THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (3 page)

'”Well my eyes aren't married,”' Goldman mimicked. 'Jeez, mate, that's a lame excuse for ogling anything in a tight skirt.' He looked about the newly fitted computer room, finding little comfort in its cold light and featureless walls; indeed its repetitive rows of consoles only spoke of man's subjugation to technology. The chemist leaned forward and tapped a well-worn Reebok on the cork-tiled floor, a mid-afternoon languor upon him.

The room fell quiet.

With narrowed eyes, Artarmon said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'So working for the military runs in your family, eh?'

'What do you mean?' Goldman kept his gaze on the floor.

'Well, your dad was a big gun at DARPA, right?'

Goldman looked up with the inquisitiveness of a hard-nosed detective. 'How do you know that? I never told you.'

'You never told me you were married once, either.' The blunt remark hung heavily in the air. Artarmon shifted in his seat as if sensing he'd overstepped the mark. In any case, Goldman wasn't prepared to shed any light on the matter. The subject was still a weeping wound for him, a minefield of unresolved pain, a place he didn't want to go, especially now Artarmon had made an issue of it.

'Come on, Steve, how could you know any of this?'

'No way, dude. I'm not saying.' Artarmon shook his head like a petulant school boy, but soon broke into a roguish grin.

'You looked up my contract file!' Goldman got up from his seat. 'With Straker away you broke into the system.'

Artarmon wheeled in front of a glowing console and jabbed its keyboard. His livened eyes spoke of the thrill of an earlier find. 'Okay, guilty as charged. Now check this out.'

Goldman met Artarmon in the main corridor of the administration building. The commonality of civilian dress had led to handshaking introductions, and for past weeks the two had developed a workplace amity. A computer science graduate from Cornell University, Artarmon was on the payroll of Datacheck, a large data security management firm. In keeping with a Department of Defense contract, Datacheck had transferred all data from the Pentagon's command mainframe into a new Cray supercomputer at Fort Bruckner, Maryland. With his workplace boss, Clive “Two Fingers” Straker, at a national Datacheck conference in Baltimore, Artarmon was rechecking satellite transmission co-ordinates for Silverwood's hookup to the Cray mainframe at Fort Bruckner.

Of course Artarmon's boss had limited Goldman's visits to the new computer room, but with Straker away at the Datacheck conference, the two civilian contractors (with a long afternoon ahead and a light workload between them) were able to devote themselves to the mischief at hand.

'Well, after you left this morning, I broke into the US Milnet.' Artarmon could only chuckle at his companion's incredulous expression. 'It's not that hard, any console jockey worth his salt can crack AT&T Unix ... especially if the backup password file hasn't been trapdoor functioned. Anyhow, I scanned the general layout for awhile, poking my nose into a lot of boring directories.' He turned back to the lit console. 'Well as fate would have it I uncovered this file called TROJAN X. It was hidden in a backwater directory with a lot of other junk files. Attracted by the name, I decided to have a look.' He flexed his fingers like a pianist about to perform a recital and tapped the keyboard in front of him.

'And?' Goldman asked impatiently.

'And this is the baby. Can you believe it?'

Goldman moved closer to the screen, pleased his afternoon wander had led him to this intriguing moment.

'As you know,' Artarmon continued, 'every kilobyte of the Army's Milnet system was recently downloaded into the new Cray supercomputer at Fort Bruckner, to which we are linked via the satellite dish on top of this building. Well someone involved in the original installation of the Milnet wrote a hidden program that records the passwords of the system's users. Incredibly, TROJAN X is the file that the hidden program sends the passwords to for storage.'

'And these are the passwords on the screen?' Goldman pressed closer, his broad shoulders all but eclipsing Artarmon and the terminal. Artarmon shifted uneasily in his seat, as if having second thoughts. 'Listen, after we make a paper copy of the password file, I'm going to erase the file from the system. And once we've decided on a password to use, I'll destroy the paper copy with that gutsy new shredder over in the corner. Then we'll be untraceable ... as long as we don't open our mouths to anyone. Okay?'

'Hey, Steve, my lips are sealed.' Goldman made a zipper-like motion across his mouth. 'We're in this together, mate. Just you and me till the bitter end.'

Artarmon locked eyes with his colleague, probing for any sign of duplicity. 'Well just remember that what we're doing
stays in this room
, okay?' He jabbed the keyboard and a nearby printer chattered to attention. In no time a lengthy scroll of paper sheeted down to the floor.

Goldman stopped at the printer and tore off the printout. 'Hmm, this looks good.' He handed the curling printout to Artarmon who looked over the columns of names, numbers and passwords with an amalgam of pride and curiosity. The Cornell graduate handed back the printout and swivelled to his terminal. He quoted a parting phrase in Spanish as his fingers darted across the keyboard.

'What?' Goldman dropped back into his seat.

'I just vaporized TROJAN X.'

'Hmm, good riddance. So what are these numbers in front of each password?'

Artarmon sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as if tapping into an inexhaustible reservoir of patience. 'Okay, the military use a hierarchical database, which means there's no record of the data you access. Your password and designated code, which is those numbers before your password, are stored in the computer's memory. All military data has a security rating making it accessible only to authorized personnel. Basically one number before your password means you have access to a limited amount of data, whereas six numbers before your password means you have access to all data on the Milnet.'

'Let's see.' Goldman scanned the alphabetical list spilling about his feet. His forefinger moved down the columns of names and numbers until he found what he wanted. 'General Kaplan only has a two number code. So, what's Kaplan's password? Lucinda. Lucinda?'

'Probably his wife.' Artarmon smirked.

'Or daughter.'

'Or mistress.'

'Whatever. At a glance I can't see many six number codes.'

'Well, the list is only populated with this year's entries.'

'Hmm.' Goldman swallowed hard. 'Here's one. In fact the only one I can see. General Alexander Turner. He's not from here, is he?'

Artarmon chuckled and leaned back in his seat with the authority of a long-tenured professor. 'Hmm, you've netted a big fish there. From what I remember, Straker met the general at a preliminary setup conference at Fort Bruckner. Apparently Turner's big league in the Defence Intelligence Agency. He'd probably have access to the whole Milnet system ... and in all likelihood you have that power in your hands. Mind blowing, isn't it?'

Goldman raised his eyebrows and nodded excitedly, the day's boredom well and truly behind him. He checked his watch. 'So Straker gets back Monday, right?'

'Yep.'

'So we've only got this afternoon and tomorrow to see what we can unearth?'

Artarmon stroked the mid-afternoon stubble on his chin. 'Yeah, but let's not be too long about it, Scott. I mean, I still have
some
work to do.'

'Okay, I hear you.' Goldman looked about the room, weighed down by the gravity of what he planned. Overhead strip lights reflected off a row of screens beside him. The serial gloss seemed like inhuman eyes probing his organic disposition, his temporal biology. His stomach tightened as he looked at the illegal printout on his lap. 'All right,' he said at last. 'Let's do it.'

FOUR

'It's about time,' Haslow said, getting up from his desk.

'Sorry Rod, I was helping Steve set up a batch file run.'

'Crap. Playing tic-tac-toe more likely.'

'Anyhow, thanks again for your card.'

Haslow threw on his coat, grabbed his bag and grabbed the magnetic-strip card from Goldman. He murmured a cool farewell and left the laboratory.

So soon as the metal door slid shut Goldman sprang into action. He stopped at a separatory funnels cabinet set between a reagants storage rack and a disused electrolysis tank. He grabbed a back corner of the maple and glass cabinet and inched it forward, then bent down and grabbed the plastic bag he'd hidden there two weeks ago. He stood up, unzipped his jeans and secreted the small bag in the front of his undershorts. Once it was comfortably placed, he zipped himself up and pushed the cabinet back in place. He threw on a fleece-lined denim jacket. After grabbing his bag and checking he hadn't left anything behind, he left the room.

The outside corridor was alive with base personnel. Some of the servicemen and servicewomen had just clocked on, while most were finishing for the day. Goldman experienced a fleeting sense of belonging as he fell in step with the late-afternoon crowd, even as his faded jeans and scuffed runners contrasted the pressed uniforms and polished boots about him. No sooner had he turned into an adjoining corridor than the throng about him dispersed. Many of its men and women streamed into the locker rooms and rest rooms at the start of the corridor. He now had a clear line of sight to the building's main exit.

Stationed before the doors, Corporal Reid was inspecting the IDs and effects of each person leaving the building. Goldman tensed. He squeezed the shoulder strap of his bag and brought his free hand to his chest. The computer printouts hidden under his shirt crackled beneath his fingertips. His temples pulsed and before he knew it he'd stepped ahead of the others walking alongside him in the corridor.

Great, he thought, just great. The last thing he needed was to stand out in any way (though his civilian attire had always done a good job of that). He slowed his pace and wished he could magically disappear as he neared the glass doors. He thought to turn round and leave by another exit, but now it wasn't possible without drawing attention to himself. His mouth became treacherously dry. As if having a mind of their own, his feet came to a sudden stop beneath him.

Reid said goodnight to the handful of personnel he'd detained and turned towards the Australian chemist. Goldman zeroed in on the Beretta auto-pistol holstered at Reid's side (after being briefed by his father-in-law that morning, Reid had donned the aforementioned weapon in readiness for his new guarding role).

'Mister Goldman, isn't it? Excuse me, sir, but may I sight identification and inspect your bag? Nothing personal, just a new Department of Defense directive that security procedures be upgraded at all US military installations.'

'What a surprise.' Goldman handed over his bag. 'Damn Arab terrorists, eh?'

Reid didn't fashion a reply and unzipped the bag.

Goldman felt a throb of panic. He was too nervous to admit outright that he didn't have his access card – even though he was certain Reid was aware of this; in that Reid had witnessed Goldman's
faux pas
outside the laboratory door that morning. In a contrived display of concern for his card's whereabouts, he patted his jeans and jacket, and finally the breast pocket of his blue cotton shirt.

A sharp, papery sound filled the air.

Goldman's breath snagged in his throat. Fortunately Reid's attention was elsewhere, namely the chemist's bag. Relieved the telltale sound of the printouts had fallen on deaf ears, Goldman said, 'Damn, I must have left my card at home.' Then, to make light of the admission: 'Hey, I'll have to see the payroll clerk and make sure I'm not docked a day because of it.'

'Hmm, do that,' Reid said dryly.

'So, do you want to see my driver's license?'

Reid shook his head and placed Goldman's bag on the Formica-top table that he'd carried from the canteen that afternoon. He rummaged through the bag as if he were a Chinese customs official recently reprimanded for his lackadaisical approach. After giving attention to a Swiss Army knife which had seen better days, Reid pulled out a hardcover book from the bag.
Phantastica
by Louis Lewin.

'I use it for research,' Goldman said hesitantly. 'It's a rare 1924 work cataloging psychoactive botanics. I couldn't believe my luck when I found it recently at a local antiquarian dealer. Needless to say, it's an invaluable reference for my present line of research.'

Reid flicked through the browned pages of his find, pausing at the odd illustration, then tapped the book against his palm, as if weighing up what the bygone counterculture publication implied about Goldman's character. He then looked along the passageway.

Goldman glanced over his shoulder. A handful of personnel waited patiently behind him. Farther back, General Kaplan's robust frame dominated the passageway. From under a prominent brow, his dark eyes studied the makeshift checkpoint.

Goldman cursed inwardly and turned back to Reid. 'Look ... I've got a Wing Chun Do class to catch in less than an hour,' he lied. 'So, um, I should get going.'

Again Reid looked over Goldman's shoulder, but this time nodded as if in acknowledgment of a passed-on instruction. He returned the book to the bag and handed the bag back to Goldman. 'Sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but I'm afraid it's a necessary evil we all must endure in these troubled times.'

'Yes, apparently. Good night.'

Reid nodded a reply and beckoned for a raven-haired servicewoman to step up to the table.

Warming the engine of his Saab 900 sedan, Goldman found a new FM station on the radio: “...
thanks Lisa, and now a seven-piece band from Australia who've made a big name for themselves over here: Little River Band with
Curiosity Killed the Cat”.

Goldman reversed from his space, clicked in his seatbelt and accelerated toward the main gate. He engaged the last speed bump and waved to the sentry in the gatehouse who'd raised the boom gate. The chemist drove out of Silverwood Area and into the north sector of Aberdeen Proving Ground, soon passing the Chemical Agent Storage Yard where more than a thousand one-ton containers of Mustard Agent were stockpiled.