Loverboy Chapter One #2
“Hmm,” I say, because that does sound better than crawling through a sewage tunnel. But I’m too smart to feel any relief. “Get to the point.”
“First let me catch you up on a few developments. Xian Smith is in New York.”
“Interesting.” We’ve been trying to prove that Smith is manufacturing compromised processors in Asia for placement into American devices.
It's not easy to stay ahead of the cyber security war. Max is one of the few industry leaders who’s realized that hardware is the new frontier of cybercrime.
Instead of hacking into networks, Xian Smith is taking a different tack: hack the modem before it’s out of the box.
It could work, too. Americans love their electronics, and they love to buy them cheaply.
Most of our gadgets are manufactured overseas.
Smith and his cohort—we still need to know who he’s working with—are underbidding honest manufacturers of smart speakers, modems, and servers.
Smith sells the cheap components at a loss, and then slightly reengineers them, inserting spy chips to activate later.
Max works day and night to keep our clients’ products clean. But it isn’t easy, because the smorgasbord of “smart” devices keeps expanding. The people crave their phones, their smart thermostats, and their smart speakers.
If Max and I don’t shut down this ring of savvy information pirates, millions of devices will be used to spy on unsuspecting users.
Whoever controls the spy chips can reap our secrets and sell them off to the highest bidder.
Blackmail. Industrial espionage. Military secrets.
If your toaster or your cable modem is spying on you, nothing is safe.
“Smith has been here in town for three weeks already, with no signs of leaving,” Max adds.
“That’s a long stay for him. There’s more business in California. He hasn’t tried to strike a new deal with our friend Alex, right?”
Max shakes his head. “But only because Alex is using our tech to scan each motherboard for design flaws or changes. She put him on notice.”
“Which means we still don’t have the proof we need.” I lift my glass of scotch, and inhale the nutty, caramel scent of it.
“Not yet,” Max admits. “Alex’s products are safe. But Smith has many other clients, any one of whom might be installing his compromised hardware. So I’m picking my way through his client list.”
“And how are you doing that?”
“Tireless surveillance. And guess what? I’ve just picked up a new client. He manufactures motherboards designed for onboard car navigation systems. And some of them are compromised.”
“Damn,” I say slowly. “Car companies outsource their dashboard technology. And people don't watch what they say in the car. If you had access to that ...”
“Exactly. And guess who made these faulty motherboards? Mr. Smith.”
“Fine. Well done. But how does that involve me?” I sip the scotch slowly because I need to stay sharp. Last time I let him get me drunk, I lost five grand at backgammon.
“So—on the one hand—we have Smith in town for an unusual stretch of time. That’s strange enough. But simultaneously there’s some really interesting chatter happening in a dark web hacker forum. Did you read about those three hackers who were poisoned?”
“Of course I did. I’ve never been so grossed out by a news story about hackers.” I have to fight off a shudder just thinking about it. Three men on two continents have been killed with a toxin resembling nerve gas. They died sitting at their desks—or writhing on the floor beside their desk chairs.
“Someone has been bragging about those murders. He calls himself The Plumber, and he keeps dropping details that aren’t available in the news.” Max eyes me over the rim of his scotch glass. “And here’s the part that’s going to make you think I’m crazy.”
“Am I? Try me.”
“The Plumber is here in New York, and Xian Smith is here in New York.”
“Could be a coincidence,” I point out. New York is a big city.
“I’m not done. The third part of this coincidence is that a certain arms dealer has left Turkey. One of our old friends from Langley told me that they think he’s in New York.”
“Oh.” I set down my glass. “And I take it you don’t mean just any arms dealer from Turkey?”
Slowly, he shakes his head.
“Well, shit.” We sit in silence a moment while I take this in. I can only name one man on the planet that Max wants to kill. There’s an arms dealer known as Aga who murdered some of the members of Max’s team.
Including the woman Max thought he’d spend his life with.
“I think Aga is in New York,” Max says quietly. “And I think he’s given up shoulder-launched missiles in favor of cybercrime.”
“Max! What the—?”
“I know it’s a big leap. I know, okay? You don’t have to tell me. But whomever is talking about those killings says that they all died with a red ribbon in their hands. The newspapers don’t have that detail.”
For a moment I just stare at him. “I’ll admit that’s creepy. But there are a lot of ribbons in the world. It might be a coincidence. Or a copycat. Those hackers who died were in three different countries.”
“I know.” He sips his whiskey. “But the chatter is all coming from a New York source. The Plumber posts this stuff from three different places in lower Manhattan.”
“Wait, what?” This story is getting weirder by the minute. “Who posts sensitive crap in dark web groups and leaves a trail?”