Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

  “Like a practical joke, right?”

  “Right, exactly. We don’t hurt each other’s equipment, that’s the rule.”

  “We’re going to have to talk about this.”

  “I know, I know. So, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it for your client, but I do have a contact that would do it for money.”

  “Is the contact a teenager?”

  “No, he’s been in the hacker business for a while, very hush, hush. Nobody even knows who he is. Not even sure he would do it, but it’s your only option if you want to get into that network without being noticed. I’ll send the only link I know of to your cell phone and email.”

  “Man, I’m in a tight spot. If my client weren’t in big trouble I wouldn’t even be talking to you about this. Send me the link and stop doing anything that would be considered illegal.”

  “I will do it right now. I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  “No, you were honest, but we do have to talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Mark pulled off I–5 onto Boeing Access road and waited until his laptop linked to an open Wi-Fi connection and then he clicked the link for someone named wooden_horse.

  The website came up and appeared to be a normal programmer for hire site. He filled out the necessary fields, entered the job description and pressed submit.

  He immediately received an email and opened it. It contained a request for a chat session and he clicked the embedded link.

  [wooden_horse]: If I understand your request, you want a program to self-replicate its way through a network and collect data stored on the machines? And you want to do this without being noticed?

  [mark]: Yes

  [wooden_horse]: That is illegal unless you own the network and are testing the security features of the network. Is that the case?

  [mark]: Yes, we are testing the security of our network.

  [wooden_horse]: Very well. You say you want a physical capture of the data. How much data are we speaking of?

  [mark]: A lot, video and voice recordings and numerical data.

  [wooden_horse]: This will require a dedicated server build. The cost of the project will be 20 thousand and the work will be guaranteed. I will create polymorphic code that works in unison with a polymorphic engine. The engine will do all the work and modify itself from machine to machine.

  [mark]: How would I send payment?

  [wooden_horse]: I will send you the payment information. I require payments be sent in four separate amounts and you will have to jump through a lot of hoops to make the payments. Just follow the instructions in the email to the letter and you will be fine. I will start work immediately once the last payment is received and will start collecting data within an hour. I need two pieces of information before I can begin.

  [mark]: Okay, what do you need?

  [wooden_horse]: Email address of a user on the target machine and a subject, something that you know he/she would open in an email.

  Mark looked up the email from his laptop and sent the address. He thought for a moment, what would James open? He had the answer and entered it into the chat screen.

  [mark]: Send an e-mail related to a 1969 Boss 429 Mustang.

  [wooden_horse]: You have twenty minutes to process the payments; a minute longer and I will cease all communication and you will not receive any payments processed. The program will be automatic and I will send you the data storage location for the duplicate files dump. I will not communicate with you beyond that. If the person does not open the email, I will not send another and will not communicate with you further. Lastly, the engine will run until this evening, 9 PM, at which time it will remove itself. Is this agreed to?

  [mark]: Can it run longer?

  [wooden_horse]: No. Are we in agreement?

  [mark]: Yes.

  [wooden_horse]: Very good, Mr. DeSantis, I see that you’re in the Seattle area. Is the target in the same area?

  [mark]: Yes.

  [wooden_horse]: My completion email will instruct you how to retrieve the data through server hops. Follow my instructions exactly. Do not access the dedicated server directly. I will not assist you or answer any questions. I’ve sent the payment email. Your twenty minutes starts now.

  Mark opened the e-mail, processed the payments and watched his life savings slowly disappear.

  He wrote the note for James and pulled back onto I–5 heading north. If he found a decent parking space, he’d just make it into the bank’s bathroom on time.

  * * * *

  Cricket scoured all the on-line databases, looking for the owner of a Ford Explorer tag number WUK-866. He threw his arms up in frustration. “Nothing, it’s a bogus tag. There are matches, but none that would be our guy. Who would be tailing us? Think it’s Spain?”

  Mr. Wright sat on the couch putting to memory every detail about the man and his truck, “Don’t think so, we’re on him pretty tight. My guess is it’s the late Mr. DuVall. That’s the problem with bribes, too many loose ends—dirty money leaves a shit trail that brings out the criminal Hansels looking for Gretel. They always forget that the forest birds ate the crumbs. The guy was under six foot, just under one hundred and eighty pounds, maybe late twenties, and Hispanic. Does that match any of the known acquaintances of Mr. DuVall?”

  “Checking now. DuVall does have a Hispanic friend, a Mr. Antonio Alvarez. He works at the bank, too. He’s closer to forty, too old to be a match and too young to have a kid in his late twenties.”

  “Check the relatives of Mr. Alvarez. I’m sure someone will come up on the radar. Really, what could the guy have learned? That we’re here, right? He must have suspected that already. We’ll hear from Hansel again, probably a greedy bastard just like DuVall, and when we do, we’ll be ready.”

  “Yes sir, I have the image print from the utility room. Not the best picture, his face is blocked by his hat, but it should be enough to put our team on alert.”

  “Perfect, are we ready for the conference call at five?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the picture and description out to the team. If they see him I want him picked up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you de-register Ms. Davies for her college classes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  In Mississauga, Ontario, Vik Tremlay, also known as wooden_horse, fired up his dedicated code programming machine. The computer was a specialty build and allowed his code to appear as system32 type files. The code would hide among the files that people were just too afraid to mess with.

  He opened the application for his Cayman account on his cell phone, walked out onto the balcony and viewed the Toronto skyline on the other side of Lake Ontario. The temperature was a cool 45 degrees, and the CN tower stood proudly against the backdrop of the blue sky. The first payment appeared four minutes later. He left the balcony, sat down at the keyboard, and said under his breath, as he always did before coding. “Time to make the doughnuts.”

  He placed his iPod into the Geneva Sound Model L and cranked up Carl Orff’s “O Fortuna,” its dramatic dark notes and lyrics stimulated his sinister spirit. He began creating the code as he watched the subsequent payments come through on his other computer.

  He brought up his data center program. It showed all the dedicated data centers in the U.S. and he ordered a dedicated server at a data center in downtown Seattle. With IP in hand, he finalized the code and targeted a server in Colorado Springs, then hopped to an open server at Seattle collocation data center.

  He embedded the code and sent the email from the host server. Once the email was opened, the polymorphic code would activate and replicate itself. The engine was designed to find the storage server and duplicate every file onto the dedicated server he ordered for Mr. DeSantis. Twenty minutes later, he was done and sent the instruction email to Mark DeSantis.

  Chapter Twenty one

  ~ CAMEL Ratings ~

  James logged out of the bank system at five on the dot. He
was eager to get to the downstairs bathroom to see if Mark had left a note. He wished Shelly a safe trip over the weekend, but she failed to acknowledge it.

  Shelly had the look of deep concern on her face all afternoon; it manifested itself and grew worse as the day went on. James knew it was worry, the kind of worry that only a mother could feel. She was blank, no emotion. Her persona vanished when she learned that Mr. Wright would follow through on his threats and she never returned. He wanted to say something, anything that would reassure her, but didn’t know what to say.

  Guilt caused him to pause before opening the office door. He had to say something. He couldn’t leave her like this.

  He locked the door, dropped the blinds and grabbed a Kleenex. He placed his hand on her shoulder, “Shelly, my mother used to say ‘cry when you need to, laugh when you can.’ I can’t think of a single thing that would make you laugh right now, but I do have a shoulder you can cry on.”

  She quickly stood and hugged him, her salty tears caught in the Kleenex James handed her.

  He patted her on the back, saying over and over, “We’re going to be okay, this will be over soon.”

  The embrace lasted for only a couple of seconds, but both felt the connection. Both knew the ones they loved the most were also targets, were the innocent ones, none more innocent than a nine-year-old girl.

  She pulled away, somewhat embarrassed, but thankful for the release. She kissed James on the cheek. “You’re a good man, James.”

  “Thanks, but I mean it. We’re going to be fine,” he responded with his hands on her shoulders, looking squarely into her eyes.

  “Okay, I guess I should get going. Have a flight to catch. I will see you Monday?”

  “Yes. Yes, you will.”

  She wiped the lipstick from his cheek with the tear-soaked Kleenex. “Don’t want anyone to suspect anything.”

  “Thanks, are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I mean, we haven’t done anything wrong, right? Mr. Wright has no reason to hurt us.”

  “We’ve done exactly as he asked us to do. Finish your summary report and I will see you here bright and early Monday, okay? Enjoy your daughter, she’s lucky to have a Mom like you.”

  “Okay,” she said, wiping the smeared mascara from her eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  He shut the door behind him and began heading toward the data room doors when Frank stopped him. “James, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I heard about the Mustang. Man I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll have it repaired.”

  “I know you will. She’s a beauty. Don’t forget the annual Seattle Film Festival is coming up on May twentieth. I told you I was on the board, right? Heading to our first meeting now. Shit, here comes Stone. I’m out of here.” Frank patted James on the back and left in a flash and James tried to follow him, but didn’t make it.

  “James, can I have a word with you before you leave?” asked Mr. Stone, motioning with his hand for James to follow him to his office.

  “Have a seat.” Mr. Stone closed the office door and paced anxiously behind his desk for several minutes before sliding into his chair.

  James’s heart was pounding—this was it, this was the moment he feared would catch up with him when he had become a criminal on Monday. This was when it all came out in the open. He was sure the police were clearing through security at this very moment with his arrest warrant.

  Mr. Stone tapped on his desk and began. “James, we have a couple of issues going on that I need to bring to your attention.”

  Mr. Stone took a sip of hours old cold coffee. He drank coffee all day long, it ran through his veins. “Of course, the murder of a senior bank analyst, who may or may not have been dealing bank secrets like they were ecstasy pills at a rave, is deeply concerning, but that’s a local issue, a bank issue, one we will certainly address.”

  Mr. Stone reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a memo, and tossed it toward James. It slid across the desk and nearly fell into James’s lap. James jumped, almost confessed to everything right then and there. He was sure Mr. Stone could see the guilt on his face. James didn’t even look at the memo. He turned his head and focused on the office art on the wall. It was a nighttime cityscape of the New York Bridge and James wished he could climb to the very top of the bridge and jump off.

  Mr. Stone continued, “There’s another issue, a political one, that memo—go ahead, take a look.”

  James reluctantly picked up the memo and read the words without processing them.

  After a few moments, Mr. Stone summarized the memo, “Shocking, isn’t it? To put it bluntly, the FDIC is pissing and scenting on our turf and, of course, our big dog, our director, is none too happy about it.”

  Mr. Stone was up again, angrily walking the ten foot square office, the type of anger managers try to internalize. “Apparently, the FDIC is relying on CAMEL ratings. Attempting to use them to muscle in, for some reason they think ratings from an outside ratings agency is more accurate than we, the OTS. We both know that just isn’t so. Plus, the FDIC isn’t even a thrift regulator.”

  He sat back down and looked James in the eyes. “I want you to come in tomorrow and do a comparison of our numbers to the rating agency numbers. Start with the problem child, the poorly performing mortgages out of Long Beach. Create a trend and do the same for the CAMEL ratings. The two should match trend wise. If not, then there is a problem. Then move on to the bank’s core mortgages, you get my drift.”

  James edged back when Mr. Stone leaned in closer and hissed, “Word is, a big bank, a Wall Street bank, is positioning itself for a takeover bid of some sort. Can you imagine that? The whole financial world is going to shit and there’s a big bank using the political turmoil to take advantage, using its connections to weasel in.”

  James didn’t want to do the project for two reasons. First, it was a lot of work and, second, he was sure Mr. Wright was dealing with this same bank. He would be accused of not playing nicely. “Sir, I can’t come in tomorrow, I will be out of town.”

  “You can’t cancel?” Mr. Stone asked in disbelief.

  James lied, it was becoming a habit. “No, sir, plans were made months ago.”

  “Sunday at the latest then. I want that report on my desk by Monday, James, and I will not take no for an answer.”

  James still tried to twist free. “How would I get the ratings data? I mean, it’s not readily accessible.”

  “I’ll get the email from Frank. He has all the details.”

  One final twist from James, he was sure this would break him free. “Frank is gone for the weekend. You and I both saw him leave.”

  “I have access to the mail server and will get the email from there. So Sunday it is, then. How’s the project with Miss Spenser going?”

  James couldn’t think of any more excuses. Damn, he thought, you and Mr. Wright should be a team. You two have an answer for everything.

  “James, I said how is the project going?”

  “Okay, I guess. She seems to be getting the numbers she needs.”

  Mr. Stone collected the memo from James and put it back in the top drawer, “Good, good, glad to hear it. One more thing, James, are you sure you don’t know a Mr. Wright? You jumped a little in the conference room when the name was mentioned.”

  “No, sir, I’ve never heard of the name, you?”

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell.” Mr. Stone stood and opened the door. “Have a good trip. I expect that report by Monday.”

  James exited the office without saying a word and made his way to the lockers. He listened to the message from Bridget. He was up for a nice hike, but wasn’t looking forward to what he knew she was really up to, the coming tempest of car safety. He could hear Sibelius’ The Tempest playing in the deep regions of his mind. It would be the perfect setting for when the conversation started.

  As he stepped off the elevator, he made a mental note of the guys hanging around the lobby and walked past the bathroom t
oward the back exit.

  Before exiting the lobby, he quickly turned and saw one guy had stood and was following him. The associate froze and nervously moved back to his seat when James headed back into the lobby, back towards the bathroom.

  James almost knocked Mark over as he was entering the bathroom. Mark didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge him, he just pushed past and kept walking. Maybe it wasn’t Mark. The guy had a mustache, but he was almost certain it was.

  He quickly opened the toilet paper dispenser with the key, pulled the magnetic plate off, and read the note.

  Found where team is located. Have plan in place to get you the necessary leverage. We will have what they have. Check email this afternoon as soon as possible. Open the one having to do with 69 Mustang. Will have Tahoe towed to mess with them a little and take pictures when they see they are busted. Will call when I have everything in place. Mexican standoff, buddy. You’re almost out.

  James balled up the note and flushed it, replaced the magnetic cover, closed and locked the dispenser and sat on the toilet.

  Why would he call me? He questioned. He knows that they will hear the conversation and they will track him down. Why would he send me an email? The bathroom door opened and James flushed again and left the stall. He washed his hands while ignoring the ghost.

  The associate was in the last stall when James announced, “Heading home, will be walking, in case you want to know.”

  * * * *

  James entered the condo and went directly to the laptop. He saw the mapped out navigation plan created by Bridget. Underneath were pages and pages of Volvo information. He didn’t like the S40 model at all. There had to be something sportier in the Volvo lineup.

  He checked his email and saw the '69 Mustang e-mail, it was from sysadmin@aeneid.com. He opened the email and there she was—a beauty, a 375 horsepower Boss 429 V-8, pure black. He almost salivated. Now that is sporty, he thought. That’s what a man was meant to drive.