It’s all in the spelling . . .
“What’s his real name?” Patricia Nolan asked.
“I don’t know. Nobody seems to know much about him—he’s a loner—but the people who’ve heard of him’re scared as hell.”
“A wizard?” Stephen Miller asked.
“Definitely a wizard.”
Bishop asked, “Why do you think he’s the killer?”
Gillette flipped through the printouts. “Here’s what I found. Phate and a friend of his, somebody named Shawn, wrote some software called Trapdoor. Now, ‘trapdoor’ in the computer world means a hole built into a security system that lets the software designers get back inside to fix problems without needing a passcode. Phate and Shawn use the same name for their script but this’s a little different. It’s a program that somehow lets them get inside anybody’s computer.”
“Trapdoor,” Bishop mused. “Like a gallows too.”
“Like a gallows,” Gillette echoed.
Nolan asked, “How does it work?”
Gillette was about to explain it to her in the language of the initiated then glanced at Bishop and Shelton.
Dumb it down.
The hacker walked to one of the blank white-boards and drew a chart. He said, “The way information travels on the Net isn’t like on a telephone. Everything sent online—an e-mail, music you listen to, a picture you download, the graphics on a Web site—is broken down into small fragments of data called ‘packets.’ When your browser requests something from a Web site it sends packets out into the Internet. At the receiving end the Web server computer reassembles your request and then sends its response—also broken into packets—back to your machine.”
“Why’re they broken up?” Shelton asked.
Nolan answered, “So that a lot of different messages can be sent over the same wires at the same time. Also, if some of the packets get lost or corrupted your computer gets a notice about it and resends just the problem packets. You don’t have to resend the whole message.”
Gillette pointed to his diagram and continued, “The packets are forwarded through the Internet by these routers—big computers around the country that guide the packets to their final destination. Routers have real tight security but Phate’s managed to crack into some of them and put a packet-sniffer inside.”
“Which,” Bishop said, “looks for certain packets, I assume.”
“Exactly,” Gillette continued. “It identifies them by somebody’s screen name or the address of the machine the packets’re coming from or going to. When the sniffer finds the packets it’s been waiting for it diverts them to Phate’s computer. Once they’re there Phate adds something to the packets.” Gillette asked Miller, “You ever heard of stenanography?”
The cop shook his head. Tony Mott and Linda Sanchez weren’t familiar with the term either but Patricia Nolan said, “That’s hiding secret data in, say, pictures or sound files you’re sending online. Spy stuff.”
“Right,” Gillette confirmed. “Encrypted data is woven right into the file itself—so that even if somebody intercepts your e-mail and reads it or looks at the picture you’ve sent all they’ll see is an innocent-looking file and not the secret data. Well, that’s what Phate’s Trapdoor software does. Only it doesn’t hide messages in the files—it hides an application.”
“A working program?” Nolan said.
“Yep. Then he sends it on its way to the victim.”
Nolan shook her head. Her pale, doughy face revealed both shock and admiration. Her voice was hushed with awe as she said, “No one’s ever done that before.”
“What’s this software that he sends?” Bishop asked.
“It’s a demon,” Gillette answered.
“Demon?” Shelton asked.
“There’s a whole category of software called ‘bots,’” Gillette explained. “Short for ‘robots.’ And that’s just what they are—software robots. Once they’re activated they run completely on their own, without any human input. They can travel from one machine to another, they can reproduce, they can hide, they can communicate with other computers or people, they can kill themselves.”
Gillette drew a second diagram, to illustrate how Trapdoor worked. “Demons are a type of bot. They sit inside your computer and do things like run the clock and automatically back up files. Scut work. But the Trapdoor demon does something a lot scarier. Once it’s inside your computer it modifies the operating system and, when you go online, it links your computer to Phate’s.”
“And he seizes root,” Bishop said.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, this is bad,” Linda Sanchez muttered. “Man. . . .”
Nolan twined more of her unkempt hair around a finger. Beneath the fragile designer glasses her eyes were troubled—as if she’d just seen a terrible accident. “So if you surf the Web, read a news story, read an e-mail, pay a bill, listen to music, download pictures, look up a stock quotation—if you’re online at all—Phate can get inside your computer.”
“Yep. Anything you get via the Internet might have the Trapdoor demon in it.”
“But what about firewalls?” Miller asked. “Why don’t they stop it?”
Firewalls are computer sentries that keep files or data you haven’t asked for out of your machine. Gillette explained, “That’s what’s brilliant about this: Because the demon’s hidden in data that you’ve asked for, firewalls won’t stop it.”
“Brilliant,” Bob Shelton muttered sarcastically.
Tony Mott drummed his fingers absently on his bike helmet. “He’s breaking rule number one.”
“Which is?” Bishop asked.
Gillette recited, “Leave the civilians alone.”
Mott, nodding, continued, “Hackers feel that the government, corporations and other hackers are fair game. But you should never target the general public.”
Sanchez asked, “Is there any way to tell if he’s inside your machine?”
“Only little things—your keyboard seems sluggish, the graphics look a little fuzzy, a game doesn’t respond quite as quickly as usual, your hard drive engages for a second or two when it shouldn’t. Nothing so obvious that most people’d notice.”
Shelton asked, “How come you didn’t find this demon thing in Lara Gibson’s computer?”
“I did—only what I found was its corpse: digital gibberish. Phate built some kind of self-destruct into it. If the demon senses you’re looking for it, it rewrites itself into garbage.”
“How did you find all this out?” Bishop asked.
Gillette shrugged. “Pieced it together from these.” He handed Bishop the printouts.
Bishop looked at the top sheet of paper.
To: Group
From: Triple-X
I heard that Titan233 was asking for a copy of Trapdoor. Don’t do it, man. Forget you heard about it. I know about Phate and Shawn. They’re DANGEROUS. I’m not kidding.
“Who’s he?” Shelton asked. “Triple-X? Be good to have a talk with him in person.”
“I don’t have any clue what his real name is or where he lives,” Gillette said. “Maybe he was in some cybergang with Phate and Shawn.”
Bishop flipped through the rest of the printouts, all of which gave some detail or rumor about Trapdoor. Triple-X’s name was on several of them.
Nolan tapped one. “Can we trace the information in the header back to Triple-X’s machine?”
Gillette explained to Bishop and Shelton, “Headers in newsgroup postings and e-mails show the route the message took from the sender’s computer to the recipient’s. Theoretically you can look at a header and trace a message back to find the location of the sender’s machine. But I checked these already.” Nodding at the sheet. “They’re fake. Most serious hackers falsify the headers so nobody can find them.”
“So it’s a dead end?” Shelton muttered.
“I just read everything quickly. We should look at them again carefully,” Gillette said, nodding at the printouts. “Then I’m going to h
ack together a bot of my own. It’ll search for any mention of the words ‘Phate,’ ‘Shawn,’ ‘Trapdoor’ or ‘Triple-X.’”
“A fishing expedition,” Bishop mused. “P-h phishing.”
It’s all in the spelling. . . .
Tony Mott said, “Let’s call CERT. See if they’ve heard anything about this.”
Although the organization itself denied it, every geek in the world knew that these initials stood for the Computer Emergency Response Team. Located on the Carnegie Mellon campus in Pittsburgh, CERT was a clearinghouse for information about viruses and other computer threats. It also warned systems administrators of impending hacker attacks.
After the organization was described to him Bishop nodded. “Let’s give them a call.”
Nolan added, “But don’t say anything about Wyatt. CERT’s connected with the Department of Defense.”
Mott made the call and spoke to someone he knew at the organization. After a brief conversation he hung up. “They’ve never heard about Trapdoor or anything similar. They want us to keep them posted.”
Linda Sanchez was staring at the picture of Andy Anderson, his wife and their daughter on his desk. In a troubled whisper she said, “So nobody who goes online is safe.”
Gillette looked into the woman’s round brown eyes. “Phate can find out every secret you’ve got. He can impersonate you or read your medical records. He can empty your bank accounts, make illegal political contributions in your name, give you a phony lover and send your wife or husband copies of fake love letters. He could get you fired.”
“Or,” Patricia Nolan added softly, “he could kill you.”
“Mr. Holloway, are you with us? . . . Mr. Holloway!”
“Huh?”
“‘Huh?’ ‘Huh?’ Is that the response of a respectful student? I’ve asked you twice to answer the question and you’re staring out the window. If you don’t do the assignments we’re going to have a prob—”
“What was the question again?”
“Let me finish, young man. If you don’t do the assignments then we’re going to have some problems. Do you know how many deserving students’re on the waiting list to get into this school? Of course you don’t and you don’t care either. Did you read the assignment?”
“Not exactly.”
“‘Not exactly.’ I see. Well, the question is: Define the octal number system and give me the decimal equivalent of the octal numbers 05726 and 12438. But why do you want to know the question if you haven’t read the assignment? You can hardly answer—”
“The octal system is a number system with eight digits, like the decimal system has ten and the binary system has two.”
“So, you remember something from the Discovery Channel, Mr. Holloway.”
“No, I—”
“If you know so much why don’t you come up to the board and try to convert those numbers for us. Up to the board, up you go!”
“I don’t need to write it out. The octal number 05726 converts to decimal 3030. You made a mistake with the second number—12438 isn’t an octal number. There’s no digit 8 in the octal system. Only zero through seven.”
“I didn’t make a mistake. It was a trick question. To see if the class was on its toes.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay, Mr. Holloway, time for a visit to the principal.”
Sitting in the dining room office of his house in Los Altos, listening to a CD of James Earl Jones in Othello, Phate was roaming through the files of the young character, Jamie Turner, and planning that evening’s visit to St. Francis Academy.
But thinking of the young student had brought back memories of his own academic history—like this difficult recollection of freshman high school math. Phate’s early schooling fell into a very predictable pattern. For the first semester he’d get straight A’s. But in the spring his grades would plunge to D’s or F’s. This was because he could stave off the boredom of school for the first three or four months but after that even going to class was too tedious for him and he’d invariably miss most of the second semester.
Then his parents would ship him off to a new school. And the same thing would happen again.
Mr. Holloway, are you with us?
Well, that had been Phate’s problem all along. No, basically he hadn’t been with anyone ever; he was light-years ahead of them.
His teachers and counselors would try. They’d put him into gifted-and-talented classes and then advanced G&T programs but even those didn’t hold his interest. And when he grew bored he became sadistic and vicious. His teachers—like poor Mr. Cummings, the freshman math teacher of the octal number incident—stopped calling on him, for fear that he’d mock them and their own limitations.
After some years of this his parents—both scientists themselves—pretty much gave up. Busy with their own lives (Dad, an electrical engineer; Mom, a chemist for a cosmetics company), they were happy to hand off their boy to a series of tutors after school—in effect, buying themselves a couple of extra hours at their respective jobs. They took to bribing Phate’s brother, Richard, two years older, into keeping him occupied—which usually amounted to dropping the boy off at the Atlantic City boardwalk video arcades or at nearby shopping malls with a hundred dollars in quarters at 10:00 A.M. and picking him up twelve hours later.
As for his fellow students . . . they, of course, disliked him on first meeting. He was the “Brain,” he was “Jon the Head,” he was “Mr. Wizard.” They avoided him during the early days of class and, as the semester wore on, teased and insulted him unmercifully. (At least no one bothered to beat him up because, as one football player said, “A fucking girl could pound the crap out of him. I’m not gonna bother.”)
And so to keep the pressure inside his whirling brain from blowing him to pieces he spent more and more time in the one place that challenged him: the Machine World. Since Mom and Dad were happy to spend money to keep him out of their hair he had the best personal computers that were available.
A typical high school day would find him tolerating classes then racing home at three P.M. and disappearing into his room, where he would launch himself into bulletin boards or crack the phone company’s switches or slip into the computers of the National Science Foundation, the Centers for Disease Control, the Pentagon, Los Alamos, Harvard and CERT. His parents weighed the $800 monthly phone bills against the alternative—missed work and an endless series of meetings with teachers and counselors—and happily opted to write a check to New Jersey Bell.
Still, though, it was obvious that the boy was on a downward spiral—his increasing reclusiveness, viciousness, and bad temper whenever he wasn’t online.
But before he bottomed out and, as he’d thought back then, “did a Socrates” with some clever poison whose recipe he’d downloaded from the Net, something happened.
The sixteen-year-old stumbled onto a bulletin board where people were playing a MUD game. This particular one was a medieval game—knights on a quest for a magic sword or ring, that sort of thing. He watched for a while and then shyly keyed, “Can I play?”
One of the seasoned players welcomed him warmly and then asked, “Who do you want to be?”
Young Jon decided to be a knight and went off happily with his band of brothers, killing orcs and dragons and enemy troops for the next eight hours. That night, as he lay in bed after signing off, he couldn’t stop thinking about that remarkable day. It occurred to him that he didn’t have to be Jon the Head, he didn’t have to be the scorned Mr. Wizard. All day long he’d been a knight in the mythical land of Cyrania and he’d been happy. Maybe in the Real World he could be someone else too.
Who do you want to be?
The next day he signed up for an extracurricular activity at school, something he’d never done before: drama club. He soon learned that he had a natural ability to act. The rest of his time at that particular school didn’t improve—there was too much bad blood between Jon and his teachers and fellow students—but he didn’t care; he
had a plan. At the end of the semester he asked his parents if he could transfer to yet a different school for the next, his junior, year. Since he said he’d take care of all the paperwork himself and the transfer wouldn’t disrupt their lives, they agreed.
The next fall, among the eager students registering for classes at Thomas Jefferson High School for the Gifted was a particularly eager youngster named Jon Patrick Holloway.
The teachers and counselors reviewed the documentation e-mailed to them from his prior schools—the transcripts, which showed his consistent B+ performance in all grades since kindergarten, counselors’ glowing reports describing a well-adjusted and -socialized child, his outstanding placement test scores and a number of recommendation letters from his former teachers. The in-person interview with the polite young man—cutting quite a figure in tan slacks, powder blue shirt and navy blazer—went very well and he was heartily welcomed into the school.
The boy always did his assignments and rarely missed a class. He was consistently in the upper-B and lower-A range—pretty much like the other students at Tom Jefferson. He worked out diligently and took up several sports. He’d sit on the grassy hill outside the school, where the in-crowd gathered, and sneak cigarettes and make jokes about the geeks and losers. He dated, went to dances, worked on homecoming floats.
Just like everybody else.
He sat in Susan Coyne’s kitchen and fumbled under her blouse and tasted her braces. He and Billy Pickford took his dad’s vintage Corvette out onto the highway, where they got the car up to a hundred, and then sped home, where they dismantled and reset the odometer.
He was happy some, moody some, boisterous some.
Just like everybody else.
At the age of seventeen Jon Holloway social engineered himself into one of the most normal and popular kids in school.
He was so popular, in fact, that the funeral of his parents and brother was one of the most widely attended in the history of the small New Jersey town where they were living. (It was a miracle, friends of the family remarked, that young Jon just happened to be taking his computer to a repair shop early Saturday morning when the tragic gas explosion took the lives of his family.)
The Blue Nowhere: A Novel Page 11