Hack By Peter Wrenshall

Chapter 2

“Sit down,” ordered the burly guard.

I pulled the gray metal chair from under the table, which was somewhat

awkward because of the handcuffs, and sat down, facing two men I had never seen

before. They looked like FBI agents. After a while, you get to know the business-

casual clothes, and the no-nonsense attitude. It had been three months since the FBI’s

previous visit. A woman from the forensics division had come to ask for my help in

creating a profile of the computer criminal’s mind. I couldn’t help her, but I had

gotten a good idea of the profile of law enforcement psychologists.

Neither of these men looked like shrinks, so I figured that they were from the

still-young Cyber Crime Division.

“Guard, those aren’t necessary,” said the first man. The guard unlocked and

removed the restraints, and then quietly left the room, leaving me alone with the feds.

“Hello, Karl,” said the first man, in a surprisingly pleasant voice. He might

have been greeting Karl, the cheerful boy next door over the garden fence. “I’m

Special Agent Philips, and this is Special Agent Garman. We’re with the Federal

Bureau of Investigation.”

Philips was in his mid-thirties, and had a well-fed look. Despite being a bit

heavier than the Surgeon General would recommend, Philips was solidly built and

looked like the compulsory FBI fitness test wouldn’t give him any grief. Garman was

cut from the same mold, except that he was younger, leaner, and darker, and had a

mustache that was probably intended to detract from his receding hairline.

“Hi,” I replied.

“How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” I said politely. Shortly after my arrest, I had learned the hard

way that when the police are being polite to you, they expect you to return the

courtesy. In fact, they insist.

Philips nodded, and said, “Good.” He wasn’t smiling, but he seemed

optimistic about something.

“So, I guess this is your last week inside. Come Monday, you’ll be on

supervised release?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got anything lined up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess you’ll need a job to pay the rent.”

“My parole officer has found me a position.”

“That’s good. What are you going to be doing, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I didn’t mind him asking, though the information would have been in my file,

which he had probably already read.

“Making pizza.” That was the only job I’d been offered. Making money by

writing a book about my ‘exploits’ had occurred to me, but was impossible, since I

had been forced to bargain away everything I had just to get out of jail. That included

publishing privileges. Anyway, if any publishers had the same idea, they hadn’t

mentioned it to me. Being called a terrorist usually has a bad effect on your public

appeal.

“I see,” Philips said.

After telling him that the guy who had spent months making his department

look bad was going to be making pizzas, I had expected a grin from Philips. But his

expression hadn’t changed.

“Are you looking forward to starting?” he asked, seriously.

“Yes, I am, now that I’ve got a second chance. I’m going to make something

of this opportunity. My hacking days are behind me. I just want to settle down, and

stay out of trouble.”

Both men looked at each other, and Philips’s smile became real at last.

Some of his optimism was apparently replaced by the cynical worldliness I had

become more familiar with in police officers.

“You can drop the spiel, Karl,” he said. “We’re not with the parole board. You

don’t have to convince us of anything. We’re from the Cyber Crime Division. We’ve

come to offer you a job.”

“A job?” I echoed. It is not every day that the FBI recruits from the Cedar

Creek Corrections Center, which is the Washington State prison in Littlerock.

“Yes, something in your line of work.”

“Pizza?”

“Computers.”

“For the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to work as a . . . consultant?”

“Right now, we could use your skills.”

I stared at Philips.

After a minute, he said, “What do you think?”

“Do you have a dental plan?” I asked.

Garman frowned, clearly annoyed. But Philips just smiled at the smart-mouth

kid who was being a little rude to Mr. Philips.

“No. What we have is a chance for you to wipe some of those black marks off

your record, by putting your computer skills and your . . .” he paused, searching for

the correct phrase, “social engineering talents to good use.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You see, since your little stunt at the Pentagon six months ago, we’ve been

troubled by a series of similar computer break-ins. Young kids, even younger than

you, have been targeting sensitive installations.”

“You are a role model to terrorists,” added Garman, finding his voice at last.

There was more than a hint of genuine anger in it. Philips gave him a look, as if to

restrain him.

“We haven’t had any major breaches of security,” continued Philips, “but it’s

only a matter of time.”

I sat up a little more, and rubbed my forehead, like a guy coming out of a

dream in which the most bizarre and unlikely events had unfolded. The FBI offering

me a job certainly qualified as bizarre. Philips reached down to a black briefcase on

the floor, and pulled out three photographs.

“Our last three arrests have been boys under the age of sixteen.”

He spread on the table photographs of three harmless-looking high school

boys. Having been in jail for over six months, I had read and heard nothing about this.

According to one report I read, computer-related crimes cost the government more

than fifty billion dollars a year. But I had no idea that people my age were part of it.

High school hackers most often go after trivial targets, just for laughs. I remember a

story about some fifteen year old breaking into a well-known take-out food

company’s website, and adding Chocodiles and jelly beans to the list of pizza

toppings. That was the sort of thing that teens went in for.