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Title: Terminal Compromise

Author: Winn Schwartau

Release date: August 1, 1993 [eBook #79]
Most recently updated: December 23, 2011

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TERMINAL
COMPROMISE ***

"Terminal Compromise" by Winn Schwartau

Who thanks you for your consideration.

INTER.PACT Press 11511 Pine
St. Seminole, FL 34642

All contents are (C) 1991, 1992, 1993 Inter.Pact

THE WORLD'S FIRST NOVEL-ON-THE-NET (tm)
SHAREWARE!!!
By Inter.Pact Press

"TERMINAL COMPROMISE"
by Winn Schwartau

A high tech thriller that comes from today's headlines!

"The Tom Clancy of computer security."
Assoc. Prof. Dr. Karen Forcht, James Madison University

"Terminal Compromise" is a highly praised novel about the inva- sion of
the United States by computer terrorists.

Since it was first published in conventional print form, (ISBN: 0-962-
87000-5) it has sold extremely well world-wide, but then again, it never hit
the New York Times Bestseller List either. But that's OK, not many do.

Recently, someone we know very well came up with a real bright idea.
They suggested that INTER.PACT Press take the unprece- dented, and
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WE KEEP THE COPYRIGHTS!

"Terminal Compromise" is NOT being entered into the public domain. It
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(C) 1991, 1992, 1993, Inter.Pact Press

TERMINAL COMPROMISE - THE REVIEWS

" . . . a must read . . ." Digital News

"Schwartau knows about networks and security and creates an interesting
plot that will keep readers turning the pages." Computer World

"Terminal Compromise is fast-paced and gripping. Schwartau explains
complex technology facilely and without condescension." Government
Computer News

"An incredibly fascinating tale of international intrigue . . . action . . .
characterization . . . deserves attention . . . difficult to imagine a more
comprehensive resource." PC Laptop

"Schwartau . . . has a definite flair for intrigue and plot twists. (He)
makes it clear that the most important assets at risk are America's right to
privacy and our democratic ideals." Personal Identification News

"I am all too familiar with the appalling realities in Mr.
Schwartau's book. (A) potentially catastrophic situation."

Chris Goggans, Ex-Legion of Doom Member.

" . . . chilling scenarios . . . ", "For light summer reading with weighty
implications . . . ", " . . . thought provoking, sometimes chilling . . . "

Remember, it's only fiction. Or is it?

TERMINAL COMPROMISE: SYNOPSIS

"It's all about the information . . . the information."
From "Sneakers"

Taki Homosoto, silver haired Chairman of Japan's huge OSO Indus- tries,
survived Hiroshima; his family didn't. Homosoto promises revenge against
the United States before he dies. His passion- ate, almost obsessive hatred
of everything American finally comes to a head when he acts upon his
desires.

With unlimited resources, he comes up with the ultimate way to strike
back at the enemy. Miles Foster, a brilliant 33 year old mathematician
apparently isn't exactly fond of America either. The National Security
Agency wanted his skills, but his back- ground and "family" connections
kept him from advancing within the intelligence community. His insatiable
- borderline psychotic- sex drive balances the intensity of waging war
against his own country to the highest bidder.

Scott Mason, made his fortune selling high tech toys to the Pentagon.
Now as a New York City Times reporter, Mason under- stands both the
good and the evil of technology and discovers pieces of the terrible plot
which is designed to destroy the economy of the United States.

Tyrone Duncan, a physically huge 50-ish black senior FBI agent who
suffered through the Hoover Age indignities, befriends Scott Mason. Tyrone
provides the inside government track and confusion from competing
agencies to deal with the threats. His altruistic and somewhat pure innate
view of the world finally makes him do the right thing.

As Homosoto's plan evolves, Arab zealots, German intelligence agents
and a host of technical mercenaries find the weaknesses in our techno-
economic infrastructure. Victims find themselves under attack by unseen
adversaries; Wall Street suffers debili- tating blows; Ford and Chrysler
endure massive shut downs. The U.S. economy suffers a series of crushing
blows.

From the White House to the Pentagon to the CIA to the National
Security Agency and FBI, a complex weaving of fascinating politi-
cal characters find themselves enmeshed a battle of the New World
Order. Sex, drugs, rock'n'roll: Tokyo, Vienna, Paris, Iraq,
Iran. It's all here.

Enjoy reading "Terminal Compromise."

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GETTING TERMINAL COMPROMISE:

You can get your copy of Terminal Compromise from a lot of
sites; if you don't see it, just ask around.

It consists of either 2 or 5 files, depending upon how you re- ceive it.
(Details at end of this file.)

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well.

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Enjoy "Terminal Compromise" and help us make it an easy decision to
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***********************************************************
*****

Note to the Readers of "Terminal Compromise:"

In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish fact from
fiction.

That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts are
unbelievable. Maybe it doesn't matter and they're the same after all. Other
than a few well known names and incidents, the events in this book are
fictional - to the best of my knowledge.

As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods, new
tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if this story was
to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would always be unfinished. The
battle of the computers is one without an end in sight.

This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the
possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is clouded because
the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news, of today. I expect that
distinction to become hazier over the next few years.

It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation
indistinguishable from reality.

The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was the
culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative being the last
thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi- tated by a need to reach the
largest possible audience.

In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since "Terminal Com- promise"
was first published. It seemed that we were able to predict a number of
things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips, non-lethal warfare . . . and
you'll recognize a few other prog- nostications we didn't expect to come to
pass quite yet.

The reader will soon know why.

There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara- tion
of this document, but I'll only mention a few. If the reader doesn't want to
hear about my friends, please move on to the next chapter.

Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.

Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He kept me
honest.

Miles Roban. That's an alias. He's the one who told me about the real
NSA. I hope he doesn't get in trouble for what he said. I owe him a pound
of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two years, according to 'high-

up' sources, the NSA has been and still is looking for 'Miles'. They haven't
found him yet, despite an intensive internal NSA search. We need more
people like 'Miles' who are willing to break down the conventional barriers
of secu- rity on issues that affect us all.)

Dad. God rest.

Winn Schwartau, July, 1993

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

"Terminal Compromise" is dedicated to:

Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue
of the family. Let's continue to break the rules.
I Love You

Ashley She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and then
became a South-Paw.

Adam
Welcome, pilgrim.

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

Prologue

Friday, January 12, The Year After
The White House, Washington D.C.

The President was furious. In all of his professional political life, not
even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so totally out of
character. The placid Southern confidence he normally exuded, part well
designed media image, part real, was completely shattered.

"Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars, four
goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we're not prepared to defend our
computers? You don't have a game plan? What the hell have we been doing
for the last 12 years?" The President bellowed as loudly as anyone could
remember. No one in the room answered. The President glared right
through each of his senior aides.

"Damage Assessment Potential?" The President said abruptly as he
forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"The Federal Reserve and most Banking transactions come to a virtual
standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera- tions. Telephone
communications running at 30% or less of capacity. No Federal payments
for weeks. Do you want me to continue?"

"No, I get the picture."

The President wished to God he wouldn't be remembered as the President
who allowed the United States of America to slip back- ward 50 years. He
waited for the steam in his collar to subside before saying anything he
might regret.

*****

Monday, August 6, 1945.
Japan

The classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders'
instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were in a fervent
discussion about the impending end to the war. And of course it was to be a
Japanese victory over the American Mongrels.

Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was only a
year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected all of them. The
children of Japan were well acquainted with suffering and pain as families
were wrenched apart - literally at the seams, and expected to hold
themselves together by the honor that their sacrifices represented. They
hardened, out of neces- sity, in order to survive and make it through the
next day, the next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so
many of the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera- tors. It
was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was only fitting. Their
fathers and loved ones were fighting self- lessly and winning the war.

Many of the children's fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and many had
not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others, unrecognizable.
And when some fathers had gone off to war, both they and their families
knew that would never return. They were making the Supreme Sacrifice for
their country, and more impor- tantly, a contribution to their honorable way
of life.

The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever- ence.
It was widely believed that their father's honor was handed down to their
offspring as soon as word had been received the mission had been
successful. Albeit a suicide mission.

Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father's
sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the war, about
American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat the round faced

enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday that his father would
leave . . .and assuredly die as was the goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to
understand that it made sense to him.

In the last 6 months since his father had left, Taki assumed, at his father's
request, the patriarchal role in the immediate family. The personal anguish
had been excruciating. While friends and family and officials praised Taki's
father and fami- ly, inside Taki did not accept that a man could willingly
leave his family, his children, him . . .Taki, never to return. Didn't his father
love him? Or his sister and brother? Or his mother?

Taki's mother got a good job at one of the defense plants that permeated
Hiroshima, while Taki and his brother and sister con- tinued their schooling.
But the praise, the respect didn't make up for not having a father to talk to,
to play with and to study with. He loved his mother, but she wasn't a father.

So Taki compensated and overcompensated and pretended that his
father's sacrifice was just, and good, and for the better of society, and the
war effort and his family. Taki spoke as a juvenile expert on the war and the
good of Japan and the bad of the United States and the filthy Americans
with their unholy practices and perverted ways of life, and how they
tortured Japanese prisoners. Taki was an eloquent and convincing orator to
his piers and instructors alike.

At 8:15 A.M., the Hiroshima radio station, NHK, rang its old school bell.
The bell was part of a warning system that an- nounced impending attacks
from the air, but it had been so over- used that it was mostly ignored. The
tolls from the bell were barely noticed by the students or the teachers in the
Honkawa School. Taki though, looked out the window toward the Aioi
Bridge. His ears perked and his eyes scanned the clear skies over downtown
Hiroshima. He was sure he heard something . . .but no . . .

The first sensation of motion in the steel reinforced building came long
seconds after the blinding light. Since the rolling earth motions in 1923
devastated much of Tokyo, schoolchildren and households nationwide
practiced earthquake preparedness and were reasonably expectant of
another major tremor at any time.

But the combination of light from 10,000 suns and the deafening roar
gave those who survived the blast reason to wish they had- n't. Blindness
was instant for those who saw the sky ignite. The classroom was collapsing
around them. In the air was the noise of a thousand trains at once…even
louder. In seconds the schoolhouse was in rubble.

The United States of American had just dropped the Atomic Bomb on
Hiroshima, Japan. This infamous event would soon be known as ayamachi -
the Great Mistake.

*****

Tuesday, August 7, 1945

Taki Homosoto opened his eyes. He knew he was laying on his back, but
all else was a clutter of confusion. He saw a dark ceiling, to what he didn't
know and he hurt He turned his head and saw he was on a cot, maybe a bed,
in a long corridor with many others around him. The room reeked of human
waste and death.

"Ah . . .you are awake. It has been much time." The voice came from
behind him. He turned his head rapidly and realized he shouldn't have. The
pain speared him from his neck to the base of his spine. Taki grimaced and
made a feeble attempt at whim- pering. He said nothing as he examined the
figure in the white coat who spoke again. "You are a very lucky young man,
not many made it."

What was he talking about . . .made it? Who? His brain wanted to speak
but his mouth couldn't. A slight gurgling noise ushered from his throat but
nothing else. And the pain . . .it was everywhere at once . . .all over . . .he
wanted to cry for help . . .but was unable. The pain overtook Taki
Homosoto and the vision of the doctor blackened until there was no more.

Much later, Taki reawoke. He assumed it was a long time later, he been
awake earlier . . .or had that been a dream. The doctor…no he was in school
and the earthquake . . .yes, the earthquake . . .why don't I remember? I was
knocked out. Of course. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw and
remembered that it wasn't a dream. He saw the other cots, so many of them,
stretching in every direction amidst the cries of pain and sighs of death.

Taki tried to cry out to a figure walking nearby but only a low pitched
moan ushered forth. Then he noticed something odd . . .and odd smell. One
he didn't recognize. It was foul . . .the stench of burned . . .burned what?
The odor made him sick and he tried to breathe through his mouth but the
awful odor still penetrated his glands. Taki knew that he was very hurt and
very sick and so were a lot of others. It took him some time, and a lot of
energy just to clear his thoughts. Thinking hurt - it concentrated the aching
in his head, but the effort took away some of his other pain, or at least it
successfully distracted him focussing on it.

There were cries from all around. Many were incomprehensible
babblings, obviously in agony. Screams of "Eraiyo!", ("the pain is
unbearable!") were constant. Others begged to be put out of their misery.
Taki actually felt fortunate; he couldn't have screamed if he had wanted to,
but out of guilt he no longer felt the need to.

Finally, the same doctor, was it the same doctor? appeared over his bed
again. "I hope you'll stay with us for a few minutes?" The doctor smiled.
Taki responded as best he could. With a grunt and the raising and lowering

his eyelids. "Let me just say that you are in very good condition . . .much
better than the others," the doctor gestured across the room. "I don't mean to
sound cruel, but, we do need your bed, for those seriously hurt." The doctor
sounded truly distraught. What had happened?

A terrified look crossed Taki's face that ceded into a facial plead. His look
said, "I can't speak so answer my questions . . .you must know what they
are. Where am I? What happened? Where is my class?"

"I understand your name is Taki Homosoto?" the doctor asked.
"Your school identification papers . . ."

Taki blinked an affirmative as he tried to cough out a response.

"There is no easy way to tell this. We must all be brave. Ameri- ca has
used a terrible weapon upon the people of Japan. A spe- cial new bomb so
terrible that Hiroshima is no longer even a shadow of itself. A weapon
where the sky turns to fire and build- ings and our people melt . . .where the
water sickens the living and those who seem well drop in their steps from
an invisible enemy. Almost half of the people of Hiroshima are dead or
dying. As I said, you are a lucky one."

Taki helped over the next days at the Communications Hospital in what
was left of downtown Hiroshima. When he wasn't tending to the dying, he
moved the dead to the exits so the bodies could be cremated, the one way to
insure eternal salvation. The city got much of its light from pyres for weeks
after the blasts.

He helped distribute the kanpan and cold rice balls to the very few
doctors and to survivors who were able to eat. He walked the streets of
Hiroshima looking for food, supplies, anything that could help. Walking
through the rubble of what once was Hiroshi- ma fueled his hate and his

loathing for Americans. They had wrought this suffering by using their
pikadon, or flash-boom weapon, on civilians, women and children. He saw
death, terrible, ugly death, everywhere; from Hijiyama Hill to the bridges a
cross the wide Motoyas River.

The Aioi bridge spontaneously became an impromptu symbol for
vengeance against the Americans. Taki crossed the remnants of the old
stone bridge, which was to be the hypocenter of the blast if the Enola Gay
hadn't missed its target by 800 feet. A tall blond man in an American
military uniform was tied to a stone post. He was an American POW, one of
23 in Hiroshima. A few dozen people, women in bloodstained kimonos and
mompei and near naked children were hurling rocks and insults at the
lifeless body. How appropriate thought Taki. He found himself mindlessly
joining in. He threw rocks at the head, the body, the legs. He threw rocks
and yelled. He threw rocks and yelled at the remains of the dead serviceman
until his arms and lungs ached.

Another 50,000 Japanese died from the effects of radiation within days
while Taki continued to heal physically. On August 17, 9 days after the
atomic bombing of Nagasaki and 2 days after Emper- or Hirohito's
broadcast announcing Japan's surrender, a typhoon swamped Hiroshima and
killed thousands more. Taki blamed the Americans for the typhoon, too.

Taki was alone for the first time in his life. His family dead, even his
little sister. Taki Homosoto was now a hibakusha, a survivor of Hiroshima,
an embarrassing and dishonorable fact he would desperately try to conceal
for the rest of his life.

*****

Forty Years Later . . .
January, 1985, Gaithersburg, Maryland.

A pristine layer of thick soft snow covered the sprawling office and
laboratory filled campus where the National Bureau of Stand- ards sets
standards for the country. The NBS establishes exactly what the time is, to
the nearest millionth of a millionth of a second. They make sure that we
weigh things to the accuracy of the weight of an individual atom. The NBS
is a veritable techno- logical benchmark to which everyone agrees, if for no
other reason than convenience.

It was the NBS's turn to host the National Computer Security Conference
where the Federal government was ostensibly supposed to interface with
academia and the business world. At this exclusive symposium, only two
years before, the Department of Defense introduced a set of guidelines
which detailed security specifications to be used by the Federal agencies
and recommended for the private sector.

A very dry group of techno-wizards and techno-managers and tech- no-
bureaucrats assemble for several days, twice a year, to dis- cuss the latest
developments in biometric identifications tech- niques, neural based
cryptographic analysis, exponential factor- ing in public key management,
the subtleties of discretionary access control and formalization of
verification models.

The National Computer Security Center is a Department of Defense
working group substantially managed by the super secret National Security
Agency. The NCSC's charter in life is to establish standards and procedures
for securing the US Government's comput- ers from compromise.

1985's high point was an award banquet with slightly ribald speeches.
Otherwise the conference was essentially a maze of highly complex
presentations, meaningless to anyone not well versed in computers, security
and government-speak. An attend- ee's competence could be well gauged by
his use of acronyms. "If the IRS had DAC across its X.25 gateways, it

could integrate X9.17 management, DES, MAC and X9.9 could be used
throughout. Save the government a bunch!" "Yeah, but the DoD had an RFI
for an RFQ that became a RFP, specced by NSA and based upon TD-80-81.
It was isolated, environmentally speaking." Boring, thought Miles Foster.
Incredibly boring, but it was his job to sit, listen and learn.

Miles Foster was a security and communications analyst with the
National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was part of the
regimen to attend such functions to stay on top of the latest developments
from elsewhere in the government and from university and private research
programs.

Out of the 30 or so panels that Miles Foster had to attend, pro forma, only
one held any real interest for him. It was a mathe- matical presentation
entitled, "Propagation Tendencies in Self Replicating Software". It was the
one subject title from the conference guide about which he knew nothing.
He tried to figure out what the talk was going to be about, but the answer
escaped him until he heard what Dr. Les Brown had to say.

Miles Foster wrote an encapsulated report of Dr. Brown's presen- tation
with the 23 other synopses he was required to generate for the NSA. Proof
of Attendance.

SUBJECT: Dr. Les Brown - Professor of Computer Science, Sheffield
Univer- sity. Dr. Brown presented an updated version of his PhD thesis.

CONTENTS: Dr. Brown spoke about unique characteristics of certain
software that can be written to be self-replicating. He examined the
properties of software code in terms of set theory and adequately
demonstrated that software can be written with the sole purpose of
disguising its true intents, and then replicate or clone itself throughout a
computer system without the knowledge of the computer's operators.

He further described classes of software that, if designed for specific
purposes, would have undetectable characteristics. In the self replicating
class, some would have crystalline behav- iors, others mutating behaviors,
and others random behaviors. The set theory presentations closely
paralleled biological trans- mission characteristics and similar problems
with disease detec- tion and immunization.

It became quite clear from the Dr. Brown's talk, that surrepti- tiously
placed software with self-replicating properties could have deleterious
effects on the target computing system.

CONCLUSIONS

It appears prudent to further examine this class of software and the
ramifications of its use. Dr. Brown presented convincing evidence that such
propagative effects can bypass existing pro- tective mechanisms in sensitive
data processing environments. There is indeed reason to believe that
software of this nature might have certain offensive military applications.
Dr. Brown used the term 'Virus' to describe such classes of software.

Signed, Miles Foster
Senior Analyst
Y-Group/SF6-143G-1

After he completed his observations of the conference as a whole, and the
seminars in particular, Miles Foster decided to eliminate Dr. Brown's
findings from the final submission to his superiors. He wasn't sure why he
left it out, it just seemed like the right thing to do.

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

Chapter 1 August, 4 Years Ago. National Security Agency Fort George
S. Meade, Maryland.

Thousands of disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600 rpm. The massive
computer room, Computer Room C-12, gently whirred and droned with a
life of its own. The sublime, light blue walls and specially fitted blue tint
light bulbs added a calming influence to the constant urgency that drove the
computer operators who pushed buttons, changed tapes and stared at the
dozens of amber screens on the computers.

Racks upon racks of foreboding electronic equipment rung the walls of
Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed. Rats nests of wire and
cable crept along the floor and in and out of the control centers for the
hundreds of millions of dollars of the most sophisticated computers in the
world. Only five years ago, computing power of this magnitude, now fit in
a room the size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon. All of
this, all of this power, for one man.

Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a table,
4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and micro- phones. He had
been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they had taken his watch to
distort his time perception.

Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his resigna- tions as
a communications expert with the National Security Agency, S Group, his
office was sealed and guarded by an armed marine. His computer was
disconnected, and he was escorted to a debriefing room where he had
sporadically answered questions asked by several different Internal Affairs
Security Officers.

While Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the pre- ferred
term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work. From C-12, a group of

IAS officers began to accumulate information about Miles Foster from a
vast array of computer memory banks. They could dial up any major
computer system within the United States, and most around the world. The
purpose, ostensibly, of having such power was to centralize and make more
efficient security checks on government employees, defense contractors and
others who might have an impact on the country's national securi- ty. But, it
had other purposes, too.

Computer Room C-12 is classified above Top Secret, it's very existence
denied by the NSA, the National Security Agency, and unknown to all but a
very few of the nation's top policy makers. Congress knows nothing of it
and the President was only told after it had been completed, black funded
by a non-line item accountable budget. Computer Room C-12 is one of only
two electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital reposi- tory
containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles of every man,
woman and child in the United States. The other secret door that guards
America's privacy is deep within the bowels of the Pentagon.

From C-12, IAS accessed every bank record in the country in Miles'
name, social security number or in that of his immediate family. Savings,
checking, CD's. They had printouts, within seconds, of all of their last year's
credit card activity. They pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical
records from the National Medical Data Base which connects hospitals
nationwide, travel records from American carriers, customs checks, video
rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that any
computer ever knew about Miles Foster was printed and put into eleven 6"
thick files within 2 hours of the request from the DIRNSA, Director,
National Security Agency.

Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful and
highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly resign a senior

analyst position. While Miles was more than willing to tell them his
feelings, and the real reasons behind his resignation, they wanted to make
sure that there weren't a few little details he wasn't telling them. Like,
perhaps gam- bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on
the wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual. Had
he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get it? Blackmail
was considered a very real possibility when unex- pected personnel changes
occur.

The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma- lies.
Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort Meade
where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes- sional life. He
traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten- tatious but in style, had a
reasonable savings account, only used 2 credit cards and he owed no one
anything significant. There was nothing unusual about his file at all, unless
you think that living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to
make the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.

The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty shade of
government gray. There was an old map on the wall and Miles noticed that
the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades lighter than the surrounding paint.
Two of the four fluorescent bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint
on the ceiling. Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron
bars behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was getting
into those file with permission. Also prominent on each file cabinet was a
tissue box sized padlock.

Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they were
hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone. Miles paced the

room during the prolonged waits. He poked here and there, under this, over
that; he found the clean paint behind the map and smirked.

When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer- cising
his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.

He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn't a fitness nut,
but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape - women, lots of women. He
had a lightly tanned Mediterranean skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on
the longish side but immac- ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance,
even when he wore torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another
personal asset that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage.
Miles was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance, he called
it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None- theless, women, of all
ages went for it.

One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible. He had
an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples. If he were angry,
a frown could mean any number of things depend- ing upon how he
twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, "I'm real angry, seriously", or
"I'm just giving you shit", or "You bore me, go away", or more to Miles'
purpose, "You're gorgeous, I wanna fuck your brains out". His dimples
could pout with a smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could
accent and augment his mood at will.

But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with the
entire process. The IAS wasn't going to find anything. He had made sure of
that. After all, he was the computer expert.

Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, 'I doubt an
ax could even get through this' door. The fourth IAS man to question Miles

entered the room as the door was relocked from the other side.

"So, tell us again, why did you quit?" The IAS man abruptly blurted out
even before sitting in one of the old, World War II vintage chairs by the
wooden table.

"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred times."
The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. "I really don't want to
go through it again."

"Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven't told me yet." This guy was
tougher, Miles thought.

"What are you looking for? For God's sake, what do you want me to say?
You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is and I'll give it back to
you, word for word. Is that what you want?" Miles gave away something.
He showed, for the first time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the
emotion was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of amino
acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go back to the naive,
'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.

He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He gently
shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing. The IAS man
thought that Miles might be weakening.

"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed. "And I want it now!"

Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he could shit,
and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he had prepared himself for
this eventuality; serious interrogation.

"O.K., O.K." Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another heavy
sigh. "I quit 'cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and simple. I like my work, I

don't like the bureaucracy that goes with it. That's it. After over 10 years
here, I expected some sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase
like every other G12. I want to go private where I'll be appreciated. Maybe
even make some money."

The IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event made you quit?
Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the next day, or next
week. Why today?" The IAS man blew smoke at Miles to annoy him and
exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles was exhausted and edgy.

"Like I said, I got back another 'don't call us, we'll call you' response on
my Public-Private key scheme. They said, 'Not yet practical' and set it up
for another review in 18 months. That was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial
straw that you've been looking for. Is that what you want?" Miles tried
desperately to minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS
man.

"What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work is
classified." The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.

"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I
think the military call it the revolving door." Miles' dimpled smugness did
not sit well with IAS.

"Yeah, you'll probably go to work for your wop friends in
Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.

"Hey - you already know about that!" That royally pissed off Miles. He
didn't appreciate any dispersion on his heritage. "They're relatives, that's it.
Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and a bunch of booze. And besides," Miles
paused and smiled, "there's no such thing as the Mafia."

By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally leave the
Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal items, under guard,
and then escorted to the front gate. All identification was removed and his
files were transferred into the 'Monitor' section, where they would sit for at
least one year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had had
enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic machine that
moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of the interrogation. Just like
I said, he thought, just like I said.

There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the Agency
shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than what he claimed.
Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in the records did it show how
much he hated his stupid, stupid bosses, the bungling bureaucratic
behemoths who didn't have the first idea of what he and his type did.
Nowhere did Miles' frustration and resultant build up of resentment and
anger show up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance were
relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright ambitious
engineering types. It fit the profile.

Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles Foster had
submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in cryptographic and
communications techniques to improve the secu- rity of the United States.
Nowhere did it say, they were all turned down, tabled, ignored.

At one point or another, Miles had to snap. The rejection of proposal
number thirty-four gave Miles the perfect reason to quit.

*****

Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father was a pure
Irishman. "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother would say while slamming
the palm of her hand into forehead. She was not exactly fond of her
daughter marrying outside family. But, it was a good marriage, 3 great kids,
or as good as kids get and Grand- mama tolerated the relationship. Miles
the oldest, was only 7 when his father got killed as a bystander at a
supermarket rob- bery.

Mario Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some undefined,
never mentioned capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the pater- nal role in
raising Miles. With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and a grandmother all living
under the same roof with Miles, any male companionship, role model if you
will, was acceptable. Mario kept the Family Honor, keeping his sexual
proclivities secret until Miles turned 18. Upon hearing, Miles commented,
"Yeah, so? Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag. Big deal."

Mario was a big important guy, and he did business, grownup business.
That was all Miles was supposed to know. When Miles was 13, Mario
thought it would be a good idea for him to become a man. Only 60 miles
from Las Vegas lived the country's only legal brothels. Very convenient.
Miles wasn't going to fool around with any of that street garbage.
Convention girls. Miles should go first class the first time.

Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the United
States. Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph, in his Red Ferrari on
Highway 10, heading West from Vegas. Mario was drinking Glen Fetitch,
neat, and he steered with only one hand, hardly looking at the road.

The inevitable occurred. Gaining on them, was a Nevada State Trooper.
The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario to slow down and pull over.
He grinned, sipped his drink and Miles worried. Speeding was against the
law. So was drinking and driving. The police officer walked over to the

driver side of the Ferrari. Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer
lean into the car. As the trooper bent over to look inside the flashy low
slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun from under the seat and stuck it
into the cop's face.

Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I? I don't
want nothing to go on my insurance. I gotta good driving record, y'know?"
Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges to severely contract his
sphincter muscles.

"No sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship citation, for your
contributions to the public good." The cop laughed in Uncle Mario's face.

"Good to see you still gotta sensa'humor." Uncle Mario laughed and put
the gun back in his shoulder holster. Miles stared, dumbfounded, still
squeezing his butt cheeks tight.

"Eh, Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know the limit's 110?"
They both guffawed.

"Here!" Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a ride around
the world, y'know what I mean?" Miles wasn't sure what he meant, but he
was sure it had to do with where he was going to lose his virginity.

"Sheeeee-it! Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take 2 from Column
B, then do it once for me!" Even though they weren't, to a 13 year male
Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making fun of him. "I remember my
first time. It was in a pick up truck, out in the desert. Went for fucking ever!
Know what I mean? The cop winked at Miles who was humiliated. To
Miles' relief, Mario finally gave the cop an envelope, while being teasingly
reprimanded. "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here, will yah? At least on
my watch, huh?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."

"Ciao."

They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of the
evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way that brought
tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle Mario. When I grow
up, I want to be just like you."

*****

"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not react
favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying to protect him
from the influence of her relatives. Miles was gauged near genius with a
pronounced aptitude for mathematics and she didn't want his life to go to
waste.

His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime
culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family, knew that they
dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional rough-up of an opponent, but
preferred to ignore it. She mar- ried a man she loved, not one picked for he,
but had lost him 6 years before. They could not have her son.

Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and also
because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant- ing and raving
all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the Family. His mathematical
wizardry could assist greatly in gaming operations, figure the odds, new
angles, keep the dollars in the house's favor despite all advertising claims to
the contrary.

But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother. Hands
off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He was protected. Miles

was titillated with the attention, but he still listened to his mother. She came
before all others. With no father, she became a little of both, and despite
anyone's attempts, Miles knew about Mario.

Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and
grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same treatment
from everyone, especially women. They praised him so, he always got top
honors, the best grades, that he came to re- quire the attention and approval.

Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect. Miles
was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at all. But he had
absolutely no interest in men. He adored women, largely because of his
mother. He put women on pedestals, and treated them like queens. Even on
a beer budget Miles could convince his lady that they were sailing the
Caribbean while baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women
succumbed, willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster was soon
an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which Miles took as
approval.

By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics and
get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts within 50 miles of
Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female family had allowed him to
convince himself that he was going to change the world. He was the single
most important person that could have an effect on civilization. Invincible.
Can do no wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it must be
so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or girl friends called
self confidence others called conceit and arrogance. Even obnoxious.

His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics. He
believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All questions can

be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you have them on a piece
of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer will appear.

His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant soliloquy on
the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition to a defined set of
measured properties. He postulated that all phenomenon was discrete in
nature and none were continuous. Given that arguable position, he was able
to develop a set of mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a
problem into much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem
would be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as
the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the government.

He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to put his
ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security Agency painted an
idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a mathematician - the biggest, fastest
and best computers in the world at your fingertips. Always the newest and
the best. What- ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles accepted,
but they never told him the complete truth. Not that they lied, of course.
However, they never bothered to tell him, that because of his family
background, guilt by association if you wish, his career would be severely
limited.

Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but he never
told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were senior analysts. It was
a high tech desk job that required his particular skills as a mathematician.
The NSA got from Miles what they wanted; his mathematical tools
modified to work for govern- ment security projects. For a couple of years,
Miles happily complied - then he got itchy to work on other projects. After
all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time he came up
with another. Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new done
is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it through committee.
Everyone made proposals. You not only needed a good idea for a good
project, good enough to justify the use of 8 billion dollars worth of
computers, but you needed the connec- tions and assistance of others. You
scratch mine, I'll scratch yours.

During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various programs,
procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use- ful. While
technically his concepts were superior, his arro- gance, his better-than-
everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude proved to be an insurmountable
political obstacle. He was unable to ever garner much support for his
proposals. Thus, not one of them was ever taken seriously. Which
compounded the problem and reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude
towards his employ- er. However, with dimples in command, Miles
successfully masked his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the
demands of the job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different
person.

*****

The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief. The
digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal call, not from
outside the building, but he didn't recognize the number.

"Investigations," The chief answered.

"This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."

"Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?

"Is he gone?"

"Yessir."

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it. Forever."

*****

September, 4 Years Ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications
security consultant. He and half of those who lived within driving distance
of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a simultaneously endearing
and self-deprecating title given to those who make their living selling
products or services to the Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that
was always impres- sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his
services would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry, Miles' value
would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few clients quickly. The
day you leave public service all of your knowledge is current, and therefore
valuable, especially to companies who want to sell widgets to the
government. As the days and months wear on, new policies, new people,
new arrange- ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient
nature is probably no more evident than through the political circle where

everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and about what. This Miles
knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date women
whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men- strual cycles to
make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he thought a particular female
had extraordinary oral sex skills, he would make sure to seduce when she
had her period. Increased the odds of good blow job.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those who could
help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the secretary to get to the
boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease the
wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs, often at the expense
of government contractors and lobbyists, were a highly visible, yet totally
legal way to shmooze and booze with the influentia in the nation's capital.
The better parties, the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for
digni- taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a
generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid for by the
hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The Washington culture requires
that such services are discreetly handled. Expense reports and billings of
that nature therefore cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and
countless other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company
names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in an elegant
old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a former embassy,
which had been discarded long ago by its owners in favor of a neo-modern
structure on Reservoir Road. The house was appointed with a strikingly
southern ante-bellum flair, but tastefully done, not overly decorated. The

furniture was modern, comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well
suited to the classic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze. The
breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer air were
welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured gardens outside,
rather than the refreshing luxury of the air conditioned indoors.

It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a hundred or so
Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and unless tradition was
broken, it would be over by 10 as the last of the girls finds her way into a
waiting black limousine with her partner for the night. Straight politics,
Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he had set
out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game, talk the line, do the
schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured out how he was going to get laid
tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a woman
whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just arrived, maybe she
was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and he shouldn't let a woman go to
waste, so let's see what she looks like from the front. She looked aimlessly
through the French doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Miles
Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned toward him. She
was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch taller than Miles, she wore her
shimmering auburn hair shoulder length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly
formed full lips and statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly
intense brown eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie
Perkins were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and

dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts stood at
constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky. His
technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a houseful
without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned how to give it to
them, just the way they liked it. The weekend together was heaven in bed;
playing, making love, giggling, ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing
more, watching I Love Lucy reruns, drinking champagne, and making love.
Miles bounced quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her
exquisitely tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually
liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women, he did. It was
just, well this one was different. He 'really' liked her. A very strange feeling
for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after- glow.
She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were still
closed.

"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him.
"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood for shop
talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work for
them?"

"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.
Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious. I
thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone who can
pay. That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands got the
desired result.

"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that could
use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless they're
commies. My former employer would definitely frown on that."

"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get together?"
She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about this
later?" Miles begged.

*****

Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore
Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo Japan, first
class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000 for a 1 hour meeting.
Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa- tion obviously preceded him.
Stephanie was hired to recruit him, that was obvious. And that bothered
Miles. He was being used. Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip
was a bonus? He still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never
occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not have liked
him.

At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to Tokyo
through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that this was the same

route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983 before it was shot down by the
Soviets, but he was flying an American carrier with a four digit flight
number. He allowed that thought to remove any traces of worry.

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the flight
attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed envelope.
His name had been written across the front with a large black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER WELCOME TO JAPAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY ARE
AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23. ALL
ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI HOMOSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more
important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was in
jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend- ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a
member in good standing.

*****

Thursday, September 3
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full circle
40 miles then 215 for 40."

"Traffic Dallas?"

"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up pretty good."

"Sheers?"

"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You got it
made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a while."

"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

"Roger 1137."

The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The dozen or
so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the air traffic
controllers appear pallid under the haunting light emitted from around the
consoles. Severe weather patterns, afternoon Texas thunderstorms had
intermittently closed the airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile
pattern over Dallas and Fort Worth.

Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours past their
normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and highway pileups that
had kept shift replacements from arriving on time. Planes were late coming
in, late departing, connections were being missed. Tensions were high on

the ground and in the air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It
was a chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and least
burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.

Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"
He asked looking at the radar screen.

"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his finger.

"Bogies? What are those symbols?"

"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're there. And over
here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the
professional manner he was trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting
instructions.

"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch and copy
14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen and saw the same
pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What was the Delta pattern?"

"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke rapidly
and his authority wasn't questioned.

"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might be a
bounce."

Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned with
safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he had verified that

Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other ghost planes meandered
through the airspace, and that their equipment was functioning properly.

"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting update.
It's getting a little tight up here."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second here . . ."

"Dallas, what's the problem?"

"Just a check . . ."

Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify the
FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa- tion was
developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System was designed to
create a complete picture of every airplane flying within domestic air space.

All status information, on every known flight in progress and every
commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22 ARTCC's, (Air
Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical Center in Atlantic City
and then sent by land and satellite to a DoT Systems Center. There, an array
of DEC VAX super mini com- puters process the constant influx of raw
data and send back an updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap- proach
area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not appearing on the
National Airspace System data fields or dis- plays. Something was
drastically wrong.

"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.

His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta, too, 1258."

"What is it?"

"37."

"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to know
what's happening." He called over to another controller. "Get on the wire,
divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're closing it down." The controllers had
the power to close the airport, and direct all flight operations from the
tower. Air- port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the
tower's concern was safety at all costs.

"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have they had a
recall lately?"

The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else- where.
"Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and LAX have problems,
too."

"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and rack
'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe their eyes. Find
the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are going. Then, bring 'em down
one by one."

The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The captain of
American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground- ward for 10
seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an oncoming, and lost, DC-
9.

"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?
This is worse than the freeway . . ."

The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over, but
rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was going to be all

over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours, and Chad wanted to be
prepared. He ordered a formal notification to Boeing that they had
identified a potentially serious malfunc- tion. Please make your emergency
technical support crews avail- able immediately.

Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing 737's
disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of bogies with
meaningless signatures.

"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have several
injured passengers who require immediate medical assist- ance."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"

"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."

*****

By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across the
country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder failure.
Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the FAA directed that
every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos reigned in the airline terminals
as delays of several hours to a day were announced for most flights. Police
were needed to quell angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from
home and were going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we
can do, every airline explained to no avail.

Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since they
couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports where weather
prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough fuel, they were
redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen emergency landings in a two

hours period set new records that the FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day
for the media, and a certain decrease in future passenger activity until the
shock wore off.

The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives monitoring
the situation within an hour of the first reports from Dallas, San Francisco,
Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were accounted for, the individual
airports and the FAA lifted flight restrictions and left it to the airlines to
straighten out the scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded
passengers and almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.

It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.
Damn good thing.

*****

DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND by Scott Mason

"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave actions of
hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working in harmony," a
spokesperson for The Department of Transportation said, commenting on
yesterday's failure of the computerized transponder systems in Boeing 737
airplanes.

"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be permitted to
fly commercially until a full investigation has taken place." the
spokesperson continued. "That process should be complete within 30 days."

In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi- tion, as a
result of injuries sustained while pilots performed dangerous gut wrenching
maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.

Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment on
how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at once, but
some computer experts have pointed out the possibility of sabotage.
According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec- tronics specialist with
Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor- gia, "there is a real and definite
possibility that there has been a specific attack on the airline computers.
Probably by hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-
ming error in history."

Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said there is
no place for wild speculation that could create panic in the minds of the
public. None the less, flight cancellations busied the phones at most airlines
and travel agencies, while the gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of
flights with 30% less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the system back
together,

Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as much as
40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.

"I think I'll take the train."

"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at fault?"

"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a little wrong
and they jack up the prices."

The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also institute a
series of preventative maintenance steps on other airplanes' computer

systems to insure that such a global failure is never repeated.

Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi- tional
planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior service
performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates place the cost of this
debacle at between $800 Million and $2 Billion if the entire 737 fleet is
grounded for only 2 weeks.

The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation stocks
dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the airline
industry for its handling of the situation and wished its best to all
inconvenienced and injured travelers.

Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines and Boeing
as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott Mason, riding the
train.

*****

"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not another
computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged his shoulders in mock
defeat.

"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special- ist," he
chided.

When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical choice.
In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de- veloped quite a
reputation for himself, and for the New York City Times. Doug had had to
eat his words from years earlier more times than he cared to remember, but
Scott's head had not swelled to the size of his fan club, which was the bane

of so many suc- cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told
Doug

"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying to
politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.

"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded. Doug's
periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on critical issues
were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on the front page of every
paper in the country doesn't think a virus is sexy enough for the public.
Good night!"

"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I finally got
someone to go on the record about the solar payoff scandals between Oil
and Congress . . ."

"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."

"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and worse,
there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's no story . . ."

"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut- tered a
few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead printing. "Besides,
you're the only one left." As he left he patted Scott on the back saying,
"thanks. Really."

"God, I hate this job."

Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven years ago
when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original idea had worked. Scott
Mason alone, under the banner of the New York City Times, virtually
pioneered Scientific Journalism as a media form in its own right.

Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was when he
connived his way into a job with the Times, and without any journalistic
experience. It was a childhood fantasy.

Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug had
said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable Mason had
gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel. Points for
aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for brass balls. "What is
Scientific Journalism?"

"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni- cal terms
that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to the people at home."

"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer column . . .and
we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to be polite.

"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his dead
brother can write about the machines and the computers and the software.
I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning, the impact behind the
technology."

"No one would be interested," objected Doug.

Doug was wrong.

Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the news
business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro Computers and
the odd founding family who rode serendipity until competence was
required for survival. The antics of the Kay family earned Mason a
respectable following in his articles and contributions as well as several
libel and slander suits from the Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to
print the truth or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.

Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false accusations
and impersonal objectivity.

Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that some
of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in palladium and
iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how the experiments had been
staged well enough to fool most experts. Scott had located one expert who
wasn't fooled and could prove it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold
Fusion story for months before it became old news and the Hubble
Telescope fiasco took its place.

The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott Mason's
readers. He had published months before its launch that the mirrors were
defective, but the government didn't heed the whistle blower's advice. The
optical measurement computers which grind the mirrors of the telescope
had a software program that was never tested before being used on the
Hubble. The GSA had been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott
discov- ered the discrepencies.

When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated spores
into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs, Scott Mason was
the one reporter who had established enough of a reputation as both a fair
reporter, and also one that understood the technology. Thanks to Mason's
early diagnosis and the Times' responsible publishing, a potentially
cataclysmic genetic disas- ter was averted.

The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the payoffs
that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the testing ground
outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He traced the Libyan
chemical weapons plant back to West Germany which triggered the
subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the possibilities
and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some- thing is possible, someone,
somewhere will do it. Guaranteed. Since someone's doing it, then it's only a
matter of catching him in the act."

"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and
technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu- ally. To
believe that there isn't interesting, human interest and profound news to be
found, is pure blindness. The fear of the unknown, the ignorance of what
happens on the other side of the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in
the shrouds of time, well disguised and easily avoided."

Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical apathy
and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien- tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to fellow
Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back- bone of articles
that did not carry his name. But that was good. The journalists' barter
system. Scott Mason was not considered a competitor to the other reporters
because of his areas of inter- est and the skills he brought with him to the
paper. And, he didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking,
techni- cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was with
the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi- cation that Scott
undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted to learn. His efforts were
deeply appreciated.

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

Chapter 2 Friday, September 4 San Francisco, California

Mr. Henson?"

"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his
highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the papers he
was perusing.

"There's a John Fullmaster for you."

"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.

"Ah, John Fullmaster."

"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"

"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."

Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson
leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look covered his
face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well, tell him I'll take it in a
minute."

As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful Wall
Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of the 1980's, he
had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive young brokers who
wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets. Most often he simply ignored the
calls, or referred them to his capable and copious staff. Upon occasion,
though, he would amuse himself with such calls by putting the caller
through salesmen's hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually
sound interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert Henson
would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them down as harshly
as he could. It was the only seeming diversion Robert Henson had from the
daily grueling regimen of earning fat fees in the most somber of Wall Street
activities. He needed a break anyway.

"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It was as
much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW corner office,
Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where the Statue of Liberty
reigned.

"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper Central
London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and propriety. "I am
calling in reference to the proposed merger you are arranging between
Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis Services. I don't believe that the
SEC will be impressed with the falsified figures you have generated to
drive up your fees. Don't you agree."

Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I asked, sir,
don't you agree?"

"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the hell you
are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the SEC are public and
available to anyone. Even the press whom I assume you represent . . ."

"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt- ed. "All
the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest- ed in what I have to
say. Or, more precisely, what I have to show them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.

"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over 40% by
burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be- lieve you are familiar
with the numbers. Didn't you have them altered yourself?"

Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His eyes darted
around his spacious and opulent office as though someone might be
listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair, leaned into the phone and spoke
quietly.

"I don't know what you're taking about."

"I think you do, Mr. Henson."

"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.

"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures were
falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."

"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.

Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed the first
time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."

"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."

*****

"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken Boyers was
earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up and recognized a
certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken Boyers had been with
Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid 1960's as an aide de campe, a
permanent fixture in Rickfield's national success. Ken preferred the number
two spot, to be the man in the background rather the one in the public light.
He felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant
surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were completely

orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill could take the credit.
The arrangement suited them both.

Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids should leave
the room. "What is it Ken?"

"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."

"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."

"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had worked
together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering a U.S. Senator
around.

"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous campaign
voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look he gave his senior
aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement gave way to open mouthed silent
shock and then, only moments later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at
Ken Boyers. Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how in
blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only you, me and
General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked accusingly at Ken.

"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."

"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United States
Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm just like they did
Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides, I'm the one the public knows
while you're invisible. It's my ass and you know it. Now, and I mean now,
tell me what the hell is going on? There were only three of us . . ."

"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal onslaught.

"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the plan.
But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he knew the numbers
Ken!"

"Merrill, calm down."

"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you
know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out about . .
." Rickfield looked around and thought better of finishing the sentence.

"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the whole thing
up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and touched the Senator's
shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some lucky guess by some scum bag who
. . ."

"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time as soon as
possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that bastard Young is there.
Alone. It's a threesome."

*****

John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu- sive,
obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los Angeles. Even
though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going into the office. As
Executive Vice President of California National Bank, with over twenty
billion in assets, he could pick and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose
to read by the pool and enjoy the warm and clear September California
morning. The view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly two hours.

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva- cy
and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a social

presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the social pages every
time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc- curred. He craved his private
time.

Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to call him at
home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which when translated meant,
"Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife was the only other person with the
private phone number he changed every month to insure his solitude.

The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory. He used it
to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls. The warble surprised him
so, that he let it ring three times before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it,
he thought. I just got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed
again.

"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.

"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that your
secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the voice behind the well
educated British accent, but that fleeting thought dissipated at the import of
the words being spoken.

"Who is this? What secret?"

"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring to the
millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover your gambling
losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a soul." The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the profile.
The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman. Sir George began
his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys? I would like to talk to you
about a small banking problem I think you have . . ."

Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day. Each one
alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they alarmed him. They merely
alarmed, often severely, the recipients of his calls. In most cases he had
never heard of the persons he was calling, and the contents of his messages
were often cryptic to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every
call was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in- structions
had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the contents of the messages
on his list to their designees. Do not leave any message unless he had
confirmed, to the best of his ability that he was actually speaking to the
party in question. If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets,
by secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes- sage.
These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps with a little prod, his
call was put through.

At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster- ling walked
onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and reflected on his good
fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens last year, wondering where his
next score would come from. How strange the world works, he thought.
Damn lucky he became a Sir, and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance Company,
Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per- mitted George Toft
to leave the perennial industrial smog of the eternally drizzly commonness
of Manchester, England and assume a new identity. It was one of the few
ways out of the dismal existence that generations before him had tolerated
with a stiff upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one score
had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is when he
became a Sir, albeit one purchased.

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled
Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected his adapted

upper crust London accent. His natural speech was that of a Liverpuddlian
with a bag of marbles in his mouth - totally unintelligible when drunk. But
his royal speech was now that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords.
Slow and precise when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when
speaking rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct his
slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it became for
George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of his
money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma Square next to
the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande Britagne styled in
nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he enjoyed the balmy spring Athens
evening pondering his next move, as either George Toft of Sir George
Sterling, a well dressed gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.

"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.

George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no reason
whatsoever to know who he was.

"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire, Essex?"
The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo- politan. German?
Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been recognized.

George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was lost in
thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course. Please do be seated."

The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of- fered you
another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your valuable time?" The
man smiled genuinely and sat himself across from George before any reply.
He knew what the answer would be.

"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man nodded yes.
"Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the white-jacketed waiters
who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa, parakalo!" Greek waiters are not
known for their graciousness, so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable
response. George returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't
believe I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.

"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well, so
unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"

George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I assist
you?"

"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I understand
that you would like to continue your, shall we say, extended sabbatical.
Would that be a fair appraisal?" The Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the
waiter with two 1000 Drachma notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was it?
Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger had either keen
insight into George's current plight or had heard of his escapades across the
Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that
regularly passed critical scrutiny.

"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or can we do
for each other?"

"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each other."
Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply put Sir George, I
have the need for a well spoken gentleman to represent me for a period of
perhaps, three months, perhaps more if all goes well. Would that fit into
your schedule?"

"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical from my
sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put this . . ."

" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from your
valuable projects?"

"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you understand, it's
just that . . .". Alex detected a slight stutter as Sir George spoke.

Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need to
continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the exorbitant costs
associated with your studies and would not expect your efforts, on my
behalf of course, to go unrewarded."

George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a task as
yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom- fort that one should
in such a situation is that he was in desperate need of money. And, this
stranger did seem to know who he was, and did need his particular type of
expertise, whatever that was.

"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of
representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what he was
supposed to do before naming a price.

Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really. In exchange
for that, and some travel, first class and all ex- penses to which you are
accustomed, you will be handsomely paid." Alex looked for Sir George's
reaction to the proposed fees. He was pleased with what he saw in George's
face.

Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch<D>. As George
ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin- ued.

"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular delicacy with
which you are well acquainted. Each day you will receive a list of names.
There will be instructions with each name. Call them at the numbers
provided. Say only what is writ- ten. Keep notes of each call you make and
I will provide you with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of
confi- dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if you
accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to reach mutually
agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank account in your name."
Alex opened his jacket and handed George an envelop. "This is an advance
if you accept. It is $25,000 American. There is a phone number to call when
you arrive in San Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do
not, there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will want this
money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was smiling warmly but as
serious as a heart attack.

Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had always
wanted to see the States.

"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George peered at Alex
for a clue.

"Do you really care?"

"No."

"Off you go then. And good luck."

*****

Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow- ing
evening. He flew first class and impressed returning Ameri- can tourists
with his invented pedigree and his construed impor- tance. What fun. After

the virtually nonexistent customs check, he called the number inside the
envelop. It rang three times before answering. Damn, it was a machine, he
thought.

"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good
flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant friendly.
"Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton. You will receive a call
at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial tone replaced the lovely voice. He
dialed the number again.

A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called in
no longer in service. Please check the number or call the operator for
assistance. The number you have called is no longer in service…"

George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra- tion.
He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for the first time
in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke was this? Fly half way
around the world and be greeted with an out of service number. But the first
voice had known his name. The Hilton. Why not?

At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.
He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying and
the span of 10 time zones. The Eggs Benedict was exquisite, but
Americans could learn something about tea. The phone rang again.
He casually picked it up.

"Good morning, Sir George. Please get a pencil and paper. You have
fifteen seconds and then I will continue." It was the same alluring voice
from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there at the phone so he
waited through 14 seconds of silence. "Very good. Please check out of the
hotel and pay cash. Proceed to the San Francisco airport and from a pay

phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at 1 P.M. Have a note book and two pens with
you. Good Bye. "

The annoying dial tone returned. What a bloody waste of time.

At 1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed. He figured that since
he was to have a notebook and pens he might need to write for a while, so
he used one of the phone booths that pro- vides a seat and large writing
surface.

"Good afternoon Sir George. In ten seconds, your instructions will
begin." Again, that same voice, but it almost appeared condescending to
him now. Isn't that the way when you can't respond. The voice continued.
"Catch the next flight to New York City. Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at
Grand Central Sta- tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue. Not a suite this
time, Sir George, just a regular room." Sir George was startled at Alex's
attention to detail.

"You will stay there for fourteen days. On 56th. street and Madison
avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training Insti- tute. You are to go
to CTI and enroll in the following classes: DOS, that's D-O-S for beginners,
Intermediate DOS and Advanced DOS. You will also take WordPerfect I
and II. Lastly, and most importantly you will take all three classes on Tele-
Communica- tions. They call it TC-I, TC-II and TC-III. These eight class-
es will take you ten days to complete. Do not forget to pay in cash. I will
now pause for ten seconds." Alex was writing furi- ously. Computers? He
was scared silly of them. Not that he had ever had the opportunity or the
need or the desire to use them, just from lack of exposure and the
corresponding ignorance. But if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he
would do it. What the hell.

"After you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a store called Discount
Computer Shoppe. Buy the following equipment with cash. One Pro-Start
486-80 computer with 8 Meg RAM. That's 8 M-E-G R- A-M and ask for a
high resolution color monitor. Also purchase, and have them install a high
speed modem, M-O-D-E-M. Do not, I repeat, do not purchase a printer of
any type. No printers Sir George. You are never to use a printer. Ever.
Lastly, you will purchase a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk. If you wish
any games for your amusement, that is up to you. When you have
completed your studies you will call 212-555-6091. Do not call that number
before you have completed your studies. This is imperative."

Sir George was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It was all
gibberish to him. Pure gibberish.

"Sir George." The female voice got serious, very serious for the first time
in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one, I repeat, no one, of the
nature of your business, the manner in which you receive instructions, or
why computers have a sudden interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and
your advance will be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"

George responded quickly, "Yes!" before seeing the lunacy of answering
a machine.

"Good," the voice was friendly again. "Learn your lessons well for you
will need the knowledge to perform your tasks. Until we speak again, I
thank you, Sir George Sterling." The line went dead.

George Toft took his computer classes very seriously. He had in fact
bought a few games to amuse himself and he found himself really enjoying
the work. It was new, and exciting. His only social distractions were the sex
shops on Times Square. Red Light Amsterdam or the Hamburg they
weren't, so midnight antics with the Mario Brothers prevailed most

evenings. Besides, there was a massive amount of homework. Bloody hell,
back to school. He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great
deal. In fact most of the students in Sir George's computer classes ex-
celled. The teachers were very pleased to have a group of stu- dents that
actually progressed more rapidly than the curriculum called for. Pleasant
change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens.

The computer teachers didn't know that a vast majority of the class
members had good reason to study hard. Most of them had received their
own $25,000 scholarships.

*****

Sunday, September 6
SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.

WTFO

the computer screen displayed. That was hackerese, borrowed from the
military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly greeting that offended
no one.

Back on. Summer finals are over. Everyone still there?

BOOM'S STILL AT UCLA, I JUST TALKED TO CRACKER, MAD MAX, ALPHA,
SCROLLER, MR. MAGIC . . .WE MISSED YOU. LOOKING FORWARD TO A GOOD
VACATE?

Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the key to the
NPPS NASA node?

THEY CLOSED IT AGAIN. WE'RE STILL LOOKING. WE WERE BACK INTO AMEX,
THOUGH. CLEANED UP A FEW DEBTS FOR UNSUSPECTING CARD MEMBERS.
HAPPY LABOR DAY TO THEM. GOOD FUN.

And CHAOS? Anyone?

BEST I'VE EVER HEARD. 4 NEW VIRUSES SET TO GO OFF. HIGHLY POTENT
VARIATIONS OF JERUSALEM-B. THEN SOME RUMORS ABOUT COLUMBUS DAY,
BUT NOTHING HARD.

When you get the code send me a copy, OK?

SURE. HEY, REMEMBER SPOOK? STILL ASKING TO JOIN NEMO. SEEMS HE BEEN
UP TO A LOT OF SUCCESSFUL NO GOOD. WE'RE ABOUT READY TO LET HIM IN. HE
BROUGHT A LOT TO THE PARTY.

Careful! Remember 401

YEAH, I KNOW. HE'S CLEAN. GOOD GOVT STUFF . HE BROUGHT US THE NEWEST
IRS X.25 SIGN-ONS, 2 MILNET SUPERUSER PASSWORDS AND, DIG THIS, VETERAN'S
BENEFIT AND ADMINISTRATION, OFFICE OF POLICY AT THE VA.

What you gonna do, boy? In them thar computers?

I FIGURE I'D GIVE A FEW EXTRA BENEFITS TO SOME NEEDY GI'S WHO'VE BEEN
ON THE SHORT END.

Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.

TA

<<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>

The screen of his communications program returned to a list of names
and phone numbers. Lori said she'd be over in an hour and Steven Billings
was tempted to dial another couple of numbers before his date with Lori.
But if he found something interesting it might force him to be late, and Lori
could not tolerate play- ing second fiddle to a computer.

Steven Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone before", by
fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego State University.

The ritual labors were over and he looked forward to some relax time.
Serious relax time.

The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was spend- ing
time with his computer. She was jealous in some respects, in that it received
as much attention from Steve as she did. Yet, she also understood that
computers were his first love, and they were part of his life long before she
was. So, they came with the territory. Steve attended, upon occasion,
classes at SDSU, La Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien,
Connecticut, he lived in paradise.

Steve's single largest expense in life was his phone bill, and instead of
working a regular job to earn spending money, Steve tutored other students
in their computer courses. Rather than flaunt his skills to his teachers and
risk extra assignments, he was more technically qualified than they were, he
kept his mouth shut, sailed through classes, rarely studied and became a full
time computer hacker. He translated his every wish into a com- mand that
the computer obeyed.

Steve Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd. He was almost
dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body, and dark blond hair that
caused the girls to turn their heads. He loved the outdoors, the hot warmth
of the summer to the cooler warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff
Reef and betting on fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana. He played soccer and
OTL, a San Diego specific version of gloveless and topless co-ed beach
softball. In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.

The spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in white tennis shorts
and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically co-existed with the sterile
surroundings of the mammoth super computer center. The Cray Y-MP is
about as big and bad a computer as money can buy, and despite Steve's well
known skills, the head of the Super Computing Department couldn't help

but cringe when Steve leaned his surf board against the helium cooled
memory banks of the twelve million dollar computer.

He ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and effort- lessly that
over time he spent more and more of his hours there perusing through other
people's computers. Now there was a feel- ing. Hacking through somebody
else's computer without their knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity
of possibilities, an infinity of answers.

The San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought, and the
evening paper was even worse. So he got copies of the New York City
Times when possible, either at a newsstand, borrowed from yesterday's
Times reader or from the library. Nice to get a real perspective on the world.
This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to get his own new, uncrumpled and unread
copy of his revered paper, all thirty four pounds of it. Alone. Peace.

Reading by the condo pool an article caught his eye. Steve remembered a
story he had heard about a hacker who had invaded and single handedly
stopped INTERNET, a computer network that connected together tens of
thousands of computers around the country.

*****

Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker by Scott
Mason, New York City Times

Vaughn Chase, a 17 year old high school student Galbraith High School
in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges that he infected the
nationwide INTERNET network with a computer virus. This latest attack
upon INTERNET is reminiscent of a similar incident launched by Robert
Morris of Cornell University in November, 1988.

According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA spon-
sored group, if Mr. Chase had not left his name in the source code of his
virus, there would have been no way to track down the culprit.

A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put into a
computer, generally designed to cause damage. A virus attaches itself to
other computer programs secretively. At some time after the parasite virus
program is 'glued' into the comput- er, it is reawakened on a specific date or
by a particular se- quence of events.

Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm. A Worm is a
program that copies itself, over and over and over, either filling the
computer's memory to capacity or slowing down its operation to a snail's
pace. In either case, the results are devastating - effectively, the computer
stops working.

Chase, a math wizard according to his high school officials, released the
Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation date of September 1,
which brought thousands of computers to a grinding halt.

INTERNET ties together tens of thousands of computers from the
Government, private industry, universities and defense contrac- tors all over
the country. Chase said he learned how to access the unclassified computer
network from passwords and keys dis- tributed on computer Bulletin
Boards.

Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter- mine
the cause of the network slowdown and then to restore the network to
normal operation. It has been estimated that almost $100 Million in damage
was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm. Mr. Chase said the Worm was
experimental, and was accidentally released into INTERNET when a piece

of software he had written malfunc- tioned. He apologized for any
inconvenience he caused.

The Attorney General of the State of Michigan is examining the legal
aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase will be tried within in a
year. Mr. Chase was released on his own recognizance.

This is Scott Mason wondering why the Pentagon doesn't shoot worms
instead of bombs at enemy computers.

*****

The next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS from his small
Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin Board Service
or BBS. A BBS is like a library. There are li- braries of software which are
free, and as a user you are recip- rocally expected to donate software into
the Public Domain. Con- ference Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS are
free-for-all discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live'
conversation. Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the world can call
up any BBS using regular phone lines. No one cared or knew if you were
skinny, fat, pimpled, blind, a double for Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit
to talk to girls in person. Here, everyone was equal.

Billings 234

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a brief pause.

WELCOME TO THE SDSU/BBS. STEVE BILLINGS, YOU ARE USER #109

Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:

The menu changed to a list of further options. Each option would permit
the user to gain access to other networks around the country. From one
single entry point with a small computer, anyone could 'dial up' as it's
called, almost any of over 20,000,000 computers in the country tied into
any of ten thousand different networks.

SDSU/BBS WINDOW ON THE WORLD

NETWORK SERVICES MENU

Steve selected CALNET, a network at Cal Tech in Los Angeles. Many of
the Universities have permanent connections between their computers.

LOGON: Billings014

PASSWORD: XXXXKIRKXXXX

Again, there was a pause, this time a little longer. Now, from his room, he
was talking to a computer in Los Angeles. There was another menu of
options, and a list of other widely dispersed computer networks. He
requested the SUNYNET computer, the State University of New York
Network. From there, he asked the comput- er for a local phone line so he
could dial into a very private, very secret computer called NEMO.

It took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in New
York, all at the price of a local phone call.

NEMO was a private BBS that was restricted to an elite few. Those who
qualifications and reputations allowed them entry into the exclusive domain
of hacking. NEMO was born into this world by Steve and a few of his
friends while they were in high school in Darien. NEMO was a private club,
for a few close friends who enjoyed their new hobby, computers.

NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker.

1. PASSWORDS 2. NEW NETS 3. DANGER ZONES 4. CRACKING TOOLS 5. WHO'S
NEW? 6. PHREAKING 7. CRYPTO 8. WHO ELSE? 9. U.S. NETWORKS 10.
INTERNATIONAL NETWORKS 11. FOR TRADE 12. FORTUNE 500 DOORKEYS

He selected (8), WHO ELSE? Steve wanted to see who else was 'on- line'
now. He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving hackers a bad
name. The computer responded:

CONVERSATION PIT: LA CREME, RAMBO. DO YOU WANT TO JOIN IN?

That was great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's founders were there.
La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but he had not yet
returned to San Diego for the fall term. RAMBO, 'I'll get through any door'
was the same age as Kirk and Creme, but chose to study at Columbia in
New York's Harlem. Hackers picked alter- ego monikers as CB'ers on the
highways did; to project the desired image. Steve and his cohorts picked
their aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since.

Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.

WHO ARE YOU?

NEMO was asking for an additional password.

Kirk

Steve typed. A brief pause, and the computer screen came to life.

WELCOME TO THE CONVERSATION PIT, KIRK. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?

That was his invitation to interrupt any conversation in progress. Steve
typed in,

Dudes!

HOW'D EXAMS GO? <<LA CREME>>

Greased'em. Ready to come back?

FAST AS THE PLANE WILL GO. PICK ME UP? 7:20 ON
AMERICAN?<LA
CREME>

Sure. Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat? Some phreak blowing it for
the rest of us.

SO YOU HEARD. CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP.
<<RAMBO>>

What the hell really happened? I read the Times. Said that he claimed it
was accident.

ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE <<LA CREME>>

HOW MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE
NETWORK? ONE THAT I KNOW OF. YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN
THERE. THAT'S NO ACCIDENT. <<RAMBO>>

Ten-Four. Seems like he don't wanna live by the code. Must be some
spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .

BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN. HE
SUPPOS-
EDLY CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A
BIG VIRUS
SCARE AND THEN LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST FIX. THE

VIRUS
WORKED ALL TOO WELL. THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE,
SUCKED. SO
INTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR
A COUPLE OF
DAYS TILL THEY CLEANED OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS.
<<LA CREME>>

SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <<RAMBO>>

Jeez. Anyone else been hit yet?

NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE. A LOT OF
DOORS HAVE BEEN
CLOSED SO IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE
DIDN'T LOSE
EVERYTHING. THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU.
<<RAMBO>>

OK, I'll be supersleuth. Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom, The
Crusaders?

IT'S ONE BIG DEAL IN THE E-MAIL: NEW CHAOS VIRUSES, EVERY DICK AND JANE
IS WRITING THEIR OWN VIRUSES. COMPUTING WITH AIDS.

Funny. Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM? Or your
mouse?

GOT SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING? IF HALF OF
WHAT THEY SAY
IS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE. TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC
BBS'S.
QUITE A CHAT. <<LA CREME>>

Will do. Any word on the new Central Census Data Base? Every- thing
about every American stored in one computer. All of their personal data,
ripe for the picking. Sounds like the kind of library that would do the bad
guys a lot of good.

CAN'T FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE
LINK WAS
STILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED
A PASSWORD,
SO THAT SHOULD BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND THE FRONT
DOOR.
GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN
QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.
<<RAMBO>>

Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind.

*****

Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and passwords
from NEMO's data base into his computer 3000 miles across the country.
These were the most valuable and revered types of files in the underground
world of hackerdom. They include all of the information needed to enter
and play havoc inside of hundreds of secret and private computers.

National Institute of Health 301-555-6761
USER: Fillstein PASSWORD: Daddy1
USER: Miller9 PASSWORD: Secret
VMS 1.01
SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY

VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla 904-555-2113
USER: Major101 PASSWORD: Secret
USER: General22 PASSWORD: Secret1
USER: Forestall PASSWORD: PDQS

IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research 914-555-0965
USER: Port1 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port2 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port3 PASSWORD: Scientist

There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to
computer systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was so secret.
Didn't want just anybody climbing the walls of their private playground.
Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.

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.

<<<<<<CONNECT 2400 BAUD>>>>>>
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.

<<PUSH SPACE BAR FOR MORE>>

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.

<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

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.

"He said, 'you like, eh?'" Mason spoke with an exaggerated New York
accent and used the appropriate Italian hand gesture for 'eh!'. "I said, 'I like,
but so what?' I still wasn't sure what he wanted. He said, 'they never took a
loss, yet. Look for Friday. This Friday. They're gonna lose a bunch.' I said,
'how much' and he said, 'youse already know.'" Mason's imitation of a
Brooklyn accent was good enough for a laugh.

"He then said, 'enjoy the next installment', and that was the last time I
spoke to him. At any rate, the next package con- tained a history of
financial transactions, primarily overseas; Luxembourg, Lietchenstein,

Switzerland, Austria, Hong Kong, Sidney, Macao, Caymans and such. They
show a history of bad loans and write downs on First State revenues.

"Well, I grabbed the Beanie from the Basement and said, help me with
these now, and I got research to come up with the 10K's on First State since
1980 when McMillan took over. And the results were incredible." Mason
held out a couple of charts and some graphs.

"We compared both sets of books. The bottom lines on both are the same.
First State has been doing very well. McMillan has grown the company
from $1 Billion to $12 Billion in 8 years. Quite a job, and the envy of
hundreds of every other S&L knee deep in their own shit." Higgins cringed.
He thought Ms. Man- chester should be shielded from such language. "The
problem is that, according to one set of books, First State is losing money
on some investments merely by wishing them away. They disappear
altogether from one report to the next. Not a lot of money, but a few million
here and there."

"What have you got then?" Higgins pressed.

"Nobody notices cause the losses are all within the limits of the loss
projections and reserve accounts. Sweet and neat! Million dollar
embezzlement scam with the SEC's approval."

"How much follow up did you do?" Higgins asked as his pen fly across
the legal pad.

"Due to superior reporting ability," Scott puffed up his chest in jest, "I
found that a good many account numbers listed in the package I received
are non-existent. But, with a little prod- ding, I did get someone to admit
that one of them was recently closed and the funds moved elsewhere.

"Then, this is the clincher, as the caller promised, today, I looked for the
First State SEC reports, and damned if the numbers didn't jive. The books
with the overseas accounts are the ones with the real losses and where they
occur. The 'real' books don't."

"The bottom line, please."

"Someone has been embezzling from First State, and when they're
through it'll be $3 Billion worth." Scott was proud of himself. In only a few
days he had penetrated a huge scam in the works.

"You can't prove it!" Higgins declared. "Where's the proof? All you have
is some unsolicited papers where someone has been play- ing a very
unusual and admittedly questionable game of 'what if'. You have a voice on
the end of a phone with no name, no nothing, and a so-called confirmation
from some mid-level accountant at the bank who dribbles on about 'having
to do it' but never saying what 'it' is. So what does that prove?"

"It proves that McMillan is a fraud, a rip-off," Scott retorted confidently.

"It does not!"

"But I have the papers to prove it," Scott shuffled through the folders.

"Let me explain something, Scott." Higgins put down his pen and
adapted a friendlier tone. "There's a little legal issue called right to privacy.
Let me ask you this. If I came to you and said that Doug here was a crook,
what would you do?"

"Ask you to prove it," Scott said.

"Exactly. It's the same here."

"But I have the papers to prove it, it's in black and white."

"No Scott, you don't. What you have is some papers with accusa- tions.
They're unsubstantiated. They could have easily been phonied. You know
what computers can do better than I do. Now here's the key point.
Everybody in this country is due privacy. You don't know where these came
from, or how they were obtained, do you?"

"No," Scott hesitantly admitted.

"So, someone's privacy has been compromised, in this case McMil- lan's.
If, and I'm saying, if, these reports are accurate, I would take the position
that they are stolen, obtained illegally. If we publish with what we have
now, the paper could be on the receiving end of a slander and libel suit that
could put us out of business. We even could be named as a co-conspirator in
a criminal suit. I can't let that happen. It's our obligation to guarantee
responsible journalism."

"I see." Scott didn't agree.

"Scott, you're good, real good, but you have to see it from the paper's
perspective." Higgins' tone was now conciliatory. "This is hard stuff, and
there's just not enough here, not to go with it yet. Maybe in a few days
when you can get a little more to tie it up. Not now. I'm sorry."

Case closed.

Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.

Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At five
foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding pate, he only
lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image. His bargain basement
suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather than walked down the hallways

at First State Savings and Loan where he had been employed since
graduating from SUNY with a degree in accounting twenty four years ago.

His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of place on
the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First State was known
throughout the financial departments; he was almost a fixture. His
accounting skills were extremely strong, even remarkable if you will, but
his personality and appearance, and that preposterous cartoon voice, held
him back from advancing up the official corporate ladder.

Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.

He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind of
predicament before . . .he thought about the lawyer . . .hiring one like he
told that reporter . . .but could he afford that . . .and he wasn't sure what to
do . . .was he in trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he
sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was just asking
questions . . .what was his name . . .?

"Ah, Mr. Mason?" Scott heard the timid man's Road Runner voice spoke
gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk from Higgins'
office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a train back home to
Westchester.

"This is Scott Mason."

"Do you remember me?"

Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.

"We spoke earlier about First State, and I just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . .
.apologize . . .for the way I acted."

Scott's confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding
beancounter from First State. What did he want?

"Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?" He opened his
notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to go home. But
Sidneys . . .maybe . . .

"It's just that, well, I'm nervous about this . . ."

"No need to apologize, Hugh." Scott smiled into the phone to convey
sincerity. "I understand, it happens all the time. What can I do for you
tonight?"

"Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I don't know
about help, help, it's so much and I didn't really know, no I shouldn't have
called . . .I'm sorry . . ." The pitch of Sidneys' voice rose as rambled on.

"Wait! Don't hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?"

"Yes," the whisper came over the earpiece.

"Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?" The fear, the sound of
fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over loud and clear. This
man was terrified.

"Yes, I'm OK, so far."

"Good. Now, tell me, what's wrong. Slowly and calmly." He eased
Sidneys off his panic perch.

Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to speak.

"Isn't there some sorta rule," he stuttered, "a law, that says if I talk to you,
you're a reporter, and if I say that I don't want you to tell anybody, then you

can't?" Sidneys was scared, but wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was
the time for Scott to back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on
his desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.
According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain and if
wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to assume the position.

"That's called off the record, Hugh. And it's not a law." Scott was amused
at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. "It's a gentleman's agreement, a
code of ethics in journalism. You can be off the record, on the record, or for
background, not for attribution, for confirmation, there's a whole bunch of
'em." Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he explained
the options slowly. "Which one would you like?" Scott wanted it to seem
that Sidneys was in control and making the rules.

"How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should do . . .what you
think . . .and . . .I don't want anything in the paper. You have one for that?"
Hugh was feeling easier on the phone with Scott.

"Sure do. We'll just call it off the record for now. Everything you tell me,
I promise not to use it without your permission. Will that do?" Scott smiled
broadly. If you speak loudly with a big smile on your face, people on the
other end of the phone think you're honest and that you mean what you say.
That's how game show hosts do it.

"OK." Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. "Those papers you say you
have? Remember?"

"Sure do. Got them right here." Scott patted them on his clut- tered desk.

"Well, you can't have them. Or you shouldn't have them. I mean it's
impossible." Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice nearly squeaked.

"Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me yesterday.
A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than you let on . . ."

"Mr. Mason . . ."

"Please, call me Scott!"

"OK . . .Scott. What I'm trying to say is that what you say you have, you
can't have cause it never existed."

"What do you mean never existed?" Scott was confused, terribly
confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. "Listen, I have reams of paper
here that say someone at First State is a big crook. Then you say, 'sure it's
real' and now you don't. What's your game, Mister?" Playing good-cop bad-
cop alone was diffi- cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to
reality.

"Obviously you have them, that's not the point." Sidneys reacted
submissively to Scott's ersatz domineering personality. "The only place that
those figures ever existed was in my mind and in my computer. I never
made a printout. They were never put on paper." Hugh said resolutely.

Scott's mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He has
papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta- bility is
currently in question. The contents would have far reaching effects on the
S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the iceberg. McMillan, involved in that
kind of thing? Never, not Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?

"Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of coffee
somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face. Get to know each
other."

Rosie's Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson River
docks on Manhattan's West Side. The silver interior and exterior was not a
cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all 280 pounds of her, kept the UPS
truckers coming back for over thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate
here, too. For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats, bacon
and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie's was the place. Once a month
at Rosie's would guarantee a reading of over 300.

Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there dressed.
Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase while nervously
looking around the diner. Scott called the short pale man over to the faded
white formica and dull chrome booth. Hugh ordered a glass of water, while
Scott tried to make a light dinner of it.

"So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the phone."
Scott tried to sound empathetic.

"It's like I said, I don't know how you got them or they found out. It's
impossible." The voice was uncannily like Pebbles Flintstone in person.

"Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?"

"OK," Hugh sighed. "I work for First State, right? I work right with
McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They think I do
market analysis and research. What I'm really doing is helping shelter
money in offshore investment accounts. There are some tax benefits, I'm
not a tax accountant so I don't know the reasons, but I manage the offshore
investments."

"Did you think that was illegal?"

"Only a little. Until recently that is."

"Sorry, continue." Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.

"Well there was only one set of books to track the offshore investments.
They wanted them to be kept secret for various reasons. McMillan and the
others made the deals, not me. I just moved the money for them." Again
Hugh was feeling paranoid.

"Hugh, you moved some money around illegally, maybe. So what?
What's the big deal?" Scott gulped some hot black coffee to chase the
pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.

Sidneys continued after sipping his water and wetting his lips. "Four days
ago I got this call, from some Englishman who I'd never spoken to before.
He said he has all the same figures and facts you said you have. He starts
reading enough to me and I know he's got what he says he got. Then he says
he wants me to cooperate or he'll go public with everything and blow it
right out of the water." Hugh was perspiring with tension. His fists were
clenched and knuckles white.

"And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?" Scott was trying
to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get some- thing more. "Do
you think you were being blackmailed? Did he, the English guy, demand
anything? Money? Bribes? Sex?" Scott grinned. Hugh obviously did not
appreciate the attempt at levi- ty.

"No, nothing. He just said that I would hear from him shortly. That was
it. Then, nothing, until you called. Then I figured I missed his call." Hugh
was working himself into another nervous frenzy.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. Not directly. Just said that it would be in my best inter- est to
cooperate."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong but
he said that didn't matter and I would be blamed for every- thing and that he
could prove it."

"Could he prove it?" Hugh was scribbling furiously in his note- book.

"If he had the files in my computer I guess I would look pretty guilty, but
there's no way anyone could get in there. I'm the only one, other than
McMillan who can get at that stuff. It's always been a big secret. We don't
even make any printouts of it. It's never on paper, just in the computer."
Hugh fell back in the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat and
gulped from his water glass.

Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been making. This
didn't make any sense at all. Here was this little nerdy man, with a
convoluted tale of embezzlement and blackmail, off shore money and he
was scared. "Hugh," Scott began slowly. "Let me see if I've got this right.
You were part of a scheme to shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet
the investments always made a reasonable return in investment." Hugh
nodded in agreement silently.

"Then, after how many, eight years of this, creating a secret little world
that only you and McMillan know about . . ."

"A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get the
information from the computer. No one else could. I set it up that way on
purpose." Hugh interrupted.

"OK, then you receive a call from some Englishman who says he's got
the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy. And the numbers
agree with the results that First State reported. Is that about it?" Scott asked,
almost mocking the apparent absurd- ity.

"Yeah, that's it. That's what happened." Hugh Sidneys was such a meek
man.

"That leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One, you got
yourself in over your head, finally decided to cut your losses and make up
this incredible story. Maybe make a deal with the cops or the Feds and try
to be hero. Maybe you're the embezzler and want out before it's too late.
Born again bean- counter. It's a real possibility." Hugh's face grimaced; no,
that's not what happened, it's just as I told you. "Or, two, McMillan is
behind the disclosures and is now effec- tively sabotaging his own plans.
For what reasons I could hardly venture a guess now. But, if what you are
saying is true, it's either you or McMillan." Scott liked the analysis. It was
sound and took into account all available information, omitting any
speculation.

"Then why would someone want to threaten me?

"Either you never got the call," the implication was obvious, "or
McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you." Scott put a few dollars
on the table next to the check.

"That's it? You won't say anything, will you? You promised!"
Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.

Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve. "Not without
speaking to you first. No, that wouldn't be cricket. Don't worry, I'll call you
in a couple of days."

His editor, Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep on it. There
might be a story there, somewhere. Go find it. But don't forget about the
viruses.

*****

The headline of the National Expos
, a weekly tabloid caught
Scott's attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central
Station.

EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott's entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to print was being read by
millions of mid-American supermarket shopping housewives. In its
typically sensationalistic manner, the arti- cle claimed that the Expose was
in exclusive possession of documents that proved McMillan was stealing
10's of millions from First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the
same papers that Scott had received. How the hell?

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

Chapter 4

Thursday, September 10
Houston, Texas.

Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for MIS
at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang three times before
Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime network administrator for
Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal computers were connected together
so they could share information over a Novell local area network.

"Joan, I don't bug you much, right?" Angela said hesitantly.

"Angela, how about a good morning girl?" They were good friends
outside of work but had very little business contact.

"Sorry, mornin'. Joan, I gotta problem."

"What's troubling ya hon." Joan Texas spoke with a distinct
Texas twang.

"A little bird just ate my computer."

"Well, then I guess I'd be lookin' out for Big Bird's data dump."
Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.

"No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up all the
letters and words on the screen. Seriously."

"Y'all are putting me on, right?" Maggie's voice lilted.

"No. No, I'm serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man or
something, ate up the screen. I couldn't get it to come back so I turned my
computer off and now it won't do anything. All it says is
COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the hell does that mean."

Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. "It may mean that we have
some mighty sick computers. I'll be right there."

By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at a
standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers, mainly IBM and
Compaq's were out of commission. The virus had successfully struck.

Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50 local
area networks and gateways that connected the various business units. They

contacted the National Computer Virus Association in San Mateo,
California, NIST's National Computer Center Laboratories and a dozen or
so other watchdog groups who monitor computer viruses.

This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they said. If you
can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out what's going on . .
.otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the entire computer system, all
4,000 plus of them, and start from scratch.

Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it would
be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would be fully
operational again.

Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic
representative from South Carolina was stymied.

Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss's office
and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin' Donuts. It was the
only way she knew to insure that her weight would never ebb below 200
pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did not match the plumpness below. At 28
she should have known that meeting Washington's best and brightest
required a more slender physique.

This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput- er
with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4 sugars. She
turned on the power switch and waited as the hour- glass icon indicated that
the computer was booting. It was going through its self diagnostics as it did
every time power was applied.

Normally, after a few seconds, the Mac would come alive and the screen
would display a wide range of options from which she could select. Mary

would watch the procedure carefully each time - she was an efficient
secretary.

This time, however, the screen displayed a new message, one she had not
seen in the nine months she had worked as Congressman Gompers' front
line.

RAM OPTIMIZER TEST PROCEDURE….

INITIALIZING…

THIS PROGRAM IS DESIGNED TO TAKE MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE OF SYSTEM
STORAGE CAPABILITIES. THE TEST WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW SECONDS…

WAITING….

WARNING: DO NOT TURN OFF COMPUTER DURING SELF TEST!

As she was trained, she heeded her computer's instructions. She watched
and waited as the computer's hard disk whirred and buzzed. She wasn't
familiar with the message, but it sounded quite official, and after all, the
computer is always right.

And she waited. Some few seconds, she thought, as she dove into her
second donut. And she waited through the third donut and another mug of
too sweet coffee.

She waited nearly a half an hour, trying to oblige the instruc- tions from
the technocratic box on her desk. The Mac continued to work, so she
thought, but the screen didn't budge from it's warning message.

What the hell, this has taken long enough. What harm can it cause if . . .

She turned the power switch off and then back on. Nothing.

The computer did absolutely nothing. The power light was on, the disk
light was on, but the screen was as blank as a dead televi- sion set.

Mary called Violet Beecham, a co worker in another office down the hall.

"'Morning Vi. Mary."

Violet sounded agitated. "Yeah, Mare, what is it?"

"I'm being a dumb bunny and need a hand with my computer. Got a sec?"
Mary's sweetness oozed over the phone.

"You, too? You're having trouble? My computer's as dead as a doornail.
Won't do anything. I mean nothing." Violet was frustrated as all get out and
the concern communicated to Mary.

"Dead? Vi, mine is dead too. What happened to yours?"

"Damned if I know. It was doing some self check or something, seemed
to take forever and then . . .nothing. What about yours?"

"Same thing. Have you called MIS yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting ready to. I never did trust these things. Give me
a typewriter any day."

"Sure Vi. I'll call you right back."

Mary looked up the number for MIS Services, the technical magi- cians
in the basement who keep the 3100 Congressional computers alive.

"Dave here, can I help you?" The voice spoke quickly and indif- ferently.

"Mary Wallstone, in Gompers office. My computer seems to be having a
little problem . . ." Mary tried to treat the problem lightly.

"You and half of Congress. Listen . . .is it Mary? This morning is going
to be a slow one. My best guess is that over 2500 com- puters died a quick
death. And you know what that mean."

"No, I don't…" Mary said hesitantly.

"It means a Big Mac Attack."

"A what?"

"Big Mac, it's a computer virus. We thought that Virus-Stop software
would stop it, but I guess there's a new strain out there. Congress is going to
be ordering a lot of typewriters and legal pads for a while."

"You mean you can't fix it? This virus?"

"Listen, it's like getting the flu. Once you got it, you got it. You can't
pretend you aren't sick. Somebody took a good shot at Congress and well . .
.they won. We're gonna be down for a while. Couple of weeks at least.
Look, good luck, but I gotta go." Dave hung up.

Mary ate the other three donuts intended for her boss as she sat idle at her
desk wondering if she would have a job now that there were no more
computers on Capitol Hill.

*****

CONGRESS CATCHES FLU - LOSES FAT IN PROCESS by
Scott Mason, New York City Times

The Congressional Budget Office announced late yesterday that it was
requesting over $1 Million in emergency funding to counter a devastating
failure of Congress's computers.

Most of the computers used by both Senators and Representatives are
Apple Macintosh, but Apple Computer issued a quick statement denying
any connection between the massive failures and any production problems
in their machines.

The CBO said that until the problems were corrected, estimates to take
up to four weeks, that certain normal Congressional activi- ties would be
halted or severely curtailed. Electronic mail, E- Mail that has saved
taxpayers millions, will be unavailable for communications until October at
a minimum. Inter-office communi- cations, those that address legislative
issues, proposed bills, and amendments have been destroyed and will
require ". . .weeks and weeks and weeks of data entry just to get back where
we started. This is a disaster."

The culprit is, of course, a computer virus. The question on everyone's
mind is, was this virus directed at Congress, or were they merely an
anonymous and unfortunate victim?

I have an IBM PC clone at home. Technically it's an AT with a hard disk,
so I'm not sure if that's an XT, and AXT, an XAT, an ATX or . . .well
whatever. I use it to write a lot of my stories and then I can send the story to
the computer at work for an overdiligent editor to make it fit within my
allotted space.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

I am, as we all are, used to our 'TV going on the Fritz', or 'Blowing a
Fuse'. It seems like a lot of things blow: a gasket blows, a light bulb blows,

a tire blows or blows out, the wind blows. I am sure that Thomas W.
Crapper, the 19th century inven- tor of the flush toilet would not be pleased
that in 1988 man has toasters and other cooking devices that 'crap out'. The
Phone Company 'screws up', the stock market 'goes to hell in a handbas-
ket' and VCR's 'work for s__t'.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

Computers are supposed to 'crash'. That means that either Aunt Tillie
can't find the ON switch or her cat knocked it on the floor. Computers have
'fatal errors' which obviously means that they died and deserve a proper
burial.

It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.

In the last few weeks there have been a lot of stories about computers
across the country getting ill. Sick, having the flu, breathing difficulty,
getting rashes, itching, scratching them- selves . . .otherwise having a
miserable time.

Let's look at the medical analogy to the dreaded computer virus that
indiscriminately attacks and destroys any computer with which it comes in
contact.

Somewhere in the depths of the countryside of the People's Republic of
China, a naturally mutated submicroscopic microbe has the nerve to be
aerodynamically transferred to the smoggy air of Taiwan. Upon landing in
Taipei, the microbe attaches itself to an impoverished octogenarian who
lives in an overpopulated 1 room apartment over a fish store.

The microbe works its way into this guy's blood stream, unbek- nownst
to him, and in a few days, he's sicker than a dog. But this microbe is smart,

real smart. It has heard of antibiotics, and in the spirit of true Darwinism, it
replicates itself before being killed off with a strengthened immunity. So,
the microbe copies itself and when Kimmy Chen shakes hands with his
custom- ers, some of them are lucky enough to receive an exact duplicate,
clone if you will, of his microbe. Then they too, get ill.

The microbe thus propagates its species until the entire East Coast of the
US has billions and trillions of identical microbes costing our fragile
economy untold millions of dollars in sick pay.

However, the microbe is only so smart. After a while, the mi- crobe
mutates itself into a benign chemical compound that no longer can copy
itself and the influenza epidemic is over. Until next year when Asian Flu B
shows up and the process begins all over again. (The same group of
extremists who believe that the Tri-Lateral commission runs the world and
Queen Elizabeth and Henry Kissinger are partners in the heroine trade think
the AMA is behind all modern flu epidemics. No comment.)

The point of all of this diatribe is that computers can get sick too. With a
virus.

Don't worry, mom. Your computer can't give you the flu anymore than
your fish can get feline leukemia.

It all started years ago, before Wozniak and Apple and the PC.

Before personal computers there were mainframes; huge room sized
computers to crunch on numbers. One day, years ago, Joe, (that's not a real
name, it's changed to protect him) decided it would be great fun to play a
prank on Bill, another programmer who worked at a big university. Joe
wrote a little program that he put into Bill's big computer. Every time Bill
typed the word 'ME' on his keyboard, the computer would take over. His

video screen would fill up with the word 'YOU', repeating itself hundreds
and thou- sands of times. Bill's computer would become useless.

That was called a practical joke to computer programmers. Joe and Bill
both got a laugh out of it, and no harm was done. Then Bill decided to get
back at Joe. He put a small program into Joe's big computer. Every day at
precisely 3:00 P.M., a message appeared: 'Do Not Pass GO!'.

It was all good fun and became a personal challenge to Joe and
Bill to see how they could annoy each other.

Word spread about the new game. Other graduate students at the
university got involved and soon computer folks at Cal Tech, MIT,
Carnegie Mellon, Stanford and elsewhere got onto the bandwagon.
Thus was born the world's first computer disease, the virus.

This is Scott Mason. Using a typewriter.

*****

November, 3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.

When Data Graphics Inc. went public in 1987, President and found- er
Pierre Troubleaux, a nationalized American born in Paris momentarily
forgot that he had sold his soul to achieve his success. The company, to the
financial community known as DGI, was on the road to being in as much
favor as Lotus or Microsoft. Annual sales of $300 Million with a pre-tax
bottom line of over $55 Million were cause celebre on Wall Street. The first
public issues raised over $200 Million for less than 20% of the common
stock. With a book value in excess of $1 Billion, preparation for a second
offering began immediately after the first sold out in 2 hours.

The offering made Pierre Troubleaux, at 29, a rich man; a very rich man.
He netted almost $20 Million in cash and another $100 Million in options
over 5 years. No one objected. He had earned it. DGI was the pearl of the
computer industry in a time of shake ups and shake outs. Raging profits,
unbridled growth, phenomenal market penetration and superb management.

Perhaps the most unique feature of DGI, other than its Presi- dent's deal
with the devil, was that it was a one product compa- ny. DGI was somewhat
like Microsoft in that they both got rich and famous on one product. While
Microsoft branched out from DOS into other product areas, DGI elected to
remain a 1 product company and merely make flavors of its products
available for other companies which then private labeled them under their
own names.

Their software product was dubbed dGraph, a marketing abbreviated
term for data-Graphics. Simply put, dGraph let users, especially novices,
run their computers with pictures and icons instead of complex commands
that must be remembered and typed. dGraph theoretically made IBM
computers as easy to use as a Macintosh. Or, the computer could be trained
to follow instructions in plain English. It was a significant breakthrough for
the industry.

DGraph was so easy to use, and so powerful in its abilities that it was
virtually an instant success. Almost every computer manufacturer offered
dGraph as part of its standard fare. Just as a computer needed DOS to
function, it was viewed that you needed dGraph before you even loaded the
first program. Operat- ing without dGraph was considered archaic. "You
don't have dGraph?" "How can you use your computer without dGraph?" "I
couldn't live without dGraph." "I'd be lost without dGraph."

The ubiquitous non-technical secretaries especially loved dGraph.
DGraph was taught at schools such as Katherine Gibbs and Secre-

Temps who insisted that all its girls were fluent in its ad-
vanced uses. You just can't run a office without it!

As much as anything in the computer industry is, dGraph was a standard.
Pierre Troubleaux was unfortunately under the misim- pression that the
success for DGI was his and his alone and that he too was a standard . . .a
fixture. The press and computers experts portrayed to the public that he was
the company's singu- lar genius, with remarkable technical aptitude to see
"beyond the problem to the solution . . .".

The official DGI biography of Pierre Troubleaux, upon close
examination, reads like that of an inflated resume by a person applying for a
position totally outside his field of expertise. Completely unsuited for the
job. But the media hype had rele- gated that minor inconsistency to old
news.

In reality Troubleaux was a musician. He was an accomplished pianist
who also played another twenty instruments, very, very well. By the age of
ten he was considered something of a prodigy and his parents decided that
they would move from Paris to New York, the United States, for proper
schooling. Pierre's scholar- ships at Julliard made the decision even easier.

Over the years Pierre excelled in performances and was critically
acclaimed as having a magnificent future where he could call the shots. As
a performer or composer. But Pierre had other ideas. He was rapt in the
study of the theory of music. How notes related to each other. How scales
related to each other. What made certain atonalities subjectively pleasing
yet others com- pletely offensive. He explored the relationships between
Eastern polyphonic scales and the Western twelve note scale. Discord,
harmony, melody, emotional responses; these were the true loves of Pierre
Troubleaux.

Upon graduation from Julliard he announced, that contrary to his family's
belief and desire, he would not seek advanced train- ing. Rather, he would
continue his study of musical relationships which by now had become an
obsession. There was little expertise in this specific area, so he pursued it
alone. He wrote and arranged music only to provide him with enough funds
to exist in his pallid Soho loft in downtown Manhattan.

He believed that there was an inherent underlying Natural Law that
guided music and musical appreciation. If he could find that Law, he would
have the formula for making perfect music every time. With the Law at the
crux of all music, and with control over the Law, he ruminated, one could
write a musical piece to suit the specific goals of the writer and create the
desired effect on the listener. By formula.

In 1980 Pierre struggled to organize the unwieldy amount of data he had
accumulated. His collections of interpretive musical analysis filled file
cabinets and countless shelves. He relied on his memory to find anything in
the reams of paper, and the situation was getting out of control. He needed a
solution.

Max Jones was a casual acquaintance that Pierre had met at the Lone Star
Cafe on the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue. The Lone Star was a New York
fixture, capped with a 60 foot iguana on the roof. They both enjoyed the
live country acts that played there. Max played the roll of an Urban
Cowboy who had temporarily given up Acid Rock in favor of shit kickin'
Southern Rock. Pierre found the musical phenomenon of Country
Crossover Music intrigu- ing, so he rationalized that drinking and partying
at the Lone Star was a worthwhile endeavor which contributed to his work.
That may have been partially true.

Max was a computer jock who worked for one of the Big Eight
accounting firms in midtown Manhattan. A complex mixture of com- puter

junkie, rock'n'roll aficionado and recreational drug user, Max maintained
the integrity of large and small computer systems to pay the bills.

"That means they pretend to pay me and I pretend to work. I don't really
do anything productive."

Max was an "ex-hippie who put on shoes to make a living" and a social
anarchist at heart. At 27, Max had the rugged look that John Travolta
popularized in the 70's but on a rock solid trim six foot five 240 pound
frame. He dwarfed Pierre's mere five feet ten inches.

Pierre's classic European good looks and tailored appearance, even in
jeans and a T-shirt were a strong contrast to Max's ruddiness. Pierre's jet
black hair was side parted and covered most of his ears as it gracefully
tickled his shoulders.

Piercing black eyes stared over a prominent Roman nose and thin cheeks
which tapered in an almost feminine chin. There was never any confusion,
though; no one in their right mind would ever view Pierre as anything but a
confirmed and practiced heterosexual. His years of romantic achievements
proved it. The remnants of his French rearing created an unidentifiable
formal and educated accent; one which held incredible sex appeal to
American women.

Max and Pierre sipped at their beers while Max rambled on about how
wonderful computers were. They were going to change the world.

"In a few years every one on the planet will have his own comput- er and
it will be connected to everyone else's computer. All information will be
free and the planet will be a better place to live and so on . . ." Max's
technical sermons bordered on reli- gious preaching. He had bought into the

beliefs of Steven Jobs, the young charismatic founder and spiritual guiding
force behind Apple Computer.

Pierre had heard it before, especially after Max had had a few. His view
of a future world with everyone sitting in front of a picture tube playing
with numbers and more numbers . . .and then a thought hit him.

"Max . . .Max . . ." Pierre was trying to break into another one of Max's
Apple pitches.

"Yeah . . .oh yeah, sorry Amigo. What's that you say?" Max sipped
deeply on a long neck Long Star beer.

"These computers you play with . . ."

"Not play, work with. Work with!" He pointed emphatically at nothing in
particular.

"OK, work with. Can these computers play, er, work with music?"

Max looked quizzically at Pierre. "Music, sure. You just program it in
and out it comes. In fact, the Apple II is the ideal computer to play music.
You can add a synthesizer chip and . . ."

"What if I don't know anything about computers?"

"Well, that makes it a little harder, but why doncha let me show you what
I mean." Max smiled wide. This was what he loved, playing with computers
and talking to people about them. The subject was still a mystery to the
majority of people in 1980.

Pierre winced. He realized that if he took up Max on his offer he would
be subjected to endless hours of computer war stories and technical

esoterica he couldn't care less about. That may be the price though, he
thought. I can always stop.

Over the following months they became fast friends as Pierre tutored
under Max's guiding hand. Pierre found that the Apple had the ability to
handle large amounts of data. With the new program called Visi-Calc, he
made large charts of his music and their numbers and examined their
relationships.

As Pierre learned more about applying computers to his studies in
musical theory, his questions of Max and demands of the Apple became
increasingly complex. One night after several beers and a couple of joints
Pierre asked Max what he thought was a simple question.

"How can we program the Apple so that it knows what each piece of data
means?" he inquired innocently.

"You can't do that, man." Max snorted. "Computers, yes even Apples are
stupid. They're just a tool. A shovel doesn't know what kind of dirt it's
digging, just that it's digging." He laughed out loud at the thought of a smart
shovel.

Pierre found the analogy worth a prolonged fit of giggles through which
he managed to ask, "but what if you told the computer what it meant and it
learned from there. On its own. Can't a com- puter learn?"

Max was seriously stoned. "Sure I guess so. Sure. In theory it could learn
to do your job or mine. I remember a story I read by John Garth. It was
called Giles Goat Boy. Yeah, Giles Goat Boy, what a title. Essentially it's
about this Goat, musta been a real smart goat cause he talked and thunk and
acted like a kid." They both roared at the double entendre of kid. That was
worth another joint.

"At any rate," Max tried to control his spasmodic chuckles. "At any rate,
there were these two computers who competed for control of the world and
this kid, I mean," laughing too hard to breath, "I mean this goat named
Giles went on search of these computers to tell them they weren't doing a
very good job."

"So, what has that got to do with an Apple learning," Pierre said wiping
the tears from his eyes.

"Not a damn thing!" They entered another spasm of laughter. "No really.
Most people either think, or like to think that a com- puter can think. But
they can't, at least not like you and me. " Max had calmed down.

"So?" Pierre thought there might still be a point to this conver- sation.

"So, in theory, yeah, but probably not for a while. 10 years or so."

"In theory, what?" Pierre asked. He was lost.

"In theory a machine could think."

"Oh." Pierre was disappointed.

"But, you might be able to emulate thinking. H'mmmm." Max re- treated
into mental oblivion as Abbey Road played in the back- ground. Anything
from Apple records was required listening by Max.

"Emulate. Emulate? What's that? Hey, Max. What's emulate?
Hey Max, c'mon back to Earth. Emulate what?"

Max jolted back to reality. "Oh, copy. You know, act like.
Emulate. Don't they teach you emulation during sex education in

France?" They both thought that that was the funniest thing
ever said, in any language for all of written and pre-history.

The substance of the evening's conversation went downhill from there.

A few days later Max came by Pierre's loft. "I been thinking."

"Scary thought. About what?" Pierre didn't look up from his
Apple.

"About emulating thought. You know what we were talking about the
other night."

"I can't remember this morning much less getting shit faced with you the
other night."

"You were going on and on about machines thinking. Remember?"

"Yes," Pierre lied.

"Well, I've been thinking about it." Max had a remarkable ability to
recover from an evening of illicit recreation. He could actually grasp the
germ of a stoned idea and let a straight mind deal with it the following day.
"And, I maybe got a way to do what you want."

"What do I want?" Pierre tried to remember.

"You want to be able to label all of your music so that to all appearances
each piece of music knows about every other piece of music. Right?"

"Kinda, yeah, but you said that was impossible . . ." Pierre trailed off.

"In the true sense, yes. Remember emulation though? Naw, you were too
stoned. Here's the basic idea." Max ran over to the fridge, grabbed a beer

and leapt into a bean bag chair. "We assign a value to every piece of music.
For example, in music we might assign a value to each note. Like, what
note it is, the length of the note, the attack and decay are the raw data.
That's just a number. But the groupings of the notes are what's important.
The groupings. Get it?"

Pierre was intrigued. He nodded. Maybe Max did understand after all.
Pierre leaned forward with anticipation and listened intent- ly, unlike in one
ear out the other treatment he normally gave Max's sermons.

"So what we do is program the Apple to recognize patterns of notes;
groupings, in any size. We do it in pictures instead of words. Maybe a bar,
maybe a scale, maybe even an entire symphony orchestra. All 80 pieces at
once!" Max's enthusiasm was conta- gious. "As the data is put in the
computer, you decide what you want to call each grouping. You name it
anything you want. Then we could have the computer look for similar
groupings and label them. They could all be put on a curve, some graphic of
some kind, and then show how they differ and by how much. Over time, the
computer could learn to recognize rock'n'roll from Opera from radio jingles
to Elevator Music. It's all in the patterns. Isn't that what you want?" Max
beamed while speaking excitedly. He knew he had something here.

Max and Pierre worked together and decided to switch from the Apple II
computer to the new IBM PC for technical reasons beyond Pierre's
understanding. As they labored, Max realized that if he got his "engine" to
run, then it would be useful for hundreds of other people who needed to
relate data to each other but who didn't know much about computers.

In late 1982 Max's engine came to life on its own. Pierre was
programming in pictures and in pure English. He was getting back some
incredible results. He was finding that many of the popu- lar rock guitarists

were playing lead riffs that had a genealogy which sprang from Indian
polyphonic sitar strains.

He found curious relationships between American Indian rhythms and
Baltic sea farer's music. All the while, as Pierre searched the reaches of the
musical unknown, Max convinced himself that everyone else in the world
would want his graphical engine, too.

Through a series of contacts within his Big Eight company, Max was put
in touch with Hambrecht Quist, the famed Venture Capital firm that assisted
such high tech startups as Apple, Lotus and other shining stars in the early
days of the computer industry. Max was looking for an investor to finance
the marketing of his engine that would change the world. His didactic and
circumlocu- tous preaching didn't get him far. While everyone was polite at
his presentations, afterwards they had little idea of what he was talking
about.

"The Smart Engine permits anyone to cross-relate individual or matrices
of data with an underlying attribute structure that is defined by the user. It's
like creating a third dimension. Data is conventionally viewed in a two
dimensional viewing field, yet is really a one dimension stream. In either
source dimensional view, the addition of a three dimensional attribute
structure yields interrelationships that are not inherently obvious. Thus we
use graphical representations to simplify the entire process."

After several weeks of pounding the high risk financial community of the
San Francisco Bay area, Max was despondent. Damn it, he thought. Why
don't they understand. I outline the entire theory and they don't get it. Jeez,
it's so easy to use. So easy to use. Then the light bulb lit in his mind. Call
Pierre. I need Pierre. Call Pierre in New York.

"Pierre, it's Max." Max sounded quite excited.

"How's the Coast."

"Fine, Fine. You'll find out tomorrow. You're booked on American #435
tomorrow."

"Max, I can't go to California. I have so much work to do."

"Bullshit. You owe me. Or have I forgotten to bill you for the engine?"
He was calling in a favor.

"Hey, it was my idea. You didn't even understand what I was talking
about until . . ."

"That's the whole point, Pierre. I can't explain the engine to these
Harvard MBA asswipes. It was your idea and you got me to understand. I
just need you to get some of these investors to understand and then we can
have a company and make some money selling engines." Max's persistence
was annoying, but Pierre knew that he had to give in. He owed it to Max.

The new presentations Max and Pierre put on went so well that they had
three offers for start up financing within a week. And, it was all due to
Pierre. His genial personality and ability to convey the subtleties of a
complex piece of software using actual demonstrations from his music were
the touchy-feely the investors wanted. It wasn't that he was technical; he
really wasn't. But Pierre had an innate ability to recognize a problem,
theoretical- ly, and reduce it to its most basic components. And the Engine
was so easy to use. All you had to do was . . .

It worked. The brainy unintelligible technical wizard and char- ismatic
front man. And the device, whatever it was, it seemed to work.

The investors installed their own marketing person to get sales going and
Pierre was asked to be President. At first he said he didn't want to. He didn't

know how to run a company. That doesn't matter, the investors said. You are
a salable item. A person whom the press and future investors can relate to.
We want you to be the image of the company. Elegance, suave, upper class.
All that European crap packaged for the media. Steve Jobs all over again.

Pierre relented, as long as he could continue his music.

Max's engine was renamed dGraph by the marketing folks and the
company was popularly known as DGI. Using Byte, Personal Comput- ing,
Popular Computing and the myriad computer magazines of the early 1980's,
dGraph was made famous and used by all serious computer users.

DGraph could interface with the data from other programs, dBase II, 123,
Wordstar and then relate it in ways never fathomed. Automatically. Users
could assign their own language of, at that time, several hundred words, to
describe the third dimension of data. Or, they could do it in pictures. While
the data on the screen was being manipulated, the computer, unbeknownst
to the operator, was constantly forming and updating relationships between
the data. Ready to be called upon at any time.

As the ads said, "dGraph for dData."

As success reigned, the demand upon Pierre's time increased so that he
had little time for his music. By 1986 he lived a virtu- al fantasy. He was on
the road, speaking, meeting with writers, having press conferences every
time a new use for dGraph was announced. He was adored by the media.
He swam in the glory of the attention by the women who found his fame
and image an irresistible adjunct to his now almost legendary French accent
and captivating eyes.

Pierre and Max were the hottest young entrepreneurs in Silicon Valley;
the darlings of the VC community. And the company spar- kled too. It was

being run by professionals and Max headed up the engineering group. As
new computers appeared on the market, like the IBM AT, additional power
could be effectively put into the Engine and Voila! a new version of dGraph
would hit the market to the resounding ring of an Instant Hit on Softsel's
Top 40.

Max, too, liked his position. He was making a great deal of money, ran
his own show with the casualness of his former hippie days, yet could get
on the road with Pierre any time he needed a break. Pierre got into the act
hook, line and sinker and Max acted the role of genius behind 'The Man'.
That gave Max the freedom to avoid the microscope of the press yet take a
twirl in the fast lane whenever he felt the urge.

The third round of funding for DGI came from an unexpected place.
Normally when a company is as successful as DGI, the original investors go
along for the ride. That's how the VC's who worked with Lotus, Compaq,
Apple and other were getting filthy stinking rich. The first two rounds went
as they had planned, the third didn't.

"Mr. Troubleaux," Martin Fisk, Chairman of Underwood Investments
said to Pierre in DGI's opulent offices. "Pierre, there is only one way to say
this. Our organization will no longer be involved with DGI. We have sold
our interest to a Japanese firm who has been trying to get into the American
computer field."

"What will that change? Anything?" Pierre was nonplused by the
announcement.

"Not as far as you're concerned. Oh, they will bring in a few of their own
people, satisfy their egos and protect their invest- ment, that's entirely
normal. But, they especially want you to continue on as President of DGI.
No, no real changes."

"What about Max?" Pierre had true concern for his friend.

"He'll remain, in his present capacity. Essentially the finan- cial people
will be reporting to new owners that's all."

"Are we still going to go public? That's the only way I'm gonna make any
real money."

Martin was flabbergasted. Pierre wasn't in the least interested as to why
the company changed hands. He only wanted to know about the money,
how much money he would make and when. Pierre never bothered to ask,
nor was it offered, that Underwood would profit over 400 percent on their
original investment. The Japa- nese buyer was paying more than the
company was worth now. They had come in offering an amount of money
way beyond what an open- ing offer should have been. Underwood did a
search on the Japa- nese company and its American subsidiary, Data Tech.
They were real, like $30 Billion real and did were expanding into the
information processing field through acquisitions, primarily in the United
States.

Underwood sold it's 17% stake in DGI for $350 Million, more than twice
its true value. They sold quickly and quietly. Even though Pierre and Max
should have had some say in the transfer, Under- wood controlled the board
of directors and technically didn't need the founder's consensus. Not that it
overtly appeared to mattered to Pierre. Max gave the paper transfer a
cursory exami- nation, at least asked the questions that were meaningless to
the transformed Pierre, and gave the deal his irrelevant blessings.

After the meeting with the emissaries from DGI's new owner, OSO
Industries, Pierre and Max were confident that nothing would change for
them. They would each continue in their respective roles. The day to day
interference was expected to be minimal, but the planned public offering

would be accelerated. That suited Pierre just fine; he would make out like a
bandit.

Several days before the date of issue, Pierre received a call from Tokyo.

"Mr. Troubleaux?" The thick Japanese accent mangled his name so badly
Pierre cringed.

"Yes, this is Pierre Troubleaux," he said exaggerating his French accent.
The Japanese spoke French as well as a hair-lipped stutterer could recite
"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

"I wish to inform you, sir, that the Chairman of OSO is to visit your city
tomorrow and participate in your new successes. Would this be
convenient?"

Pierre had only one possible response to the command performance he
was being 'invited' to. Since OSO had bought into DGI, Pierre was
constantly mystified by the ritualism associated with Japanese business.
They could say "Yes!" a hundred times in a meeting, yet everyone present
understood that the speakers really meant "No Way, Jose!" There of course
was the need for a quality gift for any visitor from Japan. Johnny Walker
Black was the expected gift over which each recipient would feign total sur-
prise. Pierre had received more pearl jewelry from the Japanese than he
could use for ten wives. But the ritual was preserved.

"Of course it will. I would be most honored. If you could provide me
with details of his flight I will see to it that he receives appropriate
treatment."

"Very good Mr. Troubleaux." Pierre stifled a smirk at the mispro-
nunciation. "Your trouble will not go unrewarded."

"Mr. Homosoto, it is so good of you to visit at this time. Very auspicious,
sir." Pierre was kissing some ass.

"Troubleaux-San," Homosoto's English had a touch of Boston snobbery
in it, "you have performed admirably, and we all look to continued
successes in the future. I expect, as I am sure you do, that the revenues
raised from your public stock offering will provide your company with the
resources to grow ten fold." It was a statement that demanded an answer.
Another Japanese quirk.

"Yessir, of course. As you know, Mr. Homosoto, I am not involved in the
day to day operations and the forecasting. My function is more to inspire
the troops and carry the standard, so to speak. I will have to rely upon the
expertise of others to give you the exact answers you seek."

"That is not necessary, I have all I need to know about your business and
its needs. Your offer is most kind."

"Why do you call DGI my business? Aren't we in this together?
Partners?" Pierre clarified the idiom for the rotund bespecta- cled Chairman
of OSO Industries.

"Hai! Of course, my friend, we are partners, and you will be very wealthy
in a few days." That statement had the air of an accusation more than good
wishes. "There is one little thing, though. It is so small that I don't wish to
mention it."

Well then don't, thought Pierre. "Nothing is so small it should- n't be
mentioned. Please, proceed Homosoto-San. How may I help?"

"That's it exactly!" Homosoto beamed. "I do need your help. Not today,
but in the future, perhaps a small favor."

"Anytime at all, sir. Whatever I can I will." Pierre was re- lieved. Just
some more Japanese business practices that escaped him.

Homosoto leaned in towards Pierre. His demeanor had shifted to one of a
very serious man. "Mr. Troubleaux, how can I be sure that you won't
disappoint me? How can I be sure?"

The question threw Pierre for a loop. How can he be sure? I don't know.
Maybe this was only an Oriental game of mumbley peg or chicken. "Sir,
what would I need to do to convince you of my willingness to comply?"
When in doubt, ask.

Homosoto relaxed again, leaned back in the plush office chair and
smiled. "In my country, Mr., Troubleaux, honor is everything. You have
nothing, nothing without your honor. Every child, man and woman in Japan
knows that. We are raised with the focus of growth being honor. During the
war between our countries, so many years ago, many found honor by
making the supreme sacrifice. Kamikaze pilots are of whom I am speaking
of, Mr. Troubleaux."

Pierre's face must have given away the panic that instantly struck him.
Suicide? This guy is truly nuts.

"Do not worry, Mr. Troubleaux, I can see what you are thinking. No. I
only speak of kamikaze pilots to serve as example of honor. The kind that
brought honor to Japan in the face of defeat. That is something Americans
will never understand. But then again you're not American are you?"

"I was born a Frenchman, but I naturalized over twenty years ago, at the
same time my parents did."

"Ah yes. I remember. Then honor does mean more to you than to most
Americans. That will be quite good. Now, for the future favor. I require
nothing of you today, other than the guarantee of you honor. Is that
agreeable to you, Mr. Troubleaux?" Homoso- to was pushing with the
facade of friendliness. Pierre's concern was not alleviated. All the same, he
reluctantly nodded his assent.

"Very good. Now for the favor." Homosoto stood up and reached inside
his size 48, ill fitting suit. Pierre was amazed at how much money the
Japanese had, yet were apparently unable to ever wear clothes that fit
properly.

Homosoto handed a 5 1/4" floppy disk to Pierre. Pierre took it carefully
from Homosoto and looked at the label. The diskette was marked only with:

FILE1.EXE to FILE93.EXE

He looked inquisitively at Homosoto, his eyes asking, Yeah, so?
What's this got to do with anything?

"I see now you are confused. It is so simple, really. Sometime in the
future, you will be instructed to add one of the files on this disk onto the
dGraph programs you sell. That's it. So sim- ple. So I have your word Mr.
Troubleaux? Honor among men."

Pierre's mind was racing. Put a file onto a program? What does that do?
What's on it? Does it help dGraph? No that can't be it. What is it? Why so
secret. What's with the honor bit? From the Chairman of OSO, not a
technician? One floppy disk? Pierre smelled a fox in the chicken coup.

"Mr. Homosoto, sir. I mean no disrespect. But, I hardly know what to
think. I don't even know what this disk is. You are asking me to promise

something I don't understand. What if I don't agree. At least until I know
what I'm doing? I need to know what's going on here." he said holding the
disk up promi- nently.

"I prefer to think, Mr. Troubleaux of what occurs as long as you do agree
to maintain the honor between us. It is so much more pleasant." Homosoto
edged towards the doors of Troubleaux's office as he spoke.

"When you agree to act honorably, perform for me this small,
insignificant favor, Mr. Troubleaux, you will get to keep the $20 Million
you make this Friday and you will be permitted to contin- ue living. Good
Afternoon." Homosoto closed the door behind him.

*****

Alexander Spiradon was pleased. His students were doing well. The other
students from the New York computer school had already checked in; they
didn't have as far to travel as Sir George. Everything was in place, not quite
a year to the day since he and Taki Homosoto had set their plans in action.
Alex hadn't spoken to Homosoto in a couple of months. It was now time to
report to Homosoto in Tokyo. It was 17 hours earlier there - Homosoto
would probably be at his desk. The modem dialed a local Brookline
number. The phone in Brookline subsequently dialed a number in Dallas,
Texas, which dialed another phone in Tacoma, Washington. The Tacoma
phone had the luxury of dialing the international number for Homosoto's
private computer.

Call forwarding services offered the ultimate in protection. Any
telephone tracing would take weeks, requiring the cooperation of courts
from every state where a forwarded phone was located. Then, the State
Department would have to coordinate with the Japanese Embassy. An

almost impossible task, if anyone had the resources. It took about 45
seconds for the call to be complet- ed.

<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>> PASSWORD:

Alex entered his password, GESUNDHEIT and his forced response from
his own PRG card. His computer terminal paused. If he was on satellite to
Japan, or to Dallas or anywhere else, his signal could travel a hundred
thousand miles or more each time he sent a character from his keyboard.

CRYPT KEY:

Alex Spiradon chose 43. Each communication he had with Homosoto
was also protected with full encryption. If someone was able to isolate their
conversations, all they would get would be sheer garbage, a screen full of
unintelligible symbols and random characters. By choosing 43, Alex told
his computer and Homosoto's computer to use Crypt Key 43, one of over
100 secret keys that both computers held in their memory. This
cryptographic scheme, using the U.S.'s Data Encryption Standard, DES, and
ANSI standard X9.17 was the same one that the Treasury Department and
Federal Reserve used to protect the transmission of over $1 trillion of funds
transfers daily.

<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>

That was the signal for Alex to send the first words to Homosoto.

Good Morning, Homosoto-San.

AND TO YOU MY ESTEEMED PARTNER. YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO REPORT.

Yes. All is in place.

PLEASE CLARIFY . . .MY MEMORY IS NOT WHAT IT WAS.

Of course. The last of the Operators are in place. We call him
Sir George. That makes 8 altogether. San Francisco, (SF), New
York, (NY), Los Angeles, (LA), Boston, (BM), Atlanta, (AG) Chica-
go, (CI), Washington, (DC) and Dallas, (DT).

AND THEY CAN BE TRUSTED?

They are aware of the penalty. If not, we have others that will
replace them. Besides, you are rewarding them most handsomely for
their efforts.
SO I AM. I EXPECT RESULTS. AND THE OTHERS?

The Mail Men are waiting as well. Four of them in NY, DC, LA and
DT.

YOU SAY MAIL MEN. WHAT IS THAT TERM?

They will deliver our messages in writing to those who need additional
proof of our sincerity. They know nothing other than they get paid, very
well, to make sure that the addressees are in receipt of their packages.

VERY GOOD. AND THEY TOO ARE RESPONSIBLE?

Yes. Elimination is a strong motivation. Besides, they know nothing.

WHAT IF THEY READ THE CONTENTS?

That can only help. They do not know where the money comes from.
Most need the money more than their lives. My contacts make my choices
ideal. Death is . . .so permanent.

I AGREE. IT MAKES MEN HONORABLE, DOES IT NOT?

Most of the time, yes. There are always exceptions, and we are prepared
for that, too.

THE SEKIGUN-HA ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

Thank you. The Ground Hogs, the first are in place.

HOW MANY AND WHERE.

Over 50 so far. I will keep recruiting. We have 11 in the long distance
phone companies and at AT&T, 3 at IBM, 14 in government positions, 12 in
major banks, a couple of insurance companies, 3 Hospitals are
compromised . . .and a list of others. We will keep the channels full, I
promise.

HOW WILL THEY FUNCTION?

They will gain access to the information we need, and when we call, they
will perform. I will add more as we proceed. It amazes me, these
Americans. Anything for a buck.

DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.

I will not. That is my promise. When will the information be ready?

SOON. TOMORROW THE FIRST READER INFORMATION WILL BE SENT TO YOU.
CALLS MAY BEGIN IN DAYS. YOU ORGANIZE IT. THE GROUND HOGS ARE NOT TO
BE ACTIVATED FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. THEY ARE TO PERFORM THEIR JOBS AS IF
NOTHING IS WRONG. DO THEY UNDERSTAND?

Ground Hogs receive 2 paychecks. They understand their obliga- tions.
We pay 10 times their salary for their allegiance. The Operators and Mail
Men will start soon.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ALLEGIANCE. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YET?

Americans pay homage to the almighty dollar, and nothing else.
They will be loyal.

AS YOU ARE MOTIVATED MY FRIEND, I DO NOT FORGET THAT. BUT OTHERS CAN
OFFER MORE DOLLARS AND WE CAN BE FOUND. I CANNOT RISK THAT, UNDER
ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE RISK?

Completely. I am responsible for my people.

AND THEY ARE PREPARED FOR THEIR JOBS?

Yes. That is my responsibility, to insure the security of our task. No one
must know. I know my job.

DO IT WELL. I WILL LEAVE YOU.

<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

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

Chapter 5

Monday, September 14
New York City

Doug! Doug!" Scott hollered across the city room. As in most newspaper
offices, the constant scurry of people bumping into each other while reading
and walking gave the impression of more activity than there really was.
Desks were not in any particular pattern, but it wasn't totally chaotic either.
Every desk had at least one computer on it. Some two or three. Scott pushed
back into place those that he dislodged while running to McGuire's desk.

Doug McGuire noticed the early hour, 8:39 A.M. on the one wall clock
that gave Daylight Savings Time for the East Coast. The other dozen or so
clocks spanned the time zones of the globe. It wasn't like Scott to be his
energetic youthful self before noon.

"Doug, I need you." Scott shouted from 3 desks away. "It'll just take a
minute."

Scott nearly dragged the balding, overweight, sometimes harsh 60 year
old Doug McGuire across the newsroom. They abruptly halted in front of
Scott's desk. Boxes full of files everywhere; on the floor, piled 3 or 4 high,
on his desk. "Will you look at this. Just look at this!" He stuck a single sheet
of paper too close into Doug's face. Doug pushed it away to read it out loud.

McGuire read from the page. "A Message from a Fan. Thanks." Doug
looked perplexed. He motioned at the paper hurricane on Scott's desk. "So,
what is this mess? Where did it come from?"

Scott spoke excitedly. "I got another delivery, about an hour ago. I think
it's from the same guy who sent the McMillan stuff." He perused the boxes.

"Why do you say that?" Doug asked curiously.

"Because of what's in here. I haven't been able to go through much of it,
obviously, but I scanned through a few of the boxes. There's dirt on almost
every company in the Fortune 1000. Copies of memoranda, false figures,
confidential position statements, the truth behind a lot of PR scandals, it
goes on and on. There's even a copy of some of the shredded Ollie North
papers. Or so they say they are. Who knows. But, God! There are notes
about behind the scene plays on mergers, who's screwing who to get deals
done . . .it's all here. A hundred years of stories right here . . .".

"Let's see what we've got here." Doug was immediately hooked by the
treasure trove of potential in from of them coupled with Scott's enthusiasm.
The best stories come from the least likely places. No reporter ever forgets
the 3rd rate burglary at the Watergate that brought down a President.

By late afternoon, Scott and several of the paper's researchers had set up
a preliminary filing system. They categorized the hundred of files and
documents and computer printouts by company, alphabetically. The
contents were amazing. Over 150 of the top American corporations were
represented directly, and thousands of other by reference. In every case,
there was a revelation of one or more particularly embarrassing or illegal
activities. Some were documented accounts and histories of past events and
others that were in progress. Many of the papers were prognostications of
future events of questionable ethics or legality. It reminded Scott of Jeanne
Dixon style predictions.

From Wall Street's ivory tower deals where payoffs are called consulting
fees, and in banking circles where delaying transfers of funds can yield
millions of dollars in interest daily, from industrial secrets stolen or
purchased from such and such a source, the laundry list was long. Plans to
effect such a busi- ness plan and how to disguise its true purposes from the
ITC and SEC. Internal, very upper level policies which never reach the
company's Employee Handbook; policies of discrimination, atti- tude, and
protective corporate culture which not only transcend the law but in many
cases, morality. The false books, the jim- mied numbers . . .they were in the
boxes too, but that was almost accepted accounting practice as long as you
didn't get caught. But the depth of some of the figures was amazing. Like
how one computer company brought in Toshiba parts and sold them to the
government despite the ban on Toshiba components because of their sale of
precision lathes to the Soviets.

"Jesus," said Scott after a lengthy silence of intent reading.
"This nails everyone, even the Government."

There were well documented dossiers on how the EPA made unique
exclusions hundred of times over based upon the financial lobby- ing clout
of the particular offender. Or how certain elected officials in Washington
had pocketed funds from their PAC monies or how defense contractors
were advised in advance of the con- tents of an upcoming billion dollar
RFP.

The cartons of files were absolute political dynamite. And, if released,
could have massive repercussions in the world financial community.

There was a fundamental problem, though. Scott Mason was in
possession of unsupported, but not unreasonable accusations, they were
certainly believable. All he really had was leads, a thou- sand leads in ten
thousand different directions, with no apparent coherency or theme,
received from an anonymous and dubious donor. And there was no way of
immediately gauging the veracity of their contents. He clearly remembered
what is was like to be lawyered. That held no appeal at the moment.

The next obvious question was, who would have the ability to gather this
amount of information, most of which was obviously meant to be kept very,
very private. Papers meant not for anyone but only for a select group of
insiders.

Lastly, and just as important to the reporter; why? What would someone
gain from telling all the nasty goings on inside of Corporate America. There
have been so many stories over the years about this company or that
screwing over the little guy. How the IRS and the government operated
substantially outside of legal channels. The kinds of things that the
Secretary of the Treasury would prefer were kept under wraps. Sometimes

stories of this type made the news, maybe a trial or two, but not exactly
noteworthy in the big picture. White collar crime wasn't as good as the
Simpsons or Roseanne, so it went largely ignored.

Scott Mason needed to figure out what to do with his powder keg. So, as
any good investigative reporter would do, he decided to pick a few key
pieces and see if the old axiom was true. Where there's smoke, there's fire.

*****

Fire. That's exactly what Franklin Dobbs didn't want that Monday
morning. He and 50 other Corporate CEO's across the country received
their own unsolicited packages by courier. Each CEO received a dossier on
his own company. A very private dossier containing information that
technically didn't, or wasn't offi- cially supposed to exist. Each one read
their personalized file cover to cover in absolute privacy. And shock set in.

Only a few of the CEO's in the New York area had ever heard of Scott
Mason before, and little did they know that he had the complete collection
of dossiers in his possession at the New York City Times. Regardless,
boardrooms shook to their very core. Wall Street trading was untypically
low for a Monday, less than 50,000,000 shares. But CNN and other
financial observers at- tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected
to the secret panic that was spreading through Corporate America.

By 6 P.M., CEO's and key aides from 7 major corporations head-
quartered in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to meet.
Throughout the day, CEO's routinely talk to other corporate leaders as
friends, acquaintances, for brain picking and G2, market probing in the
course of business. Today, though, the scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was
beyond routine.

Through a complicated ritual dance of non-committal consent, questions
never asked and answers never given, with a good dose of Zieglerisms, a
few of the CEO's communicated to each other during the day that they were
not happy with the morning mail. A few agreed to talk together. Unofficially
of course, just for a couple of drinks with friends, and there's nothing
wrong, we admit nothing, of course not.

These are the rules strictly obeyed for a non-encounter that isn't
happening. So they didn't meet in a very private room, upstairs at the
Executive Club, where sensitive meetings often never took place. One's
presence in that room is as good as being on in a black hole. You just
weren't there, no matter what. Perfect.

The room that wasn't there was heavily furnished and dark. The
mustiness lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the 7 CEO's felt.
Massive brown leather couches and matching oversized chairs surrounded
by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the assortment of low wattage
lamp fixtures. There was a huge round dining table large enough for all of
Camelot, surrounded by mammoth chairs in a large ante-room. The brocade
curtains covered long windows that stretched from the floor to ornate corner
moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.

One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared and
disappeared skillfully and invisibly. He was so accustomed to working with
such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor- tant their
conversations were, that he took great pride in re- filling a drink without
being noticed. With his little game, he made sure that drinks for everyone
were always full. They spoke openly around Lambert. Lambert had worked
the room since he was 16 during World War II and he saw no reason to
trade occupations; he was treated decently, and he doubled as a bookie for
some members which added to his income. There was mutual trust.

"I don't know about you gentlemen," said Porter Henry, the ener- getic
and feisty leader of Morse Technologies, defense subcon- tractor. "I
personally call this blackmail." A few nods.

"I'm not about to admit to anything, but have you been threat- ened?"
demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First Inter- state.

"No, I don't believe any of us have, in so many words. And no, none of us
have done anything wrong. We are merely trying to keep sensitive corporate
strategies private. That's all. But, I do take the position that we are being
intimidated. I think Porter's right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the
precursor at a minimum."

They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities. The
why, how, and who's. Who would know so much, about so many,
supposedly sacrosanct secrets. Therefore there must have been a lot of
whos, mustn't there? They figured about 50 of their kindred CEO's had
received similar packages, so that meant a lot of whos were behind the
current crisis in privacy. Or maybe just one big who. OK, that's narrowed
down real far; either a lot of whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.

Why? They all agreed that demands would be coming, so they looked for
synergy between their firms, any sort of connections that spanned at first
the seven of those present, to predict what kinds of demands. But it is
difficult to find hard business connections between an insurance company, a
bank, 2 defense contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product
known to man and a fast food company. The thread wasn't there.

How? That was the hardest. They certainly hadn't come up with any
answers on the other two questions, so this was asking the impossible.
CEO's are notorious for not knowing how their compa- nies work on a day
to day basis. Thus, after 4 or 5 drinks, spurious and arcane ideas were

seriously considered. UFO's were responsible, I once saw one . . .my
secretary, I never really trusted her at all . . .the Feds! Must be the IRS . . .
(my/his/your) competitor is doing it to all of us . . .the Moonies, maybe the
Moonies . . .

"Why don't we just go to the Feds?" asked Franklin Dobbs who did not
participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness free for all. Silence
cut through the room instantly. Lambert looked up from his corner to make
sure they were all still alive.

"I'm serious. The FBI is perfect. We all operate interstate, and
internationally. Would you prefer the NYPD?" he said dero- gatorally
waiting any voices of dissent.

"C'mon Frank. What are we going to tell them?" Ogden Roberts the
banker asked belligerently. The liquor was having an effect. "Certainly not
the truth . . ." he cut himself short, realizing that he came dangerously close
to admitting some indefinable wrong he had committed. "You know what I
mean," he quickly added.

"We don't go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of the truth, all
true, but maybe not everything. I am sure we all agree that we want to keep
this, ah, situation, as quiet as possible." Rapid assent came from all around.

"All we need to say is that we have been contacted, in a threat- ening
manner. That no demands have been made yet, but we are willing to
cooperate with the authorities. That would give us all a little time, to re-
organize our priorities, if you see what I mean?" Dobbs added. The seven
CEO's were thoughtful.

"Now this doesn't mean that we all have to agree on this," Franklin
Dobbs said. "But as for me, I have gone over this, in limited detail, with my

attorney, and he agrees with it on a strategic level. If someone's after you,
and you can't see 'em, get the guys with the White Hats on your side. Then
do some housekeeping. I am going to the FBI. Anybody care to join me?"

It was going to be a lonesome trip.

*****

September, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan.

OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World
Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo. From the
executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view reached as far as
the Pacific. It was from these lofty reaches that Taki Homosoto commanded
his $30 Billion empire which spread across 5 continents, 112 countries, and
employed almost a quarter million people.

OSO Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings as a used tire
junkstore.

The Korean conflict had been a windfall. Taki Homosoto started a tire
retreading business in 1946, during the occupation of Japan. The Americans
were so smart, he thought. Bring over all of your men, tanks, jeeps and
doctors not telling us the truth about radiation, and you forget spare tires.
Good move, Yankee.

Taki gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the Americans didn't
seem care, that the Pentagon didn't think twice about paying $700 for toilet
seats decades later. Taki did give great service - after all his profits were so
staggeringly high he could afford it. Keep the American's happy, feed their
ego, and they'll come back for more. No sense of pride. Suckers.

When the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a command
post for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by service- men. OSO
Industries was in a perfect position to take advantage of the US
Government's tire needs throughout the conflict. OSO was already in place,
doing a good job; Taki had bought some friends in the US military, and a
few arrangements were made to keep business coming his way.

Taki accumulated millions quickly. Now he needed to diversify.

Realizing that the war would come to an end some day, Homosoto begin
making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market before the end of the
Korean Police Action. Then, with the application of the transistor, the
portable radio market exploded. OSO Industries made more transistor
radios than all other Japanese electronics firms combined. Then came black
and white televi- sions. The invention of the single beam color TV tube
again brought OSO billions in revenues every year.

Now, OSO was the model of a true global corporation. OSO owned
banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron- ics
products were household words. They controlled a vast network of
companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli- ance
manufacturers, and notably, acres and acres of Manhattan Island, California
and Hawaii. They owned and operated communi- cations companies,
including their own geosynchronous satellite. OSO positioned itself as a
holding company with hundreds of subsidiaries, each with their own
specialty, operating under thousands of names. Taki Homosoto wove an
incredibly complex web of corporate influence and intrigue.

OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world. Reaga- nomics
had already assisted in making OSO and Homosoto himself politically
important to both Japan and the US. Exactly how Homosoto wanted it.
American leaders, Senators, Congressmen, appointees, lobbyists, in fact

much of Washington coddled up to Homosoto. His empire planned years in
advance. The US Govern- ment, unofficially craved his insights, and in
characteristic Washington style, wanted to be near someone important.
Homosoto relished it. Ate it up. He was a most cordial, unassuming humble
guest. He played the game magnificently.

Almost the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was dedi- cated
to Homosoto and his immediate staff. Only a handful of the more then
200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had access to the pinnacle of
the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.

The building was designed by Pei, and received international ac- claim as
an architectural statement. The atrium in the lobby vaulted almost 700 feet
skyward precursoring American hotel design in the next decade. Plants,
trees over 100 feet tall and waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging
skylobbies. The first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of
the Ging Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees. The mini
forest was built to be viewed from various heights within the atrium to
simulate a flight above the earth at distances from 2 to 150 miles.

The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum. The Van Gogh
collection was not only the largest private or public assemblage in the
world, but also represented over $100 Million spent in Sothby and Christies
auctions worldwide since 1975.

To get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security check was performed,
including a complete but unobtrusive electronic scan of the entire person
and his belongings. To all appearances, the procedure was no more than
airport security. However to the initiate or the suspect, it was evident from
the accuracy with which the guards targeted specific contraband on a person
or in his belongings that they knew more than they were telling. The OSO

guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their sheer mass,
they received little hassle. Very few deemed it prudent to cross them.

The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700 feet, was a fairly
austere experience. But, the elevator to the 66th floor altered that image at
once. It was this glass walled elevator, the size of a small office, with
appropriately comfort- able furnishings, that Miles Foster rode. From the
comfort of the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of
the atrium as it disappeared beneath him. He looked at the forest and
imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into orbit. The
executive elevator was much slower than the others. Either the residents in
the penthouse relished the solitude and view or they had motion sickness.
Nonetheless, it was most impressive.

"Ah, Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO. Please to step this way." Miles
Foster was expected at the terminus of the lift which opened into an
obscenely large waiting room that contained a variety of severe and
obviously uncomfortable furniture. Aha! Miles, thought. That's exactly what
this is. Another art gal- lery, albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and
no one else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track
lighting, recessed lights, indirect lights. Miles noticed that the room as pure
as the driven snow didn't have any windows. He didn't recognize much of
the art, but given his host, it must have represented a sizable investment.

Miles was ushered across the vast floor to a set of handsomely carved,
too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold hardware. His slight Japanese
host barely tapped on the door, almost inau- dibly. He paused and stood at
attention as he blurted an obedient "Hai!"

The aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference to Mr.
Foster, moved to one side to let the visitor be suitably impressed.
Homosoto's office was a total contrast to his gal- lery. Miles first reaction

was astonishment. It was slightly dizzying. The ceiling slanted to a height
of over 25 feet at the outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The
immense room provided not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50 miles
be- yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.

Coming from the U.S. Government, such private opulence was not
common. It was to be expected in his family's places of business, the
gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce. He had been to
Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build- ing, a place for
tourists. This office, he used the word liber- ally, was palatial.

It was decorated in spartan fashion with cherry wood walls. Artwork,
statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat wherever there was an open
surface. A few gilt shelves and marble display tables were randomly
scattered around the room. Not chaoticly; just the opposite. The scattering
was exquisitely planned. There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish
rice paper panels for eating in <MI>suhutahksi<D>. Eating on the floor was
an honored ritual. There was a small pit under the table for curl- ing one's
legs on the floor.

A conference table with 12 elegant wooden chairs sat at the opposite end
of the cavernous office. In the center of the room, at the corner of the
building, was Homosoto's desk, or work surface if you prefer. It was large
enough for four, yet Homoso- to, as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to
dwarf his environ- ment and desk. Not in size, but in confidence. His
personage was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a
plat- form some 6" above the rest of the room. The intended effect was not
lost on Foster.

The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to make
room for a range of video monitors, communications facili- ties, and
computers which accessed Homosoto's empire. A vast telephone console

provided tele-conferencing to OSO offices worldwide. Dow Jones, CNN,
Nippon TV were constantly displayed, visible only to Homosoto. This was
Homosoto's Command Central as he liked to call it.

Foster gawked at the magnificent surroundings as he stood in front of his
assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black leather chair. It was one of
several arranged in a sunken conversation pit.

Homosoto acknowledged Foster's presence with the briefest of nods as he
stepped down off of his aerie. Homosoto wore expensive clothes. A dark
brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres- ent solid white starched
shirt. It didn't fit, like most Japa- nese business uniforms.

He was short, no more than five foot six, Miles noticed, after Homosoto
got down to the same level as the rest of the room. On the heavy side, he
walked slowly and deliberately. Eyes forward after the obligatory nod. His
large head was sparsely covered with little wisps of hair in nature's futile
attempt to clothe the top of his freckled skull. Even at 59 Homosoto's hair
was still pitch black. Miles wasn't sure if Grecian Formula was available in
Japan. The short crop accentuated the pronounced ears.

A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or maybe
carcinoma. His deep set black eyes stared through the object of his
attention. Homosoto was not the friendly type, thought Miles.

Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the most
perfunctory of bows. Miles took his hand, expecting a strong grip. Instead
he was greeted with a wet fish handshake which wriggled quickly from his
grasp. Homosoto didn't give the slightest indication of a smile. The crow's
feet around his eyes were caused by pudginess, not happiness. When he sat
opposite Foster in a matching chair, he began without any pleasantries.

"I hear you are the best." Homosoto stared at Foster. It was a statement
that required a response.

Foster shifted his weight a little in the chair. What a way to start. This
guy must think he's hot shit. Well, maybe he is. First class, all expense paid
trip to Tokyo, plus consultation fees. In advance. Just for one conversation,
he was told, we just want some advice. Then, last night, and the night
before, he was honored with sampling the finest Oriental women. His hot
button. All expenses paid, of course. Miles knew he was being buttered up,
for what he didn't know, but he took advantage of it all.

"That's what's your people tell you."

Foster took the challenge and glared, albeit with a smirk dimpled smile,
politely, right back at Homosoto. Homosoto continued his stare. He didn't
relax his intensity.

"Mr. Foster," Homosoto continued, his face still emotionless.
"Are you as good as they say?" he demanded.

Miles Foster defiantly spat out the one word response. "Better."

Homosoto's eyes squinted. "Mr. Foster, if that is true, we can do business.
But first, I must be convinced. I can assure you we know quite a bit about
you already, otherwise you wouldn't be here." Miles noticed that Homosoto
spoke excellent English, clipped in style, but Americanized. He
occasionally stretched his vowels, to the brink of a drawl.

"Yeah, so what do you know. Pulled up a few data bases? Big Deal."
Miles cocked his head at Homosoto's desk. "I would assume that with that
equipment, you can probably get whatever you want."

Homosoto let a shimmer of a smile appear at the corners off his mouth.
"You are most perceptive, Mr. Foster." Homosoto paused and leaned back
in the well stuffed chair. "Mr. Foster, tell me about your family."

Miles neck reddened. "Listen! You called me, I didn't call you. All I ever
knew about OSO was that you made ghetto blasters, TV's and vibrators. So
therefore, you wanted me, not my family. If you had wanted them you
would have called them." Miles said loudly. "So, keep my family the fuck
out of it."

"I do not mean to offend," Homosoto said offensively. "I just am most
curious why you didn't go to work for your family. They have money,
power. You would have been a very important man, and a very rich one."
Homosoto said matter of factly. "So, the prudent man must wonder why you
went to work for your Government? Aren't your family and your
government, how shall I say, on opposite sides?"

"My family's got nothing to do with this or you. Clear?" Miles was
adamant. "But, out of courtesy for getting me laid last night, I might as well
tell you. I went to the feds cause they have the best computers, the biggest
equipment and the most interesting work. Not much money, but I have a
backup when I need it. If I went to work for my family, as you put it, I
would have been a glorified beancounter. And that's not what I do. It would
have been no challenge. Boring, boring, boring!" Miles smiled sarcastically
at Homosoto. "Happy now?"

Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove of your
family's activities? How they make money?"

"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled. "How does that grab you? I don't give
a flying fuck. They were real good to me, paid a lot of my way. I love my
mother and she's not a hit man. My uncle does I don't know what or care.

They're family, that's it. How much clearer do you want it?" Miles
continued shouting.

Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster.
I mean no disrespect. I just like to know who works for me."

"Hey, I don't work for you yet."

"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."

"Right." Miles snapped sarcastically.

Homosoto ignored this last comment. The insincere smile left his face,
replaced with a more serious countenance. "Why did you leave your post
with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"

Another inquisition, thought Miles. What a crock. Make it good for the
gook.

"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who insured their
longevity by creating an invincible bureaucracy." Miles decided that a calm
beginning might be more appropriate. "They had no real idea of what was
going on. Their heads were so far up their ass they had a tan line across
their chests. Whenever we had a good idea, it was either too novel, too
expensive or needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee
that might react in 2 years. What a pile of bullshit, a waste of time. We
could have achieved a lot more without all the inter- ference."

"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly asked
Miles.

"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were hundreds of
us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends and nights to make

our country safe from the Communists. The managers just never got with
the program."

"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are good?"

Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess
I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good.
She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some
chicken."

"Excuse me? Chicken?"

"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look- er, sweet
meat, gash, you know?"

"Do you mean she's very pretty?"

Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real pretty, but
real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he smiled a wicked smile.

Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr.
Foster?"

"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any- thing?"
Miles demanded.

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly
ordered.

Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you mean?
I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that, I don't play."

"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so.
Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"

"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes running for
office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and really screw things up."
Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons. Politics. He listened attentively to
Miles as he carried on.

"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up. Real bad.
Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever or whatever isn't
squeaking that's the only way to get any atten- tion. Make noise. Once you
create a crisis, Jeez, just look at Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify
Star Wars, you get a lot of people on for the ride. Just look at the national
energy debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then, 'ooooh!', they
say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.' Then they all want to be heroes
and every podunk politico shoots off his mouth about the latest threat to
humanity. "

"That's your politics?"

"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so bad that
everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your ass trying to help you
fix it."

"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto looked
mildly amused.

"Not meant to be. Just true."

"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would that be a
fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of questioning.

"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else."
Miles sounded defensive.

"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I am sure
money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto leaned back. All 10 of
his fingers met in mirror image fashion and performed push ups on each
other.

Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down that
looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his mind. Foster used
the knuckles from both hands for supports as he leaned on the table between
them. He began speaking deliber- ately and coherently.

"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the money is
nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal- lenge. I spent years with
people ignoring my advice, refusing to listen to me. And I was right so
many times when they were wrong. Then they would start blaming
everyone else and another committee is set up to find out what went wrong.
Ecch! I would love to teach them a lesson."

"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your abilities and
let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how unfortunate." Homosoto said
somberly.

"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat, "you seem to
be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of answers. It is your dime, so
I owe you something. But, Mr. Homosoto, I would like to know what you're
looking for."

Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I have
been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am making the assumption
you will accept, you will become wealthier than you ever hoped. Ever
dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation precedes you." He sincerely extended
his hand to Foster. "I do believe we can do business." Homosoto was
beaming at Miles Fos- ter.

"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again shook
Homosoto's weak hand.

"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United
States of America."

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

Chapter 6

3 Years Ago Sunnyvale, California.

Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell was this
disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage? Then why put it on the
dGraph disks and programs? Did I just agree? What did I say? I don't
remember what I said. Maybe I said maybe.

Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just some old
Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat. No, it was
another one of those cultural differences. Like calisthenics before work at
those Japanese companies that satu- rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded
like a threat, but this is OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be
like the head of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the
same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He called Max.

"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood, was 'I
need you. Get your ass up here now.'

"On my way Amigo."

The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex-
hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both sides of
the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it, or I misunderstood
something, or it got lost in the translation. He prayed for the latter.

"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock- ing.

"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's large
physique.

Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good start. Yes,
a good start." Max grinned.

Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had to be
completed before anything serious was discussed. Max brought the disk to
his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder bulged in the middle. Max
pulled out the disk and pretended to read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers
at the bottom of the ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the
mood, but then he had no love for lawyers.

"Max! Please."

"Hey, just trying new material…."

" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.

"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They
went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.

C:\a:
A:\dir

FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704 FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013 FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567 FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981 FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280 FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395 FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912

93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\

"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of concern
was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.

"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What kind of
programs?"

"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have you
used them yet?"

"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier- re's
nervousness betrayed him.

"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93.
That would run the program.

A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to its
natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work. Let's try 92. H'mmmm.
That's curious, it doesn't do anything either. Looks like a bunch of crap to
me. What are they sup- posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.

Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't know,
really. Maybe it's just a joke."

"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn, nothing." Max
punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna take me a look a
closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette from the machine.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably some
garbage shareware. I'll call you later."

At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre was
doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.

"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the plush
carpet holding the diskette in his hand.

Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger to
indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an obviously
contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real soon. He meant that
part. He would call back.

"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.

"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.

"Viruses. Lots of 'em."

"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.

"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."

"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."

"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit down."
Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.

"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had grown to
hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to stop. Besides, now

wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max as to the ins and outs of nick
name niceties. Pierre nodded silent agreement.

"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of
information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a list, a letter,
accounting records whatever. The second type are called programs, we
tweaks call them executables. Executables are almost alive. The instructions
contained in the executables operate on the data. Everything else is a
variation on a theme."

"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone
knows that. What about these?"

"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa- bles,
some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables and so do
some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's about it. Apples
and MACs and others have similar situations, but these programs are for
IBM's. Now imagine a program, an executable which is designed to copy
itself onto another program."

"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our- selves
into the application."

"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk- ette, "these
are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked at a couple of them,
disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only one of these programs were on
your computer, 3 years from now, the entire contents of your hard disk
would be destroyed in seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred
to him that a program could be harmful.

"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the same
programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some- thing new."

"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves onto
other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth- ing at all
except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few days every program
on your computer, I mean every one would be infected, would be sick.
Every one would have the same flu if you wish. And then, 3 years from
now, any computer that was infected would destroy itself. And, the virus
itself would be destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World
War II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot of
others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3 years. Any data
or program within spitting distance, so to speak, goes too."

"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with
antidotes?"

"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it- self. The ones
you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled not only hide themselves, but
they are dormant until activation; in this case on a specific date." Max
continued the never ending education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven
that there is no way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses.
Can't be done."

"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to grasp the
importance of what he was hearing.

"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro- gram that
would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool- ing around. No real
damage, just embarrassment that called for a similar revenge. It was a game
of one upmanship within universi- ty computer science labs. I saw a little of
it while I worked at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless
shenani- gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get
them?"

Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I? He trusted
Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can tell Max. Anything.

"Homosoto."

"What?" asked Max incredulously.

"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.

"Why? What for?"

"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."

"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would happen?"
Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell thousands of dGraph's
every month. Tens of thousands. And half of the computer companies ship
dGraph with their machines. In 3 years time we may have over a couple of
million copies of dGraph in the field. And who knows how many millions
more programs would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected
programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be
destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the same thing.
The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to absorb what he was
saying.

"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi- ruses be
destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov- ered power.

"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years is also
called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no reason to
suspect that a legitimate software company would be shipping a product
that would damage computers. The thought is absurd . . .it's madness. But
brilliant madness. Even if a few of the viruses accidentally go off

prematurely, the virus de- stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking
gun. No evi- dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."

"V-Day?"

"Virus Day."

"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"

"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro- grams were
infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On the other hand, if no one
finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in the country, or Jesus, even the world,
self destruct at once. It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in
the act. And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What
exactly did Homosoto say?"

Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he gotten into
this position? His mind wandered back over the last few years since he and
Max had come up with the Engine. Life has been real good. Sure, I don't get
much music in anymore, and I have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but
so what? So, I take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.

The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself that his
mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual exercises he
performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn- apses switching for all
they were worth, did not permit Pierre the luxury of a respite of calm.

"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime in the
future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak of the threats. No, no
reason at all. His vision became sudden- ly clear. He was being boxed into a
corner.

"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from
Pierre.

"Well what?"

"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are you going
to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."

"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A
determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll take care of
it."

"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the
international politic that usually was second nature. He called Homosoto at
the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.

"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto hung up.

Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre wasn't sure,
but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso- to. Homosoto didn't
have the common courtesy to say he would not be coming until the
following morning.

In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with the same
shit eating grin he had left with the day before. Pierre hated that worse than
being called amigo.

"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con- cerns a
matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a monotone as he
sat stiffly.

"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from his
desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible. You know what's

here, you know what kind of damage it can cause and you have the gall, the
nerve to come in here and ask me, no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these
along with dGraph? You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage.
"If you think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you have
another thing coming."

Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.

"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're going?
I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I don't want the
goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for someone honest to come
along." Pierre was speaking just as loudly with hand, arm and finger
gestures. While not all of the gestures were obscene, there was no doubt
about their meaning.

Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you some
time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the door in Pierre's bright
red face.

Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon the
public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed to vast amounts
of it, leaving precious little for the small investor before driving the price
up. That morning Pierre was looking for Max. They had a few last minute
details to iron out for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare
two types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected, sold
out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and another to explain
the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't sell. Unlikely, but their media
advisors forced them to learn both positions, just in case.

His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's financial
media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and had a strong vested
interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like a happy camper.

"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could burst," Pierre
pretended.

"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."

Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.

"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."

"What about Max?"

"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just found out a
few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"

Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could have
brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead? Not possible.
Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.

"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is some
kind of joke, right?"

"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on it. They
found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a ravine on I280. Looks
like he went through a barrier and down the, well . . .I . . ."

"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.

"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents. He may
have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel, oh . . .it could be a million
things. Pierre, I am sorry. So sorry. I know what you guys meant to each
other. What you've been through . . ."

"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling up in his
eyes.

"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put off the
offering until . . ."

"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.

"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to go through
with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street will be kind on this . . ."

"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He hung his head
on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions. He was nothing without
Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how to do the schtick. Suck up to
the press, tell a few stories, stretch a few truths, all in the name of
marketing, of course. But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you
Max Jones. You can't do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang. He
ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The caller persisted.

"Yes," he breathed into the phone.

"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.

"What?"

"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our sympathies
are with you. Is there anything I can do to help you in this time of personal
grief." Classic Japanese manners oozed over the phone wire.

"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have been
demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self gratification."

Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped Royal British snobbery at
their best.

"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly. "I
understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot help you,
perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you agree Mr.
Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's words. The
previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light had been extinguished.

"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as
scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French can be so
caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business about honor. I
am sure you remember our last conversation."

"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I won't do it."

"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your decision." There it
was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled threat.

"Why should I?"

"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it would be a
terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you murdered your partner for
profit."

"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal clear
visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire spread through his
cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur- dered? Searing heat etched
patterns of pain in his brain.

"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence, enough to
convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you murdered your
partner as part of a grander scheme to make your- self even richer than you
will become tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?"

"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only does
Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like the guilty
party. What choice did he have. At least now. There's no proof, is there? The
police reports are apparently not ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What
could Homosoto do?

"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in abject
frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the impact resistant
plastic cracked.

At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully opened the
door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry. What can I do?" She
genuinely felt for him. The two had been a great team, even if Pierre had
become obsessed with himself. Her drawn face with 40 years of intense sun
worshiping was wracked with emotional distress.

"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the arrangements . . .?"
The helpless look on his face brought out the mother in her even though she
was only a few years older.

"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"

"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me advised . . ."

"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is waiting.
Should I get rid of him?"

"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"

"I don't know. He's from personnel."

"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"

"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next week . . ."
she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of an unnecessary burden
that could wait.

"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."

"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about 30
entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was applying for a
job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He looked more like a tanned
and rested Wall Street broker than a . . .well whatever he was. The door
closed behind him and he grasped Pierre's hand.

"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why
don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat opposite each
other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr. Hastings was going to run
the conversation. So be it. "I am a software engineer with 4 advanced
degrees as well 2 PhD's from Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are
34 US patents either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-
rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages fluently . . ."

Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and your
clothes. What may I do for you."

"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"

*****

The financial section of the New York City Times included two pieces on
the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents, and the was a
related human interest story, with financial reper- cussions. Max Jones, the
co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci- dent 2 days before the company was
to go public. It would have earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to
come.

The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on the loss
of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true loss to the industry,
as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max, though, was more the Buddy Holly
of software, while Gates was the Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though,
neglected to mention that the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul
play.

*****

Wednesday, September 1
New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He was a
good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary and he had
developed a solid readership, but early hours were not his strong point.

"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he should
function socially before noon. If they didn't take the hint, he behaved
obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his aversion to mornings
should be taken seriously.

Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It must be
those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged America was as

crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but proving them was going
to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been going at them with a vengeance. Let
him have some rope.

Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO of
Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re- porter for the New
York City Times got him past the secretary easily. Henson took the call; it
was part of the job.

"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like to get a
comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott sounded officious.

"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded
accommodating.

"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most useful and I
am sure that they will be used. But I have other questions." Scott hoped to
mislead Henson into thinking he would ask the pat questions he was
expected to ask.

"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to give the
press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott could hear the
smiling Henson ready to play the press game.

"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that you
inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree that, if, and I
say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will earn almost one million dollars
in extra fees. However, the figures I have do not agree at all with those filed
with the SEC. Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound
accusatory, but it was difficult not to play the adversary.

Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at the
revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that information?"

"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his King, but he
still held an Ace if he needed it.

"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with the
appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else, then I suggest
you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone wires conveyed his
agitation.

"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why files
from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?" Scott posed the
question to give Henson an option.

"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer figures?"

"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures for Second
Boston are substantially below those stated in your filings. Simple and dry.
Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck with the game plan.

"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ." Henson hesitated
and then decided to go on the offensive. "You have nothing. Nothing. It's a
trap," Henson affirmed.

"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson repeatedly
denied any improprieties.

"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New
York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with
Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over
spending.

"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male secretary
matter of factly asked.

"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and
Credit Suisse."

"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.

"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott commanded
an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from the press.

"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak on
hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up the call. He
was belligerent.

"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.

"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.

"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim- idate me. I
am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave away nervousness.

"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about political
compromise. Very simple. I have information that you and General Young,
shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As a member of the Senate
Intelligence Committee, you have helped pass legislation that gave you both
what you wanted. General Young got his weapons and you have a
substantial bank account in Geneva. Comments, Senator?"

Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal
composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan- derous at
least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to back up these
preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in the Senator's voice.

"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"
Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.

"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper right into
bankruptcy. Do you copy?"

"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that would piss off
Rickfield. The line went dead.

Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he continued to be
amazed.

From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get that?"
"Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know that." "I was
the only one who had access to that . . ." "That was in my private files . . ."

Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the Nuclear
Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known faulty parts in
Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that Scott held a copy of a
SECRET internal memorandum. He especially upset the Department of
Defense when he asked them how Senors Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA
operatives, had set up Noriega.

The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the thought
of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the newspaper. Never
the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their files had been penetrated or
any of the names on the list. Useless.

Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and beyond
the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory claims which were
universally denied for a wide variety of rea- sons, all of his contacts were,
in his opinion, honestly shocked that he even had a hint of their alleged
infractions.

Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in which
everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received the same
formatted answer; more surprise than denial.

Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was. He had in
his possession damning data, from an anonymous source, with, thus far, no
way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed that for the next time he got
lawyered.

When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears were
confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in the making.
Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order. Keep digging.

"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father teasing
his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead- line."

Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.

"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on his desk.
"I'm up to my ass in . . ."

"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.

"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."

"Then say so. But say something."

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

Chapter 7 Thursday, September 17 New York City Times

Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to America
By Scott Mason

Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the headline. In
this case the words are borrowed from a story title in last week's National
Expose, that most revered of journalistic publications which distributes half
truths and tortured conclu- sions from publicity seeking nobodies.

The title should more appropriately be something like,

"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or

"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or

"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"

According to computer experts, this Columbus Day, October 12, will
mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous Columbus Day Virus. As for
the last several years, that is the anticipated date for a highly viral computer
virus to 'explode'. The history behind the headline reads from an Ian
Fleming novel.

In late 1988, a group of West German hackers and computer pro-
grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput- er virus.
As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is an unsolicited and
unwanted computer program whose sole purpose is to wreak havoc in
computers. Either by destroying important files or otherwise damaging the
system.

We now know that that these Germans are part of an underground group
known as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer Hackers Against Open
Systems, whatever the heck that means. They work to promote computer
systems disruption worldwide.

In March of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted an international
conference of computer programmers. Are you ready for the name?
Intergalactic Hackers Conference. Some members were aware of the
planned virus. As a result of the negative publicity hackers have gotten over
the last few years, the Conference issued a statement disavowing the
propagation and creation of computer viruses. All very honorable by a
group of people whose sole purpose in life is to invade the privacy of
others. But, that's what they said.

Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got
released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings. In other words, files and
programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted by this disreputable
band, and the infections began spreading.

The first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred in 1989, and
caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc- tion of data
banks and system protection.

Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread and that
some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate over a period of years.
The Columbus Day Virus is called by its creators, the "Data Crime Virus", a
name befitting its purpose. When it strikes, it announces itself to the
computer user, and by that time, it's too late. Your computer is kaput!

What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing than the
hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the media has given it,
each and every year since 1989.

The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable
reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds of
newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other reputable
media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a great deal of
attention on this anticipated technological Arma- geddon.

Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus issue
and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by Virus Busters. Sam
Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas commented, "I have never
seen a virus in 20 years. I've heard about them but really think they are a
figment of the media's imagination."

Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting alleged
computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti- dotes. Virus Busting
Sean McCullough, President of The Virus Institute in San Jose, California
thinks that most viruses are harmless and users and companies overreact.
"There have been no more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few
years. They spread more by rumor than by infection." When asked how he
made his living, he responded, "I sell antidotes to computer viruses." Does
he make a good living? "I can't keep up with the demand," he insists.

The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for good
reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch is planned.
Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus makers use as the
intended date of destruction. According to an official spokesman, NASA
has called in computer security experts to make sure that their systems are "
. . .clean and free from infection. It's a purely precautionary move, we are
not worried. The launch will continue as planned."

Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and dangerous,
but that chances of infection are low. As one highly respected computer
specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus is a low risk high consequence

possibility. I don't recommend any panic." Does he protect his own
computer agaist viruses? "Abso- lutely. I can't risk losing my computers."

Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my
computer never needs Tylenol.

*****

Scarsdale, New York.

The Conrail trains were never on time.

Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride the 7:23 from
the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York into Grand Central
Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute ride into the City on good days
and over 2 hours when the feder- ally subsidized rail service was under
Congressional scrutiny.

The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an upscale
version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the Scarsdale train station.
He bought a large styrofoam cup full of decent black coffee and 3 morning
papers from the blind newsman before boarding the express train. Non-stop
to Harlem, and then on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.

Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his silver
BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a perfectly good Ford
Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he needed a car in New York. He was
one of the few black commuters from the affluent bedroom community and
his size made him more conspicuous than his color.

Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps unique in
the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning you see the
same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their way to the Big Apple.

The morning commute is a personal solace for many. Your train buddy
knows if you got laid and by whom. If you tripped over your kids toys in
the driveway, your train buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before
the wife. Train buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes
first.

While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning route
since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends since their wives
introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club 10 years ago. Maggie
Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites; Maggie, a giggly, spacey and
spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene, the dedicated wife of a civil servant and
mother of three daugh- ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The
attachment between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave
both Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.

The physical contrast between the two was comical at times. Duncan was
a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had let his considerable
bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott, small and wiry was 10 years Ty's
junior. On weekends they played on a very amateur local basketball league
where minimum age was thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out
maneuvered Ty- rone's bulk.

During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits he had
made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans, sneakers and T-Shirt of
choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than ebony, with fringes of
graying short hair emphasized the usually jovial face that was described as
a cross between rolly-polly and bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always
seemed to need a hair- cut.

Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train pulled
out of the open air station.

"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.

Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.

"That shirt," Ty smirked. "A lesson in how to make friends and influence
people."

"Oh, this?" Scott looked down at the words on his chest:

I'm O.K.
You're A Shithead.

"It only offends them that oughta be offended."

"Shitheads?"

"Shitheads."

"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."

"My mother," groused Scott. "VCR lessons." Ty didn't under- stand.

"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd and
ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a couple of weeks
later I went over to her place and I asked how she liked the VCR. She didn't
answer, so I asked again and she mumbled that she hadn't used it yet. I fell
down," Scott laughed out loud.

"'Why?' I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it sitting next
to her TV for a couple of months before she used it." Tyrone caught a case
of Scott's roaring laughter.

"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone. "And you an engineer?"

"Hey," Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a light- bulb."
They laughed until Scott could speak. "So last night I went over for her
weekly VCR lesson."

"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled, "trust- ing a
machine to do something right, when you're not around to make sure it is
right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They don't believe it works."

"It's a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly. "It tests my ability to reduce
things to the basics. The real basics. Trying to teach a seventy year old
widower about digital is like trying to get a square ball bearing to roll."

Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He
couldn't imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity of either 'on' or
'off'. But he welcomed the tangent conversa- tions that invariably resulted
when he tried to explain how the VCR could record one channel and yes
mom, you can watch another channel at the same time.

Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR, cleared its
memory and 'Twelved' the clock an hour before he arrived to show her how
to use it. And after he left, she repro- grammed it for her tastes only to erase
it again before his next visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would
have ruined her little game and the ritual starting point for their private
talks.

"By the way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are you and Arlene doing
Sunday night?"

"Sunday? Nothing, why?" Tyrone asked innocently.

"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of you . .
."

"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.

"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."

"Forget it." Tyrone said stubbornly. "Not after what happened last time. I
don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of your mother. She scared
the living shit out of her . . .and I have my doubts."

"Relax," Scott said calmly. "It's just her way of keeping busy.
Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."

"And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband from the
dead," said Scott with exaperation. "I don't care what you say, that's not
normal. I like your mother, but, well, Arlene has put her foot down." Tyrone
shuddered at the thought of that evening. No one could explain how the
wooden shutters blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as
his wife did, to pretend it never happened.

"Hey," Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. "I see
you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"Don't give me that innocent shit. I'm a trained professional," Tyrone
joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to Scott's Christopher
Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces have been raising a few
eyebrows down at the office. Seems you have better sources than we do.
Our Computer Fraud division has been going nuts recently."

"Glad you can read." Scott enjoyed the compliment. "Just a job, but I
gotta story much more interesting. I can't publish it yet, though."

"Why?"

"Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be- lieve it?"
Scott teased Tyrone. "Besides, blackmail is so, so personal."

Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. "What blackmail?" The
frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of their respective
jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a measured professional distance.
The years of dedication invested in their friendship, even after to everyones'
surprise, Maggie up and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady
unneces- sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped to be
of concern.

"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into print, but, it's there,
I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted to talk.

"Mums the word."

"A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a certain
company. I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for approval.

"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.

Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what
Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of the
apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci- nation as Scott
outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he was privy.

Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tyrone quietly asked.

"Sure. Go for it."

"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"

Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.

"How did you know?" Scott asked suspiciously.

"And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?" Tyrone
tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press on this.

Scott could not hide his surprise. "Yeah! And a bunch of others.
How'd you know?"

Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. "Lucky guess."

"Bullshit. What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of the lazy
commuter.

"Nothing, just a coincidence." Tyrone picked up a newspaper and buried
his face behind it.

"Hey, Ty. Talk ol' buddy."

"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.

"As a friend? I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.

Ty snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case in progress."

"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.

"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.

"Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C'mon what's
up?"

"Shit, you media types." Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to think. "I'll
never know why you became a reporter. You used to be a much nicer pain
in the ass before you became so nosy." Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's
awkwardness.

Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he realized
that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn't read any of this in the
papers, there had to be journalistic responsi- bility from both Scott and the
paper. "Off, off, off the record. Clear?" He was serious.

"Done."

The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat- tan.
They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that meant they
couldn't be heard either.

"As near as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began. "There's a well
coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As of yesterday,
we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged blackmail. From
Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, LA, the
works. Small towns to the metros. It's an epidemic and the local and state
cops are absolutely buried. They can't handle it, and besides it's way out of
their league. So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There's no
way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing- ton's going
berserk."

"Who's behind it?" Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get a real answer.

"That's the rub. Don't have a clue. Not a clue. There's no pattern, none at
all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our informants say they're
baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They knew about it before we did.
Figures." Tyrone's voice echoed a professional frustration.

"Motives?"

"None. We're stuck."

"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."

The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand Central.
Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make their escape to the
streets of New York above them. Scott won- dered if any of them were part
of Duncan's problems.

"Scott?" Tyrone queried on the escalator.

"Yeah?"

"Not a word, ok?"

Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. "Scott's honor!" That was
good enough for Tyrone.

They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both of their
eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa- tionalistic headline:

FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME

They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled
tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.

"Jesus," Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the word.
"They're going to make a weekly event of printing every innuendo."

"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott. "The whole blasted lot. And
they're printing them." Scott put down the paper. "This makes it a brand
new ball game . . ."

"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.

"That's the answer," exclaimed Scott. "The motive. Who's been affected
so far?"

"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What's the
answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention. "What's the
answer?" he whispered up close.

"It's you." Scott noted.

Tyrone expressed surprise. "What do you mean, me."

"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone else.
You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay atten- tion to other
crimes."

"You're jumping to conclusions." Tyrone didn't follow Scott's reasoning
and cocked his head quizzically.

"What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the FBI, so
overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators really have other
crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit their real targets. Isn't it
possible that the FBI is an unwill- ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger
scheme that isn't obvious yet?" Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he
saw that Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.

"It's possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't have the words to finish
his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field for his linear thinking. "No this
is crazy as the time you though that UFO's were invading Westchester in
'85. Then there was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put
cocaine in the water supply . . ."

"That wasn't my fault . . ."

" . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild ass
conspiracies you come up with."

Scott dismissed Tyrone's friendly criticism by ignoring the derisions. "As
I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim is the FBI. None of the alleged
victims have been harmed, other than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe
the FBI was the target all along. Scott suggested, "it's as good a theory as
any other."

"With what goal?" Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.

"So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to react."

*****

The Federal Bureau of Investigation
Federal Square, Manhattan.

The flat white and glass square building, designed in the '60's, built
shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the level of
technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri- or. The building had
no personality, no character, nothing memorable about it, and that was
exactly the way the tenants wanted it.

The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested streets
of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure well guarded mazes
held the clues to the locations of an incredible array of computing power,
some of the world's best analytical tools, test equipment, forensic labs,
communications facilities and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical
specialties required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.

The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by the
solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos- sible,
almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal privacy was
another matter, though. Most of the office staff worked out in an open office
floorplan. The walls between the guard stations and banks of elevators
consisted solely of bullet- proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving
at first, no privacy.

There was a self-imposed class structure between the "bugs", those who
worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads" who worked
where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa- ration between the two
groups out of necessity; maintain isola- tion between those with differing
need-to-know criteria. The most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and
unintended competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at
different bars. A line that was rarely crossed.

Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher floors
are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power brokers, at the FBI
the farther down into the ground you worked, the more important you were.
To the "airheads", "bugs" tried to see how low they could sink in their
acquisition of power while rising up on the Government pay scale.

On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the edge of his
large Government issue executive desk to answer his ringing phone. It was
Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington based superior and family friend
for years.

"No, really. Thanks," Ty smiled. "Bob, we've been through this before.
It's all very flattering, but no. I'm afraid not. And you know why. We've
been through this all . . ." He was being cut off by his boss, so he shut up
and listened.

"Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as he tried to interrupt the
other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll give it some more thought, but don't
get your hopes up. It's just not in my cards." He listened again.

"Bob, I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I do. We're
both quite content and frankly, I don't need the headaches." He looked
around the room as he cocked the earpiece away from his head. He was
hearing the same argument again.

"Bob, I said I would. I'll call you next week." He paused.
"Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I understand.
Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won't leave me alone. Let
me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the ceiling.

*****

Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat- ing
cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were against him ever
being accepted into the elite National Police Force. The virtually
autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had created over 60 years and 12
presidents ago was very selective about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan
was black.

His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow into his
father's footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston's most prestigious law
firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the very few rich and influential
black families in the North East. His family was labeled "Liberal" when one
wasn't ashamed of the moniker.

Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the marches in the
South and it was then that he first hand saw prejudice. But it was more than
prejudice, though. It was hate, it was ignorance and fear. It was so much
more than prejudice. It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society
con- quered over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its mis- guided
myopic traditions.

Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and
humidity, decades of racial conflict, several 'Jew Boy Nigger Lovers' were
killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the civil rights workers made
front page news. The country was out- raged, at the murders most assuredly,
but national outrage turned quickly to divisional disgust when local
residents dismissed the crime as a prank, or even congratulated the
perpetrators for their actions.

The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se; murder is
not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime because the murderers had
violated the victims' civil rights. Tyrone thought that that approach was real
slick, a nice legal side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the
case. When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over-
worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and Tyrone spent
the remainder of the summer filing papers and per- forming other mundane
tasks while learning a great deal.

On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his despite his
father's urging, after law school he would join the FBI.

Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School,
passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed through the
written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was over 100 pounds
lighter than his current weight. His background check was unassailable

except for his family's prominent liberal bent. He had every basic
qualification needed to become an FBI Agent. He was turned down.

Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself,
blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to 'investi- gate' and
determine who or what was pulling the strings. He called FBI personnel and
asked why he had been rejected. They mumbled something about
'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'. That was when he realized that he
was turned down solely because he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a
racial issue stand in his way.

He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during the
last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that he was applying
for a position as an assistant DA in Boston. Would they mind writing a
letter . . .

Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person- nel
Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov- er. The four
letters of recommendation, which read more like votes for sainthood were a
little overdone, but, they were on FBI stationary. Tyrone asked the
Personnel Director if they would reconsider his application, and that if
necessary, he would whitewash his skin.

The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix- up. We
misfiled someone else's charts in your files and, well, you understand, I'm
sure. It happens all the time. We're sorry for any inconvenience. Would you
be available to come in on Monday? Welcome to the FBI.

Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired left
wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states for some
unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected dirt on imaginary
enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He tried, fairly successfully to

stay away from that last kind of work. In Tyrone's not so humble opinion,
there were a whole lot more better things for FBI agents to be doing than
worry about George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high
school kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the
Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.

Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot- ed
to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious position. This
was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau. It was one that leaped over
4 intermediate levels. The Hoover era was gone.

After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind his
desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no new
counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him though was
the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re- read the digested
version put out by Washington headquarters that was faxed to him in the
early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.

The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100 people,
many of them highly placed leaders of American industry had called their
respective regional FBI offices for help. A call into the FBI is handled in a
procedural manner. The agent who takes the call can identify the source of
the call with a readout on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had
for years but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if
the caller had significant information, but refused to identify himself, the
agent had a reliable method to track down the call- er. Very few people who
called the FBI realized that a phone inquiry to an FBI office triggered a
sequence of automatic events that was complete before the call was over.

The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone
number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to the agent.
Then the number was crosschecked against files from the phone company.

What was the exact location of the caller? To whom was the phone
registered? A calling and billing history was made instantly available if
required.

If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual, his social
security number was retrieved and within seconds of the receipt of the call,
the agent knew a plethora of information about the caller. Criminal
activities, bad credit records; the type of data that would permit the agent to
gauge the validity of the call. For business phones, a cross check
determined any and all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a
determina- tion.

Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers who
intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation. They all, to a
call, originated from the office or home of major corporate movers and
shakers. Top American businessmen who, while not beyond the reach of the
law, were from the FBI's view, upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but
certainly not mad men with a record of making outlandish capricious
claims. It was not in their interest to bring attention to themselves.

What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of such
calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified cases of
blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out into legitimate and
solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague threats do not materialize into
prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan sat back thoughtfully.

What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or on
April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it a joke? Not
likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have they made?
Undoubtedly they haven't befriended everyone with whom they have had
contact, but what's the connection? Tyrone's mind reeled through a maze of
unlikelihoods. Until, the only common element he could think of stared at

him right in the face. There was a single dimension of commonality
between all of the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with
the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.

The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter- ally leapt
from his chair for a split second as he caught his breath. The government.
No way. Is it possible? I must be missing something, surely. This is crazy.
Or is it? Doesn't the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate
paranoid thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded
his forehead for missing the connection.

Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-
9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could sell to
another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss. The G-9 says, 'I got a
way to make sure the tax evaders pay their share, and it won't cost Uncle
Sam a dime!'. His boss says, 'I got a congressional hearing today, I'm too
busy. Do some re- search and let me see a report.'

So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government
computers and determines that the companies on his hit list aren't
necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way to get them to
pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the big We, Big Brother
know, and they'd better shape up.

He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons and the
phone numbers are buried, and says something like, 'Big Brother is
listening and he doesn't like what he hears.' And he says, 'we'll call you
back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in a row' and that scares the shit out
of the corporate muckity- mucks.

Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he
admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts. Still, is it

possible? The government was certainly capable of some pretty bizarre
things. He recalled the Phoenix program in Viet Nam where suspected Viet
Cong and innocent civilians were tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to
their deaths in the distorted hope of making another one talk.

Wasn't Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats were in
1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the President. And the
Aquarius project used psychics to locate Soviet Boomers and UFO's. Didn't
we give LSD to unsuspecting soldiers to see if they could function
adequately under the influence? The horror stories swirled through his
mind. And they became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true.
Maybe it was possible. The United States government had actually
instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase tax
revenues. Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.

The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his
daydream speculations.

"Yes?" He answered into space.

"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint- ment.
Saunderson is out and so you're elected." Duncan's secre- tary was too
damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to someone else. He pushed
his intercom button.

"Gimme a second, I gotta primp." That was Tyrone's code that he needed
a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and return to Earth to
deal with real life problems. As usual, Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3
minutes, his door opened.

"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National
Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director." She waited for the two

men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door behind her.

"Mr. Duncan?" Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent. Duncan
accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi- ently.

"How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?"

"I am being blackmailed, and I need help." Dobbs looked straight into
Duncan's coal black eyes.

The IRS, thought Duncan. "By whom?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Dobbs was firm.

"Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?" Duncan wanted to
conceal his interest. Keep it low profile.

"Let me tell you what happened."

Good start, thought Duncan. If only half of us would start in such a
logical place.

"Two days ago I received a package by messenger. It contained the most
sensitive information my company has. Strategic posi- tions, contingency
plans, competitive information and so on. There are only a half dozen
people in my company that have access to that kind of information. And
they all own enough stock to make sure that they aren't the culprits."

"So who is?" interjected Tyrone as he made notes.

"I don't know. That's the problem."

"What did they ask for?" Duncan looked directly into Dobbs' eyes. To
both force an answer and look for signs of deceit. All he saw was honesty

and real fear.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. All I got was the package and a brief message."

"What was the message?" Tyrone asked.

"We'll be in touch. That's it."

"So where's the threat? The blackmail. This hardly seems like a case for
the FBI." Tyrone was baiting the hook. See if the fish is real.

"None, not yet. But that's not the point. What they sent me were copies,
yet they looked more like the originals, of informa- tion that would
negatively affect my company. It's the sort of information that we would not
want made public. If you know what I mean."

Tyrone thought, you bet I know. You're up to and you want us to protect
you. Fat chance. "I know what you mean," he agreed.

"I need to stop it. Before it's too late?"

"Too late?" asked Duncan.

"Too late. Before it gets out."

"What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?" Duncan stared right into and beyond
Dobbs' eyes.

"Secrets. Just secrets." Dobbs paused to recompose himself.
"Isn't there a law . . .?"

"Yes, there is Mr. Dobbs. And if what you say is true, you are entitled to
protection." Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more. "Even if the
information is illegal in nature." Wait for the fish to bite.

"I grant you I'm no Mother Teresa. I'm a businessman, and I have to
make money for my investors. But in the files that I received were exact
copies of my personal files that no one, and I mean no one has access to.
They were my own notes, ideas in progress. Nothing concrete, just work in
progress. But someone, somehow has gotten a hold of it all. And, by my
thinking, there's no way to have gotten it without first killing me, and I'm
here. So how did they get it? That's what I need to know." Dobbs paused.
"And then, I need to stop them." His soliloquy was over.

"Who else is affected?" Duncan asked. The question made Dobbs pause
too obviously. The answer was clear. Dobbs wasn't alone.

"I only speak for myself. No one else." Dobbs rose from the chair. "It's
eminently clear. There's not a damned thing you can do. Good day." Dobbs
left the room abruptly leaving Tyrone with plenty of time to think.

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

Chapter 8

Monday, September 21
New York

14 Dead As Hospital Computer Fails
by Scott Mason

Fourteen patients died as a result of a massive computer failure this
weekend at the Golda Meier Medical Center on 5th. Avenue.

According to hospital officials, the Meditrix Life Support Moni- tors
attached to many of the hospital's patients were accidental- ly disconnected

from the nurses stations and the hospital's main computer. Doctors and
nurses were unaware of any malfunction because all systems appeared to
operating correctly.

The LSM's are connected to a hospital wide computer network that
connects all hospital functions in a central computer. Medical records,
insurance filings and treatments as well as personnel and operations are
coordinated through the Information Systems department.

Golda Meier Medical Center leads the medical field in the used of
technologically advanced techniques, and has been applying an artificial
intelligence based Expert System to assist in diagno- sis and treatment.
Much of the day to day treatment of patients is done with the LSM
continually measuring the condition of patient, and automatically updating
his records. The Expert System then determines what type of treatment to
recommend. Unless there is a change in the patient's condition that warrants
the intervention of a doctor, drugs and medicines are prescribed by the
computer.

According to computer experts who were called in to investigate, the
Expert System began misprescribing medications and treatments early
Saturday morning. Doctors estimate that over 50%, about 300, of the
hospital's patients received incorrect treatment. Of those 14 died and
another 28 are in critical condition.

Until this weekend, the systems were considered foolproof. The entire
computer system of Golda Meier Medical Center has been disconnected
until a more intensive investigation is completed.

In response to the news, the Jewish Defense League is calling the
incident, "an unconscionable attack against civilized behavior and the

Jewish community in particular." They have called for a full investigation
into the episode.

No group or individuals have yet taken credit for the crime. The AMA
has petitioned the Drug and Food Administration to look into the matter.

Gerald Steinmetz, chief counsel for the Center, said in inter- views that
he had already been contacted by attorney's represent- ing the families of
the some of the victims of this tragedy. He anticipates extended legal
entanglements until such time that the true cause can be determined and
blame can accurately assigned. The hospital denies any wrong doing on its
or its staff's part.

This is Scott Mason, determined to stay healthy.

*****

December, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan

Miles Foster arrived at Narita Airport as another typhoon shat- tered the
coast of Japan. It was the roughest plane ride he had ever taken; and after 2
weeks of pure bliss. Boy, that Homosoto sure knows how to show a guy a
good time.

After their first meeting at the OSO World Bank Building, Miles had
flown to Tahiti and spent 18 delightful days at the outer resort of Moorea,
courtesy of OSO Industries, with all of the trimmings. He was provided
with a private beach house containing every modern amenity one could
want. Including two housekeepers and a cook. Only one of the
housekeepers knew how to keep house. The other knew how to keep Miles
satisfied.

Marasee was a Pacific Islander who was well schooled in advanced
sexual techniques. At barely 5 feet tall and 96 pounds, her long silken black
hair was as much as sexual tool as her hands and mouth. Her pristine dark
complexion and round face caused Miles to think that he was potentially
guilty of crimes against a minor, but after their first night together, he
relented that Marasee knew her business very well.

"Mr. Homosoto-San," she purred in delicately accented English, "wants
you to concentrate on your work." She caressed his shoul- ders and upper
body as she spoke. "He knows that a man works best when he has no
worries. It is my job to make sure that you are relaxed. Completely relaxed.
Do you understand?"

Her eyes longed for an affirmative answer from Miles. At first he was
somewhat baffled. Homosoto had indeed sent him on this trip, vacation, to
work, undisturbed. But Miles thought that he would have to fend for
himself for his physical pleasures. He was used to finding ways to satisfy
his needs.

"Homosoto-San says that you must be relaxed to do very serious
business. Whenever you need relaxation, I am here."

The food was as exquisite as was Marasee. He luxuriated in the eternally
perfect weather, the beach, the waves and he even ventured under water on
a novice scuba dive. But, as he knew, he was here to concentrate on his
assigned task, so he tried to limit his personal activities to sharing pleasure
with Marasee.

In just a few days, a relaxed Miles felt a peace, a solace that he had never
known before. He found that his mind was at a creative high. His mind
propelled through the problems of the war plans, and the solutions
appeared. His brain seemed to function independent of effort. As he

established goals, the roads to meet them appeared magically before him, in
absolute clarity. He was free to explore each one in its entirety, from
beginning to end, undisturbed.

If a problem confounded him, he found that merely forgetting about it
during an interlude with Marasee provided him with the answer. The
barriers were broken, the so-called 'walls of de- fense' crumbled before as
he created new methods of penetration no one had ever thought of before.

As his plan coalesced into a singular whole, he began to experi- ence a
euphoria, a high that was neither drug nor sexually in- duced. He could
envision, all at once, the entire grand strate- gy; how the myriad pieces
effortlessly fit together and evolved into a picture perfect puzzle. Miles
became able to manipulate the attack scenarios in his mind and make slight
changes in one that would have far reaching implications in another portion
of the puzzle. He might change only one slight aspect, yet see synergistic
ramifications down a side road. This new ability, gained from total freedom
to concentrate and his newfound worry free life, gave Miles new sources of
pleasure and inspiration.

As his plans came together, Miles yearned for something outside of his
idyllic environment. His strategies grew into a concrete reality, one which
he knew he could execute, if Homosoto wasn't feeding him a line of shit.
And, for the $100,000 Homosoto gave him to make plans, he was generally
inclined to believe that this super rich, slightly eccentric but obviously
dangerous man was deadly serious.

As the days wore on, Miles realized that, more than anything in his life,
even more than getting laid, he wanted to put his plan to the test. If he was
right, of which he was sure, in a few short years he would be recognized as
the most brilliant computer scientist in the world. In the whole damn world.

His inner peace, the one which fed his creativity, soon was overtaken by
the unbridled ego which was Miles Foster's inner self. The prospect of
success fostered new energies and Miles worked even harder to complete
the first phase of his task. To the occasional disappointment of Marasee,
Miles would embroil himself in the computer Homosoto provided for the
purpose. Marasee had been with many men, she was an expert, but Miles
gave her as much pleasure as she to him. As his work further absorbed him,
she rued the day her assignment would be over.

Miles left Tahiti for Tokyo without even saying goodbye to Mara- see.

The ritualistic scanning and security checks before Miles got onto the
living room elevator at the OSO Building in Tokyo evi- denced that
Homosoto had not told anyone else how important Miles was. Even though
he recognized the need for secrecy in their endeavors, Miles was irked by
the patronizing, almost rude treat- ment he received when he was forced to
pass the Sumo scrutiny.

The elevator again opened into the grand white gallery on the 66th floor.

"Ah . . .so good to see you again Mr. Foster. Homosoto-San is anxious to
see you." A short Japanese manservant escorted Miles to the doors of
Homosoto's office. The briefest of taps invited the bellow of "Hai!" from its
inner sanctum.

Homosoto was quick to rise from his techo-throne and greeted
Miles as if they were long lost friends.

"Mr. Foster . . .it is so good to see you. I assume everything was
satisfactory? You found the working conditions to your liking?" Homosoto
awkwardly searched for the vain compliment. He pointed at the leather

seating area in which they had first discussed their plans. They sat in the
same chairs they had the last time they met.

Miles was taken aback by the warm reception, but since he was so
important to Homosoto, it was only fitting to be treated with respect.

Miles returned the courtesy with the minimum required bow of the head.
It was a profitable game worth playing. "Very much so, Mr. Homosoto. It
was most relaxing . . .and I think you will be very pleased with the results."
Miles smiled warmly, expecting to be heavily complimented on his
promise. Instead, Homosoto ignored the business issue.

"I understand that Miss Marasee was most pleased . . .was she not?" The
implication was clear. For the first time, Miles saw a glimmer of a dirty old
man looking for the sordid details.

"I guess so. I was too busy working to pay attention." Miles tried to sluff
off the comment.

"That is what she says. That you were too busy for her . . .or to say
goodbye and thank her for her attentions. Not an auspi- cious beginning Mr.
Foster." Miles caught the derision in Homo- soto's voice and didn't
appreciate it one little bit.

"Listen. My affairs are my affairs. I am grateful for the services, but I do
like to keep my personal life just that. Per- sonal." Miles was polite, but
firm. Homosoto nodded in under- standing.

"Of course, Mr. Foster, I understand completely. It is merely for the sake
of the young woman that I mention it. There is no offense intended. It is
shall we say . . .a cultural difference?"

Miles didn't believe in the cultural difference to which he referred, but he
didn't press the point. He merely nodded that the subject was closed. A
pregnant pause followed before Homo- soto interrupted the silence.

"So, Mr. Foster. I really did not expect to see you for another few weeks.
I must assume that you have made some progress in planning our future
endeavors." Homosoto wore a smile that belied little of his true thoughts.

"You bet your ass, I did." Homosoto winced at the colorful language. It
was Miles' way of maintaining some control over the situation. His dimples
recessed even further as he enjoyed watching Homosoto's reaction. "It
turned out to be simpler than even I had thought."

"Would you be so kind as to elaborate?"

"Gotcha." Miles opened his briefcase and brought out a sheath of papers
with charts and scribbles all over them. "Basically the technology is pretty
simple. Here are the fundamental systems to use in the attack, there are only
four of them. After all, there are no defenses, so that's not a problem."

"Problem?" Homosoto raised his eyes.

"Ok, not problem. As you can see here, putting the technical pieces
together is not the issue. The real issue is creating an effective deployment
of the tools we create." Miles was matter of fact and for the first time
Homosoto saw Miles as the itiner- ant professional he was capable of being.
The challenge. Just as Miles promised earlier, 'give me a challenge, the new,
the undone and I will be the best.' Miles was shining in his own excel-
lence, and his ego was gone, totally gone. His expertise took over.

"I have labeled various groups that we will need to pull this off."

"Pull off? Excuse me . . ."

"Oh, sorry. Make it work? Have it happen?"

"Ah yes, So sorry."

"Not at all." Miles looked at Homosoto carefully. Was there a mutual
respect actually developing?

"As I said, we will have to have several groups who don't even know
about each other's existence. At NSA we call it contain- ment, or need to
know."

Homosoto cursorily examined the printouts on the table in front of him,
but preferred to address Miles' comments. "Could you explain, please? I
don't see how one can build a car if you don't know what it's going to look
like when you're done. You suggest that each person or group functions
without the knowledge of the others? How can this be efficient?"

Miles smiled. For the first time he felt a bit of compassion for Homosoto,
as one would feel for the naive child asking why 1 plus 1 equals 2.
Homosoto was used to the Japanese work ethic: Here's a beautiful picture of
a car, and all 50,000 of us are going to build it; you 5,000 build the engines,
you 5,000 build the body and so on. After a couple of years we'll have built
a fabulous automobile that we have all shared as a common vision.

Homosoto had no idea of how to wage a war, although he apparently
afford it. Miles realized he could be in control after all, if he only sold
Homosoto on his abilities, and he was well on the way.

"You see, Mr. Homosoto, what we are trying to do requires that no one,
except a few key people like you and I, understand what is going on. As we
said in World War II, loose lips sink ships." Homosoto immediately bristled
at the mention of the war. Miles hardly noticed as he continued. "The point

is, as I have it laid out here, only a handful of people need to know what we
are trying to achieve. All of the rest have clearly defined duties that they are
expected to perform as we ask. Each effectively works in a vacuum.
Efficient, not exactly. Secure, yes. I imagine you would like to keep this
operation as secret as possi- ble."

Homosoto took immediate notice and bolted his response. "Hai! Of
course, secrecy is important, but how can we be sure of compli- ance by our
. . .associates?"

"Let me continue." Miles referred back to the papers in front of him.
"The first group is called the readers, the second will be dedicated to
research and development." Homosoto smiled at the R&D reference. He
could understand that. "Then there will be a public relations group, a
communications group, a software compa- ny will be needed, another group
I call the Mosquitoes and a little manufacturing which I assume you can
handle." Miles looked for Homosoto's reaction.

"Manufacturing, very easy. I don't fully understand the others, but I am
most impressed with your outline. You mentioned prob- lem. Can you
explain?" Homosoto had become a different person. One who showed
adolescent enthusiasm. He moved to the edge of his seat.

"As with any well designed plan," Miles boasted, "there are certain
situations that need to be addressed. In this case, I see several." Miles was
trying to hook Homosoto onto the prover- bial deck.

"I asked for problem." Homosoto insisted.

"To properly effect this plan we will need two things that may make it
impossible."

Homosoto met the challenge. "What do you need?"

Miles liked the sound of it. You. What do you need. "This operation could
cost as much as $50 million. Is that a problem?"

Homosoto looked squarely at Miles. "No problem. What is the second
thing you need?"

"We will need an army. Not an army with guns, but a lot of people who
will follow orders. That may be more important than the money."

Homosoto took a momentary repose while he thought. "How big an army
will you need?"

"My guess? Today? I would say that for all groups we will need a
minimum of 500 people. Maybe as many as a thousand."

Homosoto suddenly laughed out loud. "You call that an army? 1000
men? An army? That is a picnic my friend." Homosoto was enjoying his
own personal joke. "When you said army, Mr. Foster I imagined tens of
thousands of people running all around the United States shooting their
guns. A thousand people? I can give you a thousand dedicated people with a
single phone call. Is that all you need?" He continued his laughter.

Miles was taken aback and had difficulty hiding his surprise. He had
already padded his needs by a factor of three. "With a few minor specialties
and exceptions, yes. That's it. If we follow this blue print." He pointed at the
papers spread before them.

Homosoto sat back and closed his eyes in apparent meditation. Miles
watched and waited for several minutes. He looked out the expanse of
windows over Tokyo patiently as Homosoto seemed to sleep in the chair
across from him. Homosoto spoke quietly with his eyes still closed.

"Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" Miles was ready.

"Do you love you country?" Homosoto's eyelids were still.

Miles had not expected such a question.

"Mr. Foster? Did you hear the question?"

"Yes, I did." He paused. "I'm thinking."

"If you need to think, sir, then the answer is clear. As you have told me,
you hold no allegiance. Your country means nothing to you."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way . . ." Miles said defensively.
He couldn't let this opportunity escape.

"You hold your personal comfort as your primary concern, do you not?
You want the luxuries that the United States offers, but you don't care where
or how you get them? Is that not so? You want your women, your wine,
your freedom, but you will take it at any expense. I do not think I
exaggerate. Tell me Mr. Foster, if I am wrong."

Miles realized he was being asked to state his personal alle- giances in
mere seconds. Not since he was in the lower floors of the NSA being
interrogated had he been asked to state his convic- tions. He knew the right
answer there, but here, he wasn't quite sure. The wrong answer could blow
it. But, then again, he was $110,000 ahead of the game for a few weeks
work.

"I need to ask you a question to answer yours." Miles did not want to be
backed into a corner. "Mr. Homosoto. Do you want me to have allegiance to

my country or to you?"

Homosoto was pleased. "You debate well, young man. It is not so much
that I care if you love America. I want, I need to know what you do love.
You see, for me, I love Japan and my family. But much of my family was
taken from me in one terrible instant, a long time ago. They are gone, but
now I have my wife, my chil- dren and their children. I learned, that if there
is nothing else, you must have family. That must come first, Mr. Foster.
Under all conditions, family is first. All else is last. So my allegiance
shifted, away from country, to my family and my be- liefs. I don't always
agree with my government, and there are times I will defy their will. I can
assure you, that if we embark upon this route, neither I nor you will endear
ourselves to our respective governments. Does that matter to you?"

Miles snickered. "Matter? After what they did to me? Let me tell you
something. I gave my country most of my adult life. I could have gone to
work with my family . . .my associates . . ."

"I am aware of your background Mr. Foster," Homosoto interrupted.

"I'm sure you are. But that's neither here nor there. I could have been on
easy street. Plug a few numbers and make some bucks for the clan." The
colloquialism escaped Homosoto, but he got the gist of it. "But I said to
myself, 'hey, you're good. Fixing roulette wheels is beneath you.' I needed, I
still need the diversion, the challenge, so I figured that the Feds would give
me the edge I needed to make something of myself." Miles was turning red
around his neck.

"The NSA had the gear, the toys for me to play with, and they promised
me the world. Create, they said, lead America's tech- nology into the 21st.
century. What a pile of shit. Working at the NSA is like running for
President. You're always trying to sell yourself, your ideas. They don't give

a shit about how good your ideas are. All they care is that you're asshole
buddies with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need a
half dozen committees with their asses greased from here to eternity for
them to say maybe. Do you know the difference between ass kissing and
having your head up your ass?"

"If I understand your crudities, I assume this is an American joke, then,
no Mr. Foster, I do not know the difference."

"Depth perception." Miles looked for a reaction to his anatomi- cal
doublette. There was none other than Homosoto's benign smile indicating
no comprehension. "OK, never mind, I'll save it. At any rate, enough was
enough. I gotta do something with my life." Miles had said his piece.

"In other words, money is your motivation?"

"Money doesn't hurt, sure. But, I need to do what I believe. Not that that
means hurting my country, but if they don't listen to what makes sense,
maybe it's best that they meet their worst enemy to get them off of their
keesters." Miles was on a roll.

"Keesters?" Homosoto's naivete was amusing.

"Oops!" Miles exclaimed comically. "Butts, asses, fannies?" He patted
his own which finally communicated the intention.

"Ah yes." Homosoto agreed. "So you feel you could best serve your
country by attacking it?"

Miles only thought for a few seconds. "I guess you could put it that way.
Sure."

"Mr. Foster, or should I say General Foster?" Miles beamed at the
reference. "We shall march to success."

"Mr. Homosoto," Miles broke the pagential silence. "I would like to ask
you the same question. Why?"

"I was wondering when you were going to ask me that Mr. Foster,"
Homosoto said with his grin intact. "Because, Mr. Foster, I am returning the
favor."

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

Chapter 9

September, 1982
South East Iraq

Ahmed Shah lay in a pool of his own blood along with pieces of what
was once another human being.

The pain was intolerable. His mind exploded as the nerve endings from
the remains of his arms and legs shot liquid fire into his cerebral cortex. His
mind screamed in sheer agony while he struggled to stay conscious. He
wasn't sure why, but he had to stay awake . . .can't pass out . . .sleep,
blessed sleep . . .release me from the pain . . .Allah! Oh take me Allah . . .I
shall be a martyr fighting for your holy cause . . .in your name . . . for the
love of Islam . . .for the Ayatollah . . .take me into your arms and let me live
for eter- nity in your shadow . . .

The battle for Abadan, a disputed piece of territory that was a hub for
Persian Gulf oil distribution had lasted days. Both Iran and Iraq threw

waves of human fodder at each other in what was referred to in the world
press as " . . .auto-genocide . . ." Neither side reacted to the monumental
casualties that they sustained. The lines of reinforcements were steady. The
dead bodies were thick on the battlefield; there was no time to col- lect
them and provide a proper burial. New troops had as much difficulty
wading through the obstacle courses made of human corpses as staying
alive.

Public estimates were that the war had already cost over 1,000,000 lives
for the adversaries. Both governments disputed the figures. The two agreed
only 250,000 had died. The extrem- ist leaders of both countries believed
that the lower casualty numbers would mollify world opinion. It
accomplished the exact opposite. Criticism was rampant, in the world
courts and the press. Children were going to battle. Or more appropriately,
children were marching in the front lines, often without weapons or shoes,
and used as cover for the advancing armed infantrymen behind them. The
children were disposable receptacles for enemy bullets. The supreme
sacrifice would permit the dead pre-adoles- cents the honor of martyrdom
and an eternal place with Allah.

Mothers wailed and beat their breasts in the streets of Teheran as word
arrived of loved ones and friends who died in Allah's war against the Iraqi
infidels. Many were professional mourners who were hired by others to
represent families to make them look bigger and more Holy. Expert wailing
and flagellation came at a price. The bulk of the civilized world, even
Brezhnev's evil Soviet empire denounced the use of unarmed children for
cannon fodder.

The war between Iran and Iraq was to continue, despite pleas from
humanity, for another 6 years.

Ahmed Shah was a 19 year old engineering student at the exclu- sive
Teheran University when the War started. He was reared as a dedicated
Muslim by wealthy parents. Somehow his parents had escaped the
Ayatollah's scourge after the fall of the Shah. Ahmed was never told the real
reason, but a distribution of holy rials certainly helped. They were permitted
to keep their beautiful home in the suburbs of Teheran and Ahmed's father
kept his pro- fessorship at Teheran University. Ahmed was taught by his
family that the Shah's downfall was the only acceptable response to the loss
of faith under his regime.

"The Shah is a puppet of the Americans. Ptooh!" His father would spit.
"The Yanqis come over here, tell us to change our culture and our beliefs so
we can make them money from our oil!" For a professor he was outspoken,
but viewed as mainstream by the extremist camps. Ahmed learned well. For
the most part of his life all Ahmed knew was the Ayatollah Khomeini as his
country's spiritual leader. News and opinion from the West was virtually
nonexistent so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated to his
country and his religion.

When the War began he thought about enlisting immediately, but the
University counselors convinced him otherwise.

"Ahmed Shah, you are bright and can offer Iran great gifts after you
complete your studies. Why not wait, the War will not be forever, and then
you can serve Allah with your mind, not your body."

Ahmed took the advice for his first year at the a university student, but
guilt overwhelmed him when he learned about how many other young
people were dying in the cause. From his par- ents he would hear of
childhood friends who had been killed. Teheran University students and
graduates were honored daily in the Mosque on campus. The names were
copied and distributed throughout the schools. True martyrs. Ahmed's guilt

compounded as the months passed and so many died. He had been too
young to participate in the occupation of the American Embassy. How jeal-
ous he was.

Why should I wait to serve Allah? He mused. Today I can be of service,
where he needs me, but if I stay and study, I will not be able to bid his Will
for years. And what if Iraq wins? There would be no more studies anyway.
Ahmed anguished for weeks over how he could best serve Iran, his
Ayatollah and Allah.

After his freshman finals, on which he excelled, he joined the Irani Army.
Within 60 days he was sent to the front lines as a communications officer.

They had been in the field 3 days, and Ahmed had only gotten to know a
few of the 60 men in his company when the mortars came in right on top of
them. The open desert offers little camouflage so the soldiers built fox holes
behind the larger sand dunes. They innaccurately thought they were hidden
from view. More than half the company died instantly. Pieces of bodies
were strewn across the sandy tented bivouac.

Another 20 were dying within 50 yards of where Ahmed writhed in
agony. Ahmed regained consciousness. Was it 5 minutes or 5 hours later. He
had no way of knowing. The left lower arm where he wore his wristwatch
was gone. A pulpy stump. As were his legs. Mutilated . . .the highest form
of insult and degradation. Oh, Allah, I have served you, let me die and come
to you now. Let me suffer no more.

Suddenly his attention was grabbed by the sound of a jeep cough- ing its
way to a stop. He heard voices.

"This one's still alive." Then a shot rang out. "So's this one." Another
shot. A few muted voices from the dying protested and asked for mercy.

"Ha! I give Mercy to a dog before you." A scream and 2 shots. They were
Iraqi! Killing off the wounded. Pigs! Infidels! Mother Whores!

"You, foreskin of a camel! Your mother lies with dogs!" Ahmed screamed
at the soldiers. It brought two results. One, it kept him a little more alert and
less aware of his pain, and two, it attracted the attention of the two soldiers
from the jeep.

"Ola! Who insults the memory of my mother who sits with Allah? Who?"
One soldier spun around and tried to imagine which one of the pieces of
bodies that surrounded him still had enough life to speak. He scanned the
sand nearby. Open eyes were not a sure sign of life nor was the presence of
four limbs. There needed to be a head.

"Over here camel dung. Hussein fucks animals who give birth to the likes
of you." Ahmed's viciousness was the only facial feature that gave away he
was alive. The soldiers saw their tormentor.

"Prepare to meet with your Allah, now," as one soldier took aim at
Ahmed's head.

"Go ahead! Shoot, pig shit. I welcome death so I won't have to see your
filth . . ." Ahmed defied the soldier and the automatic rifle aimed at him.

The other soldier intervened. "No, don't kill him. That's too easy and we
would be honoring his last earthly request. No, this one doesn't beg for
mercy. At least he's a man. Let's just make him suffer." The second soldier
raised his gun and pointed at the junction of Ahmed's two stumps for legs.
Two point blank range shots shattered the three components of his genitals.
Ahmed let out a scream so primal, so anguished, so penetrating that the
soldiers bolted to escape the sounds of death. The scream continued, briefly
interrupted by a pair of shots that caught the two soldiers square in the

middle of the back as they ran. They dropped onto the hot desert sand with
matched thuds.

Ahmed didn't hear the shots over the sounds coming from his larynx. He
didn't hear anything after that for a very long time.

Unfortunately for Ahmed Shah, he survived.

He woke up, or more accurately, regained semi-consciousness more than
a week after he was picked up at the site of the mortar attack. He was wired
up to tubes and machines in an obviously well equipped hospital. He
thought, I must be back in Teher- an . . .then fog . . .a blur . . .a needle . .
.feel nothing . . .stay awake . . .move lips . . .talk . . .

"Doctor, the patient was awake." The nurse spoke to the physician who
was writing on Ahmed's medical chart.

"He'll wish he wasn't. Let him go. Let him sleep. Hell hasn't begun for
him yet." The Doctor moved onto the chart on the next bed in ward.

Over the next few days while grasping at consciousness, and with the
caring attention of the nurses, Ahmed pieced together the strands of a story .
. .what happened to him.

The Iraqis were killing the wounded, desperate in their attempts to
survive the onslaught of Irani children. All must die, take no prisoners were
their marching orders. In the Iraqi Army you either did exactly as you were
told, with absolute obedience, or you were shot on sight as a traitor. Some
choice. We lost at Abadan, the Iraqi's thought, but there will be more battles
to win.

Ahmed was the only survivor from his company, and there was no
earthly reason that could explain why he lived. He was more dead than

alive. His blood coagulated well in the hot desert sun, otherwise the blood
loss alone would have killed him. The medics found many of his missing
pieces and packed them up for their trip to the hospital, but the doctors were
unable to re-attach anything of significance.

He was a eunuch. With no legs and only one good arm.

Weeks of wishing himself dead proved to be the source of rest that
contributed to his recovery. Was he man? Was he woman? Was he, God
forbid, neither? Why had he not just died along with the others, why was he
spared! Spared, ha! If I had truly been spared I would be living with Allah!
This is not being spared. This is living hell and someone will pay. He cried
to his par- ents about his torment and his mother wailed and beat her breast.
His father listened to the anger, the hate and the growing strength within his
son's being. Hate could be the answer that would make his son, his only
son, whole again. Whole in spirit at least.

The debates within Ahmed's mind developed into long philosophical
arguments about right, wrong, revenge, avenge, purpose, cause and reason.
He would take both sides of an issue, and see if he could beat himself with
his alter rationales. The frustration at knowing one's opponents' thoughts
when developing your own coun- ter argument made him angry, too. He
finally started arguing with other patients. He would take any position, on
any issue and debate all night. Argumentative, contrary, but recovering
completely described the patient.

Over the months his strength returned and he appeared to come to grips
with his infirmaries. As much as anyone can come to terms with such
physical mutilations. He covered his facial wounds with a full black beard
that melded into his full short cropped kinky hair.

Ahmed graduated from Teheran University in 1984 with a cruel hatred
for anything Anti-Islam. One major target of his hatred was President
Reagan, the cowboy president, the Teflon president, the evil Anti-Muslim
Zionist loving American president. Of course there was plenty of room to
hate others, but Reagan was so easy to hate, so easy to blame, and rarely
was there any disa- greement.

He thought of grand strategies to strike back at the America. After all,
didn't they support the Iraqis? And the Iraqis did this to him. It wasn't the
soldiers' fault. They were just following orders: Do or Die. Any rational
person would have done the same thing. He understood that. So he blamed
Reagan, not Hussein. And he blamed the American people for their
stupidity, their isolationism, their indifference to the rest of the world. They
are all so smug and caught up in their own little petty lives, and there are
causes, people are dying for causes, and the American fools don't even care.
And Reagan personified them all.

How does a lousy movie actor from the 1950's get to be President of the
United States? Ahmed laughed to himself at the obvious answer. He was the
most qualified for the job.

His commentaries and orations about the Imperialists, the United States,
England, even the Soviet Union and their overwhelming influence in the
Arab world made Ahmed Shah a popular man on the campus of Teheran
University. His highly visible infirmities assisted with his credibility.

In his sixth semester of study, Ahmed's counselor called him for a
conference. Beside his counselor was another man, Beni Farja- ni, from the
government. Beni was garbed in Arab robes and tur- bans that always look
filthy. Still, he was the officious type, formal and somber. His long white
hair snuck through the turban, and his face shoed ample wrinkles of
wisdom.

He and the Counselor sat alone, on one side of a large wooden
conference table that could easily have seated 20. Ahmed stopped his
motorized wheel chair at the table, Farjani spoke, and curiously, the
Counselor rose from his chair and slipped out of the room. Ahmed and the
Government official were alone.

"My name is Beni Farjani, Associate Director to the Undersecre- tary of
Communications and Propaganda. I trust you are well."

Ahmed long since gave up commenting on his well being or lack thereof.
"It is good to meet you, sir." He waited for more.

"Ahmed Shah, you are important to the state and the people of Iran."
Farjani said it as though his comment was already common knowledge.
"What I am here to ask you, Ahmed Shah, is, are you willing again to serve
Allah?"

"Yes, of course . . .?" He bowed his head in reverence.

"Good, because we think that you might be able to assist on a small
project we have been contemplating. My son, you have the gift of oration,
speaking, moving crowds to purpose. I only wish I had it!" Beni Farjani
smiled solemnly at Ahmed.

"I thank Allah for His gift. I am only the humble conduit for his Will."

"I understand, but you have now, and will have much to proud of.
I believe you graduate in 6 months. Is that correct?"

"Yes, and then I go to Graduate School . . ."

"I am afraid that won't be possible Ahmed Shah." Farjani shook a
kindly wrinkled finger at him. "As soon as you graduate, your

Government, at Allah's bidding, would like you to move to the
United States."

"America?" Ahmed gaped in surprise.

"We fear that America may invade Iran, that we may go to war with the
United States." The words stunned Ahmed. Could he be serious? Sure,
relations were in pretty bad shape, but was Farjani saying that Iran was
truly preparing for War? Jihad? Holy War against the United States?

"We need to protect ourselves," Farjani spoke calmly, with au- thority.
"America has weapons of mass destruction that can reach our land in
minutes, while we have nothing to offer in retalia- tion. Nothing, and that is
a very frightening reality that the people of Iran must live with every day. A
truly helpless feel- ing." Ahmed was listening carefully, and so far what he
heard was making a great deal of sense.

"Both the Soviets and the Americans can destroy each other and the rest
of the world with a button. Their armies will never meet. A few missiles and
it's all over. A 30 minute grand finale to civilization. They don't have to, nor
would we expect either the Soviets or the Americans to ask the rest of the
world if they mind. They just go ahead and pull the trigger and every- one
else be damned.

"And yes, there have been better times when our nation has had more
friends, when all Arabs thought and acted as one; especially against the
Americans. They have the most to gain and the most to lose from invading
and crossing our borders. They would love nothing more than to steal our
land, our oil and even take over OPEC. All in the name of world stability.
They'll throw around National Security smoke screens and do what they
want." Farjani was speaking quite excitedly.

Ahmed was fascinated. A man from the Government who was nearly as
vitriolic as he was about America. The only difference was Ahmed wanted
to attack, and Farjani wanted to defend. He didn't think it opportune to
interrupt. Farjani continued.

"The Russians want us as a warm water port. They have enough oil, gas
and resources, but they crave a port that isn't con- trolled by the Americans
such as in the Black Sea and through the Hellespont. So they too, are a
potential enemy. You see don't you, Ahmed, that Allah has so graced our
country everyone else wants to take it away from us?" Ahmed nodded
automatically.

"So we need to create a defense against outside aggressors. We do not
have weapons that can reach American shores, that is so. But we have
something that the Americans will never have, because they will never
understand. Do you know what that is?"

Before Ahmed could answer, Farjani continued.

"Honor and Faith to protect our heritage, our systems, our way of life."
Ahmed agreed.

"We want you, Ahmed Shah to build a network of supporters, just like
you, all across the United States that will come to our service when we need
them. To the death. Your skills will capture the attention of those with
kindred sentiments. You will draw them out, from the schools, from the
universities.

"Ahmed Shah, there are over 100,000 Irani and Arab students in the
United States today. Many, many of them are sympathetic to our causes.
Many of them are attending American Universities, side by side with their
future enemies, learning the American way so we may better fight it. You

will become one of them and you will find others that can be trusted,
counted on, depended upon when we call.

"Your obvious dedication and personal tragedies," Farjani pointed at the
obvious affliction, "will be the glue to provide others with strength. You
will have no problems in recruiting. That will be the easy part."

"If recruiting is so easy, then what will be the hard task?"

"Holding them back. You will find it most difficult to restrain your
private army from striking. Right under the American's noses, you will have
to keep them from bursting at the seams until the day comes when they are
needed. If could be weeks, it could be years. We don't know. Maybe the day
will never come. But it is your job to build this Army. Grow it, feed it and
keep our national spirit alive until such time that it becomes necessary to
defend our nation, Allah and loyal Muslims every- where. This time,
though, we will fight America from within, inside her borders.

"There hasn't been a foreign war on American soil since 1812. Americans
don't know what is like to have their country ruined, ravaged, blown up
before their eyes. We need a defense against America, and when it is deeded
by Allah, our army will strike back at America where is hurts most. In the
streets of their cities. In their homes, parks and schools. But first we must
have that army. In place, and willing to act.

"You will find out all the details in good time, I assure you.
You will require some training, though, and that will begin
shortly. Everything you need to serve will be given you. Go with
Allah.

Ahmed trained for several months with the infamous terrorist group Abu
Nidal. He learned the basics that every modern terror- ist needs to know to

insure success against the Infidels.

Shah moved to New York City on December 25, 1986. Christmas was a
non issue. He registered at Columbia as a graduate researcher in the
engineering department to legitimize his student visa and would commence
classes on January 2.

Recruitment was easy, just as Farjani had said.

Ahmed built a team of 12 recruiters whom he could trust with his life.
Seven professional terrorists, unknown to the American authorities,
thoroughly sanitized, came with him to the United States under assumed
visas and the other 5, already in the country were personally recommended
by Farjani.

His disciples were located in strategic locations; New York was host to
Ahmed and another Arab fanatic trained in Libya. They both used Columbia
University as their cover. Washington D.C. was honored with a Syrian
terrorist who had organized mass anti- US demonstrations in Damascus as
the request of President Assad. Los Angeles and San Francisco were homes
to 4 more engineering type desert terrorist school graduates who were
allowed to move freely and interact with the shakers and movers in high
technolo- gy disciplines. Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, Boston, and Dallas were
also used as recruitment centers for developing Ahmed's personal army.

If the media had been aware of the group's activities they would have
made note that Ahmed's inner circle were very highly skilled not only in the
use of C4 and Cemex, the Czechoslovakian plastic explosive that was
responsible for countless deaths of innocent bystanders, but that were all
very well educated. Each spoke English like a native, fluent in
colloquialisms and idioms unique to America.

Much of his army had skills which enabled them to acquire posi- tions of
importance within engineering departments of companies such as IBM,
Apple, Hughes Defense Systems, Chase Manhattan, Prudential Life, Martin
Marietta, Westinghouse, Compuserve, MCI and hundreds of similar
organizations. Every one of their em- ployers would have attested to their
skills, honor and loyalty to their adapted country. Ahmed's group was well
versed in decep- tion. After all, they answered to a greater cause.

What even a seasoned reporter might not find out though, was that all 12
of Ahmed's elite recruiters had to pass a supreme test often required by
international political terrorist organiza- tions. To guarantee their loyalty to
the cause, whatever that cause might be, and to weed out potential external
infiltrators, each member had to have killed at least one member of their
immediate family.

It requires extraordinary hardening, to say the least, to kill your mother or
father. Or to blow up the school bus that carried your pre-teen sister to
school. Or engage your brother in a mock fight and then sever his head
from his body. The savagery that permitted one access into this elite circle
is beyond the compre- hension of most Western minds. Yet such acts were
expected to demonstrate one's loyalty to a supreme purpose or belief.

The events surrounding Solman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses were a
case in point. Each of those who volunteered to assassinate him at the
bequest of the Ayatollah Khomeini had in fact already killed not only
innocent women and children in order to reach their assigned terrorist
targets, but had brought the head of their family victim to the table of their
superiors. A deed for which they were honored and revered.

These were the men, all of them men, who pledged allegiance to Ahmed
Shah and the unknown, undefined assignments they would in the future be
asked to complete. To the death if necessary, and without fear. These men

were reminiscent of the infamous moles that Stalin's Soviet Empire had
placed throughout the United Kingdom and the United States in the 1930's
to be awakened at some future date to carry out strikes against the enemy
from within. The only difference with Ahmed's men was that they were
trained to die, not to survive. And unlike their Mole counter- parts, they
were awake the entire time, focused on their mission. Clearly it was only a
matter of time before they would be asked to follow orders with blind
obedience. Their only reward was a place in the Muslim heaven.

Meanwhile, while awaiting sainthood, their task was to find others with
similar inclinations, or those who could be corralled into their system of
beliefs. It was unrealistic, they knew, to expect to find an entire army of
sympathizers who would fight to the death or perform suicide missions in
the name of Allah. But they found it was very easy to find many men, never
women, who would follow orders and perform the tasks of an underground
infantryman.

The mass influx of Arabs into the United States was another great
mistake of the Reagan '80's as it opened its doors to a future enemy. The
immigration policy of the U.S. was the most open in the entire world. So,
the Government allowed the entry of some of the world's most dangerous
people into the country, and then gave them total freedom, with its
associated anonymity. Such things could never happen at home, Ahmed
thought. We love our land too much to permit our enemies on our soil. It is
so much easier to dispose of them before they can cause damage.

So the thinking went, and Ahmed and his cadre platooned them- selves
often, in any of the thousands of American resort complex- es, unnoticed, to
gauge the progress of their assignments.

By early 1988, Ahmed's army consisted of nearly 1000 fanatic Muslims
who would swallow a live grenade if the deed guaranteed their place in

martyrdom. And another several thousand who could be led into battle
under the right conditions. And more came and joined as the ridiculous
immigration policies continued un- checked.

They were students, businessmen, flight attendants who were now in the
United States for prolonged periods of time. All walks of life were included
in his Army. Some were technicians or book- keepers, delivery men,
engineers, doctors; most disciplines were represented. Since Ahmed had no
idea when, if ever, he and his army would be needed, nor for what purpose,
recruiting a wide range of talents would provide Allah with the best odds if
they were ever needed. They were all men. Not one woman in this man's
army, Ahmed thought.

The biggest problem, just as Farjani had predicted, was the growing
sense of unrest among the troops. The inner 12 had been professionally
trained to be patient. Wait for the right moment to strike. Wait for orders.
Do nothing. Do not disclose your alliances or your allegiances to anyone.
No one can be trusted. Except your recruiter. Lead a normal life. Act like
any Ameri- can immigrant who flourishes in his new home. Do not, at all
costs, give yourself away. That much was crucial.

Periodically, the inner 12 would assign mundane, meaningless tasks to
various of their respective recruits. Americans called it busy work. But, it
kept interest alive, the belief in the eventual victory of the Arab Nation
against the American mon- grels. It kept the life in their organization
flowing, not dulled by the prolonged waiting for the ultimate call: Jihad, a
holy war against America, waged from inside its own unprotected borders.
It was their raison d'<130>tre. The underlying gestalt for their very
existence.

*****

February 6, 1988
New York City

"It is time." Ahmed could not believe the words - music to his ears. It was
not a long distance call; too clear. It had to be local. The caller spoke in
Ahmed's native tongue and conveyed an excitement that immediately
consumed him. He sat in his wheel- chair at a computer terminal in an
engineering lab at Columbia University's Broadway campus. While he had
hoped this day would come, he also knew that politicians, even Iran's,
promised a glory that often was buried in diplomacy rather than action.
Praise be Allah.

"We are ready. Always for Allah." Ahmed was nearly breathless with
anticipation. His mind wandered. Were we at war? No, of course not. The
spineless United States would never have the strength nor will to wage war
against a United Arab State.

"That is good. For Allah." The caller agreed with Ahmed. "But it is not
the war you expect."

Ahmed was taken aback. He had not known what to expect, exactly, but,
over the months he had conjured many scenarios of how his troops would
be used to perform Allah's Will. His mind reeled. "For whom do you
speak?" Ahmed asked pointedly. There was a hint of distrust in the
question.

"Farjani said you would ask. He said, 'there hasn't been a war on U.S. soil
since 1812'. He said you would understand."

Ahmed understood. Only someone that was privy to their conversa- tions
would have known that. His heart quickened with anticipa- tion. "Yes, I
understand. With whom do I speak?" Ahmed asked reverently.

"My name is of no consequence. I am only a humble servant of Allah
with a message. You are to follow instructions exactly, without reservation."

"Of course. I, too, am but a servant of God. What are my in- structions?"
Ahmed felt like standing at parade attention if only he had legs.

"This will not be our war. It will be another's. But our pur- poses are the
same. You will act as his army, and are to follow his every request. As if
Allah came to you and so ordered him- self."

Ahmed beamed. He glowed with perspiration. Finally. The chance to act.
He would and his army would perform admirably. He lis- tened carefully as
the anonymous caller gave him his instruc- tions. He noted the details as
disbelief sank in. This is Jihad? Yes, this is Jihad. You are expected to
comply. I am clear, but are you sure? Yes, I am sure. Then I will follow
orders. As ordered. Will we speak again? No, this is your task, your destiny.
The Arab Nation calls upon you now. Do you an- swer? Yes, I answer. I will
perform. We, our army will perform.

"Insha'allah."

"Yes, God willing."

Ahmed Shah put his teaching schedule on hold by asking for and
receiving an immediate sabbatical. He then booked and took a flight to
Tokyo three days later.

"I need an army, and I am told you can provide such services for me. Is
that so?" Homosoto asked Ahmed Shah though he already knew the answer.

Ahmed Shah and Taki Homosoto were meeting in a private palace in the
outskirts of Tokyo. Ahmed wasn't quite sure to whom it belonged, but he
was following orders and in no way felt in danger. The grounds were

impeccable, a Japanese Versailles. The weather was cool, but not
uncomfortably so. Both men sat under an arbor that would be graced with
cherry blossoms in a few months. Each carried an air of confidence, an
assurity not meant as arrogance, but rather as an assertion of control, power
over their respective empires.

"How large is you army?" Homosoto knew the answer, but asked
anyway.

"One thousand to the death. Three thousand to extreme pain, another ten
thousand functionaries." Ahmed Shah said with pride.

Homosoto laughed a convivial Japanese laugh, and lightly slapped his
knees. "Ah, comrade. To the death, so familiar, that is why you are here,
but, I hope that will not be necessary. You see, this war will be one without
bullets." Homosoto said waiting for the volatile Arab's reaction.

This was exactly what Ahmed feared. A spineless war. How could one
afford to wage a war against America and not expect, indeed, plan for, the
death of some troops. There was no Arab transla- tion for pussy-wimp, but
the thought was there.

"How may I be of service?"

"The task is simple. I have need of information, much informa- tion that
will be of extreme embarrassment to the United States. Their Government
operates illegally, their companies control the country with virtual impunity
from law. It is time that they are tried for their crimes." Homosoto tailored
his words so that his guest would acquire an enthusiasm similar to his.

"Yes," Ahmed agreed. "They need to learn a lesson. But, Mr. Homosoto,
how can that be done without weapons? I assume you want to attack their