"Patience, I need to make a few phone calls and then head over to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters on 4th and Indiana. I could use some help, if you can get away for a few minutes."
People think that hackers are brilliant misguided computer geniuses. The truth is that most hackers are just sociopathic misfits with just the right combination of luck and stamina. In order to break into a computer, you don't need brains - you need persistence. Most security holes are simply oversights on the part of the system administrator. If somebody leaves their front door unlocked and a burglar gets into their house, it isn't because the burglar is brilliant. It is simply because the burglar is lucky. Computers are the same. When trying to break a password, you just go through the most likely weaknesses and hope that one of them works. In order to be methodical it is necessary to keep track of what you have tried and what the results were. It was always useful to have somebody as methodical as Patience around to help keep track.
"I'd really like to help," she said. "But I have to be here in case Smitty calls."
"So you can tell him that you're not here." I chided.
Without answering, she crossed her legs again and gave me a sidelong 'you wouldn't understand anyway' look. She was right. I probably wouldn't understand anyway.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number Fred Barnard had given me for Mrs. Oxenstein. It was picked up on the second ring.
"Yeah?"
"I'd like to speak to Mrs. Oxenstein, please," I said trying to be a little classier than the person who answered the phone.
"Speaking. Who's this?" She sounded impatient and defensive.
"My name is Thaddeus Wentworth. I'm working for Intercontinental Detective Agency. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you have time later today."
"I'm at work right now. I get off at four. I could talk to you then. By the way...," she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, "don't call me Mrs. Oxenstein. My name is D.J. Calahan. You can call me D. J."
"O.K. D.J.," I said trying to de-emphasize the rhyme. "I've got to go by the D.C. Police Headquarters where they have your husband's computer. That will take several hours, I'm sure. I'll come right over after I'm done."
A vague recollection was forming in the back of my mind, but was interrupted before it gelled.
"Four O'clock," she hissed into the telephone. "Don't be early. Don't be late."
"I appreciate punctuality as much as the next guy." I said. "But, …
She cut me off before I could say anything clever. "Four O'clock sharp! I'll explain when you get here."
"O.K. O.K." I said, "Four O'clock it is."
She seemed to relax a little and we talked for a few more minutes. I had the feeling that she couldn't say much and I would hear more later.
I went downstairs and woefully got into my car. No sooner had I gotten in, than another car pulled over waiting to take the spot as soon as I pulled out. Good parking spaces in Foggy Bottom last about as long as sardines in the summer sun. I pulled away wishing I could take the spot with me and use it again later.
I drove down 21st street to Constitution Avenue and headed East. Just past the National Gallery of Art, I turned Northwest on to Pennsylvania Avenue. It would have been quicker to come straight down Pennsylvania, but 21st Street is one-way heading south and I would have had to go around the block and head North. I found 4th street and took it to Indiana.
The Metropolitan Police Headquarters was in an impressive granite building that seemed to emerge out of nowhere in a marginal area near the center of the city. Leading up to the building were a dozen or so granite steps. The size of the building and the way it towered over you made you feel a reverence for justice. I thought about a parking ticket I hadn't paid and made a mental note to pay it.
As I trudged up the steps, I noticed a familiar looking figure at the top of the steps leaning patiently up against a pillar, as though she was waiting for somebody. It was Gita Ramana, an operative from Intercontinental's Bunko and Fraud Division, and an old friend whom I hadn't seen in a year or two. I stopped about two steps from the top and looked at her. She was five foot five with shiny raven black hair that spread like a silky curtain over her shoulders. Although she only weighed a little over a hundred pounds, she was the most compact package of pure fight and fury that I had ever seen in a human being. She was compact, muscular and had reflexes that would shame a wild cat. Her eyes were like shiny onyx beads suspended in thoughts and her glance seemed to drill holes through you rather than look at you. Out of those holes oozed your fears and insecurities and everything you wanted to hide. This was not a person that you wanted to be on the bad side of. Gita and I had worked on several cases together and I was about as close to being a friend as anybody ever got. But it still made me nervous to approach her. She was wound very tight and I didn't want to be there when she snapped.
"Hey, Champ what brings you here?" I inquired cheerfully, trying to hide my trepidation.
"Fred Barnard told me to work with you on this Oxenstein case." She replied evenly, folding her arms. She was neither bored nor enthusiastic. It was just a job and no matter how high the stakes got, it was still just a job.
"But the Oxenstein case is at best murder and at worse money laundering. How does bunko figure into all this?" I inquired trying to figure out her role on the case.
"Word on the street is that some con artists were involved somehow. It's pretty sketchy because nobody really wants to talk. Everybody is still afraid of Oxenstein even though he's dead. I told Fred and he told me to team up with you on this case. I called your office and they said you were on your way here. So here I am."
"You certainly are," I replied. I was stalling for time to gather my composure and make sense out of the situation. But the time wasn't helping. There were only two reasons why Barnard would have assigned her to this case - first, if the case was essentially a con game which I didn't think it was; second, if I needed a body guard. Oxenstein was already dead and I didn't think D.J. could be much of a threat. But, I trusted Fred, so I didn't question her assignment any further.
"Well, don't stand there on the steps. You can come up here. I won't bite."
Yeah, I thought. Can I have that in writing.
I traversed the remaining two steps and filled her in on what I knew about the case. Then we went inside. At the guard desk we asked for Joe Wilson and waited about five minutes before he showed up to escort us to his office.
"There it is." Wilson said as we entered the lab by his office. "Looks like every other computer in the world. We've been trying all day to guess his password without success. Fred Barnard said that you would help."
At the computer was a young guy with a long list of words handwritten on a sheet of paper. He typed in another word and got a message back saying that the password was invalid. He scratched another word of the list. It looked like he had tried over a hundred words so far and his frustration was showing. Standing over him were two more young guys also showing signs of frustration.
"Why don't you take a break guys?" I said gesturing toward a small conference table. "I'll give you a few tips on breaking NT security."
We sat around the conference table and the three computer guys all looked at Gita. I could have been sitting there naked with a tattoo of Whitney Houston on my chest and they wouldn't have noticed me. I got up and moved to the seat next to her so I could be in their range of attention.
"The first thing you can try is to guess the password. People come up with passwords according to fairly predictable rules and it's always worth taking a few minutes to run through the most likely candidates."
I went through some of the most common rules and they began feverishly taking notes.
"If that doesn't work," I continued, "you can physically remove the drive from the computer and install it in another computer as a nonbootable drive. Then boot the computer from the original drive and run a program against the nonbootable drive that constructs passwords and tries them. The program can run through possibilities much faster than you can type them in. If the password is a dictionary word or one of the usual constructs, the program will find it."
"Do you have a copy of that program?" asked on of the computer guys.
"Sure." I pulled a floppy disk out of my shirt pocket and tossed it across the table to him. This, of course, was exactly what I wanted. If they owed me, it would be easier to get them to release the data to me.
"What if the program doesn't find it?" Asked one of the other guys.
"Then you make an image copy of the drive on a spare drive and reinstall NT on the protected drive. Reinstallation of the operating system resets all security and you can provide it with a new administrator's password. Once you have done that, you have complete control. The only problem is that reinstalling the operating system might wipe out some of the data you are trying to get at, which is why you make a backup copy."
"Well, we've been trying passwords all morning," one of the computer guys said, "and we haven't been very lucky at that. I guess we need to take the casing off and get at the hard drive."
"What User Id are you using?"
"Administrator, of course. It's the default User Id for the system administrator."
"Why don't you try User Id 'Gershom' and password 'password'," I suggested.
The guy who had been sitting at the computer when we came in went back over to the computer and tried it. It worked and they all looked at me with great respect.
"Man, are you good. How did you know that?"
"People tend to behave in fairly predictable ways as I said," I began. "Everybody comes up with passwords using the same basic rules but they don't realize it because they never talk about it. If you know the basic rules, it is fairly easy to guess password."
I was in lecture mode savoring the moment. There is nothing a professor likes more than to deliver a piece of a lecture to an audience who is appreciating it of their own free will. They looked at me with respect and amazement as I continued.
"So this password was easy to guess. However, in the interest of honesty, I have to tell you that I had some help."
"What kind of help?" They asked, hoping to delve more deeply into the secrets of password hacking.
"Mrs. Oxenstein told me." I said and then smiled smugly.
"Mrs. Oxenstein??" they all said in unison, grimacing as though I had suggested putting barbecue sauce on vanilla ice cream.
"Yeah," I said, "Mrs. Oxenstein" , as though I were clearly on the inside circle of knowledge about the case and they were all hanging on to the outside by their finger nails.
Gita shot a sidelong glance punctuating the fact that I had left that little tidbit out of the briefing I had given her on the steps.
"I'm heading over to see her as soon as I finish up here," I continued, trying to ameliorate the oversight. "You can go with me if you want to, Champ".
Immediately I winced realizing the slip. Her glance turned into a penetrating glare as those onyx beads drilled through me.
On the way out she walked rapidly a half step ahead of me. I had a hard time keeping up.
"I thought I told you never to call me Champ in front of a client."
"It was a mistake. I'm sorry." I said feeling genuinely contrite.
She turned, glared at me and then softened. "Alright," she said. "But, please try to be more careful in the future."
Gita was an expert in martial arts of remarkable distinction. To look at her taut, muscular, petite frame you'd think she was an aerobics instructor rather than a world class body guard and a trained killer. Having her as a partner had its benefits and risks. Nobody would ever get the jump on me. Yet she was wound very tight and if she snapped, it would be all over for anyone near her. Stories of her triumphs over incredible odds were legendary within the inner circles at Intercontinental. And she was right. If word of her prowess got out, every Billy-Bob who crossed her path would want to find out for him self. It was a slip I shouldn't have made and I felt bad about it.
"Don't brood about it," she said evenly. "Let's go talk to Mrs. Oxenstein."