"Well, who is he?"
"I don't have a clue. All I know is we've got a real problem. Tony Mott's here. Shawn hacked the FBI's tactical command computers in Washington and San Jose--he got in through ISLEnet--and he's got root access." In a low voice Bishop continued. "Now listen carefully. Shawn's issued arrest warrants and rules of engagement for the suspects in the MARINKILL case. We're looking at the screen right now."
"I don't understand," Gillette said.
"The warrants say that the suspects are at 3245 Abrego Avenue in Sunnyvale."
"But that's here! Elana's house."
"I know. He's ordered the tactical troops to attack the house in twenty-five minutes."
VI IT'S ALL IN THE SPELLING
CODE SEGMENT
ASSUME DS:CODE,SS:CODE,CS:CODE,ES:CODE
ORG $+0100H
VCODE: JMP
***
virus: PUSH CX
MOV DX,OFFSET vir_dat
CLD
MOV SI,DX
ADD SI,first_3
MOV CX,3
MOV DI,OFFSET 100H
REPZ MOVSB
MOV SI,DX
mov ah,30h int 21h
cmp al,0
JnZ dos_ok JMP quit --portions of the actual source code of the virus Violator--Strain II
CHAPTER 00101011 / FORTY-THREE
Elana stepped forward, seeing Gillette's alarmed expression. "What is it? What's going on?"
He ignored her and said to Bishop, "Call the FBI. Tell them what's happening. Call Washington."
"I tried," Bishop responded. "Bernstein did too. But the agents hung up on us. The rules of engagement that Shawn issued say that the perps will probably try to impersonate state cops and try to countermand or delay the attack order. Only computer codes are authorized. Nothing verbal. Not even from Washington. If we had more time maybe we could convince them, but . . ."
"Jesus, Frank. . . ."
How had Shawn found out he was here? Then he realized that Bishop had called the troopers to say that Gillette would be at Elana's place for an hour. He remembered that Phate and Shawn had been monitoring radio and phone transmissions for keywords like TripleX and Holloway and Gillette. Shawn must've heard Bishop's conversation.
Bishop said, "They're near the house now, at a staging area." The detective added, "I just don't understand why Shawn's doing this."
But Gillette did.
Hacker's revenge is patient revenge.
Gillette had betrayed Phate years ago, destroyed the carefully socially engineered life he'd made for himself . . . and earlier today he'd helped end the hacker's life altogether. Now Shawn would destroy Gillette and those he loved.
He looked out the window, thought he saw some motion.
"Wyatt?" Elana asked. "What's going on?" She started to look out the window but he pulled her back roughly. "What is it?" she cried.
"Stay back! Stay away from the windows!"
Bishop continued. "Shawn's issued Level 4 rules of engagement--that means that the SWAT teams don't make any surrender demands. They go in assuming they'll be met with suicidal resistance. They're the rules of engagement they use when they're up against terrorists willing to die."
"So they'll shoot tear gas inside," Gillette muttered, "kick the doors in and anybody who moves is going to get killed."
Bishop paused. "It could go like that."
"Wyatt?" Elana asked. "What's going on? Tell me!"
He turned, shouted, "Tell everybody to get down on the living room floor! You too! Now!"
Her black eyes burned with anger and fear. "What've you done?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . . Just do it now. Get down!"
He turned back, looked out the window. He could see two large black vans easing through an alley fifty feet away. In the distance a helicopter fluttered a hundred feet in the air.
"Listen, Wyatt, the bureau won't go ahead with the assault if there's no final confirmation. That's part of the rules of engagement. Is there any way to shut down Shawn's machine?"
"Put Tony on."
"I'm here," Mott said.
"Are you in the FBI system?"
"Yeah, we can see the screen. Shawn's imping that he's the Tactical Operations Center in Washington, issuing codes. The tactical agent in the field's responding like it's business as usual."
"Can you trace the call back to where Shawn is?"
Mott said, "We don't have a warrant but I'll pull some strings at Pac Bell. Give me a minute or two."
Outside, the sound of heavy trucks. The helicopter was closer.
Gillette could hear the hysterical sobbing of Elana's mother and her brother's angry words coming from the living room. Elana herself said nothing. He saw her cross herself, glance once at him hopelessly and bury her head in the carpet beside her mother.
Oh, Jesus, what've I done?
A few minutes later Bishop came back on the line. "Pac Bell's running the trace. It's a landline. They've narrowed down the central office and exchange--he's somewhere in western San Jose, near Winchester Boulevard. Where Phate's warehouse was."
Gillette asked, "You think he's in the San Jose Computer Products building? Maybe he got back inside after you finished going through it."
"Or maybe he's someplace nearby--there're dozens of old warehouses around there. I'm ten minutes away," the detective said. "I'll go over there now. Brother, I wish we knew who Shawn was."
Something occurred to Gillette. As when he was writing code, he applied this hypothesis against the known facts and rules of logic. He came to a conclusion. He said, "I have a thought about that."
"Shawn?"
"Yeah. Where's Bob Shelton?"
"At home. Why're you asking?"
"Call and find out if he's really there."
"Okay. I'll call you back from the car."
A few minutes later the Papandolos phone rang and Gillette grabbed the receiver. Frank Bishop was calling back as he sped down San Carlos toward Winchester.
"Bob should be home," Bishop said, "but there's no answer. You're wrong if you're thinking Bob's Shawn, though."
Looking out the window, seeing another police car cruise by, followed by a military-type truck, Gillette said, "No, Frank, listen: Shelton claimed he hated computers, didn't know anything about them. But remember: he had that hard drive in his house."
"The what?"
"That disk we saw--it's the kind of hardware only people who did serious hacking or ran bulletin boards a few years ago would use."
"I don't know," Bishop said slowly. "Maybe it was evidence or something."
"Has he ever worked a computer case before this?"
"Well, no . . ."
Gillette continued, "And he disappeared for a while before they raided Phate's house in Los Altos. He had time to send that message about the assault code and give Phate a chance to get away. And, think about it--it was because of him that Phate got inside ISLEnet and got the FBI computer addresses and tactical codes. Shelton said he went online to check me out. But what he was really doing was leaving the password and address of the CCU computer for Phate--so he could crack ISLEnet."
"But Bob's not a computer person."
"He says he isn't. But do you know for sure? Do you go over to his house much?"
"No."
"What's he do at night?"
"Usually stays at home."
"Never goes out?"
Bishop reluctantly replied, "No."
"That's hacker behavior."
"But I've known him for three years."
"Social engineering."
Bishop said, "Impossible. . . . Hold on--there's another call coming in."
While he was on hold Gillette peeked through the curtain. He could see what looked like a military troop carrier parked not far away. There was motion in the bushes across the street. Policemen in camouflage clothing ran from one hedgerow to another. It seemed that there were a hundred officers outside.
Bishop came back on the line.
"P
ac Bell's got the location where Shawn's cracking into the FBI from. He is in San Jose Computer Products. I'm almost there. I'll call you when I'm inside."
Frank Bishop called for backup and then parked the car out of sight in the lot across the street; San Jose Computer seemed to be windowless but he wasn't going to take the chance that Shawn would get a look at him.
Crouching, moving as fast as he could despite the terrible pain in his temple and the back of his skull, Bishop made his way to the warehouse.
He didn't believe Gillette's conclusion about Bob Shelton. And yet he couldn't help but consider it. Of all the partners Bishop had had, he knew the least about Shelton. The big cop did spend all his nights at home. He didn't socialize with other cops. And while Bishop himself, for instance, had a basic knowledge of ISLEnet he wouldn't have been able to get inside the system and track down that information about Gillette the way Shelton had done. He recalled too that Shelton had volunteered for this case; Bishop remembered wondering why he'd wanted to take this one rather than MARINKILL.
But none of this mattered at the moment. Whether Shawn was Bob Shelton or someone else, Bishop had only about fifteen minutes before the federal tactical team began their attack. Drawing his pistol, he flattened himself against the wall beside the loading dock and paused, listening. He could hear nothing inside.
Okay. . . . Go!
Ripping the door open, Bishop ran down the corridor, through the office and into the dank warehouse itself. It was dark and seemed unoccupied. He found a bank of overhead lights and flipped the switches on with his left hand, holding his pistol out in front of him. The stark illumination shone down on the entire space and he could see clearly that it was empty.
He ran outside again to look for another building that Shawn might be using. But there were no other structures connected to the warehouse. As he was about to turn back, though, he noticed that the warehouse looked considerably larger from the outside than it had on the inside.
Hurrying back into the building, he saw that a wall appeared to have been added at one end of the warehouse; it was a more recent construction than the original building. Yes, Phate must've added a secret room. That's where Shawn would be. . . .
In a dim corner of the pen he found a knobless panel on hinges and tested it quietly. It was unlocked. He inhaled deeply, dried the sweat from his hand on his billowing shirt and pressed the panel again. Had his footsteps or flipping on the lights warned Shawn of the intrusion? Did the killer have a weapon trained on the doorway?
It all comes down to this. . . .
Frank Bishop pushed inside, gun up.
He dropped into a crouch, squinting for a target, scanning the dark room, chill from the air-conditioning. He saw no sign of Shawn, only machinery and equipment, packing crates and pallets, tools, a hand-operated hydraulic forklift.
Empty. There was--
Then he saw it.
Oh, no . . .
Bishop realized then that Wyatt Gillette and his wife and her family were doomed.
The room was only a telephone relay station. Shawn was hacking in from someplace else.
Reluctantly he called Gillette.
The hacker answered and said desperately, "I can see them, Frank. They've got machine guns. This's going to be bad. You found anything?"
"Wyatt, I'm at the warehouse. . . . But . . . I'm sorry. Shawn's not here. It's just a phone relay or something." He described the large black metal box console.
"It's not a phone relay," Gillette muttered, his voice hollow with despair. "It's an Internet router. But it still won't do us any good. It'd take an hour to trace the signal back to Shawn. We'll never find him in time."
Bishop glanced at the box. "There're no switches on it and the wiring's under the floor--this is one of those dinosaur pens like at CCU. So I can't unplug it."
"Won't do any good anyway. Even if you shut that one down, Shawn's transmissions'll automatically find a different route to the FBI."
"Maybe there's something else here that'll tell us where he is." Desperately Bishop began searching through the desk and packing boxes. "There're lots of papers and books."
"What are they?" the hacker asked, but his voice was a monotone, filled with helplessness, his childlike curiosity long gone.
"Manuals, printouts, worksheets, computer disks. Mostly technical stuff. From Sun Microsystems, Apple, Harvard, Western Electric--all the places where Phate worked." Bishop ripped through boxes, scattering pages everywhere. "No, there's nothing here." Bishop looked around helplessly. "I'll try to make it to Ellie's house in time, convince the bureau to send a negotiator in before they start the assault."
"You're twenty minutes away, Frank," Gillette whispered. "You'll never make it."
"I'll try," the detective said softly. "Listen, Wyatt, get into the middle of the living room and get down. Keep your hands in plain sight. Pray for the best." He started for the door.
Then he heard Gillette shout, "Wait!"
"What is it?"
The hacker asked, "Those manuals that he was packing up. What were the companies again?"
Bishop looked over the documents. "The places Phate worked. Harvard, Sun, Apple, Western Electric. And--"
"NEC!" Gillette shouted.
"Right."
"It's an acronym!"
"What do you mean?" Bishop asked.
Gillette said, "Remember? All the acronyms hackers use? The initials of those places he worked--S for Sun. H for Harvard. A for Apple, Western Electric, NEC . . . S, H, A, W, N . . . The machine--there in the room with you. . . . It's not a router at all. The box--that's Shawn. He created it from the code and hardware he stole!"
Bishop scoffed. "Impossible."
"No, that's why the trace ended there. Shawn's a machine. He's . . . it's generating the signals. Before he died Phate must've programmed it to crack the bureau system and arrange the assault. And Phate knew about Ellie--he mentioned her by name when he broke into CCU. He seemed to think I betrayed him because of her."
Bishop, shivering fiercely from the raw cold, turned toward the black box. "There's no way a computer could've done all this--"
But Gillette interrupted, "No, no, no . . . Why wasn't I thinking better? A machine is the only way he could've done it. A supercomputer's the only thing that could crack scrambled signals and monitor all of the phone calls and radio transmissions in and out of CCU. A human being couldn't do it--there'd be way too much to listen to. Government computers do it every day, listen for key words like 'president' and 'assassinate' in the same sentence. That's how Phate found out about Andy Anderson going to Hacker's Knoll and about me--Shawn must've heard Backle call the Department of Defense and sent Phate that portion of the transmission. And it heard the assault code when we were about to nail him in Los Altos and sent the message to Phate to warn him."
The detective said, "But Shawn's e-mails in Phate's computer . . . They sounded like a human actually wrote them."
"You can communicate with a machine any way you want--e-mails work just as well as anything else. Phate programmed them to sound like somebody'd written them. It probably made him feel better, seeing what looked like a human's words. Like I was telling you I did with my Trash-80."
S-H-A-W-N.
It's all in the spelling. . . .
"What can we do?" the detective asked.
"There's only one thing. You've got to--"
The line went dead.
"We took their phone out," a communications tech said to Special Agent Mark Little, the tactical commander for the bureau's MARINKILL operation. "And the cell's down. Nobody's mobiles'll work for a mile around."
"Good."
Little, along with his second in command, Special Agent George Steadman, was in a panel van that was serving as the command post in Sunnyvale. The vehicle was parked around the corner from the house on Abrego where the perps in the MARINKILL case were reportedly hiding.
Taking the phones down was standard procedure. Five or ten minutes before an
assault you had the subject's phone service suspended. That way nobody could warn them of the impending attack.
Little had done a number of dynamic entries into barricaded sites--mostly drug busts in Oakland and San Jose--and he'd never lost an agent. But this operation was especially troubling to the thirty-one-year-old agent. He'd been working MARINKILL from day one and had read all the bulletins, including the one just received from an anonymous informant, which reported that the killers felt they were being persecuted by the FBI and police and planned to torture any law enforcement officers they captured. Appended to this was another report that they'd rather die fighting than be taken alive.
Man, it's never easy. But this . . .
"Everybody locked and loaded and in armor?" Little asked Steadman.
"Yeah. Three teams and snipers ready. Streets're secure. Medevacs from Travis are in the air. Fire trucks're around the corner."
Little nodded as he listened to the report. Well, everything seemed fine. But what the hell was bothering him so much?
He wasn't sure. Maybe it had been the desperation in that guy's voice--the one claiming to be from the state police. Bishop was his name, or something like that. Yammering on about somebody hacking into the bureau's computers and issuing phony assault codes against some innocents.
But the rules of engagement issued by Washington had warned that the perps would impersonate fellow officers and would claim that the whole operation was a misunderstanding. The perps might even pretend to be state police. Besides, Little reflected, hacking into the bureau's computers? Impossible. The public Web site was one thing, but the secure tactical computer? Never.
He looked at his watch.
Eight minutes to go.
He said to one of the techs sitting at a computer monitor, "Get the yellow confirmation."
The man keyed:
FROM: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA TO: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.
RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01
YELLOW CODE CONFIRM?
He hit ENTER.
There were three levels of tactical operational codes: green, yellow and red. A go-ahead green code approved the agents' movement to the staging site of the operation. This had happened a half-hour ago. Yellow go-ahead meant for them to get ready for the assault and move into position around their target. Red controlled the actual assault itself.