Underground by Suelette Dreyfus (books to get back into reading txt) 📖

to be left open, this unfortunately exposes other sites and has subjected us to some criticism.

The whole issue is very complex, and in some respects it is a case of diminishing returns. A fine balance has to be maintained between freedom, and the prevention of abuse, this appears to be the challenge.

Allan Young

RMIT

`Yeah, I mean, this RMIT guy is basically saying they are not going to catch us anyway, so why are they wasting all this time and money?’

`Yep. The Feds were in there for at least three months,’ Prime Suspect said. `Sounded more like nine months though.’

`Hmm. Yeah, nothing we didn’t know already though.’

`Pretty obvious, leaving those accounts open all the time like they did. I reckon that looked pretty suspicious, even if we hadn’t gotten the email.’

`Definitely,’ Mendax agreed. `Lots of other hackers in RMIT too. I wonder if they figured it out.’

`Hmm. They’re gonna be screwed if they haven’t been careful.’

`I don’t think the Feds have gotten anyone though.’

`Yeah?’ Prime Suspect asked.

`Well, if they had, why would they leave those accounts open? Why would RMIT keep a full-time staff person on?’

`Doesn’t make sense.’

`No,’ Mendax said. `I’d be pretty sure RMIT has kicked them out.’

`Yeah, told them, “You had you’re chance, boys. Couldn’t catch anyone. Now pack your bags”.’

`Right.’ Mendax paused. `Don’t know about NorTel though.’

`Mmm, yeah,’ Prime Suspect said. Then, as usual, a silence began to descend on the conversation.

`Running out of things to say …’ Mendax said finally. They were good enough friends for him to be blunt with Prime Suspect.

`Yeah.’

More silence.

Mendax thought how strange it was to be such good friends with someone, to work so closely with him, and yet to always run out of conversation.

`OK, well, I better go. Things to do,’ Mendax said in a friendly voice.

`Yeah, OK. Bye Mendax,’ Prime Suspect said cheerfully.

Mendax hung up.

Prime Suspect hung up.

And the AFP stayed on the line.

In the twelve months following the initial line trace in late 1990, the AFP continued to monitor the RMIT dial-up lines. The line traces kept failing again and again. But as new reports of hacker attacks rolled in, there seemed to be a discernible pattern in many of the attacks. Detectives began to piece together a picture of their prey.

In 1990 and 1991, RMIT dial-ups and computers were riddled with hackers, many of whom used the university’s systems as a nest—a place to store files, and launch further attacks. They frolicked in the system almost openly, often using RMIT as a place to chat on-line with each other. The institute served as the perfect launchpad. It was only a local phone call away, it had a live Internet connection, a reasonably powerful set of computers and very poor security. Hacker heaven.

The police knew this, and they asked computer staff to keep the security holes open so they could monitor hacker activity. With perhaps a dozen different hackers—maybe more—inside RMIT, the task of isolating a single cell of two or three organised hackers responsible for the more serious attacks was not going to be easy.

By the middle of 1991, however, there was a growing reluctance among some RMIT staff to continue leaving their computers wide open. On 28 August, Allan Young, the head of RMIT’s Electronic Communications Group, told the AFP that the institute wanted to close up the security holes. The AFP did not like this one bit, but when they complained Young told them, in essence, go talk to Geoff Huston at AARNET and to the RMIT director.

The AFP was being squeezed out, largely because they had taken so long conducting their investigation. RMIT couldn’t reveal the AFP investigation to anyone, so it was being embarrassed in front of dozens of other research institutions which assumed it had no idea how to secure its computers. Allan Young couldn’t go to a conference with other AARNET representatives without being hassled about `the hacker problem’ at RMIT. Meanwhile, his computer staff lost time playing cops-and-robbers—and ignored their real work.

However, as RMIT prepared to phase out the AFP traps, the police had a lucky break from a different quarter—NorTel. On 16 September, a line trace from a NorTel dial-up, initiated after a complaint about the hackers to the police, was successful. A fortnight later, on 1 October, the AFP began tapping Prime Suspect’s telephone. The hackers might be watching the police watch them, but the police were closing in. The taps led back to Trax, and then to someone new—Mendax.

The AFP considered putting taps on Mendax and Trax’s telephones as well. It was a decision to be weighed up carefully. Telephone taps were expensive, and often needed to be in place for at least a month. They did, however, provide a reliable record of exactly what the hacker was doing on-line.

Before police could move on setting up additional taps in Operation Weather, the plot took another dramatic turn when one of the IS hackers did something which took the AFP completely by surprise.

Trax turned himself in to the police.

On 29 October Prime Suspect was celebrating. His mum had cooked him a nice dinner in honour of finishing his year 12 classes, and then driven him to Vermont for a swot-vac party. When she arrived back home she pottered around for an hour and a half, feeding her old dog Lizzy and tidying up. At 11 p.m. she decided to call it a night.

Not much later, Lizzy barked.

`Are you home so soon?’ Prime Suspect’s mother called out. `Party not much fun?’

No-one answered.

She sat up in bed. When there was still no answer, her mind raced to reports of a spate of burglaries in the neighbourhood. There had even been a few assaults.

A muffled male voice came from outside the front door. `Ma’am. Open the door.’

She stood up and walked to the front door.

`Open the door. Police.’

`How do I know you’re really the police?’

`If you don’t open the door, we’ll kick it in!’ an exasperated male voice shouted back at her from her front doorstep.

Prime Suspect’s mother saw the outline of something being pressed against the side window. She didn’t have her reading glasses on, but it looked like a police badge. Nervously, she opened the front door a little bit and looked out.

There were eight or nine people on her doorstep. Before she could stop them, they had pushed past her, swarming into her home.

A female officer began waving a piece of paper about. `Look at this!’ She said angrily. `It’s a warrant! Can you read it?’

`No, actually I can’t. I don’t have my glasses on,’ Prime Suspect’s mother answered curtly.

She told the police she wanted to make a phone call and tried to ring her family solicitor, but without luck. He had been to a funeral and wake and could not be roused. When she reached for the phone a second time, one of the officers began lecturing her about making more phone calls.

`You be quiet,’ she said pointing her finger at the officer. Then she made another unfruitful call.

Prime Suspect’s mother looked at the police officers, sizing them up. This was her home. She would show the police to her son’s room, as they requested, but she was not going to allow them to take over the whole house. As she tartly instructed the police where they could and could not go, she thought, I’m not standing for any nonsense from you boys.

`Where’s your son?’ one officer asked her.

`At a party.’

`What is the address?’

She eyed him warily. She did not like these officers at all. However, they would no doubt wait until her son returned anyway, so she handed over the address.

While the police swarmed though Prime Suspect’s room, gathering his papers, computer, modem and other belongings, his mother waited in his doorway where she could keep an eye on them.

Someone knocked at the door. An AFP officer and Prime Suspect’s mother both went to answer it.

It was the police—the state police.

The next-door neighbours had heard a commotion. When they looked out of their window they saw a group of strange men in street clothes brazenly taking things from the widow’s home as if they owned the place. So the neighbours did what any responsible person would in the circumstances. They called the police.

The AFP officers sent the Victoria Police on their way. Then some of them set off in a plain car for the Vermont party. Wanting to save Prime Suspect some embarrassment in front of his friends, his mother rang him at the party and suggested he wait outside for the AFP.

As soon as Prime Suspect hung up the phone he tried to shake off the effect of a vast quantity of alcohol. When the police pulled up outside, the party was in full swing. Prime Suspect was very drunk, but he seemed to sober up quite well when the AFP officers introduced themselves and packed him into the car.

`So,’ said one of the officers as they headed toward his home, `what are you more worried about? What’s on your disks or what’s in your desk drawer?’

Prime Suspect thought hard. What was in his desk drawer? Oh shit! The dope. He didn’t smoke much, just occasionally for fun, but he had a tiny amount of marijuana left over from a party.

He didn’t answer. He looked out the window and tried not to look nervous.

At his house, the police asked him if he would agree to an interview.

`I don’t think so. I’m feeling a little … under the weather at the moment,’ he said. Doing a police interview would be difficult enough. Doing it drunk would be just plain dangerous.

After the police carted away the last of his hacking gear, Prime Suspect signed the official seizure forms and watched them drive off in to the night.

Returning to his bedroom, he sat down, distracted, and tried to gather his thoughts. Then he remembered the dope. He opened his desk drawer. It was still there. Funny people, these feds.

Then again, maybe it made sense. Why would they bother with some tiny amount of dope that was hardly worth the paperwork? His nervousness over a couple of joints must have seemed laughable to the feds. They had just seized enough evidence of hacking to lock him up for years, depending on the judge, and here he was sweating about a thimbleful of marijuana which might land him a $100 fine.

As the late spring night began to cool down, Prime Suspect wondered whether the AFP had raided Mendax and Trax.

At the party, before the police had shown up, he had tried to ring Mendax. From his mother’s description when she called him, it sounded as if the entire federal police force was in his house at that moment. Which could mean that only one other IS hacker had gone down at the same time. Unless he was the last to be raided, Mendax or Trax might still be unaware of what was happening.

As he waited for the police to pick him up, a very drunk Prime Suspect tried to ring Mendax again. Busy. He tried again. And again. The maddening buzz of an engaged signal only made Prime Suspect more nervous.

There was no way to get through, no way to warn him.

Prime Suspect wondered whether the police had actually shown up at Mendax’s and whether, if he had been able to get through, his phone call would have made any difference at all.

The house looked like it had been ransacked. It had been ransacked, by Mendax’s wife, on her way out. Half the furniture was missing, and the other half was in disarray. Dresser drawers hung