Ghost in the Wires: My Adventures as the World’s Most Wanted Hacker

still there
.
Thirty minutes later, I had copied the file to one of my hacked accounts at
Netcom.
From the email and file exchanges between them, it appeared that Lottor
was the project lead, while Shimomura was working on it at his leisure. It
was obvious that Tsutomu would also have the OKI code on his machine,
and maybe even more information than I’d been able to grab from Lottor. I
was determined to find out. At some point, I needed to get back into
Shimomura’s computers.
I guess I sometimes don’t do a very good job of hiding my feelings. After
I’d been working on the Help Desk at the Virginia Mason Medical Center
for three months, my boss said to me one day, “We know you’re bored
here.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’ll go find something else.”
Even though this left me jobless and with no income, I was glad not to
face that boredom each day. Life, as they say, is too short.
So it was back to Kinko’s, to make up some new phony résumés. I had
brought along my handheld RadioShack Pro-43 scanner, which I had loaded
with the radio frequencies used by the FBI, DEA, Bureau of Prisons, and
U.S. Marshals Service, as well as the Secret Service because, as I’ve said
before, the Feds sometimes “borrow” other agencies’ frequencies if they
suspect their target might be listening. The scanner’s squelch was set to
pick up only nearby conversations.

---

The new résumés were taking shape when I heard my radio crackle with
voices. I opened the squelch a bit and waited. Moments later, radio traffic
began on one of the Secret Service frequencies.
“Any activity?”
“Nothing here.”
Very interesting. Some Federal agency was apparently conducting a
surveillance operation. I increased the volume and propped the scanner on
top of the computer to get better reception.
Soon the scanner began buzzing with voices: it sounded like the buildup
to the climax of a television cop show. Obviously a raid was being set up.
“No activity here,” one voice said.
“We’re in the alley covering the back,” another answered.
A girl working at the next PC asked what I was listening to. I smiled and
said it was the Secret Service, then laughed as I added, “Sounds like
somebody’s going to have a bad night.” She laughed, too. We both listened
intently to see what would happen next.
“Could he be at the computer store?” came blurting out from the radio.
Now, that was 
weird
. “Computer store”—did their target work in a
computer store, or could it be a customer?
No response.
I started to get a bit anxious and worried—could it be 
me
they were
waiting for? I stopped working on the computer and paid closer attention to
the radio.
But then I heard, “What kind of car does our guy drive?”
So it couldn’t be me they were after: I was using public transportation.
But I was still wondering about the computer store thing.
Twenty minutes, and then, “We’re going in now.”
And then radio silence.
I continued working hard, drafting about fifteen résumés for as many
different businesses in the Seattle area, as usual tailoring them to meet 90
percent of the advertised requirements, my best shot at landing an interview.
Still nothing on the radio. The girl next to me got up, smiled, and wished
me a good night. We both looked at the scanner and laughed, wondering
what had happened to the guy they were waiting for.
A little after midnight, I finished writing up all my résumés and cover
letters. I waited in a long line of mostly students to have the résumés printed
on ivory linen stock. Then, when it was finally my turn, I was told that my

---

print job wouldn’t be completed until morning. Damn! I wanted to get them
out in the mail straightaway. The clerk told me to try another Kinko’s, a few
blocks away. I walked over to the other store but got the same story there:
“We won’t have your print job ready until the morning.” Fine. I said I’d
pick it up in the morning, though I knew I’d likely be online all night,
would sleep through the morning, and not get back to Kinko’s until
sometime in the afternoon.
It didn’t turn out like that.
On the way home I stopped at the twenty-four-hour Safeway near my
apartment and bought some groceries plus a turkey sandwich and some
potato chips for a late-night dinner.
It was a little after 1:00 a.m. when I got back to my apartment building.
The Secret Service operation I’d heard over my scanner had left me feeling
a bit jittery. Like a character in a spy novel, I took the precaution of walking
down the opposite side of the street so I could look for any suspicious cars,
and to make sure my apartment lights were still on.
But they weren’t. The apartment was dark. Not good—I always left
some lights on. Had I forgotten this time, or was it something else? There
was a red truck parked on the street, and I could see two figures in the front
seat: a man and a woman, kissing. That conjured up a funny notion: could it
be two Federal agents, making out as a cover? Not likely, but the thought
relieved my tension a little.
I walked straight up to the truck and asked the passenger, “Hey, sorry to
interrupt, but I was supposed to meet my buddy here. Did you see anyone
hanging out around here waiting?”
“No, but people were carrying boxes out of that apartment”—as she
pointed to the windows of 
my
apartment. What the fuck? I thanked her and
said that wasn’t where my friend lived.
I bolted up the stairs to the apartment of the building manager, David,
and rang his doorbell, even though I knew I’d be waking him up. A drowsy
voice shouted out,