Читать книгу The Art of Attack - Maxie Reynolds - Страница 9

War is 90 percent information.

—Napoleon Bonaparte

It is 5 a.m., and I still have an hour before I meet my team. I've been up for the last hour going over plans because this is how I always start my attacks: with a niggling amount of nervous energy, I pace the floor of my hotel room, playing a game of mental chess in my mind. I go over my initial approach, consider my possible moves if I do get past security, and then again if I don't, I start to wonder How will I pivot? The game of mental chess carries on. This is the most efficient and successful way I have found to hone my mental agility.

From this thought I dive into a myriad of others, imagining new ways I might get into the building, new ways to escalate my privileges and deepen my foothold after my initial breach, whether that starts in the basement or the lobby. If someone happens to ask me why I am in the basement, could I say I got in the wrong elevator from the parking garage and ask for help…?

I visualize the layout of the building internally—another luxury afforded by solid open source intelligence (OSINT) findings—and use faceless silhouettes to represent staff I might pass along the way. Sometimes I imagine them asking me questions; sometimes I imagine myself just nodding at them in silent acknowledgment. After all, the largest component of executing an artful attack lies in the attacker's ability to adapt to the people and surroundings in which they find themselves, even when those things are brand-new.

I continue to walk myself through it all a few times, picturing different obstacles: Would it be better just to tailgate, or should I walk in front of the building declaring myself a visitor? I imagine the payoffs of each and weigh them. Working the visitor system should give me almost unfettered access for the day, but it's a high-risk move, I tell myself, whereas tailgating in through a less visible entrance leaves me at the mercy of sloppy, albeit well-intentioned, employees holding any one of hundreds of fire and security doors open for me… . Taking a moment, I come to a conclusion: No, stick with the A-plan: go to security and get access, I tell myself.

The whole time I'm performing this mental pre-attack ritual, I am reminding myself of the same things over and over: get in, get the flags, never let them know you're a threat, and stay within scope. In my mind I am always making my way to the 38th floor, and I am always mentally preempting the challenges I'll face as I try to walk into the CFO's office and place a USB drive into their computer port. That's my job. And, although I like to warm up by running as many possibilities through my mind as I can come up with, I have yet to predict obstacles and pivots correctly even once in my career. That is irrelevant, though—the mental warm-up is what I need—it induces the power of thinking on my feet and knowing I've learned from prior failures and successes.

I soon start to focus on making sure I've disguised myself as a threat. I've based my pretext off the OSINT I've found so far. For this bank job, I am a lawyer here to help wrap up the mergers and acquisitions deal that was all over the news only weeks ago, albeit without much context. It took a lot of searches and piecing together information to choose the nuance of this pretext; I am not just any lawyer, but a lawyer who is now needed to help the deal over the final few hurdles, equipped with an abundance of paperwork—my prop and my seeming legitimacy. And, unless the security guards happen to be a team of lawyers, I won't be found out by the typical questions people ask a lawyer: What are you here for? What firm do you work for? How long have you been practicing, what school did you go to? Do you know how I can get out of a parking ticket? I call these my pretext layers, and depending on the job, I might need to go many layers deep, to the point I need to know much more than you might expect, from common jargon to how a piece of machinery works.

The start point of the operation is as hermetic as it's ever going to be. I have my props, which in this case are an ID card from my “firm” and a portfolio filled with “legal documents,” categorized by tabs that have the words “Signed by [CFO's name]” and today's date. I also have a fake guest pass card that one of my teammates was able to print for me based on a picture of a legitimate one we'd found on Yelp. Blessed be Yelp. I have lock picks; I have my radio-frequency identification (RFID) duplicator and fobs just in case the opportunity arises to clone a working security card I can't slip into my pocket; and I have the most important thing I'll carry all day: my letter of approval. It is a piece of paper with my point of contact's name and number and a short statement asking anyone who detains me to contact him before the police. I also have my fake ID, although I am sans a snack, which is unlike me. The snack is not important. Yet.

With another huge thanks to mighty OSINT, I've already prepared my outfit for the day, too. I've had it picked out for about a week now, and it will be a big part of the operation. I've chosen it with meticulous care to be professional and versatile. This is not a job where I can wear a costume. I won't be going head-to-toe in scrubs or coveralls, like in some of my other jobs. I put on my wardrobe for the day with a sense of gravity and focus that I generally don't use for throwing on my usual working-from-home attire (sweats on the bottom, work-acceptable T-shirt on top). It is the middle of summer in New York, yet I have on a long-sleeved blue shirt under a white silk shirt, but for a good reason. There is a chance I'll need to ditch the top layer so that the security team can't quickly identify me by the color of my clothes, should someone start to become suspicious. I have a hairband tied around my wrist, too, to throw my hair up in case I need to hide its length and color. I've put foundation on the rather unfortunate tattoo I have on my right thumb. I'll be returning to this office soon enough, and I don't want anything about me to be too recognizable. These seemingly inconsequential things matter.

Finally, dressed and mentally prepared, I leave the room to meet my team. They won't be joining me, but they will be on standby in case of trouble, which is a company policy and one I've been thankful for on more than one occasion. After a pep talk, making sure we can stay in constant communication, I make my way to the bank's offices and try to break in, knowing that if it all goes well, I'll be out in time to do it a second time under the cover of darkness. I'll need my team for that and a few more games of mental chess.