The Devil's Code

Firewall, along with several friends. But we are not,” I told Welsh. “We began researching the situation, trying to figure out what was going on. Are you aware of the source of the Firewall rumors?”
    “Sir, we don’t have much to do with trying to find Firewall. That’s the FBI . . .” She was scared, on the edge of bolting. Calling me sir.
    “The Firewall rumors are coming from an ISP called Bloch Technology in Laurel,” I said. “It’s a private server whose clients are almost all NSA employees. We believe that the NSA is Firewall and will inform the FBI of our conclusions tonight.”
    The fear was receding; I could see it in her eyes. She’d become interested in what I was saying. “You think the NSA is attacking the IRS?”
    “We think a group of European morons is attacking the IRS and jumped on the Firewall name because it was already notorious and it sounds neat.”
    She asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Bobby?” I hesitated, but in hesitating, answered the question. “So you have.”
    “Yes.”
    “The FBI and our security people are debriefing him now,” she said. An implied threat, showing a little guts.
    Again I hesitated; but they’d find out soon enough what they had. “That would very much surprise me,” I said, “since he’s the one who got me your name. This afternoon.”
    Her eyebrows went up: “You’re joking.”
    “I’m afraid not. The guy you picked up may be named Bobby, but he’s not Bobby.”
    “What about Terrence Lighter?” she asked.
    Now I had to make a decision; again, a tough one, but what the hell: “Have you heard the name Jack Morrison?”
    “Yes.” Nothing more.
    “Then you know he was supposedly shot to death by a guard at one of your contracting companies—AmMath, in Dallas.”
    “He was definitely shot to death by a guard.”
    I held up a finger: “We don’t think so. We think he was killed by the same people who killed Lighter. Look at Lighter’s outgoing e-mail; he’s on the Bloch server. Then look at Morrison’s travel. He came to see Lighter twice last week, the last time, the night Lighter was killed. The Lighter and Morrison murders go together, and they were coordinated through an ISP that’s basically a server used by your people.”
    She shook her head. “Why should I believe you?”
    “Don’t. Just investigate. You’re a security executive. Do your job.”
    I glanced back over my shoulder: we’d been talking for two or three minutes, I thought, but it felt like an eternity. “I’ve got to go. I will call you, to find out if you’re moving on the case. If you are, we won’t have to. If you don’t, we will, and we make no guarantees about who gets hurt. We will call the FBI, tonight, about the Bloch Technology server.”
    I took a step back, and she said, “Would you have shot me if I screamed?”
    I looked down at the pistol in my hand, shook my head, and tossed it to her. She picked it out of the air as I jogged away. “It’s not loaded,” I said as I went. “I didn’t want it to leak on my pants.”
    She was still standing there when I turned the corner. She called after me, “Nice talking to you, Bill.”
    A little guts.
    S o are you going to call the FBI?” LuEllen asked, as we rolled away.
    “Absolutely. If we get two bunches of bureaucrats fighting over the server, it’ll be harder to keep it hushed up.”
    I made the call from a pay phone, working down Bobby’s list of FBI agents’ names and home phone numbers. The first two weren’t home. The third guy was named Don Sobel, and he answered the call on the first ring. He sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of shredded wheat; in the background, I could hear the Letterman show.
    “Mr. Sobel,” I said. “I’m a member of the computer community. I’m calling to tell you that this group, Firewall, which is supposedly attacking the IRS, was invented by the National Security Agency . . .”
    “Who is this?” The way he asked, I knew what he was thinking: crank.
    “I’m calling several different people,” I said, “so if you’re interested in keeping your job, you should write down this name. Bloch Technology. B-L-O-C-H. Thecompany has an Internet server in Laurel, Maryland, at the Carter-Byrd Center . . .”
    “Just a minute, just a minute, let me get this down,” he said.
    I spelled the name again, and then said, “The server is the source of the Firewall rumors. If you check the client list, you will find