Brain Jack Part 1

Brain Jack.

by Brian Falkner.

PROLOGUE

Right now, as you read this prologue, I am sifting through the contents of your computer. Yes, your computer. You. The one holding the book.

I am reading your e-mails, looking at your digital photos and images you have downloaded off the Net, opening your most private doc.u.ments and having a good read, or a good laugh, depending on the content.

To be honest, most of it is utterly boring. Except for a few files. You know the ones I mean.

I know you don't believe me, and I prefer it that way, but think about this.

When you bought this book, you used a credit card or a debit card. That created a record in the ma.s.sive computer systems that the banks use. The systems they claim are impregnable.

But they are on the Net. And nothing is impregnable on the Net.

So I monitor those systems for transactions with the ISBN of this book-that's the International Standard Book Number. You'll find it on the publisher's copyright page copyright page. Have a look now. It's 978-0-375-89323-0.

When your transaction went through, I got an alert from one of my monitoring programs, and, as I had nothing better to do, I dug a little deeper.

I got the credit card number from the transaction log, and that, with just a quick poke around in the "highly secure" databases of the bank, gave me your home address and telephone number.

I cross-matched that with the Internet service providers in your area to find your broadband connection. Then I checked to see if you have a static IP (that's the electronic address of your home computer). You don't, so I raided your ISP's DHCP server to get your current IF. It didn't take me long to find out where your computer lives on the Internet.

Your router's firewall was a joke-and not even a very funny one. The built-in firewall on your PC was another story, though. That held me up for a couple of heartbeats. I had to use your peer-to-peer file-sharing client to slip a Trojan past your security and gain remote-administrator access, shape-s.h.i.+fting a little as I did it so as not to attract attention from your antivirus software. No matter. It took me less than ten minutes from seeing the transaction to obtaining complete access to your hard drive.

So now, while you're reading this, I'm looking through your computer and having a great old time. You could race over and turn your computer off, but you'd already be too late.

I could delete a few files, but I probably won't. I could change your pa.s.swords and lock you out of your own system, but I can't be bothered.

And I won't crash your system or delete the contents of your hard drive or anything like that. I am not malicious or evil, or even particularly bad.

I'll just quietly leave and erase any trace that I was ever there.

But I know you now. I know who you are. I know where you live. I know what you've got. And if the time comes that I need something from you, something that you might or might not want to give up, I'll be back something from you, something that you might or might not want to give up, I'll be back.

That time is coming. Sooner than you think.

But in the meantime, don't worry about me.

I'm not worrying about you.

Right now, I've got much bigger problems to think about.

BEGINNINGS

1 DIRTY TRICKS

On Friday, on his way to school, Sam Wilson brought the United States of America to its knees.

He didn't mean to. He was actually just trying to score a new computer and some other cool stuff, and in any case, the words "to its knees" were the New York Times' New York Times', not his-and were way over the top, in Sam's view. Not as bad, though, as the Was.h.i.+ngton Post's Was.h.i.+ngton Post's. Their headline writers must have been on a coffee binge, because they screamed National Disaster in size-40 type when their presses finally came back online.

Anyway, it was only for a few days, and it really wasn't a disaster at all. At least not compared to what was still to come.

A juddering roar reverberated off the high-rise buildings, and Sam glanced up as the dark shadow of a police Black Hawk slid across the street. His breath caught in his chest for a moment, as if all the oxygen in the street had suddenly disappeared, but the chopper didn't slow; it was just a routine patrol. It weaved smoothly between the monoliths of uptown Manhattan, a cop with a long rifle spotlighted in the open doorway by a brilliant orange burst of early-morning sun.

He tried to remember a time when armed police in helicopters hadn't patrolled the city, but he couldn't. It seemed that it had always been that way. At least since Vegas Vegas.

Gray clouds were leaking a dreary, misty drizzle from high over the city, but low on the horizon, there was a long thin gap into which the sun had risen, teasing New York with a short-lived promise of a sunny day.

Sam cut down 44th Street and turned right at 7th Avenue to avoid beggars' row along Broadway. He took 42nd to Times Square, where the tall video screens flickered intermittently or were silent and dark. The M&M's screen still worked, although there were several blank spots that were said to be bullet holes.

Forty-second Street station was crowded-jostling, bustling, shortness-of-breath crowded-at this time of the morning, but he was used to that, and the subway was still the fastest and safest way to get around Manhattan.

He got out at Franklin Street station and took Varick Street down to West Broadway. He quickened his step as he pa.s.sed Gamer Alley. His nose wrinkled involuntarily at some of the odors that hung around the entrance.

Two dogs were fighting on the corner of Thomas and West Broadway but stopped as he approached. He slowed, not comfortable with the narrowing of their eyes or the jelly-strings of drool dripping from their fangs.

One took a step toward him, a low growl in its throat. The other followed, its lips drawing back from its teeth.

Sam took a step backward. The dogs moved closer, haunches high, stalking him. He stumbled backward a few more steps. A police Humvee cruised past, and he half turned toward it, hoping the cops would stop and intervene, but they either didn't see or didn't care.

The entrance to Gamer Alley appeared to his right. As the dogs spread out to cut off his escape, he turned and strode into the smoky unease of the alleyway.

He glanced behind but the dogs had not followed.

The walls of the alley were high, and the street was narrow, a deep saw-cut across a city block. None of the dawn glow penetrated, just a tired dullness that washed through the clouds and was swallowed up by the steam and smoke from the food stalls. Gaudy fluorescent signs appeared indistinctly through the haze, promising the latest in video-gaming technology. The games they promoted outside were innocuous, but everyone, especially the cops, knew that inside, the full range of games, including all the illegal ones, was freely available.

People drifted past. Both men and women with the vacant stares and twitching hands of longtime game addicts.

Sam thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, hunched his shoulders, and moved deeper into Gamer Alley.

A woman in her twenties, fas.h.i.+on-model beautiful, sat on a blue office chair next to an overflowing Dumpster. Her hair was plastered to her scalp by the rain, and droplets of water formed on the end of her nose before breaking away in a rhythmical pattern. She did nothing. She said nothing. She just sat, watching Sam as he made his way down the alley toward her. A game addict for sure.

As he neared, the chair swiveled slightly, and although her head and neck did not move, her eyes remained fixed on him.

He pa.s.sed her, the chair swiveling more, her whole body turning with it to stay focused on him, her face expressionless.

His shoulders crawled as he left her behind, as if her strange inactivity might suddenly explode into mindless violence.

Ten yards past, he glanced back. She stared at him, unmoving.

"Want to buy a dog?"

The man in a shabby gray overcoat was right in front of him, and he had to stop abruptly to avoid a collision. "I, er..."

"Want to buy a dog?"

The dog in question was in the man's arms. A mangy cross about the size of a small poodle but of no detectable breed.

"He's a good boy," the man said, thrusting the dog forward. The dog snarled and snapped at Sam, missing his arm by a fraction of an inch.

"No, I..."

"Hardly ever bites," the man said.

"No."

Sam took a wide step around the man as the dog's teeth snapped together again in midair. The end of the alley neared.

To his right, a door opened on a second-story fire escape. A man in his fifties burst out of the building dressed only in Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and a Hawaiian lei around his neck. He was carrying a coffee machine. He leaped down the metal steps three at a time and disappeared across the street and around the corner of a building just as two policemen in black tactical gear burst out of the same door, hard on his heels.

Sam escaped onto Church Street with a slight sigh of relief and a relaxing of his nostrils. His cell rang, right on cue, as he turned into Thomas Street, and he tapped his Bluetooth earpiece into his ear.

"Hi, Mom," he said.

"What kept you?" Fargas asked on the other end of the line, his mouth full of something.

Sam looked up at the building opposite. He caught a glimpse of Fargas behind a window on the second floor, the two black circles of a pair of powerful binoculars jutting out from his long mop of unruly hair. Sam made a discreet waving motion with his left hand.

There was a flash of white from the window that he took as a sign Fargas had waved back.

"Cut through Gamer Alley," Sam said.

There was a short pause while Fargas digested that. "Quick hit on the way?"

"Just sightseeing," Sam said. "What are you eating?"

It would be caramel corn. Fargas was the only person he knew who could eat caramel-coated popcorn for breakfast.

"Caramel corn," Fargas said. "Want some? I'll toss a couple pieces out the window."

"Suddenly not hungry," Sam said. "Can't think why."

He walked casually past the Telecomerica building as if he had no interest in it whatsoever. He didn't even glance at it.

"You sure this is possible?" Fargas sounded a little nervous.

"I'm sure it's not," Sam said. "Be no fun otherwise. They've got industrial-strength firewalls with a DMZ and a secondary defensive ring with ASA and IPSec. Impenetrable."

"Then give it away, dude," Fargas said. "I'm not going to jail for the sake of a hack."

"Fargas," Sam said, "you're my brother and I love you, but you gotta get your head out of your b.u.t.t before you fart and suffocate yourself."

"I'm not your brother and you don't love me," Fargas pointed out.

"You know you're the one I'd turn gay for." Sam grinned up at the window.

"I thought you liked Keisha," Fargas said.

"I'd definitely turn gay for her," Sam said. "If I was a chick. How is she?"

"Still not interested."

"Her words or yours?"

"She's a soph.o.m.ore. You're a senior. That's just wrong. Should be illegal."

"Have you asked her for me?" Sam asked.

"You can't ask her yourself?"

"She's a soph.o.m.ore. I'm seventeen. That's just wrong. She's got to ask me."

"Loser," Fargas said.

Sam said, "Okay, here we go."

The cafe was long, low, and thin: a brick-lined tunnel reaching into the depths of the city block. The table Sam wanted was in use, but the smartly dressed businessman was just draining the last of his coffee, so Sam loitered by the door for a moment, pretending to read the chalkboard breakfast menu until the man left.

He ordered a chai latte from the surly, mon.o.browed waitress and waited for it to arrive before opening his schoolbag. His bag of tricks. Dirty tricks.

His table was at the back of the cafe, deep in the heart of the building, beside a large leafy potted plant with an interlaced trunk. The position had been carefully chosen.

Opening his schoolbag was both exciting and terrifying. It was crossing a line. It was the start of something, like strapping yourself into a roller coaster. No, more like a Special Forces soldier going behind enemy lines or a spy setting out on a dangerous mission that depended on skill, wits, and fast reactions to stay alive.

He pulled out his laptop, and from the front pocket of his bag, he took a parabolic aerial, unfolding the wings and embedding it at the base of the potted plant.

"You in place?" Fargas asked in his ear.