The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

by Josie Brown

  “Handcuffs!” I look at Jack. “You found her in jail?” I turn back to Mary. “Why didn’t I get a call?”

  Mary looks down at her feet. “I…I called Dad.”

  “Jack, why didn’t you say something when we were together?”

  Before he can answer me, Mary replies, “Not Jack. I called Carl Stone!”

  This new bit of news pulls me back down onto the couch. “Did he come for you? Is he here?”

  Mary shakes her head. “No. He told me that despite his position, he wasn’t my ‘get out of jail free’ card, and would never be. He told me…he told me he was ashamed of me, and that a night in juvie jail would do me good.” She raises her head so that her eyes meet mine. “He was right. I was testing him. I guess I know where I really stand with him.”

  I might think the same thing at this very moment, but it’s nothing I’d say out loud to my very frightened daughter.

  When he’s needed most, he won’t be there for her.

  “Store Security had a video of her taking the item,” Jack informs me. “When she admitted to it, the guards called the police. Walking out of the store in handcuffs acts as a deterrent for others.”

  “Mary, may I presume you were ashamed enough that you’ll never do it again?” I ask gently.

  As she nods, her tears fall from her face.

  “The store’s policy is that she pay three times the item’s cost,” Jack continues. “And she must never enter the store again without being accompanied by an adult. Children’s Services says that she must also do forty hours of public service. However, since she’s under the age of eighteen, this restitution, and a clean probationary period of six months, will expunge her record.”

  “Mary, beyond your public service, you’re to be grounded for two months. No cell phone. You can use your computer for homework, but without the Internet. I’ll pay your debt to the store. You’ll repay me by doing chores.”

  She runs to me and hugs me. “I was stupid. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “Mom, he—Carl—asked where you were, and I told him you were at work. He just laughed. He told me that my actions were more proof that you’re a lousy mother, and that the sooner he gets full custody of us, the better.” She smears her mascara as she wipes away her tears. “I’ll never go with him. Now that I’m fourteen, I don’t have to, do I?”

  “No. At your age you’re allowed to choose which parent you prefer to live with.”

  “I want to stay here with you—and Jack.” Her eyes implore him: Do you forgive me?

  He nods. “I’m honored you feel that way, Mary.” Patting her head, he adds, “I may not be your father by blood, but I’ll always love you like a father. I’ll always appreciate your love for me. And I will always be there for you.”

  She hugs him as if she’ll never let him go.

  I know I will remember this moment for as long as I live. I wish I could savor it, but the reality of our situation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth: If Carl can prove I’m an unfit mother, I’ll lose all of my children, even Mary.

  This tender moment is interrupted by the beep of Jack’s cell phone. He looks down at it. “Ryan,” he tells me. He then turns to Mary. “Go on up to your room and start your homework.”

  She nods, and runs up the stairs.

  He waits until he hears her door close before putting the call on speaker, so that I can hear Ryan as well.

  “We have a breakthrough in the case. Susan Crowley was found in a Barcelona hotel, dead of an overdose. She had written a note that takes full responsibility for the IC network breach, working in collusion with the Mad Hacker.”

  “Did she mention anyone named Charles Babbage?”

  “No. Then again, it could be the Mad Hacker’s real name.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that the NSA is declaring the case solved, and our mission is over,” Jack says.

  “Officially, yes.”

  It’s easy to read between the lines: Unofficially, no.

  But where is the auction being held, and when?

  “Mom, did you know you’re the star of Shazaaaam’s new game?” Jeff points to the screen of his new MacBook Air, the crowning glory of his stash from his deadbeat dad.

  He’s the only one keeping me company as I finish the dinner dishes. Jeff is certainly giving his free Shazaaaam subscription a workout.

  Mary has confined herself to her room. Aunt Phyllis is practicing her samba moves in the great room while listening to La Vida Es un Carnaval through her Beats. Jack is upstairs with Trisha, helping her learn the times tables.

  I drop the last of the dirty pots into the suds-filled sink before turning to him with a smile. “Yes, I was the model for the heroine. If you want, I’ll show you a few of Emma’s awesome shortcuts.”

  “Do you mean like this one—where you blow up the White House but you make it look as if the Russians did it?”

  “What did you say?” I run over to his computer.

  He’s right. Virtual Donna is setting the timer on her Electrolux convection oven. Suddenly a Google Earth map appears, and the player is transported across the country, to the White House—

  Just in time to watch it blow sky high.

  The devastation doesn’t stop there. The player is now in the Situation Room, where the heads of the U.S. National Security Council, led by Virtual Carl, debate on a course of action—

  Only to agree with Virtual Carl that retaliation is needed before other major U.S. cities also come under attack.

  As nuclear missiles are launched, Virtual Donna pulls a golden brown turkey out of the oven. With a blissful sigh, she murmurs, “Perfect, just as I planned it!”

  No, no, no! I’m not planning to start World War III!

  Frankly, I don’t remember Emma showing me this shortcut. And quite frankly, I’ve never had an iota of trouble with my oven. If there’s a short somewhere, I better find it—now—before the meatloaf is burned to a crisp.

  I text Emma: MAJOR glitch in game!

  A moment later, she texts back: Checking now.

  “Mom! MOM! Look! Your avatar is changing—into Alice in Wonderland!”

  Jeff is right. Virtual Donna is morphing into the character.

  Virtual Alice reaches high into a kitchen cabinet and pulls out a tiny vial that is tagged. On the tag are the words: MEET ME.

  These coordinates are below it: 34.264251, -117.260414 No GPS. Use Phyllis’s car.

  I pull up a GPS app on Jeff’s laptop. It shows me that the location is in the middle of the San Bernardino National Forest, just north and east of Los Angeles but right before Lake Arrowhead, off something called Dark Canyon Road.

  Emma emails back: Vulnerability not system wide! Jeff’s account only.

  Thank goodness for that.

  “Dad and I have a meeting. Keep all the doors locked. No one goes in or out.”

  A small worry frown appears on Jeff’s forehead. I know he’s wondering what it all means.

  I wish I had an answer for him.

  I wish I had an answer for me too.

  I shout up the staircase, “Jack, honey, we’re late—for a very important date!”

  With the Mad Hacker.

  Chapter 16

  Halt and Catch Fire

  In the computer industry, the acronym “SDI” stands for “self destruct immediately.” It is a security feature, attached to external tamper detection circuitry that activates when a vulnerability is detected. Nothing really destructs. It disengages.

  SDI is also known by the term, “halt and catch fire.”

  You too have an SDI feature. It kicks in (a) when someone does something obnoxious to your child; (b) when you’re going out of your way to impress someone who really couldn’t care less who you are; and (c) at the sight of old boyfriends.

  In other words, you halt to say something stupid, and immediately afterward, you’re so ashamed that you wish you’d catch fire.

  Since you contain no automated circuitry to dismantle the SDI within you, your best co
urse of action is to do so manually.

  In other words, smile supremely, hold your head high, and keep your mouth shut.

  From Hilldale in mid-day traffic, the drive to the San Bernardino National Forest will take us an hour.

  The rest of Mad’s middle-of-nowhere destination is another half-hour by foot on a trail barely wide enough for a rabbit.

  As per the instructions, we’re carrying no devices that allow for GPS tracking.

  We wear black garb, but it is Jack’s contention that once we are within proximity of the meeting place, we will have been spotted anyway.

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Mad Hacker has webcams all over these woods,” he whispers.

  In due time, we come across a cabin. It is tiny: all on one level, and twenty feet by twenty feet, tops.

  When we get to the doorway, Jack runs his hands around it, looking for wires that may indicate that we’re walking into a powder keg. “Let me go in first,” he murmurs.

  We hear laughter coming from the inside, then a male’s deep voice: “Not to worry, Mr. Craig. I didn’t send for you in order to kill you in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I could have done that anywhere.”

  He’s got a point. We both know it.

  Jack opens the door and enters slowly. When he gives me the high sign, I follow him in.

  The Mad Hacker is a woman.

  She can’t be more than twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years old. Her hair, cropped short, is a florescent shade of red. She wears large-framed black glasses, and she has several nose rings. She wears ripped jeans and an oversized boat-neck sweatshirt.

  Still, I recognize her.

  It is Nymphette—the receptionist from Shazaaaam.

  We hold up our arms in case she wants to search us, but she shrugs. “I already know you’re not carrying.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I’ve been tracking you via satellite for some time now.” A faint smile rises on her lips. “It’s why I chose to work with you.”

  Jack frowns. “You chose us?”

  “Yes. Mainly because of your long and contentious relationship with our current IC director.” Nymphette gives me a pitying look.

  Tell me about it, sistah.

  “The largest file on Carl Stone’s computer is one that documents everything that has happened to you since he faked his death,” she adds. “He has always watched you, some way—if not in person, it’s been via satellite. His comments beside his surveillance notes and photos were love letters—at first, anyway. Not so much since Jack entered the picture. Still, Acme was smart to embed Jack with you.” She shrugs. “Next time, shoot to kill. Think about how many lives would have been saved if you had.”

  “I’ll bring it up at the next visit with my shrink,” I promise her and myself.

  “In our line of work, it’s best that we wait for government clearance on a target. But trust me, regarding Carl, we are so there,” Jack assures her.

  “By the way, I apologize for having breached your cell phone, and for reaching out to you through Jeff’s game subscription, but I had to play it safe after your OS system was changed.”

  So she’s the one who texted me as if she was Jack, to make the chocolate cake. Shaking my head, I laugh. “Yes, well, now it’s got a beta-version of iOS. But I’ve turned it off until Arnie runs a security clearance.”

  “Good idea. Those suckers can be downright possessive—and jealous.” She chuckles. I dumped mine after it started scanning and measuring my dates’, um, fifth appendage.”

  “Oh, really?” By the time Jack’s eyes have shifted to me, his brow is an inch higher on his forehead.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I murmur. “Hal thinks you’re hung—I mean, that you’ve hung the moon.”

  He smirks at my poor attempt at a joke.

  That’s okay. He and Hal can go at it later.

  “Breaking into the IC database is a pretty serious offense. Why did you do it?” Jack asks.

  Nymphette blushes. “I had to erase a file.”

  “Project Clark Kent,” I guess.

  “Yes. The NSA gave it this stupid name. Like, duh, talk about obvious.” Susan rolls her eyes. “It is the IC’s surveillance file on all the journalists around the world who report on human rights violations. But it’s much more far-reaching than the reporters in totalitarian dictatorships like China or Russia or Iran—many who are beaten, or imprisoned, or even killed for what they write. You’d be blind if you hadn’t noticed the number of prosecutions going on in our own country against those who choose to be whistleblowers on corruption within our own government. Carl Stone is widening the net to include US-based human rights journalists—yet another justification for the large-scale surveillance system he’s put into place.”

  I murmur, “Count on Carl to stifle the First Amendment—freedom of speech.” Twenty-six more to go.

  “I know this, first hand.” She hands us a picture of a young man—around her age, curly blond hair. He sits at laptop, typing away. “Mike Willoughby. He is—was, a freelance journalist, working for Mother Jones. An anonymous lead told him about the IC database vulnerabilities. The source claimed it was an inside job and had proof. To verify it, I had to hack in.” She looks away so that we don’t see the tears in her eyes. “The night before his story was to be submitted to the Clark Kent League, he was taken from his apartment. His body was found beaten and shot in the forehead, just a few blocks from it.”

  Jack thinks for a minute. “I’ve never heard of the Clark Kent League.”

  Nymphette smiles. “Not many people have, by design. It’s a nonprofit organization made up of a motley crew of cypherpunks—cryptographers like me, who believe in upholding free speech at all costs, even if it’s our lives. We’ve made it our mission to safeguard the privacy of human rights journalists and their sources. To do so, we create anonymity software and build and maintain firewalls on their storage clouds and accounts.”

  “It’s got to be a pretty expensive endeavor,” I say.

  “It is, and we thank God we’re fully and generously funded. We have the best kind of benefactor—one who asks no questions, is timely with the checks, and best of all, anonymous.” Her smile fades. “At the same time, we’ve got a big task ahead of us if the IC database vulnerabilities are proof. Before Acme got involved, the IC’s internal investigation was nonexistent. But that was to be expected, considering who’s behind it.”

  “You mean Carl,” I murmur.

  She nods.

  “If so, he’s done a good job making it look as if Susan was the culprit,” Jack counters.

  “In fact, Susan was the source of the malware—unwittingly, as it turns out,” Nymphette insists. “She and Carl became an item. As you can imagine, for a small town girl—from Bell Buckle, Tennessee—the DI was quite a catch. She knew an interoffice affair could get her fired, but he wooed her heavily. He complimented her in front of all the top brass, flirted with her constantly, kept her late at the office, and then invited her out to dinner—just two colleagues sharing a meal after a long day at work. Then, one day, after she knocks it out of the ballpark with some project, he invites her back to his place, to make her dinner. ‘My way of thanking you,’ he said.” Nymphette shrugs. “You’ve seen his palace and tasted his chocolate soufflé. Well, you can imagine what Susan from the Sticks was thinking.”

  “Yes, that she finally met Mister Right.” Jack shakes his head in anger.

  “Exactly. One thing leads to another…” Nymphette shakes her head sadly. “The love story goes on for another month or two. Then suddenly, he grows distant. She can’t understand why, and she’ll do anything to keep him happy—even when he asks her to make love to another man. Carl told her the guy knew of their affair and was jealous. He promised if she went to bed with him, the man could never make trouble for her or get her fired, because he’d be in the same position. She’s mortified, but she goes through with it. Mr. Hyde goes away, and Dr. Jekyll is back. One day, Carl
leaves a tiny Tiffany ring box on her desk. Her heart goes pitter-patter. She opens it, only to find it contains a thumb drive, not the ring she’d hoped for. She puts it in her computer—”

  “And it releases the malware,” I murmur.

  “Go to the head of the class. To add insult to injury, it’s a video of her, favoring the favor. Talk about insubordination! Not only is she viewing porn on an IC computer, she’s starring in it!” Nymphette shrugs. “Carl had Susan right where he wanted her—under his thumb. A month later, an analyst drops a file on her desk regarding Operation Clark Kent. She thinks the name is cute, so she reads it, realizes we may be the people who can help her, so she reaches out. I vet her and her story, find my way into the system, and delete the file. Lo and behold, I find Roger’s footprints. I leave enough clues that enough people are pointing fingers, and I wait for the white hats to show up.” She grins. “That’s you, by the way.”

  “We’re glad you think so,” Jack smiles back. “You could have gotten in, deleted the file, and gone back out of the database, and no one would have been the wiser.”

  She smiles. “The hacker Carl used—Roger White, from Shazaaaam—left a cyber-footprint that was so big, it could have been left by Sasquatch. Like you, I infiltrated Shazaaaam just so I could access his computer and monitor his activities with Carl.”

  “Why did Carl use Roger?” Jack asks.

  “Apparently, Carl had worked with him before. Roger—a.k.a. Dimitri Pogodov—was embedded here in the U.S. during Putin’s first presidency. His gaming industry gig is a wonderful cover, since his job entails international travel to countries where much of Shazaaaam’s cheap tech labor is jobbed out—including Russia.”

  I shrug. “Makes sense. Carl needed someone with the technical expertise to access the IC database, and the person had to be from the outside.”

  “Shazaaaam’s large subscriber base was an added bonus,” Nymphette adds. “When necessary, he encoded encrypted messages right into the games, which were then accessed by Quorum assets and operatives all over the world.”