Kill Process (42 page)

Next, we use my existing backdoors into the provisioning layer, and without notifying anyone or allowing them to show up in any monitoring tools or logs, we allocate five hundred servers in the Dalles, Oregon data center to handle diagnostic feeds.

“Holy cow,” Igloo says. “We’d really cut our hosting bill if we ran Tapestry on Tomo’s servers.”

“This won’t last for long. What happens if someone tries to provision servers? The central database lists these machines as free. We can lose them at any second. Besides, if we keep them running at load for any length of time, it’ll show up in the electrical consumption.”

“Too bad,” Igloo says. “I love the idea of free servers.”

I nod in agreement, though the reality is I took them for granted when I worked for Tomo. I didn’t realize what an advantage it was. I guess I had server privilege.

“How’s that payload coming?” I ask.

“Ready for you to review.”

Igloo and I go through the text file line by line. It will turn on debug mode for everyone within fifty miles of city center. It overrides the normal diagnostic server addresses, sending the traffic to the temporary server pool we created. Lastly, it uses the Tomo app’s access to suppress data overage notifications on everyone’s phone. They’re still going to use up that data, but they won’t know about it until the bill comes, and we’ll be long done by then.

“Looks good.”

I deploy the debug configuration file, the Tomo app pulls it down, and we watch as the data comes in.

What begins as a trickle turns into a flood.

“Server load is passing 1,” Igloo reports.

Uh oh. “Craptastic. I didn’t provision enough servers.”

Sure enough, within minutes the five hundred servers crumble under the load of incoming diagnostic data. I allocate another five hundred, and loads decrease, but not enough. I add five hundred more. At this point, we’re using every spare server in the data center. I can’t even imagine what’s happening to the cellular data networks right now.

This stream of unwanted diagnostic data is horrendous, yet it’s intrinsically tied into debug mode. Nobody ever intended the diagnostic upload to be used for more than the occasional one-off case. They certainly didn’t expect an entire city’s worth of mobile devices to upload simultaneously.

“Last step,” I say, “the binary package.” It’s compiled code that will use each mobile device’s cellular radio to scan for all of Daly’s unique IMEI numbers in the local vicinity.

“You’re sure this will work?” Igloo asks, as we wait for the Tomo clients to download and begin executing our custom scanning code.

“In theory, it should,” I say, wishing I felt more confident. “Nobody’s ever tried anything like this before.” If, or when, one of the millions of compromised smartphones in the city detects a sign of Daly’s cell phone, it’ll immediately use its GPS to determine the current geocoordinates, and turn on the camera and microphone to record and upload everything.

The Panopticon has been turned on Chris Daly.

Hours pass as we do this, and now it’s past lunchtime. We stop for food and rotate through burner phones, keeping an eye on Daly’s activity while we eat, and get snacks for the car.

Daly still hasn’t come online; or if he has, he’s strictly keeping to websites and devices and access points we’re not tracking. That’s okay, because we’re not done yet.

After lunch I send Igloo back online to the IRC and forums, looking for someone to destroy Daly’s credit rating and disable his credit cards and bank accounts.

While she’s doing that, I focus on building a criminal history for him. I can’t do much in the US. I don’t have access to those systems, and I know from experience almost nobody does. Still, I can make him a fugitive wanted for murder, rape, and embezzlement in the Maldives, and the US systems will cross-reference this data.

Danger keeps driving, moving us from spot to spot. I can’t be sure if or when Daly will find out what we’re doing, but when he does, he’s going to be pissed. We’re parked downtown now, near Pioneer square. This is a risk, because dozens of cameras can pick us up. But from here, without moving the car, we can piggyback on a thousand different wi-fi hotspots by refocusing the antenna. The best part is those hotspots are in tech companies with gobs of bandwidth. They’re protected networks, of course, but Tomo’s debug mode uploaded the SSIDs and associated passwords from everyone’s phones, so we can access every network in the city now.

The thump of an approaching helicopter is audible even over the noise of the surrounding traffic and people on the streets. I look up, my pulse quickening. I can’t spot it at first, then I see a black dot approaching.

“Get ready to drive,” I say.

“Already?” Danger asks. “We’re supposed to rotate between three more hotspots here before we go.”

“Start the car.”

He complies, and now we all watch the helicopter. I curse myself for not bringing binoculars.

“Kill all the connections,” I say.

“Wait,” Igloo says. “I’ve got someone who says he can cancel his bank accounts.”

“No. Kill the antenna
now
.”

Danger hits a switch, shutting it off.

“Shit,” Igloo says. “Can I use a phone to go online?”

“No, nothing, no signals.”

The helicopter hovers above Pioneer Square.

“It’s only a helicopter,” Igloo says. “They fly above downtown all the time.”

She’s right. If it had the insignia of a TV station, maybe I’d be willing to overlook it. But it hangs there, and I imagine men with directional scanners, telescopic cameras, maybe guns, all focused on us. I pull back from the window.

“Move. Just drive, normally. If they follow us, that’ll tell us something. If they don’t, we’ll resume at the next waypoint.”

Danger pulls out into traffic, heading south and then east toward the Hawthorne Bridge. The helicopter passes in and out of view as we pass behind buildings, but it doesn’t appear to be following us. We cross the bridge, and on the east side, where the buildings are lower and we have a good view, we don’t see the helicopter anymore. Still, I make Igloo wait.

We park at the Lloyd Center Mall, in a covered parking lot. I don’t know how paranoid to be. Could he be watching us with satellites? The idea is so laughable I don’t even mention it, though I really have no idea.

Danger gets an antenna fix, I reestablish an onion network connection, and we’re back online.

“He’s still here,” Igloo says. “He goes by Holmes IV. He says he wants $25,000 to shut down all of Daly’s accounts.”

I glance away from my screen.

“We don’t have that much.” What can I offer him? “Offer him the full profiles with all shadow data for any ten people in the world. Make sure you say shadow data. Give him one or two as proof, and the rest after he delivers.”

“Got it.”

I lean over to show Igloo where she can find the tools to download profiles, but she’s already figured it out.

“Holmes gave me the email address of some guy, and says he wants the profile for this person. I have no idea who they are.”

“Perfect. Open my records database, add an entry for Holmes IV, then enter that email address under suspected family members.”

“Why?” Igloo asks, then before I can respond, she answers her own question. “Oh . . . Because he gave me the email address of someone he knows, so he can validate whether I’m legit or not.”

“Bingo.”

It’s been years since Nathan and I pair-hacked, and longer still since the early days working for Repard. It’s nice to have someone helping me. I forgot what this was like.

His Maldives criminal record complete, I check back on the Tomo diagnostic data.

“He’s online!” I yell. “Move the car, quick.”

Danger jumps up.

“Wait!” Igloo says. “I have to close this deal.”

“Switch to cellular,” I say.

Danger pops a battery into another burner, and he and I watch anxiously for it to boot. Igloo’s fingers pound on her keyboard. As soon as the phone’s online, I initiate a data connection, and switch the onion circuit from one network to the other.

“Ok, drive.”

Danger slams the car into gear, and we peel out leaving the garage.

“Why are we moving?” he asks.

“Just in case,” I say, having no real concrete idea why. I’m afraid of Daly, afraid he’s suddenly going to pop out from nowhere and corner us, leaving us no way to escape. Part of me says this is irrational, that if he only now appeared online, then he’s busy doing something else, and this is the least likely moment of attack. I should have been worried more when we didn’t know where he was.

“His banks accounts and credit cards are all shut down,” Igloo says.

“He’ll have cash,” I say. “Assets handy, in case he gets cut off.” I shake my head. Focus, Angie. This is no time for fear. “I can use your help with this next one. We’re going to break into the FCC now, mess with his employment records.”

If I had weeks or months and Nathan’s help, I could probably penetrate the FCC’s database straight from the Internet. But we don’t have the time or the resources. What we do have is an FCC Resident Agent Office based in Portland, Oregon, and a pretty girl buried under a baggy hoodie.

“Skip to waypoint #12.”

I grab a USB device out of my bag. It’s still inside a Ziploc to reduce contaminants. “You’re going to wear these gloves,” I say, holding out another Ziploc containing a pair of thin leather gloves.

“I am?” Igloo squeaks. “I can’t go in there.”

“I’ve got one arm. You think they’re not going to tie it back to me? How many one-armed programmers are there?”

“I can’t,” Igloo says, and there is pain written all over her face. “Make him do it.”

“I don’t trust him to do it right. I trust you.”

“Gee, thanks guys,” Danger says, “I’m right here you know.”

I catch Danger’s eyes in the rear view mirror and shake my head at him. Just let him keep quiet for a minute. “You
can
do this. Nobody is looking for you.”

I can practically see Igloo thrashing inside herself, and a yawning chasm opens up inside me. I am the monster. Long seconds pass.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” she whispers.

“Good. Lose the sweatshirt and put this on.” I hold out a blue button-down shirt and an electric company employee jacket.

More seconds pass while I hold the clothes out, my arm tiring.

Igloo sighs and takes the clothing from me. She reluctantly shrugs her way out of her white hoodie, a black Julie Ruin t-shirt underneath. She pulls the button-down on.

“Lose the t-shirt,” I say, steeling myself for further objections. “Danger, close your eyes a minute.”

“I’m driving!”

“Well, just look out the front window.”

Danger shrugs and sighs. “That’s the way I generally drive,” he mumbles.

I ignore him and focus on getting my computer prepared.

“I’m ready,” Igloo says, fidgeting with her shirt.

“Unbutton the top two buttons on your shirt.” I want to throw up, telling another woman this.

“Why?”

“Because a little skin will make the difference between you breezing in and them questioning you. If it makes you feel any better, I’d walk in naked if it would help.”

Igloo unfastens the buttons with shaking hands.

I rummage through a bag until I extract a hat and clear glasses.

“Put the hat and glasses on now. Leave the gloves until we park. Put them on without touching the outside, and don’t touch the gloves to anything inside the car. When you leave the car, take the USB router out of the baggy, throw the baggy back in the car. Got that so far?”

I tug on her shirt to show more cleavage. Resentment flashes across her face, but she takes a breath, and afterwards she’s resigned, her face emotionless.

“When you go in, say the electrical service reading shows spikes consistent with a transient electrical short, and you need to inspect the electrical service.”

“They’re the FCC. Won’t they’d be able to detect something like that?”

“Good, you’re thinking. I called yesterday to set up an appointment. There’s only one actual agent for this office, and he’s in the field today. The only people left will be administrative staff. I doubt they’ll be electrical engineers. They
are
going to debate whether they can let you into the basement or not. While they’re doing that, you move within arm’s reach of one of their computers and plug the USB drive into the back.”

“What if I can’t get close enough?”

“Then you go down into the basement, visually inspect the electrical panel, and go back upstairs. Tell them you need to call another technician to come out, and ask them when would be a good time. All the while, keep getting closer to a computer, until you’re able to plug it in.”

“What
if—”

“Look, make it up if you need to. Tell them their computer power supply is fluctuating, and you need to see their system settings. It doesn’t matter what you say. If it’s a guy, they’re going to be looking at your tits. If it’s not a guy, they’ll assume you’re an idiot because you’re showing your tits.”

“I can’t . . .”

“I’m sorry, but you have to. In the jacket pocket is a salt shaker.”

Igloo moves her hand to the pocket.

“No, don’t touch it yet. Inside the salt shaker is dust and dirt from the streetcar, DNA from thousands of people. On your way out, you shake it discreetly, to leave a lot of conflicting evidence. Don’t take off or touch your hat, it’s keeping your hair in. Try not to look up. Cameras will be mounted high, aiming down. The hat and polarized glasses will be enough unless you look up.”

“There it is,” Danger says. “On the left.”

We all look together at the building, a nondescript street level office.

“Okay, circle the block, then park at the corner.”

Igloo is breathing fast, like she might hyperventilate.

“It’s going to be easy-peasy,” I lie. “You’re up on stage when you play with your band, right? That’s a performance in front of people. This is a performance, too.”

“Nobody can see me in my sweatshirt.”

“That makes this even better. We all know the girl in the big white hoodie is you. Now you’re in a true disguise. You could walk through the Tapestry office right now dressed as you are, and nobody would recognize you.”