by D S Kane
They entered and sat across the table that served as her desk. The only light was from a brass banker’s desk lamp.
William blinked to adjust his eyes. “We need Ann’s help if we’re to find this hacker.”
Cassie’s face reddened. Even in the darkness they could see this. “Absolutely not.” They could hear her annoyance.
Betsy offered, “We’re at a dead end.”
It was obvious that Cassie was fuming. Silence reigned for almost a minute. The tone of her voice softened suddenly. “I don’t want Ann hurt by this hacker. Can’t you post a hacker challenge? Get some of your buddies to help?” Cassie’s voice had become a plea.
William shook his head. “Ann is better than any hundred of them all working together.”
“I’m sorry, William. Find another way.”
William and Betsy exchanged looks. Betsy shrugged. They rose and walked from Cassie’s office.
* * *
“Well, that was a waste of time.” Betsy’s voice was just above a whisper as they padded back down the hallway. “Fuck this!”
William touched her shoulder. “Listen, we can always involve Ann if we can just keep it quiet. Cassie can never know.”
Betsy frowned. “No. I won’t place Ann in more danger unless Cassie agrees to let us. Let’s clear out for the night. My place?” Betsy smiled, acting the coquette.
William smiled, his eagerness evident. “Sure.”
CHAPTER 10
November 27, 4:34 p.m.
A motel somewhere in St. Louis
During a nasty autumn rainstorm, the CypherGhost’s first stop was in a rundown section of St. Louis. She paid cash and took the keys from the counter clerk. Her room was as far from the front desk and the exit as she could get.
The room smelled musty. It wasn’t just mold, but also something rotting. She opened the window and turned on all the lights to give her a more livable space. But, as she looked around the gritty room, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She’d planned to work in the room, but maybe a nearby coffee place would be less depressing. She opened the curtains and saw rain falling in cascades against the window glass. No, despite her feelings, she’d have to work in the room for today at least.
The motel offered free wireless, but given the state of the place, the CypherGhost suspected it would have massive malware beasts living within itself. She established a VPN and connected it to the motel’s free network, securing it, then ran a program that anonymized her notebook’s existence, so that even the malware wouldn’t be able to find her system.
Once again, her target was Judge Margaret O’Brien, the judge who had sentenced Martin to a life sentence in a federal maximum-security prison. This time, though, she would make sure O’Brien paid for Martin’s death. She hacked into all of O’Brien’s records, starting with her high-school transcript. Everything she found, she rewrote. By noon the next day, Margaret O’Brien was the alias of Sophie Cardwell, a criminal whose record included being a known sexual predator with shoplifting convictions, and, as a footnote, the CypherGhost gave Margaret a felony conviction for being caught accepting a bribe for Martin’s conviction. She reviewed her work and smiled. It was just enough.
The CypherGhost bounced an email to O’Brien off eighteen email mirrors and servers. Most were in the Third World. There was no email sending address. The message would be untraceable, even by expert hackers:
Look what I found out about you. It appears you have a well-hidden criminal past. I’m sure the police would be interested. I know it would delight investigative journalists if they were introduced to this new side of you. I’ll give you a choice: disappear, or I’ll out you. To ensure you are motivated, I’ve attached a copy of the records I found. I’ll give you a rather generous twenty-four hours to make up your mind and do the right thing.
The email and its attachment were just under the maximum size for Margaret O’Brien’s email server to handle. The CypherGhost began counting the hours.
But, the day passed and nothing happened. Exactly twenty-four hours later, the CypherGhost sent emails with the same attachments to seventy-one news journalists, some in television news, some working for newspapers, and, to be sure this matter got the attention it deserved, some to tabloid writers.
The next morning the CypherGhost packed her things and moved a few hundred miles west, to a small dusty town in Oklahoma. She found another cheap motel in the rundown section of town. She endured another set of threadbare linen and worn towels. The bed squeaked as she sat on it. It emitted the odor of something nasty she couldn’t identify.
Passing one of the mirrors, she noticed she’d unintentionally lost weight. I’ve been forgetting to eat. I miss Martin.
She posed in front of the mirror, deciding that she liked her thinner look.
She set up her notebook and ran it through her undetectable VPN. Apparently, Margaret O’Brien had been hounded by reporters throughout the day and the night that followed. O’Brien had sneaked out of her house and, according to a paparazzi news sheet, she had checked into a cheap motel. But, the top story on the news was about how, in a desperate act, Margaret O’Brien had committed suicide after her “real” identity had been exposed as headline news. The CypherGhost watched the story unfold on television. When it was over, she stood up from the tiny wooden desk in the room and applauded.
The next morning, she began altering the records of each of the jury members on her boyfriend’s trial. This task would take days, so she’d decided to focus her wrath on one juror each day while traveling west to California.
She crafted a different plan for each of the jury members who’d falsely convicted Martin. One was a retired major in the military who had opened a management consulting business, working with military contractors. She gained access to his bank through a social engineering exploit, then used his “new” password to bankrupt his business. It took over four hours for her to crack into his corporate bank accounts and send the money to various charities, then back out all evidence of the hacks. When she was done, she was exhausted. She slept for over fifteen hours.
She traveled by bus to Salt Lake City, where she hacked the tax records of another juror and set up a case for his arraignment on a charge of tax fraud. She wondered if this was taking too long, and she risked being backtraced. She thought she should change locations as soon as she finished this hack. By now, some of the other jurors might begin suspecting someone was out for revenge.
But moving also took time.
She took a bus on to rural New Mexico, where she caused a juror in Martin’s case to be discharged dishonorably from the military for sexual harassment and rape. She was sure the man would hire an investigator to prove his innocence, and if that happened, her hack would be reversed when they found no real evidence. But it was the best she could think of.
By the end of the week, she arrived in Santa Barbara. She had destroyed the lives of every juror except one. Santa Barbara was like nothing the CypherGhost had ever seen. Beautiful and well-maintained classic Old California buildings made of stucco plaster, tile roofs, and old timber joists sat on enormous lawns across from the beach, The bay was filled with expensive boats. She licked her lips. It would be easy to stop now, hack a load of cash, and live like a queen here.
But, after an afternoon walking the city and barely managing to avoid the temptation to live well, the CypherGhost decided to continue wreaking vengeance on Martin’s tormentors. For this last juror, she hacked the woman’s car’s ignition, steering, and brakes. Juror number 12 crashed off one of the city’s overpass bridges. From the car’s videocam, she watched the woman bleed out.
She’d murdered all twelve jurors, all the prison guards, and Judge O’Brien.
Now, there was no one was left to kill. Martin had been avenged. Where she had expected a sense of completion or accomplishment, she encountered a thick, gray emptiness.
She walked down State Street to West Victoria Street and stopped outside the windows of Bouchon. The dinner
hour was just starting and they had a seat available for her. She ordered things she’d never even heard of before. The pan-seared foie gras consisted of a slice of soft, fatty meat on a brioche crouton, coated with strawberry-black pepper preserves in a balsamic reduction. It tasted like heaven. She also ordered the maple-glazed duck breast and confit of thigh with a succotash of sweet corn, fava beans, leeks, and applewood-smoked bacon, and Windrose Farms butternut squash in a port-thyme demi-glace. While she finished eating, the sun set orange into a turquoise sea. She walked along the sidewalk opposite the beach and finally decided on the Santa Barbara Inn to stay the night. Here, she wouldn’t use the internet. Tonight was just the time to pamper herself while she wondered what to do next.
When the sun rose the next day, she swam in the pool in her underwear, then dressed and checked out of the room.
On the way to the bus station, she realized she had enjoyed murdering those who had murdered Martin. The kills had left a sweet taste in her mouth. She wondered if wild animals felt this sweet taste before they devoured their prey. She realized she was addicted to having the power over life and death.
She had decided on her next move. Find Ann Sashakovich at Stanford University. The CypherGhost missed her role as avenger. When I arrive at Stanford University, I’ll find and track the girl. Then, I’ll decide. Me. Judge and jury.
CHAPTER 11
November 30, 2:18 p.m.
Stanford University campus,
Palo Alto, CA
On a warm, bright blue afternoon, Ann hurried to her economics class for her midterm exam. Her adopted mom, Cassie, had earned a PhD in economics at Stanford, and she had insisted Ann take at least one course in the field. Since then, Ann had regretted complying, and her exhaustion from pulling an all-nighter to study formulas had only reinforced her regret. She crossed the campus at a near trot, and that didn’t help her attitude of stubborn frustration either.
Reaching the old building, she slowed her pace and tried to force a smile. She entered the auditorium and took a seat, waiting for Dr. Jarl Kallberg to arrive. Ann removed her crash notes from her pocket, unfolded them and reread them. Three sheets of paper held everything that she couldn’t quite remember, including a host of formulas and historical names. She was halfway through the second page when she heard Kallberg’s reedy, academic toneless voice. “Morning, students. Let’s get started.”
The professor standing at the front of the auditorium was a tall, thin, ancient, stooped man with a nonstop frown. He wore a tattered tweed herringbone sports jacket with leather patch sleeves, and his unruly hair complemented his bushy eyebrows. “You will have one hour to complete this exam. The exam will contain three sections. First, a group of multiple-choice questions on theory. Then a group of short-answer questions involving math. And finally, pick two from a list of three short essays. On these two, be sure to give me sources of your thoughts from the assigned reading. Good luck to all.”
He began to distribute stapled stacks of paper to the eighty-four students in the auditorium.
When Ann read through the exam’s questions, she grimaced. A hard hour lay ahead for her. First, she worked on all the questions she knew the answers to, then on the harder questions. Some were a total mystery to her. When she had completed as much of the multiple-choice and short-answer questions as she could, she went on to the essays. She eliminated the hardest of the three essays and completed the easiest one.
But when she had just started writing her answer to her final essay, Kallberg reappeared. “Okay, students. Time is up. Drop your papers off now.”
She scanned her paper. At best, her work would net her a raw score of C, given the many questions she hadn’t answered. She prayed for a hefty curve as she left the auditorium. She wanted to return to her room and take a well-deserved nap.
On her way across the quad, another female student strode alongside her. Her appearance was mostly goth, skin white as pearl, spiked black short haircut, rail thin. The other woman muttered, “That exam was a mind-fuck.”
Ann just nodded.
Her unsolicited companion asked, “How do you think you did?”
“I’m fucked. Maybe a C. How about you?”
“I’m just auditing the class. But I took a copy of the exam. I’d have flunked.”
Ann nodded again. “Lucky you. Well, this is the only class where I’ve messed myself. My others are in areas where I have some actual talent.”
“Like?”
Ann stopped short. Who was this person? “Hi. I’m Ann Sashakovich.” She waited, and nearly thirty seconds passed.
Finally, the other woman offered a name. “I’m Charlette Keegan-Ashbury.”
Ann tilted her head. “I’m majoring in computer forensics. What’s your major?”
Charlette looked deep in thought for a few seconds. “Art History.”
Ann extended her hand and Charlette shook it. “Good meeting you.”
Charlette smiled, turned, and disappeared across the lawn of the quad.
Ann was left standing alone near the cloisters, full of unanswered questions.
* * *
Charlette Keegan-Ashbury cursed herself and walked away as fast as she could. So, now she’d met her target.
She felt confused. She wondered if Ann Sashakovich deserved to die. Would she meddle in the CypherGhost’s life? The young woman didn’t appear to be nasty. She was almost sure Ann had just done what she needed to do to keep herself from dying.
But then, she licked her lips, tasting the flicker of her need to kill again.
The feeling faded in a few seconds. She became more rational. She thought, I’ll need to keep a close watch on that young woman. Keep my friends close, but I haven’t any. Keep my enemies closer. Is Ann an enemy? Maybe not. Might she become one?
* * *
That evening, after Ann woke up, she ate a dinner of candy bars and Cheetos, then crammed in another all-nighter for an upcoming exam in computer forensics. Her dorm room was small, shared by another student Ann very rarely saw. The Mediterranean style of the room, with its textured mustard walls and threadbare carpet, exuded a relaxed feeling.
The room combined with her exhaustion from the exam made it impossible to stay awake. She fell asleep in the comfortable room. Ann fell into a dream where she was once more in the falling aircraft. She couldn’t hack into the aircraft’s systems, and felt it tumbling through the sky. The dream ended with her experiencing her own death in the aircraft’s crash. She jolted awake screaming. Her roommate woke and demanded to know what her nightmare was about.
She said, “It was just bad snacks.” But as she turned over and pulled the pillow over her head, a single thought flashed through her head. I cannot let that hacker kill anyone else.
CHAPTER 12
November 30, 2:18 p.m.
Starborne Security Corporation,
2301 K Street, Washington DC
The building on K Street looked like most other office structures on the block. Most of the tenants were lobbyists, but some were vendors to the federal government. This office building was a recent office remodel on the outside but the inside had been remodeled by just a few of its occupants. Except for one coffee-vendor nook near the armed security guards and interior security gate, no retailers rented space in the building.
Walter Fergusson, a middle-aged man with thinning hair who could stand to lose a few pounds, bought a coffee and a croissant, flashed his ID at the scanner to grant him access, and walked through the gate.
The guard said hello to him, as always, when Fergusson finished packing his possessions back into his pockets. He nodded back at the guard and took a sip of hot coffee before entering the elevator. The offices of the Starborne Security Corporation were a recent remodel. The office looked more like a modeling agency than a stodgy consulting group. Fergusson passed through a hallway lined with photographs of government buildings and former presidents. In minutes, he was outside his corner office.
He flashed his ID at the doo
r and the familiar click of the locking mechanism disengaged. The door popped open, letting him enter. He shed his Burberry and fedora before he took another sip. Sitting behind his desk, he stared into the retina scanner embedded within the display of his desktop computer. When it unlocked, he said into the embedded microphone, “Hi, Cortana, what appointments do I have this morning?”
The computer told him there were four, the earliest in about four minutes. This was a staff meeting in the conference room on his own floor.
He took a final sip of coffee, grabbed his cellphone and synced it with the appointment schedule on the screen. It was time to settle into the day. He rose from his desk, straightened his red-striped repp necktie, buttoned the middle button of his charcoal-gray suit jacket, and walked from his office. He passed cubicles containing staff workers busy performing work and marched down the hall.
In the conference room, people were already grabbing coffee, doughnuts, and seats around the large oval walnut table.
Walter Fergusson sat in the chair facing the vidcam, in accordance with his title as executive vice president of the little-known private security contractor. His bespoke-tailored suit outshone the clothing any of his underlings at the table could afford.
The first and only item on the meeting’s agenda was a presentation by an operative from their intelligence service subsidiary, a private espionage corporation. There were now nearly two thousand corporations that offered or housed a private spy service. Most did work for agencies of the federal government, but they also served corporations whenever requests were made. The corporations paid better for industrial espionage than the Fed did for spying on America’s allies and enemies.
The suited spy stood at the front of the room. “Thanks, Mr. Fergusson. I have an update for you and your company’s mercenaries, hackers, and spies. My mission to find a hacker we can seduce into acting on our behalf turned out to be ridiculously easy. I never even reached the point where I’d need to use a hacker challenge to select a qualified candidate. Recently, two candidates behaved so badly in the real world through events they created that I’m thinking they’ll volunteer if we just contact them and suggest they act. Of course, we’ll have to suggest that we’re really something else entirely—not what we really are.”
