by Jamie Metzl
As always, charging at the truth wins.
“Mrs. Stock, I know this may be an uncomfortable question for you, but do you think there’s any chance MaryLee might have been pregnant?”
Carol Stock looks up at me as if she’s been struck by lightning.
“Excuse me?” I hear a man’s aggressive voice coming from behind.
Reverend DeWitt is almost running in my direction. “Didn’t I tell you to leave us alone?” he fires.
“Nice to see you again, Reverend,” I say peevishly.
“Mr. Azadian,” he says darkly, pushing uncomfortably into my space, “I’ve told you to leave us alone. What part of that don’t you understand? Have the decency to leave Mrs. Stock alone in her grief.”
We stare at each other for a tense moment before I turn my head back toward Carol Stock. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stock,” I say. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“That’s enough, Azadian,” DeWitt barks.
I flash DeWitt a barbed scowl, then turn and walk toward my car with one thought in my mind.
The son of a bitch named her Mary.
15
The fact that a true story can never be told does not mean that truth does not exist. Because each of us is unique, we can never fully divorce our observation of something from the thing itself. Just by observing it, we change it and make it our own.
In the Cal philosophy department, this was the central conceit of postmodernism. Texts do not exist in themselves, the French deconstructionist Jacques Derrida told us, we write our own text every time we experience someone else’s.
Over time this all seemed like bullshit to me, which may be part of the reason I’m here in Kansas City trying to figure out what happened to MaryLee Stock rather than in Bumblefuck State University trying to convince disinterested jocks that truth is a relative construct, while kids in China are mastering nanobiotics and complex systems engineering.
But maybe, I think, as I arrive at the UMKC’s Flarsheim Hall, given the unbelievable complexity of human interactions, the vicissitudes of memory, and the instability of matter, telling an accurate story of what happened in the past is, if not impossible, pretty darn close.
There are so many brazen stereotypes of computer geeks in popular culture. The pasty skin, greasy hair, glasses, ill-fitting clothes, social awkwardness, and up-all-night look of computer experts in Hollywood movies are, I am sure, the bane of many computer professionals who don’t have those qualities.
But Jerry Weisberg has most of them. From the moment I met him at the Hyde Park Community Association meeting last year, it was clear that Jerry was pure Dungeons and Dragons. I didn’t care that much about how many different bins for various types of recycling people should be required to have, but Jerry was so passionate about it I backed him anyway. It hadn’t been a big deal for me, but it somehow meant a lot to him that I’d been on his side, and he’d welcomed me in his awkward sort of way at neighborhood association meetings ever since.
As I open the door to his Department of Computer Science office, I’m not quite sure whether this meager history entitles me to ask him for a favor.
The office feels like a cave. The lights are dim, and the glowing screens covering two of the office’s four walls reflect off of Jerry’s shiny face. A third is lined by a glass case containing what I instantly recognize as computer equipment from the last century. The room smells like crackers.
“Thanks so much for seeing me, Jerry.”
“Sure,” he mumbles as he stands and moves toward me. Jerry walks with a half shuffle, bends forward with a half stoop. His brown hair is messy-curly, half covering a receding hairline.
A part of me thinks I should start with small talk about the neighborhood, but I sense it will be more comfortable if I just jump straight in.
“I need your help.”
He looks at me blankly, awaiting further data.
“I’m investigating the story of a woman who died three days ago, a UMKC student.”
“I read your articles.”
I pause to give him the opportunity to say more. An awkward silence ensues.
“It’s not completely clear what happened,” I push on.
“Mmm,” he mumbles, still waiting for more information.
“Just at the time she died, I’m not sure before or after, all the contents of her u.Mail account were erased. We’ve tried to find out what happened but can’t.”
He perks up. “She probably erased it herself.”
“Could be,” I say. “I really don’t know.”
“There’s usually a trail in this sort of thing. It’s pretty hard to erase something completely.”
“That’s what we were thinking.”
“Do you have the username and Biometric Authentication Code?” I tap my u.D to send him the username information and BAC that Joseph hacked from the UMKC system. “How long do you think this will take?”
“I’ll probably be able to send you something later today. It’s no big deal.”
“Talk with you later then?” I say awkwardly, standing to look at the old equipment in his case. The vintage Macintosh looks like a relic from a bygone age. The smattering of old phones, each identified by a neatly printed index card indicating its model and year, makes me wonder if Jerry isn’t just a historian of past technologies but also a pack rat.
I turn to ask him about the collection, but Jerry has already reintegrated with his screens. He points and wiggles his hands like a conductor of his own digital symphony, hardly noticing me sliding out the door.
16
“She definitely didn’t do it at any of the blood banks,” Joseph announces from my dashboard screen, “and definitely didn’t go to the university clinic.”
“What about the OBs and fertility clinics.”
“There are almost five hundred OBs in Kansas City, and eighteen fertility clinics. The OBs are in ninety-two medical groups, and I’ve eliminated seventy-eight. I’ve eliminated all the IVFGS clinics but four.”
I’m once again amazed by Joseph’s work. “And you’re doing this by?”
“Calling to make follow-up appointments. They can’t seem to find my wife’s file.”
Doesn’t anyone follow the news, I wonder. He’s calling for a follow-up appointment for someone publicly announced dead and nobody raises an eyebrow?
“Keep pushing, Joseph,” I say. “At some point soon people may start recognizing the name.”
“I know, boss,” Joseph says in a less annoyed tone than I probably deserve, “that’s why I’m making these calls.”
My u.D vibrates. It’s Henderson.
“Joseph, gotta run,” I blurt as my hand springs to tap my wrist.
“We’ve got to talk,” Maurice says as his stern face appears.
“Is it confirmed?”
“We’ve got to talk,” he repeats. “Broadway Café. Seven thirty.”
“Are you releasing the autopsy report?” I say, pushing my luck.
“Seven thirty.”
“See you there,” I say into the already dropped connection.
I pull over on Gilliam Road, feeling momentarily paralyzed, not sure in what direction I should move. Joseph is tracking down the doctor, Jerry is looking into the u.Mail account, Maurice won’t tell me when the autopsy report is going to be released, but I’m guessing it won’t be before seven thirty tonight, I can’t harass Carol Stock anymore. Should I go home and read the Bible?
The vibration on my wrist knocks me out of my reverie. I tap my u.D and Jerry Weisberg’s strangely glowing face appears on my dashboard.
“Um, Rich,” he stammers, “you might want to get back here.” He nods awkwardly as if to stress his seriousness.
“I’m on my way now. There in ten.”
I screech a U-turn then speed down Gilliam in the opposite direction.
Jerry is intensely working all of the images bouncing around his screens at once as I rush into his cave.
“Close the door,” he orders
.
I follow the instruction.
“Sit down.”
I do.
“Do you remember the first struggle between Google and China?” he asks without looking at me, his eyes darting between screens.
“Yes, of course,” I answer, “about fifteen years ago.”
“Two thousand nine,” he declares, as if everyone should know this date. “Just when China was emerging economically, militarily, and politically, becoming the major global player they are today.”
“China broke into the Google mainframe,” I say, “stole their source code, snuck into people’s Gmail accounts. Google found out and threatened to leave China.”
“Yeah,” Jerry says, “that was the story. But the real story was deeper. We all discovered how vulnerable we were. And then there was a virus called Stuxnet. Do you remember that?”
I nod, not sure where this tutorial is going but eager for it to move forward.
“Stuxnet was the stealth bomber of computer viruses,” Jerry says with a patience that bothers me, “smarter than anything anyone had seen before. It was a really a worm designed to infiltrate Iran’s computer system and look for very specific computer codes while making it look like everything was normal. The Iranians responded by unleashing the Shamoon and Mallah viruses that targeted the US and Saudi Arabia. Then US intelligence tracked the Byzantine Candor and PLA Shanghai hacker cells back to China and found that the Chinese government was stealing hundreds of billions of dollars of R&D from US companies and Edward Snowden leaked America’s cyber-capabilities to the world and America tried to indict Chinese military hackers and the Chinese responded and things went crazy from there. All the hacking and viruses, all the big countries setting up and massively funding cyber commands, the US hack-bombing the secret Iranian cyber-agency as a warning to everyone else, the quiet cyber battle raging ever since.”
“I think I remember some Canadians helping,” I say.
“Exactly,” Jerry says. “A group called the OpenNet consortium based out of the University of Toronto with people pitching in from around the world.”
“Good guys?” I ask.
“For us. For the Chinese they’re the SOBs.”
This is all well and good, I think, but I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here. Is Jerry just wanting company? “What’s the connection?”
“The Chinese broke into the US Department of Defense System in 2017 and left a Trojan horse, a piece of code that later gets activated to do something sinister.”
“And?” I’m still trying to figure out where he’s going.
“It became clear to everyone just how easy it was to sneak something into the trillions of lines of code that control our lives.”
Control seems like a strong word.
“So?” I ask anxiously.
“Just as the Chinese and the Russians and the Iranians and so many others were getting good at sneaking into systems where they weren’t welcome, the good guys were getting smarter and smarter at setting traps to help figure out who was meddling where they didn’t belong. They call them ‘comments.’ Think of it like putting a homing device in a suitcase of cash you think might be stolen.”
“Setting traps for the setters of traps?”
“Exactly,” Jerry replies excitedly, “even more. Some of the Trojan horses contain Centurions.”
“Centurions?”
Jerry looks at me as if I’m hopeless. “Code that reports back about people trying to access its specific location. It watches you watch it. The cat and mouse game goes on and on, a classic arms race situation.”
“Jerry, what are you trying to tell me?”
“You need to understand one more thing.”
I nod impatiently.
“The OpenNet consortium is always sharing software that helps us figure out when we’re being infiltrated. They’re fighting the losing battle to save cyberspace. Their work isn’t perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”
I urge Jerry on with my wide eyes and pursed lips.
“I tried logging in to the u.Mail account you gave me, and you were right, nothing was there. I did all of the obvious checks, and there was not a trace that anything had ever been there.”
I nod.
“So I thought I’d sweep the account to see if anything popped up,” Jerry continues.
Now Jerry’s monologue is beginning to make sense.
“So I applied the latest version of OpenNet software and I found the bugger.”
“What is it?”
“This,” he says, activating one of his screens with the wave of a finger.
A string of code pours across the screens. It means nothing to me.
“I’ve just had a preliminary look at the code,” Jerry says. “The moment you enter this account, the brilliant little Centurion reports back to someone who you are. Hi, little fella.”
“Do you know who?”
“It seems to pass through a lot of anonymizing portals. I’ll keep looking. It also sends you home with a little Trojan horse of your own to give someone access to your system when the Trojan gets activated.”
“So anyone who’s been in this account has been compromised?”
“Not everyone,” Jerry says. “It’s a zoo out there, and I always explore the web through proxy servers and firewalls. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been compromised, but you really never know.”
My mind races to Joseph Abraham. He’s good but is he Jerry good? “So the average person who’s been in this account has tipped his hand to someone and probably brought back a Trojan horse.”
“Exactly.”
“How sophisticated would someone need to be to do this?” I ask breathlessly.
“That’s the point,” Jerry replies excitedly, “that’s why I called you here. There are basic viruses and malware codes everywhere, and they can be easy to deal with if you know what you are doing. Annoying but manageable. I’ve only just begun studying this code, but some parts of it have incredibly high levels of encryption. There are only a small number of people this good out there.”
I put my hands together in front of my face as I try to process what this could mean. Why would someone with this level of sophistication care about MaryLee Stock’s u.Mail account?
I feel a surge of vulnerability. But if someone can watch me, does it mean they are watching me? With all my reliance on technology, I realize what I really need to do is talk to Joseph the old-fashioned way that can’t be compromised by Trojan horses, Centurions, and viruses.
“Jerry,” I say as I get up to leave, “I don’t yet know what it all means, but I do know I need your help. Can you try to find out who the malware is reporting back to?”
I wonder if the miniscule favor I’d done Jerry in the Community Association justifies all I’m asking him to do now.
Jerry seems to pick up on my hesitation. “MaryLee Stock was a student in this university. I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but if you’re digging like this it makes me think . . .”—Jerry interrupts himself—“it makes me think the least I can do is help you dig.”
“And Jerry,” I add, “please don’t talk about this with anyone.”
Jerry flashes me an of course look.
“If I’ve been compromised,” I say, “what’s the best way for us to communicate?”
“I have a beta program for Cupstring. It’s for heavy encrypted communication. I’ll also add a button for the GreenTorrent anonymizer. Just tap that first before you access the cloud. In person is safest.”
Jerry takes my u.D from my wrist, pulls it apart from the data stick, then plugs it into his system. “This ought to do it for now,” he says, handing my u.D back to me after a few moments. “I shared our encryption keys. You should probably get a new u.D when you can and connect with an e-tag that doesn’t link back to you.”
“Thank you, Jerry,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand.
Jerry takes a quick step backwards and raises his hands facing outward in front of h
is chest. “Sorry,” he says apologetically, “germs.”
Something in my gut tells me we have a lot more to be frightened of.
17
Joseph Abraham is nothing if not predictable. His quiet temperament and diligent presence belie a consistency and inner resourcefulness I’ve come to rely on. Day and night at all hours I’ve grown accustomed to seeing the back of his head and finding him peering intensely into his screens or wiggling his hands in the air as he manipulates images across his digital cubicle or bending his head forward talking to someone in a muted voice that travels only a few inches from his mouthpiece.
But as I turn the corner past Arts and Entertainment, I’m startled by what I see.
That Joseph is facing me is surprising enough. That he jumps up the moment he sees me and bounds toward me is downright revolutionary.
“We’ve got to talk,” he says breathlessly.
“That’s what I was about to say.”
“Martina’s looking for you, says she’s called you three times and you haven’t answered.”
“And?”
“She told me to stop working on this story.”
“That makes no sense. Where is she?”
Joseph’s look over my shoulder answers my question. I turn to see Martina striding toward me with a strange, angry look on her face.
“Where the hell have you been?” Her barbed question is not meant to be answered. “Come into my office,” she commands.
I inhale and follow.
Suddenly remembering my original purpose, I turn back to Joseph. “Joseph, don’t connect to the cloud.”
“Boss?” he replies.
“Don’t. I’ll be back in a sec.”
He looks confused. “Yes, sir.”
I expect Martina to slam the door after I enter her office as she generally does when she’s in a mood. Instead, she slowly closes the door behind me and looks to confirm the handle has clicked.
“Sit down,” she orders.
I still can’t read the vibe.
“First,” she says, “I want you to know that this is fucking bullshit.”
I rack my brain to figure out what she’s talking about and come up empty.
