Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Diva is not going to be canned just because of Coulter’s death. I am not compromising one of our biggest intelligence-gathering projects for some dead asshole, or to satisfy some nosy FBI agents. But I need to close it down until this blows over. We can’t afford for our enemies to get the slightest hint of Project Diva. I want you to cancel all clearances, isolate all the files and documentation. Everything, as of right now. I also want sole access to the subnetworks attached to the project.’

  Coulter’s subnetwork in particular, he thinks. It is limited to just two other computers – Shaw’s and Maynard’s.

  Maynard and Bradbury enter a large room filled with banks of liquid-cooled servers. The slate-grey walls are lined with routers, neatly bundled cables, work stations.

  If the NSA wasn’t so wary of autonomous intelligence-gathering programs being deployed against domestic targets, Diva would already be active and working hard for Uncle Sam. But those pussies had insisted on test studies. And it had been while Coulter was waiting for the results that he had embarked on the side project that had led to the present clusterfuck, Maynard fumes.

  He glances at Bradbury. ‘We mothball it. For now.’

  They walk over to a black bank of servers where there is a touch screen. Bradbury gestures towards the screen. ‘This is where the main directories of Project Diva are stored. Firewalled. And that extends to the subnetworks Coulter used.’

  The two men regard the touch screen.

  Project Diva

  SYS 1SYS 2SYS 3

  Maynard peers at Dr Bradbury through his glasses. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but some of Coulter’s files contain . . . sensitive data. Would you mind leaving me for a minute?’

  ‘Sure, you go right ahead, sir. Let me know when you’re done.’

  When Bradbury has moved away, Maynard taps on Coulter’s network access.

  Username: W.Maynard

  Password: ********

  SYS 3 is now open.

  Maynard’s fingers dance over the keyboard again as he sorts the files by access date, and then he freezes. According to the data in front of him the Diva executable was opened by Coulter just two days ago. And there’s an entry in the notes column.

  Port 8015. Status: Open.

  It takes a moment for the significance of the entry to hit Maynard, and then he feels a chill settle round his heart as he whispers, ‘Oh . . . shit.’

  44.

  Rose and Owen pace down the grey concrete floors towards the secure interview room at the jail.

  ‘Did you see the Skin’s out tomorrow?’ Owen says. ‘News reckons that the first production run will sell out in an hour. There’ll be riots at any store that still has any stock.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Here’s the thing. Some software is already up on the WS servers. Guess what genre the top downloaded Stream apps have been?’

  ‘Shooting?’

  ‘Nearly. Sex sims.’

  Rose isn’t surprised.

  The guard on duty punches his ID code into the glowing blue keypad and the thick glass door clicks open. As they enter, all outer sounds are immediately muted by the soundproof grates on the walls and ceiling. Approaching the one-way mirror Rose sees a young man dressed in a shabby T-shirt and track pants. His court-appointed attorney, Philip De Russet, sits beside him. Samer looks like he hasn’t showered or combed his hair for a week.

  ‘He’s DarkChild?’ Rose is shocked. He doesn’t look much older than Robbie.

  ‘Yep, seems innocent enough, but you’ll need a week to read through his file.’

  Owen hands Rose a bulging manila bundle. Rose flicks through the cover sheets. As they enter the room Owen grips the plea agreement tightly in his left hand. It has been vetted by Baptiste, Marc Clayton, the attorney general of California and the Justice Department.

  At the sound of the door opening, Samer looks up.

  ‘We meet again – hacker and tracker,’ Owen quips. ‘How’s jail? Must suck without Wi-Fi, huh?’

  Samer nods. ‘Like cold turkey.’

  ‘I bet,’ Owen says. ‘Hurts, huh?’

  ‘My head is clearer, though, I can focus on things.’

  ‘Good, well you can focus on this. This is my colleague, Special Agent Blake. We have something we want to talk to you about.’

  Samer smiles politely at Rose. Philip De Russet, a young lawyer fresh out of law school, with neatly parted sandy hair and wearing a sharp suit, makes his play. ‘We have something we’d like to talk about first. My client would like to go to a public trial to beat the most serious charges. He’ll admit to the hacking, but he’s not guilty of computer fraud. He never intended to use the information. He accessed it for his own curiosity and the public’s interest. Nothing more.’

  Owen shakes his head. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? Where’d you read that? Wikipedia? It’ll never wash. Your little games have pissed off some powerful people – they have been publicly embarrassed by you. They are baying for your blood. But hypothetically, let’s say you did it for the reasons you just suggested. This is what will happen: the Bureau will put you through a revolving door of criminal trials. If we lose in one jurisdiction we’ll try you in another and if we win we’ll press for the maximum penalties. If you go to trial you will have to testify. And there will be a whole shitstorm heading your way. You’ll be cross-examined on anything and everything. Even if you are very lucky – and I mean the mother-of-all-lucky-sonofabitches lucky – you’re going to be tied up for years. You’re going to be an old man before the system is done with you. Samer, you’re a talented young guy. It’d be a shame to throw your life away. If you really want to avoid a world of hurt, then you’re going to have to help us help you.’

  Samer is still.

  ‘What are you proposing my client does?’ De Russet asks. ‘You have something to offer?’

  ‘The FBI has the power to stop you from going to prison, if you cooperate with us. Worst-case scenario is that you do a short sentence, just to help your victims save face. But only if you’re prepared to enter into a plea bargain with the Bureau.’

  ‘A plea?’ Samer says warily.

  ‘Confess your guilt to all of the charges and accept the terms offered by the FBI.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Apart from avoiding a long stretch in prison? . . . Well, if you want me to appeal to your better nature, I can say that you would be helping us to catch a really bad guy. Someone who has killed at least twice and may do it again. We could use your help to make sure we catch the perp.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ De Russet lays a hand on his client’s arm. ‘Before you say another word we need to go through the terms they’re offering.’

  ‘It’s solid,’ Rose says. ‘We need Samer’s help right now, or there is no deal. That clear?’

  De Russet gestures towards the camera blinking above the door. ‘You recording this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I want a copy, soon as we’re done here.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ Owen agrees.

  De Russet leans back. ‘OK, then. Let’s hear it.’

  Rose turns her attention to Samer. ‘You hacked into the Peek Industries network? Three months back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why pick them?’

  ‘We’d heard rumours of an interesting project they were working on. Next big thing in simulation, supposedly. So we thought we’d check in and have a look round.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’ Rose prompts.

  ‘It’s not rocket science. I hacked a low-level employee’s system access, then installed a back door in a computer server which allowed me to intercept messages passing amongst employees. I also inserted a keylogger on some accounts to harvest usernames and passwords
of other contractors. It might still be operational.’

  ‘Might?’

  ‘As soon as the targets knew we’d hacked them they brought in a team to hunt for security breaches. Those guys are good. Given a bit of time they clean up the systems well enough.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I wouldn’t put good money on them finding all our stuff. Well, only the things we planted there for them to find. Keeps them happy, makes their customers feel like they’re getting value for money, and leaves us with an open door if we decide to go back into their systems.’

  ‘Samer, we’ll want the full details of everything you did when you hacked those systems. Understand?’

  ‘And how would you ever know if I left something out?’

  Owen says, ‘Listen, son. You don’t fuck with the Bureau. Ever. Our deal covers everything you did when you hacked those companies. You either accept that or you take the time. This is a one-time offer and it expires as soon as we leave the room. If you don’t do as we ask.’

  Rose leans forward. ‘It’s not often you get a second chance like this. Just because you lost your way doesn’t mean you can’t find it again. Only we can save you from a world of shit. So, put your talents to better use. It’s game over for you unless you cooperate with us. Hackers like you don’t think about the humans behind the networks you break into. Your actions put real people’s jobs and safety at risk. One hundred and sixteen years in a federal prison . . . You are going to die in prison, Samer.’

  Samer’s face goes pale. Rose presses her point home.

  ‘You will never walk down the street again, never feel the sun on your face without someone watching you from a prison tower. Where do you want to be? There? Or here with us, helping us catch the bad guys?’

  ‘Work with us and we can help you. It’s your only option, Samer,’ Owen adds.

  Samer looks to his attorney, who nods.

  The young man breathes in deeply and straightens up.

  ‘When do I start?’

  45.

  ‘So this is where the feds live,’ Samer says as Rose and Owen lead him through the San Francisco field office to the Cybercrime unit. Samer has accepted his cooperation agreement in an expedited secret hearing that morning, with sentencing to be decided at a later date. He is still classed as a potential flight risk, so he must wear a tracking bracelet at all times. He will be kept under guard at a safe house, with tight surveillance until this is over. He is also unable to use a computing device unless supervised by Owen as his custodial officer. They enter Brennan’s department.

  ‘Samer Aldeera – DarkChild – meet Brennan Bamber, acting head of Cybercrime,’ Rose says.

  Samer outstretches his hand. Brennan avoids shaking. He sees the electronic tag bracelet on Samer’s right ankle.

  ‘I see he’s on a leash. Good thinking.’

  ‘Brenn, can I have a word with you, please?’ Rose says.

  ‘Sure . . . Don’t touch anything,’ he says pointedly to Samer.

  Rose leads Brennan off to a quiet cubicle.

  ‘I need you to work with him. Treat him like a . . . material witness.’

  ‘But he’s not a witness. He’s a perp!’

  Rose stares hard at him.

  Brennan raises his hands in mock self-defence.

  ‘Look, fine. I’ll try, but I don’t trust him. One condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I think we should install a keylogger on his computer so we can track everything he does on our systems. It operates invisibly, remembers passwords and any typed data.’

  ‘Owen’s his custody officer so he’ll be watching him like a hawk.’

  ‘But what if Owen misses something? We can’t take the risk. I say we use a keylogger.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Rose agrees.

  ‘Then it’s a deal. I’ll get him set up.’

  They return to Brennan’s desk.

  ‘This way,’ Brennan says. ‘And from now on you do exactly, and only, what I say. Is that clear?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’ Samer shrugs.

  ‘Rose?’

  Rose turns around to see Baptiste has entered the room. She gestures towards the corridor outside so they can talk with some privacy.

  ‘What’s up?’ Rose asks.

  ‘Washington’s agreed a package on Maynard. Now we’ll see what he’s up to. I’ve given them your number.’

  Two hours later Brennan, accompanied by Rose, swipes his card on the entry slot of a separate office where Samer is working. Owen is busy on a table nearby.

  ‘Any progress?’ Rose asks.

  Samer spins around his black laptop, heavily customized with glowing blue screens and trim. It’s connected to Coulter’s hard drive via a USB cable. Password combinations flash past in blue numbers in a small window.

  ‘I’ve managed to get the botnets I have hooked up to the Swarm working on it, so it should only be a matter of time. Of course it would be quicker if your friend there wasn’t so nervous. He’s locked me out several times already.’ Samer gestures towards Owen.

  ‘You don’t get unrestricted access to the internet, not without our say-so. If Owen sees anything he doesn’t like he throws on the brakes until you explain it to his satisfaction.’

  ‘No offence, but he isn’t going to understand much of what I do.’

  ‘Try me,’ says Owen.

  Brennan looks at Samer’s screen. ‘OpenSesame? Really? Great user name. How many botnets you got on the go?’

  ‘About four hundred thousand. Seriously, not being rude, but you guys needed my botnets. Dunno how you coped before I came on board.’

  ‘We coped fine, perp,’ Brennan says. ‘Aside from that we do what we can with the budget we’re given.’

  ‘Guys, sorry, what’s a botnet?’ Rose asks.

  Samer smiles. ‘In layman’s terms, a botnet is a network of zombie computers that have been brought together by spreading a virus or false links.’

  ‘Like those spam emails from fake banks,’ Brennan says.

  Samer nods. ‘Exactly. Once downloaded, the botnet runs in the background of the infected computer, often completely unnoticed. Botnets can be controlled by one person who can order thousands, sometimes millions of computers to carry out commands en masse. They’re great for denial-of-service attacks and the like . . .’ He pauses and taps the screen. ‘I tell you, your man’s data is very well encrypted, I’ll give him that. Most passwords tend to be easy to guess or sentimental, but this guy knew his stuff. He wasn’t a bedroom programmer. My botnets are thrashing it with millions of password hashes per second.’

  ‘How long?’ Rose asks.

  ‘Well there are nearly three trillion seven-character password combinations . . . Maybe another half an hour, can be tricky to say.’

  ‘How did you crack MIA and the DoD?’ Brennan asks.

  ‘In most cases, it’s just social engineering. People are too damn trusting, especially over the phone,’ Samer explains. ‘The contractors were easy – I’d pretend I was an engineer checking their servers, get them to open an email with an attachment which they’d download. That would insert a Trojan virus and I was in. Other times I’d call up, read out the wrong access code deliberately, which they would, without thinking, correct with the right code. All it takes is a little thought.’

  Rose is depressed by how easily some people are manipulated.

  Samer’s laptop beeps. ‘Password cracked,’ he says.

  Owen exchanges a glance with Brennan. ‘He’s good.’

  Rose reads.

  wAk81mAN69

  ‘OK, so we’re in.’ Samer twiddles his fingers over the keyboard. ‘To anyone who cares, it’s a customized Linux-based system. Not your usual consumer-grade set-up. He may have a timer installed,
so we might not have very long.’

  On Samer’s screen there’s a window with Coulter’s hard drive now open. Peering over Samer’s shoulder, Rose sees a few folders marked ‘Home’, ‘Car’, ‘Life’, ‘Invoices’. He clicks open the toolbar, clicks on recent documents. Nothing special at first – the odd invoice, holiday booking confirmations, sailing photos. Rose sees ‘Statement’.

  Samer taps on the PDF. It opens to show Coulter’s September bank statement.

  Owen whistles.

  Rose sees a deposit from Peek Industries. For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. ‘It’s dated the day after he left Peek, I’m guessing?’

  ‘Nice severance. Shame he ended up dead.’

  They spend another fifteen minutes looking through Coulter’s personal files. There are PDF articles on complex programming, studies on mouse, chimp and human intelligence. Documents on decision theory, logical uncertainty. Samer pulls his fingers away from the trackpad.

  ‘OK, bad news. There’s no browsing history and his email is a SecureMail account, which is heavily encrypted.’

  Brennan chips in. ‘And, if I remember rightly, you’d need a subpoena from an Israeli court to compel SecureMail to give up the keys. Which isn’t going to happen, not in our lifetime.’

  ‘Goddam it!’ Rose says.

  Samer leans forward. ‘OK, here’s something interesting. There’s a separate internal channel, looks like it’s set up for three members only. A closed group. Three access accounts only, in the names of Coulter, Shaw and Maynard – whoever the last two guys are.’

  ‘Coulter, Shaw, Maynard,’ Rose repeats. ‘I knew that bastard was in on this.’

  ‘MasterBootRecord also shows a hidden portion of the hard disk, quite substantial in size.’

  Samer locates the hidden partition of the drive.

  ‘Recovery software shows there’s also what looks like recent modified files relating to a source code. Project Diva mean anything to you?’

  Rose sees another folder with a file name and takes a sharp breath. ‘Iris . . .’