Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗
- Author: Winn Schwartau
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is infected.” Scott whistled to indicate the seriousness of the
implications.
“What, Mr. Mason, what if it is?” She thirsted for more hard
information.
“I’m no computer engineer, Senator, er, Nancy, but I’m not stupid
either. Pierre said that at least 500 different viruses have
been installed in dGraph since Homosoto took over. A rough guess
is that there are over four million copies of dGraph. Legal ones
that is. Maybe double that for pirated copies.” Nancy main-
tained rapt attention as Scott continued . “Therefore, I would
venture that at least eight to ten million computers are infect-
ed.”
Scott paused as Nancy’s eyes widened.
“Knowing that viruses propagate from one program to another
according to specific rules, it would not be unreasonable to
assume that almost every micro-computer in the United States is
getting ready to self destruct.” Scott sounded certain and
final.
“I can’t comprehend this, this is too incredible.” Senator Deere
shook her head in disbelief. “What will happen?”
“Pierre doesn’t know what the viruses do, he’s not a programmer.
He’s just a figurehead,” Scott explained. “Now, if I had to
guess, I would, well, I would do everything possible to keep
those viruses from exploding.”
“One man’s word is an indictment, not a conviction,” Nancy said
soberly.
“There’s more,” Tyrone said, taking some of the onus off Scott.
“We’ve learned quite a bit in the last few days, Senator, and it
begins to pull some of the pieces together, but not enough to
make sense of it all.” He slid forward in his chair. “We know
that Scott’s hacker’s name is Miles Foster and he’s tied up with
the Amsterdam group, but we don’t how yet. We also know that he
is ex-NSA and was a communications and security expert out at the
Fort.” Nancy understood the implication.
“When I asked for information on Foster from NSA I was stone-
walled. I assume that I somehow pushed a button and that now
they’re retaliating. But, for the life of me, I don’t know why.”
Tyrone shook his head in frustration. “It doesn’t make any
sense.”
“At any rate,” Tyrone said waving off the lack of cooperation, “I
checked into his background since he left the Agency in ‘87. He
went freelance, became a consultant, a Beltway Bandit.” Nancy
Deere nodded that she understood but she listened with a poker
face. “We have him traveling to Japan shortly after his resigna-
tion, and then several times over the next few months. He has
been to Japan a total of 17 times. Since his credit cards show
no major purchases in Japan, I assume that he was somebody’s
guest. The tickets purchased in his name were bought from a
Tokyo travel agency, but we can’t determine who paid for them.”
“Seventeen times?” asked the Senator.
“Yes ma’am. Curious.”
“How do you know what he used his credit cards for, Mr. Duncan?”
she asked dubiously.
“We have our means. I can’t get into that now.” Tyrone held the
party line which meant not confirming or denying that the FBI
could access any consumer and credit data base in the world. In
fact though, the National Crime Information Center is linked to
hundreds of computers world wide over the Computer Applications
Communications Network. They can generate a complete profile on
any citizen within minutes of the request. Including all travel,
credit card and checking activities. Scott found this power,
entrusted to a few non-elected and non-accountable civil servants
unconscionable.
“I have no doubt,” she said caustically.
“There’s more.” Tyrone spoke without the benefit of notes which
impressed Nancy. “The case concerning Max Jones’ death is being
reopened. It seems that the former Sheriff in San Mateo county
was voted out and the new one is more than willing to assist in
making his predecessor look bad.” Tyrone spoke without the
emotion that drove Scott.
“So what does this prove?” she asked.
“It turns out that Homosoto was in Sunnyvale the day that Jones
died.”
Nancy Deere sat in silence and stared out of the window which
only provided a view of another office building across the
street. Despondence veiled her normally affable countenance as
she grappled internally with the implications of the revelations.
“Senator,” Scott said as he handed her a file labeled General
Young: GOVT-108. “I was wondering if this might have any bearing
on the tone of the hearings? It’s pretty obvious that you and
Rickfield don’t see eye to eye.”
Nancy took the file cautiously, meeting Scott’s eyes, looking for
ulterior motives. She found none and scanned the first page that
described the illicit relationship between General Young and
Senator Merrill Rickfield. Her brow furrowed the more she read.
“Is this confirmed?” she asked quietly.
“No ma’am,” Scott said. “I read it this weekend and added up two
and two and, well, it does raise some questions.”
“I should say it does. Ones that I’m sure he will not be anxious
to answer.”
* 6 P.M., Washington, D.C.“Who the hell are you pissing off and why?” Bob Burnson met
Tyrone and Scott at the Old Ebbett’s Grill across the street from
Treasury at 6:00 PM.
Burnson insisted that their conversation be off the record, and
reluctantly accepted that for Scott’s assistance in Tyrone’s
investigation he would get an exclusive.
For a full half hour, Tyrone and Scott explained what they knew,
just as they had to Senator Deere. Tyrone had other problems.
“I’ve been running into all sorts of bullshit here, CI, and don’t
forget our midnight rendezvous.”
Burnson was a reasonable man, and had every reason, more than two
decades of reasons to believe the tale that Tyrone was telling
him. Yet, at the same time, the story carried a wisp of the
implausible. Hackers and Arabs? But, then, why was he getting
heat that Ty was peeking under the wrong logs?
“What are you planning?” Bob asked them both.
“Scott’s going after Homosoto,” said Tyrone. “See if he can get
a few answers.”
“And,” Scott added, “the Max Jones angle. I’ll be on that, too.”
“Right. As for me?” Tyrone asked. “I sure would like to have a
chat with Mr. Foster. I can’t imagine that he’s squeaky clean.
There’s no core, no substance, but a lot of activity, and I think
it’s about time to turn a few screws.”
“Ty,” Bob consoled, “whoever’s button you’re pushing has pushed
the Director’s, whose aides have been all over my ass like stink
on shit. And that’s exactly what this smells of. From a politi-
cal angle, it reeks, and by all rights I should make you back
off.” Burnson gestured at Scott. “Then we’d have him doing the
work while our asses stay clean.” He referred to Scott. “A
perfect case of CYA.”
“But?” Tyrone suggested.
“But,” Bob said, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean
someone’s not out to get you. It smells like pure 100% Grade A
Government approved horse shit here, but I’ll be fucked if know
why CI is such a problem. They normally love the espionage
stuff.”
“They think it’s a crock. Said we should stick to tabloid
crimes,” Tyrone said defiantly.
“Unless,” Scott thought out loud. Ty and Bob stopped to listen.
“Unless, the NSA has something to hide about Miles Foster. Could
they exert that kind of pressure?” He asked Bob.
“The NSA can do almost anything it wants, and it has tremendous
political strength. It’s possible,” Bob resigned. “Listen, I’ll
cover you as long as I can, but, after that, it may get too thick
for my blood. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll call you anyway. And, Bob? Thanks.”
Friday, January 15 New York CitySkyway-I helicopter flew down the East River at 5:30 A.M. making
the first of dozens of traffic reports that would continue until
10:00 A.M. Jim Lucas flew during the A.M. and P.M. rush hours
for 8 local stations and was regarded as the commuters’s Dear
Abby for driver’s psychosis. His first live-report did not bode
well; the FDR Drive was tied up very early; might be a rough
commute.
He crossed 42nd. St. heading west to the Hudson River and noticed
that there were already two accidents; one at 5th. Avenue and one
at Broadway. He listened in on the police band for details to
pass on to his audience.
At 5:50 A.M., Skyway-I reported traffic piling up at the 72nd.
Street and Riverside Drive exit of the decrepit and ancient West
Side Highway. And another accident on West End Avenue and 68th.
Street. Jim flew east across Manhattan to 125th. Street where
the Triborough Bridge dumps tens of thousands of cars every
morning onto southbound 2nd. Avenue. Two more accidents. He
listened to the police calls and heard them say the accidents
were caused because all of the traffic lights were green.
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