Terminal Compromise

"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.

"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"

"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago."

Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."

"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.

"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the INTERNET problems."

The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.

"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation- al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.

Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then there is a potential national security issue. But I can a.s.sure you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan tried to sound confident of his position.

"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a sublimation. Cleared my a.s.s. f.u.c.king spooks. Duncan had the common sense to censor himself effectively.

"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.

"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly.

Other than Bob, he was not with friends.

"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has been cla.s.sified for several years. We don't even admit that it exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an inventive imagination. Do you follow?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a secret to too many people?"

"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest Program?"

"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.

"Tempest is a cla.s.sified program managed by the Department of Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer was doing. Read cla.s.sified information. I'm sure you see the problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the geniality test.

Duncan nodded in understanding.

"We are concerned because the Tempest program is cla.s.sified and more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."

"What for?"

"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence community. We listen to other people for a living."

"You mean you spy

"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick- ly.

Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother att.i.tude at work. He hated the 'my s.h.i.+t doesn't stink' att.i.tude of the NSA. All in the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I would have thought this was pure science fiction."

"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is; what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.

Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was contact it was relegated to briefings, policy s.h.i.+fts...pretty bureaucratic stuff.

"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.

"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke up again. "We have been asked to a.s.sist the NSA in the matter."

"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"

"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi- nent. "The protection of cla.s.sified information is their respon- sibility. A group was created to report on computer security problems that might have an effect on national security. On that committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."

Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.

"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.

"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.

Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.

"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."

"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more than the van.

Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an order."

How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize their relations.h.i.+p? He thought, and then realized it might not matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con- versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.

"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it worked."

The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For a defense contractor?"

"No, he's also a reporter."

"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless- ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut told him otherwise.

"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if all else failed.

"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."

Tuesday., December 1 New York City

The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypa.s.sing his desk, and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him coming and was ready.

"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story, you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece and then...this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's face. "Where the f.u.c.k is my story? And don't give me any of this 'we didn't have the room' s.h.i.+t. You yourself thought we were onto something bigger..."

Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the 9th floor, Scott was still in his face.