Cyber Terror (8 page)

Jordan nodded. “And you gave him a job?”

“We might’ve done.”

“What’s his name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Jordan shifted his approach. “Is he here now?”

The twins hesitated.

“That means yes,” Jordan said. “I’d like to have a quick chat.”

Half-heartedly, Ian said, “All right. I’ll go and get him.”

Neil gave his brother a nod.

Jordan suspected that the gesture conveyed more than just agreement but, if he was right, the twins were using a sign language that he didn’t understand.

Neil sat down at his desk and gazed at Jordan, but didn’t say a word.

Jordan didn’t trust the brothers. In the quiet, he adjusted his hearing to maximum. He wanted to find out if Ian and the programmer were talking nearby. He didn’t pick up any voices,
though. He heard lorries and cars flying past on the A14, various unidentifiable industrial clunks, bangs and squeals coming from the bigger factories on the estate, the wind whooshing around the
buildings, a door slamming and footsteps. Someone was running away.

At once, Jordan realized what the twins’ look had meant. They’d agreed silently to tip off their employee.

Jordan jumped up. Sarcastically, he said, “Thanks for your help.” He crashed through the door and brushed past Ian, who was no doubt returning to tell Jordan that the man
wasn’t available after all. Jordan dashed to the exit just in time to see someone jump into an old Vauxhall and slam the door shut. The sound of the engine revving was like the roar of a jet
in Jordan’s ears. He turned down the volume as he sprinted towards the car.

Weaving its way out of the twisty car park, the Vauxhall could not get up any great speed.

Determined to cut off the worker’s retreat, Jordan made for the car park’s exit. The Vauxhall slowed to take the final bend and Jordan appeared at the driver’s window.

Knowing that the car was about to accelerate away from the estate, Jordan had to make a quick decision. He raised his right arm and punched through the glass.

Splinters of glass flew everywhere. The driver was so surprised that he yanked on the steering wheel in an attempt to get away from Jordan. The car veered left and crashed into
a bollard.

Jordan bent down towards the broken window, watched the airbag deflate like a burst balloon, and said, “In a hurry to get away? That means you’ve done something bad.”

The man at the wheel was about twenty-five. His seat belt and the airbag had pinned him down, so he wasn’t hurt in the low-speed collision. Even so, he seemed incapable of speech. His
mouth hung open, but he couldn’t form words. He’d been stunned by Jordan’s ferocity and the accident.

“What’s your name?”

Surrounded by shiny fragments of glass, he struggled to reply, “Dipak Hardikar.”

“I know you knocked out a power station in Edinburgh. I want to know what else you’ve done.” Jordan brushed away the remaining beads of glass from the lower edge of the window
and then leaned on it with his right forearm.

Dipak shifted his gaze to Jordan’s hand. Perhaps he was expecting blood and bruising, but he noticed for the first time that there was something different about Jordan’s whole arm.
“Nothing,” he stammered.

“Nothing? Perhaps you’re a bit hazy on the law about misusing computers. If the police take yours away, their specialists will have a field day, looking at what you’ve
done.”

He appeared to be recovering from the shock. “They won’t find anything.”

“I know some experts who will.”

“What do you want?”

Jordan looked closely into Hardikar’s face as he replied. “I want to know what you’ve got against Phil Lazenby.”

There was no sign of recognition at all. “Who?”

“I want to know why you hacked into an aeroplane’s flight system.”

“I didn’t!”

“Why did you run away? What have you done?”

“Look. I...” He stared down at his lap, littered with glassy diamonds. “I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Jordan Stryker and I can turn pretty nasty.” He felt like a fraud because he never thought of himself as cruel.

“All right. You see, I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t have all the papers to...”

For a few seconds, Jordan didn’t realize what Dipak was trying to say. Then he twigged. “Oh. Okay. But if you’re an illegal immigrant, how come you’ve got a driving
licence and a car?”

Looking even more guilty, Dipak kept his head bowed. “The car’s not mine. It’s a friend’s.”

Two people walking past stopped to get a good look at the accident. Realizing there was only a dent and a broken window, they moved on. The Warner twins gazed out of their unit’s
window.

Jordan laughed softly. “This is really piling up. I could get you into a mountain of trouble. I could tell the police you’re not supposed to be in the country, you’re driving
without a licence and you go in for a lot of hacking.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” He paused for two or three seconds before adding, “Unless you show me every cyber attack you’ve made this year.”

Dipak groaned.

“Do we have a bargain?”

Clearly doubtful, Dipak hesitated.

Jordan took out his mobile and pretended to get ready to make a call.

“All right,” said Dipak.

“Back to your place, is it?”

“We can do it here, right now, if you want.”

“How come?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t keep records on a hard drive. Not safe enough. I hide my stuff in the deep web. I can access it from any computer.”

“The deep web? What’s that?” Jordan paused and then added, “Don’t tell me here. Park the car – if it still goes – and we’ll sort it out
inside.”

Dipak did not look comfortable in jeans and sweatshirt. Most likely, he would have preferred to wear something more formal, but his circumstances probably prevented it.

As he logged on, he spoke quietly and quickly. “When you surf the internet, that’s all you’re doing. Surfing. Skimming the surface. You’re seeing a tiny percentage of
what’s really there. There’s this huge mass of stuff beyond the reach of normal search engines. It’s called the deep web. It’s made up of sites that don’t work any
more, abandoned addresses, online businesses that have gone bust and that sort of thing. Quite a few are military sites from the early days of the internet – long since dumped and replaced by
more secure technology. People like me dive down into it, drag up a dead site, revive it to do what we want and then sink it again. No one’s any the wiser. Back down in the depths, nobody
else is going to come across it. It’s a drop of water in a great big ocean.”

“Handy.”

“Yes. There’s a lot of information down there. Lots of data and details of people’s lives in discarded sites. If you want someone else’s identity, there’s plenty to
choose from. Lots of passwords as well. When people replace a website, they often keep the same password.”

“So you go fishing for it?”

“Exactly. Loads of spam comes from dead addresses. And the deep web is where you’ll find horrid sites as well.” He pulled a face and said, “You can guess the sort of
thing.”

Jordan began to warm to Dipak. He was keen, clear and convincing. No doubt he was a good hacker, but Jordan could not assume that he was as harmless as he seemed. Jordan had to continue playing
the part of a bully. He had to remain suspicious.

“There you are,” Dipak said, waving at the monitor. “It looks like a site for an old netball team. It is. But the team disbanded years ago. Now, I use the fixture list to log
all my online activities. The results speak for themselves. A win’s where I broke in. A defeat’s where I didn’t get past security.”

“What’s a draw?”

“I didn’t get in, but there’s at least one loophole still to try. Look,” he said as he scrolled down, “there’s that Scottish power station. Cockenzie. A
win.”

Jordan nodded, but concentrated on the fixture list. On Monday 5th March – the date of the Edinburgh aeroplane crash – Dipak’s log showed that he was trying to muscle his way
into the Indian government’s website. Last night, at the moment when Jordan’s car began to move mysteriously with its shocked passenger trapped inside, Dipak was wrestling with an
online electronic store. The day before, when Victoria Truman’s high-tech home went up in flames, there was no record of what Dipak was doing. When Jordan queried it, Dipak said he was simply
on his way home from work.

Jordan knew that Dipak was familiar enough with computers to invent a false log of his activities, but it looked genuine and he’d had no time to fake it. “Have you heard of
Forew?” Jordan spelled it out to make sure.

“Yes.”

Jordan’s heart leaped. “What is it?” He held his breath.

“Shorthand for foreword. You see it a lot on the web.”

“Oh.” Jordan’s anticipation evaporated at once because Raven had already mentioned that.

“Have you seen what you want?” Dipak asked. “No aeroplanes or air traffic control systems.”

“I guess so.”

Dipak gazed at him. “Are you going to keep your word?”

“Yes,” Jordan answered. Then he added a threat. “Unless I find out you haven’t been on the level with me.”

Dipak nodded towards the screen. “I’ve shown you everything. Honest. Totally open.”

“I hope so,” Jordan replied. “I’ll leave you to it now. But you’ve still got some explaining to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to tell your mate what happened to his car.”

HiSpec MicroSystems had refused to cooperate. According to Raven, the cagey company was not willing to provide a list of its employees. So Jordan had come up with a different
tactic to find out who worked there.

But, standing outside HiSpec’s factory on the outskirts of Cambridge, he might have been looking at a fortress or a prison. Even late at night, floodlights blazed all around the premises,
illuminating the car park and every approach. Jordan could see two guards in the security block at the front of the main building. Set to maximum, his eyesight picked out closed-circuit TV cameras
at every corner. Breaking into the company and stealing a list of its staff suddenly seemed ridiculous and impossible.

Frustrated, he walked away with a sigh.

But he wasn’t downhearted for long. He had another idea for discovering who worked for the electronics giant. All he needed was help from someone like Merrick Breeze or Dipak Hardikar. He
chose Dipak.

On his mobile, Jordan said to Angel, “I’m staying in the Suffolk safe house tonight so I can see a hacker in the morning. He’ll get me into HiSpec’s
files.”

“A virtual break-in has its advantages. Was it Raven’s idea?”

“No. Mine.”

“Can you be sure your hacker’s not Short Circuit?” Angel asked.

“Not totally, no. But I don’t think so.”

“Stay focused, Jordan. Don’t drop your guard.”

“Okay. But...”

“What?”

“I think I’ll have to bribe him to get what I want.”

“Bribe him with what?”

“I’m using him because he’s an illegal immigrant,” Jordan said. “I bet he’ll do anything for a British passport or whatever he needs to stay in this
country.”

“A thousand pounds would be easier.”

Jordan replied, “The passport’s worth a lot more to him.”

“Well...”

“You did it for the new me.”

“All right. If he delivers the goods, put all his details into the system – including a mugshot – and I’ll pull a few strings. Now,” Angel continued,
“I’ve got a couple of jobs for you while you’re up there. We never did chase the history of the victims we’re sure about. The fire at Victoria Truman’s hasn’t
left anything to go on. So, try a trip to Long Melford. I’ve cleared you to get into Phil Lazenby’s house. Check him out. Including his writing.”

“Will there be anyone around?”

“His wife died a few years ago. Two children long since moved out. Not much contact. You’ve got it to yourself.”

“What’s the second job?”

“Carlton Reed’s wife – Demi – is expecting you tomorrow in Woodbridge. Around lunchtime. I’ve put a briefing and cover story for you on the system. Along with Phil
Lazenby’s address.”

On Tuesday morning, Dipak’s car limped into the parking area. Part of the bumper was held in place with duct tape. The driver’s window was an ill-fitting piece of
transparent plastic. It was attached to the door with haphazard pieces of tape, like an ineptly bandaged wound.

Jordan intercepted the IT worker before he entered the factory. Together, they stood under the canopy by the front door while rain splashed down, doing its best to penetrate the improvised
window of Dipak’s car.

Jordan said, “I want you to do something for me.”

Dipak frowned. “What’s that?”

“You’ll have heard of HiSpec MicroSystems.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I need a list of people who work there.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. Jordan Stryker.”

“Yes, but...”

Jordan interrupted. “You could hack into the company and get it for me.”

Dipak shook his head. “HiSpec’s wrapped up. Plenty have tried, but no one’s cracked it.”

“Okay. You could hack into the bank that handles the workers’ pay.”

“It’s possible. Some banks aren’t as secure as they like to think.”

“Good,” said Jordan. “It’s a deal.”

Puzzled, Dipak asked, “If it’s a deal, what do I get out of it?”

“I’m coming to that,” Jordan told him, “but there’s something else first. A bank’s only going to pay people who work there now. It’d be good to find out
who’s worked for them in the last five years, or whatever. Can you dredge up old lists from the deep web?”

Dipak sighed. “Maybe.”

“Really, I’m after anything you can get on HiSpec workers.”

“I could try, but...”

Rain pelted Bury St. Edmunds, turning the car park into a shallow pool. Above them, water gushed along the gutter.

“If you give me what I want, I’ll get you a British passport.”

Dipak’s eyes shone suddenly. “Really?”

Jordan nodded.

“How can I be sure?”