‘That’s him!’
16.
DarkChild sprints past the booths, knocking into a petite barista, whose tray of empty plastic cups goes flying as she crashes against a partition. He slams his hands onto the grey fire escape bar on the back door. The door flings open, and white light from outside makes Owen blink hard. He sees that the hacker has a laptop bag around his right shoulder, swinging and bumping against his hip, slowing him down. The cop sent to cover the back of the café is on his back, gasping for breath, knocked down as DarkChild burst through the door. Goddamn flatfoot! Owen curses silently. Stumbling past discarded cardboard boxes, Owen sees DarkChild slip over the weathered railings in front of a set of stairs. Behind TerraBites is a shared access area for deliveries and garbage. The muggy heat envelops Owen. He grabs his radio handset, squeezes down the grey call button.
‘He’s made us, heading out the back exit! Arab type, in fatigues, and he’s running.’
Jared races past Owen and vaults over the railings.
Owen limps after him and stops, swearing in frustration.
‘Copy that.’ Mitchell’s voice crackles over the radio.
Owen continues the pursuit, gritting his teeth.
‘Damn you, Koenig . . .’ he gasps.
The hacker tosses his laptop bag into the jaws of a reversing blue garbage truck, before disappearing into the back entrance of a shop under a fading sign – ‘Movie Memories’.
‘Be advised, there’s a garbage truck reversing down the alley towards you. It’s pretty tight, so we can’t get down there right away.’
‘No shit,’ Owen says. He stands behind the garbage truck, badge outstretched, waving for the truck to move faster. He squeezes the button on the radio. ‘He tossed his laptop in the back, make sure we get that.’
‘Understood.’
Owen turns to one side, speaking into his comms link, ‘Jared, keep on him. I’ll get the cars round, cut him off.’
‘Copy that. I think I saw a big rucksack by his desk. Looks like he was about to skip town.’
‘I bet.’
‘He’s out of the shop, heading into the market.’
Owen turns back towards the fire exit of TerraBites and squeezes on the radio’s call button again. ‘You boys still in the car – head round the block towards the market!’
‘Copy that, en route now,’ an officer in the patrol car replies.
Chen stares at Owen, wide-eyed.
‘Secure that terminal, Chen. We’ll be back for it.’
Owen hurries as fast as he can towards his Suburban, wrenching the door open. He guns the engine as he speeds towards the end of the street and flicks a button on the dash. The wailing of sirens pulses from underneath the hood, with flashing red and blue LED lights built into the roof rail. Owen still loves the thrill of the blues and twos.
Turning right onto the downtown market, he sees it is pedestrianized. Crowds of locals and tourists are browsing and haggling over goods.
Owen swerves his massive Chevy down the street. People recoil from the sound of the siren and the roar of the engine and throw themselves aside. His thrill of a moment earlier turns to mortal terror at the possibility of running someone down by accident. He curses DarkChild for leading him into this chaos, and at the same time feels a grudging respect for his opponent’s tactics. He squints through his windshield at the fleeing bodies. From the right he sees the flash of combat fatigues race across in front of him, disappearing past an aisle of fruit and vegetables. There’s an access aisle to his left and he swerves the car round. Cruising past the market stalls, Owen turns right, heading straight on. The car creeps along as he peers down each aisle.
Come on, where are you?
Owen knows DarkChild must emerge from one of these aisles eventually, like a rat in a maze. He inches forward, his foot gently resting on the accelerator as the vehicle travels towards the corner of a used computers and electronics stand. Running too fast to see, DarkChild bounces onto the huge hood of the Chevy, sprawling across the windshield, badly winded.
‘Gotcha!’
Owen climbs out, cuffs ready, gripping the hacker’s arm with his left hand. With his right hand he applies a wrist turnout grip. He clicks the cuffs on one hand, then both, the metal rings sliding and locking into place. DarkChild stops struggling, lying down on the hood. He catches his breath, looking up at Owen with intense brown eyes.
He’s just a kid.
Jared appears, breathing hard, pats Owen on the shoulder.
‘Not bad.’
Owen yanks on DarkChild’s cuffs, making him stand.
‘You have the right to remain silent . . .’ Owen reads him his rights.
DarkChild glares back, then spits. ‘Fuck you!’
17.
Owen glances at his analogue watch: 2 p.m. After an arrest, he has up to forty-eight hours to formally charge a suspect or they have to be released. Owen’s spent two hours booking DarkChild – into Santa Clara County Jail. He had not been carrying any ID at the time of the arrest. However, a search of his rucksack resulted in three separate identities being found, complete with new passports, California driver’s licences and social security number cards. The turnkeys had conducted a full strip search where they eventually found a receipt for a laptop repair in his pocket under the name Samer Aldeera. That matches one of the sets of ID documents found on him. They had also scanned his fingers, searching for his prints in the known suspect/wanted person databases. It came up with no matches. Samer is an unsub – an unknown suspect with no prior criminal history.
Owen and Samer sit in a grey interrogation room with hard plastic seats and a metal table. Owen has noticed a certain fastidiousness about Samer – despite the combat fatigues and uncombed hair, his fingernails are shaped and there is a poise about him. Very different from the usual gangly, pimpled hacker Owen has encountered.
Samer bows down, staring into the depths of his lap.
He has requested a court-appointed attorney, but this does not mean a lawyer will drop what they are doing to attend.
Owen sees this as a blessing – an opportunity to gather the evidence he needs, unhindered. He unzips the rucksack retrieved from the rear of the garbage truck. Inside is a shiny black laptop, heavily customized with additional ventilation and blue stylings – HunterWare; a premium brand of laptop that Owen is familiar with. He gives it a tap.
‘Recognize this?’
‘Should I?’
‘It’s the one you tried to dump.’
‘That’s what you say. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘We’ve got witnesses, CCTV, and we’ll be able to match DNA traces. You’re going to have to do better than that, kid.’
‘I’m not your kid.’
‘No? Your handle is DarkChild. Now I can see why. You behave like one.’
‘And where did you hear that name?’
‘The Swarm. Where else?’
He sees the young man’s eyes widen. Just enough to betray him. Samer shakes his head. ‘Never heard of it. What’s that? Some coffee shop where the feds hang out?’
‘Nice. But no. It’s where you and your friends meet online to discuss the games you want to play with the grown-ups. It’s where you go to boast about your exploits.’
‘Like I said, never heard of it. You got the wrong guy. I’m not your DarkChild.’
‘Really? Just an innocent person?’
‘Got that right.’
‘So why did you run, back at TerraBites?’
‘Thought you guys were going to beat me up.’
‘And what possible reason could you have for thinking that?’
‘You’re a cop. A white cop. You don’t like the colour of my skin. I bet you have a nice collection of customized pillowcases at home. Do I need to draw you a pic
ture?’
‘You really think you can make that stick?’ Owen shakes his head. ‘It’s going to look pretty desperate. Especially once we get inside this baby.’ He taps the lid of the laptop.
‘Go ahead. Be my guest.’
‘Then what? You going to tell me that it’s rigged to explode? Or wipe the data or something.’
‘You been watching too many movies. It’s much simpler than that. You ain’t going to find nothing on there that’ll hurt me.’
‘Then it is your machine . . .’
Samer’s expression hardens, furious with himself for falling into the trap so easily.
‘Yeah, it’s mine,’ he concedes. ‘Not that it’s going to help you much.’
‘We’ll see.’ Owen lifts the lid and presses the power button. The laptop boots up swiftly off a solid-state hard drive, then the login screen appears.
Password: ______
Owen slides Samer a pen and a jotter pad. ‘Password?’
Samer considers. He picks up the pen in his handcuffed right hand before writing down ‘2ur1ng’.
‘As in Alan Turing?’
Samer nods.
‘Cute.’
He wonders if Samer is being a little too cooperative. ‘Anything likely to happen when I enter the password? No fancy wipe routines or anything?’
‘You’ll have to find out for yourself.’
‘All right. But before I do, you should know that any attempt to destroy data will be regarded in court as evidence of your guilt. There’s now a ten-year sentence just for destroying data that forms any part of a federal investigation. Same goes for refusing to provide a password, or an encryption key. That’ll be on top of any other charges. In the current climate, with your Middle Eastern background, I dare say we can throw a few terrorism charges into the mix. Just so you know, Samer.’ He pauses. ‘Last chance, before I try to access the machine.’
Samer sits back and folds his arms. Owen enters the password. The screen blinks to Samer’s desktop, cueing a Transformers sound effect. Owen swipes the trackpad with his fingers, looking under the computer tabs.
No hard drive is visible.
He swivels the laptop around to face Samer.
‘Your hard drive. Where is it?’
‘You’re the detective. You tell me.’
‘Samer, you’re not being sensible. You heard what I said. You’re playing with fire here. If you mess with the Bureau’s investigation into the Swarm then you are going inside for a long time. As it is, we can hold you in isolation for as long as I can convince the Homeland Security people that you pose a threat to Uncle Sam. Just so you don’t get a chance to warn your buddies that we got you. And if I have anything to do with it then you’ll be older than me by the time you get out.’
Samer makes a face. ‘Eww.’
‘OK, I’ve had enough of your shit. You think you impress me? Christ, I already have enough to put you away for life, regardless of what’s on here. How do you think I managed to track you down? You and your pals are not nearly as smart as you think. Not only did the Bureau get all over your social media like flies on shit, we also got inside the Swarm. And I’m talking about the inner circle.’
‘Impossible. You’re dreamin’, man.’
‘Oh yeah? Who do you think Salvador is, then?’
Samer’s expression freezes. He winces, almost as if he has been struck in the face. Then he shakes his head. ‘No . . .’
‘Oh yes, Samer. That’s me. Salvador, at your service.’
‘But you’re too . . . old.’
‘And you’re too dumb. What? You think all hackers have to be skinny little streaks of piss just like you? Think again. You have no idea what anyone online looks like. I bet you’ve never even met any of the other members of the inner circle, have you? Maybe some of them are as old as me. Maybe some of them are women. Maybe some are even other feds. Ever thought about that?’
‘That’s not possible . . .’
‘But you can’t know that.’ Owen leans forward and stabs a finger at the young man. ‘What you do know is that you are in deep shit. You’re looking at the end of the dream and the start of a lifelong nightmare, son. You help me, and I do whatever I can to help you beat the worst of the rap.’ He pauses and softens his voice. ‘You’re little more than a kid, Samer. Why throw your life away for people and causes you know nothing about? Don’t do it. You help me find the other members of the Swarm and we can work out a deal. Hell, you might even skip jail altogether . . . But if you continue trying to fuck with me then I will bury you. You have my word on it.’
‘And if I give you what you want, I go free?’
‘Not as easy as that. You help the Bureau and we’ll do our best to keep you out of jail, but you’re going to have to be watched in the future, Samer. You won’t be allowed near anything more complicated than a calculator. That clear?’
Samer nods.
‘Right. So tell me, how do I access your files?’
‘Look for a folder, Cute Zebra.’
Owen does a quick search of the visible files. ‘Got it.’
‘Open the folder. There’s a shitload of image files. And one executable.’
‘I see it.’
‘Select it.’
Owen does as he is told and another nondescript login box appears, asking for another password. He glances up. ‘Spill it.’
‘K-9-R-0-Y-0-T-0-E-N.’
Owen types and hits enter. A new file structure is revealed to him within the host folder. A brief search tells him that he has a treasure chest of incriminating documents, notes and databases, screen grabs, chat logs. Once it is checked against his own chronologies of the cyber attacks, exact times of online activity and other data, then a string of criminal charges can be made against Samer and his virtual friends.
Bingo.
‘You’re in deep trouble, son. There’s enough here to keep the Bureau busy for months.’
‘No time to spare for hunting down war criminals, I guess?’
Owen does not respond, but closes the lid of the laptop and takes it with him when he leaves the room.
Outside in the corridor he calls the district attorney’s office at the federal courthouse, citing the evidence he has found. A young federal prosecutor, Marc Clayton, is assigned to the case. Owen is pleased with the choice. He has worked with Clayton before on the Koenig investigation. Clayton obtained the much-needed warrant from a judge to open a Facebook account that allowed them to track down Koenig.
Clayton advises Owen that he must email him some screen grabs of the evidence so he can set to work. Owen does so, backing up the data to a USB hard drive. He returns to the interrogation room.
‘What I need is a signed statement listing all the companies and databases you broke into, along with a confession. Before that, what I’d also really like to know is why do it?’
‘Why ask?’
‘Indulge me.’
‘Do you play video games?’ Samer says quietly.
‘Yes, I do. What does that have to do with this?’
‘It’s like a game. I saw these sites as . . . levels, each one leading to a more difficult challenge. I never did it for money. The thrill, the rush of hacking in, exposing all those flaws. That was the reward. It’s addictive.’
Samer rubs his wrists.
‘The more difficult it is, the bigger the thrill. I enjoyed outsmarting the government and corporations who say their data is secure. It isn’t.’
He looks at Owen’s smartphone. ‘The camera, the microphone on your smartphone – they can be hacked. If they haven’t been already.’
Owen studies him, knowing the truth of his words.
‘We’ve got your backpack. You were about to skip town? Why?’
‘I was . . . h
eading to LA. I move on every few months. To try and keep hidden from people like you.’
‘Too bad.’ Owen winks. ‘Why did you stop in the café?’
‘I shouldn’t have. I wanted to say goodbye before I moved on. Just wanted to let the others know I’d be offline for a day or so. Stupid, I guess, but they’re the best friends I’ve ever had . . .’ He stares at Owen. ‘Or at least I thought they were friends. Not rats.’
‘I’m no rat. Just doing my job. Which is to catch little rodents like you.’
‘So how did you find me?’
‘A temporary connection error left you unmasked. You screwed up, Samer.’
The young man looks down, shamefaced. Owen lets him stew for a moment.
‘Have you ever met any of them? Face to face?’
‘The Swarm?’ Samer shakes his head.
‘How does it work, then? How do you guys organize things?’
‘We are each assigned different objectives – MasterEscher is a rooter. He finds security flaws in the sites. I’m the social engineer. Sure, I can do the other stuff, but I like playing people, seeing if I’m smarter than they are. And I usually am. Möbius focuses on the hardware and infrastructure, KC assists wherever needed. It’s a good team. And we’re getting better all the time. And bolder.’
Owen’s phone rings a big-top circus tune. He answers.
‘Hey, it’s Marc,’ a male voice says in a deep tone. ‘I got the pending charges. Judge Nolan has agreed to a teleconference to speed things up. Santa Clara has a conference suite, I believe.’
Owen leads Samer into the cramped conference room a few doors down in the office block of the jail. With new technology it’s easier and cheaper to have the initial arraignment carried out via teleconferencing. Owen signs in with the PIN number and soon the screen splits into two. One image is of the assistant prosecuting attorney, Marc Clayton from the Justice Department. He’s African American, with close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a cream shirt, navy suit with a soft stripe and a thin red tie.
‘Hi, Owen,’ Marc says. ‘Mr Aldeera.’
On the right side of the screen is District Judge Nolan, his narrow eyes staring from behind his glasses. He has a reputation for being harsh. Nolan speaks into the camera.
Playing With Death Page 9