Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You could ask Google for access to his email account, assuming he has one. But they’re pretty tight on data protection so they’d need an order from the Attorney General’s Office, which could take like for-never.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ Rose recalls the red tape that has obstructed investigations in the past. It’s down to the 1986 law forbidding consumer electronic communications companies from disclosing content without the product owner’s consent or a government order. Unread emails, for example, require search warrants. The process is fraught with legal technicalities, and murky boundaries, and is very time consuming.

  Brennan clears his throat. ‘If he’s DoD, or the project he was working on is secret, they might obstruct the order on national security grounds. Meanwhile, it might be worth checking in with WadeSoft to see if they know anything about the distribution of Skin prototypes.’

  Rose sighs. This investigation could end up going in circles.

  Brennan sees Rose’s frustration. ‘Sorry. Welcome to the world of Cybercrime.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Brenn. Keep me posted on the laptop,’ Rose says, leaving his desk.

  Brennan calls after her. ‘Sure. Oh, and if you see Baptiste, can you tell her the guys and me are still waiting for a proper office! You know, somewhere with air conditioning that actually works. It’s like a furnace in here.’

  Rose waves a hand, but his words haunt her as she thinks about Coulter on fire again, and tries just for a moment to imagine what it’s like to be engulfed in flames, scorching every square inch of your body.

  14.

  In the small FBI satellite office in San Jose, fifty minutes away from San Francisco, Owen Malinski pours himself some more coffee. He has three screens open in front of him, which he has been watching for nearly a week. He’s on a short afternoon break as he takes in the latest data dump in his smartphone inbox.

  Six emails, seventeen Facebook notifications, twenty-eight spam messages. One email is a pre-order reminder for WadeSoft’s Skin.

  Owen can still remember when he used to buy three video tapes for twenty bucks, the rapid speed-dialling and electronic chirping sound of when internet was dial-up, when internet time was clearly demarcated between online and offline. He smiles, remembering the first time he received an email back when he was in high school. Now connected 24/7, he longs for letters instead – heck, even a real paper bill. He muses at how sci-fi and techno-literate the world has become in such a short time. Chatting about internet protocol addresses is now commonplace. Online dating has moved from stigma to the norm, profile stalking is a prerequisite when meeting someone, hardcore porn is now practically a rite of passage.

  Owen glances at his Internet Relay Chat icon.

  Still no sign of DarkChild.

  But Owen feels he is getting close.

  He has been working on infiltrating the Swarm for four months. The gang members are responsible for several high-profile attacks on government and corporate sites. He had worked on information systems and surveillance ever since he joined the Bureau, and had played his part in the hunt for Koenig. That the reward for his efforts had been the bullet that had shattered his knee does not trouble Owen unduly. He had done his duty, and he knew the risks that his career choice entailed. If you can’t stand the heat . . . Besides, he is good at his job and has a sound investigative instinct that has helped him locate clues in the digital realm, where instead of a fingerprint there’s an IP address, instead of a witness there’s a log. All hidden in reams and reams of code.

  Owen’s diligence has allowed him to uncover a number of sites that members of the Swarm frequent. Hanging on IRC channels, lurking in chat rooms, he blends in using the required argot. But it takes time. The sites have hundreds of visitors daily. Owen pays close attention to the top four players, noting their log-off times and cross-referencing that with Facebook profiles of known Swarm supporters, particularly their online chat times. That way, he can correlate hackers’ aliases with account holders and thereby begin to identify the hackers and their position in the gang’s hierarchy. Owen’s injured knee is no handicap to hunting perps down online.

  Some weeks ago Owen had infiltrated the private channel of the highest tier of the gang under his alias, Salvador – a reference to his favourite painter, Salvador Dalí. They invited him to join after months of building his reputation by offering useful advice, introducing them to other hacker organizations he had been targeting and staging a denial-of-service attack on some of the Bureau’s own servers. He had won the Swarm’s respect after his succinct comments praising their recent attack on some private defence contractors, and showing them how they could have gone even further into the systems they had penetrated.

  The top four players in Swarm are Möbius, MasterEscher, KC and DarkChild. Owen’s Salvador fitted right in. The wall space above Owen’s desk is covered with news printouts and highlighted transcripts from internet chat rooms. From what he can glean from the chatter, DarkChild appears to be the most talented of the group, but also their weak point since he loves to act as their spokesperson. Also, from some of his comments it’s clear he lives in Frisco. That was a major break in itself, Owen muses. But then maybe the nerds just like to be near Silicon Valley. In all the attacks carried out by DarkChild he has posted provocative messages on the victims’ homepages – on the Department of Defense, it had been ‘Defend our privacy’; MIA’s default welcome message had been replaced with a sound file on repeat that ran ‘Who’s afraid of the big bad Wolff?’; and on the IRS, ‘Why not collect tax from the rich for a fucking change?’

  The top echelons in federal agencies have been slow to adapt to the rapidly advancing new technology, with many government offices vulnerable to hackers. Owen has quickly mastered most of the social media networks but retains a sceptical eye. He’s still part of the generation where making a phone call or, worst case scenario, sending a quick text, is the norm. Not that he doesn’t regret the occasional ill-advised email sent in the heat of the moment. Now millions of people on a daily basis, particularly the young and disaffected, pour their hearts out on their social media messaging systems, using it as an emotional dumping ground.

  They say time is a healer, allowing past mistakes and wounds to fade from memory. But online, time does not degrade ones and zeros. There is no healing. Like most physical evidence, there’s always a digital trace somewhere. For some, it can be a painful reminder of unhappy times. In law enforcement it’s how hackers can be caught.

  Pop-ping

  The sound means someone has joined the chat room. Adrenalin is starting to pump. Back on the trio of computers, one of the screens has a live window. A circular icon next to DarkChild’s name is glowing green. Owen waits, preparing his opening exchange, before lines of text move down the screen:

  DarkChild: The prodigal son returns . . .

  Sorry for the radio silence . . .

  Think I got the feds watching me . . . :/

  He’s spooked, and Owen thinks carefully before replying:

  Salvador: lol no worries, we thought you’d gone for good :)

  The last time they had spoken, Owen requested DarkChild’s domain so he could send him some code, and DarkChild had promptly logged off. If Owen finds out the domain details, he can attempt a trace. So far, each member has signed into the chat room by masking their IP using a virtual private network, which provides remote and secure access by using tunnelling, hiding beneath a fake IP address, thus making it near impossible to trace them.

  They like to think they are clever, principled individuals. Certainly their fans regard them as such. Even though they are criminals, Owen does have a certain respect for their methods and provocative messages. Owen’s computers are configured to conceal his identity from DarkChild and his associates. His personal FBI computer is disconnected from the Stream as, like any online computer, it can be hacked. He has another conn
ected to the FBI network. Then a third undercover computer that runs on a blank IP that cannot be traced back to the Bureau. On the third screen is the trace program, which Owen uses to analyse the metadata of all the members of the gang. On the off chance, he runs the program.

  Within a few seconds, the custom program has a clear IP address for DarkChild, along with longitude and latitude coordinates.

  Owen is stunned.

  Has DarkChild just fucked up?

  Owen grabs his smartphone, speed-dials Brennan. There’s a long delay and Owen curses the other man’s laconic nature. He hears a click.

  ‘Brennan of the Bureau. What can I do for—’

  ‘Brennan, I think I just got DarkChild’s IP address!’

  ‘What? You’re kidding me!’

  ‘He must have forgotten to mask his IP. Or the connection broke. I need a physical address, now!’

  ‘Send me the details.’

  Owen inputs them. ‘Done.’

  ‘I’ll call back.’

  A few minutes pass. Owen’s smartphone rings.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Geo location is . . . TerraBites. An internet café not far from you.’

  Owen feels his blood chill. ‘Shit . . . I know it. Two blocks from here.’ He rises stiffly to his feet and calls across the office to the other agents sitting at their desks. ‘Off your asses! Gotta go, now. I’ll explain on the road!’

  15.

  Owen and Jared Weiss sit in Owen’s black Chevy Suburban, opposite TerraBites internet café, fifteen minutes from the office. Jared is an eager young probationary agent with a military buzz cut who often works with Owen in surveillance, and specializes in communications. Owen is burning with excitement, his hunch about DarkChild’s whereabouts having proven right. In their exchanges, DarkChild referred to San Jose locales, in addition to the references to San Francisco, on a number of occasions. Owen has been authorized by Baptiste to coordinate the bust, which she reluctantly agreed to, but she won’t let him make the arrest. This has stung him, but deep down he knows she is right. He’s a liability with that leg.

  Driving an automatic Chevy is fine, but chasing a suspect on foot isn’t an option.

  In the rear-view mirror, Owen watches as three SJPD patrol cars slide in a few spaces further down the street.

  ‘Why are there still any of these places around?’ Jared asks. ‘It’s not like there’s no easy way to get online any more. Jesus, internet cafés are for dinosaurs.’

  ‘Or people who want to be anonymous,’ Owen says.

  ‘Whatever. So, we going to go in and bust the creep?’

  Owen wonders if Jared has been watching too many movies. Owen has to call the owner of the café, establish a few facts. His smartphone rings for some time.

  ‘Hello, TerraBites,’ a tired male voice answers.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ Owen says in his brightest tone. Jared shakes his head in amusement.

  ‘Your day is about to get very interesting. I’m Special Agent Owen Malinski, FBI. May I speak with Chen Liu, the owner, please?’

  ‘FBI, huh? Fuck you, asshole. Dave, man, I told you about—’

  ‘Pal, it’s the real deal. I am FBI, and the Bureau does not like to be fucked with. You waste any more of my time and we’ll have the IRS down on your ass like white on rice. Now, let’s try again. Is that Mr Chen Liu?’

  ‘OK . . . That’s me. How can I help you?’

  ‘Chen, fantastic. Do you have an office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go there and shut the door behind you.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Owen hears him close the door.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You currently have a wanted felon using one of your terminals—’

  ‘Ah, Jesus – I’m telling you, I had no idea, man.’

  ‘So you say. Please keep calm. I’m outside with my team, and the local PD are standing by. What I need is a few details from you to make sure this goes as smoothly as possible. Got that?’

  ‘Sure. What do you want?’

  His eagerness to cooperate is suspicious. Owen makes a mental note to check on Mr Liu later.

  ‘How many terminals you got?’

  ‘Nearly fifty. Forty-eight, two are down.’

  ‘OK, the suspect is using one of your computers. I assume your terminals are numbered?’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘OK. I’m going to send you a picture of the IP location. If you can match it up with what number terminal it is, that will be a great help.’

  Taking down Chen’s email address, Owen forwards the map image of the IP location. He waits.

  ‘No pressure, Chen, but we need to catch this guy today.’

  ‘OK . . . well it looks like he could be using terminal thirty-seven.’

  ‘Thirty-seven. Are there any terminals free next to it?’

  ‘Uh . . . Thirty-eight’s taken. Thirty-six is down. You could have thirty-five?’

  ‘Fantastic, book me a slot. I want the seat kept empty so that our man doesn’t get suspicious when we make our approach. How much longer has he got on the clock?’

  ‘Just over four minutes.’

  ‘Plan is, my colleague Agent Jared Weiss is going to make the arrest. How is the café set out?’

  ‘Well, there’s seating by the door. Then the bistro. Towards the back are the computers and the printing areas.’

  ‘Any side exits?’

  ‘Back where the restrooms are there’s a fire escape.’

  ‘Great, thanks for your help. We’ll be in presently.’

  Owen hangs up. He relays the essentials to Jared.

  ‘Got it. Here’s the comms.’

  Jared hands Owen a flesh-coloured earpiece so they can communicate with each other. Owen and Jared exit the Suburban, making towards the first patrol car. The lunchtime air has a clinging, muggy feel to it. The navy-uniformed officer in the driving seat waves, the window glass whirring as it slides down. Owen recognizes the cop from a previous operation.

  ‘Sergeant Mitchell, nice to see you,’ he says.

  Mitchell, a burly officer with a broad, balding head, nods gruffly. They shake hands through the open window. He hands Owen a radio.

  ‘Thanks,’ Owen says. ‘If you and your officers can maintain a cordon out front and back. Keep one man in each car just in case. There’s a fire escape at the rear. Jared here’s going inside to make the arrest. I’ll be by the counter. Then DarkChild’s heading for a ride to the holding cells. Fair enough?’

  ‘Understood,’ Mitchell says.

  ‘Let’s do this.’

  Jared and Owen approach the café. Mitchell and his subordinates take the side alley towards the back, leaving two officers standing out front and an additional two cops in a patrol car.

  ‘Not so close, guys, we don’t want him spotting us too early,’ Owen says with a wink. The SJPD officers dutifully stand a fair distance from the front door on either side, to avoid being seen from inside.

  Owen is bathed in a jet of cool air conditioning as he enters TerraBites. It looks like the kind of place that’s popular with the younger crowd. It has a nice clean design. Black wooden-panelled ceilings with black-cased spotlights. The floor is stone, with bright white strips of light every few feet. There are sofas near a large TV screen and a pinball machine near the restrooms, along with a printing and PC repairs kiosk. Owen sees a Chinese man watching them from behind the counter.

  ‘Our coupon, please,’ Owen says.

  Owen turns to the side, discreetly lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the badge clasped to his belt. The Chinese proprietor hands him the white login slip, which he passes to Jared. Chen looks nervous.

  ‘Far left.’

  ‘Go get him,�
�� Owen whispers to Jared.

  Turning to Chen, Owen asks, ‘Can I have a paper?’

  Chen hands him a USA Today, which Owen pretends to read while standing by the counter. Looking over the pages, he shoots a glance towards terminal thirty-seven.

  An overweight Hispanic youth with long hair in a ponytail sits hunched over his screen, bopping his head along to some music playing in his headphones as Jared approaches.

  Owen takes a breath as Jared pulls out his badge lanyard. He holds it in front of the Hispanic man, who suddenly stops bopping, pulls his headphones down off his ears, his face crumpled with confusion.

  ‘FBI. You’re under arrest.’

  The bopper throws his hands up.

  ‘Whoa! I ain’t done nothin’!’ he protests. Some computer users without headphones look over; most carry on oblivious. Owen leaves the counter, walking over.

  The bopper is wide-eyed.

  ‘Look, uh . . . I confess. I’ve downloaded a few hundred songs and movies. Who hasn’t these days?’

  Jared checks the bopper’s screen. No sign of a chat room or hacker programs. Nothing but a file listing of movie soundtracks. Certainly no hint of the kind of stuff members of the Swarm are into. He tries a different tack. ‘We know all about you, DarkChild.’

  ‘What you call me? Fuckin’ racist shit . . . Fuckin’ feds.’

  ‘You sure it’s the right address?’ Jared says.

  Owen pulls out his phone. This is definitely the place. It doesn’t make sense. Unless . . . unless Chen didn’t turn the map around, and examine it from his point of view. Which would mean that DarkChild is really sitting over . . .

  Owen looks across to the opposite side of the room.

  A young dark-skinned guy with unruly black hair and dressed in combat fatigues meets his gaze for the briefest moment before shifting his eyes back down to his computer screen. He taps a key and then bolts from his seat.