Christopher Reich - The First Billion

The individual whom Jett Gavallan had called “the top man in his field” kept his office in two spartan rooms on the second floor of a modest colonial home in Potomac, Maryland. And the “field” to which Gavallan had been referring was alternately called “cybersleuthing,” “systems security,” or, if you were a black-hat hacker, “betraying the cause.”

If you needed to find someone on the Net quickly—friend or foe, cracker, script kiddie, or gray-haired hacker—Vann was your man. The FBI had called him to discover who had hacked into NORAD and raised the entire United States defense establishment to Defcon 2. Since then, he’d lectured regularly at Quantico. The CIA had paid him handsomely to track down a team of cyberterrorists who had defaced Langley’s mainframe. They’d thought so highly of his methods that they’d contracted to keep him on permanent retainer. Five thousand dollars a month so the spooks in Virginia could install a direct line to his home.

And Mr. John Gavallan of San Francisco was paying him a hundred thousand bucks to find out the name and home address of some Net loudmouth calling himself the Private Eye-PO.

Child’s play.

Vann’s offices were small, each room ten by twelve. Windows high on the wall overlooked a green pasture where horses were left to run. Not that Vann spent much time looking. Everything in the world that interested him could be found in this room or the next. Every bare surface was packed with computers and peripheral equipment: PCs, Macs, servers, scanners, printers. At last count he had nine systems up and running, twenty-four seven. He also had some cool Lord of the Rings stuff on the shelves, a Lava lamp he’d gotten for Christmas that he couldn’t decide whether was lame or not, and a model of the Eiffel Tower he’d gotten at Paris! Paris! on a trip to Las Vegas last year with his parents.

Scrunching his nose, Vann saddled closer to the monitor. Though not entirely necessary—given the parameters of the assignment—he decided to spend a few minutes studying the Private Eye-PO’s web page. He backtracked through a month’s worth of the man’s weekly columns, basically “rants and raves” about new issues coming to market. Finding the attacks on Mercury Broadband, an IPO managed by Black Jet Securities, he understood why Mr. Gavallan was in such a hurry to find out who had written such mean-spirited words. If it had been his stock the Private Eye-PO was attacking, Vann would have killed the guy.

The first thing Vann did was contact a buddy who worked for Hotmail.com and get him into a private room on IRC, the Internet Relay Chat.

Hotmail.com was a free mail service, and anonymous—that is, you could set up an account there without giving your name, address, phone number, or credit card, any of which would have made it way too easy for someone like Jason Vann to find you. You did, however, have to provide a valid E-mail address to retrieve the password you needed to access the system. Unbeknownst to the lay user, the sign-on page contained an “x field” that recorded the IP address—the “Internet protocol” where the mail was sent.

Vann’s contact at Hotmail.com was Ralph Viola, who went by the handle “Stallion.”

JV (Jason Vann): My man, I need the 411 on one of your users. Usual terms apply. Here you go: PrivateEye-PO. Whatcha got?

Stallion: Wait a minute while I get the logs… Okay, got it. Your man’s IP=22.154.877.91. Logged on this morning at 7:21 EST. Gaming tonight? We’re doing Stalingrad. You can be General von Paulus.

JV: Screw that. Krauts always lose in that one. Too busy, anyway. Who is the ISP?

Stallion: Not so fast, jack. Time to up the scratch. People watching over my shoulder. Five bills’ll do the trick.

JV: You’re a thief, but since I’m in a hurry, okay. Try it again and I’ll brand thee “Highwayman.”

Stallion: And thee “Rogue!” The ISP is BlueEarth.com in Palm Beach, Florida. Thanks and aloha, McGarrett!

JV: Aloha!

Since word had gotten out that Vann had joined up with the feds, everyone had started calling him McGarrett. Like Steve McGarrett of Hawaii Five-O, which even the biggest dumb-ass knew was the coolest cop show ever on TV. “Book him, Danno!”

He looked down at the name of Private Eye-PO’s ISP, or Internet service provider. BlueEarth.com. Every time the Private Eye-PO logged on, his modem was connected to one of BlueEarth’s servers, and that server had its own unique and permanent Internet protocol address. Stallion had given him the server address where the Private Eye-PO’s mail was last sent and the time of transmission. All Vann had to do was contact BlueEarth.com and find out the IP and corresponding phone number that had logged on to that particular server at 7:21 EST this morning.

Child’s play.

Vann entered his mail program and pulled up a file containing the names, E-mail addresses, and web handles of people who worked for ISPs. When he’d first gotten hooked on the Net there were maybe a hundred ISPs across the country. Now there were thousands. He guessed BlueEarth was a newcomer, because he couldn’t recall ever coming across the name before. No matter; he was sure that somewhere in his files, he’d have something about BlueEarth. Some of the information came from his friends. Some he purchased. Some he procured by more sophisticated means.

Amazingly, the search failed to turn up any associates he might contact at BlueEarth.com, no Ralph “Stallion” Viola he could slip five hundred bucks in exchange for Private Eye-PO’s IP and phone number. Vann scratched at his hair, frowning.

Suddenly the screen stuttered, went blank, then colored a sizzling hot pink.

Reset. Fatal exception at F275A-II/7. 13:52:45.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the easiest hundred thousand he’d ever made.

A long gulp cleaned out the Dew. He tossed the can in the trash and slid back his chair.

It was a lovely day outside: blue sky, a few clouds, temperature closing in on ninety. The Bullises had their Thoroughbreds roaming free in the pasture. He particularly liked the bay gelding and was certain it would have made an excellent charger. If he ever learned to ride, he might ask the Bullises to allow him to take the bay to the jousting tournament at the annual Renaissance Faire in College Park. He toyed with the idea for a few seconds, then discarded it. He’d never be able to find a decent suit of armor. Besides, before that, he’d have to learn how to drive.

Cracking his knuckles, Vann brought his chair close to his PC. It looked like Mr. Gavallan was going to make him earn his money today. Vann didn’t like hacking into an ISP, but sometimes a carefully considered violation of an individual’s or enterprise’s privacy was necessary. If anyone had a problem with it, they could take it up with the FBI. Agent Fox Muldur would be pleased to assist in the matter. And whistling the theme from X-Files, he began banging code into his computer, working his way, step by laborious step, into BlueEarth.com’s innermost sanctum: the customer address files where they guarded the names, phone numbers, and IPs of all their clients.

Three hours later, he was still working.

The sun was setting and the small room had grown hot and stuffy, the air as rank and cloying as a high school weight room’s. Vann didn’t notice. Head bowed, he banged line after line of code into the computer, waiting for the walls to fall. So far, every one of his ploys had failed. He couldn’t find a back door. The firewall was impenetrable. And he couldn’t keep hacking into the site much longer for fear of being spotted by BlueEarth’s security programs.

A voice called from downstairs. “Jason, dinner’s ready!”

“Just a second.”

Vann tapped at the keys a few moments longer, then threw his hands up. He was beaten and he knew it. “Damn it all!” he muttered, sliding back from his desk and staring at the impotent keyboard.