Molon Labe! (21 page)

A really efficient totalitarian state would be one in which the all-powerful executive of political bosses and their army of managers control a population of slaves who do not have to be coerced, because they love their servitude.

— Aldous Huxley,
Brave New World

2008 USA privacy news

All measures foment countermeasures, and
CALEA II
was no different. The "sneak and peak" warrants of 2002 (whereby "key-sniffing" programs and devices were installed on subjects' computers without their knowledge) had been often thwarted by keeping encryption passphrases on one's PDA to be link-downloaded when needed (bypassing the computer's keyboard).

To thwart
CALEA II
's "Give up your passphrase, or else!" threat, a new software called
Bye-Bye
incorporated tamperguards to automatically shred a raided hard drive's encryption keys, making the passphrase useless. It was activated by the user within any OS through a hotkey (
e.g.,
Shift + F12). If the computer was connected to an APS,
Bye-Bye
could, should the owner be away, be triggered by the home-security system, auto-boot from a USB drive (which the owner left in when not using the computer), shred the PGP keys, shred itself and all traces of its installation, and then shut down (which required only 25 seconds in all).
Bye-Bye
used the Gutmann shredding standard of 35 random overwrite passes, and was thought 100% effective. Once shredded, the keys were
gone
. Bye-bye. If one could not be proven the owner or user of a key pair, then one could not be pressured to disclose the passphrase. (Besides, how would the court know if the
correct
one had been given? No keys existed to find out.)

Very careful folks simply keep spare keys hidden elsewhere (
e.g.,
on secreted floppies, within obscure Internet files, etc.), and never left them on the hard drive at all.

The most shrewd of all keep their keys (active and spare)
encrypted
through PGP's IDEA algorithm (which was symmetric encryption that did not generate its own key pair). After all, possession of an open key pair is
prima facie
evidence of having encrypted a particular file. By encrypting the key pair, the owner forced the government to first break through that IDEA "envelope" before it could ascertain the PGP key pair necessary to connect them with encrypted files. This sly tactic maddens the NSA and FBI computer techs, which in turn drives the US Attorneys into a frenzy as they cannot even
begin
to make a case based on the subject's raided computer. Measure — countermeasure.

Man has continued to evolve by acts of disobedience.

— Erich Fromm, "On Disobedience"

Casper, Wyoming

February 2008

Life for Bill Russell had pretty much returned to normal since his 1995 ATF trial. A defendant's acquittal in such cases had one of two long-term results: increased hassle by the feds, or near immunity from it. Russell had been left alone these past thirteen years. He considered suing ATF Agent Lorner for criminal fraud and obstruction of justice, but Juliette convinced him that it was likely futile.
Lorner's on very thin ice, Bill, so why don't we just let him keep hopping about. He'll plunge through someday
, she had said.

He reluctantly agreed, Agent Lorner being a very bitter pill to swallow. It seemed as though nothing ever happened to rogue federal agents, no matter who they worked for or what they did. They were truly above justice. All a federal judge had to say was "sovereign immunity."

Case closed.

FBI HRT sniper/murderer Lon Horiuchi had proven that. At least the FBI had felt enough pressure by 1995 to take away his rifle. Rumor had it that that was a more severe punishment to "Hooch" than prison.
They might as well have cut his balls off
, HRT colleague Chris Whitcomb once remarked. Having to live on a military base under constant guard — rarely venturing out in public — was a consequence for blatantly shooting a nursing mother in the face with a .308 and then committing perjury over it.

Poor "Hooch." No more freedom. No more sniper rifle.

Maybe a bit of justice
had
seeped in after all.

Russell, however, still enjoyed both his freedom
and
his FAL rifle. Juliette's vigorous motions got it returned in 1996, though somewhat worse for wear from vindictive federal hands. He has stayed in regular contact with the Prestons, having dinner with them several times a year. He is an enthusiastic helper of the Wyoming migration since his retirement.

Russell holds a small UPS package, puzzled. He hadn't ordered anything from Denver, much less had it sent Red Label. He looks at the sender's name. Harold Krassny.
Krassny? The man who owned my FAL and testified at my trial?
With his Doug Ritter RSK® Mk3 fixed-blade he slits open the tape and opens the box. Wrapped in a towel is a WW2-era Colt 1911A1 .45 pistol in its issue holster.
Whaaat?
There is also neat handwritten note.

Dear Bill,

I hope you will enjoy this, which served me well in Europe over sixty years ago. For reasons soon to become clear, I won't be needing it any more. Think of it as some long overdue compensation for the crap the ATF put you through back in 1995, and as my gratitude for having the opportunity to help a fellow shooter in time of trouble. It will go well with your FAL during the interesting times ahead.

I hope that you will remember me then.

Warm regards,

Harold

Russell is bowled over by the unexpected gift. He reverently takes the Colt out of its brown leather flap holster. It shows signs of honest wear, but no abuse. He grins, relishing the smells of the manganese phosphate finish, gun oil, and leather. He removes the magazine and checks the chamber, which is empty. The trigger is pretty decent for an issue .45, and the bore is still sharp. He can't stop grinning. He's never had a WW2 1911A1 — much less one from a combat vet he knows.
What a treasure!
He reads over the note again, and then notices a postscript at the very bottom.

P.S. Since I illegally sent/transferred a gun to you across state lines outside of the required NICS background check, paperwork, blah, blah, blah, you should probably burn the box and this P.S. No use having evidence around. You can always say that I gave the Colt to you years ago, when private transfers were still legal.

Russell smiles as he tears off the postscript.
What a fine man!
As he lights the box and postscript ablaze in his backyard burn barrel, an uncomfortable notion intrudes on his happy reverie.
I hope Harold's not in any trouble.

Colorado

Boulder County Sheriff's Office

Detective Luther Thompkins groans when he sees 36 unread emails in his Inbox. He reads the subject lines first. There is a lot of spam:

Reduce your mortgage payments NOW!

Luther Thompkins, enlarge your penis safely and reliably!!!

Hot babes show it all for you!!

Et cetera. Thompkins laughs to himself.
So, I'm undersexed, got a little dick, and am paying too much interest on my house! How do they know all this?
Cleaned of spam, the Inbox is now manageable. He then searches for important emails and his eyes stop at:

An urgent message from Harold Krassny!

Harold Krassny?
he ponders. It's a vaguely familiar name and Thompkins needs a few seconds to dredge up the memory.
That rancher from Wyoming who was my childhood camp counselor?
It's curious enough to hear from Krassny, but even more so because it's marked "urgent." Thompkins clicks on the blue text and a new box opens:

The following message is encrypted.

To decrypt, click on the question box below:

Thompkins moves the cursor and clicks on the box. It changes into:

What was the name of your 4th-grade summer camp?

What the hell is this?
he wonders. He types in "Camp Flaming River" and hits . After a couple of seconds the message scrolls out.

From: Harold Krassny

Dear Luther,

I was your camp counselor, if you'll recall. You had a bit of difficulty there at first, but not for long.

Thompkins bitterly recalls that summer, being called
"our token nigger"
by the older boys. Krassny took him under his wing and taught him how to box. How to stand up like a man for himself. How not to take shit. Several days later Thompkins treated the largest of his tormentors to a
"token ass-kicking."
Nobody at camp ever called him "nigger" after that. As his single mother would often later say
"Luther may be scrawny, but he's savin' up to be
wiry
!"

Thompkins subconsciously smiles at hearing from Krassny after so many years, and reads on.

I sincerely apologize for adding to your already crushing caseload, but it was for good reason. I thought you would like to know where to find my body, dead by my own hand.

Please do not rush over with paramedics, as this email was sent seven hours ago — purposely delayed by a forwarding service. At this reading, I am by now at room temperature. No hurry.

I am in Suite 1602 of the Excelsior Hotel west of Boulder in the mountains. So as not to disturb the hotel staff (who have been superb), an envelope has been left for you at the front desk. In it is my room cardkey. You will find my body in tidy condition in the bathtub, expired by an overdose of sleeping pills and alcohol.

Although I have "checked out" without having checked out, my hotel bill was prepaid, along with a nice gratuity for the staff.

Please do everything you can not to inconvenience or embarrass the Excelsior. Perhaps I could have chosen the Motel 7 for this disembarkation, but there is such a lovely Yamaha baby grand piano in my suite, and the room service is incomparable. I've had a fine last 48 hours here.

My public farewell note is attached to this email, encrypted with the same password. A handwritten copy of that note will be found in my suite. It will soon have very wide publication on the Net.

Again, I apologize for this intrusion. You turned out to be a good man, and a good detective. Perhaps we will meet again. Meanwhile, I wish you every joy in life.

Best regards,

Harold Krassny

Detective Thompkins immediately grabs the phonebook, looks up the number for the Excelsior, and stabs at the phone.

It is answered on the third ring by a pleasant female voice. "Good evening, the Excelsior Hotel. How may I direct your call?"

"Suite 1602," Thompkins barks.

If the operator is offended by his brusqueness, she doesn't show it. "Certainly, sir. Have a pleasant evening."

Seconds later he hears the phone ringing. It rings for well over a minute without answer. The operator comes back on the line. Thompkins tells her, "I need to speak to your night manager immediately." He is put through at once.

Thompkins explains that he is enroute because the hotel has a dead or dying man in Suite 1602, and gives the night manager his cell phone number.

"We're en route with paramedics. Call me immediately from Mr. Krassny's suite."

Thompkins hangs up and tells his assistant, "Charlie, have the ME and EMTs meet us at the Excelsior. Have them park someplace discreet."

Thompkins decrypts Krassny's suicide note and prints it out. Skimming it over, he tells Charlie, "You're driving us out to the mountains."

During the 20 minute trip, Thompkins reads.

From Harold Krassny,

To Whom It May Concern:

I never understood the point of a suicide note. To the author it is invariably redundant. To the readers, eternally incomplete. Whether or not the self-deceased "left a note" is always the third question asked (after "When?" and "How?", of course). If a note cannot explain the author's decision, then how much more inexplicable is its lack?

So, to fully play the part expected of this role — and not wanting to add to the grief, sorrow, and confusion amongst my living friends and loved ones — I shall "leave a note." My literary skills aside, the answers found herein will remain superficial. Such is the unavoidable nature of the missive.

Some of you may ask yourselves if there was anything you could have done to prevent my act. Grieve not, dear ones, there was nothing anyone could have done. If there had been, I would have asked. Shy I was not.

They say that to voluntarily forfeit one's life is an act of depression and loneliness. That's often true, but it's only partly true in my case. I packed up before checkout-time because I finally faced a conclusion long ago suspected: that this is a sick, cruel joke of a world — increasingly uninhabitable for anyone with 35¢ worth of integrity, honor, intelligence, compassion, or decency.

I did not kill myself.

I merely preempted the terminal toxicity of our environment.