LEVL INF 35000 9-04-90 10:30

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TRAV INF 23000 7-23-92 11:19
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CORD PLN 76000 6-35-91 10:14
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5 File(s) 24,004,000 bytes free
C:\NAVCOM>

Martha typed in CSAC.

Martha stared as the message played out in bluish letters against a black
background. Her jaw dropped in amazement at the importance of the information being
displayed.
"You ugly fuck," she muttered. "You knew every step we were taking. How could
CSAC be so stupid."

2000 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

In a small, darkened one bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland, the glow
from the computer screen illuminated the large round face staring intently at the screen.
The only noise in the hot stifling room was the sound of steady, heavy, raspy breathing
from the person sitting in front of the screen. The windows were closed despite the searing
summer heat. A foul smell permeated the room, a mixture of body odor, decay, and must.
The image on the video monitor was reflected on the small rimless lenses of the
computer operator's glasses. Sweat poured from Grayson’s brow as the importance of the
message dawned on him. He took the yellowed handkerchief from his rear pants pocket
and mopped his forehead repeatedly.
"Damn it. God Damn it." said Grayson.
The message, from the modem attached to his computer in his empty office in the
E-Ring of the Pentagon, was: IN USE.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

"Open up! Federal agents!" said Smith, after knocking vigorously on the door to
Apartment 303 in the quiet, three-story, red brick Blue Ridge Apartments on Sixteenth
Street, Silver Spring, Maryland.
There was no response.
Smith turned to the superintendent. "Do you have a key to this apartment?"
"Yes, Just don't break down that door," said the superintendent.
He opened the door to Grayson's apartment. As the door opened, the warm rancid
air inside of Grayson's apartment poured out. The stench of unwashed clothes was
overpowering -- like an unclean gymnasium. The apartment was completely dark, the
shades to the windows pulled down and the windows locked shut, even on this hot, humid

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day. The superintendent, glad that his chore was done, motioned the federal agents to
enter.
"She's all yours!" he said, as he stepped to the side of the door.
Smith was the first to enter the foul smelling-apartment. As he entered he switched
on the light. The room was a tumble of dirty laundry and trash thrown about the room. In
the kitchenette, the source of the strongest odor could be seen, an uncooked chicken, left
out on the stove in an advanced putrescent state. Maggots crawled over the rotting flesh.
Smith swallowed hard not to gag at the stench.
Smith and his assistants then conducted a search of the small apartment. It was
obvious that Grayson had left in a hurry. His IBM PS/2 was left on and he had made no
effort to erase any of the files on the hard disk. Floppy diskettes littered the table in the
living room and software manuals were strewn about the tattered sofa and easy chair.
In one corner of the sofa was a pile of Hustler magazines, their pages limp from
constant use. On one wall was the foldout from the May 1993 copy of Playboy. Strewn
about the floor and on the furniture were pulp novels in paperback with titles like Madam
Dominatrix, Whipping Boy, and High School Orgy. Copies of Soldier of Fortune, PC
World, and DC Comics littered the floor, along with dirty, worn white athletic socks.
Smith wandered into the equally fetid bedroom. Grayson's bedroom was messy
and sparsely furnished. The bed was a mattress on a bed spring. The mattress was
covered with a sheet yellowed with sweat stains. On the floor next to the bed were several
empty drinking glasses. The residue of chocolate milk in the glasses had curdled and
dried. An empty jar of Bosco, a chocolate mix, lay on the floor, a teaspoon next to it.
There was no other furniture save for a straight back chair on which stood a small General
Electric color television set, its antenna bent. At the foot of the bed, Grayson had tossed
his dirty underwear.
Smith opened the closet door and was amazed to find no clothing on hangers and
little else on the shelf or the floor of the closet. The closet was the cleanest room in the
apartment. A single red velvet cord hung from the clothes rod, terminating in a hangman's
noose. Smith was curious about this odd assemblage.
"Hey, Tom," said Smith to Tom Bateson, one of Smith's assistants in CSAC
security. "What do you make of this?"
Bateson was a relatively young CSAC security agent, working for Smith. A
graduate of Yale University, Bateson had started his career as an analyst for the Central
Intelligence Agency. Six feet tall and muscular in build, the dark-haired, handsome
bachelor was a popular member of the CSAC staff, especially with the young ladies.
He preferred Giorgio Armani suits and wild floral pattern neckties. Bateson was
also an aspiring novelist, having written for some literary magazines. His dark hair was
always on the long side, which was a continuing source of consternation to the much more
conservative Smith.
Bateson came over and took one quick glance at the rope and the noose. "Seems
like your boy is into autoerotic asphyxia."
"Autoerotic what?"
"Autoerotic asphyxia. It's a peculiar sexually deviant practice where the
practitioner ties a noose around his neck, bends his knees to restrict the intake of air, and,

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huh, you know." He made a familiar gesture with his cupped hand. "Allegedly, the
suffocation brought on by the noose heightens the erotic sensation on climax."
"What happens if the guy slips and falls or something like that?"
"Well, that's one of the hazards. If that happens, he dies."
"Wait a minute -- how come you know so much about this?"
"Oh, I read a lot," said Bateson, rubbing his neck nervously. "Ah, by the way,
Chief. Here's something you might find interesting."
"It's just a telephone bill," said Smith, taking the slip of paper held out by Bateson.
"But look at the numbers on the bill."
"You're right; it's full of those pay-per-call 900 numbers."
"Not just 900 numbers, but one 900 number: 588-5463."
"Grayson must have called this number two or three times a night."
"Not just that, but for twenty to thirty minutes each time, at a dollar fifty per
minute, that's thirty to forty dollars a pop."
"What does this number do?" said Smith rhetorically.
"It's called Luv Lines, a singles call in number," Bateson said.
"How do you know that?" said Smith. "Don't tell me, I don't want to know.
Remind me to get your telephone bugged, Tom."
Bateson winced.
Taking one last tour of the vacated apartment, Smith was impressed with the fact
that so few personal things that one finds in someone's home were evident in this
apartment. No pictures of relatives or friends, no letters, no bills other than the telephone
bill, nothing.
Smith had developed a private theory that Grayson had a contact in CSAC. After
all, how could he have tapped into the most sensitive programs of the agency? But the
question was who? All CSAC personnel underwent rigorous clearance procedures prior to
being asked to join and were subjected to constant loyalty checks. However, there were no
clues anywhere in Grayson's apartment to suggest how he had gained access to the top
secret CSAC codes, enabling him to break into the computer files. The raid had resulted in
a dead end. In a way, Smith was secretly glad that no CSAC staffers were implicated in
this most heinous of crimes.
"What a poor, sick lonesome bastard," he said to no one in particular.

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