Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? Page 3

  He heard the sounds of paper being moved around on her desk. "This is big. And they asked specifically for you. I really built you up the last time we made those changes to their in-house security program. Which still works, as far as they can tell. We'll both make a lot of money on this if you can just keep your mouth . . ."

  He jumped in. "Are we talking firewall work?" Firewalls were software programs that protected sensitive computer systems from hackers.

  "You're going to be eternally grateful to me."

  "Sharon, you own a software consulting firm. Now if you were sitting on the parole board . . . "

  She was shuffling through papers again. She was clever, but he imagined her office looked like the aftermath of a SWAT TEAM attack. "They're painfully aware that you know every computer virus on a first name basis."

  Roger stopped drinking coffee. He was finally starting to pay attention.

  "They've got one?"

  "Big time. And this one isn't on anyone's list. I checked."

  "Somehow I doubt that. Has it got a name?"

  "They're calling it Buzzworm."

  Roger stopped staring off into space and peered up at the wall chart just above his work area. It was a list supplied by one of the bigger companies that produced anti-viral software. The list had over 4,000 names of viruses. Buzzworm wasn't there. Nothing unusual though. At last count, there were 8,500 cataloged viruses in existence. "Haven't heard of that one, but so what. Could just be another one of those endless variations on SatanBug, Tremor or that Jurassic virus from Spain they've been chattering about lately."

  "This is definitely not a derivative. It's new. And it's as slick as baby poop on linoleum. All they can tell me is it’s poly, and it’s infected all of their critical systems." Poly meant polymorphic - a virus that changed shape constantly to avoid detection. Very hard to find. Even harder to write. Who could launch such an aggressive attack on the American government? "They need you PDQ."

  "So I'll call 'em. Give me the number." That was a joke because Rogers’s phone only received calls. He had no way of calling out of his cell.

  "No need for a call. They need you there. Now."

  "There?" Roger had just filled his mouth with the vile stuff he brewed everyday they had the nerve to call coffee, his whole body resisting the urge to spray it all over his tiny cell. Home was Overton, a minimum-security prison in southern Ontario. He had fifteen months to go, if his behavior met the parole board’s standards next time they met, a meeting he wasn't looking forward to. The boards always made him feel like a six-year-old kid about to fill his pants - but even worse, in the back of his mind, was always the threat that they could send him to a real prison. If he didn't toe the line. Or they didn’t like his answers. Real prison was a place without computers - a place with lots of guys with shaved heads and shivs, lurking around the showers, looking for a drive-by romance. A place where his ex-partner still languished, at least four years left on his sentence, and a lot of pent-up anger and revenge filling his empty days.

  Roger swallowed, then shuddered slightly. He was paying off an unusually large fine by doing computer consulting out of his cell for eScape - but he didn't want to rock the boat.

  "This is a joke, right? Or have you got a prison break planned? By the way, if anyone is listening in, that was only meant as gallows humor."

  “You’re a laugh a minute, Strange. Langley called . . .”

  "Shit.” He sat down.” He had written a program for the CIA two years before, clearly the biggest project of his career. It taught him more about modern high-tech security than just about anyone on the planet. It also taught him how to break into highly classified computer networks, which was the reason he was getting his room and board paid for by the Canadian government.

  "They sound desperate. Desperate enough to pull out all the diplomatic stops and make a deal with their northern neighbors to have you sprung."

  "If this is a joke, Burhack, your dishwasher parts guy is going to find that his inventory has been automatically FedEx’d to Lithuania." Half of him wanted to jump up and hoot. Freedom was something he tried not to think about lately. The idea of breathing fresh air made him dizzy. Another part of him, the harder chunk that sitting in a jail cell had honed over the past year, was humming like a fire alarm about to go off. This didn’t feel right at all. This felt like a trap. He didn’t know why, it just did.

  Burhack continued. “Your lawyer called me an hour ago. He'll have the papers drawn up by the end of tomorrow. Finish this job and you get a full release and pardon. Plus one hundred an hour for the work you do to solve their problem. And I've already got your flight booked."

  "And what's in it for you?" he asked, always feeling she only worked with him because she knew he was the best and she could charge more because of his notoriety. He sensed deep down that she thought he was just another con with the morals of a flatworm.

  "Four hundred an hour," she confessed. "For putting up with you this past year, I deserve it." She was right. This work had helped him keep his sanity, but had strained hers to the breaking point. He was not easy to get along with under the best of circumstances. Good thing he was so damn good at what he did.

  When he got off the phone, he stood up and stretched, waiting for the call from his lawyer. His paranoia was beginning to evaporate. He was almost beginning to feel good - feeling in demand by the big boys and at the top of his form, despite being locked up like a rabid dog. Finally, some of that experience was going to pay off. But something gnawed at him. She had said they had a virus. That had to mean it had found its way through the CIA's security system that he had helped design personally. And that was impossible. More impossible than anyone could imagine.

  CHAPTER 3

  Frank Scammel’s so fat now he’s straining the seams of his circa ‘82 Grateful Dead T-shirt.

  He’s losing his hair, his back hurts all the time, and he can feel a tingle in his wrists he knows is the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome. But he’s got a hard-on so fierce it makes him feel like he’s sixteen again, so he doesn’t give a shit. The fact that his occupation, even though it’s one of those ‘knowledge-worker’ buzz-crap jobs, is killing him slowly, doesn’t seem to matter right now. Like anything matters. Maybe having his boss walk in on him right now, might matter. But at two AM? How likely is that? Although it wouldn’t surprise him to know she was still in the building.

  Frank had found the mother lode, and it made his hands shake. He had been tracking down a system intruder for the past few weeks, his own private project, and he’d finally struck gold. A telltale address left in a deleted file that shouldn’t be there. An address that didn’t make sense, unless of course you were a hacker trying to hide your trail.

  Frank had gone to the Internet address immediately to satisfy himself that this clue had to be a mistake. The people messing with the CIA’s computer network were good. They had hired the best. And people that good usually don’t leave obvious clues. But maybe he was just too tired to put that all together right now, or maybe he was hoping he just got lucky for a change. Whatever his excuse, it was a stupid mistake someone had made. He had found the file and deleted it. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. The server he had identified was one of the most complete kiddy-porn collections he had ever seen. Of course, Frank never called it kiddy-porn or even thought of it as pornography, because he was after all, a serious collector. He liked to think of this as just his hobby and he didn’t understand why Joe public had such a problem with it.

  Some part of his brain at this point was trying to ask a few key questions, but it wasn’t finding an audience. What does this site full of naked kids have to do with a bunch of hackers smart enough to crack the toughest computer security on the planet? A diversion? A coincidence? A trap? Despite the internal warnings, his excitement hadn’t flagged one iota. He’d never seen anything like this before.

  It was almost as if someone had read the dark recesses of his brain and built a site that matched al
l of his peculiar fantasies.

  A homepage from hell for Franky.

  He chuckled at that, almost gutturally, because it was funny and sick all at the same time. Then he saw something that made the sweat freeze on his hairy back. Now he had really done it, he thought. Slipped into the Twilight Zone.

  He recognized someone in one of the pictures.

  Which was impossible.

  It was too long ago.

  Nausea gripped him, shook him like a predator shakes prey. Then the picture began to move, first haltingly, then up to speed. Despite his heart racing and his head feeling like it had come disconnected, his erection remained taunting him, holding the reins of his madness, refusing to let go.

  Because it had to be madness. Nothing else explained it. And he couldn’t move. His personal life (and all its jagged unfinished bits) was now flickering on his computer screen — right there for everyone to see. The things you should never see. Even Frank, who had participated in these acts and even relived them on occasions, wasn’t meant to see them again like this — the lighting harsh, the ugly details full of color.

  Suddenly he hated this man on the screen smiling like a jackal, standing over a frightened young girl. He hated him for his history, hated him for the way he justified himself, made excuses and lies to a wife who once loved him, but would now rather see him rot in Hell. This person, this thing on the screen didn’t deserve to live, couldn’t live, especially if this material went public.

  Then he read the message attached to the video file. He recognized the sender. He had one chance to keep these images of him and his daughter away from the public and his wife. One chance to protect them.

  Only one.

  The message on the screen was clear.

  It was signed DX. DX kept his promises. Frank knew that. He had witnessed the man’s cruelty.

  Frank was crying now, blubbering like a child. Where had it all gone wrong? A timer was counting down on the screen now. He had only minutes to complete his part of the bargain.

  When he got up to find a weapon, he discovered to his surprise, he still had an erection.

  CHAPTER 4

  The man who greeted Roger Strange in the front foyer of the CIA’s Navy Yard center in Washington D.C., was definitely military. Or at least ex. He was also tall, over six feet, broad across the chest with just a hint of hair on his wide head, nothing more than a hard shadow.

  He also had a light pink scar that ran across the bridge of his nose as if the frame of a pair of sunglasses had been evaporated there during a nuclear flash.

  Strange held out his hand. The military dude looked away and turned. Roger followed him, having a tough time concentrating. He had spent the entire flight and cab ride here in a dazed state. His lawyer had dropped a bombshell on him and his ears were still ringing. Sure they had offered him amnesty. But there was a price.

  "Follow me," the tough guy said. Strange shrugged, put his beat-up laptop case in his other hand and tried to keep up. They walked a dozen steps, and then turned into a room only marginally bigger than a closet, an interview room where two people could sit across from each other at a white plastic table, their knees almost touching.

  Roger kept going back to the deal, believing now he should never have taken it. As if he had a choice? Sure, finding a virus no one else could track down might be a kick. But he doubted it would be that easy. And if he didn’t find it and deliver the perpetrator like a prize specimen to the powers-that-be within a week – his life would be in jeopardy.

  The arrangement was simple. Solve the problem and you're a free man. Screw up and you’re going to be sharing a cell with your ex-partner, the psycho.

  "My name is Dodge," the giant said, shutting the door hard. "I’m head of Security here." He nodded for Strange to take a seat, and then stiffly lowered himself into a plastic chair. "You want to tell me what's going on?" Dodge didn’t look happy. Roger took his glasses off and wiped them with his shirtfront. He needed time to think, besides he was sweating so hard he'd fogged the lenses.

  Roger was seriously considering just walking out and catching a taxi back to the airport. Where he’d go from there, he had no idea. Could he hide from them? He doubted it. He’d be better off running from organized crime. He put his glasses back on and focused on the hulk in the blue uniform. He had expected to be greeted by people from the computer division, not the Marines.

  The security officer was clearly holding back his anger. "I know you think this is a big joke. But your childish game just backfired." Dodge pushed his thin lips together. "There are two soldiers outside this door right now," he pointed, "sworn to the duty to keep your ass out of the sunshine for as long as it bloody takes to end this bullshit. And not some fancy low-security Holiday Inn where they change the sheets everyday. When the time comes, you'll be prayin' for a real jail cell. So talk!"

  Strange straightened his glasses again hoping they would help bring this new cockeyed universe into adjustment. He looked at the locked door, then back to Dodge. “I’m just here to look at your virus.” Dodge cocked his head. Strange guessed he didn’t understand. “Computer virus.”

  Dodge's complexion was swiftly moving through a range of colors culminating in meltdown crimson. Roger added, “Is it possible you have me confused with somebody else?”

  Dodge narrowed his eyelids and slid his elbows across the table, moving his big head towards Strange. It took everything Roger had to hold his ground and not flinch.

  "You nerdy little fuck. Your punk game killed a man." Dodge waited for a sign from Strange, maybe a blurted confession. Strange said nothing. He blinked several times. "And he was a good man. A patriot. So you're goin’ down.”

  Strange crossed his arms, a new thought coming to him. Was he going to be blamed for this viral breakthrough? Locked in the slammer for creating less than the perfect security system? Was this a set up right from the beginning? Now he was pissed off. "Dodge. My security exceeds yours by a country mile. That means I get to say shove . . ."

  Dodge moved fast for a man built like the back end of a Caterpillar tractor. He had his hand on Strange's neck when the door flew open. A short woman in a blue smock looked in. There were two MPs in uniform, crowding around her for a look inside.

  "Dodge? Remember what I said? Let's try to keep him alive long enough for de-programming." She looked at Strange like he was a dog who just tipped over and tore through her trashcans. "This your idea of recreation, young man?"

  Dodge let go. Strange rubbed his throat. "I wasn't expecting a stress interview. Would have brought my neck brace,” he croaked, feeling like Dodge’s meaty hands were still squeezing his windpipe.

  The woman glared at him while an alarm went off in Strange’s brain. Screw four hundred an hour and a quick parole, he thought. An army of lurching, paranoid, type-A fanatics populated the CIA. And what sounded like the end of the world was probably just their dinner bell.

  "Bring him," she ordered, and held open the door. Stepping into the hallway only made the blaring klaxons seem to ring louder. Strange shrank from it, his head ready to split open, Dodge’s hand firmly on his shoulder guiding him forward.

  They loped down the hall to a glassed in work area. Dodge pushed an ID card into a slot, and the automatic door slid sideways. Then they pushed him into an elevator, dropped three floors and bundled him off at march-speed down a long bare hallway. He felt like he was back at Overton, only the walls were cleaner.

  The room they ended up in was cluttered and narrow, glassed in on all sides and filled with computers of varying sizes. Roger recognized an older Cray III on the left, several SGI animation computers with massive plasma monitors beyond it and what looked like some very expensive modeling technology he didn’t recognize. They passed several cubicles; all of them peopled by operators in the same blue lab coats worn by the woman who led them here. They stopped at one station. Four people were clustered around a monitor. They parted when they saw Dodge. Roger looked at the computer screen and swore unde
r his breath.

  "Here's your hacker genius," declared Dodge. Heads turned to Roger, curious and angry, but Strange couldn't take his eyes off the screen. It was him. At least it looked like him. The screen was bathed in a dark red glow. A figure was standing in the center of a room that had been ransacked, his hands on his hips, his body shaking with laughter. At his feet was a body, awash in blood, most of the face and head buried in gore. The corpse had a distended gut stretched over a white T-shirt that read The Grateful Dead. The point of view kept circling the scene lazily like the perspective from a shaky handheld camera on an MTV music video. Excellent detail. Very life-like. The sound of laughter and a Metallica tune were emanating from small speakers below the desk.

  Dodge turned to Strange, his hand on the programmer’s arm. "You’re telling us that isn't you?"

  Roger shrugged. "You guys have obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make me feel at home... " Dodge exploded. He shoved Strange hard against the next cubicle where the corner struck him just above his right ear.

  Roger went down in a heap. Someone applauded.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Strange came to, he looked up into the face of the woman who had dragged him down into the computer center. He winced. It wasn't a dream after all. He had a bandage taped to his temple and his head hurt like hell. He was lying on a foldout cot.

  “How come I’m still alive?” he groaned.

  The woman frowned, ignoring his question.

  "My name is Jobime. Vienna Jobime. I run IT here." Her gray streaked hair looked like she had just rinsed it — the CIA wet-look — with bangs so short, they must have been styled by the US Marines. She was chewing gum at high speed. Clearly another type A.

  "We decided to save you for questioning. You're in the infirmary," she said.

  "Getting me fixed up for round two?"