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Authors: Douglas Preston
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of a burning cause. It also made him and his office the target of a great deal of anger from business concerns.
When his former secretary quit after receiving a number of threatening phone calls, Levine took two precautionary steps. He had a new lock installed on his office door, and he hired Ray. Rayâs office skills left a lot to be desired. But as an ex-Navy SEAL discharged because of a heart murmur, he was very good at keeping things peaceful. Ray seemed to spend most of his nonworking hours chasing women, but at the office he was serenely indifferent to all forms of intimidation, and for that alone Levine found him indispensable.
The heavy bolt of the lock slid home with reassuring finality. Levine tugged at the doorknob, then, satisfied, moved quickly between piles of term papers, scientific journals, and back issues of Genetic Policy to his desk. The affable, easygoing air he had maintained during his consultation hours quickly dissipated. Clearing the center of the desk with a sweep of his hand, he tugged his computer keyboard into typing range. Then he dug into a pocket of his briefcase and pulled out a black object the size of a cigarette box. A slender length of gray cable dangled from one end. Leaning forward in his chair, Levine disconnected his telephone, plugged the phone line into one end of the black box, and inserted the slender gray cable into the back panel of his laptop computer.
Even before his single-minded crusade to regulate genetic engineering made his name a foul word in a dozen top labs around the world, Levine had learned hard lessons about security. The black box was a dedicated cryptographic device for scrambling computer transmissions over telephone lines. Using proprietary public-key algorithms far more sophisticated than the DES standard, it was supposedly uncrackable even by government supercomputers. Mere possession of such devices was of questionable legality. But Levine had been an active member of the student antiwar underground before graduating from U.C. Irvine in 1971. He was no stranger to using unorthodox or even illegal methods to achieve his ends.
Levine switched on his PC, drumming his fingers on the desktop while the machine booted itself into consciousness. Typing rapidly, he brought up the communications program that would dial out over the phone lines to another computer, and another user. A very special user.
He waited while the call was rerouted, then rerouted again across the telephone long lines, threading a complex, untraceable path. At last, the call was answered by the hiss of another modem. There was a shrill squealing noise as the two computers negotiated; then Levineâs screen dissolved into a now-familiar image: a figure, dressed in mimeâs costume, balancing the earth on one fingertip. Almost immediately the log-in device disappeared, and words appeared on Levineâs screen: disembodied, as if typed by a ghost.
Professor! What up?
I need a line into GeneDyneâs net, Levine typed.
The response was immediate. Simple enough. What are we looking for today? Employee phone numbers? P&L sheets? The latest scores of the mailroom deathmatchers?
I need a private channel into the Mount Dragon facility, Levine typed.
The next response was a little slower in coming. Whoa!âWhoa!âWhose pair of balls have you strapped on today, monsieur le professor?
Canât do it? Levine prodded.
Did I say I couldnât do it? Remember to whom youâre speaking, varlet! You wonât find the word âcanâtâ in my spell-checker. Iâm not worried about me: Iâm worried aboutâyouâ, my man. I hear that this guy Scopes is bad juju. Heâd love to catch you copping a feel beneath his skirts. Are you sure youâre ready to jack into prime time, professor?
Youâre worried about me? Levine typed. Thatâs hard to believe.
Why, professor. Your callousness wounds me.
Do you want money this time? Is that
When his former secretary quit after receiving a number of threatening phone calls, Levine took two precautionary steps. He had a new lock installed on his office door, and he hired Ray. Rayâs office skills left a lot to be desired. But as an ex-Navy SEAL discharged because of a heart murmur, he was very good at keeping things peaceful. Ray seemed to spend most of his nonworking hours chasing women, but at the office he was serenely indifferent to all forms of intimidation, and for that alone Levine found him indispensable.
The heavy bolt of the lock slid home with reassuring finality. Levine tugged at the doorknob, then, satisfied, moved quickly between piles of term papers, scientific journals, and back issues of Genetic Policy to his desk. The affable, easygoing air he had maintained during his consultation hours quickly dissipated. Clearing the center of the desk with a sweep of his hand, he tugged his computer keyboard into typing range. Then he dug into a pocket of his briefcase and pulled out a black object the size of a cigarette box. A slender length of gray cable dangled from one end. Leaning forward in his chair, Levine disconnected his telephone, plugged the phone line into one end of the black box, and inserted the slender gray cable into the back panel of his laptop computer.
Even before his single-minded crusade to regulate genetic engineering made his name a foul word in a dozen top labs around the world, Levine had learned hard lessons about security. The black box was a dedicated cryptographic device for scrambling computer transmissions over telephone lines. Using proprietary public-key algorithms far more sophisticated than the DES standard, it was supposedly uncrackable even by government supercomputers. Mere possession of such devices was of questionable legality. But Levine had been an active member of the student antiwar underground before graduating from U.C. Irvine in 1971. He was no stranger to using unorthodox or even illegal methods to achieve his ends.
Levine switched on his PC, drumming his fingers on the desktop while the machine booted itself into consciousness. Typing rapidly, he brought up the communications program that would dial out over the phone lines to another computer, and another user. A very special user.
He waited while the call was rerouted, then rerouted again across the telephone long lines, threading a complex, untraceable path. At last, the call was answered by the hiss of another modem. There was a shrill squealing noise as the two computers negotiated; then Levineâs screen dissolved into a now-familiar image: a figure, dressed in mimeâs costume, balancing the earth on one fingertip. Almost immediately the log-in device disappeared, and words appeared on Levineâs screen: disembodied, as if typed by a ghost.
Professor! What up?
I need a line into GeneDyneâs net, Levine typed.
The response was immediate. Simple enough. What are we looking for today? Employee phone numbers? P&L sheets? The latest scores of the mailroom deathmatchers?
I need a private channel into the Mount Dragon facility, Levine typed.
The next response was a little slower in coming. Whoa!âWhoa!âWhose pair of balls have you strapped on today, monsieur le professor?
Canât do it? Levine prodded.
Did I say I couldnât do it? Remember to whom youâre speaking, varlet! You wonât find the word âcanâtâ in my spell-checker. Iâm not worried about me: Iâm worried aboutâyouâ, my man. I hear that this guy Scopes is bad juju. Heâd love to catch you copping a feel beneath his skirts. Are you sure youâre ready to jack into prime time, professor?
Youâre worried about me? Levine typed. Thatâs hard to believe.
Why, professor. Your callousness wounds me.
Do you want money this time? Is that
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