Nancy did offer some information about the layout of the Demain facility. Stoll dutifully morphed her descriptions with the floor plan. It had been sent from Op-Center via a remote-access software package designed by Stoll. Thanks to the Ultrapipeline capacity of the NRO’s Hermit satellite, mainframes at Op-Center were able to communicate wirelessly with computers in the field. Stoll’s patented software boosted the data transfer capacity of the Hermitlink from two- to five-kilobyte blocks using elements of Zmodem file transfer protocol and spread-spectrum. radio transmission in the 2.4- to-2.483-gigahertz range.
Not that the link helped. There wasn’t much Nancy could tell them. She knew the setup of the manufacturing and programing areas, but knew nothing of the executive suites or of Dominique’s private quarters.
Hood left Nancy with her thoughts and Stoll in the relative comfort of a multiuser Dungeon computer game which he used to relax. Venturing into the cockpit, Hood listened while the eager, almost buoyant Hausen told him about his youth.
Hausen’s father Maximillian had been a pilot with the Luftwaffe. He’d specialized in night fighting, and had flown the first operational sortie of the Heinkel He 219 when it shot down five Lancasters. Like many Germans, Hausen did not speak apologetically of his father’s wartime exploits.
Military service could not be avoided, and it didn’t diminish Hausen’s love or respect for Maximillian. Still, as the German spoke about his father’s activities, Hood found it difficult not to think of the families of the young crew members of those downed Lancasters.
Perhaps sensing Hood’s discomfort, Hausen asked, “Did your father serve?” Hood said, “My father was a medic. He was stationed at Fort McClellan in Alabama setting broken bones and treating cases of”— he looked at Elisabeth— “various diseases.” “I understand,” Hausen said.
“So do I,” Elisabeth put in.
The woman gave him a half-smile. Hood returned it. He felt as if he was back in Op-Center trying to walk the tightrope between political correctness and sexual discrimination.
“And you never wanted to be a doctor?” Hausen asked.
“No,” Hood said. “I wanted to help people and I felt that politics was the best way. Some people of my generation thought revolution was the answer. But I decided to work with the so-called establishment.” “You were wise,” Hausen said. “Revolution is rarely the answer.” “What about you?” Hood asked. “Did you always want to be in politics?” He shook his head. “From the time I was able to walk I wanted to fly,” he said. “When I was seven, on our farm near the Rhine in Westphalia, my father taught me to fly the 1913 Fokker Spider monoplane he’d restored. When I was ten and attending boarding school in Bonn, I switched to a Bucker two-seat biplane at a nearby field.” Hausen smiled.
“But I always saw beauty from the air turn to squalor on the ground. And like you, when I came of age, I decided to help people.” “Your parents must have been proud,” Hood said.
Hausen’s expression darkened. “Not exactly. It was a very complicated situation. My father had quite definite ideas about things, including what his son should do for a living.” “And he wanted you flying,” Hood said.
“He wanted me with him, yes.” “Why? It isn’t as though you turned your back on a family business.” “No,” Hausen said, “it was worse. I turned my back on my father’s wishes.” “I see. And are they still furious?” “My father passed away two years ago,” Hausen said.
“We were able to talk shortly before his death, though much too much was left unsaid. My mother and I speak regularly, though she hasn’t been the same since his death.” While he listened, Hood couldn’t help but think back to Ballon’s comments about Hausen being a headline grabber.
Having been a politician himself, Hood understood that good press was important. But he wanted to believe that this man was sincere. And in any case, there wasn’t going to be press coverage in France.
A politician’s Catch-22, he thought wryly. No one to report on our triumphs if we succeed, but no one to report on our arrest and humiliation if we fail, either.
As Hood was about to return to the cabin, he had an urgent summons from Stoll.
“Come here, Chief! Something’s happening on the computer!” There was no longer a frightened tremolo in the voice of Op-Center’s technical genius. Matt Stoll’s voice was thick, concerned. Hood made his way quickly across the soft white carpet.
“What’s wrong?” Hood asked.
“Look what just hacked its way into the game I was playing.” Hood sat beside him on the right. Nancy moved from her seat on the other side of the cabin and sat on Stoll’s left.
Stoll pulled down the window shade so they would have a better view. They all looked at the screen.
There was a graphic of a vellum-like scroll with gothicstyle printing. A white hand held it open on the top, another on the bottom.
“Citizens, hear ye!” it read. “We pray you will forgive this interruption.
“Did you know that according to the Sentencing Project, a public-interest group, one third of all black men between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine are in prison, on probation, or on parole? Did you know that this figure marks a ten percent rise from just five years ago? Did you know that these blacks cost the nation over six billion dollars each year? Watch for us in eighty-three minutes.” Hood asked, “Where did this come from, Matt?” “I have no idea.” Nancy said, “Don’t break-ins usually occur through interactive terminal ports or file-transfer ports—” “Or E-mail ports, yeah,” Stoll said. “But this break-in isn’t originating at Op-Center. This scroll came from somewhere else. And that somewhere else is probably very well hidden.” “What do you mean?” Hood asked.
“Sophisticated break-ins like this are usually done through a series of computers.” “So can’t you just follow the trail backwards?” Hood asked.
Stoll shook his head. “You’re right that these boobs use their computer to break into another, then use that one to break into another, and so on. But it’s not like connect-thedots where each stop is a single point. Each computer represents thousands of potential routes. Like a train terminal but with hundreds of tracks leading to different destinations.” The screen cleared and a second scroll appeared.
“Did you know that the unemployment rate among black men and women is more than double that of white men and women? Did you know that an average of nine out of the ten top records of the country this year were performed by blacks, and that your white daughters and girlfriends are purchasing over sixty percent of this so-called music? Did you know that only five percent of the books in this country are purchased by blacks? Watch for us in eighty-two minutes.” Hood asked, “Is this appearing anywhere else?” Stoll’s fingers were already speeding over the keyboard. “Checking,” he said as he typed “listserv@cfrvm.sfc.ufs.stn.” “This is a group that discusses Hong Kong action films. It’s the most obscure E-mail address I know.” After a moment, the screen changed.
“I happen to think that Jackie Chan’s potrayal of Wong Fei Hong is the definitive interpretation. Even though Jackie’s off-screen persona is visible in the characterization, he makes it work.” Stoll said, “It’s safe to say the interlopers only went after the gamers.” “Which makes sense,” Nancy said, “if they’re going to be offering hate games to that market.” “But they wouldn’t be offering them aboveboard,” Hood said. “I mean, one wouldn’t find their ads in the Internet Yellow Pages.” “No,” Stoll agreed. “But word spreads quickly. Anyone who wants to play would know where to find them.” “And with the Enjoystick providing an extra kick,” Hood said, “kids who didn’t know any better would certainly want to play.” “What about laws?” Nancy said. “I thought there were restrictions on what you could send through the Internet.” “There are,” Stoll said. He returned to the scrolls on Mufti-User Dungeon and sat back. For the moment, his fears were clearly forgotten. “They’re the same laws which govern other markets. Child pornographers are chased and caught.
Advertising for hit men is illegal. But rattling off facts like these, facts you can find in any good almanac, is not illegal.
Even when the intent is clearly racist. The only crime these people have committed is breaking into other people’s rooms. And I guarantee this message will be gone in a few hours, before network officials can get close to locating them.” Nancy looked at Hood. “You obviously think this is Dominique’s doing.” “He has the capability, doesn’t he?” “That doesn’t make him a criminal.” “No,” Hood agreed. “Killing and stealing do.” Her eyes held his for a moment, then dropped.
Apparently oblivious to the others, Stoll said, “There are touches on this scroll which remind me of the game in Hausen’s office.” He leaned forward and touched the screen.