Chapter 23

Monday, January 11 Washington, D.C.

I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day began.

"What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre- coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from the silver service. "What is it?"

"Computers."

The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a hundred beads on rods?"

Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir, we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously.

"In English, Phil," insisted the President.

"MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET."

The President sighed. "Damage report?"

"About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but that's not the embarrassing part."

"If that's not, then what is?"

"The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over 100,000 records erased. Gone."

"And?" The President said wearily.

"The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to. "It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion in revenues."

"Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough. The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically.

"Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press. We need plausible deniability . . ."

"Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I will personally behead the offender," the President said with intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade meant what he said.

"Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows about this?"

"Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this completely out of the public eye."

"Isolate them."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge."

"Yessir."

"Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on."

* * * * *

Monday, January 11 Approaching New York City

Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash. While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going on next to no rest.

While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak- ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture - where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced. Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not out and out weird.

In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc- esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly valued these spontaneous meditations.

Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili- ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili- ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster- dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re- lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en- tered an extraordinary bliss.

The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he remembered it.

Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the way to Scarsdale, but lacking the good sense God gave him, he checked the messages on his phone machine. Doug called to find out if Scott still worked for the paper and Ty called requesting, almost pleading, that Scott call as soon as he got back. He had to see him, post haste.

The call to Doug was simple. Yes, I'm back. The hackers are real. They are a threat. Pierre is still alive, I have more material than we can use. I did take notes, and my butt is sun- burned. If there's nothing else, I'm dead on my feet and I will see you in the morning. Click.

Now he wanted to talk to Tyrone as much as it sounded like Ty wanted to speak to him. Where was he? Probably at the office. He dialed quickly. Tyrone answered with equal speed.

"Are you back?" Ty asked excitedly.

"Yeah, just got in. I need to talk to you . . ."

"Not as much as we do, buddy. Where are you now?"

"Home. Why?"

"I'll see you in an hour. Wait there." The FBI man was in control. Where the hell else am I going to go, Scott thought.

Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he collapsed.

Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by Scott's wide fireplace.

"Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott.

"I think you may be right," said Tyrone.

"Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused look on his face.

"No I mean about what you said."

"I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy." Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane of many a reporter.

"I said I think you were right. And are right."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused then ever.

"Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking."

"Of course we were talking." Scott recognized the humor in the conversation.

"No! I mean we were . . .shit. Shut up and listen or I'll arrest you!"

"On what charge?"

"CRS."

"CRS?"

"Yeah, Can't Remember Shit. Shut up!"

Scott leaned back in his chair sipping away. He had gotten to Ty. Hooked him, reeled him in and watched him flop on the deck. It pissed Ty off to no end to allow himself to be suckered into Scott's occasional inanity.

"When this whole blackmail thing started up there was no apparent motivation," Tyrone began. "One day you said that the motivation might be a disruption of normal police and FBI operations. I think you might be right. It's looking more and more that the blackmail stuff was a diversion."

"What makes you think so now?" Scott asked.

"We had a ton of cases in the last few weeks, same victims as before, who were being called again, but this time with demands. They were being asked to cough up a lot of cash in a short time, and stash it in a very public place. We had dozens of stakeouts, watching the drop points for a pick up. It read like the little bastards were finally getting greedy. You know what I mean?" Scott nodded in agreement, thinking, where is this going?

"So we had a couple hundred agents tied up waiting for the bad guys to show up. And you know what? No one showed. No one, damn it. There must have been fifty million in cash sitting in bus terminals, train stations, health clubs, you name it, and no one comes to get any of it? There's something wrong with that picture."

"And you think it's a cover? Right?" Scott grinned wide. "For what?"

Ty shrank back in mild sublimation. "Well," he began, "that is one small piece of the puzzle I haven't filled in yet. But, I thought you might be able to help with that." Tyrone Duncan's eyes met Scott's and said, I am asking as a friend as well as an agent. Come on, we both win on this one.

"Stop begging, Ty. It doesn't befit a member of the President's police force," Scott teased. "Of course I was going to tell you. You're gonna read about it soon enough, and I know," he said half-seriously, "you won't screw me again."

Ouch, thought Tyrone. Why not pour in the salt while you're at it. "I wouldn't worry. No one thinks there's a problem. I keep shouting and being ignored. It's infinitely more prudent in the government to fuck-up by non-action than by taking a position and acting upon it. I'm on a solo."

"Good enough," Scott assured Ty. "'Nother beer?" It felt good. They were back - friends again.

"Yeah, It's six o'clock somewhere," Tyrone sighed. "So what's your news?"

"You know I went over to this Hacker's Conference . . ."

"In Amsterdam." added Tyrone.

"Right, and I saw some toys that you can't believe," Scott said intently. "The term Hacker should be replaced with Dr. Hacker. These guys are incredible. To them there is no such thing as a locked door. They can get into and screw around with any comput- er they want."

"Nothing new there," said Ty.

"Bullshit. They're organized. These characters make up an entire underground society, that admittedly has few rules, but it's the most coherent bunch of anarchists I ever saw."

"What of it?"

"Remember that van, the one that blew up and."

"How can I forget."

"And then my Tempest article."

"Yeah. I know, I'm sorry," Tyrone said sincerely.

"Fuck it. It's over. Wasn't your fault. Anyway, I saw the equipment in actual use. I saw them read computers with anten- nas. It was absolutely incredible. It's not bullshit. It really works." Scott spoke excitedly.

"You say it's Tempest?"

"No, anti-Tempest. These guys have got it down. Regardless, the stuff works."

"So what? It works."

"So, let's say, if the hackers use these computer monitors to find out all sorts of dirt on companies," Scott slowly explained as he organized his thoughts. "Then they issue demands and cause all sorts of havoc and paranoia. They ask for money. Then they don't come to collect it. So what have they achieved?" Scott asked rhetorically.

"They tied up one shit load of a lot of police time, I'll tell you that."

"Exactly. Why?"

"Diversion. That's where we started," Ty said.

"But who is the diversion for?"

The light bulb went off in Tyrone's head. "The hackers!"

"Right," agreed Scott. "They're the ones who are going to do whatever it is that the diversion is covering. Did that make sense?"

"No," laughed Ty, "but I got it. Why would the hackers have to be covering for themselves. Couldn't they be working for someone else?"

"I doubt it. This is one independent bunch of characters," Scott affirmed. "Besides, there's more. What happened in D.C. . . ."

"Troubleaux," interrupted Ty.

"Bingo. And there's something else, too."

"What?"

"I've been hearing about a computer system called the Freedom League. Nothing specific, just that everything about it sounds too good to be true."

"It usually is."

"And one other thing. If there is some sort of hacker plot, I think I know someone who's involved."

"Did he admit anything?"

"No, nothing. But, well, we'll see." Scott hesitated and stut- tered. "Troubleaux, he said something to me."

"Excuse me?" Ty said with disbelief. "I thought his brains were leaking out."

"Thanks for reminding me; I had to buy a new wardrobe."

"And a tan? Where've you been?"

"With, well," Scott blushed, "that's another story."

"O.K., Romeo, how did he talk? What did he say?" Ty asked doubtfully.

"He told me that dGraph was sick."

"Who's dGraph?"

"dGraph," laughed Scott, "is how your secretary keeps your life organized. It's the most popular piece of software in the world. Troubleaux founded the company. And I think I know what he meant."

"He's a nerdy whiz kid, huh?" joked Tyrone

"Just the opposite. Mongo sex appeal to the ladies. No, his partner was the . " Scott stopped mid sentence. "Hey, I just remembered something. Troubleaux had a partner, he founded the company with him. A couple of days before they went public, his partner died. Shook up the industry. Shortly thereafter Data Tech bought them."

"And you think there's a connection?"

"Maybe, ah...I can't remember exactly," Scott said. "Hey, you can find out."

"How?"

"Your computers."

"They're at the office."

Scott pointed to his computer and Tyrone shook his head violent- ly. "I don't know how to. "

"Ty," Scott said calmly. "Call your secretary. Ask her for the number and your passwords." Scott persuaded Ty to be humble and dial his office. He was actually able to guide Ty through the process of accessing one of the largest collections of informa- tion in the world.

"How did you know we could do that?" Ty asked after they logged into the FBI computer from Scott's study.

"Good guess. I figured you guys couldn't function without remote access. Lucky."

Tyrone scowled kiddingly at Scott. "You going over to the other side boy? You seem to know an awful lot."

"That's how easy this stuff is. Anyone can do it. In fact I heard a story about octogenarian hackers who work from their nursing homes. I guess it replaces sex."

"Bullshit," Tyrone said pointing at his chest. "This is one dude who's knows the real thing. No placebos for me!"

They both laughed. "You know how to take it from here?" asked Scott once a main menu appeared.

"Yeah, let me at it. What the hell did you want to know anyway?"

"I imagine you have a file on dGraph, somewhere inside the over 400,000,000 active files maintained at the FBI."

"I'm beginning to worry about you. That's classified . . ."

"It's all in the company you keep," Scott chided. "Just ask it for dGraph." Tyrone selected an Inquiry Data Base and asked the computer for what it knew about dGraph. In a few seconds, a sub- menu appeared entitled "dGraph, Inc.". Under the heading ap- peared several options:

1. Company History 2. Financial Records 3. Products and Services 4. Management 5. Stock Holders 6. Activities 7. Legal 8. Comments

"Not bad!" chided Scott. "Got that on everyone?"

Tyrone glared at Scott. "You shouldn't even know this exists. Hey, do me a favor, will ya? When I have to lie later, at least I want to be able to say you weren't staring over my shoulders. Dig?"

"No problem," Scott said as he pounced on the couch in front of the desk. He knocked a few days of mail onto the floor to make room. "O.K., who founded the company?"

"Founded 1984, Pierre Troubleaux and Max Jones . . ."

"That's it!" exclaimed Scott. "Max Jones. Where?"

"Cupertino, California."

"What date did they go public?" Scott asked quickly.

"Ah, August 6, 1987. Anything else massah?" Tyrone gibed.

"Can you tie into the California Highway Patrol computers?"

"What if I could?"

"Well, if you could, I thought it would be interesting to take a look at the police reports. Because, as I remember, there was something funny about Max Jones," Scott said, and then added mockingly, "but that's only if you have access to the same infor- mation that anyone can get for $2. It's all public information anyway."

"You know I'm not supposed to be doing this," Tyrone said as he pecked at the keyboard.

"Bullshit. You do it all the time."

"Not as a public service." The screen darkened and then an- nounced that Tyrone had been given access to the CHiP computers. "So suppose I could do that, I suppose you'd want a copy of it."

"Only if the switch on the right side of the printer is turned ON and if the paper is straight. Otherwise, I just wouldn't bother." Scott stared at the ceiling while the dot matrix print- er sang a high pitched song as the head traveled back and forth.

Tyrone scanned the print out coming from the computers in Cali- fornia. "You have one fuckuva memory. Sheee-it." Scott sat up quickly.

"What, what does it say?" Scott pressured.

"It appears that your friend Max Jones was killed in an automo- bile accident on Highway 275 at 12:30 AM." Ty stopped for a moment to read more. "He was found, dead, at the bottom of a ravine where his car landed after crashing through the barriers. Pretty high speed. And, the brake lines were cut."

"Holy shit," Scott said rising from his chair. "Does two a pat- tern make?"

"You mean Troubleaux and Max?" asked Tyrone.

"Yeah, they'll do."

"In my mind it would warrant further investigation." He made a mental note.

"Anything else there?" Scott asked.

"This is the kicker," Ty added. "The investigation lasted two days. Upstairs told the department to make it a quick and clean, open and shut case of accident."

"I assume no one from dGraph had any reason to doubt what the police told them. It sounds perfectly rational."

"Why should they if nobody kicked up a stink?" Ty said to him- self. "Hey," he said to Scott. "You think he was murdered, don't you?"

"You bet your ass I do," Scott affirmed. "Think about it. The two founders of a company the size of dGraph, they're huge, one dead from a suspicious accident, and the other the target of an assassination and in deep shit in the hospital."

"And it was the hackers, right?" laughed Tyrone.

"Maybe," Scott said seriously. "Why not? It's all tying togeth- er."

"There's no proof," Tyrone said.

"No, and I don't need it yet. But I sense the connection. That's why I said there's a conspiracy." He used that word again.

"And who is behind it and why? Pray tell?" Tyrone needled Scott. "Nothing's even happened, and you're already spouting conspiracy."

"I need to do something. Two things." Scott spoke firmly but vacantly. "I need to talk to Kirk. I think there's something wrong with dGraph, and he can help."

"And two?"

"I'd like to know who I saw in Amsterdam."

"Why?" Ty asked.

"Because . . .because, he's got something to do with . . .what- ever it is. He as much as admitted it."

"I think I can help with that one," offered Ty.

"Huh?" Scott looked surprised.

"How about we go into my office and see who this guy is?" Tyrone enjoyed the moment. One upping Scott. "Tomorrow."

Scott decided that the fastest way to reach Kirk, he really needed Kirk, was to write a clue in an article. Scott dialed the paper's computer from his house and opened a file. He hadn't planned on writing today - God, how long have I been awake? This was the easiest way to contact Kirk now, but that was going to change. Tyrone left early enough for Scott to write a quick piece that would be sure to make an inside page, page 12 or 14.

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 12

The Computer As Weapon? by Scott Mason

Since the dawn of civilization, Man has had the perverse ability to turn Good into Bad, White into Black, Hot into Cold, Life into Death. History bears out that technology is falling into the same trap. The bow and arrow, the gun; they were created to help man survive the elements and feed himself. Today millions of guns are bought with no purpose other than to hurt another human being. The space program was going to send man to the stars; instead we have Star Wars. The great advantages that technology has brought modern man have been continuously subverted for malevolent uses.

What if the same is true for computers?

Only yesterday, in order to spy on my neighbor, or my opponent, I would hire a private eye to perform the surveillance. And there was a constant danger of his being caught. Today? I'd hire me the best computer hacker I could get my hands on and sic him on the targets of my interest. Through their computers.

For argument's sake, let's say I want advance information on companies so I can play the stock market. I have my hacker get inside the SEC computers, (he can get in from literally thousands of locations nationwide) and read up on the latest figures before they're reported to the public. Think of betting the whole wad on a race with only one horse.

I would imagine, and I am no lawyer, that if I broke into the SEC offices and read through their file cabinets, I would be in a mighty poke of trouble. But catching me in their computer is an extraordinary exercise in resource frustration, and usually futile. For unlike the burglar, the computer criminal is never at the scene of the crime. He is ten or a hundred or a thousand miles away. Besides, the better computer criminals know the systems they attack so well, that they can cover their tracks completely; no one will ever know they were an uninvited guest.

Isn't then the computer a tool, a weapon, of the computer crimi- nal? I can use my computer as a tool to pry open your computer, and then once inside I use it to perhaps destroy pieces of your computer or your information.

I wonder then about other computer crimes, and I will include viruses in that category. Is the computer or the virus the weapon? Is the virus a special kind of computer bullet? The intent and the result is the same.

I recall hearing an articulate man recently make the case that computers should be licensed, and that not everyone should be able to own one. He maintained that the use of a computer car- ried with it an inherent social responsibility. What if the technology that gives us the world's highest standard of living, convenience and luxury was used instead as a means of disruption; a technological civil disobedience if you will? What if politi- cal strength came from the corruption of an opponent's computer systems? Are we not dealing with a weapon as much as a gun is a weapon? my friend pleaded.

Clearly the computer is Friend. And the computer, by itself is not bad, but recent events have clearly demonstrated that it can be used for sinister and illegal purposes. It is the use to which one puts the tool that determines its effectiveness for either good or bad. Any licensing of computers, information sys- tems, would be morally abhorrent - a veritable decimation of the Bill of Rights. But I must recognize that the history of indus- trialized society does not support my case.

Automobiles were once not licensed. Do we want it any other way? I am sure many of you wish that drivers licenses were harder to come by. Radio transmitters have been licensed for most of this century and many a civil libertarian will make the case that because they are licensed, it is a restriction on my freedom of speech to require approval by the Government before broadcast. On the practical side, does it make sense for ten radio stations all trying to use the same frequency?

Cellular phones are officially licensed as are CB's. Guns re- quire licenses in an increasing number of states. So it might appear logical to say that computers be licensed, to prevent whatever overcrowding calamity may unsuspectingly befall us. The company phone effectively licenses lines to you, with the added distinction of being able to record everything you do.

Computers represent an obvious boon and a potential bane. When computers are turned against themselves, under the control of humans of course, or against the contents of the computer under attack, the results can ripple far and wide. I believe we are indeed fortunate that computers have not yet been turned against their creators by faction groups vying for power and attention. Thus far isolated events, caused by ego or accident have been the rule and large scale coordinated, well executed computer assaults non-existent.

That, though, is certainly no guarantee that we will not have to face the Computer Terrorists tomorrow.

This is Scott Mason searching the Galaxy at Warp 9.

* * * * *

Tuesday, January 12 Federal Square, New York

Tyrone was required to come to the lobby of the FBI headquarters, sign Scott in and escort him through the building. Scott didn't arrive until almost eleven; he let himself sleep in, in the hopes of making up for lost sleep. He knew it didn't work that way, but twelve hours of dead rest had to do something.

Tyrone explained as they took an elevator two levels beneath the street that they were going to work with a reconstructionist. A man with a very powerful computer will build up the face that Scott saw, piece by piece. They opened a door that was identi- fied by only a number and entered an almost sterile work place. A pair of Sun workstations with large high resolution monitors sat on large white tables by one wall, with a row of racks of floor to ceiling disk drives and tape units opposite.

"Remember," Tyrone cautioned, "no names."

"Right," said Scott. "No names."

Tyrone introduced Scott to Vinnie who would be running the com- puter. Vinnie's first job was to familiarize Scott with the procedure. Tyrone told Vinnie to call him in his office when they had something;he had other matters to attend to in the meantime. Of obvious Italian descent, with a thick Brooklyn accent, Vinnie Misselli epitomized the local boy making good. His lantern jaw and classic Roman good looks were out of place among the blue suits and white shirts that typified the FBI.

"All I need," Vinnie said, "is a brief description to get things started. Then, we'll fix it piece by piece."

Scott loosely described the Spook. Dark hair, good looking, no noticeable marks and of course, the dimples. The face that Vinnie built was generic. No unique features, just a nose and the other parts that anatomically make up a face. Scott shook his head, no that's not even close. Vinnie seemed undaunted.

"O.K., now, I am going to stretch the head, the overall shape and you tell me where to stop. All right?" Vinnie asked, beginning his manipulation before Scott answered.

"Sure," said Scott. Vinnie rolled a large track ball built into the keyboard and the head on the screen slowly stretched in height and width. The changes didn't help Scott much he but asked Vinnie to stop at one point anyway.

"Don't worry, we can change it later again. How about the eyes?"

"Two," said Scott seriously.

Vinnie gave Scott an ersatz dirty look. "Everyone does it," said Vinnie. "Once." He grinned at Scott.

"The eye brows, they were bushier," said Scott.

"Good. Tell me when." The eyebrows on the face twisted and turned as Vinnie moved the trackball with his right hand and clicked at the keyboard with his left.

"That's close," Scott said. "Yeah, hold it." Vinnie froze the image where Scott indicated and they went on to the hair. "Longer, wavier, less of a part . . ."

They worked for an hour, Vinnie at the computer controls and Scott changing every imaginable feature on the face as it evolved into one with character. Vinnie sat back in his chair and stretched. "How's that," he asked Scott.

Scott hesitated. He felt that he was making too many changes. Maybe this was as close as it got. "It's good," he said without conviction. There was a slight resemblance.

"That's what they all say," Vinnie said. "It's not even close yet." He laughed as Scott looked shocked. "All we've done so far is get the general outline. Now, we work on the details."

For another two hours Scott commented on the subtle changes Vinnie made to the face. Nuances that one never thinks of; the curve of the cheek, the half dozen angles of the chin, the hun- dreds of ear lobes, eyes of a thousand shapes - they went through them all and the face took form. Scott saw the face take on the appearance of the Spook; more and more it became the familiar face he had spent hours with a few days ago.

As he got caught up in the building and discovery process, Scott issued commands to Vinnie; thicken the upper lip, just a little. Higher forehead. He blurted out change after change and Vinnie executed every one. Actually, Vinnie preferred it this way, being given the orders. After all, he hadn't seen the face.

"There! That's the Spook!" exclaimed Scott suddenly.

"You sure?" asked Vinnie sitting back in the plush computer chair.

"Yup," Scott said with assurance. "That's him."

"O.K., let's see what we can do . . ." Vinnie rapidly typed at the keyboard and the picture of the face disappeared. The screen went blank for a few seconds until it was replaced with a 3 dimensional color model of a head. The back of the head turned and the visage of the Spook stared at them both. It was an eerie feeling and Scott shuddered as the disembodied head stopped spinning.

"Take a look at this," Vinnie said as he continued typing. Scott watched the head, Spook's head, come alive. The lips were mov- ing, as though it, he, was trying to speak. "I can give it a voice if you'd like."

"Will that help?" Scott asked.

"Nah, not in this case," Vinnie said,"but it is fun. Let's make sure that we got the right guy here. We'll take a look at him from every angle." The head moved to the side for a left pro- file. "I'll make a couple of gross adjustments, and you tell me if it gets any better."

They went through another hour of fine tuning the 3-D head, modifying skin tones, texture, hair style and a score of other subtleties. When they were done Scott remarked that the image looked more like the Spook than the Spook himself. Incredible. Scott was truly impressed. This is where taxpayer's money went. Vinnie called Tyrone and by the time he arrived, the color photo- graphs and digital maps of the images were ready.

Scott followed Tyrone down one corridor, then another, through a common area, and down a couple more hallways. They entered Room 322B. The innocuous appearance of the door did not prepare Scott for what he saw; a huge computer room, at least a football field in length. Blue and tan and beige and a few black metal cabi- nets that housed hundreds of disparate yet co-existing computers. Consoles with great arrays of switches, row upon row of video and graphic displays as far as the eye could see. Thousands of white two by two foot square panel floors hid miles of wires and cables that interconnected the maze of computers in the under- ground control center. There appeared to be a number of discreet areas, where large computer consoles were centered amidst racks of tape or disk drives which served as the only separation be- tween workers.

"This is Big Floyd," Tyrone said proudly. "Or at least one part of him."

"Who or what is Big Floyd?"

"Big Floyd is a huge national computer system, tied together over the Secure Automated Message Network. This is the most powerful computer facility outside of the NSA."

Quiet conversations punctuated the hum of the disk drives and the clicks of solenoids switching and the printers pushing reams of paper. The muted voices could not be understood but they rang with purpose. The room had an almost reverent character to it; where speaking too loud would surely be considered blasphemous. Scott and Tyrone walked through banks and banks of equipment, more computer equipment than Scott had ever seen in one location. In fact the Federal Square computer center is on the pioneering edge of forensic technology. The NSA computers might have more oomph!, but the FBI computers have more purpose.

Tyrone stopped at one control console and asked if they could do a match, stat. Of course, anything for Mr. Duncan. "RHIP," Tyrone said. Scott recognized the acronym, Rank Has Its Privi- lege. Tyrone gave the computer operator the pictures and asked him to explain the process to Scott.

"I take these pictures and put them in the computer with a scan- ner. The digitized images are stored here," he said pointing at a a rack of equipment. "Then, we enter the subject's general description. Height, physique and so on." He copied the infor- mation into the computer.

"Now we ask the computer to find possible matches."

"You mean the computer has photos of everyone in there?" Scott asked incredulously.

"No, Scott. Just the bad guys, and people with security clear- ances, and public officials? Your Aunt Tillie is safe from Big Brother's prying eyes." The reason for Ty's sarcasm was clear to Scott. Tyrone was not exactly acting in an official capacity on this part of the investigation.

"How many do you have? Pictures that is?" Scott asked more diplo- matically.

"That's classified," Tyrone said quickly.

"The hackers say you have files on over a hundred million people. Is that true?" Scott asked. Tyrone glared at him, as if to say, shut the fuck up. Scott took the non-verbal hint and they watched in silence as the computer whirred searching for similar photo files in its massive memory. Within a couple of minutes the computer said that there were 4 possible matches. At the end of the 10 minute search, it was up to 16 candidates.

"We'll do a visual instead of a second search," said the man behind the keyboard. "We'll start with the 90% matches. There are two of them." A large monitor flashed with a picture of a man, that while not unlike the Spook in features, was definitely not him. The picture was a high quality color photograph.

"No, not him," Scott said without pause. The computer operator hit a couple of keys, a second picture flashed on the monitor and Scott's face lit up. "That's him! That's the Spook!"

Tyrone had wondered if they would find any matches. While the FBI data base was probably the largest in the world, it was unlikely that there was a comprehensive library of teen age hackers. "Are you sure?" Tyrone emphasized the word, 'sure'.

"Positive, yes. That's him."

"Let's have a quick look at the others before we do a full re- trieve," said the computer operator. Tyrone agreed and fourteen other pictures of men with similar facial characteristics to the Spook appeared on the screen, all receiving a quick 'no' from Scott. Spook's picture as brought up again and again Scott said, "that's him."

"All right, Mike," Tyrone said to the man running the computer, "do a retrieve on OBR-III." Mike nodded and stretched over to a large printer on the side of the console. He pushed a key and in a few seconds, the printer spewed out page after page of informa- tion. OBR-III is a super-secret computer system designed to fight terrorism in the United States. OBR-III and Big Floyd regularly spoke to similar, but smaller, systems in England, France and Germany. With only small bits of data it can extrapo- late potential terrorist targets, and who is the likely person behind the attacks. OBR-III is an expert system that learns continuously, as the human mind does. Within seconds it can provide information on anyone within its memory.

Tyrone pulled the first page from the printer before it was finished and read to himself. He scanned it quickly until one item grabbed his attention. His eyes widened. "Boy, when you pick 'em, you pick 'em." Tyrone whistled.

"What, what?" Scott strained to see the printout, but Tyrone held it away.

"It's no wonder he calls himself Spook," Tyrone said to no one in particular. "He's ex-NSA." He ripped off the final page of the printout and called Scott to follow him, cursorily thanking the computer operators for their assistance.

Scott followed Tyrone to an elevator and they descended to the fifth and bottom level, where Tyrone headed straight to his office with Scott in tow. He shut the door behind him and showed Scott a chair.

"There's no way I should be telling you this, but I owe you, I guess, and, anyway, maybe you can help." Tyrone rationalized showing the information to Scott - both a civilian and a report- er. He may have questioned the wisdom, but not the intent. Besides, as had been true for several weeks, everything Scott learned from Tyrone Duncan was off the record. Way off. For now.

The Spook's real name was Miles Foster. Scott scanned the file. A lot of it was government speak and security clearance inter- views for his job at NSA. An entire life was condensed into a a few files, covering the time from when he was born to the time he resigned from the NSA. Scott found much of his life boring and he really didn't care that Miles' third grade teacher remembered him as being a "good boy". Or that his high school counselor though he could go a long way.

"This doesn't sound like the Spook I know," Scott said after glancing at the clean regimented life and times of Miles Foster.

"Did you expect it to?" asked Ty.

"I guess I never thought about it. I just figured it would be a regular guy, not a real spook for the government."

"Shit happens."

"So I see. Where do we go from here?" Scott asked in awe of the technical capabilities of the FBI.

"How 'bout a sanity check?" Tyrone asked. "When were you in Amsterdam?"

"Last week, why?"

Tyrone sat behind his computer and Scott noticed that his fingers seemed almost too fat to be of much good. "If I can get this thing to work, let's see where's the Control Key?" Scott gazed on as Tyrone talked to himself while working the keyboard and reading the screen. "Foster, Airline, Foreign, ah, the dates," he looked up at a large wall calendar. "All right . . .shit . . .Delete . . . OK, that's it."

"What are you doing?" asked Scott.

"Just want to see if your boy really was in Europe with you."

"You don't believe me!" shouted Scott.

"No, I believe you. But I need some proof, dig?" Tyrone said. "If he's up to something we need to find out what, step by step. You should know that."

"Yeah, I do," Scott resigned. "It's just that I'm not normally the one being questioned. Know what I mean?"

"Our training is more . . .well, it's a moot point now. Your Mr. Foster flew to Amsterdam and then back to Washington the next day. I believe I have some legwork ahead of me. I would like to learn a little more about Mr. Miles Foster."

Scott talked Tyrone into giving him a copy of one of the images of Miles aka Spook. He was hoping that Kirk would call him tonight. In any case, Scott needed to buy an image scanner if Kirk was going to be of help. When he got home, he made room on his personal nightmare, his desk, for the flatbed scanner, then played with it for several hours, learning how to scan an image at the right sensitivity, the correct brightness and reflectivity for the proper resolution. He learnd to bring a picture into the computer and edit or redraw the picture. Scott scanned the picture of the Spook into the computer and enjoyed adding mous- taches, subtracting teeth and stretching the ears.

At midnight, on the button, Scott's computer beeped. It was Kirk.

WTFO

You got my message.

SUBTLETY IS NOT YOUR STRONG POINT

I didn't want to miss.

GOTCHA. YOU RANG.

First of all, I want a better way to contact you, since I assume you won't tell me who you are.

RIGHT! AND I'VE TAKEN CARE OF THAT. CALL 212-555-3908. WHEN YOU HEAR THE BEEP, ENTER YOUR NUMBER. I'LL CALL YOU AS SOON AS I CAN.

So you're in New York?

MAYBE. MAYBE NOT.

Ah, call forwarding. I could get the address of the phone and trace you down.

I DON'T THINK YOU WOULD DO THAT.

And why not may I ask?

CAUSE WE HAVE A DEAL.

Right. You're absolutely right.

NOW THAT I'M RIGHT, WHAT'S UP?

I met with the Spook.

YOU DID????????

The conference was great, but I need to know more. I've just been sniffing around the edges and I can't smell what's in the oven.

WHAT ABOUT THE SPOOK? TELL ME ABOUT IT.

I have picture of him for you. I scanned it.

VERY GOOD, CLAP, CLAP.

I'll send you SPOOK.PIX. Let me know what you think.

OK. SEND AWAY.

Scott chose the file and issued the command to send it to Kirk. While it was being sent they couldn't speak, and Scott learned how long it really takes to transmit a digital picture at 2400 baud. He got absorbed in a magazine and almost missed the mes- sage on the computer.

THAT'S NOT THE SPOOK!!!!

Yes it is. I met him.

NO, IT'S NOT THE REAL SPOOK. I'VE MET HIM. HE'S PARTIALLY BALD AND HAS A LONG NOSE AND GLASSES. THIS GUY'S A GQ MODEL

C'mon, you've got to be putting me on. I travel 3000 miles for an impostor?

I GUESS SO. THIS IS NOT THE SPOOK I KNOW.

Then who is it?

HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?

Just thought I'd ask . . .

WHAT'S GOING ON REPO?

Deep shit, and I need your help.

GOT THE MAN LOOKING OVER YOUR DONKEY?

No, he's not here, honest. I have an idea, and you're gonna think it's nuts, I know. But I have to ask you for a couple of favors.

WHAT MAY THEY BE?

The Freedom League. I need to know as much about it as I can, without anyone knowing that I want the information. Is that possible?

OF COURSE. THEY'RE BBS'ERS. I CAN GET IN EASY. WHY?

Well that brings up the second favor. dGraph. Do you own it?

SURE, EVERYONE DOES. LEGAL OR NOT.

Can't you guys take apart a program to see what makes it tick?

REVERSE ENGINEERING, YEAH

Then I would like to ask if you would look at the dGraph program and see if it has a virus in it?

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