Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Some people might say that flying over a jungle at less than five hundred feet on a rainy night with no sleep is suicide; and I would agree with them if my life didn't depend on such a gamble. I hold my lighter in my sweaty palm for comfort. The turbulence and wind make the airplane bank and jump violently. Visibility would be zero if it weren't for intermittent lightning. My eyes are glued to the instruments. Since the Colombian Air Force hasn't shot me down yet, it's safe to say I have managed to get lost in the radar clutter. So, I climb in an effort to fly over the weather until I reach my destination.

By the time I land at the El Dorado Airport in Bogotá, the sun is coming out. I follow ground control's instructions as to where to tie down the plane, but don't stick around for the rest of the formalities. Instead, I walk toward the international terminal and ask a cab driver to take me to a pawnshop. The ambassador's gold Rolex, Yale graduation ring, and fancy pen leave me with enough cash to hide in the city for a few days until I can figure out my next move.

I've never been to Colombia, but I have a strange sense of familiarity since Caracas is a lot like Bogotá, a vast and vibrant city surrounded by beautiful mountains and flanked by numerous slums. Sadly, there's no subway system, so I have to rely on taxis to find my way around the city, which I'm not too crazy about. Traffic makes the trips slow; they're also expensive and I run the risk of being recognized.

The cab drops me off at a huge shopping mall not too far from the airport called "Salitre Plaza" that would fit perfectly in any US city. The place is adorned by three greenhouses and illuminated by a glass ceiling. I buy a new set of clothes. My old outfit finds a new home in a garbage can, and I hope that I'm finally rid of the elusive tracking device they pinned on me.

"My, my, somebody has been partying too much," says a lanky guy with skin-tight clothes as I walk into a stylish hair salon. "I will not ask you if I may help you, Darling. I must."

"I want to change my look," I say.

"You need a new look like I need Brad Pitt, honey," he says. "I'm Lario, your savior. Please come this way. Ana, hold my calls! Merci."

"I want to go for an older look," I say.

"Old?" he sneers. "Darling, I'll give you fabulous! Just plant your little butt here and say no more. The muses have taken me. I'll give you the 'Clooney,' and then you'll thank me, OK? OK!"

Two hours later, Lario gives me the big reveal. Perfect, I look like I'm in my forties.

"All you need is a pair of baby blues and the girls will knock down your door. Now, we need to talk about those eyebrows."

"No we don't," I say standing up, but the blue eyes are not a bad idea.

I give Lario a handsome tip and follow his advice. While at the optometrist, I also buy a pair of non-prescription glasses to complete my disguise. It's good enough to avoid immediate recognition, but anyone really looking for me would see through the masquerade.

There's a cyber café right in front of the mall. I order some food and a nice cup of Colombian coffee; its rich aroma alone is enough to help me fight off exhaustion. It feels as if I haven't eaten in days. I pick a computer away from prying eyes, restart the machine in safe mode and use the default administrator login. I go to user settings and change the password for the administrator. When the computer reboots again in normal mode, I have full access to the system.

Whether it's laziness, carelessness or ignorance, the human factor is a hacker's greatest ally. This axiom is confirmed as I check that my user account at Corso has not yet been changed. I create two dummy user accounts in both the Caracas and Miami offices with the highest security access. Next, I download a few hacking tools from a familiar site and Google a nice executive hotel in the city. Using a Whisker program, I scan the hotel's network for any vulnerability. It looks like someone forgot to reset a password, so I'm in. Next, I plant a Trojan horse and a sniffer on their server and wait for the returns.

Hotels are busy places with lots of people going in and out. Passwords are used all the time, so it doesn't take me long to get a higher level of access. I make a reservation for Keil Austerlitz, one of the two German guys I met with Trishna at the bar back in Caracas. The reservation supposedly started two days ago and checkout is next week. The fact that the real Keil Austerlitz is in Caracas for a month gives me access to his information and corporate credit card. By the time accounting finds out the discrepancy, I should be long gone.

Checking out the news, I realize things have gotten pretty hairy for me back in Venezuela. The Americans are now involved, which means the faster I go underground, the better it is for me. I clean all my hacker tools from the computer and log out.

As I leave the café, the screeching of tires makes me turn around. A van approaches at full speed. I automatically reach for my gun, when I feel something stinging my back followed by a painful shock. I lose control of my muscles and fall to the ground barely conscious.

The van's door slides open; I recognize two of my pursuersfrom the night before. One of them I actually shot before escaping. Damn bodyarmor! He jumps out of the car and pepper sprays my face, while his buddies tiemy hands and legs with plastic restraints. They throw me inside the truck witha hood over my head and drive off.