SPYWARE BOOK (14 page)

“Looks good,” said the pig, giving a tiny smile that looked more like he was relieving himself rather than actually pleased. “I just saw you parked over here my last two or three passes down this stretch. Even though you’re off the highway system, abandoned cars always get my attention. Wouldn’t want your property stripped. We get a lot of that around South Sac.”

Air whistled out of Spurlock’s locked lungs. “Yes sir, thanks for the thought, officer.”He reached out for his papers.

The cop looked up and made as if to hand over the papers, but halted. For the first time, their eyes met. The cop was balding, tall and slim with broad shoulders. His face was long and looked fortyish. He wore a neat brown mustache that look as though he trimmed it with tweezers.

Then Spurlock saw it in his eyes: alarm bells had been triggered. Some fucking pig-instinct had just been tripped, and the cop smelled something, something he didn’t like.

“I would like to take a look in the back, if you don’t mind,” he said.

Spurlock forced a smile. That was it, then. His face felt dead and rubbery. There was nothing he could do now. He would climb out, hopefully behind him, then pull the .22 and spray every bullet he had into him. He realized numbly that it would be his first Murder One. He had often wondered when it would come.

“It’s locked, sir, I’ll just have to open it for you,” he said. He reached down to the door latch and popped it open. The cop back up a step automatically.

“Don’t forget your keys,” said the cop.

“Huh? Oh, right,” Spurlock said, giving a little nervous laugh. He turned back to grab the keys dangling in the ignition.
Squirt-squirt-squirt
, he thought, that’s all there was to it. He knew he would have to do it right away, without hesitating or hoping to get out of it. He turned back with the keys and sure enough, the cop had his back turned. He was talking into the radio mike that he kept clipped to his shoulder.

The little steel squirt gun was so tiny Spurlock could hide it neatly in his palm. He did so now as he closed the van door behind him. The cop was walking away, and Spurlock felt a moment of panic; he wanted to be at point-blank range.

Suddenly, the cop stopped speaking into his radio and turned back to Spurlock. “I’ve got an assistance call,” he said, “drive safe.”

And it was over, just like that. He trotted back to his black-and-white and drove off. Spurlock was left rubbing his fingers nervously along the barrel of his little black squirt gun.

“I’ve got to get rid of this kid,” he said to no one.

. . . 55 Hours and Counting . . .

Ray spotted Magic in a crowded cafe. He signaled her quietly, asking for a private conversation. Magic hesitated, then touched the mouse and the connection was made. The two of them conversed not in a physical environment, but rather in a chatroom. Nocarrier was a social networking site full of chatrooms, blogs and message boards, now slowed down by the choked internet, but still active. The name of the site caused many to smile when they read it. An inside joke, NoCarrier was the error message one used to get all too often when your personal computer tried to connect across the phone system to another computer and failed. He had found the boards that specialized in university socializing, figuring that Nog had recommended the site for this reason. Someone at the university had to know something.

Physically, Ray sat in a quiet corner of a hotel lobby. He had finally found one that had unprotected free wireless service. His greatest fear was that someone would recognize him. As a college professor in a college town, he was someone that was easily recognized by a lot of people. He had decided to set up camp in the stuffiest, most expensive hotel in town because students, as a general rule, didn’t have the money or the inclination to go there. Elderly couples, bent on golfing their way through retirement and business people who checked their watches constantly were the only patrons in sight. Hotels often had outlets as well. He’d spent the morning setting up in a quiet conference alcove of the Red Lyon Inn’s lobby. Using his prepaid cellular for the internet connection, he felt he had the perfect spot for his work. He had purchased one of the all-you-can-eat for a month phone cards.

Ray couldn’t help but smile at the number of users logged onto
NoCarrier
. Clearly, the slowdown of the internet hadn’t caused people to stop chatting and ranting. They were all addicted to the web and would keep playing until the Titanic hit the bottom, he supposed.

As the connection came up, he saw that Magic was typing already.

You don’t fool around, do you Dr. Vance?
appeared on his screen.

What do you mean?
he typed.

The virus, sir!
came the reply.
Just look at the news! Company stocks are tanking. Websites are shutting down. All because you personally killed the internet. I’m impressed.

Don’t be. I didn’t do it.

\(*o*)/
Of course not. As you say, sir.

Ray sighed to himself. He supposed he was an obvious suspect. Nog had done his work well.

Look,
he typed,
I didn’t do it and what’s more I know who did.

Okay, okay, I’ll suspend my disbelief and hero worship for the moment. Why did you ask to talk to me? Just to give me the thrill of a net conversation with a fugitive felon?

First, let me ask you this: have you ever put together a virus?

Not a fair question!

It’s totally fair. You asked me the same thing in class, remember?

There was a pause. Ray wondered what kind of squirming was going on at the other end of the line.

Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’ve got the feds there and now you’re fishing for a confession! I’m just a grad-student, remember.

Exactly,
typed Ray.
You’re a computer science grad-student. Suspect number One-A. And be serious, there aren’t any feds in the country that could sit still while I type away online to prove my innocence. I think they’d all sooner break my fingers.

There was another pause, then,
Sure, so I’ve dabbled in the black arts. Can I still be a jedi?

Ray breathed deeply. He had contacted the right woman. He needed a hacker in his corner. The truth about technology was that the older, more experienced individual wasn’t the best. Computer scientists were more like gymnasts than normal, staid engineering-types. An older person could still be hot and produce solid work, but it was part of the nature of humans that you stopped wanting to learn a thousand new things every day about when you turned thirty. Families, daily pursuits, just having a life, all these things prevented older people from being the best techies. The true stars were almost always young, usually in their early twenties. Unattached people with too much in the way of brains and curiosity seemed to do the best. They lived on the net, poked into every forgotten crevice of their machines, were fascinated and excited by every newly developed gizmo. Ray had lost that edge about five years ago, and he knew it.

As long as you repent, Leia, you will be anointed,
he typed.

So, what would you need from this newly unveiled amateur hacker?

First, I need a better handle on this system. I’m in as an unqualified user right now, and the sysop will probably take a week or two to knock me up to getting my own signature on the boards. I want full permissions. I want to run the place.

Hmm. A tough one with the current demand, but I happen to know one of the superuser account names: foghorn.

All lower case?

Yes.

What’s the password?

I’ll give you three guesses...

Ray frowned for a moment, then smiled.
Leghorn?
he typed.

You got it in one!
came the reply.
I guess I was never really good at security. Can I do anything else for you?

I want to eavesdrop. I want to be a fly on an electronic wall.

Ah, I have just the thing for you.

Even as he watched, the data began to flow across the wires to be copied down onto his hard disk. Something came up to confirm he wanted to install it. He did. Within a minute Ray had downloaded a chunk of software that was illegal to possess, create or transmit.

“Chalk up a few more felonies for my side,” he muttered aloud.

When the transmission ended, the screen shifted back to chat mode.

Thanks, Magic
,
he typed.

You’re welcome. I hope you find your kid.

You know about that?

All the hackers out here are rooting for you... At least, those who don’t make you out as the anti-christ, that is. You’re a hot topic in every working chat room, Vance. I’m something of a celebrity just by being associated with you.

I had no idea. I’ve got to go now.

By the way, Ray, what’s going to happen to my grade in your class if you’re in the back of a squad car?

Ray snorted.

Your A is so solid it won’t matter if I go to the chair.

The last thing she typed was just one word:

Careful.

Then she broke the connection. Ray sat staring at the screen for a moment, then he blinked and roused himself to action. He had a lot of work to do.

. . . 54 Hours and Counting . . .

Agents Vasquez and Johansen drove up and parked in front of the Vance residence. She looked at the house and thought about what had happened to this perfectly normal-looking family over the last few days.

“You know, if Vance is innocent, life’s been giving him a pretty hard time lately.”

“Second thoughts?” asked Johansen. His hands still gripped the steering wheel. By unspoken tradition, she almost always let him drive. It was similar to the paying at restaurants thing, a sensible move that made them less conspicuous and simultaneously saved his masculinity.

She sighed. “No, we’ve got to give her both barrels. The sooner Vance gives up the better, whether he’s guilty or not.”

He nodded and popped the door latch. Together they climbed out and approached the house. Neither of them asked the question that hung in the air: if he was innocent, how did it help little Justin’s chances to have his dad sitting in jail until the authorities finally decided to believe him? Vasquez knew from experience that there was no real answer to questions like that. In this business, you couldn’t let it get personal, especially if you really didn’t know the facts. In those cases, you followed the book. That way, you could still live with yourself if things went sour later. There was always the book to blame then.

The door opened before she could knock on it.

“What do you know?” asked Sarah. She looked like she had slept on the couch, or maybe hadn’t slept at all. Her hair, normally worked on for a half-hour or more in the bathroom, looked like an inverted bird’s nest. Gripped in her hand was a cordless phone.

“There’s no news about Justin, Mrs. Vance,” said Vasquez.

“Why are you here then?” she demanded, flicking her eyes from one to the other of them. “Is it about my husband?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vance. May we come in?”

There was a long moment of hesitation. Vasquez knew right away that this wasn’t going to go smoothly. The woman looked at her as one might look at a stray Rottweiler in the park.

“All right. Come in and talk to me.” She walked away into the living room, leaving the door hanging open behind her.

They followed her and Vasquez sat on the couch. Johansen stayed back, looking as if he would rather stand. Vasquez gave him a quick stare. He got the hint and took his spot beside her on the couch.

Sarah flopped into an armchair and fiddled with the TV remote. She didn’t turn it on. In her other hand she still gripped the phone. Vasquez got the immediate impression that she had spent the night in exactly that pose.

“I know this must be a difficult time for you, Mrs. Vance—” Vasquez began.

“Save it,” Sarah interrupted. “What do you want?”

“We want to help your husband.”

Sarah snorted. “Then find Justin. And find the real author of that virus. Have you been following CNN? It’s all over the world now. It’s tearing up files across the globe. All the online stocks are plummeting. Everyone on Wall Street is pissing themselves.”

“Yes, the situation is very serious,” agreed Vasquez. While they had been talking their way past the local sheriff’s office, the National Security Exchange Commission had called them. They were getting involved now as well. They weren’t content to let the FBI and the NSA handle it alone. All of that worried and annoyed Vasquez, who knew that for every additional agency involved, as Johansen had put it earlier, ‘a fresh load of shit would be left on her doorstep every morning’.

“But you know,” said Sarah. “I could care less. All I really want is the family I had a few days ago.”