InfraGard

Security Gumshoe Bites the Dust

Elisa tries on internal espionage for size

by Mark Robertson, Social Engineering Consultant and CTO

Part V (Read previous stories) 

OK, the sound of being inside a jumbo jet engine, seeing my body while floating over it, going through a tunnel and towards the light—all that stuff we’ve heard is true. But I can’t tell you any more than that. Suffice to say, I must have paid attention in Sunday school.

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The deal was, while this was happening to me, I couldn’t communicate directly with anyone. There was really nothing I could fix to change where I’d end up. However, because this stupid case was bugging me so much, and Elisa was in huge danger, even though I wouldn’t call myself an angel, I got to stick around.

This was rather cool because I was the curious type, not the snoopin’ around bedrooms type, but definitely the go to the Pentagon, my boss’ office or Buckingham Palace for a boo. I preferred not to be referred to as a ghost, but I must admit, I was rather spirited.

First things first, my funeral: I arrived late for it, so the old adage was true. Bernie, the hog, scarfed down funeral food, and if I wasn’t a monkey’s uncle, it looked like he was huggin’ Elisa and comforting her a bit too well. Must ‘a been my imagination. Elisa broke the embrace and looked tearfully at him, “WHY? I … I loved him,” she repeatedly said. Aw, shucks. Now, I was finding this out.

I wanted to give her a hug, but I just walked right through her—and she shivered.

***

Elisa steps up to the plate

I … I loved him. I really loved him. I can’t believe he’s not here. I mean, he was a good guy as far as guys were concerned. He had his faults, and I caught his eye wandering once or twice. But his heart was in the right place …

After the funeral, I went to his apartment. I just had to know. I patted an adorable little dog in the hallway; it licked my hand, yipped and ran away, looking a little spooked. The police tape lined the door. Twisting the knob, the door was unlocked and I felt compelled to enter. Who killed Chip? I had to find out.

Clothes, papers and knickknacks covered furniture and the floor. Despite the shambles, my picture sat on the mantle. I knew Chip loved me, but this hit home. I sat down and cried—to heck with losing my composure.  

Something caught my eye. His old Sinclair was in the garbage and smashed to bits. A sticky note on it said, “Sorry.” Old garbage computers sometimes held information that wasn’t meant for reading. Maybe it would give me a clue about what happened. I’d have to get my own Sinclair, and maybe swap out LCDs while keeping it energized. A stretch, but worth it. I put it in my bag next to the ol’ 328 passion peach, the lipstick I was wearing before—I cried again, cursing the tears and my “leaky eyes” as he called them.

I sifted through more of his stuff. It felt a little strange, but it’s not like he lived here anymore. I saw the notebook he held when it happened. It had a hole shot clean through it. Definitely not something I recommended using instead of bullet-proof vests.

I hoped the hard drive remained intact. I booted up his system, and I mean system. I had never had a chance to see it 'til now. This guy never threw out old computers; they were like his friends. The last time I saw a PC, XT, 286, 386 and a TRS-80 was while visiting the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, D.C. They took me back, all away up to the latest, greatest.

The day in his apartment went by so fast. By the time I finished looking through his stuff, I established he had over 10 terabytes of RAM collectively, enough hard drive space to contain Manhattan and more processing power than Los Alamos (OK, maybe not that much—but close!). One thing was certain: I knew little about Chip.

While Elisa explored his place, Chip watched. “Oh, man. I hope my sports bikinis screen saver doesn’t kick in,” he said. She didn’t hear him; like a movie with ghosts, he was neither seen nor heard.

The screen saver came to life. Shrugging my shoulders, I thought typical male. Pictures of scantily clad models posing with cars appeared on Chip’s screen. At first it made my blood boil, then I laughed—men. Hitting the enter button, I guessed his password right off the bat (my name with numbers, how sweet, but not smart) and on the lower right side of his screen, a button flashed, “HQ” (headquarters). I clicked on it to receive a shock.

It went right to CIA headquarters, right into the “employees only” authorization prompt. One of his old computer tower’s front panel slid open and a retinal scanner and a thumb scanner electronically slid out. "Please authorize," said the female voice.

The crazy thing was, I couldn’t shut it down. I’d started something I shouldn’t have, and I knew I had insanely little time to get out of there. I grabbed the notebook and the Sinclair; I had his Pocket PC. When I got to the door, an explosion rocked the room. It looked like Chip was in deeper then I thought.

In his head (or whatever he had now), Chip cursed Eliza for being there: I wish she hadn’t done that. Dames. What is it with dames and flames? And the worst part had yet to come. I suppose I should have told her I always kept a remote backup of everything I did, an important security rule and saver. Ya never know when your hardware or software blows up and your data goes from bits and bytes to bites of dust.

This kind of stuff always happens in a remote location. She was going to need that disk to crack this case. I kind of forgot to tell her that the burned DVD copy of all my critical files was buried in a jewel case under the gravel in Bernie’s piranha tank. And to make it super-duper protected, I had an extra copy at her place sealed and safely tucked away in the base of her automatic kitty litter box. I swear her love for cats was only offset by the nasty rash I got whenever any of those mangy things got near me. I never learned my lesson, as I’d always pat one and regret it later, but that’s another story …

The explosion blew her flat against the floor, and for a brief second, she blacked out. I waved hi just before she came to and hoped that somehow she’d see me in that brief second while she had blacked out.

Sumo, moving faster than usual, was heading up the stairs. He was after Elisa. I beeped the Sinclair to life and flashed across the screen, quick get out! Go to the door!

She looked at it in wonder. Then got up dazed and headed right towards the door he was about to open. No, no, the other door! Too late, it swung open and just before he grabbed her neck—out of nowhere comes man’s best friend. That stupid little dog that left his mark in the form of a scar on my arm yipped. He noticed and laughed, and then the look on his face turned to pain as the little guy chomped on the sumo and locked on in a vice-like grip. The sumo hit a rather nice falsetto note. It gave Elisa enough time to run to the other door. Sadly, the sumo fell to his knees and crushed the little dog. His death was instant and without pain. I know this, because I get to spend eternity with Foofer. Apparently that selfless act of bravery earned him the right to fight crime with me. Only he could talk now. Without further adieu.

“Hey,” I said.

"Ya?" out came Foofer's first word.

“Thanks.”

"No problem," said Foof.

“So why did you bite me three episodes ago?” I asked.

"Because you kept calling me 'hair ball' and 'dust bunny.'"

"It hurt, so I made you hurt."

“Sorry but you kind of looked like a …”

"Grrrr."

“OK, I’ll shut up then,” Foofer said.

The next thing I knew, Elisa was running down the stairs. I had no idea what she was thinking as she ran.

* * *

As I ran I wondered, did my eyes just trick me or did I see Chip? Couldn’t be. And the Sinclair it, it showed where I should go, but now the writing was gone. I was confused, scared and angry. Real angry that Chip didn’t tell me he was a spook for the CIA. What am I talking about? He’s still a spook.

When I went outside, I made my getaway on a kid's scooter. Not too glamorous. I struggled to steer with a notebook computer tucked under one arm and a Sinclair under the other. The hill helped me reach killer speed before I could think. Once I made it down, I ditched the scooter and ducked into a library, a nice and quiet place where I found a corner to collect my thoughts.

The first thing I do when a computer disaster strikes is take inventory. What caused the situation is important, but the most important thing is—what do I have left that is usable? What is salvageable? What is totally write off-able? Where are my backups? Is there a safe place to go to regroup and strategize? I was mad at myself for not having a plan. Just a tiny little plan for when things went haywire. I hate having to respond to a crisis in the middle of a mini-Armageddon, which this turned out to be.

My answer appeared seconds later when I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fortune cookie. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I broke it in half and started eating; strangely it smelled like fish, like an old squid. I ate it anyway and looked at the paper. My blood ran cold. It read, "If anything ever happens to me, go to my favorite restaurant. Askforarubintriplemayo." I guess the space bar had stopped working. Ask for a rub in triple mayo? Odd request.

Chip beat himself and tried to make her hear him. "RUBEN!! It’s Ruben! I wish I could have spelt Ruben right."

Watch for part five: Elisa gets more than a Ruben sandwich.

Mark Robertson, Social Engineering Consultant and CTO, is a very paranoid security professional. While working as a VP of a publicly-traded software development company, a CTO and president of private companies, including a bricks and mortar Internet retail chain, he learned the hard way and has witnessed stunning security breaches by the most innocent-looking people. He may be reached at Mark@InternetVIZ.com.