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From: "Alison Whitehead \(E-mail\)" <alison.whitehead@tiscali.co.uk>
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Subject: {ASSM} "The Pen Test" by Alison Whitehead [MF slow]
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Date: Thu, 30 Oct 2003 04:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "SS01 The Pen Test V3.txt" begin>
The Pen Test
by Alison Whitehead (c) 2003
-------------------------------
Penetration testing isn't what you think.
The pen testing that I do ensures that computer systems
don't get hacked.
It's a formal process carried out by respectable men and
a few women using network diagrams and tables of
computer vulnerabilities. The pen test team produces
thick reports and holds boring meetings with the clients
who in turn have to do a lot of painful rework before
the systems can go live.
Despite the myths, it isn't done by penitent virus
writers working alone in darkened rooms late at night
typing arcane commands on their laptop computers.
Except that I was doing just that.
I was alone because I'd offered to stay behind and
finish off. The rest of the team had better things to do
and Marc was away, so for the first time in months I had
no reason to hurry home. He'd had to rush off to Algiers
to sort out some family business with his sister. It had
been a confused scramble after the telephone call and
helping him pack had taken priority over explanations. I
was worried about him being back in Algeria so I was
anxious to hear from him.
It was late because the client had screwed up. They had
worked through our first tree-unfriendly report on the
shortcomings of their system. They'd fixed the problems
and we had re-tested. Alas, there had been a server re-
build and they'd forgotten to apply the fixes. After an
acrimonious five o'clock meeting, client staff had been
forced to work late to repair the omissions and I'd
agreed to stay on and recheck the repairs - at a price.
To compound the bad temper we had a row about internal
security. A very secret report about a new drug had
found its way to a major competitor. I knew how much
these pharmaceuticals were worth in worldwide business
but I resented the suggestion that my team had anything
to do with the theft. I was annoyed enough to ask the
client if one of his spies had informed him of the
arrival of the report. I had the satisfaction of seeing
that shot strike home.
Still irritated, I was waiting for them to repair their
omissions. I had nothing to do but daydream about Marc
and stare at my engagement ring that was still a novelty
after four weeks.
Marc was my miracle. We'd met in an adult education
class, both doing the same local history course. We'd
been paired for the fieldwork and there had been a
couple of weekends working together to do the assignment
- walking the streets of the town classifying buildings;
working in the library to see what other people thought.
Although we were both coy about revealing our ages, I
knew that his was little more than half mine. I was
surprised when our liking for each other blossomed and
the assignment progressed to a concert together, then a
meal and a film. The men I worked with were in their
late twenties like Marc but my experience and my
reluctance to tolerate fools kept a barrier between them
and me.
With Marc it was different. We were comfortable together
and he was no fool. He cooked a meal at his place and a
few days later I made dinner for us at mine.
That night we touched for the first time and until then
I hadn't realised that I could still be melted. Marc
offered to massage my feet when I complained that they
were painful after our walk. He worked gently from my
toes until his fingers had caressed the whole of my
body. It was well after midnight before our consummation
astonished us both.
"Maria. Are you angry with me?" He always pronounced my
name with a long 'i'. His slight French accent and the
awkward twist of his scarred lips gave it an endearing
inflection.
I had turned away from him to let my skin cool and to
gather my scattered wits. I couldn't do either while I
was pressed against his hard body. I had not expected
this. Menopause had left me dried out and unresponsive.
Marc's fingers had triumphed over that and I certainly
wasn't angry.
"I'm surprised." I reached out to touch his face and he
flinched away, hiding the scars from me. "That hasn't
happened to me for a long time."
"Why not? You're an attractive woman. You work with lots
of people. There must have been many opportunities."
"Opportunities, yes. I've tried some but they didn't
work. None of them had the effect on me that you just
did and I don't want someone around the house simply to
keep me company."
"Do you want to tell? Why you don't want a man around
the house. You were married, weren't you?"
I hesitated. That was my private Hell and I wanted it to
stay dead and buried. But Marc's private Hell was with
him whenever he looked in the mirror or when people
stared at his face.
"I was glad when the drink killed him. It took him ten
years. Ten years out of my life."
"Why did you stay?"
"I suppose I loved him once. He stayed with me when
things were bad. He pitied me so I stayed with him out
of gratitude. I had an ectopic pregnancy. You know what
that is?"
I felt him nod. I'd moved back against him for comfort.
"After that I couldn't have children. He wanted a
family, but he stayed with me. Things were never the
same."
I turned on the bedside light although it made him
nervous. I looked at his smooth brown skin and his
strong limbs.
"You think I'm attractive?" I challenged him. I knelt
above him and my breasts sagged.
He turned towards me and smiled, letting the light fall
on both sides of his face. "You'd feel better about
yourself if you lost a few pounds and took more
exercise. But it's the whole of you that attracts me. I
love to be with you - do things with you. Tonight was
more than I hoped for. I wasn't expecting it. I haven't
been with a woman for six years - since it happened."
I reached out and touched his face with my fingers. He
froze and I could feel his whole body trembling. He
relaxed slowly - so very slowly - as I ran my fingers
across the melted scars that had been half his face. I
lay on him and let my lips follow my fingers from
twisted lips across the corrugated flesh of his cheek to
the eye that saw nothing but still streamed tears.
"Only you," his voice was thick and uneven. "You've
never cringed from my face."
"It takes a little getting used to," I held him against
me, his face against my breasts, his tears wetting my
body. "But it's part of you."
"I've never been able to make love to a woman. They
always turned away or pitied me. I couldn't. Even if I
paid them it was no good. Only with you."
"Tell me how it happened."
"No!"
"It doesn't matter. Only if it helps."
Desire was rising in me again as I stroked his smooth
body. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to hold
someone. I waited for him.
It was several minutes before he sighed and said, "It
was my father. He was not a very civilised man. But, if
I disapproved he was still my father. He had a motor
boat. He took the tourists fishing from Tiemcen. And at
night, sometimes, he crossed to Spain, carrying things
that the customs shouldn't see."
"You went with him. Smuggling? Smuggling what?" All my
instincts were violated.
His body shook against mine and I realised that he was
laughing.
"I thought it was best you know. But it was a long time
ago. Six years."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to judge you."
"How can you not? Being as you are and doing what you
do. You are a kind of policeman. I did not approve of my
father either, but I was his son. When he asked me to
help that night I didn't refuse. I don't know what we
took - hashish perhaps - but the customs were waiting
for us outside the harbour. They came alongside and I
think my father fired a flare. He was not a peaceful
man. Both boats burned very quickly. We were carrying a
lot of petrol. I was the only one who got to the shore.
Often since then I've wished I hadn't."
"Your father was killed?"
"Yes."
I was breathing quickly. His casual recital of this
horrific story excited me. I let my hand slide over his
body to rouse him rather than to comfort.
"Marc, I want you again."
As he rolled on top of me, I found that he wanted me
just as badly.
--------------------------------------------------------
He moved in with me. Little by little he spent more time
in my house until at last it seemed foolish for him to
keep his flat. He moved into my life in the same gentle
way and I became used to him being there. At the end of
the day's work I was anxious to be home. Evenings were
havens of contentment. We ate and worked and talked and
sometimes loved.
"Why are you so interested in English History?" I had
just read one of the essays he had written for his
diploma. My fierce red pen had little to do.
"It might be for the same reason that you do. I've lost
my roots. I can never go back to Algeria safely - or to
France. And why would I want to? My mother and my
brother blame me for surviving my father. I have no
other family. Only you. So I'm making new roots here in
England where I feel safe. Local history helps me to get
those roots down."
"And me? I was born here."
"Do you have roots here?"
"You're right. I don't. They were lost in Austria. The
only relatives I have are my husband's nieces and
nephews."
I looked at his essay again. The references were
professionally formatted.
"You write English very well. As well as I do. Where did
you learn?"
"At university. Oran. I read biochemistry. All the
research is in English. I had to learn it well."
Marc saw my surprise and laughed. "I haven't tried to
get work in biochemistry. You must know how suspicious
the pharmaceutical companies are. An Algerian with a
face like mine and a father like mine is not wanted.
Besides, I don't need to work. My father had plenty of
money hidden away and I knew where it was. That's
another reason I don't go home. I'm not sure who else
thought that money belonged to them. Do you mind me
being idle?"
I gestured with his essay. "Hardly idle. No, I may even
join you. I might retire and we could enjoy ourselves."
His crooked smile made me catch my breath. He came to
stand behind me, digging his strong fingers into the
tense muscles of my neck. It was his invitation to me.
If I wanted no more, he would massage me until I was in
a trance of relaxation, then carry me to bed and let me
sleep. If I did want more, his massage would extend down
my body and rouse me to levels of ecstasy that I'd never
known before. When he carried me to bed we didn't sleep
until exhaustion closed my eyes.
--------------------------------------------------------
Our evenings were often busy. Marc had classes and I
frequently worked late so we could have at least one day
free at the weekend. We made meals when we were hungry.
So I was surprised to come home one evening to find the
table set for an intimate dinner. I looked nervously at
glass and linen that still held memories. The flowers
were overpowering. Marc shooed me upstairs to bath and
change while he returned to the kitchen.
I came down uncertainly, embarrassed by the contrived
romantic setting. I thought our relationship was solid
enough for us not to need contrivance. Marc sensed my
embarrassment and grinned - I had learned to read his
face. "It's supposed to be foolish and sentimental," he
said. "You can laugh if you like. I've got something to
ask you and I wanted to hint."
This foolishness was irresistible and I entered into his
fantasy. Our teasing and flirting were so effective that
we didn't get beyond the main course. He came behind me
to refill my glass, and then my dress was unzipped and
his strong hands were kneading my bare shoulders. We
made love on the floor between the sideboard and the
table without removing a single piece of clothing. It
was over in seconds.
"Maria, have I hurt you?" My scream in his ear must have
been painful for him.
"Marc, I came! Take me upstairs."
He picked me up and I scattered his buttons and clothes
as he carried me to bed. He bent hooks and tore zippers
when I begged for him. After each climax, I goaded him
for more. For the first time in my life I took control
and Marc was my willing servant. When I was too sore to
take him any more he used his tongue to finish me, and
in return I took him into my mouth. Dawn was near when I
made him rape my last virginity.
We had loved to exhaustion before, but this was total
satiation. I lay on him, licking blood from his chest
where I had torn my fingernails in passion.
"Can you reach my trousers?"
"You don't need them."
He reached over me and dug them from the heap of clothes
beside the bed. There was a box in the pocket and he
opened it. He touched my bruised lips with his and said,
"The evening wasn't meant to go like that. I meant to
ask you to marry me before we went to bed."
"I know. You've had your answer."
He slid the ring onto my finger and we lay down to sleep
at last.
As I drifted off with his arms round me, I remembered
that I would have to tell my masters of my impending
marriage. Spouses had to be vetted too. God knows what
the bland, pink-shaven men in pin-stripe suits would
make of Marc. Maybe retirement was closer than I
thought.
--------------------------------------------------------
My new ring fascinated me and I took it to Karl. We'd
met on the local history course and become friends.
"Maria, it's beautiful. Like you," he said.
I smiled as he screwed a glass into his eye. He twisted
it and peered and fussed. He stood up and gestured that
I follow him. As we went up the narrow stairs behind his
shop he said, "I have a microscope upstairs. We can see
it properly."
Karl was a route back to my childhood and my parents who
had come to England in 1938 as refugees. His Austrian
accent created echoes of my mother. I felt he might be a
little like the father who had been killed in the war
before I ever knew him.
The room upstairs smelt dusty and stale. It was
cluttered from floor to ceiling with the gatherings of a
lifetime's dealing in antiques. Glass and china,
silverware and postcards, books and old musical
instruments. It seemed impossible that the space could
hold so many things. He cleared chairs and drew the old
microscope to the front of the table.
"Ah! I thought so. Look!"
I took his place at the eyepiece and saw the gold band
decorated with an intricate chase of dogs and deer. A
paler thread of gold elaborated the pattern.
"See?" he said. "The pale thread of gold is a piece of
wire. There are thousands of tiny punch marks where it
was hammered to flatten it and weld it to the darker
gold. And it is old - before the days of lenses." He was
searching through the bookcases. "All done by hand and
the naked eye. Wonderful! Ah!" He took down a book and
blew dust over me.
"Here!" He triumphed after flicking the pages for a
while. There was a sepia photograph of a ring very like
the one I had. He translated the French caption. "Early
sixteenth century. Part of the dowry of Margaret of
Angoul^me. You see how alike they are? And perhaps more
than four hundred and fifty years old."
"But the stones, you see, are not original. Sad." He
pointed to the photograph. "These stones were simple -
almost polished pebbles. Yours are more precious, old,
but newer than the ring."
He pointed to the big square-cut diamond that formed the
focus of the ring. "This I think I know. Many were made
in India for nabobs - the men who ruled for the East
India Company. They brought them back to England after
the Mutiny drove them out."
He shook his head and screwed the eyeglass back in. "But
these other stones I do not know. Like rubies, but
almost brown. A colour I have never seen."
He stared at one of the stones for a long time. "Odd,"
he said at last. "I cannot see properly but the tawny
stones have something between them and the ring. What
it is I cannot see. There is a wire coil, perhaps. Maybe
it is some trick to make the light shine so deeply in
the stones."
He smiled as he gave the ring back to me. "Must I give
you my best wishes?"
I put it back on my finger. "Yes. Marc and I are getting
married. Will you come to the wedding?"
His smile faded a little, then returned. He bent to kiss
me. "Ah, Marc. Yes. Of course I will come. When is it to
be?"
"Quite soon. I'll send you an invitation."
"Where did he get the ring?"
"It was in his family. I don't think he knows where it
came from."
Karl looked doubtful. "So precious a ring. Someone ought
to know."
--------------------------------------------------------
The phone rang and startled me from my daydream. It
wasn't Marc. Despite his promise, he hadn't phoned since
he left for Algiers. I'd worried about him all afternoon
and even called Air Inter to leave a message for him.
They couldn't find him on their passenger list. I put it
down to incompetence. Even the flight number he'd given
me was wrong. I went on worrying.
"Hi, Maria, its Daljit We've done all the changes on the
list. Are you ready to check them out?"
"I am. I'll try not to keep you late."
"Since when have you worried about keeping me late? Are
you all alone up there? Want some company? I notice you
haven't been staying so late these last few weeks. You
got company at home?"
"Mind your own business."
"Ah ha! I thought as much. You've been like a teenager.
He must be doing you some good."
"Don't be so bloody rude!"
Daljit laughed a deep laugh. "Hey! Have you been getting
a hard time about this report that someone passed on to
the opposition? Things have been pretty nasty here.
People are asking very pointed questions."
"The matter did come up."
"Word says you were pretty snotty about it. Keep cool,
Maria. Ring me soon."
There were only a couple of things left to check. I
opened the test scripts and turned to the remaining
items. I was no hacker here - I had an authorised
account - so I logged on using a PIN and the six-digit
number off the gadget I wore next to my identity badge.
The number changed every minute and a server deep down
in the system paralleled the changes. This was paranoia,
but our client had other systems on this network that
designed molecules for pharmaceuticals that they sold
all over the world. It was not a place for the uninvited
to browse. The uproar about the stolen report was
confirmation of that.
The script said that I had to create a user account and
then demonstrate that it would be locked out after two
incorrect passwords. This was to stop a hacker trying
endlessly until he guessed lucky.
I logged on as an administrator and created an account.
Then the lights went out. Movement kept them on in the
enormous office. Because I was alone, I ended up in a
tiny pool of light surrounded by an ocean of darkness.
That made me nervous so I got up and walked around to
turn them back on.
I needed a pee. As I sat on the loo I felt a pain in my
finger and realised that it was swollen enough to make
my engagement ring tight. I licked it and tried to get
it off but it wouldn't slide over my knuckle. My aging
finger was swollen at this end of a long day. With a
generous application of soap I got it off. I rinsed it
and carried it back to my desk. The separate modem I was
using for the test was slightly warm so I put my ring on
it to dry.
Back to the pen test.
I opened the window for the server and entered the
userid for the account I'd just created. I dragged my
fingers over the keys for a junk password and pressed
'enter'. A Windows desktop opened for me.
I stared at it, puzzled.
I checked.
I was logged on to the server.
I logged out and tried again without a password at all.
It still let me in.
It was late and I was getting tired. I could do without
this.
I thought of just ticking that box and going home but
conscience pricked - I was paid enough to make sure it
did. I made a note in the log, assuming that Daljit had
made a hash of the password policies even though they
looked all right when I checked them.
What to do? I'd call Daljit in a moment but first I'd
try the whole thing again, just in case I had done
something daft.
I needed to log in as administrator to re-create the
account.
Out of curiosity, I didn't type the password.
It let me in.
Ten minutes later I was logged onto to one of the
classified machines that held the whole of the client's
research information. A quick glance through the index
told me that some of this was material that even I
wasn't cleared to see. There were details of the
development of new drugs, results of clinical trials,
field trials. This held the client's most precious
assets and this was the machine the stolen report must
have come from.
There were three firewalls between my laptop and this
machine, none of which should have let me through. And
if I was here then any other Joe on the Internet could
be. It was time to ring all the bells and get the system
shut down.
The lights went out and I got up for my routine walk to
turn them on again. I picked up my engagement ring and
put it back on. My finger was no longer swollen and I
needed all the comfort I could get.
As I paced, I decided that the system must have been
hacked even as I was working. The hacker might still be
there. There might be enough evidence to trace the
connection so the police could find him. This could be
how the report was stolen.
I logged on to the front end to see what I could see -
or rather I would have logged on if I hadn't mis-typed
the password in my haste. The system rejected my login
as if everything were normal. As I re-typed it I
wondered why this part of the system was still bothering
about passwords when the rest of it seemed to be
allowing free-for-all.
It didn't take long to establish that the entire system
was back to normal.
I was sweating now, faintly panicky and feeling very
alone. I'd promised to re-test the system and it
wouldn't do to let the client down, especially as I
would have great difficulty explaining what had stopped
me finishing.
I redid the pen test and ticked the box. The account
locked out exactly as it should. But I couldn't leave it
at that because I'd already recorded my observation that
the test had failed first time.
I prowled the office once more, switching even more
lights back on. It gave me some tiny satisfaction to
know that I was adding to the client's electricity bill.
What had changed? I cudgelled my weary brain. What had
changed?
None of this made any sense. A hacker wouldn't have been
kind enough to let the whole world into the system. He'd
have been struggling to get himself in.
No, it had to be something related to me - and the only
thing I'd done was walk around the office and soap the
ring off my finger.
My brain curdled.
I licked my engagement ring off and put it back on the
modem.
Logon.
Ring back on my finger.
Unauthorised access.
I stared at the glowing stones and my brain whirled
round the possibilities. Could it really be this ring
that had let me read the formulae and reports on the
most secret server?
No! The ring was just a ring - beautiful and made
centuries before there were computers. If it deceived
then it was by breaking the promise that Marc had made
when he put it on my finger.
The phone rang but it still wasn't Marc.
"Maria, how much longer are you going to be?"
I hesitated between unpalatable choices.
"Maria?"
I made up my mind. "I've just finished, Daljit. You can
go home now. Everything was OK. We can do the paperwork
in the morning."
"Bless you. Have a good evening."
I took a deep breath then crumpled the sheet of paper
that recorded the password problems and threw it in the
bin. On a fresh sheet I wrote, 'No observations. All
tests completed successfully.' I signed and added date
and time. Everything was all right now. The password
nonsense had never happened.
Daljit on the other hand was going to have some
explaining to do. I'd used his account when I logged on
to the secret server. They would never be able to pin
the theft on him but he was going to have a hard time
explaining his account details in the logs.
I opened my briefcase and took out the letter I'd
written but never sent. The one that told the security
director about my engagement to Marc. It joined the
other sheet in the bin. I bent and retrieved both.
Perhaps the shredder would be safer.
There was no reason for me to stay but I was weary and
lonely and there was nowhere I wanted to be.
I looked at my finger again and turned the ring so it
faced me. The light twisted like slow fire in the tawny
stones. It might be just a ring but with the stolen
report and the strange behaviour of my modem it added up
to betrayal. And from Marc's behaviour it began to look
as though he was the betrayer. Did I believe his story
about meeting his sister in Algiers? Where was he? My
doubts multiplied. I was sure he'd told me he only had a
brother. And in Tiemcen not Algiers.
Could the ring have worked for him as it did for me? I
never wore jewellery in bed so he could have used it on
those nights when he'd worked late on my laptop doing
his essays? Could he have stolen the report and who knew
what other things besides?
Pain hovered, held back by bewilderment. I'd been used
in some baffling way to penetrate the client's system. I
didn't care much about the theft. Whether one company or
another made money from these pharmaceuticals didn't
worry me.
But Marc? Had none of what he'd told me been true?
Surely his need for me - his love - surely that couldn't
be deceit. His naked pain at disfigurement and the
comfort he took from my acceptance of it, that could not
be counterfeit, could it? I had held his body as he
wept.
At last pain overcame my bewilderment and I was swamped
by a tide of pity and loss and loneliness. I wept until
another thought disturbed me. I sat up and stared at the
ring. Given time I was sure I could work out how it did
its tricks, but I might not have much time. I remembered
Marc's comments about his father's money and I wondered
who might feel they had a better claim to the ring than
me.
Pity and loss and loneliness were replaced by fear. I
looked around the empty office. Suddenly I felt very
cold and very much alone. I shuddered and the lights
went out again.
--------------------------------------------------------
This story was workshopped at:
http://www.desdmona.com/fishtank.asp
Thanks to all who contributed.
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