Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation, page 5
Nam Sei-hoon suffered from a rare genetic disorder known as Fairbanks disease, which had stunted his growth around the time he reached puberty. Janson knew of only two other people with the disease, the actor Danny DeVito and former Clinton labor secretary Robert Reich. But while both DeVito and Reich handled their condition with comic self-deprecation, Nam Sei-hoon took the opposite approach. Despite his meteoric rise to power within South Korea’s National Intelligence Service, Nam remained ultrasensitive about his height and was notorious for destroying the reputation and career of any man or woman who dared make light of his diminutive stature.
“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice,” Janson said, immediately regretting his phrasing. He bit down hard on his lip and quickly turned to the business at hand. “I’m trying to locate someone who may be on the run in the city. As the eyes and ears of Seoul, I thought you might be able to help.”
Nam spoke slowly and deliberately. “I assume you are referring to the senator’s son, the murder suspect who has thus far managed to elude police?”
“That’s right,” Janson said quietly. “I was hired by the boy’s father to find him.”
Nam Sei-hoon raised an eyebrow. “An exfiltration?”
Although there was no hint of accusation in Nam’s voice, Janson quickly shook his head. “No, I have no intention of aiding in an escape. Senator Wyckoff believes his son is innocent.”
“Innocent men do not flee.”
“They do when they’re frightened teenagers.”
Nam Sei-hoon, whose once dark crown had matured into a blinding white, turned back toward the display case, leaving Janson to stare down at his profile.
“So you too believe this boy is innocent?” Nam said.
Janson detected an unexpected reticence in Nam’s voice; his expression remained inscrutable. “I’m reserving judgment until I have all the facts. Including the kid’s side of the story. When I find him, I’m going to encourage the boy to turn himself in to police. I trust the South Korean criminal justice system to decide his guilt or innocence.”
“That’s quite noble of you.” When Nam next turned his body to face his old friend, his features had softened considerably. “Of course, I would offer you my assistance either way,” he added, smiling. “Our friendship is such that the parameters of your mission are irrelevant to me, Paul.”
Janson felt a wave of relief wash over him. In the past he’d often relied on Nam Sei-hoon’s numerous contacts in the global intelligence community to obtain information and grease the wheels that needed greasing. Janson would have been confounded had his longtime friend denied him assistance now that Janson came to him personally. Such an unexpected setback would have been devastating to his search. Especially since Janson’s own contacts on the Korean peninsula were limited—and the clock continued ticking.
Janson treasured Nam Sei-hoon’s friendship partly because of how unlikely it was. Years ago Nam had singled him out during joint US-ROK live-fire training exercises. By then Janson was already part of the most elite platoon within SEAL Team Four, so Nam had measured him against not only the best, but the best of the best. Of all the US Navy SEALs whom Nam had observed over the years, he had chosen only Paul Janson to join him for dinner at his home in Seoul. Little did Janson know at the time that the dinner would become the first of many the two men shared.
Because of his position in the National Intelligence Service, Nam Sei-hoon traveled the world, liaising with his counterparts on every continent. Whenever Nam was about to leave the Korean peninsula, Janson received a call. If he happened to be within a couple thousand miles of one of the cities Nam was visiting, Nam would insist they get together for a meal. And it was at those meals that their friendship flourished.
Despite the difference in their ages and stations, Nam had always treated Janson like an equal. When they engaged in worldly discussions, Nam listened to Janson in a way that made Janson feel as if they were the last two men on earth. For Janson, a man who had never been close with his father, it was a remarkable experience that imbued him with an extraordinary level of confidence. And that confidence later provided Janson the fortitude to make some of his most crucial decisions, including his decision to leave Consular Operations in pursuit of a more virtuous life.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder to identify potential eavesdroppers, Nam said, “So, how can I help you, Paul?”
“Senator Wyckoff informs me that his son spends an inordinate amount of time in cyberspace. I was hoping we might be able to track him down that way.”
“Quite possibly,” Nam said. “Is the boy a professional?”
“‘He knows his way around a computer’ is how the senator phrased it. From my conversation with them, I don’t think Senator and Mrs. Wyckoff are very close to their son. And I’m fairly certain they have no clue what he’s been up to these past few years.”
“A shame,” Nam said. “But in these times, not as uncommon as we would like to believe.”
“The police seized the kid’s computers—one desktop and one laptop. As far as I know they haven’t yet extracted any information, so I thought that might be a good place for us to start.”
Nam seemed to consider this. “I am sure I can gain access to the boy’s computers,” he said, “if I declare it a matter of national security. Of course, since I head the Department of North Korean Affairs, it would be helpful if you possessed information linking either the senator or his son to the Kim regime, no matter how tenuous the connection.”
In his head Janson ran rapidly through the senator’s votes on North Korean sanctions. He knew there was nothing there, and if there was, Nam Sei-hoon and the National Intelligence Service would already know about it. Like any good spy, Nam was fishing. Which was particularly understandable under the circumstances. The South lived under a constant threat from the North, and the situation had recently worsened considerably. Kim Jong-il’s death and his son Kim Jong-un’s impromptu rise to power had made an unpredictable situation even more uncertain and extremely volatile.
Janson finally shook his head. “So far I’ve found nothing to suggest that the Wyckoff family has any ties to Pyongyang, political or otherwise.”
“Very well,” Nam said. “Then we will merely have to invent a narrative.”
* * *
“TELL ME WHY I shouldn’t hang up.”
“CatsPaw. What have you got for me?”
Janson tucked his chin into the upturned collar of his overcoat as he waited for Morton’s response. His exposed ears were frozen, his eyes tearing from the cold, hard wind. As he moved briskly along the sidewalk, he flashed on the tarmac at Hickam Field on Oahu, on the gentle caress of the Hawaiian sun on his cheeks. Just then it was hard to believe that Honolulu and Seoul were on the same planet, let alone in the same hemisphere.
Morton said, “A reverse dox can be every bit as complicated and time-consuming as a straight dox, ya know. And the name you fed me, he’s no script kiddie.”
Janson’s brows dipped in frustration. “Speak English, Morton.”
“Hold on. I’m on the New Jersey Turnpike and it’s backed up worse than I was during month two of my OxyContin addiction.”
Janson continued walking. He loathed speaking to Morton. He usually delegated the job to Jessie or someone else at CatsPaw, but today he had no choice but to call the hacker himself. As much as he detested hearing about Morton’s traffic and constipation issues, he needed the information he’d requested earlier from the plane, and he needed it fast. The longer it took to find Gregory Wyckoff, the worse it would be for the kid. And the senator didn’t seem like a guy who was keen on excuses.
“Did you find him or not?” Janson finally demanded.
“Easy, easy. Of course I found him. I was just trying to explain that it wasn’t a cakewalk. Doxing someone who’s good with a keyboard and wants to remain anonymous is a tough task. But if I have enough information about his online activity I can usually find him within an hour. Reverse doxes, on the other hand, can be a real bitch.”
“But you found Gregory Wyckoff’s handle in cyberspace,” Janson pushed.
“I found him, sure. But he’d buried himself well, which is what I was trying to tell you. Your guy’s no script kiddie—he knows his shit.”
Janson said nothing as he passed the Seoul Central Mosque. If only he’d used his Muslim legend to meet with Nam Sei-hoon; then he could duck into the warm mosque and mutter a few prayers while his face thawed.
“All right,” Janson said. “I don’t have much time. Tell me what you learned about the kid’s online life.”
“He goes by the screen name Draco-underscore-Malfoy-nine-five.”
“What the hell’s a Draco Malfoy?”
“He’s a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
“English, Morton.”
“This is English, man. He’s a character in Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy’s a bad seed, lives in the Slytherin dorm. Voldemort commands him to kill Dumbledore, but he doesn’t have the balls to go through with it. In the end I think Draco switches sides and becomes Harry’s friend.”
“Thanks for the Harry Potter history lesson. But right now I don’t give a damn about fictional characters. Tell me about Gregory Wyckoff. What have you learned?”
“Well, I actually think his screen name is telling. This kid’s nineteen. He’s been active online using various identities since he was twelve. Started out as a black hat.”
“A black hat?”
“In tech lingo it’s someone who uses their knowledge of software programming to do mischief.”
“What kind of mischief are we talking about?”
“Well, in Gregory’s case, minor shit. At least to start with. He defaced a few websites, trolled some forums. But within a couple of years he’d moved up to DDoS’ing—knocking sites offline by swamping them with junk traffic—and stealing databases of personal information, which he then sold to various crooks and thieves in Eastern Europe, mainly Ukraine.”
“What’s he been up to recently?”
“That’s the thing. Roughly three years ago he seems to have turned a corner. Maybe he got pinched, maybe he grew a conscience, I don’t know.”
“We know he didn’t get pinched,” Janson said. “The kid doesn’t have a criminal record. Nothing on his juvenile sheet either.”
“If he got pinched, there wouldn’t be a rap sheet if he cooperated and went to work for the feds. Happens all the time these days. No more honor among thieves, ya know.”
“So he started ratting out other hackers?”
“Not necessarily. But at that point his online career takes an odd turn. He starts working with Anon and other groups who claim to be hacktivists.”
“By Anon, you mean Anonymous? The organization that attacked the Church of Scientology?”
“Right. Scientology, PayPal, MasterCard, Visa, Sony, and a whole bunch of other sites, including some Middle Eastern governments during the Arab Spring. But they’re not really an organization. Anonymous is more like an online subculture.”
“Great job, Morton. Now, how is all this going to help me find the kid in Seoul?”
Nam Sei-hoon had parted company with the promise to contact Janson when the NIS spy gained access to the computers being held as evidence by the Seoul Metropolitan Police. If history was any indicator, Janson expected to hear from Nam before nightfall, but he couldn’t count on it. And if Gregory Wyckoff was half as savvy with computers as Morton was telling him, there was a good chance the kid had wiped his hard drives before going on the lam. It was also possible that the computers the police seized were never used in Wyckoff’s covert activities. For all anyone knew, Wyckoff’s personal computer could still be in the kid’s possession.
“Hey,” Morton said, “I’ve never been to Seoul. Hell, I’ve never even been to Philadelphia, which is practically in my backyard. If it weren’t for the annual Black Hat convention in Vegas, I’d never leave Jersey at all.”
“What are you saying, Morton?”
“I can track your man online, but I can’t find him for you in real life. That’s going to be up to you.”
“Fine,” Janson said, “then let me ask you this: If you were in a foreign country accused of murder, regardless of your guilt or innocence, where would you hide out?”
“I guess I’d try to find my peeps.”
“Your peeps?”
“My people, ya know. Fellow hackers. From what I’ve seen of this guy online, you’re not going to find him at some aboveground Internet café, casually logging on to his AOL account with his Capital One Visa. You’re going to have to go underground. If I were him I’d use my network of fellow cyber-enthusiasts to hide my ass until the heat died down.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, Morton. Next question: If everyone online is anonymous, how do you know which city anyone lives in?”
“You don’t, necessarily. But if you’re in some kind of serious shit in a foreign country, you can ask for help in an online forum. If someone who reads your post is in the area, he can send you a direct message and offer to help without exposing too much about himself publicly.”
“There’s no other way to find out which hackers live where?”
“Well, even if someone hides his IP address, you can usually figure out where he’s from by what he talks about and when he’s online, time zone–wise. You can also collect hints from his views on politics and shit, but that takes time. Also keep in mind that the best hackers are also skilled social engineers—and the best of the best are masters of deception.”
“So how do we go about finding one of these hackers in South Korea?”
“Well, you, my friend, are in luck.”
“Am I? Why’s that?”
“Because I just happen to chat regularly with one of the baddest cyber-motherfuckers in all of Asia. And I just happen to know for a fact that he resides in Seoul.”
“Great. How do I find him?”
“I can’t pinpoint him on a map, ya know. But I can give you his screen name and you can try to locate him yourself. Just don’t let on how you got the lead. And be extremely careful. From what I’ve heard, this guy will chew you up and spit you out as soon as look at you. He’s got the reputation of a natural-born killer.”
“What’s the screen name, Morton?”
“L-zero-R-D-underscore-W-one-C-K-three-D.”
Janson fixed on the letters and numbers in his head:
L0rd_W1ck3d
“Lord Wicked?”
“Lord-motherfucking-Wicked, my friend.”
SIX
Dosan Park
Sinsa-dong, Gangnam-gu, Seoul
As the brutal cold burrowed deep into her bones, Jessica Kincaid couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. She lowered her head against the gusting wind and stole another glance over her left shoulder but saw no one.
You’re being paranoid. You’re the one doing the following.
Across the way, Ambassador Young’s chief aide entered an upscale Korean restaurant named Jung Sikdang. Kincaid cursed under her breath. She couldn’t very well walk into the restaurant; Jonathan would recognize her right away. And she sure as hell didn’t want to wait around outside in the bitter cold for an hour while Jonathan enjoyed his evening meal. Damn. She’d been so sure he was heading straight to his apartment, where Kincaid could knock on the door and, hopefully, corner him alone. But no. An hour of surveillance, wasted.
After leaving the US embassy, Kincaid had headed north to the Sophia Guesthouse in Sogyeok-dong. It was her first time visiting a traditional hanok and she was instantly charmed. Fewer than a dozen rooms surrounded a spartan courtyard with a simple garden and young trees that stood completely bare in solidarity with the season.
Rather than poke around uninvited she went straight to the proprietors, a husband and wife of indistinguishable age. Both spoke fluent English. Although wary at first, they gradually opened up to Kincaid once she agreed to join them for afternoon tea.
Seated on low, comfortable cushions, Kincaid asked the couple whether they had ever seen Lynell Yi or Gregory Wyckoff before their recent visit. Neither of them had. Nor had they personally overheard the loud argument that was alleged to have taken place the night of the murder. The guests who had overheard the argument—a young Korean couple from Busan—had already checked out. Kincaid had seen their home addresses listed in the police file Janson had obtained on the plane, so she moved on.
After tea, Kincaid asked if she might have a look around, and the couple readily acquiesced. As they walked through the courtyard toward the room where Lynell Yi’s body was found, the husband launched into a semicomposed rant about the disappearance of the hanok in South Korean culture. The one-story homes crafted entirely of wood, he said, were victims of the South’s “obsession with modernization.” As he pointed out the craftsmanship of the clay-tiled roof, he noticed Kincaid’s chattering teeth and explained that the rooms were well insulated with mud and straw, and heated by a system called ondol that lay beneath the floor.
The wife took a key from her pocket and opened the door to number 9, the room in which Wyckoff and Yi had stayed. It was located in the newer section of the hanok. Kincaid was surprised to find that the two-day-old crime scene was already immaculate. There was no yellow police tape, no blood or footprints or any other evidence to be seen. According to the husband, a team had rushed in and cleaned the place up and down the moment the police indicated they were finished. Kincaid made a mental note to check whether this was normal procedure in the Republic of Korea.
The room itself was cozy, about half the size of a one-car garage. But it was also elegant in an understated way. There were no beds or chairs, just traditional mats, a pair of locked trunks, and a small color television set you probably couldn’t purchase in stores anymore. She’d seen the room in evidence photos, but the pictures didn’t do the place justice.
Kincaid walked to the window, which was made of a thin translucent paper that allowed in natural light. She placed her hand on one of the speckled walls and thought that if she gave it a solid punch, her fist would land in the next room. So much for proving that fellow guests couldn’t possibly have overheard an argument between the victim and the accused. But what truly puzzled her was that the police noted no signs of a struggle, except for a fallen lamp. Given the size of the room, that seemed all but impossible, especially considering the fact that Lynell Yi had apparently been the victim of manual strangulation.
