Networking

Most people have this vision of spies attending elaborate, elegant cocktail parties in foreign countries, cajoling diplomats and planting bugs throughout the mansion like James Bond or Ethan Hunt to catch the evil super villain in his tracks. That sounded great to me; my problem was finding the fucking super villain in the first place - and getting my uncultured, uncouth ass invited to the party.

I quickly realized that finding someone whose entire life was dedicated to not being found wasn't going to be an easy task. It’s not like Clarity had a fucking website; if Judas was telling me the truth and Clarity knew what they were up against, they wouldn’t exactly wave their dicks around in the air and buy an ad on ESPN.com. They knew that no matter how vast an ocean the internet was, it still wasn't deep enough to hide from the Council.

My only lead after three days searching for Clarity was the IRC chat room Evalina gave me as a contact point with her source; even that, though, seemed like a dead-end. It was a great place to get Warez and pirated music, but its utility as a meeting ground for a terrorists was questionable at best.

As I was searching through the files being shared in the chat room, I finally found something of note: about five different sources were distributing the source code for a worm that would unleash a distributed denial of service attack to a server in upstate New York. Upon first glance, it seemed like a strange target; it was not a corporate headquarters, and it wasn’t obviously a military or government installation. In fact, I couldn’t find a reference to this server anywhere.

It sounded promising, and it was my only lead. So I started digging.

To say my hacker skills were lacking would be a vast understatement; I was smart enough to be able to find an IP address, track it one step down the traceroute, and decipher basic code. Tracking people through proxies and spoofed IPs, however, was far beyond my leetness. So, given the fact that these guys were better at this game than me, I hit yet another dead-end when the IP addresses appeared to be coming from all over the fucking planet. Unless there were some Eskimos planning on taking down a server farm in fucking upstate New York, I doubted that was a solid lead.

It wasn’t going to be quite that easy, clearly. I resigned to the fact that I going to have to get my hands dirty.

One of the five people hosting the worm's source also hosted quite a stash of pornography on his machine; some of the shit on there was downright disgusting, and then it struck me. The most devistating security leaks in the history of the United States were the direct result of personal weakness; the traitors weren’t necessarily bad guys, but they were flawed. Whether it’s money, drugs, sex, or power, the second you figure out someone’s weakness, you can compromise them.

[23:14] LAsweetsixteen: hey, how are you?

It was a complete shot in the dark, and I felt fucking slimy, but I simply had to try. Several minutes passed before the reply.

[23:17] {OP}roloDEX: whos this?

I thought about it for a second before I stumbled onto the perfect answer.

[23:17] LAsweetsixteen: im julie. asl?

[23:18] {OP}roloDEX: 32/m/nyc. u?

[23:18] LAsweetsixteen: 16/f/nyc. thats cool, lol

The more I spoke with him, the more I felt like a fucking fruit. Soon, though, I had him hooked on Julie; when he signed off at the end of the night, he sent Julie a fucking kiss, and I knew I had him. Now, the trick was reeling him in.

Four days after I first made contact, he made his biggest mistake.

[10:34] LAsweetsixteen: so darlin, how is it that your always online during the day? dont you work?

[10:35] {OP}roloDEX: yea. why rnt you in school??! hahaha

[10:35] LAsweetsixteen: i have irc on my pda usually but i stayed home today

[10:36] {OP}roloDEX: nice

[10:37] {OP}roloDEX: wnana go to lunch?

Four days of dumbing down my damned vocabulary and sitting in a dark room in front of a fucking computer had me feeling like the sixteen year old cutter I was pretending to be, but finally, it paid off. Really, this guy was a fucking moron for falling for what should’ve been an obvious con, but I wasn’t going to complain. We set up a time and place - 1:30 in Greenwich Village - and Julie was supposed to bring the sandwiches. He said he’d bring the blanket, and he'd be wearing a black suit with a blue tie.

I arrived a half hour early to scope the place out; I carried a newspaper in my hands and my Desert Eagle on my hip. The second I saw Roland - my perfect little mark - I realized just how easy this was going to be. Roland looked exactly like he did in the picture he sent Julie; he was rail-thin, pale, and had sullen, sunken features to go with his thinning brown hair. He laid down a blanket on the grass and looked around nervously, hoping to see the beautiful young girl in the picture I sent him. Sadly, she wouldn’t be coming.

Half an hour later, the nervous excitement on his face deliquesced into a disappointed, abandoned sigh. He picked up his blanket and, with an empty stomach and some bruised pride, started walking back towards his car. From there, figuring out that he worked at Northrop Grumman, was married, went to church, drove his ten year old girl to soccer every Tuesday, and lusted after high school chicks at the local gym on a daily basis was pretty fucking easy. He wasn’t trained in the art of evading pursuit; the guy didn't even check behind him once the entire time I was on his tail.

I spent five days following Roland Garrity, and on the sixth day, I paid him a visit. Unsurprisingly, it was just not Roland Garrity’s day.

"Sir," the receptionist spoke softly into the phone, keeping a fake smile on her lips, "there’s a Mr. Henderson waiting for you in the lobby."

I reached into my pocket and popped a few Xanax as I saw Garrity walking into the reception area from the back. I dressed up for our meeting - navy suit, white shirt, red tie - and carried a briefcase with me. I was posing as a representative from the SEC who was auditing the progress of some program or another that Garrity was working on - the cover was thin, to be sure, but all I really needed was a spot on this clown’s calendar.

He took me back to his office - internal, no windows - and I shut the door behind me. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garrity."

"I don’t really know what you’re here for," he sat down and shook his leg nervously. "I’m not really all that important, and -"

"I’m here because you fucked up," I said plainly, barely able to conceal my grin. I clicked open my briefcase and pulled out the transcripts of Roland’s conversations with "Julie"; believe me, there were some elements that don’t bear repeating. The look on his face as he thumbed through the first few pages was priceless; I would describe it as an amalgamation of scared-shitless, speechless, and disgusted, but hey, what do I know? I’m not a wordsmith.

"You can keep that copy. I’ve got a few of them," I chuckled, taking off the fake glasses I was wearing and pulling out some photos of Garrity sitting on his stupid fucking blanket in the middle of the park, waiting for Julie. "Now, I’m guessing you’re not interested in seeing these photographs on the eleven o’clock news, are you? Not a big fan of Chris Hansen, are you?"

"Wait, are you trying to blackmail me?"

"Oh, gee, what could I possibly want from you, a poor computer programmer, husband, member of the King of Kings Lutheran Church, father of two, software pirate, pedophile sixteen-year-old fingerbanger, right? Spare me. They never told you to watch out? They never warned you that we'll stop at nothing to compromise you? I think you know what I'm after, Roland, and you'd better start talking."

He started rifling through his wallet. "I’m not a rich man; I make like eighty thousand a year, but I’ve got a mortgage, and -"

"I’m not interested in your money, perv. I'll be a little clearer: tell me every-fucking-thing you know about Clarity."

He shook his head and looked genuinely perplexed. "I have no idea what you’re talking about," his voice dropped to a whisper and cracked as he tried to keep quiet.

I started to realize that this wasn't going anywhere. "What do you think your boss is going to say when he sees this? Your wife? Do you think you’ll be able to keep your security clearance? Think the government’s going to just overlook that? Think you’ll be able to fight it when it comes out that you’ve got mountains of porn on your laptop? You really fucked up."

"Who the fuck are you? What do you want with me? I have no idea what you’re talking about!"

"I’m sure you don’t. How about this: let’s start by telling me who wrote that worm you’re sharing."

His eyes lit up; he knew he was busted, even more so than before I opened my briefcase. "I - I don’t know who-"

"How about this, you piece of shit," I was quickly losing patience; clearly interrogation was not my strong suit. "You tell me who the fuck wrote the script, you introduce me to them as your business associate and someone who’s interested in the cause, or I go straight to your house, show your wife that you’re a kid-diddler, and slice her fucking jugular while she’s wondering how she could’ve married a piece of shit like you."

"You wouldn’t-"

I pulled the pistol out of my waistband and narrowed my stare. "You’d be surprised."

And that’s how I made the acquaintance of Mat Salec. Some people would consider it entrapment, blackmail, extortion, or confidence scamming; I call it networking.

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