Read Online Blood Rain - 7 by Michael Dibdin - Free Book Online

none of the registered users was logged on.’
    Zen smiled weakly.
    ‘Well, that does sound interesting.’
    Carla laughed.
    ‘Actually, it is, sort of. In plain language, it means that someone outside the DIA has been looking at their work, checking their files and opening their mail. And what’s really interesting is that this doesn’t look like your average hacker. These people seem to be coming in with virtual sysadmin status, which means they can open, alter or even delete any file — even so-called “closed” files, inaccessible to other co-users. And they can do that not just here in Catania, but over the entire DIA network.’
    ‘So who are they?’
    Carla shrugged.
    ‘That I can’t say, yet. But I’ve identified the string code of the machine they’re using, code name “nero”. That’s like a fingerprint. It doesn’t tell you who or where the user is, but there are ways of tracking it back. Which is what I plan to do next.’
    She fumbled around in her bag and produced a folded piece of paper.
    ‘Look at this. This is just one of the entries I found on the DIA server’s var-log-messages file.’
    Zen took the sheet of printout and read: Aug 12 23:19:06/falcone PAM_pwdb[8489]: (su) session opened for user root by nero (uid=o)
    Carla pointed a finger at the page.
    This means that at nineteen minutes and six seconds past eleven at night on Tuesday last, someone identified as “nero” accessed the DIA system and used the “su” command to switch to user root status. Don’t look at me like that, Dad! This is important, because the root user has permission to do anything he likes on or to the system. Anything at all.’
    Zen nodded gravely.
    ‘And what action did you take?’
    ‘Well, of course I wrote a report and sent it to the DIA director. He’ll have to decide what to do next.’
    While Carla unwrapped the dessert she had bought, Zen got to his feet and set about making coffee. He had accepted the fact that he would never understand the new technology that was sweeping the world, where everything was intangible and instantaneous, and occurred at once everywhere and nowhere. A street vendor in the fish market had told him with great bitterness that most of the local tuna were now snapped up by the Japanese, taken to that country to be processed, and then sold back to Italians in those cheap cans of fishy slurry that came in packs of six. This story might be true, or it might be one of those urban myths with a built-in ethnic slur such as the Sicilians themselves had endured for many centuries. The only certain thing was that it was now possible. The technology was there, and a primitive, hard-wired circuit in Zen’s brain told him that if something could be done, then somebody was going to do it.
    ‘And apart from your work?’ he asked over his shoulder as he assembled the coffee pot. ‘What do you get up to in the evening?’
    ‘Not much, to be honest,’ Carla replied from much nearer than he expected.
    She lifted two plates down from a shelf and set about opening drawers in search of forks.
    ‘That one,’ Zen told her.
    ‘But I’ve been asked out to dinner tomorrow,’ she said, returning to the table.
    ‘Anyone interesting?’
    ‘One of the judges at the DIA. We’ll probably have soldiers lurking under the table and tasting the food to make sure it’s not poisoned.’
    The coffee burbled up.
    ‘Good for you! Is he good-looking? Or married?’
    There was a brief silence during which Zen poured out the coffee.
    ‘Actually, it’s a woman,’ Carla replied. ‘The one I told you about this morning, Corinna Nunziatella. She’s really been very nice to me. I think she’s lonely. She needs a girlfriend to talk things over with, but in her position …’
    Zen nodded slowly, not looking at her.
    ‘Perhaps,’ he said, almost inaudibly, then went on in a tone of forced bonhomie , ‘Well, congratulations! It looks as though you’ve inherited the family skill for making friends in