Hackers Revenge - Chapter Three
Giovanni Falconi learns of Junior's plan to post a fake charity website for Kauai victims.
THE MOB’S INVESTMENT
A hip hop rapper tune aroused the iPhone alerting Junior to read the ABC news instant message. Junior touched the phone screen, and watched video podcast from the network’s Los Angeles studio.
The news anchor spoke the following, “The Hawaiian Island of Kauai was hit earlier this morning with an earthquake of 8.8 magnitude at 8:14 Hawaii-Aleutian Time and was followed by a level-four tsunami…Early reports indicated the center of the quake nearby the tourist city of Kapaa…Fearing a high-amount of casualties…the US Navy has began flying in troops from Pearl Harbor Naval Base…more to be reported at ABCnews.com.”
Junior had a smirk formed across his cherry-brown lips. His plan was in place. It needed a tragedy to take seed.
He looked at Lake Michigan’s sereneness on this Chicago afternoon. He crossed Lakeshore Drive, and headed back into Chicago’s affluent downtown high-rise neighborhood. He finally reached his destination.
He looked up some fifty-plus floors. The gleaming white circular skyscraper towered over his bald-shaved black head. The clouds floated past the tower. The Platinum Tower was the address of his current employer
He still felt the stares from the reception security guard. Junior swiped his residence badge through the card reader in the grey-marble elevator lobby. It was security policy to swipe the tenants’ cards prior to pressing the elevator call button. Nonetheless Junior could not help, but think his every move was being watched. And He was.
He waited to board the bronze-plated elevator as a silver-haired elderly couple walked off holding their diamond-collared Yorkshire terrier. Junior held the elevator doors open while they passed by. His meek attempt at saying “good afternoon” was given a snobbish deaf-response.
As he boarded the elevator, Junior pondered at to why the dog and its owners had the same hair color. He was amused. He then pushed in-and-out his residential key card into a slot above the car’s buttons, and pressed level fifty-two.
It was not the penthouse. It was off by two floors. In high-rise living, it would be a mini-penthouse with four bedrooms and five bathrooms at three-five hundred square feet of living space. It appraised at over eight million dollars. Junior’s key card allowed him private access to this level. The fifty-second floor had two occupants and one of them was his boss, Giovanni Falconi.
The polished elevator doors opened as Junior exited one of two cars that could reach this level. The windowless elevator lobby was lit by a set of canvas box-lights. The wood floor shined under the subdued lighting.
A set of four pictures in double-sized white frames hung above the console table. Twin wicker-box chairs with black leather cushions bookended each side of the table across from the elevator bank.
Junior walked to his left. He wondered why this overpriced tower had lobby lighting made of ordinary canvas and not of sparkling crystals. This reinforced in his mind how gullible his employer really was.
Regardless, this hallway was larger than his former dormitory. Junior reached the dual two-inch thick mahogany doors. He grabbed his key from inside his hooded sweater front pocket.
While inserting his key, Junior shook his head as he looked at the call plate. It had a buzzer and speaker box for guests. It was so commonly used by delivery and take-out couriers. It was smudged from white to grey.
Junior turned his key and unbolted the dead lock. His actions had been taped from four concealed surveillance cameras hidden beneath the canvas lighting. The newest feature of audio had been recently installed by the Security team.
The green marble foyer reached six feet until touching the oak plank floor that showcased its owner’s contemporary furniture. A foursome of metal framed white leather chairs surrounded a glass coffee table. Beyond the living area was the formal dining.
It had a hundred and eighty degree panorama of Chicago’s skyline and Lake Michigan’s southern exposure. The fourteen foot floor-to-ceiling windows showed amazing views from fifty-second floor. The window vistas were slanted inward three-inches from floor-to-ceiling to create the building’s cone-shape roofline effect.
Junior stopped by the dining room table, with its twelve fabric-woven high-back chairs, to catch the midday sun. A glow was beaming atop the neighboring pyramid-shaped building that housed a major financial institution.
He thought for a moment to himself, “Life is good on the top.” Then he remembered his iPhone media alert and continued.
Junior walked through the ultra-modern kitchen that rarely cooked a meal. The chrome sub-zero refrigerator, coffeemaker, cappuccino machine, high-speed juicier and microwave displayed signs of continual usage.
He entered a corridor heading around the elevator lobby’s backside, which broke-off into individual rooms. He strolled past the walk-in pantry, laundry room, entertainment room, and in-home gym. The last room designed as the maid’s quarters was now Junior’s private bedroom.
This address was the upgrade he hungered. He retrieved his single key and unlocked the door. His oasis was darkened by curtains that made the framed windows look like shadow boxes.
A desk was placed in the corner. The bedroom had been furnished with a queen size bed, and reading chair with side table. There were no sports team’s memorabilia or bikini-clad girl posters on the walls.
Junior’s room was plain by comparison to the rest of the residence. Hanging above the bed was a fishing village oil painting which looked like Greece to Junior. A fern rested on top a faux marble-painted Roman column. The single nightstand was loaded with technical books. The book inventory revealed a yellow “USED” sticker from the Midtown University Bookstore on the bindings.
Junior sat at the computer desk. He opened the side cabinet. He pulled out a three-ring binder label “Katrina”. He opened the binder. Inside were articles regarding fraudulent websites profiting from charitable donations. Junior thought to himself, “It wasn’t his original idea, but it was brilliant.”
A Time article mentioned that the first seventy-two hours produced almost two million dollars on these illicit websites. It claimed that the FBI was following-up to prosecute these new online criminals...blah, blah, blah.
Junior had done his homework. While back on campus, he did a research paper on the FBI’s Cyber Task Center. He got a private interview with the Deputy Director whom attended the Cyber Detection Conference in the Windy City four months prior. The two day event tested leery-eyed hackers to infuriate the restricted government mainframes.
The Conference was an opportunity for hackers to flaunt their talents without imprisonment. Authorities from the FBI, CIA and the Pentagon revered this seminar to increase their threat against possible terrorist. Outside the CTC’s government-funded event was the upcoming iGONE Industries sponsored hackie conference in Las Vegas.
It was this essay, which got Junior into his new surroundings. The boss had learned of Junior’s report through one of Giovanni’s associates. This party recognized Junior’s earnings potential a month ago.
Junior moved the mouse on pad to bring the computer screen to life from its energy-saving mode. Why was his employer worried about the electrical bill Junior questioned himself? Giovanni would gulp a Napa Valley Opus One bottle costing more than five hundred dollars weekly.
The penthouse was illuminated from minimal-to-dim at best. A cluster of motion sensor night-lights ran amid the residence. His lanky body was invariably fighting a cold, since the indoor thermostat was locked at sixty-six degrees. It was ironic living with a frugal criminal.
Junior found the CD disc in the binder, and inserted it into his computer. The CD activated a “Webpage Hosting” program. His screen read 2:32PM. The program revealed a bogus Hurricane Katrina donation webpage. This disc was wanted by the Feds. Giovanni instructed Junior to reformat this highly-profitable website when he believed it necessary.
He minimized the webpage to be downloaded and Googled “Kapaa Earthquake.” It would be on these news stories and personal blogs that Junior would “re-edit” his Webpage from “Katrina” to “Aloha Relief Fund”. He spliced the text paraphrasing the headlines.
He added his additional appeals from now-orphaned children and stranded elderly tourist. He copied image files from Indonesia’s tsunami homeless children to react the part of Kauai’s children. A sunken cruise ship in the Mediterranean would play the role of the wayward seniors.
Junior had the artistic imagination for the website. It looked genuine. The page included the Red Cross emblem on the bottom left side. After hours of brushing-up the site; Junior called his Boss for approval.
Giovanni’s vibrating cellphone disrupted his afternoon massage. Only a handful knew his private number. It had to important to disturb him on Sunday. Giovanni’s six-days-a-week oil-glistening gym body rolled over from the massage table. He stared at the early twenties red-headed Croatian female masseur.
He said, “Would you mind?” directing her to give him the cellphone resting on the nightstand. Giovanni thought “this better be good,” while eyeing his talented masseur grab the phone.
She wore her white laced bra and matching panties. Giovanni chuckled to himself at her model-like poses that she displayed while doing the simplest of task. Her black leather mini-skirt and blue sink blouse had been tossed on the bedcover next to her prized purse.
“Yes?” Giovanni answered Junior on the fifth ring.
“We got it,” spoke the excited kid.
“We?” questioned Giovanni.
In Giovanni’s World, there was no saying WE.
“Yes, sir,” Junior continued, “There’s been a horrible earthquake on the island of Kauai, one of the Hawaiian islands, of a magnitude of eight point something…it has broken almost all communication ties…”
“Almost or has?” Giovanni quizzed the college kid.
“Well, I mean…there are some video feeds coming from the Island through cellphones and some computers were unharmed.”
Junior was getting tired of this constant ‘cat-and-mouse’ verbiage game. What Giovanni learned from his late father was “give me the facts, son.” No skirting an issue. Time was valuable. He had a limited amount of it when working a scam.
“I took the liberty of downloading the “Katrina” disc, and with some minor adjustments. We got ourselves an ‘Aloha Relief Fund’ ready for profit.” Finally stating the facts Junior waited for a respond, which felt like minutes.
Giovanni’s bleached white teeth smiled, “Give me a moment, son.” He rose to sit on the side of the table revealing his moistened chest hair over his muscle frame. He stretched his shoulder blades backwards, then forward flexing his pectorals. His physique was tanned to perfection. His muscles would rival any bodybuilder.
He snapped his fingers instructing his masseur to fetch his burgundy sink robe. It had been pitched to the floor earlier. He trailed her movements like a hawk. He was suspicious of anyone living or invited to his secure household.
Giovanni eased off the table. His waist towel fell exposing his proud Italian-American manhood to his flirtatious masseur. She had fondled him before. That is how the job ended. It made Giovanni content and his masseur able to purchase weeks worth of groceries. The masseur tugged the robe onto his twenty-two inch biceps.
“Junior, I’ll be there after a shower,” Giovanni said while letting the robe hang off his massive shoulders. He had not bothered to fasten the garment.
“Um, sir,” He feared giving Giovanni an order, but continued, “We should to act soon. The website needs to be up-and-running after the ten o’clock news.” Junior knew timing was crucial.
“You did hire me to assist you,” Junior boldly said.
The kid was right, “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Cash is King in Giovanni’s world.
Giovanni would have to forgo his traditional pleasant ending until next Sunday. His stared down upon the puppy-eyed masseur and stated, “Get your things ready. I’ve got business to attend to.” He brushed her hand away from his opened robe and walked to the nightstand.
While fasting his robe, he pull-opened the top drawer to obtain an envelope. It contained her profits for the day. Giovanni riffled through the three one hundred dollar bills, and pulled two of them out. He stuffed the two bills into his side pocket shortening her funds.
“Here,” he said handing her the thin envelope. She grabbed her counterfeited Louis Vuitton handbag from the wood floor. She shoved the envelope into her pursue. He began to anxiously pace around California king-size bed waiting for her to redress.
Ultimately he escorted her from the Master Suite to the foyer, while she casually buttoned her blouse. She barely had enough time to cover herself before being whisked out the door. Then she heard the click of the dead bolt behind her.
She sauntered to the elevator bank, and pressed the call button. The she mirrored herself in the polished elevator doors. Then Giovanni’s private security heard her heavily Eastern bloc accented voice say, “What a baboon.”
Her comment was transmitted from the fake fire detector in the ceiling to the Security center. This would end her lucrative profession. The guard on-duty nodded in disapproval.
The guard would email the audio report to his supervisor from the Security center concealed above the notorious Jungle bathhouse.
|This book is currently empty.|