The Devil's Code (13 page)

Before I signed off, I gave him the information that would give him system administrator status at the Bloch Technology server, and suggested that he look at the client list.

W
ILL DO THAT
. M
UST GO
.

T
AKE CARE
.

Y
OU TOO
.

LuEllen was waiting when I got back. I quickly filled her in on what had happened. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

“Wait. Until Bobby gets us a contact.”

“And you want to talk to this guy personally.”

“Yeah. If we do it online, or call, as far as he might know it could be some teenaged crank. If we look him up personally, we can be a little more definite.”

“It’s a risk.”

“Yeah . . . And you know, I’ve been thinking. Bobby thought maybe we should go to the FBI instead of the NSA, because the NSA might just decide to dump whatever’s on that server. So if he gets us some FBI names, maybe we should drop a note to them, too.”

“Let’s think about it.”

W
e went out and hit more golf balls, and went to another movie, which also sucked—there’ve been a
whole line of movies starring old action-adventure stars paired with much, much, much younger women; they’re kinda creepy—and kept checking the mailbox. At two o’clock, the SF box, which has an ancient heritage going back to the original Well, popped up with three paragraphs of type.

The recommended NSA contact was an executive in the security section, a woman named Rosalind Welsh. She was high enough up that she could talk directly to the top levels of the bureaucracy, far enough down that she’d not have any minders. And, Bobby said, she was newly divorced, with a son going to college. Her husband was also an NSA exec, but he was showing a new address, while Rosalind Welsh kept the Glen Burnie address and the old phone number. All of that, taken together, meant that she was living alone.

We also got five names with the FBI, including the personal home phone number of the director. If we used it, I thought, we should get some attention . . .

And finally, Bobby said,

R
AN
B
LOCH SERVER CLIENTS AGAINST
NSA
ROSTER
. O
F THREE THOUSAND CLIENTS
, 1844
APPEAR TO BE
NSA.

A
MAZING
. NSA
IS
F
IREWALL
.

M
AYBE
.

G
ET OUT OF SERVER
. I
MAY TALK TO
FBI.

Y
ES.

I
f I was going to talk to Rosalind Welsh personally, I needed to cover my face and hair. LuEllen
recommended a Halloween mask, since Halloween was coming and they should be easy to find, and because from any distance, they don’t look like masks. We drove all the way to Philadelphia to get it: a full-face molded rubber mask of Bill Clinton. It worked fine, except that I couldn’t talk very well through the mouth slit, and we wound up snipping off the lips with sewing scissors. We got a plastic water pistol from a toy store, and a baseball hat to complete the outfit.

We went to Philadelphia because it was only two hours away by car, and LuEllen had contacts there—a gun guy who I’d met once, and now, it turned out, a phone guy. We got another cold cell phone, guaranteed for a week, for $300. We were back in Baltimore a little after seven o’clock. Glen Burnie is south of the city, and we were scouting Welsh’s house at seven-thirty.

“Lights; she’s home,” LuEllen said.

“So we cruise it a couple of times, and I hit the door.”

“You’re gonna scare the life out of her . . . and the other problem is, what if there’s somebody in there with her?”

“There’s a garage window,” I said. “I can check the garage on my way up—see how many cars are in there.”

“Not perfect,” she said.

“Nothing is . . .”

W
e didn’t need to do it, anyway. We were cruising the place for the third time, picking out a place for LuEllen to wait with the car, when Rosalind Welsh walked out the front door of her house, did a few
stretches in the driveway, and jogged off down the street. We rolled slowly past, and I got a look at her. She was probably fifty, and ran with the earnest, hunched-up stance of somebody who hadn’t been running long, but was determined to lose the armchair ass.

“Let’s do it on the street,” I said. “Stop ahead of her and let me out in front of a house without lights. I’ll bend over the car like I’m saying good-bye, and when she comes up, I’ll stop her.”

“She’ll see the car. Maybe get the plates.”

“Pull into a driveway, so we’re sideways to her. When I stop her, I’ll turn her around, and you pull out and go around the corner. When I’m done, I’ll get her jogging the other direction.”

“This worries me.”

“Yeah, well. It’s better than the door.”

“If she screams?” LuEllen asked.

“I’ll run.”

T
his was the only part of what I do that bothers me—the involvement of innocents in ways that might hurt them. For the most part, when I’m working, I’ll take information from one place and deliver it to another. In most cases, I can make at least a thin argument that what I do benefits the population as a whole—encourages competition, saves jobs, etc.

But sometimes, although I regret it, I involve an innocent. Like this lady, a bureaucrat, a little too heavy, earnestly chugging off the pounds on a quiet suburban street. Whatever else came out of it, I was about to scare
the hell out of her. I wouldn’t do it, if not for the Firewall thing . . .

I pulled the mask over my head, put on the cap, and got the plastic gun out. LuEllen guided us past her again and pulled into a driveway a half block ahead. I got out, and bent over the open door: LuEllen said, “A hundred feet, seventy-five, fifty, forty, shut the door and make your move.”

I stood up, slammed the door, and turned to the sidewalk. Rosalind Welsh was twenty feet away and smiled reflexively as I turned toward her. I said, feeling the rubber edges of the mask flapping against my lips, “Mrs. Welsh. Stop where you are. I have a gun pointed at you. Don’t scream, just stop, and I won’t hurt you.”

As I said the words, I moved to block her; she tried to turn, but I said, sharply, “Don’t,” and when she saw my face she opened her mouth and shrank away, and I said, sharply, “Don’t scream: I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.”

She looked all around, and I stepped close, directly between her and the car and said, “I have to ask you to turn around. We’re going to back the car out of the driveway and we don’t want you to see the license plates. If you do . . . well, you don’t want to see them. Just turn around and look straight ahead, and when your back is to the car, I’ll walk around and face you . . .”

I tried to keep talking quietly, in a nonfrightening way, explaining what was happening: giving her something to focus on. When she was turned, I edged around her and said, “Don’t look at the car.” LuEllen backed out of the driveway and turned at the corner.

“I’m one of the people the NSA is putting out rumors about—I’m supposedly a member of Firewall, along with several friends. But we are not,” I told Welsh. “We began researching the situation, trying to figure out what was going on. Are you aware of the source of the Firewall rumors?”

“Sir, we don’t have much to do with trying to find Firewall. That’s the FBI . . .” She was scared, on the edge of bolting. Calling me
sir.

“The Firewall rumors are coming from an ISP called Bloch Technology in Laurel,” I said. “It’s a private server whose clients are almost all NSA employees. We believe that the NSA is Firewall and will inform the FBI of our conclusions tonight.”

The fear was receding; I could see it in her eyes. She’d become interested in what I was saying. “You think the NSA is attacking the IRS?”

“We think a group of European morons is attacking the IRS and jumped on the Firewall name because it was already notorious and it sounds neat.”

She asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Bobby?” I hesitated, but in hesitating, answered the question. “So you have.”

“Yes.”

“The FBI and our security people are debriefing him now,” she said. An implied threat, showing a little guts.

Again I hesitated; but they’d find out soon enough what they had. “That would very much surprise me,” I said, “since he’s the one who got me your name. This afternoon.”

Her eyebrows went up: “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. The guy you picked up may be named Bobby, but he’s not Bobby.”

“What about Terrence Lighter?” she asked.

Now I had to make a decision; again, a tough one, but what the hell: “Have you heard the name Jack Morrison?”

“Yes.” Nothing more.

“Then you know he was supposedly shot to death by a guard at one of your contracting companies—AmMath, in Dallas.”

“He was
definitely
shot to death by a guard.”

I held up a finger: “We don’t think so. We think he was killed by the same people who killed Lighter. Look at Lighter’s outgoing e-mail; he’s on the Bloch server. Then look at Morrison’s travel. He came to see Lighter twice last week, the last time, the night Lighter was killed. The Lighter and Morrison murders go together, and they were coordinated through an ISP that’s basically a server used by your people.”

She shook her head. “Why should I believe you?”

“Don’t. Just investigate. You’re a security executive. Do your job.”

I glanced back over my shoulder: we’d been talking for two or three minutes, I thought, but it felt like an eternity. “I’ve got to go. I will call you, to find out if you’re moving on the case. If you are, we won’t have to. If you don’t, we will, and we make no guarantees about who gets hurt. We will call the FBI, tonight, about the Bloch Technology server.”

I took a step back, and she said, “Would you have shot me if I screamed?”

I looked down at the pistol in my hand, shook my head, and tossed it to her. She picked it out of the air as I jogged away. “It’s not loaded,” I said as I went. “I didn’t want it to leak on my pants.”

She was still standing there when I turned the corner. She called after me, “Nice talking to you, Bill.”

A little guts.

S
o are you going to call the FBI?” LuEllen asked, as we rolled away.

“Absolutely. If we get two bunches of bureaucrats fighting over the server, it’ll be harder to keep it hushed up.”

I made the call from a pay phone, working down Bobby’s list of FBI agents’ names and home phone numbers. The first two weren’t home. The third guy was named Don Sobel, and he answered the call on the first ring. He sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of shredded wheat; in the background, I could hear the Letterman show.

“Mr. Sobel,” I said. “I’m a member of the computer community. I’m calling to tell you that this group, Firewall, which is supposedly attacking the IRS, was invented by the National Security Agency . . .”

“Who
is
this?” The way he asked, I knew what he was thinking:
crank.

“I’m calling several different people,” I said, “so if you’re interested in keeping your job, you should write down this name. Bloch Technology. B-L-O-C-H. The
company has an Internet server in Laurel, Maryland, at the Carter-Byrd Center . . .”

“Just a minute, just a minute, let me get this down,” he said.

I spelled the name again, and then said, “The server is the source of the Firewall rumors. If you check the client list, you will find that most of the clients are NSA people. You will also find that the first mentions of Firewall all come from this computer, several days before the name went public. The rumors were planted by an NSA contract company called AmMath, of Dallas, Texas. A-M-M-A-T-H. AmMath is also involved in the murder of an NSA official named Terrence Lighter. L-I-G-H-T-E-R. Are you getting this . . .”

“Give me that name again, Lighter . . .”

I spelled it again and then said, “NSA security people are on the way to Bloch Tech right now. There may be nothing left to discover if the FBI isn’t there to watch them. You can call an NSA security official named Rosalind Welsh”—I spelled her name and gave him her phone number—“to ask about the server.”

“What about . . .” he began.

“Good-bye,” I said. I hung up, and we took off.

“Now,” I said. “
Something’s
got to happen.”

 13 

W
hat the European hacks were doing to the IRS was simple enough—the programming could be done by mean little children—but their organization showed some good old German general-staff planning. They must have worked for weeks, getting into the computer systems of not only a lot of small colleges, but, as it turned out, into the computers of several big retailers.

Without studying the problem, I would have thought that getting at the retail computers would be almost impossible, without a physical break-in to get at security codes. I was wrong. It appears that several of the big online retailers spent all their security money on protecting credit-card and cash transactions, and making sure that nobody could fool with their inventory and sales records.

But they had other computers that specialized in routine, automatic consumer contacts—computers, for example, that would do nothing but send out standardized e-mails informing the customer that his order had been shipped. For these computers, no great security seemed necessary.

They were perfect for the hacks. They were optimized for sending outgoing mail, and once the hacks were inside them, they could easily be set up to ship the phony IRS returns. At the peak of the attack, the bigger online companies were sending out thousands of phony returns per hour.

That would have been bad enough, but the hacks had taken it a step further: they didn’t have the returns sent directly from the retailer to the IRS, but rather bounced them off the customers. When the retailer sent an acknowledgment of a purchase, the IRS file was automatically attached, but would not show up on the customer’s computer screen. What would show up was a legitimate receipt or other message, plus a message from the hacks that read, “For auditing purposes, and your shopping protection, please acknowledge receipt of this message by clicking on the ‘Acknowledge’ button below. Thank you.”

Every customer who clicked on the “Acknowledge” button was actually sending a message, but not to the retailer. The message was one of the phony returns, and went to the IRS. When the IRS tried to track the messages, they’d find they came from thousands of individuals all over the country, all of whom denied knowing anything about it.

T
he attack was continuing the following day when LuEllen and I loaded into the rental car and went for a noon-rush-hour drive on Interstate 10. We picked the Interstate because if we were moving fast, we’d be switching phone cells every few minutes.

“Hate to waste a perfectly good phone,” LuEllen grumbled.

“That’s why we got it,” I said. Using one of the new cold phones, I direct-dialed Welsh at her NSA number. Nobody answered.

“Not there,” I said, hanging up.

“What does that mean?”

I thought for a moment, and then said, “I told her I’d call her. But it’s Sunday, and maybe she thinks we’ve only got her home phone. I’ll bet she’s home, sitting on the phone.”

“With a bunch of FBI agents.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

I dialed her home phone and she picked up on the fifth ring. On the fourth ring, I said to LuEllen, “Maybe they don’t fuckin’ care.” I was about to hang up, when I heard the phone shuffle, and then her voice.

“Hello?”

“This is Bill Clinton. I spoke to you last night. Did you go to Laurel?”

“Yes, we did. Is this a cell-phone call?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will have to be circumspect. We looked at the account you were speaking about, but there wasn’t
any traffic of the kind you described, between the gentleman here and the gentleman from Dallas.”

“There was last night . . .”

“We think that the file in question may have been altered. Did you place an administrative account named B. D. Short on the Laurel installation? For your own uses?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Then someone unknown has been burning files.”

“I told you who it was . . .”

“We are looking into that,” she said. “We want you to stay in touch, though, and we also want to send you a file and have you look at two photographs. Can you take a quick transmission if I switch over?”

“Just a minute.” I wasn’t ready for that; it seemed uncommonly cooperative. I turned in the car seat, reached over the back, got out the laptop, and turned it up. “I’m just bringing it up,” I said.

“I’ll have to say, to be honest, that I didn’t appreciate your approach last night. You scared me.”

“I regret that,” I said. I had the line that would go from the modem to the phone wrapped in a bundle, and fumbled it as I tried to pull off the rubber band while still talking on the phone. The bundle dropped between my legs and I had to lean forward to get it. As I did, with my head at a low angle, I noticed a helicopter a mile or so ahead, hovering above a line of buildings. I picked up the bundle of wire, undid the rubber band, and clipped it into the laptop and the phone, and called up my communications program. A moment later, I was ready.

“Switch over anytime,” I said.

“It’s about a hundred K, so it’ll take a minute or two,” she said. “If you’re ready, here it comes . . .”

I got a tone and hit the enter button on the laptop; a moment later, the download began.

“What’s going on?” LuEllen asked.

“They’re shipping a couple of pictures they want us to look at,” I said.

“An unusual show of cooperation,” she said wryly, echoing my own thoughts.

“Yeah, I . . .” And as I started to say it, I looked right out the passenger window. There, a half mile away and running parallel to us, was another helicopter. “Shit!”

“What?” She’d picked up the tone in my voice as I plucked the wire out of the computer and shut down the phone.

“We were set up. They’re tracking the call and they’ve maybe got us isolated. See that chopper straight ahead? We’ve got another off to the right . . .”

“Aw, man, Kidd, what do we do?”

“Don’t do anything, yet; keep the speed steady,” I said. “In case they haven’t spotted us.”

“The front chopper is sliding this way.”

“So’s the side guy,” I said. An exit was coming up, with signs for a shopping center. I could see it to the north, a big one, with what looked like an enclosed parking garage. “Take the exit, take the exit.”

She cut right and took the ramp, “What next?”

“Take a left. There’s a shopping center over there with a covered ramp. If they’ve isolated us, we won’t be able to run from them as long as they can see us.”

It was a cool day, and I was wearing a light sweatshirt over a golf shirt, and had a jacket in back. I peeled off the sweatshirt and began wiping down every surface I thought we might’ve touched, and at the same time tried to look for the choppers. The one that had been to the right was closing fast.

“I think they’ve spotted us,” I said. “Get in the parking ramp.”

LuEllen ran a stoplight, took a hard right into the shopping center, went the wrong way up a one-way drive and into the parking ramp, under cover. “We were in the backseat,” she said. “We were in the back, we’ve got prints. We used the radio . . .”

I’d spotted a parking space: the inside end of it, against the wall, was slightly lower than the outer end. “Right there. But don’t go in head first. Back into it.”

“Why?”

“Do it, goddamnit.”

I crawled over the seat into the back, wiped down everything, stuffed the laptop back into my briefcase, and got out my old Leatherman tool as LuEllen maneuvered the car. When she killed the engine, I said, “Pop the trunk. Get out. Don’t touch anything.”

She did, pulling her hands inside her jacket sleeves, wiping frantically along the way. I hopped out, wiped the handles, then ran around behind the car, dropped to the ground between the barrier wall and the back of the car. I got the Leatherman out of my pocket and unfolded a long pointed blade with a serrated edge. After a couple of timid attempts to do it by hand, I pulled off a shoe,
stuck my hand in it, and smashed the blade through the gas tank. Once I got a hole, the rest was easier, enlarging it to the size of a dime. A steady stream of gasoline flowed out and began pooling under the car and I slid out from under and stood up.

As I did, LuEllen said, “Kidd, I hear the chopper—the chopper’s coming in.”

“You still carry a lighter?”

“Jesus, you’re gonna blow up the garage.” But she got it out of her shoulder bag, a cheap blue-plastic Bic, and handed it to me. I stooped and fired it into a finger-wide trickle of gasoline. The flame caught and we ran.

Ran for fifty feet, until we were away from the car, then slowed to a walk. There were people farther down the structure, but they were paying no attention to us. I could hear the chopper, somewhere, the beating sound seeming to come from all around. Then the fire jumped up from behind the retaining wall, and I heard somebody yelling; and then we were inside.

A mall is a mall is a mall. We either had to get out of this one in a hurry, or hide. I said so to LuEllen. Run or hide.

“This way,” LuEllen said, grabbing my arm.

“Where?”

“Backside exit . . .”

We walked across the width of the mall, to the far exit. “Look for somebody, a woman, getting out of her car. Spot the car. Spot the woman.”

How many people have you seen getting out of cars in parking lots? A million? But try to see somebody getting out when you need to see them, and they don’t. We
could see that there was excitement on the other side of the mall. A couple of people running, but they were the best part of a block away. I was looking toward them when LuEllen said, “There.”

I looked where she was looking. A woman was climbing out of a deep-red Dodge minivan. She was wearing a hip-length teal-colored jacket and carrying a purse. When she passed the back of the minivan, she casually turned and pointed her hand at it, and the taillights blinked. Then she dropped the keys in a side pocket of her jacket.

“That’s her,” LuEllen said. “That’s her. Now do what I tell you. You gotta do it exactly right . . .”

W
hat I did was, I hurried halfway down the mall, until I was standing in front of a Victoria’s Secret store. The woman in the teal jacket came through the inner door a second later. I started toward her, carrying my briefcase open and across my chest, digging in it with one hand. LuEllen was behind her, four or five feet back, pacing her. As we closed, I suddenly crossed in front of her and stopped abruptly, bowing over the briefcase, and she almost ran into me. She put her hands up to fend me off, and I said, “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” but she was already past.

When she’d swerved to avoid me, then ricocheted off my arm, LuEllen had dipped her pocket for the keys. As the woman went on down the hall, LuEllen nodded at me, turned, and headed out. I was a step behind.

“We might not have long,” LuEllen said, as we
crossed the parking lot. She was right. We could still hear a chopper, but it must’ve been on the other side of the building. Then there were sirens and for a moment I thought the cops would be blockading the place, but the sirens were fire trucks, coming in from off the mall.

We got in the van, LuEllen driving, and headed out; from the corner stoplight, we could see the parking ramp, and a fireball in the near end. Two big choppers were down in a vacant area of the lot, and a couple of hundred people were standing around, looking at the fire.

“If they get any prints out of that, they’ll have earned them,” I said.

“You think there were any left?”

“I don’t think so. But why take a chance? And the fire got people looking that way.”

“You think that woman saw your face?”

“Yeah, probably,” I said. “A slice of it. Not all of it.”

We took the van to the airport, trying not to touch anything. At the airport, we wiped it and left it in a reserved slot. I put a sheet of notebook paper on the dashboard with a note: “This car was stolen.” A cab took us back to the motel.

A
t the motel, LuEllen took advantage of me. She tends to do that when there’s trouble, when things have gotten tight. She went to her room, did a couple lines of cocaine, then, her eyes all blue and pinpointed, came down to mine.

“You need some exercise,” she said, pulling her shirt off.

LuEllen’s a good-looking woman and an old friend. It would have hardly been polite to say no.