Hack (7 page)

Logan frowned a little.

“Did you forget the password?”

“No.”

I held up the slip of paper.

“This is the one they gave me. It’s just ‘password.’ But when I typed it in, it wouldn’t let me log on.”

Logan tried logging on with my username. He sighed nasally. He moved to the next machine, and tried again. That didn’t work either.

“Are you sure these details are correct?”

“Mr. Stony just handed them to me. Can you change my password?”

Logan logged on to my machine, using his system administrator account, and reset my password. He then logged in using my account, to verify that the new password worked.

23

“That should take care of it. Let me know if you have any more problems.”

“Thanks.”

I then logged in using my student account, and started working on the assignment, which took me almost no time to complete.

For the next thirty minutes, I listened to Logan drone on at the front of the class, using electronic slides on a large computer whiteboard, to explain the use of spreadsheet formulas.

Logan’s nonexistent enthusiasm was infectious, and eventually my mind switched off. Logan was what some of my old crew used to refer to as a
COBOL

Charlie
, the generic programmer who had worked in commercial computing, doing tedious bean-counting projects on mainframes and other soul-destroying mundane stuff.

That was one of the things that made me so keen to start working as a paid hacker, a white hat, someone who broke into banks for money, to help them test their security. At least it was fun. When you worked in the real world, sooner or later, the boredom and office politics slowly corroded your idealism and your enthusiasm for computing, and you eventually became like Logan. You spent thirty years eking out your living teaching high schoolers BASIC and looking forward to the day when the final bell rang and it was the long summer vacation.

I leaned back in my chair, and looked around at the rest of the class. There was the usual mix of students. Did any of them look like recruits for a dangerous terrorist who might want to gain access to all of the Pentagon’s computer systems? I spotted a dark-skinned guy, in the far corner, sitting alone, and reading through his textbook. I guessed he was Abdul Zaqarwi. I later learned that my instincts were right.

My gaze slowly drifted around the room. I saw a boy at the front of the class frowning in exasperation at the sheer difficulty of what was an easy assignment. I saw two trendy girls, trying hard to stay awake. I saw another boy sat with his arms folded in ostentatious boredom. I saw a hopelessly attentive girl stick her hand up, only to be ignored.

After finishing his discussion on the sum function, Logan handed out a sheet, and told us to type in the ten numbers on it, and work out the sum and the average. I completed that task as fast as I could type, which is pretty darn fast, after years of intense keyboarding. For the other five minutes, while the others caught up, I let my eyes drift around the room some more.

They finally stopped at the front of the classroom, resting on Logan’s electronic whiteboard. The interesting thing about it was that it might somehow be incorporated into my plan. Philips had told me to get Zaqarwi’s attention. One possible way to do that would be to connect to Logan’s whiteboard, and remotely control it somehow. I imagined Logan’s mouse pointer flying uncontrollably over the screen, or drawing a picture of Elmwood High being nuked to bits, getting a laugh from the class.

That would definitely get Zaqarwi’s attention. Of course, it had the risk of getting unwanted attention from Logan, as well. I sat back, thinking it through. I came out of my daydream when Logan came over and asked me how I had done with his assignment. We talked politely about my previous experience with computers, leaving out the spicier details, and then he went away.

The bell sounded, and people scattered. On the way out of class, I thanked Logan, and dawdled just long enough to get the manufacturer’s name and model of the whiteboard. I had never heard of the company, Research Machines, but I knew that I could look them up on the Internet. After biology class, I headed back to the 24

tiny library, and found an Internet terminal. The school and the FBI might be watching my Internet activity, but of course I was deputized for doing such work.

I surfed over to the website of Research Machines, and found that they made four models of whiteboards. I looked over the specifications for the one I wanted, and realized that it was nothing more than a glorified monitor with a network connection, and that it would be as difficult to hack into as a damp paper bag.

At lunchtime, I went to the cafeteria and got a sandwich, which seemed to be made mostly of wet bread with some tasteless white spread.

Around me, hormonal development unfolded in surround-sound. Boys were pretending to be cowboys, so as not to be Indians. Girls were pretending to be prickly thorns, so as not to be wallflowers.

On the far side of the room was a big, modern-style painting, attached to the wall. A ball of foil suddenly flew past my ear, hitting the boy on the table across from me.
Perhaps,
I thought,
I had been a little too harsh in my judgment of jail after all.

After eating lunch, I walked around the campus, looking to see if I could spot any of the local players. I needed a computer and a phone of my own, but before I got them, I needed somewhere to keep them. It was obvious that whomever Philips had on the staff would be doing a nightly check of the locker that Stony had assigned me.

I wouldn’t be able to use it without Philips knowing in detail what I had stored in it.

But someone in the school would have a locker to rent, at the right price.

I made my way outside, and looked around all the places that provided blind-spots for the smokers and the hard cases—the future inmates of the prison system.

I walked around the perimeter of the grounds. A football flew across my path, nearly hitting me. I picked it up, and threw it back to a group of guys playing tag football.

At last I caught sight of two guys talking beside a garage. Whatever they were haggling about, it was no business of mine. But I watched them, and something changed hands. The guy doing the deal had a cigarette dangling from his lips, like some 1950s actor—too cool for school. He was neatly dressed, and his hair was styled in a trendy way. So he wasn’t exactly one of the slackers—more like an enterprising young businessman.

“Hey, man,” I said to him.

I put a bit of computer nerd in my voice; I didn’t want him to think that I would be storing anything but electronic gadgets in his locker. The guy looked at me like I was a tobacco beetle that was about to chow down on his cigarette.

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Do I know you?”

No, he didn’t know me. But money talks, and it says, “Where there’s a bill, there’s a way.”

For twenty FBI dollars, he hooked me up with someone who knew someone else, who was willing to rent me his locker. That guy wanted fifty for only two weeks, but I negotiated up to a whole month. I think I did the taxpayers proud.

I walked back inside, to finish off my schooling for the day, feeling like at least I had made a start. All I needed was to get hold of a computer and a phone, and that could wait until the next day.

25

I got off the bus early, partly because I always hated riding the school bus, and partly because I wanted to scout the local district. I was thinking about my ditch-kit again, about getting ready for whatever emergency came at me. I wanted to know how I could get away, and where I could hide, if it came to it. I didn’t think I’d have to run, but you never know.

I walked through the noisy sub-suburbs and into my own good-looking but boring neighborhood. I walked past wooden fences, holly bushes, elm trees, and garages the size of small houses. Somebody had left a bike out, propped up in their porch, obviously not concerned about it getting stolen.

I passed a house where a little girl dressed in a coat and scarf was playing on a swing. For some reason, I again found myself wondering why the FBI had chosen such an up-market place to conduct their latest sting. They could have found some other house in the school district, for a quarter of the price. Maybe it made them feel safe up here on the hill, driving round in an SUV. Or maybe there was some other reason. I got back to the house, went to my room, and lay down, listening to music, and thinking over the day.

When I went down an hour later, Richard was watching the news on TV from an easy chair. He didn’t pay any attention to me when I sat down. A few minutes later, Hannah came in and said hello.

“How was school?”

“It was okay, but boring.”

“Boring?”

“Nothing much happened.”

“What were the teachers like?”

“Just

teachers.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“A

sandwich.”

When Richard went upstairs, I picked up the remote and flipped the TV over to the movie channel. I like movies. If I need to switch my brain off for a couple of hours, I just watch a movie.

The movie was about some guy working in the French resistance during WWII. I like those movies. I had vague memories of watching movies with my dad, when I was young. He would come home, stick his feet up after a hard day at work, and watch a movie. That’s about the clearest memory I have of him. That, and him and my mother arguing. When Richard came back, he picked up the remote and, without saying anything, turned back to the news.

“We were watching that,” Hannah said, staring at him coldly.

“I was in the middle of the news,” Richard said.

“It’s my fault,” I said. “Sorry.”

Hannah got up, and went into the kitchen. After the news finished, Richard followed Hannah, then they both came back in.

“We’re going into town for a quick look around before dinner,” Hannah said.

“You coming?”

I couldn’t say no. The car was our safe haven, and they wanted me there, to question me. How did that old wartime poster go? Loose lips sink ships. Remember!

The enemy may be listening. We were out of the neighborhood and rolling down the slope into the town, before Richard turned to me, and asked me what had gone on that 26

day. He was no longer my father; he was Special Agent Richard Johnson, of the anti-teenage cyber terrorist squad, or whatever they were calling themselves that week.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“What happened?”

“It’s my first day. Nothing happened.”

“You didn’t see Zaqarwi?”

“Yeah, I saw someone that probably is him, but I didn’t rush in and start saying hello. How would that look?”

“Drop the attitude, Ripley.”

I didn’t think I had an attitude. I was just telling him that nothing had happened.

“I didn’t agree to give you a nightly report.”

“You’re here to work with us. That means keeping us informed.”

“I agreed to work with Philips.”

“You think that you are going to keep us out of the loop?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Just tell us what happened today. You don’t need the attitude.”

“What did I just say? Nothing happened.”

“He’s right,” Hannah said to Richard. “It doesn’t make sense to waste time giving reports, when there is nothing to report.”

Richard frowned at Hannah. “I thought you were working with me.”

“Now who’s got the attitude?” Hannah said.

“Look,” Richard said, “this isn’t a democracy. He’s the criminal, in case you forgot.”

“I will give you a report when anything happens,” I said. “Until then, you either leave me alone or I walk. That’s what we agreed.”

“You walk right back to the Pizza Hut, smart guy? I’ll bet you will.”

“Can we stop arguing?” interjected Hannah. “It’s getting us nowhere.”

Richard turned the car around, and began driving back to the house. But suddenly I spotted a bike shop, and said, “I want to get a bike.”

The store was surprisingly well stocked. I test-rode several bikes, and eventually chose a dual-suspension alloy mountain bike, which was overboard for trips to school, but I didn’t think that it would get stolen in my neighborhood.

Anyway, the FBI was paying.

This new bike was so light that I could lift it with two fingers. It was so smooth, it almost rode itself. My first mountain bike had been steel, and heavy. But it had been good for thousands of kilometers. I rode that piece of junk over half of Washington State.

Back at the house, I put the bike in the garage. I noticed that there were two his and hers bikes already in there. At the table, Richard looked tired and annoyed. He was drinking beer straight from the bottle. He’d been out all day, I figured, probably really working hard. The fatigue he was showing was probably real—the tiredness of a thirty-something who has to travel an hour to work and another hour back. I heard him burp quietly, from the beer, and he noticed me looking at him. He seemed slightly drunk.

After we had finished eating, he said, “That was good,” to Hannah.

“You’re welcome,” Hannah said coolly.

I seconded it. “It was great.”

“Chicken and vegetables. Not exactly adventurous cooking,” Hannah said.

“Do you want to go anywhere tonight?” Richard asked her.

27

“What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. A look around town, maybe?”

“Not tonight. Let’s go tomorrow instead.”

“Okay.”

Suddenly Richard started talking about how the police caught some criminals raiding a local bank, and Hannah nodded, adding the occasional comment.

“This guy,” Richard said, shaking his head as he demonstrated with his hand,

“came out of the bank and ran straight into the road, and got mowed down.”

I was surprised at how quickly Richard and Hannah had gotten over the argument. I sat, listening to the conversation, while I thought back over the argument.

Unlike the arguments I had seen between my real parents, no threats had been made, and nothing was thrown. Nobody slammed any doors, and nobody left, never to be seen again. My new parents just sat there, talking about local events. It was a perverse parody of the nuclear family that left me with the feeling that I had to be alone.