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

"Yeah?" Tyrone yelled.

He popped a Bud and handed it to Tyrone. "Listen, I know this
may be left field, but let's think it through." Scott sat behind
his desk and put his feet on top of some books on the desk. He
leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "We've been
talking about the front end of this thing, the front lines where
the victims are actually being blackmailed. The kind of stuff
that makes headlines." Scott smiled devilishly at Ty who made a
significant hand gesture in return. "And now you're talking
about how to catch them when they pick up the money. Have you
thought of the other side?"

"What other side?" Tyrone was still confused by Scott's logic.

"Assume for a moment that all this information is really coming
from computers. The CMR. Ok?" Ty grudgingly shrugged his shoul-
ders. "Ok, you said that there are 7 cases across the country.
Dobbs said he knew of more here. Right? Well, who gets the
information?"

Confusion showed on Tyrone's face. "Gets the information?"

"Yeah, who runs around the country listening in on computers?"
The question had been obvious to Scott. All of sudden Tyrone's
face lit up.

"You mean the van?"

"Right. How many vans would it take to generate all this?"
Scott pointed at several boxes next to the disorganized shelves.

"Damned if I know!"

"Neither do I, but I'll make a wild guess and say that there are
quite a few running around. One blew up, or more specifically,
was blown up. You guys have the pieces."

"Not any more," Ty said. "They were taken away by CI . Said it
was national security . I was told to stay away from it. Told
you about us Feds."

"Whatever," Scott waved away the sidebar. "The point is that if
a whole bunch of these vans were used, that's not cheap. They
held a lot of very expensive equipment. Why not look for the
vans? They can't be that hard to find. Maybe you'll find
your . . . "

"Holy Christ, Mother Mary and Joseph, why didn't I think of
that." Tyrone stood up and aimlessly meandered amongst Scott's
junk heaps. "We've been looking in one direction only. The van
ceased to exist in our minds since CI took it. The Government can
be a royal pain in the ass. The van, of course."

Just as Scott was going to describe how to find villains without
wasting hundreds of hours scouring data banks, his computer
beeped three times. Scott was shaken from his comfort. "What
the . . .?" He looked at the clock. It was just midnight.
Kirk! Kirk was calling and he totally had forgotten to mention
the computer ransacking to Ty.

"Great! It's Kirk. I wanted you to meet him." As Scott leaned
over the keyboard to answer the page, Tyrone looked quizzically
at him.

"Who's Kirk?"

"This hacker, some kid on the West Coast. He's taught me a lot.
Good guy. Hope to meet him someday." Scott pushed a few keys.
The screen came alive.

WTFO

"Hey," said Tyrone, "that's what we used to say in the Reserves."

Gotta Spook here.

SPOOK? YOU KNOW SPOOK?

Who's Spook?

YOU SAID HE'S WITH YOU

Not Spook, a spook. FBI guy.

FBI? YOU PROMISED.

Don't worry. Tell him yourself. Who is Spook, anyway?

SPOOK IS A HACKER, ONE OF THE BEST. BEEN ON THE SCENE FOR YEARS.
A FEW PEOPLE CLAIM TO HAVE MET HIM, BUT IT'S ALWAYS A FRIEND OF A
FRIEND OF A FRIEND. HE KEEPS A LOW PROFILE. THE WORD IS SPOOK IS
PLAYING SOME GOOD GAMES RECENTLY. THE FBI?

He's a friend. He doesn't know.

Tyrone had come over to the crowded desk to watch the exchange.
"Who is this guy? What don't I know?"

Kirk, can I tell him? No one knows who you are?

I GUESS SO.

Be back . . .

Scott proceeded to tell Tyrone about the warnings that Kirk
received and then how his computers were destroyed. That the
calling card warned Kirk to stay away from First State Bank. And
how another hacker calling himself Da Vinci on a BBS called
Freedom might be a link. Then Scott admitted that he had been in
on a bank robbery, or at least breaking and entering a bank's
computer.

Tyrone had enough. "I'm not sure I want to hear anymore. You
have been busy. So what can I do?"

"Tell Kirk what he can do," Scott said.

"He could probably go to jail. Bank computers, my God! Is that
where you get your stories? You live them and then report them in
the third person? Stories for the inquiring mind."

"Are you through! I mean, are you through?" Scott sounded per-
turbed.

"It's true. What does this guy want?"

"Advice. Talk to him. Here." Scott motioned for Tyrone to sit
at the keyboard.

"What do I do?"

"Just type," Scott said with exasperation. "You're as bad as my
mother. Type!" Scott ordered.

This is Ty

Scott pulled Ty's hands from the keyboard. "A handle, use a
handle, like on a CB!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Tyrone lied.

This is the FBI

Scott looked on in shock. Tyrone laughed out loud. "He already
knows who I am. So what? I've always liked saying that anyway."

KIRK HERE, FBI, WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE

So I hear. Been to any good banks lately?

REPO MAN, WHAT'S UP?

Can't take a joke?

YEAH. NO PROBLEM.

Listen, I don't know you from Adam, and you don't have to talk to
me, but I am curious. Did your computers really get bashed?

TOTALLY, DUDE.

Tyrone pointed his thumb at the computer. "Wise guy, eh?"

"Give him a chance. Generation gap." Tyrone didn't take kindly
to references to his age. Sensitive area.

Why?

CAUSE SOMEONE THINKS I KNOW SOMETHING THAT I DON'T

That's clear.

THANKS

Do you want to make a formal complaint?

WOULD IT DO ANY GOOD?

No.

THEN, NO

You think it was First State?

YES.

Don't you go around poking into other computers, too?

SURE

So why not someone else?

THEY DIDN'T GET INTO BIG TROUBLE FROM REPO MAN'S ARTICLE?

"He knows who you are?" Tyrone asked.

"Sure. He likes calling me Repo Man for some reason that still
escapes me.

Where else do you go?

THAT WOULD BE TELLING

Gotcha. Well, I guess that's about it.

PHEW!

<<<<<>>>>>

"I guess you scared him off." Scott was amused.

"Sorry," Tyrone said.

"He'll call back," Scott waved off the apology. "When the coast
is clear."

"Fuck off." Their friendship was returning to the level it once
had been.

"Hey, it's getting beyond late," Scott ignored him. "What say we
get together in a few days and sort through some of this."

"I know, but one thing. Can you get into your computers, at the
paper?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Dobbs said that the other victims had had their stock go down
pretty dramatically. Can you look up stock prices and perform-
ances over the last few months?"

"Yeah, do it all the time."

"Could you? I want to see if there are any names I recognize."

"No problem." Scott dialed the Times' computer and identified
himself. After going into the bank computer with Kirk, every
time he dialed up his office, he felt an increased sense of
power, and an increased sense of responsibility. He had access
to massive amounts of information that if it got into the wrong
hands . . .

He shook the thought. The computer offered the 'Stocks and Bonds
Menu' and Scott set up a query in a modified SQL that was simple
enough for reporters to use:

ALL STOCKS LOSING 35% OR MORE OF VALUE IN LAST YEAR.

The computer flashed a message. 'Working'. Scott leaned back.
"Takes a few seconds. Oh, as I was saying, when I get back,
I'll call and we'll see what we can screw together."

"Back from where?" Tyrone sounded accusatory but jealous.

"Europe. Amsterdam." Scott checked the computer screen. It was
still busy.

"Rough life."

"No, it's only for a couple of days. There's a hackers confer-
ence. I've been invited, by Kirk as a matter of fact."

"Hackers conference, sounds like tons of fun." Tyrone was not
impressed.

"The best hackers in the world are going to be there. I hope to
get some leads on the First State mess. The Freedom BBS is not
all it seems."

"Please stay in touch," Tyrone implored.

"Sure. Here we go. It's ready. Ah, let's see, there are 267
companies who meet that criterion. I guess that narrows it down
for you."

"Smart ass. Ah, can you get those in New York only?"

"The city? Sure."

SORT BY ZIP 100XX

"That'll give us . . ."

"I know what it means." Tyrone shut Scott up in mock defense.
In reality he didn't know much about computers, but some things
were obvious even to the technically naive.

"That was fast," said Scott. "Only 17. Help any?"

"Might. Can I get that on paper?"

Scott gave him the printout of the finances on the several unfor-
tunate companies who had lost more than a third of their net
worth in the last year. Tyrone folded it into his jacket pocket.
"Hey, call me a cab. I'm too drunk to walk."

* * * * *

Wednesday, December 30
Lenox, Georgia

A faded blue Ford Econoline van sat in the Lenox Square parking
lot. The affluent Atlanta suburb had been targeted from the
beginning. Demographically ,it fit the bill to a tee.

From the outside, the van looked like a thousand other parked
cars; empty, with their owners shopping in the huge mall. On the
inside though, two men were intently operating a vast array of
electronic equipment.

"Here comes another one," said the first. "How many does that
make today?"

"A hundred and forty seven. Let's do it." The second man
watched the enhanced color video image on a small monitor. A
well dressed lady walked up to the ATM machine, card in hand.
The first man pressed a switch on another monitor and the snow
filled picture was transformed into an electronic copy of the
ATM's video display.

Please Insert Card

The screen in the van echoed the ATM screen.

"Can you tune it in a bit?" asked the first man. " It's a little
fuzzy."

"Yeah, we must have settled. Let me adjust the antenna." His
hand grabbed a joystick on one of the tightly packed racks of
equipment and gingerly moved it from left to right. "Is that
better?" A small disguised antenna on the roof of the van
aligned itself as the joystick commanded.

"Yeah . . .no . . .yeah, back again . . ."

"I see it. There."

"Thanks."

Enter Personal Identification Number:

A third monitor over the second man's cramped desk came to life
as the number 3435 appeared across his screen.

"Got it. You, too?"

"On disk and saved."

"I'll back it up."

"Better not. Here comes another one."

"Busy day."

* * * * *

It was a very busy day. Ahmed Shah saw to it that his followers
were kept busy, six days a week. As they had been for months.

When his army of a hundred plus Econoline vans were not raiding
the contents of unsuspecting computers during the day, they
became electronic ears which listened in on the conversations
between the ATM's and their bank customers.

Ahmed's vans were used most efficiently. On the road, doing his
bidding twenty four hours a day, every day but the Sabbath.
Ahmed created cells of eight loyal anti-American sympathizers,
regardless of nationality, to operate with each van. Each group
operated as an independent entity with only one person from each
able to communicate privately with Ahmed over cellular modem. No
cell knew of any other cell. If one group was apprehended, they
couldn't tell what they didn't know. Therefore, the rest of the
cells remain intact.

Absolute loyalty was an unquestioned assumption for all members
of Ahmed's electronic army. It had to be that way, for the
bigger cause.

All day and night one of Ahmed Shah's computers in his lab at
Columbia received constant calls from his cell leaders. During
the day it was the most interesting information that they had
captured from computer screens. At night, it was the passcodes
to automatic bank tellers machines and credit card information.

Once the passcodes were in hand, making fake ATM cards was a
trivial task.

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

Chapter 18

Wednesday, January 6
Amsterdam, Holland

Scott Mason had a theory. It didn't matter than no one else
believed it, or that they thought him daffy. It worked for him.

He believed that jet lag was caused by the human body traveling
across mystical magnetic force fields called Ley lines. The
physics of his theory made common sense to anyone but a scien-
tist. It went like this: the body is electric and therefore
magnetic fields can influence it. Wherever we live we are sub-
ject to the local influence of magnetic, electrical and Ley
lines. If we move too quickly, as by plane, through Ley lines,
the balance of our system is disturbed. The more Ley lines you
traverse, the more upsetting it is to the system. Thus, jet lag.

But, Scott had a solution. Or more accurately, his mother had one
which she had convinced him of years earlier. Scott carried with
him a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, that had a
switch and a blinking light. It was called an Earth Resonance
Generator, or ERG. The literature said the ERG established a
negative gravity field through a magnetic Mobius loop. Inside
the box was a battery, a loop of wire, a light emitting diode and
the back side of the switch. In short, nothing of electronic
consequence or obvious function. There was no way in hell that
this collection of passive components could do anything other
than wear out batteries. All for $79.95 plus $4 shipping.

Scott first heard his mother proselytize about the magic of the
ERG when he was ten or twelve. His father, the role model for
Archie Bunker ignored her completely and said her rantings in-
creased with certain lunar phases. Since his father wouldn't
listen to her any longer, she endlessly lectured Scott about the
virtues of the ERG whenever she returned from a trip. His father
refused to travel, and had never even been on a plane.

His mother so persisted in her belief that she even tried experi-
ments. On one of her trips to Rome, she somehow talked the
stewardesses into handing out the 400 questionnaires she'd
brought with her onto the plane. It asked the passengers how
they felt after the flight, and if they do anything special to
avoid jet lag. She claims more than 200 were returned and that
they overwhelmingly indicated that no one felt jet lag on that
trip.

She attributed this immense success to the ERG effects which
purportedly spread over one acre. In other words, the ERG takes
care of an entire 747 or L-1011 or DC-10.

For years Scott successfully used the ERG to avoid jet lag. Some
people put brown paper bags in their shoes, others eat yogurt and
bean sprouts before a long flight. Maybe his solution was psy-
chosomatic, Scott admitted to anyone who asked, but, so what? It
still works, doesn't it? Scott was forever impressed that air-
port security had never, once, asked him what this little blink-
ing black box was. Scary thought.

He arrived completely refreshed via KLM at the Amsterdam Interna-
tional Airport at 9:15 A.M. While he had been to Europe many
times, he had thus far missed the Amsterdam experience. He had
heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than
legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the
local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling
the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it
immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to
miss out on the opportunity.

In New York no one harassed pot smokers, but technically, it
still wasn't legal, while Amsterdam represented the ultimate
counterculture. This was the first time since Maggie had left
for the Coast three years ago that Scott felt an independence, a
freedom reminiscent of his rebellious teen years.

He gave the taxi driver the address of the Eureka! hotel, on the
Amstel. During the half hour fifty guilder ride into downtown,
the driver continuously chattered. "Amsterdam has more canals
than Venice. Many more. Holland is mostly land reclaimed from
the sea. We have the biggest system of dikes in Europe. Don't
forget to see our diamond centers." He spoke endlessly with deep
pride about his native land.

The Eureka! is a small four story townhouse with only 16 rooms
that overlooked the Amstel, the largest canal in Amsterdam,
similar to the Grand Canal in Venice. The Times had booked it
because it was cheap, but Scott felt instantly at home. After
settling in, Scott called the local number that Kirk had given
him.

"Hallo?" A thick Dutch accent answered the phone.

"Hello? I'm looking for Jon Gruptmann? This is Scott Mason."

"Ya, this is Jon."

"A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you."

"Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?" The voice got friendly.

"That's what Kirk calls me."

"Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that
so?" Jon sounded enthusiastic.

"That's why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I
would love to!" Jon didn't sound like Scott expected a computer
hacker to sound, whatever that was.

"Huh?" Jon asked. "Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where
we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope
you do not mind." Jon sounded concerned about Scott's comfort.

"Oh, no. I'm used to inconvenience. I'm sure it will be fine."

"Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don't really begin until
tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?"

"Yes, just fine, what's the address?" Scott asked as he readied
paper and pen.

"Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg
Wal and Lange Niezel. It's around from the Oude Kerksplein.
Number 44."

"Hold it, I'm writing." Scott scribbled the address phonetically.
A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel-
ligibly. "And then what?"

"Just say you're Repo Man. There's a list. And please remember,
we don't use our given names."

"No problem. Fine. Thank you."

"Ya. What do you plan for tonight?" Jon asked happily.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Scott lied.

"Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique
pleasures Amsterdam has to offer."

"I might take a walk . . . or something."

"Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow.
Ya?" Jon said laughing.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Do one favor?" Jon asked. "Watch your wallet. We have many
pickpockets."

"Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow." Click. I grew up in
New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

* * * * *

Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour
trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport,
a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour
getting into town.

He dressed casually in the American's travel uniform: jeans, jean
jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that
Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity
unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single
lane streets straddle the miles of canals throughout the inner
city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down-
town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean,
almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several
hundred years. That's the word for Amsterdam; charming. From
late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly
packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the
young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something
for everyone. Anne Frank's house to the Rembrandt Museum to a
glass roofed boat trip down the canals through the diamond dis-
trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac-
tions for the more prurient.

He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the
concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration
desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

"Not to find us selling that here," the Pakistani concierge said
in broken English.

"I know. But where . . ." It was an odd feeling to ask which
store sold drugs.

"You want Coffee Shop," he helpfully said.

"Coffee Shop?" Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

"Across bridge, make right, make left." The concierge liberally
used his hands to describe the route. "Coffee shop. Very good."

Scott thanked him profusely and made a quick exit thinking that
in parts of the U.S., Texas came to mind, such a conversation
could be construed as conspiracy. He headed out into the cool
damp late morning weather. The air was crisp, clean, a pleasure
to breathe deeply. The Amstel canal, not a ripple present,
echoed the tranquility that one feels when walking throughout the
city. There are only a half dozen or so 'main' streets or boule-
vards in Amsterdam and they provide the familiar intense interna-
tional commercialism found in any major European city. It is
when one begins to explore the back streets, the countless alleys
and small passageways; the darkened corridors that provide a
short cut to the bridge to the next islet; it is then that one
feels the essence of Amsterdam.

Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con-
scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about
the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the
street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French,
Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just
an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL
Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker-
straat, and it was unassuming, some might call it derelict, in
appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared
deserted.

Through the large dirty plate glass window Scott saw a handful of
patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round
tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom.
Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter.
No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned
on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain.
A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him-
self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he
be of service?

"Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here," Scott said.

"Ya, of course. What do you want?" Chris asked.

"Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can't take it back
with me you know," Scott laughed nervously.

"Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he-
roin." Chris gave the sales pitches verbally - there was no
printed menu in this Coffee Shop.

"No!" Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all
drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn't want to offend.
"Thanks anyway. Just some grass will do."

"How many grams do you want?"

Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans
thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K.,
28 grams to an ounce . . .

"Two grams," Scott said. "By the way, how late are you open?"
Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose.

"Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late," Chris said while
bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He
opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of
aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. "You want hashish?" Chris
offered.

Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in-
stead of the candy bar.

"You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott
looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got
up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja
here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake."

"Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only
get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he
held up another, "will get you stoned."

"Bullshit," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is
catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we
smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."

"You sold me," Scott said holding his hands up in surrender.
"Just a little high is fine by me. Two grams, please," he said
to Chris pointing at the less potent bag. "Thanks for the warn-
ing," he said to the American. "Where you from?" Scott asked.