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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"You made your point. What is it?"

"The airlines are going to be hit next. Homosoto's next target."

"How the hell would you know that?"

"I've been talking to Foster. He told me."

"Foster told you what?"

"It's a huge attack, an incredibly large computer attack. He
worked for Homosoto. But the point is, the airlines. They're
next. Worse than the radar computer problems."

"Can I get right back to you?"

Waiting for Ty's call, Scott wrote an article for the following
morning's paper and submitted it from home to the office comput-
er.

* * * * *

COMPUTER TERRORISM
An Exclusive Interview With The Man Who Invaded America
By Scott Mason

The man who claims to be the technical genius behind the recent
wave of Computer Crimes has agreed to tell his story exclusively
to the New York City Times.

Only known as the Spook, a hacker's handle which represents both
an alter-ego and anonymity, he says that he was hired by Taki
Homosoto, late chairman of OSO Industries to design and prepare a
massive assault against the computer systems of the United
States.

The incredible claims made by the Spook appear to be grounded in
fact and his first statements alone were astounding. Please
note, these are exact quotes from a computer conversation with
the Spook.

"There will be thousands of viruses. Thousands of them. I have
to imagine by now that every program in America is infected with
ten different viruses. There is only one way to stop them all.
Never turn on your computers.

"You see, most virus programmers are searching for immediate
gratification. They write one and want it to spread real quick
and then see it blow up. So most amateur virus builders are
disappointed in the results because they don't have patience.
But we, I had patience.

"To maximize the effects of viruses, you have to give them time.
Time to spread, to infect. Many of the viruses that you will
experience are years old. The older viruses are much cruder than
those made recently. We learned over time to build better vi-
ruses. Our old ones have been dormant for so long, their conta-
gion is complete and they will be just as effective.

"We have built and installed the greatest viruses of all time.
Every PC will probably be dead in months if not weeks, unless you
take my advice. There are also VAX viruses, VMS viruses, SUN
viruses, we even built some for Cray supercomputers, but we don't
expect much damage from them."

The Spook's next comments were just as startling.

"The blackmail operation was a sham, but a terrific success. It
wasn't for the money. No one ever collected any money, did they?
It was pure psychological warfare. Making people distrust their
computers, distrust one another because the computer makes them
look like liars. That was the goal. The money was a diversion-
ary tactic.

"Part of any attack is the need to soften the enemy and terrorism
is the best way to get quick results. By the time the first
viruses came along, whoa! I bet half the MIS directors in the
country don't know whether they're coming or going."

According to the Spook, he designed the attack with several
armies to be used for different purposes.

One for Propaganda, one for Infiltration and Infection, one for
Engineering, one for Communications, and another for Distribution
and another for Manufacturing. At the pinnacle was Homosoto
acting as Command and Control.

"I didn't actually infect any computers myself. We had teams of
Groundhogs all too happy to do that for us."

According to security experts, Homosoto apparently employed a
complex set of military stratagem in the execution of his attack.

It has yet to be determined if the Spook will be of any help in
minimizing the effects of the First Computer War.

Scott finally went to bed. Tyrone never called him back.

* * * * *

Thursday, January 21
New York City

The cavernous streets of New York on a cloud covered moonless
night harbor an eerie aura, reminiscent of the fog laden alleys
near the London docks on the Thames in the days of Jack the
Ripper. A constant misty rain gave the city an even more de-
pressing pallor than winter normally brought to the Big Apple.
In other words, the weather was perfect.

On the corner of 52nd. and 3rd., in the shadow of the Citibank
tower, Dennis Melbourne stuck a magnetic strip ID card into a
Cirrus 24 Hour Bank Teller Machine. As the machine sucked in the
card, the small screen asked for the personal identification
number, the PIN, associated with that particular card. Dennis
entered the requested four digit PIN, 1501. The teller whirred
and asked Dennis which transaction he would like.

He selected:

Checking Balance.

A few seconds later $4,356.20 appeared. Good, Dennis thought.

He then selected:

Withdrawal - Checking

Dennis entered, $2,000.00 and the machine display told him that
his request exceeded the daily withdrawal limit. Normal, he
thought, as he entered an 8 digit sequence: 00330101. The super-
visor control override.

The teller hummed and thought for a moment, and then $20 bills
began tumbling out of the "Take Cash" drawer. One hundred of
them.

The teller asked, "Another Transaction?" and Dennis chose 'No'.
He retrieved the magnetic card from the machine and the receipt
of this transaction before grabbing a cab to a subway entrance on
59th. and Lexington Ave. The ID card he used was only designed
to be used once, so Dennis saw to it that the card was cut and
disposed of in a subterranean men's room toilet.

Dennis Melbourne traveled throughout New York all night long,
emptying Cirrus cash machines of their available funds. And the
next night, and the next. He netted $246,300 in three days. All
told, Cirrus customers in thirty-six states were robbed by Dennis
Melbourne and his scores of accomplices of nearly $10 Million
before the banks discovered how it was being done.

The Cirrus network and it's thousands of Automatic Tellers were
immediately closed. For the first time in years, America had no
access to instant cash.

Bank lines grew to obscene lengths and the waiting for simple
transactions was interminable. Almost one half of personal
banking had been done by ATM computer, and now human tellers had
to deal with throngs of customers who had little idea of how to
bank with a live person.

Retail sales figures for the week after the ATM machines were
closed showed a significant decline of 3.2%. The Commerce De-
partment was demanding action by Treasury who pressured the FBI
and everybody looked to the White House for leadership. The
economic impact of immediate cash restriction had been virtually
instantaneous; after all the U.S. is a culture of spontaneity
demanding instant gratification. Cash machines addressed that
cultural personality perfectly. Now it was gone.

Dennis Melbourne knew that it was time to begin on the MOST
network. Then the American Express network. And he would get
rich in the process. Ahmed Shah paid him very well. 25% of the
take.

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
New York City

"We had to take out the part about the airlines," Higgins said in
response to Scott's question about the heavy editing. To Hig-
gins' and Doug's surprise, Scott understood; he didn't put up a
stink.

"I wondered about that," Scott said reflecting back on the last
evening. "Telling too much can be worse than not telling enough.
Whatever you say, John."

"We decided to let the airlines and the FAA and the NTSB make the
call." Higgins and Scott had come to know and respect each other
quite well in the last few weeks. They didn't agree on every-
thing, but as the incredible story evolved, Higgins felt more
comfortable with less conservative rulings and Scott relinquished
his non-negotiable pristine attitude. At least they disagreed
less often and less loudly. Although neither one would admit it,
each made an excellent sounding board for the other - a valuable
asset on a story this important.

Higgins continued. "The airlines are treating it as a bomb
scare. Seriously, but quietly. They have people going through
the systems, looking for whatever it is you people look for."
Higgins' knowledge of computers was still dismal.

"Scott, let me ask you something." Doug broke into the conversa-
tion that like all the others, took place in Higgins' lawyer-like
office. They occurred so often that Scott had half seriously
convinced Higgins' secretary that he wouldn't attend unless there
were fresh donuts and juice on the coffee table. When Higgins
found out, he was mildly annoyed, but nonetheless, in the spirit
of camaraderie, he let the tradition continue. "Children will be
children," he said.

"How much damage could be done if the Spook's telling the truth?"
Doug asked.

"Oh, he's telling the truth," Scott said somberly. "Don't for-
get, I know this guy. He said that the effects would take weeks
and maybe months to straighten out. And the airline assault
would start Monday."

"Why is he being so helpful?" Higgins asked.

"He wants to establish credibility. He says he wants to help
now, but first he wants to be taken seriously."

"Seriously? Seriously? He's a terrorist!" shouted Higgins. "No
damn different than someone who throws a bomb into a crowded
subway. You don't negotiate with terrorists!" He calmed him-
self, not liking to show that degree of emotion. "But we want
the story . . ." he sighed in resignation. Doug and Scott agreed
in unison.

"Personally, it sounds like a macho ego thing," commented Doug.

"So what?" asked Higgins. "Motivation is independent of premedi-
tation."

"Legally speaking . . ." Doug added. He wanted to make sure
than John was aware that there were other than purely legal
issues on the table.

"As I was saying," Scott continued. "The reservation computers
are the single most important item in running the nation's air-
lines. They all interact and talk to each other, and create
billing, and schedule planes; they interface on line to the
OAG . . .they're the brains. They all use Fault Tolerant equip-
ment, that's spares of everything, off site backup of all records
- I've checked into it. Whatever he's planned, it'll be a doo-
sey."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," Higgins added with indifference.
"Legally it's unsubstantiated hearsay. But with the computer
transcripts of all your conversations, if anything happens, I'd
say you'd have quite a scoop."

"That's what he wants! And we can't warn anybody?"

"That's up to the airlines, the FAA, not us." The phone on Hig-
gins disk emitted two short warbles. He spoke into the phone.
"Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled
his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over
at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows.

Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch;
the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "Hello?"
he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in
Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The
President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd
be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He
waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record?
Fine. Thank you."

"Well?" asked Higgins.

"The President himself wants to have a little chat with me."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
The White House

Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet
Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his
cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation-
al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap-
pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En-
trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a
"Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular
pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi-
nitely not from Washington.

Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his
work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach
he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January
was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket
filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving
political and social attitudes. He was going to have to bring a
change of clothes to the office from now on.

Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least
he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the
President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too
much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks
to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier
on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela-
tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very
convenient was more like it, they thought.

The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented
him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that
Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem,
and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in
front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and
Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of
their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot.
This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the
President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a
journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order.

"Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half
hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with
Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much
that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott,
that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow."
He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring:

Computer Terrorism - Exclusive.

Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I
consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and
all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing
humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece."

"All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for
you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes
shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave
added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster
is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too
many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own
electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a
court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of
the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as
fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy
of it. That's all."

Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time
an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it
finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take
what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to
get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi-
ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon-
esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He
could hear it now, the 'you'll be helping your country,'
speech. Bargaining with the President would be gauche at the
least.

So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter-
view with the President when this thing is over."

"Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated
himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true
Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet.
But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a
dramatized account.

"And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ."
Scott added another minor demand.

"Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk,"
joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every
hour will help."

Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone
would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old
PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail
into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a
White House souvenir pen.

"It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure
office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs
up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.

"Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy
like an apple. A juicy one.

"What do you mean, it didn't matter?"

"We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines
anyway," Marvin said with neutrality.

"I don't know if I want to know about this . . ."

"It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh.
He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic button. For a National
Security Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel-
ligence is gathered. "Just in case."

"Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop-
erating fully."

"I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling the
President about this."

"Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked.

Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin.
"I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep
him honest."

* * * * *

Friday, January 22
Reston, Virginia

"No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into
the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you
what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott
mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing
the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes,
I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother
interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR.
I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few
seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror.
Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed
to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was
always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I
won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He
struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept
talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he
was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner
guests. Miles Foster.

Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far
as the world was concerned, they were two different people with
different goals, different motivations and different lives. The
unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles
Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles
or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of
Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like
Miles?

In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet
him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles
was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her
professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that
Sonja was between jobs.

She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but
that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott,
on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however,
and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage-
ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.

The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston
rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered
for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath,
ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.

"Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck.
"Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them,
Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "Maybe
Miles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with us
tonight," she said teasing Miles.

Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without
comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable
excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott
to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers
which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.

Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker
and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen
either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha-
nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the
boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass
doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.

"I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared
from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear
too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister
touch.

"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.

"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I
swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."

Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative
phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac-
ter was the same.

"You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in
hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand
you."

"What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the
moonlit water.

"I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening."

"No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me
confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan.

"You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and
all that . . ."

"Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed
the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin-
ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the
fuck off. Got it?"

Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in
panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real
Spook? Had he blown it?

Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and
Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind.
Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an
obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with
no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles
was magically transformed into Miles the lover.

He had had no chance to respond to Miles' outburst, so Scott was
caught with his jaw hung open.

"You boys finish shop yet?" Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles'
ear.

"We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the
annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann's early years," Miles
said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking
dimple filled smile. "We disagree on the exact date of his
second bris."

Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.

Gullibility was one of Stephanie's long suits, so Sonja helped
out. "That's right up there with the bathing habits of the
Jamaican bobsled team."

"C'mon," Stephanie said tugging at Miles. "It's chilly out
here."

Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren't
looking. Whatever you want. It's your game. Miles mouthed back
at Scott, 'you're fucking right it is.'

The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything.
Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk
that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined
elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar-
tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.

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

Chapter 28

Sunday, January 24
New York City Times