The Minotaur

Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 4 - The Minotaur

You’ve heard the story—it’s old, they say—
how the queen of Crete took a bull for a lover
and in her time delivered the Minotaur-
Contriving to hide his shame, to banish
the hideous man-bull from the sight of men,
King Minos ordered Daedalus to construct a labyrinth-
The artist set the stone, captured conflict
in aisles and passages of confusion and deceit,
devious ways that twisted the mind and eye
of all who entered that prison of no escape,
wherein was placed the Minotaur.
Thus did Daedalus build his monument
to the betrayal of the king.

The means of destruction are approaching perfection with frightful
rapidity.

—BARON ANTOINE HENRI JOMINI. 1838

1

Terry Franklin was a spy. This
afternoon in February, in a small cubbyhole in the basement of the
Pentagon, he was practicing his trade. It was tedious work.

He adjusted the screen brightness on his computer monitor and
tapped the secret access code of the user he was pretending to be
tonight. Now the file name, also special access, a classification
higher than top secret. He had to be careful, since the letters and
numerals he was typing did not appear on the screen. A mistake
here meant the computer would lock him out and deny him the
file. And he was not a good typist He worked with just two fingers.

There it was. The ATA File, the Advanced Tactical Air-
craft. He tapped some more and began examining the document
fist. Number 23.241, that’s the first one. He slid one of his high-
density, 5.25-inch fioppies into the slot and hit the keys again. The
little red light came on above the disk drive and the drive began to
whir. Franklin smiled when he saw the light.

It was quiet here in the computer service shop. The only noise
was the whirring of the disk drive and the tiny clicks of the key-
board. And the sound of Terry Franklin’s breathing. It was ironic,
he mused, how the computer silently and effortlessly reveals the
deepest secrets of its owners. Without remorse, without a twinge of
emotion of any kind, the screen lays bare the insights gained from
man-years of research by highly educated, gifted scientists and the
cunning application of that research by extraordinarily talented
engineers. Pouring onto the floppy disk was a treasure more valu-
able than gold, more precious than diamonds, a treasure beyond
the reach of most of the human race, still struggling as it was with
basic survival. Only here, in America, where a significant percent-
age of the best brains on the planet were actively engaged in funda-
mental research into the secrets of creation, were these intangible
jewels being created in significant quantity, gushing forth, almost
too fast to steal.

Terry Franklin grinned to himself as he worked. He would do
his best. He called up the document list again, then changed flop-
pies as he listened to the silence.

These three little floppy disks would earn him thirty thousand
dollars. He had bargained hard. Ten thousand dollars a disk,
whether full or partially full. Cash.

He had figured out a way to make computers pay. He grinned
happily at this thought and stroked the keyboard again.

Terry Franklin had become a spy for the money. He had volun-
teered. He had made his decision after reading everything he could
lay his hands on about espionage. Only then had he devised a plan
to market the classified material to which he had access as a navy
enlisted computer specialist. He had thought about the plan for
months, looking for holes and weighing the risks. There were risks,
he knew, huge ones, but that was the reason the compensation
would be so high. And, he assured himself repeatedly, he enjoyed
taking risks. It would add spice to his life, make a boring marriage
and a boring job tolerable. So he recruited himself.

One Saturday morning five years ago Terry Franklin walked into
the Soviet embassy in Washington. He had read that the FBI kept
the embassy under constant surveillance and photographed every-
one who entered. So he wore a wig, false mustache and heavy,
mirrorlike sunglasses. He told the receptionist he wanted to see an
intelligence officer. After a forty-five minute wait, he was shown
into a small, windowless room and carefully searched by the recep-
tionist, a muscular, trim man in his early thirties. A half hour later
—he was convinced he was photographed during this period by an
unseen camera—a nondescript man in his fifties wearing a baggy
suit had entered and occupied the only other chair. Without a
word. Franklin displayed his green navy ID card, then handed the
man a roll of film. The man weighed it in his hand as Franklin
removed the sunglasses, wig and mustache. The Russian left the
room without speaking. Another half hour passed, then another.
No doubt he was again photographed.

It was almost noon when baggy-suit returned. He smiled as he
entered and shook Franklin’s hand. Could he examine the ID card?
Where was Franklin stationed? When had he exposed the film?
Why? The Russian’s English was good but slightly accented.

Money, Terry Franklin had said. “I want money. I have some-
thing to sell and I brought you a free sample, hoping you might
want to buy more.”

Now, as Franklin worked the computer keyboard, he thought
back to that day at the embassy. It had been the most momentous
day of his life. Five years and two months after that day he had
$540,000 in cash in a storage locker in McLean, Virginia, under an
assumed name and no one was the wiser. He was going to quit
spying when that figure reached a million. And when his enlist-
ment was up, he was going to walk out on Lucy and the kids and
fly to South America.

It was typical of Terry Franklin that he intended to delay his
departure until he received his discharge. When he entered his new
life he would go free, clean and legal, with no arrest warrants
anywhere. He would go in his fake identity. Petty Officer First
Class Terry Franklin, the college kid from Bakersfield who had
knocked up Lucy Southworth in the back seat of her father’s sta-
tion wagon at a drive-in movie, married her, then joined the navy
—that Terry Franklin would cease to exist.

It was a nice bundle: $540,000, plus $30,000 for these three
disks. A lot of money. But not enough. He wasn’t greedy, but he
had to have a stake big enough so that he could live on the interest.

He had been very, very careful. He had made no mistakes. He
had never spent a penny of the money. The spying was going
smooth as clockwork. These Russians, they were damn good. You
had to take your hat off to them. They had never called or spoken
to him after that last meeting m Miami almost three years ago,
right after he received orders to the Pentagon.

The operation was slick, almost foolproof, he reflected as he
inserted the third disk. The calls always came on an evening when
his wife was out, sometimes with her bowling league, sometimes at
a friend’s house. The phone rang once, and if he picked it up there
was no one there, merely a dial tone. One minute later it rang
again, once. Then a minute after that it rang one, two, three or four
times. The number of rings that third time was the message. He
was to check dead drop one, two, three or four, and he was to do it
as soon as possible. He usually left the house immediately, cruised
for at least an hour in his car to ensure he wasn’t being followed,
then headed for the dead drop. And the information would be
there. Spelled out in block letters on the back of an empty, torn
cigarette pack would be the file name he was to photograph, the
classified computer codes necessary to gain access and a telephone
number to call the evening he was ready to transfer the disks, when
the whole sequence would begin again. No one saw him, he saw no
one, all very slick.

He chuckled. The cigarette packs on which he received his in-
structions were always Marlboro Gold 100s, and it had occurred to
Terry Franklin that someone had a subtle sense of humor. As he
worked now and thought about the money, he savored that sar-
donic twist.

They must be watching the house to see when he was home
alone. Of course someone was servicing the drops. But how were
they getting the computer codes and file names? Oh well, he was
getting his piece of the pie and he wasn’t greedy.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Terry Franklin
muttered as he removed the final disk from its slot and tucked it
into its own little envelope. He grinned at the monitor screen, then
tapped keys to exit the file.

Now came the tricky part. Three years ago, when he had first
been told by the Soviets that they wanted copies of documents
from the computer system, he had written a trapdoor program for
the software of the main computer. The job had taken him six
months; it had to be right the first time—he would get no second
chance. This program accomplished several things; it allowed
Franklin to access any file in central memory from this terminal
here in the repair shop, a permanent secret “doorway,” thereby
defeating the built-in safeguards that gave access to classified files
only from certain specific terminals; it erased the record of his
access from the 3-W file, which was a security program that auto-
matically recorded who, what and when; and finally, it allowed
him to access the 3-W file to see that his footprints were indeed not
there.

This trapdoor program was his crowning achievement. He had
once seen a written promise from the software designer that unre-
corded access was an impossibility. What a load! It had been damn
tough—he would give them that—but he had figured out a way in
the end. There’s always a way if you know enough. That contrac-
tor, he really sold the brass a sow’s ear when he told that fib. Ah
well, the contractor had gotten his and now Terry Franklin was
making his own score.

He had loaded the trapdoor program in the main computer one
day while fifteen technicians loafed and sipped coffee and watched
him work on a sticky tape drive. Not a one of them saw what he
was doing. Nor, he told himself with glee, would they have under-
stood what he was doing even if they had noticed. Most of them
were as ignorant as they were trusting.

Tonight the 3-W log looked clean as a virgin’s conscience.
Franklin exited the program and turned off his terminal. He stood
and stretched. He felt good. Very, very good. The adrenal excite-
ment was almost like a cocaine high, but better since there was no
comedown. He was living on the edge and it felt terrific.

After straightening up the office, he turned off the coffeepot and
put on his coat. With a last glance around, he snapped off the tights
and locked the door behind him.

Getting past the guards at the building exits carrying the disks
was a risk, though a small one. The civilian guards occasionally
selected people for a spot search and sooner or later he would be
chosen. He knew several of the guards on sight and made it a habit
to speak to them, but inevitably, sooner or later … It didn’t
happen this evening, but be was clean just now anyway. The disks
were still back in the office, carefully hidden. He would bring them
out some evening next week at the height of the rush-hour exodus
when the probability of being searched was the smallest Minimize
the risk, msmmim the gain.

As he rode the escalator up to the bus stop for Virginia suburban
buses, Terry Franklin buttoned his coat tightly and turned the col-
lar up behind his neck. from a pocket he extracted his white
sailor’s cap aad placed it carefully on his head, exactly one finger
width above his eyebrows.

The cold, wet wind at the top of the mechanical stairs made him
cringe. He quickly climbed aboard the Airedale bus and made
his way to an empty window seat He stared through the gathering
dusk at the looming building. People in uniform and civilian
clothes kept pouring from the escalator exit, trying to hide their
faces from the wind, scurrying for buses. These poor snooks. What
they didn’t know!

Vastly content, Terry Franklin pursed his lips and began to whis-
tle silently.

As the bus bearing Terry Franklin pulled away from the loading
area, a senior naval officer, a captain, leaned into the wind as he
crossed the lighted parking lot. He paid no attention to the buses
queued for the freeway entrance and it was probable no one on the
buses paid any attention to him. Terry Franklin was opening the
sports section of a newspaper he had purchased during his lunch
break. Franklin wouldn’t have recognized the captain out there in
the rapidly emptying parking lot anyway, not even if they had
passed in a corridor. They had never met. But Franklin would have
recognized the officer’s computer security access password, for he
had just finished using it.

Tonight the captain grimaced as the wind tore at his unprotected
face and took the time to open the hatchback of his Toyota Corolla
and toss his attache case in. Then he fumbled with the key to the
driver’s door. Snuggled in with the engine running and waiting for
the heater to warm up, Captain Harold Strong tried to relax. It had
been another long week, as each and every one of them were in this
gargantuan paper factory by the Potomac. He cast a bleak eye on
the cars creeping toward the exit. Not too many now, well after
quitting time. And he had wanted to get an early start this evening!
God, he was tired.

He put the car in gear and threaded it toward the exit- He
checked his watch. It was twenty-two minutes past six. At least the
timing was right. He would reach the interstate just as the car pool
restrictions ended.

On the freeway he headed north along the river, past the Arling-
ton Memorial Bridge, under the ramps of the Teddy Roosevelt
Bridge and out into the traffic snarl on 1-66 westbound. Here at the
tail end of rush hour the traffic moved along fairly well at about
forty miles per hour, only occasionally coming to a complete stop.
Captain Strong listened carefully to an airborne traffic reporter
tally the evening’s casualties. 1-66 westbound wasn’t mentioned.