by Reece Hirsch
“We’re okay,” Zoey said. “Being the rebound girl is kind of an area of specialization for me. I think I’ve pulled down more rebounds than Charles Barkley.”
Chris sat up in bed. The bright sunlight made the cheap hotel room look more pleasant than it had any right to. “What are you up to over there?”
“Seeing if I can turn our passports into something that will actually get us past customs. It won’t be easy. We’d need to buy blank passport books on the black market and I’d have to hack the security chip that’s inside the back cover.”
There was a white paper bag on the night table next to the coffee. “What’s in there?”
“Chocolate croissants,” she said. “They’re amazing. And I think they might still be warm.”
He pulled a croissant from the bag and devoured it. They were still warm, and Zoey was right. As Chris slid out of bed, he realized that he felt better physically than he had in weeks, maybe years. Perhaps it was just the fading half-life of the cancer medications. He wasn’t in any less trouble, and every time he thought of Ed’s death he felt sick, but he was no longer as hopeless as he had been the night before. He wasn’t ready to turn himself in to the FBI just yet.
Chris stepped over to the window, dressed in nothing but his boxers, and put his hand on Zoey’s shoulder. Outside, the lone percussionist from the night before had multiplied into an entire drum circle, complete with trash can lids, timbales, and steel drums.
“I’m glad that last night happened,” Chris said, “but—”
Zoey raised her hand to silence him. “You don’t have to say it,” she said. “You did just break up with your last girlfriend, who was, like … evil.”
“Look at it this way,” Chris said. “As long as you’re not trying to kill me or frame me for a terrorist attack, you would have to be considered an upgrade.”
“Setting the bar pretty low for me there,” Zoey said. “I like that. I thrive on low expectations.” Chris watched over her shoulder as she returned to working on the passports, delicately prying at the corner of her passport photo with an X-Acto knife. In the photo, Zoey looked about five years younger and was beaming a wide, wicked smile.
“I wish I could remove that smartass smile,” she said. “It’s the kind of thing that stands out. But there are limits to what I can do here.”
Chris leaned in closer, studying the subtle whorls and dyes of the passport.
“For example, you have to stay away from the digital watermark,” she said, indicating with the knife. “Some things you can tweak, some things you have to work around.”
This got Chris thinking, and he took a step back into the middle of the room.
After a few seconds, Zoey noted his silence and turned around. “What?”
“I think I was wrong about the expiration date,” he said.
“What expiration date?”
“The Lurker virus. It had an expiration date so that it would vanish from all the infected computers after a few weeks. I thought it was Enigma’s way of conducting a controlled test of the virus, a way to limit the collateral damage.”
“And it’s not?”
“No, it was something that he needed to work around. I don’t think Enigma is that sensitive to consequences. Lurker must have been an adaptation of another virus. The expiration date was something that was already there in the original coding that he had to work around.”
Zoey turned her chair around to face him. Chris could tell that she already recognized where this was leading them.
“So who would put all of those resources into developing a supersophisticated computer virus and then rein it in like that?” She said it like she already knew the answer.
“A government,” Chris said. “An ethical government—”
“You’re an optimist, aren’t you?” Zoey interjected.
Chris continued. “The government that created Lurker probably developed it for a specific purpose, to take out a target. A target that they felt was justified.”
“And after hitting that target, they wanted to make sure the virus stopped spreading,” Zoey said. “They weren’t looking to show off or do damage for its own sake—unlike Enigma.”
“But he somehow got his hands on a copy of the virus before it disappeared and adapted it for his own purposes.”
They were both silent for a moment, working it through to the conclusion.
Finally, Zoey asked, “So what do you think this government-developed virus was intended to do?”
“Maybe Enigma gave us the answer when he sent us to Sa’edi’s grave at Père Lachaise.”
“Of course,” Zoey said, shaking her head. “Iran. I never really liked the theory that Enigma had ties to anti-Islamist groups. Lurker must be an adaptation of Stuxnet.”
“Exactly.”
In 2010, it was widely suspected that either the United States or Israel had launched a virus much like Lurker known as Stuxnet, which was specifically designed to destroy the centrifuges Iran was using to produce enriched uranium for its nuclear program. Stuxnet took control of the centrifuges, spinning the rotors too fast or putting the brakes on too hard. The Iranian nuclear program at a facility in Natanz was set back for months or perhaps years when the Natanz centrifuges began to mysteriously blow apart like so many expensive shrapnel bombs. In June 2012, a leak from the Obama administration effectively confirmed that the NSA, in collaboration with Unit 8200, its Israeli counterpart, had developed Stuxnet as part of a larger cyber espionage program dubbed “Olympic Games.”
“If Lurker is a version of Stuxnet, then why do you think Enigma sent us to Sa’edi’s grave?”
“Maybe it was a way of tweaking the feds. The NSA would be very embarrassed if it became known that it had helped create such a powerful cyberweapon only to have it turned back against the US. Maybe he sent photos of us at that grave as a way of reminding the feds that he had something on them.”
“So now we know that the NSA would go to great lengths to keep this information secret,” Zoey said. “How does that make our situation any better?”
“I guess it doesn’t,” Chris said. If the new theory was correct, then they were in even more trouble than he had previously imagined.
Zoey returned to her work on the passports and they were both quiet for a while, absorbing the new information. Chris lay on the bed with his back against the headboard, sipping the strong, black coffee. He reflected on the events of the previous night and Sarah’s betrayal. And that led him to consider once again the identity of Enigma. Who from his past could hate him enough to go to that much trouble to hurt him? Clearly, it was someone for whom killing him was not enough. Killing someone isn’t that hard, really, once you’ve made up your mind to do it. Look at what they had done to Ed. For some reason, Enigma was saving him for a different fate. Enigma wanted to destroy him, humiliate him, negate everything that his life and career had stood for.
Chris’s cell phone rang and he grabbed it off the night table, but the number wasn’t one that he recognized.
“Hello?”
“You raised the Bat Signal, so here I am.”
“Blanksy.” Chris had almost forgotten that he had asked Ed to reach out to him.
“Are you okay, dude? This is not like you. Usually, I have to get your attention.”
“True,” Chris said. “But I’m in some trouble.”
“What’s up?”
“There are some people who think I’m involved in cyberterrorism.”
“That makes no sense. And who are ‘some people’?”
“Pretty much every law enforcement agency in the US and European Union.”
“So you’re on the run?”
“Yes.”
“I always knew you were an outlaw, man.”
“I want to know about a hacker who goes by the name Enigma.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?”
“Why are you asking about him?”
“He’s behind a planned attack on New York and, for some reason, he’s framing me for it.”
Another silence. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t actually know him. I wasn’t even sure he really existed.”
“What have you heard?”
“They say he’s a black hat. The blackest.”
“More specific.”
“Everything I know is just gossip, stuff that gets kicked around on the message boards and at DefCon when people have had too many beers. They say he’s a brilliant coder who is also a genuine bad dude. You know how it is—in our world, you have people who have hands-on-the-keyboard skills and you have criminals who want to use them. You don’t often see someone who combines the two.”
“What’s he into?”
“If the stories are true, everything. Asian porn sites. Phishing schemes. Big-time identity theft. You remember the Winslow’s department store security breach? It was an SQL injection. Two million Social Security numbers, two hundred million dollars in fraudulent charges?”
“Sure.” The use of Structured Query Language or “SQL” was a common technique for extracting data from a company’s databases. SQL injection involved finding a weak point of entry and “injecting” commands into a server hosting a website. Instead of reading the entries as text, the website processed them as commands to be executed, giving the hackers control over the database.
“That was him.” Blanksy paused. “I even heard that he killed a guy who wanted to back out of working with him. I never believed most of the stories, though.”
“Do you have his real name?”
“Nah. The dude’s a phantom. And you’re going head-to-head with him?”
“Very much so.”
“Sounds epic.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“You’d better watch yourself. You’re dealing with a real killer there.”
“But I thought that I was—what was it?—a legendary badass.”
“See, sometimes I think you aren’t listening, and then you go and surprise me like that. That’s why I love you, dude.”
Chris smiled despite himself. “Is there anything else that you can tell me that might help?”
“That’s all I’ve got. But I’ll ask around.”
“If you do, be careful.”
“I really feel like our relationship is evolving here.”
“Good-bye, Blanksy.”
Chris picked up the cell phone and sent a text message to Enigma. He reflected on how odd it was that technology allowed him to reach out and communicate with the hacker whenever he wanted to without bringing him any closer to actually locating him. But that was how Chris made his living, closing that gap.
CHRIS: Who are you?
ENIGMA: The direct approach. Refreshing.
CHRIS: You went to a lot of trouble to get at me.
ENIGMA: It was worth it. And I’m just getting started. C U on 0day.
CHAPTER 34
The streets of the Latin Quarter were still wet from the rain under a flat blue, cloudless sky. Chris and Zoey were in search of an art supply store so Zoey could continue to experiment with falsifying their passports. Chris figured that if they walked in the direction of the Sorbonne, the city’s prestigious university, they were bound to run across one.
As they drew near Place de la Sorbonne, the crowds grew younger as the buildings grew older. The district had always been defined by its student population—it was called the Latin Quarter because Latin was the language spoken by students during the Middle Ages. At the end of the gray paving-stone street lined with cafés sat the imposing Sorbonne Chapel, built by Cardinal Richelieu.
“Over there,” Zoey said, pointing at a large art supply store with a row of easels in the window. “That one looks promising.”
Before they could cross the street, a black Mercedes limousine with dark tinted windows pulled up in front of them, blocking their way.
The door to the limo that faced the sidewalk was already opening as it rolled to a stop. A tall man stepped out of the limo directly in front of Zoey and Chris.
“Get inside,” he said in French-inflected English. He opened his jacket to reveal a gun in a shoulder holster. “But first, hand over the computer bag. I’ll need the gun.”
A jolt of panic seized Chris. If he got into the limo, he would lose any degree of control over the situation. Chris looked up the street to see if there were police in sight, or anyone who might intervene. No one was close enough to see what was happening.
When he looked back at the man, he was leaning in close. “We are not going to hurt you—unless we have to. Hand me the bag and then get inside—please.”
Not seeing any other option, he complied.
Chris and Zoey stepped into the limo and the door slammed shut behind them.
They had an opportunity to study their abductors as they sat in the back of the limo facing them. The tall man had short hair that was salt-and-peppered at the temples, a long, thin nose, and the faint outline of a skiing goggle tan line around his eyes. He was wearing a tan crepe Armani suit and seemed a little too dapper to be a thug. His vaguely exasperated expression seemed to indicate that he considered this task beneath him.
Next to him sat a smaller man, a little older, a little pudgier, maybe midforties, wearing a black cashmere pullover that unflatteringly highlighted his volleyball-sized gut. Like his companion, he didn’t look like a hit man or an assassin, and he didn’t appear to be carrying a gun. Chris thought they looked like they belonged at an investor conference.
“Where are you taking us?” Chris asked.
“We’ll be there soon,” the smaller man said, shutting down all further conversation with a stony look.
After a short drive, the limo pulled into the underground parking garage of a green-glass office tower. The garage was completely empty, and Chris wondered if the building was vacant. He had seen no corporate logo or other identifiers outside. A good deserted spot for an execution.
The limo stopped. The tall man climbed out and opened the doors, still holding the gun. Chris and Zoey were hustled across the vacant garage, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the concrete.
“Get inside,” the tall man said when they reached the garage elevator.
Once in the building’s lobby, a vast expanse of tan marble dominated by an abstract black sculpture, they boarded another elevator. The tall man punched the button for the thirty-eighth floor. Breezy French Muzak piped incongruously in the elevator. Chris glanced over at Zoey, who was watching the floor numbers tick upward on the display. If she was scared, she didn’t show it.
The doors opened to the lobby of an office that occupied the entire floor. The conference rooms ahead of them looked out on the stunted Paris skyline, which was dominated by the Eiffel Tower and, to a lesser extent, the unsightly Tour Montparnasse. Most of the buildings in Paris did not exceed five or six stories, but the Paris City Council had lifted that restriction in recent years for the 13th arrondissement in the southeast quadrant of the city. The two gunmen motioned them into the largest conference room.
If the floor was unoccupied, it might be weeks before their bodies were found, Chris thought. His eyes darted around the room as he looked for a possible weapon or escape route. Inside, there was a long, oval, mahogany conference table, and Chris’s gaze traveled down it to a large videoconference screen on the wall.
And there on the screen was BlueCloud Inc. CEO Dave Silver, eating what appeared to be a chicken Caesar salad.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Silver said around a forkful. “I said I had your back, didn’t I?” Chris recognized the backdrop, which was a conference room in BlueCloud’s inner corporate sanctum in San Mateo.
“Are you going to turn us in?” Chris asked.
“No, I’m going to help you.”
“Why would you help us?”
“Enlightened self-interest. You’ve done more to get to the bottom of this thing than a whole army of federal agent
s. For example, I hear you think that the hackers behind the cyberattack will be at DefCon.”
“So what do you want us to do?” Chris asked.
“I want you to finish the job that I hired you to do.” Silver wiped his mouth with a black linen napkin. “I always thought you were the best team to stop those hackers and salvage the reputation of my company—and I still do.”
“Why?”
“Well, while I don’t discount your skills as an investigator, you bring something more to the table, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do. In some way, this whole thing is about you, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But, yes, I think there’s some truth to that.”
“So it’s in my interest to see that you two stay in play. If you’re on the sidelines, then we lose our best source of information. This Enigma person communicates directly with you.”
There was a moment of silence, which Zoey wasted no time filling. “If you want to salvage the reputation of your company, then tighten up the coding of your operating system. It’s full of holes.”
“And you must be Zoey,” Silver said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. And we’re working on it.”
“At this point I’m surprised you’re willing to be associated with us,” Chris said.
“Oh, I don’t intend to be associated with you. That’s why we’re meeting in this unfinished office building and I’m on videoconference. And don’t worry about these two gentlemen. I have complete confidence in their discretion.”
The two henchmen looked at each other and brightened perceptibly, like two dogs who have just received a “Good boy” from their master.
“You can put the guns away,” Silver told them. “There’s really no need for that.”
“You said you want us to finish the job,” Chris said, “but the only way we can do that is by getting to New York. We’d never make it past airport security.”
“I’ve given that some thought,” Silver said. “I considered flying you into Teterboro on my jet, but someone could link you to me if I did that. Instead, I’m going to help you make it onto a commercial flight.”
