina-
tion of the dangers. He received a New York Writer's Award for
that series.

When Doug had hired Scott, as a thirty-something cub reporter,
they both thought that Scott would fit in, nice and neat, and
write cute, introspective technical pieces. Neither expected
Scott to quickly evolve into a innovative journalist on the
offensive who had the embryo of a cult following.

But Scott Mason also performed a lot of the more mundane work
that most writer's suffer with until the better stories can
justify their full time efforts. New products, whiz bang elec-
tronic toys for the kitchen, whiz bangs for the bathroom. New
computer this, new software that.

Now, though, he was on the track, due in part he admitted, to
Doug coercing him into writing the computer virus bits. Yes, he
was wrong and Doug was right. The pieces were falling in place.
So, no matter what happened, it was Doug's fault.

"I'm going to Europe."

"No you're not!" thundered Doug.

"Yes I am. I gotta go . . ." Scott tried to plead his case.

"You aren't going anywhere, and that's final." Doug retorted
without a pause. He stared challengingly through Scott.

"Doug," Scott visibly calmed himself, "will you at least hear me
out, before telling me no? At least listen to me, and if I'm
wrong, tell me why. O.K.?" Same routine, different day, thought
Scott. The calmer, sincere request elicited empathy from Doug.
Maybe he'd been too harsh.

"Sorry, it's automatic to say 'no'. You know that they," he
pointed down with his thumb, "have us counting paper clips.
Sure, explain to me why I'm going to say 'no'," he joked. Doug's
overtly stern yet fatherlike geniality returned.

"O.K." Scott mentally organized his thoughts. He touched his
fingers to his forehead and turned to sit on the edge of Doug's
desk. A traditional no-no. "Without my notes . . ."

"Screw the notes, what have you got? If you don't know the mate-
rial, the notes won't help. They're the details, not the story."
Scott had heard this before.

"Sure, sorry." He gained confidence and went straight from the
hip. "Fact one. The FBI is investigating a massive blackmail
campaign that nobody wants us to talk about, and probably for
good reason from what I can see. As of now, there is no clue at
all to whom is behind the operation.

"Fact two. My story got pulled by CIA, NSA or someone that pushed
the AG's buttons. And this Tempest thing gets heads turning too
fast for my taste." Doug nodded briefly. Scott made sense so
far, both things were true.

"Three," Scott continued, "First State has been the target of
hackers, plus, we have Sidneys . . ."

"Sort of. McMillan hasn't caved in on that yet."

"Agreed, but it's still good. You and I both know it." Doug
grudgingly nodded in agreement.

"Then we have all those papers that came from a van, or more than
one van I would guess, and not a damned thing we can do with them
according to Higgins." Again, Doug nodded, but he wondered where
all of this was going. "Then the EMP-T bombs, NASA, the Phone
Company, and all of these viruses. What we have is a number of
apparently dissimilar events that have one common denominator:
computers."

Scott waited for a reaction from Doug that didn't come so he
continued. "Don't you see, the van with the computer data, the
endless files, the Sidneys problems, pulling my stories, the
hackers? Even the viruses. They're starting to get a little out
of hand. It's all the same thing!"

Doug rolled his head from side to side on his shoulder. Rather
than boredom, Scott knew that Doug was carefully thinking through
the logic of it. "Aren't you acting the engineer instead of the
reporter here? Miss the old line of work 'eh?"

"Give me a break! You and your viruses are the ones who got me
into this mess in the first place." Scott knew it would come up,
so he had been ready and grabbed the opportunity Doug had just
given him. "That's exactly the point!" Scott leaped off the
desk to his feet. "All we have are technical threads, pieces of
a puzzle. It's a classic engineering problem." Although Scott
had never been a brilliant engineer, he could argue the issues
fluently.