Ghost in the Wires_ My Adventures as the World's Most Wanted Hacker - Kevin Mitnick [176]
Then I noticed that several of the backdoors I’d been using to access various systems had mysteriously disappeared.
The Feds worked very slowly. Even if a call of mine had been traced, it would usually take them days or weeks to investigate. Someone appeared to be hot on my trail, but I still had plenty of time. Or so I thought.
As I was working on moving files around, I had a very, very uncomfortable sensation, a sinking feeling in my stomach that something bad was about to happen. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Who had logged in to my escape.com account? Why had traps been placed on Netcom’s dial-ups? Had Netcom filed a hacking complaint with the Feds? Several different scenarios were running through my mind.
An hour later, I was still in a stew. I thought it was a little crazy, but my gut kept telling me something wasn’t right. No one knew where I was, but I couldn’t overcome the feeling that danger lurked nearby.
I had to convince myself that there was nothing to it, that I was just letting myself get spooked. My apartment door opened onto an outside corridor that gave a good view of the parking lot. I walked to the door, opened it, and scanned the lot. Nothing. Just my imagination. I closed the door and went back to my computer.
That peek out the door would prove to be my undoing. The Feds had tracked my cell phone signals to the Players Club apartments earlier in the evening but had apparently concluded, incorrectly, that the signals were coming from an apartment on the other side of the building. When I returned to the complex after dinner, I drove into the Players Club parking lot and walked from my car right through the FBI’s surveillance net. But when I poked my head out the door, a deputy U.S. Marshal caught a glimpse of me and thought it was suspicious that so late at night someone would look out of an apartment, peer around, and then vanish inside again.
Thirty minutes later, at around 1:30, I hear a knock on my door. Without realizing how late it is, I automatically yell, “Who is it?”
“FBI.”
I freeze. Another knock. I call out, “Who are you looking for?”
“Kevin Mitnick. Are you Kevin Mitnick?”
“No,” I call back, trying to sound annoyed. “Go check the mailboxes.”
It gets quiet. I begin to wonder if they really have sent someone to check the mailboxes. Do they think I’d have a “MITNICK” label on the little door of my box?
Not good! Obviously I’ve underestimated how long it would take the Feds to pinpoint my location. I look for an escape route. I go out on my balcony and don’t see anyone outside covering the back of the building. I look around inside for something that can serve as a makeshift rope. Bed sheets? No, it’d take too long to tie them into a rope. And besides, what if one of the agents actually tried to shoot me as I was climbing down?
More knocking.
I phone my mom at home. No time for our “go to a casino” arrangement. “I’m in Raleigh, North Carolina,” I tell her. “The FBI is outside the door. I don’t know where they’ll take me.” We talk for a few minutes, each of us trying to reassure the other. She’s beside herself, really upset, distraught, knowing I’m headed back to jail. I tell her I love her and Gram, and to be strong, that eventually one day this whole thing will be behind us.
At the same time we’re on the phone, I’m bustling around the small apartment trying to get out of sight anything that could be a problem. I shut down and unplug my computer. No time to wipe the hard drive. And the laptop is still warm from being used. I hide one cell phone under the bed, the other in my gym bag. Mom tells me to call Aunt Chickie and find out