The Silence of Six (20 page)

“That’s perfect,” Max said. “We’ll have direct access to their servers for twenty-four hours, and we’ll just be a few people out of hundreds attempting to hack them.”

“Getting into Haxx0rade will be tricky. Registration is closed,” Risse said.

“It also could be dangerous,” Penny said. “They’re certainly looking for Max, and we know they’ve killed people trying to keep this secret.”

Risse swiped her phone screen with a finger. “It’s a ‘hacking masquerade’—masks are mandatory, with prizes for the best one.”

“They won’t stop chasing me until they have this thing, so let’s stop running and go to them,” Max said.

“It’s also invite-only,” Risse said. “Your admission has to be sponsored by a Panjea employee. How are we going to get into this little soiree?”

Penny cracked her knuckles. “Leave that to me.”

Penny went to work on her phone. Max looked over her shoulder as she logged in to Panjea. Her profile picture showed Penny in a white scoop neck T-shirt under a gray suit jacket. The shirt was tight and sheer enough to show the lace bra beneath it. Her hair was pulled up and she wore a pair of cat eye glasses. She looked more mature in every way.

“Whoa,” Max said.

“I took that photo,” Risse said proudly.

“For what? A dating profile?” Max asked.

He noticed the name on the account.

“Who’s Emmie Steed?” he asked.

“I am,” Penny said. “She’s one of my alternate online personas.”

“She has over three thousand Panjea Peers?” Max asked. “That’s way more than I have, and she isn’t even real.”

“They’re mostly men in the tech and defense industries. Emmie is one of my more popular alter egos. She’s one of the few women working in infosec. I claim a lot of my bounties under her handle.” She pointed it out in her profile, which was under the name: ^venger Gurl.

Penny typed a note. A minute later, she clicked on an Events notification. “Well, that was easy. Someone just invited me to Haxx0rade. It starts tomorrow at noon.”

21

Max, Penny, and Risse sat
across the street from The Wherehouse, an old warehouse in San Francisco’s SoMa district that had been converted into Panjea’s corporate headquarters. Max had seen pictures of the building and studied the latest floor plans in detail, but it was impressive in person.

Most of the facade had been sliced off and replaced with plate glass, allowing everyone to see inside its three floors as if looking into a giant dollhouse. Community groups angry about Panjea taking it over and destroying the original architecture had dubbed the building in its new configuration “The Whore House.”

The wide window on the top floor was decorated with a fifteen-foot-high rendition of Panjea’s iconic logo, stacked green serif letters illuminated by the interior lighting of the tall loft:

PAN

JEA

As if that weren’t striking enough, a glass globe topped the building, like a cherry added as a finishing touch to a sundae. Suspended inside the hollow sphere was a cutout of the Pangaea supercontinent that lent the site its name. The glass surface of the globe displayed “Welcome, HAXX0RS” as it rotated. From here, it was hard to tell whether the text or the sphere itself was moving.

Penny slipped on her mask and turned toward Max. It gave him a chill to see her like that. She had chosen the smiling white comedy mask, sister to weeping tragedy—traditional symbols of theater going back to ancient Greek times, most recently adopted by Dramatis Personai. The companion mask was in the Halloween City shopping bag in the middle divider.

“Wish me luck,” Penny said.

“Good luck,” Max said. “Remember. If you run into any trouble, just get out of there.”

“I got this.” Penny straightened her mask. In keeping with her Emmie Steed personality, she was wearing a blue scoop neck shirt, a cropped jacket, dark jeans, and flats. Max doubted many people would be paying attention to her mask. “You’re taking the bigger risk. If you get caught and someone recognizes you . . . .”

“I can still go instead,” Risse said.

“No,” Max and Penny said together.

“Boo,” Risse said.

Penny popped in her Bluetooth earpiece. “I’ll keep you posted by text until I get settled, and I’ll have my phone on standby. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.”

Max nodded and plugged his earbuds in to his phone. He looped the cord up through the bottom of his shirt and let them dangle from his collar. “See you later.”

Penny climbed out of the car and strapped her computer bag across her chest. People participating in the hackathon had to bring their own rigs with them. They would be allowed to plug in to the network and use the internet, but they were on their own from there. Penny was bringing her second-best laptop: the Jarvis Mark VI, a sleek, professional ThinkPad that fit her infosec persona. It was prepped with fake personal information for Emmie Steed and loaded with anti-
everything
, in case Panjea tried hacking into its guests’ machines. Not that they already hadn’t, under the auspices of their proprietary app, but this was as much an opportunity for them to steal hacker secrets as the reverse.

Risse clambered out of the back of the car. The sisters hugged.

“I love you. Be careful,” Risse said.

“Love you too. Keep an eye on Max,” Penny said.

“The plan is to keep an eye on both of you.”

“If things go south, you go back home and forget about all this.”

“Yeah, right,” Risse said. “I’m your insurance. If you two get caught, I’ll make sure Panjea has to deal with a PR nightmare.”

Penny looked both ways and hurried across the street.

Risse retrieved her laptop and moved to the front passenger seat. The two of them watched Penny enter the building and walk to the reception area.

The place was hopping; they could see all the people moving around inside. It was the world’s largest ant farm. And if the workers were drones, that made Victor Ignacio the queen. He was scheduled to give his welcome speech at twelve-thirty, which would be the perfect time for Max to try to access a development computer—if he could even get into the building.

Risse pushed her seat all the way back so she could prop her legs on the dashboard and her computer on her shins. Max worried they’d look suspicious, but San Francisco was one of the few places where it was perfectly normal to be sitting in a parked car typing on a laptop.

Penny had picked a sporty black BMW for this adventure. It was basically camouflaged in the heart of the city, which attracted many highly successful tech companies.

“I guess this is actually happening,” Max said.

“Nervous?”

“You bet. I know we have a plan, but our skills will only take us so far. Too much still relies on dumb luck.”

“Too late to have second thoughts.”

“I’m already on sixth thoughts. But it doesn’t matter. We’re doing this. We have to do this.”

Max was psyching himself up the way Coach Kim did the team before a big game.

Risse clapped. “She’s in!” She showed him the image Penny had just e-mailed her: a photo of her Haxx0rade badge, a computer chip cut into the irregular shape of Pangaea, the supercontinent, with “^venger Gurl” etched in gold circuitry. A P-code, Panjea’s proprietary barcode, was printed in the corner.

“RFID?” Max asked. He pronounced it “arfid,” the way Evan had when he explained the technology to him.

“Definitely,” Risse said.

Radio frequency identification is basically a chip in almost everything these days, from your passport to groceries you purchased at the supermarket. Most of them are passive—they only transmit information when an RFID reader magnetizes it, providing just enough power to send a small amount of information. People even inject RFIDs the size of a grain of rice into pets, so if they get lost a shelter can identify the owners. Helpful.

The problem is, there are ways to steal information from RFIDs. A savvy hacker could build a device at home to read them, or even use a cell phone for some types of RFIDs. Worse still:
active
RFIDs are always broadcasting and could be used to monitor a person’s location.

“I’d have to examine one of those badges to know for sure what kind of RFID it has, but you could fit a tiny power supply in there easily. Here, scan that code,” Risse said.

Max opened the barcode app on his phone and aimed the camera at the cluster of dots on Risse’s screen. A moment later, he was prompted to authorize a software download.

“Should I?” he asked.

Risse studied the message and the list of requested permissions.

“Wow. It wants to control a lot. Practically everything. But we can block most of these if we have to,” she said.

“It’s okay. This phone doesn’t have any personal info on it.”

Max installed the program and, moments later, the Haxx0rade splash page appeared on his screen. He opened the app, which was called HackerAid. It prompted him to scan his badge again to connect his complimentary account, but he was able to skip the step; he didn’t want to register as Penny. He thumbed through the options.

“It’s an electronic guide,” Max said. “It has maps of the different locations being used for the hackathon on each floor.”

“Let me see.”

Max started to give her his phone, but she shook her head and handed him the end of a USB cable attached to her computer.

He plugged the cord in and switched it to data mode. She clicked around on her trackpad.

“I’ve got the source code. It looks pretty clean . . . pretty elegant. Okay, I’m jealous.”

He checked the time on his phone. “The keynote address starts in ten minutes.”

He took the tragedy mask from the Halloween City bag and propped it on his head. He pulled off Risse’s fake glasses and tucked them inside his secondhand Panjea messenger bag, purchased that morning. It was easy to find branded swag from different companies at thrift stores, and he’d been able to assemble the rest of his simple wardrobe there—a gray hoodie, black polo shirt, well-worn jeans, and flip-flops—for much more than used clothes should ever cost.

He was playing to a stereotype, but in this case that was the point: to look like a Panjea employee coming in to work. Weekends meant nothing in the tech industry, and he figured it would be all hands on deck during Haxx0rade.

He slid the keycard from Evan’s room into his right sleeve.

“I hope that thing works. They might have deactivated it after Evan died,” Risse said.

“That’s why I have the mask as a backup.” Max popped an earbud into his right ear. “Call me if anything looks suspicious out here.”

Max unlocked the driver side door.

“Hold on.” Risse put a hand on his right arm. He turned back and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, startling him. “That’s for good luck. Be careful.”

He pulled down his mask, hoping she wouldn’t notice him blushing. “Being careful, big part of the plan.”

He climbed out of the car and walked toward Panjea. He looked up at the massive logo.

Hold on.

He fished around in his pocket and pulled out the metal jigsaw puzzle piece that had been Ariel Miller’s good luck charm. He held it at arm’s length and closed his left eye. He lined the silver piece up with the A in “PAN.” It was a perfect match. He’d just found the puzzle it belonged to. Now all he had to do was find out where it fit.

He squeezed the puzzle piece and pocketed it. He could use all the good luck he could get.

Max stepped through the sliding glass doors into the spacious lobby, which was more 1920s Art Deco than futuristic starship, which one might have expected from the Apple store aesthetic on the exterior.

But Max had seen it all before, so he didn’t miss a step. One of the keys to infiltrating a building’s security is to look like you belong there, and that requires research. Since Risse was the only one not trying to sneak into Panjea, she had scouted the lobby earlier and snapped some photos on the sly. That meant he didn’t need to pause and get his bearings—a dead giveaway if you were pretending to be an employee who entered the building every day. He already knew that the security desk was on the right, staffed by one rent-a-cop.

There was a row of three electronic turnstiles straight ahead. They were just wood-paneled columns, about waist-high, without any barriers to prevent entry. In fact, you could actually go around them entirely, but someone would quickly try to stop you.

Max headed toward the turnstiles with purpose, as if he did it every day, without even glancing over to see if the guard was paying attention. The elevator banks were just beyond them, to the left. The main auditorium where Vic Ignacio would be addressing three hundred hackers in mere minutes was on the right, hidden behind tinted glass windows that were lit with soft, shifting colors.

If Max were doing this on a weekday, he would try to “tailgate”—sneak in on the heels of another employee with a legitimate badge. But Max was on his own. He felt exposed.

He picked the turnstile in the middle. As he walked through, he reached up with his right hand and brushed the sleeve of his hoodie against the reader. He was still looking straight ahead, unconcerned. The mask blocked his peripheral vision, so he didn’t know that the badge hadn’t worked until he heard the angry beeps.

Max took another two steps beyond the turnstile and froze. He looked back at the turnstile in surprise, as if he hadn’t even seen it. If the guard didn’t say anything, he would turn and keep going.

The guard said something. “Can I see your ID, sir?”

Max looked at the guard: mid-forties, balding, thin and fit. He pegged him for a marathoner. Time for Plan B.

“I’m here for Haxx0rade.” He made his voice falsetto and walked toward the desk, adjusting his mask. He wanted to look relaxed and cooperative. He controlled his breathing and ignored the sweat beading along his scalp.

“You have to sign in,” the guard said.

“I don’t want to miss the keynote.” Max added a nasal whine to his voice. Stereotypes sucked, but they made social engineering easier, because he was playing to people’s expectations.

“This’ll just take a second. What’s your handle?”

Max hesitated. Should he play the lost badge gambit? He could easily guess the handle of another hacker who was here—Risse said that most of Dramatis Personai had made the list. After all, how could he prove who he really was?

“503-ERROR.” He leaned forward slightly. “Five-zero-three-dash, then ‘error’ all in capitals.”

The guard typed it in painfully slowly. Max glanced toward the auditorium, so if he picked up on his anxiety, he would assume Max was just worried about missing Ignacio’s speech.

“I may not be in the system yet.” Max preempted. “I was a late registration. Had a friend pull some strings.”

The guard bent to look at the screen more closely. “I’ll say. 0MN1’s sponsoring your admission.”

What?

Fortunately the mask hid Max’s shock.

The guard pointed to the auditorium doors. “Stop by the registration desk.”

“Thanks!” Max hurried past the turnstiles.

He was in, but 0MN1 had somehow guessed that he would be there. That could be a very bad sign. But nothing ventured, nothing gained—and this could well be his chance to find out something useful about the most mysterious member of Dramatis Personai. Just knowing he also worked at Panjea was valuable intel.