Chapter Text
It was 9 AM, and the entire White Collar team had been assembled in the conference room on the 21st floor of the FBI building. The space was standing room only at this point, and all the agents knew that something big was in the works. Peter Burke stood at the front of the gathering, and beside him was a petite blonde woman in her forties. At precisely 9:01, Peter introduced the, as yet, unidentified guest as Avery Ryan, the distinguished Deputy Director of the FBI’s Cyber Crimes Division. Although the heart of that division was located in Washington DC, the task force was mobile, going wherever the crimes took them.
The Internet Age had ushered in a new breed of criminal—“Black Hats” or “Crackers”—that used their genius expertise to gain access to the private Internet sites of the naïve and unwary, as well as supposedly more savvy and secure networks. Of course, these intrusions were never benign, and the clever invaders used the information that they harvested for their own gain. The Cyber Crimes Division, created in 2002, filled the need to fight the good fight against these malicious, unscrupulous lawbreakers. It was part of a national task force in liaison with the CIA, the DOD, Homeland Security, and NSA. Agent Ryan, after she was given the floor, started her sober lecture with some very disturbing information.
“Ladies and gentleman, let me first begin by offering you some facts and statistics. In 2015, there were more than 61,000 cyber attacks and security breaches across the entire realm of the federal government. Of course, you and the average citizen have become aware of the massive invasion by Chinese hackers that put more than four million federal workers at risk in “The Office of Personnel Management” as well as the “Department of the Interior.”
However, that is only the most recent invasion. In past years, hackers have managed to get into the White House and State Department so that the email system had to be shut down for days. They breached the firewalls of the Pentagon in 2011 and stole 24,000 files. They accessed the United States Energy grid more than seventy-nine times in 2015, and likewise gleaned sensitive information from the Army Corps of Engineers’ files regarding the integrity of our nation’s dams.
The FBI utilizes secure virus protection, firewalls, Intrusive Detection Systems, and audit trails with logs to protect against malware, viruses, trojans and worms, but, unfortunately, nothing is ultimately impenetrable. Sometimes Cyber Crime finds itself playing catch-up. The Black Hats develop a new tool, and we have to come up with new technology to combat it.
Now, this whole boring and bland lecture is leading up to my informing you that the FBI has been hacked. We in Cyber are diligently investigating the how and the what, but right now, it does not appear that any files have been corrupted or stolen. It seems that our unsub was just taking a look around and meandering through our cyberspace. Of course, we can’t be 100% sure of anything yet, so I am ordering each of you to change your sign-in ID as well as your password, and, of course, it goes without saying, that those must not be shared with anyone.”
The serious federal agent concluded with an abrupt, “Thank you, everyone, for your attention in this very grave matter.”
Neal was really glad that this whole little powwow was short and sweet. Of course, he was familiar with the basics of the information highway and all the mishaps that could occur on that road. But, really, he was more of a sentimental Renaissance man who loved the classics and the gentler, less complicated times when the arts were embraced rather than the latest micro-technology. That was Mozzie’s bailiwick, and more power to him. Therefore, he was baffled when Peter blocked his exit from the room.
Suddenly, two US Marshals emerged from the connecting door to Peter’s office and joined the Cyber Crimes Director. They stood shoulder to shoulder and eyed Neal suspiciously. Neal put on his most innocent expression and looked to Peter for enlightenment. It was not long in coming.
“Neal,” Peter said with an edge to his voice, “put your foot up on the chair and let the Marshals check your anklet.”
“Peter, what’s going on?” Neal asked in puzzlement.
“Just do it, Neal,” Peter said harshly.
So, Neal complied, pulling up his suit pant leg so that the black anklet was visible with its vivid little green LCD. The two Marshals quickly stepped forward, disabled it, and removed it from Neal’s leg. They then re-engaged the two ends and placed the piece of equipment on the conference table. The duo took thin wire probes from their pockets that they tenaciously manipulated, poking Neal’s fashion accessory this way and that. They followed all of this up with several calls to the monitoring service for verification.
Finally, one of the Marshals gave them the news. “The anklet is activated and should be working. However, the monitoring service is not picking up any signal at this time. Last night, there were very brief periods of dropped signals, but they attributed that to a glitch and were not too concerned when it would suddenly come back on line. However, now the anklet is sending nothing at all to the homing channel.”
Neal suddenly felt a cold dread in the pit of his stomach, and crossed his arms across his chest defensively. He just knew that Peter would jump to conclusions as he had in the past. This was the fractured fable of Agent Fowler all over again.
“Neal, have you or Mozzie done anything to compromise your anklet?” Peter got right to the point.
Neal was not going to plead his case or beg for Peter’s trust—been there and done that before to no avail. Therefore, he simply eyed Peter defiantly and answered with just one word, “No.”
Agent Ryan gave a slight nod of her head, and the Marshals produced an identical tracking device that they then attached to Neal’s ankle. One of the Marshals, phone in hand, stepped out of the room. He returned after just moments and informed those present that the new anklet was operational and sending a strong signal.
“Thank you, gentleman,” Agent Ryan said as the Marshals prepared to exit. Next, she looked at Neal.
“Sit down, Mr. Caffrey.”
When Neal just stood rooted in place, she added, “Please.”
Grudgingly, Neal pulled out a chair across from this lady who had a soft but commanding voice. He would hear what she had in mind, but he just knew that it wouldn’t be good.
“Neal,” she began in a schoolteacher’s voice, “what I did not share with the other agents is that the intruder who hacked the FBI system spent a lot of time perusing anything and everything that pertained to you.”
Neal was waiting for the trap to be sprung, so he was not about to make it easy for her.
“Well, if you think that it was me doing the cyber breaking and entering, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Trust me when I say that I am already well aware of everything that is in my FBI file. It was all aired in court, chapter and verse, several years ago at my trial.”
Agent Ryan donned a non-adversarial expression. She had a doctorate in behavioral psychology as well as cybersecurity, and had quickly honed in on the hostility radiating from the young man across from her. She would make it a point to get his handler to fill her in on this CI’s history. She would bet that it was anything but simple. However, right now, she needed his cooperation.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Neal. I am just puzzled by this sudden interest in you by an unknown person or persons after almost three years in the FBI’s employ. Do you have any idea who would want to check you out so thoroughly?”
“Not a clue,” Neal said breezily. “My life is an open book.” He just knew that Peter was rolling his eyes.
“Well, I just want to alert you so that you are forewarned if anyone seems out of kilter in your orbit of acquaintances or while on the job. Please let me know if, at any time, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. I have taken the precaution of having the Marshals assign another anklet to you under a false name. That pseudonym will not be entered into any database. It will be old school, as in written down somewhere. They have reassured me that the anklet that you are now wearing is transmitting clearly, and they have installed an app on Agent Burke’s phone so that he can monitor it as well.”
She then handed Peter and Neal her card, and stepped from the room. Neal stood as she left, and when he and Peter were alone, the silence was thick with innuendo. It was Peter who breached the gap.
“Neal, I want you to go home and stay in your loft for the next few days.”
Huffing out a breath, the young man glared at his handler. “So, I’m now under house arrest? You’re putting me in moth balls again just like you did after David Siegel was killed, Peter, whether I deserve it or not!”
Before Peter could respond, Neal threw up his hands in frustration and turned on his heel. He stopped only long enough to grab his fedora before he was through the glass doors and furiously jabbing the elevator button.
Peter was frustrated, too, because he didn’t know what to think. Neal was a genius in his own right, but his endeavors were more in the creative vein. Now Mozzie, and his odd female friend, Sally, were another whole kettle of fish. They would possess the know-how to pull this off. Talking to Mozzie should be the next step, but finding him would be an exercise in futility. He could ask Neal to make the meet happen, but right now, he doubted that Neal would cooperate.
Suddenly, Peter’s softer side kicked in. He certainly could understand Neal’s perspective. The one time that any anklet tampering had been done, a rogue faction in the FBI was responsible. And hadn’t that ended really peachy! Neal was never the same after Kate died because a little piece of him had burned to ashes as well.
Peter stewed all day about the dilemma, and after work, appeared at Neal’s loft bearing gifts as a peace offering. Neal had managed to get his emotions under control as well, and after a brief hesitation, welcomed Peter inside his new holding cell with the fantastic view of the New York skyline. Of course, Peter had brought beer, but surprisingly, the wine was decent enough.
“Listen, Neal,” Peter began the conversation, “we need to talk this thing out between us. There’s been a lot of turbulent water under the bridge in our relationship, so can you try to understand my suspicion? I know that you are disgruntled by the Justice Department’s broken promises. I can almost sympathize if you decided to take matters into your own hands to secure your freedom anyway that you could. But I swear to you that I am doing everything in my power to rectify the situation through the proper channels.”
Neal snorted and shook his head. “Sorry, Peter, but I don’t share your blind faith in ‘the system.’ That ship has sailed.”
Peter looked down briefly and then tried a different tactic. “Neal, you once told me that you would never lie to me. Does that promise still stand?”
Neal let out a long sigh. “Peter, I have never lied to you, and I’m not about to set a precedent now. I did nothing to my anklet, and have no knowledge of who did. So, don’t start grilling me about Mozzie!”
“Have you actually asked him, Neal?” Peter wanted to know.
“No, but I will,” Neal answered.
“After you find out, would you share that information with me?”
When Neal looked askance at his handler, Peter continued, “Look, Buddy, if it wasn’t Mozzie, then that is really worrisome. Somebody is interested in you for some reason, and the possibilities are endless. It could be someone from your past, or any one of a number of criminals that you have helped put away since you have been working for the FBI. They could be plotting to abduct you, Neal, and without a tracking device, we may not be able to save you. That’s why I don’t want you alone on the street or at risk during an op.”
“Peter, if somebody wanted to snatch me, all they would have to do is cut the anklet and toss it. Why go to all this trouble?” Neal answered in a logical voice.
Peter admitted that Neal had a point, but that did not stop him from fretting. Peter left after finishing his current bottle of beer. He hoped that the tensions between them had eased just a bit.
~~~~~~~~~~
Although Neal didn’t want to admit it, Peter had a point, too. It was spooky to think that someone was cyber-stalking him for whatever reason. To put one suspicion to rest, he texted Mozzie the next evening and asked him to come by. A few hours later, Mozzie sauntered in and made a beeline for Neal’s wine rack.
“So, why the summons, mon frère? Are you just lonely now that you are in solitary once more, or are my services needed?”
“Mozzie, cut the sarcasm,” Neal quipped. “I just want to know if you had anything to do with this latest anklet drama. I can appreciate the attempt, if it was you, but I do need to know if that’s the case.”
“Neal, you told me to cease and desist after the last time, so that little Mr. Wizard science fair project has been put on the back burner. It wasn’t me going all ‘Inquiring Minds Want To Know’ into the FBI’s files. There would be no need. I already know your entire life history, warts and all.”
However, Mozzie’s help was needed the next day when Neal received a mysterious note. The cream-colored envelope had been postmarked the day before in a Manhattan post office, but had no return address. Neal’s name was written in precise block letters, as was the short message inside.
Your story rivaled that of Paris and Helen of Troy.
Now be free to find love once again.
“Interesting,” Mozzie mused out loud. “What is the subtext of a literary allusion to tragic star-crossed lovers in Greek mythology? It doesn’t come across as a threat; it actually sounds a bit wistful. Somehow, I don’t see a crime boss or someone of Keller’s ilk expressing themselves this way. I am going to go out on a limb here, and make a wild conjecture. Dare I say that the sentiment seems feminine in nature? Any long-lost loves in your past that might want to re-kindle a spark with a handsome Trojan prince? Could this be an olive branch from Alex? The last that we knew, she was living on an obscure Greek Isle.”
Neal was loathe to accept this characterization. “If I remember correctly, in Homer’s Iliad, Paris had a pretty face but no guts in battle. And, let us not forget, he gets killed during the Trojan War. Your assumptions are not making me feel reassured, Moz. I need to figure out if this is an obtuse threat or just a puzzle of some sort.”
“Well, Neal, you may not be a fighter, but you are a lover—so if the shoe fits ….”
“Let’s get back to the mystery, Mozzie,” Neal pleaded. “I doubt Alex is behind this. If she wanted to confront me, she wouldn’t have any qualms about waltzing through my door. But after the way that we left things, I sincerely can’t see her wanting to help me.”
Mozzie conceded Neal’s conclusion, and the pair bandied about numerous scenarios, although none of them rang true, and some even bordered on absurdity.
“Are you going to tell The Suit about your little billet-doux?” Mozzie teased after they had exhausted all possibilities.
“No. It’s too embarrassing. But I will text him to let him know that your hands are lily white and that you had nothing to do with this hacking.”
Mozzie eventually left and Neal attempted to sleep, but his mind continued to try to make sense of a riddle that became more complex two days later when it was heralded by a call from Peter. His handler was apprehensive, telling Neal that Agent Ryan’s team had noted more sleuthing through Neal’s files, even though new fail-proof methods had been installed on the FBI’s server.
“Maybe I should put a detail outside of June’s house,” Peter declared.
“Peter, poking around in my history doesn’t sound like a threat to me,” Neal proclaimed. “It might set off alarms bells in your suspicious mind, but I can’t keep worrying about ‘what ifs.’ I have to start living my life again at some point so that I can make more interesting history for my fan club to read.”
“Neal, you shouldn’t be so cavalier about this. You need to take it seriously.”
And so Neal did the next day when another anonymous letter arrived with another short message.
I arranged your freedom.
Why haven’t you taken wing?
“Okay, Moz, now I’m getting wigged out,” Neal admitted.
“I think that we need to get a dialogue going,” Mozzie suggested. “I can post something on the dark web in those chat rooms where hackers congregate. I’ll post it on a number of bulletin boards and see if we get a response. I’ll use my laptop, just in case Big Brother is monitoring yours. Now—what to dangle as bait? We need to keep it in character, obscure but germane—at least to your stalker.”
Creasing his brow, Mozzie ventured, “How about this—‘Paris has become Prometheus.’
In Greek mythology, Prometheus was one of the original Titans and also a blatant thief. He stole fire from Mount Olympus and gave it to mankind, and was punished for this act by Zeus, who chained him to a rock on a tall mountain for all eternity. Actually, the way the story goes, Prometheus’ liver was devoured everyday by birds of prey, but we don’t really have to take the metaphor that far.”
Neal retorted, “Well, if anybody’s liver is at risk, it’s probably yours from your excessive love of wine, Dionysus.”
So Mozzie threw out his line, and he and Neal waited for a nibble of interest. It didn’t take long. Paris/Prometheus got an extremely terse response of just one character—“?”
Mozzie quickly typed, “Not proper venue for chat.”
The anonymous response was “OTR.”
Neal just looked baffled, so Mozzie explained. “OTR stands for ‘off the record,’ and is a plug-in for the Pidgin instant messenger. It’s a way to have encrypted private instant message conversations online. It uses end-to-end encryption so your network provider, government, and even the instant-messaging service itself cannot see the content of your messages. In theory, it was set up to prevent intelligence agencies from monitoring your Internet usage.
OTR also provides authentication, so you have some guarantee you are talking to the actual person. Even if their account was compromised and someone else attempted to talk to you with their screen name, you would see an error because the encryption information would not match. While OTR probably isn’t perfect, it can add some additional privacy if you need to talk about sensitive matters online.”
Then, with a look of awe, Mozzie concluded his esoteric lecture. “I must say, Neal, that I am truly impressed with your little pen pal.”
“Yeah,” Neal agreed. “This is light years beyond lemon juice and a candle.”
Mozzie bobbed his head in agreement. “And it just so happens that I am paranoid enough to have this software already installed on this laptop. However, I’ll need another backup computer to try to ferret out the origin of the incoming messages. I’ll have to put her off for now.” Mozzie seemed to have already assured himself that the other person was of the female persuasion.
“Will proceed. Talk later after install,” was Mozzie’s response to his newest techie-playmate.
“Okay, Neal, I’m going to write down the step-by-step instructions for entering the covert site. Burn this paper after you memorize them. Give me at least thirty minutes to get to Sally’s place and remotely connect to this laptop. Sally’s equipment is awesome, and probably could give NSA a run for their money. Keep your stalker on line for as long as possible until Sally and I can pin down her location.”
The little bald man then scurried from the room leaving Neal staring at the sheet of paper in his hand. Maybe there was something to be said for paranoia. As instructed, a half hour later, Neal logged onto OTR. His user name was "Prometheus" and his avatar was a flaming torch.
As if waiting patiently in cyberspace, a little square popped up with "Nemesis," the winged Greek goddess of "retribution and indignation" as the avatar.
The depiction immediately demanded, “what happened?”
Prometheus typed in, “new chain”
Nemesis—“don’t see”
Prometheus—“off the grid”
Nemesis—“didn’t see that coming”
Prometheus—“why stalking?”
Nemesis—“just so sad. u didn’t deserve!”
Prometheus—“made things complicated”
Nemesis—“Really sorry :’-( ”
Prometheus—“can we meet?”
Nemesis—“no. scared you are mad”
Prometheus—“not mad. curious”
Nemesis—“maybe”
Then, as abruptly as Nemesis had appeared, her avatar winked out.
Forty-five minutes later, Mozzie came barreling through the door of Neal’s loft. He looked euphoric.
“Did you pinpoint the source?” Neal wanted to know.
“Well, Sally and I made some partial headway, but you didn’t keep the chat going long enough for us to be more conclusive.”
“She, if it is a she, logged off rather abruptly,” Neal said as an excuse.
“Where has the old Caffrey charm gone, Neal? You need to get down hot and heavy and keep her attention,” Mozzie chided.
Neal gave his friend the stink-eye and pushed, “So, tell me, what did you find out?”
“Well, your little sycophant is located at New York University in Greenwich Village, and most likely is a student. What do you think of them apples, mon frère?”
“It makes me think that I am supremely technologically challenged and old,” Neal admitted. “You really think some kid is responsible for this stupendous hack that has all the federal super geeks scrambling?”
“I think she is a amazing prodigy, and I would love to meet her and talk shop,” Mozzie proclaimed. “You’ve got to encourage this relationship, Neal.”
“What I have to do is extricate myself from this misguided attempt to make my life better,” Neal said adamantly.
“Neal ……,” Mozzie wheedled. “You just can’t ignore her. She might get desperate. Remember that movie ‘Misery’ starring James Caan and Kathy Bates? He was an author and she was a psychotic fan who kept him tied to a bed and eventually broke both of his feet with a sledgehammer when he disappointed her.”
“Thank you, Moz, for that vivid and gruesome vision! Now, good night,” Neal said as he herded the little bald man out the door.