“Anything else?”
“No. We left the meeting and he and Robert stayed to talk.”
“Robert Preston?” Santiago asked, reading from his small Day-Timer.
Rene nodded. “I’ve seen Kyle a little, but Robert hasn’t been around lately, although I do see him in the halls. When I call him, he still answers his phone, even though he’s not working in his office. I guess he has it forwarded.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. It has to be somewhere in the building because we can only forward our phones internally.”
Santiago scribbled the information in the open Day-Timer page, then looked up at Rene. “I need you to find where he’s going.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s suspicious.”
“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”
“No, no. We just want to protect our interests.”
“What is it you’re afraid they’ll find?” Rene asked. She had asked several times before, and Santiago’s standard reply always was that she was paid well and not to concern herself with the details. The less she knew the better.
“You know I can’t answer that, and you’re better off not knowing.”
“I should’ve never allowed you to involve me in this.”
“It’s a little late for that now, babe. If Robert’s working somewhere else, I want you to find out what he’s working on. Any documents or files would be nice as well.”
“That’s a little risky.”
“Part of that payment includes risk.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, glaring up at him. “Since you’re asking for so much more, I want another five.”
“Getting greedy, aren’t we?” Santiago said sarcastically.
“If I’m going to put my neck out, it has to be worth my while.”
Santiago thought for a second, then produced another white envelope. “I figured you’d pull something like that.”
Rene’s eyes widened, glaring at it, then to Santiago, then back to the envelope. “Five-thousand dollars?” she asked.
“Yep. Five big ones.”
She picked it up and held it against the first. They were both the same thickness. “When will I hear from you again?” she asked, clutching her fortune.
Santiago’s cell phone rang next to his lap. He picked it up, answered, then told Ian to hold for a moment, glancing at Rene. “I’ll call you at one.”
“One!” Rene shouted. “Today?”
Santiago nodded, cupping the phone in his hand.
“I can’t possibly get anything in that amount of time.”
“You need to try.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“That’s not your concern. You just need to do it.”
“This is the last time,” Rene finally choked out. “Okay? The last time.”
Santiago looked at her, not responding. She unlatched the door and stepped out, peering back. “No one else will get hurt?” she asked desperately.
“No one else,” Santiago said. “I promise.”
She closed the door softly and started back toward the building, Santiago watching her leave as he put the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”
“This is Ian.”
“I know that.”
“I watched Kyle’s house like you said. This morning the feds were waiting outside. They made him get in one of their cars. I couldn’t follow because they had a wing man and I would have been spotted right away.”
Santiago glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. “Things are getting out of hand. It was bad enough with Charlie.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ian asked.
Santiago looked off in the distance, not really seeing anything in particular but simply trying to organize his thoughts. “I want you to get a couple of others, Devin and maybe Antonio, and head back to the airport office. I’ll speak with Dwight and make the arrangements.”
“Arrangements for what?”
“I think we’re going to have to grab Mr. Randall.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kyle rode up to Allied at nine-thirty. As he made his way to the motorcycle lot, he spotted what he believed was an FBI agent parked on the side of the road. A cool morning breeze was blowing, the sky overcast and hazy. It was warm for December, but he knew the high-desert cold was right around the corner. It always was. He would have to start driving the Camaro again, but resisted as long as the weather held out.
The first stop Kyle made was to see Robert. He was reading through lines of code in the hidden office on the first floor. Robert looked up and smiled. Kyle guessed it got lonely working down here, closed in with no one to talk to, but then again Robert was like many programmers and worked well alone.
“I thought you were going to sleep in today?” Kyle asked.
“I did.”
“So, any new developments?” Kyle took a seat next to Robert, looking at the monitor. A hex editor filled the screen, rows and columns of hexadecimal characters which required meticulous interpretation to decipher accurately.
“I laid awake all night thinking about this thing. Remember I said Charlie had started work on a scanner?”
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed.
“Before I went to bed, I read through some of his notes and source code for the scanner. He wrote it in ‘C’ but never quite finished. I think I found a way to scan for all modifications of code.”
“You got my attention,” Kyle said. “Is that what this is on the screen?”
Robert glanced at the monitor, then back to Kyle. “No, that’s something else. Anyway, it has to do with the account numbers themselves. Depending on the client, in this case the bank in Kentucky, a corresponding account number exists for it. Just one account per distinct bank. You see, Charlie was working under the assumption that multiple account numbers were embedded in all the programs that were modified, but that’s not the case. That’s why he didn’t decode more than one number. Had he gone on to a different client’s source code, he would have seen there was a separate number embedded, an existing account already set up at that bank.”
“So, have you discovered any more numbers?”
“Close,” Robert said, pointing to the screen. “It’s there, somewhere, staring us in the face.”
“Doesn’t look like much,” Kyle said, looking at all the double-digit hex numbers.
“It turns out the account numbers themselves are stored as hex. It’s a lot like bit mapping, but at a higher level.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s simple, really. If they stored the actual digits of each account, then I could easily scan based on the number itself. You have to remember, each byte in ASCII for the numbers zero through nine are identical in hex, so if they encoded the account numbers at the byte level, all we’d have to do is list the file and we would see the account numbers as plain as day. So, they had to hide them.”
“Hide them?”
“Yeah. Consider the length and format of the account numbers themselves. The bank in Kentucky carries 16-digit account numbers, so when they parse out the numbers and hexify the account you get eight hex numbers which blend in with the code itself.”
“I’m still not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Give me a credit card.”
“What?” Kyle asked.
“Come on, you can afford it.”
Kyle jiggled his wallet from his back pocket, fished out his MasterCard and handed it to Robert. He took the card and placed it on top of the keyboard, then started typing. “Okay, look here.”
Kyle inched closer and looked at the screen. An electronic calculator was now superimposed in a new window over the hex editor that Robert was working with earlier. There were function options on the left, and a number pad on the right, and on top a small window where the results were displayed.
“Okay,” Robert said, looking at the credit card. “Let’s take the first four digits as an example. Almost universally, the first four to eight
digits of a credit card are logical, meaning they have special significance to the bank. In your case the first four digits are five, four, four and seven. The way they do this is to convert the first two digits into hex. So, I’ll set my calculator to decimal mode and enter 54.”
Kyle watched as Robert typed in the number five followed by four. He then moved the mouse pointer to a radio button that had the word hex written to the right.
“Okay, so now let’s convert this number to hex.”
Robert clicked on the hex radio button and the two digits on the screen, 54, changed immediately to 36.
“Now,” Robert continued, “I’ll clear 54 and enter 47.” He repeated the same steps with the new number, the hex value now displaying 2F. “So, you now have the first four digits of your credit card number as 36 and 2F. Now, these numbers are stored in the system in reverse order. When I edit the code, I see the opposite, 2F displayed first followed by 36. Your credit card has four sets of four numbers, so inside each program are four sets of hex pairs which represent an account number.”
“You’re telling me you can use this information to figure out the remaining account numbers?”
“Better than that, I can use it as a signature to scan for the account numbers in each of the programs. It almost becomes like a finger print, now that I know what to look for.”
Kyle smiled. “How long would it take you to write a scanner?”
Now Robert was smiling as well. “Actually, I already have, using some of Charlie’s code.”
“And?”
“I ran it through the entire system. It only came up with the Kentucky bank. So, I made a couple of phone calls and got the base numbers from two other banks in the U.S., one in Georgia and the other in Colorado. I plugged the base numbers into my scanner and ran it again. Programs for all three customers came up as infected. I also pulled up a number from a bank in France. Same thing.”
Kyle slumped down in his seat. “Holy crap. That means our theory of there being only a dozen account numbers...”
“Out the window,” Robert interrupted. “We have a potential of 412 numbers total. I’d bet there’s less, though. Some of the banks are on the same system, so whoever’s behind this could actually have one account number spanning several branches or banks, depending on the program that’s infected. You also have to consider that these banks interface with other banks.”
“So, who owns the accounts and what are they planning to do with them?”
Robert sighed. “The account numbers were easy to find since Charlie did the up-front work. There must be code embedded inside the programs along with the account numbers, but all I’ve seen is what Charlie discovered previously. He was focusing mainly on the Kentucky bank. Their system is UNIX-based and he was debugging through the compiled version of their program. He discovered that the code itself called the physical address where the account number was embedded, which was how he found it in the first place. I think he would have figured it out given time, and maybe that’s why someone stepped in and shut him up.”
“Yeah, but how did that someone find out he was getting close?”
“You told me last night you thought your house was bugged. Maybe his was, too.”
Robert reached in his shirt pocket, handing a business card to Kyle. On the front was Peoples Fiduciary Bank of Kentucky, Morgan Weir, Assistant Manager. He took the card and looked up at Robert.
“That’s the guy Charlie was in contact with,” Robert said.
Kyle eyed the card. "Perhaps we should give him a call.”
“Actually, I already did.”
"You're kidding?" Kyle said, amazed.
"Nope. He was evasive at first, trying to protect his job and all. I did find out that Charlie had talked to Morgan several times. The account numbers we discovered had been opened months ago with minimum balances, but no activity since. I thought it was the account numbers Charlie had called Morgan about."
"But..." Kyle said, allowing Robert room to elaborate.
"Back to the smart cards. Turns out Morgan divulged privileged information to Charlie, and gave me information thinking I already knew something. He said the seal on the back of the card is the same used by our friends at the FBI. I hadn't noticed it when I looked at our photocopy, but he's right. He went on to explain that the FBI didn’t have an organization in Knoxville, the address printed on the card. To emphasize the point, he told me that the feds run two computer centers, one in Pocatello, Idaho and the other in Fort Monmouth, and two information technology centers located in Montana and Georgia. The processing center in Knoxville, according to my friend, doesn't exist. Yet Morgan has an original smart card, the one we have a copy of, sitting in his desk.”
Kyle slowly shook his head. "How does a smart card fit in with virus code embedded in our systems?"
"Beats me," Robert added.
"Have you ever gone swimming in the ocean?" Kyle asked.
Robert looked puzzled. "What?"
"Swimming," Kyle repeated. "You start out at the shore, then stroke to the horizon. It's not long before you look back and realize the shore seems like it's miles away. That's how I feel now with this. We're miles from shore out in deep water."
"I don't follow," Robert admitted.
"Whoever's behind all this, they gotta have clout. From here on out we need to watch our backs."
Robert grinned. "I've watched my back ever since I started working for this company."
Kyle couldn't help but laugh. "I'm heading back upstairs. Keep plugging away."
“I’ll be here,” Robert said, turning back to his screen. Kyle was almost to the door when Robert called out.
Kyle looked back. “Yeah?”
“One last thing,” Robert said, holding something in his hand. “Do you want your credit card back?”
Kyle chuckled along with Robert, then grabbed the card and left, making sure no one else was watching. His mind was awash with stray thoughts, looming deadlines, firm commitments and everything else that was part of a routine day. When he reached his office he clumsily fell into his chair, staring at his phone. A red light was blinking rapidly alerting him of waiting messages.
“Mr. Randall?”
Kyle turned to see Diana Clark standing in the doorway. She was the department secretary, which kept her busy the majority of the time, especially for the last six months. Kyle managed a smile and asked her to have a seat. It had been a while since he had seen her, then it occurred to him he hadn’t seen her with the others when the FBI was putting on their show, either the real or the fake ones.
“I’m sorry about Charlie,” she said, dropping her head in reverence, then slowly bringing it back. “I really liked him.”
“Me too.”
“You look bushed.”
“Good. That’s exactly the way I feel. I’d hate to be inconsistent and labeled a hypocrite.”
“Mr. Wells asked me to tell you to report to his office the minute you walked in.”
Kyle sighed aloud. “Figures. Any particular reason?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Thanks Diana.”
She offered a sympathetic smile and left. Kyle rose from the comfort of his chair and headed toward mahogany row, a term aptly applied to the executive area where the furnishings were either made from mahogany or closely resembled it. Kyle guessed the executive suites cost as much as the rest of the building tallied together. Deep pile carpeting, the finest furnishings profits could buy, full length glass windows with both eastern and southern exposures, which was great in the winter time. Kyle’s boss, Curtis Hopkins, had an office beside Tom Wells. It was half the size of Tom’s but twice the size of Kyle’s. One’s office size was a status symbol of success, which placed Tom at the top of the ladder, not that he would allow anyone to forget it.
Kyle presented himself to Tom’s personal secretary and she motioned him in without a word. He stepped inside the office to see Tom and his disciples gathered around his luxurious desk. Included in
the party was, naturally, Curtis, seated next to legal counsel, Stacy Weathersby. Also numbered in the party was Paul Ketcham, Kyle’s peer and all-around brown-noser. Most of the employees simply called him Heinz Ketchup, or Heinz for short, because of his rosy-red complexion and he was slow as tomato paste. Kyle tried to set an example for his team and not refer to him as Heinz, but sometimes it inadvertently slipped out without warning.
“What’s this?” Kyle asked, taking the only available seat left in the office. It was conveniently distanced from the others, which Kyle noted instantly. He scooted closer toward the group, Paul noticeably uncomfortable, leaning away from Kyle.
“Just a few questions,” Tom said, taking his seat behind the desk.
“I fear I’m becoming professional at answering questions, since that’s all I’ve been doing for the past two days.”
Tom took the lead, firing the first volley. “I have it on good authority that you are not cooperating fully with the federal agents. Is this true?”
Kyle smiled inwardly, careful not to let it show. He saw Rudy’s name all over this and wondered if he was hiding in Tom’s personal bathroom, his ear pressed to the door. Kyle wouldn’t put it past him. The question itself wasn’t as patronizing as the delivery, much like a father to a naughty child.
“On the contrary,” Kyle said defensively. “I’ve been cooperative in the extreme. The FBI practically slept at my house last night, then invited me downtown where Norm Alexander and I had a wonderful discussion and gained a mutual understanding.” Kyle delivered his answers with a hint of sarcasm, but not enough to enrage Tom. Kyle approached the line quite often, but never crossed it.
“Why is the FBI so interested in you?” Stacy asked. Kyle had worked with Stacy only a few times before, but found she had little time for him, being all consumed with the legal affairs of the company. Her credentials adorned the entire west wall of her office, also twice the size of Kyle’s, and she let no one forget that she was the sole legal representative of Allied Professional Computer Consultants.
“You’ll have to ask them that question yourself, I’m afraid.”
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