Hacked (10 page)

Sleeping was out of the question. I went downstairs to get provisions for a night of … gaming, exploring, maybe stumbling upon Angel …

‘Come in here a minute,’ said Dad as I passed the door to the telly room. He was watching with Mum – rare.

‘I’m just getting some —’

‘Shhh!’ said Dad.

Mum looked over and pressed her finger across her lips. The news was on. I felt a flutter of panic, praying it would only be the football results or a tax announcement for Dad to get all shirty about. It took a few words for me to tune in.

‘… British Government does not negotiate with terrorists but in this instance the threat to the general public combined with the explicit nature of that threat has impelled the Secretary of State for Defence to ask for a dialogue. In this unprecedented move …’

If I’d had dogs’ ears to prick up, up they’d have gone.

‘What did I miss?’

El appeared in her Hello Kitty onesie.

‘He’s going to bomb London,’ she said. ‘Like in the Blitz.’

‘She’s not wrong,’ said Dad. ‘They’ve decided that Dronejacker really does have a drone, and plans to use it. They want to negotiate, but in case he won’t, likely targets in London are being evacuated.’

‘There are helicopters and all sorts searching for the drone,’ said Mum. ‘Evidently they’re hard to find. You wouldn’t think you could lose one, would you?’

‘It’s a proper emergency,’ said Dad. ‘They’ve got the Eurofighters at the ready to shoot it down. Bloody terrorists.’

‘How much damage can one drone do?’ asked Mum.

‘It’s the missiles they fire, not the drones themselves,’ said Dad, stating the obvious – his speciality.

‘They can vaporise a car and everyone in it,’ I said. ‘Anyone nearby would get shrapnel damage – lose legs and arms, hearing, sight. The blast waves alone can crush your organs.’

‘I’m glad
we
don’t live in London,’ said El. ‘I don’t want a bomb on my head.’

‘Nor me,’ I said, as casually as I could. I walked out of the door, went via the kitchen as planned, and then back upstairs. I put the Coke on my side table, took a couple of yogic breaths and read the full statement from the Secretary of State for Defence which was on the news page of the BBC, right where the terrorist had put his threat. While I waited for everyone to go to bed, I cycled through various sites. Like Dad said,
London was really jittery – no one knew whether to leg it or stay put. In a city of eight million, the chances of getting hit were tiny, but reading the sensationalist coverage, I could see why people were panicking.

There were reports of traffic jams, people abandoning cars and walking, Tube stations closed due to overcrowding, police presence outside the Houses of Parliament, Number 10, Buckingham Palace and on all the bridges. Speculation about both the likely target and the current whereabouts of the drone filled pages and pages, as did the big question: Why?

Everyone had a theory. Dronejacker was a disgruntled ex-serviceman, a fanatical Muslim, someone ‘on the spectrum’ like Gary McKinnon, an anti-capitalist, an anti-American, Eeyore, Kevin Bacon … But the most plausible was that Angel was something to do with a territory that was plagued by drone strikes on civilians – Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen …

By eleven-thirty the house was dark and quiet. There was no point putting off the inevitable. Angel was real. The drone was real. The threat was real. I had to do something.

But I didn’t. Time ticked. I sat. How warped was Angel that he made strangers do his dirty work for him? I wanted to tie a rope round his neck, whack him with the lead piping or the spanner … I didn’t want to admit my part, own up, be brave … but Angel made me.

The response to the government came back on the BBC’s Twitter feed at midnight (using 149 characters).

The job goes ahead at noon. How does it feel, civilians, to be at the mercy of an unmanned flying weapon? By the way, Dronejacker’s good. I like it.

My phone started juddering away on silent (shouldn’t silent
be
silent?) but I didn’t bother seeing who it was. I had nothing to say to Ruby – I’d shoved everything about her away in a little-used bit of cortex. And Joe and Ty could wait for an update. At least I’d have something to tell them when I met them at nine, thoroughly deserving my bacon sandwich.

I set up a VoIP call to Crimestoppers via a random Skype account in Dharamsala (I think the Dalai Lama lives there). A female voice answered, said she was called Rachel. I didn’t give her time to say her bit, just ploughed straight in.

‘I wrote some code that got control of a US drone. I gave it away to a stranger called Angel. I think he’s Dronejacker.’

Confessing wasn’t anything like as bad as I expected.

‘And your name is?’

‘I don’t want to give my name.’

‘That’s all right. Can you tell me any more about … did you say Angel?’

‘Yes. And no I can’t. I don’t know who he is.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘On lots of forums, and then on IRC. And lots of places.’

She asked me a few more questions that showed she had no idea what I was on about. My answers were
all the same. No, I didn’t know what he looked like. No, I had no other name for him. You get the gist.

‘Can you stay on the line while I get someone else to talk to you?’ she said.

Good move.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I waited. In front of my eyes, London’s level of panic rose in pictures and words. Loads of journos, bloggers and tweeters had now drawn the same conclusion from Angel’s choice of word – civilians. It fitted. Examples of drones killing innocent people were everywhere. US drones annihilated a whole wedding party in Yemen. In Pakistan, eighteen labourers were killed while they were waiting for their dinner. The military called the casualties ‘collateral damage’. Anti-drone groups called them war crimes. People were angry (understandably), and one of those people was Dronejacker. If civilians were the target, London was right to panic.

‘Hello, I’m Rick. I understand you don’t want to give your name.’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘Can you tell me what you told my colleague, Rachel?’

I repeated what I’d said.

‘That’s very interesting. Thank you for calling. We’ll keep an eye out for Angel, or any other callers that mention his name.’

‘Is that it?’ I said.

‘Yes. Thank you again. Please understand that we’re
very busy here today, and have other information that we need to prioritise.’ There was a pause. ‘We could call you back when it’s quieter if you gave us a name and number …’

‘No, thank you.’

That was the end of the conversation. He didn’t believe me, had me down as a crackpot. Unless they were already hot on the tail of a well-organised gang of hackers, nothing to do with Angel.

Stop dreaming, Dan.

I looked back at Dronejacker’s response to the government’s attempt to negotiate. The first six words:

The job goes ahead at noon.

Stupid Dan! What did Angel always say?

good job

bad job

great job

It was him. For definite. I was involved. For definite.

Everything was pixel sharp. For the first time, I had a clear idea of what to do. I rang 101, gave my name and address, and started to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. (That statement is an exaggeration.)

‘Can I stop you there?’ said the voice. ‘I need to put you through to an officer.’ Who was I talking to? A school leaver on minimum wage?

I waited for, hopefully, a senior policeman … maybe they were putting me through to Scotland Yard …
The feeling that I was, at last, doing the right thing was, surprisingly, as good as when I was doing the wrong thing i.e. hijacking the spy drone. I wouldn’t be treated like Gary McKinnon, because
I
was about to save the day.

‘Hello, Dan,’ said the voice. ‘This is Police Constable Helen Perry.’

‘Hi,’ I said, ready to agree to them seizing my computer, phone, laptop … Keen to be the most helpful citizen on the planet to stop London exploding in … eight hours and eleven minutes. The squad cars were probably already on their way to me …

‘Dan, I’ve had a talk with my fellow officer and we think you should tell your parents about your call to us today. We could send someone round but it might be better for you to broach the subject yourself. The internet isn’t the safe place it seems, Dan.’

I started to speak really quickly, explaining it all again, trying to get her to understand. But the more I spoke the more I could read her thoughts:
Poor deluded kid, probably from a troubled background.

I found myself saying, ‘I really am very clever. It wasn’t that difficult once I’d found a window in Afghanistan.’

That was when I really lost her.

It’s a weird feeling to not be able to convince someone you’re serious. Nightmarish. Having decided to confess, being patronised like I was a little kid was frustrating as hell. I understood why people banged their heads against walls, really I did.

My word wasn’t enough – I needed proof.

Leaving no footprint is an art. What I needed were dirty great muddy boots for the police to make a mould from. Not for the first time, or even the fiftieth, I wished I’d never had a conversation with Angel. Boasting about Pay As You Go online was the worst thing I’d ever done.

Hallelujah! Cancel that. It might just have been the best thing …

I trawled back through my email for the only mobile number I ever got sent. All my other Pay As You Go customers had given me their numbers face to face, or via a friend, and paid cash. Angel was the only ‘stranger’ that I got free credit for. I had his number. His email was probably spoofed, but his number … maybe not. I thought about ringing it, but what would I say?

‘Are you the idiot with the combat drone that dragged me down with you?’

I thought about ringing PC Helen Perry but she’d got as much of a clue about me as the psychiatrist who prescribed my white pills when I was nine.

Several thoughts later, I realised that no one was going to take any notice of me unless I gave them real Angel, as opposed to virtual Angel. If his phone was still in use, and still his, I could find out where he was. First task was to identify the network and try to find him through location-based services. If not, somehow the HLR (the Home Location Register) and the VLR (Visiting Location Register) were bound to give me what I needed … although it might take a while.

What was I waiting for?

He’ll have changed his number
… said the doubter in my head. Maybe. But I’d forgotten all about our first transaction. Maybe he had too.

Just like when I attacked the reconnaissance satellite system, first of all I tidied. It’s easier to think with a calm mind (the Dalai Lama tweeted that). I put my laptop parallel with the right edge of the desk, centred my computer, shoved everything else on the floor, closed the curtains, lowered the lights (with the dimmer switch I installed myself) and randomly chose Russell Howard as background. (Music makes me sing – can’t code
and
warble.) I almost got down to it in my clothes but I’d made that mistake on an all-nighter before. I grabbed my ’jama bottoms and the manky T-shirt with the washed-off reindeer on it that I like because it’s soft. Ready, steady, go!

Time doesn’t obey any rules when you’re coding. I ate Oreos. Drank Coke. Put on ‘filthy Frankie Boyle’ – Mum’s words – but didn’t register a single gag. I needed to find what mobile operator Angel was with before I could try to find him. Servers, code, more servers. At some point I could smell my own breath – rank. I got up and fetched some water. I carried on working in silence apart from the tapping – too engrossed in the task to select more background noise.

Light filtered through the gap in the curtains. Day was close. So was I.

Angel’s phone was in Norfolk! Somewhere in that lump on the right-hand side of England. The cell site gave me a five-mile circle that he was somewhere inside. But phone technology is better than that. Power levels and antenna patterns closed him down. In a city I’d have got a street, but Angel was in the middle of a lot of green. The only house, in fact.

I checked the data. Brought the location up on Google satellite. Nearest village – South Creake. The time was 7.11 (like the shop).

The doorbell went. I ran downstairs. It felt good to move even though I misjudged the last step and landed legs splayed like a newborn foal. It was the deliveryman who brings the Amazon parcels, ordered by Dad.

‘Morning,’ said Mum from the kitchen. I went in, dumping the package on the table.

‘You’re up early,’ she said.

‘Hungry,’ I said. I had the light-headed feeling that makes everything appear not quite grounded. Eating would be good. I’d found Angel. Now I had to decide who to tell, and how to convince them.

I got a bowl and filled it with milk, about to start the Weetabix routine. Dad shuffled in wearing his fake Uggs.

‘Isn’t it the holidays?’ he said.

I nodded.

On the radio the Today programme man that Dad likes to shout at was talking.

‘London is, this morning, uncharacteristically quiet.
Many commuters have avoided the city as have —’

My spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.

Dad said, ‘Shhh!’

I moved my arm at snail speed, like an astronaut, but another look at Dad’s face made me reconsider. I knew I had Angel in my sights but the rest of the world thought there was still a terror threat. I needed to shape up, get back upstairs and save the world. The report droned (ha!) on.

I abandoned the soaking-up-the-milk ritual, ate two more Weetabix in four mouthfuls, picked up my bowl, shoved it in the dishwasher and was half out of the door —

‘Any plans for today?’ said Mum. ‘El’s at holiday club so you’re on your own, I’m afraid.’

The Confessional Tourette’s raised its head. I mentally decapitated it.

‘Revision. And I’m seeing Ty and Joe.’

‘Not Ruby?’ said Dad, sideways tilt of the head and a wink.

‘Maybe,’ I said, adopting the usual tactic of keeping everything in the garden rosy.

‘See you later,’ said Mum.

I escaped upstairs. The movement of the air circulated the stench from my armpits quite nicely.
Old-man
stink. It made sense to wait till the parents had gone out before I made THE call, so I took a shower.

The boiling hot water was better than normal. I even washed my hair.

The capital of Great Britain was quaking in fear, but a tall, thin boy in an average-sized city was about to catch the perpetrator through wile and cunning. Soon as I was dry, as long as the house was empty, I’d get on the phone to … Scotland Yard. Why not? It was national security stuff.

I felt euphoric, like a manic-depressive in the manic bit. (Except it’s bi-polar now.) (Joke:
Bi-polar.com
seems to be down. Oh, no sorry, it’s back up again.) But somehow underneath I knew it wasn’t what I should be feeling. I think the lack of sleep had got to me. It is, after all, a method of torture, affecting co-ordination, reaction time and judgement.

I had a T-shirt half over my head when the doorbell went again. I could guess who it was … I went to let my mates in. But it was another delivery.

‘John Langley,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Shall I leave it round the back?’

I glanced at the huge box. What had Dad bought now?

‘Yes, please.’

‘Cluck, cluck,’ he said, as I shut the door.

It was the chicken coop. I’d forgotten that El had negotiated no Easter eggs in exchange for being allowed four chickens.

‘Scotland Yard is a metonym for the headquarters of the Metropolitan police force,’ it says on their website.
‘A metonym is a word, name or expression used as substitute for something else with which it is closely associated,’ it says in Oxford Dictionaries.

I rang the number from the house phone, sitting on the bottom stair with my laptop on my knees. No re-routing this time. Cards on the table. A woman answered and I explained I had vital information about Dronejacker. I gave her my name and address. She put me straight through – no waiting, no music. I spoke slowly and clearly to someone from the New Cyber Crime Unit (NCCU), admitting my part in Dronejacker’s plan. He didn’t interrupt at all, so I found myself saying, ‘Are you still there?’ before I told him the best bit.

‘Yes, Dan, I’m listening.’

‘I know where Dronejacker is. I hacked his phone. That means I can give you GPS co-ordinates or the postcode. Both!’

There was a short silence. Not what you expect when you’ve just revealed the Cluedo murderer.

‘OK, I’ll jot down both of those now.’

Jot?

I used the International Radiotelephony Spelling Alphabet to make sure there was no mistake.

‘November Romeo two one …’

‘I’ve got all that,’ said the man from NCCU. ‘Many thanks for your call, Dan.’ His tone said everything. I may as well have been ringing to complain about the phone coverage in my house or the weather.

‘I’m not a malicious caller. It’s the truth.’

‘We appreciate the call and will follow up the information you’ve provided. Thank you again.’

Unbelievable!

I banged my head against the newel post to see if pain helped … was wondering how I knew the correct name for the wooden pillar at the bottom of the stairs when the bell rang. As I twisted the latch, the door hurtled towards my face. I let out a little involuntary squeal. It was Joe, at speed. He was followed by Ty.

‘You didn’t find the drone, did you?’ Joe asked.

I shook my head. ‘The code didn’t work. They must have identified the weakness in the server.’

‘Will that stop Angel?’ asked Ty. He was flushed. Panicky.

More head shaking. ‘Not if he’s already got the drone.’

‘Did you call anyone?’ said Joe.

I nodded. ‘They didn’t believe me.’

‘Didn’t you show them the code?’ Ty was livid with me. A law-abiding boy like
him
would have known how to make them listen.

‘The people who answer the phones are like … customer services. They don’t understand. Thought I was attention-seeking. I tried Crimestoppers and the police.’

‘Are you telling the truth?’ asked Joe. Nice to have friends that believe in you!

‘I’m not an idiot,’ I said.

‘Debatable,’ said Joe.

‘Shut up,’ said Ty. ‘There must be a way of showing them that you’re for real.’

‘There’s more.’ I took a deep breath in and as it whistled out I said, ‘I’ve found Angel.’

‘What?’ said both voices.

I explained about the phone and showed them the street view on Google Maps. And then I explained that I’d just rung Scotland Yard.

‘Brilliant,’ said Ty, clearly relieved. ‘Well done. Did they say what they were going to do?’

They’re sending a fast black car to whisk me off to HQ where I’m going to brief the team …

‘They took the details,’ I said. My voice was flat, like my mood. ‘I don’t think they’re going to do anything.’

Ty swore – a rare thing.

‘There has to be a way to get through to someone who’ll realise you know what you’re on about,’ said Joe.

‘Do what he did,’ said Ty.

For once my brain was slow to interpret the short sentence that would change my life forever.

‘Good one,’ said Joe. ‘Hack the BBC, Dan. Come on, now!’

Joe made toast and Nutella. He brought it up and the three of us sat round my computer, me coding my way to celebrity status, Ty working on the words, Joe eating.

‘Add a photo of you so they can see you’re normal,’ said Ty.

‘You’d need a photo of someone else to do that,’
said Joe, as I quickly put a hoodie over my reindeer top and dragged on jeans.

‘It’s not funny,’ said Ty. He kept squinting, and shifting about on his chair. Even though I was the one in a mess, he was the most stressed.

What we ended up with was a headline, some explanation underneath, a picture of me, and the satellite picture of Angel’s ‘current whereabouts’ in deepest Norfolk. The words were a bit plonky, but between us we didn’t have a whole lot of experience of ‘media’ talk, or a lot of time, which made the hack a bit plonky too.

‘Only thing is, Angel’s going to see this too,’ said Ty. ‘He’ll get away.’

‘He won’t get far,’ I said. ‘Anyway, what else can I do?’

It was 10.37 a.m. when I replicated Angel’s method of communication – but I wiped the BBC’s whole site. It was quicker than trying to isolate the news.

It had just gone live when Joe, who had totally got into the whole hacking scene, had an idea.

‘If Angel’s there now, can you see him on the spy satellite?’

‘Dan’s locked out, remember?’ said Ty.

‘Not necessarily,’ I said, not bothering to explain that although I couldn’t get into the server with the combat drones, last time I tried I could still get into the US Military network.

A bit of furious key-tapping later, I had not only strolled back in with my old lines of code, like I did when I was looking for the hit-and-run van, but I’d used Angel’s GPS co-ordinates and found a camera covering the area.

‘Is that the live feed?’ asked Joe, clearly thrilled. (Makes you wonder what he’d do if he could code.)

‘Yes.’ I leant back in my chair. We all stared at the screen. Nothing moved. Not us. Not them.

Then the world went mad.