Chapter Twenty-five
The hacker’s name was George Lindenkugel, but he called himself Spyder. He arrived at Melchior’s office on a Triumph motorcycle wearing a torn black-leather jacket and torn dungarees. His T-shirt was artfully ripped. He had a stud through his nose and a loop through his brow. His hair was dyed yellow.
He slouched in Melchior’s office drinking a Red Bull. “How’d you hear about me?” Spyder asked, unimpressed with the trappings of greatness.
“Niles Poor,” Melchior said.
“Ah, Niles, my favorite right-wing bastard. I wish he’d direct another movie.”
“I bet you do. I hear you made out like a bandit on the last one.”
“You want authenticity you come to Spyder.”
“I will pay you ten thousand dollars.”
“You want me to hack this website. Then what?”
“I want you to shut ’em down. Give ’em the stuxnet worm or whatever you’ve got. I want you to cause so much damage no one will ever think of putting up a bogus Banshees website ever again.”
Spyder made a pistol of his thumb and forefinger. “Gotcha.”
Melchior produced a three-page document. “I’ve drawn up a contract …”
“Oh mannn, don’t give me no fuckin’ contract. Five thou now, five thou when the job is done.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“What? Just watch the fuckin’ net. They’ll be down in twelve hours guaranteed.”
“You can’t talk about this.”
Spyder looked pained. “Oh mannn. Do you know anything about the hacker underground?”
“No.”
“Spyder’s word is his bond, man. Go online. Ask anyone.”
Melchior went to his desk and used a cylinder key to unlock a bottom drawer. He took out a metal cash box and opened it. It contained seventy grand for miscellaneous expenses. He counted out five thousand in Benjamins.
Spyder tucked them in his leather jacket. “I’ll be back tomorrow for the other five.”
“If I’m not here, I’ll arrange for my secretary Betsy to give you the money.”
Spyder stopped at the door. “Damned white of you, brother.” He left Melchior’s office and walked down the corridor and out through the reception area. Melchior’s staff was used to far more outré characters than Spyder and barely took notice.
Spyder retrieved his Triumph from the Warner lot, where he worked off and on as a consultant for crime shows including Law & Order and NCIS: Los Angeles. He’d left the bike on its center stand, just inside the main gate under the watchful eye of Augie the gate guard, whom he’d tipped twenty.
Spyder waved to Augie, rolled the bike onto its wheels, started her up, and headed back to his place, a loft in West Hollywood he shared with Maggot Brain and Zimmy. Spyder took chances and split lanes. He rode around to the back alley entrance and rode the Triumph up a concrete ramp to a loading zone. Setting the kickstand and turning off the engine, Spyder got off the bike and flipped the cover up on a numerical keypad mounted on the brick wall. He glanced once at the video cam looking down on him from the third floor roof. He quickly entered the code, and the steel door retracted into the ceiling with a hair-raising screech.
Spyder dashed inside and turned off the security system. He rolled the Triumph into a broad industrial space which contained several automobiles shrouded in canvas. Spyder closed the garage door and reset the security system. Walking past the freight elevator, he took the stairs to the third floor landing with a steel door on either side, each with an eyehole. Spyder’s was on the left. There was a camera on the wall covering both entrances.
He flipped up the cover on the keypad and entered a code. His door unlocked electronically. Spyder entered the vast space, arms spread wide. This was his domain. This is where he ruled. Maggot Brain and Zimmy had gone to Las Vegas for an electronic security convention, so Spyder had the place to himself.
The huge space had a hardwood floor, a ten-foot wall of cabinets and free-standing partitions. Motes of dust hovered in shafts of sunlight coming through the large vertical windows. There was a conversation cluster consisting of four beanbag chairs surrounding a discarded telephone company spool. There was a humongous water pipe on the spool table. Two working pinball machines gleamed against one wall. The room also contained a Hewlett-Packard Blade server with several cups, stacks of network hubs, and piles of Ethernet cable.
Spyder reached for a fat roach on the lip of an overloaded ashtray and lit it. He inhaled deeply. On the few square inches of desk space lay a pen, some Post-it notes, and a single-edged razor blade.
“Time to make the doughnuts,” he said
He brought up the Banshees’ home page. A black screen appeared accompanied by an ominous bass line. A red dot appeared in the center of the screen and expanded with explosive force into the bright red logo as the speakers blared “Welcome to Hell.” He placed the cursor over the logo. A pop-up said “ENTER.” He pushed the button.
A drumroll merged into thunder as he entered the website. A photo of the band bent over their axes taken from behind and above a madly pogoing crowd. When he placed the cursor on each individual band member a short bio popped up. Spyder didn’t care about that. But he dug the band. His taste ran to death metal, and he worshiped the classics: Deep Purple, Judas Priest, Anthrax, and Tool.
Spyder tapped a few keys getting the Banshees’ home page to spit out its operating system and version. He reached over to a media tower containing CDs and videos and grabbed a flash drive containing a program designed to crack the password. He entered the program.
The Banshees’ logo wavered. The band played on. A slight whirring noise alerted him to the fact that the hard drive had ejected his disc. He pulled it out to make certain he’d entered it right side up. He had. He inserted it again. There was no visible effect.
“Hmmmmm,” Spyder said. He initiated the wardialer which dialed thousands of his “bots,” computers which, unbeknownst to their owners, were under his control. He entered a program instructing his bots to contact the website in an effort to overload the system.
“Jesus on a moped,” Spyder muttered. “Welcome to Hell” ended and “Do the World a Favor (Off Yourself)” came on. It was a righteous jam! Spyder had never heard of the Banshees before Niles had contacted him on behalf of Melchior, but they were all right. And if Melchior produced them he was all right, although it seemed to Spyder that Melchior did not wish the band well.
High on weed and Red Bull, Spyder got up to do the funky chicken.
Stop takin’ up space. Don’t be a dope.
Go to the kitchen and get you a rope.
All of a sudden Spyder didn’t feel well. A tendril of doubt wormed its way into his heart.
If you want to get to Hades,
you’ve got to swallow razor blades.