LyAKSANDRO Volynskji sprawled on the bed in his hotel room, remote in hand, flipping through channels on the television. He flipped through half a dozen before he settled on the local public television station to watch the News Hour. The Daedalus was still one of the leading news stories, along with calls for a Congressional inquiry.
Volynskji frowned when he saw that one of the feature stories would be about Colonel Ramon and the other men who had stolen the computer. He didn't like being reminded of that. Ramon didn't know his name, or the people he worked for, but he had seen Volynskji's face, and that was bad enough.
Fifteen minutes into the news, the phone rang. Volynskji picked it up, saying, 'Are our friends listening?'
Volynskji was asking the caller how secure the phone lines were.
'As they always are,' came the reply. If there was a possibility of a live tap on either of them, the caller would have simply said 'yes' and hung up. Fortunately, the response meant that they were secure from everything but the government computers that filtered almost all electronic communications in this country. They were safe as long as they avoided certain keywords. Volynskji put down the remote and picked up a dog-eared computer printout. It was a highly classified list of words, ten pages long, three columns to a page. On that list were words like 'Daedalus,' 'Volynskji,' 'bomb,' and the name of the organization Volynskji worked for, the IUF, the International Unification Front.
As long as Volynskji and the caller avoided the words on this week's list, their conversation wouldn't be flagged by any government computers.
'This is a mess,' Volynskji said. 'You insisted on using the Colonel rather than have me bring my own people into the country. It is unlikely that we'll ever get another opportunity.'
'I understand your frustration. Their capture wasn't anticipated.'
'You, of all people, should have anticipated it.'
'You know bringing any more of your people into the country would bring unwelcome attention to our operation, and the Doctor.'
'Have you seen the news lately? I think there's more than enough unwelcome attention to go around.'
'It's a screwup, but because it was the Colonel and not your people, your organization has remained out of the spotlight.'
'If my people were involved, they wouldn't have been captured, and this travesty with your Secret Service never would have happened.' Volynskji thought for a moment about the man on the other end of the phone. Volynskji knew he was a twisted and dangerous individual with many reasons to want the IUF to stay out of the spotlight in this country. 'This was by your design, was it, friend?'
'No.'
The flat denial only made Volynskji more suspicious, but he didn't press the point. 'What about our equipment? The Doctor can't proceed without it, and we cannot go out and acquire another one now that everyone in this country is aware that we want one. Security on the existing items will become impenetrable.'
'I know. The equipment is my problem now. I have a better chance the way the situation has developed.'
'Okay. Should I return to the project now?'
'No, there're still a few things that need doing down here. First, you need to find the leak that led those two cops there. It didn't come from my end, so it must have been from yours.'
'Thanks for your confidence.'
'Word of the pickup got out somehow, before you were called off. The cops didn't know it was a setup, so the leak didn't come from inside the government.'
'I've got you. What do you want me to do with any leaks I find?'
'Plug them, permanently.'
'The cop?'
'Forget him for now. He's not a problem.'
'What about the Colonel and his people?'
'Nothing. They aren't a threat to us and we need a distraction right now. Take care of the leaks.'
'I'll do that.'
'I'll be in contact.' The phone hung up and Volynskji lay for a moment listening to dead air. He didn't like that man. He didn't like working with an official of the U.S. Government, even if this man had brought his people Doctor Zimmerman and the potential of her work. The fact that his people were beholden galled Volynskji. Now they would be beholden for the Daedalus as well.
On the TV, the show had changed to a program called The McLaughlin Group.
'Issue one,' said the TV. 'Gunfight at the D.C. Corral.'
Volynskji watched as the host gave a synopsis of the shooting incident over the Daedalus. It was unnerving to think that it could have been him and his people in there, rather than a D.C. cop and an FBI agent. Volynskji had been warned off shortly after Colonel Ramon had been captured, but he could still picture himself walking into that trap. If it was his call, he would have called off the whole project by now.
'What is the political fallout from this shoot-out? I ask you, Pat.'
'John, this is another Waco. We have another federal law enforcement agency going where it shouldn't go, doing things it is not qualified to do—and this time it isn't even the alleged 'bad guys' who are the victims. This just gives more ammunition to people who believe that the federal government has no business in criminal law enf —'
'Are you saying that Attorney General Lloyd should resign—'
The one woman on the panel interrupted. 'From all accounts he's already abdicated. The Secret Service was out of control here. They should stick to guarding the President.'
Volynskji tossed aside the remote and walked over to the bar. Digging around in the little refrigerator, he came out with a can of ginger ale. He stood by the small sink and thought about possible leaks. Not his people, but maybe Doctor Zimmerman's. He'd had a few of the technical types set up the transportation of the Daedalus, since they had the expertise in the computer. That was most likely the weak link.
'Issue two; Y2K Mark Two,' called the TV host, interrupting Volynskji's thoughts. He watched the TV with some renewed interest.
'Everyone who owns a computer has been aware of the much ballyhooed millennium bug, known to the digital intelligentsia simply as 'Y2K.' However the attempted theft of a Daedalus supercomputer has brought to light what may be the true threat of the 21st century—digital terror.'
The scene on the television was replaced by stock footage of people surfing the Internet. It showed scenes in typical offices, a library, and one of the popular Internet coffee houses. The host continued in a voice-over. 'Item—A Tangled Web. The Internet, especially the World Wide Web, has undergone phenomenal growth. Internet connectivity is now a standard part of all computer operating systems and estimates are that nearly 90% of all computers in the U.S. spend some time connected to this data superhighway. But this information superhighway is a two-way street, while these computers are searching for data elsewhere, other parties—possibly with nefarious motives—can access those same computers. According to experts, the security on most computers is inadequate to deal with an intentionally malicious attack.'
Volynskji nodded and wondered if this blustering Washington pundit had any idea what the words 'digital terror' might actually mean.
'Item—Wall Street Meltdown,' the TV continued. The voice-over talked over scenes of the trading floor in New York City. 'Two months ago there was a panic as the Dow plummeted five hundred points in a single afternoon. Economists were quick to blame a crisis mentality on Wall Street that reflected no true economic factors. In the past few weeks, investigators at the Securities and Exchange Commission placed the blame for the downfall at the feet of an old demon—program trading. Despite safeguards placed in the eighties to stop an automatic sell-off if the market suffered a too-steep decline, this drop was the result of computers—not people—engaged in a flurry of selling. This was a repeat of the last program sell-off disaster, but this time with a new, underreported, and sinister twist. Several pension funds, along with two major brokerages, were infected with a computer virus. A virus that seemed otherwise benign, but whose presence prevented the programmed brakes from taking hold during the five- hundred-point drop.' The scene returned to the roundtable and the host turned to his left. 'Mort, I ask you, shades of things to come, or—'
Volynskji turned off the television.
