Terminal Compromise Part 123

"Yes. With Scott it bothered me a little. So I made believe I was on the Dating Game. All expense paid date." Sonja knew exactly what Stephanie meant. Deep inside she had known that at one point or another she would have to meet the conflict between her profession and her feelings straight on and deal with it.

She had not suspected that it would be for pa.s.sion, nor because of one of her 'dates'.

"Besides," Sonja added, "I didn't need to push him into anything.

He's so hung on this story that it's almost an obsession with him."

"That's good to know, I guess," Stephanie said vacantly until her thoughts took form. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't the four of us get together sometime. I'm sure the boys have a lot in common."

"Scott should be down tonight."

"That should be fine. We were going to dinner anyway. Maybe we can put this behind us."

New York City

The traffic engineers frantically searched for the reason that the signals had all turned green. They reinitialized the switch- es and momentarily thousands of green lights flashed red and yellow, but there was no relief from the gridlock. Computer technicians rapidly determined that the processor control code was 'glitching', as they so eloquently described the current disaster. A global error, they admitted, but correctable, in time. The engineers isolated the switching zones and began manually loading the software that controlled each region's switches in the hope of piecing together the grid.

At noon the engineers and technicians had tied together the dozens of local switches into the network and watched as they synchronized with each other. The computers compare the date, the time, antic.i.p.ated traffic flow, weather conditions and adjust the light patterns and sequences accordingly. Twenty minutes later, just as system wide synchronization was achieved, every light turned green again. It was then that the engineers knew that it was only the primary sync-control program which was corrupted.

The Mayor publicly commended the Traffic Commissioner for getting the entire traffic light system back in operation by 2:00 P.M..

The official explanation was a ma.s.sive computer failure, which was partially true. Privately, though, Gracie Mansion instructed the police to find out who was responsible for the dangerous software and they in turn called the Secret Service. The media congratulated the NYPD, and the population of the City in coping with the crisis. To everyone's relief there were no deaths from the endless stream of traffic accidents, but almost a hundred were injured seriously enough to be taken to the hospital.

Whoever was responsible would be charged with attempted murder among other a.s.sorted crimes. All they had to do was find him.

New York City

Telephoning to another day is about as close to time travel as we will see for a century, but that's how Scott felt when he called OSO Industries in Tokyo. Was he calling 17 hours into the next day, or was he 7 hours and one day behind? All he knew was that he needed an international clock to figure out when to call j.a.pan during their business hours. Once he was connected to the OSO switchboard, he had to pa.s.s scrutiny by three different opera- tors, one of them male, and suffer their terrible indignities to the English language. He told h.o.m.osoto's secretary, whose Eng- lish was acceptable, that he was doing a story on dGraph and needed a few quotes. It must have been slow in Tokyo as he was patched through almost immediately.

"Yes?"

"Mr. h.o.m.osoto?"

"Yes."

"This is Scott Mason, from the New York City Times. I am calling from New York. How are you today?"

"Fine, Mr. Mason. How may I help you?" h.o.m.osoto was obviously the gratuitous sort when it came to the press.

"We are preparing to run a story in which Pierre Troubleaux accuses you of murdering his partner Max Jones. He also says that dGraph software is infected with destructive programs.

Would you like to comment, sir?" Scott asked as innocently as possible under the circ.u.mstances.

No answer.

"Sir? Mr. h.o.m.osoto?"

"Yes?"

"We are also interested in your relations.h.i.+p with Miles Foster.

Mr. h.o.m.osoto?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Are you financing hackers and Arabs to distribute computer viruses?"

No answer.

"Sir, do you know anything about a blackmail operation in the United States?"

"I should have killed him."

"What?" Scott strained his ear.

"Mr. Troubleaux is alive?"

"I can't answer that. Do you have any comment, sir? On anything?"

"I have nothing to say. Good day." The phone went dead.

Guilty as sin. A non-denial denial.

Chapter 25

Sat.u.r.day, January 16 Tokyo, j.a.pan

Dressed as business-like on the weekend as during the week, Taki h.o.m.osoto sat at his regal techno-throne overlooking the Tokyo skyline from his 66th floor vista. It was time. Years of prepa- ration and millions of dollars later, it was time. Perhaps a little earlier than he would have liked, but the result would be the same anyway.

The first call h.o.m.osoto made was to Ahmed Shah in his Columbia University office. Ahmed responded with his PRG code as the computer requested.

>>>>>

GOOD YOU ARE THERE.

I can't get too far without my man-servant.

I WANT TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INVALUABLE a.s.sISTANCE. HE IS DEAD?

Yes. It took two martyrs, one is being tortured by the FBI, but he has Allah to guide him.

GOOD. CAN YOU DO MORE?

I am at your disposal. This is not the war I expected, but I serve Allah's will, and he is using you as his instrument of revenge.

THE BANK CARDS. THEY ARE FOR YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE TO FUND YOUR EFFORTS.