Underground: Tales of Hacking, Madness and Obsession from the Electronic Frontier (21 page)

From: The Parmaster

Date: Sun Jan 21 10:05:38 1990

The bottom line is a crackdown. The phrack boys were just the start, i’m sure of it.

This is the time to watch yourself. No matter what you are into, whether it’s just codes, cards, etc.

Apparently the government has seen the last straw. Unfortunately, with all of this in the news now, they will be able to get more government money to combat hackers.

And that’s BAD fucking news for us. I think they are going after all the ‘teachers’--the people who educate others into this sort of thing.

I wonder if they think that maybe these remote cases are linked in any way. The only way they canprobably see is that we are hackers. And so that is where their energies will be put. To stop ALL hackers--and stop them BEFORE they can become a threat. After they wipe out the educators, that is. Just a theory.

- Par

Subject: Connection

From: The Parmaster

Date: Sun Jan 21 10:16:11 1990

Well, the only connection is disconnection, as Gandalf [a British hacker] would say.

That’s what i’m putting

on my epitaph.

THE ONLY CONNECTION IS

DISCONNECTION ...

Oh well, maybe i’ll take

a few of the buggers with me when they come for me.

- Par

Subject: Oh well.

From: The Parmaster

Date: Tue Jan 23 19:30:05 1990

‘And now, the end is near. I’ve traveled each and every byway ...’ in the words of the King. Oh well. Who cares? He was a fat shit before he died anyway.

To everyone who’s been a good friend of mine and help me cover up the fact that i don’t know a fucking thing--i thank u. And to everyone else, take it easy and hang tough.

i was temporarily insane at the time

See you smart guys at the funny farm.

- Par

Subject: Par

From: Erik Bloodaxe

Date: Tue Jan 23 23:21:39 1990

Shit man, don’t drink and think about things like that. It’s not healthy, mentally or physically.

Come to Austin, Texas.

We’ll keep you somewhere until we can get something worked out for you.

A year in minimum security (Club Fed) is better then chucking a whole life. Hell, you’re 19!! I have discarded the ‘permanent’ solution for good. Dead people can’t get laid, but people in federal prisons DO get conjugal visits!!!

Think of

Theorem.

Call over here at whatever time you read this ... I can see you are really getting worried, so just fucking call ...

- Erik

Subject: Hah

From: The Parmaster

Date: Thu Jan 25 18:58:00 1990

Just keep in mind they see everything you do. Believe me. I know.

- Par

Subject: Well shit.

From: The Parmaster

Date: Mon Jan 29 15:45:05 1990

It’s happening soon guys.

I wish i could have bought more time. And worked out a deal. But nada. They are nearby now.

I can tell which cars are theirs driving by outside. This is the weirdest case of Deja vu i’ve ever had.

Anyway got an interesting call today. It was from Eddie, one of the Bell systems computers.

It was rather fantasy like ... Probably just his way of saying

‘Goodbye’. Eddie was a good friend, smartest damn UNIX box around ...

And he called today to tell me goodbye.

Now i know i’m fucked. Thanks, Eddie, it’s been real. (whoever you are) ‘ok eddie, this one’s for you’

Much Later,

- Par

Subject: Par

From: Erik Bloodaxe

Date: Mon Jan 29 19:36:38 1990

Buddy, Par, you are over the edge ... lay off the weed. Not everyone with glasses and dark suits are Feds. Not all cars with generic hubcaps are government issue.

Well, hell, I don’t know what the hell ‘Eddie’ is, but that’s a real bizarre message you left.

Fly to Austin ... like tomorrow ... got plenty of places to stash you until things can be smoothed out for a calm transition.

- Erik

Subject: eehh...

From: Phoenix [from Australia]

Date: Tue Jan 30 07:25:59 1990

hmmmmmmmm...

[sic]

what is young Par up to?

Subject: Par and Erik

From: Daneel Olivaw

Date: Mon Jan 29 21:10:00 1990

Erik, you aren’t exactly the best person to be stashing people are you?

Subject: You know you are screwed when.

From: The Parmaster

Date: Wed Jan 31 14:26:04 1990

You know you are screwed

when:

When surveyers survey

your neighbors regularly, and wear sunglasses when it’s like 11 degrees farenheit and cloudy as hell out.

When the same cars keep

driving by outside day and night. (I’ve been thinking about providing coffee an d

doughnuts).

- Par

Subject: heh, Par

From: The Mentor

Date: Wed Jan 31 16:37:04 1990

Ummm. I wear sunglasses when it’s 11 degrees and cloudy ... so you can eliminate that one. :-)

Subject: Hmm, Par

From: Phoenix

Date: Thu Feb 01 10:22:46 1990

At least you arent getting shot at.

Subject: Par, why don’t you ...

From: Ravage

Date: Thu Feb 01 10:56:04 1990

Why not just go out and say ‘hi’ to the nice gentleman? If i kept seeing the same people tooling around my neighborhood, i would actively check them out if they seemed weird.

Subject: Par, jump ’em

From: Aston Martin

Date: Tue Feb 06 18:04:55 1990

What you could do is go out to one of the vans sitting in the street (you know, the one with the two guys sitting in it all day) with a pair of jumper cables. Tell them you’ve seen them sitting there all day and you thought they were stuck. Ask them if they need a jump.

- Aston

Between these strange messages, Par often posted comments on technical matters. Other hackers routinely asked him questions about X.25

networks. Unlike some hackers, Par almost always offered some help. In fact, he believed that being ‘one of the teachers’ made him a particular target. But his willingness to teach others so readily, combined with his relatively humble, self-effacing demeanour, made Par popular among many hackers. It was one reason he found so many places to stay.

Spring arrived, brushing aside a few of the hardships of a winter on the run, then summer. Par was still on the run, still dodging the Secret Service’s national hunt for the fugitive. By autumn, Par had eluded law enforcement officials around the United States for more than a year. The gloom of another cold winter on the run sat on the horizon of Par’s future, but he didn’t care. Anything, everything was bearable. He could take anything Fate would dish up because he had something to live for.

Theorem was coming to visit him again.

When Theorem arrived in New York in early 1991, the weather was bitterly cold. They travelled to Connecticut, where Par was staying in a share-house with friends.

Par was nervous about a lot of things, but mostly about whether things would be the same with Theorem. Within a few hours of her arrival, his fears were assuaged. Theorem felt as passionately about him as she had in California more than twelve months before. His own feelings were even stronger. Theorem was a liferaft of happiness in the growing turmoil of his life.

But things were different in the outside world. Life on the run with Theorem was grim. Constantly dependent on other people, on their charity, they were also subject to their petty whims.

A room-mate in the share-house got very drunk one night and picked a fight with one of Par’s friends. It was a major row and the friend stormed out. In a fit of intoxicated fury, the drunk threatened to turn Par in to the authorities. Slurring his angry words, he announced he was going to call the FBI, CIA and Secret Service to tell them all where Par was living.

Par and Theorem didn’t want to wait around to see if the drunk would be true to his word. They grabbed their coats and fled into the darkness. With little money, and no place else to stay, they walked around for hours in the blistering, cold wind. Eventually they decided they had no choice but to return to the house late at night, hopefully after the drunk had fallen asleep.

They sidled up to the front of the house, alert and on edge. It was quite possible the drunk had called every law enforcement agency his blurry mind could recall, in which case a collection of agents would be lying in wait. The street was deadly quiet. All the parked cars were deserted. Par peered in a darkened window but he couldn’t see anything. He motioned for Theorem to follow him into the house.

Though she couldn’t see Par’s face, Theorem could feel his tension.

Most of the time, she revelled in their closeness, a proximity which at times seemed to border on telepathy. But at this moment, the extraordinary gift of empathy felt like a curse. Theorem could feel Par’s all-consuming paranoia, and it filled her with terror as they crept through the hall, checking each room. Finally they reached Par’s room, expecting to find two or three Secret Service agents waiting patiently for them in the dark.

It was empty.

They climbed into bed and tried to get some sleep, but Theorem lay awake in the dark for a little while, thinking about the strange and fearful experience of returning to the house. Though she spoke to Par on the phone almost every day when they were apart, she realised she had missed something.

Being on the run for so long had changed Par.

Some time after she returned to Switzerland, Theorem’s access to Altos shrivelled up and died. She had been logging in through her old university account but the university eventually killed her access since she was no longer a student. Without access to any X.25 network linked to the outside world, she couldn’t logon to Altos. Although she was never involved with hacking, Theorem had become quite addicted to Altos. The loss of access to the Swiss X.25 network--and therefore to Altos--left her feeling very depressed. She told Par over the telephone, in sombre tones.

Par decide to make a little present for Theorem. While most hackers broke into computers hanging off the X.25 networks, Par broke into the computers of the companies which ran the X.25 networks. Having control over the machines owned by Telenet or Tymnet was real power. And as the master of X.25 networks, Par could simply create a special account--just for Theorem--on Tymnet.

When Par finished making the account, he leaned back in his chair feeling pretty pleased with himself.

Account name: Theorem.

Password: ParLovesMe!

Well, thought Par, she’s going to have to type that in every time she gets on the Tymnet network. Altos might be filled with the world’s best hackers, and they might even try to flirt with Theorem, but she’ll be thinking of me every time she logs on, he thought.

Par called her on the telephone and gave her his special present. When he told her the password to her new account, Theorem laughed. She thought it was sweet.

And so did the MOD boys.

Masters of Deception, or Destruction--it depended on who told the story--was a New York-based gang of hackers. They thought it would be cool to hack Altos. It wasn’t that easy to get Altos shell access, which Theorem had, and most people had to settle for using one of the

‘guest’ accounts. But it was much easier to hack Altos from a shell account than from a ‘guest’ account. Theorem’s account would be the targeted jump-off point.

How did MOD get Theorem’s Altos password? Most probably they were watching one of the X.25 gateways she used as she passed through Tymnet on her way to Altos. Maybe the MOD boys sniffed her password en route. Or maybe they were watching the Tymnet security officials who were watching that gateway.

In the end it didn’t matter how MOD got Theorem’s password on Altos.

What mattered was that they changed her password. When Theorem couldn’t get into Altos she was beside herself. She felt like a junkie going cold turkey. It was too much. And of course she couldn’t reach Par. Because he was on the run, she had to wait for him to call her.

In fact she couldn’t reach any of her other friends on Altos to ask for help. How was she going to find them? They were all hackers. They chose handles so no-one would know their real names.

What Theorem didn’t know was that, not only had she lost access to Altos, but the MOD boys were using her account to hack the Altos system. To the outside world it appeared as though she was doing it.

Theorem finally managed to get a third-hand message to Gandalf, a well-known British hacker. She sought him out for two reasons. First, he was a good friend and was therefore likely to help her out. Second, Gandalf had root access on Altos, which meant he could give her a new password or account.

Gandalf had established quite a reputation for himself in the computer underground through the hacking group 8lgm--The Eight-Legged Groove Machine, named after a British band. He and his friend, fellow British hacker Pad, had the best four legs in the chorus line. They were a world-class act, and certainly some of the best talent to come out of the British hacking scene. But Gandalf and, to a lesser extent, Pad had also developed a reputation for being arrogant. They rubbed some of the American hackers the wrong way. Not that Pad and Gandalf seemed to care. Their attitude was: We’re good. We know it. Bugger off.

Gandalf disabled Theorem’s account on Altos. He couldn’t very well just change the password and then send the new one through the extended grapevine that Theorem had used to get a message through to him. Clearly, someone had targeted her account specifically. No way was he going to broadcast a new password for her account throughout the underground. But the trouble was that neither Par nor Theorem knew what Gandalf had done.

Meanwhile, Par called Theorem and got an earful. An angry Par vowed to find out just who the hell had been messing with her account.

When the MOD boys told Par they were the culprits, he was a bit surprised because he had always been on good terms with them. Par told them how upset Theorem had been, how she gave him an earful. Then an extraordinary thing happened. Corrupt, the toughest, baddest guy in MOD, the black kid from the roughest part of New York, the hacker who gave shit to everyone because he could, apologised to Par.