Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“I’m happy to pay the subscription fee.”

“Done.”

“How?”

“Cyber-currency.”

I didn’t ask.

When Mama was in and had linked over to the general store, we both studied the images, eyes ping-ponging between our two side-by-side screens.

“There,” I said, pointing. Those bundled sets of archived podcasts. They’re offered on my laptop but not on yours.”

“Huh.” Fingers dancing. Firing through the inventory presented on her screen. “Let me see your laptop.” A few key combinations. Then, “Malware.”

“Malware?” I knew what it was but wasn’t sure where she was going.

“They’re using some sort of malicious virus, something like DNSChanger, to infect the computers of certain visitors to the site.”

“DNSChanger?”

“I’ll back up. But you really must educate yourself more about the World Wide Web, sweat pea.” Pause. “DNS, the Domain Name System, is an internet service that converts user-friendly names, for example, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN.com, into numerical addresses that allow computers to talk to each other. Without DNS and the DNS servers operated by internet service providers, computer users wouldn’t be able to browse websites or send email.”

“Got it.” I did.

“A malware program like DNSChanger redirects an unsuspecting user to a rogue server, allowing a hacker to manipulate that user’s web activity.”

“Let me get this straight. When the user of an infected computer clicks on the link for some website, say, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN

.com, because of the malware, they are taken to a different website instead.”

“Close enough. A few years back, the FBI busted an internet-fraud ring operating out of the Baltics that had infected millions of computers worldwide.”

“Why?”

“It allowed the hackers to manipulate the multibillion-dollar internet advertising industry. It’s fascinating. Do you want to hear the details?”

“Later. So why infect my computer and not yours?”

“They must be using an algorithm that selects only certain visitors. If the designated profile logs in, that computer is infected and redirected.”

“To a rogue server they control.”

“Yes.”

I considered that.

“A forty-two-year-old man is rerouted but not a seventy-seven-year-old woman.”

Mama finished the thought. “To a modified site offering bundled podcasts. At very high prices, I might add. Who would pay that amount to listen to such drivel?”

My mind was going a billion miles a second.

“What type of audio files are those podcasts?” I asked.

A series of keystrokes. “MP3 files.”

Several beats as we both stared at our screens. Then Mama gasped, sharp and quick. I turned. Her eyes were like hubcaps. Wearing mascara.

“What?”

“I believe I know what deviltry Body is up to.”

37

TUESDAY, JULY 17

Thirty minutes later, Slidell was swiping us through security and into the crime lab. Mittie Peppers met us outside the QD section. Nods all around. No pleasantries. The tension was enough to revive the DOA Mars rover.

Peppers led us through the door, past the marvelous ESDA machine, to a village of computers glowing along a back wall.

“You think it’s nuts?” I asked. “What I said on the phone?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re familiar with the process my mother referred to?”

“Steganography. Definitely.”

“You’re on board with her malware theory?”

“Let’s see your computer.”

I entered my password and handed Peppers my Mac. She settled by one of her screens and began working my keyboard. I sat beside her. Slidell stood behind, taut as a patient awaiting a root canal.

Seconds passed. A full five minutes. I chewed a thumbnail, as agitated as when I’d come to Peppers about the indented writing.

“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a nasty little bugger.”

“Sonofabitch.”

“This machine seems brand new.”

“I bought it last Friday.” After my old one was incinerated due to my own stupidity. I didn’t add that.

“Have you visited Body’s site using this Mac?”

I nodded, anger sparking so hot I didn’t trust my voice.

“I can remove the malware when we’re done.”

“I’ll owe you. Go to BodyLanguage.com.”

She did.

“I’ve joined as a forty-two-year-old male. Use that profile, then link over to the general store, and enter the podcast aisle.”

She did. I pointed to the bundled podcasts. Explained how they’d appeared on my Mac earlier and not on Mama’s. Peppers logged onto one of the lab’s computers, joined Body Language as a thirty-three-year-old female, promising to bill Slidell at the CCU for reimbursement, and navigated to the proper aisle in the general store. No bundled podcasts. Peppers agreed that an algorithm in the malware was sending some users to a rogue server, then to a modified version of the page, which was hawking the bundles to what the site’s operators perceived as a specialized slice of the market.

“Roll me through steganography,” I said. “How does it work?”

“Stick to the King’s English, ladies?” Slidell, churlish.

The ladies shared an eye roll.

“You’ve heard of encryption, right?” Peppers began.

“Coding,” I said.

Peppers nodded. “When we talk about encrypting, we mean making something indecipherable. It’s obvious the secret code is there, but no one can read it without knowing the key. Steganography is all about hiding a message so that no one even knows it’s present.”

“Like writing with invisible ink.” Mama had used that analogy.

“Exactly. Say you want to hide some info in another document, maybe in an image. You do it by subtly adjusting individual pixels …”

Peppers stopped mid-sentence. Turned from the screen to see if we were following.

“Pixels are the tiny squares that make up a digital image.” Hearing Slidell grunt, I let it go at that.

“A pixel is barely noticeable to the human eye but easily detected by a computer,” Peppers continued. “By making very subtle adjustments, you can hide whole strings of text. For example, change the color or brightness values of three successive pixels, and you could invisibly code the word CAB. I am greatly oversimplifying.”

“You’re talking about hiding text,” I said. “Could you also conceal one image inside another?”

“Yes. Since the intensity values are changed only slightly, the steganography creates deviations so subtle they can’t usually be detected by the naked eye. Typically, the only way you could say that one pic is a steg would be to compare two seemingly identical images. Even then, if you suspect one may be modified, there’s no quick way to tell which is the innocent and which is the carrier.”

“Come on, come on.” Slidell flicked a hand at the screen. “If Body’s dirty, I got to nail his ass fast.”

“Can you hide text or images in audio files?” I asked, feeling the same blunt-force dread as when Mama first proposed the idea.

“Yes. You take advantage of the way the algorithm for MP3—that’s code for mathematical process—converts and compresses analog audio into digital form. Your secret information would not only be hidden, it would be encrypted as well, so very hard to detect and decrypt.”

“There are programs that do this?” I was so pumped I was asking dumb questions.

“The web is lousy with apps. For example, MP3Stego hides things in music files. SkyDe is a steganographic add-on for Skype. There’s COAGULA—”

Slidell cut us off. “Brennan’s thinking this jerkweed Body might be floating kiddie porn in stuff he sells on his site. Maybe hiding it in these podcasts.” Jabbing a thumb at the monitor.