Operation Mockingbird

by Linda Baletsa

  “Matt, we’ve missed you,” Dan said as he placed a beer in front of Matt. “You were gone a long time.”

  “I’ve been doing a little travelling, Dan,” Matt said with a grin.

  “So I heard,” Dan replied. “Actually, I heard that you were over in Afghanistan. And that you got blown up.”

  “Naahhh,” Matt responded. “Any reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

  Not long after Matt introduced Alex and Dan, the two were talking like old friends. To Matt’s surprise, Alex was holding her own in a conversation about the top performers in the NBA regular season and her prognostications for the playoff games. Matt was left nursing the beer Dan had placed in front of him while the two discussed the Miami Heat’s chances in the conference finals.

  It was Saturday afternoon and the place was packed with the usual suspects. Patrons ranged from college kids whooping it up with their friends to middle-aged men throwing back a few while their kids monopolized the pool table and video games, to old-timers nursing their beers and telling the same old stories.

  “Interesting taste in art,” Alex commented after Dan left to go attend to some regulars sitting in front of empty glasses and giving him the stink-eye.

  Matt followed her gaze across the bar to a picture of a girl with her naked chest painted like the face of two cats. Solid black noses and whiskers obstructed the view of the most intimate parts of her breasts. It was likely a souvenir from someone’s crazy weekend at Fantasy Fest in Key West.

  The wall had started as a locker room of sorts when the bartenders began putting up pictures of their girlfriends, wives and, later, children. It had evolved into a shrine to the history of The Keg and its regular clientele, including pictures of customers with their catches from Keg South-sponsored fishing tournaments, girls in bikinis or various other stages of undress and even a few baby pictures, which seemed out of place. Juxtaposed one on top of the other, the pictures covered every inch of the wall and overlapped some items that had likely been there for twenty years.

  “This place is an institution, Alex,” Matt responded looking across the room. “I had my first legal beer here.” He pointed to a high-top table in the corner. “I interviewed the Mayor of Miami at that very table.”

  “Relax, Matt,” Alex said smiling. “I actually like the place. Although the decorating could use a woman’s touch.”

  Matt snorted. He doubted the owner Butch would be very receptive to the idea.

  Matt gave Alex his recommendations and, when she deferred to his judgment on the house specialties, he placed their order. Fish dip and an order of wings to start, then Keg Burgers for each and an order of fresh-cut French fries to share.

  Several regulars came over to say hello and welcome Matt back. He introduced Alex to the guys. All eyes scanned her up and down and then registered approval. Alex smiled graciously in return and Matt sat a little taller.

  “So what time are we expecting this guy?” Alex asked when the commotion had died down and the fish dip had arrived.

  Matt looked at his watch. “The Heat game starts in thirty minutes. He should be here soon.”

  Alex took this opportunity to turn her attention to the food in front of her.

  After taking a few bites, Matt continued. “Last year, during basketball season, football season and even baseball season — just about every time I came in here — Patrick would be here. He’s a regular. A real friendly guy. An Irishman who loves to drink and have a good time.”

  “Imagine that,” Alex replied stuffing her mouth with a cracker full of dip.

  “Anyway, one day I’m here with Stephen and Patrick shows up. We all started talking and he mentions he’s a computer technician. Stephen was a bit of a computer buff so he was really into it.”

  Alex nodded as she proceeded to dig into the Keg Burger that had just arrived.

  “So, we start talking about computers, technology and the work Patrick does. By this time, we’ve all had a few drinks but Patrick proceeds to blow us away with talk about the stuff he’s working on. Computer security. Firewalls. Cookies that, once planted on your hard drive, would track user activity and then transmit that information back to the mother ship — or wherever.”

  “Patrick definitely knew his stuff. And, unlike me, Stephen understood most of what he was talking about.” He picked up a chicken wing out of the basket between them. “I recall they exchanged contact information and knowing Stephen’s ability to foster good contacts, sources and experts, I’m sure Stephen kept in touch.”

  “This all sounds promising but why do I get the impression there’s something you’re not telling me about this guy?” Alex asked as her eyes narrowed. “Last night, you said something about his being eccentric.”

  “Well, yeah.” Matt considered his response as he wiped some blue cheese dressing off his chin. “Patrick was always coming up with these wacky conspiracy theories. Kind of like CIA involvement in the Kennedy assassination but crazier. Like, get this.” Matt took another bite of his burger, washed it down with some beer and wiped his hands clean. “Remember, shortly after 9/11, there was a rumor that Osama bin Ladin had placed a number of stock trade orders before 9/11 that enabled him to profit from the attacks?”

  “Sure,” Alex said nodding. “Supposedly, he went short on stocks like some of the airlines that were impacted — betting the stock would fall — and bought significant interests in defense contractors — betting the stocks would rise. The rumor was that he made millions of dollars off those trades.”

  “That’s right. But that rumor just kind of went away. There was never any confirmation of whether it was true, even though tracking the rumor would have enabled the United States government to determine information about the al-Qaeda money network. Right?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I ever really bought into all that, but, yeah, I’ll go along …”

  “Patrick’s theory was that it was in fact investigated but the results were never released because they discovered that al-Qaeda wasn’t the only one that placed those kind of trades.” Matt paused. “The CIA did the same thing.”

  “What?” Alex didn’t bother to hide the skepticism on her face.

  “I know. Crazy,” Matt conceded. “Patrick tried to convince me one day that the CIA knew about al-Qaeda’s plans but they couldn’t stop the attacks because the CIA didn’t know the exact details. They found out about the investments al-Qaeda made because they had been tracking that money for years. Someone high up decided that if they couldn’t stop the attacks, the United States government could at least make some money. So the CIA matched the trades.”

  She shook her head firmly. “I don’t buy it.”

  Matt shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t either. But he made some pretty convincing arguments.”

  After a moment, Matt continued. “Patrick also believes that the federal government uses hidden computer cookies — very sophisticated cookies — to track not only browser activity but everything that ordinary citizens are doing on their computers. Things like which websites they’re visiting and what they’re doing there, the books they’re buying, where they’re traveling — everything. All of that information is run through a big computer server in the sky and filtered through a computer program that identifies certain patterns. And there are people monitoring all this information.”

  “This Patrick guys sounds completely paranoid,” Alex said.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Matt responded. “Patrick is brilliant but definitely a little nutty.”

  Alex wiped her mouth with a paper towel and dropped it into her empty basket. “So, this guy believes that the government is monitoring everything we do. And say, for example, if a kid is writing a paper on al-Qaeda for a school project, mom is exchanging Internet chat with someone in the Middle East and dad is ordering fertilizer online from Home Depot, the government may come breaking down the door because a software program tells them there’s a possible terrorist in that household.”

 
“Exactly.”

  “I see,” Alex continued. “And it is the guy who is plagued with these paranoid delusions that we’re relying on to help us understand what’s going on?”

  “Pretty much,” Matt conceded.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MATT AND ALEX LOOKED toward the door when cheers rang through the crowd of regulars. Patrick had arrived. The Irishman was a large man. Matt guessed he stood over six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds. He had a ruddy complexion behind a thick mustache. In blue jeans and a flannel shirt, he looked more like a construction worker than a computer expert. Patrick started at the front of the bar, greeting the regulars with a hearty hello in a deep baritone voice and a clap on the shoulder. It took a few minutes for him to finish making the rounds and find his way to Matt and Alex at the opposite end of the bar.

  “Matt, my man, it’s about time you came back to visit us little folks,” he said swallowing up Matt with a big bear hug.

  “And who’s this beautiful lass?”

  “This is Alex Doren, Patrick.”

  Patrick took her hand and put it to his lips for a quick gentle brush of a kiss.

  “It’s my great pleasure to meet you, Alex.”

  Patrick settled his large frame into the stool next to Matt as Dan slid a beer down in front of him.

  “Cheers,” Patrick said, raising his mug. He had a mischievous twinkle in his intelligent eyes that Matt could see even behind his thick glasses. “To you, luv,” he said to Alex. “May any misfortune that follows you never catch up.”

  They all clinked glasses.

  Matt sat back and watched as Patrick chipped away at any reservations Alex may have had about him with the charm that was his birthright.

  “How the hell have you been, lad?” Patrick finally asked, turning his attention to Matt, even as he stole a quick glance at the television screen. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I’ve been better,” Matt replied.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound good. And, here you are in the company of such a beautiful lass and good friends on such a fine day. What could possibly be better?”

  Matt waited until after the tip-off that signaled the start of the game before saying anything. “Patrick, we need to talk to you about Stephen,” he finally said.

  “Yeah? Where is the bugger?” Patrick said, taking a sip of his beer and then looking at Matt. “Why has he not come with you? I heard he was in town.”

  Matt and Alex shared a quick glance.

  “Stephen’s dead, Patrick,” Matt said.

  Patrick’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows came together in a dark scowl. “What the bloody hell are you talking about, man? I just saw him …” He looked from Matt to Alex. “Is this some kind of joke?” Creases etched deep across his forehead as he continued to look at both of them. “Bleedin’ Jesus, you’re serious,” he said when neither responded. He pounded his fist against the bar. “Shite.”

  “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you. I know you guys were close.”

  Several more seconds passed before Patrick spoke. “What happened?”

  “Stephen was killed at a homeless camp under the overpass on Biscayne Boulevard.”

  “A homeless camp, you say?”

  Matt nodded. “Apparently, Stephen had been living there for at least a few days.”

  Patrick didn’t say anything. Matt noticed that Patrick avoided looking in Matt’s direction. Patrick took a paper towel from the roll on the bar and mopped his brow, never looking in Matt’s direction.

  “Some guy beat heat him to death,” Matt said. He noticed that Patrick seemed saddened but not terribly surprised. “I don’t know why someone would do that,” Matt continued.

  “Truth be known, Matt, you don’t know about a lot of things,” Patrick intoned as he looked in the direction of the television.

  “I know what happened to Stephen had something to do with what the two of you were working on,” Matt said, watching closely for Patrick’s reaction.

  Patrick looked up and scanned Matt’s face intently. Matt returned the gaze steadily.

  “Pisser, Matt,” he finally said. “This is not good. Not good at all.” He shook his head.

  “Patrick, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Aye.” He paused and looked over at Alex. He looked back at Matt as he jerked his thumb toward her. “You sure you want the lass involved in this?”

  “She’s okay, Patrick,” Matt said nodding in Alex’s general direction. “You can trust her. Now, tell me. What the hell’s going on?”

  Patrick didn’t respond.

  “Patrick, when was the last time you spoke with Stephen?” Matt pressed.

  Patrick sighed heavily and then finally spoke. “About a week ago.”

  “What did you guys talk about?”

  “He was working on some big story. He called me to talk about it and get some technical information.”

  “What was the story about?”

  “He was investigating a public relations firm.”

  Matt and Alex exchanged a look as Patrick continued.

  “This PR firm was using some sophisticated programming for information management, so he called for my help.”

  “What kind of help?’

  “He wanted me to check them out, see what they were doing and then explain it to him.”

  “What did you find out?” Matt asked.

  “What I found out scared the bloody hell out of me.” Patrick said looking around. “You see, Stephen believed that this firm was manipulating information on the Internet. He thought they were tracking articles, blogs, even emails. They were also blocking access to certain material.”

  “What kind of material?”

  “Material that was not consistent with the messaging this PR was putting out.”

  “But how could they do that?” Matt asked. “How is that possible?”

  “Well, lad, that took some figuring out, but it seems that someone has developed some state-of-the-art malware.”

  “Malware?”

  “Malware is short for malicious software. That’s a general term used to mean a variety of forms of hostile, intrusive or annoying software or program code. You know, lad, things like viruses and worms designed to get around your security, break into your system and then either gather information about you or disrupt your computer operation.”

  “Got it. Go on.”

  “So this computer program monitors activity over the Internet,” Patrick continued. “Everything. Websites. Message boards. Blogs and even emails. When certain key words or phrases are identified, alarms go off. Then, depending on what it finds, a course of action is taken. Say, for example, some offending material or website is identified, the program may simply monitor the activity or block access to the material or website. If that doesn’t work, the program sends in a “worm” to destroy the files or to corrupt the file system. These worms are able to shut down the entire site.”

  Matt must have looked skeptical.

  “I didn’t believe it at first, Matt,” Patrick said looking at them with wide eyes. “But Stephen and I tested it. The program is brilliant. Fucking brilliant.”

  “How did you guys figure this out?”

  “To test Stephen’s theory, he created some articles with words, phrases or concepts that he figured would get picked up. I posted them on some obscure message boards. Then, I sat back and watched the program go. It was a bloody work of art the way it found the articles — within minutes — and deleted them. It was as if they never existed — and that’s not easy to do on the Internet.”

  Patrick sat up taller and his eyes shone brighter as he spoke. Alex and Matt both watched him intently.

  “I developed a dummy website and we posted a bunch of the articles. I installed some very complex firewalls, some of my best stuff. It didn’t take long for the program to find the articles. But we’d figured on that. Then the program got through my firewalls and destroyed the articles. It eventu
ally infected the website and shut it down.”

  “But it sounds like you saw this happening. Wouldn’t someone else know that their computer was being tampered with?” Matt asked.

  “No,” Patrick said shaking his head. “This program is completely transparent. It’s disguised in something innocuous or even desirable — like a complementary antivirus scan or an appealing advertisement. We call that a Trojan horse. It’s fairly common.”

  “But, certainly, the webmaster for the website would figure it out when the material disappeared or the site went down.”

  Patrick shook his head. “To the average webmaster, it would appear as if there was a programming error or the file server was down. They would assume the website was infected with some random virus.”

  Matt looked over at Alex. She appeared engrossed, no longer the skeptic she had been when he first mentioned talking to Patrick.

  “She’s a beauty.” The admiration in Patrick’s voice was obvious. Matt and Alex both knew he wasn’t talking about Alex.

  Alex then chimed in and spent several minutes asking Patrick details about the program. They could have been speaking a different language for all Matt knew. Matt sat back and contemplated what they had just learned, connecting the dots in his mind.

  “Wait,” said Matt interrupting Patrick and Alex’s discussion. “How can you be so sure that the PR firm is behind this program?”

  “That’s a good question,” Patrick conceded. “The only reason I know — or speculate — about who’s behind this is because there’s a wee small component of the program that I recognize.” Patrick paused. “It had a signature on it.”

  “A signature?” Matt asked.

  “That’s the online equivalent of the tagging that graffiti artists do. In the world of computer programming, a programmer includes his alias or affinity group in the software programming.”

  “Okay, but how did that lead you to the PR firm?” Matt asked.

  “It was my signature.”

  “What!?” Alex and Matt said simultaneously.