“Now that I think about it,” he said, “You do actually have another connection between the victims.”
“Oh yeah?”
“McCarthy Security Ltd. The company who physically installed the cameras? Saxton mentioned them yesterday and Hilary Saxton even mentioned how good a job they’d done. I bet Pike used the same firm to install his webcams.”
Now he said it, Jenny remembered the name. This was promising. She made an effort to contain her excitement. “Why do you think that?”
“Both installations were professionally fitted. No exposed power line wires or anything. And, more importantly . . . Do you remember the PCs in the two homes that the webcams connect to wirelessly?” She nodded, so he continued. “They’re set up exactly the same as each other, which means the same installation company must be behind both.”
“Where does HomeWebCam fit in then?”
“HomeWebCam just provides the website for people to gain secure remote access to their webcams over the Internet. And if you look at their site, everything’s in the USA. The webcams can be bought from anywhere. Loads of spy gadget shops in London or online sell them.”
“That’s brilliant, Brody, thanks.” She wanted to kiss him.
“It’s better than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, so far one of the common factors between your victims is that their home locations were on SWY, both of which were installed by the same company, so . . .”
Jenny had made the mental leap. “So maybe McCarthy Security installed all of the webcams being broadcast on SecretlyWatchingYou. Maybe that’s how they get chosen for the site. And if that’s true, we might be able to get a list of every location, contact the webcam owners and prevent anyone else from being targeted.”
Brody leaned back, folding his arms: a job well done.
Jenny knew they were onto something at last. Something tangible. “I could kiss you.”
“Go on then.”
She did.
* * *
“You won’t believe what I’m up to today, Dad!” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve got a business meeting with this big shot from some American company. He’s flying in this morning to meet me. Me!”
Sarah McNeil allowed herself the embellishment. She knew full well that Francis Delacroix was fitting her in between his flight landing and some business meetings in the afternoon. But she wanted to make her father proud, just like the old days when he’d been thrilled at every achievement she’d made, no matter how big or small. Whether it was six-year-old Sarah winning the primary school egg-and-spoon race or twenty-two-year-old Sarah graduating from the University of Reading, James McNeil had lived every moment and been there to support and cheer her on.
Sarah continued pushing the wheelchair along the pathway, which wound its way between perfectly maintained lawns and colourful flowerbeds laid out in flowing swoops, all in front of the imposing Georgian building that housed the horrendously expensive Sunnyside care home.
She leaned forward to see if there was a flicker on her Dad’s face at her news. But his blank expression steadfastly remained in place as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. The doctors had told her that he was still able to hear and understand, but that he’d retreated further into himself following his last stroke. Only the sight of a chessboard seemed to evoke any reaction from him. The fact that he could still play — very slowly with only his right hand clumsily moving pieces — and win told her that some part of her father was still alive inside. She just couldn’t reconcile why her presence couldn’t animate him like the black and white squares and chess pieces. The doctors had talked to her about logical versus emotional centres of the brain. But they didn’t actually know for sure what was wrong. All she could do was hope that somewhere deep inside he was still cheering her on.
The meeting with Mr Delacroix was at 11:00 a.m., in just over two hours. She’d dressed in her sharp two-piece black suit, cream silk blouse and pointed high heels. She loved the way the open collars of her blouse wrapped over her suit, with its ability to draw men’s gazes down towards her substantial cleavage. Today she was going to use every asset at her disposal to secure the majority of FCS Software’s advertising budget. She meant business.
The day before, Joe Ashley had agreed to her having the following morning off, but only after she’d laid it on thick about it being her father’s birthday and that the care home were laying on a party for him. Sarah knew that the minute anyone in the team talked personally about themselves, especially if they mentioned nurseries, childminders, hospitals or, as she had, care homes for the elderly, Ashley’s inter-personal skills no longer functioned and he would immediately extricate himself from the conversation, agreeing to almost anything in the process. All he ever wanted to discuss was the number of calls made, deals booked and performance against quota. He’d still pointed out sharply that taking time off work when at only twelve per cent of the month’s revenue target with only a week to go was plain stupid. But if her father’s birthday was more important than her job well, maybe she needed to rethink her career.
Sarah grinned to herself. If Ashley only knew what she was up to today. She looked around, taking in the grandiose surroundings. Her smile widened. The commission on this deal alone would keep her father in Sunnyside for at least a year. It would be wonderful for him. He could play chess to his heart’s content and she would be free to continue building a new life for herself.
Sarah looked at her watch. She had two hours. From here, she needed to allow three-quarters-of-an-hour for the drive to Windsor. Time to go.
She turned the wheelchair around and rapidly pushed her father back towards the house. She would arrive very early: it was better to be safe than sorry. It wouldn’t do to be late for the most important meeting of her life.
* * *
Brody opened the front door of his flat and listened.
It was quiet; the kind of silence that only comes from the apartment being totally empty. He checked his watch: it was just before nine. Leroy and Danny were most likely still enjoying breakfast together. As part of their anniversary celebrations, Danny had booked them a table at The Breakfast Club, a small, deliberately shabby café just a short walk from Brody’s apartment. There they would eat American-style pancakes in honour of their first morning together in Key West five years before.
Brody hoped that Leroy and Danny would spend the whole day together or, more specifically, that Leroy wouldn’t return to the apartment and bug him. He seriously needed to finish off the reconnaissance of HomeWebCam that he’d begun in Bruno’s last night before he’d hooked up with Jenny. He was sure that HomeWebCam would provide the key he could use to unlock the back door into SWY. But to find the key he needed to come up with a decent attack vector and, for that, he needed no distractions, especially Leroy-sized ones. As a West End stage actor, Leroy’s life was usually nocturnal with productions most evenings, followed by a social life that began after each show and carried on into the small hours. It meant that Leroy usually slept in until mid-afternoon, freeing Brody to work undisturbed for most of each day. But Danny’s stay this week, centred on the couple’s anniversary celebrations, had altered the pattern. The fact that they were breakfasting this early in the day meant that Leroy would be awake for the rest of it, grumpy and antagonistic from lack of sleep.
Unfortunately, Danny wasn’t going to save him. Brody recollected overhearing Danny explaining how manic his schedule was with its back-to-back candidate interviews. As a headhunter in the telecoms industry, Danny’s reputation with his clients came down to his skills in sifting through numerous candidates for an open position and only ever putting forward the very few who nailed the brief. Much to Leroy’s chagrin, Danny never mixed business with pleasure and so Brody resigned himself to the door bursting open any moment.
He showered and changed, forcing himself to think about how he’d approach his attack on HomeWebCam. But he couldn’t. His every thought was of Jenn
y Price. Of their amazing night together. Of her stroking the cream from his lips; the moment when he’d became sure that their evening together would continue through the night. Of her straddling him on her bed, naked and in control except for the moment when she came, pleasure and confusion etched across her fine features. Of their lustful breakfast antics in the kitchen. Of their kiss in Taylor St Baristas, the taste of coffee on their lips.
When he’d left without waking her first thing that morning, he’d briefly considered allowing the door to quietly close behind him, leaving the lightly snoring — a wonderful sound that had made him chuckle with affection — sleeping beauty to her life of law and order, untainted by his half-truths and white lies. Walking away was what he had done in nearly every other similar situation. But this time something felt different. It was the first time he hadn’t been a cinematographer, stuntman, or second unit film director. He’d been Brody Taylor, independent IT security consultant, by far the nearest he’d ever come to the truth of his ignoble profession. And it had changed things.
Working alongside her on the murder cases provided a completely different perspective. She was authoritative and professional, calm and in control, focused and intense. All qualities he admired and very different from the version of her that had gone out for drinks with him. That Jenny Price was sharp and witty, relaxed and uninhibited, charming and funny. It made him understand that these contradictory sets of character traits were just snapshots. He’d seen enough to know that he didn’t yet have the full picture, but, for the first time in a long time, enough to know he wanted to. And, as the door to her flat began to close, he’d reached in and flipped the latch, enabling him to return.
Now Brody sat at his desk in front of his computer and the bank of three widescreen monitors and shook his head, a physical attempt at clearing the thoughts of Jenny from his head. On his smartphone, he brought up the Sonos app, upped the volume to high and selected the soundtrack from 1492: The Conquest of Paradise. The film about Columbus’s discovery of America may have been a box-office failure, but Vangelis’s electronic music synthesised into an orchestral chorus with strong haunting melodies provided the perfect backdrop to help Brody maintain focus while hacking HomeWebCam. He rested his fingers on the keyboard, took a deep breath, waited for the opening melody to kick in, and began.
Twenty minutes later, he completed his reconnaissance of the publicly available information about HWC. Unlike SWY, HWC was a classic bricks and mortar company, with its headquarters in Silicon Valley. It employed 150 people and turned over $12 million a year. It had satellite sales offices elsewhere in the States but no presence in Europe or Asia. The company was a wholly-owned subsidiary of a multinational called Agincourt Plc, based in Boston. HWC had its own dedicated 24-hour help desk for customers of its remote webcam viewing service. All of its systems were hosted in a datacentre somewhere in the USA. The CEO was called Ken Toomey. Dwight Chambers, whom Brody had talked to yesterday, was their Chief Technical Officer and reported into their Chief Operations Officer. There were also Chiefs of Marketing, HR, Strategy, Legal, and IT. With so many chiefs on board, Brody wondered who did all the work.
The HomeWebCam.com domain name was registered to Dwight Chambers and even listed his home address in Redwood City. As far as Brody was concerned, that was a schoolboy error for someone who was supposed to be the company’s lead technologist. A quick search of LinkedIn gave Brody a list of over one hundred employees, their roles and some insight into their relationships with each other.
Brody gave the parent company a cursory once-over as well. Agincourt had offices everywhere, even here in London. It provided its clients with an impressive portfolio of security services. From security guards for buildings to armed escorts, from installing access control and CCTV security systems to alarm receiving and monitoring facilities, from electronic tagging of offenders to prisoner escorting and from managing ATMs to secure transporting of cash in high security vehicles. Brody suspected the acquisition of Internet-focused HWC eighteen months before had been more about enhancing the attractiveness of Agincourt’s shares on the stock markets.
Brody knew what he needed to achieve today. First he needed to hack into HWC’s internal network in San Francisco and find a way to view their firewall logs. He was convinced HWC was relaying their webcam feeds over to SWY, despite Chambers’ protestations to the contrary. Whether HWC was doing this knowingly wasn’t his concern. Once he analysed the logs, he’d be able to identify the route being taken and reuse those security credentials to gain access to SWY. If the password was encrypted, he would use brute force techniques to decrypt it. And from there, he’d finally be able to sneak inside SWY without detection.
But his challenge right now was time. Or, more accurately, the time difference. San Francisco was over five thousand miles away and eight hours behind Greenwich Mean Time, which mean it was just after one in the morning there. The implications of this were that there would be few people awake whom he could entice to help him. But as he thought it through, he realised that he might be able to make the time difference work in his favour. A plan began to form.
Ten more minutes of preparation and he had enough to begin.
He took a deep breath and rang the HWC help desk number.
* * *
Manuel Cortez felt his eyes glazing over again.
He forced himself to stand and walk around the empty control centre. If he could get his blood flowing then the tiredness would lift. He hated being idle. Waiting. If only the phone would ring: that would get him busy. Years of experience had taught him that being busy made getting through to morning without nodding off a breeze.
Cortez also knew from years of experience that he should have got some shut-eye earlier, before coming to work. But that would have meant missing Daniela’s swimming trials. And thank God in Heaven that he’d gone. He had been so proud to witness his dedicated eight-year daughter win her two hundred-yard breaststroke race by a clear three body lengths. If she continued to improve at this rate, Cortez was convinced she would go far in the sport; perhaps even make it into the USA Olympic team in time for Tokyo 2020. But for that to even have a chance of happening, he needed to keep his daughter in her expensive private school. And that meant he would have to keep working as many shifts as he could. Without the overtime and the extra thirty per cent shift allowance, Daniela had no hope.
Sheesh, it was too quiet tonight.
He glanced at the large central display screen just to make sure everything really was okay. The traffic light icons were green across the board. No customers queuing for support. No network links down. No servers down. No backlog of cases from the day shift. Yup; it was going to be a slow night.
Only twice in his three years as a help desk support engineer had he gone through the night shift with zero customer issues to occupy him. Maybe tonight would be the third. Although the majority of its clientele were in the States and Canada, necessitating a full ten-man day-team, HomeWebCam also had thousands of clients all around the globe, hence the minimal overnight cover of one engineer, which Cortez and two other multi-lingual engineers took turns to handle.
Cortez loved talking to people from other countries. The English with their wonderful accents straight off the television were his favourites, although he found the broad accents of their Scottish and Irish neighbours almost impossible to comprehend. Occasionally he got to speak Spanish and French, the languages gifted to him by his Mexican mother and his French-Canadian father, and one of the main reasons he had got this job. In the last three years, he’d also used the downtime to master German and was now making an attempt at Mandarin. Maybe one day he’d even visit some of these exotic locations. But with every spare cent going towards Daniela’s schooling . . .
The phone rang.
Thank God in Heaven for that.
He sat back down at his desk and donned the headphone and mic. He saw from the display that the call was coming from a blocked number.
“Hi. Yo
u’re through to the HomeWebCam customer support line. This is Manuel Cortez, how may I help you?”
Although the official script required him to immediately ask for name and customer account details before allowing them to describe their problem, Cortez felt that offering a more open and confident introduction usually helped diffuse the customer’s frustration with whatever technical problem they needed help with. And anyway, on the night shift, there was no one else around to stop him applying his own personal style.
“Cortez, you say?” The accent was Texan, spoken loudly and deeply. “This here is Ken Toomey. Does that name mean anything to ya?”
He sat bolt upright in his chair. Toomey was the CEO of HomeWebCam. He felt a rush of adrenalin course through him.
“Yes Mr Toomey. How can I help you, sir?”
Cortez had never spoken to Ken Toomey before. The nearest he’d come was standing at the back of the hall watching him present to the workforce at the annual all-hands meeting. Although charming in public, Toomey’s propensity to fly off the handle was often the subject of gossip around the water cooler. There were legendary stories of people being fired for the most minor of things. Apparently, he’d gone through at least six secretaries in the last two years.
“How many people on shift tonight, Cortez?”
“Just me sir.”
“Uh, okay. Well, how busy are you, son?”
Cortez had no idea how to answer. Telling the truth was a risk. But before he could offer an answer, Toomey continued.
“You see, I got me this problem with my work laptop, Cortez. Now I know you’re supposed to be there helping all our customers but I say what use is a help desk if it can’t help its own employees as well, never mind its CEO. Do you see what I mean, son?”
“Uh, yes, I see, sir.” At least he thought he did. The company did have a two-man internal IT team that normally dealt with employee issues, although they were strictly nine to five.
“Good, ’cause I’ve got to present to the damn board tomorrow and I’m still up putting the final touches to this damn presentation and the damn computer has just frozen completely. If I power the damn thing off I’ll damn well lose hours of work and I sure as hell don’t even want to think about that.”
Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) Page 37
