Capitol Reflections (18 page)
“I guess my only answer is ‘aye-aye, sir’” Gwen said innocently. “I’ll start immediately.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Doctor,” Snyder said smugly. “Your service has always been exemplary. I’ll note your cooperation in your file. With any luck, you’ll be back to your regular duties soon.”
What did that mean? More than ever, Gwen sensed that this new assignment was all about keeping her from doing other work.
BioNet was malfunctioning.
Jan Menefee sat at one of the many computer terminals connected to the medical surveillance computer, a cup of coffee next to the monitor. She’d been named director of Project BioNet because she was both an excellent physician and a master at the computer keyboard, thanks to some undergrad classes in programming. It was 2:30 in the morning, and after several hours of prep work, her general plan was to search for more info on the seizure trends, hoping that BioNet might have explanations or predictions at its quantum level. All of this was surreptitious, of course, and she’d have to cover her tracks. She knew she couldn’t erase the computer’s boot log completely because there were too many security features built into the system, but she could shunt the log of the night’s clandestine activity to a sub-directory that no one was likely to check.
But the damned system wasn’t cooperating. She received repeated error messages more appropriate to a PC running Windows 95 with a Pentium I:
Input errorBad commandData not availableRequested file does not existProgramming error: If problem persists, please contact system administrator.
Jan folded her arms and sighed. In the universe of bytes and RAM, BioNet was one of the Seven Wonders of the World. The problems that BioNet encountered during trial runs presented in numerical codes, not outdated error messages. The designers of BioNet did not imprint Microsoft jargon in its state-of-the-art chips.
Jan got up and stretched, walking into the adjoining room where the mainframe—BioNet’s brain—was kept.
“Damn,” she muttered. Several digital readouts indicated that the system was not only in optimal condition but was actually in the process of carrying out various commands. Large spools of tape spun behind a dark glass casing. “I’m being shut out of the freakin’ system. This is nuts. Okay, Hal 9000, let’s see why you’re acting pissy.”
The room was dark except for the glow coming from the computer screen. Jan returned to the desktop terminal. “We’ll try something simpler,” she said. “No programming commands. Just a straightforward question.”
She opened the system’s main diagnostic window and tapped a few keys in order to determine BioNet’s current operating mode. The following text appeared on the screen: UPLOADING FILE 23789.626.
“No, goddammit,” she cried. “Stop!”
File 23789.626 contained every byte of information she’d gathered about seizure activity around the country. But if it was uploading, where was it going?
She frantically opened another window and typed in DESTINATION.
The reply from BioNet was swift: PLEASE WAIT UNTIL UPLOAD IS COMPLETE.
Frantically, Jan tried to cancel the upload, but the system ignored her efforts. Something was overriding.
“Okay, let’s do things the hard way.”
She took a sip of coffee and called up a hidden file on her desktop computer. Jan had been part of Project BioNet from the beginning, but even as director, she was not familiar with every single command that could be given to the supercomputer.
The file, available to administrators only, appeared on her screen, but the options displayed on its panel were anything but user-friendly.
Programmers naturally had to adjust the highly complex system on a daily basis and she couldn’t stay on top of every single bit of techno-jargon. Jan studied a line of programming code and saw “&whoR594job!enteradclear.” Did the “adclear” refer to “administrative clearance?” Was the panel requesting what amounted to a password?
She pulled open a drawer to her lower right and found a floppy handbook titled BioNet Administrative Job-Control. After several frustrating minutes, she found an entire directory of “&who” commands. Her index finger slid down the page until she found the entire line currently displayed in the panel. Next to it was a password.
She typed in “biodestination/operator27” and got an immediate response. “Yes!” Jan proclaimed, throwing her right arm up in victory.
UPLOAD 45D
120,887 KB SUCCESSFULLY SENT TO:
[email protected]
Jan was stumped. Why should BioNet send the file to an anonymous re-mailer in Iceland? What had triggered the upload? More importantly, who had triggered it? She was confident that the system hadn’t been zombied by an outside party. As director, she had ordered the same level of security as the National Security Agency—and even more secret “shops”—to prevent outside hacking. The source, therefore, almost certainly had to be internal.
The BioNet director buried her face in her hands. She could hardly believe the implications of what she just saw. Jan rolled her chair back to the nearest BioNet terminal to determine what other uploads, if any, had been sent in the last forty-eight hours. Thankfully, there had been none.
She would get CDC security people on the problem first thing in the morning, and she had a hunch that the investigation into the upload would go even higher. This kind of penetration was exactly what the executive branch of the government had been worried about. But here was the catch. There were many reasons that might drive someone to steal CDC files, and yet the hot topics on the CDC agenda—Ebola, avian flu, and other viruses that could turn someone’s face to mush—had been neglected. Out of thousands of available files, the intruder chose number 23789.626.
Still, why had any file been uploaded and sent anywhere outside the CDC network?
It was a sobering question and Jan decided it would be prudent to wait awhile before calling in the agency’s security division. Once they started an investigation, everyone, including the perpetrator, would run for cover in a general atmosphere of paranoia. The leak would be plugged with sophisticated patches and firewalls, rendering any hope of finding the responsible party virtually impossible. She owed it to Gwen to keep things quiet for the time being.
There was another option, however. In March, she’d been a fly on the wall in the White House Conference Center at a meeting of the president’s Information Technology Advisory Council. PITAC was especially interested in security around cutting-edge antiterror computer programs, and Jan was there because of her top-level position with BioNet. One of the presenters, Peter Tippett, had made a great deal more sense than most of the people babbling for the sake of recognition in their various fields.
“The most important action after a penetration has been detected,” Tippett remarked, “should be no different for computer spying than it was for the old-fashioned kind. It’s crucial not to let the adversary know you are aware of the penetration. Use the adversary’s own conduit to trap him.”
It took Jan all of fifteen seconds to Google “Tippett” and find his contact information. She’d call him in the morning.
As originally planned, Jan sent her boot log to the predetermined sub-directory and then went home. There, she retrieved a voice-mail from Gwen that said “
iPrive.com
” and nothing else.
iPrive.com
” and nothing else.
It was difficult to believe that was coincidental. She recalled a line from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective: “The game’s afoot, Watson.”
What kind of game was another matter altogether.
23
Mark Stern’s mentor at the Columbia School of Journalism once told him that a reporter without sources usually ends up covering the county fair. Mark understood the implications and maintained his contacts in Washington while he worked at the
Times
and the
Journal
. Now based in Washington, he kept in touch with his old colleagues at the New York papers with equal care. Today, he decided, was time to call in a marker from an old friend in Gotham.
Times
and the
Journal
. Now based in Washington, he kept in touch with his old colleagues at the New York papers with equal care. Today, he decided, was time to call in a marker from an old friend in Gotham.
He dialed the number of Charlie Nicholls, city desk lead at the
Wall Street Journal
, and waited for the voice of his former comrade-in-print. As far as Mark was concerned, Charlie was the only other colorful character in a sea of gray at the
Journal
. They weren’t exactly Woodward and Bernstein together, but they goaded each other on, sharing information and doing their best not to scoop each other.
Wall Street Journal
, and waited for the voice of his former comrade-in-print. As far as Mark was concerned, Charlie was the only other colorful character in a sea of gray at the
Journal
. They weren’t exactly Woodward and Bernstein together, but they goaded each other on, sharing information and doing their best not to scoop each other.
“Charlie, it’s the Sternster. Got a few minutes?”
“For a fallen hero like you?” said Nicholls. “Absolutely. You have balls, my boy. People here are still shaking their heads about the manner of your exit from this rich man’s rag. What can I do for ya?”
“Know anything about Billy Hamlin?”
After a short pause, Nicholls delivered one of his trademark snorting laughs that Mark always found mildly irritating. “Why am I not surprised by your timing, Mark?”
“What do you mean?”
There was another brief pause. “You’re telling me you don’t know about one of the biggest forthcoming announcements in the corporate pantheon of Randall, Inc.?”
“You got it, Charlie. Don’t have a clue, but I think I’m about to get one.”
“Whoa, partner. The
Journal
is about to do a three-part series on Hamlin and what’s shaking at Pequod’s. How the hell can I just hand over that kind of privileged info?”
Journal
is about to do a three-part series on Hamlin and what’s shaking at Pequod’s. How the hell can I just hand over that kind of privileged info?”
“For one thing, I doubt that the
Journal
is the only organization that has info on something going on at Pequod’s if the revelation is as big as you say. For another, you know me. The news is not my beat—I cover the personalities. Besides, you know you’re dying to tell me, Charlie.”
Journal
is the only organization that has info on something going on at Pequod’s if the revelation is as big as you say. For another, you know me. The news is not my beat—I cover the personalities. Besides, you know you’re dying to tell me, Charlie.”
“Of course I want to tell you.”
“Then do it. We never had this conversation, and I’ll pay you back in spades. There’s enough political shit in this town to empty out your toner cartridge every two weeks. So?”
Charlie Nicholls sighed heavily. “Well, I’ll give you the big picture. You fill in the details as you’re able, assuming you can get within a mile of Hamlin or any other source. Plus, you don’t have the luxury of time since this story is about to come out the gate like Seabiscuit.”
“Whatcha got, amigo?”
“Hamlin’s going to announce that Pequod’s is expanding its markets.”
“Expanding? Where? To the restrooms in two-star restaurants? You can’t walk your dog without running into one of their stores.”
Nicholls chuckled and snorted. “Restrooms? I wouldn’t mention it to Billy Hamlin. It just might fly. For starters, the company is going to put coffee stands in airports, malls, and bookstores. It’s also going to have some drive-thru java joints as well as vendors in ‘coffee kiosks’ in parks. You can count on that little two-word phrase working its way into the vernacular pretty fast. They’re also planning to go toe-to-toe in the packaged iced coffee business.”
“This sounds like the declaration of an all-out turf war. Gotta feel for the smaller companies, though.”
“As far as less visible coffee chains are concerned, mom and pop would do well to cash in and move to Florida,” Nicholls said grimly.
“Progress, my friend. It will be the undoing of us all.”
“No argument here. Thanks, Charlie. Like I said, I owe you. Anything else going on up there?”
“Betty Bannister is getting laid by Floyd Harkins from the advertising department.”
“Floyd wears a pocket protector. I thought Betty had better taste.”
“Women these days look past such things, Mark. They’re not shallow like us men.”
“Speak for yourself, you chauvinist pig.”
“You getting any down in D.C.?”
“I naturally can’t name any sources, but Mr. Stern is always in demand.”
“In other words, no, right?”
“You always were good at reading between the lines. Bye, Charlie.”
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