Social Engineer (7 page)

“How did you get this, Brody?” she asked, warily.

“Before I answer, I want to step back and explain something.”

Mel leaned back in her chair, an obvious gesture to distance herself from whatever was coming.

Brody launched the first barrage.

“Do you remember my advert on the dating site?”

Mel remained impassive.

“Not all of it was true.” There, he’d finally said it.

No reaction. He carried on.

“I am not a location scout.”

She repeated, without intonation. “You are not a location scout.”

Despite the situation, the film buff in Brody couldn’t help recalling the scene in
Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope
where, at a security checkpoint, Obi-Wan Kenobi uses the mystical ‘Force’ to trick some Stormtroopers into believing, “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for”. Fully accepting Kenobi’s statement as fact, the Stormtroopers repeat the line verbatim, and allow them to pass unchecked. Brody wished he had The Force at his disposal right now.

He continued, wanting to get it all out. “And I am not adopted. My parents live in Hertfordshire.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Brody persevered, more bombs still to drop. “And I have a sister who lives in Australia with her husband. They have an eight-year-old son. My nephew.”

Brody stopped and held his breath.

Mel placed her hands in front of her, palms flat to the table and leaned forward.

“You said, ‘Not all of it was true.’”

“Yes,” he said, hesitating, instinctively knowing she was going somewhere with this but having no idea where. “I did.”

“So tell me, Brody. Which part of your story was actually true? Because, from what I can see,
none
of it is true.”

She had a point. By way of response, he offered an impotent shrug.

She clenched one hand into a fist and made a soft pounding motion onto the table’s surface. Mournfully, she said, “Why, Brody?”

“Because I can’t carry on with this stupid deception. And that’s because I —”

“—
No
, Brody.” She had interrupted, just as he was about to say those three important little words. “Not
why
are you telling me now. I don’t care about that. Something like this you should ’ave told me at the beginning. No, I mean,
why
was there a deception at all?”

Oh, that.

“It’s because of what I really do for a living.”

“What are you?” She laughed, although it was full to the brim with spite. “A porn movie director? A traffic warden?” Her expression hardened. “Please tell me you’re not a vivisectionist. I couldn’t bear that.”

He shook his head and, just as he was about to answer, Mel leapt forward, jolting the table in her eagerness, the wine glasses wobbling before settling still. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

She placed a hand on his. Was this sympathy? What the hell was going on? Using his free hand, he took a sip of his wine, buying some time.

“Brody,” she smiled at him, “I don’t care if you deliver pizzas for a living.”

Brody choked on his wine. As he coughed and spluttered, she continued.

“I knew it was strange seeing you that time in Joyce’s reception carrying those pizza boxes. I told myself there had to be a simple explanation, and not the one you gave me. It makes sense now.”

Brody regained his composure. He considered giving up and telling her she was right. It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it? Why not continue as they were; just swap one set of lies for another? But, deep down, he knew that was foolhardy.

Slowly, he shook his head. “I wish that was true.”

Mel recoiled back to her side of the table. It was time to drop the final bomb.

“I am an independent IT security consultant.” He almost wanted to add a “Tah-dah!” Noticing her confused expression, he continued soberly, “More commonly known as a computer hacker.”

He allowed the words to sink in.

Suspicion oozed from her voice. “You are a computer hacker?”

“Yes. A white hat, to be specific.”

She nonchalantly splayed her palms in front of her to indicate that his last statement had added no clarification at all. The gesture also indicated how seriously pissed off she was.

“Because of the media, everyone believes computer hackers are evil. And yes, there are many that are. They are called
black
hats. And then there are those who do what they do to help companies improve their defences. They are called
white
hats. I am a white hat. Companies pay me to attack them and afterwards I help them fix the holes I discover in their defences, so that they can stop the black hats getting in.”

It was just about as simple as he could make it.

“So why?” Her tone was steely.

He wasn’t falling for that a second time. “Why what?”

“Why did you make up your profile on the dating site? Why not tell the truth if it is as simple as you say?”

“Because of all the negative connotations associated within being a computer hacker. No one would choose to date one. They would feel unsafe, that their identity was going to be stolen or something worse. And then there’s the fact that everyone thinks techies are boring. They think ‘nerd’. They think ‘geek’. They think ‘anorak’. Who’s going to want to date someone like that?” 

“And the rest of your description? Why not have some truth in it?”

Mel had a point.

As a social engineer, he had become so used to lying about himself that he had never given it a second thought. Also, there was the fact that, under his online persona as Fingal, he was on the wanted list of some of some of the world’s most nefarious cyber-gangs, many of which were backed by the Russian mafia. They would exact a terrible revenge if they somehow tracked Fingal down in the real world. Not only would Brody be at risk, but so would those close to him.

But Brody had already upset Mel enough. He didn’t want add salt to her wounds.

Instead, he played his trump card, hoping it would be enough.

“It is because I am a hacker that I was able to get hold of this,” he pointed to the USB stick laying on the table. “I hacked into HTL and obtained this footage. Footage you and your friends can put to good use. Partly, I did it in the vain hope that it might begin to make up for the last two months. But most of all I did it to prove how much I —”

“—
enough
.” Mel held up her hand to silence him and hastily stood, her chair toppling backwards. It clattered to the floor, causing other diners to glance in their direction. With tears falling she stated with complete finality, “I don’t want to ’ear any more of your lies, Brody. Maybe. And I’m not sure about this. But maybe somewhere in there,” she indicated his body, top to toe, “is a good person trying to get out. But you are a manipulating cheat and a compulsive liar, Brody Taylor. You ’ave the morals of an alley cat. I ’ave never been so betrayed.”

Mel turned and bolted out of the restaurant.

Numbly, Brody watched her leave, knowing all was lost.

Only hours later did Brody recall that he’d left the USB stick behind, lying on the restaurant table, ready for anyone to stumble across.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Social Engineer
is a prequel to
Invasion of Privacy
, but was actually written after its successor. My objective was to introduce the world to Brody Taylor, the elite hacker protagonist of Invasion of Privacy, in a short, accessible, standalone adventure. It’s often hard for readers invest their time and money and take a chance on an unknown debut author and so I hope that this novella has intrigued you enough to want to take that chance now, by choosing to read Invasion of Privacy.
 
And its future sequels.

Although, I have self-published Social Engineer, there is still a team of people around me who have made the result incredibly professional. I’d like to thank my editor, Bryony Sutherland (no relation!) for improving the manuscript immensely and Peter O’Connor of
bespokebookcovers.com
who designed the fantastic cover. Then there’s my wife, Cheryl, and daughters, Laura and Raquel, who fill my life completely, (and also double up fantastic proof readers). Thank you all.

Now read the beginning of the next Deep Web Thriller by Ian Sutherland, the first full-length novel featuring Brody Taylor.

Invasion of Privacy

Brody is an elite computer hacker who specialises in targeting the weakest link in all computer systems: the people who use them. But when he inadvertently stumbles across a serial killer’s online hunting ground while trying to hack a highly-secure illegal website, he becomes caught up in a desperate race against time to uncover the killer’s identity.

Jenny, a DI in the Met Police, is baffled by the brutal rape and murder of a young woman lured to a bogus music audition in a corporate office meeting room. Why her? Why here? And how did the killer discover the intimate and personal details necessary to construct such a convincing trap?

As computer hacker and police detective embark on an uncomfortable collaboration, another unsuspecting victim is lured to her death . . .

Anna Parker wished she’d paid attention to the doubts buried deep in her mind. That they’d put two fingers in each cheek and whistled. Cried foul. Screamed. Anything to have made her listen to sense. To have helped her see through the charade. For she now knew that’s all it was — an elaborate sham that had lured her to this abrupt ending.

“What will you play?” the man named William Webber had asked ten minutes before, when the three-day old illusion was still in full swing and Anna was completely oblivious.
 

“Elgar’s
Concerto in E-Minor
,” she replied. Her voice cracked as she spoke, her nervousness sneaking past her lips, betraying the confident image she hoped to portray. She inhaled deeply, knowing from other auditions that this would help calm her nerves.

“Please begin when you are ready,” Webber said.

She sat on a lonely chair in the centre of the meeting room, her cello propped on its endpin, the neck resting reassuringly on her shoulder. Anna looked around. Desks lined the edges in a large horseshoe shape. Webber sat cross-legged at the head of the room, in front of an imposing wall-to-wall whiteboard. Overhead a huge projector was suspended from the ceiling. In one corner a sprawling fake plastic plant bestowed upon the insipid space a pretence of life. Anna glanced through the window that spanned the length of one wall. In the distance, she could just see the London Eye slowly rotating, each glass pod packed full of tourists.
 

Bravely, she gave voice to her concerns. “This is an odd place to hold an audition?”

His eyes flashed briefly. Annoyance perhaps? But then he fingered his beard, offering an air of contemplation.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he smiled tightly. “But the acoustics are good enough for our purposes. Please begin.”
 

Anna wasn’t sure she concurred. A meeting room in an office building wasn’t exactly designed for musical recitals. But the environment was only half of what had been bothering her.
 

“From your email, I thought someone from the ROH would be here?”
 

Webber paused, considering her question.

The email inviting Anna to audition for a place in the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House had arrived in her inbox three days ago. It explained that she had been selected for audition on the recommendation of Jake Symmonds, one of the viola professors at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, where she studied cello. Although Anna wasn’t taught by Jake she knew who he was. She briefly considered that perhaps the email was a prank by one of her four student housemates, all of whom knew it was her dream to play professionally. She dismissed this thought — surely her friends wouldn’t be so cruel. No, it was just a straightforward email with a potentially life-changing offer.
 

Anna’s flattered ego soon took over, suppressing her doubts. Of course it was standard practice, she reasoned, for the Royal Opera House Orchestra to consult one of London’s leading musical conservatoires as to which of its students to audition. Of course it was normal, she convinced herself, for a viola professor she’d never met to know of her virtuosity as a cellist. Teachers discussed their students with each other all the time, didn’t they? Of course it was fair — no, more than that — it was
fitting
for Anna to be given the chance to fulfil her lifelong dream of playing in a professional orchestra years ahead of her peers.
 

After a few minutes of consternation — or maybe it had been only a few seconds — she embraced the email for what it was: an official invitation to audition for one of the most prestigious orchestras in the country. She felt the excitement build in her and, like a dam made of matchsticks, it quickly burst. With tears cascading happily down her cheeks she jumped up and down on her mattress, screaming for joy, just as she had done one Christmas Day morning years before, when Santa had left an exquisitely laminated maple cello at the foot of her bed.
 

“As I said to you in the lift on the way up, Miss Parker,” Webber responded, “I’m simply the first round. An initial screening, so to speak.”

“But —”

“Put it this way. Impress me today, and next Tuesday you’ll be in the ROH at Covent Garden for the final stage of the audition.”

Anna paused for a moment and allowed his words to sink in. She imagined herself in the orchestra pit, tuned and ready for the conductor to lift his baton, the ballet dancers waiting in the wings, the audience hushing, and finally, the curtains opening. It was a delicious image and she desperately wanted it to happen. To happen to her: the cellist who had evolved from that little girl with the best ever Christmas present. The girl who had worked so hard, first learning the basics — bowing, rhythm, and reading notes — and, in time, attempting to recreate euphonic perfection. Countless hours of solitary practice. Daily sacrifices. A childhood spent observing her school friends through the living room window playing forty-forty, kerbie and later, kiss-chase, while she practised her scales over and over, her bow movements across the strings becoming autonomic as muscle memory took over, the melodies becoming more complex and harmonious.