by Reece Hirsch
As soon as Chris returned to his office, he was interrupted by a tentative knock as Becky peered in.
“I think your first client just walked through the door.”
“That was fast,” he said. “Who is it?”
“His name is Ian Ayres.”
“Don’t know him. What does he want?”
“He won’t say. But he definitely looks like someone who needs a lawyer.”
When Chris entered the reception area, Ian Ayres was standing near the couch, glancing nervously out the window, studying the street. He looked to be in his midtwenties, with midlength dark hair, a pale, round face, and eyes that never stopped moving. He wore black jeans and a short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over a black T-shirt. Becky was right. He looked sweaty, anxious, and squirmy, as if he’d brought his own weather with him and it was about thirty degrees hotter there.
Chris was instantly skeptical that this would amount to anything. One of the occupational hazards of being a privacy lawyer was that you occasionally had to field calls from random paranoids who found your name linked to the word “privacy” in their Google search results. Sometimes the issues were legitimate, but more often the matter was better addressed by an adjustment in medication or adding another layer of aluminum foil to a hat lining. Chris’s clients were typically corporations seeking to beat back the attacks of cybercriminals and hackers, and they never came to him as walk-ins.
“Chris Bruen,” he said, shaking Ayres’s clammy hand. “How can I help you?”
“Man, let me start by saying that you’re the last person I thought I would ever turn to for help.”
“Why’s that?”
“I spent most of my twenties as a black-hat hacker. You put several of my friends in jail when you were at the DOJ.”
Before turning to private practice, Chris had served as a chief prosecutor in the Department of Justice’s computer crimes section.
“Then you know that you’re not exactly the target clientele of my new firm.”
“No, no, that was then. I run a legit business now. I started a penetration-testing and ethical-hacking service six months ago. Spearpoint Consulting.”
“Catchy name.”
“Look, can we talk in private?”
“Sure. Come on back into my office. Please excuse the mess—we’re still moving in.”
“No, I mean more private than that. Can we get out of here, go someplace?”
“I can assure you that our conversation will be private.” That was what Chris said. What he thought was How do I politely disengage from this wing nut?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ayres said. “But give me ten minutes. When you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll understand why I’m paranoid. In your line of work, don’t tell me you’ve never come off as paranoid.”
Chris wavered for a moment, then said, “All right. How about if we go for a walk? Get a cup of coffee.” The suggestion at least had the virtue of getting Ayres out of the office.
“Okay, but I’d prefer to walk and talk. More private that way.”
“All right. Becky, I’m going to step out for a bit.”
Zoey had emerged from the lab and was observing the exchange. “Zoey, this is Ian Ayres of Spearpoint Consulting,” Chris said. “And Ian, this is Zoey Doucet, the director of our computer forensic lab. She has a background similar to yours.”
Zoey and Ian nodded at one another. “I’m going for coffee at Peet’s,” she said. “How about you?”
“Red’s.”
“Philistine,” Zoey said.
“Zoey thinks Peet’s is the standard by which all coffee must be judged,” Chris explained to Ayres.
“I have a friend like that,” the hacker said. “They’re kind of fanatical, aren’t they?”
“Hel-lo,” Zoey said, “I’m still here,” but Ayres was already leading Chris out the door.
They emerged onto Howard Street on a brisk, deep-focus fall day that bathed everything in hard, glittering sunlight. They walked toward the Embarcadero, in the direction of the pale monolith of the Ferry Building clock tower.
As soon as they entered the crowded sidewalk of the Embarcadero, Ayres leaned in close and began speaking in a voice raised just enough to be audible.
“I’m in danger. And I know that by coming to you I may have put you in danger too. I apologize for that, but I didn’t know who else could help me.”
“How are you in danger? And more to the point, how am I in danger?”
As they reached Cupid’s Span, the gargantuan Oldenburg and van Bruggen sculpture of a bow and arrow sunk in the ground, Ayres steered them into a crowd of tourists, speaking only in the thick of the throng. It seemed that Ayres feared their conversation was being recorded by a parabolic microphone.
“I was hired by NorCal Telecom to do pen testing. They wanted me to come in and rattle the doorknobs a bit, see if I could find any vulnerabilities in their firewall. Do a little social engineering too.”
“Nothing unusual about that, right? That’s what you do.”
“Right, but I found something. Something they didn’t think I’d be able to see.”
“And what was that?”
“There was a government presence on their servers extracting enormous volumes of call metadata. Terabytes.”
“NSA?”
“That’s what I assumed at first. But I traced it back and found that it wasn’t NSA. It was some other agency using a dot-gov domain.”
“Really? Which one?”
“I couldn’t tell, but it definitely wasn’t the NSA. I know how the NSA configures their taps, and this was something else.”
“Did you discuss what you found with your telecom client?”
“See, that’s the thing. When I told NorCal what I’d found, they turned on a dime and started acting like they’d never even hired me. I spoke to the guy who signed my engagement letter, and he pretended we’d never met. They accused me of hacking their system and demanded that I return all copies of any information that I’d extracted.”
“But you had a contract to perform the services, right?”
“I had a contract. That’s right. When I looked for the copy that they emailed to me, it had been deleted from my in-box. And when I looked for the signed hard copy in my files, it was gone.”
“So you think someone hacked your server and broke into your office to take all copies of your contract?” If Ayres was looking for someone to defend him against a prosecution under the Electronic Communications Privacy Act, then he was going to need a much more plausible story.
“I know, I know what this sounds like, but I’m telling you the truth. I think I stumbled on the work of an agency that no one’s supposed to know about, something off the books. And it’s easier for them to turn me into a criminal than admit the truth.”
“Do you have any evidence that NorCal Telecom hired you for penetration testing?”
Ayres fished in the messenger bag slung across his chest. “This is all I’ve got,” he said, holding up a few business cards and an orange rubber stress ball, all bearing the telecom’s logo. “I know it’s not exactly proof, but how would I have gotten all of this stuff if I hadn’t been in their corporate offices?”
“You could have been there on a different job—or you might just know someone who works there,” Chris said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove anything.” Even so, he thought, the story had the ring of truth—who else but someone telling the truth would present such lame corroborating evidence?
Ayres looked away from Chris, gazing out across the bay toward Treasure Island. “I know, right? I’m screwed.”
“But you haven’t been charged with anything, have you?”
“No.”
“And NorCal hasn’t filed a lawsuit?”
“No, but it’s worse than that. There are people looking for me. Ever since the telecom job.”
“Who’s looking for you?”
“I don’t know, but they look like government agen
ts. Suits and ties. They’ve been checking out all of my old hacker buddies, trying to find me. And when I went back to my apartment, I saw them waiting for me there. They had the place staked out. I can’t go home.” Ian’s hand shot up in a spastic gesture, like he had caught himself midway through a nervous tic. He had the neurotic air of someone who lived his life being observed—or at least thinking he was being observed.
“What do you know about them?”
“Not much. They don’t identify themselves. They didn’t flash badges or anything like that when they questioned my friends. But I’ve heard that one of them is tall, and everyone says that he’s kind of funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Funny as in quirky. He has a kind of roundabout way of talking to people.”
Chris glanced around at the sidewalk throngs. “Do you think we’re being followed right now?”
“Maybe,” Ayres said. “Well, probably. I figured that at least outside among the crowds they wouldn’t be able to overhear our conversation, even with a parabolic mic.”
Chris took another look around despite himself. “I don’t see anyone.”
Ayres stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk and surveyed the street. “Just look around,” he said, pointing to a security camera mounted on the wall of one of the massive pier buildings. “And there.” He pointed to a camera atop a traffic light. “There and there,” he added, pointing to security cameras posted on the exteriors of a restaurant and the offices of a shipping line.
As if on cue the restaurant’s camera swiveled, seeming to track them.
“I could go on. On a typical city block in San Francisco, there are probably six or seven CCTV cameras recording your activity.”
“But the good news is that they aren’t linked,” Chris said. “No one person or agency has access to all those video feeds.”
“I thought you’d know better than that,” Ayres said, squinting at him painfully in the sun. He looked like a vampire wearing SPF 110 sunblock. “You really think the NSA doesn’t have that access? Don’t be naive, man. And who knows about this new agency that I’ve discovered?”
“So why did you choose me?”
“I know, it doesn’t seem like you’d be my first choice, right? I figured that you must still have some connections at the DOJ, so you might have an angle on figuring out who’s after me. That and you understand hackers.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Chris had nearly served time for hacking a Defense Department server when he was sixteen, so he was no stranger to the hacker mind-set.
“I’m not saying you like them, just that you understand them.”
They arrived at Red’s Java House, a clapboard shack perched over the bay on Pier 30. They stood silently in line, waiting for their coffees and gazing at the photos of San Francisco luminaries, like Bill Graham and Patty Hearst. The midmorning sun was bright; refracting off the bay, it lit the waterfront dive brighter than halogens.
Ayres fell silent while Chris paid for their drinks. Only during the walk back to the office did he resume the conversation. “So,” he said quietly, “are you going to represent me or not?”
After a pause Chris said, “I appreciate that you may have stumbled onto something here, but this sort of case isn’t really what I do. I can recommend several good defense attorneys, ones who are tech savvy enough to understand what you’re talking about. One of the consumer privacy organizations might be interested in this, like the Electronic Privacy Information Center or the Electronic Frontier Foundation.”
Ayres looked disappointed. “I guess that means you don’t believe my story.”
Chris squinted into the sun. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Even if there were something to Ayres’s story, he wasn’t sure what he could do to help. Founding a boutique law firm meant making choices, having a focus. This was not the sort of work that he’d intended to do. He was supposed to be in the business of stopping hackers, and this case would, rightly or wrongly, be perceived as defending a hacker.
“I guess I’ll be on my way then,” Ayres said.
“Let’s go back to the office first,” Chris said. “Let me at least get those referrals for you.”
The front door of Bruen & Associates swung open, but it was not Chris and Ayres returning from their meeting. It was a tall, wiry man in a dark suit and tie. He had an olive complexion, thinning black hair, an expressive face, and quick eyes that seemed to take everything in with a proprietary appreciation.
“Hello there,” the man said to Becky Martinez as he crossed the room with quick, smooth strides.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Oh, I hope so,” the man said. He paused, then added, “You know, your eyes are quite lovely.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned in closer. “I want to say they’re gray, but there’s some green in there too, isn’t there?”
Becky’s professional reserve quickly fell away—this was her first receptionist job—and she sat back, smiling slightly. “It depends on the light. Most people say they’re gray green.”
“Like the pearly morning light of a Vermeer painting.”
Becky drew in a breath. “What a thing to say.”
“Well, I believe in appreciating the little moments. In the end that’s all we have, isn’t it, Becky?”
“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said. “How did you—?”
“You might say that I’m in the knowing business.”
“Are you one of Chris’s government friends?”
“You might say that too. But do we really need to recite our résumés?”
Becky sat up straighter, unsure how to respond.
“Is your boss in?”
“Not right now. He’s out with a new client.”
“And do you know where they went?”
“Red’s Java House, I believe. But I’m sure he’d prefer that you wait for him here.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure he would. How long has he been gone?”
“Oh, about fifteen minutes. He should be back anytime.”
The man checked his watch. “Good,” he said, nodding. “I’ll wait.”
He then drew a gun with a silencer and put a bullet in the center of Becky’s forehead. She slumped forward on her desk until her desk chair slid backward beneath her and she crumpled to the floor.
The man leaned down and closed Becky’s eyes with a brush of his hand. “You were right,” he said. “They do look different when the light changes.”
3
Chris and Ayres neared the offices of Bruen & Associates, cardboard coffee cups in hand.
“What if one of those agents asks you what we discussed?” Ayres asked.
“I can’t say anything,” Chris said. “Attorney-client privilege applies even when you’re just seeking representation.”
“Good, because I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be getting a visit.”
Chris shrugged. “I look forward to meeting that agent. The funny one.”
“You shouldn’t look forward to that.”
They entered the vestibule of the building and approached the ground-floor office. The door to the office hung open, the reception desk vacant. Dust motes swam in the midmorning light that streamed through the curtains.
“Becky?” Chris called out. “She must be on a break,” he said to Ayres. “Sorry, I need her to access that list of firms.”
“Not a problem,” Ayres said. “I can wait.”
Chris stepped forward into the reception area and glanced around at the adjoining offices that were visible, including his own. Maybe Becky was straightening things up. There was certainly plenty of need for that.
As he drew closer, Chris saw a woman’s foot protruding from behind the desk. He held up a hand, motioning Ayres to stay where he was.
Chris took another step closer and saw Becky Martinez’s body splayed behind the desk. Her eyes were closed, and there was a neat red hole in the center of her forehead.
Chris’s breath grew shallow, and his heart began pounding. He knew he should be moving, trying to spot the coming threat, but for what seemed like the longest moment his eyes remained locked on that vivid red spot, as if Becky had touched a crimson lipstick to her forehead.
He spun around, looking for any sign that the killer remained in the office. He felt a strong urge to run, but he had to know if Ira was still in the office, if he was still alive. Zoey shouldn’t be back yet, because Peet’s was several blocks farther away than Red’s.
Ayres, who had not yet seen the body, spread his hands and shrugged, universal sign language for What?
Chris placed a finger to his lips to silence him, then walked softly down the carpeted hallway to the file room. Through the open doorway, he saw Ira Rogers facedown on the floor, motionless. Chris dropped to his knees beside the body.
“Ira?”
Chris grasped Ira’s shoulder and turned him over. Ira’s face was covered in blood from the red hole in the center of his forehead.
Chris heard noises from the computer forensic lab—what sounded like the footsteps of more than one person. Fighting nausea and full-on panic, he retreated back into the reception area as quietly as he could.
When Chris reached Ayres, he leaned in close and whispered, “They’re still here.” He grabbed Ayres by the arm and pushed him toward the door.
As they were exiting, a man in a dark suit with thinning black hair emerged from the hall.
“Hello, there,” he said in a friendly, disarming tone as they faced each other across the reception area. “Chris Bruen, right? You don’t remember me? Here’s my card.”
As he reached inside his jacket, Chris made for the front door, pushing Ayres ahead of him.
The man didn’t order them to stop or flash a badge.
He didn’t identify himself.
Instead, he simply raised his gun and began firing.
In his panic, Ayres seemed to fumble momentarily with the doorknob. As he fought with the knob, he pushed Chris away with his free hand.
He’s going to get me killed.
