The Siren Project (31 page)

“Then who?”

“I don’t know, but whoever he is, I want to
shake his hand. He’s the hacker king of the universe!”

“It was EB,” Gunter said with certainty,
glancing back from the steering wheel. He turned the car onto a main road and
melted into the traffic at a sedate speed. “He has demonstrated a capacity to
penetrate any computer system, almost instantly. No one else could have done
it.”

“Yeah G,” Mouse said, “But do you know how
tough it is to crack open the FBI computers? And plant all that fake data? And
then get everyone moving on it? That’s a major sting operation, not something
you throw together in a couple of minutes.”

“How did he know we were in trouble?” Mitch
asked.

“He’s on the inside,” Christa said. “He
must know about McNamara.”

“And Knightly,” Gunter added.

“EB couldn’t warn us, but he could save us,”
Christa said.

“The question is, can he save himself?”
Mitch said thoughtfully. “McNamara has the CDs with EB's download. It won’t
take him long to break our encryption.”

“Hey!” Mouse said offended. “That’s my
encryption system! Custom made. Those NSA jocks will need a brain transplant to
figure it out.”

Mitch shook his head slowly. “If they
really do have access to NSA facilities, they’ll crack it, then they’ll analyze
the data and figure out where it came from. The question is, how long do we
have?”

“We have to warn EB,” Christa said urgently.

“Gunter, find me a seven eleven!” Mitch
said

“Right on!” Mouse declared, guessing
Mitch’s intention. “Time for EB to phone home.”

* * * *

They found an all night diner with a
manager barely out of puberty who greeted them with practiced courtesy.

“I’d like to see the owner,” Mitch said.

“He left about an hour ago. Can I help you?
I’m the night manager.”

Mitch looked around the diner, ensuring no
one was paying attention to them, then whispered, “Do you want to make five
thousand bucks, no questions asked?”

The young manager’s eyes widened, then fear
splashed over his face. “I can’t do anything illegal, I’d lose my job–”

“It’s nothing like that kid,” Mitch
reassured him. “We need to use some of your equipment. No one will ever know,
and you'll make a clean five grand.”

The young man’s innate cunning took hold. He
may have been the night shift manager of a third rate diner, but he was no
fool. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Fifteen minutes and we’ll be out
of here.”

The manager cast a calculating look at the
waitress, who was loafing by the counter trying to avoid eye contact with the
customers. “Cash?”

“Nope, credit transfer. As good as cash, we
put the money in your bank account.”

“Hmm. What do you need our equipment for?”

“We have to make a phone call, only it’s
kind of tricky.”

The diner's manager, now consumed with self
interest, whispered enthusiastically. “Deal, mister.”

“Where’s the credit card reading machine?”

The young man showed them the primitive set
up beside the cash register. Christa and Gunter sat on stools, while the others
went behind the counter.

“Prehistoric,” was Mouse’s assessment of
the diner’s equipment as he reconnected the cables, routing his computer
through the modem that dialed the credit card center.

“The boss is cheap. He won’t spend money on
anything.”

Mitch passed Mouse his credit card. “Okay
kid, give him your number and we’ll download five grand.”

“You can’t transfer from that, it automatically
deposits in the diner’s account.”

“Not anymore,” Mouse informed him
confidently.

The young manager gave Mouse his account
number, then when the transfer was completed, he leaned forward, eagerly. “Did
it go through?”

“Sure did,” Mouse replied.

“Congratulations kid, you just made five
grand,” Mitch said.

“Now what?” the manager asked.

“We hope our friend heard the phone ring.”

Christa peered over the counter, watching
Mouse’s notebook computer hopefully, while Gunter turned his back on them, keeping
a wary eye on the customers in the diner. A couple of patrons glanced over
toward the cash register, curious as to what was happening, although most
showed no interest. Only the waitress in back was craning her neck suspiciously
to see what they were doing.

“Something bounced,” Mouse observed as a
signal came back up the line tracing the connection. A moment later his screen
went blank. He tapped the small keyboard experimentally. “ Someone just took
over my computer.”

“Can he read what you type?” Mitch asked

Mouse shrugged. “If he’s watching the
keyboard buffer, he can.”

Mitch replaced Mouse at the computer. “If
this guy’s half as smart as I think he is, he’s watching everything already.” Mitch
typed,
EB is that you? This is Mitchell.

GOOD EVENING JOHN MITCHELL.

I RECOGNIZE YOUR COMPUTING DEVICE FROM THE
NEWTON INSTITUTE.

Mitch smiled. “Just like a fingerprint.”
You are in danger. McNamara has the data you sent us.

I KNOW.

The data is encrypted,
but McNamara will crack the code, and trace it to you.

THE ENCRYPTION ALGORITHM IS ALREADY
DECIPHERED.

“Oh man, already!” Mouse couldn't hide his
disappointment at how easily the enemy had overcome his creation.

You must get away, We’ll
help you.

I CANNOT.

“They must suspect him,” Mitch said.
Do they know you sent us data?

NO. THEY DO NOT KNOW THE ALGORITHM HAS BEEN
DECIPHERED.

Mitch looked puzzled.
How
can they not know?

I HAVE NOT TOLD THEM.

“What?”
Why would you
have to tell them?

I CONTROL THE DECODING PROCESS.

I HAVE TOLD THEM IT IS A DIFFICULT CODE TO
BREAK.

How long can you delay
them?

INDEFINITELY.

“Alright EB!” Mouse clapped, delighted.

You may still be in
danger. Echelon may be tracking this call.

ECHELON IS TRACKING, HOWEVER, I NOW CONTROL
ECHELON.

“Is that possible?” Mitch asked
incredulously.

“The man’s a genius!’ Mouse exclaimed. “I
abdicate as the king of hackers. EB is the new king! Long live EB!”

The young manager, watching the messages
appearing on Mouse’s computer said, “Who are you talking to? What’s Echelon?”

Mitch looked up. “Beat it kid. For five
grand, I want privacy.”

Mouse slipped in between the young manager
and Mitch, and gently guided him away.

How did you get control of Echelon?

I REPROGRAMMED NSA SUPER COMPUTERS
REMOTELY.

Mouse, hurrying back, read the latest
message over Mitch’s shoulder. “Jeez!”

“What does he mean, remotely?” Mitch asked.

“He took the NSA out, by phone!” A broad
grin appeared on Mouse’s face. “Man! Someone is sure going to get their butt
kicked over that.” His mind whirled as he realized the enormity of what EB was
saying. “The NSA is the holy grail. They've got firewalls no one can get
through. If he can take them out, then no secret is safe, anywhere in the world.”
Mouse leaned forward toward the keyboard and said enthusiastically. “Ask him
about Area 51. Ask him if the US Government really has made a deal with aliens
from Zeta Reticulum. Tell him to download pictures of alien autopsies. Ask him
who really killed Kennedy? And . . . “

“Not now,” Mitch said, gently pushing Mouse
back.
Can we use the phones without being caught by
Echelon?

YES. ONLY I WILL KNOW. ECHELON IS NOW MY
EYES AND EARS.

Mouse reading the words off the screen,
slapped Mitch on the back and burst out laughing. “I knew it! EB is God!”

Can they catch you?

NO, ROUTINE INTERCEPT TRAFFIC IS PROCEEDING
AS NORMAL.

I AM ONLY FILTERING.

Mouse sobered, calming. “Wow. That’s risky.
He can’t filter every intercept Echelon gets from every part of the world. That’s
billions of communications. He must be controlling the dictionaries. Something
will get through.”

How much can you filter?

EVERYTHING.

Mitch glanced up at Mouse. “What do you
think?”

Mouse bit his lip thoughtfully. “He’s
either the most brilliant mind in history, or he’s lying.”

Gunter leaned forward. “He sent us the technical
data on ENP Conditioning. He has proven his mastery of the computer sciences. He
is not lying.”

“He may not be as smart as he makes out,”
Mitch said, “But he’s definitely on the inside, playing a double game.”
Can you ensure no communications to FBI Special Agent Michael J.
Lamar are intercepted?

ONE MOMENT.

Mitch waited, then when no more
communications came through, he sat back, glancing up at the others.

“What happened?” Christa asked.

“Maybe he’s got another call,” Mitch said
as more words appeared on the screen.

IT IS DONE.

FBI SPECIAL AGENT MICHAEL J. LAMAR IS
IMMUNE TO ECHELON, AS IS JOHN MITCHELL, CURTIS SZILINSKY, GUNTER WARTENBURG AND
CHRISTA MALLESON.

“What’s done?” Mouse asked. “What the hell
does that mean?”

“We just got the cyber equivalent of a
vaccination,” Mitch said. “I guess we can use the phones again.”
Did you arrange for my arrest today?

AFFIRMATIVE.

“Satisfied?” Mitch asked.

Mouse nodded. “He must have had something
prepackaged.”

“Do we need to tell him anything else?”

“Ask him about the militia attack.” Gunter
suggested.

What can you tell us
about an attack in New York by the American Patriot’s Regiment?

IT WILL OCCUR TOMORROW, AT NOON.

“He knows,” Mitch said.
What kind of attack?

THE CONVENTION CENTER WILL BE DESTROYED.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE TO THE CITY WILL BE
EXTREME.

“The whole city?” Mouse asked, astonished.

Who is the American
Patriot’s Regiment?

A BLACK OPERATIONS, SPECIAL FORCES UNIT.

“I knew it!”

Do you mean Ex-Special
Forces? No longer in the military?

IT IS AN ACTIVE UNIT, OPERATING OUTSIDE US
COMMAND AUTHORITY.

“What does that mean?”
Whose
orders are they acting under?

SINCOM.

“Anyone ever heard of Sincom?” Mitch asked.

“I thought I knew them all,” Christa said, “But
I’ve never heard of Sincom.”

“Well, they got the name right,” Mouse
said. “Lots of sin in this.”

What is Sincom?

STRATEGIC INSURGENCY COMMAND.

What’s its purpose?

DESTABILIZE OR INFLUENCE FOREIGN
GOVERNMENTS BY CONTROLLING NATIONAL LEADERS.

SINCOM IS A JOINT FORCES COMMAND COMPRIS -

The screen went blank. Mitch waited a
moment, then typed,
EB are you still there?
Seconds
passed, with no response. “Something cut the link. Get him back.”

Mouse replaced Mitch on the stool and began
testing the computer and the connection.

“If they figured out EB was stalling on
decrypting the computer disks,” Mitch said, “They might be watching him,
without him knowing.”

“No way!” Mouse exclaimed. “There’s no way
anyone could watch this guy without him knowing.” He switched off his computer
and restarted it. “I’ll try from scratch. Whatever line we’re on, it’s dead.”

The waitress was talking to the young
manager, indicating the four gathered around the cash register. He waved her
toward a customer, then came back to them. “How much longer? Doris wants to
know what you’re up to.”

“Not long,” Mitch assured him.

“You said fifteen minutes.”

“Another five thousand for five more
minutes, okay kid?”

The manager glanced at Doris, then nodded. “Okay,
I’ll keep her pouring coffee for another five minutes, then you’ve got to get
out of here.”

Mouse made a second electronic transfer to
the manager’s account and waited. A minute passed, then another. Finally Mouse
said, “If he’s there, he’s not talking.”

“He’s not there,” Mitch decided. “Close it
up. We’re out of here.”