Superliminal chapter 1: The captured keys

I’m an information technology private investigator. Since I solve their problems my clients generally like me. Some even refer me.

Only one client has ever kidnapped me.

I sat in my office. Since I didn’t have a case and therefore no money or dinner, I ignored my stomach’s complaints. I did this with a Zen-like refocusing of hunger into a blindingly fast typing speed: I was online, debating furiously whether Dave Arneson or Gary Gygax should get more credit for the creation of Dungeons & Dragons. I don’t know if I was winning the logical argument, but my rumbling stomach ensured I had my opponent beat in sheer volume of words.

So intent was I on proving wrong some faceless Internet user, I didn’t notice the quiet shuffling outside my door. I didn’t notice the white smoke as it whirled silently into my office. I didn’t notice as I inhaled the smoke, coughed once and fell unconscious. My head slammed into my keyboard and ended my Internet debate with a silent scream of random alphanumerics.

One very strange dream later, I woke from the knockout gas. My head hurt. My throat burned. Worse, I was still hungry.

I blinked away fog and realized someone stood in front of me. Slouching on a chair, I tried to straighten up and look alert and competent. Or at least semi-conscious.

“Mr. Dev Manny?”

“Gygax built the D&D brand, but Arneson was the true creative talent!”

Not fluent in the language of recently unconscious information technology private investigators, the person said nothing but handed me a glass of ice water. I sipped and tried again to respond.

“Yes.”

I looked at the speaker. It was a woman. She wore a perfectly tailored business suit. Lots of muted elegance, from shoes to hair. No technology in sight, which was interesting. People dressed like this often sported a visible BlackBerry. This woman didn’t even wear a watch.

“I apologize for the rude transportation, but my company operates under strict security. I can’t have you know this location.”

“What company? Who are you?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of us. I’m the CEO of RedAction. We’re a classified outfit performing secure management of priority operations for anonymous clients. Call me ‘Ms. Smith’.”

“Of course.”

The blatant lack of information crawled up my spine. This group – whoever they were – wasn’t anyone I should upset.

“How can I help, Ms. Smith?”

“I had you brought here because you come highly recommended. I have an information technology problem. It’s dangerous to my company and time-critical. Solve this for me and I’ll pay you triple your normal rate.”

“You speak my language. What’s the problem?”

“Look behind you.”

She gestured over my shoulder. I hoisted myself out of the chair and examined the room.

I was in a minimalist office: small but efficient. A desk spanned one wall and held a monitor, keyboard and mouse. A desktop computer sat on the floor, shoved carefully under one side of the desk. An empty waste basket sat next to the computer. Bookshelves and filing cabinets covered the other wall. There were no windows, and behind me there was the only door to the room. I saw no clutter. If one molecule was out of place, Ms. Smith would probably move it back into position within seconds.

“Mr. Manny, I store critical information on my computer. Recently I’ve found that this data has been compromised. It’s somehow leaving this room. Someone is stealing from RedAction. I need you to figure out who and how.”

Great. All this secrecy, a kidnapping, a still-empty stomach, all for such a simple request. I’d heard this one before. Clients never realize the almost uncountable ways their information is at risk both from IT and human perspectives. For all the secrecy RedAction maintained, Ms. Smith seemed no different.

I sighed and said, “That’s a tall order. This might not be a tech problem. Human factors are far more unreliable. There are thousands of different ways your information can be compromised-“

Her eyes turned sharp. Her voice was sharper. “Spare me, Mr. Manny. I’m the only person authorized to this office. The only entry is through a reinforced door protected by combination numeric password and retinal scanner. There are no other entrances to this room, from door, window or ventilation.”

“Well, there are still hundreds of ways employees-“

“No one comes in here but my monthly cleaning crew and me. I watch them clean every minute they work. I’d know if they turned on the PC, opened the desktop case, or went through my files.”

“Are you sure they didn’t steal-“

“Yes. They are physically searched and X-rayed before they leave. They couldn’t take anything unauthorized. I would literally see it.”

“Well, your computer-“

“I’m the only one who uses it. I manually patch it weekly with the latest security and antimalware updates. There are no rootkits or monitoring programs installed. I manually run my backups and take them offsite to a completely secure location. All backups and all information on this PC have disk-level encryption. I have the only password. This setup is barricaded – it doesn’t connect to the Internet in any way. The computer has no disk drives .”

“Your data still could be transmitted wirelessly. Either Bluetooth or standard wireless could-“

“Wireless communications are prohibited here. This room was specially designed: you’re standing inside a giant Faraday cage. Look at your cellphone, Mr. Manny.”

I did. My cell provider was a good one, but my phone registered a helpful message of “NO SIGNAL”. If what Ms. Smith said was true and there really was a Faraday cage built around this room, no radio signal would ever get in or out.

I was tired of being interrupted so I took a moment to think and reassess. Ms. Smith had far more technical competence than I thought.

“Mind if I look around?”

“Of course not. That’s why I abducted you.”

I walked around the room, expecting my intuition to spring into action. But due to Ms. Smith’s maniacally clean nature there just wasn’t much to see. The only evidence of anything being out of place was the mass of cabling trailing behind her desk.

She saw me looking.

“Entropy is inevitable, Mr. Manny. That cabling is the one aspect of my office I allow to behave as nature intends. There are cables for my monitor, keyboard, mouse, printer, scanner and backup device. Each has a data cable and most have power cables. All, of course, plug in to my computer.”

“What about your cleaning crew? Do the cables get in the way?”

“No. They’re very careful with the computer, of course. And they’re very effective. When they clean, they even move the PC out of the way so they can clean the carpet underneath. This is at my insistence.”

I approached the desk and checked out the PC. The cables were indeed a mess – it was impossible to see back there without crawling on the floor. A glance at Ms. Smith’s wardrobe told me the CEO of RedAction never did that – her suit had no dust or scuff marks anywhere.

My intuition, previously sleeping on the floor of my mind, now jumped up and began to dance.

“You need to find a new cleaning crew. They’re stealing your company data.”

“What?! Not possible. I just told you my level of security-“

I love it when it’s my turn to interrupt.

“Ms. Smith, there’s one thing life taught me: No matter what your job is, you’ve always got to be willing to get dirty.”

She just stared. I decided to move from philosophy to practicality.

“How exactly does your cleaning crew clean under your desk?”

“They unplug all the cables leading to the desktop and move it a few feet away so they can vacuum down there. Then they move the computer back and plug all the cables back in.”

I got down on the floor and moved under the desk. I lay on my side, inched forward and craned my head so I could see the back of the desktop. Even with the overhead lights it was dark under here.

I poked around and resurfaced.

“Ms. Smith, I’d like to thank you for an education today.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thank you for teaching me your appearance doesn’t indicate your technical competence. Thanks for getting me involved in this case – it was interesting and not something I usually see. And thanks for teaching me that I need to install proximity detectors in my office.”

She smiled at the last bit. I smiled back and stuck out my hand. She shook it, and her smile dropped as she felt something pressed against her palm. We released the handshake and she looked down, stunned, at what I’d dropped into her hand.

“That’s a USB keylogger. It was plugged into the back of your PC’s USB slot, and your keyboard plugs into that. It’s tiny; a quick glance isn’t enough to even notice it’s there. And since it records you physically pressing keys on your keyboard, encryption and security don’t mean anything: it intercepts your keystrokes before that information is processed by the computer.

“This is a model that can hold hundreds of thousands of keypresses. It can’t pull data from your PC, but records everything you type. I expect that after your cleaning crew unplug your PC, they swap out the used USB keylogger for a new one.”

“No. They can’t. Impossible. How do they get it out of this room?”

“That’s even easier. Ms. Smith, have you ever X-rayed their vacuum cleaner?”

Her cold silence was answer enough.

“Your cleaning people take the used keylogger and suck it up with the vacuum cleaner. Since they’re working under the desk, you never see it happen. Then they leave freely. Later they open the vacuum cleaner and analyze what you’ve been typing for the last month.”

Ms. Smith’s neck flushed red. Her mouth was a flat, expressionless line. She stared down at the keylogger in her hand. She took a deep breath. I thought about taking a step back.

The CEO of RedAction slowly looked up.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Manny, for teaching me a valuable lesson. How can I repay you?”

“That ‘triple-my-normal-rate’ thing would be a swell-“

She interrupted me again: the hissing gas pellet she broke under my nose knocked me out in two seconds. I collapsed to the floor.

When I woke, I struggled feebly as my eyes creaked open. I had been placed back in my office. I found an envelope of cash in my pocket.

Dinner time.