by L. A. Larkin
Back at her desk, she flicked through the staff database. There was only one Ben listed at the Gibson Research base: Ben Hartstone. And his mobile number matched the one in the note. He was down as ‘Information Systems Support Specialist’. At twelve-thirty, she left the building to find a quiet spot to call him.
‘Hello, Amber,’ Ben answered, ‘nice to meet you just now.’ He must have recognised her phone number.
‘Can you talk?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you Ben Hartstone?’
‘Done your homework, then.’
‘Ben, why do you think I want to know about the Gibson Lab? I just made a simple mistake.’
‘I don’t think so. You’re clearly a very bright woman and I don’t believe you’d make a stupid error like that. You knew you were trying to open a top-security file. Kylie might’ve fallen for it, but I’ve been watching you, and you’re not dumb.’
‘How long have you been watching me?’ Serena’s voice bristled with anger.
‘Since you tried to open the file.’
‘Were you outside my apartment last night?’
A moment’s pause.
‘No. I mean watching you at work. Look, I’m not some kind of stalker.’
‘Okay. Why?’
‘Why, what?’
‘Why have you been watching me?’
‘I wanted to work you out. You know. What’s your interest in Gene-Asis? Were you someone likely to help me?’
‘Help you? I’m just a PA trying to keep my nose clean.’
‘Then I’m sorry I bothered you.’
He waited for her response.
‘But what you do is top secret. Why would you want to tell a perfect stranger about it? You could lose your job.’
‘My job! Like I give a shit about my stinking job. Have you seen the Gibson Desert? Do you know what it’s like out there?’
He had raised his voice, startling her. She could feel his fury.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘It’s over forty degrees Celsius every day. At night, it’s freezing. There’s nothing but sand and spinifex, as far as you can see. We live like moles in an underground facility. Only the paddocks and greenhouses are above ground, and I can’t go there because I’m just an IT geek. It’s shit and I’ve had enough.’
‘So why don’t you leave?’
‘I am. I’ve been shat on for long enough.’
‘But why offer to tell me the contents of that file?’
‘Well, here’s my thinking. I tell you what you want to know. And you tell me what I want to know. We just exchange a bit of information, if you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t …’
‘Look, Amber, I can do this with or without you. But if you want my help, call me.’
‘No, wait!’
Silence down the other end of the line. She had to take the risk of finding out more.
‘Can we meet somewhere?’ she asked.
‘Sure. How about tonight, at the Cortile bar in the Hotel InterContinental? Say six-thirty?’
‘Fine.’
Walking in a daze along the crowded pavements, she wondered, too late, if meeting Ben in such a public place were a good idea. What if they were spotted together? She redialled his number, but his mobile was switched off.
Chapter 35
The hotel bar exuded the elegance of bygone days with floors of black and white checked marble, velvet chairs in a deep burgundy, and a marble fountain with a statuette at its central point. High above, the glass roof on the sixth floor allowed sunlight to pour in. A pianist tinkled softly in one corner as waiters, wearing bow ties, and green waistcoats, took drinks orders.
Hovering on the outskirts of the bar, Serena scanned the area for Ben. A woman in her fifties sat alone, nervously fiddling with the straps of her pink sun top, clearly waiting for someone. A group of Japanese businessmen laughed loudly, clinking their beer glasses together. A young couple lounged back in their chairs, smiles on their sunburned faces. But there was no Ben.
Serena sat at a table near the bar and ordered a drink.
‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
She looked up into the green eyes of Ben Hartstone, who extended his hand. She shook it, his enormous palm dwarfing hers. As he sat, she sized him up. He was a very big man: probably 188 centimetres tall, with a neck as wide as his head. His muscular thighs appeared to be stretching the seams of his blue jeans. His nose was like a ski jump: flattened at the top and turned up at the end. It had clearly been broken. He looked more like a bouncer than an IT person.
Ben ordered a light beer, relaxing his bear-like frame in the cushioned chair.
‘Look, I’m sorry I went off at you earlier. I shouldn’t have.’
‘You sounded upset.’
‘I am.’
Serena waited for more details, but he sat silently looking at her.
‘About what?’
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his massive thighs.
‘I’m good. I’m very good at what I do. I’ve worked for Gene-Asis for six years. I’ve done my time and I should’ve been made the IS Support Specialist for Sydney.’
His beer arrived, served in a tall glass. Ben took a sip and, as she waited for him to continue, she looked at his face; it was weatherbeaten, with deep lines around his eyes and forehead, like the furrows of ploughed fields. His closely cropped hair was the colour of dusty straw.
‘So, what happened?’
‘I got assigned to that desert shithole. Gary Wang got the job in Sydney and the little runt doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He just blinds people with technical jargon.’
Ben leaned back into his chair, slapping his hand down on one knee with a clack. A woman at the next table looked up. Serena sat forward and dropped her voice.
‘So you want out?’
‘I want out, but with a pay-off. And that’s where you come in.’
He took a large gulp of his beer. She noticed his nails were bitten down so far that the fingernails were half their normal length, which seemed at odds with the strength of the man.
‘Go on,’ she prodded, trying not to betray her impatience. Was he ever going to get to the point?
‘I know things. Things Gene-Asis would like kept quiet. Things the press would pay a lot of money for. But it needs to be someone I can trust; someone who won’t reveal their source, but who’ll pay well.’
He swallowed some more beer. Serena took a deep breath and, needing something to do with her hands, tucked her hair behind her ears slowly and deliberately.
‘And you have the right contacts. You can introduce me to the right person,’ Ben continued.
Her eyes widened and she felt her face flush. Does he mean Tracey? How on earth could he know about Tracey? He said he’d been watching me …
‘How so?’ she stammered.
‘Your résumé. I’ve seen it. You worked at The Post.’
Yes, of course. My fake résumé.
‘So what?’
‘You’ll introduce me to a journo I can trust and I have my eye on that Pollack lady. You know, the science correspondent. I’ve checked out her stuff. Seems to me she’s a journo with real balls, and she’ll need balls to publish this story.’
Serena crossed her arms and eyed Ben dubiously. ‘You don’t need me. If your story’s that hot, you can have your pick of journalists.’
‘You joking? If the journo dobs me in, I’m in deep shit. These secrets are big and dirty.’
It was her turn to be silent. She chewed her lower lip, considering her response.
‘Why not a local journalist?’
‘Overseas is good. Keeps the spotlight off me,’ he replied.
‘And if I decide to help you, what do I get in return?’
‘All the files on the Gibson. And I’m telling you, there’s some weird shit.’
‘Like?’
‘Oh no, I’m not telling you a thing until you tell me why you’re intere
sted. Come on now, Amber; that’s fair, isn’t it?’
It was fair, yes. But she couldn’t bring herself to trust him, yet.
‘What makes you think Pollack will listen to me?’
‘She was one of your referees. Of course she’ll listen.’
Ben had done his homework, all right.
‘I have to go now, Ben.’
He threw up his hands in resignation.
‘When do you go back to the Gibson?’ she asked.
‘On Saturday. I’d need to do the interview before then—phone conversations are recorded at the Gibson. So, think it over fast. I don’t have much time. After Saturday, I’m stuck in nowheresville for the next three months.’
‘I must go,’ Serena replied, standing up. She started rummaging in her handbag for her purse.
‘I’ll get the bill,’ Ben said, standing too. He towered over her and held out his hand. She shook it.
‘You might think what I’m doing is wrong,’ he said. ‘But, you know, everyone gets something. I get cash, you get info, and the ordinary Joe gets to read a few scary stories.’
Chapter 36
Serena had to knock repeatedly on John’s home office door. He finally opened it and leaned on the doorframe. His hair was uncombed and he had bags under his eyes. The interior of the room was dark except for the glare from numerous computer screens.
‘Hey there. I didn’t hear you. I was hanging out in channel with my headphones on,’ he said.
‘Hanging out where?’
‘IRC.’
She shook her head. Sometimes John sounded like he came from another planet. ‘You all right? You look tired.’
‘Yeah, I am a bit. I’ve got a problem at work.’
‘What?’
‘A hacker called Menace has been boasting he’s gonna bring down the bank. He’s good, very good. I’m trying to find out how he plans to do it so I can stop him, and if I’m going to be up all night, I’d rather be at home.’
‘Don’t you employ people to do this for you?’
‘Yeah, but I like it. It’s like a game of chess: working out who will make the wrong move. So, sometimes I get my hands dirty and go head to head with a hacker. And Menace is a real challenge.’
‘How do you stop a hacker? He’s not going to give the game away, is he?’
‘By setting up a dialogue with him. Meet e0n. That’s the name I go by in hackers’ chat rooms.’
‘But surely this Menace guy won’t tell you anything?’
‘Hackers love to brag about their achievements. He won’t tell me what he’s gonna do exactly, but I may be able to guess something from a conversation with him. And I’ll lay any money I’ll find him in #2600.’
‘An IRC?’
He nodded.
‘Which is?’
‘Internet Relay Chat.’
‘And how long have you been tracking Menace?’ she asked.
John looked at his watch.
‘Since last night.’
‘So, you haven’t slept?’
‘Nope.’
‘Jesus, John, let me make you some dinner.’
‘Thanks. But I can’t be away long, in case I miss him.’
‘You can keep checking in,’ she replied, dragging him to the kitchen. She’d make a quick stir-fry.
‘A guy left a note on my windscreen today,’ she said, chopping an onion. ‘He may lead me to McPherson’s report.’ John’s bloodshot eyes opened in surprise. ‘He’s an IT guy at their Gibson Lab with a massive chip on his shoulder. He wants out and if I line up an interview for him with Trace, he’ll hand me the Gibson file, where, I suspect, I’ll find McPherson’s research.’
John didn’t respond, so Serena stopped chopping and looked at him.
‘What?’ she asked, as he stared at her silently. As the onion was making her eyes water, she stepped away from it.
‘Can you trust him? He could blow everything you’ve planned.’
‘I don’t know. But if I set him up with Tracey and he spills the beans, then he may end up doing my job for me. I won’t need to find evidence. I won’t need to pretend to be Amber Crosby anymore, with that creep Bukowski breathing down my neck.’
‘I like that idea but, equally, he may know nothing but gossip and if you help him, you could get fired and we’re back where we started—with nothing.’
He was slumped forward with exhaustion. She put the knife down and washed her hands, then began massaging his shoulders.
‘That’s good,’ he sighed.
‘The other possibility is that it’s some kind of trap. I still don’t really know how he knows about me trying to get into the Gibson file. But if Bukowski suspected me, he’d surely just fire me? What would be the point of playing games?’ John moved his head from side to side, stretching his aching neck. She could tell he was enjoying her fingers digging into his knotted back muscles. She continued, ‘Tracey will be in Zimbabwe by now. I’ll give her Ben’s number. She can suss him out.’
She stopped massaging and John turned to face her.
‘I suppose it’s worth a go. I wonder if he’ll go through with it and call her?’
Serena shrugged. ‘We’ll see. And, in the meantime, I’ll need your hacking device.’
‘You’ll have it Friday and it’s a B0r3r.’ He pronounced it ‘Borer’.
‘Go on,’ she said, sitting next to him. ‘How does it work?’
‘Menace uses them all the time, but his is nothing like my B0r3r. He used one to steal twenty million credit card numbers from a credit card bureau used by a US bank. He then sold them on the black market to the Mafia and other criminal cartels. Made a fortune. Here’s how it works. Menace went to the world’s largest banking convention in Chicago, using a fake name. He sat at one of the computer terminals for participants, pretended that his computer wasn’t working and unplugged the keyboard cable. He blew on the keyboard port, making out it was dusty, and then slipped a keylogger onto the cable. A keylogger comes in two parts: a transmitter and a receiver. It’s Bluetooth with a limited range. The USB Bluetooth dongle …’
‘Dongle?’
‘Sorry, geek speak. I mean, the transmitter is a tiny device about the size of your thumbnail, which records up to five million keystrokes. That’s what Menace attached to the computer. The receiver was plugged into his smartphone. Anyway, this Menace guy then reattached the keyboard with his keylogger transmitter inside, and pretended to be surfing the Net. When he was sure he hadn’t been caught, he logged off and then waited for the next person to use the computer. He simply read the keystrokes of each person who used that particular computer until he found one idiot from this credit card bureau who made the fatal mistake of using an untrusted PC to log in remotely. Bingo! Menace now had this man’s credentials.
‘When the man had gone, Menace sat at the same computer and logged back in using this man’s confidential password. This gave him access to the credit card bureau’s network. By using the public-access PC, there was no way he could be traced, you see. He viewed the credit card numbers, which he recorded on a memory stick, and, retrieving his keylogger, he left the convention undetected.’
‘This keylogger records every keystroke?’ she asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘So I could use one to watch Bukowski’s keystrokes. Then I’d know his password and his watch fob code.’
‘No you can’t, because Bukowski’s keyboard is not detachable. It’s part of the dock for his smartphone. You couldn’t use a standard keylogger.’
Serena leaned forward, excited.
‘But the B0r3r can?’ she guessed.
‘It can. Let me show you my prototype.’
Serena followed John into her room and watched as he removed her Tbyte from its slot. He then placed a tiny device at the precise point the handheld connected with the dock. Its design resembled the port in every way, mirroring its shape exactly, except it was fractionally smaller. The B0r3r keylogger slotted inside the port, invisible to the
naked eye.
‘The transmitter has bored its way inside the dock,’ said John. He then re-docked the Tbyte. ‘Okay. Now you sit here and access your bank account online as you normally do. Maybe move some money around or something. I’ll leave the room and, when you’re done, log off. Then come and find me.’
She did as she was asked, and then returned to John’s room.
‘I’ve placed the second part of the B0r3r, the receiver, into exactly the same spot in my dock. The two parts are hard to tell apart, so remember; the one with the red ring is the receiver.’
John’s monitor was a moving stream of data, shooting from left to right and then back again, like an alphabet-soup serpent.
‘How is the B0r3r doing this?’
‘It’s transmitting wireless signals to the receiver in my computer.’
‘Does the receiver have to slot into the dock? Can’t it be slotted into my smartphone, like Menace did?’
‘Possibly, but we’d have to adapt your handheld to take it. And that could delay us.’
‘Okay, so how far away can the receiver be and still receive the wireless signal?’
‘Approximately thirty metres. And it’s not so good through solid walls.’
Serena silently absorbed this information.
John continued, ‘When my B0r3r is glitch-free, you’ll be able to view anything Bukowski sees on his screen. However—and it’s a big however—their IDS, IPS and SIEM will instantly alert them to a keylogger.’
‘Hold on, John. What’s with all the acronyms?’
‘Sorry. They’ll have intrusion detection systems, intrusion protection systems and a security information event monitoring system. Probably METRO?’
‘Yes, that’s it. METRO.’
‘That’s a big problem.’
‘Not anymore. It’s now off during most of the day. Only switched back on at lunchtime, to check for intruders.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
‘Then the only outstanding problem is making a copy. You’ll need to use Bukowski’s computer to do it.’
‘I’m working on that one,’ she replied, thinking of Colin.
He guessed. ‘But what if Colin won’t cooperate? You’re asking a lot. And God knows what Bukowski would do if he caught you.’
