Interrupt hung up and began marking time.
Fifteen seconds later, Interrupt again deposited coins, dialed the number, and broke the connection with the recording. Forty seconds later, Interrupt punched in a new number, 767-2676, waited for the recording, then hung up. Twenty seconds later, the second number again.
Breaking that connection, Interrupt immediately dialed one final number, nine digits this time: 468377878. It was not difficult to remember because the digits on the touch-tone keypad corresponded to the letters that spelled Interrupt.
Now this telephone line, from this grubby phone, was connected to a maintenance port on the new 5ESS. A port that led into the switch's permanent memory.
"Bingo," Interrupt whispered. The transmitter in the mouthpiece transformed the word into electrical waves and sent them over the line. But there was no receiver on the other end to convert the electrical impulses back into sound waves. There was nobody to hear the word "bingo."
There was only the switch and its memory.
Fingers icy, Interrupt spread open a piece of notepaper and double-checked a telephone number. The trigger. Silence, but for the faint drone of the television, as Interrupt dialed in the trigger.
Call completed.
Interrupt hung up, then quickly went outside into the clean night air, down the block to the phone booth. One more call to make, a call that required a different place of origination.
Across the street, the switch building showed its sealed brick sides to the street. Interrupt shrugged. Who needed windows?
Andy was hungry, hole-in-the-belly hungry. But he wasn't the only one; success evidently bred good appetites. A crowd three-deep pressed toward the food table in a corner of the switch room. When Andy finally got his turn, there wasn't much left. Stale bread, stiffened cheese, browning fruit, a scattering of cold cuts amidst the parsley. He helped himself.
Then, over the intercom, his name crackled out like a gunshot
His stomach tightened. He abandoned his plate and headed back to the control room.
The supervisor looked up from a terminal as Andy came in. "A call just came through for you from a TDD relay operator." He looked at Andy, curious, then handed him a slip of paper.
Andy read the message: call Wayne, and his home number. It was too damn late for Wayne to be up, Andy thought. His son had been interested in the cutover, had wanted to know if it would affect his TDD. Andy took the desk across from the supervisor. He hooked up the TDD to the phone and dialed Wayne's number. The indicator light on the TDD blinked as his home phone rang, then shone a steady red. Someone had answered, but he was getting no message on his TDD screen.
He snatched the handset out of the TDD cradle and put it to his ear.
"Hello?" the sitter was saying.
If Wayne had wanted him to call, why hadn't he answered on his TDD? "This is..." Andy began. He heard a click, then dial tone, then nothing.
The phone was dead. He depressed the switchhook, listened again. Nothing.
All right, there was a glitch.
Andy looked up to tell the supervisor, but he was gone. The techs at their monitors were furiously punching in numbers. Except for the clicking of keys, it was deathly silent in the control room.
Through the glass he saw people gesturing, shoving past one another, swarming around the ESS. Two maintenance techs were running, their tool belts swinging.
Andy pushed out the door. A droning of low voices came from the switch area, as if the ESS itself were softly moaning.
A knot of people hovered around the administrative control panel, their faces blank with surprise. Andy moved closer and his heart chilled: the control lights were off, the panel was as blank as the faces of the stunned techs. The central processors were not working. ESS was brain dead.
Someone tapped Andy's shoulder and he spun around. "We lost ESS," the supervisor said sorrowfully.
From somewhere deep within the rows of switching modules, a voice was rising: "What the hell happened, what the hell happened, what the hell happened, what the hell happened?"
ESS was dead, the crossbar was dead, thirty thousand telephone lines were dead, and not even the caller to the suicide hot line was going to be able to get through.
"Let's get you onto a terminal," the supervisor hissed.
But Andy wasn't thinking of diagnostics. He was thinking that within the space of three days, two ESS number fives had gone down. Both times, the switches died in the middle of a TDD call. His TDDs.
Suddenly, Candace was at his side. She looked up at him, plowing a hand through her dark bangs. "Someone's out to get us," she whispered.
CHAPTER 5
"How long have you worked for AT&T?"
"Seven years."
"Where did you work before that?"
"Stanford. Graduate school."
"I mean worked."
So do I, Andy thought. "Nowhere. I went to work for AT&T straight out of grad school."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to work in telecommunications."
"Why?"
"Because I liked it,"
"Because you liked it."
"Because I loved it."
"Why?"
"I don't see what this has to do..."
"I'm not being mysterious, Mr. Faulkner. I'm just trying to find out why you became a telephone man."
"I'm an electrical engineer, and telecommunications is an exciting field."
Feferman lunged out of his chair and prowled around the conference table, huge and light-footed as a hungry bear. As he passed by, his scent, a piney after-shave, washed over Andy. Colson, three empty chairs away, sucked in his breath as Feferman passed. Buck and Howland, sitting together across the table, did not seem to mind their chief special agent's after-shave.
"Is that all?" Feferman resumed.
"What?"
"Was that your only motivation? Excitement."
"I was good at it."
"You advanced quickly?"
"I don't know. I guess so. I moved around a lot, but so does everybody in the company. I worked in R&D, and in the field...."
"So, is that all? Excitement and job opportunities."
"What is it you want?"
"I want to know why you do what you do."
"We've covered it."
"No, we haven't. I went to college too, Mr. Faulkner, not Stanford but I went to college, and I studied psychology for a while. The fact of the matter is, I almost majored in psychology. I know just enough psychology to make me dangerous, because I never believe the first thing that someone in a difficult situation tells me and I always look for something hidden. You're hiding something, Mr. Faulkner, you're holding back."
"No, I'm not."
"Why did you become a telephone man?"
"I've told you. I chose my work like anybody else does. I found telecom interesting, I was good at it, AT&T was hiring engineers...."
"Did it have something to do with your deaf son?"
"Jesus."
"It looks like I've found something hidden."
"My son has nothing to do with this. I thought we were here to talk about the switch failures."
"TDDs, Mr. Faulkner."
"Fine. Let's talk about TDDs."
"Later. I still want to know why you became a telephone man."
"It was interesting."
"I think it's more than that. Remember, I'm an amateur psychologist, and I've read all your files and snooped around talking to your colleagues and ex-bosses, and I've come to a diagnosis. I think you're a zealot, Mr. Faulkner, I think you are driven by some mission, you have some deep emotional need to be a telephone man. I want to know exactly what it is. Why did you become a telephone man, Mr. Faulkner?"
"To pay the rent."
Feferman roared, a huge man's laugh. He stopped pacing, turned to face the high-definition television screen at the end of the room. A camera mounted on top of the television was trained on the room. "Do you have any questions at this point?" Fe
ferman asked the man on-screen.
On-screen was a full head shot of the executive vice-president for technical development. Andy hadn't caught the man's name, just his title. The veep shook his head. "Please continue, Mr. Feferman." He leaned back in his chair and turned his face slightly to watch his own screen. Behind him, through a generous window, spread the haughty New York skyline.
Feferman climbed into the nearest chair; even sitting, he loomed over the others. He pulled a thin roll of papers from his suit coat pocket, opened and smoothed them like a fussy schoolmaster, and passed two pages to each person at the table. "All right, Mr. Faulkner, we'll drop psychology for the moment. Let's have a look at your telephone calls." Feferman stabbed a large white finger in the middle of his pages.
Andy glanced down at his own copy. The top sheet was a printout of the telephone calls made just before the first switch failure. The last listing was Wayne's TDD telephone number, and it had been circled with a heavy-point marker. Then white space, then INTERRUPTION. Switch not processing calls. Andy did not look at the second page; he knew what was there.
Feferman had done exactly as he had done, Andy thought. After the cutover he had asked Pac Bell for the Automatic Message Accounting data covering the time before each switch failure. Normally, the AMA system only generated records for billable calls. But 5ESS had a high-capacity billing feature, which could generate data on all completed calls, including local calls.
Wayne's call to 911 had been a local call. Only someone who knew 5ESS would know that records of local calls could be generated. Andy looked straight at Feferman. "The calls were setups."
"Oh? Well, let's save setups and double-crosses until we've examined the calls," Feferman said.
Andy glanced at Colson. Colson was watching Feferman without expression; his damned oscilloscope look. Hey, boss, Andy thought, I could use some support. He wondered if Colson was intimidated by the chief special agent.
AT&T Security had a fearful reputation; if there was wrongdoing, Security would pursue it doggedly and punish it mercilessly. They were better than the police, they were better than the FBI, because they were telecom-trained and did not give a damn for any kind of criminal activity that did not involve telephones. The chief special agent was their headman and reputedly more single-minded than J. Edgar Hoover. Technically, his title had been changed from "Chief Special Agent," a longtime title that had recently been judged too independent, to "Head of Security." But everyone in Security, everyone who came in contact with Security, and everyone who tried to avoid Security called Feferman chief special agent. Feferman's reputation had preceded him to California.
"The computer has picked up an interesting correlation," Feferman was saying. "Both switch failures occurred immediately following telephone calls involving Mr. Faulkner's home number. To be precise, Mr. Faulkner's son's number. You have two numbers assigned to your phone line, Mr. Faulkner, each one identifiable by a distinctive ringing pattern?"
"Yes. And they're both listed in the phone book, so anybody could have gotten my son's number."
"Failure number one"—Feferman rustled the papers before him, then held up one finger—"occurred after a call was placed from Mr. Faulkner's son's number to the emergency service 911. Failure number two"—a second finger shot up— "occurred after a call was placed from the Palo Alto central office to Mr. Faulkner's son's number."
A low whistle came from the television screen.
Colson finally spoke up. "Andy volunteered that information himself."
Andy felt absurdly grateful.
"Beating the computer to the punch. Yes, thank you, Mr. Colson, I appreciate Mr. Faulkner's zeal. And, according to Mr. Faulkner's statement, both phone calls were placed with a telecommunications device for the deaf. Since TDD calls are not identifiable as such in the call records, I appreciate Mr. Faulkner volunteering this information. As a matter of fact, the second TDD connection"—Feferman grimaced, as if someone else had made the pun—"so to speak, was brought to the attention of Security by the central office supervisor at the cutover."
"Faulkner's TDD," said Buck. It was the first time either of the local security men had spoken. Buck was young and heavyset, and Howland was a big jowly older man. Sitting side by side, they presented a solid block of dark-suited flesh.
Security hired gorillas, Andy thought, and it worked. Buck, Howland, and Feferman looked as though they would be equally at ease with computer printouts or rubber hoses in their hands.
"Where is the TDD now?" asked the veep.
"There are two of the machines in question, and they are in Security lockup," Feferman said. "The tiger team will have them shortly."
Andy remembered Wayne, hands jammed in his pockets, expression as cool as he could produce, his eyes flecked with panic as Andy took his TDD.
"You have a tiger team set up?" Colson asked with interest.
"That's right," said Feferman.
"I'd like to be on it."
"Thank you, Mr. Colson, but we don't need volunteers."
"You need the best technical people we have."
"Security has access to the best. As a matter of fact, I've selected one of your own people for the team. Candace Fuentes."
Colson's mouth compressed. "You might have asked me first."
"You object? She's expert on the 5ESS, she's familiar with the circumstances, and unlike Mr. Faulkner, her telephones were not involved in the failures. I think she'll be dynamite. You object?"
"Not formally."
"Good." Feferman got up, started circling the table. "There are two issues I want to kick around here. First, how are Mr. Faulkner's phone calls connected to the switch failures...."
"You're presupposing that they are connected," Colson said.
Feferman smiled. "I can have our computer calculate the odds of a coincidence. Mr. Faulkner or his son just happened to be on the telephone each time that a total 5ESS failure occurred, the only such times that there have been total 5ESS failures. Would that satisfy you?"
"No. That would be meaningless."
Feferman stopped behind Colson's chair. "The second issue I want to kick around is how Mr. Faulkner himself is connected."
"I'm not," Andy said.
"You're still presupposing," Colson said. He did not turn around to look at Feferman.
Feferman stalked to the other side of the table so that he could see Colson's face. "All right, Mr. Colson, if." He moved on to Andy. "First issue. Let's assume, assume, that the phone calls are a cause, and the failures are the effect. That makes the phone calls...?" He was past Andy, looking back.
"I don't know."
"Mr. Faulkner! You're the best. That's what my reports say, you're a brilliant troubleshooter. Please contribute. Cause and effect, so the phone calls are ..."
He was behind Andy now. Andy's stomach clenched. "A trigger." The after-shave was suffocating.
"Good. And if the calls are a trigger, and the effect is a switch failure, then...." Feferman paced.
"We have a virus!" the veep said. He had forgotten to face his camera, he was staring at his own screen, at the images around the conference table.
"We started checking that after the first failure," Andy said to the camera, then to Feferman. "We found no indications of a virus."
"So R-TAC has totally ruled out system contamination?" Feferman growled in surprise.
"We don't rule out anything," Colson said, "we prioritize."
"Did you look at the new generic?" Feferman said. "Our records show that an update of the operating system for the number five was shipped two weeks ago."
"It's clean," Andy said.
"You think it's clean. My tiger team will decide if it's clean. My tiger team will sniff every piece of software in the same building with the number five, and if there's contamination they will find it."
"There could have been physical penetration on-site," Buck put in, watching Feferman.
"Especially at the cutover. Too many goddamned people at the
cutover," said Howland.
"Faulkner was at the cutover," Buck said.
"That's issue two." Feferman wagged a finger at Buck. "We're on issue one."
"You are checking for any unauthorized visits?" the veep asked.
"I'm checking it down to the janitor's ass." Feferman abruptly settled in a chair directly across from Andy. "Starting with Mr. Faulkner. Okay, issue two."
Andy straightened. "Look, the calls were setups." He paused, expecting Feferman to pounce on the word "setups" again.
"The emergency call was a setup?" Feferman's eyes narrowed, two small dark holes bored into the massive face.
Maybe I didn't trip, Andy thought.
"Mr. Faulkner?"
"I don't know how it was set up. But in light of the cutover call, it makes a damn strange coincidence. If you'd like to have your computer calculate those odds."
Feferman did not smile.
"And then the cutover call. I got a message that my son had called me, and so I called him back, using my TDD. But he had not called. He was asleep at the time."
"And so?"
"And so somebody else made the call."
"Impersonating your son?"
"Yes, using a TDD, through a TDD relay operator. Look at the call records, you should find a record of the call. Find out where it was made from."
"Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Faulkner. As a matter of fact, I managed to think of that myself. In the time frame between the cutover and the switch failure, there was only one incoming call placed through a TDD relay operator. It originated at a phone booth across the street from the Palo Alto switch office."
Andy was chilled. He had known from the time he got home on the night of the cutover and questioned Wayne and the baby-sitter that someone else made the call. But this made it real, this was a place. A phone booth. Someone had stood in that phone booth and called the switch office pretending to be his son.
Feferman stood and began pacing, this time relaxed and leisurely. "How long do you think it would take someone to just slip out of the switch office—everyone is busy with the cutover so nobody notices—and dash across the street and make that call? Five minutes? Four minutes? Could be done in less." Andy was wondering the same thing.
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