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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Steve finished downloading the files from NEMO's distant data
base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He
laughed to himself. Big business and government never wizened
up. Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as kinder-
garten as you could get. And everyone wonders why folks like us
parade around their computers. He had in his hand a list of
over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational
institutions who had left the keys to the front doors of their
computers wide open. And those were just the ones that NEMO knew
about today.

There is no accurate way to determine how many groups of hackers
like NEMO existed. But, even if only 1/100 of 1% of computer
users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over 100,000
people breaking into computers. Enough reason to give Big Busi-
ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to lock
the doors.

Steve spent the next several hours walking right into computer
systems all over the country. Through the Bank of California in
San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could reach
the computers of several corresponding banks. He read through
the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted on
their loans and were in serious trouble. Rates were going to
start rising. Good enough for a warm up.

Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers. On line
launch information, results of analysis going back twenty years,
and he had had a taste of it, once. Then, one day, someone
inside of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door. He
and NEMO were ever on the search for a key back into NASA's
computers.

He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into NASA.
That only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal Tech
then into Livermore. From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for
a mere 25 cents.

Livermore researchers kept the front doors of their computers
almost completely open. Most of the workers, the graduate stu-
dents, preferred a free exchange of information between all
scientists, so their computer security was extraordinarily lax.
For a weapons research laboratory, funded by the Department of
Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.

Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered
sensitive but unclassified, whatever that meant in government-
speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker, it
was great reading. The leading thinkers from the most technical-
ly demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts for
the everyone to read. The Livermore scientists believed in
freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in.
To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore management.
And its funding agency.

Steve poked around the Livermore computers for a while and
learned that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than pub-
licly acknowledged. He discovered that the last 3 underground
nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and
no one knew why. Then he found some super-technical proposals
that sounded like pure science fiction:

Moving small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into orbit
around the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your ene-
mies. War mongers.

All of this fascinating information, available to anyone with a
computer and a little chutzbah.

* * * * *

Alexander Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other subjects
carefully, as he had been trained to do.

He had spent the better part of twenty years working for West
German Military Intelligence, Reichenbunnestrad Dunnernecht
Deutchelande, making less money than he required to live in the
style he desired. To supplement his income, he occasionally
performed extracurricular activities for special interest groups
throughout Europe. A little information to the IRA in Northern
Ireland, a warning to the Red Brigade about an impending raid.
Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists had
occasion to use Alex's Services. Nothing that would compromise
his country, he rationalized, just a little help to the various
political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec-
tive governments.

Alex suddenly resigned in 1984 when he had collected enough
freelance fees to support his habits, but he was unaware that his
own agency had had him under surveillance for years, waiting for
him to slip up. He hadn't, and with predictable German Govern-
ment efficiency, upon his departure from the RDD, his file was
promptly retired and his subsequent activities ignored.

Alex began his full time free-lance career as a 'Provider of
Information'. With fees of no less than 250,000 DM, Alex didn't
need to work much. He could pick and choose his clients as he
weighed the risks and benefits of each potential assignment.
With his network of intelligence contacts from Scotland Yard, Le
Surite, and the Mossad, he had access to the kind of information
that terrorists pay for dearly .

It was a good living. No guns, no danger, just information.

His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a flat
fee in the millions of Deutch Marks. It was the intelligence
assignment of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and pros-
perous retirement for Alex. He wasn't the perennial spy, politi-
cally or dogmatically motivated. Alex wanted the money.

After he had completed his computer classes and purchased the
equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been
given. He half expected a live person to congratulate him, but
also realized that that was a foolish wish. There was no reason
to expect anything other than the same sexy voice dictating
orders to him.

"Ah, Sir George. How good of you to call. How were your class-
es?" George nearly answered the alluring telephone personality
again, but he caught himself.

"Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please
get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15 seconds."
That damned infernal patronization. Of course I have a bleeding
pen. Not a pencil. Idiot.

"Are you ready?" she asked. George made an obscene gesture at
the phone.

"Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight. Bring all of the com-
puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14 Sutherland
Place on Knob Hill. Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find
two keys. They will let you into your new living quarters. Make
yourself at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of as
is the phone bill. Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1.
When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput-
er. You should be well acquainted with how to do that by now.
The number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5. Your password is A-G-O-R-A.
Under the mattress in the bedroom is a PRG, Password Response
Generator. It looks like a credit card, but has an eight digit
display. Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a response
to your password. Quickly enter whatever the PRG says. If you
lose the PRG, you will be terminated." The voice paused for a
few seconds to George's relief.

"You will receive full instructions at that point. Good Bye." A
dial tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and hate.
Bloody hell, he thought. I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm
going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?

Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead
view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3 directions.
Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity;
bar, jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel cable.
Some job. But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the free
ride end? Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't let
go. One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins.

George installed his computer in the second bedroom on a table
that fit his equipment like a glove.

C:\cd XTALK
C:\XTALK\xtalk

His hard disk whirred for a few seconds. He chose the Dial
option and entered the phone number from the keyboard and then
asked the computer to remember it for future use. He omitted the
area code. Why had he been given an area code if he was dialing
from the same one? George didn't pursue the question; if he had
he would have realized he wasn't alone.

The modem dialed the number for him. His screen went momentarily
blank and then suddenly came to life again.

<<<<<>>>>>
DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)

George entered a "Y"

PASSWORD:

George entered AGORA. The letters did not echo to the screen.
He hoped he had typed then correctly. Apparently he did, for the
screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE.

He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer. There
was a pause and then the screen filled.

SIR GEORGE,

WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.

OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND NUMBERS
TO CALL. THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO BE
MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL. THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION WHAT-
SOEVER. I REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER. IF THERE IS, YOUR
SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE
NECESSARY.

EACH MORNING YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE FILE CALLED
SG.DAT. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR DOWNLOAD
ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.

FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY. KEEP AN EXACT LOG
OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE ON EACH CALL.

<>

George pushed the space bar. The screen was again filled.

ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY THE
PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.

AT THE END OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD YOUR FILE, CALLED
SG.TOD. YOUR COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE AND TIME
STAMP ON IT.

THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT DAY.
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS, JUST INDICATE
THAT IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT TRY TO CALL
THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?

The screen was awaiting a response. George typed in "Y".

GOOD. THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?

Y

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?

Y

WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?

None

ARE YOU SURE?

Y

WILL YOU BUY ONE?

N

GOOD. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?

Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.

Y

AN ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF AMERICA,
REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS $25,000 IN IT. EACH
MONTH OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH ANOTHER
PAYMENT. U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. IS THAT A PROBLEM?

N

WILL YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE? ANYONE AT
ALL?

N

EVEN UNDER FORCE?

Force, what the hell does that mean? I guess the answer is No,
thought George.

N

I HOPE SO, FOR YOUR SAKE. GOOD LUCK SIR GEORGE. YOU START
MONDAY.

<<<<<>>>>>

Sir George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused. He was
the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he
could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the
computer was worrisome. Was he being threatened? What was the
difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't ask. Keep his mouth shut and do a good job.

Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant consequences
of failure. This is San Francisco, and I have a three days off
in a new city. Might as well find my way around the town to-
night. According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.

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

Chapter 3

Tuesday, September 8,
New York City

But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys
pleaded into his side of the phone. "How did you find out?" At
first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated by
one of his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife. Even she,
though, coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a twisted
form of art. No, it had to be real.

"I'm sorry Mr. Sidneys. We can't give out our sources. That's
confidential. But are you saying that you confirm the story?
That it is true?"

"Yes, no. Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing. "If this
gets out, I'm ruined. Ruined. Everything, my family . . .how
could you have found out? They promised!" The noise from the
busy metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult to
hear Sidneys.

"Can I quote you, sir? Are you confirming the story?" Scott
pressed on for that last requisite piece of every journalistic
puzzle confirmation of a story that stood to wreck havoc in
portions of the financial community. And Washington. It was a
story with meat, but Scott Mason needed the confirmation to
complete it.

"I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that
would mean I was being helpful . . .maybe I should get a
lawyer . . ." The call from Scott Mason to First State Savings
and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was
just doing what he was told to do. Following orders.

"Maybe, Hugh. Maybe." Scott softened toward Sidneys, thinking
the first name approach might work. "But, is it true, Hugh? Is
the story true?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. Do what you want." Hugh Sidneys
hung up on Mason. It was as close to a confirmation as he need-
ed. He wrote the story.

* * * * *

At 39, Scott Byron Mason was already into his second career.
Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had avoided
the family destiny of becoming a longshoreman. "If it's good
enough for me, it's good enough for my kids." Scott was an only
child, but his father had wanted more despite his mother's ina-
bility to carry another baby to full term.

Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting protec-
tion of his mother. Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have
more of a future than to merely live another generation in the
lower middle class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Not
that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.

Her son showed aptitude. By the age of six Scott knew two words
his father never learned - how and why. His childhood curiosity
led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot tempered
Louis Horace Mason. Scott took apart everything in the house in
an attempt to see what made it tick. Sometimes, not often
enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its small-
est components. Despite his failings and bruised bottom Scott
wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an answer
to anything.

Behind his father's back, Marie had Scott take tests and be
accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a
half train ride from Brooklyn. To Scott it wasn't an escape from
Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.

Horace gave Marie and Scott a three day silent treatment until
his mother finally put an end to it. "Horace Stipton Mason,"
Evelyn Mason said with maternal command. "Our son has a gift,
and you will not, I repeat, you will not interfere with his
happiness."

"Yes dear."

"The boy is thirteen and he has plenty of time to decide what
he's going to do with himself. Is that clear?"

"Yes dear."

"Good." She would say as she finished setting the table. "Dinner
is ready. Wash your hands boys." And the subject was closed.

But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the
country, Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott about
how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and
work at the docks, like the three generations before him.

The issue was never settled during Scott's rebellious teenage
years. The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn, getting
gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press,
Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful
civil disobedience. Scott Mason was seeing the world in a new
way. He was rapidly growing up, as did much of the class of
1970.

Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate
to be accepted at several reasonable schools.

"I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon hearing
that Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would live
at home. "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's,
washers. He can go to work like a man."

With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out of
the house and in with three roommates who also attended City
College, where all New Yorkers can get a free education. Scott
played very hard, studied very little and let his left of center
politics guide his social life. His engineering professors
remarked that he was underutilizing his God-given talents and
that he spent more time protesting and objecting that paying
attention. It was an unpredictable piece of luck that Scott
Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer. He would
be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and building
the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond
satisfying technical creativity.

"Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire and
John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was to
answer just such questions. McQuire and Mason had been asked to
join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the paper's
position on running Mason's story. Scott was being lawyered, the
relatively impersonal cross examination by a so-called friendly
in-house attorney. It was the single biggest pain in the ass of
Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive sub-
jects, he was lawyered fairly frequently. Not that it made him
feel any less like being called to the principal's office every
time.

Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful appear-
ance allowed some to underestimate his ability. He looked much
younger than his years, measuring a slender 6 foot tall and shy
of 160 pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a timeless all
about Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his better days-
he was back in circulation at almost 40. The round wire rimmed
glasses he donned for an extreme case of myopia were a visible
stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a sophisti-
cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred shav-
ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed his
poor shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin 'just
like Dick Nixon's'.

The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With 2
walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem-
bled an elegant and subdued law library. Higgins chaired the
meeting from behind his leather trimmed desk. Scott brought a
tall stack of files and put them on the glass topped coffee
table.

"We need to go over every bit, from the beginning. OK?" Higgins
made it sound more like and order than responsible journalistic
double checking. Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the
business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon-
sibility to insure that the City Times' was kept out of the re-
ceiving end of any litigation. That meant that as long as a
story was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the con-
tents were immaterial to him. That was the Publisher's choice,
not his.

Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media-
tor between news and business. Scott might not like what he had
to say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too much.
Higgins was never purposefully adversarial. He merely wanted to
know that both the writers and the newspaper had all their ducks
in a row. Just in case. Libel suits can be such a pain, and
expensive.

"Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about the
McMillan scams." Higgins turned on a small micro-cassette re-
corder. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps
better notes than I do," he offhandedly said. Nobody objected.
There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared.
It was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good attorneys
taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect themselves
in case anything went terribly wrong. With a newspaper as your
sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.

"OK," Scott began. His reporter's notebook sat atop files full
of computer printouts. "A few days ago, on September 4, that's
a Friday, I got an anonymous call. The guy said, 'You want some
dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?' I said sure, what do you
have and who is this?"

"So then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins looked up
surprised.

"Of course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank President
from White Plains. Says he knows how to clean up the S&L mess,
gets lots of air time. Probably making a play for Washington.
Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at Treasury.
I guess they listen to him."

"In a nutshell." Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"

Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from his
pad. "My notes start here. 'Who I am don't matter but what I
gotta say does. You interested'. Heavy Brooklyn accent, docks,
Italian, who knows. I said something like, 'I'm listening' and
he says that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all. He's been
socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real
smart. So I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it and I say
'how' and he says 'read your morning mail'." Mason stopped
abruptly.

"That's it?" Higgins asked.

"He hung up. So I forgot about it till the next morning."

"And that's when you got these?" Higgins said pointing at the
stack of computer printouts in front of Mason. "How were they
delivered?"

"By messenger. No receipt, nothing. Just my name and the pa-
per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.

"Then you read them?"

"Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his editor.
"That's when I let Doug know what I had."

"And what did he say?" Higgins was keeping furious notes to back
up the tape recording.

"'Holy shit', as I remember." Everyone laughed. Ice breakers,
good for the soul, thought Mason. People are too uptight.
Higgins indicated that Scott should continue.

"Then he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then he whistled
and Holy Shat some more." Once the giggles died down, Mason got
serious. "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told him
I'd put his name in the paper if anything came of it, and I
picked his brain. Ran through the numbers on the printouts, and
ran through them again. I really worked that poor guy, but
that's the price of fame. By the next morning we knew that there
were two sets of books on First State." Mason turned a couple
pages in his files.

"It appears," Scott said remembering that he was selling the
importance of the story to legal and the publisher, "that a
substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in numbered
bank accounts all over the world." Scott said with finality.

Higgins interrupted here. "So what's wrong with that?" he chal-
lenged.

"They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac-
count with over $750 Million it. Almost 10% of stated assets.
It appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand over them,
"that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss,
in their next SEC reporting." Mason stopped and looked at Hig-
gins as though Higgins would understand everything.

Higgins snorted as he made more notes.

"That next morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I got a
call again, from what sounded like the same guy."

"Why do you say that? How did you know?" Higgins inquired.

Mason sighed. "Cause he said, 'it's me remember?' and spoke like
Archie Bunker. Good enough for you?" Mason grinned wide. Mason
had the accent down to a tee. Higgins gave in to another round
of snickers.