Derek Kettler’s house was third from the left in a row of ten. They parked, and Rossini muttered, “Stay here in the car for a minute, until I signal. He agreed to meet with us over the phone last night because he’s dying to see this new virus, but he really wasn’t very happy with the idea of a face-to-face chat. Like I said, he prefers dealing by modem.”
Swell. Thorn sat stiffly in the front seat, watching Rossini climb the front steps to Kettler’s town house.
The Maestro knocked, and then, after waiting a few moments without any apparent response, pressed the bell. Even in the car, Thorn could hear the sound, not of a bell, but a fierce animal roar. Rossini seemed to expect it and looked apologetically toward the car, shrugging.
The door opened, and Thorn saw Kettler for the first time.
His immediate impression was a 1960s-style hippie without any of the tie-dyed colon Rossini’s computer genius wore a grey sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, all of which looked rumpled even the shoes. Kettler himself was in his thirties, slightly overweight, and badly in need of a haircut. His black hair and beard were long and lank.
Thorn watched the two men speak for a few minutes. Kettler kept nervously glancing toward the car while Rossini made soothing gestures. Finally, the computer expert disappeared, still shaking his head, and the Maestro motioned for Thorn to come on up.
He trotted up the steps and followed Rossini inside.
He first noticed the smell, a mixture of stale food and mustiness and other things he didn’t want to identify. The front door opened into the living room, which was dominated by a six-foot-high, ten-foot-wide entertainment canter. Thorn considered himself something of an audiophile, but this system was incredible. It included a CD player and a tape deck, but it also contained a reel-to-reel tape player and a turntable. There was even what looked like a CRT and a computer keyboard built into the system.
A mass of scattered clothes, magazines, and paperback books surrounded the wall unit, covering about half the carpet. Empty potato chip bags punctuated the mess.
If Thorn expected the living room to be the worst of it, he was mistaken. When they walked back past the kitchen, he spotted countertops littered with dirty dishes and empty soda cans. The room’s main fixture seemed to be a large green plastic trash can with so many pizza boxes stuffed into it that they overflowed onto the floor.
Kettler led them upstairs.
A converted bedroom was obviously the heart of the house. A large U-shaped desk filled the center of the room, with computer boxes and electronic components on the desk, on shelves over the desk, and on the floor beside it. Bookshelves crammed with thick hardcovers and trade paperbacks lined one wall. They were all computer-related, with titles like Numeric Process Control Codes.
Thorn didn’t even feel tempted to open that one.
Like the rest of the house, the blinds were closed, and he doubted if they were ever opened. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, though, the desk and the room were comparatively neat, although he could see small piles of debris in the corners.
Kettler’s system was already on. Several large-screen monitors displayed brightly colored geometric designs against a darkened background. The center monitor, a huge two-page display, showed a blue and white emblem surrounded with the words “United Federation of Planets.”
Cute. Very cute.
“Gimme the disk,” demanded Kettler.
Rossini handed it over without apparent qualm, violating several federal laws in the process. Thorn winced a little, but kept his thoughts to himself. The diskette passed to them by CERT bore only a handwritten label identifying its contents as
“MidTel Virus, Unknown.”
Kettler handled it like it was red-hot.
He sat down in a swivel chair and started typing. “Okay, Maestro, I’m going to reconfigure my system. I’ll isolate one CPU, and then we’ll see what this beast looks like.” Rossini explained to Thorn what they were seeing while Kettler typed in commands and threw switches on a homemade junction box. The software designer had four computers wired together. One was a server, or file manager. Another did nothing but log on to bulletin boards, download files, and screen them for material he was interested in. The final two were paired processors, hooked up in a special rig that allowed Kettler to designate which processor would handle a task. Isolating one of the units would protect the rest of his system from damage if the virus started running wild.
Despite his misgivings, Thorn had to admit he was impressed by the sheer amount of linked hardware in the room and by the evident ease with which the other man handled his equipment.
New lines of text popped into existence on the central monitor.
“All right, here we go,” Kettler muttered to himself. He slid the disk into a drive and typed in another set of commands.
“All right, it’s just one big file. Okay, baby, let’s see if we can find out just what you’re made of.” Kettler conducted a running monologue with himself while he started running a series of keyboard controlled tests, probing around the file’s periphery. Rossini stood over his shoulder, answering questions about the known behavior of the virus.
“Oh, yeah.” Kettler nodded knowingly. “Same kind of trick we’re supposed to have pulled on the Iraqis during the Gulf War.”
Thorn looked at Rossini. “Is that true?”
“Uh-huh,” the older man agreed. “The story showed up in a number of the journals. According to them, we planted a virus in the printers inside their air defense computers in Baghdad. It would have worked pretty much the same way.”
Thorn whistled sharply. Maybe Amir Taleh’s belief that Iraq was behind the effort to rebuild radical Islam’s terrorist forces was right after all. Was this a case of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?
The big monitor suddenly filled with jumbled numbers. “Yes!” Kettler exclaimed.
Thorn looked over Rossini’s shoulder. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, in octal code,” Rossini answered.
“This will make more sense,” Kettler announced, and hit a key. The numbers vanished. They were replaced by text grouped in three-letter combinations.
Assembly code, Thorn realized. That was one step up from octal, but it was still Greek to him.
Kettler, however, studied it as if he were reading a road map. Tracing his finger across the columns of code, he scrolled the screen up and down. There were pages of the stuff. Oblivious to the two men, he murmured to himself and scratched notes on a pad.
Thorn fought the urge to check his watch.
After what seemed like an eternity, Kettler shouted, “All right!” for the umpteenth time. Spinning around in his chair to face them, he smiled, almost beaming. “It’s the Bulgarian!” “You’re sure?” Rossini demanded.
“Absolutely,” Kettler asserted. “This is his stuff. I know viruses. I have to in my line of work. See?”
The computer expert took a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. He pulled it open and lifted out a long disk box that had been marked with yellow-and black striped tape.
He held the box carefully, as if afraid to jostle its contents. “This is my collection. Every virus I’ve ever heard of, including some that were stopped before they hit the street.” He patted it almost lovingly.
Rossini looked at the box in horror, as though the codes it contained were about to leap out and infect him personally. Like any good analyst, he was instinctively repelled by the idea of a program deliberately created to destroy information.
Kettler flipped open the lid and pulled out three neatly labeled disks. “All three of these babies hold viruses created by the Bulgarian, and the similarities are unmistakable. Some of the subroutines are identical.”