Games of State

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"There was never any question that I would know how to fly." Paul Hood stood behind Richard Hausen as he piloted the Learjet through the skies over France. He was speaking, loudly to be heard over the two powerful turbofan engines.

Lang's full-time pilot, Elisabeth Stroh, sat beside him. She was a handsome young brunette about twenty-seven, whose French and English were impeccable. Lang's instructions to her had been to fly in with them, wait with the jet, and fly out with them again. Her conversation had been limited to communication with the tower in Hamburg and now in Toulouse, and remarks to the passengers about their flight plan. If she was interested in what Hausen was saying, she didn't show it.

Hood had been sitting in the cabin with Stoll and Nancy. After nearly ninety minutes in the air, he needed to get away from them both: Stop because he hadn't stopped talking, and Nancy because she didn't want to start.

Seated in one of the plush sofas which lined the walls of the cabin, Stoll had been saying that he never thought of himself as a team player. He went to work for Op-Center, because he was a loner, because they needed a self-starter who liked to sit at a desk and write software and troubleshoot hardware. He pointed out that he wasn't a Striker and was not obligated to go into the field. He was doing this out of respect for Hood, not courage. The rest of the time he spent complaining about possible glitches in the T-Ray. He said he wasn't offering any guarantees. Hood told him he understood.

Nancy, on the other hand, sat looking out the window for most of the time. Hood asked what she was thinking about, but she wouldn't say. He could guess, of course. He wished that he could comfort her.

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.

"The shading under the curl at the bottom of the scroll is blue, not black. Someone with a background in publishing might have done that out of habit. During color separations, deep blue shadows reproduce richer than blacks. And the molded colors of the vellum, giving it a solid look here" — he touched the still-scrolled section at the top— "is similar to the texture of the deer skin in the forests of the other game." Nancy sat back. "You're reaching." Stoll shook his head. "Of all people, you should know the kinds of flourishes designers put in their games. You probably remember the early days of video games," Stoll said. "The days when you could tell an Activision game from an Imagic game from an Atari game because of the designers's touches. Hell, you could even tell a David Crane game from the rest of the games at Activision. Creators left their fingerprints all over the screen." Nancy said, "I know those early days better than you think, Matt. And I'm telling you Demain isn't like that. When I program games for Dominique we leave our personal vision at the door. Our job is to pack as many colors and realistic graphics into a game as possible." Hood said, "That doesn't mean Demain wasn't behind the game. Dominique would hardly produce hate games which looked like his regular games." Nancy said, "But I've seen the portfolios of the people who work up there," she said. "I've been sitting here thinking about their graphics. None of them work like this." "What about outside designers?" Hood said.

"At some point, they'd still have to come through the system," she said. "Tested, tweaked, downloaded— there are dozens of steps." "What if the entire process were done outside?" Hood asked.

Stoll snapped his fingers. "That kid Reiner, Hausen's assistant. He said he designed stereogram programs. He knows computers." "Right," said Hood. "Nancy, if someone did design a game on the outside, what's the fewest number of people who would see the diskettes at Demain?" She said, "First of all, something that dangerous would not come in on diskettes." "Why not?" Hood asked.

"It would be a smoking gun," she said. "A timeencoded program on a diskette would be proof in court that Dominique was trafficking in hate games." "Assuming they didn't erase it once it was uploaded," Stoll said.

"They'd keep it until they were sure everything went off as planned," Nancy said. "That's how they work here.

Anyway, an outside program like that would have to be modemed to a diskless workstation." "We've got those, Boss," Stoll said. "They're used for highly sensitive data which you don't want copied from the file server— the networked computer— onto a local diskette." Hood was at the limit of his technical know-how, but he got the gist of what Stoll was saying.

Nancy said, "The only people who have diskless workstations at Demain are vice-presidents who deal with information about new games or business strategies." Stoll erased the program on his laptop. "Give me the names of some of those high-ups who have the technical chops to process game programs." Nancy said, "The entire process? Only two of them can do that. Etienne Escarbot and Jean-Michel Horne." Stoll input the names, sent them off to Op-Center, and asked for a background report. While they waited, Hood addressed something that had been roiling around inside him ever since he'd spoken with Ballon. The Colonel had been less than enthused about Hausen's participation. He'd called him a headline-grabber.

What if he were worse than that? Hood wondered. He didn't want to think ill of someone who seemed a good man, but that was part of the job. Asking yourself, What if? And after listening to Hausen talk about his Luftwaffe father he was asking himself, What if Hausen and Dominique weren't enemies? Hood only had Hausen's account of what had transpired in Paris twenty-odd years ago. What if the two were working together? Christ, Ballon said that Dominique's father had made his fortune in Airbus construction.

Airplanes. And Hausen was a goddamned pilot.

Hood carried his thinking a few steps further. What if Reiner had been doing exactly what his boss wanted?

Making Hausen look like a victim of a hate game in order to sucker Op-Center, Ballon, and the German government into an embarrassing incursion? Who would ever attack Dominique a second time if the first assault turned up nothing?

Stoll said, "Aha! We've already got some potential rotten apples here. According to Lowell Coffey's legal files, in 1981 M. Escarbot was charged by a Parisian firm with stealing trade secrets from IBM about a process of displaying bit-mapped graphics. Demain paid to settle that case. And criminal charges were filed and then dropped nineteen years ago against M. Horne. Seems he received a French patent for an advanced four-bit chip which an American company said was stolen from them. Only they couldn't prove it. They also couldn't find the person who supposedly ripped off the…" Stoll stopped reading. His white face turned slowly toward Hood, then toward Nancy.

"No," she said, "there aren't two Nancy Jo Bosworths.

That was me." "It's okay," Hood said to him. "I knew all about it." Stoll nodded slowly. He regarded Nancy. "Forgive me," he said, "but as a software designer m'self, I just have to say that that's very uncool." "I know," Nancy replied.

"That's enough, Matt," Hood said sternly.

"Sure," Stoll said. He sat back, tightened the seatbelt which he'd never unbuckled, and turned around so he could look out the window.

And then Hood thought, Damn everything. Here he was rebuking Stoll when what he should have been doing was wondering about Nancy showing up in the park the way she did. And when he happened to be with Richard Hausen. Was it a coincidence, or could it be that all of them were in this thing with Dominique? He suddenly felt very unsure and very stupid. In the rush of events, in his eagerness to stop Dominique from getting his message and his games to America, Hood had utterly ignored security and caution.

What's more, he'd allowed his group to be split. His security expert, Bob Herbert, was roaming around the German countryside.

It could be that he was making more of this than there was. His gut told him he was. But his brain told him to try and find out. Before they got to Demain, if possible.

Hood remained beside Stoll while Nancy had returned to her side of the aircraft. She was unhappy and not attempting to hide it. Stoll was disgusted and not trying to hide it either. Only Hood had to keep his feelings to himself, though not for long.

As Elisabeth came on the intercom to announce the final descent into Toulouse, Hood casually borrowed the laptop from Stoll.

"Want me to boot up Solitaire?" Stoll asked, referring to Hood's favorite computer game.

"No," Hood said as he switched the machine back on. "I feel like Tetris." As he spoke, Hood typed a message onto the screen. "Matt," he wrote, "I don't want you to say anything. Just put me on-line with Darrell." Stoll casually touched his nose, leaned over, and entered his password and Op-Center's number. The disk drive hummed as the prompt said, "Processing." Stoll sat back when the prompt said, "Ready." He turned his head toward the window, but kept his eyes on the screen.

Hood typed his personal transmission code in quickly, then wrote: "Darrell: I need every detail you can get an the life of German Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. Check tax records from 1970s. Looking for employment by Airbus Industrie or by a man named Dupre or Dominique of Toulouse. Also want details of postwar life and activities of Maximillian Hausen of the Luftwaffe. Call me when you have anything. Shoot for 1600 hours EST today at the latest." Hood sat back. "I suck at this game. What do I do now?" Stoll reached over. He transmitted the E-mail message.

"You want to save any of these games?" "No," Hood said.

Stoll typed in:-) then erased the screen.

"In fact," Hood said, shutting off the computer, "I want you to take this machine and throw it out the window." "You should never play video games when you're tense," Nancy said. She looked across the cabin at Hood.

"It's like sports or sex. You've got to be loose." Hood handed Stoll the computer. Then he walked over to Nancy and buckled himself in beside her.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," he said.

"Which 'this' do you mean?" she asked. "This little raid or this whole stinking, lousy business?" "The raid," he said. "I shouldn't have imposed on our…" He stopped to search for the right word, settled reluctantly on "friendship." "It's all right," Nancy said. "Really it is, Paul. A big part of me is tired of running and of depending on Demain and on the whole expatriate life that you have to be drawn to to enjoy. What was it that Sydney Carton said on the way to the scaffold in A Tale of Two Cities? 'It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done.' This is far, far better than the things I've done till now." Hood smiled warmly. He wanted to tell her not to worry about the scaffold. But he couldn't guarantee her fate any more than he could swear to her allegiance. As the plane landed gently on the soil of France, he only hoped that the worry on her face was for her future and not his.