Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Despite the circumstances, he felt elated. Almost euphoric. The knowledge that the hard drive lay waiting for him with all that information gave him hope. A new era was dawning in the life of Martin Borg and it looked very inviting.

  He squeezed his charm tightly. This will strengthen our cause, he told himself.

  CHAPTER 20

  THREE HOURS HAD passed since Jonna had left the hospital when she rang the “freak”, whose real name was Serge Wolinsky. A tired and grudging voice declared that, no matter who was calling, he had neither the time nor the desire to hold a conversation. Jonna managed to say Walter’s name just as he was about to slam the phone down. He fell silent. Then a heavy sigh could be heard on the other end.

  “When, where and what?” he said.

  Jonna hesitated.

  “When, where and what?” Serge repeated.

  “When? As soon as possible. Where? Well, why not at your place? But as far as what goes, I was hoping you could tell me; otherwise, I’m talking to the wrong person,” she said, and hoped the answer would be good enough for this man of few words. The telephone line was silent.

  “Shall we say in one hour? You’re in the Stockholm area, right?” Jonna continued. She could hear her own breathing in the telephone and thought for a minute that he had hung up. But then, she heard him. “Ringvägen 96. Second floor. It says Albert von Dy on the door. You can figure out the door code yourself,” he said quickly and hung up.

  Charming fellow, that one. No wonder he and Walter seem to have hit it off, Jonna thought.

  Jonna had managed to drive exactly one hundred and seven metres and shift the 911 into fourth gear when her mobile phone rang.

  “I’ve been discharged,” announced a happy Jörgen Blad.

  Not another complication! She had assumed that the journalist would be bed-bound for at least a few days longer.

  “That’s nice,” she lied.

  “I was able to nag my way out of here. At my own risk, according to the doctor.”

  “That’s very nice. But I’m a little busy right now. Let’s meet at your hotel room tomorrow morning. And when the bank opens, we’ll tackle the practical task of fetching the stuff you have in the safety deposit box.”

  “I can hear that you’re driving a car.”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “Then you can pick me up at the main entrance.”

  “Why should I?” Jonna asked.

  “Well, partly because there is an imminent risk of something happening to me on the way to the hotel, and partly because I want to accompany you to the place I think you are going. Or have you already forgotten our agreement?”

  “But you were supposed to check into a hotel until we had made permanent arrangements for your security. That was the agreement. Besides, nobody knows that you were admitted to the hospital unless you have told them yourself. So what can happen to you on the way to the hotel?”

  “Sure, but now I have a clean bill of health and you’re on your way to the freak, and I am tagging along. Otherwise, there’ll be no security deposit box tomorrow.”

  Jonna had no other choice but to take Jörgen with her. And it was what they had agreed. She made a U-turn on Torsgatan and drove back towards the hospital.

  There was no mistaking the glee in Jörgen’s eyes as he got into the car.

  “A Porsche Carrera,” he smiled.

  Jonna did not answer him. She felt a general annoyance, particularly when it was a task that involved Walter. He was the hockey player who spread chaos all over the ice rink, and she was the goalkeeper who had to catch all the pucks, or missiles, that kept coming from all possible directions. And here was yet another puck, with only one eye and an attitude that made Hollywood divas seem sympathetic.

  “Is this your car?”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Police salaries seem to have outrun the cost of living,” he continued, squeezing the upholstery.

  “Indeed,” Jonna answered. “We take home at least a hundred and fifty grand every month plus overtime. After tax, of course.”

  “Okay, it’s no business of mine if you have made the money for the car legally or not.”

  “Exactly. It’s none of your business,” she said and turned onto Sankt Göransgatan.

  Jörgen shut up.

  “Have you then?” he asked after they had driven for a short while.

  “Have I what?” Jonna sighed again.

  “Bought it legally?”

  “You will have to find that out yourself; you’re the journalist.”

  Jörgen shut up again. He said nothing during the rest of the journey, spending his time trying to clean an imaginary spot on the car’s leather interior with his index finger, which he repeatedly moistened with his mouth.

  Jonna was about to comment several times, but held back since it was better if he stayed quiet. Not until they arrived and were standing outside the entrance to Ringvägen 96 did he open his mouth to speak.

  “Is this the place?” he asked, looking up at the façade.

  Jonna did not reply. Instead, she keyed in the door code that only postmen and emergency crews used when they needed to access locked foyers of blocks of flats.

  They took the stairs to the second floor and buzzed the door with the nameplate for Albert von Dy.

  The door was opened by a hollow-eyed, skinny figure with an overgrown beard and straggly hair pulled up in a ponytail. He was wearing an oversized and faded T-shirt that read, “100% AUTONOMOUS”.

  “Jonna de Brugge,” Jonna introduced herself, stretching out a hand.

  The man stared suspiciously at Jonna and then Jörgen. His eyes flitted between the one-eyed journalist and the woman police officer. Finally, he threw open the door.

  “A real comedian,” Jörgen murmured. “He can be the entertainment at my next garden party.”

  They followed the man to something resembling a living room. In one corner, there was a sofa covered with pilling grey fabric and a table full of old coffee mugs. The remainder of the room was furnished with half a dozen smaller computer desks. On each of the desks, there were at least two screens and one high-end computer. Bundles of electric and data cables lay in a tangle on the well-worn parquet wood floor, along with lots of dust balls. The way in which the equipment blinked and flashed made Jörgen think of Las Vegas. Everywhere, cooling fans whizzed in the warm room. The windows were screwed shut with strong bolts and appeared unopenable.

  “You’re not much of a cleaner, are you?” Jörgen said after tripping over some cables and knocking over a stack of empty pizza boxes.

  The man glared at Jörgen with expressionless eyes.

  “You’re not a great talker either, right?” Jörgen murmured and sank into the sofa. Like a housekeeper, he started brushing away crumbs between the lines of coffee mugs.

  “Thank you for letting us come,” Jonna began. “As I didn’t get to introduce myself by the door, let me try again. As I said, my name is Jonna de Brugge and I work with Walter Gröhn in the police. With me, I have Jörgen Blad who is … our expert in certain matters.”

  She looked pointedly at Jörgen, who grinned at the deception.

  Serge looked curiously at Jonna and then at Jörgen. “Expert in which matters?” he asked disbelievingly.

  “We can talk about that later,” Jonna quickly replied, trying to change the subject. “I assume that you are Serge Wolinsky?”

  Serge frowned. He did not like getting a question instead of an answer.

  “That might be correct. Be …”

  “And I understand that you’re a friend of Walter Gröhn,” Jonna continued. It was important not to lose pace so that he would not have time to analyse and question.

  “I wouldn’t say friend,” Serge answered formally.

  “But you obviously know each other, right?”

  “Regrettably, he knows me,” he answered, emphasizing the word “me”.

  “How long has Walter known you then?” asked Jonna, stressing the w
ord “you”.

  Without answering, he got up and went over to one of the computers. His fingers moved like lightning over the keyboard and he seemed to be searching for something. Finally, he found what he wanted. Jonna looked at Jörgen, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “So, a journalist?” Serge said contemptuously and glared at Jörgen.

  “And expert,” Jonna quickly added but realized that he had probably seen through her lie. It had taken less than thirty seconds. Things went fast around here. If only the police force was as efficient. There would be a shortage of unsolved crimes.

  “You journalists are no better than cops,” he said and stood up.

  “What do you expect me to say to that?” Jörgen asked, feigning insult and winking with his healthy eye like a labrador puppy.

  “We’re not here to discuss the media’s role in society,” Jonna explained.

  Serge threw up his hands. “What do you want me to do for you then? Fix your broadband connection? Clean your computers of spyware?”

  Jonna leaned forwards. “Walter said that you could fix it so that we get access to a certain …”

  “Walter, always Walter,” he interrupted Jonna. “You know what? You can tell him this is the last time I do anything for him. I’ve paid back my debt many times over by now.”

  “What debt is that?” Jörgen asked, also leaning forwards towards Serge.

  “Some other time,” Jonna interrupted. “I need help to use the criminal records database without being seen. Can you set that up?”

  Serge pulled in his chin. “Aha, now we are getting warm,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

  “I also need to get into some public and restricted databases at the Stockholm District Court,” she added.

  Serge looked at Jonna, thinking hard. “That’s quite a tall order at such short notice,” he said.

  “I don’t know who you are or what you can do and, to be honest, I don’t want to know. But I’ll ask you again for the last time. Are you going to help me or not?”

  She tried to sound friendly, yet firm. As if he had no choice, even though it was a question.

  Serge assumed a troubled expression behind his beard.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “We’re under no obligation to tell you that,” Jörgen answered dryly.

  “I won’t ask you again,” Jonna said, in a sharper tone.

  “I know,” Serge answered. “Now you’re going to threaten me with Walter.”

  “Correct. I’m following his instructions. Your dealings with Walter are none of my business. But if it makes it easier for you, then you can imagine that I am Walter.”

  “Albeit a little more attractive,” Serge said, forcing a smile.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Jonna started to stand up from the sofa.

  “You need a microrouter,” Serge answered quickly.

  “A what?” She sank back onto the sofa.

  “What do you know about computers?”

  “Not much more than the average user,” she said apologetically.

  “Okay,” Serge said. “A router is a type of switch that is designed just to sit in a data network and direct traffic between computers so that the right data goes to the right computer. Do you understand?”

  Both Jonna and Jörgen nodded.

  “The criminal records database is physically separated from the network and computers that use email and the internet at the police station. All the different police stations are connected using what is known as a Virtual Private Network, or VPN, that’s impossible to connect to from the internet no matter how smart you are, because it’s physically separated. The reason for restricting access to the internet is to prevent attacks on the system that breach the firewall and then fake or clone a computer within the system. If you could do that, then you would just have to hack the passwords and security-level codes, and then you could do anything you wanted within the database whenever you wanted. Also, every key stroke in the system is registered and it sends alarms according to special rules.”

  “Sounds like a foolproof system,” Jonna said.

  Serge laughed. “There’s no such thing in the world of computers. And certainly not if the breach is carried out from within, which is often the case with companies and the authorities.”

  “You mean that it’s the employees who are responsible for most of the hacking attempts?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. It can be done intentionally, by the employee, or unintentionally, when a Trojan – a type of virus – finds its way into the employee’s computer when they use an innocent website or open an email.”

  “But then it’s impossible to hack into it from the outside,” Jörgen concluded.

  “As I said, nothing’s perfect in the world of computers. Not even the Pentagon has managed to avoid being hacked.”

  “So how are we to do this?” Jonna asked.

  The hollow-eyed beardie lit up. “Coincidentally, I used to be one of the consultants that helped to design the criminal records database for the police. I was a subcontractor for the consultancy company that had the task of developing the whole system. I had full access to the project and the source code just by signing a piece of paper about confidentiality, which didn’t mean anything to me. Naturally, the Security Service did a thorough background check on me and all the other consultants.”

  “And access to the source code means what?” Jonna asked, not at all interested in his career as a consultant.

  “It’s very simple,” he continued in a superior tone. “As the programmers in the consultancy company were birdbrains, I added a few back doors that the idiots never managed to find. At first, it was mostly for my own amusement and to see if they’d find them during testing of the code before the first release. They never did. In fact, I’d bet that nobody outside the Von Dy group can find those back doors, since they’re hidden in some anonymous SET variables.”

  “How does the back door work and what’s the Von Dy group?” Jonna asked, now more interested in Serge’s achievements.

  “Von Dy is the name of a world in cyberspace that I and a number of hackers created a few years ago. We belong to no state or society; we’re completely autonomous. Physically, I sit here in the south of Stockholm. But in reality, I live in Von Dy’s cyberworld where I also count for something. I have no use for the society outside these four walls.”

  “What’s the weather like in there?” Jörgen joked, looking at the computers.

  Serge pretended not to hear. “A back door is exactly that. One can enter the system without using the main entrance, which, in this case, checks the security levels, passwords and traceability. You can compare it to a secret passage that allows you to creep in and look at as much information as you want without being registered or detected. You can even add or delete information.”

  “Sweet,” Jörgen said, impressed. “I’d love to learn how to use that back door.”

  “That will never happen,” Serge replied dryly.

  Jonna was becoming uneasy about Serge’s skills. What Serge had just bragged about was a very serious matter. It was not just a question of “borrowing” and using a few colleagues’ log-in identities or getting a little help from one of Walter’s friends in the police IT department. It was much more than that. If what he was saying was true, then Serge could have full control of the criminal records database and God-knows-what other regulatory systems. How could that be possible? And what kind of leverage did Walter have on this guy that made him so eager to spill details about his criminal activities in the world of information technology? What agreement did Serge have with Walter that enabled him to sit in his sleazy flat with no fear of reprisal for his hacking activities?

  She was being sucked deeper into these illegal practices. The very foundation of the justice system was at risk if any single person could walk in and out of a back door in the criminal records database and change records at will. A key stroke could turn innocent people into criminals and c
riminals could be as clean as whistles. Of course, there were other databases to cross-check the records against – for example, the courts and other law enforcement institutions – but still. This exposed how vulnerable the modern IT society was.

  “I don’t understand,” Jörgen said. “Why are you telling us all this? What we now know could be used against you. For me, as a journalist, this is a huge exclusive. Even sensational. What’s to stop me from calling the news desk right now?”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s me,” Jonna said sharply and fixed her golden-brown eyes on him.

  Serge smiled slightly and answered as if he had been posed the question before. “You can always try. First of all, nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to find any evidence that can tie me to anything remotely associated to hacking. I never leave a single byte of information. And second, my brothers and sisters in Von Dy would make your life hell for the foreseeable future.”

  “What type of hell are we talking about?” Jörgen asked, sceptical.

  Serge extended his thumb. “One: your credit cards will be unusable and will also be cloned and used elsewhere all over the world for all sorts of dubious transactions. Two: rumours and computer-manipulated images depicting you in compromising situations – let’s say, sex orgies with cocaine-powdered noses – will be sent to every inbox at your workplace and to your personal circle of friends. Three: the tax authorities will be chasing you for massive tax evasion, since you will suddenly have an account in an offshore bank with a considerable amount of money that ‘coincidentally’ can be traced to mafia activities in, let’s see, the Baltic states. And if you’re really unlucky, you may find yourself linked to something more serious, like a murder or a paedophile ring. I could make this list very long, but I’m sure you get the point.”