A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(106)
I did. And described the connection between Vodyanov and Nick Body. Kept it vague. Like the soup.
“How’d you log in each time?”
I told her.
Pulling a MacAir from her bag, she brought up Body’s site and, fingers flying as fast as any teen hacker on the planet, explained what she was doing.
“I’m profiling myself as a seventy-seven-year-old female.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I am, sweet pea. But more important, if your perception is accurate and my hunch is correct, I’ll explain the relevance.”
“I’m happy to pay the subscription fee.”
“Done.”
“How?”
“Cyber-currency.”
I didn’t ask.
When Mama was in and had linked over to the general store, we both studied the images, eyes ping-ponging between our two side-by-side screens.
“There,” I said, pointing. Those bundled sets of archived podcasts. They’re offered on my laptop but not on yours.”
“Huh.” Fingers dancing. Firing through the inventory presented on her screen. “Let me see your laptop.” A few key combinations. Then, “Malware.”
“Malware?” I knew what it was but wasn’t sure where she was going.
“They’re using some sort of malicious virus, something like DNSChanger, to infect the computers of certain visitors to the site.”
“DNSChanger?”
“I’ll back up. But you really must educate yourself more about the World Wide Web, sweat pea.” Pause. “DNS, the Domain Name System, is an internet service that converts user-friendly names, for example, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN.com, into numerical addresses that allow computers to talk to each other. Without DNS and the DNS servers operated by internet service providers, computer users wouldn’t be able to browse websites or send email.”
“Got it.” I did.
“A malware program like DNSChanger redirects an unsuspecting user to a rogue server, allowing a hacker to manipulate that user’s web activity.”
“Let me get this straight. When the user of an infected computer clicks on the link for some website, say, BodyLanguage.com or ESPN
.com, because of the malware, they are taken to a different website instead.”
“Close enough. A few years back, the FBI busted an internet-fraud ring operating out of the Baltics that had infected millions of computers worldwide.”
“Why?”
“It allowed the hackers to manipulate the multibillion-dollar internet advertising industry. It’s fascinating. Do you want to hear the details?”
“Later. So why infect my computer and not yours?”
“They must be using an algorithm that selects only certain visitors. If the designated profile logs in, that computer is infected and redirected.”
“To a rogue server they control.”
“Yes.”
I considered that.
“A forty-two-year-old man is rerouted but not a seventy-seven-year-old woman.”
Mama finished the thought. “To a modified site offering bundled podcasts. At very high prices, I might add. Who would pay that amount to listen to such drivel?”
My mind was going a billion miles a second.
“What type of audio files are those podcasts?” I asked.
A series of keystrokes. “MP3 files.”
Several beats as we both stared at our screens. Then Mama gasped, sharp and quick. I turned. Her eyes were like hubcaps. Wearing mascara.
“What?”
“I believe I know what deviltry Body is up to.”
37
TUESDAY, JULY 17
Thirty minutes later, Slidell was swiping us through security and into the crime lab. Mittie Peppers met us outside the QD section. Nods all around. No pleasantries. The tension was enough to revive the DOA Mars rover.
Peppers led us through the door, past the marvelous ESDA machine, to a village of computers glowing along a back wall.
“You think it’s nuts?” I asked. “What I said on the phone?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re familiar with the process my mother referred to?”
“Steganography. Definitely.”
“You’re on board with her malware theory?”
“Let’s see your computer.”
I entered my password and handed Peppers my Mac. She settled by one of her screens and began working my keyboard. I sat beside her. Slidell stood behind, taut as a patient awaiting a root canal.
Seconds passed. A full five minutes. I chewed a thumbnail, as agitated as when I’d come to Peppers about the indented writing.
“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a nasty little bugger.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“This machine seems brand new.”
“I bought it last Friday.” After my old one was incinerated due to my own stupidity. I didn’t add that.
“Have you visited Body’s site using this Mac?”
I nodded, anger sparking so hot I didn’t trust my voice.
“I can remove the malware when we’re done.”
“I’ll owe you. Go to BodyLanguage.com.”
She did.
“I’ve joined as a forty-two-year-old male. Use that profile, then link over to the general store, and enter the podcast aisle.”