Social Engineer (3 page)

“And you Brody? What is a location scout?”

He shifted in his seat, but the lies came easily enough. He explained how he worked for film production companies, helping them identify places around the world that would serve the aesthetic needs of the films. He attempted to make it sound boring, talking about budgets and logistics, weather conditions and lighting, and obtaining permission from location owners.

“It’s how I came across this place,” he concluded. “We ended up using it for a scene in the recent
Sweeney
movie.”

“The one with Ray Winstone?” At his nod, she continued excitedly, “What is ’e like?”

“No idea. I never got to meet him. Most of the work I do is pre-production. I rarely get involved once filming starts. Unless there’s a problem with the location.”

“But you must know where and when movies are being filmed in London?”

“Some,” he said hesitantly, having no idea about shooting schedules. “Why?”

“Perhaps you could take me to one when they are filming. Maybe we will see a famous Hollywood actor?”

Brody was pleased with himself. Mel was already talking about a future date, even if she didn’t realise what her words had implied. He studied her exquisite features across the table and decided that he would very much enjoy seeing her again.

“Okay, I’ll check tomorrow with the production companies and see who’s filming in town and where.”

Today, 9:14am

Brody resumed playing the video. It cut to him entering the main reception. A young woman sat behind the reception desk, wearing an unflattering female version of the uniform worn by the guard at the gatehouse. Her bright lipstick and long, manicured nails aided her in maintaining some degree of femininity. She greeted him brightly and verified the details displayed on her computer, just as the previous guard had done.

The receptionist phoned through. The camera panned around as Brody scanned the foyer. Floor-to-ceiling barriers blocked further access into the building. They had proximity sensors that opened when an identification pass was waved within range and authorised by the access management system.

“Hi Mandy —”

The video turned sharply. Brody remembered that he had been shocked, thinking that Mandy had somehow answered the receptionist’s call.

“ — just letting you know that the engineer from Cisco you were expecting has arrived in reception.” She terminated the call. It had only been a voicemail.

Brody’s voice said, “I’m not surprised Mandy didn’t answer. We’ve just been texting each other and she’s in a meeting that’s overrunning. She said she might even be another half-hour or so.”

“Well, you’re welcome to wait,” she replied, indicating the round sofas by the window.

“Sure, thanks.” The camera turned and stopped at a mirror reflecting Brody head to toe. As well as the cap, he wore an engineer’s grey fleece with the Cisco logo prominently embroidered upon it and carried an aluminium case. He patted his stomach, turning back to the receptionist.

“I don’t suppose you know if there’s somewhere I can get something to eat? It’s been a long drive and I missed breakfast.”

“Well, the nearest place would be in the village, but that’s a good fifteen minutes drive . . .” She looked at the logo on his fleece and, visibly making up her mind, said, “Actually, we have a staff restaurant onsite. I’m not really supposed to let you through unescorted, but —”

“That would be great. Thanks . . .” Brody read the red security id pinned to her jacket. It had the word ‘SECURITY’ across the top, her picture and name below. “. . . Yvonne. You’re doing me a real favour.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Before I let you through I need to give you a visitor pass.”

Following Yvonne’s instructions, Brody removed his cap. The image turned around to show Brody posing for the webcam connected to her computer. Placing the cap back on his head, the camera then showed her insert a white plastic pass with the HTL logo and the word ‘VISITOR’ into a machine. A few moments later, it spat out the card with his picture and false name neatly printed on it. She placed it inside a plastic holder with a clip and handed it to him. He attached it to his fleece, careful not to cover the Cisco logo.

“Bob, that’s against security policy,” whined Jacobsen to Moorcroft. “She should never let someone through unescorted, even to the canteen. I’ll have her fired.”

Brody paused the footage.

Moorcroft replied coldly, “It gets worse. And, if I were you, Paul, I wouldn’t jump too quickly to firing
other
people.”

Jacobsen narrowed his eyes.

“Look at it from Yvonne’s point of view,” Brody jumped in. “I’m on the list of visitors for someone in the IT department. I look like a Cisco engineer. And the canteen is not in a secure area of the building. She made a judgement call. Training can fix that.”

Hall, who had been fiddling with his Blackberry, interrupted. “Hold on a second, you asked for Mandy. She works in my department and I know for a fact that she was on holiday last week. She wasn’t even in the building.”

“Exactly,” said Brody. “Go on . . .”

“ . . . So you chose her because you knew she wasn’t there. But how could you know that? Not my help desk again!”

“No, they would be unlikely to give me personal information like that. It was much simpler. I used LinkedIn to identify people who work in the IT department. Most people use that site very openly when it comes to posting information about their careers and linking to each other. And, guess what? IT professionals are among the most active users on there.

“Then with a list of names and photos, I went to Facebook. That’s where it tends to get more personal. Mandy’s Timeline clearly stated she’s on holiday. From the pictures she’s just posted, I’d say she’s in the Maldives.”

“Good grief,” said Wilson.

 “The thing is,” the pentester continued, “Yvonne on reception has no way of checking, despite the fact you have the most sophisticated access control systems available. That’s something else that you can change. Shall we continue?”

Met, as expected, with silence, Brody pressed a key on his laptop. All heads turned towards the screen once more.

Yvonne showed the onscreen Brody how to use the visitor pass to get through the security gates. She followed him through and helpfully pointed him down the only corridor, explaining that the staff restaurant was at the end. Thanking her again, he turned away and walked past a secure door on his right.

Brody arrived at the restaurant double doors, his hand pushing one slightly ajar. He turned his head, the image panning around quickly. Yvonne was still staring at him. Brody waved thanks to her with his other hand. She smiled and turned away, walking back through the barriers.

“Phew, that was close,” Brody’s voice whispered a note of relief from the speakers, but in real time, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d forgotten he’d spoken aloud and had missed it when he’d edited the video for this morning’s meeting. He wished he’d cut it out.

“If Yvonne hadn’t turned around then, I’d have had to enter the restaurant and I’d have lost a good ten minutes going through the motions of buying coffee and drinking it,” Brody felt the need to explain.

The onscreen Brody returned to the security doors he’d passed a minute before. The screen jogged momentarily and the audience heard some fumbling noises, and then his hand held up an HTL pass in the name of ‘Colin Renshaw’ to the camera. It was yellow, with the word ‘EMPLOYEE’ printed across the top. The picture on this pass showed the grey-haired, clean-shaven and lined face of a much older man, quite different to Brody’s youthful appearance. Brody swiped the pass at the proximity sensor and the doors swung open.

Jacobsen leaned forward. Brody paused the playback.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” said Jacobsen, his teeth bared. “I know for a fact it’s impossible to fake those security passes. They have military-grade secure RFID technology embedded in them.”

“It’s not a fake,” said Brody.

Seven Weeks Ago

Brody waved his pass at the underground station turnstile. The barrier opened and he waltzed through. Behind him, Mel did the same. He held out his hand. She took it and together they ran up the steps to the streets above.

Laughing, they jogged along Tooley Street, which ran parallel to the south bank of the Thames. It was eerily quiet, this early on a Sunday morning. Through gaps between office buildings, Brody occasionally caught sight of boat masts on the Thames and the iconic Tower Bridge. They reached a small side street and turned into it, coming to an abrupt halt when they saw the crowds of people and parked vehicles ahead of them.

Mel squeaked in delight. “Do you think we’ll see ’im?”

“According to the filming schedule, they’ll be here all day.”

She squeezed his hand in anticipation. Together they approached the crowd. Film production crew vans were parked up alongside the road, in front of a tunnel that disappeared under the railway lines above. Film cameras were positioned high on cranes, along with powerful lighting.

As they neared, a barrier blocked further access. A group of fans stood around it, buzzing in anticipation. Brody and Mel joined them, blending in. As if on queue, a door to one of the cast caravans, parked up beyond, opened and a figure descended. The women in the crowd around them began screaming.

Brody observed Mel’s jaw drop at the sight of the Hollywood A-lister. He had seen some of the heartthrob’s action movies, and hadn’t been particularly impressed. The star seemed to always play himself, rather than the character written in the screenplay. Brody thought about some of the social engineering charades he had pulled off over the years and wondered if perhaps he might be the better actor. After all, his performances
had
to work first time; there was certainly no opportunity for a retake.

The leading man waved at the crowd of fans, a huge grin overflowing with white teeth plastered on his made-up face.

“He seems smaller in real life,” whispered Mel to Brody, cupping her hand around his ear so that the other onlookers couldn’t overhear.

“Yeah, I wonder if he’ll film the scene standing on a box so that he’s eye-to-eye with the other actors.” Having overheard Brody’s quip, three of the onlookers turned around and gave him daggers.

Brody held his tongue while they watched the scene being filmed. Finally, after a rather painfully repetitive hour, the director shouted, “Cut!” There was a small ripple of applause. Taking a bow, the actor seemed about to return to his caravan but diverted towards the small group of onlookers when he heard his name shouted by his adoring fans. Smiling genially, he autographed a steady stream of photos and any other memorabilia that they had brought with them. Mel, who hadn’t been quite as prepared with the short notice Brody had provided, stuck out her bare arm in the hope the star would sign it. Unperturbed, as if it happened every day, the actor dutifully scribbled his name on her forearm. Mel promised him that she would never wash it again, prompting laughs from everyone in earshot, the actor included. Delighted, Mel grabbed Brody’s hand and led him back in the direction they had come, her schoolgirl-like giggles rebounding from the side street around them.

They breakfasted together in Joe’s Kitchen and Coffee House, a casual eatery near Borough Station. Brody introduced Mel to the delights of bubble and squeak, which she ordered with poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. To compliment her choice on something so quintessentially English, he ordered a very French Croque Monsieur, topped with a fried egg. They chuckled their way through breakfast, casting doubt on the logic behind their respective countries’ cuisines.

Afterwards, they walked along the south side of the embankment, all the way to Westminster Bridge, opposite Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. It had become a beautiful summer morning. They took selfies with each other on their smartphones, posing alongside human statues. They listened to jazz musicians inside the foyer of the South Bank Centre. They experienced a slow loop of the London Eye, a whole capsule to themselves, admiring the capital’s distinctive skyline.

The day passed in a carefree blur.

And later, when Brody walked her to her flat in Chalk Farm, his body tensing in nervousness as he neared her front door, she laughed freely and teased him about his English reservations. She stood on tiptoes and, without hesitation, kissed him, both arms wrapped around his neck. When they pulled apart, she quickly opened the door and pulled him inside.

Today, 9:22am

Jacobsen was angry. “Are you saying that Colin Renshaw just
gave
you his pass?”

“Kind of,” said Brody. “Let me play you this audio.”

On his tablet, he opened up an MP3 file with a media player, and the recorded voices from both ends of a telephone conversation could be heard.

“Hello, Colin Renshaw speaking.”

“Hi, this is John from HTL Security.” It was Brody’s voice. “We’re just finishing the upgrade for all the ID badges for the new security system at head office. You should have upgraded your pass by now, but my records here say you haven’t registered it yet.”

“No idea what you’re on about, mate.”

“Didn’t you get the email?”

“No, mate. I get hundreds of emails a day. Must have missed it.”

“That’s okay, we can sort it out tomorrow when you come into the office.”

“Sorry, no can do. I’m off on my hols tomorrow.”

“Oh dear. My boss, Jacobsen, will kill me if I don’t get them all done by the end of this week . . . Tell you what, I’ll arrange for a courier to pick it up from you today. I’ll get it upgraded and then I’ll leave it with reception for you to pick up when you get back from your holiday. Going anywhere nice?”

Brody stopped the audio. He said, “I picked it up personally that afternoon. The pass is sitting downstairs with reception right now.”

Slamming his fist down on the table, Jacobsen shouted, “You used my fucking name in your scam you conniving little —”

“Paul,” interrupted Moorcroft sharply, “
enough
.”