“Hello, Moskva Cafe, Brooklyn.”
“Yes, I’m calling about the code installed on some of my devices. I think it’s Russian in origin. Anyway, it’s sending packets back to a device just outside a TOR exit node, so I’m pretty sure it’s doing something shady.”
“This is a cafe, sir, not a tech support line. You wanna order a blini or something?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I Googled for ‘FSB Tech Support’ and got this phone number. I get the spying and all, but the code is messing with my production line. If you want to spy on me, fine, whatever, but I gotta ship product.”
The waiter on the phone for Moskva Cafe looked out at the half-dozen customers in the tiny eatery, part of the early lunch rush. Who did this caller think he was? “Look, if you want take out, gimme your order, otherwise get the hell off the line, this is a business, here!”
“Just a second.”
“Huh?”
“Гюльчатай, открой личико.”
The waiter was stunned. “Wow. Where did you learn that?”
“Googled for ‘Password to get through to FSB tech support’. That was the first hit.”
“Your pronunciation is very good.”
“Thanks, I took two years of Russian in college. Also, I saw that movie, that helped.”
“OK, let me transfer you, although I cannot confirm or deny that you will actually get tech support.”
The caller heard a few seconds of “До свиданья, лето” as hold music, enough to hear the immortal chorus as only Alla Pugacheva could deliver it, and then heard a click as the other party picked up the call.
“Cannot confirm or deny this English-language support for FSB electrokhacking of computer. Please to be stating your issue.”
“Hi, yes. Ahh… the port that the spying software is using for sending information back to headquarters or whatever is contending with the port we use for our app’s communication with the main licensing server and our production is halted because of that. Can you do something about this?”
“Cannot confirm or deny. What is company you are the working at which?”
“Egmont Veeblefetzer, Secaucus, New Jersey.”
“Cannot confirm or deny this will be moment taking as I checking the some things.” Pause, keyboard clicking sounds. “Mmmm…” More clicking sounds. “OK, what is port you possessing the problems for?”
“TCP 4555.”
“OK Joe…”
“How did you know my name?”
“Cannot confirm or deny, but come on, this FSB you are not being confirmed or denied about. Anyway, Joe, I’m not gonna confirm or deny that FSB using the TCP 4555 but you did not listen to this thing from me, you maybe want to call the Mossad tech support.”
“You sure? The code using 4555 had a lot of Russian stuff in it. I thought it was you guys.”
“Yeah, I not gonna confirm or deny we get that a lot. But this stuff in Russian, it every place. Guys use it and don’t license, you know? No confirm or deny that FSB have EULA these guys violate all the damn time. Maybe they all click OK and keep going like it all a big joke, hey let us blame it all on the Russian electrokhackers… to be making me the sick.”
“OK, whatever. You sure this is Mossad stuff, not FSB?”
“No confirm or deny that we not gonna to be able to support this issue.”
“All right. I’ll call back if they send me back here. You got their number?”
“Cannot confirm or deny you should call Mossad tech support at number for Lev’s Deli in South Amboy, New Jersey.”
“OK… thanks.”
“Oh, forget me to say, this conversation recorded.”
“For training purposes?”
“If you like to say that, sure. But conversation recorded. Goodbye.”
Joe hung up and Googled up the number of Lev’s Deli in South Amboy. He also searched for the password to get in to Mossad tech support. He called the deli.
“Lev’s deli, can I get a name for this order?”
“!איר זענט קלוג, קלוג. קלוג – אבער איר זענט נישט אַזוי קלוג”
“You callin’ me an idiot?”
“I want Mossad tech support, I got a sev one production issue because of your guys’ software!”
“What? You think every Kosher deli is a front for Mossad? You some kind of a nut?”
“Not every deli, just this one. FSB did not confirm or deny this number when I called them for support and they said it was you guys. Now get me tech support, I said the password!”
“Look at you, Mr. Smart-Smart-Smart! I should hang up on a nut like you! Drop dead, jerk!”
But the line did not go dead. Instead, Joe heard about a minute of Kaveret’s “Hamagafaim Shel Baruch”. Catchy tune, that. And then, “What is wanted?”
“This Mossad tech support?”
“How stupid it would be of me to say something like that! You’re an idiot to think anyone would answer the phone that way!”
Joe had had enough experience with Israeli developers, he was pretty sure this was Mossad tech support. “I got an issue with your stuff using port TCP 4555 to communicate back to base and it’s conflicting with my licensing server, my whole production line is down. This is Egmont Veeblefetzer in Secaucus, New Jersey.”
“What do I care about where you are? I’m such a moron, I care about such things? Listen, Joe, you can take your phone and shove it right up your -”
“Hey, you know my name. You gotta be Mossad.”
“You told me your name when you called.”
“No I didn’t. You also forgot to say this call was being recorded.”
A pause. “This call never happened, got it? How can there be a recording of a call that doesn’t happen?”
“Whatever. Can you use a different port, I’m losing money here!”
Another pause as Joe heard clicking sounds. “OK, listen good, moron, you never call us about this again! Like Mossad would be so stupid as to keep using TCP 4555 in their latest builds of their monitoring software! You think they would be idiot enough to not change the port after some other schmendrick like you complains of a similar issue, because there are other people in the world more on the ball than schlemiels like you, mister! They can actually spot a problem when it happens! Pfeh on you for thinking Mossad would be such a big gang of idiots!”
Again, Joe’s experience with developers in Israel helped him to process what he heard, and also to press on to resolution: “So you gonna give me the number of NSA support, or what?”
“What, you too much of a dope to Google it up yourself?”
“I’m a busy man, I would appreciate a little courtesy, here!”
“Courtesy? After you insult me with your questions?”
“Who am I to keep up with each build being used in stuff spying on me? I got enough, what with the Chinese, and the Russians, and the British, and the Germans, and my own country, for God’s sake! Now I need to do version control on Israeli stuff, as well? It’s not like you guys send out email alerts or anything! FSB looked at it, said it was a port you used, you say you used to use it -”
“I never said anything of the sort.”
“Whatever. So the NSA copied and pasted, what do I know? You give me a stoopid little phone number, I get off the phone and never bother you about this again!”
“You know in the time it took for you to rant like that, you could have looked it up.”
Dammit, he was right. Joe flushed, but also came down a little. “I’m sorry, I got pressures here. I’ll look it up myself.”
“Ahh, don’t bother. I got it here. 203-777-4647.”
“Hold on… 203?”
“203-777”
“777”
“4647”
“OK, thanks.”
“This call never happened, shalom.” Click.
Joe decided to look up the password to use for NSA support. Interesting choice…
He called the number and heard the soothing stylings of Pat Fleet, the voice of AT&T. He interrupted the time to say, “Can you bring me my chapstick?”
The soothing stylings of Pat Fleet, the voice of AT&T halted the time and temperature, paused, and said, “No, Napoleon.”
Joe said, “But my lips hurt real bad!”
Pat Fleet’s voice said, “Just borrow some from the school nurse. I know she has like five sticks in her drawer.”
And then Joe delivered the punchline, “I’m not gonna use hers, you sicko!”
Pat Fleet’s voice said, “Connecting you, one moment.”
Joe put up with about five minutes of hold music. The first track was the finale of the theme from “Hawaii 5-0”, kettle drums and all. The next song was, wait, really? The theme from “The Rockford Files”! Joe loved that show as a kid! Joe said to himself, “This is Jim Rockford, at the tone leave your name and message, I’ll get back to ya.” Sounded like they used the guitar solo from the second half of season 2 in the version for the hold music.
Next up was the theme from “Charlie’s Angels.” Wow. Way to take a guy back. The horns, strings, and wah-wah guitar lulled Joe into a fond haze so that he had no desire to berate anyone answering the phone, which event happened right as the theme ended.
“Thank you for calling NSA, how may I direct your call?”
Wait, what? Did Joe hear correctly? The operator came right out and said NSA? Stunned, Joe managed to say, “Uh, tech support?”
“One moment.”
Before Joe could utter another syllable, the violin surge at the start of the theme from “Dallas” let him know that he was back on hold. His head was bobbing from left to right with the tune when a woman spoke, saying, “NSA technical support, what can I help you with today?”
“OK, I gotta ask… how come you said this is NSA tech support?”
“Because we are NSA.”
“Really. You just come right out and say that?”
“Yes, NSA. National Security Appliances of New Haven, Connecticut.”
The last word was what threw Joe the most. “Wait, um, uh, I uh…”
The woman’s voice was reassuring. “What issue are you experiencing.”
“Well, um, I’ve got something affecting my production line. There’s some surveillance software running that locks TCP port 4555, which my production hardware uses to communicate with its licensing server.”
“OK, just a second… while that’s running, can you tell me what firm you are with?”
“Egmont Veeblefetzer.”
“Just a moment… um, I’m showing several…”
Joe had forgotten himself in the moment. “Sorry, it’s the one in Secaucus, New Jersey.”
“Got it, great. Thanks! OK, let me see… all right… ah-ha, here it is. Yes, I can see what the issue is. You’re going to need a new primary data logger for your air-to-air thermal sensors.”
Joe was puzzled. “Why? My issue is with the barcode licensing server.”
Again, the voice reassured. “I understand, but the contention is coming from the air-to-air logger and I’m afraid we can’t upgrade the firmware on it. You’ll need a direct replacement.”
“But… the logger is made by Lehigh Valley Thermal Instruments…”
“Don’t worry, we’ll ship over a 100% compatible replacement.”
Joe was losing some of his soothed composure. He rubbed his forehead as he asked, “I got a line down. How long is this replacement going to take to arrive?”
“The truck is already on its way, it should be there within two hours. And don’t worry, our techs will install it for you. We just ask that no one else be present on the shop floor as they do so.”
“What, for secrecy?”
Joe’s wisecrack was countered by the voice’s calmness. “No sir, for safety. Safety is very important here at NSA.”
“This replacement logger, is it supported by you guys?”
“It will be a LVTI logger, you’ll still call them for support, as normal.”
As normal. As if. Joe thought he’d press the issue. “Look, I’ve had a big runaround today with this issue. I had Russian-language code on my network, killing my traffic. It had some crazy IPv6 address on it, so I couldn’t tell where it came from, so I call the FSB. They said it was a Mossad thing so I call them. They said they don’t use that version anymore and that it was you guys. Next time some bigshot big brother program takes down my network, I want to know who to call directly for support so I can get back in business. Now, I get the Lehigh Valley guys will support the air-to-air thermal sensors and all the logging that goes with it. But who’s gonna support the backdoors that all you spooks use to keep tabs on little guys like me and my company? I’m at wit’s end with this thing.”
“If you would like, sir, I can forward you over to our complaints department.”
“Yes, I would like that.”
“One moment, and, before I transfer you, remember to clear the shop floor when they put in the new primary logger.”
“Clear the floor, got it.”
“OK, sir, one moment.”
Joe listened to the hold music and noticed it wasn’t a mix of theme songs from American television shows. It was upbeat, a march played by a brass band and… say, was that a men’s choir singing in… Chinese?
“61398部队!”
“Ummm, I was being transferred to NSA tech support complaints…”
“Sorry, misroute, please hold!”
Joe heard a series of staccato piano notes that became chords, then notes again, then chords, and then… about a minute in… a haunting melody, reminiscent of a windswept steppe, host to a man longing for an end to the war around him so that he might return home… Joe had never before heard the piece, but it moved him. He completely forgot his plight as he bonded with this imaginary other man’s suffering.
The last chord sounded and a voice said, “NSA complaints.” The accent was definitely Eastern European and… more than passingly familiar?
“Did I talk to you earlier today?”
“Cannot confirm or deny that you talking to me before now, Joe.”
Joe hung up and awaited delivery of the new primary logger.