Terminal Compromise Part 56

"Jesus," Duncan said quietly contemplating the implications.

"Most people believe that their computers are private. If they knew that their inner most secrets were really being broadcast for anyone to hear, it might change their behavior a little."

Scott had had the time to think about the impact if this was made public.

"No s.h.i.+t Sherlock. It makes me wonder who's been listening in on our computers all these years. Maybe that's why our jobs seem to get tougher every day." Duncan snapped himself back from the mental digression. "Where do you go from here?"

Scott was prepared. He had a final bombsh.e.l.l to lay on Duncan before specifying his request. "There are a couple of things that make me think. First, there is no way that only one guy could put together the amount of information that I have. I've told you how much there is. From all over the country. That suggests a lot more than one person involved. I don't know how many, that's your job.

"Two, these blackmail threats. Obviously whoever is reading the computers, Van Ecking them is what I call it, has been sending the information to someone else. Then they, in turn, call up their targets and let them know that their secrets are no longer so secret. Then three, they have been probably sending the information to other people, on paper. Like me and the National Expose. I have no idea if any others are receiving similar packages. What I see here, is a coordinated effort to . . ."

Scott held Tyrone's complete attention.

"You still haven't told me what you need. Lay it on me, buddy.

There can't be much more."

"Doesn't it make sense that if we had one van, and the equipment inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are other Van Eck vans out there? For an operation that's this large, there would have to be a back up, a contingency . . ."

The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.

"Shhhh . . ." Tyrone cautioned. "The trains have ears. I don't go for conspiracy theories, I never have. Right now all we have is raw, uncorrelated data. No proof. Just circ.u.mstantial events that may have nothing to do with each other . . ."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. Look at this." Scott opened up his briefcase and handed a file folder to Tyrone.

"What is it? Looks like a news story, that . . .uh . . .you wrote and, it's about some mergers. Big deal." Duncan closed the folder. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"This. Yes, I wrote the story. Two days ago. It hasn't been printed yet." Scott took the folder back. "I found this copy in the van that was wrecked two days ago. It was Van Eck'ed from my computer the day I wrote it. They've been watching me and my computer."

"Now wait a second. There are a hundred possible answers. You could have lost a copy or someone got it from your wastebasket."

Duncan wasn't convincing either to himself or to Scott. Scott smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.

"You want to play?" Scott asked.

"I think I'd better. If this is for real, no one has any priva- cy anymore."

"I know I don't."

Chapter 14

Sunday, November 29 Columbia University, New York

The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite wisdom, had put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the McDonalds' window prominent.

Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba- cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan, 3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to his computer that was always on.

C:cd protalk C:PROTALKprotalk

He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no stop bits.

>>>>>

The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste of Turkish camel s.h.i.+t cigarettes that he had smoked before coming to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to life and displayed

Pa.s.sWORD:

Ahmed entered his pa.s.sword and his PRG response.

CRYPT KEY:

He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the privacy of his conversations.

>>>>>

That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be there to answer.

Good Morning. I have some news.

NEWS?

We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.

PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.

One of the readers is gone.

HOW? CAPTURED?

No, the Americans aren't that smart. He died in a car crash.

WILL THIS HURT US?

No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.

THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?

A martyr.

CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?

He had false identification. They will learn nothing.

BE SURE THEY DON'T. DESTROY THE CAR.

They can learn nothing. Why?

IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US.

HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?