by Rick Mofina
Sitting before her monitor, warm mug in her hands, Olivia thought of her aunt’s voice, her smile, so much like her mother’s. She thought of how good it was going to be to visit her, her uncle, her cousin. Her family.
Olivia thought of Ben. How she liked being with him. They got together whenever they could, to go to restaurants, a movie, a jazz club, a walk. It felt good. She no longer counted their dates. When he came for dinner, it would be her first time making a meal for him. She was a good cook, everything should be fine. But there was something else about his upcoming visit. Olivia lost herself in his handsome face, his deep voice, broad shoulders; how his strong hands felt so good when he took her in his arms to kiss her good night. She loved his long, soft kisses. They left her desiring more. But she wasn’t ready and Ben never pushed things. He was gentle, patient, letting their relationship follow its own rhythm.
Olivia looked upon her bed, her hand caressing her neck, thinking of his soft eyes, the pain hidden deep behind them over his partner’s shooting. Ben’s tragedy weighed heavily on her heart. Maybe she could help him come to terms with it. Resolve it, lessen the sorrow he carried. She believed he was telling the truth about what had happened that terrible day, but she knew nothing more of the case. After Ben had told her about it, he never spoke of it again.
Olivia’s keyboard began clicking as she called up the Web sites for the Bay Area’s major papers, to search their archives. She submitted her credit card number, then entered the terms Ben Wyatt police. She found nearly two dozen articles of varying length about the incident. If she knew more about what had happened to Ben and his partner, she would have a better understanding of what he was going through. Then she could help him.
The printer hummed.
The way the traffic hummed that night on the bridge when she stood at the edge of her world, ready to step from it.
But she hung on. Somehow and for some reason she had been saved. Her life had purpose. She had connected with her family. She had Ben and she could help him, as she could help the others who had helped her.
Olivia peered into her computer monitor, thinking of the very people who had encouraged her. She owed them. If she could help just one. Her keyboard clicked and she went on-line to her regular message boards and Internet e-mail.
Where was that guy who seemed to be hurting? Olivia hadn’t heard from him in a while. He’d been hurt deeply by someone. She searched her messages from her cyber-friends, site after site, until she found an e-mail address for him.
Olivia scrolled through their history. How did he put it in his latest plea? Ah, here it was: Is there really anyone out there who can truly forgive the sins of a past life?
Olivia began a new message to him.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Dead Horse Bar was an East Bay dive near the edge of Berkeley, a few blocks into Oakland. Far from the hill dwellers and mall crawlers, it rose from a forgotten corner, white mortar stains running down its cracked weatherworn bricks, its windows painted over and barred. A growling air conditioner bleeding rust-colored water over a dented metal door punctured by several bullet holes dared you to enter. A Harley backfired, sounding like a gunshot, sparking Wyatt’s nerves for half a second.
If he had had any doubts Gricks wanted to meet here, they ended when he spotted his lime-green VW beetle parked in the littered lot. Inside, Wyatt removed his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness, his nose assaulted by the smell of beer and many unpleasant things. The requisite large TVs were muted on the ball game over a wooden horseshoe-shaped bar. Some sorry-looking souls atop swivel-seat stools. One guy looked legless. The main floor had an assortment of saloon-style wooden chairs, tables and a jukebox. Along the walls, high-backed booths offered privacy. Gricks waved to him from a dark one in the back, where he was talking on his cell phone.
Wyatt ordered a Coors from the bartender, a tall man with a pock-marked face, greased back hair. Prison tattoos on his forearms. He set the bottle on the bar for Wyatt, who left a few bills.
“Thanks. Keep the change.”
The bartender’s head nodded slightly. No smiles.
Gricks finished his call. “My father lives in Berkeley. Retired professor. Nuclear physics. Got Alzheimer’s now. I try to see him as often as I can. This place is on my way.”
“Nice joint. Must really cheer you up.”
Gricks and his thoughts were elsewhere. He took a hit of his beer, then tugged thoughtfully at his beard.
“So what can you tell me, Randy?”
Gricks continued stroking his beard. “We’re just two guys talking at a bar.”
“Yes.”
“I am in a very difficult position because of my job at the lab. National security laws. You have to understand. I could find myself in a shit storm, major shit storm, because I have not been cleared to consult.”
“Makes two of us. We never had this conversation.”
“All right.”
“So tell me what you think happened to my disk.”
“Well, I stayed late a few nights working on it, that’s why I called you in the wee hours. Sorry.”
“Can we get to it, please?”
“I’m going to tell you a story. Think of it as possibly hypothetical.”
“Possibly hypothetical.”
“Remember years ago, it still happens, but years ago when the first sensational stories surfaced of how computer hackers were intruding into defense computer networks, major civil grid networks?”
“Sure, the kids and Pentagon stuff. There were movies.”
“Yeah, well, not long after that, the U.S. government initiated a highly classified computer defense strategy. At that time, I was with NSA working on developing Intelink, one of the government’s most secure communications networks. The CIA uses it and it’s linked to the White House. Then I got pulled from Intelink to a special program.”
“What was it?”
“It was called INFERNO. Back then, it was feared that our most sensitive computer systems, those critical to the security, the very survival of the nation, were vulnerable to intrusion, attack, and destruction by foreign governments hostile to the U.S. or terrorist groups.”
“Or teenagers alone in their bedrooms.”
“Well, once it was clear that hacking in was child’s play, many computer security systems emerged around the world in industry and governments. But INFERNO was unlike anything ever conceived. It was so secret and powerful it didn’t exist, really. It’s an ongoing process, developed in some secret buildings near Fort Meade, Maryland, with the best computer minds from the CIA, NSA, Defense, the industry, you name it. All working on a classified project aimed at defending America’s most vital computer systems from penetration. But it had many other aspects. Some might alarm people.”
“Such as?”
“It attempted to secretly link, for monitoring, every form of telecommunications, telephones, computers, radios, for the security of the nation.”
“Sounds like a sword, not a shield.”
“There were those in the program who had Big Brother concerns. Keep in mind Y2K was coming. A million nightmares could have been unleashed.”
“I’ll bet.”
“But imagine a scenario where someone could override our nuclear missile command strategy and hold the world hostage? Or crash planes, or cause the world’s nuclear plants to malfunction?”
“That’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible, Ben. Still is. We’re only human. Under INFERNO, the goal was to create the world’s ultimate computer and telecommunications emergency security system, to safeguard our most important computer systems from intrusion and attack.”
“When was INFERNO being developed?”
“At the dawn of the Internet. Some top-level security types envisioned what could happen.”
“What kinds of things did INFERNO unleash?”
“We were developing abilities whereby a period or the dot on a letter i could trigger a monitoring syst
em on all computer systems, even those off-line if they were within a thousand yards of a telephone, radio, or television. We were developing programs whereby everyday phrases, like ‘hello’ and ‘hi’, and a digit on the keypad, could activate monitoring of any telephone conversation, land line or cellular. These were the precursors to sniffers and the FBI’s carnivore program. They evolved from some of the early work the CIA and NSA developed in the Cold War era. You know, word recognition, character recognition. And we had developed the technology of reverse TV and radio whereby viewers and listeners could be viewed or heard through INFERNO.”
“You’re talking about anyone, anywhere, any time?”
Gricks nodded. “We’re talking about someone plotting to harm the nation, murder the nation, unleash weapons of mass destruction.”
“You worked on such things?”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes. I was there when we conducted theoretical field tests on some aspects. Believe me, they worked. Hypothetically.”
“I don’t understand the grand plan. How would you get the INFERNO system installed? Tap every TV, radio, and phone in America?”
Gricks was silent. He had finished his beer. He declined another from the bartender. So did Wyatt.
“This is hypothetical?”
“Sure, Randy, we’re developing a movie.”
“Federal legislation would be drafted to have computer, radio, telephone and television makers install certain frequency ranges, or components, or some specifications. It would also require imports to do the same, under new U.S. telecommunications law, et cetera. INFERNO’s people could activate the program at the security end. But the new law would have been low-key, simple to enact and be very cheap to comply with. It would be sweetened with tax relief initiatives. The law would have effectively and surreptitiously made all the equipment compatible, or vulnerable to INFERNO, it would have been so subtle and hidden. Then the U.S. would have leaned on friendly countries to require similar legislation. Believe me, it was all being done.”
“But we’re speaking hypothetically?”
Gricks smiled.
“What else can you tell me about INFERNO and how it relates to our unsolved murder?”
“When I left years ago, they were refining the search and computer destroy element of INFERNO. It was extremely sophisticated and this aspect alone could do many things with computers.”
“Such as?”
“Key among them was the ability to defend against cyber- or on-line attack. But it could also set traps, allow an intruder in so far, then turn him back, foil him, or lock on to him and trace his point of origin. It could also launch a counterstrike and destroy his program, his system timed to happen immediately or at any desired date, time, second, while pinpointing his location.”
“Why haven’t these cases emerged in the press?”
“Because the government does not go to court on the cases involving attacks that just scratch the surface of the highest-security areas. It does not want the attention. The intruder is simply taken out of commission.”
“What do you mean?”
“His or her system can be fried, he’s shut down. They never ever penetrate very far in any high-level government system before they’re thwarted. The government can shut them down on other charges too, diverting attention from the actual intrusion.”
“Where did the INFERNO name come from?”
“From Dante’s Divine Comedy. Because the system had several realms, or levels of impenetrable security, getting through them would be like going to hell because you would not escape. An inside joke, so to speak.”
“So how does this relate to the murder of a San Francisco office worker?”
Gricks pulled Wyatt’s damaged disk from his pocket. “Your disk had an INFERNO style of signature all over it.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s very rare but it appears that somebody your victim communicated with on-line had demonstrated an understanding of INFERNO. It’s not identical but it’s incredibly similar in the malevolent way it defended itself against penetration then sought to destroy the attacker. You. Hence your disk was destroyed when you attempted to find him.”
“I didn’t know he was there in the first place. How good is this person?”
“Dangerously good. Remember a few years back, there was the famous I Love You virus. Then came the more powerful Thank You virus, a simple e-mail ditty that breached about ninety-one percent of all e-mail on earth within three days. Did some major damage. Then came the Code Red threat.”
“Yes.”
“Relatively speaking, they were harmless. But this guy, from my early read on things, has just demonstrated that he has the potential, I stress the potential, to unleash a mass-mailing worm with some sophisticated DDOS tools.”
“What sorts of Distributed Denial of Service signatures are we talking, Gricks?”
“Potentially complicated frontier stuff, the new super-potent DEMON configurations. Conceptually, they think for themselves.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Well we’re getting into sci-fi, applying the realities of doctored silicon. Anyway, your guy could have some heavy-duty malicious activity planned, like exploration and reconnaissance for widespread attacks. I stress could. He also seems easily able to launch backdoor compromises with several intricate password sniffers, so he could launch attacks in the future. I would rate him as one hundred times more sophisticated than the I Love You and Thank You people. And I don’t know what else he might be hiding in his bag of tricks.”
“Shouldn’t you be on to this, alerting your cyber-detective friends with INFERNO? Help me find him, help me take him out of commission.”
“It’s not that simple, Ben.”
“Christ, Gricks. Aren’t you concerned?”
“We can watch, but can’t let anyone know.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He’s demonstrated the capability. You can’t act on what he is capable of doing. You can’t arrest me because I am capable of a committing a crime. He has not expressed intent or conspiracy. Right. I checked. He has not attempted to breach any federal, state, or local security system.”
“What do you call what he did to my disk?”
“An act of defense, albeit a disturbing one, but it’s not a willful expression to threaten or conspire to threaten the security of the United States. People do have rights, you know.”
“What am I going to do? Help me find out if he’s a suspect or not. If I nail him you might get to see his workshop.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Simplify it for me. A woman was murdered.”
“All right. In simple terms, my job is to defend against threats to the nation. So far, this guy has not moved into my jurisdiction. So as horrible and cold as this sounds, Ben, I can’t play my hand for one murder, or several murders. That’s your jurisdiction.”
“Whose side are you on?” Wyatt shook his head. “National security shit.”
“I absolutely can’t be involved. I told you that. I could face federal charges for talking to you. I could go to prison.”
Wyatt sat back. Defeated. Disgusted. “You married, Randy?”
“Yes.”
“Got kids?”
“Two girls.”
“What if he did what he did to that woman to one of your daughters, then gives you the finger with this?” Wyatt tapped the disk.
“I knew you would play this cop crap on me. I knew it.” He looked away, swallowing his beer. He said nothing and reached into his bag for a small padded envelope. Slid it to Wyatt. Inside he found half a dozen unmarked disks and a small plain booklet that looked like instructions.
“What’s this?”
“Ammunition, if you decide to go into battle.” Gricks left several crumpled bills on the table then stood to leave. “I’m not involved. Understand. You’re on your own, Ben.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Walkie-talkie chatter snapped back and forth on the
restaurant set near the financial district where an exhausted stone-faced crew was shooting a TV commercial. Sydowski looked for Louise.
“Sir?”
The tanned muscle-bound security guard placed his hand on Sydowski’s shoulder. “This part of the restaurant is a closed set. You have to leave.”
Sydowski looked at the hand, then at the guard. He opened his jacket, revealing his gun, then fished his SFPD star from his jacket. No other words were required.
Sydowski made his way deeper into the set. Louise was refusing his calls. He had a little time before his next homicide meeting. Before letting him go, Turgeon checked his cell phone and increased the ring volume.
Picking his way through the conversations, young girls with clipboards, the technicians in torn jeans, carrying electrical equipment, the suits drinking over-priced mineral water from ornate bottles, Sydowski saw Louise sitting by herself at a table, crunching on a celery stick, studying a script. She didn’t look up from the pages.
“You here to apologize, or arrest me, Walter?”
“Arrest you?”
“For the crime of trying to help an obstinate jackass.”
“Those are my only choices?” He pleaded into her lovely green eyes. She was still cross with him. “I’ve come to apologize, Louise.”
She flipped her script over, folded her arms. “Go on.”
“I was wrong.” He sat down. “Look, I won’t go into Reggie getting shot because of Wyatt freezing on him. That’s a raw wound with me. You have to understand that.”
“You’ve made it abundantly clear.”
“Louise, I was wrong for the way I treated you.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I know.” Sydowski’s phone rang. He slipped on his bifocals to study the keypad of his ringing new cell phone. “I liked the old ones better. These new tiny things are a chore.”
“You don’t deserve me, you know?” Louise pulled up her bag to rummage through it.
