It didn't take long before the boy had dispensed with the mysteries of vacuum tubes and circuit boards, and his curiosity began to prowl like a tiger with a reawakened hunger.
But then he discovered computers.
He thought of his father, a tall man with the perfect posture and trim hair that had been his legacy from his air force years. The man had taken him to a Radio Shack when his son was eight and told him he could pick out something for himself. "You can get anything you want."
"Anything?" asked the boy, eyeing the hundreds of items on the shelves.
Anything you want . . .
He'd picked a computer.
It was a perfect choice for a boy who takes things apart--because the little Trash-80 computer was a portal to the Blue Nowhere, which is infinitely deep and infinitely complex, made up of layer upon layer of parts small as molecules and big as the exploding universe. It's the place where curiosity can roam free forever.
Schools, however, tend to prefer their students' minds to be compliant first and curious second, if at all, and as he moved up through his grades young Wyatt Gillette began to founder.
Before he bottomed out, though, a wise counselor plucked him out of the stew of high school, sized him up and sent him off to Santa Clara Magnet School Number Three.
The school was billed as a "haven for gifted but troubled students residing in Silicon Valley"--a description that could, of course, be translated only one way: hacker heaven. A typical day for a typical student at Magnet Three involved cutting P.E. and English classes, tolerating history and acing math and physics, all the while concentrating on the only schoolwork that really mattered: talking with your buddies nonstop about the Machine World.
Now, walking down a rainy sidewalk, not far from this very school in fact, he had many memories of his early days in the Blue Nowhere.
Gillette clearly remembered sitting in the Magnet Three school yard, practicing his whistle for hour upon hour. If you could whistle into a fortress phone at just the right tone you could fool the phone switches into thinking you yourself were another switch and would be rewarded with the golden ring of access. (Everybody knew about Captain Crunch--the username of a legendary young hacker who had discovered that the whistle given away with the cereal of the same name generated a tone of 2600 megahertz, the exact frequency that let you break into the phone company's long-distance lines and make free calls.)
He remembered all the hours he'd spent in the Magnet Three cafeteria, which smelled like wet dough, or in study hall or the green corridors, talking about CPUs, graphics cards, bulletin boards, viruses, virtual disks, passwords, expandable RAM, and the bible--that is, William Gibson's novel Neuromancer, which popularized the term "cyberpunk."
He remembered the first time he cracked into a government computer and the first time he got busted and sentenced to detention for hacking--at seventeen, still a juvenile. (Though he still had to do time; the judge was stern with boys who seized root of Ford Motor Company's mainframe when they should've been out playing baseball--and the old jurist was more stern yet with boys who lectured him, adamantly pointing out that the world'd be in pretty shitty shape today if Thomas Alva Edison had been more concerned with sports than inventing.)
But the most prominent memory at the moment was of an event that occurred a few years after he graduated from Berkeley: his first online meeting with a young hacker named CertainDeath, the username of Jon Patrick Holloway, in the #hack chat room.
Gillette was working as a programmer during the day. But like many code crunchers he was bored with his job and counted the hours until he could get home to his machine to explore the Blue Nowhere and meet kindred souls, which Holloway certainly was; their first online conversation lasted four and a half hours.
Initially they traded phone phreaking information. They then put theory into practice and pulled off what they declared to be some "totally moby" hacks, cracking into the Pac Bell, AT&T and British Telecom switching systems.
From these modest beginnings they began prowling through corporate and government machines.
Soon other hackers began to seek them out, running Unix "finger" searches on the Net to find them by name and then sitting at the young men's virtual feet to learn what the gurus had to teach. After a year or so of hanging out online with various regulars he and Holloway realized that they'd become a cybergang--a rather legendary one, as a matter of fact. CertainDeath, the leader and bona fide wizard. Valleyman, the second in command, the thoughtful philosopher of the group and nearly as good a codeslinger as CertainDeath. Sauron and Klepto, not as smart but half crazy and willing to do anything online. Others too: Mosk, Replicant, Grok, NeuRO, BYTEr. . . .
They needed a name and Gillette had delivered: "Knights of Access" had occurred to him after playing a medieval MUD game for sixteen hours straight.
Their reputation spread around the world--largely because they wrote programs that could get computers to do amazing things. Far too many hackers and cyberpunks weren't programmers at all--they were referred to contemptuously as "point-and-clickers." But the leaders of the Knights were skilled software writers, so good that they didn't even bother to compile many of their programs--turning the raw source code into working software--because they knew clearly how the software would perform. (Elana--Gillette's ex-wife, whom he'd met around this time--was a piano teacher and she said Gillette and Holloway reminded her of Beethoven, who could imagine his music so perfectly in his head that once he'd written it the performance was anticlimactic.)
Recalling this, he now thought of his ex-wife. Not far from here was the beige apartment where he and Elana had lived for several years. He could picture the time they spent together so clearly; a thousand images leapt from deep memory. But unlike the Unix operating system or a math coprocessor chip, the relationship between him and Elana was something he couldn't understand. He didn't know how to take it apart and look at the components.
And therefore it was something he couldn't fix.
This woman still consumed him, he longed for her, he wanted a child with her . . . but in the matter of love Wyatt Gillette knew he was no wizard.
He now put these reflections aside and stepped under the awning of a shabby Goodwill store near the Sunnyvale town line. Once he was out of the rain he looked around him then, seeing he was alone, reached into his pocket and extracted a small electronic circuit board, which he'd had with him all day. When he'd gone back to his cell at San Ho that morning to collect the magazines and clippings for his excursion to the CCU office he'd taped the board to his right thigh, near his groin.
This board, which he'd been working on for the past six months, was what he'd intended to smuggle out of prison from the beginning--not the phone phreaking red box, which he'd slipped into his pocket so that the guards would find that and, he hoped, let him leave prison without going through the metal detector again.
In the computer analysis lab back at CCU forty minutes ago he'd pulled the board off his skin and successfully tested it. Now in the pale, fluorescent light from the Goodwill shop he examined the circuit again and found that it had survived his jog from CCU just fine.
He slipped it back into his pocket and stepped inside the store, nodding a greeting to the night clerk, who said, "We close at ten."
Gillette knew this; he'd checked on their hours earlier. "I won't be long," he assured the man then proceeded to pick out a change of clothing, which, in the best tradition of social engineering, were the sort of things he wouldn't normally wear.
He paid with money he'd lifted from a jacket in CCU and started toward the door. He paused and turned back to the clerk. "Excuse me. There's a bus stop around here, isn't there?"
The old man pointed to the west of the store. "Fifty feet up the street. It's a transfer point. You can get a bus there that'll take you anywhere you want to go."
"Anywhere?" Wyatt Gillette asked cheerfully. "Who could ask for more than that?" And he stepped back into the rainy night, opening his borrowe
d umbrella.
The Computer Crimes Unit was mute from the betrayal.
Frank Bishop felt the hot pressure of silence around him. Bob Shelton was coordinating with the local police. Tony Mott and Linda Sanchez were also on the phones, checking leads. They spoke in quiet tones, reverent almost, suggesting the intensity of their desire to recapture their betrayer.
The more I know you, the more you don't seem like the typical hacker . . .
After Bishop, it was Patricia Nolan who seemed the most upset and took the young man's escape personally. Bishop had sensed a connection between them--well, she at least was attracted to the hacker. The detective wondered if this crush might've fit a certain pattern: the smart but ungainly woman would fall hard and fast for a brilliant renegade, who'd charm her for a while but then would slip out of her life. For the fiftieth time that day Bishop pictured his wife Jennie and thought how glad he was to be contentedly married.
The reports came back but there were no leads. No one in the buildings near CCU had seen Gillette escape. No cars were missing from the parking lot but the office was right next to a major county bus route and he could easily have escaped that way. No county or municipal police cars reported seeing anyone fitting his description on foot.
With the absence of hard evidence as to where Gillette had gone Bishop decided to look at the hacker's history--try to track down his father or brother. Friends too and former coworkers. Bishop looked over Andy Anderson's desk for copies of Gillette's court and prison files but he couldn't find them. When Bishop put in an emergency request for copies of the files from central records he learned that they were gone.
"Someone issued a memo to shred them, right?" Bishop asked the night clerk.
"As a matter of fact, sir, that's right. How'd you know?"
"Wild guess." The detective hung up.
Then an idea occurred to him. He recalled that the hacker had done juvenile time.
So Bishop called a friend at the night magistrate's office. The man did some checking and learned that, yes, they did have a file on Wyatt Gillette's arrest and sentencing when he'd been seventeen. They'd send a copy over as soon as possible.
"He forgot to have those shredded," Bishop said to Nolan. "At least we've got one break."
Suddenly Tony Mott glanced at a computer terminal and leapt to his feet, shouting, "Look!"
He ran to the terminal and started banging on the keyboard.
"What?" Bishop asked.
"A housekeeping program just started to wipe the empty space on the hard drive," Mott said breathlessly as he keyed. He hit ENTER then looked up. "There, it's stopped."
Bishop noted the alarm in his face but had no clue what was going on.
It was Linda Sanchez who explained. "Almost all the data on a computer--even things you've deleted or that vanish when you shut the computer off--stay in the empty space of your hard drive. You can't see them as files but they're easy to recover. That's how we catch a lot of bad guys who think they deleted incriminating evidence. The only way to completely destroy that information is to run a program that 'wipes' the empty space. It's like a digital shredder. Before he escaped Wyatt must've programmed it to start running."
"Which means," Tony Mott said, "that he doesn't want us to see what he was just doing online."
Linda Sanchez said, "I've got a program that'll find whatever he was looking at."
She flipped through a box containing floppy disks and loaded one into the machine. Her stubby fingers danced over the keyboard and in a moment cryptic symbols filled the screen. They made no sense whatsoever to Frank Bishop. He noticed though that this must have been a victory for their side because Sanchez smiled faintly and motioned her colleagues over to the terminal.
"This's interesting," Mott said.
Stephen Miller nodded and began taking notes.
"What?" Bishop asked.
But Miller was too busy writing to respond.
CHAPTER 00010011 / NINETEEN
Phate sat in the dining room of his house in Los Altos, listening to Death of a Salesman on his Diskman.
Hunching over his laptop, though, he was distracted. He was badly shaken up by the close call at St. Francis Academy. He remembered standing with his arm around trembling Jamie Turner--both of them watching poor Booty thrash about in his death throes--and telling the kid to stay away from computers forever. But his compelling monologue had been interrupted by Shawn's emergency page, which warned that the police were on their way to the school.
Phate had sprinted out of St. Francis and gotten away just in time, as the police cruisers approached from three different directions.
How on earth had they figured that out?
Well, he was shaken, true, but--an expert at MUD games, a supreme strategist--Phate knew that there was only one thing to do when the enemy has a near success.
Attack again.
He needed a new victim. He scrolled through his computer's directory and opened a folder labeled Univac Week, which contained information on Lara Gibson, St. Francis Academy and other potential victims in Silicon Valley. He started reading through some of the articles from local newspaper Web sites; there were stories about people like paranoid rap stars who traveled with armed entourages, politicians who supported unpopular causes and abortion doctors who lived in virtual fortresses.
But whom to pick? he wondered. Who'd be more challenging than Boethe and Lara Gibson?
Then his eye caught a newspaper article that Shawn had sent to him about a month ago. It concerned a family who lived in an affluent part of Palo Alto.
HIGH SECURITY IN A HIGH-TECH WORLD
Donald W. is a man who's been to the edge. And he didn't like it.
Donald, 47, who agreed to be interviewed only if we didn't use his last name, is chief executive officer of one of Silicon Valley's most successful venture capital firms. While another man might brag about this accomplishment, Donald tries desperately to keep his success, and all the other facts about his life, completely hidden.
There's a very good reason for this: six years ago, while in Argentina to close a deal with investors, he was kidnapped at gunpoint and held for two weeks. His company paid an undisclosed amount of ransom for his release.
Donald was subsequently found unharmed by Buenos Aires police, but he says he hasn't been the same since.
"You look death right in the face and you think, I've taken so much for granted. We think we live in a civilized world, but that's not the case at all."
Donald is among a growing number of wealthy executives in Silicon Valley who are starting to take security seriously.
He and his wife even picked a private school for their only child, Samantha, 8, on the basis of its high-security facilities.
Perfect, Phate thought and went online.
The anonymity of these characters was, of course, merely a slight inconvenience and in ten minutes he'd hacked into the newspaper's editorial computer system and was browsing through the notes of the reporter who'd written the article. He soon had all the details he needed on Donald Wingate, 32983 Hesperia Way, Palo Alto, married to Joyce, forty-two, nee Shearer, who were the parents of a third grader at Junipero Serra School, 2346 Rio Del Vista, also in Palo Alto. He learned too about Wingate's brother, Irving, and Irv's wife, Kathy, and about the two bodyguards in Wingate's employ.
There were some MUDhead game players who'd consider it bad strategy to hit the same type of target--a private school, in this case--twice in a row. Phate, on the contrary, thought it made perfect sense and that the cops would be caught completely off guard.
He scrolled through the files again slowly.
Who do you want to be?
Patricia Nolan said, "You're not going to hurt him, are you? It's not like he's dangerous. You know that."
Frank Bishop snapped that they weren't going to shoot Gillette in the back but, beyond that, there were no guarantees. His response wasn't very civil but his goal at the moment was to find the fugitive, not to comfort consult
ants who had a crush on him.
The main CCU phone line rang.
Tony Mott took the call, listened, nodding his head broadly, eyes slightly wider than they normally were. Bishop frowned, wondering who was on the other end of the line. In a respectful voice Mott said, "Please hold a minute." The young cop then handed the receiver to the detective as if it were a bomb.
"It's for you," the cop whispered uncertainly. "Sorry."
Sorry? Bishop lifted an eyebrow.
"It's Washington, Frank. The Pentagon."
The Pentagon. It was after 1:00 A.M. East Coast time.
This is trouble . . .
He took the receiver. "Hello?"
"Detective Bishop?"
"Yessir."
"This's David Chambers. I run the Department of Defense's Criminal Investigation Division."
Bishop shifted the phone, as if the news he was about to hear would hurt less in his left ear.
"I've heard from various sources that a John Doe release order was issued in the Northern District of California. And that that order might concern an individual we have some interest in." Chambers added quickly, "Don't mention that person's name over the phone line."
"That's right," Bishop responded.
"Where is he now?"
Brazil, Cleveland, Paris, hacking into the New York Stock Exchange to bring the world economy to a halt.
"In my custody," Bishop said.
"You're a California state trooper, is that right?"
"I am, yessir."
"How the hell d'you get a federal prisoner released? And more important, how the hell d'you get him out on a John Doe? Even the warden at San Jose doesn't know anything . . . or claims he doesn't."
"The U.S. attorney and I're friends. We closed the Gonzalez killings a couple of years ago and we've been working together ever since."
"This is a murder case you're running?"
"Yessir. A hacker's been breaking into people's computers and using the information inside to get close to his victims."
Bishop looked at Bob Shelton's concerned face and drew his finger across his own throat. Shelton rolled his eyes.
Sorry. . . .
"You know why we're after this individual, don't you?" Chambers asked.
"Something about him writing software that cracks your software." Trying to be as vague as he could. He guessed that in Washington two conversations often went on simultaneously: the one you meant and the one you said out loud.