by Tom Fowler
I split my time watching the house, the alleys I could see, and the laptop. No one came gunning for me. My WPA2 attack continued its slow, steady progress. About a half-hour later, it finished. I gained access to Esposito’s network. The first thing I wanted to do was enable some kind of persistence, so I could keep tabs on his traffic and find out if he knew anything about the Sellers brothers and Anna Blair.
There are many ways to establish a persistent presence. The most common is to leave some code behind, usually a rootkit to compromise targeted systems and allow you easy access. I’ve done it plenty of times. I didn’t think it was the right call this time, though. Esposito struck me as too paranoid about technology. He would run frequent malware scans. He would reinstall his operating system. He would buy a new laptop. I couldn’t count on a rootkit to get me there.
Instead, I went after his router. He changed the default password, so I set about cracking the one he used. The job took another forty minutes, during which time I kept an eye out for any more patrols. With access to Esposito’s router, I added a rule to send all its traffic to a server not attributable to me instead of its normal gateway to the outside world. It would slow his network a little, and he might notice the speed reduction, but I counted on the fact he wouldn’t replace the router as a mitigation. Most people don’t.
Before I could hunt around for information about my clients, however, another of Esposito’s men walked out of the house and did the alley patrol. I started copying files from the usual places people store documents. Complicating this effort was the fact I wanted to be gone when the lackey made his rounds. I started the car and drove away. My laptop antenna delivered a lot of range, but it would lose its connection soon. I wanted some good data before it happened.
As I drove to the end of the street, I saw the goon emerge from an alley in my rearview mirror.
When I got home, I took my laptop to the office to inspect my ill-gotten gains. First, I checked the files I snagged from Esposito’s computer. He didn’t run any kind of encryption, which I found surprising (and even a little insulting). Based on what I got, it didn’t look like Esposito knew much about the Sellers brothers and Anna Blair. If he did, he either didn’t keep it on his computer or he kept it in a folder I didn’t have time to grab before the flunky patrol made its rounds.
The files came from a Windows computer so I kept them on a Windows computer. I preferred Linux for most of my work, but I didn’t want to run into the problem of the operating system throwing up its hands at trying to parse a Microsoft Office file. Windows, thanks to the findstr command, at least offered me some ability to comb through the information quickly. I didn’t find anything on Chris, Brian, or Anna. I also looked for “Rizzo” and came up empty.
After a few more minutes, I wrote off the data from Esposito’s PC as a loss. If I had more time, I might have found something. I pondered going back. Parking a silver Honda on the street again would not be an option. The plan would mean another rental car parked somewhere else, and then I still would have to deal with his lackeys going out on patrol. An idea came to me about how I might pull it off better next time if I needed to. If I could avoid doing such a risky task again, I would.
I logged into my server. Thanks to the routing rule I added to Esposito’s router, it used my server as its gateway. Years ago in my high school and college days (and even into my time in Hong Kong), encryption wasn’t so ubiquitous. People still read and sent email over unencrypted web connections. They would transfer files with FTP and their chat programs were in plaintext, so someone like me on the wire got to see both sides of the conversation.
Encryption changed—and ruined—it all. Every self-respecting webmail client now ran over HTTPS, the encrypted web protocol. FTP died an overdue death. IRC added security for chats and conversations, and then there were the encrypted options like Skype and WhatsApp. In short, eavesdropping on people’s online conversations became a lot harder. As someone who doesn’t want the government reading mine, I liked it. As someone with a case to solve, I hated it.
The good thing is smart hackers found ways around it. The server I sent Esposito’s traffic to ran a program to downgrade encrypted HTTPS connections to unencrypted HTTP. A savvy user could sometimes spot the difference in their address bar—your browser won’t come out and lie to you, after all—but most people didn’t notice it or ignored it. I knew Esposito was smarter than the average bear when it came to large-scale security, but would he notice anything? I counted on the probability he didn’t, at least not for a while.
With the SSL part of the HTTPS connections stripped off, I could see where Esposito went online. I could read his emails. I could see his passwords after he entered them (and I made notes). Nothing he did at the moment concerned Chris, Brian, or Anna, however. The problem with hijacking a person’s traffic like this is most people are boring and will do boring things. Esposito, as much as he may have fancied himself some high-tech gangster, was as humdrum as anyone else.
I couldn’t watch the uninteresting traffic any longer. To flag items about the Sellers brothers, Anna Blair, or Tony Rizzo, I wrote specific filters in my packet sniffing program. Then I realized how hungry I was. All this sitting, goon dodging, and felonious computer activity had given me quite an appetite. With my filters running, I walked out into Federal Hill to find some lunch.
I came back about a half-hour later with a bag of Greek deliciousness. There are few things in this world not improved by the eating of a chicken souvlaki pita. I paired it with fries despite knowing I should opt for rice or a salad. The fries were just too good, and I was too hungry and too eager for my computer chicanery to work. I ate at my kitchen table, dunking the fries in way too much tzatziki as I pondered what else I might do for the Sellers brothers.
A potential answer (or more problems) came when Joey called me. “I was just thinking about you,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” said Joey. “What’s the occasion?”
“I’m eating too much too fast. Who else could I think of?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“What’s up?” I said.
“Have you heard from the asshole and his girlfriend yet?” Joey said.
I hadn’t, and I didn’t know if it should concern me. “No,” I said. “Maybe they’re doing a good job keeping their heads down.”
“Yeah. Or maybe they’re dead and bleeding all over the place.”
“Do people usually check in with you?”
“Sometimes,” Joey said. “I like to check on them every now and again.”
“Driving by can’t be good security,” I said.
Joey chuckled. “I got cameras,” he said. “They’re well-hidden but there are a few around the house. I don’t keep any in the bathrooms or bedrooms, though.”
“I’ll bet you’ve still seen some things you can’t unsee.”
I could hear the shudder in Joey’s voice. “You have no idea.”
“If you have CCTV in the house, what are you worried about?” I said.
“I haven’t seen any of them on my monitors.”
Unusual. I didn’t know where Joey hid his cameras, but people tended to move around houses. A couple in hallways and the living room should spot people as they walked around, even if they weren’t doing much. “I presume you have a continuous feed?” I said. “And you can rewind to look for anything unusual?”
“Of course,” Joey said. “I paid a lot for the system. It does even more. But the thing is I don’t see them anywhere, and I don’t see anyone else. No intruders, nothing.”
“And they haven’t left?”
“Unless they jumped out the bedroom windows, I’d’ve seen it.”
“You want me to check it out?”
“They are your clients,” Joey said.
“They’re actually paying you,” I pointed out.
“You carry a gun.” I laughed. “Fine, you’re licensed to carry a gun,” Joey said.
“All right, I’ll check. Take my
time off their tab.”
“Unless you’re buying me food, your time is worthless to me,” said Joey. He hung up. I looked at the little of my lunch remaining. Could Chris and Anna have been stupid and managed to leave without being seen? I still liked Brian Sellers, but his brother and his brother’s girlfriend were more trouble than they were worth.
I grabbed my keys and headed for Columbia.
I could have called any of them. The issue was talking to someone on the phone doesn’t necessarily tell you if they’re in trouble. Being told at gunpoint to stay calm and sound normal can be quite persuasive. I wanted to check this out in person. Chris and Anna acted dumb before. I didn’t put it past them to do it again.
It occurred to me Esposito might have a lackey following me. I wanted to get to Columbia as fast as possible but also didn’t want to lead the enemy right to the safehouse. Someone like Rich would spot a tail quickly. I didn’t have his observational skills or experience. As far as I could tell, no one followed me, but someone who knew what he was doing could have lurked back there.
As a precaution, I took a more circuitous route than normal to Columbia. Getting there from Baltimore was a straight shot down I-95, and then either Routes 175 or 32, depending on where in Columbia you wanted to go. I took an unusual route through the city to get to the highway, then got off at Route 100. I looped around a roundabout an extra time, and got back on. Then I took Route 100 until it terminated at Route 29 and took it into Columbia. As far as I could tell, no one shadowed me.
When I got close to Joey’s house, I made unnecessary turns and doubled back on myself at least once. Again, no one popped up in the rearview, so far as I could tell. I turned onto Puppy Breath Court, scoffed at the name one more time, and parked four houses down from Joey’s. No cars followed me onto the street. I got out of the Caprice, kept low, and dashed to the house. I didn’t see anyone lurking around or watching me from the other houses.
I knocked on the door as quietly as I could while still making sure they could hear me inside. Footsteps moved toward the door a couple seconds later. I took my gun out and stood to the side in case an Esposito miscreant beat me here. The deadbolt slid back and the door opened. Anna Blair looked back at me. The worry of before no longer scrunched her face, and she looked prettier.
“C.T.?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.” She moved aside and I walked in.
“Is anyone else here?” I said as Anna locked the door behind us.
“Just the three of us.” She looked at my gun and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you been here all day?”
“Yeah.” Chris wandered into the living room. “We’ve basically stayed in the bedrooms all day,” Anna said. “We all took some snacks up last night.”
“We’ve been careful,” Chris added, sounding a little defensive.
“All right,” I said. “I’m only checking up on you, making sure everything is OK.”
“You could’ve called,” Chris said.
“And you could’ve been at gunpoint and said whatever you were being told to say.”
“You and Joey are worried about us,” Anna said.
I nodded. “Where’s Brian?” I said.
“In his bedroom,” Chris said. “Probably trying to do some schoolwork.”
I didn’t stay for much more conversation. They were OK was the important part. I gave Anna and Chris another safety reminder and then left. On the way home, I called Joey and told him everything was fine. While I drove, I kept an eye out for anyone tailing me, but I didn’t see anyone.
After I got home, Gloria called and asked if I had any dinner plans. I did not, in fact, so she said she would join me soon. I liked our relationship of convenience. Gloria and I moved in the same social circles. If people still used the word, they would have called her a socialite. To borrow another term, we were friends with benefits. While I certainly enjoyed spending time with Gloria, I wondered if inviting herself over for dinner strained the bounds of our casual arrangement.
In about a half-hour, Gloria arrived and let herself in. She wore a tight pair of jeans looking as if tailored to accentuate her curves. She wore a dark green sweater with a neckline just low enough to be interesting. Her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail, which for Gloria constituted a bad hair day. She only pulled it back if it didn’t look good worn the usual way.
“Hey there,” she said, sitting down next to me on the couch and kissing me.
“Hungry?” I said.
“Starving, actually.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
Gloria contemplated that, and I noticed she was very pretty when she got pensive. “Pub food,” she said after a moment.
Of all the types Gloria could have answered with, I would have put her choice near the bottom. She liked fancy restaurants where entrees cost forty dollars, waiters were clad in black tie, and someone valeted the car. I liked those places too, but I also entertained a strong affinity for things like burgers and pizza—which could be found for way less than forty dollars. “Seriously?” I said.
“I know, right?” Gloria said. “I never eat pub food. I just . . . want it for some reason.”
“You’re not going to start craving pickles and chocolate at midnight, are you?”
She gave me a light punch on the arm. “I’m not pregnant.” The news was certainly a relief. “I just want pub food.”
“Irish pub or sports bar?” I said.
“Sports bar might be pushing it.”
“More’s the pity,” I said.
I took Gloria to the James Joyce Irish Pub on President Street. It was in an area I grew up calling Fells Point, but it rebranded itself as Harbor East. Like any area rebranded for hipness, it featured nearby housing, access to public transportation, pubs, and a Whole Foods. No hipster neighborhood can be complete without the addition of a Whole Foods.
We started with some homemade Irish brown bread and a Guinness each. For as buttoned-up and prim as Gloria could sometimes be, it was good to see her let her hair down and eat and drink like a normal person. Maybe I rubbed off on her in the culinary respect. For dinner, I ordered the beef and Guinness stew and Gloria surprised me by getting a shepherd’s pie. “When in Rome,” she said when she noticed my puzzled expression.
“Hear, hear,” I said, and we clinked our glasses of Guinness.
“How’s your case going?”
I sighed. “OK, I guess. I found the kid’s brother and his girlfriend. They’re probably the dumbest people who ever went on the run.”
Gloria chuckled. “That bad?”
“It’s like they don’t want help,” I said. “They don’t seem to understand the fact if I found them without a lot of trouble, other people could, too. For smart people, they’re pretty stupid.”
“What’s happening to them now?” Gloria said.
“I took them to see Joey,” I said, lowering my voice. The restaurant grew more crowded; Gloria leaned in a little to hear me. “They should be on their way soon.”
“If they’re smart enough to get away.”
I hadn’t considered them wanting to hang around. As dumb and stubborn as Chris and Anna seemed to be, they might insist on staying local. They might eschew Joey’s help altogether and count on Esposito forgetting about them. I hoped Brian would be the voice of reason, telling them they couldn’t do it and why. But they showed no signs of being able to listen to reason so far. What cause did I have to be optimistic?
“You think they’re not?” Gloria said.
“Maybe,” I said. “And the thought might keep me awake tonight.”
She shot me a lascivious wink. “I hope that’s not the only thing keeping you awake tonight.”
I smiled. “Here’s to insomnia.”
Chapter 15
Gloria left the next morning. She scheduled an early tennis lesson and would compete in a practice tournament in the afternoon. For the first time
, she asked me if I would come. She chewed on the corner of her lip subtly after asking. I told her I would try if the case allowed me. She said she understood, gave me a lingering kiss goodbye, and set off for a day of tennis.
After she left, I made breakfast. Without Gloria to distract me, my thoughts drifted back to Chris Sellers and Anna Blair. Would they keep their heads down long enough for Joey to set them up someplace else? And what would happen after they got there? The old Simpsons episode with Homer wearing a Witness Protection Program hat leapt to mind. I wished they would stick it out for Brian. He needed to finish high school, and give college a try without worrying his brother would take two to the head.
I made a simple breakfast of wheat toast, two scrambled eggs, and turkey sausage. I carried it all plus a mug of coffee to my office to see what the day held in store. The SSL-stripping attack on Esposito’s router continued to pay dividends. No significant traffic traversed it now, so I looked back on what I missed last night. Some web surfing and a few emails, none of which made a difference in anything I did. I knew he still wanted to find Chris Sellers. Why was he so quiet about it, then? Was he eschewing going online in favor of issuing all his orders in person or on the phone?
After breakfast with nothing to do in the case, I acted like so many other members of my generation and did the Netflix and chill. I was content to keep getting my chill on when my phone rang. It was Bobbi Lane. “Hello?”
“Hi, C.T.,” she said. “You up for a run?”
I had eaten a hearty breakfast. Running off the calories—and anything else we might choose to do—with Bobbi sounded like a good remedy. “Sure,” I said. “Your place or mine?”
“Can we do mine? My car’s not the best right now.”
I said we could, and we agreed on an hour, giving me almost thirty minutes to kill, so I went back and checked on Esposito’s traffic. It looked like he (or someone else in the house) spent an enthralling morning reading the news. I kept on the alert for a smoking gun, and I couldn’t even find an empty cap pistol. Now I knew what network analysts felt like. I still didn’t love my job, but I also didn’t envy theirs.