Troubleshooter

Chapter 54 - Welcome to Your Nightmare

THE HACKER arrived in his hotel room in the Morumbi section of Sao Paulo. He was so jet-lagged that he did not have the energy to login to all the accounts to trace the flow of his money. He simply crawled into bed and slept for eighteen hours straight.

When he awoke, it was evening again. He made a room service order for a steak and two beers and then booted up his brand new Apple laptop that he had purchased with his own cash after touchdown in the airport electronics shop. He had intentionally left everything of his old life behind in order to give no one the opportunity to trace him through computer hardware electronic fingerprints. The hotel provided free Internet access, so the Hacker started the anonymizer network program and made his way into his account at the First Traders Bank of Macao, the end point of his money.

He looked at the account balance. Eleven thousand dollars greeted him. Ten thousand dollars had been the minimum balance to set up the account, paid by the Hacker's new identity, out of his own pocket. One thousand dollars had been the trial run to move the money from England to this account in the money laundry daisy chain. But where were his thirty million dollars?

He logged into the previous account of his transfer money laundry chain, the Shanghai Shibum Bank. Again, only the mandatory minimum account balance greeted him. With growing uneasiness, the Hacker made his way back, up to the point of the London bank account. He briefly hesitated, as the London bank account could be bugged and traced by now, which meant that the British authorities would see that someone was accessing the account balance from afar.

The Hacker had hidden behind various anonymous layers, so no trace to Brazil or the Hotel was possible. But still. It was dangerous.

The money was not in the London bank account either!

The Hacker broke into a sweat. Where was the money?

He had controlled the banking transaction. It had gone through. No doubt. Strom Defense had paid the Hacker's account. But where was the money?

The food arrived, and the Hacker ignored the polite knock at the door. This was a nightmare. He was without a job, with the last of his personal savings in cash with a fake identity in a country whose language he couldn't speak. He had no papers apart from two fake credit cards, pointing at accounts that merely held a few thousand dollars, a birth certificate, and a fake passport. No schooling papers, no university degree, no resume.

Instead of living the life of riches, he was condemned to get laborer jobs without security.

This was a nightmare. Where was the money?

He pounded his hand on the desk and almost smashed his brand-new computer.

This was a nightmare....

Then his glance fell on the account statement of the London account. There was a posting of 1 British Pound, which hadn't originated from himself. The text read ominously "Schwartz Associates, London," a company he had never heard of.

He gave Google a quick tryout and actually found a homepage search result. He went to the site and was greeted with two graphical placeholders: "Enter here for Schwartz Associates Equity Services" and "Enter here for Schwartz Associates Financial Consulting." He clicked on Equity but only a little hard-hat icon appeared with the text "Down for maintenance. Please visit us later."

This was puzzling.

And still a nightmare. Where was his money?

The Hacker's eye started to water, and an enormous amount of self-pity washed over him.

Amy's online messenger gave a little burp to announce the arrival of an automated message. It came from the improvised little time-bomb of the Schwartz homepage, triggered by simply going onto the website and viewing an image.

The Scotland Yard computer forensic specialist in his mid-twenties, who was documenting the Strom Defense theft from the police side, came over from his own computer and peered over Amy's shoulder.

"That was quick," he said.

Amy gave a deep chuckle. "Brian-baby, I told you; he was so shocked from the missing money that he didn't think straight." She called up the website's visitor log. "He is still being careful. His IP address belongs to an open source anonymizing service, but it is too late now. By visiting our fake page, he downloaded the Trojan horse program. Give it a second to find its way."

Tom also came over for the great moment.

Sure to Amy's word, another chime rang out. Amy started another program. "And I proudly present to you: the Hacker who thought he had stolen hundred million dollars!" An ugly, overweight, unkempt, and sweaty guy showed up on the display. He looked as if he were crying. "And we are live from ... Brazil, Sao Paulo, Morumbi, Sheraton Hotel."

"Are you sure you don't want to work for Scotland Yard?" Brian asked, half in awe, half in love.

From Amy's other side, Tom said, slightly jealous, "You should have her in your ear for a week. Makes you reconsider your offer. Besides, she is too old for you."

"Shut up! Weren't you planning on hitting on that nice girlie from HR?" Amy countered.

Tom pulled out two concert tickets. "This is what I call a well executed plan! Tonight, Hammersmith Apollo, front section, 'The Pixies'. Turns out she loves Indie bands of the nineties."

Amy made a face, now jealous herself. "This is what I call an opportunity missed to go out with your team mate Amy."

Brian, the police technician looked at Amy. "I could invite you to a forensic hacking lecture at Scottland Yard. We are allowed to bring civilians."

"Brian baby, I didn't consider you that desperate," Amy replied.

"That's her way of saying 'Yes'," Tom said.