Invasion of Privacy: A Deep Web Thriller #1 (Deep Web Thriller Series) (45 page)

Fingal remained hunched over his PC, with his back to Crooner42. He absently reached for the beverage next to his laptop. He drained it and returned his attention to whatever it was he was doing. Presumably trying — and failing, Crooner42 chuckled to himself — to find a link between HomeWebCam and SWY.

Crooner42 scanned the data captured in Kismet. He was looking for a sequence of four packets, a four-way handshake that occurred in WPA2 authentication between Fingal’s computer and the Wi-Fi router. Within the four packets lay the encrypted password.

After a few minutes, he found them.

Crooner42 almost jumped for joy, but then remembered where he was and held himself together.

He connected to the Internet, via his own mobile phone rather than any of the Wi-Fi networks — after all, you couldn’t be too safe — and brought up a site called CloudCracker. It was an online password cracking service that, for a small fee, would compare the encrypted password to the millions of words in its numerous dictionaries. 

In the morning, Crooner42 would have the cleartext password for Fingal’s private Wi-Fi network. Then all hell would break loose.

“I’m so sorry Mr Brody, but is closing time.”

Crooner42 looked over to see the waiter standing by Fingal, his hands spread out in front of him emphasising that there was nothing he could do. Fingal was reading something on his phone. He looked up at the waiter, smiling.

“That’s okay, Stefan. I was just leaving anyway.” Fingal waved his phone and cheerfully announced, “I’ve got a date.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Stefan commented exuberantly and moved on to warn the next customer about closing time. Crooner42 caught Stefan’s eye and gave him the thumbs up to acknowledge that he’d also heard the message. The waiter smiled and nodded.

Not wanting to draw any attention from Fingal, Crooner42 waited for him to pack up first. He did so quickly and without so much as a backward glance, rushed out of the coffee shop.

“Good luck, Mr Brody,” Stefan called out as the door swung shut.

Crooner42 watched Fingal cross the road. The hazard lights on one of those impossibly small Smart cars flashed. Crooner42 watched incredulously as Fingal climbed into the driver’s seat of the garishly coloured orange and black vehicle. The car pulled out into the traffic and shot off.

Crooner42 finished his coffee, packed up his computer and left Bruno’s. He needed to return to Charlton Station and recover his own car, a much more fitting set of wheels for one of the worlds finest hackers. 

* * *

Brody knocked on the unremarkable black double doors set into the plain brick wall. He peeked at Jenny Price beside him. She stood passively, her arms loosely folded, looking up at the dark sky as if working out whether it would rain again. He found her nonchalance disconcerting. Where were the questions voicing her worries about where he was taking her? How could she remain so calm standing outside this unmarked door in this Soho backstreet? All he’d said earlier when he picked her up from Holborn Station was that he’d take her to a bar, deliberately not providing any further elaboration. He knew from his own experience and from the numerous first dates he’d escorted to this strange black door that their hackles were automatically raised, a sudden irrational fear that Brody was some kind of psychopath drawing them into his secret lair. His dates’ palpable relief when they saw what was inside never failed in breaking the ice.

The door opened inwards.

“I absolutely love speakeasies,” Jenny announced breezily, and cruised confidently into the establishment, by-passing the massive bouncer standing in the dark entrance area.

Brody’s astonishment rooted his feet to the spot.

“Welcome, Mr Brody,” said the bouncer. 

“Uh . . . oh, hi,” stammered Brody. 

Damn, she knew all about speakeasies. That explained her calm demeanour. She’d taken him at his word about going to a bar and as they’d approached the nondescript door in the long stretch of redbrick wall, she had put two and two together and worked out he was taking her to a speakeasy, a hidden bar that could not be seen by passers-by. Originally created in the United States during the Prohibition era as secret places to illegally consume liquor, they were now in revival as ultra-chic bars for those Brits in the know. In the three years Brody had been a member of Bromptons this was the first time one of his guests had already been familiar with the speakeasy concept.

He entered, allowing the bouncer to close the door behind him. 

“You’ve been to a speakeasy before then?” he asked Jenny lightly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone. 

“I was taken to a couple in New York. It hadn’t occurred to me that there were any in London.”

He led her through the blackout curtains into the main bar area. The subdued lighting just about reached the exposed brick walls. Mellow jazz played at the same noise level as the hubbub emanating from the club’s guests, all secreted away in cosy booths. 

They seated themselves on two leather and chrome stools, facing a massive mirrored wall, supporting numerous floating glass shelves that displayed a wide-ranging assortment of spirits. The barman offered them a cocktail menu, but Jenny declined, ordering herself a gin and tonic. Brody requested the same, but specified Hendrick’s, saying to Jenny, “If we’re only going to be having the one, let’s make it a good one.” 

“Good thinking.”

They chatted about other speakeasy experiences, which led to comparing holiday destinations. She spoke passionately about hiring a red convertible Ford Mustang and driving through the desert to Las Vegas, which, probably because it was the polar opposite, made her recall Brody’s tiny car, prompting a second round of merciless ribbing, the first having happened when he’d picked her up earlier. 

She’d exited Holborn Station and saw him leaning on his two-tone black and orange Fortwo coupe waiting for her. Failing to stifle a peal of laughter, she declared, “I’m not getting in that! What if someone saw me?”

He’d feigned a hurt expression and patted his car as if to protect it from her unkind words. “Come on, jump in.”

“Seriously, I’ve got a proper car just around the corner.”

“Tell you what. I’ll drop you back here after.”

She pondered for a moment and, failing to find a flaw in the plan, climbed in. “Like I said in my text, Brody. Just the one drink. After the day I’ve had, I’ve earned one nice drink.”

“One
nice
drink? Hmm, let me see. Yes, I know a good place.”

Ten minutes later he had pulled up outside Bromptons, with its innocuous black double doors.

Jenny placed her glass back on the counter, empty save the cucumber garnish. “That was fantastic. I really needed that after today.”

“The case?”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

“Did you track down the landlord?” 

Jenny hesitated, unsure whether to discuss work. Brody sipped at his drink, still half-full.

“Yeah, he’s in custody now.”

“For murder?”

“No, not yet. We’re still gathering facts. He’s denying it, but there’s an awful lot of circumstantial evidence. But for now we’ve got him under the sexual offences act for voyeurism and the human rights act for right to privacy. Unlike in the States, it turns out the UK doesn’t have a specific law covering invasion of privacy.”

“Do
you
think he killed them?”

Jenny considered his question. She picked up the glass and, remembering it was empty, placed it back down.

“Would you like another?” asked Brody. “You said it’s been a tough day.”

“I’d love one, I really would. But I need to be able to drive later.”

“I can give you a lift home,” and then, to reduce any implication, he teased, “If you can bear to be seen in my car.”

Leaning on the bar with her elbow, she turned to face him. “It’s no fun drinking on my own.”

“You know, that’s why God invented black cabs.”

“Which has one additional benefit . . .”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

She flashed a smile. “I don’t have to be seen in your toy car.”

A few minutes later, two fresh gin and tonics were placed in front of them. They chatted amiably and after a while the conversation returned to the murder cases.

“No, I don’t think Walter Pike is the meeting room killer,” said Jenny, loosening up. “Even though he installed that perverted webcam system
and
he’s a customer of Flexbase.”

“Flexbase, really? In what way?”

“He uses their remote office service. You know, the one you took umbrage to with David Dawson this morning.”

“So this Pike knows all about their meeting room booking processes?”

“He says that he knows that you can rent meeting rooms but that he’s never had to. We’re checking with Flexbase.”

“That won’t prove Pike doesn’t know his way around the booking system. After all, the rooms were all booked in fake names using fake email addresses.”

“Yeah, I know.”

They were both silent for a few moments, thinking through the implications. 

Brody then spoke a thought that had been bothering him. “You know, I’m convinced that Flexbase are holding back. There’s got to be a way to link the meeting room booking back to an originating IP address. Any decent web application developer worth his salt would store that little titbit inside the database. At the very least for debugging purposes.”

“You’re losing me here, Brody.” Jenny smiled and added, “Could be the gin though.” Her glass was empty again. Brody ordered another round.

“All I’m saying is that I reckon the IP address associated with the booking is stored in the database used by the application. That IT guy, what was his name?”

“Peggler. Magnus Peggler.”

“Yeah him. He was flannelling us with all that talk of needing to go to the vendor who wrote the booking system. Any decent IT guy could just go natively into the database and take a look.”

“Really? Right, I’ll put some proper pressure on them tomorrow. Thanks, Brody.” 

“Actually, I thought of something else. I took a look at the Flexbase public website earlier and went through the meeting room booking system.”

“Go on.”

“Well, by default when you set up a new account, any booking would require a credit card to complete the booking. But Peggler said that the booking was linked to an existing corporate account. Which means that the booking is just added to the company’s bill, rather than asking you to provide your credit card details.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well, when I created a new personal account on their site, I couldn’t see a way to link it to a corporate account. Which means that it needs to be done behind the scenes by someone in Flexbase. Or, if the system is designed well, by the administrator of the corporate account.”

Brody could see the frown on her face in the mirror as she tried to process this.

“That means that the killer knew how to get an individual account linked to a corporate account to avoid leaving a credit card trail,” he continued. “It would need to have been carried out in advance of making the actual booking. There should be an audit trail on the system.”

“That’s brilliant, Brody. I really appreciate this. But can you do me a favour?”

“Yes?”

“Can you repeat these ideas tomorrow? I’m three G and Ts in and so I’m not convinced I’ll be able to remember all of it.”

They laughed together. He agreed to help. He was happy to, despite it taking time away from his primary objective of hacking SecretlyWatchingYou. Helping Jenny Price on her two murder cases at least made him feel like he was making some kind of progress. But he knew he was just fooling himself. He was happy to help as an excuse to spend more time with her. He found her presence intoxicating – and not just because he was also three G and Ts in. He appreciated the self-assured way she conducted herself. He guessed much of it came from being a police officer, putting herself in dangerous situations and relying on her wits and training to handle it. In work mode, she was intense, focussed and, well, bossy. But socially she was more feminine, relaxed and likeable. And in both modes she was strikingly beautiful.

“One for the road?” he asked.

She hummed and hawed and then said, “Yes, but let’s do something different.”

Jenny called the barman over, requested the cocktail menu and scanned it. She turned to him. “We established you’re a fellow coffee lover first thing this morning, didn’t we?”

Brody had no idea where she was going with this. The last thing he wanted was a coffee, this late at night. But he shrugged warily.

She ordered two espresso martinis. A few minutes later, two long-stemmed cocktail glasses containing a dark ochre liquid with a cream top appeared. Brody was in unchartered territory. He watched Jenny sip hers and give an appreciating nod to the barman. Brody tasted his, taking time to savour the unexpectedly pleasant combination of coffee and alcohol, made cold by the ice in the cocktail shaker.

“Kahlua, vodka and espresso,” Jenny explained.

Greedily, he took a larger sip. “So simple.” 

“Nice moustache,” she said, leaning over to wipe the cream off his upper lip with the tip of her index finger. She studied her finger and then, self-consciously catching herself, demurely wiped it on a napkin.

“You should see yours.”

“No!” She looked straight ahead into the mirror. And then, realising he had tricked her, playfully struck him on the arm.

They sipped their cocktails companionably.

“I don’t believe you’re a pervert,” Jenny stated with a mischievous grin.

“Huh?”

“Harry. He thinks you’re some kind of voyeur.”

“Who’s Harry?”

“Harry O’Reilly. Our Irish computer geek that you met earlier today.”

“Oh, course, how could I forget Harry? With his incredibly gifted technical mind, his decades of programming experience and his uncanny ability to make gadgets do the most unlikely things. You know, with the massive rise of cybercrime in the world, I feel invulnerable at the thought of Harry out there keeping me safe online.”

Jenny punched him lightly in the arm again. “Don’t be mean.”